If you read my story you might understand why.
1992–94
I was thirteen when I arrived at Kelmore. Almost exactly a year after my mum died. My nan had been looking after me but without any real enthusiasm. She and Mum never got on and I think she blamed her for dying (of a tumour, FFS) and lumbering her with me. Considering she’d advised my mum to have me aborted, I guess this was adding insult to injury. Apparently, I ate too much food and played my music too loud and showed no respect. Our dislike was mutual. Her house in Watford stunk of fried fish – it was next to a fish-and-chip shop – and my nan’s face was set in a permanent scowl. I made a habit of running away, dreaming of some kindly long-lost relative who’d appear in a puff of smoke and carry me off. My imaginary relative didn’t materialise but a social worker did when I was caught shoplifting (two Mars Bars and a bottle of red nail varnish). My nan saw her chance and announced she’d had enough. That was how I ended up at Kelmore School for Girls.
I’d read Malory Towers so the prospect of relocating to a girls’ school didn’t terrify me. Wouldn’t there be midnight feasts, ghost stories, secret trips to town? Besides, the school near Nan’s was a total dump. This one looked like a stately home in comparison, an imposing grey-brick building buried in the countryside not far from town. Most importantly, there wasn’t even the faintest whiff of fish in the air. It was a promising start.
My social worker, Jane, waited with me in reception until a woman emerged from her office pursing her lips together in what I presumed was supposed to be a smile. ‘Welcome, Charlotte,’ she said. She introduced herself as Mrs O’Dowd, the headmistress, all tartan and pearls with a fierce bob and glasses that teetered on the bridge of her nose. ‘I’m sure you’re going to fit right in. Rebecca here is going to take care of you.’ I turned to find a girl had appeared behind me. ‘Well, go on, Rebecca, at least say hello to Charlotte. You can tell her how much she’s going to love it here.’
‘Hello,’ she said. Sullen.
‘Off you go and show her the dorm.’
I carried my bag and made a lame attempt at chat. ‘Why are you here?’ I said. Wrong move. She stopped, spun round.
‘You don’t ask anyone that – got it?’
A few months later she told me her parents took drugs and her dad tried to sell her to one of his mates to pay for his fixes. We never spoke of it again but the fact she’d shared it with me meant a lot. I knew I had one true friend in Kelmore.
Bex (don’t dare call me Rebecca) told me all I needed to know about the school. Mrs O’Dowd was a sadistic cow – I had to look sadistic up and then wished I hadn’t. Never ever eat the meat stew. Stay away from Donna Cassidy unless you want your head kicked in. And the most important commandment of all: don’t listen to the teachers when they tell you you’ll never amount to anything.
Bex called it dream-crushing: ‘They’re into it big time here but it’s just because they’re all saddos themselves.’
Bex and I had big dreams. Our heads were fat with them but we learned to keep them hidden from the teachers so they couldn’t be smashed.
We were going to be singers or dancers. Why not both? Bex said. If we were good, we were allowed to watch Top of the Pops as a treat. We’d commit the moves to memory and dance around the dorm afterwards as if we had fluffy duvets and new clothes and posters on our walls and kisses goodnight like every other teenage girl.
Sometimes at night Bex would interview me; using her hairbrush as a microphone she’d thrust it towards me. ‘Charlie, congratulations on your Oscar. It’s hard to believe what you’ve achieved when you had such a . . . well . . . a totally . . . like . . . shite childhood.’
‘Yes, I can’t argue, it was a miserable time but I never lost sight of what I wanted to do.’
‘Do you have a message for your teachers?’
‘Oh I do . . .’ And I’d lean in towards the hairbrush, brandishing a can of hairspray as my Oscar. ‘Mrs O’Dowd, if you’re watching, who is the no-good bitch now?’
Even if I dredge my memories I can’t recall a single nice thing Mrs O’Dowd did. The only kind person there was the drama teacher, Miss Reilly, who encouraged us and taught us some dance steps. She’d once auditioned for the Royal Ballet but said she was too fat and big-boned. I didn’t think Miss Reilly was either. She was beautiful.
Now and again Mr Palatino would take drama. He wasn’t a proper teacher. He came in for a few sessions a week. Some kind of drama therapy where he got girls to scream and sing and sing and scream as if that was going to solve all their problems. Rumour was that he was well connected. Knew film directors and TV people and the like. Once or twice he picked girls who showed promise for his stage plays. Whenever he came, me and Bex sucked up to him. It helped that he was pretty fucking gorgeous for an older bloke. He must have been in his early thirties.
One Friday a few years into my time at Kelmore, Mrs O’Dowd – who was fat and big boned – pulled Bex and me out of class and said, ‘Lucky you, girls. Your talents . . .’ (she said the word talent as if it was a bad fit for us) ‘. . . have been recognised. Mr Palatino wants you to audition for a production of Bugsy Malone at the Watford Palace Theatre. You’ll be allowed out of school this weekend.’
‘I’m not happy about this,’ Miss Reilly said when we told her. She and Mr Palatino didn’t get on, although neither of us could fathom why. If they were in the same room teaching, her eyes would stick on him, watching, waiting for him to make a mistake or step out of line.
‘Maybe she fancies him,’ Bex said. I couldn’t see it myself, didn’t think he was her type.
‘But, miss,’ we chimed in unison, panicked at the thought she’d ruin our big break, ‘it’s thanks to your coaching that he’s spotted us. Apparently, he thinks our dancing shows promise.’
‘Does he now.’
‘Please don’t say anything to Mrs O’Dowd, please, miss. This is the best thing that’s happened to us in like . . . forever.’
Saturday arrived and we were collected by taxi. The heat was stupid, one of those days that’s not meant to happen in England. The driver had the windows right down but the breeze just circulated his BO. Bex stuck her fingers in her mouth like she was going to gag. I had to stuff my fist in mine to stop myself laughing. We had matching cut-off shorts on, spaghetti-strap sun tops. Sweat gathered between my legs, sticking them to the filthy nylon seats.
‘Really, girls?’ Miss Reilly had said when she saw us. ‘I don’t think your attire is appropriate.’
‘It’s like . . . two hundred degrees outside. We can’t wear anything else. We won’t be able to dance,’ we said, and then the taxi arrived and we left her reservations behind.
‘Girls, you’ve made it! We’re very happy to have you here.’ Mr Palatino came bouncing towards us.
‘Hi, Mr Palatino.’
‘Call me Greg, you’re not in school now, rules don’t apply. I’ll take you upstairs and grab you some water. You can make yourselves comfortable until the others arrive and we’re ready to start.’ He walked off towards the lift. It was a red-brick building, gold and mirrors and flowers in vases and marble floors inside. Bex mouthed OH MY FUCKING GOD behind his back.
We had escaped, and neither of us could believe our luck.
Upstairs, he directed us to the dressing rooms. Bowls of grapes and melon and strawberries were laid out on the table. Croissants and bread too, none of the white sliced stuff they served at Kelmore.
‘Help yourselves,’ he said. Under normal circumstances we’d have been right in there troughing the lot but neither of us wanted him to think we were fat pigs. We passed.
A tall thin woman, who looked like a croissant had never come close to her lips, entered the room.
‘This is Camille, she’ll be putting you through your paces today,’ Greg said. Camille wasn’t the smiley sort. Her eyes stuck on our cut-offs.
> ‘These are no good,’ she said with an accent that was more exotic than Watford. ‘I will bring you something else.’ And with that she left.
‘She’s a darling really,’ Greg said. ‘Just don’t get on the wrong side of her.’
When Camille left the room the reality slapped us between the eyes. Bex and I had no formal training. Correction, no training whatsoever. Why were we here? Five minutes with Camille and she’d be parcelling us back into the taxi to sniff BO all the way to Kelmore.
I tried to breathe through it like a social worker had once told me to do when I was angry or missing Mum. Think positive thoughts. Deep breaths, count, as long as it takes. I had made it to seventy-one when Camille came back, issued us with black leggings and told us to follow her.
‘No . . . no . . . no . . . not that way, like dees,’ she said, demonstrating the move so perfectly, so effortlessly, like water flowing across a pond, that we couldn’t help but crave her praise.
‘Dat’s it, forget yourselves, listen to the music.’ And I did. The music wrapped around me and carried me away to another place and when I stopped I couldn’t tell you how long Greg had been watching us. Greg, and another older guy, suntanned, sunglasses on his head. Shirtsleeves rolled up.
It was only the sound of their applause that broke the spell.
Back in the dressing room, the suntanned man introduced himself as Curtis.
‘Curtis is a film director,’ Greg said. Me and Bex turned to each other at the same time and laughed. Mr Palatino did have connections after all.
Curtis poured himself a glass of wine. ‘Girls?’ he said, lifting the bottle. ‘Greg won’t say a word to your teacher.’
‘Yes please,’ Bex said, nudging me.
‘OK then.’ I didn’t want to be the one to spoil the fun.
‘Not bad for your first day,’ Curtis said. ‘Tell me, girls, do you want to be dancers?’
‘More than anything,’ Bex said.
‘It takes a lot of hard work to make it.’
‘Hard work doesn’t scare us,’ I said.
‘Well, the show is to be Bugsy Malone, do you think you can make the grade?’
‘Of course.’
‘You have to learn to relax more. Let me show you,’ Greg said and pulled me in front of the mirror. He stood behind me, hands pressing on my shoulders.
‘Too much tension here, Charlie, you need to drop them.’
I ordered my muscles to relax.
‘Perfect.’ The word tingled down my neck.
‘You’ll come again then?’
Our faces answered for us. We’d landed the golden ticket. Entry to a glamorous world. An exclusive club.
‘I’ll send a car next week,’ Greg said.
Thursday, 11.45 a.m.
Linda
We’re tossed about as the van heaves up inclines and corners sharp bends. Conversation is one-sided: Do you know what these men have done? How much are they paying you? You won’t get away with this. You’ll spend the rest of your life in jail. Nothing pierces him, and I wonder if he can even hear me.
You don’t exist.
What if he’s right?
I study him, possessed by the urge to scrape away the mask, tear through the film of his skin and find out what lies beneath. But the set of his face doesn’t reveal any expression at all, as if the circuit feeding his emotions has shorted, left him only a shell to inhabit.
And yet I cling to the notion that somewhere there is a pulse of humanity beating through him. It is my only sliver of hope. What I need to do is find the nerve and press it and bring it back to life.
‘They’ll kill me this time,’ I say. ‘They don’t like getting their hands dirty, that’s what you are for, so they can stay squeaky clean while you absorb all their filth.’
‘Shut up.’
‘I won’t go quietly, you know. I’ll scream until there’s no breath left in me and when I’m long gone, weeks, years down the line you’ll still hear my screams and you’ll see my face last thing before you go to sleep, if you sleep at all, first thing in the morning.’
‘I said shut up.’
I smell blood.
‘They won’t care about you. Not when they’re staying in five-star hotels, yachts, hosting their parties, selecting their next victims. Sure, they’ll let you think you can be part of their world but they’ll never let you inside. At the first sign of trouble you’ll be dropped, cast aside. And if you spend the rest of your life rotting in prison they won’t so much as look back. You’re nothing to them.’
He’s up on his feet, launching himself at me. I’m thrust back against the side of the van, his hands around my neck. ‘I told you to shut up, shut the fuck up.’ I don’t have a second to dwell on my miscalculation, how I should have kept quiet, all I can think is, This is it. He’s going to do it now. I scratch at the air and catch my nails on his skin, draw them down his cheek.
His grip loosens.
‘Bitch.’
His eyes lock with mine for no more than a second, but long enough for me to know that I was right, there is something beating under his skin after all. Yet, touching it, coming this close, glimpsing how black the darkness is, brings no hope, only despair.
I fold my arms into myself, to hold my shaking body still. My thoughts slide towards Gabriel, and threaten to tip over into hysteria. I don’t know what they have done, how they framed him, but I don’t doubt they are responsible. And the wicked irony of the situation chokes me; the devil’s pact into which I entered years ago to save him could now be his ruin.
The van turns, revs up a hill before slowing to a stop. My heart, a bird thrashing in a cage. The door is opened by another man. I see with some relief that we are back at Claremont Cottage. ‘Well, well, what do we have here,’ the man says. His accent is Scottish, but not from these parts.
‘I need to visit the bathroom.’ This is true, although it is more about being alone.
‘You’ll have tae wait.’
‘It’s not advisable to argue with my bladder.’ Bravado is a useful tool, I learnt that much in politics.
‘For fuck’s sake, on ye go then. Jay, keep the lady company, will ye.’
The cottage had never been to my taste, I’m not a fan of dead animals and tartan, but over the last few days we had reached a mutual respect. Now, it is stripped of its disguise. The dark wood cladding on the walls refuses to admit the thinnest thread of light. The animals’ glassy eyes mock me. Draughts press along the corridor, pick at my skin.
‘Do you want to watch?’ I ask Huxtable. He has followed me to the toilet.
‘I’m waiting here.’ He removes the key from the lock.
I sit on the loo, trying to order my thoughts. The window in the bathroom is full length. Even if it were open, where would I go? They could move much faster than I. I stand up, pull at the handle. Locked.
‘Are you done?’
‘Just finishing up. Can’t rush nature.’
I search the windowsill as I pull the chain. No key. I go to wash my hands, unsure if personal hygiene has ceased to matter in the circumstances. There is a mirrored cabinet above the sink. I open it and run my fingers along the shelves. Tucked in the corner, hidden by a jar of cotton wool balls, a tiny key. There’s a thud thud through my body as I slip it into my pocket.
Huxtable shows me into my old room, only now it is empty and freezing cold. He leaves with the promise of a cup of tea and a sandwich. I ask for clean clothes, and to further my case, make a point of shivering in my wet ones, another appeal to his humanity.
‘I’ll get Anna to bring you some,’ he tells me. ‘I’m sure you’ll have plenty to say to her.’
He leaves, locking me in. Outside, clouds fill a sullen sky, hunker over the hills and cast shadows in the room. From down the ha
llway noises puncture the quiet: a shout, a plate falling in the kitchen. Laughter. My body tightens a notch with every sound. There is nothing for me to do but wait for Henry to come.
I first met him in the late 1970s. He was the party chairman back then, and among newer MPs it was a common mistake to view him as a friendly fellow, albeit one prone to pomposity after a few glasses of Burgundy. He made considerable efforts to get to know incomers, spent time educating them in the arcane ways of the House, who to watch out for, whose favour to curry. He peppered conversations with indiscretions (Valerie and I live separate lives . . . not separate enough for my liking, ha ha!) and encouraged others, over long sessions in the Commons bar (Oh, go on, have another, I insist!) to do the same. Years after my own initiation, I would watch the new intake baring their souls, relaying whatever titbits of gossips they’d picked up like trained dogs, falling into his trap. This wasn’t a kindness on Henry’s part, though it was cleverly disguised as such. He was listening for the beat of their heart, noting how their eyes flamed at a child’s name, a lover’s, a pet cause, how their cheeks coloured at the mention of a secret, so he would know how to corner them if and when the time came. He was an animal stalking its prey.
I’d seen these indiscretions used against people many times. Everyone finds their way of surviving in politics; some bully or bribe, others brief against their enemies. Henry, using whatever information he had at his disposal, would present the errant MP with a ‘choice’. I called it Henry’s Choice because he’d engineer the situation in such a way, paint people into such a tight corner, that it seemed there was rarely a choice to make.
Noises reach me from outside. Anna’s voice and Huxtable’s too. A car door clicking shut, an engine coming to life. Spitting up stones as it clears the driveway.
After half an hour, the car returns, or so I think until an unmistakable tone pollutes the air. I spring up from the bed and my heart hammers as his footsteps march towards my door.
The key turns in the lock.
‘Hello, Henry,’ I say.
An Act of Silence Page 11