“We hate tests, Miss.” A tall boy called Sam puts his head in his hands dramatically. Kids can be very dramatic over the most ridiculous things.
“I don’t hate tests.” Alice has a smug smile on her haughty little face. I know I shouldn’t dislike her, but…
“All right, that’s enough, everyone. Settle down, now.” The longer they faff around, the longer it will take for me to sit down and listen to the MP3 file. I raise my hands for silence before quickly handing around the materials for the test.
With the children finally organised, I pull the recording device out of the top drawer of my desk, where I put it for safekeeping while taking the register. I open my laptop and place the USB stick into the correct port. Noah is the first to look up at the noise. He watches me put the headphones on with interest. I shoot him a hard stare, and he gets back to his work. Chloe was the only child not to react to the news of the test today. Instead she scribbled in her notebook and giggled to herself. I had to turn away, repeating what Alisha had said to me. It’s not my place. I can’t get involved.
I play the file. Before I left for work, I managed to find the part of the recording where Mum was going to bed. I fast-forwarded to a few moments after I’d helped her into bed and left her alone. That’s what starts when I click on play.
There’s silence. Then a small sigh, followed by the sound of bedsheets moving. I imagine her trying to get comfortable, rolling from one side of the bed to the other. I can see the floral sheets in my mind, and her dry, dyed hair spreading across the pillow. I can see the lump of her body beneath the duvet, and the pastel pink cushioned headrest. The classroom has almost completely disappeared. I’m there.
Bowing my head over a pile of marking, I raise the volume a few bars to make sure I don’t miss anything. I need to be certain that I hear everything that went on in that room. With horror, I realise that I’m excited. The anticipation of listening into my mother’s private life is almost delicious. I’m enjoying this. After years of her blocking me out of my life, of watching her sneak around with married men and keep secrets from me, I’m finally getting an insight into a part of her life I know nothing about. But what sort of insight will it be? A seven-hour recording of her snoring all night?
As the time goes on, and the file remains silent except for the odd sound of Mum shifting in her sleep, or snoring, I begin to lose that excitement. Instead, I actually start marking the work in front of me, with the sound of the file merely background noise. The children yawn, stretch, and scribble across their pages. I find my attention shifting to Chloe, who is bent over her work, but moving her pencil in circles rather than writing.
Impatience begins to grasp me. I only have forty-five minutes until break time. When I set the recording, I told myself I would listen to it all. But maybe I don’t need to. It was in the early hours of the morning when Mum came into my room, frightened. Perhaps I can fast-forward the file to about 2am. I work out what time I put Mum to bed, and what time I went to bed myself, then I fast-forward the file a number of hours until I think it’s about 2am. Then I click play.
Still nothing.
I answer a question from a student and go back to my marking. Noah’s homework has an orange mark on it that I can only assume came from a glass of orange juice or squash. I write him a note in the margin reminding him to take pride in his work.
Chloe hasn’t completed the assignment. Instead, she’s drawn a girl in her book. I examine the girl and wonder if it’s Jessie, her imaginary friend. It’s hard to work out, because the illustration resembles Chloe herself. They both have long hair pulled into a ponytail. The girl in the drawing wears a skirt similar to the one Chloe is wearing now and has a rucksack the same shape.
There’s a tug at my stomach. I want to help this child. But are my desires to help her selfless or selfish? Am I projecting onto this young girl because all I’ve ever wanted is a daughter? I’ve longed to read to a child, to teach her how to spell, to go on walks into the countryside and point out beautiful flowers.
The ticking time bomb of that sexist metaphor the “biological clock” has slowed right down. It’s time to accept that motherhood will probably never happen for me. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe that’s what was supposed to happen.
I switch up the volume. Still nothing. Only fifteen minutes to go until break. Noah wants to use the bathroom now. I roll my eyes and nod. I move onto the next exercise book.
And then I hear it.
“What are you doing here?”
The sound makes me jolt. I quickly turn down the volume a few bars. Some of the kids turn to stare at me, so I put my head down and pretend to mark.
The voice is my mother’s. But who is she speaking to?
“Tell me what you’re doing here. I want to know.”
There’s a pause, a long, agonising, pregnant pause. Silence.
“I… I…” Mum stutters. “I know you…”
The thud of my heart is almost audible. The nerves and anticipation feel like bugs crawling under my skin. There’s a creeping feeling of nausea rising from the pit of my stomach. I want an answer, and yet I don’t want an answer. My fingers hover over the mousepad, trembling. I can’t breathe.
“You will know me.”
A scream rips from my body.
Chapter Nine
Alisha bursts into the classroom. There are children crying on the back row. Noah stares at me with his jaw dropped. My fingers grip the seat of my chair, and I attempt to suck in deep breaths that rasp through my lungs. Alisha runs towards me, blurry and frantic. I try to tell her about the upset children, but I’m paralysed by the beating of my heart. It’s so loud I think it might burst.
“It’s on the recording.” I finally find my voice. “It’s on the recording.”
Alisha lifts one of my arms, examines me. “Are you hurt? What’s wrong? Breathe, Sophie, breathe.”
I can barely hear her over the voice in my head. You will know me. You will know me. That harsh whisper sets my teeth on edge. My heart pounds against my ribs, threatening to come out of my chest, burst forth and escape. I wouldn’t blame it. I would jump ship too if I was part of this broken woman. I’m a mess. A complete and utter mess.
“It’s all right, children. Miss Howland isn’t feeling well right now. You can go into my classroom if you like. Go on, that’s right.” Alisha’s hair brushes over my hand when she leans down to me. “Jesus, Sophie, come on. Pull yourself together. You’re at school, teaching children.” She pats my hand.
I feel sick.
*
Moira sends me home, citing exhaustion. They wanted to call an ambulance but I wouldn’t let them. No, I need to get home. I need to see that room, to imagine the voice again, to feel what’s real and what’s not. And I need to make sure Mum and Erin are safe.
I have no idea who was in the room with Mum. The voice is so low and hoarse that it could be male or female. On the way home in the car, I put my laptop on the passenger seat and listen to it again. After the whisper, Mum makes a few whimpering sounds, but then seems to ease back into sleep. I wonder if she even remembers it.
You will know me.
You will know me.
I keep playing it over and over in my mind.
She knew the person in her room. She’s never met Peter, so it can’t be him. It could be anyone she used to know. Anyone from her past. Perhaps it’s someone I’ve never met before.
The shadow.
Why didn’t I take her seriously? How long has this person been breaking into our house at night?
How did they get in?
The nape of my neck prickles as the memory comes back to me. I can’t find my keys. Mum lost her keys not long ago and then found them the next morning. What if they were stolen from her, taken overnight, and the thief made a copy? Erin said Mum had been out in the garden that day. That was the night I found the button.
I pull sharply onto my road, narrowly missing the neighbour’s cat. Handbrake up. Seatbelt unclippe
d. I rush towards the house. My frenetic fingers miss the keyhole twice before I open the door. When I burst into the hallway, I catch a glimpse of the wild woman in the mirror, shambolic and undone, all pink-faced and bloodshot.
“Sophie?” Erin’s soft footsteps patter through the house. “Is that you?”
I meet her halfway, almost running into her in the living room doorway. Her eyes widen in fear at the sight of me.
“Has anyone been in the house? Have you noticed anyone hanging around?” I ask.
Her pretty eyes are like plates, and her mouth makes an “O” shape. “No, no one has been. What’s happened?”
I’m breathless. My trembling hand rises to my chest. I need to pull myself together if I’m going to handle this. “Alisha… I…” I take a deep breath and compose myself. “With Mum saying that there was a shadow in her room, I decided to put a recording device in there. It was Alisha’s idea. She said there might be a mundane explanation for Mum’s fear that I could record. So, I recorded her room at night and then listened to the file while I was at work. Erin, there was someone in the house.”
Her hand rises to her mouth, stifling a gasp. “What?”
“I heard them. I heard their voice on the recording. I’m going to call the police.”
Erin nods. “Good.”
“Do you remember the day Mum lost her keys? You said she’d been in the garden.”
“Yes, that’s right.” She lowers her head as though reliving the day. Then her head snaps up. “It wasn’t long after she came inside that she said she’d lost them. We searched all over the garden, but they weren’t there. I remember she was playing with them that day, walking around and jangling them up and down. It seemed to keep her occupied, so I left her to it.”
“Did Mum say anything about seeing someone in the garden?”
“No.” Erin scratches the back of her neck. “No, and I didn’t see anyone.”
I rummage through my bag, looking for my mobile phone. “On the recording, it sounds like she knew the person who broke into the house. I’m almost certain of it.”
Erin wraps her arms around her body. “I get chills just thinking about it.” Then she pauses. “What time was the person in the house?”
“Sometime after 2am. About 2:45, I think. Why?”
“Well, it could be nothing, but…”
“Go on,” I prompt.
“Sometimes your mum takes a nap in the afternoon. When she wakes up, she’s very disorientated. She’ll stare at her reflection in the window and say things like, ‘What are you doing here?’ and ‘Do I know you?’ If it was the middle of the night and she’d just woken up, she could have said that to anyone.”
“So, it could have been anyone?”
That’s when it hits me. If the intruder could have been anyone, that means I can’t trust anyone. I turn away from Erin with the phone in my hand. Erin has more access to Mum’s keys than anyone. Maybe I can’t trust her, either.
*
PC Hollis and PC Chowdhury are polite but serious. Hollis is older, with grey stubble, a wide jaw and a boxer’s physique. He resembles the kind of police officer you see on TV. The good cop who works with the maverick. Chowdhury is leaner and has small, dark eyes that can’t rest in one spot. He sits quietly as Hollis leads the investigation. His only reaction is to the recording, when his eyebrows lift up his forehead.
“Did you hear it?” I ask eagerly. “The voice?”
“Ms. Howland, may I ask why you decided to put a recording device in your mother’s bedroom?” PC Hollis asks. The masculine energy of the two officers seems out of place sat on my mother’s floral sofa sipping from chintzy teacups.
“Mum has Alzheimer’s disease,” I explain. “She gets disorientated and confused at night. Her sleep has been very disrupted, and she keeps complaining about a shadow following her. Which I know sounds a bit crazy.” I let out a nervous laugh and feel my skin heat with embarrassment. “I was worried that she was frightening herself at night somehow. I didn’t expect this. I didn’t expect to actually hear an intruder.”
Chowdhury makes notes. Hollis asks, “And what about you, Ms. Howland? Did you hear anyone come into the house last night?”
“No,” I reply. “I didn’t. But a few nights ago, Mum woke me up and said there was someone in her room. We checked the whole house, but we didn’t find anything.”
“And you didn’t hear anything that night, either?” Hollis asks.
“No,” I reply as a prickling sensation works its way up my arms. It wasn’t until the police started asking questions that I realised how odd all this is. “But Mum lost her keys. The intruder could have made a set. I guess I might not hear someone sneak into the house if they can unlock the door.”
“Maybe I should take a look around,” Chowdhury suggests. “Do you have a cellar or an attic?”
“Yes, both,” I say. My blood runs cold. “You don’t think… you don’t think they’re still here, do you?”
“Don’t worry,” Chowdhury says with a reassuring smile. “If there’s anyone here, we’ll find them.”
“Perhaps I could have a chat with your mother while PC Chowdhury searches the house?” Hollis suggests.
“Yes, I’ll go and get her.”
I direct Chowdhury towards the cellar, making sure the light is on so he doesn’t slip down the steep stone steps. As with most old Victorian houses, the cellar is cold and uninviting, where the meat would have been stored to keep it fresh. There’s even an old stone butcher’s block down there. Not that I go into the cellar very often. I have to build up the courage to go down there to change a fuse.
Mum is in the kitchen with Erin, who seems frazzled as she wards off many questions. Who are those men? What are they doing in my house? As I walk into the room, Mum turns around and directs the same questions at me.
“It’s the police, Mum. They want to talk about the person who broke into the house. Do you remember? You need to tell them all about it.”
Mum’s face drains of all colour. “But I don’t want to. I don’t want to tell them.” She takes a step forward and whispers, “They mustn’t know. Never.”
“Mum… What? I…” I glance across at Erin, who is chewing on her lip and tapping nervously on the kitchen surface. She turns away, busying herself with washing mugs. “What are you talking about?”
But the spell is broken. Mum leans away from me and blinks twice. “Who are those men in my house?”
For the briefest of moments, I wonder… Is Mum as confused as she seems? When she regards me with those assessing eyes, it’s as though she knows what she’s saying. Then her jaw slackens, and I wonder if I saw anything at all.
I guide her through to the living room—where PC Hollis is waiting for us—and feel numb from head to toe. Numb, and tired of all this. My mind drifts to my class at school, being taught by Alisha again. I can’t help experiencing a stab of jealousy. Alisha gets to teach my kids. She also has the home life I’ve always wanted. I’m here with the police, a demented mother, and a sick feeling in my stomach.
Hollis gets to his feet and offers a hand to shake. Mum stands with her back straight. She never even glances at his hand. Instead, she folds her arms and lifts her chin.
“What is all this nonsense about?” she demands.
“Mrs. Howland, your daughter called us about an intruder. You said that there was someone in your bedroom? There’s a recording—”
“I don’t like you being in my home.”
“Mum! I’m very sorry. It’s the Alzheimer’s, not her,” I lie.
“That’s okay. I don’t like the police in my home, either,” Hollis says with a laugh. “But we’re here to help, Mrs. Howland. I know this is all quite distressing. Perhaps we should listen to the MP3 file that your daughter recorded. Maybe it will jog your memory.”
“File? What’s an MP3?”
I swallow through a dry throat. My hands are clammy against my hips. “Mum, I put a recording device in your bedroom becaus
e of what you said about the intruder. I know I should have told you, but I wanted to make sure you were all right at night. You’ve been so disrupted recently.”
“You recorded me?”
I cringe away from her, and Hollis shuffles his feet and stares down at the mug of tea on the coffee table. No one wants to gaze at Maureen Howland’s wide, frightening eyes, accusing me of a hundred crimes. Crime one: betrayal.
“I thought—”
“You disgust me.”
Hollis clears his throat. “Maybe we should discuss the intruder. There is a voice on the file that does sound like a second person. Mrs. Howland, do you remember talking to someone in your room late at night? Did they hurt or threaten you?”
Mum sits down in the armchair and stares vacantly out of the window. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t remember.”
Hollis clicks play on the laptop and the whole ordeal is played again. Mum’s only reaction to the voice is to turn and stare at the computer as though it called her name.
“Mrs. Howland, is this your voice?” Hollis replays the first part of the recording.
“Yes,” Mum replies.
“And what about this voice?” He plays the hiss that makes my knees weaken with fear.
Mum shakes her head. “I don’t remember. I don’t know anything about all this.”
“Take your time, Mum,” I coax.
“You don’t talk to me.” Mum’s words cut me to the bone.
Hollis carries on the interview, ignoring the icy atmosphere. He asks her whether she saw anything strange, whether there had been any sign of a break-in, and whether anyone had been hanging around the street recently. Mum doesn’t know anything. My hopes begin to dwindle. Someone was here, but without Mum coherent enough to tell us who it was, the police can’t do anything to help us.
The Broken Ones Page 7
