Anne

Prologue

Picture this. A room with two cosy armchairs and a brown wooden table resting between them holding a small clock, tissues, and minuscule pieces of Celebrations chocolate. The temperature was not cold, and not hot, but that perfect warmth you get from adjusting both the window and radiator heating. In one of the armchairs sat a middle-aged man, bespectacled, foreign — German, perhaps — with a balding patch on his head and weight around his middle. A kind smile spread across his face, his head tilted, garnering the same curiosity as an inquisitive child. In the other chair sat a girl. Fourteen, black hair cane-rolled on top and pulled up into a tight bun. Black hands, black duffel coat, black shoes, black tights. All that shed a silver lining — or a blue one — were the sapphire-crystal earrings hanging from her ears.

The girl was me.

The foreign man peered at the clock. He and the girl had been sitting in the room for forty minutes, the slight utterance of monosyllabic dialogue passing between the two. The girl was staring at the floor, her face expressionless. With only twenty minutes left, the man took his cue to pick up the bowl holding the chocolate and offered one to her. She refused.

“I do like Celebrations,” said the man. “Always a succulent choice.” He was definitely German. “They really melt in the mouth. Maltesers are my personal favourite, though. They're the most popular, aren't they?”

I grunted in response. He sighed; not in exasperation, merely in concern. “I know this is only our second session, but it would be nice to hear a little bit from you.”

I uncrossed my legs. It was amazing how interesting your shoes became when you had nothing to say.

“I'm not trying to force you,” he said gently. “I know this has been difficult for you. You have had a lot to deal with recently, and in the past. But that is why I want you to know we are here for you. When somebody close to you dies, it’s the most horrible thing in the world. That’s why we want to help you get through this challenging time.”

I closed my eyes, raising my head to the ceiling.

“How are you feeling right now?” he asked.

I shrugged.

“Anne, you are more than welcome to take your time, but remember, in here, you are safe. No one can hurt you. What we say is confidential, and you can say whatever you like.”

He was right. And yet, the clenching in my stomach wouldn’t stop. It was a reminder that no matter how awful things became, you were still left with the scars.

I spent the remaining twenty minutes in silence. So much had happened in my fourteen years of existence, I was unsure of how to form the words.

That week, I mulled over my previous two sessions and decided I was tired of being a prisoner of my past. I no longer saw the point of keeping myself closed off. Help had been offered to me, so surely now was the time to take it. I could keep the ghosts chained to me, or I could let them be released, freeing myself in the process.

When I returned to Henry — he said I could call him by his first name — that following Tuesday, I was ready to begin telling him everything.

Chapter One: Mummy and Daddy

I was born on the 7th of September 2000 at West Middlesex University Hospital. Mum was only twenty. My dad was in his mid-thirties; a self-made man.

They had met in 1998 at a club. She had been with a group of friends, dancing, slightly tipsy, wearing tight trousers, high-heels, and a crop top, unaware of the looming gentleman watching her. He softly tapped her on the shoulder, offering to buy her a drink. He had come from nowhere, shrouded in a sharp black suit and trilby hat. His gaze was intense as his razor-shaven face regarded her, carrying a self-assured coolness lacking in the boys she’d been dating.

He took her to musicals, fine restaurants, weekend visits to Paris and New York. He was a man of principle — a regular church-goer, always dressed in crisp suits. A year on, he proposed, and she said yes. They moved to Richmond, and the following year, had me. He swept her from her old life, wiping her old friends and mother away as if they were drawings on a chalkboard. She and her own mother never got on, and her father had died years prior to that. They’d lived in Clapton, miles from Richmond. Black people didn't live in Richmond. White people could barely afford to live in Richmond or Ealing or Harrow.

In the space of two years, she had gone from the Murder Mile to Palace dé lá Specίal, a tiny two-bedroomed flat to a vast residence. Long gaping corridors and soaring ceilings decorated our house. Not a trace of dust garnished the window ledges or Egyptian ornaments. The garden was filled with acid green hedges sharply pruned by the gardener and blood orange poppies fearfully peeping out of their stems.

My dad owned Mason’s Units, a furniture company. They sold sofas, chairs, desks, wardrobes — everything you needed — to large branded stores and warehouses in Britain and internationally. He always said he was born a natural entrepreneur, buying sweets and magazines and selling them at twice the price to his friends in the school playground. By sixteen, he was working at a stall in Brixton Market selling hats and T-shirts. He went on to study business management at university, graduating with first-class honours. His first business was selling tie-dye clothes back in the ’80s—

“When Thatcher's Britain was booming and London was brimming with opportunity. A black man has got to make his own way in London,” he would say. “And times were different back then. It wasn't all nicey-nice like it is now. There were areas we couldn't go down, where we got chased out of. Brixton was rough as hell.”

His own father had left when he was barely a toddler, and his mother was a poor Grenadian working migrant. He had sought to help his two younger brothers and sister, dreaming of days when he would no longer have to struggle.

We attended church every Sunday. I was baptised shortly after my birth, as were my father's wishes. Everyone in the church loved my dad and talked about what a respected and adored member of the community he was. This old lady would bend down and tell me I was the luckiest girl in the world.

“You've got it all, you have. Your daddy's rich and your mummy's good looking,” she chortled. “What's not to like?”

I was supposed to attend school in September 2005, when I turned five. Mum insisted I start Deer Park School, or The Vineyard Primary School, or St. Stephen's CE Primary School — all in our catchment area. My father had scoffed.

“No child of mine is going to some comprehensive,” he said. “We have the money to send Anne to private education and give her the chances we never had.”

“But a comprehensive will give her an all-rounded education, both socially and academically,” Mum retorted. “Why should she hang around with posh snobs when she's only a child?”

“Excuse me!” That had annoyed my father. “Martinique, you can't just assume everyone who attends private education is a posh snob. Sure, you have a few gits, but they exist everywhere. Private school students are all pushed to achieve the highest grades. You don't have any of this 'equality' nonsense about all students being treated the same. And as it's funded by the parents, we know we're paying for teachers to equip our children with lifelong skills.” He nodded, feeling triumphant. My mum shook her head, her hands on her hips.

“I don't know, John. I don't want Anne to feel complacent, to feel like having a head start in life makes her better than everyone else.”

Dad had laughed, then slowly walked up to her while she swallowed. He gently placed his palm against her face. I was standing in the landing, watching them.

“Now, Martinique,” he said softly. “I only want what’s best for our daughter. She’s a bright girl, spends all day with her head in those books. What do I work so hard for, if not to provide the best chances for my family? Wouldn’t you agree?”

She nodded, biting her lip and turning away from him. He kissed her on the cheek, then grasped a chunk of her thick curly hair in his hand. She pressed her lips together, a scream barely escaping from her mouth. My heart thumped.

“You agree I know what’s best for our family, right, darling?” He hadn’t been shouting, but his tone had been iron-strong. She nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Tell me you agree.”

“I agree, John,” she gasped, the words a raspy knife against her throat. “I agree, you know best.”

He relaxed his grip. She grabbed her head, deeply breathing in and out and almost keeling over. He smiled at her and kissed her forehead.

“Good girl. Now, I have to go to the office. There are some meetings I must organise dealing with our exports within the European market. Hopefully Blair and his pals up in parliament have our back on this.” He clasped his hands with glee. “New Labour isn’t turning out as terribly as I thought they would be. Let's hope they stay that way.”

He’d walked out of the living room and through the door, slamming it as he left. My mum sank to the living room floor, her head in her hands. I ran to her.

“Are you okay, Mummy?” I asked. She gazed up at me, tears streaming down her face. She wiped her eyes with her hands. “Mmm, yes, I’m fine.”

“Did Daddy hurt you again?” My hands quivered. She pulled me close in a warm embrace, avoiding my eyes. “Everything’s fine, hon. Sometimes, Mummies and Daddies fight, and that’s normal. What matters is we both love you.” She stroked the top of my fluffy hair.

“Would you like me to plait your hair for you?”

“Yes, please, Mummy. And will you read Dimble Goes to the Moon to me?”

“Have you already finished Dimble Goes to Australia?” she asked, with a touch of surprise. I nodded. She murmured under her breath. “He's right, you are a bright one. Hmmm, maybe...I don't know. Come along then.”

My father returned from work later that night. The following day, my mother told him she would compromise. She had a suggestion, and that suggestion was I be home-schooled. Taught by a suitable curriculum planned and supervised by my parents, I would learn and progress in the comfort of my home and have private tuition on a weekly basis.

“That way, we can monitor how well she’s doing and push her and help her achieve,” my mum said, biting her lip and blinking rapidly. He faced me, his arms folded. And then, he smiled. “Sounds like a great idea. We can hire the best tutors for English and maths, though I'm sure you'll have no problem with English, will you, Anne? We can take her out to museums and art galleries…well, you can do that, Martinique, as I'll be busy working. Yes, this is fantastic. A most excellent idea. I'm proud of you.”

I remember the way my mum had beamed, her shoulders sagging and fists unclenching.

We spent our days in parks, aquatic arenas, museums, galleries, cinemas, cafés, concerts, watching West End musicals. London was her haven. She adored the hustle and bustle, the chaos and colours. I did too. She would take my hand and make us dance along Southbank, our feet springing to the steps of the Steel Pans and guitar players. Coins would spill from her hands as she paraded around Covent Garden, smiling at the street performers and mime artists.

“Dance with me, Anne,” she would say, twirling me around.

My dad didn't let her have her own bank account, but he gave her a generous weekly allowance. She would take me shopping in the West End, in all the big department stores like Zara and H&M and New Look. I had a wardrobe filled with colourful outfits: pink dresses, red scarves, glittery purple jeans, sky blue T-shirts, paisley leggings. She was also dressed so: tight jeans clinging to her athletic legs, short skirts, bandeau tops, little black and white leather jackets. Men would turn their heads, whistling as she walked past. She never minded, smiling and playing up to the attention.

“Don't you tell your dad about this. It's all just a bit of fun. I'm allowed to have fun, aren't I?”

Chapter Two: Trouble in Paradise

When I was six, my mother fell pregnant again. I was overjoyed. I had always longed for a brother or sister, someone to share the time with. Books were great, but a conversation or a game with a person was priceless.

Mum had a miscarriage. I heard her weeping, leaning against the kitchen counter. My dad walked in, smacking his lips together after polishing off a can of beer. She told him what had happened, and he shook his head.

“So, this is it,” he said. “Now I don’t have anyone to inherit my business. Such a shame.”

“What about Anne?” Mum said, wiping her eyes. “Or we can try again—”

He seized her arm, twisting it behind her back. She cried out in pain. He began to laugh, leering at her, while I watched from the landing.

“Anne has her head in the clouds most of the time,” he said. “There’s no use trying to explain this to her.” He wiped his hand across her face. “Nice lipstick. Have you been out again, Martinique?”

“No, of course not. I’ve been here all day. I cooked se—”

“Shush.” His grip tightened. She cowered in front of him, a rabbit against a hungry tiger. “I know you’re lying to me. I know you went out the other night with your stupid friends. While I’ve been out working hard, giving you money to spend on clothes and jewellery, paying for Clarence and Paula to teach our daughter ABCs and Numeracy.” He yanked her necklace off, bits of jewels spilling onto the ground.

She shook her head. “Please…I didn’t. You said I couldn’t because we couldn’t find a babysitter—”

“That’s right.” He let her go and she fell back against the counter, stumbling in her silk nightie and heels. He walked to the cupboard and took out a bottle of whiskey, slogging it back.

“Hmmm…” He wiped his mouth. “Funny, honey. I've had people tell me they've seen you here and around...seen you. Woman I married, betraying me behind my back in the eyes of the Lord. Did God not teach us to love and honour our spouses? Hmmm? To honour them? Do you know what that means — do you?”

She shook her head, trying to edge away from him. He started undoing his belt from his trousers. “I know you’ve been out seeing other men behind my back. Purging yourself and your unholy soul. And now, you’ve rid me of my heir. You’re a useless, selfish whore.”

Tears ran down her face. “John…John, please. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please, don’t hit me—”

I ran up to my room as the harsh leather lashed against my mother’s soft flesh. Slamming my bedroom door, I grabbed a pillow and screamed into it. Then I picked up my colouring book and pens and started to draw a fat red circle, round and round, until it stabbed through the page, blinking hot tears from my eyes. I wished I could disappear into the paper, sinking through the empty red void.

Later, the door slammed. I ran downstairs to my mum. She was lying on the kitchen floor, bruises all over her body. I reached for the bowl under the sink and filled it with warm water. The flannel was in my hand already. I begged her to call the police or the hospital, but she shook her head and insisted she couldn’t, that she would be fine. He loved her…this was just a misunderstanding…

There were days when I had to call A&E, especially as the years progressed and Dad’s drinking got worse. She always said the same things. She fell in her heels. She tripped. She walked into a lamppost and banged her head. Not once did she say a word against my father or tell anyone what was happening. She was a butterfly trapped in his cocoon.