by Bill Rogers
Now there were cries of ‘Shame! Shame! Shame!’ Miriam Hood waited for them to subside. When she began to speak again, she was calm, measured and empathetic. Jo could see her having a stellar career in politics a few years down the line.
‘I could go on,’ she said. ‘But I doubt that any of the research findings would come as a surprise, living as we all do with these attitudes day to day. However, what none of the statistics absolve us from is our responsibility to listen to, support and learn from those who have suffered directly from rape or serious sexual assault. And so,’ she paused, smiling at the young woman seated to her right, and then turned back to the audience. ‘I can’t say, under the circumstances, that it gives me great pleasure to introduce our first speaker, but having spent just a few minutes with her, I can confidently say that I’m full of admiration and respect for her courage, resilience and determination. Please welcome Orla Leanne Lonergan.’
She remained on her feet, leading the clapping as the young woman beside her stood up. Finally, Miriam Hood sat down and an expectant silence filled the room.
Chapter 14
Jo found it impossible to reconcile the photo attached to the crime report for victim number five with the woman who stood before her. The girl in the photograph had long blonde hair, no make-up, a pallid complexion, and sad eyes the colour of cobalt; her height was given as five feet three. This woman seemed taller. She had short flame-red hair, subtle make-up and a lightly tanned complexion. When the light caught her eyes, Jo could have sworn that they were green. Either this was a different person, or she had reinvented herself.
Orla Lonergan placed her fingertips on the table, and stood tall. There was something magnetic about her composure, and the way in which she radiated confidence as she surveyed the audience. When she began to speak, her voice was electrifying.
‘My name is Orla. Orla Leanne Lonergan. I’m twenty-one years old, from Derry in Northern Ireland, and I’m currently a third-year student at Bradford University where I’m studying Geography and Environmental Management. Ten days ago I was raped.’
It took a millisecond or so for what she had said to register, and for a communal gasp to ripple across the audience. She waited for them to settle.
Orla’s accent struck Jo as well-matched to the pace and style of her narrative. Despite the subject matter, it had the feel of a gentle tale told by an open hearth in an Irish country pub. The student walked behind the other two speakers and came to stand between them in front of the table. She was wearing a cobalt blue, ruched, twist-front jersey dress that sat on the knee. It had elbow-length sleeves. On her feet was a pair of pointed silver glitter shoes, with a two-inch heel that explained her extra height.
‘It was a friend’s twenty-first birthday celebration.’ She paused. ‘I wore this.’
There were muted gasps as the implication hit home.
‘Not this dress, obviously,’ she said. ‘The police have the one I wore that night. Well, the forensic science service to be precise. But it is identical. I sent for it the day before yesterday. I thought it important that you should see it, so that you can judge for yourselves.’
She held her arms out to the side, and turned slowly through 360 degrees.
‘What do you think?’ she asked. ‘Is this provocative?’
There were indignant shouts from the audience that echoed what Jo was thinking.
‘No!’
‘No way!’
‘It’s demure!’
She raised her eyebrows.
‘Not an invitation then?’
‘No!’
‘Never!’
‘No!’
‘No way!’
Orla waited for the noise to subside.
‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice so soft and low that Jo almost missed it. ‘I just needed to know for sure.’
She turned and walked slowly back to her place, and stood in front of her chair. This is one of those occasions, thought Jo, where the phrase ‘you can hear a pin drop’ rings true. Orla’s fingertips found the table again. It seemed as though she was drawing strength from the ground beneath her.
‘We started the evening off in my room at seven fifteen pm, with a bottle of champagne and some nachos. There were only six of us, so just one glass each. Then we had two Jägerbombs apiece.’ She smiled. ‘I want you to keep count, because it’s important. Then we hit the city. Our friend whose birthday it was had booked a table in our favourite Indian restaurant. I ate the poppadum and chutneys, mixed starters, and a Karahi Palak Paneer. To drink, I had one bottle of Tiger beer. We left there at around ten fifteen. We visited two pubs, and two wine bars. In each of the pubs I had a bottle of Lime-a-Rita. In the wine bars, a white wine spritzer.’
Jo found the level of detail remarkable. Orla needed them to know exactly what had happened.
‘Around two am,’ Orla continued. ‘Two of the girls decided they’d go on to a club with a couple of guys who’d been chatting them up. The rest of us decided to call it a night.’
She reached for the glass in front of her, and realised that it was empty. Miriam Hood hastily unscrewed the top from a bottle of water, and filled the glass. Orla nodded her thanks, picked up the glass and took a sip. She placed the glass back on the table, and addressed her audience.
‘If you’ve been keeping count then you’ll know that I’d consumed at the most eleven units of alcohol. Given the passage of time, I’d have had around five units still in my system. Enough to be over the drink-drive limit, but far from senseless.’
Given the student’s size, Jo was certain that she had overestimated the speed at which her body would have processed all that alcohol. Even so, she would still have had her wits about her.
‘Certainly,’ Orla continued, ‘capable of giving, or refusing, consent to . . .’ here she paused, and looked up at the circular oculus in the centre of the dome, staring down on them like the all-seeing eye, ‘. . . sexual intimacy.’
She took a deep breath, raised the glass to her lips, sipped, and then placed it with exaggerated care on the table.
‘I made two mistakes that night. Neither of which I intend to agonise over. If I could go back, of course I wouldn’t repeat them. But I can’t.’
She paused, not for effect, Jo realised, but to draw on her courage.
‘All night I had drunk from bottles. Sat there with my hand around the neck, my thumb over the top. Of all of us, I think I was the most cautious. Hypervigilant, I suppose.’ She shook her head acknowledging the irony. ‘When I changed to white wine spritzers in the two wine bars, they both arrived in a glass.’ For the first time there was a hint of sadness. ‘I never gave it a second thought.’
She nodded her head as though having an internal dialogue, smiled thinly and continued.
‘The second mistake I made was to walk back on my own. Not all of the way, just the last quarter of a mile. You see, I share a house in the city with five others, two of them were the girls who went on to the club with the guys they met. The other two girls live in the same hall in the Student Village. I’m not sure what I’d have done differently. Joined the queue for taxis, and waited half an hour in the cold? Gone on to that club, played gooseberry, and hoped the other two didn’t cop off?’
She shook her head.
‘The thing is, I didn’t know that the drug he’d managed to slip into my drink had begun to affect my ability to make any decision at all. I guess I was just unlucky, that he’d chosen me.’
What would the unsub have done if she had made either of those decisions, Jo wondered, or if she had gone back to the Village with the other students? In a way, Orla was right. He had been playing a game of chance with her, and she had lost.
Orla’s tone changed. She spoke without emotion, at a pace that seemed as though she wanted to get it over with as quickly and as clinically as possible.
‘The last thing that I remember about that night was feeling sick, dizzy and drowsy, all at the same time, and thinking that there must have
been something wrong with the curry. I leaned against a parked car, and I remember sliding forwards, and downwards. Five hours later I woke up cold, wet and shivering on the edge of a copse in a farmer’s field in Denholme, just fifty yards from the road. I sensed immediately that I had been raped. There was no pain, nothing physical anyway, and my clothing was intact. I just knew.’
There was another pause, and that little shake of the head.
‘The police told me that the tests indicated I was a victim of DFSA, which is short for drug-facilitated sexual assault. Someone had used GHB, a form of ketamine, to render me unconscious. Apparently it’s also known as liquid ecstasy.’
Orla grimaced.
‘Liquid ecstasy? Only a man would call it that. You see, there was no intercourse, no intimacy, no bonding. Because these all require more than one person. And there was only one person there. One person and one animal. I was incapable of giving consent. He did not need it. He simply took what he could, because he could.’
Another pause.
‘I told myself that I was lucky. I was not conscious when he assaulted me. He used a condom. Not, I suspect, out of any consideration for me, but so that he could avoid detection. He left no physical scars. I was already sexually active so I do not have to cope with him having stolen my innocence. And I’m still alive.’
She paused and looked down at her hands, before raising her head and continuing, ‘I went through that checklist in my head to see if it would help. If it would lessen my anger. It did not. Violation is still violation, however carefully it comes wrapped. Then I imagined his defence lawyer presenting that same list as grounds for leniency, and some hoary old judge nodding away in acknowledgement. My anger leached away, and was replaced by something else. A sense of purpose. A determination to make something good, something positive, come of out what I went through.’ Her voice faltered. ‘What I’m going through.’
Orla breathed in, pressed her hands firmly on the table. She drew her shoulders back. When she spoke, her strength and confidence had returned.
‘I read a book this summer that I found inspirational. A biography by someone who’s used a far worse experience than mine to galvanise the world. Her name is Malala Yousafzai. The title of her book is I am Malala.’
She waited for the buzz of conversation and the nods of recognition to recede.
‘I’m not comparing myself with Malala,’ she said. ‘Simply acknowledging the role her example has played in my decision. I’m resolved to campaign to change the way in which men view non-consensual sex, and the way in which society colludes with the status quo. I’m determined that our voices are heard. Today I’m launching a social media campaign initially, with a dedicated Facebook page, a Twitter account and a YouTube video. If you want to join me, you know how to find me.’
Her gaze slowly swept the room, taking in each row in turn. She was challenging her audience to harness the emotion she had stirred in each of them. To come together in a public roar of indignation, for justice and for change. Jo felt herself sucked into the vortex of passion that seemed to spiral upwards as the silence built to a crescendo. The young woman pushed herself back from the table, took a final deep breath and declared:
‘I am Orla.’
Chapter 15
As Orla sat down, the room erupted. Some were cheering, others crying, everyone applauding. Jo was close to tears. She found her view of the speakers hidden by the head and shoulders of two women standing on the back row. A man behind her was pressing into her back as he craned forward to see. A jab with her elbow persuaded him to back off. It was a long time before the noise subsided, people settled down, and Jo was able to see again.
Miriam Hood was on her feet, waiting for the few remaining people still standing to sit down.
‘Any comment from me would be superfluous,’ she said. ‘I think your reaction has said it all. Orla will now take a few questions, through me, please, and I have to stress that she will only respond to questions relating to her campaign.’
A sea of hands went up. Predictably, people wanted to know how they could help, where they could get more information, details of her social media sites. Several wondered if she would be prepared to speak at their university or college. They were dealt with quickly, then Miriam Hood looked directly towards Jo.
‘Yes?’ she said. ‘You have a question for Orla?’
A male voice erupted in Jo’s ear.
‘I do,’ he said, ‘although you need to know that I’m here in my capacity as a reporter.’
Jo turned, and stared into the face of Anthony Ginley.
‘You,’ she hissed.
He squeezed past Jo into the space in front of her, more concerned with responding to the cries of indignation around the hall than to her. He had to shout to be heard above the uproar.
‘I promise,’ he said, ‘that I will report this conference as positively as I can, in order to support Orla’s campaign. I’m on your side.’
Orla Lonergan tugged Miriam Hood’s arm and whispered in her ear. Hood straightened up, and held out both hands to quell the angry tumult.
‘Miss Lonergan is prepared to take you at your word,’ she said. ‘But if you let her down in what you write, you will have to answer to all of us.’
This produced a cheer, during which Orla Lonergan stood up.
‘I will answer one question,’ she said, ‘and only one. So please choose carefully.’
Ginley nodded his understanding.
‘My question,’ he said, ‘is, if you had the opportunity to address the man who attacked you—’
‘Raped me,’ she said.
He inclined his head.
‘Raped you. What would you say to him?’
The atmosphere changed in the room, as the audience waited to hear how she would answer. She took her time.
‘When I see him,’ she said at last, ‘and I will see him, because he will be caught, I will tell him that whatever it was that he set out to do that night, he failed. Did he think that he was exercising power over me? How? By waiting until my ability to resist had been weakened by alcohol? By sneaking drugs into my drink? Did he really believe that was a demonstration of power, of dominance, of control? I will tell him that if he thinks that has left me crippled emotionally or psychologically, and that he has destroyed the rest of my life, then he’s very much mistaken. I will tell him that I refuse to be his victim. Far from it. He has made me determined to expose people like him. Men whose only way to feel alive is to come like a thief in the night, drug their victims, take them and toss them aside. Men who are cowardly, spineless, unable to attract, to love, to empathise with other human beings. Because that is what he is, and how I will always remember him. With contempt and with pity.’
This time, the applause was louder than ever. Ginley turned to face Jo. His smile was self-congratulatory.
‘I told you it would help,’ he said. ‘But I’d rather work with you. What do you say?’
‘Go to hell,’ she said.
He shrugged. ‘Have it your own way.’
He squeezed past her, and headed towards the exit.
As she waited for the audience to settle, Jo reflected on what Ginley had said. Would Orla’s campaign really help, and if so how? She was in favour of anything that would make people sit up and listen. It might just move the debate on to educating men. Not that that was going to impact on serial perpetrators like their unsub, or the man who had abducted her two years ago. But then ninety per cent of rapes were by men known to the victim, and they were every bit as devastating. As for Orla, despite having been deeply affected by her words and her manner, Jo was still not sure to what extent her apparent strength masked a dangerous fragility. A brittleness that might shatter at any moment. She wondered if she was ready for the storm of vitriol her campaign would unleash from mindless trolls. As brave as Orla’s performance had been, Jo couldn’t help feeling that it was too soon after the event. She remembered the force psychotherapist warning her that she shou
ld not confuse putting on a brave front with being strong. That acknowledging and dealing with your feelings required a different kind of strength. One that in the end was more likely to bring a resolution with which she could live.
Miriam Hood was on her feet.
‘I’d now like to introduce our second speaker,’ she said. ‘I have no doubt that some of you will have been wondering why we have a man on the platform. Well, there are quite a few reasons. Firstly, men are also victims of rape and, as I mentioned earlier, male rape is on the increase. Secondly, since the perpetrators are exclusively male, it might help us to hear from a male perspective how better to protect ourselves.’
She acknowledged the murmurs of dissent, but did not respond to them.
‘Thirdly, if Orla’s campaign, which we have already pledged to join, is targeting men, then it will surely help to have men on board. Above all, we have invited this speaker because of what he brings to the table professionally, and as a person.’
She picked up a sheet of paper, and referred to it as she continued to speak.
‘Sam Malacott left university with a degree in Psychology and Business Studies, and a burning desire to make a positive contribution in the world. Over the past sixteen years, he has worked with and for eight different charities. He’s the owner and managing director of SM Charity Management Ltd, a human resources consultancy dedicated to supporting voluntary organisations. This work currently includes the specialist training of call centre staff for a range of women’s charities. Five years ago, Sam completed a part-time MA entitled “The impact of sexual victimisation on society and on the individual”.
‘Since then, in his spare time and at his own cost, he has been a regular Say No And Stay Safe speaker and trainer.’
She put down the briefing sheet and placed her hands together in readiness to lead the applause.
