The Playground

by Jane Shemilt

  “You go, obviously.”

  “We could find good schools for the kids. They’d love it.”

  “They’re at good schools already.”

  His grip on her wrist tightens. “I want to fix us, Grace. We met in Africa. What better than a year out there, together?”

  She pulls her wrist away. “A year apart.”

  Melissa

  “I forbid it. Don’t involve Izzy in the trial. It won’t be for months yet.” Paul’s chin is peppered with gingery stubble, there’s dirt under his fingernails. He looks small, sitting on the other side of the table, defeated. It’s been four weeks but he looks a year older at least. Pentonville is another world, one he can’t dominate. “Tell her I don’t need her help.”

  Melissa hadn’t wanted to come today, but she’d promised Izzy.

  “She’s planning the statement already. She’s desperate for the chance to read it out, it’s keeping her awake at night. Your permission is mandatory.”

  “I don’t want her exposed to the media.” He bangs his fist softly on the table. It isn’t loud enough to attract the guard but she has to stop herself from flinching. “I don’t trust them; they’ll wreak havoc if they scent blood. It could rebound on her.”

  He’s uneasy about this. Melissa hadn’t wanted Izzy to be involved either but Izzy had insisted she ask, and she agreed in the end; when Paul’s convicted, which he almost certainly will be, it will be important for Izzy to know she’d tried her best to help her father.

  “It’s an unusual request, but the lawyer’s prepared to make an exception and she thinks the judge will grant permission; she just needs yours.”

  He’s lost weight, his Adam’s apple visibly jerks up and down when he swallows. “Will she be questioned?”

  Melissa shakes her head. “She won’t even be in court. She’ll read it out by a video link then leave straightaway. She’s happy with that.”

  He frowns, weighing it, working out the risks and benefits.

  “I’ll be released anyway, they won’t find concrete evidence, because I didn’t do it.”

  Melissa stares back silently; let him believe what he wants, it makes no difference.

  Paul’s stubbly face leans closer to hers across the prison table. “What actual evidence do they have, apart from Sorrel being found in our freezer and the tiara in my car?”

  That’s surely enough in itself, Melissa thinks but doesn’t say. Sorrel might tell the police more given time, but Grace told her the little girl is hardly speaking yet and that she might not remember anyway. The prison warden checks his watch and glances at them; the bell is about to sound.

  “Izzy just wants to help you, Paul,” she tells him, standing up. “I’ll tell her I tried; she’ll be devastated to hear—”

  “Just the statement then, nothing else,” he interrupts harshly, staring up at her; it’s strange how threatening he still sounds, even in prison.

  She walks away after that; she’s fulfilled her promise to Izzy, the only thing that matters. She won’t see him again till the trial, but at least Izzy’s mind will be put at ease.

  That evening, she calls the shelter and Karen answers; she’s excited, the news is good. The Home Office has agreed to let Lina stay in England. Lina’s home in Syria is a conflict zone, she has no relatives there, both reasons for her to be allowed to remain in the UK.

  “That’s such great news.” Melissa smiles for the first time that day.

  “I’ll find her for you; she’s resting.”

  A few minutes later Lina’s voice murmurs a shy hello.

  “How are you?” Lina is twenty weeks pregnant but she rarely refers to the fact. Melly is cautious.

  “Fine.”

  “Karen told me you are allowed to stay; it’s wonderful news, Lina.”

  “Yes, thank you. I am happy.”

  “When we have a home, there will be a room specially for you, two rooms.” Paul’s child, but also Izzy’s little half brother or sister. Lina’s baby, someone to cherish.

  “Thank you very much.”

  “Sorrel is still in hospital but she’s getting better all the time.”

  “I’m very glad.”

  “Paul’s in prison; I expect you know that. He’s likely to stay there for a long time.”

  “I see.”

  “Whatever happens, you won’t be hurt again.”

  Lina doesn’t reply. They talk a little about Salisbury and the cathedral and the next visit Melissa will make when she comes to see how the work in the Wiltshire house is progressing.

  After the call Melissa walks upstairs to Izzy’s room but she has fallen asleep; her homework is in a tidy pile on her desk. Melissa strokes her hair lightly. She hasn’t told her about Lina coming to live with them yet or about the pregnancy. There will be plenty of time. She watches her daughter breathing gently, relishing the peaceful moments that she never used to have with her, thankful Izzy is managing so well without the father she adores.

  Poppy wants to laugh and cry at the same time. She wants to laugh because Sorrel’s okay, and then she wants to cry because she doesn’t look like Sorrel except for her eyes. The nurses cut her hair because it was all tangled. She looks yellow; she’s got tubes going into her skin and she’s covered with bruises. She looks tiny in the hospital bed. Was she that small before? Whoever took her must’ve just lifted her up and—no. She’s not going to think about that. It’s like Ash, she can bear to think about him only for little bits at a time. Izzy’s being nice. She asks about Sorrel all the time, about how she is and her memory and everything. She’s nicer than she used to be and Poppy gets that, because she is too. Mum says when you think you are going to lose something important it changes you; you concentrate on the things that really matter. Izzy hasn’t said anything much about her dad. She probably feels embarrassed and guilty, but it’s not Izzy’s fault. If people at school say it’s odd that Poppy’s best friends with the girl whose father kidnapped her sister, then that’s their problem. They don’t know what Izzy’s like—especially now. Izzy does her homework and she lends her clothes and everything. She actually feels sorry for Izzy, which she never thought she would. She feels sorry for Mum too. Dad never talks to her and you can tell she minds. It’s her fault for having sex with Martin—if that’s true—which is gross, but she’s not thinking about that either.

  Charley can’t wait to see Sorrel. She turns out to be really important—much more than, say, Izzy. She hasn’t seen Izzy for ages and it’s been fine, but she’s hated not seeing Sorrel. Perhaps she should feel sorry for Izzy like Poppy does, but she doesn’t. It’s not Izzy’s fault about her dad but that doesn’t make her nice. Actually, Poppy says Izzy’s trying to be nicer, but people are what they are; you can change but not that much. You can pretend to be nice like Paul did, but it’s hard to keep that up. Paul couldn’t, obviously. Poppy is sure Izzy’s really changed. Well, maybe she has.

  15. March

  Melissa

  Paul looks different in court from the man Melissa saw in custody three months ago. He’s well shaven and upright and wearing a suit that the attorney must have procured for him, an unfamiliar red tie. He’s slimmer than he’s been for years, lack of alcohol probably. He gives the appearance of a clear-eyed professional, a man who wouldn’t dream of harming a child, who would be too busy to know any except, of course, for one beloved daughter.

  Paul’s attorney had met Melissa and Izzy at the door; a handsome Sri Lankan woman in her forties with a brisk delivery, hampered by a head cold. She had a tired face and a harried air. Her life might be tough—a full-time job, children, maybe a household to run, perhaps a difficult husband as well. Melissa caught herself looking for bruises. The attorney told them what they already knew—that exceptional permission had been given for a brief statement on the grounds that, according to the lawyer, there was nothing on record that specifically forbade it. The attorney introduced them to witness support, a pale young woman in a flowing skirt who took Izzy off to the vi
deo room to prepare her for reading her statement. Melissa lingered outside the door for forty minutes in case she was needed. She entered the court just as the prosecutor had finished speaking and made her way quietly to the back. She sat on the side where she could see the defense lawyer, the judge, and Paul.

  The defense lawyer begins by explaining there will be, unusually, a short statement by live video link in support of the defendant by his daughter. They are directed to look at a large video screen at the side of the courtroom. There are a few quiet whispers, a little ripple of anticipation; a departure from routine is always exciting.

  When Izzy appears on the screen she looks so beautiful that Melissa’s eyes sting. Paul is staring too, frowning slightly. He agreed to this—is he still worried about her? About what she’ll say?

  “So, Isabelle.” The defense lawyer is in her fifties, with a well-cut gray bob and an expensive-looking silk shirt. She smiles at the screen. An average child might not realize the smile is condescending. “As you know, we can see and hear you by the special video link we set up so the people in court today can hear what it is that you wanted to tell them about your father.”

  Izzy nods politely.

  “So, when you’re ready . . .”

  “Where would you like me to start?”

  “You have the statement in front of you, which I have had the benefit of reading. I suggest,” she says gently, “that you start at the beginning.”

  Izzy looks down at the paper on her lap and then up again. “Start at the beginning?” She sounds worried. “It’ll take ages. It began years ago.”

  “Just read out the first sentence then carry on,” the lawyer repeats patiently. “Don’t be nervous. It won’t take long, so if you can kindly—”

  “I was six when it began,” Izzy cuts in.

  When what began? Melly feels a pulse of anxiety; has it all been too much of a strain? This video appearance a step too far for a thirteen-year-old child? The lawyer looks puzzled, but to her credit she is still patient.

  “I’m sorry, Isabelle, that’s not what is on the paper. There may be lots of very helpful things you would like to tell us about your father, but we agreed you’d read out just what is written down in front of you.”

  “You suggested I start at the beginning. That’s what I’m trying to do. I was six when he began to abuse me.”

  There’s a soft noise in the court, a collective gasp, like the sound the sea makes on pebbles as the waves retreat. Melissa’s hands go to her throat. She’s not sure if she heard properly, or whether she imagined Izzy’s words. She glances at Paul but he’s looking at his daughter; his face is blank as if with shock.

  “It’s been going on since then. Seven years altogether. Like I said, it’ll take ages if you want me to start from the very beginning.”

  The court is hushed, that deep quiet of an audience listening to a good story. The lawyer is staring at the screen, motionless. Paul is white-faced, his jaw is clenched. Melissa’s world is veering out of control as it did years ago; she’d been a passenger in Paul’s car when he lost control on a country road; she can feel that helpless slide toward the bank right now, see the frosted grass coming closer in the headlights. She grips the chair seat and takes slow breaths, digging her nails in her palms. Someone needs to stop Izzy; her claim is crazy, frightening. She wants to hold her daughter, call for an emergency doctor, maybe a psychiatrist.

  “Isabelle.” The lawyer has recovered, she speaks firmly. “You are here to read your witness statement. I suggest you immediately retract—”

  “I am here for Sorrel. I retract nothing.” Izzy’s voice is clear; she sounds completely sane. “I want everyone to know that my father abused me and he’s done exactly the same to my mother. He’s a monster.”

  The lawyer’s face changes, becomes expressionless; her lips tighten. She addresses the judge and her voice is much louder.

  “Sir, I request a halt in proceedings. We have a hostile witness which we did not anticipate. I would like to confer with my client.”

  “Carry on.” The judge’s voice is measured, a necessary note of calm. He has a kind face; someone you need on your side, though judges don’t take sides. It’s about the truth, which is good, because at the moment Melissa has no idea what that word even means. She can’t see Paul anymore; his head and the lawyer’s are lowered in discussion. There is a buzz of whispers, glances are directed her way. Paul is violent, an alcoholic, deceitful certainly, but he loved Izzy. That was the star she steered by, the reason she endured all these years. Her daughter’s happiness has been bought with her own suffering; it is inconceivable that all this time Izzy’s been suffering as well. What she’s saying can’t be true. She’s been stressed by her father’s absence; the video has been the final straw. Melissa rises from her seat; she should take Izzy home now, insist that she rest.

  The defense lawyer turns to the judge. “Your Honor, my client rejects these claims as utter nonsense. I request permission to cross-examine his daughter.”

  “Proceed with care. We know Isabelle has witness support with her but it’s important to remember she is a child.”

  It’s too late. Melissa sinks back into her seat, her legs trembling.

  “Isabelle.” The tone is measured. “You have written a statement which I will now read to the court, a statement that you swore at the time was the truth.

  “‘My father has been close to me since I was little; we do homework together and he takes me away on holidays. I can’t imagine life without him. I can’t imagine him hurting another child.’”

  The lawyer puts the paper down and addresses Izzy. “In light of these words, do you now retract the statement you made earlier?”

  “I retract nothing,” Izzy repeats; her face is pink. “He was with me when I was trying to do my homework, that’s when the abuse happened.”

  “Your mother works from home, doesn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s rather difficult to imagine your father being able to act as you say while your mother was at home at the same time; can you explain how that was possible?”

  “He locked the door, he told her he was helping me with homework. My mother’s scared of him. She does what he tells her to.”

  Melissa closes her eyes, seeing the white door with its sparkly metal “I.” She never once tried the door handle. Izzy was right, she hadn’t dared. By obeying her husband, was she abetting her daughter’s abuse? She pushes her hands to her mouth to stop herself from crying out.

  “He took me away on trips, skiing and things like that. Mum wasn’t allowed to come.”

  He had waved Melissa goodbye at airports, his arm tight around his special girl. Cheap, last-minute trips with shared bedrooms—That’s normal, he said to Izzy when she objected once. I have to keep you safe. Safe. Melissa enjoyed the breaks too, if she’s honest, pockets of calm in her life. She’d encouraged those breaks. It was their bonding time, she’d remind herself as she returned to the house and the calm of nights on her own. It seems so obvious now—how could she not have suspected, even for a moment?

  “In your witness statement, you say you can’t remember a time when you weren’t close to him.” The lawyer looks at the judge then Izzy. “Is that statement, in light of what you’ve now told us, a truthful one?”

  “When he lay on top of me, I had to take off my clothes. That’s pretty close, isn’t it? And I can’t remember anything further back than that. What he did to me has blocked it all out.”

  The picture is vivid. Melissa closes her eyes. The lawyer persists, though it must be obvious to her that she’s losing the battle. “You also say that you can’t imagine him hurting another child.”

  “That’s true too. It’s so awful to imagine what I went through actually happening to someone else that I don’t. I just can’t.”

  Paul’s face is ashen, even his lips are pale.

  “Why have you waited till now to come forward?” The lawyer’s face is pale too. Her lipstick
looks garish against the pallor.

  “He said it was our special secret and that Mum would commit suicide if she knew.” A tear trickles down Izzy’s cheek—Izzy, who never cries. “He said I’d have to go to some special place for kids.”

  “But you’re telling us now because . . . ?”

  “He’s tried to hurt Sorrel and he’ll try again with someone else.” Izzy leans forward, her face flushing a brighter pink. “He likes girls when they’re little. Sorrel’s six, like I was at the beginning.” Her words tumble out fast as if she’s been waiting a long time to deliver them.

  Melissa can’t see Paul’s face anymore, it’s buried in his hands.

  “Do you have any actual evidence of your father’s violence?” The lawyer’s voice is quiet.

  “My mum’s sitting somewhere in court—look at her face. It probably doesn’t count, but that’s his doing too.”

  Heads turn. Melissa tries not to cringe. The bruises have faded by now but the line on her cheek where the skin was torn remains as an uneven pink scar. The repair was good but the puckering is obvious. She holds herself very still. She had tried to shield Izzy from what Paul did to her, but she must have known all the time. She wants to get up and run to her daughter, but she has to wait a few more minutes.

  The lawyer is speaking again, heads swivel back. “Thank you, Isabelle,” she says, then she turns and bows to the district judge. “I have no more questions.” She sits down; her silk shirt has become untucked, the immaculate gray bob a little disordered. The judge begins to talk—something about reconvening and more evidence—she doesn’t catch most of what he says; her mind is so full of Izzy. After a few minutes he leaves the court. Then the whispers start and get louder, waves advancing up the pebbly beach with force. Melissa gathers her coat and her bag. She wants to go to her daughter as soon as she can, so she misses the moment when Paul might have looked for her, seeing only the door close behind him and the accompanying officer.