Dr Mahmood gave a slight smile. ‘I’m not sure now would be a good time to commence your treatment, Corrine. Today has already been difficult for you and you have achieved a lot by coming to me. Why don’t we work out a course of treatment – which, by the way, will be bi-weekly for the first few weeks. Then we can start the hypnosis sessions next time.’
But Corrine was adamant. ‘No. I came here to start to get answers and I want to try now. Today.’
Dr Mahmood studied Corrine’s face while Corrine did her best to remain composed under the other woman’s scrutiny. Finally, with a smile, the psychiatrist shook her head. ‘Now I understand where your son gets his stubbornness from. If you agree to this, Corrine, you must commit to coming back in tomorrow. I want to follow up on your hypnosis session with a counselling session which will allow you to process any revelations after you’ve had a chance to absorb them and possibly share them with your husband. That’s mandatory.’
Corrine nodded. ‘Yes, I agree. Can we start…’
****
Between them, Dr Mahmood and Corrine had agreed to focus on the trigger incident. The incident that led to her first bout of muteness and after some light breathing and muscle relaxing exercises, Corrine was ready.
‘You’re safe, Corrine. You can come out of this any time you want to. You are in control. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’ Soothed by Dr Mahmood’s rhythmic tones, Corrine, now lying on the recliner chair, her limbs light, her head clear, Corrine felt a little dissociated from her body. But it felt good. It was as if the weight that she carried with her always had been lifted.
‘OK, then, I want you to count back from ten and when you do, you will be in the bedroom with your younger brother. I want you to tell me everything you saw, heard and felt that day … Remember you can leave that room whenever you want.’
Scotland, 1972
‘…four, three, two, one … I’m with Jamie. We’re playing, waiting for Mummy to come back. Hope it’s soon. Jamie is hungry, but he drank the last of the milk and there’s nothing left now. He keeps wanting to take the caliper off his leg, but I tell him no and he starts to cry. ‘Oh, Jamie, don’t cry. You don’t have to cry.’
I pull him onto my knee and sing Lavender’s blue dilly dilly. It’s his favourite. He loves the bit about ‘When I am king, dilly dilly, you shall be queen’. We’re laughing when I hear the door open. I put my fingers to my lips, telling him not to make a sound. Got to find out how bad she is. She’s talking to herself yelling and cursing. ‘Fucking auld bitch. I’ll kill her. Who the hell is she to say I cannae have a bottle of cider on my tab … bitch.’
At her words my stomach gurgles. If she’s no money for cider there’ll be no money for food for us. Our bellies will be hungry for a while longer. I hate her. Really hate her. She’ll come to find us soon. She’ll need someone to take her anger out on, so I send Jamie under the bed and tell him to stay quiet.
She slams open the bedroom door, mascara all over her face, her hair wild, like a monster’s. She’s wobbling and her eyes look like she can’t see me at first. Then she stumbles towards me. I smell the booze and fags and sweat before she’s halfway across the room. She grabs for me – misses and then grabs again. She pulls me right up to her face, I want to be sick, but I know I can’t. Her eyes go all googly as she looks at me, then her mouth opens, and her yellow teeth are right in front of me.
‘Everything’s your fault, Coco. You little darkie bitch. Why couldn’t you have been white? You’re ugly.’
She’s spitting all over my face, her nose almost touching mine. ‘You’re an ugly little nig nog gollywog.’
She starts to shake me and my teeth rattle in my mouth. I think my head’s going to fall off, but still she keeps going, singing that song;
Coco the nig nog gollywog,
Ugly little dog.
Coco nig nog Gollywog,
Flush you down the bog.
I know what’s coming next as she starts to drag me from the room. She’s done it before – but this time she might forget to pull me back out of the toilet. This time I’m going to die. Then Jamie’s there pulling at her, his little leg dragging behind, but he won’t let go. We’re in the toilet now and she’s still singing it.
Coco the nig nog gollywog,
Ugly little dog.
Coco nig nog Gollywog,
Flush you down the bog.
Then, Jamie does it. He bites her arm and she yells at him, but she lets me go and I fall onto the floor in a heap just outside the door, but she’s whipped Jamie into her hands and she’s shaking him. His little eyes are wide and he’s crying and crying and crying and then she throws him down and his head hits the toilet seat and there’s blood and he’s not crying.
She turns to me screeching. ‘Look what you made me do … this is your fault Coco. Everything’s your fault…’
‘Come back, Corrine, come back. You’re safe. You’re here. Come back. That’s it, come back.’
The voice is familiar, it’s kind, it’s not calling me Coco. I came back into the room and I’m facing Dr Mahmood. Tears are streaming down my face, and then what I’ve just remembered hits me. I get to my feet, wobbling like my mum in that horrid memory and
