We All Fall Down

by Cynthia Clark

  It had sounded like such a great idea. The only choice really. Just a little rat poison in her food, whenever they managed to slip it in. Not enough to get her properly sick right away. The right amount to render her weak. She would no longer have the energy to hit them, her brain would get fuzzy. She’d spend more time sitting down, in bed. Hopefully the housekeeper would come in for longer hours. They just needed to be careful not to put too much, send her to the hospital, have them sent away, separated. Or, worse, they would get caught.

  She remembered the hours spent at the library, poring over biology books, trying to determine the right dose. They had argued, everyone having different opinions. But in the end, they had agreed on the way forward. They’d had to. They’d all been in it together.

  *

  Getting the poison was the easy part. Mario, the janitor, was nice. He too had lost his parents when he was young, spent years in homes and foster care. Sebastian had struck up an unexpected friendship with him. Bea didn’t remember how it had started, but he often went to see him during break. Sometimes she went with him, other times they all went. They tended to stick together. Them against the rest of the world. They knew where Mario kept everything. His cupboard was messy but predictable. They all bundled up inside his workshop.

  ‘It’s so cold,’ they complained as they huddled close to the space heater.

  ‘I need to go to the bathroom,’ Sebastian said, walking outside. Seconds later they heard the piercing scream. Mario dropped the piece of wood he’d been working on and sprinted outside. Bea followed, looking back as she got to the door to see John, the tallest one of them, climb on a chair and open one of the top cupboards. He handed the heavy bag of white powder to Sandra. Bea could see Sandra’s fingers tremble as she struggled with the knot. Sebastian was still on the ground, holding his ankle, his face contorted in pain. Mario was kneeling next to him, his brow furrowed with worry.

  ‘Let me get you some ice,’ she heard Mario say. He started to stand up.

  ‘Let me get it,’ she quickly responded. ‘Stay with him, don’t let him stand up, put pressure on his ankle.’ With that she turned back into the room. ‘You need to be quick,’ she whispered to Sandra, who had managed to loosen the knot. Bea kept one eye on her as she reached into the freezer and pulled out the ice tray, wrapping it in a towel and going outside.

  Moments later John and Sandra joined them. The brief nod told the others that the plan had worked. They had what they needed. Now they just had to make sure they weren’t caught with rat poison in the red Tupperware container they had stolen from Miriam.

  ‘Where are we going to hide it?’ Helen asked. She was rod-straight, holding tight to the strap of her bag. Shy, timid Helen had been reluctant to carry the container, but her bag was the biggest. It made the most sense. ‘It can’t stay in my bag.’

  ‘We could put it in the cleaning cupboard,’ Bea suggested. ‘Hide it in the back.’

  The others shook their heads. And even Bea knew that it wasn’t a good idea. Miriam locked that cupboard and, while they could get the key, they needed a more accessible hiding place. A neutral place that wasn’t linked to any one of them. They knew that Miriam searched their rooms when they were at school, so that was not an option.

  ‘What about the sandpit?’ Sebastian broke the silence. ‘Nobody uses it any more and the canopy keeps it dry.’

  ‘Not a bad idea,’ John said. ‘It will be easy enough to dig out and hide again.’

  ‘Yeah, sounds like it would work,’ Bea said.

  That night, after everyone had gone to sleep, John and Sebastian sneaked outside with the container. Bea looked out of the window and saw their shadows running across the lawn, until they were hidden under the canopy. The seconds ticked by endlessly. If Miriam woke up, went to check their rooms as she sometimes did, she’d find them gone and know that something was up. She’d catch them. They’d all end up in juvenile prison for planning to harm her. Nobody would believe that they were just trying to protect themselves. To stop the abuse.

  But finally Bea saw two dark figures sprint back towards the door and shortly after heard the soft steps on the stairs. She prayed that Miriam wouldn’t hear them, that she wouldn’t wake up. Perhaps she’d taken her sleeping pill and would be snoring melodically into her pillow.

  The plan sounded so perfect. They thought they knew exactly what they were doing. She wouldn’t be able to taste it. They’d watch her carefully and determine whether they needed to alter the dose.

  ‘Are we doing the right thing?’ Helen asked one morning as they sat in the school hall waiting for assembly to start.

  Nobody said anything. For a while they just sat in silence, huddled in a circle, looking down. Bea reached up and felt the bump hidden under her ponytail. Only the day before Miriam had grabbed her by the shoulders and slammed her against the wall. Her head had banged back. The only thing she had done to deserve it was forget to put a pair of socks in the laundry bin. ‘My head still hurts from yesterday,’ she said.

  ‘I can still taste those rotten carrots she made us eat last week.’ Sandra made a face. ‘Like it was our fault they were hidden in the back of the fridge.’

  ‘The buckle on that belt of hers…’ John rubbed the small of his back. Bea knew that the bruise was probably still there, even though it had been more than a week since that particular beating. ‘I fantasise about wrapping it round her neck and pulling tight.’

  ‘And what about you?’ Sebastian was looking straight at Helen, his eyes drilling into hers. ‘Your hair was gorgeous.’

  Tears welled in Helen’s eyes as she ran her hand through her boyish short hair. Only weeks earlier she’d had long red tresses that curled at the end. They all knew she loved her hair, sometimes even teased her about it. She’d brush it for ages every evening, making sure it was shiny. She’d found the sample of fancy shampoo in the post and slipped it in her pocket. But Miriam had caught the subtle move. ‘What’s that?’ she had shrieked, snatching the small packet from Helen. ‘You’re so vain!’ She’d slapped her hard across the cheek and turned away. They’d thought that was it. But seconds later Miriam had been back, a pair of kitchen shears in her hands. She’d pulled a chair into the middle of the room. ‘Sit down,’ she’d commanded.

  ‘No, please, don’t,’ Helen had begged, knowing exactly what was about to happen.

  Miriam’s lips had curled into a satisfied smirk. She’d fed on fear, on weakness. ‘Sit down, I said.’ Helen had known she had no choice. She’d sat on the chair, tears rolling down her face as Miriam had pulled the luscious locks back into a low ponytail and cut right above the hair band. ‘Here you go,’ she’d said, handing Helen her red rope of dead hair.

  Helen’s eyes were glistening. Her face was drawn, the pain still intense. Most other kids wouldn’t dwell long about a haircut. But for them… They’d already lost too much. A deliberate act of cruelty from someone who was supposed to take care of them hurt like hell.

  Sebastian leaned over and put his arm round Helen. ‘It is the right thing,’ he whispered. ‘It’s our only choice.’

  She nodded. She knew he was right. They all did.

  13

  Sandra’s hand was trembling so much that she feared she was going to drop her phone. She gritted her teeth in concentration and put it down on the table in front of her, careful not to mess up the setting. She leaned forward against the high-backed chair, allowing it to take some of her weight, helping her remain upright. Only when she was confident that she was not going to keel over did she look up, back at the table where her friends were still drinking coffee and chatting.

  Maria smiled at her, raising her eyebrow slightly. Sandra forced her lips to twitch upwards. She had to get herself together. Closing her hands into fists, she allowed her nails to dig into the soft skin on her palms, the slight pain jolting her back to the here and now. She picked up her phone and walked back to the table.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Tessa asked. She was the latest
addition to the group, only having moved to London from Brussels last year. Her husband had been working for the European Union, but with Brexit looming he had pulled the cord and moved the family back to England before he was forced to.

  Sandra picked up her coffee cup and brought it to her lips. The liquid was cold and she made a face, motioning to the server for a fresh cup. ‘Everything’s OK,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘What was that call about?’ Tessa asked. Maria and Joan leaned forward, expectation written on their faces.

  A bubble of panic rose in Sandra’s throat. There was no way she would tell them what had just happened, who had called her. They didn’t know about her years in Miriam’s care. She had tried so hard to leave that part of her life behind her, to reinvent herself, to show them the new her. When the others chatted about their childhoods, she sat quietly, listening intently, not saying anything. When someone had asked her about her own childhood, she’d said that she’d been raised by her uncle after her parents died. She hadn’t given details, simply said that the memory was too painful for her, and that she preferred not to talk about it. She wasn’t about to tell them that her father had overdosed before she was even born. That her mother never stopped doing drugs while pregnant. That Sandra herself was born an addict, having to be weaned off by the dedicated hospital staff. She’d been taken away, put in an institute. Two years later her mother had suffered the same end as her husband, cementing Sandra’s fate.

  But her friends didn’t know any of this. To them she was the wife of a successful and wealthy businessman. She was a doting mother with the pristine house, the perfect hair, the manicured nails, the tailored clothes, the expensive shoes. Her life today was a world apart from how it had begun, but nobody needed to know.

  ‘Just the babysitter saying she can't watch the children on Saturday evening. She went on and on about it. It’s not like I care.’ She gave a small laugh, her voice sounding high-pitched, desperate. But the others didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Ugh, that’s the worst,’ Tessa said. ‘I can't stand it when they cancel at the last moment. Anyone else you can ask?’

  ‘There are a couple of others, but it’s Saturday night so I’m not raising my hopes,’ she responded.

  ‘But Alistair and Amanda are old enough not to need a sitter.’ Maria was twirling the teaspoon round and round in her cup. ‘Can’t they watch Julia?’

  ‘Oh, yes, worst-case scenario. But, honestly, I’d rather have a sitter, someone to make sure that everyone follows the rules.’

  ‘We got Wi-Fi-enabled cameras installed so I can always keep an eye on the children from my phone,’ Joan said. ‘They know I’m always watching too so they behave.’

  ‘That’s such a great idea,’ Maria said. ‘How does it work?’

  As Joan went into a detailed explanation of the security system, Sandra’s thoughts wandered off.

  14

  The pub was crowded, as it always was at half past five. Somehow Marcia had convinced two guys who were sitting at one of the large tables to move to the bar, leaving it free for the group to huddle round.

  ‘To Bea,’ Laurence said, raising his pint.

  As her colleagues looked at her, Bea felt her face burning with embarrassment. Forcing a smile, she lifted her glass. ‘Thank you, everyone. This means the world to me.’ The lie felt hollow but she didn’t know what else to say.

  Sip after sip, she drank her beer, disliking the hoppy taste but not wanting to waste it. Old habits died hard and she was trained at a young age that food should not be wasted. She always ate and drank everything that was put in front of her, because there was no telling how long it would be before more would come.

  The conversation went on around her. Sarah and Jess were talking about a new make-up line. ‘Why don’t we take the Tube to Oxford Street and pop into John Lewis after work tomorrow?’ Sarah asked.

  Jess nodded. ‘Yeah, sounds like a good plan. I’m almost out of my Dior nail polish anyway. It’s an opportunity to restock.’

  Ernest and Simon were talking football. ‘That was so definitely offside. I cannot believe that the ref missed that. Probably bribed.’

  Every now and then someone asked her a question, tried to draw her in. She answered politely but quickly tuned out.

  ‘How do you feel about them finding him?’ Evangeline, the receptionist, asked. She was sweet, always looking out for others.

  ‘Uhm… Good, I guess, relieved. He’s finally being brought to justice,’ Bea responded. That was what they wanted to hear. Nobody would understand if she told them how conflicted she felt. That the accident had saved her from a miserable life. Despite the pain, the shattered dreams, the loss of her beloved brother, there was a silver lining.

  ‘Did anyone die?’ It was Marcia. She was leaning towards Laurence, closer than any employee should, but he didn’t seem to mind. He was sitting back in his seat, his arm draped lightly on the back of the booth. His dirty blond hair was falling over his eyes in the endearing way it always did when he’d had a couple of drinks and could no longer be bothered to tuck it behind his ear. Bea had been meaning to tell him that he needed a haircut, that the long hair might look good but wasn’t professional. That clients would chalk it down to laziness, lack of proper grooming. It didn’t matter that his suits were perfectly tailored, his nails manicured, his shoes buffed, his aftershave expensive. The surfer hair simply didn’t fit into the picture. But she hadn’t got around to saying anything. ‘Choose your battles,’ she’d tell herself whenever she was about to.

  ‘Beatrice?’ Laurence’s voice jolted her back to reality. He rarely used her full name; nobody did. ‘Marcia asked you a question.’

  Despite her irritation, Bea forced a weak smile. ‘Yes.’ She hoped that the one-word reply would make it clear that she didn’t want to talk about this.

  ‘Was it a friend of yours?’ Marcia persevered.

  Images of Sebastian flicked in front of Bea’s eyes like pictures on a projector. Crying the day their parents died. His jaw set whenever Miriam was about to hit him. Comforting her when she was the one on the receiving end of Miriam’s abuse. The laughter that had become so rare.

  Bea felt her eyes prick with the tears that were threatening to form. She remained mum, hoping that Marcia would get the message and realise that she didn’t want to talk about her brother.

  Marcia glanced towards Laurence, confusion crossing her face. She was so obviously not used to rejection, to people not fawning over her.

  ‘So, who was it?’ she pressed.

  Laurence came to the rescue. ‘Bea doesn’t really talk about the accident,’ he said, smiling gently at Marcia. ‘It’s too painful for her.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Marcia said. Her voice was dismissive and she didn’t seem in the least bit remorseful for digging into wounds that had never completely healed. She looked perfectly happy to turn back towards Laurence and engage him in conversation, any thoughts about Bea, or the accident that had changed her life, totally forgotten.

  ‘Let’s get shots.’ Laurence jumped up from his seat and strode to the bar, returning with a tray of flaming glasses, passing them round. His hands were shaking. He was already drunk, slurring his words and swaying slightly from one side to the other.

  It wasn’t until an hour later that Bea managed to extricate herself from the group. Laurence and Marcia were sitting in a corner, deep in conversation. She should probably stay, make sure that he didn’t do anything stupid, but she desperately needed some time to herself.

  The cold air hit her face as she walked out of the pub, the wind so strong that for a moment she felt as if she was about to lose her balance. She stopped, stiffening her whole body to make sure she didn’t fall and embarrass herself. Her cheeks burned at the thought and she leaned against the wall. The momentary rest gave some respite to her aching leg. Not that it ever really stopped hurting, a dull throbbing pain that was all too familiar. The doctors had said that she’d get used to it, that it would become part
of her life. You try living with constant pain, she always wanted to snap back.

  It was still early, not even seven. She didn’t want to go home, sit in front of the television, watching some stupid show that made absolutely no sense, that was so far from reality that it hurt her mind. Pointless gibberish that others somehow found fascinating.

  She walked past the bus stop, continuing along the Strand, taking small steps, trying to minimise the unsightly limp. Even though it was only slight, she didn’t want people noticing. ‘Are you OK?’ strangers sometimes asked. She always said that she’d sprained her ankle, never wanting to get into the details of the injury, see the pitying looks, hear the sympathetic sighs.

  Every step felt like agony, a sharp pain going through her shin, the too-weak muscle trying to keep up the pace, the ligaments stretching more than they were comfortable with. The need to sit down escalated with every step, but she refused to just stop in the middle of the street to catch her breath. Despite the cold wind, she felt beads of sweat forming at the back of her neck. She clenched her jaw but kept going, finally knowing her destination.

  Turning at the next crossroads, she headed towards Christopher's bar. Slowing her pace, she took a deep breath and braced herself before going up the steps to the entrance. Clenching her hand round the strap of her handbag, she walked up, smiled at the host, who nodded back, and headed straight to the bar.

  ‘Belvedere Martini, extra dirty, three olives,’ she told the bartender even before she had removed her coat. Vodka had been her drink of choice since university. She’d hide the bottles in her wardrobe, where she knew nobody would look. Every night, once she was done studying, she would take a few drinks, escape into the oblivion gifted by the alcohol.

  Putting her handbag on the bar in front of her, she sat down, allowing herself to sigh deeply, relief mixing with a sense of restfulness. It had been a rough day. She had remained stoic, not wanting anyone else to know that she was struggling to keep herself together, to realise how much DCI Hawkins’ call had affected her.