by Kerena Swan
As I get to my feet, I feel like doing cartwheels across the grass or jumping up and banging my heels together like they do in films. Pure joy bubbles up from the core of me and I feel light as air as I skip along the path like a five-year-old. I’m so full of energy that I leap over a pile of leaves and break into a run, surprising a gaggle of Canada geese who have settled on the lawns.
It’s an effort to look subdued when I walk into the office and say I feel better now. I can’t have Karen suspecting I lied about having a headache.
‘At least you came back,’ Karen says with a grim smile. ‘Lots of people wouldn’t. Anyway, I’m glad you’re here because I’ve got a new referral for you. The council have rung to say they’re short-staffed at the day centre and need someone to assist with meal times for a couple of weeks. I thought you could organise it.’
‘Of course, I will.’ I say. ‘Karen, could I please take tomorrow off as annual leave now that Sarah is back? I want to take Mia boating on the river before it closes for the season.’
‘If you’ve got all your work done, then that’s fine,’ she says.
I feel a huge grin splitting my cheeks and I restrain myself from punching the air and saying, Yesss! ‘Thank you,’ I say politely and turn to my computer.
I now have a lot to do this afternoon. Max texts me to say he’s arranged the afternoon off and shall we take a picnic? What a wonderful idea.
I didn’t think my day could get any better but when I get home and tell Mia of our plans she circles the lounge in excitement then leaps onto my lap as I enjoy a rare five-minute sit-down. She plants a big, wet kiss on my cheek.
‘Oh, thank you, Mummy! You’re the best mummy in the whole wide world. Will we see any frogs?’ Mia is mad on frogs. I have no idea why. ‘Will we? And what about a fish? And I want to see an otter and a whale.’ Mia has been learning about animals at school.
‘If you’re lucky you might see a frog or a fish but don’t expect to see an otter or a whale,’ I say with a laugh. I haven’t seen her this excited in ages and it makes me realise that we don’t do enough fun things together.
‘Can we play boats now?’ she asks, hopping from one foot to the other.
I take a couple of cushions off the sofa and we sit on the on the floor facing each other. I pretend to row and point out imaginary sights and sounds.
‘Look, Mimi, there’s a big white swan. Ooh look! There’s a fish.’
I peer over the side of the fictitious boat. Mia peers over with me. ‘Careful! We don’t want the boat to tip over.’
She giggles, brushing her hair out of her eyes. Her face is shining with happiness and I’m humbled by how much she’s enjoying my individual attention. Sometimes it isn’t about fancy toys or clothes. What children really want is to be noticed.
Tilly pokes her head round the door. ‘What’s for dinner, Mum? I’m starving.’
‘Watch out, Tilly! There’s a whale over there.’ Mia stands up, looking fit to burst with excitement.
‘What are you doing on the floor?’ Tilly asks.
Sometimes Tilly joins in our games with enthusiasm but today she seems quite grumpy.
‘We’re going on a real boat and feeding the ducks and having a picnic and having an ice cream tomorrow.’ Mia barely pauses for breath.
Tilly looks at me for confirmation then rolls her eyes.
‘Yes, we are,’ I say in a quiet voice.
‘What about me?’ Tilly asks.
‘I’m sorry, Tills,’ I say. ‘You’ll be in school. Maybe we can do something fun on Saturday.’
‘No, we won’t. We never do. And anyway, I’m busy on Saturday.’
I feel guilty now but I’m too full of joy to let her bring me down. ‘I promise. Maybe the following week we can go bowling or something when I get paid and Grandma and Grandad can look after Mia.’
‘It’s Mia’s birthday party next Saturday, remember?’
I can’t believe Mia’s birthday has come around so quickly.
‘Besides, I don’t want to go bowling with you. I might see someone I know.’
I’m stung by her words but have to say I’m not surprised. It isn’t cool to be seen out with your mum. Tilly often won’t even walk down the street with me and if I drop her off at school, I have to stop further down the road. Funny, I don’t remember being like this with my mum.
‘Don’t moan you can’t come to the river if you won’t even be seen out with me,’ I say reasonably.
‘Come and get in the boat, Tilly.’ Mia is shouting now trying to drown out our conversation.
‘Please don’t shout, Mia.’ I move along the cushion to make room for Tilly.
‘I don’t want to play your stupid game. Just cook the bloody dinner, will you?’
I’m shocked by her rudeness but before I can speak she interjects. ‘Mia is so your favourite daughter. You do loads more with her than me.’
‘That’s not true,’ I say to her retreating back. ‘I don’t have a favourite child, but I do have favourite behaviours.’
‘It’s easy to be cute when you’re four,’ she says and bangs the door shut.
Mia looks at me intently and I wonder how much of our conversation she comprehends. Not too much, I hope. Mia will be with me tomorrow and I’m desperate to hear more than just an explanation from Max. What is going on with Tilly, though? She seems even more wound up than usual.
40
Back at Peacock bloody House again. He’s beginning to hate this place. Max uses the bungee ropes to fix the roll of tarpaulin to the sack barrow then drags a laden carrier bag out of the boot before shutting the lid quietly. Half-lifting the barrow over the gravel so as not to leave tracks, he makes his way to the bottom of the garden. He knows his trainers will get muddy, but he wants to leave different footprints and he’ll put them in the washing machine when he gets home. Hopefully, that will wash evidence of his presence here away.
The caravan looms ominously as he nears it and he shivers with dread at the task ahead of him. He stands and stares at it for a long time then moves forward. He folds back the tarpaulin, ducks his head and turns the door handle. Flies bump against the windows and when he opens the door a cloud of fat black bodies buzzes around his head and out into the night. He recoils in horror, nearly falling off the narrow metal step. The sweet smell of rancid flesh rushes to meet him, clinging to his nostril hairs. Max gags and his eyes water. This is even worse than he expected. He covers his face with an old scarf and braces himself before lifting the wooden lid. The smell is overwhelming, and he staggers backwards, more flies circling his head. But he can’t fail now. He tries to conjure up Sophie’s face to give him a sense of purpose and determination then approaches the body again.
Lydia doesn’t look as peaceful tonight. Her face is bloated with a strange greenish hue. The only part of her that looks the same is her long black hair. It’s still shiny but he can see maggots crawling in the congealed blood. Oh God. What’s he done? Max feels tears welling in his eyes. He lays the tarpaulin on the tattered carpet, holds his breath and quickly lifts Lydia from her resting place. Thank God he’s wearing gloves so he doesn’t have to touch her puffy flesh. He’s horrified there may be mice in her clothes and his arm muscles are knotted with tension. Thankfully, the rigor mortis has subsided, and her limbs are no longer stiff, but she is still difficult to manoeuvre.
As he lifts her, Lydia’s head lolls back and red foam slides from the corner of her mouth. The stench hits him like a punch in the jaw. He drops the soft body onto the tarpaulin then rushes out of the door to throw up in the shrubbery. He stands in the fresh air for several minutes inhaling deeply. He really doesn’t want to go back in there. Even prison would be better than this hell.
It’s only the thought of the river trip with Sophie that spurs him on. He has so much to lose now. He doesn’t want her ever to find out about this, but the enormity of the secret seems too big for him to carry. All he can do is get through one day and night at a time. He takes a lungful
of air then goes back inside. He wraps Lydia up quickly then carries her out to the sack barrow where he fixes her with the bungee ropes. He can’t bear the thought of her rotting corpse over his shoulder this time. He just hopes the garden won’t be inspected too closely.
Lifting a disposable barbecue and some firelighters from a Tesco bag, Max gets out matches and lights the white sticks. They smell strongly of lighter fluid, but he prefers it to the odour of the corpse. Within minutes the coals are turning white at the edges and the heat is building, warming his face. He adds a heap of firelighters then slides the whole tray under the caravan.
Next, he takes the empty beer cans and dog ends from the carrier bag and scatters them in a semi-circle nearby. He treads footprints in the mud then changes his trainers for another old pair and makes more footprints. He’ll wash these then dump them in the old clothes and shoe bin in the Tesco car park, along with the old jacket and trousers he’s wearing.
There’s quite a bit of smoke coming from under the caravan. It won’t be long before it’s ablaze. He stands, mesmerised, watching flames lick at the plywood shell, then shakes himself. He wheels the sack barrow through the garden and around the house to his car. Everywhere is so dark when the moon is obscured by cloud, but he can see a faint orange glow coming from the back of the house. The old caravan has caught light quicker than he’d expected. It must be the old carpet and foam cushions. He needs to get away before the fire is noticed.
He tips Lydia roughly into the boot. ‘Sorry, Lydia,’ he whispers. He puts the barrow away then drives from the premises as though the devil himself is on his tail. He wonders if anyone will spot the fire out here. It will be better if the fire brigade isn’t called but the sky is bright with flames now and orange smoke billows and rises to merge with the clouds.
Driving through the countryside at a steady speed so as not to attract attention, Max thinks through the next stage of his plan. As soon as Joyce and Michael had left the office, he’d scanned the local newspaper ‘family announcements’ column. Finding two burials due to take place in the morning he’d memorised the names of the churches and villages and repeats them under his breath. If the first place isn’t suitable he’ll go on to the second one. His hands grip the steering wheel so tightly they’re beginning to ache, but he can’t let go. He feels as though he’s about to free fall into an abyss of despair that he’ll never climb out of. He leans forward, peering out into the night. It’s now two in the morning and everywhere is deathly quiet. He sees no other cars or pedestrians as he drives slowly through the first village towards the church.
If he remembers correctly from Google Maps, there should be a dirt lane around the side of the church and a gate to the graveyard. He parks near the gate and the headlights fade away as he turns off the engine. He scans the sky, looking for gaps where moonlight can shine through and is relieved to see huge swathes of cloud making a ponderous journey westward.
Slipping through the gate, gratified the hinges don’t squeak, he waits a minute or two while his eyes adjust, and shapes start to emerge out of the blackness. He skirts around the edge of the graveyard, almost tripping over a tuft of long grass, to where fresh flowers lay in wreaths atop mounds of soil. These are recent burials. The new grave must be here somewhere but he’s struggling to pick it out on the dark ground. He strains his eyes looking for the wooden boards and taps his spade lightly on the earth in front of him. The thud of wood over a hollow cavity sounds loud in the absolute silence.
What the hell is he doing here? His life is spiralling out of control. The image of prison cell walls presses down on him and the dark of the night makes him feel claustrophobic, as though he’s already incarcerated. Bending forward, he feels for the edge of the board and pulls it towards him. Dark outlines of trees loom over him and, for a crazy moment, he thinks a branch is going to whip forward and push him into the grave.
Shaking himself, he briefly shines a torch then lowers his legs into the hole. Bloody hell, it’s deeper than he thought. As he moves around, his elbows brush the sides. He can feel his heart rate increase as fear of being in a confined space clutches at his guts. He’s brought along a gardening trowel to dig some footholds in the side wall to help him climb out, but he still feels trapped. He starts to dig and is relieved to find the soil isn’t solid clay like the field was. It seems almost sandy and he quickly fills a green garden refuse sack then ties a rope around its handles and climbs out of the grave. He hauls the soil up then carries it to a clump of trees and bushes nearby to empty it. He tips the next few bags of earth in a pile near the hole then shines his torch down to examine his progress. This will have to do.
His legs lack their usual strength and he struggles to push Lydia along. Clumps of grass impede his progress and he looks wildly about in fear of being caught. Reaching the graveside, he undoes the straps then lays Lydia lengthways next to the opening. He’s about to roll her in when he has the sudden urge to pray. He’s never had any religious beliefs, having been brought up by his agnostic mother and his atheist nan but now he whispers, ‘Dear God,’ then pauses.
He has no idea what else to say. A jumble of words forms in his mind but none of them make any sense. ‘Please take Lydia into your safe hands. She didn’t deserve this.’ His throat is growing tight. He chokes back a moan and tries to carry on. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.’
He’s on his knees. Tears well and run down his cheeks. His stomach constricts with grief and his mouth opens wide with a silent howl of anguish. He puts his forehead on the damp ground trying to summon up strength then slowly raises it again. He pushes Lydia gently and she falls into the grave with a soft thud. He covers her with the soil he’s removed then carefully climbs down to pat it flat with his gloved hands. Tears drip off his chin as he climbs out again and roughly wipes his face on his shoulder.
He gathers up the tarpaulin and tools, then slides the boards back across the grave. He says a quiet goodbye and ‘God Bless,’ then wends his way through the gravestones towards his car. He strips his outer clothes off and rolls them in the tarpaulin in the boot, replacing them with a clean jacket and some trousers. He’ll go to the Tesco clothes bank before work. If he gets spotted on a camera at this time of night, it will look suspicious. All he wants now is to stand under his shower until the stench leaves his nostrils. That could take a long time. He doesn’t think the reek of death will ever leave him. He checks his face in the rear-view mirror and rubs away a smear of mud from his forehead with a wet wipe.
He’s almost home when a police car emerges from nowhere and tails him. Oh, Jesus. He slows down a fraction and checks he was within the speed limit. What the hell do they want? The police car starts to overtake Max then pulls level with his window. The policeman gesticulates for him to pull over. Max slows and parks by the curb, his palms slipping on the steering wheel and his heart racing.
41
Ivy flicks through the TV channels with the remote. What a load of old crap. A bunch of kids wailing into a microphone and competing for a positive word from the over-critical judge, a house makeover she’s seen before, and a group of old men tramping around the countryside pretending to be soldiers. Where do they drag this stuff up from? She’s been watching Dad’s Army on and off for nearly fifty years. Boring then and boring now.
Jabbing at the buttons for something more entertaining, Ivy finds a programme about a vet operating on a cat. A cat, for Christ’s sake! Surely his skills could be better used on a human? Ivy doesn’t understand how people can feel affection for dumb animals. Not that she can understand affection for humans either, come to that. She’s watched people constantly over the years, but she just can’t feel anything the way they clearly do. When Patricia was little, Bert had brought home a kitten and spent hours teaching Patricia how to stroke it gently and pick it up without hurting it, the daft sod. Ivy had watched in fascination.
Ivy listened intently as Bert explained to Patricia that although she couldn’t feel pain if she pulled the cat’s
fur, the cat could. Ivy watched them fuss over the kitten, kissing and hugging it, but had no inclination to do the same. Dad and Mavis had never taught her to be kind to animals; to imagine what it would be like to be them and to feel guilty if she hurt them. Perhaps you needed to learn that sort of thing early because Ivy had grown up feeling nothing for animals. To her, they were just skin, bone, and fur that moved and being unkind to them had actually gained her both attention and a thrilling sense of supremacy.
Anyway, she’d soon made sure the kitten was out of the house. She’d taken it to work one day and left it in the yard with all the boxes. One of the workers had spotted it and taken it home thinking it was a stray. Patricia had cried, and Ivy had been annoyed when Bert then got her a hamster.
‘She needs to learn how to care about others,’ he’d said, ‘and she can’t learn it from you. You’re so bloody cold and heartless. I don’t know how I didn’t see that when I married you.’
Ivy said nothing; after all, he was right. She was empty inside. No one had ever shown her any warmth or affection. How could she give it back? She didn’t give a fig about him anyway and it wasn’t long before he started spending time with that woman down the road instead.
Ivy finds nothing of interest on the television and throws the remote onto the sofa in disgust. What was the bloody point of buying a new telly? Her irritation building, she gets up and shuffles around the room, picking up ornaments and framed photos. There’s Max standing proudly next to the yellow bike she bought him, his eyes shining with delight. It had been so easy to make him happy and totally dependent on her. The boy was a bit stupid though. He hadn’t realised it was she who had killed the cyclist. Seeing the man lying on the grass at her mercy had been too tempting and excitement had built in her chest. A perfect opportunity to get Max under her thumb that would probably never be repeated. She’d found it immensely satisfying to bury her fingers in his hair. To lift his head and smash it on the rock while Max rushed off to raise help. She’d had to do that. She couldn’t have her Max slipping away from her; meeting girls, working long hours, not visiting his nan.
