“Did you at any point that evening consider that his intentions might be dishonourable?”
Kimberley responds oddly, with a flicker of a smile, as if finding the question rather florid and Victorian.
“Well, I had the sense he was coming on a bit strong, if that’s what you mean.”
“But you were not in fear for your safety?”
Gowan snorts and stirs, and whispers, “Bloody well leading, don’t you think?”
“Very much so,” I respond. But I am comfortable in my chair; an effort to rise would be unduly taxing.
“I wasn’t afraid of him. I trusted him”
“And is that why you agreed to go along with the others to his house?”
Gowan moans, “Arthur, are you going to allow this to continue?”
“No harm is done.”
“I felt perfectly secure. And he asked me to come, and one doesn’t say no … Um, what I mean is, he was my professor, the acting dean, actually, and I thought it would be polite….” For the first time, she is flustered, but she quickly recovers. “And I was curious.” A smile, a shrug.
“Left herself wide open,” says Gowan. “You don’t say no when the prof asks you to come.”
I wish he would refrain from the running commentary while I try to concentrate. Jonathan, to his credit, remains still, though his limbs are stiff, and he stares at her over his glasses like an owl, wide-eyed and sombre.
Patricia leads her witness into the taxi, into O’Donnell’s house, into his library. Cognac is poured. (“I had … I guess it was an ounce — with a little shot of Benedictine.”) Jolly political conversation takesplace. (“Professor O’Donnell was being very … you know, crusty and curmudgeony.”) The zombie Chornicky wanders about. (“He pretty well had his fill.”) Kimberley browses through the library. (“I thought we could have a little fun with a Shaw play I was involved in.”)
There follows a minor production of the last of G. B. S.’s great plays, with all but Chornicky taking roles.
“Okay, and at some point during all of this you left the room”
“Yes, well. . actually, I went upstairs to the bathroom. Then — I don’t know what was in my mind, maybe I felt this ought to be a dress rehearsal — so I, well, I went into Professor O’Donnell’s closet and I put on one of his suits. It sounds silly now.”
William Pickles’s eyes darken with confusion — and possibly with the distrust I suspect he feels for this woman.
Kimberley attempts to help him out with a nervouseruditioabout Shaw’s image of Saint Joan as a mannish dresser. She concludes, “Joan has this thing about male armour — and a suit. . well, it’s sort of male armour, isn’t it?”
I note the men in the room take this too seriously, but I smile, and Kimberley sends a quick and almost appreciative look my way.
“What did you do with your dress?” Patricia asks.
“I put it on the hanger where the suit had been. I mean, I had my bra on and underpants. But I found a white shirt of his, and — I guess I have to say I poked around — I found this absurd tie in a drawer.” She glances at the ceiling, as if seeking help from above, then makes a rueful face.
Pickles is looking hard at me, perhaps wondering what I make of this. If I were to respond, I would say I’m not sure.
“And I came down, and — I don’t think the others knew exactly what kind of statement I was making, and maybe I wasn’t sure myself — but Professor O’Donnell said something like, ‘Ah, the maid of Orleans in her male livery,’ and I knew he understood. He obviously knew the play. And I did a kind of funny, I hope, imitation of him giving one of his lectures, and we went back to the play — ProfessorO’Donnell was the inquisitor — and we were getting very dramatic. . I’m sorry, I’m just rambling here. Somebody help me out.”
I am having difficulty not liking her. It will be painful when her words turn false. And I must assume they will, or I am in serious doubt about my role in this courtroom.
“Okay,” says Patricia, “after you carried on in this manner for some time, what happened?”
“Well, I don’t know. The drinks, the lateness of the hour, whatever, I just kind of went to sleep.”
“Where?”
“On a big easy chair. I remember I was making a speech from the play. . and then, pow, I was gone. Just like that. It was really strange. I remember hearing voices, and. . that was it.”
“Had you felt dizzy?”
“Not really”
“Did you sense there might have been something put in your
drink?”
Gowan slaps his hand on the table in remonstrance, and looks pleadingly at me. “Are you going to let this go on?” he says.
“You are fussing like a child, Gowan,” I whisper, quite sharply. “Stop it.”
“No, I can’t say if I did. If he. . well, never mind.”
“And what’s the next thing you remember?”
Kimberley Martin bites her lip. She closes her eyes as if to shut out memory, then reopens them and, after an intake of breath, says, “I was being physically attacked.”
She is playing to an utterly silent house.
“I know it may be hard,” says Patricia, but her question ends with that preface as the dam bursts for Kimberley Martin, and words start flowing, then rushing.
“He was on top of me, and I was lying on my stomach, I was naked, completely naked on a bed, and my hands were tied together, and my ankles were tied to some brass bedposts, sort of spread-eagled
. . oh, God, am I going to get through this? And he — ”
“Just a minute — ”
“And he kind of raised my bottom up and I felt him inside — ”
“Inside what?”
“Inside … this is awful, I feel like I’m on exhibition here, it feels absolutely obscene to be standing in front of everybody talking so stupidly about. . about the mechanics of getting raped, it — ”
“Miss Martin,” Pickles admonishes, “just answer the questions”
“I’m sorry, it just feelswrong.I’ve been over this and over this, and I know I’m supposed to say he put his penis in my vagina, and make it sound all dry and clinical, like something out of a high-school sex manual, but I was screaming, and no one could hear me. I was helpless. Have you any idea of the feeling? It was utterly degrading, and you don’t know and you’ll never know because you weren’tthere”
“She’s losing it,” Gowan whispers.
“Absolutely not,” I respond. But I cannot decide whether these emotions are genuine or if this is a skilled performance of the illegitimate theatre.
Pickles’s voice softens. “This is very stressful, I’m sure, Miss Martin, but it has to be done.”
“I know. I’m sorry, I’m very tense.”
“Okay, let’s calm down and regroup a little here,” says Patricia. “Now let us get this clear. When you awoke you were on a bed?”
“Yes.”
“In a bedroom.”
“You know, I didn’t even notice what kind of room at first. It was dark, there was just some kind of night light on, or maybe from another room. But obviously it was a bedroom.”
“And you were not on your back but in a prone position.”
“Yes.”
“Were your hands tied to any object?”
“No, just my feet. My hands were tied together.”
“With what?”
“I believe it was a bathrobe cord. It was knotted around my wrists.”
“And the bindings on your feet?”
“I. . I honestly can’t remember. I was in a frenzy. Some kind of cord or. . actually, it felt silky.” “And what was happening?”
“I felt him behind me, lifting me up by the hips with both hands. And I felt his penis enter my vagina, and he began thrusting. This is so absolutely. . I’ll continue. As I said, I was screaming, and I was telling him to stop, and he wouldn’t stop, and then I felt him trying to penetrate my, um, my anus — ”