One For Sorrow

by Sarah A. Denzil

  “She’s my patient.” My voice sounded squeaky. I wished she’d never told me. Maybe I could have continued my work without ever knowing. Of course I couldn’t—the truth always comes out in the end—and I had no choice but to put my prejudices aside and continue caring for her as I would anyone else.

  I was a professional.

  Perhaps if I told myself that enough times I’d believe it.

  “Look, you won’t get any trouble from her. She’s basically a kid, and besides, they say she’s never admitted to it, and she reckons she can’t even remember the event. Five years here and she’s not once been violent. She does what she’s told.” Tanya shrugged and picked up her mug. “Make of that what you will.”

  The way Tanya stabbed the noodles in her soup made me think she believed Isabel was playing some sort of game. But I’d been a psychiatric nurse for long enough to know that patients could not keep up an act for extended periods of time. No one could.

  “Anyway, I probably shouldn’t have told you all that,” Tanya admitted. “You’ll have meetings about her every week so you’ll find it all out eventually. The director monitors her pretty closely. She’s by far our most high-profile patient.”

  After lunch, I spent my time in the Morton communal area, watching the patients. Tracy seemed to be a bit of a loner, choosing to spend her time on the sofas watching television. She only spoke to me when it was time for me to walk her to her therapy session. Emily was more of a social butterfly, talking with many of the patients and even chatting to me for a while. She was someone with a lot of nervous energy, wiry and lean, never still. We talked about me moving to Hutton and where I used to live in Hackney. Like I always do with the patients, I allowed myself to open up just enough without revealing too much information. I didn’t tell her about Tom, and I didn’t tell her about my parents.

  But Isabel never left her room. Every so often I would have to go into the corridors to check that she was still okay. Every time I went to her room, I found her bent over on her desk working on another drawing. My main contact with her was when I walked her to art therapy.

  Most nurses have a switch they can flip to deal with the stresses of the job. I’m no exception. Despite the jitters Tanya’s revelation had given me, I managed to turn off the part of my brain longing to dwell on the murder of that poor child, and instead I saw Isabel as my patient, pure and simple. I was walking her to art therapy. That was my job.

  “Will you keep the drawing I gave you?” Isabel asked.

  “Of course,” I said, though I’d completely forgotten about it. I’d placed the picture of the magpie in my locker before lunch, and now I didn’t particularly want to dwell upon it at all. I didn’t want to think about it because of my reaction, and because of the things I had thought about while looking at it.

  What a waste of talent, I’d thought. What a shame she’s here and not out there in the world.

  Of course, now I knew what she’d done. I knew who she was.

  “I’m glad,” Isabel said. “As soon as you walked in the door I knew you were a symbol of magical new beginnings, just like Pepsi. I think we’re going to get on, you and me.”

  “I’m glad,” I replied.

  Isabel stopped and looked at me with slightly narrowed eyes, and her head tilted to one side. “Oh, you’ve been told.”

  A flush of heat worked its way up my neck. “What do you mean by that, Isabel?”

  “You’ve been told about what I did. I can tell by the expression on your face.” She started walking again, slower this time. “I know you’re trying not to think about it, and you’re doing a pretty good job of it, but I can still tell. You’ve got the ‘look’.”

  I wasn’t sure how to reply to that, so I didn’t.

  “It’s all right. I know it must be hard to work with someone like me. I know what you must think of me.”

  “You’re a patient here, Isabel. I want to make sure you’re safe and well, that’s all.” I tried to give her a reassuring smile, but the smile was frozen, forced by unwilling muscles.

  “It’s not so bad here,” she continued. “My brother comes to visit me. I get to do my art. It’s better now I’m on the rehab ward. I didn’t like the other one. This way.”

  I let her lead the way to the art room, where we said goodbye. I told her I would be back in an hour to walk her back to her room or the communal area.

  She nodded and told me she would be ready, and then she leaned closer and whispered, “Want to know a secret? I never killed that little girl.” And then she put her finger to her lips and breathed, “Shhhhh.”

  True Crime Junkie

  Did Isabel Fielding Kill Maisie Earnshaw?

  By James Gorden

  As you know, I’m personally invested in this crime which occurred in my town. Almost seven years on, I have gone through my shock and anger that such a heinous act was committed in the place I call home. But since then, I’ve grown suspicious, and I want to air those suspicions to you, my dear readers, because I need to talk about it. No one is talking about it anymore, and now it’s time to open the conversation.

  On 12th August 2010, six-year-old Maisie Earnshaw was found floating in a pond on the Fielding estate in Rotherham. Present at the scene of the crime was fourteen-year-old Isabel Fielding, and her brother, Owen Fielding, aged ten. Further away from the crime scene, but still on the estate, were David and Anna Fielding, and Jason and Riya Earnshaw, all drinking cocktails and telling bawdy jokes while their children played dangerously close to the pond.

  Police had to rely on the eyewitness testimonies of the four adults and two children. David, Anna, Jason, and Riya all noted that the children went suddenly very quiet, but they had been making enough noise to drown out the sounds of the children playing. Nevertheless, when they noticed the change, they went to investigate. There, so they say, they found little Maisie dead in the centre of the pond, with Isabel covered in blood (famously, with it spread over her mouth like lipstick) and Owen splattered with blood.

  What exactly happened?

  Let’s first look at Isabel. What do we know about this little girl? First and foremost, it’s important to know that Isabel had shown no behavioural problems, and believe me, the media dug as far as they could into her past. There were no reports at school, no indication that she had a violent streak. She was a well-liked girl with a small group of friends. Her grades were above average but not outstanding. She was the kind of child that always remains in the middle, who is rarely singled out, the kind of student who needs little supervision because she can look after herself.

  You could say to me: But, James, these are exactly the kind of children who slip through the net! That’s why this happened.

  But I don’t think so. I think Isabel is a regular girl who has been stitched up by the real killer. She was quiet and co-operative at the crime scene. In the documentary Maisie: The Angel in the Pond, the interviewed police officers noted that Isabel showed signs of being in shock, and that she was confused as to what had happened. She showed no signs of the feral wild child you’d expect her to be after murdering a young girl in such a ritualistic manner.

  Now, let’s look at Owen Fielding. At eleven years old, Owen was barely considered a suspect. He was questioned by the police, but they decided he was telling the truth. He told them that Isabel took Maisie into the Scholes Woods, bludgeoned her with a rock, sliced unusual marks (the police never revealed what was carved) into Maisie’s flesh, and then threw her into the pond. But why would a girl with an exemplary school record—who had no violent tendencies—do such a thing?

  Owen, on the other hand, was considered top in all his classes. He was a gifted young boy and has grown up to be a gifted young man. He did have behavioural issues at school. He once stabbed a child with a pencil, and a few months ago was arrested and cautioned for assault outside a pub in Sheffield.

  What if Owen was the mastermind of this entire murder?

  What if Owen and Isabel murdered Maisie togethe
r?

  What if someone else was involved?

  It’s all possible.

  It might be difficult for people to believe that an eleven-year-old brother could set up a fourteen-year-old girl in such a horrific way, but stranger things have happened between family members. And, there’s another factor… David Fielding could not account for twenty minutes in the timeline, and claimed he was “making drinks” in the kitchen. Could David Fielding have snuck around the side of the house and into the Scholes Woods? Could he have stolen little Maisie away, attacked her and thrown her into the pond, implicating his own daughter in the process?

  Forensic evidence showed DNA for just Maisie on the stone that killed her. Most of the DNA on Maisie’s body was washed away in the pond. The knife was clean of fingerprints. Could fourteen-year-old Isabel Fielding, average in every way, really have masterminded this crime?

  I don’t believe she could.

  COMMENTS:

  TrueCrimeLover: There are so many holes in the testimonies from the adults and the kids. I watched the documentary too, and you know what stood out to me? Owen Fielding never screamed. He, apparently, watched his sister kill a little girl and he NEVER screamed. Why?

  JamesGorden: YES! It’s so weird. You’d expect an eleven-year-old kid to scream his lungs out. I don’t understand either. Something isn’t right.

  Bundy’s Bitch: You’re so getting killed by Owen or David, lol!

  JamesGorden: Umm, why?

  Bundy’s Bitch: You just implicated them in a murder. If they’re guilty, you’re next, idiot!

  Poe: I’m starting to think you’re right. How could any of this happen with the parents so close to them?

  IHeartHannibal: You realise if you’re right it means someone smeared blood all over Isabel Fielding, don’t you?

  JamesGorden: Yes, I do.

  IHeartHannibal: K… I just wanted to let that sink in for a minute.

  Chapter Four

  My first day working on Morton Ward was over, but I was still buzzing from new job excitement, no doubt ready to crash later as the spike in adrenaline dipped. As I turned out of the gates and onto the long country road, I waved goodbye to Ian and began my journey back towards Hutton village. It had an interesting history, Hutton, as you would imagine, being so close to a high-security hospital.

  Crowmont had started out as an asylum in Victorian times, which added to its air of mystery now. On my way home, I couldn’t help thinking of Crowmont as it might have been; conjuring images of Bedlam asylum in the 1930s, a patient escaped and killed newlyweds having a picnic near the tranquil river a few miles outside the village. I read the Wikipedia article about the killing. On a bright summer day this young couple was slaughtered by a paranoid and violent man. Following the attack, a siren was erected in the village, blaring out every day at 3pm to let the villagers know all the patients were safely behind their gates. But if the villagers heard the siren at any other time than 3pm, then that meant a patient had escaped from Crowmont Hospital.

  No one had escaped since 1965.

  I drove through the village with my fingerless gloves on, still cold despite the signs of spring emerging in the trumpet shape of happy daffodils. They filled the grass verges and the centre of the one tiny roundabout. It was a picturesque village, the kind you expect to have a pastry named after it, with shops built within old terraced houses and a neat park with swings and a slide. No graffiti in sight.

  But I had to turn out of the village to get to my new home, Rose Cottage. Out along the back roads, alongside the farms and the dirty fields housing pigs, sheep, or cows, further out until the road became a track, and the drive was part of an old muddied field closed off by a steel gate. That was where my new home resided.

  Before hitting the dirt track, I passed the chicken coops owned by the Braithwaites—the family of farmers I was renting the cottage from. A man raised his head above the coops, his movement disturbing fallen feathers that were whipped up from the wind. His face was impassive amongst the small cloud of beige feathers. When I lifted a hand to wave to him, he barely even nodded. I remembered him—Seb; one of the younger brothers who had been my main contact when arranging the rent for the cottage. He was a man of few words, but had remained transparent and forthright throughout the exchange, which I valued more highly than conversation, especially after the year I’d had.

  The reason I had to drive along the back roads and through the farming country to get to my new home was simply because this house was cheap. Rose Cottage was not the quaint, idyllic little retreat you’d expect from the name. It was a leaning, run-down old building with an outside toilet and a feral cat that growled from the bushes every time I walked to the door. On the day we moved in, Seb advised me to “chuck the little shit some tuna every once in a while and it’ll leave yer be,” so that was what I’d done during my first few days at the house.

  The lock on the front door was stiff, requiring me to jimmy it a few times before shouldering it to get into the house. I stumbled into the kitchen and almost fell on top of Tom as he stirred a pot on the stove.

  “Smells nice.” I closed the door after three attempts—finally slamming it shut with a scrape of wood against wood—and bent to remove my shoes.

  “Pasta,” he said with a shrug. “How was the first day?”

  Exhausting. Nerve-wracking. “Fine. How was school?”

  “The bus dropped me off outside the village on the way back,” he said. “I had to walk for half an hour.”

  That wasn’t good. I sighed. “The woman on the phone said the bus company came this way.”

  Tom shook his head. “Guess they made it up. I asked the bus driver and everything.”

  My heart clenched as I took a good look at my little brother. At seventeen years old, he deserved more than a run-down two-up-two-down home in the middle of nowhere with a sister who worked long hours and wouldn’t be able to take care of him properly. But I didn’t want him going into care, and I didn’t want him living alone, so he ended up stuck with me.

  He was a good kid to put tea on for both of us, but then he’d always been a good kid, even when things were bad at our last home… a place I’d rather forget, but as much a part of me as the veins running beneath my skin.

  “But apart from the bus, what was the school like? A bit smaller than at Hackney, right? Were the teachers nice? The other kids?” I made my way around to the table and started grabbing cutlery from the drawers. We weren’t completely unpacked yet but we’d made a good start. Of course, it’s easier when you don’t actually own a lot of stuff.

  “Yeah, they were all right,” he said. I couldn’t help noticing that Tom didn’t meet my gaze as he answered, which I was accustomed to, especially when he lied.

  Are you being bullied, Tom? No. Stares at the floor.

  Did Dad hit you? No, I fell. Stares at the wall.

  He had eyes that roamed around a room, a body that squirmed under pressure. He had a way of hanging his head and bunching up his shoulders so that he looked bigger and smaller all at once. In short, Tom was a target and always had been, and no matter how much I tried to protect him, there was always someone to bully him. And there was always a reason why. Tom, my younger, innocent, sweet brother, was born with a birthmark that spread from his right temple down to his cheek. The discoloured, orange-red of it was particularly arresting at first glance, which often led to little children pointing in his direction, or them leaning across to their mum and saying in a hushed but audible voice: Mummy, what’s wrong with that boy?

  And Tom was gay, I was ninety percent sure of it, though I didn’t know how sure Tom was himself. He was quiet, and he wasn’t particularly flamboyant or camp; he had no dress sense—unless you counted black jeans and black hoodies as fashion—but when we’d watched Twilight together, he’d seemed far more interested in Jacob than Bella, and his band posters were never of the band, but the beautiful, androgynous lead singers.

  I’d never spoken to Tom about his sexuality
, not even after our parents passed away and I became his caregiver. Our alcoholic, alpha-male wanker of a father would never have accepted Tom for who he is, but Mum might have, eventually. I wanted Tom to feel like he could talk to me, but the wounds of our childhood were still too raw, and I knew he would need time.

  But that didn’t stop the bullies…

  And along with the psychological pressure of being bullied at school came the stress eating and the weight gain. After our parents died, I tried to turn exercise and healthy eating into some sort of a game. We couldn’t afford a fancy games console that could track our movements, and neither of us had a smart phone so Pokemon Go was out the window, but we could get off the bus a couple of stops early or find a random walker to follow for a while, making up silly stories about where they were going and what they were doing. But Tom was only interested for a few weeks before he started finding it lame. I was lame and old and no fun to hang out with anymore, but I couldn’t blame him. He was seventeen and the hormones causing his oily skin were the same hormones driving him to push me away.

  “It might take a little while to find your feet,” I replied, keeping my voice as cheerful as I could.

  “I told them where I was living and they all laughed. Said it was some old shack on a farm owned by a crazy family. They said people fuck pigs up here in the night.”

  I almost dropped a knife onto the table. “Tom! Don’t talk like that.”

  He blushed, his left cheek matching the birthmark on his right.

  “Besides, the Braithwaites are fine people. They rented this cottage to us for a steal, so I wouldn’t complain if I were you.” I straightened a fork. “I’m sure there’s no pig… intercourse. Like eighty percent sure, anyway.”