Nicola Griffith - Always

“Kick him,” Katherine said.

“Head butt right in the fucking face,” Suze said. “Wham.”

“Both would work.”

“Yes, but what did you mean about using the room?” Therese said.

“Think about what we did last week, using expectations against your attacker. Christie, stand against the wall.” I faced her, leaning against the wall, a hand on each side of her head, face nine inches from hers. “What would he expect you to do?”

Everyone’s face went blank.

I sighed to myself. “What would a TV character playing a young woman in a college bar do?”

“Depends on the show,” Tonya said. “She’d either cry and hide her face until her boyfriend showed, when she’d watch the creep get stomped, or she’d tough it out, give him a big smooch so that he went red and his friends laughed, then she’d sort of strut away.”

Everyone nodded. I had no idea what kind of shows they watched.

“Let’s swap roles,” I said to Christie. I bent my knees considerably so that we were the same height. “Now lean in, as though you’re going to kiss me.” She hesitated. “Don’t worry, I won’t let you.” She leaned forward. I put my right palm on her sternum and pushed back, just a little, just enough to make her feel her own strength. She leaned harder. I heaved an exaggerated sigh, tilted my face up as though about to give in, and slipped my left hand to the back of her neck: just like a starlet about to kiss the hero. In one move I slid down the wall, jerked Christie’s face down and forwards, and twisted, and shot my right hand up fast enough to catch her forehead just before it smashed into the painted cinder block.

“In real life, of course, you wouldn’t catch his head. Thank you,” I said to Christie, who was still blinking. She touched her forehead a couple of times to make sure it was still there.

“What I did was use the wall as both a weapon against my attacker and an aid to balance. I could bring my entire weight to bear on his neck because I was using the wall to keep me from falling backwards. If you practice this at home with unsuspecting spouses, I’d recommend you put a mattress against the wall first.”

Therese folded her arms. I gestured for her to speak.

“You’re in a bar. He’s drunk. You shouldn’t have hurt him like that.”

“The fucker deserved it,” Suze said, chin out.

I looked around. “Anyone else?”

Pauletta stirred. “Now I think about it, then maybe yeah, it could be a bit harsh. Dude only wanted a kiss.”

“Yeah, but he should’ve stopped when she said stop,” Suze said.

“I didn’t hear her say stop,” Therese said.

“So what should she do?”

They all turned to me.

“It depends.”

“Man, how did I know she was going to say that?”

“It always depends,” I said. “Always. Every situation is different. What do you do if your car breaks down on I-75? You don’t call a tow truck and say, ‘It’s Tuesday, bring a wrench,’ or ‘It’s Thursday, bring gas.’ You look at the context. This is a college bar. This man is drunk. He has friends. We don’t know if Christie has friends—Christie, do you have friends?”

“Well, yeah.”

“In the bar. And how old are the man and his friends?”

“Twenty-one?”

“In that context, yes, you shouldn’t have needed to get to the face-smashing stage. Therese, come over here and play Christie. I’ll be the drunk.”

Therese stood straight. I leered and staggered. “Give us a kiss, then.”

“No. Go away.”

“Oh, don’t be like that. Smile, go on.” I moved closer.

“No.” She backed up half a step but didn’t turn away, didn’t smile. “Go away.”

“Just one kiss…” I started to reach out.

“Don’t touch me,” she said loudly.

“Jeez, lady, I just wanted a—”

“Don’t you dare touch me. Lay one finger on me and I call the police.” Her pupils were small and tight, her whole face pointed at mine. “If you touch me I’ll have you sued for assault. You’ll never get your degree, you’ll never get a job. Don’t touch me!”

I turned to the others, raised my eyebrows. They applauded. Therese grinned, fiercely.

“It all goes back to what we were saying last week: communication and body language. Don’t let them use embarrassment against you. You won’t die of embarrassment. But let’s suppose he’s pushed you against the wall and he’s leaning in for the kiss. At that point are you warranted in using the maneuver I showed you earlier?”

“Yep,” said Suze.

“Not in that kind of bar,” Christie said.

“Just what kind of bar is it?” Suze.

“Suze, come and play the drunk who’s got me against the wall. Okay. Suggestions?”

“Just say no, like before. Real loud,” Kim said.

“Let’s say I’m so scared my mouth’s gone dry and I can’t shout,” I said. I would teach them another time how to deal with fear and its effects. “Let me show you one or two other tools you could use. Remember the knife-hand. ” They all made knife-hands. “Watch.” I laid the edge of my hand against Suze’s larynx. “If she tries to press towards me, that’s going to get very uncomfortable. You’re not deliberately hurting him, but you’ve drawn an unmistakable line. You’ve set yourself on fire. If he pushes harder, any damage is his fault. Try it. Gently.”

I let Suze try it on me, but kept the muscles in my throat expanded protectively.

“Good. One other thing. Kim, remember that knuckle extension I showed you?” She held out her arm obligingly. Everyone copied her. “Good. Now support your middle knuckle with your thumb and tuck the other fingers in, as though making a fist. Face your partner.” I moved Suze into position. “There’s a spot right in the middle of the breastbone where the nerve lies very close to the surface. Feel for it. Now put your knuckle on your partner’s breastbone and push.”

“Ow!”

“Shit!”

Everyone sprang apart rubbing their sternums.

“This is a very useful little tool. Appropriate for delicate situations, particularly those times when you have no wish to draw attention to yourself.” Appropriate. My mother would approve. I knew Therese would go home and practice that until it hurt to breathe. “Remember, the right tool for the right job. Even naked in an empty room you have plenty of tools. But the first tool you should practice is communication: Know what you want and don’t want, be prepared to communicate that clearly. Make sure your body and your words send the same message. Don’t apologize, don’t explain, don’t threaten. It’s all information they don’t need, and information is currency. It’s power. It’s a tool.”

They frowned. I thought for a minute.

“Jennifer.” Her jaw twitched. “When was the last time you got a wrong-number call?”

“A wrong number?”

“Yes. When?”

“About six months ago.”

“Remember how it went?” I picked up an imaginary phone and held it to my ear. “They called, and you picked up the phone and said… what?”

She picked up a phone, too. “Hello?”

“Hey, is this Annie?”

“Er, no.”

“Well, who is this?”

“Jennifer.”

“Is Annie there?”

“No, no one called Annie lives here.”

“Annie Contin. Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure, it’s just me and my husband.”

“And it’s not Contin?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

“Well what number is this?”

“555-2658.”

“Well, that’s Annie Contin’s number and I’m supposed to deliver a load of dog chow this afternoon. What’s your address?”

“We don’t have a dog. We have a cat. And… and you don’t need my address! ” and she slammed the imaginary phone down. Everyone was giving her sympathetic looks, the kind that in the South mean Dear Lord, what a moron. In the space of half a minute she had given a total stranger her name, her phone number, the fact that only two of them lived there, that she had a cat and no dog, and that she could be browbeaten without too much effort.