The Flower Girls

by Alice Clark-Platts

  ‘I know. She called me.’

  Joanna lifts her eyebrows. ‘Yeah, well. She’s moving on. She says she’s not got the energy to stop Laurel being released. She wants to remember Kirstie in peace. No energy.’ She gives a wry laugh. ‘Anyway, it appears that I …’ she looks down at her wine glass ‘. . . still seem to have lots of energy for it. And also,’ she shuts her eyes briefly, ‘I’ve been making some really bad decisions lately. I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘About what I said in the bar that day.’

  Will nods but doesn’t speak.

  For a while they sit in silence, hearing the creak of Lucy’s footsteps above them, a few tiny cries from Jemima as she settles in her cot.

  ‘How would you react, do you think?’ Joanna says at last. ‘If something happened to Jemima?’

  Will sighs. ‘God, Jo. I have no idea. It’s too horrific even to contemplate.’

  ‘Yeah. But it’s weird, isn’t it? Don’t you think? I’m not a parent. And yet, I’m so intractable, I can’t let it go. Whereas Debbie wants to move on. It’s like she’s reached her limit.’

  ‘But this has been your life, your job, for so long,’ Will says. ‘It’s been the reason you get up in the morning. And also,’ he puts his glass down on the carpet, ‘a lot – and I mean a lot – of people agree with you. They don’t want Laurel Bowman released. They think she hasn’t been punished enough. Supposing she reoffends once she’s out? Supposing she hurts another child?’

  Joanna frowns at him. ‘Now you’re sounding like me.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’m only playing devil’s advocate because I don’t think it’s good for you. All this haranguing of the Bowmans, the appeals, the interviews. I think it’s wearing you away.’

  Will gets up and comes and sits next to Jo on the sofa, takes her hand but she won’t look at him.

  ‘It’s OK, you know. To let her go. You’ve done more than anyone has – to defend Kirstie, protect her memory.’

  Joanna shakes her head as tears spill onto her lap. ‘I haven’t . . . there’s always more. I just wish I could bring her back. For Debs . . .’

  ‘Come here,’ Will says, drawing her head onto his shoulder. ‘You’ve done everything you can. Let the courts decide now, Jo. Give it up to them. Everything you’ve done for other victims as well as Debbie and Rob. All the support you’ve given, it’s been so valuable. But it’s not worth killing yourself over. Drinking yourself into a grave for . . . Don’t you think?’

  ‘But when you have something to fight for, it’s almost easier, don’t you think?’ Joanna gives him her glass and sinks back on the cushions behind her, palms over her face. ‘Because what am I going to do now, Will? Once all of this is over. What am I going to do?’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  They sit together on facing sofas in Jonny’s flat. Max is opposite Hazel, who has her head bowed, hands in her lap, Jonny’s arm curled protectively around her back. The room has the weighted stillness of tension. Jonny has made coffee but it remains untouched on the side table, its aroma vaguely nauseating in the overheated space.

  Max is aware of the traffic noise outside. In the distance, a jackhammer is ploughing up a road. He squeezes his palms together, trying desperately to quell the adrenaline, to remain calm and not frighten Hazel with his eagerness. She is sunken and pale from the prison trip yesterday. When she had confessed to Max that her memories were returning, he had driven her to Jonny’s straight away. They had run the gauntlet through the camera flashes of the pack of paparazzi, who waited outside Jonny’s flat just as they lurked outside her own. Once inside, she had trembled as if she were cold, as if she could never be warm again. Jonny had looked over her head at Max in concern as he led her inside, sat her in an armchair with a blanket over her knees.

  ‘She needs to rest,’ Max said quietly to him in the hallway. ‘She thinks she can remember what happened on that day.’ He looked over Jonny’s shoulder to where Hazel sat. ‘Keep her calm tonight and I’ll come back in the morning. Just let her sleep. She looks exhausted.’

  Jonny had nodded. ‘Right you are.’ After Max had left, he had given Hazel a bowl of chicken soup and they had eaten together in silence. Then he had run her a bath and washed her back slowly as she stared down at her knees.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she had said at last. ‘I’m so sorry to have involved you in this. To have involved Evie. The press. It’s all so horrible. You can’t know how much I wish that things were different.’

  ‘It’s not your fault, babe,’ Jonny had replied, lifting her chin to look her in the eye. ‘You’re just as much a victim of this as anyone.’ He nodded at her, swirling his hand in the water. ‘Hopefully now, though, we’re on the way to sorting it all out. Making everything better.’

  Hazel had given him a sad smile.

  ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘You look after me, don’t you, Jonny?’ she had answered. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you, that’s all.’

  ‘You don’t have to do without me. And do you know why?’

  She had shaken her head.

  ‘Because once all of this has gone away, been dealt with, we’re going to get married. You and me against the world. Just us two. And Evie of course. And maybe,’ he had said, his voice faltering a little, ‘a baby of our own. What do you reckon?’

  Hazel had reached up a hand covered in soap suds and stroked his cheek. ‘Yes,’ she had said. ‘That’s all I want.’

  Max looks over at her now and wonders, not for the first time, how much a person can take. How much pressure can be loaded onto Hazel before she snaps, needs more qualified help than either he or Jonny can provide.

  ‘Hazel,’ he asks gently. ‘Are you feeling a bit better? After yesterday?’

  She nods. ‘Thank you for looking after me,’ she says. ‘I felt so strange in the car. As if I were . . . outside myself. I couldn’t think straight at all.’ She shakes her head. ‘Thank you for bringing me home.’

  Jonny’s chest puffs up a little at this. His hand doesn’t leave Hazel’s thigh, stroking the wool of her skirt repeatedly. ‘We had a quiet night last night, didn’t we, babe?’ he says.

  ‘I spoke to my father,’ Hazel says, tears brimming.

  ‘Oh?’ Max lifts his head. ‘How is he? It must be a shock for him to know that you’re back in contact with Laurel.’

  Hazel nods, giving a thin smile. ‘He’s not well, Daddy. He . . . can’t take the strain of this really. I feel so guilty that it’s all being dragged up again.’

  Max’s mind is whirring. Unable to stop himself, he asks, ‘Would he consent to being interviewed, do you think? For the book?’

  An expression of fear passes across Hazel’s face. ‘No!’ she blurts. ‘Please don’t speak to Daddy! We must leave him alone. He can’t take the strain. It’s going to kill him, all of this.’

  Max bites his lip, sitting back. ‘OK, of course. You mustn’t worry, Hazel. Please. I’m here to look after you—’ He breaks off as if a thought has leapt into his head. Tense silence fills the room as he shifts in his seat and crosses his legs. He smiles wanly at her, taking off his glasses, polishing the lenses with the edge of his jumper.

  ‘You look worried suddenly, Max,’ she says. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Well . . .’ he hedges. ‘Something’s just occurred to me. About your memories coming back, that’s all.’

  ‘But it’s good, isn’t it?’ Hazel asks. ‘If my memory is returning? It will help with the book, won’t it? With the publishing deal?’

  Max nods, replacing his spectacles. ‘Yes, yes. It’s good for the book. It’s just . . .’

  ‘What?’ she says, moving Jonny’s hand away and leaning forward. ‘What is it? Tell me.’

  Max blinks and rubs the back of his neck. ‘It’s just . . . I’ve realised you might be testifying soon, mightn’t you? If the court allows it. At Laurel’s court hearing.’

  ‘What about it?’ Jonny asks. ‘Why does that matter?’

  Hazel pushes back into the
cushions, comprehension dawning on her face.

  ‘Hazel?’ Jonny says. ‘I don’t get it. Why is this a problem?’

  She holds Max’s gaze as she answers.

  ‘Because it will matter to Laurel what I say,’ she says. ‘It will make a difference to her parole.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  As March comes in like a lion, Toby sits opposite Laurel, who stares up at the ceiling, chewing gum. From her studied lack of interest, he knows that she is deeply upset. He shifts on his seat, trying to ignore the pain in his lower abdomen. He can’t help himself, though. Inside of him, he can feel the cancer growing, multiplying in mushrooming nodules. Sometimes, he feels it actively crawling upwards, sideways and along his organs. It has become part of him and he is no longer certain where the cancer ends and he begins. It has crept over him, carpeting his insides with a stealth that leaves him breathless. He looks gaunt, the flesh around his cheeks hanging down in chalky-coloured folds.

  His operation was cancelled at his last consultation. The cancer has spread to his lymph nodes and liver. But, looking at his fingernails, calcified and worn, in truth he had known even before then, without articulating it, that it would not be an operating table he would lie on soon.

  ‘I saw a rainbow this morning,’ he says. ‘Did you manage to see it?’

  Laurel’s eyes remain looking upwards and she does not respond.

  ‘Funny the things you realise you’ll miss.’ Toby sighs, leaning forward across the space between them. ‘I’ll miss you, L. I really will. I feel . . .’ He grimaces, his mouth contorting uselessly, trying to articulate what he means. ‘I feel I’ve let you down.’

  Laurel chews on her lip, working at it so forcefully that Toby is worried that soon she will draw blood.

  ‘Stop it, L. Please. Don’t hurt yourself . . . We have to talk. We have to prepare ourselves for next week. For the hearing.’ He rubs the back of his neck. ‘Your sister’s offered to speak on your behalf. To help you in the judicial review.’

  Laurel’s head snaps up. ‘Is she allowed?’

  ‘Yes. It’s not common. But we’ve made the application and the court just agreed. We argued there were extraordinary circumstances. New evidence might come to light, which could influence the parole board. It might help you to have some familial support. Some back-up. All these years, you’ve never had that, have you? And from what Rosie said when I saw her here . . .’ Toby tries to catch Laurel’s eye but she ducks her head. ‘What do you think?’ He shrugs helplessly in the silence which thickens around them. ‘L? What do you think?’

  He looks at her, at the harsh set of her face, and wonders again why she cannot speak, why she cannot help herself.

  ‘Could you talk to me, L? Could you? Just because this might be the last time we see each other before the actual day of the hearing. And there are so many things that I feel are unresolved. Could we try and deal with them today?’ He waits, but no answer comes from her. ‘Has she been in touch?’

  ‘Rosie? No. Not since her visit.’

  ‘No letters or anything?’

  ‘No.’ Laurel eyeballs him. ‘You trust her, do you?’

  He thinks about it. ‘I think she’s frightened. She’s been brought into the public eye because of this Devon thing. She never wanted it but now she has to deal with it, make the best of it. I think she cares about you, yes. Do I trust her?’ He expels a long breath. ‘In all honesty, I don’t know. But I feel very strongly that time is running out and we should take the opportunities that present themselves.’

  ‘Running out for me? Or for you?’ Laurel looks at him, blinking slowly. Her hair is greasy and her skin a greyish colour. Toby feels his heart constrict as he notices the boniness of her wrists, the pulse point in her temple, flickering rapidly.

  ‘For both of us,’ he says softly.

  Laurel raises her arms above her head, and cracks her knuckles. ‘What if I told you that I had proof Rosie was involved?’ she says lightly.

  ‘What?’ Toby sits forward. ‘What proof? Involved in what happened to Kirstie? What are you talking about?’

  Laurel shrugs. ‘Nothing concrete. But something that would harm her. Make people wonder. About her. About what was going on back then.’

  ‘I’d want to see it. Right now. And I’d wonder why you hadn’t shown it to me before. Why you’ve waited all this time to say something.’ Toby’s voice is sharp, his blood pumping. He stares at Laurel. Her eyes are dark, fathomless, but just for a second he sees a light pass across them. An open duct of longing, of desperate pain.

  ‘Have you ever been frightened?’ she asks him. ‘Really terrified? So scared that you think you’re going to die, that your heart might stop?’

  ‘No,’ he says, wondering where she’s going with this, his forehead creased with concern. What proof does she have? Why won’t she tell him? ‘Not really. Anxious, worried. But not frightened like that. Not like you mean.’

  ‘Not even now? Not even when you’re facing . . . death?’ She whispers the word as if afraid she might summon it.

  Toby shakes his head. ‘What happens in death has always been something I’ve thought of as being out of my control,’ he says. ‘I’ve lived my life.’ His lips twist sadly. ‘I’ve done my best. What will happen . . . afterwards, I don’t know. But I’m not scared of it.’

  Laurel nods. ‘But you’re a man,’ she says, as if this is an answer. ‘You’re a grown-up.’

  It breaks Toby’s heart to hear this, as if she has never left her ten-year-old self behind. Stuck forever down on that canal path, the wind in her hair. She cannot see herself as an adult. She has never had any barometer of her worth.

  ‘If you know something, L,’ he pushes on regardless, ‘you must tell me. You must help yourself. Speak! Tell us what you know and then we can help you. I can’t help you if you keep me in the dark.’ He rubs his face in frustration.

  ‘I know I’ve been here all this time,’ Laurel says. ‘Never been to school or anything. But I’m not an idiot. I know what the law is. Even if I knew anything about that day, what would have been the point of saying it? They were never even going to arrest her. She was too young. She was six. They wouldn’t have done anything. And . . .’

  ‘And?’ Toby prods, his cheeks hot with a terrible growing fear that he has misguided her for all of these years. That she has been under a horrific misapprehension, something so utterly wrong, and the reason for it is entirely his fault.

  ‘. . . And what would it have done to my mother?’ She looks at him, appalled. ‘How would she have dealt with … with anything else? She was so fragile, Mummy. It was impossible. Just impossible. Everything was. All of it.’

  Laurel breathes in deeply through her nose and rolls her shoulders back as if hefting away all these thoughts. ‘I’ve sent something to your office,’ she says. ‘Something I want you to pass to that writer bloke who’s helping Rosie.’

  Toby clears his throat, his mind spinning. ‘What? What is it?’

  ‘Call it a form of protection. Promise me you won’t open it.’

  ‘Laurel . . . please. What protection? This is insane. I think I’ve misled you. I think you’ve got things wrong.’

  ‘I haven’t got anything wrong,’ she retorts. ‘Nothing at all. But you have to promise.’

  ‘Look, time’s running out. What can we do? Help me here. Let me help you.’

  She ducks her head but not before he has seen the flash of fear pass across her face again.

  ‘I’ll stop it.’ He stabs the table with a finger, the muscles in his jaw clenched. ‘I’ll stop her testifying if you think it’s wrong. We won’t have it.’

  Laurel pushes her chair back and the smile she gives him then is so sweet and pretty that, for a moment, he is back in the garden in Grassington, watching his nieces play on the lawn, running through the sprinkler with dappled sunlight on their backs.

  ‘Thank you for everything, Uncle Toby,’ she says as she stands up and moves to the door, tapping at i
t with scabbed knuckles. ‘I’ll always remember it, really.’

  ‘Laurel . . . please . . .’

  But she is gone. And Toby is left alone in the room, his heart hammering in his chest, feeling absolutely spent. Thinking about those two little girls, Rosie and Laurel, playing games in the fading summer light.

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  1999

  Dear Rosie,

  They say they are sending my letters but Mummy hasn’t written back. Is she still cross with me?

  Daddy hasn’t written either so I’m writing to you because you sent me that picture when I first got here and I know you aren’t mad with me. How did you send it? Did Uncle Toby help you?

  I miss you.

  It’s all right here. We do school and on Fridays they let us watch a film. Last week, we made popcorn. We’re working on an art project. It’s about lightning and conduction. We have to make a model of a storm. Do you remember that big storm we had last year when the tree outside rattled the windows and we hugged each other in bed because we were scared?

  You can’t act scared here. If you feel it, you have to hide it deep inside. If they know you’re scared, they laugh at you, and one girl, who’s always crying, got pushed into the wall because they knew she wouldn’t tattle-tale. I don’t cry here. Only sometimes at night, in bed, when it’s dark and they can’t see or hear me. That’s when I miss you the most. And Mummy and Daddy.

  I’ve got a nice teacher. Nicer than Mrs Brooking at school. She lets me get three books out of the library instead of two. I got out Horrid Henry the other day because it reminded me of you. But then that made me sad so I took it back again. Now I’m reading Black Beauty. It’s not bad.

  Anyway, I hope you write back. And that you come and see me some time.

  Love,

  Laurel xxx

  P.S. Do you still play the game?

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX