Bonnie . . .
I saw again her tear-stained face before me. How could I have been so cruel? But no more. It was over now. Past. Nothing. Nothing at all that matters now . . .
Up above, the sky and the sun were bright. The warm spell we’d been promised had arrived and was making up for lost time. At my side Lucy held my hand and waved to a school-friend across the road. Spring was coming. I let all my unwanted thoughts dissolve into the warming air. They had no part of all this. This was the reality.
May came bringing almost a heat wave.
I stood in the doorway of the girls’ room watching as Bonnie scrabbled busily around, searching.
“Aren’t you ready yet?”
“I’m looking for my ball. I can’t find it.”
“Why not bring your doll—?” I suggested.
“No, I want my ball.”
“She might be glad of an outing in the park.” I almost added that she’d be glad of an outing anywhere. I looked over to where the doll—a pretty, golden-haired miniature of Bonnie herself—still lay in her original box, untouched since Christmas. I remembered how pleased we had been, Kate and I, when we had chosen it. Then our disappointment when it had been received with a total lack of enthusiasm. Ah, well, there was no predicting children . . .
Bonnie’s other toys, along with Lucy’s, were all around the room, in the corners, on chests, along the shelves, all in bright groups of disorder. The walls, covered with Lucy’s paintings, were equally colourful.
Bonnie gave a hoot of triumph: “I’ve found it!” then ran to me, following as I turned and made for Kate’s study.
Kate was in the act of uncovering her typewriter, all ready to start work. Lucy, dressed for the park, stood waiting.
“Are you sure you won’t come with us?” I said to Kate.
“No, really, darling. I’ll take advantage of the time and get on with my story.”
“It must be going well. Is it?” For days past she had gone about the flat with a lightness and gaiety that made me think of her as she’d been in the earlier years of our marriage. She was all smiles and good humour. Just that morning over breakfast she had made us all laugh by doing a very camp send-up of a full-throated soprano doing an off-key Libiamo that must have had Verdi turning cartwheels in his grave. Even Lucy spilling orange-juice all over the cloth hadn’t been able to bring so much as a frown. She was serene.
“Tell me about it,” I said.
“About what—?”
“Well, your story . . .”
“Oh, that.” She smiled—almost a chuckle.
“Isn’t it?”
“Isn’t it what?”
“Isn’t that what you’re so—pleased about?”
She smiled again, maddeningly secretive. “Oh, my story’s going all right . . .”
The girls had moved to the door. Lucy, always the impatient one, clicked her tongue.
“Daddy, we’ll never get there.”
“Yes, yes, we’re leaving right away.” Suddenly, now, I didn’t want to go. But there was nothing I could do about it. “See you in a while,” I said.
I was about to move away but Kate put her arms up, clasping her hands behind my neck, holding me prisoner.
“You know, you look really nice today.”
“Only today.”
“No, always. But especially today. Did you know that?”
“No, but I’ll believe anybody who says such a thing. Who am I to call them a liar.”
She made her hand into a fist. “Anybody who says different, send them to me.”
Behind me Lucy gave a loud sigh. Kate released me. I said softly:
“Just you wait . . .”
As the three of us started down the stairs Kate came out onto the landing and leaned over the banister.
“Now mind you don’t go filling them up with too much ice-cream . . .”
“Would I ever.”
She still had that secretive look about her. I grinned up at her. “What’s the matter with you lately?”
“Perhaps I’ll tell you . . . when you get back.”
“Tell me now.”
“No. You wait.”
On our way along the streets the picture of her smile kept coming back to me.
In the park I found a good spot beneath an elm and not too far from the swings, the roundabout and the slide. I sat down, laying my old jacket beside me, feeling with pleasure the warmth on my bare arms. Opening my book, I let it rest there, unread, on the grass. From where I sat the trees, a mass of varied greens, stretched out before me, hiding from sight the river and the banks upon banks of surrounding buildings. Lovers wandered about, slowly, partly removed from their environment by the insulation of their own caring—seeing little. Families too: the adults showing a determination to enjoy the benefits of the Sunday sunshine; their children faster, dashing about, still young enough to be surprised. There were so many colours everywhere, so many new blouses, skirts, shirts, trousers and carefully-faded jeans. The air was full of the sound of the children’s voices, and that, and the warm sun, had a lulling effect on me, making me lethargic. The pigeons and sparrows searching non-stop for food knew they were quite safe around my feet.
Lucy and Bonnie had run off and clambered onto the roundabout. I called out: “Hold tight,” and: “Be careful now . . .” hearing myself sounding like an over-protective mother hen, and they stopped their chattering for a moment to call back: “All right, Daddy . . . Okay,” their words changing a moment later into excited gasping giggles as they sat, gripping the metal hand-supports, going round and round and round. I wanted to shout: “Not so fast—” but managed not to. Stop fussing, I told myself. They were perfectly fine.
I picked up my book after a while, putting on sun-glasses to stop the reflected glare from the pages. The glare was about the only thing I was getting from it—a thriller that was failing to thrill. But I plodded on, looking up every now and again to check on the girls’ whereabouts and safety.
When they tired of the roundabout they turned their attention to the slide, and I went over and helped Bonnie up the steps and then waited ready to catch her as she slid down. “Again! Again! Again!” she kept saying, laughing, gasping with excitement. She kept me quite busy for ten minutes and I was glad when at last the ice-cream man came round.
After the ice-creams they picked flowers—dandelions, daisies and buttercups, and I went back to my book, moving further into the shade. It was impossible to concentrate, though, and in the end I gave up and just sat idly watching as Lucy made a daisy chain to go around Bonnie’s neck. Bonnie was attempting one as well, and though her efforts were less spectacular than Lucy’s, still, for such a small child she showed remarkable adroitness. They talked away as they worked, an endless stream of childish chit-chat. I lay back with my jacket under my head and closed my eyes.
I was aware of their voices for some while as they busied themselves over the flower-jewellery—their words a gentle, whispering drone, soporific, blending with the other voices all around. Somewhere, off in the distance, a cuckoo called. But then, as the warmth and my own lethargy got to me, so the sounds faded and I dozed off.
I must have slept for well over an hour. When I opened my eyes again most of the family groups round about had gone or were going; dispersing in little clutches of threes, fours and fives, wandering tiredly towards the exits and tea-time. Voices called irritably to young stragglers. Dogs bounded ahead, still full of life, and were called to heel and attached to leads. I looked at my watch. Getting on for six. High time we were going home as well.
Bonnie and Lucy were over by the swings now. They were the only ones there, and neither paid any attention to me as I sat up in the shadow of the tree. I rubbed my dry eyes, shook the creases out of my jacket and picked up my book. Then I looked back again to call out that it was time to leave.
And the sight that met my eyes brought me springing to my feet, my voice ringing out hoarse and loud in horror.
“Lucy
!”
I was only just in time.
At the sound of her name she turned to me, her head moving slightly in my direction. A matter of inches, but it was enough.
The heavy seat of the swing, hurled with what seemed to be unbelievable force and precision, just skimmed past her.
Had I not attracted her attention, the hard, wooden edge would have caught her full in the throat.
FOURTEEN
As it was, Lucy wasn’t aware that she had been in the slightest danger. She stood up, smiling, and came towards me.
“What’s the matter, Daddy?”
The swing had swung back now, no longer a threat, and I shrugged, feigning casualness. “Nothing. It’s nothing . . .” My heart was thudding like a steam-hammer. “It’s time to go home,” I said.
She looked up at me with curiosity in her face. She chuckled.
“You’ve gone all white-faced.”
“Have I?” I forced a laugh. “Perhaps it’s because I need my tea.”
She nodded, then knelt and finished buckling her sandal. I saw the way her straight brown hair fell untidily about her cheeks; I saw the sheen on it from the late afternoon sun, watched her as she stood up, looked round and called to Bonnie.
“Come on, Bonnie. Tea-time . . .”
Bonnie was standing perfectly still. Between us the swing moved back and forth, but slower now, losing momentum, as harmless as the pendulum of a clock. Across the short space of grass and asphalt she looked into my eyes. I tried to read her expression, but there was no telling what was going on behind that wide, steady gaze.
But there was one thing I was sure of: all those thoughts I had had, all those dreams that had plagued me, all the notions I had dismissed as the crazy ramblings of a sick, grieved mind—they had all been born of reality. I hadn’t been imagining things. I hadn’t been mad. Everything I had considered and rejected—it was all real. Now I knew.
And Bonnie knew that I knew.
Lucy called to her again.
“Come on, Bonnie . . .”
We watched Bonnie standing there, her daisy-chain about her neck. The swing came to a stop, and for some moments the whole afternoon seemed still—as if holding its breath. Lucy called again, then turned to me.
“What’s the matter with Bonnie, Daddy? She won’t come.”
“She’ll come,” I said. I put out my arms and drew Lucy to me, sweeping her up against my chest, holding her tight. Over her shoulder I looked at Bonnie. Bonnie looked at me. Still with my eyes upon her I turned my head slightly and kissed Lucy’s cheek.
“Are you my girl?”
“Of course.” She pressed her cheek to mine.
A hardness, a coldness crept into Bonnie’s eyes, and I was aware suddenly that Lucy was struggling against me.
“Daddy, I can’t breathe! You’re holding me too tight!”
“Sorry . . .”
I set her down on the grass, released her. To Bonnie I called softly:
“Come on, Bonnie. Time to go home.”
For a second longer she studied me, and then, bringing a warm smile to her lips, ran towards us, arms wide, all childish, bubbling eagerness. “Time to go home,” she echoed.
On the way along the street Lucy walked at my side while I carried Bonnie in my arms. I would have let her walk, but I was anxious to get back. I must talk to Kate. I had to. Somehow I would have to tell her. She would think I was crazy, I knew, but somehow I would have to make her see the truth. I dreaded the confrontation, but I had no choice. She had to know as well.
Against my shoulder Bonnie rode, chattering and giggling in my loveless arms. I didn’t listen to her. I was thinking of Kate—of her happiness when we had left her earlier on. And I was thinking of Lucy.
Whatever else happened, one thing was sure: Bonnie would have to go.
“You’re mad,” Kate said quietly. And she looked at me as if I really were. There was no trace now of all the humour, the lightness, that had been in her face. She just stared at me across the table as if I were some insane stranger, some thing completely foreign and absolutely distasteful to her. I reached out to her where she stood arrested in the act of smoothing the cloth, but she moved quicker than I, snatching her hand out of the path of my own.
We were alone in the room. Earlier I had crept into the girls’ room and looked at them as they lay asleep. Above Lucy’s pillow was a picture of Mummy on Her Birthday, and next to it a picture of me At Work Drawing. Lucy lay still, breathing gently, knowing nothing of the turmoil going on within me. In the next bed lay Bonnie, her eyes shut tight, no frown or furrow marring the smoothness of her round, angelic face. I turned away from her and, summoning up my courage, went to Kate and told her what I believed. What I knew to be the truth.
“I saw it happen,” I said. “I know.”
“Saw it happen!” she said derisively. “You saw nothing happen. You’re making it all up. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you’ve been going on these past weeks! You’ve been so—resentful, bitter!”
“About what?”
“It’s obvious, I should have thought. Because of the business with the mumps.”
“No, Kate, no. That’s only one thing. And something that you regard as an accident but which I believe was coldly calculated. She wanted me to catch mumps. And she made sure I did.” For a moment I was tempted to tell her what was the result of my illness, but I decided not to—she really would believe I was speaking from resentment and bitterness then. “I’m not talking about that,” I said. “I’m talking about what happened this afternoon.”
“Stop it. Stop it now.”
“You’ve got to listen,” I said. “You can’t just close your eyes to it. I was there! I saw it! Lucy was kneeling by the swings, buckling her sandal. I just happened to look up at that moment. I saw Bonnie take the seat of the swing in her hands and pull it back as far as she could. I saw her take aim. And then she let it fly. But with force, I mean. Such force. I yelled out to Lucy just in time. It was incredible!”
“Incredible. Exactly.”
“You must believe me, Kate. I’m not making it all up.”
“And where—” she asked, “—when all this was going on, were all the other children and parents?”
“There was no one else close by then. People were leaving. And even the few still around weren’t interested in watching a couple of kids playing on the swings. Don’t worry—Bonnie chose her moment.”
Kate shook her head. “It’s the most ridiculous, cruel accusation I’ve ever heard.”
“No,” I said. “If Lucy had been hit—and very likely killed—it would have been put down to just another accident. The result of a childish prank by a small girl who didn’t know any better; a small child who did silly, unthinking things like any normal child. But it’s not like that. Bonnie does know better. She knew what she was doing. And she’s not a normal child.”
I watched for any flicker of credulity in Kate’s face. But there was nothing. I said, hopelessly, for the tenth time:
“I saw it happen.”
“Well, you’re wrong! You’re wrong about her. I know her. She’s just like any other child—except that she’s more advanced—much brighter than average. She’d never have done such a thing on purpose. Even if it did happen—which I doubt—she didn’t mean Lucy any harm. I know it. She loves her.”
“Yes,” I said bitterly, “—the way she loved Matthew and Davie and Sam.”
There was a silence.
“I can’t believe you mean that,” Kate said softly. “You’re not serious. You can’t be.”
“Yes. I am.”
I let it all come pouring out—all the thoughts that had stayed in my mind, never settling, never fading with the days, never allowing me any peace for long—everything that had been stored there, just waiting to be unloaded and exposed to the light of day. And as I talked even more of the pieces fell into place. Everything became clearer and clearer, even to myself, all of it making the most horrifying sen
se.
One accident was understandable, I said. But three fatal accidents stretched coincidence beyond the limits. And that afternoon, before my eyes, there had almost been a fourth. Could she explain that? How could any of it be explained? It couldn’t just be brushed aside with our twentieth-century logic and need for scientific reasoning. Our sons had been killed. And Bonnie had murdered them.
I went back over it all.
What about the marks we had found on Bonnie’s wrists when Davie had drowned in the lake—? Those scratches—“Davie made them,” I said. “But not when he was trying to rescue Bonnie—when he was trying to save himself! For God’s sake, can’t you see?” I heard my voice rising while the feel of his limp, sodden body came back to me so palpably that I almost choked on the memory. “She pulled him in and drowned him!”
“No!”
Kate put her hands up to her ears and I went to her, took her arms and held them down to her sides. I had to go on, and she had to listen.
“Sam—” I said. “What about Sam? He would never have fallen from his little tree-house. Christ, he could climb those trees like a monkey! And to fall—and break his neck—just like that . . . ! I swear it couldn’t have happened. He spent hour upon hour climbing that tree, and it wasn’t even as if his tree-house was very high off the ground. No! Bonnie did it! She killed him!”
I must have appeared as deranged as Kate thought me: my face was wet with tears, my voice rising high in fury and despair at all that had passed.
“Bonnie did it! While we were all playing hide-and-seek she climbed up onto that platform. She killed Sam and pushed his body over the edge.”
“She was too small!” Kate cried. “She couldn’t have climbed up like that. She was physically just too small!”
“Then she did it when he was on the ground, and made it look as if he had fallen. She—she broke his neck—and left him lying there beneath the tree . . .” I gazed at the incredulous horror in her eyes and added:
The Godsend Page 12
