The Rumor, page 15
“Surely he should have faced prosecution,” I say. “He might not have murdered Robbie Harris, but he abused and tortured Sally for most of her young life. Everything I’ve read points to him being violent with the mother, too. Why did they believe him when he said it was Sally who inflicted the cuts and bruises on her skin? Everyone knew he was a violent drunk and a bully.”
“It was a different world back then,” Michael points out. “People didn’t talk so openly about stuff like that. Maybe they couldn’t bring themselves to admit such things could happen.”
I think of what Susan Marchant told me about her father, and shudder. Even when abuse like that stops, its effects last a lifetime. The memories never fade. I see Susan’s face on the beach, the pain behind her eyes. Something niggles at the back of my mind, then elbows its way to the front. What if Susan’s doing what “Peter” did and embedding a germ of truth in a lie? McGowan was horribly abused by her father, after all. As Maddie would say, it makes you wonder, doesn’t it?
The documentary is over now. Michael closes his laptop and stands up. He’s doing that thing he always does when he’s thinking hard about something: pushing his tongue into the flesh below his lower lip. It makes him look like an idiot, but I’ll never tell him that because I’ve grown quite fond of it over the years.
“I could kill for a drink,” he says. “I think I’ll run out and buy something.”
“Don’t bother. I’ve got a bottle of red wine. And I’m sure there’s some brandy, too.”
“But I really want a whiskey,” he says. “The store’s open till ten, isn’t it? I’ll only be a few minutes.”
As the front door closes behind him I run upstairs to the bedroom window without turning the light on and peer behind the curtain. Michael isn’t a real drinker. And since when has he drunk whiskey? I’m sure he only said that because he knows I don’t have any and it’s given him the excuse to leave the house.
I watch him saunter away. As he crosses the street by the lamppost, he pulls his phone out of his pocket. By the time he reaches the other side, he’s already talking to somebody. One of his sources, perhaps? He doesn’t want me to listen in on the conversation because now that he knows I’ve told people about his dry-town theory, he doesn’t trust me anymore.
I let the curtain fall back. I suppose I can hardly blame him for keeping things close to his chest.
I go downstairs again and dial Liz’s number. She must be home by now. She’s always telling us how she’s a homebody at heart and how she hates going out in the evenings. If I can just persuade her to speak to Sonia Martins, maybe, just maybe, Sonia will grant Michael an interview. I need to undo some of the damage I’ve done.
30
I FEEL HER BEFORE I see her. A presence at the foot of the bed. An irresistible force that draws my eyes toward her like a magnet. At first her face is blurry, ethereal, like an impressionist portrait. Then she comes into focus and my heart stops. It’s her. It’s Sally McGowan!
She throws her head back and her face splits open in a scream of manic laughter. I’m hypnotized by the back of her throat and the small, soft piece of flesh that hangs there, quivering. As her arms stretch toward me, they’re pale as bone. Nausea surges through me like a monstrous wave that refuses to break. Her hands are smeared with blood and I know, with terrifying clarity, that it’s Alfie’s blood.
She’s killed my baby.
When I wake, I’m sitting bolt upright and Michael is shaking me by the shoulders. “It’s just a dream, Joey. A nightmare. It’s all right. You’re safe now. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
I scrabble to free myself from the covers. My skin is cold and clammy and my limbs don’t seem to work properly. “Alfie! Where’s Alfie?”
“Shh. Alfie’s fine. He’s asleep in his bed.”
“Have you looked?”
“No, but where else would he be?”
I’m fully awake now, and though I know it was a nightmare—of course it was a nightmare—the horror still clings to me like a shroud. I have to go and see him for myself.
I push open his bedroom door and there he is, curled on his side in his Star Wars pajamas, his lips stuck together in sleep, his chest rising and falling, rising and falling. I lean over him and inhale the familiar baby scent of his skin. His hair curls damply against the curve of his cheek. I smooth it back with my fingers, hook it around his little pink ear. He wrinkles his nose and chews air, but only for a second. I haven’t woken him. I crouch beside the bed, not yet ready to leave his side. Unwilling to tear myself away. No, not unwilling. Unable. I’m physically unable to remove myself from this room. As if he’s a newborn baby all over again, and if I’m not here to see him breathe, then maybe he won’t.
Michael appears in the doorway, stark naked. He looks like a bronze statue, the way he’s just standing there, stock-still.
“Come on, Joey,” he whispers. “Back to bed. I’ll give you a massage.”
* * *
—
“I HAVEN’T HAD a nightmare like that for ages.”
“Shh,” Michael says, his breath warm on the back of my neck as he lies on his side behind me. I feel the heat of him. He circles my shoulder blades with his fingertips, then traces the contours of my spine. His fingers are feathers.
“Think of something nice,” he says. His voice is gravelly and low. His lips graze my ear and I shiver. Bits of the dream linger, but as his fingers continue their journey over each bump of my vertebrae, the horror recedes and we have slow, gentle sex that morphs, seamlessly, into something faster, more urgent. I don’t even remember changing position, but here I am, on my knees, left cheek pressed into the pillow, the weight of his hands on my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh.
It isn’t till we’re finished that we notice Alfie, standing solemnly by the side of the bed, his pajama bottoms all twisted, a puzzled expression on his face.
“What are you doing, Mommy?” he says.
I suddenly remember an incident from when I was about his age, walking in on my mom and dad. How overly happy and surprised they were to see me. How Mom’s cheeks were all flushed and Dad carried me back to my own bed and whistled a tune to me till I fell asleep. It’s a bittersweet memory, tainted as it is with what came afterward. Did he whistle his other children to sleep like that? I wonder.
Afterward, when we’ve told Alfie how we wanted to swap sides of the bed and, instead of being sensible and getting up, Daddy thought he’d just clamber over me, when we’ve told him how hot we were and how we had to take off our pajamas to get cool, and Alfie, the little innocent, has accepted both explanations, had a drink of water, peed, and gone back to bed, Michael and I surrender to giggles under the covers, stuffing our fists in our mouths to keep quiet.
But later, when we migrate to our separate sleeping positions—Michael on his back, me curled on my left side, the pillow pulled down at an angle under my shoulder—the memory of my nightmare returns and echoes of dread haunt me long into the night.
* * *
—
I WAKE TO the sound of the shower and the burble of the radio. Michael’s side of the bed is already cold. Michael’s side. How quickly it has become his side in my head.
I stretch like a cat, arms and legs extended as far as they can reach, and yawn, noisily. The shower has stopped and Michael appears, one towel fastened around his hips like a short skirt with a revealing split up the side, another hanging around his neck like an untied scarf.
“You sound like a Wookiee,” he says. Then: “Are these the biggest bath towels you have?”
“Yes.” I lean across and try to whip his skirt away, but he’s too quick for me and grabs me by the wrists.
He grins. “Don’t start something you can’t finish. Alfie’s up and about.”
Downstairs, it feels like we’re in one of those hipster breakfast cereal commercials: black stay-at-home dad, white mom all dressed up for work, and mixed-race son sloshing milk into his cereal bowl. Even the sun is shining. The dread that’s been hanging over me these past few days hasn’t exactly gone, but it’s retreated to a small dark closet in my mind and I’ve shut the door on it.
“I’ve got a couple of showings to do this morning. One of them’s near where Liz lives, so I’m going to pop in afterward and see if I can talk to her about Sonia Martins. I tried calling her again last night when you were out, but her phone was busy.”
Michael nods. “Do you want me to take Alfie to school?”
“Yes!” Alfie shouts.
I smile. “I could get used to this.”
Michael winks at me. That slow, lazy wink. I wonder if he knows how effective it is. The physical sensation it always prompts. I don’t ever want him to wink like that at someone else.
I try not to think of him leaving the house last night and talking on the phone. If this is going to work, I have to trust him. And I do. I can’t complain that he’s betrayed me in the past, because he hasn’t. It was an open relationship and it was what we decided, right from the start. Like I told Mom, nobody forced me to go along with it, and I can’t pretend it didn’t suit me just as much as it suited him. You can’t be betrayed by a man who’s made you no promises.
But it’s different now. He’s told me it’s different, and it is. It has to be.
31
LOCKED DOORS AND TOUGH LOVE: LIFE INSIDE GRAY WILLOW GRANGE
By Susan Piercy
SUNDAY, AUGUST 21, 2016
THE OBSERVER
As 12-year-old Carl Bargiel faces sentencing for a violent and unprovoked attack on a teacher, we ask what happens inside a juvenile detention center.
Gray Willow Grange is a boarding school with a difference. The pupils don’t get to go home for weekends or holidays, at least not till their sentence is drawing to a close and they have satisfied the parole board that they are no longer a threat to society.
This is where Sally McGowan was sent after killing five-year-old Robbie Harris and where other notorious child criminals have been imprisoned: Those we know about, and those we don’t. Children who have killed or tortured. Children, in short, who have committed the most atrocious crimes.
Dr. Winifred Quilter, criminologist and director of the Malcolm J. Cottee Foundation, a charity dedicated to the rehabilitation of child offenders, explains that children who commit violent crimes almost always share the same set of risk factors: poorly educated and unemployed parents who are often substance abusers or who suffer from a variety of mental health problems; family structures that have broken down; emotional and/or physical abuse and/or neglect; witnessing domestic violence; and sexual abuse from an early age.
“These are children who have been given no boundaries for acceptable behavior,” says Dr. Quilter, “and whose dysfunctional parents offer wildly inconsistent approaches to discipline, ranging from complete indifference to the harshest of beatings and humiliation.”
Nigel Gildersleeve, warden at Gray Willow Grange, agrees. “We have to start from scratch with these children. Many of them are malnourished and have never even eaten at a table or used silverware. They have no concept of what it means to take turns. They cannot empathize or interact appropriately with others because no one has ever empathized or interacted appropriately with them. They have fallen behind at school because teachers can’t cope with their disruptive behavior. If you want these children to be rehabilitated, you have to try to undo years of damage before you can even start to address the nature of their crimes. Subjecting them to harsh punishment merely reinforces the violence already instilled in them. They need structure and nurturing. Tough love, in other words, and yes, that sometimes includes rewards for good behavior.”
“Children’s brains change and develop, particularly during puberty,” says Dr. Lavinia Molyneux, a psychiatrist who works with children and adolescents. “Therefore, with the right treatment, we can and frequently do effect a marked change in their behavior, with many going on to do well academically and become responsible, law-abiding citizens.”
There will, of course, always be exceptions: a subgroup of children who develop into psychopaths and continue to offend as adults. “But it would be counterproductive,” says Mr. Gildersleeve, “to change the methods we have developed over years of experience and research just to satisfy the public’s appetite for retributive justice in one or two exceptional cases.”
ART THERAPY AND TABLE TENNIS, JUKEBOXES AND POOL, TRIPS TO THE BEACH—THIS IS WHAT YOU GET FOR MURDERING A CHILD
By Katie Hamlin
SATURDAY, JUNE 12, 1976
DAILY NEWS
Pictures of Sally McGowan laughing and playing pool in her prison have outraged the grieving family of little Robbie Harris, so brutally and callously murdered by McGowan just seven years ago.
“It makes my blood boil seeing her enjoying herself without a worry in the world while my precious angel is cold in his grave,” says a tearful Sylvia Harris from her cramped living room.
According to Deirdre Mason, a former Gray Willow cafeteria worker, inmates regularly get to play games and watch TV. “And the food is far better quality than my kids get for their school lunches,” she says.
“They’re not being punished for the terrible things they’ve done,” she continues. “It seems like they’re getting things they don’t deserve. One-to-one lessons, some of them, and all those activities most hardworking parents couldn’t afford.”
Sylvia Harris can only shake her head in despair. “Where’s the justice for my little Robbie?” she asks.
I’m parked outside a condo complex on the esplanade. It’s called, somewhat unimaginatively, Sea Breeze Court, and I’m waiting to show two different couples around number 33, whose owner has, sadly, died.
Trawling for articles about Sally McGowan is something I seem to do automatically now. Especially at times like this, when I have nothing much else to do. I just find myself typing her name in the search bar and seeing what comes up, scrolling down until I find something I haven’t yet read.
I wonder what Michael’s up to. I do worry about his methods sometimes. How he finds things out. I’m not so naïve as to believe it’s all strictly aboveboard. I just hope it’s not illegal enough that he’d get into trouble if he were found out. In one of the articles I’ve read there was a quote from some Russian author and journalist who argued that the tabloid press is more effective than the FSB in tracking people down. But it’s not as if Michael’s doing this to reveal McGowan’s identity. He just wants to write a book about her. Make a name for himself as a serious writer. Make a bit of money at the same time.
I dread to think what the Harris family will make of that. Exploiting their tragedy for his own ends—that’s what they’ll say. Their private grief once more made public property. And Sally McGowan the center of attention all over again when, really, it should be Robbie Harris we’re remembering. Little Robbie Harris. The boy who lost his life.
Number 33 Sea Breeze Court is boxy and bland. The previous owner’s furniture looks like it came from a much bigger, grander house. It’s totally unsuitable for a small condo like this. But still, the view is the selling point, and the neat concrete balcony with room for two chairs and a table and a couple of potted plants. Not that you ever see anyone sitting on their balconies. Not even in summer. At least, I never have.
I unlock the balcony door and stand aside so that Mr. and Mrs. Frankis can go out if they want to. Mr. Frankis steps outside and peers down onto the manicured lawn below.
“I like the gardens,” he says.
Mrs. Frankis stays where she is. There’s no way she’ll agree to buy this condo, whatever Mr. Frankis thinks. You only have to look at her face.
“As you can see,” I say, “it’s a perfect spot for morning coffee, or for evening drinks, watching the sun go down.”
“How much are they asking for this?” she says, finally walking out and peering at the house next door. The one that’s boarded up. Only now I notice someone’s pried the boards off the front door and smashed a pane of glass. Probably some bored teenagers breaking in on a dare. That’s going to turn her right off. I know it is.
“It’s listed at four hundred and sixty thousand dollars,” I say. “There’s already been a lot of interest. I think it will go pretty fast.”
She doesn’t respond, although her left eyebrow says more than enough. I’m wasting my time here. The sooner we can go through the motions of inspecting the two bedrooms, the better. My next couple is waiting outside. With any luck, both showings will be over in another ten minutes and I can drop in to see Liz without Dave wondering where I am.
When Mr. and Mrs. Frankis have gone, I go down to greet Mr. and Mrs. Enright, or Steve and Fiona, as they insist I call them. Steve and Fiona love the condo. Fiona can see past the heavy mahogany furniture and hideous curtains and envisages something clean and minimal. The kitchen will have to go, she says, but except for that it’s perfect. They lean their elbows on the balcony wall and enjoy the view.
“I can just see us sitting here drinking G and T’s on a sunny evening,” Steve says.
Good old Steve. He’s doing my job for me. And they’re so enraptured by the ocean that neither of them has mentioned the derelict house next door.
Annoyingly, they then spend ages chatting in the second bedroom. Mainly about whether they’ll have a bed or a sofa bed in there. Or possibly a futon. It’s a good sign when people start discussing what furniture they’ll put where, as if the condo is already theirs, but I’m not in the mood for it today.
