Dear Laurel,
I have wanted to write to you for a long time. I have actually wanted to come and see you. But the powers that be, probably quite rightly, judged it ill-advised. Nevertheless, for many years I have composed letters to you in my head. I have thought and thought about the words that I would choose. The words that would hurt you the most, cause you maximum distress.
I find myself today finally writing the letter I have imagined for all of these years. But, in the end, it’s not quite the letter I thought I’d write.
Since your first parole hearing, I have been outside the walls of the prison where you are held. I have been the person most insistent on your guilt. And I have campaigned and fought to keep you where you are.
I have succeeded in helping with this.
I don’t claim that it’s solely down to me. But the actions of my family and myself have ensured that the country, the politicians, the press, have all been constantly reminded of the crime you committed in 1997 when you took the life of my niece, Kirstie Swann.
Kirstie was born on 1 September 1994. Did you know that? It was a Thursday, ironically. Forgive my sarcasm, but in this case Thursday’s child didn’t have far to go in the end, did she?
My sister Deborah is a better person than I am. She always has been. When we were kids, she was always the one with all the friends. I would hang behind her, wanting to join in, being a little pain. Was that what it was like for you and Rosie? Although – actually – I don’t think I want to know. Debbie is a good woman and she proves it to me even now, when she suffers more grief than most people will ever know.
So why am I writing to you after all this time? I saw last week that you’ve had your big day in court. We don’t know the outcome yet. I suspect you do. Will you be free, Laurel? Will you be able to drink in the air that is denied my niece? Or will you be locked up in your box for another stretch of time before we have to argue it all over again?
I think what I want is impossible. What I want cannot be achieved and that’s what leaves me hanging here, caught between anger and resentment, never able to break out of the cycle.
Because what I want is for you never to have done what you did.
All the arguments we’ve had about it over the years, between your lawyers and my family’s: all we argue about is whether you’ve been properly punished or not.
But, really, is that the point?
Even during the trial, we argued about why you did it. Did you mean it? Was it an accident? Had you watched something that changed the way your brain worked? Or were you just evil? Everyone had an opinion. Everyone had a view. We went back and forth and back and forth again. And we still don’t know the truth.
That gave me solace for a long time. The thought that you did know the truth and that, one day, you would tell us. You’d let us know why you’d done it and things would change for the better because of it. Kirstie’s death would be explained.
But you never said.
And so, for years, I’ve kept all of this down inside me, just like my sister has. Buried it deep so I could function in life. I’ve directed my anger towards you and it’s propelled me on, let me survive.
But a while ago, Debbie told me she can’t hate you any more and I couldn’t understand it. She said she just wants to remember her daughter as she was. Not as a crusade but as a beautiful little girl we all loved.
And that must be right because she feels it. Kirstie’s mother.
But where does it leave me?
We can’t engineer time so that you never murdered Kirstie. And you won’t tell us why you did it. And everyone else is deciding to save themselves by opening up to forgiveness. Even your sister is opening her heart to the press and the judiciary. Even she is trying to make it better.
I feel stymied, Laurel, in all honesty.
Sometimes I feel like I’m recovering. And then other times, I want to come and hurt you so badly, for how you’ve hurt me and my family.
But I won’t.
But I can’t forgive either.
All I can do, Laurel Bowman, is tell you as close as I can to face to face, that I will never forgive you for what you’ve done.
But that I let you go.
If I carry on hating you as much as I have done over the years, I’ll end up destroying myself and I have a lot to give. More than you will ever be capable of doing, I’m sure.
So good luck to you, Laurel Bowman. I’m stepping back, I’ll let the courts decide from hereon in. Let them see if you are worthy to feel the fresh air on your face.
I suspect you’re not. But I’ve been wrong before.
Yours,
Joanna Denton