The Girl Who Turned a Blind Eye

by Diana Wilkinson

  It was in the way she spoke; the way she phrased her answers. I knew on that Saturday morning that she suspected more than she let on, yet her apathy played into my hands. She made short shrift of the Old Bill and when it came out that Uncle Chuck had been a sadistic paedophile, she decided not to talk about it. Easiest that way, not wanting to be tarnished with the same brush.

  When the constable directed the same questions to me, in a quieter more reverential tone, I stared down at my bare feet as they jiggled up and down, bony little appendages like myself. I knew when the police left, I’d got away with murder. Mum cried crocodile tears for Uncle Chuck. Her hysterics were firmly directed towards the loss of her stepbrother although I still suspect that somewhere, deep down, some of the mania was driven by the realisation that she might have spawned a monster; a weird child killer.

  ‘How dreadful. What a bloody awful thing to happen. Who could have done such a thing?’ She cried for days, not once catching my eye as I laid my hands on her shoulders and hugged her tightly. I soon cared as little for my mother as for Uncle Chuck.

  The newspapers couldn’t get enough of the story. Local children, neighbours and parents all came forward, baying for blood. But it was too late. Someone had got there first. I never told, there was no need. Slicing through his neck had been therapy enough and no one bothered with me. It was enough that I hadn’t seen him on that particular Friday afternoon.

  Uncle Chuck was a stalker, a word I learnt much later. Uncle Chuck would pretend he was walking through the park. I knew he’d seen me as he waited and wobbled. In the shops, he would be in the fridge aisle when I went to pick up a pint of milk. It got him hard, the fear that turned him on. Outside my bedroom window I’d see him in the black of night slouched against the lamp post with his hand down his trousers. He’d dare to wave up at me with the other hand as I tore the curtains closed. Several times I ripped them off the rails.

  When he wasn’t there, or I couldn’t see him, it was worse because then I held my breath in fearful anticipation. He had to be somewhere? Where? I tried to tease him out but, like a crocodile, he lolled low in murky waters, waiting until we were alone.

  I learned the craft of stalking from Uncle Chuck. I knew how it felt to be hounded, day and night, by an unseen predator. But now it’s time to show my face. The game is up. Today I’ll finally blow my cover. The clock is ticking. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Here I come.

  I turn away and start the journey home. Left down The Broadway and I’m almost there. It’s nearly lunchtime. I step on all the cracks and boldly dive under a workman’s wobbly ladder.

  ‘Mind out down there. That’s unlucky, you know.’ The painter wiggles his paintbrush, dripping white dollops at my feet. ‘Ooops.’

  I laugh up at him, sidestepping with aplomb. I’m not the unlucky one today. Unlucky thirteen. Unlucky in love. Unlucky in life. She should have told.

  Her luck has run out.

  54

  ‘Ms Evans. Come in. You’re a bit early. But it’s good to see you.’

  It’s really great to see her but only because it’ll be the last time. I’ve been watching out for her and wondering why she didn’t appear through the hospital gates as she’s suddenly turned up at the front door. She probably left work early, leaving her car at the hospital and walked the scenic route through the park. Her cheeks are flushed. Today is the last time I’ll have to face her and I’ve plenty to tell her, not to mention a few questions of my own to ask.

  We’re holding the last session in my house as Ms Evans thought it would be a nice way to round off the therapy, give her a chance to see me in my natural habitat, so to speak. She thinks it might help her make a final call on my state of mind.

  She’s not one hundred per cent confident, even after all the sessions, about signing me off; she’s still got concerns which she’s reported, in great detail, to Damian Hoarden. I can’t for the life of me work out what is making her uneasy. I’ve played the game, answered all the probing questions carefully. But hey ho. There’s more than one way to skin a cat. I certainly won’t be agreeing to another two months of her stony stare and cross-examination. Today it’s her turn to talk, to come clean.

  ‘Beverley. What a fabulous house. I had no idea.’ Her voice cuts through my thoughts; a knife through butter. I wonder why. She knows where I live as my home has been the backdrop to my unfolding story; it has been the corner piece of my therapy jigsaw. She must surely have been curious when she passed it every day on her way to work. I mention it in detail every time I’m lying on my back, when I try hard to paint as succinct a picture as possible for her; the picture that I want her to see.

  ‘Hi. Thank you. Come in but be careful of the paint pots. It’s still a work in progress.’

  ‘Love the colour. It’s nice and bright.’ She smiles at the azure blue over which I’ve stencilled fluffy white clouds and grey floating seagulls. No Rorschach images of death and destruction in the hallway. My creative skills, sun, sand and seagulls, should help put her mind at rest.

  ‘I’ve been painting over my childhood. I don’t think my parents would recognise the place.’ Moving on. That’s what she’ll see. Her professional eye should make positive summations and help her tick the right boxes.

  ‘Do you fancy a coffee, or perhaps something stronger, before we get started? It’s my last session, so thought we’d have a little celebration. Well, I’d like a little celebration and hope you’ll keep me company. You’ve helped a lot, you know.’

  I pretend that I don’t know she’s hesitant about signing me off.

  ‘Why not? Perhaps we can chat like two old friends. Shall I leave my shoes by the door? The heels might cause damage to this fabulous wooden floor. Is it real oak?’

  Ms Evans peels off her smart black patent heels and lays them neatly by the front door. She keeps her shoulder bag close though and doesn’t take it off. It jangles against the floor and I wonder what’s inside. Gaoler’s keys more likely than hairspray.

  ‘Yes. It’s the real McCoy. This way. Follow me. I’ve bought a few sandwiches and put the champagne on ice, ready to pop the cork. I feel really positive today.’

  ‘Perhaps we should save it for after our session. One last clear head?’

  ‘Fine by me. We can make tea upstairs. I keep a kettle and fridge there as it’s a long way back down. The attic’s been totally revamped, by the way, as a studio; somewhere I can study and paint. You’ll love it. It’s where I’ll be working on my very own picture of Dorian Gray!’

  Ms Evans gives a wry smile. I imagine she’s seen many people like Dorian Gray, outwardly beautiful but with coal-black hearts. I wonder if she’ll be impressed with my current work in progress, a small still-life garden scene. Red geraniums and orange-breasted robins have created a colourful canvas which perches on a rickety easel in the corner. It reflects a light-hearted hope for the future. Flora and fauna. What’s not to like? If she’s suspicious what lies behind the beauty, she’ll keep it to herself.

  But much more important, I’m wondering how quickly she’ll recognise the layout. The tight walls hold a sofa neatly slotted between their confines. A drop-leaf table was a recent eBay purchase and the charity shop was brimming with chintzy china teacups. If Stockholm Syndrome (a weird, sad condition of becoming attached and dependent on one’s evil captor) could relate to places, my attic should do the trick. It definitely has that homely familiar feel and the dimensions are spot on. I’m sure she’ll recognise it, but I need to be certain.

  I lead Ms Evans up the rickety stairwell. It’s quite weird how I think of her as Ms Evans when we meet for therapy sessions and at all other times I think of her as Queenie Lowther, wife of Travis and mother to Freddie and Emily. She has definitely two personas. She’s not unlike me in that respect. On a shallow level she’s a rather average decent human being, the evil buried much deeper.

  I wonder how many layers of personas she’s scribbled in her notes that make up my character; certainly more than one. Any true prof
essional would have picked up that my upper mantle is too vacuous to form the bedrock of my character. Ms Evans will know that but she’s only bothered to peek underneath; too much effort digging for ruins in a built-up area. She should have got her hands dirty, shovelled away the grainy topsoil to reach the depths. Only then would she have got her answers.

  The stairwell curves sharply round on both the first and second-floor landings until the final stretch which leads precipitously, like the final ascent of Mount Everest, to a small door at the very top of the house, high up under the eaves.

  This was always my space, long before it was cleared of clutter. It was my hiding place, far enough away to block out the noise, the nightmares. I didn’t need to cover my ears when I was this far up. My frozen Charlottes were cold, present companions as I played, alone, on top of the world.

  ‘Come in. Voila.’ I proudly fling open the door and spread my arms wide. ‘What do you think?’

  Ms Evans is about to reply but her lips snap shut. She looks round the small cosy room with the bright skylight, sun streaming through, but doesn’t speak. Her right eyelid develops a tic. Things are coming back. Bingo. I was right. She had been inside the garden shed. My efforts have been worth it and have confirmed my suspicions. She knew exactly what was going on, the pretence is finally over.

  55

  ‘Are you okay? Sorry, it’s a bit of a climb. Here, have a seat and catch your breath.’

  I extract a rickety wooden chair from under a table which is snugly aligned with the sloping roof. It’s a perfect fit. She doesn’t mention the stained wooden beams with their slick professional finish. They are thick and solid, holding the room together. It would have been impossible to replicate the leaking felt roof with corrugated iron surrounds and also, the beams help root me in reality.

  I’ve become quite the dab hand with a paintbrush. I spot a cobweb in the corner and automatically reach for an extendable feather duster and perch on tiptoes to flick it away, the mesh sticking fast to the implement.

  ‘Sorry. Spiders. They’re everywhere.’ My little furry friends. My lifeline. I’m careful not to kill them as they still keep me company.

  Ms Evans scans the room as she does a full three sixty, checking out the walls, the ceiling and the floor. There’s a distinct tremor in her hands and she doesn’t sit down, perhaps the chair’s too wobbly.

  ‘I’m okay, thanks. Sorry, I’m just not very fit. You’re right. It is a long way up.’ Her smile doesn’t reach her glazed eyes. The turned-up lips are an attempt to maintain composure but she hasn’t yet worked out what’s going on, still doesn’t remember me. Give it time. Give it time.

  ‘Here. Let me put the kettle on. First I’ll pull the blinds down on the skylight to block out the sunlight. Keep prying eyes at bay.’ My hoot reverberates off the walls. There’ll be no prying eyes this high up, yet closing the blinds is meant to mirror the stapling in place of the net curtains which blocked out the rest of the world.

  ‘Less light should make it easier to put me under. What do you think? I’ve even bought an eye mask which I can heat up. Look.’ I dangle my new purchase by the elastic and set it down when she doesn’t respond. ‘I can heat it up by plugging it into my computer. How cool is that?’ La-di-da-di-da.

  Ms Evans’ sagging eyes are like those of a puppy coming face to face with a rabid Dobermann. She senses that I’m toying with her, detecting a madness in my actions and that must be why she looks so frightened. I’m surprised though, as she must be used to mad people by now.

  ‘Why don’t you sit here on the sofa? It’s very cosy. I’ll put the chair back. It fits perfectly, don’t you think? You can interrogate me from here.’ I nudge her towards the brown polyester- covered sofa.

  Ms Evans is breathing slowly, in and out, trying to relax the way she suggests to patients who have anxiety issues; panic attacks and suchlike. I recognise the signs; shut eyes, a long slow intake of breath followed by gently measured exhalation. I’m fascinated. She’s totally out of control.

  ‘Thanks, Beverley. I’m fine. My heart seems to be beating very hard.’

  She’s such a liar. She recognises the interior of the garden shed which I’ve replicated in the finest detail. I’ve dug deep into my memory reserves, aided by the vivid nightmares, to get the layout exactly right. The sofa here. The table there with the two unstable wooden chairs slotted underneath. I have even laid out a gaudy tea set on top of a stained tin tray.

  Yet in spite of all my efforts, Ms Evans is still going to try to pass off the scene in front of her as some weird coincidence, nothing at all to do with her. Over my dead body.

  ‘Please. Sit. I’ll put the kettle on. It’s homely, isn’t it?’

  Ms Evans sits on the sofa, her body rigid. ‘Beverley. What’s going on?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I walk round behind her as if to plug in the rusty kettle. I bend down, holding the lead attachment but with a quick sleight of hand I flick handcuffs round her wrist. It was a trick Jeremy and I used on each other all the time. The wooden slats running down from the armrest on the sofa provide the anchor.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on? Beverley, have you lost your mind?’

  ‘Ha. That’s a good one. There’s nothing wrong with my mind. Milk, one sugar? I think that’s how you like it. Recognise the custard creams? Uncle Chuck bought them in bulk. Those and Jaffa cakes. Remember?’ I stick my face so close our noses skim.

  The kettle comes to the boil, whistling like a sailor. I pour boiling water into the mugs and mulch the teabags with the back of a spoon.

  ‘Watch. It’s very hot. It’s awkward with only one hand free. Maybe wait till it cools down a bit.’

  Uncle Chuck made me tea; warm and milky. ‘Full-fat milk. It’ll fatten you up, Snippet,’ he said.

  It’s strangely silent. Ms Evans doesn’t move and doesn’t touch her tea.

  ‘I remember the first time I saw you. It was the very first Friday. Uncle Chuck told me he’d something to show me, a rare and special treat. He opened the dirty white PVC front door and the first thing he did was call out your name. “Queenie, are you there? Yoo-hoo. It’s Uncle Chuck.”’

  I thought he was having some sort of a party. Other girls and boys. What fun. He poked me from behind to move me further down the hallway. The linoleum floor was engrained with dark brown skid marks and a rank smell of urine, wet dog fur and bad breath hung in the air. My stomach churned from the smell but battled with the excitement. I grip the table edge, knuckles white.

  ‘You know that I didn’t get out much, don’t you, Queenie? I’ve told you what it was like at home. Anywhere seemed better than being around my parents. Uncle Chuck appeared as my saviour. He was my mother’s stepbrother. Did you know that? No of course you didn’t because you weren’t interested. You turned a blind eye. Didn’t you?’ I’m hissing like a disconnected hose, spurting vitriol.

  ‘That first Friday we stopped by an open door to the lounge. Chuck’s bulk blocked the doorway and I couldn’t get a proper view inside. But I saw you. Sitting like you’re doing now, on the end of a sofa. The remote control you clutched told me you were having fun. Fun. Fun. Fun. Your eyes never left the telly. That was the easiest thing to do, wasn’t it? Pretend not to see. But I caught you. Out of the corner of my eye as we walked away, you turned your head.’ I pause for breath before I spit it out. ‘You ignored us all, and turned a blind eye.’

  56

  I’m hopping like a rabbit, in and out between memories, unsure which way to turn and although I’m talking out loud there’s no response from the sofa, only a deathly hush, a prickly fear.

  ‘You recognised me as Hannah from the year below at school. Beverley is my middle name, by the way. It’s a nicer name don’t you think than Hannah? My mother was a fan of the Beverley sisters. He called you Queenie, didn’t he? The nickname stuck. You were his special little queen. He called me Snippet. It sounded like something small and crunchy that could be shoved away in a trouser pocket.’

>   I spin round, pirouette on one foot and momentarily lose my balance.

  ‘Oops.’ I move in close again. ‘But there was one glaring difference between us, wasn’t there? You weren’t his type. “Not my cup of tea,” he said. “She’s a cold, funny little uptight lass that one. Not like you, Snippet. Come on. Let’s go and see what I’ve got in the garden shed.” But he couldn’t let you leave, you knew too much. You might tell all and he couldn’t take that chance. Instead you became his lookout. He blackmailed your silence with all manner of treats, didn’t he?’

  ‘Beverley, I had no idea. I’m really sorry. I didn’t realise it was you.’

  ‘You’re sorry? Sorry because you didn’t realise who I was or because you didn’t tell?’

  Ms Evans is propped against the armrest at a weird angle and jangles the handcuff as if trying to shake free a plague-infested rat. I lean down, pretend I’m going to help, maybe even take the cuff off but instead pull her free hand down and clip it next to the other one.

  ‘Better safe than sorry. Now where were we?’

  ‘Beverley. There’s no need for the handcuffs. I’ll not run away.’

  There it is again. The use of my name to suck me in, the one word, over and over. She’s still trying to control our session but she’s only making it easier for me to carry on.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Her distorted torso slumps to the side as she gives up twisting.

  ‘That’s the thing, Ms Evans. Or should I call you Justine? The thing is, Justine, I’m not certain. All I know is that I have to do something. This has been a long time coming, you can see that.

  ‘There are two possibilities. I could frame you now for the murder of Uncle Chuck and destroy your life for ever. Imagine that. You would be in therapy yourself. I wonder how you’d cope with all the probing, especially when your sexual proclivities become public knowledge. How cool would that be? The lesbian therapist goes down for murder. I can see the headline. Can’t you? DCI Colgate has been following the trail I’ve left for him. The finger points firmly your way.’