by K. A. John
He almost smiled. A sad ghost of a smile. He didn’t need prompting to recall his last moment of pure happiness. That magical early-morning hour of Alice’s ninth birthday. Would he – could he – have savoured it more if he’d known what was to come?
He closed his eyes and turned back the days. More excited than Alice, he hadn’t even been able to wait for her to wake naturally on her birthday morning. He’d dangled a wind-up bird he’d found in a joke shop from his bedroom window down to hers, a floor below. The bird’s wings had beaten against the glass. Tap … tapping … tap … tapping … the same light staccato the branch was pounding now against the skylight.
He creased his face against the pain, as Alice’s voice – sweet, high-pitched in excitement – echoed in his memory.
‘Mum … Dad …’ First her shout, then a thud as her feet had hit the floor when she’d leapt out of bed. A light patter as she’d raced to the window. He and Louise had stayed up until the early hours, blowing up balloons and stringing them and the banner he’d ordered from the signwriter across the garden outside Alice’s window.
HAPPY NINTH BIRTHDAY, ALICE.
He hadn’t been there, but he’d imagined the look on his daughter’s face when she’d seen it for the first time.
When he’d heard Alice racing up to the master bedroom, he’d pulled the bird back in through the window and returned to bed, jumping in and covering himself with the duvet seconds before she’d burst in.
Alice had never moved slowly. She’d only had one speed – headlong – always in a rush as if somehow she’d sensed that time, for her, was in short supply. She’d dived on to the bed and landed on top of him, her black shoulder-length hair flying behind her, her dark eyes glittering with excitement.
He’d hastily stuffed the bird under his pillow and hugged her, revelling in the feel of her slight body pressed against his. Flesh of his flesh. Her heart beating against his, her skin soft, velvet smooth, he’d caressed her face and run his hands through her fringe, combing it back from her forehead with his fingers.
Overwhelmed by love, he’d held her at arm’s length so he could look into her eyes. ‘Do you like the banner?’
Alice had kissed his cheek and returned his hug, wrapping her small arms around his chest. ‘You and Mum are silly.’
‘Really?’ He’d feigned indignation.
‘I heard you moving around, making noises in the night. What were you and Mum working on so late apart from balloons and “happy birthday” signs?’
‘I had a night call. A great big hairy dog sick with a blocked intestine, which is …’ he’d tickled her stomach through her ruffled turquoise pyjama top, ‘exactly here. He was your kind of dog. Big and noisy!’
Alice had giggled. ‘I’m not big and I’m not noisy. But I am nine years old from today.’ Her smile had been irresistible, disarming. He’d have given her the world if it had been his to give and she knew it. ‘So …’ she’d wheedled.
‘It’s no use trying to charm me, honey,’ he’d teased. ‘You know Mum’s rule about birthday presents. No gifts to be given or opened until after school.’
Her face had fallen.
‘Is that OK?’ he’d checked, knowing it wasn’t and fighting to keep a straight face.
‘It’s OK.’ She’d shrugged her thin shoulders in resignation.
‘So go to your room and get dressed, slowcoach.’ He’d rested his arm lightly on the package under the duvet.
She’d left the bed, only to turn back quickly at the door. ‘What’s that lump under the covers on your bed?’ she’d demanded.
‘What lump?’ He’d tried to sound innocent but Alice had been having none of it.
‘This lump.’ She’d returned and patted it.
He’d pulled away the duvet to reveal the parcel he’d hidden beneath an enormous bag. She’d trembled, transfixed by excitement.
‘Go on, open it.’ He’d been as impatient to see her reaction to the surprise he’d prepared for her as she’d been to unwrap her present.
She’d returned to the bed, lifted off the paper cover he’d made, and had revealed a large cage, full of hamster toys and surmounted by a hooped plastic tunnel that could be used as a carrying handle for the cage.
The milk-and-honey-coloured occupant had pushed his nose through the bars and peered curiously up at her.
‘Dad, he’s gorgeous. Can I take him to school?’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘I’ll take care of him. He’ll be with me the whole time,’ she’d wheedled.
‘The cage is heavy.’
‘Not for me. Please, Dad.’ Another bear hug. One that took his breath away.
‘I’ll think about it.’
Alice had opened the cage, lifted out her present and cradled him gently in the palms of her hands. The tiny creature had looked up at her, whiskers twitching, eyes wide, trusting and unafraid.
‘He loves you already.’
‘And I love him, Dad.’ She’d lifted him high, brushing his fur against her cheek. It had been an image Patrick had cherished. But time had been ticking on.
‘You’d better get dressed and go downstairs for breakfast before your mother shouts at both of us.’
She’d returned the hamster to the cage, closed it and looked plaintively at him.
‘All right,’ he’d relented. ‘But carry him carefully.’
‘I promise, Dad.’ She’d carried the cage out, but not before she’d blown him a ‘thank you’ kiss from the door.
Tired from his interrupted night, he’d left the bed, gone into the bathroom, cleaned his teeth and showered under scalding water for ten blissful minutes. When he’d heard Louise and Alice’s voices in the hall, he’d stopped drying himself, had grabbed his towelling robe and run down the stairs, trailing water on the carpet. Louise had been holding out Alice’s jacket, waiting for her to slip her arms into the sleeves.
‘That’s a beautiful silver chain you’re wearing,’ he’d complimented archly, knowing just how much effort it had cost Louise to track down a chain similar to one Alice had admired in a book illustration.
‘Isn’t it?’ Alice had fingered it. ‘Mum gave it me. I love it.’
Louise had frowned when Alice had put on her jacket. ‘I still don’t see why I can’t walk you to school.’
‘That would be ridiculous,’ Alice had dismissed. ‘No other nine-year-olds in my class are walked to school by their mothers. Please, stop nagging me, Mum. I’ll be fine.’
Louise had turned to him, mutely appealing for help, but he’d known better than to step into a disagreement between mother and daughter.
Conceding she’d lost the argument, Louise had handed Alice her lunch box and opened the front door. ‘All right, Alice, you can walk yourself to school, but I warn you: nine-year-olds have an extra sandwich in their lunch. And they have to eat it.’
Alice had picked up her lunch box and the hamster cage and stepped outside. ‘I’ll never manage it. I’m not any bigger than I was yesterday and neither is my appetite. Bye, Mum. Bye, Dad.’
He’d run back up the stairs, picked up a paper envelope from the dressing table, opened the bedroom window and shouted, ‘Hey, birthday girl.’
He’d waited until she’d looked up at him before tearing the envelope open and shaking the contents over her.
The confetti had cascaded down, a shower of glittering multicoloured rain.
And that’s how he liked to remember his daughter. Standing outside the house she’d been carried into as a newborn, while glitter floated and sparkled around her like fairy dust.
‘Have a great day, honey.’
Beaming, Alice had smiled and waved up at him and then at Louise, before turning and walking down the garden path. Below him, Louise had taken her time to close the front door. He’d suspected that she too had been watching Alice and regretting – just a little – the speed at which their daughter had been growing up.
He’d been lying on the bed when
Louise had brought two cups of coffee upstairs. She’d placed them on the bedside cabinet before looking down on him.
‘You had a busy night, Patrick. You must be tired.’
He’d reached up and grabbed her arm, pulling her down on top of him. ‘Not that tired.’
He had begun to unbutton her shirt. She’d smiled the slow lazy smile he loved.
Coffee forgotten, they’d rolled over on the bed, kissing, stroking, fondling one another, and slowly undressing, taking their pleasure at a leisurely pace, secure in the knowledge that each knew the other’s body as intimately as their own.
And that’s why he’d never forgiven himself. While he’d been kissing Louise’s breasts, thighs and mouth, thinking only of his own and Louise’s satisfaction, Alice had stopped outside the massive wooden gates that walled off his surgery and the yard in front of it.
He’d relived the sequence of events so often it had entered his nightmares. Him grabbing his trousers, thrusting them on, zipping them as he ran, charging down the stairs barefoot, out through the door into the yard. Seeing the gate ajar. Rushing in and finding the dog’s pen open and the dog worrying and tearing at Alice’s bloodied, inert body. Him fighting the dog, pushing the animal aside.
Carrying Alice out of the pen and locking the dog in, so he could deal with it later.
Scooping up and holding what was left of his daughter close to his chest, desperately willing strength and life into her broken body. He hadn’t needed to look at Alice’s face or into her eyes, or check her vital signs. He’d already known. But his mind had refused to accept the evidence of the images that had rotated in a kaleidoscope of horror around him.
Louise talking at speed into her mobile phone. Blood pouring from Alice’s head and facial wounds, soaking his chest, flooding on to the ground. More blood dripping from minor wounds on Alice’s hands. One of her shoes lying stained and abandoned in the yard. Such a small, inconsequential thing given the trauma of the moment; but he’d noted it, along with the bite marks and imprint of teeth that marred his daughter’s neck, legs and frail body. She’d been plastered in blood and tissue mixed with the dog’s saliva.
But worst of all, her throat, torn wide open, her carotid artery severed. Still dripping blood.
Charging out of the yard holding Alice in his arms, heading towards blue flashing lights. The raucous, head-and-ear-splitting din of sirens. He’d run towards them wanting help. His mind still refusing to accept the evidence of his eyes, right up until the moment cool, dry, capable, latex-gloved hands tried to wrest Alice from him.
He’d refused to hand his daughter over. Curling his body around hers, he’d knelt on the pavement, hugging her, keeping her close, willing her to be alive again.
Because he hadn’t been able to bear the thought of losing her.
Not to anyone. Not even to Louise, who’d crouched beside him, her tears falling on his arm, diluting Alice’s blood.
That morning had marked the beginning of his nightmare. He’d relived it every second of every day since. And now – now – he wanted it to end.
But was he brave enough to finish what he’d begun?
Three
AFTER ALICE’S DEATH, Patrick felt as though he’d entered a surreal, grey-tinged world where nothing was real and nothing mattered. What was the point of eating … speaking … moving … sleeping … breathing … when everything and everyone, even those he loved the most, would disappear into the black void of death?
No longer capable of feeling anything except the all-consuming pain of Alice’s loss, he and Louise remained side by side purely from habit. Together, yet separate, rarely communicating unless necessity forced them to, they drifted through bleak days and nights where everyone wore sad expressions and spoke in hushed tones.
All he and, he sensed, Louise wanted was to be left alone to grieve and remember, yet they were forced to make decisions.
Alice had gone from their lives for ever, but her remains had to be dealt with. What kind of funeral did they want? Did he and Louise want a grave? Or cremation and scattered ashes? A private or public affair? Open to all comers or invitation only?
Unable to bear the thought of destroying what little they had left of their daughter, Patrick decided on a grave. If Louise wanted to cremate Alice’s body she didn’t voice her opinion. He hoped his decision would end the need for conversation, as well as give him and Louise a physical place where they could mourn Alice. But there were more questions, so many more.
Did they want floral tributes or donations in Alice’s memory that could be used to create a more lasting and charitable memorial? The service – humanist or religious? And if religious, which denomination? Then there were hymns and music to be chosen. And even when the service had been decided there was the grave itself – did they want to mark it with a monumental sculpture or simple headstone?
The smallest of steps involved making a choice. Patrick began answering ‘yes’ or ‘no’ without listening to the questions, simply because he didn’t want to have to think or utter another word.
The funeral director was professional and sympathetic; family and friends supportive. But Patrick didn’t want professional advice, sympathy or support. All he wanted was Alice, beautiful, alive and well again, as she’d been on the morning of her ninth birthday, before she’d left the house. But that was the one thing he couldn’t have.
And still everything in his life – and, he suspected, Louise’s – revolved around Alice. Even the marble angel they picked out to mark Alice’s grave had been chosen because it resembled their daughter.
Although he wished he could be buried alongside Alice, Patrick survived his daughter’s funeral. Afterwards, he recollected it only as a series of disconnected images, most of them hazy.
Alice lying pale and still in the white wood coffin they had chosen, covered by a pristine white silk and lace shroud; the worst of her injuries concealed by the undertaker’s make-up that had transformed her lively, beautiful face into a grotesque mask.
Louise signing the pink card she attached to the heart-shaped floral tribute of pink and white rosebuds they placed on Alice’s coffin.
To our darling Alice, all our love now and ever. Mum and Dad.
Riding in the back of the mourners’ car, following the hearse that carried Alice’s coffin to the church and later the cemetery. Shaking the hands of the seemingly endless stream of people who attended her funeral. Standing around in the hotel room where a buffet was served afterwards, making small talk to friends and relations, unable to meet Louise’s eye for fear of breaking down.
Worst of all, returning home to a house so empty it echoed. Every room he walked into held heartbreaking reminders of Alice. The book of children’s poetry carelessly discarded on the sofa where she’d last read it. Her coat still hanging on the rack in the hall. Her shoes on ‘her’ shelf in the cupboard under the stairs. Her toothbrush in the lion mug on the bathroom windowsill. And when he went to the window to look out at the garden, the sight of a football on the lawn, abandoned after their last game together, brought tears to his eyes.
Louise hadn’t touched Alice’s bedroom since that last morning. Her pyjamas lay where she’d thrown them on to her unmade bed. Her pillow still bore the imprint of her head. Her shelves were filled with her toys and the hamster in its cage.
Patrick took to waking in the early hours, mouth dry, heart thundering, blood coursing around his veins; believing he was lost in a nightmare. But one look at Louise’s face, tear-stained even in sleep, was enough to return him to cold reality. He began to make what soon became nightly trips to Alice’s room.
Their daughter was gone – for ever. He would never see her again, but there at least he could sit … and remember.
Practicalities dictated that life must go on. He and Louise needed a roof over their heads, food on the table, petrol for their cars; his surgery expenses had to be met. The mortgage and bills must be paid, which meant he had to work. Sick animals needed to be doctored
, their pain assuaged.
Patrick returned to work a week after Alice’s funeral and discovered that life was a little more bearable when he was occupied, although Alice was always in his thoughts. He saw her image wherever he went. He couldn’t escape her. Nor did he want to.
It was different for Louise. She had given up work – and gladly – after Alice’s birth, and now she wouldn’t countenance his suggestion that she look for a temporary position to fill the void in her life. Without Alice to care for, she sank into a depression that culminated in indifference to her surroundings and to Patrick. Within a month, she retreated to a place where he could no longer reach her.
When one evening he returned from his surgery to the house – he hadn’t been able to think of it as ‘home’ since Alice’s death – three months after they’d buried Alice, to find the place cold and in darkness yet again, his breakfast dishes unwashed in the kitchen sink, and no sign of another breakfast or lunch having been eaten or an evening meal prepared, he went in search of Louise.
He knew where he’d find her. Since their return from Alice’s funeral she’d haunted their daughter’s bedroom by day, just as he haunted it by night. He left the landing light on and walked into the gloom. Louise was curled on the floor, her head resting on Alice’s pillows, surrounded by Alice’s toys, her arms wrapped tightly around Alice’s pyjamas. The turquoise pyjamas he knew Louise hadn’t washed since Alice had worn them last.
He braced himself for an argument. For the first time in his married life he’d made a life-changing decision without consulting Louise. But he’d done it to protect his own sanity as much as hers.
‘We have to move out of this house and away from here, Louise,’ he began forcefully.
‘No!’ Louise’s face was streaked with tears he knew she was unaware of shedding. ‘Here, I’m close to Alice—’
‘No, you’re not.’ He felt a brute for interrupting and contradicting her. ‘Alice isn’t here. She’ll never be here again,’ he added savagely. ‘All that’s here is a museum – a shrine you’ve made of her belongings. Clothes she’ll never wear again. Toys she’ll never play with. You’re treating them as if they’re relics. And that’s not healthy.’ He knelt beside Louise and cupped her face in his hands, forcing her to look at him. ‘Don’t you see, Louise? We have to leave this house and this city. Make a fresh start where no one knows us, or remembers Alice or what happened to her … to us.’
