Butterfly (33 page)

‘Had you been drinking alcohol
that night?’ the defence barrister asks.

‘Yes. We’d been to a party, and
I’d had three glasses of wine.’

‘Three glasses of wine,’ he
repeats, pacing slowly in front of his table. ‘So, it’s possible
you were drunk and don’t remember the exact course of events as
they actually happened?’

I clear my throat. ‘No, I do
remember clearly.’

‘It’s not possible to be drunk
on three glasses of wine?’

‘Well, yes, but—’

‘Thank you. Had you eaten
anything that day?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did you have to eat before
you consumed the alcohol?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘So, it’s entirely possible you
didn’t actually eat, and the alcohol affected you more than it
usually would, and you were, in fact, drunk, isn’t it?’

‘No.’ I hold onto the front of
the witness box to stop the dizziness from engulfing me.

The defence barrister stares at
me for a moment, hoping to unnerve me. ‘I put it to you, Miss
Elliot, that you are only now making an allegation of rape because
you’re upset and angry that the defendant ended his relationship
with you, aren’t you?’

‘No!’ I gasp, wiping my clammy
palms on my trousers.

‘If the alleged rape did happen
as you say, why didn’t you report it for a year and a half?’

‘I was scared and traumatized,
and I didn’t want to relive it. I didn’t want anyone to know what
had happened, because I was ashamed and blamed myself.’

‘You blamed yourself because
it’s not true, is it? It’s a complete fabrication, and you feel
guilty for telling lies?’

‘No. It is true.’

‘It’s your word against the
defendant’s, though, isn’t it, Miss Elliot?’

‘Yes.’

‘And why should we believe your
version?’

‘Because it’s the truth.’

He sucks in a breath. ‘The
truth?’ he says in a tone that clearly implies he doesn’t believe
it.

‘The defendant is a lawyer and
an upstanding member of the community with no prior criminal
record. Who are you, Miss Elliot?’

‘Objection, Your Honour!’ The
prosecutor rises.

‘I’m going to allow you a little
leeway with this.’ The judge nods at the defence barrister. ‘But
don’t overstep the mark here.’

He looks at me. ‘Where do you
work?’

‘At Imogen’s Coffee Shop.’

‘You work in a coffee shop.’ He
raises his eyebrows, as if it’s the worst job in the world, and
maybe it is. To him.

‘I’m the manager,’ I add.

‘Tell us a bit about your
background. Any college education, university?’

‘No.’

‘Move along,’ the judge says to
the defence barrister, who pauses for a moment before looking down
at his notes.

‘How many sexual partners have
you had, Miss Elliot?’

‘Objection, Your Honour!’ The
prosecutor is exasperated now.

‘I’m losing patience with you,’
the judge says to the defence barrister, who looks like he couldn’t
care less.

‘You employ a man named Ben
Hardy, with whom you are now involved in a relationship, at the
coffee shop, is that correct?’ He tries a different question when
he can’t try and paint me as promiscuous.

I glance over at Ben. We
expected this. And maybe I should thank Theo’s dad for showing us
his hand before we got to court.

Ben’s smile has evaporated, but
the silent message in his face is the same.
You’re doing great.
I love you. Be strong.

‘Answer the question, please,
Miss Elliot,’ the defence barrister presses me.

‘Yes.’

‘Yes, what?’

A bubbling anger rages inside,
and I’m not prepared to make this easy for him. ‘Yes to the
question you just asked,’ I say as calmly as I can manage.

Some of the people in the jury
titter, but I daren’t look at them.

‘You employ him in your coffee
shop, and he’s currently your boyfriend, yes?’

‘Objection! Already asked and
answered!’ The prosecution barrister stands. ‘This line of
questioning is irrelevant.’

The judge waves his pen
impatiently at the defence barrister. ‘Move along. The witness has
already answered.’

‘I’m just making it clear to the
jury,’ he says.

‘I think it’s pretty clear by
now,’ the judge says in a bored voice. ‘Move on.’

‘Did you know Mr Hardy has a
criminal conviction for involuntary manslaughter?’

Someone on the jury gasps, and I
try to drown it out. I gather every ounce of courage I have.

‘I’m sorry, your question is a
little unclear.’ I say it with a calmness I don’t feel. ‘Do you
mean did I know this when the defendant raped me, or
afterwards?’

The prosecutor stands again.
‘Objection! Mr Hardy’s relationship with the witness has no
relevance to the rape.’

‘I’ll allow it, briefly,’ the
judge says, glaring at the defence barrister. ‘And you’d better
make it very brief.’

‘How long have you been involved
with Mr Hardy?’ the defence barrister asks.

The prosecution objects again,
and the judge overrules.

‘Six months.’ I say.

‘And you’re aware that Mr Hardy
is a convicted killer?’ he asks.

The prosecutor is on his feet
again. ‘Objection! Mr Hardy and Miss Elliot are not on trial here,
and this has no relevance to the case.’

‘It goes to the credibility of
the witness, Your Honour,’ the defence barrister insists.

‘You’re walking a thin line.’
The judge narrows his eyes at the defence barrister. ‘I won’t allow
this line of questioning anymore. Move on.’

Having made his point to
discredit me, the defence barrister says, ‘No further questions,’
and sits down.

‘Any redirect?’ the judge asks
the prosecutor.

‘Yes, Your Honour.’ He asks me a
few questions, trying to counterclaim some points the defence has
raised.

The judge turns to me. ‘Thank
you, Miss Elliot. You’re excused.’

I take a breath to compose
myself then stand up, lightheaded and wobbly. Maybe it’s the lack
of food but more likely a build up of adrenaline, and I don’t
realize how much I’m shaking until I try to walk on legs that are
like feathers. It takes every effort to put one foot in front of
the other as I head towards Ben, who’s waiting with that proud
smile on his face, mouthing the words ‘I love you’. The eyes of the
courtroom are burning into me. I try to hide and control the shakes
coursing through me as I walk, but by the time I reach Ben, I don’t
care. Let them see. I hold my head up high, proud of myself for
doing the right thing. The most difficult thing I’ve ever done in
my life.

Ben takes my hand and leads me
outside again. ‘Are you OK?’

‘I think so.’ I let his words
wash over me. The same words he’s been asking me constantly since I
poured out my heart to him all those months ago.

‘You were so calm and composed
up there. I’m so proud of you.’ He slides his arm round my shoulder
as we walk, rubbing it to try to calm me down.

‘Really? I was worried when they
kept going on about you and me.’

He kisses me on the head as we
walk. ‘I don’t think the jury fell for the lies he was trying to
portray.’

I allow myself a huge smile of
joy because I have a feeling Theo’s going exactly where he
belongs.

But it’s more than that. I’ve
just released the last fragment of hold he has over my life. I have
finally cleansed him from my body, my soul, and my mind.

From now on, I’m free.

64

BEN

It’s too early to celebrate yet,
even if I am convinced about the outcome of the trial. It’s not
just the trial we should celebrate, though. Grace and I need to
celebrate us, too. I’m hoping the jury will decide the verdict
tomorrow and it will finally be over. Then we can get back to
starting the rest of our lives together.

I make us a toasted cheese and
tomato sandwich, since neither of us has much of an appetite. Grace
grabs two bottles of beer out of the fridge as her doorbell rings.
We look at each other for a second. We’re not expecting anyone, and
the last time someone came uninvited it was Edward.

‘I’ll get it.’ I stride towards
the door and look through the peephole. Grace appears in the
kitchen doorway, biting her thumbnail. ‘It’s Rebecca,’ I say over
my shoulder.

Grace’s face relaxes with
relief, and I pull the door open.

‘Hi.’ Rebecca stands on the
doorway looking frail and tiny, as if a strong wind could knock her
off her feet. My heart breaks for her. I know she’s got a long,
painful road ahead of her, and I’d do anything I could to wave a
magic wand and make it all right again.

But I can’t. I can only do what
I’ve learnt how to since Mia.

I step back to give Rebecca
space as Grace hugs her and brings her into the kitchen. ‘Do you
want something to eat?’ Grace asks.

She shakes her head. ‘I can’t
eat until this is over.’

‘Hopefully they’ll finish the
summing up tomorrow, and the jury will go out to deliberate,’ Grace
says.

‘Shall I leave you two alone?’ I
hover in the doorway.

Grace stands at my side and
takes my hand. ‘This is Ben. He’s the counsellor I told you about
who helped me. He can help you.’

‘OK,’ Rebecca whispers, nodding
slightly. ‘After the trial’s over.’

I pull a card out of my jeans
pocket. ‘This is a phone number for the Women’s Centre. There are
several rape crisis counsellors there, so you don’t have to see
me.’

‘It will help you, Rebecca. It
really will,’ Grace says.

‘I know it will, because I read
this.’ Rebecca pulls Grace’s journal from her bag and holds it out
to her. ‘I can’t tell you how much reading this made me feel like
what I was going through is normal. It’s given me the courage and
inspiration to get help with moving on.’

Grace steps forwards and
envelops Rebecca in a hug. Rebecca rests her head on Grace’s
shoulder. ‘I’m so glad it helped you.’

‘How did the trial go
today?’

‘It was tough, but it’s over
now. We can both put it behind us.’

‘Listen, are you sure you don’t
want something to eat?’ I ask Rebecca. ‘I can make you something,
no problem.’

‘No. My mum’s waiting for me in
the car downstairs. I just wanted to give you the journal back and
find out what happened today. And to say thank you.’ She gives
Grace a ghost of a smile, then turns to me. ‘I’ll ring and make an
appointment.’

~~~~

The full moon filters through
the gap in the curtains in Grace’s bedroom, casting a shadow of
patterns across our naked skin. She’s nestled in the crook of my
arm as I trace random shapes on her hip with my fingertips.

‘Why didn’t you tell your
parents what really happened?’ she asks softly.

‘Because I made a promise to
Mia.’ I run my fingers through her hair, mesmerising myself with
the silky strands. ‘They hated me. They’d just lost their daughter,
and then I go and do that. After I was arrested, they told me they
never wanted to see me again.’

‘But maybe they would’ve
understood why and how it happened. Maybe they wouldn’t have felt
like that.’

‘Maybe, but I couldn’t do it to
her. Not after everything she’d been through.’

‘And the jury… maybe they
would’ve understood the real reasons for what happened that night.
You could’ve got a lesser sentence. Been acquitted, even.’

‘Who knows?’

She splays her hand on my abs,
which tighten under her delicious touch. ‘You could’ve possibly
saved yourself a prison sentence if you hadn’t kept her
secret.’

I kiss her on the lips so I
don’t have to answer her.

‘Why don’t you tell your parents
now? Tell them the truth?’ She searches my face. ‘Maybe it’s a way
to get their forgiveness, too.’

I don’t say anything, because
it’s too late now. I’m finally beginning to realize that it
is
my past. Too late to change it, and too late to analyze
everything that happened as I’ve done a million times before.

It’s not too late to move on,
though.

‘Will you do it?’ she asks.
‘Just call them. Tell them the truth?’

I hesitate. I know she’s right.
It’s time to just let go.

‘For me?’ She bites her lip in
that oh-so-sexy-cute way that drives me crazy. I pull her on top of
me and stroke up and down the curve of her spine. God, I love this
woman with a passion so fierce it’s almost frightening. I can do
anything now as long as she’s with me. As long as she believes in
me. She’s taught me so much about strength and courage, love and
forgiveness.

And I can’t refuse her anything.
Whatever she wants, I’ll give her the world.

‘Yes. I’ll explain everything,
but I don’t think I should do it over the phone. This Sunday I’ll
go up to London and see them.’ I slide my fingers through hers.
‘Will you come with me?’

‘Of course. I’ll always be here
for you, Ben.’ She’s quiet for a while, thinking, studying my hand
in hers. ‘I’ve made a decision…I’m going to publish my journal.’
She twists in my arms and looks up at me. ‘Do you remember when you
gave me the book by that rape survivor?’

‘Yes.’

‘It gave me hope and
inspiration. Writing the journal was a cathartic part of my
recovery process, and Rebecca said it helped her. That’s what I
want it to be used for—to help other women in the same
situation.’

‘I think it’s a fantastic idea.
You should do it. Sharing your story and showing women your
strength and resilience may be the inspiration they need to get
through things. It’s a way to turn the tragedy into something
meaningful.’

‘Really?’ She bites her lip, and
something stirs down south. I try to ignore it. Surely, it’s not
appropriate to want to make love to her while she’s talking about
her journal, considering what it contains.

‘Absolutely. I definitely think
it will help others. And you said you always wanted to write a
book. Maybe this is just the start of fulfilling the dream you
thought was lost.’ I shift underneath her.