The Confession of Stella Moon

by Shelley Day

  ‘He let me look at it,’ said Clara. ‘Or he didn’t stop me. He saw me doing it. He discussed it with me the other day.’

  Geoff wrenched his tie loose and undid the top buttons of his shirt. ‘Hell’s bloody teeth,’ he said.

  ‘Well, you’re never even here…’ Clara’s voice was small.

  ‘Never here! Never bloody here! That’s because my time is all taken up sorting out the messes that you’re always causing.’

  ‘Don’t be too hard on her, Geoff,’ said Gareth. ‘It’s my fault if it’s anyone’s. To be fair, the Moon girl did come in here to register with us while you and I were out, and Clara had to see what was going on. It was the day I went to get her signed on and filled out her accommodation forms. I left you a note.’

  ‘You never left me any note.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I thought I did. I meant to. It was me who dropped off her housing forms. Then you went to meet her and she didn’t show…’

  ‘Be all that as it may,’ said Geoff, ‘I need to know what Clara said to that journalist so I can see if I can do any damage limitation. What did you say his name was?’

  ‘Macalinden.’

  ‘We need to check the papers, that’s the first thing, eh, Geoff?’ said Gareth.

  ‘Well, Gareth,’ Geoff said, ‘it’s your problem now, not mine. As of five minutes ago, the file’s yours, remember? You sort it out.’

  ‘He said there’d be psychiatric reports in the file,’ continued Clara. ‘He asked if he could have a look at them, just to verify…’

  ‘Please, please, please don’t tell me you let him look at the file, Clara?’

  ‘No. of course I didn’t. I’m not that stupid. Anyways, the file wasn’t even there.’

  Geoff wrenched open the drawer of the filing cabinet and made a cursory search for the Moon file.

  ‘That’s all we need,’ he said, beyond exasperation. ‘Someone’s nicked the fucking file.’

  ‘It’s in my flat,’ said Gareth, as calmly as he could, as though having someone else’s file in your flat was a normal occurrence. He felt hot under Geoff’s gaze. In all the confusion of last night, Gareth had come straight to the office from the Beach Hut and had forgotten to call in at the flat to fetch the file. He had yet to tell Geoff anything of his trip out last night. This was not the right moment for such confessions.

  ‘What the hell is the effing file doing in your effing flat, Gareth? My God, this gets worse by the minute. That file is highly confidential. It’s got confidential written all over it. In large, red capital letters. It’s not supposed to go out of the office. Jesus Christ, I don’t believe this. What the fuck is going on?’

  ‘I’ll go and fetch it now,’ said Gareth getting up. He pulls on his coat. ‘I’ll bring some of today’s papers back with me. Won’t be a minute.’

  Thirty-five minutes later, Gareth is back in the office and a bit out of breath.

  ‘There’s a bit here,’ says Geoff, shaking the Echo and folding it back, ‘but you’d hardly call it a feature. Nothing about her until you get to page four, so they’re hardly treating it as a scoop.’

  ‘Read it out,’ says Gareth, lighting himself a cigarette. He’s hooked again. Thanks, Stella.

  Geoff reads from page four of the Echo. ‘Child Killer Freed is the headline. God, the way they’ve put that,’ Geoff says, ‘designed to maximise sensation.’

  ‘It sounds like she killed a child, the way they’ve put it.’ Gareth takes a deep drag on his cigarette. ‘What else does it say?’

  ‘“Child killer Stella Moon is back in the community. After only seven years in prison for the brutal killing of her mother, Muriel Moon, flame-haired Miss Moon, now 25, has been released and is believed to have returned to the North East to start a normal life. Reliable sources have informed us that Miss Moon’s release is unconditional, but that she has agreed to co-operate with the Probation Service on a rehabilitation programme. Yesterday, a spokesman for the Service told our reporter that the rehab programme is yet to be finalised. This paper hopes, along with the majority of its right-minded readers, that the proposed rehabilitation will take full account of Miss Moon’s long-standing unstable mental condition and her unpredictable character, and that every necessary step will be taken to ensure that this cold-blooded killer does not pose any danger to other innocent human beings. Miss Moon is believed to be staying in emergency accommodation in the Byker area.’”

  ‘Then there’s another bit’, Geoff continues, ‘that says reporter Daniel Macalinden was on the case ten years ago when a baby was abducted from the boarding house where Stella Moon lived. He also covered the matricide, he’s still trying to get to the bottom of it all, apparently. That’s it,’ says Geoff, ‘but that was only the early edition.’ He folds the paper in half and lays it down on his desk.

  ‘It’s enough to have all and sundry high-tailing after her,’ says Gareth. ‘They’ll be crawling all over, Geoff.’

  Geoff shrugs. ‘Like I said, Gareth, she’s yours now, not mine.’

  ‘I’ll have to warn her,’ Gareth says, ‘she could be facing a lynch mob if the papers are going to be stirring stuff up with that kind of language.’

  ‘She will have to be warned,’ says Geoff, ‘but we’ve no way of knowing where she is. We’d best get the police on to it.’

  ‘It’s going to be a free-for-all. She’ll be hounded,’ Gareth says.

  It seems to Gareth that the issue of warning Stella the press has got wind of her release is now pretty acute. Judging by the state she was in when he’d found her last night (was that only last night? It seems like eons ago), Stella’s mental health could be in jeopardy if the press starts revealing all the nasty details. According to what he’s seen in the file, the experts didn’t agree on any diagnosis for her, but each of them was satisfied that there was something wrong. Since the press hadn’t been allowed to print any of that at the time, Stella having been a Ward of Court, they’d be having a field day now.

  ‘What is it?’ Geoff says.

  ‘The Stella Moon thing’, Gareth says. ‘I do think we have to warn her. About the press, I mean. I’d say she could be in a fragile psychological state. The psychiatric reports. They don’t agree what’s wrong with her, but they all say there’s something. The newspapers could rip her into shreds. Christ knows what they’ll dig up, but this file’s full of shit you wouldn’t want going public…’

  ‘I don’t know what we can do about any of that,’ says Geoff, ‘first, since there appears to be no injunction against reporting and secondly, she’s gone AWOL. And thirdly,’ he adds, ‘we can hardly get the police involved if there’s no injunction. They’ll just tell us to bog off and they’ve got proper crimes to solve etc.’

  ‘I didn’t mean the police,’ says Gareth ‘They’d probably freak her out anyway. I mean find her, tell her what’s in store. Then she can go elsewhere, if need be; a safe house, police protection if there’s any threat to her, change her identity...’

  ‘Well, we know she’s not where she’s supposed to be. But, Gareth, mate, that leaves a hell of a lot of places where she could be.’

  ‘There’s that boarding house in Heaton, and the Beach Hut up at Embleton, both mentioned in the statements.’

  ‘Bit of a long shot, isn’t it? She’d have to be mental to go back to either of those places.’

  ‘But she is mental, Geoff,’ Gareth says, ‘that’s the whole point.’ Gareth stands up, closes the file and pulls his jacket from the back of his chair.

  Minutes later, he is speeding up the A1 towards the Beach Hut, through torrential, sleety rain. Stella’s file slides about on the back seat of the Zodiac, papers falling about everywhere, but Gareth’s got his foot down and doesn’t intend to stop for anything.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  For once in his life, Frank Fanshaw has had a bit of luck. He’s managed to track down R
uby Willoughby and now he waits in the foyer of the Warrender Place Nursing Home, Brighton, wishing he’d given his boots a bit of spit and polish. He’d clean forgot about smartening himself up in his haste to grab his chance to get to old Ma Willoughby. The Sister has gone to check which room she’s in: she’s recently been moved, apparently, owing to what the Sister refers to as ‘inevitable deterioration’, and is now, it appears, on the second floor – the floor reserved for ‘the old folk who need special attention’.

  ‘You’ll see what I mean,’ the Sister adds, ‘when we get there. How long d’you say it is since you’ve seen your aunt?’

  Frank is very aware of his grubby attire and stumbles to reply convincingly. He’s seen the Sister giving him one of those looks. No doubt she’ll think him a gold-digger, estranged for the old lady’s lifetime and only moving in for the kill. If only she knew.

  ‘I’m afraid old Mrs Willoughby hasn’t been herself at all lately,’ the Sister is saying. ‘She took a bad turn, just a few days ago…’

  ‘Oh,’ says Frank, aware that he’s going to have to do better than that, ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Anyway,’ the Sister continues, ‘you’ll see for yourself in a minute. She’ll be pleased as punch to see you, I think. It’s not often old Ruby gets a visitor.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Frank again.

  They’re going up in the lift, and Frank’s beginning to be very anxious about how Ruby is going to react to him. He wouldn’t put it past her to start yelling and shouting all kinds of blue murder the minute she claps eyes on him.

  ‘Only glad to be of service,’ Frank says. He follows the Sister along the echoing corridor.

  The Sister stops outside one of the doors on the second floor. She wipes her hands down her starched white apron before crooking her forefinger and knocking lightly on the door, drawing her ear towards it. She opens the door, leans forward and puts her head round. She seems to Frank very business-like, not at all like the nurses he likes to think about. He smiles to himself at the thought of the ‘nurses’ whose services he’s benefitted from over the years. The Sister’s uniform is not right for a start: skirt right down to her knees, stocking tops well hidden. And the shoes are much too clumpy. And a beam end to match. Frank moves to the side so he is no longer standing directly behind the Sister.

  ‘Ruby, are you decent?’ the Sister asks as she steps into the room, one hand still on the door handle. She turns and nods to Frank to wait where he is. ‘You’ve got a visitor today, Mrs Willoughby. Your nephew come to see you. Now, isn’t that nice for you?’ The Sister laughs a little and beckons Frank in with a small nod.

  Frank follows the Sister into a high room with big Georgian windows, hung with thick brocade curtains – it’s the middle of the day and Ruby’s got them closed. Not like Ruby to shut the light out. The room has a serious air and is full of dark, old-fashioned furniture, some of which Frank recognises. She must have had it brought down. She’s not doing too badly, old Ma Willoughby, bit more up-market here than that stinking old boarding house. Frank thinks about the flood he left in the scullery, the chairs chopped up and burnt.

  And there she is, there’s Ruby Willoughby, sitting in a wing-back chair beside a gas fire, dwarfed by the grand marble fireplace. Slipped down low in the chair, Ruby looks tiny, much smaller than Frank remembers her, but it’s only been eight years or so since he saw her. Ruby doesn’t look up. For a moment, Frank isn’t entirely sure he’s got the right Ruby Willoughby. He could have entirely the wrong person. He tries to fit the frail little figure to the memory of his formidable former landlady. The Sister strides across to the window, pulls back the curtains and fixes them behind their tasseled tie-backs. Ruby watches her, then moves her eyes to look across at Frank. Has she recognised him? Frank can see it’s Ruby Willoughby alright, there’s no mistaking that look on her face. She knows it’s him.

  ‘Your nephew Frank to see you, Ruby.’ The Sister nods in Frank’s direction.

  Is Ruby going to let on? His face is in full view now. Ruby must know it’s him. But she’s not reacting. Maybe she has gone gaga after all.

  ‘There, now,’ the Sister says. ‘And what do you say, Ruby?’

  Ruby looks at Frank as though seeing him for the first time. He’s sunk. She’s lost her marbles. She doesn’t recognise him. He’s got there too late. He’s missed his chance. Damn. Damn. Damn and blast.

  ‘Come now, Ruby, have you lost your manners?’ The Sister turns to Frank. ‘Don’t mind her, Mr Fanshaw. They’re all a bit slow on the uptake, they get like that. You mustn’t take it personally.’

  Then Ruby comes alive. She starts flustering and fidgeting with a large, grubby-looking handkerchief on her lap.

  ‘Bad penny,’ Ruby mutters, looking away and continuing to twist at the handkerchief. ‘Bad bloody penny…that’s what he is…’ Ruby goes on mumbling and fidgeting.

  ‘Now, now, Ruby,’ says the Sister, ‘that’s not how we welcome our visitors.’ She goes over and plumps up the cushions behind Ruby. ‘Let’s see if we can get you a bit comfier, see if we can put you in a better humour. Do sit down, Mr Fanshaw. Make yourself at home.’ The Sister gestures to a chair on the other side of the fire.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure…’ Frank sits down.

  Ruby continues to mutter and twist at the hanky.

  ‘Now,’ says the Sister, ‘it must be nearly time for elevenses. If I can leave you two to get re-acquainted, I’ll go and see where the tray’s got to.’

  ‘If it’s not too much trouble…’ says Frank, taking his cap off and shuffling a bit in his seat. He’s made it, he’s just about made it.

  But no – Ruby starts shouting. ‘I don’t want him in here! Get him out! Take him away!’ She tries to stand up, but it seems her legs won’t hold her. ‘Nothing but a bad bloody penny,’ Ruby shrieks. ‘Take him away, take him away!’

  Frank stands up as if to leave. This could be too risky, too bloody risky, in front of that Sister, if old Ma W loses it. His hand goes to his jacket pocket where he’s stuffed his cap.

  ‘Here, here,’ the Sister says, ‘we’ll have less of that, if you don’t mind. Now you sit back down, Mr Fanshaw.’ She pushes Frank in the chest so he’s obliged to sit back down. ‘And you, Ruby Willoughby,’ she says, wagging her finger, ‘you’ve got to learn to be a bit more polite. It’s not often you get a visitor now, is it? You should be making the most of it. Now, I’m going to fetch that coffee. When I come back, I expect to find you two the best of friends.’

  The Sister gives Frank a wink.

  ‘If you’re sure,’ says Frank, ‘I don’t want to cause no upset…’

  Ruby has gone silent and is staring tightlipped at the hanky she’s gripping in both hands. The Sister winks at Frank again and swishes out of the room, leaving the door wide open.

  ‘Shut that door.’ Ruby says as soon as the Sister is out of the room. Her voice is firm, just like old times. Frank looks at her and hesitates. ‘Shut the bloody door, I said,’ Ruby repeats. ‘Are you deaf, man?’

  There’s not much wrong with her, then. That frail old lady stuff – it’s all an act. Frank gets up and pushes the door closed. Ruby hasn’t changed, evidently: still dishing out orders. Frank is not altogether sure how to gauge her – probably best to let her speak first. He’s not sure how to play it. A minute ago she looked like a frail old lady, totally benign. So much so, Frank couldn’t imagine how one time she’d scared the living daylights out of him. But Ruby Willoughby worked her powers in a quiet way, silently. She wasn’t an obvious bully. She had a way of wheedling round, of getting you to do exactly what she wanted. Oh, she had a way with her alright.

  Frank will have to get the conversation going with old Mother Willoughby before the Sister comes back. What if she smells a rat? What if there’s some late edition of some paper with his picture in it? What if that Sister’s phoning the police this very secon
d? Frank hasn’t got much longer to make sure the old lady doesn’t shop him, but he doesn’t know where to start. He’ll have to say something. Here goes:

  ‘You know who I am, don’t you?’ Frank’s voice sounds a little thin. He clears his throat, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘You remember me?’

  ‘I know a bad bloody penny when I see one,’ says Ruby. Her fingers are starting to twist at the handkerchief again. ‘You always were turning up, like a bad penny. Now you’re following me about like a bad bloody smell. I’ve a mind to…’ Ruby’s voice trails off as she stuffs the hanky into her cardigan pocket and sits up straight, hands now resting firmly on the arms of her chair.

  Frank knows that pose. The old stick sounds perfectly alright now: there’s nothing frail or gaga about her. He registers that tone of voice, the hallmark of Ruby Willoughby. And he’s surprised to discover it has the same old effect on him. Frank too sits up straighter and plants his two feet parallel and flat on the floor. Muriel had that same capacity for condemnation, for making you feel shame when there was nothing for you actually to be ashamed about. Just like Ruby, Muriel only had to look at you and you were six again, waiting for a clip around the ear. Now, sitting watching Ruby, Frank realises Stella’s got it too, that same air of devious authority, that penetrating stare, that same accusatory way of looking – looking through you as though they knew some terrible truth about you that you don’t even know about yourself. Yes, Stella’s got that same trait. An image of the three of them – Ruby, Muriel and Stella – springs to Frank’s mind. Three generations, sitting in a line, the three bloody monkeys. Ruby is staring at him in that way of hers.

  ‘Out with it, man!’ she shouts, breaking the silence. Her shrill voice jolts Frank. He should have planned a strategy, known what to say and in what order. He’s going to come across like a bumbling fool. ‘What is it you’re after? What is it you want? Money? If it’s more money you’re after, you can go and whistle.’