by Ruth Dugdall
Andy laughed. ‘No need to be frightened. Just relax and enjoy it.’
Jena wasn’t laughing, though. She said, ‘Can we stop now?’ But no one did.
In the darkened room, the men were still laughing, teasing Jena. I could tell from her whimpering that she was scared.
I wrapped my fleece dressing gown closer around me, shivering. I wanted to go back to my room, and hide under the covers, but something stopped me. On the television screen, the man was in a bedroom, bent over a sleeping girl. He opened his cape, and then he turned to me. His whole face, so pale, the eyes so dark, and it was me he was going to kill. He opened his mouth wide and, shockingly, he had two prominent shiny teeth, sharp as needles.
Jena screamed. And then, because I couldn’t stand to watch any more, so did I.
I have to stop. I switch it off, as scared as I was back then, when I was just twelve.
My heart is quaking with anxiety. This film started my nightmares, the ones I still get, about a man with a hood over his head. With dark eyes and a red mouth.
I witnessed Jena’s attack, but I couldn’t help the police because I couldn’t remember her attacker’s face. Because of the rain, because of the hood. So my brain filled in the gap.
The film and the attack merged. My current nightmares aren’t really about Dracula. They’re about something far more terrifying.
Later, I join Clive in his office. I tell him about being unable to watch the film, and about the first time I saw it. Watching Jena, with Andy and my dad.
‘It’s all opening up inside you, isn’t it?’
‘But it hurts,’ I say. ‘I want to stop.’
‘I don’t think you can stop, Sam. This is your last chance.’
He may mean because of the approaching board meeting. He may mean because my body is wrecked.
The sky outside is getting dark, though it’s not yet evening, and the room is made of simple outlines and shapes.
‘I think we need to talk about your mother, Sam. I had a call earlier to say the post-mortem has been completed. It was a heart attack.’
Of course it was. A heart like hers, fighting so hard to keep us together. What else could it do but fail in the end?
‘They’ve set a date for the funeral,’ he adds. ‘I’m afraid it’s going to take place on the afternoon of 1 February, which is also the date of the board hearing.’
Two bad things in one day. How would it be easier if they were days apart? And I can’t go to the funeral, not if Jena is there; it wouldn’t be fair to her. And if Dad is there, it would be unbearable.
‘The board will want to speak with you, though they will make their decision based mainly on the reports. But I wouldn’t want this to interfere with you attending your mum’s funeral. I can ask for the date to be changed, and apply for a day release.’
I shake my head. ‘Don’t do that. I don’t want to go to the funeral, and I don’t want you to get the date changed. It makes no difference.’
‘If you don’t go to the funeral, you may regret it. You should think about it carefully, Sam.’
When anger comes over me it’s a relief, a welcome change from the sadness that I can’t stand. ‘Why do you think I’d regret not going to see her buried? Because all anorexics have issues with their mother, is that it? You’ll start asking me if I was a good feeder when I was a baby next. How early I was potty-trained.’
Clive smiles at this, the absurdity of our interviews, then says, ‘I think it’s true that anorexics often do have issues with their mothers. The typical dynamic is a controlling mother and absent father, sometimes physically, but in your case emotionally. And it’s a fact that, until she died, you refused all attempts at therapy.’
Dad was always in the shed, with his photos and laptop, editing his films. Mum was the verbal one; she did the talking for both of them. He was more distant, it’s true. From me, at least. He was always closer to Jena.
Our parents were very protective. It’s one reason why it took Jena until she was twenty-nine to decide to leave home. Mum and Dad liked us to be where they could see us; they liked to keep the family close.
Case in point: that September they wanted me to stay on at Orwell Academy for sixth form, so I’d be nearer to home and Mum could watch me walk to school each morning and afternoon, keeping guard in her fluorescent jacket, her lollipop held high to stop the traffic. Dad said I could learn all I needed to at the local school.
I didn’t blame them for this, but I needed some control over my life and college was the gateway.
They only gave in after my art teacher called at our house, just a month or so before my sixteenth birthday, and told Dad I had a real talent, and that college was the best place for me.
‘Sam has a great eye, and the college will really develop that gift.’
That was the word that swung it for Dad, him being into photography like he was; the temptation of ‘developing my gift’ was too great to resist. That might have been when he decided to take the camera from Jena, and give it to me that fateful day I turned sixteen.
For me, the plan to go to college that September had represented freedom. But after the attack, everything felt different. I couldn’t imagine my future anymore; the only thing I thought about was finding Jena’s attacker, or some evidence against him, like the missing raincoat. Clicking with my camera, to try and catch a criminal, viewed through a distancing lens. The camera was more, much more now, than a way to capture images. It was my shield, guarding me from the things I was forcing myself to see, the people I was investigating, the questions I had.
It was Sunday morning, the day after Jena’s move back to Eastern Ward. I hadn’t seen Dad all weekend, but I knew where he’d be. Where he always was, especially since the attack: in his dark room, the one he’d created by painting the shed windows with black paint and securing an inside lock, so no one would disturb him at a crucial time and wreck his pictures. It was somewhere he would go with Jena, but now the Leica camera was mine, so I could go there too.
I had work to do.
I opened the shed door slowly, not quite sure if I should enter.
‘Sorry, Dad. I was wondering if you could help me develop my prints?’
Dad. A short man with a big belly; he was sixty-one and losing his hair on top, but still wore it long at the sides. His straggly goatee was always matted with paint, as he was always starting odd jobs but never finishing them.
He’d worked at Pleasurepark for thirty years, as their chief engineer, but he’d been home on compassionate leave since the attack. I don’t know why he’d done that, it wasn’t like he was always at the hospital. He never seemed comfortable just relaxing; he had to have a project, and this extended leave just meant he had more time to fill with his hobby.
‘Come on in, Sam. My photos are nearly developed. I just thought I may as well do something while I wait for your mum to get back from the hospital and put the roast in the oven.’
That was where she always was. Dad found it harder, though, to see his daughter so damaged, and it distressed Jena too. He came back so upset that Mum had started saying maybe he should stop visiting so much and return to work. He hadn’t done that, though.
He was waiting for his daughter to come home, in the hush of the dark room.
Dad showed me what to do, the things he had also shown my sister when she was younger. This photography equipment, the Leica camera, was precious, and that was why Jena was so upset, so angry, when he’d given it to me on my sixteenth birthday. Jealousy, but not just because of him giving me the camera. Before then, the dark room had been their special place, but that gift had been a sign that now I was going to be included. What he gave me, on my sixteenth birthday, was the promise of future attention.
Dad guided me, and we worked silently together in the red glow, my hands fluorescent under the chemical water as he showed me how to dip my photos. Above us, on the washing lines, pictures of life hung out to dry in the cool motionless air, dripping on to the flo
or. Dad’s pictures, taken at the theme park. Teenage girls screaming on rides, toddlers sucking ice creams. Lots of pictures of the entertainment team, which Andy managed, and one of Jena dressed up as a fairy-tale princess. The picture must have been taken at Easter, because there she was wearing a peasant’s low-cut dress and carrying a basket of Creme Eggs.
I understood why Dad came here. He could study the pictures and imagine his daughter whole again. The room was a refuge, away from the reality of Jena and her damaged brain.
Together, we watched as my pictures revealed themselves, and he picked out the one of Monica. It was the photo I had taken at the police station that day Penny told us the prime suspect may be released soon.
‘Pretty girl,’ Dad said. ‘Goes to your school, doesn’t she?’
‘She’s in the sixth form.’ I decided I’d give her the photo when I saw her next.
He touched Monica’s picture, delicately lifting the edge so the print rippled under the single bulb.
‘You’re a very good girl, Sam.’
His voice was low, and I could hear the emotion in it. All the pain that he’d been feeling for six weeks. I wanted to tell him that the real reason I was taking these photos was to help jog Jena’s memory and to find evidence against her attacker. The words were almost out, but he looked so sad, and I was worried that I’d just upset him.
‘Are you okay, Dad?’
He moved towards me, giving me a tight hug, and kissed the top of my head, breathing me in. ‘I’ll be fine soon,’ he said. He looked again at my pictures, as if the answer to when he would be fine could be found there.
Silence in the dark room as we both looked at the picture of Sonia’s house.
‘Isn’t that Andy? Stood in that doorway.’
‘Yeah. That’s his sister Sonia’s house. Have you met her?’
He looked again at the photo. ‘A few times. She sometimes came to Pleasurepark with Andy, but I can’t say I’ve seen her in years. What were you doing there?’
‘Her son, Rob; I know him a bit. I was waiting for him.’
I had so many questions about Andy and his relationship with Jena. She’d always told me that their affair had to be secret on account of him being her boss and the age gap, that Mum and Dad mustn’t know about the wedding or that he would soon be moving in with her, that it would be a repeat of the family rift that Mum experienced when she married Dad.
‘Dad, why hasn’t Andy visited Jena?’
He looked surprised. ‘He isn’t immediate family. And it’s hard, to see her like that. I can hardly bear it myself, so you couldn’t expect anyone else to put themselves through it.’
He started to well up again, and I didn’t want that; I wanted answers. Was it really true that Andy hadn’t visited because it was just too hard? Could it be that he loved her too much to see that?
Whatever the reason, I needed to know.
I stop, no more left to come. I’ve purged myself, vomited up my past in my monologue, and I’m empty. Exhausted and exposed.
‘Good girl,’ says Clive.
Suddenly a rage overtakes me and I clench my fist, then run at him as if to punch him in the gut, but he shields himself just in time.
‘Sam, whoa! It’s okay . . .’
But it’s not okay, it never will be again, and I’m not a good girl. I pull free, hot and chaotic, and run from the room. Back to the other side of the building, to Ana Unit, where I feel safe. To my bedroom, where no one can reach me; to my bed, narrow as a child’s.
I throw myself down on it, no longer angry but desperately sad. How can this be helping? How can it be fucking helping? I reach for my tube and yank, pull it from my nose, my throat, my stomach. I cry and pull and don’t stop until Clive finds me, and fetches Manda, and then the two of them are with me, soothing me, rocking me. Telling me it will be okay.
CHAPTER 14
12 January
I gashed my throat, brought up blood and skin with the plastic, but that didn’t stop Sian from re-inserting the tube when she came back on duty. Six cans of Enliven a day, plus a meal in the dining room. It will kill me, if starvation doesn’t get me first.
The next morning, I don’t go to Clive’s office at the appointed hour; I wait for him to find me in my room.
‘Fuck off,’ I say. As calmly as I can, though my hand clenches and I want to run at him again.
He sits on the white wicker chair, strokes his grey-white beard and breathes deeply, trying to dredge up words of comfort I don’t want to hear. His presence suffocates me.
‘I’m not doing this anymore, Clive. I mean it. If you want to give me an extra can, you’ll have to fight me.’
To my surprise, he doesn’t argue. He looks too tired. ‘Okay, Sam.’
I notice the local newspaper is folded neatly under his arm.
He stands, but leaves it on my desk. I wait for him to be gone, for his footsteps to be out of hearing, and lift the paper. Then I understand why he didn’t threaten me with the tube, why he didn’t need to say anything. I understand that I have no choice.
The headline reads:
ORWELL ESTATE SHOOTER: SAMANTHA HOOLIHAN JUDGEMENT LOOMS
After lunch, I find Clive in his office. I’d expected him to look frantic, to be poring over paperwork as I’ve seen him do before, but instead he is stood by the window, hands buried in his corduroys, looking out at the grey North Sea. He turns and smiles, but his eyes are red. It’s the look of a man who has lost and knows it.
‘Hello, Sam. I didn’t expect to see you again today.’
‘Oh yes you did.’ I throw the paper on his desk. ‘What will happen to me?’
Clive breathes deeply, so his whole chest lifts, a barrel of emotion.
‘That, Sam, has always been up to you. I write the report, but you are the one who dictates the content. Believe me, I want nothing more than to tell the board that this hospital order is no longer necessary and you should go home.’
My crime, committed not because I was bad but because I was mad, or so they think. I received a hospital order, on account of severe depression and anorexia, treatable mental conditions, that saved me from prison, but I need to be fixed before I can be free. I need to be not just sane, but safe.
Clive removes his watch, places it on the desk and waits. He knows I can’t afford to refuse now.
‘I continued to hang around Rob, forging a quick intimacy, desperate to get closer,’ I say, thinking back. ‘He was my only link to Douglas Campbell, and I needed to do something so he wasn’t released, like Penny said he might be. Evidence was needed, stronger evidence than the police already had.
‘I went to Greasy Monkeys, the car project, where Rob had told me he worked. It was just a scrabble of a field, and a rickety outhouse holding knackered cars.’
It was Monday 13 June, seven weeks since the attack, and I was determined to get something on Douglas.
In the yard, there were two old bangers, battered and rusted, both with their bonnets up. Each car had a trio of boys gathered around, and all of the boys wore jeans or blue overalls. No one seemed to be in charge, and there was lots of chatter; a radio on top of the car roof pumped out an old song, RiRi’s ‘Umbrella’. A few boys had their T-shirts off, and were rosy from the sun and splattered with oil, singing along to the song: ella-ella-ella.
As soon as I was spotted, the whistles began. I hid behind my hair as much as I could, eyes to the ground, and walked to the first car.
I found Rob working under the bonnet of a turquoise Datsun. His copper hair was sticky with sweat, and his naked back was puckered with acne. He quickly pulled on a raggy T-shirt.
‘How do you feel about bunking off early?’ I asked.
He hesitated. ‘Mac’s just got me a room at The Fold. I don’t want to piss him off before I even move in.’
‘Who’s Mac?’
‘Social worker. He’s really pushed to get me this room; said to the manager how well I’ve worked here. He’s on my side, Sam, and I don’t wa
nt to fuck that up.’
‘Better make sure he doesn’t notice, then.’
I took his oil-stained hand in mine, and urged him to follow me down the dusty track.
The air was heavy with heat, and we bumped along like drowsy bees towards Orwell Park, the straggly piece of grass behind the shops with swings and a graffitied climbing wall. But we’d timed it badly. The park was crawling with children just out of school.
Half a mile away, Mum would be holding forth at the crossing, fiercely lollipopping the cars to a screeching standstill. After the attack, she’d taken a month off work, but the council wouldn’t keep her job for her indefinitely, so she’d had to start back.
I sent her a text:
I’m at school in the library, doing some revision. Ok?
Her reply came immediately:
Ok. C u at home 4 tea. X
In the park, the kids skipped and yelled, letting off steam. Their mothers sat on nearby benches, yakking and smoking. No way were we going to get the swings with those mothers on guard.
‘Can we go to yours?’
I looked at Rob expectantly, willing him to agree, so that I could see inside Sonia’s home. Maybe even meet the woman who’d stood by a rapist, whose brother was secretly in love with my sister. Sonia seemed to be the linchpin.
‘It’s a bit of a state,’ Rob said. ‘All my things are packed up, ready for when I move out.’
‘Will your mum be around?’ I held my breath, silently begging him to say yes.
‘Nah, she’s taken the new puppy to dog training. Trying to train it not to shit on the floor.’
‘So, what are we waiting for?’ I reached for his hand.
Rob shifted his feet awkwardly. ‘But she’ll be home soon.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘I’ve always liked dogs.’
My brain jabbered non-stop all the way to Sonia’s house, demanding, What are you doing? Who the fuck do you think you are? I was about to get inside Sonia and Rob’s home, and that might not be so smart, given their relationship to the main suspect. And what if Andy was there? Did he know about Douglas Campbell’s arrest? It came to me then that this could be another reason why he hadn’t visited Jena: not that it was too painful for him, but that his loyalty to his family was stronger than his feelings for his fiancée.
