Killing The Girl

by Elizabeth Hill

  ***

  Matthew and I went to the Oaktree Inn for our usual Friday night meal. I’d discovered that my initial nerves about going to this new place are banished now that we have been here many times. The place is old-fashioned and boring; filled with middle-class oldies. I conclude that people are not having as much fun as I’d imagined. They eat, staring at anything other than their companions, then order more wine. Perhaps I have not missed out on much over the years I’d locked myself away from civilisation. I’d been spared a bored spouse and an expensive alcohol bill.

  It rained hard today, and I wanted to say let’s not go but didn’t want to annoy him. People leave me alone now they’ve had their fill of newspaper reports of my terrible accident. Strangers are sorry for my loss; I’m repeatedly assured.

  The rain stops by the time we pull back onto the drive. While I wait for my bones to adjust to standing, I think about my other house, almost completed, less than a mile away. I can move in soon.

  Hobbling across the threshold on one crutch, the failings in our relationship that I’d noticed hit through once again. The physical gap between us, the tapping fingers, the willingness to please at the moment but not in the long term. There is no long term. No plans, no holidays, no meeting of the family, no future. That I ignore these facts intrigues me. I’m a glutton for punishment and deserving of derision. He has acknowledged that I am a killer, albeit justified. He will throw me out as soon as it seems respectable. The impulse to run and hide surges and I beat it down with my sense of respect for the hospitality he’s extended to me.

  He has opened a bottle of wine by the time I walk into the sitting room. As soon as I can stop these painkillers, I’ll be joining him. I’ve developed a taste for the few small glasses of excellent French wine I’ve had. The television is on and he finds a film, so we settle back. He pours himself another large glass. The action triggers the insight that he has been drinking excessively. He has to abstain because he drives, so he starts knocking it back when we return. Perhaps he drinks to make the evenings and nights with me more bearable. I glance at him as he raises his glass to his lips, and as if he knows what I’m thinking, he says, ‘Cheers,’ and winks. He pours a half glass and hands it to me, saying, ‘It won’t harm.’

  ‘Perry was a beer drinker.’ I take a sip. ‘Not that he got too drunk. He stayed just sober enough to know what he was doing ... Sorry – I don’t know why I said that.’

  ‘You don’t have to worry. Talk about him. Tell me anything you want. It’s the best thing to do to recover from the shock of death.’

  ‘I don’t know if that’s true.’ I swallow a mouthful. This will help me sleep.

  ‘You need to talk about them. The dead. You talked about your dad a lot according to Sarah’s diary.’

  ‘Did I? I don’t remember.’ I must find her diary and read it. There must be a way of getting the key to his study.

  ‘And none worse than sudden death. When your dad killed himself, I couldn’t understand it: that someone could do that deliberately. But I was only, what, ten? So long ago. But the shock that went through your mother, your brothers. They were right to protect you from it at the time, don’t you think?’

  My glass drops from my hand, the red wine spills over my dress and cascades to the floor.

  ‘My God. They never told you? Please, don’t tell me you didn’t know. Oh, Carol, I’m so sorry.’

  His hands wave around me, then there’s pressure as the side of my face is pressed into his shoulder.

  ‘Sammy said they would tell you when you were older. God, I can’t believe they kept it from you. Why would they do that? Why, when … when … well, when this can happen, has happened.’

  He pulls me in tighter, and I yelp as pain shoots through my shoulders and spine. There is a large red stain on his cream carpet.

  ‘You need to get some paper towel and soak that up,” I say. “And water, I think, to stop it from setting. And then, or is it white wine, put white wine on it before –’

  ‘Stop fussing.’

  ‘But you have to act fast or it will be ruined.’

  He pulls me gently to my feet and leads me out of the room. We reach his bedroom and walk until my leg hits the bed.

  ‘Sleep here tonight.’

  He pulls my jumper over my head; the resulting pain flows and is comforting in its normality. His hands hesitate in front of my bra. ‘I’ll leave you; I’ll go downstairs for a bit. Sort that wine stain out.’

  Sitting on the bed, shimmying out of my clothes, I pull my legs up and carefully shuffle my bottom until I can slide naked under the duvet. I’ll need the toilet and water for my painkillers. It will be too hot in here later, but I’ll leave when I’m woken by the usual night terrors. The gates of hell often open to lure me into the deep darkness of the night.

  He gets into bed and I stiffen, expecting more talking, more apologies, more confirmation that I am a bit player in my own life. Other people know more about who I am, where I am, why I am. They know what’s best for me and I should accept that to keep the status quo.

  His breathing is steady. He’s not asleep. Maybe we will lie awake all night, side by side, unable to cross the gulf between us. My father killed himself. I toy with the words, considering again if, on some deeper level, I knew; that the truth had been festering away like an abscess.

  ‘How?’

  ‘He hanged himself.’

  ‘Mum said he had a heart attack.’

  ‘She was protecting you. I’m sorry …’

  ‘Don’t. Don’t tell me.’

  ‘I could have checked, Carol, sounded you out. I feel for you ...’

  ‘But you don’t love me.’

  He turns and tries to snake his arm around my stiff body, before leaving it crooked above my head.

  ‘No. I don’t think I do. I thought I might. Especially remembering how we were when … when Sarah died.’

  Relief sits between us. We don’t love each other. We can stop now.

  This last week we had stumbled through awkward sex that I hadn’t felt physically well enough for but was afraid of losing him. Losing him meant losing my last tie to my past and history. Without him, there was no one left, and I’d be truly alone. It was a miracle that he’d come back into my life. Now I need to keep him as a friend.

  ‘Why did you come back? You love France. Why move back?’

  ‘Chrissie and the children.’

  ‘You never see them.’ He takes an exasperated breath and removes his arm. ‘Well, I’ve been busy: your recovery, renovating this house.’

  It’s not true. He doesn’t phone them. They have never visited. ‘I forgot. I'm selfish taking all your time.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Sorry – I didn’t mean it like that. I’m grateful to you. You know that, Matthew. I wouldn’t be this fit and healthy if it wasn’t for you.’

  ‘And that’s saying something.’ He laughs and touches my cheek and we laugh together, enjoying some common ground, relieving the tension. He has changed the subject. Before I can ask him when he will see Chrissie, he says, ‘Don’t let what happened with your dad set you back, Carol. You’re doing so well. I would hate to have done anything to hurt you. Please say you’ll be okay. Please say you forgive me.’

  He’s crying. I turn and take him in my arms as his body quakes with giant sobs. Minutes pass, my shoulder is hot and wet; the weight of him aching my ribs. I decide to go home. The new Oaktree House may not be home yet, but, like the time after Frankie died, it won’t take long to settle. I want it enough to make it happen.

  Chapter 70

  Monday, 7 November 2016

  Autumn comforts with its colours and fullness. The promise of warm fires and family gatherings enter everyone’s thoughts. Matthew comes back swearing about the bloody ‘C’ word; that it’s too soon, for Christ’s sake. The Christmas build-up has started. I’m looking forward to moving out and going home – a New Year in the new Oaktree House. It wi
ll be mine alone, my home and my refuge, just like before. There will be no history and no ghosts living there. Lily has arranged for a comprehensive clean. The garden is laid out to my plans, right down to the new orchard with the bench in remembrance of Frankie. The sun will rise and set at different points, but the garden has a more southerly aspect. New shrubs will fill the borders.

  Matthew doesn’t know I’m leaving. The void between us gapes wide after his tactless words about my father’s death. No one who loves someone would have done that. Besides, no matter how much I’d wanted us to be a couple, there’s no chemistry. He’s pleasant and affectionate, and we have a short history that bonds us, but passion eludes us. His kindness for taking me in requires that I release him from any further obligation towards me.

  The wheelchair is long gone, and I can manage with one crutch. My bones have healed, and my physiotherapy is working. What the human body can repair is amazing. Peak fitness is good for the body and the mind. Gardening, baking and cleaning the house will be my daily routine once again. My legs are strong and I want to drive, but Matthew has taken the garage keys with him to Cleave Farm.

  The flowers I’ve gathered for my father’s grave are wilting on the draining board, so I put them in fresh water. The cemetery sits on the outskirts, high above the city. We shall go there tomorrow.

  The day stretches ahead devoid of medication. My doctor says I cannot have any more opiates and must rely on aspirin or paracetamol. Matthew is here so often that he could intercept deliveries from any online ordering, and start conversations about package contents that I’d rather not have. The frustration is too much; there must be a spare set of garage keys somewhere.

  Matthew’s bedroom is tidy: the quilt pulled back to air the bed and a small window open. Keys aren’t in the obvious places. In the bedroom-cum-office at the back, I glance around the pale oak furniture. The desk drawers are locked, but a cupboard door catches my eye. It’s ajar.

  Packed on the shelves are boxes of Sarah’s things. My skin crawls as bad memories return. I wish I hadn’t seen them. Keeping my thoughts away from those old times helps me stay sane. Now light shines onto those feelings once again. My fingers touch her cardigan, then the white stretchy bag. She walks away from me complaining that I will shoot her with Mr Cutler’s rifle. Thora’s car backfires as it drives into view. A taste of bark and sour apples catches in the back of my throat. An autumn breeze has a chill edging its sunlit warmth. The past slides into view, and I’m back where it began, where life unravelled. If we hadn’t gone scrumping that day; if Thora’s car hadn’t broken down. If I hadn’t met Frankie. If I had been older and Matthew had asked me out on a date after Paula died.

  A tsunami of failures swirls as I drop carefully to my knees. All the mistakes, the bad choices, bad hormones and bad decisions. One disaster after another. Crawling, I edge towards the door but don’t have the strength, so I lie exhausted next to the desk chair. There’s nothing to be done as I slip into my comfort-blanket of dejection and nestle in its familiar comfort.

  A key is stuck under the seat of the chair. It glints at me like a hidden jewel. Why hide a key there? Before I pull it off, I check for a roll of tape so I can stick it back there when I’ve finished. It slides easily into the lock of the desk and turns to release the drawers – chequebook stubs, accounts books, invoices, bank and credit card statements. Matthew is reassuringly wealthy and boring. A pile of paperwork written in French, stamped with official ink from town hall offices. His old passports, euros, and ticket stubs tied in elastic bands. In the bottom drawer is a locked metal box, the sort for keeping important paperwork fire-safe, yet his passport and cash lie loose in the other drawers. The key is in the corner of the drawer. I unlock the box.

  Sarah’s diaries are inside, along with several letters addressed to Matthew. At the bottom is one addressed to me. It has zigzag lines around the edges of the envelope, our code for top-secret and urgent. We used curvy lines for notes about boys and circles for anything else.

  The opened letter has its flap pushed back in. I don’t remember it – have I simply forgotten what she wrote? And why keep it? We always destroyed all our letters to shreds after reading, as if they contained State secrets and not our girlish observations on life. A feeling of dread makes my heart flutter, and I take a breath, debating whether I should read it.

  Sarah’s bedroom comes flooding back. That day after her death. The day I sought solace in the familiarity of her room when my world had imploded. A letter slid into my waistband and forgotten. Passion for Matthew erasing all thought of it. Is this the same letter? Pulling it out, her words speak to me; her truth flows into me.

  My world crashes as the entire foundation of my life crumbles away. The floor rushes up to meet me and sends a crack-thud through my left shoulder. It shudders through my arm and chest, stopping and restarting my heart.

  The shattering truth explodes and opens blood vessels, making me dizzy. A blinding light shines into the recesses of my mind. This old piece of paper from that other world, that other continent, sits like gelignite on the floor. Dare to move. Dare to allow time to tick on. Stay here, in this spot, forever. Stop my thoughts from injuring me with their kaleidoscope of knowledge.

  What is the point of knowing this truth when it cannot change what’s happened? Too much of my life has gone. That this letter could have saved me from a miserable life cannot be contemplated. Dare not be contemplated.

  Sarah, my friend, my confidant, would not write this if it were not true. That she did for our friendship, for our sisterhood, makes me feel small and unworthy. I did not extend any consideration towards her. I hated her for what she did to me in stealing Frankie.

  What gave Matthew the right to deny me the truth? And to continue to deny me when he knows how my part in Frankie’s death has restricted my life and doomed me to be an outcast. How dare he keep this from me? Here I am again, unable to function. That I have taken the blame for other people’s deceitfulness and secrets, rankles. And that Matthew knew the truth but was happy for me to believe a lie.

  This is why he keeps on about how brutal Perry was. How he deserved everything he got. How I should get a medal for getting rid of him. Why he keeps me focused on Perry’s guilt; why he’s now sure that Perry killed Frankie.

  As I gather up the papers, some photos slide out of an envelope. Turning one this way and that, I try to make out what the subject is. I flick to the next. These are polaroids of a naked girl. I have been staring at a close-up of her genitals. The girl is Sarah.

  Shuffling along to the bathroom, I vomit as soon as the toilet seat is up. Those photos are of Frankie’s bedroom, but my Frankie couldn’t have taken those. He knows girls like to keep their mystique and privacy. When he asked to take a photo of me topless for a keepsake I’d told him not to be silly. If he wanted to see my breasts, he could see them any day in the flesh. Sarah in her weakened state allowed him to overrule and undermine her sense of dignity. She was a fool, after all. There is a limit to the degree you allow men to walk over you. That limit had announced itself to me with fatal consequences. The problem is, what should be done to settle old scores and attain fairness? No one but me will benefit from the comfort of justice. No one will bother on my behalf. I must rest and decide what to do. I must not act in haste and ruin my life again.

  Chapter 71

  Friday, 22 November 2016

  In Matthew’s study, I search for Sarah’s diary for 1970. Her words had helped the police to charge Schmidt, but now I’m sure Matthew did not give the whole of her diary to them. The pages after mid-December have been torn out. Matthew has used me. He didn’t return home to be near Chrissie. He did not refurbish his house at great expense out of any sense of love or compassion for me. He’s not comforting a woman deserving of love and affection. I’m a scapegoat, a stooge, a convenience to ease his life and sense of family honour.

  A reason to mitigate my rage eludes me as I pace the floor. Blood vessels will burst if I don’t calm do
wn. A way to avenge the damage he has done to me thrusts itself towards my hands; I wring and clench them in a symphony of frustration. The only answer is destruction. The only resolution is annihilation. It’s time to end it all. This time I’ll do something better than I did with Perry. This time I’ll make sure we both go. For now, diazepam will calm me enough until I form a plan. My secret stash must be used.

  Chapter 72

  Monday 25 November 2016

  Waking from a heavy sleep that has lasted most of the weekend, the sixteen-year-old girl inside me is emerging. She pushes, pulls, and stamps her feet in a tantrum. She frets and tells tales of unfairness and injustice. People fail to perform the necessary kindnesses; to provide the support that will ease her life. She curses the world and blames it for her situation while seeking absolution from her sins. She hides from the truth and shrinks from blame. It’s painful to ignore her as she blasphemes and cajoles me, seeking my favour and cursing my indifference. She seeps from the box deep inside me; the fight to control her zaps my strength.

  She will never leave me. She demands obedience and is canny and persuasive. Vindication that she is winning comes when the sweet taste of her proposition for vengeance flows like nectar through my brain. So I take up arms, unable to resist as she whispers seductively in my ear. Separation is not an option for us; we can only live a short time apart, but in the end we will die together. For we both know that if you want something badly enough you have to focus on making it happen.

  Once again I read Sarah’s coded letter. Why did she use such simple code? Matthew read it easily then kept it from me. Matthew ruined my life. The girl, boxed-in and stifled, becomes distressed at this injustice. She punches my heart and restricts my lungs. She demands retribution and honesty. Her relentlessness stops me from sleeping, and I meander through his home like a zombie.