Ellie stood, and on soft feet felt her way along the beach, navigating between the vertical rocks and jagged outcrop where rock pools lay submerged. Occasionally she stumbled over the uneven sand, its surface made up of broken shells and pumice, skeletons of crabs and weed. She bent down and sifted a handful through her fingers, placing the larger and more intact specimens of pebbles and shells into her bags, letting the more worn and damaged remnants remain. There were smooth pieces of glass too, their edges rounded by the sea. Ellie placed those into the bag too.
‘For me,’ she whispered. Ellie navigated the beach in this fashion until her neck felt sore and her legs were stiff from crouching.
She lay back, not caring that the damp sand clung to her clothes. The aches that digging had created were forgotten as she raised her eyes to the sky. She had never known that the sky could hold so many stars, that the night was so full, so governed by light. With little slivers of breath that ghosted like mist at regular intervals, Ellie burrowed a little way into the sand, made a small mound for a pillow, and stayed this way for the rest of the night, ignoring the cold spray that dampened and tightened her skin. On stiff, jerky legs she rose to return to the house only when the dawn threatened to intrude and expose her to the world.
Ellie gripped the plastic bags tightly in her hands, hoping the thin material wouldn’t break. The handles had stretched and she could feel them digging into her fingers as she hurried home. The bags were full of the shells and pebbles she had collected for the grave. Daddy’s grave. She had a purpose. She didn’t know how many shells she’d need to cover the overturned earth, but she would return to the beach with more bags to gather as many as she could.
She flinched as she put her hand on the ivy that had grown around the gate pillar and along the fence palings. Something moved. She was not sure, but suspected this ivy was home to scores of huntsman spiders and other creepy crawlies. The mottled green ivy was deeper, blacker, in this pre-dawn light. It looked unhealthy, as if the parasitic plant had sucked all of the nutrients from the earth to confine them in its dark, knotted vines. At the base of the ivy, feline eyes glittered at her return.
‘I saw the night, Perce; I saw the stars!’ The cat slunk towards the back of the house, unconcerned. She felt bereft. There was no one else to tell about the night sky. She opened the back door and placed her bags of shells and stones onto the kitchen table. Percival pushed against her legs and miaowed plaintively at his empty bowl. Ellie went to the fridge and found some leftover ham. She sniffed it. Was this the last of it or was there more in the freezer? She couldn’t remember. Daddy hadn’t done the shopping.
‘Stupid girl. Of course, Daddy hasn’t done the shopping, he’s…’ her voice trailed off. Daddy brought the food, and now he couldn’t. She started opening cupboards. There were several tins of diced tomatoes, a tin of beetroot; there were rice, flour, and pasta in the old plastic canisters. There were tea bags and tuna. She wouldn’t starve. Not yet. There was food for a week or two, maybe three, now she only had to cook for one. Percival nudged her legs again.
‘And you, puss.’ She cut some of the ham and dropped it into his bowl, placing it on the floor. ‘I’ve got a plan. I have to get rid… no, help Daddy first. Then I’ll find more food for you, okay?’ She tried to sound convincing. How would she get food? Which way were the shops? How would she get money? She swallowed nervously before checking the cupboards again, stopping as she caught sight of her discarded bag of pebbles and shells on the table. These were more important; she could make the food last. What she had to do, before anything else, was help Daddy leave. For good. Tomorrow night she would take more bags, three, four if she could find them, and collect as many of the shells and rocks as she could carry. She tipped her bag of sandy treasures onto the table. She held up one of the darker fragments.
‘What do you think, Perce? Coal?’ Daddy would have known. There had to be pieces of coal that had disengaged from the cliff or been driven up through the action of the ocean and were drifting along the sandy bed. ‘Is there coal in the ocean, puss?’ The cat walked away from his bowl and looked at her impassively, then started washing his face.
‘Yeah, I think so too, puss. Coal.’ Ellie tried to roll the uneven chunk along the tabletop.
Daddy would be buried in the volatile earth that had nurtured him. And he needed to be kept down. Jesus brought Lazarus back from the dead. He’d died and come back, gotten up in his grave clothes and walked out. She’d read that in the Bible. But had he been the same man or had death changed him? If Grandmother and the Bible were right and only the good went to heaven, evil would remain. Ellie shuddered. If Daddy was back, he would be worse; she felt it. He had to stay down. He had to stay buried. She would have to dig deeper.
She kept picking at her cuticles, worrying the quick until it bled, then picking some more. She had to fidget and fret. If there was a loose thread on her clothes, a mere slip of cotton, she would tug and pull and work it loose, unstitching, unravelling until everything fell away. With bloodied fingers, she would wish she could unstitch time, unravel the past, and start afresh. She knew where it had all gone wrong: when she had gone out to the dogs. She had brought this life upon herself. She had made Mummy leave. She had made her daddy do the things he did. A sound, a smell would bring her back to herself, to where she had always been, trapped inside, pained and still picking, futilely picking and wishing.
Ellie sighed and pulled her t-shirt away from her skin where the sweat had caused the flimsy cotton to stick. It was too large—one of Daddy’s of course. It smelt of him, and her: a sickening mix. At least it was so big he couldn’t stare at the lumps on her chest. He would pinch her there and it hurt. Ellie flapped the t-shirt, letting warm air touch her skin. She hated summer. She loved the cooler months, the late days of autumn and winter, when she could cover up her hideous body in layers and hide. It was only Daddy who saw, who felt the hair spiking up from her legs like cactus thorns, if cacti came in anaemic white.
He had handed her a razor. ‘About time we did something about you.’
‘What’s this for?’
‘It’s a razor, stupid. What do you think it’s for?’ He had pulled her to her feet and led her to the bathroom. ‘Women shave too, you know, girls your age.’
Ellie had watched nervously as her father ran hot water into the bathtub. He had turned his head, eyes glinting, and nodded.
‘Take ‘em off.’
She had undressed without a word.
‘Sit.’
Ellie perched on the side of the tub, the enamel cold and hard under her buttocks. He had cupped water into his hands and drenched her legs before lathering his own hands and soaping her shins and calves. He’d continued to slowly stroke along her left thigh and then with one gentle touch of the razor, cleared a path up her leg. Shifting slightly, he proceeded to shave her entire leg, never nicking her skin once. He had repositioned her on the edge of the bath and repeated the process with her right leg.
‘Spread your legs wider. Wider.’ He had soaped his hand again and rubbed between her legs, his hand pressing harder, his fingers tickling. Ellie had flinched.
‘Don’t move.’ He had been breathing heavily as he’d lowered the razor, his gaze intent. Ellie had closed her eyes and taken shallow breaths. She had opened them again when she felt him splash her with water. ‘Go on, wash yourself.’ He’d pushed her into the tub.
Ellie had rinsed herself mindlessly, standing when Daddy had reached in and pulled out the plug. She hadn’t moved, just stood and watched the sudsy water and hairs circle the drain. A rough hand grabbed her and she’d slipped. Two hands whipped around her buttocks turning her and she had felt him nuzzle her smooth mound.
‘My girl, Daddy’s girl,’ he had murmured, pulling her out of the bath, forcing her down. He had taken her then on the bathroom floor, her head thumping against the unforgiving tiles.
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sp; She supposed the hair had revolted him. That she revolted him. She had shaved herself after, not giving him the opportunity to do this to her again. His gentle touch lathering her was more brutal than what had come after. That touch, the look in his eyes, haunted her. Shaving, she had given herself scars on her legs where she’d slipped with the razor, genuinely slipped sometimes, and had been unable to leave the scabs alone. Pink streaks and spots remained where she had picked and scratched. If only she could tear it all away, tear herself away—her cuticles, her legs, her face, all of it. All of her. She had wondered at first whether new, flawless skin would grow back? It hadn’t. She should have known, but still she’d picked and picked. Picked more at the itches, the patches, the regrowth, and the flaky skin. She added more scars to her body. Ugly skin on an ugly girl.
Her fingertips had often felt greasy where they had touched the unhealed sores, and under her nails displaced skin cells collected when she’d raked her hands in those compulsive strokes. She knew she could, she should, cut her nails, but the temptation never left with the nail clippings. It just sent her off in search of new tools to use against herself—scissors, the razor, sticks, knives. Metallic objects were best; they felt dangerously cold and rough. The temptation would call her again, pleading with her from within her damaged skin. Daddy didn’t approve, but she couldn’t stop. This was something she could do to herself. This pain was hers.
She stopped bleeding again. She started to grow. Her breasts, her tummy, swollen and tight. He saw. He knew. He told her to take hot baths, and he’d punched her in the gut so hard she’d doubled over and dry retched on the floor.
‘Why can’t I keep it? Why?’ She had tried to hide her changing body from him as long as she could, but it was useless. He had hit her again and again. It had hurt, almost as bad as the dogs and the endless needles and stitches, but this baby was stubborn. It wanted to stay with her. She had hoped then. She’d been scared, but not disheartened: maybe this time, maybe this one, if she could just keep it inside until it was a proper baby… Daddy might let her keep it and she would have company for the long days. She could sew it little clothes, sing it to sleep, teach it to draw, teach it all of the things that Grandmother Clements had taught her.
She should have known better. Nothing she wanted could stay.
When the time came, she tried to hide her pain. It had come on her slowly, an ache across her back in the morning, but she’d made Daddy’s breakfast and he had gone to work, leaving her alone all day where the aches had gradually become brutal, squeezing her, tighter and tighter. The grip hardened, waves of pain coming closer together, fierce spasms that made her think she might die. She prayed to her Grandmother’s God to make it soon, to let the baby come when Daddy wasn’t home, but Grandmother’s God didn’t care for Ellie. He returned home from work and found her lying on the kitchen floor, pale and trembling, grounded by pain.
‘Ellie? What the hell are you…?’
‘I was going to set the table,’ she groaned, ‘I have to make dinner.’ She tried to move, but couldn’t hide the gush of fluid between her clenched thighs—still, Ellie kept fighting her father’s presence and the tension on his face, ignoring his curses, begging to keep it, desperate for someone to love who would love her too. The pain worsened and she slid and writhed on the floor, her body wracked by convulsions. Ellie screamed a fierce howl of agony that shocked him with its ferocity. This baby was hers. He clamped a dirty, great hand over her mouth, hissing at her to ‘Shut the fuck up,’ and she bit down, drawing blood, his icy blood mixing with her tears and saliva.
‘Bitch.’ He shook her, slapped her, thrust her head against the wall, ‘Shut up, shut up, shut up. Someone might hear.’ Eventually she’d whimpered like a beaten dog, cowered and crouched in the corner.
‘It hurts.’
‘Well, it’s happening now, Ellie. For fuck’s sake.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Fuck!’ He left the room and came back with a couple of towels.
‘Daddy…’
‘Fucking push or something. I don’t know.’ He shook his head. ‘Just be fucking quiet.’
Ellie moaned and reached out for his hand. She squeezed it, once, twice, before he flung her hand away. She groaned, the pain rising. ‘I can’t; Daddy, I can’t.’ Ellie pictured herself tearing in two. There was no way this baby could come out; it was impossible—she couldn’t do it.
‘I see it,’ he said. ‘Push. C’mon, girl.’
‘I’m going to die.’ She looked up at him and he raised his eyes to her face.
‘No, you’re not, you stupid girl. Push.’
‘Daddy…’
‘Push.’
Ellie didn’t know how she would survive, how the baby, so big in her belly, was going to make it. She wanted Mummy, she wanted Grandmother, she wanted this to stop. She pushed, terrified she was going to break apart, she wasn’t going to make it, but there would be a baby. Her baby.
‘Please, Daddy, please.’ She didn’t even know what she was begging him for. His head was focused down there and she grunted and pushed and there was a gush and then… emptiness. Ellie fell back against the tiles. Her heart was racing, but her body felt weak. Spent. Fluid—blood—leaked from her: it wasn’t over. There was another spasm and something else left her body. I’m going to die now, she thought numbly. I’m all broken. My insides are out.
She heard a cry and pushed herself up, resting on her elbows. Her hair hung in sweaty clumps against her face and neck. Daddy was kneeling before her, a bloodied infant in his large, dirty hands.
‘Daddy.’ She sat up, reaching out her arms, all thoughts of death dismissed.
‘No.’ He did something to the cord that hung from the baby’s belly. Ellie saw his mine-black nails as he scooped the child’s head. It was so small. So precious. Daddy grabbed one of the towels he had dumped on the floor next to her and wrapped the baby loosely. Hope flared in her heart; if he could be tender, if he could wrap the baby in a towel, it had to mean something. This baby could stay.
‘Can I…?’
Daddy either hadn’t heard or just ignored her, but as he looked down, something like hope flittered across her heart. It was going to be okay. Her baby. It moved in his arms.
‘My baby.’ Ellie reached towards the baby, the aches, the exhaustion, forgotten.
‘It’s a boy, a boy,’ he said victoriously, before his face hardened.
‘Please.’
‘It’ll cry, the neighbours will hear. I can’t be buying baby stuff, no way, no.’
‘He’s mine.’ Ellie tried to stand and her legs, sticky and damp, gave way beneath her. She crawled over to her father, rising to her knees, clutching at his arm. ‘He’s my baby, my son.’
Arthur wrenched her fingers from his arm and twisted away from her, his gaze never leaving the baby nestled against his chest. Ellie reached for it, her fingers desperate to touch, to take back what was hers.
‘I want to hold him. Give him to me.’
For a moment she thought her father was going to obey. Then he stood. Ellie clutched at his legs, dragging herself to stand before him, her hands gripping at the arm that held the baby.
‘Please,’ a broken-voiced, strangled plea, ‘give me my baby.’
‘My son.’ A fiery light briefly illuminated those lizard eyes.
‘No!’ Ellie screamed and lashed out at him, her hands striking his face, choking his neck, conscious that she couldn’t hurt the baby—her baby—but she had to make him release his hold. Her nails raked his face and he flinched, parallel red slashes ripening on his cheek.
‘He’s mine!’ she cried out. ‘Mine.’ Arthur wheeled around and deposited the baby on the table. Ellie lurched forwards, her hands scrambling towards her child. Her father grabbed her, pulling her back towards him. She stumbled, one hand closing around a fork that had been left on the table. With her arm raised, she pointed it at him, ‘I�
��ll kill you. He’s my baby; you can’t have him. I won’t let you.’ She lunged at him and he ducked sideways.
‘You stupid bitch.’ His arm swung back and, as she thrust her fork at his face once more, he overpowered her, slamming his fist into her face. Fresh pain exploded and dazed, she slumped against the wall. Through blurred, tear-streaked eyes, she watched as he kicked the fork away from her before turning to grab the whimpering baby on the tabletop. The glance he gave her was scornful as he gestured to the other towel.
‘Clean yourself up.’
He left her on the floor, drained by the exodus of life. Her tears continued unabated, but her cries dimmed in volume as her grief and hatred internalised, replacing what was taken away. Beadie had crept into the room when Daddy had left, sniffed at the red pool on the floor and, with his rough tongue distended, began to lick.
That night was the only time Daddy ever mopped the kitchen floor. Ellie had found dried blood in one of the cracks of the linoleum the next day. She had scraped it out with her fingernail and swallowed it. It was hers, back inside of her, where he couldn’t touch it or take it away. It would live within her.
Despite the smell of decay that was seeping through the house, Ellie was ravenous. Unaccustomed to such physical activity—her digging, the walk to the beach, even the abundance of fresh air—Ellie wanted to gorge herself. She scoured every shelf in the fridge, rummaged through every cupboard in the kitchen. Tins fell and rolled on the floor as she pushed them aside. She ignored them; she wanted something more substantial. Her stomach rumbled. She had to eat, had to fill that vacancy inside. Ellie went back to the refrigerator. There were eggs; there was that leftover ham she’d been saving for Perce. She smelt it, her nose wrinkling. A little slimy and pungent, but it would do.
It took a long time for her to feel satiated.
Day Four
The voice woke her. He was calling.
‘Ellie.’
Path to the Night Sea Page 21
