A New Georgy-Girl

At this point he made the mistake of blustering, obviously believing he had a way out, that I'd actually listen to his bullshit, or that I gave a bubbly wet shit, so I hauled off and smashed a looping overhand right into his face just to watch his nose break and spray blood all over that fine Turnbull & Asser Egyptian cotton dress shirt my mother had paid for.

Then I kicked him in the balls again, hard, to tighten his focus on me, grabbed him and backhanded him, hard, just the way he'd hit my little sister, and down he went again, only this time I think me pulverising his balls with a steel-capped work boot kept him down there.

You may think at this point that I was just being a bully, that he was already finished. Well, so what? The little prick had been drugging and beating my mother, he'd attacked and tried to rape my baby sister, right then all I wanted to do was stamp him into a red, stringy stain on the floorboards; he was getting off lightly, believe me.

I glanced at Georgy and she nodded; she'd dialled 999 and the police were on their way, so I stood over him, daring him to move. She'd requested an ambulance too, because my mother was not looking good at all. Georgy held her up, helping her to breathe, while I stood over that disgusting puddle of diarrhoea with my foot on his neck until a knock at the door told us the law had arrived.

Twenty minutes later Maxie was in handcuffs, my promise to him before the law arrived that if he didn't roll over then someone was going to visit him and split him like a Christmas wishbone obviously having its effect, because he admitted everything when they cautioned him. When the paramedics arrived they took one look at my mother and bundled her off to the hospital, disco-lights and sirens going full volume.

*****

Max was held on aggravated criminal assault, theft, fraud, and attempted murder charges. The Crown Prosecution Service, the CPS, wanted to throw the book at him and dig him the biggest, deepest hole possible and then it all became academic, because Mother passed away.

The drug and alcohol combination he'd been feeding her caused her to slip into a coma until her kidneys failed catastrophically, dropping her blood pressure so drastically that her poor heart was unable to keep beating and went into shock.

Georgy was distraught, I was in a killing rage, I wanted to drag that bastard out of his cell, get his blubbery neck in the crook of my arm and just squeeze 'till his fucking head exploded, but no, he got to live and my mother paid the price for his greed.

Max tried to recant his confession, but the CPS changed-up the charges; now he was up on premeditated murder charges, not negligent manslaughter. They refused to entertain even a hint of any kind of limited plea-deal that British law might allow, and they were especially in no mood to talk it down to manslaughter, involuntary or otherwise; they wanted blood, and Max was in their gun-sights.

As far as the CPS were concerned he'd recklessly, and with malice aforethought, with full knowledge and understanding of the inevitable outcome of his actions, endangered and incapacitated my mother, a vulnerable woman unfortunate to be wealthy enough to attract a predator like him, thereby causing her death through the reckless administration of banned toxic substances while attempting to defraud her.

Premeditated murder, in their view, no matter which way you cut it, carried out with ruthless planning with full foreknowledge of the consequences of his actions. From his internet search history the police were able to prove that he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that his actions could have had no other outcome, and yet he'd still shown callous indifference to Mother's suffering.

He'd subjected my mother to a catalogue of brutal assaults and ever-increasing doses of toxic agents, she had paid with her life, now he was going to pay for his actions.

Georgy sleepwalked through this whole period, barely eating, barely sleeping, always restless, her mind and concentration shot to pieces. I was in no better state; with endless consultations with the CPS dredging it all up again and again, my mind was close to breaking point too, but I had to hold it together.

I had to hold us together, because Georgy was lost and wandering and I could barely function with the constant self-recriminations, memories of seeing what he'd done to my mother, and guilt torturing me over whether I could have done more to prevent what had happened.

The only thing I could do to stop myself going insane was go back to my house and try and lose myself in the work there; I think I reasoned that if I had enough to keep me occupied, the reality of the impending trial and the drama and trauma that went with it could be compartmentalised, and maybe I could find some kind of normality, some way to escape my guilt.

In my mind, I'd taken my eyes off the ball, and now we were here, and I couldn't get past that...

I took Georgy with me to my house, and kept her there with me, mostly so I could keep an eye on her, but also hoping I could get her to possibly help me around the place; if I could keep her engaged and occupied, if we could find some kind of distraction, just maybe it would jar her out of the listless, apathetic state she'd fallen into.

Max was on remand in Belmarsh Prison in London, waiting on a court date; he'd be tried at The Old Bailey, the Central Criminal Court, where guilty verdicts in capital cases almost invariably got full-sentence minimum tariffs; if he got sentenced to 30 years, he'd only be considered for release on license after he'd served a minimum of 30 years.

Needless to say, this is what we were hoping for; with no death penalty, it was the closest thing to payback for my mother's murder we were likely to get. My only consolation was that in most prisons, criminals like him were held in contempt: helpless women and children were beyond the pale, and he'd callously, brutally murdered an incapacitated elderly woman simply because he could.

One way or another Max Preece was a marked man; the other inmates, violent offenders all, had little time and even less mercy for vermin like him; he was going to be a lonely, frightened man in prison, always one step away from an 'accidental' death in full view of everyone, and it served him right.

****

Meanwhile, poor Georgy was just a shadow of her former self; she used to be a bright, noisy, mischievous girl before all this, ever-ready to take on a dare, prank me, or tweak my nose with the parade of boys calling her up hoping for a date, a kiss, just a few minutes of her time.

Now she was a ghost, a silent, hollow-eyed, forlorn figure who drifted from room to room, always in eyeshot of me, always watching me with that intensity that was such a "Georgy" trademark. I'd try and jolly her along and jokingly ask what she was staring at, and I'd get a soft "Nothing, Will..." as she averted her eyes.

When I was still living at home, back in the days when we still had a family, she'd entertained herself by dragging boys in to meet me, knowing full well they were going to get the voodoo word and the sour, gimlet-eyed stare from me. Those days seemed far away, from a whole different universe to the nightmare one we were living in now.

Georgy had always known how to have fun with me, taunting me with the boys who were besotted with her. As far as I was concerned, not one of those spotty, scrawny, tongue-tied jackasses was fit to breathe the same air as my sweet, innocent little sister, let alone date her, and she was too young anyway, so they were on a hiding to nothing.

Just the thought of any of those idiots actually laying hands on my sweet, innocent kid sister had me reaching for the nearest blunt instrument. If any of them had tried to kiss her in my presence I would have yanked their bottom lip up over the top of their head and stapled it to the back of their neck, and Georgy knew it.

Now those fun times were a distant memory, if they'd ever really existed at all, and our present reality was that we were alone, my dad was gone and mother had been murdered for her money by a sociopath. All that was left were Georgy and me, the shattered fragments of our once happy family.

******

The day I left home to attend Sandhurst, the Royal Military College, she cried like there'd been a death in the family; she was fifteen, I was eighteen, and she actually tried to physically block me from getting in the car, and then tried to yank me back out of the car to stop me leaving, and to be honest, I nearly let her. I loved my baby half-sister, she was three years younger than me but she was still my best friend, my truest confidante, my partner in crime, and the one person in the world I'd trust with my life.

The thought of her fretting alone at home while I was locked-down at the other end of the country nearly did me in. Leaving her alone at home when I left to begin life at Sandhurst was literally the toughest, most heartbreaking thing I'd ever done.

Life at the military college was interesting, involving, and utterly absorbing. I wanted to serve in both my father and step-father's regiment, The Blues and Royals, who, together with the Life Guards, made up the Household Cavalry, the monarch's personal guards, and the two most senior regiments of the British Army. Three years of officer training, military etiquette, man-management and command training, ordinance and weapons, tactics, and combat training followed.

I rarely came home, training schedules being what they were, but it was always Georgy I hunted for as soon as I ran in the door. I even kept our last picture taken together on my night-stand, she and I dressed in overalls laughing together as we mucked-out her new horse on her eighteenth birthday, intriguing my roommates no end. They all thought she was my girl, and would rag on me about having such a hot girlfriend.

It felt a little weird admitting the pictures on my desk of the beautiful girl with the pale skin, big grey eyes, and mass of jet-black hair was actually my little sister, not my girlfriend, even though she was my best friend and favourite person in the whole world, so I shut up and said nothing, preferring to let them think what they liked.

My biological father had been killed on a training exercise, a stupid weapon malfunction, when I was less than a year old. His best friend and Sandhurst roomie had brought the news to mum, supported and comforted her, helped her and Mrs. Kinnison raise me, and eventually fallen in love with her. Georgy was their daughter, but she was always just my kid sister, nothing else.

Whenever I got home, she would jump all over me and completely monopolise my time, so much so mum had to ask her to let her and dad (and that's how I thought of him; he was never my step-dad, he was always just 'dad') have some time with me, they missed me too.

I sort of knew dad wasn't too well; every time I came home he looked older, thinner, more haggard, and his upright, straight-backed cavalryman's posture was going. He'd taken to leaning on a cane, and his clothes hung on him like limp flags, but when I tried asking him what was wrong he just passed it off with a comment about 'just getting old, son, it happens to all of us eventually' which didn't feel right at all. He was only in his early fifties, younger than some of the drill sergeants, barely even middle-aged, but that was his story and he was sticking to it.

What really drove it home was my Passing-Out Parade. Mum, Dad, and eighteen year-old Georgy were all there to watch me graduate, "pass-out", as a 2nd Lieutenant preparatory to being sent down to my regiment. As we marched and wheeled in precision formations on the parade ground I saw my family in the stand, mum and Georgy standing on either side of my father, who was sitting in a wheelchair.

I nearly lost step, and I don't really remember the rest of the ceremonies that afternoon, being confirmed in my selection for formal induction into The Blues and Royals, anything, all I remember is the shock at seeing my poor dad shrunken and huddled in that wheelchair, just a shadow of his former self.

That was the day I found out that dad had Pancreatic Cancer, it had progressed to Stage IV, it was spreading everywhere, and inoperable. Dad had wanted me kept ignorant of what was happening to him, he knew how much Sandhurst meant to me, but also that I would have dumped it all in a heartbeat to be with him, to share in what time was left with him as he ground through that bastard disease that was eating him alive.

He knew that, so he kept it from me until he couldn't hide it any longer.

My C.O. knew dad, they'd served together, and he knew what dad was going through, so he gave me a deferment so I could take dad home and be with him for as long as it took, but even I wasn't prepared for how shockingly short was the time he had left. I'd barely gotten the family home when dad's condition worsened. All the strength he'd carefully husbanded just to see me through my chosen path was finally spent, and I barely had a week at home with him while he reminisced about he and my father and their escapades as young cadets, told me what he wanted me to do, how he wanted me to take care of Georgy and mum.

It was only when he was satisfied he'd passed on everything he thought I needed to know that he'd finally accepted the palliative medication, medication he'd refused because he wanted to keep his mind clear until he'd properly said his farewells.

Dad had refused to go into hospice care; he'd wanted to stay with his family to the end. Just a few days after I took him home, not even a week after he'd proudly shaken my hand as a newly commissioned Queen's Officer, he finally went to his rest, while Georgy, mum, and I held him and read him passages from his favourite book, 'Three Men in a Boat', by Jerome K. Jerome.

Whenever dad was feeling down, or the day seemed too much for him, he'd read a few chapters and he'd be smiling again. It was his happy place, and we sent him on his way to the words of his favourite passages from the one thing his disease couldn't rob him of.

******

Georgy spent most of her time with me just fetching and carrying, always silently, with no attempts to initiate conversations, no sign of breaking out of the apathetic state she'd sunk into, nothing. She kept and maintained that carefully blank expression she'd had on her face the day they'd convicted that little fucker of the premeditated murder of my helpless mother and I could do nothing to break her out of it.

The sentence, a minimum tariff of 37 years, hardly seemed adequate, and Georgy never even twitched an eyebrow when it was passed; it was like she'd switched the whole episode and its aftermath off. She seemed to be feeling none of the outrage I was feeling; my mother was dead because he murdered her for her money, and he still got to wake up every morning, and breathe, and be alive, and have the best medical care, and three square meals a day, and rehabilitation, and pampering, instead of being properly punished for being a ruthless, venal, murderous piece of dogshit.

I didn't know how to deal with whatever was going on with her; the sparkling, vital, happy girl I knew and loved was gone, and a sombre, expressionless zombie had taken her place. Even constantly hugging her and telling her I was always going to be there for her, keeping her in close contact, asking her opinion about every least little thing, trying to jolly her along, did nothing to break her out of her apathy, and I was beginning to be seriously concerned for her mental well-being; this was our Georgy-Girl, the fun one, now reduced to a pale, silent ghost.

*****

Time dragged by slowly as Georgy and I orbited around each other, me trying to be as normal as possible, and Georgy just ambling along, no animation or interest on her face, until the day I finally took her home, the home she'd steadfastly refused to enter since the day we'd found our mother the way Max had left her.

I needed to reconnect with any part of my past I could find, and no matter what had so recently happened there, my family home was still full of other, happier memories, memories of a childhood filled with fun and laughter, golden days with mum and dad, and Mrs. Kinnison chasing around after us, checking on us, playing with us, and, as we got older, including us more in the running and management of the house and estate.

I missed those days, I missed the sense of connection we'd shared with the house, with each other, and I reasoned that that was what Georgy needed, reminders of a happy past in that house where love and laughter and warmth had abounded.

When I first took her indoors, the first time she'd been inside the house in almost five months, Georgy became animated, almost agitated; obviously memories of the last time we'd been here were resonating inside her, and her grip on my arm was painful, her nails digging into me even through the material of my jacket. I literally had to walk her in, her feet seemed to be like lead blocks, and she shuffled along, almost falling over in her reluctance to put one foot in front of the other.

Mrs. Kinnison watched us making our slow progress inside, her eyes wide and concerned as she exchanged glances with me. Her expression spoke volumes about the changes in Georgy, so far from the fun-loving, noisy, boisterous child, and lively, warm, attractive girl she'd helped raise and loved so well.

Our first night back in the house was grim indeed. Georgy had a huge, vivid, realistic nightmare; her screaming brought me running, to find Mrs. Kinnison already there with her, holding her, trying desperately to break her out whatever was being played out in front of her and goading her into a paroxysm of terror; I didn't know what to do, I could only watch as that sweet lady, the only good part left of our shattered lives, of the love we'd had before it was taken from us, cuddled and petted, and held Georgy close the way she had when she was small and she felt blue, or wanted her boo-boo's kissed better.

Night after night the same story: Georgy in screaming fits of terror, Mrs. Kinnison holding her, trying to soothe her, trying to make her forget the horror and calm down while I stood by helplessly and watched my beautiful sister fracture and disintegrate. I told myself coming back here, bringing Georgy back here had been a mistake, but when I tried to suggest she come and live with me she shot me down; this was her home, this was where mummy and daddy were, this was what she wanted, where she needed to be.

It all finally culminated in the most traumatic night ever; poor Georgy was lucid dreaming, it was so real to her that she screamed herself hoarse, whatever she was dealing with had finally gotten deep enough into her to set off some really horrifying, life-like hallucinations, and there was nothing Mrs. Kinnison or I could do except hold her as she threshed around, almost too strong for both of us to deal with without hurting her.

All I could do was hold her and talk, desperately, quickly, reminding her of us, of her childhood, the things that made her laugh, the day she got her first pony, trivial things, yet supremely meaningful, milestones that only meant something to her, but significant to her at the time, and at last I began to get through to her.

I hugged her to me, which seemed to shake her out of it, and then the tears began, everything she'd held in and held down broke out, and she sobbed piteously, her broken heart finally finding release from the pain that had been torturing her.

Mrs. Kinnison, our 'Aunt Kay' and I held her close, the three of us all that was left of our former life, as Georgy's grief resonated and amplified my own. That dear woman who'd been there for us all our lives held us and hugged us, and shared her compassion the way she always had.