by Mark Lumby
I grabbed her arms at the elbows, shook her, and she shot me a stunned look like she was recovering from a bad dream. Perhaps I was squeezing her arms a little too tightly because she was trying to wriggle loose. I could see the distress on her face. I raised my voice, “You watched him kill your daughter. You didn’t do anything? She was your daughter!”
“I know, I know,” she cried. “I don’t know why. I was scared.”
I pushed her away, gasping and disgusted. I wanting to hit her. “You did nothing,” I said. “Absolutely nothing. You are as much to blame as Paul.” I stood back a little more like I was repulsed to be near her.
Janice stared at me like she was hurt by my words, as though she somehow thought them harsh and unjustified. But then she said, “Oh—I know, dear. The more I thought about it, the more I questioned why I hadn’t saved her, it all became clear. It took me a while to admit to myself, but as much as Paul was torturing himself over you and Sarah, she had taken away my husband, too.”
“What?” I expressed.
“As I watched Paul wrap that chord around her neck and pull it tighter, I think I actually wanted her to die.” I took another step backward as if she had a disease and I wasn’t going to risk being infected. But Janice followed me. “Sarah was choking, making noises I couldn’t imagine anyone making. And the tighter he pulled, I wondered if I might have my husband back.”
“You let him!”
“I wouldn’t say I let him do it. But I suppose you would see it like that. Paul never knew. And he still doesn’t know that I saw him murder our little Sarah.”
“But you did nothing to stop him. How could you just spectate, cower behind a door as he strangled your daughter? Your own flesh and blood!”
She shrugged. “It was easier that way; you must understand. It would be just the two of us, the way it used to be, when we made love most nights. But—her death made no difference.”
“Where is Paul? Where’d he go?”
“I told you, dear. He’s gone.”
“So—he just up and left. Said nothing to you. No reason. Nothing.”
“He said that he had something to do.” Janice smiled. “Funny. Of all the days, I remember what happened today. This—thing in my head stops my memory sometimes.” She vigorously taps the part of her head where the brain tumour lives. “I get lost in the past, forget the simplest of things like pissing in my knickers instead of the toilet; but today, I remembered Sarah. I see everything like I was always okay. Tomorrow, I won’t. Truth is—I don’t think Paul is coming back.”
“The police will find him, you know.”
“It will be too late. You see, Paul never knew that I watched him as he killed her. And I know as much as he regrets what he did, he tortures himself every day over it. No—Paul isn’t coming back. In fact, I bet if we check his credit card purchases, the police will find him, probably in a travel lodge somewhere. But they won’t find him alive.”
“You think he’ll kill himself?” The police should be here by now.
“I’m sure of it.”
“Then the police will arrest you. You saw him do it. You could have stopped him.”
“Yes, if I wanted to. And yes again, they will arrest me,” she shrugged and then chuckled. “But tomorrow, dear, I won’t remember a damn thing. How do you like that?”
“You’re something else,” I said, shaking my head at her. They will find him, even if it is too late. There was a knock on the door. It was already open so the police walked through, saw myself and Janice. “Thank God,” I told them.
“Are you Peter? Mr Peter Beckit?” The male officer said.
I told him I was and introduced Janice as the mother of Sarah.
“We have a car down the road. We spoke with Maggie Beckit. Your wife?”
“Shit! She wasn’t meant to be home.”
The female officer turned ominously to her colleague. “That would explain her reaction.”
I said, “Was she okay?”
“No, Mr Beckit. She is not okay,” she replied.
“She was meant to be away a few hours.”
“Clearly,” the male officer said. “They’re with your neighbours for the time being.” He glanced at Janice, frowned, and said, “I think perhaps we need to go down to the station.”
“Hey, I’m just reporting the body. It’s her you need to question.”
“And why would that be, Mr Beckit?”
“She murdered her!”
“Her?”
“Her daughter. Sarah went missing years ago. She’ll be on your system. Sarah Mitchel,” I prompted them to check.
“I suppose she would, if she did in fact go missing.”
“Hey, I just want this mess over with.”
“I’m sure you do, but until we determine whose body it is, it’s not going to go away.”
“We only moved in there a few days ago. Just get her body down and arrest this woman!”
“The body was found in your loft, Mr Beckit. So, as you can appreciate, we really need to ask you a few questions.”
“What the fuck!”
“Please, Mr Beckit. Or I’ll have to caution you.”
I turned to Janice. “Give them his credit card details. He needs to be found.” But to my surprise, she smirked at me, shaking her head, and looked at the police officer.
Janice said, “This man burst through my door. I’ve never seen him before until now, and he storms in looking all worried and flustered.” She stared at me, her expression as still as a frozen lake. “He told me that he killed someone, and now I’m really frightened that he’s done something bad.”
The male officer took a step forward. “Is this correct Mr Beckit?”
I took my eyes away from Janice and was surprised on how close the officer stood over me. “What?” I glanced back at Janice like I was unsure what had happened—of what I had been accused of. The officer was about to reach for my arm when I pulled away and stepped back. He hovered his right hand over his taser and I was encouraged to calm down as he signalled a left palm. “No—No, listen. This is all wrong,” I cajoled. “I only moved into the house a few days ago. Yesterday, I found something in the loft: a refuse sack. There were bones inside. It looked like they had been there a few years…more than a few. But I knew who owned the house before we did, and I knew where they lived. I came knocking at their door and Paul answered. When I told him, he confessed everything. You have to believe me!”
The female officer asked, “Yesterday? You found the bones yesterday?”
“Yes—I know what you’re going to say—”
“Really?” the male officer said. “And what would that be?” He still had a hand over his taser, but felt comfortable to lower his left.
“He told me it would only be a few months and had asked me if I could wait until Janice had died.”
The male officer turned to Janice, eyebrows raised, and then he stared back at me. “Is that a threat?”
“What? No! You’ve got it wrong! She has a tumour in her brain.” I shrugged, apologetically. “I felt sorry for her. I didn’t want her to know what Paul had done.”
The officers glared at each other. “Who did you say the bones belonged to?” the female officer asked.
“Sarah—their daughter,” I told them. “Paul had killed her and made out as though she had gone missing. Just check your records; she’ll be there somewhere. Call it in on your radio.”
The male officer said, “Okay, I’ve heard enough. First of all we need to establish who the bones belong to.”
“They’re Sarah’s,” I said, a little calmer.
“So you say. Listen, I’m not placing you under arrest but I must insist you come with us.”
“But I didn’t do anything.”
“If you’re telling the truth, then yes, you have done something. I’m not sure what it is yet, but there must be something wrong with holding onto a body.”
And he was right. I should have reported Paul to the police from
the beginning. What would I say to Maggie? I had lied to her, and that was unforgivable.
* * *
I was taken to the police station and questioned over the events. I was there for twelve hours before I was released. Sarah’s bones were taken away from the house. They did belong to a female around the same age as Sarah when she had gone missing.
Dental records concluded that the body was Sarah.
The police questioned Janice too, but conveniently tomorrow had come too soon for her, and she had no memory. The police had traced Paul’s credit card information to a Holiday Inn confirming Janice’s speculation. He had checked in on the same day I had found the chord around Sarah’s neck. He never checked out. He was found in the bath with his wrists bleeding out over the white tiled floor. He had written a letter addressed to no one in particular.
It was his confession.
I have lived with the guilt for too long. I am relieved that its over. I couldn’t have lived with the burden for much longer. Sarah was my daughter. She still is. Perhaps I’m guilty of loving her too much. Perhaps I’m guilty because I failed her. I should have told the truth when she had died. Should have gone to the police. But, as much as I loved Sarah, I also love Janice. She is the reason I wrestle everyday with my conscience.
On the day Sarah died, it wasn’t I who killed her; it was Janice. It was too late when I saw what she had done. Too late for Sarah. Too late for us all. Choices had to be made and I chose badly. But now its over, and soon I shall be with my daughter—if she’ll forgive me.
Paul.
* * *
Two months have passed since Maggie knew all about Sarah, two months struggling through our relationship and marriage. Two months since Paul was found in the hotel room. When you’re dead a confession means nothing. And because to the police it was just a letter with no proof, no solid evidence, Paul was still seen as the murderer. Janice still lives. The cancer in her brain hasn’t taken her yet. Hopefully it won’t be long, though. I am told she resides in Barnaby’s hospice several miles away. Still too close. I hope she feels pain when her mind is good to her, when she remembers what she did. But I fear for a lady like Janice, remorse is something that is well and truly absent.
I only went back into the loft to tidy up the mess the police had made when bringing down her body. The rats that scurried from the sack were found dead and shrivelled up as if they’d been that way for years. Then we sealed it shut with three inch nails. That was Maggie’s idea.
The noises stopped, too.
* * *
Sarah was given a burial yesterday. Janice was there, although she didn’t seem to recognise me. I couldn’t take my eyes off her knowing what she had done. I don’t even think she knew where she was, whose funeral she was attending, which is sad. But her memory comes and goes. Eventually she’ll remember the reason why she killed her daughter, too.
Upon leaving the graveyard, I watched Janice as she walked past. She was escorted by a care worker. Janice held a box in her hands. She held it up front and didn’t remove her eyes from it. As she stopped, she slowly looked over her shoulder, and at me. She turned the rest of her body and presented the box to me.
“I think this must be for you,” she said. “It had a note with it. I think it was my hand writing. It read that this was my daughter funeral.” Janice looked confused. She shook her head. “They tell me she was only nine when she died. I’m too old to be a mother so it can’t be true.”
I was about to tell her what she had done, but this seemed unfair at this point. There were other people here also, perhaps Sarah’s Cousins and Aunties and Uncles. They were grieving too, so it didn’t seem right to create a scene. I reached out and slowly took the box from her trembling hands.
“The note said that I was to gift someone this box. I get the impression it’s you. Do I know you? You seem familiar.”
I gulped on a dry throat and looked up from the box. “I knew your daughter.”
“Oh? Did our children play together? I know I should know your name.” She turned briefly away as if she was leaving, but she stopped and looked at me one last time. “What was her name?”
She didn’t even know the name of her daughter. “Sarah—her name was Sarah.”
Janice smiled at me, a gesture mixed with weakness and confusion. I would have felt sorry for her if I hadn’t known her past.
* * *
I left the box on the kitchen table, the lid aside and revealing Sarah’s teddy bear. It was still filthy with dirt. I went over to the window, and looked out into the garden. Samuel was outside sat on the swing. I was about to tap on the window to tell him it was unsafe, but something inside stopped me. Samuel was laughing as he kicked out his legs to get higher on the swing. His feet dragged on the grass. The rope would snap if he went too high. And as I withdrew my hand from the glass, Samuel appeared to be talking to someone. His lips were moving. He could have been in song, although I doubted that. He checked over his shoulder as if someone was behind him, pushing him on the swing. And as he went higher, and I could see the hedgerow behind the swing, Sarah was there.
I remembered what Samuel had said in the bedroom, when Sarah’s voice came from his stomach.
I’m lonely.
The swing went even higher. Too high. The branch creaked and the old rope protested.
As Sarah looked up at me, there was nothing in her expression. But her eyes showed evidence of the contrary. They were dark, shadowed around the rims.
Then the sides of her mouth creased into a little smile, and the rope snapped.
She wasn’t alone any more.
