The Foster Child

by Jenny Blackhurst

  I can tell that Dan wants to forgive me – he’s always hated to keep arguments running for long – but I also know that his prolonged display of anger and disappointment means that I’ve really messed up this time. Looking back to only a short week ago, I genuinely have no idea why I was so reluctant to tell him about the baby. Now, it is all I can think about: how much I want to hold our child in my arms, how much I want to smell its soft skin and have it look up at me with eyes filled with love and adoration. What difference would it make to this tiny life that my own mother cared so little? That the house was never clean enough to invite friends round – not that I had any, with my second-hand uniform always so grubby and faintly smelling of body odour. I don’t believe that our biology shapes who we are. We are nurture, not nature.

  I’m going to have to tell Dan everything if our marriage is going to survive. Everything about my childhood in Gaunt, about the people who looked the other way when my mother and I entered a shop or walked down the street. About the duvet that was donated by one of my teachers, a young woman called Miss Rogers, who used to bring me sandwiches and packets of crisps because she knew that I wouldn’t eat much beyond school lunch.

  One time we were doing a school project about our dream house, and while the other children drew water slides from their bedroom windows and ice-cream machines in their kitchens, I drew the softest, thickest mattress and duvet I could imagine, walls filled with bookshelves and – the biggest indulgence I could think of – a TV in my bedroom. Miss Rogers looked at my picture and her eyes glistened. At seven years old, I thought it was because it wasn’t as good as the other kids’ drawings, not as imaginative or grand. Some years on, I realised that she was unable to contain her sadness that my dream house was what most people would think of as a normal everyday household.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, resetting the images and memories in my mind. That isn’t what I came here to dwell on. I’ve escaped the suffocating silence at home and taken refuge on the cold bench because I want to think about what the hell I’m going to do about Ellie Atkinson. No matter that I know I should stay away from the girl – and after what happened to me, who could blame me if I did? – I also know that I have a duty of care to the child the Jeffersons are about to take in. How could I live with myself if I heard on the grapevine in a few weeks’ time that something had happened to the baby? That would be horrific.

  I need to talk to someone, someone with influence who might be able to have Ellie moved somewhere she can’t harm anyone else. But where? If she went to another family, there’s no guarantee they wouldn’t already have children, or eventually take in others. And even if they didn’t, how am I going to protect the children Ellie goes to school with, her teachers? My mind flashes to an image of Hannah Gilbert standing in the doorway. You had better hope you live to regret not listening to me . . .

  Knowledge didn’t help Hannah. She’d suspected – if not outright known – what Ellie was, and she still died alone in that block of abandoned flats. Verdict: misadventure.

  But what if new evidence comes to light about her murder? My mind leafs through the possibilities. What if they find something at the scene that links Ellie to the death? Risky: I’d have to get into the Jeffersons’ house again, steal something of hers and take it there, all with a risk of being caught. Is there any way I can lure her to the flats, make sure she leaves her fingerprints there? Getting her back on side will be easy – I just have to apologise and promise never to let her down again. But if she realises what I’m trying to do . . . maybe she already does. She knows things.

  What extent do her powers run to? Is anyone safe, even if she is in prison? Even if she confesses all and . . .

  ‘Yes!’ I hiss under my breath. If I can get her to confess, all I have to do is make sure I capture it on tape.

  I shiver. Listen to yourself, I think. You’re going crazy. I pull Dan’s huge coat tighter around me. The river is so calm and still, the silence so complete, that the cough from behind me makes my heart jump into my throat.

  The man stands a few yards from the bench. He is well protected against the early-morning chill by a navy-blue padded jacket so thick that it is impossible to tell his size, and the black scarf he wears along with the black beanie hat on his head means that he is devoid of most of his defining features. All I can see of him is his mouth, nose and eyes.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’ He holds up a hand. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

  I realise that this is one of those times when I should probably say nothing and let him go, but I find myself saying instead, ‘No, you don’t have to. You’re welcome to join me.’ There is something in his voice, something in his whole demeanour that suggests this man isn’t a threat. He seems as broken inside as I feel.

  He looks like he’s considering my invitation. Clearly he expected to be alone in what I suppose is probably as special a place to him as it is to me.

  ‘I won’t talk to you if you don’t want me to,’ I add.

  The man gives a half-smile, half-grimace and joins me on the bench, sitting as far towards the other end as it’s possible to get. I try a smile. ‘It’s nice here, isn’t it?’

  He doesn’t look at me, instead stares out across the water as though it holds all the answers to his unspoken questions.

  ‘Sorry,’ I mutter, mortified that I have broken my promise instantly.

  For five minutes we sit gazing out across the river in silence. Eventually he speaks.

  ‘I used to come here a lot,’ he says. ‘I stopped for a while. Maybe I thought I didn’t need it. It feels a bit like church; people only come to places like this when they’re missing something. Can a place be good when all it takes in is negative energy?’

  ‘I think it’s like a tree,’ I reply. The man turns his face to me, his eyes frowning. ‘I mean, trees take in carbon dioxide, which is bad for us, and they turn it into oxygen, which is vital for us to live. It’s like they take our poison away in order for us to keep living. And we don’t even notice it happening. I think this place is like that. It takes in our negativity so we can leave it behind here, so we can go back to real life unburdened. Or that’s what I used to tell myself when I was a kid.’

  He considers this for a minute. ‘Sounds like you were a smart kid.’

  I give a rueful smile. ‘I was. Sometimes I wonder how I ended up so dumb.’

  ‘That happens to the best of us,’ he laughs, but he doesn’t sound amused. ‘I didn’t realise you lived here when you were a child. I thought you were new in town.’

  Now it’s my turn to look puzzled.

  ‘You’re the Place2Be worker, aren’t you? I’m Evan Hawker.’ He waits a beat for the realisation to sink in. ‘Yes, that Evan Hawker.’

  88

  Sarah has been exhausted for days. Her head feels like it is about to cave in on itself and her eyes sting. Spots are starting to break out as if she was sixteen again, and her hair is perpetually scraped back into a lank greasy ponytail. She doesn’t remember it being this difficult with Mary, but then that was fifteen years ago and time has a magnificent way of rose-tinting your memories until all you can remember is your beautiful gurgling, cooing baby. Sleepless nights and trapped wind are erased as easily as holding down the delete button.

  Now the kids are back from school and there is no chance of popping upstairs for a quick nap. Lily is sleeping in her baby bouncer in the front room, while Sarah is in the kitchen wondering about the quickest way of getting caffeine directly into her bloodstream. Mary is in the back garden tidying up some tin cans that she and Ellie have been messing with, picking them up and inspecting them as though they hold the meaning of life. She really can’t figure that girl out – she took so well to Ellie, protecting her as though she were her real sister, so why has she gone so frosty since Lily arrived? Sarah has already assured her that Ellie won’t be leaving any earlier because of Lily’s appearance, and Mary hasn’t had to give up her room or make any other sacrifices. And
okay, Sarah might have intimated that they wouldn’t be doing this again, not after how much bother they’ve had with Ellie, but even she seemed to have calmed down slightly since that incident in the woods. Sarah feels bad about making out it was all nothing when Imogen’s boss called the house, but she really can’t have people thinking that any of the children in her care are in danger. And Ellie wasn’t hurt, was she? It was all just kids mucking around, a prank that went too far.

  She scans the garden for signs of Ellie, but she’s not out there. Probably in her room, reading or something. Such a strange one, the way she looks at you as though she can hear your thoughts. She won’t be sorry when the girl is found a permanent home, that’s for sure. She goes to take her mobile out of her pocket to have a quick flick through Facebook when she realises she’s left it in the front room. Shit, it’s probably on loud, and if Mark calls, it’s going to wake Lily. She moves quickly with the stealth only a woman with a sleeping baby possesses. It’s not until she reaches the door to the front room that she hears the voice. It is low, but it is unmistakably Ellie’s voice.

  ‘He isn’t here any more,’ she is saying. ‘He died. My parents weren’t doing their job properly, they didn’t bother to save either of us. He was only little and he couldn’t have reached the door handle to his room – it was their job to get him out.’

  Sarah knows she is tired and overemotional, but she feels tears well up. Ellie might be a strange girl, but she is still young enough to believe that her parents should have been able to keep their children safe. She doesn’t understand that the fumes would have overwhelmed them before they even woke up – that if she hadn’t managed to get to the window, she herself wouldn’t be here.

  ‘That’s the thing with adults, they’re all so distracted most of the time. They don’t have any idea of where the real dangers are. And if they don’t see them, how can they protect you from them?’ Ellie’s voice hardens. ‘They can’t. Sarah can’t protect you all the time. No one can. You are all on your own . . .’

  As Sarah stands with her shaking hand on the handle, the door opens from the inside and Ellie stands in the doorway. She doesn’t jump or look in any way startled or guilty.

  ‘Hi, Sarah.’ She gives a small wave and walks past her into the hall. Sarah’s breath catches in her throat and she can’t even speak. Because Ellie’s words didn’t sound like the innocent chattering of a child. In fact, Sarah will swear to the police later that week that they sounded like a threat.

  89

  Imogen

  I’m shocked into silence. Here, sitting on the bench next to me, gazing out across the river, is a man that many people think is capable of murder. And I invited him to pull up a chair, sharpen his machete. In my defence, he doesn’t look capable of murder right now. He looks a mess. Close up, I can see that his face is shaded with rough stubble – not the freshly trimmed designer kind, but the kind that suggests a man who has more on his mind than self-care. His face is lined with grief and there are dark circles under his eyes that suggest more than one sleepless night.

  ‘Is it stupid of me to ask how you’re coping?’ I ask quietly. I don’t know what else to say. Suddenly I realise why I’ve heard so little from the people around me since I lost my baby. Why Dan finds it hard to look me in the eye. Because what do you say to someone whose life is tainted with loss? To whom giving advice and platitudes would sound hollow and insincere. Someone who wants nothing more than to turn back time and do something, anything, differently.

  Evan gives a snort. ‘Would it be stupid of me to ask the same?’

  So here we are, two people united by the worst possible scenario. If I could have chosen anything other than grief to have in common with Evan Hawker . . .

  ‘Do you think it gets any less shitty?’ I ask in reply. He shakes his head.

  ‘Nope.’ His foot scuffs at the dirt beneath us and he doesn’t look at me. ‘This is it now; these things, they define the rest of your life. I will always be the man responsible for my lover’s death.’

  Responsible. Does he mean that Hannah would still be alive if they hadn’t been having an affair? Or does he mean it in a more literal sense?

  ‘You shouldn’t feel responsible,’ I say after a pause. ‘It was an accident.’

  He looks at me then, his eyes clouded with grief. ‘Do you really believe that? Do you believe she fell down those stairs?’

  ‘Presumably that means you don’t?’

  ‘No. We’d been in that place plenty of times before she went there that night. Hannah knew her way around; she’d never so much as stumbled before. And even if it was an accident, why was she there in the first place?’

  ‘Maybe . . . maybe she was meeting someone else?’ I suggest tentatively.

  Evan gives a rueful smile. ‘That’s not possible. I realise how hypocritical this sounds, given both of our marital situations, but Hannah and I were in love. She wouldn’t have cheated on me.’

  It’s the same thing Florence Maxwell said – two of the people who seemed to know Hannah best.

  ‘So what do you think she was doing there?’

  Evan shrugs. ‘She thought she was meeting me.’

  I picture Hannah Gilbert getting ready for a late-night tryst with an illicit lover, applying make-up and slipping into her best underwear, all the while heading towards disappointment and death.

  ‘Florence told me about the notes in the tree.’

  ‘Stupid.’ Evan lets out a breath. ‘Stupid and arrogant of us to believe that no one would suspect. We knew there was a chance they would be found – kids leave no stone unturned when looking for places to hide their cigarettes – but Hannah said that even if someone stumbled across them, they would have no idea they were ours. Even after the note she found . . .’

  ‘What note?’

  ‘Someone put a note in the tree that said, “I know what you’re doing” on a Post-it in the shape of an apple. Hannah said she knew who it was; she’d seen the Post-its in one of her student’s bags. She said she’d take care of it.’

  ‘She thought it was Ellie, didn’t she?’

  Evan nods. ‘Ironic, really, that Ellie is the only person who couldn’t have killed Hannah.’

  ‘Why not? Because she’s young and sweet-looking?’

  Evan laughs. ‘Imogen, please. I’m a maths teacher – do you think I’m fooled by young and sweet-looking? No, Ellie Atkinson couldn’t have been to blame because she was with me when Hannah died.’

  I feel as though the wind has been knocked from me.

  ‘With you?’ I repeat stupidly. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I live in the next street down from the Jeffersons’ house. Ellie showed up at about ten to ten that evening, looking confused and lost. I heard a noise outside, and she was just standing in the garden, staring at the house. When I went outside to find out what was going on, she looked as though she’d just woken up and discovered she’d been sleepwalking or something. She couldn’t remember how she’d got to my house or why, but she thought she’d had something important to tell me. I took her in, my wife made her a hot drink and then I walked her back home. She begged me not to ring the bell and she went in through the side gate. I waited about ten minutes to make sure she didn’t come back out. I thought about it all night, how I should have just rung the bell and made sure she got in properly. Then all the stuff with Hannah happened and I pretty much forgot about it until the police asked what I’d done that night.’

  ‘Was there anything strange about her?’

  Evan snorts. ‘Other than her practically sleepwalking to a teacher’s house in the middle of the night?’

  ‘I mean did she look angry?’

  ‘No, just confused.’

  ‘But her sister told me that Ellie had been with her all night. Why would she do that? Why would she lie?’

  Evan shrugs. ‘Maybe Ellie didn’t tell Mary where she’d been. Perhaps Mary thought Ellie did have something to do with what happened to Hannah. She probably thought
that by lying for her, she was protecting her.’

  ‘Mm,’ I murmur. What was Ellie trying to tell Evan that night? Was she trying to save Hannah’s life, or was she responsible for her death? Is she a monster or a victim?

  90

  Imogen

  In a place like Gaunt, the title ‘doctor’s surgery’ is a dramatic overstatement. Two GPs work from what can only be described as an oversized hut, and if it’s seen better days, then I certainly can’t remember them. The doctors’ rooms are sparsely decorated, and if you stare at the skirting boards as I am now, you can see that some of them haven’t even been completely glossed. Despite the fact that he hasn’t completely forgiven me for not telling him about the existence of our baby, my husband is clutching my hand as though it’s a life raft and he is drowning. I’m not sure who’s more nervous, although from his colourless face and fixed neutral expression, I would say it’s Dan.

  We’re here to find out the results of the tests I underwent in hospital, tests that will determine the reason our baby didn’t survive past ten weeks. I’ve already been warned that it’s not unusual; a lot of women miscarry at that stage without ever knowing they were pregnant. It probably happens to people without them even realising, with women putting stomach cramps and heavy bleeding down to a bad period. The hospital were reluctant to even do the tests; I felt like the consultant was constantly trying to bite back the words ‘one of those things’, and had Dan not insisted, I probably wouldn’t have pushed the situation. Not least because I don’t need a scan to tell me why my baby didn’t survive; I know the reason and it’s not one you can argue with health professionals over. I just hope Dan isn’t too devastated when the doctor tells us that there is no logical reason for our baby’s death.