The Unreliable Placebo Read online

  "Well love," he says, "I've been out with some birds but this beats them all. If you'll pardon the pun, you're obviously a game bird but….no offence intended….I prefer my women a bit softer and less dangerous. Take a tip from me hen, someone who knows about unintentionally causing serious injury. Take a look at your buildings and contents policies. You'll often find one of them includes legal expenses insurance. `Bye Anna. Nice meeting you."

  He walks off to his car and gets into it as I get into mine. We exchange a wave as we drive to the exit and go off in different directions.

  His parting shot may well turn out to be good advice!

  I POUR MYSELF a glass of wine on getting back home and sit peering into it. I convince myself that the posters will be everywhere, that everyone I know and many thousands I don't will have seen them and that within a short time, Ebden will have my name and details. For my lack of courage at that time last summer, I’m to be hunted down and pursued for compensation on top of which everyone will know about the episode. So I’ve gained nothing and potentially lost a great deal. I cast my mind back to last August and for the moment my immediate surroundings evaporate.

  I TRY TO KEEP in shape. It’s only sensible. You can't rely entirely on diet and I tend to yo-yo anyway so I believe that regular exercise helps me to avoid the worst of the peaks and troughs, that is the bloated whale periods versus the so-skinny-and-pale-and-frail-that-I-appear-to-be-at-death’s-door episodes. I have to say that the latter appear less and less as the years pile on. Mostly it’s the pounds that pile on now.

  The Arsehole used to chide me for going off out on five mile runs on remote country roads and bridleways. He said it was dangerous. One day some maniac might be lurking in the hegderow and pounce on me, have his way and, in the manner of rapists, then selfishly strangle me so that I wouldn't be able to identify him, though of course they almost always get hoist by their own miserable DNA in the end. I don't think many rapist wear examination gloves and forensic suits. If you saw someone thus togged up on a country road hoving into view, I think you might run in the opposite direction too fast to be apprehended by them. I don't think you’d stay around to find out why they were so attired. And as for the would-be assailant stopping to apply a condom, I imagine would that be out of the question.

  Though at the time I thought it was sweet of the Arsehole to care, I used to poo-poo his worries, brush aside his predictions, don my trainers and go off out anyway and I continued to do so after he left me. Our country lanes round about where I live seem so safe and peaceful. One couldn't imagine a horrible sex crime followed by brutal murder being enacted on these pleasant byways.

  I don't much read the local news rags. I buy them weekly, throw them down on the floor next to the settee and then never pick them up again. I was vaguely aware that girls had been getting attacked in the area, but I didn't associate it with myself or my village.

  On that particular night, I’d run three and a half miles and was on my way back. I decided to take a shortcut along Hundred Lane. Though tarmaced, it’s not really passable by cars as it’s too narrow and overhung by thorny hedges on either side. The evening was calm and still and quiet. Having run three and a half miles, I was fairly pumped up. I’d overcome what the Arsehole used to refer to as “the pain barrier” (“Come on! You can do it! Just put more effort into it!” Oh, F off!). I felt refreshed and energised, as though I could run for twenty more miles.

  The hormones must have been flooding through me and I didn't notice when a man in dark clothing stepped out of the protruding hazel bushes and barred my way. I cannoned into him and he nearly went sprawling. I was obviously supposed to stop dead and cower in fear but I was just surprised. However the impact had halted my progress and I stood looking at this man who had heaved himself upright again. Incredibly he looked angry when it was he who had leapt out in front of me and not vice versa. My warning system and the Arsehole’s cautionary exhortations had somehow got suppressed. It must have been the endorphins making everything seem great. Well if you can't get them from sex, then exercise is the next best thing.

  “You miserable bitch,” he said. I felt like laughing. Actually I did laugh. Wrong thing to do apparently since he launched himself at me bawling. He wasn't that big but if there’s one thing I’ve noticed it’s that men are almost always inevitably stronger than women. I do quite a lot of exercise and pride myself on my musculature but it all melts away when I’m at B&Q trying in vain to hump some huge bale of compressed compost onto a trolley that won't stand still when a little old man comes up to me and says: “Here love. Let me do that for you.” And he just does it. Just like that. He looks sparrow-like and about ninety but no matter. He’s a man and therefore several times at least stronger than I am.

  I’m not brave but suddenly I was seized by the need to defend myself. Men weren't my favourite objects right then and I kicked out hard at this man’s groin. He doubled up groaning. In fact he was screaming piercingly and I wondered if he was making it up to fox me and to get me to go near him so that he could have another go. I ran to a safe distance and dialled 999. At least the Arsehole persuaded me to take a mobile out with me on my runs. I had trouble making myself heard by the emergency services, so loud was this man’s screaming. I really didn't think I kicked him that hard. Not really, honestly. Hundred Lane didn't feature on their list of roads either but eventually I heard a siren at one end of the Lane and ran towards it. As a result this man was apprehended. I was told his name was Ebden Andrews.

  I CAME ACROSS SOMETHING called trolleyology some months ago. In fact I’d heard of the scenario before in which a tram (or a trolley to use the American word) is out of control and five people in its path are going to get killed but you can stop it my operating a switch to divert it to another track where there’s only one person who’ll be run down. What to you do? Do you operate the switch and kill one person to save five? There are other versions such as pushing a fat man off a bridge to stop the speeding trolley (he has to be fat since his bulk is needed to slow the trolley down sufficiently) to save the five people on the track. Which would or should you choose to do?

  It’s all about the greater good. Like the Alan Turing team at Bletchley who cracked the Enigma code only to have to decide not to use it for the time being to warn a convoy about to be hit thereby instantly giving the game away to the Nazis. This was so that they could use the knowledge gradually in a controlled fashion over time to shorten the war, even though one of their number according to the film The Imitation Game had a brother in the convoy who’d almost certainly die in the attack.

  In these situations it must feel like playing God. The film dealt with the problem fairly matter-of-factly though I could imagine every single one of them in reality, if it was true, going home and crying themselves to sleep. Perhaps war toughens people up and no doubt life in general was tough in those days before all our modern prerequisites and aversion to any kind of discomfort or inconvenience.

  For me it was a bit of a greater good moral dilemma question. Should I pursue charges against this man and in the process have everyone I know including work colleagues, my mother and, curse him, the Arsehole, know that someone's tried to rape me but I kicked him in the balls making myself a laughing stock regardless of the actual seriousness of the situation. Should I be public-spirited and think of all the other poor girls he might accost and force himself on who don’t react as aggressively as a just-recently-abandoned-wife-in-favour-of-a-younger-larger-bosomed-version would.

  The greater good for me was definitely to let this man off the hook, add him to my list of evil curse objects, get drunk and issue a jinx or two, then forget the episode completely. On the other hand, for the good of others, possibly a considerable number, I should go ahead and co-operate with him being charged, hopefully in that case found guilty and sentenced, a sentence which may well have resulted in him getting the help he so obviously needed.

  I couldn't really tell which the police would have preferred. They s
eemed overworked to a fault. Rather like solicitors in fact. I wondered if they would welcome my telling them not to bother and just walking out of here so that they could screw up all the paperwork, hurl it into the bin in the corner and all take themselves off down the road to the pub.

  At which point the nice young detective came back into the room and put my decision beyond doubt. He told me that the man who attacked me was born with only one testicle and that he was having to be taken to hospital since his only gonad had blown up to the size of a football. He said it looked as though it might burst (the officer cringed as he said this) and the police of course couldn't cope with that.

  The decision was at that point as I said taken squarely out of my hands because I was buggered if I was going to have to fend off the dual resulting hoots of mirth and hilarity of both kicking a man in the balls at all and possibly fatally damaging the only single testicle the man had. I reasoned to myself silently that if his only knacker was now damaged beyond repair, then he wouldn't be much of a risk to women in the future. He was literally knackered!

  The detective confirmed when I asked that my identity wouldn’t be made known to Ebden Andrews or indeed to anyone and he confirmed that I’d remain anonymous. I told the detective that I wouldn't in the circumstances press charges. It seemed too harsh. He looked relieved and I could see him mentally going back and tidying his desk, shutting down his computer, locking his drawers, shouldering himself into his jacket and checking his pockets for enough change to go down the pub. I noticed that the nick was quite quiet anyway. The rest were obviously already down there. He must've drawn the short straw for the task of taking a detailed statement from that loony lawyer who kicks men in the goolies sufficiently hard to put an end to their manhood altogether.

  Fool that I was, I did tell the Arsehole about the incident when he came over shortly afterwards to collect a few more items of clothing. Well we hadn't been separated for that long. What he’d done was still sinking in and I was used to telling him things. He didn't laugh. He seemed quite concerned. I remember that at the time I tried not to pathetically interpret that to mean he might come back. We subsequently emailed each other about it once or twice but soon after, he stopped coming over and we stopped emailing.

  BACK IN THE HERE and now, I decide to contact the paper first thing tomorrow, through the firm, and threaten to sue them for defamation if they print anything. Ebden Andrews may well have been getting a fat fee for the article, but he can go hang. With any luck, he’ll back off if no-one’ll take any notice of him.

  And what about the other women he previously attacked. Presumably it was him. Didn't the police do anything about them on getting Ebden down at the station? I’ll take that up with the police. One way or another I’ll try to defeat this nonsense and nip it in the bud before it goes any further. Feeling better at having at least reached some decisions, I drag myself upstairs to bed. I know I shan’t get a wink of sleep.

  THE FOLLOWING DAY, I go into work. I check peoples' faces for veiled smirks, signs of derision, open amusement, never mind actually telling me with mock concern how sorry they were to hear about posters everywhere labelling me as ‘The Castanet Kicker’. But I can't detect the slightest snigger or change of expression. In small offices, everyone is usually agog for scandal. The tiniest snippet gets seized upon and chewed over and every last ounce of interest extracted with or without the knowledge of the subject. I know this lot couldn't resist letting me know they know, if they did know. But there's nothing whatever to indicate that they do. Not any of them. And news gets around like wildfire in a small office so I have to conclude that none of them know.

  I'm relieved, though it means I'll have to approach the local paper on my own. I can't enlist the help of the litigation department who might actually have some clue about the law of defamation and defamation actions. But I seem to recall that a few years ago, such actions ceased to be the preserve of the High Court as it then was and that it's now possible to commence such an action in the County Court making it much easier and less expensive. Still, all I should need to do is put the wind up the local papers to stop them from printing anything. I don’t actually have to start an action.

  I therefore ascertain the email address of the editor and write a few lines in the name of the firm as though acting on behalf of a client saying that in the event of publication of any allegations by Ebden Andrews involving or naming “our client”, the firm wouldn't hesitate to commence proceedings for libel against the paper. I don’t include my name or even say what the allegations may be.

  I receive a response within the hour saying that they have never heard of Ebden Andrews and have no intention of printing any story involving him. Of course the paper might be lying but I doubt it. If there was a juicy story to be had, I would have expected them to try to draw out the firm for comment and to reveal their client’s identity, inviting them to give their client’s side of the story. But they simply don’t seem to have anything on it.

  SO THAT’S BASICALLY THAT. I don't come across any more posters and neither does anyone I know. I'm relieved to say that no more is heard from this Andrews. I continue to wonder how Ebden got hold of a photo of me without knowing my name. It’s a complete mystery.

  Chapter 8 GNO

  SHARON AND I have belatedly made desultory arrangements to have a proper Girls’ Night Out. Christmas is looming and if we don't get a move on, everyone will be up to their ears in all manner of commitments. Well most of us anyway. I can't say that I’m inundated with social engagements. Say what you like about the strictures of married life and coupledom, but it does afford opportunities that singletons don't necessarily enjoy. When the Arsehole got asked out anywhere it often used to include me and vice versa. Now I don't get asked out so much and I do wonder if it’s the fact that an unattached female is seen as a bit of a threat, a possibly loose cannon, liable to wantonly ensnare and make off with people’s husbands.

  If they only knew how I absolutely wouldn't do such a thing having had my own partner mercilessly inveigled and wrenched away from me. But of course they don't, so they start to give me a wide berth and steer a course in the opposite direction from me.

  But at least Sharon remains faithful to me. She isn't worried I’ll snaffle her Arty. Mind you, have you seen him? You’d have to be pretty desperate to…. But I’d better not enter that territory. Running down one’s friends’ husbands when one can't even keep one’s own is pretty risky and dumb.

  Anyway, it falls to me as the childless one (I’m bound to have more time on my hands apparently) to research and arrange the venue, and we’ll both see how many mates we can get to come along and make a real night of it. Therefore instead of thumb-twiddling at work, I’m surfing the net and trying to think of what sort of diversion lots of women would be interested in. And suddenly it comes to me. Male striptease. I reckon that’s an unseemly enough spectacle to attract most women out for an evening of wanton entertainment to liven up a drab autumn weekend.

  As people come in and out of my room, it being a busy office, I have to have at the ready a serious piece of work to cover the graphic advertisements out there aimed at seducing the would-be audience. I can't resist putting up an innocent bare licence on the screen to override the bare licentiousness of the young men’s equipment. I have to minimise their maximal assets several times an hours as footsteps approach my door until the danger has passed. Some of the ads are moving pictures. I turn the sound down as the music playing is fairly obviously of the seven veils variety.

  A trawl through the internet suggests however that not many such delights are available in our neck of the woods. Mostly they seem to be concentrated in Northern towns. However, I persist and come up with something in Romford. It wasn't immediately apparent because the main billing was a drag act. I’ve always wanted to see a drag act but this pre-Christmas special also features male striptease. Great I think. And when I research it in greater detail, it’s not taking place at a complete dive. It’s actual
ly at quite a posh hotel, if you can believe that of Romford, where they hold conferences and things and often have several different events going on each evening. The price is eye-watering but I reckon the lure of male nudity, tastefully presented or otherwise, will attract many girls I know to come along.

  AND INDEED IT does. Between us, Sharon and I accumulate fifteen women keen, nay anxious, to witness young well-formed men getting their kit off. Sharon and I discuss the details over the telephone.

  “I hope you don't mind. I’ve asked Susan,” I say. Susan is one of the secretaries at my firm and is known to get a bit wild when she’s had a few. She’s also only twenty-seven and therefore eight or so years younger than the rest of us. “You don't think she’s too young do you? And, you know, a bit lively? I imagine those young strippers would like to get through the night in one piece.”

  “Well actually,” says Sharon, “my friend Maggie has her cousin Cheryl from Australia staying at the moment and she’s been invited. She’s only twenty-five. I was hoping you wouldn't mind that.”

  “What’s she like then this Cheryl?”

  “No idea. But they’ll be company for each other won't they if they find the rest of us are too staid for them.”

  “I don't see that being a problem. But I expect Susan and Cheryl might provide additional more youthful company for each other.” It seems a reasonable idea.

  “So,” I say, “I’ll go ahead and hire a minibus shall I? I was thinking that everyone could meet at my house and we’ll launch ourselves from there. D’you think their various husband’s/partners/other relatives would bring them here and come and collect them from mine later? Or they could order taxis?”