The Witness

by Naomi Kryskle

  He cupped her face in his hands. “Are you sure?”

  She took a deep breath, the way people do before plunging off a high dive. “Yes. Oh, yes.”

  He moved on top of her and felt her body tense. Should he pull away? No, her arms were around him, holding him close. He eased into her as gently as he could, whispering her name, once, twice. He heard her fractured breaths abate and felt her lift her knees, and a fierce desire to give her every good thing and to protect her from every bad thing surged inside him, and he didn’t give a jot how unrealistic it was.

  She had hoped solely for the absence of pain. She heard his voice and relaxed, totally unprepared for the shock of pleasure she felt. What Colin was doing wasn’t violent; he was caressing her. Her physical sensations intensified. She began to move with him, as if they were one body. They were one body. Like the sugar she dissolved in her tea, she didn’t know where her skin ended and his began.

  Wanting to prolong their closeness, Colin slowed his pace. In the glow from the nightlight she could see his tender smile. He stroked her face and kissed her again. When he increased his tempo, she did as well. He called her name, not in a whisper but in an involuntary outburst, raw enough to tell her how great his need for her had been. And then her tears started—tears unlike any she had shed before: tears of relief, renaissance, revelation. He kissed her wet cheeks and told her he loved her. For the first time since the attack, she forgot about her scars and felt beautiful.

  - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

  In the half light of dawn, the nightlight flickered, casting shadows across her naked body. She stretched, realizing that the cool shivers on her skin came from the tips of Colin’s fingers. They floated over her, barely touching her, smooth gentle strokes up her thighs and across her bottom. The sensations remained for a few seconds even after his fingers had moved on. He kissed her ears and her neck. She rolled onto her back. Some parts of her body were waking up faster than others, but his body was fully awake. Her eyes still closed, she put her arms around his neck and welcomed him in.

  - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

  When she awoke next, he had showered and gone. Even naked, she felt warm in his bed, and she made no move to get up. She thought about how alive he had made her feel. For a long time she’d only known she was alive because she’d had pain. Then the physical pain had receded, and emotional pain had been the indicator. Finally she had traded fear and trembling for passion. Now she was filled with a sense of well-being. Milan Kundera had described the lightness of being as unbearable, but the lightness she felt now wasn’t unbearable at all. It was a weightlessness that spread throughout her, the result of deep burdens removed. Nothing of gravity held her down, and the wings of happiness were beneath her. Why didn’t her body lift off the mattress?

  CHAPTER 37

  Dr. Knowles’ first questions to Colin and Jenny centred on the handbill episodes and their response to them.

  “My freedom of movement is still significantly curtailed,” she answered. “I didn’t go back to the bookstore until yesterday, and I was uneasy even then. It’s probably paranoid of me, but I feel like people are looking at me everywhere I go.”

  “Was your time in Kent productive?”

  She smiled. She should start a new list: Dr. Knowles’ Cute Adjectives. “The most productive thing that happened in Kent was my convincing Colin to let me come home.”

  “And after your return?”

  She blushed deeply and looked at her lap. “My body is Colin’s now,” she whispered. “I gave it to him.”

  “Good for you,” Knowles said softly. “Would you tell me a bit about it? Without disclosing any details you’d like to keep private, of course.”

  “I missed him so much when we were apart. When I came home, I was nervous, but I wasn’t afraid. There’s a difference, but I don’t know how to explain it. I cried almost the whole time, but I wasn’t afraid.”

  “Why did you cry, my dear?”

  “First, because it didn’t hurt, and I was so relieved. Then because it felt good, which I never expected. I cried because being so close to him was overwhelming.” Her voice broke, and she laughed at herself because she was crying. “I cried because I was happy, and later I cried because it was over.”

  Neither man could restrain a smile.

  “Did we break the rules?”

  “No,” Knowles said. “It had to be your choice, not mine. If I had given you permission, it would have meant that I was in charge. That was never my intent. Any problem areas?”

  Initial tension every time, Colin thought, but it always eased, so he didn’t feel bound to report it. There was something, however, that she needed to disclose. He took her hand. “We need to tell him about Tuesday, my love.” She’d been tense when he left for work. Reluctant to see him go, but all right. “One year ago Tuesday Jenny was attacked,” he said. “I left a bit late for the Yard. About midday Casey rang to tell me she wasn’t answering her mobile. I couldn’t get through either. I went home.”

  “I couldn’t get up,” she explained. “I had cramps in my legs and pains in my chest and stomach. Sharp pains.”

  All the lights had been on in the flat when he arrived. Midday, and all the lights were on. He’d found her in bed, lying on her side with her knees pulled up. “I wanted to ring for an ambulance. She wouldn’t have it.”

  “No more hospitals,” she said. “No more strangers’ hands.”

  “I decided to run her a bath. If it didn’t help, an ambulance was still an option.” She’d cried when he lowered her into the water, but she’d been able to stretch out her limbs. She’d accepted the glass of wine he brought. And the refill.

  “The hot water eased the pain.” She hadn’t had anything to eat, and the wine had made her tipsy. He’d been sitting on the edge of the tub, and she’d splashed him, first by accident and then on purpose. He’d splashed her back, but her laughter at his sopping shirt had turned to hysterical tears. He’d put his arms around her slippery body and held her. Then he had kissed her. She had responded with a rush of emotion, stripping his clothes away, and he had taken her out of the bath and made love to her, but she had never closed her eyes.

  Knowles leant forward, knowing from their pauses that far more had happened than they were telling him.

  “Colin put me to bed.”

  She had cried hard, and her words had broken his heart. “Colin, I wish you’d been my first,” she’d said. “In all the ways that matter, I believe I was,” he’d replied. He hadn’t gone back to the Yard; he hadn’t been able to leave her.

  “Jenny, tell me what you were feeling,” Knowles said.

  “I wasn’t conscious of feeling anything. Just how badly my body hurt. It was like being blind. So much has happened this last year—the attack was an eternity ago. But on Tuesday, it was a heartbeat ago.”

  “You remembered your rape. Were you surprised?”

  “Shocked is more like it. Why was it so bad? I’ve been in Colin’s arms, unafraid. Don’t you see? I’ve won.”

  “Your trauma is still alive, my dear. Dormant until something triggers it.”

  “Why don’t I have closure? The monster’s in prison!”

  “Because there’s not an end to the feeling process. Feelings ebb and flow—they change, but they don’t stop. Closure is a deceptive concept. How did you feel when you woke?”

  “Hung over,” she smiled ruefully. “Dazed. But I don’t think it was from the alcohol.”

  “And on Wednesday?”

  “About the same. I was happy to be home. I stayed in bed most of the day. Thursday I was better. I went back to Hollister’s.”

  Knowles leant back in his chair. “Jenny, your fear of intercourse was the problem that led you to seek my help. It’s evident that together you have resolved that issue, and a new level of intimacy—emotional as well as physical—has been the result. However, I would like to caution you.”

  “There
’s more?” she asked.

  Knowles smiled. “Your psychological recovery,” he said to her, “didn’t begin in earnest until you decided to trust someone and accept help. Fear was the inhibitor. It kept you from trusting the protection team for a time, and it kept you from experiencing Colin’s love. Fear is a normal reaction to certain events—public speaking, dying, and visiting the dentist are the first three that come to mind—but these fears aren’t usually crippling. Fear that results from traumatic events can be diminished, however. Believe it or not, one of these days you will be able to relive the attack without the emotional response. And that brings me to your next assignment.”

  More sexual homework? Colin wondered. One of Theo’s initial therapeutic goals had been for Jenny to experience sexual frustration, and Colin had taken that to mean that he should hold back during the exercises, not attempt to guide her toward her own release. On the weekend he’d finally felt free to show her what all the fuss was about. He hadn’t been successful at first. Losing control completely was still frightening to her, and he’d had to encourage her repeatedly with soft words and tender touches. When she had finally let herself go, it had been one of the happiest moments of his life, knowing he had her trust, seeing her joy. Theo’s voice brought him back to attention.

  “Jenny, before our next session, I’d like you to make two lists for me: one of everything you’ve been afraid of since reaching adulthood—fear, past tense—and two, everything you’re still afraid of—fear, present tense. And Colin, I’m giving you a similar assignment, because fear has had an impact on your life as well. List whatever fears you have. Just present tense. Fear is still the issue that will affect your future together the most. I’ll see you in two weeks.”

  CHAPTER 38

  The man’s eyes followed Jenny. He was good with faces, always had been, and he’d seen her somewhere before. Something wasn’t quite the way he recalled it, but it would come to him in time. It always did. He was an unlikely-looking sort himself. No one paid him any mind, and that gave him the freedom to concentrate on other people’s faces.

  He waited outside the bakery when she went in. She had no tourist maps or carrier-bags. Her bakery purchase she held in her hand, taking the odd bite as she headed quickly up the High Street.

  He walked a ways past her so as not to alarm her, saw the scar, stopped, watched her cross the street, and remembered. The pics that had been posted some weeks back: She’d been the subject. Her hair had been dark in the snap, all dark, not bleached or dyed or whatever they call it like it was now. No matter. It was the same face, and there was money to be made off that face.

  She paused, scanning the street behind her, but she didn’t notice him. He was outside her field of view.

  Had he kept the flyer? Probably. He never threw anything away. except his wife, and he hadn’t had to throw her far, haha.

  She passed the fancy hotel near Royal Free. There wasn’t another that he knew of between here and Finchley. She must live here. He ambled along behind.

  She headed through the residential streets, and she knew where she was going. Her pace never slowed. She turned right, but when he reached the corner, there was no sign of her. No problem. everything that was anything happened on the High Street. She’d be back, and so would he.

  CHAPTER 39

  Casey stopped down the pub on his way home from Hampstead. Why did pubs have so much wooden décor? he wondered. Tradition, or a way to hide the stains from the nicotine-soaked air? He sipped his pint and peered through the stale smoke. The dark interior didn’t reveal many daytime drinkers, and none of them looked happy, but Jenny had been, today. She’d been relaxed, holding his arm while they walked and regaling him with amusing anecdotes from her work at the bookstore. The dark glasses she wore and the scarf on her hair—attempts to alter her appearance for security reasons—hadn’t dimmed her smile.

  He hadn’t seen her since the drive to Kent. Colin’s mother was nice, but as Jenny put it, she “had a life.” Sinclair had sent a “dour man” to follow her round but she had been lonely with everyone she knew and loved so far away. When she returned to London, she’d had to endure the anniversary of Scott’s attack. Nice to have all that behind her, to see her so lighthearted.

  Then it hit him like a fist in the gut: Sinclair’s having it off with her. He took a long drink. He should be glad. She’s happy, so she must be okay with it, and if anyone deserves to be happy, she does. But there was a lingering ache in his groin. He ordered another pint.

  Sinclair had bided his time, brought her back from Texas, and then—got the shove-off. What bloke in his right mind got interested in a girl like that? Someone who was scared every time you wanted to get your leg over? They’d been seeing Knowles, and he wondered what those sessions were like. Did they have to describe everything to him?

  He remembered how bruised and battered Jenny had been when he first saw her, how frightened every time he’d had to touch her. Most frustrating patient he’d ever had—impulsive, defiant, always talking back, testing the limits. He’d never met anyone who cried so much. But she had a sense of humour, just quips at first, though later she’d felt safe enough to tease them all. There hadn’t been much laughter when he was growing up. His mum had tried, but she was dead worried all the time about earning her crust. SBS humour had been dark, cynical, obscene. It had suited him. His glass was empty. He signalled the barman.

  As a medic, his mandate had been, fix it fast. Even minor injuries in the field became serious if not treated quickly. Major injuries could mean death. SFO teamwork was the same. When you finally got the order to go, speed was critical. Lives could be at stake. They practised rapid entry, for Chrissakes! He laughed to himself. Sinclair hadn’t got that.

  He hadn’t been able to fix Jenny fast. He’d wanted to: He’d been impatient with her, with the mission, and with himself. He’d pushed her, to face things, to get on with it, but waiting was an inherent part of every op. Perhaps Sinclair had realised that. If so, she was better off with Sinclair.

  Her pain had disturbed him. It had brought to mind his careerending injury, when he had been angry at the entire friggin’ world. The pain hadn’t surprised him; he’d been hurt before. Pain masters you for a bit, then you push past it, like everything else. The selection process had been demanding, the training was demanding, and the missions were demanding. He had worked with men who required as much if not more from themselves as they did from you. You pushed past all of it, and it meant something. He’d gone from that to a hospital bed, to Rita telling him he was lucky to be alive. She hadn’t understood that life without a mission was not a life. He had gone from something to nothing. So had Jenny. He beckoned the barman.

  For him, physical attraction to a particular woman was what motivated him to get to know her. He had had a professional relationship with Jenny, and he had never expected to be attracted to her. Respect had come first. He’d known that you can’t walk away from a mission, but until she sent her father home without her, he didn’t think that she understood the concept. Then there’d been that black trouser suit at New Year’s—and the time she’d been so ill and he’d cut off her nightdress. When you’ve seen a woman starkers, you don’t forget, not if she has a shape like Jenny’s. But he usually favoured women with longer legs. And now Jenny was opening hers for Sinclair. Damn! That pint had gone down quickly. He was still thirsty. Easy to remedy that. He raised his hand, and the barman replaced his empty glass with a full one.

  Professional relationship. Right. At what point had it become personal? When she and Sullivan were shot? No, before that. When she’d finally trusted him, she’d talked to him about a lot of things. Why hadn’t he talked to her? God knows he’d had chances. He should have told her how he felt. But he hadn’t; he’d waited to see how she felt about Sinclair. And then it was too late. Better that way—Sinclair had more to offer her, position, land, real money, more than a regular copper could ever make. He needed another pint. It was supplied.

&
nbsp; He had only himself to blame. He knew she felt close to him, and he’d never responded to any of her overtures. That walk they’d taken during the last night at the flat—he should have kissed her, given her something to think about while she was in Texas. Instead he’d held back. Completed the mission. Let her go. And after she returned, advised her to get professional help to resolve her problems with Sinclair. What a bloody fool he was!

  He had sent Rita away. He should have fought to keep her. He had contained himself with Jenny. He should have fought to win her. When the barman looked his way, he nodded.

  Knowles’ sessions must have helped. It had not been easy for her to go, but she loved Sinclair, and she had done it more for him than for herself. What had it been like for her, when her trust was finally great enough to let him inside? And what had it been like for him, to have that lovely little body wrapped around him and hold that tender heart in his hands?

  What about his heart? He worked hard, he played hard, but he had one, in spite of what others might think. Thoughts of Jenny retreated only temporarily. When he saw her, the tissues in his heart ruptured all over again. There were no sutures strong enough. “Another,” he called.

  He thought again about Sinclair. How had he managed it? Had it been difficult for him, making it good for her? Well, somehow he had done. She had been glowing. And he’d earned it—he’d gone through weeks of therapy with her. Sit in a shrink’s office? He wouldn’t have wanted any part of that himself, not even for Jenny. Well—maybe for Jenny.

  CHAPTER 40

  Jenny sighed. She could imagine the headline in tomorrow’s newspaper: “Warning: Paper Shortage in Britain Expected; Inveterate List-maker on the Loose.”

  “Our session will be over before you get to the bottom of my list, Dr. Knowles.” She handed him a sheet with one very long column, the things that had caused her to be afraid: