Grunt's Girl

                                               

Miranda Lambe had been on the receiving end of pestering phone calls for several weeks now. They had started in late September and continued, on an almost nightly basis, until now: early November. As the time went on the calls had grown increasingly sinister in their nature.

The days were short and the weather was as cold as Miranda’s feelings towards the caller—a fellow by the name of Gary Grunt. Strangely, Miranda hadn’t yet reported Grunt even though it was an open-and-shut case that he was pestering her—she was certain that, if the need arose, she could prove it in any court.

Gary Grunt would not have seen it like that, however. As far as he was concerned he had scored (albeit illegally) with this bird, Miranda Lambe, and was now in with an excellent chance of having his way with her again. She was out of his league—he knew that—but the fact remained that he had bedded her. Fair enough, he had used nefarious means to do so; he had bought the Rohypnol online and the drug had done its job most effectively.

Phoning Miranda a couple of nights a week in the aftermath and talking to her in a sinisterly suggestive manner was all part of the chase—and, my, how Gary lived for the thrill of the chase, especially in the case of this posh tart.

Gary Grunt was a loner Miranda had met in a bar and made the mistake of sleeping with while extremely drunk—much to her regret now. In fact she believed she'd been duped into sleeping with him. She remembered nothing of the sex itself but knew the next morning, like waking from a bad dream, that Grunt had breached her citadel. She viewed the entire incident as tantamount to rape. Normally, when sober, she would run a mile from a guy like Gary Grunt. And now she had these phone calls to contend with, every other night since. For the first week or so they were innocuous enough, she supposed. Most men talked like that, didn’t they, when they were pursuing a girl? At that point she hadn’t fully admitted to herself the vileness of what Grunt had done; couldn’t, as it happened, for it was just too terrible to acknowledge. Now, though, Grunt had veered into the realm of the downright sinister, and Miranda’s eyes were fully opened as to what had occurred. Truly, she had lost a good portion of her innocence in the course of the past few weeks.

She certainly did not willingly give him her phone number. Yet, somehow, he had managed to get hold of it. Probably went through my cell when I was sleeping, she thought, and she grew appalled at the idea.

It wasn’t as if she had gone to the bar seeking to be picked up. She’d merely entered to use the toilet one Indian summer afternoon whilst flitting round the city on a mini-shopping spree. Then, on a whim, a glass of wine seemed like a good idea so she’d ordered one and sat down to take the weight off her tired feet. Minutes later Gary had sidled over and starting chatting her up. He made no secret that he was on the pull; it was all cock of the walk stuff. His lewd comments and arrogant demeanour were really quite off-putting but she had been too tired to swat him away. Instead, she’d let the poor sad fucker have his moment of glory. Despite all his bluster she was well aware that he was a desperate man who, quite possibly, had trouble attracting women. He was woefully lacking in stature and pulchritude. She suspected that he must have spiked her drink—“slipped her a mickie” in movie-speak—at some point in their exchange. How else to explain ending up in bed with such a dirty germ? The very thought of his hands on her flesh repulsed her still and caused her stomach to churn in a sickening fashion.

She had not mentioned the whole sordid business to her boyfriend—the slightly older and infinitely more sensible Ian Grimes. Miranda did not live with Ian—he was an IT specialist who ran a successful company and kept his own house in an upmarket zone—but their relationship had been five years on the go at this stage; a tad distant, certainly, but lasting in its own loving and passionate way. One golden rule kept their ardour alive: no cheating. Telling Ian about Grunt would have broken that bond of trust and more than likely split them up. Miranda felt guilty at having betrayed Ian and also ashamed and embarrassed at having slept with such an odious little shit as Gary Grunt. So ashamed in fact that she had foresworn all alcohol since the accursed night. Her customary glass or two of wine during and after dinner had become a thing of the past. Now, she retired early to bed and prayed that her phone would not ring. She dared not switch it off altogether lest Ian become suspicious or alarmed. She thought she could handle Grunt’s calls and that they would eventually peter out once he got the message that she was not interested in him at all. In fact, on several occasions, she had slammed down the phone but he would invariably call back and against her better judgement she would be drawn once more into his wicked web.

He seemed more emboldened each time he got on the line. He was becoming ruder and nastier and Miranda cried herself to sleep at how powerless she felt in the face of this man’s onslaught. 

Actually, deep shame was her overriding emotion with regard to the entire episode. This shame had paralysed her and was preventing her from taking decisive action over Grunt and his ongoing campaign of harassment—for that, in a nutshell, was what it was, no warmer tint could be put upon it.

The end of the rope was nearing and Miranda felt she could no longer put up with Grunt’s calls. Their psychological effect on her was becoming too serious. She had gone so far as to invest in a can of pepper spray lest he turn up unannounced one day. He had made it plain to her on the phone that he knew exactly where she lived.

Up till now she’d kept her manner nervous and submissive when he spoke even though she knew in her heart that he had debased her. She had done some online research and learned that it was common for rape victims to cower in the face of their attackers if they had the misfortune to meet them following the attack. This explained her demureness when on the phone to Grunt. Rapists, for their part, were well aware of that special power they held over their victims and they wielded it most deviously.

When he first began telephoning she would seize up and then after a moment or two start to laugh falsely down the line at the nonsense he spouted; professions of his adoration, snippets of love poems that he said reminded him of her, colourful remarks that she knew were inappropriate but which she could not counter quickly or emphatically enough. This joviality coupled with mild offensiveness quickly turned to grossness from Grunt and deep upset in Miranda.

On this particular morning, however, she had just about had enough. The imperative to do something about the menacing Mr. Grunt had become unbearable. Ian, she knew, was working in the neighbourhood today, installing an IT system at a bank branch down the road from her flat. She weighed up the possibilities. Simply put, it would be a matter of calling him up and asking for a lunch meeting. She could then tell him everything.

She closed the front door behind her and stepped out into the street. The sky was a cobalt blue and, combined with the blinding sun and freezing air, it impelled her to sneeze. She did so loudly and when she opened her eyes she was frightened out of her wits to find Gary Grunt standing on the pavement in front of her. He had a smile on his face that was nothing short of a leer.

—“Good morning, sweetheart,” he said, in a tone so oily that it caused her to blanch.

All the dark imaginings she had had about their night together came to the fore. Had this awful man who was now standing before her really done those things to her?

She concluded sadly that yes he had. An anger rose within her that was stronger than her fear.

—“I’m not your sweetheart,” she said, trying to sound as firm as possible. But Grunt’s eyes were piercing her and she struggled to maintain an attitude of fearlessness.

—“C’mon, Miranda, don’t be like that,” Grunt continued. “I only want to walk down the street with you and talk a while. You were very short with me on the phone last night.”

Utilising all her strength and courage Miranda managed to retrieve the pepper spray from her handbag and pointed it at Grunt. His eyes widened in surprise. Miranda was shaking.

—“Get the fuck away from me,” she said. “And stop phoning me. I never want to see you again. If I do, I’ll report you to the police!”

—“Whoa, steady on!” Grunt said, throwing his hands up in a gesture of placation. “Put the spray away. There’s no need for that, my angel. I’m heading to the strip, gonna have a nice walk around. Plenty of other girls downtown. But always remember this, won’t you? What we have is magic.”

He was grinning now and Miranda was certain she could see pure evil in his expression, lurking beyond the surface smile.

Grunt turned on his heel and scuttled away. Miranda stayed rooted to the spot, Mace can still in her hand, trembling like a shell-shocked soldier.

After a few moments, having composed herself somewhat, she went back inside and phoned Ian.

—“There’s been some trouble,” she told him, mysteriously. “I’m really upset. Please come around as soon as you can.”

Ian was inside her flat within a quarter of an hour. Slowly and tearfully, she outlined what had happened but omitted two key details, namely, her suspicion that Grunt had raped her several weeks earlier and his campaign of nuisance calls ever since. Instead, in the story Miranda told Ian, a creepy stranger had come upon the scene and hassled her as she left her flat. She had produced a can of Mace and the stranger had fled to the strip downtown. She described him physically but added no other embellishments to this tale of trouble. Why she held back on ratting out Grunt completely, she was at a loss to explain. She thought it might have had something to do with how he’d looked at her during their confrontation on the street. The Devil was in his eyes and he had exerted his hold upon her. But she couldn’t be sure. Her mind was so frazzled.

Hearing what had happened, Ian grew angry and agitated. He paced the floor ranting a little.

—“Why were you carrying Mace? he asked. “Has this guy been around before?”

—“No,” Miranda lied. “I never saw him in my life until today.”

Again she was surprised as to why she couldn’t bring herself to relate the whole truth. Her internet research came back to her and she believed, however reluctantly, that her attacker now owned her to some extent. She couldn’t wipe the image of Grunt’s cutting eyes and sneering smile from her mind. Although she had stood up to him, to a degree, and he’d walked away, she could not shake the feeling that victory had been his. The fact she was still afraid of Grunt—and was reduced to lying to her boyfriend about him—told her as much.

Ian suggested that they call the police and report the matter but Miranda managed to dissuade him from this course of action through some careful pleading; explaining that she could not handle the fuss and wanted to forget about it all as quickly as possible. Nonetheless, feeling he had to do something, Ian decided that they would drive downtown and try to pick the stranger out from amongst the crowd. At least then they could give him a warning. Reluctantly, Miranda agreed to the plan (it was better than involving the police). However, she had no intention of pointing Grunt out even if she did spot him. Let Ian have his way, though, she decided. His male pride was wounded and this expedition would make him feel that he was taking some action to defend his girl’s honour.

They went outside and got into Ian’s car. Miranda dried the last of her tears to let Ian know that she was ready to scour the streets. They headed for downtown, hitting the strip within minutes, the vehicle moving at a creeping pace.

—“Keep your eyes peeled, Miranda,” Ian said. “If you see the fucker just let me know.”

Ian, too, was watching—hawk-like—for a squat man with porcine features. He was also keeping a careful eye on the traffic.

Ten minutes into their crawl, Miranda spotted Grunt. Her heart leapt in her chest but she concealed her fright from Ian and continued staring casually out the car window. Gary, for his part, was standing outside a fast food joint with a young girl in tow. The girl couldn’t have been more than eighteen and, in fact, may have been younger. She had that bedraggled look of someone of no fixed abode. Grunt was smiling at her whilst keeping a firm grip on her lower arm—in truth, a death grip.

As though sensing he was being watched, he looked towards the slinking vehicle and directly into Miranda’s face. She remained deadpan, not wanting to alert Ian. Inside, her mind was in disarray.

Grunt didn’t flinch upon seeing Miranda. Rather, and as cockily as ever, he just winked at the startled Ms. Lambe.

The car moved on and Grunt went out of her line of vision. Miranda knew starkly what that wink had meant. It was their little secret, her and Gary’s, and they would always keep it between them.

—“He’s not here, Ian,” she heard herself saying. “Please, drive me home.”

—“Are you sure you don’t see him, darling?” Ian asked. His tone more worried than angry at this point.

—“Yes, I’m sure,” Miranda sighed. “Please, let’s go!”

Ian hit the gas and the crowded street quickly vanished in the rear-view mirror.

Ó Brian Ahern 2012