Time stood still. Seconds drifted into minutes, minutes drifted into eternity. Alan was still sitting on the armchair, though he’d removed his jacket; Mac was standing by the door, his face grim, his fists curled in anger; while I was standing by the window, thinking: Osborne cannot get away with this; somehow, we had to find a route to justice.
However, Alan’s concern was for Vittoria. When she’d used up all her tears, he asked, “How do you feel?”
“Tired.”
“What would you like to do?”
She blinked then rubbed her eyes. Her eyes were red and puffy, while the tracks of her tears remained as scars on her face, scars embedded into her very being, scars that would require love and understanding, scars that would take time to heal.
“What do you mean?” she asked, her tone troubled, confused.
“Do you want to inform the police?”
“No.” She shook her head then explained, “I’m a Vanzetti.”
Alan said, “There are good police officers who would see beyond that fact.”
“I’m a woman,” Vittoria sighed.
“And justice is a male domain.”
She nodded, “Where rape is concerned, yes.”
Alan paused to take a phone call from Marcia, his secretary. He leaned into his mobile phone, listened in silence for a good thirty seconds then said, “Schedule the meeting for tomorrow. No more calls this afternoon.” Marcia replied then after a polite, “Okay,” Alan hung up.
With his attention centred on Vittoria, he asked, “What would you consider justice?”
She frowned then rubbed her eyes again. “I don’t understand.”
“If Grant Osborne walked into this room now...”
She scowled then strangled the cushion. “I’d kill him.”
“Would you?” Alan asked, his tone even, friendly, enquiring.
“No,” Vittoria replied, her fingers releasing the cushion, her head sagging into her chest, her body leaning back, “no I wouldn’t.”
“What if your father killed him?”
“When he finds out,” Vittoria said, “he will.”
“Would that serve as justice?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged then placed her hands to her head. She rubbed her temples in weary fashion. “I can’t think.”
“Maybe you should rest now,” Alan suggested.
“Yes,” Vittoria nodded, “I’ll rest.”
While Mac escorted Vittoria to her bedroom, Alan and I wandered on to the sand dunes.
The recent rain had dampened the sand, made conditions firmer under foot. We followed a trail that wandered through the dunes, one of the many golden veins that cut through the greenery, to the artery of the beach and a large body of jagged rocks. We paused by the rocks, to listen to the seagulls squawking, the children screaming and the tide rolling gently on to the shore.
Within the bay, children explored the rock pools, dipped their nets, dragged out seaweed; while on the sea windsurfers glided past, steered a course away from the occasional small boat. Across the bay, the houses winked at us as sunlight reflected off their windows. In the distance, the rocky cliffs and tree-lined hills reminded me that Glamorgan was a county to kill for, a region of great beauty, a place that brimmed with history and modern pride.
Alone, in our quiet corner, I turned to Alan and said, “So Osborne raped Vittoria. Do you believe her?”
“Do you believe her?” Alan asked bouncing the question back to me.
“I’m a woman; my instincts tell me that she’s telling the truth.”
He nodded. “I’m a psychologist and my instincts tell me that she’s telling the truth.”
I reflected that close on a hundred years ago a local physician, Dr Hartland, had stood on this beach and dispensed spring water from an open-air spa. Now, I stood on the beach and listened to my special doctor as he dispensed words of wisdom.
“When did you suspect?” I asked.
“The first time I saw her. The self-harm, the self-mutilation, the feelings of guilt, a withdrawal into the self, away from other people, are all classic signs displayed by the victim.”
I nodded. I guess I’d had my suspicions, though they’d been vague and unfocused. It’s always tempting to jump to conclusions, to bend the facts to fit your theory, but I’d learned from experience that speculation could be dangerous, that conjecture could lead to your downfall.
“What are you going to do?” Alan asked as we moved into shadow, as a dark grey cloud obscured the sun.
“I’ll have to inform Vanzetti.”
“He’ll want revenge.”
I nodded. “We’ll have to talk about that.”
We walked on, ignoring the beachcombers and pleasure seekers. In truth, it was still early in the season so they were light in number. Also, the changeable weather did not help, the clouds casting shadows over sunbathing plans.
“I want justice for Vittoria,” I said as we returned to the sand dunes.
“The crime can’t be undone; how can you obtain justice?”
I paused atop a sand dune and gazed out to sea. The answer was simple: report the crime and allow the justice system to operate. However, we had the obstacle of Vittoria’s resistance, of her family connections and of the justice system’s patchy record on crime in general and on rape in particular. We would have to forge our own sword of justice, maybe on the anvil of hell.
“My concern is for Vittoria’s wellbeing,” Alan said.
“You’ll talk with her again, this afternoon?”
“I’ll stay with her. We’ll talk if she wants to. I’ll arrange medical care and ask my contacts about long-term psychological support; Vittoria needs specialist counselling from experts who support rape victims.”
“I don’t look up to many people,” I said, smiling at Alan, turning my back on the breeze, running my fingers through my hair; “I don’t believe in idolatry, but you’re my hero, do you know that?”
Alan returned my smile. Then he shook his head and said, “I’m no hero. Victims who overcome trauma, and emerge as better people; they are the heroes; they are the ones who deserve our admiration and respect.”