One For Sorrow

by Sarah A. Denzil

  “Not everyone.”

  Emily created a king out of her draughts, clacking the two pieces together. She made a disgusted noise with her throat.

  “Maybe we should talk about something else. Did you go to the tuck shop today?”

  She nodded, and we began to chitchat about nothing. After the game was over I came away feeling shaken. So much for me inspiring Emily in the same way I inspired Isabel. All I’d managed to do was drive her even further away. I should have known the conversation was getting out of hand and needed to be directed away from the subject of Isabel. Why had I let it continue until we were both frustrated? Perhaps the lack of sleep was impairing my judgment.

  I had wanted to talk to Chi about what he’d said about Isabel being innocent, but he was working on the intensive care ward as a new patient had been admitted. He was going to be gone for most of the week, according to the bank nurse who’d been put in charge. We’d also had some changes with the security staff, and the woman on reception had quit for a job at a GP surgery. I’d now officially been at Crowmont long enough to see the high turnover of staff in action.

  After taking a quiet and subdued Isabel to her art therapy, I had a quick cigarette break. For once, Alfie wasn’t there so I could lean against the wall and contemplate my time at Crowmont alone. Emily had been right to question my motives, because even though I had my doubts about Isabel’s guilt, I shouldn’t be letting those feelings show in front of the other patients. But still, my mind drifted to the watercolour of a mockingbird Isabel had passed me that morning.

  “Imitation,” she’d said. “That’s what mockingbirds do. They don’t have a personality of their own so they take on the cadence of other birds. Some can imitate ringtones or people’s voices. Or a baby’s cry. I read about a mother who lost her way in the woods and froze to death because she thought she heard a baby crying. It was a mockingbird.”

  The painting was in my locker now, waiting to be taken home and added to the collection of birds to go up on my wall. I had an illustration of Pepsi—who now took grain from my hand as well as Isabel’s—a portrait of me surrounded by doves, a pigeon, my window surrounded by blackbirds, a mockingbird, and a sparrow. My room was filled with colour.

  “Afternoon.”

  The sound of Alfie’s voice pulled me from my thoughts with a start.

  “Afternoon,” I replied, surprised that I hadn’t heard the door open. I’d been so lost in my own thoughts that I’d blocked the world out again.

  “Everything all right?” he asked.

  “Fine.”

  Alfie exhaled through his nose, as though he didn’t believe me for an instant. “All right then.”

  He sucked on his cigarette and stood next to me in silence. Even though we’d spent many cigarette breaks together, we’d never talked much about ourselves, which was a relief for me. I hated trying to fend away personal questions from the other nurses: Do you have a boyfriend? Any family? What’s your little brother like? Losing your parents must have been so hard.

  “The patio murders.” Alfie broke the silence with puff of smoke. “It was 1998. Liverpool. A man reported witnessing his neighbour digging up his patio tiles at 3am. He thought it was suspicious so he phoned the police. The police dug up the patio and found five bodies, all prostitutes from the area. But the sixth body was a baby.”

  “A baby?”

  Alfie nodded. “Gary Hoskins’ wife, Lily, had a baby. Lily smothered the baby and they buried her under the patio with the prostitutes.”

  I shook my head, disgusted.

  “Gary and Lily Hoskins had five other children. Alive children.”

  I took a drag of my cigarette, not enjoying this story. “That’s horrible.”

  “It is,” Alfie admitted. “The five children were interviewed by the police. Three of them had witnessed their parents murdering women in the cellar. Two admitted to helping them.”

  “Fuck.” I rubbed my tired eyes and wished I hadn’t come out for my break.

  “Lily came to Crowmont shortly after she was sentenced. They thought she was a psychopath. Don’t think they called it antisocial personality disorder in those days. She was mentally challenged, too.”

  Goosebumps prickled up and down my arms. “Is she still here?”

  Alfie shook his head. “No, she died last year. Breast cancer.”

  “Did you ever see her?” I asked.

  “No,” Alfie replied. “And I’m glad I never did.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  I’d never been particularly comfortable with parallel parking, making Hutton village my nightmare come alive. As March had slowly transitioned into April, it’d brought the first wave of tourists to the area. Hutton was a pretty spot in the middle of moorland, which made it perfect for walkers. That meant the Saturday I met James Gorden was busier than usual, and parking spaces were few and far between.

  Ten minutes late due to a stressful attempt to squeeze my Punto between a Range Rover and a transit van, I hurried towards Costa sweating through my clothes. I’d misjudged the weather, wearing a thick cardigan and jeans when it was perfect t-shirt weather. I still struggled to get used to the changeable temperatures in the north. One minute there was a wintry breeze, but the next moment brought bright spring sunshine to warm up my skin.

  In a room filled with middle-class parents and hikers, James Gorden was a scruffy anomaly and not difficult to spot. Despite the fact that the photograph he used on his blog had been taken from an optimistically flattering angle, I knew it was him by the faded black t-shirt and overgrown beard. A cup of coffee and a brownie sat on the table before him.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” I said, placing my bag down on the table and reaching in for my purse. “Parking was a nightmare.”

  “So, you’re Leah.” He looked me up and down as if I were a lab specimen, and the right side of his mouth twitched. “Not what I expected.”

  His greeting wasn’t exactly what I’d expected, but I decided to ignore it and move on.

  “I’ll go get a drink.” I walked away wondering if I’d made the right decision by meeting this man. Apart from the blog, I knew nothing about him. He could be a rude, arrogant prick, and certainly his first comment to me suggested that was quite likely. Then again, he could give me some important information about Isabel, and didn’t I have a duty to at least listen to his ideas?

  Returning to the table with a latte, I told myself to give James the benefit of the doubt. Maybe the guy didn’t get out much and had no idea how to talk to people. Sometimes it’s easier to be an internet persona than it is to be a real-life person. I’d spent my fair share of time on forums, enough to make me cringe at the thought of my posts and unfortunate selfie avatars. A sip of my latte helped deal with my jitters, but there was one thing I wanted to make clear before my anxiety went away.

  “I can’t tell you anything about the patients or the security at the hospital. I can’t tell you anything about Crowmont.”

  “Then why am I here?” James snapped. “I’ve come from Rotherham, you know.”

  I could hear the South Yorkshire in his voice, elongating the vowels.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “But I have a genuine reason for meeting you. I want to hear what you think about Isabel Fielding. Do you honestly believe she’s innocent?”

  He had oddly sensual, full lips that were almost lost within his tangle of a beard. At that moment, his lips spread slowly into a knowing smile. “You work with her. You know her. You see her every day and you think she’s innocent.” He rocked forwards in his chair excitedly. “I fucking knew it! I know she’s innocent. I just know it.”

  “But how is it possible? Who else could have done it? You don’t actually think it was her father, do you? How would he have had time?” Despite my fears, I had to admit it was a relief to talk to someone about all the questions that had been building in my mind since I’d begun working at Crowmont.

  James lifted his hands excitedly and leaned closer. “This is con
fidential, Leah. All right? It’s important you don’t tell anyone about our conversation. I’ve tested out a few theories about David Fielding. I trespassed on the Fielding estate while they were away on holiday. I walked the distance from the kitchen door to the pond. It took less than five minutes.” He held up five fingers. “Three minutes fifty-seven seconds. How long does it take a grown man to bludgeon a little girl to death? One blow and…” James shrugged to represent the death of Maisie Earnshaw. His eyes were alive in a way that disturbed me.

  “But the other children—why didn’t they scream? Why didn’t they call for help? Why would they let their father kill Maisie? And didn’t she have carvings on her back? Who did that? Everything makes more sense if it was Isabel and she frightened her little brother so much that he froze up.” I’d been wondering about all this for so long that my questions fell out of my mouth without much thought. These doubts were the main reason I kept going back and forth about her innocence. Deep down I felt like I knew her, like I could never imagine her committing a crime—but could I trust myself? Could I trust my feelings? Were my thoughts and feelings worth anything when it came to the hard facts?

  “Occam’s Razor.” James sipped his coffee. “The most logical conclusion is generally the right one. But not always. Look, I’m not saying there isn’t anything wrong with that family. I’m not saying that at all. There is something rotten at the core of the Fielding family, but I don’t think it’s Isabel.” He bit into his brownie and grinned.

  “Okay, so let’s imagine that Isabel is innocent and it was her father who killed the little girl. Isabel has been incarcerated for years, right? Murderers who kill for fun generally end up doing it again. Why hasn’t David Fielding killed more kids?”

  James smirked and lifted a finger. “Ah, but how do we know he hasn’t murdered anyone else? What if David or Owen, or both of them, are clever enough to cover their tracks? What if they’ve been getting away with it all this time? Here.” James grabbed his phone and pulled up a website. “Missing persons reports from the last few years. All in the South Yorkshire area.”

  He flicked through some, but I didn’t understand the relevance. These missing persons reports were for adults, not children.

  “The victims don’t have to be children.” He answered my unspoken question. “Think about it. What happens when a child goes missing? The media goes into meltdown mode. Every major newspaper jumps on the story. What happens if some loser goes out for a packet of cigarettes and never comes back? Most of the time no one cares because they assume they overdosed in a squat somewhere or jumped into a river.”

  “You think the real murderer could be choosing victims who wouldn’t be missed? Like prostitutes or homeless people?”

  “Exactly.”

  James sipped his coffee while I let his words sink in. The problem was, there were too many possible explanations for both Maisie’s murder and the missing persons reports. All his theories were based on shaky foundations and speculation.

  “Have you been to the police?” I asked.

  “Yes,” James replied. “They still believe they have the right person and they say there’s no evidence that David Fielding is a murderer, or that the missing people have been killed. Apparently, there’s nothing they can do without bodies.” James took a gulp of his coffee and shook his head. “I’d love to break into their house and search the place top to bottom. I know David Fielding is connected to this entire thing, but I can’t figure it all out on my own.”

  I was beginning to get the feeling that James had created a conspiracy theory out of little to no evidence and I felt my resolve slip away. And… yet… there was also a possibility he was right. I squirmed against the itch in my stomach as my heart swung one way and my mind another. I thought of myself at the funeral again, with the whisper of my father’s voice in my ear. Leah. Perhaps I couldn’t trust either my heart or my head.

  “I’m losing you,” he said. “You’re starting to think I’m obsessed, that I’m too close to all this. But you have to admit that it’s a lot more complicated than Isabel Fielding being a child psychopath. Why would a young girl from a good background murder a child? Psychos like John Wayne Gacy or Fred West are made from their childhoods. They aren’t born like it. You’re a psychiatric nurse. You understand that too, right? You’re a sensible woman, from the look of it. You know there’s more to all this. You know there’s something wrong with that family, not just Isabel. And you want to help, don’t you? You want to help Isabel.”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t know what to do. She… she’s not like…” I stopped myself before I blurted out personal information. “I should go.”

  “Wait.” He reached across the table as though to grab my hand, but stopped before his fingers touched mine. “Wait a minute. Let me show you something.” James pulled a messenger bag out from underneath the table and opened the flap to reach inside. He pulled out an A4 sized folder. “These are the letters Isabel has sent me over the years. Read some of them and see for yourself.”

  I stared at him, aghast. “You’re in contact with her? How is this possible?”

  “I’ve been writing to her for two years now. There’s nothing strange about it. Isabel is allowed to have mail, and she’s allowed to send me letters. I’m aware that the letters are screened in and out of the hospital, but I wanted to talk to her.” He shrugged as though none of it was a big deal and pushed the manila folder across to me.

  I sighed and opened it, pulling out the first sheet of paper. It was written longhand on a small jotter page. Seeing her handwriting reminded me of how we’d completed the form for the Koestler Award together, and how proud I’d been of her for entering. Now I wasn’t sure what to think or what I would read.

  1st June 2015

  Dear James,

  Thank you so much for the letter. Yours is in fact the first letter I have received in several months and it made me smile to know you are thinking of me. I shall keep it safe in my desk where I draw my birds. For you I’ve enclosed a little pencil drawing of a bluebird. They are good omens. They represent spiritual joy and a general contentedness, which I wish upon you, friend, as well as myself.

  The truth is that I am not content at the moment but one day I hope to be. Please don’t read this and think: well maybe she is crazy then! Her mind is warped and insane! That isn’t at all what I mean. All I think is that I can improve on my mental health. We should all be improving. All striving to be better.

  Better than what? Is that the burning question and the one you long to ask? Better than a murderer?

  But I cannot answer your unspoken question because the truth is I don’t remember what happened before the police came that day. I’ve said this every time I was asked. I still don’t remember what happened, and I’m not sure I ever want to remember. Maybe one day I will. The psychologists certainly want me to remember.

  I thank you for your letter, and I thank you for expressing your belief that I am not the cold-hearted killer the rest of the world believes me to be. Perhaps I am, perhaps I’m not. I guess I’ll be the last to know!

  Happiness to you, James!

  Isabel

  It sounded like her, that much I couldn’t deny. The paper exuded brightness to the point where I had to put it down and close my eyes for a moment.

  “She doesn’t sound like a killer, does she?” James said.

  “That means nothing. Some people with mental health issues disassociate from their violent tendencies.”

  “And has Isabel ever been violent in Crowmont?”

  I didn’t answer that. Instead I picked up another sheet of jotter paper.

  30th July 2015

  Dear James,

  I’m so glad you enjoyed the bluebird! I had a feeling you would. Today I have painted you a little owl. They represent what you would imagine they would: wise, contemplative, and enlightened, which is what I assume you to be.

  Thank you for creating a blog about my innocence, but I am afraid that
it will draw too much attention to the case. It has been a long time now and I’m not sure I still want to be talked about. What’s done is done! I’m treated well, I have medication that stops me from being a danger to myself or anyone else, and I have a pet magpie. His name is Pepsi, and I rescued him when I found him with his foot stuck in a tin can.

  I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I had a lovely childhood. Owen could be a pest, but he was my brother, and I loved him. We played like normal children, building dens, sharing toys. If you are insinuating that you think Owen killed little Maisie, I don’t believe it at all. He was only eleven, and he was a normal little boy. I miss him! I hope he comes to visit me when he’s eighteen.

  My parents don’t visit me anymore. They tried for a while, but it was too much for them. They supported me during the police interviews and the trial, but they’ve decided I’m no longer their daughter. Don’t judge them too harshly, they’ve done what they believe is right. What would you do if your child killed another child?

  Honestly, I’ve come to terms with it. I don’t remember the event, but I’m pretty sure I must have done it in some strange trance. It’s the one thing that makes sense, right? Unless I was possessed by a demon or controlled by an alien. Believe me, I’ve looked at every possible explanation to how this could have happened!

  Maybe one day I’ll be able to forgive myself, but right now all I can think about is Maisie’s family. My heart aches for them.

  Wishing you the best,

  Isabel

  I read through more, but they were all very similar. In every letter Isabel expressed remorse and took responsibility for what happened the day Maisie Earnshaw died. But she never once admitted to killing Maisie, remaining adamant that she couldn’t remember anything about the day Maisie died.

  “None of these prove anything,” I said. “Except that she can’t remember.”