There is graffiti, too. Somebody has painted an elaborate mural of crucifixions with words over the top that read: You will pay for what you did to me here. As I move through the maze of rooms, passing upturned desks and abandoned belongings, the image is repeated time and time again. The words remind me of something that Joyce once said. Something that would explain Elle’s pain. He didn’t feel it right after learning what they were doing to her. They had to bring her home. Is that what was happening? Was Elle being mistreated while she was staying here? Abused by those who were supposed to be caring for her?
I pass into a narrow corridor, dark, with only a little light streaming through a solitary window. On one side there are cells, some padded, some concrete. The isolation cells. All the doors are open; one of them is snapped in two, as if somebody broke through. Inside that cell the graffiti reads: This is where you will be judged. I fight back a tear, certain for the first time that Elle’s life might have been harder than mine. Certain that she must have felt as let down as I always have.
I climb a creaky staircase and it becomes clear that I am in an administrative section. I open flimsy doors with glass windows, uncertain what I am looking for. I am moving too slowly, but it is because I am now sure that this is the place where my family was destroyed. Something happened here that my parents discovered, and it changed everything. I don’t want to miss what that was. Within these walls the seeds were planted, watered and matured until my sister was spat out, ruined, destroyed. Without this place, perhaps we would have all lived together. I let go of my jumper, breathe in the stale air.
Then as I push open the next door I am met by a wave of hope. This is without doubt the records room, a gaping cave stacked with rows of files like a library. I rush across to the first shelf, pick up a dirty beige folder with a number on the front. But then my excitement fades. There’s no name on it. I pick up a second, and again I find only a number: 0021-94-59. Without names, it will be impossible to find Elle’s file.
I open the first folder, the pages brown, dusty. It belonged to Charlotte Green, diagnosed with manic depression. ‘They’d call that bipolar now,’ I mutter. There is a grainy, faded photograph tacked to the inside, and the sense of hopelessness on little Charlotte Green’s face washes over me. ‘What a stupid system.’ I toss the file down and open the next. This one has a picture of a young man on the inside cover. ‘Green, Christopher, 26, admitted in 1959, schizophrenia.’ I remember the name in the first file. I reach down, grab it just in case I have made a mistake. But I haven’t. I’m right. Green, Charlotte. Green, Christopher. It’s alphabetical.
I move along the rows pulling out folders, checking names. I realise that some of the files do actually have names written on their spines; it’s just that most are so faded they can’t be read. I must be close to Harringford, so I keep flicking through, looking for where the Gs become Hs. But then another thought comes to mind. Matt. I pull out the business card from my pocket. Matthew Guthrie. He told me that he had therapy too, didn’t he? Is it possible he knew Elle all along?
Part of me doesn’t want to look, as if by doing so I’m snooping in something private to which I have no right. Like his bathroom cabinet. But I can’t help myself, and before I have even decided whether I should or shouldn’t, I’m clutching a file that has the name Matthew Guthrie written on the spine. I open it, and there staring right back at me is his childhood face, unmistakable blond curls drooping across sad eyes.
I slide out my phone and see that I still have no signal. I move over to the window and wait for the phone to register on the network. As it does, a call comes through. It’s Matt.
‘Oh, thank God you picked up,’ he says, breathless. ‘I’ve been trying for the best part of half an hour. I’m on my way to Horton. Where are you? Are you with Elle?’
‘No.’
His breathing relaxes. ‘When you heard somebody in the house…’ he says, sounding relieved that the things he imagined possible have not come true. ‘Tell me where you are. I’ll come and find you.’
‘I’m at Fair Fields.’
‘Oh.’ He pauses. ‘You went there? OK, wait outside. I’ll meet you on the road just before the fence.’ I hear the revving of his engine as he accelerates.
‘Too late. I’m already inside.’ I look down at his childhood face on the inside cover, wonder just how well he knows my sister. ‘I’m in the records room.’
‘In the records room? What did you find?’
When he remains silent, I take a punt on a guess. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that you knew Elle as a child?’ For a moment I listen to his breathing, the sound of his lips as he swallows. Then the line goes dead.
37
I watch from the window as Matt crosses the grounds of Fair Fields, his steps quick, just short of running. I am sitting on the windowsill, his file placed on my knees. I haven’t moved since he hung up, a little over fifteen minutes ago. He must have left Edinburgh as I was leaving Mam Tor. He disappears from view as he nears the building, and only a minute later he arrives in the records room. He must know the layout, remember where he is going.
‘Irini,’ he says as he bursts through the door. His cheeks are red, his brow shiny. I hold up his file.
‘I didn’t read it,’ I say, feeling a little guilty. For a moment he stands there, his eyes darting about the floor.
‘Let me explain.’ He rushes towards me, and I don’t stop him when he takes one of my hands in his, just like he did at the hotel. It feels good to have him touch me, his grip tight, his strength comforting. My lack of resistance spurs him on, and soon enough he has wrapped me in his arms, holding me to his chest. When he lets me go he says, ‘Thank God you are all right. I left work as soon as you told me that you heard somebody in the house. If anything had happened to you, I would never have forgiven myself.’
He finds a couple of chairs and sets them up near the window. We sit down like we are on a confessional chat show, him wringing his hands between his knees, nervous. He is dressed in his suit, a light mac over the top. He looks different from before, sharper, without stubble, but there is worry on his face. I’d love to tell him it doesn’t matter, that he doesn’t have to do this. Part of me wants to make it easy on him, stop him before he starts. But the other part of me needs the truth. No turning back now.
‘I should have told you before. If you are angry at me, you have every right. But I didn’t want to admit to having been here. In this place,’ he says as he glances at the walls surrounding us. ‘I was ashamed.’
‘Why? What do you think I would have done?’ I try to sound soft, reassuring, but I get the feeling that everything I say now sounds like an accusation.
‘Maybe you’d have felt the same way about me as you do Elle. I didn’t want that.’ I can’t deny him that. I haven’t exactly been kind about Elle. ‘Plus I try not to remember the things that happened here. It wasn’t a great place to be.’ He shakes his arms out from his jacket, loosens his tie as if it is suffocating him. ‘The time I spent here was hard.’
‘I need to know what happened, Matt.’
He sits back, his hands on his knees. ‘Aye, I know. I was only in here for a few weeks, after my parents’ divorce. The doctors said I needed to stay in; my parents believed them. They would have done anything to assuage their guilt over the separation.’ He wipes a bead of sweat from his brow. ‘You see, I didn’t take it very well. I idolised my father, thought that without him around everyday life would be impossible. I was playing up a lot, in school, at home. They brought me here to help me work through a few issues. But it didn’t help. It made things worse.’ He looks to the floor, unable to maintain eye contact. I feel the urge to say something, but I’m sure that if I do, I’ll tip the balance, and suddenly he’ll realise that he doesn’t owe me this explanation. So I wait, and a moment later he starts speaking again. ‘It was in the papers, and there was an investigation. Residents chained to beds, shock therapy, beatings, violations of girls, some of them not much older
than ten. Boys, too. I got a few lashes, and they tried to break me, but my parents pulled me out before it got too bad. Others weren’t so lucky.’
‘You mean Elle.’
‘Yes,’ he says, still unable to look at me. ‘She was here a long time. I knew her briefly; we became friends.’ I reach out, take his hand. I’m grateful to know that in the midst of this, he was with her, no matter how temporarily. ‘The kids who had been hurt left this place, grew up. But they kept the scars they took with them.’ He lifts a tuft of hair and points to a small triangular scar on the top of his forehead. ‘Elle has one too. Hot pokers from the fireplace. Meant we were fighters.’ I remember the small scar on her face, how I always wondered if it was chickenpox, and realise how wrong I was. I think back and wonder if my life was ever as bad as I believed it to be.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. I want to hold him in my arms, cradle him as he speaks. It’s like finally it’s all coming out. I edge towards him, but he starts up again and I hold back, give him space.
‘Scared kids grew into angry adults. They wanted justice. Some came here, wrote things on the wall, broke the place up. You must have seen the graffiti on your way up here. Others tried to press charges, but very few cases ever made it to court. I stayed in touch with Elle because we lived close by. I guess we understood each other. That’s how we ended up back here. I thought we would cause some trouble. Break a few windows or something stupid. But Elle was planning to burn the whole place down. She set fire to the linen room. They chased us away before it got out of hand, put the fire out, thank God. Afterwards, I told my mother what had happened and she moved me away. Elle and I lost touch, but to be honest, it was a relief. I realised that in my effort to thank her for being there for me, I was prepared to go along with any of her suggestions.
‘Then a year or so ago I met her by chance at the gym. At first I avoided her. But then Greg got involved and we became friends. When she showed me a picture of you about a month ago, said you were coming to visit and that I should be there, help her to reconnect with you, I couldn’t say no. She’d been strong as a kid, helped me. I thought I owed her, so I went along with it. I wanted so much for her to be all right, knowing what she’d been through. So I agreed to show you around a bit.’
‘But you told me that Elle said her sister had died.’
‘I know. I know.’ He picks shamefaced at his thumb. ‘But she said stuff like that for attention. She would lie and exaggerate to impress people. She was always making stuff up, looking for sympathy. I felt sorry for her, I guess. I’m sorry I got it so wrong.’
I reach out, touch his knee, stroke it with my thumb. With my parents gone, Matt is the only person who understands Elle like I do. Despite the fact that he held back the truth about their connection, I’m so grateful that he is here. ‘It doesn’t matter now.’
‘Maybe not. But what does matter, and what I should never have kept from you, is this. Elle came to me after you left and told me that somebody was threatening her. That they were going to reveal everything that was in her file from Fair Fields. She seemed terrified. She also told me that the person who was threatening her knew about the fire we had started all those years ago, and that I was being implicated as the ringleader. She wanted to disappear for a few days, and told me that if I covered for her, everything would blow over. I didn’t want anything about the fire to come out. I’ve built a good life for myself, and I love my job. I didn’t want to risk losing it because of a stupid childhood mistake, so I went along with it. I covered for her.’
My first thought is that she must be OK. But the first thing I ask is quite different. ‘What was in her file that she was so scared might be revealed?’
‘I have no idea.’
I kick away the chair and dash over to the shelves, Matt following closely behind. ‘Maybe her records are still here.’
‘Some of them are the wrong way round,’ Matt shouts as we finger our way through. I pull out file after file until I hear him shout, ‘Irini, over here. I’ve found a file for Harringford.’ I run to meet him just as he is pulling it out. He flicks it open but then stops, looks at me, confused.
‘What is it?’ I ask, pawing at the folder. ‘Is it Elle’s file?’
‘No.’ He turns the folder and holds up the spine so that I can see the faded lettering. ‘It’s for somebody called Casey Harringford.’
‘Casey? My mother was called Cassandra.’ I reach over, take the file. I flick through the first pages, look at the image staring back at me. A baby, cute; close-ups of the feet and legs. Reports about hydrotherapy. ‘The name can’t just be a coincidence, but I’ve no idea who this is. She is a Harringford, but I am so detached from my family I couldn’t tell you who.’
‘Cousin?’
‘I don’t think so. And look at the date of birth.’ I hold the file up and point to the details for the little girl. ‘February 1984. That’s nearly two years after I was born. If she was family, I’d know about her. I wasn’t given away until I was three and a half years old.’
‘Maybe she was given away too and you don’t remember.’
I lean against the shelf behind me, the dust lifting, settling on my shoulders like falling snow. I let the file drop to the floor, and cough to clear my throat.
‘It’s possible,’ Matt persists.
‘No. There was only one Harringford girl who was given away.’
He reaches out and touches my leg as we sit amongst the old paperwork. I feel it, that spark from before. No drugs this time, just me, him and honesty. ‘Yes, but there was only one person who was written into the will, remember. You. Everything left to you.’
Another reminder of just how deep I am in this mess. The will, the thing that makes me look guilty, the payout of blood money designed as restitution for my parents’ sins. I think about it in my pocket, and how the next visit needs to be to Witherrington so that I can relinquish anything my father left me and get him to talk to the police again. But then I remember the purposefulness with which it was placed in my bag. How the envelope had Irini Harringford written on it, unmistakably for me. I pull it from my back pocket, unfold the crumpled paper. ‘Give me that file.’
Matt hands me the file for Casey Harringford and I turn the will over to find the number written on the back. I hold them up alongside each other. The handwritten number is the same as the case file. The last six digits are Casey’s date of birth.
Matt shuffles up next to me and runs his finger along the numbers. ‘They’re the same, Irini. What is this?’
‘It’s my father’s will. He gave it to me, and I’m sure that he wrote this number on it.’
‘Then he knew about this file.’ He taps at the number with his finger, and as I look up, I see fine particles of dust settling on his eyelashes. He catches me staring at him, his eyes darting away, the slightest flush spreading into his cheeks.
‘Which means that he must also have known about a little girl called Casey Harringford.’ Matt begins to nod, but then looks away, somewhere lost in thought. ‘What is it? Did you think of something?’
He has the look of a person about to deliver bad news, his mouth hanging open, his cheeks sunken as he slips back against the shelves. ‘Now it makes sense.’
‘What makes sense?’
‘Why Elle told me that her sister had died.’ He looks down at the file and then back to me. ‘Maybe she wasn’t lying. She might not have been talking about you at all. Maybe this is who she meant.’
‘Another sister? Impossible. I would have known about it.’
‘Don’t you have any family left that you could ask?’
‘Only my aunt, but she doesn’t answer when I call. And a few cousins, I guess, but I don’t have their numbers.’
At that moment Matt reaches up and touches my cheek, brushes something away, and I realise that in the short time I have known him, I feel closer to him than I ever have to Antonio. He takes hold of the folder and starts flicking through the fragile pages.
; ‘What are you looking for?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe there’s something in here that helps. Maybe a copy of her birth certificate, or an old address.’ He turns page after page until he reaches the end of the file. ‘Nothing.’
‘Well, we know her birthday. Could we get a copy of her birth certificate online?’
‘Probably, but isn’t there somewhere that holds records of these things?’ I remember the countless death certificates I signed as a junior doctor, how the mortuary was always nagging me to get things done quickly so that the family could register the death and arrange the funeral. ‘There should be a registrar’s office somewhere where they keep them. Do you know where it would be?’
‘No,’ he says as he stands up, offering me a hand. I take it and with his support get to my feet. ‘But we can find the address on the way.’
38
We decide to take Matt’s car, and by the time we are on the road I am already on the phone to the records office. They are still open, will be for another hour. But we are over twenty miles away. That doesn’t give us much time if the traffic is bad. We have travelled at least five miles before I turn to face the front, but still I’m not entirely convinced that Elle hasn’t somehow acquired a car to follow us. I can’t help but check over my shoulder every time we turn a corner.
I call DC McGuire and tell him about the photos I found in Elle’s drawer, and everything that Matt has told me since. He asks me to scan the Polaroids and email them over, so I do so from my phone. I find it hard to believe how calm I am after discovering that my boyfriend had consensual sadistic sex with my sister, but figure that perhaps it’s because he’s not my boyfriend any more. Whatever we once had is over.
If You Knew My Sister Page 28