Guilty Innocence (18 page)

‘I don’t know,’ she admits. ‘Sometimes, yes, I think she’s right. I mean, how can one human being do that to another? So brutal, the way she was beaten and stabbed, and her so small, so pretty, too. Who could do such a thing? Except someone did, and not just anyone, but two other children. When I hear about stuff like all the looting that went on after Hurricane Katrina, it seems like we’re all only a thin layer away from reverting to primitive behaviour. At times like those, I reckon Mum’s got the two of them sussed. That they’re evil and they realised exactly what they were doing, but simply didn’t care whether it was right or wrong.’

Mark’s fingers resume their rhythmic drumming against his thigh. His face is still unnaturally pale. ‘You said you only agree with her sometimes?’

Rachel shrugs. ‘Other times, I think, yes, they were only eleven; they might have been young for their age, perhaps playing a game, something that went horribly wrong. How they didn’t mean to hurt her, or kill her, but somehow it ended up that way.’

‘Or one of them might have influenced the other one.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Forced him into taking part, I mean.’

‘I suppose that’s possible, although they admitted equal guilt, received the same sentence. Anyway, Mum’s been consumed by anger ever since. Totally preoccupied with Abby’s death. Her life’s on autopilot, really; she goes through the motions of living, but nothing gets through to her unless it’s connected with Abby. The bitterness she harbours about those boys being released, given new identities - it’s as if it’s chewing her up inside and she doesn’t have room for anything else. Certainly not me.’

‘I guess she’s not going to change her tune, not after all this time, not towards the boys responsible or you either.’

‘No. It’s as though the anger, the bitterness, are all she has to live for, so she can’t let go. I don’t imagine for one moment you do ever move on from having your child murdered, but she could at least make peace with it. She can’t, though.’

‘Being rejected by your own mother…’ Mark shakes his head. ‘Hits you right in the gut, doesn’t it? Hurts you like nothing else.’ The depth of emotion in his voice tells her what he hasn’t so far. Now she gets why such a bond has sprung up between them. He’s also been spurned by his mother. Hence his understanding of where she’s coming from with all this. She resolves to unearth the reason for his rejection, and soon.

Rachel’s spent, drained, exhausted, by the emotion needed to tell him all this. Perhaps now she’s talked so much about her dysfunctional family, he’ll be more open about his. Especially his mother.

‘Enough about me. Tell me more about you.’

Mark shifts uneasily. His fingers twist the hem of his sweatshirt. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Are your parents still alive?’

‘My father’s dead.’

‘That’s sad. Were you very young when it happened?’

Rachel senses his discomfort. ‘Pretty young, yeah. We were close, Dad and I. Came as a shock.’

‘An accident?’

‘Car crash.’

‘And your mother?’

‘Not in contact with her anymore.’

His words come as no surprise. Rachel chooses her words carefully. ‘I don’t mean to pry, Mark. If you want to tell me, then I’ll listen. If you don’t, that’s fine. It’s just that, well, I’ve been rabbiting on for ages about my weird family set-up. Figured we should move on to yours.’ She attempts a laugh, but it comes out sounding forced. ‘You can say it’s none of my business if you like.’

Unease is pouring off him in waves. He doesn’t reply, glancing at his watch instead. ‘I really ought to be heading back to Bristol.’

‘OK.’ She’s disappointed, but reluctant to press him if he’s uncomfortable. Really, it’s understandable, him not wanting to talk. Give him time, she reasons. With no family to speak of, he’s probably as lonely as she is. They have so much in common, and all the time in the world to discover it together.

‘Shall we meet up again sometime?’ The words are out before she can stop them. ‘I mean, we didn’t exactly talk much about the fun run, did we? If you’re free one weekend…’ She’s not used to taking the initiative with men, so she stops before she says too much, scares him off.

‘OK.’ Reluctance in his voice. She’s disappointed.

He grabs his jacket and turns towards the door. ‘Good talking with you, Rachel.’ He moves as if to hug her and it’s then she stretches up on her toes and kisses him.

Pure impulse. She hasn’t planned any such thing. Her mouth meets his but he doesn’t respond. She pulls away, about to stammer an apology, when everything changes. His arms tighten around her and he’s kissing her back, hungrily. As though he’s sucking something he desperately needs from her. Their kiss is one between kindred spirits, Rachel decides. Mark’s every bit as damaged as she is; he’s hunting some small shred of comfort through her mouth. Isn’t that what she’s seeking too? They kiss, long and hard, before he abruptly breaks away.

‘I must go, Rachel. I’ll be in touch about the run.’

‘Promise?’ God, she doesn’t mean to sound so needy.

‘Yes.’ His fingers twist the door latch. ‘I mean it. I’ll text you.’

‘OK.’ A text. Not a phone call. She’s disappointed again.

He pulls open the door. Then he’s gone, leaving her confused as to why he’s mixing hot and cold, fire and ice, chalk and cheese. It hurts.

At least his empathy, the touch of his hand on her sleeve, the kiss - they all fuel the hope within her. She won’t dwell on him pulling away from their kiss. Because if she does, she’ll end up with her right arm as bandaged as her left.

15

JUST DO IT

The usual road works are clogging the M5. Mile after mile of cones, slowing traffic to a crawl. Heavy rain lashes the windscreen as Mark drives back to Bristol. Anxiety presses hard against his chest. Hardly surprising after the afternoon’s emotional intensity, but for once he manages to shove his angst aside. He doesn’t want to count, not now, when he has so much weird shit to process in his head.

First up, he’s battling mixed emotions about the meeting with Rachel. On the plus side? Sure, he’s now got a much clearer idea of the damage he’s caused the Morgan family. Thing is, though, he doesn’t care to examine the image too closely. If he does, the reality of the harm he’s inflicted will deliver a truckload of pain to his doorstep, far more than he can bear right now. It’s one thing to watch the Morgan family on television, at a safe distance; another altogether to have Rachel’s slashed arms shock the shit out of him. Along with finding out about Michelle’s cruel withdrawal from her remaining daughter. Not to mention having Matthew Morgan’s descent into alcoholic oblivion thrust down his throat.

Mark reflects on the parallels between Rachel’s mother and his own, and they’re not good. Things aren’t as black and white as Michelle Morgan makes out; moreover, her treatment of her remaining daughter stinks.

He recalls Rachel reaching into the cupboard, replaying the exact moment her falling sleeves reveal her shame. One arm bandaged, with old scars from previous cuttings scoring the flesh either side of the dressing. The other one bare to his gaze. Exposed. Vulnerable. Sporting livid slashes where she’s used a kitchen knife on them. He pictures her legs, equally sliced and scarred, destined to be hidden forever under trousers. No short-sleeved dresses are on the agenda for Rachel Morgan, not ever.

Seems she sports more than a few mental scars as well. Her guilt about her sister. Her rejection by her mother. Her father’s alcoholism. She’s twenty-four and already she’s been pretty thoroughly fucked by life, or more accurately, by Adam Campbell and Joshua Barker.

Mark attempts to breathe out the tightness in his chest.
One, two.
It helps a little. He’s treated Rachel badly, of course. Something he regrets. His connection with her is selfish, wrong, warped, but Mark can’t let go, not yet. Above all, he decides, he mustn’t do or say anything to fuel her hopes. She’s so needy; her air of vulnerability has already led to the two of them maintaining their fragile contact beyond what’s wise. A mistake, but she’s so blatantly hopeful it’s hard to refuse her.

One more meeting, he promises himself. Shaun Morgan is the reason. The last unanswered question Mark has. He’ll drive down for lunch with Rachel again. Once there, he’ll steer the conversation round to her brother, see if he can get a handle on what makes this man able to cope so well with the crap life’s thrown at him. What lies beneath the stoic veneer? Has this man, so calm on the surface, been damaged inside by Michelle Morgan’s obsession with her daughter’s killers? By having to parent Rachel whilst still a kid himself? In having an alcoholic for a father?

Shit like this must have left its mark somehow, even if Shaun doesn’t self-harm with knives or alcohol like his sister and father. What his particular mental sticking plaster is, Mark can only speculate. Perhaps some people are simply more resistant to life’s javelin throws than others are, with him and Rachel down the weaker end of the resilience scale. The man who has supported Rachel through the trauma of her self-harming is to be admired, he thinks. No apparent judgement of either his sister or their mother. Mark, used to being judged his whole life, finds Shaun Morgan an enigma. Chances are he can learn lessons from this man, if Rachel can be persuaded to reveal what drives her brother.

Once Mark’s questions about Shaun have been answered, there’ll be no glue binding him to Rachel Morgan. He’ll delete his Facebook account and ignore any text messages from her. Their pseudo-relationship will then be over.

His mind veers towards their kiss. Madness, sheer madness, although they both have very different reasons for locking lips. Rachel clearly views him as potential boyfriend material. In this respect, going to Exeter today hasn’t proved a good idea, not if it’s encouraged her attraction to him. She’s not his type physically, despite her undoubted prettiness. No, sex doesn’t explain him returning her kiss. Hell, when it happens, his first reaction is to pull away. She’s Abby Morgan’s sister, for fuck’s sake. What eventually leads him to reciprocate is something very different from lust. For Mark, their kiss is a plea for forgiveness, an attempt at atonement. It doesn’t stem from desire. Never that.

The M32 into Bristol. He’s almost home now. His flat, where he can pour himself a beer and try to unscramble the mess in his head. The rain is still driving down, the steady flick-flack of the windscreen wipers oddly soothing, keeping the tightness in his chest under control until he can reach the sanctuary of his flat. He guides the car over to his exit. He’ll be home within five minutes.

Beer. Mark remembers his fridge is devoid of alcoholic comfort. A bottle or two of Black Sheep ale is necessary before he contacts Rachel again. He parks up near his flat, braving the rain to cross the road to the corner shop. The sullen girl behind the counter is clearly irritated by the arrival of a customer to interrupt her reading. Her gaze bounces swiftly back from Mark to her magazine. He deliberately lingers over his choice of beer to annoy her. No Black Sheep on offer; he’ll have to make do with Tetleys or London Pride.

Behind him, he hears the sounds of another customer coming in. He turns to check how Ms Sullen reacts to this additional fly in her ointment, and freezes.

Abby Morgan is in the shop with him.

A golden-haired girl, about two years of age, clutching a man’s hand. Her father, presumably. She’s pouting, clearly on the verge of tears, with the man’s patience seemingly poised to plunge off its tightrope. He’s brusque, impatient, obviously keen to get whatever he’s come for and go. Mark takes in the pink of her jacket - thankfully, she’s wearing jeans, so no reminder of Abby Morgan there - and his chest constricts, hard.

It’s all too much, on this crazy Saturday when he’s already had a surfeit of emotion piled on him. Now he has to deal with this small blonde child a mere couple of feet away, rubbing tiredness from her eyes. Don’t cry, please don’t cry, he begs her in his head. She does, though, fat tears oozing from beneath her fingers, a thin wail shredding the air. Her father yanks on her arm, his exasperation ready to burst. The wail swells into a shriek.

Mark’s catapulted far beyond his emotional limit. He wrenches at the fridge door, thrusting the four-pack of London Pride back on the shelf. Ms Sullen glances up, mildly alarmed, as Mark pushes out of the shop, past his blonde nemesis. His heart thudding, he leans against the window, forcing oxygen into his lungs. Shit. He needs the sanctuary of his flat. Now. Otherwise, the child might leave the shop at any minute and he’ll have to endure her tears again. Impossible to move, though, not with the pounding in his chest. He begins to count.
One, two, buckle my shoe
, onwards towards the safety of the higher numbers, his mind skating over the pictures brought to him by
five, six, pick up sticks
. Mark squeezes his eyes shut, willing the mantra to take effect.

Too late. The door jangles open as the man drags the child out of the shop. She’s in full crying mode now, broadcasting her anguish to the world, her father shushing her impatiently. Too much by far for Mark. He turns away and vomits up steak, chips and cheesecake, not caring if anyone sees him, the stream of half-digested food purging his crappy day from him. Even when his stomach signals it’s empty, he carries on heaving, desperate to spew out every last remnant of guilt.

Ashamed, he moves away from the stinking mess at his feet to sit on a nearby wall. The nausea slowly passes. Mark watches the rain pound into the pool of vomit. A sour taste of puke lingers in his mouth. His thin jacket’s already soaked through, his hair plastered against his skull, raindrops rafting down his cheeks. Mark doesn’t care. Once the spasms in his stomach cease, he makes his way back to his flat.

Inside, he’s safe again. Screw the beer; he’ll have to get by without an alcoholic crutch tonight. Into the washing machine with his soaked clothes; Mark grabs a towel from the bathroom and rubs hard at his head. Back in the kitchenette, fully dressed again, he pulls open the fridge, pouring himself a glass of filtered water. The coldness draining down his throat relaxes his tight shoulders, sweeping away the angst of before.