‘A girl at school said she saw Mummy’s picture in the papers.’
‘She must have been mistaken,’ insisted Annabelle.
‘She’s going to bring it tomorrow to show me.’
‘Which girl?’ asked Annabelle, as casually as she felt able.
‘Margaret Roberts.’
That night Margaret Robert’s mother said she quite understood the telephone call and of course she’d destroy the newspaper. ‘What’s going to happen to poor little Emily?’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Annabelle.
‘Such a lovely child.’
‘Yes.’
‘An absolute tragedy.’
‘Yes.’
Chapter Nineteen
The repelling and physically real horror of lesbian rape – literally of being their beck-and-call sex slave – shattered Jennifer’s previous near catatonic shock of what had come close to happening to Emily.
It would have been trite – too easy, too simple a metaphor – for Jennifer to have thought about awakening from nightmare upon nightmare. But the return of Jennifer’s implacable determination to overcome everything and everybody was very much like coming to her senses after being too long asleep.
She positively refused to equate one nightmare against the other. Each, by itself, sickeningly revolting but with this new awakening she could separate them. Believed, even, that she could get them into some proportion.
It hadn’t been her, Jennifer Lomax, who’d attacked Emily. It had been Jane, like it had been Jane who’d murdered Gerald. Using her body. Not her responsibility then. And she had been raped and sexually terrorized: drugged at the very beginning and afterwards threatened with disfigurement if she’d resisted. Not her responsibility either. So it would be immature – ridiculous – to feel guilt or shame for what had happened, like rape victims did. No woman invited rape, of any sort. And she certainly hadn’t invited what had been inflicted on her. But which wouldn’t be inflicted again. Ever.
The grotesquely fat matron with the probing finger had shown her how to stop it and never in her life had Jennifer needed the same lesson taught twice: certainly not this lesson. The balance came at once. There was an equation here. Matching it was knowing of Jane’s presence, which in her apathy she’d almost forgotten, opening her mind to the unseen presence like she’d opened her legs to the monsters that she had very definitely been able to see and feel.
Something else she’d recovered, with her waking-up determination. And why she felt safe now, without any tingling to warn her of Jane. It was difficult to be sure, because she hadn’t kept any sort of count, but it seemed Jane hadn’t occupied her so much in the last few days: almost as if the accept-anything, unopposing indifference had taken the pleasure from the taunting.
Jane was going to be surprised at the reversal. Upset, hopefully, at not anticipating it. Jennifer hoped so. It would represent a victory – a triumph over a presence, a thing, that believed itself able to control her every thought and every word and every action. It was exhausting – draining – to fight against mouthing the rudeness and the profanities but she’d learned how to do it, as she’d realized how to be sedated to keep Jane as far out of her head at night as possible.
Now she had to control her body movements, too. Gerald’s murder should have been warning enough but hadn’t been: Jennifer had been taken utterly by surprise at the total possession that had made her attack Emily. After that episode Jennifer knew she had to be alert at all and every time for a physical outburst that could ridicule her – worse, possibly harm people – in any situation with another human being.
But she could do it, like she’d always been able to do anything she set her mind upon. The confidence ran through her, a good feeling, despite the caution that immediately followed. She’d never imagined – how could anyone imagine? – confronting what she had to do now. She still couldn’t imagine. Just knew she had to do it. Had to survive.
Would it become any clearer today how to do that? Perhaps, although she wasn’t sure. Pre-trial conferences with counsel, Humphrey Perry had called it in his pencil-pointing way. What about the long ago insistence – not long ago in terms of time but certainly in terms of what had happened in between – upon being represented by a QC? Something else she’d let go, hadn’t even thought about, after Emily. Was there still time? A question for Jeremy Hall, along with a lot more. She should have made a list, against the distraction of Jane appearing. Or should she? It would be a hell of a recovery if she was able to resist Jane’s intrusion and words and body movement and conduct a rational conversation with the barrister. More than a hell of a recovery: it would be that all important proof – proof to herself more than to anyone else – of her sanity as well as of her strength to resist.
Even the scars, on her arms and hands, didn’t depress Jennifer. The bribe-obedient matron (‘nursey will be good if you’re good to nursey,’) had removed the stitches that morning and left the bandages off, allowing Jennifer properly to look for the first time. The right arm was worse, the wound deep and jagged, in a zig-zag from wrist to elbow. She’d have to wear long sleeves all the time, until she was able to get plastic surgery advice. Have the left arm and her hands done at the same time. She was ugly, like this. Emily would be frightened. Abruptly the reflection dipped. Could Emily ever be more frightened than… Jennifer didn’t allow the thought to finish. She could only try to think of so much: the most immediate things. Too soon yet – there was too much in the way – to plan how to build things with Emily: to make Emily love her again. She would, of course. Plan. And recover. She had to. Emily was all she had left. Her life, as soon as she got rid of everything else in the way. Soon, she thought, now there was a trial date. She was impatient to get it over with. There was movement from the main ward entrance and through the window of her separate room Jennifer saw Hall and Perry approaching.
‘Good morning,’ Jennifer said, brightly.
The vague numbness registered seconds before the voice in her head said, ‘ And good morning to you.’
Jeremy Hall was surprised. It was almost three weeks since his last meeting with Jennifer Lomax. She’d been zombie-like then and according to Perry had remained so, apart from the shouted outbursts, at every remand hearing in between. Today she appeared more in control of herself – her hair and make-up immaculate, sharp-eyed, aware of everything around her – than at any time since the murder. Completely normal, in fact.
‘It’s good to see you,’ she said, smiling.
‘ Tell him how much of you the dykes have seen!. And played with .’
‘You’re looking much better,’ said Hall, as much for Perry’s benefit as well as for Jennifer’s.
‘ Show him your sore cunt! ’
Jennifer resisted for the second time: she hadn’t fully decided what to do about the rape and sexual assault, satisfied enough for the moment that she could prevent it. ‘She’s being obscene.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Hall.
‘It does!’ contradicted Jennifer, at once. ‘I’m fighting her: refusing to say what she’s telling me to. And for that I feel very much better.’
‘ You stupid bitch. You really are mad to think you can resist me! ’
Jennifer saw the strained look pass between the two men before Hall said, There’s quite a lot we have to talk about, now that we have a trial date.’
‘It’s not going to be delayed?’ demanded Jennifer, at once.
‘No,’ assured Perry. ‘But we have to make a positive decision upon a defence.’
‘ There isn’t one! ’
‘There is only one defence,’ insisted Jennifer. ‘Not guilty because I didn’t do it.’
Hall sighed. ‘Jennifer, I want you to listen very carefully. Sixteen people saw you do it. The evidence against you is overwhelming. Incontrovertible. And with Rebecca Nicholls the prosecution has a motive. You don’t have a not guilty plea: it’s pointless – ridiculous – persisting with it. All you have is a mitigating submission…’ He paused. ‘And I have been given guidance by the judge and the prosecution that they’ll consider a lesser charge and consider psychiatric evidence-’