by J. A. Baker
I dart upstairs, my heart suddenly growing inside my chest, thumping against my ribcage as I turn the handle on Rosie’s bedroom door. It opens. No barricade, no heavy furniture propped up against it to keep me out. I step inside and am immediately struck by how tidy it is. No clothes strewn over the floor, no magazines lying around or half-filled glasses of hot chocolate or cherryade occupying every surface. And the bed is made. Terror grips me. I stare at the window. It is ajar. Tears well up and dizziness overwhelms me. I stagger over to the bed where I flop, my head dipped, my shoulders hunched. I stem the wave of sickness I feel rising and take a deep gulp of air.
‘What are you doing?’
The sound of her voice behind me almost knocks me off balance. I spin round, a surge of relief blooms in me and I stand up, my heart battering with gratitude.
‘I-I thought …’
‘That I’d gone? Climbed out the window, on to the kitchen roof, and scarpered? Don’t think I didn’t consider it, Mum. It was only the fear of falling and cracking my head open or breaking both legs that stopped me.’
Her hair is wrapped in a towel and she is wearing a pair of grey joggers and a T-Shirt that has seen better days. I have never seen her look more beautiful. I want to run to her, wrap her in my arms and keep her there for as long as I can. Protect her from it al,l all the horror and fear and malevolence that is out there. She stalks into the room and shakes her hair out from the turban-style wrap on her head. It springs free and falls in small, wet curls down her back.
‘Your room is—'
‘Tidy for once?’ she says, her mouth a tight, firm line as she speaks. ‘Yeah well, I couldn’t sleep and the drop was too high so there was nothing else to do, was there?’
I nod and sit in silence, watching her as she darts around the room, throwing cupboard doors open, dragging clothes out, and yanking a shirt over her head.
‘Rosie, look,’ I say softly, not entirely sure where to start, but she stops me, her eyes blazing, her voice a near shriek.
‘Don’t, Mum, OK? Just don’t. Whatever it is you’re going to say, I don’t want to hear it. Everything about you is a huge, fat lie! All those years I asked about my dad, all those questions about your parents and you lied to me. Time and time again. Lie after lie after lie.’
She is furious now, stomping around the room, her face scarlet with anger. I stand up as carefully as I can. The window is still open but I don’t want to make any sudden movements. There’s no telling how she might react if I get too close to her. I visualise her stepping back, her senses out of kilter, her body plummeting to the cold, hard ground below. My head buzzes as I speak.
‘I know I did, sweetheart. And I am so, so sorry but I did it to protect you. To keep you from all of this because I knew it would be horrible if you ever found out. This is exactly what I wanted to avoid.’ My pulse is racing, my head swimming with dread. I edge close to the window, Rosie too distracted to notice. Her head is dipped and I watch as a lone tear courses down her cheek and drips on to the rug where she stands. Desperation twists my gut. I have done this. I have made this terrible thing happen, and now I have to mend it; to make everything all right again, back to how it was before. Before wasn’t ideal far from it , but it was better than this.
‘You’re not the person I thought you were.’
Her words cut through me. Perhaps she is right. There are days when I question who I am; when I think back to that time and wonder if that was me, that desperately unhappy, dejected child, or whether it all happened to somebody else. My memories of my childhood before it all occurred are so deeply troubling and unsettling they often scare me. I try to not dwell on them and make a concerted effort to keep them in the darkest reaches of my mind. Easier that way. It allows me a modicum of clarity for the events that followed. Those grisly crimes. The ones that haunted me for so many years, stopped me from sleeping, eating and kept me from living. Because if I allowed the beatings and the neglect to clutter my mind, like so many other people who were only too keen to blame me, I could have gone down the route of believing it all ; those terrible accusations levelled against me. But I didn’t. I made a determined effort to focus my mind, sift through the debris in my memory banks, make space for logic and reason. And it worked. Bit by bit, the events came back to me, lightening the weight that had dragged me down for so many years, allowing me access to memories I had forgotten existed. Because although I had a blighted childhood, was feral, angry, explosive even, the one thing I became certain of after all the soul-searching and therapy and psychiatric assessments that I have endured over the years, the one thing that is now crystal clear in my mind is the fact that I did not kill those children.
Even as I say the words inside my head, they sound alien; a discrete thought that doesn’t belong to me, something that has quietly crept inside my brain and is growing and taking hold of me, making me question everything I ever knew about my past. And yet it does belong to me. I know it does. This isn’t something I have dreamed up, like a criminal who, over the intervening years, has managed to convince themselves that they are innocent; twisted their memories, tinkered with the timelines and images in their head, applied their own judgment to it all I am certain of it all. The girl on the slide, little Pamela , she fell. I know she did. I can see it, her limbs flailing as her tiny body reeled backwards. I can remember my fear, the icy sensation in my stomach as I stood, unable to move or cry or do anything at all to help her. I had been out all morning, doing my best to keep out of my parents’ hair as they rolled around the house, bleary-eyed and bad-tempered after a particularly heavy drinking session the previous evening. I had met her at the park. There was nobody else around, just the two of us together in the fresh morning breeze. She had been down that slide at least half a dozen times, squealing with excitement each and every time. Her long, blonde hair flying behind her as she slid down the brightly coloured length of metal, hurtling through the air as she propelled herself forwards, before clambering back up again. I cheered her on, loving the connection I had made with a younger child. I had longed for brothers and sisters if only because it meant I wasn’t alone in the house with my parents. I feared them so much it pains me even now to think about it. I watched as she climbed the steps again, her face creased with excitement. Then something happened. A turn of her foot, a sudden surge of adrenalin resulting in one fatal slip, one momentary lack of concentration; I have no idea what caused it, but she fell backwards. The world slowed down for those few seconds. I watched horror-stricken as she fell; I listened to her scream, heard the crack, saw the river of blood that oozed from the back of her head a dark, oily, scarlet slick trailing over the slab of grey concrete.
I stare at Rosie. She is now watching me intently.
‘What?’ she barks, even though I haven’t said anything. ‘Why are you sitting there looking all miserable and depressed? It’s true. I have no idea who you are any more. You’re a stranger to me.’
I pat the bed, certain she won’t come over. She takes me by surprise by settling herself on the edge of the mattress, her back rigid with anger.
My voice filters through the warm, muggy air of the room. It’s still early but outside the sun is a shimmering, amber promise of the day to come. Perspiration gathers under my armpits and around my hairline. My fingers tremble as I wipe it away and rest my hand on my jeans.
‘Please hear me out. In my entire life, nobody has listened to me, heard what really happened. You’ll be the first.’
She makes a grumbling noise and I gently traipse my hand over hers. She pulls it away but stays seated, making no attempt to move. I am grateful for such a small mercy; I feel as if I could cry.
And so, I talk. I tell her about the day at the park, about my parents, about the rages I suffered, about how damaged I was. I tell her about Beverley, the popular girl at school, how desperate I was to be friends with her, how I hung around her and about how she took me in and we formed a friendship that was asymmetrical; the balance of power alwa
ys tilted in her favour. But I hung on in there, eager to be part of her gang, a forlorn creature who had nobody. And then I tell her about the day; that day. I relate the tale of the babysitting, how she went out leaving me alone with him. I tell Rosie everything, the whole sorry story, and when I am finished I close my eyes, too afraid of her response, too afraid to see the hatred and disbelief in her eyes. Too afraid to hear the words that she doesn’t believe me, that like all the others before, she too thinks I am a liar; a worthless human being. A murderer.
The impenetrable silence seems to go on forever. We sit, side by side, locked together in a shroud of misery, mother and daughter drowning in this cesspit of despair because of who I am.
When she turns to face me, I can barely bring myself to look at her. She is completely innocent in all of this. None of it is her fault and yet here she is, trapped by my past, terrified of the future. Everything we are going through is all because of me.
‘Why did they all think you did it?’ she whispers.
‘Because of my upbringing? Because there were witnesses who said they had seen me suffer huge meltdowns at school? It was a chain of events that, once set in motion, seemed to gather strength, people believing what they wanted to believe, making things fit. We all want to find answers, don’t we, Rosie? Nobody likes loose ends. They need tying up, putting away somewhere. It makes everyone feel better having someone to blame. And I was that someone.’
‘Did you tell them you didn’t do it?’ Her brow is furrowed and for one awful minute I fear she might turn against me, start shrieking that I’m making it all up, trying to get out of it with more of my lies, but she doesn’t. She sits and waits, her eyes searching mine for answers that are so hard to give.
‘I tried, but you have to remember I was a blighted child; deeply damaged, underweight and covered in unexplained scars and bruises. They were determined to portray me as another Mary Bell. People were angry and upset. There were two dead children and they needed somebody to blame. I was the obvious target. I was there, on both occasions. What are the chances of that happening? The prosecution team jumped on those statistics. At least a million to one, they said. And they were right. But at some point, those statistics have to be proven wrong, don’t they? Look at the chances statisticians give of being involved in an aeroplane crash or winning the lottery. Yet it does happen to people, doesn’t it? Just because it’s improbable doesn’t mean it’s impossible.’
My breathing is shallow and for one horrible moment I fear I might pass out. I don’t feel any lighter after speaking out after so many years. I don’t feel as if a great burden has been lifted. I just feel sick. My innards shift and churn and my skin is caked with sweat.
‘I didn’t do it either.’ She begins to cry, softly at first, followed by great, heaving sobs as I pull her closer and wrap my arm around her to protect her from all of this. That’s all I want to do now ; keep her from all harm. Stop the world from throwing any more hurt our way.
‘Somebody has it in for me at that school, Mum. All I’ve done since starting there is work hard and smile at people. I’ve tried to work out who it is that’s doing these things to me but I can’t think.’
Her howls penetrate the soft, sultry air, dig into my soul and rip my heart out. I know she didn’t do it. I should never have doubted her. Me of all people. Don’t I know how it feels to be wrongly accused of something? I let her cry herself out and stroke her hair, keeping my own tears for when I’m alone. They don’t come easily to me. Too many memories of things I would sooner forget.
∞∞∞∞
Later, when I have showered and cleaned myself of the grime of the past few days, and we’re in the kitchen after eating, Rosie tells me something that stops me in my tracks.
‘What sort of car was it?’ I ask, panic growing inside me.
She shrugs and pouts slightly, her bottom lip jutting out to indicate her uncertainty. ‘I don’t know. A red one. Too far to see. It was parked up on the road, opposite our driveway.’
‘Could you see who was inside?’ I ask breathlessly, already acutely aware that anyone from that distance would be too small to see, just a featureless outline.
She shakes her head, and I feel fear tighten inside me, a wide band of unease that wraps itself around my body, tracking its way through my organs and leaching into my veins. I suddenly feel exhausted by it all. I am tired of running, trying to escape from a past that didn’t happen. I am utterly powerless against the tide of hatred that follows me wherever I go. No matter what I say or do, people will always think me guilty. This is a life sentence.
‘If you see it again, or anything different , anything at all , you must tell me straightaway. You do understand, that don’t you?’
She nods, her eyes suddenly wide with anxiety. ‘Is this why we moved about all the time? Because people don’t believe you and think you haven’t been punished enough?’
My breath comes out as a ragged gasp. I am beginning to feel desperate and will do what I have to do to protect Rosie. ‘Yes. I’m afraid it is. People want revenge. They don’t want the details or facts, sweetheart. Just revenge.’
‘Can’t we go to the police?’
I shiver at her words. ‘As a last resort we can, but I’d rather not.’
She seems to understand this and doesn’t take it any further, knowing the complications involved in such a move.
‘Why didn’t you change your name? Wouldn’t that have helped? Given you anonymity?’
I pick at the edge of my shirt. It is starting to unravel, cotton spilling out and trailing down over the hem. The irony of this isn’t lost on me.
‘Our names were never given out to the public,’ I murmur. ‘The judge thought it necessary to protect us ; well me anyway, so we were only ever referred to as Child A and Child B. And then, when I went to live with Aunt Alice and she gave me her surname, I thought that would be enough. Obviously not.’
Tears prick at the back of my eyes. I swallow and hold them in. Too late for crying now. Way too late. What I need is some kind of inner strength to draw on. God, I hope I have some in reserve. I am worn out by all of this. So tired I could sleep for a lifetime.
‘Maybe we should have moved to another part of the country? London or Birmingham or somewhere like that where they would never find us?’ Rosie’s eyes have a glimmer of hope in them. She doesn’t understand the hatred people have for me, that they will do anything to find me, go to any lengths to track me down.
‘I thought about it, sweetheart, but when I was with Alice I felt safe, and she had already set up home in the north-east when I moved in with her. I was beholden to her and couldn’t ask her to traipse halfway across the country so I could hide. And then she died and I met your father and I thought I was settled. But after he left I felt vulnerable, frightened. I had you to think of. I knew this area quite well, so thought we would be OK, but I found myself constantly looking over my shoulder, convinced people knew who I was.’
‘You could have done it then,’ she interjects, ‘instead of staying around here, moving from one town to another, you could have upped sticks and moved further afield.’
I shrug listlessly. She is right. But would the feeling of being watched have ever left me? I doubt it. At least here, I knew my way around. It isn’t so easy moving hundreds of miles away with a small child when you’re at such a low ebb.
‘I hear what you’re saying,’ I whisper, ‘and with hindsight maybe I should have. But I was focused on you and just getting through each and every day. Making such a big move was beyond me. I knew the remote villages round here were the best places to avoid people …’
‘Didn’t work, though, did it?’ Her tone is sharp again. She is starting to develop an edge to her voice, her attitude and body language suddenly harsh and defensive.
‘No, it didn’t,’ I say faintly, ‘and I can’t apologise enough for that. I am so, so sorry for what I’ve put you through. All the moving about, the changing schools … the lying.’
She sighs and we sit there for what feels like an age, two helpless souls drowning in a vast ocean of hopelessness and despair.
‘Mum,’ she says at last, ‘do you think somebody at school knows about all of this? Is that why those awful things keep happening to me?’
Her words barge into me, knocking me off balance, taking all the oxygen out of my lungs. It suddenly feels as if all the air has been squashed out of me. How did I not see it? Make the connection? Jesus … there are none so blind as those who cannot see. It’s her, Beverley. Even saying her name in my head makes me feel sick.
‘Rosie,’ I say as I stand up, careful to keep my voice steady, ‘I’m sure nothing else is going to happen around here, but if you see anything different or odd, let me know straightaway, OK?’
She nods, apprehension written all over her expression, and wraps her arms tightly around her body.
With legs that still feel as if they are about to crumple under me, I head upstairs, checking every window and door is locked as I pass.
Beverley
Work isn’t the same without her here. Everything is bland. Just a long and drawn out monotonous stream of dreary tasks. My days are colourless; drab and bleak. They stretch out ahead of me, a dismal streak of nothingness. I did too good a job, that’s the problem. I have seen to it that that girl won’t return for at least another two weeks. The entire issue was taken to the governors at the behest of the other girl’s parents, and they made absolutely certain that her penalty was as severe as school policy allowed. So now I find myself with nothing to focus on, nobody around to punish, nobody to go at. She was such a soft target too. She made it all so easy for me, leaving her computer logged on so anybody could access it. Silly girl. So naive and trusting. And her handwriting was so simple to emulate; no fancy curls or intricate swirling descenders. It was a piece of cake. And after the debacle with the money, well, I kind of knew they would come down hard on her, so I should have expected it, really. This is a good school with a reputation to preserve. They don’t take kindly to thieving and bullying. So here I am with nothing to go at, nobody to direct my anger at. She is suddenly conspicuous by her absence.