Page 47 of Cruel Shame

He was already halfway to the front door when I stepped into the hallway, and I had to jog to match his long strides. “Let me open it.”

“I’ve got to tell the police what’s happening.” At the door, Mr. Burgh picked up the wooden wedge and slipped it in his pocket. Then he glanced at the garments on the coat rack, selected a heavy sweater, and pulled it on over the rumpled shirt.

I stepped back and folded my arms over my chest, wondering if the police would do anything about these annoying busybodies or if the police would take their side.

Mr. Burgh opened the door. The woman in the tweed coat bristled on the doorstep, still flanked by the skinny priest and the walrus-faced Vernon lookalike. The police stood behind them, looking like a pair of useless twats.

“There he is.” The woman pointed a red talon between Mr. Burgh’s eyes. “Arrest that man.”

“What do you want?” Mr. Burgh shouted, making her flinch behind the larger man.

“Now, look here.” The chubby man, who I guessed was either her husband or an admirer, stepped in front of her like a shield.

“Everybody calm down.” The officer at the back pushed his way to the front.

“Why haven’t these people been arrested?” asked Mr. Burgh.

“Lady Liddell gave us permission to protest in the online newsletter.” The woman, who cowered behind her husband, produced a piece of paper. “She also allowed any concerned churchgoers to inspect the premises for child pornography.”

Mr. Burgh leaned forward and plucked the paper out of the woman’s hands. She stumbled backward with a shriek and clutched at the collar of her coat.

A growl reverberated in the back of my throat. That bloody, scheming bitch. Surely, writing shit like this was libel? Anger simmered in my belly, and my entire body thrummed with the need to land a punch in the woman’s smug face. I balled my fists and wrapped my arms around my chest. Nothing would come from lashing out except for my arrest.

For someone who once kicked the shit out of Father Neapolitan, Mr. Burgh remained calm and asked the police to escort the woman, her husband, and the priest off the premises. When the officer didn’t move, he said he would file a complaint under the Protection from Harassment Act of 1997.

After establishing my identity as Mr. Burgh’s granddaughter and not a random schoolgirl he had lured into his house, the officer jotted down Mr. Burgh’s statement. He wanted to take the piece of paper as evidence, but Mr. Burgh refused to hand it over.

The procession of police and protesters moved down the stairs, and Mr. Burgh shut the door, his posture sagged.

I reached for his hand, but a rush of guilt had me pulling away. The Liddells would never have fucked with the old man if it hadn’t been for me.

“Sorry,” I whispered.

Mr. Burgh shook his head. “This problem started before you were born. I was too blind to see it.”

A lump formed in the back of my throat. I parted my lips to tell him that this wasn’t his fault, but no words came out.

“Good night, Lilah.” He trudged down the hallway and up the stairs, leaving me staring at his retreating back.

My pulse boomed in my ears, and my blood burned with the desire for vengeance. I trudged back to the living room, sending a silent plea to Maxwell to ask the right questions during his discussion with the Liddells.

* * *

The next morning, I lay in Mother’s old bed, having spent most of the night glaring at the ceiling. I’d been powerless many times in my life, powerless to solve Mother’s drink and drug habit, powerless against Billy Hancock and his snapping dogs, and powerless against the groping hands of foster fathers who crept into my room at night.

This situation with the Liddels was the first time ever that it had made me feel so overwhelmed. These people had an army of police officers, churchgoers, and sycophants to do their bidding while they sat back and enjoyed the chaos.

Pale sunlight streamed in through the balcony’s net curtains, making it impossible for me to get back to sleep. As I rose from the bed of Mother’s old room, the church woman’s taunts rang in my ear. How many others would come to torment Mr. Burgh until he broke under the pressure?

After showering, I put on my school uniform. Fashion and Textiles was our first lesson today, and I intended to ignore that bullshit they texted about compassionate leave.

I knocked on Mr. Burgh’s door, asking if he wanted breakfast, but he wasn’t in. He also wasn’t downstairs in the living room or further down in the kitchen. When I checked my phone, he’d sent a text, saying he was driving to Glasgow to visit a lawyer.

There was enough time for breakfast at the academy, so I went across the road and stepped through its double doors. The porter who usually sat in the reception area doffed his cap and nodded. Warmth filled my chest. I hoped more people would believe Mr. Burgh over Elizabeth and Lady Liddell. Nodding back, I smiled and wished him a good day.

A few people in the hallway cast me furtive glances, but it was nothing like the time Elizabeth had made me the academy’s whipping girl.

At this time of the morning, the dining room should have been three-quarters full, with latecomers sloping in to grab a slice of toast. There were mostly boys sitting around the tables, and most of them turned but didn’t comment or sneer. After the huge revelation two days ago, I guess the girls were still freaked out and giving each other support at having ingested cocaine.