Granny shouted some more, but she’d lost the fight and she knew it. I couldn’t believe her plan was just to come round on her own. Why hadn’t she brought the police? (Later she admitted to being worried that Mum would have been in trouble as well.) She hadn’t even brought Grandpa (she hadn’t even told him, I learnt).
She has no idea what these men are capable of.
So, tail between her legs, she left. On the way out she gave me a hug and said I should come with her. I refused.
‘I’m not leaving Mum.’
The second she closed the door everyone seemed to move at once. Whatever calmness Mark had shown when he was intimidating Granny, he was livid now. He came flying into the kitchen and grabbed my neck.
‘You called her, you bitch, didn’t you?’
I denied it, but it was obvious I was lying.
‘Right, in the bedroom. Now!’
I thought I was just going to be given tablets and told to shut up. I was wrong. That wouldn’t do, not this time. I needed to be punished.
‘Don’t hurt me.’ I was surprised to hear my voice, small and weak. ‘I won’t do it again. I promise.’
Mark just stood there. In my imagination he was weighing up how to hurt me most. I felt my entire body tense.
What’s he going to do to me?
I heard screaming and suddenly Mum was shoved into the room as well. Then it dawned on me. Mark probably wouldn’t lay a finger on me. Why would he, when he could hurt me in a different way instead?
I could have kicked myself for going along with Granny’s plan. This was all her fault. She didn’t know about the threats, the hanging from the spire, the knife in my face. She didn’t know that the way these men operated was to not hurt the ones they were angry with but their loved ones instead.
I’m sorry, Mum.
I was forced to look on as two men ripped the clothes from her body. Then she was bent over the dressing table and one of the men forced himself inside her. I know now he was having sex with her – raping her, actually. Back then, I just knew that he was hurting her and she hated it. She was screaming and screaming and I was crying my heart out, begging them to stop, but the men were just laughing. This was fun for them. They took it in turns to do things to her.
And I was made to watch it all. That was my punishment for phoning Granny. My poor, poor Mum. She didn’t deserve this. No one did. They were animals. They treated her like meat and they took pleasure from it.
In one evening, two months of bliss had been totally destroyed. And all because of me.
EIGHT
This is Normal
I can’t remember if I was fed a sleeping pill or just fell asleep naturally, but the next thing I knew it was morning – and I’d missed registration at school.
That was the difference now: I had places to be. It took me ages to clean up after a visit from the men normally, even when it was only a handful of them. After so many of them, it seemed to go on forever. And then there was Mum to think of. Looking at her, with her silly grin and deep, dark, sunken eyes, just made me never want to leave her side. School? I thought. I can’t go to school. I’ve got too much to take care of here.
But Mum made me go. Sluggish and seemingly out of it as she was, Mum knew I had to go. She didn’t want to talk about the previous night and I was trying desperately to pretend it was all a bad dream, so we had a silent understanding to move on. I hated leaving her, but she always promised she’d be okay. Nine times out of ten she was. Half the time I’d leave her at death’s door and by the time I’d returned she’d disappeared for the night. She obviously had a good recovery system.
I knew Mum was right about going to school. Things were different now. I had a life outside our home. The teachers and my classmates would notice if I weren’t there or I arrived late or dishevelled or showing any of the other side effects of my regular home life. It was a problem. But I knew I had to keep up appearances otherwise I’d be put straight into care again. And that wouldn’t help anyone.
Kids are pretty resilient. That’s what I’ve learnt in forty-odd years. I guess I must have been the same. I’d had an almost euphoric few weeks with just Mum in our wonderful flat – that she owned, not rented – but now we were back in our old routine and I just accepted it. It was as if my brain thought, Okay, that was then, this is now – let’s deal with it.
Mum must have been the same. Again and again I’ve looked back and thought, Why did you stay? Why didn’t you just admit defeat and move in with Granny and Grandpa for a while? But she was too stubborn. Too proud, just like her dad. And, I would later realize, just like me.
Mark and friends were regular visitors again, usually in fours or fives, and I was chief joint roller. No one mentioned the phone call to Granny. No one laid a finger on me, actually. It was as if that nightmare experience had never happened. I made joints, set up the bong, took my pills and disappeared. Mum did whatever she did with them and was either there or not in the morning when I woke up. I’d tidy up and go to school. It really was business as usual for a month or two. Horrible, but bearable. Unpleasant, but normal.
And then, one day, I came home from school and Mum wasn’t there. Nothing out of the ordinary there. I hadn’t seen her the previous day either, but two days was normally her limit, so I got changed and decided to make her a chocolate cake. Granny had helped me buy the ingredients ages ago and I vaguely remembered how to mix it all together. That was going to be my little gift to Mum whenever she came back.
She’ll probably be feeling ill again. This will cheer her up.
An hour or so later I heard footsteps climbing the stairs.
No, it’s too soon! The cake’s not ready yet! Even so, I was ecstatic Mum was back. She’s probably not hungry anyway . . .
When the door opened and Grandpa was standing there, I was taken aback. Apart from visiting shortly after we’d moved in, he hadn’t been round. I wasn’t looking forward to explaining that Mum was out. I knew he didn’t like it when she left me alone and now he could see for himself that she wasn’t at home.
Before I could say anything, though, Grandpa said, ‘Your mother’s quite ill. She’s been taken to hospital.’
Ill? That wasn’t news. She was always ill. I wondered why Grandpa looked so concerned. If she came home I would look after her. Like I always do.
‘Grab your coat, Cathy, and I’ll drive you to visit her.’
Was he serious?
‘I can’t go now,’ I replied. ‘The cake’s in the oven. Mum will need her cake when she’s better.’
Grandpa sighed. ‘I’m sure it will be fine if you finish it later.’
‘I can’t finish it later! That’s not how baking works.’
‘For goodness’ sake, Cathy, just leave it.’
But I refused. In my head, Mum would need something to eat when she came home and it was my job to make sure she got it. And if she was as ill as Grandpa reckoned, that just made it twice as important to get it right. So we stayed. Grandpa couldn’t relax and conversation was stilted. Eventually I announced that the sponge had risen and it was time to take it out.
‘At last!’ Grandpa exclaimed theatrically. ‘Can we go now?’
‘Of course not. I’ve got to ice it first.’
I can’t believe now that I put him through this torment. It was my mother in hospital, but she was also his daughter. He was desperate to get back there – that’s obvious now – but the last thing he wanted to do was alert me to the severity of Mum’s condition. He was only thinking of me, but it was tearing him apart.
Before you can ice a cake, you must let it cool, so that used up another twenty minutes or so. Finally, with icing sugar everywhere and cocoa powder all over my clothes, I was ready to leave.
‘Better bring your school things,’ Grandpa warned. ‘I think you’ll be staying with us tonight.’
That’s nice, I thought. It never occurred to Grandpa that I was used to spending nights alone. Nor did it occur to me that Mum wouldn’t be joining us. I in
sisted that we go to Salt-dean to drop off the cake before, eventually, setting off for the hospital.
On the drive there Grandpa didn’t say much, although he did mention something about Mum catching a bug while she was out late at night. He sounded confused. ‘Why would she be out so late?’ he asked, talking to himself more than me.
That, in turn, confused me. Mum always went out late. She stayed out overnight and I had no idea where. But it wasn’t a problem. She’d done that all my life or for at least as long as I could remember. It was normal. But obviously Grandpa had no idea.
I don’t know if I was in denial about the gravity of the situation, but I remember feeling surprised by everyone rushing around, worried about Mum. I genuinely couldn’t escape the sense that they were overreacting. Of course I craved for Mum to be cured of whatever it was that ailed her, and if the hospital could do that then, great, let them. But really, even as we parked the car, walked through reception and caught the lift up to Mum’s ward, I just wanted to shout out, ‘This is normal! She’ll be fine! Let me look after her!’
Seeing your mother hunched over a toilet bowl or, occasionally, failing to wake up before she vomited was one thing. Witnessing her strapped to a high hospital bed with tubes and pipes coming out of her nose and arms and myriad machines lining the wall was an experience I just wasn’t prepared for. I don’t know what I’d expected to see, but it wasn’t Mum lying there unconscious. Even then I tried to justify it.
‘She’s tired,’ I told Granny who was sitting at Mum’s side, holding her hand. ‘She’ll wake up soon.’
Granny smiled. She didn’t seem convinced.
We sat there for ages, it seemed, and then a doctor came in and asked Mum something. Out of nowhere, she managed this slurred, quiet ‘Yes’.
‘See?’ I told Granny. ‘She’s waking up!’
But that was about as much as we heard. She squeezed out a few more yes/no answers and in between gurgled and burbled like a baby talking in its sleep. Still, though, I wasn’t concerned. My biggest priority, in fact, was the cake.
If we don’t get home soon it will be too dry to eat.
Grandpa drove the three of us back to theirs, where I spent the night in the spare room as usual. The next morning he took me to school and then picked me up at the end of the day, announcing, ‘Let’s see if there’s been any change in your mother.’
Hand on heart, I wasn’t very happy at being dragged back to the hospital. I just thought, Here we go again, another evening wasted waiting for Mum to wake up. Because I absolutely believed with all my heart that she would wake up. No matter how rough she looked or sounded, Mum always woke up.
But I went in and I sat next to her and I tried to enjoy the magazine that Granny, who was already there, had bought me. It wasn’t easy. I was bored. I couldn’t help it. No one was talking, Mum hadn’t budged since last night and Granny looked like she would burst into tears if you asked her the time.
Why was everyone making such a fuss? Why didn’t they listen? She does this every week!
The next day Mum was still in hospital. I admit that surprised me. She’s normally up by now. Even so, when Grandpa suggested going back to see her after school, I asked not to. Eventually he relented and I stayed and played at their house. It was the same the next day, and the next. In fact, probably a week passed before I returned. Even then, it was against my better judgement. Yes, it had been longer than usual, but nothing was set in stone with Mum. I’d learnt that years ago.
So back I went and tried to talk to her, but she barely reacted to anything.
Fine. I’ll talk to you when you wake up.
I thought I deserved a medal for lasting as long as I had. Eventually though, patience absolutely exhausted, I said, ‘Can we go yet?’
Granny sighed and spoke quietly to Grandpa. Then he said, ‘Come on, Cathy, it’s probably time to eat anyway.’
‘What about Granny?’ I asked, ever the practical little girl I’d been forced to become. ‘We’ve only got one car.’
‘Don’t worry about me,’ Granny replied. ‘I’ll make my own way home.’
I wasn’t happy, but I accepted it. A second later I was skipping out of the hospital entrance, relieved to have escaped that dreary place. I really, really hoped I wouldn’t have to go back there the following day.
When I got up for breakfast Granny and Grandpa were waiting for me.
‘I’ve got some terrible news,’ Granny said, her eyes filled with tears. ‘Your mother . . .’ she paused. ‘Your mother died last night.’
As soon as the words left her lips, she slumped back as though she’d been building up to say them all morning. I took all of this in before the message hit home.
Died.
‘She’s dead?’ I couldn’t believe it. ‘Dead?’ The word sounded wrong even as I was saying it.
‘Yes, dear,’ Granny said and came over to hug me. I didn’t exactly push her away. I was just too shocked. Immobile through disbelief.
‘But there was nothing wrong with her,’ I spluttered.
Grandpa looked surprised. ‘She was very ill.’
‘No, she wasn’t,’ I insisted. ‘That was normal. She’s like that, then she gets up. Normal, see?’
But they didn’t see. They both shook their heads and Granny started crying. The more I protested, the more upset they both became. Whatever they’d planned for this moment, I don’t think it was working out.
‘She can’t be dead. It must be a mistake.’
‘There’s no mistake, dear,’ Granny said. ‘I was there when she left us.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘She’s gone. Really gone.’
Part of me wanted to rush down to the hospital and check for myself. Another part wanted to hare round the garden screaming. But yet another part wanted to gather up my satchel and set off for school. That was how my life worked: you got upset and you moved on. Things to do. Always things to do.
But I did none of those things. Looking back, Granny and Grandpa must have thought I had a heart of stone. But there was a reason I didn’t cry. It wasn’t because I hadn’t loved Mum. It was because I refused to accept she’d gone. It was all a big mistake, I was sure of it. Mum needed me to remain vigilant, to work out how to get her back. Crying wouldn’t help her or me.
In any case, the Beavises were not a crying family. I don’t know if Grandpa ever cried in his whole life; I certainly never saw him shed a tear over Mum. Even Granny would usually remove herself to her room when she became emotional.
Tears or not, there was a horribly subdued atmosphere at Tremola Avenue that morning. I spent most of it in my room, while Granny and Grandpa had visitors or spoke on the telephone. There was a lot to talk about. People had a lot of questions. But I just had one.
How can she be dead? I’ve seen her like that a hundred times.
That was what I couldn’t get over.
Time is a great healer, they say. That may be true, but time doesn’t explain anything. I had so many regrets about Mum’s death. More than thirty years later, they’re still with me, every minute of the day.
The thing is, no one ever told me my mother was dying. I’ve thought about this many, many times over the years and I can’t find it in me to blame my grandparents. They were doing what they thought was best. I was a child. Any responsible adult would have done the same thing. They were trying to protect me from the horrors of death. They could never have known that I’d been living with the spectre of mortality for years. In a way, the horrors of life had been far, far worse.
Whenever I think of the time I spent at the side of her hospital bed, I cringe. I’d seen Mum comatose so many times it wasn’t an event anymore. I’d lost count of the times she’d been unable to answer simple questions. On those days I just went out and played and returned when she’d perked up. Because she always perked up eventually. Not this time.
I felt almost embarrassed for not realizing what was going on. I’d looked at Mum’s limp and bloated body, grunting occasional utterances
, and thought she was getting over a night out. In fact, her body was going through the final shutdown. One by one, her faculties were switching off. And I didn’t notice.
As the news of her passing began to sink in, I couldn’t believe how bored I’d been. If I’d known they were her last moments, what would I have done differently? I don’t know. But I would have felt different. I wouldn’t have been desperate to escape. I would have stayed, like Granny, holding her hand until the very end.
As it was, I never got to say goodbye. That was the hardest blow of all. When I’d skipped out of the ward, I hadn’t looked back. I just assumed she’d be there the next day. I couldn’t even remember my last words to her. I’d probably said them when we were still together at home. I was probably on my way to school or looking for my shoes, something mundane like that. Had I told her recently how much I loved her? I couldn’t remember. I should have done. I should have told her every day. I loved her so much, and maybe she never knew.
I didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye at her funeral either. Again, as was customary at the time, because of my age, I wasn’t allowed to go to church for the cremation service, although, as an adult, I have never missed visiting her memorial on the anniversary of her death. My last memory of Mum is her lying there, bloated and incoherent in that hospital bed. I wish I had closure, I truly do. I wish I remembered her in better times. But that was it. That’s the image that stayed with me for so long afterwards.
Three times I went to see her in hospital. Three times, and for a grand total of maybe a couple of hours. That was all the time I could spare. And she never did eat that bloody cake! That was something else that made me angry, illogically so. But it’s something I can smile about now. I can’t say that about many things from those days.
I was so stunned by Mum dying that it was a day or two before I asked how. I don’t think children contemplate causes of death that much. You’re either alive or you’re not. Knowing what killed someone doesn’t make their death any easier to bear. It’s a healthy way to think, actually. I wish adults could hold on to that simplicity of thought for longer.
Escape From Evil Page 11