There are a number of discrepancies between Miss P.’s initial statement, taken on Tuesday the sixteenth of October at Burton General Hospital, and a later statement taken at police headquarters in Ridley Street on the twenty fourth of October. This is apparently common in these cases and is explained in greater detail in the psychiatric report. Nonetheless, these discrepancies make it difficult to recreate a clear picture of events from the moment she left the party to the time of her discovery by Mr. Murray, some three or four hours later.
In her first statement, that of the sixteenth of October, Miss P. assured us that she had noticed nothing unusual until she had started crossing the wasteland, when she thought she saw something move to her left. However, in a later statement, taken at Ridley Street Police station on the twenty fourth of October, she related that she had felt uneasy as soon as she had left the party, and that she had had the impression that she was being followed.
Other incongruences follow when asked if she could describe her aggressor. In her statement of 12th October she insists that she was attacked from behind and was totally unable to describe her attacker in any way whatsoever. In her later statement however, we are told that he was short, dark, with dark brown hair, that he was wearing a denim jacket, jeans, and sports shoes. Miss P. is unable to explain the differences between her two statements.
Another conflicting point is that of whether her aggressor spoke or not. In her initial statement she was most insistent that the attack had taken place in suppressed silence. In her later statement she is able to remember a number of obscene utterances, going so far as to state that she did not recognise the voice of her attacker.
Once again Miss P. is unable to explain why she has made two separate and conflicting accounts of events on the night of the twelfth of October, and we are again referred to the psychiatric report.
Seen from a distance the struggle is silly, a flailing of arms and legs, a breathless rolling over and over, very human and therefore verging on the comical. Seen from a distance it doesn’t matter at all, things just are. The way a rat eats its young or lion clubs are slaughtered by the usurper before he claims the lioness.
Moving in the comedy turns sourly into tragedy. Fists clenched with rocks to shatter fragile bone, frenzied cuts opening up the sluice gates of hot syrupy blood, as dark and dirty as liquid mud in the gloom.
There is no need to focus more closely, the scene is common enough, recent enough, clear enough.
Cut.
Mrs. Jean Kavanagh awoke from a dream in which she’d dreamt she’d been so tired, so anxious about waking up on time, that she’d been unable to fall asleep, continually shifting position, her thoughts fretful but orderly, stubbornly refusing to slip off into that loose oil-on-water subworld she enjoyed so much. Outside she could hear the strangely soothing sound of distant early morning traffic, sheet metal waves breaking on a tarmac shore. She knew without moving that Sam had not come home yet.
The first few times he had failed to return home until dawn she had panicked, ‘overreacted’ Sam had said, surveying the street through a crack in the curtains as if guilty of her private fears, watching the agonising progress of the alarm clock, for some reason the situation worsening with every thick sluggish minute that passed. Incredibly long drawn out nights spent desperately trying to control her morbid imagination, to keep a check on possible tragic futures, stretching the time limits of her deadlines and ultimatums: if by half past five, if by six o’clock, if by.... She had wanted then to wake up the boys, to share her worries with them, to wrap them around her for warmth like winter blankets or childhood memories, to hear them say things like ‘don’t worry, Mum’, or ‘he’ll be back in a minute, I expect’, those sure-of-foot statements of the young. But she couldn’t even bring herself to peep in on them, reluctant to disturb their untroubled sleep. She would have to face it alone; the dark, the cold, the empty pre-dawn street. What would the morning bring, a policeman, a doctor, a vicar? Or his return?
Later had come the nights of self-torment and torture, nights when trust and faith, the building blocks of her love, had come crumbling and crashing down in an earthquake of impotent rage and jealousy. The others ‘meant nothing’, of course, were purely part of his ‘physical needs’, like the drink - paid for, drained down and forgotten. Until the next time.
Now she was left with weariness and disgust. Although it was always true that something might have happened to him, some terrible accident or murderous act which would leave him bleeding to death under the yellow lamplight of a deserted ring road. Yes, he still held that card, could still riddle her with guilt at having thought so ill of him, of preferring a well-documented, socially acceptable drama to sordid infidelities and drunkenness.
The old fashioned alarm clock saluted another minute, ten to five. If everything went according to plan he’d sneak in around six o’clock, giggling at his clumsiness, strewing his clothes over the chest of drawers, the chair, the rug by his side of the bed. Then within seconds he’d be dead to the world, spluttering and coughing and smelling like a nightclub when the cleaners arrive. He’d take the morning off, telling the boys it was a reward from his boss for hard work and excellent results. It might be months before they spoke decently to each other again, not that it mattered much, a truce before the next outbreak of hostilities. She curled up and tried in vain to force her mind to drift off into sleep, but as always she was unable to do anything other than observe how time nudged on towards dawn, towards the turn of his key in the front door, his menacing approach, the opening of the bedroom door..... Then she would feign sleep! Not daring to move, afraid her breathing would give her away, her back set stolidly against him, as cold and as inexpugnable as a castle wall.
How she wished she could drop off. Now she would be irritable, short-tempered, would snap at the boys over breakfast, bustle them off to school with a dry, hasty peck. And the world, in its warped and twisted way, would conspire to punish her with endless and thankless drudgery – clean, shop, tidy, cook, serve. While Sam slept it off.
There were other voices – friends, neighbours, magazine articles, T.V. chat programmes – voices urging her to make a stand, seek advice, file for a divorce, up and away. Any number of solutions concocted and offered by a third party. But Jean could only follow her own notion of how she should act. To her Sam was her husband just as Ronny, Kenny and Paul were her sons, and she could no more abandon Sam than she could disown her own children. For better or for worse she had vowed before God, and she had meant it. He was unfaithful, he drank, but he was the father of her children and she could do nothing other than suffer him. Despite her friends, despite herself, she was Mrs. Kavanagh now, and intended to stay that way. It was precisely this responsible stoicism that Sam exploited. It suited him, as it did the church.
Ronny was first down as usual, hair wetted and combed, textbooks neatly placed in schoolbag, homework done, shoes polished. Jean’s pride and joy. Unlike his brothers he seemed to have no trouble shaking off sleep, it simply peeled off him with the bedclothes. Ronald was obedient and diligent, polite and ready to please, bright and quite grownup for his age. Everything he was expected to be. If Jean had any criticism it was that he appeared to be irritated by his brothers’ refusal or unwillingness to follow his example. Perhaps he was peeved by the fact that he had made such an effort to be “good”, while the other two got by quite nicely with just average behaviour.
Ronny had nearly finished breakfast by the time Kenny and Paul straggled downstairs, shoving each other bad-temperedly. Mrs. Kavanagh said nothing as she watched them jostle for positions and scrabble over who got to pour the milk first. After a while Kenny looked up as if he’d suddenly realised something was missing.
‘Where’s Dad?’
he asked, the way you might wonder about where the newspaper was.
Jean was about to explain that he’d been given the day off again, and that under no circumstances was he to be disturbed, so eat up quickly and let’s
be off with you, followed by a long etcetera of parental banter behind which she could hide from their interrogation techniques. Luckily for her Paul interrupted.
‘Well he’s not in bed ‘cos I just looked in and he wasn’t there.’
‘He was up and gone before I got up. The boss phoned at some unearthly hour and told him to get his skates on. He said he’d phone later.’
The two elder brothers appeared to accept the lie without interest. She might as well have told them he’d decided to live with the Eskimos for a few months for all they cared. But as she turned towards the gas stove she felt Paul’s eyes on her back, staring, enraged. She put an end to the situation by becoming the overstretched mother, and bundled them out of the house unceremoniously amidst routine admonishments and warnings.
Mrs. Jean Kavanagh stood at the front room window and watched as the schoolchildren trickled home in the late October light. Her boys always had football on Fridays and wouldn’t be home for at least another hour and a half. She had brushed and lacquered her short brown hair, moulding it into stiff waves as she had done for the last ten years or so. She had chosen the violet knee-length skirt of some artificial fabric or other, matching jacket, plain white cotton blouse, and her best Sunday shoes. The black bag didn’t match very well but would just have to do. All the crying had been done before the appliance of make-up, and she was now ready for any underhand trick Life had perversely prepared for her.
Torn between worry and rage, she calmly concluded that Sam had gone too far. At the very least he could have called, unless of course..... but that was absurd because the hospital would have...... or the police. Either way she should have been informed by now. So it was that she had decided to make herself presentable and begin the search for her missing husband, if only to have something to tell the kids when they eventually came crashing through the door, clamouring for supper, badly in need of a shower.... Every time she conjured up their innocent faces she could feel the pressure of her deep-sea emotions pressing against the flood barriers. She would have to stop thinking about the boys for a while, until the surges subsided. Too far this time, Sam.
‘Burton General. Can I help you?’
‘So what did you tell the boys?’
She saw the scene again in her mind, the boys more upset about their punctured football than what she had to say.
‘That he’s in Newcastle and doesn’t know exactly when he’ll be back. He’ll phone.’
Jean’s sister Elisabeth, Auntie Beth to the boys, sipped her instant coffee as a substitute for biting her tongue. She was a deeply religious woman, totally indifferent to sex who, never having met anyone of the same ilk, had remained a spinster. To her most men behaved like dogs, snapping and barking and rubbing their private parts up against anything that offered itself: people’s hands, furniture, bitches. Sam, she had sadly noted, was no exception. Under normal circumstances she would have nagged and warned her younger sister against this man with a dog’s name who drank and womanised and who if ever raised a hand it was not to help about the house but to strike a coward’s blow. And saddled with three children, all boys! But the situation was grave, and she felt that whatever she said would be unnecessarily cruel.
‘And they swallowed it?’
‘Yes, I think so. At least Ronny and Kenny did, I’m not so sure about Paul, he keeps staring at me all the time.’
‘He’s upset I expect, that’s all.’
Monday morning. No news from the hospitals, nothing from the police, although they had seemed extremely interested in a cautious way.
‘They seemed more interested in the rape than in his disappearance.’
‘Well, that’s logical enough, poor girl, it’s a lot more important than the missing persons department.’
‘No, not the police, the boys. It’s all they’ve been talking about all weekend.’
Elisabeth sipped.
‘Still, in a way I suppose it’s taken their minds off Sam.’
‘Jean!’
‘Eh? Oh, yes, I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. Is she going to be alright?’
‘If you mean by that 'will she live?', then yes, you could say that . As to being 'alright' I doubt if she’ll ever be alright again in her entire life, poor little thing. How can people do those things to each other?. Really, it’s beyond me, it really is.’
‘Devil’s work.’
‘Amen.’
They continued in mature silence for a few minutes until Jean burst out.
‘Oh why won’t he just phone, just, oh, I don’t know, let me know. It’s so unfair, so, so, cruel like this. Heaven’s, I don’t even know if he’s dead or alive!’
Elisabeth stared hard at her sister, weighing her words, unsure exactly how to put it but determined to do so nonetheless.
‘Do you want my honest opinion?’
She took a deep breath.
‘He’s gone for a packet of cigarettes.’
Jean didn’t move, she remained half-smiling as if she hadn’t heard or understood what her sister was trying to tell her. Perhaps, thought Elisabeth, she hadn’t recognised the expression, though heaven knows it was common enough.
‘He’s left you, puff, with his tail between his legs. Gone.’
Inside Jean was seething. Yes, that would please you, wouldn’t it, would live up to your notion of men and my marriage. You sexless cow, you’ve always wanted our life together to fail, you almost willed it. And I hate, hate, hate it but you’re right. He’s run off with another woman and abandoned me. Worse, he’s run off and abandoned all of us; Ronny, Kenny and poor little Paul. God help me, heaven help me. She wanted to scream, to cry, to hurl the china teacup through the sash window, to curl up in a ball on the carpet, to claw backwards through time to Thursday evening so she could beg Sam not to go out, beg him not to destroy her family.
But Jean was British, so she stood up calmly and said
‘I think I’d better get lunch under way.’
And Auntie Beth, knowing exactly what she meant and therefore what was expected of her, made her excuses and left.
Had Sam’s disappearance been an isolated act, perhaps the Kavanagh family would have eventually come to terms with their new situation, have found comfort and refuge in each other’s company, would have retained some of their original unity. But the coincidental raping of Miss Catherine Prior on the very same night he apparently decided to run off without a word to anybody had polarised opinions. Young Ronald, like his mother, refused to accept that his father was capable of the brutal sexual attack so explicitly detailed in the press and on T.V. It was absurd to confuse the two events, to make abandonment analogous to attempted murder. Dad had been a coward, though perhaps he had had his reasons for not wanting to confront his family with his sudden departure. Perhaps there was more to his relationship with Mum than anybody could vaguely suspect. Either way he agreed with his mother – Sam could never have done that to that poor girl. They knew it.
Kenneth and Auntie Beth suspended judgement, took the easy way out, the least traumatic path. Sam was up and gone, heaven knows where or why. Some unfortunate young woman was raped and half-killed by a madman the same night. Nobody knows who he was or why he did it. Could it have been Mr. Kavanagh? Who knows? Why ask? Why want to know the answer if what’s done is done? It was as if by showing no interest whatsoever in the affair it would slip away unnoticed into the past, eventually to become a faded and forgotten memory to be thrown out with last year’s postcards. Jean had tried to pressure her sister into stating categorically that she, Elisabeth, believed Sam incapable of such atrocities. Without success. As for Ron, whenever he raised the issue with younger brother Ken he was always met with the same response: a shrug, a ‘search me’, and a change of conversation.
And Paul? Paul had awoken very early on that fateful Friday morning, well before dawn, and for some reason had been unable to get back to sleep. So he knew there had been no phone call, no starting car as his father left for work. Mum
had lied. Now Dad wouldn’t be coming back, there’d been no phone call from Newcastle, he’d left them, just like that, without a word. What was he running from? Who was he running from? What had he done that was so terrible he couldn’t even phone, or write, or anything? To Paul things didn’t happen in parallel, there was always a connection, and although he could not at his tender age express it, he felt that there was no such thing as an 'isolated act', that everything was interwoven, that events were incestuous. To him it was as clear as spring water; his father had run away because of what he had done. Luckily because of his age nobody sought his opinion, they assumed it was beyond his grasp, so he fell into line with Kenny and pretended that he would prefer not to talk about it again. They left him alone.