by John Nicholl
Emma may have fooled the guards as they resuscitated her selflessly and rushed her from the cell with the aid of a stretcher, but she wasn’t fooling me. I just stood aside and watched, despising her in a way I never had before. I know exactly what she was doing. I recognise the self-obsessed. I recognise the self-serving. I’ve been there and seen it before.
I have the cell to myself again, and I’m happier for it. Everything’s relative and it’s important to remember that. Be grateful for the little things. The things that make our lives better, if only slightly. And so I’ll make the most of my comparative privacy while I can, for as long as I can. Maybe this time she won’t be back. Let’s hope not anyway. I’ll say a silent prayer along those lines with the hope that the great puppet master in the sky listens to my pleas, takes pity on me again, and sends Emma somewhere else to serve the remainder of her sentence, along with other broken individuals in need of fixing. It would be better for her and it would be better for me.
What on earth led Emma to so desperately crave attention at any cost? What on earth goes on in that troubled head of hers? I guess that’s another story, and I should focus on my own. I hope that this time the doctors identify her true self and facilitate appropriate intervention away from here, anywhere away from here. There have been far too many crises in my life already, as you’re about to find out.
40
Events moved quickly during that turbulent period, and just a few days after that poor desperate father appeared on the Welsh evening news, they took a further dramatic turn for the worse. I’d been up from bed for about an hour and was putting the finishing flourishes to the doctor’s breakfast, checking and rechecking that everything was right, everything in its correct place and at the correct distance, when at precisely 6:30 a.m. there was a forceful knock on the front door that reverberated around the large house and left me close to panic. Who on earth would disturb our household at that hour? Dr Galbraith wouldn’t be ready to get up for another hour, and I’d need all the available time to prepare for his eventual appearance.
Whoever was at the door knocked again and kept knocking, harder and harder. I slipped on the bare tiles as I rushed down the hall, slid the last few feet on my stockinged feet and collided with the door. I turned the key in the lock with quivering fingers, turned the handle and took a single step forwards, staring with an open-mouthed expression when I urgently opened the door. There were five people crowded around the entrance: three uniformed police officers—two females and one male—accompanied by an overly excited Welsh Springer Spaniel, and two men in plain clothes, one of whom I recognised as Detective Inspector Gravel. He stood at the front, clearly in charge, and held up his warrant card in plain view.
‘Mrs Galbraith? Mrs Cynthia Galbraith?’
I narrowed my eyes to virtual slits, closed my gaping mouth and said, ‘What can I do for you?’ more concerned about the early hour than the reason for their unexpected visit.
‘My name is Detective Inspector Gravel. We’re here to speak to your husband. Where is he?’
I didn’t move an inch. I just held my ground like an overly obstructive doorman at a Cardiff nightclub, fixed DI Gravel with a determined glare and said, ‘I can’t let you in. My husband wouldn’t want to be disturbed. Not at this time of the morning. I haven’t even had the chance to finish preparing his breakfast as yet. You’ll have to make an appointment like everybody else.’ What a ridiculous thing to say. How very stupid. Was I really that obsessed with meeting my husband’s unreasonable expectations? Sadly, it seems I was.
The inspector didn’t look happy. He didn’t look happy at all. ‘Get out of my way, Mrs Galbraith.’
Why didn’t I just stand aside and let them in to get on with whatever they were there to do? I should have. But instead, unbelievably to me now, I took a single step backwards and attempted to slam the door shut, connecting violently with the inspector’s right knee as he stepped forward and placed his foot in the door. Why did I do that? I really shouldn’t have done that. What on earth was I thinking?
The second plain-clothed officer, who I recalled was DS Clive Rankin, moved forward quickly and pushed the door forcefully with both hands, causing me to stumble backwards and yelp as I landed heavily on the tiles, which seemed to excite the dog still further as she bounced up and down on the spot.
DI Gravel rubbed his leg with one hand as he pushed past me and into the hall. He turned back, bent down, offered me his open hand and assisted me to my feet as the remaining officers crowded into the hall behind him. ‘You have two daughters. I’m going to give you one final opportunity to tell us where your husband is before we search every inch of this house. Where is he? Now, Mrs Galbraith!’
My two lovely girls suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs and called to me as I pondered my next move. I felt utterly conflicted, my mind racing, faster and faster, careering out of control. Why were these unwelcome strangers in my home? Could it be something to do with the young boy I’d seen carried into the house a few days previously? I looked towards my daughters, then at DI Gravel, and then at my girls again, before finally turning away from the officers and approaching the staircase. The girls had to come first. Surely they had to come first. Whatever he said, whatever he did to me, they had to come first. He’d have to deal with getting up early for once in his life. He’d have to address whatever it was these people wanted, face to face. I began slowly climbing the stairs and said, ‘He slept in his study last night. It’s the second door on the right, down the hall,’ without a backward glance.
I descended the stairs reticently, holding Sarah up to my chest with one arm whilst gently guiding Elizabeth with the other. ‘Come on girls, everything’s going to be just fine. These nice people are here to speak to your father.’
Gravel ignored me and shouted to a uniformed constable. ‘Stay with the mother and kids until someone arrives from social services, Pam. Keep them well out of the way. Rankin, with me. The rest of you can start searching as soon as Galbraith’s arrested.’
Why on earth did he say that? Why the talk of social services? I felt increasingly close to panic as the metaphorical storm clouds closed in. My husband had been correct all along. I was an inadequate mother, unworthy of my daughters. Don’t take my girls. Please don’t take my girls.
We were ushered into the sitting room to the left of the front door by a friendly female officer in her thirties, who instructed us to take a seat, smiled warmly and told us to call her Pam.
‘Please don’t take my girls. I’ll try harder. I promise, I’ll try harder.’
She looked confused by my reaction and uttered words of reassurance, kind words that were pleasing to the ear. But I didn’t trust her. Why would I trust her? He’d told me repeatedly to question the intentions of anyone in an official role. ‘Be extremely guarded, Cynthia. Think carefully before speaking, and that’s if you have to speak at all. They may well appear pleasant enough on face value, they may even appear to have your best interests at heart. But it’s a mirage, an illusion they seek to create. They’ll lull you into a false sense of security and pounce, using anything and everything you say against you in court. Don’t trust them for an instant if you want to keep your brats.’
I heard his cyclic mantra resounding in my head as clearly as if he were speaking directly into my ear. I focussed on his words, listened intently and kept my mouth tightly shut just like he told me to. Be careful, Cynthia, stay tight-lipped, that’s for the best.
‘Is there anything you want to ask me, Mrs Galbraith?’
I clutched my children tightly on either side of me, shook my head and strained my ears, keen to get any clue as to what was happening down the hall.
DI Gravel didn’t knock this time. They just opened the study door and burst into the room. I could hear the inspector’s raised voice and was surprised by the ferocity of his words. ‘Wake up, Galbraith, it’s the police!’ He was assertive, disrespectful and seemingly in control. I couldn’t quite believe it. I’d
never heard anyone speak to the doctor like that before. He’d called him Galbraith. Not Doctor, just Galbraith. A small part of me revelled in the officer’s attitude, but maybe the doctor would pounce and devour him.
Galbraith began speaking, and I feared that nothing had changed. ‘Please accept my sincere apologies, gentlemen. I have trouble sleeping on occasions. I sometimes take a tablet. Tell me, what can I do for you both?’ I guess he must have been sleeping when the officers entered the room. It wasn’t unusual for him to sleep in the study.
‘You’re under arrest. Put the cuffs on, Sergeant.’ They were arresting him. They were actually arresting him. Perhaps I’d be next. Oh my God, perhaps I’d be next. Criminal neglect, that’s what he said they’d call it. Say nothing, Cynthia. Not a word, not a single word.
‘This has to be a mistake.’ The doctor sounded rational, sure of himself. A mistake. That made sense, it was probably a mistake. They’d pay a heavy price for their error.
‘Have you got something to say for yourself, Galbraith?’ There it was again: the implied lack of respect. Maybe it wasn’t a mistake after all.
‘Do you know who I am?’ He sounded incredulous but I thought I identified a degree of anxiety in his voice. Just for a moment, just for a fleeting moment.
‘I know exactly who you are, you smug bastard. My officers are going to search every inch of this fucking place and you’re going to be locked up. Still feeling quite so confident?’
And I don’t think he was. I really don’t think he was.
‘Sorry about the inspector’s language, Mrs Galbraith, I’ll have to wash his mouth out with soap and water.’
I forced a half-hearted smile in response to her well-intentioned humour and kept listening.
I heard Galbraith’s voice again. ‘I really fail to understand the reason for your hostility. You can search for as long as you wish. There’s absolutely nothing to find.’ He sounded calm, assertive, his usual confident self.
‘Shall I take him to the car, boss?’
‘Leave him to me, Clive.’
And then I heard a mind-blowing commotion as Inspector Gravel manhandled my husband through the study door and down the hall with such speed that he struggled to keep his footing.
I peered around the doorframe and stared, confused by events and not quite able to believe what I was witnessing. The officer pushed him down the hall, shoving him repeatedly in the back with his right shoulder if he slowed.
‘Come back into the room and take a seat please, Mrs Galbraith.’
I was transfixed, very close to panic but unable to look away, as DI Gravel stopped abruptly on reaching the front door, and shouted back into the house, ‘Rankin, bring that computer for the tech boys to have a look at. Pam, you stay with Mrs Galbraith and the kids for the moment. Social services’ transport’s on the way. I want this fucking place searched from top to bottom. If you find anything of interest, anything whatsoever, I want to hear about it immediately. Are you all clear?’
There was a chorus of, ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Sit down, Mrs Galbraith, I won’t ask you again.’
I did as I was told this time and watched from the settee with my arms around the girls’ shoulders. They were well used to shouting and to sitting in complete silence, seemingly unaffected by such dramatic events, which when you think about it was a problem in itself.
I turned in my seat and watched from the front window as DI Gravel frogmarched Galbraith out of the house, down the three granite steps into the quiet early-morning street, and flung him into the back seat of the police car with such force that he skipped across the seat and hit the inside of the opposite door. DS Rankin followed closely behind carrying my husband’s desktop computer in both arms.
‘Put that fucking thing in the boot, Clive. Let’s get this cunt back to the station.’
‘Don’t listen girls.’ Such a nice way with words!
DS Rankin closed the boot, climbed into the driver’s seat and started the diesel engine, whilst the inspector sat in the back within touching distance of the doctor. I didn’t know it then, but my world had changed forever.
41
The previous chapter wasn’t easy to write. The memories are still surprisingly raw, given the amount of time that’s passed. The creative process brought this world’s insidious dangers into starkly sharp focus again. I’ve been experiencing repeated debilitating headaches since, and the horrors of the past are dwelling on my mind almost constantly as I go about my busy day. The black dog is gaining strength again, gaining strength and stalking me determinedly. What if Jack’s infant encounters one of the Galbraiths of this world? What if my lovely girls encounter another man like him, but with different deviant tastes? Oh my God! It just doesn’t bear thinking about. I know our families are more guarded than most as the result of our experiences, but is that enough to protect them? Please let it be enough.
I was seriously tempted to bring the entire writing process to a premature end and flush the torn pages of my notebooks down the nearest toilet, but I remembered Mrs Martin’s words of encouragement and decided to continue despite my exploding anxieties. She did say it wouldn’t be easy, she did say there’d be rocky ground along the way, but that it was a road worth travelling. Let’s hope she’s right and the demons are eventually defeated. Rocky ground is one thing, but this feels more like insurmountable cliffs. I’m approaching the critical part of my tale now, and so those cliffs are likely to become higher still. There are towering mountains on the horizon. I’ll just have to see if I can climb them.
42
An ageing green hatchback arrived at our Caerystwyth town house only minutes after my husband’s enforced departure, driven by a young girl in her early twenties, who the PC told me was a social services children’s resource centre worker named Karen Giles.
I tightened my grip on my girls’ shoulders and pulled them closer to me, as the officer opened the front door and asked the social worker into my home uninvited by me. ‘All right, Karen? Good to see you again, how’s the family?’
‘Not bad, thanks, Pam. You’re looking tired. I hope you haven’t been overdoing it again.’
‘It’s these early starts. You know what it’s like. Come on in, I’ll introduce you to Mrs Galbraith before heading back to the station.’
‘Does she know what’s going on?’
‘I’ve told them the basics, but a fuller explanation wouldn’t do any harm in the circumstances.’
I listened carefully to their very ordinary conversation, trying to make sense of events, and acutely aware that those events were largely beyond my control. The two women seemed so amicable, so very human, so unthreatening, but I had to be cautious as per his instructions. Not a word out of place. Not a single word.
The social worker walked towards me, shook my hand limply, smiled and said, ‘Nice to meet you, Mrs Galbraith. You must be Elizabeth and Sarah. I’ve been looking forward to getting to know you all.’
I had never been so wary. I wanted to speak to them. I wanted to reach out and connect with another human being to plead my case, but they were behaving just as he said they would, with their ready smiles, kind words and insincere manipulative pleasantries. Don’t fall for it, Cynthia. Don’t fall for it. Keep your stupid mouth shut. Not a word, not a single word!
The social worker smiled again, keen to ingratiate herself still further and pull me into her caustic web. ‘I’ll be taking you to Caerystwyth Children’s Resource Centre this morning. The girls will be interviewed by a police officer and child protection social worker who are specially trained to work with children. The interviews will be video-recorded and could potentially be used in evidence if there’s any suggestion of relevant criminal activity. You’ll be interviewed by a detective, but she’ll explain more about that when we get there. Now, is there anything you want to ask me before we get on our way?’
I shook my head unhappily and avoided her eyes. The shock of information was mind-blowing. Things seemed to be
moving at breakneck speed and threatened to overwhelm me completely. ‘Do we have to go?’ I knew the answer was yes before asking the question, but I asked anyway in the forlorn hope I was wrong. It seems I… well, you know the rest by now.
‘Please fetch your coats. It’s cold outside, and time we made a move.’
I said nothing more, no objection, no argument. What was the point? I followed her orders like a lamb to the slaughter. It was happening exactly as he said it would, and there was nothing whatsoever I could do about it.
A Detective Constable Myra Thomas introduced herself with a fleeting smile and ushered me into a small, dusty, cluttered office at the children’s resource centre about an hour and a half later. ‘Have a seat please. I’ll fetch us both a hot drink before we make a start, tea or coffee?’
Was someone really going to make me tea? A nice gesture, or was it another trick? He’d said that they’d be devious. He said they’d pretend to be nice. Yes, that must be it, another transparent ploy to get the better of me. ‘Tea, please, no milk or sugar.’
‘Try to relax, Mrs Galbraith. I’ll be back with you in two minutes.’
Relax? How was I supposed to relax? My mind was exploding with questions I couldn’t answer. How did the girls cope with their interviews at such a young age? What were they asked? What, if anything, did they say? He’d told them never to speak of our home life, he’d repeated it time and time again as they sat and listened in total silence, but did they understand his cautionary advice sufficiently to resist skilled interviewers? Were they old enough to understand the risks and implications? What if they said something? Oh my God, what if they said something? What if they described me as a bad mother? I could lose them forever.
DC Thomas pushed the door open with the tip of her suede ankle boot and handed me a pottery mug filled almost to the brim. ‘There you go. Now, let’s make a start.’