by Winnie M. Li
He turns around. Michael is standing right there, far end of the room, a wide grin on his face.
“Michael!” he shouts, a million miles from Da. Suddenly no more arms pin him down and he runs over to his brother.
“Looks like you got the party started without me,” Michael says, and it’s like the room relaxes into a laugh.
Michael grips him by the shoulders, looks him up and down.
“I been hearing all about you,” he says. “Sounds like you pulled off a mean feat on Saturday.”
They both laugh, and in another moment, Gerry and Donal are with them, Uncle Rory and the cousins crowding round.
“Good to have you with us, Michael. We were getting scared you wouldn’t show.”
But Michael only laughs harder at this. “Me? Not show? It’s me little brother’s piss-up. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Michael crushes him in a hug, and over his shoulder, he catches a glimpse of Da, on his own on the other side of the room. Da looks straight at him, sips from his flask, and turns away.
Three hours later, and it’s just him and Michael sitting in the shed, nursing the last of the lager.
Da’s passed out on the couch, Uncle Rory and the lads have gone to bed. Gerry and Donal left, in search of a bar or a club. Michael said he’d join them some other time. “But tonight, I have some catching up to do with Johnny here.”
He smiled with pride when he heard that.
Now he’s told Michael the full story, from beginning to end, and every detail he can remember. Fuck, Michael’s the first person who asked to hear the whole thing.
Michael’s taking it all in. He’s not sure if he’s proud or ashamed or what. When he finishes, Michael stays silent, just nodding.
“So?” he asks Michael.
A pause. Then Michael breaks out in the familiar grin. “You tell me. Do you want to go to jail?”
“Fuck no,” he says. What kind of stupid question is that? “But Da’s given me no choice, says I have to go.”
“Fuck Da. If you’re old enough to shag that foreign beour, you’re old enough to make your own decisions.”
He likes the sound of that. A moment as this passes between him and Michael.
“What do you want to do?”
He laughs. “I want to get the fuck out of here, is what I want to do.”
“Then do it,” Michael says.
“What, just like that?” What about Da snoring on the couch and Rory and the lads and the fucking news reports with the peelers…
“Catch the early bus down to Dublin. You’ll get there before noon, even. Go to Claire, she’ll help you out. Whatever, just get to Dublin and vanish.”
A flash of excitement pulses through him – to escape, just like that. Get away from all this shite in Belfast, these Travellers and their tiny little caravans. Just him and the buzz of Dublin with no adults to scream at him. May the road rise up before him.
Michael’s grinning. “Not too bad, eh? Master of your own game.”
“What’ll I do for money?” he asks.
Michael digs around in his jeans pockets, finds a fiver and a twenty-euro note. Then takes his trainer off and pulls out another twenty.
“This should get you started.”
“Good man, you are.”
“Ah, I wouldn’t see me little brother behind bars. The rest of them are cowards for caving into the peelers just like that. Da, especially.”
They both look over at Da, who’s sprawled on the couch, snoring away to high heaven.
“The fucking loser,” Michael says. “That’s the difference between us and him. Poor eejit’s probably only ever shagged his own wife.”
A pause, as he tucks away the cash. He hopes Michael won’t ask him no more questions about the woman. She was a poor choice in the end. Shoulda picked someone meeker, but how was he to know?
“So, if the peelers catch you…” Michael starts to say.
He’s sick of advice, but Michael’s is always worth hearing.
“If they catch you, what do you say?”
“That… I was confused.”
“Confused?”
“Well, I didn’t know what I was doing.”
“’Cause you were on drugs?”
“Well, that, maybe. But she said she wouldn’t tell anyone. She said she wanted it.”
Michael smiles. “Did she say that really?”
He shrugs. “How they gonna know?”
“Clever lad. They won’t. It’s your word against hers. Most girls don’t bother to say nothing at all.”
“Well, not this one.”
Michael pats him on the shoulders. “Just tell them it was a roll in the hay, she wanted it at the time, but regretted it after, and that’s why she reported it. Happens all the time.”
“Will they believe it?”
“Who cares what they believe. Do you believe it?”
He don’t say nothing. The woman screaming for help in the bright sun, the feel of her soft throat under his fingers. She kicked up more of a struggle than the other girls.
He can see Michael studying him closely. “You have to believe it, for it to work. You’re a good-looking lad, Johnny. She was an older woman out on her own. She was just waiting for you to find her somewhere quiet.”
He nods. He’ll make himself believe it.
“Fucking bitch. Taking it from me gladly and then calling the police after.”
“That’s right. That’s what all the buffer bitches are like. Want a bit of rough like us, then they feel ashamed of it later. Like we’re anything to be ashamed of.”
“Fuck them,” he says. And that’s it. Decision made.
“‘Consensual’ is the word they’re after,” Michael adds. “And don’t ever use that word, ‘rape’. Makes you guilty the minute you say it.”
Con-sen-sual. Try to remember that.
“Now pack your bag and get some sleep. Travel light, one change of clothes. Nothing to draw attention.”
That’s all he has, after all. One change of clothes, his phone, and Granda’s ring. And the money and the iPod.
“I’ll wake you up in a few hours. You want to be on the road before it gets light.”
He looks out the window. It’s still dark. A few more hours in this shitehole with Da’s snoring and the peelers hovering round, and then he’ll be gone. Just like that.
*
Her flatmates, José and Natalia, tiptoe around her during the day.
They ask if she wants anything from the shop, and she lists mundane groceries: orange juice, yogurt, bananas. They’re fine with the stream of friends who come to cook her meals, with her sister visiting for a few days.
They’re fine with her sleeping in the lounge at night.
Since she got back, she hasn’t slept in her own room. There’s something too dark and enclosed about her bedroom, with the door shut and the walls pressing in. Close her eyes at night and she could suffocate to death.
In the lounge, with the warm glow of the city lights along the Thames, there’s at least a possibility of escape. She is reminded there’s another world out there, even though she’s no longer part of it. She wedges Natalia’s blow-up mattress into the far end of the lounge, overlooking the water, and she attempts to sleep there, snuggled under a duvet.
But most of the time, she doesn’t sleep.
Her insomnia becomes imperative now. The only way to keep her from dreaming. The images that encroach into her waking life and can morph into something worse at night. A bright field seen through the trees. The glimpse of a white jumper moving up a slope. The presence of someone behind her.
These stream through her mind on an endless loop and she can do nothing to stop them, except try and avoid sleep altogether.
In the grey dawn, in the dead of night, she’ll wake up fitfully on that mattress, next to the window overlooking the Thames. It will seem like the mattress is a life raft and she is floating on that grey, flat water, unsure of what the day will bring.
As a child, she would have loved that sense of adventure, the make-believe of drifting on a raft to unknown shores. But now, as an adult, this is a journey she wishes she’d never started.
*
“Johnny, time to wake up.” Michael’s whispering this to him, shaking him gentle in the dark, before dawn.
He moans, starts to say something, but Michael clamps his hand over his mouth. Eyes blazing at him to keep quiet. He wakes up then for sure. Michael mouths ‘Da,’ and they both look at the couch.
Da isn’t out cold anymore. He’s tossing and turning like he might wake any moment.
Johnny’s bag is on the floor, the small ratty hold-all he packed Sunday morning in the caravan. Michael picks this up, motions for him to take his shoes and jacket.
His shoes in his hand, they tiptoe toward the door. At the foot of the couch, he stops for a moment, staring at Da. Knows this is risky, he should get going. But there’s something about the sight of him like this – the mouth wide open, the eyes closed in their wrinkly pouches, the hair greying and thinning. Maybe this is the last he’ll ever see of the useless bastard. He almost feels sorry for Da. That he’ll wake up from his hangover, and his grand plan to turn his own son into the police will be ruined. The look on Da’s face, and the anger.
He smiles at the thought. Almost in response, Da stirs.
Michael tugs at his hand, jerks his head at the door.
Yeah yeah. He knows. One last look back at Da, and he’s off.
But in the silence, there’s a tap tap tap and that dog comes out of the dark, nosing for him. Not now.
Does it know he’s going? It comes up to him, whining deep in its throat and sniffing at his hand. The tail’s wagging and it’s looking at him like it wants to play.
Come on, doggy, shut up.
He kneels and gently strokes the dog on the muzzle.
Be a good dog and don’t bark and wake the whole fucking house up.
Da mumbles something in his sleep and they both look over at the couch. He turns over and goes back into a snore.
He strokes the dog. It finally sits on his haunches, tail still going, and he leans in, peers into those big eyes.
Michael taps him on the shoulder again, stares at him like he’s crazy.
He gets up.
The dog starts to get up, too, but he motions at it to stay down. If it barks, they’ll have to leg it out the door.
But the dog stays, a quiet whine in its throat, those doggy eyes staring at him all sad and miserable.
He backs off, silently, looking back at the dog. One step now, another, and Michael holds the door open for him. He steps backward out of it, into the sharp nighttime air.
For a moment, it’s just the two of them, breaths puffing, praying the dog won’t bark. Still probably sitting there all obedient behind the door, waiting for him. He feels a twinge of sadness, wishes he could take it along. But now’s not the time.
Michael looks at him and nods. Not another moment as they both stride into the dark, the sleeping house behind them, the morning still to come. The air is sharp and cold, and he’s fully awake now, raring to go.
Just get yourself to the bus station and be off.
The Europa Bus Centre right fuck in the middle of Belfast. Right next to the Europa Hotel, with its tourists and businessmen snoozing away in their giant soft beds, this early in the morning.
They get there, and the place is closed like a tomb. Everything shuttered down, not even a cleaner man sweeping away.
Michael looks at some signboards. “Looks like the first bus to Dublin’s at 6.” He checks the clock on the wall. They’ve an hour to go.
There’s a dosser asleep on one bench, and Michael steers them away from him.
“Don’t want to be near that eejit. The security’ll come poking at him in the morning, and you don’t want them to see you.”
They hunker down behind a corner. He shivers as his breath steams in the air.
“Here, I brought you this.” Michael hands him a bundle wrapped in kitchen towel. It’s a hunk of last night’s ham, squashed between two pieces of bread. “Best I could do,” he says.
“It’s grand.” He takes a bite or two, then wonders if he should save it for later.
They sit down on benches opposite each other. He can feel the cold metal through his jeans.
“You remember Mam’s address in Dublin, right?” Michael asks.
“Clones Terrace, Traheen.”
“56 Clones Terrace. You got that? You need to remember all of it.”
“56 Clones Terrace. 56 Clones Terrace,” he mutters it over and over.
“You get to Dublin, you figure out how to get there. Mam and Claire will take care of you.”
He hopes.
“D’ya think Mam knows?” he asks.
“Dunno,” Michael says. “It’s not like her and Da ever speak no more. And I’m sure Da’s in no rush for her to find out. Gives her another reason to shout at him.”
They grin at that.
“But news travels fast. Maybe she knows already. Maybe.”
He don’t like the thought of that. Mam with her prayers and rosary beads finding out what he done. He don’t give a fuck, really, but think of all the praying she’ll want to do for him.
Hail Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners…
He snorts. Surprised he even knows the words.
“What is it?” Michael asks.
“Nothing,” he says. “Just imagine how many Hail Mary’s she’ll be after saying for me.”
“Ah, she’ll be at it all morning.”
“And she’ll make Claire and Bridget do it too.”
They both break into laughter. The three of them on their knees muttering away and looking up at the smiling Virgin.
He wonders. How many Hail Mary’s make up for your son being a rapist?
But no, we don’t like that word. Use it and you’re automatically guilty.
He turns to Michael. “What time’s it?”
Quarter past five. Still not light yet. The homeless man is an unmoving shape on the far bench, and the station is quiet as death. He wonders if Da’s still asleep back at Rory’s. He waits.
Just before 6am, the Golden Express Service 1X is ready to go to Dublin. Engine on, chugging in the morning air, and a bunch of sleepy punters ready to roll on down to the Big Smoke. One black fella, two Chinese, a handful of normal guys. One old lady. Jaysus, cream of the crop right here.
Michael pushes him to get on early, so not so many can see his face as he steps in.
“Go on,” Michael says. “Let me know when you get to Dublin.”
He nods. He’ll get Mam or Claire to do that.
“Don’t you worry about Da,” Michael adds. “I’ll take care of him somehow.”
They pause for a second, and Michael reaches out for one last hug. “Get over here, you muppet. You take care of yourself. You stay low to the ground, stay in the shadows, and they won’t find you.”
He wants to say something, but his throat is swollen and he don’t want Michael to see him sob like a babby. “Okay,” he finally says.
“You be a good Sweeney, keep us proud.” Michael clasps his forehead to his, then claps him on the back and sends him off.
His pulls his baseball cap on as he shuffles to the bus. He won’t turn back to look at Michael. He’s second in the queue to buy his ticket, right after the black fella.
He steps up into the bus, face hardly lifted.
“Single to Dublin,” he tells the driver.
“Dublin City Centre or Dublin Airport?” your man asks, then has a look at him and his ratty hold-all, and already knows the answer.
No, won’t be flying off to them sunny skies and warm beaches of Ibiza, not me. Just fucking grey old Dublin. 56 Clones Terrace, Traheen.
He takes a seat toward the back, against a window. Hunkered low, he don’t like being this far back, with only one exit at the front. But in just two, three hours, he’ll be fre
e, across the border.
The two Chinese men get on and he pulls his cap lower over his face. Them Chinks would probably hate him now, what he done to that girl. But they don’t know him. Can’t tell him apart from any other boy on the street.
That’s right. Just melt into the crowd and be gone.
The bus driver leans out the door to see if anyone else is around.
No one, just Michael lurking nearby. Just go, just fucking drive.
Door shuts, bus backs out of that dingy garage.
He catches sight of Michael as the bus turns away, and they wave a hand at each other through the streaked glass. Michael nods at him and grins.
He sinks down in his seat, watches as the Europa Hotel and all the grey old buildings of Belfast fall away behind him.
*
On Thursday morning, The Haven finally calls back.
“We were sorry to hear what happened to you. That’s a terrible thing for anyone to go through. Is there anything we can do?”
She’s at a loss for words. Maybe it’s the woman’s overly English wording, but aren’t they supposed to know what to do for rape victims? Aren’t they the experts?
The woman explains that they normally offer all the forensic services and medical support for victims from the moment they report the assault. But having spoken to the Sapphire Unit, it appears she’s already been seen to in Belfast.
It almost sounds like they don’t want to help her.
“So, are you saying there isn’t anything you can do for me now?”
“Well, not at this stage. We do offer counselling sessions for victims.”
Angry, she confronts the woman about the PEP. “I never heard back from you within 72 hours of the assault, so I had to figure out how to get PEP some other way.”
“Oh, that’s good, we’re glad you managed to get it.”
“But did you not get the message I left you on Monday?”
She wants to ask: why did you take this long to call back?
“We aren’t fully staffed here at The Haven, so we weren’t able to listen to your message until this morning.”
She knows it’s pathetic, but she lets it slide. She doesn’t have the energy to fight every battle. She asks about their counselling services.