The doctor’s medicine was useless. Your spell was stronger. Your anti-medicine had worked. You watched her cough and splutter. Watched her chuck up blood. Watched the life drain from her face. Watched the wretched slut die in front of the cunt. You went to the funeral so you could observe his agony some more. How you’d wanted to laugh when they’d lowered the coffin into the ground and tears had rolled down his cheeks. Each tear was a sugared treat. And afterwards in the church hall, he was inconsolable. The curate had patted him on the back, said he was sorry for his loss, and offered him some brandy. But Hindley was unreachable in his grief. Only you knew how to reach him. Later that night you’d put your ear to his chamber door and listened to him sob. Sweet music.
Hareton was the bairn. The fruit of Hindley and the slut’s union. Cathy was fifteen, all curves and skin. You taunted Hindley so that he beat you. Called his bairn a witless mooncalf. And you laughed when he fired and lost his temper. So that his beating brought no satisfaction. Fuck the lot of them: Isabella, Edgar, Hareton, Hindley. You’ll make them pay. Make them all suffer. They called you vulgar, called you brute. But they had no inkling of the depths of your brutality.
You remember another night as black as this. Your love had lost her shoes in the bog beneath Whitestone Clough. You crept through a broken hedge, groping your way up the path in the dark, planting yourselves on a flowerpot, under the drawing-room window. They hadn’t put the shutters up and the light poured out. You clung to the ledge and peered in. It was carpeted in crimson and there were crimson-covered chairs. A shining white ceiling fretted with gold. A shower of glass drops hanging on silver chains, shimmering. It was Edgar and his sister Isabella. She was screaming, shrieking as if witches were ramming red-hot needles in her eyes. Edgar was stood on the hearth weeping. In the middle of a table sat a little dog, shaking its paw and yelping. They were crying over that dog, the silly cunts. Both had wanted to hold it and neither had let the other do so. You laughed, you and Cathy. They were like toy dogs themselves, all prim and prettified. Milksopped and mollycoddled.
They stopped yelping. They must have heard you laugh. Then Edgar saw you at the window and started shouting. You ran for it, but they’d let the bulldog loose, a big bastard with a big bastard head and it had got Cathy by the ankle. It sunk its bastard teeth in and wouldn’t let go. You got a stone and thrust it between its bastard jaws, crammed it down its bastard throat, throttled that bastard dog with your bare hands. Its huge purple tongue was hanging half a foot out of its mouth, and blood and slaver dripped from its lips.
Then there was a servant running towards you. A big bear of a man. He grabbed Cathy and dragged her in. You followed him. Mr Linton was running down the hallway shouting, ‘What is it?’ The man grabbed you inside too and pulled you under the chandelier. Mr Linton was looking over his spectacles. Isabella said, ‘Put him in the cellar.’ ‘That’s Mr Earnshaw’s daughter,’ said another. ‘Her foot is bleeding.’ You cursed the servant, swore like a trooper. He dragged you into the garden, threw you on the grass, then went back to the house and locked the door behind him.
You went to the window again. Thought about smashing it in. She was sitting on the sofa. A servant brought a bowl of water. They took off her shoes and stockings. They washed her feet. They fed her cake. Edgar stood and gawped. They dried her wild hair and combed it sober. They wheeled her to the fire. The Lintons stood there staring.
You should shelter. Soaked to the bone and shivering, teeth chatter in your skull. You think about a nook beneath Nab Hill where the earth is soft and the rocks block the wind. It was the first place you and Cathy fucked. She took hold and put you inside her. Her white thighs astride your black hips. Your teacher, your lover, your sister, your mother. She was all you needed in the world. The rest could go to hell.
She stayed at Thrushcross Grange for five weeks. Till Christmas. Hardly knew her when she returned. Turned up on a black pony, hair all done up, wearing a fancy hat with a feather in the ribbon. Even her speech was altered. She was dressed in a silk frock. You felt ashamed of your appearance, felt dirty. Your hair was coarse and uncombed. She said you looked grim and laughed in your face. You couldn’t stand to listen to that laugh, couldn’t stand to be so black next to one so white. You ran out of the room, burning with shame. Your flesh was a fire of disgust. The next day the Lintons were invited to the house. You were banished to the outbuildings. They called you dog, called you devil. You’ll give them dog, give them devil.
Your thoughts are jumbled. They whir like the storm around you. They make a flaysome din in your skull. Shelter. There’s a cave under Penistone Crags. A roof over your head. A hole to lig in. Get out of the storm. Where are you? Somehow you are lost. The moor so familiar, but you don’t recognise the landscape. You make out black shapes, skeletal outlines of withered hawthorns. Whinstone and mud. The ground keels. You are somewhere. You are nowhere. You are here. The night is as black as your shame, as black as your face. You are wandering like a blind man. You don’t know anything any more. Not what’s up. Not what’s down. You don’t know who you are, where you came from. You don’t even know your own name.
ONLY JOSEPH
* * *
SOPHIE HANNAH
‘SO YOU’RE ACTUALLY GOING to do it,’ says Rich. ‘You’re taking Kitty for a taster day at a school where a female pupil was murdered.’ He’s using the same tone he used the other day to say, ‘I can’t clean the outside bin, it’s too disgusting. There are maggots in it. I haven’t got the right equipment. It needs a professional.’ While he complained at length, I whipped out my phone and found a local wheelie-bin cleaner and everything was sorted that same day.
This latest complaint is harder to deal with. I doubt I’d find anything online about how to handle taster days at schools with unsolved murders in their recent history, or husbands who don’t like the idea of them.
‘Why do you say “a female pupil”, as if Kitty’s at greater risk because of her sex? There’s no reason to think that’s true.’
‘How do you know? A girl got pushed out of a window, Sonia. To her death. A talented, clever, attractive girl – like Kitty. She was fourteen when she died. That’s how old Kitty’ll be in September. Two years on and still no-one’s got a clue who murdered Lucy Ross. What if the killer’s got a thing for pushing teenage girls out of windows and he’s just waiting for the next suitable victim to come along?’
I want to tell Rich he’s being ridiculous but I can’t, which makes his words more irritating. What he fears is within the bounds of possibility. Just about.
‘If you want me to cancel the taster day, just say so,’ I tell him. ‘Don’t put all the responsibility on me. Say, “On no account will I allow my daughter to go to that school.”’
‘I can’t do that, can I? It’s not only up to me. You say The Morrow’s amazing for performing arts, and their anti-bullying—’
‘God, this is what I can’t stand! Make up your mind: either you’re worried Kitty might get murdered or you aren’t. If you are, you shouldn’t care about the brand new state-of-the-art theatre they’ve just built. Keeping Kitty safe is paramount, right? Dead girls can’t star in musical theatre extravaganzas.’ Careful. Don’t give him the perfect form of expression for a sentiment you don’t want him to express. ‘Look, Rich, I’m not saying it’s ideal. Obviously I’d rather no one had been murdered at The Morrow, but we’ve got to be rational, not hysterical. I mean, we live in London! Think how many people have been murdered here over the years. Probably more than in any other part of the UK, but we don’t go round thinking it’s going to happen to us.’
‘Until we decide to send Kitty to a school where there’s a killer prowling the corridors. And then we do.’
‘What’s the alternative, if we don’t send her to The Morrow?’ I prepare, for at least the twentieth time, to lay out the facts. ‘I’ve contacted every half-decent school within commuting distance. The Morrow’s the only one with a place—’
‘Hey, if t
hey didn’t have a place available for Kitty, they could always create one by pushing another student out of a third floor window,’ Rich quips.
‘They get brilliant results, their music and drama departments are world class and that’s no exaggeration – and music and drama are the only subjects Kitty gives a shit about. And they’ve offered us a bursary, they’re so keen to have her. Rich, Lucy Ross’s murder – and it wasn’t even definitely a murder, remember? It could have been an accident—’
‘No, it couldn’t.’
‘It was two years ago. No one’s—’ I stop, but it’s too late.
‘No one’s been murdered at The Morrow since then? Is that what you were going to say? Well … brilliant! What’s “We only murder a pupil once every three years” in Latin? That could be the official school motto.’
I exhale slowly. Then I say, ‘A taster day is only a visit. I partly agree with you. I mainly agree with you, much as I don’t want to. We probably won’t send Kitty there – though God knows where she’ll end up instead. But, Rich, she can’t stay at Vinery Road. We have to get her away from Philip Oxley. The nightmare’s lasted too long. None of us can take much more.’
I feel as if I’ve used an illegitimate tactic, though Rich and I have never formally agreed that we won’t mention the boy we both wish didn’t exist. We usually refer to ‘the problem’ or ‘the issue’.
Now it feels as if Philip Oxley is in the room with us, making it darker and heavier.
‘I know’, Rich says with a shudder. He hates hearing the name as much as I hate saying it. Even thinking about its owner makes me feel as if I might throw up. Rich turns away, and I wonder if his cartoon-like fears of a murderer on the prowl at The Morrow are a comforting distraction for him. His true terror might be the same as mine: that we will never be able to get Kitty away from Vinery Road; that she will be trapped in a classroom with Philip Oxley for another four years.
The Morrow is an independent day school in Hampshire with extensive grounds and beautiful gothic buildings of pale-grey stone. From the look of it, there might be as many mullioned arch-topped windows as there are students. The head teacher, Dr Nina Adebayo, is a stocky, muscular woman in her mid-forties with short, no-nonsense hair. She’s wearing a red trouser-suit with a white blouse and red high-heeled shoes. She takes me to her office for a chat, once we’ve dropped Kitty off with her possible future form teacher and classmates.
‘I’m sorry you’ve had such a terrible experience at Kitty’s present school,’ she says, handing me a mug of tea. ‘I’ll be frank with you: we get a lot of children coming here whose original schools couldn’t quite cut the mustard on the pastoral-care front. It’s one of The Morrow’s great strengths.’
I imagine what Rich would say to that if he were here.
‘Vinery Road’s a great school,’ I say, though it’s an effort to produce the words. I don’t really believe them any more. No school that can’t adequately protect its pupils from extreme distress should ever be called great. ‘I’m not sure it’s their fault that they couldn’t do anything,’ I tell Dr Adebayo. ‘The boy in question … none of his behaviour falls into the categories listed as bullying in their anti-bullying policy. According to him, he simply likes Kitty and feels a special affinity with her – one based on nothing. They’ve barely spoken. He claims all he wants is to be friends with her and make sure she’s okay. And that leads to him staring at her all day long, hovering near her, sending her messages saying she’s all that matters to him. Sitting there silently weeping at his desk when she speaks to other people – and not only boys. Even girls, even if all she’s saying is, “Chloe, pass me that ruler,”’ I add bitterly. ‘It’s got so bad that Kitty’s having panic attacks every day, not sleeping much more than three hours a night. She’s paralysed with terror that something she might do could make him try to kill himself.’
I hear Rich’s voice again in my mind: Stop, Sonia. If you go too far, you’ll lose sympathy. The truth is that I would love nothing more than for Philip Oxley to commit suicide, as long as Kitty didn’t blame herself for it. I don’t care if that makes me a terrible person. My most urgent wish is for that boy to not exist.
‘He’s never unkind, and he falls into the category of vulnerable, protected student, so the school won’t expel him. All they can do, all they’ve done and will ever do, is have long, sensitive talks with him where they explain that he needs to give Kitty space. When he denies that he spends all day staring at her – that he picks up her hairs when they fall on the floor and adds them to his collection of Kitty memorabilia – they ask Kitty if she might be imagining things!’
‘Mrs Woolford, you don’t need to tell me. I know, believe me. Why do you think we drafted our anti-bullying policy in the precise way that we did? What this boy’s doing to poor Kitty is stalking. He’s menacing her, and putting her mental health at risk.’
‘Yes,’ I whisper, fighting back tears. ‘Thank you.’ I’m Dr Woolford, not Mrs Woolford, but I don’t bother to correct her. Her take on Philip Oxley is the right one – that’s what matters.
Dr Adebayo pulls her chair in closer to her desk. ‘I can promise you this: a child at The Morrow who behaved in that way would be given two warnings and then, if the problem didn’t stop, they would be asked to leave the school. All parents sign a contract when their children start here. In doing so, they agree that if their child’s behaviour creates an intolerable environment for another pupil, they will accept the school’s decision that the child must be removed. It’s non-negotiable. We get to decide who’s creating hostile environments and who isn’t – me and the board. I can personally promise you that I won’t let anyone make this school an unpleasant place for Kitty to spend her days.’
In which case, I don’t care if, as my husband quipped, somebody pushes a child out of a top floor window every three years. As long as it’s not my child, or anyone she likes. Or the child of any parents I grow to like. Oh, all right, I obviously would care…but not as much as I need never to see or think about Philip Oxley again.
‘I’ll give you the tour of the school in a moment, but first: do you have any questions?’
I open my mouth, then freeze, thinking that Dr Adebayo might react to the name ‘Lucy Ross’ in the way Rich and I react to hearing That Boy’s name.
‘Shall I answer the question you’re not asking me?’ She smiles. ‘I can’t believe you don’t want to know about the death of Lucy Ross.’
I nod. There’s no point denying it.
‘That’s fine. I wanted to know too, when I came to The Morrow. Oh, I’ve only been head here for a year. Most of the staff and pupils are relatively new. When a tragedy like Lucy Ross happens, there’s a mass exodus, as you can imagine. All I can say is that this is the same school she died in in name only. Yes, it’s the same building, the same physical grounds. But it’s not the same people, which means that effectively it’s a completely different school. You’ll see when I show you round: the atmosphere is lovely and positive. Nurturing. Creative.’
‘But there are some people still here from two years ago?’ I ask. If only there were none – nobody at all left at The Morrow from when Lucy Ross died – I could feel happy about sending Kitty here.
‘Yes, a handful,’ says Nina Adebayo. ‘But really no more than five or six people. Garry Phelps, a physics teacher. Our office manager, Jenny Pethers, her son Max, Ariella Huxley and her brother Rocky.’ She raises an eyebrow, and I wonder if she’s tacitly acknowledging that the Huxley siblings’ names tell us something about their parents. ‘And Nelly,’ she adds in a different tone altogether, with a worried expression on her face.
‘Who’s Nelly?’
Her frown quickly converts to a grin, but it’s not convincing. ‘Nelly Dean. From Wuthering Heights.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ve probably heard that Lucy Ross died just as we were due to stage a big show at the school – I Am Heathcliff!, the musical?’
‘I’d forgot
ten what the show was but … yes.’
‘The pupils wrote the songs themselves. I’ve listened to some of the rehearsal recordings – it would have been amazing, I’m sure. Obviously after Lucy died, it was cancelled. The girl who had the part of Nelly Dean in the show, she’s still here. Her name’s Florence Liddon – Florrie – but I can’t help thinking of her as Nelly. She’s not recovered well from Lucy’s death, I don’t think. She was only twelve when it happened – the youngest member of the cast. She’s stunningly talented. Personally, I think her parents should have moved her whether she wanted to leave or not. Still, they didn’t, and Florrie’s obsession with Lucy, her death, the show that never happened … it seems to grow and grow. I’ve found her once or twice just sitting by the window. You know … ’
‘Yes,’ I say quickly, so that she doesn’t have to explain.
‘Lately she’s been to see me twice, crying, begging me to let the school do the musical now, with a new cast. She says it would provide closure, but … ’ Dr Adebayo breaks off. ‘As I’ve told her, I can’t allow it. I think it’s a terrible idea.’ She sighs and shakes her head. ‘I shouldn’t be telling you all this, but … well, I wanted to be absolutely upfront with you: here at The Morrow, the past is the past – apart from in the mind of one traumatised pupil.’
‘God,’ I murmur, glad of her honesty. Rich was right. We can’t send Kitty here. Maybe there’s no killer roaming the corridors, but now I know that The Morrow contains at least one unhappy ghost from the past who sits staring out of the Window of Death – no doubt at the spot on the ground below where her friend’s body landed.
‘Oh, I should stress that Nelly’s the kindest girl I’ve ever met,’ says Dr Adebayo. ‘Yes, she has her problems, but she’s very responsible in the way she handles them. She never says a word to the other girls about Lucy’s death. “I wouldn’t want to inflict my emotional baggage on anyone else, Dr A”, she told me once. If you’re worried that she might have a negative effect on Kitty, I promise you she wouldn’t.’