CHAPTER ONE: Baby Al

I killed a dead man. That’s why I’m in prison.

The dead man was my brother, Al. He was born six years after me, and I always hated him, even when he was a baby. Before he was born, my parents loved me. My father carried me on his back, and took me swimming. My mother bought me lots of dolls, and we played with them together. I have seen the photos. My parents took a lot of photos of me, in my first six years. I still have the photos, in a book.

But then Al was born. I have a photo of him, too, as a baby in the hospital, here in Los Angeles. My mother is holding him, and looking at him with a big smile on her face. My father has his arm round my mother, and he is smiling at baby Al, too. Al is holding his daddy’s finger.

And me? Where am I in this picture? I am standing by myself, beside the bed, watching them. There is a strange smile on my face. I think. I am happy, but I’m not sure. And no one is looking at me.

It was always like that, after Al was born. He was a boy, and that was important to my parents – and very important to my Dad. Most of the photos in the book are of Al. Al eating baby food, Al learning to walk, Al on my Dad’s back, Al playing football, Al swimming, Al running, Al having a big party with his friends.

A hundred photos of Al, and five or ten of me.

Of course, my parents played with me sometimes, took me swimming, bought me clothes. But they weren’t interested in me. Before Al was born, they spent a lot of time with me. After he was born, they didn’t.

Often, I played hospitals with my dolls. I played that the dolls were sick, and I was a nurse. When the dolls had bad stomachs, I gave them medicine to take. Sometimes I pulled their arms and legs off and put tomatoes on them, to look like blood. And sometimes I gave them drugs. That was the best of all. My mother gave me an old syringe, and I put water in it and pushed it into the dolls. Soon the dolls were full of holes.

‘That’s a good game for a little girl,’ my mother said. But she didn’t understand. Because in my game, all the dolls were boys, like Al. And they never got better. They were sick for a very long time, and then they died. I put them in a hole in the ground, in the garden.

When I was ten, my mother died. My father was unhappy, and began to drink a lot. Sometimes he came home with strange women, but he didn’t marry any of them. I think the women didn’t like him, because he drank so much. When he wasn’t drunk, he played with Al. So I had more time alone.

I was a good girl at school, and I was beautiful too, so I had a lot of boyfriends. My father hated them. ‘You stay away from those boys, Ellen!’ he shouted. ‘It’s not right. I don’t want them in my house!’

‘Why not, Dad?’ I asked. ‘You bring your women here, don’t you? Why can’t I bring my boyfriends?’

‘Shut up, girl!’ he shouted. He was very angry. Sometimes he hit me, and once I had to go to the hospital.

So what did Al do, you ask? Him? Nothing. He just watched, and laughed, and played football with Dad.

Then I met John. He was twenty-two years old, and big and strong like Arnold Schwarzenegger. All the girls thought he was wonderful. One day he asked me to go to a party with him – me! I was very excited, so I went home, and put on my best clothes and shortest skirt, to look nice for him. Then I heard John’s motorbike and went downstairs. Dad was at the door.

‘Where are you going?’ he asked.

‘Out,’ I smiled at him. ‘With my new boyfriend.’

‘Oh no, you’re not!’ he said. ‘Not in that skirt. You’re only eighteen, Ellen. I know what boys want.’

‘I don’t care,’ I said. I pushed past him, but he pulled my arm. I screamed, and he hit my face.

Then John came. He was wonderful! He took Dad’s arms, held them by his side, and pushed him slowly back into the house. Dad couldn’t do anything! John sat him down in a chair, then walked out and put his arms round me. Right there, in front of the house!

Then we rode away on his motorbike.