The Rabbit Girls(70)

‘When we spoke to Herr Voight he said you and he like to partake in “risqué” sexual interactions.’

She sits back, stunned.

‘Sometimes in public areas. Sometimes, quite . . .’ He looks through his notebook again. ‘Rough. He maintains that you did have sexual intercourse, but that it was entirely consensual and initiated by you.’

‘That is not true, he hurt me. He always hurts me.’

‘And we have the hospital report that shows this. However, it is your word against his, so this becomes a domestic dispute. As such, our involvement tends to escalate these situations. And the problem here is that you are husband and wife. It would be hard for a solicitor to make a case when there are previous relations between the two of you. I presume these relations were consensual in the past?’

Miriam nods. ‘But not for a long time,’ she whispers, then louder to the officers: ‘If he were not my husband, you’d call it rape, right?’

The younger of the officers clears his throat, and scratches at day-old stubble on his cheek. ‘Did you clearly say no?’

Like the final nail in the coffin, her shoulders slump back in the chair, raising her feet off the ground. ‘No.’

‘Try to push him away? Physically hurt him?’

‘I was scared,’ she says quietly and thinks of Dawn’s response. Maybe she did ask for this.

‘Scream?’ suggests Officer Nikolls, trying to be helpful. ‘These would be clear signs, you agree? For your non-consent to this specific interaction between the two of you.’

‘What did you do?’ Officer Snelling looks directly at her and Miriam takes a deep breath.

‘I accepted it, just like I always do. I just lay there and tried to be elsewhere. I wait for it to be over. If I fight it’s worse.’ She stands. ‘But it doesn’t matter. We are married, maybe I did ask for it. I apologise for wasting your time.’

They both remain seated. ‘Our job,’ says Officer Snelling, ‘is to support the community – vulnerable people, like yourself. I think the main issue is keeping distance between you and your husband should you not wish for his assumption to happen again. He mentioned that you have some further challenges, and we have a record of you as a missing person for a time.’

‘Yes, well, I do not wish to waste any more of your time. Thank you for coming all the way out here today.’

Finally, they stand. ‘Cases like this are complex, but unfortunately, in the circumstances, there is no further action we can offer you. Perhaps your doctor could offer you some support, friends maybe?’

She waits for them to move and follows them out without a word.

‘If you have any further questions,’ he says, and offers her a card with his details on it.

‘Thank you.’ As she looks up they are walking down the hall.

She closes and locks the door. She finds the feather on the shelf and places it carefully between the frame before pacing each room.





28





MIRIAM


Miriam runs the water in the bathroom sink and contemplates its still surface, reflecting her image back to her. Dashing the water away, unused, she puts Mum’s silk gloves back on. And back at the table she picks up the next letter to read on.

Twenty-five lashes.

My punishment for morphine, three jars of antiseptic, one roll of bandages, sanitary towels and a tiny wooden carving of a rabbit. All but the morphine made it back to the block. It was the last package. I had discovered the morphine and had hoped this would ease Hani’s pain. It was the riskiest thing I had stolen over the course of the week from the abundance in ‘Canada’. Bunny had sewn a pocket into the inside of my dress, each item had been hidden there – this was the final one. I had told myself no more, I couldn’t risk it. But Hani, cold, in pain, screaming into the night. I had to try and get it for her.

I got caught.

Twenty-five lashes to try to save my friend.

Twenty-five lashes.

The wooden stool had leather straps. They stripped me and put me in rubber pants. I was forced over it, face down, almost kneeling, but not. It was indented and I held on to it as my calves and shoulder blades were strapped, buckled. Secured. I lost all control, I thought I was going to die.

Twenty-five lashes . . . I cannot remember past ten. The body can endure more than the brain can. My brain gave up. I felt my skin slice open, a searing knife. They were standing around watching; they talked as the skin on my back to my thighs was split.

Scars fade, but what remains is this:

I saw a guard’s feet, his trousers had a perfect crease down the centre. I do not know what happened, maybe my blood splattered him. The whipping stopped. He knelt beside me, smelling of cologne and cigarettes. Rust blood. Someone held my wrist and felt for my pulse. I was eight lashes in, eight times the whip had broken the skin. I cannot tell you more than this. I do not want to remember. But the guard had stopped at eight. His hands cupped my chin and turned it towards him, tears and snot and dirt on my face. I looked to him as my saviour. The lashings had stopped.

‘Open your mouth,’ he said to me.

I did, and he spat in my mouth.

‘Continue,’ he said.

I remained silent until I passed out, the blackness was a blessing. For is this what it is to be called human?