by Giles Ekins
‘Anyway, Charlotte.’ She continued, ‘I thought it best you heard the news from me rather than from anywhere else’
‘Thanks Mum, that was kind of you, I appreciate the effort and the sentiment.’
And I did. I really did, I cannot describe how grateful I was to her, even though it was shattering, heart-breaking news.
I kept it together until after she had left to catch the bus back to York before running down to my cell and collapsing on my bed in tears.
But Mum was wrong in one respect. Josie was not just ‘a special friend’. All those years we were growing up she was my other half, more than sister, a soul-mate. For all her sometimes-condescending attitudes, I loved that girl. Loved her more than myself. She could have had the world and that bastard Damien stole it from her.
I had no doubt in my mind that Damien killed her,
Killed her as surely as if he had plunged a knife into her heart.
Damien Jowett had destroyed her life as surely as Dennis Jowett had destroyed mine.
Actions have reactions, consequences, and I decided there and then that those consequences were going to heaped upon them both.
Vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord. Sorry, God, I can’t wait that long.
I want my revenge in the here and now, not in the here and after.
I picked up the newspaper and kissed that photo of Josie. Miss you babes, I whispered, those bastards are going to pay.
Thoughts of revenge now consumed me. When I get out of prison, and I determined more strongly than ever that I was going to stay out of trouble, the Wrath of Charlotte McBain was going to be cataclysmic.
For the rest of my time in Askham Grange, I dropped out of the classes and thought of nothing else. A line from a poem. I don’t know by who (or is it whom), frequently came to me: if you threaten, mean it well.’ Oh yes, I meant it well, all right. In spades.
And slowly, over the remaining months of incarceration, a plan began to evolve.
I was going to destroy Dennis Jowett’s standing in the community.
And Damien would get trapped in the fallout
Ninety
I once wrote a poem in prison, not a very good one, but nonetheless here it is.
Why do they
(whoever they might be)
Always say such things as?
Every cloud has a silver lining
Or
It’ll be all right in the end
Or
There’s always light at the end of the tunnel
Or
These things happen for a reason
Or
You’ve got to look on the bright side
Or
It’ll turn out for the best, you’ll see
Or
It’s not the end of the road.
Why not
Just say
Shit happens. Live with it.
But, in respect of Dennis Jowett, I was not going to live with the shit.
Ninety-One
The clusterfuck – part six
Shortly after I came out of prison, my mother died, not that it was entirely unexpected, a diet of vodka and vodka was hardly the healthiest of options, but it still came as a terrible shock. What surprised me most was how much I missed her. She had never been much of a motherly mother, but she had always been there, a constant presence in my life when no one else had been.
My dad had fucked off when I was six, he was no great loss, that was for sure, but my mum was always there, almost embedded into the fabric of that grotty council flat. And one thing she had done for me, for which I will eternally be grateful, was that she had been to the council offices and put me down as a co-tenant, so that after her death, I was able to continue living there.
Thank you, Mum, at least I had a roof over my head.
Thank you, Mum, miss you.
Ninety-Two
Vengeance is mine sayeth Charlie McBain.
Dennis and Joyce Jowett were still arguing and bickering as they made their way down Enderby Street towards the Methodist Hall, where a spiritualist meeting was being held by the ‘famed spiritualist and medium. Simeon Trynor.’
Charlie followed at a discreet distance.
Ever since she had received the heart-rending news of Josie’s death from an overdose, Joyce had been wracked with guilt, those hateful words forever coming back to haunt her ‘I wish to God we’d never had you, you ungrateful little bitch. You’ve been nothing but trouble ever since you were born. Go on, get out of this house’
She regretted those words a thousand times every day and now she could never take them back, never apologise, never hold her baby girl in her arms ever again and the torment was killing her.
She had to find out, find out why Josie had been so hostile. Hostile before that fateful argument. She had to find out why a beautiful, dutiful, pleasant young girl had turned out the way she did. Turning to heroin like that, there had to be something more than just teenage angst and rebellion, something deep rooted, and very disturbing.
Joyce was desperate to discover the reasons.
And where had Josie been all those months. From the day she walked of the house until the day she was found dead from an overdose in London, where had she been? What had she been doing? All the police could establish was that she had used her credit card to buy a one way ticket from Leeds to London fifteen months ago. Enquiries in Leeds had not been very fruitful, and Joyce and Dennis got the impression that the police were not overly stretching their resources to find out. Josie was just another runaway teenager who had got into bad company and died from an overdose.
It was a neighbour, a rather stout woman with a pronounced moustache called Mary Allenby who suggested that Joyce consult spiritualists.
‘I don’t go so much now,’ she said, ‘but I used to go all the time after Maurice died, I found it ever so comforting to be able to talk to him again, well not actually talk to him as such but get messages from him.’
‘Messages, what sort of messages?’ Joyce asked, a flare of hope bursting through her.
‘Well, personal sort of messages.’
‘I mean, did you actually talk to Maurice, face to face?’
‘Well, not face to face but you know what I mean?’
‘No, I don’t. not really.’
‘Well no, you don’t talk to the departed directly, of course, but you get the messages through the medium or spiritualist as they prefer to be called.’
‘And you’ve had these…massages from Maurice, you know it was definitely Maurice.’
‘Oh yes, it was him all right.’
‘But I’m asking what sort of messages, I mean could you ask him questions?’
‘No. well, sort of. But it usually comes from the other side. He would say he loved me and was missing me and was waiting for me, things like that. Take care Mary, God Bless, he always used to say that…and other things, personal, you know private,’ and Mary blushed almost as red as the dress she was wearing.
‘And you think I can contact Josie like this, through a spiritualist?’
‘Well. There’s never any guarantee, they can be a bit capricious, the shades, on the other side. But can’t hurt to try, can it. Np harm in that. I could come with you if you’d like?’
‘Well. Let me think about it,’ responded Joyce. The last thing she wanted was Mary Allenby, the street gossip knowing her business. Joyce could not bear the thought of that hateful row becoming common knowledge. Talked about and dissected behind her back at the golf club (where the women were especially catty)
But the seed had been planted and rapidly germinated as Joyce began to research on the internet.
She researched websites, bought books and magazines on the subject. She read articles from those who claimed to have successfully contacted departed loved ones. They described the comfort (and closure) the contacts had given them. Joyce soon became convinced (or convinced herself) that spiritualism was the only way to reach out to Josie and seek the answers and
forgiveness she so desperately craved.
Dennis did not believe. So far as he was concerned the dead were dead and stayed dead. And that was it. Trying to commune with the dead was a waste of time and effort. And money. Spending his hard-earned money to go to a spiritualist meeting was a criminal waste. In his opinion, spiritualists, mediums, psychics, clairvoyants, mystics or whatever else you want to call them, were all con-men and charlatans.
He did not believe in God and had no faith in any organised religion. Unless he could see it with his own eyes or hold it in his own hands, such as a bottle of Sunset Very Strong Rum, at 84,5% alc/vol, to his mind it did not exist.
But, like his wife, he was hurting. The death of Josie had hit him very hard, but he had been raised to think it unmanly to cry and openly express emotions. He knew he came across to Joyce as unfeeling and uncaring and so he sought to mollify her by going along with, as he perceived it, the nonsense of spiritualist meetings. If she gained some comfort from it, so be it. Maybe he would get something out of the evening, but he doubted it.
Charlie watched as Dennis and Joyce took their seats near the front. She sat down towards the back of the hall, waiting with bated breath for the destruction of Dennis Jowett’s reputation, the culmination of much planning and preparation.
She could hardly contain her excitement, it’s comeuppance time you bastard, if this comes off you will never be able to show your foul face in this town again. Revenge is a dish best served cold, they say, well Dennis, this dish is as glacial as it gets, but not to worry, you’ll find it warm enough in Hell when you get there.
Simeon Trynor came on stage to polite applause, he was a tall, blonde haired, middle-aged man wearing a lime-green silk shirt with wide long sleeves, a knee length red paisley pattern waistcoat, pale yellow trousers and red sandals without socks. He nodded to the audience, looking around as if in dismay at the paucity of the crowd.
‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen and welcome to this. what I hope will be a successful evening of spiritualism.
‘So do I, thought Charlie, ‘so do I!
Simeon Trynor began his spiel with a few cautionary words that there could be no guarantee of contact with ‘the other side’ that the spirits of the departed are ‘not at our beck and call’ but there was a good aura about the meeting and he was hopeful of good results.
Having covered his back, he began his act in dramatic style, closing his eyes, swaying on his feet, spreading out his arms in supplication and breathing heavily through his nose.
‘No wonder folk think these people are frauds, what a phony, pathetic performance’ thought Charlie. ‘come on, get to the meat of it.’ squeezing her knees together in anticipation.
Simeon then raised his right arm, index finger pointed to the ceiling, ‘I’m getting a …Beryl? Is there a Beryl here with us?’
An elderly woman muffled up in a thick blue woollen coat, slowly raised her hand. ‘I’m Beryl’ she answered in a hesitant voice, as if not sure whether she should have interrupted Simeon or not
‘Beryl, you’ve lost your dear husband, is that right?’
‘Yes, yes, Harold.’
‘I’ve got Harold with me now, he says hello, he misses you very much and says to take good care of yourself… the contact is fading Beryl, I think he mentioned children but … I can’t be sure, he is very faint now’
Charlie rolled her eyes, it was such a con, Simeon Trynor was eliciting the information he needed for his performance from the poor woman, desperate as she was to hear from the departed Harold.
‘Yes, we had our Susan, and Paul and Raymond, but we lost Raymond when he was a boy, he was only seven.’
Beryl, Harold is back now, he says that Raymond is with him and is happy.’
‘Thank you, thank you so much.’ Beryl said, and Charlie could see her wiping her eyes. ‘Well, if she got something out of it, poor cow, even though it was so obviously a fake, why not?’
Next Simeon purported to receive a message from ‘Jamie’ who was hoping to contact his sister Marie, but nobody in the audience responded.
And then
And then.
And then.
‘I’m getting the name Joyce,’ said Simon, ‘is there a Joyce in the audience tonight?
‘This is it, exalted Charlie. ‘It’s showtime folks. Sit back and enjoy the ride.’
’Hello Joyce, tell me Joyce, does the name…Josie mean anything to you?’ Even Dennis rocked back in his chair in shocked surprise.
‘Yes. Yes, oh yes. Josie! My darling daughter Josie.’
‘Joyce, I have Josie here, she’s asking, is Daddy there?’
Dennis could hardly speak but then got himself under control. ‘Yes, Josie, love, Daddy’s here.’
Simeon half turned away from audience and put his right hand into the left sleeve of his bright green shirt, turned back and opened his mouth and began to speak, not in his own affected almost gay voice but that of a young woman., ‘Daddy, you bastard! You evil, fucking bastard. All those things you made me do when Mummy wasn’t there. The things you did to me. Our little secret you called it. That’s what little girls who love their Daddy are supposed to do, you said. I hope your dick rots and falls off. Burn in Hell, burn in Hell you fucking bastard.’
BINGO!
With a scream of anguish, Joyce turned to Dennis, berating him, beating on his chest with her fists.
‘No, no, I didn’t. I never touched her, Joyce, never. I swear.’
‘Then why is she saying that? Why? Why? Why?’
‘I don’t know, it’s all lies. Lies. I never did. I promise. Never.’
‘So why, why would she make up such a thing. You bastard. Bastard.
The hall was in uproar with shouts of ‘bastard, paedo, scum, monster, bastard paedo, scum, filth, you foul fucking shit’ ringing round the walls as Charlie quickly made her way out of the hall, took out her iPhone and called the news desk at the ‘Garside Gazette’
The resultant story appeared in the next edition of the paper.
Ninety-Three
The headline, in large black print read:
‘AN ACCUSATION FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE’
Uproar at spiritualist meeting.
‘At a sensational spiritualist meeting held in the Westvale Methodist Hall on Wednesday evening last, the medium, Mr Simeon Trynor apparently received a message from ‘beyond the grave’. According to a ‘Gazette’ informant, the message, purportedly from Josephine Jowett, a local girl whose death from an overdose was recently reported in the ‘Gazette’ accused her father, named as Dennis Jowett of sexually abusing her. As the meeting descended into chaos and anger directed at the alleged abuser, the girl’s mother Joyce Jowett was seen attacking and denouncing her husband for his suspected vile actions.
As a family newspaper, the ‘Gazette’ cannot go into details of the accusations, suffice it to say, they were amongst the most debauched this paper has ever had to report upon.
The medium, Simeon Trynor, left the scene almost as soon as the disruptions began and so is unavailable for comment.
However, it must be stressed, that yet, the allegations that Mr Dennis Jowett, a prominent local businessman, abused his daughter, to date remain unproven.
The ‘Garside Gazette’ remains committed to rooting out the sexual abuse of children wherever it may occur.
Ninety-Four
Dennis Jowett, vehemently protesting his innocence, was now questioned under caution by DS Petra Collinson and DC Shakira Amin, specially trained rape and sexual assault response officers. However, he could give no rational explanation why he had been accused in such a manner, swearing that he had never, ever, touched his daughter Josie sexually.
Without any further evidence and the supposed accuser unable to provide any further details of abuse, Dennis Jowett was released without charge, ‘pending further investigation’ even though both officers had detected hints of unease in his demeanour when questioned.
However!
Dennis
’ release without charge did not prove his innocence. Quite the reverse, those damning words, ‘pending further investigation’ condemned him.
However unusual the circumstances, even though the alleged victim was dead, child abuse must be investigated, but for Petra Collinson and Shakira, Amin the case took low priority, but could not be dismissed.
They had more urgent cases to attend to; an alleged ‘grooming gang’ was targeting young girls as they came out of school with offers of free drinks and cigarettes, whilst another case involved a predator sexually pestering elderly ladies as they walked home from bingo or the pub as well as consulting in the rape of an eleven year boy when offered a lift by a stranger as he walked home from the library.
So, it was nearly five weeks before Petra Collinson and Shakira Amin were able to check their own records and carry out investigations at the offices of the ‘Garside Gazette,’ Josie’s school and at social services but found nothing substantiate the allegations,
But as conscientious police officers they knew they would also have to question the spiritualist, Simeon Trynor, who had finished his current tour and was waiting at home in Gateshead for his agent to arrange another. Accordingly, they made the arrangement to visit him there.
He lived in a shabby 1970’s 3 story apartment block, which had seen better days and was unlikely to see improvements any time soon. After announcing themselves on the intercom, they were buzzed in through the locked outer door and made their way up the three flights of bare concrete stairs to the upper floor. Paint was peeling on the walls and the air of general neglect was depressing.
