Kathryn Fox - Without Consent

“I didn’t ask. Let’s give her a few more minutes.” Anya watched through the glass window. A group of disabled children cheered as one pushed a bright pink bowling ball down the metal ramp. The next player had her wheelchair rammed by an opponent, just as she released the ball. She swore at the offender, but then the group laughed. Even a friendly game of bowling was competitive these days, she thought, feeling old.

The smell of chicken salt and fried food seemed to catch Hayden’s attention.

“Damn, that makes me hungry. Don’t suppose they serve salads here.”

“I doubt it, but they probably do reasonable coffee.”

Hayden tapped Anya on the elbow as he looked toward the café entrance.

A woman dressed in loose jeans and a baggy jumper stood, fingers twisting the shoulder strap on her bag.

Anya stood and walked over to Louise.

“Thank you for coming.”

“I almost didn’t,” Louise said. “I’ve been sitting outside in the car trying to decide what to do.”

“You’re here now, but you can leave or end this conversation at any time. All right?”

Louise grimaced. “I need to know. Do you trust this policeman?”

“With my life,” Anya said, surprising herself.

Hayden stood as Louise joined them, and asked if she minded if he took notes.

She sat with one hand pulling hair behind her ear. “I wanted to meet somewhere no one would notice us.”

Three people at a corner table in a bowling alley taking notes and speaking in hushed tones would make anyone notice, Anya thought.

“I figured kids and teenagers would be more interested in themselves,” Louise said.

She had a good point.

Hayden explained that he was there to gather information and not to identify her to colleagues. Anya studied Louise as she listened. Since they had met, the woman had developed a facial tic in the left eye. She probably had not slept much and was having nightmares about her attack. The combination of anxiety and fatigue could bring on the involuntary twitch.

She’d also lost weight. Her face and wrists seemed thinner.

“How are you getting on?”

Louise twisted her wedding ring. “I’m scared to stay awake and too scared to sleep. I can’t keep any food down. It just comes straight back up.”

“You need to give yourself time,” Anya offered. “And so does your husband.”

Louise didn’t respond, but continued fiddling with her ring.

“I’ve moved in with a friend for a couple of weeks. I can’t go back to the pharmacy again. Not after-”

She stopped herself.

Anya spoke first. “We’d like to talk about what you remember from that night. Things you might not realize you noticed. Smells; what you heard; the way he spoke to you. Anything could be helpful.”

“I know this is going to be difficult,” Hayden said softly, “but we need to talk about what happened. Anything you can think of, even if you don’t think it’s important.”

She took a deep breath. “When he grabbed me from behind-around the neck with his arm-he said he wouldn’t hurt me, just wanted my handbag. And then he loosened his grip around my neck.” Louise rubbed her neck, as though she were reliving the moment. “I stood up and went to turn around, to give him my bag. That’s when he hit me hard in the side of the face, as I was turning.”

Hayden began scribing on a large pad. “Did you see any part of his face? A nose, chin, ears?”

“The tip of his black cap. It covered his face. Then I saw his hand and it felt like my face was on fire.”

“What happened next?”

Anya was impressed by the sympathetic tone the detective showed.

“He said he had a knife and would kill me if I didn’t do what he wanted or if I made any noise. Then he pushed me to the ground and raped me. I couldn’t bear to look at him, but he seemed to have trouble and got angry.”

“Angry in what way?”

“Frustrated, as though it was my fault he couldn’t climax.”

Hayden took copious notes. It was either shorthand, or atrocious handwriting.

“Did he say anything?”

“Called me a bitch. And told me not to look at him. That’s when he stopped and dragged me across the car park, on to the grass near one of the trees. Before that we were on gravel. When a car started up nearby, I thought he would kill me.”

Her voice trailed off.

“But he didn’t kill you,” Anya said. “You stayed alive.”

Louise fiddled with her hair again. “When the car drove off, away from us, he whispered in my ear, ‘If you can’t be hurt, you can’t be loved.’ I remember because he said it like he was helping me understand what he was doing.” Her eyes glassed over. “That’s when he took off his gloves and dug his fingers into my chest. Then he raped me again, under the tree.”

“You’re doing really well,” Hayden said. “What did he do next?”

“This time, I think he came because he got off me. He grabbed my bag and said he knew where I lived. If I went to the police, he’d come back and finish me off. Then he was gone.”

“Can you describe the knife at all?”

Louise thought for a moment. “Sharp, small. I don’t know what happened to it. One second it was on my chest, then it was gone.”

“Was there a click sound?”

Louise hesitated. “Maybe. There was a noise.”

“Could have been a switchblade.” Hayden scribbled fast. “Do you remember what the gloves looked like?”

“They had to be surgical gloves. I could smell the latex.”

Anya said, “That’s why there was a trace of talcum powder on your leg. It’s used to stop the gloves from sticking to themselves.”

“That’s really, really helpful,” Hayden urged. “Did you notice anything about his hand? Like, whether he had a tattoo?”

“No, I don’t think so. It was a white hand.”

Suddenly distracted, Louise looked around the café. A group of bowlers ordered and collected their fast-food from the service counter.

Hayden moved closer, locking eyes with Louise Richardson.

“How do you mean, white? Like a Caucasian?”

Louise avoided the detective’s gaze, as if losing confidence. “It was pretty dark, but I remember this flash of white skin when he moved.”

“Could you see his wrist, or any other part of him?”

Louise closed her eyes again and paused. “I didn’t think of it before. I did see his wrist and it looked normal.” She faltered. “This is going to sound crazy, but he must have had some kind of white stripe on his hand. I remember a flash of skin. I’m sorry, this isn’t helping. It doesn’t make any sense.”

Hayden looked enthusiastically at Anya. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. You are helping-a lot. Do you think there could have been a mark on his hand?”

“I suppose so. That makes more sense-like a streak of faint white paint.”

Anya admired Louise’s strength. She had just given them the most helpful lead yet.

Geoff Willard lay in the dim light, bodyaching. He wasn’t sure what hurt more-his back from where he had taken the boot, or his hand from where he had punched the bastard who did it. His right hand felt broken but he could just make a fist. All he’d wanted to do last night was sleep where he lay on the floor in the rotunda. In the park, he’d been out of sight but could see the main road and police patrols. He hadn’t bargained on being beaten up by a couple of drunk teenagers with dutch courage. At least one of them had scored a broken jaw for his trouble. He suppressed a grin at the way the boy had whimpered as he slunk away.

Now, Geoff sat, propped against the wall. He had chosen this place because the old-style laundry was separate from the rear of the house. No pets in the backyard to alert the owners, either. He heard the back door open and slam shut, followed by heavy footsteps down the steps. The owner wheezed in between each step. Having taken the light globe out as a precaution, Geoff pulled himself behind the door and waited.