Annie, who had spent years conning every ounce of help from anybody and everybody she could, saw a meal ticket with this girl and decided to milk it for all it was worth. It didn't matter that she was drunk—survival was foremost on her mind. Getting tomorrow's liquid fix was essential.
"Sorry. Not used t' people bein' kind t' me."
"Why don't you tell me about it?"
"Wha'?" Annie screwed up her face again.
"You know, your life, before this," the girl said as she waved a hand at the room, shaking her head. "How did you end up here?" Her voice was quiet, barely more than a whisper. She had a faraway look in her eyes.
"It washn't my fault," Annie said and glanced around the room, as if seeing the state of it for the first time, and for a split second she was embarrassed. "I wasa shchool teacher 'nd a good one. I teached English...tauched...taught English." She ran a hand through her grey, matted hair. "Yeah you 'eard right—English. I loved it, but it was shtolen from me."
"So you did nothing wrong? It was all taken from you and you did nothing to deserve it?"
"I said so, din't I?" She looked at the girl with a puzzled expression on her face. "Are ya sure I don't know yer?"
"I don't know, Annie. Why? Do you recognise me?"
The girl stood up and was above Annie now.
Annie had to lean all the way back in her chair in order to look at the girl's face. She did seem a bit familiar, but Annie couldn't place her.
Her heart was pounding in her throat, confusion washed over her, and she chewed her bottom lip. "I din't tell you ma name. W-who are yer? What's this all about?" She was beginning to feel a little uneasy, even with the effects of the vodka. "Did I teach yer? Is that it? Tell me, girl," she shouted.
"Oh, you taught me all right, but not in the classroom."
The calm quiet of the girl's voice made Annie shudder. "Now ya bein' shtupid. How else could I teach yer?"
The girl stepped away from Annie and picked her way around the room, kicking at the rubbish with her high-heeled, brown boots. "Well, let me see. You taught me in lots of different ways, Annie." She stopped and glanced back at her. "You taught me how to be quiet, for starters. Little children should be seen but not heard. Isn't that right, Annie?" the girl said, her pale blue eyes wide open, her eyebrows raised as she waited for Annie's answer.
"What the..." Annie couldn't continue. Her mind was racing, making her giddy.
"You taught me how to muffle my cries while your beast of a husband stuck his cock into me. You taught me how to allow your sick mates to rape me time after time, without ever complaining. Yes, Annie, you taught me all right. You taught me how to hate somebody so much, I can taste it. I guess you could say I was your number one student." The girl had made her way back to Annie's chair as she spoke.
The realisation dawned on a suddenly sober Annie. "Oh my God!" she said in a whisper. "It wasn't my fault. He forced me to."
"You should have protected us," the girl said. "Children are innocent and helpless. I needed you to protect me."
Annie, rigid with fear, felt a warm sensation as she pissed herself.
The girl grabbed hold of Annie's coarse grey hair. Then she knelt on top of her, pinning her to the seat, her knee in Annie's chest. She yanked the hair back until Annie let out a blood-curdling scream.
***
This was what the girl had been waiting for. She shoved a large object the size of her fist into Annie's open mouth, stuffing it as far down her throat as she could.
Annie tried to struggle, muffled cries escaping as she thrashed about, but the girl was much stronger than a wasted, weakened drunk.
She held Annie's mouth and nose closed until her body sagged. Then she reached down and picked up the half-full bottle of vodka and smashed it onto the edge of the windowsill. She rammed the jagged glass into Annie's upturned face, twisting and turning, in and out.
The girl smiled at the sickening, squelching sounds.
Chapter 8
Amanda
My nose tickled. I swiped the back of my hand across my face.
More tickling.
I opened my eyes to find Emma and Jacob standing at the side of the bed, giggling.
The sun poured in the window making me squint. I held my hand to my forehead, to block out the light.
"What's so funny? You little rascals," I said, reaching to catch hold of them and causing another bout of giggles.
"You was snorwing, Mummy." Emma laughed.
Jacob added his garbled opinion and also laughed.
"No, I wasn't."
"Oh, yes, you was."
We'd played this game a lot since the pantomime last Christmas. I knew not to continue or else we'd be there all day. "Where's daddy?"
"I'm right here, Amanda." Michael stepped into the room.
I'd been sleeping in Emma's bed since last week, leaving Michael in our room. He'd stayed out two nights, obviously with his trollop, but at least he had the decency to call so I could dead bolt the door.
"Oh hi. Sorry I got back so late last night." I knew I must have spoiled his plans, especially with it being Halloween—Michael and his mates always did something on Halloween.
"That's okay. Right, you two give Mummy a kiss and let's get you ready for day-care.
After a mad five minutes involving lots of tickling and laughing, the children left.
I wanted to stay in bed, exhausted after a full day at Judy's. Once I'd packed away all the personal things into boxes, I’d painted the front door step with some paint left over from another job, and I'd begun stripping the wallpaper in the kitchen. I'd also contacted a local plumber because the drains stink, and arranged to meet him next week.
Our house was in darkness when I had arrived home. I'd phoned Michael earlier in the evening and told him I would be late. Nine-thirty seemed a bit early for him to have gone to bed, but I was relieved not to have to see him.
He’d left a plate of food on the stove—cottage pie and vegetables. I heated the food up and devoured it with a cup of tea before having an early night myself.
I dragged my weary body out of bed and headed for the bathroom. It was the next room on our list to modernise. The yucky green bath had a permanent tidemark that wouldn't budge no matter what I used. As I stepped into the ugly, brown-plastic shower, somebody knocked on the bathroom door.
"Yes?" I stuck my head out of the cubicle.
"Manda, are you okay?" Michael said.
"What do you mean? Of course I am—you saw me not five minutes ago. Why?"
"I found your sweatshirt in the bin. It’s covered in blood."
"I spilled some paint," I said, shaking my head.
"Not blood?"
"Not blood," I confirmed.
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure, Michael." I slammed the shower door. “Idiot,” I said under my breath.
I got out of the bathroom to an empty house. I was tempted by the silence to crawl back to bed for an hour, but I had an appointment with Doctor Freda and she was a stickler for punctuality.
***
I'd been seeing Dr Freda for almost eleven years. Not that we always got along—there had been some humdinger fights between us. Still, she was the only constant person in my life other than Michael and the kids. We gave each other lots of attitude, but there was a mutual respect.
The receptionist was talking on the phone and waved at me as I entered. I sat down on one of the two beige leather sofas and chose a couple of magazines from the neat pile on the coffee table.
The receptionist hung up the phone. "You can go through, Amanda. She's waiting for you."
"Thanks, Monika. You're looking very bronzed. Have you been on holiday?" I appraised her slender figure. She wore red knee length skirt and feminine cream blouse, meant for much warmer weather than our autumn climate.
"Got home from Greece last week. I'm already planning my next trip—I loved it."
"Ooh, lucky you." I stood up and placed the magazines back on
top of the pile. "Is she in a good mood today?" I nodded in the direction of Dr Freda's office.
"You know what she's like—she doesn't do good moods." Monika laughed.
"I heard that, Monika, thank you. Amanda, come on through." Dr Freda was standing in the doorway glaring at us, and shaking her head, though a slight smile played behind her amber-coloured eyes. She was dressed in a black trouser suit and black blouse. Her jet-black hair was scraped back into a severe bun, a complete contrast to her pale, almost translucent skin. She would have made a great bride of Dracula, but she was a day late—Halloween was yesterday.
I glanced back at Monika, gave an exaggerated wince, and then smiled. Wiggling my fingers at her, I mouthed, see you later.
Monika had been the receptionist longer than I'd been a patient. She was also Dr Freda's mother.
Dr Freda was back behind her desk when I entered her office. I closed the door behind me and sat opposite her on the formal wooden chair. The light, airy room always relaxed me. The golden pine furniture was modern yet classy and uncluttered. I couldn't have designed it any better myself.
"It's been a while, Amanda." The doctor smiled, her face softening. "I'm glad you called. Are you okay on the chair? Or would you prefer …?" She indicated the two leather sofas, exact replicas of the ones in reception.
"No, I'm fine here thanks," I said, taking a deep breath. "I've been good actually, Doc. Until a few weeks ago, that is." I knew how fast the hour would fly by, so I wanted to get straight down to business.
"What happened a few weeks ago?" Freda said, in her uninterested way. Her eyes were expressionless.
"I felt sure someone was watching me all the time. Michael and I started fighting about it—he thinks I'm paranoid, like you do."
She ignored my dig.
"What happened around that time to cause these feelings?" Her elbows rested on the desk and her fingers were steepled under her chin.
"Lots happened at around the same time. I caught Michael with another woman." I waited for her reaction—there wasn't one. "Oh, and Emma went missing at the zoo. The attendant saw a woman who looked like me leave with her. Once we found her, Emma said she'd followed me. Plus, somebody had put a seahorse brooch in Emma’s bag while she was gone—after we'd promised to buy her one."
"Odd. So where were you when this occurred?" She glanced at me over the top of her frameless glasses.
I recognised her expression. "Hold on a minute, Doc—don't start all that crap again. I didn't do it." I clenched and unclenched my teeth.
"I didn't say anything, Amanda."
"Yet!"
Once again, she ignored my sarcastic comment.
"What else happened?"
"For weeks I felt as though I was being watched. I’d even begun questioning myself and wondered whether I was paranoid after all."
Doctor Freda raised her eyebrows as she tapped a pen on the side of her chin.
"Until I had a visit from a detective. They said my dad had been released from prison six weeks earlier, which was the exact time the sensation of being watched began.
Freda's professional façade almost slipped. She shuffled in her seat, moved a couple of pens around her desk and cleared her throat. "How has it affected you—this news?" she asked, back in control.
"I'm scared. I preferred thinking I was paranoid. Now he's in hiding, which terrifies me. I have no idea where he is, or what's going on in his head." I leaned back into the chair, stretching my shoulders and arching my back.
Her head cocked to the side. "In hiding?"
"Yeah—that's reason the detective came round. He'd stopped checking in with them and he hasn't been home. He could be anywhere." I shrugged.
"How are you in yourself?" she asked as she steepled her fingers on the desk again.
"Fine," I said. My voice sounded flat.
"You mentioned you caught Michael with another woman."
"Yeah, at a party. She was giving him a blowjob in the bathroom. I walked in on them." I bounced in the chair, fidgeting.
"How did it make you feel—seeing him like that?"
"Upset and angry at first."
"And afterwards?"
"Horny. It turned me on thinking about it."
"So what happened?"
"He said they'd just met, and that he was sorry. He lied though—he's still seeing her."
"How do you know?" Her eyebrows arched.
"I changed her number in his phone for mine. I received loads of raunchy texts, not intended for me."
She smiled, her eyes softening again. "Ingenious, Amanda. Upsetting though?"
"No, I don't care. Once he found out about my dad our relationship was over anyway." I shrugged again.
"And you're not bothered?" Her eyes narrowed.
"I was, but not now."
She nodded, her lips pursed.
"What?" I asked.
"I know you don't want to hear this, Amanda. But you're showing classic symptoms of Dissociative Identity Disorder. Understandable, after all you suffered."
"I'm sorry, Doc, I disagree. I googled it after our last meeting and I don't have multiple personalities." I took a deep breath and tipped my head back as far as I could to stare at the ceiling. I exhaled deeply.
"That can be a part of it, yes, but not in the way you're thinking. There are different degrees, like with everything. For instance, did you ever drive somewhere, and arrive at your destination with no recollection of the journey?"
"Yeah, but doesn't everyone?"
"Exactly. Now cast your mind back to something you didn't want to do. How did you feel?"
"I dunno—scared." I pinched an aching spot between my eyes.
"How scared? Think—quickly. How scared, Amanda?"
"Scared! All right! For God's sake!" I snapped.
"Good. Now think about doing that thing. How did you feel?"
"I don't know!" I shrugged again. My chest tightening, I placed my fist on the spot between my breasts.
"Think. Can you remember?" she demanded.
"Kind of." I was agitated, my legs bouncing up and down irritably.
"So you remember being scared, really scared, leading up to the actual event?"
I nodded.
"But you can't remember how you felt during the event?"
I shook my head. "No," I said, puzzled. She was right. I could remember the fear from before, but not during. It didn't make sense. It should have been much, much worse. "Why not, Doc?"
"It's because you dissociated. You would have learned to do this as a child, to enable you to deal with what was happening to you."
"So you're saying I'm crazy?" My legs, still twitching, now felt weak. I chewed my bottom lip.
"No, I am not. There are some severe cases—but as I said earlier, you're not that bad."
"So what other symptoms should I look for?" I rubbed my forehead, not sure I could cope with much more.
"Promiscuity, sexual repression, depression, paranoia, inability to make friends.”
I thought about the feelings I’d had towards DS Adam Stanley. In fact, I had all of these symptoms bar depression.
“You had a lot of these symptoms in your past. There's also your reaction to catching Michael with his pants down, pardon the pun. Not to mention Emma going missing, and finding the brooch."
"You think that was me?" I was horrified. How could she think I would do that? My blood pumped noisily in my ears.
"Maybe, maybe not, but we can't rule it out. Also, blackouts—do you ever lose time?"
I shook my head.
"You need to be aware of the symptoms, and make a note of any unexplained or blank moments."
My mind flitted to the messages on the computer screen and the tidied up drawer. There had been lots of unexplained occurrences over the past few weeks when I thought about it, but I wasn’t ready to share this information with her.
I took my shoes off and placed my feet on the seat in front of me, my arms wrapped around my knees.
&nb
sp; “What are you thinking about?” she asked.
"Just thinking about the time I did black out years ago—remember? Do you think that was connected?"
She nodded. "Possibly."
"So what can I do? Take medication?"
She shook her head. "There is no medication, except for treatment of some of the symptoms—for instance depression and things like that. But accepting you have a problem is the first step and working closely with me. I can help you train yourself to understand and recognise the symptoms, and how to deal with them. They may never get any worse than these mild symptoms."
"I'm not depressed though," I said, shaking my head.
"No, and that's good." She looked at her watch. "Can I see you again next week, Amanda? I've got another client due, but I know you still have a lot of questions."
My heart jumped in my chest. She was dead right, I had questions. Shocked that my session had finished already, I put my shoes back on and numbly walked to the door.
"Goodbye, Amanda. Book your next appointment with Monika on your way out. Oh, and by the way, that was a good session. Well done."
I wanted to scream, you cold bitch! But I didn't.
***
Once home I typed Dissociative Identity Disorder into Google again. The first time Freda had suggested it, I'd been horrified. We'd been talking about Sandra and Peter at the time, my foster parents, and the reason I'd removed myself from their lives. To my mind I was protecting myself. I needed to avoid risking their rejection.
Another classic symptom, Dr Freda had said.
In my last internet search, I hadn't been able to get past the multiple personalities. Reading it now, I was surprised how many of the symptoms I had. I knew I had better not tell Michael. In his perfect world, mental illness was not acceptable. He'd have me locked up in a nuthouse if it was up to him.
My foster mother, Sandra, had been on my mind a lot recently. I'd lived with her and Peter for three and a half years—the only normal school-aged years of my life. Peter died when I was away in Italy.
I kept in touch with Sandra for a while. She always treated me as her long-lost daughter when I made an effort to visit. But I hadn't been able to handle the feelings she evoked in me. My own mother had never cared enough, yet this woman couldn't care more if she tried.
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