by Ruth Dugdall
‘Three! Now, Sonia. Say it!’
Sonia whimpered, beginning to cry, mascara running down her inflamed cheeks. ‘I don’t know what the fuck is happening.’
‘Don’t lie!’ My sharp voice made her flinch. ‘Douglas found your raincoat. A woman’s raincoat covered in Jena’s blood!’
She began to sink to the ground, tears and snot and wailing.
‘What raincoat? I don’t know what you mean.’
A movement, unexpected. Dad stood up. He moved forward until he was directly in front of me, standing over me with both hands on my shoulders so the gun was aimed at his heart. ‘Stop this, Sam. Please. That raincoat wasn’t Sonia’s.’
But I was so pumped with adrenalin I couldn’t calm down. Something lurched in the pit of my stomach, an abrupt re-direction of thought. I jerked away from Dad, so I stood free of him, and found Andy in the crowd. I re-directed my aim at his smug face, now altered by fear and confusion.
‘Was it you, Andy? Because of the porn films? I saw Wedding Night. How old was Jena then? Was she underage? Was she going to reveal your sleazy exploitation racket?’
Andy’s designer glasses hid his eyes, but his jaw loosened, as if he was grasping for an explanation. Penny, still behind me, would be listening carefully to every word, I hoped, as were the journalists. He blushed, red from his neck to his cheeks. ‘I didn’t attack Jena. But I may have helped point the finger at Douglas for the rape.’
He looked to Sonia, who was knelt on the grass weeping. Andy looked apologetic, but also defiant. ‘He was bad news, sis. I was just looking out for you. You and Rob were better off without him.’
Confirmation that Andy had been involved in setting Douglas up.
My thoughts were so muddled, my hands shaky, that I almost forgot Jena, seated two chairs away.
Finally, she spoke. Again, her voice was as normal as I could have wished for, clear and loud. ‘You know it wasn’t Andy, Sam, who hurt me. You know.’
I turned to her; she was still poised in her seat, her hands clasped in her lap. Our eyes met in a moment of total clarity.
My brain flashed back to that terrible day, 25 April, nine weeks before. The blinding rain.
I had just opened the camera, from Dad, and Jena had got so upset. I had yelled at her, because she was ruining my birthday, and she had tried to explain, but I hadn’t wanted to know.
Finally, she ran out into the rain. To meet Douglas, I now knew. But she never arrived.
She ran into the rain, and then there was silence in the house. Mum and Dad had followed her.
Something shifted in everyone listening, or in me. There was a pause, and in the heartbeat of the moment it was as if the truth was so clear, so very obvious, that it dazzled.
I let my hand drop, and my arm went limp so the gun rested on my thigh. I sat back down heavily; I didn’t know I was crying until tears blurred my vision, and when I blinked them away, there was Jena, knelt on the floor in front of my chair. She took my face in her hands and wiped my tears away. ‘You must remember to forget, Sammy.’
‘But we were both there, Jena. We can’t forget.’
‘Yes,’ she said, pleading with me, her eyes full of wisdom and pain. ‘We have to.’
Jena knew who had attacked her; she always had. And I knew too, though my traumatised heart had obscured the truth.
The face in Jena’s painting was indeed female, but it wasn’t Sonia’s face. The face that Jena had painted was one I saw every day.
It was Kath’s. Our mother’s.
Mum tried to stand, but her legs gave way. Dad supported her, propping her up like he was all that was keeping her upright. She was swaying, ready to collapse, trying to escape. Her face was ashen, her lips pale, her eyes dark with fear.
Just as they had been when she pushed Jena to the ground, smashing her head against the pavement.
I could see she was in the grip of a panic attack, and Dad was telling her to be calm. This time, I couldn’t help her. Police and journalists were hanging on every word.
‘Mum?’ Speaking as gently as I could. ‘No more lies. Please?’
‘I couldn’t let her reveal the truth,’ she said, but not to me, or to Penny. She was speaking to Dad, so softly that only Jena and I could hear. ‘I had to protect you; I had no choice. She would have split us apart, and you promised me it only happened once. I couldn’t let you be punished for something that happened sixteen years ago.’
Dad held her close. He kissed her. Even as I lifted the gun and pointed it at Mum’s heart, he wouldn’t step aside. It was useless as a prop; it had only one power.
‘What are you talking about, Mum?’ I wheezed.
Jena was the one who answered, still close enough to whisper. ‘I was going to save you, Sam. When he gave you that camera, I knew what it meant. The dark room, the filming. I wasn’t going to let that happen.’
Dad, still holding Mum. Silent, but in control. The four of us, finally talking. Everyone else too far away, distanced by the fear of my gun, to hear.
‘I contacted Douglas because he was the only other person who knew the rape conviction was a lie. Together, we could clear his name, and make sure Dad was finally arrested. So you’d be safe.’
‘But you didn’t turn up to meet Douglas.’
Jena shook her head, staring back at Mum.
‘She stopped me. She protected Dad, like always. Before her own daughter. Before her own granddaughter.’
Now my head was spinning. ‘Granddaughter?’
‘I kept the pregnancy secret until I was almost due,’ Jena said. ‘I was only thirteen; I hardly knew what was going on. They made me say it was Douglas’s, then when his solicitor asked for a DNA test, I had to say I’d had a miscarriage. We hid the pregnancy.’
Realisation set in. Mrs Read had been right all along.
‘Me?’
Jena nodded.
‘Mum pretended she’d given birth to you, and I had to say you were my sister, but I promised myself I’d look after you. Always.’
The woman I’d thought of as my mother, who was actually my grandmother, placed her fist into her mouth. She looked to Dad for guidance, as she always had. And he turned to the cameras and said, loudly enough for them and for Penny to hear every word:
‘I attacked Jena on 25 April. Arrest me, do what you want, but Kath wasn’t involved. She had no idea.’
I could hear Penny radioing for back-up.
Abuse and secrets.
Jena had been forced to give me up; she’d kept the lie going that we were sisters, and created an alternative fantasy world to cope with her dismal reality. But when Dad gave me the camera on my sixteenth birthday, she decided to reveal the truth, because she wanted to protect me. She’d been silenced with violence.
For sixteen years, Mum had covered up the abuse. What kind of woman protects her husband over her own child?
Despite my intentions, despite all I’d said, I re-aimed the gun and pulled the trigger.
A single shot at the man who had been at the centre of this web of lies, straight at his heart.
CHAPTER 41
A memory:
I’m in our kitchen. There is the table, set for my birthday tea with a cake shaped like a heart. Just one present is unwrapped. A camera, a special vintage one, gifted to me by my dad.
I hold it tightly, even as the argument unfolds.
Jena tries to snatch it, and I know she would smash it to the ground if she could.
I think she’s jealous; that’s why she’s so angry and upset. I don’t understand what she means, when she shrieks at Dad that she won’t let him, that she will stop him. That she will reveal the truth.
She leaves, running fast, and in the kitchen Mum and Dad turn to each other, both with terror on their faces. ‘We have to stop her,’ Mum says, determined. She grabs her raincoat and leaves the house.
Dad hesitates, looks at me for a long second, but eventually he leaves too.
I am afraid of being alone. Ther
e is a yellow flash in the kitchen: the fluorescent light blinks once then dies; creepy shadows are cast on the wall. I decide to follow.
I step out into the storm, and see Mrs Read watching from her bedroom window. She places a palm on the glass, where the rain looks like tears, and I see her mouth something, but I cannot make out what.
I sting myself on nettles, brambles scratch my arms, branches tug the hem of my dress and pull strands from my hair; rain in my eyes, in my ears even, feet sinking in the mud, shoes slipping, but I don’t stop, can’t stop.
I follow my sister, my mother and my father because I don’t know what else to do.
Then I see, far ahead of me, that my sister is coming out of the pathway into the light. She pauses to catch her breath, and I want to shout at her to be careful, because someone is close behind her.
I am just fifty yards behind Dad, who moves slower. I call to him, but he is running now.
And far ahead, I see Jena turn around, but it isn’t Dad who reaches her first, it is our mother. She lunges at Jena; I can feel her fury even through the storm, her determination to stop Jena at all costs.
I hear an almighty crack as Jena’s head hits concrete. I stop, afraid. I have seen what my mother is capable of.
Dad reaches them. But he doesn’t go to Jena, his daughter who lies broken on the floor. Instead, he opens his arms to his wife, who stands in the rain with blood on her hands and on her coat, which she discards in disgust, dropping it to the ground. They hold each other, desperate and shocked, and they begin to turn, to turn their backs on their damaged child.
When I reach Jena, she is alone.
It is just the two of us, in the rain.
And then, a second memory, from nine weeks later:
I have shot him. He is on the floor, and Mum is curled around him, clutching at the place where his heart lives and bleeds. Dad makes no sound, as always, but lets Mum comfort him.
Penny must have radioed for help, because soon paramedics arrive, and he is taken on a stretcher to the main part of the hospital, so they can save his life.
There was confusion; more police arrived, medical staff too. The gun was taken from me, handcuffs applied, but it all seemed far away. All I could see was how the setting sun cast an orange glow over the room, the last ray of light throwing a single path to my mother’s face.
My real mother, Jena.
She knelt so her face was level with mine, and held my cuffed hands. Looking at Jena was like looking in a mirror. She’d always been an older version of me; now I understood why that was.
I believed, never questioned, that my mother had me when she was thirty, that my sister was thirteen when I was born.
Jena rubbed her eyes and sniffled.
‘Jena?’ I couldn’t call her ‘Mum’. Not yet.
Her mouth twitched into a sad smile. ‘It’s okay, baby.’
Tears were warm behind my eyes.
‘Sammy.’ She touched my face, stroked my cheek. She comforted me, and kissed my forehead. ‘It’s okay, Sam. It’s going to be okay.’
And I wanted to believe her, really wanted to believe that, but I knew it never could be okay again. They’d taken Dad away, but his blood was still stained into the grass.
‘We’re free. Hush, now. My little girl.’
Jena held me, sick and bad though I was, crying softly as the day died and the sound of a police siren could be heard in the distance, coming closer.
CHAPTER 42
1 February
And now, there is no camera to hide behind, no place of safety.
This time, it’s just me, a skinny teenager, who wants to come in from the cold. Turning up at your door, hoping you will let her in.
Because this story was never for Clive. It was never even for me. It was always for you, Jena.
I remember your first letter, after Dad was locked up, saying that Dr Gregg had pronounced your recovery a miracle. You were well enough to move into a flat within the grounds of Minsmere, with Lance. Broken people, caring for each other.
I look into the window of the flat and see you, lying on the sofa with Lance, and think of another time, on my sixteenth birthday, when it was you outside in the storm, in danger.
How different everything seems. The room looks warm and cosy; you’re chatting, smiling too, and I see the last eighteen months have been kind to you. Or love has, the best medicine of all.
Dad’s injury was superficial; he was quickly out of hospital, and arrested. He pleaded guilty to historical child abuse. My DNA proved it: I was the result of his rape of Jena. Mrs Read brought her notebooks to court; she’d known for sixteen years. But no one had listened. He also pleaded guilty to attacking Jena on 25 April. He took the blame for Mum’s crime, and Jena and I let him. I said nothing of the bin bag of discarded clothes in our attic, which is where I suspected the raincoat was. In the end, she lost her husband and both her daughters, which seemed punishment enough.
He’s in prison now, and will be for a long time. One day he’ll be free, and we’ll have to face him. Maybe even today, if he’s been granted day release to attend Mum’s funeral.
Your letters told me everything I needed to know:
Douglas was cleared of the historical rape charge, and compensated for the years in prison. He’s living in Ipswich, trying to build a relationship with Sonia and Rob.
Poor Sonia: she was caught up in something that wasn’t her fault.
So was Rob, who still writes every week, even though I never reply. I don’t deserve his love, though it’s been constant.
The films in Andy’s flat were seized by police. Guilty of sexual abuse of minors and producing child pornography, he’ll be in prison for a few years yet, and he’ll never make films again. It wasn’t just him; other men working at Pleasurepark had used it as a place to groom potential victims, filming the abuse in Andy’s studio. My dad was one of them; he was identified in the background of some of the abuse tapes. The Wedding Day tape was one of his own creations; he was the cameraman.
What Mum said was true: he hadn’t touched Jena since she was thirteen. But he had let others abuse her, and he had directed.
I like to think about all the victims who’ve been saved, as a result of the arrests. The girls and young women, who’ll never even know the fate I saved them from.
Maybe my own fate too. I had no idea how close I’d been: the trips to Pleasurepark, being introduced to Andy, the gift of the camera. But somewhere inside, I must have sensed what was happening; I think it was one reason I started to starve. As Mrs Read wisely said, even if the victim is silent, the body shouts.
Mrs Read knew everything. It was her who called the ambulance on 25 April but, typically, she didn’t give her name. I hope one day I’ll get the chance to thank her.
I pleaded guilty to a lesser charge of Grievous Bodily Harm, aggravated by the use of a firearm. Three psychiatrists testified to my mental instability, on account of the anorexia, and I received a hospital order.
These are the facts, but there are still questions.
I still don’t really understand why a woman would protect her husband before her own child. Kath always loved Dad best; perhaps it really came down to that.
Snow begins to fall lightly on my shoulders. I tap on the window and you look up, your dark hair falling on your cheek, which flushes with pleasure. You recognise me at a glance. I see your mouth speak my name.
I press the wet glass with my hand, wanting to touch you, and you must feel the same because you run then, to the front door. I hear it open and turn, and you are there, too close to see, your arms around me and your lips on my cheek and your skin against mine.
‘Sam! Oh my beautiful girl.’
I let you hold me, and I think that I should have known, should have always known, that this was what I needed to make me better.
Later today, we’ll go to the funeral together; we both need to mourn the woman we called ‘Mum’, despite what she did.
I’m not a child,
not anymore, but as we pull apart and you look at me, I see that however long I live, however old I become, I will always be your child.
Because I always was. And I need to come home.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This is the nicest part of the process, as I get to thank all of the people who made the book you now hold in your hands (or have downloaded onto your device!) possible.
My Sister has been through many changes, and different people have helped it along at various points.
For technical advice in relation to the muddy landscape of law and mentally disordered offenders, I’d like to thank academic and parole board member Nigel Stone, ex-probation officer and crime novelist Mike Craven and senior probation officer Robin Dawson. A big cheer to the members of Felixstowe Rifle Club, for candid advice on all things gun-related and for a fun evening of KitKats and cordite!
My writing group, Jane Bailey, Morag Liffen, Sophie Green and Elizabeth Ferretti, are a fixed point of support. We continued our monthly meetings (via Skype!) even when I lived in another country for over two years. These meetings are as necessary to me as air.
Maureen Blundell is someone whose editing advice is worth its weight in gold, and who has advised me on many occasions.
In 2010 I was accepted on the Apprenticeships in Fiction scheme and worked on an early version of this novel with crime writer Laura Wilson; Laura, I enjoyed our meetings at the British Museum, and am grateful for your advice.
Maggie Traugott was fiercely supportive of ‘Team Sam’ and made me smile at times when I wanted to cry. Maggie, your emails cheered me no end. Thanks to Clare Conville for seeing the potential in the plot and making this happen.
The people at Thomas & Mercer have been simply wonderful, and I am eternally grateful to Jane Snelgrove for taking a chance on this book, and to Sophie Wilson, who made the editing process both challenging and inspiring.
I have a fantastic agent, Lorella Belli, who is as supportive, helpful and passionate as any author could wish. Thank you, Lorella, for all your hard work.
