by John Nicholl
The book includes content that some readers may find disturbing from the start. It is dedicated to survivors everywhere.
Epilogue
I finally decided to publish my memoir after being persuaded by my mum, of all people. She read it shortly after my successful appeal and release, and convinced me it was a tale worth telling a few months later. I sent samples of my work to various literary agents in large brown envelopes adorned with brightly coloured first-class stamps, but they either sent rejection letters or didn’t bother replying at all. Eventually, when I’d almost given up on the idea of a book, an independent publishing house asked to read the entire manuscript and offered me a deal three weeks later. I’m not expecting to sell many copies, but if a few people read it and take my cautionary message on board to some degree, I’ll be gratified by that. I’ve been told more than once that the book is a celebration of the human will to survive and overcome, even when faced with the greatest adversity. Whether that’s true, I’ll leave it to you to decide. I still don’t trust my judgement to any great degree.
I should probably mention that I’m back living with Mum and my wonderful girls in Tenby. I have a part-time job at a local restaurant run by a lovely English couple from somewhere in Sussex, and I spend as much quality time as possible with my girls, swimming and the cinema being particular favourites. No doubt it will take some time for us all to get properly used to each other’s company again, but things are progressing pretty well, everything considered.
I still suffer nightmares, I still feel on edge a great deal of the time, and I still find it almost impossible to trust others, particularly men. I repeatedly remind myself that there’s a great many good guys out there in addition to the monsters, but Galbraith made a deep psychological impression that’s extremely hard to erase. Thankfully, my memory of him isn’t in such sharp focus as it once was, but I doubt if it will ever fade away completely and join the previously proactive black dog in virtual obscurity.
I’ve kept in occasional touch with Molly Mailer and have invited her family to visit during the summer months, when they can take full advantage of everything Tenby and the surrounding area has to offer. She says they’ll come in August, but that they’ll rent a caravan near the beach, rather than stay with us at the house. I think that makes sense, everything considered. They may or mayn’t actually turn up, of course. I’ll just have to wait and see.
I keep in regular contact with Jack and his family. He’s never been happier. His little girl is almost two now, and I hope to visit and meet her one day, when I’ve saved enough money for the return journey to America. The girls will come with me, of course, but I don’t think Mum will make it this time. She says that one journey to California is enough for one lifetime and that she was never that fond of flying in the first place. She’s relying on Jack, Marie and little Stella to make the long journey to Wales at some point in the not-too-distant future. I feel sure they will.
I received an untidy, barely decipherable letter from Gloria a couple of months back, completely out of the blue. It seems the English lessons I provided had little positive effect in her case, given the multiple spelling errors. I was delighted to hear from her, but disappointed to read that she’s back in prison for another nine-month stretch. It seems she never did kick the drug habit, and in truth, I doubt she ever will. I suspect that the toxic chemicals she injects so keenly are a form of self-inflicted therapy she can’t do without for very long, however hard she tries to resist their destructive allure. I like to think that one day she’ll have her own Mrs Martin and surprise me, but I won’t hold my breath. I’ll say a prayer for her occasionally and leave it at that.
I never did find out what happened to Emma or Sheila, and to be honest that’s just fine with me. All in all, I’m a great deal happier than I’ve been for quite some time. I’ve no idea what the future holds, of course, but I now feel able to face whatever it brings with real optimism, rather than the dread I so recently felt. I haven’t decided if I’ll carry on writing just yet. I’ve considered putting pen to paper on more than one occasion, but I’m not sure if I’ve got anything else worthwhile to convey. And so, I’m just going to get on with my life for now, love those who matter most and do the best I can with the cards I’m dealt. If I do decide to write another book and anyone actually thinks it’s worth publishing, I like to think you’ll be one of the first to know.
Cynthia Jones
14 February 1997