by Gayle Curtis
It was a while before Magda answered me; she was caught in the dilemma of admitting it or pretending to be mortally offended.
‘Don’t worry, Magda, your secret is well and truly safe with me. You obviously had your reasons and I have nothing to gain by telling anyone. I’m just giving you a bit of friendly advice.’
‘Gordon tried to kill my mother. My parents would never have him placed in an institution and their wishes were that I should take over from them when they passed away.’ Magda stared into her lap as she spoke, and I could see tears dropping from her face. ‘I hated him. He’s my older brother and I couldn’t bear to be near him. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life looking after him.’
‘I’m really sorry to hear that. You should have discussed it with me, I could have helped you.’
‘We would never have been free of him. He told my parents he would kill them one night in their sleep. They were so scared of him, too frightened to take control of the situation. I mean, who makes these diagnoses anyway?’
‘Are you saying you don’t believe he was sick?’
‘Mad or bad, someone once said to me. Sometimes I just thought Gordon was evil. He should have been in prison, but he never committed a crime – not one he was charged with, anyway – so no one would lock him up. He was sent to a psychiatric hospital when he was seventeen because he exposed himself to a young boy in the public toilets and he was displaying worrying behaviour. After three months of being there, he worked out how to get a glowing report from the psychiatrists assessing him. He was released, and my parents had been stuck with him ever since.’
Magda sobbed, not something I suspected she did very often, and I didn’t believe it was born out of guilt, but rather because I think she was relieved her brother was dead. Tears poured from her – for years of frustration, for the lack of support they’d had in dealing with him.
‘Do you know what Gordon used to do to me when I was a child? He used to make me touch him, do things to him.’ I clenched my jaw and handed Magda a tissue. ‘The thing I couldn’t ever get used to was the assault within the assault. The perverted things he asked me to do were bad enough, but it was what he did afterwards that gave me nightmares. He would spit in my face. It made me wish he was dead. I should have been grateful he never touched me, but I wasn’t; he made me feel so disgusting, I was repulsed by him.’
‘When I said I could have helped you, I didn’t mean from a legal point of view.’
Magda and I became friends after that. The only participant I hadn’t met on the train, we shared a secret – one she didn’t want revealed. Aside from her despair, Magda had been quite calculated about Gordon’s death. Her happiness came from seeing her parents living their lives again. I liked that kind of spirit.
Many years had passed since I’d seen Magda, and even though she’d aged, there was a self-respect in her eyes that had been missing before.
‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’
I laughed at this. ‘A pleasure, is it?’
Magda smiled rather nervously, and I realised my visit had unsettled her. After all, the last time we’d seen each other, I’d offered her a handgun.
‘Don’t worry, it’s nothing serious. I just wanted to tell you that whatever happens over the next few months, I won’t be revealing anything about your past.’
‘I don’t understand. What’s going on?’ Magda glanced around, making sure no one was listening.
‘Nothing. It’s just time for me to tell the truth.’
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
NOW
Elise emerged from the taxi feeling solid – whole – for the first time since she could remember. This was the first day of her life, the therapist had said, but to Elise, that had been the moment she walked into the rehabilitation centre. A few days before she’d left, Elise had sent her father a visiting order at the prison, and he’d returned it, agreeing she could come and see him. That was the first place she’d gone before coming here to his house.
Elise sighed, recalling the thin man with the sunken eyes she’d just sat opposite and tried to have a conversation with. It shocked her that someone could change so much in three months.
It was the first time she’d seen Ray since he’d been sentenced and found guilty of four counts of murder and six counts of human trafficking. He hadn’t been charged with Ida’s death. The only evidence had been blood spatter on his sweater, and a pathologist said the spray was from no more than an exhalation of breath as Ray lifted his granddaughter up from the floor, desperate to keep her alive. The media were still speculating about James Caddy, but there was no evidence to prove he’d even spoken to Ida that day, and the CPS had decided the case didn’t hold enough weight to stand up in a court of law.
Ray had barely talked to Elise – only small talk and to tell her how proud he was of her sobriety. Every word he uttered carried such a heavy sadness that Elise thought her heart would break. It wasn’t self-pity, it was acceptance of his fate, of what lay ahead and where he would end his days. To her astonishment, Ingrid had respected Elise’s wishes to leave her alone. She just wasn’t ready to talk to her mother and wasn’t sure she ever would be. She was surprised Ray hadn’t mentioned her during the visit.
Elise had decided when the visit was over that she would spend her time building an appeal for a retrial. Ray was unethical in his approach to things, but her father wasn’t a murderer, that she would prove.
Chemicals lingered in the cold air as Elise walked into the hall of her father’s Victorian villa. It felt so different now; the house echoed as though it had been emptied – but, of course, everything was where it always had been. It was devoid of Ray’s presence, and that was why it felt so lonely.
Bracing herself, Elise clasped her fingers around the large crystal-shaped door knob which led to his office. She needed to go in there, feel what it was like, the remnants of an atmosphere. Elise turned the handle, and just as she began opening the door, she closed it again. She wasn’t ready, couldn’t face it just yet.
Instead, Elise made her way upstairs. She wanted to look in the rooms where they had all stayed during that terrible time that felt so long ago now. There were three large bedrooms apart from Ray’s, and Elise was surprised to find all the beds neatly made and everything tidy apart from a thick layer of dust. After Scenes of Crime had finished, they’d arranged to have the place cleaned but she’d imagined they wouldn’t bother, remembering all the police dramas she watched, where they ransacked houses, leaving them in a shambles.
Elise crept around, feeling like Goldilocks, like she shouldn’t be there. It was an odd feeling; she had always felt so at home in the large old house. Something wasn’t right, she could feel it.
Elise’s phone began to vibrate in her pocket. It was Nathaniel calling.
‘Where are you?’
‘Just at Dad’s checking on everything. I’ll be home soon.’
‘I said I’d pick you up from the prison; I’ve been sitting outside for ages. I was getting worried.’
‘I’m fine. Just need a bit of time to myself and then I’ll come home. Okay?’
‘Elise. I actually called to tell you something. It’s the day of the inquest.’
Elise had to think for a few seconds.
‘The Patons?’ Nathaniel sounded shocked she hadn’t remembered.
‘Oh, yes, yes, sorry. My head’s all over the place today.’
‘Sure. It was a few months ago. Well, it’s as we expected. Murder, suicide.’
‘Okay,’ Elise said.
There was silence for a few moments.
‘I’ll let you go. Will you call me when you want picking up?’
‘Yes. Give me twenty minutes, half an hour.’
‘Are you sure you’re all right there on your own?’
‘Don’t be silly. I’m just going to have a wander round and then I’ll be ready.’
Elise hung up, not wanting to be suffocated, needing to hold on to everything she’d lea
rnt over the past few months. She stared at the phone, thinking about the Patons, the sadness of it all. Poor little Louis, who had been adopted by a new family, and her own two sons.
Mark Paton had found the contract her father had drawn up for his wife Jane, where he’d offered to help her set up adoption for Louis when he was born. Mark had come to the conclusion that Ray had swapped Louis for Buddy in aid of some weird social experiment, mainly based on information he’d read in the tabloids. The fact was, Jane had been so distraught about having a baby, a reminder of being raped, that she’d asked Ray to arrange everything and find a suitable set of parents for Louis. When the baby was born, she’d changed her mind, having bonded with him so strongly. Foolishly, Jane had filed the contract along with all their paperwork and forgotten about it. Elise couldn’t help feeling partly to blame for their deaths. If it hadn’t been for her neurosis, she wouldn’t have had the crazy idea Buddy wasn’t hers.
The obsession with the Patons had started when she’d seen Jane arrive at Ray’s when she happened to be there one afternoon. Elise had peered at the newborn as she had every baby she saw, so convinced the one she rocked to sleep in his Moses basket wasn’t hers, and had thought she was staring at her real son. The slight breeze of his baby smell as Jane walked past had convinced her that Louis belonged to her. But of course, he didn’t.
Elise’s phone began to ring just as she put it back in her jeans pocket. She tutted, thinking it was Nathaniel again, and then saw DC Chilvers’s name on the screen.
‘Hello,’ Elise said quietly, not sure why she was keeping her voice low.
‘Elise, where are you?’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘We need to see you and Nathaniel. When will you both be at home?’
‘I can be there in about an hour. Nathaniel is picking me up.’
‘Where are you, Elise?’
‘At a friend’s. I’m leaving soon. Just having a coffee. Nathaniel should be at home now if you want to call round and see him. I can get a taxi, it’s no problem.’ Elise bit her lip. She had been told not to go to her father’s alone – Ida’s killer was still out there somewhere.
‘We’re sitting outside yours now, he’s not here.’
‘Tell me what’s going on,’ Elise said, wanting to know but not wanting to know.
‘We need you to come home now, Elise. We’ve sent out a warrant for Sonny’s arrest.’
‘What for?’ Elise could feel the tiny hairs on the back of her neck rising.
‘We have new information about Ida’s death. Sonny has a motive.’
Elise listened to what she had to say and ended the call, sitting down on the top of the staircase. It had been Sonny all along, and Elise had known that deep down – she suspected they all had. Sonny knew that too; he’d distanced himself from them all the last few months, moving nearer to his estranged wife and children, and the reason had seemed quite obvious when she’d been in rehab, though then she would find herself doubting it again. He had been a part of their family for so long – they trusted him, he was so familiar to them – that they couldn’t see what was going on right in front of them. Elise would wake up thinking one thing and go to bed with an entirely different opinion.
Before Elise left, she went into Ray’s bedroom and pulled back the quilt on the bed – delaying, not wanting to find out anything else, pausing time. Leaning forward, she pressed her face into his pillow, and her chest filled with so much pain she thought it would shock her heart into stopping. Elise ran her hand along the mattress as if she expected it to be warm. Lying down on the bed she turned on to her side and, pulling her knees up to her chest, released some of the emotion she had pent up. When she finally calmed, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, pulling herself up to a sitting position, her body heavy and sluggish. An old wallet of Ray’s lay on his bedside table. Elise picked the wallet up and smelt the warm, earthy scent that always reminded her of her father. Opening it, she pulled out the pile of photographs he had tucked into the plastic picture holder. The first one was of Elise, and Ida when she was a baby. She let out a sob so loud she thought she was going to be sick. The rest of the photographs were of her, Nathaniel, Ida, and a couple of Miles and Buddy. The last photo was the exception. It was a picture of two women she recognised. They were laughing, and it looked like it had been taken in a passport photo booth. One of them was Ingrid, and the other, she realised after a few moments, was Nathaniel’s mother, Anna. She recognised her from the photo album, the one her mother had sent to Ida.
While Ida had been studying the family tree and sneaking into Ray’s office, she’d discovered some secrets, one being that Ingrid was alive and living in Norway. Ida had talked Magda into agreeing she could have some post delivered there, although Elise hoped that Magda hadn’t known who the mail was from. Her mother and her daughter had been writing to one another in secret for almost two years, and Elise had never known. It had made her feel desperately sad.
Elise looked at the photograph now and couldn’t understand why Ray would keep a picture of Ingrid and Anna in his wallet, but then he had done a lot of strange things. Ingrid looked so happy in the photo; Elise had never seen her like that before, and guessed that was Ray’s reason for keeping it.
A door closing downstairs and the sound of footsteps made Elise sit up. She hoped it was Nathaniel, that he hadn’t been delayed talking to the police. She stayed where she was and held her breath as she dialled Nathaniel’s phone, but he didn’t answer. Elise then called DC Chilvers’s phone, but she didn’t answer either, so she whispered as quietly as she could, telling her where she was on her voicemail.
‘You can come down, sweetheart, I know you’re up there.’ Elise heard Ingrid’s voice – recognising her Norwegian accent immediately. She walked out of Ray’s room and stopped on the landing. Her mother was standing at the bottom, a gun in each hand.
‘Come with me, Elise.’
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
If you can be talked into killing yourself, how can it be murder? Ask yourself how precious your life is to you if you so easily give it away. It was a game, a simple puzzle I formulated. Magda was one of the few that worked it out.
There was a get-out. Isn’t there always?
Think about why some people survive a fall from a high-rise or a car accident, and others don’t. It’s simple. They’re making a choice. Some people resign themselves to there being only one pathway. The glass half full doesn’t just apply to the small events, it is relevant in every area of our lives.
Imagine the police have arrived at your door to tell you a loved one has been in a car accident. Ask yourself if you are the kind of person who presumes they are dead or who assumes they’ve been taken to hospital.
I never told any of my participants they were going to die at that very moment. I just gave them two options: shoot yourself or be shot. One gun was loaded, the other was empty. If you were brave enough to opt to shoot yourself, I would pass you the empty gun. It’s as simple as that, and yet it was rare that anyone worked it out.
I know one thing – there is a pattern within the folds of life, a hidden puzzle, but I haven’t worked it out yet. It reminds me of the games in the newspaper supplement; they’re commonly known as word searches. I have wastefully whiled away time on these frivolities by working out a strategy for solving them. There is a pattern that runs through these puzzles which makes them so simple to work out and saves time on searching for the words, and yet deniers will follow the trickier route, the one their ego dictates. Because, you see, we are told ‘word search’, and a robotic brain will do just that – search for the words. We try for the quickest time in which to find the words, but sadly, not in a strategic manner.
The reason why? There is this sickening desire to win, to be the best, to smugly know we are cleverer than anyone else. But at what, and who is it who sets these levels?
And yet people stumble through life without fulfilling their purpose, the calling which is so obviously p
ut in front of us from birth.
Anything audible, aesthetic, oral or sensory passes by the deniers, unheard, unseen, untasted and without feeling. I’ve sat in a cab in the middle of London and watched empty humans passing one another in the street, existing but not present. Where are they? Lost somewhere in the past or the future, stuck in some pathetic memory or apathetic visualisation that rarely comes to fruition. The difference is, my desires serve me and me alone. I don’t need to feed my ego. I am my ego, it is one and the same.
Should you be unfamiliar with my work, my participants are what society refer to as my victims. No one is a victim, it’s an impossibility. A whimsical view from those who wish to heal others, to sympathise, empathise. The peeling away of these layers reveals a mass of rotting guilt.
A psychiatrist once asked me if I would like to possess these traits, if I had ever sat quietly and tried to imagine what they were like. I did not respond but I did give it some deep thought. Then I began to wonder if this counted in any way, the fact that I took the time to think about whether I wished for these traits. It’s probably the closest I’ll ever get to your superficial friends, empathy and sympathy. The question I began to ponder on was why he felt he needed me to explore this. What purpose did it have? For there is always a purpose, you can be sure of that. Even the so-called altruistic are squeezing their egos.
The conclusion I came to? That most people have a compulsion for us all to conform to what they want us to be. To fit in, to line up with the deniers, be someone they most clearly are not. Don’t make a fuss, don’t stand out from the crowd, eat your food, go to work, come home, and above all, shut up.
I’ve been questioned a lot about my ego, asked if I think I have an alter ego. Put another way, do I have multiple personalities? There are many facets to me and I am made up of many shards. I do not have to talk to or pretend to talk to someone else in order to satisfy desires or needs I am afraid to express. That, to me, is multiple personalities. The reality, for me, is that I am true to myself, at all times. To contort one’s self involves the ego because you are displaying what you want others to see, what you believe to be the correct way to conduct your life.