Minette Walters - The Devil's Feather

Oddly enough, I found that reassuring. I tend to have more confidence in people who admit the limitations of their knowledge, which was ironic in view of Jess’s tedious insistence that Peter’s answer to everything was chemical intervention. In fact, I felt it was she and Dan who were the more blinkered. Dan remained convinced that a few weeks’ sympathetic counselling was the cure to all ills, while Jess clung to the tougher approach of facing your fears and using a paper bag to deal with the after-effects. Perhaps it’s human nature to assume that if something works for you, it will work for everyone.

Peter pushed the sheaf of pages towards me. “Have you ever heard of the Istanbul protocol? It’s a set of international guidelines for the investigation and documentation of torture, and it’s used to evaluate and prepare evidence for trial. I’ve printed this copy off the net.”

“I didn’t say I’d been tortured.”

“I’d still like you to read it. It might help convince you that you’ll be taken seriously. Among other things, it contains a comprehensive list of the psychological consequences of ill-treatment and abuse. I’ve jotted down some of the commonest responses on the front page-you’ve shown a fair number of them in the last fifteen minutes-although your panic attacks are the clearest indicators that something catastrophic happened.”

I inched forward to read what he’d written. “Flashbacks. Nightmares. Insomnia. Personal detachment. Social withdrawal. Agoraphobia. Avoidance of people and places. Profound anxiety. Mistrust. Irritability. Feelings of guilt. Loss of appetite. Inability to recall important aspects of the trauma. Thoughts of death.”

“Jess shows a fair number of those,” I pointed out, “and she’s not claiming abuse.”

“So? The trauma of losing her family was considerable.”

“Then any trauma can produce similar symptoms. It doesn’t prove that my version of events happened. Perhaps I’m more easily frightened than most people, and just being blindfolded for three days led to panic attacks.”

“Why are you so determined that no one’s going to believe you?”

“Because I didn’t report it at the time.”

“It doesn’t matter. There’s usually a delay before a victim can talk about what’s happened. You may find that document difficult in places-particularly where it refers to physical incapacitation and disintegration of the victim’s personality-but the more you inform yourself about how evidence is taken in conjunction with testimony, the more confident you will feel about being believed.” He paused. “For what it’s worth, I’d say you’re stronger than most people-certainly mentally stronger-which is why you’ve managed to keep this bottled up for so long.”

“That’s not strength,” I said bleakly. “I’m scared stiff. I thought if I didn’t talk about it and no one knew where I was, I’d be OK…and now I wish I hadn’t called Jess. I’ve been jumping at shadows all morning. It’s the old saying, three can keep a secret as long as two of them are dead.”

“What about the inspector in Manchester?”

“He only knows bits.”

“So which secret are we talking about? Your location…or what happened to you?”

I didn’t answer, and Peter watched me with a concerned frown as I hunched deeper in my chair.

“I’m sure you’ve worked out a hundred reasons why keeping the details to yourself is better than speaking out,” he went on carefully, “but not being believed is the least convincing. I’m assuming you’ve told us only half of what happened…less than half perhaps…but Jess and I aren’t doubting you. Nor are we”-he sought for a word-“ condemning you. Whatever you did, you were forced to do…but being ashamed of that simply reinforces this man’s right to control your life.”

Simply? What was simple about shame? How many times had Peter woken up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat and reliving every minute of humiliation? It was worse not being able to remember it properly, or even have a picture in my mind of what it might look like to a third party. In my imagination, my capitulations were eager and extravagant, my actions degrading and repulsive, and my body something to mock.

“He made a video of me. I keep checking the net to see if he’s posted it somewhere. If he’s arrested…and still has it…it’ll be shown in court.”

“Not necessarily.”

“It’s the only proof of what he did. Of course it’ll be shown.”

Peter was too perceptive. “But you’re more concerned that it’s proof of what you did?” He paused, waiting for a reply. “Do you mind if I say that you’re very optimistic to assume that no one else down here has put blonde Zimbabwean and writer together? At the time, you were headline news, and you haven’t changed that much from the photograph that was used. There was a lot made of your parents being forced from their farm, and you’ve been quite honest about that part of your history.”

I felt goosebumps crawl up my arms. “Does Madeleine know?”

“It doesn’t matter if she does, there’s no mileage to be made out of you. A small community like this is bound to be curious about a new arrival, but there’s no interest anywhere else. The last mention I could find was a brief reference to you when Adelina Bianca was released.”

He was so naïve. I could picture Madeleine dropping my name all over London. Do you remember Connie Burns? The Reuters correspondent who was taken hostage but never told her story? She’s rented my mother’s house in Dorset for six months in order to write a book. We’re such good friends.

“In that respect, you’ve achieved what you set out to achieve, Connie. Your kidnap wasn’t”-he echoed the word I’d used earlier-“sensational enough to make it worth anyone’s while to track you down, otherwise the phone calls and the doorstepping would have started long ago.” He made a reassuring gesture with his hand. “You understand the point I’m making? If anyone thought you had a story to tell, you’d have been put under pressure already…but you haven’t. So it’s up to you how much you want to reveal, or whether you want to reveal it at all. No one’s going to force you.”

I felt like throwing his psychological pap back in his face. It’s my genetic link to my father, this inability to take patronizing comments on the chin. Did Peter have a higher IQ than I? Was he better educated? Wider read? So arrogant about his own abilities that he assumed I was incapable of working it out for myself? Of course I knew I had control of my story. What did he think I’d been doing for the last three months, other than make damn sure no one else had access to it?

If I wrestled with anything, it was Peter’s all-too-accurate observation that MacKenzie controlled me. And through a video. I could have been as brave as a lion if it were my word against that of an ignorant Glaswegian rapist. I could have said anything. That I’d screamed, argued, refused consent, fought for my life. I could have pretended some dignity. Who was going to believe MacKenzie without pictures?

Me.

“They showed a clip of Adelina’s video on the television the other day,” I told Peter then. “They used a close-up of her face-with the black eyes-to give viewers a taste of what’s likely to happen to a Korean woman who’s been taken. I know Adelina quite well. She’s only about five feet three tall-rather like Jess-but she looked so…indomitable. How did she do that?” “She didn’t,” Peter said bluntly. “I saw that clip, too, and I saw a frightened woman. You’re imposing something from your imagination that wasn’t there. Adelina was terrified, and rightly so. She had no idea what was going to happen next, and it shows in her face.” He leaned forward. “Why would hostage-takers release a video showing a victim looking indomitable, Connie? Pictures are propaganda, and terrorists are only interested in portraying terror.”