Hope's Vengeance (22 page)

Two rooms away, three constables waited patiently, able to hear the transcript as it unfolded, and view it on the small monitor, her actions, expressions, pain. Over the next half an hour she detailed the ugly scene she had relived in hypnotherapy, using the same adjectives, and the same emphasis at the same points, as had been used on the written statement. Jackie marvelled at how well rehearsed Hope’s script seemed to be, and her gut feeling was that the unemotional woman before her was either lying, or had a fanciful imagination. By the time Hope had related the tale, almost verbatim, Jackie considered her to have no credibility.

Although she didn’t share Claudia Horseferry’s conviction that the attack was genuine, Jackie still needed to probe as deeply as possible, to avoid being labelled as slack, and she scanned the list of questions the Bedford Police had requested she ask.

“Hope, I just have a couple of things to ask. Firstly, can you think of any people who may have been witness to Griffin Hall attending the house you lived in as a child? Maybe a neighbour, or a playmate, your social worker, maybe?”

Hope’s eyes twinkled, she smiled smugly, oblivious that her interviewer had dismissed the abuse as a fantasy. “Yes. My Mum. My sisters, Charity and Faith. They’ll all tell you how much time he spent at ours.”

Dutifully, Jackie took their full names, along with their contact details, and noted them neatly in her pad. She continued with the questions, and each answer was delivered without hesitation, and without emotion. Jackie checked her watch, her stomach was growling, and she was eager to get some lunch. “Okay, Hope, I have one final question. Can you remember anything about Griffin Hall’s body, a birthmark, tattoo, scar, anything that might back up your, um, accusation?”

Her eyes were wide, she sat, tiny, frightened and alone, waiting for the steamrollered dismissal she’d warned Dawn would happen. She couldn’t remember anything that would prove she’d seen him intimately. He had hairy toes, she remembered his feet with clarity, wrapped in tan leather sandals, no socks, the hair winding, frizzy, upwards, man hair, man foot hair. Hope could physically taste his penis, but she couldn’t describe how it looked, apart from it being colossal, which, of course, may just have seemed so because she was so small herself when the event took place.

Convinced that the whole interview had been a vengeful waste of time, Jackie muttered her insincere thanks and goodbyes before grabbing her bag to go and get a sandwich. Stunned at the speed of the officer’s exit, Hope slowly dressed herself against the cold weather, coat, hat, scarf, finally dragging the thermal gloves over her fingers.

She stepped out of the police station, the freezing mist hitting her cheeks, instantly reddening them, and watched Jackie Goodman scurrying along the busy road. Her eyes burned, anger and frustration boring into the woman’s back. Hope knew she’d been disbelieved, and, rather than breaking her heart and hammering her pain even deeper, it infuriated her.

Social Services Get Involved

Karen stood, hands clasped together in a vain attempt to ward off the cold, with her colleague, trainee social worker Avis Benson, waiting for the door to open. The Rectory was a beautiful example of rustic architecture, sprawling, the uneven stone dating it back to the early eighteen hundreds, the garage a recent afterthought.

Dorothy opened the door, her husband still shying from the public, unable to face up to the accusing eyes and hushed whispers just yet. “Mrs Hall?” She nodded in reply. “I’m Karen Turner, I’m a Social Worker for the Bedford Child and Family Unit, I’m here about some allegations that have been made against a Griffin Hall.”

Resigned, her jaw set with irritation, Dorothy pulled the door wide for the two women to step into the warmth, the icy coldness steaming from their coats, and closed it behind them promptly. “Griff, some more people are here regarding the ridiculous statements that hussy made.” Bobbing her head indignantly, she returned to the kitchen, hands still well-floured, to continue baking for the long-awaited New Year’s Eve party they hosted annually at the church hall.

Griffin sloped into the hallway, stooping in his sorrow, eyes tired and drawn on his weary face. His broad shoulders were hunched listlessly, his body gaunt from not eating for the past few days, any appetite having deserted him since the early hours of Christmas Day. Karen studied the tortured figure she’d only read memo’s about, and she found him bizarrely attractive. He was many years older than her own twenty nine, but his height was impressive and his body lean and defined. She felt an incredible sexual tension for him, and the thought stirred a longing she’d not felt for years. When his eyes met hers, almost tearful in innocence, she felt blood surge to her inner thighs in a rush of desire. This man was no paedophile.

Griffin led the women to his study, and sagging into the scaly leather, he wheeled his chair forward, tucking his knees under the desk. Lifelessly, he indicated the chaise longue for the two women to sit.

Without a prompt and without hesitation, Griffin was quick to declare his innocence. “It’s just the dirty lies of a psychotic woman, I tell you. I have no idea why she’s doing this, but I know that I’m innocent, and that God’s truth will shine out.” The folds of his eyelids drooped low, the shrew eyes peeping from underneath, a wounded man, squeaky-clean and being persecuted unfairly. Dramatically he lifted a hand to his heart, a physical emphasis to his torment, and Karen’s own heart reached out for him.

She nodded gently, accepting his pain and frustration without question. “Reverend, I can understand how dreadful this must be for you, but unfortunately we’re duty bound to be involved once a complaint such as this is registered with the police. Social Services have to investigate, and, to be honest, it’s for your own protection as much as anything else.”

Griffin could sense the trust billowing from the woman, his esteem grew visibly, recognising that he had found another ally in his fight against the hideous accusations. He squared his shoulders, enhancing his height and the breadth of his chest. Aware that his unusual looks, the strong nose, firm chin, greying temples, teamed with the innocence of the white dog collar, made people trust him, befriend him, and he realised that he could captivate his current audience without trying to hard. Just some low-grade flirtation, nothing untoward or blatant, a few affable smiles with a cheeky glint in his eye, clever body language. Leaning his legs towards the women, mirroring their movements, he’d have them firmly on his side by the end of the interrogation.

It worked, smitten and aroused, Karen adored him, she wanted to bear his babies.

Avis didn’t. Griffin Hall made her skin crawl.

Claudia Views the Evidence

The video lay on the desk, unseen, as yet, by Claudia Horseferry, who was in the final stages of ploughing through the statements that lay before her. Wanda Ferris, the accuser’s mother, had refused absolutely to make a statement, professing the whole situation to be ridiculous. Both Charity and Faith had testified under oath that Griffin Hall had visited their childhood home on several occasions, but they’d had little interaction with the man. They both stated that Griffin had definitely favoured Hope, spending as much time with her as he could justify. They also both agreed that he had been extremely close with their mother, appearing on several occasions to release her when they entered the room.

Faith’s statement was caring, she was genuinely concerned for Hope’s cause, but Charity’s was insular, she admitted to her knowledge of the interactions as an aside, they needed to be gleaned in the brief moments she took the conversation away from herself. Irrelevant, Claudia mused, despite the opposing egos of the two sisters, the evidence was there. Now the task of sifting through the witnesses was finally over, it was time to hear Hope’s version, to see the woman on screen.

Thirsty, her only drink of the day so far an uncomfortably hot mug of tea drained hastily as she defrosted the car in the early hours of the icy morning, Claudia prepared a hot chocolate before languishing comfortably at her desk, slumped low in the seat with her feet resting on an open drawer. Her fingers rooted for the ‘play’ button, and Claudia was immediately transfixed by the petite, delicate woman on the screen. She was beautiful, an angelic, shy face, with an intense inner power. And the words she spoke were truthful, of that Claudia had no doubt. The ensuing account of an innocent child’s torture raked through Claudia’s heart, vicious, filthy, paedophilic.

Once the tremulous account of horrors had finished, Claudia took a moment, unmoving, legs now stretched across the desk. Her fingers were pyramided, tips resting against her lips, weighing up her own certainty that Griffin Hall was guilty as charged, against Goodman’s adamant conviction that Hope Brown was a laughable attention seeker.

As she mulled the collective data, words, statements, opinions, deciding on the path to lead into the next stage, she eventually decided to discredit Goodman’s apathy, remain with her own solid surety that Griffin Hall was a monster who needed to be locked away.

Jackie Goodman

Her shift was finished, and she nipped to the corner shop for milk, bread, and biscuits before letting herself into her first floor apartment. The air was stagnant, reminding her of her late night travesty the night before. Lonely and bored, she’d downed the final dregs of Christmas wine, tears coursing eventually as she bemoaned her dull existence. Unable to remember much after ten o’clock, she guessed by the foul smell of stale tobacco that she’d found the packet of cigarettes she’d hidden when she’d given up smoking the last time, and a waft of nicotine withdrawal flooded over her.

She flicked on the kettle, took a mug from the cupboard, and paused before replacing the mug and turning the kettle off. The decision had been made, she wanted a glass of wine to wind down, not more caffeine to keep her high. Only able to find a half pint glass, she filled it to the brim, sipping off the excess hungrily before taking it to the bathroom to finish during her bath. She turned on the taps, tipping a measure of bubble bath into the flowing water, and stripped naked, throwing her sweaty uniform into the laundry basket.

The strike came from nowhere, there was no warning, and Jackie was confused and dazed. The harsh, grinding whack on her back had forced her forward, and she could feel her blood flowing away, yet the lack of pain confused her. A warm liquid oozed down her spine, dimpling into her ribs, flowing into the bubbles of the running bath

As the deep scarlet spread across the glistening foam Jackie slumped forward, her legs tired and empty, and a wave of relaxation spread through her. A light smile settled on her face briefly, before the pain arrived. With it came realisation, and the extensive police training kicked in, alongside the self-preservation. She was under attack, she had to defend herself.

Her arm shot behind her, searching for the attacker, ready to fight back, but her stunned reticence and wounded weakness had disadvantaged her, and the pathetic attempt was too late. A forceful blow to her chest as she turned, the knife plunging through her flesh with ease, and a spurt of blood sprayed the tiles as the weapon withdrew. Words rang through Jackie’s head, the confusion spinning and whooping, she needed to face her attacker, to disarm him. To save herself. She reached across, the nails on her clawed hands ready to gouge, but the next blow knocked her backwards.

She lay on the floor, blood trickling into her mouth, unable to see her murderer. Her devastated body was curved into a ball, the redness of her abandoned life staining the new bathroom rug. Inch by inch, viscera flopped from her abdomen, the six-pack she’d been so proud of after losing three stone, and her arms no longer had the strength to hold it back. She lay, disorientated and scared, her life seeping over the lino in pulsing rhythms. The fear subsided in moments, and a deep relaxation swept over her, she closed her eyes and the blackness began.

The bath remained running, the lights remained on, and eventually the spilling water seeped past the edges of the lino, dripping through the floorboards, and finally staining the ceiling of the apartment below. The annoyed owners, unable to raise an answer from their upstairs neighbour, and frustrated with the spreading damp problem especially as it was now staining pink, eventually decided to call the police. It was too late for Jackie, she was long gone.

Session Fourteen

The snow, now frozen over from the treacherous temperatures overnight, was crisp, greying with exhaust fumes and dirt. Dawn watched through the window of the overheated room, waiting for Hope to arrive. Through the frost tinged panes a familiar bundle of outerwear came into view, flat patent boots treading carefully, firming each step before trusting that leg with her weight. As she neared her pink nose and bright blue eyes peeped from the piles of black wool surrounding her, and Hope entered the building. Dawn turned from the window and settled in her cosy seat next to the pumping radiator, eager to see her client now.

The bustle came through without introduction, reminding Dawn that Gayle was still on sick leave with a nasty cold. She grinned widely at Hope, who returned the cheerfulness. “How was your New Year?”

Stripping gradually down to her heavyweight jeans, the light jumper covered with a contrasting cardigan, thick metallic chains weighted down with a Celtic cross, a crucifix, and a skull effigy, Hope dropped the knitwear onto the carpet haphazardly, not tidying the pile, not straightening the gloves, or folding the coat. Dawn cocked her head to one side. “Not feeling orderly today then!”

Hope laughed, kicking her boot playfully into the pile. “No, life’s too short! New Year was good, thanks, yeah, it was good. What about yours?”

Dawn supported her still-cocked head with her hand, elbow resting, relaxed and easy, on the arm of the chair. “Quiet, this year. We played in Bensons early evening, then I went home, I didn’t really feel like following the lads for a party.” Dawn would have continued, but she was transfixed by the metal hipflask Hope had dragged from her coat pocket, watching her unscrew the lid, put the steel against her lips and take a good slug. No words presented themselves, she watched in silence as one slug turned into four.