Letters To My Daughter's Killer - [62]

‘What, then?’

‘A wine bottle, her straighteners.’

I groan in sorrow. Start to cry, wipe the tears away fiercely.

‘Are you all right to continue?’ Dr Meredith says. ‘Would you like a break?’

‘No, I want to go on.’ Go on for Lizzie and for Florence and myself. I’m frozen in grief, entombed in my bitter loss. I need a way to shatter the stasis, smash through the crypt I find myself in.

‘She wouldn’t listen to me.’ You speak softly. ‘She kept saying that we’d work something out, that another child would be company for Florence, that she’d go back to work soon after the baby.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I was shouting: “You stupid bitch, you fucking stupid, selfish bitch.” ’ The words are blows. But I will take them: every consonant, every vowel. ‘ “No way are you having a baby, you hear me, get rid of it.” ’ You jab a finger half-heartedly, a faint echo of that anger.

‘Where was she? Was she sitting or standing?’ I say.

‘She was sitting, on the big sofa. I was standing. Then she got up. She was frightened.’

‘Frightened of you? How do you know?’

‘She had her eyes down.’ You take a tremulous breath. ‘She knew I was… I was losing it. We both knew. She stood up and she said, “No, I’m not going to do that. I’ll leave you if I have to.” And I don’t… I don’t remember picking up the poker.’

Sweat springs and cools under my arms and at the back of my neck. A chemical taste on my tongue.

‘I must have just grabbed it.’ You press a hand to your mouth. My toes are curled rigid, my jaw clamped tight. My insides seething.

‘I hit her with it.’

‘Where?’ I whisper.

‘Her shoulder.’

‘Did you speak?’ I ask.

‘I said, “You will, you will. You’ll do what I say.” ’

‘What then?’

‘She lost her balance, fell towards the stove. But she recovered, stayed up, and then she grabbed me.’

‘Your arm?’ Those scratches. The skin she clawed from you. The damning evidence.

‘Yes.’

‘Did she speak?’

‘She said, “Please don’t, please please don’t.” ’ Your voice fractures.

Something collapses in me. Oh my baby girl. My lovely girl. My beautiful young woman. Oh my daughter. I close my eyes. I breathe. I look at you. ‘Go on.’

‘I hit her on the arm, then the head.’ You start weeping, your nose reddening, the tears running down your cheeks. ‘She fell to her knees.’

‘Did she speak?’

‘No, not again.’

Never again.

‘I don’t remember much. I know I kept striking out, and then she was still and there was blood. Everywhere there was blood.’ You are gulping, gasping as you talk. ‘I couldn’t believe it. What I’d done. I didn’t want anybody to know. I didn’t want to be found out. I wanted to run away. Hide. But there was Florence. I didn’t want her to know.’

‘All that noise and Florence didn’t come down.’

‘She knew not to.’ I think of Florence’s stern instruction: Stay in your room. ‘I looked in on her before I left and she was asleep.’

‘She heard you attack Lizzie,’ I say. ‘She told me.’

You flinch, cry out. Turn away.

I don’t stop. ‘And after, you cleared up like they said at the trial?’

‘Yes,’ you whisper.

‘You burnt your trainers?’

‘Yes.’

‘And sent those texts?’ I think of that last message, a fake request to me to babysit. The warm glow when I read it, a moment of connection with Lizzie, and then looking forward to seeing Florence.

‘Yes.’

‘You left Florence.’ Something catches in my throat. ‘You left Lizzie and went to the gym?’

‘Yes,’ you say.

‘Your clothes?’

You shuffle in your chair. ‘I went the back way, over the playing fields and round behind the shops. Where the takeaways are – there’s some dumpsters. I hid them in there, under bags of food waste.’

It is still so astonishing to me, what you have done. I have the facts, but still I cannot comprehend why you killed Lizzie, why you hit her in the first place. So I ask you, ‘Why did you ever hit her at all? Did your father hit you?’

You blush, a flood of red in your cheeks, up your throat. You swallow. ‘No.’

I stare at you. There must be something. ‘Jack?’

You inhale sharply, throw back your head. I can see the pulse in your neck. You slowly lower your head to face me. Tears stand in your eyes. ‘My mother did.’

Good God. Marian.

‘I was a handful, apparently,’ you say quietly. Then add more quickly, ‘But what happened, it’s my fault. There are no excuses. It’s down to me.’ You hide your face momentarily, then look at me, a naked gaze, anguish in your eyes, a frown across your brow. ‘I am so sorry, Ruth. Tell Florence too, please, I am so, so sorry.’

You cannot ask for my forgiveness outright. It is one of our ground rules. There is to be no pressure on me to forgive. No expectation of absolution.

Meredith asks me if there is anything I would like to ask by way of restitution. I shake my head. I cannot imagine what that might be, what would help at all. She asks if I have anything to say before we end, but I don’t. Nothing profound or perceptive or acutely intelligent. All I say is, ‘Not now. I’ll write.’

I am hollowed out.

Exhausted.

EPILOGUE

17 Brinks Avenue

Manchester

M19 6FX

It’s taken me a while to write. Months, I know. Things got very difficult again after we met. It was as if I was grieving afresh. It brought it all back. All my energy went into making it through each day and caring for Florence.