by Wendy Clarke
She’s seen that symbol in the horoscope column of the magazine they were looking at the other day.
Gemini.
Freya stands back to admire her work. ‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t know.’ There’s something about the look of it that gives her the creeps and she knows what it is. The two vertical lines Freya has drawn remind her of the horrible trunks of the Gemini tree. She glances to her right. Where the long concrete gallery ends, she can just see the top of the hill with its line of trees. It’s where the Gemini tree is waiting. She feels its pull and gives an involuntary shudder.
She takes another swig of the vodka and closes her eyes, allowing the alcohol to warm her. She’s starting to feel different. Looser. More at ease with her surroundings. Everywhere she looks there are words and symbols. They are large, overlapping, fighting for prominence. A sea of colour contrasting with the stark brown metalwork of the target frames, their rusting skeletons never to be used again. Freya’s graffiti stands out against the rest, its paint wet and vivid.
From her pocket, Freya produces a rather battered packet of Marlboro and a yellow, plastic lighter. Lighting a cigarette, she tips back her blonde head and draws the smoke into her lungs. As she exhales, she looks at Kelly through half-closed eyes.
‘I suppose you haven’t smoked either.’
‘Of course I have.’ Kelly holds out her first two fingers and accepts the offered cigarette. Taking a drag of it, she tries to make it look as if it’s something she does every day. Knowing that if she inhales too deeply, she’ll cough.
They sit for a while in silence, but there are things Kelly wants to know. Questions she’s been dying to ask Freya since she came back to them but hasn’t had the courage. Now, the drink is making her brave.
‘That thing you told me. When we were children. Was it true?’
Freya blows out a plume of smoke. ‘What thing?’
Kelly’s scared now that she’ll say the wrong thing. That the fragile bond between them will be broken. She’s no longer sure she wants to be alone with her in this place. Freya’s older now, her actions more impulsive.
‘About your sister.’ She swallows, making herself continue. ‘What you did.’
She waits, not daring to look at Freya. Wanting, yet not wanting, to know. Vainly, she tries to imagine what it must be like to carry around a secret such as hers. One that has hovered like a spectre between them since Freya returned. There but ignored.
The wind picks up, ruffling what’s left of the silver birch leaves behind the target frames and blowing an empty cigarette packet across the concrete where they’re sitting. There are empty cans too and the dead butts of cigarettes. She hadn’t noticed them before.
‘Why would I lie?’ Freya leans in towards her, her eyes narrowed, and Kelly edges away.
Over by the entrance to the range, Ben is investigating one of the empty buildings, his yellow tail thumping against the wall as he finds something illicit to eat. Kelly wishes he would come over to them. Wants to feel his soft fur beneath her fingers.
‘Because…’ She licks her dry lips. ‘Because it’s such a dreadful thing to say.’
Freya doesn’t reply and Kelly wants to ask more: What did you do? Who else knows? But she’s scared of hearing the answer. Instead, she tries another tack.
‘Why did it take so long for you to come back here?’
Flicking her cigarette butt into the depression that houses the machinery, Freya taps her temple. ‘They were sorting out my head.’
Kelly giggles, the vodka having its effect.
‘You think it’s funny? You think this is funny.’ Freya pushes up the sleeve of her coat and Kelly sees the fine trail of silvery scar tissue that criss-crosses it. A silvery snail-trail. She stops laughing.
‘Did you do that?’
‘Who do you think did it? The other do-gooder foster carers? Though I wouldn’t blame them, I can be difficult.’ The words are spoken parrot-fashion as though she’s repeating what someone has told her.
‘No, of course not. It’s just that I can’t imagine…’ She touches a finger to the inside of her wrist, scattering ash across her jeans, and tries to imagine the drag of a sharp object across it. The pain as the skin splits apart. The fine line beading with blood.
‘If you tell anyone, I will do more than that.’
That threat again. That horrible image that Kelly’s been trying to tell herself was just the ravings of a strange and damaged child. The awful rope that hangs from the Gemini tree. Is it even there still?
Freya draws up her knees and leans back against the wall again. Her arms crossed around her body. Her fingers stroking her side.
Mimicking her action, Kelly imagines the feel of the strange shiny skin beneath her top.
‘Were you in a fire? Is that how your sister died?’ She blurts out the words, shocking herself.
Kelly hears it before she sees it, the sound of breaking glass as the vodka bottle hits the rusting iron skeleton in front of them. Shards of glass litter the concrete.
‘I’m going to count to twenty,’ Freya hisses. ‘And if you’re not out of my sight before then, you will regret it forever. Go on. Take your stupid dog and fuck off!’
The broken neck of the bottle is within Freya’s reach. Kelly can see her eyes on it. Throwing down her cigarette, she gets to her feet, swaying slightly from the effects of the alcohol.
‘I didn’t mean anything…’
‘I said, fuck off! One. Two…’
Calling to Ben, Kelly runs back along the concrete walkway, scraping her hand on the brickwork as she throws herself around the corner. Behind her, she can hear Freya counting. She’s reached seven.
The stile is difficult, her legs like jelly, but she makes it over. Then she and Ben are running across the meadow. She’s not sure what she’s afraid of, knows she can outrun Freya, but there’s something she’d seen in the girl’s eyes that scares her.
As she ploughs through the naked stalks of grass, it’s she who’s counting now, not Freya.
Fifteen. Sixteen.
If she sees the thatched roof of her house before she’s reached twenty, everything will be all right. If not…
She turns her head and sees Freya emerging from the rifle range. As she turns back, her foot catches in a bramble and she pitches to the ground.
She’s reached twenty, but the house is still not in sight.
34
Kelly Now
It’s the morning after Maddie’s dinner party. Reaching to the phone that’s on my bedside table, I see it’s nearly six. There’s no sound from either Noah or the girls and I’m grateful. It gives me time to muster my thoughts. Decide what I’m going to do.
Mitch lies beside me on his back, the sheets pushed away from him. He’s snoring loudly and I can smell last night’s wine on his breath. See how his skin, normally so brown from working outdoors, looks sallow in the early morning light.
When he’d eventually come home the previous evening, smelling of wine and cigarettes, I’d pretended to be asleep. Watching him through half-closed eyes as he’d fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, his hand getting stuck in the sleeve where he’d forgotten to undo it, then losing his balance as he’d tried to take off his sock. I was too angry and upset to confront him then but now that it’s morning, I’m surprised to find that all I want to do is lay my head on his chest and forget the evening ever happened.
He stirs and rolls over onto his side, his arm falling across my body. I run my hand down his bicep, noticing how the sun has joined up his freckles into larger clumps. Loving the feel of his skin. I want to hate him for what he did but am unable to. During the long night, I’ve been thinking about the past and how Mitch has saved me from it. My head is still crowded with images of my childhood: the procession of brothers and sisters on the wall of my mother’s stairs, the window looking out onto the wild meadow. Most of all, though, I’ve been thinking about Freya. In death, she’s doing what she’s always don
e. Getting between me and anyone I’ve ever really cared about – even if it’s only in my head.
Mitch grunts and moves his head closer to mine until our foreheads are touching. Leaning in, I kiss his lips and, when his eyes flutter open, I see myself reflected in the pupils.
‘Morning, beautiful,’ he says, stretching.
‘How’s your head, Mitch?’
The sleepy smile falls away as he remembers.
‘Christ, Kelly. I’m sorry.’ He runs a hand down his face, his stubble rasping under his palm. His voice is strained. ‘What an idiot. What a fucking idiot.’
Reaching out, I take his hand, lacing my fingers with his own. ‘It’s not just you, Mitch.’
He brings my hand to his mouth and kisses it. ‘I’ll never forgive myself for letting you walk home alone. How could I have done that? What if something had happened to you?’
‘Nothing did,’ I reply. But it’s me I’m trying to convince, not him.
My eyes stray to the jewellery box on my dressing table. I picture Freya’s locket, lying in its small, velvet compartment, the word sister scratched onto the back, and dread gathers in the pit of my stomach. The things that have been happening recently… are they a threat? Someone is reaching out to me, but I don’t know who.
I want to tell Mitch about the feeling I’d had, how I’d thought someone was behind me last night, but stop myself. He’s beating himself up enough without my help.
‘What happened?’ I ask.
He drops my hand. ‘Nothing happened, Kelly. I swear.’
I’m confused by his answer, then, with a shock, I realise he’s talking about Maddie. It wasn’t what I was asking; it had never occurred to me that they might go further than a bit of harmless flirtation, believing that if anything was going to happen, it would have done so years ago before he met me. But now he’s put the idea into my head.
‘I didn’t mean that, Mitch.’
Mitch looks away and I can see from his face that he’s realised the significance of what he’s said.
‘Nothing happened,’ he says again, quieter this time, and I hear the defensiveness in his voice. ‘There was a time when you would have believed me.’
I shake my head. ‘I never said I didn’t.’
Suddenly, his face changes. Softens. ‘Why are we arguing, Kel? We never used to argue.’
It’s true. We’ve always been careful of each other’s feelings, knowing that it’s what helps us keep our tight-knit family together, but recently we seem to be unravelling.
‘It’s when you drink. It brings out a different side of you and I feel like you forget I’m there. You made a promise when Noah was born to cut down, but it didn’t last long.’
Mitch rolls onto his back. He puffs out his cheeks, then exhales. ‘I’ve tried, but I never seem to be able to stop at just one. I can’t help it, but sometimes the past creeps up on me, and when it does, the easiest thing to do is have a drink. It stops me dwelling on stuff.’
I watch how the vertical lines between his brows deepen. It worries me. ‘What sort of stuff?’
Mitch has always been the strong one. The one who anchors me… even when he’s not in the same room. Or the same house. It’s what I’ve always loved about him. His pragmatism. How he’s ruled by his head, not his heart. The Mitch I see today is one I’ve never seen before. There’s a vulnerability about his face that he usually keeps hidden.
‘What sort of stuff?’ I ask again. My voice quieter this time.
He turns his head to look at me and I can see he’s thinking. Wondering what to say.
‘The children’s homes,’ he continues. ‘The foster carers who didn’t give a damn about me. The things I did that I’m not proud of… just as I’m not proud of what I did last night. I need to tell you, Kelly, or I’m scared I’ll become that boy again.’
His eyes are on mine as he waits for me to say something. I know that he was in and out of homes as a child, but I’ve never asked him for details. It might be because I’m scared of what he’ll tell me. Or maybe, it’s because if he does, I’ll have an insight into what Freya’s life might have been like before she came to stay with us in the thatched house. A knowledge that will fuel my guilt.
But this isn’t about Freya, it’s about me and Mitch. We both managed to pull ourselves out of our lonely childhoods to find each other and, despite not opening up about them, the things that happened when we were children have made us who we are now. It’s also what keeps us close.
I take my husband’s hand, the callouses on his palm rough against my skin, and trace the whorls of dried plaster that are ingrained on his fingertips. ‘You can tell me.’
Mitch captures my fingers and gives them a gentle squeeze. He looks uncomfortable. ‘Are you sure you want to know?’
I’m not, but I nod anyway. ‘Yes.’
‘All right.’ He gives a small, tight smile. ‘I’ve never told anyone this, but I broke into a house once – me and a couple of the older boys from the children’s home.’ He stares into the middle distance as if replaying the scene. ‘They weren’t really friends – just kids I hung around with because there was no one else.’
When he pauses, I know it’s because he needs my encouragement to continue.
‘What happened?’
‘By this time, I’d been in a good few months and had learnt to toughen up. Built an armoured shell around me so people would think I was tough, even though I wasn’t. Inside I was still the same frightened little boy I’d been when I first got there.’
I soften my words with a smile. ‘Go on.’
‘I was the smallest, so they made me climb through the window and let them in. We took stuff – junk really but precious to the person who lived there.’
His voice is heavy with regret, his eyes wandering. The desire to drop the conversation is written across his face.
‘I didn’t know,’ I say, trying not to sound shocked.
Mitch stares at me, his eyes anguished. ‘Christ, Kelly. I can still hear the old woman’s voice calling down the stairs. Who’s there? Who is it?’
He curls his hand into a fist and beats his forehead. Once. Twice. ‘She was someone’s mother. Someone’s grandmother probably. What was I thinking of?’
I try to keep my voice steady. ‘We’ve all done things we’re not proud of. Especially when we were young. You were just a kid.’
He rolls over to face me again. ‘But don’t you see? I could have said no. They were older, tougher, but there would have been ways. I could have told someone at the home, but I didn’t, and I have to live with that… every day of my sodding life. I’ve pushed these memories down so deep that sometimes I can almost convince myself it happened to someone else. When I first moved here, it was Maddie who helped me through the rough times, and last night reminded me of that. I just wanted to have some fun. To grab back some of the old me.’
My heart clenches. ‘The one you were before you got married and had children, you mean.’
Mitch takes my hand again and his eyes travel across my face as if trying to read it better. ‘I didn’t mean it like that, and I know it makes me sound like a whinging loser. You and the kids… you’re everything to me. I just wish that you’d open up more yourself. Talk to me. Maybe then I can understand why you’re so adamant you won’t go to your dad’s funeral.’
‘I’m not going because he means nothing to me.’ But even as I’m saying the words, I feel a tear trickle down my cheek. Once, he meant everything to me.
Mitch pulls me to him. ‘Kelly?’
I can’t speak. Just bury my face in his shoulder.
‘I know you hate the place, but if you go back there, Kel, it might give you some sort of closure. Put an end to all this… this stuff that’s going on in your head. The worries about the baby.’ His eyes are pleading. ‘I never knew my dad, he knocked my mum up, then pissed off, but you knew yours. And, whatever you may think of him now, that stands for something. Will you go to his funeral… for me?’
/> I stare at my husband as if he’s mad, but he brushes my hair from my face, his eyes pleading. ‘Please, Kelly. I don’t expect you to understand it, but I think it’s important to make your peace. Say your goodbyes. You don’t ever have to go there again.’
I want to tell him no. Make him see that it’s the last thing I want to do, but I stop myself. I owe him something for opening up to me. If I go to the funeral, I can sit at the back. I don’t need to talk to my mother; I can slip away without being noticed. And maybe Mitch is right. Maybe if I go, things can go back to how they were before. Maybe it will help get our marriage back on track.
Taking a deep breath, I make myself say the words.
‘All right. I’ll go.’
Mitch takes me in his arms and I feel how solid he is. How safe he makes me feel. We’ll put yesterday’s horrid evening behind us and start again. Mitch loves me and I love him.
That’s all that matters.
35
Kelly Before
‘Anything wrong, Kelly?’ Peter’s standing over her, tapping his pencil against his front teeth.
Kelly finishes tying her running shoe and twists her head to look at him. ‘No. Everything’s fine.’
She doesn’t want to tell him that she has the start of a headache and that she’s shivering despite the layers she’s wearing. If she does, he’ll send her home.
‘That’s good then. It’s just that you’ve been tying that shoelace for a good few minutes and, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were playing for time.’ He smiles and puts his pencil behind his ear. ‘Waiting for someone, are you?’
Feeling herself blush, Kelly stands and zips up her running top. ‘No.’
‘Then you need to get going. There won’t be much daylight left if you hang around here. You’re the last to go and I’d be happier if you caught up with the others. It’s the last evening we’ll be running. Next week, we’ll leave the cross-country until the weekend when it’s lighter.’
