A Version of the Truth

by B P Walter

  I run back downstairs, down the corridor, tapping at the home screen, shoving in the USB, awkwardly clutching it tightly in my left hand, and go back into the lounge. Ernest and Louise are standing again, as if about to flee. ‘I told you to fucking sit!’ I snap at them.

  ‘We aren’t used to being treated like this,’ Ernest says pompously.

  ‘Julianne, please, just sit down. I think you’re just having a bad day.’ Louise has her kind voice back on, but it’s tinged with panic.

  I laugh, probably sounding slightly hysterical. ‘You want to see a bad day? You wait.’ I drop the device roughly beside the plates, wedging it up against a dish of half-eaten apple pie, and lean across it, zooming in on the girl’s face, her name, her details. Part of me expects James to stop me, but he’s still sitting and I can see him shaking, as if trembling from the cold.

  ‘This is a young woman named Ashley Brooks and I believe, in four weeks’ time, my husband – your precious James – is going to rape her.’ I flick through the files. ‘And this is Carly Gale. She’s booked in for February. These are drug addicts, by the way. Prostitutes. People on benefits. People with mental health issues. People with no support, no family to help them, no friends, no job. And children. Children from care homes. Children without parents. Children who have probably known nothing but abuse and trauma. This is what he does. He subscribes to some sick company who procure these people for him. This is the type of man he is.’

  I see Louise’s face has drained of colour as she falls back down into her chair. Ernest shows no sign of emotion, but after a few moments he walks past me calmly and clicks the lock button on the side of the tablet.

  ‘Enough,’ he says simply. He then sits back down next to his wife so it’s only me left standing. I feel slightly disarmed and exposed and so, at a loss as to what else to do, I sit down, too.

  ‘What is the point of all this?’ Ernest says, still talking quietly and calmly. ‘What do you expect to get from it? To shame your husband? To see him prosecuted? To get back at me? If so, I have to say, going to the police would be a pretty strange move from you of all people.’

  His words confuse me, but I latch on to one of them. Police. Yes, that’s it. I think I always knew it would come to that, deep down, but only now am I really thinking about how it would work.

  ‘Julianne, can you hear me?’

  I nod. ‘Yes, I can. And yes, I will be going to the police. I don’t know what good it will do, but I know it’s the right thing.’

  He looks pensive as he nods. ‘I see. And how much will you tell them?’

  I take a deep breath. ‘Everything. Every single bit of it. Every single sick little secret. I mean it,’ I say.

  I see a flash of something in Ernest’s eyes after I say this and it scares me slightly, shaking my resolve, so I look away. James, who is still trembling, his face now in his hands, looks like a wreck of a man. Someone I don’t know. A complete stranger.

  Ernest’s voice takes my gaze away from my husband.

  ‘Julianne, please listen to me.’ His tone is low and commanding and he fixes upon me with an intense, hard gaze. ‘It won’t make a difference.’

  I look at him in consternation. What is he talking about? I try to ask this out loud, but my jaw is aching from all my shouting and I just manage a ‘Whha’ sound.

  ‘I’m telling you, Julianne. This is bigger than your husband banging a few worthless drug addicts. Do you understand what I’m telling you?’

  I don’t understand. Either that, or I don’t want to. ‘I don’t care how big it is. The police won’t turn me away. They’ll confiscate his stuff, trace the files, arrest him.’ I nod my head in the direction of James, unable to say his name. ‘Hopefully arrest whatever sick fuck sent them to him, too.’

  ‘Julianne, please stop.’ He is still talking maddeningly slowly, still looking me in the eye. It is as if he’s trying to tell me something without actually saying it out loud. ‘The police won’t turn you away, but they won’t get very far.’

  I make a sound of disbelief. ‘Sure they will. They can do all kinds of things with computer forensics …’ I know I’m out of my depth here, but I’m also not prepared to believe what he’s saying.

  Ernest sighs. ‘Do I have to spell it out for you? The police investigation will fail. They will be polite, say they will look into it, perhaps launch an official investigation, but if they do it will either be for show or it will fail at the first hurdle. No arrests will be made. No names will be released to the public.’

  I glance over at Louise, but she’s looking away. Ally has her eyes fixed on her brother, but isn’t saying anything. Cameron, meanwhile, is staring around, apparently unsure whether to be excited or appalled by what is happening.

  ‘There is a market for this sort of thing, Julianne,’ Ernest continues, ‘and I’m not talking about your husband indulging himself every month or so. Acting out his fantasies. Having other people pick up the pieces, sort out his mess. I’m talking about a market worth billions, where people will pay a premium to do whatever they want and the circles in which they move will protect them. Always.’

  His words aren’t hitting home. I look over at James, hoping Ernest’s little speech will get some kind of reaction from him, but he still just sits there, his hands pressed into his face, apparently in a great deal of distress, like a scared child. ‘What circles?’ I ask. ‘Do you mean you and your gang of privileged jerks? Lawmakers are not above the law. This is England.’

  ‘Spoken like a true American.’ Ernest’s smug tone is threatening to return. ‘Julianne, you’re not naive. You’ve seen the news stories. There have been investigations, very high-profile ones, in the past about similar things. Things of a rather niche nature. Things it is within the public interest to keep swept under the carpet. Nobody wants to live in a nation run by paedophiles, sadists and perverts. Such words, after all, are part of a discourse put forward by those who don’t truly understand. Wouldn’t it be better if we just allowed the best people to reach the top without having their sexual preferences judged by those who have no right to judge? Look at your son, for example. Wouldn’t it be a tragedy for him if his tastes became the subject of an inquiry? They would have been, you know, not too long ago. But society moved on. And it will again.’

  It’s not confusion that grips my words now. It’s anger. ‘It’s not the same,’ I hiss, my gritted teeth slightly obscuring the words. ‘It is not the same.’

  Ernest smiles the winning vote-for-me, I’m just like you smile he uses on the public when approaching election day. ‘You keep telling yourself that, Julianne.’

  I look at him with disgust. ‘You’re vile. James is going to prison. And if you’re involved in this, so will you.’

  He just sits there and laughs. ‘I’m sorry to say it, but you are being blind. You have been manipulated by your government, your press and your husband. Although two out of these three are of course not technically “yours”. Your adopted government, I should say.’

  ‘People do get found out. People do have to answer for stuff like this. Just look at the news. It happens all the time.’

  He rolls his eyes. ‘That’s because the media thrives on sex, gossip and middle-class outrage. It’s just a question of where you shine a light and how much you give them. Why do you think it’s only been film producers, TV presenters and film stars who have been the main focus? Have you ever stopped to wonder why everyone gets so hot and bothered about them but conveniently forget about the real people in power? These public outings have been a smokescreen. Everyone thought they were going to open up the floodgates – flush out the perverts and bring us forward into a more transparent time. But their purpose was the opposite. Give the public just enough to satisfy their appetite for a revolution but not enough to bring the walls crumbling down.’

  This is all too much for me to handle. I let my head sink into my hands, mirroring my husband.

  ‘He’s right, you know,’ Ally says softly, causi
ng me to look back up and meet her eyes; her usually expressive face blank, her expression now cold, not giving anything away. The drunken, loose-cannon vibe she was giving off earlier is now extinguished.

  ‘What?’ I snap at her, feeling the anger rising again. ‘You’re defending this? As a woman, you think it’s okay that people – real, living and breathing women, men, girls, boys – can be abused just for the sake of vile individuals getting their fucked-up kicks? Are you seriously telling me, Ally, that the thought of that doesn’t make you feel ill?’

  Ally doesn’t answer, but Ernest does. ‘Don’t use that phrase,’ he says. ‘As a woman. I hate that. It immediately takes away any credibility you might have had.’

  ‘Credibility? That’s exactly what it gives me. I know what it’s like. What it’s like to be a woman confronted constantly by men who persistently try to make you feel weak or stupid or insignificant. The snide comments, the wolf whistles, the offers of sex from random strangers in the street. All of these things exist at the start of a long and disturbing road that ends with the likes of him.’ I jab my finger in the direction of my husband.

  Ernest raises his eyebrows. ‘Goodness, James, it’s a wonder your wife doesn’t go into politics. With this level of self-righteous hysteria, she could give the PM a run for her money.’

  Ally makes a strange noise, as if inhaling breath in short bursts, desperate to take in the oxygen but afraid of the sound. ‘Ernest isn’t very self-aware,’ she says quietly. A small part of the heavy, uneasy feeling I’m experiencing is somehow tied up with Ally. Having spent a large part of my life in the company of this big personality, the larger-than-life posh girl who’s never minded saying things like ‘oh golly gosh!’ in her loud, resonant voice in public, it is weirdly devastating to now hear her speak in little more than a whisper. ‘Julianne,’ she continues quietly, ‘I think you should talk to your husband. We’ll all go and leave you both in peace.’

  Again, Louise looks up hopefully, and even Cameron stirs, as if ready to make a move, but Ernest once again raises his hand. ‘Just one moment. I think we need to get a few things settled first.’ He’s looking at me as he says this, and there’s an edge of venom in his voice, though he, too, is now talking quietly. ‘I presume we’ve put to bed the ludicrous notion of going to the police about this.’ He waves his hand at the tablet, still leaning against the dishes, the glossy surface of the screen reflecting the warm lights up above.

  ‘I don’t think we have,’ I cut in.

  ‘We have, Julianne. You need to understand that. No good will come of it, only anxiety for you and probably the destruction of your marriage.’ He glances at James.

  ‘I don’t care what you say, I’m not going to stand by …’

  ‘However,’ Ernest carries on, slightly louder, ‘forgive me for being, shall we say, slightly concerned at your mention of our other little delicacy.’

  ‘What delicacy?’ I say, confused.

  ‘Don’t feign ignorance, Julianne. I think we both know what’s underpinning all this.’

  At this, I see Ally look up sharply. As if on cue she stands and this time her brother doesn’t try to stop her. ‘Come on, Cameron.’

  Her boyfriend looks slightly shell-shocked as he stands up and I see him give the tablet in the centre of the table a fearful glance.

  I can’t let Ally go. Half-tempted to stand in front of her to block her exit, I instead try to make eye contact but she’s not looking my way. ‘Ally, you’ll back me up, won’t you?’ It sounds desperate and pleading, but it’s all I can offer her.

  My friend pauses on her way to the dining-room door, Cameron stopping behind her abruptly so as not to bump into her.

  ‘Ally, please. Tell him you’ll come with me to the police.’ My voice rises and cracks, like someone begging for mercy, but it’s my last hope. ‘And Cameron. You saw those files. I promise you, this isn’t nothing. Please. I need you to …’

  ‘I think Ally and Cameron know what’s good for them. And my sister’s very good at turning a blind eye when it suits her. I think she knows this is one of those moments when her discretion is required.’ Ernest speaks now in a dangerous voice that has a real element of threat to it. ‘Cameron and I understand each other, too, don’t we, Cameron?’ I see the young man look over at Ernest. He’s out of his depth. You and me both, I want to say to him, but it’s clear that, unlike me, he’s not willing to fight. He nods eventually and Ernest nods and smiles in return.

  He and Ally exit the room in silence. She doesn’t even look at me as she leaves. I’m astonished. I’ve always had problems with her, always been slightly irritated by her larger-than-life characteristics and direct way of putting things, but I have genuinely counted her as a friend. But here she is, passing me by in my hour of need, obeying her bullying brother rather than coming to my aid. She’s a coward, I think, as she disappears out of sight down the corridor.

  ‘Ernest, let’s go, please, let’s just go.’ Louise sounds almost as desperate as I am now, reaching for her husband’s arm then flinching when he pulls himself away from her. ‘I don’t think … I’m really not able …’

  ‘Fine, go back to the house,’ he says. ‘I’m staying here, but you can go. And don’t wait up.’

  Louise flinches slightly as he spits this final sentence, then scurries out of the room.

  Just us three now. Me, Ernest and the silently crying, trembling man I used to proudly and lovingly call my husband. He used to put his hand over mine if I cried. Rub it slightly with his thumbs in a circle. And, very occasionally, when he cried, I would do the same to him. I can’t imagine comforting him now. I can’t imagine ever touching him again.

  Ernest waits until he hears the slam of the front door before starting up again. ‘Julianne. I’m waiting for some assurance you’re not going to do something stupid. Please don’t think you can play me. This isn’t the time for digging up the past. You of all people should know that.’

  I try to breathe but it’s as if my airways are shrinking. ‘I don’t know what you’re implying …’

  ‘I’m talking about Holly Rowe.’

  The name hits me like a bullet. ‘What?’ I whisper, staring back at him.

  ‘Holly Rowe. And I’m really not in the mood for your faux-ignorance right now.’

  Ernest’s face is distorting out of proportion. I can’t focus on anything. I go to stand up. ‘I need you to leave. I’m done.’

  ‘Sit down,’ Ernest says.

  ‘Do you know,’ I say, struggling to keep the strength in my voice, ‘I’m getting so fucking sick of you telling people what to do in my house.’

  ‘Noted. But all the same, I need you to sit.’

  I look at the two of them seated there, at one end of the large table, then sink back into my seat. ‘I’m not talking about Holly Rowe and I don’t know why you’re bringing her up now,’ I say to my dinner plate. ‘I’m really tired, Ernest. James and I have a lot of talking to do. You probably think bringing up Holly now is some easy way to upset me, but—’

  ‘So you do remember her after all? We can stop pretending then?’ Ernest says.

  This isn’t happening. There’s nothing to talk about here.

  ‘I told you, I’m not talking about her. Or any of it. James made a mistake. A stupid mistake when he was nineteen. He’s never been unfaithful since. It has … no relevance.’ I can’t stop the tears from slipping out now.

  ‘Are you at least fooling yourself? Because you’re really not convincing me, Julianne. My patience is being tested.’

  ‘Your patience! Fucking hell, you dare to talk to me like that after you’ve done God knows what damage to my family.’

  ‘You said,’ he carries on, almost shouting, too, ‘that you were going to tell the police everything. You said that word, everything.’

  ‘Yes, and I am.’

  ‘So I presume you are also talking about Holly Rowe. And if you are, I feel it my responsibility to offer you some advice on the matter.’
/>   I raise my hands to my head, feeling a dull, throbbing pain in my temples. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ernest.’

  ‘I think you do. I’ve wondered for years whether one day you’d play your little trump card. Give yourself a moment in the limelight. I looked out for the slightest crack in your marriage, waiting for it to come, but you seemed so intoxicated with James – or, rather, with his money – I didn’t really have to worry about that. But now it’s come up, forgive me for not being keen to walk out of here without getting a few things absolutely clear. I’m not a big fan of uncertainty – I have enough of it in my professional life.’

  I make a move to get up, but feel myself wobble and sit back down. If I didn’t feel so disoriented I would hit him, lash out, smash his head into the remnants of his apple pie. ‘I don’t know what—’ I begin to say, but he grabs my arm, tight. Very tight.

  ‘You sat with her, Julianne. You sat with her all night afterwards. You listened to her talk. And then you said we would never speak about it again.’

  I feel like I’m breaking. My world is cracking apart at the seams and, if I don’t run, I’ll be swallowed by the darkness underneath. I want to leave, but he’s got me so tight, and James is just sitting there, looking like he’s about to be sick, his face stained with tears.

  ‘Fuck you,’ I say back through gritted teeth. ‘This is a separate issue …’

  ‘Are you sure about that? Are you sure you’ve had quite the perfect married life you’ve always made out? Are you sure he’s never got a bit heavy-handed with you when the urge gets too strong?’

  ‘You’re sick. You’re fucking sick. I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I’m not going to stand for it. I don’t know what you think a silly little affair James had at uni has to do with any of this. And I am still,’ I say, pointing to the tablet, ‘taking that to the police tomorrow.’