The first one was small and well thumbed. It showed a brown-haired baby, his eyes puffy and closed, lips pursed and a tiny fist folded against his mouth, the kind of picture they take from ward trolleys peddling bedside mementos of new-born babies.
I looked at the next three photographs: a toddler, head thrown back, grinning to camera; a small boy standing on a beach, wrapped in a sodden, sandy towel; an older boy, maybe seven or eight years old. He was brown-haired too, his locks too long. His pose was defiant, clutching a bright yellow plastic machine gun. It was the boy I’d seen in the bedroom, the one with the pear drum. Danny.
I didn’t believe in ghosts. There was always a rational explanation for everything. What I’d seen in that room was a warped memory, stimulated by my return, by all the stuff that had been going on, my manic, frantic state of mind.
It came to me clearly, all the times he’d bullied me, his face pushing into mine, snatching toys, pinching me in the back seat of the car until I shrieked and Elizabeth told me off – for pinching him. That moment at the campsite, when he’d placed a rat in my bed, glorying in my horror and humiliation. He’d boasted about it to Steph afterwards, relishing every word. The Wassail and the apple-bobbing when he’d gone too far and almost drowned me. How I’d hated him – I’d had good reason to hate him.
I unfolded the papers. It was a two-page letter, headed with an official-looking black typeface. Bannerman and Friedland, Child Psychiatry. It was dated 30th October 1997.
Dear Mrs Crowther,
Thank you for bringing your daughter, Caroline, to me on Tuesday 24th October. We spent a very productive couple of hours together and I was able to observe her in play and conversation. She is a very creative child with a vivid, highly visual imagination, and she responds well to artistic activities as well as the more generic ones that do not challenge her own sense of security. But I regret to say that we have made no progress on her memory. Your daughter is suffering from severe memory loss relating to all episodes prior to your son Daniel’s accident a year ago.
Her short-term memory is fine and she has settled remarkably well back at school, as you know, albeit unusually subdued and quiet – but in all fairness, this is to be expected. I can reassure you that I have found no evidence of developmental conditions. It is simply that she cannot recollect anything prior to last October.
My conclusion is that this is a form of post-traumatic stress disorder, a condition that typically affects adults experiencing severe trauma or life experiences that induce shock and emotional shut-down. All events prior to and including the triggering event have been blocked from her memory. It’s a condition that occurs less often in children but in the case of your daughter is explained, I fear, by the tragic events that took place on 18th October last year.
I’m so very sorry for your loss. Losing your son like that – I can’t begin to express how you must feel. I understand your concerns regarding your daughter’s poor relationship with her brother, but with no other witnesses, we will not be able to prove one way or another exactly what happened that day. Nor indeed would Caroline have been old enough to understand the consequences of her actions, deliberate or otherwise. At such a young age, she cannot be held legally responsible. Indeed, her memory loss is quite likely an instinctive response to her severe stress at what she experienced, and to her inner distress at what happened. It’s her body’s way of protecting her. As such, I cannot recommend any treatment that will cure the condition. And I must reiterate, as I have told you before, you must not tell her directly what happened. It will only make things worse. Memory is a delicate thing and she is in a very fragile state. For the moment, and perhaps permanently, she is best left alone and allowed to live a normal life, under your care, love and supervision.
I have now prepared my report for the courts, and I am happy to say that I will be recommending that she remains with you. At only seven years old, I am confident the courts will agree to leave her in your care, so long as she remains under psychiatric supervision, at least for the next two years when I am sure it will be reassessed.
I am prescribing your daughter a mild sedative to help her with the night terrors and generally getting off to sleep. I would expect that over time these problems will reduce and eventually her memory may return, at least in part. But that must happen at her own pace. Whether or not she recovers all her memory, and in particular that of the triggering event, is at this point unknown.
I must warn you that it may even affect new memories being laid down, anything that might remind her of what happened before. We can’t control that. I can only say that the more positive memories you can give her the better that will be. Anything negative and linked in some way to what happened will only disturb her further and may be suppressed.
In many ways, she will be happier as she is now, ignorant of the past. With her family’s love, care and devotion, it will do her no long-term harm.
If you have any questions, do please ring my office and I will do my very best to call you back and help in any way that I can.
Yours sincerely,
Edward Bannerman,
Consultant Child and Adolescent Psychiatrist, FRCPsych MBBS LLM
I dropped the letter on the floor, my head spinning. The letter said my memory had been severely impacted. It explained why all these years I couldn’t remember anything about Danny. It explained too why other memories, later in my childhood, were so unpredictable. And the nightmares that I’d suffered from all my life.
But it didn’t absolve me of any blame for Danny’s death.
‘We will not be able to prove one way or another …’ he’d written.
What had he really thought, this psychiatrist?
I closed my eyes. For a second, I wished I’d never read that letter. But what had been found could not be unfound. I could not un-read the words still jangling in my head. Had I been protecting myself all this time, like he’d said? From a memory too devastating to accept? I tried to rewind the moment in my head, the crack of falling glass, the expression on Danny’s face, the bloodied spike in my hand. What had I really felt in that moment? Horror? Fear? Intention? To get back at him for all the things he’d done? Yes. To stop him? Yes. To make him feel the same pain that I had felt? Oh God, yes.
In that split second, had I not wanted him dead?
I knew the answer to that. I felt my fingers tighten as if still holding that spike. I’d hated him with a passion. Not just for his cruelty towards me, the taunts and bullying. But because he was all that I was not, loved and adored. His mother’s pride and joy. In that single moment, had I meant to kill him? Could I believe that?
‘With her family’s love, care and devotion . . .’
Family. It was a word I couldn’t bear to repeat. I had committed the worst of sins. I had knowingly, deliberately killed my own brother.
The thought was too much to bear. I’d been a child, a very young child. Hadn’t the psychiatrist said that? I wasn’t culpable. But Elizabeth had thought I was, she’d asked the question, the letter made that clear.
Tears dropped from my face, splashing on the paper in my hand, soaking through until the ink ran and the paper became transparent. Were these tears of self-pity? Tears of shame? I was mocking myself. I didn’t deserve pity, let alone my own. Now I knew what I really was, what I was really capable of. No wonder everybody hated me, even now. Elizabeth had known. Hadn’t they all known? Elizabeth’s friends, the people in the village, the kids at school. Wasn’t that why they’d all treated me like they had?
No, how could they know? How could anyone know what had been in my head in that split second? Even the psychiatrist acknowledged that. It had just been an accident. As far as everyone knew. Except me.
But somebody had kept those papers and stored them in the one place I feared most. Because it was the last place I would ever look, or because it was the very place I would look? Eventually. Who would think like that? It must have been Elizabeth. Was that why she’d carried on tel
ling me that story and said those words. ‘Have you been bad enough, Caroline?’ Did she think that eventually I’d be so overwhelmed by curiosity – and guilt – that I would indeed one day open the pear drum? Even after she was dead?
That I would see for myself what I had done?
CHAPTER 40
I’d found the mirror, the one my sister had given to me all those years ago. I had kept it, in spite of everything, my last connection with Steph, folded between a cloth and tucked into the corner of a box filled with other bits and pieces.
As I looked at my own face, I saw skin too pale, a nose too big, cheekbones that were neither prominent nor flat. I’d never been overly feminine in my looks. An ordinary person with ordinary features, the kind that didn’t photograph well, that disappeared in a crowd. Insignificant.
That was how I felt, insignificant. A piece of flesh that served no purpose. Unloved and unloving. What difference had I ever made to the world, even to one person? What difference could I ever make? I’d never had the knack of making friends, or boyfriends, no more than I’d ever even deserved the love of my family. Looking back, I could see now that Paul had homed in on that. He’d enjoyed reminding me that I was estranged from my family.
And Craig, what if he found out, what if he knew what I had done? Would he still want me?
My head felt heavy, there was a pain behind my eyes that would not shift. I wanted to sleep, to never wake up, to drift away and never be. To be forgotten by everyone around me. It was too easy, too seductive, that sleep. The nixie in my head was smiling. She had returned to watch and she was happy, this time she would win. Her eyes were slanted green, her head twisted at an angle, her curiosity melting into jubilant satisfaction. I felt her malice and let it wash over me. It was no more than I deserved.
I looked at the plastic bag on the bed, the one with all Elizabeth’s pills and medicines ready for disposal at the pharmacist. I’d pulled them out, boxes and blister packs strewn across the counterpane. Mostly they were prescription morphine derivatives and opiates designed for serious pain relief. I’d looked some of them up on the internet, to be sure of what they were. Elizabeth had been taking them daily in her last few months. I’d already swallowed what I thought were sedatives. A handful more of those and I would sleep and never wake up. Next to the bed was a new bottle of whisky, enough to wash down every pill.
I unscrewed the bottle, tipping the liquid down my throat. The pain hammered in my head. With each glug, the fire spread, the pain belched, until my body burned in hell exactly as the maker of the pear drum intended.
My eyes fluttered open and my hand fell from the side of the bed. The whisky bottle lay rolling on the floor and I lay pliant on the covers. Early morning sun streaked across the room stabbing at my eyes.
I was still alive. I tried moving, a small shift of my head. A spasm shot across my forehead. I felt a surge in my belly, jack-knifing to my feet and stumbling across the room towards the bathroom. I emptied my stomach into the sink and sank to the floor to lean my forehead against the cool ceramic surface of the pedestal, feeling the blood coursing through my veins, the hard texture of the tiles beneath my knees, the sour wetness of the vomit still clinging to my cheeks.
Every touch and taste was a reminder of the sensuality of my existence. Whatever crimes I could commit, my own death was not one of them. I was not as brave as Angus, I couldn’t kill myself, if that was what he’d done. Poor Angus. I had sinned far more than he. No, I was too in love with the vibrancy of life, the colours that I painted, the faces and expressions of my characters, the landscapes brooding on the page. And Craig. He was the one good thing in all of this. I should believe in him. Did I not have a chance with him?
I hauled myself to my feet. I could not, after all, pay that price. Whatever I had done then, when I was six, I’d been a child. Who knew what that child had really felt. Was my memory even reliable? Skewed by time and guilt? How could I know what really happened all that time ago? I was different now. I was grown up. I had to live with what I’d done. Surely for the first time in my life, I had a chance to make a future for myself, with Craig.
Steph’s face was smiling on the screen. A small round circular image. Her ice-blue eyes, her perfect hair, her flawless skin. Her glossy painted lips. The familiar sound of a Skype call had woken me from my daze and I clicked reluctantly on the picture.
‘Caro? Are you there?’
‘Yes, I’m here.’
‘How are you? We haven’t spoken for ages.’
The image wobbled, her face dancing on the screen, struggling to regain the internet connection. I schooled my voice.
‘I’m great.’ My voice belied the apparent cheeriness of my words.
‘I’m sorry I’ve not been in touch for a while – it’s been party season, you know what it’s like.’
‘Sure, don’t worry.’
‘So, how are you doing with that commission of yours? You never said – what’s the book called?’
I felt the blood drain from my face.
‘The Pear Drum and Other Dark Tales from the Nursery.’ I spoke the words slowly and carefully, to make sure no emotion came through.
‘The Pear Drum? Isn’t that the story Elizabeth used to tell you when we were little?’
I didn’t reply.
‘Didn’t she have one – a pear drum? It used to give me the creeps. Have you found it yet?’
What could I say? I clenched my eyes shut and prayed she’d just stop speaking.
‘Caro? Caro, are you there?’
‘Yes, I’m here. I don’t know anything about a pear drum, Steph.’
‘Oh, but you must remember it; Elizabeth was always on about it with you – it was her little pet joke!’
Joke? That wasn’t how I remembered it.
‘I … I …’ I felt the anger rising up inside me.
‘It was in the study, I’m sure it was, for a long time. In the corner, in a crate. Weird thing. Don’t know where she got it from, she never said. It was rather beautiful in its way. Has it not turned up?’
Why did she keep banging on about it – couldn’t she tell I didn’t want to talk about it? She didn’t want to talk about Danny, I didn’t want to talk about the pear drum. Couldn’t she let it alone?
‘What was it she used to say, after she finished telling you the story – it would really wind you up! Have you been …’
Steph laughed. She was actually laughing, like it was some kind of benign family prank.
‘… bad enough?’
‘For fuck’s sake, Steph – SHUT UP!!’
I reached out with my hand and smashed it down on the keyboard, and Steph’s face exploded into pixelated shrapnel.
I sat there gasping, tears rolling down my face. I’d ruined it. I’d been trying so hard – I thought she had too – at our reconciliation, and now it was all gone to pot. Because of my temper, my stupid emotions getting the better of me, because of that hideous story. Because of the pear drum.
I couldn’t stop crying, hot salty tears streaming down my face. I’d wanted my relationship with Steph to work, I really had. I laid my head on the table, resting against my hands. For a moment I stayed like that, partially comforted by the cool of my own skin, yet ashamed of my very existence.
Then I sat upright, exhausted from the strength of my own emotions. My eyes were prickly dry and a headache stabbed above my eyes. How could I explain it to her? My unwillingness to tell the truth, about the pear drum, the psychiatrist’s letter, the memories flooding back after all these years. What would she say – how much did she even know? I couldn’t tell her any of this, let alone about my near escape at Carsington Water, or finding Angus dead at the base of Alton Heights. This was the old me, shutters down, unwilling to trust or share. Now it was back to how it used to be, just like when we were kids, and I couldn’t bear it. She was all the family that I had left, wasn’t she?
I stood up. I snatched my car keys into my hand and marched out to the car. I drove d
own the lane to the village way too fast, screeching to a halt outside the Co-op. Two middle-aged ladies gawped as I almost collided with them as I strode into the shop. I didn’t care about the whispered words down by the milk and dairy cabinet, the stares from the queue, the assistant not even speaking a single word as I slammed a bottle of whisky and a ready-made turkey dinner onto the counter. I paid for it in cash and glared at her defiantly.
‘What the fuck are you staring at!’ I said.
The woman behind me looked aghast. But I simply ignored her, ploughing through the queue, back out of the shop, jumping into my car and revving up the lane.
Damn the lot of them. Let them rot in hell. Let them think whatever they wanted to think, it was none of their business.
There was a message for me when I got back, flashing on the screen of my laptop.
Dear Caro, I’m so sorry – I should have thought. I’d forgotten what Elizabeth was like about that pear drum. I guess I thought it was all a bit of a joke, the way she used to tease you, but you took it so seriously, even then. I’d forgot – I’m so sorry! Can you forgive me, dearest Caro? Can we be friends again?
My heart gave a leap, was it all okay, after all?
You were asking about Danny – I have my weakness too and I still can’t bring myself to talk about him. I was older than you when it all happened, you don’t understand …
I swallowed – she sounded as much in pain as I was, my heart went out to her.
… but why don’t you go and see Sarah Chandler. She used to be Elizabeth’s best friend. She was at the funeral, you’ll recognise her. I’m sure she still lives in the village, somebody will know her address. Try asking at the shop.
Like I was going to ask anyone at the shop!
There’s something you need to know about Danny. I’d tell you if I were there, but I’m not and it needs to be said face to face. I don’t think it can wait until we see Briscoe together. It’s – oh Caro, I wish I were in the UK and we could talk properly. But Sarah can explain – she’s not as fierce as she might seem. Why don’t you go and see her? She’ll remember it so much more clearly than me. She’ll be able to explain it so much better than me.
The Stranger in Our Home Page 23