Journal of Rose Ingrid Castle

JOURNAL OF ROSE INGRID CASTLE

It’s been three months since I was remanded in custody, awaiting trial. Now, there’s a sentence I never expected to write. I keep expecting to wake up and find that this was all a bad dream. No such luck. It seems this will be my life. Bookends of horror, surrounding a too-brief, happyish middle.

As a remand prisoner, I have privileges that a sentenced prisoner doesn’t have. For example, I can wear my own clothes rather than the prison garb—though, I’m not sure if this small freedom is a kindness or not, as it makes me stand out to my fellow inmates. I also have more flexibility around visitors—they can come as often as they like. But no one has come. Three months and no visitors. Not Owen. Not even Fern.

All I have, it seems, is my journal.

My prison psychologist suggested it might be enlightening to write in it. To get really honest with myself, he said. I’ve avoided it for a while, but now I figure … why not? It’s not like I have anything else to do.

As far as I’m concerned, Billy got what he deserved. Flirting with me all week, and then taking Fern down to the river and kissing her? It was clear Fern wasn’t his peer. She was vulnerable. Billy was no better than Gary.

Poor Fern didn’t even seem to realize she’d been taken advantage of. She continued to swim around the river with Billy like a fool while they tried to see who could hold their breath the longest.

“Why can’t I beat you?” Billy kept crying.

All right,I thought. If Billy wants to beat you, he can beat you.

It wasn’t hard to orchestrate. “Just let him beat you,” I told Fern. And Fern did exactly as she was told, as usual. I kept time, making sure he was under there long enough to finish him off. It worked like a charm … until Mum showed up.

Fern told her it was all her fault, so of course Mum was quick to concoct a cover-up. But afterward, she wouldn’t let it go. She started saying things to me like “What really happened?” and “Fern would never…” and “Tell me the truth.” She’d become so despondent she had to go to the doctor for sedatives, which made her even more useless than normal. Sixteen years ago, it was easy for a twelve-year-old like me to google how to administer insulin to the hairline, so once Mum was out for the count on Valium, I had no trouble at all. I was hoping she’d die, but a brain injury wasn’t a bad result. I thought that would be the end of it.

But when Mum started talking again, telling Fern not to give me her baby, I realized I’d have to finish the job. I’d kept an eye on her from afar, so I was aware she was making advancements even before Fern told me. Who could blame me for trying to defend myself?

By then I’d already started the journal, ostensibly about my marriage. In truth, that had been a surprise—Owen announcing out of the blue that he was leaving because he felt like he didn’t know who I was. I tried to convince him to stay, but he was adamant, so I wished him good riddance. I didn’t need him anyway. I knew Fern would have a baby for me. Sisters do these kinds of things for each other.

The best thing is … I didn’t even have to ask. All I had to do was leave the Elevit lying around and the rest was history. Fern would do it; I had no doubts about that. She always did what I wanted her to. Of course she did; I’d spent a lifetime making her reliant on me. Planting the idea that she couldn’t be relied on—telling her she forgot to pick up milk or left the oven on. Telling her she was supposed to feed Alfie. That one had really got into her head. The result was that she did everything I asked, single-mindedly and perfectly. It was what made her such a great sister. And she didn’t let me down; it only took a ten-day staycation just outside of Melbourne (a.k.a. London) to get the job done.

Admittedly, I’d panicked when I thought the father of my future child was homeless, but I hadn’t given my sister enough credit. Trust Fern to find the only homeless multimillionaire! The baby would be smart, most likely. And one day, if I allowed her to track down her real dad, he’d owe us child support in the millions! I had it all worked out. It was what made it so painful when Fern decided to turn on me. I don’t know why I was so surprised. One by one, everyone seemed to turn on me. Dad. Mum. Owen. Why not Fern too?

The night before she died, I took my journal to Mum, to show her what would happen if she decided to tell Fern not to give me her baby. It was the first time I’d seen her in ten years. Ten years! It had started out well. Mum had seemed overwhelmed to see me. Her eyes had filled with tears and she’d actually gasped. That had been nice.

This is your chance, I’d thought. Make up for lost time, Mum. Show me that your brain injury knocked some sense into you.

I would have forgiven her. I would have let bygones be bygones.

But you know what she said?

“Don’t take Fern’s baby.”

Ten years. That’s what she said.

Can anyone blame me for what I did?

She didn’t fight me. Why would she? The last time I’d tried to kill her, she’d only ended up with a brain injury. We both knew I wouldn’t make that mistake again.

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I sit back in my chair and read over the journal entry I have just written. This is what they want, obviously. Everyone. The police. Fern and Wally. My prison psychologist. Documented proof that I am to blame for everything. Good luck with that.

I rip out the pages and tear them into confetti. On a whim, I throw the pieces up and let them rain down on me. Poof. I’m not an idiot. I’m not going to provide them with documented proof to collude against me. For what? I did everyone a favor. Billy was a pervert and Mum should have been dead sixteen years ago.

And as for Fern’s baby—I’m the only one who cares enough about her to not want her to be raised by an imbecile. A pair of imbeciles! Time and time again, people have rallied against me. Now I know I have no one. Not even Fern. Fine by me.

I open my diary on a fresh page and poise my prison-issued suicide-proof pen. I have another entry to make. I’ll start with Fern’s recent interest in my insulin dosage and how I administer it. I’ll say how she and Mum hadn’t been getting along and she’d been resenting having to visit her every week. Then I’ll mention how Fern had always loved my bracelet. And how, finally, a few months ago, I’d agreed to lend it to her. What do you think of that, Fern?

I smile. I hope she’s enjoying her time with my baby. Because once this journal is in circulation, she won’t have her long. I’m telling you, Fern might be the librarian … but I’m the one who can spin a tale.