Dark Chapter

by Winnie M. Li

  Inside the room, a long table with three people behind it. All old, all serious.

  “John Michael Sweeney, is it?” A man he don’t know says this.

  “Yes, that’s right.” Standing still, looking them in the eye, like Conor told him to.

  There’s papers in front of them on the table. Stacks of files, and the same file opened up before each of them.

  “Please, Mr Sweeney, have a seat.”

  *

  Four years after the assault and she is hiking on her own in Oman. In a valley. In the dark. She hadn’t quite planned it this way, but sooner or later, she knew she’d have to start hiking again. That familiar urge had lain dormant for so many years, hemmed in by a cloud of fear, and finally, in a foreign country where she couldn’t even remotely understand the language, she told herself she would attempt her first solo hike in years.

  It had happened almost imperceptibly, the chain of small decisions which led her to this valley on her own at the age of thirty-three. She had wanted simply to get away from London, the job rejections, all her friends moving on in their adult lives while she stagnated. After years of unemployment, she received a temporary job offer to work on a film festival in Dubai. So now, after working that festival, she’s escaped Dubai’s glitzy, artificial towers by coming to Oman. Here in Mutrah, a seaside town on the north coast of the Arabian Peninsula, mosques exhale the call to prayer and a range of low dry hills stretches its rugged arms down to the sea. Her guidebook has a suggested hike through those hills, an easy 2km through Wadi Ban Khalid, starting from a steep flight of stone stairs behind an outlying village.

  At 5pm she had found herself at the foot of this staircase, staring up. The steps climbed the rocky hillside towards a notch in the ridge, enticing her to follow, but the ominous similarities of the situation were not lost on her. Another Saturday afternoon, another hike described in the guidebook.

  She’d delayed making a decision until this late in the afternoon, and now, with the sun starting to set, she doubted there would be enough daylight to finish the hike.

  Maybe just walk up to see the view from the top, she told herself.

  So up the dry, rocky face of the hills, her heart pounding to catch up when she reached the crest of the ridge. To one side, the view was stunning. Muscat’s series of forts gleamed white against the blue of the ocean in the late afternoon light. Down below, the traffic coursed along on the coastal road, and closer yet, she heard a baby crying in the village she just left.

  She could just stay here, and go back down the staircase, but it was too late. The excitement and curiosity had gotten the better of her. What would the old Vivian have done, the one from four years ago? The old Vivian wouldn’t have stopped now.

  So in the waning sunlight, she crossed over the ridge, eager to push on.

  Now, a mere thirty minutes later, it’s practically dark. She forgot the sun set so quickly this close to the equator. And she has no idea how much further the trail will take her. On this side of the ridge, the valley is completely barren and rocky, like a primeval landscape, with the heat of the day still rising from the rocks. But there is something calming about it, an otherworldly place, far removed from everything beyond that ridge.

  She is still haunted by an eighteen-month relationship in London, which has recently come to an unexpected, cruel end. In her interaction with her boyfriend, despite all the pleasantness, there had always been a gap of understanding somewhere, a void in her recent past she explained, but which he was never willing to fully grasp. And their breakup conversation had confirmed her hidden fears. ‘Besides, I don’t think most guys would really feel comfortable dating a rape victim,’ he had said as a parting shot.

  So she has taken that pain and decided to bury it. Here in Oman, through her tears, she has been following the yellow and white blazes on the rock face, which mark out the course of the path. But these have been harder to see, the more the daylight has faded. As she walks on in the empty valley, there is a gradual leaching of color from the hills. Adrenaline stirs in her, as evening sets in. She reminds herself there is nothing to fear. Until now, all her troubles have been caused by other people, and now, there are no other people around. And even if they were, they would not be able to see her in the dark.

  Forget that conversation. Forget London. Just lose yourself in this landscape.

  The valley merges with another and here the trail disintegrates. She stumbles among rocks and dry gravel, passes the huddled shapes of ruins in front of her. The path must be somewhere, she just can’t see it yet. In a panic, she reaches for her flashlight, but already her eyes are becoming accustomed to the dark, starting to recognize forms among the black and gray. Turn on the flashlight and she’ll ruin her night vision. On the eastern side of the sky, the moon has risen. Half a moon, casting enough light to distinguish tree from rock from ground. And then a new thought occurs to her, even more intriguing than the one which brought her here in the first place: what if she completed this entire hike in the dark, using only the light of the moon?

  The sheer audacity of it excites her. When is the next chance she’ll have to hike a trail like this on a moonlit night in Oman on her own? Possibly never. The flashlight is still there just in case. But she’s going to try.

  Slowly, she starts to pick out white blazes on the neighboring trees and boulders, joining one to the next. Yet the going is slow, the rocks don’t offer an obvious way forward. Her heartbeat rises even faster, and she begins to feel the familiar signs of anxiety.

  No, she tells herself. This is ridiculous. You’re completely safe. There is no rational reason to be scared.

  And yet, her heart is still hammering, and she knows in another few minutes she’s going to start crying.

  Get a grip. Do NOT panic.

  She sits down on a boulder, fighting a wave of the old uselessness from washing over her. She is tempted to turn on the flashlight, just to reassure herself. But that would be like giving up, surrendering to the fear.

  Then something breaks the silence.

  A distant sound, immediately recognizable. It’s the call to prayer from a mosque somewhere nearby. It floods her with relief, just to be reminded that not far from here, there are people gathering to worship. People she doesn’t know, complete strangers, but still, they’re other human beings. She isn’t entirely alone. They’re just beyond this range of hills.

  So all she has to do is get to the end of this trail and she’ll be fine. Follow the call to prayer. She’s aware of how clichéd this scene would be, if it were to appear in a movie. A lost wanderer, falling to her knees upon hearing this sign from civilization…

  Then, unexpectedly, a more pragmatic thought strikes her: if you got through the trial, you can get through this.

  In all the years since, she has rarely wanted to think about those two weeks in the Belfast Courthouse, because the memories bring with them nausea and disgust. But now those memories act as a distinct reminder: I didn’t survive that, just to collapse from fear in a random valley in Oman.

  She gets up from the boulder, and her confidence regained, focuses on finding the next blaze.

  Just concentrate on what you can see. Eventually you’ll find the path.

  Once or twice, she follows what appear to be blazes, only to find that they lead her up, to an uncomfortably high drop-off. She crawls back down to the valley floor, accidentally steps straight into a pool of water. But she keeps creeping along the bottom of the valley, feeling her way in the dark, for another forty, fifty minutes. The rocky hills rise higher on either side of her, and the adrenaline pumps continuously through her body. When the valley floor levels out into a wide, gravelled path, she thinks this must be the end. Surely the exit will be just around the next turn.

  Only she’s met with a massive wall which blocks the entire valley: a dam built to stop flash floods. Frustration grips her anew. She backtracks, almost wants to give up again, peers in the darkness for the last set of blazes. There must be anot
her way out.

  She examines the slope above her, straining to see something that could be a path, and…there. Up this hillside, there seems to be a cleared space and if she trails her eyes along it, that could be a path zigzagging upwards.

  She creeps to the bottom of the slope. Crawls up using her hands and feet, scrambling to one switchback, then another, and finally she’s near the top of the ridge, out of breath.

  If she looks over that ridge and finds just another dark, empty valley, she doesn’t think she can take it. So she hesitates for a moment in a rocky niche, preparing her for whatever lies ahead.

  Just look. Don’t bother delaying any longer.

  And there, glowing in the blue haze of city lights, lies the town of Mutrah, the glittering waterfront along the Corniche, ringing the dark curve of the ocean. Civilization, just at the bottom of this slope and easily within reach.

  She collapses with relief.

  And now, she hasn’t much farther to go.

  She stumbles over the ridge, through a downward stretch of field. Halfway through, she realizes she’s walking through a cemetery. The stone slabs of Muslim graves dot the grass around her, and she apologizes to all those souls whose graves she is treading on. But even this trace of civilization is welcome, after the empty wilderness of the place she just came from.

  At the bottom of the field, she pushes through a rusty gate and looks behind her. She can see the cemetery stretching up, culminating in the jagged ridge, but nothing beyond that. No sign of the darkened valley she’s just crawled through. If anything had happened to her, no one would ever know she was stranded back there. Shuddering and yet, flushed with victory, she heads into town.

  Here, a dirt road soon becomes paved. Houses with lights on inside, in an open doorway, a small child swats at a cat with a broom. Two old men sit on chairs on the sidewalk, fingering misbah beads, and nodding at her as she walks past. If they think it’s odd that she’s just emerged from the back of the town, from the cemetery and the hills beyond it, they say nothing.

  A block or so later, she is in the middle of town, passing a sign that indicates Wadi Ban Khalid. And then, she emerges back onto the Corniche, where contented tourists stroll arm in arm, locals chattering in animated groups. She can’t believe how normal everything seems here, everyone going about their calm business, while half an hour ago, it felt like she was struggling for survival. The world is oblivious to what she’s just gone through. And unless she tells someone, anyone, they will never know about her journey through that valley, when she felt her way through in the dark.

  She glances at her watch: 6:45, right on time, according to the trail estimate. And what will she do now, for the rest of the night? She has no idea. But she’s elated to be back among the living. To go from the abject terror of the dark valley, to here, surrounded by all these people. The rest of this evening is a gift. And so are all the evenings after.

  EPILOGUE

  “So Vivian, what did you first think when you learned that John Sweeney is now unaccounted for?”

  In fact, this is the first time she’s found out, shortly before this live radio interview. Here she is, in the middle of a business trip to Singapore, when she hears from a journalist that her rapist has gone missing. For some reason she cannot fully explain, she’s agreed to a phone interview. So now, alone in her hotel room, she is speaking to a radio presenter in Belfast, about a person she’s tried not to think about for years.

  John Sweeney has violated his probation.

  Her heart rate has gone up, the nausea returned, and she is annoyed that even now, over five years later, the thought of the assault still has that power over her. His actions can still exert their effect, half a world away. All that therapy, the move to another continent, immersing herself in her new career, and still her body, her instinctive reaction betrays her.

  She doesn’t say this to the radio presenter.

  “Well, obviously I’m shocked that the authorities weren’t able to keep track of him. There is a justice and law enforcement system for a reason, and if he’s managed to effectively escape, then that shows the system isn’t really working.”

  She wonders if she comes across as too rational, too intellectual.

  “Yes, but how do you feel about it, knowing that your attacker is out there somewhere. Are you scared?”

  “Well, I’m actually living and working several time zones away now, so I don’t feel any physical threat myself. But it’s not nice to think that other women and girls could be at risk, if he hasn’t rehabilitated.”

  “Yes, but this is a fifteen-year-old boy who committed one of the worst possible crimes on you. Dragged you, a complete stranger, into the bushes and beat you and raped you. Aren’t you angry?”

  Yes, I’m aware of what he’s done to me, she wants to tell the woman. Thank you for the reminder.

  “I don’t know if anger is the right emotion to have. It’s quite a destructive one,” she says.

  “Speaking of that, it’s been reported that during the rehabilitation process in prison, your attacker admitted to being a monster. What do you think? Do you think he’s a monster?”

  “Listen, I hardly know this boy. I only interacted with him for thirty minutes, so I don’t think it’s my place to say. Yes, he did something monstrous to me, but I’m not going to call someone I hardly know a monster.”

  There’s a brief pause, as if the interviewer is somehow disappointed.

  “But surely, Vivian, this boy is very dangerous and he’s out on the streets now. The women and girls of Ireland should be fearing for their safety, shouldn’t they?”

  She chafes, hearing the woman call her by her name, as if they’re old pals.

  “Well, I’m a little hesitant to start scare-mongering like that. After all, for every rapist who does get caught and convicted, there are many others who don’t. So he is certainly not the only sex offender out there.”

  “Vivian, you’re being very generous to the boy who’s done such a horrible thing to you. How have you been since the attack? Have you been able to move on?”

  “It’s been over five years, and yeah, I’ve had to work really hard to piece my life back together. I ended up moving away from Europe for a job opportunity. So I do feel like the attack is something that I’ve put behind me, but in some ways it’ll always be part of my past.”

  “Well, that’s great to hear, Vivian. Really encouraging. How do you feel now when you think about the incident?”

  “On some level, I’ll always feel sad about it. There was so much stress and anxiety tied to the event, and to the trial, that when I think about it now… it’s kind of a… phantom stress that I still feel.”

  “And Vivian, do you think the sentence John Sweeney served was adequate? He was sentenced to ten years in prison after all, but only served five.”

  This had been explained to her in the past by Detective Morrison, and later various victim information schemes. Offenders rarely serve their full sentence, generally only half. That’s just the way of things.

  “It does seem unfair to me that the courts decided an appropriate sentence for him, but that full sentence wasn’t carried out. I mean, what is the full impact that his crime will have on me? It’s impossible to say, but… I don’t think you can say that that’s it, all my recovery has been completed in five years. Clearly, for him it isn’t either, if he’s run off.”

  “But to that point, Vivian, were you aware that just a few months ago, there were a series of community protests outside John Sweeney’s home in West Belfast, when the neighborhood discovered who he was?”

  More news to her. She’s caught off guard on this one.

  “Um, I actually wasn’t aware of that.”

  “There was a significant community protest, over 100 people gathered outside his house in West Belfast, when they found out he was a convicted rapist. Protesting that they should have been informed beforehand. I was just wondering what are your thoughts on this? Do communities have a rig
ht to be informed when sex offenders are moved there?”

  This is a question she’s never seriously thought about before. And now she has to answer it on live radio.

  “I, um… I think it’s a very tricky situation. On one hand, I’d like to think that a criminal is capable of rehabilitating. And they should at least be given that chance. On the other hand, I can certainly understand why communities would want to be concerned about a convicted rapist living among them.”

  “But for neighborhoods to let innocent children play on the street, right in front of where a convicted rapist could be living?”

  Not all children are innocent, she thinks in annoyance. There’s fifteen year olds out there who are far from it.

  “Yes, I can understand a community’s concern. But again, I just want to stress that for every known and convicted rapist out there, there are a great many more who remain unrecognized. So you can protest against one individual, but there are many other offenders out there who carry on with their crimes undetected. Which again is why it’s very important to report any sexual assault that takes place.”

  “And is that your advice for victims out there who might be listening?”

  “Absolutely. Don’t keep it to yourself. It’s very damaging emotionally to carry a burden like that around on your own. So do tell someone else, even if it’s the stranger on the rape crisis hotline. And it’s important to report something that does happen to you, so police can hopefully prevent that person from committing again.”

  She’s aware it probably all sounds so rehearsed. And yet… it’s true. All those other stories which trickled in, the months following her rape. They’ve started to accumulate, they haven’t stopped.

  “Well, thank you very much, Vivian, for speaking to us. It has been really good to hear from you, and we do hope that John Sweeney is apprehended soon.”

  “Thank you. I hope so, too.”

  And, like that, the interview is over. They’ve switched over to the next news item on their playlist and hung up. She stays where she’s sitting, in the mauve upholstered armchair by the window, and she’s not sure what to do next. Somewhere in Ireland, a number of strangers have tuned in, listening to her talk openly about her rape and recovery, and here, in an impersonal five-star hotel room, she has no one to talk to. She walks to the window, leans against the glass panel and looks out at the futuristic skyline, the indifferent skyscrapers above the bay.