Minette Walters - The Devil's Feather

“She makes jokes about it now.”

“Because she can. None of her worst fears materialized. In any case, a black eye is a visible badge of honour. It proves you’ve taken some punishment.” He pressed his forefingers together and pointed them at me. “Think how much easier it would have been for you if you’d come out with bruises. You might not have wanted to explain them-but they wouldn’t have gone unnoticed. The police would have insisted on a photographic record, and that evidence would have survived until you gave an explanation for them.”

I folded my arms across my chest and tucked my hands under my armpits to avoid lashing out at him. Why did he keep stating the obvious? Why keep implying that I was too stupid to think these things for myself? I thought him intolerably smug, but feared that any display of irritability would bring a self-satisified “I told you so.” The screams that swooped around my head were all about what I should have done.

“Say it,” Peter encouraged.

“What?”

“Whatever you’re thinking.”

“I was thinking how debased language has become. ‘Collateral damage’ for civilian deaths, ‘shock and awe’ for relentless bombing, ‘coalition of the willing,’ ‘surgical strike’- that’s propaganda. It’s all designed to put a spin on the truth. Do you know that every time I wrote ‘Iraqi resistance fighters’ the subs changed it to ‘insurgents.’ The words are synonymous but the connotations of ‘resistance’ are laudatory. It makes people think of the French Resistance, and the coalition didn’t want that connection made.” I fell silent.

“Go on.”

“Words are meaningless unless you know why they’re being used. In the context of war, ‘collateral damage’ ought to mean the accidental killing of your own side, but the US military invented ‘friendly fire’ or ‘blue on blue’ for that.” I held his gaze for a moment. “MacKenzie’s favourite expression was ‘shock and awe.’ He defined it as ‘softening up’ and really loved the juxtaposition of the two ideas-terror linked to reverence. He felt it was the natural order of things that the weak should kow-tow to the strong.”

“And your role was to give him the illusion of strength?”

“It wasn’t an illusion,” I said. “It was a reality. I was his devil’s feather.”

“What does that mean?”

“Whatever you want it to mean. That I was to blame…that I was crushable…that I was something of no account.”

Peter let a silence drift before he tried again. “You were a prisoner. The reality is that you were put in a position of weakness by a man who couldn’t control you any other way. I’m not trying to minimize your response to that, but at least recognize that he was acting out a fantasy of dominance.”

“It wasn’t a fantasy. He’s incredibly intimidating, and knows it. Everyone was afraid of him in Sierra Leone.”

“Except other soldiers. Didn’t you say it was a couple of paratroopers who forced him to pay compensation to the prostitute?”

I tucked my hands tighter under my arms. “Yes…well, soldiers are braver than journalists. I expect it helps if you have some rudimentary knowledge of unarmed combat.” I took a deep breath. “Look, this is all fairly pointless, Peter. Believe it or not, I really do have quite a good grasp of where I am and what I need to do. I appreciate your help, and I’ll certainly read this protocol”-I nodded towards the papers on the table-“but, just at the moment-” I pulled up sharp as fear shot a spurt of adrenalin into my bloodstream. “Oh, God!”

In retrospect, Peter’s reaction still surprises me. I’d have expected some sort of intervention, if only a verbal one to instruct me to “calm down.” But he did nothing except fold his hands on the table and stare at them while I dragged a paper bag from my pocket and sucked air in and out of it with my eyes starting out of my head. Eventually, when my breathing had slowed enough for me to lower the bag to my lap, he looked at his watch.

“That’s not bad. One minute thirty-five seconds. How long does it normally take?”

My face was burning and I had runnels of sweat dripping down my cheeks. “What would you care?” I gasped.

“Mmm. Well, there’s always anti-depressants. If you insist on feeling sorry for yourself, I might even prescribe them.”

“Jess was right about you,” I snarled, fishing in my pocket for some tissues. “You’re about as much use as tits on a bull.”

He smiled. “How long have you had nosebleeds?” he asked, as I put my head back and pressed the wodge of paper to my nostrils.

“None of your business.”

“Do you want some ice?”

“No.”

“What did he use to stop you breathing? Plastic bags?”

It was exactly the way I would have asked that question. In the same uninterested tone and with the same lack of emphasis. And I fell for it because I wasn’t expecting it. “Usually drowning,” I said.

From: connie.burns@uknet.com

Sent:Sat 14/08/04 10:03

To: alan.collins@manchester-police.co.uk

Subject:Additional information

Dear Alan,

I’ve spent all night thinking about this email. There are numerous reasons why I don’t want to write it, and only one why I do-because it concerns my parents. Despite the pieces I’ve written over the years, highlighting the tragedies of women and children in war, I honestly believe I’d have allowed a thousand anonymous women to die before I said anything. It’s the old morality tale of the death-ray and the elderly Chinaman. Do you know it?

A rich man shows you a death-ray machine and promises you a million pounds if you push the button. The bad news is an old man in China will die if you do; the good news is no one will know it was you who killed him. The victim will be the only loser. His family are tired of looking after him, and pray regularly for his death, while you have only the rich man’s word that the machine can kill anyone-let alone a man you’ve never met. You have three choices: press the button and spend the rest of your life a million pounds richer, convinced the whole thing was a scam…press the button and spend the rest of your life a million pounds richer, with a murder on your conscience…or refuse to press the button and forgo the million pounds. Which do you choose?

I think the moral is that the first choice is impossible because there’s no such thing as a free lunch. You will always be plagued by doubt about its being a scam, and the rich man will always own your soul. The second and third choices are the only honest ones-to accept payment for murder, with all its consequences, or to refuse.

I’ve been trying to implement the first choice. Take the reward (my life) and convince myself that I have no responsibility for anyone else’s death-but I’ve failed because it’s not the choice I made. I opted for number two-took the reward, knowing full well I had a responsibility, but hoping I could live with the consequences. I can’t do that either. Not because my conscience is pricking me-it’s been pretty much dead since I switched my energies to survival-but because my parents are involved. Perhaps we can all kill from a distance-it’s how we fight war now-but it’s different when we know the faces of the victims.

Although this information is certainly redundant-I think you’ve always known the truth-please add the following facts to the ones I’ve already given you:

1. Keith MacKenzie aka John Harwood aka Kenneth O’Connell was my abductor. He had at least two accomplices-the driver of the car and one of the men who pulled me out of it. I can describe the driver because I saw his face in the rear-view mirror-fairly dark-skinned, no moustache, aged about thirty. The other two men wore ski-masks. I can’t tell you what nationality they were, as the only one who spoke was the driver (to confirm in accented English that he was driving me to the airport). However, from the build of one of the masked men, I suspect it was MacKenzie.