Cath Staincliffe - Letters To My Daughter's Killer

‘Were you in your room when they had that big fight?’

She rubs her nose. Nods twice. Notices dough on her fingernails and peers at it.

‘Did you hear them have that big fight?’

‘Yes.’

‘Poor Mummy,’ I say. ‘You were a good girl, Florence, Mummy loved you and when Daddy got cross you hadn’t done anything wrong.’

‘I stayed in my room,’ she says. Like it’s an achievement. I read my book, I brushed my teeth.

‘You didn’t see Mummy?’ I have to know. She might have crept down when she heard Jack leave the house, seen Lizzie splayed on the floor, her hair dark with blood. Oh God.

She sighs and presses her sticky nails together. ‘I stayed in my room,’ she repeats irritably.

‘Are you sad about Mummy?’

She splays her hands like stars and jabs all her fingers down into the mixture.

‘Sometimes, perhaps,’ I suggest. ‘I’m sad sometimes.’

‘She might come back,’ Florence says to cheer me up.

‘No,’ I say, ‘she can’t.’

She begins to scoop the Play-Doh together; her face falls now.

‘Let’s have a hug,’ I say, moving to her.

She gives a little sigh, as though my request is tiresome, but nevertheless stands on the chair and throws her hands around my neck and squeezes, almost choking me. I wrap my arms around her.

‘Piggyback,’ she clamours.

‘Just a little one.’

There’s a stabbing pain at the base of my spine as she hikes herself up on to my back. I do a circuit of the kitchen and one of the front room. Florence swings her legs, her heels bumping against my thighs.

Did Jack know? That she was aware of his brutality? Was it Jack who instructed her to stay in her room, or was it Lizzie, desperate to protect Florence from the sight of another beating?

I’m breathless by the time I set her down again. Aware of the oven, smeared in blackening foam, waiting for my attention.

Monday 15 April 2013

It’s a chance article in the Guardian that leads me to Dr Meredith Jansen. She has been advising on a restorative justice programme in El Salvador and has written a book about it. She trained as a psychologist, went into the health service and developed a role in trauma counselling. She has also been a mediator. Although I can find references to her on the Internet, I don’t know how to contact her, until an announcement on LinkedIn that says she is running a training programme based at University College London.

I write to the university and hear nothing.

I ring UCL but the switchboard have no extension number for her.

Then I get an email.

She warns me that she doesn’t think she can help, but she will be in Manchester visiting family in a fortnight’s time; perhaps we could meet then and she could find out a little more.

The rest is history. Slow-moving, but gradually progressing towards an agreement brokered by Dr Jansen. She meets with me three times, the same with Jack. I start my letters.

And now I wait with her in the prison, in a special room. Wait for our first face-to-face meeting. Dr Jansen, Meredith, will be present; we have agreed the terms of engagement.

Now that I am here, I want to bolt, to turn on my heel and put as much distance as possible between us. My skin feels cold; a chill steals through my stomach and bowels. My ears sing and hiss.

I am frightened.

There is a knock at the door.

They are bringing him in.

You sit on the chair opposite me. Your face is pale, drawn, your eyes ringed with shadow.

For a long time I cannot meet your gaze. I study my hands while Dr Meredith repeats the agreed protocol for the meeting. She will be with us throughout, guiding us.

As she finishes, I raise my eyes to look at you, and you glance away and back, away again. Rub your palms together.

Your discomfort is a balm.

‘Is there anything you wish to say now?’ Meredith asks me. ‘Before Jack begins?’

‘No.’

‘Jack?’ She invites you to start.

‘I’m sorry,’ you say. ‘I am so, so sorry.’

For what? I think. Say it, say it. What you’ve done. I need it spelled out. I need it in letters ten feet tall, lit in neon. I need it carved in granite. I need it broadcast from the rooftops. I need to hear it.

‘Please go on,’ Meredith says.

‘I killed Lizzie, I took her life, and I am so sorry. I’m sorry I did it, and I’m sorry I lied about it. I loved her so much.’ Your voice is small, shaky.

I hold myself rigid, desperate not to collapse, to stay strong enough to hear all I’ve come to hear, to learn answers to all my questions.

‘Ruth, is there anything you want to say?’ Meredith asks me.

‘Why did you lie?’

You blow out a breath, knuckle your fists together. ‘I didn’t want to end up here,’ you say. ‘I didn’t want to lose Florence.’

I think of her astride your shoulders, curled in your arms that awful night, clinging to your legs and screaming at the police, leaping at the sight of you at the funeral.

‘I was scared,’ you add after a pause.

In the silence I can hear Meredith breathing, hear the click as you swallow.

‘Why have you confessed now?’ I say. And as I speak, I am aware that I’m putting off the moment when I hear the full unvarnished truth, because I am frightened.

You begin to speak. ‘It was eating away at me. I got very depressed, it was destroying me. I tried not to think about it but I couldn’t stop. It got worse. And, erm… I started thinking about… suicide. A breakdown of sorts. So… erm…’ You take a deep breath, readying yourself to talk.

Fear rises in me like a tornado, swirling black, devouring me, and I start to my feet. Close to fainting, my head prickling, eyes awash with dancing dots. ‘I can’t do this, I can’t-’

‘We’ll take a break,’ Meredith says. ‘You don’t have to do anything you don’t wish to. We can leave at any time. Let’s go next door for a moment.’

We leave you and go through to an adjacent space. My teeth are chattering in my head. I can smell Lizzie’s blood; the shock feels fresh, my heart bruised and aching.

‘Breathe,’ Meredith says. ‘Slow, steady. Take your time.’

She does not pressure me, nor rush me.

Should I go? Should I leave and try again another time? Would that be any easier? If I go now, will I ever come back? Ever know?

Oh Lizzie.

‘I want to carry on,’ I say.

Meredith nods.

We go back in.

Your face is wet. Your nose red. You have been weeping.

I am poised, on the tightrope, on the cliff edge, at the high point of the zip wire. ‘Tell me,’ I say. Plunging, tumbling, vertigo in my head.

‘That day,’ you clear your throat, ‘it had been difficult. We were struggling money-wise, we were having to take a break from the mortgage. We’d been shopping and then there was Lizzie’s haircut.’ You bite your cheek. I wait. ‘We had tea and put Florence to bed. Lizzie put Florence to bed,’ you amend. ‘I was angry, angry about everything, not having any work, the fact that Lizzie had spent over seventy pounds on her hair, but I hadn’t said anything to her yet.’

‘Why not?’ I interrupt.

You consider for a moment, then say, ‘Because I wanted to take it out on her. I wanted to hit her. I was winding up to it. I never saw it like that back then, but the course I’ve been doing, the anger management, that’s what I’ve learnt. I wanted to hit her.’

It is hard to hear.

‘She said she had something to tell me, she hoped I’d be happy.’ You shake your head several times. I can see the rise and fall of your chest, as if the words are pulsing to escape. ‘She was pregnant.’