Perfect Victim (21 page)

It’s hard to believe Rachel is dead, and it’s different because she was murdered. I didn’t get to say goodbye or tell her how much I loved her. It’s harder still because I didn’t even see her the last day. I said goodnight to her the night before. She said, ‘Love you, Ash.’

When a grandmother dies of old age or of a sickness it still hurts but at least you know it’s coming. I didn’t know this was coming and that’s why it hurt even more. I don’t think I’ll get to sleep for a long time. I don’t ever want to sleep by myself again. I’m too scared to.

Rachel’s friends gave the funeral man letters and poems to put in Rachel’s coffin. Mum and Dad took photocopies of these. I gave Rachel a letter as well. This is what I said:

To my dearest sister Rachel,

I love you a lot and I will never not love you. It was not your time and we all know that. It’s no
one’s fault that you died, only Caroline’s fault. You had a long time to go if Caroline had not been born. I wish I never knew her sister because if I had never known her, Caroline would not have met you, and you would still be here.

I miss you a lot and I wish you were still here but you’re not, and I will have to live with that. Everyone loves you and will always miss you. I will never forget you, Rachel, and I hope maybe one day you will visit us. I hope you will never forget me and the family.

I hope you didn’t go through any pain when you died.

Love always,

Your little sister, Ashleigh-Rose.

We went to Rachel’s funeral in big white cars. When we got to the church I saw the press. I did not like the press on this day because they took my parents away from me even before we got into the church. This was just so all you people out there could know what was going on. I’m sorry, but if you wanted to know then you should have come to the funeral.

I didn’t care that they were filming the funeral because I couldn’t see them and they didn’t take me away from my parents.

I was okay during the funeral until the song ‘Finally Found’ came on. I started to cry then because I tried to sing it. This song makes me sad because it was the song Rachel dedicated to her boyfriend Emmanuel the year before. They told me I could kiss her coffin but I didn’t and I’m very sorry I didn’t. I didn’t even blow a kiss.

We sat in the front car for a long time after the funeral, while people talked. People came to our car doors. One of my friends handed me letters from friends from my old school. Rachel’s car moved in front of us and as a long slow trail of cars left the church I opened the top letter and read it out loud:

Dear Ashleigh-Rose,

I am really really sorry for what my sister did. I still want to be your friend even though I know that
you don’t want to be mine. I want to tell you something that my dad told me. ‘I still believe that she is dancing with the fairies.’ Rachel was a beautiful fairy. She danced like a dream. I’m just glad that she had you in her life.

I still can’t believe that my sister killed someone that I knew. It just seems like a dream. In my dream Caroline is in hospital after having an epileptic fit and Rachel is probably out shopping or something. I know how hard it is. I know because I’m going through this too.

Love from your (maybe) friend,

Catherine

P.S. Remember, she is dancing with the fairies.

Ashleigh-Rose never replied to this letter, the letter written to her by Caroline’s youngest sister. After hearing Ashleigh-Rose read it, the driver said, ‘How do you cope with all this?’

Ashleigh-Rose folded her letter. ‘Shouldn’t I have read the letter?’

I looked at the insecurity of my daughter and thought, well it probably wasn’t very good timing. But I said, ‘No, it’s fine, Ashleigh-Rose, don’t worry.’

The pain, I thought, the pain.

About a month after the funeral, I became aware of my fear of forgetting ‘the Rachel within’. I didn’t want to lose touch with her essence. So I decided to write letters to her as if she was still living. It was then that I began a journey of letters and poems.

deep beneath the soil

your body rests

clothed in rosewood

surrounded by letters and poems

toys and shoes

ballet shoes and Spice Girl shoes

dressed in lace underwear

and your last solo costume

you lay there

bones and dried flesh

even so, beautiful would your skeleton be

a beautiful skeleton

dressed in seashells

dancing feet resting their dancing toes

buried beneath nine feet of cold earth

killed by a cold heart

a cold fish

the warmth of your smile

your being and serenity

can never be frozen from recognition

when people think of Rachel Barber

memories remain vivid

vivid as you were – as you are

energetic with life

full-on yet also shy

timid of things new

I am so glad you were found – in your shallow grave

and brought home to those

who loved their dear sweet Rachel

always remembered

forever in their memory – their hearts

24

L
ETTERS TO
R
ACHEL
– E
XTRACTS FROM THE
F
IRST
Y
EAR

The first letter …

24 May 1999

My darling Rachel,

I don’t even know what day you died on, or whether you died in pain. I’m sorry. Deeply sorry, from the depths of my soul, we were unable to save you. I do not understand. I will never understand. Fifteen years old. Only fifteen.

We have shifted worlds. Somewhere your family has taken a right-angle and ended up in this surreal world. Caught out, unable to reach the real world left behind. Somewhere our world continues around us, abandoning us in this living nightmare. But then, there is yet another world. Your world.

I am comatosed. I don’t know why this is happening to you. I have no answers, but pray you are safe in God’s heaven, wherever that may be. I pray you didn’t grieve too long for Manni, or for us. I pray you have settled in to your new world, for surely your heaven must feel as surreal for you as our leftover world does for us. I pray we are not tearing your spirit apart. Let your spirit dance, sweetheart.

I think Caroline may have been fifteen when we first met her, perhaps younger. Poor girl – broken girl, a girl with a broken soul to take someone so loved. Did she know love as you do? As you still do? I don’t know. I fear this stems from
her
feeling of abandonment. A feeling of loneliness. But to murder? And why you?

I didn’t think you were dead. Didn’t feel it, and that’s why my faith in God has not been broken. You are still living in spirit. I thank God that Jesus died on the cross. I thank God that Jesus wept. Jesus wept. For you, as I do.

Do I ever want to grow old? I don’t think so. But your father and sisters need me. I must stay. But to think I won’t see you until I am old. Rachel … Rachel … it is so hard to accept you are no longer here. I need your warmth, your love, your cuddles, your dance, your smile. Yes, even those times you were cross with me, and I with you.

I’m sorry you struggled through school. I’m sorry I didn’t protect you or allow you to be courageous when you believed you were wronged at a past dance school. I’m sorry I nagged you about looking for part-time work. But I didn’t know of any impending evil plotting against you. You were, at last, so happy. And then … oh, it was all so sudden.

Everybody misses you, Rachel. You are loved by so many people. You have so much to give, so much loving to share. I grimace at thinking of you in a past tense. You will always be real. Every day from your birth I have thought of you, even if not in active thought, I have always been conscious of your being. The same for your sisters. Why then, just because someone stole you from our physical lives, should I not think of you still, in this new present tense, every day? I still have three daughters.

Stop. I’m going to wake. This pain must go away. My heart is broken.

I failed you. Didn’t teach you enough awareness of the dangers in this world. What did she lure you with, what lies did she tell? Evil and wickedness festering, waiting to slaughter our angel. But you were only robbed of your earthly life. I am so sad. So deeply sad. My beautiful, vibrant, bubbly Rachel.

We picked up the kitten I said you could have the day before you went missing; four weeks after you went missing, Humphrey became your parting gift. I haven’t been too impressed by the way he claws up curtains, but still, he is a lovely kitten, and he is your kitten. You would have liked him.

I always taught you to respect the police force and now I have lost trust in them. They let you down. They let us down. How many others are let down?

Rachel, I want to hold you in my arms, to kiss you, to stroke your hair. There is no justice in your death. I grieve and need comfort but do not know where I can turn. I need to share my grieving. To cry in someone’s arms. To be cradled and comforted and be allowed to cry, to share tears, to share grief and not be strong. I am not depressed. I am grieving. I have lost you. I gave birth to you, nursed you, sang and danced with you, even in the rain. Ran up sand dunes and walked along the beach. Played games and read to you, even spanked you and shouted at you. I sewed clothes for you. Sang ‘Silent Night’ to you. Drove you to dance classes and took you to the theatre. Watched you dance in the State Theatre aisles. Journeyed through school days and church days with you. Birthday parties and concerts and ballet exams. Phone-call-too-long fights and radio-too-loud fights. I laughed and cried with you. I watched you sleep, and felt you safe.

I never dreamt we’d lose you so young. You always gave me cuddles and kisses. Even at fifteen, you always kissed me goodnight.

I cannot believe you are dead. I cannot believe you were murdered. An ugly word for our beautiful first born. I love you, Rachel,

Love, Mum.

25 May 1999

Dear Rachel,

I’ll be transferring this into a journal shortly. I’ve decided for as long as I live I am going to write to you, daily, even if it’s just a note. This way I will keep in touch – even when I am an old, old lady. Sometimes I’ll write about you and what happened to you. Sometimes it will be about me. Other times I’ll write to you as if I am posting a letter to a penfriend in a faraway country, filling you in with all the local gossip. Maybe then when I’m too old to make sense – you’ll write
me
a letter. Don’t I wish. You are my dearly loved daughter. My somersault baby.

13 July 1999

Dear Rachel,

Well, I worked all day today, for the first time since I went back to work part time, five weeks after your disappearance. I’ll now be working three full days a week. I don’t want to. I really don’t. But I’m all right when I’m at work. It’s the traffic and the driving I have the problem with.

How am I going to live without you?

It is so cruel. Cruel to you and cruel to us. Cruel to me. My beautiful Rachel, I didn’t protect you from an unseen enemy.

How could I have done?

14 July 1999

Rachel,

Death is like a book with many final chapters. Your death still continues for us. The headstone went up today and that’s another finality. Then the plants will go in on Saturday and that is closing another chapter. Yet for us there are still many chapters to come because of the nature of your death. Such as writing a card of acknowledgement to Gail for the flowers and her letter. Going to the committal mention, hearing and trial. Placing the final date and photo on your headstone. Receiving your death certificate and going to an inquest.

But your death can never really be closed for me. It is an open wound, your physical death, even though I know your soul lives and this gives me peace of mind …

Rachel, at secondary school, you had a poor self-image but darling, we are all different and have natural talents we can choose to develop when and if we wish. You worked extremely hard with your dance. You needed discipline, concentration and aptitude to do what you did. You needed belief in what you knew you were good at, and you had that.

Maybe you felt you had to prove yourself to me work-wise, and I know I did pressure you about work, but I thought this was for your good: for your independence. Yet you should have known any work you went for should have been okayed by one of us first.

I should have told you to slow up in your clear thinking. Taught you to be more aware. I thought you were always careful about where you went. So Caroline must have really set you up good. And I am so angry with her, and sorry for you, and sorry for us.

The girls saw their counsellor after school and I think this is helping them.

I’m finding the hours long at work. I look at mothers with their teenage daughters and think of you …

20 July 1999

I wish I’d had longer conversations with you, Rachel. I know we used to talk but I wish I had listened more. You were a fun kid, and an entertaining teenager to watch. There was a gentle quality about you, underneath the noisy teenager. You were too trusting.