The Silent Cry

The woman described how she had been taunted by the men, called names.

One of them had kicked her, told her she was filth, should be got rid of, the human race cleansed of her sort.

In the dock Rhys started to bang his hands up and down on the railing.

One of the warders made a move to stop him, but the muscles of his body were knotted so hard he did not succeed. His face was a mask of pain.

No one else moved.

The woman in the witness stand went on speaking, slowly, each word forced between her lips. She told how they had knocked her over till she was crouching on the cobbles.

"They were 'and, an' wet," she said huskily. "Then one of'em leaned on top o' me. "E were 'cavy, and 'e smelled o' sum mink fu

Then I felt 'im come in terme It was like I were tore inside. It 'urt sum mink terrible. I…”

She stopped, her eyes wide with horror as Rhys wrenched himself from the warders, his mouth gaping, his throat tortured with the sound it could not make, as if inside himself he screamed again and again.

A warder made a lunge after him and caught one arm. Rhys lashed at him, his face a paroxysm of terror and loathing. The other warder made a grab and missed. Rhys overbalanced, hysterical with fear, teetered for a moment on the high railing, then swivelled and fell over the edge.

A woman shrieked.

The jurors rose to their feet.

Sylvestra cried out his name and Fidelis clasped her arms around her.

Rhys landed with a sickening crash and lay still.

Hester was the first to move. She rose from her seat in the back of the gallery, on the edge of the row where she could be reached were she needed, and ran forward, falling on her knees beside him.

Then suddenly there was commotion everywhere. People were crying out, jostling one another. Others had been hurt, two of them badly. Press reporters were scrambling to force their way out to pass on the news.

Ushers were trying helplessly to restore some form of order. The judge was banging his gavel. Someone was shouting for a doctor for a woman whose leg had been broken by an overturned bench.

Rathbone swung around to make his way towards where Rhys was lying.

Where was Corriden Wade? Had he been seized to tend to the woman?

Rathbone did not even know if Rhys was still alive or not. With the height of the fall he could easily be dead. It is not difficult to break a neck. The thought crossed his mind that perhaps it would be a merciful escape from a more prolonged and dreadful end.

Was it even suicide, in hearing the full horror of his crime told from the victim's view, her feelings of shame, humiliation, helplessness and pain? Was this the nearest he could come to some kind of redemption?

Was this Rathbone's final failure, or perhaps the only thing he had truly done for him?

Except that Rhys had not raped the woman! He had been playing cards with Lady Sandon. It was Leighton Duff who had first raped and then beaten her. Leighton Duff… and who else?

The uproar in the courtroom was overwhelming. People were shouting, trying to clear the way for a stretcher. Someone was screaming again and again, uselessly, hysterically. All around him people were pushing and shoving, trying to move one way or another.

Bent over Rhys's body, Hester, for one desperate moment, had the same thought that passed through Rathbone's mind… was this Rhys's escape at last from the pain of body which afflicted him, and from the greater agony of mind which haunted even his sleep? Was this the only peace he could find in a world which had become one long nightmare?

Then she touched him and knew he was still alive. She slid her hand under his head, feeling the thick hair. She felt the bone gently, exploring. There was no depression in the skull. She pulled her hand clear. There was no blood. His legs were twisted, but his spine was straight. As far as she could tell he was concussed, but not fatally injured.

Where was Corriden Wade? She looked up, peering around, and saw no one she recognised, but there was a huddle of people where the bench was overturned and someone was lying on the floor. Even Rathbone was beyond the crowd jostling beside and in front of her.

Then she saw Monk and felt a surge of relief. He was elbowing his way forward, angry, white-faced. He was shouting at someone. A large man clenched his fist and seemed intent on making a fight of it. Someone else began pulling at him. Two more women were crying for no apparent reason.

Monk finally forced his way through and knelt beside her.

"Is he alive?" he asked.

"Yes. But we've got to get him out of here," she responded, hearing her voice sharp with fear.

He looked down at Rhys who was still completely insensible. "Thank God he can't feel this," he said quietly. "I've sent the warder for one of those long benches. We could carry him on that.”

"We've got to get him to a hospital," she said desperately. "He can't stay in the cell! I don't know how badly he's hurt!”

Monk opened his mouth as if to reply, then changed his mind. One of the warders had come downstairs from the dock and was pushing people aside to reach Rhys.

"Poor devil," he said laconically. "Best for 'im if 'e'd killed is self but since 'e in't dead, we'll do for 'im what we can. "Ere, Miss, let me get 'im up onter the bench wot Tom's bringin'.”

"We'll take him to the nearest hospital," she said, rising shakily and only just avoiding falling over her own skirts.

"Sorry, Miss, but we gotta take 'im back to 'is cell. "E's a prisoner…”

"He's hardly going to escape!" she said furiously, all her helplessness and pain welling up in useless anger for a moment. "He's totally insensible, you fool! Look at him!”

"Yes, Miss," the warder said stolidly. "But the law is the law. We'll put 'im back in 'is cell, an' yer can stay wif 'im, if yer don' mind bein' locked in wif 'im? No doubt they'll send a doctor well they get one.”

"Of course I'll stay with him!" she choked. "And fetch Dr. Wade, immediately!”

"We'll try, Miss. Is there any fink as yer want for 'im? Water, like, or a little brandy? I'm sure as I could get a little brandy for yer.”

She controlled herself with an effort. The man was doing his best.

"Thank you. Yes, get me both water and brandy, please.”

The other warder appeared along with two more men carrying a wooden bench. With surprising gentleness they picked Rhys up and laid him on it, then carried it out of the courtroom, pushing past onlookers, and out through the doors and down the hallway toward the cells.

Hester followed, hardly aware of the people around her, of the curious stares and the mutters and calls. All she could think of was how badly was Rhys hurt, and why had he thrown himself over? Was it an accident as he tried to escape the warders, and they attempted to restrain him, or had he intended to kill himself? Had he lost every last vestige of hope?

Or had he been lying all the time, and he had both Mlled his father, and raped and beaten those women?

She refused to believe that… not unless and until she had to. As long as there was a nicker of any other possibility, she would cling to it. But what possibility? What other conceivable explanation was there? She racked her imagination and her memory.

Then one occurred to her, one so extreme and so horrible she stumbled as she followed the warders, and all but fell. She was shaking. She felt cold and sick, and her mind raced for any way at all in which she could learn if it were true, and prove it. And she knew why Rhys could not speak, why even if he could… he would not.

She ran a step or two to catch up with them, and as soon as they were at the cells she swung round to face the warders.

"Thank you. Bring me the brandy and water, then leave us alone. I will do what I can for him." It was a race against time. Dr. Wade, or some other physician, would be bound to come soon. If she was right, it must not be Corriden Wade. But she must know. Anyone interrupting what she now meant to do would be horrified. She might even be prosecuted. Certainly she would jeopardise her career. If it was Corriden Wade, she might even lose her life.