by Anne Bone
Other people had called to offer support. The mothers of Mary’s school friends had called to see how she was. Jenni had few close friends; her best friend from college days had met and married a Canadian and had moved to live with him when Mary had been a toddler. Jenni hadn’t found it necessary to build female friendships: she had been devoted to Mary, rarely went out and was fulfilled.
Christine had thanked and advised callers that when Jenni was strong enough she was sure she would be in contact with them. There had been an outpouring of support when that dreadful evil man had been remanded in custody. Flowers, cards and letters had arrived with messages of support from the community. Some of the messages came from further afield, from places that Christine had never even heard of. She had been overwhelmed with the warmth and kindness of the words, and had tried to encourage and uplift her daughter when she read them out. There was very little reaction, just the odd smile, more tears and then nothing. She had kept all of the letters, storing them under her bed, with a hope that when Jenni emerged from her stupor, she would feel able to read and take comfort from them.
When she was back at home, Christine attended church every Sunday. She stood beside her husband as they bowed their heads and prayed. She had received comfort from her church, the minister had been especially kind, and had provided her with a space to vent her own grief at the loss of not just her granddaughter, but it seemed now her own daughter as well. Her minister had made a point of ensuring that he called at the house every Saturday afternoon, when he knew that Alex would be out tidying the church for the following day of services. While her husband showed the church community what a Christian he was in giving his time to the church, the minister was sitting with his wife. Demonstrating how by reaching out and providing a listening ear and empathic warmth, it allowed her to know she was heard and able to voice how hard it was. He did not judge her daughter, which her own father continued to do, even with all what had taken place. Alex still judged her, and by doing so cut off his wife’s ability to feel able to share how she felt. She reflected that in all their years of marriage, all the ups and downs they had been through, this was the worst they had ever been. She felt distant from him. She was angry with him, in fact, there were times she disliked him intensely, and was relieved when Monday came and she climbed into the taxi that Marcus insisted she should travel in. It meant she could get away from her husband and gain some respite, and who would ever imagine that staying with a depressed, grieving woman would be better than being with a bigoted, self-centred man.
Christine didn’t know where it was all going to end, but she just prayed with all of her heart that her daughter would come through this. It wasn’t right that a young woman’s life would be destroyed, finished by an evil individual who had taken her child away from her. If only he would at least tell where Mary was, this would at least provide some closure for her daughter. Jenni would have evidence then, she would know what happened. She would be able to say goodbye, bury her body, and know that was where Mary was. Jenni could make sure her grave was tidy, place flowers there, visit, and know there was a place where she could go to grieve her. But as it was there was nothing, she was in limbo, and who knew whether this would ever end, Christine was fearful that her daughter would continue to remain in this state forever.
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Jenni had stopped feeling, she was just a blob. Doctor Jamieson had once asked her to try and describe what she was feeling, and she had shaken her head and said she felt like a blob. She wasn’t sure he understood, he had nodded and then written something down on his notepad. Was it that bad then, being a blob? Probably, but she didn’t care. To feel, you had to have a sense of pain; she didn’t feel pain, she was numb. It was like the inside of her had been taken out, scrambled up and then put back in and all her bits were in the wrong place. It was strange; it was like she could watch herself from outside of her body. She could hear things being said to her, questions, instructions, directions, the words were coming through a tunnel, a distant tunnel. When the words hit her ears, it was as though they were blurred, like they were in a foreign language, they only made sense if she waited until they were filtered by her brain. She had no idea what day it was; she waited until others told her. Was it a Marcus day, or a mother day? One would appear and they would be kind, she knew they were being kind; they treated her like a child. She supposed she was her mother’s child, but she wasn’t Marcus’s. He held her in his arms during the nights he stayed with her, they just lay there, with her trying to remember what it was like before, before the dreadful thing had happened. She wasn’t sure if she could remember, but now it was different. He did kiss her, hold her, smooth his hands along her spine, but that was all. It was to comfort her; he whispered words of love into her ear, words of encouragement to return to him. She didn’t know how to.
Jenni had one abiding thought, a sense that Mary wasn’t gone forever. That she would return. She had stopped saying this to people, she saw in their eyes and in their faces as they nodded, and she knew they were just humouring her. The doctor had said she was in shock and that she was ill. She agreed she knew she was not right; she had complied with the taking of the tablets he prescribed, but she refused to go and visit the psychiatrist he wanted her to speak to. He didn’t understand that it was not because she didn’t want to, she couldn’t. She couldn’t and wouldn’t leave the flat; it had become both her sanctuary and her prison.
Her guts were raw, her head was raw and her legs continued to be heavy, walking was like wading through treacle. Her movements were slow; it was like everything was in slow motion. When she reached for something it was as if her brain took longer to instruct her hand. She could watch it move towards the object and place her fingers around it, before she could clasp it. Her heart continued to beat, its rhythm at times faltered, she wondered whether it was going to stop, and if it stopped would she just die? At times, she wanted to die; it would be easier not to have to find the energy to breathe. She knew Doctor Jamieson thought she might do something to make this happen, but she didn’t even have the energy to do this. It would take energy to kill her and somewhere inside her head she heard the voice, a voice that told her she needed to stay so she was here for Mary when she returned.
Could you be dead and still be alive she wondered? Perhaps she was dead, and didn’t know it. She knew that somehow her life blood had been drained from her and she was like a blob. She listened to Beth when she visited. She heard the woman tell her to hang on, that she understood, that it would get better. She heard the words and tried to smile at her when she said them, but she didn’t really believe them. How could it get better? The only thing that could possibly make it better was for Mary to be here.
I have been here now for ages, I don’t know how long, but I think I know when it is day time, because I get through to the big room to do my lesson and eat my food. I think about mam every day. I wonder whether she will come back to find me, but then I still can’t help thinking that she was probably dead. I just can’t work it out, why she would have left me with Uncle Don, and why I wasn’t allowed to keep my name. He calls me Heather and I am getting used to it. Sometimes for a moment I even forget what my real name is.
The lessons are okay, every day we do writing, reading and sums. He has a big world map and he shows me places in the world and tells me about them. I don’t mind listening to him when he tells me stories. I asked once whether he had a television, and he told me he didn’t believe in it, that it was a load of old rubbish. Me mam used to like some programmes, she loved watching Coronation Street. I was usually in bed when this came on. I used to like watching Crackerjack and Blue Peter; they weren’t rubbish, but I didn’t argue with him. I know the rules.
Yesterday, something strange happened. After I had my bath, Uncle Don told me to put on a dress, it was a very slippery dress, and the material felt all silky and soft. It was like a fairy dress, it was short not long, and came down to just below my knees. It had a shaped
top and it had silvery lace around the top and over the armholes. I had the dress on, and he told me to put my slippers on and leave my dressing gown where it was. I have lots of different nighties and two dressing gowns. I don’t seem to have any other clothes but then I never go out of the house any longer, so I suppose that’s why I don’t need any outdoor clothes.
Once I had put the dress on, it felt nice. I felt pretty and my hair is getting longer so now it goes right down my back. Instead of going into the big room, he took me the other way down the passage, past other rooms. I think that one must be his bedroom. I have never been inside it, but he must sleep somewhere. The room we went into was at the other end of the house. It was like the photo studio me mam had taken me to once, to get my photo done. There was a camera on a sort of stool and in the corner was a sort of sofa. There were two lights pointed at it, so it seemed like it was a sort of film set. He told me to go and sit on the sofa, and when I did he started to take photos of me. I had to move around, this way and that way. He came over and moved my hair so that it was all pushed over my shoulders and down my back. He took photos of that too. It was okay, a bit strange cause mostly he wanted to take photos of my hair. He told me he was happy with me, and I was allowed to keep the dress on for the rest of the day. I really like the dress, it makes me feel nicer, better than being just in my nightie.
I wonder what me mam is doing. I wonder if she is missing me. I get really frightened when I think that she might forget me. I try to hold on to the picture in my head of what she looks like. It’s getting harder, and when I think about her it makes me cry. I cry quite a lot, but wait until I am back in my room on my own. I don’t think Uncle Don likes it when I get upset.
Chapter 23
Aberdeen
Marcus was at a loss as to what to do, especially in terms of how to deal with Jenni. He realised that for the first time in his life he was completely out of his depth. He was committed to supporting her which was a rather surprising experience for him, in that this wasn’t driven by guilt or duty, but by love. He could hardly bare to see her so distressed, yet felt incredibly protective towards her: she was so very vulnerable. The last four weekends had been hard. Every Friday when he arrived at the flat he found her even more shrunken than the previous Monday when he left to return to his, so-called, normal life. Life didn’t seem normal to him any longer; when he was at home he went through the motions of behaving as normally as he could. He knew that Veronica noticed, but she did not press him for an explanation. When he was with Jenni, he tried hard to penetrate the armour she had developed around herself. She seemed to have retreated to somewhere that had captured her mind, because when he looked into her eyes, those beautiful eyes that had always been bright and vibrant, he found that they were now as dull as dishwater. He would gaze at her and, when he did get eye contact with her, he would try to use his own eyes and spirit to make a connection with her, but she was too far away. He would occasionally get a response from her, and she would smile that watery insipid movement in her face that resembled something, that would pass as recognition, but it would go as soon as it came.
He had been amazed at himself, as while he had committed himself to supporting Jenni, he also knew his own nature. He was not someone who could be described as a sensitive and caring individual. He had always been quite dismissive and reluctant to get involved in the day to day care of another human being; he preferred to leave that to someone else. He had left the care of his children to their mother, and had chosen a wife who was entirely self-sufficient and not in need of closeness. He probably had been attracted to Jenni for the same reasons. She had demonstrated over the past ten years how she could look after herself and Mary with minimum requirements from him, or from anyone else, come to think of it. So, now he found himself involved in the physical and emotional care of this small diminished woman, whom he hoped would recover from this terrible ordeal.
Life had changed over the past six weeks to become something that he would never in a million years have believed possible. He spent the weekdays involved in his business which acted as a distracting mechanism to allow him to get through the day. He knew he was angry at everything and everybody irritated him. Every conversation he had with people, left them reeling from the onslaught of his anger. They were left confused as to what on earth had got into him, with the exception of Joan, Jeff and Terry who were part of the small circle of people who knew why he was behaving so abhorrently towards everyone.
Jeff had taken him aside and tried to reason with him. He had explained that his behaviour was not acceptable and he needed to get a grip. Jeff was probably the only person on the planet who could have had this level of conversation with his long-term friend, no one else would dare. Jeff was a good friend and confidant to him, as well as a good business advisor. He listened while Marcus ranted and raved about how inept the police were, and gave them no credit at all for locating Laird and putting him behind bars. As far as Marcus was concerned they hadn’t done enough, they appeared to have ceased searching for his child, and were satisfied that when Laird came to trial they had enough to send him down for many years.
Jeff had had to drive him home on the day he had the meeting with Jane Lewis and her colleague. The charges of abduction and possession of indecent materials were enough to ensure he would receive a long sentence; that was what Jane Lewis had had the audacity to say to Marcus. He had almost spat in her face when he had answered that that was just not good enough; they needed to find out exactly what he done with Mary’s body and then charge him with her murder.
Jeff had poured several large whiskies down his throat that day, he had propped Marcus up both physically and mentally, he had never seen this big burly man brought so low, so despondent. When he had deposited his friend home, he had given Veronica a story that Marcus was in his cups because of a business lunch that had run over. He knew from her face that she didn’t believe him, but he wasn’t asked to elaborate, and she just helped Jeff put her husband to bed. The following day Jeff had taken his friend aside and tried to counsel him to take some time out, maybe go away for a break, do something rather than lose it. He couldn’t quite accept that his friend was so involved with his mistress to risk making poor decisions. Marcus wouldn’t contemplate being away from Aberdeen; Jeff was told in no uncertain terms that he would continue to support Jenni.
Marcus was also disappointed with Terry’s lack of assistance; he had expected that his manager would use his connections and associations to get some information that would lead to finding Mary. Terry hadn’t come up with anything helpful at all. When Marcus called into the club, as he did most days during the week, Terry tried to be invisible. He wasn’t always successful and when he saw Marcus approach him he would see in his face the hope that he would hear something. Terry had given him the low down on what was known about Laird, virtually nothing. Even the local kiddie fiddlers, who had received a visit from one of Terry’s associates, hadn’t had any information on the bastard. No one knew anything and this was frustrating, as usually there was at least one who would be willing to blab and finger someone rather than have another visit.
Marcus had been more than frustrated and wished that he could get his hands on the bastard Laird; if he could get his hands on him he would beat him until he talked. He was coming to realise that Jenni could only be brought out of her stupor if she knew what had happened to Mary, and it would seem that Laird was the only person who had any answers.
Marcus had just spent the weekend with Jenni and she seemed to be getting worse. He had spoken with Christine that morning when she returned to take over and both agreed that something would need to be done. Neither had any idea what, but something needed to happen. He wasn’t reassured when Christine had recounted again that the doctor might feel it was becoming necessary to consider sectioning Jenni, and she was beginning to agree that her daughter needed more than the medication she was already on. It seemed that the tablets were not working and she continued to remain
in her distant place. She had stopped crying or showing any signs of outward distress, she had just retreated into a secret world which only she inhabited.
His thoughts about Laird had brought him to Terry’s door. Maybe there could be a way to get to Laird. Terry looked up when the door opened and his smile waned when he saw it was his boss, looking as though he had just lost a fortune. ‘Hi Marcus,’ he waved him into the room and gestured for him to take a seat, ‘how’s things?’ he asked.
‘The same,’ the words fell from his mouth in a grunt, ‘how do you fucking think they are? No news for me then?’
‘I’m still keeping my ear to the ground, but there is just fucking nothing. This Laird creature seems to have kept himself low, and didn’t have anything to do with anyone. We put the pressure on a couple of the kiddie fiddlers that we know of, but even though they shit themselves with fear, they didn’t know anything, and you know what they’re like, fucking cowards when they come up against a real man.’
‘That was just where my thoughts were going,’ informed Marcus. ‘Who do you know who is in Craiginches? I need someone to get to him and ask him directly what he has done with my quine. I’m fucking fed up with all this creeping around, the Bobbies asking him nicely about what he has done, that’s not fucking good enough. He has to talk and so… who do you know?’
‘I know a couple of guys, but Laird will be on the wing where he’s protected.’
‘Come on, Terry, you and I both know that wings can be infiltrated if there are enough reasons to do so. Money can be a great motivator, and money can help to oil lots of screws if needed.’
