by Gayle Curtis
Concentrating on the magical starry dome that encased the world, she began to wonder if there was anyone else enduring what she was at that very moment in time. Another young girl who looked like her, whose life was similar – she’d read a story about parallel worlds, she knew it was possible. Then she remembered her friend Arabella. Her dad was a bastard – they compared stories sometimes – but he did other things to her that thankfully Roger had never done to Cecelia. Yvonne was always telling Cecelia there was someone somewhere worse off than her or going through the same thing, and that she must be thankful for what she had and focus on the happy times. She always said this with her tiny little Bible pressed hard between her fingers like a vice. It was all bollocks as far as Cecelia was concerned – she always wondered where her mother’s god was when Roger was on top form. She’d found her asleep on the bathroom floor on more than one occasion, curled up, fully clothed and shivering where she’d been made to sleep all night. The Bible lay next to her and when Cecelia asked why she continued to read it as, given her circumstances, it clearly wasn’t helping, she replied that we all have our cross to bear. Like Sebastian, Cecelia had begun to lose patience with Yvonne’s pathetic attempts at assertiveness and it had begun to make her angrier and angrier.
A star so bright it reminded Cecelia of a Christmas light shone towards her. The little constellation twinkled, making her feel like she was the only one who could see it. She closed her eyes and made a wish.
‘What are you doing?’
Cecelia, startled, quickly sunk her feet back into the water, as she looked up to see the outline of Roger’s figure in the dusky bleakness. She was blinded by the torch he was shining in her face. She’d taken her eye off the porch door and he’d appeared, the sound of his movements hidden by the gusting wind. Her heart hammered in her chest, her mouth was numb with cold and her words were stuck in her mind where there seemed to be a strike, unable to reach her mouth. She daren’t move as he shone the torch on the rest of her body and she knew she’d be in trouble for having her arms tucked in her clothes. ‘Come on, out you get!’ Roger barked.
Cecelia could barely move she was so cold. The relief and fear that he’d returned was swirling around in her stomach like an unappetising soup. She was beginning to root into the thick mud like a shrub.
Roger’s long legs straddled the narrow ditch. He grabbed her and she stumbled forward onto her front, unable to put her hands out to save herself. The side of her face and her shoulder took the brunt of the fall and she bit her lip in the process. Salty tears tumbled down her face as she silently cried at the pain that was turning into a smouldering ache across her already sore heart.
Roger laughed, grabbed the back of her damp sweater and dragged her onto the field.
‘Cold, are we?’
They walked back to the house, Cecelia desperately trying to keep up with his stride. She felt like a bound hostage with her arms tucked in her school shirt and sweater.
They neared one of the hangars that always made her shudder. To her surprise, on this occasion he dragged her straight into the house. The relief that rose inside her was so overwhelming she sobbed again and more tears leaked into the dirty graze on her face. Maybe, just maybe, she thought, he was going to leave her punishment at that. Then it dawned on her that Yvonne might be waiting inside for her and that was why he was bringing her in. Could it be that enduring a punishment had magically reversed the last week and brought Yvonne back to life? Her tears briefly subsided as she was steered into the kitchen and she searched the room, expectant and hopeful. But of course, Yvonne wasn’t there. And, as quickly as she’d been shoved into the kitchen, she was briskly marched upstairs to the bathroom. He was going to warm her in the tub, she thought, but not in the gentle way her mother did.
‘Strip down to your bra and pants.’
She did as she was told, albeit slowly, her muscles tight with fear and cold, teeth chattering noisily, horrors of Arabella’s stories resounding in her ears. She watched the steaming water thunder into the old enamel bath, willing him to turn on the cold tap.
‘Get in. Come on! You want to warm up, don’t you? I’m not having those busy bodies saying I’ve neglected you.’
The water from the tap was hot but not scalding and under normal circumstances Yvonne would run her a bath solely on that. But, when you were almost perished, it felt like burning embers. Her tiny, damp, bluish coloured feet, flecked with bits of dirt from the ditch, were slowly placed into the water. She bit her bottom lip so hard with the pain that she made it bleed. The metallic sharpness felt comforting to her, a release in her mute world. She closed her eyes as she waited for the sharp, stabbing pains in her legs and feet to subside. If she got through this without too much fuss, Roger would leave her alone for the rest of the evening.
Eventually, her legs and feet began to warm painlessly and she longed to plunge the rest of her icy cold body into the water. But Roger was watching her, seeing the proceedings through to the bitter end. There was no heating in the bathroom and she could see her breath escaping through her chattering teeth now that the steam from the bath had subsided.
‘Get out and dry yourself. It’s time for you to get ready for bed.’ He left the room and she heard his footsteps pound the corridor. His tone had sounded dark and she knew from experience that his initial elation at punishing her had worn off. He was bored and Cecelia was relieved.
Letting out a large breath of air she watched the steam drift through the atmosphere, knowing she was still alive. A tug in her stomach rose to her chest, pulling her heart into her throat as it dawned on her again that her mother wasn’t there. Cecelia and Sebastian, alone in their small world.
A light tapping on the bathroom door made her look up and she held her breath again as she waited to see who was there. Sebastian tiptoed in, put his finger to his lips, a signal to her that he wouldn’t speak since they both knew that if Roger caught them he would be in even more trouble than she was. Silently he walked towards her, a hot cup of Bovril steaming in his hands. A huge well of despair rose in Cecelia’s chest and she began to sob. Sebastian placed the mug on the top of the toilet seat and pulled her into his arms.
‘It’s OK, Mouse.’ He kissed the top of her damp hair. ‘It’s going to be all right.’
The feel of his hands always warmed her, reassured her, but it was a superficial safeness – she always had that edgy feeling it wasn’t going to be all right. Nothing was ever going to be all right.
For quite some time after, Cecelia waited in bed for Roger to come and check on her, but he didn’t. She dozed for a while, and when she heard the click of his bedroom door she knew she was safe. She quietly and carefully tiptoed across her room and opened the door to the small loft space. Even though she was tired and weary, it was something she had to do. Sitting on the purlin in the draughty little attic dispersed something within her. Just a few minutes, she told herself. She stepped neatly into the dark cavern, pausing every few seconds to listen for Roger. Satisfied that he had settled she pulled herself along the wooden beam. She bent her leg and lifted her pyjama trouser leg above her knee. She liked the feel of her mouth on her tight skin. It comforted her and reminded her of Yvonne, although she didn’t know why.
Steadying her breath, she tried to get used to the dark, cold atmosphere that was absorbing her; flashbacks of her time in the ditch causing her heart to beat faster. This was the only place she didn’t mind the blackness. She stared into the abyss, her peripheral view picking up shapes and light. Her eyes widened as she tried to see the end of the long narrow loft space, something she often did. Even the light from the open loft door didn’t stretch to the end. As she looked away again her vision caught the outline of a shape, but when she looked straight on, she couldn’t see anything. Turning her head away again she could definitely see a large rectangular shape resting on the beam. She edged along the purlin but knew from experience that going too far would mean she wouldn’t hear if Roger came in. She stopped wrig
gling and stared into the empty darkness. There it was again as she twisted her head to look behind her. She paused and stared back into the darkness, wanting to go on and look but frightened of Roger stirring. Curiosity getting the better of her, she wiggled her bottom forward. Allowing her eyes to adjust to the deeper darkness, she suddenly had a better look at what the shape was. It was a green suitcase that she’d never noticed there before, but that seemed sort of familiar to her. It was out of reach so, cold and tired, she decided to go back to her bedroom and explore the loft the following night when she would be armed with a torch.
The sudden sound of a door closing in the distance made her heart pound even more than it already had been. She edged backwards like a cornered animal. In her haste, she almost lost her balance as she turned and a small whimper escaped her lips. The only sound she’d uttered in two weeks.
Without waiting to hear if Roger was coming, she scrambled through the door, shut it firmly behind her and jumped into bed, pulling the covers up over her head. She lay there desperately trying to calm her rapid breathing and panicked heart. It was only when she had calmed did she notice how sore her chapped legs and feet were.
After a short while she pulled the duvet from her head and as she did so she heard the unmistakable click of her father’s bedroom door. She wondered if he’d come into her room unheard.
Cecelia lay there staring into the darkness as it moved across the room, smothering her with its cold, viscous breath. Her heartbeat responded as panic began to rise in her chest and spilled from her eyes, as she thought about her mother once more.
Yvonne’s face floated in the inky blackness and Cecelia reached out her hand to grasp it, knowing all too well it was a figment of her imagination.
She turned over in the bed and concentrated on the blotchy Anaglypta wallpaper, picking out imaginary shapes of elves and fairies as Yvonne had taught her to do when she was a small child and afraid of the dark. A few moments later the green suitcase swirled around in her subconscious as she slept fitfully, wondering why it was there. She dreamt she was balancing on the purlin like a gymnast on a beam. As she pirouetted she turned to see Yvonne floating in the loft space, her face pale and panic stricken. Then the purlin snapped, sending Cecelia and the case plummeting through the murky depths of blackness. She woke with a start, heart thundering in her chest, to find Roger standing over her, his face lit up by the moon shining through the window, mouth set in a straight line and his blue eyes dark and emotionless.
‘What’s up, Mouse?’
CHAPTER SIX
As much as it pained him to know Cecelia was outside suffering, Sebastian knew he needed to use the time Roger was with her outside to search the house. He was looking for their mother, even though the dragging sensation in his chest was telling him she wasn’t there. Her pale bare feet with mucky soles appeared in his head, the memory of her lying under the kitchen table never present when he tried to recall it, but easily flashing in front of him at unexpected moments, like someone springing from a dark alley.
Frantically he ran from room to room, looking under the beds, in the wardrobes, behind doors – ridiculous places, he knew that. Searching for Yvonne, their mother, the person who already seemed pale and faded.
Sebastian had always seen something different in Yvonne – a prettiness in her eyes that told him there had been a time when her hair was shiny, her skin bright and glowing. Over the last couple of years Sebastian’s relationship with his mother had struggled to stay the same. It had all changed when Sebastian had begun to spend more time on the farm as Roger demanded his help during the busy seasons, forcing him to prioritise the farm over his schoolwork, just as Roger had when he was a boy. Sebastian had become disheartened as he saw more of his mother’s vulnerabilities. She had a weakness about her that he’d once wanted to protect, but recently he had found himself irritated by this lack of strength – seeing her as pathetic. This was only highlighted by the fact that as Cecelia got older she fought back more. Yvonne’s inability to stand up to Roger had made Sebastian dislike her, but he loved her all the same.
Upon reflection, they’d all changed. Cecelia’s involuntary muteness was more and more frequent, closing her off from the world, and even from him in lots of ways. Sebastian and Yvonne were the only people Cecelia could communicate with – Sebastian, in particular, could read everything on her face. A few years ago they’d found a book on sign language in the library and taught themselves the basics. This allowed him a way into her mind – his favourite place, their private world that no one else understood. He could see it all now as he watched Roger from the hall window marching across the yard, back to the house.
Pausing in his frenzied search, Sebastian knew he wouldn’t find his mother. Roger had removed all trace of her, was pretending she’d packed up all her stuff and had left. But Sebastian knew this wasn’t true.
Ten minutes later Sebastian found himself walking through the town towards the police station. He mechanically opened the heavy weighted door and stood in the reception area waiting for the desk sergeant to finish his telephone call. All he could think about was the strong smell of dusty old office files, disinfectant and cigarettes. Focus on what you’re here for, he told himself, but all of a sudden his mind was blank and he couldn’t think why he was there. Yvonne, you’re here for your mother; he pushed his feet together, making sure the toes of his trainers were exactly in line.
‘You all right there, lad?’ Sebastian looked up to see the police officer leaning over the desk to see what he was staring at so intently. He stepped forward carefully.
‘What can we do for you?’
‘I think my father has killed someone . . .’
There was a flicker of a smile before the sergeant answered and Sebastian wondered if he could land him a decent punch through the narrow gap of the sliding glass panels.
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Can I see someone about it?’ Sebastian felt himself rise in his trainers.
‘As soon as you give me a few more details. Who is your father supposed to have killed?’
Sebastian turned and fought with the doors to escape, wanting to kick himself for pulling the handle instead of pushing it as the sign clearly said. His confidence dispersed along with each breath in the cold early evening air.
‘Just a minute, lad, what’s your name?’ he heard the police officer call after him.
Lad, boy, the names that were always used by adults when they referred to him – showing their authority, placing him beneath them. Roger did it, so did his teachers. The teachers probably couldn’t even remember his name. And just for the twenty minutes it took him to walk back to the farm, he felt that he didn’t know who he was either, or where he belonged.
Where have you been, greeted him upon his return. Fuck off Roger, was his response as he made his way into the kitchen to make Cecelia a hot drink. And for the first time in his life, his father left him alone, allowing him to walk away, but noting his behaviour for another day.
CHAPTER SEVEN
As the twins approached their fifteenth birthday, school had become a safe haven for Cecelia and her temper. Unlike the other students there, she didn’t ever want the school day to end. Everything was contained, structured, in bite-size pieces that she could cope with. She became the last one out of the gates, when previously she’d been the first. She’d always been desperate to see her mother at the end of the day, but now there was no one to go home to apart from Sebastian and she saw him at school. Even the sanctuary of her tiny room had been taken away. After seeing the green suitcase, she’d come home from school the next day to find her bedroom completely rearranged. Where the small door to the tiny loft had been was now a smooth wall and her chest of drawers had been moved in front of it. Roger had tried to pretend he’d given her room a much needed clean. New start, he had said. Best you adjust to the change and stop being reminded of things you can’t have, he’d winked at her. Her posters had been taken down and r
ipped in half, neatly placed on top of her desk, infuriating her even more. Rifling through her school bag, she’d located a lighter, ignited the ruined posters and thrown them out of her bedroom window to ease her rage.
And now, all these months hidden away, the unopened letter continued to stare at her defiantly where it had been leant up against her bedside lamp again. She hovered near it, the lighter still aflame, but she knew if she destroyed it, regret would tug at her afterwards. Instead, she shut her drawer and ignored the pull of the envelope.
During the last few months a routine had developed: Cecelia would lose her temper and lash out and would then be punished, or Sebastian would forget to do something on the farm and would be similarly abused. Cecelia was pushing Roger, seeing how far he would go, how much he would hurt her. She didn’t know why but she immensely enjoyed the anger it fired in him.
When not doing this, Cecelia and Sebastian spent most of their time together. They’d become even closer since Yvonne had gone, clinging to each other for comfort. Most evenings, once Roger had fallen asleep in front of the television, Cecelia would run herself a bath or join Sebastian if he was already in there. They’d always bathed together, sharing the water, something Roger had tried to stop as they grew older. One at a time, he always chastised – it’s not right at your age. They ignored him. It was space they used to catch up, make plans and reassure each other. If they weren’t both in the bath, one would be bathing while the other sat on an old wooden chair, chirping away like birds, the warmth from the water lifting their spirits. Part of the excitement was the risk that Roger would catch them, but he never stirred once he’d fallen asleep.
