The Rumour

by Lesley Kara

  Michael appears in the doorway, stark naked. He looks like a bronze statue, the way he’s just standing there, stock-still.

  ‘Come on, you,’ he whispers. ‘Back to bed. I’ll give you a massage.’

  ‘I haven’t had a nightmare like that for ages.’

  ‘Sshh,’ Michael says, his breath warm on the back of my neck as he lies on his side behind me. I feel the heat of him. He circles my shoulder blades with his fingertips, then traces the contours of my spine. His fingers are feathers.

  ‘Think of something nice,’ he says. His voice is gravelly and low. His lips graze my ear and I shiver. Traces of the dream linger, but as his fingers continue their journey over each and every bump of my vertebrae, the horror recedes and we have slow, gentle sex that morphs, seamlessly, into something faster, more urgent. I don’t even remember changing position, but here I am, on my knees, left cheek pressed into the pillow, the weight of his hands on my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh, the exquisite sharpness of his nails.

  It isn’t till we’re finished that we notice Alfie, standing solemnly by the side of the bed, his pyjama bottoms all twisted, a puzzled expression on his face.

  ‘What are you doing, Mummy?’ he says.

  It brings to mind a memory from when I was about his age, walking in on my mum and dad. How overly jolly and surprised they were to see me. How Mum’s cheeks were all flushed and Dad carried me back to my own bed and whistled a tune to me till I fell asleep. It’s a bittersweet memory, tainted as it is with what came afterwards. Did he whistle his other children to sleep like that? I wonder.

  Afterwards, when we’ve told Alfie how we wanted to swap sides of the bed and, instead of being sensible and getting up, Daddy thought he’d just clamber over me, when we’ve told him how hot we were and how we had to take off our pyjamas to get cool, and Alfie, the little innocent, has accepted both explanations, had a drink of water, done a wee and gone back to bed, Michael and I surrender to giggles under the duvet, stuffing our fists in our mouths to keep quiet.

  But later, when we migrate to our separate sleeping positions – Michael on his back, me curled on my left side, the pillow pulled down at an angle under my shoulder – the memory of my nightmare returns and echoes of dread haunt me long into the night.

  I wake to the sound of the shower at full pelt and the burble of the radio. Michael’s side of the bed is already cold. Michael’s side. How quickly it has become his side in my head.

  I stretch like a cat, arms and legs extended as far as they can reach, and yawn, noisily. The shower has stopped and Michael appears, one towel fastened round his hips like a short skirt with a revealing split up the side, another hanging round his neck like an untied scarf.

  ‘You sound like a wookie,’ he says. Then: ‘Are these the biggest bath towels you have?’

  ‘Yes.’ I lean across and try to whip his skirt away, but he’s too quick for me and grabs me by the wrists.

  He grins. ‘Don’t start something you can’t finish. Alfie’s up and about.’

  Downstairs, it feels like we’re in one of those right-on breakfast-cereal commercials: black stay-at-home dad, white mum all dressed up for work and mixed-raced son sloshing milk into his cereal bowl. Even the sun is shining. The dread that’s been hanging over me these past few days hasn’t exactly gone, but it’s retreated to a small dark cupboard in my mind and I’ve shut the door on it.

  ‘I’ve got a couple of viewings to do this morning. One of them’s near to where Liz lives, so I’m going to pop in afterwards and see if I can talk to her about Sonia Martins. I tried ringing her again last night when you popped out, but her phone was engaged.’

  Michael nods. ‘Do you want me to take Alfie to school?’

  ‘Yes!’ Alfie shouts.

  I smile. ‘I could get used to this.’

  Michael winks at me. That slow, lazy wink. I wonder if he knows how effective it is. The physical sensation it always prompts. I don’t ever want him to wink like that at someone else.

  I try not to think of him leaving the house last night and talking on the phone. If this is going to work, I have to trust him. And I do. I can’t complain that he’s betrayed me in the past, because he hasn’t. It was an open relationship and it was what we decided, right from the start. Like I told Mum, nobody forced me to go along with it, and I can’t pretend it didn’t suit me just as much as it suited him. You can’t be let down by a man who’s made you no promises.

  But it’s different now. He’s told me it’s different, and it is. It has to be.

  31

  LOCKED DOORS AND TOUGH LOVE: LIFE INSIDE GREY WILLOW GRANGE

  By Susan Piercy

  Sunday, 21 August 2016

  The Observer

  As 12-year-old Carl Bargiel faces sentencing for a violent and unprovoked attack on a teacher, we ask what happens inside a secure children’s home.

  Grey Willow Grange is a boarding school with a difference. The pupils don’t get to go home for weekends or holidays, at least not till their period of detention is drawing to a close and they have satisfied the Parole Board that they are no longer a threat to society.

  This is where Sally McGowan was sent after killing five-year-old Robbie Harris and where other notorious child criminals have been imprisoned: those we know about, and those we don’t. Children who have killed or tortured. Children, in short, who have committed the most atrocious crimes.

  Dr Winifred Quilter, criminologist and director of the Malcolm J. Cottee Foundation, a charity dedicated to the rehabilitation of child offenders, explains that children who commit violent crimes almost always share the same set of risk factors: poorly educated and unemployed parents who are often substance abusers or who suffer from a variety of mental health problems; family structures that have broken down; emotional and/or physical abuse and/or neglect; witnessing domestic violence; and sexual abuse from an early age.

  ‘These are children who have been given no boundaries for acceptable behaviour,’ says Dr Quilter, ‘and whose dysfunctional parents offer wildly inconsistent approaches to discipline, ranging from complete indifference to the harshest of beatings and humiliation.’

  Nigel Gildersleeve, manager at Grey Willow Grange, agrees. ‘We have to start from scratch with these children. Many of them are malnourished and have never even eaten at a table or used cutlery. They have no concept of what it means to take turns. They cannot empathize or interact appropriately with others because no one has ever empathized or interacted appropriately with them. They have fallen behind at school because teachers can’t cope with their disruptive behaviour. If you want these children to be rehabilitated, you have to try to undo years of damage before you can even start to address the nature of their crimes. Subjecting them to harsh punishment merely reinforces the violence already instilled in them. They need structure and nurturing. Tough love, in other words, and yes, that sometimes includes rewards for good behaviour.’

  ‘Children’s brains change and develop, particularly during puberty,’ says Dr Lavinia Molyneux, a psychiatrist who works with children and adolescents. ‘Therefore, with the right treatment, we can and frequently do effect a marked change in their behaviour, with many going on to do well academically and become responsible, law-abiding citizens.’

  There will, of course, always be exceptions: a sub-group of children who develop into psychopaths and continue to offend as adults. ‘But it would be counter-productive,’ says Mr Gildersleeve, ‘to change the methods we have developed over years of experience and research just to satisfy the public’s appetite for retributive justice in one or two exceptional cases.’

  ART THERAPY AND TABLE TENNIS, JUKE BOXES AND POOL, TRIPS TO THE SEASIDE – THIS IS WHAT YOU GET FOR MURDERING A CHILD

  By Katie Hamlin

  Saturday, 12 June 1976

  Daily Express

  Pictures of Sally McGowan laughing and playing pool in her remand centre have outraged the grieving family of little Robbie Harris, so brutally and callousl
y murdered by McGowan just seven years ago.

  ‘It makes my blood boil seeing her enjoying herself without a care in the world while my precious angel is cold in his grave,’ says a tearful Sylvia Harris from her cramped living room.

  According to Deirdre Mason, a former Grey Willow canteen assistant, inmates regularly get to play games and watch TV. ‘And the food is far better quality than my kids get for their school dinners,’ she says.

  ‘They’re not being punished for the terrible things they’ve done,’ she continues. ‘It seems like they’re getting things they don’t deserve. One-to-one lessons, some of them, and all those activities most hard-working parents couldn’t afford.’

  Sylvia Harris can only shake her head in despair. ‘Where’s the justice for my little Robbie?’ she says.

  I’m parked outside a purpose-built block of flats on the esplanade. It’s called, somewhat unimaginatively, Sea Breeze Court, and I’m waiting to show two different couples round number 33, whose owner has, sadly, died.

  Trawling for articles about Sally McGowan is something I seem to do automatically now. Especially at times like this, when I’ve nothing much else to do. I just find myself typing her name in the search bar and seeing what comes up, scrolling down until I find something I haven’t yet read.

  I wonder what Michael’s up to now. I do worry about his methods sometimes. How he finds things out. I’m not so naïve as to believe it’s all strictly above board. I just hope it’s not illegal enough that he’d get into trouble if he were found out. In one of the articles I’ve read there was a quote from some Russian author and journalist who reckoned that the British tabloid press are more effective than the KGB in tracking people down. But it’s not as if Michael’s doing this to reveal McGowan’s identity – he could end up in prison if he breaks the injunction. He just wants to write a book about her. Make a name for himself as a serious writer. Make a bit of money at the same time.

  I dread to think what the Harris family will make of that. Exploiting their tragedy for his own ends – that’s what they’ll say. Their private grief once more made public property. And Sally McGowan the centre of attention all over again when, really, it should be Robbie Harris we’re remembering. Little Robbie Harris. The boy who lost his life.

  Number 33 Sea Breeze Court is boxy and bland. The previous owner’s furniture looks like it came from a much bigger, grander house. It’s totally unsuitable for a small flat like this. But still, the view is the selling point, and the neat concrete balcony with room for two chairs and a table and a couple of potted plants. Not that you ever see anyone sitting on their balconies. Not even in summer. At least, I never have.

  I unlock the balcony door and stand aside so that Mr and Mrs Frankis can go out if they want to. Mr Frankis obliges me by stepping outside and peering down on to the manicured lawn below.

  ‘I like the gardens,’ he says.

  Mrs Frankis stays where she is. There’s no way she’ll agree to buy this flat, whatever Mr Frankis thinks. You’ve only got to look at her face.

  ‘As you can see,’ I say, ‘it’s a perfect spot for morning coffee, or for evening drinks, watching the sun go down.’

  ‘How much are they asking for this?’ she says, finally walking out and peering at the house next door. The one that’s boarded up. Only now I notice someone’s forced the boards off the front door and smashed a pane of glass. Probably some bored teenagers breaking in on a dare. That’s going to put her right off. I know it is.

  ‘It’s on at £350,000,’ I say. ‘There’s already been a fair bit of interest. I think it will go pretty fast.’

  She doesn’t respond, although her left eyebrow says more than enough. I’m wasting my time here. The sooner we can go through the motions of inspecting the two bedrooms, the better. I’ve just clocked my next couple waiting outside. With any luck, both viewings will be over in another ten minutes and I can pop round to see Liz without Dave wondering where I am.

  When Mr and Mrs Frankis have gone, I go down to greet Mr and Mrs Enright, or Steve and Fiona, as they insist I call them. Steve and Fiona love the flat. Fiona can see past the heavy mahogany furniture and hideous curtains and envisages something clean and minimal. The kitchen will have to go, she says, but apart from that it’s perfect. They lean their elbows on the balcony wall and enjoy the view.

  ‘I can just see us sitting here drinking G and Ts on a sunny evening,’ Steve says.

  Good old Steve. He’s doing my job for me. And they’re so enraptured by the sea that neither of them has mentioned the derelict house next door.

  Annoyingly, they then spend ages chatting in the second bedroom. Mainly about whether they’ll have a bed or a sofa bed in there. Or possibly a futon. It’s a good sign when people start discussing what furniture they’ll put where, as if the flat is already theirs, but I’m not in the mood for it today.

  At last, they leave, with promises to be in touch before the end of the day. I check my watch. If I hurry, there’s still time to call on Liz.

  32

  This time, I don’t look at the upstairs windows. I walk purposefully up the path and ring the bell. I step away from the door and wait, but, as before, she doesn’t come. The blinds at her front-room windows are still closed and, as I peer through the glazed part of the door, I see what looks like post lying on the mat.

  Something is wrong. I feel it in my bones. A shiver runs down my spine. Maybe she’s fallen and broken something. Maybe she can’t get to the phone and has been lying there for days. For all I know, she could be dead.

  I should knock at the houses on either side, her neighbours’. Perhaps they know where she is and can put my mind at rest. But just as I’m about to go next door I notice that her side gate is ajar. Last time I came it was locked. I’m sure of it.

  I push it gently but it’s stuck fast on the concrete. It’s very old and the wood is rotting in places. The hinges must have come loose.

  ‘Hello!’ I call through the gap. ‘Liz, are you there?’

  Silence.

  With one hand on the latch, I use the other to grip the side of the gate and lift it clear of the ground. It swings open and I walk through into the side passage, calling her name as I go.

  No answer.

  Her garden is long; it must be at least a hundred feet. Like her house, it reflects her personality. Creative and idiosyncratic. Slightly hippyish, with its wind chimes and garden buddhas, its profusion of coloured terracotta pots and abundant borders that spill over on to the gravel path that meanders between them. No manicured lawn and neat flower beds for Liz.

  A rickety wheelbarrow heaped with bags of compost has been left out, a discarded pair of gloves sitting on top, and at the far end of the garden is an old shed, wreathed in ivy. She must be pottering around in there. No wonder she can’t hear me.

  But when I reach the shed I see that it’s padlocked shut. I look back towards the house. She must have gone inside for something. If she looks out of the window, it’ll give her a shock, seeing me prowling around her garden.

  I retrace my steps until I’m standing outside her back door. I knock as loud as I can. I call her name. Where the hell is she?

  I try the handle of the door and it opens, so I stick my head round and call into the house. ‘Liz? Liz, are you there?’

  The house feels ominously still, almost as if no one’s at home, but she must be. She wouldn’t have gone out and left the back door and the gate open. She must have been doing some gardening and then come inside to use the loo. That’s why she can’t hear me. I can’t just barge in and go upstairs. It wouldn’t be right. I’ll wait by the gate until she comes down. I don’t want to frighten her, but I do want to talk to her. Not just about the Sonia Martins thing, but about book club and whether she’s okay. That email of hers is still playing on my mind, and the way she was that time I saw her on the street. Distracted. Harassed-looking.

  Minutes pass and she doesn’t come out. Perhaps she’s not going to. Perhaps she’s doin
g something else now and has forgotten all about the unlocked gate. I go back to the front door and ring the bell again, but still she doesn’t come. This is ridiculous. I take my phone out and dial her number, hear it ringing in the house. It rings and rings without switching to answerphone. Reluctantly, I end the call and go back round the side.

  Maybe I was right all along and she’s collapsed somewhere. For all I know, the house has been unsecured for days. Maybe I just assumed the gate was locked the last time I was here because it was pulled to. Now I come to think of it, I didn’t even look at the gate.

  In the kitchen, I touch the kettle. It’s stone cold. I walk through into the hallway and on towards the open door of the dining room, where, not so long ago, we all sat laughing and drinking wine. An unexpected sensation of dread comes over me, for it was in here that I passed on the rumour about Sally McGowan.

  A disturbing thought buzzes in my mind like a fly as I peer round the door. I want to swat it away but it keeps coming back. I call out to Liz again but, once more, there’s no reply. The room is empty, so I make my way towards the front door and the living room, which I’ve previously only glimpsed in passing. But that too is empty.

  I’m at the foot of the stairs now. ‘Liz, it’s me. Joanna. Are you there?’

  I peer up towards the landing, but I can’t hear anybody moving around. The stairs creak as I make my way, slowly, tentatively, upstairs. Sunlight streams in through the front door and through the banisters, striping the glass of the framed black-and-white photographs hanging on the wall.

  The silence is oppressive and I don’t like the way I’m trembling. I shouldn’t be snooping round Liz’s house like this. I hardly know her, not really. Maybe I should just leave and phone the police, get them to check it out. Yes, that’s exactly what I should do. But still my feet continue to climb upwards. Why? What am I expecting to find?

  Upstairs on the landing, I’m more convinced than ever that something bad has happened. I’ve never seen inside any of the bedrooms before because, whenever I’ve used the bathroom on book-club nights, the doors are always closed. Just like they are today. I open them one at a time, bracing myself for what I might find. Liz lying injured on the floor. Unconscious. Maybe even …