The Devil`s Feather

by Minette Walters

  …When I dream of revenge it’s always in retribution for my stolen relationships. What gives anyone the right to make me suspicious of people I’ve liked and loved? Or them of me?

  …I can rationalize as much as I like but I know that nothing will ever be the same again. Whatever happens, I am not the person I was…

  12

  PETER MADE NO comment when I finally entered the kitchen, but he resumed his own seat before I sat down. He shifted it back immediately, as if aware that proximity might worry me. I don’t recall in any great detail what I said that morning, although I do remember telling them that my name was Connie Burns and that I’d been held prisoner for three days by a man called Keith MacKenzie whose story I’d investigated. I said he was a serial murderer who’d threatened to come looking for me if I ever spoke about what had happened.

  Peter, who had a surgery he couldn’t miss, urged me to talk to the local police but I refused, saying it would only confuse the issue as there was a detective inspector in Manchester who was already working on the case. Jess took a more practical approach. She agreed to stay with me until lunchtime, when Peter promised to come back and talk to me at more length. Meanwhile her dogs would patrol the garden.

  I was asked afterwards by a Dorset policeman what Jess and I had discussed during the five hours she spent with me, and I said I couldn’t remember because it wouldn’t have been anything important. Jess wasn’t the type to ask questions, and I had already said more than I wanted to. Jess wouldn’t have remembered either…

  I REMEMBER the conversation I had with Peter later. He had no such inhibitions about asking questions, particularly when Jess wasn’t present. He’d already filled in most of the gaps from what he’d read about my abduction, and reached a number of valid conclusions from my behaviour since.

  He told me that my fear of him had been very pronounced from the beginning, although I didn’t seem to realize I was showing it. It was an involuntary withdrawal—holding myself in a rigid posture, always maintaining a healthy distance, crossing my arms as soon as I saw him, never sitting down when he was standing—yet I showed none of the same aversion towards Jess.

  At times I even allowed her to sit beside me, although never close enough for accidental touching. According to Peter, an immature woman, who had difficulty expressing emotion, was my perfect companion. I might have longed for someone with more sensitivity and insight, but I couldn’t have coped with the threat they posed. “If that had been the case you’d have stayed with your mother,” he pointed out. “She’d have put her arms around you and coaxed out the truth…but that’s not what you wanted.”

  “Sometimes I think Jess is the most perceptive person I’ve ever met. She always knows when not to be curious.”

  “But she’s still a virtual stranger to you, Connie…and you’re not worried what strangers think. Few of us are. Self-image is about how the people we know and love perceive us, not the passing acquaintance whom we’re never going to meet again. For most of us the universe is very small.”

  I thought how wrong he was. “Until your life is deconstructed across the pages of a newspaper.”

  “Is that what you’re worried about?”

  I didn’t answer immediately. His questions reminded me of Chas and Dan in Baghdad—“But you seem distressed, Connie”—“Talk to me”—and I understood why my father lost his temper when well-meaning people poked him with well-meaning sticks. There’s so much arrogance in curiosity. It suggests that nothing can surprise the listener, yet how would Peter have reacted if I’d let out the scream that had been in my head for weeks? How would Dan have reacted?

  I hunkered down in my chair. “I keep thinking of all the proverbs to do with retribution. Reap what you sow…live by the sword…an eye for an eye. I wake up in the middle of the night with them churning round and round in my head. It seems so inevitable.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve made a career out of exploiting other people’s anguish. I keep remembering a Sierra Leonean woman who’d watched her family being slaughtered by rebels. By the time I met her she was so disturbed she was raving, but I didn’t think twice about using her for a story.” I paused. “It’ll be an apt punishment if the same thing happens to me.”

  “I can’t agree with you.”

  “You should. Everyone gets what they deserve in the end. It’ll happen to you, too, Peter. We all get paid in our own coin.”

  “What’s yours?”

  “Death. Disaster. Other people’s misery. I’m a war correspondent, for Christ’s sake.” I dug my fingers into my eyes. “Not that it makes much difference. It would be the same whatever kind of correspondent I was. There’s no such thing as a ‘good news’ story. Who gives a damn about happiness? It makes readers jealous to learn that someone’s better off than they are. Build ’em up ’n’ cut ’em down…that’s all your average Joe wants. If he can’t make it, why should anyone else?”

  “That’s very cynical.”

  “But I am cynical. I’ve seen too many innocent people die for nothing. Every tinpot dictator knows that the quickest way to control a country is to whip up hatred and fear of a bogeyman…and how does he do that without using the press? Journalists are for hire, just like anyone else.”

  He watched me for a moment. “Obviously you know your own trade better than I do,” he said carefully, “but you seem to be taking the most pessimistic view of how you’re going be treated.”

  I felt a spurt of irritation at his complacency. “You would, too, if one of your old ladies died, and her relatives said you were responsible. Supposing Madeleine decided to accuse you of neglecting Lily? Then it’d be you being deconstructed on the inside pages…divorce, affairs and all…on the basis that your mind wasn’t on the job.”

  But he wouldn’t accept that I’d be “outed” in that way, and argued patiently that however bad the press was—and “gutter” was the adjective he used to describe it—UK newspapers always protected victims. If the sexual secrets of politicians and celebrities were exposed, it was because they were fair game. They controlled publicity to advance their careers, and only objected when the control was wrested from them.

  “You’re not in that category, Connie. On the one occasion when you might have milked publicity to advance your career, you deliberately avoided it. Why should your colleagues destroy you now?”

  I appreciated what he was trying to do—chop away at the paranoid struts that supported the logic of my hiding under an assumed name for the rest of my life—but he was naïve and he spoke in clichés. “Because the public has a right to know about MacKenzie.” I sighed. “And I agree with that. The public does have a right to know. If MacKenzie starts killing women over here, it’ll be my fault.”

  “But that’s not true,” he protested. “From what you said this morning, you’ve done everything you can to bring him to police attention. If he’s caught, it’ll be down to your efforts.”

  “Which is when I get to be in the newspapers,” I said with a twisted smile. “Life’s a bitch. If he goes on trial, I’ll have to give evidence.”

  “You won’t be named, Connie. Rape victims are granted automatic anonymity in this country.”

  “I didn’t say he raped me,” I said curtly. “I didn’t say anything about what he did.”

  Peter let a beat of silence pass. “You described him as a rapist this morning. You called him a serial rapist and murderer of women.”

  I couldn’t remember what I’d said now. “It won’t make any difference. It’s not just names that identify people. If I were writing it, it would go something like this: ‘Yesterday, at London’s Old Bailey, a 36-year-old newswire journalist sensationally revealed details of her Baghdad kidnap. Far from the lucky-to-be-alive version she gave at the time of her release, it was a three-day ordeal of torture and sadism that persuaded her to change her name and go into hiding. Claiming to be deeply scarred and still in fear of her life, the blonde Zimbabwean named the defendant, Keith Ma
cKenzie, as her attacker. She described how she was held blindfolded in a cellar for seventy-two hours. Asked by defence counsel if she’d ever seen her assailant—’ ” I broke off abruptly.

  “Did you?”

  “No…so it’ll all be for nothing because he won’t be convicted.”

  Peter propped his chin on his hands. “As a matter of interest, how many other versions of that report have you rehearsed in your head? Have you tried one that doesn’t reveal who you are? Or better still…paints you in a good light?”

  “How about ‘In detailing the effect this traumatic experience has had on her life, the attractive blonde, 36, explained how she sought refuge in the West Country. She spoke of her gratitude to the local GP, 45. “Without his tireless support,” she said, “I wouldn’t have had the courage to testify.” ’ ” I made a beckoning gesture with my fingers. “Give me your best shot. What will you tell them when they shove a microphone in your face?”

  “How will they know it’s me?”

  “If I’m still living here, I’ll be asked to give my address. If not, someone will work it out. Probably Madeleine. It doesn’t take Einstein to put blonde writer, Zimbabwean accent and West Country GP together.”

  “There’s not much I can say without breaching patient confidentiality…except to applaud your bravery.”

  “Boring. It’s been done already. My boss in Baghdad shouted my courage from the rooftops to disguise the fact that I hadn’t shown as much as Adelina Bianca. They’ll keep pestering you until you give them something new.”

  “Like what?”

  “Whatever they persuade you to say. How, when, where and why did we meet? ‘Dr. C was called to the terrified woman when she broke down after being surrounded by a pack of dogs. She locked herself in her car and refused to get out. “She was trying to manage her fear by breathing into a paper bag,” he said.’ ”

  “What then?”

  “Door-stepping. Phone calls. Pictures. They’ll argue that my anonymity’s been blown because anyone with a surf engine will have worked out who I am from the Internet, so I might as well pose for the cameras rather than be taken unawares by a telephoto lens. And that’s before the twenty-four-hour news broadcasters muscle in on the act and force a press conference.”

  He let a short silence develop before he said: “Is that it? Or does it get worse?”

  “MacKenzie walks away scot-free and I get labelled a sick fantasist. I’ve already been accused of faking the abduction.” I leaned forward, hugging myself. “He didn’t leave any marks, so I can’t prove it happened…and now it’s a bit of a blur. If you can’t see, you don’t seem to record events so well.” I glanced at him. “There’s no way I can give evidence on that basis. I’ll be torn to shreds by any halfway decent barrister.”

  Peter took some stapled pages out of a folder on the table in front of him. He’d brought it with him, along with a couple of reference books, when he returned from morning surgery. I was suspicious that he wanted to start a file on me, but he said it was just some research he’d done. “I’m a bog-standard GP, Connie. I have some experience of post-traumatic stress disorder because of Jess, but I need to consult the literature if I’m going to be of any real help to you.”

  Oddly enough, I found that reassuring. I tend to have more confidence in people who admit the limitations of their knowledge, which was ironic in view of Jess’s tedious insistence that Peter’s answer to everything was chemical intervention. In fact, I felt it was she and Dan who were the more blinkered. Dan remained convinced that a few weeks’ sympathetic counselling was the cure to all ills, while Jess clung to the tougher approach of facing your fears and using a paper bag to deal with the after-effects. Perhaps it’s human nature to assume that if something works for you, it will work for everyone.

  Peter pushed the sheaf of pages towards me. “Have you ever heard of the Istanbul protocol? It’s a set of international guidelines for the investigation and documentation of torture, and it’s used to evaluate and prepare evidence for trial. I’ve printed this copy off the net.”

  “I didn’t say I’d been tortured.”

  “I’d still like you to read it. It might help convince you that you’ll be taken seriously. Among other things, it contains a comprehensive list of the psychological consequences of ill-treatment and abuse. I’ve jotted down some of the commonest responses on the front page—you’ve shown a fair number of them in the last fifteen minutes—although your panic attacks are the clearest indicators that something catastrophic happened.”

  I inched forward to read what he’d written. “Flashbacks. Nightmares. Insomnia. Personal detachment. Social withdrawal. Agoraphobia. Avoidance of people and places. Profound anxiety. Mistrust. Irritability. Feelings of guilt. Loss of appetite. Inability to recall important aspects of the trauma. Thoughts of death.”

  “Jess shows a fair number of those,” I pointed out, “and she’s not claiming abuse.”

  “So? The trauma of losing her family was considerable.”

  “Then any trauma can produce similar symptoms. It doesn’t prove that my version of events happened. Perhaps I’m more easily frightened than most people, and just being blindfolded for three days led to panic attacks.”

  “Why are you so determined that no one’s going to believe you?”

  “Because I didn’t report it at the time.”

  “It doesn’t matter. There’s usually a delay before a victim can talk about what’s happened. You may find that document difficult in places—particularly where it refers to physical incapacitation and disintegration of the victim’s personality—but the more you inform yourself about how evidence is taken in conjunction with testimony, the more confident you will feel about being believed.” He paused. “For what it’s worth, I’d say you’re stronger than most people—certainly mentally stronger—which is why you’ve managed to keep this bottled up for so long.”

  “That’s not strength,” I said bleakly. “I’m scared stiff. I thought if I didn’t talk about it and no one knew where I was, I’d be OK…and now I wish I hadn’t called Jess. I’ve been jumping at shadows all morning. It’s the old saying, three can keep a secret as long as two of them are dead.”

  “What about the inspector in Manchester?”

  “He only knows bits.”

  “So which secret are we talking about? Your location…or what happened to you?”

  I didn’t answer, and Peter watched me with a concerned frown as I hunched deeper in my chair.

  “I’m sure you’ve worked out a hundred reasons why keeping the details to yourself is better than speaking out,” he went on carefully, “but not being believed is the least convincing. I’m assuming you’ve told us only half of what happened…less than half perhaps…but Jess and I aren’t doubting you. Nor are we”—he sought for a word—“condemning you. Whatever you did, you were forced to do…but being ashamed of that simply reinforces this man’s right to control your life.”

  Simply? What was simple about shame? How many times had Peter woken up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat and reliving every minute of humiliation? It was worse not being able to remember it properly, or even have a picture in my mind of what it might look like to a third party. In my imagination, my capitulations were eager and extravagant, my actions degrading and repulsive, and my body something to mock.

  “He made a video of me. I keep checking the net to see if he’s posted it somewhere. If he’s arrested…and still has it…it’ll be shown in court.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “It’s the only proof of what he did. Of course it’ll be shown.”

  Peter was too perceptive. “But you’re more concerned that it’s proof of what you did?” He paused, waiting for a reply. “Do you mind if I say that you’re very optimistic to assume that no one else down here has put blonde Zimbabwean and writer together? At the time, you were headline news, and you haven’t changed that much from the photograph that was used. There was a lot made of yo
ur parents being forced from their farm, and you’ve been quite honest about that part of your history.”

  I felt goosebumps crawl up my arms. “Does Madeleine know?”

  “It doesn’t matter if she does, there’s no mileage to be made out of you. A small community like this is bound to be curious about a new arrival, but there’s no interest anywhere else. The last mention I could find was a brief reference to you when Adelina Bianca was released.”

  He was so naïve. I could picture Madeleine dropping my name all over London. Do you remember Connie Burns? The Reuters correspondent who was taken hostage but never told her story? She’s rented my mother’s house in Dorset for six months in order to write a book. We’re such good friends.

  “In that respect, you’ve achieved what you set out to achieve, Connie. Your kidnap wasn’t”—he echoed the word I’d used earlier—“sensational enough to make it worth anyone’s while to track you down, otherwise the phone calls and the doorstepping would have started long ago.” He made a reassuring gesture with his hand. “You understand the point I’m making? If anyone thought you had a story to tell, you’d have been put under pressure already…but you haven’t. So it’s up to you how much you want to reveal, or whether you want to reveal it at all. No one’s going to force you.”

  I felt like throwing his psychological pap back in his face. It’s my genetic link to my father, this inability to take patronizing comments on the chin. Did Peter have a higher IQ than I? Was he better educated? Wider read? So arrogant about his own abilities that he assumed I was incapable of working it out for myself? Of course I knew I had control of my story. What did he think I’d been doing for the last three months, other than make damn sure no one else had access to it?

  If I wrestled with anything, it was Peter’s all-too-accurate observation that MacKenzie controlled me. And through a video. I could have been as brave as a lion if it were my word against that of an ignorant Glaswegian rapist. I could have said anything. That I’d screamed, argued, refused consent, fought for my life. I could have pretended some dignity. Who was going to believe MacKenzie without pictures?