Everything She Forgot (10 page)

Kathleen held her forefinger out, pointing at the coffee table.

“Astute, that's what she is. She's astute.” She turned to look Angus full in the eye and he felt an urge to look away. There was a glare in the woman's pure blue eyes, like looking at the sun. He could only stand it for a second or two.

“Moll's not like some other girls: she's vulnerable but she's not soft, she's accepting but she's not gullible. She has a strength that I have always marveled at . . . She's stubborn, I suppose people would say, and maybe that's true. I didn't ever try to break her spirit. She's a good girl, but she's tough, and, as much as I fear for her, I know she'll fight this man if he tries to subdue her. Every second of every day, I
will
that, and I know that she will find the strength to do it.”

Kathleen was agitated now. Her breath was rasping in her throat. Her eyes were dry, but Angus could tell that she was close to breaking down again. He tore open the wrapper of his chocolate biscuit and took a bite, then turned to her and smiled.

“She does sound like a good girl—and tough,” said Angus, trying to be understanding, “but she's still wee . . . a wee one, just seven years old. It's . . .”

“She'll be eight on the twenty-ninth of December,” said Kathleen, whispering. She turned to Angus with a smile. “It's just after Christmas so it's hard because it seems like all the presents come at once.”

Angus pursed his lips, as he tried to return the smile.

“She wants a blackboard and chalk for Christmas this year,” said Kathleen, sniffing noisily. “She's told me already.”

“Let's start from the beginning, shall we? You and your husband are from Thurso?”

“No.” Kathleen wiped a palm roughly over her face. She was not wearing any makeup and the action reddened her skin. “I'm from Glasgow. John's from Aberdeen originally, but he's lived in Thurso for years—long before I moved here. He's been with the plant for over fifteen years. He's the managing director now. Before that he worked in Rosyth.”

“So your husband's a Highlander, but you're from the Lowlands,” said Angus, almost to himself.

“That's right. I moved up here from Glasgow just after we got married.”

“And your full name is . . .”

“It's just Kathleen . . . Kathleen Henderson.”

“And your maiden name was . . .”

“Jamieson.”

“Am I right that there's a reasonable age difference between you and your husband?”

“Nearly fifteen years between us.”

“So you came up here to Thurso when you were how old, twenty-something?”

“I was young—twenty-one years old.”

Angus paused, calculating Kathleen's age. His nose was itchy as he considered and he rubbed it.

“And so now you're twenty-nine, thirty?”

“Twenty-seven,” said Kathleen, coughing.

Twenty-seven.

A warm, sweet shower of revelation shone on Angus in the cream living room. He had always been quick with numbers. He knew he would have to verify it, but it seemed that Molly's age at the time of the abduction, which had been widely publicized as seven and a half, and Kathleen's age at her marriage to John did not tally.

Angus made some casual shorthand markings on his notepad, bracketed with question marks. He noted that Kathleen was perhaps a fallen woman and Molly her bastard.

Angus felt heat flush his body. He was aware of his fingertips becoming damp and the pen slippery in his hand.

A deep silence filled the room as Angus considered his next question.

“Molly was born in nineteen seventy-seven, is that right?”

Kathleen nodded.

“John was your first husband?”

“Yes . . .” The skin around Kathleen's eyes had swollen and begun to redden. “Yes.”

Angus cleared his throat and glanced down at his pad. “But you . . . had Molly before you were married?”

The skin puckered on Kathleen's brow. “How did you . . . What are you asking such questions for? What relevance—” Her face was reddening in anger.

“I'm sorry, I was getting distracted.”

“That's of no consequence and none of your business, quite frankly.”

“Understood. Let's talk about the morning that she left . . . tell me what your routine was, and when you saw her last.”

Angus smiled at her penitently, and nodded for her to continue. She took a broken breath to calm herself, then looked out of the window as she recalled the events of October 2. She talked in detail about brushing Molly's hair into the high ponytail that she liked and the daily argument about the patch to be worn over her eye. She described how she had waved good-bye to her in her dressing gown, from the front door, and how they waved to each other again, and again, and again, before her daughter disappeared behind the hedge, forever.

Finally, after holding out so long, Kathleen began to weep, and Angus passed her the tissue box that lay on the coffee table. He finished scribbling some notes.

“I should leave you. I didn't mean to upset you,” Angus said, standing.

“It's fine,” said Kathleen, getting to her feet and following him to the door. “You're right, I suppose, that a local take on it might help. I'll try anything.” She tried to laugh, but it looked like someone had just punched her in the stomach.

She opened the door and he stepped out into the crisp Thurso autumn afternoon.

“Thank you very much, Kathleen,” said Angus, touching her arm. “You and Molly are in our prayers.”

I
n the car, around the corner from the Henderson villa, Angus looked over his notes, running the tip of his tongue over his upper lip as he deciphered the shorthand. There was something here and he knew it. Kathleen had given him the key to the story he had dreamed of—he only had to discover it.

Angus's interest in finding Molly was sustained, but his image of her had been tarnished. Before she had been a prism of innocence, stolen; now—if he was correct—she was contaminated, a child born out of wedlock. Angus noted down December 29, 1977, Molly's date of birth, and snapped his notebook shut. She had been born nearly two years before Kathleen married and moved north. Angus could not be sure, but he sensed that John Henderson was not Molly's father.

He would still seek Molly out and believed that he had the power to find her, but he noted that human beings were often disappointing, as exemplified by Kathleen Henderson and her bastard child.

CHAPTER 11

I
T WAS
S
UNDAY AFTERNOON AND
B
EN HAD TAKEN
THE CHIL
dren to a film. Margaret had said that she was going to stay home and work. It was true that she did have a report to prepare, but when the car pulled out of the drive, she went upstairs and slid the box that she had taken from her father's house out from underneath the bed in the spare bedroom.

A
s soon as she had opened the box in the attic, she had known it was the one she was looking for, but her father had been waiting below the hatch, looking expectantly upward, and she had had no time to look through it.

Margaret knew that her mother had collected the clippings, photographs, and reports and placed them in the green box, but she knew that her father was also well aware of its contents. It was her past and her father would have allowed her to take it, but she hadn't wanted to admit to him that she was being drawn back to that time. She had taken bedding out of a packing crate and put the shoebox inside, wrapped in an old sheet, before carrying it downstairs.

“You found what you wanted then?” her father had repeated, fingers smoothing the thin hair on his scalp.

“I always loved this bedspread. We just redecorated the spare bedroom, and I think it would go. You don't mind me taking it?”

“Not at all. If it suits, then take it. I need to go up there and go through all that stuff again . . .” He turned away and picked up the hook for the ladder, ready to close everything back up. “I still don't have the heart for it. Whatever else you fancy, you're welcome. She would've wanted you to have it, you know that.”

He was reaching upward, but Margaret noticed tears misting his eyes, a frown between his brows.

“Will you come for a few days at Christmas?” Margaret asked. She had asked him twice already, but he had been reluctant. The house was too big for him and yet he didn't like to leave it. She asked him down every holiday, but he was set in his ways.

Her father used the stick to roll the ladder back up into the loft and nudge the hatch back into place. “I don't know. It's such a long drive.”

“Don't be silly, we'll come and get you.”

“Well, I don't know. The weather's been so bad, and look what just happened to you . . .”

“It can't happen twice, can it? It's Christmas. Come and let us look after you. The kids would love to spend time with you. What about coming on Boxing Day if you just want a quiet time? You know I'm off for two weeks. It's no bother. I'd love to have you.” She put a hand on his arm and smiled up at him.

“All right then,” said her father. “Who can resist when you flash your big eyes at me?”

They both laughed and started down the stairs, Margaret
carrying the bedding in two hands. Her father reached out to take it from her.

“I'm all right. I've got it, thanks.”

“Independent. You were always so independent.”

N
ow, in private, alone in her own house as she had wanted, Margaret was ready to open the lid of the box. It was like peeling off layers of her skin. It was compulsive yet harming, satisfying yet disturbing.

Margaret placed her hands on her thighs and took a deep breath. Her memory was fractured. She remembered some things; images came to her in snatches, but apart from that, Margaret was in the dark about that time. She had few memories of her early childhood, other than the stay in the hospital. Since the crash, however, she had begun to worry that something much worse than an illness had happened to her when she was small. She couldn't remember specific incidents or scenes, but she was starting to recall feeling very afraid. Maybe she was reliving the crash and imagining childhood memories because the accident had made her feel as vulnerable as a child, but Margaret was not sure, and her uncertainty had driven her to dig deeper. When her mother was alive, she had not wanted Margaret to see whatever was in the box. Her mother's death had come when everything was changing for Margaret. She had buried her mother, then graduated, found work, married, and had children. She had focused on the future.

Her mother had not lived to see the person Margaret would become: teacher, mother, wife. Margaret had been on her way to becoming a teacher when her mother died, but all her success had come afterward. Even now, at the age of thirty-five,
whenever she was commended at work Margaret wanted to tell her mother. She still needed her mother to be proud of her.

P
roud,”
said Margaret out loud, as she peered into the box.

The articles, photographs, reports, and papers had been carefully collated. When she flicked through them, she had noticed that they were in roughly chronological order, with the oldest dates at the top of the pile. This meant that her mother had not only collected the items but revisited and organized the box, so that it was like a story waiting to be told, from the beginning to the end. Margaret crossed her legs and touched the sides of the box, imagining her mother rearranging the articles inside. Her pulse quickened, and she put a hand on her chest as she took a deep breath.

She had been at university when her mother's health deteriorated. She remembered the black shadows under her eyes, and the bruises on her arms that appeared after the slightest pressure.

On top of the pile of cuttings was a color photograph of Margaret as a child. She was in her school uniform, smiling nervously at the camera. She looked scruffy and distracted, and Margaret remembered how her mother had been annoyed about the photograph when it arrived, because her hair had been unbrushed
.

Margaret placed her hands over her mouth and breathed into them. She felt sick and anxious, but she was not sure why. She flicked quickly, randomly through the pile of papers and photographs. The bold black printed words seemed to swarm over her hands, like beetles:
PEDOPHILE, MOLESTATION, SEXUAL ASSAULT, SERIAL OFFENDER, GROOMED, INNOCENCE, EVIL, STOLEN, DESTROYED, HEARTBREAK, LOST
.

On her knees, Margaret leaned forward, fists on the bedroom floor. She only wished she could remember. She flicked hurriedly through the layers of newspaper articles and found a letter from a doctor addressed to her mother. It was dated January 10, 1986, so Margaret would have been just eight years old. She brushed sweat from her upper lip as she read the letter.

Her vision was blurry and her heart was racing, and she needed a drink of water, and Margaret could read only part of the letter before she was forced to place it back.

            
. . . I express my deep regret for the trauma experienced by your family.

               
I conducted a full examination of your daughter and found no evidence of sexual intercourse or penetration. While that must be gratifying, it is impossible to conclude that sexual assault has not taken place, and the psychological scarring that is currently evident in your daughter may suggest abuse of that nature. I would recommend a full course . . .

Margaret replaced the lid and slid the box back under the bed. She was soaked with sweat. She went into the bathroom, washed her face at the basin, and stood for a moment, dripping, staring at the drain. She wished that she could remember more.

The hospital,
she whispered to herself. She remembered returning from somewhere. She remembered the flowers on either side of the garden path. When she was brought home, she was dumb. She hadn't uttered a word for six months after her return, and she had been taken to see doctor after doctor until she started to speak again, quite naturally and without coercion.

Eliot, Margaret's second child, had not said a word until the age of two and a half, when he had declared, “It's all right, I'll do it myself.” In the same way, Margaret had returned to the family home unspeaking and unsmiling until one day at dinner she had said, “Please can you pass the salt,” and after that everyone thought she was better.

When her voice returned, her mother sat her down and asked her what had happened, but Margaret hadn't wanted to discuss it. Once, her mother had taken her hand and smoothed it, saying, “Some things are best forgotten,” and so she had forgotten almost everything.

Margaret dried her face, and felt her pulse steady and her breathing return to normal. This was a private suffering; it was leaning into the deep, dank well of herself, and Margaret knew that she needed to take her time. The crash had literally shaken her, so that she had been forced back to her essence, and things that had once been buried were now coming to the fore. She wanted to carry on normally for her family, but she couldn't stop what was happening to her.

Margaret Holloway, deputy head teacher, mother, wife, did not know what had happened to her when she was a little girl, and she was terrified to find out.