Dark Chapter

by Winnie M. Li

  Gerry looks around and starts to guide him out the door.

  “Listen, me mam and some of me brothers and sisters are asleep. So you go on home, go home and get some rest and you’ll be better in the morning.”

  “I’m shattered.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet you are. Got your hole with a rich Chinese girl in the park. That’s quite the feat. I bet she secretly loved it.”

  He grins and claps him into a brotherly hug.

  “Fuck, you musta loved it. I bet it was worth it, and you came in pints.”

  Gerry sends him out the door, waving him off, and he steps into the night, saying nothing.

  ’Cause that’s one thing he can’t admit to Gerry. He didn’t come. For all the different positions he tried, the soft tits, the tight pussy and silky black hair, and her muddy fingers on his cock, he didn’t come. He didn’t come.

  *

  Pain twists her into a fierce knot down there. She wants to squeeze it away, but she can’t squeeze. She has to let this thing violate her.

  Another eternity of scraping inside of her and finally, finally, the speculum is slid out.

  She collapses into a wordless surrender of tears. Relieved it’s over.

  “Very good, you’ve been very good,” Doctor Phelan says. “I know that must have been very difficult for you.”

  She breathes a sigh of relief.

  “And I am very sorry,” Doctor Phelan starts to say. “But because of what happened to you during the assault, we are also going to have to gather evidence using an anal probe.”

  An anal probe. No, not this.

  The fear and nausea swell up anew. The tears are never- ending. This is never-ending.

  She can’t do this.

  She just wants to erase everything’s that’s happened to her in the last six hours and start over again. Saturday morning in Belfast and she wakes up and decides not to go hiking. She can stay in the city centre. She can just go shopping or go to a museum. She doesn’t have to hike. She never had to hike. She never had to set foot inside that park.

  The forensic exam is finally over, and the doctor is once again explaining things slowly to her.

  This forensic exam was designed to gather evidence for the police. She still has to be seen medically by a doctor at a hospital now, to make sure she’s okay. She is given a letter explaining her situation, instructed to hand this over to the next doctor.

  At the hospital, they’ll be able to conduct tests for sexually transmitted diseases. There’s something called post-exposure prophylaxis which is very effective against HIV, but it needs to be administered within seventy-two hours of exposure. Does she need the morning-after pill? Probably not, if you said he never came.

  She takes the Levonelle with her anyway, a small lavender box, with a soft feminine name.

  Barbara is pushy on her behalf. And the other injuries? But what about the bruises? And her whiplash? And the fact she was punched in the head?

  The doctor at the hospital will take care of all that.

  Barbara has called ahead and found out the best hospital in Belfast is the Royal Victoria. A police escort can take her to the A&E unit. They’ll explain everything upon arrival, and make sure she is seen straight away.

  But first, before she goes, she can finally shower.

  With her clothes taken away as evidence, she’ll have to change into something else. A policeman has already gone to her bed and breakfast, spoken to the management, and managed to pack up all her things and brought them here. She is suddenly reminded of that bed and breakfast, the bed she’ll never sleep in now, with the sunlight slanting across the duvet.

  She can’t sleep alone tonight. She knows that much. Barbara says of course, she can stay with her in her hotel room.

  So her suitcase is here now, and she rummages through it for something suitable to change into. There’s business attire from what seems like someone else’s life: a fashionable blazer with an embroidered pattern, a black pencil skirt, a pair of heels, the black cocktail dress she wore a few nights ago. None of these.

  She finds a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. A clean bra and underwear. Socks and her other pair of casual shoes.

  She is given a bar of soap, a packet of shampoo, and a towel.

  Doctor Phelan is saying goodbye to her now, but she doesn’t want her to go. She has a question. One that she almost feels embarrassed asking, but it’s nagging at the back of her mind.

  “What if… what if there’s some dirt that got up there inside me, during the incident? How can I wash that out?”

  So much mud. There was so much mud in the scuffle.

  The doctor nods, puts two soft hands on her arm. “That is something your body will eventually just flush out on its own.”

  She didn’t know the body could do that. But it’s comforting to know: the dirt will just flush out on its own.

  “You’ve been very brave,” the doctor says. “And I know you’ll be very brave in the future. But I’m afraid I must go now.”

  She’s clinging onto Doctor Phelan like a toddler around her mother’s legs. Knows she’ll miss this warm, maternal, knowing presence who has made the past few hellish hours that tiny bit more tolerable.

  “I’m needed to examine another victim,” she explains.

  Have there been a lot? Is she always very busy?

  “You’re the third rape victim I’ve seen today. And it isn’t even nighttime yet.”

  She nods, and the doctor leaves.

  In the shower, all she can think of are the doctor’s parting words. Three cases so far today. And more to come.

  She turns the water temperature up, feels the hot stream of water against her skin, and watches as the dirt and the mud and the filth wash from her body and swirl down the drain.

  *

  On one of the high streets, he skulks his way into a shop. He’s left Gerry’s. Didn’t want to go home yet, so he walked even more, and now he’s on the other side of town. Proddy part of town, apparently, but who cares. The main thing is, they don’t recognise him here.

  It’s been dark for hours, but his feet are freezing and still wet. Fucking lakes in his trainers. He’s probably left a trail of water leading right to this shop.

  His head’s stopped spinning and pounding so much. Those crisps at Gerry’s didn’t help, though. Again, he’s fucking ravenous.

  The store is brightly lit, a small television blaring away near the ceiling, and rows and rows of shiny packages: crisps, chocolate bars, pasta and curry sauces in jars. Behind the glass, a fortress of fizzy drinks and lagers. But no, he’s got nothing in his pocket, he’ll have to do it the usual way.

  Fast hands and the usual Sweeney charm.

  He edges up to the row of chocolate bars. What’ll it be, Snickers? Mars?

  He looks over to the till, where the shopkeeper sits bored, eyes raised to the telly. Middle-aged, balding, one of them Pakis, may or may not be trouble. Up north, you’re always finding Pakis behind the tills. Don’t happen much down south.

  The evening news comes on and the Paki perks up.

  “Over the past few days, politicians have been celebrating the 10th anniversary of the Good Friday Accord, with famous lawmakers coming from Dublin, London, Derry and Belfast to commemorate the long and arduous process of arriving at the agreement ten years ago…”

  The shop door opens with the ring of a bell, and a man and woman come in. The man’s wallet bulges from the right back pocket of his jeans. She is laughing about something.

  They aren’t here to linger. They pick up some ready-meals from the fridge, a bottle of red wine from the shelf.

  “Really, it was a tough but vital struggle we had, months and months of debating and arguing. But we should be proud of what we accomplished ten years ago – to have all of these parties in the same room, agreeing on the same thing, the future of Northern Ireland.”

  Some grey-haired politician on the news. Suit and glasses and posh accent.

  The couple m
ove to the till, and the shopkeeper starts to ring them up.

  He’s about to stuff a few Lion bars into his pockets, but freezes when he hears the next news story on the television.

  “The PSNI are appealing to anyone who may have information about a violent assault and rape on a foreign woman which happened this afternoon in Glen Forest Park in West Belfast…”

  That fucking bitch.

  He can’t believe it. The adrenaline shoots up in his veins. He starts to sweat. He can’t even move. She said she wouldn’t tell anyone.

  The shopkeeper is done ringing up; the man takes out his wallet to pay.

  Come on now. What is wrong with him? He’s been nicking chocolate bars his whole life. This is the easiest thing in the world for him. Just take the fucking bars and stuff them into your pocket.

  “The woman was going for a walk on her own when she was attacked by a teenage boy, dragged into the bushes, and raped…”

  How could the news have gone out so fast? What did the bitch do, call the peelers the moment he turned his back?

  And he freezes… he freezes. He’s never frozen in his life before, he’s always been fast on his feet. He always knows when to bolt.

  But running draws attention. Just stay. In one place.

  The couple are almost done paying.

  “The boy is described as fifteen to eighteen years of age, medium height, slim build, with blue eyes and ginger-brown hair…”

  Take the Lion bars, stuff them in your pocket.

  They turn around, finished at the till, and at the very last moment, he somehow jolts from where he’s frozen, nudges two bars into his pocket unseen.

  He turns his back to the till, head tucked down, ready to head out immediately. Now, go, before the couple have left.

  “The suspect was last seen wearing a white jumper and jeans…”

  The couple brush past him on their way out. Your man whistles, all happy and jaunty, and swings the plastic bag. By accident swings it into him, and the wine bottle knocks into his legs, he flinches, brushes against the shelf, a shower of crisp packets falls down.

  “Sorry, boy,” your man says. “All my fault.” He kneels to pick up the fallen crisp packets and glances at his white jumper.

  Be cool. Stay calm.

  The Sweeney charm.

  “That’s all right, sir, no offence taken,” he says, grinning, chest puffed out like the posh people. “You got yourself a nice little meal there?” He gestures to the carrier bag.

  “Oh, aye aye,” your man replies, placing the last of the crisp packets back. “We’ve had a long day out, we’re knackered.”

  “You’re telling me.” He nods, mimicking the man.

  There’s a police drawing of the rapist up on screen.

  “Again, if you know anything about the whereabouts of this assailant, please do contact the PSNI at the number shown…”

  “Hey,” the man says, grinning, gesturing to the telly. “That could be you.”

  He turns around and glances at the screen briefly. Grin pasted across his face. “Oh ha, yeah! It could be! In fact, it is me.” And he plays at being menacing, lowering his eyebrows down, and the man laughs along with him. “That’s the spitting image of me there.”

  “Away on down to the peelers with you!” your man jokes.

  “I will, I will. I’m heading there now!”

  More laughing. Isn’t this funny? Joking around with proddys.

  “Well, you have a nice relaxing evening there with your lady.” He claps your man on the shoulder.

  Your man laughs and nods at him, your one glares at him and they both breeze out the shop.

  The bell rings into silence, and he’s still standing there in the middle of the aisle. Two Lion bars jammed into his jeans pocket. Frozen to the spot like an eejit.

  “Can I help you?” the Paki behind the till asks, his voice all funny and singsong the way they speak.

  “No, sir,” he says, turning back for a moment. “I’m grand.”

  He’s still listening to the television, though he has his back turned to it.

  “The victim is described as a slim Chinese woman in her mid- to late-twenties with long black hair. She was wearing a blue shirt and grey trousers when she was attacked. She is now being looked after by the police.”

  Fuck. She’s with the peelers.

  He raises his voice to the Paki behind the till. “Sorry, sir, I don’t think I’ve found what I’m looking for. Catch you another day.”

  The Paki nods the slightest of nods, his eyes wandering back to the telly. He’s too far away to see the look on that brown face, but he knows to get the fuck out of there.

  So he pushes through the shop door, bell ringing in his ear, and the night air blasts his face, suddenly chilly.

  Worst fucking time for his feet to freeze up. ’Cause right now, what he needs to do is fly.

  *

  The A&E unit of the Royal Victoria Hospital. She waits in a room with Barbara. At first they didn’t want her bringing company, but she needs Barbara’s efficiency and pushiness at her side. Because she can hardly do her own thinking now. She’s a shell of whom she once was, hollowed out and thinned out and devoid of any sense.

  The receptionist had looked from her to Barbara. “Oh, are you needed to translate?”

  “My English is fine,” she told the woman curtly. Chastened, the receptionist showed them to their private waiting room.

  The police escort had explained her situation to the receptionist, ensured that she wouldn’t have to wait in the general reception. The thought of waiting there, surrounded by all the other random patients who washed up to the A&E unit on a Saturday night… She knows she couldn’t handle it. She feels vulnerable, skinned, and exposed, a collection of nerves and muscle and bone that can barely function together.

  As they wait, she listens as Barbara explains how the Royal Victoria, during the Troubles, was known for servicing victims from both communities, Catholic and Protestant, without bias. She imagines what the hospital must have been like in those days: men and women beaten and blown-up, victims of indiscriminate bombings, trails of blood on the floor. She flinches. At the moment, she can’t cope with the thought of any more violence.

  Eventually, a nurse comes in. She has spiked blonde hair and a sharp, slanted Belfast accent. The nurse takes her temperature and blood pressure, height and weight.

  She wonders if the nurse has been told about her case. This must have been passed on by the receptionists, This here girl, the foreign one. Be gentle to her now. She’s had a tough time.

  But the nurse hardly acts as if she knows. Just makes the standard measurements and goes about her business.

  “Our Sexual Heath Clinic is unfortunately closed for the weekend,” the nurse says. “So any kind of testing for sexually transmitted diseases, you’ll have to do when you’re back in London on Monday.”

  Barbara is incredulous. “Wait, you’re telling me she needs to wait until Monday? Seriously?”

  The nurse is firm. The Sexual Health Clinic is simply not open. No one is around who can do those tests.

  “So you mean to tell me that if a girl gets raped on Friday evening, she still has to wait until Monday to be tested for sexually transmitted diseases?”

  The nurse nods. Yes, that’s what happens.

  She exchanges glances with Barbara. Not much they can do about this.

  “Very well, then. The doctor will be in shortly to see you.”

  Five more minutes of waiting. Then the doctor comes in.

  He’s a serious man, younger than she expected, spectacled with sandy-colored hair. If he knows anything of her situation, if he’s at all aware of the fact she’s just been raped, he makes no mention of it.

  “I can see you have some heavy bruising,” he says, examining her neck and shoulders.

  His hands are tentative on her shoulders.

  “These bruises should heal in a few more days.”

  He shines a bright light into he
r eyes, down her throat, tests her reflexes.

  “All right then.” He draws himself up with an air of authority. “The bruises will heal within a week, and other than that, you just need to rest and recover.”

  But Barbara won’t let him go that easily. “But what about her whiplash? And a possible head injury, you know she was punched in the head, right?”

  “I’ll have the nurse give her something for that.”

  And then he’s gone.

  She and Barbara are momentarily confused. “Was that it?” she asks. “Was that the doctor’s whole visit?”

  “You’re kidding me,” Barbara says in disbelief.

  Five minutes. He was there for five minutes and then he was gone. As if he didn’t want to be there. As if dealing with a rape victim was that uncomfortable, he’d rather be seeing someone else, some drunkard, some car accident victim or a thug who had gotten into a fight. Anyone instead of a rape victim: this frail, shocked woman whose very presence, whose very vulnerability was something he’d rather ignore.

  In another minute, the nurse shows up again, and they flood her with questions.

  “The doctor’s very busy. It’s a Saturday night in Belfast.”

  What about her head? She may have gotten a concussion during the attack.

  “If the doctor didn’t think you needed to be treated, then you don’t.”

  Can’t you give her something to ease her whiplash?

  The nurse steps away for a moment and comes back with a blister pack. Big pink round pills encased in white plastic.

  Ibuprofen. They’re giving her ibuprofen. She could have just gotten this from any corner shop.

  Can’t they give her anything stronger?

  “If she’s going on a flight tomorrow, she shouldn’t take anything stronger.”

  You can see she’s quite upset. Isn’t there anything they can give to calm her down?

  The nurse pauses and attempts to be more sympathetic. “Listen, I know you’ve had a rough day of it. Really rough day. You must be very tired. Maybe just go home and take a nice long hot shower, rotate your neck a bit in the warm water. And then, just, take it easy. Drink loads of tea. Spend time with your friends. Maybe have a wee glass of wine or two.”