I Came to Find a Girl (19 page)

Outside my window, two girls paced up and down to combat the cold. One was scrawny with legs so thin there was a gap at the top of her thighs while the other was well padded – a comfort eater?

A car slowed and they both talked at the window before the heavier one got in. Scrawny continued to pace then stopped to light a fag.

She looked up
. Shit, my light’s on
.

Scrawny gave me the finger.

“Sorry.” I ducked away from the window.

Thirty

When I got back from college to find two police officers at my front door, I assumed Jason must have gone ahead and told them about the ‘white man in a white van’ and that they’d come by to get me to back his story. Then I wondered if something else had happened.

The officers were both female and I recognised one as the chunky blonde, DC Wilson, whom I’d met at the rape suite. It’s about Flood I realised and it caused an instant churning in my belly.

“We hoped we’d catch you in,” DC Wilson said, and I noticed her hair was now a darker mixture of blonde and brown stripes. “Can we have a quick word inside?”

I showed them through to the living room at the back, and we spaced ourselves between the collapsed sofa and wooden-framed chairs.

“This is cosy.” DC Wilson’s sidekick smiled. I didn’t catch her name.

“It’s not good news,” DC Wilson said. “The tests have come back negative.” She was referring to the cut-up clothes: my favourite jeans and Blondie T-shirt. “There’s no evidence, I’m afraid. We can’t proceed.”

“There was nothing – no DNA at all?” I thought DNA was wonder-evidence that’s dispersed everywhere and can stand the test of time, securing convictions years later.

“Forensics could only pick up your DNA. Sometimes, items that you assume are evidence don’t come up with the goods.”

I looked down at my feet in worn-out Converse trainers. They were faded blue and fraying at the edges, but at least I knew they were mine. Again I relived the horror of that moment in the hotel room when I was so out of it my own boots were unrecognisable. “I should have gone to the police sooner,” I said.

“If you had come forward earlier there might have been physical evidence, some bruising perhaps. And we could have tested your blood and urine for drugs. Even so, the conviction rate for rape is depressingly low – below ten per cent.”

“That’s rubbish,” I said. “How can it be so bad? It’s the dark ages.”

DC Wilson shifted in her seat. “It’s notoriously hard to prove as it’s often one word against another. The men always claim it was consensual and then the defence will pull the woman apart, often blaming her for being drunk. Understandably, many women can’t go through with it.”

“It’s not good enough. Something needs to be done.”

DC Wilson nodded. “Every day I feel like I personally fail women like you.”

The other officer interjected, “At least you felt you could come forward and report it. More women are doing that and that’s a good thing.”

DC Wilson shook her head. “Day in, day out, I listen to women reporting rape, assault and abuse. No wonder I’m on antidepressants.”

The sidekick stared out the window at our grey backyard.

DC Wilson continued, “The way I see it, men are no longer necessary.”

“Jan, give it a rest.”

“You’re best off without them.”

“Have you been through something similar?” I asked, sensing bitterness.

“My ex-husband – he was violent.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No man will darken my door again. It’s bad enough I have to work with them. That’s why I transferred to sexual crimes – to get my own back (legally, like), only it’s too difficult. They keep getting away with it.”

“That’s enough, Jan.”

Jan gave me a leaflet detailing support groups and helpline numbers, but I threw it away as soon as she left. I had ‘Julie Walters’ for that.

Flood’s got away with it and there’s nothing I can do, I thought, as I trudged back upstairs to my room and forced myself to call DCI Cameron.

“A white man in a white van, that’s what the psychic said,” I told him, feeling foolish, but to my surprise he seemed to take it seriously. Maybe dealing with so much shit every day makes you more inclined to believe in other better worlds, or indeed a hell for all the scumbags you catch – or worse, fail to catch.

I lay back on my bed, staring up at the ceiling’s textured landscape of icy peaks and troughs.
What happens to all the rapists and murderers that get away with it? Where do they go? Are they the kindly old men with twinkly eyes that I always smile at in the street? Are they the ones feeding birds in the park when they can no longer summon the strength to pull women into bushes? Do they sit on benches so they can watch the younger rapists do their stuff?

I could see Jack Flood shuffling across a hotel room with a Zimmer frame, then struggling to set up his camera. As an ageing artist he’d probably still have access to impressionable young fans. At eighty he could still drug some poor young art student sixty years his junior, though he might have to pause to take Viagra before struggling to manoeuvre his stiff legs up onto the bed. His hairpiece would come unstuck and he’d puff and pant and worry about his dodgy ticker and she’d be so fresh and beautiful beneath him. But it wouldn’t be enough any more – he couldn’t get off. He’d need to do more, do worse things to get the same kick. He’d move on, try asphyxiation perhaps. That poor girl wouldn’t make it and it would be my fault. I should have gone to the police the morning after. I could have stopped this, whatever it is that he does.

God, I’d love to humiliate that man – stand up in Ruby’s one day, point and say, “That man drugs women. Whatever you do, don’t accept a drink from that man.”

Hold on, that’s it, I thought, and immediately turned my room upside down, emptying boxes, my wardrobe, delving under the bed. Somewhere, I still had Flood’s business card. I emptied my desk drawers onto the floor. And there, among all the old letters, postcards, photos, cinema tickets for art-house films, festival wristbands and dozens of clear lilac beads from a broken necklace, lay his simple white business card, and on it in a retro typeface his name and contact details. I slipped it into my bag and headed downhill to college.

In the library I logged on to the Internet and began my search. The Age UK site was an instant success with its pictures of incontinence pants – almost as expensive as Calvin Klein underwear. And there I found lovely ‘Cosyfeet Richard’ slippers and walking aids and outdoor comfort wear – everything the old git could possibly need.

I Googled ‘impotency’, and a few porn websites came up but I ignored those (that’s not what he needs) and went for a genuine health site. I printed off an impotency quiz and the sections on ageing and impotence and the treatment options. Saga was full of possibilities. I requested their holiday brochure, health insurance and information about their credit card. And then I came across Care Homes.com – maybe he’d see sense and put himself away.

Back home, I dug out all the sexual health leaflets I’d been handed at the HIV clinic and gave Stannah Stairlifts a call: “It’s my grandfather; he hasn’t been upstairs for two years and the only bathroom is up there. I’d be so grateful if you could come round and show him how your wonderful product could transform his life – next Tuesday at eleven? Fantastic.”

I was buzzed up at the thought of all this stuff arriving in Spitalfields. I couldn’t afford to actually order the stuff, but still I liked to imagine there really were incontinence pants and toupees turning up at Flood’s door rather than just the catalogues and leaflets.

Mind you, Kelly’s pragmatism brought me a little way back down to earth. “What if he knows it’s you?” she said, as we sipped tea in the kitchen.

I hadn’t given it a thought. “How can he know?”

“The postmark.”

“I ordered it straight from the Internet. It’ll be fine.”

Kelly shrugged. “I guess it depends on how many girls he’s upset.”

I’d crossed a boundary. I knew that. I wasn’t living by normal rules. Anything goes, I thought. And so what, I’m leaving soon, I can escape if things get out of hand
.
But I was sad about having to leave. I didn’t know what to do next or where to go. I was dreading the thought of returning home to Bumblefuck.

I’ll head to London, but I’ve got no money – can’t think about this now – I’ve too much to do.
Already I was having second thoughts about the leaflets.
What if Flood dismisses them as junk mail?
For all I knew, he might have learnt not to open certain post.
My efforts might be wasted. I need to step up a gear.

Sod the overdraft and the student loans; I may as well put all that enforced debt to good use and actually order the stuff
. And so I did, starting with a ‘hernia truss and undergarment’ that was basically a pair of pants with built-in hernia support that ‘creates compression only where needed’. I unpacked them and photographed them and then sent the original product on to Flood.

Flood has so far received: a contraption for the infirm to steady a chair, another to help him on and off the toilet and a twelve-step guide to recovery from sex addiction
. And I also arranged for someone to call about installing an upright bath with a little door so he wouldn’t have to climb in any more. But I did stop short of sending round funeral directors. Kelly said it was too much and he’d probably phone the police.

Still, things were looking up. My work was really coming together though I wasn’t sure how the tutors or the external examiner would take it. Anyhow, I was working hard; taking it seriously and that meant I also had to hand in my notice at Saviour’s. I still needed the money of course, but I had too much to do. I was working all hours – something had to give. And besides, I thought it would be good for me to get away from the place, what with the grief hanging in the air, the guilt over Jason and the thought that Jack Flood knew where he could find me.

It would just be my luck if Flood were to turn up on my last night.
But fuck it; I’m not going to let anyone get to me, not now, no way.
Mind you, I had to bite my lip a few times especially when a demanding table of four middle-aged grouches insisted on tea. “We only offer coffee after the meal,” I said, relaying company policy, but then I let them know what a big favour I was about to do them. “Seeing as it’s my last night, I could make tea just this once if you don’t tell anyone.” I went to the kitchen to find the staff bargain basement teabags.

Jason was unimpressed. “Teabags – fucking plebs, tell them to fuck off.”

“Tonight, maybe I will.”

Ten minutes later Jason found me scooping a ball of vanilla ice cream to place next to his plated cheesecake. “I served that with raspberry coulis,” he said.

“I know, sorry – more fussy customers.”

“I need to get out of this industry. Shit hours, shit pay and no fucking respect.”

I could sympathise. Jason took pride in his work – each dish he sent out was a minor work of art but the punters always thought they knew better.

“That’s the trouble when you’re dealing with taste, it’s too personal,” I said.

“It’s personal, all right.” Jason gripped a knife like he was Jack Nicholson in
The Shining
.

As it was my last night everyone stayed late for a drink. I had hoped they would. However, I wasn’t so keen when the focus shifted to me. “We’re going to miss you, Mia,” Donna said.

“We all chipped in to get you a little something.” Mags handed me a pink gift bag, and I felt myself go red, worried that I’d hate whatever they’d bought me but it was great: a set of good-quality sable hair brushes with wooden handles.

“I hope your degree show works out for you,” Donna said.

“You need to find yourself a nice young man,” Mags said, and I cringed, thinking of the time she tried to pair me off with her nerdy son.

Vivienne gulped at a large G&T. “If you ever need to come back, you’ll be more than welcome,” she said.

“I want a kiss before you go,” Warren said.

I ignored that, and said I’d pop back in occasionally. “I’d like to check to see if there’s any news.” They all knew what I meant and we fell silent.

“I’ll drop you back,” Jason said, and I glanced round to see whether anyone twigged there might be more to it, but no one seemed to notice. Jenny’s killer was out there and it made perfect sense to get a lift if a lift was going. Even so, I knew I’d gone red.

On the way home, I silently counted white vans. Three.

“It’s just up here, isn’t it?” Jason said, as he drove past the graveyard.

“Yeah, second on the left.”

My street was quiet, no women or punters about. Jason stopped outside my house. “You’ll still be available for seances, I take it?”

“No, but I am around if you need to talk. You’ve got my number.” I considered inviting him in but thought better of it. “I’d better go.”

“Yeah,” he said too quickly.

I leant over and kissed his cheek. “See ya,” I said, and got out and shut the door.

Jason held up his hand in a static wave.

Inside, I could hear my housemates in the living room at the back. I didn’t say hello; instead I ran up the three flights of stairs to my room and rushed to the window to see Jason but he’d already gone.

Girl-with-braids was there though, leaning against the wall across the road, talking into her mobile.
Shit, my light’s on.
I turned it off, then peeked through the curtains once more.
What amount of bad luck do you need to end up out there walking the streets?

A white van – oh my God.

It slowed in front of her.

It pulled away.

I tried to catch the number plate but couldn’t.

It’s okay. She’s still there.

She put her mobile away and started to walk in the same direction as the van.

Don’t say she’s going to meet him somewhere? Fuck.

I checked my watch: 12.06. I wrote it down at the back of my sketchbook. It was all I could do, that and sketch the empty street.

Thirty-one

Dusk, a city street, a crowd, three or four deep – the people are mostly young, and fashionable, and are gathered outside a gallery. It’s Visionary in Shoreditch. I can see the letters etched across the glass doors. There’s a red rope and a few feet of red carpet ready to welcome invited guests, and to the left a skulk of photographers watching, waiting, expectant and aware that the right shot of the right person could feed their families for a month and perhaps even keep them in champagne.