Kim sighs, blinks back more tears. ‘I wasn’t sure what to think. I was terrified and knew something awful had happened to him.’ She lets out a trembling sigh, swallows hard. ‘I went through loads of dreadful scenarios about where he was and then had to block it out of my mind. I didn’t see what actually happened, so even if I’d told the police, it would have been my word against his. He was such a strong man, both physically and mentally: overpowering and insidious. Imagine the beatings we would have all have had to put up every single day if I had done that?’ More deep breaths. More tears flow. ‘We had so much to hide, so much to be scared of. I feared that if I spoke too freely, they would start to dig deeper, find out about you and then take you away from me. I just couldn’t risk that happening. Social services would have got involved, seen the signs of abuse and what remained of our family would have ceased to exist. You would have been sent to a foster home and we might not have seen you again. So we learned never to question anything, instead hiding it all away, going about our daily lives with our heads down, too frightened, too traumatised to do or say anything at all.’
I screw up my eyes, cocking my head to one side. ‘Signs of abuse? What do mean, signs of abuse?’ A clock ticks in my head, a countdown to an exploding bomb. I wait for it to detonate, for the shrapnel to embed itself in my brain, to tear at my flesh, leaving me in ruins, a shell of the woman I used to be.
‘We did what we could to keep you safe and as far as I am aware, it only happened once or twice in the months following Simon’s death, but that was enough. We knew then that things had to change. We had to do something.’
I can’t breathe. It comes to me in a flash – a memory of him coming into my bedroom at night, lying next to me, the heat of his body pulsing beneath the cool cotton sheets. Oh God. Oh dear God, it happened to me too. I blanked it out, all that horror and suffering. All that abuse. I blanked it out and now it’s back. It has somehow managed to slither its way back into my brain, a latent memory reawakened. Moving back to Woodburn Cottage, the sleepwalking, it stimulated dormant memories, breathed life back into them and allowed me to see the truth. The truth about Simon. The truth about what sort of a man my father really was. The truth about my damaged childhood. He was a violent abuser, a villain. A demon.
‘What changed?’ I ask, perspiration breaking out on my back, my neck, under my arms. I am hot, cold, shivery at the same time. ‘What did you do?’ But even as I am saying it, I already know.
I rest my head back on the surface of the wall, the feel of the cold on my burning flesh a welcome sensation. I already know. I didn’t have to ask. I know exactly what she is going to say.
35
I tell them what I know. The police don’t want to hear about dreams. They don’t want supposition or guesses or embellishments. Just plain and simple facts. The plain and simple facts are that I remember very little. I was a young child. I was out there that night.
My memory of my mother scrambling on her hands and knees on the mud is a fact. The truth as I remember it. I recall running to her, desperate to reach her, then my father picking me up. I recall struggling against his hold, being slapped, hit. Punched. Then nothing else. I tell them how he was so devious that he even left those bolts off, ready to implicate and blame his own son for disappearing. Apparently, they told the police at the time that it must have been an oversight, leaving them off. So many lies. So much hurt and deviancy that we were practically buried alive. Lies heaped on top of more lies, more dirt thrown on top of already compacted dirt.
I tell them about my sleepwalking, how it blurred my memories, blotting out great chunks of my childhood, dreams and reality merging and combining until I could no longer tell them apart. They listen hard when I get to the bit about my memories of that night coming back to me, why I was out there by the shed. How I unearthed Simon’s body. Why I have started sleepwalking again as an adult. How my newly acquired therapist has told me that the move to Woodburn Cottage and Warren’s death were possible triggers for it.
Were.
Because since finding Simon, it has all stopped. I have slept soundly and safely in my own bed every night. No more nocturnal wanderings around the garden, no further trips out into the street half naked. Just peaceful slumbers occasionally fringed with even more peaceful dreams. I am beginning to feel half human again, my thoughts once more neat and orderly. I can speak clearly and coherently as I sit in the local police station, telling them about a man so grossly abusive and violent that my mind blocked it all out, the events of my childhood so shocking and disturbing, I was able to act as if they didn’t actually happen.
‘Thank you,’ I say as I stand up, my legs weak, my mind clearer than it has been for months.
‘Don’t forget to get in touch if you remember anything else.’ Sergeant Duffield says her goodbyes and a young fresh-faced constable leads me out to the main desk.
‘Do you have a family, PC Warwick?’
He nods, his face flushing red as I speak. ‘Two brothers, a sister and a stepdad. My real dad died when I was little and my mum passed away last year.’
My heart tightens for this lad, this inexperienced slip of a boy who is young enough to be my own son. ‘Think of them often. Talk to them, watch out for them. Love them. They’re irreplaceable.’
I don’t wait for his reply, turning instead to leave, the swish of the automatic door the only sound to be heard as I step out into the light.
It’s a small affair, Simon’s funeral. Private and brief. We wanted to keep it low-key, keep the media and grisly onlookers at bay. Because they are out there, the voyeurs, the gossipmongers, those who would wish us harm for being ruled by an abusive father. For being the offspring of a man who cared only for himself. We are at fault apparently for having not spoken about it, for keeping it secret for most of our lives. They have no idea, these people. No idea of the damage it causes, the long-term effects it has on the minds of the abused.
And then there are those who have shown us nothing but love and pity, sending cards and flowers, words of love and affection written there for us to see. They are so welcome, those words, obliterating the hatred and the disbelief and the general consensus that we as a family brought it on ourselves. It has helped me to believe that not all people are bad, that there are good, thoughtful people out there who care for others. Not everyone is a monster. Warren was a good man. My children, my nieces and nephews are decent, kind individuals. I have to remember that, not let the chill of the shade block out all the light.
We gather in Kim’s garden afterwards, a handful of family and friends, drinks in hand, their relief at it all finally being over evident in their smiles, their body language, how they chat animatedly; voices, whispers, laughter mingling in the air around us.
‘So, you will come and see us then?’ Carrie says, her eyes resting on mine. I have so much affection for this woman. The woman who has shown us nothing but consideration and kindness in the past few weeks.
‘I definitely will.’ And I mean it too. I have plans, lots of them.
I have plans to travel to Scotland to stay with Carrie and her family. I have plans to visit Lucy once she goes back to Oxford. I definitely have plans.
‘Will you be staying at Woodburn Cottage?’
My answer is swift. Steady and solid. ‘Absolutely. Why would I want to live anywhere else?’
Carrie smiles, relief in her eyes. ‘That’s good to hear. I’m not sure Dad could cope with new neighbours at his age. He likes routine and familiarity. He likes you.’
We talk for a short while before I move on, trying to thank people for coming. It’s kind. They are kind. That is my new mantra, my new way of thinking. People are good and kind. It’s just the odd rotten apple that spoils the rest.
Kim and I will visit Mum once everyone has left. She doesn’t know about Simon or the funeral. We discussed it with Amanda and decided the best thing to do was leave things as they are. Mum wouldn’t understand. The mention of his name would unleash too many demons, too many unpleasant memories. We will leave her be. She is peaceful lately – happy and content. For how long is anybody’s guess. Dementia is a heartless disease but we will cherish the moment while it lasts.
The police also made the decision to not question Mum. She is a vulnerable person and any witness statements she makes, unreliable. The case is still ongoing but with mine and Kim’s statements, they are piecing it all together, forming the picture of beastly, violent man who treated his family as if they were his property, doing with them as he saw fit.
They decided to not investigate his death, putting it down to an accident. We agree.
36 JOHN GOODWILL
It’s been months. The worst is over. The police didn’t suspect anything. Why would they? This is his family. He takes care of them, directs what happens under his roof. Do they have any idea how hard he works to bring in the money that feeds and clothes this family? He doubts that they do. Nobody seems to care or understand. Nobody, least of all his wife and children.
Spring is on its way. He opens the bedroom window, inspects the sill for flaking paint and stops, the cool breeze wrapping itself around him. Outside, it’s still. No birdsong, very little noise at all. This is a nice village. Everyone keeps themselves to themselves. No nosey parkers pushing their sticky beaks into business that doesn’t involve them. Exactly as it should be.
He prises the lid off the paint tin, picks up the brush and drags it across the outside sill. If he kneels, doesn’t lean too far out, he can just about reach the far end.
Behind him, he can hear Kim and Sylvie as they mill about in the bedrooms, tidying up, doing whatever it is they do with their time, their voices irritating him. He wanted peace and quiet. He wanted to be left alone with his thoughts while he improved this house. Their house. The house he pays for. Is there no respite from their whining? Nowhere he can be free of the constant, tinny grumbling of their voices?
Frustration and annoyance jab at him, burning beneath his skin, putting him on edge. That’s his default position, it would seem. Always clinging onto the precipice of exasperation. His head aches, his jaw is set in place, tension rippling through him.
He grinds his teeth as he thinks about the last few months, about what happened. What she made him do. And now everything has changed, their lives irrevocably altered, their family fragmented. He wonders what the future holds, whether he can keep things together. She has threatened to leave him on numerous occasions. It won’t happen. Where would she go? He would always find her. She’s his wife and this is where she belongs, for better for worse. Silly bitch, thinking she could have got away with it, taking his child away from him.
This is all on her head, and he’s told her so often enough, told her that if she ever opened up to anybody about that night, he would give them the full story, relate how he was carrying the kid back inside when she grabbed him, pulled him to the ground, smacked his head open. She always was the nervous type, too timid to think beyond the superficial. Too lacking in confidence to see the obvious.
