Aftermath

it was her lot to become a spokeswoman for battered wives, then so be it; she was up to the task. Lorraine Temple had let the cat out of the bag about her past, anyway, so there was nothing more to hide; she might as well speak out and hope she could do some good for other others in her position. No more mousy and nervous.

Julia Ford had phoned her that afternoon to tell her that Lucy was being detained in Eastvale for further questioning and would probably be kept there overnight. Maggie was outraged. What had Lucy done to deserve such treatment? Something was very much out of kilter in the whole business.

Maggie paid the taxi driver and kept the receipt. The TV people would reimburse her, they had said. She introduced herself at reception and the woman behind the desk called the researcher, Tina Driscoll, who turned out to be a cheerful slip of a lass in her early twenties with short bleached blond hair and pale skin stretched tight over her high cheekbones. Like most of the other people Maggie saw as she followed Tina through the obligatory television studio maze, she was dressed in jeans and a white blouse.

“You’re on after the poodle groomer,” Tina said, glancing at her watch. “Should be about twenty past. Here’s Makeup.”

Tina ushered Maggie into a tiny room with chairs and mirrors and a whole array of powders, brushes and potions. “Just here, love, that’s right,” said the makeup artist, who introduced herself as Charley. “Won’t take a minute.” And she started dabbing and brushing away at Maggie’s face. Finally, satisfied with the result, she said, “Drop by when you’ve finished and I’ll wipe it off in a jiffy.”

Maggie didn’t see a great deal of difference, though she knew from her previous television experience that the studio lighting and cameras would pick up the subtle nuances. “David will be conducting the interview,” said Tina, consulting her clipboard on their way to the green room. “David,” Maggie knew, was David Hartford, half of the male-female team that hosted the program. The woman was called Emma Larson, and Maggie had been hoping that she would have been asking the questions. Emma had always come across as sympathetic on women’s issues, but David Hartford, Maggie thought, had a cynical and derogatory tone to his questioning of anyone who was passionate about anything. He was also known to be provocative. Still, the way Maggie was feeling, she was quite willing to be provoked.

Maggie’s fellow guests were waiting in the green room: the grave, bearded Dr. James Bletchley, from the local hospital; DC Kathy Proctor of the domestic violence unit; and Michael Groves, a rather shaggy-looking social worker. Maggie realized she was the only “victim” on the program, Well, so be it. She could tell them what it was like to be on the receiving end.

They all introduced themselves and then a sort of nervous silence fell over the room, broken only when the poodle emitted a short yap at the entry of the producer, there to check that everyone was present and accounted for. For the remainder of the wait, Maggie chatted briefly with her fellow guests about things in general and watched the hubbub as people came and went and shouted questions at each other in the corridors outside. Like the other TV studio she had been in, this one also seemed to be in a state of perpetual chaos.

There was a monitor in the room, and they were able to watch the show’s opening, the light banter of David and Emma and a recap of the day’s main local news stories, including the death of a revered councillor, a proposed new roundabout for the city center and a “neighbors from hell” story from the Poplar estate. During the commercial break after the poodle groomer, a set worker got them all in position on the armchairs and sofas, designed to give the feel of a cozy, intimate living room, complete with fake fireplace, wired up their mikes and disappeared. David Hartford made himself comfortable, in a position where he could see the guests without having to move too much, and where the cameras would show him to best advantage.

The silent countdown came to an end, David Hartford straightened his tie and put on his best smile, and they were off. Close up, Maggie thought, David’s skin looked like pink plastic, and she imagined it would feel like a child’s doll to the touch. His hair was also too impossibly black to be natural.

As soon as David started his introduction to the subject, he swapped his smile for a serious, concerned expression and turned first to Kathy, the policewoman, for a general idea of how many domestic complaints they got and how they dealt with them. After that, it was the social worker, Michael’s, turn to talk about women’s shelters. When David turned to Maggie for the first time, she felt her heart lurch in her chest. He was handsome in a TV-host sort of way, but there was something about him that unnerved her. He didn’t seem interested in the problems and the issues, but more in making something dramatically appealing out of it all, of which he was the focus. She supposed that was what television was all about when you came right down to it – making things dramatic and making presenters look good, but still it disturbed her.

He asked her when she first knew there was something wrong, and she briefly detailed the signs, the unreasonable demands, flashes of anger, petty punishments and, finally, the blows, right up to the time Bill broke her jaw, knocked out two of her teeth and put her in hospital for a week.

When Maggie had finished, he turned to the next question on his sheet: “Why didn’t you leave? I mean, you’ve just said you put up with this physical abuse for… how long… nearly two years? You’re clearly an intelligent and resourceful woman. Why didn’t you just get out?”

As Maggie sought the words to express why it didn’t happen as simply as that, the social worker cut in and explained how easy it was for women to get trapped in the cycle of violence and how the shame often prevented them from speaking out. Finally, Maggie found her voice.

“You’re right,” she said to David. “I could have left. As you say, I’m an intelligent and resourceful woman. I had a good job, good friends, a supportive family. I suppose part of it was that I thought it would go away, that we would work through it. I still loved my husband. Marriage wasn’t something I was going to throw away lightly.” She paused, and when nobody else dived into the silence, said, “Besides, it wouldn’t have made any difference. Even after I did leave, he found me, stalked me, harassed me, assaulted me again. Even after the court order.”

This prompted David to go back to the policewoman and talk about how ineffective the courts were in protecting women at risk from abusive spouses, and Maggie had the chance to take stock of what she had said. She hadn’t done too badly, she decided. It was hot under the studio lights and she felt her brow moisten with sweat. She hoped it wouldn’t rinse away the makeup.

Next David turned to the doctor.

“Is domestic violence specifically directed from men to women, Dr. Bletchley?” he asked.

“There are some cases of husbands being physically abused by their wives,” said the doctor, “but relatively few.”

“I think you’ll find, statistically,” Michael butted in, “that male violence against women by far outstrips women’s against men, almost enough to make female violence against men seem insignificant. It’s built into our culture. Men hunt down and kill their ex-partners, for example, or commit familial massacres in a way that women do not.”

“But that aside,” David asked next, “don’t you think sometimes, that a woman might overreact and ruin a man’s life? I mean, once such accusations have been made, they are often very difficult to shake off, even if a court finds the person not guilty.”

“But isn’t it worth the risk,” Maggie argued, “if it saves the ones who really need saving?”

David smirked. “Well, that’s rather like saying what’s hanging a few innocent people matter as long as we get the guilty ones, too, isn’t it?”

“Nobody intentionally set out to hang innocent people,” Kathy pointed out.

“But, say, if a man retaliates in the face of extreme provocation,” David pressed on, “isn’t the woman still far more likely to be seen as the victim?”

“She is the victim,” Maggie said.

“That’s like saying she asked for it,” Michael added. “Just what kind of provocation justifies violence?”

“Are there not also women who actually like it rough?”

“Oh, don’t be absurd,” said Michael. “That’s the same sort of thing as suggesting that women ask to be raped by the way they dress.”

“But there are masochistic personalities, aren’t there, Doctor?”

“You’re talking about women who like their sex rough, yes?” said the doctor.

David seemed a little embarrassed by the directness of the question – clearly he was a man used to asking, not answering – but he nodded.

Dr. Bletchley stroked his beard before answering. “Well, to answer your question simply: Yes, there are masochistic women, just as there are masochistic men, but you have to understand that we’re dealing with a very tiny fragment of society here and not that section of society concerned with domestic violence.”

Obviously glad to be done with this line of questioning, David moved on to his next question, phrasing it