by A J Waines
Sam soothed me, talked to me, listened. She waited as I tried to finish my sentences, gave me space to say what I needed to say in my own messy way. She didn’t patronise or belittle me; she took everything I said seriously. I felt embarrassed about my little outburst. I thought I was more in control of myself than that. I’m used to showing people what I want them to see, not letting it all spill over like a pile of dirty washing. Sam didn’t seem the least bit perturbed, so I found myself bringing up stuff I’d hardly ever talked about with anyone.
You’d think having had therapy on and off since I was sixteen, I’d have gone back and forth over my childhood, like a seamstress pressing creases out of crumpled linen. But I haven’t. I’ve covered the ground, of course. Done it to death. But only in terms of what happened. The facts. I’ve never felt able to open up sufficiently to tell someone how I felt about it. How it affected me. I’ve wandered into that territory on my own many times, but never taken anyone with me. Now it felt like Sam might be the one to go alongside me.
‘I have yucky black thoughts when I look back over my childhood. They’re not even as clear as thoughts,’ I told her. ‘They’re more like gloomy smudges that spoil anything good that ever happens. It’s hard to pin down what I feel – I try my best not to feel at all, really.’
‘We could try to pin it down now, if you feel ready?’
‘I’m not here for that, though, am I?’
‘Well, you know our original agreement was for memory retrieval after the crash, not for more general therapy, but it doesn’t mean we can’t explore your past in more detail. You’ve told me some of what happened and we can develop that. In fact, it might be useful. Your past has made you who you are and it will directly influence how you react to significant events.’
‘Can I tell you the most vivid memories from my childhood?’
Sam nodded, earnest and concerned.
‘One is of my mother – seeing her on the floor in the bedroom with a red pool spreading beneath her, across the carpet. I didn’t see the rifle straight away; I thought the bangs I’d heard were doors slamming or something. And the other one is of my father swinging from the banister; the rifle must have been too big for him to turn on himself.’ I felt my mouth twist to one side. ‘It can’t have been a quick death. I remember his tongue turning black, a wet stain seeping down his trousers. Those two events happened in the space of about half an hour.’
Sam looked distressed. She put her notes down and I thought she might have to leave the room. I pursed my lips and heard them make a strange popping noise. I didn’t want to cry any more.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘Rosie, don’t apologise. It’s so terribly sad. Such devastating memories to have to live with.’ She looked genuinely appalled.
‘Oh, I’m used to it. The worst part is that after my dad died, a policewoman or social worker, I can’t remember now, told me he’d left a note. It said he’d planned to take me with him, but then he’d changed his mind.’
I couldn’t stop the tears this time. There was a backlog going back decades.
‘Even in death, you see, my dad didn’t want me.’
Those words, I’d never said them out loud before, they’d been rotting inside my heart for over twenty-seven years.
It was good to tell her. I cried on and on, but Sam didn’t seem to mind.
After about twenty minutes, I started to feel better and put the tissues she’d given me onto the side table in a soggy bundle. ‘I don’t have anyone close any more; no sister like you do,’ I reminded her. ‘Sometimes women like us need a shoulder to cry on, don’t we?’
Her mouth did the funny twisty thing it does sometimes when she doesn’t quite know what to say. I cleared my throat and asked to go back into the trance. Ironically, it was a bit of relief to go back to the crash after my little detour talking about my family. And I did remember something new, as it happens. From when I got out of the water.
‘I was sopping wet and the ambulance had arrived to take me away,’ I told her, lying under the blanket. ‘There was a shape in the bushes. A thin board sticking out. A number plate.’
‘When you say number plate, was it lying there discarded or was it attached to a vehicle?’
‘Attached,’ I said. ‘I can’t see anything else, though.’
‘Can you remember any of it?’
In my mind I tried to look, but it was a mush of letters and numbers. I shook my head.
‘And was it on your left or your right as you came out of the water?’
‘On my left.’
‘So, it was a vehicle that had come past the crash site – unless it was there beforehand…’
Sam was thinking aloud then. She does that sometimes when I’m in my trance. I don’t think she expects any answers; she’s working it through for herself. I love the way she’s so interested in the puzzle of it all. She wants to get to the truth almost as much as I do.
We were interrupted at that point, by the intercom buzzer. Someone wanted to come up. So irritating. I thought she’d have some way of switching it off while I was there.
I sat up, coming out of the memory with a huff so she’d know I was put out. I was expecting her to ignore it, after all, we were right in the middle of things, but she said she’d better see who it was. What a cheek! I’m paying for her time.
She got to her feet, slipped out of the room and, to be fair, she wasn’t long. In a jiffy, she was back saying it was nothing. She apologised, at least that was something, but by then our time was over.
In spite of the disappointing ending, I couldn’t keep the smile off my face as I walked down the street. Sam didn’t know, but when she rushed out to the intercom, I made the most of being left alone and took a quick look at her appointment diary – it was open on the table beside her. I wanted to find out what she does when she’s not ‘on duty’.
My name was scribbled in for that night and there was only one other entry all week. It was for Saturday night and there was one word: Wyndham’s.
Ah-ha – this was my chance. I was going to get beneath the skin of the real Sam, for a change.
Chapter 18
Rosie
It’s Saturday morning and I’ve put on my dusty old trainers and taken to the streets. I know there’s no point in breaking into a jog – I’d only get as far as the first bus stop – so I take big strides and swing my arms and huff and puff around the block.
Why on earth am I doing this? Well, last night I had a nasty shock. Normally, I cover my bedroom mirror with scarves and bags so I can’t see myself, but when I got undressed, I pulled everything off it and took a good look at myself, stark naked. I didn’t recognise what I saw. It was as if someone had run amok with my body when I wasn’t looking and slapped great chunks of lard over my belly and hips. My thighs looked like they belonged to a rhinoceros. I’m never going to be properly loved looking like that. I have to do something.
Being out of breath like this reminds me of another time after Mum and Dad had gone. I must have been around ten. There was a gang at school who never let me join in; kids in my class, who I thought were edgy and cool at the time. They went everywhere on bikes and they’d ride towards me in a group, scaring the shit out of me. They’d snatch my school bag and toss it into the beck, grab hold of my jacket as they spun past and rip the sleeves, the lapels, the pockets off.
I didn’t have a bike. But I wanted to be like them. Be one of them.
Then, one day, they said they’d consider letting me join their gang if I gave them half my dinner money. They said if I did it for a week, I was in. I was over the moon. I stopped having a main meal at lunchtime and ate a bit of fruit instead. They were true to their word and invited me to meet at Picket’s Wood, at the back of our local supermarket.
They got off their bikes and pushed them along the muddy tracks into the thickest part of the wood. It was getting dark and the undergrowth grew thicker as we got deeper into the tangled
mass, but I wasn’t scared. I was with my gang now.
Ralph suggested hide and seek. His dad was a policeman. He whispered something to Neil. They said because I was new, I could go first. Ralph and Julie wrapped a woollen scarf tightly over my eyes. Miles and Kelly spun me round, then put my hand against the trunk of a tree and told me to say the Lord’s Prayer out loud three times. I was excited, so I kept having to start again. When I finally got to the third ‘Amen’, I took off the blindfold and started looking.
At first, I thought it was fun. Then all of a sudden, it wasn’t fun any more. The sun had slipped away and I could barely see what was on the ground in front of me. I tripped over a branch and fell into some nettles. Everywhere looked the same. I didn’t even know which direction we’d come from. I stumbled over a tree stump, narrowly missing a coil of barbed wire and stopped to listen. Looking up, I could hear the rustle of leaves high above me in the treetops, and nothing else. I called out. Nothing.
I wanted to go home. It was cold and I didn’t know which way to go. The light had almost gone completely, there was only the moon flickering between the branches.
Then I knew what the whispering had been about. It was a trick. They’d never intended for me to join their little gang at all, they just wanted to make fun of me.
‘I want to go home now,’ I called out. ‘I don’t want to play any more…’
I started to sob, standing there, helplessly, making little circles. Then it was as though a bomb inside me exploded. It came from nowhere. A fiery, scalding ball of flames that sent energy to my legs. I know now that it was anger; a surging, roaring rage that I’d never felt before, not even when Mum and Dad died. I wasn’t having this. I was going to show them – the snotty, shitty bastards. They weren’t going to get away with what they’d done. I was going to get home for tea and somehow I’d pay them back.
I began striding out fast, tripping and falling every few steps, but plunging onwards with darting eyes and determination. I didn’t care that my knees were shredded with thorns and broken branches. That my jumper was torn and I could smell dog poo on my shoes. I kept going. I knew if I walked through the wood for long enough in the same direction I’d come out the other side. The air around me was boot-polish black by then. I staggered on, humming to keep myself company and then I saw a sprinkling of white dots. I was near enough to the edge of the wood to see the car headlights. I started to run towards them, breaking out of the undergrowth into a car park.
I’m back at my flat by now, exhilarated after my walk and ready for a shower. I haven’t reached the end of that particular story, but I want to put my mind to my next task. I can savour the way it turned out another time.
I dry off and dress in my usual gear. A tunic top that hides my stomach, leggings to cover my dumpy legs, my purple Doc Martens, because they’re comfy.
I was never introduced to make-up when I was growing up. My various ‘aunts’ were too old to bother with it and younger foster carers didn’t take the trouble to show me. I wasn’t allowed in their bedrooms. Everything ‘ladies did’ was behind closed doors and I’ve had to learn about it from magazines.
No one warned me about periods either. I screamed when I went to the toilet and found the mess. Thank goodness I wasn’t at school when it happened. Mrs Lillie tore an old bed sheet into small squares and told me to pin one to my knickers with safety pins. I felt like a leper.
I’m sitting on the grubby settee in my dingy flat, feeling lonely. I’m hungry, but I’m not going to eat. I think about having sex. It’s not something I’ve done very often. I haven’t fancied anyone in ages and there’s no one at the music store. Jack is a laugh, but he’s always falling in with the wrong people and getting involved with dodgy deals. The store attracts those kinds of people. There’s an underground element; drug users, fraudsters, people out to make a quick buck. Lee is more ‘sane’ than the rest of them. He smokes weed, is vegetarian and goes on animal rights’ demos. Swears by fennel tea for constipation and something chewy called tofu. He’s a bit too downbeat for me.
Lee and Jack know various ‘low-lifes’ who lurk outside the back exit now and again. It’s designated for smokers, but I often hang out with them and they don’t seem to mind. They think I’m dim and gullible and haven’t a clue they’re smoking pot half the time.
Anyway, finding romance at work is a non-starter, but I’m not bothering about it for now. I’m going to throw all my efforts in a different direction, and to do that, I’ll need to make myself more presentable. I should maybe pluck my eyebrows and polish my nails for a start. What else do women do to spruce themselves up? I’ll have to get along to Boots and buy some spot cover and lipstick.
I grab the newspaper and check the TV listings. There’s a programme on that afternoon called Style Diva. I’ll watch it and get some tips.
Sam’s going to get one heck of a shock!
Chapter 19
Rosie
I’m ironing when the phone rings. It’s DS Fischer with an update on the crash. My heartbeat shoots off like a greyhound bursting out of the starting box. What have they found this time? A body? My viola?
‘Nothing like that I’m afraid,’ he says, clearing his throat. ‘Do you remember anyone wearing a green Barbour jacket before the accident?’
I can picture it straight away, almost smell it. ‘Yes. Max had one.’
‘Just Max?’
‘Yeah. Richard wore a kind of baggy brown hoodie.’
There’s a silence.
‘You found it?’ I say, my mouth dry.
‘Can you remember if Max was wearing it when he got in the van?’
I recall the crackly sound it made when he put it on and the waxy look of it, but the images are from Hinds’ place, not from driving around the lake.
‘I don’t know,’ I tell him.
‘Okay. It was found this morning in the water, about seventy metres from the place where the van went down.’
‘After all this time?’
‘Let me know if you remember anything about him wearing it, will you?’
‘Sure.’ I can see what he’s thinking. When did Max and the jacket part company? That’s his real question. In the water? In the van? Did Max shake it off in the lake in an effort to swim to safety? Did he manage to escape? Is he still alive?
His voice breaks through my chain of silent questions. ‘We’ve also had a call from Richard White’s sister. She’d like to get in touch with you about what happened. We don’t usually give out numbers, so I wanted to check if you felt comfortable speaking to her.’
‘Oh.’ I don’t try to hide my disappointment. ‘That’s fine, I suppose. You can give her my number.’
‘You sure? You don’t have to.’
‘It’s okay.’
I don’t mind talking about it with people, even if they are ringing about their loved ones and not really interested in me. I might even be able to find out some background information that could be useful in explaining the crash.
The call comes through that same day. Lucy White lives in Kent and hadn’t seen Richard since a couple of months before the accident.
‘I don’t really know why I’m ringing,’ she says. ‘I suppose I needed to speak to you, because you were the last person to see Richard…’ There’s a gap. She can’t bring herself to add the final two syllables.
‘What have the police told you?’ I ask.
Lucy runs through what she knows: why Richard was in the Lakes, how we drove up from London together, that for some reason his van left the road.
‘They don’t even seem to know if it was an accident or not,’ she says. Her voice is light and thin, like pink chiffon. ‘They said the steering wasn’t right and there’d been a puncture in one of the front tyres, but they didn’t know if that was wear and tear or signs of…’
‘I know,’ I commiserate. ‘I can’t add much, I’m afraid. I remember we swerved and left the road. I don’t know why.’
I don’t tell her that the pol
ice have worked out that the brakes were jammed at the time of the accident. It meant Richard wouldn’t have stood a chance.
‘I suppose what I really want to know is – do you think he suffered?’
God, what a question. Has anyone ever drowned and not suffered? I’d only had a flavour of it: the water scorching my nostrils, the pain as it burst into my lungs, the terrifying panic when I realised I couldn’t breathe. But I’d got out before the worst part set in. Surely, drowning couldn’t be anything other than a frenzied, frantic agony.
‘It would have been quick,’ I say with assurance, leaving it at that.
I don’t remember any glimpses of Richard after we hit the water and I’m trying not to allow invented images of him, fighting to get his seat belt off, his door or window open, to flood into my mind.
‘Did he seem happy?’ she says hopefully. ‘I know he’d been struggling with money lately. He’d fallen out badly with Dad and he’d had terrible fights with his brother. Greg’s always been a liability. He stole from Richard a couple of times.’
Richard hadn’t told me any of this. But then, why would he?
I scrabble around for something positive to say. ‘He was chatty in the van on the journey up north. He thought the whole idea of us playing together again was a lark and he seemed to…be enjoying himself.’ That wasn’t strictly true. Wasn’t true at all, in fact. Richard hated the whole idea as much as I did, but he was there for the generous fee, like the rest of us.
‘Did he tell you about the first time, when you all did that original concert, years ago?’
‘What about it?’
‘Apparently Richard slept with the wife of the guy who organised it, the night before the celebrations.’
Shit! This is news to me. I wonder if Cameron Hinds knows about it. I try to think back. Had he seemed hostile to Richard at any point? Had there been a bad atmosphere or was he completely in the dark about it, like me?