Authors: Laura Carter
Chapter Twenty-Two
I know I’ve been in my room for two days because it’s been light and dark and light and now it’s an hour into darkness again. For two days, questions have thrashed around the vortex of my mind and I’ve been unable to find an answer amongst the disarray. In no order, thoughts, concepts, subtle movements and noises are being absorbed but not processed. I’ve begun to notice some things for the first time, small insignificant things. Like the seal of my white Georgian sash bedroom window allows air to seep inside and gently blow the curtains. The door between the kitchen and hallway squeaks as it opens and closes, loud enough to be heard upstairs. Scotch appears to grow lighter in colour as the volume in your glass diminishes.
I hear voices sometimes, coming and going, saying nothing of consequence. Generally, people are sorry, sorry for our loss and the tragedy of Alzheimer’s. They never apologise for hiding from my father as his illness got worse and they never acknowledge that it was not Alzheimer’s in the end but me, his only child, who killed him.
The day it happened, the day he was murdered, I kicked and punched but Jackson still brought Sandy and me home. I’m vaguely aware that he carried me into the house and onto the sofa where Sandy covered me with a blanket and gave me neat Scotch to drink. The first mouthful burned through my insides, along my veins, exactly as I deserved. The second burned less, the third and fourth less again.
I woke on the sofa during the night and poured another whisky, which I carried with me to my father’s bedroom. It was different, cold and desolate. I’d intended to sleep in his bed, to cover myself in his sheets and sleep with his familiar, loving smell. But that smell was gone, replaced with the smell of stale urine. Medicinal products filled his room and displaced all that used to be safe and homely. I wondered then whether I was happy, not for myself but for my father, or rather, relieved, relieved that he’d suffer no more, that he could sit on his cloud and play chess with old friends in good health. Perhaps he could even help people, put his skills to work.
Then I retched. I retched with hatred of myself and my disgusting thoughts because I knew that in no world could I justify what I brought upon my father. After that, not even the Scotch could take away the agony I felt in my chest and stomach. That agony stayed with me as I left my father’s room and entered my own. It stays with me now, burning like fire. My eyes sting constantly, the skin on my lips is broken and to speak feels like shards of glass ripping the flesh of my throat.
I loathe myself. I detest Gregory and his father and the fact that either of them ever came into my life. I can’t get hold of which of us I hate more and I fear for how I’ll feel when my anger finds its rightful home. I fear that the vicious circle of darkness hasn’t ended. That for me, it’s only just begun.
* * *
I think somewhere, deep inside me, I knew she’d come, so Lara’s voice offering sympathy to Sandy at the front door is no surprise. Their voices are quiet but it’s clear that Sandy, Jackson and Lara are taking turns to speak. I hear the kettle being filled then placed on its holster and I imagine they’re sitting around the breakfast bar, Lara in a long black coat, elbow length black gloves and a veil across her face. Jackson in his black suit and tie, wearing a black homburg and carrying spare silk handkerchiefs in his pocket.
Sandy taps on my bedroom door before stepping inside. For some reason, I feel compelled to change from my leggings and hooded jumper before I see Lara. Fleetingly, I wonder what Gregory would think of my dowdy clothes, my pale skin and the black rings beneath my eyes.
I change into skinny jeans and a cream blouse but, reaching to release my hair from the messy knot on top of my head, I realise my arms are devoid of energy and the desire to cover my shame in makeup no longer exists. I want the world to see what I’ve done.
The light in the hallway is much brighter than the dim lamp in my bedroom, forcing me to squint. Anxiety or nervousness builds as I descend the staircase and I clutch the banister to steady my weak legs. The house feels different somehow, detached and unfamiliar. The curtains seem old and the gold frames around the hanging pictures have lost their shine. Each step moves me forward in slow motion, like a scene that’s been time-stretched in a movie for dramatic effect.
She can’t see you like this. You can’t let her see what they’ve done to you.
With each inward breath, my back straightens, my shoulders move back. Suddenly vicious anger takes over my body until I’m biting down on gums and the taste of iron seeps into my spit.
A low sultry voice says, “Scarlett. I wasn’t sure you’d see me.” Lara hangs her head.
“Do you think I have good reason to refuse to see you?”
I acknowledge Jackson’s presence and note his position on a stool close to Sandy. Perhaps for her sake more than my own, I thank him for bringing me home from the hospital. Jackson only nods.
“Let’s go to the lounge,” I say, already walking in the direction, my back to Lara.
I was wrong about her clothes. She’s immaculate but understated in tapered black trousers and flat shoes. She hasn’t removed her three-quarter length black wool coat and zebra print scarf. That she truly didn’t expect to see me, that I have enough control to send her away, makes me feel stronger.
Pouring myself a neat Scotch from my father’s decanter, I finally look at her face.
“Why are you here, Lara?”
She sighs, squeezing her eyes shut. “I realise I have no right to ask anything of you, Scarlett. I know what that beast has done and I wish I could undo it. But I can’t, so I also know that I can tell you how sorry I am about your father as many times as I like and whilst it might make me feel better, you either won’t believe me or won’t care. But know this. Gregory is a good man. He’s not like his father. There’s nothing of that hateful man in my son. I’m here to tell you how sorry I am but also to beg you not to blame my son for his past.”
Unwillingly my body whispers loud enough for her to hear, “I would believe you.” I think part of me knows Gregory couldn’t have stopped this and I do know that little boy in my mind is not to blame. The other part of me hates everything that’s happened and everyone I’ve met since that pitch in Gregory’s boardroom. The knife already buried in my gut twists. A searing pain threatening to tear me apart.
Lara exhales, long, slowly, purposefully, as if she’s been holding her breath. Her bright red lips are pursed. I walk to the fire that Sandy has lit and rest my hands on the old wooden mantelpiece to give myself a chance to remember that I can’t feel sorry for this woman. I drain the Scotch in my glass, pinching my eyes shut to feel the burn.
“Scarlett, I want to tell you a story. Can I tell you a story?”
I’m terrified of what she might tell me. I don’t know whether I can take any more of this family and their convoluted web. I say nothing and continue to stare into the orange flames.
“Imagine you’re five years old.”
I close my eyes but don’t see a five-year-old version of myself, I see the little boy from my father’s operating theatre.
“You’re five years old. Your mum has cuddled you to sleep in your bed because you can’t sleep alone. You’re terrified of the dark, you jump whenever you hear a bang or a creek in the house, you shake when you hear the sound of your own father’s voice. Your mum has tucked you into bed in the knowledge that in an hour, maybe two, your father will be home. You both hate it when he’s drunk but he’s drunk so often that you just pray he’s drunk enough to pass out when he comes home. Even when he’s that drunk, you’ll probably wake and most likely wet the bed at the sound of his keys fumbling for the door lock. Your mum will be back to change your bed and cuddle you to sleep again.”
I open my eyes and watch the roaring fire. Taking my glass back to the bar table to top it up, I pour Lara a drink too, which she sips elegantly without looking up. I retake my position by the fire.
“Your mum is still watching you from the chair in your room when his car pulls into the drive way. From the way the tyres squeal you both know it’s one of his worse days. You open one eye to check that your mum is still in the room with you, then pretend to be asleep. You both listen as your father bounces from the door to the wall and throws his keys onto the side table in the hall. Your mum leaves your room and pulls your door closed. She’s trying to shield you from him but you know what he’ll do to her and you know that it’ll be bad, you’ve seen it before.”
Lara pauses and I listen as she swallows down another sip of Scotch in the quiet of the room. I want to tell her to stop. I want to tell her that she doesn’t have to do this but I need to know what happens to the boy.
“He yells up the stairs for your mum and you listen to her steps as she goes to him in the hope he’ll stay downstairs and leave you alone. The next thing you hear is him shouting at her. ‘Get me a drink, slut.’ ‘Fucking bitch.’ He pushes her against the living room wall and the banging and screaming starts. That’s when you leave your room. Trembling, you creep down the stairs in your wet pyjamas. Through the banister, you see him slap her as she slumps on the floor. You start to cry but he won’t hear you over the yelling. You shout, ‘Stop!’ You beg him to leave your mum alone but that only makes him angrier. Terrified, you walk to the door of the lounge and he laughs at you, he calls you ‘puff boy’ and ‘pissy pants.’ Then he snarls, ‘Stop what?’ and grabs your mother by the hair, dragging her across the lounge floor.
“He pulls her onto her knees by the coffee table then smiles at you before he starts banging, banging, banging her head on the corner of the table. Blood streams from her head and her eyes start to roll back. ‘Me!’ you shout. ‘Do it to me instead!’ When he doesn’t listen you run to where he’s standing and with full force you punch yourself in the face to show him what he could do to you instead.”
I glance back at Lara and watch her shaking hand raise her glass to her lips. I quickly turn away, I can’t watch as she relives this. Gregory tried to protect her. He saw all this and he was willing to hurt himself to protect his mother. That little boy. I hold a hand to my chest to stop my heart from shattering.
“You have his attention. He lets your mum’s body fall to the floor. She tries to reach out her hand toward you but she’s too frail. She tries and tries but she can’t. Your father beats his fist in his palm and you take a step backwards. He does it again and you stumble to the ground. He puts his foot on your head, pinning you to the floor and starts to fumble in his pockets. You stare into your mum’s eyes as she lies desperate on the floor and she’s begging you not to do any more. Tears fill your eyes and your cheeks burn with anger. ‘She’s a whore,’ he snarls. ‘She’s a whore and you’re stupid. My stupid fucking boy!’ He pulls out a cigarette from his inside pocket and sticks it between his lips. In your anger you struggle, kicking your legs. You manage to knock him off balance and he staggers back against the wall but he’s irate now. You get to your knees and try to crawl to your mum but he kicks you, striking you in the chest, knocking the wind from your lungs. Then he kicks you again in the head and you’re on the floor. You can’t breathe. He picks up the cigarette he dropped and pulls out his lighter. You curl into a fetal position as he stomps on your head again. He lights the cigarette and laughs, a fierce, deep cackling laugh, as he takes two puffs. Then he puts his hand around your throat and pulls you to your knees. You think he’ll stump his cigarette on you but instead he hands you the cigarette. ‘Do it,’ he says. You shake your head slowly from side to side as tears stream down your face but he tightens his grip on your throat. ‘Do it!’ he snarls. You take the cigarette in your hand. ‘Do it or I’ll kill the bitch,’ he screams. You look at your mum who’s trying with all her strength to get to her feet but she can’t. ‘I’ll kill her,’ he screams. You take the cigarette and stub it once, twice, three times on your own arm. You don’t scream; you look him in the eye each time as the cigarette singes your skin. He laughs when he releases his grip on your throat like it was a game. Then he staggers out of the room and you’re left, five years old, burned, soiled and broken, to look after your beaten and bleeding mother.”
Lara sniffs and wipes her face with one hand, finishing her Scotch with the other.
“Gregory hates his father, hates him, and I do too.”
I want to say I hate Pearson and I hate Gregory too but no words leave my mouth. I stare at the cement between the bricks on the fireplace.
“He can’t stand the thought that you’re hurting because of him.”
I continue to stare at the cement until it starts to infiltrate me, crushing my ribcage, the weight excruciating against my heart.
“You probably think he deserves to hurt and I don’t blame you but I do want you to know that the last thing he would ever want to do is cause you pain. He’s my little boy, Scarlett. My brave, five-year-old little boy and I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him.”
“A life for a life.” I whisper.
I hear Lara place her glass on the bar table and leave the room. Within seconds, Sandy closes the front door behind Lara and Jackson.
“Are you okay?” Sandy asks in her soft, comforting way.
I wipe silent tears from my cheeks then move to the sofa, not knowing or understanding how I should answer that question. Sandy takes the almost empty whisky glass from my hand and places it on the bar table without offering me more.
She takes a seat beside me so that her hip is touching mine. “Jackson told me everything.”
Pulling my knees into my chest, I wonder whether Jackson has always known about Gregory’s past and whether he’s betrayed Gregory’s confidence in telling Sandy the truth but I’m grateful that she finally knows what I’ve done.
I ask the question I’ve been trying to answer for myself. “Do you hate me?”
“Hate you? Of course not! This is not your fault.”
I shake my head.
“It’s nobody’s fault but one very sick man.”
“Sandy, I knew what Gregory was doing. I knew the whole thing and I still helped them do it.”