Guilty (15 page)

20.

Oliver’s insight told him he had a very important task to accomplish while he was over here. “Task” was probably an incorrect choice of word. It wasn’t a job, it was just something that needed doing, not a necessity out of duty but out of honour, love, a sort of thanksgiving, an appreciation of life, the unspoken joy of a little girl’s life, tragically taken from them all before they had really had chance to get to know her.

An unacknowledged life, that’s how it felt.

A concealed pregnancy, the little bump had managed to hide itself away from the world and away from Sadie’s consciousness. None of them knew why she hadn’t aborted the baby like she had the others. Nobody knew if Sadie was aware who the father was either. Born amongst the turmoil of Sadie’s addictions, they had all been amazed the social services hadn’t removed her at birth, but then Caroline was always hovering in the background, willing to help.

Caroline had never tried to take charge, just been the support needed to keep the hungry wolves at bay, the social and health workers who monitored Sadie’s movements so closely. They hadn’t understood the manipulation Sadie was so capable of. She knew how to present a glowing picture to them, but what went on behind closed doors was another matter. None of them would have stood back and ignored the situation if they had thought Sadie was violent towards the child. Oliver pulled himself up. That summed it up: “the child”. None of them had really ever got to know her as Molly.

They had felt the child was basically safe, not living the best ever babyhood, but that with Caroline’s regular input things were certainly going okay. There hadn’t been many photo opportunities so there weren’t albums full of happy baby snaps marking all the usual milestones. When Caroline did manage to get across the threshold she knew she had a limited time before Sadie made it clear visiting time was over. Caroline would rush around tidying, sterilising, taking things home to her washer. It didn’t leave her time to fuss over the baby, to get to know Molly as much as she wanted.

Caroline would recount each visit on her daily Skype chats with Oliver. He felt so desolate that he’d never had the chance to hold his tiny niece.

Of course, there were days when Sadie dumped Molly on Caroline so she could socialise and days where she failed to collect Molly, probably too “out of it” somewhere, but Caroline had no concrete evidence that Sadie was self-medicating. Sadie had enough wits about her to make sure she was in a fit state when she did eventually turn up for Molly.

Caroline used to share her worries with Oliver, worries that Sadie wasn’t coping with the stresses of motherhood.

She had spoken to her doctor but he’d said he couldn’t discuss Sadie’s welfare with her, that Sadie would have to speak to her own doctor, patient confidentiality and all that. Molly might arrive in dirty sleep suits, nappies a bit overdue for a change, hungry but never so severely bad that Caroline would have felt compelled to speak to social services.

Molly was not an easy baby. She cried constantly but then, she hadn’t had the happiest start to life. Sadie appeared to be drug free when Molly was born. Caroline comforted herself that she must have been – the medical staff would have picked that up if not.

Oliver had left Caroline and Steve at the hospital so he shared his plan with Fran. He knew his reason was good enough to excuse himself hunting through Caroline’s possessions.

He searched then through the boxes that had just been delivered by a well-meaning neighbour, Dave! Dave had volunteered to go round to Sadie’s flat. Forensics had long since abandoned it and the council were demanding to re-let it. He’d packed everything that didn’t need to be binned due to filth.

Oliver and Fran scavenged through them. They found the tiny clip which Sadie had apparently treasured enough to keep, from the cut cord. It felt so symbolic holding it in his hand. Such a precious gift of life stolen from them by the curse of a doomed soul. A minute baby vest, cute little socks; Oliver held them all to his nose, that newborn baby smell somehow still lingered.

Fran was quite artistic and he decorated an empty shoebox, covering it in pale pink crêpe paper and tiny rosebuds which he made from a darker pink tissue. He carefully glued them all over the lid. A beautiful keepsake box full of trophies from Molly’s short life: a favourite toy, the odd snap shot that did exist.

The funeral had been very insignificant; none of them could cope locked in a cell of grief. Oliver hadn’t been there obviously but he knew they now had to have some sort of memorial service for Molly.

The Rev Tu thought it was exactly what they all needed. The three of them – Fran, Oliver and the Rev – spent a whole evening together deciding how they should honour her short life.

By three in the morning they had formulated an honest but fitting tribute. Pink balloons would be released. Caroline would be asked to choose a couple of songs to be played. They all knew she would be incapable of any verbal input so they penned a brief message which Oliver would bravely read.

“Molly, a gift of love to a damaged soul. We thank God for our treasured angel leant to us during dark times,

A life full of promise, robbed of your chance to experience more of what can be a beautiful world.

You have left the world a better place than you found it because you have left us your love. Love never dies and we promise you, Molly, that somehow, each one of us today will promise to do something in your name that will help to make the world a better place.

All who are gathered in your memory today are asked to write down on a pledge card what that promise will be. The cards will be kept in the rosebud box and in the future their fruit will be evident in the world you now look over.”

Rev Tu suggested that before the ceremony they texted all who would be attending, asking them to consider what they could promise to do. They agreed to include examples to inspire people:

“I promise I will perform an act of random kindness every day of my life.”

“I promise I will sponsor a starving child/adopt an animal from an endangered species.”

“I promise that I will run that marathon to raise funds for . . .”

“I promise I will quit smoking in order to cherish the life I do have.”

“Should we try to let Sadie know of our plans?” Oliver earnestly asked the Rev. His wisdom always could be relied upon.

“As Molly died at her hands I think the guilt would just be compounded if she does feel guilt. I think we need to leave Sadie’s soul to find its own path to redemption concerning Molly.”

As soon as he had uttered the words Oliver knew that was the only possible answer. The service was too pure to be tinged by unrepentant evil.

They decided they would make laminated bookmarks with one of the photos of Molly on and their final wish for Molly written on it: “Be inspired by Molly to leave the world a better place than you found it.”

There would be a reference to the biblical definition of love in 1 Corinthians 13. This would honour Caroline’s deep faith.

The promises, the balloons, the bookmarks would mark their belief that something of Molly would always be with them. Carline loved her garden so they decided that everybody would come back to the house after the service and they would plant a little rose tree for Molly, after all her middle name was Rose, such a pretty name, Molly Rose.

Fran’s rosebud box would be a treasure for Caroline as she began to gain the strength with the passage of time to celebrate the life of her little granddaughter. Even though Bri’s life was still in the balance, Molly Rose must be given her own important time as soon as possible. Her precious memory would then enable them to start to look to the future, knowing something of her would always be with each one of them.

Oliver smiled at Fran as they closed the door behind the rev at four in the morning. Molly Rose was to be thanked for the unity she had given them that night. Oliver had been so warmed to see the genuine love, care, concern and thoughtfulness of his partner. Fran had been so sensitive to everybody’s needs, so respectful to Molly’s memory, so understanding of the raw grief. Molly was no longer a murder victim. Somehow they had set her free to inspire others, to offer hope, to acknowledge that love does live on.

Sadie could not think of Molly Rose. Her mind was stone. It couldn’t go down that path. Nobody had understood her. She had been aware of all the judgements made by others at her apparent lack of emotion, lack of feeling. She knew from the way that Caroline loved her that there should have been more than what she felt. She felt numb.

When she had first held her newborn she’d been disinterested. This being had torn her open and then screamed its way to her breast. The midwife had just placed it there. She’d found it repulsive, the gaping mouth suckling on her. She’d pushed it away, refusing to entertain a second attempt. “Give it a bottle!” she’d screamed. “Take it away.”

Everybody had assumed she was just exhausted after her twenty-hour labour. She’d lost a lot of blood. The pain had been unbearable, the forceps barbaric, the tugging, the stitches so humiliating. She felt ugly, looking at her baggy, deflated stomach. It hurt to walk, she had no energy and all this thing did was cry and cry and cry. It would not shut up.

She couldn’t get her head around nappies, fastening them, remembering to buy the things, they were so expensive! Then there were the babygrows and all the vests. This creature seemed to spew up all the time. She never got round to washing clothes so until Caroline made an appearance with the next clean load, the thing stank of sick.

It was totally draining. She couldn’t sleep at nights, she felt too down and then when sleep eventually came, the beast woke her again, shrieking for milk. Dragging herself out of bed or off the couch where she often fell asleep to try and mix the formula, try to recall Caroline’s strict instructions on sterilising the bottles and the dummies which she shoved in the bawling mouth. She never felt one iota of joy, it was all a terrible nightmare from which there seemed no escape. Sometimes she’d just let Caroline take her home and two or three days would fly past where she’d just sleep off her vodka binge or wallow in a drug-fuelled dabble, incredibly not progressing to the class As and Bs.

Something in her, she wasn’t sure what, always made her sober up, abandon the gateway drugs and get her act sufficiently together to go to collect her offspring. The same something made her continue to try to mother Molly, just as it had stopped her from aborting her.

Then miraculously after about six weeks, the tiny beast had looked into her eyes and smiled. A light flickered in Sadie’s heart; looking back, she had often questioned the psychopath label. There had been no denying that spark of emotion, a glimmer of love. Suddenly there had been the promise of a relationship, but Sadie didn’t do relationships and the embers died down rapidly. It was all a huge battle, an insurmountable hurdle to Sadie. She lacked the determination to face problems, but for Caroline she endured it all; managed to appear to be a coping mother.

When Caroline was there, it did seem almost believable and as the baby began to coo and gurgle and eventually laugh, the sparks of affection would rise in Sadie’s heart, encouraging her on with the promise that things would get better.

Tragically they could not have got worse! Sadie wished she could have died too. Her paralysed brain permitted some memories to filter through.

Little warm fingers which clasped hers, chubby cheeks, chunky legs kicking more vigorously whenever the baby heard Sadie’s voice. There had been cuddles and warm, intimate mother and child moments which nobody could rob her of, but her own innate wickedness had destroyed everything, annihilated her world.

She now knew pure hatred. Black, black, black self-hatred. The self-loathing was the worst punishment anybody could inflict upon her. See, they were all wrong: “psychopaths have no remorse”!

She was drowning in remorse but nobody was bothered. Hatred demanded her own destruction but they’d deprived her of all the tools. She tried holding her breath, throttling herself, she banged her head non-stop against the walls but the padding ensured self-harm was impossible. The definition of hell , the inability to escape from oneself. The world had labelled her a psychopath but the world was wrong! She couldn’t be neatly packaged up .This new self-loathing refused to be bundled up. It was not stereotypical of her supposed condition. The experts had got it wrong. There was more to Sadie than any of them had allowed.

Lack of remorse, lack of guilt, one of the defining characteristics pinned to her. Something had stirred, though, which felt like it could be remorse. Surely this was the thing the so-called “Normals” had said she couldn’t exhibit. It was so devastating.

She tried to ask herself if she could have her time over again would she have acted differently, but that was the problem, she had had no choice, it just happened, impulsive if you like, one of their labels again but not even that. Just a power which took her over.

Was she sorry? Sorry had never been in her vocabulary. Sorry seemed glib, meaningless, it was more just hating the situation she had clearly created. Another classifying phrase, she was supposed to be unable to accept responsibility for her own actions. She still didn’t see them as her actions, they just happened but yes, logically, she could understand that people would say she was responsible.

The psychologists had had a field day with all their little tests which had helped them to tick their psychopath box. So many experiments so they could say, “See, this is what psychopaths are like. Yes, she had a parasitic lifestyle, yes, she lacked realistic, long-term goals, yes, she exhibited impulsivity, yes, she scored highly on irresponsibility, she needed stimulation, she was so easily bored, in fact she was always bored. All through her life she had shown no evidence of guilt or remorse; she did have a grandiose sense of self-worth, everybody knew she was cunning and manipulative; she was so full of glibness and superficial charm; she had wrapped so many people round her little finger; she’d shown no empathy to peers, in fact been downright callous; yes, definitely criminal versatility featured in her history; as expected in the life of a psychopath she had shown very early childhood behavioural problems; juvenile delinquency.”