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Leaving the horse and caravan with Andrewes, we
piled our assorted bags into a cab and were driven to the
best hotel that the driver thought might accept us. It did.
The baths were sheer sybaritic pleasure, deep and hot, and
four rinses later I was again blonde, with a definite tan
colour remaining on my skin. I stood in front of the mirror,
tying my necktie, when two taps came at the door.
"Russell?"
"Come in, Holmes, I'm nearly ready."
He let himself in, and I saw that he too remained
slightly brown, though the grey had reappeared around his
ears. He sat down to wait as I pinned up my still-damp
hair, and it occurred to me that he was probably the only
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person I knew who could simply sit nearby and watch me
without one or the other of us needing to make conversation.
I finished and picked up my room key.
"Shall we go?"
The Simpsons, as might have been expected, were
grateful and fragile. Mrs. Simpson kept touching her daughter
gently as if to reassure herself of the child's presence.
Mr. Simpson looked rested and apologised for having to
rush about--his words--instead of talking, as he was
needed urgently in London. In the midst of it sat Jessica.
She and I greeted each other solemnly. I noticed the faint
shadow of a fading bruise on her cheekbone that I hadn't
seen in the dark. I asked after her doll, and she replied
seriously that she was quite well, thank you, and would I
like to see her hotel room? I excused myself and followed
Jessica down the hallway. (The Simpsons' suite and hotel
were considerably more upstage than ours.)
We sat on the bed and talked to the stuffed person,
and I was introduced to a bear, two rabbits, and a jointed
wooden puppet. She showed me a few books, and we spoke
of literature.
"I can read them," she informed me, with the barest
trace of self-satisfaction.
"I can see that."
"Miss Russell, could you read when you were six?"
Oddly enough there was no overtone of pride here, just a
request for information.
"Yes, I believe I could."
"I thought so." She nodded her head in prim satisfaction
and smoothed the skirt of the rag doll.
"What is your doll's name?"
I was surprised at her reaction to this simple question.
Her hands went still, and she concentrated on the battered
face in her lap, biting her lip. Her voice when she answered
was quiet.
"Her name used to be Elizabeth."
"Used to be? What is her name now?" I could see
that this was important but failed to grasp just how.
"Mary." She spoke in a whisper, and after a few seconds
her eyes came up to mine. Light dawned.
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"Mary, is it? My name?"
"Yes, Miss Russell."
It was my turn now to look down and study my
hands. Hero worship was not one of the topics Holmes had
thought fit to tutor me in, and my voice was not quite
steady when I spoke.
"Jessica, would you do something for me?"
"Yes, Miss Russell." No hesitation. I could ask her to
throw herself from the window for me, her voice said, and
she would do it. Gladly.
"Would you call me Mary?"
"But Mama said--"
"I know, mothers like good manners in their children,
and that is important. But just between the two of
us, I should like it very much if you were to call me Mary.
I never--" There was something blocking my throat and
I swallowed, hard. "I never had a sister, Jessica. I had a
brother, but he died. My mother and father died, too, so I
don't have much of a family any more. Would you like to
be my sister, Jessica?"
The amazed adoration in her eyes was too much. I
pulled her to me so I did not have to look at it. Her hair
smelt musky-sweet, like chamomile. I held her, and she
began to cry, weeping oddly like a woman rather than a
young child, while I rocked us both gently in silence. In a
few minutes she drew a shuddering breath and stopped.
"Better?"
She nodded her head against my chest. I smoothed
her hair.
"That's what tears are for, you know, to wash away
the fear and cool the hate."
As I suspected, that last word triggered a reaction.
She drew back and looked at me, her eyes blazing.
"I do hate them. Mama says I don't, but I do. I hate
them. If I had a gun I'd kill them all."
"Do you think you really would?"
She thought for a moment, and her shoulders
slumped. "Maybe not. But I'd want to."
"Yes. They are hateful men, who did something horrid
to you and hurt your parents. I'm glad you wouldn't
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shoot them, because I shouldn't want you to go to gaol,
but you go ahead and hate them. No one should ever do
what they did. They stole you and hit you and tied you up
like a dog. I hate them too."
Her jaw dropped at so much raw emotion aired.
"Yes, I do, and you know what I hate them for most?
I hate them for taking away your happiness. You don't trust
people now, do you? Not like you did a few weeks ago. A
six-year-old girl oughtn't to be frightened of people." The
child needed help, but I was quite certain that her parents
would greet the suggestion of psychiatric treatment with
the standard mixture of horror and embarrassment. She
would, for the present, have to settle for me. Physician,
heal thyself, I thought sourly.
"Mary?"
"Yes, Jessica?"
"You took me away from those men. You and Mr.
Holmes."
"We helped the police get you back, yes," I said carefully
and not entirely truthfully, and wondered what was
on her mind. I did not wonder for long.
"Well, sometimes when I wake up, I think I'm still
in that bed. It's like ... I can hear the chain rattle when I
move. And even during the day, sometimes I think I'm
dreaming, and that when I wake up I'll be in bed, with
one of those men sitting in the chair with his mask on. I
mean, I know I'm back with Mama and Papa, but I feel
like I'm not. Do you know what I'm talking about?" she
asked without much hope.
The experiential reality of the residual effects of a
traumatic experience, I thought, in the precise Germanic
tones of Dr. Leah Ginzberg, M.D., Ph.D., and then went
on almost automatically as she would have, with a push for
more truth.
"Oh yes, I do know that feeling, Jessica. I know it
very, very well. And it gets all tied up with lots of other
feelings, doesn't it? Like feeling maybe it was somehow your
fault, that if you'd tried just a little harder you could have
gotten away." She gaped at me as if I were conjuring half- crowns
from the air. "Like even being angry at your mother
and father for not rescuing you sooner." Both of those hit
home, like charges at the base of a dam, and the pent-up
waters came gushing out in an intense monotone.
"I almost got away, but I slipped and fell and he
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caught me, and then I thought maybe if I didn't eat anything
they'd have to let me go, but I was so hungry, even
if it meant I had to--had to use the pot, and then I
couldn't get the chain off my leg, and then there was always
someone there, and after all those days went by and
nobody came, I thought maybe, maybe . . . well, that Ma- ma'd
gone away home to America and Papa wouldn't want
me back." This last came out in a tiny whisper, and she
picked at the hem of her skirt.
"Do you talk to your Mama about it?"
"I tried to yesterday, but it made her cry. I don't like
to see Mama cry."
"No," I agreed, and felt a flicker of anger at the woman's
lack of control. "She's been upset, Jessie, but she'll be
much better in a few days. Try again then, or talk to your
father."
"I'll try," she said uncertainly. I put my hands on her
shoulders and made her look at me.
"Do you trust me, Jessie?"
"Yes."
"I mean really trust me? A lot of grown-ups say things
that aren't exactly true because they want to make you feel
better, but will you believe me when I say I won't do that
to you? Ever?"
"Yes."
"Then listen to me, Jessica Simpson. I know you've
heard this before from other people, but now you're hearing
it from me, your sister, Mary, and it's the truth. You did [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]