Without Consent (14 page)

The cap lay slightly to the left of their front door, glistening slightly and looking like an accusing eye. Both
heads: hers dark, his fair, ducked down again. Rose turned to slump against the radiator, clutched him and howled. ‘Shh,' he said. ‘Shh.' Great gulps of laughter consumed them. ‘You go and fetch it…'

‘No, I can't, I can't…'

Entwined again, comfortable on the floor with the old blue carpet and the dead plants and the curtains fluttering in the breeze. It was a quiet street, rarely deserted; there would be eyes in the opposite windows. The kiss was resumed where they had left off in the kitchen, turned into something soft and sweet and urgent; the only sound was the rustling of clothes until there were no clothes, and Rose saying, I love you, I love you, I love you … Him, saying the same.

The evening sun was lower in the sky by the time Michael next looked out of the window. He stood, this time, with the coverlet from the bed round his waist, looking down into the street once, then again. He nudged her.

‘Hey, Rose … it's gone … it has, someone's nicked it.'

The doorbell chimed. Rose scrambled to her knees.

‘Do you think it's someone wanting to give it back?' he hissed.

‘No,' she said, scrabbling for her clothes and looking at her watch. ‘It's your mum and dad.'

‘Down the drainpipe at the back?' he suggested lightly. Rose, dressed on top at least, had stuck the modest portion of herself out of the window and shouted down to the two greying heads below.

‘Coming!' she yelled.

‘Oh no,' he gasped. ‘Oh no, I can't stand it.' And Rose had the grace to blush.

‘Sexual intercourse is a continuing act, which ends upon withdrawal. If, therefore, a man becomes aware that the woman is not consenting after intercourse has commenced and he does not desist, he will be guilty of rape from the moment that he realises that she is not consenting …'

‘
I
did not consent to becoming what I am,' he wrote on his pad. ‘I am tormented and thus entitled to torment…'

Wait a minute. He did not torment. He redeemed, gave pleasure, liberated; that was what he did. But there was this infection, coming through from the outside world, pushing him into this demeaning state of having to consider and reconsider the consequences all over again, becoming obsessive about the text, then reassuring himself. All he ever had to do, according to these texts, was to avoid penetration with any portion of his own body. (The tongue did not count; it was, in any event, almost entirely immune to infection; nor did a finger or an implement such as a syringe with a purely medical purpose. Such a penetration was not a rape.)

He sighed with relief. Books seemed so much more reliable than a computer screen in the sunlight of the day. Books
were such solid items of furniture, demanding more effort to turn pages heavy with knowledge. Effort always equalled reward.

Next he read an article on baldness, advocating that the female of the species should note the bald man's legendary virility and, therefore, pursue him with the same lack of scruple she would use in the hunt after any other male. He shook his head, irritated again to find himself considering consequences. There was not a single hair left to fall from his body for collection by a forensic scientist, and that was not his fault either, nothing he had ever intended, simply another joke.

He rarely perspired; he was comfortable in clothing which was mostly synthetic, closely woven and highly unlikely to shed fibres fit for microscopic examination. So, as long as he kept his bodily fluids inside his body, he was safely beyond detection, unless, of course, someone not only protested, but complained. But women, in particular, were far too ashamed of pleasure to do that.

Love me, for what I am. For what I give you.

Stop that! Turn the pages.

‘…
Dilation of the cervix at virtually any stage of gestation will generally bring on uterine contractions which in turn, lead to expulsion of the contents of the uterus.
In vitro
decapitation, or foetal pulverization, were preferable to Caesarean section … Use a syringe with soapy water … Stir up the contents with a long sound … like pudding.'

They should be grateful for me, for all I know and all I have to give.

Teaching them about pleasure without pain or consequence.

Filling them with comfort; filling them with air. Ending it.

‘T
here is many a cleft stick with rape cases,' Redwood intoned. Someone sniggered and he ignored it. ‘Redwood on Rape' sounded like a type of vegetarian delicacy. The
double entendres
would be indigestible and all the worse for being as unintentional as his dreadful puns.

Standing in a lecture room, he resembled what he might have been in another life, possibly should have been, Helen thought with a rush of sympathy. An absent-minded professor, more at home with the written word and a legal text than he would ever be putting it into practice. Abysmal manager, worse public speaker, and, although he managed to suppress his knowledge of his own shortcomings most of the time, there was the occasional desperate realization of them which made him tearful. On the forum, doing his stint on an obligatory afternoon's training, Redwood tried to wield an illusory power. He still had some of the excitement of an academic to whom news, which has already travelled a continent, feels as if it has come to him first.

‘What the law says,' he announced busily, brandishing the notes which were already circulated to everyone in the room, including those members of staff who had not been able to formulate an alibi or leave the building beforehand, ‘is that men can be raped.'

‘It says “rapped” in my copy,' someone muttered.

‘Typing error,' he snapped. ‘Use your common sense.' He cleared his throat. ‘There was never, of course, a time when men could not be raped. I mean they could be buggered, but it wasn't called rape, it was called buggery, for those under a certain age, whether consenting or not; once sixteen, now eighteen, but not with someone over twenty-one if they didn't mind, and anyway, you could
sometimes charge gross indecency as well, but only in a public place. And now it comes under the rape umbrella. Very important to phrase the charge right.' He beamed; they all sat, bemused. Old news did not improve with his retelling.

‘It's
all
rape, you see. So if a woman's been buggered, she's been raped; likewise a man. Vaginal or anal, it's all rape, is that clear? One section of one Act only. But you can always have indecent assault and buggery, if you like. In some circumstances. All depends what you can prove.'

This time the muttering was definitely Rose, but by the time Redwood swivelled his head and stared at her, the crown of her spiky dark hair was all he could see, her face bent in assiduous concentration on the notes in front of her; the model pupil, with nothing to give her away, apart from one long and slender leg extended over the other with a shoeless foot twitching madly, even whilst everything else about her remained completely still. Out of the corner of his eye, Redwood saw the door of the room open to let inside a palpably reluctant latecomer, giving Helen West the opportunity to slip out in his wake.

‘A man can be raped,' Redwood continued less certainly. ‘In fact, he has to be raped for it all to come under the same blanket of the same charge … What's the matter with everyone?'

By now, Rose was the only one in the front row who was completely immobile. She looked the very soul of concentration, the foot still, with a shoe on it.

‘The same rules apply about consent, too. Oh yes. And evidence, of course.'

At the end of the lecture half of them were grey with
sleep. Someone thanked Redwood for so enhancing their knowledge of the law, adding, beneath his breath, that it had done very little for the communal libido. They trooped out, smirking.

Once he was back in his room, Redwood wiped his brow and set about preparing tea. He had a secretary fit for this purpose, but he considered it bad for morale to have her make him hot drinks when she should be using her skills to type up memos and translate all those bureaucratic orders from above. Anyway, he positively enjoyed making tea to his own specification, drinking it out of the china cup he had brought from home. The interlude brought an illusion of civilization, all the better if he was not interrupted, so that when Helen entered after the briefest of knocks, she found him frowning. It crossed his mind to mention the fact that he had seen her leaving the lecture.

‘Can I discuss something?'

It was a suspiciously humble request. He looked immediately for something with which to attack her in pre-emptive defence.

‘In a minute, Helen. Look, is there anything you can do about the acquittal rate in your sexual assault cases? I've been looking at the figures; not good, not good at all…'

‘You mean that losing every other one is hardly a fine track record? Well, I know what we could do about it. Send potential defendants on training courses, and tell them that what they have to do first is acquire a few previous convictions so that their fingerprints and DNA are on record. Then make sure that when they go in for an attack, full moon or whatever, they leave copious traces of bodily
fluids and fibres from brand-new flannel shirts made of pure cotton. And then we could train the victims never to associate with men under forty they haven't known since birth, and should they be so foolish as to suffer attack, at least ensure they acquire enough bruises to make it clear they didn't enjoy it. Would that do?'

‘Be serious.'

‘I am being serious. There's a high acquittal rate because any case which isn't entirely clear-cut – the woman raped at knife-point situation in a public carpark – is always a risk, even if there's some corroboration for what she says. Look, I want to talk to you about one in particular. Just to clear my mind, OK?'

‘Rather than discuss it with Mr Bailey?' Redwood said cunningly. Helen's relationship with Bailey had always been a matter for speculation; Redwood did not approve.

‘I don't discuss every case with Bailey, and oh, by the way, we're getting married, sometime, soon.' This was said in a rush. ‘So I may need a day off, but if you could listen a minute …' She may as well let that news slip, she supposed, although it wasn't the purpose of the interview. For all his failings, Redwood could be a good sounding-board and that was all she needed. She was meeting Anna Stirland that evening and Helen wanted to be sure of her ground, although she was really sure already. Showing her insecurity, by asking about what she knew. Redwood nodded, stunned as usual by any tidings he had insufficient time to absorb.

‘Supposing we have a woman, good character, sound of mind and limb, who invites a man she fancies round to her own house for a drink and a chat. He's perfectly well aware
that she's very attracted to him, although in a shy kind of way. It's romance she wants, sex as well, but not yet. He pounces on her, causing her to injure herself, inserts an ice stick up her vagina and leaves. A joker, you see. She's so completely humiliated, she makes no immediate complaint to anyone until the nightmare of it makes her crack up, by which time she's comprehensively destroyed all physical evidence, such as stains, and her injuries can't be dated. If she named him, currently she won't, would we look at it?'

Redwood was unfazed, shaking his head before her recital ended, only amazed by the speed of her delivery.

‘Look at it? Yes, provided it came through the police in the usual way. Then we'd turn it down. Even if we had a name. He'd walk out of a charge of indecent assault before the judge heard the end of the opening speech, you know he would. Defence? He wasn't ever there and she's a fantasist, or, he was there but nothing of the kind happened. The delay in reporting it makes it a complete non-starter. Why on earth are you asking?'

She hesitated.

‘Confirmation, I suppose. Don't you ever do that? Seek a second opinion when you already know what it is? Call it frustration. What can the law offer a woman like that? Decent, responsible, maybe a touch obsessive. Oh, I don't know, I just hate the fact she hasn't got any form of legal redress …'

He lowered his face towards the fragrance of his tea.

‘She doesn't deserve it if she won't ask for it. And I suppose what her recovering spirit needs is a spot of revenge? The best therapy? We all know about victims recovering far faster if their assailant's found guilty.' Redwood liked to
see himself as a closet psychiatrist. ‘Supposed to limit the extent of the damage. Well, if counselling won't do for her, there's only one way I can think of for her to get her man. How can she expect redress if she won't even accuse? One way. A frivolous thought, of course.'

The tea interrupted, a sip of it restoring his good humour.

‘Tell me your frivolous thought. You don't have many.'

He sat forward over his desk, the china teacup nursed in his hands, his face lit with a grim smile.

‘She'd have to lure him back. Make him do it again. Only this time, collect.'

‘Collect what?'

‘Evidence. Injury, fluids, blood.'

Silence fell in the room, apart from the sound of a man sipping his tea, enjoying his little joke.

‘Well, I can hardly tell her that,' Helen said flatly.

The noisy sipping of liquid was her signal to leave.

‘Helen, if you're being asked for unofficial advice, rely on silence. The law's changed on the right of silence too. But not that much.'

A
nna Stirland chose to walk to Helen's house that evening. It settled her mind – even a long walk, full of carbon monoxide fumes for the first half. She lived on the fringe of two districts, adjacent to where the summer dust lay in a ground-level cloud, disturbed by traffic, the identity of the place fractured by the massive dissections of road and rail. Even with the high proportion of inebriates and the rough trade in drugs and flesh prevalent in the environs of the stations, the area held her affection. It was a mixture of
styles; a jigsaw puzzle with missing pieces; a dumping ground which solidly defied rejuvenation. There were terraces and squares, apartments carved from old institutional buildings, 1960's breeze-block monsters, flanked by traffic, opposite what she thought of as the church park, a green awning with a challenging if dirty statue near the gate. Anna walked down a fume-filled gulley, gazing with interest at the fly-by-night business enterprises which flourished in the brick-built caves of what had once been the arches of a railway viaduct. The furtive inhabitants suited caves; they dealt in cash and basic commodities. From here, a person could get a car rebuilt, a lorry disguised, a bathroom or new shop refitted overnight, a bus stolen to order; buy candles, bulk deliveries of halal meat, mirrors, take-away food, but never pay with credit card. Outside the station, there was a rank of panting taxis, eating up the travellers who emerged in clumps, anxious for the next destination. Avoiding the crowds, of whom the travellers were the minority and the drunks a sizeable proportion, Anna cheated and took the bus for the next mile uphill to the Angel.