by Nicci French
‘Justifiably.’
‘Let me say this. You are now accusing people left, right and centre—’
‘Not accusing them. Mentioning them.’
‘Have you thought of seeking help?’
‘I’m seeking your help. Right now.’
‘I don’t mean that kind of help.’
‘You think I’m mentally disturbed?’
‘I think you have allowed yourself to be swamped by anxiety.’ Kelly Jordan spoke carefully. ‘So that you are not seeing things clearly or being rational. It might be worth talking to someone. Instead of ringing me up every time a random new fear pops into your mind.’
Looking up, I met the man’s gaze; he didn’t drop his eyes. I turned my back and walked into the next carriage.
‘The trouble is,’ I said. ‘The only way you’ll take me seriously is if something terrible happens.’
‘I can assure you the police are working very hard to find out who murdered Skye Nolan. You can leave that to us. You are not helping us; you are not helping yourself or your daughter; you are simply getting in the way of our investigation, and if this means anything to you, I’m already in enough trouble as it is because of the time and energy I have spent on you and your fears.’
She broke off the call without saying goodbye and I found myself holding my phone and staring out of the window, through the back windows of houses in east London.
I returned to a different seat. I couldn’t stop myself thinking of Jason walking through my house after I was dead, going through my things.
* * *
I waited on the station forecourt, my heart racing. Soon I would see Poppy.
I had ten minutes before their train arrived. The detective’s words echoed in my mind. You need to seek help.
Maybe she was right, maybe I did. Maybe I was like Poppy and a story had taken hold of me and I could no longer tell what was true and what was a fiction born out of tenderness and fear. My hands were trembling as I called the number.
‘I want to make an appointment with Dr Leavitt. For tomorrow.’
‘He has no appointments tomorrow.’
‘It won’t wait. I need to see him at once.’
‘You can come to the walk-in tomorrow. We open at eight.’
THIRTY-NINE
Poppy flew round the flat. She picked up Sunny and clasped him to her chest, till the old cat reached out and batted her; then her mouth opened in a square of wounded distress and she dropped him and howled.
She hit out when I insisted on washing her hair that was clotted with something like marmalade. Her naked, soapy, angry body was slippery as an eel’s.
She lay on her tummy in the downstairs room, dreamily arranging her collection of toys in a circle and talking to them, while I cooked a meal.
Lying in bed, clean and sleepy, she said, ‘When did you die?’
‘I won’t die for a very long time.’
‘But who will look after me then?’
‘You will be all grown up,’ I said. ‘Maybe with children of your own, maybe with grandchildren.’
‘With Milly?’
‘Milly’s gone, darling.’
‘She did die.’
‘She was just a doll; she didn’t die.’
I stroked Poppy’s hair. Her forehead was slightly damp. On the edge of her hairline, a faint stork mark was still visible. She was still so little; the residue of babyhood clung to her.
‘Story,’ demanded Poppy.
I picked up a book.
‘No. My story.’
‘Once upon a time,’ I began. ‘There was a little girl called Poppy. She had a mother called Tess and a father called Jason.’
‘And a cat.’
‘Yes. A cat called Sunny.’
‘And Sam the gonkey.’
‘And Sam.’
‘And a fant.’
‘All right. An elephant too. And her family and her friends loved her and she was kept safe.’
‘But she was a bad girl.’
‘No! She was a good, lovely, kind and clever girl.’
Poppy gazed up at me. She put a finger on my top lip and traced its shape; she traced the faint smile lines at the corner of my eyes.
‘Are you very old?’ she said.
‘I’m not young like you, but I’m not old.’
‘When I was old, I did die.’
FORTY
Poppy had to come with me to the GP surgery. I gave her a piggyback there and she sat on my lap in the waiting room while I read to her. She seemed miraculous to me: the warm weight of her, the shine of her hair and the blue veins under her pale skin, the smell of soap and shampoo and that indefinable fragrance that was hers alone. My daughter, I thought – but she wasn’t mine, she was firmly her own precious self. I was hers, though. I belonged to her.
I didn’t know Dr Leavitt very well. I’d only been to see him twice since moving here, once because Poppy had an ear infection and once because I had a suspicious mole on my stomach. But I instinctively liked him. He was in his sixties, with pouches under his tired eyes and a kind and respectful manner that made you feel listened to.
Tears filled my eyes even before I entered his room, Poppy holding my hand. He gestured me to a chair, and I hauled Poppy onto my lap, where she wriggled round and pushed her face into my neck.
‘Hello, Poppy,’ he said.
She didn’t respond at all. She stared straight ahead at nothing.
‘Poppy,’ I said. ‘Say hello to Dr Leavitt.’
She gave no sign of having heard me at all.
‘That’s all right, Ms Moreau. What can I do for you?’
I didn’t know where to begin and felt horribly self-conscious.
‘It’s probably stupid,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to be wasting your time.’
He waited. I saw that the collar of his jacket was turned in on itself and had an absurd impulse to lean forward and rearrange it.
‘I’m not doing so well,’ I said, speaking softly so Poppy wouldn’t feel disturbed. ‘It’s hard to talk about.’
I made a gesture towards Poppy and he nodded.
‘I have some animals that need looking after,’ he said.
He leaned down towards a tub beside the desk and pulled out a soft rabbit and a panda bear.
‘Here. Sit in that corner there and see if they are ill.’
Poppy climbed off my lap and took the soft toys very carefully.
‘Milly did die,’ she said. ‘I did kill.’
‘Her doll,’ I explained.
‘You tell me if they need bandages,’ said Dr Leavitt to Poppy. ‘To make them all better.’ He turned to me. ‘In what way are you not doing so well?’
I swallowed. My throat felt constricted and my eyes pricked with tears.
‘Poppy started behaving in a strange way.’ I spoke in a whisper so she wouldn’t hear. ‘She drew a disturbing picture and she began swearing and she tore her precious rag doll to pieces.’
‘Milly.’
‘But that’s not why I’m here. I mean, it is, it is in a way, but I took her to see someone and… sorry. I’m not explaining myself and I know you don’t have much time.’
In the corner, Poppy was bent over the rabbit, saying something I couldn’t hear.
‘Go on.’
‘I’m feeling anxious. I mean, so anxious I don’t know what to do with myself. I thought she must have witnessed a crime. That she was in danger. I thought it was her father.’
‘I’m not sure I understand.’
There was a deep furrow between his eyes.
‘I don’t understand either. I began to believe he had done something terrible that she had seen. And then I thought it was his wife’s brother. Then in the middle of this, someone died, a young woman. I didn’t know her exactly, but I think she was the person Poppy was talking about. I think it is all connected to Poppy.’
I stopped abruptly because I saw the expression on his face, a mixture of incomprehension and sympathy.
‘I know I’m not making sense,’ I continued quietly, desperately. ‘But I feel she’s in danger. No.’ I pressed a hand against my chest, hearing the thump of my heart. ‘I know she is. I know.’
I heard my voice, the words tumbling out all mixed-up and disconnected: danger, affairs, Milly, detectives, inquest. I saw the doctor’s eyes flick towards the clock over his door. I saw Poppy put her hands round the rabbit’s neck.
‘No one believes me. The police think I’m a crazy woman. But everywhere I look, I see danger. Danger so I can hardly breathe. From Jason or Ben, that’s the brother, or Aidan – he’s my boyfriend. Was my boyfriend. Or from my friend’s husband, or my neighbour, or… oh, I can hear myself,’ I said. ‘When I say it out loud like this it sounds mad, when I look at your face as I say it, I understand what I must seem like.’
There was a long silence. Poppy shook the rabbit.
‘He did die,’ she said triumphantly and turned to the panda.
‘Ms Moreau.’
‘Tess.’
‘Tess.’ Dr Leavitt spoke very gently, as if he was trying to calm me down. ‘I’m not sure I understand everything you’ve said, but I do understand that you are distressed and anxious, and I want to ask you a few simple questions.’
‘Like what?’
‘Do you often have a racing heartbeat?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course. Wouldn’t you if you thought your child was in danger?’
‘Do you sometimes feel faint?’
‘A bit. But that’s maybe because I’m not eating as much as usual.’
‘Nausea?’
‘Yes. Because I’m scared.’
‘Do you have chest pain?’
I put a hand against my chest. ‘I don’t know. There are times I feel my heart is hammering so hard it’s going to burst through and it feels really horrible.’
Poppy wandered over.
‘Home,’ she said.
‘Soon,’ I told her and she climbed back onto my lap and started winding my hair through her fingers.
‘Pins and needles?’ asked Dr Leavitt.
‘Yes. What does that mean?’
Dry mouth? Yes.
Churning stomach: God, yes!
Shaky limbs? Yes.
Choking feeling? Every so often.
A need to go to the toilet? Maybe.
Insomnia? Of course.
Exhausted? How not.
A dread of dying? Haven’t you been listening…?
‘How often do you feel these things?’
‘How often? Almost all the time.’
‘And how long have they been going on.’
‘A couple of weeks.’
‘Mummy, I want to go home.’
‘These are classic symptoms of severe anxiety and of panic attacks. Am I right that you recently separated from Poppy’s father?’
‘Almost a year ago now.’
‘And so most of the time you look after Poppy on your own.’
‘Yes.’
‘And work?’
‘Yes.’
‘And can I ask, are you worried about money?’
‘Of course I am.’ I said it cheerily so that Poppy wouldn’t pick up on it.
‘Tess’ he said carefully, neutrally. ‘Do you have any thoughts of self-harm or suicidal feelings?’
I held Poppy close and rested my chin on her head. It was impossible to know if it was her heart I could feel beating, or my own.
‘No, I don’t.’
He moved back in his chair.
‘You obviously have many stresses in your life and it’s quite natural you should feel anxious. Panic is a severe form of anxiety and while panic attacks are not dangerous in themselves, they are very unpleasant and frightening and can become a vicious cycle. I could prescribe you a type of antidepressant, but I don’t want to do it just now. I’d like to suggest a course of cognitive behavioural therapy. It would just be a few sessions. It can be very helpful. I can give you a list of therapists you can contact directly or, if you want, I can refer you.’
‘I can do it.’
‘I’m also going to print out a set of breathing techniques that can help you through your panic attacks. And there’s a mindfulness app you can download. Some people find it helps them through anxiety. Here.’
He wrote down the app’s name on his pad, tore off the piece of paper and handed it across. I took it.
‘And when you leave, I want you to make an appointment to come back to see me in two weeks’ time, so we can see how you’re doing.’
‘All right.’
‘Are you able to continue working?’
I suddenly saw this was an opportunity. I could take Poppy to school every morning and collect her every afternoon and not let her out of my sight.
‘Maybe I’m not,’ I said. ‘I work with primary school children. I can’t do it half-heartedly.’
He nodded. ‘I’m going to write you a sick note signing you off for the next week. We can see how it goes.’
‘Thank you. Thank you for being nice.’
‘I hope this will help,’ he said. ‘Find a CBT therapist. Meditate and practise the breathing techniques. Go for walks. Rest. Look after yourself. Come back and see me.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you have any questions?’
Yes, I did. I had this question screaming inside me: Everyone thinks this is inside my head, but what if it isn’t? What if I’m right to feel such fear and dread?
But I didn’t ask it. I was too used to the expression of pity that would appear on his face. I lifted Poppy to the floor and held out my hand to shake his.
‘Look after yourself,’ he said.
Pills, I thought as we walked out. Mindfulness. Therapy. Maybe, in the future. But now, I had a sick note. I had a free week.
FORTY-ONE
I helped Poppy get ready for her party: brushing her hair till it crackled and for once she didn’t roar, wrapping the tulle skirt I’d stitched together round her waist and adjusting it so it wouldn’t drag on the ground, pulling on her unicorn tee shirt and finally putting on the glimmering witch’s cloak. She stood in front of the mirror and gazed at herself with awe. Iridescent with colour, quivering with excitement, she looked like a hovering dragonfly.
She wanted a flower-crown so I went into the garden and cut a lush peony from the pot Aidan had brought and then rummaged in the kitchen drawer of odd bits and pieces for some ribbon. My fingers touched a jangle of keys and I drew them out. Among them were the keys to the house in Brixton. I’d forgotten I still had them, and seeing them now I had a thought that was like an itch.
I ignored it, took out a length of silver ribbon and tied it round Poppy’s head, then tucked in the flower.
‘There,’ I said.
‘I can fly,’ said Poppy.
I thought of Poppy trying to fly.
‘No, you can’t fly.’
I took her by the hand. As I passed the drawer, I took up the Brixton keys and slid them into my pocket.
* * *
After I left Poppy, I called Jason’s landline. Jason and Emily had said they were going away, but Ben might be there. It rang and rang. Good.
I walked up the familiar street, the sun warm and the trees in their new green, but I stopped a few doors down from the house. I took out my mobile and rang the landline number once more. Again, no reply.
I edged forward and squinted up at the windows, seeing no sign of life. I stood at the front door, hesitating, listening for any sounds of life. Nothing.
I rapped: nothing.
I inserted the key in the lock, turned it and pushed open the door. There was a small pile of unopened letters on the doormat. I stepped inside and the door closed behind me with a click.
* * *
I walked through the empty house and I was like a ghost in my old life. I knew everything intimately – the marks on the wall made from Poppy�
��s old buggy back when we were a family, the step that creaked, the bald patch on the stair carpet, the tap that still dripped, the poster from a Van Gogh exhibition we’d been to together, one corner coming unstuck, that old chair I’d rescued from a second-hand shop and mended, the mirror hung slightly askew and my face as I passed in front of it, tense and white with an unruly tangle of red hair – and everything had changed. I was an intruder, the crazy woman who was haunting her old, abandoned home.
I passed Poppy’s room and gave the door a nudge and it swung open and for a moment I thought she would be in there with me, among her toys.
And then I was in Jason’s study, overlooking the garden that I had made, all those hours of levering up paving stones and hacking at overgrown shrubs, digging rubbly soil and planting flowers and herbs, blisters on my palms and dirt under my nails. Jason and Emily weren’t looking after it properly. The roses hadn’t been pruned or the beds weeded. I pushed the door until it was nearly closed. I was relieved to see that Jason hadn’t taken his laptop with him. I sat at the desk, pulled it towards me and lifted the lid. It came to life with a muted ping and I cursed under my breath when it asked for the password.
I thought for a moment. He couldn’t have kept it, could he?
I typed: ‘14aWaverleyStreetMarmie’. It worked. It was the address of the flat we’d lived in when we first met and the name of the funny little cat that belonged to the woman downstairs. Had he kept it as a sentimental gesture? More likely he’d used it for so long, he never even thought about it.
His desktop appeared. I quickly looked over the contents of the screen. There were folders and documents with names I didn’t recognise. There were icons representing different games. I could ignore those. But what about the rest? There was so much. This particular laptop was probably not more than a year or two old, but I knew that Jason had been using versions of the same laptop since he was at university. Each time he bought a new one he would transfer the contents from the old one. It contained his life. I had a sudden vision of his computer being like a city and I had wandered into the edge of it, a little path into an outer suburb and I was looking for something and I didn’t even know what that something was.
