Chanelle Hayes - Baring My Heart (5 page)

A
lthough things settled down a bit in the months after my suicide attempt, my impatience to know the truth never left me and, pretty soon, it was gnawing away at me more than ever. One day, I was in the car with Mum when I got stuck into her again.

‘Look, I’m getting older now,’ I said, ‘so I really do think you can tell me about my mum.’

She refused to discuss it and wouldn’t even look at me. I must have been having a bad day because I then screamed at her, ‘You’re just an evil bitch!’ This was bad because, in all our fights, I’d never sworn at her before. But what she said in reply really took my breath away.

‘Well, do you know what, Chanelle? Carry on like this and you’re going to be no better than your mum.’

‘What did you just say?’ I fired back. ‘What the hell do you mean by that?’

But Mum realised she’d let slip more than she wanted to and would say no more. ‘Nothing. I meant nothing. Just drop it. This is definitely not the right time.’

I couldn’t make her tell me anything else and we fell out badly over it once again. Things got so bad that I decided to move in permanently with Scott and his family. His mum, Lynne, was brilliant right from the word go.

‘Stay as long as you want,’ she told me warmly. ‘I know you’re having a tough time, so you’re more than welcome here.’

It was nice of her but Scott was still into his drugs and it became quite a regular occurrence that I’d cook for him and then end up throwing his food in the bin while he ‘tripped out’ at the table.

All the signs were there that Scott was going to hurt me badly, so perhaps it shouldn’t have surprised me when he announced casually that he’d got another girl pregnant.

‘What?’ I froze when he told me, my jaw literally hanging open. ‘How could you do that to me? I trusted you!’

I ran into the lounge in floods of tears and broke the news to Lynne, who was disgusted with her son.

‘I want you out of this house, Scott,’ she told him coldly. ‘Chanelle would never cheat on you in a million years – how dare you treat her like that?’

He didn’t have much to say to that and got his stuff together that same evening. He moved into a caravan and my world was in bits. He had been everything to me and him cheating on me was like having my one and only emotional prop kicked out from under me.

Full of despair, it was in their house that I took my second overdose. Just like the last time, I decided I wanted to flick the switch off and end all of my pain. Grabbing a bottle of gin from Lynne’s cupboard, I went up to the bathroom and started swigging it with some painkillers. Almost methodically, I then found a razor and scored a couple of small cuts on my left wrist. Little beads of blood shot out, just like before. It was so easy but, in the blink of an eye, I changed my mind and thought, ‘What the fuck am I doing? This is stupid. I need help.’

Clutching my arm, I staggered downstairs and wailed, ‘Lynne, I’m so sorry! Look what I’ve done! I’ve taken all these tablets too. Please help me. I’m in a really bad place.’

As ever, she was so calm and knew exactly what to do. She called an ambulance and then phoned Scott, who joined us at the hospital. Fortunately, the cuts were no way near as bad this time and I hadn’t taken enough pills to pose any serious risk to myself. I was allowed out that same night and, as I didn’t want to talk to Scott or even look at his cheating face, Lynne took me back with her. As good as she was in the crisis, she said later, ‘I feel like it’s all my fault.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ I said. ‘Of course it’s not.’

After that, I decided to go back home because there was no point in me staying with them after Scott left. But old habits die hard and pretty soon, I’m ashamed to admit, I started phoning him again. Unbelievably, I begged him to take me back.

‘I don’t care if you got that girl pregnant,’ I grovelled. ‘I’m so unhappy without you, please can we try again?’

I can’t believe I was such a fool now but we did end up getting back together and, with his encouragement, I started bunking off school. He had quit by then and didn’t want me going in without him, mostly because he was worried about other boys flirting with me. Scott was always a complete control freak – he used to work in a bowling alley and he liked my friend Natalie and I to get the bus there every Saturday and hang around all day. I’d met Natalie in Year Seven at high school and we were as thick as thieves. Even now, we’re still very close. But when we went along to the bowling alley each weekend, we didn’t even play – we just sat there chatting because Scott liked to keep an eye on me. I loved him though and I’d have done anything to keep hold of him. How pathetic does that make me sound?

At this point, I was about to sit my mock-GCSE exams and
my teachers were concerned about the number of lessons I was bunking off. They had repeatedly called my parents to tell them and this was what Mum and I were fighting about on this particular night.

‘You can’t keep skipping school, Chanelle. You need to get your education or you’ll never make anything of yourself,’ she said.

I sat in silence, refusing to even look at her.

‘What are we going to do with you? Your dad and I are at our wits end.’

‘Stop telling me what to do!’ I spat back. ‘You’re always criticising me. It’s no wonder I hate living here!’

As the fight went round in a circle for what seemed like the millionth time, I screamed, ‘Right! I’ve had enough. I’m going into the woods and I don’t want you to follow me.’

‘Why are you going to do that? It’s pitch-black out there,’ she reasoned.

And I thought, ‘Because if I stay in this house, I’ll bloody well go into the bathroom and take some more pills.’

So I stormed out to the wooded area behind our house, which was also a shortcut to Natalie’s house. Because it was dark, I called her on my mobile and she ran to meet me and we walked to her house together. I was crying so hard I could hardly walk straight. When we got there, her mum Anthea gave me a big hug and sat me down.

‘What on earth is the matter?’ she asked. ‘What could be so terrible?’ I could barely speak for the tears but then, without even meaning for it to happen, it all came pouring out. I told them about everything I’d been through and why I couldn’t take any more. It was an enormous release of pressure.

When I’d finished recounting my traumatic few months, Anthea looked a little dumbstruck but stood up and said, ‘OK,
Chanelle. I think this has gone on long enough. I’m going to call your mum.’

And as I sat there sobbing, she dialled our home number and I heard her say in a hushed voice, ‘Christine, I’m sorry to interfere and I know you have Chanelle’s best interests at heart. But I don’t think things can go on like this. Something’s got to give here. It’s bad for her, it’s bad for you and I think you need to be honest with her. This is destroying her. I’m worried that, if it goes on, she might really be pushed over the edge and it’ll be too late then.’

Finally, someone was actually talking sense. I’ll always be grateful to Anthea for that because what she said really got through to Mum at long last. She came over straight away, still in her dressing gown, and has since told me that the next hour was among the hardest of her life.

As soon she walked into the kitchen, I wiped my nose and said, ‘Are you going to tell me then?’

She looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights and Anthea said, ‘Girls, go and wait in the living room. I need to talk to your mum now, Chanelle.’

At least someone was there to take control of the situation. It seemed that neither Mum nor I was capable of that.

Natalie dragged me by the hand into the living room and sat me down on the sofa but I was in such a state that I kept trying to get up and go back into the kitchen.

‘Sit down,’ Natalie urged. ‘Let my mum talk to her first – she knows what she’s doing.’

It felt like they were in there for an eternity and, though I was straining my ears to catch what was going on, I could barely hear anything over the thudding of my heartbeat. Every now and again I heard a little bits of a muffled conversation and, at one stage, I’m sure I heard Anthea gasp out loud.

Finally, the door to the living room opened.

I jumped up. ‘What is it? Tell me.’ I stared directly at Mum.

She glanced at Anthea, shaking her head. ‘I can’t do this,’ she whispered, holding her head in her hands.

‘What?’ I shouted. ‘Stop these games! You have to tell me now. This isn’t fair.’

‘Come on, Christine, you know you have to do this,’ Anthea said softly, putting her hand gently on her shoulder.

As Mum sat down, she sighed deeply and I noticed that tears were rolling silently down her face. In all our fights over the years, I had never seen Mum cry and something registered in the pit of my stomach what a big deal this must be.

‘OK, Chanelle, I have wanted to protect you from this all your life but, if I really must tell you, I will.’ She took a deep breath. ‘You think your mum died because of an accident or illness and we’ve always let you believe that. But that’s not the case.’ She paused and composed herself again. ‘She didn’t die of cancer, or in a car crash, or because of anything else like that.’

Another deep breath. ‘Chanelle, your mum was a prostitute. She was murdered.’

I felt a rushing sound in my ears. I must have misheard.

‘What?’ I said slowly, my voice barely audible. ‘No way,’ I whispered, shaking my head. ‘You’re lying. It can’t be true.’

‘I’m not lying, it’s the truth. I swear,’ she said. ‘Why would I make this up? Your mum was strangled to death by one of her clients when you were five months old. You were sent to foster parents and then we adopted you soon after. We didn’t want to tell you until you were older. We’ve always felt it would be too much for you.’

Mum had come and sat next to me on the sofa but I wasn’t able to listen to any more. Of all the scenarios I’d imagined over the years about my real mum, it had never even crossed my mind that she might have been killed. I was completely lost for words.

‘I don’t believe it,’ I must have said 20 times. ‘How can this be happening?’

Nobody knew what to do or say after the big announcement and, after a few minutes, Mum got up.

‘Here’s £10 for your dinner money for the rest of the week if you want to stay here but you’re more than welcome to come back with me. It is still your home, Chanelle, and we love you very much.’

But I couldn’t move. I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t even look at her. So she went home and I sat shaking in the chair, feeling like I might pass out. Anthea handed me a big glass of red wine.

‘This will help calm your nerves,’ she said.

I hated red wine in those days but I gulped it down quickly and can’t remember much about the rest of the evening. But, bizarrely, I do recall that, when we finally went to bed, with Natalie and me lying top to tail in her bed, I started thinking about my Spanish oral exam the next day.

The phrases I’d been practising were going round and round in my head for some reason and, in particular, the topic about my family. You know the kind of thing you have to learn verbatim; those sentences like, ‘In my family, I’ve got a mum and dad and one brother.’ It suddenly seemed so ironic. Imagine if I’d said, ‘I’ve got a mum, dad and brother – oh, and another mum who was a hooker and got murdered by some sicko bastard.’

I don’t think I slept the entire night. My mind was racing and I kept hearing Mum say those chilling words: ‘Your mum was a prostitute… she was murdered.’

The next day, I felt like death but forced myself into school for the exam. God knows how but it went well. I barely spoke to anyone all day and I brushed off my friends’ concerns every time they asked me what was wrong. I needed some time to get my own head round it before I could tell anyone else.

Natalie and Anthea helped me through the next couple of days by giving me space when I needed it and a shoulder to cry on as the news began to sink in. I couldn’t begin to make any sense of it but, after a few days, I knew I wanted to go home and start repairing my relationship with Mum and Dad. I knew that I had to salvage the family I still had, while I still could.

A
lthough our relationship was still on shaky ground, things were much better at home when I moved back in. I had a new respect for Mum and Dad for telling me the truth and knew instinctively that I didn’t want to fight them any more. Although it was the most horrific piece of news to come to terms with, I felt calmer inside. For me, knowing what had happened – no matter how distressing – was a lot easier to cope with than being kept in the dark. It had also made me realise how badly I’d treated them both.

‘I’m sorry I was so awful to you,’ I told them. ‘But now I know, it won’t happen again.’

They smiled sadly and both held me for a long time.

Naturally, I had further questions about the murder and it seemed that Sharon, my babysitter, had only been able to identify my mum’s body by a birthmark on her leg. Who knows the full extent of what the psychotic killer, this loner called Keith Pollard, did to her? I’d actually prefer not to know.

The only shred of comfort I can take from the tale is that
Mum’s body wasn’t left lying there for too long. Pollard handed himself into the police after killing her, which was why they found her so quickly in his flat. She was later cremated in Sheffield – though, of course, as a baby, I wasn’t there for that. My two sisters Maria and Melissa did go, which I know they found totally devastating. I never knew her, of course, but they were the ones with all those memories to lose.

Although Pollard has served his time after being jailed in 1988, the probation officers say it’s highly unlikely now that he’ll ever be released. We were told that he did appeal a few years ago but that his behaviour has not been good enough and he hasn’t shown any remorse. It’s strange knowing so little – we’ve never even known what prison he was sent to and just assumed it was one of the high-security ones in Manchester. I do thank my lucky stars that he’s still locked up though. Ultimately, they have to think of public safety and the fact that he also murdered that poor old lady. In my opinion, he’s best off where he is.

I know we’re meant to believe in rehabilitation and all of that but it’s too hard to forgive and forget when it’s your own flesh and blood that’s been snatched from you. I will never simply shrug my shoulders and wish him well, or say that he might be a reformed character, because that would be disrespectful to my mother’s memory. I hate him and I always will do.

After I came out of
Big Brother
, there were reports that he was set to be released, so I went to see the prison officers and told them my own safety could be at risk if he was back on the streets. What a disaster.

‘He’ll know exactly where to find me if he’s freed,’ I told this stern woman in a starchy white blouse. ‘I have been on TV recently, so he might know who I am.’

You’d think my concerns were valid but this horribly unsympathetic lady just replied, ‘Well, you chose to put yourself
in the public eye by doing your job. That’s not something we can help you with.’

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘You mean, because I’ve chosen to make something of my life, I am going to be punished for that? I could be an anonymous cleaner and that’d be OK but, because I am famous, it would be my fault if he knew where to find me?’

I was absolutely incensed but the woman showed no understanding for my situation at all. She said, ‘You could get a restraining order, meaning he won’t be able to approach you, but we can’t have him watched or tracked because that would be against his human rights.’

‘What?’ I shrieked. ‘His human rights! What about my rights? Or the rights of my dead mother? He should be in prison forever after what he’s done, never mind his bloody rights!’

I was so outraged. It seemed like a complete and utter farce and I couldn’t help thinking that things would have been very different if Pollard had killed two little children, instead of a prostitute and a pensioner.

As I struggled with my disbelief, I asked the woman if Pollard was ever allowed to read newspapers from his cell. I had been doing a lot of modelling and was suddenly horrified that he might have seen some of my pictures.

‘I can’t say,’ she said. ‘That would also be an infringement of his rights. But I can confirm that he would be able to buy any newspaper should he so wish.’

For Christ’s sake, this was just outrageous! Why did my rights matter so little when I was the innocent person here? He was able to know stuff about me if he wanted but he was protected by this web of bureaucracy. Where’s the justice in that?

‘Does he have pictures of me on his walls?’ I asked, feeling queasy. But this fell on equally deaf ears. ‘I can’t tell you that
either,’ she answered. ‘But he is free to put pictures and photos on his wall, yes.’

I gave up at that point – I was getting nowhere. But, to me, this was all so very wrong. Not to mention bloody scary.

Rewinding back to my 15-year-old self, once I’d moved back home, there was another bombshell for me to deal with. Mum came into my bedroom and said, ‘Can we talk?’

‘Sure,’ I said, sitting up on my bed. ‘What is it?’

‘Well, now you know the truth about your real mum, it’s probably the right time to give this to you.’

She sat on the bed and handed me an envelope.

‘It’s a letter from Annie, your nan. Your mum’s mum. She wrote it when you were given up for adoption and we’ve been saving it for you, along with some other things she and your sisters Maria and Melissa have sent you over the years.’

Then she handed me a bag containing a whole load of presents, birthday cards and photos from them, which she and Dad had been storing up for all this time. God knows how they kept them all secret from me – I thought nothing went unnoticed by me. I was gobsmacked but comforted to know that they hadn’t forgotten me in all those years. Opening the envelope, I smiled at Mum and said, ‘Thanks. This means a lot.’

The letter from my nan was written the day after I was given up for adoption and it still reduces me to a sobbing mess every time I read it now.

It said:

Tears were rolling down my face. It was the saddest thing I’d ever read. The letter continued:

As you can imagine, this was almost too much for me to bear. I’d obviously never known of the impact Mum’s death had on those who knew and loved her, so it was heart-breaking to read of their pain and loss.

She ended the letter:

Phew. What a colossal thing to take in. I felt moved beyond words and sat utterly speechless on my bed.

‘Are you OK?’ Mum asked.

I nodded. ‘It’s just so beautiful. I don’t know what to think.’

‘We knew it would upset you. That’s why we had to wait until you were older. It’s a hell of a lot for you to take in.’

I took a deep breath and started to look through the photos she’d enclosed with the letter. The first thing I noticed was how much I looked like my real mum. It really was spooky, as if I was seeing old black-and-white pictures of myself from another lifetime. There was one shot of her cradling me as a baby – I can only have been about a month old when it was taken – and it’s one of my most treasured possessions. I keep it next to my bed even now.

Next, I turned to the letter my two sisters had sent.

Maria wrote:

And Melissa had written, ‘Chanelle, yes, I am your sister. I just want you to know I love you very much. Please do not forget me because I love you a lot. Your own sister, Melissa x’

It was short and sweet but equally touching – especially from a nine-year-old.

The letters threw me into turmoil because I knew I had to get in touch. I’d never thought about seeing them before because I was so young and they just weren’t on my radar. It’s like being told you’ve got a distant second cousin out there somewhere. You might think, ‘Oh, right. That’s nice,’ but you don’t drop everything and try and find them. Also, I guess, subconsciously, it would have seemed disrespectful to Mum and Dad to open that can of worms.

But now the invitation was on the table, it was different. I needed to know if my nan was still alive, for starters. She sounded like such a lovely lady from her letter.

After I had read and re-read all the letters a few times, Mum said, ‘Christine at Social Services was wondering, would you like to meet them all?’

‘Um, I think I would,’ I said and nodded. ‘If you and Dad don’t mind.’

She shook her head. ‘No, we’d never deny you that chance. You have our full support, whatever you want to do.’

So I discussed it with Christine and told her that I was keen but also terrified.

‘What are you frightened of?’ she asked.

‘I’ve never been part of their family, so they might hate me,’ I admitted. ‘A lot of time has passed since they wrote those letters.’

She smiled. ‘I’m sure they won’t hate you. The link you have is so strong, it might bring you together.’

But she also warned me that meeting them could open up a lot of new wounds. ‘As much as you have in common, it may still be very difficult and painful for you all. So much time has passed and you know nothing about each other, so it won’t be plain sailing. This is a decision you have to weigh up very carefully.’

I thought hard about what Christine said but I knew instinctively it was something I had to do, so I told her to go ahead and contact them. She got back to me almost straight away and said, ‘Right, I’ve approached your sisters and your nan and all three want to see you.’

‘Wow. OK,’ I said. This was really going to happen.

We agreed that to see all three of them at once might be a little overwhelming, so Christine arranged a meeting with Nan first for a week on Saturday. When that day came, I was so nervous I nearly called it off. But Christine picked me up and said, ‘Come on. You can do this. If you hate it, you never need go again.’

When we pulled up outside her house in Sheffield, she led me to the door and rang the bell. After a couple of minutes, this little old lady opened the door and just stared at me agog, as if she’d seen a ghost. After a couple of seconds, her face lit up.

‘So you must be Chanelle!’

She reached out for me and gave me a hug. I felt like a plank
of wood and, when she finally let me go, she was crying. She was really frail and seemed quite weak.

‘I’ve dreamed of meeting you for years and years,’ she whispered, clutching my hand and holding it firmly. ‘You look exactly like your mother. It’s just unbelievable.’

She studied my face again. ‘I had no idea you would be the spitting image of Andrea. I’m so shocked.’

As she led us into the lounge, I noticed old black-and-white photos of my mum, in which she did look astoundingly like me.

Over a cup of milky tea, Nan and I took the first tentative steps towards getting to know each other. It was so nice to meet her but I couldn’t get my head round the fact that the elderly woman before me was my own flesh and blood. This was my nan – someone I should have visited every weekend during my childhood and drawn pictures and bought endless bottles of sherry for. But I had been denied all of that. Could we even begin making up for that now?

We talked for an hour or so and she was genuinely so sweet – asking about my studies at school, what my hobbies were and that kind of stuff. When it came time to leave, she took my hand again.

‘Please come and see me again soon, Chanelle. I’m not getting any younger and we’ve a lot of lost time to make up for.’

‘Yes, I’ll come back soon,’ I promised. In retrospect, I only wish I could have realised the significance of her words then and how little time we actually had.

As Christine drove me home, she asked me what I’d made of Nan. I thought for a while.