Guilty Innocence (24 page)

‘Jeez, Rachel.’ He sounds tired, which he probably is, she thinks. Exhausted by having to clean up her emotional messes all the time, fed up of continually being strong. Shaun is the one his dysfunctional family turns to for help, but who cares for him
when he needs someone? They all expect him to support them, without giving anything back. Shame and remorse prick her and if Shaun weren’t here beside her, she’d pull off the duvet and cut herself again.

His arm tightens around her. ‘Is it as bad as it looks?’

She nods. He starts to haul her to her feet. ‘Come on. We’re going to the hospital, get you stitched up. No buts,’ as Rachel shakes her head, panic rising within her. ‘You need to see a doctor, get proper help. This can’t go on, Rachel.’

She tries, although she knows it’s probably useless. ‘No doctor. No hospital. Never needed one before, Shaun. Always managed with being bandaged up. I don’t want -’ She swallows hard. ‘I can’t bear anyone finding about this. They’ll think I’m crazy. They’ll say I need psychiatric help.’

‘You do.’

‘But, Shaun -’

He reaches over to grab the pillow behind her, before rummaging in the first aid box for the scissors and tape. ‘I’m going to put this around your arm. We can’t go to the hospital with you trailing a duvet behind you.’ He cuts off lengths of tape, laying them ready on the bedside cabinet. His touch gentle, he eases her fingers from the duvet and peels it away from her wounds. She averts her gaze, not wanting to see the damage she’s inflicted. A shocked sound hits her as Shaun draws his breath in sharply before slamming the pillow down on her arm.

‘Jeez, Rachel.’ He huffs air from his lungs in weary resignation. ‘Do you have any idea of how badly you’ve cut yourself this time? Your arm’s one hell of a fucking mess.’ Practised hands wrap tight hoops of tape around the pillow, securing it in place. He pulls her to her feet. ‘Keep your hand on that. Press as tightly as possible. We need to get you to a hospital. Now. Don’t give me any grief on this one, Rachel.’

She’s past the point of protest. It amazes her she can put one foot in front of the other when she’s so numb, so frozen, inside her head. Her fingers tightly clutch the bloodied pillow strapped around her left arm, like she’s been told. Once outside her flat, Shaun leads her to his car, unlocks the passenger door, propels her into the seat, pulls the safety belt across her and fastens it.

The Royal Devon and Exeter Hospital’s not far and it’s Sunday afternoon; not much traffic on the roads. Shaun doesn’t talk, for which she’s grateful. He’ll be grilling her later as to what’s caused this worst-of-all cutting episode; whether she can bring herself to tell him, she’s not sure. Spilling the whole sordid story will be torture enough, without dealing with his inevitable insistence on informing the police immediately. Rachel’s not sure if she’s mentally able to handle what that will entail. In her mind, she reverts to her ten-year-old self, sobbing and scared before the police officers who question her, and the memory is painful enough to make her leery about revealing Mark Slater’s duplicity.

‘We’re here.’ Shaun parks the car, getting out to open her door, so she can keep her right hand clamped on the pillow. ‘This way.’

Rachel allows herself to be guided into Accident & Emergency, her gaze on the floor. Eye contact with anyone is more than she can cope with. She’s afraid anyone looking into her pupils will see straight through them to the ugly mess in her head; it’s not something she wants anyone to glimpse, especially not a psychiatrist.

Thankfully, Shaun deals with everything, allowing Rachel to speak only when necessary. They wait in A & E for someone to stitch her up; Rachel’s unsure how much time passes. Time is meaningless right now. Shaun’s still silent, his arm around her; he’ll have plenty to say later, though. She’s aware his priority is to get her physical needs sorted, and then he’ll be demanding answers from her. She doesn’t have a great deal of time left to decide what to tell him.

Shaun’s on his feet now, pulling Rachel to hers. She’s dimly aware of someone, a doctor, standing in front of her, telling her to come with her. She’s propelled into a cubicle, exposed and vulnerable without the protective presence of Shaun.

The woman motions her towards a waiting gurney. She removes the tape around Rachel’s arm, taking the pillow with it. Rachel hears the same rapid inhalation of breath as she did with Shaun.

‘How long have you been doing this to yourself?’ Disapproval is evident in the woman’s tone. Rachel’s stomach clenches.

‘Since…’ She swallows. ‘Several years now.’

Thankfully, the doctor doesn’t respond, for which Rachel is grateful. Her worst fear about revealing her self-harm to anyone is their condemnation, their lack of understanding. She can’t blame them. How to explain how good it feels to slice through your own flesh? The relief it brings? Impossible to defend her actions to anyone whose own arms don’t also bear witness to their inner demons. Shaun’s been the only one she’s ever trusted with her shame.

No, not true. The memory of telling Mark Slater about the cutting squeezes past her defences, mocking her. A tear slides down her cheek.

The doctor leans over Rachel, instantly drawing back. ‘Have you been drinking?’ Her disapproval has morphed into condemnation.

Of course. The wine with lunch, as well as the huge glassful she gulped down afterwards. Her breath must stink of alcohol. Rachel is mortified, so much so she’s unable to think straight, and not just because of the booze. The doctor is scrutinising her, awaiting her answer. A picture of the bottle of Chianti comes into her mind. Is it half or three-quarters empty? She can’t be sure of anything anymore.

Rachel finds the words from somewhere. ‘Yes. A few glasses with lunch.’ Does the woman believe her? By now, she’s past caring. All that matters is getting out of here, and fast.

The doctor doesn’t reply. She opens a cabinet, taking out gauze, sterilising swabs, a dark-glassed bottle of liquid. Her movements are crisp, brisk, efficient, her attention focused on the task in hand. The doctor’s silence bothers Rachel, although the deftness of her hands as she cleans, stitches and bandages the damaged arm is reassuring. The worry remains, though. Is the woman judging her? Is she impatient with Rachel, thinking about all the people waiting in A & E who have suffered injuries through no fault of their own? Is Rachel viewed as a time waster because her wounds are self-inflicted?

The answer comes once the doctor has finished. The woman types some notes into a computer, before turning back to Rachel. Her face is unsmiling, her expression sour. When she speaks, it’s in full-on headmistress tones.

‘You need to get some help.’

Rachel flinches before the doctor’s unyielding stare.

‘There are leaflets I can give you, helpline numbers. Your own G.P. - ’

‘No.’ Rachel’s aware of the scared
please don’t do this
tone in her voice. She’s unable to say any more. Whatever words she has, they will wither before this hard-faced medic, whose tightly pursed mouth proclaims her opinion of weaklings like Rachel Morgan.

‘Nobody can help you if you’re unwilling to co-operate.’ The doctor doesn’t attempt to conceal her impatience; it’s evident in every syllable. ‘At least - ’

Rachel shakes her head. She’s desperate for Shaun, for the comfort only he is able to deliver. She needs to escape from this place, where all her worst fears about being judged have been proved correct. She slides off the gurney and walks quickly from the cubicle, heading back towards where Shaun is waiting in A & E. The doctor doesn’t follow or try to remonstrate further with her. She obviously believes she has worthier patients waiting.

Shaun gets to his feet as Rachel approaches, his eyes on her left arm, now neatly stitched and bandaged under the bloodied sleeve.

‘Let’s get out of here. Now,’ Rachel tells him.

Shaun’s silent again as he drives back to her flat. Rachel reclines her seat as far as it will go, a sudden lassitude rendering her incapable of speech. Her left arm throbs and stings, as well as itching under the bandage. She cradles it with her right one, half of her vowing this will be the last time she cuts, the other part being realistic, reminding her that without something to break the pattern she’ll do it again. Her eyes drift shut as she leans back, her exhaustion overwhelming her. She’s almost asleep when Shaun switches off the car engine in front of her block of flats.

Once inside, he busies himself in the kitchen, making coffee for them both.

‘Go and lie on the sofa,’ he says. ‘Put your feet up on the arm rest. Make sure they’re above your head.’

Ever the practical one, her brother. Rachel’s dreading what’s to come. What to tell him? Then she remembers how good he’s always been to her, how he’s dropped everything to rush her to the hospital this afternoon. He deserves the truth, however difficult it is; anything less is tantamount to taking the piss.

He strides into the lounge, handing her a mug of Kenco and a biscuit, before sitting down in the armchair opposite her.

‘So.’ He sips his coffee. ‘What triggered it this time?’

Rachel looks away, unable to bear the directness of his gaze.

‘I thought you were getting better. Moving past…’ He gestures towards her left arm. ‘All this. What happened, Rach? Did Mum have a go at you again?’

She shakes her head. ‘No. Nothing like that.’ Her voice is a mere whisper.

‘What then? OK, so you cut yourself the night before the vigil, and I get that, but before then, you’d managed to go quite a while without hurting yourself. You’d started to call me every time you got the urge.’ His voice is puzzled. ‘Why not today? What was so bad you needed to slash yourself to pieces?’

‘It’s hard to explain.’ Tears start to come, but she blinks them back.

‘Try, Rachel. Because I’m scared for you, I really am. Your arm was a frigging mess. Cut to ribbons. Deep cuts, too. This can’t go on.’

‘No. I’m sorry, Shaun. About putting you through all this today.’

‘If you won’t talk to me, then I think you should get professional help. Go to your doctor, ask to be referred to a counsellor or whatever.’

‘No doctors.’ Rachel recalls the hard face of the woman who sewed her up earlier on. No counsellors, no psychiatrists. She doesn’t want people like that poking around in her head. Shaun’s grimacing with frustration; she tries to explain. ‘The doctor who stitched me up today, Shaun. She made me feel like some sort of lowlife, as if I were wasting her time. I can’t go to a doctor, I just can’t. My G.P.’s nice enough, but he’ll send me to a psychiatrist, I know he will. I’m scared I’ll end up in some awful mental hospital somewhere.’

Shaun’s impatience is evident in his face, although when he speaks he’s obviously trying to keep a tight leash on his emotions. ‘Won’t happen, Rachel. They’ll talk to you, help straighten your head out, nothing more sinister than that. You can’t go on like this.’ He sets his mug down, leaning towards her. ‘What happened today, Rach?’

She swallows down the dryness in her throat. ‘Promise me you won’t shout. This is hard enough as it is.’

‘I promise. Tell me, and we’ll get it sorted.’

Her rock, as usual. She drops her gaze. This will be easier if she doesn’t have to look at him.

‘I met a man. After the vigil, in Moretonhampstead.’

From her peripheral vision, she sees Shaun nod encouragement at her. Rachel’s conscious he must be getting the wrong idea, how some broken fledgling romance has hurt her. True up to a point, she supposes.

As quickly as she can manage, she spills out the rest. How, at first, the man seems genuine, nice, easy to talk to. How they share an interest in running. The messages they swap on Facebook. Their lunch at The Thatched House the previous weekend. Rachel makes no mention of the kiss. Her shame will stay a secret, however much she owes her brother the truth.

She’s coming up hard against the difficult bit, where she has to reveal Mark Slater’s former identity to Shaun. When she does, nothing will ever be the same again. Oh, to be able to cling on to the present moment, when although her life is crap, she’s the only one able to smell the shit smeared all over it.

She pauses to gather mental strength.

Shaun seizes the opportunity to speak. ‘So, you met some guy. Has he messed you around, Rachel? Been seeing other women, that kind of thing?’

‘No.’ She breathes in deep. ‘I didn’t realise who he was, Shaun, I swear I didn’t. I thought he was just an ordinary guy. And, of course, I didn’t recognise the name. Mark Slater. That’s who he said he was.’

Shaun doesn’t understand; not surprising, she supposes. ‘I don’t get it, Rachel. Who is this guy? What’s he done to upset you so badly?’

The tears are flowing now, despite her best efforts. ‘I believed him, Shaun. I swallowed every lie he threw my way.’

‘What lies, Rachel?’

‘About who he was.’

Shaun’s impatient again. ‘I still don’t understand. You said he told you his name’s Mark Slater. Was he lying about that, then? Who is this guy?’

‘He’s so different now he’s a man, nothing like his picture. How was I to know?’

‘What the hell are you going on about, Rachel?’

Rachel chews her bottom lip. The information Shaun’s seeking bubbles up onto her tongue. Ready. Waiting.

‘For Christ’s sake. I’ll ask you again. Who is this guy?’

‘Joshua Barker.’ The name slips out of her, bringing sweet relief.

‘What did you say? I didn’t catch that. Speak up, Rachel.’

Now she’s done it once, the second time isn’t so hard. She’s even able to meet Shaun’s eyes. ‘Joshua Barker,’ she says, and this time her voice is clear and strong.

A stunned silence. Rachel watches as various emotions battle for dominance in Shaun.

‘Joshua Barker? The one who killed Abby?’

‘Yes. I didn’t know who he was, Shaun, I swear. If I had…’

‘You’re telling me Joshua Barker went to Abby’s vigil?’

‘That’s right. You see …’

‘He spoke to you, despite being fully aware you’re Abby’s sister?’

‘Yes. I didn’t realise…’

‘Of course you didn’t.’ Shaun’s breathing is slow, measured, as if he’s struggling to gain control over himself. Then he curls his right hand into a fist, draws it back, slams it hard into his left palm. Rinse and repeat.
Whup
,
whup, whup,
a steady pounding out of anger, one hand against the other.