Dark Chapter

by Winnie M. Li

  What if he tells Da the whole truth?

  Everything. Not just the pills and the stealing. But all the girls he’d roughed up before, in Dublin and in the Glen and wherever else.

  But that’ll just make Da angrier, the lamping harder.

  No, just some of the truth. Enough for Da to help him out. But will Da even give a toss?

  He thinks of how Da always frowned at the porno mags Michael brought home. But look at all the children he had with Mam, and now she’s down in Dublin. So Da must want to shoot a load out every now and then.

  Da must get it somehow.

  Next to him, Gerry mumbles and turns over, lost in whatever dreams he’s got going on.

  Lucky eejit, with his house with running water and a big shiny telly and his mam cooking breakfast for him and his proper job. Not like anyone would ever hire him or Michael, the bad-news Sweeneys.

  Maybe he can just bust out of here now. He’s seen Gerry’s wallet, in the pocket of his jeans on the floor. There must be other cash stashed away somewhere in the kitchen. Oh, Mrs Donohue, where do you keep your life savings? I’ll just be helping myself to that there, thank you very much for the breakfast and prayers, too, Mrs Donohue.

  How much does he need to get down south? Bus ticket must be what, £10?

  There must be enough he can scrape together here. Walk to the bus station in the dead of night, catch the early one down to Dublin. The more he thinks about it the more excited he gets. Dodging the law, skulking around, and making his own way. That’s what real Travellers do anyway, right? None of this Council housing and paying the bills and following the rules.

  “Christ, Johnny, can you stop shaking your fucking leg?”

  His leg’s been shaking away a mile a minute. He stifles a laugh. Didn’t even notice that.

  “Fucking wait till morning,” Gerry says, and slumps back to sleep.

  That’s right, that’s right. Fucking wait till morning.

  He sighs and turns over, his back to Gerry. Now just face the wall in the dark and wait.

  *

  Monday morning. She wakes up to her phone ringing.

  She’s on the couch, in her pajamas, where she collapsed after the premiere. The tealights are on the coffee table, the flat white discs of wax burned through.

  Next to them, her phone shudders, but as she reaches her arm out, the whiplash becomes unbearable. She winces, brings the phone closer.

  She doesn’t recognize this number.

  A flash of frenzied possibilities through her mind: what if it’s a journalist? What if it’s him?

  But what if it’s important?

  The phone keeps ringing. She grits her teeth.

  “Hello?”

  “Oh hi, I’m Sergeant Nick Somers, I’m with the Sapphire Unit of the Metropolitan Police. Sorry to contact you so early in the morning, but the Police Service of Northern Ireland passed me your number.”

  Of course, the police have followed her here to London.

  They need to take more photographs of her bruises. Now that a few days have passed, the bruises will have darkened and will be easier to photograph. Sergeant Somers can come pick her up, take her to the police station in Walworth. How about noon?

  She thinks for a moment. She needs to visit a sexual health clinic this morning.

  They agree on 1pm. Can she bring a friend?

  She hangs up and buries herself back under the duvet. The last thing she wants to do is leave the house. But she can do this. More photographs. That’s all it is. More photographs.

  Her flatmate José wanders into the kitchen. It’s the first time she’s seen him since she came back. He looks over at her, and it’s obvious he doesn’t know what to say. But he tries his best.

  “How are you holding up?”

  “All right,” she says. “Well, obviously not great, but yeah, I’m back. I’m here.”

  They chat for a few more minutes, avoiding a direct discussion of the rape. Her flight back yesterday, the premiere, his weekend.

  “Is there… Is there anything I can do for you?” José asks.

  “Actually, yes. Would you be able to come with me to the police station this afternoon?”

  “Sure, no problem.” José nods. But she can tell he is hesitant.

  Hesitant. Just like Stefan was last night, when she finally explained what happened. Everyone seems to be hesitant around her these days. Except the police. They, at least, seem to know what they’re doing. No hesitation on their end.

  *

  At Walworth Police Station, Sergeant Somers ushers her into the photography studio.

  It is a drab, empty room, largely dark, except for the broad, curved expanse of the white backdrop. A fairly elaborate camera is set up, complete with flash apparatus.

  Sergeant Somers has stepped out of the room. A friendly female photographer is there.

  Would she mind taking off her clothes? Let’s see how those bruises have come up.

  And my, they are looking lovely and dark. Purple and blue against the sallow of her skin. More fierce than before, more damning.

  Would she mind standing this way? And this way?

  FLASH FLASH FLASH FLASH

  No more photographs, she thinks. Please, just let me be invisible.

  And now she can put her clothes back on. That’s lovely, she’s been a good sport. You take care now.

  She files back into the police car, Sergeant Somers chatting away, José sitting awkwardly in silence. For some reason, he had felt it necessary to wear a suit jacket and tie for their trip to the police station. She doesn’t mind that, but she wishes José were just able to say something, anything to try and participate in the conversation.

  Somers at least keeps up a steady stream of helpful advice. Has she been seen by a medical doctor? Has she done all the necessary tests for STDs? If she hasn’t, she should call The Haven. They’re a center for excellence in the treatment of sexual assault victims, sort of a one-stop shop.

  Yes, she left a message for them this morning. Hasn’t heard back.

  He’s sure they’ll call back. Has she received post-exposure prophylaxis yet?

  And then she remembers what Doctor Phelan had mentioned to her that night. PEP. Very effective against HIV, but it needs to be administered within 72 hours of exposure. How long has it been?

  She checks her watch, tries to calculate the number of hours, but numbers aren’t easy for her these days. The panic sets in again.

  This PEP, she asks the police officer, how can she get a hold of it?

  Oh, The Haven will be able to sort her out.

  Okay, because 72 hours is running out.

  As if she needed another reason to be stressed. She imagines a clock ticking backwards, like in one of those films about a pandemic gone wrong, a disease infecting the world. What if she’s been infected? What if this is the lasting gift from the boy who raped her?

  As Somers drops them off, she remembers the handwritten note that Doctor Phelan gave her to show at her medical exam. This woman is the victim of a sexual assault and I have performed the forensic exam. Please see that she is tested and treated for STIs, including PEP.

  How could she have forgotten that note when she visited the Royal Victoria Hospital on Saturday night? Or the sexual health clinic this morning? How could she have forgotten a note that important?

  Perhaps she really is going crazy. Her brain seems to have developed large holes through which basic information and key facts drain out. She worries about this. If she can’t rely on herself, who can she rely on?

  *

  Da’s fist hits him square in the jaw. Not as fierce as he’d expected. Da must be getting old or something.

  But the pain is still there, his good old friend. Ringing away in his head. Hi, welcome back, pain.

  Thump! Another proper one, right hook, on the side of his skull.

  Nice one, Da.

  Some other voice is saying: Johnny, you just gonna lie here like an eejit?

  But t
here’s nothing to be done. No way to escape Da’s fists this time around.

  Now the stomach, Da! Punch me in the gut to finish me off. He can predict the old man so easily. Right here!

  But Da gives up. The coward.

  Da leans over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

  Is that it?

  From where he is on the ground, he reaches up and kicks Da in the chest.

  Da looks at him. There’s the Mick I know. Da charges straight at him, and he squares up, fists at the ready. But he’s no match for the famous Mick Sweeney. BOOM. Right there, in the gut, just as he’d predicted.

  He’s knocked flat on his back. Da finishes him off with a half-arsed kick in his ribs.

  He’s lying on the ground, and Da holds his foot right above his balls.

  “I should stomp these right off you, boy.”

  He bursts out laughing. Fuck, his ribs hurt.

  Da isn’t smiling. “What’s so funny, you pathetic gobshite?”

  Go ahead. Stomp off his balls. No more Sweeney men after this. Sorry, Mick, end of the line. Happened when you knocked your son’s clackers off. He almost shrieks with laughter.

  Da kicks him again in the side. “Shut up, you eejit. Nothing’s funny here.”

  Oh, but it is. Fucking hilarious.

  Da gets down and clamps his bloody hand over his mouth. “Shut up. Or I’ll turn you into the peelers myself.”

  Now he shuts up.

  A few minutes’ silence. Da stretches his arms, sits down on the ratty couch and glares him an eyeful.

  He props himself up on his elbows, winces, looks around. Da sure chose a scenic spot. They’re in some dingy garage, some part of town he hardly knows. Smells of diesel and he wants to gag. Must be where Da collects his shite bits of scrap metal and stores them.

  He tries to get up, is knocked back down by the pain. Da’s over now, pulling him up by the arm, flings him onto the couch, sits next to him.

  “Why the fuck d’ya do it?” he asks.

  “Do what?”

  Da smacks him on the left side of the face. “None of that, you gobshite. Why’d you rough up the girl?”

  He wants to laugh. “’Cause she was a beour and she was on her own.”

  “Oh, that’s it? That’s all the reason you need?”

  He shrugs.

  Da keeps at him. “That won’t be enough for the courts when you tell them.”

  “Who says I’m going to court?”

  “I says you’re going to the peelers.” Da says this cold and quiet, slips it in like a knife, not the messy raging he’s used to.

  He laughs again. “I’m not going to the fucking peelers.”

  Da headbutts him this time. BANG! Forehead against forehead. Clamps his hand over his mouth again. “Listen to me. You turn yourself in. There’s no other way around it. Do you hear me? There’s been some calls made. People knocking on our door.”

  He jerks his face free of Da’s hand.

  “You’re having a laugh,” he says. “Who’s been calling?”

  “I’m not laughing, Johnny. We’re in West Belfast. It’s not just about them peelers. You think the buffers around us don’t know every inch of their neighbourhood, after all they been through these years?”

  He fishes around in his mouth. Feels like one of his teeth got knocked loose, but he can’t tell, his whole jaw is so swollen and numb. His fingers are covered in blood and spit.

  “Rape is fucking serious. How do you think your mother will feel when she finds out?”

  “A whole lot you care about Mam, all the times you beat her.”

  Another smack on his head. But he knew that one was coming.

  “That’s what you want me to do? You just want me to turn myself in? Yes, Mr Proddy Officer, please arrest me. All us Traveller boys are scum.”

  “That’s what they’re all thinking now, thanks to you. Just listen to the news.”

  “Fuck ’em.” He spits out the blood that’s been pooling in his mouth. It smacks onto the concrete in a dark red glob.

  They sit there another moment.

  “Did you really do it?” Da asks him.

  “I fucked her.” By now, he wishes he hadn’t. The thrill’s worn off from that memory.

  “That wasn’t what I was asking,” Da says. “Did you rape her?”

  He shrugs. “What difference does it make? We had sex, she seemed to like it.”

  Da fixes him with a look. “The peelers say she had a load of bruises on her.”

  “Maybe she liked it rough.”

  For a split second, it looks like Da will lamp him again. But he don’t. “If you think she wanted it, then maybe you have a case. You should turn yourself in, you won’t look as guilty.”

  “Of course, she fucking wanted it.”

  “Because you’re such a casanova, you little shite?” Now it’s Da’s turn to laugh.

  “She said she wouldn’t tell anyone.”

  “Really?” Da cocks a curious eyebrow at him. “Maybe you should learn to control your women better.”

  Right now, this very moment, he hates Da more than anyone else in the world. Wishes he would drop dead, sitting right there, right next to him on this manky couch.

  Instead, Da stands up. Turns to him. Still that preachy voice. “Do you know how long you can go to prison for, on rape?”

  “What? Two, three years?”

  Da snorts. “Up to ten years, Johnny. Maybe even longer. You’re only fifteen, you’ll be a grown man when you come out.”

  Ten years? Fucking impossible. Something twists his insides and he jumps off the couch, grabs at Da.

  “Fuck off, Da, I’m not going to prison. I didn’t do nothing wrong!”

  Da pushes him up against the wall, his hands boring into his shoulders. “Well, all of Belfast thinks you have. So you better explain yourself.”

  Ten years, he thinks. Ten fucking years shut inside with metal bars all around. He can’t. He’d rather die.

  He starts to cry. Is this really happening? The fucking embarrassment of tears and snot, just like his mam always cried, just like Claire and the babby and the young stupid girls he roughed up. He’s not crying. He can’t cry. Not like them.

  Da slaps him hard across the face.

  “Stop sniveling and explain yourself.”

  What is there to explain?

  “Listen, I was high, I didn’t know what was going on, she seemed to want it. I didn’t do nothing wrong. There was no one around and no one saw us.”

  “Did you hit her?”

  “Yeah, of course. Only a bit.”

  Ten years. An entire fucking lifetime.

  “Da, you’ve got to get me out of here.”

  Da is thinking. Never Da’s best thing, but he can see the gears turning inside, all slow and rusty. Turn turn turn. Come on, Da, help me out here.

  “Gerry says I just need to get over the border. Get me down to Mam and I can hide out at hers. Or maybe one of your sisters in Galway.”

  Don’t fail me now, Da.

  “If you can get me over the border, I swear, I won’t bother you no more. I’ll be good, I’ll take care of myself.”

  But Da’s shaking his head. Lets go of him and holds his hands up as if he’s done.

  “No, Johnny, I’ve had enough. You turn yourself in.”

  The shock of it all. His own miserable Da, handing him over to the peelers.

  Then he lets it loose. Screaming, shouting, raging, fists, nails, teeth, kicking everything, everything, everything you can throw at it until he feels Da’s hands on him again. Only this time, instead of punching, Da’s holding him down, clamping him. He strains to bust free, but Da headbutts him again. Kicks him in the groin, pushes him up against the wall so his nose is inches from a rusty steel panel.

  Da’s elbow digs into his back, that stupid thick voice in his ear.

  “You listen to me, Johnny. It’s too late. You made your own bed. It’s time you lie in it.”

  “Where
’s Michael? Where the fuck is Michael?” Wouldn’t rat him out like his own Da.

  “Stop fucking thinking about Michael. This is about you. You run, you look guilty. You turn yourself in, you stand a better chance.”

  “I didn’t do nothing wrong.”

  Da spins him around. Looks at him dead-on. “You so sure about that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then you tell that to the police. See if they believe you.”

  Da turns and walks away, to the other side of the garage.

  He can feel the tears running down his own face. He wants to split out of that stinking garage and keep running, as far as he can go. But he’s tired, so tired, and his ribs, his head, his legs are aching wherever Da’s clattered him. All he can do is slide down the wall and collapse on the ground. His head in his arms, crying, knackered. All he wants to do is sleep.

  *

  Monday afternoon, she sits in front of her computer. She feels unmoored, like she’s been set adrift on a grey horizon-less lake with no oars, and the shore of normal life is drifting further and further away. Just this flat, grey expanse and no one else in sight.

  Natalia is still at work, José has gone out for a bit. She knows they’re freaked out about the whole situation, but what can she do? She can’t un-rape herself. Every time she steps out the door, she has to pretend like everything is normal. Here, inside the flat, at least she doesn’t have to pretend. She can just stretch herself out on the grey surface of that lake and float.

  The flat boasts floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Thames – a luxury that the three of them have been willing to pay for, the added sense of calm that comes with the river view. Now, she is grateful for this view, as she is for all the small things that have made her past two days a little easier: the kindness of the police, friends she can rely on, a boss who understands.

  At their Ikea worktable, she goes through her work emails half-heartedly. They’ve piled up as usual, and she knows her mind is in no shape to deal with the finer points of a television distribution contract.

  She starts typing a response to her contact at the distributor:

  Dear Geoff,

  I’m sorry, but over the weekend I was assaulted and raped. Could you please handle this with my colleague Becca for the time being?

  She hits Send, wonders if she should have sugar-coated that response. But why? It’s the truth. It wasn’t an accident. Someone raped her.