Herring Girl

by Debbie Taylor

  ‘What are you doing?’ It’s Tom, squatting down beside me, trying to see my face.

  ‘I can’t get the hatch open,’ I say. So he asks why I want to, and I say, oh just to see where the lads sleep. And he asks, is it my kist on the quay, and should he hoy it aboard, for anyone might take it – then goes off before I can answer and brings it back.

  Now he’s tugging the hatch open, and climbing down to light the lamp – then reaching up a hand to guide me down. But I don’t want to go down any more, not with him there, but can’t refuse now I’ve said. So I’m stepping on the ladder and jumping down, and he’s catching me, which is something else I don’t want. So I try to push him away, but there’s nowhere to push him, for the place is that narrow I can’t see how seven big lads could ever fit in here.

  Now Tom’s smiling, showing me the berths and telling how the lads top and tail it like bairns to fit in, and how there’s some, like our Jimmy, who sleep tidy, but others are the very devil, with snoring and thrashing about.

  Which is Sam’s? I ask, seeing the mattresses all wedged together on the bunks. And Tom laughs and points out one, and slaps it with his hand and says it’s Big John’s now, and I can see the grease of his hair on the ticking, and feel sick that my Sam’s been blotted out so soon.

  ‘That’s a canny kist,’ says Tom. ‘Are you going away?’ And I tell him Sam bought it me, for I always wanted one, and dreamed of following the herring to Yarmouth and Ireland and Shetland one day; and I must be crying again, for Tom’s pulled out the end of my shawl and is wiping my eyes with it, and telling me not to be sad, and to forget Sam, for he was never good enough for me.

  Now he’s pulling me close and saying he’ll look after me now. So I’ve to heave him off again, sharpish, and tell him it’s Flo that needs him, not me. And he’s saying I liked it fine yesterday in the kitchen, and asking is that why I keep pushing him away, because of Flo? And goes to kiss me, pressing me back against the ladder, so I can feel him against me, his belly and his thighs, the hard shape in his kecks.

  And I’m thinking, why’s he doing this? And ducking my head away from his mouth and begging him to stop, please, he’s hurting me. And he’s asking, did I tell Sam to stop too? And I say, that’s none of his business. Then he says it is his business, for he loves me and wants us to be together.

  So now he’s asking again, did I stop him, and what did we do, and starts to list all the things, pressing up against me all the while. And the listing – Did he suck your boobies? Did he pull up your skirt? Did he get his fingers inside? – is getting him roused, so he’s pumping at me in time with his talking, but riled too, when I won’t say.

  Now all of a sudden he’s staring at me and saying, ‘He’s had you, hasn’t he?’ with a look of such fury that I have to cry, ‘No! But we were good as married, so what does it matter?’

  And now a sort of cold smile, that’s halfway to a snarl, comes on his face. ‘There’s an easy way to find out,’ he says, and yanks my skirt up to my waist.

  So now I’m begging, ‘Tom, please, no! He’s never touched me there!’, feeling his rough hand grappling with my pettie, the cold air on my legs. I can’t hardly believe what he’s doing, this lad I’ve known since we were bairns. I can’t believe he’s jabbing with his fingers when I’ve never even let him kiss me. And that rush of anger that rose up in Bell Street comes over me again, and I slap his cheek hard as I can, and see him backing away and laughing like we’re playing a game.

  ‘I like a lass who fights,’ he says, rubbing his cheek. ‘Flo’s so easy, it’s no fun any more.’

  And here he comes at me again, smiling and reaching for my skirt. So now I’m turning to scramble away up the ladder, kicking out backwards best I can, but it’s no good and he’s tugged me back down, and around, and is ripping off my shawl and yanking at the neck of my blouse – and kissing me, on my neck, my throat, all the while I’m fighting, as though he’s used to a lass fighting, and likes it, and thinks it natural.

  Now he’s got me pinned against the ladder again, and he’s twisting my head round with his hand, to kiss me on the mouth, and his breath smells of tabs and red herring, and his tongue’s mashed against my lips, and pushing at them, hot and hard until I can’t bear it, and open up and bite down on his tongue, and taste his blood in my mouth and hear him scream down my throat.

  But it stops him for a moment, and gets him off me; so we’re both standing and panting and spitting blood.

  ‘I won’t give up, Annie,’ he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘And I always get what I want in the end. Your Wellesley lad soon found that out.’

  And I say, ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He thought he could take everything, didn’t he? My boat, my lass. Getting into the skipper’s good books, going after his mate’s ticket, going after everything that should be coming to me.’

  ‘What did you do to him?’ I’m listening, but I can’t understand what he’s saying.

  ‘He wouldn’t tell me if he’d had you, see? And it was driving me nuts. So I hit him, then I shoved him – then I watched him go under.’

  ‘You killed Sam?’ I stare at him and I can’t believe it.

  ‘I had to stop him. He was spoiling everything. It was like he’d put some kind of spell on you, on the skipper. Don’t you see?’ He reaches a hand out, pleading like, but I brush it away. ‘I had to, Annie. I love you. I couldn’t bear to see him with you.’

  While he’s talking something shifts inside me, and I find I’ve stopped flapping and flailing like a chicken in a coop, and trying to save my stupid virtue – and I’ve started thinking of my Sam, shoved overboard into the cold sea for the sin of simply loving and wanting to make a living. And that thinking makes me more cunning, and to notice Tom’s gipping knife in the band round his cap.

  So I grab for it, and flick it open – all in a moment – and stab at his heart, but quick as lightning his arm’s there, and I’m stabbing into his gansey instead, and he’s grabbing my wrist and twisting the knife away so it clatters on the floor.

  Now he’s laughing at me again, and picking up the knife, then slashing at the front of my blouse, and my cami too, until my boobies spill out. So I’m trying to pull the sides together to cover them, but he’s snatched my hands away and is staring at my chest, and laughing at the sight of my bare boobies.

  I try to kick him again, but he’s too close, and he’s got the knife at my throat, and’s unbuttoning his kecks. And he’s forcing me back on Sam’s mattress and pulling up my skirt, his hard knees pressing my thighs open, the buckle of his belt digging in; his mouth sucking me, his hips grinding against me – and oh, here’s the hot pain of his thing jabbing inside me, the rasp and drag of it deep in my innards.

  Now the licking’s stopped, and my skin’s chill where he’s wet me, and here’s his face staring down at me, but not seeing, or just seeing what he wants to, or seeing and not caring. And I’m whispering, Tom, please, no, but now his hand’s clamping over my mouth so I can’t catch my breath, and I try to heave him off, but my arms have no strength, so I’m telling him, please no, with my eyes.

  Oh, and the noises he’s making, the grunt as he whacks into me, the slurping noises as he sucks on my booby and neck, his smell of sweat and beer and tab smoke, his whispering that it’s so good and he loves me.

  Then he’s bucking and roaring with some kind of pain, it seems like, and poking his hard thing to the very heart of me.

  Then it’s all over, and he’s collapsed on top of me, panting and laughing into my hair, as though it’s nowt but a race he’s run and won. And I’m thinking, is this what love’s like for a lad? This fighting with a lass and liking it, and getting riled and roused at the same time, as though it’s the same hot blood driving them both? So he can hurt a lass and say he loves her in the same breath, then laugh and think she’ll love him back?

  Now what’s this I’m seeing over his shoulder? A lass’s foot on the ladder, a lass’s skirt coming down th
rough the hatch. Flo? Oh sweet Jesus, Flo!

  And I want to scream out that Tom’s forced me, but all she’s seeing is him laughing and heaving up off me, as if this was the most natural thing in the world. Now he’s standing up and buttoning his kecks, and I’m wrenching my skirt down and scrubbing at the wetness. And I can tell what she’s thinking, for her face says it all.

  Next thing I know, she’s got a knife from somewhere and is lunging towards me, slashing at my face, my boobies, any part she can reach, and Tom’s grabbing at her and wrenching the knife away, then shoving her against the ladder and slapping her around the head until she sinks sobbing to the floor.

  And I’m buttoning my blouse, to be decent again, but it’s soaked with blood – so I’m wondering, where’s it coming from? My hands are red too, but I can’t see any cuts, so I touch my face and can’t find any there neither. So now I’m thinking it’s maybes my chest that’s been nicked, and move my hand down, and find here’s warm blood pumping from a gash on my neck.

  Why can’t I feel the pain of it? For there’s that much blood it’s started dripping on the floor. And I’m thinking, maybes I should wrap my scarf round and twist it tight, but then how would I breathe? But I have to try and stop the blood somehow, so I press my hand on to it, to try and keep the edges together, but it’s slithery as a herring so I can’t—

  Now Tom’s lowering me onto the floor somehow, and he’s ripped my blouse off and is wadding it onto my neck. And he’s sobbing – or is it Flo sobbing? I can’t tell, for the light’s fading, like there’s a dark blanket covering me, or a fog seeped in from outside. And it’s so cold, I can’t feel my hands any more, or the boards under me, and it’s like I’m floating, floating, and I’m thinking of my Sam sinking under the cold water and wondering if this is what it’s like to drown—

  ‌Chapter Sixty-One

  2007

  Mary’s down on the Quayside, perched on a flimsy metal chair at a flimsy metal table, as directed by Ian. She’s watching him ‘set up’ for the interview, which seems to involve striding around pursued by a retinue of gorgeous young things clasping clipboards, and with various items of electronic equipment strapped to their torsos. They’re all wearing faux military trousers, she notes with amusement – even the girls – and overlapping layers of torn T-shirt, which they appear to have put on inside out.

  When she had donned her own new outfit – a casually draped sage-green tunic and matching trousers, with self-coloured embroidery at the neck and hem – Mary had felt rather fetching: understated and elegant. But surveying all these muscular tanned limbs in energetic combat clothing, she feels puny and overdressed. And freezing, of course – don’t the young feel the cold? Despite the sun, there’s a chilly wind ruffling the surface of the river.

  A stunning young redhead comes over and introduces herself as, ‘Viv, Ian’s PA’. ‘Are you all right sitting here by yourself?’ she asks kindly, as if Mary’s an aged relative. ‘Can I get you anything? It won’t be much longer.’ And she’s off, before Mary can reply.

  Ian breezes over. ‘Ah, there you are – good,’ he says, as if he hadn’t just asked her to sit exactly there. ‘We’re nearly ready to start.’ Then: ‘If it’s OK with you, I thought we’d carry the table a tad closer to the river so we can get Paul’s boat in shot.’ Mary shrugs, hiding a smile – as if it matters what she thinks.

  Eventually they’re ready and she’s sitting primly with her legs crossed, chafing her bare hands together, with a heap of lobster pots and fishing nets behind her. Ian perches on the chair opposite and two of the gorgeous young things squat nearby, poised and alert, aiming various items of alarming equipment at her.

  ‘OK – quiet, everyone!’ Ian shouts. ‘And – turn over!’

  ‘Try to ignore them,’ he says, leaning towards Mary. ‘This is just you and me talking, so just relax and answer my questions. Remember, we can do this as many times as you like, so don’t worry if you get in a muddle.’

  ‘What makes you think I’m going to get into a muddle?’ she enquires archly, but in fact that’s exactly what she’s afraid of: that she’ll lose her train of thought or go off at some theoretical tangent. Feeling a sudden acute need for a cigarette, she takes a sip of water. The table’s equipped with a carafe of water and two glasses – furnished presumably by the lovely Viv – along with, for some reason, five large empty whelk shells. But no ashtray, Mary notes with regret.

  Looking up, she spies Paul in the distance, outside that Italian restaurant, and his mother (what on earth is the woman wearing?) in a small crowd of people being held back – ‘out of shot’, Mary supposes – by one of the gorgeous young things. There’s a matching small crowd, similarly restrained, gathering on the pavement along the quayside in the opposite direction. Mary takes a deep breath and turns back to Ian.

  ‘So Dr Charlton – Mary – this has been quite an intense couple of weeks.’

  ‘Yes, it’s not every day you discover two unsolved murders committed over a century ago.’

  ‘Later today, we’re going out with a specialist diver to search for the remains of one of those murder victims. The body we’re looking for is that of Annie Milburn, the herring girl you believe to be a past incarnation of Ben Dixon, the young boy whose case we’ve been following in this programme. If we find Annie’s body, what will that tell us?’

  Seeing his earnest, sincere, made-for-TV expression, Mary feels a giggle welling up. She forces herself to concentrate.

  ‘As far as we know, no one except Annie’s murderer knew what happened to the body,’ she says. ‘Tom was alone in that little boat and he probably never told anyone where he went – why would he? It would open him up to a criminal investigation. So if we find Annie’s body where he said it was, I’d say that was strong support for reincarnation.’

  ‘And if we don’t find anything?’

  ‘That would be disappointing, obviously. But there are any number of reasons why the kist might not be where Tom said it was. It was a foggy night, so perhaps he was mistaken about where he dumped it. Perhaps it was shifted by currents and storms, or broken up and its contents dispersed. I’m told that once they’re exposed to sea water, human remains don’t last very long.’ Mary shrugs in what she hopes is a disinterested manner. ‘It would be nice to have a definitive answer, but I’m afraid that not finding Annie’s body in 2007 doesn’t prove it wasn’t there in 1898.’

  ‘Isn’t that rather convenient for your theory?’ Ian asks smoothly, and there’s a glint in his eye that she recognizes.

  ‘It’s a matter of logic, not convenience,’ she says tartly. ‘I’m only pointing out the obvious.’

  ‘Are you saying that one can never prove that reincarnation doesn’t exist; one can only ever prove that it does.’

  ‘Yes – though that doesn’t imply, of course, that one shouldn’t subject the phenomenon to rigorous scientific scrutiny. However, in this case, if we fail to find Annie’s body, we would have to invoke your Scottish verdict of “unproven”.’ She leans back in her chair; she’s beginning to enjoy herself.

  ‘There is one thing that’s been puzzling me,’ he says. ‘We have, in quotes, “witness statements”, from both Tom and Jimmy about Tom’s guilt, but so far we’ve heard nothing from Annie about what happened that night. Why didn’t any of this come out in your sessions with Ben?’

  ‘I believe that Ben was blocked,’ Mary explains. ‘In almost every session, there came a point beyond which he couldn’t progress. It was as though he didn’t want to remember what happened that night.’

  ‘Is that normal?’

  ‘No. In fact, it’s rather unusual. Though some very repressed individuals may take a few sessions to open up, as it were, the vast majority of my clients are eventually able to explore past traumas.’

  ‘So why is Ben different?’

  ‘To be perfectly honest, I don’t have an answer to that. I can only suppose that something happened that night that shocked Annie very deeply, so deeply that h
er own consciousness found it difficult to encompass.’

  ‘What, even more shocking than being raped and murdered?’

  ‘Yes, though I know that seems hard to believe. But rape and violence were endemic in North Shields at that time, so would have been things Annie was, to some extent, prepared for.’

  ‘Because Tom had already assaulted her, is that what you mean?’

  ‘Yes. So I’m wondering what else happened – if perhaps he said something, or did something, or if someone else was involved.’

  Ian leans in. ‘Isn’t it possible that the reason Ben found it so difficult to remember Annie’s murder was because it never happened?’

  ‘Of course it’s possible,’ Mary acknowledges. Where’s Ian going with this? ‘But as you yourself reminded us, we now have independent testimony from Annie’s brother Jimmy that Tom pretty much confessed to disposing of a body that night. And of course we have Tom’s own testimony from Laura that you filmed yesterday.

  ‘For what it’s worth,’ she adds, ‘Laura wasn’t present at the session where I questioned Annie’s brother Jimmy. Yet her “witness statement”, as you call it, corroborates everything Jimmy told us.’

  ‘So how does all this relate to Ben’s desire for a sex change?’

  ‘In his regression sessions, Ben described Annie as being deeply in love and blissfully happy. Her boyfriend had asked her to marry him, her father and mother had approved the match. That windy morning, running along the top bank to meet him, she was just brimming with excitement and joy. You filmed that session, so you heard what she was like. I think you’d have to agree that was probably the happiest moment of her life.

  ‘Excuse me—’ Mary stops for a moment to control a slight quaver in her voice. Seeing these scenes again, from Sam’s perspective, as it were, is affecting her more than she’d anticipated.