Emmie Blake
Leila recoiled in horror from the image before her. Dread replaced the enjoyment she had been feeling as she wandered around the National Gallery. The painting before her now was straight out of her nightmare, one that frequently haunted her sleep. She gazed in horrified bewilderment. The picture in front of her portrayed a naked woman, lying limply, with a swan between her splayed legs, its head on her breast. Her hand flew instinctively to her swollen stomach. She felt sick, sweat broke out on her brow and a sob escaped from her lips as the room started to spin around her. She collapsed onto a nearby chair, and took deep, slow breaths to steady herself. As the dizziness cleared, she pushed her long, brown hair back from her face and leant forward to read the accompanying label, ‘Leda and the Swan,’ a 16th-century copy of a lost painting by Michelangelo. In Greek mythology, Leda, Queen of Sparta, was admired by Zeus, king of the gods. He disguised himself as a swan, fell to earth and raped her. That same night she lay with her husband and in due course produced four progeny, one of whom was to become Helen of Troy.’ Just at that moment, her unborn child moved uneasily, making its presence felt. She stumbled out of the building into the chill winter’s afternoon. Snow was beginning to fall, soft and white, beautiful to see, but dangerous underfoot. She hailed a taxi and, as they sped through the streets of London, she reflected on all that had happened since that traumatic day six months ago: the day her troubles had started.
It had begun with an innocent invitation. Lucy, her childhood friend, had been very persuasive. “Leila! Do say you’ll come! It will be such a super party down on the river bank: friends, music, food and drink. What more could you want?”
“My husband with me! Tom will still be away on his business trip. It’ll feel strange going to a party without him.”
“Oh, come on! Cut yourself some slack! Please say you’ll come. After all, this is no ordinary birthday; it’s my big 3 - 0.”
Leila had laughed and given way. “Okay. But I may not stay until the end.”
So it was that, two weeks later, she had stood in the park on the edge of a pulsating crowd, watching as people moved to the music. Fairy lights, strung between the trees, twinkled their magic over the scene as dusk fell. Leila, though, was wondering how soon she could make her excuses and leave. She was hot, tired and thirsty. The evening was warm, the air sultry; clearly a storm was brewing.
“Would you like a drink?”
She turned her head. A tall man, dressed in a white tuxedo, held out a glass on a little tray. “Thank you,” she said, taking the proffered drink. He watched her with a thin smile as she drained the glass. It tasted bitter, but its chill was welcome. To her surprise the man did not move away. She looked at him more closely. His white hair was swept back from a high forehead, he had a long, thin nose and eyes that glittered with a dark intensity. There was something about him that made her uneasy. She murmured her apologies and moved away. She searched the crowd for Lucy and made her way towards her, ready to make her farewells. As she did so, she noticed the man in the white jacket watching her intently. She shuddered,
“Who is that man, the one over by the drinks table, the one in the white tuxedo?”
Lucy turned to look. “No idea! You know what it’s like on occasions like this. Friends bring friends and they bring others. I don’t mind - so long as the drink doesn’t run out.”
“He gives me the creeps! Everywhere I go, he’s watching me.”
“Well. You are pretty stunning-looking, you know.”
Leila shrugged and turned to go, but then swayed uncertainly on her feet.”
“Hey! You okay?” Lucy fussed over her.
“Yeah. I just need to rest a moment.”
Her friend watched her move, unsteadily, away from the partying throng.
Leila had wandered away from the crowd, leaving the throbbing noise behind her as she walked alongside the river. She entered a leafy glade and, sinking to the ground, leant against a tree. She found that her vision was becoming blurred. Even so, she noticed a large swan swimming past her, his wings swooped up along his back, head erect. His eyes glittered dark and intense, triggering a faint recollection. He swam towards the bank, nudging the weeds, and stared intently at her. Fanciful though she knew it was, she addressed the majestic bird. “My! You’re certainly a magnificent specimen, aren’t you?” The swan nodded his head as if acknowledging the compliment and then sailed slowly down-river. She watched him go before, feeling drowsy, she lay down, enjoying the feel of the cool earth beneath her. Soon she was fast asleep.
The sleep was a troubled one. She had dreamt badly. A downy feather tickled her cheek, stroking her face. She murmured and turned into it, enjoying its soft caress. She felt the weight of a body lying against her, its heat strange and disturbing. It moved, rolling onto her and her arms were suddenly pinned to her side. Terror gripped her. She struggled, trying to throw it off but to no avail. Her eyes flew open in fright. The swan was back, standing astride her, his powerful wings holding her down. His black eyes held her stare as he moved quickly, forcefully, between her legs. His head snaked down as he drove his beak savagely into her. She screamed in pain and her world dissolved into darkness.
Leila woke with a start, panting and sweating. She sat up and looked around her: nothing. There was no sign of anyone or anything. The nightmare miasma of fear still enveloped her and she felt soiled. She noticed that her clothes were in disarray. ‘I must have been tossing and turning vigorously in my sleep,’ she thought. Just then the storm broke. Hard sheets of water cut into her as she stood up on shaky legs and held her arms and face up to receive the cleansing downpour. Fierce lightening crackled and thunder crashed all around her, shaking the earth; it was as if the very heavens themselves were raging.
She had stumbled back to the party site, now devastated by wind and rain, all its sparkle gone. She stood for a moment until Lucy ran across and thrust an umbrella into her hand. “Leila! For goodness’ sake! Where’ve you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” She led her to a little VW car. “Come on. Get in, I’ll run you home.” They talked very little. Lucy was having to concentrate on her driving as she peered through the windscreen, trying to see through the sheeting rain. Leila was glad not to have to make small talk; she still felt unsettled by that nightmare. As the car pulled up outside her home, she was surprised to see lights blazing out. Tom must have come home early. She climbed out of the car and ran up the flight of steps. As she did so, the front door opened and she fell into his arms. Half-laughing, half-crying, she had clutched him desperately. “I didn’t expect to see you yet; I thought you’d be away for another couple of days.”
“For goodness sake, Leila! You’re absolutely drenched - and looking exhausted. Come on. Let’s get you into a warm bath and some dry clothes.”
A few minutes later, she was lying in a deep bubble-filled bath with her eyes closed, enjoying the warmth caressing her chilled body.
“How're you feeling now?” She looked up at her husband of six months.
“Much better, thank you.”
“Here. Let me.” He picked up a flannel and gently massaged her body. She relaxed into his care.
“Come on. Up you get now.” He held out a large bath towel and wrapped her in its soft folds before gently patting her dry. She saw desire stirring in his eyes. The next moment he swept her off her feet and carried her through to the bedroom.
“Tom. You fool!” She laughed as he dropped her onto the bed and whipped the towel away. The next moment he was lying alongside her, murmuring words of love. She turned towards him and nibbled his ear as his hands moved over her naked body. She felt herself being aroused and responded to his caresses. They made love with a gentle fervour. She winced, though, as he entered her.
Later that night she had found myself sitting up straight in bed, wild-eyed and sobbing. The nightmare swan had returned. Tom had his arms around her, trying to calm her down. “It's all right. It’s all right.” He paused. “But whatever happened? You suddenly started tossing around violently and screaming “No! No!” She could not put her experience into words.
“Just a nightmare,” she mumbled. How could she even begin to describe that sickening image? Even the thought of it made her feel faint.
Four weeks later, she had awoken with waves of nausea racking her body. She headed for the bathroom, where she threw up. She returned to the bedroom where a worried-looking Tom greeted her. “You okay now?”
She nodded, “Must have been something I ate last night.”
The following evening Leila was busy getting ready to accompany Tom to a very important business supper. She smiled as she slipped her favourite evening dress over her head. Its pale blue silk fell around her and draped itself in graceful folds to her ankles. She was shocked to find that she had to struggle to fasten the zip. ‘Time to diet,’ she thought. She turned to the full length mirror to see the result. Hazel eyes reflected her image: tall and slim, with hair framing an oval face. The dress showed off her figure, though the bodice was, she noticed, strained across the front. Tom leant forward and nuzzled her neck. “You look gorgeous, like a Greek goddess.” She had giggled at the description.
After a high-class meal with key clients, they had stood on the hotel balcony overlooking the river. The evening had been a success; Tom’s future was now looking very promising. As they relaxed in each others’ arms, a group of swans drifted through the dusky light. Their leader turned his head and regarded them with a steady black eye. Leila shuddered involuntarily. That night she again awoke in terror. Tom had held her close as she cried out, “Help! Save me! The swan!”
“Hey. It’s okay. What’s up?”
“The swan! The swan was attacking me.” She had not been able to tell him the details.
“Well there’s no swan here; just you and me. You’re safe with me.” She sighed and snuggled closer to him.
“You'll always be here for me, won’t you? Don’t ever leave me.”
“Of course not, darling,” he had said.
The next morning, she had been sick again. An unwelcome thought presented itself. ‘Could she be pregnant?’ She sincerely hoped not. They were always careful to take precautions whenever they made love. Babies were not on the agenda. Leila was still carving out a career for herself in the world of advertising and Tom wanted to establish his own law firm. With a jolt she realised that she had missed her last period. Worry set in, but she kept it to herself. The following morning, before breakfast, she shut herself in the bathroom with a pregnancy test in her hand. She chewed her lower lip as she waited for the result. It was positive. Loud, explosive sobs shook her body. Tom burst into the bathroom.
“What’s up now? You look terrible.”
Leila took a deep breath and broke the news to him, “I'm pregnant.”
“What!” A look of stunned surprise clouded his face. “Are you sure? Have you seen a doctor?”
“Yes - and no. I’ve just taken a test, but my body was telling me anyway. I’ve been trying to ignore the signs”
“But we agreed. We wouldn’t start a family just yet. All our plans!” His voice tailed away.
“I know that! Don’t blame me! One of your condoms must have been faulty.” Tom pulled a face. “Well, it’s a shock. I wasn’t expecting to be a dad just yet.”
“Well, I wasn’t exactly planning on motherhood, either!”
The discussion went round and round in circles. At last they agreed. “We’ll just have to deal with it.” There was no joy, though, at the prospect of the unbidden baby.
Her night terrors had increased in frequency. Two or three times a week the nightmare would strike. She became afraid to sleep. Dark circles hung under her eyes, her face grew grey and gaunt even as her stomach expanded. Her work had suffered and the situation at home became fraught. Tom felt bewildered and excluded by what was happening to his once-beautiful wife. Bickering and recriminations became commonplace. This afternoon’s outing to the gallery was supposed to have provided some light relief. Instead it had complicated matters further.
“Here you are, luv,” the taxi driver’s voice cut across her thoughts. She left the cab and slowly mounted the steps to her home. Leila collapsed into an armchair, puzzling over her experience. It was a mystery as to how she could be experiencing an image conjured up by a sixteenth century artist. Her mind ached with trying to solve the conundrum. The room darkened with winter gloom as she continued to sit there. She dimly heard a click and the sound of the front door opening. Tom had come home. The next moment he was pushing open the sitting room door.
“Hello! What are you doing sitting in the dark? I thought you were going to the National Gallery this afternoon.” He switched on a light and looked at her more closely. “Whatever's the matter? You look dreadful!” Leila stared at him mutely, not knowing what to say. Eventually she found her voice, speaking in strangled tones.
“I did go. It was bizarre. I saw a painting, a sixteenth copy of a Michelangelo one.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “It was the exact image of my nightmare. It’s so weird. I don’t understand what’s going on.” Tom squatted down in front of her and took hold of her hands. He spoke very gently.
“Tell me about this painting.” She told him what the label had said but he shook her hands a little impatiently. “Not the label, the actual painting.” She swallowed hard and told him what she had seen, struggling to describe the painting: the content of her nightmare. She realised that this was the first time she had ever spoken of it. When she had finished she sat with her head hung low. She felt the heat of shame flush her face.
“I don’t know what to do,” she mumbled.
He stayed still with their hands linked whilst the minutes ticked by. Eventually his hand came up and gently cupped her face, raising it to his and their eyes linked: her anguished ones reflected in his worried ones.
“I don’t know what this is all about either. But you need help: professional help,” he said. Her shoulders sagged with relief. Tom’s response gave her some encouragement. Hope rose tentatively in her; perhaps, somewhere, there was some help for her.
A few days later, with great trepidation, Leila pushed open the door to a consulting room, the brass plaque identified its occupant as ‘Dr Olwen Clarkeson, Clinical Counsellor/Hypnotherapist.’ She was greeted by a small woman with rosy cheeks and twinkling eyes. Leila let out a sigh of relief; the counsellor looked friendly and approachable.
“Good afternoon, Dr Clarkeson.”
“Hello Leila. Nice to meet you. Please take a seat - and do call me Olwen.” She indicated a large soft-looking armchair to her and settled herself in a similar one opposite. Leila sat on the edge of her chair and looked around the room. It was much more homely than she had imagined: a mahogany desk with plants spilling over the top, a leather couch standing discreetly in a corner, photo’s of family and friends adorning the walls. Following her gaze, the counsellor smiled, “I much prefer to work in an intimate environment - it’s so much more relaxing for me.” Her client gave her a wan smile in return and waited nervously for what was to come.
“Now, before you say anything , let me tell you how I work. At the end of that you can tell me whether you think I could be of any help to you. There are other counsellors I could recommend if not.”
Leila nodded.
“I've been in this business - of helping people - for over twenty years and always use a friendly and practical approach with my clients. I use a variety of well-tested methods, including psychotherapy and hypnotherapy but, at all times, you are the one in control. I’m not here to provide answers, rather to help people understand and discover how to deal with their difficulties. I usually find it takes only a handful of sessions, but sometimes it might just take a bit longer.” She paused and left a space for her words to sink in before asking, “Well, do you think? Shall we give it a try? You are, of course, free to pull out at any time.”
Leila gave it some thought before replying. “I'm desperate. I know I need help. If, after I tell you what’s troubling me, you still want to work with me, I’m ready to give it a go.”
“Good. Now, in your own time tell me just why you want to see me.”
It was an invitation to share, but where to start? Leila felt tears fill her eyes and mopped them with a handkerchief, before twisting it nervously between her fingers. She thought for a few moments and decided to begin with the visit to the gallery and of how she was affected by the painting of ‘Leda and the Swan.’ The conversation moved on from there to the frequently recurring nightmare. Olwen never interrupted her, just offered a little prompt every now and again. Encouraged by her kindly acceptance, Leila told her all. By the time she had finished she slumped back in her chair, exhausted.
“The only thing you haven’t told me,” Olwen said, “is when it all started.”
“The day of Lucy’s party, mid-summers eve: the day I fell pregnant.”
A moment’s silence followed. Leila wondered if she had shocked the counsellor with her admission, but all she said was, “Fine. If you like, I’ll see you again next week. We can look then at how we might move things forward.”
Tom had been waiting anxiously for her outside. He held her hand tightly.
“How did it go? Any use?”
“Yes. I think so. At least - she wants to see me again next week ….. I’d rather not say anymore at the moment, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure.” He drove her home in silence.
The nightmare continued to disturb her sleep in the intervening week so Leila was surprised when, at her next appointment, Dr. Clarkeson made no reference to it. Instead, she was encouraged to talk about her childhood, her work, her family and her leisure activities. ‘What use can that be?’ she wondered. However, at the end of the session, she realised that she felt more relaxed than she had done for a long time. The following week the therapist invited Leila to lie on the couch for the session, “To help you relax more,” she said. Feeling very self-conscious, she did as she was asked and closed her eyes. Olwen began to talk slowly and quietly; spinning a story of Leila’s life, based on what she had been told the week before.
When they finished, Leila said, “I’m sorry, I think I might have dropped off for a while.”
Dr. Clarkeson smiled. “That’s all right. Don’t worry about it. I think we’re making some progress. We’ll take things forward a bit more next week.”
That night Leila dreamt about the swan again. But this time it was different. It was as if she sat on a cloud looking down on events unfolding far beneath her. She saw the swan paddling past her sleeping form. The next instant, the white-haired man from the party emerged from a clump of undergrowth. He approached her with a grim smile on his face and lay down alongside her, pulling impatiently at her clothes. She woke with a start. Now she knew what was causing the night terrors. Her skin crawled at the thought. Taking care not to disturb Tom, she slipped out of bed and headed to the bathroom. Acutely aware of her bulging belly, she ran a bath full of hot water and stepped into it. She lay back, submerging her entire body for as long as she could manage before coming up again, gasping for air. Dry, hard sobs racked her. She reached for the scrubbing brush and began to rub hard at her skin. Over and over again she soaped the brush and scrubbed her face, her arms, her legs, her torso. She lost all track of time. The bathroom door burst open and Tom stood there, framed in light. She paused in her scrubbing.
“Leila! For God’s sake! What are you doing? It’s the middle of the night!”
She didn’t answer; just went back to the scrubbing. He walked up to the bath and put his hand in the water. “How long have you been there? This water is freezing.” She ignored him and carried on rubbing away at her skin, trying to wash the sense of filth away. He seized her hands, arresting them in the air. “Enough! Come out of there - now!” She looked him full in the face as anger and despair fought for supremacy. She ground some words out.
“Let go of me! I’m unclean. I’ve been raped!”
He backed away from her and collapsed onto the bathroom stool, his eyes wide with shock, his mouth gaping open. Words gasped out of him.
“What! Where? When? How? You must tell the police.” She grimaced. The lawyer within him was coming to the fore. Leila rose from the water, calm now that the truth was out. Her words sounded hollow, like a death knell.
"At Lucy’s party. A man, a stranger, gave me a drink. It must have been ‘spiked.’ I wandered off, fell asleep on the grass. The man who gave me the drink came and found me. He raped me. That's what’s behind my nightmares.” It sounded cold, so matter of fact, put like that. She started shivering and wrapped myself in the nearest towel. Tom continued sitting there, looking stupefied. “How can I go to the police now? What do I say. ‘I went to a party, had a drink and a man jumped me. I know because of a dream.’ That”s going to look good in a court room, isn’t it?”
The words were harsh and desperate. Tom stood up and, without looking at her, walked out of the bathroom into the spare bedroom. She heard the door slam, the creak of bedsprings and sounds of him sobbing. The truth was too harsh for him. She dressed and left the house; dawn had not yet broken as she walked the streets. A police car slowed and drew up alongside her, making her jump.
“Everything all right, miss?”
“Sure,” she said, “I couldn’t sleep, that’s all.”
“Well, mind how you go. There’s some funny people about, you know.”
‘Oh I know that all right,’ she thought bitterly. Eventually the sky lightened. She looked at her watch: it was seven am. She dialled Olwen’s number. When it was answered, she sobbed into the phone. “Hello. It’s Leila here. Something has happened. I need to speak to you urgently. I’m desperate!” There was a slight pause before the reply.
“Okay. Meet me at my office at eight-thirty.”
She sat in that welcoming room, clutching a hot cup of tea, before blurting out her realisation that she had been raped. Dr Clarkeson let her talk without interruption, simply nodding from time to time to encourage her. “What am I going to do now? I don't know if I’ve caught something nasty. I don’t know if the baby is carrying some awful defect. The police won’t want to know. Tom might not be the father of my baby …. and now he hates me!” Her voice rose to a wail. Silence followed for a few minutes before Olwen spoke.
“I’m not surprised by your revelation. But, I must emphasise, it’s not your fault. There’s a lot of help available for you, including myself; but the most important thing is to recognise that you’re not the one at fault. You’re the victim, not the guilty party. The man is to blame.”
Leila sniffled into her hanky, her reddened eyes fixed earnestly on the other woman's face as she continued.
“I would suggest that you see a doctor soon - either your own or one at a crisis centre. They will be able to check you out, in confidence, to see whether or not you have been infected with anything and treat you accordingly. There are also specialist help centres for women who have been raped; I can give you a contact list for them.” She reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a leaflet which she handed to Leila. She glanced down at it before tucking it in her handbag, wanting to look at it more closely when she would be alone. Olwen continued, “Now, if you are willing, I think a little meditation time might be helpful before you leave.”
Thirty minutes later, Leila left the room feeling calmer, though her problems still loomed large before her, especially the thought, ‘What will it mean for me and Tom: for our relationship?’
She reached home and headed for the stairs, to go to bed. All she wanted was to sleep. A voice behind her made her jump. “Leila! Where’ve you been? You were nowhere to be found when I woke up; I’ve been out of my mind with worry!” She paused, one hand on the bannister, before slowly turning to look at him.
“I walked the streets until it was light. Then went see Olwen.”
“We need to talk; we can’t just ignore this.”
“I know. But not right know. I’m too tired to think.” She carried on up the stairs leaving Tom standing there, unsure what to do next. A few hours later, feeling a little refreshed, Leila entered the kitchen and put the kettle on. Tom obviously heard her movements because the next moment he was behind her. He sat down at the table, holding his head between his hands. She carried on with her task in silence.
“Leila. We need to talk, to work out what to do next. I need to know what happened, make sure you tell the police, get your health checked out,” he paused, “and talk about the baby; it might not be mine.” At those words she reacted as if stung, hurling words at him.
“Don't you think I realise that? Do you think I wanted to be pregnant - possibly with another man’s child!” She flung the cup of tea across the room, its delicate china shattering into tiny pieces, and fled, sobbing, back to the bedroom where she turned the key, locking him out. Crashing footsteps on the stairs were followed by Tom hammering on the door.
“Leila, let me in! Come on, stop being so silly. We can’t go on like this.”
She backed away from the door and burrowed under the bedclothes, trying to shut her ears and mind to his cries. The shouting continued for many minutes until at last there was silence. She lay there for a long time before getting up and listening. Nothing. She opened the door cautiously. Tom lay across the doorway, his arms flung around his face. She went to step over him, but he stirred and opened his eyes, red from weeping. Leila felt sorry for him as well as for herself.
“Leila?” He moved tentatively, not wanting to cause her further upset. She leant over him and gave him her hand.
“Come on. I’ll talk now.”
Together they went down into the living room where they sat side by side on the sofa. Tom opened his mouth, ready to ask questions, but Leila put a finger against his lips. “Look. I can only do this my way. Dr Clarkeson was kind and helpful. She said I wasn’t to think it's my fault but - Oh! If only I hadn’t taken that drink!” He moved to hold her, but she pulled back. “I'm sorry, I’ m struggling to cope with all of this, I can’t say anymore. Olwen said there are organisations who specialise in helping people like me; people who have been,” she swallowed hard before finishing the sentence, “raped." Leila was aware that Tom was struggling with his own inner demons, trying to understand but hampered by his own needs. She left him sitting there and went into the kitchen where she pulled out the leaflet from her handbag and made some necessary phone calls. That night they slept in the same bed, but each was very careful not to touch the other.
The following day she submitted to the necessary tests at the clinic to check out her sexual health. The doctor made reassuring comments but Leila still had to fight hard to stop her worries spilling over into tears. She then made her way to the address she had been given over the phone. A discreet sign on the door told her she had come to the right place: a rape survivor’s centre. There she found acceptance, reassurance and practical help. The counsellor explained her options to her; it was Leila’s decision alone as to whether or not to get the police involved, have an abortion, even at this late stage, or to keep the child. Leila walked home slowly, clutching a sheaf of leaflets designed to help people like her. Thoughts tumbled chaotically through her mind, ‘How,’ she wondered, ‘will I ever cope?' She let herself quietly into her home; the one she and Tom had created so happily just a few short months ago. There was no sign of him so she sat down and read the various leaflets. She leant back wearily; so much advice, so many decisions! A few moment later, she slept the sleep of exhaustion. She awoke with a start. Tom stood slumped in the living room doorway, a suitcase in his hand. She stared uncomprehendingly at him.
“Leila. I can’t deal with this situation right now. I think I need some space; time to think things through quietly. I’m moving out for a while.” She stared at him in disbelief.
“You said you’d never leave me. That you’d always be here for me.” He ran a hand distractedly over his face.
“I know. I’m sorry.” His voice broke and he walked heavily out of the house. Leila flew to the door. “Tom! I need you!” He kept on steadily walking down the path.
She spent the next few days enduring a whirlwind of emotions. Sorrow and anger fought for supremacy. She raged against Tom, too weak to stand alongside her in her distress. She missed him terribly, his companionship and his care of her. Pride, though, stopped her from making any contact with him. Leila comforted herself by reciting again and again those words of Olwen; words that became her mantra; “It's not my fault; the abuser is to blame.” As the days went by, her anger mounted until it was a raging inferno directed at her attacker. Thoughts chased each other through her mind, ‘That man has ruined my marriage, my life. He should be made to pay! But what should I do?’ There was, as she had told Tom, no evidence to corroborate her story. She had seen so many stories in the press of abused women who were disbelieved and ridiculed. She would be exposed to cynicism and scandal. Given where it had all happened, Lucy and her friends would be drawn into the proceedings. She could lose a deep friendship as well as her husband. Was it worth the risk? She paced the room by day and tossed in bed all night. Another thought occurred to her. Alongside her desire for revenge, she realised that other women, too, could be at risk from him. She came to a decision.
The next morning she walked past the police station three times until anger and determination propelled her inside. She walked up to the enquiry desk and steadied herself against its firm surface. A young policewoman looked up. Leila opened her mouth to speak, but the words would not come out. Eventually, she managed to blurt out, “My name is Leila White. I want to report a rape.” A concerned look flashed across the constable’s face. She came out from behind her desk and ushered Leila into a small consulting room.
“Wait here, someone will come to see you shortly.”
She sat there, perched on the edge of her chair, ready to take flight. A few minutes later the door opened, and an older, non-uniformed officer stood there looking kindly at her. “Hello Leila. I’m Elizabeth; I specialise in cases such as yours. I know it’s not easy for you, but I’ll do what I can to help you.” A young intern came in and offered Leila a cup of tea. She accepted it gratefully, holding it with both hands in front of her like a shield. The police officer began again, “When you’re ready, tell me what you can. We needn’t worry over details at this stage. They can come later. I’m afraid it’s a long and demanding process. Are you sure you want to go through with this?” Leila nodded and swallowed hard. Hesitantly, she told her story. When she had finished, she sat with her head in her hands.
“I know it all sounds very weak, but my friend can vouch for me at her party: my dizziness and my dislike of that creep.”
“Well, we certainly don’t have much hard evidence do we?” Leila stood up ready to leave, but Elizabeth held up a commanding hand. “Wait! I didn’t say we couldn’t do anything. Do you think you could describe this man: the one with the white hair and jacket?” Leila shuddered at the thought of him.
“Yes, I think so.” The police officer spoke into the intercom. A few moments later, a man appeared with a sketch pad under his arm.
“Leila, this is Robert. I want you to tell him everything you can remember about how your attacker looked.” Leila watched as, in response to her prompts, Robert started drawing a man’s portrait. Suddenly she gasped and turned pale.
“That's him. That’s exactly him!” Elizabeth noticed her anguish and nodded to the artist who silently left the room.
“Well done Leila. That was a mammoth undertaking. What we’ll do now is to send that image to every police force in the country to see if anyone of that description is on their record. It will take a little time, but I’ll let you know the outcome.”
Leila made her way home feeling shaky but satisfied that she had done her duty. Her ‘phone rang as she entered. “Hi Leila, it’s Lucy here. Are you okay? Tom ‘phoned me, said you were having problems. Can I help? Shall I come round to see you?”
“Thank you Lucy, but not at this stage. It’s too complicated.” She rang off. A moment later, it rang again. It was the clinic.
“Good news, Mrs White, your tests have all come back clear. You have a clean bill of health.” Relief flooded through her. ‘Thank God! I’m safe!’ The baby rippled across her belly in response. ‘But what,’ she wondered, ‘am I going to do about you?'
That night, as she made her way upstairs, she was doubled over by a sharp cramp in her middle. She felt a warm trickle running down her legs. She was bleeding. Leila managed to edge her way to the bedroom where she collapsed onto her bed. She pulled out her ‘phone and rang Lucy.
“Lucy. It’s Leila. I think I’m losing the baby.” There was a gasp at the other end.
“I'll be right over.” Then she was gone.
Leila lay weeping. She hadn’t wanted this baby, even when she had believed it to be Tom's. Then when the paternity become questionable, she had been really torn by the pregnancy. Only her abhorrence of abortion had led her to keep the unborn child. A thought occurred to her, ‘Was this nature’s way of solving the problem?’ She clutched her stomach as a sudden realisation rushed in. She did want this baby. It was flesh of her flesh, life within her life; no matter who had fathered it. She found herself sobbing and gabbling incoherently. “I'm sorry, little one. So sorry. You’ve known only stress and trouble since the day you came along…. But don’t leave me. We’ve lived together for seven months now; I’ve got used to having you being about.” She ended in a wail, “Baby please don’t go!”
The next moment there was a reassuring presence next to her, holding her hand, adding his tears to hers. Tom had returned. “Leila, don’t cry. It will be all right. We’ll make it all right!”
“Tom! What are you doing here?”
“Lucy ‘phoned me. She’s on her way as well.” He buried his face in her hands. “Oh Leila. I was such a selfish fool! I should never have left you. I’m so very, very sorry.” The pain bit into her again. She grasped his hand tightly. The next minute there was the sound of an ambulance. Helping hands carried her into the vehicle on a stretcher. At that moment there was a screech of brakes. Lucy rushed over and took hold of Tom’s arm.
“Don't worry, Leila, I’ll bring Tom. We’ll meet you at the other end.” By the time the ambulance reached the hospital, Leila was unconscious. She was rushed through into the emergency department; Tom and Lucy had to wait in a nearby room. He jumped up every time he saw a medic approaching. It was a long and agonising wait. Eventually a doctor approached them.
“We've given your wife some injections - and a blood transfusion. - to try and settle things down. She should be all right soon.” He paused before adding softly, “I’m afraid, though, it’s touch and go about the baby.”
Tom grimaced before asking, “Can I see her now?”
“Yes. But only for a few minutes.”
A nurse led him through to a small side room. Leila was lying there, eyes closed, with tubes feeding into her body. Tom sat quietly next to her, feeling helpless. Her eyes flickered open. She turned her head and saw him sitting by her side. “Tom?” He took hold of her hand.
“I'm sorry” he said, “I promise never, ever, to leave you again.”
She smiled wanly and lapsed back to sleep. The nurse entered, “Time’s up.” She led him back to the waiting room. Lucy was still there.
“Will she be all right?” He nodded.
“I think so, but they still don’t know about the baby.” His voice broke. She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze and led him out to her car.
“Come on, let’s get you home.”
He had a sleepless night and telephoned the hospital first thing in the morning.
“Okay so far. The signs are encouraging. You can come over to see her again later.”
A few days later, Tom was able to bring Leila back home. Thankfully she had not lost the baby; the hospital intervention had saved it. “Be careful, now,” the nurse had said as she left, “Take plenty of rest and avoid any stress.” She and Tom had exchanged wry glances at that. When they reached home, he took control and fussed over her.
Eventually Leila called out to him, “Tom! Please come and sit with me. I need to talk.” He came over and sat down heavily opposite her. She began hesitantly, “Nearly losing this baby made me realise just how much I do want it, even with all the unanswered questions hanging over it.” She looked anxiously across at him, unsure of his response. He took a deep breath before sighing heavily.
“Okay. Walking out on you made me realise just how much I do need you, I want you. I was such a fool. A complete idiot, in fact, to leave you. It was just that - well - I felt as if it was me that had been wronged, not you. Can you ever forgive me?” In response she held out her hand and pulled him close to her. He relaxed into her. “If this baby means so much to you then I will do my best to look after you both as well as I can. I don’t want, ever, to lose you.”
There was a sudden loud knock at the door. Tom sighed and went to open it. A few moments later he was showing Elizabeth, the police officer, into the room. She smiled at Leila before beginning to speak. “Hello Leila, I’ve come to give you an update.”
“You’ve found the man, then?” Hope leapt into her eyes.
“No. Not that. But there’s been another attack although, thankfully, the man was disturbed by some passers-by and fled. They chased him down a path, right to the river bank. But when they got there, no-one was in sight. All they saw was a swan swimming downriver. It was definitely the same man that attacked you, the description matched perfectly. The attack is due to feature on the crime-stopper programme next week. Hopefully that will lead to his arrest. I wanted to let you know, to try and avoid causing you any further distress.” Leila sat with her head bowed; it felt so good to know that she was now fully believed. She lifted her head and quietly addressed Elizabeth.
“Will you let the victim know that I’m willing to befriend her, to help through her ordeal. She might be glad of an understanding listener.” The policewoman nodded.
“You’re a good woman, Leila, and a strong one.”
The next day Leila visited Dr. Clarkeson again to share with her the recent events. As she spoke she suddenly realised, “The nightmare’s gone! It hasn’t troubled me for some time now.”
Her counsellor smiled. “It's done its work. Your subconscious mind was trying to tell you what had happened to you. The breakthrough came when you realised what it signified. You shouldn’t be troubled by it anymore.”
“Thank God!” Leila said. As she went home, head held high, she thought, ‘That old adage is right; what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger’.
Her child was born by Caesarean section five weeks later. Leila lay groggily in the recovery room watching as the midwife brought her child to her: a daughter. Carefully, she held the tiny infant and looked closely at her. She ran her finger lightly over the downy blonde hair; “So unusual,” the nurse had said. She looked looked deep into the dark cornflower-blue eyes with love. Tom entered the room, looking anxiously at her.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Leila looked at his face, noting the fine lines that had appeared recently; he looked far more mature than before. “I'm fine,” she said and held the baby towards him. “Here, come and meet your daughter.” Gingerly, he took the child and gazed long and hard at her. Leila watched him anxiously. ‘Would he accept her?’ A smile creased his face.
“She's beautiful! Just like her mum. I can see I’ll have my work cut out to keep her safe from all the boys!” Leila leant back back happily on her pillows. Clearly, despite all the questions over the paternity, Tom had taken her for his own. He looked across at Leila. “What shall we call her?”
Instinctively, she replied, “Helen.” At that moment a family of swans flew past the open window.
She watched as a single white feather drifted through and settled gently on the baby’s head. ‘A kiss from above,’ she thought, ‘a blessing from the gods.’ She smiled. ‘All will be well.’
(* Not the actual label.)
Emmie Blake has been writing for many years but it was only after her retirement that she began regularly writing short stories. Since then, she has had three pieces published in an Anthology as well as winning several regional story competitions. During her professional life she worked variously as a counsellor, educator and activist as well as an ordained minister. She volunteers in her local community and is actively supporting people seeking sanctuary in her part of Wales (UK). She and her husband enjoy their rural life together, gardening and walking their dog in the surrounding hills.
Picture credit: Fabio Jock