Thorn in the Flesh Page 15

  ‘When nothing much has happened and I’ve been waiting, but I don’t know for what.’

  Nicky sighed. ‘And you didn’t think to ring me?’

  ‘Well, no, I’m sorry. I didn’t.’

  For a tense second, Nicky stared at her. Then she sprang up from the sofa and started to pace across the room and back. All the while, she was speaking, not even looking at Kate.

  ‘Didn’t you think that I might have been worried about you? Didn’t it even cross your mind?’ she said, her voice rising to a shout. ‘Especially after all that’s happened? For God’s sake, Kate, we’ve been friends for so long, but sometimes it still feels as if you never let me in to your life. And I know we’ve talked about this before, but nothing’s changed, has it? In the face of what’s happened to you, I’m trying to be as caring and supportive as I can – and I want to, I swear it. You know how much you mean to me, but it’s so difficult when you don’t talk to me, when you don’t tell me anything. Why, Kate? Why has it always been like that between us? I just don’t understand.’

  Kate swallowed. There was so much she could say, but if she told the truth it would change everything. If she once said to the woman standing in front of her how much she loved her, how much it had always been like that, even the times when she hadn’t fully acknowledged it, then everything would be different. Nicky had David; she, Kate, had no-one. But still something in her blood had held onto the small hope. Even after hope should have long disappeared. She’d reasoned that holding something of herself back kept this friendship – which meant more to her than anything – strong. But had she been a fool to believe it?

  For now though, she had to find an acceptable lie to tell.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘As I said before, I find it difficult when it comes to talking about private matters. It’s always been the case. You know that.’

  ‘Yes,’ Nicky exclaimed, ‘but that doesn’t mean it makes it any easier. Do you know that?’

  After speaking, Nicky sat down again, still not looking at her, but Kate could tell how close she was to tears.

  ‘All right,’ she said, feeling that somewhere a lock was being released within her, but whether for good or bad she could no longer tell. ‘All right. What do you want to know?’

  She tried to steel herself for whatever question Nicky might ask, even tried to steel herself to answer it. But when, finally, her friend looked straight at her, the words she spoke weren’t what Kate was expecting at all.

  ‘Okay. Let’s start with something easy then,’ Nicky said. ‘Tell me, how did your meeting with the adoptive parents go?’

  Kate told her. She related the facts in order and left to one side the feelings those facts had engendered. When she was finished, the two women were quiet for some minutes. Nicky sipped her water and seemed to stare at nothing, while Kate relaxed back in her chair and tried to regulate her breathing. It felt as if it was up to Nicky to break the silence. She herself could only concentrate on the tension around her friend’s mouth. She understood there was more to come.

  ‘I think,’ Nicky finally said, ‘that if you want to tell me – and I think if you tell anyone it should be me – if you want to tell me about what happened on the night you were attacked, then maybe you should tell me now.’

  The air swung once before being still. Kate watched Nicky put her empty glass on the table.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I see it’s important that I do.’

  ‘Okay. Then, please, tell me.’

  Kate hesitated, the moment stretching like an unsteady bridge between the two of them. She found herself unexpectedly glad that she was being asked to tell this particular story not in an atmosphere of sympathy, but one of challenge. It might make the telling of it bearable in some fashion. So, breaking her friend’s gaze, she began.

  ‘I didn’t imagine anyone could be here,’ she said. ‘It had been an ordinary day. Preparing notes, a staff meeting, a tutorial. Nothing special. When I came home, I remember I was thinking of how my evening would be spent. I had papers to mark and there was an art programme on the television that I thought I might want to watch. I decided to leave the papers till the weekend and open a bottle of wine. When I walked in, I knew something was wrong but I couldn’t tell what it was. I thought someone was here and for a moment I thought it was you, before I realised of course it couldn’t be. You were away. I wish I’d believed myself and walked out then. Of all the things I wish now, that’s one of the most important. Do you understand?’

  Stopping the narrative, Kate glanced across again at Nicky and saw the echo of her silent nod.

  ‘It doesn’t matter now of course,’ she went on. ‘I didn’t walk away. I called out to see if anyone was there and I walked into the kitchen. I saw the broken window before I saw him. He was sitting at the table. He was wearing a mask, which he kept on all the time. I could only see his eyes. I remember the way he was handling the kitchen knives from the worktop. The silver of them glinted in the light and played across his fingers. They were elegant, almost a piano player’s hands, such a contrast to how he used them, later. On me.

  ‘When the door clicked shut behind me, he looked up and said, “Hello, Kate. I’ve been waiting for you” or something similar, I can’t remember exactly now. By the time I’d reached back for the door handle, tried to get away, he was already next to me, holding the knife he’d taken at my throat. I remember thinking I didn’t know what to do. I tried to talk to him. They say you ought to do this, don’t they? I tried, but it didn’t work. It didn’t make him see me as a person. I might have been using the wrong words, I don’t know. All the sentences fled from me and besides I couldn’t make them come out in the proper order. It might have been gibberish but, even if it wasn’t, he didn’t give me the time to try. He just slapped me twice over the mouth with the back of his hand and told me to shut up, bitch and stop gabbing. The blow made my head slam against the kitchen cupboard and for a few moments my eyes couldn’t focus and I wanted to be sick. When I retched, nothing came up and he hit me again, hustling me out of the kitchen and up the stairs. He took the knife with him and when, halfway up, I tried to push him away, push him down, he grabbed my arm and held the knife to my face. “Try that again and you die,” he said. I didn’t try it again. Once in the bedroom, he made me undress myself. I think that was the worst thing of it all, though that might surprise you. It surprised me. He held a knife at my stomach and watched as I unbuttoned my blouse. As my fingers got closer to the knife, I found I couldn’t undo any more buttons and he started swearing, pushing me back against the window. I kept hoping that someone would see, come and help me, but nobody did. He flicked off the last three buttons with his knife. I still have a scar on my stomach from where he drew blood. Not much of it, but enough because he laughed when he saw it, ran his fingers across the blood and licked them clean. I thought then he must be high on drugs or something. Then he made me take off my bra and stockings, skirt and knickers. I don’t remember as much about that because I was crying and he had started to shout, call me names. Bitch, whore, those kinds of words. I tried to cut them out of my head and remain calm, but it was difficult. It still is difficult.’

  Nicky made a sudden movement, as if she might reach out to hug her or deny the truth of what she’d said, but Kate shook her head, ‘No, please. I’m telling you the reality of what happened. I can’t pretend otherwise.’

  After a second or so, Nicky gave another faint nod and Kate carried on, ‘When I was naked and my clothes were lying on the floor, I made to pick them up, I don’t know why. Perhaps I thought he might let me get dressed again and it had all been a joke. A sick joke, but a joke nonetheless. Or perhaps I was just trying to draw out the time. Whatever it was, it didn’t work. Looking back it’s strange that up until the moment it happened, the moment he raped me the first time, I didn’t believe he’d do it. I thought he’d change his mind and not go through with it or that someone, anyone, would arrive to help. I don’t know who that someone m
ight have been. I don’t have many friends. And if you’d been here, what could you have done? I was glad you weren’t here. I wouldn’t want you to be hurt, Nicky. Ever.

  ‘Anyway, when I reached out to pick up my clothes, he shouted and hit me so hard it knocked me down. I was scrabbling around on the carpet and suddenly he was on top of me. The weight of him held me in place, turning me over onto my back. He was humming. All the time he was humming, something tuneless. I couldn’t get the sound of it out of my memory for a long time. Sometimes I still hear it. Then he used his knee to open my legs. He was still holding the knife so I didn’t dare hit him. I didn’t know what he might do. I thought he might kill me. He smelt of stale sweat and something sweet. I didn’t know what it was. There was the sound of him unzipping himself and the next moment a searing pain in my vagina. It was so painful I thought he might have used the knife but then I glanced upwards and could see it still in his hand. His eyes were closed and his face was slick with sweat. He was cursing me. Every time he moved, it was like a deeper cut of the knife sinking into my skin. It didn’t feel like sex. It felt as if I was being stabbed to death. It lasted forever, it was over in seconds, I don’t know. When he pulled himself out of me, it was as if he was taking my insides with him. I’ve never experienced pain like it, before or since. Of all the things they tell you about rape, of all the things you dread, I’d never thought of the actual physical pain. I’d expected fear, emotional pain, but never that. It was a rainbow of scarring, fresh and deep, driving everything else in my head away. I felt as if I were being pulled inside out and I might never find the heart of me again.’

  Another sudden movement made Kate stop her story and look up. ‘Are you all right with this, Nicky? If you want, I can stop.’

  ‘No, I’m all right. But I don’t think it’s a question of me, Kate. It’s a question of you. Are you okay with it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she drew herself up in the chair and blinked twice. ‘I think so. That was the first time. For a while after that, he played with me, cutting my stomach and the tops of my arms a few times with the knife. For a long time, the tears wouldn’t stop. I was shaking so much that it made the knife game far worse, but even though my head was telling me to be calm, be still, my body wouldn’t obey. While I was lying down, trying to catch my breath, trying to blot out the truth of what was happening, he slapped me, dragged me to my feet and pushed me against the wall. He started slamming my head against the plasterwork and kept on doing it. I think I blacked out. I must have done as I don’t remember much for a while except how sick and dizzy I felt and how my eyes wouldn’t focus on anything. I thought he was going to kill me.’

  Kate paused then and the lack of words in her mouth tasted like a sparkle of river a long way away. There was no movement from her friend.

  ‘Then,’ she said, ‘when I was fully conscious again, I found myself lying on the bed. I don’t know what time it was. I couldn’t see the clock. And I don’t know how long I lay there, not knowing what was happening. When I looked round, he was sitting on the floor watching me. It was then that he raped me for the second time, the last time. I thought I was going to die so nothing I did or thought would ever matter again and there were no barriers left. Even the pain, the dull thud in my body seemed distant as if I’d moved beyond it to somewhere else. I could feel the beat of his heart against my breasts and the sweat from his face slicking my skin. Then he was gone. Before he left, he slapped me across the face and chest. He was shouting and calling me whore and witch and … and other names, but he didn’t kill me. I fainted, I must have lost consciousness, but he didn’t kill me. When I woke up later that morning, I was still alive. And I knew somehow I could be stronger than he.’

  When her story had ended, Kate thought her words drifted away from her body as if they were specks of dust vanishing in the sun. She wondered if she’d be able to tell it to anyone else in that way again. And the telling of it had somehow coincided with a shift in her flesh and the way her blood pulsed through her skin. She closed her eyes.

  ‘Th-there’s more too, Nicky,’ she stammered. ‘More. But I can’t tell you that. Not now. I’m sorry, I …’

  And then she couldn’t say anything else. In the silence, she heard the creak of the chair opposite, as if Nicky were getting up and standing in front of her, undecided. Then, after a beat of her heart, she heard her friend’s footfalls as she padded across the carpet. A change in the air and the gentle flow of Anais Anais over her senses and Kate could almost feel the warmth of her by her side although they weren’t touching. Another heartbeat later and the light sensation of Nicky’s lips brushing her cheek. She smiled. Opening her eyes, she reached out and touched Nicky’s face.

  Nicky took her fingers, kissed them and then held them in her hand. For a long time.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Nicky said. ‘It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything else. Not if you don’t want to.’

  ***

  In the morning, when Kate woke, she couldn’t place herself in her surroundings, couldn’t understand why everything felt different. Then memory flooded in. Above her, the faint shimmer of the white ceiling and, beneath, the comfort of the bed. She wondered where Nicky was, if she’d stayed the night in the spare room or gone home instead.

  A knock on the door made her sit up and reach for her dressing gown, the light blue silk of it soft against her skin.

  Nicky was standing on the threshold, fully dressed. Her face was pale but calm. While Kate gazed, she swallowed but didn’t look away.

  ‘I wanted to say I’m glad you told me,’ she said. ‘About what happened that night. You know I love you very much. I’ll always be your friend.’

  Kate nodded. ‘I know. I love you too. I always have.’

  And then there seemed nothing else to say.

  With a movement as natural as the flow of water, Nicky took Kate into her arms, and Kate felt the warmth of her friend’s breath against her cheek.

  Downstairs, the two women made breakfast and ate in silence. It’s going to be all right, Kate thought, I’ve told the person closest to me nearly all of what happened and what I believe, and I’m still here. But what will happen if I tell it all?

  Ten minutes later, Nicky was on her way home with her departing words echoing through Kate’s mind:

  ‘Anything you want to do now, to find your son, I promise I will help you.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  In the end, getting the information she wanted was easier than she’d hoped. Much like finding Mr and Mrs Williams. She hired an investigator from Guildford, a small man, single-trader, with shrewd eyes and a slight stammer, but whom somehow she trusted. She told him everything she knew and waited. It took a week and a half. His expenses were rather more than she’d anticipated but it wasn’t the money that upset her. It was the stark facts showing the life of her son. While the file itself was detailed, the précis at the front said it all:

  Name: Stephen Williams

  DOB: 1.6.1986

  Age: 19

  Birthplace: Durham Hospital

  Height: 5 feet 9 inches. Slim build

  Colour of hair: Dark blond

  Colour of eyes: Blue

  Physical peculiarities: Old acne scarring on cheek

  Adoptive parents: Jenny and Charles Williams, in York

  Education: Comprehensive School. Left school at 16. No qualifications

  Marital Status: Assumed single

  Children: None known

  Career: Unknown

  Last known whereabouts: London

  Current whereabouts: Unknown.

  The précis itself told her little more than she’d gleaned from Mrs Williams, and for a moment or two she wondered how her own short history would read. And how near to the truth it might or might not be. Especially now. She shook her head. The full report on Stephen was more revealing, the final conclusion particularly so. She had read through pages detailing her son’s criminal record, which had been hinted at but not fleshed out by his adop
tive parents. It told her he’d hated school from the start and had in fact been bullied there, although later he’d meted out punishment to younger boys and had quickly grown, according to the school report, almost impossible to control. He’d started playing truant with an older gang and had from there begun his drug-taking – cocaine mainly – and petty crime. He had a short police record, smudged in the photocopying and with most of the last paragraph almost indecipherable. She could just make out the words, “potentially dangerous”, though. Perhaps she didn’t want to know any more. What must it have been like for Mr and Mrs Williams? Was this somehow her fault for giving away her child? Or would it have always been this way? After that, he’d disappeared, as his adoptive parents had told her. More recently, there’d been one or two possible sightings, a note of irregular attendance at a hostel for the homeless in London, the latter being last year, and since then nothing. Silence. It was even possible he might be dead. A part of her hoped so.

  Unable to bring any logic or way forward to the flutter of thoughts in her mind, she read the report’s conclusion again:

  Stephen Williams is a young man who has slipped through the system, in spite of the advantages of his upbringing, and is a known cocaine user and petty criminal. He also has a tendency to occasional bouts of violence, probably linked to drugs. He left school and home as soon as he could and began to live in London. Some of the time he lived rough. His current whereabouts are unknown, though he may well reappear in the future, as he has in the past. It cannot however be ruled out – bearing in mind that his current absence has lasted for longer than usual – that he may now be dead.