Nicci French - The Memory Game

I needed a cigarette and I needed a coffee. I got in line but when I reached the piles of cups and began to pour, my hand was trembling so violently that the coffee went everywhere but in my cup.

‘Here, let me do that for you,’ said a woman beside me and she poured a cup for me and one for herself. Then she led me to the nearest empty table and sat down with me. I recognised her. I thanked her and she held out her hand to me.

‘Hello, I’m Thelma Scott.’

‘Yes, I know. I heard your contribution to the debate earlier on.’

‘And I know who you are,’ she replied drily. ‘You’re Jane Martello, Alex Dermot-Brown’s latest and best specimen.’

‘Everybody I meet here seems to know me already.’

‘You’re a valuable property, Ms Martello.’

It was more than I could bear.

‘Dr Scott, I’m grateful for your help but I don’t really know what I’m doing here and I certainly don’t want to get involved in any controversy.’

‘It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it? Your father-in-law is about to go to prison for the rest of his life and you put him there.’

‘He confessed to the crime, Dr Scott. He’s going to plead guilty.’

‘Yes, I know,’ she said with an obvious lack of concern. ‘What did you make of Melanie Foster?’

‘I think she’s an unbearably tragic case.’

‘Yes, I agree.’

I drained my coffee cup. ‘I’ve gotto go,’ I said, preparing to get up.

‘Off to Melanie’s workshop?’

‘Yes.’

‘For some sisterly reassurance? To be told that you’ve done the right thing?’

‘That’s not what I want.’

Thelma Scott raised an amused eyebrow. ‘Really? That’s good,’ she said and began to open her purse.

‘I’ll pay,’ I said.

‘There’s nothing to pay,’ she said. ‘Our coffee is courtesy of Mindset. I want to give you this.’

She extracted a card, wrote on the reverse and offered it to me. ‘This is my card, Jane. On the back, I’ve written my home phone number and my address. If you ever feel that you’d like to talk to me, just give me a ring. Any time at all. And I can guarantee confidentiality, which is more than some other people in this field of inquiry.’

I took the card reluctantly. ‘Dr Scott, I really don’t feel we have anything to talk about.’

‘Fine, then don’t call. But put it in your purse. Go on, I want to see you do it.’

‘Okay, okay.’ I did as she said under her keen gaze. ‘There it is, tucked under my Leisurecard.’

Before I could get up, Thelma Scott leant across the table and took my hand. ‘Keep it there. This isn’t over, Jane,’ she said, with an urgency that surprised me. ‘Look after yourself.’

‘I always do,’ I said and left her without looking back.

Conference Room 3 was much smaller than the hall we had sat in earlier. It contained ten chairs arranged in a circle, and when I entered most of them were occupied, all by women. They looked curiously at me as I sat down. Should I introduce myself? Would it be rude if I read a magazine before the workshop got going? I opened my file as if I had some urgent preparations to make. I was aware of other people coming in and sitting down and then Melanie greeted me and I looked up. All the seats were occupied and two people were standing, Alex Dermot-Brown among them, so more chairs were brought in and we all scraped backwards to give them room.

‘Good afternoon,’ Melanie said, when everybody was settled. ‘Welcome to the “Listen to Us” section. I’ll try to follow the spirit of the title and say as little as possible. As you all know, this isn’t a normal meeting for our group. We have a couple of observers and a guest. I don’t want to be formal about this, and I’m only going to chair this in the loosest sense. I propose that we begin by identifying ourselves and explaining what we’re doing here. We’ll go clockwise, starting with me. I’m Melanie, and I have recovered the memory of being abused by my father and mother.’

And the introductions began, a catalogue of suffering that I could hardly bear.

‘I’m Christine and I’m here because I have recovered the memory of being abused by my stepfather.’

‘My name is Joan and I’m here because I have recovered the memory of being sexually abused by my father and my uncles.’

‘My name is Suzanne and I’m here because I have recovered the memory of being abused by my father.’

‘Hello, I’m Alex Dermot-Brown and I’m a doctor who wants to listen to the victims of abuse and to help them to help themselves.’

‘I’m called Christine.’ A rueful smile. ‘Another one. I recovered my memory of being sexually abused by my older brothers.’

‘I’m called Sylvia and I recovered my memory of being raped as a child by my stepfather and by another man.’

‘I’m called Lucy and I recovered my memory of abuse by my father and my mother.’

‘My name is Petra Simmons and I’m a solicitor.’ She gave a nervous laugh. ‘I’m here to see what I can do. And to learn something, I hope.’

‘My name is Carla and I remembered being abused. I don’t know who they were, though. I was so young.’

My turn. My cheeks were burning.

‘My name is Jane,’ I said. ‘Look, I’m not really prepared for this. I didn’t know anything about it. I thought I was just going to be an observer, to see what it was like.’

‘It’s all right, Jane,’ said Sylvia, a robustly handsome middle-aged woman. ‘The first thing we have to learn is to find words for what happened to us. We’re so used to being disbelieved and undermined. That’s why we suppressed these traumas.’

‘Excuse me.’ It was the woman on my left. ‘Can I introduce myself before we start the discussion?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Melanie. ‘Go ahead.’

‘Hello, my name’s Sally,’ she said. ‘I remembered being abused by my father and a family friend. That’s all. Sorry for interrupting, Sylvia.’

There was a moment of awkwardness because Sylvia had actually finished her point. I leapt into the silence.

‘I’m sorry, I’m just not ready for this. You’re all brave women and the idea of what you must have been through is unbearable, but this is all too recent for me.’

‘You don’t need to feel sorry for us,’ said Carla, a young woman with beautiful hennaed hair wearing a long gorgeously patterned dress. She looked like a dream gypsy. ‘The terrible thing is being unable to talk about it. What we’ve done in this group is to liberate each other. Jane, I don’t know much about your circumstances but I would guess that what you are feeling at the moment is doubt about the memories you have recovered and guilt about the effect they have had. Abuse victims get abused all over again when they try to describe what has happened to them. Every person who questions the testimony of an abuse victim is also an abuser. The whole point of our group is to support and strengthen each other. We believe you, Jane, and we trust you.’

‘Thank you, I’m sure this group must be very emotionally helpful.’

A little laugh ran round the circle and looks were exchanged. Melanie tapped her pen on her folder and called for silence. Then she spoke:

‘This isn’t just about emotions. This is a political issue. If you join with us, and we truly hope you do, you’ll start to learn that there are networks of abuse, that there are abusers in positions of authority. This is what we’re up against.’

‘You can’t be serious,’ I protested.

‘What has been your own experience, Jane? You found a murderer and a rapist who had escaped justice for a quarter of a century. What happened? Is your testimony going to be used? Will your revelation be on the record?’