by C. L. Taylor
It takes me less than two minutes to run to the post office but I’m gasping by the time I reach the door. A bell tinkles as I push it open.
Standing at the confectionery display, with her back to me, is a little girl in a cream knitted hat with a big bobble on the top and a red woollen coat with shiny gold buttons.
‘Li-Li?’ The word comes out as little more than a whisper but it’s enough to make the little girl turn to see where the sound came from.
‘Mummy!’ Her face lights up and she charges towards me, arms outstretched.
‘Oh my God.’ I snatch her up and hold her close, pressing my face against hers. But she doesn’t smell of my daughter. Instead of her fresh, warm scent she smells musty and sour. She’s wearing clothes I didn’t buy her. Clothes Helen didn’t give me.
‘Helen?’ Mary appears from one of the aisles, a lolly in one hand, a loaf of bread in the other. She glances at the woman behind the counter who’s staring at us over the top of her spectacles with ill-disguised curiosity.
‘Helen,’ Mary says again. ‘Let’s talk outside.’
I don’t give her chance to speak. Instead I back out of the door, with Elise still in my arms, and set off at a run. Only she’s too heavy to carry far and my run slows to a jog, then a fast walk. I can hear Mary behind me, her shoes tapping on the pavement as she hurries to catch up.
‘Helen, wait!’ she shouts.
‘Leave us alone.’ I try to speed up but my arms are aching and sweat is rolling down my face. Elise shifts in my arms and removes a hand from around my neck.
‘Lolly!’ she shouts.
She wriggles wildly, kicking her wellies into my thighs and arching her back. I haven’t got the strength to fight her so I lower her to the ground and grip her mittened hand.
‘Do you have any idea how scared I was?’ I say as Mary draws close. ‘You can’t just take my child out of the house and not let me know where you’re going. You can’t do that, Mary!’
She stops abruptly. ‘I only took her out for a lolly. When she woke from her nap she wouldn’t stop crying. I tried everything to calm her – the TV, a biscuit, songs – but she kept calling for you and so I …’ She opens her palm, revealing the plastic-wrapped lolly in her hand. ‘I didn’t want to disturb you. I saw how upset you were about your dad and—’
‘I got back to the B&B and she was gone. I was terrified that something awful had happened.’
‘But … but I left a note.’
‘What note?’
‘On the hallway table. I left you a note, telling you where we’d gone.’
‘I didn’t see any note.’
‘Well, I …’ Mary looks genuinely distraught. ‘I definitely left one. Oh, Helen, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you but she’s OK. I put her in some warm clothes because hers were still damp from your rock-pooling this morning. She hasn’t come to any harm.’
Her. She. A cold shiver runs through me. This whole conversation Mary has been referring to Elise as ‘her’ and ‘she’ and I’ve only just realised. Mary dressed Elise in another child’s clothes and she keeps referring to her as a girl. How long has she known? Since she dressed her in another girl’s coat? Since we arrived? She hasn’t asked me why I’ve been dressing my daughter as a boy or why I introduced her as my son. But she will. I can tell by the way her gaze keeps flickering back to Elise. I need to get out of here before she starts asking questions. Or, worse, before she talks to the police.
Chapter 52
‘Hello, hello!’ Sean saunters down the stairs in jogging bottoms, a long-sleeved running top and trainers as Elise, Mary and I step out of the cold and into the warm hallway. Conversation was stilted on the walk back to the B&B. Mary didn’t mention the fact that my ‘son’ is actually a girl and I didn’t mention the nursery I’d discovered on the second floor. We focused on Elise instead, asking her whether she’d enjoyed rockpooling that morning or if she could see the seagull perched on a lamp post. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Mary giving me strange sideways looks as we walked. I could almost feel her mind whirring. Was she, like me, playing along that everything was fine, while secretly planning to call the police the second we got back? I wanted to tell her the truth. I wanted to explain why I’d overreacted when I discovered that Elise wasn’t in her bed. But how can I trust a total stranger when I can’t trust my own husband?
‘I’ve got good news for you, Helen,’ Sean says now, holding out a hand for Elise to give him a high five. ‘The garage rang earlier and your car’s going to be ready to collect in the morning.’
‘Oh, that’s great.’ I feel weak with relief. That gives me options. The flight to Manchester isn’t until late tomorrow night. I can drive to Drogheda to get some money to pay Mary and then go. We can stay in Dublin overnight.
‘I thought you’d be pleased. Hey, Mary,’ – he turns to look at our landlady, who is crouched beside the hallway table – ‘what’s that you’ve found on the floor? Someone been sending you love letters?’
‘No.’ She hands the piece of paper to me then turns and walks into the kitchen.
‘What’s that then?’ Sean asks as I unfold it. He laughs. ‘Eviction notice?’
I shake my head.
Helen, gone to post office to buy the little one a lolly. Lee woke up upset and I didn’t want to disturb you at Carmel’s.
Mary
Elise is asleep, curled up beside me on the double bed with her face buried in her elephant’s soft grey fur. It’s dark outside, beyond the closed curtains, and the only light in the bedroom is the silent flicker of the television in the corner of the room. It’s 11 p.m. and I should be asleep too but I can’t stop my mind whirring. I can’t shake the feeling that I made a mistake deciding to stay here another night. The walls feel as though they’re closing around me but, without the car, we can’t run. We can’t go anywhere.
The floorboards above my head creak as Mary moves about in her bedroom. She’s not asleep either. I can’t get the image out of my head of her shoulders sagging and the light in her eyes going out when she handed me the note. Or the face of the little girl in the photograph in the nursery. Who was she? Mary’s daughter? Her granddaughter? Why else would she keep a room ready if they weren’t related? But the décor looked so tired and the photo was so faded. Mary crumpled when I told her that I was widowed. And she was distraught when she stopped Elise from walking out into the road. Did something terrible happen to her daughter? I’m not the only person keeping secrets in this house.
I want to talk to Mary, to apologise to her. She saved Elise’s life and she was so kind to me when I found out about Dad, and how did I repay her? I shouted at her when she took my daughter out for a lolly. I’ve turned into someone I don’t recognise. The sort of person who avoids talking to strangers, who peers from behind curtains, who’s suspicious when a kind man stops his car to help. Who runs and runs and runs.
I’ve done things over the last few days that would have provoked a full-blown panic attack a month ago. I’ve driven unfamiliar routes, been on a ferry and stayed in a caravan and two B&Bs. I never would have dreamed I could take such huge steps towards overcoming my agoraphobia but I’m not free from anxiety. I’m not free from fear. I’ve breathed sea air. I’ve run down the beach hand in hand with my daughter. I’ve laughed with her, I’ve played with her, I’ve explored with her, but I haven’t done anything without looking over my shoulder. I’m not living. We’re not living. How can I give Elise a happy childhood when I’m constantly checking for danger? When I’m too terrified to let someone get close in case they betray me?
Max. He’s the reason I feel this way. But what evidence do I have? Even if I ask Naija to talk to my solicitor and the police, what does that prove – that Max let himself into the house that he co-owns? That he lied to our neighbour about having a burst pipe? He could claim he said that because she was being nosy or because he wanted to wind her up. I can’t prove that he planted the drugs unless his fingerprints are on the pa
cket. When I asked DS Merriott during my interview if he was going to take fingerprints, he said no, it was too small a quantity for them to bother. On his court application form Max listed my arrest as one of the reasons why I’m unfit to look after Elise. When I told Mr Harrison it wasn’t true he raised an eyebrow and said, ‘If he’s lied to the court about anything on this form he could end up in the criminal court on a perjury charge.’ I need to prove that he lied. But how? Maybe Naija knows more than she let on in her emails. I need to talk to her.
I rub my thumb over the blank screen of my mobile. Do I dare turn it on and send her a text message? I have to take the risk.
I tap the button on the side of the phone, wait for the screen to swirl to life and then open my text messages. The phone bleeps and bleeps and bleeps as the screen fills with new, unread texts. I ignore them all and tap out a message.
Naija, please ring me as soon as you get this. It’s URGENT. Jo. x
I place the phone on the bedside table and settle back against the cushions as Elise snuffles beside me, but not because I want to relax. There’s something niggling at the back of my brain. Something I’ve seen or heard that was important but I ignored it. But what was it?
Chapter 53
I’ve made it, Jo. I’m in Ireland. Not long now until we’re reunited. Well, I say ‘we’. I actually mean Elise and me. I won’t be taking you back to the UK with us. You can make your own way back. Or maybe I’ll hasten the process by giving the Gardaí and Avon and Somerset constabulary a ring. They’ll make sure someone keeps you company on the plane. I don’t think you’re going to like it in prison, sweetheart. For one, there’s no way to escape. Then there’s the other inmates. I don’t think they’ll take too kindly to a woman who hurt her child. I still feel sick when I think about the bruises. Lorraine Hooper told me how the doctor had described them – huge great welts all over Elise’s body. Why would you do that to our little girl, Jo? Were you frustrated by the drugs arrest? That was meant to make you realise how vulnerable you were without me, Jo, not make you lash out at our baby. You were planning on taking our little girl to Chester but being arrested stopped you in your tracks, didn’t it? It made you realise how much you needed me. Who was the first person you rang? Me. Who did you ask to stay overnight? Me. You needed me, Jo. All I did was try to prove to you how much.
Max parks the hire car in the street and, barely glancing at the beautiful gable wall of the Church of the Sacred Heart, walks through the black iron gates and into the building. He finds himself in an unusual oval-shaped room with white walls, deep inset windows and row after row of heavy oak pews. At the far end, beyond the altar, is a huge twelve-paned window with a stunning view of the beach and the Irish Sea. But it’s not the view he’s come to see, it’s the priest. There was no phone number on the website he found so he drove straight up from Dublin. Only there’s no priest to be seen. The only other person in the church is an elderly woman, placing candles in their holders.
Max glances at his watch. It’s 9.30 a.m. The website said Mass would take place at 10.15 a.m. so the priest can’t be far away. He looks again at the elderly woman. Perhaps she might know where he can find the priest. As he walks towards her one of the doors in the side of the main building opens and a man in a black suit and white dog collar appears. Bingo! Max hurries towards him, holding out his hand as he gives him what he hopes is a winning smile.
‘Max Blackmore, lovely to meet you.’
The other man grasps his hand and shakes it firmly. ‘Father O’Shea. How can I help you?’
‘I’d like to take a look at your marriage banns if that’s possible. I’m tracing my Irish roots.’
‘Ah.’ The priest pulls a face, one that makes Max’s heart sink. ‘I hope you’ve not come far.’
‘From Bristol.’
‘Oh, that is a way. I’m afraid, Max, that we don’t have the marriage banns. They were destroyed in a fire a couple of years back. It was a terrible thing, we lost a lot of priceless artefacts.’
‘But … but they were on the site … the ancestry website I accessed.’
‘Well, yes. They were photographed a long time ago and there are copies of the marriage certificates in the GRO in Roscommon. Does the website you accessed not have copies available? I was led to believe you could order them.’
‘You can, yes. But … er … time’s of the essence and I was hoping I could find out some information today.’ Max passes a hand over his hair and tries not to show the irritation he’s feeling. He knows the priest is trying to be helpful but he might as well be saying, You’re fucked, son.
‘Oh dear.’ The priest runs a hand over his chin. ‘I’ve been here for ten years. If the marriage was recent I might be able to help.’
‘It was in the seventies.’
‘Ah, I see. Long before my time, I’m afraid.’
‘Yeah.’ Max nods curtly. ‘Anyway, thank you. I appreciate it.’
‘God bless,’ Father O’Shea calls after him as he walks out of the church.
God bless? I don’t need God’s help. I don’t need the police’s help either. I can find you all by myself, Jo. I’m good with people. I tell them what they want to hear – just like I told you that I’d reported the break-in. Just like I told your friends how worried I was about you when you didn’t turn up to collect Elise from nursery when all along you were asleep on the sofa. Yes, Jo. I saw you through the window. When I knocked and you didn’t wake up I took Elise to a hotel to try and shock some sense into you. Then, when you were arrested for possession of drugs, I told you I was helping the police with their enquiries. You believed me, didn’t you, when I said I’d told DS Merriott about the people I’d investigated at work? I didn’t even mention my work. I told them how mentally ill you were, and how you’d been self-medicating with illegal drugs to get through the day, just like I told Lorraine Hooper. And they bought it because people believe want they want to believe. There was no way I was going to mention Paula.
Oh yes, I know Paula. Of course I do. But I wasn’t going to admit that to anyone. Least of all you.
Chapter 54
‘Beebies,’ Elise says, pointing at the television screen. When we returned to our room after breakfast she insisted on pulling off all her clothes and now she’s sitting on the bed in her pants sipping a glass of milk, as happy as anything. Her cold has all but gone now and her bruises have faded but they’re still there. I feel sick every time I see them.
‘Elise, you’ll get another cold.’ She objects loudly as I wrestle a long-sleeved T-shirt over her head.
‘Sssh,’ I say. ‘Mary will hear you.’
Our landlady hasn’t forgiven me for what happened yesterday. When she entered the dining room she stared at a spot about six inches above my head and asked, in flat tones, what we wanted to eat. All the warmth, all the vulnerability, all the kindness she’d showed us over the last 48 hours had vanished. She was as cold and impenetrable as she was the day we arrived. I shifted my seat back and stood up, desperate to deliver the apology I’d spent all night rehearsing, but she shot me down before I could say a word.
‘Two Irish breakfasts, one with no pudding. I’ll be back shortly.’
And then she was gone. She didn’t say a word when she returned with the coffee and milk. And she didn’t so much as glance at Elise as she placed her food in front of her. I tried again after breakfast was over. I followed her into the kitchen and begged her to talk to me. I told her how very, very sorry I was. She looked at me coldly, told me she had work to be getting on with and then turned her back and opened the dishwasher. I had no choice but to return to my room.
‘Beebies,’ Elise says again now.
‘There’s no CBeebies but this looks like a nice programme. It’s about numbers, you’ll like it.’ I reach for a dirty pair of pyjamas on the bedroom floor and stuff them into a plastic bag. Now that we’re flying back to the UK rather than going by ferry I’m going to have to leave a lot of our stuff in the car in the airport car pa
rk. God knows when I’ll be able to collect it, if ever. I’ll have to find a way to get it shipped back to Helen.
‘Want Justin’s House,’ my daughter says forlornly but she settles herself back against the pillows and tucks Effie Elephant under the duvet as a toddler on screen wobbles his way towards the number 1, made out of plastic balls. It may not be her favourite TV programme but it’s bright and colourful and the background music is suitably chirpy.
A shrill noise makes me jump. My mobile is juddering on the bedside table and Naija’s name is flashing up at me from the screen.
‘Naija?’ I press the phone to my ear.
‘Jo! Oh my God. We’ve been so worried about you. Where are you?’
It feels like a lifetime ago since I last spoke to her, standing outside our houses, asking her to hold Elise so I could run after Paula.
‘I can’t tell you,’ I say. ‘And I need to be quick. I don’t know if this call is being traced.’
‘Traced?’ I can hear the shock in her voice. ‘Oh my gosh, Jo. What’s happened? Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine. Elise is fine. Listen. I received your emails, the ones about Max and the burst pipe.’ I reach for my daughter’s pad of drawing paper and flick through the pages until I find the notes I wrote last night. ‘Are you sure you saw Max go into the house on Thursday the tenth of February?’
She’s silent for a second, then: ‘Yes. Totally sure. I’d just got back from taking the twins to the zoo and Jayesh had been sick all over himself and the car seat. Shaan decided to throw his toy out of the window as I was trying to clean up his brother. That’s when I saw Max walking up your path. I commented that I didn’t normally see him during the day and he said he’d had to come home because you had a burst pipe.’
