Truth Be Told

Kamran, here are some resources that might help you through what you’re experiencing. I’ve made an appointment for you to have a medical exam tomorrow and to meet with me and a SOIT (Sexual Offences Investigation Trained) police officer on Monday 11th May. She is excellent and I trust her. We can take your report and decide what to do after. I hope you will come. We’ll be waiting.

Beneath it lay two sets of dates, times and locations – each on a neat new line. He checked his watch. He had already missed the medical exam but Monday was in two days and he could still meet the police officer. He would be back at Hampton but could claim a trip to the family doctor.

Kamran caught himself, startled by his readiness to formulate a plan. It shook him, for it exposed what he wanted at heart: a chance to tell someone what had happened to him. But what would it cost him and the people he loved? Would he upend their lives for nothing? Kamran reread the words on screen, then reached out with a trembling hand and archived the message.

Downstairs, Sofia sat at the breakfast bar, her head cocked at the ceiling as she tried to glean if Kamran was at least watching TV. Met with silence, she attempted to busy herself on her laptop. She navigated to her email and reread the reply from Jonathan Walmsley. She understood the message couched in his genteel words: your ideas are useless. She slumped and closed her laptop, but then immediately straightened at the sound of footsteps.

Her husband walked in, his gait unmistakeable. He had a natural confidence which had no doubt played a vital part in growing his family’s company: an international purveyor of medical supplies. Behind the boorish exterior, he was a deeply astute businessman, knowing just when to use an expletive to put someone at ease or rein in his humour when faced with someone prim.

‘Morning, hon.’ He gave her a kiss on the cheek and though he was clean-shaven, he still felt rough on her skin.

‘You’re not in the office today?’ she asked, noting his casual outfit: a pale yellow polo shirt paired with khaki trousers.

He picked up one of the croissants that Sofia had arranged on the breakfast bar and took a wide bite, sending flakes of pastry sweeping across the granite. Absently, he brushed them off the counter. Sofia tensed as she watched the flakes dust the spotless floor.

‘No. I told you, hon. I’m meeting Al about the Medicare deal.’

‘Oh.’ He hadn’t told her. ‘Is there anything to worry about?’

Mack drained the coffee pot into a mug and took a hearty swig. ‘Of course not.’ He shrugged his broad shoulders. At fifty-six, he maintained a strong physique and towered over her at six feet three. ‘It’s under control.’

She sensed he was ready to leave and spoke her next words quickly. ‘Do you think I should call the doctor about Kamran? He’s not looking very well and I’m worried about him.’

Mack rolled his eyes good-naturedly. ‘He’ll be fine, hon. Stop mothering him.’

She bristled. ‘I hate it when you say that.’

‘I know you do.’ He brushed her chin with a finger. ‘But I love it when you sulk.’ He leaned in and kissed her lips, leaving behind the bitter blast of coffee. ‘I’ve got to go.’ He picked up a second croissant. ‘But I’ll be home for dinner.’

Sofia watched him leave and then put on a fresh pot of coffee. As she poured herself a cup, she remembered their first date all those years ago; how she was dismayed by his aggressive manner in dealing with the waiter. He had crooked his finger at him and asked for the menu as soon as they’d sat down.

When the couple at the next table spent many minutes laughing and joking with the same man, Sofia had felt strangely inferior. The waiter was good at his job and changed his demeanour for Mack: attentive, dignified, restrained, not presuming to make recommendations like he did with the couple next door. Sofia had smiled tightly and ordered the gnocchi with truffles, the least messy dish on the menu. She didn’t want slippery linguini messing up her lipstick or, horrifyingly, the white crepe-overlay of her tasteful gown.

Luckily, things improved over the course of the meal. Mack was a natural storyteller and regaled her with tales of his childhood, his ever-complaining mother and taciturn father, mimicking them with comic skill. She couldn’t help but laugh at the pin-perfect impression of archetypal Asian aunties.

Sofia knew that laughing made her nose look wide and she placed her hand above it, shielding it from view. That night, Mack had kissed her so hotly and every inch of her sang for his skin but she was well aware of men like him: bold, presumptuous, bored by easy conquests, and so she had leaned away from him, heart strobing in her chest. Over the next four dates, she teased him, each time offering a little bit more. God, she’d been beautiful at twenty-six. Now, twenty years later, age was unavoidable. She looked after herself assiduously and, with her clothes on, could pass for ten years younger. When naked in the mirror, however, the dimpled skin across her stomach and doughy band around her hips gave away the truth.

She and Mack had settled into a charade of sorts. When she bent over to pick something up, he’d make a growling sound, might even grab her with feigned lust, pretending he still wanted her. When he caught her topless in their bedroom mirror, he’d raise his brows lasciviously and she’d bat him away playfully, both knowing that neither had the energy or desire to take things any further.

He had been so amorous when they were younger and for many years into their marriage. Did sex drive switch off like a bulb or was it now aimed at someone younger? She often suspected that he had a mistress: a twenty-something waitress or pretty receptionist and wondered if she really cared. She loved Mack, genuinely, but in maturity had come to accept that sex was merely sex. If Mack finding satisfaction elsewhere meant that her family stayed intact, then so be it. Her priority was her children and making sure they were happy and safe. As long as that was true, everything else would be okay.

Zara entered Bow Road Police Station and made her way to an interview room. She knocked and entered, hit by the smell of stale fast food. Mia Scavo stood and shook her hand. The officer wore formless clothes in black and grey and her light blonde hair in a trademark bun: severe and scraped back with not a loose strand.

‘Thanks for this,’ said Zara.

‘Not at all.’ Mia gestured towards a chair. ‘I take it you’re ready for another big case?’

Zara gave her a rueful look. ‘“Ready” might be an overstatement.’

Mia tapped her pen against her notebook. ‘Have you heard from Jodie at all?’

‘No, but I did hear she’s starting college in September.’

‘That’s good.’

They fell silent for a moment. They had last worked together on Jodie Wolfe’s case and remembered its multiple blows: first, Jodie’s admission that she had lied, then the realisation that she had not, followed by the final strike: Amir, the ringleader, set free and the others handed nominal sentences. In a few short months, they too would be free. Given the conviction rates for rape, this one was a win but the wounds from the case still smarted.

‘It was worth the fight,’ said Mia, knowing what Zara was thinking.

‘I know,’ she replied quietly. ‘We take what we can get.’

A knock on the door cut in and Zara looked up to find Kamran at the threshold. She stood and guided him in. ‘I’m glad you came,’ she said, feeling a wash of relief. A part of her had thought that he wouldn’t turn up at all and though that would absolve her, she would always harbour some guilt.

Kamran took a seat. ‘I… I missed the medical exam last week.’

‘I know,’ said Zara. ‘That’s okay.’

‘But I called them this morning and they let me go in, so… that’s done.’

‘On your own?’

He lifted a shoulder. ‘They had someone there to help.’

Zara felt a swell of sympathy. ‘Okay, thank you. I’ll coordinate with them.’ She introduced him to Mia and explained that she, a SOIT officer, would take his statement now.

Kamran nodded, a long muscle twitching in his jaw.

Mia eased into the interview, first asking about his school, friends and hobbies, before broaching the assault.

‘It was the start of our spring exeat,’ said Kamran. ‘I was supposed to spend the weekend at a friend’s but it was cancelled at the last minute, so I went to a party instead.’ He grimaced. ‘Hampton is strict during term time but they loosen the reins before breaks.’

‘Were you drinking?’ asked Mia.

Kamran nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Do you know how much?’

His shoulders stiffened with guilt. ‘I started with a few beers – three maybe – but then there was other stuff. It’s a tradition at Hampton that you swipe something from your parents so there was all sorts there: whisky, cognac, port. Someone even brought some sherry.’

‘After three beers, how many other drinks do you think you had?’

Kamran’s gaze dropped to his lap. For a moment, he studied the arc of his nails. ‘Another four or five maybe. I’m not certain.’

Zara watched from the sidelines, knowing this would be used for leverage if it proceeded to court.

Kamran continued. ‘Initially, I tried not to drink too much. My brother, Adam, was there and Mum always tells me to set an example because he’ll follow my lead. I don’t think she understands that he’s his own person.’

‘Did you talk to him?’ asked Mia.

‘Briefly. At the start of the evening. I told him not to drink too much.’ Kamran’s face twisted in a grimace. ‘Do as I say, not as I do.’

Mia made a note. ‘Okay, Kamran, can you walk me through the evening in as much detail as possible?

He nodded. The party had been loud, he remembered. The boys were in a boisterous mood, which is why he was amused by the neat row of bin bags propped against a tree. Even in the throes of abandon, the boys couldn’t escape the stamp of their school. Hamptonians were meant to be fine young gentlemen: phlegmatic, restrained and respectful. Littering wasn’t a part of that ethos. He remembered the loud game of beer pong and Adam looking characteristically solemn. He hadn’t seen Finn at the party; he would have been at West Lawn, swilling drinks with friends of his own.

Kamran added detail where possible: clouds sulking at the edge of the sky, the hundred mites in amber light. The way you could, at this extreme end of the campus, hear the faint thrum of traffic; a reminder that there was a wild and boundless world right outside these walls.

At Mia’s request, he recalled what he, Jimmy, Barrett and Nathan had talked about that night. There was nothing unusual: pressure about their grades, how Nathan’s parents were likely getting divorced but were going to Vahine Island anyway for a last-gasp attempt at saving their marriage – the first-world problems of first-world people. Things like rape weren’t supposed to happen to boys like him. This wasn’t a part of his upward trajectory.

Kamran led Mia through the excesses of the evening to that moment in any party where people start to depart and no one knows if the mood will turn intimate or desolate; whether you will have a deep conversation with someone fun or end up in a bathroom crying. He, in a stupor of drink, chose not to take the risk. He headed home: westwards to West Lawn.

Had he seen anyone along the way? He pictured the expanse of grass. There were figures shifting in the dark but nothing of note or threat. He had continued along the path, lamplight splashing in pools on the concrete. His brogues were soundless on the ground and he remembered thinking that Hampton was made for silence. Silence in the libraries, silence in the halls, silence even in lessons when the only sign of life would be magpies crowing outside.

At West Lawn, he had tapped in his personal key code: 21 007, a fact that pleased him greatly.

‘Hadid,’ he would say to his friends in the early days. ‘Kamran Hadid,’ pretending to unholster a gun.

Jimmy would laugh. ‘A brown Bond? That’ll be the day.’

That night, he entered to silence. He glanced at the housemaster’s office and crept up the stairs to his room. He fumbled with his key, his fingers limp and clammy. Eventually, he slotted it home and turned it with a creak.

He shut the door with his left leg, the ball of his foot tapping the wood and closing it too loudly. Their doors didn’t lock automatically. Had he locked his? He remembered the clang of the metal key: a £50 fine if he lost it. He tossed it on the dresser and it fell to the floor in a jangle. He emptied his pockets and pulled his shirt off over his head. He brushed his teeth and splashed his face with water. What after that? His head vibrating and blooms of bursting black. Were they in his eyes or in his head – he couldn’t tell. What happened after that?

Kamran slackened in his chair. ‘I can’t remember.’

Mia circled some text in her notebook. ‘You said you don’t think you locked your door? How certain are you about this?’

‘I’m not certain. I just don’t remember doing it.’

‘Did you close the door?’

‘Yes. I remember it being too loud.’

Mia made a note. ‘Okay, you said you remember taking off your shirt. Did you take off your trousers?’

Kamran considered this. ‘Yes. I think I just wore my boxers to bed.’

‘Are you sure?’

He hesitated. ‘I’m not certain but I think I did.’

Zara watched, knowing that the sequence of events had to be exact. Mia had to scour the surface until every last detail held up to scrutiny. A full picture now would prevent the possibility of a harmful surprise.

‘What happened next?’

Kamran winced. ‘I can’t remember. I’d drunk so much, my head was turning black.’

Zara stiffened. She knew that jurors would hear this, some of whom would blame the drink. Reasonable men and women understood that consent should be proactive and explicit, and would agree as much in the clear wash of day, but behind closed doors, they held darker thoughts; that if you got so drunk you couldn’t move, maybe, just maybe, you were asking for it.

Mia pressed Kamran on, pushing him through the murk to his next clear memory.

‘There was someone else in the bed,’ he said. ‘I remember them pressing into me.’ He bit his lower lip, working loose a piece of dry skin.

‘Kamran, I need you to tell me exactly what you remember. It’s okay if there are gaps, but tell me what you do know.’

He dug a thumbnail into the chipboard edge of the table. ‘I remember feeling vaguely awake as if I were in a dream. I remember a body behind me and…’ His shoulders rose and fell with the effort of finding words. ‘I felt fingers hooking into the elastic band of my boxers. He… he had a hand on my thigh and I remember it was warm.’ Kamran paused. ‘I can’t say exactly what happened but I know he reached forward and touched me.’

‘Where?’

‘My penis.’ His voice took on a powerless tilt.

‘What happened after this?’

Kamran flushed with colour. ‘I… I grew hard.’ His eyes flicked to Zara. ‘But I read that this was normal.’

Mia nodded but made no comment. ‘What happened next?’

Kamran faltered. ‘He—’

Zara watched him try to find the right word. Entered me? Violated me? Raped me?

‘It’s all jumbled up in my head.’

Mia waited.

‘He tried to push inside me but it was like he wasn’t really trying.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t know. I think he tried once or twice and then we fell asleep.’

Mia made a note. ‘Did he penetrate you?’

Kamran nodded. ‘Yes, but only a little bit.’

‘Did you feel any pain?’

‘Yes, but it’s all hazy in my head.’

‘And did he ejaculate?’

‘Yes. He—’ Kamran grimaced. ‘When he couldn’t do what he wanted, he sort of rubbed himself on me and then I think he came.’

‘Did you?’

Kamran drew back in his seat. ‘No.’

‘What happened next?’

‘I fell asleep.’

‘What’s the next thing you remember?’

Kamran recalled his waking moments. Victims often spoke of ‘before’ and ‘after’, two epochs divided by trauma. Had he known that morning that something was wrong? He had turned in his bed and there it was: a shock of blond hair, the bulk of a stranger’s body and the sharp jab of horror. He’d bargained with himself: maybe Finn had entered the wrong room and fallen in his bed in a drunken stupor. Maybe nothing had happened at all. Maybe he’d undressed in the dark and hadn’t realised there was someone in the room.

He had stared at Finn in the crisp light of morning and felt the press of nausea. Something had happened, he knew. Finn stirred by his side and that’s when Kamran froze, unsure what to do. He dressed and fled before Finn could wake, heading to the gym and straight to the shower.

Had he wanted it? He’d got hard, hadn’t he? Kamran stayed under the hot shower until he heard the voices of the polo team. He wrapped himself up quickly and locked himself inside a cubicle, his breath coming much too fast. Something had happened and Kamran hadn’t asked for it.

‘By the time I returned, he was gone.’

‘Did you tell anyone about it?’ asked Mia.

‘No.’

‘Have you spoken to Finn about it?’

‘No.’

‘What happened after that?’

‘I picked up my brother. We met our driver and went home.’

Mia closed her notebook. ‘Thank you, Kamran. You’ve done a very brave thing coming to report this.’ She explained that the police would now start to gather evidence.

Kamran worried the cuff of his sleeve. ‘Can I choose not to bring a formal complaint?’

‘Yes.’

‘What happens then?’

Mia set down her pen. ‘We store the evidence we have in case you change your mind.’

‘Nothing happens to Finn?’

‘No.’

Kamran digested this. ‘Can I think about it?’ He looked at Zara, a hesitant wilt in his gaze. ‘“Rapist” is such an ugly word and I… I just need to think about what I’m saying.’

‘Of course.’ Mia asked him to take a few days.

They finished and Zara beckoned him up. ‘Come on, I’ll drive you back.’ Outside, she cast him a sidelong glance as they walked to her car. ‘Have you told your mum?’

‘She wouldn’t understand.’

‘I think you’d be surprised.’

He frowned. ‘My mum, she… she shields us from the world. I’m seventeen and I’ve never used the London Underground alone.’ He got in the car and clicked in his seatbelt. ‘I once told Jimmy that I wasn’t sure we’d cope in the real world and do you know what he said? “The whole point of Hampton is that we never have to deal with real people in the real world.” I realised he was right.’ Kamran’s lips twisted bitterly. ‘That same week, my mum read a statistic that fourteen million people in the UK were living in poverty and you know what she did? She laughed. “That’s not true, is it?” she said. “Look around. It’s clearly not true!”’ Kamran shook his head. ‘A woman like my mum should never have to learn that something like this happened to her son.’

Zara felt a swell of sorrow. ‘She will understand, Kamran. You don’t have to feel embarrassed.’

He exhaled softly and turned away from her – a gentle closing of the conversation – and remained that way for the rest of the drive.

Zara dropped him off at Hampton and as she said goodbye, she felt her conscience needle. ‘You don’t have to be embarrassed,’ she had said. Why was it that she seldom used that word with women but reached for it first with Kamran as if it should be the foremost emotion in a man who’d been raped?

She watched him in the early evening light, a brittleness in his shoulders, a cold varnish in his eyes. ‘Kamran, don’t lose yourself in this, okay?’

He regarded her blankly. ‘I won’t,’ he said and she could tell from the dart of his eyes that he was aching to take his leave.

‘I’ll see you soon,’ she said. She watched him walk across the green until his silhouette vanished in a dip.

Zara checked her watch, then headed back to East London, speeding along the A501 to beat rush-hour traffic. She drove to her mother’s house, perched on a side street in Bow. Zara’s childhood home was a squat two-storey building with a small, neatly kept front garden. She unlatched the black cast-iron gate and made sure she shut it again. Her mother preferred it that way, the gate’s low whine announcing visitors a few beats before the doorbell.

Sure enough, Fatima peeked through the downstairs window, pulling aside a bright white curtain. A moment later, she opened the door.

‘Assalamu Alaikum,’ said Zara, kissing her mother’s cheek.

‘Walaikum assalam,’ she replied.

It was strange, this merciless passage of time. Last year, she had vowed to be kinder to her mother, but it was easier thought than done. It was true that she was more patient now and a little less defensive, but still they lacked the easy facility of mother-daughter relationships. Zara knew that this was partly due to the choices she had made. In refusing to stay in her arranged marriage and quitting her job in chambers, Zara had flouted her mother’s wishes and they had never quite recovered.

‘Go and sit,’ said Fatima, gesturing towards the living room. ‘I’m going to read Asr, but your sisters are here.’ She headed upstairs for prayer.

Zara greeted Lena and Salma. ‘Is Rafiq here?’ she asked.

‘Not today,’ replied Lena.

Zara visibly relaxed. She knew her brother disapproved of her life – an unmarried Asian girl living alone – and though they were making amends, their truce had proved uneasy.

Lena handed her a cup of tea. ‘Are you still on for our class next week?’

‘If we must,’ said Zara.

Salma, the eldest, cut in. ‘Is this the self-defence class?’

‘Yeah,’ said Zara. ‘But I still think it’s a waste of time.’

Salma watched her. ‘Let’s hope you’ll never find out.’

The three of them fell silent. Zara’s gaze dipped low as she blinked away the memory: her scream snuffed by the force of a palm, her body jolting upwards, her sisters in a funereal huddle outside her hospital room.

Salma pushed forward a plate of biscuits to break the spell of her words. ‘So what are you working on now?’ she asked.

Zara took a moment to find an answer, still caught in the memory. ‘It’s, uh, it’s a tricky one,’ she said, folding away the image.

‘Oh?’ Salma had an analytical mind and always took an interest in her work.

Zara cupped her hands around her tea. ‘I can’t say too much,’ she started, ‘but I was in the office last Monday when a client – well spoken, polite, clearly from a rich family – came in to report an assault.’

‘Okay.’ Salma waited, the case seemingly lacking the requisite drama.

‘He said he was raped by someone he knows.’

Salma paused mid-sip. ‘“He”?’ She winced. ‘Please don’t say it was a child.’

‘No – well…’ Zara hesitated, wary of revealing too much. ‘He’s seventeen.’

‘Who did it? A teacher?’

‘No. A pupil,’ she conceded.

Salma frowned. ‘A pupil? Then why didn’t he fight back?’

Lena interjected. ‘Would you ask the same question if it was a woman?’ She was the most sensitive of the three sisters: Little Women’s Beth to Salma’s Meg and Zara’s Jo.

Salma huffed. ‘No, I wouldn’t, but a man’s clearly more able to defend himself.’

Lena’s lips tightened to a line. ‘If you say so,’ she said obliquely.

Salma rolled her eyes and turned back to Zara. ‘What do you know about the other guy?’

‘The rapist?’

Salma made a peculiar expression, her brow arched in doubt. ‘Yeah, “the rapist”, I suppose.’

Zara’s head tipped to one side. ‘What do you mean “I suppose”?’

‘Well, it doesn’t sound like there was any force.’

‘And neither was there consent.’

Salma raised a palm. ‘No, I know that. Obviously it is “rape” technically, but it’s not a violent, terrifying one. I don’t think you can compare it to what women go through.’