The Witness

by Naomi Kryskle

  Casey wanted to control the flow of information. “Her monthly began last night.”

  “Why is that something I need to know?” Knowles asked.

  “Because it had been so long—too long—weeks and weeks—”

  “She thought she was pregnant,” Casey interrupted.

  “Jenny, weren’t you told? You were given a drug at hospital to prevent pregnancy. It’s standard operating procedure for rape victims,” Sinclair said.

  “Then all that worry—all that fear—it was for nothing?” She began to cry.

  “I’m so sorry,” Sinclair soothed. “There never was any possibility of pregnancy.”

  “I’ve never had a period hurt like that before. I didn’t know what was happening!”

  Emotions which had been blunted the day before were evident now, Knowles noted. A result of desperation? “Jenny, a woman’s cycle can be disrupted by stress in any number of ways.”

  “Do we have to talk about this?”

  “I’ll leave you to it,” Casey said and left.

  “You didn’t feel you could ask your protection officers? Or Colin?” Knowles persisted.

  “Ask them what? ‘What are the symptoms of pregnancy?’ They’re all guys!”

  “Are you feeling isolated then?”

  “I’m like Edvard Munch’s screaming woman. Are you familiar with that painting? Her face is featureless except for her gaping mouth.”

  “And no one can hear her cries. Are you crying inside, Jenny, where no one can hear?”

  “Inside and out,” she sobbed, accepting Colin’s handkerchief. “The monster’s still here. Imprinted. He’s in my pores.”

  “Monster?” Knowles turned to Sinclair.

  “Scott,” Sinclair answered.

  “Jenny, Munch’s woman is part of a landscape in upheaval. Do you feel insecure here?”

  “Sort of,” she answered, thinking of Casey’s examination. “They’re men, and I don’t know what they’ll do. The only thing I’m sure of is gravity—when I fall, I always go down.” She twisted the handkerchief in her hands.

  “It’s my understanding that they volunteered for extended duty. That would seem to indicate a strong desire to help.”

  “But they can’t! No one can.”

  “Why have you lost hope, Jenny?”

  “Because I feel so lost! I can’t change what happened. I’ve turned into a person I don’t know, a despicable person. I belong in unconsecrated ground.”

  “Jenny, if I may—I think you’re grieving. You’ve had a succession of serious losses. Innocence—independence—even identity.”

  “I’m not the person I was. He took it all away! And I can’t get over it.”

  “There’s no timetable on grief, Jenny. Sometimes grief is more intense, sometimes less so, but when you’ve had a significant loss, it never leaves you completely. Once you have grieved, it will always be a part of your experience.”

  She wiped her cheeks. “That doesn’t sound like good news.”

  Knowles smiled gently. “Repeated shocks have worn you down, but you’re going to come through. I won’t lie to you and tell you that someday you’ll forget. It just won’t always hurt so much to remember.”

  “Hemingway said, ‘The world breaks everyone, and afterward some are stronger at the broken places.’ But I’m not.”

  “It’s early days yet. You’re doing much better than you think you are, actually. Let me tell you what I see: a very brave young woman, isolated from her support system, who is struggling to cope.”

  Sinclair realised he hadn’t been a very good liaison officer. He’d have to call round more often.

  “But you’re rational. You’re not without resources; you only need to use them. You have confused reality and memory a bit—reality and memory are not the same. I know your memories are powerful and frightening, but they refer to events past.” He stood. “We’ll speak more about grief the next time we meet, but let me leave you with two thoughts. First, grief has a purpose, always, although it may not become apparent for some time. Second, grief changes you. I’d be willing to wager that you’re more protective of others because you’ve suffered.”

  She looked at her hands. She hadn’t protected Colin’s handkerchief—she’d mangled it.

  Before he left, Knowles had a word with the men, explaining that the feared pregnancy had compounded her shame and emphasising the importance of reassurance and acceptance. “A burden has been lifted, but desperation and some suicidal ideation are still present. Talk with her. Listen to her,” he instructed. “And Colin—I need more time with her. She’s too upset to appear at court anytime in the near future.”

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  “I can’t face it,” she told Casey later that evening. “Dr. Knowles—Colin—all of you can walk away. I can’t get out of my skin, even when I sleep.”

  “I can help with that.” Knowles had given permission for him to administer sedatives as needed.

  “If I weren’t so weak, I wouldn’t need it.”

  “It’s not weakness, it’s trauma that’s the cause of this. Knowles doesn’t want you to have nightmares tonight, and neither do I.”

  She knew the routine. She turned on her side and closed her eyes while he moved her nightwear out of the way to give the injection. “I feel like the beach after a storm—trash and rubble everywhere.”

  “Beaches have beautiful things on them as well,” he said. “Storm waves wash up shells and driftwood. You didn’t live far from the water. Did you go to the beach with your family when you were growing up?”

  “My dad liked crabbing. I liked finding sand dollars. It was rare, but sometimes I’d find one that wasn’t broken. And we all cooled off in the water. I liked to go way out, beyond the breakers.”

  “You’ll have those fun times again, love.”

  She shook her head. “No, with my scars I’ll never wear a swimsuit as long as I live. Someone would call the police—indecent exposure.”

  He had to smile. Caustic humour. A sign of resilience. He respected that.

  CHAPTER 34

  “I love my morning cuppa,” she told Danny in the morning. “I’m so sorry we dumped your tea in Boston Harbor.”

  “When did you do that?” he asked.

  “1773. Big moment in American history. What’s on today’s schedule?”

  “Flower arranging. I bought these for you,” he held up a bouquet, “but I don’t know what to do with them.”

  “I’m a novice myself.” She removed one of the delicate petals, rubbing her fingers across its softness. What the monster had done—would she ever get over it? No. She removed another petal. No. Would she learn to feel comfortable with these men? Yes. No. Yes. Would she be able to testify? No. Yes? The table was covered with petals; she had stripped every stem.

  Her sessions with Dr. Knowles continued. He encouraged her to accept that being affected by the significant losses she had suffered was not a fault but the normal reaction of a caring and capable individual. Likewise, the ability to accept help was an important factor in healing, not a defect or deficiency. He agreed that she couldn’t change her past, but he challenged her to focus on what she could change in her future and how the officers who protected her could assist. The most difficult issue she faced was the shame she felt. Over and over Dr. Knowles stressed that there was a difference between what had happened to her and letting it become a part of her. One led to anger and the other to shame.

  During the long afternoons she began to read a book on grief that Dr. Knowles had given her. According to the author, grief was a process, meaning she couldn’t stay the same and she couldn’t go back. That was good, but the idea that grief couldn’t be rushed bothered her because she wanted so badly to put her sad feelings behind her. The chapter on the emotions of grief described far more than sadness, however: fear, anxiety, bitterness, helplessness, and dread. Anger—rage—was an important step, the chapter concluded, but she was afraid t
o open that Pandora’s box.

  She put the book down. Somehow the monster had assassinated her self-concept, causing her to reexamine everything she had previously felt to be true about herself. In a very important sense she was starting over. Perhaps if she’d grieved as a child, she’d know how to do it as an adult, but when the family dog had died, her parents had simply replaced it, bypassing the time for tears. She suddenly recalled a line from Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s famous poem: “I love thee with the passion put to use / In my old griefs…” Passion as intense as grief? “Throw me in that briar patch!” she said to her empty room.

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  After dinner Colin came by. No tie—so he wasn’t working. Finally a chance for a conversation that didn’t center on her problems! The author of the grief book recommended expressing sad feelings to others, but she didn’t want to go on and on about hers, and besides, she discussed them with Dr. Knowles. So she asked Colin to tell her something about himself.

  He was from Kent, about three hours southeast of London. His father had been in the diplomatic corps, but he wanted to live in England, not abroad, so he hadn’t considered a career in the foreign service. He had attended university and then applied at the police academy, wanting a practical, useful profession. His job performance had been good, and he had progressed through the requisite courses and examinations to his current rank. He liked detective work because it allowed him to use his reasoning skills. “Unlike jigsaw puzzles, not all the pieces of information collected in an investigation fit. I look for the relationship between the pieces.”

  “Like word association questions on exams—deciding which word doesn’t belong.”

  “Exactly. Forensic police are often called upon to conduct what we call ‘fingertip searches’ of a site. I like to think that my mental scrutiny is every bit as thorough and painstaking.”

  On the personal side, he was divorced, but he had a sister who was married with small children. His mother lived near Ashford. “It’s beautiful there, but I don’t get down very often. Demands of the Job and all that.”

  “I owe you an apology, Colin. I criticized you for caring more about my testimony than about me, but I’ve benefited from your concern, no matter what motivated it. Your agenda isn’t hidden, and it isn’t too different from mine.”

  “Jenny, you’re being too hard on yourself. You’ve no reason for regret.” He hoped this chat and the others to come would cement his rapport with her; she had a long road ahead. Emotional involvement with a victim or a victim’s family was unwise, but a certain amount of caring—he preferred to call it commitment—provided welcome motivation when days of drudgery occurred. Every investigation had its own ebb and flow. Odd how the commission of a crime—usually an event not overlong in nature—could spawn such complex and interminable consequences for so many.

  CHAPTER 35

  Colin brought postcards of St. Paul’s Cathedral, the Cabinet War Rooms, and the Imperial War Museum on his next visit. As usual, he was full of interesting facts about the sites, particularly St. Paul’s, mentioning the memorial to American servicemen who were killed in World War II as well as the tombs of famous Britons, like the poet John Donne; the architect of the cathedral, Sir Christopher Wren; and Admiral Nelson. Nelson, who was killed at the Battle of Trafalgar, was preserved in brandy for the voyage home. “Shocking waste of brandy,” Colin remarked.

  His hair was a little ruffled, and Jenny found that she didn’t care about the postcards, even the dramatic image of the dome of St. Paul’s rising high above a besieged London. She put her hand on his arm. “Colin, please—I know you’ve taken time to prepare this, but could you tell me about what’s happening now? Instead of talking about the past?”

  “Current events are in the newspapers, Jenny.”

  “No, I want to know about outside. I don’t get to feel the sun or the breeze. Was it dark when you went to work? Was it cold? Did you work indoors all day? Can you—”

  “Sshh,” he said. “I understand. It was humid, but it didn’t rain. Today was the chilliest it’s been all week—didn’t get above eight or nine, I believe.”

  “Eight or nine what?”

  “Degrees Celsius. That would be—between forty-five and fifty degrees Fahrenheit.”

  “Was it windy?”

  “Yes, a bit. I spent most of the day in meetings or with paperwork.” He smiled. “I sent Andrews out when necessary.”

  “Do you have a car?”

  “Yes, but the traffic in the city is horrific. I take the tube to the Yard. Most are quiet on the train, but London is an international city. On the streets you can hear persons conversing in all sorts of languages. I have a bit of a walk from here to the closest station. It’s shorter on the other end.” He left the postcards with her and departed.

  Alive and bustling. Not like her day. She hadn’t done anything except read and drink tea. She retired late but couldn’t settle. She slipped out of bed and knelt by her window, pulling the curtain back slightly. She couldn’t see much, just the side of the brick building next door. Only a narrow driveway and a few small trees separated the two structures. The trees hadn’t lost their leaves yet. Her room must be near the back of the building, because she could see only a sliver of the street. There were several parked cars in view and a street light that suffused them with an amber glow. Nothing was happening out there either.

  “Doing a bit of recce, are we?”

  She jumped. It was Sergeant Casey.

  “Shouldn’t you leave that to us?”

  She waited for his outburst, but he surprised her.

  “Let’s have some ice cream.” He held out a hand to help her up.

  They went into the kitchen, and he dished up a generous amount for each of them.

  “Sergeant, what’s it like out there? Colin said it didn’t rain. In Texas, you could smell the rain before it fell and sometimes even see it coming. I’d give anything just to take a walk after it’s rained, when the world has been washed fresh and clean.”

  “You like the outdoors, do you?”

  “I like the smell of pine trees. I like the way cold weather gives everyone pink cheeks. I like the way people laugh when they come out of a cold wind into a warm room.”

  Casey paused between bites. “When I ran this morning, it was still dark. Foggy. Most mornings there’s mist. We don’t usually have hard rains here; it’s more likely to drizzle.”

  “You don’t mind running when it’s damp?”

  “The air is crisp early in the morning. Before too long there will be frost on the ground. It turns the leaves underfoot silver.”

  “And then you trample all over them,” she teased. “How poetic.” She rinsed their bowls and utensils and put them in the dishwasher. “It’s back to bed for me.”

  “Keep your bloody curtains closed, Jenny.”

  She shivered. It was The Voice, and he’d waited until her guard was down to use it.

  CHAPTER 36

  Days in the protection flat passed slowly for Jenny. Sergeant Casey resumed her exercises, but they occupied only a small portion of her time. There were so few TV channels compared to the U.S., where everyone she knew subscribed to cable, so sometimes she was stuck watching rugby with Brian. It seemed like a free-for-all sport to her. The men wore no pads, and some played with obvious injuries, which upset her. Brian assured her that there were rules and tried to explain them, but it was a morass of obscene-sounding terms: props, scrum, hooker, and ruck. She preferred practicing the Italian phrases Sergeant Casey had been trying to teach her.

  Colin called by regularly, short visits that only interrupted her tedium, but she enjoyed seeing him. He was an educated man, and she discovered that they shared many of the same interests: theater, movies, music, and books. It was mid-November, and she saw the weather reflected in his attire. He wore his overcoat now, with scarf and gloves. There were no changes of climate in the flat, however, only the storms of fear and d
espair inside her that continued to rage and abate, rage and abate. Colin had suspended her sessions with Dr. Knowles once he was certain her crisis had passed. She understood the premium Colin was placing on her safety, but none of the issues she had addressed with the psychiatrist had been completely resolved.

  Packages continued to arrive from Texas, bringing warmer clothes for her and other reading material, but they were only fleeting distractions in the long days. She had no place to wear the clothes other than the flat, and it wasn’t fun reading when that was all you had to do. She made the grocery list and now helped with the dishes and the laundry, but these chores were not very time consuming.

  Mealtimes were likewise less than exciting. The food was good, but things that had seemed quaint to her at first, like their way of eating, were now getting on her nerves. It was ridiculous for grown men to mash their food on their forks like that! She was sick of potatoes, too, some form of which was served at every meal. She thought about adding Ways To Serve Potatoes to her journal, but that list would fill an entire book by itself. And if she heard one more man belch, she thought she’d scream. Of course, she was probably getting on their nerves, too.

  At night the tornadoes still came. The inner gales were powerful enough to wake her, capricious in their regularity but destructive in their severity. They were short lived, like most cyclones, but left her shaking. Invariably she’d turn on her lamp and then move around her room a little. To balance the discord inside, she kept her room neat, always making sure each item was in its appropriate place before she turned out the light. There was a serenity in sameness, a reassurance in predictability—the framed photographs of her family next to Colin’s CD player on the chest of drawers arranged just so and her uniformed teddy bear guarding the stack of books on her nightstand.

  Tonight, however, her search for peace eluded her. She sat down on the floor next to her window and peeked out. All was quiet in the world outside, a world she missed being a part of. There must have been rain earlier in the day, because every detail of the landscape was evident, like a painting made with a fine brush. But no one would have painted this scene: It was boring. She heard Brian’s footsteps too late. She let the curtain fall back into place, but it was still swinging slightly when he looked in, and his eyes went to it immediately. “Brian, I’m so bored.”