Asking for It (20 page)

‘It could take another two years for this to come to trial, you know. That wouldn’t be unusual,’ Aidan says, and my mother blanches. ‘It’s just a shame that Emma was over eighteen at the time or they could have prosecuted them for possession and distribution of paedophilic images. So much easier to prove than the issue of consent.’ (Yet another thing that I’ve done wrong.) He shakes his head while he speed-reads through the file. He drops the file on his desk. ‘But still. It’s good that the DPP has decided to prosecute. They don’t do that very often, you know. Rate of conviction is terrible low in this country.’

What’s the point then?

‘Yes,’ he laughs, and I realize that I’ve spoken out loud. ‘I guess you could say that.’ My mother’s lip starts to quiver and he says quickly, ‘But this is great news. Great news altogether. The Book of Evidence must be very strong.’

‘What’s the Book of Evidence again?’ my mother asks him. I could have told her. The lady in the Rape Crisis Centre explained it all to me when I finally went there
. It’s not your fault
, she kept telling me. My mother picked me up after the appointment, but she didn’t ask me how it went, or what they were like, or if I was feeling OK, or if I thought it had helped me. She didn’t say anything at all.

‘It’s the evidence compiled by the Gardai,’ Aidan explains to her. ‘It’s the charges made against the accused, a list of witnesses, statements, any physical evidence that is going to be introduced at the trial, that sort of thing. There would normally be forensics, of course, but since Emma refused to go for tests in the Sexual Assault Treatment Unit . . .’

That was in the very beginning when I didn’t want to be in a waiting room with other girls who had been . . .
that word.
I kept saying that I had been pretending to be asleep in the photos, that it had all been a joke. I still thought it might go away then.

‘Well, we’ve plenty of other physical evidence.’ My mother sniffs. ‘All those photos.’ Those photos are all I see. They are my thoughts and my daydreams. They are my nightmares and my memories. ‘Surely it’ll be an open-and-shut case once the judge sees those,’ she says.

‘Well,’ Aidan says, ‘we don’t know if they’ll be admitted.’

‘What?’ My mother’s head snaps up. ‘What are you talking about?’

Aidan spreads his fingers out and presses them into the dark wood. ‘This is all unprecedented, Nora. It’s a whole new world, all these camera phones and Facebook pages and whatnot. I have no idea whether the judge will allow it.’

‘Can’t you check? Can’t you check this book thing and see if the photos are in it?’

‘I’m sorry, Nora.’ He shrugs. ‘Only the prosecuting solicitor, the accused and their representation will be allowed to see it.’

‘What? But if it’s all about Emma—’

‘I’m sorry.’ Aidan cuts her off. ‘That’s just the way it is.’

I can’t be told too much, the woman at the Rape Crisis Centre explained.
We can’t talk about what evidence you will give in court,
she said.
Otherwise, they could claim I coached you about what to say.
But I can’t help but try and imagine what the court case will be like. Will it be like what they show on
Law and Order: SVU
? Will I have to swear on a Bible, stand in front of Paul and Sean and Fitzy and Dylan and their families, all of them staring at me, hating me, whispering under their breath,
slut, liar, skank, bitch, whore
?

‘You had how many drinks?’ their barrister would ask, the jury gasping when I told them. (Would there be a jury?)

‘There were reports you took MDMA, a Class A illegal substance,’ he would say (surely it would be a he, no woman would be so cruel, right?). ‘What do you say to this? You claim that Mr O’Brien gave it to you? Mr O’Brien – an upstanding citizen and exceptional athlete, who was on track to play football for Cork senior team – you’re trying to tell us that he gave you Class A drugs? Have you ever taken drugs before? Remember you’re under oath.’ (That’s what they always said on TV:
Remember you’re under oath
.) ‘We have statements from your friends that swear that they saw you taking illicit substances on numerous occasions before then. And you admit that you had sex with Mr O’Brien voluntarily? You admit that? And why did you change your story? In your initial statement to the Gardai, you said that you were pretending to be asleep, is that correct? I have that statement here. In it you say that those boys were your friends, that they would never have done that, that this was all a huge mistake. Why did you change your statement? You were afraid, you say? You were embarrassed? Is that why you changed your statement to say that you had, in fact, been raped? Were you embarrassed by what you had done? Were you ashamed of yourself once the pictures began to circulate? You seem confused to me. You say you can’t remember. Well, I put it to you that it was consensual, that you gave consent, but you can’t remember now. Does that seem fair?’

I imagine myself standing in front of a courtroom of people, saying
I don’t remember
to every question. Members of the press would be allowed to be present, the lady at the Rape Crisis Centre told me, and witnesses, but she would be there with me for support, she wouldn’t leave my side for a second. It would be hard, she admitted, and her face was grave. I would have to be brave.

And it could take another two years for the case to come to trial. I would wake every morning for the next two years, looking at my parents, worry lines scored into their faces. I have ruined their lives as well.

I grasp the armrests of the chair, feeling as if I might vomit Scottish shortbread and tea all over Aidan Heffernan’s plush carpet.

*

‘How was it?’

My mother had been parked outside the supermarket in Kilgavan, reading one of those magazines full of baking tips and knitting patterns, waiting for me to finish my therapy session. She had a takeaway cup of coffee in one hand, and a packet of pink wafer biscuits open on her lap, crumbs all over her skirt.

Terrible, I want to say. Pointless.

It wasn’t your fault
, the therapist keeps telling me.
You were the victim of a crime, it wasn’t your fault.

Doesn’t she read the papers, listen to
The Ned O’Dwyer Show
? Doesn’t she realize what Emma O’Donovan was wearing (I hear she was wearing a skirt so short that you could see her knickers . . . Wait, I heard she wasn’t even wearing any underwear . . .), that she drank too much (I heard that she had a bottle of vodka before she left her house . . . No, I heard that she had twenty tequila shots and then went on to the vodka . . .), that she had taken drugs (coke . . . pills? . . . No, I heard it was heroin, but she only smoked it . . .), that she was so fucking stupid? Too stupid to live really.

And now Emma O’Donovan wants to ruin their lives.

There was silence as I read one of the affirmations on the wall.
Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass, it’s about learning to dance in the rain.
I tried to give the therapist what she wants. ‘You’re right,’ I lied. ‘You’re right. It wasn’t my fault.’

‘I hope it’s working,’ my mother brushes the crumbs off her skirt, ‘with what we’re paying her.’ She places a hand on mine. ‘Not that we mind about the money, Emma. All we want is for you to feel better.’

All they want is for me to have been a good girl that night. All they want is for me to have been different.

‘It was grand,’ I say and she looks relieved, as if she’s marking it off on her mental to-do list. #3 – Prevent Emma from having a complete nervous breakdown.

I stare out the window as we drive home, following the meandering river that flows between the two towns, people out jogging, a dilapidated petrol station, the soggy edges of the fields. What would happen if I pulled up the handbrake? (Car flipping over. And over. Necks snapped.) Or if I grabbed the steering wheel and forced us into the way of that truck? (Crushed. Unidentifiable. Mangled.)

It would all be over. We probably wouldn’t even know what was happening.

After the second time I tried, people around town said that I didn’t really mean to do it, that I was looking for attention. I don’t think that was the reason. I think I just wanted some silence. But I don’t know.

I got an anonymous text message (how did they get my new number?) while I was in the hospital:
Try harder next time
.

‘Damn it, anyway,’ my mother says when she sees Bryan’s red Golf in the driveway. ‘I wanted to be here to welcome him home.’

She slams the car door behind her, not noticing that the end of her thin floral scarf has gotten caught. She hurries up the driveway, holding her leather handbag over her head, almost tripping over Precious on the porch.

I need to open the car door. I need to walk into the house. I need to meet my brother and ask him how his week was. I need to look normal. As I wait for this body to cooperate I watch the drops of rain dribbling down the car window. It looks like it’s crying.

The door to the O’Callaghans’ house opens. It’s Conor, staring up at the sky, grimacing at the rain as he pulls the hood of his jacket up. I try and sink down in my seat but he’s seen me, a hand held up in hello. I look through my satchel for my iPod and stick the earbuds in, pretending that I’m listening to music as I get out of the car and that I can’t hear him calling my name,
Emmie, Emmie?
as I open up the Ballinatoom GAA umbrella to hide from him, moving my satchel strap from one shoulder to the other, ignoring Precious’s miaows for attention, repeating
left leg, right leg, left leg, right leg
in my head, until I can shut the front door behind me. I lean against it, shaking.

‘Hey, Emmie,’ Bryan says as I walk into the kitchen. ‘How are you?’

He’s sitting on a stool at the island. At his feet he’s thrown his navy Adidas gym bag and a black plastic bag with a tear down the side, bed-sheets and socks seeping out. He looks thinner, bluish smudges under his eyes. He needs a haircut. He gets up to hug me, his arms wrap around me tightly, and I can’t breathe. I want to tell him to stop touching me, but it’s Bryan, it’s only Bryan. He lets go, as if he can sense my discomfort.

‘How
are
you?’ he asks again.

‘I’m fine.’

‘Did you go to school this week?’

‘Your scarf got caught in the car door,’ I tell my mother. She is pulling packets of pasta and a jar of white sauce out of the cupboards, apologizing to Bryan for not having time to make her own today.

‘What was that?’ my mother asks me, raising her voice to be heard over the whirr of the extractor fan. She heats some oil in a frying pan on the hob and throws in a couple of salmon fillets. The smell is strong. Nauseating.

(
Bet it smelled fishy!!!!!!!!
one of the comments on Facebook said.
I am an It. I am an It. I am an It.
Seventy-six people liked the comment. I made my mother go out the next day and buy vaginal cleanser in the chemist. I used it again and again and again. I wanted to be clean. I wanted to smell of nothing.)

‘Your scarf,’ I say, ‘it got caught in the door on your way in.’

‘Did you bring it with you?’

‘No.’

‘What is wrong with you? That was
expensive
, Emma. Your brother gave it to me for my birthday. For God’s . . .’ Bryan frowns at her, and she tries again. ‘OK. Can you go out and get it for me, please?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

I don’t want to explain to her about Conor.

‘What am I supposed to eat for dinner?’ I say instead. ‘Is that all you’re making?’

‘There’s a vegetarian ready-meal in the freezer,’ she says, her eyes flicking to Bryan, but he doesn’t comment, too busy texting.

‘Any plans for the weekend?’ she asks him as she gets two wine glasses from the dishwasher.

‘No.’

‘Are you not meeting up with the lads?’ She opens the fridge door and takes out a bottle of white wine, pouring herself a large glass.

‘None for me, Mam.’ Bryan looks up from his phone just as she’s about to pour wine into the second glass. ‘Thanks.’

She doesn’t offer any to me. I am not allowed to drink any more.

‘Oh, come on, Bryan.’ My mother waves the bottle at him. ‘It’s your favourite, a lovely Pinot Grigio – that wine critic in the
Sunday Times
recommended it. Just one little glass. It’ll relax you after the long drive.’

‘My favourite?’ he says. ‘I don’t even like wine.’

‘A beer? I have Heineken.’

‘No, honestly, I’m grand, Mam.’

‘What about a Coors? Or a Budweiser?’

‘No,’ Bryan says firmly. ‘I’m grand, I said.’

A key scraping in the front door, my father muttering under his breath
that blasted cat
, wiping his shoes on the mat. ‘Bryan?’ he calls out. My mother puts the wine bottle back in the fridge, hiding her glass behind the kettle. She picks up the wooden spoon and stirs the jar of white sauce into the pasta.

‘In here, Dad.’

My father shakes the wet out of his hair, walking from the door to where we are sitting in three strides. He stands between Bryan and me, his back to me, one hand on Bryan’s shoulder, asking him question after question,
how’s college, have you thought about getting back on the football team, how did that exam go, how are the lads in the house, do you have enough money, I see you brought your washing home, good lad, your mother will take care of that for you.

‘Come on, son.’ He walks away, gesturing at Bryan to follow him. ‘The match is about to start.’

‘That’s a wonderful idea,’ my mother says. ‘I love it when my boys spend some quality time together.’

Bryan doesn’t get up. ‘What about Emma?’

My father’s face pinches at my name, then he smooths it away so quickly I wonder if I’ve only imagined it. ‘What about Emma?’ His words are careful, exact.

‘You haven’t said a word to her since you arrived home. Aren’t you going to ask how her day went?’ Bryan looks at me. ‘You didn’t go to school, did you?’

‘She had to meet her therapist today,’ my mother says, ignoring my father’s tight expression at the word
therapist
.