by Boyd Brent
“…I have no idea what you’re getting at and I’m not interested.” I wobbled slightly. Tried not to grimace. “… you people really have no idea of the devastation you cause. If what I’m about to do to you provides an inkling …well, you’ll have learnt something important before you die.”
“I will do whatever you ask …sign a confession, anything you ask.”
“It’s too late.”
“I am a representative of God … if you harm me you will go to Hell.”
"I’ve already been … it's so much closer than you think …” I collapsed to my knees, stepped up … wrapped the nutcrackers about his testicles … and squeezed until the pain in my hands became unbearable.
In the minute or so before I kicked away the stool, Father Patrick made a sound like a crazed pig stuck in a perpetually slamming door. He attempted to leap to his own death thrice. You may think he felt that inkling. He didn’t.
Chapter 2
I'm sitting in The Bar at The Seasons Hotel in central London. On a television behind the bar, a psychiatrist is being interviewed about my handiwork on CNN. My journey from child victim to adult avenger has been protracted and painful. God knows I’ve encountered my fair share of mental health professionals. Without exception, all were clueless. But this shrink on CNN is a cut above, he just said something accurate. He suggested that a person capable of inflicting such horrific injuries must have been a victim once. “Doubtless in childhood,” he said, interlocking his fingers. "Such a person," he went on, upping his game considerably, "would, almost certainly, have had to claw their way back from helpless victim to a place of extreme self-possession … a truly harrowing and dangerous psychological journey."
Don't I know it.
What he said next ticked so many boxes I began coughing up the peanut I'd just attempted to swallow. "My research strongly suggests that, such a journey would involve the killer discovering a way to lock away their inner demons … their painful memories … in, for want of a better term, a subconscious strongroom – a place from which they could no longer taunt and belittle them."
"Sounds like something we'd all like to be able to do at times," suggested the interviewer, cheerily.
"Perhaps. But you’d run the risk of locking away any emotion that might weaken you ... I’m talking about all the good stuff.”
“You mean the stuff that prevents us hanging defenceless priests?"
“Precisely.”
“And what about the music box left on the altar? The ballerina …twirling to ‘The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy.’”
“Clearly a warning.”
“To other clergymen?”
“The evidence suggests so. The composition by Tchaikovsky is taken from his Nutcracker Ballet. The inference disturbingly clear in this instance.” The interviewer shuffles awkwardly on his stool. “You’re referring to the nutcrackers …buried in Father Patrick’s testicles.”
“Yes. It’s as though the killer’s hatred of religion has made him want to castrate it. Stop it spreading. It’s pretty textbook stuff actually.”
It was only a matter of time before the mental health professional reverted to type. I have no interest in religion. Neither am I empty of compassion. Not where it’s warranted. But the psychiatrist was accurate about one thing: the strongroom inside my mind. Built from determination and necessity and rage. Beyond its door my inner demons have merged into a single, massive horned beast. One seriously aggrieved monster that's been demoted from free-roaming tyrant to the occasional muffled plea for release.
Not today. Not any day. Not ever.
I’ve got some time before my follow up project is due. I'd like to invite you on a journey … through the keyhole into my strongroom … to where memories of a truly repugnant man-reptile are imprisoned. Then we'll travel deep into the strongroom’s depths … to where the demon of his creation bides its time. I gaze down at my glass, conjure the strongroom's keyhole: and beyond, my final audition for The Ballet Academy that would commence my journey from girl-next-door to reptile slayer. I was twelve. Mother and I are at The Opera House – sitting in a cavernous hallway outside the audition room. “Nervous?” she asks.
I swallow a lump in my throat. “…a bit.”
“Don’t be. I was petrified. And look where it got me.” She reaches into her bag and hands me a compact. “Here … there’s a smudge on your cheek.”
“Thanks, Mummy.” I scan my reflection. My hair is a Pre-Raphaelite's wet dream of copper curls. My anxious little eyes all the greener for them. “Oh, let me do it …” She tugs a tissue from her sleeve and licks it and stabs my cheek. “I hope I don’t let you down, Mummy.”
“Relax your shoulders, Harley. What have I told you about posture?”
While I wait, open-mouthed, for a crumb of reassurance, mother changes tact. She raises her voice to ensure she’s overheard by the other mother/daughter combos. “It used to be very different in my day. They had comfortable seats out here. Why does everything have to be so modern and plastic? Close your mouth please, Harley. With any luck the standards of the judges has dropped too. Be thankful you won’t be facing the judges I faced. Scribbled like excited little monkeys all through my audition. Maybe if they’d troubled themselves to look up once in a while.” Mother is dark, sultry and voluptuous, her looks belong to Hollywood’s golden era, not the Thanet Repertory Company where she and dad ended up. They made her feel bitter and cheated. I hope I’m not giving the impression I hated mother. I didn’t. The hate was to come later.
A set of doors swing open and out strides a girl; hot, sweaty and breathless – she flops down beside her mother and begins pulling on a sweat shirt. Her mother stretches out a leg and nudges her shoes closer. They hurry off down the marble staircase – their chattering and footsteps grow louder the further away they get. A woman stands in the door of the audition room. “Harley Palmer?” she intones, as if calling someone to the Pearly Gates to be rejected by St. Peter.
Inside the audition room, the music burrowed its way under my skin and infused my bones – a combination of dance styles conspired to send me spinning, jumping, wheeling, thrusting and diving with the grace of a gazelle, beat perfect. Had I known where it was leading, I might have sabotaged the whole thing – howled like a rabid dog and cocked a leg at the judges' table. I’ve learnt not to encourage regret. Regret weakens the strongroom.
It’s several weeks later. I’m hunched over a bowl of cereal at the kitchen table. Dad comes in with the mail. He puts several envelopes on the counter and sits down beside me holding one in particular. It is cream coloured with gold trim. He places the letter beside my bowl. Mother shouts from the upstairs landing. “Was that the postman?” I put down my spoon and look at dad. He slides the letter closer to me. Mother shouts again. “Is everyone suddenly deaf?”
“Yes! The letter is here,” says dad, his voice unusually riled. We hear stumbling on the upstairs landing and footsteps padding down the stairs. Mother enters the kitchen in a dressing-gown, her hair in rollers. “It’s really here?” she says, sitting beside me at the table. “Well? Aren’t you going to open it? I couldn’t wait to open mine. Why are kids today so apathetic about everything?” She takes a cigarette from a packet on the table and lights it. Dad says, “Even if you have won a scholarship, you don’t have to go away …become a ballet dancer.” Smoke streams through mother’s upturned nose – it pulses and shifts into spectral warthog tusks. “What?” she grunts. “And miss out on the opportunity of a lifetime? Just open the letter and put us out of our misery … I remember the rejection I suffered only too well. I never really got my confidence back,” she says, peering down her nose at dad.
Dad shakes his head.
"Just trying to prepare her, Harry."
“She’s not you, Marion.”
“Course not. Harley takes after daddy.”
I glance down at the letter. Something doesn’t feel right. I can’t bring myself to open it.
“Whatever is the matter
with you? Shall I open it?” asks mother.
“It’s addressed to Harley,” says dad.
I open the letter. I’ve been accepted. My emotions are so mixed they cancel one another out. I'd inherited mother's talent but not her ambition it seems. My best friend Janet had been pleading with me not to leave her. We’d been inseparable since kindergarten. “Congratulations, darling,” says dad, squeezing my hand. “Just remember that what we achieve in life … well, it’s not as important as who we are. I’m so proud of you already.”
Mother slides the letter from my hands, rolls her eyes. “Dear God in heaven …they want her.”
“You don’t have to make up your mind right away,” says dad.
“Do me a favour. Only an idiot would turn down an opportunity like this. I hope you’re not suggesting my daughter's an idiot?” Mum squeezes my forearm and appears crest-fallen on my behalf. Dad stands abruptly and starts clearing away our breakfast things.
Not long after, I swapped Thanet Comprehensive for The Ballet Academy. Out went the thoughtful and down-to-earth Janet Ross and in came the acidic and conniving Patricia Meads.
It was great to begin with – an adventure. Sure, combining regular school work with endless hours of fitness and dance training was difficult at first. Our teachers drove us mercilessly in pursuit of the perfect posture, grace and fitness. I doubt there are many soldiers who could put up with the rigours of training to be a professional ballet dancer. They cracked the whip as though punishing a chain gang, the effects on the female body so traumatic that many ballet dancers don’t begin menstruation until their twentieth year. How do they still get away with it? It’s practically assault; the last bastion of accepted child abuse. To say nothing of the negative comments, lobbed at us like friendly-fire grenades – intended to encourage us. So it was that the world outside The Ballet grew increasingly remote ...and the world inside increasingly distorted. Many of us gazed into dance-studio mirrors, accosted by self-doubt and ‘if onlys.’ If only our thighs were smaller. If only our hips were narrower, our stomachs flatter, our legs thinner, our necks longer, our bottoms smaller, our ankles daintier. They measured all of the above twice a week. A public ritual of tuts, frowns and grimaces. All of which we echoed later. Under the gaze of our teachers a culture of body fascism festered. Their philosophy was simple: break them down and rebuild them in the tradition of The Ballet. Eating disorders started to pick off the most vulnerable. I must have been chief amongst them because when I fell I fell hard.
“If you’re serious, the solution’s simple, darling,” says Trish, pressing a finger against her tongue and making a noise like an electric razor. I consider her suggestion. “There’s no way, Trish …I’ve got a phobia about throwing up.”
“Oh, for God’s sake! …start with laxatives then. Clara Jenkins in the year above runs a mini pharmacy out of her trunk. Her father’s a gynaecologist. She’s got a stash of signed prescription pads.” Trish turns sideways onto the mirror and pats her washboard stomach. “How do you think I got my waist down to 19 inches?”
“You used laxatives?”
“A combination, darling …laxatives, vomiting, starvation. Oh, I know! Why not try ‘The Menu?’”
The Menu’s daily allowance consisted of three things: unlimited water, two rice crackers and half a bowl of clear soup. As the weeks progressed, The Menu burrowed its way into my psyche and laid siege to my sanity. When the hunger became unbearable and I ate something, anything, that wasn’t on The Menu, I instantly felt like a balloon being inflated by a maniac with a foot pump. I had a pretty good idea the maniac was me. Hardly the most reassuring of insights for a twelve-year-old. On these occasions, I felt as though I had just two choices: throw up or BURST.
My twisted relationship with food was revealed in a very public way, during our end of year production of The Nutcracker. The director thought it 'enchanting' that I assume the role of Harlequin, my namesake. It's the end of the first act. The stage has emptied of all its dancers. All except one. Harlequin is lying unconscious, stage left, like a crumpled roll of red and black crepe paper.
My fate is sealed.
I return home for a weekend break. Dad does his best to convince me not to go back. I promise him I’ll take more care of myself. That I’ll eat healthily again. I’d never lied to dad and I meant every word. I was a naïve little fool for believing I could control my illness.
It is day three of my ‘fight back’ and I’m in the shower-room at The Ballet Academy. I turn off the water and reach for my towel. Trish wanders in and grimaces at my thighs. “God, Harley. I really think you should weigh yourself.”
I’d gained two pounds.
A wave of anxiety spun me off the scales and back into the grips of The Menu. My weight continued to plummet and my parents were advised to seek outside help. At the Ballet’s recommendation, it was decided I should be assessed by Dr. Richard Carter. I pull back from the keyhole. It’s as though a putrid stench has wafted from it. I sip my drink, look around. The Bar resembles a cocktail lounge – black leather sofas and coffee tables nestle in back lit alcoves; while Toulouse Lautrec prints and rococo mirrors make for cosy wall fellows. I notice my reflection in one of the many mirrors behind the bar. My green eyes have been muted to dark blue by tinted contact lenses. My red hair extinguished by a black wig that rests on my bare shoulders. A businessman just slid off his stool to my right like a horny croc. I have a horrible feeling … “Hello there,” winks the croc. “Welcome back. My name’s Matt and …” He turns sideways and motions to another man who shows me his palm and grins like an idiot. “That’s Andy. We were wondering if we could buy you a drink?” This was not part of the plan. I’d intended to keep a low profile. “No. I’m fine, thank you.” He practically sticks his snoz in my glass. "You're running on empty. Go on. Let me get you a refill,” he says, drumming the bar with his fingers, his wedding ring marking time.
I start counting to ten, slowly, in my head.
He glances back at his friend and says, “Are you an actress or a model or something? Should I be asking for your autograph?”
I take a sip of my drink.
“No really. You look familiar.”
I stir my drink with the swizzle stick.
He nudges closer. Wreaks of whisky. “Are you sure we can’t tempt you? You’ve been sitting here and just staring into space. ” He says this like it's a crime against humanity. “You know what they say, a problem shared is a problem halved.” If I could unload half my life experience on this idiot, he'd collapse like a faulty deckchair and be hauled off to A&E. Which would solve my immediate problem. Years of practise has taught me that when an irritant is ignored it will go away. And … off he goes. I sip my drink and return to the strongroom's keyhole ...
I’m home, suspended from The Ballet Academy on sick leave. My sessions with Dr. Carter are to start the next day. If I fail to make progress in the next few weeks, fail to gain weight, they will hospitalise me.
I’m having a nightmare about being tube-fed. The tube is expanding and cutting off my air supply. I’m trying to attract the attention of the doctors by stabbing an index finger at my throat. A male nurse checks the apparatus and gives his colleagues the thumbs down. They begin dancing around my bed like demented ballet dancers. I wake up and scream. Dad comes into my bedroom. “Daisy? … are you all right?” I clasp my hands around his neck so tightly that he struggles for breath. I’m sobbing into his dressing-gown. “…there there,” he says, “you’re seeing the doctor tomorrow, he’s been recommended by the ballet no less …” Dad expels the word ‘ballet’ like it’s something rotten on his lips. Mum is standing in my bedroom doorway. “It’s not the fault of the ballet, dear. The ballet has been doing very nicely for 200 years, thank you very much. Nobody told Harley to starve herself. Nobody tells Harley to do anything. If you want to blame someone, I suggest you look a bit closer to home.”
Dad looks at her and shakes his head.
“Oh, I see. So it’s my
fault? Well … if I hadn’t married such a weak-minded man, I might not have given birth to such a weak-minded daughter. It seems I can’t get anything right!” She bursts into tears and runs back into her bedroom. Dad hugs me close. “She doesn’t mean the things she says … it’s just her way of coping.” Dear old dad. Forever the optimist. Mother’s sobbing escalates into a high-pitched wail. Dad shakes his head. “Dear God in heaven … she’ll wake the neighbours if I don’t go to her.” Dad pulls the duvet up to my chin and winks at me. “Goodnight. Everything’s going to work out for the best. You’ll see. You do trust your old dad, don’t you?”
I nod.
The following day it’s decided that mother will accompany me to my assessment with Dr. Carter. Mother decides it. “After all,” she says, “I assumed that Harley was strong enough to cope with the demands of The Ballet. I should be the one who does everything possible to make amends for this error.”
Dad sighs. “If you think it best … just please go easy on her. She’s got enough on her plate without …” Mother snaps, “Without what? Without me making things worse? I know you find it hard to believe but I only want what’s best for that girl.”
“That girl is your daughter. She’s just a frightened kid for Christ’s sake …”
“Language please, Harry. I’m well aware of what she is. I gave birth to her. It’s just a pity she isn’t more like me instead of her ….”
“What? Her father?” says dad, sounding utterly exhausted. I hear a newspaper being snapped open.
I’m sitting on the stairs listening to them. I’m pleased it’s mum and not dad who will accompany me to my assessment. I pull my knees to my chin, take comfort from this. After all, I can’t fall any lower in mother’s eyes. And the last thing I want is for dad’s nose to be rubbed in my failures.
I’m sitting next to mother in her car. We are on our way to see Dr. Carter at his Wimpole Street practice. Mother pulls into a parking bay across the street from the elegant red brick building. The black door to 77 Wimpole Street is buzzed open. Mother and I enter a spacious hallway where a grand staircase coils like a serpent’s spine to the landing above. Forgive me, it is a reptile house. We approach a receptionist sitting at a desk. Mother clears her throat and speaks in the hushed tones of someone who’s entered a library. “I’m Mrs Palmer. This is my daughter, Harley. She has an appointment with Dr. Carter.” The receptionist looks me up and down. I must be suitably thin. She nods and says “Yes, yes, of course.”
