Take It Back

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.

Fresh tears welled in Jodie’s eyes. ‘So you will help me?’

‘Yes, I will help you.’ Zara watched her wilt with relief. ‘Is there anything else I need to know? Anyone else who was involved?’

‘No. That’s everything.’

Zara drew two lines beneath her notes. She watched Jodie dab at her dripping nose and wondered how a jury would view her. A rape trial usually hinged on power – one person stripping it from another – but in this case, it would be difficult not to consider desire. Zara believed Jodie – had seen too much devious behaviour, met too many appalling men to doubt the young girl’s story – but felt a deep unease at the thought of her facing a jury. Could they imagine four young men wanting to have sex with Jodie even in some twisted gameplay?

Zara reached for her box of tissues and handed a fresh piece to Jodie.

She took it with a quivering hand. ‘What happens now?’

Zara’s lips drew a tight line, a grimace in the guise of a smile. ‘We would like to conduct a medical exam. All our doctors here are female. After that, if you’re ready, we can help you make a formal statement with the police.’

Jodie blanched. ‘Can we go to the police tomorrow? I want to think about it for one more night.’

‘Of course,’ said Zara gently. ‘We can do the exam, store the samples and see how you feel.’

Jodie exhaled. ‘Thank you for being on my side,’ she said, each few syllables halting before the next.

Zara offered a cursory nod.

‘No, I mean it.’ Jodie hesitated. ‘I told you it was hard to be at that party alone. The truth is it’s hard to be anywhere – everywhere – alone.’

Zara leaned forward. ‘You won’t be alone in this – not for any of it.’ She gestured to the door. ‘If you want me in the exam room, I can sit with you.’

Jodie considered this but then shook her head. ‘I’ll be okay.’

Zara led her to the exam room and left her with the forensic medical examiner, a brisk but matronly Scotswoman who ushered Jodie inside. Zara shut the door with a queasy unrest. A small, delinquent part of her hoped that Jodie would change her mind, that she would not subject herself to the disruptive, corrosive justice system that so often left victims bruised. The law stress-tested every piece of evidence and that included the victim – probing, pushing and even bullying until the gaps became apparent.

Beneath her concern, however, she knew that Jodie needed to pursue this. A horrifying thing had happened to her and only the arm of the law could scrub the stain clean and serve justice.

Erin Quinto watched the strange little girl walk to the exit with Zara, her metronomic shuffle almost jaunty in its motion. With unheard words, they said goodbye and Zara headed back to the pit.

‘What’s her story?’ asked Erin.

Zara sighed. ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’

‘Oh yeah, I’m just a babe in the woods, me.’ Erin laughed, deep and throaty, and followed Zara to her office. Inside, she reached into her jacket and pulled out a manila file. ‘I’ve got something for you guys.’ She placed it on the desk. ‘Can you give this to Stuart when he’s back? It’s the San Telmo financials he was after.’

Zara raised a brow. ‘Of course. I don’t want to know how you got them but thank you.’ She watched Erin, her angular features and lanky limbs clearly poised in thought. With her cropped hair, leather jacket and big dark eyes, she looked like a comic book anti-hero: an anime goth designed to drive a certain type of man wild.

Fittingly, beneath the dark hair and piercings, she was as wily as a snake. It was why Stuart had hired her as an investigator to freelance for Artemis House. It was five years ago and he was in the midst of his first big battle: Lisa Cox against Zifer Pharmaceuticals. The company’s sparkling new epilepsy drug, Koriol, had just hit the market. Alas, no one was told that depression was a rare but possible side effect. When Lisa Cox stepped in front of a moving train, she miraculously escaped without injury. The media went wild, Big Pharma went on the defensive and the Medicine Regulatory Authority denied all wrongdoing. When Lisa decided to sue, she was smeared as a money-hungry whore with little regard for herself or the three children she would have left behind. Lisa lost her job and almost lost her home. She was an inch from surrender when Erin – young, laconic, beautiful – strode into the Whitechapel Road Legal Centre and handed Stuart a file. Inside were memos between regulatory officials and Zifer acknowledging the drug’s dangerous side effects. Stuart couldn’t use the documents legally but a well-timed leak prompted an investigation that not only exonerated Lisa but made her a very wealthy woman.

Stuart immediately offered the mysterious young Erin a job. She refused to take it and instead offered her freelance services pro bono, and now here she was pushing classified documents across a cheap fibreboard desk.

Zara placed the folder in her bottom-right drawer, the place she reserved for sensitive material.

Erin watched her, then asked, ‘Seriously, what’s the girl’s story?’

Zara locked her drawer and set down the key. In a measured tone, she relayed Jodie’s story, recalling the horrors of the story she’d told.

When Zara finished, Erin leaned forward, elbows on the desk, and said, ‘Tell me what you need me to do.’

Zara handed her a piece of paper. ‘Find out everything you can about these boys.’

Erin scanned the handwritten note. ‘Wait.’ She looked up. ‘They’re Muslim?’

‘Yes.’

‘Jesus. You’re telling me that four Muslim boys raped a disabled white classmate?’ Erin whistled softly. ‘The tabloids will have a field day when this gets out – not to mention the Anglican Defence League. Those right-wing nutjobs will besiege anyone that’s brown.’

Zara nodded tensely. ‘That’s a concern, but we can’t be distracted by what could happen or might happen. We need to approach this with a clear head.’

Erin’s features knotted in doubt. She smoothed the note on the desk and traced a finger across the four names. ‘What if I tried talking to one of them?’

Zara held up a hand. ‘No, don’t do that. Leave it to the police.’

‘Screw the police.’ Erin’s voice was heavy with scorn. ‘You think they’re going to get to the heart of this?’ She didn’t pause for an answer. ‘Look, the way I see it, these boys did the crime or they didn’t. Either way, the police are going to fuck it up. You think they can get more information out of these bastards?’

Zara thought for a moment. ‘Fine,’ she ceded. ‘Please just wait until the formal statement. We’ve overstepped the mark before and we can’t do it again.’

Erin’s eyes glinted in the sun. ‘Tell me which one refused to take part.’

‘Farid, but it wasn’t out of sympathy.’

Erin smiled. ‘Yes, but maybe he’ll confess to save his skin. When are you going to the police?’

‘Wednesday. Tomorrow.’

‘Perfect. I’ll scope him out on Thursday.’ Erin slipped the piece of paper into her leather jacket and readied to leave. ‘Four Muslim boys. Well, no one can accuse you of upholding the status quo.’

‘Yeah,’ Zara said dryly. ‘Rock ‘n’ roll.’

The bells of St Alfege Church cut across the quiet, sending birds fleeing across the early evening sky. Canary Wharf shone in the distance – Zara’s favourite feature of her tidy Greenwich flat. She watched from the balcony and raised a joint to her lips. A blanket of warmth clouded around her, loosening the painful knots in her shoulders. Her head felt light but her limbs were heavy, almost sensual in effect. She leaned forward and laid her head on the wrought-iron railings, welcoming relief.

Just as her mind quietened, the doorbell cut through the breeze. Cursing, she snuffed out the joint and stepped back inside. Her flat on the top floor of a converted warehouse was large and bright with creaky old ceiling beams and exposed brickwork. The giant cream corner-sofa sat next to her desk, a sturdy structure of reclaimed oak. Opposite, stood a large bookcase stuffed with legal textbooks next to floor-to-ceiling windows. At the far end of the enormous room was her rarely used kitchen, a modern mix of chrome and glass offset by her giant wooden dining table. In a sea of minimalism, the only signs of personality were her antique lawyer lamp – a graduation gift from her sisters – and five large posters on the western wall depicting headlines from what Zara considered the greatest legal achievements of all time. She padded past them now and opened the door to find Luka outside with two bags filled with takeout.

He smiled sheepishly. ‘You said you missed lunch so I brought you some food.’ His gaze fell to the joint cooling in her hand.

She drew it back. ‘I’ve had a bad day.’

‘I didn’t say anything.’ He gestured inside. ‘Can I come in?’

She held the door ajar.

Luka set the food on the breakfast bar and started to unpack. ‘So why did my beautiful girlfriend have a bad day?’

She baulked. Six months and she still wasn’t used to ‘girlfriend’. They were meant to be casual. He was meant to be a distraction, a mindless and uncomplicated diversion, and yet here he was buying her comfort food and calling her his girlfriend.

She waved a hand. ‘It’s just something at work.’

Luka stopped. ‘What happened? Are you okay?’ His concern only reminded her that she had told him too much, pulled him too close.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘It’s fine.’

He met her gaze, his eyes a stormy green, frustrated by her caginess. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to somehow soften her sharp edges, but opted instead to do nothing. She moved to the dining table and he followed, sitting next to her instead of opposite. We’re closer this way, he had once said. His hand rested on her knee, a subtle non-sexual gesture. She moved her leg so that he fell away. Don’t forget, it warned. She poured a large glass of wine and offered it to him.

He waved it away. ‘I can’t. I’m training for the climb.’

She set the glass on the table, noting the irony of a white man refusing a drink from a Muslim woman. She pushed it towards him. ‘You’ve still got a few weeks before you leave.’

He reached forward and wiped a crumb off her lip. ‘Yes, I do.’ His fingers rested there a moment too long. ‘I’ll miss you.’ He paused. ‘You know what’s happening between us, don’t you, Zara?’

She looked at him, eyes narrowed ever so slightly. It was her Ralph Lauren stare: part anxious, part vacant, detached but intense. Was she still playing or not? Even she couldn’t tell anymore.

His dark blond brows knotted in a frown. ‘I know what this is and what this isn’t but …’ He watched her stiffen. ‘I know you don’t feel the same but I need you to know.’

‘Luka—’

‘You don’t have to say anything.’ He leaned forward and pulled her into his arms.

Against her instinct, she let him hold her. If she was going to use him as a salve, at least she could let him heal.

‘I love you,’ he whispered.

She swallowed hard, as if rising emotion could be curbed at the throat. She held him tight, knowing full well that it was time to let go.

Chapter Two

Zara’s black blazer was stark against the windowless white walls. The fluorescent light reflected off the blue linoleum floor, casting a pallor beneath her eyes. She greeted Detective Constable Mia Scavo, gripping her hand a touch too firmly. In the back of her mind, she tried to remember the writer who said the sight of women greeting each other reminded him of nothing so much as prize fighters shaking hands.

Zara appraised the young detective: the sober manner and formless clothes, the light blonde hair scraped back in a bun. Did she know it only accentuated her cheekbones and brought out her blue eyes?

With greetings safely exchanged, Zara took her seat by the left-hand wall of the interview room: in Jodie’s eyeline but in the background nonetheless. She was here not to interact but to lend support.

Mia began with a short preamble. ‘Jodie, my name is Mia Scavo. I’m a detective constable with the Metropolitan Police. I’ve been a police officer for six years and I work specifically with victims of sexual assault. My job is to support you from today onwards, right to the conclusion of the case.

‘We’re going to start with some formalities and then we will go over your complaint. I don’t know what happened so try to give me as much detail as you can. Our conversation is being recorded on video so it can be used as evidence. It’s important to be as accurate as possible. If you can’t remember something, just tell me. If you want to clarify or correct something at a later date, you can contact me and tell me, okay?’

Jodie nodded. ‘Okay.’

‘Good. Then we’ll begin.’ Mia glanced at the two-way mirror. ‘It is Wednesday the third of July 2019. This is DC Scavo interviewing Jodie Wolfe. Also present is Jodie’s independent sexual violence advisor.’ She paused for Zara to confirm her name and began with some basic questions: Jodie’s name, date of birth, address and school. She then eased into the interview, first asking about Jodie’s hobbies and favourite shows on TV, a basic technique to build rapport. After five minutes, she broached the assault and asked her to recount what happened.

Jodie shared the tale of her first real party, of drunken teens and raucous laughter. She spoke of the grinding social embarrassment and how she had fled for air. She described Amir’s footsteps – so evocative they could hear the crunch of gravel. There, frozen in frame by his side, she stopped.