Hope's Vengeance (15 page)

“Still in a band, yes, we’re called Reveal, we play rock mainly.” A forlorn expression fleeted across her face. The band. She’d been skipping rehearsals, much to the annoyance of her brother and the rest of the band. Her heart was still behind it, she loved singing, raw music, performing, the whole scene, but somehow an edge had been taken away, her attentions now lay in Hope’s court. She continued keeping her tone bright. “We do local gigs, but still going for the big time if we ever get a lucky break.”

Wilkinson raised an eyebrow but diplomatically kept quiet, knowing that Dawn was unlikely to ever get a lucky break at her age. “Now, young lady, you sounded quite desperate on the phone, how can I help you?”

Dawn swallowed hard, where did she start? She’d gone over the conversation so many times since they’d arranged the meeting the previous day, and she still hadn’t found a reasonable starting point. And there was confidentiality to think about too. “Mr Wilkinson…”

A friendly chuckle. “Young lady, you’re an adult now. Please call me Taylor.”

Dawn smiled gratefully, pleased he was making this easy for her. “Taylor. I have a degree in clinical psychology, and a diploma in counselling, and I’m a member of the British Association for Counselling and Psychotherapy.”

“A true professional then, I’m proud you took your education so far.” His eyes crinkled into a warm smile.

Dawn surveyed the office, trying to find another way of phrasing her dilemma. She hadn’t come in seeking approval or compliments, but that was how she had come across. She needed to take a different route, and she scanned the room while her mind debated which way to turn. The walls were yellowing, aged rather than nicotine stained, and well-worn bookcases dripped with classics, traditionally bound, alongside modern paperbacks, largely non-fiction. This was a functional room, with little space for imagination. The Axminster carpet was tatty with age, well worn in a single track between the door and behind the desk, and the desk itself was antique oak. The most uncommon surprise was the lack of computer, Taylor evidently shunned modern technology, in favour of tried and trusted books for his thirst for knowledge.

“Taylor, I wasn’t looking for praise just then, that must have sounded so big headed. I was just trying to show you that if I, with my high level of education, can’t solve this problem, that’s how deep a problem it is for me. God, even that sounds big headed.” Dawn shook her head, reprimanding herself internally, she was making a fool of herself and still getting no further towards the Hope dilemma.

Taylor picked up the phone, pressing number two firmly. “Sweetheart, I don’t suppose you’d bring in a tray of drinks, would you?” He caught Dawn’s eye, mouthing ‘tea or coffee’ to her, and she smiled her reply. “Two coffees, yes, yes. Thank you, love, I really appreciate it.” He replaced the handset, clasped his hands together on the desk, and regarded his former pupil. He’d always respected Dawn. Her mind was always old for her years, yet her wardrobe kept her young, and she was intelligent, funny, incredibly unique, with a compassionate heart. However, his own compassion was floating out to her now, he’d never seen her so disturbed, even before her final exams. He held his words back, knowing she would spill her troubles when she was ready.

It didn’t take long. “I have a client, and it appears that she has repressed memories of sexual interference from a young age. I did something the other day and I’m not sure it was ethical.”

“Oh?”

Dawn’s eyes fled to the floor, shamed, embarrassed. Her words were almost indistinct. “I regressed her.” She glanced at Taylor for his reaction then back to the floor. “Not to the abuse, I wouldn’t do that, I’m not qualified, just back to when she was seven or eight, just her home life, surroundings, how she felt about her family.”

His fingers had now outstretched, tips squeezed together in a sideways pyramid. “So you’ve justified your actions to me, but you don’t believe them, do you? What exactly is the problem, be specific.”

The unease turned to guilt, and her panic filled eyes begged him for help. “I think she’s going to do something stupid. I think the whole revelation, it’s only been a week since she found out, I think it’s sending her over the edge. I don’t know what to do.”

A light tapping on the door, and a mature, yet handsome, impeccably neat lady stepped onto the threadbare trail, silver tray deftly positioned on her outstretched hand. She smiled at Dawn, at her husband, the warmth glowing with kindness, and retreated gracefully, leaving a wisp of additional friendliness in the room after closing the door.

Taylor was still debating Dawn’s outburst, he was a man who thought in depth before uttering a word, but his fingers drumming against the leather blotter belied his concerned thoughts. “You say something stupid. What do you mean by that?”

The sigh was dramatic but genuine. “Not suicide. She self harms but she’s not suicidal. I don’t know. She wants to know what the guy did to her. She’s desperate to know, but I think it’s too soon. She’s only just discovered the possible abuse after twenty five years, I think she needs to come to terms with it before finding out any more details.”

Taylor took his glasses off, laying them on the desk, and rubbed both eyes. “Yes, yes, I agree totally. You think she may try some other therapy to regain the memory, is that what scares you?”

She nodded vigorously. “Taylor, she has an anger I’ve never seen in anyone before. It’s so deep, so vitriolic, she scares me sometimes, I’m not sure how much she’s capable of once the fire inside is lit…” Dawn’s words tailed, she’d voiced a worry she’d never consciously considered before, and it shocked her.

Taylor was intrigued, a part of him wished he could meet the client for the challenge. He debated internally for a minute, then realisation dawned and he was incredulous. “You think she may try and get revenge on the abuser, don’t you? It’s not concern for your client’s welfare, it’s concern for his, isn’t it?”

Dawn fidgeted, he’d hit the nail on the head, but she wished he’d phrased it in a way that didn’t crucify her for siding with the enemy. A tinge of anger swept through her, at the ease that he’d made her sound so cruel. “It’s not like that. She’s not like that. I mean, yes, I’m worried she’ll track him down. In fact yes, that’s exactly what I’m here about. Oh, for God’s sake, I just down know. I don’t know.”

His calmness was refreshing. “Does she know who the abuser was?”

“Yes, he was a trainee vicar, but she’s only ever referred to him by his first name, I’m not sure she knows his surname.”

His fingers continued to drum against the wood. “Hmm, but that wouldn’t take much finding out, though.” He sat back in his chair, contemplative, before offering the ‘get out’ clause: “So let her. She’s only your problem in the counselling sessions, what she chooses to do in her own time, that’s her business.”

Dawn was stunned. “Mr Wilkinson! Are you telling me to ignore the danger signs? Is that even ethical?”

He regarded her, her enthusiasm and compassion, and his own leaning was firmly on her side, but he could see that she was too emotionally tied into whoever this client was, and that danger sign was more imperative than any other. “Yes. And if this client keeps niggling you aside of work, you know you must transfer them to another counsellor. Don’t let anything become personal.”

The Surname

Hope’s knuckles were white as she gripped the phone in her hand, her teeth were gritted with frustration. “Just tell me his surname, that’s all I’m asking.”

The woman on the other end of the line was equally frustrated, her voice was curt, irritated. “Hope, let this go, will you! It’s in the past, it all happened twenty five years ago now, that’s a lifetime away, it’s time you let it go.”

“Mother, you don’t seem to understand, it’s not in the past for me. It’s my past, my present, my future. I need closure, and to get that I need to know that I’ve done all I can to get retribution for what he did. Why can’t you understand that? Why are you putting so much loyalty into the man who screwed your seven-year-old daughter, rather than protecting and helping me? You didn’t act on what I told you a quarter of a century ago, you didn’t try to stop him, or alert the authorities, or get me the help I needed. You’re my mother, Mum, and I need you to help me now. Help me to help myself. If you won’t tell me what I told you back then, then at least tell me his surname. Just give me some answers, for god’s sake, and make amends for your failings as a mother when I desperately needed you.”

The anger shot down the line like a fireball, Hope tugged the phone away from her ear. “Right! I’ll tell you his surname. But in return I never want to hear this business mentioned again. You do what messing you need to do, but leave me out of it. His name was Hall.” The line went dead, and involuntary tears of relief for the answer, combined with grief for her mother’s angry abandonment, trickled copiously, emptying away the electrically charged emotions.

Hope breathed slowly, deeply, calming herself until she was ready for the next step. Less than a minute passed before the eagerness overwhelmed the sadness, and she turned to her computer, typing ‘Griffin Hall vicar’ into the search engine. Within five minutes she knew the village he lived in, the church he preached at, and his extra-curricular activities, all of which were under the guise of the church, and all of which involved children.

The Regression

There was a surreal calmness about Hope as she laid back in the encompassing, overstuffed chair. The room was a pastel green, stark, some potted plants providing the only contrast apart from the seat and the navy clad woman in front of her.

Mary was a nervous woman, timid and unassuming, but she had the most wonderful tone in her voice, it soothed like silk, reassuring, comforting, and Hope suspected she’d chosen the right hypnotherapist from the three she’d short-listed. “Just a final recap, okay, to make sure I have your instructions correct.” Her molten chocolate vowels dripped deliciously, and Hope was already letting her tensions subside. “You were sexually abused at the age of seven by a man named Griffin Hall. You want to be regressed to that age, to revisit the abuse. You want it on tape, because you intend to prosecute.”

Hope nodded, smiling enigmatically.

Mary continued, her brow furrowed lightly with concern. “You do realise that this could be traumatic, do you have help after this session.”

She was beginning to feel impatient. “Yes, yes, of course.”

“I can place a block in your subconscious if you like before I bring you round, to stop you having flashbacks.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Are you sure?”

Hope grinned, it was disconcerting. “Look, I’m ready, okay, I’m in control, I know what I’m doing.”

The older woman sighed, her pigeon eyes peeping from beneath the heavy fringe, pinched lips pouting to enhance the wrinkles caused by years of tobacco abuse, and she switched the tape recorder on. Her dreamy, creamy voice lulled the room, and, step-by-step, she soothed Hope onto a distant plain, a plain from years before, a plain that an innocent child played upon. Hope could see herself, dancing in the breeze, summer dress, smock-stitched to the waist, billowing. Her red sandals reminded her of Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, crinkled socks topping them scruffily. Her hair was long, flowing, dark. She darted about, doing cartwheels. Handstands. Skipping.

“Are you happy, Hope? Have you gone back to a nice place.” Oozing into her semi-consciousness like an angel’s harp.

“I’m playing. I’m running, I’m skipping. I feel so free.”

“You can play again later, but you need to go home now, can you do that for me?”

“Ohhhhhh!” Hope’s knees and arms were jerking very slightly. “I’m home.”

“There’s a man called Griffin who visits you, is he there?”

Hope’s face fell, her hands came up to shield her face. “He’s doing something to my Mummy. She’s kneeling on the floor and he’s pulling her head into his legs. They’re making funny noises. I don’t like it. Mummy’s seen me. He’s gone away from her. He’s got a big thing sticking out, it scares me. I’m running through the room now, I’ve passed them, I want to go to my room, I’m running up the stairs. Mummy’s coming after me, I’m in my room, and I’ve slammed the door. I can hear them talking outside. I’m scared. I don’t want a smack.”

Hope’s legs were drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapping them, hands clasped tightly together, gripping for life. Her body shook uncontrollably, tremors of fright coursing through. Her innocence glowed vividly, as her words disturbed the filthy atmosphere. “The door’s opening. It’s Griffin. I can hear Mummy going down the stairs. He’s locked the door, I think he’s going to smack me, I don’t want a smack.”

Her face broke into a wide smile, arms relaxing, legs falling to the floor. “It’s okay, he’s being nice, he’s kneeling beside me, he’s got my hand and he’s playing with my fingers. It tickles.” Her body began to tense once more. “His hand’s gone up my skirt, I don’t like it, his fingers are in my knickers. I’m pushing him away.” Hope’s arms jabbed into the air, her legs kicking to one side, the unseen attacker persisting. “He won’t let me go, he’s holding me down, I’m by the wall and I can’t move, he’s taken my knickers off. I want my Mum. I want my Mum. I want to get away. He’s holding me down, he’s doing things to my bottom and it hurts, I don’t like it. No! No!”

The childish voice broke into a terrified scream, gurgling, the pain palpable, terror filled, gruesome. “The big thing. The big purple thing. He’s pushing it in my bottom. It hurts. Mummy, it hurts, it hurts.”

Hope was spread over the chair, legs astride, silent sobs racking her chest, as she relived her childhood rape. Mary hoped it would be over soon, her client was deeply distressed and she was eager to bring her round. But suddenly Hope’s body jerked upright, and her speech became slurred, her mouth no longer closing to form the words properly.