“Torturer: One who inflicts extreme physical and mental pain for the purpose of punishment or obtaining information. Abuse may include: blindfolding; enforced constant standing or crouching; near drowning through submersion in water; near suffocation by plastic bags being tied round the head; rape…”
When John Donne wrote “no man is an island, entire of itself” he can’t have known about genuine introverts like Jess or sociopaths like MacKenzie. Such people might live within communities-albeit on the fringes-but their reclusiveness, their reticence, even their indifference to what others think, means, at best, that they’re only semi-attached to the “continent” of mankind. If they engage with the rest of us at all, it’s on their own terms and not on ours.
MacKenzie’s isolation had turned him into a predator, although it’s arguable which came first-his sadism or his alienation. It’s unlikely he was born with sadistic fantasies-what baby is?-but a harsh childhood might have led to them. By contrast, Jess’s introversion seems to have been inherited from her father, although the tragedies in her life may have exacerbated it. Sometimes, particularly when she refused to speak, I felt there was an autistic element to her personality. She was certainly a gifted artist and gave the same obsessive commitment to her work that savants show.
In her own way, she was charismatic. She inspired affection and loyalty in those who chose to interact with her, and a disproportionate dislike among those who didn’t. There was no middle ground with Jess. You loved her or loathed her, and in either case accepted her detachment as part of the package.
All of which persuaded me back downstairs within the half-hour limit because I needed her a great deal more than she needed me.
Extracts from notes, filed as “CB16-19/05/04”
…The police in Baghdad suggested that my alleged “ignorance” might be due to Stockholm Syndrome-I’d developed a bond with my captors to stay alive and was withholding information out of gratitude for my release. They told me it was nothing to be ashamed of. It happens to most hostages because their lives depend on their captors, and it’s a classic self-protection measure to befriend the one who threatens you. When I denied it, they lost sympathy with me.
…The only bond I developed was with the footsteps. I longed for them because I was afraid I’d been left to die of slow starvation and dehydration…and feared them because it meant I’d be taken out of the crate. I certainly developed a psychological attachment to sounds. I was owned for three days-and still am.
…I was never going to give details of what happened. How could I explain my smiles to strangers? Did I ever say no? Did I ever think about saying no?
…Do all sadists understand the power they wield? Are all victims programmed to respond in the same way to fear and pain?
…I wish I could believe that. At least it’s an excuse for cowardice. Why am I alive? I don’t understand that at all…
11
MY RETURN DOWNSTAIRS was a replay of my arrival. When I pushed open the kitchen door, Peter was sitting at the kitchen table and Jess stood mutinously by the Aga, staring at the floor. I hadn’t heard Peter’s car, and I stiffened with anxiety as soon as I saw him. He gave me a reassuring smile. “I won’t take offence if you give me my marching orders, Marianne. Jess told me to get my ‘arse over PDQ.’ She said it was an emergency, but, as I’m sure you know by now, diagnosis isn’t her strong point.”
Jess scowled at him. “You need to talk to someone,” she told me bluntly, “and Peter’s probably the best person. Just don’t let him put you on drugs. If he turns you into a zombie, you’ll be easy meat for any psycho that comes calling.”
Peter frowned a warning. “Shut up, Jess. If that’s your idea of tact it’s no wonder your social circle consists entirely of weasels.”
“It’s what she’s afraid of.”
He stood up and gestured towards the other chair. “Please come in, Marianne. You have my word there’s no one here except me and Jess. Against her better judgement, I’ve persuaded her that now is not the time to cure you of your fear of dogs…so you don’t even have mastiffs to contend with.”
Jess turned her scowl on me. “It’s up to you, but you’ll be better off with a dog to guard you. I’m happy to lend you Bertie. He used to be Lily’s till she couldn’t cope anymore, so he’ll settle back fine once you start feeding him…as long as you don’t go spastic and start flapping your hands around. You only need to learn a few commands and he’ll stand between you and danger.” Her expression relented a little. “Think about it, anyway. He’ll be a lot better for you than anti-depressants.”
Peter smiled rather grimly. “You can be a real pain in the arse at times.”
“I’m just giving some options.”
“No, you’re not. You’re blasting off with half-baked theories as usual. I suggest we revert to plan A”-he spoke through gritted teeth-“which was to give Marianne the chance to tell us if there’s any way we can help her.” He caught my gaze and made a valiant effort to suppress the irritation in his. “Can I persuade you to come in? Or would you rather one or both of us left…?”
I knew the irritation wasn’t directed at me, but it was enough to set a flutter of alarm knocking at my ribcage. My response to any display of male impatience or displeasure was a rush of fear. There were too many associations, and not just with MacKenzie. During the police interview in Baghdad-where the questioning became increasingly brusque-I’d started shaking so badly that the American adviser called a halt and asked if I’d prefer to speak to a woman.
I had declined so vehemently that a puzzled frown creased his forehead. “But you seem distressed, Connie. I thought you might be more comfortable with a member of your own sex.”
I’d reached for a glass of water, then changed my mind because I didn’t want the rim rattling against my teeth. “I’m tired,” I managed out of a dry mouth, “and if I start again with somebody new, I’ll miss my plane. I really want to get home to my parents in England.”
He wasn’t unkind. In other circumstances I’d have liked him. “I understand that, but I’ve no wish to upset you, and I have the feeling I’m doing that. Would you care for a female officer to sit in on the session?”
I shook my head. I was afraid of a woman’s sympathy, even more afraid of her instincts. It was easier telling lies to men. I ran my tongue round the inside of my mouth and manufactured a convincing smile. “I’m OK. Just exhausted. It was frightening…you don’t sleep when you’re frightened.”
He watched my expression as Dan put an arm across my shoulders to comfort me. I kept the smile in place-just-but I couldn’t stop my eyes widening. Perhaps men are as instinctive as women, because the frown returned immediately. “I’m not happy about this, Connie. Are you sure you’ve told us everything?”
All I could do was stare at him. My whole body was rebelling at Dan’s closeness. That was the first time I had difficulty breathing, although it was more an enforced holding of my breath-a twenty-second freeze-than the panic that came afterwards. It seems to take time for the bombshell of terror to start exploding without warning. Perhaps we function on automatic pilot in the immediate aftermath of trauma, and only experience anxiety when the body needs rest and the brain overrules it for fear of being caught napping again.
Dan spoke for me. “Give her a break, Chas. She’s told you all she can. The men who took her from the taxi wore ski masks, and she was duct-taped and hooded from the off. When I found her, she’d been in darkness so long she couldn’t open her eyes…and that was less than four hours ago. Be grateful she agreed to talk at all. If I’d had my way, she’d have been on the first plane out and you’d have been asking London for information.”
“I appreciate that.”
“I don’t think you do. You heard the doc. He suggested a twenty-four-hour recuperation period before she answered questions, so letting London do the honours would have made more sense. You’d still have got your information…but the delay would have reduced its value. Connie und
erstood that, which is why she’s here.”
“I do appreciate that, Dan, but, unfortunately, Connie hasn’t been able to tell us anything.” He shifted his attention to me. “Do you know if a video was made of you? The home movie seems to be the hostage-takers’ trademark…they want their fifteen minutes of fame just like Westerners do. Do you remember hearing a camera going?”
I managed to say “no,” and smile while I did it, but my heart was going like a hammer. The whole concept was too devastating to deal with. I could have maintained a pretence of dignity if there’d been no record of what I did. He took close-ups-“show you’re enjoying it, feather”-so there’d be an identifiable human face, even with taped eyes, on the obedient, rag-doll body.
What was he planning to do with the tape? How many people would see it? Was I recognizable as Connie Burns? Would Dan see it? My parents? My friends? My colleagues? All other invasions seemed trivial compared to a public unveiling in the Baghdad bazaars, or, worse, through al-Jazeera TV or the Internet. Is life worth living when you’ve had to beg for it? How do you function without self-esteem? How do you find the courage to go out?
“Why do you think you were released so rapidly, Connie? Dan’s told us he wasn’t involved in any negotiations because he didn’t know who was holding you. Nor did we…nor did any of the religious groups. So why did they let you go?”
“I don’t know.”
“The current average is two weeks. At the end of that time, depending on how much pressure has been brought to bear, hostages are either released or beheaded. We think most are being taken to Fallujah-or one of the other no-go areas-but you appear to have been held in Baghdad…then released after three days without any active intervention. It doesn’t fit the patterns we’ve seen, Connie.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not blaming you,” he said with a sigh. “I’m trying to demonstrate why we need as much information as you can give us. Our only lead was your driver-and he’s vanished-so we’ve no idea what we’re dealing with here. It may be the beginning of a new pattern…or the emergence of a new group, whose only saving grace is that they haven’t learnt to kill yet.” He watched my eyes grow wider as Dan gave my shoulder a clumsy squeeze in solidarity. “Do you want someone else to suffer your fate, Connie?”
I couldn’t have spoken even if I’d wanted to.
“What sort of a question’s that?” asked Dan angrily. “You know damn well your chance of catching these bastards is zero. Zarqawi’s got a ten-million bounty on his head…and no one’s turned him in. If you increase it to twenty-five million, they still won’t. What can Connie tell you that’s going to change that?”
“Nothing, as far as Zarqawi’s concerned. I’m willing to accept she was taken for onward sale, but in that case why didn’t he buy her?” He held my gaze for a moment, then turned back to Dan. “There’s a lot of mileage to be made out of female journalists. They’re known to their fellow professionals, and women under threat make good copy. Connie and Adelina Bianca have inspired more column inches between them than any other hostages.” He flicked another glance in my direction. “Why would Zarqawi-why would any terrorist-turn down publicity like that? It sure as hell doesn’t make any sense to me.”
It didn’t to Dan either, but he fought my corner as he’d promised he would. My only leverage was the fact that we’d known each other for years. I’d first met him in South Africa when I joined the Cape Times as a rookie sub-editor from Oxford, and he was a columnist. We overlapped for a year before he moved abroad to join Reuters, but we knocked into each other regularly when he was sent to cover an “Africa” story. He came from Johannesburg, but his primary place of residence-according to his tax returns-was County Wexford, Eire, where he “lived” with his Irish wife, Ailish, and their daughter, Fionnula.
It was a strange relationship. His visits to Ireland were even more intermittent than the occasional postings that brought him and me together. I asked him once how he came to marry an Irish girl, and he said it was a shotgun wedding when she fell pregnant. “She was a student in London and was frightened to go home without a ring. Her father believes in hellfire and brimstone. He’d have kicked her out to fend for herself.”
“Why didn’t she have an abortion?”
“Because Ailish believes in hellfire and brimstone more than her old man does.”
“It didn’t stop her sleeping with you.”
“Mmm…except some sins are smaller than others”-he grinned-“and my charm might have had something to do with it. It’s worked out for the best in the end. Fee’s a grand kid. It would have been a crime to abort her.”
“If you feel like that why don’t you make more of an effort to see her?”
He shrugged. “It causes too many problems. The only time the family argues is when I’m there. They all approve of the monthly cheque but not the lodger.”
“Does she live with her parents?”
“Not quite. Three houses down. They’re a close-knit bunch. She has three brothers within a two-mile radius who turn up in force every time I visit to make sure I’m not going to renege on my responsibilities. I feel a bit like Daniel entering the lions’ den whenever I go there.”
It all seemed very peculiar to me. And rather sad. “Do you still sleep with Ailish?”
His eyes crinkled at the edges. “She lets me stay in the spare room, but that’s about as far as her hospitality goes…apart from keeping her lover at arm’s length for the duration.”
“You’re crazy,” I said in disbelief. “Why don’t you get a divorce?”
“What for? There’s no one else to marry…except you…and you won’t have me.”
“You can’t cook.”
“Neither can you.”
“Precisely, which is why we’d make a lousy couple. We’d starve.” I bared my teeth at him. “Are you sure it’s not a scam to avoid paying income tax? Everyone knows writers and artists are zero-rated in Ireland.”
“Only creative writers…and you have to spend six months a year in the country to qualify. Journalists are excluded.”
I couldn’t see that stopping him. He’d worked on a Reuters financial desk at one stage in his career and claimed to know every tax-dodge going. “Are you planning to live there when you write the great novel?”
“It’s crossed my mind.”
“With Ailish?”
Dan shook his head. “I’d rather have a cottage in Kerry, overlooking Dingle Bay. I took Fee there the last time I was over, and it was beautiful. We walked along the beach.” He paused. “By the time I take the plunge-if I take the plunge-she’ll be a grown woman. What do you think she’ll make of her father then? Will she still want to walk in the sand with me?”
It was said in the same amused tone that he’d used throughout, but the words suggested something else. A feeling for his child that he wanted reciprocated. It surprised me. I thought he was like me, determinedly unwilling to commit as the only way to stay sane in a life that was nomadic. Perhaps his daughter had given him roots. I envied him suddenly.
And I envied Fee. Did she know how Dan felt about her? Did she know who he was? What he’d done? What he’d written? How he was viewed outside the narrow confines of her mother’s family?
“She’ll be a strange woman, if she doesn’t,” I said. “It’s feminine nature to be curious…comes from centuries of having nothing to do except analyse male behaviour. As to what she’ll make of you”-I paused-“I hope you’ll always be a mystery to her, Dan. That way, she’ll keep coming back for more.”
He made a passing reference to that conversation as he waited with me at Baghdad airport. “How am I going to get in touch with you? The only contact number I have is your mobile…and that’s gone. I’m beginning to realize how little I actually know about you, Connie. I need your parents’ details.”
I forced a smile. “I wrote their address and number on the pad in your flat when I called home,” I lied, “but you can always find them in the personnel
files under next of kin.” In fact I hadn’t updated the details since my parents left Zimbabwe, so the only address on record was Japera Farm, and I couldn’t see Mugabe’s crony forwarding correspondence.
Dan nodded. “OK. And you’re happy with the arrangements? Harry Smith will meet you at Heathrow and steer you through the press conference. After that, he’ll ask for you to be left alone…although you’ll certainly be chased for quotes if and when Adelina Bianca’s released.” He reached for my hand. “Can you cope with all of that?”
I tried not to show how much I hated being touched. “Yes.”
“You’ll be asked about the length of time you were held. That’s the issue that’s going to interest them. Why only three days? Were you given the reason for your release? Who negotiated it? Was any money paid?” He gave my hand a reassuring squeeze. “It might be worth thinking it through on the plane. You can legitimately plead ignorance on most things, but they’ll want to know what you said to your kidnappers and whether you think that influenced your treatment.”
Twenty feet away, a woman smacked a toddler on the back of his head. I couldn’t see what his offence was, but the heavy-handed blow seemed disproportionate to any crime a two-year-old could have committed. I felt a rush of sadness in my throat-the precursor to tears-but I’d lost the ability to cry and gazed dry-eyed at Dan as I slipped my hand from his and hunched inside my borrowed jacket. Underneath, I was still wearing my “abduction” clothes, a cotton skirt and shirt, which I’d washed before Dan took me to the police station. I’d accepted the jacket from a female colleague in case it was cold in London.
“Are you asking me to make something up?”
He looked away. “I’m suggesting you get your story straight, Connie. You told the police you couldn’t speak because of the duct tape over your mouth…but in the next breath said you were given water regularly. That can only have happened if the tape was removed, so why didn’t you speak then?”
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