‘What happened to you then?’ she asked gently, but he looked away, shaking his head.
‘Nothing worth remembering today. I survived, thanks to social services, and here we both are, back in John Moore’s house as adults. You can survive anything, you know.’
He took a large swallow of wine. Nina frowned. It was difficult to see what he meant by ‘survive’ and it didn’t look as if he was about to enlarge on it. Poor Paul. She had always been loved and cared for, but it sounded as if no one had loved Paul after his mother died.
He wiped his fingers on the paper napkin provided by the pizza company. ‘Almost forgot,’ he said, going over to the table. ‘I found your father’s parents here. Look.’
He lifted three black and white prints, and Nina took them eagerly. John Moore senior, her grandfather, and his young wife Sylvia. They must have been in their twenties here, standing side by side beside a bandstand, presumably in some park or other, uncertain smiles for the camera and uncomfortable, formal-looking clothes. Perhaps they’d been out for a Sunday walk – people had worn ‘Sunday best’ in those days. Nina stared, trying in vain to read their expressions and feeling the enormous distance separating them from her life today. What had John and Sylvia Moore done to turn their son into such a monster? Or maybe it wasn’t their fault, maybe young John had gone off the rails by himself. You couldn’t blame parents for everything. Paul handed her another photo showing a trio of people in various shades of grey.
‘My parents with Aunt Emily,’ he said.
Nina took the photos. Black and white pictures of days gone by. She searched round for a pen and paper. ‘Let’s number them, and write down who’s on which photo.’
They sat at the table, Paul numbering the photos and providing the names and Nina writing the list. Halfway down her page she squinted at him uneasily. He wasn’t happy doing this, so much was clear. His earlier good humour was gone and his answers to her questions were getting shorter all the time. At last they came to the end of the first pile; Paul numbered the final black and white ‘people’ photo and Nina wrote down the names, Emily and her sister Ruth, Paul’s grandmother. Family photos, and dear God, what had gone on behind the scenes in the Moore family?
‘Thank you,’ she said, putting her hand on his arm. ‘I can see it isn’t easy for you, revisiting the past like this. I’ll take the ones you don’t know to Emily tomorrow and see if she can add anything. Or – would you be able to come too? I’d be going in the morning, before we fly home.’
He shook his head. ‘I’m due another visit. But tomorrow’s impossible, I’m afraid. Give her my love.’
Nina hesitated, uneasiness creeping over her. She couldn’t put a finger on it but her previous rapport with Paul had vanished, and something about what he’d just said didn’t ring true. According to Emily, Paul hadn’t visited her for years. Maybe he was too ashamed to admit it, but why would he cut all ties with his great-aunt? Confusion spread through Nina. There was something he wasn’t telling her here and it was important, she could see that. Looking at those photos had stirred something up in his head… oh dear God… was this something to do with John Moore and the nasty photos… oh fuck… had Paul been on any of those photos? Could that be? The crying in the attic memory crashed back into Nina’s brain. Screaming, she remembered the sound now, even – but had she screamed – or Paul? What had happened back then? But before she could say anything Paul flung his pen down on the table.
‘God! Emily was the only one of them who was nice to me,’ he burst out. ‘My grandparents were all ‘children should be seen and not heard’. But Emily was cool.’
‘What about your parents, and mine? Were they strict too?’ said Nina carefully.
He was in a strange mood now, looking at her with over-bright eyes and pouring them both a generous second glass of wine. Nina sipped, then put her glass on the table. She didn’t want to get plastered and she’d already had a big glass. Hopefully the pizza would mop it up.
Paul flung himself down on the sofa and buried his head in his hands. Nina’s heart began to race. What was he going to tell her?
‘Your mother had the right idea,’ he said at last, lifting his head and staring at her.
The brightness in his eyes was unshed tears, and she passed him a tissue without speaking.
He blew his nose and went on. ‘Your mam got you out. Mine disappeared into a bottle.’
‘What are you saying?’ whispered Nina. Her stomach started to heave. ‘Paul? What happened?’
He reached for another tissue and started ripping it into shreds. ‘They hired – us – out,’ he said, spitting the words at her. ‘What do you think?’
‘Hired – how?’ Nina’s voice came out in a croak and her hands holding the tissue packet began to shake. For a few seconds the world around her hummed and it was as if the colours in the drab living room were turning silver. Quickly, she put her head between her knees. When the faintness passed she leaned back again. Paul was staring at nothing and twirling his empty wine glass. He wouldn’t meet her eye.
‘Our fathers?’ said Nina.
He nodded, still not looking at her. Nina raised her hands to her face. Dear God, what the shit had she been through in this house?
‘Are you saying we were abused here in this house and our fathers collected money for it?’
Paul gave a loud moan and jumped to his feet, pacing up and down in front of the disused fireplace. ‘Oh yes. Money, that’s all we were worth. They took photos, too. My dad was great with a camera, you know.’ His voice broke on the last word.
Nina clapped her hands to her mouth, feeling her eyes widen in horror. Dear Christ in heaven, this was worse than anything she’d ever imagined. His eyes held hers, and she could see the horror and the loathing he had felt back then; she could see how it was affecting his life today, how he could never get away from it.
‘You mean we were – raped?’ It was difficult to get the words out.
Paul laughed mirthlessly. ‘I was. I don’t know if you were. Maybe not. You were so young, and there was the necessity to give you back to your mother more or less in one piece, you see. Mine was usually too smashed to notice. It was all so fucking sordid and it hurt, Nina, it hurt like hell.’
Nina leapt up and ran to the narrow downstairs toilet, her hands over her mouth. Her gut cramped tightly as she vomited pizza and red wine into the bowl. Dear God. Why, why, didn’t she remember any of this? How old had she been? Two, three?
And shit, shit – but Claire couldn’t have known about that. Quite definitely not.
Could she?
The spasm over, she rinsed her face and drank from her cupped hands. Paul was waiting in the passageway, his eyes dull. He hugged her, saying nothing, and Nina held on tightly, breathing deeply and feeling the tension in her gut slacken. She knew the worst now, and she would have to learn to cope with it. She would get over this, because if she didn’t, John Moore would have won. That wasn’t going to happen.
Back in the living room, she took a cautious sip of wine.
‘My mother can’t have known,’ she said, leaning back in the sofa.
Paul glared at the floor. ‘Mine did. I told her after you left. I don’t know if she did anything, but nothing changed over the next couple of years. Except it happened to me more often because you weren’t there anymore. And then there was all the stuff with the business going down the pan. Mam and me moved away and the abuse stopped. I’ve never told anyone else.’
Nina felt physically drained, as if she’d run a marathon. Her muscles hurt. The thought of what had happened to her made her feel soiled, wasted, but she knew this was the feeling she would have to change. She had been an innocent child, she had not been made dirty by these people. Tomorrow she would tell all this to the police and then she would start the rest of her life.