Letters To My Daughter's Killer - [31]

Those times when I made invitations: come for tea, fancy a walk, would Florence like the panto? And she put me off: busy, away, already booked. Now I don’t know if that was true or if she was hiding. Hiding her wounds, hiding her shame and her failure.

I raised her, Tony and I raised her, to be her own person. We encouraged her to think she could do whatever she wanted to do, be whoever she wanted to be. That her life was hers to conduct as she saw fit. That she was as good as anyone else, as strong, as beautiful, as brave. That she should treat others as she’d like to be treated. At least I thought we had.

The travesty ripples back through the past and on into the future.

Your mother speaks to me. Same old stuff about your lily-white nature. I am tempted to confront her with your identity as a wife-beater, to ask her if she knew, if there had been whispers with your earlier girlfriends. Was it something you learned from your parents? Was Marian used to feeling the back of Alan’s hand, or his foot in her ribs? Where does it come from, this violence in you?

But I hold my peace, because although I’m not familiar with how these things work, I realize that Rebecca might be a witness against you, and I don’t want you to know, to have a chance to prepare for that.

Marian says you want to go to the funeral. Of course you do! It makes perfect sense, all part of the charade of wronged man, dutiful spouse.

I almost choke on my rage. Over my dead body springs to mind but I say, ‘No way.’

‘He’s innocent. Even if you don’t believe it, he is innocent. Until proven guilty. Lizzie’s his wife. He’s every right-’

‘It’s not going to happen. Has he thought about Florence? How that will be for her?’

‘She’s not going, is she?’ Marian sounds disgusted.

‘Yes,’ I say, as firmly as I can. ‘It’s important for her to be able to say goodbye. And it would be catastrophic for her if Jack waltzes in, then disappears again.’

But you don’t care about that, do you? There’s only one person that matters in your universe, and that’s you. The big I Am. If you had a shred of love for your daughter or anyone else, you wouldn’t be putting us all through the mockery of a trial. You’d have been honourable enough to confess, to spare her, to spare us everything that followed.

I ring Kay, blurt out what Marian said, keen for her to reassure me.

‘He’s able to apply for compassionate leave, and if granted, he’ll be escorted to the service, but first they will have to consider a number of factors, carry out a risk assessment. Most importantly determine if there’s any risk either to Jack himself or to the public, or if there might be any issues affecting public order.’

‘And if I say I’ll kill him if he comes anywhere near?’

‘You’ve every right to be upset,’ Kay says. ‘I know it sucks, big-time.’ She doesn’t believe my threat.

‘What about Florence? It would be terrible for her.’ I think of the day they came for you, the way she flew to you. I don’t know what’s in her head, what she understands of all this. Whether she will instinctively cleave to you again, delighted to have you back only to see you escorted away like before. A ghastly rerun. Or whether she will fear you now. Understand that you killed Lizzie, think perhaps that she may be next. But either way your attending will only damage her. And she’s not well. She is not strong enough for further trauma.

I try and tell Kay this, and she says that she is sure Florence’s well-being will be taken into account.

How will they know? I think. These people who make the decision. They’ve not met Florence or talked to me. They don’t know what a good actor you are.

You get your way. You pollute the day with your presence. I have explained to Florence until I’m blue in the face that Daddy is coming to say goodbye too but because no one has agreed if he hurt Mummy or not he will have to go back to prison afterwards. Her face is expressionless. I search it for excitement, the dance of anticipation or the shadow of anxiety in her, but find nothing.

‘Daddy won’t be allowed to talk to you, or pick you up or sit with you.’

She holds up Matilda.

‘You’ll bring Matilda? Good plan, Batman.’ The toy cat is like a security blanket and has supplanted Bert in Florence’s affections. Lord knows what would happen if she lost the thing.

The authorities have decided that you pose no risk to us nor we to you. There won’t be a baying mob eager to tear you limb from limb. No drive-by shooters. No gang of neighbours jockeying to land one on you, no vigilantes tooled up and blood-crazed.

I haven’t seen you since your arrest. As we wait outside the crematorium in our dull black clothes and with the smell of frost in the air and the murmur of mourners all about, my energy is screwed to a point, waiting for your grand entrance.

Tony and Denise and I greet people; some make an effort to talk to Florence. She doesn’t reply, not even to those she knows, like Rebecca or my friend Bea. Nor to the deaf friends who sign to us, ‘Hello’ and ‘Sorry’.

We have hired an interpreter for the service, someone Lizzie worked with, so that everyone can appreciate what is said.