Tattletale

by Sarah J. Naughton

  Who is Jody protecting? Herself, of course.

  Look at my knuckles, white with the strain of gripping her. I thought I’d left that girl behind, the one who took pleasure in inflicting pain, but she’s been here all along, hiding under my skin, waiting for the next victim. The next piece of easy meat.

  I loosen my grip. Suddenly released, she starts to slip and I have to grab her by the arm and yank her back. For a few agonising seconds I wonder if we will both fall, but then she seems to wake up from whatever stupor she has been in, and with my help, hauls herself back onto the safety of the leadwork.

  We crawl away from the precipice on hands and knees, and don’t stop until we have reached the spire. Suddenly exhausted, I lean against the cold stone and let my head drop to my knees.

  I have become a coward and a bully again, like my father. Was the truth worth that?

  I hear a rustle and raise my head.

  Jody has crawled over and slumps against the wall beside me.

  The wind rises, catching the gelled wave of Abe’s hair and tugging at it, as if to tear it away from my skull. The last sliver of sunset bleeds across the horizon.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t matter any more. He’s dead. I don’t care who—’

  ‘Wait.’ Jody’s voice is strong and steady.

  I blink my eyes clear.

  ‘Listen.’

  It’s getting dark. Normally she’s home before dusk. She doesn’t like walking down Gordon Terrace after six, when all the residents are home from their cleaning or catering jobs and are safely tucked away in their concrete boxes, curtains closed like a charm against the packs of feral youth prowling outside.

  It was the psych assessment. They were running late. Saturdays are our busiest time, the receptionist said accusingly. You should have booked for another day.

  Sorry, she said. She didn’t even know she could; she just came when she was told to. Her appointment was for four but they didn’t call her in until half past five and now it’s almost seven.

  The bus sits in traffic for so long that when a more ballsy passenger punches the emergency door-opening button she slips out after him and crosses the high road. It’s about a mile to Gordon Terrace, but there’s no point hurrying – it’s already dark. When she gets to the corner she will just have to pick her moment – a late commuter returning, a car pulling up – and sprint for St Jerome’s.

  Lights glare from the fast-food outlets. Someone is having an argument in the kebab shop. The manager of the Greek bakery is pulling down the shutters. They are covered with graffitied names: Toxo, Barb, Stika. Like alien planets instead of human beings. The man in the Food and Wine is shouting down the phone in a foreign language.

  The traffic is solid all down the other side of the road and as she walks past a stationary bus she senses a face turn in her direction. Ducking her head she quickens her steps and is passing Cosmo restaurant when a voice calls out behind her.

  ‘Hey.’

  She turns around.

  Her legs become matchsticks and she almost falls to her knees on the pavement.

  ‘Hey,’ he says again, holding up his hands, palm first. ‘Hey, don’t look so freaked out. I just wanted to say hello.’

  If she could move she would run now, as he comes towards her. She would run in front of the traffic and be hit by the now moving bus rather than have him come close to her.

  But her legs won’t work and now he is so close she can smell the beer on his breath and that oh-so-familiar deodorant, with the reek of stale sweat beneath.

  ‘Hey, Jody.’ His voice is soft. ‘How are you doing?’

  He looks the same, only bigger, and with less hair. His eyelids are heavy. He is drunk. ‘Cat got your tongue?’

  ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m fine, thank you. How are you?’

  ‘Yeah yeah, not bad. Just had a fixture against Hackney. Nailed them. On my way home to get ready for the club later – couldn’t believe it when I saw you. What you up to?’

  ‘I’m on my way home.’

  His head rocks backwards and forward. He doesn’t know what to say to her. If she stays quiet he will get bored and go.

  ‘You hear about Felix?’

  She presses her lip together and shakes her head.

  ‘Mainlining heroin now, apparently. Completely fucked.’

  The high-pitched sound in the back of her throat is lost in the traffic. Her beautiful Felix. Still beautiful in her mind, whatever he did to her.

  ‘Lost half his teeth.’

  ‘Stop,’ she says. ‘Please.’

  ‘Oh yeah, I forgot you had a thing for him. Don’t reckon he’d twist your lemon these days, sweetheart. He stinks.’

  He’s looking at her, waiting for a response. She tenses up, trying to think of something that won’t agitate him.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  And then suddenly all his affability is gone. ‘You should be, though, right? I mean, all that shit with the police. That’s what really sent him over the edge.’

  It’s like being punched in the stomach. He’s saying that it was her fault, what happened to Felix. She can’t catch her breath as his cold eyes drill into her.

  And then he smiles.

  ‘Hey, listen, no hard feelings, though, OK? I mean, all that shit you said could’ve really fucked my prospects, but it’s water under the bridge now, right? I’ve got a nice accounting job. Good money. I’m not bitter. In fact …’ He grins. ‘To prove it, why don’t I walk you home? Make sure you get back safe.’

  ‘Thanks, but it’s not far.’ Her smile is skull-like.

  ‘Nah, it doesn’t bother me.’ His huge hand closes around her upper arm. ‘Lead on!’

  He walks very fast and sometimes she stumbles. Now she remembers how his normal breathing sounded like panting. Like a dog. Her arm is in the grip of its jaws.

  They reach the corner of Gordon Terrace. The boys are there, sitting on one of the garden walls, smoking.

  Hearing footsteps their heads turn as one.

  They know her, know that her bag is unlikely to contain anything but a few coins and a second-hand paperback, but surely this middle-class white boy, with his bulging kit bag and expensive-looking watch, is more promising. If they accost him he’ll have to let go of her to deal with them.

  But his steps do not falter as they come level with the group.

  ‘Evening, fellas,’ he says and one of them actually grunts a response.

  A moment later they have passed by. She turns her head and the youths gaze back at her with flat, dead eyes. Where is the shark’s bite when you need it?

  Up ahead, St Jerome’s is a black spike against the dark sky. Perhaps he will simply leave her at the door. He’s a grown man now, not a reckless teenager. Back then it was Tabby who insisted it was rape, but the judge said it was no more than raging hormones, that she had willingly taken part, until the sober light of day had brought with it a sense of shame at her own promiscuity. That she had made the accusation to assuage her own guilt. Did she give them some sign that she wanted them to do what they did to her? Over the years she has decided that she must have done, that if she had been clearer they would have stopped. It wasn’t rape, just a failure of communication. Her fault.

  They reach the door.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says.

  ‘My pleasure.’

  He makes no move to go. Hopelessly she slips her key from her bag and pushes it into the latch. The foyer door opens.

  ‘Thanks,’ she says again. ‘Bye.’

  She walks in. He follows. The door shunts closed.

  They stand in the gloom of the foyer.

  ‘I’ll be all right from here.’

  ‘A gentleman always sees a lady to her door.’

  He holds open the inner door and she steps through. A sliver of light spills from Mrs Lyons’ flat, illuminating a semi circle of concrete. Should she scream for Mrs Lyons to help her? To call the police?

  But what would they
say at being called out because someone had the temerity to try and see her safely home? She was warned before about wasting police time.

  ‘What floor you on?’ His voice is loud and intrusive. No one speaks loudly in St Jerome’s. From upstairs she can hear the lilting murmur of Abe’s music.

  ‘The fourth.’

  His heavy steps echo through the stairwell as he follows her up the stairs.

  ‘This must keep you fit, eh?’ he says. ‘No wonder you’re so skinny. I always liked that about you. If you just had some tits …’

  ‘Thank you,’ she murmurs.

  ‘Wanna know the other thing I’ve always liked about you?’

  They’re on the third floor now.

  She gives a wan smile. ‘What?’

  He gestures for her to go on and she starts the final ascent to the fourth.

  ‘That you’re so completely full of shit.’

  She hesitates. Has she misheard him over the music?

  ‘Seriously, you’re fuckin famous for it. Who were your parents again? Not a pair of kiddy fiddlers who pimped you out to dirty old farmers? Course not.’ He laughs.

  She stares at him.

  ‘Remind me how they died again? Wasn’t your dad castrated by his cellmate? Oh no, my mistake. He was shot down over Iraq, wasn’t he? A war hero. You must be so proud.’

  Her chest cavity fills with ice.

  ‘And your mum found God, didn’t she? Said the devil had made her let men stick farming implements up her six-year-old daughter? Hell, Jody. What a life, eh?’

  Her trembling hand makes the carrier bag rustle.

  ‘Now.’ He steps up onto the fourth floor. ‘You owe me, for what you did to me back then. What you did to poor old Felix.’

  ‘Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m—’

  ‘And this is payback time. A good match always makes me horny, and what’s one more cock for a slag like you? Now be a good girl and don’t make a fuss, because you know what happens if you try to stop me, right? I fuck you anyway and then it’s my word against yours. And what do you think your word’s worth, Jody?’ His bottom lip pokes out and he shrugs. ‘You tell me, honey. I might just sue you this time, for defamation. I could have done before, but I let you off cos I like you.’

  She backs towards her door, fumbling for her keys.

  ‘Did you get that stitch Felix was on about? Hope so, cos seriously, it was like driving a minibus through the Grand Canyon.’

  His laugh is a rifle shot ricocheting around the stairwell. Her fingers close around the keys. She won’t have time to open the door, dash through and close it again, but if he attacks her out here, surely someone will come out.

  On impulse she hurls the keys over the banister.

  He grins. ‘Nice try.’ Then he lunges at her, shoving her up against the door so hard the wood splinters. His thumbs gouge her shoulders.

  She should have screamed before, when she first saw him. She should have screamed and run and not stopped until she reached the sanctuary of the church. This is her chance. Her last chance to save herself. To be saved.

  ‘ABE!’

  He punches her. Her lip splits and warm blood flows into her mouth.

  ‘WHAT DID I SAY?’

  The lock is loose now. One more blow and they will be through, into the flat, and he will be able to do whatever he wants to her. He yanks her body into his then throws it back to ram the door. Her head rebounds off the wood but though the lock rattles it still holds.

  ‘Hey!’

  Two heads turn in the direction of Flat Ten.

  Abe is silhouetted against warm light. The music is louder and the lemon scent of washing-up liquid drifts across the landing.

  ‘Piss off, mate,’ her attacker sneers.

  ‘The hell are you doing?’

  ‘None of your business. Piss off back inside.’

  ‘Jody?’ Abe takes a single step out onto the landing. ‘You all right?’

  ‘Seriously. Get lost.’

  She watches him, holding her breath. If she has truly been imagining his love for her all this time, Abe will do as he’s told and go back inside.

  Another step. ‘Jody? Answer me. Are you all right?’

  Their eyes lock. She is dumb with fear, but she doesn’t need to speak. They have such a powerful connection he can read the truth in her eyes.

  His brown eyes harden. ‘Let go of her. Now.’

  Miraculously the other man does so. Then, in one fluid, muscular movement, he crosses the landing and throws a punch that sends Abe crashing back against the door frame.

  For a moment he sways, unsteadily, but though he is slight, she knows that Abe goes to the gym under the arches every day. As the other man draws back his fist, Abe bends at the waist and powers forward, butting her attacker in the abdomen, driving him backwards until, with a hollow ring of metal, the bigger man’s meaty back comes up against the banister rail.

  He has to grip the rail with both hands to stop himself tipping backwards and is helpless to protect himself as Abe draws back an elbow and punches him once, twice. The bigger man’s nose explodes with blood and he gives a gargle of surprise, then brings his hands to his face, swearing.

  Abe turns to Jody. His face is flushed. The mop of fringe falls damply across his forehead. She can hear the whisper of his shirt against his skin as his chest rises and falls. ‘You OK?’ He reaches out for her with those long, elegant fingers.

  She is so filled with emotion she cannot speak. He loves her. He loves her.

  She reaches for him. Their fingers are almost touching.

  Then the monster raises its head. Over Abe’s shoulder she sees black eyes glaring from a blood-streaked face.

  ‘No!’

  Abe turns too late. The creature clamps its thick arm around his neck and drags him to the banister. There is a sickening crunch as his spine makes contact with the metal handrail.

  It all happens so quickly.

  Abe’s feet scuffle against the lino, and then the scuffling stops and he is kicking through air.

  ‘No!’

  He bends like a high jumper.

  He is balanced on the small of his back, a human seesaw. Then the seesaw tips.

  Her feet carry her to the banister and the rail crushes the air from her lungs as she strains forward, reaching for his flailing arm. She manages to grasp the fabric of his shirt sleeve, but the stitches give and it slips from her fingers.

  For a split second he is frozen in time, arms outstretched like wings, an angel flying out of the darkness. Then he is gone.

  38. Mags

  We sit side by side against the wall of the tower. Through Abe’s shirt I can feel the rough stone against my back. It is as cold as the lead beneath me, as cold as her hand resting on mine.

  She has stopped speaking.

  Blown by the wind her hair is a silver curtain across her face. I push it behind her ears so that I can look into her eyes. They are watery grey, red-rimmed with the loss of my brother and perhaps the loss of everything she has ever dared to value.

  ‘Abe didn’t love me in the way I wanted him to,’ she says softly. ‘But if he didn’t care about me at least a bit, why would he have given his life to save mine?’ Her eyes search my face. ‘It’s true. Please believe—’

  I smile at her. ‘I believe you.’

  Then I tell her a story of my own.

  My father had found my stash of the pill that I’d persuaded the doctor to give me without their consent. When I got home from school he dragged me to the bathroom and held me, fully clothed and bellowing, under the hot shower, as punishment. I was fighting him so much that he’d actually had to get in the bath with me and was suffering under the scalding flow as much as I was.

  I suppose it must have been shortly after Eilean Donan. Something had changed in mine and Abe’s relationship. If not actual affection, then something like a mutual respect had grown up between us. We were partners in misery after all.

  Without warning, my silent, self-conta
ined brother burst into the bathroom and started trying to pull our father off me. As he pulled and I pushed, the old bastard slipped, cracking his head on the tiles. It wasn’t much of an injury, but Abe knew what he would get for it.

  The beating he received for protecting me was the impetus for my leaving home. In case he tried to stand up for me again. Because as he stood there, back straight, stony-faced, while my father clambered out of the bath with blood dribbling down his scalp, I knew that he would. He may have been skinny and young and scared, but he was brave.

  I don’t have much faith in Jody, but I have faith in Abe. I think he would have come out of his flat to help her when she called his name. He would have taken on a bully who was bigger than him, stronger, crueller. For love. Not the love Jody’s talking about, but because he cared about people. Funny. She believed in guardian angels, and in the end one came to her aid.

  When I’ve finished speaking she is smiling. But then the smile falters and she starts to cry. ‘I’m sorry. He did this for me. He saved me, but I was too scared to do something for him. I should have told the police. I just knew they’d never believe me.’

  The wind buffets her narrow frame, snatching at her hair and the grey dress, with its cheap plastic beads. The things that I sneered at her for when we met – the frailty, that yearning to please, to be loved – now twist my heart.

  I’m not a good person; I know this. I’m impatient, selfish, contemptuous of people more vulnerable than me. I can be cruel. But how could anyone get pleasure from hurting someone like Jody? Like a child torturing a kitten.

  What kind of a man would do that? Someone who must dominate the weak to make him feel less inadequate? A calculating psychopath? Or just a mundane bully satisfying his most basic urges?

  He thought it would be easy. Easy meat. He knew he would get away with it, just like he did before, because who would believe someone like Jody? They didn’t the last time he raped her; they considered themselves lenient in letting her off with a caution, free to return to the wreckage of her life. But if she dared to cry rape a second time, to throw their clemency back in their faces, she would have to be taught a lesson. No wonder she was afraid.