by Ava Marsh
But not the sinking, certain feeling that I know exactly where she’s heading.
3
Friday, 23 January
I’m halfway through my Murakami novel when the phone rings, its shrill sound filling the tiny room. I answer the call, giving the name of the centre.
No response.
I repeat the name. This time it’s followed by a muffled sob.
‘I’m listening,’ I say. ‘I won’t hang up. I’ll wait until you’re ready.’
No reply. I let a minute pass. I can’t make out much, only the occasional sniff, and start to wonder if it’s another prank call. You wouldn’t believe how many people think it’s funny to ring up a rape crisis centre and jerk us around. And not only bored kids – plenty of so-called ‘adult’ males.
‘Do you want to talk?’ I ask. ‘I don’t mind. I’m happy to stay here if you just need somebody on the end of the line.’
A voice clears its throat. I’m fairly sure it’s female.
‘I don’t know what to say.’ She’s barely audible, but I can hear she’s young. Probably a fair bit younger than me.
‘How about you start by telling me what happened?’
A wet, snivelling noise, followed by a long, low howl. ‘He … he … oh God, I can’t.’
A click, then the dial tone.
I put down the phone and rest my elbows on the desk. Glance up at the clock. Forty minutes to go before Stacy arrives to take over. It’s a Friday night – generally our busiest time – and we try to keep the lines open till midnight. We’d keep them open longer if we could get the funding.
Through the glass in the door I see Mel, one of the outreach workers, mime drinking a cup of tea. I give her a thumbs-up just as the phone rings again.
‘Sorry,’ a voice says on the other end of the line. Hers.
‘No need to be.’
‘I just … I feel so …’ She goes silent.
‘Embarrassed? It’s hard to talk about something so personal, isn’t it?’
She clears her throat again. ‘Yes.’
‘Do you want to tell me your name? Your first name. It’s good to know what I should call you.’
‘Andrea.’
‘Thank you, Andrea. And my name is Grace. How about I ask you some questions? You don’t have to answer them if you don’t want to. You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not comfortable with.’
‘OK,’ she says uncertainly.
‘Did this happen recently?’
‘Yes.’
‘May I ask how long ago?’
She coughs. ‘I’m not sure exactly. A few hours.’
‘And you’re alone now?’
‘Yes. They’ve gone.’
They. I swallow. ‘So you’re safe then. No one can get back in?’
‘Only my flatmate, but she’s on holiday. She’s not home till Sunday.’
‘I see. Andrea, can I ask you if you’ve got any injuries?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Cuts, bruises. Perhaps a bump on the head. If so, you should go to A&E straight away. If you think you need to, I can call an ambulance.’
She coughs. ‘No, I’m all right.’
‘You’re not bleeding anywhere?’
‘No … I don’t think so.’ She starts crying again. A whimpering sound like an animal in pain.
I let her continue for a moment, then ask: ‘Andrea, do you feel strong enough to tell me what’s gone on?’
‘OK,’ she gurgles, and coughs again.
‘In your own time. No pressure.’
A sigh, like her breath collapsing. ‘There were two of them.’
‘Do you know who they are?’
‘Yes. Well, no, not really. One of them is called Michael. I don’t remember the other one’s name.’
Michael. Something ignites inside me, a curl of dread and dismay. The desire for a cigarette blooms and I have to crush it before I can speak. ‘How do you know him?’
From the café, she tells me, across from the travel agency where she works. He asked her out when she called in for her morning coffee, suggesting a drink in a local pub. It went all right, she says. His mate joined them briefly, then disappeared.
‘I made my excuses after an hour or so, and he asked if we could do it again. I said maybe and left it at that. I could tell he was disappointed, but to be honest, I just wasn’t that into him. I didn’t think …’
She stops. I hear her inhale, then release it slowly. Imagine her heart racing as she remembers. One of the first things you learn as a psychologist is that processing memories and feelings is the primary treatment for any trauma.
But that doesn’t make it easy.
‘He must have followed me home,’ Andrea continues. ‘About five minutes after I got back the doorbell rang and it was him. He wanted to come in, but I said no. He asked, why not? Was anyone else there? But he knew there wasn’t. He knew my flatmate Dana was on holiday because I’d told him …’
She sniffs, followed by the sound of her blowing her nose. She’s crying again. Mel lets herself in silently and places a mug of tea on my desk, along with a chipped china plate topped with a couple of chocolate biscuits.
‘How could I have been so stupid?’ Andrea’s voice is full of self-reproach. ‘I’d said I’d got Dana this really cheap deal to Crete and he’d asked when she was getting back and I told him. I didn’t think anything about it.’
Forethought, I realize, making a note. Premeditation. Michael, you cunning little fuck.
‘Then he pushed his way through the door and he … the other one … was suddenly there behind him. And … and …’ Her voice breaks off. That wounded noise again.
‘And they raped you,’ I say. ‘Forced you to have sex.’
It isn’t a question. More a statement of fact.
‘Yes,’ she sobs. ‘Michael first, then him. Twice.’
Michael. Even hearing that name makes me want to vomit. The coincidence of it. And despite myself I’m picturing his face. Him attacking this girl. Though I know it can’t be. That Michael is still inside.
I take a deep breath, place the pen down on the pad and pull myself together. ‘Andrea?’
‘Yes.’
‘Listen, honey. I’d like to suggest a couple of options, but you don’t have to do either if you don’t want to. I recommend you go to the one of the sexual assault referral centres. I don’t know where you live and you don’t have to tell me, but I can give you some addresses or a link to their websites. They can check you’re not hurt and can do a forensic assessment, if you’re undecided about going to the police.’
I pause, but she doesn’t speak.
‘Or you can go straight to your local police station. Is there anybody who could go with you?’
A long sigh at the end of the line. ‘What’s the point?’ says her voice. ‘We both know what will happen.’
‘The police are obliged to …’
‘They’ll say I invited them, that I consented. There’ll be witnesses to us all drinking together in the pub.’
‘Andrea, we can’t be sure that––’
‘Yes, we can,’ she cuts in. ‘I’m not stupid. I’ve read how hard it is to get a conviction. I wouldn’t stand a chance. They’d make me look like a slut, like I asked for it.’
I open my mouth to object, then change my mind. Because the fact is she’s right – and I know better than anybody how right she is.
‘I only wanted to talk,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to take this any further. I just needed someone to know the truth.’
Andrea starts crying again, heavy, resigned sobs. And I think of those two men, and wonder where they are right now. If they have any real sense of what they’ve done.
Then I wonder whether they’ve done it before – or will again.
A rush of heat. Of anger. I have to clear my throat before I can speak.
‘OK, Andrea, I understand. But think it over, will you? You could go and get the forensics done and then deci
de.’ I try to keep my tone calm and measured.
‘It’s too late,’ she says miserably. ‘I’ve washed myself, my hair, down there … everything. And put all the sheets in the washing machine.’ A pause. ‘I’d throw them away, but they’re not mine. They took me into Dana’s room.’
I suppress a groan. Wonder if she’ll tell her flatmate when she gets back from Greece, or remake the bed so it looks like nothing ever happened. I get a picture of Andrea, sitting alone in her flat, the phone in her hand, and my heart aches for her.
I lift my gaze from the desk to stare at the bare walls of Consultation Room Two. We never use this place for face-to-face work, so there’s little to alleviate the starkness, save a cork noticeboard studded with ageing council notices and a list of referral numbers.
‘Is there anybody you could ask over, Andrea? A friend? Family?’
Another pause. ‘I think I’d rather be on my own.’
Then I’m certain. She won’t tell anyone. For the rest of her life and mine, I’ll be the only other person who knows what happened in that flat this evening. She’ll bury it inside and let it fester, until her whole world is poisoned by what seeps out.
I squeeze my forehead with my left hand, pinching the skin above my nose until it hurts. I have no more advice. And no more questions.
Just a prayer she’ll somehow be spared.
‘Grace,’ she says suddenly. ‘That’s a lovely name.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Like in the hymn,’ she sniffs. ‘I always loved that one.’
‘Me too.’
‘Grace, I have to go now.’ A sigh. Resigned and heavy. ‘Thank you for listening. I’m sorry to take up so much of your time.’
‘It’s what I’m here—’
A click on the end of the line.
4
Thursday, 27 January
Cruising past a line of black limousines, the black cab deposits me at the entrance of the Mayfair hotel with a good twenty minutes to spare. The po-faced concierge barely gives me a glance as I stride through the lobby. Not surprising, since I’m dressed more demurely than half his female guests.
I check my make-up in the ground-floor loos, then install myself in one of the leather seats with a panoramic view of the lobby, its giant chandeliers and high-polish art deco glory. The eyes of the concierge settle on me briefly before sliding off towards the main door. I cross my legs and smooth down my skirt. Hard to tell whether he’s sussed me or not.
Not that it matters. There’s an unwritten rule in the best hotels: don’t make us have to notice you. It’s in no one’s interest to interfere with visiting escorts – we’re here to entertain their guests, after all. An unofficial room service.
I check the time again. Fifteen minutes to kill, but there’s no shortage of distractions. A minor celebrity strides across the lobby to the bar. Over at the check-in desk, conferring with one of the receptionists, a group of uber-smart French women, sleek and chic in their tailored couture. An older lady, dressed defiantly in neck-to-knee fur, waddles towards the lifts with the side-to-side pendulum movement of the very stout.
So far, so normal.
Less typical are the four men in dark suits stationed around the various doorways, their demeanour alert and attentive. I’m just wondering who might merit the heavies when several Arabs emerge from one of the conference rooms, wearing formal gowns and white headdresses crowned with black bands. They’re flanked on each side by more henchmen, eyes scanning the hallways like predators on the prowl.
I pick up a copy of the Wall Street Journal to mask my curiosity, but my gaze drifts back to the entourage. Three Western men are bringing up the rear, faces bowed as they step forward to shake hands with each of the Arabs. A double handshake, palms layered one over another.
As the foreign dignitaries sweep out to the waiting limousines, the Westerners confer. Serious expressions. Nodding heads. More handshakes, smiles, a slap on the shoulder. Then they leave.
All but one. Medium height and build, his hair heavily silvered, though he doesn’t seem particularly old. Late forties, maybe fifty. He pauses, looks down at the floor for a moment, then heads towards the lift.
He’s almost level with me when his head turns and his eyes meet mine. His lips stiffen, his expression darkening into something like irritation as he holds my gaze before finally walking away.
I stare dumbly at his receding back. What the hell was that about?
Paul Franklin’s room is on the ninth floor, at the end of the corridor in the smaller eastern wing. I find it quickly, used by now to the arcane numbering systems in places like this. I straighten my jacket, run my fingers through my hair, then knock quietly. I may blend in well downstairs, but a woman calling on a man in his room will always raise eyebrows.
No response. I knock again, a little louder this time. I’m just wondering if he’s a no-show when the door swings open.
‘Stella,’ says my client. ‘You’re nothing if not punctual.’
I gaze at the man who eyeballed me down in the lobby. Take in his faintly sardonic expression. He’s changed out of the suit he was wearing ten minutes ago, I notice, into a navy polo shirt and well-cut beige chinos.
‘Sorry,’ I say. Though really I’ve no idea what I’m apologizing for.
Paul Franklin gives me a derisory smile. ‘Come in.’
I pass through a wide entrance hall into a large sitting room decorated in creams and pale yellows, one of those haut monde designer affairs the hotel is famous for. Sharp-lined leather sofas and armchairs in complementary shades of duck-egg blue and beige. Splashy art prints on the wall, a bold geometric rug covering almost the entire floor.
Christ knows what this place must cost. A grand a night?
More, probably.
‘Drink?’ asks Paul.
I hesitate – I don’t normally indulge on the job. But today I feel edgy, strangely off-kilter. How did he know who I was?
Sod it, I think, sitting on one of the blue leather couches. ‘What have you got?’
Paul Franklin opens an elegant marquetry cabinet to reveal an array of spirits and liqueurs. A small inset fridge. ‘Whatever you like.’
‘You choose.’ I watch him remove several bottles. Pour liquid into a couple of glasses. A minute later he hands me a martini, complete with an olive.
‘Impressive.’ I take a sip.
Paul sits on the sofa opposite. He’s left the top buttons on his polo shirt undone, revealing an inch or so of lightly tanned skin and a suggestion of hair. He’s lean, muscular. Attractive without being overtly handsome. He mirrors my scrutiny, no expression on his face beyond the faintest hint of a smile. I wait for him to speak, but he just inspects me, not attempting to disguise it.
‘So, you’re here on business?’ I ask eventually, giving him the chance to acknowledge our brief encounter downstairs. I’m hoping for an explanation. He clearly recognized me, but I can’t imagine how. I don’t reveal my face on my website, though I’ll email over pictures if a client asks.
He never did.
Paul’s mouth widens into something approaching a sneer. It’s unnerving. As I suppose he intends it to be.
‘Come on, Stella. You can do better than that.’
OK. No small talk then. I take another sip of martini, wait for him to break the silence. Paul leans back, one arm resting across the back of the sofa.
‘So, Stella,’ he says finally. ‘Tell me more about yourself.’
‘Such as?’
He shrugs. ‘Anything you like.’
A shift in my stomach. A discomfort born of annoyance. ‘There’s really nothing much to say.’
He laughs. A short, sharp bark of a laugh. ‘You’ve led such a dull life, have you?’
‘Nothing exceptional.’
‘Nothing exceptional,’ he echoes, looking as if he knows better.
I bite my lip. ‘Nothing that would interest you.’
Paul Franklin crosses his leg, cradling his martini, his ey
es never leaving mine. Christ, the man doesn’t even blink.
‘On the contrary. I’m very interested.’
I feel the martini start to hit, the gin and vermouth flooding my empty stomach, making me a little woozy. He’s playing with me, I realize. I stay silent, forcing him to make the next move.
‘Indulge me, Stella. Tell me how a girl like you ends up in a hotel room with a man like me.’
It’s not an unusual question from a client, and one I usually deflect with a quip about job satisfaction. But this man doesn’t strike me as the type to be fobbed off with a double-entendre.
‘I lost my job,’ I say. ‘I had no money. It seemed an obvious choice.’
He considers this for a minute. ‘An obvious choice. You think so?’
‘Someone I knew, a friend of a friend, went into it when she needed extra cash for school fees. I got in touch with her. She told me what to do.’
‘Which is?’
I lift my mouth into a shrug. ‘It’s simple enough. You either sign up with an agency or go it alone – set up a website, get another mobile phone, wait for the calls.’
‘Build it and they will come.’
I laugh. ‘Pretty much.’
Paul closes his eyes briefly. Then downs the rest of his martini in one gulp, setting the glass on the coffee table between us. ‘So far, so predictable. But I can’t help feeling there’s a great deal more to it than that.’
‘More than being broke?’
He leans forward. ‘Come on, Stella. You strike me as a very resourceful woman. Surely you don’t expect me to believe this was your only option?’
A stir of aggravation. What is it with clients? Not content to get inside your knickers, they want inside your head as well. For a moment I consider calling it a day. Heading back to the peace and stillness of my empty flat, and bugger the lost income.
But something about this man intrigues me. Not so much the way he looks as his overwhelming air of power and confidence. I feel strangely energized, with a sudden urge to break the deadlock between us.
I drain the rest of my glass, get up and remove my jacket. Taking a few paces towards him, I unzip the back of my dress, letting it slip to the floor. I stand there, in boots, stockings and underwear, waiting for some kind of reaction.