“Take a seat,” he says.
The smile she gives him does not reach her eyes. “That’s a rather formal tone, Bob. Something the matter?”
His office is painted that shade of pale mint green that is only normally seen on the walls of hospital corridors. There is a photograph of a boat on his desk, and a stapler. A cheeseplant has died in the corner. He has failed at any attempt to personalise the office since being promoted to Detective Chief Inspector. Unless, of course, he doesn’t have a personality. She considers this.
He clears his throat unnecessarily. “I must tell you first that we’re handling this situation with the utmost discretion, so you have nothing to worry about on that front.”
“Sounds ominous.” Her voice is flat with apparent disinterest, words clipped, betraying nothing. As always, she speaks like a newsreader.
“A video has come into our possession.”
“A video.” She is beautiful, in an intimidating sort of a way. Statuesque in her pencil skirt and tightly buttoned blouse, those who appreciate her aesthetic appeal do so in the same way that one might admire a glacial landscape or ornate antique blade. Colleagues often tend to describe her appearance, in whispered voices, behind conspiratorial hands, as severe.
“Yes.” The collar of his shirt is suddenly an inch too tight. “A video.”
Another joyless smile curves across the ether from the woman who sits in front of him, and something that may be sarcasm. “I didn’t think anyone used videos anymore. It’s not nineteen-eighty-seven.”
“Well, not a tape.” He is flustered. “A video file. On a computer. Anyway, that’s not important.”
“Oh?”
“It was the content that concerned us.” He clears his throat again, choking a little. “We can prosecute, you know.”
“Really.” This is not a question. She folds her arms.
“Well, yes. As a barrister, you’ll be well aware of the laws on assault. Of course.” He is clearly uncomfortable, picking imaginary lint from the frayed cuff of his jacket with fingers that now seem too thick, too clumsy. “When we first saw the video, we believed we were dealing with a murder. I just didn’t know how anyone could…”
Her tights are the colour of sable, a thin denier. She crosses her legs slowly.
“And then I recognised you,” he says. “There, on the screen.”
“Yes.”
For a moment, as he blinks, he sees it again behind his eyelids. She is a frantic rush of pixels. Her nude body struggles and flips like a fish in a boat and she is pinned down, hard, head thrown back, the sound from her mouth – grating from the small speakers on either side of his computer – becoming an abattoir roar that is muted, abruptly, by the gloved hand that closes over her face. The violence begins.
He blinks again. “You let those people do that to you?”
She pauses for a moment, before looking directly at him, unruffled. “I paid them to do that to me.”
“You paid for sex?” He almost laughs. Almost. Her scream is in his head again.
“It wasn’t sex.”
“Right.”
“Are we done here, Bob?” She is already picking up her briefcase, mind elsewhere. “I’ve got things to do.”
“Okay,” he says, awaiting an explanation that doesn’t come. “Yes. Fine. Well, you take care of yourself. Okay?”
If she is embarrassed, she doesn’t show it. She doesn’t show anything at all, except in those moments, those soaring moments when her face is pressed against the table, anonymous fingers smashing through that icy resolve, blood pumping through her body, masked assailants tearing at skin and bone, ripping away her own disguises. She is a visceral presence somewhere above the ceiling of her own home, looking down, watching herself brutalised and feeling every possible emotion at the same time, rushing, surging, broken free of herself. She is elemental – a thunderbolt, a meteorite, a cloud of swirling starlings in an Autumn sky. She is real.
Now, she is already at the door, glancing openly at her watch, nodding. “Yup. Will do.”
