Ranting

Ranting - One in Four1

Two days later, I’m ready. The teams have finished their initial investigations and sorting. The corpses, for that is what they have become, have been removed for their respective post mortem examinations, the families have identified them, but of course they cannot yet bury them, cannot say their goodbyes, not yet.2

Entering the relatively undamaged study room hoping for clues for any form of motivation, for any element of understanding, the male dominated images stare blankly at me, they can’t help, although I do admire the beauty of one particular guitar, its aesthetic qualities catch my ignorant eye as I pull myself back to reality. This is what I do. This is my role. I rebuild. Reconstruct. Explain. But currently I am at a loss to explain what and why has occurred here. Just exactly what has led to the death of these two people, one who has so obviously suffered a measure of violence. His stained pillow and caved skull indicative of his fate, and the frailer figure of the woman stretched by his side, an almost beatific smile gracing a scratched, punctured and still bruised face. Not just a single case of violence here. The all too obvious wine glass and shredded packets of foil reveal her exit line, self-induced. What remains to me? The why and the how.3

Switching the pc on at the mains disturbs the general demeanour of death still permeating this grimly silent house, a former home I didn’t doubt, but a home no more. The expensive and powerful machine whirs into life, revealing the latest update of Windows and numerous icons. Someone knew how to use and play with this hardware. 4

Clicking through the many files I discover, almost by accident, the presence of a cd in the hard-drive. A woman’s name and a date. Perhaps here I may find some measure of reasoning, some fragment of a beginning, an opening, an overture I can follow on my path to elements of discovery.5

*6

File Number 01047

Domestic violence isn't a class issue. There exists the preconception that only the under-classes, the unemployed, the uneducated, the illiterate, the unintelligent, those who don't know any better, indulged in it. It isn't just the drunken boorish hooligans who'd cry for their mothers, murder for their tribal followings and who treat their wives, partners, sisters, with physical contempt. It can happen to anyone. Anyone at all, at anytime and at any phase in any relationship. I know. I can tell you all about it. Just ask. It's not something that I'm really ashamed of anymore. It just happened.8

We all read about, are all too aware of the ‘battered wife’ syndrome, the existence of shelters for these 'poor women' victims of violent partners. Now we read of the phenomena spreading among teenagers, apparently a large percentage of teenage girls regard violence as part of a normal relationship. But what isn't exactly as well known is the fact that apparently one quarter of all women from every corner of society will become a victim. It's that word, it's annoyingly sympathetic. I don't feel like a victim, never did and never have, yes, I was subject to the beatings, but rarely felt sorry for myself, occasionally also retaliated with whatever I could find, my legs still bear the scars of the shattered frame, it's a neat crescent scar, it doesn't hurt, and I don’t either. 9

The image presented in the press thanks to a childhood spent watching 'Nationwide' is of working class women crammed into Victorian converted houses, bursting with children, with unwashed hair, chain smoking endless cigarettes, minds numbed with Prozac, vallium, cannabis in some cases, the vacant-eyed, greasy-haired victim in cheap clothes and broken ideals. I am NOT a victim. I refuse to acknowledge that. I have never been, and never shall be such a figure of pity. Yes I know some were unhappy about what was happening and felt frustrated because there was little they could actually do to physically assist me. I wouldn't leave, because I didn't want to. I wasn't strong enough to leave, I refused to leave to abandon to desert because then I'd be giving in, and that was the one thing I did not want to do. Then he would have won, he would have come through it all and if there's one thing I hate above anything else it's coming second. Only when I was ready, only when I felt it fitting would I make a decision. Selfish of me I know, but I don't really care. Others could be there, to listen to pull out when needed but it had to be up to me. The final futile gesture would be mine alone. And this is it. Don't think of this as a suicide and poor little woman decision. I am removing myself from this existence not because of any puerile Romeo and Juliet fantasy - I'm not doing this because I can't face life without him, how long has he been removed from my life, - we haven't had a real life since that day, that's not living, that's existing with the very occasional act of pseudo affection because we just can't let go. This is me taking control - I take him with me because then I have won. Yes it is the selfish thing to do, yes I know there are others I leave behind who do not deserve to know that I have taken their beloved son, work mate, friend or whatever with me, that I too leave among the mourners those who thought of me, those who don't deserve to be made unhappy by my actions, but also those who can now be comforted with the scant knowledge that I choose this path, I choose this way, this is what I want. Let me be the judge of what is best for me.10

No maudlin weeping please, if you must shed a tear, save it for the children we never had, the unborn future, they were the hope but came to nothing in gushes of bloodied frustration. Decade ago, waiting, hope fading, the head jokingly laid against my stomach, bloated as ever with premenstrual waters - is there anybody in there? He'd laughed, felt almost proud that he would carry on into the future- he'd not die alone and childless, not be the end of his line, not to be. I destroyed that hope in him, just as he destroyed the faith in me. Dreaming in the head is safer, there you don't get hurt by the lies, the intimidation, the tales of infidelity, the uncertainty of wondering where or who he'd been with this time.11

Fidelity costs too much - it's something that we all deserve but few of us merit. The hypocrisy of the male psyche is something that will never cease to amaze me. The celebrity caught in flagrante, regrets his actions, but knows that his standing in the male community will surely rise, as certainly as he did. The bright young actor, renowned for nudity, stating categorically that he wouldn't be too impressed by his wife having it away on film with someone else, yet isn't that how you make your money? But the difference is that he's being a professional about it, he's earning the money, he's being true to life. So bedding beautiful if slightly unreal women on camera for money is work is it? There's absolutely nothing in it, no emotion no tenderness no reaction whatsoever? The knowledge that millions of voyeuristic viewers like me, will see virtually every centimetre of you, doesn't that give you a sense of power? You don't care who sees what you've got, but no one sees her apart from you? Isn't that selfish? Isn't that self-indulgent? Is the truth merely that we are but possessions? To do with as we each see fit? And so I am my own possession? 12

*13

Scrolling through to the opening page again I perceived I have company, glimpsed over my shoulder.14

-What’s that?15

-Sort of explanation you could say.16

-For what? Why she did what she did? Smashing him over the head with a hammer? Makes your job easier then. 17

My companion grinned slyly at me. He wasn’t a cruel or a malicious man but this sort of humour served him well in such circumstances. I was used to him by now and smiled in response.18

-Have a read through this file she calls Ranting – One if Four. It’s not a huge amount. But it’s a start. Tell me what you think.19

Within five minutes he’d devoured the entire document, replacing initial boredom with increasing puzzlement and even blatant incredulity. As I’d feared he’d never understand. That as ever, remained my fate.20

-So? What do you make of that?21

I sighed, what could I make of it? What was I expected to say? Privy to intimate and unspoken thoughts committed to cyberspace in moments of anger, or were they meant for me to read. If so, why hadn't they been printed? When did she commit these thoughts into the ether?22

-I don't really know what to make of it. I'm sure she intended for us to read it, the disc wouldn't have been left out in the machine with her name and date on, surely?23

-Anything else on it? 24

-Some sort of planning. Diary type entries.25

I scrolled through the document.26

-A chart, seems she was playing with the art package and making spider diagrams.27

-Looks like she was writing something.28

-Hm? Isn't that what she was into? Words.29

-Yeah, she says here she dealt with words, that it's her choice, not to pity her, it empowers beyond - strange phrase. Says it was some sort of game.30

-Game?31

-Not like that. Looks like their lives just spiralled out of control, you know, one day it all fell apart. Happy for a while, ticking along, something, or someone happens, implodes or explodes. Looks like this one just went.32

-Yeah, but how many react like her? I mean, how many kill the partner then commit suicide? Sounds like bloody Shakespeare. Was she into that as well? He laughed. 33

Too harshly I thought before catching myself in pity, no, wait, she didn't want any sympathy, only understanding, empathy perhaps, but laughter was wrong, inappropriate, she didn't deserve that.34

-Suppose she just wanted someone to try and understand her. Haven't you felt like no one really understands exactly what's going on in your head? Haven't you felt that you can't communicate properly with anyone, that you'll crumble with frustration because no one seems to have any type of insight into what you're trying to say?35

-No, only when I was about 14 and then I got over that with excessively loud music and probably too many dirty magazines. It's what teenagers do. But she wasn't a teenager, God man; she was in her thirties, an apparently respectable, professional woman, why is she ranting like a self-indulgent adolescent? No wonder he strayed.36

-An apparently respectable thirty-something woman whose partner regularly assaulted her, aren't you forgetting that?37

-Then why didn't she report it?38

-Perhaps she was afraid of what he might do. Or of losing her home.39

-She has a good job, she had a degree, she wasn't some loser, some pathetic little woman with no hope, this woman by all accounts was a successful, intelligent, attractive, vibrant woman, a strong personality. So why didn't she just say on your bike to him?40

-It's not that easy. 41

-Oh come on, how many other relationships end up down the pan, you should know, especially in this job. We don't exactly have a glowing track record of successful marriages do we?42

-Apparently more members of her profession join dating agencies than any other. They can't all be sad, lonely losers.43

-I'm not saying she was sad. I'm just saying that I think she was self-indulgent. This, what does she call it, Ranting? Makes her appear self-indulgent.44

-So, what would have happened to her if she'd lived? If she hadn't taken the decision to kill him then herself? If she'd smacked him and then called us? 45

-What would we have done?46

-Arrested her, what else could we have done? She murdered him in cold blood.47

-Evidence?48

-That file for a start - come on, she even calls it ranting. She hates him. Hates all men by the sound of it. And what's all that crap about actors and celebrities, she's off her head. No jury would believe she didn't want him dead. The women might sympathise with her but she'd still be convicted. And doesn’t that victimise her even more? You know what’d happen then? It’s all too obvious.49

-There'd be campaigns - women's groups would protest about the years of abuse she suffered at his hand, the letters to the editors, the Channel 4 documentaries, I can just picture it. She'd stand trial, be found guilty, huge outcry as out-moded and male judge would send her down for murder, not even manslaughter this one, and then they'd start. It'd go on for years. 50

-Then they'd set her free?51

-I can see it - the TV shows, the interviews in the Guardian, the Sunday Times expose into domestic violence, she'd write her story and be a minor celeb, they'd even make a film.52

-You're really taking the piss now.53

-No, it happens. Can't you see it all? We'd end up being played by character actors who normally might appear in The Bill. But you're saying that by doing what she did, she's free; she escaped from all of it.54

-What would you have done?55

-I don't know, I've not been in her position.56

-Been in his?57

-What d'you mean?58

-Tempted?59

-What? Played away? Who hasn't?60

-Precisely? What was the reaction?61

-What's not known can't hurt anyone. 62

-Not tempted by the confessional?63

-You joking?64

-No. Deadly serious. Would you have reacted like she did?65

-I certainly wouldn't have killed anyone.66

-What about the violence? Anytime when you've just wanted to shut her up? I've seen you do it on the job.67

-Not to a woman. You know that. You saw the size of her compared to him.68

-The old fashioned value, never hit a girl in the playground.69

-What if she hits you first? She even admits that she wasn't always innocent, that she retaliated. This domestic violence always concentrates on the women as the victims, there are male victims.70

-Look, that's the last thing she wants.71

-What?72

-To be thought of as a victim. That's what she actually says.73

-Well, wasn't she? 74

-In a way. But she also says that this is her taking control of her life for once. Tired of always doing what is considered right.75

-Right to let him smack her one?76

-She doesn't say that. She's just another statistic now.77

-So, if she'd lived and followed the path that you describe then she'd have had a future?78

-Some people don't want a future.79

-Isn't that their choice?80

-Wasn't his choice to die violently was it?81

-Are you saying then that she was worse than him?82

-Of course, she killed him didn't she? All he did was smack her around a little.83

-What d'you mean smack her around a little? How do you know exactly what he did? The file says their life ended. When we talk to people I'm sure we'll get an idea of what their life was like. You saw her face, the blood spatters in the bathroom. You were the one who found those bloody pants. You saw what he’d done to her.84

-For all we know this could have been the first time.85

-Bruises heal, scars fade, bones repair.86

-Medical reports should show us if she'd ever broken a bone in her life. 87

-Are you saying it's all a lie then?88

-No, of course not. I'm sure that when we interview friends, family whatever, we'll find out more about them, about how they lived.89

-And died.90

-You're letting this get to you.91

-No, it's not that.92

-What then?93

-Just seems such a waste.94

-Oh come on, it's not some sort of tragedy. Not bloody Shakespeare.95

-That's twice you've said that.96

-Well, I mean it. It's life. It's our job to sort out all the crap to tidy up the mistakes they all make, the screw-ups they make of their lives.97

-And to hell with those they leave behind.98

-I didn't say that. But you know that we've got our jobs to do as well as anyone else. 99

-Digging up the secrets, dredging up the past, reawakening the dead.100

-Now you sound like a TV cop, come on, we need to sort this crap out. 101

-When's the funeral?102

-They've not given clearance yet. Have briefly spoken to relatives, his actually, parents. Hers are dead, but contacted siblings. 103

-How did they react?104

-Brother was gutted, said they weren't particularly close but still shocked she'd do such a thing.105

-What, kill someone or just commit suicide?106

-Both I think.107

-Friends?108

-Usual.109

-Reaction?110

-What do you expect? Everyone shocked beyond belief, never thought this would happen and so on and so forth, the usual.111

-Need an insight really.112

-Interviewing will take a while.113

-Open and shut114

-Cliché115

-But it is isn't it? No one else involved. They fight, she loses it, hits him with whatever, hammer? Shoe? Screwdriver? Full of guilt, guzzles the paracetemol, the wine and goes to sleep.116

-In agony?117

-Whatever. We come along, discover the beautiful little death scene, everyone says oh my God, we sort it, end of story.118

-Not always that easy though is it?119

-What?120

-Don't you ever wonder what type of person does this?121

-I'm not the one compiling a psychological profile.122

-Not at all curious?123

-You are letting this get to you.124

-I just wonder what they were like.125

-They? Or just her?126

-No, both of them.127

-What did he do?128

-Something technical. Quiet by all accounts, popular, balanced. Neatly dressed, liked metal music, read sci-fi129

-Don't tell me, wore black t shirts, played guitar.130

-Now who's being stereotypical? You're right though.131

-Played those silly little games, read Lord of the Rings, watched Star Wars.132

-And was man enough to beat his partner?133

-What about her?134

-Similar, read a lot, liked movies, cats, didn’t eat meat. 135

-Sounds a real fascinating babe.136

-Don't be flippant. This is all from what we found in the house. Once we'd sorted out the damage. Books mainly, lots of CDs, tons of clothes, she was small, thin, innocuous almost. A typical middle class couple. No one would ever guess what went on there.137

-Say it, behind closed doors.138

-It's true, we all keep out secrets locked away. How many of us present our real selves to the watching world? How many people really understand what we are all about? Who can honestly say that they are really happy, and I mean really happy all of the time.139

-No one can.140

-Of course. But we go on, don't we? Continue with our little lives, get up in the morning, off in our little cars to our little offices, talk with our little friends, do our little jobs, come home at the end of the day back to our little homes, our families if we're lucky. We don't make a choice, we just operate. 141

-Not everyone. You are letting this get to you. Don't. Do your job. You know we're not to get involved. Can't see why this one is getting you. Nothing special about it. No kids. All they left behind was a fat little cat. Poor thing.142

-Can't you see, everyone leaves something behind. She's left us more. And I want to know just what it is.143

-What happened to it by the way?144

-What? Oh, the cat. It’s at the local animal shelter. It’ll be re-homed hopefully once it’s calmed down. Poor creature must have been terrified when it started. Small wonder no one can get near it anymore. He has a name you know. She called him The Man.145

-What?146

-Yeh, that’s right. Perhaps he was the only man who treated her well in the end. You heard what the neighbour said, she thought the world of him.147

-Oh, come on, this is ridiculous. I need a coffee. And you need to sort this out, put it all into some sort of perspective.148

-Yeh, you’re right.149

- What’s so special about this one in particular? By the looks of it, she smacks him over the head with a hammer, thank you and goodnight. Then she decides she doesn’t want to face up to the consequences of her actions, swallows the pills, washed down with that chardonnay stuff, God, have you tried it? It’s revolting. Burns the back of my throat. Give me a good pint of the hard stuff any day. As I said, she takes the pills and booze, floats off to her own private heaven, leaves it all for people like us to tidy up. Cause that’s what we do, isn’t it? Tidy up other people’s bloody messed up lives, explain to the living what has happened and sort it all out.150

-But why did she kill him? That’s what I need to find out. It’s almost as if she wants us to search her truth. She must have had a reasoning behind this. We know that this was a violent and violent relationship from what she says here – I pointed idly towards the pc screen still declaiming One in Four – and we know that she had suffered a violent assault shortly before her death, forensics have indicated that she had traces of semen still in her, on the bed, and those wipes we found were saturated with her blood and more semen. You saw the state of those pants, they were soaked and torn, obvious signs of violence. Not to mention the glass fragments we found in her hair. The house was a wreck for a start, this wasn’t a minor argument now was it.151

- Fair enough. So, we can say then that for definite they row, it descends into violence, they both lose it, he assaults her, she hits him with the hammer smashing his skull then decides to end it all her own way?152

-Pretty much sums it up. But of course now I need to find out why don’t I? What caused all this?153

-The usual I should imagine.154

-What? Oh? Another woman?155

-Spot on.156

-So you reckon we need to find her, then we find out what happened between these two?157

-Seems straightforward enough.158

-Hm, I’m not that sure. Yeh, you’re right, I’m sure there is another woman in here somewhere, but we need to talk to everyone they knew, friends, colleagues, family, then we might find this other woman, whoever she may be. We need to take this pc in with us as well, check out the rest of the files. Looks like someone recorded a lot of their life on here, you never know, she might just tell us herself.159

-True. But I still don’t get why this one should matter more than any of the others.160

-It doesn’t, I insisted – but who was I fooling? It did matter. Even though I’d investigated worse in my days, far worse, there was something inexplicable, something unattainable; perhaps it was the almost child like form stretched peacefully next to the taller man, he seemed to physically dominate the room, yet she had removed him with brute strength. Where does a woman like that summon the power to kill a man almost a foot taller and at outweighing her by at least four stone? It just didn’t make sense to me. Or perhaps it was the fact that she seemed so anxious to talk to me, or rather the sense of her needed to communicate through her computer files. All I knew then was that this would be different.161

I should have confessed immediately that the dreams had already started, indeed she’d visited me the night of our discovery when I barely knew her name. I awoke, saturated with sweat and a strange perfume; the sense of her presence so strong I could smell her skin, her hair, taste her even, yet the dream wasn’t sexual. Death provides no such stimulant for me, it’s the order, the detail I pride myself in, that’s what I care about. The sight of the blonde woman dead on her bed hadn’t permeated my emotions, no, it wasn’t the fact that she was dead that had infiltrated my defences, it was the fact that this could so very easily have been me. That old cliché, there but for the grace of God… if true, then I should really equate myself with the man, of similar age and probably education to myself, possibly the same tastes, but I comforted myself that I would never even contemplate the sustained mistreatment that she’d probably endured. Yet how do I know? As she so very clearly wrote, one in four. One in four, the statistics whirled through my addled thoughts; a quarter of all women experience some sort of domestic violence in their lives. And so very few of us even mention it. It’s one of our final taboos. Something we deem as generally unacceptable, something we like to think of as happening to someone else, someone less fortunate, less educated, less paid, less intelligent, something we just don’t want to talk about.162

It’s not the fashionable subject of the talk show hosts; we in all our puerile curiosities prefer the sexual foibles rather than sheer violence. And, besides, haven’t women all too frequently just been regarded as male possessions? A handy diversion after too many beers on a Friday night? Just something we all put up with and metaphorically sweep neatly away under that proverbial carpet. No matter from what race, what culture, women and more recently men, have been subject to degrees of domestic abuse for centuries, and we all smile sympathetically, shake our heads and silently pray that it isn’t us. Yet who is to say that one day might prove different.163

I see myself pushing open that cheap brown varnished door, hesitant, yet conscious of what I will discover, and she’s lying still on her bed, the wine glass is upturned, the smell cloying and too familiar. He’s turned from her, eyes closed, as we’d documented, but this time as I approach to check the vital signs, even though the crisp brown puddle is irrevocable proof, her eyes snap, she stares into my frozen face, her eyes sharp green, and a half smile spreads slowly through her features as she pulls me to her, reaching painfully upwards to grasp my hair in her fingers. She slowly raises her own head to meet mine and I feel her lips brush the fragile skin of my earlobe.164

-Help me.165

The voice is surprisingly husky and deeper in tone than I have imagined.166

-Help me.167

I will never hear her voice in life, but I know her, I know her.168

The voice does not plead, implore or even request, it’s a command, an insistence to be heard. Connected now, I nod dumbly, words are insufficient, she can hear my thoughts, and she knows I will help her, provide her with the support she denied herself in life. Ensure that others will know of her, understand her, not patronise her or indulge her; she doesn’t need sympathy or even empathy, only an audience, and that is me.169

The smell of her in death is intoxicating, the faint traces of chardonnay still discernible on her breath. I yearn to taste her, press my own lips heavily onto hers, take her into me, break her, feel her clutch the thin layer of skin on my back, but constantly between us a barrier remains. The deceptively soft whitegrey wing feather still grasped within her unyielding fingers.170

Gathering her to me, a limp doll, her head hangs heavily as her hair waterfalls over my supporting arm and I cradle her as a parent might a dead child. Brushing the blonde tangle free from her face, the bruises, puncture wounds, scars, scratches are revealed at last. The top of her brow is torn and still bloody in spite of her attempts to staunch the flow; microscopic fragments of terracotta remain lodged in her tissue, the soil traces clinging to the shards darkening her wound. What has she endured?171

The side of her face a pin cushion of violence, she must have been pretty, delicate almost, but these features no longer attracted or pleased the man still stretched beside her. Glass sparkles in her hair, the blood spotting patterns her scalp haphazardly as the pale blonde hair fails to disguise the extent of the injuries.172

Gently I rock her, her head nestles under my chin, and I smooth her cheek, all the while assuring this corpse that I will listen, I will help her, I will, I will. But she can never wake, the momentary imperative is all she can offer me. Suddenly an unexpected exhalation of breath shatters my reverie, and I sense we are not alone, although no one seems to be here. I cannot see him, whoever he may be, but I know he is near, watching my every action with her. Someone still loves her, still protects her, in spite of my futile efforts.173

Yes, I should have told my colleague of this dream, the beginning of many; it’s a rare night when she fails to materialise in my mind. I know what I should have done, but of course I didn’t. He would have laughed at my emotional attachment I’m sure, who wouldn’t? It’s not something I’m proud of, not something I would wish to share with anyone apart from the blank pages of the computer screen at which I spend so very much of my time. I’m a professional, cool, calculating and ultimately detached. It’s my job to remain devoid of emotion, I know that, no one needs to remind me, but the more time I spend locked inside her mind, the more I can not only see her, but smell and taste her, only further touch remains beyond me.174

That blank afternoon saw us not only remove her computer, but boxes of notebooks, diaries, computer discs, photographs, mobile phones and address books. Their lounge remained a blitz of emotions; it would not be our task to clean and to tidy, ultimately that would be left to family and friends under our guidance and supervision once we had completed our business, removed what we deemed necessary. The house wore an air of inescapable sadness now, a raddled showgirl long past her best, world-weary, tattered and distraught. I could envisage that once it had been a comfortable home, the dissolute paintings, denuded bookshelves, couches, plants, music cds all bore testimony of former interests, though little remained fully intact or salvageable. The majority were fit only for the skip now, sad remnants of tattered lives destroyed by rage. Most pathetic of all were the shredded birthday cards bearing futile best wishes, indicative that they’d died on her birthday, her 32nd birthday. A little younger than me, too young. They too were noted for names of contacts, friends and family, all of whom would be informed, possibly interviewed and filed away in my attempt to understand why this happened.175

The cat, The Man as she ridiculously called him, did indeed reside at the local animal shelter, he was a tiny fear filled creature, all huge green eyes and uncertain temper. Once fed and locked in his enclosure I glimpsed the loving pet he must once have been, although he refused to allow me to approach him and he disdained any form of comfort whatsoever. The staff were less than confident that he’d be rapidly rehomed, so great was the trauma he’d witnessed, even though he was an appealing little creature. I took him cat food when I was passing, he was a connection, albeit a silent one, yet a connection nonetheless, it was just something I felt I needed to do. I knew that they harboured faint hopes that one day I’d finally take him off their hands, and I must admit that the thought did flit through my mind occasionally, but as usual, I filed it away as a hypothetical situation. Why would I need to maintain her pet even if I did provide his food in the shelter?176

Again, it was something I didn’t choose to share with my colleagues.177