Guilty Innocence

by Maggie James

  ‘I expect you’re shocked,’ she says. She’ll find out now. If, by some miracle, he didn’t see, he’ll give her the surprise, the what do you mean?, and her secret will be safe, at least for now.

  He shakes his head, and all hopes of him not having seen evaporate, adding to the tightness in the air.

  ‘No,’ he says as he swallows the last mouthful of cheesecake. ‘Not shocked, Rachel.’

  ‘I can’t help it,’ she whispers.

  ‘I understand.’ He does, too, she gets that, although she’s no idea why or how he can comprehend something that Shaun, however supportive, has never really done. Empathy implies understanding, which in turn suggests suffering on a commensurate level. She wonders what Mark’s particular sorrow has been and whether he’ll ever tell her. Sadness stabs her that he’s had pain in his life but right now, it means he won’t judge her, and that’s the most important thing.

  ‘I’m sorry you saw…what you did. But thank you for not getting on my case about it.’

  She’s able to look at him now, registering the empathy in his expression. He shifts a little closer to her on the sofa, his eyes on her sleeves.

  ‘How long?’ he asks.

  ‘Years. Since I turned fourteen or thereabouts, I guess.’

  ‘It takes whatever is hurting you inside away.’ A statement, not a question, and Rachel again thinks: he understands.

  ‘Yes. How did you -’

  ‘I know. Believe me, Rachel, I do.’ His gaze is averted now. She gets why. It’s too soon to ask, and if he’s not volunteering the information, she’s not going to push things.

  ‘I use a sharp kitchen knife.’ Her voice is a whisper.

  ‘Just on your arms? Or elsewhere?’

  ‘Legs as well. My stomach, too, once or twice, but not often. Arms and legs are better. Not sure why. Each to their own, I guess.’ She lets out a tiny laugh, without any mirth in it.

  ‘So you always wear long-sleeved tops. And trousers.’

  ‘I have to. Even when I run. It’s bad, Mark. The scarring.’

  ‘I wondered why you pull your sleeves down a lot. Now I understand.’ Rachel reaches for her sleeves as he speaks, tugging them forward. A nervous habit, learned over many years of concealing her shame from the world. ‘Yeah. Like that.’

  He leans towards her, slowly, and at first, she thinks he’s going to kiss her. Instead, his hands reach for her sleeves, and she pulls away, drawing her arms back, hiding them behind her. It’s asking more than she’s willing to give at this stage. Nobody has ever seen the full extent of her scarring. Sex is always a furtive, clothed affair for Rachel. She’s taken care to avoid hospitals, with their potential talk about professional help, counselling and the like. She won’t be going down that route anytime soon.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He moves away from her, giving her space. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘I can’t show you. It really is bad, Mark. Ugly.’

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘They’re partly bandaged anyway; well the left one is, as you must have seen. That’s the worse one, because I’m right-handed. But my other arm’s one hell of a mess too.’

  ‘You cut the left one recently then?’

  ‘Yes. The night before the vigil.’

  He nods in understanding. ‘Of course. Makes sense.’ She can’t fathom what’s lurking in his voice besides the obvious. Concern, yes; empathy, definitely, but what else? It’s a kind of sorrow, as though he regrets something, and deeply, but what it might be she can’t tell.

  ‘I was so stressed, you see. I knew all the reporters would be there. Not to mention the television crews. It’s hell every year, but I can’t not go. She was my sister. I loved her.’ Tears threaten to overspill her eyes; she forces them firmly back. She won’t cry in front of Mark, even if it means adding another scar to her collection later.

  ‘Is it worse when you get stressed?’

  ‘Definitely. If I get wound up, or something triggers it, like the vigil, I cut myself. It’s the only way I can deal with…stuff.’ She glances up at him, braver now the tears have retreated. She registers the same sorrow in his face as she noticed in his voice earlier. As her eyes meet his, he gives her a strained smile.

  ‘I tried not to do it this year. Promised myself I wouldn’t. But the night before…it all got too much for me. Shaun knows what I’m like, what makes me worse, but he couldn’t be with me that night. Away with work. If he’d been around, I wouldn’t have done it. He’d never let me cut myself in front of him.’

  ‘He takes care of you.’ Again, it’s not a question. He must have seen at the vigil how protective Shaun is of her.

  Rachel nods. ‘He’s always been very supportive. Never gets angry, never lectures me about how I should get help. Just listens as I rabbit on about whatever’s bugging me.’

  ‘You’ve never thought about counselling, doctors, that kind of thing?’

  ‘No. I’ve always been too ashamed; too scared they’ll judge me. They wouldn’t understand, I don’t think. How can they? Unless you do this kind of thing yourself, it must seem so weird. But it’s the only way I can cope.’

  Rachel gestures towards his arms, bare beneath his rolled-up sleeves. ‘You, though…you don’t cut, at least not there. It’s more of a female thing, anyway. So how can you…?’

  He gives her his sad smile again. ‘I understand, Rachel, I really do.’

  ‘I don’t want you thinking I’m some kind of weirdo. I’m not. You see, it makes all the badness inside me go away. When I cut. What’s strange is, it doesn’t hurt, not when I’m doing it.’

  He seems surprised. ‘It doesn’t?’

  ‘No. It’s like cutting’s its own anaesthetic, taking away the pain so it doesn’t give any back. Like I’m in some kind of a zombie state. What I call my silent scream.’

  He nods. ‘When you want to stop the world and get off, but can’t.’

  How does he know? ‘Yes. Exactly. Shaun wasn’t around the night before the vigil, as I told you. Usually I phone him if things get bad, and he’s so good, he really is, but sometimes I cut myself before I think of calling him. We no longer live together, now we’ve both left Moretonhampstead, and he can’t be expected to watch me all the time.’

  ‘What about your mother? When you were living with her, I mean?’ Rachel freezes. Don’t ask about my mother, she begs him in her head.

  ‘I’ve not lived at home for six years now. Since then, Shaun’s been my main support system. He’s always so patient, never complains.’ She prays her tactic of switching the conversation back to Shaun will deflect Mark from asking about her mother. She doesn’t think he’ll be fooled, but she hopes he’ll take the hint not to probe further. ‘I’ve read plenty of books about self-harm. Along with getting help from the Internet. Websites, online support groups. They’ve all been useful, especially the forums I’ve joined. I can hide behind a different identity on them.’

  ‘A different identity. Yes, I get how that would help.’ The strain in his voice seems magnified. ‘Rachel, can I ask - you don’t have to tell me, of course - what triggered all this? Was it - I know I’m stating the obvious here - was it your sister’s murder?’

  Crunch time. Will she tell him? The answer is yes, she will. She’s come this far, he’s not judging her, and she feels safe with this man. If they end up together, he’ll have to know anyway. Why not right here, right now?

  Not easy to do, though. She draws in a deep breath.

  ‘It’s hard to explain.’

  ‘Isn’t your sister’s murder the root cause, though? Plus your father turning into an alcoholic. Tough enough for anyone to deal with, let alone someone your age. You were, what, twelve when he left, you said?’

  She nods.

  Her evasion clearly puzzles him, his confusion evident in his face.

  ‘Does something else make you cut yourself? I don’t mean to pry, Rachel. Like I said, you don’t have to tell me if you can’t deal with it.’

&
nbsp; Oh, God. Presented with the perfect opportunity, Rachel chickens out. Time for more deflection tactics. Back to the events of fourteen years ago.

  ‘Abby dying the way she did came as a huge shock,’ she says. ‘Until you’ve been through something like that, it’s impossible to grasp what it’s like. One minute she was there and then she was gone. The part before she was found was awful for all of us. The not knowing was torture. Dad retreated into alcohol, as usual, and Mum - well, she was like a zombie. Then they found Abby, dead in that old farm shack. When they did, at least the not knowing part was at an end.’

  The tears are threatening her again. In her head, she’s ten years old once more, bewildered and frightened. ‘The police were scary. They questioned me after Abby went missing.’

  Mark nods. ‘Being stuck in front of police officers can be very intimidating to a child.’ His expression seems strained again.

  ‘Yes. I got the impression the policewoman who did most of the questioning blamed me for what happened.’

  ‘Blamed you? Why?’

  ‘For not paying attention to Abby. I was in the garden at the time she was abducted, you see. I wasn’t taking any notice of her, though. I dumped her on her play mat, gave her all her favourite toys and left her to it. Thought she’d be safe enough. Thing was, although she was my little sister and I loved her, I was still only ten years old. Most of the time, Abby was simply a nuisance.’

  ‘The police were hard on you? They frightened you?’

  ‘Yes. Being grilled by them was sheer hell. She was still only missing at that stage. I remember praying so hard she’d be found. The questions from the police dragged on and on, but I had nothing useful to tell them.’ Her voice sinks to a whisper. ‘I wish to God I had. But I didn’t see or hear anything. Not a thing.’

  ‘Your mother sat in on the questioning, though, didn’t she?’

  ‘Yes. Not that she helped at all. As I said, she was in some weird zombie state, at least whilst Abby was only missing. When her body was found, she went totally the other way.’

  ‘Like she is now? The anger took over?’

  ‘You got it. Dad, well, he retreated into the drinking; he either spent most of his time down the pub or crashed out on the sofa. He stank, Mark. Didn’t wash, had a constant reek of booze about him. On the rare occasions he was sober, Mum would pick fights with him. The rows seemed never ending. I was grateful, in a way, when she eventually kicked him out. All the while, I felt so alone, even though I had Shaun. I’d lost my sister and for all practical purposes I was losing my parents too.’

  ‘What about your brother? How did he cope with it all?’

  Rachel smiles. ‘Brilliantly. In many ways, he’s the strongest one in the family by far. Mum couldn’t even do the basics of looking after us, so he took over. Between the two of us we cooked the meals, did the laundry, all that sort of stuff. It was like he dealt with grieving for Abby by throwing himself into practicalities. He loved his baby sister like crazy, was gutted by her death, but he’s not the weeping and wailing type.’

  ‘He seemed to have his act pretty much together at the vigil. Came across as very supportive of you and your mother.’

  ‘Yes. He was even good in other ways as well. Dad wasn’t going to work, of course, not once he started hitting the bottle so hard, so he ended up being fired. Things weren’t getting done, like bills being paid or routine maintenance around the house. All that was the least of Mum’s concerns. She got her act together once Abby’s murderers were put away, but in the meantime Shaun helped sort out the finances, dealt with minor repairs and so on.’

  ‘As well as supporting you. Rachel, can I ask you something?’

  She nods.

  Mark clears his throat.

  ‘The cutting,’ he says. ‘OK, so your sister’s death and your father leaving played a part, but I’m still curious about what else did. Thing is, you seemed evasive earlier on. Like I said, I don’t want to push you. Not if it’s something you don’t want to discuss.’

  ‘It’s OK.’ She fiddles with her sleeves again, hooking her fingers inside the fabric to draw them down and keep them in place, playing for time, unsure how best to tell him.

  No more chickening out. Deep breath in. ‘I do it because I hate myself for what happened to Abby.’

  He seems taken aback. ‘But why? You weren’t to blame.’

  ‘Yes, I was.’

  ‘Why do you say that? Because the policewoman who questioned you seemed to be judging you?’

  ‘Yes. Well, partly, I suppose.’ She’s unable to look him in the eye. The conversation is growing more difficult by the minute. Her guilt and self-hatred are battering her with full force, as they do on a frequent basis. He doesn’t press her to continue, for which she’s grateful, although they can’t leave things hanging on the word partly.

  ‘I cut myself because I’m responsible for what happened to Abby,’ she continues. ‘When I see the blood flow out, it’s not blood anymore, but the guilt I carry inside about her murder. Like I said, I don’t feel any pain, only a welcome relief. To me it’s a good thing, an incredible release. I cut when I get stressed, say if my business isn’t going well, but as I start to do it, it’s not about work or anything like that anymore. Whatever may have triggered it, it always ends up being about Abby. And the overwhelming guilt I’ve always carried because of her death.’

  Mark edges closer, grasping her wrists, taking her hands in his. She’s terrified he’s going to push her sleeves up to reveal the slashed mess underneath, but quickly realises he won’t abuse her trust that way. Not after her earlier refusal to show him her arms.

  His voice is gentle when he speaks. ‘Listen. You were ten years old at the time. Still a child. No way were you to blame. Shaun must have said all this to you, surely, and you’ve got confidence in him, so why not believe him? Why carry guilt, when you don’t need to?’

  ‘I’m not the only one who thinks I’m guilty, that I’m to blame.’ She pulls her hands away. Mark’s empathy is wonderful but she’s unworthy of it; his touch is an absolution she doesn’t deserve.

  ‘The policewoman?’

  She’s silent, unable to reply.

  ‘No,’ Mark says. ‘Not the policewoman.’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘Tell me who else blames you.’

  Rachel raises her eyes to his, but still can’t speak.

  ‘Say it,’ Mark urges.

  ‘My mother,’ Rachel replies. ‘Mum blames me for Abby’s death. She hates me for what happened. She always will.’

  14

  KINDRED SPIRITS

  There. She’s said it. She’s silent, drained by the effort of getting the words out. They hurt. It’s beyond painful for Rachel, having her mother condemn her, however justifiable her censure. Knowing how, since that day, Michelle Morgan has retreated, taken back the love she used to bear towards her daughter. Thing is, she’s withdrawn from pretty much everything except her campaign against her daughter’s killers.

  Mark’s voice interrupts her thoughts. ‘What do you mean?’ She glances up at him. ‘I guessed it must be your mother you meant, but honestly, Rachel, I can’t understand why she would blame you. Although she obviously does. I mean, I noticed at the vigil how she was with you. More to the point, how you were with each other.’

  ‘She blames me because I let it happen. I wasn’t doing what I was supposed to.’

  ‘Minding Abby, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. Mum had to go out. Shaun was busy upstairs, doing homework, so she said I shouldn’t disturb him, how he needed to be left in peace. She asked me to keep an eye on Abby. We were in the garden. I remember it was a sunny day, unusual for March, and Abby had been playing up. Tantrums, being difficult, more so than usual. Mum decided some time outside in the fresh air might do her good.’

  ‘You didn’t mind being asked to watch over her?’

  ‘No. Well, a little. See, I was only ten myself, so Abby often seemed a bit of a nuisance, what with the
tears and wanting everything her own way, although I loved her, I really did. She’d been a pain that morning, constantly demanding attention. I needed a break from her, so I left her on the grass, playing with her toys.’

  ‘You must have thought she’d be safe enough.’ Mark’s voice seems strangled, as though the words are trying to squeeze through too tight a space. She doesn’t blame him if he finds this hard to deal with. They barely know each other, after all.

  ‘Well, yes. Moretonhampstead’s a small enough place, after all. Nothing ever really goes on there, and besides, you always think that sort of thing happens to other families. Not yours. She seemed happier by then and I didn’t think she’d be in any danger. Except she was, and I should have prevented her getting hurt. What she must have suffered…’ The tears come now, sliding down her cheeks, at the image of her sister being stabbed to death to provide two boys with some kind of sick entertainment. She needs time out, she realises. Paper towels; she’ll grab a handful to blow the snot from her nose. When she comes back from the kitchen, Mark’s face is pale. He doesn’t look well.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she asks.

  He nods. ‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that?’

  She wipes her nose again. ‘I’m fine. Good job you’re here, though. I’d probably be cutting myself otherwise.’

  ‘So let me get this right. Your mother blames you because your sister got taken whilst you were supposed to be minding her?’

  ‘You got it. Abby was down the end of our garden, wrapped up in whatever she was playing with. Her dolls’ house, probably, or that damn Fisher-Price CD player she loved so much. We all got sick to death of hearing One, Two, Buckle My Shoe all the time. Anyway, I was sitting on the doorstep, on the same side, but much further up the garden. Listening to music. Christina Aguilera. Never been able to stand her since. I had my headphones on, reading. Harry Potter. I got totally absorbed. Lost myself in a fantasy world, never realising what was going on. When I did look up, Abby had gone.’