by Ruth Dugdall
As I stepped from the final rung of the ladder, he reached to help me, and I fell into his arms. I cried and cried and let him hold me and didn’t say a word, not to him. The only person who could tell me what I needed to know was my sister.
I caught the next train in a hot sweat, and at the hospital I found Jena in the art-therapy room, working on her painting. She looked up, wide-eyed as a girl. ‘Sam! Where have you been? Come give me a hug.’
Her embrace took my breath away.
She danced in front of me, making me giddy. Words didn’t come, wouldn’t come.
The film you were in. The lies you told about your relationship with Andy. The rape. I need to know!
My hands felt clammy as I grabbed hers, pulling her off-balance. I looked at the painting. It was finally finished; the whole picture was splattered with paint to show it had been raining. Despite this, the face was completed, whole.
And unmistakably female.
Jena smiled at me, wise and sane. I was at the end of my reserves. There was only one thing I could ask.
‘Who hurt you, Jena? You need to tell me. Because I’m close to crazy, and it’s going to kill me if you don’t.’
Jena leaned towards me. She whispered, one finger on her lips, as if warning me to keep it a secret.
‘It was her.’
It felt like the moment I’d been working towards for weeks had arrived, and still I wasn’t prepared. In just a few days I’d learned so many truths, but the one that resonated to my core was what Andy had said: Your sister lives in a dream world, she always has.
I’d thought Douglas Campbell was to blame, then I’d thought it was Andy. But now Jena was telling me it was a woman.
‘Who’s her?’
Jena pulled her mouth inwards, as if to stop herself from saying any more. One woman’s name came to me, a woman with a good reason to hate my sister. A woman that Douglas and Andy had both mentioned.
‘Was it Sonia?’
Jena looked alarmed and grabbed me by my arms. She squeezed me so hard they hurt, her face contorted with worry.
‘Sam! We must remember to forget.’
My thoughts clicked together like magnets; pieces that had made no sense suddenly belonged. Sonia had said that Jena was too pretty, that she’d thought herself a cut above the others on the estate. And she was with Douglas when he was accused of rape; Jena was the reason he went to prison, then left Suffolk, leaving Sonia and Rob to fend for themselves.
‘Why now, Jena? Why attack you sixteen years later?’
And Jena’s lovely green eyes were wide and fearful. But she nodded. ‘Jealous. Of me. Because I was about to be free.’
‘Free? You mean because you were moving into the flat?’
‘Yes!’
Of course Sonia would be jealous of that, given her own chaotic existence. Unstable, because of drugs. Jealous. Angry, because Jena’s accusation had ruined her life. But how the fuck would I make her confess when everyone around her was willing to lie? Rob, poor Rob, had been so willing to help me when I thought the attacker was his dad. But he wouldn’t help me with this.
‘Too pretty, she always said so,’ Jena whispered, oblivious to the chattering madness in my head, repeating again, ‘I was about to be free.’
I felt capsized; the ground shifted beneath me, but Jena caught me, held me tightly, and started to sing. A lullaby, and I wanted to scream or weep and fall into her embrace like a child.
CHAPTER 33
29 January
I can still feel that madness surge through me, its firm hand on my back, pushing me forward, the urgent need to right the huge wrong that had been done to us. To my family.
What I wouldn’t give for one scrap of that conviction now, one burst of that energy, so I could fix Pearl. But I’m pathetic; here on Ana Unit I have no power.
I wait until evening, when Birute brings me my meds. Finally, I’m going to alert someone, and stop thinking only of myself.
‘Pearl isn’t doing as well as you think she is.’
I long for a dramatic reaction, but she looks sad, and her mood is slightly flattened as always. ‘All you girls are so poorly. It hurts me here.’ She touches her ribcage with her palm. ‘Is something I never understand.’
I’ve heard this before. It comforted me once; now it makes me want to scream.
‘But Pearl is worse than the rest of us, Birute. And she’s good at hiding it.’
‘You care about your friend. I see this when we play Monopoly. And soon you will be apart, if you are set free, so this is upsetting for you.’
She turns to go, and I have to stop her.
‘But she’s . . . It’s just . . .’
Birute’s busy; I can see that. She has other medications to distribute; she’s tired.
I understand what it’s like, to be consumed by a thought, unable to think of anything else. My Black Magic memories have taken me back to that blistering June, eighteen months ago, when my sickness began.
‘Sam?’
Pearl is in the doorway of my room. Hands resting on her skinny hips and an angelic smile on her narrow, finely boned face.
‘Come on in, Pearl. I’ve been worried about you. How are you feeling?’
She sits close to me on the bed, and puts her hand in mine. It’s small and cold, and her breathing seems rapid. ‘I’m fine,’ she says. ‘I just missed you today. When you go and see Clive, I have no one to talk to.’
‘Well, I’m here now.’
She presses against me. ‘But you’ll be leaving soon. On 1 February, they’re going to let you go home.’
‘Maybe,’ I say, slowly.
‘Do you want to leave?’ She looks up; her deep brown eyes, liquid-rimmed, are so full of affection that it breaks my heart. I can smell the candyfloss of her lip gloss, and remember again just how young she is, how vulnerable.
‘I didn’t. But that’s changed now.’
And I’m tired, or maybe scared, because everything is getting real close, real soon, and I’d like someone to talk to, just one person. I just want one person who knows me to know what I’m going to do. I’m sick of feeling alone.
Pearl is listening, and she smells like spun sugar. She smiles at me like I’m a decent person and I want to tell her the truth. Real bad, like it’s burning in my throat, the words.
I take a deep breath, till it feels like I’m drowning in air, just to stop myself from cracking up.
‘The thing is, Pearl, I’ve got a lot to prove. I’m here on a hospital order, as an alternative to custody. I shot someone.’
Whatever she’s heard about me from the other girls, the gossip in the bathroom, she didn’t know this, and she shifts slightly away, her mouth dropping a little. I’m losing another person who cared about me, and still I can’t stop myself from making it worse, from self-destruction.
‘I’m not just here because I’m sick, Pearl. I’m here because I’m bad.’
My thoughts were circular and obsessive:
Sonia had been Douglas’s girlfriend. She was Rob’s mum and Andy’s sister. She was also a fucked-up drug addict, full of anxiety and rage, and she’d hurt her own son – hadn’t Rob shown me the scar? And she hated Jena.
She was the glue between Douglas, Andy and Jena. Penny and the police had been looking for a madman and they had missed the truth, we all had. That a woman can be evil too.
So, then, the pressing need for justice. I was a sixteen-year-old kid, weak with hunger and lacking in strength. How to get a grown woman, a spaced-out drunk, to confess?
I needed something to make me brave, and make her weak. A weapon. But what?
The thought of a knife made me wince; I could picture Sonia seizing it from me, plunging it into my own flesh. Anything that required strength could be used against me.
A gun didn’t require strength. A gun in Ipswich, elusive as snow in the desert, but not unheard of. And didn’t I know someone with a firearms history?
At Greasy Monkeys garage, the trainee mechanics barely look
ed up from their oil-stained, messy jobs. In just a couple of weeks I’d become part of the furniture. Rob was sitting on an old tyre, basking in the sun, blue denim and oily fingers. He watched me approach with a look of warmth in his eyes, and I felt bad, bad that I was about to betray him. He didn’t deserve that.
‘Hi babe,’ he said, coming up and kissing me. And I kissed him back because I wanted to; it felt good, even though my plan had changed and we were no longer allies.
I nursed something pure in my heart for this messed-up boy who saw the world the same way I did. Who was also one of life’s victims, but doing his best to survive. We had been united against Douglas, but now Sonia was my target. I knew he wouldn’t take my side against his mum.
Oblivious to all this, Rob moved me around so I was backed against a rusting car. Desire hung from him like musk.
‘I’ve missed you these past two days. Don’t leave for so long again.’ He was warning me, that I could hurt him. I knew I should step away, let him be, because no good would come of it, but instead I kissed him. The kiss was deep, desire was there, but what good could come of that now?
‘I’m sorry with how it went at Pizza Hut. But Dad told me he went to see Jena the next day, and that she said it wasn’t him who raped her. Is he lying to me again, Sam?’
His face was so full of hope, and I envied him. I’d lost the capacity.
‘He’s not lying. Jena says it wasn’t him.’
Hope went to a flicker of despair and confusion. ‘So everything he lost, all those years in jail, and he was innocent?’
‘So she says. And she’s going to say it publicly on Monday, at the press conference. Douglas needs to be there. You should come too.’
‘I wouldn’t miss it! Christ, all these years, being known as the son of a rapist . . . He deserves compensation! We all do.’
‘So where’s Douglas now?’
‘At The Fold. Eating my food, drinking my beer. He’s been happy since he spoke to your sister; keeps talking about how everything’s going to change. He thinks he’s going to be rich. I don’t know how much longer I can keep him away from my mum; he’s desperate to tell her the good news. But I’ve said he should wait.’
‘Until it’s public,’ I agreed. ‘On Monday.’
Rob was hopeful, thinking about his dad’s name being cleared, but it left me with a huge question. He held me, kissed me, and I knew that if he let me go I would fall to the ground; I feared I’d never get up again.
Rob pulled away, and when he saw my face he asked, ‘You okay, babe?’
‘Not really.’ I was shaking. ‘I mean, if it wasn’t Douglas who attacked Jena, then who did? And how do I find them?’
‘It’s not your job. You should let the police work that one out.’
He came close, his breath on my forehead. His eyes caressed the outline of my body, and I felt myself shiver. I was nervous, but I knew what I needed.
‘Can you get me a gun, Rob?’
‘What is it you want?’ he said loudly, as if he’d suddenly gone deaf.
I looked around for listeners, then whispered, ‘If I had a gun, I’d feel better. I need to carry on, and find Jena’s attacker.’
He had an eyebrow raised, an amused smile on his face. He wasn’t taking me seriously.
‘But you have no idea who it might be or what you’ll do next? I’m serious, Sam, leave it to the police.’
‘Please, Rob. It’s just a prop. To make me feel more secure.’
He whistled between his front teeth, staring at me like I was a weird but interesting zoo animal, but not one that might bite.
‘A prop?’
He gave an ironic chuckle, wheezy from rollies and exhaust fumes, which gave way to a hurt silence. His shoulders hunched over; there was tension in his muscles. I felt sure that if I pushed just a bit more he’d help me. He was the only person who could.
‘Look, you shouldn’t even joke about that stuff. Leave guns to the grown-ups.’
‘Do I look like I’m joking?’ My body was humming, energy running from my core to the tips of my fingers. ‘How much would it cost for you to get me one?’
‘Fuck, girl. You have no idea what you’re even asking. It’s mandatory prison for shit like that.’
‘I know you’ve got a criminal record; you know drug dealers, so you’d know how to get me one.’ I felt fury rising up in me, hot and powerful. ‘You saying you can’t?’
He studied me. ‘Not can’t. Won’t. I like my freedom.’
A pulse throbbed in my forehead. ‘Come on, Rob! You know people with guns. I don’t.’
‘No one’s gonna sell a gun to you.’
‘Why not?’
He sighed, then counted the reasons on his fingers. ‘One, because you’re a girl. Two, because no one knows anything about you, and frankly, Sam, you’re acting like a nutter right now.’
‘But they’d sell to you.’
‘Only I don’t want one. And I don’t understand why you do.’
I was losing him, I could feel it. The kiss, our embrace, was forgotten now. He was suspicious of me.
‘I know you could help me if you wanted, Rob. You’re known round here; you’ve got the Campbell reputation to keep up.’ I raked my fingers through my hair and they got caught in the tangles.
‘Sam, I’ve already got a strike for firearms. I got it from Spoons Café; that’s where all the dodgy deals happen in this town. It was deactivated so couldn’t hurt a fly, and back when Mum was into some heavy shit and I was needing to protect her. I was lucky to get away with Community Payback and Mac breathing down my neck.’
Rob reached to ease my hand away from my tangled hair, smoothing it down, in a gesture that was so tender it made me want to weep.
‘That would be perfect. A deactivated gun would be just dandy.’
He sighed, and released a curl of my hair so it grazed my cheek.
‘The bottom line is, I probably could get you a piece, but it would cost. And if I got caught, I’d be banged up. It’s just not worth it.’
‘Could I make it worth it?’ I bit my lip and moved towards him, my hands hovering near his belt.
He touched my face, near the scab. ‘What happened here?’
I could feel the grease from his fingertips in my pores as his finger lingered on the place where Mum burned me.
‘Please help me, Rob. Is it cash you want?’
‘How much ya got?’
I thought about the birthday and Christmas money I had saved. ‘Three hundred pounds.’
He laughed. ‘Not even close.’
‘It’s all I have.’
‘Forget it, Sam. You’re the smart girl with the camera, not the low-life with the gun. You’re better than that.’
‘Let me show you how much better I can be.’
I pushed myself towards him, so I could feel his penis through my jeans. I wiggled against him, and let him nuzzle into my neck. He pressed me back against the car; we were so close I could feel his eyelashes on my cheek. I felt desperate, grasping for the final grains of sand before the hourglass emptied.
I thought about Andy’s offer: quick money to appear in a film. If that was what it took, it would be worth it. ‘I can get more money.’
‘I don’t want your money. I want you. I love you, Sam. Even though I think you’re crazy.’
He pressed into me. I could smell the coffee on his breath, see the sweat on his collarbone. His lips touched mine, and on instinct I opened for him. We kissed, deep and wet this time, before I pulled away. We were drawn together; we both felt it.
‘I love you too, Rob. Please help me?’
‘I’m sorry, babe. Not with this.’
But he’d already helped me, more than he knew. Spoons Café . . . that’s where all the dodgy deals happen in this town, he’d said.
Spoons. The café on the waterfront. Monica’s hangout.
CHAPTER 34
30 January
Pearl died in the night.
Sian woke
me with a gentle shake, her face so puffy I could tell she’d been crying, though her voice was as sharp and serious as ever.
‘Heart failure,’ she said, sitting heavily on the edge of my bed. ‘The staff on duty the other day should never have let her go out in the snow.’ And then she stared at the window, at the water dripping from the melting icicles along the gutter, her hands clasped in her lap.
The news seeps into my soul like poison. Snow angel, little Pearl, has starved herself to death. I let her down. I knew she lied about getting her period, I knew she was hiding food, and I said nothing. I let her kill herself.
But so did everyone else.
Sick with who I am and everything I’m responsible for, I curl up under my duvet.
I think about Jena, and how I have abandoned her too. Not allowing her to visit, refusing any contact. Reading all of her letters, treasuring them, but never once replying.
Clive comes to find me when I don’t turn up for our meeting. I’m curled on my bed, cried out. Wretched with memory and regret.
He tries to comfort me. He tries to tell me Pearl’s death was not my fault. That I’m not to blame.
‘Just let me finish, before you tell me I’m not to blame,’ I say to him. ‘Please.’
And so he sits on the wicker chair, pulling it close enough to hear my weak voice, and to be of some comfort as I let myself leave this place and return to Ipswich docks, to the ancient houses, beamed and timbered with lopsided roofs and doll-sized windows, back to Spoons.
Saturday 25 June.
Spoons was a small and crooked place, just a stone’s throw from the house that was once Thomas Wolsey’s butcher’s shop before he became a cardinal. A butcher’s boy could soar like Icarus with the right ambition, the right brain. At least, he could in Tudor times.
The tiny oblong windows were steamed up with the heat from inside and covered with scraps of paper advertising: Paczek z dzemem and cuppa just £1. Another one said Free mince pie with any drink, and someone had drawn a holly leaf in the corner, with berries in blue biro. The poster was either six months too early or too late.
I pushed the door; it dragged over the thick doormat. The room was small and still held the sooty memory of when it had been a front parlour with a cosy fire in a yawning brick mouth under one wall. But there was nothing comforting about the room anymore; it had a brick floor and a handful of mismatched tables. A balloon-bodied woman in a violent-green headscarf and wrap-around pinny eyed me from behind a ramshackle counter, upon which a plastic tray was stacked with brightly wrapped chocolate bars and biscuits. Her fat hands busied themselves in arranging a broken wicker basket stuffed with every flavour of crisps. On the wall behind her was a fluorescent star advertising Cola or Panda Pops 60p. The dry smoke smell of continually boiled water filled the air.