Learning to Love Amy

by Mia Marconi

  At school she said she learned that if she got angry in the classroom, someone would take her out of the class and give her one-to-one attention. In the care home she would wreak havoc, accusing others of bullying her, and to make it up to her the staff would treat her to a cinema night or take her bowling.

  She learned to play the system and wrapped most social workers round her little finger. Attention was as important as booze to Amy; the more police cars, social workers and people she could draw in when she had a little drama, the better she liked it.

  She knew why her life had gone so wrong. Childhood is a chance to grow up and learn how to cope in an adult world, but Amy had never had that. Her childhood and teenage years were about survival and finding oblivion. Once she hit eighteen and was expected to leave the care system and look after herself, she realised she had no skills to cope and it went downhill from there. Amy was institutionalised and reliant on other people to care for her; independence was never going to work.

  Yes, Amy had neglected India, but once I knew what she had been through as a child, I was full of admiration that she even attempted to go on living. Amy was a consequence of a failed system. Everyone who could have protected her hadn’t, and her life would always be a mess because she had no grounding. She was a grown woman, but reaching eighteen doesn’t magically wash away the past and provide you with a future.

  I always wondered whether her insistence that India had been abused was in fact her way of working through the abuse she herself had suffered as a child.

  As easy as India was to care for, Amy was the opposite. I knew my role was as India’s carer, but my nature is to care full stop, and I thought if I could help Amy put her life back together, that would help her form a relationship with India. What I did not know then was what a massive job looking after Amy would become. I became her mother, therapist, Samaritan, lifeline and soul mate. I tried to take a step back, but the harder I fought, the harder Amy fought to drag me into her life. She could see I wanted to help her – help she so obviously wanted – and she was not going to give that up easily. To me, she was another lost soul.

  I took Amy under my wing, although I was cautious – there was no open-door policy, and we met at cafés or the park, places where Amy felt secure telling me about her life. I didn’t judge her; I just listened.

  I don’t know whether or not this is a fault but I find it impossible to turn my back on someone who is suffering. It is so easy to get dragged into situations without realising, and before you know it, you’re in over your head. Being Amy’s unofficial therapist was never an intention, but our conversations lifted her spirits, I could see that. At the same time, she was in a dark place and was pulling me down with her.

  It was on one of these walks that I first spoke to Amy about India’s hair.

  ‘Amy, the nits were so bad you could see them jumping out of her hair.’

  She went silent and pale, but as we strolled along the path she explained why she hated India’s short hair.

  ‘I had long, beautiful hair when I was little and Luke used to brush it for me. I loved it when Luke did that. But when I was six I cut it all off with the kitchen scissors,’ she said. ‘I thought the creature would leave me alone if I did.’

  I looked at her. She was crying, and before long I was crying, too.

  Amy’s life was so complicated it was hard to keep up. Drink had become her lifeline and provided an escape from her childhood nightmares, but it only numbed the pain for short periods and at other times would exacerbate it. Sometimes Amy was drunk all day and all night, and went missing for days on end. Then I would usually get a phone call from a police station or hospital, with Amy in the background slurring, ‘Get Mia. I’m going to kill myself.’

  I would frantically phone her brothers and sisters, panicking, saying that they needed to find her, and at the time I could never understand why they were all so calm when Amy was about to commit suicide.

  The first time she threatened to throw herself out of her window, I was crying and saying, ‘Wait, I’ll come and get you.’ I raced round to the estate where she lived, which was a pretty reasonable one: it was full of low-rise flats and some residents had tried really hard with their gardens, while others had flowers growing on their balconies. Amy’s balcony was full of junk, though.

  It wasn’t long before I spotted her sitting on the window ledge of her fourth-floor flat. She was so drunk I could barely understand a word she was slurring. After racing up the stairs, I walked in as calmly as I could. Her lounge was full of police and neighbours looking concerned and anxious, and Amy, the centre of attention, was screaming that she wouldn’t talk to anyone but me. She felt secure with me because I didn’t panic or scream when I was with her, but I felt like screaming now. I wanted to holler: ‘For God’s sake, Amy, come back in! Killing yourself won’t make it any better.’

  I stayed calm, though, and gently asked everyone if they could go into the kitchen and leave us alone. I had to think fast, and before I realised it I was speaking to her as though she was sitting next to me having a cup of tea, not hanging out of the window about to kill herself. I related the true story of David, a distant relative who had suffered with depression for years and threw himself off a sixth-floor balcony.

  ‘But David did not die, Amy,’ I said. ‘He was paralysed instead and has no feeling from the waist downwards. That jump put him in a wheelchair and he was reliant on everyone else to look after him. All the things he had taken for granted, like playing football in the park with his children, were distant memories.’

  I looked and Amy had calmed down, although tears were streaming down her face.

  ‘Amy, do you want to end up in a wheelchair?’ I said. ‘You probably won’t kill yourself, and I can’t look after you because I’m too busy.’

  After that, she turned round, took my hand and climbed back inside. We cuddled and smiled at each other. The police looked relieved and sat down on the stained sofas. With my heart in my mouth I managed to say, ‘Shall we all have a cuppa?’

  As I walked away, I realised that Amy was testing me to see how far I would go for her. I think that’s what her suicide attempts were all about – finding out who cared. I cared, but I would never do that again. I wasn’t qualified to deal with anything on this scale, and resolved to tell Amy when she was in a better frame of mind.

  For all Amy’s faults, I knew that I genuinely did love her, even though she was unpredictable and you never knew which Amy you were going to get.

  So when she called a few weeks later, I said, ‘Let’s meet for breakfast at our normal café.’

  I turned up at Joe’s on the high street to find Amy sitting in the corner.

  ‘You look like crap,’ I said, smiling as I realised I sounded exactly like Janet.

  ‘I don’t feel well.’

  ‘What do you expect? Your lifestyle means you are going to feel ill and will probably die young.’

  ‘I’m pregnant,’ she announced, just as the waitress came to take our order. ‘Full English …’

  ‘Don’t forget to say please,’ I prompted.

  ‘Full English, please.’

  ‘I’ll have the same, please,’ I said to the waitress. ‘Who is the father?’ I asked Amy when the waitress had gone.

  ‘I don’t know.’ But I suspected she did.

  The act of sex had no meaning to Amy. It was never something she received with love. She would use sex to get something she wanted or needed, like another drink, but that came at a cost.

  I was not impressed and a horrible angry feeling began to well up inside me. For a split second I bit my tongue, then I said, ‘Are you mad, Amy? You can’t look after the child you already have.’

  Our breakfasts arrived and were plonked down on the table.

  ‘What do you know?’ she said, looking me in the eye.

  ‘I know that you are selfish and don’t want to help yourself. You have become a victim and want to stay like that. People give up on you
because you don’t want to help yourself, and the devastation you leave behind is exhausting!’

  I got up and walked out, paying the bill as I left. I knew I had been harsh, but someone had to say something.

  Two weeks later, Amy called to say she’d had a miscarriage. Was I meant to feel sorry or guilty? I suspected Amy was lying and later found out she had terminated the pregnancy. Now I knew exactly how to feel: full of sorrow.

  Amy did have a long-term boyfriend called Archie, whom she pushed in and out of her life when she felt like it. Archie was resilient, though, and when Amy let him he was the one person who had been in India’s life since she was born.

  He had a kind face, wrinkled from spending too much time in the sun, and although he wasn’t tall he stood tall. His laugh was infectious and he always had a smile on his face, but the best thing about him was that he was teetotal.

  India called him Dad and it was obvious that he loved her very much and that she loved him. Archie was one of the few men she looked comfortable around.

  He was ten years older than Amy and looked like the father figure she so desperately needed. You would have thought having found her knight in shining armour she would have melted into his arms, but she gave Archie the run-around, and he seemed to love it.

  Archie lived in a council flat on a very rough estate but was respected by all. I could feel his presence was known when I walked round there with him. No one robbed his flat, touched his car or crossed him. His kindness was unconditional, but you just knew not to cross a line.

  Why he fell in love with Amy I have no idea, because by now she was the most demanding, problematic woman I had ever known. She was forever getting into arguments, getting picked up by the police, threatening suicide and getting herself sectioned. Nonetheless, Archie stayed loyal to her and to India.

  I honestly believe that Amy loved Archie, too, and although he stayed away when India first came into care I often heard Amy speak about him. It was Archie this and Archie that, and I was curious and intrigued to meet anyone who was willing to take Amy on. Most people gave up pretty quickly.

  People who tried to help Amy usually failed: psychiatrists, family members, lovers, me, Archie … Amy had a self-destruct button and sabotaged anything good in her life. She did not want to help herself, but the problem was that Archie and I were hooked on trying to get Amy back on her feet, or at least into a comfortable sitting position. Neither of us had any intention of giving up.

  Chapter Six

  A new year began and brought hope and fresh starts for a lot of people, but it brought scandal to Amy.

  It was a gloomy, grey afternoon and nothing much was happening when there was a knock at the door. I opened it and was surprised to see five angry-looking police officers staring at me. I stood there, not really knowing what to say, but before I could speak an officer said, ‘We have a warrant to search your premises.’

  I was stunned. My mouth opened but nothing came out, and before I could say anything they pushed past me. All I could think was thank God India and the girls were at school.

  A detective took me to one side and told me in a stern voice that they had information that I was keeping Amy Matthews safe.

  ‘I look after India, not Amy,’ I said, feeling confused.

  They began searching the house, which set off Jack and Jill who began barking their heads off. All I could do was follow them from room to room while they spoke to each other and ignored me, exchanging glances each time they finished and moved onto the next. I felt like a suspect in a police drama and wondered what I had done wrong.

  When they had finished searching they asked if I knew where Amy was.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Why?’

  They didn’t answer. All they would say was that it was very serious and that I should get in touch if she came by.

  ‘I will,’ I replied.

  Once they’d gone, I ran round the house closing all the cupboards they had left open and shutting the attic door.

  I had never experienced anything like it. I had never been on the wrong side of the law or been raided by the police, but the way they were acting made me feel as though I was a criminal.

  It was an uncomfortable feeling. I was agitated and couldn’t concentrate on anything. Until now, I’d only ever seen the side of the police that was there to help, but the way they had barged into my house with absolute authority was terrifying. There were no smiles, no banter, no one was going to stay for a cup of tea, and although none of them had threatened me, they left me in no doubt that if they found me culpable in some way they would come down on me and my family like a ton of truncheons.

  It felt like I was in the middle of a bad dream, real but alien at the same time.

  The only thing that kept going through my head was, ‘What on earth has happened?’ I drove myself mad trying to guess. Surely they would have told me if Amy had attempted suicide again, so it must be something else.

  I called Amy’s mobile but there was no answer. It mostly just rang and rang and at other times it was unobtainable. I kept calling all night and never got an answer. The next day I decided to call Luke. I knew I had his number somewhere and pulled out every drawer in the house until I found it. He picked up the phone immediately.

  ‘Luke, it’s Mia.’

  ‘Oh, hello, Mia,’ he said quietly.

  ‘The police have been round looking for Amy.’ Luke went silent and then I heard him sobbing.

  ‘They are looking for Amy because our stepfather, Mike, has been murdered,’ he said.

  I was stunned. Mike lived on a notorious estate, full of grimy tower blocks connected by stretches of grass. There were areas for kids to play but none of them did – they were too scared to, as drug dealers and winos hung out there. It was littered with old prams and rubbish and was a depressing place to live, but apparently Mike liked it because his flat overlooked a children’s playground, the one place on the estate where mothers could take their toddlers to the swings.

  It was a Saturday night and he’d been five miles away at a pub he liked to go to, full of horrible, mean men just like him. What he didn’t spot was two men shadowing him all night. He left about midnight, the worse for wear, and staggered home, stinking. All you would have been able to smell if you walked behind him was drink, cigarette smoke and sweat. Those were the three things Amy said she remembered most about him.

  He had no idea he was being followed until he got back to the estate and one of the men stopped him and asked for a light. While Mike fumbled in his pockets, anxious to oblige, the other one grabbed him from behind and slit his throat. It was over in seconds and Mike bled to death before the ambulance arrived. The men disappeared and although they were spotted running away, everyone on the estate said they had no idea who they were.

  I was so shocked I couldn’t say a word. I kept opening and closing my mouth but no words would come out, and as I quietly digested what Luke had just said, the phone went dead.

  I knew I had to tell Martin later, and was dreading his reaction. In the end, he said very little. His main concern was that we were all okay, and then he looked me in the eyes and said, ‘Mia, this is serious. Amy could have had something to do with Mike’s murder. I know we all think that’s what we would do if he’d made us suffer like that, and plenty of people wanted him dead, but that’s not how it’s done. We can’t take the law into our own hands, otherwise the world would just start going backwards.’

  I knew he was right.

  ‘Evil’ was the word most used about Mike and I could not deny that part of me felt happy he was gone, because now hundreds of children would be safe from him, but at the same time all I could think was, ‘Could Amy have done it?’ God knows she had a motive and so did her brothers, but could she actually have been involved in a cold-blooded murder?

  When I said the word in my head it was followed by the sudden realisation that I was involved in a genuine murder investigation. I was on the periphery, certainly, but the only person I h
ad never met in the whole horrific saga was Mike. I knew the other suspects – Amy’s brothers – so it was no wonder the police had raided the house. I kept having flashbacks. I prided myself on being law-abiding, and although the police had not been aggressive, they had been brutally efficient, opening cupboards, searching the girls’ bedrooms, our bedroom – they had even checked to see whether there was access to the roof. I felt dirty and tainted and began to cry.

  One thing I was dreading was Amy turning up and confessing. What the hell would I do then? The minute I had the thought I knew I would persuade her to hand herself in. But what would I do if she refused? I couldn’t think about it.

  The following days were full of stress and anxiety, as I knew that Amy could turn up at my door at any time. She phoned a few times and each time I noted down her number and passed it to the police. I was living on my nerves for those few days, wondering where Amy was and when she would get in touch. Then I got a phone call from India’s social worker.

  ‘Amy and her brothers have been arrested,’ she said. ‘They are being questioned about the murder of their stepfather.’ I could feel the colour draining from my face and thought I might faint.

  The story hit the front pages of the papers and more police officers came round asking questions, followed by more social workers asking yet more questions. I was totally confused.

  I went over and over every little detail Amy had told me. I knew she hated Mike, but I questioned whether she was capable of murder. I wondered what frame of mind she was in and, more importantly, what the future would be for India.

  After the arrest, I was told by the police as well as social services that all contact with Amy was to cease, and India was not allowed to see her either. My job at that time was to protect India from what was going on and I resolved that that was what I was going to do.