by J. A. Baker
Will’s heavy breathing niggles at her as she waits for his response. She can feel his gaze boring into her, scrutinising her, wondering what is going on inside her head. He’s the professional here. He should know exactly what she’s thinking, be able to pre-empt her every word. And yet here he is, making her say things that she doesn’t want to say, to utter words out loud that she doesn’t want anybody to hear. He’ll win. He always does. She has neither the energy nor the strength to fight him.
‘And why is that?’
Another shrug then a sigh, affected and almost convulsive as an unexpected sob escapes from her throat. ‘They blame me for my brother’s death.’
The ticking of the clock on the wall booms in her ears. It sits there, a passive presence in the room, waiting for her to spill every secret, every sordid little detail. She waits, wondering who will speak next, her skin burning with the memory of it, her jaw rigid with resentment. Shaking her head, she blinks away unshed tears. ‘I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I’m tired.’
Leah glances around the room. Will’s eyes are dark, the pictures on the wall monstrous, threatening. There is a bang. She jumps. Will remains seated, apparently oblivious to the noise. He is impervious to everything. Every noise, every distraction. He is in a permanent state of calmness, his manner always collected and unshakeable. Steady and solid in her wild and unpredictable little world.
‘What was that?’
‘What was what?’ His expression remains blank, untouched by anything resembling emotion.
‘That loud noise. The bang. Surely you heard it?’ Leah says, her voice high, marginally hysterical. She coughs, clears her throat, tries to regain her composure even though her skin is burning and her nerve endings are on fire.
‘Perhaps we should get back to talking about your nightmares.’
She can’t take her eyes away from Will’s face, from the liver spots that cover his skin, the large ugly blotches that appear to shimmer in the glare of the sun that is streaming in through the window, invisible waves that curl their way over her, heating up her pale cold flesh.
‘Another time. As I said, I’m tired. It’s exhausting going through this. Even thinking about it gives me a headache.’ A memory springs into her mind, causing her to gasp. The train – something about having a headache, something about the journey, the reason for it. Why she was on it in the first place, why she was making that bloody awful journey, the one that has turned her life upside down. She tries to grasp it but it’s too distant, too ethereal to pin down. It flits away, like all the other memories she is unable to hold on to, it grows smaller and smaller until it is out of reach altogether.
It’s only as she stands up and is getting ready to leave that it dawns on her. She can’t even remember getting to Will’s office. Fear settles in her gut like bitumen, coating her insides, weighing her down. The exhaustion is overwhelming.
By the time she heads out of the main door of his office, she’s so tired she can barely keep herself upright. She fights back tears once more. Is this what people who have suffered a trauma have to endure? Is this what she has become for the remainder of her life? She stumbles over to a bench outside and sits down, her leaden limbs glad of the rest. She closes her eyes, dips her head and shuts off to everything around her.
3
Summer 2005
A large crowd gathers at the foot of the cliffs, some of them local, most from elsewhere. They’re here on holiday, magnetised by the beauty of the place. The sunshine has brought them out in droves, hordes of people walking on the pier, dotted around the promenade, spread out on the beach. So many of them milling around town and strolling over the sand like scurrying ants.
The town was full, the beach crammed with people when she fell over the edge, that tiny child, her small body spinning and tumbling, her screams captured by the wind and pushed out to sea. Yet nobody saw it happen. Not one single person saw her fall. They found her body afterwards, battered and broken at the foot of the cliffs, straw-coloured fluid seeping out of her ears, a thin line of blood oozing from her nose, her unseeing eyes pointed skyward towards the glare of the sun.
The noise, the pushing and shoving, the commotion as people try to get near the scene of the accident, is ugly. Despite the police arriving, despite them cordoning off the area and making an access space for the emergency services, people refuse to step back. They need to get closer, to claim the scene as their own. A crowd of voyeurs gather, their voices loud and brash against the backdrop of the incoming tide that rushes over the sand.
‘I heard she slipped on the rocks, fell on the ledge and tumbled to the bottom like a bloody rag doll. Poor kid.’
‘God, doesn’t it make you feel lucky to have your own little ones here with you?’
‘Bloody awful, isn’t it? Gotta feel sorry for the parents. Poor sods.’
Chatter fills the air, eclectic emotions blanketing the crowd after the initial silence has broken. The ripple of shock turns to euphoria, everyone relieved it isn’t their family, that this tragedy has impacted on somebody else. Every one of them is exempt from the grief, from the ensuing horror. All they have to do is be passive bystanders, to watch as the drama unfolds before them.
They twist their bodies to get a better view of the damaged child, to see her small head tilted in an unnatural position, to stare at her legs, splayed apart and jutting out at painful angles, to wince at the sight of her tiny mouth twisted into a half scream, the breath taken out of her, mid-cry.
Grayston-on-Sea, a small seaside town, known for its raspberry and lemon ice creams, its amusement arcades and long pier, isn’t acquainted with death. It’s a sedate place, synonymous with family holidays, golden sands, the shrieks of happy children as they paddle in the frothing waves; not the death of a tiny girl. Not this. Never this.
Questions fill the air, voices shrieking, desperate for answers, overlapping with one another. Did she stumble over the edge? Are the cliffs unsteady? There have been rock falls in the past, boulders and huge stones that have tumbled down from the top, landing on the sandy beach, scattering far and wide as they hit the floor. Is that what happened? Did the cliff give way under her?
Realisation dawns. People begin to disperse, stumbling back, their eyes cast upwards, a collective fear building and growing, ballooning in their gut at the idea of a rockfall raining down on them. They stumble and shift, a body of fearful people moving in unison to a place of safety.
The wail of sirens pierces the air. An ambulance expertly rolls down the ramp onto the soft sand with a thump and makes its way over to the watching throng. The bodies part to let it through, but people make sure they stay close by for fear of missing anything.
‘Where are her parents? Where did she come from?’
‘Was she pushed?’
The chatter continues, wild accusations thrown around with little or no evidence. Only the people above them, high up on the edge can answer those questions. They have their own version of events. And even those versions are disputed. Because their backs were turned when the child fell. They had been busy laying out picnic blankets, relieved to be high up, relieved to be away from the crowds below. They were like gods, up in the heavens, set apart from the people below. Their day had been peaceful. Calm and happy.
But not for long.
An argument had broken out between the teenagers, voices raised, a loud screech, a stumble or a push.
And then a protracted void where time stood still. A terrible moment that ripped their lives apart.
Nothing but the whistling of the wind, the rushing of the waves below them. And a small distant scream. Shouts and gasps had suddenly filtered up from the golden sands, up through the warm summer air, cutting through the calm ambience.
Then it came; the plaintive, wretched cries of anguish from the families on the cliff.
Blankets were discarded, food trampled underfoot as adults ran and screamed and howled for help, voices raw, frantic, their bodies bent double with grief a
nd horror as they leaned over the edge looking for the missing girl, for their child. Their baby.
But it was too late. It was all too late. She was gone, swallowed by gravity, her body broken, her soul departed. They shouted, howled, ran amok, asking how such a thing could ever happen. It wasn’t real. It simply couldn’t be. They only turned their backs for a couple of minutes. They are good people, caring, decent and attentive. Things like this only ever happen to others, neglectful people, parents who don’t care. Not to them. It couldn’t be real. It just couldn’t.
The eldest of the teenagers had stood aghast. They were supposed to be looking out for the young child, keeping her safe. She was just a kid, an innocent being. And now she was dead.
They needed answers. Somebody was responsible.
Somebody had to shoulder the blame.
‘It’s your fault,’ the young teenage girl had said, pointing to the taller boy. ‘You were standing next to her when it happened. You were the closest.’
The young lad shook his head, the colour leaching from his face. His skin took on the texture of melting candle wax as he trembled and grew pale, his features slack with shock. He stumbled, fell backwards onto the grass, his limbs awkward and stiff with fear and revulsion.
The teenage girl turned to the two sets of parents; her voice cold, sharp as flint. ‘I saw what happened out of the corner of my eye. He thought I wasn’t watching him, but I was.’
A collective inhalation of breath could be heard, even above the howling wind and the screech of the seagulls that circled overhead. Everyone waited, eyes wide, ears attuned as she spoke with such authority and precision it shook them to their core.
‘They were arguing, him and little Lucy. He said he didn’t want to be lumbered with looking after her. She cried and he told her to shut up and she wouldn’t. So he pushed her.’ The teenage girl remained calm, unruffled as she continued with her revelation, her features impassive. ‘I saw it all. It was his fault,’ she said flatly, not a tremor of fear in her voice, not a flicker of emotion in her face. ‘He’s the one who did it. Poor little Lucy. He killed her.’
4
Present day
Leah is back there, in that road, at that place. Next to the house where it happened. Beads of perspiration bubble up on her forehead, prickling her scalp and trailing down her neck.
She can sense the dog close by, can hear its low growling, feel its heat. But worse than that, much much worse, it knows she is near, can detect her vulnerability and smell her fear. She visualises its twitching nose, sniffing her out. She tries to stem her growing disquiet to quell her terror and tell herself that everything is going to be fine, that this is just a dream. But is it? It feels so real, her senses attuned to every little movement, every beat of her heart. She has been here before, experienced this level of terror, felt the pain. She can’t go through it again.
With a rumbling gut, she tentatively steps onto the road, away from the gate, doing her utmost to gain some distance. Everything is still the same and yet so very different.
It’s the same old hedge, the same wrought-iron railings that she passed every day on her way home from school. The same ones she used to drag a stick across, back and forth, back and forth, over and over and over, the noise a jarring invasive clatter that echoed through the street. That’s how it happened. The noise. It riled the dog. She knew that, was aware it would jump up and growl at her unwanted presence, at the rattling and grating of wood against metal. She knew no better, finding the noise pleasurable and the dog’s reaction entertaining. That was all it was. No ulterior motive. No desire to be confrontational or oppositional. She was a child for God’s sake. Just a kid.
That’s not how her parents saw it. She was blamed, told to stop misbehaving and to stop being so keen to court controversy and danger at every available opportunity. Not in those words obviously – she was only ten years old at the time – but with the benefit of hindsight and experience, she can see that that was what was meant.
‘Why do you insist on annoying that poor dog?’ her mother had asked as they drove her to hospital, her father pushing through traffic and honking his horn as he manoeuvred around corners at top speed. ‘The owner said he’s asked you before to stop poking it with sticks. Honestly, Leah, why do you do these things? For a clever girl, sometimes you do the silliest of things.’
‘Here’s hoping this has taught you a lesson, eh?’ her father had said as he swung the car into a space and yanked on the handbrake with such force, she felt sure it would rip up out of the floor of the car.
She had wanted to tell them that it wasn’t her fault, that the gate had been left slightly ajar and that the dog had managed to escape. The owner should have kept it locked up and away from other people. But she couldn’t say any of those things. The pain rendered her speechless; a screeching line of agony that raced up and down the soft underside of her arm. She hung on to it, pressing in place the towel her mother had given her to stem the flow of blood.
‘Make sure you keep that in place,’ she had been told as they slid in the back seat and fastened their seat belts, her mother eyeing the growing crimson bloom that was appearing through the thick towelling fabric. ‘We don’t want to stain the upholstery. Your dad’s just cleaned the car.’
And that’s how it was. That’s what her parents’ reaction was to her trauma. Perfunctory and judgemental. Unlike the time Ellis fell in a patch of boggy land when they were out walking. They had both been warned away by their father. He had seen the signs and told them both from under his brow that under no circumstances should they wander over that way. She had listened to every word, terrified by the prospect of sinking deep into the earth, swallowing clods of grass and mud, choking and gagging as the air was sucked out of her lungs and replaced by viscous, foul-tasting mud.
But Ellis didn’t hear. He was locked in his own little world, immune to his father’s warning and so stepped straight into that patch of marshland. His body slid under as swiftly as water down a drain. Leah had cried out, alerted her parents, screaming that he was gone, that Ellis was drowning. Her dad had thrown himself in after Ellis, clawing and gouging at the thick filthy fluid, his hands managing to grab at a clump of Ellis’s hair. But pulling the lad out proved more difficult than he imagined. The surrounding land was slippery and the boggy earth sucked them both under.
Fortunately, two passers-by saw what was happening. They jumped in and formed a chain, helping to drag Ellis back out, laying him down under the haze of the watery afternoon sun. Leah remembers it all with such clarity; the ensuing furore, the howls of despair from their mother, how she swept Ellis up in her arms, holding his head close to her face and nestling her mouth against his grimy hair, ignoring the mud that clung to his scalp. She kissed his grey skin, wiped at his weeping eyes and wiped clean his hands with her own trembling fingers. No blame apportioned. No words of scorn at his lack of care.
It was apparent to Leah even then, that sometimes, no matter how hard she tried, no matter how hard she worked at doing the right thing, she would always be seen as less, never quite managing to get it right. Never quite managing to be as good as Ellis.
A low purring growl sends a buzz of terror through her. Heart hammering, she spins around, scanning the area, eyes sweeping over every hiding place, every dark corner. She lets out a protracted breath. She can see no salivating dog, no feral animal with bared fangs and drool hanging from the corners of its mouth, yet is unable to switch off, to step out of the shadows leaving herself unguarded and exposed. She’s been here before. She knows what comes next and remembers this episode all too well.
The sound comes again, a deep resonating growl that sets her nerve endings on fire. Her feet twist and turn unsteadily as she attempts to walk away and save herself, but knowing also deep down, that it’s too late. As if out of nowhere, the animal pounces, pinning her to the ground, the rough asphalt scraping against her back as she squirms about, trying to escape its clutches. It’s not enough. She is no m
atch for its bulk and strength. The animal lowers its head, strings of glutinous saliva stretching and shining, hanging loosely from its jaw as it dips its head lower and lower, sinking its razor-sharp teeth deep into her arm…
Leah stumbles up off the bench, her mind a fog, her vision hazy. Has she been sleeping? Outside, here in the open? She whirls around, an uncomfortable sensation settling in her stomach at the thought of being seen slumped, dozing, possibly even drooling, in public. She recalls that incident with the dog, her parents’ reaction to their childhood accidents and the resentment that has never left her.
The pain in her abdomen is a sudden force within. She squeezes her eyes closed, blinking back tears of self-pity. She is stuck on a hamster wheel, reliving the worst parts of her life, unable to escape.
She scans the nearby area, the empty landscape. Nobody here. The park is eerily devoid of people. No dog walkers, no pram-pushing parents. Nothing at all. A dull silence fills her ears, layers of nothingness building up in her head as she places a hand over the throbbing skin on her belly and walks towards Jacob’s flat. She has no idea why she is doing this. She and Jacob broke up weeks and weeks ago, but she is feeling tired and scared and defenceless, susceptible to the horrors of the world and right now all she wants is a friendly face and a modicum of reassurance to keep her on track, to stop her life from unravelling completely. Speaking to Will often goes either way – she can leave him feeling buoyant and upbeat or she can leave his office feeling as if the weight of the world is pressing down on her. Today is one of those days. Putting one foot in front of the other feels like an ordeal. The weight of the world is hard to bear when your own problems are already pushing you deep into the ground.