Honest (17 page)

I was crying
now, wiping my nose on my nightdress. Melanie nodded. ‘The accident was tragic
and it should never have happened. How did it affect the trial?’

‘What Peter
didn’t know couldn’t hurt him — he was dead, and couldn’t ever find out. Once
Dennis was put away, me and dad could carry on, escape it, pretend it never
happened. Only—’ I struggled, blinking back tears. I couldn’t find the words.

‘Only?’
Melanie said.

‘It never went
away. When we came back it was like Pete was with me, in my head, suffocating
me. He wouldn’t leave me alone.’

‘You felt
guilty.’

‘Yes! But he
knows, I swear he does, from beyond the grave. Melanie, have you ever seen a
ghost? Have you ever had one of those experiences?’ I was bolt upright in bed
now, madly gesticulating into thin air.

‘No,’ she
said. ‘I don’t believe in ghosts.’

‘Well I do,’ I
said, wiping my nose. ‘I’ve seen them. I’ve seen
him
. He was with me
always in that house, watching me, making it torture. You tell me how you’d
deal with that, Melanie, go on. You tell
me
.’

‘You want to
know what I think it means?’ she said, frowning deeply. ‘I think you are a
deeply troubled girl, Ellen. I think you’ve been keeping secrets far too long.
You aren’t well.’

‘I know,’ I
said. ‘But you don’t understand. He was with me in that house. He’s there in
the harbour. He’s up on our hill. He’s stuck there, like I am, and it’s
like...Like no matter where I go, we’ll both be there, just stuck, you know? He
might have died but neither of us made it out alive.’

Here her frown
deepened, and she didn’t meet my eyes. I could see she was choosing her words
carefully. ‘The police have had a report suggesting that Peter’s grave was very
seriously tampered with. They say that somebody had come and dug the whole
thing up, then replaced all the earth. They couldn’t see anything missing from
the...grave....but—’ her eyes flicked up at me, cold and serious. ‘I wondered
what you might know about that.’

My muscles
tensed. Now I was the one avoiding her gaze. ‘He did it,’ I said, shaking.
‘Please don’t tell. I didn’t want to, I swear.’

Melanie
watched my face for a long time, then nodded slowly. ‘I believe you,’ she said.

I sobbed with
relief, shaking all over. ‘What am I going to do?’

‘
We
,’
Melanie began, taking my hand again in hers. She gave my fingers a squeeze. ‘We
are going to start being honest with each other about the past, the present,
everything.’

‘Okay,’ I
said.

‘And then we
are going to work out how we’re going to help you with your future. I
understand the pressure you’ve been under, really I do. It’ll take some very
serious explaining, but we can do it. We’re going to get your life back.’

‘What if I
never had a life of my own to start with?’ I said. ‘Because that’s how it
feels. I’ve lived through everyone else. I’ve lived through dad and Pete.’

It was true,
even if I was acknowledging it for the first time. I was just something that
got played with so much it became tarnished, like a rag doll torn in too many
places. Only when somebody else picked me up did I have another chance at
living.

Melanie
nodded. ‘I know. But you know what, if we can’t salvage the life you had, then
we’ll just have to build one right from the bottom, like building a house.
We’ll make one you feel safe in, that much I promise you.’

‘But I mean
it, Ellen. No more lying. I want the truth and the bare facts, and that’s what
we’ll give to the police. That’s what I’m here for, and all I need is for you
to cooperate. Can you do that?’ she said. ‘Can you be completely honest with
me?’

‘Yes,’ I lied.
‘I can.’

As honest
as I want to be
.

Chapter
Twenty–Five

There never
was a trial. On September 23rd, my father, a featureless, blistered body tied
up to a machine, died in his sleep. I’d never once visited him.

The nurse told
me that, before his heart started failing, he’d been groaning something while
he dreamed. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought it’d be some comfort for me
to know that it sounded a lot like he was saying
Ellen
.

Dennis was
publicly relieved of his previous title, child molester, in all the UK and
international papers. He was awarded a six–figure sum in compensation, the
papers reported.

 When they
asked him what he was going to do with the money, he allegedly said, ‘I’m going
somewhere warm and far away from here.’

For that much,
I was grateful. Dennis was one of the good ones, no matter what he’d done in
the past.

At least some
broken things could be mended.

Chapter
Twenty–Six

A year on, I
was living on Camberwell Street at a therapeutic centre, where I’d been staying
since leaving hospital. By then I’d gotten to know the residents pretty well in
passing, if you could call it that. I was more like a dummy, repositioning
myself, making all the right movements, before packing myself away at night.

I kept to
myself but, seeing as it was my eighteenth birthday, I thought I’d make more
effort to join in. It was the first birthday without my father, and for once I
didn’t have to think about flimsy black nightdresses. I didn’t have to think
about anything, full stop.

There were
four of us living there, with our own rooms, and we even had a live—in
therapist called Julie, who supported all of us in group sessions. We were all
trouble–people who needed help getting “back on our feet”. I’d achieved that in
the literal sense but, in my mind, I was always in Mevagissey, atop that grassy
cliff.

 I’d kept in
touch with Melanie, seeing as she passed my notes on, but she couldn’t make it
to my birthday. I wasn’t upset. She probably just didn’t think it was
appropriate and, to be honest, neither did I.

We had the
morning group session first, as usual. We sat in a small circle and each of us
shared how we were feeling that day, and how we thought we were progressing. I
updated them all about the agonising physiotherapy work I’d been doing at the
hospital, and assured them that my leg was much better. The burns on my calf
and left arm still ached, but I was at least out of the pressure casts.

I didn’t talk
much about my mental health, and I didn’t have to all the time. Things were
that simple here.

With a nod
from Julie, Daniel spoke next. He was twenty–eight and had tried to commit
suicide six times before he was sectioned, and he was convinced it was because
of some antibiotics he’d been on. We weren’t supposed to judge; we just had to
listen, even if it sounded crazy.

‘I’m not
saying everybody gets the same reaction, but they just screwed with my mind, I
swear,’ he’d always say. Sometimes, though, when he was having a bad day, he’d
tell us how things had never been right since he’d found out he was adopted,
and that his parents weren’t biologically his.

Today he was
wearing a plain, army–green T–shirt and a pair of jeans. He’d shaved. It
appeared to be a good day for him. ‘I’m doing OK,’ he said, giving a shrug,
even a little smile. ‘That’s all I’ve got to say. I feel fine.’

Julie smiled
and nodded. ‘Good. Lilly, would you like to go next? Go on, give us an update.’

Lilly was
thirty-two and had never been in a relationship. When her mother died of thyroid
cancer she had a mental breakdown and walked into traffic wearing nothing but
her mum’s bathrobe. Today she was wearing fresh tights and a purple scarf
around her neck. Good day.

‘I had a dream
about mum last night, which upset me a little bit. We were visiting Great
Yarmouth on one of those coach trips, when...’

We listened,
watched her cry. Then she said, ‘But when I woke up, I didn’t start panicking.
I just accepted that it was a dream and now this is reality.’

‘So our
techniques have been working then, would you say?’ said Julie. Lilly nodded,
dabbing her cheeks with a tissue. ‘Great. Let’s have Michael then, last but not
least. How are we doing today?’

Michael was
sixteen and had been in and out of foster care all his life. The police
referred him to a psycho-analyst after he tried to set his school on fire, and
he determined that Michael needed treatment for a mood disorder. He came here
seven months later.

He leaned back
in his chair, tracksuit sagging around his thin body, his beanie hat revealing a
tiny floss of white-blonde hair. Bad day. ‘Nothing to say.’

Julie tipped
her head to one side. ‘Well, you had that little incident yesterday when your
anger got out of control in the kitchen. How do you feel about that now?’

‘Don’t feel
anything,’ he mumbled, tucking his chin under the collar of his tracksuit
jacket.

‘Come on, you
must feel something, even if it’s just that you’re too tired to talk. Is that
it, hm? Can’t be bothered today?’ Julie smiled, leaning one pudgy arm on her
thick knee. She was a fat woman, almost as round as she was tall, but she was
by far the kindest woman I’d ever met in my life.

‘Basically,’
he said, rubbing his face with the palms of his hands.

I understood.
Some days were like that. I’d found that now, surrounded by more brick houses
instead of the crashing waves and Peter’s cliff, the days just rolled into each
other, over and over. Here, there was no fear; no damp, dark houses; no black
ocean sweeping me away with Peter. No David, no dad; no creaking coffin lid.

Even my hair
had grown, leaving just the split tips an orangey-yellow. The bleach had almost
faded away completely, like the life I used to know.

I adjusted to
the immediate, refreshed sense of wellbeing pretty quickly when I arrived here.

It was the
absence of fear, now, that frightened me; the absence of
him
.

Michael had
been addicted to sniffing aerosols during his time at school, and he once
confessed in our group sessions that he’d thought of disappearing just to get a
taste of his old life back. It wasn’t just the high that was addictive; it was
the sense of belonging that he missed. I empathised.

We forged our
own lives out of the scraps we were given; built our own crooked houses. Our
necks and backs bent to fit, becoming accustomed to the painful moulds we were
forced to shape ourselves to.

But when we
finally found the straight house, just like this house, we were just left plain
crooked. The surroundings no longer fitted
us
.

After the
group session, Julie brought out a tray cake and they all sang happy birthday.
I sat there, numbly, mesmerised by the glowing candles: eighteen of them. I was
a grown woman now.

Julie didn’t
condescend me by insisting I made a wish, but inside, I was definitely wishing.
I wished for Peter back, in my dark room at night, putting me through hell;
anything, but leave me here all alone. Posses me if he had to; in fact, I’d
relish it, just to feel alive, to be controlled, to be one with him. But I kept
that to myself, and when I blew out the candles, she withdrew the cake from the
table.

‘Now,’ said
Julie, giving me an eager smile. ‘I want you to close your eyes for your
present.’

‘Oh!’ I said,
blushing. ‘I didn’t know we did presents. You don’t have to, honestly.’ I did
as I was told and closed them tight.

While she
waddled into the hall to fetch it, I felt the others around me like members of
a séance, watching to see what became of me, or what spirit I’d bring leaping
from the otherworld first. I thought of all the things that had been burned
away in the fire — my magazines, my few clothes, my music. All gone.

But when Julie
placed the present across my lap I knew instantly what it was, and I was still
sore for the loss of the original. I opened my eyes and tore off the birthday
wrapping paper to reveal the splendid instrument with its glossy finish: a
brand new acoustic guitar.

My mouth hung
open, while the others ooh’d and aah’d. I looked at Julie’s warm round face.
‘How did you know I was learning to play?’

She folded her
podgy arms and smiled. ‘Melanie sent an email about some of the things you’d
lost in the fire.’ Her expression looked tense, then, as if she’d stepped out
of turn. A lot had been lost in that fire, or nearly lost, including my own
life. Let alone dad’s; dad who, in death, had escaped any and all consequences
for the abuse he put me through.

 ‘She thought
it might be nice if we gave you something that you might have been missing. Oh!
And that’s not all.’

She waddled
out of the room again and produced a plastic bag, which she plonked on my lap.
‘I bought these this morning. I didn’t have time to wrap them, but Melanie said
you liked his music, so I thought—’

Her voice
faded like a record turned down low. I peeled the plastic back to find, glossy
and new as the guitar on my knees, a book of songs by Jimi Hendrix. I flicked
to the back and found they had the basic chords for
Bold as Love
and
Foxey
Lady
and, as a bonus, it even included his cover of my favourite song.

I blinked away
tears. ‘Only pros can play this kind of music,’ I said. ‘I’ve got no chance of
learning this.’

Julie laughed.
‘Of course you have, in time. There’s a beginner’s book in the bag as well, not
that you’ve seen it for dribbling over that one. You could learn a few chords
and give it a go. You might be a fast learner.’

A few tears
dropped onto the book’s shiny surface, but I wiped them away. ‘Not that fast,’
I said. ‘Maybe for a while I’ll just look at the pictures.’

Now that I was
eighteen and for all intents and purposes “recovering”, I didn’t need
protecting from the press anymore. The press had been hounding me since the
fire, when it emerged that Dennis had been publicly cleared and given a huge
sum of money as compensation. My social workers had shielded me well, but now
that I was an adult, things could be different.

I could make
my own decisions, at least. I scheduled my first interview with
Best
,
then
Red
, then all the major papers. After that I was given a slot to
make a five minute appearance on This Morning, all to share my story.

At the ITV
studio I went through hair and makeup, and Julie and I got transfers from the
house in a posh cab. We had promo-shoots: me leaning on my stick because my
knee still played up from time to time, and Julie with her arm encircling my
shoulders, the supportive surrogate mother. Later, when I looked at those
pictures, I really wished I could love Julie like a mother. I just couldn’t.

I didn’t feel
much at all now that there was less and less to be afraid of. I smiled
awkwardly in the pictures, and found myself trying to cower behind my stick as
though my body was even smaller, slimmer, hardly there at all. When I’d watched
people like me on This Morning before, I’d never considered how they felt
before the programme, when they had the silence to really think about what they
were about to do.

While a woman
prepped me about the questions and another powdered my face, I wondered if the
victims I’d watched with envy and awe had experienced bitter regret, or
disappointment, when they sat in that studio hot seat.

When my slot
came, I wasn’t shrouded in darkness, and I didn’t have my voice disguised.
Julie sat with me on the sofa, and we were accompanied by a TV doctor who gave
all the facts and figures about victims of abuse — including feelings of
confusion and fabrications of the truth.

Just like in
my trial four years ago, I kept my head down and let them talk. The doctor’s
facts were my fiction, and they were more comforting than the truth. I realised
that it didn’t matter how old I’d grown; to the world I was a child, shrinking
from the camera, keeping it all inside. I’d imagined so much more of myself
before, and yet, nothing.

I came away
from the interview shaking, and in the taxi home we had to stop so I could
vomit into a Tesco’s bag Julie had been carrying our bottles of water in. Then
we came back to the house and I slept and slept.

The next day,
I delivered three phone interviews with various presses. My replies to the
questions were all
I’m moving forward
or
I’ve had so much support
or
I never thought in a million years
and all the usual clichés. It was
easy. I’d read all the magazines; I knew those responses by heart.

For about two
months I was a household name. Instead of basking in the glory I’d always
envied other victims in the media, I shut myself away. At first the phone was
always ringing. Pretty soon the last interview was published, and the magazines
were read and thrown away.

None of it
felt right. When my favourite magazines published the last articles, I never
bought them, let alone read them, and I didn’t watch myself back on This
Morning.

It wasn’t me
in those interviews, or on the couch on TV. I felt that it was my spirit
representative; my form taking shape, before disappearing in a puff of smoke.

 I made tens
of thousands from doing the rounds of papers. My exclusive interview with
The
Daily Mail
made me a further fifty grand due to the detailed questions I
answered about dad, Dennis and David. None of it mattered; after all, they were
dead. Once I’d finished answering a question, it vanished from memory.

I couldn’t
even think how to spend the money. The one thing I wanted couldn’t be bought,
only dug up out of the earth.

After a while,
when it all quietened down and I was left with my own thoughts, I thought it
would be easier to just crawl into the earth with him.