by Emma Cooper
‘Fine. But you’re acting like a child. The computer is easier for you to see and hear, but if you want to waste your time trying to find Sophie on that, be my guest.’ She storms off into the kitchen. The TV is on as always but from where I am sitting, from where my brace stops me from lifting my head, I can only see the top left corner of it. There is no talking, just high-speed background music; I don’t know what is happening on the screen: I haven’t a clue. My throat is filled with a lump full of fear and I don’t know how I will ever swallow it. I feel the tears on my face before I even know I’m crying.
Mam walks in; I can tell by the sound of her wiping her still-damp hands from the washing-up on her jeans.
‘Sarah! You get in here this instant! You’ve made your brother cry!’
I laugh through my tears as Sarah stomps into my view. She rolls her eyes at me.
‘Some things never change,’ she grumbles, passing me a tissue. ‘He was mean to me first,’ she says.
‘That’s no excuse.’
I wipe my eyes and stick my tongue out at my sister as Mam turns away.
‘Mam! Mule’s sticking his tongue out at me!’ she grins.
‘Will the two of you just behave?’ she answers, her voice fading as she disappears back to the kitchen.
‘Can you get me the laptop, please?’ I ask, making a truce.
Sarah goes home and I spend the next few hours letting Google lead me to dead ends. The robotic voice reading out the entire internet address is irritating, but I suppose I’ll get used to it. It reads out hairdressers, elderly ladies, surfing instructors; it feels like the whole of Wales is populated by Sophie Williamses. I know that looking for her like this is a long shot to say the least, but I can’t stop. I’m getting angry with the robot, as though this voice belongs to a little man inside the internet, telling me things that I don’t want to hear.
Mam delivers jars of tea and changes the channel to watch the friendly between England and France; Mam is in love with Harry Kane.
My sister bounds into the room, making me jump.
‘For the love of all things that are holy, Sarah! I almost had a Tena lady moment!’
‘Mule. Repeat after me.’ She clears her throat. ‘I, Samuel McLaughlin, agree, now and for the rest of my life, that my sister is superior to me in every way.’
‘In your fecking dreams,’ I mumble. Mam clips me around the back of the head.
‘Say it.’
‘No.’
‘Say it and I’ll pass you this piece of paper that happens to have Sophie Williams’s phone number written on it.’
‘That’s not funny, Sarah. You know Sammy is in an emotional state at the moment,’ Mam chastises.
‘I’m not joking. It turns out that once I used my Irish charm and told Sophie’s assistant at Sandwell Incorporated what an utter arse my useless brother is, she gave me her number. No address, mind . . . I was treading on thin ice for a while, but once I explained how truly pathetic you are—’
‘Give it here!’ I say, standing.
‘Not until you say it!’
She backs away slowly, flashes of the paper interrupting my vision of her face.
‘Fine!’ I cross my fingers behind my back. ‘I, Samuel McLaughlin, agree that my stupid fecking sister is superior to me.’
‘In every way,’ she reminds.
‘In every way, now give me the number.’ I snatch it from her grasp and sit back down, flapping the paper in front of my face, scanning it.
My hand is shaking as I tap the numbers into the phone. It rings, the three of us ignoring the roar from the crowd on the screen as someone makes a play for the goal.
‘Hello?’ she answers, and I smile.
‘Sophie?’
I’ve found her.
Week Eighteen
Sophie
It’s the beginning of June – bare legs, children with sticky fingers and melting ice-cream cones dribble along the streets – but I’m shivering as though it’s the middle of November.
I take some deep breaths and get out of the car, then steady myself with a hand resting on the hot surface of the bonnet as my head swims and my legs take a moment to find their anchor. This keeps happening. The Book says my blood pressure will be lower than normal, so to take care standing too quickly, but I keep forgetting. Bean is the size of a red pepper this week and as I glance down, leaning forward to catch my breath, my tummy is leaning against the car. Bean is getting bigger; there is no denying it.
How much longer can I deny the fact that this baby has a living, breathing father who doesn’t know anything about it?
He has a right to know.
I push this thought away as the passengers from Helen’s train pour out of the station, the flood of people slowing to a trickle until I spot her at the back.
‘Hi!’ I say over-enthusiastically, kissing her cheek and ignoring the pallor of her skin and the way she is avoiding my eyes. ‘How was the journey?’
‘Hot, stuffy and full of drunk rugby players.’
‘Oh, the usual, then? We’re just here.’ I point to the car.
We make small talk through the journey to the cottage, the conversation dropping off as we approach the gate. I turn off the ignition as Charlie steps out of his door, gives an abrupt wave and then disappears back inside.
‘So that’s Charlie, I take it?’ Helen questions as she follows me towards the door.
‘Yep. He’s, um, he’s one of a kind.’ I turn the key in the door and step inside. I turn to Helen, who I can see is on the verge of tears, her feet rooted to the spot.
‘It’s just a house, Helen.’ I try to repeat Mum’s words as I take her hand in mine. She gives me a tight smile and steps in.
I lead her into the kitchen and her face changes.
‘Oh Sophie . . . it’s beautiful.’ Her fingers run along the work surfaces. ‘It feels so different.’ I smile as I pour us drinks and lead her into the lounge. ‘Is that her chair?’ she asks, striding towards it.
‘Yes, I’ve had it re-upholstered. Do you like it?’
She nods, a tear rolling down her cheek. ‘She would have loved it.’
‘Are you . . . are you ready to go outside?’ I ask. Her chest expands as she inhales, then smiles. ‘Yes. I think I am.’
‘So you helped her?’
Helen nods as she takes in the tea party table, touching everything in the same way that I had. We sit down on the old rug, my movements to the ground slower than they used to be.
‘It was supposed to be an early birthday surprise because Dad wasn’t going to be back until late. She wanted you to have something special for your birthday. We spent all day making things: marmalade, sandwiches . . . We found the tea set in the old charity shop in town, you know the one she loved? That was weeks before, that’s what gave her the idea. She was so happy that day . . . We made you a birthday cake, nothing fancy, just a Victoria sponge, but we used the last of the sugar.’ Her voice catches in the back of her throat and I put my hand on her leg.
‘Take your time, I’m not going anywhere.’
‘I had asked her if we could make jam tarts . . . “You can’t have an Alice in Wonderland tea party without jam tarts,” I’d told her.’
‘But you hate jam tarts,’ I interrupt, but her sad smile tells me all I need to know.
‘I remember her opening and closing the cupboards, looking behind the cereal boxes, behind the tins, but we didn’t have enough sugar. She tried to convince me that we could make Rice Krispie cakes instead, but I was adamant that I’d go and get some sugar.
‘I went into town on my red bike, do you remember it? I was at uni then and felt stupid riding a bike with a basket on the front. It was a sunny day, the storm that came that night was nowhere to be seen. I saw your bus go past in town. I waved but you were facing the other way. I was too long in town . . . I went to the craft shop and bought some lace to go around the edges of the “Eat Me, Drink Me” labels. I was thirsty too, so I sat on the beach with a
Coke. It was a red can – the full-sugar one – I don’t know why I remember that.’
She looks into the distance for a moment. ‘I finished it all before I cycled home. You must have already been and gone by then, we’d forgotten about your sleepover. By the time I got back . . . she was already—’ Her voice is almost a whisper and I have to lean forward to hear her. ‘She was already dead. And he had gone. I knew he hadn’t left long ago because I could smell him, you know that Old Spice that he used to wear . . . I could smell it.’ My mouth fills with water, the stench of the memory of him almost making me gag. ‘There was flour,’ she chokes on the words, ‘on the floor.’ I reach for her hand but she’s oblivious; lost in the past, in the memories she’s kept hidden away. ‘I cleaned it up, I suppose I was worried it would spoil your surprise. She was so still, Sophie.’
She meets my eyes with hers. I want her to stop talking but want to hear every last thing at the same time. ‘You don’t know how still someone who is dead is. I know that sounds stupid, but she was just so still. Every living thing moves, doesn’t it? Even just a little bit, flowers, leaves, trees, insects . . . I used to stare at things like that, at the way they moved . . . I’d never really noticed before how all things living move, even if it’s just a fraction of a movement . . . they still move.’ She shakes her head, collecting herself and straightening her shoulders. ‘It was my fault. If I’d been quicker, if he’d had the sugar for his tea, he wouldn’t have lost his temper. That’s what he said in the trial, wasn’t it? There was no sugar for his tea and he “just saw red”. If I had gone straight home, she would still be alive, you would still have a mum. I’m sorry, Sophie. I’m so sorry.’
She begins to cry then. I’ve never seen her cry like this, as though she has collapsed into herself: her spine, her ribcage, her chin, they all seem to shrink and crumble; the pain she has been hiding away manifesting itself and revealing my sister. She is broken.
Anger and hurt surge through me.
‘It wasn’t your fault, Helen.’ I say the words but I know they are sliding off her shoulders, floating away; she’s not even trying to hold on to them. ‘Helen, listen to me.’ I grab hold of her shoulders, trying to pull them back up to where they should be, trying to stop them sinking into her waist. She looks up at me, her eyelids red and swollen. ‘It’s not your fault. He did this. He killed her, not you, not me . . . Ian killed her. All you did was sit on a beach and drink a can of pop. Are you listening? All you did was drink a can of pop.’
I heave myself up and head into the kitchen, returning with a red can of Coke.
‘Drink it,’ I say, peeling back the ring pull. Her hand is shaking as she reaches for it. Hours of washing up and cleaning a house full of children has aged her skin, but they are still the same hands that held mine while we read stories and ignored the thuds from downstairs, the muffled sobs behind closed doors. The wind blows her dark hair back from her face as she lifts the can to her lips. I watch the gold chain around her neck rise and fall as she swallows it. Her eyes lift to meet mine.
‘That is all you did . . . now tell me, where is the crime in that?’
Her shoulders lift a little, her arm unwraps itself from around her waist and her spine straightens back into shape, a smile beginning to form on her lips as she takes another sip. Her body expands, filling the cracks and holes, beginning to fix what was broken.
Week Eighteen
Samuel
I’m free. At least that’s what it feels like. The brace has been removed, my ligaments are fixed; I can move my head up and down, my cast has been removed and I can walk easily.
This new-found freedom has helped me, for a small time at least. I can see more of the world now I can lift my head up and I’m embracing this freedom with a trip to the pub for lunch. Walking here wasn’t too bad. This is a place I’m familiar with: I know where to cross the road; I know that there is a step going up into the beer garden because I fell down it on my eighteenth birthday. I’m trying to push aside the feelings of fear that keep welling up. How will it be, for instance, when my sight goes if I don’t know that the pub I’m about to walk into has that step? How will I cross the road without getting hit by a car? Here, there are very few crossings with flashing green men; I don’t need them yet because I know where I’m going, but how will I know when I cross a road back in DC? I know that there are flashing lights at some of the crossings, but I can’t remember there being a beeper on all of them . . . is there braille? Will I have to learn braille? What about if I go on holiday to, I don’t know, Crete? Will there be sounds to let me know when I can cross? I doubt it.
I go to the bar and order a pint then take it out into the garden, remembering to step up and making it to one of the picnic tables outside. The sun is warm on my back as I open my laptop, plug in my headphones and type into the search bar. I’m going back over every step that we have tried so far. I’ve come here to research without the worried looks of my family. After the phone call they have acted different about my search for Sophie. Sarah thinks she hung up on me, Mam thinks she hung up on me and Da thinks I need to sow my oats a bit before my white stick puts girls off – before I don’t know if I’ve pulled a looker or an absolute troll.
‘Mr McLaughlin!’ Mam had shouted.
‘Don’t you be getting on your high horse, Mrs M, I’m only saying it like it is. He can’t go feeling the girl, now can he? How’s he going to know if she’s a beast?’
The conversation had continued but I couldn’t help but think that Da had a point. How would I know?
I’m double-checking the Fast Fix garages in Shropshire, the robot voice reeling off the list. I take the headphones off as I try another search, but the reading of the web address drives me insane. I’m about to replace the headphone when I hear my name.
‘Sam?’ I turn my head towards a woman’s voice that sounds familiar; she is saying goodbye to a couple of others, air-kissing and promising to speak soon. Parts of her friends are soon hidden in the mist as she walks towards me and I shift my head to try and get a glimpse of her face. The tunnel will soon claim my ability to see whole faces when they are close up; instead I will see segments.
‘Isabella?’ I smile up at her and hope she can’t tell how strange it still feels to have a person’s face surrounded by pitch-black, almost as if it is being focused through a camera lens. She looks good, but then that was always half of the problem. The other problem of our relationship was how similar we were and how little patience we had with each other. I was a mess when she finally ended it, though. Long legs, tiny waist, big boobs and an insatiable appetite, for sex as well as food.
‘Long time no see.’
I bite back a witty retort as she sits down opposite. ‘May I?’ she asks. I presume she means to sit down, but she has moved too quickly to the right for me to catch her face. I do catch a glimpse of her long brown legs when she re-arranges her skirt as she sits. ‘I thought I was meeting my friends for lunch, but it turns out it was just a Diet Coke before a trip to the gym. Is it even worth the trip to the pub if all you’re going to have is a Diet Coke? A little birdy told me you were back, so, how are you? I hear you were in an accident?’ She reaches over through the shadows and touches the scars along my cheek, making me jump. I’d forgotten how physical she always was. ‘Sorry, does it hurt?’ she asks, taking her hand away and holding her straw between her teeth.
‘No, not really, not any more. It’s good to see you,’ I say sincerely.
‘You too.’
‘So, what’s new with you? Are you married? Kids?’
‘Christ, no.’ I hear her rummaging in her bag, and I take a sip of my drink as the smell of cigarette smoke fills the air. I watch her lips as she blows out a plume of smoke. ‘I’m no good at relationships as you well know.’
‘Yeah,’ I smile at her, ‘I remember.’
‘You’re not great at it either as I recall, we were always arguing.’
‘That doesn’t mean I’m not good at relationsh
ips, I’m just no good at relationships with you.’
‘Fair point. So who is she?’ I watch her suck on the end of her cigarette, exhaling the smoke and taking another sip of her drink.
‘Who?’
‘The girl who you are good at relationships with.’
‘Ah . . . it’s a long story,’ I say, running my finger around the rim of my glass.
‘I’d best order some lunch then, I’m starving.’
‘Some things never change.’ I smile at her.
‘Why do you keep looking at me like that?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like you don’t want to look at my face.’
‘Even longer story.’
‘Let’s order pudding as well, unless you have somewhere else to be?’
I think of the robot voice probably still reading out the web address and I picture the worried looks passing over the dinner table last night as I knocked over my drink again.
‘Is the steak sandwich here still good?’ I ask, as I watch her lick her bottom lip then smile, afraid to move my head up and take a look at her eyes, in case I look odd when I try to focus. For one more minute, I just want to be the man she remembers, the confident rugby player who didn’t have dark edges suffocating the world around him.
Week Nineteen
Sophie
Bean is moving. It feels like tiny bubbles bursting against the inside of my tummy, just below my belly button. I hadn’t really noticed it until I was trying to go to sleep last night. The bubbles are popping rapidly this morning; it started after I drank a cold glass of apple juice. I love the idea that the cold liquid had woken Bean up, and that I was able to know what was happening inside that little cocoon.
I put my hand to my tummy again, but nothing can be felt from the outside. For a second, I can see Samuel’s smiling face, picture him putting his hand to my stomach. I miss him. My hand reaches for my new phone and I tap in his number and add it as a contact. I don’t dial it. But I like having it there.
