You’ve got a lot of work to do.
‘Oh, please,’ I whispered. ‘Please, no.’
‘I know you’re afraid,’ my mother said — in that voice that sounded sweet, but was not. ‘But everybody’s on your side. No one’s going to blame you.’ Her eyes, as she spoke, were like steel pins. Her hand on my arm looked gentle, but the next day there would be bruises. ‘All we want is the truth, B.B. Just the truth. How hard can that be?’
Well, what could I do? I was alone. Alone with Ma, trapped and afraid. I knew that if I called her bluff, if I disgraced her publicly, she’d find a way to make me pay. So I played the game, telling myself that it was just a white lie; that their lies had been much worse than mine; that in any case, I had no choice —
The policewoman’s name was Lucy, she said. I guessed her to be very young, maybe just out of training school, still fired with hopeful ideals and convinced that children have no reason to lie. The man was older, more cautious; less likely to show sympathy; but even so, he was gentle enough, allowing her to question me, making notes in his notepad.
‘Your mother says you’ve been ill,’ she said.
I nodded, not daring to say it aloud. Beside me, Ma, like a granite cliff face, one arm around my shoulders.
‘She says you were delirious. Talking and shouting in your sleep.’
‘I guess,’ I said. ‘It wasn’t too bad.’
I felt my mother’s bony fingers tighten on my upper arm. ‘You say that now you’re better,’ she said. ‘But you don’t know the half of it. Until you’ve got children of your own, you can’t imagine how it feels,’ she said, without releasing my arm. ‘To see my boy in such a bad way, crying like a baby.’ She flashed me a brief, unsettling smile. ‘You know I lost my other boy,’ she said, with a glance at Lucy. ‘If anything happened to B.B. now, I think I might go crazy.’
I saw the two officers exchange glances.
‘Yes, Mrs Winter. I know. It must have been a terrible time.’
Ma frowned. ‘How could you know? You’re not much older than my son. Do you have any children?’
Lucy shook her head.
‘Then don’t presume to empathize.’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Winter.’
For a moment, Ma was silent, staring vacantly into space. She looked like an unplugged fruit machine; for a second I wondered if she’d had a stroke. Then she went on in a normal voice — at least what passes for normal with her.
‘A mother knows these things,’ she said. ‘A mother senses everything. I knew there was something wrong with him. He started to talk and cry in his sleep. And that’s when I began to suspect that something funny was going on.’
Oh, she was clever. She fed them the line. Fed it to them like poisoned bait, watching as I wriggled and squirmed. And the facts were indisputable. Between the ages of seven and thirteen, Ma’s youngest son Benjamin had enjoyed a special relationship with Dr Graham Peacock. As payment for helping in his research, the doctor had befriended him, had taken charge of his schooling, had even offered financial aid to Ma, a single parent —
Then suddenly, without warning, Ben had ceased to cooperate. He had become introverted and secretive; had started doing badly at school; had begun to misbehave; above all, he had flatly refused to go back to the Mansion, giving no good reason for his behaviour, so that Dr Peacock had withdrawn his support, leaving Ma to fend alone.
She should have suspected there and then that something had gone seriously wrong, but anger had blinded her to her son’s needs, and when, later, graffiti had been scrawled on the door of the Mansion, she had simply seen it as another proof of his growing delinquency. Ben had denied the vandalism. Ma had not believed him. It was only now that she realized what that gesture had really been; a cry for help; a warning —
‘What did you write on the door, B.B.?’ Her voice was chequered with menace and love.
I looked away. ‘Please, M-ma. It was so long ago. I d-don’t really think—’
‘B.B.’ Only I could hear the change in her voice: the vinegary, sour-vegetable tone that brought back the reek of the vitamin drink. Already my head was beginning to throb. I reached for the word that would drive it away. A word that sounds vaguely French, somehow, that makes me think of green summer lawns and the scent of cut grass in the meadows —
‘Pervert,’ I whispered.
‘What?’ she said.
I said it again, and she smiled at me.
‘And why did you write that, B.B.?’ she said.
‘Because he is.’ I was still feeling trapped, but behind the fear and the guilt of it all there was something almost pleasurable: a sense of perilous ownership.
I thought of Mrs White, and of the way she had looked that day on the steps of the Mansion. I thought of the pity on Mr White’s face, that day in St Oswald’s schoolyard. I thought of Dr Peacock’s face peering through the curtains, and his sheepish smile as I crept away. I thought of the ladies who had spoiled and petted me as a child, only to scorn me when I grew up. I thought of my teachers at school, and my brothers, who’d treated me with such contempt. Then I thought of Emily —
And I saw how easy it would be to take revenge on all those people, to make them pay attention to me, to make them suffer as I had. And for the first time since my earliest childhood, I was conscious of an exhilarating sensation. A feeling of power; an energy rush; a force; a current; a surge; a charge.
Charge. Such an ambivalent word, with its implications of power and blame, attack and detention, payment and cost. And it smells of burnt wiring and solder, and its colour is like a summer’s sky, thundery and luminous.
Don’t think I’m trying to absolve myself. I told you I was a bad guy. No one forced me to do what I did. I made a conscious decision that day. I could have done the right thing. I could have pulled the plug on it all. Told the truth. Confessed the lie. I had the choice. I could have left home. I could have escaped the pitcher plant.
But Ma was watching, and I knew that I would never do those things. It wasn’t that I was afraid of her — although I was, most terribly. It was simply the lure of being in charge — of being the one to whom eyes turned —
I know. Don’t think I’m proud of this. It’s not exactly my greatest moment. Most crimes are annoyingly petty, and I’m afraid mine was no exception. But I was young, too young in any case to see how cleverly she had handled me, guiding me through a series of hoops to a reward that would ultimately reveal itself to be the worst kind of punishment.
And now she was smiling — a genuine smile, radiating approval. And, at that moment, I wanted it, wanted to hear her say: well done, even though I hated her —
‘Tell them, B.B.,’ she said, pinning me with that brilliant smile. ‘Tell them what he did to you.’
10
You are viewing the webjournal of blueeyedboy.
Posted at: 03.58 on Sunday, February 17
Status: restricted
Mood: perverse
Listening to: 10cc: ‘I’m Not In Love’
The first thing that happened after that was that Emily was taken into protective care. Just as a precaution, they said; just to ensure her safety. Her reluctance to incriminate Dr Peacock was seen as proof of long-term abuse rather than simple innocence, and Catherine’s rage and bewilderment when faced with the accusations was seen as further evidence of some kind of collusion. Something had clearly been going on. At best, a cynical fraud. At worst, a large-scale conspiracy.
And now came Yours Truly’s testimony. It had started so harmlessly, I said. Dr Peacock had been very kind. Private lessons, cash now and then — that was how he’d reeled us in. And that was how he’d approached Catherine White, a woman with a history of depression, ambitious and easily flattered, so eager to believe that her child was special that she’d managed to blind herself to the truth.