Mr and Mrs Nelson look at their daughter, then at each other, with bewildered expressions.
Mrs Nelson takes a sip of wine, swallows, and dabs her pink lips with a napkin. ‘Now, why would you say something like that, baby?’
‘I don’t know. I was just thinking.’
‘What were you just thinking?’ Mrs Nelson saws her slice of beef. The room is silent and very warm.
‘Nothing.’
Sticking out her tongue a fraction of an inch, Mrs Nelson raises her fork and the tender mouthful goes in. She holds the handle of the knife in her fingertips, with her little finger poised in a delicate hook.
By now I’m sitting forward in my chair, eagerly waiting to hear what Katie says next. I hope Mrs Nelson doesn’t interrupt and put Katie off this line of reasoning.
‘He probably got bored of being nagged by his Mrs all the time!’ Mr Nelson drags his fork over his plate, scraping up all the gravy and lifting it quickly, dripping, to his mouth. ‘Big bossy-boots, that one. Two screaming kids. Not that I think he should’ve done it.’
Mrs Nelson looks at her husband indulgently. ‘Don’t you go getting ideas, now!’
‘Wouldn’t know which car to take!’ He laughs, but he looks a bit sheepish. Then he turns to Katie with a sombre face and says, ‘stop dwelling on it.’
Mrs Nelson nods. ‘Ten-year-old girls don’t try and top themselves. When she’s better and the doctors talk to her, they’ll find it was all a terrible mistake. She probably thought they were sweeties.’
‘People should be more careful. Strong pills like that. Lying about in the house.’
Mrs Nelson nods vigorously, eyes me, and swallows a mouthful of wine.
Katie frowns at a roast potato. ‘But,’ she says, turning to me, ‘what about that funny game we saw Mr Phillips playing with Helen, where she hid down behind the counter, then he did the Flamingo dance on her face?’
Mrs Nelson blanches. ‘What dance on her face?’
I want to see what shape Katie has created out of all the pieces, but she seems nervous about starting.
‘You tell them, Lizzie. You must’ve seen it loads of times, but I only saw it once.’
I shake my head. ‘No, you say.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ Mr Nelson shouts, jumping up.
Katie doesn’t sound as confident as she did. She starts to whine. ‘I only saw it once. Helen was crouching down. He did this jiggly dance in her face, then she ran into the shop and he used tissues on her hands. Lizzie says it’s called Flamingo. That’s right, isn’t it, Lizzie?’ There’s panic in Katie’s voice.
Suddenly Mr Nelson turns on me. ‘Another one of your tall stories?’
‘No, Dad! It’s true! She didn’t make it up. I saw it too.’
Mrs Nelson rushes around the table and cradles Katie’s head in her arms.
‘I’ll deal with this.’ Mr Nelson throws his napkin on the table and marches towards the phone. We hear him asking for the police. After a pause, he says, ‘No, the man disappeared a couple of weeks ago.’
I can see Katie’s eyes peeping out of Mrs Nelson’s fleshy arms like a crocodile in a swamp, but unlike a crocodile she’s looking out with extreme alarm. I try to give her a reassuring smile, but I can’t get my mouth to smile properly because I know this situation spells big trouble for me.
****
Mon 27th February
‘Help me hide!’ I whimper.
‘Are they here?’ Katie turns pale.
‘They’re going to lock me up!’
We’ve known they were coming since last night. I paced the bedroom all night trying to work out a plan. I wanted to disappear like Mr Phillips, but I couldn’t be sure whether or not there was a police car waiting outside the house, watching, ready to arrest me. And unlike Mr Phillips, I had no get-away vehicle, not even a bike.
My knees feel like jelly. I fling open Katie’s wardrobe door, pull all the clothes out of the cubby-hole, and try to climb in. But the hiding place is too high up and I’m shaking too much to be able to get inside.
I race downstairs and disappear through the connecting door into Mr Nelson’s garage just as the two figures approach the frosted glass. The doorbell rings.
It feels like ages before they come to get me. I’m underneath the Ford Capri in a pool of black oil.
First of all, a pair of sensible brown shoes appears by the front wheel, attached to slim ankles in grey tights.
‘Hello Elizabeth.’
The woman has a husky voice a bit like Rebecca’s. She doesn’t try to bend down to get a look at me. She just stands there. I stare at her feet silently.
‘I’m Barbara Foster, the social worker assigned to this case. There’s no need to be scared. This isn’t your fault. We just need to ask you some questions. We’ve spoken to your mum, and she knows we’re here.’
‘Where’s my dad? I want my dad.’ I’ve got no control over what I’m saying.
The feet shift. ‘Unfortunately we couldn’t get hold of your dad. But your mum phoned you this morning, didn’t she? She’s sorry she can’t be here while we talk to you. She needs to stay at the hospital with your sister.’
‘Why can’t you bring my dad?’ I’m whimpering like a dog.
‘We tried. He simply wasn’t contactable, I’m afraid. Perhaps you would like Mr or Mrs Nelson to be in the room when we talk to you? Your mum suggested Mrs Nelson.’
Before I can think, my mouth says, ‘Mr Nelson.’ I don’t know why I said his name instead of Mrs Nelson’s. I imagine Mrs Nelson pursing her lips and saying, ‘suit yourself, little madam.’
‘Are you coming out, then, Elizabeth?’ the woman with sensible shoes asks gently. ‘Sorry we can’t bring your dad. You get on well with him, by the sound of it?’
Even though I know she’s using the voice grownups adopt when they want to manipulate children, I can’t help thinking Barbara Foster sounds quite nice. She seems interested in what I think and feel. And this is the first time anybody’s noticed how close I am to my dad.
‘I’m just like him,’ I tell her as I emerge from my safe place.
Barbara Foster has light brown hair and a smile that stretches all the way across her face. She leans over slightly in my direction, but she doesn’t try to help me stand up.
‘Let’s go through when you’re ready. There’s no need to hurry. Take your time. You’ll need to change out of that top. It’s all oily!’
Barbara Foster is a social worker, and I know for a fact that social workers, like teachers and nurses, are obliged to help and not harm vulnerable young people like me. But the other woman standing in the Nelsons’ living-room, the tall one, turns out to be from the police. I’ve walked into a trap. At first I think she’s another social worker because she isn’t wearing her uniform, but when she introduces herself, I sit down with a thump.
They stay in the living-room and interview Katie first, with Mr and Mrs Nelson present. I have to wait upstairs to stop me escaping again. I put on my black Dorothy Perkins top.
There are far too many grownups in this house for my liking.
After a while, I sneak out and hover at the top of the stairs with the dog. We both listen. I strain to hear what they’re saying, but can’t decipher the murmuring sounds. At least nobody’s shouting. Nobody’s getting angry.
I walk over to Katie’s bedroom and look out of the window at the creek. White smoke curls out of the bone factory chimneys.
All I wanted was for their secret games to stop and for him to pay me a little bit of attention. That’s not too much to ask. Now their secret has caught me and wrapped itself round me like underwater netting tangled in a rudder.
The living-room door opens, releasing voices into the hall. One of the strange women laughs. Perhaps this interview won’t be too bad after all.
Barbara Foster comes upstairs. ‘Okay, Elizabeth. We’re ready to ask you a few questions now. Don’t look so worried. It’s okay! There’s nothing to be scared of. Nobody’s going to accus
e you of anything.’
The last thing I see before going downstairs is the creek mud glistening in the winter sunshine, sprinkled with gulls, outside Katie’s window.
Now it’s Katie’s turn to wait upstairs with Mrs Nelson. I try to read Katie’s expression as we pass each other at the living-room door, but she offers no clues except a look of immense relief.
‘We have come here to ask you a few questions,’ the policewoman says. She has a pointed nose with a wart growing out of one nostril. I don’t like the sound of her voice, cold and official. ‘Your mother knows we are talking to you today. Is that your understanding, too?’
I can’t stop staring at the wart.
‘Is that correct, Elizabeth?’
I briefly catch Mr Nelson’s eye. He nods. I nod.
When Rebecca phoned this morning, she said we need to find out exactly what’s been going on with Helen in recent months, and that I must help with any information I can offer. She kept repeating herself, saying I must be truthful and not hide anything. I must tell them exactly what I’ve seen. But what would change if I told them the truth? Are secrets the same as lies? Can I reveal Helen’s secret without also revealing my lies?
‘I’ll write things down as we talk,’ the policewoman says. ‘This is to make sure we get your answers right. To start with, Elizabeth, can you tell us your full name and address?’
I’ve seen this kind of thing on telly, where the detective pretends not to have any information at all, not even a person’s name or address, and this causes the suspect to become falsely confident. As a consequence, the suspect digs a deep, muddy hole and climbs into it without even knowing that the hole is there. But I don’t want to get off to a bad start with this tall warty woman, so I tell her my name and address, speaking carefully, all the while examining each word to find out whether I’m still balanced on the edge of the hole, or whether I’m trapped inside it yet.
‘Thank you,’ she says, writing in her notepad.
‘Well done,’ says Barbara Foster enthusiastically, as if I’ve passed an exam. ‘Would you like a drink of something?’
I nod, and she pours me a glass of Pepsi from the bottle on the table. As she puts the glass on the table in front of me, she smiles. The bubbles dance like midges on the surface of a pond. ‘You’re doing fine! I expect you’re feeling a bit strange, aren’t you, having to stay here and not being at home with your mum?’
‘I always come here. She works late.’
‘I see.’ Barbara Foster looks over at the tall warty one.
Mr Nelson says gruffly, ‘never at home.’ I can’t work out if he’s referring to me or Rebecca.
In my opinion, these two women are not particularly intelligent. They are missing a solid gold opportunity to find out everything. When Barbara Foster discovered me in my hiding place, I was too terrified to tell anything but the whole unbroken truth. Now, even though these two are pretending to be professional with their notebooks and pens, they still haven’t asked me a single proper question. The tall warty one can’t even be bothered to wear her police uniform and badges.
‘Let’s move on now, shall we?’ she says. ‘I want to ask you about some people from the village. Mr and Mrs Phillips at the shop. Do you know them?’
‘Yes of course.’
‘Do you know when they moved in?’
‘Last summer.’ I remember the lumbering shadow of the removal lorry, the warm air, the light evening, and the way Mr Phillips flitted through the shop and stopped directly in front of me, smiling.
‘How often did you go to the shop when they first came?’
‘Not much.’
‘And your sister, Helen. Do you know how often she visited the shop?’
‘I don’t know. Hardly ever.’ I can’t bring myself to look at the policewoman’s face in case she sees I’m lying.
‘Did she go there when the shop was shut?’
‘I can’t remember. Maybe.’
‘Try to remember. Do you know if Helen went to the shop when Mrs Phillips was out?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Come on!’ Mr Nelson interrupts. ‘Katie’s already told us. You tell the truth, now!’
The social worker hushes Mr Nelson, saying she and her colleague will ask all the questions. ‘Did your mother know when Helen was at the shop?’ she asks gently.
Barbara Foster is okay because I can answer all her questions easily. Whenever I speak or lift my head, she nods at me encouragingly and smiles.
‘No,’ I say. ‘She just went up there whenever she wanted.’
‘How did you know she was there, not somewhere else?’ the policewoman asks.
We are moving into extremely dangerous territory. I wish Barbara Foster would interrupt and tell the tall warty one how well I’m doing.
Now the policewoman’s questions are direct and swift like darts. What’s worse, she acts as if she knows all the answers already. Mr Nelson won’t take his eyes off me. I feel as if I’m trapped in a dome of glass like the bird on the mantelpiece, being stared at by all these grownups.
I try to be as evasive as possible. I can’t work out whether revealing Helen’s secret is the same as telling the truth because the truth includes all the things I’ve done alongside my sister’s games with him. Helen has kept a secret whereas I have told lies. Is there a difference between the two? Secrets are clean and transparent, while lies are dirty and blurred. When I tell a lie, each part of the story forms a layer that sits on top of the other layers. There’s no firm kernel hiding underneath, waiting to be found.
But now I’m lying about Helen’s secret.
‘Let’s move on. The doctors say your sister swallowed a lot of pills. Is that right?’
I nod. My heart’s racing.
‘Do you know why she swallowed all those pills?’
If I’m not careful, the details of the Valentine’s card will emerge and then I’ll be in trouble.
‘Please can I go to the loo?’ I ask the social worker. Mr Nelson snorts. Maybe they don’t call it a loo in this house. Maybe I should call it a toilet.
‘Of course. I’ll take you.’
‘I know where it is.’
‘I’ll accompany you. I’ll wait just here for you to finish.’ She stands in the corridor.
As I lock the door and sit down, a disorderly queue of questions jostles my mind. I need to give these people a clear story, one which will take them off the scent of how I saw Helen in the shop with him those times. I need to offer one simple statement to make them sympathise with me and to stop them talking about my sister as if she’s the special one.
Barbara Foster breaks the silence. Her voice sounds muffled and sad through the door. ‘We know this is hard for you, Elizabeth. We’re sorry we have to ask you these questions.’
We return to the living-room and sit down.
‘Actually, I think he was secretly in love with me,’ I say.
‘Who was in love with you?’ the policewoman asks. ‘Please be specific.’
‘Him. Mr Phillips.’ It’s much easier to pretend to reveal a secret than to untangle the series of lies you’ve told.
‘What makes you say this?’ the policewoman asks carefully.
At last I feel the finger of suspicion moving away from me. Now the two women ask a lot of questions about him. I describe how he taught me to juggle with clementines, how he put his hands on my shoulders and legs, how he taught me lots of different card tricks and games, and how we finally danced Flamingo on the blue and grey lino.
Unfortunately the tall warty woman keeps interrupting my flow with stupid questions like ‘do you know what time it was?’ and ‘what was the weather like?’ She obviously isn’t concentrating on her job because she keeps repeating the questions she asked before, confusing me.
‘Did you say apples or clementines?’
‘Apples. I think I said apples.’
‘What time was it when you juggled with the apples?’
‘Did you forget
to write my answers down or something?’ I demand. ‘I answered all these questions already.’
Barbara Foster smiles at me and says there’s nothing to worry about. They want to double-check that my information is correct. Now I see what’s going on. They’re deliberately trying to corner me because I can’t remember what I said earlier on.
‘What time was it when you juggled with the apples?’
‘Was it four o’clock?’ I ask.
Mr Nelson’s staring at the carpet, frowning.
‘Did your mother know when you were at the shop?’ Barbara Foster asks.
‘I didn’t mention it to Rebecca,’ I reply.
‘Rebecca? Do you always call her that?’ the social worker asks.
The policewoman writes something in her notepad.
After that I shut my trap because if there’s one thing I want at the moment, it’s for Rebecca to come back to number eleven so we can all return to normal. I think it’s about time my mother took responsibility for the neglected members of her family. I can’t possibly allow my answers to prevent her from returning home, so I sit in silence and try to think of a plan.
‘How about we come back tomorrow? We can pick up where you left off?’ Barbara Foster asks.
Meanwhile, the tall warty woman makes it crystal clear that she will come back as often as necessary to ask her questions and clarify my answers. I need to offer them something to make them leave me alone, so I present them with a fig leaf and an olive branch.
‘I’m not very good at talking,’ I say. ‘But there’s lots more I’d like to tell you. Lots of facts and information. And details.’
The policewoman snaps, ‘Good. See you tomorrow, then!’
‘No. I don’t want to talk to you about it. Can’t I write it down instead?’
The Third Person Page 21
