Guilty Innocence (17 page)

‘The police were hard on you? They frightened you?’

‘Yes. Being grilled by them was sheer hell. She was still only missing at that stage. I remember praying so hard she’d be found. The questions from the police dragged on and on, but I had nothing useful to tell them.’ Her voice sinks to a whisper. ‘I wish to God I had. But I didn’t see or hear anything. Not a thing.’

‘Your mother sat in on the questioning, though, didn’t she?’

‘Yes. Not that she helped at all. As I said, she was in some weird zombie state, at least whilst Abby was only missing. When her body was found, she went totally the other way.’

‘Like she is now? The anger took over?’

‘You got it. Dad, well, he retreated into the drinking; he either spent most of his time down the pub or crashed out on the sofa. He stank, Mark. Didn’t wash, had a constant reek of booze about him. On the rare occasions he was sober, Mum would pick fights with him. The rows seemed never ending. I was grateful, in a way, when she eventually kicked him out. All the while, I felt so alone, even though I had Shaun. I’d lost my sister and for all practical purposes I was losing my parents too.’

‘What about your brother? How did he cope with it all?’

Rachel smiles. ‘Brilliantly. In many ways, he’s the strongest one in the family by far. Mum couldn’t even do the basics of looking after us, so he took over. Between the two of us we cooked the meals, did the laundry, all that sort of stuff. It was like he dealt with grieving for Abby by throwing himself into practicalities. He loved his baby sister like crazy, was gutted by her death, but he’s not the weeping and wailing type.’

‘He seemed to have his act pretty much together at the vigil. Came across as very supportive of you and your mother.’

‘Yes. He was even good in other ways as well. Dad wasn’t going to work, of course, not once he started hitting the bottle so hard, so he ended up being fired. Things weren’t getting done, like bills being paid or routine maintenance around the house. All that was the least of Mum’s concerns. She got her act together once Abby’s murderers were put away, but in the meantime Shaun helped sort out the finances, dealt with minor repairs and so on.’

‘As well as supporting you. Rachel, can I ask you something?’

She nods.

Mark clears his throat.

‘The cutting,’ he says. ‘OK, so your sister’s death and your father leaving played a part, but I’m still curious about what else did. Thing is, you seemed evasive earlier on. Like I said, I don’t want to push you. Not if it’s something you don’t want to discuss.’

‘It’s OK.’ She fiddles with her sleeves again, hooking her fingers inside the fabric to draw them down and keep them in place, playing for time, unsure how best to tell him.

No more chickening out. Deep breath in. ‘I do it because I hate myself for what happened to Abby.’

He seems taken aback. ‘But why? You weren’t to blame.’

‘Yes, I was.’

‘Why do you say that? Because the policewoman who questioned you seemed to be judging you?’

‘Yes. Well, partly, I suppose.’ She’s unable to look him in the eye. The conversation is growing more difficult by the minute. Her guilt and self-hatred are battering her with full force, as they do on a frequent basis. He doesn’t press her to continue, for which she’s grateful, although they can’t leave things hanging on the word
partly
.

‘I cut myself because I’m responsible for what happened to Abby,’ she continues. ‘When I see the blood flow out, it’s not blood anymore, but the guilt I carry inside about her murder. Like I said, I don’t feel any pain, only a welcome relief. To me it’s a good thing, an incredible release. I cut when I get stressed, say if my business isn’t going well, but as I start to do it, it’s not about work or anything like that anymore. Whatever may have triggered it, it always ends up being about Abby. And the overwhelming guilt I’ve always carried because of her death.’

Mark edges closer, grasping her wrists, taking her hands in his. She’s terrified he’s going to push her sleeves up to reveal the slashed mess underneath, but quickly realises he won’t abuse her trust that way. Not after her earlier refusal to show him her arms.

His voice is gentle when he speaks. ‘Listen. You were ten years old at the time. Still a child. No way were you to blame. Shaun must have said all this to you, surely, and you’ve got confidence in him, so why not believe him? Why carry guilt, when you don’t need to?’

‘I’m not the only one who thinks I’m guilty, that I’m to blame.’ She pulls her hands away. Mark’s empathy is wonderful but she’s unworthy of it; his touch is an absolution she doesn’t deserve.

‘The policewoman?’

She’s silent, unable to reply.

‘No,’ Mark says. ‘Not the policewoman.’

She shakes her head.

‘Tell me who else blames you.’

Rachel raises her eyes to his, but still can’t speak.

‘Say it,’ Mark urges.

‘My mother,’ Rachel replies. ‘Mum blames me for Abby’s death. She hates me for what happened. She always will.’

14

KINDRED SPIRITS

There. She’s said it. She’s silent, drained by the effort of getting the words out. They hurt. It’s beyond painful for Rachel, having her mother condemn her, however justifiable her censure. Knowing how, since that day, Michelle Morgan has retreated, taken back the love she used to bear towards her daughter. Thing is, she’s withdrawn from pretty much everything except her campaign against her daughter’s killers.

Mark’s voice interrupts her thoughts. ‘What do you mean?’ She glances up at him. ‘I guessed it must be your mother you meant, but honestly, Rachel, I can’t understand why she would blame you. Although she obviously does. I mean, I noticed at the vigil how she was with you. More to the point, how you were with each other.’

‘She blames me because I let it happen. I wasn’t doing what I was supposed to.’

‘Minding Abby, you mean?’

‘Yes. Mum had to go out. Shaun was busy upstairs, doing homework, so she said I shouldn’t disturb him, how he needed to be left in peace. She asked me to keep an eye on Abby. We were in the garden. I remember it was a sunny day, unusual for March, and Abby had been playing up. Tantrums, being difficult, more so than usual. Mum decided some time outside in the fresh air might do her good.’

‘You didn’t mind being asked to watch over her?’

‘No. Well, a little. See, I was only ten myself, so Abby often seemed a bit of a nuisance, what with the tears and wanting everything her own way, although I loved her, I really did. She’d been a pain that morning, constantly demanding attention. I needed a break from her, so I left her on the grass, playing with her toys.’

‘You must have thought she’d be safe enough.’ Mark’s voice seems strangled, as though the words are trying to squeeze through too tight a space. She doesn’t blame him if he finds this hard to deal with. They barely know each other, after all.

‘Well, yes. Moretonhampstead’s a small enough place, after all. Nothing ever really goes on there, and besides, you always think that sort of thing happens to other families. Not yours. She seemed happier by then and I didn’t think she’d be in any danger. Except she was, and I should have prevented her getting hurt. What she must have suffered…’ The tears come now, sliding down her cheeks, at the image of her sister being stabbed to death to provide two boys with some kind of sick entertainment. She needs time out, she realises. Paper towels; she’ll grab a handful to blow the snot from her nose. When she comes back from the kitchen, Mark’s face is pale. He doesn’t look well.

‘Are you OK?’ she asks.

He nods. ‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that?’

She wipes her nose again. ‘I’m fine. Good job you’re here, though. I’d probably be cutting myself otherwise.’

‘So let me get this right. Your mother blames you because your sister got taken whilst you were supposed to be minding her?’

‘You got it. Abby was down the end of our garden, wrapped up in whatever she was playing with. Her dolls’ house, probably, or that damn Fisher-Price CD player she loved so much. We all got sick to death of hearing
One, Two, Buckle My Shoe
all the time. Anyway, I was sitting on the doorstep, on the same side, but much further up the garden. Listening to music. Christina Aguilera. Never been able to stand her since. I had my headphones on, reading. Harry Potter. I got totally absorbed. Lost myself in a fantasy world, never realising what was going on. When I did look up, Abby had gone.’

‘You were just a child, though. Your mother placed a lot of responsibility on your shoulders.’

‘And I didn’t live up to it. I failed her. I get why she blames me, I really do. When I did put down my book, and couldn’t see Abby, it was as though it were all unreal. As I said, murders and child abductions aren’t commonplace in Moretonhampstead. I thought at first that she’d managed to unlatch the gate and wander down the lane. How she couldn’t be far away. But she wasn’t anywhere to be seen, and I shouted her name, over and over, checked everywhere I could think of, and that’s when I ran back and got Shaun.’

‘And he phoned the police?’

‘Not at first. We called Mum’s mobile, but it went straight to voicemail. Dad was out boozing somewhere, as usual. In the end, Shaun ran to find our next-door neighbour, Mrs Frinton, and she called the police once we told her Abby had disappeared. Said you couldn’t take chances with a missing child. She said not to worry, though; Abby was probably safe somewhere I’d not yet looked. Except I’d searched everywhere, and I realised then something terrible must have happened to her.’

Mark shakes his head. ‘I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you.’

‘It was beyond awful. Right from the start, before Mum said anything, the guilt I felt was overwhelming. All I had to do was keep an eye on her. Make sure she was safe, in our own garden of all places, and I didn’t even manage to do that. Too wrapped up in Christina bloody Aguilera and Harry Potter.’

‘Your mother actually said she blamed you, then?’

‘Made it crystal clear.’ In her head, the memory floods back to Rachel. She sees her mother, standing before her, face distorted with grief; hears the accusations cascade from her mouth, drenching Rachel in a torrent of guilt. Which, after it’s had time to fester within her for a few years, twists itself into the urge to slash her arms and legs with whatever sharp instrument she can find. Rachel yearns to go back in time, to when she’s asked to watch over Abby, when she has a mother who behaves like one, because after that day Michelle Morgan is never the same towards her. A gulf has split the two of them asunder, forcing them onto different tectonic plates, inching ever farther apart.

‘She screamed at me, her face all contorted, demanding why I hadn’t taken better care of my sister.’

‘No-one can blame you. She shouldn’t have placed such a responsibility on a child.’

‘It was such a simple thing she asked of me, though. But I messed it up.’

Mark’s fingers drum a nervous beat against his thigh. ‘Did she say where she’d gone off to?’

‘Yes. She was a couple of streets away, with a neighbour. A woman with early-onset Alzheimer’s. Mum used to do the housework, bring in groceries, deal with whatever needed doing.’

‘She did that often?’ Mark’s voice seems oddly constricted. She glances at him, catching a fleeting expression of – what, exactly? – before his face resumes its normal mien.

‘Yes. Started going regularly a few weeks before Abby’s death. She’d give up hours of her evenings, weekends too, helping this woman. Although all that stopped when Abby died. See, Mum’s such a good person, she really is, despite all the anger.’

‘You love your mother. Even though she blames you for what happened.’

Rachel’s nod is sad, resigned. ‘Yes. It makes it worse, her doing something so kind when Abby was dying, whilst I was being so selfish and stupid. Reading and listening to music instead of minding my sister.’

‘Rachel, you were only ten years old.’

‘That’s never cut any ice with Mum. The way she sees it, I was old enough to load the washing machine, help round the house, do whatever she asked, so in her eyes I was certainly responsible enough to keep tabs on my sister. She’s right.’

‘No.’

‘Yes. Remember, Mark, what she said at the vigil. How she’s never accepted how the two boys who killed Abby were too young to understand what they were doing. She’s always said both of them must be evil, through and through, in order to kill Abby, so they must have been aware of what they were doing. Her killers were eleven years old, and Mum’s never cut them any slack. She’s hardly likely to do it for me, when I was only a year younger.’

She notices how Mark’s face has blanched again. He really doesn’t appear well.

‘The two boys,’ he says, hesitancy shot through his voice. He seems nervous, Rachel thinks. Not surprising really. They’re discussing terrible things here.

‘Do you…?’ He swallows. ‘Do you agree with your mother? That they’re evil, I mean?’

Rachel weighs up her answer. She’s thought repeatedly throughout the years about this question. One about which she’s never come to a definite conclusion, because the issue involved is too complex.

She knows little about the two boys concerned. Their boyhood faces are familiar to her from the photos made public at the time. Sometimes she wonders how they might look today, now they’re grown men. Not just their physical appearance will have changed. They’ll have altered mentally as well. Have they confronted the magnitude of their crime? Do they carry guilt for Abby Morgan’s death around with them every day, the way she does?

Questions to which she’ll never get the answers. Both boys are men now, hidden from public view, shielded by new identities. Their backgrounds are a mystery to Rachel too. She remembers how much was made of how ordinary their family lives were; no obvious signs of abuse or neglect, although as she knows with her own mother, these things are often masked. Hidden away, only revealing their ugly faces in private. What was the driving force behind these two boys? Joshua Barker, she recalls, had lost his father when young, aged nine or thereabouts. The other boy, Adam Campbell – wasn’t there some talk about him being prone to aggression, being difficult to handle? Did nature trump nurture where Abby’s killers were concerned, or was it vice versa?