Say You Love Me

by Marion Husband

  ‘For God’s sake!’ Simon frowned at him, surprise disarming his anger a little. ‘Go and make yourself decent!’

  The boy pushed him, the flat of his hand against Simon’s chest. ‘Fuck off out of it.’

  ‘I will, when I’m certain Annette is all right.’ He looked past Carter to the terrified girl. ‘My dear, we were worried about you –’

  Turning to his wife Carter said, ‘Is this the bastard you’ve been fucking? Is it?’

  Simon gazed at him in disgust. ‘Go and get dressed.’

  Ignoring him, Carter said, ‘Tell me who he is. Don’t lie to me now. Don’t you dare.’

  She looked at Simon. ‘Please go. Please, I’m all right.’

  ‘I won’t go until I know you’re safe.’ To Carter he said, ‘I’m Simon Walker. Your wife works for me. Today she gave me cause to be concerned for her, which is why I’m here. Now, you go and get dressed and calm yourself down and I’ll make us all a cup of tea.’

  He made to step past Carter, turning his face away to avoid looking at him, already he had seen enough. The boy was slight, his skin deathly pale against the dark hair covering his chest. He didn’t seem to care about his nakedness, his exposed cock shrivelled in its nest of pubic hair. Simon caught his musk-like scent, darkly sexual, and suddenly he couldn’t control his disgust. Turning on the boy he said, ‘Don’t you have any decency? You have two young sons – what if they were to see you like this?’

  ‘Two sons? Is that what she told you?’ He laughed. ‘I’ve one, only one.’

  There was a muffled cry from upstairs. Annette’s hand went to her mouth and she turned to Carter; he shot her a quick, silencing look.

  ‘Is there someone upstairs, Annette?’ Simon stepped towards her. Cautiously he said, ‘Annette, there’s no need to be frightened –’

  She began to cry. ‘I wanted to give him something to eat, but he was asleep –’

  ‘Shut up, you silly bitch!’ Carter turned to him. ‘She’s talking rubbish – there’s no one here.’

  ‘Are your boys upstairs, Annette? Are they poorly?’ As he stepped towards the stairs, Carter barred his way.

  ‘Where d’you think you’re going?’

  ‘Get out of my way, unless you want me to call the police.’

  Carter laughed as though astonished. ‘You call the police? Who broke into my house – who came in here shouting the odds?’

  Simon shoved him to one side but the boy caught his arm. ‘You’re not going up there. This is my house – you’ve no right!’

  For a moment they stood face to face. Carter’s nakedness had come to seem almost normal, making him think of the time he’d spent working on the mental wards when he was training and how lunacy could all too easily become unremarkable. And Carter was so slight, boyish – he could knock him down with one swipe of his arm. Only his eyes gave him pause; they betrayed the boy’s madness and he knew that mad men often had the strength of devils.

  Softly Simon said, ‘Listen, my boy, why don’t you show me upstairs yourself? I just want to satisfy myself –’

  Carter stepped aside. ‘Go on then. Go and satisfy yourself. He’s asleep, but if you want to disturb him, go ahead.’

  Looking at Annette, Simon said, ‘Will you show me where he sleeps, Annette? Best if his mummy is there if he wakes – I don’t want to scare him.’

  She shook her head, her voice barely a whisper. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Oh, come now!’ He attempted to smile at her, to be patient, even as his growing anxiety made him want to rush to the child. ‘Annette, I’m sure he’ll want his mummy.’ Holding out his hand to her he said, ‘Come on. We’ll go and see him together.’

  Leading her up the narrow staircase, Simon thought of his father and how his work as a GP took him so often into his patients’ homes: uncontrolled, unpredictable places, the front line. Drunkenness, madness, squalor – his father took it all in his stride. Simon knew he wouldn’t have had his father’s forbearance. He needed the conformity of hospital wards, the mediating nurses. Here, in Annette’s little house, he felt a weight of foreboding he had never experienced before. Whatever he was about to be confronted with, he would have to deal with it alone.

  At the top of the stairs the itch-inducing stink of unwashed bodies became stronger. Simon turned to Annette, still hardly able to believe she could keep such a house. Her husband was close behind her, his eyes darting from side to side as if he was a thief in his own home, ready to run at the slightest hint of discovery. They’re children, Simon thought, and the pretence of being adults has driven them both mad. Gently he said, ‘Which room, Annette?’

  She pointed at a closed door straight ahead. Turning the handle Simon found that it was locked. ‘Do you have the key?’

  ‘You’re not going in there.’ Carter pushed his wife to one side. ‘If you don’t get out –’

  ‘Be quiet, now.’ Simon spoke as calmly as he could. ‘Listen, it’s Danny, isn’t it? Danny, I want to help you. I want to help you and your wife and your boys. No one’s going to hurt you –’

  ‘I don’t want you taking him away! You’ll take him away and I won’t have it!’ Carter stood in front of the locked door, his arms out-stretched to bar the way, and Simon thought how easy it would be to lift him away bodily and simply put his shoulder to the door. Instead he touched his arm. ‘Danny, let me see your little boy. I only want to see him and make sure he’s all right.’

  ‘He is! He’s fine!’

  Annette was weeping and Carter’s eyes darted to her. ‘You stop crying! Stop crying, you hear? There’s nothing to cry about!’

  ‘Please let the doctor in, please.’ Reaching out to Danny, she sobbed, ‘Doctor Walker will know what to do! He’ll die, Danny. Don’t let my baby die…’

  ‘He’s not going to die!’ Carter’s voice rose hysterically and he looked at Simon as though he would confirm this. ‘Tell her – Mark wanted me to do it – you should see how much he wants it! He loves it!’ Grasping Simon’s arm he said conspiratorially, ‘I think he’s possessed. He makes me do things to him! He’s not just an ordinary little kid, I’m warning you!’

  Shrugging off his grasp, Simon said, ‘Move out of the way.’ Carter shook his head and Simon pushed him to one side before standing back and putting his shoulder to the door. It gave easily and he staggered into the room.

  At once Simon covered his mouth with his hand, overcome by the stink. It was the smell of the filthiest brothel, of sweat and semen and soiled bedding. Across the window thin red curtains filtered the sunlight so that the room was bathed in a pinkish glow. Simon gagged; stumbling, he went to the window, tearing the curtains to one side and shoving it open. He turned to the bed.

  The child lay on his stomach, his arms raised above his head, each wrist tied to the bedstead, his mouth gagged with a rag. He was naked. As Simon went to him, he saw that his back and thighs were covered in red weals as though he’d been beaten with a cane. Kneeling by the bed, Simon untied the gag and the cord that bound his wrists, all the time keeping up a soft stream of words as he felt for his pulse. The child was barely conscious, his breathing shallow. Almost overcome by pity, Simon clenched his jaw; he could not be weak, he must not give in to the pain and grief he felt at the sight of this child and the remembrance of his own.

  Standing behind him, Carter said, ‘It’s like a devil’s inside him – I had to keep him quiet, what else could I do –’

  Simon lifted Mark into his arms. Half-starved, he seemed to weigh nothing at all. His eyes flickered and Simon made himself smile to reassure him, stroking his shorn head.

  Stepping in front of him Carter said, ‘Don’t take him. He’s mine.’ His voice was pleading, and he touched his son’s body so that Simon stepped back, disgusted by this naked creature. He turned to Annette who stood in the doorway, her hand covering her mouth, her eyes wide. Again she reminded him of a little girl that had been discovered in some forbidden place. She seemed to be waiting for him to be angry. Gently he sa
id, ‘Annette, you must come with me and your little boy to the hospital in my car – it will be quicker than calling an ambulance –’

  ‘He doesn’t need an ambulance!’ Carter shouted, ‘You give him back!’

  As Danny made to snatch Mark from his arms, Annette pulled him back. ‘Don’t you touch him! You’ve hurt him enough.’

  Danny turned on her. Grasping both her arms, he shook her violently. ‘Why did you bring him here? Why? This is your fault, you stupid bitch!’ He pushed her, both hands flat against her chest so that she staggered. He pushed her again, screaming obscenities as she stumbled through the open door and fell backwards down the stairs.

  Simon waited in the hospital corridor. He had wanted to stay with the child, but Iain had gently insisted that he should wait outside while he examined him. He was pleased it was Iain – the first doctor he’d seen as he followed the ambulance men into the hospital. Iain was a good man, a fine man, he had taken charge of the situation whereas he had been useless, on the brink of tears, of making a real show of himself. ‘You’re in shock,’ Iain had said, and he’d taken his arm and made him sit down, here, on this chair in the corridor, a visitor’s chair, a chair for those who waited and prayed, uselessly.

  A nurse brought him a cup of tea. It grew cold at his feet, too milky, too sweet. Sweetness was good for shock. He should drink it. The smell of that hellish room was still in his nose and mouth, it might take the taste away. He closed his eyes, seeing Annette again, broken at the bottom of those stairs. Slumping forward, he held his head in his hands and groaned softly.

  He couldn’t remember going downstairs. He remembered holding the child and the feel and smell of him as he crouched over Annette’s body. He’d kept his hand firmly on the back of Mark’s head so his face was pressed to his shoulder and he wouldn’t see. And then a woman appeared at the front door. She said, ‘What’s going on –’ and she stopped, her hand going to her chest as though her heart had stopped along with her words. This was Annette’s neighbour, he discovered, Joan. He remembered that he had told her to call an ambulance, and he remembered his voice was quick with impatience as though it was her fault that Annette lay there at his feet. He’d looked up at the woman because she didn’t seem able to move and more sharply he’d said, ‘Hurry up – go!’ At once she was running, and it seemed only a moment before she was back again, taking the child from him, rocking him in her arms and singing softly as though he was hers. She sang I Had A Little Nut Tree, because, she said, Mark knew the words and it always comforted him. They sat on the stairs together, he and Joan, Mark cradled in her lap, and she told him all this as they waited for the ambulance. He had covered Annette’s face with a clean handkerchief, taken from his drawer that morning. Joan had grasped his hand tightly. He felt as though he had known Joan all his life, for ever, and that they didn’t have to speak to comfort each other. At the top of the stairs Danny crouched, groaning, his arms covering his head as if shielding himself from expected blows. They ignored him, almost forgot him. The ambulance came, the police. The door to the street was open and the little hallway filled with noise and blue light. Joan staggered to her feet, clutching Mark to her as though she would fight rather than give him up.

  Simon sat back in the hard, hospital chair. He breathed out, trying to be calm and think clearly. A statement had to be made to the police. The young constable, who had crouched beside Annette’s body and checked for a pulse, as if he hadn’t already searched for it, had told him he would have to go to the station and make a written statement. By then Danny had been handcuffed. From somewhere a blanket had been found and thrown over Danny’s shoulders to hide his nakedness so that he looked like a savage dressed by missionaries so as not to offend God. How small he seemed, and slight. Simon had told the police to go easy on him as they bundled him away; his pity was raw and indiscriminate and he felt consumed by it. Besides, the boy was mad, and he thought of his bare feet, blackened by the filthy street and wanted to weep because they had seemed so pathetic.

  Iain came out of the examining room. Simon stood up at once and Iain smiled the kind of smile he himself used on those who waited in corridors: ready to give reassurance but grave, doling out hope in small measure. Taking his arm Iain made him sit down again and sat beside him. After a moment’s hesitation he said, ‘Simon…’ He sighed, and suddenly all his professional front was lost. He rubbed his hand over his face and groaned softly. ‘Oh, Christ, Simon. That child – what he must have suffered!’

  ‘Tell me.’

  Iain looked at him. ‘You already know what he did to him. You know that it’s unspeakable.’ He exhaled sharply. ‘Christ! I’d like to kill him! He should be hanged! His own son! How could a man do that to his own child – to any child? He must be sick!’

  ‘That has to be your answer, that he’s sick.’

  Iain snorted. ‘And so he’ll be sent to a nice, quiet asylum?’

  Simon bowed his head. He thought of Danny hunched inside the police car, imagined what would happen to him in a cell before it was decided that he should be in a hospital. He turned to Iain. ‘Can I see Mark?’

  ‘He’s sedated.’ He hesitated again. At last he said quickly, ‘I don’t think you should get any more involved.’

  Simon stood up. ‘Let me see him, please.’

  ‘Why? Simon, I think you’ve done enough, best to leave it to the social workers now.’

  ‘It?’

  Iain sighed. ‘All right. Just for a moment. I don’t want him upset.’

  * * *

  Later as he lay sleepless in bed, he wished he hadn’t seen him and that he had gone straight home and tried not to think about Annette’s son. But he had followed Iain into the room and stood by the trolley where Mark lay on his side, a drip in his arm, his eyes closed as if he slept an ordinary sleep. He touched his cheek gently, relieved to see that some colour had returned, a little at least.

  He’d turned to Iain. ‘It’s my fault – I should have guessed what was going on –’

  Iain had been dismissive, said that the child wasn’t his responsibility, that anyway he had acted in time to save his life, and what more could he have done, in the end?

  ‘His mother’s dead.’ He had wiped his tears away impatiently, fumbling for his handkerchief only to remember what he had done with it.

  In bed he turned on his side. Joy was sleeping, exhausted. They had sat up late and he had talked and she had listened and he had been reminded of why he’d first been drawn to her: she calmed him. He had an urge to wake her and ask if she believed he could have done more. But in the end he knew it wouldn’t matter what she said, if she lied to him or told him the truth, he would always believe Annette’s death was partly down to him, that he should have guessed sooner how frightened she was and saved her and her children.

  Chapter 27

  Kitty found Ben in his study. Standing in the doorway she waited for him to look up from his book. ‘That was the hospital,’ she said. ‘It’s Simon, they think you should be there.’

  He put his book down, closed it on a bookmark. Standing up he said, ‘Will you come with me?’

  ‘Yes, of course!’

  ‘The baby –’

  ‘Mam’s on her way.’

  He stepped towards her. ‘Kitty…’ Glancing away, he laughed painfully. ‘What if we don’t go?’

  ‘We have to.’

  ‘But if we didn’t make it in time?’

  ‘We will.’

  He sank down into his chair. Holding out his hand to her he said, ‘Come here.’

  He pulled her down onto his knee and she rested her head against his shoulder. She thought that it had been a while since he held her like this and that being held on his knee made her feel like a little girl, made her feel that he was so much older and stronger, like a father, although not like her father. Her father was shy of such closeness, had never touched her, not once.

  Stroking her hair he said quietly, ‘I wish I was younger, Kitty. I wish I were your age
. All this, this house, my career – I would give it all up if it meant I could start again with you. When Dad dies perhaps we should go away, somewhere completely fresh, where no one knows anything about me –’ He laughed bleakly. ‘I thought that by living here I could square up to the past, confront Danny, confront Simon, as though the past could be sorted out and tidied away, forgotten, if only I asked the right questions. But I went at it half-cock – I couldn’t decide how much any of it mattered any more. I’d look at you and Nathan…’

  The doorbell rang. Her mother called out, ‘Hello? Only me.’

  ‘That’s Mam.’ Kitty stood up. ‘We have to go.’

  ‘Kit –’ He caught her hand. ‘I don’t know if I can face him…’

  ‘You can. I’ll be there, I’ll help you. Everything will be all right,’ she said. ‘Everything will be fine.’

  Steven said, ‘Mark, are you OK?’

  Mark turned his head on the pillow to look at him, realising that he had been silent for a while, had felt that if he closed his eyes he might even go to sleep. He was so tired always and the boy was such an easy person to be alone with. He stared at the ceiling. A crack ran from the door to the window as though linking escape routes. In his mind’s eye he saw Annette fall down the stairs just as he’d described it to Steven, a graceful fall, because it was her gracefulness that he remembered most about her.

  Carefully Steven said, ‘Mark, you don’t have to tell me any more –’