Aftermath

“Do you know if any of the children still live around here?”

“I’ve not seen hide nor hair of any of ’em since it happened.”

“What about the teacher, Maureen Nesbitt?”

“Lives in Easington. There’s no school here.”

“Thank you very much.”

As she left, she heard the customer whisper, “Forensic psychologist? Whatever’s that when it’s at home?”

“Sightseer,” muttered the postmistress. “Ghoul, just like all the rest. Anyway, you were saying about Mary Wallace’s husband…”

Je

She crossed the High Street, still feeling as if she were being watched, and found the unpaved lane that led east to the North Sea. Though there was a chill in the wind, the cloudless sky was such a bright piercing blue that she put on her sunglasses, remembering with a flutter of anger the day she bought them on Santa Monica Pier, with Randy, the two-timing bastard.

There were about five or six bungalows on each side of Spurn Lane near the High Street, but about fifty yards along, there was only rough ground. Je

As she approached the houses, she became more and more aware of the salt smell of the sea breeze and realized that it was out there, only yards away beyond the low dunes and marram grass. Villages along this coast had disappeared into the sea, Je

The houses were beyond repair. The roofs had caved in and the broken windows and doors were boarded up. Here and there, people had spray-painted graffiti: ROT IN HELL, BRING BACK HANGING and the simple, touching, KATHLEEN: WE WILL NOT FORGET. Je

The gardens were overgrown with weeds and shrubs, but she could make her way through the tangled undergrowth closer to the buildings. There wasn’t much to see, and the doors had been so securely boarded up that she couldn’t get inside even if she wanted to. In there, she told herself, Lucy Payne and six other children had been terrorized, raped, humiliated, tormented and tortured for God knew how many years before the death of one of them – Kathleen Murray – led the authorities to the door. Now the place was just a silent ruin. Je

Even so, she stood there for some time, then she walked around the buildings, noting that the back gardens were even more overgrown than the front. An empty clothesline hung suspended between two rusty poles in one of the gardens.

As she was leaving, Je

“Right, Lucy. Shall we start?”

Banks had turned on the tape recorders and tested them. This time they were in a slightly bigger and more salubrious interview room. In addition to Lucy and Julia Ford, Banks had invited DC Jackman along too, though it wasn’t her case, mostly to get her impressions of Lucy afterward.

“I suppose so,” Lucy said in a resigned, sulky voice. She looked tired and shaken by her night in the cell, Banks thought, even though the cells were the most modern part of the station. The duty officer said she’d asked to have the light left on all night, so she couldn’t have slept much.

“I hope you were comfortable last night,” he asked.

“What do you care?”

“It’s not my intention to cause you discomfort, Lucy.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

Julia Ford tapped her watch. “Can we get on with this, Superintendent Banks?”

Banks paused, then looked at Lucy. “Let’s talk a bit more about your background, shall we?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Julia Ford butted in.

“If you’ll allow me to ask my questions, you might find out.”

“If it distresses my client-”

“Distresses your client! The parents of five young girls are more than distressed.”

“That’s irrelevant,” said Julia. “It’s nothing to do with Lucy.”

Banks ignored the lawyer and turned back to Lucy, who seemed disinterested by the discussion. “Will you describe the cellar at Alderthorpe for me, Lucy?”

“The cellar?”

“Yes. Don’t you remember it?”

“It was just a cellar,” Lucy said. “Dark and cold.”

“Was there anything else down there?”

“I don’t know. What?”

“Black candles, incense, a pentagram, robes. Wasn’t there a lot of dancing and chanting down there, Lucy?”

Lucy closed her eyes. “I don’t remember. That wasn’t me. That was Linda.”

“Oh, come on, Lucy. You can do better than that. Why is it that whenever we come to something you don’t want to talk about, you always conveniently lose your memory?”

“Superintendent,” Julia Ford said. “Remember my client has suffered retrograde amnesia due to post-traumatic shock.”

“Yes, yes, I remember. Impressive words.” Banks turned back to Lucy. “You don’t remember going into the cellar at The Hill, and you don’t remember the dancing and chanting in the cellar at Alderthorpe. Do you remember the cage?”

Lucy seemed to draw in on herself.

“Do you?” Banks persisted. “The old Morrison shelter.”

“I remember it,” Lucy whispered. “It was where they put us when we were bad.”

“How were you bad, Lucy?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Why were you in the cage when the police came? You and Tom. What had you done to get yourselves put there?”

“I don’t know. It was never much. You never had to do much. If you didn’t clean your plate – not that there was ever much on it to clean – or if you talked back or said no when they… when they wanted to… It was easy to get locked in the cage.”

“Do you remember Kathleen Murray?”

“I remember Kathleen. She was my cousin.”

“What happened to her?”

“They killed her.”

“Who did?”

“The grown-ups.”

“Why did they kill her?”

“I don’t know. They just… she just died…”

“They said your brother Tom killed her.”

“That’s ridiculous. Tom wouldn’t kill anybody. Tom’s gentle.”

“Do you remember how it happened?”