Those Whom the Gods Love
The second novel by the author of Clutch of Phantoms, this is another highly intelligent, powerfully paced psychological suspense novel.Twenty years before the novel starts, a group of male students were appalled to discover that one of them had apparently raped a girl, then hanged himself in remorse. This terrible incident, and their guilt at not having prevented it, hangs over them as they continue their outwardly successful careers.But in their midst comes a young, ambitious journalist – Ginty Schell – who is researching features on how men today have lost their way. She focuses on this old, once famous story, and becomes the men’s nemesis. In her search she will not only endanger all of them, but dramatically alter her own life.Like Clutch of Phantoms, Those Whom the Gods Love raises fascinating issues on our attitudes to violence, on the dynamics of group friendship, and on the weight that worship of celebrity can lay on all of us.
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CLARE LAYTON
THOSE WHOM THE GODS LOVE
Contents
The Jeep bounced over a pothole and a broken spring rammed into Ginty’s thigh. They’d blindfolded her at the checkpoint, so she had no idea where they were going. She could feel them, excited and tense, and she could smell them. Stale tobacco and acrid sweat made her gag, but it was the alcohol on their breath that worried her. She knew it wouldn’t take much to tip them over the edge.
Once, all she’d wanted was to be taken seriously. Now that seemed mad. This was serious, and she hated it.
The tyres spun as the Jeep skidded round a tight bend. She was flung sideways into the lap of one of the men. His hand came down on her back, pressing her breasts into his groin. She could feel his prick, thrusting up through the coarse cloth of his trousers. A sharp, unintelligible command sounded from the front seat. The hand moved from her back and she breathed again. Other hands grabbed her shoulders and pushed her upright, like a doll, balancing her against the lumpy seat. Someone knocked against her left breast, then hard fingers grabbed and twisted. One of the men laughed.
This is nothing, she told herself, remembering yesterday’s interviewee.
Only one of a whole string of women who’d been raped by a gang of men like these, Maria had refused to say anything for a long time, but she hadn’t walked away. Ginty had stood in the background, while her interpreter spoke gently, earnestly, sometimes pointing at Ginty, sometimes gesturing around the rest of the refugee camp. At last Maria had begun to talk, her voice steely, punching out the words like a machine. In every pause, Anna gave Ginty a softly delivered translation that made her shiver.
‘She is fifteen. They raped her last year. She did get pregnant. The child was born in a bombed-out cellar. It was a boy. She was alone. She smothered him, then cut the cord. She left him there in the rubble. Her family does not know. I have promised her anonymity. And no photographs.’
Ginty would have promised a lot more than that, but Maria hadn’t asked for anything else. As she felt the hands again, Ginty bit her lip to keep herself quiet. Infuriating tears wetted the scratchy cloth around her eyes. She couldn’t sniff or they’d know they’d got to her. She thought of her bodyguard, forced to wait behind at the roadblock with Anna, and wished she’d never agreed to write this story.
A rock cracked against a hubcap and the Jeep lurched, crunching over it. The muscles in the men’s thighs were taut beside hers, as they braced themselves against the swinging movement. She kept her legs crossed. With every lurch, she was terrified she might wet her knickers. Her head felt hollow and her ears were ringing.
Sharp braking flung her forwards. Someone gripped her shoulder before she could hit her head. Voices called from outside. The hands were back on her body, tugging and pushing her out. Swaying as she put her foot to the ground, she reached out for a handhold. Instead of metal, she felt folds of cloth. Someone laughed. Other hands were pulling at the blindfold. As they wrenched it off, they ripped out some hair that had caught in the knot. More involuntary tears made a blur in front of her eyes.
As the damp fog cleared, she saw blue-grey mountains shining in the sun, trees, grass, and a low, white house with a great hole in the roof. Split and blackened beams showed through the gash in the orange tiles and smoke stains spread up the walls like fungus. Few of the windows still had glass and most of those were cracked.
The splintered door crashed open. Two men, as young and dark-eyed as the ones who’d picked her up that morning, dragged out something heavy. Ginty wiped the back of her hand against her eyes and saw it was a man. They were holding him by the slack of his checked shirt. She couldn’t see his face, which was hanging down a foot above the ground. His bare, bloody feet dragged against the rocks in the path.
Ginty’s escorts yelled something to the two men. One of them put his free hand in the victim’s hair and jerked up his head. Ginty wished she were shortsighted, blind even.
There were bruises and blood all over his face. His eyes were swollen and his lower lip lolled, showing a broken tooth. She couldn’t tell whether he was alive or dead. His guards let his head drop again and dragged him off.
She was propelled forwards by a hand on her back. The doorway into the house looked very dark against the white walls. Everything she’d heard in the camps about Rano and his men pulled at her heels, slowing her down. But she’d come this far, and she had work to do, work that might be the passport to a world where she mattered. If she wimped out now – even if they’d let her go – she’d never get it.
