Jim puts down his mug. He feels as though every belief he’s ever held – all his liberal pieties, his loosely Christian belief in redemption, his adamant conviction that a child cannot be labelled evil, however monstrous their acts – has been smashed with a sledgehammer. How could she? he thinks. How could she?
‘Oh my God,’ he says, surprised at the strength of his feelings. He feels as though he personally has been betrayed; as though Amber Gordon has come up and physically slapped him in the face. ‘I don’t know what to think any more. I really don’t. How are we supposed to argue for the innate goodness of the human spirit when people like this… How could she?’
He watches as police manhandle a female figure beneath a blanket up the steps of Whitmouth Police Station. They’re not gentle, and the crowd is ill-controlled. He sees her trip on the first step, then she is hauled upright and practically thrown through the doors.
‘Well, if it’s true,’ he says, ‘bang goes everything I ever believed in. I guess I’m going to have to accept that it’s true. That some people just are born evil, like they say. I suppose it’s possible. I didn’t want to believe it. But, God – like attracts like, I suppose. Hindley and Brady. Fred and Rose. Her and Can trell – God.’
He glances over at his wife, surprised that she’s so quiet. Normally she would be talking as much and as quickly as he is, watching a story like this. He’s shocked to see that her face is wet with tears. They stream unstoppably down her cheeks, but her mouth is closed and her eyes, still wide, continue to stare at the screen.
‘Oh, Jeez, babe,’ he says, and enfolds her unresponsive body into a hug. ‘I’m sorry. I know you’ve been fighting her corner. But it’s not that bad. You’re knackered. It’s OK, Kirsty. I shouldn’t have kept you up. Come on. Up you get. Let’s go to bed. You need to get some sleep.
‘Trust me,’ he says. ‘It’ll all look better in the morning.’
Acknowledgements
Books never come into being in the solitary confinement of an ivory tower. I owe debts of gratitude to many people; I only hope I don’t cause offence by failing to mention any of them.
Laetitia Rutherford and her colleagues at Mulcahy Conway Associates. A good agent is much more than the superficial job description. Laetitia’s sharp brain, unerring ear, sound advice, dogged approach and, frankly, at some points, patient nurse-maiding, have honestly revolutionised my existence. I can’t express my gratitude enough.
There are so many people at Sphere for whose knowledge, inventiveness and enthusiasm I have reason to be grateful. But particularly, of course, Catherine Burke and Thalia Proctor. Such a relief to find one’s work in safe hands!
My dear friend John Amaechi, whose professional wisdom in matters of both child psychology and identity have been invaluable, as have his always-entertaining from-the-spotlight tales of media interpretation over the years.
Alastair Swinnerton, for a late-night flippancy that turned into a solution.
Mum and Bunny. No need to explain.
Dad and Patricia. Ditto.
William and Ali Mackesy, whose support and love have carried me a long way.
Cathy and David Fleming, for the same reasons.
In no particular order: Chris Manby, Antonia Willis, Brian Donaghey, Charlie Standing, Stella Duffy, Shelley Silas, Lauren Milne Henderson, Jo Johnston Stewart, Venetia Phillips, Claire Gervat, Diana Pepper, Chloe Saxby, Jonathan Longhurst. And the Board, of course. What’s said there, stays there;)
Alex Marwood
Alex Marwood is the pseudonym of a journalist who has worked extensively across the British press. Alex lives in South London and is working on her next novel.
