Joanna presses her fingertips into her eye sockets, shutting out the noise of the café chatter, the clinking of cutlery. She breathes in the smell of soap from the shower she took this morning, washing off the hangover from the night before. She thinks about Rosie and her development levels aged six. The ego is rampant at that age. The world turns around, and according to, the child.
A truck rumbles past, disrupting her thoughts. Joanna pushes away her tea and gets to her feet. As she does, she sees the door of the building opposite open slowly, inch by inch. Hazel tries to keep her head down, a hood covers her dark cap of hair. But the cameras flare and flash as she emerges and she has to lift her head to find her way. Joanna freezes as she watches, unable to move, to do anything, her mouth open as if ready to call out Hazel’s name, call her back, as she jumps quickly into a car that pulls up at the kerb. Joanna follows her with her gaze, taking in everything about her as the car swerves away, its tyres spinning fast and splashing water over the paparazzi as they snap endless footage of the second Flower Girl leaving her home in the rain.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Hazel and Max arrive at the prison and wait silently in the reception area, ignoring the stares of others around them. They sit on bucket seats nailed to the wall in a small, grey room where a heavy gunmetal-coloured door stands guard between them and the prison interior. Hazel’s hands are red and chilled from the air outside and she shivers, not with cold so much as anticipation.
She is finding it hard to breathe. Being in here. Hearing the clank of locks and keys, the slam of heavy doors swinging into place. Then the dark, the claustrophobia. And, very faintly, the call of the birds outside, circling the skies, so far away through the glass and the brick that confine her.
She is picturing her sister. Recalling her face before they were separated, before Laurel was taken away: on the beach, her blonde hair wrapped around her face by the wind, her mouth curved in a huge smile, cheeks bronzed by the sun. Snow-White and Rose-Red. That’s what their mother had always called them. Her two princesses. Laurel looked more like their father with her fairness and her height whereas Hazel was her mother’s image, dark and slim and contained in a way that Laurel never was. Her sister was clumsy, forever tripping over, dropping things and breaking them, her arms flailing in enthusiasm for whatever was around her, for what the day held. Hazel and her mother would watch her sometimes as she sprinted across the garden in the rain, her face lifted up to the skies, relishing the feel of the water on her skin.
And now Hazel is going to see her again. After nearly twenty years. What will she look like? Will her face be as unguarded? Or will it reflect the vitriol and bile she must feel towards her sister? Will she have forgiven her? Hazel shakes her head, feeling the leaves on the bud of fear inside her beginning to uncurl. She clenches her fists and breathes. One, two, three. She is strong enough to cope with this. She has to be.
Next to her, Max sits with his legs spread wide, the confident position belying his nervousness. He can feel Hazel trembling beside him and glances at his watch. They were early and now have been sitting here for over thirty-five minutes. He can still taste the hurriedly swigged coffee that passed for breakfast, the bile from his ever-present heartburn searing his throat. For want of anything better to do, he lets out a little laugh.
‘This place is pretty horrendous, isn’t it?’ He turns to Hazel. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Oh,’ she sighs, scuffing the toe of her boot along the floor. Her hood hangs over the collar of her coat, making her seem much smaller than she is, ducked down and hidden. ‘Pretty scared. Nervous. Terrified actually. I don’t really know what to expect.’
‘The main thing is to try and establish a relationship with Laurel. Take things easy, one step at a time. You may find,’ Max’s voice rises a little with the energy of his thoughts, ‘that just the very fact of seeing her after all of this time will trigger things you’ve forgotten. Memory is a funny thing. You can never tell what will bring stuff to the surface. A smell, a sound. It’s been so long . . . if you’ve pushed things down for all these years, you might be surprised what comes up.’ He stops, as if he has suddenly heard what he is saying. ‘I mean . . . Hazel, I don’t want you to get upset. I’m sure … I know this will be very traumatic for you. I’m sorry, I’ve put my foot in it. It’s just, I’m so sure that this is the right thing we’re doing. That you’re doing. I really hope – want – you to get some closure here.’
Hazel runs her hands over her face. From somewhere outside, a drain gurgles with water as the door into the prison opens. ‘I know, Max. Don’t worry,’ she says, lifting her head. ‘Hello, Uncle Toby,’ she says, seeing him suddenly appear in the doorway, his face pale. He is with a female prison guard, a heavy blonde woman with a large chest, buttons straining on her shirt, the colour of which reminds Hazel of limp and flabby oysters seeping juices over their shells.
‘Rosie,’ Toby says, coming forward, his hands outstretched. He halts as if stung by an electric fence. ‘I mean, Hazel. I’m an idiot. I’m so sorry . . . You look so . . .’ He flashes her a smile. ‘It’s been a long time, that’s all.’
She nods her head and takes his hands. ‘It’s good to see you.’
Toby kisses her on the cheek, closing his eyes briefly as he does. Then he straightens and turns to Max. ‘Toby Bowman. We spoke on the phone.’
‘Max Saunders. Thank you for all of your help with this.’
They are similar in stature, in build and age, Toby observes, but he is the thinner of the two, he notes with a mixture of gratitude and fear. Max has the stomach of a man who likes good food and wine, much as Toby used to do but, in all likelihood, will never do again.
They appraise each other as subtly as is possible under the glare of the unforgiving strip lighting.
Max, as the author, wonders if Toby the lawyer has realised the symmetry. A Flower Girl each, Max thinks. And immediately pushes the thought away, slightly sickened by it.
‘Laurel is waiting for you,’ Toby says.
‘We need you to go through security here,’ the guard states.
‘A couple of things before you do,’ Toby says, ignoring the barked instruction. ‘Laurel likes to be called L now. I’d call her that if I were you. Also . . .’ He fidgets with something in his pocket, flicks a glance up at the ceiling. ‘She isn’t in a good place, Ros— Hazel. She’s been incarcerated for a long time. She may exhibit some anger.’ He pats Hazel’s arm. ‘I’m not saying she will be angry with you, but try and be understanding if you find her behaviour challenging. Be patient. This is a difficult thing for L to do. She had to be persuaded. Her view of your – of our – family is not entirely charitable, I’m afraid.’
Hazel nods, her face meek and flat. ‘I understand,’ she says. ‘I’ll be careful.’
‘OK, good,’ Toby answers, and moves aside to let her pass.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
1998
‘This was an act of unparalleled evil and barbarity. On the fifteenth of July last year, Child X purposefully abducted two-year-old Kirstie Swann and yet she has consistently denied culpability for her crime. Furthermore, she is silent as to the course of events and thus Kirstie’s parents are unable, at the very least, to try and fathom the motive behind the brutal attack on their young daughter. At this juncture, I should like to say that in the absence of any explanation from the Defendant, it is beyond us, as sentient adults, to fathom why on God’s earth this crime should ever have taken place.
‘How it came about that a mentally normal girl, aged ten, and of average intelligence, committed this crime is hard to comprehend. It is not for me to pass judgment on her upbringing. In fairness to Child X’s father, it is very much to his credit that he made every effort to get his daughter to tell the truth. But the people of Grassington who have been involved in this case cannot ever forget the tragic circumstances of Kirstie Swann’s murder. I would like to make a special point here of saying that I am sure everyone in court today wil
l especially wish Mrs Swann well in the months ahead and hope that her new baby will bring her a measure of peace and happiness.
‘I am required by the law, with such a verdict as I am given by this jury, who find Child X guilty of abduction and murder, to sentence her to Detention at Her Majesty’s pleasure, and this I accordingly and rightfully do. In view of the seriousness of this crime, and the incomprehensible nature of it given Child X’s apparently stable upbringing, I would recommend a tariff of no less than eight years until she reaches the age of eighteen. Then she will, of course, be subject to the rigours of parole.
‘I now turn to the application made on behalf of the Newspaper Group that the identity of Child X should be revealed. I have given this matter considerable thought. I am aware of the high level of interest in this case on a national and indeed a global level. It is my considered view that Child X’s detention will be for such a period – and indeed I have recommended thus – as to render the revelation of her identity benign, in light of the passage of years that will have elapsed by the time she is released from detention. I also consider that her identity will be important to scholars of jurisprudence and those who interpret the law, in their attempt to make sense of this crime. As such, I rule that her name shall be unredacted in my judgment, which will be published in accordance with the usual timetable.
‘Finally, I would like to extend my utmost gratitude and heartfelt thanks to the seven women and five men who have sat on the jury during the course of the trial. This has been a truly dreadful task we have asked of them and yet they have fulfilled their duty admirably and without fault. In doing so, they have had to witness unspeakable horrors and hear of behaviour quite unnatural. The interests of justice have been well served by them.
‘Court dismissed.’
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
The door opens and Hazel sees Laurel sitting with head bowed behind a table set in the middle of a small, low-ceilinged room. Light from the narrow wrap-around window above seems to frame Laurel’s head with a crown of grey; thorny with the dark of the glowering skies outside.
The thunder rumbling above matches the unease in Hazel’s chest and her breathing is short when Laurel lifts her head and her eyes meet her sister’s. Where once she was soft, now she is callused. Her blonde hair has a brassy tinge, nothing like the flyaway buttery yellow that used to frame her face. Her skin is grey, purple slashes underneath her eyes, which are themselves like flint, slitted windows in a castle keep.
But then, as she meets those eyes across the table, something in Hazel lets go and relaxes. She feels the steel bonds of the tension she has been holding in her shoulders, her facial muscles, even the way she is clenching her fingers. She feels all of that and then feels it dissipate. As she stands there, observing her sister, the moment stretches into something timeless, unquantifiable. It could be hours that they gaze at each other. Eventually Hazel sits down, slowly taking the chair opposite Laurel. Her heart-rate begins to slow and her breathing lengthens. It’s going to be all right, she thinks.
Laurel looks comfortable although her arms are crossed, one leg balanced over the knee of the other. It occurs to Hazel that this body language is to be expected. Laurel is on guard, she is protecting herself from something she expects to come from Hazel. That’s OK, Hazel thinks. I am benign. She decides to speak first. Breaking this silence will be like throwing a stone into still water. If she is the one to cause the ripples, then she will be in the best position to see how far they reach.
‘Thank you for agreeing to see me,’ she says. Her voice is calm, its timbre low and easy. ‘I’m sure the request came as a shock to you.’
Laurel shrugs but Hazel sees a flash of pain shoot across her eyes. For some reason, this relaxes her even further.
‘Not much to do here, you know. Everyone’s welcome to come.’ Laurel’s smile is acid; her words tinged with sharp metal. Hazel feels the bitterness of them as a clear precursor to an attack, but still, she remains untroubled. She moves her head from side to side as if limbering up before entering the ring.
‘When did you come here?’ she asks. ‘When did they move you from . . .’ In a sliver of panic, she cannot remember the name of the secure unit for a second. ‘Oakingham.’ She reaches for it with slippery hands, manages to keep the conversation in her grasp. ‘When did you leave Oakingham?’
‘When I was eighteen, Rosie,’ Laurel says. ‘Nice little present for my eighteenth, wasn’t it? Got to move to big girls’ prison. Have myself a cheery little room, with a sink and everything. Bars on the windows, of course, and just a small risk of getting fingered in the shower, but otherwise, happy fucking days.’
Hazel nods, taking it on the chin. ‘You know,’ she says, her eyes burning into Laurel’s, ‘I’m not here to apologise.’
Laurel laughs, a sound like china smashing on tiles. ‘Right. ’Course you’re not. Why would you be?’
‘I know you’re angry. With me. And with Mum and Dad.’
‘I don’t have a mum or dad,’ Laurel cuts in. ‘My only family is Toby. And even he’s on his way out.’
Hazel frowns.
‘He’s got cancer, didn’t you know?’ Laurel spits the information out with relish. ‘Hasn’t got long on this earth, our Toby. So I may as well get used to no more visits from him. Not that we have that much to talk about. Have you got me parole? No, I haven’t. Oh, all right then. See you next month.’
This knowledge about Toby drifts like a feather inside Hazel. She beds it down, to deal with later. ‘You’ve got a court case coming up, haven’t you?’ she asks instead. ‘Are you confident?’
Laurel leans forward then with an aggression Hazel notes but is not surprised by. ‘Are you having a fucking laugh? Confident? I’ve had thousands of hearings in the last ten years. I’ve lost all of them. The only reason we’ve got this one is down to Toby and his bloody castles . . .’ she swipes her hands across her in a slicing motion, close to Hazel’s face ‘. . . in the air. I haven’t got a fucking clue. I sit in here and get told what’s what. Show me some fucking respect, Rosie. Please.’
Hazel forces herself not to withdraw from the proximity of Laurel’s hands. ‘I understand. I’m sorry. I just . . .’ She lifts her chin and glances up to the ceiling as if choosing her words.
‘How’s your life anyway?’ Laurel’s tone is acerbic. ‘Married, are you? Kids?’
Hazel swallows. ‘Yes. I mean, not married. But I have a partner – Jonny. He has a daughter, Evie.’
‘How nice. No kids of your own?’
Hazel shifts on her seat, ignoring the question. ‘Look, I need to talk to you. About what happened. And . . . that’s hard. Because – well, because I haven’t seen you. You’ve been here alone.’ She stops suddenly.
‘What?’
‘Mum and Dad. Don’t hate them forever, Laurel . . .’ Hazel sees her sister work her tongue into her cheek. ‘I’m sorry. You like to be called L.’
Laurel raises her eyebrows.
‘I know they let you down. And I don’t understand why. Or maybe I do. Maybe we both do . . . But Mum’s gone now, hasn’t she? And you wouldn’t recognise Dad these days. He’s nothing like before. I don’t think they really knew what they were doing when it happened, during the trial and after. They were frightened and worried about everything. And Dad was sick, with his heart. They just . . .’ Hazel dips her head. ‘Look, I know they did wrong. But I also know that Mum loved you. That Dad still does, in his own way.’
Laurel sits perched forward, her chest heaving behind the edge of the table. She spreads her fingers very deliberately and slowly on the table top in front of her. ‘I don’t think,’ she mutters through her teeth at Hazel, her expression rigid as stone, ‘that I have ever known a more selfish act.’
Hazel nods again. Somewhere in the back of her head, she pictures her mother standing at the sink in their old house, before everything changed. The sun glinting on her hair and suds on her wrists, filled with the light of rainbows. ‘Don’t you
remember?’ she says. ‘What it was like before?’
‘No,’ Laurel replies thinly. ‘I don’t.’
‘In the house. With the garden and the game. You remember the game, don’t you?’
‘The judge said we watched violent films,’ Laurel snaps. ‘He said I was depraved by them. That they made me evil.’
‘No, we never watched television. Just played games in the garden. Out in the sunshine, chasing each other under that big tree. We used to get that sticky stuff from its leaves on our skirts and Mum would go mad. Don’t you remember? She’d send us up to the bathroom. Stick us in the bath and the window would be open and the breeze coming in. Sitting there, with you in the bath. It was so light outside we could never sleep properly. The hours we spent, lying hot in our beds, talking to each other.’
‘Stop it!’ Laurel says, her fists curling tight on the table. ‘Just stop. What do you want here? What is it that you want?’
Hazel halts, her eyes moving back to Laurel, the memories popping like soap bubbles in the heat of the tiny room. She can smell Laurel’s body odour, her own fading perfume. She looks down at her fingernails, acting out a mantra she used to say to herself as a child. I am here, this is happening now, she whispers silently to herself. I am here, this is happening now. Over and over again.
‘You just want to go out there,’ Laurel flings her arm towards the door, ‘and tell them all that you’ve seen your evil sister and now you can remember. And everything’s all right, because you didn’t do anything wrong. It was all Laurel Bowman. That evil cow who killed the baby. And now you can finally set out your side of the story, tell the public all the fucking gruesome details they want to hear. Go on some TV show, dip your head and bat your eyelashes. Poor baby Rosie. Poor innocent child caught up in her despicable sister’s games. Just so you can get on with your life. And meanwhile? I’m sitting on my arse in here. I will fucking die in here. Don’t you get it? I will fucking die.’
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