Thursday's Children: A Frieda Klein Novel (Frieda Klein 4)

by Nicci French

  ‘But what did she tell you that made you come all the way here to talk to me about?’

  Maddie gave Frieda a sullen, angry look. ‘She told me what she told you. About the attack.’

  ‘What kind of attack?’ Frieda asked steadily. ‘You need to say the words out loud.’

  Maddie rubbed her fist around her mouth, as if she was trying to wipe something away. ‘She says she was raped. There I’ve said it. Does that make you feel better?’

  ‘The question is, what does it make you feel?’

  ‘I know what you’re thinking.’ Maddie became confrontational. ‘You feel I don’t care about my daughter. I’m not being sympathetic enough to her. If you don’t mind my saying so, you don’t have children and you can’t possibly imagine what it’s like.’

  ‘I can’t imagine what what’s like?’

  ‘Sometimes in the last year it’s been like living with my worst enemy. Someone who wants to hurt me, who knows all my weak points. But I’d do anything for her. I love her.’

  ‘But do you believe her?’

  Now Maddie thought for a long time. ‘You met her yesterday,’ she said finally. ‘She looks like a young woman – except she’s starved herself, of course – and she’s got a sort of grown-up tone. What’s the word for it? Streetwise?’

  ‘She didn’t seem very streetwise to me.’

  ‘That’s my point. When Becky goes and stays out all night and doesn’t tell me where she is or what she’s taking or who she’s …’ Maddie stopped for a moment and ran her fingers through her hair ‘… who she’s with, she’s playing with things she doesn’t understand, things she can’t control.’

  ‘This isn’t about being out all night and rebelling and being confused. That is something to be talked about. I could talk about it with Becky, or you could. But this is different. She said she was raped. That is very serious. It’s also a crime. You haven’t answered my question: do you believe her?’

  ‘Haven’t you been listening? Becky has been living in this chaotic way, with God knows what drugs and awful people and sex and bad behaviour. She’s still only fifteen. Isn’t any sex wrong at that age?’

  ‘That’s not what she was talking about. Do you believe her?’

  ‘I don’t know what to believe. If you asked me is Becky capable of making up something like that or exaggerating it just as a way of frightening me or hurting me, then I would have to say that she is.’

  ‘But she didn’t tell you,’ said Frieda. ‘She tried to keep it from you. She showed symptoms of great distress, which alarmed you. And then, when you brought her to me, she was extremely reluctant even to mention it.’

  ‘Perhaps because it isn’t true. And even if it is true, at that age, couldn’t she just be talking about something that went too far, something she did and then regretted?’

  ‘That’s not what she said. Your daughter told me and then told you that she had been raped. That was a big step for her and it took trust and it took courage. You need to think about how to respond to her. You also need to think about her going to the police.’

  ‘No, no, absolutely not.’

  ‘It’s a serious crime.’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say. You wouldn’t have to go through it all.’

  ‘Do you mean Becky would have to go through it? Or that you would?’

  Maddie looked up sharply. Frieda recognized a flash of the haughtiness she’d displayed when she’d first arrived at Frieda’s house.

  ‘I’ve thought about what Becky would have to go through,’ she said. ‘And I’ve thought about it as a mother, not as some kind of spectator. Imagine if she went to the police. She didn’t report it when it was supposed to have happened. Nobody else saw anything. It’s just the word of a fifteen-year-old girl.’

  ‘Just the word of your daughter.’

  ‘Yes, my daughter. And imagine what would happen if the police decided to proceed, and if Becky could be persuaded to reveal the name of the person who may have done such a thing. Becky herself would be on trial, her lifestyle, her sex life, her psychological state. Even the fact that she’d been seeing a psychiatrist, psychologist, whatever you are. That could be used against her. You’ve talked to Becky. Would you put her through all that? Do you think it would do her good to be in the newspapers?’

  ‘She’s underage,’ said Frieda. ‘Her name would be withheld in any proceedings.’

  Maddie pulled a face and made Frieda think briefly of when they were fifteen years old themselves.

  ‘I don’t know much about modern technology but these things always get out. Everybody would know.’

  ‘I think you’ve misunderstood me,’ said Frieda. ‘I don’t tell people what to do. Well, not most of the time. I just wanted to lay out the options. The decision about what to do is yours and Becky’s. My real concern is about Becky’s state of mind. That’s what you came to me about.’

  ‘Exactly. And look what happened. You haven’t exactly cured her.’

  ‘Is that your reaction to what your daughter has told us? That I haven’t cured her after two brief meetings?’

  Maddie got up, walked to the window and looked out at the huge building site. ‘I hate London,’ she said. ‘I could never live in a city. I can’t even bear Ipswich or Colchester. When I’m here, I feel like I’m holding my breath until I can get out into the fresh air.’

  ‘I’ve got pretty mixed feelings about it myself,’ said Frieda.

  Maddie turned round. ‘We weren’t really friends when we were at school, were we?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Frieda. ‘We were in the same class.’

  ‘You were part of this group and I had a fantasy of being part of it. I used to see you together at parties. You probably didn’t even know I was there, but I still remember them. There was Chas Latimer. There was Jeremy. Your boyfriend.’

  ‘Briefly.’

  ‘And Eva Hubbard. You were best friends. I was always the one wanting to join the gang.’

  ‘I think everyone feels like that.’

  ‘You didn’t.’ Maddie gave a strange smile. ‘When I left school, I thought I’d be leaving all that behind, but it stays with you, even twenty-five years later. Don’t you find that?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Maybe I’m the one who should be coming to see you, instead of Becky.’

  Frieda shook her head. ‘I’m not sure I should be seeing Becky either. I told you I would assess her and decide whether she needed to see someone. She does need that, and I can find someone for her, someone good. But I’d like to see her again first.’

  Maddie looked suspicious. ‘What for? Are you going to persuade her to go to the police?’

  ‘No. Not that. I had the feeling that Becky started to say something, but she didn’t quite finish. Once she has said it, she should move on to someone else.’

  Maddie turned away from Frieda and looked out of the window again. It was already starting to get dark. ‘I thought it was going to be simple,’ she said, almost to herself.

  6

  ‘She doesn’t believe me.’

  ‘She doesn’t know whether to believe you.’

  ‘Do you really think that makes it any better? That she doesn’t know whether to believe me?’ Becky leaned forward in the chair, grasping its arms with both hands. Her face was screwed up in a grimace of anger and distress. She had a cold sore at the corner of her mouth and her hair was lank and unwashed. ‘Because it doesn’t. It fucking doesn’t. She’s my mother. She’s supposed to be on my side. Now she looks at me as if I smell rank or something. I embarrass her. She speaks to me in this high, careful voice and can’t look me in the eye. I wish I’d never met you. I wish I’d never told you anything.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I was doing OK and you made me drag everything out in the open and now it’s there and I can’t hide it away again.’

  ‘Your mother –’

  ‘My mother thinks I made it up.’ Becky gave a sharp sob. ‘That it
’s a fantasy. What kind of person would have a fantasy like that?’

  ‘People make things up all the time. All sorts of people for all sorts of reasons.’

  ‘Don’t you believe me either? Now that you’ve made me ruin my life?’

  ‘I do believe you,’ Frieda said steadily.

  ‘Why? You don’t know me. Maybe my mother’s right and you’re wrong. Maybe you’re just too trusting and gullible.’

  ‘I don’t think many people would agree with that.’

  ‘So why?’

  Frieda paused, considering. ‘You rang true,’ she said.

  ‘So you don’t think I’m just trying to draw attention to myself.’

  ‘I know you’re telling me the truth. It must have felt terrible, Becky.’

  Becky wrapped her thin arms around her thin body and stood in the centre of the room as if she was trying to protect herself or hide herself.

  ‘Yes,’ was all she managed. ‘Yes, it did. It does.’

  ‘Do you want to sit down?’

  Becky sat, but on the edge of her chair, as if she was about to jump up again.

  ‘She said I shouldn’t talk about it to other people, that it would all die down.’

  ‘What did you actually say?’

  ‘Not much. I couldn’t. It took all my courage to get the words out. I was sick – literally sick – before I went downstairs and told her. I just blurted it out.’

  ‘So, no details of any kind?’

  ‘No details.’

  ‘You didn’t tell her the circumstances?’

  ‘I said it was at home, in my bedroom.’

  ‘Do you remember it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t want to.’

  ‘So you’re trying to push it away into the darkness and bury it.’

  ‘Yes. I have been since it happened. Until you came along.’

  ‘You were raped.’ Frieda paused, watched Becky intently. ‘A terrible thing was done to you, and now you feel polluted and ashamed, as if it was your fault.’

  ‘Maybe it was.’ Becky’s voice was a whisper.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Like, I’d been asking for it.’

  ‘Asking for it in what way?’

  Becky was staring down at her knotted hands. Her face looked grey; old and babyish at the same time.

  ‘I was in with a crowd of guys and I slept with one of them. Just a couple of times. But it was a bit out of control, really.’

  ‘Was it one of them who raped you?’

  ‘No. I mean I don’t know, but I’d know if it was.’ She had perspiration on her forehead. ‘It was a man, not a boy. Wouldn’t I know?’

  ‘So you feel ashamed because you think it was some kind of punishment for what you’d done before?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Listen.’ Frieda’s voice was strong and clear in the little room. ‘This is very important. Many people who are raped feel that in some way or other it was their fault. Most of them, I would say. They feel that they led their rapists on, didn’t struggle enough, didn’t say no clearly enough or, like you, they have a feeling that they were getting what they deserve. It’s not true.’

  Becky gave a small murmur.

  ‘Do you understand, Becky? It is not true. It was done to you but it doesn’t define you.’

  ‘I knew as soon as I woke up that something horrible was about to happen,’ said Becky. ‘I could have called out.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I woke up and it was all quiet. Quiet inside the house and quiet outside as well. Dead quiet, but I could tell something was different. I thought maybe I’d had a bad dream, but I knew it wasn’t a dream. I don’t know how. I just lay there in the dark and I could hear my heart beating. My mouth tasted funny, as if I hadn’t cleaned my teeth. I remember thinking that. Now I clean my teeth ten times a day.’

  Frieda didn’t speak.

  ‘I thought of turning on the light, but I didn’t. I just lay there. Then I heard someone move. It was like a creak and then a rustle.’ She bent even lower in her chair so her dark hair hung over her face, like a curtain. ‘I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even breathe.’ She stopped, rocked forward and back, just once. ‘There was a hand.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘On my mouth. To stop me making a noise. It was warm and smelt of soap. I remember that. I remember thinking it was quite a nice smell. Maybe an apple smell. I can’t.’

  ‘You can’t what?’

  ‘I can’t say it all.’

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘I opened my eyes but I couldn’t see anything except a dark shape just above me. He pulled off the duvet. I was wearing pyjama trousers and a T-shirt and he put his other hand down my trousers and I could see his shape above me, but not his face. He was wearing something over his face.’

  ‘It’s all right, Becky.’

  ‘Why doesn’t she believe me?’

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘I didn’t struggle properly. I didn’t try to stop it happening. I was so scared. I thought I was going to die. I wish I had. I wish I’d died.’

  Frieda handed Becky a tissue.

  ‘I can’t remember it all. I don’t want to. It was just dark and nasty and silent and ugly and fumbly. I wanted to shout but his hand was still over my mouth. I could hear him panting but it sounded weird and muffled through the cloth over his face. He was just, like, this thing, and I was like a thing as well. It hurt.’

  ‘I’m so sorry that this was done to you.’

  ‘He kept trying to arrange me, like I was a doll.’ Becky suddenly looked worn out by it all. ‘It’ll never go away, will it?’

  ‘It won’t stay the same. With work –’

  ‘I don’t want to work at it. I want it never to have happened.’ Becky pulled a face that made her look like a toddler. ‘I know, I know. It did.’

  ‘It did, yes.’

  ‘Mum’s very angry, isn’t she?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘With you. She’s ashamed of me but she’s angry with you. She says you’ve let fame go to your head.’

  ‘Does she?’

  ‘She says this is my last time here.’

  ‘I’m going to recommend someone for you to see. I think your mother will agree.’

  ‘Why not you?’

  ‘Because I know your mother. I’ve got someone in mind. I think you’ll like her, and if you don’t, I’ll recommend someone else.’

  ‘But I want you!’

  Frieda couldn’t help smiling. ‘I’m not the right person. But you do need to keep seeing someone, Becky. This is just the beginning of a journey for you, but you won’t have to make it alone. You’re strong and you’re intelligent and you can come through this.’ She leaned forward slightly, fixing Becky with her dark eyes. ‘You will feel better one day.’

  ‘Will I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Just as Becky was leaving, Frieda asked her, ‘Tell me, have you thought any more about going to the police?’

  ‘No. They wouldn’t believe me. Why should they if my own mother doesn’t?’ Her voice became flat and dreary. ‘He was right.’

  ‘Who was right?’

  Becky made a visible effort. ‘He said no one would think I was telling the truth.’

  Frieda gazed at her. ‘Is that what he told you?’

  ‘He said it in my ear, in this muffled kind of voice, thick and lisping through the mask but I could make out the words. I think it was the only time he spoke, the whole time. I can hear him saying it, like he was saying something loving.’ She shivered again. ‘He said, “Don’t think of telling anyone, sweetheart. Nobody will believe you.” And he was right.’

  7

  After Becky was gone, Frieda stood for a moment, waiting. She walked to the window, looked down and saw the girl emerge on to the pavement. She put her hands into her pockets and started to walk away, looking small and lost. Was this right? What if something happened to her on the way home? Frieda caugh
t her own faint reflection in the window pane. That was what she did. She dealt with people’s problems in that room, then sent them back out into the world to fend for themselves.

  Her thoughts shifted and the reflection in the glass seemed to shift as well. Just for a moment Frieda saw another face. It was her own, but from long ago, and she had the unnerving sense that the face was looking at her and calling to her across the decades. For years this room had been a sanctuary, a quiet place where damaged people could come and say anything, be heard and understood. Suddenly Frieda felt trapped there, as if she couldn’t breathe. She pulled her jacket on and left the office, as if she was escaping something. She descended the stairs two at a time. She started walking east with no sense of any destination. She crossed Tavistock Square. This was where one of the bombs had gone off back in 2005. It was a London sort of terrorist atrocity. The bomber had got on the bus because there were delays on the Underground. Frieda had been half a mile away and hadn’t heard a thing. Dozens of people had been killed but London just absorbed it and went on. London always went on. The driver of the bombed bus had stepped out of the wreckage, covered with blood, and walked home, all the way west across London to Acton. Frieda hadn’t understood what this meant until the same thing had happened to her. When you face real horror, you need to walk home, like an animal crawling back to its lair.

  She walked to the north of Coram’s Fields, past King’s Cross, along York Way until she reached the canal. From the bridge she looked along it to the east and mouth of the Islington tunnel. She was almost tempted by the idea of continuing east along the canal, through Hackney and the Lea Valley and out – somewhere, miles ahead – into the countryside. She could walk out of London and never come back. No. That wasn’t right. She needed to go in the other direction, back into the centre. She walked down the steps on to the towpath on which she had walked many times. The landmarks were familiar to her: the strange garden in the barge; the neat little lock-keeper’s cottage; the bright new plate-glass offices; Camden Lock. But Frieda remembered something else, with a shiver.

  She looked at the rippling grey water. How long ago had it been? Frieda had been a medical student when it had happened. A tourist had been walking here late at night, the way Frieda did. She had been attacked by a gang of young men. Raped. There’d been a detail she’d never been able to get out of her mind. They’d asked her if she could swim. She’d said she couldn’t and – so – they had thrown her into the water and she’d swum across the canal and got away. She had lived to testify against them. Frieda had been struck by those two details: that last clinching bit of sadism, as if they hadn’t done enough already. And the woman’s ability to think clearly, to plan to fight for her life, even at such a time.