by Winnie M. Li
She’s done with work emails for now. They’re just giving her more of a headache.
Barbara and the police in Northern Ireland had mentioned something about the press picking up the story. So, out of curiosity, even though she knows she might regret this, she types into Google: Rape Glen West Belfast.
BBC News. The Belfast Telegraph. The Irish News. UTV. Reuters.
She is surprised to see the amount of coverage online.
Chinese Tourist Raped in West Belfast
Foreign Woman Sexually Assaulted in Park
Sex Attack on Chinese Student
She registers a bemused sort of detachment when reading these headlines. Chinese tourist? Is that how the media portrays her?
Police are still searching for the teenage boy who is alleged to have raped a Chinese tourist in Glen Forest Park in West Belfast on Saturday afternoon…
Why are they making such a big deal about her being Chinese?
On the BBC website, there’s a photograph of the entrance to the park. A twinge of nausea as she recalls that entrance, caught in the bright afternoon sunlight, as she walked through the gateway to start her hike.
On another website, a photograph shows the familiar yellow tapes of the police barrier, cordoning off a section of forest. The queasiness rises again and she clicks out of that webpage.
But still that detached curiosity in her wants to know more, that computer-part of her brain that just wants to eat up more facts, register more statistics, more news reports.
A wave of violence swept West Belfast with several unrelated incidents marking an unusually eventful weekend. In Glen Forest Park, a foreign woman was dragged into the bushes and raped by a teenage boy. On the Ardoyne Road, three men were arrested after a car chase and a shooting. In Crumlin, another man was stabbed in an attempted robbery.
What in hell possessed her to ever visit Belfast?
Scanning a UTV article, she discovers something unsettling.
This attack happened four years ago to the day that the body of sixteen-year-old Josephine McCrory was found in a nearby part of Glen Forest Park. McCrory had gone missing after a night out, and her body was discovered two days later. She had been sexually assaulted and had died of severe head wounds.
Her throat closes up.
If she could cry, she would cry now. But all her tears have been spent.
A separate case entirely, yet to think that a girl’s body had been unceremoniously dumped, not far from the place where she herself was raped. Bodies forced upon the ground, dirt caught up in hair, open wounds exposed to the mud and rocks.
She shivers, and perhaps feels an odd sense of communion with the spirits of the bruised and the raped and the female. If she could speak to Josephine McCrory’s spirit, what would she say? Why did you die and why did I live? Why did your rapist kill you, and yet mine did not? If we can call this living, the emotionless existence she now leads.
On the website for Radio Ulster, she notices that a morning chat show earlier that day had addressed the topic of her rape. She clicks on a link, and the slant of Belfast accents streams out at her.
“…Well, shocking news over the weekend about that tourist woman who was raped in Glen Forest Park.”
“Yes, can you believe it? It’s horrible, truly horrible.”
“Of course, as you may know, it’s not the first time that park has been associated with criminal activity…”
They mention Josephine McCrory and welcome callers who might live in the area and have any thoughts or comments about the crime.
A man calls in, the tone of his voice angry. “That park… it needs to be cleaned up! You see the young lads there day and night, carrying on, drinking beer and doing drugs, and this that and the other. Something like this was bound to happen…”
The radio host’s voice takes on a somber tone. “And now, we have a very special caller. We have here on the line, Anne McCrory, the mother of Josephine McCrory. Of course we can’t begin to imagine what grief you’ve gone through since the loss of your daughter. But tell us, if you can, what thoughts are going through your head now, with this latest news of the tourist who was attacked?”
There’s a pause, the sound of a throat being cleared, and she strains to understand the thin voice coming down the line. She imagines a woman with a prematurely wrinkled face, hands folded over a cup of tea. The words come slowly, gnarled up in a thick working-class accent, almost too difficult to decipher.
“Just… shocking. Absolutely shocking. It brings it all right back…”
The radio host says more sympathetic platitudes and Anne McCrory recounts briefly the incident of her daughter. Josephine hadn’t told her where she’d be going, just out. She didn’t say she was going anywhere near that park. Maybe they had brought her there afterward. Not a day goes by where she doesn’t think about her Josie. The assailants were never caught.
“And what do you make of this latest incident?”
Anne McCrory sighs. “Well, my heart goes out to that wee Chinese girl. I’m sorry she had to see this side of Belfast. That poor girl, her life is now ruined.”
She pauses as she hears this. She knows she should feel pulled in by this woman’s sympathizing and, yet this woman doesn’t know her.
Wee Chinese girl. She wants to laugh at that.
Is that what they all imagine when they hear the news? Broken English and a Chinese accent? A helpless girl cowering in the mud?
And how dare they pronounce that her life is ruined? A mute outrage burns quietly inside her.
The conversation with Anne McCrory has ended and the radio host announces another special guest: George Powers, the Lord Mayor of Belfast, is on the line. He speaks with the smooth confidence of a politician, the shallow glossing-over of facts with a veneer of calm control.
“We are trying very hard to curb the crime rates in Belfast. There has been definite improvement over the years, but every now and then an unfortunate incident like this happens.”
The radio host slings a few difficult questions at him. The elections are coming up. The rapist is still at large. How safe are the streets of Belfast?
More smooth glossing-over from George Powers. “Belfast is still a safe city. Let the PSNI do their work—”
“And do you have any news of the young girl? Is she all right?”
“I’ve heard from sources that she is back home and recovering. I have made a few attempts to get in contact with her, and I will be speaking to her later today.”
Does he even have any clue where I am?
She switches off the radio stream. As far as she’s concerned, the Lord Mayor of Belfast will be making no attempt to comfort her. But it certainly sounded noble on public radio.
She exits the Radio Ulster website, and looks out at the undulating surface of the Thames. All those people in Belfast, generating headlines and sound bites from her plight. Did they have any idea she might be listening to them from her flat in London?
Or in their minds, is she just a nameless face? A Chinese girl who became a statistic? Devoid of identity, of individuality. An empty vessel on which they can project their preconceived notions of ‘rape victim’.
And yet, ironically, she feels that these days, she has become that empty vessel. Hollow, lacking in spirit and substance. Maybe she will float on the surface of this grey lake forever. Maybe she will never locate her moorings again.
*
When he wakes up later that day, he ain’t in that garage no more. Thank fuck. The diesel fumes were enough to drown him. Maybe that’s why he blacked out.
He’s lying on a flimsy fold-out cot in a shed somewhere, one of those cheapo extensions someone builds to the back of a house. Uncle Rory’s house.
It’s raining, a bunch of raindrops pattering the glass above him. Grey daylight. Pain all over his body.
Uncle Rory’s right in front of him, holding a cup of tea.
“Afternoon,” he says.
“Where’s me da?”
&
nbsp; “He went out. Had to look after a few jobs. Reckoned you’d need to rest up here a bit.”
Fuck you, Da. His skull aches and he rests his head back on the pillow, looks up at the raindrops hitting the roof.
“You got yourself in some deep water there, boy.”
You got yourself a sharp brain there, Uncle Rory.
Rory hands over that mug of cold tea, and he gulps it down. Somewhere he hears young kids chattering and smells dinner cooking. His stomach kicks up another fuss.
“D’ya got anything to eat?”
A few minutes later, his Auntie Theresa comes in with a bowl of steaming food, passes it to Rory. He wonders if he should say something. But when her eyes meet his, her mouth draws in tight, her glance hardens, and she turns back into the house.
So much for a warm welcome.
He don’t care. He’s shoveling the stew down this throat so quickly it don’t have time to burn him. Fuck Aunt Theresa and that stick up her arse. Rory’s mumbling some boring shite about his sons gone over to England, and little Janey getting married…
He’s finished the stew. Licked the spoon clean and all.
“D’ya know where Michael is?”
Rory stops his blathering. “Your older brother was never the easiest to pin down, boy.”
“That’s for sure.”
“But look, we’ve put the call-out for him. He knows what’s happened. Knows you’ll want to see him before you turn yourself in.”
At those words, his insides churn up again.
Turn yourself in. So it’s been decided then, has it?
Rory mutters something about a hot shower, he’ll just be a minute getting him a towel, and then steps out.
He sits there waiting like an eejit, the raindrops pattering away. A dog noses its way into the room. Don’t growl or bite, just comes snuffling his muzzle at him.
He puts his hand out, strokes the dog. The dog don’t move away. Eventually, it sits down, puts its head in his lap.
A smile creeps across his face. For once, here’s someone friendly. Here’s someone don’t care what he done.
*
Monday evening she speaks to her sister again. Serena’s arranged with her law firm to take a few days off. Air fares were surprisingly cheap from San Francisco, and she’s booked a flight that will get her to London on Thursday morning. Will that work for her? She can stay until Tuesday.
Should be fine. It’s not like she has anything else planned except for doctor’s appointments and phone calls with the police.
She fingers through her diary. Before, she had never been able to function without it. Each year, always a hard cover diary, week-to-view in A5, generally meticulous. Trips away are labeled weeks in advance in capital letters. PARIS. BERLIN. She looks at the box she drew around this past weekend: BELFAST, and then on Sunday night, PREMIERE.
Guess not everything goes according to plan.
Flipping through the upcoming pages, she sees social appointments and film screenings pencilled weeks in advance. Someone’s birthday. Someone else’s engagement party. Lunch with that person. Potential coffee with this person.
She takes a pen and draws a huge diagonal line through the next few weeks. See all these plans? You can forget all of them now.
In an alternate universe, some unraped version of her is probably going ahead with all of this. Ambitious, sociable, steaming ahead with the energy she once had.
But in this version of reality, her life is a blank slate.
From now on, her life exists only inside this apartment. Minus a few timid forays into the outside world for groceries and doctor appointments. From busy working professional to social recluse in a matter of days. Amazing how quickly we can transform.
She imagines she should tell her friends what happened. No point in making up excuses for being antisocial. If her life has transformed this drastically, then people need to know about it.
She opens up her Gmail account and hits Compose.
Dear Friends,
I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but this past weekend, something very serious happened to me. While walking through a park in West Belfast in the middle of the afternoon, I was followed by a stranger, who then assaulted and raped me.
Words have never been a problem for her, and these words come out almost mechanically, as if issuing from some highly rational internal dictation machine. Yes, dear friends, I shall tell you the tale… I shall not be dramatic or overly emotional.
For her, it is important to convey the facts in a straightforward manner, while also indicating that any help or support would be very much appreciated. She has a feeling of standing on the rim of a bottomless canyon, and the only way she can hope to get across is with the help of friends.
So she writes a few brief paragraphs, earnest and somber in tone. And now who to send it to?
Some names are obvious – her closest friends from university, her closest friends here in London. But who else?
Gradually, working her way through her contact list, she selects about twenty names. Some in London, others in New York, San Francisco, Chicago. Barbara, of course, and Serena, Melissa, Jen, her current flatmates, ex-flatmates she grew close to, her boyfriend from college. Twenty people she feels she can be completely upfront and vulnerable with.
Vulnerable. Now that’s a new feeling for her.
She scans the email one more time and hits Send.
It’s done, it’s out there, she can’t take it back. She shuts down her computer, looks at her diary one more time. Empty for the foreseeable future, and then some.
It’s time for bed. She wonders if she’ll manage to sleep tonight.
*
Tuesday, all he does is watch telly with Kevo and Martin. Can’t leave Rory’s house.
That’s right, Da, let the bruises from the lamping heal up before you turn me in to the peelers. Wouldn’t want them thinking you’re an abusive parent or nothing.
On the telly, there’s people looking to buy a new home and some geezer showing them around. “Oh, this flat is modern and visionary… Just near the Titanic Quarter is an up-and-coming area of Belfast… In five years, the property value will sky-rocket.”
Imagine saving up your whole life so you can trap yourself within four walls. What the fuck is wrong with these people.
Around lunchtime, the news comes up on the BBC. Bright red background, chirpy newsreaders he wants to punch in the face. And then, right there… his news.
“Police are in their fourth day of searching for an alleged rapist who is believed to be responsible for the brutal assault on an American tourist in Glen Forest Park in West Belfast on Saturday.”
He sees the park come up on screen. The yellow police tape marking off that bit of woods and field. Dogs sniffing round.
Gotta sniff harder, dogs.
If they just swung their camera round, they’d catch the caravans on screen. His home. The thought of his caravan – the one he shared with Da and Michael – tugs some strange feeling inside him. He can never go back there. Not in the same way. No more brilliant view of the whole world, as he takes a piss in the open air. No, now he’s got to pretend he’s not here, skulk out under Auntie Theresa’s miserable roof.
“A number of witnesses have come forward and thanks to their evidence, PSNI are saying they have identified a potential suspect, and are investigating his whereabouts.”
Kevo looks over at him, but he sets his jaw, refuses to think ahead. To what’ll happen after he goes to the peelers. Another roof, more walls, and the metallic sound of a gate sliding shut.
No, fuck that. He shivers and scratches at his bruises some more.
Now what’s this? Fucking Gerry Adams is on screen. Talking to the camera.
“We are shocked and saddened to hear about the tragic assault on the American woman in our district of Belfast. No woman should ever suffer an assault like that, and certainly no foreigner when she’s visiting our neighborhood. As a show of support, we will be organ
ising a candlelit vigil for her this weekend in Glen Forest Park. Come and join us at 2pm this Saturday, to show our solidarity, as she struggles to find justice in this difficult time.”
Oh, come off it.
Kevo raises his eyebrows, but says nothing. Gerry Adams. Now that’s serious.
“For fuck’s sake, Kevo! Gerry Adams is always banging on about something or the other.”
He turns the telly off and throws the remote into the sofa cushions.
As if that woman deserves a candle and vigils. She was well up for it.
Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.
Lying bitch.
And where’s the candlelight vigil for him?
They just want to see him skewered alive, is what they want. Well, they can go fuck themselves, too.
He leaves Kevo in the room and steps into the shed out back. Where’s that dog? He wishes it were here, so he could sit and stroke its furry belly. But Martin’s just taken him out for a walk, so he’ll have to wait for them to come back.
Even the fucking dog gets to go out. Even the fucking dog.
*
The Haven never called back and now, Tuesday afternoon at 1pm, she’s starting to worry. If she counts back 72 hours from the time of the attack – When was it? 2pm on Saturday? – The deadline is 2pm today.
She continues waiting for The Haven to call, but they don’t.
By 3pm, she realizes she’ll have to take matters into her own hands. How firm is the 72 hour deadline? Surely, if PEP is administered within 75 hours, it can still have some effect against HIV, right?
She has no idea about these things and no one to ask. She tries ringing the sexual health clinic she visited yesterday, but the workers there don’t seem familiar with PEP. They put her on hold, pass her around to a colleague or two, and she explains for the third time, that she was raped on Saturday, visited the clinic yesterday, but forgot to ask about PEP. Is that a drug they administer?
Finally, a staff member explains that is a facility they don’t have, but another sexual health clinic might. Perhaps the Lilly Clinic at St. Thomas’ Hospital. She presses on. Do they have the phone number for that one?