I met one of them. She was the daughter of a US magnate. He had been some lucky teenager who mastered social media in the early days and shot into the lead, that is, he shot into the lead as a money-spinner. So, she was a rich girl, still is. Why would I go to meet such a person? â such a minor descendent. She should have been a shadow in her fatherâs shadow, a sub-person perhaps? Rachel Grainger. Well, she had a major problem. I will tell you the story.
Good to gain fame by virtue of a serious defect. She didnât have to try very hard. All she did was just to be herself, if you know what I mean. I was a psychologist, trained and with a not very good degree at a rather prestigious university in the UK. The point is we fell in love. It was not so unusual, because she was good at falling in love. I wasnât; she taught me â in her own way.
Thatâs the way the story starts, not in Stockholm, but with the Stockholm syndrome. I was doing some research when I was very young, in order to try to get my Masters level qualification. I hit on a rich seam, one that hits, in fact, on the emotions as well as the academic intellect. I am writing this, twenty years after she was kidnapped. She was not the eldest, but she was the easiest to kidnap. It had been the kidnapperâs intention to extract as much of the fatherâs fortune as possible.
She had been living with her family in Detroit, not a tourist attraction. She was sixteen at the time, and thin, anorexic really, so that I, even with my paralysed arm, could have picked her up and carried her off. But I was there to interview her about the experience but got no reply from my attempts to contact her â text, phone, her fatherâs media system. So I prowled the neighbourhoods till I spotted her one day after some three weeks sauntering through the uninspiring streets. Twenty years on, she was now quite plump, not especially attractive, but a friendly kind of face. Even then, after all those years she had a thuggish looking guy fifteen yards behind her, nonchalantly looking in shop windows in a most unlikely simulation of an idle shopper. He looked threatening instead, and muscular. He was dark haired, close-cropped, and thick around the neck and upper arms.
She went into a shop where coffee and pancakes were served. She sat at a table, and the evil guy eventually sat down at her table opposite her. I wondered if I should go up to the table and introduce myself. Why not? Nothing to lose â except my front teeth, if the guy took a slug at me.
In the event, she just looked at me, with a friendly stare evolving into a smile. He, the thug, did not smile but stood up and went to the next table, so I could sit opposite her. The smile continued on her face, an inquiring lilt to the lips.
âExcuse me for interrupting,â I asked innocently. She made no response and continued looking at me as if I was an interesting breed of dog or something that caught her attention. âAre you still in danger?â And I nodded briefly behind me in the direction her thug had gone.
âYou never know.â Her look of enquiry had not faded. For some reason I did not feel awkward about meeting her unasked. She enjoyed being an object of special interest, I decided.
âIâm a psychologist. I just wondered if I could interview you and your experiences?â
She looked down, almost as if disappointed. âYouâre not the first.â
âOf course. You must be bored with us.â
âNot at all.â She looked slightly bored as if she had been through all this preamble too many times. She moved her chair as if about to get up. âAny time. Just contact me.â
âAnd Iâd like to interview him.â I nodded again in the direction of her âthugâ.
âYouâd better ask him,â but she looked surprised, intrigued.
âCould we make a time now?â I asked, more insistently. And I added, âMrs Grainger?â
âIâm not Mrs Grainger,â she said quickly. And I had a sudden moment of fear that Iâd mistaken who she was. âIâm Ms Ratten, Rachel.â I must have looked a little confused. âWas it about my kidnapping?â
âIt was.â
âI have half-a-dozen people a month trying to contact me. I ignore them.â And she looked bored and ready to go. âIf you want me, contact me. If itâs him, go ask.â
âIâd like to arrange it now. What about tomorrow morning. Could we? Say 10-ish?â
She nodded, âWell, OK.â When I pushed her, she was surprisingly compliant. âCan I go, now?â
âSure.â I said reassuringly. âUnless youâd like me to call them over to give us another coffee together.â
She hesitated, again surprisingly. She looked at her watch. âSorry, I think Iâd better go. I have something to do.â And she added slightly mischievously, âOtherwise I could have stayed and asked all about you.â And she stood.
âMy nameâs Mike, Mike Barland. Rachel.â She looked as if she had never heard of such a name. She probably hadnât. âWhere do we meet? Here? Iâll bring my recorder.â
She looked around the cafe. âOK. Ten then.â
And she moved off behind me. I heard another chair scrape the floor and knew her guard was about to prowl along behind her. I sat back in my chair. Got my coffee cup filled again and wrote a page of impressions from the contact so far.
The next day I was early, and sat at the same table, a coffee poured in front of me. She arrived ten minutes late. She beamed at me as I stood up beside my chair. She offered a hand I shook. âYouâre looking good,â I said politely. If her beaming could possibly have got a bit sunnier, it did. We sat. I switched on the recorder. I had decided to plunge in with as much energy, even provocation as possible. âSo, you go for dangerous men?â
âYep. Sure.â She sat back completely relaxed and unruffled. âWhat about you?â her beaming had changed to a friendly and appreciative smile.
It was my turn to stay calm. âI prefer beautiful women, I guess.â And I put on my most benevolent beam. She unwound a silk scarf from her neck and looked as if I had said she was one of those beautiful women. âLike you,â I said to please her. She looked up, straight into my eyes, as if she was already inviting me to bed. âBut first, I wanted to get on with this interview I have to do.â I wasnât sure why I had said âbut firstâ. It seemed as if I was expecting something afterwards. Perhaps I did want to accept her inviting smiling at me. To my mind she was not particularly beautiful, except in her soft invitingness (if that is a word).
At that point the guard came up to the table and said, âI go, put car?â She looked up at him in a significant way. It was as if there were messages in the interchange, as if he were asking if she was comfortable with this stranger, me. And she responded affirmatively, letting him go.
Back to her and me. In this public coffee bar sitting at an often-wiped plastic-topped table with customers walking up and down the aisle next to us, there was a sudden intimacy, a sort of excluding intimacy, as if the rest of the bustle was on some cinema screen. She looked relaxed, open. I felt invited to ask anything I wanted. It was positively homely. But something held me back, despite my experience as a researcher. âGet on with itâ, I told myself. So, âYou are kind to let me listen in to your experience. They must have been terrible. Tell me the worst moment of your kidnapping and the best.â
Her smile had not altered, and she leant forward looking onto my eyes as if she were about to savour a beautiful dish of food. My mind immediately moved to her ample figure which had blown out a little since the pictures of her after her rescue. I imagined her soft skin and even thought of stroking it. âThe best moment, first. You know, they grabbed me. With their arms, two of them. My father had always kept me safe, so safe, and anyone I went out with he had to find out about them. But these two, because they were just uninvited criminals were unknown to him, or to me. The held me down, hard. But it felt like a freedom, you know. You probably wouldnât understand. It felt like they wanted me. I was in the bedroom and in my nightdress, and theyâd been hiding there for some time, till I came to bed. They pinned me down to the floor, and first they strapped something sticky round my mouth so I couldnât scream. But I didnât try. Like I said it felt like a freedom. I didnât have to have his permission to be wanted.â She sat back as if satisfied, or she might have been thinking of something else to say to try to make me understand, though she seemed to believe I would not. âI wasnât crazy, you know. It seemed a perfectly simple way to be me with anyone else.â I was nodding my understanding. This precious girl that her father kept locked up has, she seemed to be saying, been rescued from him. âThey tied me. My wrists to my ankles; my knees to my throat. Have you ever been tied up?â
I stopped nodding. âNo, er⌠it could be uncomfortable.â She was waiting for me to expand. âSo you had felt locked up by your father, all your life, I guess.
Now she nodded, âYou got it.â And she glanced away as if noticing the world around for the first time. âI guess it is nice to be precious for him. Iâve got Alberto who follows me around. Alberto from Mexico. He keeps me safe.â And she glanced to the door as if she expected him to come in.
âOK. Heâs gone out to check the car. Do you feel safe with me, right now?â
She laughed, almost silently as if I was being ridiculous. âYouâre a nice guy, right? Youâre not dangerous. There was still a laugh in her throat as if she was mocking me. âIâll do what you want.â
I was uncertain what that meant. It seemed like she was giving me a very wide permission. âLetâs get back to that moment. Freedom you say. But you couldnât move.â
She put up her hand to stop me, âFreedom from my Dad. Thatâs what I said. I didnât have to have permission to be wanted by someone. I was nineteen then. My Mom had left years before. It had just been me and my Dad for years. I loved him. Iâd have done anything for him. Well, I would now. I asked him if I should talk to you. He said I should, so I am talking to you.â She put her head on one side as if asking me what I thought of that. She was not talking to me because I had asked, but because her Father had said she should.
It put me in my place. I wanted to ask her what it would feel like if I tied her up. But that was not my interviewing technique. âIt sounds very uncomfortable to be tied like that?â
âYep,â she said as if disinterested. âBut I liked it. It seemed something so new. It wasâŚ. kind of exciting. You know. They carried me out of the house. I donât know how no-one noticed. But they did it. I was in the boot of their car, and they drove off.â
âYou werenât frightened?â
âYes, I was. Yes and no. It was exciting, as well, I told you. They were taking me to something new.â
Sounds like you were bored with your life at home?â
âWell, wouldnât you be?â Then she stopped and changed her tone, âLook I want some more coffee, and Iâd like a doughnut. I saw some on the counter.â
âOK, of course.â And I waved to a waitress till she saw me and came over for my order. This waitress looked hard at me. She was slim, fresh, innocent. What a contrast to the tired and bored Rachel. I felt I was invited to meet a challenge from this young girl, in contrast to Rachelâs heavy predictability. I turned back to my job. âCan I ask you; had you had relations with men, were you an experienced woman of nineteen?â
She looked at me with a new blank disinterest, âWhat do you think?â I wondered if she had noticed my interest in the sexy waitress.
âDid you think they were taking you away toâŚ. err, use you for sex? What did you think it was all about?â
âI knew what it was all about. They would sell me back for money. It was obvious, wasnât it?â And then she said more reflectively. âOf course I wanted to be used for their sex. I was a pure young girl wanting to be impure. Thatâs obvious too. Isnât it?â I nodded.
âDidnât you want sex at that age? Whatever the conditions?â I wasnât going to answer that. She went on, âI was excited, I told you. My worry was Iâd get pregnant.â She continued to look reflective. âBut I might have wanted that too. I wanted a womanâs body. It was as if Iâd been kept in a prison, wrapped up in a condom as it were.â I was surprised at her inventive imagery. She had seemed to have so little sparkle in her.
âAnd did they use you, Rachel?â
âOf course they did. In factâŚ.â And she stopped. The doughnut arrived. I didnât look in the direction of the waitress. But Rachel remained hesitant. âI havenât told anyone else this. I asked them. I fucking asked them.â For the first time something like shame or embarrassment clouded her expression for a moment, and then her inviting smile returned. âI asked them to rape me because I wanted to know what it was like.â This time there was a little laugh that was more like a scoff. It was scoffing at herself, as if it was silly and juvenile.
âI can see,â I said.
She looked at me sharply, âWhat can you see?â
âYou wanted to know what it was like to be a woman.â
She looked at me sharply again, as if surprised that I would understand. âPerhaps you understand.â She seemed to be reluctant to admit she was a little impressed by my understanding her. She gave a deep sigh as if she was not accustomed to being understood. The sigh heaved her ample breasts up and then down. I think she noticed me looking at them.
âSo did you find out what it was like to be a women?â
She hesitated again. âYes, I did. Fuck me, I did. They were good at it. Both of them. I know what good sex is.,â and she added ruefully, â Thereâs not much else in my life.â She sat back and was looking at me. âThe only other thing in my life is fuckers coming around and asking me about it.â She was getting crude, and implied her scoffing might be returning. âYou can have me if you want.â She said it in a very matter-of-fact way, as if she was asking for another doughnut.
âThat might be very nice,â I said politely, âBut first letâs get back to the interview.â
Her smile was now fading. She looked down at her plate. âOK. OK, it was exciting. Of course. I admit it. I donât care what you say in your report.â
âBecause you felt wanted. Desired.â
âWell - wanted in a different way from my Father. I loved him. Donât get that wrong. And he wanted the best for me. And he paid out four million for me, didnât he. Thatâs love, isnât it.â She looked up at me and repeated her invitation. âAre you sure you donât want to stuff my vagina.â She sniggered at her own crudeness. âIâm waiting, you know. Iâm anybodyâs.â She waved her arms slightly in a distracted sort of way as if being absurd could cancel everything people said about her.
I tried not to sound pompous, âI am not here for that, Rachel.â She really was not very attractive. I felt a sadness for her. She seemed so lost as this kind of celebrity, or anti-celebrity who had no respect in the public media. âI am just interested in the experience you had. It must have been bad and good at the same time. I think thatâs important.â
âHuh,â she started. âIâm just a thing. An ornament on the shelf. An ugly ornament, arenât I?â
âI donât know about that. You are someone who had a terrible experience. And can teach everyone else something about it. Something about human beings, the good and the bad.â
She shook her head, as if giving up. âOK, what you wanna know?â
âWell, I guess I want to know all the things I donât know about it. About what it was like.â I tried to look serious and sympathetic â because I did feel it, even in this now tense situation. âI guess it is pretty traumatic to go over it all again â just remembering.â
âYouâre sounding like my therapist!â
âGood,â I said, no longer knowing how to handle this distraught women. Perhaps I should just go home with her and stuff her vagina â as she put it â If it could make her feel better. âItâs OK. Youâve had an experience only a few people have had. Perhaps we should all know more what it was like.â
âWhy?â She was now asking a question difficult to answer. âWhy canât you be interested in me. Not just interested in the one experience Iâve ever had. Thatâs all I am for everybody. The fucking body that was raped by my kidnappers.â
âIt is not quite like that. Iâm sorry you feel like that. Maybe we should start with everything else you are.â
And the interview went onâŚ.
She told me about her mother and her father, and other relatives, the social occasion, last thanksgiving, and so on. She was very compliant. It was all very prosaic. She was right she is of no interest except what had happened to her those five years ago. I was feeling sorry for her. And she asked for another doughnut. I couldnât help myself from looking at her slightly expanded waistline. I did call for another doughnut, but said, âIf I really wanted to be good to you Iâd say ânoâ. Iâd control your eating so that you lost a bit of that weight and youâd show that slim beauty that is hiding inside your body.â
Her smile returned and she looked intensely at me. âWould you do that for me?â I had pleased her for once â my reference to her slim beauty, I supposed.
And at that moment, she did appeal to me. It was not her physical presence but that she could appreciate me, could appreciate something Iâd said to her. It switched on an electric light in her that shone in her smile in a different way from before. For a moment I felt very drawn to her. Well, to be honest, it was more than a moment. I put my arm across the cafĂŠ table and laid my hand on her arm. She looked at it as if it was a wasp or some uninvited insect about to prey on her. âIt feels good to touch your arm,â I persisted.â
âOh,â she said, almost as if triumphant, âSo you do want me?â
âNo, itâs not that. Itâs just that for a moment I saw something warm and alive, and beautiful in your heart.â She looked blank. âYou just think youâre a pile of trash, donât you?â
âIâm not garbage,â she said defensively. âThatâs what those two bastardâs told me I am.â She was looking hard and angry.
âIâm not saying you are garbage or trash. âIâm saying youâve got beauty in your heart.â
âAre you?â she said suspiciously. She was not going to let me get away easily. Sheâd misunderstood me, and wasnât going to let that easily go. âYou think Iâm garbage. You think you can touch me up when you feel like it.â So I took my hand away. She noticed and seemed momentarily reflective. âI liked your hand on me.â And then she quickly reverted, âIs this what your interviews are like. Just a way to get to fucking me?â
âNo,â I said, âIâve abandoned the interview. I made you feel a specimen, Just an ornament. Iâm sorry about that.â
âSo now you just want to stuff me instead.â
âNo. Not at all. Well, I meanâŚ.â I didnât mean to say that to her. âI mean, that may come later. Right now, I was trying to say, I know what itâs like to feel Iâm a waste of space, no confidence no use to anyone. Itâs what I used to tell myself when I was a kid.â
She was looking with some curiosity, but perhaps not believing I could possibly understand how she felt. âSo,â she enquired eventually, âWhat changed?â She looked sceptical.
âWell, it changed a bit after my book. You know I wrote a book about holocaust survivors â the non-Jewish ones who get neglected. Everyone thought I was great. They told me good things about my sensitivity. I hadnât had many compliments in my life.â
âWhy?â
âOh. My parents put me up for adoption when I was a few years old. Then the agency couldnât find anyone who wanted to adopt me. I think it was because I was black.â
âYeah,â she said as if beginning to be a little sympathetic. âProbably the same over here in the States.â She looked a little speculative. âIf youâre black, you can give a good fuck. Thatâs all.â She seemed to be relenting a little. âIf youâre rich youâre an ornament, if youâre black youâre just a fuck-machine.â
I nodded, not so much because I agreed with that, but because she seemed to be commiserating; we had something in common. âSeems like youâre interviewing me, now.â
She laughed out loud for the first time. âTables turned. Youâre not an ace interviewer, are you.â I smiled at her glee but didnât feel the humour. âSorry, she said. âWeâre both garbage. Two bits of litter.â But she was obviously feeling in a better mood.
âBut,â I said, wanting to change the subject, âYou should write a book. Seriously.â
âWhat?â she said looking aghast. âWhy?â
âWell, youâre intelligent. Youâve got time; and connections. And youâve got this horrendous experience everyone is fascinated with.â
âTheyâre not fascinated with it.â
âIrresistible fascination. The worst trauma this side of being murdered. Right. And it is exciting, too. What could be more complicated, complex, intriguing. How could anyone ever cope with such a combination â everyone will ask that.â
âRubbish.â
âIt is not rubbish. You donât know what your lifeâs about. You canât give yourself a reason to exist. Well, this is it. And if you want help with the writing, you know a writer. Me!â
She looked at me with surprise as if she could not have conceived of a black being a writer. âYeah,â she mumbled as if she had to keep her thoughts to herself.
So, I said, âA black writer. What would Daddy say to that?â She did not answer.
As we left the coffee shop, she put her arm in mine and said âWish the world didnât hate your lot so much â cos I could fall in love with you.â I squeezed her arm with my elbow.
âWe could emigrate to Nigeria!â
She pulled her arm from mine abruptly and stopped, staring into my face with an angry gleam. âIf you want me, have me. If you donât, fuck off, and stuff your own ass.â She turned to start walking again. âThatâs your choice.â And as we started walking again, I put her arm under mine as before. It is no use to me, except for a nice lady to hold; it is withered and I donât know what it felt like to her. I was thinking about the choice he gave me. As we walked away close together, I think she thought I had chosen the first option. I wondered about the other kidnapped victim I had lined up for my research sample. Falling for the first of them, did not promise well. Her thug-man fell into step some twenty paces behind us.
We need your consent to load the translations
We use a third-party service to translate the website content that may collect data about your activity. Please review the details in the privacy policy and accept the service to view the translations.