Dark Chapter

by Winnie M. Li

  The jury find their seats, sit down obediently.

  Judge Haslam leans into his microphone with a benevolent half-smile. “Now, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I need to remind you that the verdict in this case needs to be a unanimous one. Mr Foreman, can you confirm that your decision has been unanimous?”

  The foreman, the second-oldest looking man on the jury, the one with the graying temples nods.

  “Then let’s proceed.”

  The clerk speaks: “Will the defendant, John Michael Sweeney, please stand?”

  There’s a ripple in the courtroom as everyone turns around to see the boy stand up. Jen and Barbara turn, too. But she keeps looking straight ahead.

  It strikes her as surreal and a little ironic, that he is behind her again, the same way he trailed her that afternoon. Him following her up the Glen, up the slope, to that place where the forest meets the field.

  Keep looking ahead. Don’t look back.

  “Will the foreman please stand?”

  He stands, assumes that male, reporting-for-duty stance, his arms a V in front, right hand grasping his left wrist. She wonders if he’s ex-military. And if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

  “Will you please confine yourself to answering my first question simply, yes or no.”

  The foreman nods.

  “Members of the jury, have you reached a verdict upon which you are all agreed in respect to this indictment?”

  “Yes.”

  She shifts her gaze from the foreman, stares into the middle distance, at the blank wood panel below where the judge sits. At this moment of truth, she can’t bear to look at anyone. Just the wood.

  “On Count 1 of this indictment, rape by vaginal penetration, do you find the defendant John Michael Sweeney guilty or not guilty?”

  At the same time, Jen and Barbara squeeze her hands.

  *

  He don’t think he can stand, when the clerk asks him to.

  He wants to run and hide, or duck under the seat. But there’s nowhere to go, and the clerk, the judge, the jury, them security guards inside with him, they’re all waiting for him to get up. The whole fucking lot of them, giving him an eyeful.

  Get up, you gobshite.

  He can tell that’s what Da’s thinking, just outside the box. The same fucking line he’d mumble after giving him a good lamping.

  Legs feel like fucking water. He wants to piss, shit, and puke all at the same time.

  Get up, you gobshite.

  Then he sees the back of the woman’s head. She ain’t turned around, for whatever reason. No creepy glares from her this time. So he pins his eyes on her glossy black hair, almost like pushing against it to get up.

  Don’t turn around, don’t turn around. If you just stay like that, not looking at me, I can stand.

  He gets to his feet, looks ahead.

  “On Count 1 of this indictment, rape by vaginal penetration, do you find the defendant John Michael Sweeney guilty or not guilty?”

  The foreman doesn’t hesitate a moment, answers in a loud voice.

  “We find the defendant guilty.”

  The other words hardly reach him. Anything else your man says is blocked out. Like he’s underwater and the rest of the world’s above, and everything’s out of reach.

  The judge is saying something and most everyone looking at him, and Da is looking down at his feet, like he’s ashamed or something.

  Guilty.

  Guilty guilty guilty.

  Now some people in the room are smiling, whispering like, yeah that tinker boy deserved it, but the judge is still talking.

  “Sit down,” one of them security guards mutters to him.

  He does.

  But then another second and everyone’s standing up because the judge is leaving.

  But stand up or sit down, it don’t matter, because he’s still thrashing around underwater, trying to gasp for air, but knowing that he’ll never get to the top now.

  *

  The moment she hears it, she closes her eyes.

  Relief floods through her, returning after a year of drought, to wash away the anxiety and the nausea and the fear.

  She hears the other counts, anal rape and battery, and she hears that word repeated twice again: guilty.

  Jen and Barbara are crushing her in a hug now, murmuring congratulations. Tears trickle down Jen’s face and gleam in Barbara’s eyes. And even though she feels the tears welling up again, she forces herself not to cry. Not yet. Not now.

  Detective Morrison is turning to her with a giant grin on his face – is she imagining it, or do his eyes look moist, too? And Simmons is smiling at her, and even O’Leary, too. Smiling and nodding.

  Judge Haslam is still talking.

  “Mr Sweeney, you will be requested for sentencing in the next few weeks. In the meantime, you will remain in remand, and transferred to the appropriate facility. I hope in the years moving forward, you will be able to look back on this crime and learn to rehabilitate your behavior during your sentence.”

  He turns to her. His tone changes, almost apologetic.

  “Ms Tan, I thank you for your time and your cooperation in getting this crime convicted. You’ve been a most remarkable complainant – a most remarkable victim, should I say – and I hope this verdict is the beginning of a positive process of healing for you, after such a grievous assault to your person. While I can’t imagine this experience in court has been a pleasant one for you, it has been vital for the proper functioning of our criminal justice system. And on behalf of all of us in the court system and the Department of Justice, I hope this verdict serves as some compensation for the horrible injustice that was done to you while visiting Belfast last year.”

  She nods back at the judge, knowing it’s likely the last time she’ll ever see this man.

  She wants to thank him, but it’s not her turn to speak. Because now the judge is finished. And this case is over.

  *

  “Serves you right.” Some fucking punter says this to him as he walks past. The other ones muttering, giving him dirty looks.

  Some reporters look like they want to ask him something, but Da shoos them away. They’re all going after her, anyway.

  That woman. Of course, people only care about her.

  She won, that bitch won, and he has how many years ahead of him in jail?

  “Sorry how it went.” Michael is shaking his head. “It weren’t fair, how they treated you from the start. Maybe we can appeal.”

  “Easy for you to say. What’s the longest you’ve ever been inside? Six months?”

  Da looks at him, serious and grim, but not like he’s gonna lamp him.

  “I’m sorry, Johnny,” he finally says.

  “Bad luck today.” Bad luck? Whose fucking idea was it to give me up to the police in the first place? If it weren’t for Da, he’d of gotten away. Over the border to Dublin, and he’d be down there perfectly free, living like normal. Or maybe somewhere even farther – France or Spain or somewhere warm. Mallorca.

  “We’ll come see you in prison soon,” Da says. “Soon as we can. Try and bring your mam too.”

  But the worst is just then. It’s not Da or Michael, mumbling their shite at him, it’s her. The woman. From the corner of his eye, he can sketch her turning around. And before he can help it, he looks over.

  She’s looking straight at him. Only for a second. No one else catches this. But there’s a gleam in her eyes. Something intense. A year ago, maybe, or at a pub, he’d find that gleam sexy, some sorta invitation from across the room.

  But now it’s telling him something different. See that? she’s saying. I just fucked you over.

  *

  One final look at him and she’s done. He’s finished, out of her life. She’ll never have to worry about that boy again.

  But she knows what awaits her once she exits the courtroom. Already a few journalists have crowded round and she told them she’d speak to them outside.

  Deep breath. It’s
time to face the press.

  Outside the courtroom, it’s not like in the movies, with a crowd of reporters shoving their microphones in her face. These are print journalists, they’re respectful, they come up to her, almost one by one. They’re mostly young-looking women, who scribble away on notepads, hold out slim audio recorders.

  Ms Tan, obviously we will retain your anonymity from the media…

  Ms Tan, how do you feel about the verdict?

  How long do you think he should go to prison for?

  What’s the first thing you’re going to do now?

  Will this help you to move on?

  It strikes her, how bland and surface her answers are. “Obviously, I’m pleased that he’s been found guilty on all three counts… it’s been an agonizing process for me… I’m just glad it’s all over.”

  What can she say that doesn’t sound clichéd in some way? How can any articulate statement possibly convey what she’s just been through? Not just the trial itself, but the loneliness, the fear, her diminished sense of self? Even now, with this verdict, she suspects her life won’t magically bounce back.

  But she doesn’t say this. These journalists aren’t after depth. They just want a quote for their deadlines that evening. She answers their questions dutifully, even though the exhaustion is starting to get to her.

  She turns to go, flanked by Jen and Barbara, but a journalist shouts out one final question.

  “Ms Tan, do you think you’ll ever come back to Belfast, after something like this?”

  She hadn’t anticipated that one.

  “It’s… tough to say. I haven’t really thought that far ahead.”

  A murmur of appreciative laughter, but they’re still standing there, expecting something more.

  “If he’d been found not guilty, it would have been a definite no. But now, well, at least there’s hope I might come back.”

  She smiles, a wry little smile, and the journalist gives her a nod, before she turns away, her boots echoing down the hall.

  PART

  FIVE

  She does not hear the man the first time he speaks.

  She is facing the brilliant blue of the Mediterranean, her back to the rest of the world, and the wind and the surf drown out his words.

  She turns, catching the end of his sentence, realizing he must be speaking to her in Croatian. He is roughly her age, standing a decent distance behind her, and strikingly handsome. Dark hair, blue eyes, strong jawline. But clearly addressing her, because there is no one else around.

  He speaks again, this time in accented English.

  “Hello, are you okay?”

  “Oh, um…”

  “Sorry, I did not mean to scare you.”

  He holds his arm out, a half-gesture of apology.

  “It’s okay, I was just admiring the view.” The sea is behind her, turquoise waves crashing against the rock face below them.

  “My friends and I were just wondering, we saw you here on your own, and… will you join us for a drink?”

  “Your friends?”

  Surprised by this invitation, she looks around, but can see no one else on this escarpment overlooking the sea. It is mid-afternoon, too early for locals to watch the sunset from this seaside pathway. The Mediterranean sun drenches the surrounding cliffs in a focused light.

  “Oh, you cannot see them, but we are just over there. It is hidden, we have a clubhouse, you see.”

  The man gestures to his right, further along the path, and apprehension immediately prickles the back of her neck.

  “Come, you can see for yourself.”

  He takes a few steps in that direction. Keeping her distance, she takes a few steps too, reassures herself that she can bolt at any moment, if she needs to. She glances again behind her – wide open spaces, no one else around.

  Three days ago, she was in Belfast, at the sentencing hearing of the boy. Six weeks since the trial and she found herself sitting in court one final time, mere meters from him in the dock, watching as another judge passed down a sentence of ten years in prison.

  A day later, she was surfing online and decided to book a flight. One-way to Split, returning from Dubrovnik six days later. It would be her first time traveling to a new country on her own, since the attack. But it seemed right.

  He’s been sentenced to ten years. You’ve done your job. Now you can start to relax.

  Escape London with its interminable grey skies, the apartment windows that continually showcase the world while keeping her glassed in. The tired faces of strangers, this city where people avoid eye contact, day in and day out.

  So this morning she flew to Split, one of the oldest cities in Croatia. Hadn’t even booked any accommodation in advance. But stepping off the bus from the airport, the Mediterranean sun shone bright, and old men and women crowded round the tourists, holding up signs for private rooms available to rent. Within fifteen minutes, an old man was showing her a bedroom in his second-floor apartment, where he and his wife lived. She bargained him down to 350 kuna for two nights, and just like that, she had the keys in her pocket and was free to wander the city’s ruins.

  It was coming back to her, this ability to travel. A sense of her old self. The forgotten thrill of new cities, waiting to be discovered.

  Tomorrow she will visit Trogir, and the next day catch a ferry to Dubrovnik. From there, maybe she can take a day trip to Bosnia or Montenegro.

  Now, she hesitates as she watches this handsome Croatian man clambering along a path that skirts the rock face, turning to see if she will follow him.

  A male stranger approaches you when you are all alone. He seems friendly. How do you react?

  It’s like a question on an aptitude exam, a question she knew was coming but had no idea how to prepare for. For over a year, she’s avoided answering it. She’s been sequestered at home, cautious, untrusting. Not the Vivian who would jump on a plane, armed with only a light backpack and a guidebook, excited by the unknown.

  Today, she decides to follow the man, remaining a safe distance behind. The path leads around a rocky headland, the Mediterranean crashing a few meters below.

  Beyond the headland, the path opens onto a flat, patio-like shelf, the rock walls protecting it like a grotto. Here the man stands, in front of a table laden with food, and five other men sit in chairs around it. They are a variety of ages, most of them middle-aged and grey-haired.

  They grin and wave hello to her.

  “See, from here, we saw you standing on your own.” He points to where she had been watching the ocean before, though their location now is hidden. “We thought we could offer you a drink or something to eat.”

  The men nod and she looks at the table. Home-cooked dishes of meat and fish, grilled vegetables, what looks like pasta. Another man emerges from a doorway in the rock face and he’s carrying a glass and a bottle of wine.

  “Please,” the first man says. “He is Drago, and this is wine his cousin makes.”

  Glasses of wine are poured out, including one for her.

  “Zivjeli,” she says in Croatian, holding her glass up, and the men are impressed.

  “Zivjeli,” they answer back. Cheers. Life is beautiful. She takes a tentative sip.

  “This is fish we caught this morning. Please try some.” Another man gestures to a dish on the table. “And this rabbit, it is a local dish here in Dalmatia.”

  “This is your clubhouse?” she asks, hardly believing the feast in front of her. She looks around at the cliff walls that shelter them, the view onto the sparkling sea. “This is incredible.”

  The men grin, proud. The first one, who clearly speaks the best English, explains. “We come here every Sunday afternoon, to get away from our families, and we fish and we cook and eat. It’s very nice.”

  “Please, you are a visitor, we want you to try some of our local food.”

  They have made a chair available for her and are setting out a plate and cutlery. Something is taut within her, the familiar tension she has
carried for over a year now. But perhaps it is starting to ease in the heat and the light of the sun.

  “You have time to join us?” The first man asks her this.

  “Sorry, I am Tomo,” he says introducing himself, his hand on his chest. She notices he is wearing a wedding band. This puts her somewhat at ease.

  “My name’s Vivian.” She smiles slightly and looks at the other men nodding. She sits down then, the metal of the chair grating against the rock, and the Mediterranean sun is warm on her back.

  *

  “Johnny boy, there’s someone to see you.”

  That screw, Elliott, says this through the window to him and he sits up on his bed, where he’d been lying, fucking bored out of his mind, for the past hour.

  “Yeah?”

  Hopefully Michael or Kevo, probably Da. He rolls his eyes. Here we go again.

  But the screw’s grinning at him, different from normal. “You’re lucky. This one’s a girl, not too bad neither.”

  A girl? He don’t know no girls. Maybe Nora Callahan from next door…

  “She got a kid with her?”

  “Naw, too young for that. Though maybe not for you lot.”

  Then again, seems Nora started hating him the moment she heard what he done to that woman. In a couple of years, the only girls he’s seen are the ones visiting other lads here.

  “Surprised, eh? Us, too. Can’t imagine why any girl would want to see a sick perv like you.”

  He grimaces at Elliott. Always hated this one anyway.

  The screw laughs, as he unlocks his cell door. “After you, rapist.”

  When he comes into the visiting room, he don’t recognise her. Curly brown hair, her face turned down. Skinny, a nice coat with a belt.

  He steps in front of the little table, coughs. Still don’t know who the fuck this is.

  “Johnny!” she says, looking up. Gets to her feet, a wide grin on her face that fades to a small, shy smile when he don’t react.

  Freckled face, blue eyes like his own.

  “Claire? What you doing up here?” Realises he’s smiling. Just to see a new person, someone he don’t have to play no games with.