It is a warning and a cautionary tale, but above all it is a story of love and a testament to the human spirit.
Both women endured dreadfully unhappy marriages. June’s life with Thomson was a dark, turbulent and miserable existence, characterised by mental torture, physical violence and even rape. Giselle’s relationship with Kalyanjee had been a strange and remote affair, of lives spent apart before, during and after their marriage.
In spite of this, their relationships produced treasured children. But on one terrible Saturday in May, the last normal day of their lives, the misery of their marriages swiftly receded into the past.
Both women were on the threshold of a new future. They no longer wanted or needed the men who had ruled their lives but they believed it was important for their children to maintain a relationship with their fathers.
If only they hadn’t. The consequences of their trust were unutterably appalling.
This is the story of the parallel journeys that took them to that terrible day when they and their children became the prey of two monsters in our midst.
Marion Scott and Jim McBeth
Prologue: Fairy Shoes and Toy Soldiers
June: Shoes for Michelle. I had to have them.
Fairy shoes. They glistened with a life of their own, as if they could dance from the shelf. The shop lights, bright and harsh, caused their red, glittering surface to shimmer. Shoes for a princess. Shoes for my Michelle. I could picture my daughter, laughing with delight, her dark-blonde curls streaming behind her as she flew to the wardrobe to pick a party dress to match these beautiful Wizard of Oz shoes.
Christmas music flowed from hidden speakers. Garlands and decorations hung from every wall. I was in a crowded place but, until a few moments ago, I had never felt so alone. Excited voices overwhelmed me, the sounds of mothers, fathers, grandparents and children making plans for the big day. So much excitement to contain, so much to look forward to. I could almost smell cinnamon and spiced apple, the memories of Christmases past.
The room was alive but I had felt dead for so long now. Yet somehow these shoes had brought me to life. I had to have them. They were in my hand. In my bag. Michelle would be so pleased. So pleased.
The part of my brain that knew my Michelle was gone had shut down. A voice spoke to me from very far away. A woman’s voice.
‘Who are the shoes for, June?’
The use of my name suggests familiarity, but I don’t think I know her. It’s become a common occurrence. Since it happened, everyone knows me.
‘Michelle,’ I answer, still under the spell of the shoes.
‘You’ve put them in your bag, love.’
‘I know. I have to have them,’ I said, walking to the door of the shop. I could hear Michelle’s laugh, see her face and imagine her pulling on the shoes. Running to the mirror. My beautiful, damaged daughter with the body of a woman and the mind of a child.
Outside the shop. Assailed by the winter cold. Then a new voice, harsh, authoritative.
‘Madam! I have reason to believe you have goods you have not paid for. Would you open your bag?’
I do what he asks. He fingers the shoes.
‘You can’t have them! They’re for Michelle!’ I tell him.
‘You’ll have to come with me!’
I follow. Everyone is looking, shocked expressions, judging faces. They don’t understand. Tears prick my eyes. The spell of the shoes is broken. I can see the man’s face clearly now.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I deserve to be punished. I took the shoes. I had to have them. Can I pay for them, now?’
His face tells me what I already know.
‘I have money,’ I add, showing him my purse containing £160.
In my mind, I try to tell him I couldn’t go to the cash desk. They would have recognised me. They know my daughter is dead. They would have told me Michelle was gone. I was suddenly cold. I wanted to go home.
A policeman and policewoman had arrived. I recognised the woman from the days following the murder of my son and daughter. She spoke quietly to her colleague, who then had a hushed conversation with the store detective.
‘Come with us, June,’ said the policeman.
His voice was not unkind. The fairy shoes were gone. They had taken them from me.
It was cold on the car journey to the police station. We passed beneath blurred neon signs that gave only the appearance of warmth. The police station was as brightly lit as the store had been but it was stark, devoid of decoration. I stood before the imposing figure of the desk officer.
How did I get here? How did I get to this?
The big man looked at me. He was conflicted. I was ostensibly a thief, but a very different kind of thief from those he usually dealt with.
‘Time you went home, Mrs Thomson,’ he said.
I walked away, my face burning with shame.
Now I was at home, sitting in the dark, the illumination of the street lights washing the mantelpiece and the framed photographs of Ryan and my Michelle. I cried.
What on earth had I wanted with fairy shoes?
Giselle: I know why! The same reason I buy toys for my babies.
They lie before me on the cold, hard ground, frozen to the earth in their packaging, these gifts that I have chosen so carefully for my sons. Spiderman for Paul; Bob the Builder for little Jay-Jay. Toys that will never be played with by boys who will never grow up.
As the seasons come and go, the colour of the packaging fades, the boxes disintegrate. My babies know they are there. Michelle would have known, too, about the glittery new shoes.
I never miss a Christmas, or a birthday. Wherever they are, they all know – Paul and Jay-Jay, Michelle and Ryan. They know. That knowledge keeps us going.
There were days when I prayed for death to take me to them. I hated the winter nights and the coming of darkness when they locked the gates of the cemetery and I had to leave my boys. I would go home and ask God to allow me to be with them. But morning inevitably came and I was still here. Part of me was glad. It allowed me to resume my vigil.
So I sit here on the hill, where my sons rest, embraced in each other’s arms beneath two marble teddy bears. And so it will go on, as long as I have breath. On a clear day, I can see in the distance the prison where their killer was taken – their father.
On the day they were laid to rest, I knew he was there – but there was no communication, no word of remorse, no flowers for his dead sons. I still do not know if, to this day, he knows where they lie. It is of no consequence to me. As long as I know, as long as I am close to them, keeping them safe in death as I could not do in life.
I am the sentinel.
I have only been absent on a few days. Those were the days when I tried to end it all. Now I will never miss a day. I have stopped trying to kill myself with cuts to my wrist, pills swallowed by the handful. I have come to realise that suicide should not be my destiny.
People know where to find me. I am surrounded by the thousands who passed away long before my babies. I embrace myself against the cold. I bake in the sunshine. I lower my head against the rain. The doctors tell me I torture myself, perpetuate my anguish. They don’t understand.
I watch for signs from my sons – the wind that drives the windmills on their grave speaks to me in their voices. The marble teddy bears watch me with unblinking eyes. Gold-leaf inscriptions on their bodies record the names of my sons. Spring, summer, autumn and