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‘Then you must be the unhappiest of us all.’ Their eyes locked for a moment. Without elaborating, he changed the subject. ‘So, I have a new one for you.’
She groaned.
‘What do you have if three lawyers are buried up to their necks in cement?’
‘I don’t know. What do I have?’
‘Not enough cement.’
She shook her head, a smile curling at the corner of her lips.
‘Ah, they’re getting better!’ he said.
‘No. I just haven’t heard one in a while.’
Safran laughed and raised his drink. ‘Here’s to you, Zar – boldly going where no high-flying, sane lawyer has ever gone before.’
She raised her glass, threw back her head and drank.
Artemis House on Whitechapel Road was cramped but comfortable and the streets outside echoed with charm. There were no anodyne courtyards teeming with suits, no sand-blasted buildings that gleamed on high. The trust-fund kids in the modern block round the corner were long scared off by the social housing quota. East London was, Zara wryly noted, as multicultural and insular as ever.
Her office was on the fourth floor of a boxy grey building with stark pebbledash walls and seven storeys of uniformly grimy windows. Her fibreboard desk with its oak veneer sat in exactly the wrong spot to catch a breeze in the summer and any heat in the winter. She had tried to move it once but found she could no longer open her office door.
She hunched over her weathered keyboard, arranging words, then rearranging them. Part of her role as an independent sexual violence advisor was filtering out the complicated language that had so long served as her arsenal – not only the legalese but the theatrics and rhetoric. There was no need for it here. Her role at the sexual assault referral centre, or SARC, was to support rape victims and to present the facts clearly and comprehensively so they could be knitted together in language that was easy to digest. Her team worked tirelessly to arch the gap between right and wrong, between the spoken truth and that which lay beneath it. The difference they made was visible, tangible and repeatedly affirmed that Zara had made the right decision in leaving Bedford Row.
Despite this assurance, however, she found it hard to focus. She did good work – she knew that – but her efforts seemed insipidly grey next to those around her, a ragtag group of lawyers, doctors, interpreters and volunteers. Their dedication glowed bright in its quest for truth, flowed tirelessly in the battle for justice. Their lunchtime debates were loud and electric, their collective passion formidable in its strength. In comparison her efforts felt listless and weak, and there was no room for apathy here. She had moved three miles from chambers and found herself in the real East End, a place in which sentiment and emotion were unvarnished by decorum. You couldn’t coast here. There was no shield of bureaucracy, no room for bluff or bluster. Here, there was nothing behind which to hide.
Zara read over the words on the screen, her fingers immobile above the keys. She edited the final line of the letter and saved it to the network. Just as she closed the file, she heard a knock on her door.
Stuart Cook, the centre’s founder, walked in and placed a thin blue folder on her desk. He pulled back a chair and sat down opposite. Despite his unruly blond hair and an eye that looked slightly to the left of where he aimed it, Stuart was a handsome man. At thirty-nine, he had an old-money pedigree and an unwavering desire to help the weak. Those more cynical than he accused him of having a saviour complex but he paid this no attention. He knew his team made a difference to people’s lives and it was only this that mattered. He had met Zara at a conference on diversity and the law, and when she quit he was the first knocking on her door.
He gestured now to the file on her desk. ‘Do you think you can take a look at this for the San Telmo case? Just see if there’s anything to worry about.’
Zara flicked through the file. ‘Of course. When do you need it by?’
He smiled impishly. ‘This afternoon.’
Zara whistled, low and soft. ‘Okay, but I’m going to need coffee.’
‘What am I? The intern?’
She smiled. ‘All I’m saying is I’m going to need coffee.’
‘Fine.’ Stuart stood and tucked the chair beneath the desk. ‘You’re lucky you’re good.’
‘I’m good because I’m good.’
Stuart chuckled and left with thanks. A second later, he stuck his head back in. ‘I forgot to mention: Lisa from the Paddington SARC called. I know you’re not in the pit today but do you think you can take a case? The client is closer to us than them.’
‘Yes, that should be fine.’
‘Great. She – Jodie Wolfe – is coming in to see you at eleven.’
Zara glanced at her watch. ‘Do you know anything about the case?’
Stuart shook his head. ‘Abigail’s sorted it with security and booked the Lincoln meeting room. That’s all I know – sorry.’
‘Okay, thanks. I’ll go over now if it’s free.’ She gestured at the newest pile of paper on her desk. ‘This has got to the tipping point.’
Carefully, she gathered an armful of folders and balanced her laptop on top. Adding a box of tissues to the pile, she gingerly walked to ‘the pit’. This was the central nervous system of Artemis House, the hub in which all clients were received and assigned a caseworker. It was painted a pale yellow – ‘summer meadow’ it had said on the tin – with soft lighting and pastel furnishings. Pictures of lilies and sacks of brightly coloured Indian spices hung on the wall in a not wholly successful attempt to instil a sense of comfort. The air was warm and had the soporific feel of heating left on too long.
Artemis House held not only the sexual assault referral centre but also the Whitechapel Road Legal Centre, both founded with family money. Seven years in, they were beginning to show their lack of funds. The carpet, once a comforting cream, was now a murky beige and the wallpaper curled at the seams. There was a peaty, damp smell in the winter and an overbearing stuffiness in the summer. Still, Zara’s colleagues worked tirelessly and cheerfully. Some, like she, had traded better pay and conditions for something more meaningful.
Zara manoeuvred her way to the Lincoln meeting room, a tiny square carved into a corner of the pit. She carefully set down her armful and divided the folders into different piles: one for cases that had stalled, one for cases that needed action, and another for cases just starting. There she placed Stuart’s latest addition, making a total of twelve ongoing cases. She methodically sorted through each piece of paper, either filing it in a folder or scanning and binning it. She, like most lawyers, hated throwing things away.
She was still sorting through files when half an hour later she heard a gentle knock on the door. She glanced up, taking just a beat too long to respond. ‘May I help you?’
The girl nodded. ‘Yes, I’m Jodie Wolfe. I have an appointment?’
‘Please come in.’ Zara gestured to the sofa, its blue fabric torn in one corner, exposing yellow foam underneath.
The girl said something unintelligible, paused, then tried again. ‘Can I close the door?’
‘Of course.’ Zara’s tone was consciously casual.
The girl lumbered to the sofa and sat carefully down while Zara tried not to stare.
Jodie’s right eye was all but hidden by a sac of excess skin hanging from her forehead. Her nose, unnaturally small in height, sat above a set of puffy lips and her chin slid off her jawline in heavy folds of skin.
‘It’s okay,’ misshapen words from her misshapen mouth. ‘I’m used to it.’ Dressed in a black hoodie and formless blue jeans, she sat awkwardly on the sofa.
Zara felt a heavy tug of pity, like one might feel for a bird with a broken wing. She took a seat opposite and spoke evenly, not wanting to infantilise her. ‘Jodie, let’s start with why you’re here.’
The girl wiped a corner of her mouth. ‘Okay but, please, if you don’t understand something I say, please ask me to repeat it.’ She pointed at her face. ‘Sometimes it’s difficult to form the words.’
‘Thank you, I will.’ Zara reached for her notepad. ‘Take your time.’
The girl was quiet for a moment. Then, in a voice that was soft and papery, said, ‘Five days ago, I was raped.’
Zara’s expression was inscrutable.
Jodie searched for a reaction. ‘You don’t believe me,’ she said, more a statement than a question.
Zara frowned. ‘Is there a reason I shouldn’t?’
The girl curled her hands into fists. ‘No,’ she replied.
‘Then I believe you.’ Zara watched the tension ease. ‘Can I ask how old you are?’
‘Sixteen.’
‘Have you spoken to anyone about this?’
‘Just my mum.’ She shifted in her seat. ‘I haven’t told the police.’
Zara nodded. ‘You don’t have to make that decision now. What we can do is take some evidence and send it to the police later if you decide you want to. We will need to take some details but you don’t have to tell me everything.’
Jodie pulled at the cuffs of her sleeves and wrapped them around her fingers. ‘I’d like to. I think I might need to.’
Zara studied the girl’s face. ‘I understand,’ she said, knowing that nerve was like a violin string: tautest just before it broke. If Jodie didn’t speak now, she may never find the courage. She allowed her to start when ready, knowing that victims should set their own pace and use pause and silence to fortify strength.
Jodie began to speak, her voice pulled thin by nerves, ‘It was Thursday just gone. I was at a party. My first ever one. My mum thought I was staying at my friend Nina’s house. She’s basically the daughter Mum wished she had.’ There was no bitterness in Jodie’s tone, just a quiet sadness.
‘Nina made me wear these low-rise jeans and I just felt so stupid. She wanted to put lipstick on me but I said no. I didn’t want anyone to see that I was … trying.’ Jodie squirmed with embarrassment. ‘We arrived just after ten. I remember because Nina said any earlier and we’d look desperate. The music was so loud. Nina’s always found it easy to make friends. I’ve never known why she chose me to be close to. I didn’t want to tag along with her all evening – she’s told me off about that before – so I tried to talk to a few people.’ Jodie met Zara’s gaze. ‘Do you know how hard that is?’
Zara thought of all the corporate parties she had attended alone; how keen she had been for a friend – but then she looked at Jodie’s startling face and saw that her answer was, ‘no’. Actually, she didn’t know how hard it was.
Jodie continued, ‘Nina was dancing with this guy, all close. I couldn’t face the party without her, so I went outside to the park round the back.’ She paused. ‘I heard him before I saw him. His footsteps were unsteady from drinking. Amir Rabbani. He—he’s got these light eyes that everyone loves. He’s the only boy who hasn’t fallen for Nina.’
Zara noted the glazed look in Jodie’s eyes, the events of that night rendered vivid in her mind.
Jodie swallowed. ‘He came and sat next to me and looked me in the eye, which boys never do unless they’re shouting ugly things at me.’ She gave a plaintive smile. ‘He reached out and traced one of my nails with his finger and I remember thinking at least my hands are normal. Thank you, God, for making my hands normal.’ Jodie made a strangled sound: part cry and part scoff, embarrassed by her naivety. ‘He said I should wear lace more often because it makes me look pretty and—’. Her gaze dipped low. ‘I believed him.’
Jodie reached for a tissue but didn’t use it, twisting it in her hands instead. ‘He said, “I know you won’t believe me but you have beautiful lips and whenever I see you, I wonder what it would be like to kiss you.”’ Jodie paused to steady her voice. ‘He asked if I would go somewhere secret with him so he could find out what it was like. I’ve never known what it’s like to be beautiful but in that moment I got a taste and …’ Jodie’s eyes brimmed with tears. ‘I followed him.’ She blinked them back through the sting of shame.
Zara smarted as she watched, dismayed that Jodie had been made to feel that way: to believe that her value as a young woman lay in being desirable, but that to desire was somehow evil.
Jodie kneaded the tissue in her fingers. ‘He led me through the estate to an empty building. I was scared because there were cobwebs everywhere but he told me not to worry. He took me upstairs. We were looking out the window when …’ Jodie flushed. ‘He asked me what my breasts were like. I remember feeling light-headed, like I could hear my own heart beating. Then he said, “I ain’t gonna touch ’em if they’re ugly like the rest of you.”’ Jodie’s voice cracked just a little – a hairline fracture hiding vast injury.
Zara watched her struggle with the weight of her words and try for a way to carry them, as if switching one for another or rounding a certain vowel may somehow ease her horror.
Jodie’s voice grew a semitone higher, the tissue now balled in her fist. ‘Before I could react, his friends came out of the room next door. Hassan said, “This is what you bring us?” and Amir said he chose me because I wouldn’t tell anyone. Hassan said, “Yeah, neither would a dog.”’
Jodie gripped her knee, each finger pressing a little black pool in the fabric of her jeans. Her left foot tap-tapped on the floor as if working to a secret beat. ‘Amir said, “She’s got a pussy, don’t she?” and told me to get on my knees. I didn’t understand what was happening. I said no. He tried to persuade me but I kept saying no …’ Jodie exhaled sharply, her mouth forming a small O as if she were blowing on tea. ‘He—he told his friends to hold me.’
Zara blinked. ‘How many were there?’ she asked softly.
Jodie shifted in her seat. ‘Four. Amir and Hassan and Mo and Farid.’
Zara frowned. ‘Do you know their surnames?’
‘Yes. Amir Rabbani, Hassan Tanweer, Mohammed Ahmed and Farid Khan.’
Zara stiffened. A bead of sweat trickled down the small of her back. Four Muslim boys. Four Muslim boys had raped a disabled white girl.
‘I—’ Jodie faltered. ‘I wasn’t going to tell anyone because …’ her voice trailed off.
‘You can tell me.’ Zara reached out and touched the girl’s hand. It was an awkward gesture but it seemed to soothe her.
‘Because if a month ago, you had told me that any one of those boys wanted me, I would have thought it was a dream come true.’ Hot tears of humiliation pooled in her eyes. ‘Please don’t tell anyone I said that.’
A flush of pity bloomed on Zara’s cheeks. ‘I won’t,’ she promised.
Jodie pushed her palms beneath her thighs to stop her hands from shaking. ‘Farid said he wasn’t going to touch a freak like me so Hassan grabbed me and pushed me against the wall. He’s so small, I thought I could fight him but he was like an animal.’ Jodie took a short, sharp breath as if it might stifle her tears. ‘Amir said he would hurt me if I bit him and then he … he put himself in my mouth.’ Jodie’s lips curled in livid disgust. ‘He grabbed my hair and used it to move my head. I gagged and he pulled out. He said he didn’t want me to throw up all over him and …’ A sob rose from her chest and she held it in her mouth with a knuckle. ‘He finished himself off over me.’
Zara’s features were neutral despite the churning she felt inside. ‘What were the others doing?’ she asked gently.
Jodie shook with the effort of a laboured breath. ‘I—I couldn’t see. They were behind me.’ She clasped her hands together in her lap. ‘Hassan pushed me and I fell to the ground. He tore my top and undid my jeans and then … he started.’ Jodie’s features buckled in anguish. ‘He—he came on my face, like Amir.’
Zara closed her eyes for a moment, stemming the weakness knotting in her throat.
Jodie’s words came faster now, as if she needed them said before they broke inside. ‘Hassan turned to Mo and said, “she’s all yours”. Mo said he didn’t want to but they started calling him names and saying he wasn’t man enough, so … he did it too.’ Jodie’s voice cracked, giving it a strange, abrasive texture. ‘Mo has sat next to me in class before. He’s helped me, been kind to me. I begged him to stop, but he didn’t.’ She swallowed a sob, needing to get through this.
Zara listened as the words from Jodie’s mouth fell like black spiders, crawling over her skin and making her recoil. The sensation unnerved her. Part of Zara’s talent as a caseworker was her ability to remain composed, almost dispassionate, in the face of the painful stories told between these walls. Today, the buffer was breached.
‘Jodie.’ Zara swallowed hard to loosen the words. ‘I am so, so sorry for what you went through.’ Her words, though earnest, rang hollow, echoing in a chamber of horror. ‘We’re nearly there. Can you tell me what happened after?’
‘They just left me there.’ Her words held a note of wonder. ‘I wiped everything off me using some old curtains. I tucked my top into my jeans so it wouldn’t keep splitting open and then I walked home.’
‘Did you see anyone on the way? Any passing cars or revellers from the party?’
Jodie shook her head. ‘I stayed off the path. I didn’t want to be seen.’
‘Were you injured at all? Bleeding?’
‘No.’ Jodie took a steady breath, appeased by the simplicity of this back and forth questioning.
‘What time was it when you got home?’
‘I walked for fifteen minutes so around twelve I think.’
‘Did you tell your mum?’
‘Not that night. She was in bed and I let myself in. I went to my bedroom and then I cleaned myself up.’ Jodie pointed at her backpack, a bare and practical navy so she couldn’t be teased for signs of personality. ‘I’ve brought the clothes I was wearing.’
‘Washed?’
‘No. I didn’t want to be stupid like you see on TV.’
Zara blinked. ‘Jodie, nothing you did or didn’t do could be called stupid. Please understand that.’
The girl gathered her perfectly formed hands in her lap but gave no sign of agreement.
‘Did you tell Nina or anyone else what happened?’
‘How could I?’ Jodie’s voice was soft but bitter. ‘How could I tell her that a boy who doesn’t even want her wanted me? How would she ever believe that?’
Zara looked up from her notes. ‘Hey,’ she said, drawing Jodie’s gaze from her lap. ‘No matter what happens, I want you to know that I believe you.’ Zara studied her for a moment, noting the dozen different ways in which she kept control: the tensing of her jowls and the squaring of her jaw, the curl of her fists and feet flattened on the floor. ‘I believe you,’ she repeated.
