“And did it make you feel better?”
“For a bit.”
Helen let that settle, then:
“Can you tell me why you did it? Was it something your mother did? Your father?”
“My dad does nothing. Never has.”
“But you still love him?”
“Maybe,” she replied, shrugging once more. “Do you love yours?”
It was such an unexpected response that for a moment Helen was speechless. How much did Naomie know about her past? It had all been in the press, of course, but that was a few years back and Naomie didn’t look like much of a reader. On the other hand, the Internet is a repository of everyone’s misdemeanors and Helen suspected that there was more going on with Naomie than people expected—perhaps she was seeing some of that now. “No, I don’t think I do. But perhaps you already know that.”
Naomie looked briefly at Helen, then looked away. Sanderson shot a glance at Helen—she seemed keen to step in—but Helen shook her head gently. She wanted to stay on this.
“How did you feel when your dad went AWOL for long periods?”
“What do you think?”
“Did you ever talk to him about it? Ask him to stay?”
“He wasn’t interested in talking to me. To him, I was just a stupid, fat kid.”
“How did your mum react when he moved on?”
“She used to follow him at first. Have it out with the other women. Then he put a stop to that.”
“What then?”
“You’ve seen the state of me—take a guess.”
“She beat you?”
“After she’d had a drink.”
“How many times has she beaten you over the years?”
Helen knew this would be manna from heaven for Naomie’s defense team, if and when this came to trial, but this was about more than the mechanics of justice now. Helen wanted to get to the truth.
“Twenty, thirty, I don’t know. But that wasn’t the worst of it. After she’d finished, she just ignored me, wouldn’t say two words to me.”
“So who did you talk to?”
Naomie shrugged again, her defiant pose suddenly deserting her.
“Did you talk to school friends, teachers, neighbors?”
“I left school when I was thirteen, didn’t I? And as for the neighbors, have you seen the state of our place?”
Helen nodded but said nothing. She had seen the graffiti that had nearly been scrubbed clean from the Jackson family home. The sentiments weren’t pleasant and most of them were directed at the overweight young woman. Many of them had nasty racial overtones.
“And is that why you self-harm?”
Naomie said nothing, picking now at the scar on her hand. Helen noted that her stronger, right hand remained clear of injury, presumably because she needed it to carry out her attacks.
“Naomie, I’ve already said that I’m not judging you. I just want to understand. Why do you hurt yourself?”
