by Ruth Dugdall
‘It’s from the war,’ said Rob. ‘One of the Jap planes. Dad told me once, years later in one of his rare letters from prison, that they have the right idea when it comes to fighting. Just dive straight for the target.’ He took the plane from me and curved it through the air, diving it down as if to crash it on the table. ‘Kamikaze. Means “divine wind”. Can’t stop someone with nothing to lose, that’s what he said. I wasn’t allowed to touch the planes. I tried once and had me arm twisted into a Chinese burn.’
Rob fell silent, lost in a painful memory. I realised that he was about to tell me something important. His voice was low and broken when he spoke again.
‘I was just a little kid, what did I know? I thought maybe Mum had touched the planes, he was so livid.’
I put the plane down and moved next to him, taking his hand in mine, willing him to trust me. He hesitated, then in a low voice continued.
‘I was upstairs in bed, lying in the dark. Downstairs, there was yelling. I always got this heavy feeling in my tummy when they rowed, but that night was much worse. I crept out to sit at the top of the stairs, where it was light, and heard Dad shouting. It was hard to make out the words, but I got that Mum was going over something she’d heard said about him.
‘I saw my father push Mum into the hallway, forcing her against the wall. She fought back, screamed something about there being no smoke without fire, smashed her fist into his face.
‘She looked up, saw me standing at the top of the stairs. She wanted me to go back into my bedroom, and I could see she was strung out on booze. I ran to the big bedroom, got a stool, and reached for the windowsill. The neat runway of Airfix planes. The red-and-yellow plane was still drying in its special place under the window.
‘I stood at the top of the stairs and threw myself down like a kamikaze pilot, along with the plane, letting it fly through the air and crash against the head of my parents. But one of them caught it, mid-air, and turned the plane back to me, crashing it into my head. I still don’t know which of them it was. They both have mean tempers and they like their drink.’
I pushed Rob’s hair back, touching the scar on his forehead where the plastic wing must have cut into his skin. Then I kissed the place where the cut had been, as if to stop the pain that still remained.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘And the only other thing I can tell you about my dad was that just after that he got sentenced to eight years in prison and left our lives for good.’
I felt I could hear our heartbeats, the same rhythm.
‘I know why your dad went to prison, Rob. I know he raped a girl.’
He breathed out, a quick pant, his gaze holding me tight. ‘Mum says he was set up. But Uncle Andy says he’s guilty, and my dad was always bad news.’
I understood the confusion he felt over his father. A man he barely knew.
‘Rob, there’s something I want to tell you, about your dad,’ I whispered, as if that would soften the blow. I placed my hand on his, to show him I was on his side. ‘He’s in prison, right now, on remand. They think it was him who attacked my sister on 25 April.’
Rob pushed me away, as if he could push away the truth. He tried to get up, but I pulled him back. He sat down on the bed, the weight of being his father’s son heavy on his back. ‘That cunt.’
It was a relief to me, to know he wouldn’t defend his dad. I couldn’t have handled that.
Finally, he asked, ‘How do you know?’
‘The police file. I’m sorry, Rob. It doesn’t change how I feel about you.’
It was true. He was a victim in this, as much as me. Neither of us were responsible for the people around us.
He let me hold him, and though he was still tense, I tried to soothe him. ‘It’s okay, Rob. Whatever your dad has done, it has nothing to do with you. Or how I feel.’
We kissed, so close his eyelashes caught my cheeks, and then we moved together, on the bed. Clothes were a barrier; they had to go. We needed to be one, because we alone understood. The sex was quick but intense, leaving us in a tight tangle of sweaty limbs.
‘I think I love you, Sam. I know it’s soon to say it.’
‘I love you too.’ I kissed him again, my taste in his mouth, and felt the truth of it. We were alike, he and I. We understood each other because we were both damaged goods.
‘I’m so sorry, Sam. If he was the one who hurt your sister, then he deserves everything he gets.’
‘Then will you help me? If you love me, like you say. Please help me.’
CHAPTER 21
18 January
I miss my mother. Two weeks today is her funeral, and then she’ll be gone for good, but I still can’t bring myself to let her go. I try not to think about her because it hurts too much, but I can’t stop the small things seeping through, like how she was always there for me, making the house warm with the smell of fried food, wafting the smoke from her cigarette out of her face.
I close my eyes and she’s there, in our kitchen with her back to me, bum wiggling as she cuts fat chips over a muddy sink full of spuds, ciggie hanging from her mouth, humming between smokes. Hearing me and turning, taking a final drag and grinding the butt out on a saucer.
Smiling, warm and loving.
This is what you want, isn’t it, Clive? For me to just talk, let the words flow. Memories pushing against each other as they rise up to the surface.
I barged through the back door to find Mum at the sink, peeling potatoes with manic zeal.
‘There you are, Samantha! Mobile switched off again. I’ve been trying to reach you.’
‘Why?’ Warily, fearing Jena had had another fit. I carefully eased my rucksack down under the kitchen table.
‘That fool Gregg has decided to return your sister to her room on Minsmere Unit.’ She curled her hands around the rim of the sink and stared at the window, then went back to her paring knife.
‘But that’s great, Mum.’ Relief filled me like a flurry of blown bubbles in my chest.
‘I went to see him today, refused to leave his office until he saw sense. But he was adamant; he says she’s stabilised enough and that they need the bed for other patients, so he’s moving her back first thing tomorrow.’ Mum stopped peeling the spuds and started to cut the round white flesh into chunky fingers. ‘Cat got your tongue?’
‘Jena will be happy to be out of Eastern Ward,’ I said lamely.
‘At least in that madhouse the patients are safely locked in. I don’t like how slack they are with security at Minsmere, all those patio doors that open on to the courtyard. Anyone could just walk in!’ Mum winced like a pain had bothered her, and turned back to her potatoes, no longer humming as she cut them into wedges.
I set the table, poured three glasses of juice and buttered the bread. Dad came in from the shed, where he’d been all day, and put his hands on my shoulders.
‘When’s your next exam, love?’
I had to think hard, it seemed so irrelevant. ‘Tomorrow afternoon. English Literature.’ I’d already missed the Language paper. The time when I worried about such things was a lifetime ago.
Mum dropped the cut chips into a pan of oil. The smell made my stomach growl in anticipation. It still didn’t understand that I was in charge.
‘The first smart one in the family,’ he said, and surprised me by kissing my cheek.
I felt, in that moment, that it could be like this, with Jena gone. I could be his new favourite. All the years I’d envied Jena, her close bond with him, and now it could have been mine for the taking, only I was set on a different course. One that would drive us farther apart than ever.
‘You need to eat more, Sam,’ Mum said, frowning. She liked to see me eat, but I wasn’t going to give in just to please her. I nibbled the edges of a chip and it felt like a weakness. The chips were fluffy in the middle. Perfect. But the hot potato in my mouth, going down to my stomach, made me feel weak, like I’d lost something precious, given away some of my power. I was frightened I’d give in totally and wolf
the lot.
Mum and Dad both chewed in a business-like way as I pushed the food around my plate, fighting my body’s demands. Then Mum swallowed hard, and said, ‘Penny called. She’s thinking it’s more likely their suspect is going to be released, so she’s lining up that press conference for exactly a week later, on Monday 27 June. She says it can always be cancelled if it’s not needed.’
Dad dropped his fork; it clattered on his plate. ‘It’s exploitation. They want people to see Jena, how sick she is.’
He put his head in his hands, and Mum reached to touch him, offering him support. Although I also found the thought of Jena talking to a room full of journalists horrible, everyone seeing how damaged she was, I agreed with Penny. Whatever it took, to get more information, for justice.
‘Tell her we won’t do it,’ he said. ‘All those journalists, prying into our private business. And what if there are questions?’
They looked at each other; my dad had a desperate look on his face, and I wanted to scream at how pathetic he was, but Mum’s face was alive with sympathy and fierce protectiveness. In her concern for Dad, she’d forgotten about Jena.
She took his hand tightly in hers and looked at him for a long moment. He was the quiet one; Mum spoke for him a lot of the time, but when push came to shove we all knew where the real power lay. She touched her lip like she always did when she needed a fag.
‘Shouldn’t we do what the police tell us?’ she asked.
Finally, he said, ‘You’re right, Kath. We have no choice.’
I dipped a cold chip into a smear of yellow yolk with no intention of eating it, just to do something in the awful silence that followed.
‘Penny wouldn’t put us through it without good reason,’ I said. ‘And she needs more evidence, if Douglas Campbell gets released.’
The energy in the room became electric. ‘Don’t say that name in this house!’ Mum snapped.
Dad’s head jerked up. ‘That bastard.’
‘Why? What do you know about him, Dad?’
Dad looked down at the table. His shoulders heaved.
‘That’s enough, both of you!’ Mum started to clear the plates away. ‘The important thing is that we still have each other. That we keep strong as a family.’
She battered the table with a dishcloth, scattering crumbs.
‘You know something about him, Dad. What is it?’
He rubbed his thumb over his teeth. ‘Don’t go digging into things that will hurt you, Sam.’
‘What can hurt me any more than what’s already happened?’
Mum was washing the cutlery vigorously. ‘Enough! We need to get on with our lives. What’s done is done.’
A tear escaped from the corner of her eye, and she lifted a hand from the steaming water to wipe it away with her wrist, still holding the knife she was washing, the blade dangerously close to her face.
‘Mum, be careful!’
I understood why she didn’t want me to talk to anyone about the attack: it was just too painful. Her panic attacks were frequent, and I knew the image of Jena’s unconscious body must always be there, hanging over her, just as Jena’s faceless attacker was never far from my thoughts.
‘I want to tell you both something. I’m hanging out with this boy, called Rob. He was here once, a long time ago, on Halloween. And his mother said some things about Jena.’
‘What things?’ Dad said.
I took a breath of courage. ‘She said Jena’s a little liar. She called her a bitch.’
Mum whipped round to face me fast, still holding a soapy mug.
Dad said, quietly, ‘How dare you repeat that in this house!’
I felt angry then, because I could see they were holding something back; they’d lived on this estate for thirty years.
‘Rob’s father is Douglas Campbell. The rapist.’
The mug smashed on the linoleum tiles, breaking into three pieces.
Mum crouched down next to the broken china, collecting it in her shaking hands.
‘Let me do that, Kath,’ said Dad, moving towards her.
But she pushed him away, and as she did so a shard cut her hand, causing a streak of blood to appear between the heart and lifeline on her palm. ‘Look what you’ve done now! Why do you always have to ruin everything?’
As I watched my parents, hunched on the floor over the broken mug, their pain and hurt spilling out as anger, the feeling of guilt that I’d caused this was overwhelming. It made me feel sick, and I knew I’d soon vomit what little food I had eaten.
But they were keeping something from me; I knew it. Bright blood was dropping on to the plastic flooring, splashing into patterns like butterfly wings.
‘I think you should put that cut under the tap, before it gets worse,’ Dad said to Mum.
Sweat beaded on her lip. Her eyes were losing focus, and I could see a panic attack looming.
‘Mum, you need to take your atenolol.’
‘You know nothing about what I need, girl. You’re just a child.’
She wiped her hands on a tea towel and threw it viciously at Dad, then picked up her fags and lighter, and went outside, banging the door behind her. Within a few seconds, I could see gusts of smoke rising past the window.
Her anti-anxiety tablets were in the cupboard with the tea and sugar. I took two from the packet and poured a glass of water. Outside in the overbearing heat, Mum was leaning against the wall, lighting a fresh fag, but struggling to stay upright. Her free hand was against her stomach, a sign that she felt sick.
‘Here, take these.’
Her hand shook as she picked up the tablets with her fingers, slipping them into her mouth.
‘What is it, Mum?’
She swallowed the tablets with a gulp of water, handing me back the glass.
‘So, Rob Nicholls is your friend?’
I hesitated, because it seemed such a small word, friend, inadequate for what I felt for him. ‘Yes. Do you remember him coming here, one Halloween? How his mum came and dragged him away like he’d done something wrong by being here.’
Mum swayed towards me, unsteady, the tablets not yet taking the edge off her panic, the hot end of her fag in my face, backing me to the wall.
‘Don’t make me out to be an idiot, Sam. This is because of that newspaper article you found on the internet, isn’t it?’
I had to explain, to make her understand. ‘Douglas Campbell was seen hanging around near Jena’s flat the evening she was attacked. I need to know why he would want to hurt her.’
Mum’s eyes watered from the heat of her cigarette, the wall hard against her spine. ‘Oh God . . .’
I held her upright. The drug would kick in soon, hopefully before the panic won. Her face was twisted.
‘Don’t you get it, Sam? His rape conviction: it was back when Jena was thirteen.’
‘So?’
She looked at me, straight in the eye, as if suddenly making a decision.
‘So, how old did the article say his victim was?’
She waited while I understood. I caught my breath, more shocked than I deserved to be. When she saw I did understand, she said, ‘Jena was very brave, to speak out.’
Douglas Campbell raped my sister. ‘Does Penny know?’
‘Of course. It’s why he was remanded, why he was questioned in the first place. We wanted to protect you from that, Sam; it’s why we spoke outside the room last Monday. And now Penny’s saying they haven’t got enough evidence, that he’ll be freed, and we have to do this awful press conference . . .’
She started to weep.
‘Mum, you’re hyperventilating.’
She leaned against me, her weight in my arms, dry retching again, forgetting about the tip of her fag close to my cheek. In a violent retch she vomited potatoes and ketchup on to the overgrown flowerbed, her hand thrusting forward and her cigarette catching my face.
‘Mum! You’re burning me!’
I pushed her away, but the solid brick behind me blocked my escape. F
alling back, she saw what she’d done and tossed her fag away, cradling my burned cheek, her chin wet with red dribble.
‘Oh Sam, look what you made me do.’
She hugged me to her. Then she started to sob and shake, and I felt sad for her again. I breathed her in, addicted to her soft love, the comforting aroma of nicotine overpowering the sickly stench of warm vegetables. I breathed her in, and tried to lock it in my heart.
As I looked up, I saw that, from her own garden, Mrs Read was watching us. I had the disturbing feeling that she’d been there the whole time.
CHAPTER 22
19 January
I arrive for my session at exactly nine o’clock. Clive is waiting for me in his usual chair, in front of the bay window. Outside, the sea is a line of slate under a white sky, rectangular boats sat upon it like tanks in a grey field, container ships heading for the port.
‘How’ve you been sleeping?’ he asks, apropos of nothing.
‘Fine,’ I lie. I can’t go a whole night without waking; thoughts that I banish when I’m awake seep into my unconscious brain and startle me. Mum in the kitchen with her knife, Dad in the dark room, Jena lying on the ground with her brain leaking pulp. Freud was right: we can’t suppress stuff; it finds us in the end.
‘No nightmares?’
‘Nope.’
‘Please, Sam. I’m trying to help you.’ His hands are clasped, a gesture of prayer, and I see that he wants me to be honest. He knows anyway: Birute heard me cry out last night, and came to comfort me; she will have written it up. There are no secrets in here, and everything written will be shown to the board. I abandon my pretence.
‘My dreams have been bad,’ I admit. ‘Since we started this.’
He unclasps his hands, and relaxes a little because he sees I’m not going to resist today. Makes a note in his jotter. ‘Well, I think it’s a good sign,’ he says optimistically, his preferred mood. ‘Think of your dreams as your unconscious unblocking.’
I have the image of him pouring Mr Muscle down my feeding tube to clean me out like a drain, and unexpectedly laugh aloud.
