Fifty Years of Fear

by Ross Greenwood

  ‘It was Mum!’

  ‘Don’t talk shite,’ sprung from my mouth at the same time as an old memory surfaced. Just after the news of the tragedy came out she asked me if school was better now. I didn’t think too much of it. It was a weird thing to say, but she had been drinking. I remembered her expression. Like she had done something and wanted a reward.

  ‘You’re right. I was involved. Just not how you’re thinking. That boy was picking on you at school. He was too big for me to do much about it and had loads of mates, so he laughed when I told him to stop with the bullying. He said you started it anyway.

  ‘I told Mum. She knew who he was. His whole family were renowned for their shitty behaviour. I never thought for a million years she would do what she did. She said it was an opportune crime. He’d bunked off school and was jumping off the footpath bridge at Ferry Meadows. The one people used to swim underneath. As he was about to jump, Mum hit him on the head with a hammer. The coroner thought he misjudged his landing and struck the stones in the shallows and drowned.’

  ‘What was she doing there with a hammer?’

  ‘Exactly. Premeditated, not opportune.’

  ‘She told you all this?’

  ‘More or less. Just before she took care of dad she confirmed it.’

  ‘You’ve carried all this knowledge with you, all these years, without telling anyone?’

  ‘Yep. I think it’s what caused me to go off the rails. Should I have told someone?’

  ‘Yes, me!’

  ‘She had me swear that I wouldn’t tell you. I didn’t mean to now. I just don't want you thinking I'm like her.’

  ‘Fucking hell, killing a child.’

  I could believe it though.

  ‘Let’s hope her madness isn’t hereditary. You can imagine what phrase rolled out of her mouth afterwards.’

  It didn't need to be said. I could hear her saying it. She only did what had to be done.

  Chapter 28

  2003 – Age: 37

  After that first babysit request with Kirsty, she stayed at ours on the odd occasion. Mostly Saturday nights for a few hours. We wouldn’t have minded if Michelle had said she wanted to go for a few drinks, but she always used the phrase ‘something’s come up’. We called them EAAs. Emergency Alcohol Appointments. We looked forward to them.

  Kirsty was at that charming stage just before she got to senior school and noticed boys, celebrities and face paint. She loved Chinese food, so she fitted in great. It became a treat for all of us when she was left at ours.

  New Year’s Eve was the first time Michelle didn’t come home until the morning. I woke up on the sofa with Kirsty nestled in beside me. Clara must have put a blanket over us and gone to bed. It was nine a.m. when Michelle banged on our door and staggered in. She looked absolutely off her face.

  Alcohol doesn’t change people like that. She could only have been on one or a range of recreational substances. She made no sense. Apologising with one breath and then accusing us of stealing her child with another. She virtually pulled her sleeping daughter onto the floor and dragged her down the steps. Kirsty’s howls tore at my heart as they went out of sight. What could we do though? I was only her neighbour.

  Kids are resilient and non-judgemental. They don't seem to remember things the way we do. Kirsty said afterwards her mum was sorry and just tired. Then she carried on as normal. Whereas those cries stayed with me for a long time. Michelle had been tired a lot since she met Titch.

  The upside was that she was hardly functioning. She and Titch were almost dissolving before our eyes. He became furtive, shifty and hostile, in stark contrast to how he was before when he was aggressive and confrontational. More a caged rat than a cage fighter.

  We began to have Kirsty all weekend and the odd day in the week. I would sleep in the lounge and she would have my bed. It was the closest we would come to having a child of our own.

  Frank avoided us after the Titch incident. I can’t blame him for his fear. To my surprise, Titch never mentioned it when I next saw him. No doubt so wasted, he struggled to remember whether he dreamt it. Michelle would appear with the odd bruised arm or other marks on her face that her heavy make-up couldn’t hide. Her clothes hung on her and she would only be seen after dusk.

  I hoped Titch wasn’t hurting Kirsty. One night, she stayed over and seemed listless and was uninterested in her food. She spoke little and went to bed early. I hovered outside her room and could hear her cry.

  A few days later, I came back from work and found someone’s feet sticking out of the gas meter cupboard next to the entrance to the flats. They were huge dirty trainers. I leaned in and there was Titch, face buried in the rubbish that always collected in there.

  The smell was terrible. It reminded me of my dad just before my mum killed him. It was a bitterly cold night and the street was empty. I returned to my car and took a heavy wrench from my tool box.

  All I could think about was Kirsty crying in our flat. I could feel the anger rising in me. In all likelihood, Titch was responsible. That poor excuse for a living creature would be missed and mourned by no one. I checked to make sure nobody had ventured out, then pulled him into the enclosed space, closing the door behind me. There was room for me to stand above him.

  Unless animals had been doing their business in there, and poorly ones at that, he had soiled himself. That, combined with his heavy nasal snoring, did not endear him for any leniency. What were the chances of me getting away with this act? My breath smoked out in front of me as I raised my hand. A bright light seemed to go off in my brain - I paused. Instead of accomplishing the killing blow, I thought of Clara.

  She had problems with bedsores. Her GP noticed as soon as he arrived. I suppose he was looking out for their unwelcome arrival, like flies to a corpse. Clara complained to him of burning or itching. He showed me how to rub the Cavillon cream in and that became part of our day.

  Who would do that for her if I was gone? The spell was broken, and I remembered I didn’t know if Titch had definitely been violent to them. It was likely, but I wasn’t in a position to take action at that moment.

  In light of Frank's revelations concerning our mother, I’d logged on to the work computer and researched her conviction. I hope they don’t check anyone’s browsing history. I deleted it, but who knows what they can do nowadays. It was clear my mum had issues, and I worried what I might uncover.

  I found one item about it. It was an interview with a picture of a younger version of the lady who sat at the back of my mum's funeral. The article mentioned the death of her daughter from cancer and how she blamed that 'psycho' for ruining her life all those years ago and how her daughter hadn't recovered.

  It mentioned my mum being diagnosed as having borderline personality disorder. I didn't know what that meant, but on reading more, it fit. She was more reckless and ruthless, not cold and calculating. My mum had been in prison at least once, and was an impulsive creature. Violent, remorseless, with a blatant disregard for the rights of others.

  However, she was nervous and easily agitated and certainly not a criminal genius. She had a genuine love for her family too, which I suspect a psychopath would never have had. All these thoughts went through my mind and the wrench became heavy. I was none of those things, so I lowered the weapon.

  I rolled him onto his front and adjusted his clothing. He was freezing to the touch. We would let God decide. I wandered back to the car and replaced the tool, then, whistling under my breath, returned to my wife.

  Chapter 29

  2004 – Age: 38

  Much to everyone's surprise, Titch’s untimely demise from hypothermia hit Michelle hard. For someone who led such a violent life it was a let off for him to die so peacefully. I thought she would be relieved to escape his heavy embrace.

  Instead, her chaotic existence continued, as did her legendary consumption of alcohol. The couple who lived across the landing appeared to be losing their battle too. They suffered in silence, so things carri
ed on as they were and nothing was said.

  Kirsty was quieter the older she got. She only blossomed when she was round ours. It was the only place where she could be a child. I often saw her battling with shopping bags from the supermarket or hanging washing on the line. Ten is no age to be taking on that kind of responsibility.

  We invited her over whenever possible. Sometimes she came, other times I caught her taking rubbish out, the chink of the empty bottles betraying their presence. Or I'd peek through her window and see her hoovering. Michelle would be unconscious on the floor and oblivious.

  Clara’s health was suffering too. The doctor warned her that she was doing permanent damage and must make changes to her lifestyle. Some days she didn’t get out of bed. I was distracted by Kirsty who was often teary. Her life was a struggle that her inexperienced self couldn't cope with.

  Most nights she curled up on the sofa next to me after having a shower at ours. She often did because hers was broken. I wasn’t sure what that meant entirely, but she wouldn’t let me round to help tidy, never mind see her bathroom so I could fix it. Kirsty was a good girl, still protecting her mum.

  Like most kids, she never wanted to go to bed.

  ‘It’s not fair.’

  ‘Come on. It’s late now.’

  ‘No, not that, life.’

  ‘What isn’t fair about life?'

  ‘Why some people have a dad and others don’t.’

  ‘I know poppet. Life can be tough. My dad died when I was fairly young.’

  ‘At least you knew him. There’s something wrong with my mum too. She sleeps and cries. I don’t understand. I thought we’d be happy now that horrible man has gone.’

  ‘So did I. You will be, I’m sure of it. Up you get, I’ll tuck you in.’

  ‘Can’t we just sleep on here? I'm warm and cosy.’

  ‘You’ll sleep better in bed. You can properly relax.’

  ‘He wanted me to call him Daddy.’

  Long seconds stretched out as I considered her words. I stared in at a minefield.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t. You are more my dad than he was.’

  ‘Well, thank you for saying that.’

  ‘Will you read me a story?’

  ‘What do you fancy? Gruffalo, Lady and the Tramp, or Beauty and the Beast?’

  They were her favourites.

  ‘Lady and the Tramp or The Gruffalo. The Beast is dead.’

  Out of the mouths of babes.

  ‘Come on then. Quiet now, so we don’t wake Clara.’

  We sneaked past Clara’s door and gave each other a conspiratorial smile. Both books were read in the end, and she seemed to quieten down.

  ‘It’s chilly in here, will you get in for a bit and keep me warm? Like that picture there.’

  It was the part of the book she loved. Where the Lady and the Tramp pose with their puppies next to the Christmas tree. A happy family. Still, I wasn’t sure where the boundaries were, in a relationship like ours. It was cold in that room though; the heater had long given up.

  ‘Okay, shift over. Only for a while mind.’

  She snuggled into me and I felt a tear sting my cheek. Yes, people have it all, they just don’t know it. Michelle was neglecting what some would trade anything they owned to possess. Again, it felt to me that good folk suffered.

  I pushed her hair behind her ears and marvelled at her skin; so soft and blemish free. Her pyjamas smelt of flowers too, from the washing powder I'd used.

  ‘I'm safe here, Vincent. You aren’t going anywhere, are you? You’ll look after me, won’t you?’

  ‘I won’t leave. Shush now and sleep.’

  I loved that about children. Their ability to go to sleep in seconds. As her breathing settled and delicate snores crept out, my own eyelids felt heavy. I thought of the words she’d spoken.

  ‘Of course, I’ll protect you child,’ I whispered into her hair. ‘I already have.’

  My eyes closed. I caught a glimpse in my mind of the jacket that I removed from Titch that freezing night, in case God needed a helping hand to make the right choice.

  Chapter 30

  2005 – Age: 39

  The time that I look back on when it really went wrong was the day that I saved Clara’s life. It was a hot August Saturday. One of those days the British say they wish it was like every day, and then moan about. Her breathing that afternoon was rasping and heavy. One of her legs seemed to have swollen up too. I should have known she was struggling as she failed to finish her dinner that night. She retired to bed early and left us watching TV.

  As I was eased from a deep sleep, I thought Darth Vader was in the room. I lay there and listened to the slow, restricted, sucking in of air.

  ‘What are you doing, Vinnie?’ she gasped.

  Her large bulk blocked much of the light from the hallway, although there was enough for me to decipher disgust on her face.

  ‘I said, what are you doing?’

  She gurgled the last sentence out and wobbled on her stick. I knew what she meant and understood how it’d look. I stole from Kirsty’s bed. When I pulled the duvet back, you could see she only had a pair of pants on.

  Should I look guilty? Had I done wrong?

  ‘Nothing. She couldn't sleep. She said she was scared.’

  ‘It’s five a.m., how long have you been in there?’

  ‘Does it matter? She was crying Clara. You know how messed up she is.’

  ‘It’s not right, Vinnie. You know it’s not right.’

  Her breathing reminded me of my dad's death rattle. She collapsed to her knees with a sob and I saw the pale blue her face had become. Clara whispered with her final remaining piece of air.

  ‘Ambulance, can’t breathe.’

  After muttering those last words, she fell to the floor and ended up wedged on all fours in the doorway. Like an enormous grizzly bear, sleeping where it fancied.

  I had to stand on the small of her back to leave the room. With a lot of sweating, and advice from the emergency operator, I dragged her into the recovery position. Her breathing settled to match that of Kirsty who still slept. I held her hand as we waited for them to arrive. I felt her squeeze mine and found her eyes glaring. She wasted no words. I listened as each line stung.

  ‘I’m to blame too.’

  ‘I knew where you were.’

  ‘I should've stopped you before.’

  ‘How long’s it been going on?’

  Her grip on my hand crushed. Her glare demanded an answer.

  ‘I’ve done nothing wrong,' I said.

  ‘Oh, Vinnie.’

  ‘I was just comforting her.’

  ‘That’s what my father said.’

  Chapter 31

  2006 – Age: 40

  Clara didn’t leave hospital for three months. She was in a terrible state. Her blood pressure was at a level that was bursting vessels in her eyes, and they were concerned with the condition of her heart. That, combined with type two diabetes, underactive thyroid, kidney problems, and her total inability to do any exercise meant they were loathed to let her go until she stabilised.

  With encouragement, she lost weight and increased her mobility. They gave me a day when she was allowed home.

  Clara never mentioned what happened. I suppose most marriages have secrets, however ours was quite a burden. All she said was that Kirsty wasn’t allowed over anymore. We had carried on the same while Clara remained in hospital. When I let that slip, Clara was furious.

  Kirsty said she preferred it when it was just the two of us. I was dreading telling her, but the day Clara came home I had no choice.

  ‘Clara comes back today.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  ‘I don’t know how to say this, Kirsty. She doesn’t want you coming around anymore.’

  ‘What? Until when?’

  ‘Ever, I think.’

  I always thought Kirsty was beautiful, but rage can distort even a child’s face into something dreadful.
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  ‘Bitch. She’s jealous because you love spending time with me. Tell her to piss off.’

  ‘I can’t do that, she’s my wife. Watch your language too, Kirsty. I’ve told you about that.’

  Rage turned to anger, focused on me.

  ‘So, you’re leaving me too, are you? Like everyone else does. Worse. You’re sending me away. Am I that disgusting?’

  I didn’t want to tell her the truth, but I couldn’t concoct a slant where she might not think it was her fault.

  ‘Clara says it’s unhealthy us spending time together. I’m not your father, I’m just a neighbour. So, you shouldn’t sleep here.’

  Kirsty wasn’t listening though. She walked to the door, turned back and spat on the floor. I’d seen her mother do that. The vision of hatred was chilling.

  It took six months of maintaining a slow rate of weight loss and an increase in exercise before they would consider something more dramatic to get her to a healthy size. Clara was brave. She’d insisted on walking to the ambulance when it arrived that fateful morning. I’m not sure how we'd have got her down otherwise, and she insisted on walking back up when we returned. Then she rose at five a.m. most mornings, I assumed so she didn’t meet anyone, and strode round the neighbourhood.

  We didn’t talk much during that period. We slept in separate beds still and only came together to eat and watch TV. Grievances faded, and the ice thawed as, yet again, food brought us closer. She didn’t waver through that time. As for me, all I could think was at that rate of loss she would be sixty before she finished. The specialist agreed. He explained what he recommended.

  ‘Cutting back on food triggers biological systems that evolved when humans needed to survive in times of scarcity. Once people have become overweight, their biology changes. Their bodies want them to return to the maximum weight they achieved. They have complicated biological signals that tell their body they should be thirty stone still. Few individuals completely recover from obesity; rather they suffer from ‘obesity in remission’. It’s temporary.’