Barbara Erskine - The Warrior’s Princess

Cudgelling her brain as she sipped more coffee, she remembered Ash leaping from the bonnet of a car onto its roof and declaiming, his fists raised to the stars. Shakespeare. He was quoting Shakespeare, this boy she had so carefully nurtured in her class, this boy who led his own team of street actors and who had a secret dream to go to RADA, a dream to be an actor on a West End stage, to defy his background, his absent father, his drug-taking brothers, to confirm his mother’s quiet determination to believe in him. He had yelled the speech to the world and then, laughing, had jumped down and swept a courtly bow in front of her. ‘Let me walk you home, Jess!’ She could hear his voice now, resounding in her ears.

Then nothing.

Her memories from that point were gone. Her flat was a half-hour walk from the school but she didn’t remember crossing the main road still with its heavy traffic long after midnight; nor walking down the busy street, half the shops still open to the hot July night air. Nor turning down into the terraced square with its tiny precious oasis of dusty bushes and trees in the centre behind the protective spiked railings with a raft of tossed litter inside them. Nor opening the front door, nor climbing the stairs, and unlocking the door into her flat and going in and presumably offering her escort another drink.

No, not Ashley. Please let it not have been Ashley.

It had to have been Ashley. People had warned her. They had said he could be violent. They had said he had become too familiar, too physical around her. But she had ignored them. She knew best. She had seen his potential and nothing was going to stand in the way of her ambition for him.

If it was Ashley, was it her fault? Had she encouraged him to make love to her? ‘No!’ The word came out as an agonised whisper. ‘No, I wouldn’t have. I couldn’t have.’ Gingerly she fingered the bruises on her arms. Whoever had done this to her had forced himself on her and had held her down. That wasn’t love, it was rape.

She stood for a long time under the shower, aware that she should not be doing this; that if she had been raped, she should call the police; that she should preserve whatever evidence lurked inside her body, but knowing at the same time, as she scrubbed herself raw, that she could never bring herself to go through the awfulness of the police process. One of her students had had to do it once and she had gone with the girl to the cold impersonal room where the teenager had been questioned and examined and eventually disbelieved. Jess shuddered at the memory. She would never put herself through that. Never. She could feel herself slowly beginning to burn with anger. However much she had been made to drink, even if she had been drugged to make her acquiesce and then forget, she would find out who had done this to her and she would make sure he paid for it.

Sitting on the edge of the sofa, huddled in her bathrobe, she could feel herself starting to shake again as in her head she went over and over the facts that she could remember. Had she asked Ash in? She had danced with him several times, after all. She had had another drink. Then another. Who had given them to her? She couldn’t remember. Obviously she had drunk too much but had they been laced with something? Had she, in whatever state she was in, agreed to sex? Enjoyed it? Her hands were clammy. She could feel a wave of nausea building somewhere under her ribcage. The room was starting to spin again.

She became aware suddenly of the sound of steps on the staircase outside running up towards her flat. Scrambling to her feet she ran to the front door, rammed the bolt across and slotted the chain into its keep then slowly, shaking with the kind of fear she had never in her life experienced before, she slid to the floor, tears pouring down her face as she leaned backwards against the wall, hugging the white towelling robe around her. Outside, the footsteps ran on up past her door without stopping and the sound disappeared somewhere on the upper floors.

In the end she fell asleep where she was, on the floor, her back against the wall.

When she woke it was to the sound of knocking. The door handle turned. Holding her breath she looked up at it, her stomach churning.

‘Jess, are you there?’ It was Will’s voice. ‘Jess, are you OK? Look, I wanted to apologise for last night. I behaved like an idiot. I’m sorry.’ There was a long pause, then she heard a deep sigh. ‘Jess? Are you there? What’s wrong?’ There was another pause. Then an angry exclamation. ‘I’ll see you on Monday for clearing up, OK, Jess?’ She heard him turn away from the door, then his footsteps as he ran down the stairs and the bang of the street door behind him. Then silence.

He had behaved like an idiot.

How had he behaved like an idiot?

Surely it could not have been Will. They had quarrelled in the past, even before that last break up. They had done more than quarrel. They had fought. But he wouldn’t force her against her wishes. Would he?

Could he have followed her and Ash home? If he had he could have let himself in. She was certain he still had a key in spite of his insistence that he had returned it to her. They had danced last night in the end. More than once. She could remember that. She’d felt his arms around her for a moment with such loving familiarity, felt herself relax into them. It was Will who, after a few minutes, had drawn away and moved alone to the music leaving her to dance by herself.

With a weary sigh she closed her eyes.

Much later she heard Mrs Lal from the ground floor flat open her door and go out, her slippers slapping on the steps. She was going to the corner shop; no need for proper shoes then. In spite of her misery Jess gave a fond smile. Sometimes the old lady would call up and see if Jess would like her to fetch a Sunday paper or some milk, but not today. Today there was silence; perhaps she had heard Will rattling her door and thought Jess must be out.

Climbing stiffly to her feet, she went over to the window and looked down. Mrs Lal was walking slowly down the road, a blue cardigan pulled over her sari, her grey hair clamped into an untidy bun. As Jess watched she saw the old lady hesitate and slow down suddenly and cross over the road. Jess frowned, wondering why. Then she saw them. Two black youths loitering by the gate into the square. She watched them for a moment, her throat growing dry. One of them was Ash. The other his elder brother, Zac. They stood staring at poor Mrs Lal, obviously enjoying her discomfort. She saw Zac call out and the old lady moved more quickly, hurrying away from them towards the shop. Perhaps she should go down and chase them away. What were they doing here anyway? The boys lived on the Constable Estate on the far side of the school. Almost as though he was conscious she was watching him she saw Ash move suddenly. He stepped out into the road where she could see him more easily and perhaps he could see her, and she saw him sketch once more the elaborate theatrical courtly bow in her direction. She saw Zac laugh and aim a half-hearted kick at his brother’s head, before Ash blew a kiss towards her house and both boys turned away, loping nonchalantly towards the Underground station and the busy High Street.

Jess backed away from the window. He couldn’t have seen her. It was much too far away. And he didn’t know where she lived. Correction: he wasn’t supposed to know where she lived. She felt herself grow ice-cold. He had done it. It was Ash and he was mocking her. Oh God, what was she to do? He was telling her what he had done; gloating; knowing she could never nail him for it. Daring her to try. That was why he bowed. Her best student. She had thought she’d won his trust and respect and this was how he had repaid her.

She phoned Brian Barker with her resignation on Monday morning. She told him she was ill; too stressed to teach any more. She cut off his protests by switching off her phone. Then she went to the doctor who confirmed that her memory loss could well be the effect of some kind of drug. She had gone for the morning after pill. She had not thought of the HIV test, the other tests the doctor insisted on; the doctor’s worried glance as she examined her. ‘If you don’t know who it was, Jess,’ she said gently, ‘you cannot take chances. The bruises, the muscle stiffness. You obviously weren’t a willing participant in this. You are right, you were raped and you should go to the police.’ On that point Jess had not changed her mind. She spent the rest of the day huddled in a miasma of depression and self-pity.