I’m violently shaking by the time I’m done, the effort of speaking my mind so exhausting and draining, I can hardly even believe I did it – even when I knew it would hurt to.
I leave the table swiftly and I’m gone.
I get in my car, drive somewhere safe, and then cry.
Just cry.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
DEAR ANITA,
I must thank you for your response. It was enlightening to say the least.
I wonder, if you feel at all guilty about the way in which you tried to tear down a fellow artiste, whether you might come and see my play performed?
An amdram group picked it up and loved it. I started thinking… and so, I decided to use my own money to hire out a church hall for a week, giving the company the chance to perform it for audiences every night. They’re selling tickets and all proceeds will go to local arts charities at my behest.
I enclose a leaflet with details.
Regards,
Liza Browne (widow)
Chapter Thirty-Nine
IT’S OPENING NIGHT AND AS I search the audience before taking my seat next to Sam, I don’t see anyone even vaguely resembling Anita. Most of the people here tonight are friends, relatives, friends of friends, amdram-affiliated or neighbours of my mother’s. I know Anita booked a ticket because Vernon told me she had – and I know what she looks like from her picture on the internet.
Deflated, I turn to Sam by my side. “I can’t see her.”
“Don’t worry. You don’t need her,” he whispers back, as the music starts and the curtains open.
When the first scene starts to play out, I can hardly believe what I’m seeing. Yes, there have been slight tweaks to the work, but I vividly remember the morning I started writing this play and now it’s being performed almost to the letter I imagined it. I can’t believe it.
On stage, a few of the residents are gathered around outside the newsagents, studying the board which reads:
£30million unclaimed ticket bought in Dunswell
It’s a scene in which hysteria grips the people. Several of the cast run home to check through drawers and piles of paper. Others pour into the newsagents to question the owner, Khalil about who he sold the ticket to.
Then all that quickly fades and cuts to a new scene, a chip shop. I love how Vernon got his pupils at school to design the cardboard chip-shop scenery which has just been quickly rolled in by the schoolkids, who are all working as crew throughout this production – as part of their coursework, would you believe it. He’s a treasure. I lean forward slightly to catch Jules’ eye. She’s sitting next to Sam and winks, nodding her head. She likes it.
Suzie is a domestic goddess, as she describes herself. She’s fond of pink aprons and gloves fringed with feathers. She’s a social butterfly. In comparison, her business partner Mark is grey and lifeless. She takes joy and laughs at the silliest jokes, but the contrast as we watch it play out on stage is immense.
Then unfolds the tense search for the ticket – a comedy of errors, misconceptions and haphazard attempts to uncover the real winner. Humanity is rolled out for everyone to see, from the single dad in dire need of a cash injection, to the old folk who are vulnerable, to people living on their own who keep to themselves so much, they could be serial killers for all we know (according to Suzie). There are severe scene changes which cut from the hustle and bustle of the chip shop’s hectic teatime rush, to the deathly quiet of Suzie and Mark’s flat above, once everyone else has gone home. On stage, it works well, because it all seems so humdrum, but you just know that the proverbial English village always has secrets to bear.
I spoke with Vernon about the moral of this story extensively, over many pots of tea and several tubes of jaffa cakes and rich tea biscuits. We decided the ending was a little flavourless, so we changed it.
The play runs for an hour and fifteen minutes, so there’s no intermission, and I’m glad about that. It gives the story to the audience full pelt, and anyway, I’m not so grandiose that I would foist a two-hour epic on people, not when I’m only just starting out.
Finally, Suzie discovers Mark has been harbouring the ticket all along. The audience gasps as she holds it aloft, squealing and giggling. I can see Jules with her hand over her mouth, knowing something’s coming. I close my eyes, picturing the script in my mind’s eye, the play exacted just how I wrote it…
She’s skipping around the room, manic and hysterical. Mark walks in on her, having heard all the racket, and is shocked to see her with the ticket. He’s stunned into silence. She spots him in the doorway staring, but continues dancing victoriously until his long face aggravates her enough to stop and stare back.
SUZIE
I should have known. You knew what I’d do, didn’t you? Didn’t you? You don’t know what it’s like living with you; seeing the same haunting memories in your eyes that I live with, too. You always knew I would leave, didn’t you? When I had the money to no longer be co-dependent.
MARK
You will always be dependent. We both will.
She throws her arms up in the air, her body gyrating, the winning ticket held aloft still – her celebratory mood untainted by his.
SUZIE
I’m going to see the world.
MARK
You’re deluded that money will fix everything!
SUZIE
Me? Deluded? HA! That’s funny. That’s really funny. This ticket… it’s a sign. It’s fate. It’s telling me to GOOOOO! To leave. I finally get to leave. I get to live.
MARK
No, you get to keep lying, albeit in better clothes. (he sighs) Face it! You could’ve left anytime. Anytime at all. Got a job doing anything. You can’t admit that we’re trapped… together. By our shared past. And you know it. Always have been, always will be. You know it. Admit it!
SUZIE
I’m admitting nothing but that I’m rich and – that I’m going.
MARK
You’ll be back.
SUZIE
I won’t. I promise. I won’t.
(fade)
I open my eyes and allow myself the pleasure of enjoying it as an audience member. The next scene unfolds.
This time, she’s alone in the living room, her bags packed beside her. She’s taking one last look around the place, checking she’s not left anything. The honk of a taxi in the background lets us know it’s time. She has a big smile on her face, a plane ticket in her hand and a new outfit, all pink.
Unfortunately, the taxi’s honk also alerts Mark, too.
He arrives upstairs, out of breath from having raced up. Perhaps he didn’t believe she would actually go.
He asks her what does she think she’s doing. She says she’s going, like she said.
He tells her she can’t go, they belong together.
Surprisingly, she replies, “We don’t belong together.”
“We do. We went through it, together.”
On the curtain behind them, a picture is projected onto it, becoming the focus as Suzie and Mark stand frozen in time. The crew really have done a great job.
It’s a picture of a little girl and boy, both with blonde hair the same as Mark and Suzie have now. We assumed all along they were man and wife, but actually they’re brother and sister living and working together (I made that change myself; Vernon didn’t suggest it).
A number of voiceovers then play out a message:
The various inhabitants of the village are telling a news reporter what they’d do with the money if they got it and how much it might improve their lives. It’s insinuated that Suzie knows how the money could help all the people she knows and has befriended, but that when it comes down to it, she doesn’t give a rat’s arse.
Then there are loud, angry voices which suddenly replace the villagers’ viewpoints.
The actors playing Mark and Suzie crouch on the ground, scared for their lives. They’re being told they’re no good, they’ll amount to nothing, they’re worthless and
rubbish. There’s the sound of boots kicking and straps slapping against flesh.
The voiceovers fade and the actors rise to their feet again. The spotlights focus on just their faces, only their profiles highlighted to the audience.
“We could split it,” she says.
“You’ll leave me either way. You’ve been waiting for this.”
“Yes,” she says.
Escaping their co-dependence… it’s all she’s wanted.
Could either one of them live with other people? No. Not when they carry demons around, everywhere they go. Nobody else would understand.
“I won’t survive. Who else do I have to share this with?” he pleads.
“Nobody.”
Their traumatic, shared childhood…
Why would he allow her to escape when she’s the only one who understands him? The funny thing is, Suzie has been upbeat throughout the whole play, but now she’s wreathed in darkness, her true personality on display.
Standing off against one another, it’s unclear what’s going to happen.
Then he takes a fish knife out of his pocket and strikes her, dead in the gut. She falls to the floor to shocked gasps from the audience.
Realising what he’s done, the lights fade out on an image of him, suddenly wracked and in pain.
While the audience sits in shock in pure darkness, there’s a muffled cry of pain on stage, and then the lights come back on, showing brother and sister dead, side by side.
Everybody loves the macabre.
There’s deathly silence while the audience tries to digest the play. Perhaps they’re wondering if there’s a twist to come. There isn’t. No twist at all.
We thought they were a loveless married couple, but all along there was something so much more sinister going on. The audience didn’t spot the truth, though. Not in the way she always went to bed alone, not in the way he ate scraps downstairs while she made herself a salad upstairs. They didn’t see it in the way she treated him like nothing, and they didn’t even see it when he clearly had a thing for the assistant server.
All the villagers thought they were a couple and they allowed people to think that because it was easier than admitting they were single thirty-somethings still living with their sibling.
People around me begin to stand and clap. They applaud, louder and louder, before they cheer and whistle – the story having eventually sunk in. Its meaning and relevance is far above that of a story about a severely disconnected couple and their broken marriage. My play actually distinguishes factions in society and how selfishness is creating divisions in communities. Not only that, it demonstrates that there are people with stories all around us – and it would be wrong to ever judge someone before you’ve really sat down and heard their story.
The lights of the village hall are switched to full capacity and the actors take their bows.
All the while, everyone in the room is standing, except Sam.
Not Sam.
I try not to look at him, but I can’t help it.
He’s clapping but his head’s bowed.
He’s working on that bottom lip like he might explode if he doesn’t.
I didn’t tell him I’d changed the play, you see.
When I get accosted by people wanting to congratulate me, I soak up the admiration. However, I don’t fail to notice him sneak away, shocked and disgusted by the whole event.
Then I get a surprise. A tap on the shoulder.
Anita, in her leather coat and huge jewellery, holds her hand out to me.
“Very nice, Liza. Very nice. I’m glad you took the hint and changed it. Transformed the whole thing.”
“Yes,” I agree, smiling. “I had help, though. An old teacher of mine said I needed to change it, and something just popped into my head, you see.”
Anita taps her lip. “We have a small studio we could adapt this for. I must emphasize, though. It is very small. We’ll be using proper actors, though and much more sophisticated techniques, but if it does well, who knows?”
“I actually have something new for you.”
“Oh, yes?” She narrows her eyes.
“It’s about a gay man, but he’s married to a woman and their marriage is loveless. A black comedy, you might say. She knows he’s cheating and so she starts following him around to try and catch him out. It’s terrifically cliché; they even start going clubbing together once she realises the truth. They become the best of friends and actually realise they’d rather stay together. Though loveless, they get on with one another. It’s a work in progress, but kind of a commentary on dating these days.”
“One thing at a time, Ms Browne. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Handing me her card, she says, “Keep in touch. My driver’s waiting.”
“Oh, wait! Can I just ask, what made you come?”
She gives me a brief glance over her shoulder. “You’re a widow, like me.”
And just like that, she’s gone.
I HAVE WARRICK and Jules drop me home, but before I leave the car, Warrick looks over his shoulder. It’s not gone unnoticed that Sam upped and left, even when he was my lift home.
“Why’d you do that to him?” he asks, peering at me.
Jules looks confused, wondering what he could mean. She’s been left out in the cold where Sam’s secrets are concerned, clearly.
“It just came over me one day.”
Warrick nods. “We’ll see you soon, Liza.”
“Really loved it,” Jules repeats, for about the twentieth time. “Hetty can’t wait to come see it.”
“Thanks guys. Really. See you.”
I jump out of the vehicle and walk swiftly up the driveway. Sam’s car is here, so he must be too.
Indoors, I locate him easily. He’s got the whisky open on the kitchen table.
The first thing he says to me is, “How could you?”
I knew it would provoke a reaction. I also know that when writers go deep and dark, it speaks to an audience – especially to those who’ve had similar experiences.
“You and Clara, you mean?” I state, not beating about the bush.
I flip on the kettle but he jumps up out of his seat, slotting himself between me and the sideboard so that I can’t get to my cups or teabags. There’s a blind fury in his eyes that’s clouding his judgement. I can’t see my Sam, I can only see that other one his memories have evoked.
I stand my ground, keeping my tone of voice firm. “It turns out that once you’ve been as low as you can possibly go – which I have – then nothing after that scares you. And I don’t care what you say, you need to face the truth.”
He looks ready to swing his fists about. I’ve brought out this other side of him, the true side. The man he really is.
“How did you know?” he asks, the blood vessels in his eyes popping, all the veins in his face protruding.
“I didn’t. I just guessed.” And now he’s confirmed my suspicion.
Pretending a sibling isn’t dead, even when they are, is common for people who’ve been through trauma. They tell strangers about that long-lost loved one, even though they’re actually gone – no way for them to come back. Sam can’t face the truth, because he was a part of it. He was also very young when it happened.
He moves out of the way as I make my cup of tea, sitting at the kitchen table with his head in his hands.
I plonk myself down at the table and pour a few hefty sploshes of whisky into my tea.
“I’m here and I’m listening,” I tell him. “Time to unburden yourself.”
He messes up his hair good and proper, dragging his fingers through it over and over, his anguish palpable. Then he finally lifts his bloodshot eyes to mine. “After school one day, he told me to tell her that Jake, her boyfriend was waiting for her down at the pig shed.”
“Clara’s boyfriend?”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
“I was seven. I didn’t know any better.”
“Yes, but
what happened?”
“I followed her, to the shed. Wondered what Dad was up to. I saw him grab her. I was behind some bushes, hiding, but I saw. She screamed and struggled. He slid the door shut on the barn and it became quiet. I went home.”
“Okay. Then…?”
He takes a deep breath. “Mum showed me a note the next day. It said Clara had left and gone to live with Jake.”
“She was in on it.”
“I went to the shed. It’d been recently jet washed and new hay laid down. Mum and Dad kept me under lock and key. I never knew what had really happened, until years later…”
“Yes…?”
“It was after you said Warrick knew stuff. It made me want to know more, too. I went and found the death certificate, confirming it. It was like a knife to the heart, even when I’d known it all along anyway. Then newspaper clippings told me she’d been found raped and murdered in Gloucestershire, a hundred miles from home. There were two lots of DNA, none matching my dad or her boyfriend Jake. Dad had an alibi and a jury decided she’d been abducted and raped in a field by two men who’d followed her home from school. I think my dad must have quietened her with drugs or something, then had people deal with her.”
“Why did he do it?”
“Because of her threats to tell the truth about him.”
“He’d molested her,” I guess correctly, because he’s nodding.
“When she was younger, yes. She told me about it once, in not so many words. She then said if anyone touched me on my privates, I was to tell her and she’d sort it out for me. When Dad once came into my bedroom naked and wanted me to look at him and touch it so that I’d know what it was like to be a man, I told her what had happened.”
Guilt Page 30