‘We can never be certain what the outcome of a trial will be, how a jury will vote on the evidence, but we have a very strong case.’
I think of Jack confined in a small cell, damp staining the stone walls, a metal door and bedstead, a soiled blanket.
And I wish him dead.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
17 Brinks Avenue
Manchester
M19 6FX
It wasn’t me. Not guilty.
Three years you kept that up. That monstrous lie. Three years without the grace, the humanity, the balls to take responsibility.
In childbirth, the afterpains are often as strong as those in labour. I had them when I had Lizzie, forcing me to stop whatever I was doing and breathe through the contraction until it passed. Earthquakes have aftershocks following the original devastation, continuing to tear at anything left standing, to paralyse rescue missions, to terrorize survivors.
After the trauma of Lizzie’s murder, your arrest, the understanding that she died at your hand is just like that, an aftershock. And because I am already weakened by the loss, your calumny, your crime feels equally grievous.
I cannot believe she’s gone.
I cannot believe you took her.
I know these facts are true, but they are as hard to grasp as the beams of sunshine streaming into my dining room.
There’s a bitter taste of triumph, sour at the back of my mouth. Any inclination to punch the air or cheer or clap with relief is suffocated by the awful, senseless waste of it all.
You have ruined your own life as well as Lizzie’s. God only knows what you’ve done to Florence. Hear her? Still whining and kicking the furniture.
You fool, you bloody stupid fool. I wish Lizzie had never met you. I wish you’d never been born. But then I wouldn’t have Florence. I’m not in any position to bargain. To trade my granddaughter for my daughter. For what you’ve done cannot be undone. This isn’t a dress rehearsal, no press preview. The curtain has come down, the audience are long gone. The place is tacky, tawdry in the cold glare of the house lights. You are locked up. I would rain misery and terror on your head.
I want my daughter back.
Ruth
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
17 Brinks Avenue
Manchester
M19 6FX
Your parents won’t believe it. Marian calls my mobile. She’s left messages on the landline but I have not responded. It’s as if I’m over the limit in terms of the emotional burden I can withstand and the prospect of a conversation with her is just too much. But I see her name and answer.
‘We’ve heard about Jack,’ she says without any preliminaries. ‘It’s outrageous.’
The choice of words gives me pause. I’m still wondering what exactly is outrageous when she continues, ‘They’re obviously determined to blame it on someone rather than do their job properly and catch the real culprit. That monster Litton is still out there, he must be having a great laugh at our expense.’
‘You think Jack’s innocent?’ I say. This is what’s outrageous. I feel a wave of heat in my face and anger blossoming in my belly.
‘Of course!’ she explodes. ‘Ruth, he would never do something like this, not in a million years. How can you even think… He’s innocent. I know my son. It’s a terrible mistake. I don’t know what they’re playing at, but they’ve got the wrong man.’ She stops, and I don’t say anything.
When she speaks again, she is quieter, more measured, though I can hear high emotion trembling at the fringes of her words. ‘Ruth, honestly, Jack did not hurt Lizzie. He adored her. He needs us to believe in him, to stand by him until the truth comes out.’
‘No,’ I say flatly.
‘Ruth-’
‘No. You can do what you like.’
‘You can’t just condemn him outright. He’s-’
‘It won’t be up to me, will it?’ I say.
‘Until we know the truth…’
I think of Tony’s reaction after your arrest, his reluctance to believe your guilt: Have you taken leave of your senses? How I argued that I’d seen first-hand your impulse to run away, that surge of animal energy when you were cornered. How the hard facts meant you were far more likely to be responsible than an elusive stalker or some unidentified stranger.
Perhaps Marian has to believe in you, because she is your mother. I try to twist it round, imagine Lizzie accused of violence, of murder, but fail. I have not had a son; would that would be different, bring a different perspective? So easy to blame the women, isn’t it? Blame Marian for some fault in your upbringing, some problem relating to women. Or blame Lizzie for an affair, like Tony suggested, or some provocation.
Perhaps Marian dares not allow that it might be you because of the cost to her. Parents will do anything for their children, after all. Destroy evidence, invent alibis, lie under oath. Only this year there’s been the Rhys Jones case. A schoolboy shot as he played out on his bike. The killer’s mother lied to the police and was charged with perverting the course of justice.
‘Jack has never been in trouble in his life,’ Marian says. ‘You’re so wrong. I simply don’t understand how you can choose to believe for one moment-’
‘Marian, it’s not something I’ve chosen. It’s a gut feeling. As soon as they arrested him, I knew. He tried to run away.’
‘That’s just ridiculous.’ Now she’s arsey, aggressive, telling me off. ‘You’re just going to abandon him?’
Any restraint snaps. ‘He killed my daughter! Too bloody right I’m abandoning him. I hope he rots in jail.’ I hang up.
‘Nana,’ Florence calls out from the living room. I close my eyes for a moment, then go through to her.
She’s lying on the floor, hands by her sides, eyes half open; she shuts them tight when I come in.
‘Where’s Florence?’ I say, pretending I can’t see her. She loves hide-and-seek. Though she usually picks slightly better hiding places.
‘I’m here,’ she says. ‘Look!’
‘What are you doing down there?’
‘I being dead.’
Fuck! My stomach plummets. I stamp down the urge to haul her up, to tell her to stop it. A flurry of uncertainty: should I ask her more, give her a chance to talk, or explain again what dead is, what’s happened to Lizzie? See if she really understands? But I’m not ready, too wound up.
‘Are you now? That’s sad. So you won’t want any fish fingers then?’
Her eyes fly open. ‘Yes!’ she says.
‘How many? Three?’
‘Two. No, three.’ She gets up and rubs her nose on her sleeve.
I will have to tell her about you, as well. She must be confused. The scene in the kitchen, her brave attempt to protect you, to keep you. My lie about you working. I need help. No doubt there is advice online from bereavement charities about explaining death to a four-year-old. But I doubt there’s much about explaining that the police think Daddy did it. That Daddy killed Mummy.
She adores you.
And I will destroy that.
Ruth
CHAPTER NINETEEN
17 Brinks Avenue
Manchester
M19 6FX
Rebecca is here. When I open the door, she starts talking, saying if it’s a bad time she can come back later, then she dissolves into tears.
I bring her in.
Rebecca is Lizzie’s soul sister. They met at primary school. Rebecca has three sisters; she’s the youngest. Their dad left when Rebecca was a baby. Her mum was unhappy and took it out on the children, Rebecca particularly. Looking after four children on your own is no picnic. I felt sorry for her, Samantha, but she rebuffed any moves I made to be friendly. She worked as a secretary at a private school in Sale. On several occasions when we were collecting the kids from the after-school club I heard her belittling Rebecca. I didn’t have the courage to intervene directly, but when Rebecca stayed over at ours or came to play, I made a point of praising her, because she was a lovely girl.