Guilty Innocence (16 page)

‘Gonna sling it on the way back.’ Such calm in his voice. Whatever uncoiled itself in Adam has retreated, although Joshua senses it’s not as deeply hidden as before.

‘I’ll kill you if you tell anyone.’ No emotion in Adam’s voice or expression. Just a bald statement of how it is. Joshua doesn’t even consider the possibility the other boy’s fooling around. How can he, when the corpse of a child lies at his feet, the bloody evidence sprayed over his jeans? Of course Adam will kill him if he talks.

Moreover, being found out seems inevitable. How the hell can they hope to get away with it? The knife will be discovered, despite Adam’s plans to ditch it. Joshua’s watched enough crime dramas on TV over the years to picture police officers raking through waste bins, combing the surrounding countryside, when they don’t find a murder weapon at the scene to explain the stab wounds. Something, Joshua doesn’t know what, will inevitably lead back to them.

Being found out means the distinct possibility of being sentenced to the same punishment unit as Adam, giving the other boy every chance to carry out his threat. His only option is to shut up and stay that way, no matter what happens. It’ll be his word against Adam’s anyway, without fingerprints on either the rake handle or the knife.

Adam’s laugh startles Joshua from his thoughts. ‘Seen our Pretty Princess a couple of times before today. Decided to find out how much fun it would be to stick a knife in her. Make her bleed. Hear her scream.’

The murder’s been premeditated, then, but Joshua’s not surprised. The child’s killing lacked the ferocity of a sudden loss of control, vicious though it was. No, the blows rained down on Abby Morgan were brutal, sure, but they bore the hallmark of someone with iron self-command, who understood - and enjoyed - what he did. Joshua’s not certain how he knows this - perhaps he’s absorbed more than he’s realised from those crime dramas - but he believes Adam planned this, in every detail, before they came here today. Adam’s next words confirm this.

‘Found this place a couple of weeks ago when I was last over here. Saw its potential straight away.’ He laughs again. ‘A ready-made toolkit on hand as well, although I brought the knife along for a bit of extra fun.’

He pulls the weapon from his pocket, his fingers wrapped carefully in his sleeve. ‘Be a shame to ditch it. Easy enough to get another, though. A bigger one next time.’

He thrusts the knife towards Joshua. ‘Unless you’d like to keep it? Be a great souvenir of a good day out. Nah, didn’t think so,’ as Joshua recoils. ‘Fucking wuss, same as ever. No idea why I bother with you.’

He slides the knife back into his pocket. ‘Did it too quickly, though. She died too easily.’ Regret sounds in his voice. Adam has clearly enjoyed every single blow and scream of killing the child. How such a thing is possible, Joshua can’t fathom; he experienced nothing but revulsion on watching Abby Morgan’s life being beaten and stabbed out of her. When Adam’s next words filter through the fog in his brain, they’re so terrible he thrusts them away, refusing to believe the boy in front of him, dark and twisted though he is, can mean them.

‘Next time, I’ll do it more slowly, have more fun.’

The unspeakable horror of
next time
pounds through Joshua’s brain. He looks at the child’s corpse. She’s laying all crooked, blood matting her hair. One small trainer has come away from her right foot. Joshua registers the pink plastic of the shoe with its Velcro fastening. He hears again the tinny female voice singing
‘One, Two, Buckle My Shoe,’
and it becomes imprinted on his brain forever. Strange how the silly song associated with the worst day of his life comes to represent comfort when he’s stressed, but the human psyche can be anything but rational. The song tinkles its happy tune in his brain, and as he sees the bloodied rake handle the words
‘five, six, pick up sticks’
echo in his head.

‘Time we were getting back.’ Adam reaches down to pick up the green hippo, smoothing the soft material, the fabric browned with blood and chocolate. ‘Think I’ll take this, have myself something to remember the fun we’ve had together.’ He grabs Joshua by the arm. ‘Let’s go. We’re done here.’

13

SILENT SCREAM

Mark and Rachel carry their plates into her living room, her offer of coffee forgotten. They sit on her sofa, Rachel’s fingers playing with her fork. Flipping it through her fingers, back and forth, the rhythm strangely soothing. The idea of lemon cheesecake, so tempting a few minutes before, now revolts her. Beside her, Mark is eating his slice, making neat incisions with his fork, tackling the cheese filling and biscuit base with precision. A thick wall of tension separates them, even though her arms, having betrayed her shame, are now safely hidden beneath her sleeves. She’s silent, allowing him to eat his cheesecake, before she decides to risk broaching the subject.

‘I expect you’re shocked,’ she says. She’ll find out now. If, by some miracle, he didn’t see, he’ll give her the surprise, the
what do you mean?,
and her secret will be safe, at least for now.

He shakes his head, and all hopes of him not having seen evaporate, adding to the tightness in the air.

‘No,’ he says as he swallows the last mouthful of cheesecake. ‘Not shocked, Rachel.’

‘I can’t help it,’ she whispers.

‘I understand.’ He does, too, she gets that, although she’s no idea why or how he can comprehend something that Shaun, however supportive, has never really done. Empathy implies understanding, which in turn suggests suffering on a commensurate level. She wonders what Mark’s particular sorrow has been and whether he’ll ever tell her. Sadness stabs her that he’s had pain in his life but right now, it means he won’t judge her, and that’s the most important thing.

‘I’m sorry you saw…what you did. But thank you for not getting on my case about it.’

She’s able to look at him now, registering the empathy in his expression. He shifts a little closer to her on the sofa, his eyes on her sleeves.

‘How long?’ he asks.

‘Years. Since I turned fourteen or thereabouts, I guess.’

‘It takes whatever is hurting you inside away.’ A statement, not a question, and Rachel again thinks:
he understands.

‘Yes. How did you -’

‘I know. Believe me, Rachel, I do.’ His gaze is averted now. She gets why. It’s too soon to ask, and if he’s not volunteering the information, she’s not going to push things.

‘I use a sharp kitchen knife.’ Her voice is a whisper.

‘Just on your arms? Or elsewhere?’

‘Legs as well. My stomach, too, once or twice, but not often. Arms and legs are better. Not sure why. Each to their own, I guess.’ She lets out a tiny laugh, without any mirth in it.

‘So you always wear long-sleeved tops. And trousers.’

‘I have to. Even when I run. It’s bad, Mark. The scarring.’

‘I wondered why you pull your sleeves down a lot. Now I understand.’ Rachel reaches for her sleeves as he speaks, tugging them forward. A nervous habit, learned over many years of concealing her shame from the world. ‘Yeah. Like that.’

He leans towards her, slowly, and at first, she thinks he’s going to kiss her. Instead, his hands reach for her sleeves, and she pulls away, drawing her arms back, hiding them behind her. It’s asking more than she’s willing to give at this stage. Nobody has ever seen the full extent of her scarring. Sex is always a furtive, clothed affair for Rachel. She’s taken care to avoid hospitals, with their potential talk about professional help, counselling and the like. She won’t be going down that route anytime soon.

‘I’m sorry.’ He moves away from her, giving her space. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

‘I can’t show you. It really is bad, Mark. Ugly.’

‘You don’t have to.’

‘They’re partly bandaged anyway; well the left one is, as you must have seen. That’s the worse one, because I’m right-handed. But my other arm’s one hell of a mess too.’

‘You cut the left one recently then?’

‘Yes. The night before the vigil.’

He nods in understanding. ‘Of course. Makes sense.’ She can’t fathom what’s lurking in his voice besides the obvious. Concern, yes; empathy, definitely, but what else? It’s a kind of sorrow, as though he regrets something, and deeply, but what it might be she can’t tell.

‘I was so stressed, you see. I knew all the reporters would be there. Not to mention the television crews. It’s hell every year, but I can’t not go. She was my sister. I loved her.’ Tears threaten to overspill her eyes; she forces them firmly back. She won’t cry in front of Mark, even if it means adding another scar to her collection later.

‘Is it worse when you get stressed?’

‘Definitely. If I get wound up, or something triggers it, like the vigil, I cut myself. It’s the only way I can deal with…stuff.’ She glances up at him, braver now the tears have retreated. She registers the same sorrow in his face as she noticed in his voice earlier. As her eyes meet his, he gives her a strained smile.

‘I tried not to do it this year. Promised myself I wouldn’t. But the night before…it all got too much for me. Shaun knows what I’m like, what makes me worse, but he couldn’t be with me that night. Away with work. If he’d been around, I wouldn’t have done it. He’d never let me cut myself in front of him.’

‘He takes care of you.’ Again, it’s not a question. He must have seen at the vigil how protective Shaun is of her.

Rachel nods. ‘He’s always been very supportive. Never gets angry, never lectures me about how I should get help. Just listens as I rabbit on about whatever’s bugging me.’

‘You’ve never thought about counselling, doctors, that kind of thing?’

‘No. I’ve always been too ashamed; too scared they’ll judge me. They wouldn’t understand, I don’t think. How can they? Unless you do this kind of thing yourself, it must seem so weird. But it’s the only way I can cope.’

Rachel gestures towards his arms, bare beneath his rolled-up sleeves. ‘You, though…you don’t cut, at least not there. It’s more of a female thing, anyway. So how can you…?’

He gives her his sad smile again. ‘I understand, Rachel, I really do.’

‘I don’t want you thinking I’m some kind of weirdo. I’m not. You see, it makes all the badness inside me go away. When I cut. What’s strange is, it doesn’t hurt, not when I’m doing it.’

He seems surprised. ‘It doesn’t?’

‘No. It’s like cutting’s its own anaesthetic, taking away the pain so it doesn’t give any back. Like I’m in some kind of a zombie state. What I call my silent scream.’

He nods. ‘When you want to stop the world and get off, but can’t.’

How does he
know
? ‘Yes. Exactly. Shaun wasn’t around the night before the vigil, as I told you. Usually I phone him if things get bad, and he’s so good, he really is, but sometimes I cut myself before I think of calling him. We no longer live together, now we’ve both left Moretonhampstead, and he can’t be expected to watch me all the time.’

‘What about your mother? When you were living with her, I mean?’ Rachel freezes.
Don’t ask about my mother
, she begs him in her head.

‘I’ve not lived at home for six years now. Since then, Shaun’s been my main support system. He’s always so patient, never complains.’ She prays her tactic of switching the conversation back to Shaun will deflect Mark from asking about her mother. She doesn’t think he’ll be fooled, but she hopes he’ll take the hint not to probe further. ‘I’ve read plenty of books about self-harm. Along with getting help from the Internet. Websites, online support groups. They’ve all been useful, especially the forums I’ve joined. I can hide behind a different identity on them.’

‘A different identity. Yes, I get how that would help.’ The strain in his voice seems magnified. ‘Rachel, can I ask - you don’t have to tell me, of course - what triggered all this? Was it - I know I’m stating the obvious here - was it your sister’s murder?’

Crunch time. Will she tell him? The answer is yes, she will. She’s come this far, he’s not judging her, and she feels safe with this man. If they end up together, he’ll have to know anyway. Why not right here, right now?

Not easy to do, though. She draws in a deep breath.

‘It’s hard to explain.’

‘Isn’t your sister’s murder the root cause, though? Plus your father turning into an alcoholic. Tough enough for anyone to deal with, let alone someone your age. You were, what, twelve when he left, you said?’

She nods.

Her evasion clearly puzzles him, his confusion evident in his face.

‘Does something else make you cut yourself? I don’t mean to pry, Rachel. Like I said, you don’t have to tell me if you can’t deal with it.’

Oh, God
. Presented with the perfect opportunity, Rachel chickens out. Time for more deflection tactics. Back to the events of fourteen years ago.

‘Abby dying the way she did came as a huge shock,’ she says. ‘Until you’ve been through something like that, it’s impossible to grasp what it’s like. One minute she was there and then she was gone. The part before she was found was awful for all of us. The not knowing was torture. Dad retreated into alcohol, as usual, and Mum - well, she was like a zombie. Then they found Abby, dead in that old farm shack. When they did, at least the not knowing part was at an end.’

The tears are threatening her again. In her head, she’s ten years old once more, bewildered and frightened. ‘The police were scary. They questioned me after Abby went missing.’

Mark nods. ‘Being stuck in front of police officers can be very intimidating to a child.’ His expression seems strained again.

‘Yes. I got the impression the policewoman who did most of the questioning blamed me for what happened.’

‘Blamed you? Why?’

‘For not paying attention to Abby. I was in the garden at the time she was abducted, you see. I wasn’t taking any notice of her, though. I dumped her on her play mat, gave her all her favourite toys and left her to it. Thought she’d be safe enough. Thing was, although she was my little sister and I loved her, I was still only ten years old. Most of the time, Abby was simply a nuisance.’