I have until now not been sure whether to post this, it is what I wrote during the long sleepless nights of February 2009. In that period I would wake up often at 3 am and not be able to sleep, the pain of knowing the mum was in the River Avon and yet to be found tortured me ceaselessly. To fight the insomnia I sat at my computer and wrote down my feelings and thoughts. I never finished this, was too difficult. But this is what I wrote………
Chick Peas Under My Knees
Everybody’s sympathy is overwhelming, their condolences are comforting. Family suffer with you. Friends I am sure, try to put themselves in your shoes and express small murmurs of kindness. Even people who don’t know Mum feel our pain and cry.
Nobody really knows what to say to offer small comfort but many people’s efforts eventually add up to a pillow for my head full of sorrow. What do you say in these rare circumstances? Sometimes I can explain the dreadful news clearly; sometimes I talk in small sad undertones. I have to report news back to shocked family in different countries and I speak in another language. My news seems to become fainter when translated or is it that my vocabulary is smaller and so the story loses something in translation? I find myself desperate, wanting to make sure that what I say is clearly understood by her older brothers and sisters. That in spite of not having Mum’s body we no longer have Mum’s soul. I can feel their tremors of shock and sadness across the digital wires.
Bit by bit as the hours pass and the days turn I receive news from those searching, uncovering the truth. The events of Mum’s precious final days of life placed together by professional investigators, forensic scientists, underwater divers, journalists and a shocked distant community.
The news is unrelentingly bad; one painful confirmation follows another. She has not only gone but that her parting is violent and needless. As the sun rises each day I wait to hear what horrible new truth will be discovered. My imagination plays awful scenarios torturing me constantly. Visions of poison, heavy objects, sharp metal or evil hands. Final horrific moments for a confused, frail grandmother meeting her destiny of senseless cruelty.
Everything that she has worked so hard for all her years in a foreign country is now soiled. The fruits of long hours caring, nursing hospital patients now blighted by the events of her death. Her home is no longer her sanctuary the depository of her lifes memories but a murder scene. Sealed by fluttering white strips of polyethylene with blue printing. ‘Crime Scene Do Not Pass’ and in camped by investigators' vans. Cameras film journalists standing in front of the protective barrier buffeted by the cold January air.
“Friends and family are increasing worried by the uncharacteristic disappearance of Antonietta Guarino. She was last seen at a doctor’s appointment in the town three weeks ago. Police are asking for anyone who has seen Antonietta to call their incident room.”
In the distance the lenses catch figures in white paper suits with rubber gloves and boots. How many times before have I witnessed this as I scan the television news? And now I am too a special rare victim, the son of a murdered mother. I join the ranks of those left behind by needless selfish violence, deceit conducted by human earthquakes, whose actions shake my very belief in a good life. Forever I can now understand the white tent in a field filmed from a noisy helicopter, forever I can now understand the lines of men dressed in black, their heads permanently crocked toward the ground walking slowly from field to field, forever I can now understand the chill of a scuba diver bobbing in a murky river.
“Antonietta Guarino is a 61 year old mother and grandmother whose disappearance is totally out of character has been missing for twenty days. Police and family are increasingly concerned for her ware bouts and wellbeing. Antonietta speaks with a heavy Italian accent and sometimes walks with the aid of a stick”
My last conversation with mum is short and sweet, a conformation that she has arrived home safely. I had only packed her small silver car three hours earlier, full to capacity with her belongings, her glamorous clothes, needed for the festive holidays. In the gaps I squeezed Christmas gifts from those who loved her, things she would treasure only for the briefest time. Draped over the back seat her heavy winter coat carefully hung in plastic. I lent low to kiss her soft lips as she hooked herself in to the car. My final memory of our forty-one year relationship is happy.
“Police are appealing to the public to help trace a silver Toyota Yaris”
In the days that follow Christmas we continue with our lives, work begins, schools begin. I bring my son to hospital as always at the beginning of the week. He is receiving treatment and finally progressing well with the care of his doctors and nurses. He calls his grandmother with this news and she is overjoyed that he is making such a good recovery and so quickly. Only six weeks before, mum had witnessed his lowest point and to hear the good news filled her with happiness. She told him so. The next day she calls her daughter in law and friend, my wife. She is still so happy for her grandson but in pain. The years of heavy lifting, a career in care homes moving patients from bed to bath have taken a toll on her; she is delicate and often suffers. “I am going to the doctors today.”
Three days pass my son leaves a message on her answer phone, next day the same and again in two more days. No calls returned, I ask my sister have you heard from Mum?
“No. I left a message yesterday”
Another day passes, I ask again.
“Her lodger me called back, he said that Mum had gone to look after an ill friend”
Mum had worked as a nurse and care assistant all her working life; she had made life comfortable for the old, mentally ill and needy for over thirty years until her retirement. Even now when someone she knew needed help either practical or spiritual she was the first to sacrifice her time and energy. In the weeks before Christmas Mum had spent little time at home, my eleven year old son had been diagnosed with a severe and unusual medical condition. She slept on a camp bed beside him in our local paediatric hospital ward while we waited to hear from the specialist hospital if he would be admitted. Typically others' needs come before her own; she supported my son in those dark days pulling him along like a strong tugboat guides a ship to harbour. Eventually we arrived at the specialist hospital, it was far from our home. My son was broken away from his family to remain in the hands of the specialist, the tears and fear were written in is face as I left him that first night. I believed that it was the worst day of my life! In fact the future held worse much worse. Even in this dark moment she was beside us supporting us, sharing the burden and suffering.
I knew that the lodger was right, Mum’s friend had tragically lost her young daughter to cancer not long ago, she had told me how she spent long sad days and nights with her distraught and grieving mother comforting her at her home. Once again Mum slept in a strange bed so that she could share her kindness with another.
“When will she be back?” I asked.
“He said next Monday”
In two more days then, strange that she hasn’t called to ask after her grandson the past week, whispers through my mind.
Monday comes and goes, Tuesday I leave a message. Still no reply it’s not unusual for Mum to visit us for a week and stay another, she is a pensioner after all with no job to return to. Wednesday I travel to collect my son from hospital. As always when he arrives home he calls Grandma, still no answer. The following morning I return with my son, on the long journey back I feel unhappy that she has not spoken to him. Her friend must be very ill. At a family meal together we all express our concern and agree that my sister and her husband will travel to Mum’s to find her and of course tell her off.
That night a long distant call from her brother, he asks where is Mum? He has been trying to get hold of her some time now. His telephone call focuses our growing concern; we call the Police. The sinister clock starts ticking. First the news that no one is in her home, much later in response to a strong and concerned message, a call from the lodger. I wake in the early hours to speak with him. We discuss Mum’s possible whereabouts, his name, when she last spoke to him I ask all the questions I can. His answers are vague, I feel a little uncomfortable, the conversation ends, my sister will be there in the morning.
The sinister clock ticks, a strange call in the morning. Confirmation from the lodger that the Police had entered the house, he seemed peeved that they had left footprints on the floor!
“Is your sister still coming?” he asked
“I am so concerned for Antonietta” he adds
“I hope you don’t mind but because of last night my partner stayed with me?”
It seemed that he was seeking approval from me. I said nothing to him I just feel uncomfortable with what he says.
The clock ticks as I go about my day, thoughts, and worries breach my concentration. I have constant contact with my brother in law as he and my sister continue their investigation searching for documents and telephone numbers. Finally in the evening they find a small birthday book, pages filled with the names of family and friends written next to the owners birthday date. Each date has a small ditty about the historical significance of the day. August 9th 1967 ‘US helicopter continue the attacks on North Vietnamese….’ and ‘my son’s birthday’.
Later they are able to find out that Mum is not with her grieving friend; I feel strongly that something is wrong with this news. My sister and brother in law wait at the house late for her return, finally they travel the one hundred miles back to their children.
The following morning I take my son to hospital, he asks after his grandma, I summon up the courage to pretend that nothing is wrong and that she is with her friend, overstaying to care for her. She will be back tonight you’ll see, she will call you on the ward, you’ll see. The invading armies of concern begin to break through the defences of my mind. The sinister clock ticks, as the fortifications start to crumble, hour by hour. I can no longer concentrate on the days business, emails unanswered, phone left to ring. I abandon my desk.
When I get home I see the news.
“Two men have been arrested tonight on suspicion of murder”
One sentence and I know what has happened, the evil earthquakes aftershock has reached my family, it’s tremors travelling distance and time to lay ruin to our ordinary lives. That evening specialist family police officers comforted us as best they could. The police had also been uncomfortable with the last 24 hours excuses and events. During that day they had recovered images of two men stealing money from an electronic cash dispenser with Mum’s card. They could or would not identify the men to me that night. My mother was still missing and there was no sign of her car, a missing person case had opened.
Late in to the night we speak face to face with the specialist officers sent to our homes to discuss what we know of Mum’s possible whereabouts. Soon after talking with us they decide that we are ‘Critical Witness’ people who can help the police giving times, events and repeating conversations.
That night, in bed my mind is sent spinning with fears and accusations, I guess at Mum’s fate and frustrated I voice my suspicions.
The following morning we are told that the men who have been arrested are the lodger and his gay lover. The car has been found; reported in by a scrap dealer after seeing the media request for help. Two men had dropped it off eighteen days before, he was not interested the car, it lacked documents. Two days later it was abandoned outside his business premises. My fears are freezing together
The day is spent waiting for the local police to set up video interview rooms and the investigating officers to travel up. We wait; wait for each to have our opportunity to talk as the mechanics of the investigation turn. The two men in custody wait for police questioning, prompted by our own forth-coming interviews. Finally at 8 o’clock in the evening I sit down in front of the recording equipment and tell my story. It takes hours. Well into the night I reveal all that I know, the wonderful Christmas and New Year we spent together. Our family relationships, how Mum and I bickered over the smallest things. Her relationship with my children and the things she did with them. How she spent long telephone conversations with my wife chatting about life and people she knew. Her history both past and more recently. We talked about Mum’s habits and religious beliefs and what she was like. In detail we went through the final conversations and movements that I knew about. In detail I repeated the conversation with the lodger seventy two hours before. I told what I remember of the conversation, it was clear to me, not a foggy distant conversation, I remember well as if it had just happened only hours before. My interviewer scribbled down notes as the camera rolled on pointing down at me from the corner. Whenever we stopped to change discs we went through the laborious process of re introducing ourselves re stating the time so as to make one continuous event. Twelve miles away the same process was happening with my sister as she disclosed her memories of the recent days and the distant past. She is left shattered as she is pressed into remembering in great detail her visit two days before to Mum’s home. That desperate day searching for documents, telephone numbers to find her. She tells the police while walking through the house she sees the spare bedroom bed is not covered. It is strange because Mum’s beds are not just made, they are carefully dressed. My sister’s dark fear remains unvoiced until she speaks to me in the early hours.
“Your Mum often slept in that bed when she didn’t feel well” my wife told me
“It is electric, she enjoys the massage when she is tired”
Early the next morning the police transmit our evidence to the incident room. The interviews of their suspects begin. Each separately asked their story, given time to lie before being challenged with our facts, later that day the same process is repeated with the information yielded by Mum’s son-in-law and daughter-in-law.
That afternoon my wife and I travel to our son's hospital unit, we are nervous because what do you say to an eleven year old who is recovering from a severe and difficult condition and whose primary concerns are the safety and well being of his family. Our son had been making good progress as we explained to his doctors the events of the last three days.
‘He needs to know the truth no matter how hard it is for him’ came the answer.
‘He will find out soon enough and when he does he will lose all trust in you’ we continue to listen stealing ourselves for the hard task ahead.
‘The potential damage of finding out you have lied [protected him] is probably more damaging than the cost of knowing’
More tough love doled out to an ill child on the road to recovery.
‘In any case we are here for him, we can mend him again should he break’ we have to put our trust once again in their hands.
In a large formal room he enters, happy as always to see us, eager to go home for the weekend, already asking for a pit stop at the local fast food joint so that he can enjoy the trip home. Does he sense something is wrong, can he read our faces as he sits with this sombre audience? We lean close to him and explain why we are about to say the dreadful news. Hoping to prepare him a little.
“Nonna has been missing for twenty days, the police are very concerned” he stares back I can see his eye getting glossy.
“They are looking very hard for her at the moment”
He asks quietly “Are they using more than one car?”
“Of course” we assure him
“There are 100 police officers they even have dogs and a helicopter” we hope to impress him with the helicopter.
“Last night they arrested two men because they think that they could have hurt Nonna” He looks shocked.
“Can we see them?” his voice is a little shaky
“Why”
“Because I really want to hurt them, I want to punch their faces in”
The police have found her car it was at a scrap dealer’s yard abandoned. It is too much for the child to bear. His tears finally break free and roll down his cheeks, he begins to sob. His heart is broken.
We have a long journey to my sister’s house; the family liaison offices want to see us; update us with the latest news. It is not good.
“We have received reliable evidence that there is a body in the river”
They explain that the area is closed in anticipation of first light when the specialist divers will begin looking underwater. My heart sinks I feel great sadness, this story is slowly becoming a nightmare. We prepare ourselves to explain once again this latest news to our son. It is crushing to him.
“Could she still be alive?” He quietly asks the officer
“No, not if she has been in the water, she cannot still be alive”. More truth for him to absorb, I think that he knew the answer he just wanted to check.
I stare at his cousin, my sisters 8 year old daughter, she is still and sad, very sad, all our faces are pale the atmosphere is pensive. Questions race about in our heads, we uncontrollably interrogate the offices with our fears and uncertainties. No more answers, only cautious comments, a shield of facts protecting what we all believe to be true.
The next morning we are told that the two men in custody are in fact the lodger and his lover; we are told that the lodger has confessed to murdering mum and together with his lover dumped her into the freezing cold river. It is too much to take in; this is not true it is just a bad dream. How can my lovely mum, caring grandmother, defenceless lady end her days like this? It’s not fair, it’s just not right. It is a waste and what for? Our children have been denied her love, what is the reason? Why? Why? Why?
“A lodger and his boyfriend are to appear in court charged with the murder of a landlady who has been missing for more than three weeks. Antonietta Guarino, 61, was last seen at her doctor’s surgery on January 7.
Despite the lack of a body, a murder investigation was opened because of inconsistencies in accounts found at her home in. Other financial information and vehicle and phone evidence has also been discovered.
Marc Riley, 24, who lodged with Mrs. Guarino, and his partner David Carr-Burstow, 19, have been charged with her murder. They are due to appear before North Wiltshire magistrates today. Divers are continuing to search a stretch of the River Avon.
Scientific examinations are also being carried out at two houses.”
I wait all day, I feel hunger, my eyes are tired. No news from the river I imagine the cold currents dragging her body, the indignity of the death compounded by not having her. I feel true hate, true hate for the first time. I am sickened by the sadness of what they have done. Why? Why? Why?
Later that night I see an image of Mum’s car, its tyres are caked in light brown mud. This small image accompanying a digital news story makes me sob, for what seems like ages I sob, tears drip from the end of my nose I know that my face is contorted. No comfort in this painful moment. Why? Why? Why?
Still later in the night I imaging her last moments, did she see them coming at her? Did they surprise her? Did she suffer? I am haunted by images of her trying to defend herself. My body refuses to sleep, my mind is overburdened with distressed thoughts. In the semi darkness of the bedroom I look at my wife, sleeping gathering strength to support her husband and son for the next day. She has temporally encased her grief, it will come in the future. She too has lost a friend, I see sadness in her too.
"Two men have been charged with murder following the disappearance of a 61-year-old woman in Trowbridge, Wiltshire. Her car, a silver Toyota Yaris, was found abandoned outside a scrap yard five days later. Ms Guarino's lodger Marc Riley, 24, and his gay lover David Carr-Burstow, 19, are accused of killing the Italian woman. Wiltshire Police said the pair would remain in custody over the weekend and appear before North Wilts Magistrates Court, Chippenham, on Monday. A search for Ms Guarino's body continues, with divers trawling the River Avon about four miles from where she lived. Forensic officers were also examining two houses in Trowbridge".
Late in the afternoon the Police team arrive, the long trip delayed by an accident on the motorway. The boss, a man only a few years older than me has an air of seniority, beside him sits a scribe taking notes of our conversation. The meeting is in a local pub, they have organised with the staff to section off a large part for our privacy. I sit right next to him, he commands respect from his colleagues, by his body language his posture and rank. He starts his slow methodical explanation of the last week’s events, free at last to say what the police now know.
There is a notable difference between him and the family liaison officers, he is factual, his confirmed story is unsettling after days of ‘maybes, could be’s and we don’t know yet explanations. I listen carefully to his outline of their work so far, how just after lunch the two had been charged formally with my mother’s murder. He started to explain how the lodger had confessed to killing my mum within twenty four hours after his arrest. How he and his partner had taken her body to the river. They had got her caught in vegetation and he undressed to wade in so that he could untangle her and push her under the freezing cold January water of the Avon River. How they drove her car across farmers' fields and then around town damaging it’s bodywork.
I heard how they had met in a drug rehabilitation centre, how they had started a relationship a year before. I heard about their lifestyles, the company they kept, and their previous criminal history. I wanted to hear the truth of what the police knew, I expected it to be bad but I had gambled wrong, the story was sordid, disgusting, I felt sick. They had systematically set about using her property, stealing her money and opening online store accounts to buy products in her name. Their associates helped them to dispose of the car and when they learnt what the pair had done, blackmailed them, threatening to tell the police unless they paid to keep them quiet. This they did with my mum's stolen money, it paid for their friends perverted drug pleasure. I could scarcely comprehend what I was hearing it was unreal how could this be true.
How did they kill her?
The boss took a breath and quietly but firmly said “With a hammer”
I could feel myself swaying forward my hand came up to meet my head. I felt enormous sadness in that moment; complete silence in my soul, resounding emptiness for a moment. Then came the visions as if on fast-forward for I only had moments to take it in. I felt a hand of affection on me, he continued to explain the grim details of the murder scene the forensic evidence that they said would prove that the killer’s version of that nights events were fantasy. What he said hardly registered, he had to repeat it. I could not hear anything through the white noise in my mind, all I could see were her last terrible moments. The disgrace of their actions crushed me along with my mother’s skull.
The senior investigating officer slowly after a respectful pause continued to explain the facts of the case, explaining circumstance, possible motive, their character and personality, their relationship. The explanations were like jigsaw pieces. I started to put together reasons for the persistent phone calls to Mum by the lodger toward the end of her Christmas stay, he was checking to see when she would be home so that he would not be caught with his lover. The sorry story was strangely familiar, like a film or some work of fiction only it is chillingly unbelievably true, this ridiculous event has happened to us, from nowhere my mothers life taken, ours changed forever.
0 comments:
Post a Comment