by Shelley Day
‘Passed away’, he said again, frowning this time. ‘Aye, passed away when I was just a lad.’ Ruby tipped the dirty water from the washing-up bowl down the sink and turned to dry her hands.
‘Oh dear,’ she’d said again, looking Frank straight in the eye. ‘That’s an awful shame, a little lad losing his mother…’ Was there a note of sympathy in her voice? Frank couldn’t tell.
‘I wasn’t that little,’ he’d said, getting into the full swing of telling a story. ‘I was well into me teens, fourteen to be precise…’
Ruby had interrupted, ‘Fourteen, hmm,’ she said. ‘Well, if you ask me, Frank Fanshaw, that’s the very time a little lad needs his mam. Now you sit down and I’ll make us a cup of tea and you can tell Ruby all about it.’
But Frank didn’t want to tell Ruby Willoughby anything about anything. He was beginning to think it had been a big mistake coming to live in this lodging house with a nosey old bag of a landlady who had God knows how many of her own skeletons in the cupboard, of that he was in no doubt. From the start he’d thought Ruby Willoughby was a weird one, what with her herbs and her potions and her poisons and her calling up the dead on Wednesdays, regular as clockwork. And that daughter of hers, that Muriel – obsessed, she was, preserving all those dead things, down in that basement, and flaunting herself about outside the Legion. And that creepy Stella kid, sullen, sulky and silent, always watching from the sidelines with those great big eyes, peering out from behind that straggly red hair, taking everything in, saying nowt. Aye, they were a queer lot alright.
And they went even more peculiar after the old man Worthy died. He’d been a herbalist, some kind of healer – not a proper doctor, more what you might call a quack, and Frank could never quite make him out either. Oh, he was nice enough, but a dark horse, like the rest of them. Then, when old Worthy passed away, you could have knocked Frank over with a feather when the old lady – she wasn’t even qualified in herbs or medicine or owt of that sort – the brass neck of her, she just stepped into the old man’s shoes, took over his practice and continued seeing to his ‘clients’, dispensing all them potions if you please, as though the old man hadn’t actually died. The herbs and the chemicals and the all what-have-you, she kept the whole caboodle going, brazen as you like. Mind you, to be fair, she didn’t do any of the laying on of hands that Worthy had done down in that basement, not as Frank ever saw, anyway. Old Ruby didn’t have the Gift. And she drew the line at the Procedures – the women’s doingses – none of those happened any more after Worthy turned up his toes. Frank doesn’t know how Ruby got away with it, but she did, she kept on raking in the cash, carrying on as though she had every right. Bloody queer lot, those Willoughbys.
Then the baby Keating business. That was the day everything changed. For all of them. It makes Frank shrink even now to think of it. It was Stella that discovered the baby had ‘vanished’. She wasn’t much more than a kid herself, and they left her to find that the pram was empty. Frank redoubles his efforts to get the stopcock loose. To this day, Frank hasn’t an earthly why he let himself get roped in to the baby Keating fiasco, and getting on for ten years now it’s taken over his life. He’s determined to be out if it, get it sorted, once and for all. Now Stella’s out, Frank’s got his chance. He’ll make damn certain nobody’s got anything on Frank Fanshaw. Then Frank might be able get on with his life. God knows, he’s waited long enough.
At the time, the papers were full of it. Well, they would be, wouldn’t they? Baby Keating this, baby Keating that, all sorts of insinuations, Frank’s name on the front page of the News of the World. His mates at the shipyard, they couldn’t credit it, Frank Fanshaw named in connection with the abduction of a baby from some seedy boarding house. And all the reporters flocking around, swarming into Hawthorn Leslie’s like flies around a dung heap, wouldn’t leave him alone. Even people who knew Frank were thinking there’s never smoke without fire and looking at him in a different way, all suspicious like. All sorts of shite about his past misdemeanors had been dug up – half of it made up – and paraded in the papers for all to see. Most of it was lies – nasty, filthy lies. But mud sticks. He’d had to leave the work. His life had been a misery, an utter misery. He’d actually looked forward to Stella getting out, he’d actually dared hope that her getting out would be the end of it. How naïve he’d been. Stella Moon has a hell of a lot to answer for.
The first piece in the paper had also brought his mother – hawk-eye Hilda – scuttling out of the woodwork. She spotted it on the Sunday and by the Monday had ferreted Frank out. She came to the boarding house – Frank was on the backshift – and old Ma Willoughby had let her in. When Frank got in from work there they were, the two of them, sitting sipping tea, pally as you like. After that, Frank never saw his mother again, time passed and he very rarely thought of her. Old Ma Willoughby never mentioned her. Frank knew they kept in touch, though: he’d seen letters on the mantelpiece in his mother’s spidery hand, he’d seen herbs packaged up with brown paper and string, ready to go off, Hilda’s name and address on the packaging. He’d written down the address. Now Frank wonders if he can lay his hands on it. He might need some help in tracking down Ruby. If Hilda’s still alive. If she’s stayed in touch.
After Ruby realised Frank had told her lies about his mother, she didn’t confront him or nothing: no, Ruby’s ways were too subtle for that. She just gave Frank a look every time she wanted something done, and Frank had to live with that. Oh, Frank could tell Stella Moon a thing or two. It’s not enough, when you’ve done a crime, that you do your time to pay for it. You think you’ve paid the price, you think that’s the end of it? You’re a fool, Stella Moon. Think again. If there’s one thing Frank’s learned in this life, it’s that your past follows you around, it’s always dragging along behind you, like a fucking bad smell. If Stella Moon thinks she can just come out of that jail and get a whole new life started, she’s got another think coming.
The stopcock is completely stuck and Frank can’t get it undone. He’ll have to get a tool of some sort. He gets up and rummages about in the drawers till he finds something. He creeps back under the sink armed with a monkey wrench and a hammer with a broken handle. It takes him a good five minutes to get the monkey wrench fitted on top of all the rust. Frank nearly gives up, but if he’s going to stay on here for a bit, he’ll need water. Damn that bloody Stella.
He gives the monkey wrench a good clout with the hammer, and another, and another. The stop-cock suddenly gives way and Frank gets drenched in a gush of icy water that comes spurting from the pipe. He bangs his head on the underside of the sink trying to get away from it. In an instant he’s lying in a freezing, filthy pool and water’s still gushing out. Without being able to see anything of what he’s doing, Frank fumbles, trying to tighten the stop-cock up again, but it’s some while before he manages to shift it. He gets it closed up enough to stop the bigger gush, but it’s still leaking quite badly and he’s managed to get the whole thing cross-threaded, so there’s no way he can stop it altogether. Frank stands up, soaked to the skin. The torch, still on the floor but now lying in water, has gone out. Frank kicks the back door open as water starts to flood the scullery. He curses Stella, he curses Ruby, he curses his mother, and he curses Muriel and Hedy and all the blasted bloody know-it-all women he’s ever known.
Chapter Fifteen
Gareth isn’t quite taking it in. And he’s having trouble squaring how she seemed in real life, when he saw her, with what he’s reading in this file. Stella Moon killed Muriel Moon. Was it deliberate? Did she plan it? Did she do it out of hatred? Had she always hated her mother? What’s wrong with her? Has she killed anyone else? Gareth is fascinated and appalled, all at the same time. He wants to believe the best but he’s ready to discover the worst. On and off he’s squeamish at the memory of having come face-to-face with a killer. Yet now the panic’s gone, he’s doubly curiously drawn to the case. It fascinates him at least as much as it repels.
Stella was charged with Manslaughter, which suggests prima facie there was nothing intentional about the killing. Gareth can’t tell the reasoning behind the charge. Yet to his mind, Stella’s confession is ambiguous. It could be read as Murder. But there again, at a stretch, it could even be read as Self-Defence. Murder would seem the more likely interpretation, but the very fact that a defendant is prepared to confess to the lesser charge of Manslaughter… that saves the system a whole load of trouble having to have a full trial and prove Murder. Gareth has seen that kind of plea bargaining before, but never with a homicide. Gareth would like to have a better look among the police papers, see if a Murder charge was ever considered. And then of course there’s the mens rea – the state of mind, the criminal intent – in relation to a charge of Murder. The law is complex. Gareth would be interested to see what the police had to say about that. He could look back at his Criminology notes. They’d been covering stuff like that in his Criminology MSc. And there’ll be stuff about her state of mind in the file, psychiatric reports...
Bloody hell. Matricide. That’s what it is. Matricide. Gareth says the word out loud, hearing it break the evening silence. Gareth knows nothing about matricide, but it’s an interesting crime and he never thought it’d be like this.
Stella Moon killed her mother then gave herself up, confessed to the lot, cool as you please. She didn’t even try to deny a thing. But who can tell whether she was telling the truth, the whole truth? Did she leave something out? Lying by omission. Telling the story in such a way that made it look like Manslaughter. Bloody cool customer, that Stella.
Gareth shakes his head, exhales sharply, sits forward in his chair and scratches his head. He pushes the file across the desk and looks at it from a distance, like it has suddenly become contaminated. He shakes his head. Who knows where the truth lies? There could be any number of truths, all of them true, or none of them. What the hell makes someone murder their own mother?
Bloody hell, what a mess. Thank God her ‘rehabilitation’ is down to Geoff and not to Gareth.
If she did do it on purpose, what a bloody dramatic way to do it. What must the mother have done to warrant that? And why did Stella give herself up? She could probably have got away with it, just acted like it was an accident, or better still, acted like she wasn’t even there, like she’d been waiting at the Beach Hut the whole time for Muriel to come back. It doesn’t make sense. None of it makes much sense to Gareth. You’re always finding out things that surprise you in this job. Matricide, eh? The thought of it is fascinating and repulsive all at the same time. Gareth can’t recall seeing anything about it in any of his textbooks. But he might just look it up. He needs to get a distance on it. The whole thing is making him feel nauseous again. Or maybe it’s lack of food. It’s late. Gareth suddenly feels very tired. He should get going.
Gareth pictures Stella, like she was this afternoon. Appearances are deceptive. She could have passed for normal, ’cept she doesn’t say much, which could’ve been nerves, but Gareth suspects something deeper. In the Master’s they’d had some lectures on syndromes, so he can look up his notes. But right now Gareth can’t face much more. He should go home. But the whole thing’s niggling. He definitely could do with a drink. He wonders how Stella must feel, what it would be like to know you’ve murdered – he means killed – your own mother. What must it be like to have done that, then to have to go back to the house where you used to live with her? A hot flush passes over Gareth’s face. He wishes he hadn’t slipped up, that he’d got her some proper accommodation sorted. It’s horrendous, her having to go back to that place. But Gareth can’t go blaming himself, for Christ’s sake.
This is what being professional is all about, the fine line between human empathy and detachment that enables you to appreciate the wider picture. Draw that line in the proper place, or it’s impossible to help anybody. And that’s exactly what he’s come into this job for, to help people, to rescue unfortunates like Stella Moon. Some people need saving from themselves, it’s not enough to feel sorry for them. A lot of these people are their own worst enemies, if only they could see it. In this job you actually can save them. You always have to keep in mind that it’s the behaviour that’s bad, not the person. It’s the behaviour you change and the rest does itself. You have to put your own feelings to one side, not let them take over, or else you’ll be no good to man nor beast.
Gareth gets up and pulls his jacket off the back of his chair. He’s had enough of Stella Moon. This is a job. It’s not his life. He’ll go and get that drink. Just the one. He needs it. He deserves it.
Gareth hasn’t quite got used to being a professional, to seeing himself as a representative of officialdom. Probation Officer Gareth Davies! If only his old Mamgu had been alive to see him: proud, she’d have been. Duw Duw, pleased as punch. You’ve done brilliantly, cariad bach. She’d have patted him on the shoulder: good as a hug, that was, from Mamgu. Gareth’s wasn’t one of those touchy-feely families. But you always knew where you stood. Gareth’s choice of a career had been an issue.
‘A career?’ his Da had said. ‘What d’you want a career for? What’s wrong with a job?’ No, Gareth’s choice hadn’t gone down well with his father. As far as Da was concerned, Gareth had defected, gone over to the enemy, let the whole working class down and turned his nose up and his back on his roots. But despite all that, Gareth has almost made it through his Master’s at Cardiff University, only the Dissertation to do and, when that’s done, the sky’s the limit. There’s nothing wrong with being proud of that achievement. Gareth’s on the ladder now, and he’s going all the way to the top.
Once he’s fully qualified, Gareth will be able to make all the difference to people like Stella Moon, people who otherwise would fall by the wayside. His meeting with her this afternoon might have scared him a bit before, but it’s a challenge, and now he’s risen to it, and if he lets it, it will reinforce his commitment to his profession, give him a renewed enthusiasm, a new kind of vigour, add a whole new dimension to understanding the mind behind the crime. How crucial it is to know every little cranny, how significant the smallest thing can be, can make such a difference to the bigger picture. Gareth puts his jacket on, moves a few things round on his desk by way of tidying, and gets ready for going home.
Gareth is lucky. He’s made it, or he’s about to. There’s not much to stand in the way now. Gareth Davies, BA, MSc, Criminology, University of Wales, Cardiff. Through sheer hard work, commitment and determination, Gareth is getting on in the world. But there’s still an element of luck, of ‘there but for the grace of God’. Take Stella Moon, for instance, look at her, not that different in age from Gareth, yet what a frigging mess she’s made of her life so far. It’s the function of the Probation Service to help her reintegrate into society, to rehabilitate her, to help her put the past behind her and not be defined solely by the fact of her – admittedly hideous – crime. She has done her sentence and now she has to put the past behind her and move on.
What will Gareth do if Geoff tries to palm the Moon case off on him? He’s not sure how he’d handle that. But wait a minute – if he could use Stella Moon as a Case Study for the Dissertation, that could turn something unfortunate into more of an opportunity. There are plenty of ‘unique angles’ he could take to the case, and matricide is an interesting topic, not yet much discussed in the criminological literature, as far as Gareth has seen. There must be tons of theories about the motivation, mother-daughter conflict, something in the background that causes the dark side of the personality to erupt. Yes, it’s a good idea, definitely worth thinking about. Gareth would have to clear it with Geoff, though. Seven years she did. She’s lucky she didn’t get mandatory Life, which she would have done for Murder. Matricide, eh? There’s no specific crime of matricide, as far as Gareth knows. Not like infanticide, which is a special category of homicide, and makes reference to a deranged frame of mind. What about criminal ‘responsibilit
y’ in matricide? Surely that’s every bit as emotional a crime? Gareth exhales loudly. He’s getting quite excited about getting his teeth into a matricide.
Gareth packs his briefcase. The fascinating thing is Stella Moon doesn’t look the type, not at all the type. It just goes to show. She may be frail and innocent-looking, she may look more like a fragile little waif than a killer, but a killer she is. End of. Of course, Gareth knows that there isn’t any one type of person who is capable of murder, just like there isn’t only one type of murder. That’s practically the first thing they tell you on the Master’s. It may be convenient to put people into boxes, but people aren’t pigeons. And there’s a feisty streak to that Stella, if Gareth’s not mistaken. Look at her, willing to go back to spend the night in that dingy, decrepit old boarding house. Yes, definitely a feisty streak, not far beneath the surface. She’s ‘unpredictable’ – that’s what they say. She could prove to be a handful. It could be best to stay well clear, forget about the Case Study and let Geoff keep her.
Stella Moon is, at the very least, impulsive, unpredictable, and more than a little weird. She’s a mixture of feisty and fragile – Gareth’s seen that already. He’s seen it in those eyes. Dangerous mixture. Leave well alone, Gareth, if you know what’s good for you. But Gareth’s never been one to shy away from a challenge. You wouldn’t see Dirty Harry Callahan backing off because something looks a bit difficult. On the contrary. Gareth has already surprised himself, going this far, coming into the office at night, reading other people’s files. It’s the first time he’s ever done that. This is not going to become a habit. He’s heard of people like that, with a morbid interest in the minds of criminals – it’s not natural. Gareth claps the file shut and locks it away in the bottom drawer of Geoff’s desk. He’ll stop for a beer on the way home. He deserves one. He’ll stop thinking about his Dissertation, and Stella Moon, who is not Gareth’s problem. He’ll get a carry out, go home and watch his Dirty Harry video with a chicken chow mein, a big Yorkie and a few cans of Carlsberg.
