by Gary McMahon
This was none of my business but I couldn’t just let it go. Nor could I go barging in there, breaking down social boundaries that I didn’t understand, without knowing the full story.
So I took out my phone and sent her a text. Six words, nice and clear and simple: call me if you need me. I knew she’d receive the text. I just hoped she’d get the message.
SIXTEEN
Best for the Child
It went like this when I received the phone call:
Monday morning. I wasn’t due back at work until that afternoon—I had a series of late shifts that week, and then the weekend off. I was up early; for some reason I’d been unable to sleep, and rather than lie there staring at the ceiling, I decided to get up and go for a run. I avoided the concrete subway, despite the fact that it no longer made me uneasy. I did a brisk three miles, enjoying the cool morning air and the sensation of my body working hard.
When I got back, I had a quick shower and made a cup of coffee. I was standing in the lounge, watching the morning unfurl through the main window, when my mobile rang.
The number flashing on the screen was not one I recognized.
“Hello.”
“Is this Mr. Morris? Mr. Adam Morris?”
“Yes, it is. Who’s this? Can I help you?”
“I’m Constable O’Dowd, of the West Yorkshire police. I’m afraid, sir, that I have some bad news.”
Jess…was it Jess? What the fuck had happened to my daughter?
“I’m afraid it’s your wife, sir.”
“We’re divorced.” I said it reflexively, as if I was trying to justify not being there and dealing with whatever had happened.
“Yes, we’re aware of that, Mr. Morris—her neighbor told us. He gave us your number.”
“What is it? What has she done?” I took a couple of backward steps and sat down on the sofa. My entire body felt weak; the strength I’d felt earlier deserted me.
“I’m afraid there’s been an incident, sir. Your wife—Mrs. Morris—has experienced an overdose. She took a lot of prescription drugs last night and has been rushed to hospital.”
“My daughter…Jess. Is she okay?”
“Your daughter is fine, sir. Social Services have her. They’ve taken her down to the local office, if you’d like the address.” The police constable reeled off the address. It was one I already knew; we’d dealt with Social Services a lot over the past couple of years. I knew Jess’s case worker by her first name.
“Thanks, Constable. I’ll get down there right away, and then I’ll go to the hospital.”
I ended the call and stood up. I’d left my coffee on the windowsill and didn’t want it to go cold. I felt alone, detached. I tasted nothing when I drank the coffee. My mouth was numb; I felt like screaming but knew that if I did, no scream would come out, just a horrible dry croaking sound. So I finished my coffee without tasting it and I stood and stared out of the window, watching the weak sun as it struggled to brighten the emerging day. I think I just wanted to stay there, unmoving, and forget about the call I’d received.
Bad news usually comes to us in the times when we least expect it, when we start to think that things might turn out okay. These are the most dangerous times, when we start to glimpse the light of a new dawn, when we allow that light to warm us and make us think that good times are just around the corner.
* * *
I left the house in a daze, drove to the Social Services office without even thinking. My mind was empty, a blank. I couldn’t even picture Jess’s face. I felt as if my memories were being robbed. Grief and rage were combining to excise the good things from my head.
When I went inside, the receptionist buzzed me up to the first floor. The police constable had called ahead; I was expected. I rode up in the elevator, shaking with anger now, hating Holly for what she’d done. How could she leave our daughter like this? How could she be so fucking selfish?
The elevator doors opened. I saw Jess immediately, as if my internal radar had located her automatically. She was sitting on a chair behind a glass screen, biting her nails. She looked small—tiny, really. She looked about five years old.
“Mr. Morris. Thanks for coming.”
I turned to face the owner of the voice. It was Adele, the case worker. She was short and overweight, with a nice smile. I’d always liked her; always felt that she was trying to do the best in a bad situation. She’d had her hair restyled rather clumsily since I’d seen her last, but, oddly, it suited her. Her wiry graying locks had been hacked and scraped back from her small, round face to expose her features. It made her look older, yet also prettier.
“Is she okay?” I glanced again at my daughter. She hadn’t noticed me yet. She was still biting her nails. I could tell she’d been crying.
“Jess is fine. We brought her here as a matter of course, just a formality. We’re not keeping her. She’s simply waiting for you to come and get her.” She smiled, reached out and touched my arm, causing me to flinch. Her forehead shone beneath the cheap office strip lights.
“I’m sorry,” she said. I didn’t know if she meant for making me flinch, for bringing Jess here, or for what Holly had done.
“She overdosed?”
Adele nodded. “I’m afraid so. According to Jess, Holly and her boyfriend split up. They had an argument. Holly started drinking. It seems that she started on the meds when Jess went to bed. Tablets her doctor had prescribed her for depression, and sleeping pills. Some other stuff she shouldn’t have had in the house. She was clearly in a bad way…I don’t think it was a genuine suicide attempt. She just wanted to get out of her head for a while, and this was the quickest way of doing it.”
“God…this is a mess, isn’t it?”
She touched my arm again. She was a good person. She was trying hard. “We’ll do everything we can to help you. Jess will be placed in your care. You’re her father; we know how you’ve turned your life around, how well you’re doing. You can provide a stable home until Holly gets better. Then we can all sit down and decide what’s best for the child.”
“Best for the child…” For a moment I failed to make the connection between that phrase and my daughter. It felt like we were talking about someone else, a child I didn’t know. “Yes, yes, of course. What’s best for Jess. That’s what’s important here.”
It took hours for the formalities to be gone through. There were forms to sign, promises to make, advice to be listened to and agreed with. My emotions ranged from despair through to anger and then back again. I cried twice; Jess cried a lot. She loved her mother. She was worried that Holly might die.
“How bad is she?” I remember asking that three or four times. The facts wouldn’t sink in.
“She’s in a coma.” It was a nonsense phrase. Surely they weren’t talking about my ex-wife?
It was agreed that, while I needed to see Holly, Jess shouldn’t have to go through that ordeal just yet. Adele offered to accompany me to the hospital, where she would wait with Jess while I did what I had to do.
Jess and I went in my car; Adele followed in her little Fiat. The traffic was busy; it took us ages to get to the hospital, and then there was a struggle to get a parking space. We waited for Adele at the main entrance, and when she finally arrived, she looked tired and flustered. “Damn traffic,” she said. “Damn parking.”
We rode up to Holly’s room in an oversized elevator with stainless steel walls. I didn’t speak. Adele talked softly with Jess, making her smile, even raising some laughter. I silently thanked the woman and hoped that she understood how grateful I was.
I left them outside in the corridor, sitting on a couple of red plastic chairs. Holly was in a small private room, hooked up to a ventilator. A nurse was filling out a form held in a clipboard when I entered the room. She looked up at me, smiled, and then continued with her business. I sat down on another faded red plastic seat, feeling trapped in a faded red plastic life. The nurse finished what she was doing and quickly and quietly left the room. The door
eased shut; it felt like the air was being sucked from the room.
I stared at the side of Holly’s face. She looked scrubbed clean, quite beautiful, like a memory of her former self. Her lips were pale, her eyes were shut, and her cheeks were sunken. She hadn’t looked this good in years. I leaned forward, reached out and clasped her hand where it lay lifeless on top of the covers.
“You stupid fucking bitch,” I whispered. The ventilator did its job, making subtle noises. Holly did not move; she didn’t react at all. I squeezed her hand: nothing. She was locked deep inside a private dream, one that none of the rest of us could enter. In that moment, I realized that she might not wake up—she could be lost inside that complex dream forever. I cried again, but this time it was for her, for the woman I’d once loved enough to kill for.
I stayed there for half an hour, saying nothing, just holding her hand. The memories were pushing at the gates, trying to get out, but I held them at bay. This was not the time to think about what we had done, the bad things that had forced the cracks in our relationship even wider, ending in this…just this: a narrow bed; a ventilator; a dark dream; a weeping man; a child outside, lost and afraid; and a social worker with a bad haircut.
Afterward, when the tears were over and done with, I went outside and knelt down in front of Jess. She looked scared. Her eyes were wide and her face was pale. Adele, the social worker, kept a respectful distance.
“Listen, sweetheart. Mummy is asleep. She’s having a long, bad dream. All we can do is to be here for her when she wakes up. Okay?”
Jess nodded. “Okay, Daddy. Will she be okay? Will they put her to sleep, like the ugly cats nobody wants?”
“I hope she’ll be okay, darling.” I held her close, didn’t want to let go. I only did so when Adele came up behind me and gently placed her hand on my shoulder, signalling that we should go.
This time I wasn’t crying. That was over and done with. I had to be strong for my daughter. I was all she had now—if Holly didn’t wake up, I was all she had left. It pained me to think this way, but I had to face the possibility that Holly might die. The thought of it hurt me more than I’d expected. I realized that I still loved her. Despite everything we’d said and done, and all the mud and shit we’d flung at each other, she still owned my heart.
And for that alone, I fucking hated her.
SEVENTEEN
A Dark Movement
That night it took me a long time to get Jess to go to bed, but once I managed to convince her she needed rest and she stumbled up the stairs to her room, she was asleep within a few minutes. The poor child was exhausted. I could see it in her eyes, her face, the way she held herself.
There’s always a lot said about the so-called psychic bond between mother and child, but there’s also one between a father and his children. A father’s connection is different, less easy to define. Just like that fabled mother’s bond, it comes from the fact that here is someone you would die for, a person you would give up your life to protect.
I stared at Jess through the half-open bedroom door, watching her sleep. She was lying on her back with her arms raised above her head—it was much the same way that Holly slept. It broke my heart to see her like that, so vulnerable in the darkness. I wanted to stay there, watching over her, at least until dawn.
I gently closed the door and went downstairs, feeling like I was on the verge of a fight. I wanted to hit someone, but I didn’t know who. My punch bag of choice, William Pace, was nowhere to be seen. The police had tried to trace him, but he’d vanished. I’d have put money on him having something to do with Holly’s overdose, and it seemed that the police thought the same. He was probably the one who’d supplied most of the drugs—that “other stuff” Adele had mentioned. They were focusing on him, trying to discern his whereabouts. They weren’t having much luck. Junkies have a way of slipping between the cracks, becoming wallpaper. They fade into the background, like ghosts. The only thing that defines them is their need, and need is easily disguised as something else.
I opened the fridge and took out a can of beer. It was cold to the touch. I rolled the can across my forehead, then up and down my cheeks. Then I opened it and poured the contents into a glass. I barely tasted it when I took a drink, and when I pulled the glass away from my mouth, most of the beer was gone. I opened another can, poured it, and then sat down at the dining table.
I started thinking about Pru, my absent goth friend. This was mostly a diversion tactic, to stop me from thinking about Holly, our battleground of a marriage, and…well, other things.
I was worried that Pru hadn’t been around. I’d got used to her calling in for our customary cup of tea and a chat. It had become a habit, and when habits form, you only ever realize how much you rely on them once they’re gone. I could have done with her company then, even if it was just for the silly banter we shared.
She might come around tonight. I hoped she would, if only to reassure me that she was okay. The last time I’d seen her, she’d been attacked by some unknown assailant. She’d played it down, but I could tell that she was worried. And why wouldn’t she be? A young girl on her own, cast adrift in a hostile world where her father was seen as a kook, his name disgraced and his work shunned. I didn’t even have a way to contact her.
I glanced at the door. Then, after a short while, I got up and opened it. The night air drifted inside, bringing with it a visitor: Magic, the cat. He slinked over the threshold, his tail up in the air, and walked between my legs into the kitchen. I turned and watched the cat as he went into the living room, jumped up on the sofa, and curled up to sleep.
“Yeah, you have a nice rest, you little shitter.” I raised my can and saluted him. The cat didn’t comment.
I stepped outside into the cool air, feeling tired and worried and with my emotions all tied up in knots. It had been a long time since I’d felt this out of control. The lives of the people around me seemed to be shredding into strips, and there was nothing I could do about it. Because I cared about these people, my own life was starting to unravel, too, and that made me nervous. I needed to be in control. I had more than just myself to think about: I had my daughter, my Jess, to look out for.
For reasons I didn’t understand, the house next door yet again drew my attention. I walked over to the high grass along the fence dividing the properties and stood and watched the place. I could almost feel it watching me back. It was as if there were eyes peering at me, trying to see beneath my skin.
I thought again of Katherine Moffat and the things she’d done there: all the children that had died screaming for their mummies and daddies. Then I thought about Benjamin Kyle, the man who had loved her, spent time in that house, and claimed to have had no idea what was going on right under his nose. I knew right then, in that moment, that he was a liar. Of course he knew.
We can never really know anyone, I accept that, but what we can know is what they might be capable of.
I’d always been aware, for instance, that Holly was capable of murder. Given the right set of circumstances, she would be able to kill someone. There had never been any doubt in my mind about that.
Benjamin Kyle must surely have glimpsed the abyss behind his lover’s eyes. We can fool other people for only so long; after that, the truth shows itself on the surface of our lives, like spots of blood blotting through a kitchen towel. Those closest to us can always detect something of that truth. Sometimes they ignore it, or they pretend it’s something else. But deep down, where our own darkness lives, we all recognize it.
I kept staring at that unassuming house. Only it wasn’t unassuming, was it? Not anymore. There was an aura about the place, a sense of the obscene acts in its recent history. I’d felt it since I’d moved in. It was even in the subway, when I’d run through it; the ambience had polluted this entire street, the whole area for miles around. Katherine Moffat’s taint was upon it all.
But everything revolved around this house, as if it were the fulcrum of some great, unknowable dark mo
vement. The property next to mine contained a darkness that was echoed in the dark corners of the human condition. It was vast and eternal, like the mouth of hell. It ate up compassion and lived on misery. The dark, the great and endless dark…
I failed to stare the house down. It had bested me. Held me in its unblinking gaze until I glanced away, defeated. I returned to the house and shut the door behind me, feeling foolish yet justified.
If anywhere in the world is haunted, I thought, it’s that place. It’s that fucking house.
I’d finished my beer without even realizing, but I didn’t want another. There was a horrible dry taste in my mouth. Like ash. I put the empty can in the sink and leaned against the workbench. My limbs were heavy; I was more tired than I had been in years. I lifted my right hand and tried to make a fist, but the fingers refused to close properly. I had no strength; something had sapped the energy right out of me.
I stayed there for several minutes, with my back against the workbench, waiting for this strange sensation to pass. When it did, I felt vulnerable, as if my defenses had been lowered without my permission.
I walked across the kitchen and went into the living room. There was something on the floor beside the door. I bent down, thinking the cat must have vomited. That’s what it looked like: a small mound of cat puke.
The stuff was an orangey color, and pulpy, like mashed vegetables. The last thing I wanted to do was touch it, so I leaned down close and sniffed it. I didn’t recognize the smell: flat, bland, vaguely woody. There were small seeds or pips in the mess. I inspected them closer. They were pumpkin seeds, longish, oval in shape, and flat. What the fuck?
I got up and looked around the room. There was a trail of the stuff leading toward the stairs. It was thin, stringy, and contained the same seeds I’d found in the living room amid the fleshy pith. I followed the trail. It led me up the stairs. I continued along the landing until I reached Jess’s room, where the trail stopped.
