by J. A. Baker
As the case progressed and more evidence emerged, it became clear that Greg wasn’t the only one. The police were looking into another case; one involving a little girl in a local playground. At the time, everyone had presumed she had fallen, but after further investigations, evidence had emerged that there was possibly foul play involved. Someone, no, not someone , she had pushed that little girl from the top of the slide and left her there to die. Somehow that made it worse, because if they had stopped her then, known about it, done something about it, Greg would still be alive. But he wasn’t. What was done was done and could not be undone.
The court case seemed to go on for an age. Teams of psychologists and an army of specialists trooped in, day after day, each claiming to be experts in their field. Some citing Child A as unstable, some claiming she was damaged by her upbringing, having been exposed to violence from a very young age. And if the incident with the slashed wrists didn’t convince them of her mental instability, her further attempts at smashing her head against the wall and shoving plastic cutlery down her throat did a fine job. She was cleared of murder, convicted of manslaughter, and sent to a young offenders’ institute.
After a while, the papers quietened down and the folk of County Durham soon forgot about her and got on with their lives. But not the families of the dead. They didn’t forget. Their lives didn’t continue as normal. They no longer knew what normal felt like and probably never would.
The only thing that kept her going through those dark times was her collection. Day after day, night after night, she would sit, hunched over the table, sifting through every newspaper it was possible to get her hands on, seeking out articles about the incident. Articles about her. She would cut them all out, stash them away in scrap books, reading them over and over until her head throbbed and her chest ached from sobbing. It was unhealthy, she knew that, but felt powerless against its draw. She found it cathartic; it helped her to sleep, helped her to restore some semblance of order back into her life. Her parents tried to stop her but it was useless. Nothing they did or said could help her put an end to it. They all had their own way of grieving and this was hers. But then her father’s death brought an abrupt end to it all. She needed to drag herself back into the real world, to focus on the future and help her mother cope with the torrent of shit that life had decided to throw at them. Funny thing was, her dad seemed to be the only one who had been coping with it all. He was the one who kept the house running, made sure the bills were paid and that they were all fed and had clean clothes to wear yet he was the one who eventually cracked under the strain. She came home from school one afternoon to find her mother curled up on the sofa, two police officers sitting either side of her, and a family liaison worker gently stroking her hand.
They had tried to coax her father down from the bridge but, apparently, he hadn’t responded to any of their cajoling and instead, had leapt on to the cold, hard tarmac beneath, his body crushed beyond recognition. If they thought their lives were difficult before, they found themselves plunged into a nightmare from which they would never wake. Their misery seemed to drag on and on, with no end in sight. Just she and her mother, locked together in their insular world that became a hate-filled place, full of bitterness and resentment and blame. Until she left home that is. University couldn’t come quick enough. It was a welcome reprieve from the darkness and angst that permeated their lives on a daily basis. Freed from her mother’s suffocating ways she found she was able to forge a life for herself.
Losing her virginity was first on her list. For far too long she had led a cloistered existence, forgetting how to smile or relax. And as for boys? The night they lost Greg was the last time she had even thought of them, but now she was a different person, in a new place. This was a chance to reinvent herself, to be whoever she wanted to be.
High on a mixture of cheap lager and dope, she lost her virginity to a lad whose name she didn’t even know. It wasn’t important to her. What was important was making sure she did it; got it over and done with so she could get on with the rest of her life without being saddled with guilt. Any thought of sex and boys took her right back to that evening. She needed to break that association. It wasn’t exactly the most romantic encounter, but then that wasn’t her intention.
They had done it on a balmy summer’s evening on a long strip of grass behind the pub, hidden only by the huge bins and piles of black, plastic sacks that she feared would topple over and smother them. He grunted and she cried, and when it was over they both went their separate ways, each too drunk to remember one another in the cold light of day. She had staggered back to her flat and fallen, face-first, on to the bed where she stayed until morning, the memory of the encounter no more than a blurry image in her mind.
University was good for her soul. She enjoyed the subject matter and didn’t mind the workload that others complained about. It gave her something to go at; it was something to focus her mind on.
She did her best to fit in with the others, hitting the party circuit, drinking hard, smoking the odd joint, but all the time he was there in her mind, her younger brother with his tiny face and dimpled, chubby hands. Her baby.
By the time she met Warren she was in her third year. It was also around that time she took up her interest again; cutting out snippets from newspapers whenever the story cropped up, keeping tabs on her, the one the papers still referred to as Child A even though she was no longer a child. She had been transferred to an open prison and was up for parole, having been a model prisoner for the past six years. It was only manslaughter, after all. That word made her toes curl. She was a murderer, nothing more, nothing less. She took two lives. Two tiny unsuspecting lives … left two families bereft and heartbroken, and now she had suddenly decided to become a good citizen and they were all supposed to forgive her and simply accept it. As if it made the whole sickening episode acceptable.
The newspaper reports detailing her life told of a hideous upbringing, of parents who were saturated in alcohol, a life where daily beatings were the norm. She did recall once visiting her friend and being greeted by a woman who was most unlike her own mother; she was standing in the doorway, wide-eyed, hair bouncing around her face like tufts of cotton wool, skin grey and baggy. The clothes she wore looked expensive and the house was far bigger and more elaborately decorated than her own, but even at the tender age of thirteen she was able to sense an atmosphere of fear and tension, as if the slightest thing would tip this woman over the edge. She wasn’t allowed past the doorway and the one thing she did remember, the thing that stuck in her head and should have set alarm bells ringing, were the marks on her friend’s arm as she shuffled past her mother a terrified look in her eyes. Then, as if she were carrying out some sort of childish prank, the woman reached out and grabbed a handful of her daughter’s hair and tugged at it, knocking the teenager clean off her feet. She landed in a heap on the front step where she lay for a short while, motionless and stunned, before scrambling back up to the sound of her mother’s infantile, caustic laughter, passing the whole event off as a sick joke.
It was no excuse for her friend’s actions, though. She wouldn’t allow herself to be fooled and sucked in by such tales of pity and woe. So, she continued collecting and storing the clippings and making sure she kept track of her whereabouts as best she could. Because one day she would get even. She would make sure her professed friend paid dearly for what she did. There was no way she could ever forgive and forget. No way at all. No matter how long it took, or how much it cost her, one day she would get her revenge.
Lissy
I try to keep it together to stop Rosie finding the note and seeing me in this state. Shuffling myself forward, I stand up, the floor still swaying slightly, and shove the piece of paper deep into my pocket. Just when I thought our lives were back on track. Just when I thought we could start afresh, a whole heap of shit rains down on us once more.
Everything tilts and sways as I do my best to walk into the kitchen. It’s like strolling
along a seesaw, the floor leaning precariously under my feet, my head swimming as I teeter along, hands pressed against either side of the wall for balance.
Staggering towards the sink, I fill the kettle and make myself a cup of sweet tea.
I sip at it, the liquid burning my throat as it trickles its way down into my clenched belly. What I actually feel like doing is slumping down on to the floor and crying. I want to bash the tiles and scream to the skies that this isn’t right and it isn’t fair. I don’t. Instead, I finish my tea and nibble on a dry biscuit to stem the vomit that I feel rising in my gut.
Rosie doesn’t come through to see me. I listen as she shuffles her way out of the living room, then pounds her way upstairs, still cross at me for not answering her questions. Tomorrow she is returning to school. I need to pull myself together. She mustn’t see me like this. Nobody must see me like this, especially Mr Cooper, the gloating head of year who, it would appear, desperately wants to see my daughter fail at her new school before her time there has barely even begun.
I pull the creases out of my trousers and stand up. I’ve come too far to lose my way now. After what I’ve been through, this letter doesn’t even register on the scale of distress and trauma. I have to remember to keep it in perspective, to keep telling myself that I have weathered storms far darker and colder than this one.
I march into the hallway and double check that the door is locked and bolted, then do the same with all the windows in every room in the house. I rattle them in their frames making sure they are solid and cannot be prised open. That was one of the things that attracted me to this place, the fact that it appeared to be secure and secluded. Sometimes, however, secluded is dangerous. Nobody can hear you scream when you’re in an isolated spot. It’s all about balance; just enough in the way of neighbours to make you feel less lonely and not so many that you run the risk of … what is it I run the risk of? Being blamed for something that happened so long ago I feel as if it took place in a different life and to a different person? I shiver and pull my cardigan around my shoulders. The temperature seems to have suddenly dipped. Or perhaps my core body heat has iced over after finding that letter and reading those words. I think of the stupid, pedestrian phrase about sticks and stones and all that crap about calling names not hurting. Of course they hurt. How can they not? You would have to be made of solid stone for such things to not hurt you. And although I consider myself pretty resilient, I am still breakable.
I place my hands on the kitchen windowsill and stare out at the hills in the distance. The sight of them calms me, helps to dampen the fire that is licking its way up my body and shrieking through my brain. A grey mist hangs over the top of the highest point of the hills , a craggy shoulder of rock shrouding it in a blanket of swirling cloud. It’s a mesmerising sight and one I hope I will never take for granted. When I was growing up in County Durham, the view we had was a little less appealing. Our house had a large garden, for sure, but we overlooked a factory at the front, a huge, grey brick edifice that overshadowed the entire road, blocking out light and making the street a formidable place to visit. Even on the brightest of days, we were cloaked in blocks of granite shade that cowered over us, monster-like and eerily cold. The view I now have of the hills of North Yorkshire is not something I will ever take for granted. Every crumb of comfort thrown my way will always be greedily savoured. I’ve had that sort of a life.
The thump above me alerts me to Rosie’s sudden movement. Her feet beat a steady, solid tempo as she pounds her way downstairs and stands in the kitchen, hands on hips, surveying me carefully.
‘Have you picked it up?’
‘Hmm?’ I drag my eyes away from the scenery and stare into her face. Only as I am watching her, seeing the scowl and her channelled brow, does it begin to slot into place.
‘A letter?’ she snaps impatiently. ‘Apparently there was a letter delivered for me,’ she says with her hand outstretched, ready for me to hand it over. She stares at me, our conversation and her probing earlier, still not forgotten. A huge, uncomfortable throb takes hold in my neck. A cold trickle of sweat runs down my spine as her words bounce around the emptiness of our kitchen.
‘For you?’ I say, trying to control my breathing and sound authoritative and fearless, when all the time I fear the ground will tilt and send me sprawling on to the cold, hard floor tiles.
I need to think quickly. Do I really want to hand it over and watch my daughter crumble in front of me? I don’t want to lie to her, although the pattern for that particular game started long ago anyway but would or should any mother in their right mind subject their daughter to such a harrowing read?
‘I just got a text saying a note’s been hand delivered for me and I really need to give it a read. I’ve just checked and there’s nothing there.’ She starts to walk back into the hallway, a determined look on her face.
‘Who sent it?’ I ask, my curiosity now piqued and my imagination in overdrive. I feel my heart begin to flutter its way up my neck and place my hand on my collarbone to stem the sensation.
Rosie turns and holds out her phone at arm’s length, staring at it intently. ‘Not sure. Not a number I recognise, but then again, I’ve got so many contacts and changed my phone so many times it could be anybody. I was thinking it might be Lara. You remember Lara from my last school?’
I do remember Lara. She was a kind girl. Not the type of person to send a letter dripping with poison and hatred. However, Rosie has no inkling as to what is in it and nor will she. And here I was thinking it was directed at me when all the time it was somebody spouting their filth at my baby girl.
‘Well, I haven’t seen a note or letter and since it’s a number you don’t recognise I would suggest you just ignore it. Could be that somebody has sent it to you by mistake.’
I feel relief sweep through me as she shrugs and stares once again at her phone, her eyes narrowed pensively.
‘Maybe. Anyway, if you see anything, can you let me know?’
‘Absolutely,’ I reply a little too enthusiastically, elated that she has gone along with it. I expected a tantrum of sorts; some foot stamping and lip pouting, not this resigned acceptance.
Shoving my hand into my pocket, I lightly finger the edge of the envelope, tracing my nail along the length of the paper. Later, when Rosie is safely out of sight, I will dispose of it; tear it into tiny strips and stuff it down into the bottom of the bin where it belongs with all the other rubbish. I could keep it, show it to Mr Cooper tomorrow, when Rosie returns to school, as evidence that she is indeed being targeted but I’m not sure what that would achieve. I have no proof that it came from anybody at the school and, Cooper being the pedant that he is, would use that argument to destroy any complaints I bring against his claim that trouble seems to follow Rosie around. He’s wrong on that score. It’s me that it tails so closely. Best to get rid of this letter and hope we don’t receive another one. I bite at a loose flap of skin on my lip and wince as it comes loose and the familiar metallic taste of blood trickles over my tongue and oozes down my throat. Perhaps I should never have moved here. I should possibly have chosen somewhere further afield; somewhere down south ; Southampton, Brighton, London any bustling city we could disappear into. I don’t want to start thinking like that but when the heavy shroud of fear begins its descent, it’s hard to see beyond it and think rationally. When Davey was here, at least there was somebody else to help around the house, to put the bins out when it got dark, to help with the cooking and cleaning, to share the general workload, but now he’s gone it’s all down to me. I refuse to think about where the note came from. Therein lies the road to madness; a cold and lonely route from which there is no return. I just need to be more vigilant, that’s all it is. I will not move on again. I’ve spent my entire adult life running away from my past, from an act that most certainly does not define me. This time I am here to stay.
Beverley
The next few weeks pass by in a blur. I managed to convince Warren that I am o
f sound mind and he returned to work a happier man. Work is busier than I ever thought it would be, with so much to do on a daily basis and a whole raft of new skills to learn. I had no idea how rusty I had become. The social life within the entire building is hectic. Every week there is a function or a party to attend a fiftieth birthday bash, an engagement, a retirement. The reasons for celebrating are endless. So far, I have only attended one; Shirley who sits opposite me decided to hang up her hat and spend her days pottering around her garden and looking after her grandchildren in her twilight years. It was a High Tea at a local stately home and we were finished by 6.30 p.m. I returned home satiated and mildly giddy after chatting to a lady who went to the same university as me and vaguely knew one of my ex-boyfriends. It filled me with a sense of euphoria, remembering the past, thinking about the wild, young thing I once was. Anybody seeing me now would struggle to marry the two; the mild-mannered, middle-class lady who lives such a safe life it borders on practically dead, against the young student who smoked, drank, and slept with anyone who breathed. I smile and roll my eyes. I have worked extremely hard to reach this point in my life, to shake off the shackles of my past and refine my bitterness. It took a lot of effort and continual self-appraisal. I have overcome many barriers and lived through so much heartache it would have felled a lesser woman. Yet here I am, trudging through life, just getting on with it.