Guilty Innocence

by Maggie James

‘No, you don’t understand. It was my fault.’

  Mark pulls back to catch her eyes briefly, before her shame forces her to clamp her eyelids tight, shutting out his incredulous expression. ‘How the hell were you to blame, Nat?’

  ‘I should have fought back. Struggled, pushed him off. But I didn’t.’

  ‘He was stronger than you. Bigger. Nothing you could have done.’ Mark’s words are flat; it’s as though he’s giving a running commentary on a scene he’s witnessing in his head. His empathy is comforting, although Natalie needs him to understand the guilt she’s always carried.

  ‘I don’t understand why I didn’t even try,’ she says. ‘I just let him do it. I knew I should put up a fight, but I didn’t. He scared me too badly, you see. That’s why I’ve always felt so ashamed.’

  ‘Because you believe you could have done something to stop it, but you didn’t. So you feel guilty for not acting.’

  Jeez, how does he know?

  ‘Yes,’ she replies.

  Mark’s arms squeeze around her again. ‘Believe me, I understand exactly how that feels,’ he says. Somehow, although she doesn’t ask how, she’s aware he really does get it, right through every cell in him. Her pain is his pain, her terror his terror.

  ‘You want to know what my worst fear is?’ she asks.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Him finding me again one day.’ She shudders. ‘I know it’s illogical. He never saw my face; there’s zero chance he’d ever recognise me again. But I can’t help it. I think about him, still being here in Bristol, having got worse, more aggressive, in the meantime. Scares the shit out of me.’

  ‘I get that.’

  ‘He’s always with me. In my head, I mean. If anyone male comes up behind me in the street, I panic. I’m terrified it’s him.’

  Mark kisses her hair again.

  ‘I should have told someone. But I didn’t.’

  ‘You were eleven years old. Kids of that age don’t always do what they should.’ His arms slacken their grip as he pulls away. As though his words have triggered a memory for him. ‘Don’t beat yourself up over it, Nat.’

  ‘Can’t help it.’ Natalie’s unconvinced. She should have done something. Anything.

  ‘Want to talk some more about it?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘That’s OK,’ Mark says, and they slip into silence, words no longer necessary. She’s incapable of telling him more anyway. Safe beside him, her mind retreats through the years, until she’s eleven years old again, transported back to the park near her childhood home in Bristol.

  She’s taken this route so many times before, down the slope under the trees, prior to walking up the other side towards where she lives. On this day, a Saturday, she’s been to the shops to buy chocolate and is heading back for lunch. Eventually, but not yet. The rows between her parents have been escalating in recent months, and a bar of Dairy Milk provides Natalie with a welcome form of self-medication. She’s been resorting to its sweet comfort more and more, along with sneaking biscuits from the kitchen into her bedroom to soothe herself when the raised voices downstairs grow unbearable. Here, alone with her thoughts in the park, she’s safe, insulated from the nagging worry that her father will leave them. His vice, Natalie’s gleaned from what she’s overheard, is younger women. Aged eleven, she’s already sceptical about the male capacity for fidelity.

  A small copse lies ahead on the left of the park, where the trees are thick and it’s dark and secluded. Natalie’s often detoured through it, loving the way the branches swallow her up, shielding her from anyone on the main path. It’s overgrown, and hard to penetrate, but a tiny clearing hides in the middle. A place to which Natalie frequently retreats with her sweet pleasures to shut out the rest of the world, leaning against a tree as she eats. Her bag slung over her shoulder, she’s headed there now, anticipating the satisfying crack of the chocolate snapping under her teeth, the first gratifying release of its sugary delights.

  Absorbed in her thoughts, she never hears her attacker approaching from behind.

  An arm presses against her windpipe, cutting off her air, pulling her head backwards. She catches a whiff of stale breath as the arm hoists her upwards, so that her toes are the only part of her still in contact with the path. That’s when he says the words.

  ‘Frigging fat bitch, ain’t you? Been stuffing too many pies into yourself.’ His mocking contempt sears shame through her. She’s incapable of any response, her throat crushed by the force of his arm, although an inarticulate moan escapes her. She’s pushed forward, into the copse, shoved through the brambles and undergrowth, the thorns snagging her jacket, gouging scratches into any exposed flesh they encounter.

  They reach the clearing, his arm still tight against her neck. Then she’s forced to the ground, her right cheek slamming down against the earth, the peaty smell of which fills her nostrils. Her bag crashes off her shoulder, scattering its contents. No noise, not anywhere; it’s as though only two people in the world exist, her and him. He’s on top of her now, his weight heavy and oppressive as he pins her down into the dirt, his breath hot against her left ear.

  ‘You’re going to let me do what I want.’ Total self-assurance in his words.

  She nods, her head bobbing up and down as far as her restricted position allows. Surrender is her only option. He’s too big, too heavy, too terrifying, for anything else.

  ‘I’ll hurt you, bitch. If you scream or do anything stupid.’

  He will, too. Something about him, his tone, his strength, his words, are beyond menacing. She’s rendered mute, passive, incapable of any response other than submitting to whatever foul thing he wants. She prays it’s not that.

  It’s not, thankfully, although what he does do is vile. Painful, invasive. He holds her with his left arm, whilst his right goes exploring. Her body bucks as his hand rakes underneath her, popping the button on her jeans, dragging them over her arse cheeks. Her panties get pulled down along with the jeans, leaving her buttocks exposed to the cold December air. His thighs press hard against hers, his chest against her spine, as he slides his hand around her right hip. Pain stabs through her as his fingers force their way inside, invading her, violating her, but he’s anticipated this, and his left hand has already moved to seal her mouth. Her strangled moans find no way to escape. His fingers continue to twist and probe, stretching her, and a sudden wetness, warm and sticky, seeps onto her thighs. Later on, as she disposes of her stained knickers where her mother will never find them, she discovers it’s blood.

  He gets off on her fear, she realises. What excites him is not so much having his fingers inside her but the invasion they represent. Total control over her is the aim of the game. If she gives it to him, maybe he’ll keep his promise and not hurt her even worse.

  So Natalie lies there, crushed to the ground as her assailant takes his time, revelling in her pain, her submission, her helplessness. An odour enters her nose, acrid and foul, and shifting her head, she sees the half-dried dog turd a foot or so away. The pain in her cunt meshes with the shit in front of her and Natalie swears to herself she’ll never reveal the horror of today to anyone, not ever.

  She’s not sure how much time passes, but eventually he gets bored with the game and pulls out his fingers, wiping them on the grass nearby. His chest peels away from her spine, his thighs shifting to straddle her. Natalie doesn’t move, not a muscle, not an inch. She’s aware of him stretching to pick something up. The crackle of packaging against his fingers reaches her; then she hears cloth rustle as he puts her Dairy Milk in his pocket.

  ‘I’ll take this,’ he says. ‘You shouldn’t be eating chocolate. Not a porker like you.’ His laugh is mocking as he eases his weight off her. Still she doesn’t dare move or look round. Then the sounds of him striding through the brambles to the main path float back to her.

  Natalie’s grateful for the seclusion the copse offers, unaware of how long passes before the ability to peel herself off the ground comes to her. She�
��s sore, and bleeding, and pain stabs her between the legs as she stands up, shaky and uncertain. She grabs her bag, shoving the scattered contents in hastily, before pushing her way blindly back to the main path.

  Her mother shouts at her for being late for lunch, but Natalie barges past her, pleading sickness, desperate for the sanctuary of her bedroom. Later on, when Callie goes out, she raids the biscuit tin, stuffing chocolate chip comfort into her mouth to dull the pain saturating her body and her mind. So what if she doesn’t need the extra calories? Food’s become Natalie’s solace, even if she is, as her assailant puts it, a porker and a frigging fat bitch. Heat floods her face as she recalls his words.

  Within a month, her father walks out on her mother for good, his dick lured away by a twenty-year-old aerobics instructor. A week later, Natalie’s beset by the onset of her first menstrual cramps, for which she seeks relief in extra chips and chocolate. Her body thickens and expands even more, her fat layers protection against the male of the species.

  Once she moves into her middle teens, however, Natalie’s sex drive rears its head. She’s straight, so she has either to get to grips with fucking men or resign herself to perpetual virginity. Natalie chooses the former. Sex doesn’t come easily to her, though. She can manage being astride a guy or having him on top, but getting fucked from behind – no way. Her first boyfriend tries it and as soon as Natalie’s chest presses into the bed with his body against her, panic rises in her and she bucks upwards and backwards, pushing him off her. Gradually she eases into her routine of taking the initiative in bed, concentrating on pleasing her man, relegating her own pleasure to the side-lines, ensuring she’s too busy with her mouth and fingers for them to contemplate fucking her doggy-style.

  Shit. She’s one screwed-up bitch, that’s for sure.

  ‘You’ve ended up afraid of men. Not just him, but all of us,’ Mark says, his words bringing her back to the present.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I won’t hurt you, Nat.’ He pulls his head back, tilting up her chin so their eyes engage. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

  10

  HIS SIDEKICK

  The call from Adam Campbell thrusts Mark’s mind back through the years as he tries to sleep later on that night. He’s Joshua Barker again, aged eleven. His first day at secondary school, Exeter Grammar, and he knows nobody, not really. His former classmates have either moved away, gone to different schools or else he never interacted much with them anyway. He spots a couple of them in the queue at the lunch counter, envying the ease with which they seem to be integrating into this unfamiliar social fabric. He finds it hard, anxiety oozing from him whenever he attempts to initiate contact, his awkwardness stemming from his mother’s dislike of him having friends. Starting secondary school initially seems like a way to break through his social deprivation, but now, standing alone in the dining hall, not daring to join any of the tables, he’s not so sure it’ll work. The other boys ebb and flow around him, carrying trays, their apparent self-assurance mocking his own uncertainty. Various smells assault his nostrils: frying chips bubbling in oil, pastry warming in the serving dishes, orange Fanta. His isolation becomes unbearable and he escapes to the sanctuary of the toilets, locking himself in a cubicle, where he wills himself to get a grip on his spiralling emotions. If only Dad were still alive, he thinks.

  Joshua’s been grieving for his father for two years now; he misses the man who played football with him, listened to him, spent time with him. His mother has long ago made it clear her dead husband isn’t a topic for conversation. She provides her son’s meals and pays his school fees but little else. Joshua’s starving emotionally; his visits to his maternal grandparents are rare and the affection he gets from them isn’t enough to plug the hole in his psyche. So he sits in his smelly toilet cubicle, willing the tears back from his eyes, stern reprimands to himself echoing in his brain. Get a grip. You shouldn’t be crying, not at your age. Grow up, for God’s sake.

  It’s partially successful, because when Joshua unlatches the door and walks out to wash his hands his eyes are only slightly reddened. The toilet block is silent, empty apart from him, a faint whiff of drains joining the usual piss and shit odours. Joshua rests his forearms on the rim of the sink, grabbing an extra shred of respite before returning to the dining hall.

  Then Adam Campbell strides through the door.

  A pivotal moment in both their lives.

  Adam commands Joshua’s attention. Impossible to ignore him. The boy is taller than the rest of Joshua’s peers, puberty beckoning him already; his neck is thick, his shoulders chunky. The rest of his body is equally hefty, sending out unmistakable overtones of don’t mess with me. All swagger and attitude. Dark hair, unwashed, flops over his eyes. As he checks out Joshua’s pink-rimmed ones, a tiny grin quirks his mouth.

  Something about the other boy’s piercing perusal roots Joshua to where he’s standing. Without being able to voice it in words, on some deep subconscious level he acknowledges the other boy as far higher up the pecking order than he is, along with the fact Adam will lead the way in whatever future relationship they forge. Later on, he thinks the other boy also recognises Joshua’s lower rung on the dominance ladder, zeroing in on him as posing no challenge. Adam singles him out as someone he can control, because Joshua’s inherently weak, unable to stand up for himself. Back then, they fulfil a need in each other, slotting together for all the wrong reasons, the sum being greater than the parts. Between them, they create the monster responsible for a child’s death.

  At the time, though, Joshua needs someone to take him in hand. Right then, Adam Campbell seems the best thing to happen to him in a long while.

  They don’t say anything to each other, not at first. Joshua finishes drying his hands. Adam pisses noisily into a urinal. Then he speaks.

  ‘Usually hang around in the park after last period,’ he says. ‘You can join me. Meet me by the gates when we finish.’ Then he’s gone. Joshua realises he doesn’t even know the other boy’s name.

  He learns the only reason they’ve not encountered each other before is Adam’s decision to skip morning classes. In the afternoon maths period, Joshua’s keenly aware of Adam sitting a few desks in front of him. His body sprawls out of his seat, his thick legs spread wide, claiming his territory. He makes occasional wise-arse comments to the boy beside him. Joshua experiences a sudden rush of jealousy; he wants to be seated next to the mouthy Adam, who seems to have the world around him sussed out pretty well. It’s a good thing, he thinks, the maths teacher is six feet four and built like a rugby player, because Adam Campbell appears to recognise he’s met his match, not daring to cheek the man. Joshua subsequently witnesses in other classes what Adam will do to the teachers if he senses even a hint of weakness, and it’s not pretty.

  He goes to meet him after school and they mooch through the local park. Adam pulls a pack of cigarettes from his bag, offering one to Joshua, laughing when he refuses.

  ‘Fucking wuss,’ he jeers. Joshua flushes, embarrassed by his lack of savoir-faire.

  ‘Take it,’ Adam commands, thrusting the cigarette his way. Joshua is helpless, unable to decline, as refusal will make him seem even weaker. Besides, he’s known Adam Campbell less than a day, but he’s keenly aware he’s not a boy to say no to. He takes the cigarette, unsure what to do, resulting in more contempt.

  ‘Here. Put it in your mouth; drag on it whilst I light it. Jeez, how the hell did you get to be such a nerd? Un - fucking – believable. Been smoking myself since I turned ten and nicked one of my dad’s Marlboros.’

  Joshua obeys, the first burning hit of smoke smacking the back of his throat, causing him to splutter, tears spilling from his eyes. The cigarette tastes foul. He tries again, without success, and Adam snatches it from him.

  ‘Give it here. Don’t want to waste a good ciggie.’ He inhales deeply, no coughing, no spluttering, clearly an old hand at the game. ‘We’ll bunk off tomorrow, go down town, have a laugh.’

  Again
, certainty that Joshua will comply is inherent in Adam’s tone.

  The following afternoon, they wander through Exeter’s Princesshay shopping centre, Joshua tailing Adam; it’s late enough that they can tell anyone who challenges them they have a free period. Nobody does, though. The other boy oozes intimidation, even towards adults. Joshua’s a little alarmed when Adam snatches a cigarette lighter from one of the small carts trading in the precinct, but doesn’t say anything. Like the smoking, it’s clearly something else at which Adam’s well practised. Joshua’s always been one to stick by the rules and to see them broken so blatantly holds a certain fascination.

  During the first few weeks of their relationship, Joshua’s subjected to more of the same; contempt, cigarettes in the park, a few items stolen whenever Adam spots his chance. Underpinning it all is always the unspoken rule that Joshua will do whatever Adam dictates, without question. At first, though, everything’s fine. He’s content in his position lower down the pecking order, never noticing how the other boys avoid him now they’ve sussed he’s Adam’s sidekick. For Joshua, it’s enough to have a mate to hang around with, someone different, someone daring and challenging, possessing all the fire and spunk he doesn’t.

  It stops being exciting a few weeks into their friendship, when Joshua challenges Adam for the first time. He’s growing increasingly uneasy about the bunking off and the petty theft, concerned they’ll get caught at one or the other before long. His mother’s reaction if that happens won’t be pretty.

  ‘Aren’t you worried someone will see you?’ he asks one day after Adam lifts a cheap watch from a street vendor. The other boy snorts in derision.

  ‘What the fuck are they going to do? By the time they catch on, I’ll be long gone.’ He studies Joshua intently. His scrutiny is unnerving, making Joshua wish he’d never raised the issue.

  ‘What a fucking wuss you are. A mummy’s boy, that’s you all over. Too shit-scared of your own shadow to ever step out of line. That’s where all the fun is, mate.’ He punches Joshua on the arm, supposedly in jest, but it hurts, a reminder of how much bigger Adam is, how easy it would be for him to enforce his dominance should Joshua ever challenge him. He fingers the watch, acting grateful when Adam says he can keep it.