by Lisa Hall
‘Sorry,’ I pant, emerging from the trees like a mad woman. The lady, a woman I don’t recognize, looks at me in shock. ‘Sorry, I’m here now, you can let go of the pram.’
‘Is this your baby?’ She frowns at me, and I raise my hand, brushing back my hair. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, fine.’ I try to smile, try to stop my breath from catching in my throat. ‘Sorry, I thought I heard something in there. A child. I live the other side, you see …’
‘Right.’ She looks me up and down. ‘Well, you can’t go haring off and leaving your baby by the side of the road. Anything could have happened.’
‘I was only a few paces in, I was gone for a few seconds.’ Tears fill my eyes and I blink rapidly. By trying to protect my family, I have done something completely stupid and put my baby at risk. ‘I didn’t mean …’
‘No, well …’ The woman looks into the pram, seemingly uncomfortable with my tears. ‘Maybe you should get him home now, eh?’
I thank her and walk away quickly, limping on my still sore ankle. Stumbling over branches and twigs in my short sprint back to the baby didn’t help it. By the time I open the front door to the house I am ready for some strong painkillers, my throat thick with unshed tears. I lift the baby gently out of the pram, holding him close and inhaling his scent as my eyes fill, and I feel that familiar sting in the bridge of my nose. I can’t believe I did something so stupid. So risky. God forbid, if Naomi or Rav hear about this, I’ll really be in trouble. I make little shushing noises at the baby, holding his head close to my shoulder, feeling the weight of his tiny body across my chest. He snuffles, twisting his head away and I kiss his downy hair. I can’t let anything happen to either of my babies. I have to follow Miranda’s advice and get the bones and the witch’s ladder out of the house, or least get them out of my bedroom away from the baby. I feed him, blinking and shifting in the feeding chair so that I don’t doze off, and once he is finished, I lay him down in the cot and then pull out the book on witchcraft from under the mattress. Pausing briefly at the page on the witch’s ladder, I keep flicking through until I find a section on bones.
Bones can be used as part of a binding spell. It is believed that a witch can tap into the energy of the bones, thereby enabling her to use the bones to capture part of the spirit, binding them eternally. To break the binding, the bones should be buried in the earth, capturing the witch’s spirit and preventing her from doing further harm.
I feel cold, goosebumps rising on my arms as I push the book to one side and move to the drawers where I have hidden everything. Miranda said, to break the curse on the witch’s ladder a spell should be said over it as the knots are untied, but I don’t know any spells, and I don’t know if I can bear to touch it long enough to unpick the knots. Would burying everything work? If it works for the bones, then perhaps that will work for the witch’s ladder too.
The blanket is still on top, the bones and the ladder tucked underneath, but the moment I open the drawer it’s as if I can feel them. The air changes around me, growing thick and heavy and I think I can smell lavender again. I gingerly reach in and scoop up the bundle, making sure my skin doesn’t touch the hair or the feathers. I take it along the landing, without pausing to check on the movement in the woods below, and down the stairs out into the garden. The weather is still unseasonably warm for May, and the rosebush on the edge of the border is looking wilted and brown. Neither Rav nor I have thought to water the garden, and while the rosemary and mint are still going strong, some of the other plants are starting to look as if they are dying off. At the far end of the border, closest to the woods, I stop, laying the bundle on the ground. I will bury it all, I think, bury the bones and hair deep under the earth so that I don’t have to feel it anymore. Capturing the witch’s spirit and preventing her from doing further harm. Surveying the border, trying to ignore the overwhelming feeling of heaviness hanging over me, I look for the right spot to bury the items. I don’t want to bury them under the roses, chamomile or lavender – they are the healing plants of the garden and I don’t want the hair and bones to contaminate their goodness. I choke back a laugh. I sound like Miranda, believing in all this good and evil, witchcraft and superstition, but if I hadn’t felt the suffocating malice coming from the witch’s ladder, I probably wouldn’t have believed in it at all. It’s probably best to bury them at the opposite end of the garden, among the oleander, the foxgloves and the aconite. Rummaging in the tiny, run-down shed at the opposite corner to the border, I find a pair of old gloves, stiff with dirt and age and with a feeling of distaste, I slip them over my hands. I can’t risk touching most of the plants in that area but Rav will be less likely to notice that I’ve dug it up. He doesn’t seem to spend much time on the border, preferring to sit by the pond instead. I skirt my way past the pond, ripples shattering the surface as I disturb something, and then I begin to dig, in a small patch of earth between the foxgloves and the oleander bush. The faint scent from the flowers fills the air and I find myself taking shallow breaths, not wanting to breathe in their perfume. I have dug a small hole, the earth I’ve removed mounded up beside it, when my phone rings. Glancing down, I see Rav’s name. I have to take the call; Rav never calls during the day, he’s always too busy, and after what happened yesterday … I yank the gloves off, glad of the touch of a breeze that runs over my sweaty skin, and sit back on my haunches.
‘Hello?’
‘Al, it’s me.’ His voice crackles down the line and I shift slightly, looking at the screen. Only one bar of reception. ‘You sound out of breath. What are you up to?’
I realize I am panting slightly from the effort of digging and take a second to try and regulate my breathing. ‘My phone was downstairs; I was putting the baby down for a nap.’ I cross my fingers against the lie.
‘I just wanted to let you know, I made a doctor’s appointment for you. He can see you tomorrow morning.’
‘Rav …’ Irritation prickles and I have to temper my tone. ‘I can make my own doctor’s appointment. I’m not a child.’
‘No, I know,’ he says. ‘I just thought that maybe you—’
‘That I wouldn’t do it? That I’d go back on my word?’ My voice rises sharply and something behind me splashes into the murky water of the pond. Turning, I see more ripples, bigger this time and I turn my back, not wanting to see what it was. ‘Jesus, Rav, I said I would do it.’
‘I was going to say,’ he says, his voice tinged with impatience, ‘that I thought you might forget, that’s all. I thought I was doing you a favour. Had you already booked it?’
‘No,’ I say, shoving the small trowel into the dirt, ‘I hadn’t.’
‘Well then,’ Rav says, ‘good job I did, eh? One more thing you don’t have to think about today. Listen, how about we go out for dinner tonight?’
‘What about the children? The baby?’ Panic flutters in my chest at the thought of them being in the house, at night, in the dark, without me there to protect them. Without me there to watch over them all as they sleep, keeping an eye on the woods.
‘I’ll sort it, leave it all to me. I think we need to spend the evening together, on our own. I think perhaps I’ve not been as understanding as I should have been.’
‘No, Rav—’
‘I’ve got to go – I popped out of the meeting to call you. Leave it all to me, OK?’ The phone beeps in my hand. He’s hung up. I let out a long breath and pull the gloves back on. I’ll just have to go along with it and pretend it’s all OK. If we go somewhere close by, and only have a main – skip the starter and dessert – I can be back home within the hour. If I don’t go, then Rav might think that I am not OK, that I really do need to see the doctor – before all of this I would have jumped at the chance for the two of us to spend the evening alone. I dig the last few centimetres down into the dirt and lay the bones in first, followed by the pearls, then the witch’s ladder on top, taking care to make sure that the hair and feathers are tucked in neatly. I hold the blanket in my han
ds, tempted to throw that in too, before remembering that it belongs to Tara. What if she realizes she left it here, and comes back for it? I can’t exactly tell her I buried it in the garden. Instead, I fold it neatly and put it to one side, and begin to fill in the hole, watching as the grains of dirt tumble over the hair until it is buried completely. Nausea washes over me as they disappear beneath the soil, and for a fleeting moment there is a crushing heaviness, a sense of sorrow that is so acute I feel it as a pain in my chest. As I tamp over the loose soil, careful not to catch my skin on the toxic leaves of the aconite plant, I think I can feel eyes on me and I pause, sure that I hear my name whispered on the breeze. I peer into the trees from where I sit, my trowel in my hand, but there is nothing, no movement, no flash of white. Hurriedly, in a sudden spurt of panic, I get to my feet, convinced that despite the lack of movement in the trees, I am not alone. With one last glance over the border and sure that no one can tell that the earth has been disturbed, I hurry back inside, the blanket under one arm.
I hear the wailing as soon as I step into the kitchen. Raw, angry cries, desperate and ragged as if he has been crying for a long time. I forgot about him, the baby. Again. I left the baby monitor upstairs, so eager was I to get the bones and the ladder out of my house. I rush now, limping slightly, and throw the blanket onto the bed as I lean over and pull him close to me, his tiny body hot and damp with sweat.
‘Shhhh,’ I whisper, bouncing him in my arms. ‘I’m so sorry, baby, I’m so sorry.’ Sinking into the nursing chair, I latch him on, his cries stopping abruptly as he begins to feed. I rock slightly in the chair, my throat thick with grief, tears running down my cheeks. Maybe Rav is right, maybe there is something wrong. I left the baby and the monitor, left myself with no way of knowing if he was OK. But, a voice reasons at the back of my mind, a voice that sounds suspiciously like my mother’s, you were doing what was right for the baby and Mina. Getting those horrible things out of the house, away from the children. I relax, nodding to myself. I was doing the right thing, getting rid of it all. Now I am inside, away from the disturbed soil, it’s almost as if a weight has been lifted and the air in the bedroom feels lighter somehow, like the air after a storm.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I bend forward, peering into the mirror as I try to perfect my eyeliner, Mina bouncing on the bed behind me. I feel out of practice, it’s been months since I bothered with make-up, not since my last day working at The Daisy Chain, and my hand wobbles ever so slightly as I run the black pencil over my eyelids. Rav must be concerned about me, as he made it home early and is lying back on the bed, the baby sleeping across his chest.
‘Stop, Mina,’ I say, watching in the mirror as she starts to bounce again. ‘Daddy and the baby are lying there too.’ Rav holds out a hand and she scrambles over to him, tucking under his arm and nestling against his shoulder. ‘We don’t have to go out, you know,’ I say, turning to face him. ‘You guys look very comfortable there. I could go and get fish and chips and we could all snuggle together.’
‘Looking like that?’ Rav says, waggling his eyebrows at me. ‘No chance, lady. I want to take you out and show you off. Make all the boys jealous.’ He tickles Mina as he says it, making her giggle and squirm.
It was worth a try. Holding in a sigh I turn back to the mirror, brushing the mascara wand over my eyelashes. I’ve managed to find a dress that fits me, a dress from before I was pregnant. It actually fits surprisingly well and when I examine myself in the mirror, I realize that perhaps I have lost more weight than I first thought. I still have the smallest remainder of a belly, but my arms look thin and there are shadows in the hollows of my collarbones. Slicking pale pink lipstick over my mouth, I hold my arms out and walk over to the bed. Rav reaches up as if to pull me down.
‘No!’ A laugh bubbles out, surprising even me. ‘I’ve just got ready! Give me the baby, I’ll put him down.’ I take him, holding him close for a moment before laying him in the cot. ‘Won’t be long,’ I whisper, hearing Rav saying goodnight to Mina, the bedroom door closing until only a small gap remains. I meet him on the landing, let him take my hand and lead me down the stairs. Everything feels wonderfully normal for the first time in months – or at least, it would if I could erase the memory of Rav and Naomi, the words postpartum psychosis hanging in the air between them. I am making a concerted effort tonight to not mention the house, Agnes, or any of the strange things that have happened.
‘What time did you book the table for?’ I ask. Rav has booked a table at a pub nearby, one that was a favourite of ours before we had the baby.
‘Eight o’clock,’ he says. I glance at the clock on the sitting-room wall. It’s already seven thirty.
‘What time will Avó be here? She’s cutting it a bit fine.’ I would have thought she would have arrived long before now, in time to help – or rather interfere – with the children’s bedtime routines. I expected her to arrive before dinner, bringing food for Rav with her, as she has done so often before. She doesn’t approve of my ‘bland’ cooking.
‘Oh, Avó couldn’t do tonight. She’s annoyed with me, of course, for wanting to go out on her bridge night. She can’t let her partner down apparently.’ Rav shrugs and opens the door to the understairs cupboard, rooting around for his new trainers.
‘Avó isn’t coming?’ I raise my eyes to the landing, to the rooms where the children are sleeping. ‘I thought you said leave it to you. Bloody hell, Rav, who have you got to look after the children?’ Please don’t let it be Naomi.
‘Evie,’ he says, finally pulling his head out of the cupboard, trainers dangling from his fingers. ‘Evie said she was free and she’s looking for some extra money. She’s saving to go travelling, Naomi said.’
‘Oh.’ I don’t know how I feel. I would have preferred Avó to come. In fact, I’d now quite like to tell Rav that that’s it, I definitely don’t want to go out. ‘Are you sure?’ I catch sight of his face. His expression is mild annoyance – perhaps at the realization of what I am about to say – mixed with something else. It’s the something else – fear? Suspicion? – that makes me keep my mouth shut. The children are asleep, they won’t even know that Evie is here. And at least it isn’t Naomi. I couldn’t bear to come home and see her holding the baby, looking for all the world like she belongs here instead of me.
Before I can say anything, the doorbell rings and Rav opens the door to Evie on the step. It’s the first time I’ve met her properly and she looks even younger than I imagined.
‘Come through.’ I force the words out, trying to smile, dropping it when it feels tight across my face. ‘Let me just show you where everything is.’ I wait until we are in the kitchen before I ask her, ‘Do you have any experience? I don’t mean to be rude it’s just …’
‘I know, they’re your babies.’ Evie smiles. ‘Yes, I have lots of experience. My aunt has two children that I babysit a lot, and I am the eldest of six, so …’
‘Six? Gosh.’
Rav appears, sliding his hand around my waist. ‘So, nothing to worry about, Al. Evie has tons of experience and she has my number if anything happens. Shall we go?’
I have no reason to say no. But that doesn’t stop me from turning back and watching the house as we drive away, out of the village, a sensation like an itch between my shoulder blades telling me that I shouldn’t be leaving the children. That I’ve made the wrong choice.
The pub is dimly lit, and I am glad of it, hoping that Rav can’t tell how jittery and anxious I feel. My knee bounces under the table as I wait for him to return from the bar and I lay my hand on it in an effort to stop it.
‘I ordered you the fish pie, is that OK?’ Rav hands me a small glass of white wine as he sits opposite me, a pint of ale in his other hand. I nod, but I have no appetite. ‘This is nice, eh? Just the two of us. It feels like it’s been ages since it was just us.’ His hand slides across the table and I let his fingers squeeze mine. ‘I love you, Al. Whatever happens, remember that.’ He raises my hand and pre
sses his lips to my palm. As he does so, a shadow flickers across his face in the dim lighting and for a moment he is unrecognizable.
Whatever happens? What does that mean? I open my mouth to ask him, but he is talking again, about the case he’s working on, generic stuff, and I tune out letting my mind wander. What does he mean by that? Maybe it’s nothing, but still, it’s an odd thing to say. The waitress brings our food. By the time it arrives I think I am hungry, the wine enhancing my appetite, but when she lays the plate in front of me the scent of fish and cream wafts up and I think for a moment I’ll be sick.
‘Excuse me, I just need to …’ I get up, head to the ladies’. The air is cool in the bathroom, and I splash my cheeks gently with cold water, careful not to smudge my make-up. The nausea dies away as I draw in some deep breaths and I grip the sink tightly with both hands until I feel ready to face Rav again. It’s fine, everything is fine.
‘OK?’ His phone is in his hands as I approach, and he drops it to the table, clicking the side button to darken the screen. His steak sits half eaten on the plate, and my fish pie is cold and congealing.
‘Yes. Fine. How’s your steak?’ I pretend I haven’t seen him on his phone and pick up my fork, taking the tiniest bite of mashed potato.
‘Really good, I’ve missed this place.’ He spears a piece of meat and I keep my eyes on my plate, the nausea still not quite gone for good. Rav starts talking again, but I can’t concentrate. My mind is at home with the children, wondering if they are OK, if they are still asleep. Wondering if Agnes is walking the landing, filling the space left by my absence. I glance towards the window, to where the sky is turning a deep indigo. I wonder if the fox is in the garden, if the trees are silent. I wonder whether Evie has heard the scratching, what she thinks of it.
‘… Naomi.’ Her name is the only part of Rav’s sentence that I catch.
