The Shadow in the Dark Chapter Twenty Three

 

Several years ago – South Hadley, Massachusetts, Christmas Eve:

 

If I thought the beeping from my plastic wrist band would stop after a few minutes I was to be disappointed. If anything, the beeping became more strident with a sense of urgency the further I walked. The sound was coming from the laminated tag and nothing I did seemed to silence it. The tag dangled from the small metal ring and beeped away. Passers-by began to stare as I lifted the lapels of my coat for warmth and hurried on back up the street. It was three quarters of a mile back to campus, and in these three inch heels that distance would feel like it was doubled.  

 

The high street glowed the way it does on TV on Christmas Eve, as if was trying a little too hard to be picturesque. Storefront windows spilled warm light onto the sidewalk and doorways where festive wreaths were hung with red ribbon and tinsel trembling whenever the door swung open. I walked past mannequins frozen in wool coats and sensible shoes in shop windows, my heels clicking sharp and uneven as the first hush of fresh snow began to fall.

 

The flakes were small and dry, skittering sideways in the wind, catching in my hair and on the shoulders of my coat. Three-inch heels were a mistake, I knew that now. Each step had to be careful, the pavement slick already, my ankles tight with the effort of balance and pride. My feet ached, but I didn’t slow down. I could still hear Michael’s smug voice denying everything and telling me I was making an unseemly fuss. 

 

How dare he!

 

Cars crept along Main Street, headlights diffused into soft halos by the snow. A bus sighed at the corner, its doors wheezing open, letting out a breath of warmth and the smell of damp wool, but it was going in the opposite direction to my campus. Somewhere a church bell marked the hour, the sound muffled, as if wrapped in cotton. 

 

People steadily passed me by, bundled in scarves, couples close together, laughter trailing behind them like ribbon. Beep Beep Beep. Many of them turned to look at me. I didn’t meet their eyes, I simply hurried on, hoping they wouldn‘t ask. 

 

I was still feeling very angry and humiliated. Michael was supposed to be my boyfriend! I had never pursued him – I had dated him reluctantly to begin with – but that aside, I had been faithful to him, seeing no one else. I had even been warming to him of late, thinking, yes, maybe this is how relationships actually are, and maybe this is what other girls settle for. 

 

Beep Beep Beep.

 

Oooh, but this was fucking annoying! A young couple walked past me just as the beeping started up again. The man looked like he was about to say something, but I quickened my pace and hurried on.

 

Just who was this Emily Whitstable, anyway? She had certainly been rude. I hadn’t imagined that. 

 

The cold pressed through the thin soles of my shoes, up into my legs. My calves burned. The heels sunk slightly into the softening snow at the edges of the sidewalk, leaving narrow, unsteady marks behind me that would be gone by morning. 

 

And then the beeping stopped, but something else took its place.

 

Help! Help! Please Help Me! Help!

 

It was a shrill pre-recorded woman’s voice now coming from the laminated tag. It was calling out for help. Now people really were stopping and looking.

 

Help! Help! Please Help Me! Help!

 

I pulled futilely at the tag, but it simply stayed where it was. The people who had ignored the beeping were no longer ignoring this automated cry for help. How could they?

 

And then, as I turned my head I saw a police officer crossing the road towards me.

 

“Are you lost, Miss?” he asked as he stepped in front of me.

 

Help! Help! Please Help Me! Help!

 

“I’m sorry, it’s just this tag on my wrist. I can’t seem to make it stop…”

 

“Your Nutri-Safe Escort Bracelet? Well, it will do that if you stray, Miss.” The police officer gazed at me with that unsettling gaze that police officers use when they want to control the situation. “What is the range set for?”

 

“Um, twenty feet?”

 

“And you’re not within twenty feet of your escort, are you, Miss? Did you lose him?”

 

“No, I mean.” I pulled at the plastic wrist band again. Police officers always made me feel a bit flustered, as if I had done something wrong. it was a nervous reaction to the way they act and sound when they want you to understand who is in charge. “We had an argument. Just a silly thing, really. I’m on my way home.”

 

Help! Help! Help Me Please! Help!

 

“Well, I can’t let you walk down the street like that, Miss. You’re causing a disturbance. We’ll need to deactivate the tag. Where were you tonight?”

 

“Um,” I fidgeted slightly on my heels. “The bar was called the Gatsby. We were having drinks there.”

 

“You were drinking?” The officer’s eyes narrowed. He could see I looked fresh faced and young.

 

“Just… just a glass of champagne. It’s Christmas Eve.” Fuck. He’s going to ask about my age now. I wasn’t quite twenty one yet. 

 

“Just how old are you, Miss?”

 

I squirmed. “Twenty two, officer.” I reached into my clutch bag and produced the fake ID that Elijah had somehow acquired. It had my photo on it and was good enough to fool every barman who had asked to see it until now, but would it hold up to police scrutiny? The officer looked at it carefully, then looked at me, and then looked back at the ID again. “Not my best photo,” I said, shifting my posture from heel to heel. 

 

“Ashlee Ellis?” said the police officer as he held the ID.

 

Help! Help! Please Help Me! Help!

 

“Yes, that’s me.”

 

“So, tell me, Miss Ellis, if I scanned your ID number, the police computer would verify the age on this card, wouldn’t it?”

 

Fuck. 

 

I think my expression told him everything he needed to know. “It’s Christmas Eve,” I said, in a pleading voice. “It was just a glass of white wine. I didn’t even drink it all.”

 

“I’m going to have to take you to the station, Miss Ellis. This way, please.” And then he took me by the elbow and led me to his patrol car. 

 

--------------------------

 

Half an hour later I was standing by a desk in the police station having the riot act read to me by a duty sergeant. My clutch bag and purse had been confiscated, and obviously they had held on to my fake ID.

 

On the plus side, they had deactivated the wrist band from screaming for help. 

 

There was that. I was made to give all my details, and then I was told to sit down on a hard bench and simply wait. I had no idea what was going to happen now. “It’s Christmas Eve,” I said, trying to appear humbled. 

 

“The bench over there,” said the Duty Sergeant without any trace of sympathy in his voice.

 

And so I waited. I waited for another hour. I just wanted to go home. 

 

“Miss Ellis?” A stern looking policewoman appeared by my side. “Come with me.”

 

“Um, can you tell me what’s happening?” I said as I got to my feet and followed her. She was taking me away from the public offices of the station and down a series of corridors that smelled of disinfectant. They didn’t seem to be open to the public. “Look, I’m really sorry, but it’s Christmas Eve, and I really just want my bed.”

 

The only reply from the police woman was to give me a push, to keep me moving.

 

“Hey! There’s no need for that!”

 

She pushed me again. I was getting angry. She had no right to treat me like this! And then I must have looked startled as the officer opened a heavy door and pushed me into a corridor lined with cells. I walked past a number of women in the holding cells who were looking at me with amusement.

 

“I don’t understand. What are you doing?” Dear God, surely I wasn’t going to be locked up for the night?! “I want to speak to a lawyer!”

 

“Do you now,” said the police woman. 

 

“Yes! I know my rights! I have rights, you know!”

 

The police woman didn’t seem to like me saying that, and from the look on her face her opinion of me was rapidly plummeting. “Mouthy little thing, aren’t you?” she said. 

 

“I think you’re overreacting,” I said. “It was just a glass of wine on Christmas Eve!”

 

“And fake ID, and you were endangering yourself by leaving the safety radius of your Nutri-Safe Escort Bracelet. You wear that for a reason, you know.”

 

“I can go where I want!” I said, stamping my foot. “This stupid thing I’m wearing can’t dictate where I go!”

 

“Yes, it can, young lady. By accepting the wrist band for the duration of your evening you were agreeing to certain safety requirements. There were stipulated terms which you agreed to the moment you agreed to being tagged. Those terms and conditions are all available to view on the Nutri-Safe website if you cared to look. Obviously, you didn’t. How are men supposed to keep you safe if you then act irresponsibly?”

 

“I don’t want to be kept safe! I don’t need a man to keep me safe! This is unacceptable! I want to speak to someone!”

 

“You’re speaking to me,” said the police woman.

 

“Believe me, officer, I’m going to put in a complaint about you!”

 

The officer looked at me for a moment and then said, in a rather cold voice, “do you have any drugs on your person?”

 

“What?! No! Of course not!”

 

“I am going to have to search you for drugs. This way,” 

 

“No, no, you can’t do that! You can’t do that!” And then she forced me, hurting my wrist, into a side room. 

 

The room was smaller than I expected, a square cut out of the building like a cell that forgot to grow bars. The walls were painted a tired institutional green, scuffed where furniture had been pushed back and forth for years. A radiator clanked under the window, breathing uneven heat that smelled faintly of dust and metal. Outside the frosted glass, winter pressed close - a Massachusetts winter - hard and grey, as if the cold itself had an interest in what happens inside this room.

 

There was a steel table bolted to the floor, a wooden chair with one leg slightly shorter than the others, and a narrow bench running along the wall. Nothing here was designed for comfort. A single bare bulb hung overhead, throwing light straight down, leaving the corners in shadow. The air carried the sharp scent of disinfectant layered over wet wool coats.

 

I felt scared and intimidated as the female officer closed the door behind us. The sound seemed final, not loud, just decisive. She wore her uniform like a wall, her shoes planted wide apart, her expression carefully blank. She did not look at me as a person so much as a task. Her voice was steady, practiced, giving instructions she had said many times before. 

 

“Take off your coat and your dress,” said the officer as she tore open a packet and removed a long rubber glove.

 

“No! This isn’t right! There’s no need for this!” 

 

She struck me hard with a sharp slap of her hand. Tears sprang into my eyes. We were alone together and I couldn’t see any cameras in the room to monitor what she was doing to me. “When I tell you to undress, you undress, you slut.”

 

My God! She had just called me a slut!

 

I was acutely aware of the cold in the room. The heat from the old radiator did little to improve the temperature, and the linoleum floor leached warmth. I felt exposed not because of what I was doing, but because of how the room seemed to look back at me - light, walls, silence, all fixed and watchful. Even the ticking of a wall clock felt ominously loud.

 

I sobbed and shrugged off my coat. I kept my eyes on a crack in the paint near the baseboard, counting its branches like a map. I thought of snow piled along sidewalks, of scarves pulled tight, of how the world outside continued without pause. Time stretched thin here as the officer watched me like a hawk. 

 

“Now the dress,” she said. “I’m sure you like to strip yourself before men. You must be quite disappointed I’m here instead of a man.”

 

Moments later I had unbuttoned my dress and removed it. I stood there now in just my underwear – a pretty white brassiere, matching panties and a half slip, also white. I still wore my stockings and shoes. 

 

“Very pretty,” said the police woman. “Your brassiere, that is. Such a shame it’s hidden away where no one can see the exquisite detail. It almost seems pointless, really, doesn’t it, if you’re not going to show the brassiere off to anyone.”

 

I stood there with folded arms against the chill in the room.

 

“Unless of course you wear such things to delight young men? Is that why you wear such a pretty brassiere, Miss Ellis? To excite young men at your campus?”

 

“No,” I said. “I just like to wear pretty things.”

 

I stiffened as the police woman lifted the hem of my half-slip to check my panties. “Oh, and aren’t these pretty.” She touched the fabric, tracing the outline with her fingers where it lay against my skin. “Silk, yes?”

 

I nodded, my stomach feeling contracted and tight as she violated my dignity.

 

“You like the touch of fine silk against your sex?”

 

I blushed and looked mortified. “It’s just underwear.”

 

“Take them off,” snapped the police woman. “You can keep the half-slip in place.”

 

I choked back another sob as I slid the white silk panties down my legs and placed them on the table beside my coat and dress. I felt exposed now, despite the half-slip. 

 

“Only a certain kind of woman would wear these,” said the police woman as she let my panties drape softly from the tip of one of her fingers for me to see. “And that kind of woman is a slut. Now bend over the table, slut.” I began to cry as she pushed my thighs apart, applied some jelly to the fingers of her rubber gloves and pushed them inside of me.

 

“You can’t do this,” I sobbed. “I have rights!”

 

“Quiet,” snapped the police woman As if to emphasise her command she slapped me hard across my bottom. I then had to endure her probing inside of me for drugs she knew I wasn’t concealing. First my vagina, and then my ass. She took her time. When she was satisfied I wasn’t concealing contraband, she pulled the glove from her hand and disposed of it in a steel pedal bin.

 

“Can I go home now, please,” I sobbed.

 

“Hardly.” 

 

I began crying as I was led, still only dressed in my half-slip, brassiere, stockings and heels, back towards the jail cells. It was even colder out there. “I want my clothes back,“ I sobbed.

 

“Quiet!” The police woman slapped my ass again. A blonde woman in one of the holding cells laughed as she saw that.

 

“You have a cell mate tonight, Julia,” said the police woman as she unlocked the cell door and pushed me inside. “Sleep well, Miss Ellis. Breakfast is served at five in the morning.” The cell door slammed shut and was locked from the outside.

 

The blonde woman wore an over the knee light brown A-line skirt, sensible flat shoes, and a white blouse with three quarter length sleeves. I slumped to the floor, back against the wall, and placed my hands over my face as I began sobbing hysterically. 

 

“Well, aren’t you pathetic,” she said as she towered above me. “What have they brought you in for?

 

“I drank a glass of wine,” I sobbed.

 

“So?”

 

“I had fake ID.”

 

“That’s not good. They’re cracking down hard on that kind of thing in South Hadley, but even so, where are your clothes?”

 

“They took them away,” I sobbed. I clenched my thighs tightly together. “I want to go home.”

 

“You must have annoyed someone,” said the woman as she sat down on the edge of her cot bed. “Did you get all prissy about your rights?”

 

I nodded.

 

“Thought so. Not a good thing to do in South Hadley. You have less rights than you probably imagine. New Feminism is strong around these parts. Believe me, I know.” Julia began to pace about the small confines of the cell. 

 

“What are you in for?” I asked as I wiped away some more tears. I felt so cold. 

 

“I’m a disruptive influence,” said Julia with a smile. “I’m practically a symbol of anarchy.” She folded her arms as she looked down at me again. “I don’t kneel before the established patriarchy. I remember a time when the word feminism meant something very different than it does now.”

 

“But what did you do?” I naively asked.

 

“Demonstrated, protested, made a nuisance of myself. Organised opposition to the creed of New Feminism. Acted in a manner unbecoming a Free Woman. And here I am. For now…” she added, ominously.

 

I thought her phrase ‘a free woman’ sounded a bit odd. Weren’t all women free? “You’ll be released soon?” I said, misunderstanding the meaning of her last words.

 

“Hardly. I’m gong to disappear. It happens to women like me. Well, the ones that men find attractive, anyway.” She sat down on the edge of the cot.

 

“Disappear?” This isn’t some South American banana republic,’ I said. “Have you spoken to a lawyer?”

“Yes. A male lawyer - one appointed by the police station. I know what I saw in his eyes. I’m well and truly fucked, Miss Ellis. They’re going to come for me.”

 

I thought she was being a bit paranoid. True, I has endured an experience that was in direct contravention of what I assumed my rights would be, but that was a far cry from what Julia suggested might happen to her soon. Disappeared? She honestly thought they would make her disappear?

 

“You think they’re going to kill you?” My voice sounded incredulous.

 

“No. Like I said, men find me attractive. I have pretty blonde hair. I show off the calves of my legs. Men tend to like what they see. They have other uses for women like me.”

 

I had no idea what she was talking about. 

 

“And you, Miss Ellis, you have red hair. It’s like you’ve been marked. The future for women with your hair colouring is bleak. There is a place where your hair colouring is prized, valued, and where it is in short supply. You understand what happens when demand outstrips supply?”

 

“I really don’t understand what you’re talking about.” I touched my hair. I was proud of my red hair. But I had always been taught that Gentlemen Preferred Blondes. Wasn’t that the saying?

 

“With that striking hair colour, you would sell for more than I would,” said Julia.

 

“Sell?” I looked up at her. “Women are not for sale. We are not for sale!” 

 

“Oh, you have so much to learn about life,” said Julia as she turned round and sat back down on the edge of her cot. 

 

The cell was smaller than my dorm room and colder than the walk across the quad in January. The walls were painted a dull, sickly grey that seemed to swallow what little light the bare bulb gave off, and the paint peeled in long curls like dead leaves. Somewhere, water dripped steadily, each sound too loud in the silence, marking time I didn’t know how to count. The iron bars were cold when I touched them, the chill biting straight through my coat and into my bones. They smelled faintly of rust, disinfectant, and something older I didn’t want to think about.

 

I sat on the narrow bench bolted to the wall, my hands tucked under my thighs, trying to keep them warm. My breath fogged in front of my face, and every exhale reminded me that I was still here, that this wasn’t some terrible mistake that would be corrected any moment now. I could hear footsteps now and then, heavy shoes echoing down the corridor, but no one stopped. No one explained anything. The clock I imagined on the wall was always wrong, or maybe time simply refused to move.

 

I kept going over it again and again, certain I had done nothing wrong. Nothing that deserved this, at least. I thought of my books, my classes, the normal, sensible life I was supposed to be living, and it all felt impossibly far away. The cell made me feel small, as if the walls were leaning in, watching me. I was afraid to lie down, afraid to close my eyes, afraid of what might happen next or how easily the world had shifted without asking my permission. All I could do was sit there, shivering, waiting for morning and believing - because I had to - that someone would finally come for me.

 

------------------------------------

 

Michael and Bryony came for me at some unearthly hour of the morning. I could see the conflicting emotions of relief and disappointment on their faces as I was led out of my cell to meet them. I was still stripped down to my underwear, of course. Bryony raised a scandalised eyebrow at me as I stood there, arms crossed, looking mortified.

 

“We have been so worried,” she said. Her voice sounded like a reprimand. “How could you do this to us, Ashlee?!”

 

“Are you all right?” asked Michael. He moved forward and took me tenderly in his arms. I felt an overwhelming sense of relief and security as I felt those strong arms enfold my body.

 

“I want to go home,” I sobbed. “They took away my clothes.”

 

“Apparently you resisted arrest,” said Bryony. “What’s got into you, Ashlee? You storm out of the bar, you endanger yourself in the dark, and then when a policeman tries to help, you abuse him!”

 

“I didn’t…”

 

“It’s written in black and white on your charge sheet,” said Bryony. “Are you accusing the police of lying?”

 

The policewoman stood close by, listening to what I was about to say.

 

“I just want to go home,” I sobbed. I was afraid that if I said anything more I would simply be marched back to my cell.

 

“Can we bring her home?” asked Michael. He sounded extremely respectful as he spoke to the officer. “If there is a fine, I can settle it.”

 

“Well, as you are an Emery, I’m sure something can be worked out,” said the female officer. Michael smiled and ruffled my hair.

 

“See,” he said. “I always sort everything out, Ash.”

 

I clung to him, feeling so helpless, but relieved that he was here to aid me. 

 

“I’ll leave you with Bryony,” said Michael as he gazed into my eyes. “There’s bound to be paperwork related to your arrest. I’ll make a call and see what can be done. Be brave, Ash.” He touched my nose with his finger. “And don’t ever go running off like that again when you are in my custody,” he said. I nodded quickly, not wishing to anger him. “It might be an idea for you to wear a Nutri-Safe bracelet from now on. I like the idea of knowing where you are at all times. We’ll look into it, yes?”

 

I nodded, silently. This wasn’t the moment to argue. That could come later.

 

“You’re a good girl, Ashlee. A good girl. What are you?”

 

“A good girl,” I whispered.

 

“And whose girl? Whose good girl?”

 

“Yours,’ I whispered.

 

“Say it fully, Ashlee.”

“I’m your good girl, Michael.”

He smiled and ruffled my hair again. “Elijah has a car outside. Go with Bryony. She’ll take you home and you can have a nice warm bath and put all this behind you. It’s Christmas day, you know. What does my special girl say to me on Christmas Day?”

 

“Merry Christmas, Michael,” I sobbed.

 

“That’s right. Now off you go.” He patted me on my bottom, his fingers stroking the thin fabric of the white slip for a moment before giving me a little push towards Bryony.

 

Bryony marched me down through the corridors of the police cell and I could tell she was quietly fuming.

 

“I want my clothes back,” I sobbed.

 

“Do NOT start!” She turned round and wagged an accusatory finger at me. “This is NOT how I wanted to spend the early hours of Christmas morning!” I am SO disappointed with you, Ashlee. So VERY disappointed!”

 

And so I walked past grinning police officers who made no pretence of looking away. No one said anything, but they all seemed to enjoy the sight of me in a bra, half-slip, stockings and heels.

 

The street outside was quiet, which was a small mercy, I supposed. Across the road I could see Elijah’s car quietly idling. I shivered again, feeling the cold temperature of an early winter morning in South Hadley as Bryony led me towards the car.

 

“Good morning, Ashlee,” said Elijah as Bryony opened the back seat door and motioned for me to climb inside. Of all the people I didn’t want to see me like this, Elijah was pretty much top of the bill. I felt sure he was looking at my stocking clad legs, and at the deep plunge of my breasts as they were shaped and lifted by the white brassiere. I felt small and objectified. Men can do that to a woman, just by looking at them in a certain way. “Sounds like you’ve had quite the night. Let’s get you home.”