VENGEANCE

The building is not what I imagined. It’s unpretentious, ordinary. There’s nothing remarkable about it; no sinister trees, spooky cobwebs or grim sounds from within. It’s a practical, conventional, dull semi-detached house in a dull part of this very dull commuter-belt town, far enough out of London to be inconvenient but not far enough to have its own identity. 

But why shouldn’t it be ordinary? Do I expect someone’s home, their entire life to be defined by one extraordinary moment? Although mine has been. Or was that moment, that event, not out of the ordinary at all? Was it in fact run-of-the-mill, mundane? 

‘It happens, get over it…. Move on… You have to put it behind you...’ 

Oh, I’ve tried. But it won’t stay behind me for long. Like a vehicle keen to overtake, it looms in the rear-view mirror, pulls alongside and demands my full attention, dangerously, before falling back. Until the next time. 

Block it? It seeps like blood through a bandage. Bury it? It rises again from the grave. What about accepting it? Is that the best route to free myself from its tyranny? If so, and I’m willing to give it a shot since nothing else has worked, this meeting is my attempt at resolution. 

I focus on my task. 

Ring the bell.  

The door is conventional in design, as if the owner has created a deliberately conservative profile in every detail. A thought comes to mind of a criminal released from prison, attempting to blend into the neighbourhood, hoping their past will stay hidden. Is someone a criminal if they committed the deed but have never been charged? 

I’m here to address that. 

Ring the bell.  

Can I do it? I’ve waited so long, planned so much, imagined and rehearsed so carefully. But I can only calculate my own actions, announce my own lines, not control the other half of the encounter. The rest is unpredictable.   

Ring the bell. Ring now. 

I check my watch. Perfect timing, of course; I’m known for it. It’s professional, polite and respectful. Respectful? How ironic. But let’s do this by the rules. At least to start with. And if it gets messy, I’ll play as dirty as I have to. I slip my hand into my jacket pocket and check. Yes. I’m ready. 

I ring the bell. There’s a faint chime from inside; two falling notes make an incongruously cheerful sound. I wait. I breathe. My mouth is dry, my armpits damp. 

I wait. 

I press the bell a second time. What if he’s not in? He’s forgotten or he was suspicious and ran away. Even now he could – 

The door opens. 

The door opens. Finally we are face to face. I’ve tried to prepare myself for this moment but of course that’s impossible. I’ve remembered him as he was then, in 1976. He was a young man. I was younger. I’ve brought that damaged twenty-two-year-old to this doorstep like a fragile package. ‘Delivery. Sign here. Have a good day.’ The person making a delivery is me now; the parcel is me then. 

What he’s brought, unprepared for anything complicated to ruffle his daily routine, is his unvarnished, authentic self. He looks like a grandfather. I’m old. He’s older.  

‘Mr Schmeidt?’

‘Yes. But mostly Smith these days.’

I nod and manage a sketch of a smile. For a tiny second I cannot speak. 

‘Nice to meet you.’ He extends a hand. I reach mine out. His is big, it dwarfs mine. We shake. When his flesh and mine last touched, how different it was. I want to wipe myself clean. 

‘Come in, please.’ 

I step into his world. Is it safe this time? He leads me through the hall – prints of flowers on the wall, a patterned carpet - into a sitting room that looks out onto a well-stocked garden. He motions me to a seat. I sit, conscious that I’m being obedient, malleable, as I was before but knowing this time it will change. No, it won’t change, I will change it. The passive must be made active. I’m taking responsibility now. 

‘Shall I hang your coat?’

‘No, thank you. I’ll keep it on for now.’ Warmth and protection. 

‘Very well. I will put on the kettle.’ He has that slight accent, hard to pinpoint if I didn’t know. 

He moves smoothly but with a hint of caution, appropriate for his age. He has a slight stoop, which surprises me. What is he, mid-seventies? I guess so. 

‘Tea? Coffee? I have some nice biscuits too.’ His eyes crinkle but I’m wary of his offer as if it’s a bribe, a softening up. 

‘No, thank you.’ My voice sounds firmer than I feel. ‘Just a tea.’

He leaves the room and I take in the details, soaking them up like a detective seeking evidence. Anything might be relevant. A large sofa and two soft armchairs, covered in a dark green fabric. Cushions, too many; for show not comfort. Fireplace with wooden mantelpiece. Photographs in silver frames. Smiling faces. More prints on the opposite wall. Birds and flowers. A clock in an ornate brass frame denies a silence with its measured beat. All clean and neat and devoid of character. There’s a faint odour of… lavender, is it? A recent spray with an air freshener for my arrival. The whole place has the feel of a three-star hotel. Perfectly acceptable for a couple of nights but bland as fuck. 

That word. 

He's back. He pulls a small Ikea table close to me and puts a mug down onto a coaster. A coaster on an MDF table? Why bother? 

We start to chat in the way you’d expect. If you didn’t know the reason for my visit. He asks if I found the place all right and whether I’ve ‘come out from London’. I feed him soft, safe answers. It feels as if we’re dipping our toes into water, then paddling ankle-deep and beginning to venture a few paces  further, checking for safety. Are we all right? Is this OK? Where was this caution at our previous meeting?  

‘So,’ he moves things forward, in practical mode, ‘you want to ask me some questions?’

‘I do.’

‘About me.’

‘About you.’

‘For a local magazine?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Your email said it was about residents of Turnham Green, famous residents. I can hardly claim to be that.’ He gives a modest shrug. 

‘You had an impressive film career, some good roles.’ This feels dangerous, alluding to cameras.  

‘Well, it is true for a while I had a certain… profile. Never the lead but one or two highlights stand out. I think I can say I was respected in the business. How is your tea? I have assumed you like it white. Did you want sugar?’

‘It’s fine,’ I say without having tasted it. Does he think that’s odd? I can’t trust my hand to hold the cup steady. I don’t want to arouse his suspicions. Not yet. I’m a boxer, dancing around my opponent, waiting for the right moment to throw a punch. Stay nimble, keep moving. Don’t be a target.  

‘There must be so many far more illustrious people than I who have lived in that area. Why me?’

The two words catch me off guard, a quick jab to the chin. There’s the question that’s resonated in my head for so long. Why me? I have no satisfactory answer. 

‘It’s true some big names have lived around there but that’s old news. It’s the… the other, surprising residents of the Terrace I want to focus on. Such as yourself, Mr Smith.’

‘I see.’

‘May I call you… Jürgen?’ I manage this without a wobble. 

‘You may, although I’ve become Jeffrey to most people, apart from family. Time changes us all, does it not?’

‘In some ways,’ I say. ‘And yet in others, not at all.’ 

He thinks about this and gives a small nod of agreement, seeming to like that thought. 

‘And the magazine?’

‘Turnham Green Today,’ I say quickly, the rehearsed lie.

‘Hm, I don’t know it. But it’s a long time since I was based there.’ He pronounces it ‘bazed’. 

‘We have a small circulation,’ I say. 

‘Incongruous.’ He’s caught me again. Is it deliberate? Does he – oh God – recognise me? I raise my eyebrows; it’s the smallest response. 

‘Turnham Green Today. But your article is looking back to yesterday.’

‘Ah, yes. A bit of a… a twist.’ 

Is there a hint of challenge in our gaze? I sip my tea now. It’s too strong and too milky. I need both hands to keep it from spilling. 

‘Family,’ I say. ‘You mentioned family.’ 

‘Yes. My dear wife, Pauline, died last year. Cancer. But I have two children and three wonderful grandchildren, two girls and a boy.’ He nods towards the framed photographs. I don’t look. ‘So I’m not alone. It has been tough though, adapting.’ 

He looks at me, sadness in his eyes. Is he expecting me to say I’m sorry for his loss? I’m not. I’m surprised to hear he was married but nothing is predictable. Now as then.   

‘You lived at number 13.’ I’m ready to advance now, push a little way into deeper water. 

‘I did. You have done your research.’

‘Yes.’ It was complicated and frustrating. But it got me here, opposite you, to take my revenge. I’m doing this.  

‘You lived in the ground floor flat from 1975 to 1981.’

‘That’s right. Then I moved back to Germany for a few years. It was the change of career that brought me to England again. I missed it. But what I never missed was the uncertainty of an acting life.’

‘Life has many uncertainties,’ I say, taking my phone out.  ‘May I record our interview? It saves writing notes.’

‘Well, I suppose…’

I open Voice Memos and press the red button. 

‘It was a good apartment. I wonder who lives there now.’

‘A nice young couple. A lawyer and a teacher. They were very helpful.’ 

‘Of course, you went to ask. As part of your investigation.’

‘Yes,’ I say. This is factual; it must be clear and unequivocal. ‘I went to the flat. Recently. To… find you.’

‘Ah, you tracked me down!’ He thinks this is funny. ‘But a moment, how did you even know that - ?’

‘I’d been there once before.’ I struggle to keep my voice steady and deliberate.

‘Oh yes?’ He has no idea what’s coming but the path has opened up for me. Now I’m a tennis player at the net; the court is exposed for my winning volley.   

‘In 1976,’ I say. ‘The summer of 76.’ He looks confused. ‘When I met you.’ 

‘You - ? Did - ?’ He frowns and tilts his head like a bird as he studies my face. ‘I’m so sorry; should I..?’

‘As well as the films, playing U-boat captains in British war movies, you had a business on the side, didn’t you?’

He’s guarded now. Where is this going? 

‘I… What are you..?’

‘You advertised in magazines, didn’t you, for models?’

‘Oh, that.’ His worried face relaxes into embarrassment. ‘A little money-spinner. Yes, I did get involved with that enterprise for a number of years. My gosh, that was a long time ago and really of no consequence.’

It’s all I can do to leap up and attack him. No consequence? No fucking consequence? Not for him. 

‘I had forgotten. But it’s true. I used to take some shots for a while. It was a side line, quite lucrative. So did you..? Were you one of the young men who..? Did I photograph you? Oh good lord, how extraordinary. How absolutely - ’ 

He’s about to say how marvellous or splendid or amusing this is, what a ‘turn up for the books’ or expect to have a laugh with me about it. To avoid hearing any of his shit I talk over him, my voice loud enough after decades of silence to silence him.  

‘You raped me.’ 

He stares at me. He blinks. He blinks a second time. I feel I will never blink again. I have waited forty-six years to say this. I can feel my jaw tight as I clench my teeth. 

And then he gives me a small smile of apology, but all he’s sorry about is having misheard. His hand goes to his ear and I notice for the first time a small hearing aid which he presses in. He twists his neck and looks at me from an odd angle.  

‘I beg your pardon?’ Clearly that is not what he’s begging. 

I repeat the words. More slowly. There must be no doubt.

‘No, I…’

‘Yes. You did. On your double bed in that room where you had wardrobes full of clothes for me to pose in. Shirts, hats, jock straps, football shorts – ’

‘Wait, this is – ’

‘Uncomfortable? Unfair? I’m taking advantage of you, is that it? Am I abusing your rights? How does that feel?’

‘Who are you? There is no article, is there?’

‘Was there ever a German magazine that was going to publish the shots you took of me, dressed in that gear and undressed out of it? Naked. Vulnerable. Naïve and manipulated.’ I’m leaning forward, fearful of another physical attack. He’s old but he’s big and he’s caught me out before. 

‘Look, whatever happened – ’

‘You raped me! That’s what happened. You took photos and then, with the sound of your dog Hardy barking in the kitchen you – ’

‘Hardy?’

‘Yes.’ I pause. Long enough to notice the dispassionate rhythm of the clock marking each second. ‘Bizarre what details fix in the mind at moments of terror. Hardy, your spaniel. I remember that. I also remember the size and shape of your penis. Your cock. It was huge. Uncut. A real monster. Or maybe it just seemed that way because of the damage you were doing with it.’

‘No, no, none of this is true.’

‘I’m not making this up! You screwed me without my permission. You fucked my virgin arse. I told you to stop and you didn’t. You raped me, Jürgen Schmeidt!’

My fist is clenching in my jacket pocket, ready. 

‘You have to leave. Get out. Whoever you are.’ He sees my phone on the table and shouts, ‘I admit nothing. This is all lies. Every word!’

‘Was I the only one you raped? There were others, weren’t there? How many? Dozens? More? You are a disgusting – ’

He’s on his feet now, faster than I anticipated but panic gives him energy. He leans across me to stop the recording but he’s off balance and it’s simple to shove him by the shoulder so he stumbles to his knees. Now, at last, I am powerful enough to fight back; decades later. But not too late.  

He makes a noise like a rasping sigh. As he tries to get up I shove him back. Now he falls to the floor; he’s lying on his side. 

I kick him. 

I didn’t know I was going to do that. But I kick him hard in the stomach. It’s satisfying. I’ve seen it convincingly simulated so often in films and plays but this is not acting. My fury is genuine. His pain must be authentic. 

I slam my foot into him a second time, with such drive that the impact hurts my ankle. 

‘All these years, half a lifetime, I’ve been mute, afraid to speak. I had no evidence but my own experience. How to say it aloud, to trust I’d be believed?’

‘Please,’ he sputters. He’s dribbling on his carpet. I can see half of his face. It’s fleshy, the way I remember it. Not handsome but strong features. Strong in other ways too, strong enough to get what he wanted. What I begged him not to do. 

‘Please, I don’t… Please…’ 

‘I said please but you ignored me. Why should I listen to you now, you piece of shit!’ My hand tightens in my pocket. I’m ready to go further. And my rage is building. Decades of distress, of wounds half-healed, have culminated in this sublime moment. I have the energy of the student who was violated then. I’ve waited long enough. It’s the perfect time to strike.

‘None of this is true. What you said… no, that didn’t happen.’ He’s managed to turn himself around so he’s peering up at me. I’m aware of looking down at his vulnerable body as he looked down on mine that day. I have no idea if his action was premeditated or spontaneous; it doesn’t matter. Mine has been meticulously planned. I need to hurt him.  

I bend closer and squat, conscious that he could make a grab for me. But he’s fat, awkward and frightened, a wounded creature floundering. There is only one way this will end.  

I slide my hand slowly from my pocket; the knife fits comfortably in my fist. I lift and twist it, making certain that he sees the blade. I want him to know how much this matters to me. I grab his throat and squeeze. There’s a scrunch of gristle and a gurgle. 

‘You marked me,’ I growl. ‘I have to mark you. It’s only fair.’ I sound so reasonable, a parent to a naughty child. 

His big, soft body is quaking; his eyes are wide with dread. 

‘I should cut your big, dangerous dick right off your body,’ I say. None of this dialogue is rehearsed and I’m startled to hear it but relishing the control, the symmetry of this reckoning. ‘Slice through your scrotum and remove your balls. That would be a fitting punishment. What do you think?’

He tries to speak but I take my hand from his throat and grab his thinning hair, banging his head twice against the floor. I hold it still and I ram the knife into his cheek. 

There’s more resistance than I expect from teeth and bone. But fury makes me strong; I pull up and sideways towards his ear as if I’m carving meat. I am carving meat. There’s blood. A scream. His or mine? The knife is in the air now and I plunge it down, aiming for the other side of his face – 

No. 

No, that’s not how it is. Not what happens. That’s not it at all. Let me try again.

The door opens. 

‘Mr Schmeidt?’

‘Yes. But mostly Smith these days. Nice to meet you.’ He extends a hand and I reach mine out. We shake. Flesh on flesh. 

‘Hello.’ My voice sounds calm.

‘Come in, please.’ 

He leads me through the hall into a sitting room. He motions me to a chair and I sit down. 

‘I will put the kettle on. Tea? Coffee? I have some nice biscuits too.’ 

‘Just tea, please.’

He leaves the room and I take in the details as I wait. I can breathe but my guts are tight, I’m chewing my tongue. I hear a clock ticking, marking every second. There’s a garden. So peaceful. 

He's back. He pulls a small Ikea table close to me and puts a mug down onto a coaster. 

We start to chat. Did I find his house all right, have I come ‘out from London’? Then: 

‘So you want to ask me some questions?’

‘I do.’

‘For a local magazine?’

‘Yes.’

‘Your email said it was about residents of Turnham Green, famous residents. I can hardly claim to be that.’ He gives a shrug. 

‘You had an impressive film career, some good roles.’ 

‘Well, it’s true for a while I had a certain… profile. How is your tea?’

‘It’s fine.’ 

‘There must be so many far more illustrious people than I who have lived in the area.’

‘May I call you Jürgen?’ 

‘You may, although I’ve become Jeffrey to most people. Time changes us all, doesn’t it?’

‘In some ways,’ I say. ‘And yet in others, not at all.’ 

He gives a small nod of agreement.  

‘It’s a long time since I was based there.’ Bazed. 

‘You lived at number 13. In the ground floor flat from 1975 to 81.’

‘That’s right,’ he says. ‘Then I moved back to Germany for a few years.’ He says some more; I’m not listening. 

‘May I record our interview? It saves writing notes.’

‘Well, I suppose…’

I open Voice Memos and press the red button. 

‘It was a good apartment. I wonder who lives there now.’

‘A nice young couple.’ 

‘Of course, you went there as part of your research.’

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I went to the flat. To find you.’

‘Ah, you tracked me down!’ 

‘I’d been there once before.’

‘Oh yes?’ 

‘In 1976. When I met you.’ 

He frowns and tilts his head as he studies my face. 

‘You advertised in magazines, didn’t you, for models?’

‘Oh, that little money-spinner. Gosh, that was a long, long time ago and really of no consequence.’

No consequence? 

‘I had forgotten. But it’s true. I used to take some shots for a while. It was a side line, quite lucrative. So were you one of the young men who..? Oh good lord, how extraordinary.’ 

He finds this amusing. He is laughing when I say, ‘You raped me.’

The moment freezes. His fleshy features hang heavy; his mouth is half open, a string of spittle between his lips. 

‘What?’ There is affront in his tone. 

I repeat the three words I’ve waited half a century to speak. 

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

‘I answered your ad. I came to see you. You took photographs. Of me, dressed in various outfits. Football shorts.’

‘Yes, I may have - ’

‘You trimmed my pubic hair. Said it would make my – ’

‘And you are accusing me of… of having…?’

‘Of raping me.’ I say it louder to cut him off. Strange, the word doesn’t feel so alien now, with this repetition. For decades I’ve avoided it, not being sure it was the correct term, worried that, like other taboo expressions, it would trigger more reaction than I wanted: oozing sympathy or fiery outrage. 

‘Yes. You raped me.’

‘I did what?’ he shouts so loudly I assume the neighbours will hear. Will they be alarmed enough to investigate? Or are they used to his bursts of temper?  

‘After the photographs you got on the bed with me and you… forced yourself… I said I didn’t want… I’d never been…’ 

‘You piece of shit.’ His voice is lower now but has real menace. He stands up. He is huge. Heavy set, broad shoulders and deep chest. He was ideal casting as the imposing naval commander. His face shows resolution, not doubt. 

‘You abused me. Sexually abu - ’

I don’t get the words out. 

‘You liar! Fantasist. What’s your fucking game? Coming in here on the pretence of wanting an interview? Devious little bastard. Making up some sordid tale about – ’

‘It happened,’ I say, struggling to get to my feet. ‘You did it. You raped – ’

But he’s over me like a cliff face, unassailable. The power he had then is still in his body and his voice. Nothing, nothing has changed. 

‘Whoever you are, get the fuck out of my fucking house!’ He grabs my shoulder, pulls me up and bundles me across the room. I bang against furniture as I try to resist, knocking a lamp over. My leg crashes into the door frame and I’m on my knees but he hauls me up with ease and holds me close to him.  

‘Go try your dirty blackmail on some other poor sucker!’ His lips are full and slack. His eyes bloodshot. This was once a good-looking man. Someone I trusted enough to let my defences down. ‘Lies, lies! These are lies!’ He roars into my face, spit flecks flying. 

He opens the front door and heaves me out like a sack. I hear a crack as my side hits the concrete step and my face smashes onto the tarmac driveway. The door slams shut.  

Seconds pass. Pain begins to seer through different parts of my body. I try to move but I’ve lost control of my limbs and a throbbing spasm in my ribs is too great. Every breath is agony. I want to cry but it doesn’t happen. 

Moments pass. How many, I’ve no idea. I wait. What to do? Will someone come to my help, ask what’s happened? Will I tell them? ‘The man who lives there is a - ’

The door opens. I try to turn my head, fearing another attack. There’s a clattering sound and my phone skitters across the ground. 

‘Don’t bother. I’ve deleted it.’ There is contempt in every syllable. ‘Ah, hello Mrs Allwood,’ his voice adapts to a cheery greeting. ‘A nuisance caller. He had a fall. Nothing to be concerned for. I will manage it for sure.’ 

He steps towards me, faking concern and waiting for the neighbour to pass. He mutters something in German and spits. A gob of warm phlegm slides across my cheek into my ear. He walks - 

No. 

No, that’s not how it is either. Not what happens. That’s not it at all. 

I must be accurate. It matters. This is fact, not fiction. This happened.  

I ring the bell. I wait. 

It’s taken a long time getting myself here. I’d only begun talking about the rape recently. I was beginning a new relationship with a man called Pedro and we were going through that phase of sharing events from our pasts. Childhood stuff, travel highlights, jobs, successes, disappointments and so on. Previous relationships, obviously. And this came up. Not in a dramatic way, more factual and, now I think about it, surprisingly unemotional. It was another of the things from my background to mention. I’d been to Cambridge University, become an actor, a journalist, trained as a psychotherapist. And I was raped. When I was a student, at a flat in Turnham Green, by an actor called Jürgen who also did some photography. I was in debt and saw his ad. Went to London and posed for him, a few nude pictures for a German magazine. Or so he said. Only as I told Pedro did it occur to me that no such magazine existed. Maybe it did. But that didn’t alter the facts. 

Then one day, not long ago, I saw the house from the tube as it paused on the raised part overlooking the green. The large numbers 1 and 3 seemed to catch the sun and alert my memory. The word people use is flashback. That’s a good description; in a second I was whisked through time, like an  effect in a film, to that other afternoon. There, that’s where it happened. Number 13, in the bedroom at the back. I was standing in the train carriage and I felt my knees soften. I may have uttered a gasp. But nobody around me would have guessed the significance of that instant. Such is life; all around us, constantly, others experience similar transformations and barely a ripple breaks the surface. 

I let it subside. I had my knowledge. Was that enough?  

Months passed before I dropped a note through the door of number 13 inquiring if the occupiers knew the whereabouts of a previous occupant, a… what? I refused to say ‘friend’. A ‘colleague I’d lost touch with’. So began an elaborate saga of emails, letters, calls and online research that led me finally to this doorstep less than thirty miles from that ground floor flat in W4. To this man. To this meeting. 

The door opens. 

An old man stands there and it takes me off guard. Again I’m on the back foot with him. Was I expecting the striking actor of 1976 to be there? Well, I’m old too, not the naïve student I was last time we looked into each other’s eyes.  

‘Mr Schmeidt?’

‘Yes. But mostly Smith these days. Jonathan, is it?’

I nod and manage a smile. For a tiny second I cannot speak. 

‘Nice to meet you.’ He extends a hand and  I reach mine out to his. We touch, we shake. Physical contact. I might be sick. Or freeze. Or run. 

‘Come in, please. Shall I hang your coat?’ 

‘I… um… Thank you.’ It’s a light jacket and slips off easily. I’m undressing in front of him, again. The clanging of alarm bells is deafening. He opens a cupboard; I half expect to glimpse football kit. He drapes my coat neatly on a hanger. 

‘I will put on the kettle.’ 

He leads me through the hall – prints of flowers, a patterned carpet - into a sitting room that looks out onto a well-stocked garden. He motions me to a seat and I sit. I am obedient.  

‘Tea? Coffee? I have some nice biscuits too.’ 

‘No, thank you.’ I hear my voice, it’s firmer than I feel. ‘Just a tea, please.’

He leaves the room and I take in the details. Sofa, chairs, dark green. Cushions. Fireplace. Photographs in silver frames. Prints on the wall, birds and flowers. Neat and clean. Bland and anonymous. It doesn’t feel like the house of a rapist. I register the smallest quiver of doubt in my guts. Is this OK? Am I crazy to risk making things worse, stirring up memories better left alone? 

Block it, bury it, move on… 

He comes back, puts a mug of tea on a table, and we begin to make small talk. We are well-mannered, very correct. My journey, his family, the interview. I’m so convincing. Everything relaxes and we even laugh, gently, about one or two things, the nonsense and absurdities of life, of ageing and the mind letting things slip. Some things.  

As I watch him, study his face, listen to his almost-hidden accent and observe his heavy movements, I wait for recognition to dawn. But in all honesty it doesn’t. If I didn’t have my own damage to rely on, I wouldn’t know. In a line-up of suspects, would I pick him out? ‘Maybe’ is the best I can come up with. 

But I do have that damage, the certainty. 

‘There’s something I must tell you,’ I say, trying to keep it light, so as not to alarm him. 

‘Oh, yes?’ 

‘We’ve met before.’

‘Oh?’

‘I went to that flat at number 13.’ 

He doesn’t say anything to this. He looks at me keenly, bemused, scrutinising my features as I have his for traces of the past, of who I used to be. All in good time. 

‘It was the summer of 1976. I was a student.’

He frowns. Is something emerging? Were students frequent visitors? 

‘I answered an advert you put in one of the papers. Gay News I expect. It’s all we had then. You said you’d take some photos. I think the payment was forty pounds. It sounds paltry now but it was enough to clear my debt.’

‘Ah.’ 

‘And I wanted to do it. The photographs. I was intrigued.’

‘Ah,’ he says again. I need more. 

‘Does that sound right? True?’

‘Yes, yes.’ He seems impatient. ‘I did that for a while. Took photographs as you say. I had quite the talent, it seems.’

‘Did you?’

‘Ja, I remember someone once telling me – ’

‘You don’t remember me. Why should you? There must have been… hundreds?’

‘Well…’ He shrugs. ‘Forgive me if I don’t recall each face. But if I took your pictures you must have been a handsome young man. I’m pleased the money was useful.’ 

‘It’s not as simple as that.’ My heart is thumping drum-like, an urgent beat driving me on. 

‘Ah, life is rarely – ’

‘I need to explain something. In case you’ve forgotten.’

‘Is this...?’ He’s beginning to sense things slipping away. He’s apprehensive. ‘Is this strictly necessary?’

‘Oh yes. Absolutely vital.’ I sit back. I’m in control, finally. ‘I came to the flat. I suspect we had a cup of tea although that’s speculation. I’ll tell you which parts are not open to doubt. You set up the lights, big white umbrella shades on tripods, very professional. I lay on the bed. You took some pictures. You asked me to take off my clothes. I did. You took more pictures. Told me where to look, how to behave. I did as I was told.’

‘Look, er, Jonathan? I’m really not sure I want to – ’

‘It doesn’t matter what you want.’ I shut him down. ‘I hadn’t done that sort of thing before. I expect I seemed awkward to you but – ’

‘You didn’t come to interview me, did you?’

‘Well done.’

‘There is no article. No Turnham Green newspaper.’

‘Just as there was no German magazine.’ 

‘That’s not true. There was no deceit. All I can – ’ 

‘Listen! It’s my turn now.’ I sound like an angry child.

After a moment he settles back. His finger presses his hearing aid in, like a TV presenter checking talk-back.

‘You said if I cut back my pubic hair it would make my cock stand out more. Remember?’ 

‘I used to do that,’ he says. ‘Some of the lads, you wouldn’t believe.’ 

I have a momentary vision of parades of young men queuing to be attended to. 

‘So you took me to a bathroom, we went up some steps, you sat on the side of the bath as I stood there and you attended to the task with nail scissors. You were very satisfied with your work.’

‘Well, it did – ’

‘Shut up!’ I need to focus on the facts. ‘We went back to the bedroom. You said… you said to me, ‘You can get hard now.’ That’s what you said. I was lying on the bed, you were pointing a camera at me and you said, ‘You can get hard now.’ As if it was like pressing a button. I felt embarrassed, put on the spot. Your manner was so… dry. You had no warmth.’

‘This is not easy to corroborate. It was a long – ’

‘Listen!’ I sound furious. Why does that surprise me?  

Outside a bird is hopping across a paved terrace. It might be a thrush. It finds a morsel to peck at and takes flight. I look at the garden; it’s attractive enough with colourful bushes and a couple of trees: cherry and laburnum I think. The clock marks every second.  

‘‘You can get hard now.’ I knew I couldn’t and I didn’t want to fail the test, let you down. And so I said…’ 

I knew this would not be easy. It blurs the edges, calls things into question. Not that it should. Or does it, actually? In a court of law… 

‘I said…’ 

‘What? What did you say, Jonathan?’ His voice is low; he sounds almost concerned. 

‘I said, ‘It would be easier if you were naked too.’’ I can’t make eye contact. ‘Yes, I said that. And I meant it, it was true. How could I just ‘get hard’ without any sort of… stimulation?’

‘And so..?’

‘And so you did. You put your camera down. You took off your clothes and we…’

I breathe. The clock counts eight seconds.

‘I see.’

‘There on your bed. And it was… fine. At first. It’s what I wanted. That much was what I wanted. The photographs, the money, the being naked.’

I’m silent. He waits. Absurdly, I feel grateful for his giving me this space to talk. 

‘But then…’ My voice is smaller. Not loud with righteous fury but tentative, afraid to give words life, to let them free. They have the energy of a wild beast caged too long, the consequences of release unpredictable. ‘But then…’

He waits, his head half-turned, the better to catch my words.

The carpet. My shoes. A book on the arm of the sofa. A pair of glasses next to it. We are old now. We are the sum of all our past experiences. Shit happens. Life goes on. Memories fade, some of them. My shoes. The carpet. The click-click of the clock. He waits. I inhale. 

‘You raped me.’ It’s a whisper. 

I look up. He’s watching me, a nurse with a patient, waiting to see what I do next. I do nothing.  

‘You were reading German at university,’ he says. 

I nod. 

‘Oxford?’

‘Cambridge,’ I say. 

He remembers me. He remembers that one meeting. Does he remember what he did? 

‘I…’ is all he can manage. ‘I…’ But he looks shocked, as if I’ve hit him hard. Kicked him, stabbed a knife into his face. 

‘You lay me on my front. On that bed. It was clear what you wanted. I asked you not to. I’d never been… I told you no. But you did it anyway. Your dog was barking in the kitchen. Hardy. I used to think if he’d only been there I’d have one witness. Crazy. But that’s what I thought. I see it now from the side and slightly above, as an observer standing by. I’m watching us: me pinned to the mattress, you forcing your way… That image, it’s been in my head for almost fifty years. And being raped by you on that bed in that flat has dictated how I relate to men, what I do and what I never do. Your vile decision that day has been affecting my life every day, ever since.’

The silence is stultifying. All I can hear is the damn clock and the sound of his breathing. As if the air is too thick for his lungs; it rasps in his throat. I reach for my tea. It’s cold. Good, I gulp a mouthful.  

‘Jonathan,’ he says at last. ‘Jonathan, what do you want?’

I hadn’t anticipated this. I’d imagined the violence, mine on him or his on me. So many versions of this encounter, but not this. It’s a reasonable question. The best. What do I want?

‘I want you to listen. To hear me. And believe me.’

‘Yes.’ He says nothing for a very long time. Then he speaks. ‘I hear you. I believe you. What else do you need?’

I have no idea. This is low key and moderate. We both appear calm. I am not raging; he is not defensive. So, what else? 

‘You don’t recall those details,’ I say. 

He gives a slight shrug. ‘I’m sorry. Sorry for not remembering, I mean. As well, of course, for...’ 

That’s his apology? What am I supposed to do with that? 

‘It is so hard for me to believe this,’ he says, quickly going on before I can speak, ‘which is not to say I don’t. Naturally, I would not argue against you. But I didn’t think I was the kind of person who… That is not easy.’

‘Good. That’s important. I thought I wanted revenge, to scar you as you scarred me. I don’t.’

He looks at his fingers, interlocked in his lap, as if something has come together, a puzzle solved. He lifts his gaze to me. 

‘I raped you.’ 

We talk more. Facts, memories. Some align, others don’t. The flat, the dog, the outfits in the cupboard. Afterwards in his large sitting room with a mug of coffee. There must have been a payment, cash back then. So civilised. No mention of what had just happened, what he had done. Done to me. I can only think I couldn’t comprehend it then; it took a long time. And so, not blame and recrimination, not regret and remorse. I must have left, paid off my debt, wondered what happened to the photographs and carried on with my life. 

Our conversation continues. Polite, bizarre. It’s how we cover up aching chasms of injury. A cup of tea and a chat.  He… what do I call him, this rapist? Herr Schmeidt? Jeffrey?  He tells me he married ‘a lovely Scottish lady’ and put his gay life behind him. And his amateur photography. He had a family, moved away and got involved in his brother’s building company in Stuttgart. Now he lives a quiet life, involving himself in local groups and teaching some German conversation classes. All so well-ordered and, like his house, unremarkable. He asks about me and I give him some information: drama school, BBC, psychotherapy. Not too much, I need to protect myself still. He shows polite curiosity and pretends to be interested. I know his only thought is, what now, how will it end? Am I in danger? 

We skirt around the main topic. Until, after a moment’s lull, he says as if continuing a thread, ‘You’ve lived with it all this time? This… knowledge. This… violation. How dreadful. There is sadly nothing I can say now to take away your sense of… outrage?’

‘Not that. Injustice.’

‘Yes. I see. I hope I see. Will you allow me to say properly… I’m sorry?’ 

‘Allow you?’

‘Yes. Tell me it’s inadequate. It is. Say I have no rights in this. True. You decide if I may apologise.’

Now he needs my permission. 

I stare at him. That old man who raped this old man when we were both young. 22 and… maybe 30? The figures don’t matter. He had the power and he abused it. Abused me. How could he? He seems… nice. 

‘You can apologise if you want to.’

‘Of course I want to.’ He speaks with real force. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. In my defence – does that sound outrageously selfish? – I can say only that I must have misjudged the whole… no, that won’t do.’ He takes a slow breath. ‘There is nothing I can say. Nothing… I…’ 

He flounders to a halt. The power has shifted entirely. I feel a lightness rise within me and my chest fills with air. I am no longer stifled by the pent-up awareness, the resentment bottled inside. It’s taken me this long but I couldn’t have done it before. This is the time, this is the house, this is the man. And this is the moment I have begun to live again without his action dragging my every step. I don’t need vengeance after all. But if his punishment of guilt starts from this point, so be it. He can have the rest of his life to bear the burden, as I’ve had mine until now. I have passed what is his to him. He must take responsibility for his actions.

I stand up. He looks small down there. Crushed. 

‘May I..?’ he says. 

I raise my eyebrows, not deigning to speak.

‘May I offer you…’ I think he’s about to name a price for silence. As if the forty pounds was not enough. I’m ready with my scorn but it’s not that.  ‘…offer you a hug? To show that – ’

He sees the expression of disgust on my face and stops. I stand up. I feel strong. I walk from the room, past the prints of flowers and birds, across the patterned carpet, through the hall to the cupboard, where I collect my jacket and drape it over my arm. I open the door of this dull semi-detached house in a dull part of this very dull commuter-belt town, far enough out of London to be inconvenient but not far enough to have its own identity. I step out into the fresh Spring air and head for the station.