Sophie Hannah - Hurting Distance

‘Take me to the hospital to see Robert,’ I say, as Sergeant Zailer leads me out on to the corridor.

‘I’m taking you to an interview room,’ she says firmly. ‘We’ve got some talking to do, Naomi—a lot of explaining and straightening out.’ My body sags. I haven’t got the energy for a lot of anything. ‘Don’t worry,’ says Sergeant Zailer. ‘You’ve got nothing to fear if you tell the truth.’

I could never be afraid of the police. They follow rules I understand and, apart from the odd exception, agree with.

‘I know you wouldn’t and didn’t hurt Robert.’

Relief washes over me, sinking into my tired bones. Thank God. I want to ask if it was Juliet who hurt you, but there’s been a power cut in the part of the brain that controls my speech, and my mouth will not open.

The interview room has pale coral walls and smells strongly of aniseed.

‘Would you like a drink before we start?’ Sergeant Zailer asks.

‘Anything alcoholic.’

‘Tea, coffee or water,’ she says in a cooler voice.

‘Just water, then.’ I wasn’t being facetious. I know the police are allowed to let people smoke. I’ve seen it on television, and there’s an ashtray on the table in front of me. If tobacco and nicotine are permissible, why not alcohol? There’s so much pointless inconsistency in the world, most of it the result of stupidity.

‘Still or sparkling?’ Sergeant Zailer mutters on her way out of the room. I can’t tell if she’s angry or joking.

As soon as I’m alone, my mind goes blank. I ought to be anticipating, preparing, but all I do is sit completely still while the thin fabric of my consciousness stretches to cover the chasm between this moment and the next.

You are alive.

Sergeant Zailer comes back with my water. She fiddles with the machine on the table, which looks more sophisticated than anything I would call a tape recorder, though that’s clearly its function. Once it’s recording, she says her name and mine, the date and the time. She asks me to state that I do not wish a solicitor to be present. Once I’ve done this, she leans back in her chair and says, ‘I’m going to save us both a lot of time by skipping the question-and-answer rigmarole. I’ll describe to you the situation as I understand it. You can tell me if I’m right. Okay?’

I nod.

‘Robert Haworth didn’t rape you. You lied about that, but for the best possible reason. You love Robert, and you believed something had happened to prevent him from meeting you at the Traveltel last Thursday, something serious. You reported your concerns to DC Waterhouse and myself, but you could see that we weren’t as certain as you were that Robert had come to harm. You didn’t think finding him would be a priority for us, so you tried a different tactic—you tried to make us believe Robert was violent and dangerous, and needed to be found quickly before he hurt anyone else. Right from the start, you planned to tell us the truth as soon as we found him. It was only going to be a temporary lie—you knew you’d redeem it with the truth eventually.’ Sergeant Zailer pauses for breath. ‘How am I doing so far?’

‘It’s all true, everything you’ve said.’ I am slightly stunned that she has managed to work it out. Could she have spoken to Yvon?

‘Naomi, your lie saved Robert’s life. One more day and he’d have been dead for sure. The brain compression from his bleeds would have killed him.’

‘I knew it was the right thing to do.’

‘Naomi? You’d better make sure you never lie to me again. Just because you were right about Robert doesn’t mean you can introduce a new set of rules whenever it suits you. Are we clear on that?’

‘I’ve no reason to lie, now that you’ve found Robert and he’s safe. Did . . . did Juliet try to kill him? What did she do to him?’

‘We’ll get to that in due course,’ says Sergeant Zailer. She takes a packet of Marlboro Lights out of her bag and lights one. Her fingernails are long, painted a burgundy colour, the skin chewed and raw around the edges. ‘So, if Robert Haworth didn’t rape you, who did?’

Her words hit me like bullets. ‘I . . . Nobody raped me. I made up the whole story.’

‘A pretty elaborate story. The theatre, the table . . .’

‘The whole thing was a lie.’

‘Really?’ Sergeant Zailer balances her cigarette on the edge of the ashtray and folds her arms, looking at me through the rising wisps of smoke. ‘Well, it was a bloody imaginative lie. Why add so many weird elements—the dinner party, the acorn bedposts, the padded eye mask? Why not just say Haworth raped you one night at the Traveltel? You had a row, he got angry . . . et cetera. It would have been a lot simpler.’

‘The more concrete details that go into a lie, the easier it is for people to believe,’ I tell her. ‘A fiction needs to contain as many specifics as a truth would contain, if it wants to disguise itself as a truth.’ I take a deep breath. ‘A row at the Traveltel wouldn’t have been good enough—it’s too personal to Robert and me. I needed you to believe Robert was a threat to women in general, that he was some kind of . . . ritualistic perverted monster. So I made up the worst rape story I could think of.’

Sergeant Zailer nods slowly. Then she says, ‘I think you used that particular story because it was true.’

I say nothing.

She takes some papers out of her handbag, unfolds them and spreads them out in front of me. One quick glance tells me exactly what they are. Their meaning rises to smother me, although I avoid looking at the words. There is a blockage in my throat.

‘Very clever,’ I say.

‘You think these aren’t real? Robert didn’t rape you, Naomi, but you and I both know someone did. And whoever he is, he’s done it to other women. These women. Why did you think you were the only one?’

Steeling myself, I look at the pieces of paper in front of me. They could be real. One of them is semi-literate. And the details are slightly different in each one. I don’t think Sergeant Zailer would have done that. Why should she? It’s like what she said about my story: it’s too elaborate.

‘Some women go to the police after they’re raped,’ she says in a conversational tone. ‘Swabs are taken. Now that we’ve got Mr Haworth, we can take a sample of his DNA. If he’s responsible for these rapes, we can prove it.’ She watches me carefully.

‘Robert?’ This sudden about-turn confuses me. ‘He could never hurt anyone. Take a sample of his DNA if you must. It won’t match any . . . swabs.’

Sergeant Zailer smiles at me sympathetically. This time I’m determined not to fall for it. ‘I think you could be a brilliant witness if you wanted to be, Naomi. If you start telling us the full truth, it’ll help us to catch this evil shit who raped you and these other women. Don’t you want that?’

‘I was never raped. My statement was a lie.’ Does she think I’m saying this to thwart her quest for justice, the stupid cow? It’s because of me that I can’t admit it. I’m the one who has to get through the rest of my life, and the only way I can do that is as a person it didn’t happen to.

I’ve seen countless films in which people blurt out the truth they are desperate to hide after mild to moderate psychological prodding from a detective or shrink or lawyer. I’ve always thought those individuals must be pretty dim, or have a lot less stamina than I have. But maybe it’s not stamina; maybe it’s self-knowledge that enables me to resist Sergeant Zailer’s appeals. I know how my mind works, so I know how to protect it.

Besides, I’m not the only liar in this room.

‘These are stories from rape websites that you’ve printed out,’ I say. ‘You haven’t got any swabs. You can’t have.’