Clare Layton - Those Whom the Gods Love

CLARE LAYTON

For

ROLAND JOHNSON

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

The Jeep bounced over a pothole and a broken spring rammed into Ginty’s thigh. They’d blindfolded her at the checkpoint, so she had no idea where they were going. She could feel them, excited and tense, and she could smell them. Stale tobacco and acrid sweat made her gag, but it was the alcohol on their breath that worried her. She knew it wouldn’t take much to tip them over the edge.

Once, all she’d wanted was to be taken seriously. Now that seemed mad. This was serious, and she hated it.

The tyres spun as the Jeep skidded round a tight bend. She was flung sideways into the lap of one of the men. His hand came down on her back, pressing her breasts into his groin. She could feel his prick, thrusting up through the coarse cloth of his trousers. A sharp, unintelligible command sounded from the front seat. The hand moved from her back and she breathed again. Other hands grabbed her shoulders and pushed her upright, like a doll, balancing her against the lumpy seat. Someone knocked against her left breast, then hard fingers grabbed and twisted. One of the men laughed.

This is nothing, she told herself, remembering yesterday’s interviewee.

Only one of a whole string of women who’d been raped by a gang of men like these, Maria had refused to say anything for a long time, but she hadn’t walked away. Ginty had stood in the background, while her interpreter spoke gently, earnestly, sometimes pointing at Ginty, sometimes gesturing around the rest of the refugee camp. At last Maria had begun to talk, her voice steely, punching out the words like a machine. In every pause, Anna gave Ginty a softly delivered translation that made her shiver.

‘She is fifteen. They raped her last year. She did get pregnant. The child was born in a bombed-out cellar. It was a boy. She was alone. She smothered him, then cut the cord. She left him there in the rubble. Her family does not know. I have promised her anonymity. And no photographs.’

Ginty would have promised a lot more than that, but Maria hadn’t asked for anything else. As she felt the hands again, Ginty bit her lip to keep herself quiet. Infuriating tears wetted the scratchy cloth around her eyes. She couldn’t sniff or they’d know they’d got to her. She thought of her bodyguard, forced to wait behind at the roadblock with Anna, and wished she’d never agreed to write this story.

A rock cracked against a hubcap and the Jeep lurched, crunching over it. The muscles in the men’s thighs were taut beside hers, as they braced themselves against the swinging movement. She kept her legs crossed. With every lurch, she was terrified she might wet her knickers. Her head felt hollow and her ears were ringing.

Sharp braking flung her forwards. Someone gripped her shoulder before she could hit her head. Voices called from outside. The hands were back on her body, tugging and pushing her out. Swaying as she put her foot to the ground, she reached out for a handhold. Instead of metal, she felt folds of cloth. Someone laughed. Other hands were pulling at the blindfold. As they wrenched it off, they ripped out some hair that had caught in the knot. More involuntary tears made a blur in front of her eyes.

As the damp fog cleared, she saw blue-grey mountains shining in the sun, trees, grass, and a low, white house with a great hole in the roof. Split and blackened beams showed through the gash in the orange tiles and smoke stains spread up the walls like fungus. Few of the windows still had glass and most of those were cracked.

The splintered door crashed open. Two men, as young and dark-eyed as the ones who’d picked her up that morning, dragged out something heavy. Ginty wiped the back of her hand against her eyes and saw it was a man. They were holding him by the slack of his checked shirt. She couldn’t see his face, which was hanging down a foot above the ground. His bare, bloody feet dragged against the rocks in the path.

Ginty’s escorts yelled something to the two men. One of them put his free hand in the victim’s hair and jerked up his head. Ginty wished she were shortsighted, blind even.

There were bruises and blood all over his face. His eyes were swollen and his lower lip lolled, showing a broken tooth. She couldn’t tell whether he was alive or dead. His guards let his head drop again and dragged him off.

She was propelled forwards by a hand on her back. The doorway into the house looked very dark against the white walls. Everything she’d heard in the camps about Rano and his men pulled at her heels, slowing her down. But she’d come this far, and she had work to do, work that might be the passport to a world where she mattered. If she wimped out now – even if they’d let her go – she’d never get it.

When they reached the doorway she bent down, as though there were whirling helicopter blades that might decapitate her. Straightening up, she found herself in a long, whitewashed room. There were bullet holes in the inner walls, too, and more smoke stains, but someone had given the place an air of makeshift comfort. To the right was a table with food on it, glasses, and a wine bottle; to the left, another table laden with guns and grenades.

In front of her was a tall man, thicker set than the ones who’d brought her up from the roadblock; much older too. As he came towards her he was wiping his hands on a towel.

‘Ms Schell?’ he said in a deep, very British voice.

‘Yes.’ She was proud of the way that came out, neither croaking nor in a squeak.

‘Ronald Lackton,’ he said, throwing the towel to one of his men and holding out his right hand for Ginty to shake. She saw that the small greyish cloth was thick and covered with brown splodges. She looked at the hand she was supposed to shake. There was blood under his nails and clinging to his cuticles. He hadn’t even washed.

She heard her father’s voice in her head: ‘You must look confident even when you are sick with terror. It does not matter what your work is, or how great your talent, if you cannot persuade other people to believe in you, you will fail.’ As I nearly always have, she thought, then tried to brace herself so that it wouldn’t happen again.

Her mother had put the instruction rather differently: ‘Never show fear, Ginty, or the rest of the tribe will destroy you. They have to if they’re to protect themselves against your weakness. Fear of weakness is at the root of all bullying.’

Obedient to the voices in her head, she put her hand into Rano’s. His skin felt warm and dry. He held onto her for much longer than necessary, smiling down into her face as though they were old friends. His smile seemed more sinister than anything his men had threatened. All her life she’d hated being small, but never as much as now.

‘I’m so glad you could come,’ he said. They might have been at a London party. She couldn’t help looking at his hands, at the blood caught under his nails. ‘Would you like something to eat? Drink?’

‘No, thank you.’ She knew she’d choke on anything he gave her, but she had to hide that, too. Always look confident, Ginty, she reminded herself in her father’s voice. And try to make everyone like you, she added in her own.