Letters To My Daughter's Killer - [60]

Florence is at the kitchen table, messing with Play-Doh.

At first I think I’ve misheard. I’m on my knees, head in the oven, trying not to breathe in the fumes.

‘Daddy hit Mummy.’

I shuffle back, and turn. ‘What?’

‘Daddy hit Mummy.’ It is the first time that Florence has ever initiated any discussion of the tragedy with me. Though I’ve been warned that she may well revisit the murder time and again as she grows, needing to refine her understanding as she matures intellectually and emotionally, whenever I bring it up she is silent.

‘He did,’ I say slowly. ‘He did, and Mummy died.’

‘Lots of times,’ she says.

I have never been specific about the murder; she knows nothing about the poker, about the dozen-odd blows. Or have I? Did I say ‘lots’ to explain why Lizzie was hurt so badly she wouldn’t get better? ‘Was it?’ I say.

‘Sick of it,’ Florence says, and she bangs her hand on to the Play-Doh. ‘Sick of it!’ An echo. An echo of Jack? Or maybe Lizzie?

Getting to my feet, I strip off the rubber gloves but keep my distance. I don’t want to crowd her. I stare out of the window; Milky is perched on the wheelie bin at the end of the garden, washing himself.

‘Who said that: sick of it?’

‘Daddy. Very cross.’

‘Yes,’ I say blandly. ‘Was he downstairs?’

‘One day and another day…’ She makes a noise in her throat as if she’s unsure how to phrase it. ‘One day,’ she starts again, ‘in the bedroom and one in the kitchen and lots of days.’

‘Daddy hit Mummy on lots of days?’ The fizz of adrenalin whips through me. Tightening everything.

‘And then she fell down dead.’

I glance over and she’s poking holes in the pink dough with her fingers.

‘Did you see Daddy and Mummy have that big fight?’

She shakes her head. ‘Stay in your room,’ she says sternly.

My eyes water and I blink fast. Have I got it right? Did Jack tell her that? Or did she hear what was unfolding and know she had to stay in her room because the violence was a familiar situation?

‘Were you in your room when they had that big fight?’

She rubs her nose. Nods twice. Notices dough on her fingernails and peers at it.

‘Did you hear them have that big fight?’

‘Yes.’

‘Poor Mummy,’ I say. ‘You were a good girl, Florence, Mummy loved you and when Daddy got cross you hadn’t done anything wrong.’

‘I stayed in my room,’ she says. Like it’s an achievement. I read my book, I brushed my teeth.

‘You didn’t see Mummy?’ I have to know. She might have crept down when she heard Jack leave the house, seen Lizzie splayed on the floor, her hair dark with blood. Oh God.

She sighs and presses her sticky nails together. ‘I stayed in my room,’ she repeats irritably.

‘Are you sad about Mummy?’

She splays her hands like stars and jabs all her fingers down into the mixture.

‘Sometimes, perhaps,’ I suggest. ‘I’m sad sometimes.’

‘She might come back,’ Florence says to cheer me up.

‘No,’ I say, ‘she can’t.’

She begins to scoop the Play-Doh together; her face falls now.

‘Let’s have a hug,’ I say, moving to her.

She gives a little sigh, as though my request is tiresome, but nevertheless stands on the chair and throws her hands around my neck and squeezes, almost choking me. I wrap my arms around her.

‘Piggyback,’ she clamours.

‘Just a little one.’

There’s a stabbing pain at the base of my spine as she hikes herself up on to my back. I do a circuit of the kitchen and one of the front room. Florence swings her legs, her heels bumping against my thighs.

Did Jack know? That she was aware of his brutality? Was it Jack who instructed her to stay in her room, or was it Lizzie, desperate to protect Florence from the sight of another beating?

I’m breathless by the time I set her down again. Aware of the oven, smeared in blackening foam, waiting for my attention.

Monday 15 April 2013

It’s a chance article in the Guardian that leads me to Dr Meredith Jansen. She has been advising on a restorative justice programme in El Salvador and has written a book about it. She trained as a psychologist, went into the health service and developed a role in trauma counselling. She has also been a mediator. Although I can find references to her on the Internet, I don’t know how to contact her, until an announcement on LinkedIn that says she is running a training programme based at University College London.

I write to the university and hear nothing.

I ring UCL but the switchboard have no extension number for her.

Then I get an email.

She warns me that she doesn’t think she can help, but she will be in Manchester visiting family in a fortnight’s time; perhaps we could meet then and she could find out a little more.

The rest is history. Slow-moving, but gradually progressing towards an agreement brokered by Dr Jansen. She meets with me three times, the same with Jack. I start my letters.

And now I wait with her in the prison, in a special room. Wait for our first face-to-face meeting. Dr Jansen, Meredith, will be present; we have agreed the terms of engagement.

Now that I am here, I want to bolt, to turn on my heel and put as much distance as possible between us. My skin feels cold; a chill steals through my stomach and bowels. My ears sing and hiss.