by Maggie James
Anyway, your mother was most likely having sex with Adam Campbell’s father whilst his son murdered Abby. Not doing the good neighbour bit or taking care of her kids. How hard must it be for her to accept she’d been having an affair with the father of her daughter’s killer? A double blow, coming on top of Abby’s death. That’s why she says she blames you for what happened. But she doesn’t. She blames herself. She’s been projecting her guilt onto you ever since, Rachel, because you’re a soft target. Far easier to hate you than it is to admit her own culpability.
I’ve no idea whether any of this will help you. Perhaps accepting your mother has far more reason than you to reproach herself, along with finding out Adam Campbell is heading back to prison for life – I’m hoping it might ease your burden of guilt a little. If I could wish anything for you, Rachel, it would be for you to let go of all the self-blame and be happy.
Yours
Mark Slater
Rachel’s unable to take in what she’s just read at first.
Her mother was having an affair at the time Abby was murdered.
With the father of her child’s killer.
Not visiting a neighbour with dementia whose Swiss cheese brain provided the perfect cover for illicit sex.
Michelle Morgan has lied for the last fourteen years. Foisted her guilt onto her surviving daughter, neatly avoiding accepting any responsibility herself. This is a woman who fucks, albeit unknowingly, another man whilst her daughter dies. A hypocrite who pretends to be the Good Samaritan to cloak her own selfish agenda. One who must hate herself for fucking around with Campbell Senior that day.
Rachel recalls her ten-year-old self on the doorstep, Christina Aguilera pounding in her ears, her fingers caressing her kitten. She sees a child, too young to be entrusted with a toddler’s care, one innocent of the blame heaped so readily on her by her mother. A tiny seed of anger unfurls deep within her and embryonic though it is, it starts to elbow out her guilt. Over time, she realises, it’ll grow bigger, this sense of injustice at how her mother has been quick to condemn her daughter for being nothing worse than ten years old with a short attention span. Rachel savours her anger, the way it empowers her, infusing her with strength.
‘You’re not to blame for Abby’s death.’ Shaun’s words, heard so often over the years, echo through her head. She believes him at last. The fact that she’s in no way culpable for Abby’s death slaps her in the face, astonishing her. Shit happens, she decides, and that day, fourteen years ago, the crap landed on the Morgan family doorstep. Not her fault, though. Rachel accepts, right down to her toes, that she was ten years old and too young to be saddled with her mother’s responsibilities. Time to lay down the burden of guilt she’s hauled around for so long. When she attempts to do so, she finds she’s no longer carrying it anyway.
Rachel peels back the sleeves of her top, laying bare the self-hatred she’s carved into her flesh, partly masked by the bandages on her latest additions. Her fingers stroke the livid slash marks as the tears come. She cries for her mutilated arms, sobs for her disfigured legs, weeps for her years of self-loathing. On one level, Rachel understands why Michelle Morgan has behaved so monstrously, but on another, she’s angry. Desperately so.
She’s my mother, she thinks. She should damn well have acted like it. All these years I’ve worshipped her, endured all the shit she’s heaped on me, only to find out she’s a hypocrite.
Rachel’s well aware she has a long road to travel. The light bulb in her head may well be flashing brighter than the Blackpool Illuminations, but the crap wedged deep in her psyche will need time to flush it out completely. She can’t guarantee she won’t cut herself again, given how ingrained the habit is. Moreover, she doesn’t yet have substitute behaviours for when things get rough. Shaun’s there for her, sure, but she’s a big girl now; running to her older brother whenever she faces some problem isn’t the answer.
For the first time ever, she seriously considers the idea of psychiatric help, counselling, a shrink, whatever. Oh, sure, Shaun’s recently badgered her into promising she’ll seek professional advice. She’s been hoping to sweet-talk him out of it, but a shrink now seems a definite possibility. A safe environment, one in which she can explore what it means to have a cold, self-serving bitch for a mother.
A strong urge to call her brother hits Rachel. He needs to know this shit. He doesn’t answer his mobile, though, and it’s then she thinks oh God. The phone call with Natalie Richards bursts into her mind. Shaun now has Mark Slater’s address and although she’s begged him not to, she can’t be sure he won’t pay him a visit.
The two of them are supposed to be informing the police tomorrow about Mark’s parole violations. Ever since Natalie’s phone call, though, Rachel’s sensed Shaun’s barely leashed fury. A lust for revenge, something that can’t be satisfied by being a good citizen and going to the police. She suspects her brother wants Mark Slater’s blood in retribution for Abby Morgan’s.
She doesn’t completely believe his promise not to use the information Natalie Richards has provided. The unanswered phone doesn’t bode well. Normally, fearful she’s about to cut herself, he answers her calls immediately.
He won’t do anything stupid, she reassures herself. Too prone to playing by the rules, too self-controlled. Incapable of violence. Besides, what can she do? Call the police and tell them her brother may be about to assault someone, when he’s already assured her he won’t? She shoves aside the inner voice reminding her of the fury she’s glimpsed in him, and prays he’ll keep his word.
As for Mark, Rachel realises she no longer wears their kiss as a badge of shame. Why he responded the way he did when she kissed him isn’t clear to her, but she accepts what he says in the letter. About needing answers. How he played no part in her sister’s murder. Rachel’s practical side warns her to wait for the proof he’s promised, but her intuition’s telling her what he says is true. Impossible to fake what he’s told her.
Rachel’s brain flips back to Mark’s claim he’ll get enough evidence to send Adam Campbell to prison for life. If he does, the whole Morgan family might be able to move on. Michelle will have no further need for her tirades, although what she’ll replace them with Rachel has no idea. Right now, she doesn’t care. She’ll never have to attend the God-awful vigil again and endure her mother’s rants. Adam Campbell, the murdering bastard truly guilty of her sister’s death, will be behind bars. Justice satisfied, Abby avenged.
Right now, though, Rachel intends to deal with her mother. She grabs her mobile.
Michelle’s about to experience a radical change in her daughter. Rachel’s moving beyond being a stress-head who reacts to pressure by grabbing a knife. Instead, she’s a woman in control of herself, for whom a dramatic metamorphosis is beginning. No more meekly accepting her mother’s hostility. Oh no. Instead, she’ll give her Mark’s letter to read, the contents of which arm Rachel against any attempt on Michelle’s part to deny the affair with Adam’s father. It’s her way of slamming her hand up close and personal in her mother’s face, palm forward, saying: No more saddling me with your guilt. Deal with Abby’s death by yourself, because I’m done with the self-blame.
Rachel grips Mark’s letter, drawing strength from it. Then she calls her mother. Her voice is steady when Michelle Morgan answers.
‘I’m coming over,’ Rachel informs her mother. ‘No buts. We need to talk.’
29
SHATTERED PRECONCEPTIONS
Natalie finally stops work after her second hour of overtime and heads for home. Tonight will be different, she promises herself. No more brooding about Mark Slater. She’ll treat herself to fish and chips and wash it down with cheap white wine before vegging out in front of the telly. Whatever crime drama is on 5 USA should keep her mind off her ex-boyfriend very nicely.
Her mood is buoyant when she arrives back at her flat, her stomach already anticipating the crispiness of the fish in its batter, the greasy chips, the coldness of the wine. She tugs off her
coat, slinging her handbag through the open bedroom door, before turning to pick up the mail lying on her mat. A credit card statement, a couple of circulars, a bill for the previous tenant. Then Natalie draws her breath in sharply as she gets to the final letter in her hand. Mark Slater is the sender, a fact forcing food far from Natalie’s mind, so great is the ball of tension in her guts.
Mark’s handwriting. She’d recognise it anywhere. So neat, so precise, like the man himself. No stamp. Hand delivered, then. Oh, God. He’s been here, to her flat. She turns the envelope over, delaying the moment when she tears it open to discover what he has to say to her. Because she’ll read it, of course. Natalie doesn’t fool herself she’ll do the sensible thing and tear it up, unread. Mark Slater; she’s tried to burn, blast and bomb her feelings for him, reminding herself he’s a convicted child killer, but it’s not worked. Flickers of tenderness survive. Natalie tells herself breathing life into the embers isn’t a good idea.
The faint sound of her mobile distracts her. She goes into her bedroom, rummaging in her handbag, pulling out her phone.
Shit. A text from Mark.
‘Nat. Read my letter. Stuff you need to know. Sorry about everything. Hope you now understand.’
She returns to the living room, letter in hand, trying to fathom why he’s written to her. If it’s simply to repeat how sorry he is, how he never meant to hurt her, then she’ll be disappointed. He’s said all those things already. Likewise, if he’s pleading for a reconciliation then the answer will be no. Besides, he’s prison-bound anyway. Once he gets out of hospital following the visit Shaun Morgan will probably make to him. Natalie’s unwilling to send her emotions on another rollercoaster ride. She remembers her hopes of a happy future, of marriage and children. Her devastation when Mark smashes them into more pieces than she can count. All she wants is a quiet life, with the right man, something Mark Slater can’t deliver. She needs a partner who doesn’t come with such heavy baggage. Give her some ordinary problems to be forgiving about, like the toilet seat being left up or dirty socks on the bedroom floor. Not child murder.
No, a way forward for her with Mark Slater doesn’t exist.
Her eyes drift over the familiar handwriting again, following the slants and loops as they spell out her name. She urges herself to destroy the letter; either tear it to shreds or incinerate it in the flame from her gas hob. She doesn’t, though, especially now she’s received Mark’s text. Her fingers shake as she takes hold of one corner, inserting her index finger under the flap, but she follows through, ripping it open with a jagged tear.
She pulls out the contents and begins to read.
Dear Natalie,
You’re probably wondering why I’ve written this letter, as you’ve made it very clear you want nothing to do with me. Don’t worry; I won’t contact you again in any way. I’m writing because there are things I have to tell you. Before I do, let me say I’m sorry for the pain I’ve caused you. I’ve always cared so much for you, right from our first date, so it hurts me that I’ve not been what you deserve.
The first thing I want to say is this. Whether you believe me or not, I had no direct participation in the murder of Abby Morgan. My only crime that day was not stopping Adam Campbell when he lured the child away from her garden and later when he attacked her so brutally. I’ve been weak, Natalie; afraid to stand up for what’s right. It’s something people who prey on others’ vulnerabilities, like my mother and Adam, can sense. They’re bullies, tyrants who suss out we won’t fight back, so we end up getting crap heaped on us. My father was much the same; it seems I’ve followed, unknowingly, in his footsteps.
The thing is, Natalie, I don’t want to be weak anymore. Being a coward when I should have shown some balls instead has brought me nothing but grief in my life. I’ve made the decision to change, do the right thing in future, no matter how hard it is.
The irony is, I’ve managed at last to get over my guilt about Abby Morgan’s death. It’s taken me fourteen years, but I now accept I wasn’t to blame. I was eleven years old, still grieving over my father’s death, friendless, with a cold, emotionally abusive mother. A ripe target to be bullied by Adam Campbell. I stood up to him as best I could, though. Something for which I’ve never given myself credit before now. I screamed at him to stop hurting the child, but he had a knife. He threatened to kill me if I implicated him. When the police questioned me, I told them I’d helped kill Abby Morgan. Given how screwed-up I was back then, they were almost as terrifying as Adam Campbell. I ended up confessing to a crime I didn’t commit. Like I said, it’s ironic. I’ve finally forgiven myself for what happened, accepted I do have a right to love and be loved, right at the point I’m heading back to prison.
I mentioned I have two things to tell you, Nat. The second one will bring back painful memories for you, because it concerns the abuse you suffered when you were eleven.
Without you mentioning anything about your attacker’s age, I already knew you’d been hurt by a boy rather than a man. How? Because Adam Campbell is the one who assaulted you that day, Nat. You told me how your attacker smelled bad. I’m guessing you meant cigarette smoke. Adam started on the fags when he was ten. Always reeked of his dad’s Marlboros. He found you whilst on a trip to Bristol with his parents to visit one of his uncles. He got bored, went off exploring and that’s when he attacked you. Nothing you could have done would have stopped him. He’s too big, too strong. You have no reason to blame yourself.
You’ll be wondering how I found all this out. A long time ago, I held your diary in my hands. The pink, flowery one, with your name and address written at the front. The bastard likes to take trophies from his victims, Nat. He bragged about what he’d done, although he didn’t mention the details. You became an obsession with me throughout the years, all the time I served in detention. I promised myself I’d find you one day, reassure myself you were all right, that Adam Campbell hadn’t hurt another child the way he did Abby Morgan.
That’s what I meant before, when I tried to tell you I’d not been honest about how we met. Before that day, I already knew your original name, Natalia Abruzzo, written in the front of your diary. To me, it seemed so unusual, so pretty. One I always remembered, along with your address. When I was released from prison, I fully intended to look you up. Without revealing who I was, of course. I found it harder than I’d anticipated, though, to adjust to life on the outside and the years slipped by whilst I got a job and sorted myself out. The urge to find you never left me, though, and a few months ago, I decided to act on it at last.
I ended up going to your mother’s house in Copthorne Close. I didn’t dare ring the bell. I spoke with one of the neighbours, pretending I wasn’t sure of the exact house where the Abruzzos lived. Found out your mother was still at the same address, an agoraphobic. The neighbour said your mother hadn’t used her married name since the divorce. Told me the split had been bitter, how Callie Abruzzo wanted no reminders of her Italian husband. How she switched both of you back to her maiden name of Richards. Along with changing you from Natalia to Natalie. How you’d moved out from home a few years before, but visited your mother every Sunday for lunch.
I needed more, Nat. However relieved I was that Adam Campbell hadn’t killed you, I had to see you in person to reassure myself. All part of being an obsessive-compulsive, I suppose. I waited for you near your mother’s house one Sunday, sitting in the car until you arrived. You thought I was some random stranger asking for directions, didn’t you? We got chatting and my gut instincts told me we’d be good together. When you mentioned the deli you use for lunch, I went there every day, hoping to see you again.
Then you told me about the abuse. Your fears about your attacker finding you again one day, even though you realise it’s unlikely. The thing is, our deepest emotions are never logical, Nat. I’m hoping what I tell you next will reassure you Adam Campbell will never hurt you or anyone else in the future. With any luck, he’ll soon be arrested for murder. He’s killed two women
since his release. The prostitutes who were murdered in Southampton and Plymouth. He’s boasted to me about wanting to kill more street girls. By the time you read this, I’ll have met him again, with the aim of recording him on my mobile as he admits to the murders of the prostitutes. He won’t be able to resist bragging to me about their deaths, seeing how I’ve convinced him he can trust me. He’s also taken trophies from his latest victims, which the police should find. With all that, they should have enough proof to put him away for good.
What I’ve said in this letter must come as a huge shock to you. All I can say is - forgive me, Natalie. Try to understand the reasons I’ve failed you so badly. I’ve done what I can, though, to ensure Adam Campbell never kills again.
Take care of yourself
Yours, Mark
Natalie’s mind is blank, unable to process what she’s read. Everything’s a mess in her head as her preconceptions shatter one by one. In her brain, Mark’s no longer a vicious child killer. Instead, he’s transformed once more into a helpless bystander in a toddler’s death, nearly as much a victim of Adam Campbell as Abby Morgan is. A man who’s finally facing up to his nemesis.
She attempts to digest what she’s read in the letter. Adam Campbell, the notorious child killer, is the bastard who lay on top of her that day in the copse. The memories flood back. His fingers probing and tearing, making her bleed. The stink of cigarette smoke hanging around him. The turd inches from her nose. The damp earth pressing against her body.