See You In September, page 16
‘Um …’ Cairo glanced at Monika, who gave a small shake of her head. ‘No. I can’t do that.’
‘Can I ask why not?’
‘He can be very controlling. Very manipulative. He could do a lot of damage in ten minutes.’
O’Connell sighed. ‘I just feel sorry for the poor bloke.’
‘Poor bloke?’ echoed Monika, fixing the officer with an indignant glare. ‘Poor bloke? Don’t you have any training in dealing with the victims of family violence? Do you understand what you’re doing? You’re asking this woman—this pregnant woman, by the way—to face the abuser she fled. He’s pursued her all around the world. It’s sinister. It’s threatening. And you call him a poor bloke?’
Cairo felt as though her head was being pressed in a vice. She wanted to run outside, grab Aden and flee to the sanctuary of Kereru Cove.
Monika slid quietly onto the bench beside her.
‘Hey there,’ she said, patting Cairo’s hand. ‘Don’t you think it might help if the authorities knew what he’s like?’
‘I just wish he’d leave me alone.’
‘I know. So tell them.’
Cairo touched the table with her forefinger, tracing a swirl in the grain of the wood. She tried to recall Justin’s reassuring presence, as he’d led her through the catacomb of buried memories. He’d helped her to open the locked doors and look into the darkness. She listened for his voice. He would know what she should do.
‘Justin wants this,’ whispered Monika.
It was a direct order.
Cairo raised her eyes and looked squarely at the visitors.
‘There are some things I’d like to put on record,’ she said. ‘Just so you know. Just in case he ever comes back.’
Twenty-three
Diana
She met him at Heathrow. Among the bustling stream of travellers, he stood out as utterly defeated, limping home from the battlefield.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve failed.’
She wrapped her arms around him. Then she whispered, Come on, took his bag and steered him towards the car park.
At first he seemed too weary to talk, slumping in the passenger seat as the car crept down to ground level. She’d heard little from him since he left Rotorua: only a brief call to say the local police had visited Cassy, and that he was giving up and coming home.
The barrier lifted. Mike roused himself.
‘The cops didn’t want to know,’ he said. ‘Not once they’d talked to her. They strongly suggested I leave town.’
‘Could they make you leave?’
‘No point in staying. I don’t know what the hell she told them.’
‘But you’d got so close!’
‘There was nothing I could do.’ He looked ten years older, cheeks sagging with failure. ‘There’s no sneaking in. It’s bloody miles up this godforsaken lake.’
He was trying valiantly to stay awake, but his speech became more and more slurred. Finally he gave in to exhaustion. Diana drove smoothly, not wanting to disturb the shattered man. She felt light-headed with rage. She wished Cassy could see what she’d done to her father.
When Diana parked in the driveway, he opened his eyes. ‘Tara?’
‘At school.’
‘It’s good to be home.’ He squeezed her hand before stumbling out of the car. Soon he was flat on their bed, eyes closed, breathing heavily. He’d removed only his shoes.
‘It doesn’t get worse than this,’ he said, when she brought him a mug of tea.
But he was wrong.
•
It started with the doorbell. Dark figures behind the glass. A man and a woman, neither of them in police uniform. They introduced themselves and showed their warrant cards, but Diana wasn’t listening.
‘Can we come in for a few minutes? It’s about Cassandra Howells.’
This is it, she thought. It’s all over. Cassy’s dead.
As she was showing them into the sitting room, she saw Mike at the top of the stairs. Her eyes met his, and she knew they were thinking the same thing. They’d lost a child. The unbearable thing—the nightmare that happens to other people—had come into their lives.
The visitors suggested that Mike and Diana sit down, so they did: side by side on the sofa, gripping each other’s hands.
‘Tell us,’ said Diana. ‘What’s happened to Cassy?’
The woman reached into a case, taking out a typed document.
‘Cassandra has made some allegations to our counterparts in New Zealand.’
‘Allegations?’
‘Allegations of physical abuse.’
Mike punched the sofa. ‘I knew it! Those bastards! Is she safe now? Have they got her out?’
Diana squeezed his hand tighter. She saw what was coming. She was sitting on a track with Mike, watching a train bearing down on them, knowing it was about to smash them both to pieces.
‘The alleged abuse didn’t happen in New Zealand,’ said the woman.
‘No?’ Mike sounded bewildered. ‘Then where?’
And so it began. Cassy was accusing them. She said she’d been hurt in her own home, as a little girl, by the people who were meant to love and protect her. She described a controlling brute of a father and a weak, colluding mother. She made them sound like monsters.
‘But none of this is true,’ protested Diana. ‘She’s twisted every incident, every loss of temper, every mistake. All parents make mistakes.’
‘Some of her allegations go beyond reasonable chastisement,’ said the man.
‘Is this an official interview?’
‘Not at this stage. Just a chat.’
‘So we can ask you to leave?’
‘You could. But wouldn’t you like to get this cleared up?’ He scratched his nose—delicately, with his forefinger—a misleadingly casual gesture. ‘Do you remember an incident involving a wooden spoon? We’d be talking maybe fifteen years ago.’
Mike’s features crinkled in mystification. He turned to Diana. ‘Any bells?’
The woman began to read an extract from Cassy’s statement. Diana felt physically sick to hear it: a vile story about Mike pulverising five-year-old Cassy. It was described in detail: a frenzied attack on a tiny girl, who was left bruised and screaming, locked in her room all night. My father carried out the assault, but my mother stood by and did nothing, and afterwards she put me in my room. Not long after that, they sent me to boarding school.
Mike’s head was in his hands. Diana wanted to run to the bathroom and throw up.
‘This is pure fantasy,’ she whispered. ‘And she didn’t go to boarding school until she was nine. Ten, even. I can’t remember. She went because of army life, not because of any sinister child abuse thing. Most army children go—not just officers’ children.’
She’d talked herself to a standstill. The visitors were looking at Mike, who seemed too broken to defend himself.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ protested Diana. ‘You’re thinking no smoke without fire. But you’re wrong. I’m not going to pretend we’ve never smacked our children. I’m not going to pretend we’ve never shouted, either. But this man she describes—this maniac, spitting aggression and violence—that is not—I repeat not—Mike. He’s just not that kind of man. He was an army officer for twenty-three years, for heaven’s sake, with an exemplary record. And he adores his girls.’
‘So you’re saying this incident never happened?’
‘It didn’t happen.’ And it didn’t; Diana was sure of that. She’d been racking her brains and never—not even after Bosnia, when Mike was a mess—had there been such a horrible event.
The woman raised her eyebrows. ‘Mike, can I ask you: any idea why Cassandra might make these claims, if they’re not true?’
At last, Mike lifted his head. It seemed very heavy. ‘I think she’s been brainwashed.’
‘Brainwashed?’
‘By these people. They’ve got a hold over her.’
The nightmare went on, backwards and forwards. Mike and Diana only wanted to talk about Gethsemane; the police only wanted to talk about family violence. Diana felt tears coming, and rummaged in her pocket for a tissue.
‘You call her Cassy,’ said the woman, ‘but she doesn’t use that name.’ Diana and Mike both looked blank, so she held up the statement. ‘I was born Cassandra Alexandra Howells, but I am known as Cairo.’
‘My God,’ whispered Mike. ‘Is there anything of her left?’
Diana leaped to her feet at the sound of a key in the front door.
‘Tara,’ she muttered, and hurried to meet her daughter. Tara was dumping her bag on the stairs, breathing fast as though she’d run back from school.
‘Hi, Mum. Dad home?’
‘In here,’ said Diana. ‘But we’ve got a problem. The police—’
Tara stopped dead at the scene in the sitting room.
‘Hang on a minute,’ she said. ‘Whoa. Would someone mind telling me what this is about?’
‘It’s about Cassy,’ said Diana, adding quickly, ‘It’s okay, she’s fine.’
‘She can’t be fine! The police don’t come knocking on people’s doors just for the fun of it. She’s not dead, is she?’
Diana explained why the police had come knocking on their door. As Tara listened, her mouth fell open.
‘You have got to be joking! Oh my God, that lying cow.’ She confronted the visitors square on: chin up, knuckles on her hips. Her eyes were sparking. ‘Let’s get this sorted out right now.’
They tried to stop her. Diana heard the man mutter something about child protection issues.
‘I’m not a child.’
He was shaking his head. ‘These alleged events took place at around the time you were born, so you can’t help us. It isn’t appropriate to—’
‘Appropriate? What does that even mean? I’m going to set the record straight, because this stops right now. That’s what I call “appropriate”. You listening?’
Oh yes. They were listening. Diana would have laughed if the situation hadn’t been so ghastly. Tara was a force to be reckoned with when she was riled.
‘My sister’s gone off her head in New Zealand. Literally. My dad is a great big teddy bear. He doesn’t even swipe the cat away when he licks the butter. No—he cuddles him instead. That’s how dangerous he is! This man—’ she gripped Mike’s arm with both her hands, kissing his cheek ‘—never hurt anyone in his life, except maybe when he was in some war, but that’s different. I’ll admit he’s a pain in the bum sometimes, he’s OCD, he drives me nuts and most days I want to give him a slap, but there’s no way he ever abused Cassy and I’ll swear to that in court. Okay?’ She glared at them. ‘Just leave him alone, will you?’
They thanked her, said they’d be in touch and made a rapid exit.
The family was left shell-shocked.
‘Welcome home, Dad,’ said Tara.
‘They won’t take it any further,’ said Diana. ‘Cassy’s made all this up and they know it. Anyway, she isn’t here to give evidence.’
Mike ran his hands underneath his glasses, pressing his fingers into his eyes. ‘I didn’t do it, did I?’ he whispered. ‘I didn’t do that awful thing and block it out?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Why does she hate me so much?’
‘She doesn’t hate you.’
‘She must do. She really must. I must have been an awful father.’
He didn’t want anything to eat; didn’t want a cup of tea. He dragged himself back to bed, and this time he didn’t even bother to remove his shoes. Diana did it for him. As she was closing the bedroom curtains, she spotted Tara out in the garden. She was lying face down, draped across the swing seat, using her feet to turn around and around until the chains were twisted and bunched. Finally she let go and spun—joltingly, wildly—dark hair flying.
It was Cassy who’d taught her that game—years ago, when they were living in officers’ housing, and Tara was a tiny preschooler who worshipped her big sister. They used to make themselves dizzy. Diana would hear the pair of them giggling as they staggered about on the lawn.
Another hour passed before Tara came stomping in through the kitchen door. Her face looked shuttered, like a house closed up for winter.
‘I’ll never forgive her,’ she said. ‘Never.’
‘They’ve put things into her head.’
‘Stop making excuses.’ Tara kicked a wooden chair, sending it clattering across the tiles. ‘She’s broken Dad’s heart with her fucking lies! He loves her, that’s why he went to look for her—and in return she’s trying to get him locked up. How could she say those things about him?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘She’s a selfish, lying, vindictive bitch. And I hate her.’
Diana didn’t argue. At that moment, she hated Cassy too.
The Cult Leader’s Manual: Eight Steps to Mind Control
Cameron Allsop
Step 7: Patience
Do not rush into the introduction of core beliefs. Some new religions require their members to study for months or years before they learn the entirety of their creed. Before telling them what you’re really about, you need to be sure that your recruit has invested heavily in the organisation, has become reliant upon it, and is immersed in its magical thinking. They will then be prepared to accept a belief system that might seem laughably absurd to the uninitiated.
Twenty-four
Cairo
January 2011
The cool of the morning. The hollow slap of water against a wooden hull. No sight of the shore or the sky.
Aden had woken her an hour ago by nuzzling her ear. Cairo felt as though she’d only been asleep five minutes. She had her own class of the smallest children at school now, as well as the duties on Otto’s rotating roster: Vigil, gardening, kitchen, firewood, laundry, crèche and workshops. She’d fallen into bed after Night Call and slept right through the unborn baby’s kicking, and the mosquitos, and the heat.
She sat up, disorientated, heaving her clumsy body around. It was still dark.
‘What’s happening? Can’t be time for Call already?’
‘Shh … no. Justin’s going to take you fishing. Here, I brought you tea.’
She rubbed her eyes. The baby was nowhere near due but she wondered how much bigger it could possibly grow. She felt as though all her organs were being squashed to make room, and she’d developed the pregnant woman’s waddle.
‘Fishing? In the middle of the night?’
‘It’s not for us to question.’
‘How d’you know? Is he here?’
Aden handed her some clothes. ‘I just know.’
Minutes later, they were on the jetty. Cairo had become attuned to the natural world and sensed that dawn wasn’t far off. She inhaled the morning freshness as she took Aden’s arm. Their partnership had been an arranged one, she knew that, but it made her very happy.
‘Can’t you come too?’ she asked.
‘Don’t question Justin.’ Aden’s voice had a sharp edge, which wasn’t like him. ‘He never asks for anything we can’t give, or anything he wouldn’t give himself.’
‘But … what are we being asked to give?’
He didn’t answer. She heard oars on water before Justin’s boat appeared out of the gloom, with Peter tail-wagging on the bow.
‘Morning, you two!’ cried Justin, throwing the painter. ‘Coming fishing, Cairo?’
They left Aden standing on the jetty. He waved as Justin pulled away, and she waved back. Seconds later he’d melted into darkness.
Justin was a strong rower, but it took some time to get out to the deep part of the lake where he wanted to fish. They talked about the pregnancy, and Cairo watched the evening star as it sank towards the horizon. At last Justin stored the oars, humming to himself as he pottered about. Peter sat on a piece of sacking and watched his master’s every move.
Cairo tried not to think of the lightless depths that lay beneath the flimsy wood. There were no life jackets on board and she felt hopelessly heavy. She wouldn’t survive long if she fell in there. She’d drown, and the baby would die with her.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Justin. ‘I’ve never sunk one yet.’
‘I wasn’t worrying.’
‘Fibber.’
They both smiled.
‘Coffee?’ he asked, producing a thermos and pouring some into a tin cup. ‘It’s a beautiful brew. I made it myself.’
‘Thank you.’
She watched as he broke a muffin in half to share. She hadn’t expected luxuries like this. She knew that Justin’s lifestyle was spartan, even more so than that of the Watchmen. Yet here he was, taking her on a fishing trip with all the creature comforts. Like a father.
Like a father. A memory flitted through her mind; it ran in and out, playing hide-and-seek with her consciousness. Her dad on a weekend, gleefully bringing out the sandwiches. This is the life, eh Cass? The reservoir wasn’t big. They could have walked around it in ten minutes. He showed her how to tie on the fly, and how to cast. Have a go. Let the line just … ooh, watch the trees.
A world away, and half a lifetime.
‘Worrying about something?’ asked Justin.
‘My father,’ she said. ‘We used to go fishing.’
‘Sounds like a good memory.’ He was opening a tackle box. ‘Of course you have good memories. Your family aren’t evil.’
‘No.’
‘But they can never understand Gethsemane. Okay, we’re ready. Would you like a go?’
‘I’d rather watch you.’
She heard the swish of the rod, the whirring of the reel, followed by a small splash as the line hit the water.
‘It was my father who taught me to cast,’ said Justin.
‘Your father?’
‘Mm. Well, the man who called me his son. He used to take me to a canal, somewhere in Essex. I was about four. We caught nothing but supermarket trolleys.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘He died. Motorbike.’
‘I’m sorry.’
