The Testament of Jessie Lamb

by Jane Rogers

  I started to say ‘It wasn’t important’ and at the same time he quickly said, ‘My dad’s lost his job.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The Noahs. People from his church have joined the Noahs. Now they’re going to all these happy-clappy the-lord-will-save-us meetings.’

  I wanted to explain about Iain but it seemed as if it would be making it more important than it was. ‘Wasn’t your dad helping the bereaved?’

  ‘He had a fight with some high ups in the church. About what to do about the Noahs. He fell out with everybody and he told them to get stuffed.’

  A laugh burst out of me, it was embarrassment as much as anything. Baz carried on with his tapping. He said he was sick of YOFI, he was leaving.

  Monday morning

  I sit on the floor beneath the window, looking up at the sky as it begins to get light. The days are getting longer now – it’s earlier every day. The purplish-blue patch I can see looks clear, maybe the sun will shine. Last night I heard him on the phone for ages, I guess to Mum. Maybe she reasoned with him, because when he came upstairs he untied my arms. Neither of us said anything, he went straight out again and locked the door. I crawled over to the radiator and sat against it while my clothes dried. I almost like the smell, now.

  I still can’t believe he’s not going to come in and say, ‘God I’m sorry, Jessie. Let me undo those stupid locks.’ I’m still waiting for him to see how completely mad this is. Today, surely, he’ll give it up.

  Yes! Sunlight hits the top of the leylandii, a fantastic glowing reddish-orangey-green against the purple sky. I stare and stare, as gradually the sky lightens, and the sunlight pales to watery whiteness and it all turns ordinary. I waft my arms up and down and wriggle my shoulders to ease the stiffness. Today, surely, this will end.

  After Baz told me he was leaving YOFI, I decided to leave too. The bubble burst. I remember sitting in my room and feeling as if I was sitting in the ruins of my life. Why was I trying to get Mum and Dad to compost their potato peel and give up their flights? What difference would that make to anything? Greens had been campaigning for decades, I knew that perfectly well, and what did they ever achieve? Why on earth did I imagine a bunch of kids under the leadership of a perve like Iain might suddenly change the world? Everything I had been working for and believing in collapsed into dust, and I couldn’t make sense of anything anymore.

  I remember I thought about dying then; but in a childish, furious way. Since everything was going to rack and ruin and nothing could be done to make any of it right, the most ecologically useful thing anyone could do would be to die. Then at least you’d stop consuming resources. I wished I was dead. I thought about Iain creeping up behind me, his hot breath on my neck, and I was boilingly angry. What right did he have? And then saying, ‘Not a good idea’ – like it was me who’d suggested it! I should tell the police. What if he tried it on someone younger?

  Slamming stuff around in my room I managed to smash the clay owl mask that Mandy made me for my 10th birthday. It shattered into crumbs, it couldn’t be saved.

  I was in a rage at all the time I’d wasted. But looking back, if I hadn’t done all that – the meetings and arguments and petitions and demonstrations, the hours hunched over the computer – if I hadn’t done all that in good faith, and then been so totally frustrated – then maybe I would never even have found the next thing to do. If I’d never felt the thrill of imagining we could change things – perhaps I wouldn’t have looked for it again.

  It’s light enough now to crawl to my table and chair, and write there. But I don’t want to go into all that, how I felt when I left YOFI – bad, stupid, hoodwinked. I remember telling myself only an idiot would dream of trying to make anything better. I was angry with everything. Stupid YOFI. Iain. Baz. Myself. I wished I was a giant so I could stamp across the town, smashing their little houses to smithereens.

  He’s tapping on the door. He’s locked me in, and he’s tapping on the door! ‘Jess?’

  ‘Yes?’

  He doesn’t open it, he just talks through the wood. ‘I’m sorry. What would you like for breakfast?’

  I pause to think. ‘A boiled free-range egg. Brown toast and damson jam.’

  ‘Tea?’

  ‘A glass of milk.’

  ‘OK.’

  I hear him going down the stairs. And then out of the house. Good, I feel easier when he’s not here. And good! A lovely breakfast. But he wouldn’t go out to buy me breakfast if he was planning to release me. The opposite. He’s trying to win me over – to bribe me with food. Fine: he’ll soon see how well that works!

  It was soon after I left YOFI that the bad thing happened to Sal. I can see now that was the turning point for me as much as for her. But it turned her one way and me another. It turned us in opposite directions, friend against friend. Oh Sal. Because it helped to set me on the track that led me here.

  Chapter 8

  It was Friday night and I was already fast asleep when my mobile rang. It was Sal’s phone but she didn’t speak, there was a jumbled noise like she was striding along fast, and muffled distant music and voices. I guessed it had gone on accidentally. It was half past one, so I tried to go back to sleep. But ten minutes later I was still wide awake. I didn’t know what she was doing. Something with Damien, obviously – I guessed she had gone out drinking with him and his mates. She was probably really bored. I decided to ring her back. She didn’t answer the first time, so I tried again a few minutes later. Her phone does 8 rings before it goes to answer, but she got it on the eighth. ‘Sal, it’s me.’

  Now it was so quiet at the other end that I could hear her breathing. It was like she was gasping for air.

  ‘Sal? You alright?’ Then I realised she was crying. ‘Where are you?’

  Her voice was croaky. ‘Can you come round? I’m at home.’

  I knew it was bad. Sal doesn’t cry. I dressed, let myself out as quietly as I could, and ran down the empty street to her house. The hall light was on, and she let me in as I got to the door, and slammed and locked it quickly after me. She was all wet. She had her dressing gown on but she was dripping wet and shivering. Her face was a mess, not just from smeared mascara; her bottom lip was bleeding, and there was a reddish-purple mark across one cheek. I went into their sitting room to get the shawl off the back of the sofa. The room was trashed. Cans and ashtrays and takeaways, furniture all anywhere, spilt drinks on the carpet. It smelt awful. I found the shawl and wrapped it round her. I realised I could hear Sammy whining and whining from the kitchen, and I let him out. He ran to Sal but she pushed him away. ‘Where’s your mum? Sal?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Was it Damien?’

  ‘His mates,’ she whispered.

  ‘His mates? Here?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Shall I call the police?’

  ‘No.’ She gasped for breath again. ‘They raped me.’

  ‘They …’

  ‘Three of them. The. The others watched.’

  ‘Why are you so wet?’ Stupid question but it’s all I could say.

  ‘I got in the bath – ’ She began to cry again.

  ‘Shall we go upstairs?’ I said. ‘Shall I help you Sal?’ We struggled up to the bathroom. I let out the cloudy water and ran more hot, and squirted bubble bath in it. It was lavender scented. If I smell lavender now it makes me feel sick all over again. I made sure it wasn’t too hot, and helped her take off her dressing gown and step in. She was slow squatting down into the water, I could see it hurt her to move. There were marks on her shoulders like dirty handprints. ‘I should get a doctor. The police. We should – ’

  Sal shook her head.

  ‘But – ’

  ‘I don’t want anyone to know, OK?’ Her voice had come back, suddenly. She sounded tough again and I was so relieved I finally started to cry myself.

  ‘Shall I bathe you?’

  ‘I’m OK.’ She got the flannel and scrubbed herself all over, then lay down in the wat
er so it covered her, face and hair and all. After a moment she got out abruptly and stood under the shower and washed herself all over again. I let out the bath water, and got her a clean towel. We went in her bedroom. She put on pyjamas and I got into bed beside her in my clothes.

  She told me what had happened. Damien had begged her to go out with him and his mates and she agreed. They went drinking till late then got takeaways, and Damien asked if they could bring them back to her house. He knew her mum was away. She said OK because she was fed up and she wanted to go to bed by then, she thought they’d just eat their takeaways and go home. They were making jokes about sex, one of them rubbed himself against another’s arse and they all acted as if it was hilarious. Damien hardly spoke to her, she said, all he was interested in was being one of the lads. She told him she was going to bed and asked him to lock up after them when they’d gone. Two of them who were on the sofa had their hands down each other’s jeans, she wished they’d just go away. But as she was going upstairs to her room one of them was coming down from the toilet. The big one, the goalie, Gerrard. ‘Come on love,’ he said, grabbing her by the arm. ‘Don’t you want a bit of the action?’ He dragged her down into the sitting room again, and ripped her skirt off. She slapped him but he knocked her to the floor, and when she tried to get up one of them knelt on her legs and another held her arms. Her mobile was in her jacket pocket – that must have been when I got the call from her phone. She could hear Damien shouting and the others telling him it was only a bit of fun.

  ‘They were saying things,’ she said. ‘About not having any pussy for a long time. Now they’ve got all those diseases up there, they said. They were egging each other on, telling me it was my lucky day.’

  She fought as best she could, and she was aware of Damien somewhere fighting too, then another one got onto her and some of them seemed to leave. She heard the door bang and Damien wasn’t there anymore either. Her phone started ringing (that must have been me) then they were shouting at the last one to hurry up and they were calling her dirt and slag and then in a rush they were all gone and she was lying alone in the mess. She was trying to have a bath when I rang again.

  ‘Damien didn’t come back?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Maybe he’s gone to the police.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Shall I call my Dad? He’ll take us to hospital.’

  ‘I’m OK.’

  ‘But Sal – ’

  ‘What? What good would it do? The only thing it would do is upset my mum. Forget it.’

  We sat in bed in silence for a long time, then I’m afraid I was so tired I just snuggled down next to her and fell asleep. When I woke up it was nearly 5 and she was still staring into space. ‘Don’t ever tell anyone,’ she said. ‘Promise.’

  ‘OK.’ I didn’t know what else to say. It was her decision. I offered to help her clear up, and she had another bath then we binned all the rubbish and cleaned the house till there was no trace left. Poor Sammy was skulking about with his ears flat and his tail drooping, as if he thought it was his fault. I made Sal some cocoa. She was pale and quiet but she seemed OK. She said she hated men and to forget it, and I left her sitting on the sofa with Sammy beside her, his head resting on her knee.

  At home I went quietly to my room and lay down. Then when Dad called me at 7 o’clock I got up again. I pretended I was going to college. Sal didn’t answer the door so I phoned her from her own doorstep and she said her mum would be home from Birmingham by lunchtime. She wanted to be alone. As I walked away I phoned Baz. It didn’t matter what he thought about me and Iain. I wanted to see him.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Can I come round?’

  ‘My dad’s here,’ he said. Then, ‘Fine.’

  I walked to his house. I was in a daze, everything went past me at the wrong speed. He let me in and his dad was sitting in the front room staring at the wall. He’d grown a dirty grey beard. I said hello but he ignored me. Baz took me down to his room.

  ‘What is it?’ he said. ‘What’s happened?’

  I swore him to secrecy and told him. ‘D’you think I should tell the police?’

  ‘Not if she doesn’t want you to. What good will it do?’

  It helped to hear someone else say it. Baz told me to get into his bed and have a kip. He watched while I pulled the duvet up. Then he sat at his piano and began to play, a soft complicated running tune that seemed to weave in and out of my head. A couple of times I opened my eyes to watch him, sitting hunched over the keyboard, arms spread and taut, fingers delicately tapping the keys, notes rippling from them. The music was so clear and clean. Then I fell properly asleep. When I woke up it was the afternoon and Baz’d gone. I put on my shoes and went upstairs. His dad was still sitting there in his dressing gown and he looked at me fiercely. I was afraid he was going to be angry with me. But he didn’t speak, he didn’t even answer when I said ‘good afternoon.’ I could hear someone moving about in the kitchen but I didn’t know if it was Baz or his mum, and it seemed easier just to quietly let myself out the front door.

  It was the strangest day, for a while after I felt as if I’d dreamed it. The way he listened to me, then played, the way I slept and woke feeling soothed. I wished I could give that feeling of peace to Sal – but I couldn’t. I couldn’t do anything to make her feel better.

  Chapter 9

  I texted Sal all the time but the only reply she sent was ‘x’. When I called round her mum said she wasn’t well and was in bed. I was pretty sure her mum didn’t know what had happened. I was getting to the point of thinking I had to tell her, when Sal finally sent me a message; ‘U want 2 com 2 wimin only protest meet? Thur 8pm xS’.

  We met at the bus stop. She was hidden under a mask of makeup and when I asked how she was she snapped ‘Fine. Don’t talk about it.’ So I rattled on randomly about college. She’d heard about this group through a friend of her mum; they were called FLAME. Feminist Link Against Men. They met in Glossop in a big old house that a group of women shared. The living room was like a doctor’s waiting room with chairs and sofas pushed against the walls. There were about 20 women there. Everyone was older than me and some looked older than Mum. They were all a bit hippy-ish, with layers of old clothes and shrunken cardigans or ponchos on top. I wished I’d had another layer, it was freezing.

  Compared to YOFI, it felt serious. There was something almost deadly about it. The woman running the meeting was called Gina, she was quick and fierce and she never smiled once. She talked about the war against women. She said the introduction of MDS is the logical outcome of thousands of years of men’s oppression and abuse of women. Women’s sexuality disgusts men and they’re jealous of a mother’s ownership of an unborn child. That’s why they want to marry virgins and keep women subservient, because they can never be certain that a child is their own. And women used to just be men’s possessions, and only men could inherit, and no one wanted daughters. Millions of baby girls have been killed or aborted. She kept bringing it back to having babies. How it used to be women’s business, helped by wise women, and then men said these midwives were witches and insisted on male doctors. And when some women couldn’t get pregnant, male scientists started working out ways to make babies outside women’s bodies. Which was what they’d always wanted to do, so they could own the mystery and power of creating babies. She talked about the first test tube babies and men stealing control of the process and turning women into passive cows. ‘Mad cow disease is no mistake, believe me, that’s what we are to them.’ She called MDS the atom bomb of the sex war. ‘By turning pregnancy into a death sentence they can take it away from us forever. They can insist there is no other way but the man-made child.’

  I glanced at Sal but she was intent on every word. Another woman talked about sex, and how men prefer to have sex with other men but they were obliged to have sex with women in order to make children. She said that was at the root of religious laws against homosexuality, because it was in the int
erests of religion to create as many new babies as possible, to boost membership. But now sexual reproduction was over, all those old commandments against homosexuality were melting away and millions more men were coming out.

  Other people broke in, talking about how men are treating women like lepers because of the disease. Sal was staring straight ahead but her eyes were glittering. I gently put my hand on her arm and she didn’t take it away. I remembered that carful of lads and the one who spat on me. I thought about Sal sitting in the lavender-scented bath scrubbing at her skin.

  Then they talked about the way MDS women had been treated across the world, how some had been left to die in the streets like dogs, or how they had been rounded up, misinformed, pushed about by police – how none of this would have happened if the victims had been men. They argued that if the disease had hit men, scientists would have found a cure by now. I sat there with these awful things swirling round in my head like leaves in a storm. I couldn’t quiet it. What they said about men preferring to be gay reminded me of college.

  The thing is, there was a change. Back before MDS, if you said a boy was gay, it was an insult. Everyone knew there were gay people, and that it was legal and everything, there were loads of gay celebrities on TV. If they met a gay couple in real life of course they’d be fine and act normally, but still in school it was an insult. If they called a boy gay it meant he was pathetic. And the boys and girls who really were gay kept it hidden. In fact, you wouldn’t have known that anybody was. But in the months after MDS, that changed. It happened so gradually you almost didn’t notice.

  Boys started to cluster together with boys, and girls with girls. Some girls became frightened of boys – even though we were all on Implanon it was still a terrible thought, especially for those girls who knew a woman who’d died. Sex didn’t seem worth the risk. And the boys – well, I didn’t really know what they were thinking, but the atmosphere changed. They got more involved in their own conversations, and less interested in trying to make us laugh. In a way they were more shy with us. It wasn’t everybody; there were people who behaved exactly opposite. Like the gangs, where you often saw boys and girls together – or even, like Sal and Damien had been at the beginning. People bounced from one extreme to another, as if we couldn’t find out the proper way to behave.