Cath Staincliffe - Letters To My Daughter's Killer

The visitors come into the kitchen with Kay. Police officers. Jackets wet with raindrops.

‘Mr Jack Tennyson,’ one of them says.

‘Yes,’ Jack says, looking to see what they want.

They both hold up their ID cards. And the one who spoke, plump, fair-haired, introduces them. PC Curtis and PC Simmons.

They must have news! Have they found you? I lean against the worktop to steady myself, intent on whatever is coming next. I’m waiting, eager, poised, holding my breath. The men move further into the room past Florence to Jack at the end of the table. Then PC Curtis speaks again. ‘Jack Tennyson, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Lizzie Tennyson, on the twelfth of September 2009…’

Shock jolts through me, stealing my breath.

Jack jumps to his feet, his face white with shock, shouting, ‘No!’

Florence flies to reach him, knocking her drink over as she drops from her chair.

‘… you do not have to say anything…’ Jack lunges along the side of the table, knocking over a chair. PC Simmons charges after him, blocks him in. Jack wrestles, still trying to get away. But Simmons has a set of handcuffs and he grabs for Jack’s arms.

PC Curtis keeps talking as he moves after Jack, ‘… but anything you do say may be given in evidence and…’

Jack is struggling, shouting, ‘This is crazy! I didn’t do it. I didn’t do anything.’ Lunging to try and break free. He kicks out with his legs, knocking a chair over, wrenches away but Simmons holds him fast.

Florence is screaming, ‘Daddy! Daddy!’ She darts under the table to her father.

My heart hammers in my chest and I feel the pain needle through it, sharp as a knife.

‘… may harm your defence when used in court.’

They have Jack’s hands behind his back. His face has gone rigid, his eyes blazing.

Florence is screaming and hitting at PC Simmons, trying to reach her father. She squeezes past him and grabs Jack’s leg.

Kay calls out, ‘PC Simmons, please!’

‘Let her say goodbye.’ My voice cuts through the mayhem. I stare at PC Simmons, the one who has cuffed him. ‘Look at her, she’s four years old. Let her say goodbye.’

‘Do it,’ says Kay.

His eyes flicker at me. Jack is still shaking his head, his face flooded with colour now.

I move round until I’m by Florence and lift her up so she’s level with Jack. She throws her skinny arms around his neck, still sobbing, ‘Daddy. Daddy.’

‘I’ll be back soon, sweetheart,’ Jack says, his voice hoarse. ‘Just a silly mix-up.’

I have to pull her away, use my hands to release hers, peeling her off him, and she falls silent. Suddenly there’s just the uneven shake of her breath.

The men lead Jack out. The room stinks of banana and male sweat.

The truth settles on me heavy as lead, the ground is wobbly beneath my feet. I edge on to Jack’s empty chair and sit Florence on my knee and stare vacantly at the walls. Outside a car starts and there’s a splatter of rain on the windows behind me.

The truth pours through me like water on sand, soaking in instantly. In my belly and my guts, in my arms, my thighs, from the nape of my neck to the soles of my feet. I’m aware of Florence, her weight on my legs, one hand gripping my little finger, the heat from her body against my stomach.

The truth solidifies inside me, granite-hard yet raw as flesh, quick as lightning and deep as space. Fathomless. I taste it in the roof of my mouth, hear it in the tick of my blood, see it in Kay’s eyes, in the image of Jack trying to run, in the way Lizzie’s hand caught the firelight. I smell it in the stink of body odour and ripe fruit. I feel it in my scalp and my bowels and the marrow of my bones.

You are not Broderick Litton.

Not some prowler.

Not some random stranger.

You are Jack.

Jack killed Lizzie.

Jack is you.

You are Jack.

And I hate you.

Ruth

Saturday 19 September 2009

The rage comes next. I round on Kay as soon as I can extricate myself from Florence, lay her on the sofa and cover her with a blanket. I’m not even astonished that she goes to sleep.

‘You knew!’ I say. ‘You fucking knew and you let me sit here, you let Florence see that! Her own father dragged off in handcuffs.’ I’m close to belting her, but turn and hit the nearest thing, the shelf with cookery books, send them flying. I would tear the walls down. But still I hold myself together.

‘I’m so sorry. They weren’t supposed to-’

I’m not ready to hear it. Not excuses or explanations. ‘That child,’ I hiss at her, determined not to weep because then I will lose the ability to say my piece, ‘has lost her mother and you people tear her father away like… like savages.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she says, ‘I am so sorry.’

‘Go. Just get out.’ I can’t bear her, can’t bear it. ‘Just get out.’

‘But-’

‘I don’t want you here.’

‘I’ll ring you later.’ At least she doesn’t argue with me.

A band tightens around my skull and a sweet, brackish taste floods my mouth. In the garden I vomit down the drain, the rain pelting on my back and drenching my hair.

I have to see Tony.

Florence is drowsy as I transfer her to the car. There’s a CD of nursery rhymes among the discs in the glove compartment and I put that on. I could walk to the salvage yard, but not in this weather, in this state, not with Florence.

I’m probably not fit to drive, but it’s only five minutes.

The gates are open and I don’t see any customers’ vehicles in the yard. The lights are on in Tony’s office. I park so that I will be able to see Florence from the windows.

It is years since I’ve been here but it hasn’t changed much. Though I can see he’s surfaced the central courtyard, which used to be rutted and pitted and prone to puddles. And the far end of the lot, once a pair of garages, is now a large open-fronted area with a roof and aisles, presumably for various categories of stock. Adjoining the office and opposite, across the yard, are the same assortment of prefabs, sheds and lean-tos where people can browse for doorknobs and candelabra, newel posts and stained-glass panels.

My hair flies about, blinding me as I cross to the office.

Tony must have heard the car, because he opens the door before I reach it. He steps back and lets me inside.

‘They’ve arrested Jack,’ I say, ‘just now, at my house.’ My voice is blurred, my mouth dry.

His face moves, eyes blinking, mouth working.

‘For Lizzie’s murder,’ I say. My breath comes sharp, blades in it.

The blood falls from Tony’s face, leaving him a ghastly white colour. He sways where he stands, then raises his face to the ceiling. He tries to speak but fails to find the words, just a few stuttering syllables. He swings round, then back to me. ‘That’s crazy. What the hell are they playing at! We should ring someone, a solicitor. Do something. We should… Good God! Fuck! It doesn’t make sense.’ His eyes are wild, he gasps for breath.

‘Tony… I think they’re right.’

‘What? Have you taken leave of your senses? Bloody hell, Ruth.’

‘Stop shouting and listen,’ I say, but he doesn’t.

‘He thought the world of her; this is Jack we’re talking about.’

‘I know! But when they came, when they arrested him, he tried to run away. He was expecting it. Any normal person, if they were innocent, they’d be speechless, stunned, outraged, but it was just like he knew he’d been caught and he made this mad dash for it and they had to physically restrain him.’

The air seems to leak out of Tony. He moves slowly, stooping, around the desk to his ancient office chair with its curved back and castors on the legs and green leather seat and back.