by Niki Mackay
‘She’s being fucking ridiculous; I mean she has no idea what she’s done to us. What we went through. She tore this family apart.’
I nod, not bothering to point out they were already in pieces; her crime was just the icing on an already rotten cake. I wipe the side, picking up the condensation where his glass stood just a second ago. He puts it down a few inches along. He likes things tidy. Tidiness is my job. He will drop crumbs. Put drinks down coaster-less and trample mud through the house, but it had better be gone before he notices. And it is, most of the time. Bethany and I are both masters of the small space. We occupy less and less of it as time goes by. Not Marcus though. If he’s in the building, you’ll know about it. I used to love that about him. His physical presence. His bigness, his ability to overshadow everyone else. Funny how the things you once loved can become the things you most despise. He’s sighing now. Winding down. I can drown him out to background noise. I can usually tell when I’m required, and how, by the tone of his voice. A ‘yes I see’ here, and an ‘oh no’ there. He is looking, as ever, for agreement, because underneath it all my husband is actually very needy. It’s something I give willingly without thought. I learned long ago that anything else isn’t worth it.
‘I’m sorry, boo.’ A pet name that came about years ago. Something once cute, now ugly. He’s wheedling and I brace myself, still wiping the side. I feel him sidle up behind me, his hands on my hips reaching up under my shirt, warm, like liquid poison washing over my skin. I don’t shudder, I carry on wiping and he grabs my breasts.
‘It’s not your fault, boo.’ His lips, rubbery, damp, slightly cold from the drink, pressed against my neck, a thin line of saliva. And then his whole body pressing me into the counter, moving. I fight the urge to throw up. To smack his hands away, to scream. Instead I turn and smile, my arms wrapping around his neck.
He smiles back and asks, ‘Shall we go upstairs?’
It’s not really a question but I nod, the smile firmly glued in place, and abandon the cloth to the side. I’ll come down again afterwards. Once he’s spent and snoring. I’ll empty the dishwasher and prepare what’s needed for the morning. It’s all on autopilot, an automatic reaction to my life. I know what needs to be done and I’ll carry that out. Right now I am smiling as he pushes me back onto the bed. I am compliant, soft. Holding in a scream that never comes.
7.
Madison Attallee
Kate’s family aren’t exactly the Waltons. Dead mum, crazy sister, murderer. I’m not convinced the dad and brother are much better. It’s a lot of misfortune to hit one unit. Unlucky is usually an isolated incident. I wonder if that’s why the shrink ended up keeping hold of Kate’s case. Maybe the material was just too rich to walk away from.
Emma’s done her research on Dean, so I have a good idea who he is before I go to meet him. He’s renowned in his field as one of the best criminal psychologists currently working in the UK. I’m quite sure I’ve read a few of his papers over the years. He must spend the majority of his time in courtrooms these days. He gets called in to give evidence fairly frequently. I was surprised when Emma told me his office is in Kingston. I’d expected a Harley Street address. Actually, it’s not that far from my own but certainly a better end of town, heading out towards Ham with views of the Thames.
I am a few minutes early and stand next to my car smoking. I’m working under the admittedly stupid assumption that smoking outside means the smell won’t stick to me. I know it doesn’t work but I put the fag out, chew a mint and spray YSL everywhere anyway. Live in fucking hope right?
A bland blonde receptionist greets me with a half-smile and rings through to let Hall know I’ve arrived. I wait, watching a screen with no sound showing twenty-four-hour news. I watch the scroll along the bottom and feel suitably depressed by it. Bland blonde’s fingers run chaotically over the keyboard. Clackety-clack, clackety-clack. I glance at the clock. Hall is ten minutes late. The clackety-clack is rubbing my last fucking nerve. I’m about to make a complaint about his lateness to her when the door opens. The best-looking man I’ve ever seen in real life comes out from an adjoining door. He’s smiling apologetically.
‘I’m so sorry. A patient called and I didn’t feel I could just let him . . . Anyway, sorry I’m late.’ His suit is structured like a second skin and I watch him appreciatively from behind as I follow him into his office.
He sits at his desk and waves me into a chair opposite. I slump and my oversized shoulder bag slides loudly to the floor. He raises an eyebrow. I grin, aware my lion’s mane hair is likely all over the place. I wonder if I have mascara goop too. I wish I’d checked now. Fuck it. He asks if I want anything to drink. I say no. He brandishes a bottle of water at me. ‘I’m on the good stuff.’
‘Health kick?’
He sighs. ‘I do try.’ Judging by his pristine condition, I reckon he more than tries. I’m pretty sure his shoulders are a result of some serious gym hours.
I smile. ‘Me too.’ He doesn’t know my only liquid intake is coffee.
‘So you’re here to talk about Kate?’ He smiles.
‘I am, yes.’
His smile widens. ‘I was so glad when I found out she was being released. Now she can start living her life.’
‘How did you find out?’
He takes a sip of his water. ‘She told me. I assume you know we’ve maintained a friendship of sorts?’
‘She said you’ve been very supportive.’
He sighs. ‘I have tried.’
‘You picked her up from prison this week?’
He nods and looks embarrassed. Beautiful and kind – well, well, well. I say, ‘Her family have all but disappeared.’
He nods, his pretty features setting into concern now. ‘Yes, very sad, isn’t it? It often happens when tragedy hits though. People assume these things band you together, but trauma can often push even the closest people apart. They were fractured before Kate’s problems became so apparent. Way before Kate’s arrest.’
‘Her mother’s death?’ My phone kicks in and starts playing Guns and Roses’ ‘Paradise City’. Shit. I cringe inwardly and try to look cool as I ferret it out of my bag and silence it just as it hits peak volume.
He hides a smile behind his hand. ‘Kate’s mother, Ruth . . .’ I prompt.
‘Yes. I’m sure it was the catalyst for a lot of their subsequent issues, though it sounds as though she’d been unwell for an awfully long time before her suicide. Poor woman must have been desperate.’
‘Do you stay in contact with all your clients?’
He laughs. ‘Patients, Ms Attallee, not clients.’
‘Do you?’
He pauses for a moment, hands resting under his chin. He looks like he should be on a magazine cover.
‘No, I don’t. My job requires a certain level of detachment, as I’m sure yours does?’
I nod agreement.
‘I usually maintain it. I deal with the human mind in all its ugly, imperfect beauty. It can be harrowing . . . well, I don’t need to tell you,’ he muses. I shrug. This isn’t a sharing session.
He says, ‘To be honest, I felt sorry for Kate to begin with.’
‘Did you think she was innocent?’
He shakes his head. ‘No, well not exactly – I didn’t think she was culpable. I’m sure you’ve read my initial report?’
‘I have, yes.’ He had stated that she was in no fit state to face a court trial. He had recommended that she continue to be cared for in a secure psychiatric unit under his supervision. That request had been denied. I guess by staying in contact he had overridden that decision to some degree.
‘She was barely lucid. Didn’t seem to have any idea what was happening to her in terms of legal proceedings. Her father didn’t advise her. Her lawyer was certain of her guilt and so were you guys.’
‘You said in your report that you felt a psyc
hiatric facility would have been a better place for her.’
‘I thought it was bloody obvious, to be honest.’ I am surprised to hear him swear and it makes me warm to him. ‘At the time I was working in such a facility. It would have been much more helpful to her, in my opinion.’
‘She confessed.’
He’s frowning at me and his voice becomes raised, ever so slightly. ‘But she had no recollection of killing Naomi. She didn’t give any detail.’
I ask again, ‘But you didn’t think she was innocent?’ His report had stated that she had an unsound mind.
‘Whether she stabbed her or not was irrelevant to me as a psychologist. The point was she couldn’t remember it. I assumed she’d dissociated.’ He sighs. ‘I never meet people in their finest hour, I suppose. It’s the downside to my work.’
‘What’s the upside?’
‘Seeing improvement.’
I chuckle at that. ‘I thought therapy was a lifelong process.’
He smiles widely. ‘Ah, a non-believer I see.’
I shrug. ‘Sometimes I wonder if we all talk about our feelings a bit too much.’
‘Yes, I think we probably do. However, it’s often those that say nothing who need to speak the most.’ I resist squirming under his gaze.
I write a few notes on my pad, looking away from his dark eyes. ‘Do you believe Kate’s version now?’
‘Do I believe her memories are real?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, I think they probably are and I think they were always there. They were just overwhelmed by her own guilt.’
‘Because she hated Naomi?’
He steeples his hand under his chin again, nodding thoughtfully. ‘Exactly.’
‘When you met Kate, she needed to talk?’ I push on.
‘Very much so. She would have benefited from therapy much sooner. All of the children should have had counselling after Ruth died. Had Naomi not been killed, Kate would still have been heading down a bad road.’ He sighs heavily and runs a fine, delicate hand across full pouty lips.
I frown. ‘Bad how?’
‘Her relationships were unhealthy. Naomi was an awful friend for her. Very domineering. Kate had little in the way of her own identity so was easily sucked into other people’s.’
‘Like Oliver?’
His eyes narrow. ‘Exactly.’
‘In what ways was Naomi domineering?’ I ask.
‘Without wishing to speak ill of someone who is no longer with us, I suspect she was a classic narcissist.’ This has crossed my mind. Barely anyone other than her parents found good things to say about her, even in the immediate period after her death.
I ask him, ‘Why?’
‘She bullied Kate, used her as a playmate, ignored her – sometimes for days – and then acted as if nothing had happened. Kate thinks she was sleeping with Oliver. I wouldn’t be surprised.’
‘Really?’ I give him a surprised look though I suspect he’s right.
‘Yes. Naomi introduced them, apparently. I think Kate was barely sixteen at the time, he was in his early twenties. Perfectly legal of course.’
I scowl at that, wrinkling my nose – sixteen isn’t that many years older than Molly. ‘But slightly questionable.’
He nods agreement.
‘Did her dad know?’ I ask.
He shrugs. ‘From what I can tell, James had pretty much given up by then. He hoofed Martha off to various psychiatric hospitals and ignored the other children.’
‘Grieving for his wife?’
‘Oh, undoubtedly. Sounds like their relationship was terribly co-dependent. It’s a term first defined by the dynamic you often see in the families of addicts and alcoholics.’
‘Oh, I see.’ I know all about co-dependence and alcoholic families.
‘It’s now thought that it’s not exclusive to that community, although Ruth certainly drank heavily and had various prescriptions.’ He takes a sip of his water.
I say, ‘Go on . . .’ trying to look like this is new to me, but thinking about my own ‘family sessions’.
‘Well the “non-damaged” member of the couple enables the damaged person. James was a fixer. Ruth’s death would have been the ultimate confirmation of his failure. It must have been a terrible blow to him on all kinds of levels.’ My ex-husband summed up in a nutshell. Capable, dependable, always there to make me look even more inadequate.
I turn my focus back to Dean. ‘So why didn’t James rush in to fix Kate’s situation? He pretty much bailed on her.’
He shrugs. ‘I wouldn’t know without speaking to him. Maybe it was the wrong kind of need. Whatever the reasons, Kate was left to fend for herself.’
‘But you thought she was guilty?’
‘At the time, I thought she’d killed Naomi. She certainly had cause to be angry at her and the evidence pointed in her direction, as you know.’
‘But you didn’t think she was responsible?’
He’s shaking his head now. ‘Not in any legal sense. No. You saw her that day, didn’t you?’
‘I did.’
‘Then I imagine you might have seen what I meant first-hand?’
I did, but I ignore the question. Bloody shrinks. ‘Can you explain dissociating?’
‘Well, like most things, it appears to various degrees. In its most benign manifestation you could consider daydreaming to be dissociating. It’s the mind distancing itself from stressful events.’
I look at him dubiously. ‘You think Kate was daydreaming?’
He smiles and I smile back. He says, ‘No, I was just putting it into context. I think Kate was very much at the other end of the spectrum.’
‘Like psychosis?’
‘Not exactly. It’s a fugue state, a momentary amnesia if you like.’
I make a note to look this up in more detail. I tell him, ‘Kate was very confused when we brought her in.’
‘Well yes, she would have been. Her perception of reality was incorrect.’
‘She was checked over.’
He scoffs at that. ‘Yes, they only checked her for psychosis though. This is different.’
‘She claimed to not recognise Naomi.’
‘Yes, nor did she seem to know how she’d got there. All quite obvious signs if you know what you’re looking for.’ His voice is rising; he’s still cross about it six years later.
‘You’re saying our guy didn’t look hard enough?’
‘I don’t believe your guy even knew what to look for.’
‘You might be right there.’ I think of our station shrink, Monty. An older guy even then, quietly counting down the days until his retirement.
Dean shrugs. ‘I do quite a bit of legal work. The lack of knowledge regarding mental health issues never fails to astound me.’
‘Police have a lot to contend with.’ I half agree with him but still feel my loyalty hackles rising.
‘They do. I apologise, I didn’t mean to offend you.’ I shrug, annoyed that I reacted at all. I can see how this guy would get under your skin. I have a momentary image of what his skin might look like under the suit. I put it away. Jeez.
I say, ‘Do you still think that’s what happened? To Kate?’
He pauses. ‘Yes, I do. Her version of reality came back to her once the trial was over and things calmed down.’
‘So now you think it’s not just a responsibility issue?’
‘You mean do I think she’s innocent?’
I nod.
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Which means that there is a killer on the loose.’ I don’t add that they probably read the papers and therefore know exactly where she is.
He sighs. ‘Yes. Innocent or otherwise I don’t think now is the right time for her to be pursuing answers. Nothing brings out stupidity like mob mentality a
nd the coverage is liable to get worse.’
‘You don’t think she should have come back to Kingston?’ Kate has already told me he thinks this.
‘Not now, no. I’m very worried about her.’
‘Wouldn’t you want to clear your name?’
He smiles, it’s lopsided and warm. The kind of smile that could reduce a grown woman to childish giggles. I remain poker faced.
‘I probably would, yes.’
‘Then you can understand Kate’s motivation.’
He sighs. ‘Yes, of course I can and I intend to offer her support whatever choices she makes. He pauses then says, ‘Kate talked about you. In some of our sessions. Said you walked her out of the room.’
‘I did, yes.’
‘She said you were kind.’
I shrug.
His eyes study mine. I fight the urge to look away. He says, ‘I hope you can be kind to her now.’
8.
Kate Reynolds
I am walking into Kingston. It’s raining a little bit, but I don’t care. Every step is a reminder that I’m outside. No roof overhead, no one with keys deciding my next move, no need to watch my back. I do though. Every time someone walks past me, I jump. An internal cowering at violence about to come. I wonder if I’ll ever be rid of it. I push my shoulders back and hold my head high. Tricks I learned in there. It doesn’t always matter how you feel as long as you can hide it. I make each step purposeful, mentally pep-talking myself as I go, heading towards a destination I have chosen, not around and around a concrete courtyard for no reason beyond killing time. I’m walking along the River Thames. The trees rustle in the breeze. The wind is high, cold and biting, making the tip of my nose turn red. Daylight sparkles on the water. My head starts to clear, emptying itself of everything but the wind, the rain, the rustling of leaves.
My phone rings. It’s a withheld number. I pick it up warily; only Madison, Dean and Marcus have my number.