Children of the Revolution

by Peter Robinson

  ‘Kyle McClusky,’ said Winsome.

  ‘Yes.’ Lisa peered at Winsome from under her ragged fringe. The hollows around her eyes were exaggeratedly dark, as if she had reverted to her Goth days and applied a heavy coating of kohl. ‘I distinctly remember the boy – I can’t remember his name, if I ever knew it, or what he looks like – talking to Kyle by the entrance to the toilets. I’d seen Kyle before at some of the same lectures I went to, but I didn’t really know him, or that he sold drugs.’

  ‘So you approached Kyle?’

  ‘Yes. Naturally, he laughed it off, denied the whole thing, said he’d no idea what I was talking about, and if I repeated any of it to anyone, I’d be in trouble. But I knew he was lying. And I talked to others. People who knew he sold crystal meth and roofies. It didn’t take me long to work out what had happened.’

  ‘So you went to Gavin Miller.’

  ‘I went to the only person I knew who I thought could help. Maybe now you can understand why I didn’t go to the police? Imagine what a fine witness I would have made on the stand, not remembering a thing, stumbling over the answer to every question, being made to seem like a slut. Even a sudden glimpse of my own shadow made me jump for weeks afterwards. Everyone knows that roofies are what nice college boys give to half-pissed slappers to get them into bed.’

  Winsome didn’t like to tell Lisa, but she was probably right. She wouldn’t even have got as far as court with the flimsy story she had to tell. And even if she had, only about six and a half per cent of rape prosecutions are successful. The odds are that her rapist would have walked free. No wonder about ninety-five per cent of rapes went unreported.

  ‘Did you tell Gavin Miller what happened to you?’

  ‘No. I didn’t tell anyone that. I just told him about Kyle selling the drugs and all. But I think he might have guessed. If he did, he was gentleman enough not to say anything. He told me he’d deal with Kyle.’

  So Kyle had been wrong in that Lisa hadn’t told Gavin Miller, but his assumption had been close enough to the truth. ‘But you didn’t know Kyle was connected with Beth and Kayleigh?’

  ‘No. They weren’t part of my scene. When I did find out, later, after the hearing and all, it still didn’t seem relevant until I settled down to think about it, the way you thought about our earlier conversation.’

  ‘What did you do after the rape?’

  ‘At first I was incapable of doing anything. I couldn’t even think straight, let alone help anyone. I didn’t deal with it well at all, especially not for the first few weeks. I drank too much, cut up wild. Life and soul of the party. That was me. But I didn’t sleep around. I couldn’t bear the idea of anybody touching me. Nobody could touch me. Not in any way. I felt dirty. Soiled. And worthless. It was a very strange time, like I was spinning wildly around something I couldn’t quite make out, a huge dark ugly mass at the centre of myself, a dark star that was trying to drag the rest of me, all the good bits, if there were any left, into itself, and it took all the energy I had to struggle against it and just keep spinning. There were times I didn’t dare go to sleep in case it sucked me in during the night. Even when I could, I always left the lights on. I still do. Anyway, after a while, a few weeks after Mr Miller’s dismissal, I realised what must have happened, what the girls must have done. I racked my brains for what to do. I felt responsible, like it was my fault Mr Miller had got fired, that it happened because he helped me. I was sure those girls had set him up, but there was no way of proving it. I only knew they were pally with Kyle because I saw the three of them at a party once, giggling in the corner, like I said. But that’s hardly evidence, is it? I wasn’t even sure how long ago it had happened then, but I knew it had been a while. Not that long, maybe, because I think it had all happened in March and it wasn’t the end of the year yet. It was April when I … I couldn’t deal with it. I just let things go, my studies, my appearance – not that I’d ever cared about it much, except, you know, the Goth look – my friends.’

  ‘What about your family?’

  Lisa stiffened. ‘I didn’t tell them anything. They wouldn’t have been interested, anyway. My dad bailed years ago, and the string of useless, idle buggers my mother took in after that would’ve only laughed in my face and then grabbed my tits.’

  Winsome nodded. Not a point to pursue, then. ‘So you were alone with your feelings?’

  ‘I got used to it. Am used to it. It’s amazing what you can get used to when you have to. Things are different now, in a lot of ways, but I still feel alone. When it comes right down to it, we’re born alone and we die alone, and pretty much all the time in between we’re alone, too. Mr Miller was right about that.’

  ‘You talked about things like that?’

  ‘Life, philosophy, being, religion? Sure.’

  ‘What did you do in the end?’

  ‘You already know what I did, don’t you? That’s why you’re here.’

  ‘One reason. But I’d like you to tell me the whole truth.’

  ‘Why? So you can repeat it in court?’

  ‘Lisa, that’s not where this is going, and you know it.’

  ‘Yeah … well. OK, so I went and told Mr Lomax that I’d overheard Beth and Kayleigh talking in the bogs about how they’d set up Mr Miller because of what he did to Kyle, and how easy it was to fool everybody.’

  ‘But you hadn’t heard anything of the kind, had you?’

  Lisa looked away, sideways at the wall, the one with the Doors poster. Winsome followed her gaze. That young Door was certainly mesmerising, she thought. ‘No,’ said Lisa. ‘I made it up about overhearing them.’

  Winsome didn’t ask why; she had no reason to. Clearly Lisa had thought she could somehow mitigate her guilt at getting Miller involved in the Kyle McClusky business in the first place, and consequently losing him his job, by speaking up in Gavin Miller’s favour, even if it meant lying. But it had been too little, too late, and by then she had gone off the rails and had gained a reputation for unreliability in all things. ‘What made you think they’d invented the story in the first place?’ Winsome asked. ‘Couldn’t Gavin Miller have actually been guilty of sexual misconduct?’

  ‘No. I couldn’t believe that. I knew Mr Miller, and I didn’t think he’d do something like that. I know all men are bastards, but Mr Miller was … he was different, even then, when he was still teaching. Haunted. Deep. Sad. But not in a pathetic way.’

  ‘Were you in love with him?’

  ‘God, no! I mean, not in that way. Not at all. It never even entered my mind. I admired him, liked him, enjoyed his company, and I felt guilty for getting him into trouble. But love? No. He was just a sort of mentor, I suppose. He encouraged me to think for myself.’

  ‘OK,’ said Winsome, holding up her hands. ‘Just checking. Affairs of the heart aren’t my speciality.’

  Lisa tilted her head and gave a small smile. ‘So I gather.’

  ‘What happened in April? What set you on the road to clarity?’

  ‘What almost sent me over the edge, you mean. Surely you know that, too?’

  ‘I have some thoughts, but I can only hope I’m wrong.’

  Lisa rolled another cigarette. Her hands were shaking slightly. ‘Well, you’re not.’ She looked Winsome in the eye. ‘You’re probably thinking AIDS or pregnancy, right?’

  ‘Something along those lines, yes.’

  ‘Well, I found out I was pregnant.’

  Only the hissing and crackling of the fire broke the silence of the next few seconds, which seemed to stretch out into even deeper unexplored terrain. Winsome didn’t quite know how to respond. In a way, it was none of her business, not relevant to the case. But in another way, she had insinuated herself into Lisa’s life beyond the mere facts, the truth and the lies, and she felt put on the spot. She could respond like a cop or respond like a friend, an older sister, whatever. Or she could not respond at all. Her choice.

  Lisa broke the silence and the discomfort by asking Winsome if she wanted another
cup of tea. She said yes gratefully and gazed back at the poster of the beautiful half-naked man while Lisa put the kettle on.

  ‘Mr Miller gave that poster to me. Beautiful, isn’t he?’

  Winsome hadn’t noticed Lisa come back. She nodded. ‘Who is it?’

  Lisa’s eyes widened. ‘You’ve never heard of Jim Morrison?’

  ‘That’s Jim Morrison?’

  ‘Lead singer from the Doors.’ Lisa put another log on the fire. ‘He died on the third of July, 1971.’

  ‘I know the name,’ said Winsome, ‘but I didn’t know what he looked like. I’m afraid I don’t pay much attention to those sorts of things. He died young, didn’t he?’

  ‘He was twenty-seven years old.’

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘Heart failure.’

  ‘Caused by drugs?’

  ‘Probably. He was a notorious user and boozer. He’s buried in Père Lachaise cemetery in Paris. I’ve been there. To his grave. Most of us who were there weren’t even born when he died.’

  ‘You like his music?’

  ‘I like his words. His poetry. He was a tortured soul. A true poet.’

  Neither spoke for a moment. Lisa just stared at the Doors poster in some sort of reverence, or so Winsome thought. She guessed that Jim Morrison was probably a bad boy, and not at all the kind of person her parents would have wanted her to meet. But sometimes … there was something in her that longed for such an adventure, throwing away all the maps and all the stop signs. Caution to the wind. The moment passed.

  ‘I had an abortion, of course,’ Lisa said. ‘I don’t suppose you approve of that, do you?’

  ‘I believe that a woman has the right to choose, but I think it should be a considered choice.’

  ‘Oh, it was. Remember what shape I was in at the time? I wouldn’t have made a good mother at all. Certainly not with my own mother as an example.’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ Winsome said. ‘You can’t.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ Lisa said slowly. ‘Call it a pretty good intuition, like the one about Beth and Kayleigh. But I wasn’t thinking about becoming a mother at the time. I just wanted rid of it. That’s what it was, an “it”, a cancerous growth inside me. I wanted it cut out.’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘After that, it was the end of term, end of the year, end of my academic career. I failed, naturally. I left England, took all my savings and got the Eurostar to Paris. That’s when I visited Père Lachaise. After that, I wandered around Europe doing odd jobs, menial jobs, working as a waitress or an office cleaner. Drinking myself to sleep at night from cheap bottles of wine I’d sneaked into my cheap hostel beds. There were boys, friendships, even, but still no sex. I still couldn’t … I suppose it was a sort of healing process. I was just like, frozen, as far as all that went. At a certain point, I’d just seize up and that was it. There were times when life started to seem worthwhile again. Looking at great works of art in the Louvre, the Rijksmuseum or the Prado, or in tiny out-of-the-way churches in sleepy Italian villages. It didn’t convert me to religion or anything, but it did bolster my spirits. I felt sort of like the Frankenstein monster must have done when the electric current travelled through its being, as if all my different bits and pieces were someone else’s and were suddenly melding together into one, coming to life, becoming me. It was a slow process. A rebirth. I was away for more than two years. Drifting. Mostly in France and Spain. There was a boy, towards the end. Things went all right, for a while. And now.’ She held out her arms. ‘Tra-la! I’m back.’

  ‘Have you ever thought of getting a proper job?’

  Lisa pulled a face. ‘Don’t push it.’

  ‘Why not? You’re clearly an intelligent woman. There must be lots of things you can do. You could even go back to college or uni and finish your degree.’

  ‘I might not have a lot of money, or a career path to follow, but I’m happy doing what I’m doing for the moment, being who I am. Believe me, it’s a rare experience in my life, so don’t knock it.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to. Am I preaching at you again?’

  ‘No, not really.’ She held her thumb and forefinger a short distance apart. ‘Well, maybe just a little bit. You just expect everyone to follow the same sort of tried-and-tested path you followed. I don’t mean to be insulting, but it’s not very exciting, is it?’

  ‘Being a detective? I don’t know. It has its moments.’

  ‘Yes. The Bull. That drop kick.’

  ‘It wasn’t a drop kick!’

  ‘OK. OK. Whatever.’ She blew on the top of her tea. ‘But you know what I mean.’

  ‘My options were limited, too,’ said Winsome. ‘But maybe not for the same reasons as yours. Dad was a cop, back in a little hill town above Montego Bay. He’s retired now. He was my hero. Lucky he lived that long. I don’t suppose I was very imaginative in my choice of a career, but I like it.’

  ‘You came here by yourself?’

  ‘Yes. With my family’s blessing. They wanted a better life for me. A life they couldn’t have. I did well in school back home and came here to go to university.’

  ‘What did you study?’

  ‘Psychology.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be critical. I can be a bit overdefensive at times.’ Lisa paused. ‘So what’s going to happen to me now? I didn’t see you taking any notes, so I assume I can deny everything I said? Your word against mine.’

  ‘If you like,’ said Winsome.

  ‘It depends. Are you going to arrest me?’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘I must have done something wrong somewhere in all that I’ve told you.’

  ‘Being raped isn’t illegal, having an abortion isn’t illegal, travelling around Europe isn’t illegal. Maybe you’re not as much of a criminal as you like to think you are.’

  ‘What about lying to the police?’

  ‘Well, that’s another matter. In general, lying isn’t an arrestable offence. We’d have to put the whole world in jail if we could arrest people for lying. But you’ve slowed us down and misdirected us. We have many ways of dealing with that. Mostly it’s up to the individual officer’s discretion. And remember, you can always just deny everything you told me.’

  ‘I’m not like that.’

  ‘I didn’t think so. As far as I can see, you’re the victim in this, not the perpetrator.’

  ‘I’m not a perp! Well, that’s a relief.’

  Winsome smiled. ‘Did you ever tell anyone at all about what happened to you? The rape? The pregnancy? The abortion?’

  Lisa shook her head. ‘Nope. You’re the first.’

  ‘Don’t you think you ought to seek professional help after what you’ve been through?’

  ‘A shrink?’

  ‘Not necessarily. A counsellor of some sort.’

  ‘Maybe that’s what I needed four years ago, but I think I have my life together the way I like it now.’

  ‘Why did you tell me about it?’

  ‘I don’t know. It just seemed … right. I must say, though, it seems a long way from Mr Miller’s murder. I don’t see how it helps you.’

  ‘Maybe it doesn’t, but we don’t work in quite as linear a way as that, however straight you think we are. I add bits to the overall picture, then—’

  ‘What bits?’ Lisa sounded concerned.

  ‘Relevant bits. Not about a young girl getting raped, then finding out she’s pregnant and having an abortion.’

  ‘I don’t want anyone else knowing what happened to me. I don’t want to be treated like a victim.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you won’t be.’ Winsome shifted in her armchair, put her mug down on the table and leaned forward. ‘But let’s just examine one possibility that comes out of what you’ve told me tonight. You told me that you suspected Gavin Miller knew what had happened to you, about the roofies and the rape?’

  ‘Yes. I can’t really say why. It was just the way he looked at me. Maybe I’m imagining it. He’d proba
bly have said something if he’d known, made me go see someone, like you suggested, or go to the police.’

  ‘Perhaps. But let’s say, for the sake of argument, that he did suspect something of the sort. You don’t know who the boy was. You can’t even describe him. You say you didn’t really pursue it, didn’t try to find out.’

  ‘What good would it have done?’

  ‘But what if Gavin Miller did try to find out? What if he succeeded? You like to think he cared about you, so maybe that was his way of doing something to help. He got Kyle McClusky off the campus, but maybe he got more. The name of the boy who bought the drug and gave it to you.’

  ‘That took him four and a half years?’

  ‘These things happen. Maybe he was too devastated to try to find out at first, after he was dismissed. Maybe he didn’t even pick up the trail until you two reconnected a few months ago. Maybe he bumped into one of your old friends who was at the concert and in the bar with you that night. He or she might have remembered what the boy looked like, or what his name was. You never even asked them. Who knows?’

  ‘But if that were the case, wouldn’t it have been that boy who got hurt, not Mr Miller?’

  ‘I know it sounds far-fetched, but sometimes even police officers have to let our imaginations run free. Perhaps Gavin Miller arranged to meet him. On the railway bridge near his home, say. The boy went along, perhaps expecting blackmail, whatever. Gavin Miller confronted him. There was a fight. As you know, Mr Miller wasn’t in such good shape towards the end. He was malnourished and emaciated. I doubt he could have put up much of a fight against a younger and stronger opponent.’