I took a breath and doubled over, gripped by a pain that made the room tilt and spin and the picture in front of my eyes fizz with interference. It was as if the confession had torn into me, ripped out a malignant growth, a tumour that had been polluting and poisoning. And now it was laid out before us I couldn’t decide whether it was all for the best to speak the truth, or whether I should have kept it hidden.
She waited a moment before she gripped my hand with an anger so hot it chased the pain away.
‘Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare!’ Fucking. Now there was a shock. Hadn’t expected that from Miss Reilly, or those eyes of hers to stab me with such fury. ‘It was their fault. They knew exactly what they were doing. They knew you were vulnerable. That’s what they want you to think. If you believe that, they win. Do you want them to win?’
That night after I left Miss Reilly, the heavens opened, sheets of rain came down creating rivers in the backstreets and lanes. ‘You should go to the police, report it,’ she said, and gave me her number. In return I gave her a warning to mind her own. We didn’t need her meddling, we were fine, just fine.
Bex wasn’t at home when I arrived sodden and freezing but that was fine too, wasn’t it, because she would be OK wherever she was. Me, the master of self-delusion, stick your head in the sand, turn the other way, avoid the truth until you can’t avoid it any longer.
It was gone ten o’clock when the moment came, announced by the buzzer. I went downstairs and found Bex slumped in the doorway, the stench of vomit thick on her clothes, eyes semi-open, lolling to the back of her head. I couldn’t move her, not by myself, not upstairs, and there was no one else to ask so I put her in the recovery position, tried to rouse her, called her name, and when she didn’t wake I rang 999.
‘She’s lucky to be here,’ the doctor said. Lucky. Not a word I would have used.
‘If she carries on like this, she won’t be much longer.’
I used my last tenner to bring her home in a taxi, watched her sleep. How thin she had become, her jaw sharp, the downy hairs that feathered her emaciated arms. My beautiful friend. She believed she was worthless and the effort of heaving her worthless body around day after day was too much. She drank to disappear. Soon she’d be gone altogether.
It wasn’t her fault.
Mine neither.
We had to report it to the police. Not for Miss Reilly or the girls before or after us. We had to do it because we needed to hear it wasn’t OK. To know we were worth something. To survive.
I called Miss Reilly the next day, used Stratos’ phone when he was out having a fag.
‘You’ve made the right decision,’ she said.
We dressed plain for the police station. Neither of us said it, but we didn’t want to look like sluts. No make-up. No hairspray.
No blame.
We were seen by a male officer at first until Gabby Reilly, who’d come with us, insisted we saw a woman. That was another hour to wait. The police station smelled of Kelmore, of stagnant air and decay. Bex shuffled and tutted a lot. I prayed for them to get a move on and see us before she took flight.
DS Priya Sulliman shook our hands and smiled a lot, which I thought was a bit inappropriate given the subject matter.
She smiled when she said, ‘How old were you when it started?’
‘Fifteen.’
‘Where were you taken?’
‘Lots of places. Apartments in London. A house in the countryside. The theatre, the studio.’
We’d do it anywhere.
We gave her the names of the men we were introduced to and she smiled.
We said Curtis Loewe’s name. That made her smile disappear.
‘This stopped two years ago. Why haven’t you said anything before now?’
‘Because they were scared, for goodness’ sake!’ Gabby said. I was glad she was there. I didn’t have an answer.
‘Did you drink at these parties?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were you drunk?’
‘Probably.’
‘Did you take drugs?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you didn’t tell anyone at Kelmore?’
Another sigh from Gabby. ‘They were the ones facilitating it.’
We told her everything, laid ourselves bare, stared at the discoloured posters on the walls as we described the men, the rooms, the drugs and drink, the force. Don’t be a tease, relax. I can make you a star, legs wide open. Remember to smile for the camera.
‘What happens now?’ I said.
‘Are you going to arrest them?’ Bex asked.
‘We will fully investigate the allegations.’
‘Just let it go. I told you nothing would happen.’
It had been two months and we hadn’t heard a thing from the police. ‘No one cares. Why is that so hard to understand? It’s just us, me and you, they don’t give a stuff.’
‘They have to,’ I said. We were dealing with the situation in our different ways. Anger had taken root inside me, grew stronger every day. It made me tall, pushed me through crowds on the Tube, on the street. It made me sharper and brighter, switched me on. The flip side was the world stung more than it used to; seeing kids out in the park playing with their families, watching couples hooking hands, owning their happiness. But I wouldn’t have traded it. I held on to my anger. I sensed it could be the making of me.
Bex, on the other hand, had started drinking again.
‘Can you no concentrate?’ Stratos said. ‘This eez tuna and this eez egg mayonnaise. Yes?’
‘Sorry.’
‘What eez the matter with Charlie, eh?’ Stratos held his arms open wide for a hug. ‘’As someone upset you?’
I ducked out of the way. Despite his shortcomings in the food hygiene department, I had grown fond of Stratos but physical contact was a step too far.
It was the letter that had shot my concentration. I couldn’t turn my mind to anything else. I found it the previous night while changing Bex’s sheets after another vomiting episode. It was tucked down the side of her bed in an envelope addressed to both of us. The seal had been broken. Bex had hidden it from me.
Dear Ms Pedlingham and Ms Alderly,
I hope you forgive the direct approach but I understand that you are former residents of Kelmore School for Girls and have recently made a complaint to the police about the abuse you suffered during your time there.
The documents detailing the claims have been passed to me – leaked, if you will – by someone who feels your case deserves to be fully investigated. I’m sure you know some powerful figures are involved. It is my understanding that they are applying pressure to have these allegations buried.
Sometimes it falls to the press to expose injustices and wrongs, and I believe yours is one such case. If you are willing, I would like to talk to you in private. I can assure you that your identities will be protected.
I’d be grateful if you could contact me on 0171 467 4098.
Kind regards,
Jonathan Clancy,
The Times
Laughably, he had suggested coming to our flat. Only a man with no previous experience of bedsits would suggest that.
‘So we can all sit on the bed together and have a nice chat? Tell him to fuck off,’ Bex said. She’d accused me of going behind her back by calling him.
‘You hid it from me in the first place,’ I countered.
‘Because I knew this would happen. I knew you’d suck up to him and get me involved. And I’m right, aren’t I?’
‘He’s taking us to a steak restaurant,’ I said. ‘I told him he couldn’t come here.’
‘I’m a vegetarian.’
‘Since when?’
‘Since now.’
‘Let’s practise,’ I sa
id. I was attempting to force some toast and a coffee down Bex before we set off. ‘It would be good to run through what we need to tell him.’
She pushed the toast away. ‘You think?’
‘It might make it easier.’
Her hair was shower-wet, skin scrubbed red and blotched. Eyes robbed of sleep. ‘How about this then,’ she drew a breath. ‘There were men. Lots of them, and we let them fuck us every which way for a can of Fanta and a bag of crisps. Sometimes it wasn’t just Fanta. It was vodka or whisky. It was even champagne the first time, but that was just to impress us. They weren’t all bad. The thing is they were much nicer than the teachers at Kelmore who didn’t actually fuck us. And they did nice things like show us the sights of London. We saw the Tower of London, Big Ben, surely that’s worth a man of fifty slamming into you three hours later? A fair exchange. Of course we could have stopped it; we were asked if we wanted to go back and we said yes. We were desperate, you see, and they could smell the stench of desperation rolling off us. They said it was a really special secret, so special that even if we had told anyone – which we didn’t – they wouldn’t have believed us. No one would have believed us then and no one believes us now.
‘What you need to understand is that we thought there were two choices: go with those men or stay at Kelmore. No one ever offered us anything else, nothing pure like love or attention or praise, without taking more from us than they gave. The worst thing was the trick of it, making me feel like I wanted it, that it was happiness – that’s what shames me most. It has left this thing inside me, this deep, throbbing mass that gives off noises and throws out colour and distorts the day. Every day. It doesn’t have a name. I don’t know what it is, but it’s so fucking heavy I can barely carry myself around. It’s just there,’ she punched her stomach, ‘and it will always be there.’ Bex let out a groan, a noise that came from somewhere hidden away, deep and visceral.
‘Bex . . .’ I said. I reached for her and we fell into each other, my pain touching hers, burning away inside us.
Jonathan’s voice could have cut glass. I wished it was a Brummie accent or Welsh. Not the Queen’s English. At least he didn’t have the smart suit like Curtis Loewe. A stain sat proudly on the lapel of his jacket. His shirt-tail hung out of his trousers, buttons fastened unevenly.
His appearance gave me a crumb of hope.
He had nabbed a booth at the back of the restaurant. The menu was expensive, six different kinds of steak to choose from. A photograph of the cow they killed to make it.
Flank, rump, fillet. I thought of all the corresponding parts of my body, parcelled up in much the same way.
Jonathan seemed like a pleasant bloke, a bit wet, not the kind to fill me with confidence. His hair fell over his face and he’d take the errant piece and place it back where it came from, only for it to fall again.
Bex chose steak and chips and a Diet Coke. Jonathan told the waiter he wanted his bloody, almost blue. I didn’t have to look at Bex to know she was screwing up her face. I went for steak, well done. ‘Scorched,’ I told the waiter, noting his disapproval.
Bex ate her chips with the enthusiasm of someone who hadn’t been fed for months, as if she’d forgotten why we were here. Jonathan cut his steak in small, precise squares and chewed it at the front of his mouth so he reminded me of a rodent. In between mouthfuls he attempted small talk. ‘What do you do?’
‘This and that,’ Bex said.
‘I work in hospitality,’ I said. Bex sniggered. I immediately hated myself for trying to impress him.
‘Why were you sent to Kelmore?’
‘Because we were bad girls.’
‘My mum died. I went off the rails after that,’ I said.
He finished the last piece of beef, loaded a chip and the remaining bit of broccoli on to his fork, driving away the gravy.
He chewed it thoroughly and when he was finished he placed a small Dictaphone on the table between us and said: ‘When did it start?’
We stripped ourselves naked in words, splayed our legs again. We gave everything away. We told it fast, without stopping or looking at him, because we were scared we might find blame and disbelief in his eyes, or the words, You brought it all on yourself written on his face. We gave him names – Alex, Curtis, Greg, Henry. Described locations as best we could remember. I focused on his Dictaphone, imagined it sucking all our words, reconfiguring them later to build the case against the men.
‘I’m going to do all I can to expose this. It will take time. Don’t expect quick results. I’m sure they’ll try to block it, but I’m not the kind of person who takes kindly to being pressurised, do you understand me? It makes me want to get them all the more. You have my number. Call me if you need to talk, otherwise I’ll be in touch and let you know how it’s going, OK?’
‘OK.’
He paid the bill. ‘Don’t hang around for me, I have a few calls to make.’
We said goodbye and as we turned to go he said, ‘By the way, it’s them, not you. Always remember that.’
I tucked his words away for safekeeping and walked out into the bright afternoon with Bex. We held hands all the way to the number 37 bus stop.
A few weeks after meeting Jonathan Clancy, the police called and we were summoned to meet. DS Priya Sulliman, straight-faced this time.
‘I’m afraid . . .’ she said.
Not for you to be afraid. That’s our job.
‘. . . there is insufficient evidence to continue with the investigation.’
I waited for the smile, the joke, the punchline. Instead, a flush to her cheeks, teeth clamped down on her lips. Contagious, this shame.
I turned to Bex. Eyes full of hate towards the DS, Gabby Reilly. Myself.
Jonathan, our last hope. A meeting in Hyde Park. Bex was resistant, ‘You want this, not me.’
I worked on her all morning. Begging, pleading, bribing. Eventually she caved when I threw in a Big Mac and milkshake.
He was circling the bench when we arrived, too much energy to sit on it and more dishevelled than before. He knew about the police, I’d called him straight after, didn’t sound surprised but was still upbeat, confident. Less so now.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
Don’t want to hear that word.
‘For what?’
‘I can’t take it any further. I . . .’
I can’t be arsed.
I don’t believe you.
I’ve been warned off.
A lightning strike to my head, my whole body charged with pain. I salvaged two words from the rubble. ‘You promised.’
‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t want this.’
Bex spun out, paced backwards and forwards. ‘Why did you ask us to tell you all that? Did you get a kick from it? Is that it?’
‘Please . . .’
‘You shouldn’t fuck with people.’ Rage steamed off her. ‘Why us? You came to us, remember. Why didn’t you just leave us alone?’
‘Because I wanted to do this, I do want to. I will. I just can’t now.’
‘You said you couldn’t be pressurised.’
‘It’s not what you think, I promise. It’s complicated. Very complicated.’
‘Why did you do this?’ She wasn’t screaming at him now, was aiming for me. ‘I told you, didn’t I. Why wouldn’t you listen?’ She pushed me, some force in that tiny body.
‘Bex, please,’ Jonathan intervened, tried to hold her back. ‘It’s not Charlie’s fault. It’s mine. I’m sorry. I won’t let this pass. I will get to them, somehow, but right now I can’t.’
‘Get off me.’ Her scream travelled down to the Serpentine, across the water to the swings, the sandpit, drowned out shrieks from children and laughter and the whispers of kissing couples.
And the thing was, nobody stopped to say, Are you OK?
Do you need help? Can we do anything for you?
Everybody walked on by.
No matter how much noise she made.
No one could see her.
Bex ran away, out of the park, sucked up by the London throng. No point in following her, I thought. She needed space, time to calm down, and my presence would only make her worse. I stayed back, with the one question I had to ask Jonathan.
‘If it isn’t them, what is stopping you?’
He said the person who leaked the information to him was a friend and had been put in an impossible situation.
‘She’s not a bad person,’ he said. ‘She wants to get to the truth as much as I do.’
‘Then what could be so important for her to sacrifice it?’
He couldn’t answer that.
Bex didn’t come home. I searched pubs and bars, scoured parks at night and during the day. Walked the streets listening for her voice, watching for her shadow. I called the police. Unsurprisingly, they showed little interest in finding her.
I waited days, weeks, months for her to return, for a letter, a note, a telepathic message just to say she was OK.
My anger at the police, at Jonathan, at his source, set into hatred. To them, we were collateral damage, pawns in their game.
And now Bex had gone.
Easy to disappear when you are invisible in the first place.
Thursday 2.51 p.m.
Linda
‘Henry thought ye might like some reading material, tae pass the time so tae speak.’ It isn’t Huxtable. It’s the Scot, dumping a pile of newspapers on the chest of drawers. ‘He’s some character, that boy of yours.’ His presence flushes the air with a disturbing energy. I try not to think what those shovel-like hands might have done, what those dead eyes have seen.
He leaves me with a wink. ‘Laters.’
I ignore them for as long as my willpower allows. My logic is this: Henry wants me to read them, therefore I shouldn’t. But the temptation is too strong and the afternoon too empty of distraction. After ten minutes I spread them out on the carpet and allow the full horror of the stories to assault me.
An Act of Silence Page 17
