by P. R. Black
Cheap trick, she thought, as her breathing slowed and a dense, pleasant fugue settled round the back of her neck and shoulders. But sometimes they work the best.
‘Now, Becky, I want you to relax, breathe deeply. In through your nose, out through your mouth.’ His voice changed register – higher, reedier, slightly raspier. She thought of it as his Barney Rubble voice, though perhaps there was a hint of Rod Stewart in there. It was the voice of a kindly uncle who could make the whole house explode with laughter.
‘Your eyes feel very heavy. You need a nap – you can’t hold on any longer. You need to let go, and let them close, gradually. We’re going to count backwards from twenty… nineteen… your eyelids are so heavy… eighteen… that means Peak Freans, nibble sweet, tout suite. Because we knows beans means Heinz, strong means lion… seventeen… dream for bream, fishies for me, warm green sea…’
Becky tried to remember his nonsense patter every time she emerged from one of Fullerton’s sessions – to see if there was a set rhythm and meter to it, if there was something in the cadence of the vowels and consonants that lulled her into the trance. Each time, she struggled to recall exactly what he said.
‘So we come to the forest, Becky. You’re in the forest, and you’re entirely safe. You’re invisible, and invulnerable. You’re locked tight in a beam of light, no one gets in, no one gets out, nothing can harm you. You’re breathing slowly, easily, calm. You’re listening to the sounds of the night. You hear owls hooting. But it’s not a lonely sound; it’s a fluffy white sound. Little mice play in the branches – you can hear them scurrying, but the owl leaves them alone to play. There’s a high, clear moon. It’s peaceful, Becky. It could be a painting. Above the trees you can see blue as well as black, that deep blue of a clear night. There’s a crooked tree. You remember the crooked tree, don’t you? Then you come to a clearing. There are people in the clearing. Who’s there, Becky? Who’s in the clearing?’
An almost imperceptible frown angled Becky’s flesh where her fine eyebrows met.
‘You’re warm, cosy and calm, Becky. You can see them, but they can’t see you – they can never see you or speak to you. You can see what’s happening, calmly, dispassionately, clearly. Who’s there, Becky? Who’s in the clearing?’
Her voice might have come from the bottom of the ocean. ‘Mum’s there. She’s not… she’s not wearing anything.’
‘Who else, Becky?’
‘Clara and Howie. None of us are wearing anything. We’re outside and we’re cold. He’s tied us to the rocks. We’re all crying. There’s a big fire in the middle of the rocks, so we can see each other.’
‘Where’s your dad, Becky?’
‘I can’t see him but I know he’s there. I heard him shouting. Was sure he was dead, but now he’s crying.’
‘Who else is there, Becky? Who can you see?’
The frown deepened. ‘The man is there.’
‘What man? What is he wearing?’
‘He has on a white gown. Like a priest. He has on this…’ Her breath hitched in her throat. ‘Mask. He has on a mask. It’s made out of bone. It’s like a cow’s skull. It’s held together with wire or thread. I can see little bits of his face through it… he’s got these big black eyes. He’s laughing at us.’
‘And who else?’
‘Nobody.’
‘Look hard, Becky. Are you sure there isn’t someone else?’
‘No. Nobody else. Just us.’
‘And your dad isn’t with the man?’
‘No. Dad got hurt. We heard him cry.’
‘Did you ever see them together, Becky? The man and your dad?’
‘Yes. They were fighting.’
‘Can you hear your dad now? While the man is in the forest with you?’
Becky didn’t say anything. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. She was there, in the forest. The sounds. The bite of the rope. Shivering.
‘Becky? Can you hear him? Your dad?’
‘Not any more.’
‘Look at the mask, Becky.’
‘No.’
‘It’s absolutely fine, Becky. We’re going to go deeper. Now you’re deeply asleep, and you’re invisible, totally invulnerable, nothing can get in, nothing can harm you, no weapon in the world can reach you. Look at the mask. Look at it calmly. You’re cool, dispassionate. You’re looking at the mask. Are you seeing it?’
She could. There were the bulging eyes, the tongue flicking over the lips, just visible inside the long jawbone with the weird teeth.
‘Do you recognise those eyes? Do you recognise that face?’
‘No.’ She said it again, almost a shout. ‘No!’
‘Does it have a beard? A little bit like me? My beard?’
‘No.’
‘Is it your dad’s face? Is your dad’s face in there? Can we be sure, Becky? Can we ever be sure?’
‘No.’ But the face had changed. Tufty, jowly cheeks appeared beneath the wired-up parts of the bone mask; it was as if a spider was trapped in there, thrashing blindly. The eyes weren’t so large or freakish any more, but still black, like her father’s, aglow with unholy mirth.
‘Can we be sure, Becky? Is it Dad? Dad may be mad and it all seems so sad but aren’t you glad the truth is had?’
‘No.’ In her mind’s eye, the flesh and the beard hair withdrew, and the eyes she remembered returned. And also the voice. Calm and cold, rough-edged.
Fullerton allowed a pause. Then: ‘What about the other man?’
‘There’s no other man.’
‘There is. There is another man, isn’t there? You’ve seen him. He’s the one who hurt your dad, while the other man hurt you and Clara. There’s no other explanation.’
‘Dad tried to fight but the other man was too strong. The other man hurt him and said he’d kill him if we tried to get away. “I’ll slit his belly,” he said. ‘“You’ll see what’s inside him.”’
Becky’s voice mimicked the other, in the croak of a child trying to scare a friend after lights out.
‘But is there another man, Becky? You see the other man. He’s not too tall, is he? He’s a white man and he has the other mask on. The other mask, Becky. The skeleton mask. The one the police thought the first man wore, the one they thought he bought it from a shop. That’s what they told you at first, wasn’t it? The mask, the other mask, the other man. Two men. Two peas in a pod. There must be two because twins wins and blends in and there’s a pair in the square with two dice in the air.’
‘No.’
‘You see him, don’t you? The other man. You know there’s two – not one, no fun in one, the sun’s gone with one but with two it shines through and the truth comes from you. Two. You see the other man, don’t you? The one who helped? You see him, don’t you? Does he look like your dad?’
‘I see him,’ Becky said quietly.
‘What do you see?’
‘He has a beard. Under the mask. Or a moustache, I think. It might be a moustache. He’s…’ her brow cleared. ‘He’s a bit like you. He’s quite short, stocky. He has a belly just like my dad. He’s wearing my dad’s jeans, and a pair of boots.’
‘What else do you see?’
‘He has… on top of his head… a hat.’
‘A hat?’
‘Yes… a cowboy hat. He takes the mask off…’ Becky’s breath hitched in her throat. She licked her lips, swallowed, and continued. ‘I recognise him. I know him. I know who he is.’
‘Who is he, Becky?’ Fullerton said. ‘Who do you see under the mask? Who is the second man?’
‘It’s… Yosemite Sam.’
‘Who?’
‘Yosemite Sam. The rootinest, tootinest, shootinest varmint in the old west. Pow-pow-pow-pow!’ Becky aimed twin guns at the floor. Then she opened her eyes, rested her head on the back of the seat, and smiled. Her eyes were clear and her voice lucid. ‘Now would you like to explain what that was all about?’
Fullerton flinched, and raised a hand as if to ward her off. ‘Becky
, we’re in the middle of therapy. I haven’t brought you out of the trance yet. It can be dangerous if you don’t let me bring you back gradually.’
‘I haven’t gone anywhere, Dr Fullerton. I’m not sure I ever did. Hypnotherapy was quite relaxing to start with. Bit like a foot massage – it was okay, but I’m not sure I’d ask for it on a spa day. Like peach ice cream, you know? It’s fine and all, but you really want choc ice. You know? Choc ice twice as nice, sugar and spice, sage advice… what a crock of shite.’
Fullerton recovered his poise. ‘We were making progress.’
‘Someone’s making progress – that much I know. But who? Why are you introducing these new elements into what happened? “Is my dad behind the mask?” Of course he isn’t, you berk! My dad got his legs broken. And what’s with this second man you keep gibbering about? There was no second man. I know there was no second man. There was one man – one bastard. He beat my dad to a pulp. That was after he threatened to kill us, and to be fair he was as good as his word. He tied my dad up to make him watch. Then he… well, he died. I saw my dad die. I saw them all die.’
‘There is a theory that there were two men.’
Becky snapped her fingers. ‘A theory! Great! Let’s hear your theories. What do your theories have to do with my mental health? Or your practice?’
‘I am trying to help. You said you wanted to go back, to go over all the details. All the possibilities. You said that yourself.’
‘I want to go over everything in case there’s something I missed – something subtle I can’t remember. But the nuts and bolts of it, the blood and the screaming, who did what to whom – that, I remember very well.’
‘Becky, this is lifelong trauma. I’m trying to help you process it.’
‘You’re a goddamn liar, is what you are. Are you writing a paper on me? Something to present to the BPS?’ She gestured at the diploma on the wall over his shoulder. ‘Something to make your name with? To claim you cracked a famous murder case?’
‘No. Becky, calm down. Please.’
‘I want answers – what is it you want with me? Why are you trying to implant false memories into my mind?’
‘I’m not. Please stay calm.’
‘You’ve had this planned for months. “We don’t fully understand what happened, Becky.” “It’s all a bit formless, Becky – some things in the case don’t add up”. You’ve been sending me down false paths. You’ve been grooming me. Why?’
‘That’s not true.’ He stood up, his face blank. ‘Not for months. Just this one session.’ He started forward.
Becky leapt from her seat. ‘Not one more step, or I’ll break your neck. I swear to god, lift your hands, and I’ll end you.’
Fullerton paused. Then a curious thing happened. A mask was removed; a professional edifice crudely ruptured. His face twisted, appeared to implode. His shoulders sagged, as if a pin had been pulled in his spine, and he collapsed to the floor. He hunched over on his front, elbows on the floor, utterly supplicant.
For a bizarre moment, she wondered if someone had shot him – had a bullet come through the curtains? But nothing had hit Fullerton. No solid objects, anyway. He was safe, invisible and impregnable in his gloomy office.
He sobbed, his face in his hands. He tried to say something.
Becky sank to her haunches, bringing her face level with his. His veneer was gone; tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. Even breath seemed to torture him. It was as if he was being strangled.
Finally, Dr Fullerton managed to say it.
‘He’s got my daughter.’
47
Becky had taken a good stretch at the age of 16 – she was only a little taller now than she had been then. So it didn’t make much sense that her Aunt Cecilia’s garden should seem so small, so compact, as she headed along the path towards the bungalow door. Since she’d moved out aged 18 for university, she’d only stayed there for the odd Christmas, and even that had been an ordeal; two introverts, both of whom wished Becky was somewhere else.
The old girl had kept the place in good order, the window boxes and potted plants an orderly splash of colour on the paving slabs. Even the smallest cactus in any flat Becky had stayed in tended towards riotous assembly in short order; Becky marvelled at the patience required to maintain discipline in a full garden.
Cecilia was in similarly good order. She would never take to fat, and she had sorted out her hair, cut shorter and cropped high, with tawny highlights in among the grey. Her clothes seemed more stylish, too, a cashmere sweater clinging to her ultra-slim frame, a skirt trailing toward her ankles.
She’s dressed up for me, Becky realised.
They didn’t hug, or even shake hands.
‘You’re looking well,’ Cecilia said. ‘Got a touch of the sun? You been away?’
Becky smiled. Here was the type of passive-aggressive inquiry she remembered. ‘A bit. You’ve seen the papers, I guess?’
‘I could hardly miss them,’ Cecilia sniffed.
A conservatory had been built into the sprawling garden. They took tea there, on prim wooden furniture. Everything was small, dainty, breakable. This was a place where a child could not be allowed to run free.
The small talk ran out soon enough. ‘You ever been a big letter writer, Cecilia?’
‘Whatever do you mean by that?’
‘Just what I asked.’
‘Not really. I used to send letters to your mum now and again. She was the big letter writer in the family. Forever scratching away in notebooks, too. I guess that’s where you got it from, in fact.’
‘I remember. She always used to leave poems in birthday cards. She could knock out some verses in two minutes flat. And she loved dirty limericks.’
‘Ha! That’s true.’ A smile struggled to break free on Cecilia’s face. ‘She sent me some crackers.’
‘That’s kind of why I’m here. I never asked before. But you’re the only person who can have them.’
‘What?’
‘Mum’s papers. Her journals. The novel she tried to write when she was in her twenties, the one dad used to tease her about. And her letters.’
‘That stuff… it’ll be buried somewhere in the loft, or in the shed in the garden.’
Becky gestured towards her own clothes; a band T-shirt which had run to the same texture as greasepaint on an evil clown’s brow, and elderly but much-loved jeans frayed at the hems. ‘I’m dressed for digging. Let’s go find them, Cecilia.’
‘God knows where they are, Becky. Is this why you’re here? To tear my house apart?’ Cecilia glanced at her watch.
‘You don’t have any appointments, Cecilia. That’s why I asked you to clear your diary today. Come on.’
‘Why do you want to do this now? I don’t understand.’
‘Cecilia, those documents belong to me,’ Becky said quietly.
Her aunt’s eyes hardened. ‘I think you may find that possession is nine-tenths of the law.’
‘If you don’t give me my mum’s papers, you’ll have a court summons to answer within the next thirty working days.’
Cecilia’s face took on the lineaments of amusement, but this did not soften her features, which were far removed from mirth. ‘Threatening, now. That’s very like you. That’s the girl I remember, all right.’
‘It’s not a threat, Cecilia. It’s a guarantee. I want to see her papers.’
‘Give me a week, then. I can’t just disrupt my home life to please you and your whims.’
‘Now, Cecilia. I want them today. Not tomorrow, not next week. Right now.’
‘They’ll do you no good. No good at all,’ her aunt said quietly.
‘I’ll be the judge of that. Cecilia, I don’t know what you think I’ll find, or what it’s going to do to me. Maybe digging it up will hurt you, not me. Maybe that’s what frightens you the most. I don’t know. But I have to see those papers. It’s important. There are some things I have to get straight in my head.’
‘You’re trying
to catch him, aren’t you? The man.’ Cecilia sipped at her tea. ‘Jack Tullington came around. He told me.’
‘Is that right? When was this?’
‘On the anniversary. He came with flowers. He always does. He’s a good man.’
‘Yes. Very smart man, too.’ Something struck her. ‘Did you give him Mum’s papers?’
‘No. Of course not. He didn’t ask to see them, either. If I didn’t give them to you, I’m hardly going to hand them over to him, am I?’
‘True.’ Becky drummed her fingers. ‘I’ll say this for you – you’re consistent. Come on, let’s go. It’s fun clearing out garages and attics and sheds. Bagsy your old Bunty annuals?’
48
Him
He listened to the coffee machine bubble and spit, impatient for the liquid to collect. A ghost shifted in the reflection on the glass pot.
He spun round, and there she was. His wan daughter, her dyed black hair casting her face in a sickly light.
‘I didn’t know you were here,’ he said.
‘I didn’t know you were home,’ she replied, yawning and stretching. ‘You look guilty. What have you been up to at your conference?’
He smiled. ‘Why aren’t you at school?’
‘Study leave.’
She still wore a nightshirt, a grubby cotton garment with a goggle-eyed cartoon character on the front. It barely reached the top of her spindly legs. ‘That’s too short. And you’ve had it for years. Didn’t your mother get you some nice pyjamas?’
‘I thought those were from Father Christmas. When did you become interested in what I wear to bed?’
He grunted and poured a coffee. ‘It’s midday, and you aren’t studying.’
‘I take a while to get into my stride. I’m a night owl. Like you.’ She crossed to the fridge. ‘Actually I was thinking of taking a walk in the woods. Get some air in me.’ She nodded towards a plastic box, filled with apples and cheese sandwiches. ‘I take it you’re going on a hike, too? You’ve got a big appetite. It’s like you’ve got enough for two, there.’
