Letters To My Daughter's Killer (23 page)

Kay calls with the news that you have confessed. I almost fall over, it’s such a shock. There’s a flight of elation immediately afterwards, a giddy sensation. I am vindicated.

Only later do I begin to think about it more carefully. Is this a gambit so that you can be released sooner? You have to serve a minimum of seventeen years before you can be considered for parole, and you’re just shy of three years in prison. No one is eligible for parole unless they show remorse. So if it is a tactic, it is very forward planning.

I don’t care, actually. If you’re now admitting your crime, I see an opportunity to get to the truth. That’s what people wanted in South Africa and the other countries that emulated them: truth and then reconciliation. And I decide that for Florence, for myself, for Lizzie, I must find a way forward.

So we will start with the truth. You will tell me everything. All I need is to find a mechanism for contact with you.

Tony thinks I am insane to want to communicate with you. He doesn’t seem as damaged by Lizzie’s death, not as embittered by it. He’s heartbroken; a pall of sadness clings to him these days, unshakeable. But he is not livid as I am. Perhaps your betrayal feels greater for me because I saw the fruits of your handiwork and sheltered you for the days that followed.

Kay tries to put me off when I ask her about it. ‘Restorative justice can be very helpful for low-level crimes – antisocial behaviour, theft, robbery – but it is not used for a crime of this magnitude.’

‘There was a case in America,’ I say, ‘I saw it on the Internet. A couple who have been able to meet the man who killed their daughter.’

‘That’s very unusual,’ she says, ‘and I’ve never heard of it happening over here.’ She agrees to make some enquiries. A couple of weeks later and she’s telling me she’s not made any progress.

‘If Jack was willing,’ I say, ‘and I was too, how can that be a bad thing?’

‘You need a professional to set the whole thing up. And I’ve not been able to find anyone prepared to work with you.’

‘Kay, I’m drowning.’

‘I’m sorry, Ruth. I can’t help. I don’t think it can be done.’

I spend hours hunting people online – psychologists, mediation specialists. I send emails, they come back with apologies, with rejections,
no can do.

I want the truth, to know exactly what you did to Lizzie, to know precisely how she died, to see your remorse. There is no prospect of forgiveness or even acceptance without that. There are so many questions only you can answer.

Ruth

Thursday 25 October 2012

I am cleaning the oven, a job I loathe, which means I leave it too long and then it’s even harder to do.

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.

I am frightened.

There is a knock at the door.

They are bringing him in.

You sit on the chair opposite me. Your face is pale, drawn, your eyes ringed with shadow.

For a long time I cannot meet your gaze. I study my hands while Dr Meredith repeats the agreed protocol for the meeting. She will be with us throughout, guiding us.

As she finishes, I raise my eyes to look at you, and you glance away and back, away again. Rub your palms together.

Your discomfort is a balm.

‘Is there anything you wish to say now?’ Meredith asks me. ‘Before Jack begins?’

‘No.’

‘Jack?’ She invites you to start.

‘I’m sorry,’ you say. ‘I am so, so sorry.’

For what? I think. Say it, say it. What you’ve done. I need it spelled out. I need it in letters ten feet tall, lit in neon. I need it carved in granite. I need it broadcast from the rooftops. I need to hear it.

‘Please go on,’ Meredith says.

‘I killed Lizzie, I took her life, and I am so sorry. I’m sorry I did it, and I’m sorry I lied about it. I loved her so much.’ Your voice is small, shaky.

I hold myself rigid, desperate not to collapse, to stay strong enough to hear all I’ve come to hear, to learn answers to all my questions.

‘Ruth, is there anything you want to say?’ Meredith asks me.

‘Why did you lie?’

You blow out a breath, knuckle your fists together. ‘I didn’t want to end up here,’ you say. ‘I didn’t want to lose Florence.’

I think of her astride your shoulders, curled in your arms that awful night, clinging to your legs and screaming at the police, leaping at the sight of you at the funeral.

‘I was scared,’ you add after a pause.

In the silence I can hear Meredith breathing, hear the click as you swallow.

‘Why have you confessed now?’ I say. And as I speak, I am aware that I’m putting off the moment when I hear the full unvarnished truth, because I am frightened.

You begin to speak. ‘It was eating away at me. I got very depressed, it was destroying me. I tried not to think about it but I couldn’t stop. It got worse. And, erm . . . I started thinking about . . . suicide. A breakdown of sorts. So . . . erm . . .’ You take a deep breath, readying yourself to talk.

Fear rises in me like a tornado, swirling black, devouring me, and I start to my feet. Close to fainting, my head prickling, eyes awash with dancing dots. ‘I can’t do this, I can’t—’

‘We’ll take a break,’ Meredith says. ‘You don’t have to do anything you don’t wish to. We can leave at any time. Let’s go next door for a moment.’

We leave you and go through to an adjacent space. My teeth are chattering in my head. I can smell Lizzie’s blood; the shock feels fresh, my heart bruised and aching.

‘Breathe,’ Meredith says. ‘Slow, steady. Take your time.’

She does not pressure me, nor rush me.

Should I go? Should I leave and try again another time? Would that be any easier? If I go now, will I ever come back? Ever know?

Oh Lizzie.

‘I want to carry on,’ I say.

Meredith nods.

We go back in.

Your face is wet. Your nose red. You have been weeping.

I am poised, on the tightrope, on the cliff edge, at the high point of the zip wire. ‘Tell me,’ I say. Plunging, tumbling, vertigo in my head.

‘That day,’ you clear your throat, ‘it had been difficult. We were struggling money-wise, we were having to take a break from the mortgage. We’d been shopping and then there was Lizzie’s haircut.’ You bite your cheek. I wait. ‘We had tea and put Florence to bed. Lizzie put Florence to bed,’ you amend. ‘I was angry, angry about everything, not having any work, the fact that Lizzie had spent over seventy pounds on her hair, but I hadn’t said anything to her yet.’

‘Why not?’ I interrupt.

You consider for a moment, then say, ‘Because I wanted to take it out on her. I wanted to hit her. I was winding up to it. I never saw it like that back then, but the course I’ve been doing, the anger management, that’s what I’ve learnt. I wanted to hit her.’

It is hard to hear.

‘She said she had something to tell me, she hoped I’d be happy.’ You shake your head several times. I can see the rise and fall of your chest, as if the words are pulsing to escape. ‘She was pregnant.’

You knew.
Something flies loose inside me.

‘I said she’d have to get rid of it. We could barely feed and clothe Florence, let alone another child. We started arguing. She was saying that I could find some other work, office work, temping or a call centre, that we’d manage. She wouldn’t listen to me.’

I know what’s coming, can feel the vibrations underfoot, sense it in the way every hair on my body rises.

‘Did she shout at you?’ I say. The need for the tiniest specific, accurate detail is acute. I want it all pinned down, to the nth degree.

‘No, she knew not to shout.’

A pang in my heart.

‘You’d hit her before?’

‘Yes,’ you say simply, your mouth working.

‘How many times?’

‘I don’t know, I’m sorry.’

‘How often, then?’ I say.

‘Three or four times a year.’

I hate you. Why could she never tell me? ‘You hit her when she was expecting Florence, and the summer before she died, like Rebecca said?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you use a weapon before?’

‘Sometimes. Not the poker.’ Your voice tight.

‘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.’