Me Too Avenger by Eve Christie
English | 2019| Mystery/Thriller| ePUB | 3.1 mb
Me Too Avenger was inspired by real events. It provides an accurate, no holds barred insight into the devastating effects of sexual abuse.
Harley Palmer is a 12-year-old protégé at The Royal Ballet Academy. She succumbs to anorexia and is referred to psychiatrist Dr. Richard Carter. Richard Carter is a paedophile with a sick fascination for ballet dancers. Now in her thirties, Harley invites you on a harrowing journey back in time to her childhood. She hopes that you see will explain her recent killing of a paedophile priest; why she’s in a hotel bar waiting for her next victim; and why there’s a cage in her loft – a cage into which she intends to lure a man recently knighted for his services to abused children: Sir Richard Carter.
I’m sitting in The Bar at The Seasons Hotel in central London. On a television behind the bar, a psychiatrist is being interviewed about my handiwork on CNN. My journey from child victim to adult avenger has been protracted and painful. God knows I’ve encountered my fair share of mental health professionals. Without exception, all were clueless. But this shrink on CNN is a cut above, he just said something accurate. He suggested that a person capable of inflicting such horrific injuries must have been a victim once. “Doubtless in childhood,” he said, interlocking his fingers. ‘Such a person,’ he went on, upping his game considerably, ‘would, almost certainly, have had to claw their way back from helpless victim to a place of extreme self-possession … a truly harrowing and dangerous psychological journey.’
Don’t I know it.
What he said next ticked so many boxes I began coughing up the peanut I’d just attempted to swallow. ‘My research strongly suggests that, such a journey would involve the killer discovering a way to lock away their inner demons … their painful memories … in, for want of a better term, a subconscious strongroom – a place from which they could no longer taunt and belittle them.’
‘Sounds like something we’d all like to be able to do at times,’ suggested the interviewer, cheerily.
‘Perhaps. But you’d run the risk of locking away any emotion that might weaken you … I’m talking about all the good stuff.”
“You mean the stuff that prevents us hanging defenceless priests?’
“And what about the music box left on the altar? The ballerina twirling to ‘The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy.’”
“Clearly a warning.”
“To other clergymen?”
“The evidence suggests so. The composition by Tchaikovsky is taken from his Nutcracker Ballet. The inference is disturbingly clear in this instance.” The interviewer shuffles awkwardly on his stool. “You’re referring to the nutcrackers … buried in Father Patrick’s testicles.”
“Yes. It’s as though the killer’s hatred of religion has made him want to castrate it. Stop it spreading. It’s pretty textbook stuff actually.”
It was only a matter of time before the mental health professional reverted to clueless type. I have zero interest in religion. Neither am I devoid of compassion; not where it’s warranted. But at least the psychiatrist was accurate about one thing: the strongroom inside my mind. Built from determination and necessity and rage. Beyond its door my inner demons have merged into a single, massive horned beast. One seriously aggrieved monster that’s been demoted from free-roaming tyrant to the occasional muffled plea for release.