by Abigail Dean
The rooms were on the very top floor of the hotel, and reeked of paint. The radiators had been turned up high. ‘See,’ Father said. ‘Brand new, and renovated.’ Ethan, Delilah and I pressed our noses to the glass. Father had kept to his word. You could see out to the pier and to the big wheel, turning slowly through the night.
‘I need to sleep,’ Mother said. She lifted Evie from the pram and through the interconnecting door. She had developed a kind of forward lurch when she walked; it made you want to reach for her with every other step, although none of us did. Father followed her. We climbed beneath the covers in our new T-shirts, still whispering between the beds. Delilah, softer at night, asked me to stroke her hair. Leave the curtains open, I said to Ethan, last thing. I wanted to fall asleep to the lights of the promenade, rising up to our window.
If you’ve seen the photograph from Moor Woods Road, you’ll have seen the picture taken on the pier at Blackpool. It was Saturday morning, and early. We had been too excited to sleep for long. Mother and Father took us to the beach before the first service began, begrudging but good-humoured, and we ran ahead of them, the cold, wet sand slapping beneath our feet, and seagulls spilling out across the sea. The sky was a thin blue, carved up with plane tracks and cloud. We teased the waves, running close enough for them to catch us and screaming when they came. Evie took tentative steps from me to Ethan, and back.
When we reached the pier, Delilah accosted a stranger to take the camera. ‘T-shirts,’ Father ordered. ‘We should see the T-shirts!’ It was just above freezing, and when we took off our coats and our sweatshirts, we shrieked at the wind on our skin. We were laughing, too; even beneath the pixels, you can see it. It’s there in the way that we hold on to one another, and in my parents’ faces. An artefact of the last good day, and much harder to look at for that.
Father had been right: in Jolly’s church, there was an energy which the Gatehouse didn’t possess. It wasn’t the technology, or the crowded pews, or the thick red carpet where the worshippers writhed. It was Jolly, who was seized with a fervent charisma; who seemed to be at the pulpit and in the aisle and holding your hand, all at once; who cradled pallid, pot-bellied children as if they were his own. He hissed, and sweated, and spat. Everyone was welcome, and everyone had come: Jolly’s comfortable benefactors, who had raided the wallets of reluctant parents; sunken-cheeked women, shivering in heels; bedraggled families, with innumerable children in tow. Here were the meek, ready to inherit the earth.
Between the services, Jolly had arranged breakout sessions. Mother and Father attended prayer groups and strategy meetings and Bible analyses, and Ethan, Delilah and I were sent to the children’s workshops, which were held in a damp conservatory tacked onto the church, and occupied with toddlers, gunge-nosed and clapping at nothing. After the first day, Ethan protested. ‘The other children are tiny,’ he said. ‘They can’t even speak.’
We were walking back to the Dorchester. Father took two quick steps and tripped Ethan from behind. I recognized the technique from the older boys at Jasper Street, whom I tried to avoid.
‘That’s the problem with you and Alexandra, isn’t it,’ Father said. ‘You always think that you’re better than everybody else.’
Ethan righted himself and said nothing. From the walk, we could see the skeletal tracks at the Pleasure Beach protruding into the underbelly of the sky. I had seen the schedule for Sunday and had started to question whether there was going to be time to go on the rollercoasters, or on the Ferris wheel which Father had talked so much about. When we were back in our room, I asked Ethan if there was any way. On Monday morning, perhaps – if we behaved well tomorrow? He looked at me with the scorn which he usually reserved for his classmates, or Delilah, and I knew that all hope was lost.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ he said. ‘They were never going to take us to any of that. We only came here for Jolly and his boring church.’
I felt that I was about to cry, and turned away from him.
‘And let me tell you something else,’ he said. ‘I don’t even believe in it. Jolly, Father, God. Any of it. Nothing they say ever makes sense, if you listen to it.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘Well, it’s true.’
‘But not in front of Father, Ethan. Please.’
On Sunday evening, after the second service and once Jolly had embraced his followers, Father asked him to join us for dinner. ‘We can try for a table at Dustin’s,’ Father said.
‘What a way,’ Jolly said, ‘to spend the evening.’ He clapped Father on the back, and his hand left a wet print on Father’s shirt. He threaded his fingers into Delilah’s, and, like a gentleman, held out his arm for her to lead the way. She blushed and covered her face.
‘Off we go,’ Father said.
Dustin’s was Dustin’s Bar & Grill, past the Dorchester and attached to another, grander hotel. The dining room was vast and lit by two dim chandeliers. Pink napkins had been stuffed into the wine glasses, and there were bread rolls already laid out at each setting, although few of them were occupied. Only one other family was at dinner, and when they saw us, in our identical clothing, the two teenage children whispered to one another, and smirked. Evie sat on the carpet and traced incomprehensible patterns with her fingers, and the rest of us took a seat. Mother looked at the menu, perturbed, but Father ignored her. He was ordering two bottles of wine, and recommending the steak. He was a regular.
‘Can we get anything?’ I asked, and Father snorted.
‘Why not? This is a special night.’
We had only eaten in a restaurant once before, for Mother’s birthday, and I was still panicked by the range of options. I stared at the menu, hoping that it might reveal its secrets. Sausages and chips, or Dustin’s Burger? The laminated card reflected back my face, in distress.
‘Sometimes,’ said Jolly, ‘I look out at the congregation. You’ve got people nodding along, you’ve got people with tears in their eyes, you’ve got people possessed. But you know – you know in your heart – that most of them are cowards. They come for the music, maybe. For the community. But they’ll choose to be exactly what the world says they should be.’
Jolly bowed his head. Raised his glass.
‘Not you, Charlie,’ he said. ‘I know it. I see it. You choose to be separated from this world. With a family like this – you can build your own kingdom.’
The waitress, clearing the other table, looked across at us, and away.
Father and Jolly talked with their eyes locked and their hands moving. Their teeth were grubby with wine. Mother sat eager for conversation, her head tilted to catch the scraps. I collected Evie from beneath another table and hauled her into my lap, and we played Peekaboo with a napkin until the food arrived. I watched Delilah’s burger travel from the kitchen to her placemat, and stared, glumly, at the two wan sausages on my plate.
Father and Jolly drank into the evening, even when the food was gone and none of us were listening any more. When the waitress brought over the bill, Father took it from Jolly and counted out the cash. He was one note short, and Mother pulled out her purse. ‘You would have let us off,’ he said, to the waitress. ‘Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you.’
She smiled politely, and took the money from Mother. ‘I’ll bring the change,’ she said. With it, she brought a little pot of hard-boiled sweets, which she placed on the table between Delilah and me. ‘You help yourselves,’ she said. ‘They’re pretty good.’
‘What if we want another drink?’ Father said. ‘You didn’t ask us if we wanted another drink.’
‘We’re closing. There’s a bar next door – that’s open late.’
‘OK. OK. We get the hint.’
We stood outside on the seafront. Father, still holding a wine glass, complained about the abrupt end to the evening. Tonight, the promenade was quiet and the Ferris wheel was dark and unmoving. It was just starting to rain. A couple hurried past us, hand in hand and trying to assemble an umbrella. I expected to say goodbye to J
olly, but he accompanied us back to the Dorchester, up the little staircase and to the two bedrooms on the top floor. Neither Mother nor Father made any attempt to discard him. It was as though the evening had long been rehearsed, and was proceeding just as they had planned it. ‘Good night, little ones,’ Jolly said.
‘You go in there,’ Father said, opening the door to our room. ‘Go in there, and quiet, now.’
‘Alexandra,’ Mother said. ‘Take Eve.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘She’s staying with you tonight. Leave her in the pram – she’ll sleep into the morning. No disturbances tonight, please.’
‘Why is he in your room?’ Ethan said. Mother smiled, and cupped his cheek in her hand.
‘Don’t be rude, Ethan,’ she said. ‘Come on. It’s time for bed.’
As soon as our door was closed, Delilah clambered onto one bed and jumped to the other. ‘I’m not tired,’ she said. ‘Can we play with the baby?’
‘No, Delilah,’ I said.
‘Hey,’ Ethan said. ‘Do you still want to go on a rollercoaster?’
We constructed the rollercoaster as follows: the desk formed a bridge between the two beds. For the dip, we lay the free-standing mirror face down and sloping from Ethan’s bed to the wall, and slid down it on a hotel coffee tray. You had to abandon the tray just before hitting the wall, which only added to the excitement. After a few solo trips, the three of us sat on the coffee tray together and crashed straight through the mirror and onto the carpet, and lay groaning and giggling and shushing one another amongst the shards. Next door was quiet, and nobody came to us.
We became bolder. Ethan stood on his bed. ‘I have a sermon,’ he declared, ‘which goes as follows. I am the Lord.’
‘Shut up, Ethan,’ I said.
‘I’m the Lord,’ Delilah shouted, and snatched for him. He ran across the desk and onto my and Delilah’s bed, and bounced from one foot to the other.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to be my loyal servant, instead.’
Evie twisted in her pram and started to cry.
‘Stop it, Ethan,’ I said.
‘Or you can be a leper,’ Ethan said. ‘That’s your choice.’
Delilah pounced after him, shrieking between laughter and tears. As soon as she was on the same bed, Ethan tackled. The two of them collapsed onto the mattress, and the legs of the bed buckled. The frame hit the floor with an almighty crash.
There was a long, silent moment when it seemed that we had got away with it. Then the footsteps came, both up the stairs and from the room next door. Father emerged at one threshold, shirtless, and as he did, a stranger opened the door from the corridor. He wore a black suit, and the name of the hotel was embroidered onto his breast pocket. His name badge said: Nigel Connell. Welcome to Blackpool.
‘Charlie?’ Nigel said. ‘What the fuck are you doing in here?’
He looked at Father, then at the rest of us. His eyes paused at the broken bed, and again at the shattered mirror.
‘Fucking hell,’ he said. ‘Is this your whole family?’
‘The rooms weren’t being used,’ Father said. ‘I just thought—’
‘But you can’t just stay here. You can’t just come here in secret and stay, without telling anyone. Without paying a penny.’
‘Well, I can,’ Father said. ‘And I did.’
I crossed the room to Evie, who was still crying, and knelt next to the pram. ‘It’s OK,’ I whispered.
‘I’ll have to escalate this,’ Nigel said. ‘After the speakers, too.’
‘Do whatever you want,’ Father said. ‘You’re a little jobsworth, Nigel. Aren’t you. You’re a sad sack of shit.’
He turned to us.
‘Pack your things,’ he said. ‘Now.’
Outside, it was really raining. We hadn’t had time to pull on our coats; Delilah had lost one of her shoes; Mother’s lurch was the material of a cruel caricature. And Jolly – where was Jolly? The red T-shirts clung to our bodies, like cold hands between the bones. I reached the car just after Father and opened the door, but he pulled me back into the night. Ethan and Delilah were already waiting, there on the pavement. The firing line was complete.
‘I’m going to hit one of you,’ Father said. ‘But I’ll be fair. I’ll be generous. You get to decide. Ethan. Who broke that bed?’
Ethan stared straight ahead. ‘Delilah,’ he said.
‘Delilah. OK. Delilah?’
‘It was Ethan,’ she said. She was crying. ‘I promise.’
‘Well, then. Alexandra. It looks like you have the deciding vote.’
When I’ve thought of this moment, in jet-lagged hours of the night, or on a lonely winter Sunday, as it’s going dark, the old squid twitches awake, and extends into my limbs, up to the throat and down through the womb. Shame.
‘It was Delilah,’ I said. ‘Delilah broke it.’
As soon as the words were said, Father seized her arm.
‘The rest of you,’ Father said, ‘into the car.’
He knelt amongst the crisp packets and the gravel, and bent Delilah over his knee. He pulled down her tiny purple trousers and her underpants, and smacked her five times, as hard as he could. By the time she could stand up, she was composed. She wiped the wet hair from her eyes and adjusted her clothes, and she gazed at me between the rivulets on the car window, to the warmer, lighter place where the rest of us were waiting. I remember the expression on her face, and I contemplate Delilah, wherever she may be – in another bed, or in the middle of her own Sunday afternoon – and I’m quite sure that she thinks of this moment, too.
‘Come on in,’ I said.
After our escape, Delilah came to me in stories. Here is my favourite. Delilah’s psychologist was a young, supercilious man called Eccles, who positioned himself in the middle of every table, and enjoyed telling Dr K how satisfied he was with his patient’s progress. In the victimhood charts, Delilah had surpassed Survivorhood, and reached Transcendence. ‘Personally,’ said Dr K, ‘I have a limited tolerance for such categorizations.’ Delilah gave the star victim impact statement at Mother’s trial, and on this basis, Eccles was preparing the paper to end all papers, which he intended to see published in the Annual Review of Psychology, and, in all likelihood, reported worldwide. A week before its release, Delilah requested that all references to her be removed from the essay. She had rejuvenated her faith, and going forward, she would be working with God, rather than Eccles.
‘Nice place,’ Delilah said. ‘I guess being smart still pays.’
She would still be the best-looking person in any room I could think of. She wore a white dress and a cut of lipstick, and a cross which you couldn’t ignore. She slid from her jacket and threw it to the floor, and stretched out across the sofa at the end of the bed. Long, delicate limbs dangled down to the carpet.
‘So,’ she said. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine. I would have preferred a later meeting.’
‘I was volunteering,’ she said, ‘when I received your call.’
She said volunteering in a way that implored me to ask for additional information. Instead, I said: ‘Oh.’
‘You sounded incoherent,’ she said.
‘I was catching up with friends. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.’
‘Look,’ she said, ‘it was close by, and convenient. It isn’t always so easy for me to get away. And you made it sound urgent.’
She gazed around the room – seeking out the calamity – and looked back to me, nonplussed.
‘It’s about Mother,’ I said. ‘I should give my condolences, I guess. I know that you were closer to her than I was.’
She laughed. When she did, I saw that there was a gap in her teeth. Halfway back, left-hand side. We had all required extensive dental work after the escape. I couldn’t recall if it had been there then.
‘How thoughtful,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
‘They’re burying her on prison property. I thought that was best.�
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‘And after so much consultation.’
She closed her eyes. Exhaled.
‘You didn’t even visit her,’ she said. ‘Did you?’
‘I had better things to do with my weekends.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you did. I’m sure there was always a lecture to attend. Or – what? A dinner?’
She spoke to the ceiling, now, and I couldn’t see her face.
‘She would ask about you,’ she said. ‘She would come hobbling out, looking all around the room. Holding her stomach, like she’s still pregnant. And every time she saw me, it was like she couldn’t believe that I’d come. She liked to do these activities. Rather than talking, I guess. They’d put these special events on for Mothers’ Day or Christmas or whatever, and she liked us to sit there, and – I don’t know. We’d be surrounded by kids. Making wreaths, or greeting cards. You know. Crafts.’
‘Crafts?’
‘Crafts. We’d make one each, and sometimes, after that, she’d suggest we make one for Evie, or Daniel, or one of the others. But usually for you.’
‘Delilah—’
‘I know. They wouldn’t have been to your taste. There were other days – she just wanted to know what you were up to. She wanted the link to your page on the firm website. Stuff like that. You weren’t allowed to take phones in. I had to write down the whole fucking URL.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ I said.
With a long sigh, she sat up. ‘Don’t you ever get tired,’ she said, ‘of hating them?’
‘Not really,’ I said. ‘No.’
Delilah’s victim impact statement: the great twist to Mother’s trial. Ethan’s statement was terse and condemning. He did not look Mother in the eye. My statement was read by Dad, while I was at school. Gabriel’s statement was delivered by his adopted mother, and a well-used handkerchief. But Delilah: Delilah gave the people what they wanted. She was flanked by two police officers, who made her look smaller. Somebody had laminated her script, and the noise of it wobbled across the courtroom. She loved her parents, she said. They had wanted to protect their children – to do God’s work. While they had made terrible mistakes, she recognized their intentions, and she had forgiven them. In the dock, Mother slumped amidst hair and tears. The newspapers described Delilah as sorrowful and conciliatory, which made me smile, even then.
