Beyond All Evil

by June Thomson

  When he was settled, I returned to the living room to find Ash in a happy, effusive – and amorous – mood. The inevitable happened. It would be six weeks before I discovered that Ash had not been quite so ‘careful’ as he thought he had been.

  Paul would get his birthday wish.

  June: Rab had abused me but I had once loved him – could this baby restore my faith? Be our redemption?

  The smile on Rab’s face was a frightening, alien thing. There was no malice in it. I could detect no superciliousness, no sneer of triumph, no evil intent. He was, God help me, actually happy, ecstatically so.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course, I’m sure. I’ve had all the tests.’

  He didn’t do anything as normal or mundane as hug me, but he seemed to grow in stature, pumped up by sheer pride.

  ‘A baby!’ he said, with wonder.

  I did not know how to respond to this Rab. For a few seconds there was a fleeting, tantalising glimpse of that long-haired boy in a Kilbirnie dance hall who had disappeared so long ago. For once, Rab and I were sharing a sense of wonderment, like any other couple. I had not even considered the possibility of another child. Not only was my age against me, but I suffered from endometriosis, a gynaecological condition that can cause infertility. In fact, my GP had told me years earlier that it was highly unlikely that I would ever again conceive.

  I saw it as a sign. Instead of panicking, the news of my pregnancy took me to a calm, quiet place. I had grown up with faith, a belief that in times of adversity you are always sent what you need. I have to confess that there had been occasions when I thought that God had rather forgotten me. I was wrong. He was shining a ray of light into the darkness. A new life to cherish, protect and love. I was utterly delighted.

  This was to be my special gift.

  Giselle: After all Rab had done, you still had hope. When I heard Ash’s words, any love I had for him died. I didn’t care what he said; I was going to have my baby.

  ‘Get rid of it!’ Ash screamed.

  His face was suffused with pure, unadulterated anger.

  ‘You tricked me!’ he shouted.

  I had never seen Ash so angry. He was like a fiend.

  ‘I want you to have an abortion!’

  ‘I will not have an abortion!’

  Ash was silenced, stunned by the fury in my voice. He had never seen this Giselle before.

  ‘How could you even ask me to do such a thing?’

  I was as angry as he was, an irresistible force meeting an immovable object.

  ‘I will leave,’ he threatened.

  ‘Why should that worry me, Ash? You aren’t here anyway.’

  He was flummoxed, unsure of what to say next.

  ‘You need me!’ he said, lamely.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ I shouted. ‘I have Paul. I have my family and I’ll have this child. If you don’t want to be here, that’s up to you.’

  ‘I order you to get rid of it!’ he bellowed.

  ‘What would your mother say about that?’ I said very quietly.

  The mention of his mother stung Ash. He was after all the ‘good Christian’, forever quoting from Scripture.

  ‘Ask your mother how she would react to you getting rid of her grandchild,’ I said.

  He turned on his heel and stormed out. My anger dissipated with the slam of the door and I collapsed onto the sofa, tears streaming down my face.

  ‘Mummy! Mummy!’

  It was Paul’s voice, filled with concern. He had been in his bedroom. His face was drawn, his eyes luminous. He had heard the screams but did not venture into the living room until his father departed.

  ‘It’s okay, baby,’ I told him. ‘Mummy and Daddy have had a row.’

  I picked him up and held him. He snuggled into my shoulder, wrapped his arms around my neck and began to cry.

  ‘Shush, baby, it’s not you. Everything’s all right.’

  Paul clung to me.

  ‘Don’t cry, Mummy, don’t be sad.’

  ‘I’m not crying,’ I said, pulling myself together. ‘Mummy’s not sad, she’s happy.’

  Paul was confused.

  ‘Sometimes,’ I said, ‘grown-ups cry when they’re really happy.’

  ‘Are you happy, Mummy?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘I’m really happy and, guess what, Mummy has a big surprise.’

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘Tell me again what you wanted for your birthday!’

  June: Like a fool, I listened to Rab’s promises. I wanted to believe that the bad times were over.

  Rab’s coarse hands smothered the bottle of formula as he guided the teat into the mouth of his chubby new son. Ryan was lying in his arms and Rab was cooing at him.

  ‘You’re a wee belter,’ he told the baby.

  Our new son was a few hours old and I was watching what would have looked to the outsider like a tender family scene. The ogre had been made gentle by innocence. I wondered, hoped, prayed that this Rab might succeed in defeating the brute within. I was weary of hearing myself say the same prayer but, who knows, perhaps this time? Time would tell.

  It was 7 April 2001. Ryan had been delivered – two weeks early – in the Forth Park Maternity Hospital in Kirkcaldy. In spite of his premature arrival, he was a sturdy 8lbs 1oz. It was one of the best days of my life.

  Throughout my pregnancy, Shaun and Ross had affected a bluff and wholly artificial indifference to having a new little brother. On the other hand, Michelle had lived for months in a state of euphoria. She could not wait for the baby to arrive.

  When I thought of my Michelle and what this child would mean to her, I was overwhelmed by a sensation I had not felt for years. I was happy, truly happy. Because of her disabilities, Michelle would never have a child of her own. Ryan would allow her to experience a glimpse of motherhood. Ryan would not just be my special gift.

  The last nine months had been an oasis of peace. My pregnancy progressed without incident and Rab had been uncharacteristically benevolent. The prospect of having another son transformed him into what passed for a normal human being. The ‘real’ Rab was, however, never too far away. When it was apparent that Ryan was about to be born earlier than expected I called an ambulance. When the paramedics arrived they told Rab I was about to have the baby – on the bathroom floor. He went mad, shouting, swearing and demanding that they get me out of the house. They did. We made it to the hospital – just. I went from the ambulance straight into the delivery room, where Ryan was born within minutes. The ambulance crew was forced to stand outside, waiting to retrieve their trolley. Rab glowered at them.

  His features were softened now that he was holding Ryan. I could hear him talking gently to his newborn son, telling him that he would take him fishing, shooting; promising our son that he would always look after him.

  God forgive me, I believed him.

  Giselle: I know why you wanted to believe, but for me there was no going back.

  ‘I was convinced it was a girl,’ I told the ultrasound operator.

  ‘It’s a boy!’ she said, her hand circling the scanning device over my tummy. ‘There he is!’ she added, indicating my son, who had appeared, small and fragile, on the grey, grainy screen.

  ‘Look! That’s his heart,’ she went on.

  A blip on the monitor showed that the tiny organ was pumping life into my unborn child.

  ‘I’ve already started knitting a pink hat,’ I said.

  ‘You better rip it out and start again,’ laughed the woman.

  Katie joined in and we all laughed. It was my sister and not Ash who had come with me to the scan. His demand that I have an abortion had created an insurmountable barrier between us. Nothing could be the same again. Our relationship was now centred exclusively on our son. We spoke only when Ash came to collect Paul, to take him for days out or to visit his grandmother. He ignored the fact that I was pregnant and his face wore a constant frown.

  I was once putting Paul into the b
ack of Ash’s car and I caught a glimpse of him, looking at me in the rear-view mirror. He did not realise I could see him. His expression was a mixture of hatred and disgust. It was utterly chilling. I tried to remain cordial. In fact, I went out of my way to ensure that Ash knew that he would always have access to Paul. I didn’t do it just for Ash’s sake. Paul loved his dad and I couldn’t – and didn’t want to – keep them apart. It was tough, however. Ash didn’t make it easy. He would phone up at all hours, obviously drunk, rambling and determined to goad me. I could hear the carefully chosen maudlin music playing in the background. Elvis Presley’s ‘Devil in Disguise’ was a particular favourite.

  He would slur, ‘Listen to this!’ and I would hear the lyrics.

  ‘That’s you!’ Ash said. ‘You’re a devil!’

  I would tell him not to be silly and hang up. There was an eerily sinister aspect to these calls but I couldn’t let Ash know he was getting to me.

  I also took great pains to ensure that all of the details of the rift with Ash did not reach my family. Katie was the only one who knew the full extent of it. The rest of the family, ignorant of so much, had rallied round when they heard I was pregnant. They were ecstatic over the impending arrival of another child. I basked in the glow of it. My health, apart from a painful back and bad heartburn, had been good during the entire nine months.

  On the morning that Jay was due I awoke feeling a bit off-colour. I had just got out of bed when I heard what sounded like a tremendous ‘pop’. My waters had broken. I was in a panic when I phoned Katie and asked her to take care of Paul. She arrived within minutes and took him to my mother’s house before joining me at the Princess Royal Maternity Hospital in Glasgow.

  It would, however, be nearly 36 hours later before Jay – who was already being referred to as ‘Jay-Jay’ – decided to arrive by caesarean section at 4 p.m. on 7 January 2006. By then, I was in a world of my own. I could see Katie at the foot of the bed. She had assumed Ash’s ‘duties’ in the delivery room. I watched her as her face turned from concern to wonderment. She leaned forward and accepted a tiny bundle from the doctors. It was my son. Katie raised him up, all 5lbs 9oz of him, like a winning sportsman hoisting a trophy and presented me with the most special birthday gift Paul would ever receive.

  My beautiful Jay-Jay would be a day old before his father appeared at the hospital. Ash walked straight past Jay-Jay’s crib without a glance at his new son and laid a bouquet of supermarket flowers on my bedside cabinet.

  ‘When are you coming home?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t you want to look at the baby?’

  ‘Paul is fretting, you know!’

  Paul was doing nothing of the kind. He had just visited with Ma, Da and Katie. He had left ten minutes earlier, clutching the hand of little Giselle.

  ‘Bring Jay-Jay home soon, Mummy,’ he had ordered.

  ‘Look at your new son,’ I told Ash.

  He walked over to where the baby lay and gave Jay-Jay a cursory glance.

  ‘Don’t you want to pick him up?’

  ‘No, he’s too small,’ Ash said.

  He was angry. He had kept me at arm’s length for the full term of my pregnancy. But I was by now immune to his moods. Any relationship we’d had ended with his demand that I have an abortion. He still came to the flat, but it was only to see Paul.

  I was frankly surprised to see him here.

  ‘How did you know I’d had the baby?’ I asked.

  ‘One of little Giselle’s pals got into my taxi. She told me,’ he said, adding, ‘Why didn’t you phone me?’

  ‘What would have been the point? This is the baby you wanted me to kill,’ I replied.

  Chapter 18

  The Joy They Brought

  ‘Abused women cling to what they can … They don’t want to believe they have made a terrible choice or a bad judgement.’

  Ian Stephen

  June: My baby brought so much joy – even when Rab reverted to type and I thought I would lose everything.

  ‘Ry-aaan.’

  Michelle luxuriated in the sound of her brother’s name. ‘Ry-annn … Ry-annn … Ry-annn,’ she would croon over and over again, looking from the baby to me with a smile that began in heaven. When she scooped him up in her arms, I caught glimpses of the woman she might have become but for her disabilities. When her face was in repose and her eyes were quiet, she might have been any other 20-something woman with her own child.

  It was during those fleeting moments that I was assailed by the realisation that if it had not been for Rab the scene before me could not have come to pass. I was almost prepared to forgive him for the years of misery. How strangely our emotions are constructed. I had not been happy for a full day in my entire adult life, but the sight of my oldest and youngest children together armoured me against the memories.

  People will tell you that having babies is the most natural thing in the world. And it is. But what we cannot quantify is the magic they create in those around them. Shaun returned from the army on leave. He was a big, strong man now, a soldier who had experienced conflict and witnessed death. He was much changed from the boy who had left home, but when he held his baby brother I could see the child return to his eyes. The baby had the same effect on his other brother. With a mere gurgle and a pair of tiny arms outstretched, Ryan could in an instant rob Ross of his tiresome teenage ‘cool’.

  But my greatest joy was in Michelle’s relationship with Ryan. My oldest daughter had never in her life been a slave to protocol or false propriety. She loved openly, fiercely and completely. Ryan became the latest recipient of that love. He was embraced, bathed, sung to, dressed up and showered with affection. In my Michelle’s mind, Ryan was as much her child as he was mine. I delighted in their relationship, which would only deepen as Ryan grew older. The relationship with Ryan was different from the one she had shared with Shaun and Ross. When they were growing up, it was all rough and tumble and playing jokes on each other. It was different with Ryan. He might have been made of bone china, to watch Michelle with him. She was, of course, older now. She had left school and lived with me at home, supported by a network of carers. Because of that care system, it freed me to a great extent, and I was able to dedicate most of my time to Ryan, a luxury I had not enjoyed with my other children.

  The magic of Ryan even spread to Rab. He was still working long hours, but the man who came through the door in the evening was captivated by his youngest child. He played with Ryan in a way he had not done with Shaun and Ross, and certainly not with Michelle.

  For my own part, I, of course, enjoyed the unique relationship that exists between mother and child, but when I looked down at my son, I, too, had many reasons to be grateful to him.

  Since his arrival, Rab’s temper had been curbed to some degree. He could still explode at a moment’s notice, if he chose, but the episodes were fewer now and less violent than they had been in the past.

  But just when I thought I had achieved relative stability, a new threat almost robbed me of everything. I had always feared that Rab would be the one to take my life, but I had not anticipated that it would be a silent and even more deadly adversary. I awoke one morning to find one side of my body paralysed. I struggled from my bed, terrified by the numbness that reached from my shoulder down through my arm and into my leg. I looked in the mirror and one side of my face was twisted, drooping.

  ‘Rab!’ I shouted.

  ‘What?’ he said, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

  ‘I’m not well,’ I slurred.

  ‘You’re fine,’ he said. ‘Get the breakfast on.’

  I walked to the kitchen. My arm would not work and my leg dragged.

  ‘Rab! My face!’ I said.

  Rab looked at me. ‘There’s fuck all wrong with you … get the breakfast!’

  Somehow I managed to prepare breakfast and make Rab’s lunch. He walked out the door without a word and I fell into a chair in the living room.

  I was half-sleeping when a voice said, ‘June
?’ It was one of Michelle’s carers.

  ‘My face,’ I managed to say.

  ‘Can you get up?’ she said. ‘I should take you to hospital. I think you’ve had a stroke. Stay there for a second until I get help.’

  The words had just died on her lips when another of Michelle’s carers arrived. She was asked to look after Ryan.

  ‘C’mon, let’s get you to hospital,’ the first carer said.

  The journey passed in a blur and the next thing I remember was being in a bed in a ward. The doctors confirmed the carer’s diagnosis. I had suffered a stroke; in fact, a series of mini-strokes that hadn’t, until that morning, been strong enough to put me on my back.

  The rest of the day was filled with a series of medical tests. I went to sleep that night terrified that I would die before morning and there would be no one but Rab left to look after my children. But I did survive the night and, in the morning, I found myself faced by a doctor who had come to tell me that the tests had revealed no obvious physical cause for my condition. He told me that a specialist would see me – and Rab – later that day.

  Rab arrived at the hospital a few minutes before I was due to see the specialist. The numbness in my side had started to fade and I felt well enough to get out of bed. I was taken along a corridor to the consultant’s office.

  Rab sat by my side as the doctor perused my chart.

  After a few minutes the doctor looked up and said, ‘I’d like you to see a psychologist, Mrs Thomson. If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll go and check on the availability of an appointment.’

  He smiled at me and left the room.

  As the door closed behind him, Rab hissed at me, ‘You’re seeing no fucking psychologist. You won’t be discussing our lives with anyone.’

  I remained silent.

  ‘He’ll take one look at you and realise what a nutter you are. They’ll bang you up and take the kids.’

  Long years of practice warned me not to react. Rab’s eyes were blank, menacing. I knew the look.