Frailty: a haunting psychological page-turner

by Betsy Reavley

  As if I am a ghost I seem to float up out of my body and I watch the pandemonium unfold, feeling completely detached from it all. Paul marches towards the building, which is now alive with police, forensics investigators and a couple of paramedics.

  My legs don’t move. They remain frozen to the hard ground beneath my feet. Simon remains by my side and we both look on in silence.

  When King finally emerges from the scene I watch him coming towards me. With each long stride he takes I am filled with fear. The blur of officers around us seem to melt away when he finally reaches me.

  ‘I am sorry. We did not have a choice.’ King stands tall, his hands folded in front of him. Simon puts his hand over his mouth and walks away leaving the two of us looking at each other in silence.

  ‘He was killing him.’ Then from behind King I see two black body bags being wheeled out of the cottage. How long have I been standing here?

  ‘They are dead.’ I watch the ambulance doors being thrown open and the bags being loaded onto them.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ King takes a step towards me looking as if he is ready to catch me. But I don’t fall. I still can’t move. My eyes are glued to the black body bags. From here I can’t tell who is in which bag. They both look the same. How strange that I cannot recognise the body of my husband. It seems wrong not knowing which bag he is in.

  Not listening to King, who is still talking at me, I start to go towards the bagged corpses. I don’t remember walking but somehow my body knows to put one foot in front of the other. When I am just a few yards away from the ambulances with their flashing lights I stop and stare, still unable to determine which of them is Danny. The outlines of the bags give nothing away – just bodies that could belong to anyone.

  ‘Where is Danny?’ A female paramedic turns to look at me. She knows who I am without asking my name. From a medical bag that is tucked under a chair in the ambulance she retrieves something before coming over.

  ‘Come and sit down, love,’ She removes a foil blanket from its cellophane wrapping and pulls it across my shoulders. The foil crunches as I am led towards the ambulance.

  ‘I need to know where he is.’

  ‘You are suffering from shock. I don’t think it’d be wise fer you to see the body at the moment.’ Her Scottish accent is soft and rolling like the hills that surround us.

  ‘He’s Danny.’ I cannot think of him as a body.

  ‘Of course.’ She guides me into a sitting position.

  ‘It will be easier fer you to see him when he’s bin cleaned up.’

  ‘But which one is he?’ My whole body starts to shake as if there is an earthquake taking place below us. But she is not shaking and I realise it is just me.

  ‘Yer husband’ll be taken to the hospital.’

  ‘I want to go with him.’

  ‘I’m afraid that will nay be possible.’

  ‘You can’t just take him away from me. I’m his wife.’ Then the tears come and I start choking because I feel a wave of violent nausea.

  ‘Deep breaths.’ The kind paramedic strokes my back as I vomit all over the cold ground.

  Bent over, looking down at the meagre contents of my stomach on the floor a pair of men’s brown shoes come into view. Without looking up I know they belong to Paul. ‘I can’t breathe.’ Panic starts to set in and I feel as if I am drowning.

  Paul bends down, so he is level with me. His face is red and puffy. His blue eyes still blurry with tears.

  ‘He’s gone.’ Paul’s voice breaks and I wonder which one of us he is talking to.

  ‘No.’ I stutter and collapse onto the ground hugging my knees and burying my face. ‘I can’t lose anyone else. Not Danny. Not like this.’

  I feel the paramedic back away, leaving us together to absorb the enormity of what has happened.

  ‘He is with Hope now,’ Paul says, sniffing before standing up and walking away. We cannot bring ourselves to look at each other for a moment longer.

  JANUARY 2014

  Libby

  The day of the funeral has arrived. After the initial shock of Danny’s death, twinned with the horror of finding out that Hope had been killed had sunk in, I was catatonic for a few days. I don’t really remember what happened. There were police and questions and press. It remains like a mysterious dream that happened to someone else.

  To begin with, Paul and Clare wanted to be close to us. They wanted to spend time with their remaining granddaughter and the only thing left that was a link to their son. But I couldn’t deal with my pain as well as theirs. I had so much to process in those early days.

  Alex, my wonderful brother, came to the rescue. He gently suggested that they go home and grieve for a while so that Gracie wasn’t subjected to so many different people’s misery. He was right of course, and finally Paul and Clare agreed to return to Tunbridge Wells. I think the arrival of the press on my doorstep, once again, helped to persuade them. They didn’t want their pictures plastered across the tabloids any more than I did.

  One freezing morning, when I was collecting the milk from my doorstep, I happened to come face to face with Tom Daler. The weasel shoved a Dictaphone into my face and asked me if I’d ever suspected I was married to a murderer. Battling against a mixture of emotions I tore the foil lid off the top of the milk and threw the contents in his face. I don’t know which of us was the most surprised. I didn’t wait to find out and slammed the door shut behind me. I was still shaking with rage nearly half an hour later.

  Dr Vogler paid me visits on a few occasions and explained that I was living with the after-effects of shock. He warned me that I might experience flashbacks, amnesia, detachment and anxiety. He wasn’t wrong.

  The flashbacks and the nightmares were the worst. My head played games with me and sometimes placed me inside the building just as the trigger was being pulled. In those nightmares I’d call out to Danny, begging him to walk away from Amit but he wouldn’t hear me. No one could hear me. I would scream in silence. Then moments later I’d wake up dripping with sweat and shivering.

  I found it so difficult getting into bed alone and since Gracie was so disturbed by the loss of her father, I let her sleep in bed with me every night. Waking up after having a nightmare meant I had to stay very quiet and still so as not to disturb Gracie, who tossed and turned beside me, sometimes crying in her sleep.

  It had, naturally, never occurred to me to be prepared to deal with a grieving child. It wasn’t something you ever think you will need to do. Sure, people lose their grandparents and that can be very traumatic but little girls aren’t meant to lose their big sisters or their daddies – especially in the way that she had. It is like a bad film and we are stuck in the middle of it but there is no director shouting ‘Cut’.

  After many hours spent worrying about how to handle the funeral, Alex finally helped me to decide. The issue was that Danny’s name was now mud. Despite the fact people tried to understand how desperate he was, no one could get past the issue that he had taken another man’s life. I still don’t know how I feel about it. We had the answers we wanted about what happened to our girl, but his actions didn’t bring Hope back and they left Gracie and me without him. Strangely, though, there was no peace in that. Until Amit confessed we were able to cling to some belief that she might still be alive and returned to us. When Danny died so did that wishful thinking, which had kept us going during those horrific months.

  The biggest issue I faced, regarding the funeral, was that people from all over the area wanted to come and pay their respects to Hope, but they were less willing to shed a tear for Danny. Despite the fact we never discovered where Amit put Hope’s body, it was decided that we should have a funeral for her anyway. It would allow us to lay her to rest at last. But I wanted her to be with her father. So after an agonising decision Danny was cremated at a small service near Cambridge in those quiet days between Christmas and New Year.

  Today, the first working day of 2014, there would be a separate memorial for Hope.
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  The local community had been so invested in the case. Men and woman from all walks of life had helped with the search in the early days. Strangers had posted fliers around asking for information. The support was phenomenal.

  Strangely enough the vicar from the village church, St Mary Magdalene, began to pop in and pay me visits. He was a skinny man and not very tall. His greying hair produced an absurd amount of dandruff that sat like a fine covering of snow on his shoulders.

  The Reverend Robert Waller had been at the church since before we came here. He was often seen strolling about the village, his hands behind his back, his head bowed low. Dan and I had never really spoken to him, since I wasn’t a church goer or a believer but I had visited the church once.

  Ickleton had been home to a Benedictine nunnery in the Middle Ages and in 1979, before I was born, there had been a fire at the church after an arson attack. What the fire revealed was a number of beautiful and rare paintings on the church walls beneath the whitewash, which dated back to the twelfth century.

  I don’t care much for religion but art is another matter and soon after moving to the village, Danny and I went into the church to see the famous paintings that depict the lives of some of the saints and a few biblical stories. The artwork appeared in dusky pink and sandy brown shades all over the walls. After picking up a leaflet in the church we discovered they were not only unique to England but also the only surviving example of their kind.

  Standing in the church that day, with our heads craned up to the ceiling we could feel the history of the place. Despite the smell of old books and dust, the building had a welcoming feel to it. It was then I understood what appealed to people in the village who showed up for the services.

  The church was a big part of the community and at last I realised why.

  Danny and I had never really gotten involved with village life. We lived in our small cottage on the outskirts and had always been content to nod at people from time to time. We weren’t rude, I hope, but we just weren’t looking to make friends. English village life can be claustrophobic if you get too involved. But since Hope’s abduction it was as if our life belonged to everyone. They all felt it was their business to know what was happening and who we were.

  When the vicar showed up at my door, wearing his dog collar, which immediately put me off, I was taken aback.

  ‘Hello.’ I didn’t open the door fully, wary of any lurking press.

  ‘I am Robert Waller.’ He spoke with a nasal voice. ‘I’ve come to express my condolences.’ The stranger stood there in the cold, looking uncomfortable.

  ‘Well, thank you. I’m Libby.’ What else could I say?

  ‘I was wondering if I might come in for a moment.’ He removed a large cotton handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabbed his nose.

  Not wanting to be rude, and somewhat intimidated by any man of the cloth, I moved aside and let him in.

  ‘I won’t stay long.’ He folded the hanky and put it back in his pocket, ‘I just wanted to introduce myself properly.’

  ‘I appreciate you taking the time to pay me a visit, reverend, but I must warn you I am not a believer.’

  The grey man did not bat an eyelid. ‘One does not have to have faith to know suffering.’

  ‘I can’t argue with that.’

  ‘We have been praying for you and your family.’

  That put my back up. ‘That’s very kind of you.’

  ‘The lord teaches us about forgiveness,’ Robert continued, ‘and in order to find comfort you must let forgiveness into your heart.’

  ‘Who is it you want me to forgive?’

  ‘The man who hurt your daughter.’

  ‘Why do you care?’

  ‘“And when you stand praying, if you hold anything against anyone, forgive them, so that your Father in heaven may forgive you your sins.” Mark, chapter eleven, verse twenty-five.’

  I stood there gobsmacked, not knowing how to respond.

  ‘But I don’t pray.’

  ‘We pray for you, Libby.’

  ‘And can you please tell me, has everyone forgiven my husband for his sin?’ I spit the last word out as it if tastes vile. ‘I am meant to forgive the man who murdered my child, but can you please tell me that you are asking your congregation to forgive my husband?’

  ‘Perhaps you need to forgive them both.’

  ‘Perhaps I do. Or perhaps it is not your business.’

  ‘I thought you might need to talk about what happened. This is a tragic case and it has been brought to my attention that you are suffering.’

  ‘Of course I am. But I am not suffering as much as my child did.’ My hands begin to shake.

  ‘If you do not wish to talk to me, perhaps you have friends and family you can confide in. Or the police.’

  ‘Why would I need to talk to the police? They shot my husband.’

  Robert sighed and dabbed his running nose again.

  ‘I’m sorry, I just don’t understand what it is you want from me.’

  ‘I wanted to encourage you to forgive your child’s abductor. For your own sake.’

  ‘Thank you for thinking of me but I will deal with this in my own way.’ Then I showed him out.

  After everything that had happened, all I wanted was to be left alone to work through it. But the world was watching and talking about what Danny had done. It was almost as if Amit’s crime had been forgotten and replaced by something even more sensational.

  In the weeks after the events in Scotland, I learnt all about the final show-down between my husband, Amit and the police.

  It seems that Amit claimed killing Hope was an accident. We will never know if that is the truth but the general feeling is that he was lying, especially given his criminal history. The argument was that if it were an accident why didn’t he call for help? Why hide her body? None of it made much sense to me. I was told that after he admitted to being involved in her death that Danny lost it and strangled him in a fit of rage.

  I also learnt that during the hours Danny kept Amit hostage he did, in fact, torture him. That is something I will never understand. Sure, Danny had a temper, like a lot of men, but he was fundamentally not a violent person. He had been pushed to it.

  A week or so after his death I remember turning on the television to see a psychologist being questioned about his interpretation of the events leading up to the shoot-out. The doctor was a stuffy-looking man, with a head of thick grey hair. He peered at the interviewer as if he were giving a lecture and said that what had happened could be explained if we studied The Stanford Prison Experiment, which took place in the United States in 1971. A psychology professor used students to study the effect of becoming a prisoner or guard. The students were split into those groups and put into a mock prison. What unfolded astounded everyone involved. The students, given the roles as guards, became violent and authoritarian, having never shown signs of this behaviour before. This, the doctor said, mirrored what happened with Danny and Amit. The conclusion of that experiment was that the situation was responsible for shaping the actions of those involved, rather than individual personalities.

  ‘We see a very clear correlation between this study and the inhuman treatment Mr Bird inflicted on Mr Chadrad,’ the doctor concluded on the morning news show.

  After his interview the channel received an unprecedented number of callers, all eager to share their opinions. When one woman called in and said that Danny was ‘just evil’ I switched the television off. I’d had enough speculation and bullshit. No amount of examining what happened would ever really explain why Danny did what he did. And what angered me is that none of the press looked into what Amit did or why. Amit became a victim and his crime went by unnoticed. Focus remained on Hope and the tragedy of her young life being cut short but how she died and the reason, were brushed under the carpet.

  How I survived for those weeks I’ll never know. I must have fed Gracie and changed her. Life went on somehow, although it was all a blur.

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bsp; When Danny’s funeral arrived I was a wreck. Vast amounts of Valium helped me to make it through. Gracie, who had always been a petite child, got more and more skinny. Her skin was so pale that the bags under her eyes looked as if they covered her cheeks. She became very quiet and withdrawn.

  When I sat her down and explained to her that her Daddy was gone, her thumb went into her mouth and she went silent. Her thumb has been in her mouth ever since and she will not leave my side for even a second. She comes with me when I go to the loo. It is as if she is terrified that I am going to disappear, too.

  This morning, as I lie in bed waiting for her to wake up, I try to prepare myself for the day ahead. The press will be back again, no doubt, spoiling our quiet little village.

  When I was with the undertaker planning Danny’s funeral the kind gentleman asked if I wanted them to produce a coffin for Hope. It took me aback because I hadn’t thought about it. It seemed strange to have a coffin when we didn’t have a body. He explained that it helped some people who were grieving to have a tangible focus for their grief, even if the box would be empty. It would be symbolic, he said. But I couldn’t abide the idea. No empty box would help me come to terms with my loss. The thought of a hollow coffin only reminded me that we didn’t have her small body to bury. I politely declined his suggestion and after talking it through with Alex settled that Hope’s name would be added to the stone that was going to be laid in the gardens at the crematorium.

  The memorial was to be held in the hall at Hope’s school. The head teacher, Mrs Fenton, agreed it would be a fitting place for the service and the entire school was invited to attend, along with friends and family. Mrs Fenton also suggested that they plant a tree in the school grounds in Hope’s memory. I cried when she said it but agreed it would be a lovely thing to do. Before I knew it Hope’s class teachers, Joanne Robertson and Helen Claire, had made a collection to buy a cherry tree and arranged for it to be planted the day after the memorial.