Gilly MacMillan - What She Knew

Ben is not the child he used to be. Trust is difficult for him, because he doesn’t understand why John and I didn’t find him earlier, or why the teacher he adored turned out to be somebody bad.

He has pretty good attendance at school, considering, though it’s not uncommon for John or me to get a phone call to say that he’s unable to cope, again, that he’s gripped by a migraine so severe that he can’t open his eyes, again, and then we come to get him.

Emotionally, his daily existence is volatile and unpredictable. He can be fine for days at a time, and then something sets him off balance. Then he can be desperately clingy, or angry, depending on the form his sadness takes. His emotions are powerful and visceral. Very, very occasionally he fights us, kicking and hitting. More often, he cannot last the night without waking and screaming in terror.

When that happens, I run to him and lift him from his bed, and I bring him into bed with me, where we lie, eyes wide, bodies together, and I hold him to me and wait for his teeth to stop chattering, and watch carefully for the sheen of sweat on his brow that signals the fever that sometimes rises after these nightmares.

I bring Skittle to sleep on the bed with us too, because the dog is the object of Ben’s most uncomplicated affections. I get pleasure from watching them play together, Ben’s gentleness with Skittle, and the dog’s adoration of him. When Ben goes to John’s house now, the dog goes with him. Her claws have made scratches all over the parquet floor, but nobody minds.

And even when Ben and I lie together during those long nights, even though our hearts pump fast and in unison, I wonder if sometimes we remain a hundred miles apart, because his mind still crouches in the woods on his own, cold to the core, or perhaps in that basement, flinching as a laptop shatters against a wall, pieces falling around him, sensing the advance of a person who wants to drag him away, even though he’s covered his face with his hands, even though he cowers.

These are my imaginings, for, as I said, Ben won’t speak of it.

His silence torments me, because I want to make him better, but it’s her silence that I truly loathe, for Ben can’t help it, but she is an adult and she knowingly withholds information that could help us to understand better what happened, and therefore to heal him more quickly, and that I cannot forgive her for.

Addendum to DI James Clemo’s report for Dr Francesca Manelli.

Transcript recorded by Dr Francesca Manelli.

DI James Clemo and Dr Francesca Manelli in attendance.

Notes to indicate observations on DI Clemo’s state of mind or behaviour, where his remarks alone do not convey this, are in italics.

FM:I’ve read your account of what happened on the last day of the Benedict Finch investigation.

He nods curtly.

FM:I’m sorry that things went wrong for you that day.

JC: That’s putting it mildly.

FM: How have you been feeling lately?

He’s moving a lot, he can’t settle. His gaze is shifting around the room. He’s expressing avoidance with every movement he makes. He doesn’t answer.

FM: Can I be frank with you?

JC: Please.

FM: We have almost used up your allocation of sessions that CID are prepared to fund. You arrived late to the last but one session we had, and you didn’t turn up at all last week. I am concerned about your commitment to this process.

JC: There’s nothing wrong with me. I feel much better, in my head I mean.

FM: That’s not good enough, DI Clemo. That judgement has to come from me.

JC: I just said: I feel better.

FM: Do you want to know what I think?

I catch him off guard with this, and his reply is a little petulant.

JC: Isn’t this supposed to be about what I think?

FM: My professional assessment of the situation is that you avoided our last session because it’s getting painful for you to talk. Which means that this is exactly the point where you need to attend.

He worries at his hairline with his fingertips. The signs of profound fatigue are written all over his face, and obvious to see in his body language too. You would not have to be a professional to spot these.

FM: When did you last get a night’s sleep?

JC: I can’t remember.

FM: Is there any improvement in your insomnia since we began these sessions?

Clemo shakes his head slowly, resignedly.

FM: Do you know why that is?

I don’t wait for a response.

FM: It’s because you aren’t engaging with this process. And if you don’t engage then we cannot work towards treating you, and improving your quality of life, and that includes the insomnia, and the panic attacks, all of it. To date, across all of our sessions, I would say that your responses to my questions are mostly about avoidance. That must be exhausting for you. Isn’t it? It must exhaust you dodging my questions, working out ways to preserve that facade of toughness. My question to you is why you are so willing to expend so much energy avoiding this process when it would be so much easier if you would open yourself up to it? I’m not a quack, DI Clemo, I’ve worked with many people in similar situations to yours, and helped them.

JC: And what would you say my situation is, Dr Manelli?

FM: You suffer from severe, debilitating depression leading to insomnia and panic attacks, all of which have affected your ability to do your job. Based on our discussions, I would say that they have their roots in a combination of factors, which arose at the time of the Benedict Finch case.

JC: And what were those factors?

FM: You tell me. What do you think they were?

He is stony-faced.

JC: I thought that was your job.

FM: My job is to help you. Let me. Talk to me.

Clemo sits absolutely still for a moment, then puts his head in his hands. He sobs, and the sound is awful and strangulated, but it’s what I’ve been waiting for. I take my chance.

FM: Play a game with me.

JC: What?

FM: I’m going to say a word, and I want you to tell me how you feel about it. No! Don’t argue about it, just do it. Will you?

He holds his fingers over his eyes now, trying to stem the tears.

FM: Emma.

He gets control of himself, and then the silence in the room seems endless, capacious, but just when I think I’ve lost him, he speaks.

JC: I loved her.

FM: I know you did.

JC: So much.

FM: Do you still love her?

JC: Yes.

FM: Have you seen her since the case?

JC: No.

FM: Do you miss her?

He looks at me, and his eyes are burning with something.

JC: I miss her every day. I miss the months we haven’t had together and I miss the future I thought we were going to have, because without her it feels pointless, it feels, just, totally flat. Fuck!

This is the kind of candid answer I’ve been waiting for. I hold my breath and I wait because he needs to pull himself together again before we continue. Then I proceed very carefully.

FM: OK. I’m going to give you another name.

He just looks at me, bruised and weary eyes have a note of defeat in them now. He is playing my game. He feels as if he’s being beaten, but he’s not.

FM: Joanna May.

JC: I should have seen it when I interviewed her. I’ll never forgive myself for that. Never.

FM: You’re not responsible for what Joanna May did to that child.

JC: If I could have ended it earlier that would have made a difference, at least spared Ben Finch that night in the woods.