Cath Staincliffe - Letters To My Daughter's Killer

‘You want to keep it in the news?’ Tony says.

‘That’s right. I certainly do,’ DI Ferguson says keenly.

‘Yes, we’ll help,’ I say, looking to Jack, who nods his agreement.

‘Yes,’ says Tony.

‘Thank you. Kay will go over the details. Now, is there anything you want to ask me? If I can answer you, I will.’

Marian and Alan arrange takeaways for our meal that evening. My table only seats four, but we crowd round it, joined by Tony and Denise. Jack tells his parents what we’ll be doing for the appeal, then people make gentle conversation, mainly on safe topics. We’re all too numb to exchange any more reactions about Lizzie’s death. The medication has kicked in, making me feel dopey.

Marian and Alan go back to their hotel, Kay goes home, Tony and Denise leave and Bea arrives. We hug for a long time. Death does this: suddenly human touch, physical expressions of comfort and warmth, is instinctive. Freely given and received.

We settle in the kitchen and Bea makes coffee. ‘God, Ruth, I don’t know what to say. It still doesn’t seem real.’

‘Not even to me, and I saw her. Perhaps if I’d been able to go and identify her…’ A dozen blows at least. Her face.

‘Will they let you see her another time?’

I shrug.

‘Ask them,’ she says.

‘She was pregnant, Bea.’

Her lip quivers.

I try and keep my voice steady. ‘Twins, not far on, seven weeks.’

‘Oh Ruth, it’s horrendous. Whoever it is, I hope he’s shot resisting arrest or something.’ She slams the cafetière down on the side and I fear the glass will crack.

‘No. Don’t say that.’

‘Why?’ She’s almost cross with me.

‘Because then we won’t know anything.’

She baulks, considering this, raises her eyebrows. ‘Perhaps it’s best-’

‘No,’ I interrupt, ‘it isn’t.’

I try and explain to her.

In the night I wake and hear crying, sobbing, Jack in the other bedroom. No sound from Florence. Poor, poor man.

I wonder whether she knew her fate. Whether she sensed it as the door swung open. She was good at reading body language; intrinsic to her work after all. But she was shy, too, reserved, so that might have been a check on her instinctive response.

At what point did she know? Or did she die ignorant, oblivious? You must have had time to grab the poker, or did you attack her before you picked that up? Trip her over, knock her down, punch her?

One of the hardest things is imagining the terror she must have felt if she did realize you were going to hurt her. If she understood with the innate sense of an animal that she was in jeopardy, in the deepest danger. The preservation of life is the strongest instinct; it’s why starving people will eat their young, why someone trapped will sever their own limb.

Had she the prescience to know her life was ending? It pierces my soul to think of Lizzie riddled with that level of fear.

When you finally answer my questions, I hope that you will tell me that she had no notion of what would befall her, that you tricked her and she turned away, and she never saw you raise the cast-iron stick. That the first blow felled her like a lamb, crushed her brain like a grape, stopped her heart, the swelling of her lungs, the blood in her veins. I hope that you will tell me that.

But I need you to tell me the truth.

However bleak.

Ruth

Thursday 17 September 2009

Kay orders the flowers. A bouquet from Jack, one from Tony and me. She brings back some stationery too, cream vellum, thick, for us to write notes.

Florence is drawing a rainbow with felt tips, upper teeth snagging her lower lip in concentration. She presses hard on the paper, which begins to tear. When I try to slide another piece of paper underneath, she shoves it away. I feel a moment’s fierce irritation. Hold it in. After all, the kitchen table is already marked with scratches, burns and scuffs, biro marks. A bit of felt tip won’t hurt.

I pick up a pen and stare at the paper. What can I possibly say? ‘I can’t do this,’ I mumble, tears stinging the back of my eyes. I pull my glasses off.

‘Ruth…’ Tony says.

‘No.’ I go outside. Words have been my life, words, books, stories, reading. Okay, maybe not the whole of my life, but a great part of it, and now they fail me. They are inadequate, pale, flimsy, weak.

Tony comes out after a few minutes. ‘We can just keep it simple,’ he says. ‘Say we love her, always.’ His voice wavers and he pinches his nose.

‘It’s not enough.’

‘A poem then, a quotation.’

I smile, a rush of affection. I used to send him poems when we first started going out. Sonnets and verses I thought he’d like. Shakespeare, Donne, Plath, Dickinson.

‘I’ll have a look.’

He had come to the library looking for reference books about architecture, wanting to become more knowledgeable for his salvage work. I had just started there, librarian assistant on a job creation scheme. A way to get off the dole for six months. After a degree in English and history and a year’s teacher training, I decided that teaching was not for me. At least not classroom teaching. But I loved the library work, helping people with all sorts of quests for knowledge.

When Tony asked for advice, whether there were any more books he could get hold of, I suggested he try Central Library with its extensive reference section. I showed him how to find books in the catalogue and, if they weren’t in our Ladybarn branch, how to request an inter-library loan.

He kept coming back. Shelley, one of the other staff, nudged me one day: ‘Romeo’s in again.’ I wondered who she meant. Then she nodded to him. ‘Put him out of his misery, Ruth, ask him out.’

‘You don’t think…’ I blushed.

‘I do. Don’t you like him?’

It took me a moment to answer. ‘Yes.’

‘Well then. Invite him to the Valentine’s Verse Night.’ We were having an event with local poets and musicians.

My face was still aflame as Tony came up to the counter.

‘This one’s overdue,’ he said. ‘My uncle borrowed it.’

‘First time, I’ll let you off.’

He smiled. When he smiled, his green eyes shone.

Tony isn’t traditionally handsome; he certainly hasn’t got the leading-man looks that Jack has. He’s well built, broad-shouldered, with huge hands and feet. A bit like a prop forward. His nose is sharp, his cheeks round. He had curly blond hair back then but I found him attractive. And he had charisma.

There was also the appeal of his attention; he was really interested in me, in my opinions. We had long discussions, arguing about politics and feminism and social issues; he teased me about my middle-class background and I teased him back about his Manchester scally posturing. He was easily as bright as I was, which was what really mattered.

I fell in love with him.

I didn’t ever stop, though I’ve learnt to hide it. I still don’t know, don’t really know, what Denise gives him that I didn’t. Why he prefers her. Objective as I can be, I don’t get it. I never have.

We are all tense; the atmosphere in the house before we leave to lay the flowers is brittle.

The rain has stopped, but it’s cold and damp and the feel of winter is in the air. Jack looks wiped out, purple shadows under his eyes. On the way in the car he starts shivering, and I reach out and touch him. The look he gives me is so sad, so wretched, I almost ask if we can call the whole thing off.

Jack has white flowers, roses, gypsophila, lilies and carnations. The carnations smell strong, sweet and spicy in the car. Melissa and Mags have been to the allotment and gathered some wild flowers – cornflower, little daisies, cow parsley and sweet peas -included in the florist’s arrangement of yellow roses and blue iris that I carry.