3 A plan

Why did I decide to kill my mother? The reasons are quite simple.

When you’re young you think other people can help you. Parents if you have any. Friends. Teachers. Doctors. Drink, tablets, counselling. Maybe they do help some people. But actually the fix is to know what you want to do and do it. Being unhappy, asking advice, trying to escape, analysing it; none of that progresses you. To progress you need to lift up your foot and take a step.

I thought, I want to kill my mother. And I will.

I’ve been accused of being selfish and unfeeling. Amongst other things. I’ve been accused of being a lot of things actually: liar, whore, thief, attention-seeker, immature, disloyal, unstable, immoral, mad and a waster of my own talents. All these things were or had been true, from time to time. Perfectly true. Which was another reason for my plan.

Because there was an author of that person (me; selfish, unfeeling, etc). And she had never been called to account. She had never been asked to explain herself or excuse herself or even to identify herself. So I decided to find her out.

Now, reasons for planning to kill her: when my mother Phyllis Rose Lovage gave birth to me she did not hug me. She did not wash me. Feed me. Dress me.

She did not love me.

She wrapped me in a towel and during the night or early morning put me in a cardboard box on the doorstep of an inner London post office.

She walked away.

(Wrapping me in a towel is part of it too. If she hadn’t wrapped me in a towel – if she’d had the courage of her convictions and not merely not loved me but hated me, and put me naked in the box – then I would have died of exposure. Which would have been more honest of both of us.)

Further reasons: when asked by police, she claimed not to know my father. She told them she did not want me back.

All right. The reasons boil down to two: 1. She had me. 2. She left me.

Q. Why did a number of young women who’d been in care figure amongst the Wests’ victims? I read an article claiming Fred and Rosemary chose them specially, knowing no one’d come looking for them. But I know the reason: upon invitation, those girls chose the Wests. They went chez West thinking it was a nice place, a proper home, a farm where you could ride horses and write poetry, a family. Where you could be taken in and loved. Even when they were there for a bit maybe they couldn’t see any different, thought it was an alright place to be. Because they didn’t know any better. They didn’t know the difference between a loving family and a house of murderous perverts.

Well how could they tell? I learned about families from books. Families with mummies and daddies and birthday surprises, and picnics and super summer hols. In books I had a jolly band of mates and we were always setting off to follow the mysterious man with the limp or to investigate the night-time flashlights at Smuggler’s Cove; we tumbled back tired and happy to scrumptious tea prepared by Mummy; we were gravely thanked by parents of tiny lost children/owners of mischievous puppies/mayors of imperilled towns. When we got into really serious trouble often Daddy came and talked to the policeman or explained to the cross colonel or arrived just as it was getting dark to give us a ticking off with a twinkle in his eye and drive us safely home. We had boldly gone and spread decency and honesty amongst vicious aliens; we’d unearthed ancient treasure after breathtaking dangers, always remaining one vital step ahead of the crooks. OK it was crap. At least it was happy crap.

What is it like? Being brought up in care?

It is like the boy in The Snow Queen. He gets a splinter of ice in his eye. It changes everything he sees to cold and ugly.

That’s what it’s like, and you can accommodate, to a degree; it’s all you know. Just as the blind-from-birth know that others have seeing but can’t really visualise (sorry) what that is; so the ice-splinter-eyed know that everyone else has something but they can’t quite imagine what it might be.

It’s like a ghost limb. I felt my disability. I was tormented by discontent. Well, it wasn’t merely discontent. It took more than that to galvanise me. It was the other stuff, the bad stuff.

I don’t think you need to know about that. Not yet, anyway. After I blew it with fat Louise and her tragedy-junkie mother, I went down. But I came up again, bounced back. I’m good at it – I fly I soar I swoop I glide. They tried to make me shift schools again but I went to see the head and wept. I loved his school, I didn’t want to leave it, I promised to work hard, I promised to stay away from Louise (why would anyone want to go near her?) Was it fair that I should be penalised for her disorders? Look how often my life had been disrupted – ten different schools, nine different homes, how could I have a chance of fulfilling my academic promise? I’d been dealt a poor hand by fate – surely he wasn’t going to increase the odds against me?

By the end he was practically stroking me; of course I could stay on, he personally would speak to my social worker about getting me into a home locally; he would keep a special eye on me.

I was a good girl then; worked hard, stayed after school, did all my homework. After O levels I did my A levels, my life was going swimmingly. I developed a crush on the geography teacher who fucked me in the science prep room every Thursday at 4.30 (while his wife was doing yoga) but that wasn’t particularly clever because I thought he liked me. I found he was doing it with Tessa Watson on Tuesdays (while his wife was swimming) so I told him I was going to tell the head. He gave me £234 altogether over the rest of the year, to keep me quiet.

I moved to a new set of foster parents in my lower sixth. They did their best to knock me off balance but even they didn’t manage. They were full of bullshit about freedom and responsibility. Gave me a doorkey and told me to name my own coming in time – fine, no big deal, why should I get excited about being able to walk in a door at 2 a.m. instead of sliding open the window at the kids’ home and climbing over the ledge? But they told me my room was private. They told me no one would go in it. And I was naive enough to believe them.

Their house had more lights than a theatre: ceiling lights and wall lights and table lamps and night lights and security lights. That family was permanently on stage acting free and responsible and adult. Nowhere to hide. My room was white and beige. ‘Light and airy, spick and span!’ said Jill the latest social worker who dumped me there and ran.

After a week the woman left the vacuum outside my door. ‘Your room, you clean it when you like. Candice and Zoe do theirs once a week.’

At first I did. Plugged the vacuum in under the bed, hoovered the beige carpet, sucked the dust off white windowsills and skirting boards with the little brush attachment. Then I started dumping stuff on the floor. Clothes, schoolbooks, papers. They were still there when I came back at night. Dirty knickers under my PE kit under my history books; magazines and tights and apple-cores and even coins I dropped, lying in the same place day after day. God, I began to love that room. I wrote my name in the dust on the windowsill. I had such a pile of clothes on the end of my bed it was a weight to slide my feet under, I wrote notes and lists of groups I liked, clothes I wanted, letters to people I hated, poems about sex and death, I nicked a ton of library books, and they were on the chair and chest of drawers and windowsill and floor. She never came in. Only once she knocked on the door and asked for a bath towel back, it was on the floor sopping wet and I told her I’d put it in the wash. She didn’t say anything. I knew exactly where everything was, I could put my hand on it with my eyes closed. You could do major surgery on the floor anywhere else in that house, it was so squeaky clean, and my room was encrusted and complicated and not like them. I asked if I could put stuff on the walls and she gave me Blu-tack. I put up pictures from magazines and things I drew and beer mats, I filled the walls completely so there were no gaps, no white, no beige. I had skulls and mushroom clouds and bands and bits of faces, one whole wall was lips and eyes and nipples and strips of black. When they were out I took food up, biscuits, apples, crisps – so I wouldn’t have to go down if I needed a snack. I had a rubbish heap in one corner. I kept my fag ends and ash in a big screw-top jamjar so they wouldn’t smell it, under my bed, and some vodka and a few things I’d nicked, perfume and jewellery, in a cardboard box of second-hand clothes I’d started buying off the market to sell on to girls at school. When I went in the door and shut it and just turned on the little bedside lamp (I put blue tissue over the shade) the room was dim and mysterious and cluttered and runkled and smelt of itself. It was mine, completely mine.

I went on the school trip to France. A week. When I came back my room was clean. The floor was clear, the surfaces were empty. The dirty clothes were washed and put away in the drawers. The empty walls had been repainted cruddy magnolia. All the papers and books were on the shelves. The cardboard boxes had gone and the nicked perfume and jewellery was arranged on the dressing table like it was mine. The vodka and fags were gone. She’d wiped me out. I suppose she did it after every girl that stayed there. Every un-house-trained creature. Mucked out the room, washed the surfaces, sprayed it with air-freshener.

I sat in it breathing in the new paint and carpet shampoo until I knew they’d all gone to sleep then I pissed on the bed and put on my uniform and took my suitcase to school. I sat on the steps for the night and after the caretaker the head was the first person there. I told him I couldn’t ever go back to that house and I would never talk to anyone about what had happened to me there. All I wanted was to work hard for my exams and better myself. He got me back into the kids’ home that night.

I got two Bs and a C at A level and a university place in Sheffield.

I was a clever girl, I could do all the stuff those mummied and dad-died kids could do. I did my essays, went to lectures, got my spending money nicking books and selling them on to other students – I nicked my room-mate’s boyfriend and then I nicked her CD player and camera (redistribution of wealth). She shouldn’t have left the door unlocked anyway, it’s lucky for her that more didn’t go. I was OK, I was good, I was good for quite a while, I was coasting along nicely until I suddenly lost it.

This seems to be the pattern. I know it from before. I swoop I glide I fly

I fall.

Never at the right time or in the right place (what would be?) and once I’m down it’s harder and harder to get up. Like one of those seagulls with tar on its wings. People pretend to be your friend but when you go down no one really wants to know. My room-mate moved out which just goes to show how right I’d been to nick her stuff; the boyfriend went back to her. I was left to the mercies of the student counsellor. She kept me going for a couple of months before she lost interest too. Once things start to go down they go and go. I stopped turning up for my barmaiding at the Crown. I didn’t get it together to nick any books. I didn’t go to lectures. I ran out of money. You go through the holes in the net. I had nowhere to stay in the vacation, I hadn’t latched on to anyone, I hadn’t …

It happens over and over again. In different ways. When I had the job at the housing association and a nearly normal life and even friends; I stopped sleeping so I lost the job. I stopped earning so I couldn’t pay the rent. I lost the flat so I went to live with friends and lost my friends. This is what I mean. The whole house of cards collapses …

You have no control over up or down or when it’s going to change. It’s tedious.