Victim
Pauline Cartwright

“Do you mind if I join you?”

Hannah knew to be careful. There were all sorts round the city, from perverts to punks. Her mother and father went on about it endlessly.

“A disgrace! An absolute disgrace the way some young people dress these days!” How many times had she heard her mother say that while her brother rolled his eyes in the background. “Not an atom of respect for anyone or anything.”

Her father in reply. “And their minds as filthy as their clothes.”

“Nobody’s safe, these days. Nobody. You remember that, my girl.”

The voice that spoke to her now didn’t sound like one belonging to some kind of deviant. Nor did it sound particularly young. With a half smile on her face as she remembered the hopeful fellow who last week had tried to persuade he she would love to go to a party with him that night, she swung round from her window view of the street.

Hannah wasn’t very good at judging ages. The man was younger than her father but certainly more than twenty-five. Anyone over twenty-five, Hannah believed, was heading for fossil status and certainly not likely to be looking for dates with sixteen year old girls. Of course there were exceptions regarding age difference – such as Rod and Rachel. But Rod was a pop star. Rachel a model. Stardom made age irrelevant.

This man didn’t have the recognizable face of a star. But he was not unattractive, in spite of being older.

She shrugged. “You can sit here if you want to. There are other tables that are empty.”

She couldn’t help noticing how smartly and fashionably he was dressed. Her dad could look halfway decent if he got some gear like that, she thought.

The man reached into a top packet and, as he sat down, he flashed a small white card in front of her. Hannah caught a glint of gold, a splash of red. She didn’t manage to read any of the print.

“My studio card,” smiled the man. “So you know I’m genuine.”

A studio was the workplace of artists, dress designers – the sort of people who lived in a romantic world vastly removed, Hannah thought, from her prosaic world of chain-store clothing, a movie once a week, family squabbles, unemployment, ordinariness.

Hannah’s eyes reassessed the man from this new viewpoint, unsure of how to identify such unknown vocations merely by a person’s appearance.

The man picked up the question in her eyes. “I have a photographic studio.”

“Oh I see.”

She didn’t see. She didn’t think she knew what a person owning a photographic studio actually did for a living. She didn’t know either hwy the man had requested he sit at her table in the café when there were plenty of others empty. She felt unsure of herself, unable to make conversation, and she wished that it was Sue or Mere sitting opposite her. She always told her mother that she was meeting Sue or Mere, even when she wasn’t, to save the lectures about hanging around the town with no good reason. A cup of coffee on her own wasn’t exactly the height of corruption, and she felt entitled to some compensation for the regular rejection visit to the Employment Office.

She didn’t hear what the man had said.

“Sorry. I was thinking of something else.”

The man laughed. “I was just telling you what wonderful bone structure you have. Did you realize that?”

Hannah stared at him. Surely he wasn’t trying to move in. He was about the same age, for heaven’s sake as her old maths teacher had been.

Then she blushed. Of course he wasn’t. Photographs, he was into photographs. He noticed things like bones. Did she really have good bone structure?

“Have I?”

“Have you got good bone structure? Oh yes, you have.”

Mere sometimes said to her, “You could be a model, Hannah, with your long lanky legs. You’ve got such a neat figure.” And Sue, jealous because she wished she was tall and slim like Hannah, would say, “You haven’t got the right sort of eyes though.” Wait till she told Sue that a real photographer had said she had good bone structure!

Then suddenly, as though he were reading her thoughts, the man said, “Ever thought of modeling?”

“No. Of course not,” she lied. She gulped at her coffee, hoping that the cup might help hide the second wave of red sweeping over her face.

“Got a job at present? Is this your day off, perhaps?”

She’d had a job once helping sort the mail during the Christmas rush. Her father had organized it through his friend who worked in the mail room, but it hardly counted as a real job since it lasted only two weeks.

“I’m between jobs at present,” she managed.

The man stretched out his hand and she realized that he meant her to shake it. She did so awkwardly, feeling as though at any moment she might blush again. He wanted to shake hands and she had thought he was trying to move in. How embarrassing.

“The name’s Roger Highstead. And yours is?”

“Hannah. Hannah Wilson”

“Nice name. Hannah, I’m always on the look out for new models. Would you consider the possibility?”

It was like something out of the movies, or out of one of those stories in ‘those trashy magazines’, as her mother described them, that Sue lent her sometimes. She had woken up to an ordinary morning that promised nothing unexpected. She had come down to make her regular call at the Employment Office, to have a coffee and watch a bit of action in the street. And here was a man, an older man who was polite and businesslike, asking her if she wanted to be a model! Oh, how she wished that Sue and Mere were here listening to this!

She could see now. His photographic studio was where the models worked. He wasn’t some way out artist. How had he described himself? Genuine. That was it – a genuine businessman.

Hannah found her tongue. “I didn’t really see your card properly. What’s the name of your studio?”

She felt that her eyes must be glistening the way they did when she was excited. She knew the corners of her mouth were twitching. It seemed somehow unsophisticated to let her face burst into exhilarated smiles, which he might interpret as a child-like response.

“You have beautiful eyes, Hannah.” (So much for your opinion, Sue!) “Birchwood Studio is our name. We do calendars, some magazine work. Now I’ll tell you how we go about things and you can consider whether you’re interested.”

He leant forwards on the table looking very intense, and Hannah tried desperately to suppress the bubbling excitement that kept wanting to burst out of her. He wanted her to consider whether or not she would be interested! A job! Not just any job. A job as a model! It was a dream! A dream!

“The studio is in Grace Street, and the first thing we would need to do would be take some pictures to make sure you are photogenic. You can’t be too shy, of course, for modeling work. It’s a job and you have to be prepared to put your body and soul into it.” He smiled briefly. “Mainly your body.”

Hannah stopped suppressing her excitement and let a smile shine widely as if in appreciation of his joke.

“You understand that, don’t you, Hannah? A model is of no value, no matter how attractive, if she can’t pose for the camera as requested.” He paused for a moment or two as if to let the importance of his words sink in. “Now, after checking out your initial pictures, we would offer you an assignment. As long as that went well, you would then be permanently on the books. Work hours could be somewhat erratic, but the pay is good and I’ve never known any of our models complain about too many days off.”

He smiled again and Hannah smiled back. “That sounds wonderful, Mr. Highstead. I am interested.”

For fear of looking too eager, she glanced away out the window into the street, where life was going on in its usual fashion. Why, she wondered, wasn’t every person in the city turning celebratory cartwheels on her behalf! Wait till she told Sue and Mere – her brother, and her mother and father!

“Well then.” Roger Highstead’s voice almost held a question. She glanced back at him and felt unsure again of what to say next.

“Shall we arrange a photographic session?” he asked.

“Yes.” Her voice came out in a breathy gasp. She swallowed and tried to make herself sound more businesslike. “When would suit you?”

“Any time at all,” he answered, giving a warm smile. Then he reached into another pocket to bring out a notebook and a pen. He flicked it open, ran the pen down a page or two. His hand, she noticed, trembled a little. “Not tomorrow. And Thursday is full up. I don’t suppose now would suit you?” His eyes flashed upwards, suddenly, from his notebook.

“Now? Well, yes. I’m not – but I haven’t got the right sort of clothes on…”

One hand made a dismissive gesture. He pocketed the notebook and pen with the other. “We have clothes you can borrow.”

“If it suits you then.” Hannah managed to make her voice sound tentative, not over-eager, while her mind raced and trembled like a twirling ribbon. If she had come into the café ten minutes earlier, she would have been gone before Roger Highstead came in. If she had gone to another café and not this one, she would have never known he existed. Fate had seen to it that she was here at this moment in time. She had never been meant to get any of those stupid jobs she had once applied for. She had never meant to be offered anything from the Employment Office. The moment had been here, waiting for her to be part of it. From now on her life would be a magical and sparkling thing.

Roger Highstead led her to his car. For one second, as she slid into the front seat, her mother’s years of admonition rang in her ears. “Don’t ever let yourself be picked up by a stranger.” She smiled. Mr. Highstead wasn’t really a stranger. He was her new employer. And anyway, strangers didn’t show you business cards, shake your hand and make formal introductions, or make special efforts to verify their professional identity.

“Just some of my photographic gear,” Mr. Highstead had said as she glanced in the back seat at a stack of boxes. “There’s a wider variety at the studio of course.”

They drove through the city centre. She saw Marty Naylor crossing the street and waved crazily at him, but he didn’t notice her. They headed out through the suburb of Glenrose, on through Grayson.

Her mind continued to twirl and swirl, to seethe at intervals with anticipation. Then they were in Grace Street and Mr. Highstead eventually slowed the car down, pointing ahead to a large grey building on the left.

“Our studio is in there.”

Hannah felt tremors of nervousness begin inside. She wished desperately that she had worn smarter clothes; not that she had many to choose from. She feared facing a suave, sophisticated group of experienced models who would cast critical glances. She imagined others, office staff and clients, staring.

“A bit nervous, are you?”

Hannah felt grateful for Mr. Highstead’s understanding.

“I am a bit.”

He stopped the car but left the motor running. “Hannah, would you feel more relaxed if for this initial session we took some outside shots?” He waved a hand to the right, towards the flat blue wedge of the not-far-distant sea. “Say, down on the beach, for example?”

Hannah felt a flood of relief wash over her. “Would that be alright?”

“Of course.” Said Mr. Highstead. He changed gear preparing to turn, and Hannah noticed again how his hand trembled slightly.



For a second or two, her mother’s lifetime indoctrination of stranger danger once more flashed into Hannah’s brain as they drove past the main beach, safe with people. Then he smilingly reassured her he didn’t want to embarrass her by not allowing her a private, unpeopled space for her first photographs.

They stopped within sight of the main beach, and Mr. Highstead hovered politely at a distance while she climbed out of her jeans and top and into the filmy button-through dress he produced from one of the cartons on the back seat of the car. She wished she could see herself in a mirror, for the soft and silky garment made her feel feminine and glamorous. She wanted to check her hair, even though he told her that it looked natural and beautiful the way it was.

Then Mr. Highstead exclaimed in irritation as he searched the back seat again and announced that a vital part of the camera he was going to use had been left behind at the studio. He didn’t want to return to get it because the light was presently so good, he said, and might fade. He produced a small camera from the glove box and told her that model-girl qualities shone through no matter what size of camera was used. She believed that because her brother’s camera wasn’t very different to the one Mr. Highstead held, and in family photographs it was she who always looked the most photogenic.

Maths, history, science and all those other subjects that she had slaved over at school, and still hadn’t been able to shine in, had proved to be of no use. But being photogenic, an ability bestowed on her, was leading her to a job. She was going to be a model!

She worked hard as he photographed her, remembering his words about models being of no use unless they could pose as directed. Once or twice she felt her color rising as his demands were made. But she forced herself to respond, reminding herself that he was a professional doing a job he knew, that she was auditioning for a future as a model, not for a two-bit job as a Girl Friday. Besides, he alternated his dominating commands with soft encouraging remarks that fed her ego and soothed her momentary flashes of unwillingness.

She felt sure she had pleased him. She was bound to be offered her first assignment in no time at all.



She hadn’t been going to tell anyone. She had been going to keep it a secret until the letter came giving notice of her first assignment. But in the end she couldn’t contain herself. She told Mere.

Not all of it. There were some aspects that somehow couldn’t be discussed, aspects she had found a certain discomfort in thinking about herself. On making this discovery, she forced herself to prune the discomforting thoughts as they surfaced, to snip the tendrils before they grew and entwined themselves in her mind.

Voicing the dream of it all to Mere was another way of chopping off the tendrils. Mere listened as they sat in the same café where Fate had dealt her the card that was going to change her life.

“You got in a car and went off with some bloke that said he wanted you to be a model! Come on Hannah. You’re kidding me.”

“It did. It’s all true.”

“But you couldn’t believe he –“

Hannah refused to allow Mere to continue. She wanted shared delight. She needed verification and support. “As I said, Mr. Highstead, Roger Highstead, is a professional photographer who runs Birchwood Studio in Grace Street. The results of my first photographic session,” Hannah tossed her hair over her left shoulder, remembering to push it back and so further reveal the bone structure of her face, “will give me my first modeling assignment. The letter should come any day now.”

Mere, quelled by the disdainful tone, the confident air that Hannah had adopted, stared at her. “Really?”

Hannah felt joy bubbling back. “I can’t wait for that letter. It feels like two weeks that I’ve been waiting, not two days.”

“A real modeling job?” Mere’s voice was full of awe.

“I had to stand on top of a sand hill and the dress and my hair all blew in the wind.”

“Did you?” Mere’s voice acknowledged some admiration and Hannah noticed how she looked her up and down, imagining how she had looked. She tossed her hair again, lifted her chin.

“Are you sure he’ll send the letter? Tell me about it again.” The doubt returned to Mere’s voice. “Are you sure he wasn’t some kind of kinko? How do you know he was for real? He didn’t do anything – well, anything kind of weird or –“

Hannah felt her face growing scarlet. “Mere! What do you think I am? Some twitty kid?”

“It just sounds odd to me. You have to admit Hannah, it seems –“

“It was for real Mere. It was.”

“Well,” Mere’s face relaxed a little, “I suppose he could have raped you and buried you in the sand hills.”

“Mere!”

Mere grinned. “But obviously he didn’t, since you’re still here.” Her grin faded. “It still doesn’t feel right to me. Tell me everything again, from the beginning.”

Hannah felt the tendrils trying to push through. She’d hoped that sharing her dream and the anticipation with Mere would have revived her initial total delight.

“We’ll have to make it another time. I’ve got to go now.” She pushed back her chair. “Mere, don’t tell anyone. I want to keep it as a surprise until the letter comes.”



The next two days stretched out more endlessly than the previous two. Hannah wondered about phoning the studio. Then she thought that maybe that would make her seem too eager. She looked up the phone book anyway.

“Birchwood Studio – let’s see… Birchall… Birchall-Wier… Birchleigh… Bird…”

There was no listing for Birchwood Studio.

It was difficult to cut back the tendrils that kept trying to encroach.

Mere phoned her and asked if she had heard anything.

“Mere, don’t say anything, will you. If it doesn’t come to anything… I mightn’t have been good enough…”

“Or like I said –“ Mere began.

Hannah broke in. “I have to go. Mum wants the phone.”



On the third day she took a bus and got off at the Grayson shopping centre. She walked down Grace Street, staying on the right side away from the studio. It was silly really, she thought, but she just needed to see it. It would help keep her hopes alive.

It was too warm for a jacket, but she had worn it so that she could tuck her hair down inside it. She held the collar up round her neck as she approached the grey building.

The only sign still on the building was down one side. Tilting her head as she walked, Hannah managed to read GRACE STREET ENGINEERING. She stopped, stared, let her collar fall. The building stared back with hollow window eyes. It was empty.

The tendrils pushed strongly up through her brain, entwining themselves, crushing the dream. Reality, sordid reality, took its place.



It was at night that it was the worse. She lay in her bed and her face flamed red at the memory of Mr. Highstead’s voice. She was straddling the driftwood log, with the filmy dress pushed up off her legs, the top buttons of the dress undone.

“Just push your bra strap down, Hannah. That’s right. And pull the cup back so that you look just a little bit sensuous.” She had been at first unwilling. “Very Rachel Hunter, if I may say so. Your shoulders make a wonderful line parallel to that sand hill.”

And she had pushed her bra cup aside, draped the dress to his direction. It was her shoulders he was really concentrating on, she had told herself, not her breasts.

He had her put her hand up under her dress while she sad on the log – “it makes this wonderful line of limbs” – and his voice had sounded quite excited. “Arms and legs emerging at right angles from that material. I’ll come in closer. Tilt your head back to carry the line. Half shut your eyes. Hand right under your dress so there’s just the arm showing. Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic! You’re a natural!”

Now, desperate as she was to relieve the burning agony of her humiliation, the knowledge that she had gone along with his requests meant that she could not tell anybody – not even Mere.

She certainly couldn’t tell her parents. They would question her, castigate her for sifting out only the flattery, heap her with shame.

She couldn’t go to the police. She had allowed it all to happen. Rover Highstead hadn’t made her do anything. She had done what he asked, willingly.

Professional photographs for modeling… She had been duped, manipulated.

What did he do now with the cheap, suggestive snapshots he had taken? Share them with perverted friends? Masturbate over them? Sometimes at night she got up and retched into the toilet bowl.

“Well, I suppose he could have raped you and buried you in the sand hills”

He had raped her. He was still doing it. And she could tell no one.