A Parliamentary Affair (39 page)

‘Well, Mr Peter, you’ve been most helpful. Thank you.’

‘Don’t you need to look at the rest of the house?’

‘No. If there’s a problem, it’ll be here, in the basement. And everything is all right, as far as I can tell. Fine, just fine. You have been most helpful. Thank you.’

Peter circled the room, putting himself between the door and Betts. He put his head on one side and contemplated the nervous man now shifting uneasily from one foot to the other.

‘I don’t think you’re really from the council.’

Betts’s mouth went dry. His brain, already working at a furious rate, went through his story. If there were trouble, he would say that he had shown his press card and been admitted. That much was true. He had made no false claims to gain entry, none at all.

‘What makes you think that? I showed you my ID and you were satisfied.’

‘Soap in my eye. I didn’t look properly. Don’t worry, I won’t tell on you. You press?’

Warily: ‘What would you do if I were?’

Peter laughed. It might be fun to play cat and mouse with a stupid journalist.

‘It would depend what you wanted. I’ve nothing against people like you – you have a living to earn. But if you’re expecting me to say anything nasty against Nigel, forget it.’

Betts breathed easier. There are many varieties of fools in the world but the best, the most easily tripped up, are conceited fools. There are no secrets a good investigative reporter can’t winkle out by a combination of bribery, blackmail and flattery, and the latter was always the cheapest.

‘I would expect you to speak well about your landlord. You seem like a mature, intelligent sort of person. To tell you the truth, I didn’t realise this was Sir Nigel’s house; I’d been told to look at homelessness, and compare the hostels with high rents charged for flats and bedsits round here. I don’t suppose you can help me much with that, Peter, though you did mention you had had nowhere to go: your experiences would be of interest to our readers. There’s a pub round the corner. May I buy you a drink? All off the record, of course. No names, no pack drill. It might even help other people in London who are sleeping on the streets tonight – get the government to take the matter more seriously.’

Peter considered, then shrugged. ‘Yeah, why not. Glad to help out a fellow creature. Nothing else on this afternoon. I’ll just get my jacket and lock up. Can’t be too careful, Nigel says.’

‘Start, please.’

Mrs Mary Carter’s eagle eyes swept across the hall as fifty young girls prayed silently and turned over examination papers. Regally the teacher walked up and down the long columns of desks, tidying away a bag here, glancing intimidatingly at scribbled sheets there. At last she mounted the platform. Seating herself rigidly at a table from which all the desks and examination candidates were clearly visible, she crossed her legs, arranged her skirt decorously over her knees, and opened a large file behind which was hidden Jilly Cooper’s novel
Polo
. She lowered her eyes and began reading. From time to time, her mouth twitched.

The examination paper was a collection of hieroglyphics. It was supposed to be English literature, and it was only a mock, in preparation for the following summer’s. Nor did it matter much, for course-work made up the bulk of the marks and Karen was confident that her project work was satisfactory. She was familiar with the set-pieces. Why, then, did the words coalesce into meaningless blobs? The very paper shimmered in front of her eyes. She was feeling sick again.

Mrs Carter sat upright and still, apparently engrossed in her bulky file. From time to time she would glance up, eyes darting around the room like a hawk’s. Karen reflected grimly that the teacher cultivated a reputation for not missing much, but couldn’t spot calamity sitting right under her nose.

Karen sat quietly trying to make sense of the paper. Nearby girls were scribbling furiously, or staring at the ceiling, lips moving, seeking inspiration. Only at her own desk was there as yet no action. With a sigh she abandoned the effort and settled instead to chasing the tangled thoughts in her brain, at least for a little while.

After Betts had left the flat, she had dully cleaned up. There were coffee grounds everywhere. The mess had been so phenomenal that the task had taken over an hour and had started her bleeding again. The bath had been too hot and the bath salts stung; at last she had allowed herself to lie in the sudsy water, and cry.

The dress and underwear were rolled up savagely into a ball and shoved into a black plastic bag with all the other rubbish. On an impulse the silly earrings went in too. They had sent out all the wrong signals; she would not take another chance with them.

Karen made herself think hard about the whole incident. Of course he should have accepted ‘no’ as ‘no’. That was the law, whatever old fools in legal wigs and gowns might say. A refusal was precisely that and should have been respected. It was his fault, his wrong: of that she was certain. The thought was barren but comforting.

Yet she had led him on, asking him up to the flat when he was so far gone – drunk, and sexually. Her inexperience meant she was not to know that, but she might have
guessed
. She wasn’t
stupid
. Though the outcome was stupid, and too terrible to tell anybody. Least of all her mother.

So did she carry any responsibility? That was a hard question, not least because every fibre of her being wanted to scream, ‘It wasn’t my fault!’ Believing that, however, gave her no practical protection. The same thing could happen all over again, if she had been foolish in some unseen way. She shivered miserably and forced herself to concentrate once more. It was essential to figure out exactly where it had all gone wrong, and where in future she might behave differently.

Perhaps men couldn’t help it – all men, or at least a certain type. Once they got so far there was no holding back. Maybe they were all ruled by their willies, as some feminists alleged. Betts himself seemed to think so. Yet that seemed to her generous spirit a confession of failure, an expression of crude prejudice as blatant as any misogynist claim that all women were ruled by their wombs. One article in a magazine had argued that it was insulting to suggest that men were simply carried away like that. Men were not crude, unthinking animals any more than women were. Any man, given a moment to think, could control himself. That suggested Betts also had had a responsibility not to put himself in a position where there was no going back. It came down again to his fault, not hers.

He wouldn’t have done it had he realised her age. Even he had confessed that much. Yet if that was significant why didn’t he ask? The thought made her smile ruefully. Oh yes, she could just hear the conversation in the restaurant as the wine waiter lovingly cradled a bottle in front of them. ‘By the way, Karen, I am thinking of having my way with you tonight. Before we go any further and I get carried away, could you just confirm that you have reached the age of consent?’

He didn’t ask because she didn’t look underage. Every day she strove to look not fifteen but older, to ape girls – women – in their early twenties. Her body was fully adult. If you have got it, flaunt it. Yet that deliberate flaunting was an invitation.

No, it wasn’t
. A feeling of indignation arose. She was entitled to dress any way she wanted, and still say ‘no’ and have that respected. Short skirts were fashionable. Stretchy, clingy outfits were normal wear, for millions of girls. Perhaps all the designers were trading on sex; that wouldn’t be a surprise, given its role as the most basic urge of all. She wouldn’t change her style; or at least only a little. No wearing long skirts like Mrs Carter, not till they were really in. He didn’t know what she looked like when he asked her out (but then he had other motives, she now realised). It was her choice to dress sexily. It was her choice for that sexy style not to be confused with an open invitation. Had he stayed sober he might have realised. Had she, he wouldn’t have got near.

Being ruled by her womb.

That was a different matter entirely. That morning she had been sick into the sink. Alarming new fears which had not entered her head surfaced, in a feeling of terror and panic. Supposing she were pregnant?

A woman of the world, however shocked the day after, might have summoned the courage to go to her doctor and ask for help or advice – the morning-after pill, for example. But Karen had no doctor in London. The thought of chatting gaily to the kindly old family doctor in the village about a potential pregnancy, asking him about abortions, was ludicrous. She would not know where to start. The school doctor, a lady, might be a better bet – she must have come across this sort of thing before, would know what to do, be discreet. It would cost money, mean a few days off school, need an excuse. Her mother would have to know, but perhaps no one else.

Perhaps she ought to get a pregnancy test kit and try herself, before springing it all on an incredulous world. But where? There was no chemist near the school, which was deliberately set in the middle of nowhere, to protect young ladies from temptation. Any nearby pharmacist would give her a funny look if she asked for a pregnancy kit. It might be different in London or other big cities
where pregnant girls were more frequent customers. It would have to wait until the end of term when she could get into town; but by then it might be too late.

Karen had only the haziest knowledge of the law on abortions. That she could get one easily, soon, if necessary, she was reasonably sure from her magazines. Something to do with the physical and mental health of the girl, wasn’t it? She could scream blue murder if necessary. She felt like screaming right now.

That abortion would be even more easily obtainable for a rape victim was a consideration she pushed firmly out of her mind. The first hint of the word would have the police panting hard, hot on the trail in minutes. It was not the shame or anything like that. She did not feel ashamed, only foolish, and sick, and angry with herself. She, a modern woman, had let a man take her most precious gift: she was taller than Betts, she should have kneed him in the groin, made him think twice before trying that again, ever. Yet what stopped her examining the consequences of rape was there, all the time, at the forefront of her mind: that he would then betray her mother.

Karen did not doubt now that her mother and this Roger were involved somehow, though it still seemed preposterous that her own mother, the brilliantly successful Elaine Stalker, should dream of wasting her time taking lovers. She was married, and Dad loved her. They’d been married a long time. What on earth was Mum playing at?

The only way to find out would be to ask. That would require a confrontation of sorts. Karen’s loyalty to her mother made her shy away: Mum had more than enough on her plate without prying questions from her kid. Being Mum, and being clever, she might well dig out of Karen exactly where she had obtained this incriminating information. The girl could not clearly envisage her mother’s reaction should she understand the circumstances. Would Mum yell for the police? Or would she deal with it all discreetly? One thing was for certain: Mum would not let it rest once she knew that her only daughter had been violated. Any sense of control Karen had, however scrappy, would vanish entirely. That bit Mum was not to know.

If a termination were necessary she would simply say it had been an accident and keep her mouth shut. That’s what most girls would do. And be more careful – a helluva lot more careful – next time a man poured her a glass of wine. Maybe even say no to that, too, loud and clear. And never be alone with a man anywhere near a bed unless she was ready. Which was unlikely to be for a very long time.

Mrs Carter had been watching her intently for several minutes. Karen shifted uncomfortably, bent her head, read the first question again. Her head was spinning and a wave of nausea rocked her. Breakfast had been impossible; now cramps gripped her and her mouth salivated. She was going to be sick again.

Unsteadily she rose to her feet, white as a sheet. ‘Mrs Carter, I don’t feel … well…’ she began timidly. Then with a crash she slumped to the floor.

Karen came round to the murmuring of concerned voices, and kept her eyes shut to listen for a moment. The nurse and Mrs Carter and the nice school lady doctor were discussing whether to phone her mother. Gingerly she moved her head; the headache seemed to have subsided and she just felt woozy. Maybe the doctor had given her a shot of something. Her gut still hurt. She opened her eyes and managed a weak smile.

‘No, there’s no need to bother my mother. I felt faint, that’s all. Exams, you know.’

The three women stopped talking and gathered around the couch, anxious faces peering down on her. The doctor felt her brow.

‘Feeling sick still?’

Karen nodded. ‘A little.’

‘Do you want to go to the bathroom?’

‘Yes, please.’

Groggily she rose to her feet and was helped into the cubicle off the nurse’s office. It had no lock on the door. There was blood on her pants.

Blood on her pants? Her period! She wasn’t pregnant! Then tears came, in great floods, sobs of relief and delight and exhaustion, as she sat in an undignified heap, grabbing handfuls of white toilet roll to stem the weeping.

Nurse was peeping uncertainly round the door, guessed, and handed her a towel. ‘Bad one, is it? Often happens at exam times, dear. You sort yourself out and then come and have a lie down till the cramps go.’

The doctor was a sharper individual. She stood over Karen as the girl gratefully took tablets and water. When the nurse had left the room and Mrs Carter had returned to her duties, the woman glanced over her shoulder, then spoke very quietly.

‘You look a lot happier than a few moments ago. Now if you’ve been silly, young lady, you have also been very lucky. If you want to try and avoid trouble in future, you come and see me first, you hear?’

Karen did not move. Her eyes opened wide and she made her face expressionless.

‘Absolutely confidential. I don’t tell your parents, or school, or anyone. If you’re old enough to get pregnant you’re old enough to have an entirely private relationship with your doctor. I’d rather anything than have to start arranging abortions. Do I make myself clear?’