Michael Hemmings was to be detained at Littleworth, a high-security psychiatric hospital just outside Liverpool.
The judge looked at me as he finished and his face softened. He had been a severe but fair arbitrator throughout and now I detected his relief.
As Michael Hemmings was led away, still with his eyes on my mother under the harsh lighting of the courtroom, I watched again the strange reciprocity between my mother and my cousin, and a clear playback from my childhood began.
—
It was the day after Christmas 1971, and the usual family gathering. We always went to Uncle Sam’s on Boxing Day. Sam and Bridget had the biggest house. Mum never wanted to go and I couldn’t understand why, seeing as Michael often came to ours. It’s funny how as a child there are some things you know you can’t mention, and one of those things was Michael’s visits. I didn’t want to go to Uncle Sam’s, either, although I did look forwards to the great cakes that were always on offer in the Hemmings’ household, and that made up for Michael’s presence there. Also, I really liked Sam and Bridget even though I didn’t like their son.
A mop of blond hair flopped over my cousin’s small eyes, masking their brown emptiness. I peered at him. It was his eyes that made me feel uneasy. And his posture: considered, like a tiger ready to pounce. I knew he’d homed in on me and I gauged my choices. More boredom with my older relatives, or take a chance with weird Michael.
‘Do you want to come up to my bedroom?’ he said. His eyes bored into my forehead. I shrugged. Glancing towards him, I made a difficult decision. ‘Better than staying down here,’ he carried on.
‘I was going to watch Doctor Who,’ I lied. It wasn’t on for another two hours.
‘That’s for kids. Got something to show you in my bedroom.’
The gauntlet was thrown down, and in the background I heard the adult conversation moving towards supermarkets and their muscling into Bridget and Sam’s small bakery trade.
‘OK,’ I said, already following him into the hallway and towards the stairs.
‘Margaret tells me you’re learning to play the guitar?’ he said, pushing open the bedroom door with his foot.
‘My mum likes you, doesn’t she?’ I said.
He didn’t answer, but held the door for me to enter. I’d never been inside his lair. Two walls painted ebony black, two walls purple. If I had to imagine the preliminary room to hell, that room would have been it.
I didn’t know what to say and spotted a guitar leaning up against the unmade bed. I mumbled, ‘I’ve had four guitar lessons ... at school.’
‘School, pah! You need someone like me to teach you.’
‘I like my guitar teacher.’ I looked him straight in the eye, ‘He’s kind and patient.’
He concentrated his gaze around my navel. ‘Come on, sweet Rachel – I’ll show you how to play the guitar.’ My eyes fluttered erratically around the room. ‘I’m not going to eat you, Rach,’ he finished.
The room smelt of stale sweat, an old aroma of fried bacon and something else, like animal, an animal that hadn’t been cleaned properly. I wondered if Bridget ever cleaned. My own mother cleaned all the time, as if by having a clean house she would make her family clean, herself clean. I loved my dad, but our family was grey; our emotional home life grimy.
I started at the rustling movement from the far end of the room. In the corner sat a hutch with a brown and white rabbit inside. I remembered his rabbit Ruby from last Christmas; only then she’d lived outside the back door. He saw me looking towards the hutch.
‘My idea to bring old Ruby indoors for the winter. Sorry about the smell.’
I wandered towards the hutch and peered at Ruby. The last time I’d seen the rabbit she’d been chubby and lively. She sat looking out from behind the bars; eyes dull, fur mangled and dirty. ‘She doesn’t look that healthy.’
His flat eyes studied the purple wall behind me. ‘She’s a rabbit, Rach, not a human.’
‘My mum doesn’t like people calling me Rach.’
‘Fuck your mum.’ He laughed almost hysterically. ‘Yep, fuck your mum, Rach, and fuck the rabbit.’ He kicked the hutch violently.
Ruby cowered in the corner. I opened the door of the hutch; my overwhelming desire to cuddle Ruby was overriding the fear.
He smiled, ‘Yes, get Ruby out, let’s have some fun.’
The fine hairs on my clammy skin stood up.
‘You going to show me how to play the guitar, then?’ I said, attempting to deflect him.
He pushed me to one side and grabbed Ruby by the scruff of her neck, ‘D’ya want to see something really funny?’
I didn’t. I said nothing.
He took the hapless rabbit towards the bed, and sat down with her on his knee. He held Ruby with one wiry arm, while with the other he lit a cigarette.
‘Does your mum know you smoke?’ I said quietly, thinking that Bridget almost certainly didn’t.
‘It’s none of her fucking business. Fucking women. Watch this.’
Anticipating its fate, the poor animal peed over her tormentor’s trousers and the bed. He threw Ruby on the floor and then crouched down beside her, roughly pinning her down as best he could. She stared at me; she was docile through maltreatment and not even attempting to wriggle away.
‘Fucking animal!’ He took the cigarette, which had been hanging from his cracked, dry lips, and pushed it into Ruby’s face. She screeched, as did I. Defying all the odds, Ruby managed to break free from her tormentor and ran towards the pseudo safety of her cage.
‘So,’ he pulled the guitar from beside his bed, ‘let’s have a practice, shall we?’
‘Will Ruby be all right?’ She sat in the furthest corner of her cage. Completely still.
‘Fuck knows. I’m bored with it. Do you want it?’
I knew my mother wouldn’t let me have Ruby, but I wanted to save her.
‘Yes.’
‘And no friggin’ rattin’ on me about the rabbit, OK? Or who knows what’ll happen.’ He peered at me. ‘You should see what she does when I do other things to her. Fuck, Rach ... maybe I’ll show you now.’ He’d risen from the floor and was making his way to Ruby’s cage. Then he stopped and turned towards me. ‘Or maybe, sweet Rachel, instead of Ruby, I’ll do it to you?’
Ruby was frozen inside her cage; the dull light of the room seemed to flicker. I heard the low tone of the resting record player.
And then there was a loud knock on the door and I sighed with relief at hearing my mum’s voice.
‘No ratting,’ he mumbled. The bulge in the crotch of his trousers was too noticeable, as was the heightened colour in his face. He was still looking at Ruby in the cage.
My mum opened the door before he replied to her knock. I watched something very near to fear cross his face as she entered the room.
She didn’t look at me, and stood like a tower of grown-up normality in the black and purple room. Out of place in her signature buttoned-up blouse, pale blue for Boxing Day instead of her trademark white, both hands placed on her large hips. The blouse ballooned around her small chest. Michael looked directly into her icy blue eyes, seemingly unable to pull himself free from the gaze.
‘Are you being a naughty boy?’ she said. Her eyes travelled to his crotch. She smiled but said nothing. Emptiness engulfed me as I realised that my mother had not come to save me. That she had come to see Michael.
I expected a swear word. At the very least, a rude retort. But Michael shrank backwards away from the door and my mother. As submissive as Ruby.
‘No – I’m not being a naughty boy,’ he said, both hands moving towards his mouth.
His hands stayed in the same position for at least an hour after we left his bedroom. He ate none of the Boxing Day tea; it would have been difficult getting food past both of his wiry hands. Bridget had lost patience with her son soon after we had all sat down at the table; ignoring him and then taking his plate away.
As I knew she would, my mother said no to the id
ea of taking Ruby home with us.
We stayed at Sam and Bridget’s that night, but it was to be the last night we ever stayed there. The next morning I was the first up, apart from Bridget. She looked dishevelled and sad.
‘What’s the matter, Aunt Bridget?’ I asked.
She nodded over to the other end of the kitchen. Ruby’s hutch sat in the corner.
‘Is Ruby all right?’ I could tell she wasn’t.
‘No she’s not, Rachel. She died.’
‘Did you bring her hutch down to the kitchen last night?’
She sighed heavily. ‘No, she was up in Michael’s room. I’ve just brought it down.’
‘What happened?’
‘She just died, Rachel.’ I walked over to the cage. Bridget moved towards me. ‘It’s a dead animal, Rachel. Leave it. Sam and I will bury her later in the garden.’
I looked inside the cage anyway. Ruby lay on her back, her neck at a distressing angle. I knew it had been broken. I said nothing, only opened the cage and stroked her cold fur.
‘You go and get ready. Your mother will be wanting to leave after breakfast.’
‘All right, Aunt Bridget.’ I looked at her, about to say something, to ask her if Michael had done it. I knew he had.
‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Now, love.’
Tears covered my face. ‘You’ll bury her properly, not let Michael do it?’
‘It’ll be Sam and I. Michael’s still asleep. He’ll be in bed until the afternoon, so don’t worry.’
No one ever mentioned Ruby again.
—
Liam and I found ourselves outside the court building, greeted by a muddy sky that was still visible in the wispy fog of the late afternoon. It had rained continuously for the last forty-eight hours, but as we caught sight of the insatiable media the downpour was the least of our problems.
I pulled my wool beret over courtroom-warmed ears and looked down towards the slippery wet ground. Our barrister had told us to say nothing, which was physically easy, as I felt I would never speak again. For the past seven weeks the dry atmosphere of the courtroom had robbed me of a proper voice, as Hemmings’ act had robbed me of a proper life. Tom Gillespie caught Liam’s arm, whispering things that I didn’t even try to catch. My existence seemed to be disappearing into a void; the small bit of life that Hemmings had left for me plucked away during the trial.
I loitered in the entrance of the court building, thinking that I would smell Joe. I did not. Coolness ran through me, a purl of motion in between the crevices of my spine.
Joe wasn’t with me.
—
As we left, Tom squeezed my arm lightly but didn’t attempt to give me a familiar kiss on the cheek. Liam and I had slowed down his investigation by holding back information about Joe’s state of mind the day he had gone, and in so doing we had compromised our relationship with him. In my previous life, I’d been talking to Tom about going back to work. Once upon a time that thought had excited me.
Tom walked quickly to a waiting car. He slipped into the driver’s seat and glanced towards me, nodding slightly. He wanted to get away.
I felt a gentle jab in my back. It was Jonathan. I’d hardly spoken to him throughout the trial. I turned towards him, and so did Liam, his face sullen.
‘You need to get away from here as quickly as possible.’ Jonathan smiled thinly. ‘Can’t take away the nature of the vulture. I should know.’
‘We’re fine, Jonathan. Rachel knows how to handle this stuff,’ Liam said.
‘Does she, Liam?’ Jonathan said quietly.
Very obviously Liam elbowed past him, only to move a few inches nearer to the street.
‘We’re just about to leave, Jonathan,’ I said. ‘Are you free to come over? I’ve hardly seen you ...’ I didn’t care what Liam thought. Not anymore.
At that moment in my peripheral vision I caught sight of my dad and mother leaving too. Dad saw me and moved his head towards the car park, indicating that he’d accompany Margaret to the car and then return. I couldn’t face her and the silent accusation that this was all my fault.
Joe’s murder was somehow my fault.
I looked at Jonathan. ‘Come over, please?’ To Liam I said, ‘Can we wait for Dad?’
‘The place is crawling with press.’ Liam said. ‘We need to go.’ He cast his eyes around. ‘Too late.’
Already, journalists had surrounded us. I recognised a few from the local papers, the nationals, too. Flashes and tussling ensued as our barrister made his way forwards. Sean Skerrit, QC for the Crown Prosecution Service, was older than he looked; something that I think went against him in court. I’d always felt the jury resented a young prosecution, especially if the jury was mature, which this one had been.
Sean directed his speech towards Liam, and I felt invisible, useless, but too tired to complain. ‘I intend to give a statement.’ Sean said to Liam. ‘You and Rachel go home. I’ll call later. Better I do this alone.’
‘This means a life sentence?’ I asked Sean, hope in my voice.
He grimaced. ‘A do-good mental health tribunal could well decide to let him out within five years, if he plays the game.’ He caught my eye. ‘But hopefully that won’t be the case.’
‘But it could be the case ... couldn’t it?’
‘I hope not, Rachel,’ Sean said, with leaden heaviness in his voice. I’d got the distinct impression that Sean Skerrit QC didn’t like to lose, and had taken Hemmings’ sentence as a direct affront to his professional agility.
Did I think of revenge then? Deep inside I think I did.
Sean ran slender and well-manicured fingers through his mane. Not one grey hair in his boot-polish black hair. He turned slightly to accommodate a photographer and, looking at the lens, said to me, ‘We’ll talk later.’
‘I’ll come over, Rachel,’ Jonathan said, ‘just for a short time. I have to be back in London.’ He was already moving away.
‘Good,’ I said to Jonathan’s back.
My dad had made his way over. He wavered and I recognised the vacillation with which I’d grown up. I guessed my mother wanted to talk to me, but I had no intention of going to my childhood home today to argue with her. Not today.
‘Your mum wants to talk to you,’ Dad said.
I sighed. ‘I’ll come over tomorrow. I promise, I will.’
‘She’s asked me to bring her over to yours ... now. She’s waiting in the car.’ He pulled at the sleeve of his jacket.
‘Charlotte’s made food, Alan. Both of you come and eat at ours,’ Liam said to Dad, avoiding looking at me, knowing there was no way I’d want my mother anywhere near me.
Liam was functioning on automatic, something he’d seemed to be doing since Joe had gone. He felt as guilty as me; sometimes I thought more so. We still hadn’t talked about the affair, not properly, not directly. Although Liam was aware I knew something.
I watched my father. A patient man, a kind man. How could he love my mother? How could anyone love my mother? Joe hadn’t loved her. But he had tried.
‘We’ll drive over now,’ my dad said. He turned to return to his wife.
Liam pushed me gently into our waiting car. A PC whom I recognised sat ready in the driving seat. From the back seat, I saw his forced and sad smile in the rear-view mirror. The pity, again.
We drove southwards towards home, passing the local park on the way. It had been built around the time Joe had been born, overlooking the main road, on elevated ground. The council’s thinking: where the kids could be seen.
Liam broke the short silence. ‘I’d rather Jonathan Waters didn’t turn up today.’
‘He’s my friend.’ I stared through the window. ‘You can’t have an opinion on this. He’s been good to me.’
Liam didn’t answer.
CHAPTER FIVE
Jonathan watched as Rachel and Liam were driven away, and the profound feeling of sadness that hit him made him catch his breath. He scanned the street and the entrance to the court buildings; the place
was still crawling. This case had caught the attention of the whole country. He felt his forehead crease into a frown. Give it a few days and everyone would have forgotten. Everyone but those directly involved.
‘Waters! Jonathan!’
He turned, immediately identifying the voice. Barry Haslop. He’d recognise it anywhere. Low, rasping and authoritative. A journalist who Jonathan not only admired, but liked.
‘Baz, I didn’t know you were here ... you haven’t been covering this story?’
‘Editor sent me for the sentencing. Wants me to write a special piece on the case.’ The older man wiped his brow. Despite the cold Barry was sweating. He wasn’t the healthiest journo. ‘Not a big surprise, the sentence, but bad for the parents.’ Barry cocked his chin upwards. ‘You know anything? You know the mother well...’
‘Know as much as you, mate,’ Jonathan replied.
‘Yeah, right.’ Barry smiled, good-naturedly. ‘How’s that wife of yours?’
‘Michelle’s OK.’
‘You know where I am if you ever need a bloke chat.’ Barry grinned sympathetically. He was on his fourth wife.
‘Might take you up on that.’ Jonathan sighed. ‘It’s not as good as it could be.’
‘It never is, mate.’ Barry’s shoulders lifted upwards in sympathy.
They were standing on the kerbside. Hooking up with Barry was always fruitful; what the old hack didn’t know wasn’t worth knowing. He’d helped Jonathan out on more than one occasion with research. Jonathan had realised early on that Barry Haslop could uncover just about anything. He’d learnt a lot from Baz; most of his own hacking skills were due to the old reporter’s input.
He thought that he’d also like to talk about Michelle. Perhaps a pint together sometime soon would be good.
Suddenly, loud scuffles were heard coming from the court steps. Both men looked up. It was Barry who spoke.
‘Looks like Hemmings’ parents are about to leave.’
Bridget and Sam Hemmings were surrounded. Michael Hemmings’ barrister was nowhere to be seen. She was probably already sitting in a pub somewhere, celebrating.
Jonathan watched. The journos surrounding the couple were well out of order, jostling, shoving. Sam Hemmings looked knackered and Bridget looked terrified. He’d met the couple a few times and liked them both, but it had been Sam he’d warmed to. There was something about Bridget that ... well. But, looking at the two of them now, Bridget’s coat wrapped tightly around her barrel-shaped body, the fear on her face, the look of desolation on Sam’s, he felt he had to intervene.
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