Cath Staincliffe - Letters To My Daughter's Killer

I perch on the edge of the desk so that I have a clear view of the car.

‘But what did they say?’ He gives a great sigh, ragged and fast, and a spasm jolts through his frame.

‘Nothing. I don’t know. Kay was there, she knew they were coming.’

He raises his hands to the sides of his head. I am reminded of Florence when I made her milkshake.

‘And they wouldn’t do that, arrest him, unless there was good reason,’ I say. My mind careers back to that night, bumping over the paltry facts I know. There was no sign of damage. No need to force entry. A dozen blows at least. Jack discovering the body. Jack’s story of a night-time trip to the gym. ‘What’s the alternative? If it’s not Jack? Broderick Litton crawls out of the woodwork after more than a year’s gone by and Lizzie lets him in and he beats her to death and then conveniently disappears into the night before Jack gets back from his workout?’

‘But Jack…’ he whispers.

‘I know. I know.’ I bite down on my tears, breathing hard. ‘I don’t know what to do, I don’t… What do we tell Florence?’ I break down.

Tony comes and holds me, his arms strong and heavy round my shoulders, my face pressed against his work sweater, which smells of damp wool and white spirit and wood smoke. Scents that send me back to camping, bonfires on the beach, rain on canvas, the three of us playing cards in the light from the Tilley lamp. To days at the allotment, Lizzie in her dungarees with her toy wheelbarrow. Cycling to the library with Lizzie on the child seat, me helping set up the crèche where she will play with the other kids while I work. Tony collecting her from school and letting her act as sous-chef. Us stripping wallpaper and painting window frames and choosing where to put up bookshelves.

My face is damp, cold, and I ease away, wiping my cheeks and nose.

‘Why?’ Tony says. ‘Why?’

I have no idea, so I say nothing.

‘I can’t believe it,’ he says. ‘Not Jack.’

Not Lizzie.

I think of Jack, his voice on the phone begging for help, standing at the gate, his teeth chattering in his head. Jack eating in my kitchen, sleeping in my bed and weeping in the night. Jack echoing the questions we were all asking.

‘He’s an actor,’ I say. He convinced me.

‘Actors don’t kill people,’ Tony bursts out. Which is a ridiculous statement to make. As if an occupation confers or removes the capacity to take a life.

I snort and laugh. Tony scowls and throws out a hand. ‘You know what I mean. They might let him go, they might not charge him, it could be a mistake, a misunderstanding.’ He is pleading.

I shrug.

‘You really think they’re right?’

I don’t need to repeat myself; he can read it in my eyes.

‘No, no,’ he says, still not prepared to accept it.

The wind whistles through the keyhole, a soft moaning noise.

After a pause, he says, ‘What happens now?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What does Kay say?’

‘She’s gone, I chucked her out.’

He looks disapproving.

‘You weren’t there,’ I say. ‘Tony, it was awful. Florence was screaming and trying to get to her dad and Jack tried to run. They way they handled it.’ I shake my head.

When I see Florence move, her starfish palm against the car window, I go and fetch her in. She is cranky, restless, and complains that we’ve left Matilda at home. Tony distracts her, showing her how to wind the grandfather clock in the corner and taking her to see the bells and doorknockers in the sheds. But then she complains she’s hungry.

‘Chip shop chips,’ I say to her.

She blinks with surprise. Chips from the shop are a rare treat. She has frozen chips sometimes at home but Lizzie tries to limit the amount of junk food, much as Tony and I did when Lizzie was small. That all went out the window when she was a teenager and would only eat pizza and Pot Noodles and other crap. I decided not to fight about it. There were more important issues. A couple of years’ rebelling through food choices wouldn’t do her much harm.

‘Now?’ Florence says.

Tony looks at the clock. ‘The shop doesn’t open until twelve.’

Will she last an hour? I don’t think so.

‘I want chips,’ she begins to grizzle.

‘We’ll get chips as soon as the shop opens, but let’s get you something now to be going on with,’ I say. ‘At the baker’s.’

A single nod.

Tony locks up. We walk along the main road, heads bowed in the wind, past the antique and second-hand shops, to the local bakery.

Inside, Florence presses her nose against the display cabinets and surveys the sandwiches, pies and pastries, then cranes her neck, standing on tiptoe. ‘Cake,’ she says.

‘Here.’ Tony lifts her up, names the choices. Custard slice, strawberry tart, coconut macaroon, Eccles cake, chocolate fudge cake, apple pie, rocky road.

‘Rocky road?’ Florence says.

‘It’s got nuts and fruit and chocolate. Very chewy,’ I say.

‘Or there’s fairy buns.’ The assistant points them out.

Florence shakes her head.

We wait and wait as she hums and haws. Tony puts her down.

I edge her to one side so the assistant can deal with new customers. My back aches from standing still. ‘Two more minutes,’ I say, ‘then I’ll pick.’

‘No!’ she objects.

‘We can’t stand here all day.’

She seems unable to decide, rocking in an agony of indecision. I am reminded of the way she acted choosing the toy. Impatience simmers beneath my skin, my nerves already shredded by Jack’s arrest. ‘Get two different things,’ I suggest, keeping my voice level, ‘one for you and one for Matilda.’

That works.

‘Rocky road for Matilda. Chocolate for me.’

We are halfway back to the yard when she bursts into tears. ‘I don’t want chocolate, I don’t want it.’

Tony gives me a look suggesting we go back, but I think she’ll just repeat it all. There’s a newsagent’s on the next corner and I nip in there, buy a bag of Hula Hoops and a carton of Vimto.

Florence eyes them as I come out. She is still crying. I don’t say anything, but we walk on and she quietens. Once we’re in Tony’s office again, I open the Hula Hoops and eat a couple. Put the cakes on the table. Offer the Hula Hoops to Tony. He shakes his head until he sees me glare, then he takes one and eats it. Florence watches.

She can tell something is going on but can’t quite work out what.

I shake the Vimto, pierce it with the straw and take a sip. Offer it to Florence. She takes it and drinks. All the crying will have made her thirsty.

‘Can I have some of your cake?’ I say.

She screws up her mouth, uncertain.

‘You can have some of my Hula Hoops.’

She nods.

I give her the Hula Hoops. She eats them all. I take a morsel of cake. She eats the rest, then the Rocky Road, her little teeth cracking the nuts with relish.

Tony fields calls while we’re there. There’s a strange, sad intimacy in the situation. It’s like we’re hiding. I should speak for myself. I’m hiding. Playing house. Not willing to face real life. Real death.

Dead on noon, we go to buy chips, and they are huge and crisp and golden. The vinegar makes my eyes water. We eat them in the car. I burn my tongue. Florence polishes off plenty. Her appetite is amazing.

‘We’d better go,’ I tell Tony, ‘let you get on with work.’

He shrugs. ‘I don’t mind.’

‘We’ll go.’

‘If you hear anything…’

‘Of course.’

‘I’ll come round later.’

I’m at sea, unmoored. I drive home, and Florence and I lie on the sofa together with Matilda and watch films back to back.