‘Is everything okay, Im? Shall I pull over?’
I glance at the sign, still unwelcoming but clear now of black mould, and feel the colour return to my cheeks as they burn in embarrassment. What was I thinking?
Gaunt sits beyond, watching, waiting.
‘No, I’m fine,’ I lie. ‘It’s just that I thought maybe we could go to the high street for a takeaway before we get there. What if the electricity isn’t on yet?’
Dan gives a small nod, but the crease in his brow doesn’t disappear. He’s always worrying about me these days.
‘Good idea,’ he agrees, looking over his shoulder and indicating right. ‘I should have suggested it. Although we should have done a shop, I doubt the cuisine in your town is going to be varied and plentiful.’
‘It’s not my . . .’ I start, then shrug. At least the pounding in my chest has begun to subside. ‘There’s a fish and chip shop . . . at least there used to be.’
Dan misses the turn to the house and carries on straight ahead to the main street less than a mile away from the house. I remember walking the long, thin lanes with Pammy, convincing the older boys to buy us alcohol if we shared it with them, trying to get a Saturday job at the shop and not having a hope in hell against girls like Michelle Hoffman or Theresa Johnson. I wonder what those girls are doing now; hope meanly that they still have their corner-shop jobs.
‘I love that we’ll have the best of both worlds,’ Dan says, breaking the reflective silence that has filled the car. ‘Beautiful quiet countryside and a decent enough high street just up the road. I can still nip out in the morning for fresh coffee and bread . . .’
‘Still?’ I laugh at the image of my husband in a frilly white pinny picking up fresh bread from the bakery. ‘When did you ever do that? I’ve got to admit, I thought having a house husband would be a lot more like having a housekeeper than an overgrown teenager watching Netflix and eating all the good treats.’
‘There’s no need for that. I’m not a house husband, I’m an artist.’
‘Well, Mr Best-seller, while I’m knocking out all these children you’re after, fresh bread and coffee in the morning is the least you can do.’
Dan beams and I instantly regret being so flippant. I have to remember that every remark like that just reignites the fire in Dan to start a family as soon as possible. He doesn’t know how the word ‘baby’ makes my stomach cramp. I turn my head to stare out of the window, hoping that will signal the end of the conversation.
For a Saturday afternoon the high street resembles the early hours of the morning in London. I look up through the windscreen, my attention drawn to a couple of young girls facing one another on the pavement. One has long dark hair that hangs over her face, obscuring it from view. She looks as though she is frozen to the spot while the other, a pretty blonde girl dressed far older than she looks like she should be, leans in close to her. Maybe they are playing some kind of game, although something about the scene strikes me as odd. I’m about to point it out to Dan as we drive past when the blonde girl takes a couple of steps backwards towards the road.
‘Watch out,’ I warn. ‘She looks un—’
My words turn to a scream and I screw my eyes closed as the girl tumbles into the road in front of us. I hear the screeching of the brakes and a dull thud.
3
Ellie
The day has dragged on for what feels like longer than the entire summer holidays had lasted. Even though school started again six weeks ago, they are only now being dragged to the shop to get Mary some new blouses, her foster sister had seemed to grow boobs overnight, and no doubt Ellie will get her old baggy, greying hand-me-downs.
Sarah has been dithering over prices for what seems like hours. She has one of her famous lists and her budget and she’s unwilling to waver from either one, even though the poor young sales assistant has tried telling her countless times that they are the only stockists in town, and she won’t find anything cheaper if they travel to any of the bigger towns.
Ellie is kicking her toes against one of the stands, Mary shooting her the occasional sympathetic glance, when she walks in. Naomi Harper. As if this day could get any worse. Naomi’s mother greets Sarah like an old friend, even though Ellie has never so much as seen them share a hello before. They indulge in a chorus of ‘Fancy seeing you here’s and ‘How have you been’s. Naomi’s mum gives her daughter a fond look and proclaims that Naomi has positively shot up in the last few weeks. What she doesn’t know, Ellie thinks, is that it doesn’t matter how long the skirts she buys are, her precious offspring will be rolling the waistband over as soon as she leaves the house. Mary, who is four years older than them and only barely knows who Naomi Harper even is, shoots a questioning glance at Ellie, but she just shrugs indifferently.
‘God, I didn’t think I’d have to see your ugly face at the weekend as well as all week,’ Naomi hisses with the malice of a girl much older than twelve. Ellie pictures an arrow shooting from over her shoulder and puncturing Naomi’s left eye, sees the pus and blood oozing from the ruined socket and says nothing.
‘Don’t you ever speak?’ Naomi scowls at Ellie’s lack of reaction. She has the distinct air of a young child poking at a wasps’ nest with a stick, getting increasingly frustrated when nothing flies out. ‘Come on, Smelly Ellie, say something.’
Ellie feels her fists clenching, her knuckles turning white. She mustn’t let herself get angry, but it’s so hard when heat is rising in her cheeks and her heart is thumping faster in her chest. She looks to Mary but as much as she focuses, she can’t make her foster sister turn around and punch Naomi in the face. Instead she wills Sarah to announce that this place is far too cheap for their tastes, longs to see the smirk wiped from the faces of the awful girl and her vile mother. But neither of these things happens.
What happens is that Naomi Harper, quick as a flash and without warning, flings out a hand and knocks a row of plimsolls off the shelf next to Ellie, shooting back out of the way before anyone notices.
‘Ellie!’ Sarah exclaims, dashing over to sort out the mess, her face a deep shade of scarlet. ‘What did you do that for?’
There is no point in her objecting, Sarah isn’t even listening anyway, and Naomi and her mother are exchanging glances as though Naomi is saying ‘Didn’t I tell you so?’ Only Mary is looking suspiciously between Ellie and her schoolmate.
‘May I wait outside?’ Ellie asks. She knows what happens when she loses her temper. As much as she hates Naomi at this second, she knows that the only way to keep control of the situation is to remove herself from it.
‘I’ll come with you,’ Mary offers, but Sarah shakes her head. ‘You need to try on the shirt, Mary. Ellie is old enough to wait outside by herself for five minutes.’
She is old enough, and were everything to finish there, it would all have been fine. If only Naomi had stayed inside.
But just minutes later she is standing next to Ellie, uttering her poisonous bile again.
‘Everyone at school wants to know why you’re so weird, do you know that?’
‘Go away, Naomi,’ Ellie warns.
‘But I know,’ Naomi says, ignoring her. She steps back, presumably because she knows that what she’s about to say is not so much poking the wasps’ nest as cracking it open, peeling it apart with both hands and peering inside. ‘Do you want to know what I know?’
‘No,’ Ellie replies. Her heart sits uncomfortably in her chest, and her upper arms begin to tingle. She knows something is about to happen and she is powerless to stop it. All she can do is watch, a casual bystander in the scene that unfolds. ‘Shut up.’
‘Did you just say shut up to me?’ Naomi looks incredulous. She has no idea. Not yet.
‘Just stop it. Go back inside,’ Ellie warns, and all the time she can feel the anger gathering inside her, a little ball of wool in reverse, getting bigger and bigger, harder and harder.
‘Do you think you scare me? Do I look scared?’
Ellie stares
at her, her dark eyes hardening with rage. You should be, Naomi Harper. You should be.
‘Go away. You need to get away. Go away,’ Ellie mutters. ‘Before you get hurt.’
‘What are you doing?’ Naomi asks, and although her voice is still arrogant, still with the air of someone who expects to be answered, now it is tinged with something else; laced with uncertainty, even fear perhaps. ‘God, you are so weird.’ She takes a step forward, reaches out to shove Ellie on the shoulder.
‘Go. Away,’ Ellie commands, louder this time and Naomi’s hand falls short of touching her. Ellie’s fists clench by her sides and she squeezes her eyes closed. Hold your temper. Hold your temper.
‘What are you doing?’ Naomi asks, taking a step backwards. ‘What are you muttering? Stop it. Stop that!’ She takes another step back, stumbling now as her foot lands awkwardly.
Ellie’s words come louder now, her eyes still tightly closed, her lips repeating the phrase over and over . . . ‘Get away, get away, get away . . .’
Naomi barely feels her heel connect with the edge of the kerb, but her heart registers the sickening moment that her balance betrays her, her arms helicoptering as she sails through the air towards the oncoming traffic. And although a horn is blaring behind her, brakes are screeching and people are screaming, all Naomi Harper can hear is those repeated words:
‘Get away, get away, get away . . .’
4
Imogen
The car throws me forward violently and I pull my hands from my eyes, dreading the sight of the schoolgirl’s crumpled body on the road in front of me. Instead I see her sitting up looking dazed, and the car Dan has hit in the attempt to avoid her embedded in our front bumper. I practically hurl myself through the door to the girl’s side and as I kneel down next to her, two women come flying out of a nearby shop, trailed closely by a teenage girl. The first woman’s shriek cuts through the air like a hot knife through butter.
‘Naomi!’ She throws herself down on the road, clutching the dazed girl to her chest. ‘Get an ambulance! What happened, baby?’
Naomi, who was frozen in shock, now looks back and forth between the car and the young girl on the pavement, fear and confusion shining in her eyes.
‘She fell in front of our . . .’ I start to explain, desperate to absolve us of any blame, but the woman isn’t even looking at me.
‘Did she do this?’ She pokes a finger at the young girl left standing on the pavement, and Naomi nods. The woman gets to her feet and rounds on the girl, fury etched on her face. ‘What did you do to her?’
The other woman and the teenager both move in front of the younger girl protectively, and the woman – her mother? – speaks in urgent tones.
‘Ellie, what happened? What did you do to Naomi?’
Ellie remains silent, still staring at Naomi. Is that look anger? Or fear?
‘You could have killed her!’ Naomi’s mother shrieks. ‘She tried to kill her!’
‘Now wait a second,’ I interrupt, putting out a hand to try and calm the situation before it gets out of control. Who is this woman to start screaming at a shocked young girl? ‘I know you’re concerned about your daughter, but there’s no need to start shouting accusations.’
‘Sorry, who are you?’ Naomi’s mother glares at me, and I know instantly that I cannot stand this woman.
‘I’m apparently the only person who saw what actually happened. This girl – Ellie, is it?’ I turn to look at Ellie, who still hasn’t spoken a word. Her mother nods. ‘Ellie wasn’t anywhere near Naomi when she fell. I think you need to just calm down.’
‘Calm down? Do you have children?’ Naomi’s mother doesn’t wait for me to reply. ‘Because if you did, you’d know how it would feel if one of them was pushed into oncoming traffic.’
‘She wasn’t—’
‘What’s going on?’ Dan appears at my side and puts a protective hand on my shoulder. ‘Is she okay? Are you okay?’ His face is white with shock as he looks at Naomi. She’s on her feet now at the side of the road.
I fold my arms protectively across my chest. Keep your cool, Imogen. Don’t lose it. He worries enough as it is.
‘We didn’t hit her, Dan, she’s fine.’ I keep my voice low and quiet, trying to project calmness. ‘And so am I. Are you okay? Are you hurt? I think someone is calling an ambulance. Should we get the police? We don’t want to be accused of leaving the scene.’ I shut up abruptly when I realise I’m babbling, my own shock setting in. For a minute I’d really thought we had hit her. I thought we had killed her.
Dan pulls me in for a hug and I relish the firm comfort of his chest. ‘I’ve already called them,’ he says. ‘And checked on the person in the other car. Everybody looks fine – except the cars. Bloody insurance is going to go through the roof.’
‘Everybody is not fine,’ Naomi’s mother snaps, obviously determined not to let her anger go. ‘My daughter . . .’
Her words die in the air as a paramedic unit and a police car pull up alongside us. ‘Oh, thank goodness, finally.’
‘We had a report that a young girl had been knocked over,’ the paramedic says, his eyes flicking between the girls. ‘We advised that no one should be moved.’
‘The car didn’t actually hit her,’ I offer at the same time as Dan says, ‘She was already on her feet.’
The police officer looks at Dan. ‘You were driving?’ Dan nods. The officer pulls out a pen and pad. ‘Fine, can you tell me what happened?’
‘What happened?’ Naomi’s mother rounds on the officer. ‘I’ll tell you what happened. She,’ she jabs a finger at the young girl, whose face is still a blank mask, ‘she tried to kill my daughter! She pushed her—’
‘Just a minute,’ I interject, feeling my face flood with angry red colour. ‘Ellie was nowhere near her when she fell. We saw them; they were just standing there, at least a foot apart, and Naomi stepped back and stumbled into the road.’
‘She’s right.’ The teenager standing by the shaking young girl speaks up. ‘I saw it from inside, Mum. Ellie didn’t touch her.’ She steps closer to Ellie and puts an arm around her, and Ellie nuzzles into her shoulder.
‘Was that what you saw?’ The police officer looks at Dan.
‘I’m pretty sure.’ He looks at me, as though for confirmation. ‘Yes, I mean it was pretty quick, but I definitely didn’t see anyone push anyone else.’
Naomi’s mother looks incensed at his words. ‘Are you saying my daughter just fell into the road? She’s twelve years old; she has no problem staying upright. Tell them, Naomi, tell them what you told me.’
‘I . . .’ Naomi looks as though she is trapped in headlights. ‘I . . . she . . . I fell,’ she finishes weakly. At her words, her mother resembles someone who has been slapped sharply in the face. I’m ashamed of the surge of triumph I feel as flourishes of colour appear in her cheeks.
‘You said . . .’
‘I was wrong. It was an accident, okay?’ Was that a flicker of fear on her face? If it was, no one but me seems to notice.
‘Well.’ Her mother lets out a puff of air. ‘I can see nothing is going to be done here. Come on, Naomi.’ She takes her daughter’s arm, but the paramedic puts out a hand to stop her.
‘Sorry, but now we’re here, we need to check your daughter over.’
‘But you heard her, she just fell! The car didn’t even touch her!’
‘Better to be safe.’ His face creases in apology. ‘I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t.’
‘And I need to take statements from everyone here,’ the police officer informs us. ‘Shouldn’t take long – assuming, of course, that you don’t want to pursue an attempted-murder charge?’
I momentarily enjoy the way Naomi’s mother’s face colours again. Serves her right. ‘No, it doesn’t sound as though that will be necessary.’
Looking at the two girls, it’s hard to decide what really went on between them. Ellie hasn’t tried to defend herself during the entire exchange – probably petrifie
d by Naomi’s overbearing mother. I look at her properly for the first time. Her face is drained of colour and her eyes are blank, but that’s hardly surprising given the fact that she has just been verbally attacked by a grown woman. I try to catch her eye, to offer a look of comfort, but she won’t even look in my direction.
‘Can we wait in the car?’ I direct my question to the police officer, desperate to get away from this claustrophobic scene. He nods.
‘If the car is okay to drive, you can pull over here.’ He motions to the kerb. ‘If not, we can have a paramedic take a look at you next.’
‘No, I’m fine,’ says Dan. ‘We’ll pull over and wait.’
We go back to the car, inspecting the bonnet. The driver of the other vehicle is out now talking to the police and I wonder what he’s saying, if he saw the girls on the pavement too. The damage to our car doesn’t look as bad as the collision sounded and thankfully it starts easily. Dan’s hands tremble slightly on the wheel. ‘Christ, that was quite something,’ he says, placing a hand on my thigh. It’s warm and comforting. Even after ten years together, I still feed off his touch like a succubus, leeching calm from his body into mine. He’s always had that effect on me. When we first got together I would lie with my head on his chest and breathe in his breath, warm and comforting. ‘What an arrival. Are you okay?’
I nod absently. ‘Quite something, yes,’ I murmur back. I look at the young girls still standing with the police officer and the paramedic, a mother so quick to accuse a young girl of attempted murder and one who made no move to defend her child from the accusation.
What kind of place have I brought us back to?
5
Imogen
The only chip shop on the high street stands out like a nun in a nightclub. Chrome-fronted, with LED letters proclaiming Oh My Cod, and a silver cut-out of what I’m sure is supposed to be a fish winking, it is a far cry from the last time I saw the place. Then, the white paint was weathered to a dirty grey, peeling and flaking away from the wooden sign, on which faded blue letters almost begrudgingly announced Chip Shop. I wonder who was responsible for the facelift and the trendy rebranding – surely not Roy, the podgy, slack-faced manager from my youth. I smile as I imagine the look of disgust on his surly features as the winking fish was hauled into pride of place in his determinedly unfashionable establishment.
The Foster Child Page 2
