Of course. Of fucking course. It’s the selfie. The selfie we took.
‘He says you were chatty. Friendly. He says you had a bit of a flirt. A hug. And then nothing further happened.’
‘But he … he grabbed me. He pushed his –’ I stop, unable to go on, unable to allow myself to remember. Not only the events that preceded this, my life now, in cafés with lawyers trying to keep me out of prison, but also because of the event itself: a man pushing himself into me, against my will. I haven’t spoken about it. Haven’t been allowed to come to terms with it.
‘I know. And we’ve got Laura and her supportive statement. But, nevertheless, I got the CCTV,’ she says, reaching into the side pocket of her laptop bag and pulling out a CD. Wordlessly, I watch as she boots up her computer, inserts it and finds the file. She turns the screen to face me.
It’s three files. The first, the selfie. I’m laughing at something, tilting my body towards Sadiq. Laura is moving away, not me, but I blindly follow her. It always strikes me when I see myself on video how small and meek I look; as though there is nothing going on in my mind when, in fact, it is busy and full. It’s strange to see.
The second frame is shorter. In the upper-right corner, in amongst the dancers and the revellers, he grabs me. I see his hands reach for me. But in the video, I look complicit. I do nothing, my face grainy and blank. He holds me while I do nothing.
And then the final frame. He reaches for my hand. My face is open. I hold his hand, doing nothing, actually extending my hand where his went, not fighting back, not trying to attract any attention whatsoever.
‘Oh shit,’ I whisper as I watch them.
‘I know,’ Sarah says.
‘That wasn’t – that wasn’t how it was.’
‘I know.’
‘He was frightening. He grabbed my hand so hard I couldn’t do anything.’
‘I know, Jo. I know. But – we’ve got a battle on our hands. Proving that. You don’t look … you don’t look frightened there.’
‘Laura will testify.’
‘Of course. Of course she will.’
‘And maybe others in the bar?’ I say, though I know it’s useless.
It looks commonplace, that stupid hug. That hand-holding. Why would anybody remember?
I keep replaying the look on my face. That blank look. Stupid Joanna, I think to myself. Pretending I was somewhere else, blanking it out, looking vacant; passive, when I should have been active.
‘I’ll appeal for any witnesses,’ Sarah says, though it sounds perfunctory, as though she’s appeasing me. She’s not looking at me, is rhythmically drumming her index finger on the table, gazing behind me.
She pushes my tea towards me and liquid slops over the side. They’ve used full-fat milk; I can see the grease in pearlescent swirls amongst the brick-coloured tea.
23
Conceal
‘You didn’t come up last night,’ Reuben says. He always says this: up, even though we’ve never lived in a place with a staircase. It’s a hangover from his old house, his childhood home, the rickety pub with its multiple narrow wooden staircases; the rooms in the roof.
We watched The Godfather (number sixty) last night. I said I’d come to bed, but I didn’t. Instead, I counted the days. How long since Before.
It’s been sixty-five days. Wasn’t that how long Jesus spent in the woods, repenting? No – wasn’t that forty, actually? I don’t know. I should ask Reuben. He’s one of those staunch atheists who gets into rows at parties about it, but he’s read the Bible. In order to reject it, he told me once. That fascinated me. That somebody would be so dedicated to their private beliefs.
I fell asleep counting the days, on the sofa. It felt safer in the living room, away from his raw, naked form. I told myself that the police were following up on the loose ends because they have no idea who did it.
In the night, dreaming of Sadiq and Imran, I awoke, thinking I heard the police knock again, but they hadn’t. As I was awake, I thought about the library keys, still in my handbag. I have been too afraid to return them. Too afraid of being caught, unable to find time alone in the offices, but also not wanting to give them back – in case I need them. It’s stupid, but it’s true.
My neck is stiff. My hand throbs, too. The dreams are fading from my memory and I feel as though I am sorting through what’s real and what’s fake, like a child with a shape sorter. Sadiq and Imran were not here, in my living room, as I thought in the middle of the night. But the rest is real.
Reuben is drying a mug. It’s his favourite mug. Trust me, I’m a social worker, it says on its side. He got it the day he qualified, from his parents. I was there on the last day of his MA. I considered him truly grown-up, that day. The way he rose to the challenges of his course, the volume of work, finding a job at the end of it – and a serious job, a job that mattered. He matured during that two-year MA, becoming – somehow – taller and more muscular. He held himself differently. I was fascinated by it, by the transition I witnessed in my boyfriend of two years. It was a transition I never made.
And now. He’s continued to change. Never just doing one thing. Going in-house at the charity. Bringing boys home, against the rules, who sleep in our spare room. He took one boy, Ozzie, all the way to Bristol, to show him he could use the train again, after a stabbing on it. Beyond the call. And then the work with our MP. It’s so recent, attending her clinics. If he knew … if everybody knew, it would surely stop.
Suddenly, the burden of him is too much to bear. The burden of his goodness. It is impossible to live with somebody who is never tempted into jealousy or greed or rash decisions. He is never prone to egotism or materialism or miserliness.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I slept downstairs. Re-watched The Godfather,’ I add, although I didn’t.
I don’t know why I say it. I want, I suppose, to discuss it. Michael Corleone’s transformation from good to evil. I am always looking for an outlet; a way to discuss the themes of my crime without talking about them directly. To discuss it and to not discuss it, all at once. As though, somehow, I might find a way of telling Reuben without really telling him.
‘Oh, I thought we’d watch part two tonight,’ Reuben says. ‘It’s number fifty-three, anyway. Godfather Two.’ He finishes drying the mug and places it neatly in the cupboard, then turns back to look at me. I have never once slept on the sofa before, away from his warm body.
‘Well, I’m sick of it now,’ I snap.
‘What’s next – number fifty-nine?’ he says. He runs a finger down the blackboard.
‘I don’t want to watch any,’ I say, looking up at him, across the room from me, thinking, Why can’t you just be bad, like me?
‘There’s something weird about you lately,’ Reuben says. His tone is soft. Almost wheedling. I look over, and his jaw’s clenched. ‘You don’t want to do anything.’
I say nothing, staring at him.
‘No,’ he continues, ‘not like you don’t want to do anything. Like you don’t want to do anything with me.’
‘Well, I do,’ I say. ‘I just …’
‘You’re never moody,’ he says to me.
Tears fill my eyes as I stare down at my phone. I open Facebook. Close it. Open Instagram. Looking for likes.
He’s right. Before all this, I was happy-go-lucky, too happy, if anything; busy ignoring my problems, prioritizing ASOS orders and having just the right amount of tea, and three square meals, and being in just the right mood, before doing anything important.
‘But you’re moody. At the moment,’ he adds.
‘I’m not,’ I say quietly, wanting him to stop talking, and wanting to tell him, all at once.
‘Seriously. You’ve been in a mood for ages,’ he says. He shuts the cupboard, irritated.
I commend his patience. Reuben would only have to be grumpy with me for an evening before I would say something.
‘Stop being mad,’ I say. It pains me to accuse him, but it’s necessary. He can’t think it’s me. He must think it’s him.