All of Me (28 page)

This isn’t right,
I thought, and stared at the blackened windows. Policemen were coming and going through the front door like it was the local station. A dozen or so neighbours were milling around. The smell of burning, even drenched by firehoses, was unmistakeable.

I felt sick.

Mum!

It was instinctive. I had to get to her, rescue her, make sure she was all right.

Then it came flooding back. She wasn’t in there. She’d gone.

I forced myself to look back at the charred walls. What had happened? Did I leave a cigarette burning overnight? Was I drunk again? Who else could have started a fire in my house if it wasn’t me? Apart from Mum’s Airedale, Alfie, no one else lived there. I don’t think he smoked forty a day.

I sniffed my clothes. I didn’t recognise what I was wearing but at least it didn’t smell of smoke. Obviously I hadn’t been involved in the fire. Thank God.

I moved along the path. A uniformed arm stretched across the door.

‘Sorry, Miss, it’s a crime scene now. We can’t let you in.’

‘But I need to collect some things.’

‘I’m sorry, Miss, but I don’t think there’s much left. So, if you wouldn’t mind stepping back out onto the pavement.’

Without thinking I did as I was told. Every step that I took, though, resonated with the same thought.

He said ‘crime scene’. Did I not cause this fire?

The alternative was almost too much to process.

First the problems at work, then the acid and now this. What the hell is going on with my life?

I didn’t have the answer. I didn’t know anything. The only conclusion I truly drew for sure was that my problems had nothing to do with alcohol.

But if it’s not the wine, then what is it?

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Please help me

The woman collected her papers from the lectern, gave a brief, self-conscious nod of recognition and headed towards the anonymous safety of the stage’s wings. It wasn’t like being at a concert or the theatre but the speaker’s audience applauded heartily all the same. And no one clapped with more gusto than Hayley.

What a day,
she thought. Applauding alongside her, Hayley’s friend Ann looked just as rapt. No one, they agreed, could possibly leave that hall without feeling empowered after hearing these incredible women speak.

The event was a conference about women and violence and the speakers on the bill included some very famous names. Susie Orbach was the headliner, familiar to many the world over for her book
Fat Is A Feminist Issue.
As one of Britain’s most distinguished lawyers, Helena Kennedy was someone who’d built a reputation for championing victims’ rights. But it was another speaker, one Hayley hadn’t heard of before Ann had mentioned her, that had truly struck a chord. Valerie Sinason, a therapist from London, was a wonder to listen to, from start to finish. By the end of her speech Hayley couldn’t imagine ever being a victim of men again.

As the hall emptied, Ann led Hayley towards the event’s social area. Unlike at theatrical performances, conference stars were happy to
mingle afterwards. As they reached the area where fans waited for Susie Orbach’s signature on well-thumbed copies of her book, Hayley began to lag behind.

Noticing, Ann laughed.

‘Don’t go getting cold feet now,’ she mocked gently, and gave her friend a comforting arm to hold through the throng. Even then Hayley was reluctant to go further.

‘Tell you what,’ Ann said. ‘You wait here and I’ll give it to her.’

Relieved, Hayley found a chair and sat down. Ann had been a good friend, especially with all the troubles at work and then the acid and the fire. It had been her idea to come here today. Just the recollection of the acid saw Hayley’s hand absent-mindedly stroke her cheek. The physical wound had long stopped hurting but Hayley could still feel the burn with every touch. That would stay with her forever.

Moments later, Ann returned.

‘I’ve done it,’ she said. ‘I gave her the letter.’

‘What do we do now?’ Hayley asked.

‘We wait.’

S
tanding outside the darkened shell of my house I thought of all the times I’d blacked out, all those unaccounted-for hours and days of my life that just seemed to be lost however much I tried to call them back.

And how I wished I could have blacked out there and then.

Everything I owned was in that building. Now a policeman was calling it a crime scene. There was a chance they were still looking for clues and in my heart I knew I couldn’t guarantee I hadn’t caused the fire. But there was a chance, albeit a small one, that it had been started by someone else. The more I dwelled on it the more scared I became. If there was even a 1 percent risk that the fire had been started deliberately by someone else then I was in more trouble than I could cope with.

What on Earth am I supposed to do now?

I never thought that the answer would lie at Kingston train station.

I don’t remember how long after discovering the house it was. I just recall staring at the sign and looking for a station clock.

According to the timetable, the next train is in twenty minutes.

I checked the platform numbers. I was on the side heading away from London.
Where the hell am I going?
Then I noticed the herd of people funnelling towards the exit. Maybe I wasn’t going anywhere.
Has a train just left? Did I just get off here?

I scratched my head, desperate to remember. Why was I in Kingston? Who did I know there? What was I doing? In the absence of any better plan I decided to follow the masses to the exit. Hopefully something outside would jog my memory.

‘Kim?’

It was a woman’s voice.

‘Hello?’ I said warily but if she picked up on my nerves it didn’t show.

‘My car’s over there,’ she gestured. ‘Shall we go?’

I didn’t have a clue who this woman was but she obviously knew me. That gave her the advantage but at that moment it was just a relief not to be on my own.

During the course of the journey I discovered I was on my way to a women’s shelter. The address was top secret. That’s why she’d met me at the station rather than sending a cab. For the sake of conversation I asked if security was an issue. ‘It’s our number one priority,’ she replied. Even if someone found the shelter’s telephone number, the woman assured me, they would always be answered with ‘never heard of anyone with that name’.

They seemed to have thought of everything – but it still didn’t explain why I was there.

‘Just until you get yourself back on your feet,’ the woman explained. ‘We can’t have you going back home until the bastards who set fire to you and your house are brought to justice.’

She looked embarrassed at her choice of words but I didn’t mind. I could only focus on one thing.

You mean it wasn’t me?

You can play that moment over and over in your head all day and night and it will never sound any better. Every which way I considered it made me feel more and more afraid.

Someone had tried to burn down my house. With me inside. Why? What had I ever done to hurt anyone?

For the hundredth time in what felt like as many minutes I couldn’t help thinking,
What the hell is happening to me?

My own problems paled in significance when I met some of the other women at the shelter. There were people there afraid of their own shadows. Others were so close to the tipping point I was impressed how they got through each day. And then there were the ones who just looked relieved to be somewhere safe. I suppose I fell into that category.

I had the usual problems of playing catch-up during conversations but generally it was refreshing to find women who had been through ordeals similar to mine and had come out the other side. We weren’t encouraged to share our problems unless we were comfortable doing so, but I heard story after story that gave me faith in womankind’s ability to overcome adversity. When it came to my turn I felt like a bit of a fraud. I knew so little of what had happened to me that I’m sure it didn’t quite ring true. Still, it wasn’t an audience who would judge.

Generally I think I would have taken my own problems over most of the other women’s. There was just one area where I considered myself disadvantaged. Everyone else at the refuge knew full well who had caused them pain. Each woman had a name or a face etched indelibly on her memory.

I had nothing.

I could pass my attackers in the street and not recognise them. The man who threw acid into my face could be my taxi driver, my postman or anyone else in the world and I’d never know. The person who set fire to my house could buy me a drink and I’d be none the wiser. That not knowing was almost unbearable. I’d had a lifetime of confusion but this was threatening to eat away at me unless I came to terms with it. But how could I face these acts if I couldn’t remember them?

And why couldn’t I remember them? Was my memory trying to protect me somehow?
You read about the brain doing things like that.
Something I did remember, actually, was that old diagnosis of dissociation. The doctor at the time had said it carried the possibility of amnesic moments where you suppressed experiences you didn’t like. Was that what I was going through?

I honestly didn’t know – but very soon I would meet someone who did.

*

I’m not at the refuge. There are chairs, people, posters on the walls. It’s a waiting room and a door is opening.

I didn’t know where I was but I could tell that I was about to have a meeting with the woman extending her hand towards me. She was leaning against a door to what looked like a consultation room. If I had a pound for every bad experience I’d had inside one of those …

‘Hello, my name is Valerie Sinason.’ Her voice was calm and soothing. ‘You can call me Valerie or Ms Sinason.’

Just her manner put me at ease. Then she smiled – a genuine, welcoming smile – and said, ‘What would you like me to call you?’

No one ever asked that.

It still didn’t explain why we were meeting. Then Valerie explained that it was because I’d been brave enough to get my friend Ann to pass on a letter at a conference on women and violence.

It was all news to me, although I did recall a female counsellor called Ann who had popped up at the various homes I’d stayed in since the fire and I liked her. She was on my side, I knew that. Against whom God only knew, but it had felt good to have an ally.

I learnt later that Ann had written to Valerie asking her to give me an appointment. Together with Dr Rob Hale, a consultant psychiatrist and psychoanalyst, she was researching severe and ritual abuse with funding from the Department of Health. I wasn’t entirely sure how I could help her work or what she could do for me – yes I’d been attacked by strangers but the only abuse I’d known was people in authority messing with my mind and locking me up against my will.

Yet there was something about Valerie and, when he joined us later, Dr Hale that gave me confidence. As I listened to them speak so passionately about their work I cast a critical eye over my own past. Too much of it was a mystery to me and what I did recall, judging from the reactions of the women at the refuge, was out of the ordinary. Acid and arson attacks weren’t normal, were they? Other people didn’t get locked up in asylums when there was nothing wrong with them. People like Lorraine, my sister, weren’t always forgetting where they worked and what they were meant to be doing there. As each realisation hit me I felt my shoulders slump. I was tired. Life had worn me down. I’d always told myself I was a fighter, that I was coping, that no one would ever get the better of me. But who was I kidding? After years of fighting against meddling doctors and medics and psychiatrists it was time to put my hand up and say the very words I thought I’d never hear myself say.

‘Yes, please help me.’

I didn’t know what they could do for me but anything was better than the way I was living.

The deal was simple: I would attend the Portman Clinic in Swiss Cottage every week for separate sessions with Valerie and Dr Hale and talk about my problems, and they would ask me the questions they needed to. It was a win-win situation: they got their research and I got to share my confusion with someone. The arrangement had the added bonus of their not wanting to force-feed me medication, or lock me up or, in particular, spy on me when I sat on the toilet.

Those sessions would have to wait, however, because until my house was repaired I was still homeless. I needed to explore other options. Having made the psychological leap that – yes – I was ready to talk to Valerie and Dr Hale, I decided to pursue further help. Someone at Kingston told me about the Arbours crisis centres in Crouch End, north London, and so I got in touch. Arbours owned a number of houses in the area called ‘therapeutic communities’, like the Cassel, where patients could live and enjoy in-house therapies of various kinds. For the first time in my life I found myself asking for treatment. I was so keen on it that even when my local health authority refused to fund it because it was outside their borough, I decided to find the money myself. Fortunately I had received a cheque along with a letter saying it was compensation for the attacks on me. Not only did I not recall those, I had no memory of asking for compensation. But it was welcome.