Shell House

             
First printed in Great Britain in 2013

By Amazon.co.uk, Ltd., Marston Gate.

1

World Rights, The Feldstein Agency.

The author, Gayle Eileen Curtis

asserts her moral rights to be identified as the author of this work

www.wilfredginge.co.uk

ISBN-13: 978-1492977551

All rights reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored

in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic,

mechanical photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written

permission of The Feldstein Agency.

www.thefeldsteinagency.co.uk

For my lovely parents

SHELL HOUSE

BY

GAYLE EILEEN CURTIS

PROLOGUE

September 22
nd
197
4
 

        My name is Rebecca Banford, only it isn’t the name I was born with. I am a child killer. This is a reference to me which is true and unchanging. I am a part of your society and I am a product of my circumstances and surroundings but I am socially invisible even though I am infamous. I know you’re perhaps thinking I have no right to self pity but that’s how I feel at this stage in my life.

      
I murdered two children. I can say it now; talk about it. Well, in my own way I can.

       
I am eighteen and I have been given a new name in the hope I will become someone else. But I don’t know who she is. I feel like I’ve been donated an empty human skin that I must unzip as though it was a costume to step into. I don’t even know who I am. I can tell you what I am. I am a child killer. People become lost under their labels; wife, mother, father, sister...I am entrenched under mine.

       
I am writing this diary as some sort of cathartic experience in an attempt to discover who I really am. These are the words of my therapist. I often repeat what other people tell me and project it as my own thoughts because I don’t know how to think for myself. I am hoping this experience will change all this. My therapist suggested I write down everything I wish to gain from my time in a secure unit. First and foremost, I would like to see my family again so I can discover who I am in order to change my life.

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

Harry Rochester  
November 1st 2010

        I spent much of today in my shell room. I wandered slowly around the large, tranquil room the walls of which are hidden with glass cabinets that reach from floor to ceiling. The opaque shelves are laden with all kinds of shells which I have collected for eighty years of my life. Each type of shell has a small card with a description of the specimen and a Latin translation underneath. The centre of the room is filled with larg
e
freestanding glass cabinets containing more of the same; here and there rest empty turtle shells over one hundred years old. These hold the most magic and intrigue for me. I can always see them inhabited, resting on warm sand, lit by a full moon brightly shining in a country other than ours. They are so mysterious to me because I don’t know their history, I can only imagine where they came from.

        
My granddaughter, Nancy, is right when she says it looks like a museum and I should open it to the public. It is either age or lack of inclination that has stopped me. These two factors have been the reason for me not doing a lot of things; I’ve spent much of my time wondering which is the cause of my indifference.

       
I’ve consoled myself with the fact that I’ve just turned eighty and don’t need to worry about much anymore. I’m quite glad of the excuse. When I was in my seventies I was told many times that I wasn’t too old to do this or that and now I’ve reached eighty I feel officially vintage. Let off the hook somehow from doing what people thought I ought to do, rather than what I actually wanted to. I often felt like I was walking on floating stones across a vast expanse of water, unsteadily making my way to solid ground.

       
I can leave everything up to my family and they can do what they wish with it when I’m gone.

       
The collections have been purely for my own pleasure my entire life; the only thing I felt I’ve created on my own, unblemished and untainted. I never felt selfish about it; I consider myself to be a good man. I’ve always worked hard, been a reasonably good father and never shirked my responsibilities. I saw the collection as part of myself the more it grew; like an extra limb. The idea of it not existing fills me with a
n
emptiness I don’t wish to dwell on. Occasionally I am gripped by the fear of the sea raging up over the cliffs at the bottom of my garden and engulfing the house in some strange demand for all the shells I’ve stolen from it. But I knew if this ever happened I’d be taken away with it and therefore I would die with my collection. This doused my fear in comfort.

      
As I perused and pondered the room earlier today, I still felt after all this time as I did fifty years ago, when I’d finally been able to afford a big enough house with a room where I could display my treasured collection of shells. The room has always been tranquil, gentle and cool and I felt, when I viewed it for the first time that it was similar to the atmosphere of a chapel.

       
I have always been fascinated by shells. They were like empty houses, the only difference being they were cleaner and more peaceful than most. This thought never saddens me, it just fills me with intrigue.  A little sea house where once there lived a magical creature. I’d become lost in this mystical little world after my mother died when I was ten, and again when I was thirty and I lost my wife, Emma.

      
It had been like history repeating itself, the only difference being I’d changed roles. I’d been left, aged ten, with a grieving father in a draughty, lifeless old house and then, when I lost Emma twenty years later, I had become the bereaved husband and parent. I like to think that this beautiful house by the sea has made the whole tragedy easier on my children. Houses and surroundings are important to me and I strongly believe they have an effect on how one deals with things.

       
It sounds ridiculous but I found great comfort in my shells when I was grieving. They reminded me of my own quiet, still home, the silence the sudden transition of change causes when somebody leaves or dies. It helped me to feel less alone and stopped it engulfing me.

       
As I grew older and reflected on the time of my wife’s death, when I’d finally been able to look beyond the loss, I’d marvelled at how tranquil the house had been. Her death had been so traumatic and for a short time had filled the house with a fractious, depressing air. But I suppose it was the calm after the storm. I couldn’t help feeling the house thundered when the atmosphere was unstable and it was pleased when the cause was expelled, even if this meant death. A gentle hush had drifted over the house and through the rooms like a thousand ghosts whispering. The only thing that had broken the silence was the cry of my baby daughter, Gabrielle, bursting into a scream, but even that was brief and gentle. I had been able, even through my turmoil, to calm her and see to her needs. My two year old son, Jonathan, withdrew in a make believe world where he pretended everything was how he wanted it to be, not really understanding what had happened. We had all rubbed along together in a strange silence as we waited for the unbelievably heavy grief to leave. It was like having an unappealing guest you had to be awfully polite and respectful to.

       
Eventually grief departed leaving its shadowy imprint and another nightmare began to unfold in our house by the sea.

Harry Rochester   November 4
th
2010

        I suppose I should have started by saying that as you read this I have no care whether you like me or not. I’m not telling you this story for any other reason than I want to expel it from myself. I am undecided about what I think of most of it and I have no regard for what you or anyone thinks about me either way. I just need to talk, to put this on paper; it’s the only cathartic experience I imagine will work. My name is Harry Rochester. My arrogance when I began writing this caused me to assume you knew who I was, seeing as you are, after all, reading it and it is my name stated at the top of the page.

       
It’s snowing today. I love the snow even though I’m eighty. It fills me with a strange kind of calm and comfort, a bit like my shells. I also love the winter and all that it brings; the cold weather, wet dark clouds and the representation of being cosseted indoors.