by L. V. Hay
Behind the wheel, he rounds on the boy, his own eyes flashing this time. A dark shadow jumps out of him, swells within the space between them.
‘Put your shoes back on. Now!’
The boy’s bravado vanishes. Eyes glassy with tears, he blinks furiously.
He grabs each boot, pulls each one back on. Raises both palms in defiance, though his gaze finally casts downwards. The boy knows his place; when he is beaten.
They drive the rest of the way in silence.
Thirty-four
‘Pops … Poppy!’
Light floods my room. My eyes blink as the curtains are yanked open. I groan, dazed for an instant.
Framed by the window, Tim is a silhouette in the grey morning light. ‘I can’t find your mother.’
I sit up on one elbow, perceiving rather than hearing the fear in my stepfather’s voice. In an instant, sleep skitters away from my brain like cockroaches from a filthy kitchen when a light is turned on. I swing my feet out of bed and stand, my nighty falling back down, sparing my modesty. From Tim’s tone, I know what he’s thinking. Mum has gone out, intent on doing the same as India.
I try not to let panic infect my voice. ‘OK. Well … maybe she’s in the bathroom?’
‘No.’ Tim’s tone is testy, irritated. Obviously he has looked there.
I still attempt to placate him. ‘Perhaps she’s just gone to the shop?’
Even as the words leave my mouth, I can feel the lie in the air. When not lying on her bed, vacant, Mum has wandered, aimless and restless, around the Coach House. She’s been here and yet not; lost inside herself. Tim took her to the doctor, but it made little difference. Mum has been an automaton these past few weeks, unable to process her thoughts or surroundings.
With sickening clarity, I know, deep within in my bones, my mother’s sudden disappearance means something. There is no way she could have just fancied a walk, or noticed by herself we’re out of milk.
Oh, God.
‘I’m going to check.’
Tim doesn’t need to say where. I know where.
The bridge where India fell.
‘Can you go into town and look? I’ll drop you.’ He goes back downstairs to grab his car keys, while I pull on some clothes.
We sit side by side in the car in silence, the air heavy between us. Tim’s eyes are focused on the road, his knuckles white as he grips the steering wheel. With a pang, I see how deeply this has affected him. My poor Tim, the only real father I’ve ever known.
After he has dropped me off near the seafront, I stare at the tide on its way out then cast my eyes across the beach. It all seems so clear: Fate has thrown my family together. Now the same ruthless hand seems intent on tearing us apart.
Today is an unfathomably sunny day, blue skies. The beach is deserted but for a woman and her kid, throwing a ball for a dog. A young boy of about nine trots behind her. He drags a large branch of driftwood as the dog runs away full pelt. As they wait for the animal to return, the woman puts one arm around the boy. He jerks it off in the blasé way kids do, as if he expects her to be there, always. But she won’t be.
I stride towards Elemental. I don’t know where else to start. I know Matthew doesn’t care about me, but he came to my sister’s funeral. Maybe he’ll help me look for Mum, for India’s sake?
It being daytime, Elemental is not busy. Approaching from this angle, I see there is a raised beer garden on decking to the left of the building, with steps down from the street. I pick my way across the slippery, rain-sodden wood.
All of the French windows are closed. Through the glass, I see the teenage kitchen porter appear from the back. She carries a tray of nachos to a bearded patron in his mid-twenties. He smirks as the porter dumps his food in front of him. To the left, the redhead barwoman lolls on the counter, scrolling through her phone.
I reach for the handle of the first French window, but then I hesitate. In one of the side booths I can see Matthew sitting with his father.
The two men don’t look like they’re full-on arguing, but it is a heated discussion. Matthew’s back is to me, but his shoulders are hunched. He throws his arms in the air. Alan Temple shakes his head, draining the last of his Scotch. The older man looks as unkempt as ever. There is a cigarette tucked behind his ear.
Not for the first time, it strikes me how little the Temple kids look like their father. There’s more resemblance between Tim and me. We have similar features, even if we don’t share blood ties. When we were kids, Ana would call Alan ‘Our white father’. The way she said it was as if the three Temple kids had a black patriarch out there somewhere and Maggie had installed Alan to bring them a notch up the social scale.
Inside Elemental, Alan’s face cracks with a wide smile. He pats Matthew’s back, just between his broad shoulders. Matthew turns at last, standing: he dwarfs his father. In contrast, he is not smiling. He looks furious, like he might reach forward and grab Alan by the lapels of his wrinkled suit.
Then I catch a glimpse of her, behind them.
Mum.
She appears from the beach-side door, next to the bar. I don’t understand how I could have missed her on the shale outside.
But there’s no time to figure that out now. Mum seems disoriented, confused. The redhead behind the bar smiles. But my mother ignores her, drifting past the counter like a ghost. Mum wears no shoes: she’s not carrying them, nor does she have a bag with her, or a cardigan. She leaves wet footprints across the floor tiles. Her bare arms, feet and legs look purple with cold.
She’s looking straight at me.
Determined, Mum marches towards me. I struggle to think what I could have done – or more likely have not done. Do I deserve her wrath, this time? My mother’s temperament is changeable, difficult to stay one step ahead of.
But then she veers off to the left. I am confused, then realise the setting sun is behind me. It glances off the glass, effectively creating a one-way mirror. My mother hasn’t even seen me. It was just an illusion. A curious mix of relief and disappointment courses through me. If Mum wanted to have a go at me, for whatever reason, it would have been the first time she’ll have noticed me in weeks.
But it’s not to be. The redhead catches up to my mother. Mum stops, as if she’s forgotten what she’s doing. My heart aches at how she’s been diminished. I grab the handle again, but before I can open the French window, everything changes.
My mother spots her quarry. With a silent screech behind the insulating glass, my mother launches herself at him, hands hooked like claws.
Alan Temple.
I yank the door handle. The soundproof barrier is gone instantly. Alan makes no attempt to prevent my mother from raining blows on him, shrinking away from her instead, holding his arms over his head.
My mother’s shrieks reverberate around Elemental. The redhead, the teenage kitchen porter and the bearded patron look on in horrified fascination. Matthew attempts to grab my mother’s hands.
But he misses. Like a wild animal, my mother whips around. She scratches his cheek with one of her long nails.
‘Mum … Mum! Stop!’
I grab her from behind, by both elbows. Mum stiffens against me, at the feel of my touch, the sound of my voice. She arches her back, trying to shake me off.
But I am too strong for her. She screams something, but I can’t make sense of the words … Not yet. Then Mum slumps, all the fight leaving her.
‘Crazy … bitch.’ The redhead breathes heavily, as if she’s just finished a cross-country run. She snaps a finger at the teenage kitchen porter. ‘Call the police!’
‘No, don’t.’ Alan Temple sits down in the booth, his face pale with shock. He looks up at Mum, dazed. She’s staring beyond him, at nothing. ‘Get her home.’
Alan pats my arm in thanks, absent-minded.
The redhead can’t hide her incredulity. ‘You can’t be serious…?’
‘Enough.’ Alan pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and gives it to his son.
Matthew doesn’t know what it’s for, then touches his cheek. He sees blood on his fingertips. Then his gaze moves from my shoeless mother, to the wide-eyed diner and the rest of Elemental’s idle staff.
‘OK, back to work,’ he says.
Begrudgingly, the other two women shuffle off.
Matthew looks to me for explanation. ‘What’s going on, Poppy?’
‘I don’t know.’
My reply is automatic. I wasn’t able to understand my mother’s words as she’d screamed them. And I was tunnel-visioned, intent on preventing her from doing Alan any serious harm.
Yet now, minutes later, Mum’s shrieks resonate in my ears, and I hear her words, as clear and as confusing as ever:
It was you. It was always you.
Thirty-five
Tim arrives at Elemental to pick up me and Mum. As my stepfather arrives in the deserted café bar, his face is a picture of relief. But his expression swiftly turns to horror when he sees how vacant Mum is. He attempts to embrace her, but Mum’s arms stay by her sides. She mutters to herself wordlessly again, talking only in her mind, but to whom?
‘Oh, love.’ Tim kisses the top of Mum’s head. There are tears in his eyes. ‘Let’s get you home, yeah?’
Matthew appears at the bar to watch us go. I take in his inscrutable expression. Matthew is not looking at my mother, or Tim, but me.
‘I’m sorry about … earlier,’ I say.
‘S’fine.’ Matthew looks to Mum now and forces a smile, the words wooden and uneven in his mouth. ‘Hope you feel better soon, Kirsten.’
Mum’s head turns towards Matthew, her senses returning to her. It’s like only his voice can gain her attention.
‘Don’t you feel sorry for me, boy. Don’t you dare!’ She raises a finger, pointing it in Matthew’s direction.
Matthew’s brow furrows in confusion. I take Mum’s arm, but she jerks it away, tutting like a child. I throw an apologetic look over my shoulder at Matthew as we leave, but the bar is deserted again.
The doctor who is also a family friend arrives at the Coach House again. He shuffles in with his cane and converses in low tones with my stepfather. My mother sits in her chair and stares at the sideboard.
I sit on the stairs, trying to eavesdrop, but only picking up every second or third word: ‘…self-harm … crisis … respite.’
After an hour, I drift to the doorway – to make my presence felt, even if I have nothing to add. I discern that it’s been agreed my mother will not be sectioned, but might perhaps agree to a ‘little break’ at the hospital and go in voluntarily? Same difference. Just words, like Matthew said the day we’d buried my sister.
So the doctor asks Mum in a falsely cheery voice what she would like to do next. He emphasises it’s her choice and she doesn’t have to do anything against her will. But my mother is not herself: she seems neither scared, nor against the notion, simply apathetic. Through the doorway, I see her shrug. Consent, of sorts. Another phone call is made.
Unable to do anything else, I go upstairs and pack my mother a bag. I don’t know how long she is going for. Two or three days? A week? A fortnight? Yet again, I am cast into a situation where I don’t know the protocol. Do I pack normal clothes? Or pyjamas, like someone would wear at a ‘normal’ hospital, as opposed to a psychiatric institution (noun. Asylum. Related words: loony bin; nuthouse)? I end up grabbing a selection of clothes, so she can choose. I add her toiletry bag, her Kindle on top – in case she feels like reading.
An hour after this, a tall woman with a long face strides towards the doorway. She’s got the type of smile that lights up a room, her shoulders free from the hunch of worry. She’s not in a white coat, nor any uniform that connotes a medical background. An ambulance does not accompany her. She is in her own car.
The woman sweeps into the room and looks straight at my mother. She speaks only to her, as if the rest of us don’t exist.
‘Hello Kirsten, I’m Sue. I hear you’re having a hard time?’
I want to snort. A hard time? But I don’t. Psych professionals like Sue must have a doctor’s case full of understatements to cover every scenario and eventuality, designed not to trigger the patient.
Mum stands, her arms wrapped around her upper body. Tim places her coat around her shoulders, but she makes no effort to thread her arms through.
Sue looks to Tim. ‘You’re hubby, are you?’
Tim nods. A relieved smile plays on his lips, but a stab of guilt twists it downwards again. I can see the thoughts and emotions flicker across his strained features. He doesn’t want Mum to go. He wants to her to go. He doesn’t know.
Sue senses it too, because she pats his arm. She must have seen this reaction before. ‘She’ll be OK.’ Sue gives me her radiant smile as I step forward, Mum’s bag in my hands. ‘I’ll take that, shall I?’
But I don’t want to let it go. Not yet. ‘It’s OK, I’ll come out with you.’
Sue nods, extending an arm towards my mother. Mum takes it, striding out of the Coach House with her. She does not look back at her husband.
I pause to shoot a sympathetic glance at Tim, but he’s turned his face away. The doctor has one hand on my stepfather’s shoulder, as if he alone is holding him up. Should he let go, Tim will slump to the floor, his body unable to support him. I want to run over and hug my stepfather, but I don’t. Tim is old school. It would probably break him. He cannot be vulnerable in front of me.
So I race out after Sue and my mother. I clatter down the steps of the Coach House, handing over Mum’s bag. I give Mum a peck on the cheek, plus an uncustomary embrace. Mum recoils from my touch, then remembers to hug me back. I can smell her floral scent and momentarily, she’s my mother again. She rocks me, rubbing my back.
‘I love you, darling.’
‘I love you, Mum.’
But when Mum lets go, that lost look is back in her eyes. She glances from me to Sue, waiting for direction.
Sue leads her round the passenger side of the car and helps her get in, fastening her seatbelt for her.
Sue slides in behind the wheel, winding the window down. She winks at me. ‘We’ll take good care of her.’
Sue sets the car in motion, doing a three-point turn. I wave to my mother, but she’s gone again, staring out the side window like she did in the funeral car.
I watch the car retreat down the road, not moving but staying outside long after the vehicle has gone.
Thirty-six
At the hospital, there are more consultations for my mother. It is agreed Mum is not responding to medication the way they’ve hoped. Sue arrives, a familiar face, asking if there’s anything specific – ‘other than the obvious’ – that could be troubling my mother? Tim shakes his head, baffled.
I tell Tim I think Mum knew India had been living what I euphemistically call, ‘an alternative life’. But Tim surprises me and says they’d both known India was gay.
‘When did she tell you?’
Tim sighs. I can see it written all over his features: Does it matter? But he goes through the motions, for my benefit.
‘Not sure. Two, maybe three years ago.’
‘Why didn’t either of you tell me she’d come out?’
‘Because that’s India’s news.’ Tim is diplomatic, as ever. He doesn’t make return accusations like Mum would have: You should have called her and talked to her properly, asked her about her life. I can feel the sting of the truth of this myself.
This avenue of enquiry closed, I think instead of India’s blog. I speculate whether Mum could have known about whatever my sister had been up to with it.
So I read the codenames out to my mother when Tim is not at the hospital with her, searching for recognition in her eyes. I get none. I don’t share my concerns with Sue. I’m scared to, in case my mother is an accessory, somehow. But Mum can’t be involved. Surely not. Mum’s behaviour with Alan and Matthew has to be the product of a mind gone awry after the tragedy of losing India … nothing more, nothing less.
I concentrate, try to think like a gambler would. Growing up around the arcade, helping Tim with the slips, I’ve become used to measuring life in odds and likelihoods. ‘All’s fair in love and war … and money!’ Tim would quip, before emptying buckets of change into the coin sorters for the bank.
So, maybe Jayden could have had my sister erased in revenge … for breaking him and Ana up, making their relationship ‘complicated’, as Ana calls it on her Facebook profile? Maybe Jayden Spence is one of the other names … The Wolf? Frog King?
If I were a betting woman, I would put money on Jayden being Frog King. He was the type to play the Big I Am. He’d survey his kingdom, doing the least possible while ensuring his minions did all the heavy lifting. And as I already knew, he’d been distracted, playing away with JoJo. I recall the ball in my sister’s dream. The words of the frog – ‘They’ll never let her go’ – come to mind, and suddenly something clicks.
I know whose name is on the ball.
Thanks to Gordon’s love of publicity, I know where the Spences live. It’s a palatial, gated complex near Brighton Marina, made up of three large Victorian converted houses, linked together. I take a bus across town and stand outside the opulent, extravagant gates (the Spences have even created their own family crest, for God’s sake). It’s as if Gordon Spence has composed a list of everything you might find in a gazillionaire’s home and then demanded it be built.
