Letters To My Daughter's Killer

by Cath Staincliffe

  There’s a crashing sound from outside and Florence flinches. I feel myself wince in sympathy.

  Peering out of the window, I can see that the planter I fixed up has come away from the wall. And the trellis further down is loose, moving with each fresh blast.

  ‘It’s just one of Nana’s pots,’ I tell her. ‘You want to see?’

  Non-committal, she sits for a few seconds longer then comes over, and I lift her up and show her. ‘See, all the soil’s spilt.’

  ‘And the flowers,’ she says.

  ‘They were old anyway. Past their best.’ Verbena and lobelia from the summer.

  ‘You’re old.’

  My mind does gymnastics trying to work out what hers is thinking. That I might just collapse too? If my world feels unsteady, how much more fragile must Florence’s be?

  ‘Not really,’ I say. ‘I’m not past my best. Fit as a fiddle, me. Fit as a flea.’

  A ghost of a smile.

  Jack makes some toast and I put the kettle on again.

  Kay arrives, commenting about the weather and the disruption. There’s been an accident on the M60 with a lorry gone over. Trees have blocked roads and some of the rail networks have been closed where the overhead lines are down.

  Almost immediately her phone goes and she leaves us to take the call in the living room.

  I’m mixing a banana milkshake for Florence, whizzing the fruit with milk and a spoonful of honey, when there is a knocking at the front door, just audible above the liquidizer.

  Florence has her hands pointedly over her ears.

  ‘Let Kay get it,’ I say to Jack when he moves to go.

  We hear voices, male, more than one. Not Tony, I can tell his voice anywhere.

  I pour the frothy yellow drink into a plastic cup.

  ‘Can I have a straw?’ Florence says.

  ‘The bits might clog it up,’ I say, ‘but you can try.’

  The visitors come into the kitchen with Kay. Police officers. Jackets wet with raindrops.

  ‘Mr Jack Tennyson,’ one of them says.

  ‘Yes,’ Jack says, looking to see what they want.

  They both hold up their ID cards. And the one who spoke, plump, fair-haired, introduces them. PC Curtis and PC Simmons.

  They must have news! Have they found you? I lean against the worktop to steady myself, intent on whatever is coming next. I’m waiting, eager, poised, holding my breath. The men move further into the room past Florence to Jack at the end of the table. Then PC Curtis speaks again. ‘Jack Tennyson, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Lizzie Tennyson, on the twelfth of September 2009 . . .’

  Shock jolts through me, stealing my breath.

  Jack jumps to his feet, his face white with shock, shouting, ‘No!’

  Florence flies to reach him, knocking her drink over as she drops from her chair.

  ‘. . . you do not have to say anything . . .’ Jack lunges along the side of the table, knocking over a chair. PC Simmons charges after him, blocks him in. Jack wrestles, still trying to get away. But Simmons has a set of handcuffs and he grabs for Jack’s arms.

  PC Curtis keeps talking as he moves after Jack, ‘. . . but anything you do say may be given in evidence and . . .’

  Jack is struggling, shouting, ‘This is crazy! I didn’t do it. I didn’t do anything.’ Lunging to try and break free. He kicks out with his legs, knocking a chair over, wrenches away but Simmons holds him fast.

  Florence is screaming, ‘Daddy! Daddy!’ She darts under the table to her father.

  My heart hammers in my chest and I feel the pain needle through it, sharp as a knife.

  ‘. . . may harm your defence when used in court.’

  They have Jack’s hands behind his back. His face has gone rigid, his eyes blazing.

  Florence is screaming and hitting at PC Simmons, trying to reach her father. She squeezes past him and grabs Jack’s leg.

  Kay calls out, ‘PC Simmons, please!’

  ‘Let her say goodbye.’ My voice cuts through the mayhem. I stare at PC Simmons, the one who has cuffed him. ‘Look at her, she’s four years old. Let her say goodbye.’

  ‘Do it,’ says Kay.

  His eyes flicker at me. Jack is still shaking his head, his face flooded with colour now.

  I move round until I’m by Florence and lift her up so she’s level with Jack. She throws her skinny arms around his neck, still sobbing, ‘Daddy. Daddy.’

  ‘I’ll be back soon, sweetheart,’ Jack says, his voice hoarse. ‘Just a silly mix-up.’

  I have to pull her away, use my hands to release hers, peeling her off him, and she falls silent. Suddenly there’s just the uneven shake of her breath.

  The men lead Jack out. The room stinks of banana and male sweat.

  The truth settles on me heavy as lead, the ground is wobbly beneath my feet. I edge on to Jack’s empty chair and sit Florence on my knee and stare vacantly at the walls. Outside a car starts and there’s a splatter of rain on the windows behind me.

  The truth pours through me like water on sand, soaking in instantly. In my belly and my guts, in my arms, my thighs, from the nape of my neck to the soles of my feet. I’m aware of Florence, her weight on my legs, one hand gripping my little finger, the heat from her body against my stomach.

  The truth solidifies inside me, granite-hard yet raw as flesh, quick as lightning and deep as space. Fathomless. I taste it in the roof of my mouth, hear it in the tick of my blood, see it in Kay’s eyes, in the image of Jack trying to run, in the way Lizzie’s hand caught the firelight. I smell it in the stink of body odour and ripe fruit. I feel it in my scalp and my bowels and the marrow of my bones.

  You are not Broderick Litton.

  Not some prowler.

  Not some random stranger.

  You are Jack.

  Jack killed Lizzie.

  Jack is you.

  You are Jack.

  And I hate you.

  Ruth

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Saturday 19 September 2009

  The rage comes next. I round on Kay as soon as I can extricate myself from Florence, lay her on the sofa and cover her with a blanket. I’m not even astonished that she goes to sleep.

  ‘You knew!’ I say. ‘You fucking knew and you let me sit here, you let Florence see that! Her own father dragged off in handcuffs.’ I’m close to belting her, but turn and hit the nearest thing, the shelf with cookery books, send them flying. I would tear the walls down. But still I hold myself together.

  ‘I’m so sorry. They weren’t supposed to—’

  I’m not ready to hear it. Not excuses or explanations. ‘That child,’ I hiss at her, determined not to weep because then I will lose the ability to say my piece, ‘has lost her mother and you people tear her father away like . . . like savages.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, ‘I am so sorry.’

  ‘Go. Just get out.’ I can’t bear her, can’t bear it. ‘Just get out.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I don’t want you here.’

  ‘I’ll ring you later.’ At least she doesn’t argue with me.

  A band tightens around my skull and a sweet, brackish taste floods my mouth. In the garden I vomit down the drain, the rain pelting on my back and drenching my hair.

  I have to see Tony.

  * * *

  Florence is drowsy as I transfer her to the car. There’s a CD of nursery rhymes among the discs in the glove compartment and I put that on. I could walk to the salvage yard, but not in this weather, in this state, not with Florence.

  I’m probably not fit to drive, but it’s only five minutes.

  The gates are open and I don’t see any customers’ vehicles in the yard. The lights are on in Tony’s office. I park so that I will be able to see Florence from the windows.

  It is years since I’ve been here but it hasn’t changed much. Though I can see he’s surfaced the central courtyard, which used to be rutted and pitted and prone to puddles. And the far end of the
lot, once a pair of garages, is now a large open-fronted area with a roof and aisles, presumably for various categories of stock. Adjoining the office and opposite, across the yard, are the same assortment of prefabs, sheds and lean-tos where people can browse for doorknobs and candelabra, newel posts and stained-glass panels.

  My hair flies about, blinding me as I cross to the office.

  Tony must have heard the car, because he opens the door before I reach it. He steps back and lets me inside.

  ‘They’ve arrested Jack,’ I say, ‘just now, at my house.’ My voice is blurred, my mouth dry.

  His face moves, eyes blinking, mouth working.

  ‘For Lizzie’s murder,’ I say. My breath comes sharp, blades in it.

  The blood falls from Tony’s face, leaving him a ghastly white colour. He sways where he stands, then raises his face to the ceiling. He tries to speak but fails to find the words, just a few stuttering syllables. He swings round, then back to me. ‘That’s crazy. What the hell are they playing at! We should ring someone, a solicitor. Do something. We should . . . Good God! Fuck! It doesn’t make sense.’ His eyes are wild, he gasps for breath.

  ‘Tony . . . I think they’re right.’

  ‘What? Have you taken leave of your senses? Bloody hell, Ruth.’

  ‘Stop shouting and listen,’ I say, but he doesn’t.

  ‘He thought the world of her; this is Jack we’re talking about.’

  ‘I know! But when they came, when they arrested him, he tried to run away. He was expecting it. Any normal person, if they were innocent, they’d be speechless, stunned, outraged, but it was just like he knew he’d been caught and he made this mad dash for it and they had to physically restrain him.’

  The air seems to leak out of Tony. He moves slowly, stooping, around the desk to his ancient office chair with its curved back and castors on the legs and green leather seat and back.

  I perch on the edge of the desk so that I have a clear view of the car.

  ‘But what did they say?’ He gives a great sigh, ragged and fast, and a spasm jolts through his frame.

  ‘Nothing. I don’t know. Kay was there, she knew they were coming.’

  He raises his hands to the sides of his head. I am reminded of Florence when I made her milkshake.

  ‘And they wouldn’t do that, arrest him, unless there was good reason,’ I say. My mind careers back to that night, bumping over the paltry facts I know. There was no sign of damage. No need to force entry. A dozen blows at least. Jack discovering the body. Jack’s story of a night-time trip to the gym. ‘What’s the alternative? If it’s not Jack? Broderick Litton crawls out of the woodwork after more than a year’s gone by and Lizzie lets him in and he beats her to death and then conveniently disappears into the night before Jack gets back from his workout?’

  ‘But Jack . . .’ he whispers.

  ‘I know. I know.’ I bite down on my tears, breathing hard. ‘I don’t know what to do, I don’t . . . What do we tell Florence?’ I break down.

  Tony comes and holds me, his arms strong and heavy round my shoulders, my face pressed against his work sweater, which smells of damp wool and white spirit and wood smoke. Scents that send me back to camping, bonfires on the beach, rain on canvas, the three of us playing cards in the light from the Tilley lamp. To days at the allotment, Lizzie in her dungarees with her toy wheelbarrow. Cycling to the library with Lizzie on the child seat, me helping set up the crèche where she will play with the other kids while I work. Tony collecting her from school and letting her act as sous-chef. Us stripping wallpaper and painting window frames and choosing where to put up bookshelves.

  My face is damp, cold, and I ease away, wiping my cheeks and nose.

  ‘Why?’ Tony says. ‘Why?’

  I have no idea, so I say nothing.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ he says. ‘Not Jack.’

  Not Lizzie.

  I think of Jack, his voice on the phone begging for help, standing at the gate, his teeth chattering in his head. Jack eating in my kitchen, sleeping in my bed and weeping in the night. Jack echoing the questions we were all asking.

  ‘He’s an actor,’ I say. He convinced me.

  ‘Actors don’t kill people,’ Tony bursts out. Which is a ridiculous statement to make. As if an occupation confers or removes the capacity to take a life.

  I snort and laugh. Tony scowls and throws out a hand. ‘You know what I mean. They might let him go, they might not charge him, it could be a mistake, a misunderstanding.’ He is pleading.

  I shrug.

  ‘You really think they’re right?’

  I don’t need to repeat myself; he can read it in my eyes.

  ‘No, no,’ he says, still not prepared to accept it.

  The wind whistles through the keyhole, a soft moaning noise.

  After a pause, he says, ‘What happens now?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What does Kay say?’

  ‘She’s gone, I chucked her out.’

  He looks disapproving.

  ‘You weren’t there,’ I say. ‘Tony, it was awful. Florence was screaming and trying to get to her dad and Jack tried to run. They way they handled it.’ I shake my head.

  When I see Florence move, her starfish palm against the car window, I go and fetch her in. She is cranky, restless, and complains that we’ve left Matilda at home. Tony distracts her, showing her how to wind the grandfather clock in the corner and taking her to see the bells and doorknockers in the sheds. But then she complains she’s hungry.

  ‘Chip shop chips,’ I say to her.

  She blinks with surprise. Chips from the shop are a rare treat. She has frozen chips sometimes at home but Lizzie tries to limit the amount of junk food, much as Tony and I did when Lizzie was small. That all went out the window when she was a teenager and would only eat pizza and Pot Noodles and other crap. I decided not to fight about it. There were more important issues. A couple of years’ rebelling through food choices wouldn’t do her much harm.

  ‘Now?’ Florence says.

  Tony looks at the clock. ‘The shop doesn’t open until twelve.’

  Will she last an hour? I don’t think so.

  ‘I want chips,’ she begins to grizzle.

  ‘We’ll get chips as soon as the shop opens, but let’s get you something now to be going on with,’ I say. ‘At the baker’s.’

  A single nod.

  Tony locks up. We walk along the main road, heads bowed in the wind, past the antique and second-hand shops, to the local bakery.

  Inside, Florence presses her nose against the display cabinets and surveys the sandwiches, pies and pastries, then cranes her neck, standing on tiptoe. ‘Cake,’ she says.

  ‘Here.’ Tony lifts her up, names the choices. Custard slice, strawberry tart, coconut macaroon, Eccles cake, chocolate fudge cake, apple pie, rocky road.

  ‘Rocky road?’ Florence says.

  ‘It’s got nuts and fruit and chocolate. Very chewy,’ I say.

  ‘Or there’s fairy buns.’ The assistant points them out.

  Florence shakes her head.

  We wait and wait as she hums and haws. Tony puts her down.

  I edge her to one side so the assistant can deal with new customers. My back aches from standing still. ‘Two more minutes,’ I say, ‘then I’ll pick.’

  ‘No!’ she objects.

  ‘We can’t stand here all day.’

  She seems unable to decide, rocking in an agony of indecision. I am reminded of the way she acted choosing the toy. Impatience simmers beneath my skin, my nerves already shredded by Jack’s arrest. ‘Get two different things,’ I suggest, keeping my voice level, ‘one for you and one for Matilda.’

  That works.

  ‘Rocky road for Matilda. Chocolate for me.’

  We are halfway back to the yard when she bursts into tears. ‘I don’t want chocolate, I don’t want it.’

  Tony gives me a look suggesting we go back, but I think she’ll just repeat it all. There’s a
newsagent’s on the next corner and I nip in there, buy a bag of Hula Hoops and a carton of Vimto.

  Florence eyes them as I come out. She is still crying. I don’t say anything, but we walk on and she quietens. Once we’re in Tony’s office again, I open the Hula Hoops and eat a couple. Put the cakes on the table. Offer the Hula Hoops to Tony. He shakes his head until he sees me glare, then he takes one and eats it. Florence watches.

  She can tell something is going on but can’t quite work out what.

  I shake the Vimto, pierce it with the straw and take a sip. Offer it to Florence. She takes it and drinks. All the crying will have made her thirsty.

  ‘Can I have some of your cake?’ I say.

  She screws up her mouth, uncertain.

  ‘You can have some of my Hula Hoops.’

  She nods.

  I give her the Hula Hoops. She eats them all. I take a morsel of cake. She eats the rest, then the Rocky Road, her little teeth cracking the nuts with relish.

  Tony fields calls while we’re there. There’s a strange, sad intimacy in the situation. It’s like we’re hiding. I should speak for myself. I’m hiding. Playing house. Not willing to face real life. Real death.

  Dead on noon, we go to buy chips, and they are huge and crisp and golden. The vinegar makes my eyes water. We eat them in the car. I burn my tongue. Florence polishes off plenty. Her appetite is amazing.

  ‘We’d better go,’ I tell Tony, ‘let you get on with work.’

  He shrugs. ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘We’ll go.’

  ‘If you hear anything . . .’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’ll come round later.’

  I’m at sea, unmoored. I drive home, and Florence and I lie on the sofa together with Matilda and watch films back to back.

  What do I do now? How on earth do I explain this to her?

  Kay does ring and I am civil – just – and ask her what is happening. ‘As soon as I know,’ she says, ‘I will tell you.’

  It’s not enough.

  By the time night falls, the storm has gone. The trees outside are still, the ground is drying up. All is quiet. But inside me the tempest rages. I am fit to crack, like Lear. Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow! You cataracts and hurricanes, spout till you have drenched our steeples, drowned the cocks!