by John Nicholl
Was that the hint of a smile on my mother’s face as she rushed towards me? I like to think it was. She hugged me tightly for what seemed like an age before finally dropping to all fours and crawling to the cliff edge, peering over with keen eyes. But my father’s body was nowhere to be seen, carried away by the tide. Mother seemed strangely unemotional as she looked back at me, reversing, still on all fours for a few seconds longer, before finally rising. She took my hand and sat me down on the far side of the path, away from the cliff edge, before sitting herself, with our shoulders touching. It felt good, reassuring, as we sat together in silence, watching the soaring gulls, listening to the wind, appreciating the sun on our faces. Neither of us said a single word until she finally uncrossed her legs, taking her smartphone from a trouser pocket about five minutes later. She dialled 999, asked for the coastguard, and then we sat in renewed silence as we waited for the emergency services.
5
After my father’s death, Mother seemed more relaxed once the inevitable formalities related to tragic accidents were finally over. The authorities didn’t suspect a thing. We were just a seemingly ordinary family out for a long walk on a warm spring day in the Welsh sunshine. My father went too close to the edge, he slipped, he lost his balance and then he fell. It really was as simple as that. That’s what I told anyone who was interested. I made a written statement to that effect on the day of his death. I’m not saying it was easy to lie to the police, and there were anxieties, I can’t deny that. My stomach was doing somersaults. But a part of me enjoyed the subterfuge. I knew something no one else knew. And that made me feel important. It made me feel powerful for the first time in my life, a winner. I wouldn’t say I like admitting to that fact. It’s not something I’m proud of. But it’s how it was.
I recall the young female police officer looking me in the eye with what seemed like genuine sympathy. I can even remember her name, PC Heather Kemp. That sticks in my mind because I liked her. She was kind, gentle, oblivious to my trickery. Why would she suspect a young girl had executed her preacher father? Would anyone? I think most would say Heather was good at her job.
‘Are you all right to go on, Alice?’
I looked back across the interview room’s table at the young policewoman’s friendly face, wiping a tear from my eye with one hand while clutching my mother’s wrist with the other. I hurried my words. Keen to move things along and get out of there before I slipped up or the officer started asking questions that were difficult to answer. ‘Yes, yes, I think I’d rather get it over with.’
Mother placed a supportive arm around my shoulders as I waited for whatever came next. She was the next to speak. That surprised me. I was expecting her to sit there in virtual silence. She rarely said anything at all. ‘The poor girl’s in shock.’
That amused me no end, my mother’s stated opinion of my state of mind. I found it hard not to laugh. She really couldn’t have been more wrong. But the uniformed officer nodded her acknowledgement, seemingly in full agreement, shifting in her seat as if unable to get comfortable. I was there as a witness, not a suspect, I realise that now. And that was crucial. Had I been a suspect, things would have been very different.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to take a break, Alice? It wouldn’t be a problem. There’s no rush. Would you like something to drink, perhaps, a glass of water or squash? We can take as long as you need.’
I lowered my gaze, speaking quietly, my eyes narrowed to slits. I was enjoying the interview more by that stage. I was feeling more relaxed as I shaped events. Comfortable in my own skin. The nice officer was eating out of my hand. It was going better than I could ever have hoped. It seemed I could lie almost as well as my father. I’d learnt from the master. It was time to drive home my advantage. ‘I’m not thirsty, thank you, Heather. Dad went too near the edge of the cliff and then he fell, there’s no more to say. That’s exactly as it happened. I saw it all.’
The officer tapped her yellow plastic pen on the tabletop three times. ‘Okay, if you’re sure you’re okay to go on, we’ll continue. You’re doing really well… Did your father say anything at all before he fell?’
I choked back a smile that threatened to betray me at the worst possible time. I think a part of her was wondering if he’d jumped. Or maybe she just needed to rule that out. Yes, that was probably it. Dot the i’s and cross the t’s. I didn’t need to lie now. I just told PC Kemp the truth. Or, at least, I told her the part of it I wanted her to hear. The story I needed her to hear. And she listened. She swallowed every single word of it. I was a conductor, directing the orchestra of events, shaping the young officer’s perception of reality as I chose. That taught me something important. When questioned, it’s best to stick as close to the truth as possible without actually implicating yourself. It’s easier that way. It reduces the risk, and that’s a good thing that’s well worth pursuing. And so I told my tale, right up to the point I sent the evil bastard tumbling to his death on the rocks below. That was the one bit I left out.
‘One moment Dad was standing there looking through his binoculars, and then he wasn’t. He didn’t say a word. And he didn’t scream either. I don’t know why. I’m sure I would have. Maybe he didn’t want to frighten me. That’s the only explanation I can think of.’
The officer began making written notes in blue scribbled script. ‘And you saw all of that happen? That’s what you’re telling me, yes?’
I nodded once, then again, slowly, lowering my head, staring down at the desktop, resisting the temptation to giggle. I sank my teeth into my tongue again and winced, a snigger becoming a pained cry. Not only had I seen it happen. I’d made it happen, me, me, me! I was so very proud of that. But, of course, I was never going to admit that, not then, not to her. I spoke through my tears. I had a mask too. Father had taught me well.
‘Yes, I saw it, all of it, exactly as I’ve told you. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen. It broke my heart. I loved Daddy so very much.’
PC Kemp paused momentarily before speaking again. I still don’t know why she stalled as she did. I asked myself if I’d gone too far, perhaps I’d said too much. But, no, all was well. The nice officer smiled again as she reached out, gently patting my hand. ‘Okay, Alice, thank you for telling me everything that you saw. I know it can’t have been easy for you. You’ve been a very brave girl. Now, let’s get a statement down on paper, and then you and your mum can get off home. I’ll write everything you’ve told me down, and then you can read and sign it as a true record of events. How does that sound? Do you understand? Is that okay with you?’
I knew she was trying to be kind. Three questions in one. She wanted it over with. And that suited me just fine. I did exactly as the nice officer suggested, and that was it. Things really couldn’t have gone any better. PC Kemp wrote down my fictional version of events, and I scribbled my signature as required, confirming it was nothing but the truth. I couldn’t quite believe it was that easy, but it was, it really was. It was as if my dreams were coming true.
As I walked away from the police station, hand in hand with my mother later that day, I had an undoubted skip in my step. I wanted to leap and bound and dance and yell out my triumph. But I hid it well. I looked up at the cloudless blue sky as a wave of elation made my entire body tingle. I’d never felt such energy, such joy. My long-time tormentor was dead, and my world was a better place. A safer place for me and my sister too. I hadn’t forgiven my mother for her failure to protect me, not yet, not totally, it was far too soon for that. But maybe such things would come. It was time to focus on the positives; one of the happiest moments of my life.
6
My father’s bruised and battered body was found washed up on a remote north Pembrokeshire beach by an unfortunate dog walker a few days later, and identified using his dental records.
My mother never saw the corpse. It was too far gone for that. And I feel sure that suited her just fine. She’d been a very different woman since his death, as if a weight had b
een lifted from her. There were a few tears from time to time. But I got the distinct impression they were tears of relief rather than sadness. I almost told her the truth of what I’d done more than once. But even then I suspected it was a burden she wasn’t strong enough to bear. And so I kept it to myself, my special secret. Mother was still fragile. I felt no remorse or regret. So my continued silence seemed to make sense. Secrecy was best. My opinion hasn’t changed in the years since. I still put her feelings first in that regard. Why upset her unnecessarily? What could it possibly achieve? And so I’m kind like that officer. I think I learnt that from her. Now, that’s something I am proud of. There’s goodness in me despite everything I’ve done. I’m not devoid of virtue.
My mother arranged a cremation, despite my father having requested burial in the churchyard with which he was so familiar. Mother told me that herself. He’d made his expectations perfectly clear. Not just orally but in writing: his instructions were included in his will. He’d specified the burial, the words on a headstone, even the service’s details were outlined as if he was anticipating death despite his relative youth. But my mother chose to ignore his instructions. She could do it after his death but sadly not before. It was her spark of rebellion. She’d spent years doing exactly what he commanded in that overbearing, bullying way of his. And now she was free of him and his harsh words. Free like those glorious, swooping gulls we watched that day on the magnificent Pembrokeshire cliff edge, as we sat in silence, bonded in hardship.
After a brief, well-attended service at the church where Father had so recently been the vicar, Mother drove the twenty or so miles to the crematorium with me sitting alongside her in the front passenger seat of the car. She’d received numerous offers to provide the transport, but she’d politely declined. I never thought to ask why. I don’t know what she really thought or felt that day or since. We don’t ask, do we? We assume or give the ideas and opinions of others little or no thought at all, even those close to us when focused on ourselves, as I was on the day. I’ll put it down to the self-focus of youth.
My sister was left in the care of her paternal grandmother, who attended the church service but not the cremation. That didn’t seem strange to me at the time. But now I wonder if she knew something of her second son’s true nature. I never asked her then, and I still haven’t to this day.
I remember standing outside the crematorium, hand in hand with my mother, sheltering under a slanted, Welsh slate roof which protected the main entrance as the rain began to fall. The rain got gradually heavier as we stood there in silence, as if God were mourning humanity’s many failings and frailties. I remember my mother squeezing my hand once, then again, as six adult male bearers of various ages, all of whom were members of Father’s church, lifted the dark-oak coffin from the back of the hearse, supporting it on their shoulders, taking the strain. We followed on slowly as they carried the coffin into the building to a familiar hymn, which Mother later told me was a favourite of hers, but not his. That told its own story, but of course, those in attendance were unaware of her rebellion. I had my secrets, and so did my mother. No one else needed to know.
We sat at the front of the room, along with other close relatives, and waited as the wooden pews filled behind us, one at a time. The service started at eleven o’clock sharp, the combination of English and Welsh hymns, prayers and readings coming to a timely end about half an hour later, as Father’s coffin entered the burning flames.
I pictured him inside that wooden box, and that was it, it was done. It really felt over now. I’d never see the bastard again except in my flashbacks and nightmares. I was under no misapprehension on that score. Those didn’t leave me despite his demise, not completely. They’ve faded over the years, their sting less sharp, but I doubt they’ll ever go away completely. That’s why I’m writing these words to exorcise the past. I’m sure you understand that. It’s a remedy of sorts. Something I have to do. It’s a way of nailing my father’s coffin tight shut. Maybe then, when I’ve finished, I won’t hear him opening my bedroom door anymore. He still does sometimes. I see him. He whispers in my ear.
Twenty or more people joined us back at the house after the cremation service, to drink tea or coffee, eat pre-prepared sandwiches, and extol my father’s virtues, as if he’d actually been a good man, some kind of saint if such a thing exists. They didn’t see the monster I’d experienced behind closed doors from such a young age. He wore his mask well even after his death.
Listening to those ill-informed words of praise for a man I detested was hard to bear. I wanted to retreat to the garden, to not hear their nonsense, to celebrate his end privately, and to be alone with my thoughts. Or better still, to tell them exactly what he’d been.
He was a monster! A stinking, filthy, predatory monster and I his victim! He wasn’t the man you thought you knew. He put his dirty hands on me from the age of four, that devil in human form.
I pictured the scene in my mind as if it were real. If only! Can you imagine their reaction had I acted on my impulse? A part of me wanted to shout it out, to yell it for everyone to hear. And to keep shouting until his grovelling devotees finally believed it. For however long it took to shatter their illusions. But even then I knew that continued deceit was the only way forward. And so I played the grieving daughter with some aplomb, thanking them for their words of kindness, conveying my sadness, acting the heartbroken child grieving my terrible loss. And I convinced them, I’m certain of that. They saw what I needed them to see. It was something I was good at, a skill that would serve me well over time. It still does now.
I didn’t know then that further deception was to come as the years passed. Those dark days were the start of something, not the end. My father wasn’t the only monster in existence. There were others out there in this big bad world of ours. Deviant, manipulative, predacious monsters in need of slaying. Not mythical creatures, but men, dangerous men who live amongst us. They often put themselves in positions of trust to gain easy access to children. The devious bastards! But more of that later, I’ve said enough for now. We’ll come to it in good time. I’m tired in body and spirit.
It’s a time for rest. Now, where is that sleeping medication? I know it’s here somewhere, my chemical cosh in a plastic bottle. Ah, yes, there it is. I’ve found it, in a drawer amongst the knives. I’ll wash the syrup down with a little alcohol, vodka maybe, or even a whisky. And so bye for now, welcome oblivion beckons. I need to lay my head on the pillow. It’s a Saturday tomorrow, so no work for me. I’ll tell you what happened next when I wake in the morning.
7
Living in that house wasn’t easy, even after my father’s death. The bastard’s dark shadow was everywhere, the memories too vivid, too bright, too loud, and too powerful. It was as if he was still with me at times. As if he’d never died. But he was dead. I knew that better than most. I’d seen it happen. I’d made it happen. I’d done it, me; I was the winner and my father the loser. For all his manipulative power I’d destroyed him that day on the clifftop. I reminded myself of that incessantly. I’d picture him falling through mid-air in those times of distress, raising my spirits, remembering and reinforcing my ultimate triumph, good over evil.
Either that or I’d recall his wooden coffin entering the burning fire in that small country crematorium to the sound of a hymn he hadn’t appreciated in life. I’d picture his body engulfed in scorching flames, his spirit travelling on its final journey to hell.
And my recollections worked to a degree. His shadow retreated for a time, before returning in my weaker moments when I was weary or lowered my guard. I wanted to leave home, to live anywhere else but there. And who could blame me? I suggested a house move for the family, a new start somewhere else entirely, to somewhere offering fresh opportunities without reminders of the past. It would have made absolute sense for all of us, not just for me, but for my mother and sister too. We all needed new horizons in which to recover and grow in the absence of ghosts.
But my mo
ther had different ideas. She’d used my father’s life insurance settlement to pay off what was left of the mortgage. She’d taken his many possessions to various local charity shops in black plastic bin bags. And she’d redecorated almost every room in the house in a frenzy of activity, replacing the carpets and much of the furniture, my bed included. She burnt my old bed in the back garden no doubt thinking that was enough to rectify the past. As if those physical changes had somehow eradicated all that had gone before. As if the many horrors witnessed by those stone walls had never happened.
In summary, my mother didn’t think a house move was necessary however much I argued the point. She said it and repeated it despite my arguments to the contrary. I think it may have been because she wanted to be near my maternal grandmother. But a move was needed, it so was. The refurbishments may have been enough for her, but they certainly weren’t for me. I still saw the monster from time to time, lurking in the shadows in the dead of night, ready to pounce, to run his filthy hands over my skin. And so I resolved to leave that house of bad memories at the earliest opportunity. A new life beckoned as my teenage years progressed, which gave me a hope that I clung onto with every part of my being. I planned to move away to study. That was my escape plan, my way out. Soon I’d be on my way. I could embrace change. I wasn’t stuck there forever. A new life was possible. And hooray to that.
I achieved eight reasonably good GCSE grades, an A, two Bs and five Cs, and then went on to study art, computer studies and history at A-level in the sixth form at the same school. I liked the computer work the best. It captured my attention and kept me focused. It stopped me thinking more than was good for me. And I was reasonably good at it too. Or, at least, I like to think so. My teacher said as much more than once.