Hide and Seek

by Amy Bird

  “No,” I say, because she is wrong. I know, I know, I was at Max’s feet as he played his music. That’s why it is within me. It just took the first listen to release it back into my soul. “He loved me. His little son. He must have done. I sat with him, while he played.”

  She says nothing for a moment, then speaks again. “Have you seen a four-year-old have a tantrum, Will?” she asks. “Do you have children?”

  I shake my head. Not yet. But why is this relevant?

  “Then let me tell you, watch out for their tantrums. Because they will flare up from nowhere. And then they’ll become a little bastard of a child, who has such a rage that they will do anything, anything. There is no real logic to their rage – they just want to destroy. And then you will have a storming, stamping, and strong, yes strong – ”

  This is not relevant. I did not come here for childcare advice from her. To silence her, I hold up one hand. Without the hammer in it. This time. We must just focus on what is relevant.

  “We would have toured the world together, me at his feet, listening to his music,” I tell her, even though she must already know what she robbed me of. The music is starting to build again in my head, both in tempo and volume.

  Sophie’s sad eyes return. “Max wouldn’t have let you anywhere near his feet. He would have kicked you away as he reached for the pedals. He was a genius, you understand, not a ‘daddy’. His music came first. And second, third, fourth. I came in at around fifth. You – Well, at first, in hospital, you were beyond numbers. You were celestial. But when the music had to go on, you were just a distraction. I don’t think you even had a num— ”

  And then she stops. She is staring. Staring and staring and staring. At my waist. I follow her gaze. Ah. The hammer has slid. The claw-head is plainly visible, poking out from under the bottom of my jacket. Well, there is no point hiding it any more, then. I hold the hammer-head and unzip the jacket. The easy-grip handle has twisted itself round in my pocket, keeping it from falling out of my jacket completely, but giving it just enough freedom to slide. I free the hammer and weigh it in my hands.

  I look at Sophie. She is staring at the hammer, and backing away from me in slow, jerky movements. Then she reaches the counter and cannot move any further.

  “You were saying?” I ask. “About numbers?”

  She starts shaking her head wildly. “No,” she is murmuring to herself. “No.”

  Fine. We’ll talk about something else. The piano. Because I could play it now, I know. The music is so loud in my head. I could just transcribe it from my brain.

  “Where is it, Sophie?” I ask her.

  “Where is what?” she whispers.

  “The piano. Max’s piano.”

  A little light goes on in her eyes.

  “It’s, um, it’s out here,” she says. Keeping her eyes fixed on the hammer, she slides past me, into the hall. I follow her, then overtake, blocking the front door. It can’t, after all, be out there. She comes to a halt.

  “Where, Sophie?”

  I imagine its soft sleekness beneath my fingers. The wooden lid lifting to give way to keys, the keys I will bang, bang, bang in those final chords. Where Max’s fingers have also played.

  She leads me from room to room, like she’s looking for it. Or for something. She is clasping her hands, sometimes to her head, scurrying around.

  But if you have a piano, Max’s piano, you know where it is.

  “Why is there no piano, Sophie?” I ask her.

  She runs ahead of me, back towards the kitchen. I know it’s not in there. We’ve been there. When I reach the room, Sophie is standing with her hand on the phone. She takes it away when she sees me. Her eyes go back to the hammer.

  I give the hammer a little waggle. Her eyes widen.

  “Sophie – Max’s piano?”

  She doesn't make eye contact with me. Just the hammer.

  “I sold it,” she whispers.

  “You sold it?” The hammering that has been in the background of my brain gets louder. The blood is building. “Why would you sell it?”

  “To pay for drugs,” she says, a little louder. She manages to tear her eyes away from the hammer. She looks me in the eyes.

  Now it is my turn to stare. Drugs?

  Sophie drops her gaze again. “I went through a bad time,” she mumbles.

  I shake my head. I can’t think. The hammering in my ears, of the blood, it is getting louder. Da-da-dum. Sophie sold the piano to pay for drugs? Da-da-DUM. This woman, not content with murdering my father, she sold his piano, got high? Da-DA-DUM. A murderer and a druggie? And now she wants my pity? DA-DA-DUM. She cannot have it. That is not what I came for. What did I come for? The blood is pumping so loudly in my ears, I can hardly think. I raise the hammer, to put my hands to my ears, to stop the thumping. Sophie screams and it rings in my ears. Then I realise it’s not her scream, it is an actual ring, of a phone. Sophie snatches up the phone. She doesn’t even wait to ask who it is, she just shouts into it.

  “Help me, help me – he has a hammer! I think he’s going to kill me!”

  Yes, that’s right. Of course. That’s why I’m here. The pulsating blood in my ears becomes more comprehensible. I recognise the usual tempo, the usual beat. Of Max. YA-DA-DA, YA-DA-DA, YA-DA-DA. I lift the hammer high.

  “Help – ” Sophie screams.

  And over her scream, the final three chords strike. We have our crescendo. Then everything is quiet.

  Chapter Ten

  -Will-

  But no, not quite all quiet. Because there are voices. Or rather a voice. I hear Ellie. She is coming out of the phone, that has been left dangling down from its hook.

  “Sophie! Will!” her disembodied voice is shouting. “Will, are you there?”

  I pick up the receiver.

  “Ellie?” I ask.

  “Will, Will, you mustn’t kill her. You mustn’t kill Sophie. She didn’t kill Max – you did. Do you understand? It wasn’t her, it was you!”

  What?

  Me kill Max? Kill my father?

  For a moment, the world crumbles, and images, visions I can’t quite see begin to spin in my head.

  “Will, I’ve seen the transcript of the inquest. It wasn’t her, it was you.”

  A chill starts to creep through me. A chill, then nausea.

  I look at my mother, hammer-struck, on the floor. Blood, coming from her head.

  Have I…? Is this…? The second time I have killed one of my parents with a hammer? I shake my head. It can’t be right. Ellie must be playing tricks on me.

  Ellie keeps talking. “It’s all there, Will. In the inquest. Sophie said she had asked Max to fix the sink. It was leaking. So he was lying flat on the kitchen floor. You wanted him to be talking to you, apparently, not fixing the sink. Sophie came into the room to find you having one of your tantrums. You were hitting Max on the head with a hammer. One, two, three times before she could stop you. Finally she slapped you, and you stopped.”

  The hammer, the shouts, the slaps. The black and white tiles. And the water, explained. The confiscated hammer from the toolkit Gillian and John gave us, rationalised. The images that whirled too fast for my brain to comprehend a few moments ago turn slower and slower, like a child’s spinning top coming to a rest.

  It can’t be.

  But it can.

  No. No. This is not me. This is not the identity I wanted.

  “He went off to his recording studio as if everything was fine,” I hear Ellie continue. “Then two hours later, he died. From an epidural haematoma, caused by the hammer-blows. Will, I’m so sorry. But it wasn’t her. It wasn’t Sophie. You still have a mother.”

  Oh Christ. Oh God. I am a man who killed his father. And… I look over at Sophie. Now my mother. Have I? The nausea that started to build now rises up and bile fills then spills from my mouth at the thought of what I did, what I’ve done. To my mother. To my innocent mother.

  “It’s too late,” I say to Sophie. Because if she’d phoned
one moment sooner, then I wouldn’t have done this. I wouldn’t be a man who killed both his parents. If Sophie is dead, that is.

  “Will, what do you mean it’s too late? Will, what’s happened? Please!”

  I can hear the anxiety in her voice. It is so intense she might as well be in the room with me. I press my head against the phone as if I’m pressing my head against hers. That dark-brown hair against my own. But she isn’t here. It is just me. Alone. Or not alone.

  “Will, talk to me? Are you there?”

  But what can I say? What can I say to my pregnant wife? How can I begin to say what is here, now, in this room? The vomit and the blood and the – pain. Oh it’s just, it’s just, just… Hammering… In me. Like Max’s… Oh God, I can’t even think of it. That music. I throw up again.

  “Will, please tell me you haven’t killed her. Please tell me you haven’t killed both your parents.”

  I look at Sophie, crumpled on the floor. Her eyelids are flickering. I lick my lips.

  “I don’t think so,” I manage. “I think she is alive.”

  I hear an ‘Oh dear God’ down the end of the line.

  “I’d better go,” I say. “And call an ambulance.”

  I am about to hang up, but she screams “Wait!” at me.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I’ve given birth. Leo is – ”

  “Ellie, what, that’s not possible,” I say. Who took reality away? “You’re not due for – ”

  “Just listen to me, Will. I gave birth. He was early.”

  “Is he – ?” I don’t want to frame the words.

  “Just. He is just alive. But I don’t know if he’ll stay alive. Will, if you want to meet your son, you have to come to St Thomas’ Hospital now.”

  Chapter Eleven

  -Will-

  I join Sophie on the floor. I don’t have a choice. My legs will not hold me. I killed my father. I have a son. Who may be dying. As may my mother. Who I killed. There are too many thoughts. My head, it will split, like Sophie’s. I look at her. I need to sort her out. I need to make her not die. I assess the damage. She is bleeding profusely from her head. But head wounds, they always bleed a lot. It doesn’t necessarily mean she is badly hurt. The crater in her skull probably does mean that though. Shit. I need to stop the bleeding, I need to keep her conscious, and I need to get her to hospital.

  “Sophie, Sophie, can you hear me?” I ask, as I grab a kitchen towel and moisten it.

  “You killed him,” she mumbles.

  “I know, I know, I killed him,” I say. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper. I almost prostrate myself upon her. But no, that won’t help. I must focus on reality, now. I go to press the towel against Sophie’s skull. But no. Shit, no. It is an open wound. I’ve penetrated the skull.

  “Sophie, Sophie, Mummy,” I say, because she can be that now. “Do you have a first aid kit? Do you have any gauze?”

  She starts to shake her head. I stop her. “No first aid kit.”

  Shit. “OK, we need an ambulance. Do you even – how do I get an ambulance here?”

  “15.”

  “What?”

  “Dial 15.”

  So I do, I dial 15, and I manage some Franglais, or rather they manage some English. Not enough to tell them how it happened though. Just that they need to come. Now.

  “Call Alain,” she says.

  “Who?”

  “Alain. Call Alain.” She dictates a number. I just about catch it. “He must know, now. I cannot hide any more.”

  She’s burbling. She must be drifting out of consciousness. I call Alain. I don’t know who he is, but I know who I am.

  “Alain, I’m with Sophie,” I say when he answers. “I’m her son. There’s been an accident.”

  “Her son?” he asks, in a heavy French accent.

  “Her son,” I confirm. “I’ve called an ambulance. You must come, to her apartment.” I hang up. There is too much to do here to worry about who this Alain is, and why he is so surprised Sophie has a son. Because now I have a son. And a wife. And I need to go to them.

  “Mummy,” I say. There is a faint ‘Hmm?’ from her. I check her breathing. It is faint. I should be doing CPR. I roll up my sleeves to start. But I also need to preserve myself. For Ellie’s sake. For my son’s sake.

  “Mummy, I had some news. You’re a grandmother. I have a son.”

  “Hmm,” she says again.

  Right. CPR. I put the heel of my hand on her chest and I pump. 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3. No Max. Not now. Not this rhythm. Don’t make me kill her. I need a different rhythm now. I need just to count to thirty. I can do it. I do it. I sweep back that dark hair, made darker by blood. I place my mouth on those pouty lips and give her two rescue breaths. Come on, Mummy, mother, mum, maman. Come on, so I can go home to my boy.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, as I pump, to my own rhythm now. “I’m sorry for everything. I understand. I understand why you had to go.”

  She doesn’t respond. I do two more rescue breaths, then keep pumping.

  “But I have my own son now. I need to look after him. He’s in England. He may die.”

  And then, it seems, she can get her breath. Because she says, “You should hope that he does.”

  I move back from her. The old anger starts to return. How can she say that? How can she say that about my son?

  “Look how you turned out,” she whispers.

  And I can see, of course, what she means. I am the son who killed his father. Her husband. I am the son who may have killed her, if the ambulance does not arrive soon. But she can’t wish I was never born, can she? She must still have some motherly love for me? After all, it was not my fault. I was four. It was not my fault. I press on.

  “And the thing is, my son, if he lives, he needs a father,” I say. “He needs a father, and a mother. He needs me not to be in jail.”

  I let me words hang. I need you to protect me, is what I mean. I leave the CPR position. Very gently, very very gently, I put my hands on her wound. She gasps. I rub the blood that I have on my hands onto the edge of the sink. Then I splash some water on the floor. I take off her shoe, and I run the sole through the water. Then I put it back on her foot. If anyone looks closely, they won’t be fooled for a moment. But if she plays along – maybe.

  “Mummy, Mummy, I think what happened is that you slipped. And hit your head, on the sink. I am so so sorry that it happened. I am so sorry – so sorry – about Max. But for my son, I think you slipped. Didn’t you?”

  There is a silence. I think maybe I have lost her. Maybe now it is murder. But her lips part and her eyes flutter. I lean close to her.

  “Get out,” she breathes.

  That’s it. Nothing else. I want to ask her if she means ‘I hate you, get out’ or ‘I’m releasing you, run.’ Is she protecting me, or herself?

  But I don’t have time to ask. Because I hear the intercom buzz. The ambulance, or Alain, or both, must be here. I grab the hammer. Should I rinse it? No, they’d find the blood in the u-bend, if they looked. I must just put it back in my jacket, and hope the blood won’t leak through, then throw it in the Canal outside The blood on my hands, I don’t need to explain. It’s obvious – I’ve been trying to help her. I go to the intercom and buzz in whoever it is. She slipped, she slipped, she slipped, I say in my head. She was at the sink and she slipped.

  The ambulance crew come in, flanked by a worried-looking grey-haired man in a pinny. He must be Alain.

  “Sophie!” he cries, when he sees her. “Qu’est-ce qui se passe?” he asks of no one in particular. And he collapses on his knees in front of her.

  “She slipped, and she fell,” I say. “I’ve given her CPR.”

  The ambulance crew look me up and down. I start to say again that she slipped, but it will be too much. I must just go. I must go to my son.

  “I have to go,” I say. “My wife, has just given birth. My son, he’s premature. He may die. I have to go.”

  I don’t know if they u
nderstand me, but I’m not sure I care. I write my details down on a bit of paper and give it to Alain. “Call me,” I say. “Or email me. Anything. Let me know how she is.” There is blood on the paper, I see, as I hand it to him. He stares at me, and I can still feel him staring at me as I run out of the door.

  Chapter Twelve

  -Ellie-

  “Your daddy will be here soon,” I tell little Leo as he lies in his incubator. “Yes he will, yes he will.”

  That’s how you’re supposed to talk to babies, isn’t it? Coochie-coos of untruths. Does it make a difference if daddy is a man who kills other daddies? His own daddy? Or that he may now have killed other mothers? Should I, as a mother, be frightened? As a wife? He didn’t say much on the phone. But from what he did say, it sounds like the hammer struck its target. That she may still be alive, just.

  “Like little Leo, hey? But you’re going to stay alive, aren’t you, my sweet little one?”

  Because it seems impossible that Leo couldn’t stay alive. We’ve made him now. We’ve given him the Reigate nose. He lives and breathes (OK, with some assistance) and exists. I am a mother. I feel it now. Something extra, not something removed from me. I am Ellie-plus. I can’t just stop being a mother. That’s not possible. And so I will go on, as I have for the past two hours, looking at his little hatted head as it struggles with the world outside my womb. Offering him my breast when the doctors say I should – my bathrobe shed, my milk is accessible to him whenever he needs it. And of course, I am trying to avoid Gillian, when she appears without warning, still clutching that pillow.

  “You’ve got a mummy, haven’t you, Leo? You don’t need this other lady to hang around, do you? No you don’t.”

  I turn to face Gillian. “He really doesn’t need you, you know. My little boy. You should go.”

  Gillian glares at me. “My other little boy still needs me though,” she says.

  “Umm, not so sure,” I say, in a way that shows I am totally sure. That she is wrong. “Particularly as he’s not even your little boy.”