Without Consent by Frances Fyfield

Author:Frances Fyfield [Fyfield, Frances]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHT

‘Although juries must be told that “consent” in the context of the offence of rape is a word which must be given its ordinary meaning, it is sometimes necessary for a judge to go further … he should point out there is a difference between consent and submission … The jury should be reminded too of the wide spectrum of states of mind which consent could comprehend and that where a dividing line had to be drawn between real consent and mere submission …’

These were the words which excited him, would exonerate him if ever he needed it.

Both of the girls who had died had been afraid, although only initially. He would never have forced either of them, or any woman for that matter. The thought of doing anything so cruel shocked him. But even the most mature patient was timid, out of ignorance. There was nothing ‘mere’ about submission. One submitted to the dentist, the doctor, to life, even; submission was vital to survival. It was not a different state of mind to consent, but a close cousin. And in the end, one submitted to death; not consent, submission. What was the difference?

The law never mentioned redemption. The law did not believe in it.

The interior of the Rape House looked even more anonymous after cleaning. Plants, Sally Smythe thought; it needs plants.

‘What did you do when he kissed you?’ she asked the girl. There was silence.

‘Nothing. I didn’t do anything.’

‘Well, he wasn’t doing anything out of order at that point, was he? I mean, you didn’t mind him kissing you?’

‘No.’ Her fingers continued to shred the paper handkerchief. ‘I liked him, then.’

‘They say you have to kiss a lot of frogs to meet a prince.’

‘Pardon?’ Sally smiled to hide a sigh, reminding herself not to get clever.

‘I mean, we all have to experiment, don’t we?’ How condescending she sounded.

The girl’s answering smile was wan in the extreme. They were not doing well and Sally felt as if she was wading through mud, not because of lies, but in pursuit of the words to frame the truth. Here was a plump girl, shivering slightly in the heat, preternaturally docile, although she had not been like that when the man she had liked took a deep-throat kiss as an open invitation to full-scale intercourse on the front seats of his van. She had fought like a cat, broken a window, all useful evidence, although it hadn’t stopped him.

‘Did he do anything else at first, apart from kiss you and you kiss him back?’

Another long hesitation.

‘Put his hands … That’s when I started to try and stop him.’

‘Why? If you liked him?’

‘’Cos I wanted him to take me home. That’s what he said. And it’s all my fault, isn’t it?’

She was crying steadily now, tears as plump as her hands. Sally moved the box of tissues nearer.

‘Because I shouldn’t have gone with him, should I? I shouldn’t have fancied him at all.’

Sally gestured to her colleague to continue the good work and went into the kitchen.

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