A Person Could Disappear Here

by Terri George

  “Yes.” Where is she going with this?

  “So violence was a regular thing.”

  “You know what he did to me. You’ve seen the police and hospital reports. What’s your point?”

  “I’m trying to get a handle on his pattern of behaviour. Was his attitude to you always aggressive?”

  It would be easy to say it was, but how likely would that be? “No.”

  “How was he at other times?”

  Nice? “Nice.”

  “Almost as if he was your boyfriend rather than your captor?”

  Oh, she’s good. This is good. “Sometimes. Why?”

  “It’s not uncommon for captors to become confused over the relationship with their captives in the same way as those held can.”

  “I know what you’re talking about, but there wasn’t time for that.”

  “It doesn’t necessarily take long. The term ‘Stockholm Syndrome’ was originally coined after bank employees were held hostage for six days.”

  “Yeah well, I may have fancied him at first, but trust me, that changed as soon as we got to the house.”

  “Is that why you didn’t write anything about him being nice to you in your journal?”

  Doctor Lucas’s questioning is starting to sound more interrogatory than therapeutic.

  “I don’t know what was going on in his sick and twisted mind. All I know is, I never saw him for anything other than what he was.”

  Fiona makes another note. “And how did the change in his treatment of you make you feel?”

  “Well first he’s saying he’s going to kill me, then he’s being nice. How would you feel?”

  “Did his change in mood happen a lot?”

  Not answering my question then. Quelle surprise. Fiona rarely answers questions, only asks them.

  “Now and then. But five minutes later he was hitting me. Or worse. So mostly he was just scary.”

  “You went through a lot, but you survived it. Hold on to that.”

  “I am.”

  “I’m not saying you’ll ever forget it, but you will get over it. Don’t let what happened to you define you.”

  If she says that old platitude about bad things making you stronger, or worse, that time heals all, I’m out of here. I don’t care if the session isn’t over.

  I can’t stand the incessant buzzing any longer and get up and open the window. But despite freedom being mere inches away, still the fly continues its assault on the pane. Can’t it feel the air coming in through the open window?

  Frustrated by its dim-wittedness, I look around for something to coax the stupid creature to its salvation. Fiona hands me a leaflet on bereavement from the coffee table.

  The fly protests as I edge it towards the open window, rasping like a slipped clutch until it finally senses its means of escape.

  And then it’s gone.

  Sunlight struggles to make it into the consulting room of Fiona’s lower ground flat two streets from the hustle and bustle of Marylebone high street, but you can still feel a hint of warmth from it on the breeze.

  “Do you mind if I leave this open?”

  Fiona shakes her head.

  “Thanks. I’ve had enough of closed windows and airless rooms. I need to breathe. And it is such a beautiful day.”

  I wish I was out in it instead of being stuck in here. It’s all so pointless. But necessary I suppose. So, I retake my seat.

  “How do you spend your days?”

  “I don’t know. Read. Play with Milù. Housework. Daytime telly.” It’s surprising how quickly the hours fly by when you’re at home. Quicker than at work.

  “Now the media attention has died down you need to get out.”

  Enjoy this glorious weather, you mean? There’s nothing like London in the summer. It would be a shame to miss it. Daunt Books is only round the corner on the high street. Maybe I’ll wile away an hour in there. Then have coffee and carrot cake at Workshop before a walk in Regent’s Park. It’s far enough away so I won’t bump into anyone from work, and the flowerbeds on Avenue Gardens are always so lovely this time of year.

  “We were almost out of cat food so I popped out to Sainsbury’s yesterday to get some.”

  “That’s not really what I meant. Healing isn’t just about coming here, Abbey. It’s about getting back to normality. That’s what this time is for.”

  And there are six weeks left, so no need to rush my recovery.

  Sitting on a bench surrounded by all his worldly possessions in grimy carrier bags, the homeless man I pass as I stroll through the park reminds me of Bill. I wonder how he’s doing. I’d like to think someone else cares enough to feed and water him each morning with a homemade sandwich and hot coffee from the café round the corner from the doorway he sleeps in, but I doubt it.

  If you give them money they’ll only spend it on drugs or drink. That’s the usual excuse for not giving, made by the same people who pour themselves a stiff one or glass of wine when they get in from work. The same people who think they’re being so cool when they smoke a bit of puff at the weekend or snort some blow. But hey, it’s just recreational. Nothing as grubby as an addiction.

  And so what if the homeless bloke does spend the money you give him on drugs or drink? Who can blame him? Why should we begrudge him a moment’s oblivion from the misery of his existence? Because life on the streets must be miserable.

  There’s no such thing as a job for life anymore. We live in uncertain times. Lose our job and we too could find ourselves on the streets. With people’s propensity for spending all they earn, their looking the other way is probably because street people remind them they are only a few pay cheques away from destitution. That’s not something anyone wants to dwell on.

  The man on the bench smiles when I hand him a fiver.

  The first thing I notice when I walk in the front door, apart from Milù mewing as she appears from the kitchen, is the spicy scent of the stargazer lilies Penny brought round.

  It was nice of her to come and see me in person. Even nicer to tell me that my eight weeks off is on full pay rather than the meagre amount you get on statutory sick pay.

  Penny is more than just a boss, but still, I’m pretty sure there’s more to her generosity than my being an invaluable member of staff, as she said. The publishing world is relatively small, and incestuous. She’s bound to have heard that I was approached by another house. And that I refused their offer. True, they’re a bigger outfit and it was more money, but they’re less particular about who they sign up. More interested in the bottom line than quality of writing. I have no interest in editing the self-indulgent ramblings of celebrity autobiographies. I doubt any of them are even the real authors anyway. They’re probably all written by ghost writers.

  Jules and Pippa came round too. More flowers. Pale pink roses this time, from Princess & Kō no less. Lovely. But their delicate fragrance was being overpowered by the pepperiness of Penny’s lilies, so I moved them to my bedroom. I made the girls tea. They were sensitive, sympathetic, and mercifully didn’t stay long.

  I look down at a fussing Milù winding around my ankles. “My being at home all day doesn’t mean you get fed every five minutes.”

  Milù stares up at me for a moment then turns tail and struts off in disgust.

  Food… Actually, thinking about it, that’s what I can do. Since my return Cristina’s left work on time every night, so she’ll be home in a couple of hours or so. She’s a far better cook, but I can’t expect her to work all day then come home and cook for both of us. And let’s face it, I’ve got bugger all else to do. So, what can I make us?

  When I do venture into the kitchen to make anything more adventurous than beans on toast, the Domestic Goddess is always my go-to girl. The glossy photos in the cookbook I bought Cristina as part of her birthday present are salivatingly glorious. The sunny saffron yellow chicken looks mouth-wateringly yummy, but it would take too long. The Corsican omelette sounds divinely delish, but it’s more of a supper snack
, and I’m rubbish at making omelettes. A turn of the page and I find a dish that not only sounds scrummy but has a certain irony: sweet potato macaroni cheese. Butter, mustard, paprika, cheese (cheddar and feta) even sage leaves; Cristina keeps a well-stocked kitchen and a quick scan of cupboards and fridge confirms we have everything I need except the sweet potatoes. Oh well, Sainsbury’s will have them, and I can pick up something for afters while I’m there.

  Dinner turns out pretty good, even though I do say so myself.

  Cristina ‘mmms’ around her mouthful. “This is yummy. Nigella I assume. But you didn’t have to cook. I would have knocked us up something.”

  “What else have I got to do all day?”

  “Rest. Give yourself time to get better.”

  “Doctor Lucas says I can only get better by getting back to normal. Talking of which, why don’t we go away somewhere?”

  “In the two weeks since you’ve been home you’ve hardly even been out of the house other than to go to therapy. Are you sure you’re ready to go on holiday?”

  Oh. Too soon? “I don’t mean now. In September, after the kids have gone back to school and flights are cheaper and before I go back to work.”

  “Oh. Have you got somewhere in mind?”

  “Not particularly. Somewhere in Europe we haven’t been. I could get some brochures. It would give me something to do. Something to look forward to.”

  “Okay… So how was the session today?”

  “Oh, you know. The usual. An hour of questions.”

  “But it’s helping?”

  “I suppose.”

  There’s something about the way Cristina looks at me. As if she wants to say something but knows it should remain unsaid.

  “I know I’ve said it before but, thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “Everything. I knew you’d come through for me.”

  “Always.”

  I know. That’s why I was sure everything would work out as I hoped. How I planned. Best friends forever.

  Cristina stares out of the window to the garden beyond. “Is there anything for pudding?”

  ***

  There’s something wonderful about being woken by the butting of a soft furry head rather than the alarm. I’d like to think Milù’s low purr vibrating in my ear is her saying, ‘Good morning, kind and wonderful human who feeds, cares for and loves me. Time to wake up.’ but it’s more likely, ‘Get up, I’m hungry.’. Well, she’ll have to be patient as I’m in no rush to get up just yet; mum and dad’s bed is too comfy.

  Early sunlight refracts off crystals hung on ribbons at the windows, sending tiny rainbows dancing round the room. Just one of the reasons this is my favourite room in the house.

  Whether we want it to or not, change happens. As inevitable as the sun rising in the east each morning, it’s fundamental and the reason we’re here, why life itself exists. But some things need to remain the same. To ground us, to remind us where we come from and give a sense of permanence; even though nothing is permanent in this world, least of all life.

  I know Cristina thinks the bedroom is old-fashioned, but it was enough of a wrench to empty it of my parents’ personal things and let others sleep here. When the tenants’ lease was up and we moved in after graduating, I may have let Cristina redecorate, (she has a great eye for design, better than mine, and did a wonderful job) but once the house was my home again, I couldn’t bring myself to change anything in here. I needed one room that still speaks of my parents.

  No chance to have a lie-in when you have a hungry cat. Milù paws at the bedclothes, mewing impatiently at my inertia. Satisfied with a tickle under her chin, she jumps off the bed, allowing me to get up.

  After being cooped up indoors avoiding the inevitable sympathy, it’s good to get out of the house. I knew they’d be interested of course, but the level of press attention my story attracted was a surprise. The money I could have made selling my exclusive story would have been nice but benefitting financially had never been part of the plan, and I couldn’t risk anyone looking into my past too closely and making connections. So I’m pleased the media interest has died down and it’s safe to visit my parents’ grave. I have a lot to tell them.

  I love the cemetery. It’s so peaceful, and quite beautiful with all the trees. Graphite grey splodges cast by the midsummer sun shining through their branches dapple paths that intersect lawned rectangles of headstones laid out in regimented rows. It’s not at all the creepy place Cristina thinks it is.

  The finality of death scares her, so she clings to the construct of heaven and a hereafter like the bridge thread of a spider’s web.

  But what is there to be frightened of here? Everyone’s dead.

  After filling my water bottle at the tap, I continue down the path to the right of the chapel to my parents’ grave.

  In my absence it has become overgrown with creeping cinquefoil spreading over the kerb of the headstone from the surrounding grass that’s smothered with it; its delicate yellow flowers a sharp sunny contrast against the black granite.

  The vase has toppled over, the glass opaque with grime, the white roses I left the day before I flew to Denver shrivelled up to a powdery dust. Unlike the bodies of my parents.

  Left above ground, a corpse becomes a moving mass of maggots within days, the bloated body cavity bursting open, tissues liquifying within a month. But safely interned in oak six feet underground, flesh-eating insects repelled, and bacterial putrefaction of tissue, skin and organs slowed by the embalming process, my parents’ decomposition will take decades.

  They lie, slowly decaying, side by side in a double grave. I was damned if they were to be laid to rest one on top of the other. If they weren’t a married couple they would have been buried in separate graves next to each other. The way I saw it, all they had to do was dig one hole wide enough to accommodate them both, rather than two. So I couldn’t see what all the fuss was about, but you know what pen-pushing administrators can be like. I kicked up such a stink, got quite hysterical, and in the end, to save the deceased’s distraught daughter any more anguish, the people who decide on such things capitulated.

  So, my parents’ earthly bodies lie together for evermore, my mother on my father’s right, just as they slept every night. She in her favourite black shift dress and kitten heels, he in his charcoal grey double-breasted suit, a small red railway carriage tucked discretely into the left jacket pocket before the undertaker screwed down the lid.

  I wet a tissue from my pocket and clean the vase as best I can before filling it with the rest of the water in my bottle and arranging the fresh white roses I bought at the florist in the high street.

  A myriad of remembered images drift across my mind’s eye as I sit leaning against the edge of the headstone: dust motes caught in the sunlight slanting through the attic skylight; the scent of pine from the gaily lit tree in the front room decorated on the first day of December; books everywhere.

  Cemeteries aren’t really for the departed. Just as the funeral is a ritual designed to help us find closure, the final resting place is somewhere for those left behind to come and feel close to those who are no more. My parents aren’t here in any real sense. They’re dead; bodies slowly rotting away beneath me.

  Their souls don’t have a hot-line to their grave because the soul is just an abstract concept; the loss of it the ultimate weapon in the church’s arsenal used to threaten us with eternal damnation in their make-believe land of fire and brimstone if we stray from the path of righteousness. The problem with this concept conceived by the pious and metaphysical philosophers is, they confuse the incorporeal matter they call a soul, with a conscience. We all have one of those. It’s up to us whether or not we listen to it, or indeed if it speaks to us at all.

  My conscience is mute. It doesn’t berate me for what I’ve done. He got exactly what he deserved.

  Chapter Thirty

  ABBEY

  The whole thing was caught on CCTV. The BMW taking the corne
r far too fast, spinning out of control, slewing across the lanes and mounting the pavement. Then several seconds pass when the car is motionless, (was he weighing up his options?) before it reverses back onto the road and races out of shot. Leaving my parents where they fell in the quiet of that balmy June night.

  You can clearly see the man out walking his dog hurry across the road, bend down and touch my father. You sense his shock as he taps agitatedly at his mobile. After finishing the call he puts away his phone and crouches beside my mother. He holds her hand and appears to be talking to her for the six minutes it takes the ambulance to arrive. A kind act I will be forever grateful for. My mother said no final words, but at least she wasn’t alone when she died.

  Dad died instantly. Well, I say “dad”. My biological father died from a pulmonary embolism shortly after my first birthday. Two years later mum fell for the handsome history lecturer and graduate of Christ Church college, Oxford. In the sense of what being a father means, Matthew Deacon was my dad, in everything but name.

  The car was found abandoned in central London the next morning; a parking ticket already secured beneath the wiper blade. From details given by the car rental company, the police tracked the driver to a hotel near Marble Arch. The errant grandson of a wealthy US pastor accompanying him on a tour to drum up British interest in his ministry. The coward who’d hastily packed his bags before taking a taxi to Heathrow and boarding the first plane out of the country.

  There’s no proof the pastor assisted him in his escape; getting him out of the country to avoid a scandal. Or indeed if he even knew what had happened before the police came knocking on his door. Either way, once the story broke, evocative tabloid headlines and the ensuing public outrage had him cancelling the rest of his tour.

  What is evident is that his influence lay behind the US authorities’ downright refusal to send his grandson back to Britain to face charges.

  Seven years eleven months. A long time to wait to exact vengeance on the person who took the lives of my parents in one reckless act, but you know what they say about revenge. And I have patience.