She shall, if her supervising officer so requires, receive visits from that officer where the license holder is living.
She shall reside initially under whatever conditions are laid down by the General Manager, and thereafter as directed by her supervising officer.
She shall undertake work, including voluntary work, only where approved by her supervising officer and shall inform that officer of any change in or loss of such employment.
She shall not travel outside the United Kingdom without the prior permission of her supervising officer.
She shall be well behaved and not do anything which could undermine the purposes of supervision on license, which are to protect the public by ensuring that their safety would not be placed at risk, and to secure her successful rehabilitation into the community.
She shall remain under the clinical supervision of Dr. [________] or any other forensic psychiatrist who may subsequently be appointed to provide such supervision.
She shall not enter the Metropolitan County of South Yorkshire without the prior written consent of her supervising officer. She shall not contact or attempt to associate with [________].
She shall not reside or remain overnight in the same household as any child under the age of 16 years, without prior written permission of her supervising officer.
She shall not have unsupervised contact or engage in any work or other organized activity with children under the age of 12 years, without the prior written permission of her supervising officer.
26
Lisa
It all has to come out somehow.
It is worse than I could have imagined. It is worse than last time. It is terrible and I deserve it. Nothing for me will ever be as bad as my own guilt, my own dreams, my own need for punishment. I deserve this pain, and I can cope in my own way. I absorb it. I earned it. Not Ava though. Not my baby. She doesn’t deserve this. Her world has crumbled too and she has only ever been good.
I have never thought of Ava as having my blood. It’s been the joy of her, that she’s so different from me, from Charlotte. She liked school, from day one. So proud in her little uniform. She’s focused. An achiever. She was never any trouble, not really. A bundle of goodness from her first giggle. She was sweet, always ready with a smile, her bad moods only light breezes, not dark thunderstorms. She was like Daniel.
Now, in this rage, now that she knows, she is all mine and it breaks my heart all over again.
At first there was too much happening to talk, we were stunned zombies as Alison and the others swept in, moving us like mannequins—“What’s going on, Mum, why are they calling you Charlotte, who’s Charlotte?”—bundling us out in separate cars, blankets over our heads, our lives evaporating in the darkness, and then, finally arriving at this small damp flat that reminds me of the first one, the past all jagged edges cutting into me from all angles.
I stand still as she screams at me. I wish I could cry. They’ve told her what I did. How can I explain it to Ava when I can’t explain it to myself? I think of my fairy tale, my shed cells, my new me, and I almost laugh hysterically. The dirt. The guilt. Charlotte can never be shed. She’s there, always, under the layers I’ve housed myself in.
“You disgust me!” Ava is crying, but these tears are something feral and wild, her face blotchy red and her hair still bed-scruffy, like brambles around her beautiful head. “How can you say you love me? How can you love anyone? You disgust me! You make me disgust me! Why didn’t you abort me?”
I take a small step forward into the gale of her fury. I want to hold her. I want her to punch me. I want to do something, anything, to try to make this easier for her.
“Don’t come near me!” Her shriek makes me flinch. Alison hovers in the doorway. They know Ava needs this. I know she needs this. “Stay away from me! I hate you!” And then she’s gone, storming off, a door slamming.
I don’t move. I can’t. Is this my justice at last? My baby, my one good thing, my chance at a small redemption, hates me. She wishes she hadn’t been born because of me. I have ruined her life. I ruin everything. How can I tell her how I wish I could unravel it all, take it back? To stop myself. To kill myself before. How can I tell her how I dream of him, always, and each time it destroys me? How can I tell her anything without it sounding like a pathetic attempt at an excuse? A plea for forgiveness, even though I know there can never be any forgiveness. I will never want forgiveness.
I don’t mind so much that she hates me. I have always expected that to come one day. All those fears, the worry, knowing how easy it is to be found, it was a fantasy to think Ava would get through life blissfully ignorant. I hoped it would come later. When she was grown and had a life of her own that couldn’t be taken and changed just to protect me. I hate that she hates herself. I can’t bear for her to hate herself. Was I so wrong to have a child? To want someone to love? To be loved by? Oh selfish Charlotte. Always wanting.
“She’ll calm down,” Alison says, coming in and turning the TV on, as if this can distract me and establish some kind of normality. “We’ll get her some help. Help for both of you.” She looks at me with pity, but I barely see her. I’m already drifting deep inside myself. My own personal hell. “I’ll make you a cup of tea,” she says.
I don’t think Ava will calm down. I know this rage. It reminds me of Charlotte. She’s my girl after all, and that terrifies me more than anything. I know how that rage can lead to terrible things. Can leave someone with regrets like tombstones that have to be carried through life, backbreakingly heavy and deserved.
It all has to come out somehow.
27
Marilyn
Now
The bright office lights have given me a headache and my sleepless eyes throb. It isn’t a migraine—I haven’t had a real one of those since I was a teenager, whatever I tell Penny when I need a day or two off—this is complete emotional exhaustion. I feel numb, as if the synapses in my brain aren’t quite connecting and I have a constant queasiness in the pit of my stomach.
I turn the radio off and drive in silence. Sitting here in the traffic is the closest I can get to some actual peace and quiet. Some alone time to breathe. To try to process everything. Even when no one was actually speaking at work I could feel the hum of it. All the news tabs open behind work documents. These youngsters who can’t even remember 1989 poring over every detail. The whispers. The gasps. The sideways glances at each other when they found something new. This horrible piece of history that is now part of their lives.
No one sent me the links, of course. I imagine Penny told them not to. She probably meant well, but it’s only made things worse, separating me from the crowd. And it’s not as if I haven’t searched it all myself at home, scouring the Internet until my eyes burn. It’s different though—Stacey, Julia, those new staff, and even Toby just have the thrill of excitement. It’s not real to them. Lisa—I must stop calling her Lisa—wasn’t real to them.
Still, I didn’t let any of them see how terrible I feel. Years of practice at hiding things. I look the part. Always together. Nothing fazes Marilyn. Skin of steel, that’s me.
The only glitch in my armor was arriving late this morning, but they hadn’t expected me to turn up at all. The news had hit everyone, but it had frozen me. Then I’d thrown up. I have a vague memory of crying almost hysterically and trying to ring Ava—Oh God, poor Ava—before Richard had realized what I was doing and pulled my phone from me. It was going straight to answerphone anyway. I heard it click in before he hung up. By the time we’d finished discussing that, I was over an hour late, didn’t get Penny’s message to take the day off if I wanted it, and when I got there she’d already briefed the office in no uncertain terms not to speak to the press when they inevitably started calling, to pass any concerned clients her way, and to try to carry on as normal. I came through the door in time to hear her final remark that she would not tolerate anyone bringing the company into disrepute.
You’ve got to hand it to Penny, she
’s at her finest under pressure, but she still looked at me funny when I came in, although nothing compared to the glances the others gave me. The way you look at someone you almost feel sorry for but who might be contagious. Everyone’s smiles were too tight and their concern too shallow. They were more curious than worried. How awful for you. You must feel terrible. Underneath it all was the lingering, unspoken Did you know? Well, fuck them if they have to ask. I have a bubble of anger. It’s a good feeling. Better than the rest, anyway.
In the end, Penny gave us all a half day while she fielded phone calls from Lisa’s client list and did her best to reassure others. I didn’t ask her about Simon Manning and she didn’t mention him, as if by us staying silent he’ll stay too busy to notice. But Penny doesn’t know that Lisa—Charlotte. Charlotte, not Lisa—has been to dinner with him. Been on a date.
I asked Penny if she wanted a hand with the calls and she’d said no, it was best coming from her. It was probably true, but she’d looked away awkwardly in a way that made me want to scream, “I am not Charlotte Nevill! I got fooled as much as all of you! I got fooled more!” Only when I was gathering my coat and bag did she come out again.
“I need to do a criminal background check for you.” She was hovering close to her door, clearly uncomfortable. “I never did one when you and Lisa started here. I was so busy setting all this up, and I didn’t have any reason to . . . well, she was a single mother. Well spoken. Good CV.” She’d shrugged and I knew why she was so keen to lay all this to rest at work quickly. She could have prevented this. I felt sorry for her. She’s just opened a second branch, taken a financial gamble, and it could all get damaged because she didn’t do one criminal background check.
“Sure,” I’d answered. “I’ll do the form in the morning.” As if there was no doubt that I’d come in. Good old reliable efficient Marilyn. Gold star for me.
“Are you okay?” she’d asked me. What could I say? I nodded and told her I was in shock like everyone else.
Up ahead, the light turns green but it takes someone angrily beeping their horn behind me until I move the car forward. My shock isn’t like everyone else’s. Not everyone else was Lisa’s best friend. I think again about that missed background check. One small form would have changed everything. Lisa would probably never have taken the job—surely a fake identity still wouldn’t allow for a faked criminal record check. I would never have met her. Ten years of friendship would never have happened. This would never have happened. I try to unravel the past, removing Lisa from it, as I pull into the drive. I can’t. She’s so woven into me it’s impossible.
There are no reporters here yet, thank God. They’re probably still all over the school and Ava’s friends. Oh, poor Ava. They haven’t torn Lisa’s life far enough apart to get to me yet, but they will. Even as I mentally try to distance myself from her, the past floods back: Ava’s birthdays, laughing over Strictly Come Dancing while eating Chinese takeaways, wine after work. All so ordinary, and yet I loved it. I needed it.
Hot tears sting my face. How much of it was a lie? Where did Charlotte end and Lisa start? I can’t put them together as the same person. The evil child who did this terrible, shocking thing and the shy woman who quietly became so important to my life. Charlotte and Lisa. Lisa never existed, I tell myself again and feel a fresh wave of grief. No, she did exist but she wasn’t real. Now she’s gone and I’ll never see her again. I can’t help but mourn that, no matter how hard I pretend I’m fine. The illusions may be false, but the love is real.
Lisa was my best friend and I loved her. But what am I supposed to do with that? What does it say about me?
I shouldn’t be surprised, I think as I get wearily out of the car and see Richard’s Audi still parked up in front of the garage. I’ve made a habit of loving illusions. My ribs hurt. They’re not cracked this time, only bruised. Experience teaches you the different kinds of pain, but my back aches and a dark purple butterfly is forming on my left side.
You told Lisa your own lies, a little voice inside my head says. This perfect marriage she so admired. I silence the voice. That was different. That was private. I take a deep painful breath before opening the front door.
* * *
Only when Richard is fully asleep do I creep downstairs. He’s given me my phone back and the kitchen is spotless where he’s washed up and cleaned after the dinner he cooked. My nerves are zinging. Something here doesn’t add up. He doesn’t calm down this quickly—the hot rage is normally followed by at least twenty-four hours of the cold silent treatment. Only afterward do the remorse and regret come, along with the turning around of events so that it’s somehow my fault because you know what I’m like. This is all far too quick.
It should concern me, but I’m too tired to think about what he might want as I put the kettle on. My head is filled with Lisa and my own shame at being the best friend who should have known. But as I stare at the knife block and think of Richard upstairs, I wonder how much it must take to drive a person to murder. God knows I should be close, but even with how much he’s beaten the love out of me, I couldn’t kill him. I see there are more final notices in the bin as I tip the tea bag away. No, he shouldn’t be this calm yet.
I keep one eye on the stairs as I try Ava’s number again. I love Ava as much as I can imagine loving a child, a child I could never have, and I may not be able to love Lisa anymore, but Ava can stay in my heart. I need something in my heart.
This time though, there’s no answer message. Just a dead tone. Like she never even existed.
28
Ava
That moment keeps going around and around in my head on a loop. Mum staring at me. Me staring at her. Why are they calling you Charlotte? Who’s Charlotte? The wide-eyed frightened-rabbit look on her face.
Even after the brick through the window and being bundled out into the back of a van to go to the police station and then out again, unseen, and driven to this pokey flat, I hadn’t quite figured out what it all meant. Now I block it all out and hide behind my wall of anger and hurt and fear and a thousand emotions in between.
I hate this flat. It smells wrong. Not like home. I miss my bedroom. No reclining sofa in the box room I have here. It’s a strange place filled with strangers and she’s the biggest stranger of them all. Everything has changed. My whole life is being evaporated and it’s not fair. None of it’s my fault. I didn’t do anything. I hate it. I hate them. I hate her. I miss my mum who I thought was a bit wet and needy but she was my mum and we’d laugh together sometimes and I knew she loved me. Not this woman. Not this stranger. I don’t want her blood to be part of mine. I don’t want to be part monster.
When I have my door shut, which is most of the time, I can still hear their voices and the creak of the floor under their sensible shoes as they move about. It’s probably only about four or five people but it feels like more. A couple are police. At least one is a head doctor—I know because she tried talking to me but I refused. I’m not the crazy one here. She spends a lot of time in the sitting room with Mu—Charlotte. Not that she’s doing much talking beyond yes or no answers. She’s like a zombie, sitting there staring at the too loud TV. Still looking pathetic, as if she’s got Mum’s skin on. Well, I’m not buying her routine anymore. Why should anyone feel sorry for her? She’s the one who did it. She’s the murderer. She’s the one who—I can’t even bring myself to think it aloud—did that thing. Why am I having to pay the price?
I want my phone and iPad back but Alison said I can’t until they’ve sorted out what’s going to happen with her identity. And mine. They’ve clamped down on any more papers printing my face but from all the hushed talking outside my bedroom door it would seem that this whole thing is a mess. They don’t know what to do with us.
I don’t want a new identity. I want to be me.
Alison is Charlotte’s probation officer. I hate them all, these strangers, but if I didn’t, then I’d probably like Alison a little bit. When I rage at her, demanding to see my
friends, she looks at me with a weird blend of kindness and pity. She keeps telling me to be patient. Easy for her to say.
I feel sick. But then I always feel a bit sick right now. That’s the other thing I can’t deal with telling anyone yet. How the fuck am I supposed to get that thin blue line sorted while I’m caged up here?
I know it’s all worse because of what I did. Technically it all started with what I did. Someone, an anonymous caller, somehow recognized her face in one of the pictures with me by the river. Alison says it was simply bad luck. A million-to-one shot. That doesn’t make me feel better. What I did gave all the newspapers and stuff an angle. Devil mother, angel daughter. Child killer, child saver. They’re picking our lives apart. I kind of always wanted to be famous in that X Factor way that everyone does, but I never imagined it would be like this. What do my friends think? Do they miss me? They must. I bet they wish they could see me as much as I want to see them. I think of Jodie and imagine her saying, “Well, this takes weird mums club to a whole new level!” It almost makes me laugh and almost makes me cry. I wrap myself up in my rage and avoid doing either.
My Facebook account has been deleted. And my Instagram. When Alison told me, her face pretty much said my chances of being allowed another were pretty shit. “Hardly likely, is it?” Someone would find me and then they’d find her and that would be another huge chunk of government money flushed down the toilet.
No more social media. It’s like staring into an endless darkness. Why am I being punished? It’s all right for her. She didn’t have any friends anyway, apart from Marilyn, who probably hates her right now too. She barely used her phone, let alone the Internet. Not like me. I lived on mine. We live on it. No more MyBitches. No more Fabulous Four. I’ll probably never see them again. Not until I’m eighteen or whatever and by which time we’ll all have changed. I can’t quite get my head around that, but I can almost, almost accept it as a fact I’ve got to get used to.