Too Close

by Natalie Daniels

  ‘The other woman is a stranger, possibly there as a stooge to distract from Ness and Karl’s adultery, to stop the table feeling too coupley. But there they all are, having a smashing time, getting on famously, forging new friendships now that the old regime had been ousted, drinking organic wine and munching on their thrice-baked arse-beans or whatever they’re eating, the remnants of which litter the table … this isn’t right … this isn’t right …’

  Connie began to drum her fist into her palm and started mumbling something incoherently and Emma leant towards her. ‘Just say what you see, Connie …’

  Connie nodded and angled her head upwards as if she were looking up to the window above the kitchen.

  ‘Upstairs, little people are still running all over the place – they’re probably playing sardines or water-bombs. I even find myself thinking about the mess I’ll have to clear up later on … You see, what I can’t get my head around is how everything is exactly how it always is except I’m not there. I am superfluous. I have been replaced. I am just a ghost on the outside looking in. And, ghost-like, I shrink into the wet bushes at the side of the window to crouch and watch proceedings. I can’t be more than twelve inches from the sink, not six feet from the table. In a way I am with them. I watch Karl get up, a gag on his lips, more laughter. I see the way his hand touches Ness’s back as he goes past her – it might have looked casual to any observer but I see the way her body responds, their own intimate language, the validation she gives him. Is that all we’re looking for in a lover? I hate him with his simple needs and his treacherous hands. He goes to the fridge and takes out another bottle of wine. I can see directly inside the fridge. It’s full. I see things I would never have bought: cans of Coke, pork pies, cheap sausages, expensive wine. I look for signs of me in there but there aren’t any. How has all trace of me disappeared so quickly? Then he shuts the fridge door and a school form wafts up into the air, revealing a photograph of me underneath: smiling, safe, sane. But the visit to the Horniman Museum, or wherever, flaps over my face like a veil.

  ‘I sit there for hours, scissors in hand, the point digging into my palm every time I see some intimacy between them. I don’t have a plan. I just want to be home. I get up to see better when Josh and Evie come back to the house, under the guise of having bought some lollies for the younger kids, but in reality they were fresh from the sheets; I can see their wonder, the wholly self-consuming appetite of first love. Annie, Polly and the younger kids come thundering down the stairs for lollies. I press my nose to the pane to see my little love. If anyone looks this way they might see the strange sight that is me, but no one does.

  ‘Annie is in her giraffe suit that she’s starting to outgrow; the legs come up to her knees. She’s cut herself a fringe and it rises jauntily across her forehead. No one has tidied it up. Josh hands the lollies out and the Stevenson brats squabble about flavours – so much sugar deprivation has made them whiny and Andrea Stevenson duly reprimands them. Annie is on her knees following Karl about the kitchen, hands in a prayer position, and Polly is doing the same to Ness. I know what they are up to: begging for a sleepover. And a pathetic part of me feels even more forgotten. Negotiations will have to begin. I suppose it must be a Saturday. Handsome Josh will have a match tomorrow. There he is, so grown up, so satiated; he lifts Annie up from the floor and holds her under his arm like a handbag and starts play-fighting with her on the sofa. My eyes well up. I yearn for them, just to hold them, to touch them. Children need their mother. Or do they? Or is it just me who needs them? Didn’t Karl say that they were scared of me? I think the Devil told me that too.

  ‘I retreat into the shadows as Ness moves to the sink, my sink, to commence the mountain of washing-up. Andrea Stevenson joins her. The men do fuck all. My loyalty wavers. I move to the side a little to see better, to get closer to her, sure that the fairy lights within make it impossible for her to see me. I could tap on the glass now, give her a fright. As she turns her head to reach for a dirty pan, I notice that she has a few red burn marks on her neck and I feel good about that, the fact that she too is scarred. I hate her. I hate him. I hate the way they’re all coping so well without me. I miss them all.

  ‘I wait. I am happy to wait all night. I follow their movements. I stand at the back door looking in when the Stevensons leave – no doubt with hopes and promises of future good times together. The other woman goes with them and I can’t see which kids are left behind but I can hear the boiler going on upstairs; someone is running a bath. Karl and Ness come back through to the kitchen, pausing right near me, his hand resting on her back, turning her around; they kiss each other hungrily as if they’ve been starved, wishing those Stevensons had gone hours ago. I see their passion. I watch as she pushes her body into his, moulding into his shape. They look wrong together, he’s far too tall for her. She’s too beautiful. I am mesmerized as they devour each other’s faces like slimy feasting sea creatures.

  ‘I see the way they leap apart when they hear footsteps upstairs, like thieves caught in the act. So they do feel guilt. They do feel what they are doing is wrong. Aha! They do have shame.

  ‘I move back to the window to watch them tidy up; I observe the way she leans over to blow out the candles, my candles; the way he creeps up and down the stairs checking on the kids. I see her go over to her coat to get out her cigarettes and I move quickly then; she’s coming outside. I spin the scissors in my fingers like I’m ready for the shoot-out and slip back into the bushes behind the bench as she unlocks the back door. She stands there to light up, like she has done a hundred times before. She’s humming. She’s happy. She probably never gives the monster in the psychiatric unit a thought. She steps out on to the gravel and wanders towards me, looking up into the night where the lights from a plane flicker in the foggy orange London sky. She stops a couple of feet in front of me and sits on the bench, back to me, and smokes with the nonchalance of a film star. She is true class, even alone. She is so close I can smell her; I can see the curls of hair at the back of her neck. I miss her, I want to reach out and touch her. Or ram the scissors into the softness of that skin.

  ‘I do neither. She goes back inside and I know she is going to sleep in my bed.

  ‘I wait for hours. I wait until the house is dark, all lights turned off, all doors locked, all boilers stopped, all embers dying. Even the distant traffic has ceased; London is at last asleep. Then I open the shed door and find the back door key in the jar and let myself into my own house. I’m not thinking anything. I just want to be in my own home and pretend for a moment that nothing has changed.

  ‘I leave Lin’s slippers outside the back door, carefully open it and step over the squeaky floorboard. I shut the door behind me and listen to the stillness of the house. I go through the kitchen, down towards the sitting room, and step inside. Ah! There is the Christmas tree, of course. It’s horribly decorated, naff silver baubles and coloured lights. The kids have been allowed to do it – always fatal. I stand in front of the fire and prod the embers with the poker; they glow an orange syrupy smile at me, welcoming me back. There are some cards on the mantelpiece; I’ve missed someone’s birthday: Karl’s. I read all the cards including one from Ness: Happy birthday you wonderful man. I John Wayne flip the scissors and cut it into small pieces over the embers and watch as the flames light up the room, making shadows on the wall. Briefly I think I see him there, the Devil watching me.

  ‘I leave the sitting room and stand in the hall. The counter is littered with various unopened letters, car keys, shin pads, the usual stuff. I look up the stairs towards the bedrooms. Everything is silent. I move towards the staircase and cautiously start to climb it, placing my feet with precision; every inch of this house is in my body’s recall, every creak is known from endless nights spent crawling out of the kids’ rooms, praying for sleep. I stand on the landing, looking left and right: all doors are shut. I’m home at last. I feel inexplicably tired.

  ‘I push open my bedroom door. And sure enough, t
here they are, there she is, sleeping in my great big bed, on my side, in my room, by my husband. Karl is on his side, sound asleep, facing her, his hand reaching out towards her. I walk round to where she’s lying and I look down at her: she’s on her back, lips parted, not a care in the world, her long frizzy hair splayed across my pillow, one breast exposed, the duvet pulled up to her ribcage. I can see the rise and fall of her chest, the exact place where her heart pumps beneath the skin.

  ‘Her iPhone is lying beside her. I pick it up and look at the screen. She has set the timer for two hours’ time, presumably so she can sneak out of the house and pretend to be a decent human being to her children. I turn the phone off.

  ‘I sit down on the end of the bed for a while to think. I wonder about getting into the bed with them; us all being together again. But it’s never going to work. So instead I pull up my sleeve and slice my wrist open.

  ‘I feel no pain. The blood oozes out in a satisfying way, black in the dimness of the room. As it spills on to the white duvet, I cut again. The blood pours out this time, down my arm, down my hand, on to the bed and on to the carpet. But still I feel absolutely nothing.

  ‘And then it occurs to me that perhaps I am a ghost, I am already dead. That is why no one saw me – not Josh, not Evie, not anyone on the bus, in the street. This is some other reality in the future that I have stepped into. I keep hacking at my wrist as if to prove it. Nothing! I can feel no pain at all because I am already dead. What a relief! What a marvellous relief! I cannot die again. The Devil didn’t get me! I tricked the Devil! I just keep slicing and the blood gushes out and I keep being a ghost.

  ‘I have to tell the children that I am safe, I am in heaven. Josh and Annie, my lovely children. I quickly leave the room and race up to Josh’s room, no longer caring about squeaking floorboards; I am made of light. I am weightless. I push open his door. It smells bad – of socks and teenager. But he isn’t there. Does he openly sleep with Evie? Was I never to be consulted again in decisions of this nature? Of course not, I was dead! I made my way back down the stairs and pushed open Annie’s door.

  ‘Polly and Annie are both in the lower bunk, sound asleep. Annie is taking up all the room, sleeping with her arms and legs akimbo like a starfish, still in her giraffe suit, poor Poll squashed up against the wall. I put the bloodied scissors down beside the bed and I bend down and kiss her warm cheek. I bury my face in her sticky neck. She doesn’t even stir.

  ‘“My darling,” I whisper. It’s like coming home. My love for her is all-consuming. “I’m dead, I’m in heaven.”

  ‘And it feels so good and so safe. I must protect her. I must keep her from the Devil. I know then, as I breathe her in, what I have to do. I can save her now. I have to save her. Poor Annie, she has my genes, there is no hope for her, far better that she come with me now, where I can protect her and shelter her from him, because he’ll want her too, to get his revenge on me. It’s too late to save Josh, he is a man now, but Annie, she needs me.

  ‘“Come with me, my little treasure,” I whisper, scooping up her sleeping body into my arms. She barely stirs; she’s so used to being carried in and out of various houses to and from cars and beds. She wraps her arms tightly around me and for a moment she knows it’s me; she nestles her nose into my skin and breathes a puppy-dog sigh. I stand there feeling the love between us, her face against my neck. She is all mine.

  ‘I take her down the stairs and pick up Karl’s keys from the counter. I open the front door and carry her out into the cool night air. She shifts in my arms but the giraffe suit is furry; she isn’t cold. I carry her down the steps. The night is dead. I look around for the car, our beaten-up old RAV4. I see it across the street and go towards it. I open the door and lay Annie down on the back seat, covering her with the old oily blanket from the boot. She stirs a little and asks me, “Mummy? Where are we going?” I tell her we’re going on a drive. “Can Polly come? Get Polly, Mummy.” “No,” I say. And then I think Polly? Why not? Yes, perhaps she’s right. Polly must be saved too – she’s already tainted by her proximity to us. Her suffering will be great; the Devil will take her too. If there were more children in the house I would take them all.

  ‘So I go back for Polly, following the dark splashes of blood, a Hansel and Gretel trail across the road, up the steps, into the house, along the hall and up the stairs. Polly is sound asleep and rolls into my arms without a fuss, vaguely waking for a moment, seemingly unsurprised to see me. “Where are we going?” she asks. I take her hand. She brings the duvet with her. Annie is sound asleep now on the back seat. Polly climbs in and sleepily leans against Annie. I cover them with the duvet.

  ‘I close the back door and get in the driver’s seat. I can see Polly’s eyes closing. For a moment I sit quite still before turning on the engine. I look down at my flesh hanging open on my wrist, pull the seat forward and turn the keys. The radio comes on. How perfect: a choir of angels begin to sing. It’s beautiful; I’ve no idea what it is. Hundreds of voices tearing at the heart, welcoming us home, letting the Devil know he can’t get us now – because I’m taking them to heaven with me. I smile, peaceful in my certitude of what has to be done.

  ‘Polly isn’t properly asleep; she keeps sitting up to listen to the angels singing, so I drive around the neighbourhood until she lies back down. I begin to notice all the flowers people have laid out for us: wreaths on doors, decorated lampposts, twinkling lights. When I am sure that they are both sound asleep I turn left near the bridge and drive down towards the river. I can see that the tide is high. I stop the car at the top of the road. I reach back to take Annie’s little black-nailed hand. I squeeze it tightly: “Here we go, my darlings, Granny will be waiting for us.” I wrap the seat belt around my neck once, just to be sure the Devil can’t drag me out. I take a deep breath. Then I put my foot down on the pedal and rev the engine, feeling the wheels spin on the tarmac. We lurch forward and begin to speed towards the edge of the walkway, my foot pressed to the ground. And the next thing I know the wheels are in the air, we are flying. Then the bullet-hard thud as we hit the water. We float for a moment. The temperature drops acutely and the river spins the car around and I can see the shore, the twinkling lights of life. The water begins to swallow us up, the car tilts on to its side and the singing angels stop their singing … no … no …’

  Emma had not moved a muscle during the telling of this. Connie had been speaking quietly, unemotionally, her eyes closed throughout. Now she opened them wide and looked at Emma with a terror that Emma knew and recognized.

  ‘They’ve woken up! They’ve woken up!’ she cried. ‘They’re screaming!’

  Emma reached out to hold Connie’s arms.

  But Connie wasn’t aware of Emma; she could only hear their screaming. The blood was draining from her face, her body had gone rigid, the muscles in her scarred neck stood out; she was about to fit.

  Emma got down on her knees and grabbed her firmly. ‘Listen to me! Annie’s OK. Both of them! They’re OK! They’re alive!’

  But Connie could not hear her. ‘Get them out! Do something!’ She was screaming now, her whole body rigid as a plank of wood. ‘Help us!’ Then she let out a wail so inhuman, so visceral, so horribly private, that a chill went through Emma. She had heard that sound before; out of her own mouth a long time ago.

  ‘Connie!’ she cried, and slapped her hard across the face, and something in Connie shifted.

  ‘They’re out, Connie! Two men were returning from night shift at the cement factory … They saw your car go into the water, the force of the current dragging it. They went in, Connie. They got you all out. Annie’s OK. She’s OK. Polly’s OK …’

  Connie stared at Emma, her lips trembling, tears on her cheeks. ‘Why did they save me?’ she cried. ‘They shouldn’t have saved me.’

  Chapter 20

  I don’t seem to be coping so well since she left. I don’t know why she left. She was my link, my lifeline. And now she’s gone. I still talk to her. Dr Robinson, I say
, that’s a nice dress you’re wearing. What did Si Hubby make for dinner last night? Or if I’m feeling cheeky, like in the old times, I’ll say, Did Si Hubby get lucky last night, Dr R? But she doesn’t hear me because she’s only in my head, I know that. But I imagine the way her hair will slip forward and how she’ll blush and look a bit flustered. Or she’ll smile and how great that will make me feel. But I didn’t make her smile in the end. No, she gave up on me; I did something too awful to forgive. I have lost everyone now.

  I think Karl has visited me once or twice. I don’t remember seeing him but I have seen a Twix by my bedside and a crap magazine. I do not eat it and I do not read them. I do not wish or deserve to be alive any more, yet still my body carries on. And I wonder why; I don’t use it, I don’t feed it and I don’t want it. All it does is lie on the bed; I have a tube that feeds me, pumping in the nourishment, and another one that pumps out the waste. Sometimes people turn me this way or that or wash me and I suppose time passes, but I have lost all concept of that because time is perspective and too much perspective is a terrible thing. Perhaps the Devil got me in the end and I am in hell and hell is here in this room.

  The ceiling has fifty-seven panels on it; the paint is peeling off two of them. Is this hell, Dr Robinson? Please tell me. Are you at home, Dr R, with Si Hubby, Netflix and chilling? Do you ever give me a thought? I miss you and your endless silly questions. I imagine her getting on with her busy professional life, visiting other patients, sitting there with her notepad upside down, vomiting in their toilets, and I’m jealous. I thought we had something. I look back to then as the good old days; sometimes I go through every session we had in my head, everything she said, all the secrets she told me. I imagine I am her, pushing that pushchair, hungover with tiredness, that screaming child … I never offered her comfort. I wish I had. Oh so many things I wish I had done differently.