by Winnie M. Li
No, they don’t.
She does a search online for sexual health clinics. There are ones specifically for the LGBT community, walk-ins, ones for male patients only.
For rape victims, the trail constantly leads back to The Haven. But she’s called again and again, and only received voicemail.
A relentless ache is building up inside her head.
Part of her considers calling off the search, this seemingly futile race against the clock, and crawling back under the duvet. Accept whatever Fate has meted out to her. If the boy gave her HIV, so be it.
But that helplessness is only a passing fantasy. She knows in her heart, she doesn’t give up that easily.
Another call, another explanation of her situation, and this time, she’s reached the Lilly Clinic.
Yes, the nurse says. We do administer PEP, but the clinic will soon be closing for the day.
How soon?
If you can get here by 4:30, I can make sure you’ll get the PEP today.
She looks at her watch. It’s 4:05 and the clinic is in Waterloo and she’s in Vauxhall. She can do this. Go to the bus stop, pray you don’t have to wait too long.
She throws on jeans, a shirt, pulls on a sweater.
Stepping out of her apartment building, the familiar nausea hits her. The threat of being out in the open, away from the safety of her flat. The wide sky threatens to engulf her. So much air and light all around her and she feels very vulnerable, exposed. Anything could go wrong.
Just get to the hospital. Just get to the hospital. You can breathe easy once you’re there.
At the Lilly Clinic, the nurse was true to her word. After only ten minutes of waiting, she was ushered to an examination room, where she explained what had happened to her.
Again, she was asked to lie down on the examination table, put her feet in the stirrups. The third time she’s had to make way for a speculum since Saturday.
At the end of the appointment, she was finally handed her medication. One large bottle full of PEP pills, a bottle of loperamide and another of domperidone for the side effects.
Now, she sits in her lounge and stares at the PEP. They are giant peach-colored pills, bigger than any pills she’s swallowed before in her life.
One lies in the palm of her hand and she stares at it. How is she supposed to get that down her throat?
But she doesn’t have much time to waste. 76 hours have passed since the attack. If she doesn’t take the PEP now, it may be too late.
So she takes a swig of water and attempts to swallow.
Her gag reflex kicks in. The pill’s too big, and she almost spit it out of her mouth.
She tries again. She gags again.
And again.
On the fourth attempt, she gets the pill down, and she can feel it poking into the walls of her esophagus, stuck. Another gulp of water. She massages her throat, right where the kid had squeezed his fingers. There’s a strange tenderness in her throat there, and this pill forcing its way down is hardly comfortable.
But it’s down, it’s in her system. Let the PEP do its work.
She tries to distract herself, starts to flick aimlessly through a magazine.
Within twenty minutes, the side effects kick in. A sudden urge to vomit seizes her, and she runs to the bathroom, kneels on the floor, and hovers over the pool of water, waiting as the tell-tale saliva collects in her mouth.
If she vomits now, she’ll have to take another pill all over again. So she prays she won’t. She’s meant to take them strictly every twelve hours. For four weeks. Two pills a day, and if she finds herself running to the toilet every time… this will be unbearable.
But so what? This is the price you have to pay if you want to ensure you don’t get HIV from your rapist.
This Faustian pact. She realizes this with bleak resignation, as she continues to stare, nauseated, into the unruffled water of the toilet.
*
He’s still in front of the telly when Da stumbles in. Fairly sober for once. He’s carrying a load of bags. Fucking Christmas, is it?
First time he’s seen Da since yesterday’s lamping, and they look at each other for a moment, before Da sidles off.
“Rory, I got these for your troubles.” Da hands the bags over. Rory has a look inside.
“Chrissakes, Mick, d’ya buy the whole shop out?”
Da shrugs. “I figure one final night.” They both turn toward him. “Johnny, uh, we’re arranging a bit of a knees-up for you.”
Before you turn me in. So big of you.
Rory and Da both come at him, hugs and pats on the back.
“Tomorrow night we’ll have it. Gerry and your lads all been invited. Want to give you a proper send-off.”
“And Michael?” he asks.
Rory and Da exchange glances. Da nods. “Michael will come. I’m sure of that.”
“Just you rest up now,” Da says, hand on his shoulder. “Keep yourself warm and cosy. Inside the house, like.”
Rage pulses through him again, and he pushes Da’s hand off his shoulder. “What, d’ya tell the peelers to come straight here and get me already?”
Da looks back at him, suddenly cold. Rory’s lost his stupid smile.
“Haven’t told the peelers nothing, Johnny. Just calm yourself down now.”
He glares something hateful at Da, grabs a beer, and sinks back onto the sofa.
*
From the moment she sent that email, the responses flood in. Some are immediate, fellow women expressing shock and compassion, often anger at the rapist. Others are more measured: If there’s anything at all you need… I don’t really know what to say…
Words can be clichéd, but she knows they aren’t insincere. At times like these, clichés are all people can rely on.
That week, her meals are cooked by friends who come over, preparing their best homemade dishes as an act of support. Honey-roasted salmon. Stir-fry chicken and peppers. Pasta with spinach in an aglio olio sauce.
She can’t go out. The thought of venturing to a restaurant, with all its clattering silverware, strangers conversing, glances of men she doesn’t know… It’s enough to make her shudder and turn further inwards. Why ever go out again? No, just stay inside. Watch the sky brightening from dawn to day and deepening into night, from safe behind her floor-to-ceiling windows, while she sits in her pajamas on the couch.
With her friends, she is grateful for the company, but she is also aware that each visit uses up her short supply of energy. They come, they cook dinner, they want to know how she is doing, and most importantly, how did it happen? Was it someone you knew? Wasn’t there anyone else near by? Will they catch him?
It’s almost as if she’s on autopilot. A prerecorded answering service, dutifully satisfying their curiosity.
“I was just going for a walk in this park, and this kid came up and started talking to me…”
She sees the look on their faces, their disgust at the boy. But she has decided not to sugar-coat the truth from the friends who ask for it. What happened happened. Women get raped, and friends, too.
Most importantly, she doesn’t cry. She never cries.
Tears are only a distraction from the conveying of information. And by now, that same story told over and over again, has lost its emotional vitality. The prerecorded answering service has kicked in.
Her friends must find it strange, this lack of tears. That something this horrible could be told in such a matter-of-fact voice.
But they have no idea how far she is now from the person they knew a week ago. They just see her, hear her voice. But the real Vivian checked out days ago, and she doesn’t know when she’ll return.
*
He’s thinking what it’ll be like inside. Every time Michael spoke about it, it didn’t sound too bad. Other lads can be gobshites, but some can be all right. Food’s awful but you won’t go hungry. Some pervs might try it on with you, but you just lamp them good.
But to have everything closed in around hi
m. A tiny cell, guards staring at you everywhere you go, no fresh air, no sky. He’s never thought about it like that. Until now.
Can’t go wandering around no more, peering at people, vanishing again.
Everyone tells you what to do, every hour of the day.
That’s what gets him. Being pegged. Slotted in. Just one of the others.
*
Wednesday morning, she goes to the office. Tries to ignore the agoraphobia that sets in every time she leaves her flat.
She’s aware of a tug-of-war taking place inside of her. The previous her is still churning somewhere inside, trying to reclaim her life.
Don’t waste your day! Get back to your job! There are so many emails to answer!
Establish normality, she thinks. Let’s try that.
She takes the Tube to Old Street, walks the familiar route from the grimy tiled tunnels onto the streets. This must be what it’s like for ghosts, returning to the scene of their previous lives.
Her colleagues were not expecting her. By now, she is accustomed to people not knowing what to say. Erika, her boss, isn’t in.
“Hey, Vivian.” Simon looks appropriately downcast.
Becca stands up when she walks in. “How is everything?”
She shrugs. “Yeah, I’m good,” she lies.
Was that a lie? All things considered, she’s good. She’s safe. She has a nice apartment to sleep in and friends who come over and cook her dinner. Her medical needs are being taken care of, the police are following her case. Things could be worse.
Maisie, their American intern is in that day. Round-faced and eager, she is a nineteen-year-old college student on a semester abroad, interning at their production company for two days a week. Maisie seems pleased but surprised to see her in the office.
“Hey, so how’d your trip to Belfast go?”
Apparently no one’s told Maisie the news.
She looks around. Simon and Becca are working with their heads down, hunched over their keyboards. She takes Maisie into the meeting room to break the news to her.
“Did Becca or Simon tell you what happened to me?” she asks
“No,” Maisie says, her round eyes getting rounder. “Are you… okay?”
“No. Actually, I’m not.”
And so, once again, she explains what happened to her, leaving the details out. She feels bad puncturing Maisie’s college-age innocence. But as the shock registers on Maisie’s face, she hears her own voice unexpectedly crack, and she deftly wipes a tear from her left eye.
She doesn’t cry when she tells her friends, yet she can’t hold it together when she tells the office intern. She is angry and ashamed at herself.
Maisie goes to give her a hug. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
But there isn’t. There simply isn’t.
In front of her work computer, she’s plowing through her emails.
“Maybe you don’t need to be so explicit about what happened to you,” Erika had mentioned. Conscious of her previous mistake in her email to the distributor, she just decides to hand everything over to Becca without comment.
Due to unforeseen circumstances, I will be out of the office for some time, so please speak to my colleague Becca (CC’d here) regarding this and any other matters.
How lightly we can skim the surface of disaster with professional lingo.
She hits Control-C to copy that generic response and then, paste paste paste pastes it into one email after another.
There is something liberating about it, freeing herself of all these emails. Severing the cords to any responsibility she once had, until she is detached, undone, alone.
*
It’s the big piss-up that night. His big piss-up. There’s tins of lager and drams of whisky passed about. Someone’s even gone and bought a big fuck-off ham they carve away at now and then. The little ones are running around, thinking it’s Christmas, and the dog is wandering around and barking, nuzzling its nose into his hand.
Gerry and Donal and Kevo and Martin are all red-faced and happy. Uncle Rory is clapping everyone on the shoulder cracking his shite jokes. Da’s working his way around the room, slurping whiskey out of his flask, nodding to this person and the other.
But Da’s steering well clear of him.
He trains his eyes on Da, and reaches for a fresh tin of beer.
“Johnny.” Gerry and Donal are next to him now.
“How’s things?” Gerry says. Donal silent as usual, his big Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in that thick neck of his.
He starts to laugh. “What kind of shite question is that, Gerry? I’m off to prison tomorrow, how d’ya think I am?”
Gerry cuts across him, looks at the spread, the stacks of lager. “Least they’re making an effort here. Sending you off in style.”
“Well, that’s just the thing, right? Sending me off. ‘Little Johnny’s going to spend the rest of his life behind bars, so let’s raise a fucking glass to that!’”
Some of the other men are looking over, but he don’t care.
“So yeah, let’s toast!” he shouts out.
Da steps up. Oh, right into the trap, Da. He’s got his arm raised, holding up the flask as usual.
“That’s right, Johnny. Let’s have a toast for you.”
And next thing, Da is going round, handing out whiskey glasses and shot glasses and plastic cups, pouring out the bottle of Paddy, until everyone in the fucking room has something.
Da forces a glass into his hand, “An extra bit for you, boy.”
He don’t say nothing, just glares back.
“And now,” Da starts to say, and he stands up on a chair.
“Ah, Mick, get down from there.” Uncle Rory taps him on the shoulder, but Da pushes him off.
“No, no, it’s me own son’s toast. I’m preaching this one from above.”
Da staggers a bit on the chair seat, but manages to stay upright. He’s still glaring, shooting hatred and embarrassment at Da. “Fifteen years ago, when me boy Johnny was born, I says to me woman, Bridge, at the time… now, there’s a scrapper. Never saw a happier or a scrappier babby.”
Aw, fuck off, Da. Before I knock the chair from under you.
“…There’s a lad with the fighting Sweeney spirit.”
The others laugh.
Just laugh me off to prison, you gobshites.
“…Well, he’s grown up now, me Johnny. And even if we don’t know what’ll happen to him after this, we do know…” Da stops for a moment, clears his throat. “We do know that he’ll always be one of us. He’ll always be a Sweeney.”
The others mumble, “Sláinte.”
“And we do know that whatever happens to him… we’ll always love him, our Johnny.”
Everyone nods. He narrows his eyes at Da. The whole fucking act not lost on him.
“So here’s to me Johnny.” Da raises his flask, and the others follow, glasses and cups in the air. “May the road rise up for you, boy.”
“May the road rise up,” they all say.
Loud cheers and someone’s clapping him on the back, another person folding him into a hug. The party’s gone up a notch in energy, people speaking louder, laughing more, but Da’s words have gone through him, all sly and twisting.
That’s right, Da. Beat the shite out of me, and the next day, toast to me like you’ve been the best fucking father ever.
Gerry and Donal are nodding at him. “It was a good toast, so it was.”
He wants to punch them, too, pretending that Da’s so fucking wonderful.
“Where’s Michael?” he asks, and that shuts them up.
They look at each other, shrugging.
“I spoke to him this morning,” Gerry says. “He said he’d be by tonight.”
He throws his glass against the wall. Everyone stops talking. Shattered glass and whiskey spread across the floor. That’ll please Auntie Theresa.
“Johnny,” Uncle Rory steps up, but he brushes him off.
“So I don’t
get to see me own fucking brother before I get packed off to jail?”
“Johnny,” Da says. His voice is sharp again now, none of that sappy shite. There’s the real Da. Knew it wouldn’t take much for him to come out.
“What, you tell him not to come, Da?”
“None of that, Johnny.” Da holds out his arm. “What Michael decides to do is his own choice.”
“Oh, but I don’t get a choice, do I?”
“Can’t we just a have a nice bit of craic for once?” Da’s holding him by his shoulders, but he wrestles free.
“Before you ship me off, eh?”
Go on, let’s test Da. Would Mick Sweeney dare belt his own son at a cosy little gathering like this?
“Come on, Da. Be honest, you always wanted me out of the way, anyway. You can rest easy now, once I’m in prison.”
“That’s not fair, Johnny.”
“Oh, and I’m sure you’re all thrilled to see the back of me.” He turns to all the others. “Uncle Rory, can’t wait to get me out of your perfect little house.”
“Johnny, you should watch your mouth,” Da says, trying to lay a hand on him again. “Maybe you’ve had too much to drink.”
“That’s a clever one, coming from you.”
Da draws back, and he sees it now, the dark look gathering. Just a little more now.
“If this weren’t your last night here, Johnny…” Da warns.
“If this weren’t, then what? You’d lamp me in the face, like all them other times?”
He steps up to Da, pushes him in the chest.
Gerry’s trying to step between the two of them now, but he’s having none of it.
“That’s right, Da. Show ’em what you’re really made of. The famous Mick Sweeney!”
He’s shouting this in Da’s face now.
“I’m warning you, boy.”
But fuck warnings. It’s too far gone for that.
“No wonder Mam left you, you gobshite. Made all our lives hell.”
Da slaps him hard across the face. Not the famous Mick Sweeney right hook, but a broad, loud slap, the way he’d slap a woman.
He stands still for a moment, burning with anger.
The dog jumps in, snapping at Da, angling for a bite, and Da kicks the dog. He lunges straight at Da and there’s a shout as Gerry, Rory and half the lads try to break them up. He can’t get to Da, a wall of arms holds him back, he hears Da raging when a sharp whistle pierces the air. A familiar whistle.