That evening the house is messier than usual. Giles gives it a quick spruce, stuffing dried laundry in a basket, the unsmoothed crumples setting in the still-warm fabric, and stacking the dishwasher so densely that most of the plates and cutlery will need rewashing. Ruth settles Bess in her cot, and when she comes back down, she sneaks a bowl of leftovers outside for the fox while Giles is busy playing Tetris with saucepans in the machine.
The couple power up laptops and tablets, escaping from each other through the digital portal. Giles scrolls down his Twitter and Instagram feeds, clicking on film and music clips for seconds before getting bored and moving on. Ruth tries to guess what he’s listening to from the snippets of audio chaos, but she’s out of touch and too embarrassed to ask what they are.
She edits her day’s photos, collating the good shots, tweaking their colour saturation and framing. The open lid of her laptop faces Giles so he can’t see what she’s doing; she’s ashamed to admit her ambition, worried he’ll find her foolish for thinking she could be good at anything ever again. Each time Ruth checks the clock, what she thought was only seconds passing has been minutes, her evening evaporating in the most pleasurable way. She puts the pictures that didn’t make the grade into another folder, and as she drags the shots across, she accidentally pulls up a file of older photos taken when she’d been unwell. These pictures are full of shadows and flares, exposure anomalies Ruth had attempted to interpret as forms and faces, her mind making patterns out of the loosest connection until she’d convinced herself her sister really was in the background, having seeped out of the hole Ruth had made for her in the wall, to haunt Ruth or punish her, Ruth didn’t care. Looking at these photos now, Ruth again experiences a twinge of empty hope, that even after all these years Tam might walk in the room, fresh-faced, laughing and saying, ‘Had you going there!’
Before Ruth closes the photo folder, she comes across the shots of Sandra’s house taken around the same time, when Ruth had sneaked down the back path with Bess in the buggy and held her phone over the trellis of the high wall to take pictures of where her eyes couldn’t reach. Every aspect of Ruth’s world then had been filtered through a bright paranoia and she’d become obsessed with what went on in Sandra’s house and why she’d never been invited inside. Ruth squints at the image open on her laptop, picking out a shape in Sandra’s lounge she’d once imagined was a figure behind Liam – a mottled, dense texture in the corner of the frame – but it’s obvious now that there’s nothing else in the blurry dark apart from walls and doors and furniture. She slams her computer shut, relieved she’s no longer crazy enough to spy on her friends or give any significance to what she’d been convinced was real.
Giles’s face is lit up by the aura from his laptop and he multi-screens with the TV on in the background, canned laughter plugging the spaces of the couple’s lost conversation. Bess is restless and wakes intermittently, her cry fuzzing the baby monitor. Ruth waits for Giles to take his turn to go up to this tiny being they created with love, who now sets them so far apart – but he remains on the sofa, his shift over for the day, unlike Ruth’s working day that never ends. After an hour of trudging up and down the stairs, Ruth shoves her computer on the coffee table.
‘Think I’ll go to bed,’ she says.
‘OK.’ Giles’s voice is directed towards the TV. He’s added his phone into the mix now, computer still warming his lap while he half eyes the telly.
Ruth stands in front of him, blocking the TV. ‘Night then.’
Giles glances up as an email whooshes to a more engaging part of the world. ‘Yes, goodnight.’ He stretches up to her, thumb still suspended over his phone’s keypad. He’s texting Faye, his office manager, with a line of crying with laughter emojis. Faye’s a single mum with two kids. She juggles work, holidays, and still manages to keep fit. She has that let’s make it fun way of getting the most from her workforce. Her life probably isn’t easy, but Ruth envies her ability to come to the chaos with optimism, with lightness around imperfection. Ruth bends for Giles’s peck on the cheek. No arguments, no passion, held together only by obligation. A text pings, his attention switches back to his phone, and the thread of a TV baking competition follows Ruth up the stairs as she thinks how lucky the contestants are to be losing their shit over mere eggs and flour.
Up in the bedroom, adrenaline motors through Ruth. She’s scared of sleep, of the inertia and helplessness it brings, a hangover from when she’d been ill and had believed some unnamed terror could creep inside her room, breathe itself into her lungs and force her to do things she couldn’t control. She lies under the duvet as a tingling panic crawls into her hands and up her arms. Her chest starts its flutter. Once, she’d googled palpitations and found a website called ‘This Telling Muscle’, an illustration on the home page of a heart torn in two, with the caption: ‘What is the cost of your time unloved?’
Ruth counts backwards and forwards to a hundred, eventually falling into a shallow sleep. Sometime later, Giles comes to bed. The mattress shakes through her half-dream before finally she drops into a more solid sleep. Outside of all of their problems, Giles is still her force field of good, a metaphysical protection even if in reality they are strangers.
Bess wakes in the early hours. Ruth shuffles from under the duvet, toes curling on the cold dark floor, and she remains in this limbo, willing Bess to fall back to sleep. The little girl’s cry grows insistent. Giles nudges his wife and grunts, ‘Can you go? I’ve hardly slept at all.’ Ruth only ever seems to snack on sleep – junk-sleep with little goodness – but there’s no point trying to explain this to someone for whom eight hours are as expected as breathing.
She peels herself from the bed to warm a bottle and feeds Bess in the little girl’s room. Still Bess won’t settle. ‘Poor lamb,’ Ruth whispers, touching gently inside Bess’s mouth. Hard bumps of teeth are trying to push through her gums. The baby clamps down on Ruth’s finger. Ruth would take all the pain for her daughter if she could, but as she can’t and nature’s design is for her baby to cut teeth, wouldn’t it be better for it to be over quickly, even brutally, then they could all get some sleep? With gritty eyes, Ruth paces in and out of the two bedrooms, letting Bess’s cries sound out, but Giles is hardened into his rock of sleep now. She takes her daughter downstairs and makes a cup of strong tea with three sugars. If Ruth can’t rest, the least she owes herself is some comfort. Sweet caffeine buzzes through her, and she puts Bess over her shoulder, relaxing on the sofa and kissing her baby’s head. The soapy milk smell of Bess’s hair is close to edible – if only she’d go to sleep. Ruth longs to put her baby in the pushchair and walk outside to settle her, but it’s 3 a.m. When Giles was less busy with work, the three of them would drive around with a grizzly Bess, and the vibrations of the engine would rock her to sleep. Perhaps tonight the cold air will rouse Ruth enough to guide the car in a straight line. Giles is fast asleep. He need never know.
Outside, the moon is as full as a pot of cream. Bess has a puffer jacket over her pyjamas, and her tiny limbs stick out at right angles from her body. With the baby clipped into the car seat and a blanket over her legs, Ruth guns the engine of their old Saab, bought in freer days, now wholly impractical for family life and planet-saving emissions. They should update to the obligatory four-door saloon, but it’s been easier and cheaper to use public transport most of the time.
Ruth’s not driven for months, and it takes several attempts to pull out of the hemmed-in space. She drives to the junction at the end of the road where a tumbleweed of litter blows across the forecourt of the empty petrol station, paintwork washed yellow by a street light. She takes a right and instantly her spirits lift, away from what she can only describe as a kind of miasma that overhangs the whole street. Three junctions later she’s on the high road, pleasure in the simplicity of moving forward and making her own decisions. The shops, in an endless avenue, are mostly closed apart from a twenty-four-hour off-licence. A glow radiates from the door where fridge shelves are crammed with multicolo
ured bottles of liquid, and a man in a rumpled suit staggers onto the street. Further down she passes Liam’s IT shop. Screen repairs, phone unlocking and laptop services are advertised in the window. The big fluorescent strip is on even though the shop is empty and the wiry guts of the machines he’s working on are hanging out for all to see. Sandra’s always going on about the order she likes at home, so it’s interesting to witness the mayhem when it’s down to Liam to do the tidying.
About fifteen minutes into the drive, Bess falls asleep. Ruth’s eyes are growing heavy too and she steers a U-turn home. When she reaches her road, she cruises past her original parking spot, looking for a bigger space, but there’s nothing, so she loops round at the top, ending up close to the main junction again. Tentatively she mutes the engine. Bess’s seat faces backwards, but her face is framed in the headrest mirror Ruth’s set up there. Ruth holds her breath in the fresh silence. The baby grumbles but remains asleep. Ruth exhales. There’s little chance of carrying Bess the small distance to the house without waking her, and even if Ruth did get her inside, the chance of her remaining asleep after Ruth had peeled off the layers of clothes and put her in the cot is minute.
The caffeine’s wearing off fast. Ruth’s eyelids drift shut. She forces them open, the effort like winding an old clock. Why is it easier to sleep when it’s forbidden? Outside, the hedgerow rustles in the wind. All the animals are asleep, and the rest of the street is in darkness. Ruth locks the doors, shunts her seat back to partway comfy and finally gives her eyes permission to close. The sensation is delicious. There is no plan, no seeing past the next few minutes, only the rest Ruth craves as her mind floats away in the simple bliss of effortless sleep.
She’s underwater, swimming through a deep-green forest of kelp, the long stems swaying in the current like trees in a wind. Fronds lap her face as she passes through them. A shifting form in the darkness ahead, the shape indecipherable, then a shaft of sun illuminates a head of hair. Someone’s moving away from Ruth, swimming fast. Ruth pushes hard through the water as she tries to grab the figure, but whoever it is remains always out of reach. The kelp opens onto a clearing. Light drops through the water into an underwater glade. Ruth floats in the centre, bereft, as the figure she was chasing has disappeared.
Bess’s coughing breaks into Ruth’s dream. She startles, wipes spit from the corner of her mouth, momentarily confused by her surroundings as she runs fingernails across her scalp to drag herself back to the present. The dashboard clock reads 4.06. Inside the car the temperature has dropped. Ruth lightly touches the cheek of her still-sleeping baby. Bess’s skin is pale with cold, fingers chilled. Ruth warms the little hands in her own before sending a resigned huff to the ceiling – the sleep she was having was the best for days. She leans across the passenger seat to gather her bag and keys, and as she does so, a Transit van turns into the street then onto the forecourt of the petrol station. Headlights pool on the ground as the vehicle comes to a standstill. Ruth’s a good distance away, but the clouds now covering the full moon act like a lantern, casting a sulphuric glow over the scene. A man jumps from the passenger side of the van to open up the back. Another man exits the driver’s side. It’s hard to see exactly what’s happening, part of the action being hidden behind the van, but between the two men, they use what look like a couple of rods to lift a manhole cover on the forecourt.
Ruth’s suspended across the gear stick, the stillness of the night so complete that any movement could ripple outwards and notify the men of her presence. They peer into the manhole and one of them crouches on his haunches. A shadow rises. Out of the ground. A figure. Whatever, whoever, drags themselves from the hole and up onto the tarmac. Seconds later another figure follows, then another – and another. One by one they clamber out and right themselves to standing. Four in total. Ruth’s jaw shakes as she squints into the darkness. By their size and gait, she judges they are women. One carries a bag, another holds a bundle to her chest, and they stumble towards the windowless Transit. A step has been lowered halfway for easier access, but still the entrance is high. The women grip the sides of the vehicle to haul themselves inside as one of the drivers leans on the lamppost, cigarette smoke drifting up into the street light. A woman misses her footing, falls to her hands and knees directly in front of the smoking man. He remains stationary, like he’s cut out of the night, smoke still billowing upwards. She picks herself up and disappears inside the van.
Ruth’s hand searches blindly in her bag for her phone. She finds it, grabs it, powers it up and holds the camera app to the window. She presses the shutter. The flash is a lightning strike in the darkness. ‘Shit.’ Her teeth chatter. One of the men stares in her direction as the other hassles the last person into the van. The driver and his assistant hurriedly replace the manhole cover, fold up the step and shut the doors before driving away. The engine’s burr recedes into the night.
Ruth stares into the space left behind by the van. Only Bess waking jolts her into action. She fumbles with the door handle, dropping her keys on the pavement, quickly saving them before they fall down a drain. Her head bumps the door frame as she wrestles with the buckle to release Bess from her seat as all the while her baby’s cry builds. With Bess held close, Ruth hurries up the street, scared she’ll wake the neighbours or, worse still, Giles. She scans the houses. All the curtains are drawn, no lights have been switched on. She turns into her garden and glimpses the upstairs window of her next-door neighbour’s house across the alley. The nets swing in a breeze, a window open perhaps, even in this chill. Ruth puts her keys in the front door, hands bumbling as each scrape and twist of metal is amplified in the silent night. The door opens. She trips into the kitchen.
Standing in the centre of the room is Giles in his dressing gown, hair spiky with sleep. ‘Jesus, Ruth! Where’ve you been?’
‘I . . . I just went out. I couldn’t settle Bess.’
‘You’ve been gone ages. I called you but it went straight to answerphone.’
‘My phone was on silent. I think.’ She scrabbles in her bag, remembering she’d switched it to airplane mode as she does every night when she goes to bed. ‘I’m really sorry.’
‘You totally freaked me out. I was so worried, I didn’t know what to do.’ His eyes are watery, face pale. ‘I thought . . . I mean, I didn’t know what to think.’ He swallows the worst of his sob and presses fingers to closed eyes to push back the tears.
Bess is crying and Ruth puts the baby over her shoulder, attempting but not managing to soothe her. ‘I’d been up for ages. I was only trying to get Bess to sleep, so I went for a drive. She was really upset.’
‘There has to be a better reason for leaving the house in the middle of the night. If there’s a problem with Bess, you need to wake me.’
‘I tried.’
‘Well, not bloody hard enough!’ His shout cuts across Bess’s tears and the little girl silences momentarily. Giles palms his face, wiping the sleep away. ‘I’m exhausted from working as well as having to help with Bess, so shake me if you need to, I don’t care, but you mustn’t leave without telling me. My mind goes to all sorts of places.’ He relaxes his shoulders and takes a breath before putting a hand out to Ruth. ‘Have you been driving around this whole time?’
‘I was parked up, just outside. I finally got Bess to sleep and I didn’t want to wake her by bringing her in. I was just so tired, I fell asleep too.’
‘Sleeping in the car? At four in the morning?’
‘I only dozed for a few minutes. I mean, I was alert the whole time so you don’t need to worry.’ She steps towards him as he moves back, concern clouding his face. She continues, hoping to blindside him with a more urgent issue. ‘I saw something, it was really strange. There was . . .’ She can’t find the right words, suddenly aware of how it’s going to sound.
‘What?’ Ruth has to lean in to hear Giles’s whisper. ‘What did you see?’
She stammers. ‘At the bottom of the road, there were some people.’
&
nbsp; ‘People? At this time of night? Doing what?’
‘Look, I know this sounds nuts, but this van drove onto the forecourt of the garage and some people climbed out of a manhole and into the back of a Transit.’
‘Christ, Ruth!’ Giles flings up his hands before placing them on his hips. ‘Have you been taking your pills?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Really?’ He leans his hip on the worktop, slumping a little. ‘People under the ground, that’s a new one. Shall we add that to the mind-control drugs in the contrails of planes and dirty electricity radiating from the wiring inside the walls?’
‘It’s not like that. Really. I saw it. Take a look for yourself, I’ve got a picture.’ She holds up her phone and scrolls through to the last shot. ‘Here.’
On the screen is a flare of white, the edges shaded by the outline of the windscreen. No detail in the photo, only the blinding glare of the flash as it bounced off the glass.
Giles crosses his arms. He peers at the floor and Ruth has to strain to hear him. ‘I thought you were doing so well. I just don’t know how to help you get better any more.’
‘This is different, Giles.’
‘No, Ruth, it isn’t. It’s just more of the same, more of you seeing things that aren’t there, believing things that aren’t true. I’ve seen your photos before, remember? You used to show me them when you were ill. You said there were people in the house, in the wall, but there was never anyone or anything but shadows.’
Ruth shuts her eyes, her shame immense and all her own fault. Suspicion nips at her ankles, its constancy a reality she can never outrun. Why, she thinks, couldn’t she just have been a normal mother and wife? She summons up the image of the forecourt with the figures climbing out of the manhole and already the scene appears distant, like the retelling of a story she once overheard. If the photo had worked, it would prove the existence, or not, of what she saw. To herself as well as to Giles.
The Hidden Girls Page 7
