by Linda Green
She is going into police-speak now. That is how bad it is.
‘And the search of Ogden Water?’ I ask.
‘That’s been called off. In the circumstances we think our resources would be better used elsewhere.’
Alex nods and squeezes my arm and I think that at least I won’t have to watch any more men in wetsuits looking for my daughter on TV. Not for now, anyway.
*
Tony calls round later, after he’s been home to see Dad. For the first time his face actually reminds me of our father, it is that haggard.
‘How is he?’ I ask.
‘Quiet,’ he says, which for Dad is about as bad as it gets.
‘Are there lots of press still?’
‘Yeah. Quite a few. I just kept my head down.’
‘Claire says they’ll probably be gone by tomorrow.’
Tony nods. ‘I had a call, Lis. From a mate of mine called Big Don, after it was on the news and that. He used to live near Taylor, was in the same class as him, like.’
‘Yeah,’ I say, wondering where this is going.
‘It was his sister. Taylor was found guilty of having sex with his own sister. That’s why he was on sex offenders register. He didn’t use force, like, but it was treated as rape because of her age. She was ten and he was thirteen. They’d both been sexually abused by their stepfather for years.’
‘Oh Jeez,’ I say.
‘His sister told his mum what had happened and she turned him in, right after she kicked the stepfather out.’
I look up at the ceiling and shake my head. ‘And now look what we’ve gone and done to her. Have you told Dad?’
‘Nah. Not sure he can take it at the moment but I thought you should know.’
‘Yeah. Thanks. Can I get you a brew?’
He shakes his head. ‘No, ta. I’d better get back, make sure everything’s OK.’
I text Claire after he has gone. Ask her to apologise to Taylor’s mum on our behalf. But even as I do it I know it’s too late for her family. In the same way it’s probably too late for ours.
20
Muriel
The child is quiet the following morning. It’s like she is running on batteries and they are getting low. I hope the holiday will recharge her. I have booked a little cottage up on the cliffs. Very remote, somewhere we won’t be disturbed. I have been given a key code. The lady said the key will be left in one of those little boxes. We won’t even have to see anyone. They take pets too, so I can take Melody. I’ll keep her in, of course. We will all need to stay in but we will be away from here, that is the important thing.
I have given the child one of Matthew’s jigsaws which I dug out from the box room. I sit watching as she does it. It’s a garden birds one, Matthew used to be a member of the Young Ornithologists Club. I don’t imagine they have many members these days. Children don’t seem capable of sitting still long enough to watch for birds. There are seventy-five pieces so it may be a bit old for her. Although I know for certain that Matthew could do it at her age. She doesn’t appear to know about doing the edges first, just starts from a random point in the middle where she has found two pieces which fit.
‘The corners,’ I say. ‘Haven’t you been taught that you need to find the corners first?’
She turns to look at me, shaking her head. I go over and crouch down next to her on the floor, picking up a corner piece and handing it to her.
‘There,’ I say. ‘Now you find the other corner pieces, then you can find the edge pieces which join them up. It’s like a frame for the picture.’
‘Did Matthew do this jigsaw?’
‘Yes. It was one of his favourites. He always liked birds.’
‘Did he have a pet bird?’
‘No. We did ask but he never wanted one. Not even a budgie.’
‘Why not?’
‘He didn’t like to see them caged, you see. Thought they should be free to fly off if they wanted to. Said no creature should be kept somewhere against their will. And that birds had wings because they were meant to fly, not be stuck in cages.’
I swallow and stare out of the window. Perhaps I should have known back then, the trouble it was all going to cause, these fancy ideas of his. Perhaps I should have gone against him. Bought him a budgie in a cage anyway so that he could see that it would be fine. Would be safe and protected. And that freedom was actually rather overrated.
‘I like birds,’ the child says.
‘I know you do.’
‘Have I got a favourite bird?’
‘Of course you have. You’ve got that many things with them on.’
‘What things?’
I laugh. ‘All of your things. Do you want me to get them for you?’
The child nods.
I shake my head with a smile and go upstairs. There is a separate box with them all in. It made sense to keep them together. They were the only things Matthew actually asked me to keep. I put them away in the box for safe keeping. He has not asked me for them since, but he will one day. And when he is ready I will have them all here for him.
I lift the box with both hands, it will just about be manageable down the stairs. I take a break on the landing after the first flight. I glance at Matthew.
‘I don’t know what you’re laughing at,’ I say to him. ‘You’re the one who asked to see them.’
I pause again at the bottom of the stairs while I get my breath back. The child comes to the doorway.
‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘You go back in; I’ll bring it in to you.’
I put the box down on the rug in the lounge. The child is there immediately, opening the flaps, desperate to see inside. Melody rubs around the box too and sniffs at it.
‘Now, let’s see if you remember,’ I say. I unwrap the tissue paper around the first object and hand him the black and white ceramic money box. He turns it over and shakes it, as if there might still be something inside. There isn’t of course.
He looks up at me. ‘Penguins,’ he says in a little voice.
‘Of course it’s penguins. It’s been penguins for as long as I can remember. Look how many penguin things you’ve got.’ He looks in the box as I dig down and hand him other things. ‘Here’s your writing set,’ I say. That had been hard to find. There were no Internet searches in those days, no eBay (thank goodness); just good old-fashioned leg-work. I’d found it in the indoor market in Todmorden, of all places. Never saw another one again, either.
‘You liked it so much you didn’t want to use the envelopes, see,’ I say, opening up the set to show him them all still neatly inside, the penguin faces on the flaps. ‘I had to use my own Basildon Bond ones to send your thank-you notes to Grandma.’
The child takes them and examines them more closely, touching the paper.
‘And here’s your snow globe,’ I say, giving it a shake and putting it down on the floor. He puts his nose to it and peers inside. He was the only one in the infants who knew that penguins lived in the Antarctic not the Arctic. I was very proud when Mrs Cuthbertson told me that.
‘Oh, and your puppet,’ I say, picking it up and placing my hand inside. ‘We used to have such fun with this, didn’t we? The shows you put on for me. You used to be so disappointed that I couldn’t make real snow for you, though.’
The child takes the puppet and strokes it, his face serious, intense.
‘And look, your door name plaque – I’d forgotten you even had that. We must have taken it off when we decorated and never put it back.’
The child takes the ceramic name plaque in his hand, his little fingers closing around it tightly, his face contorted.
‘Why, what is it?’ I ask. ‘What’s the matter?’
He turns and hurls it at the fireplace. It shatters on the tiles. Melody jumps in the air and yowls as she runs from the room.
‘Matthew. What on earth has got into you?’
‘I am not Matthew!’ he shouts. ‘I am Ella.’
‘Don’t be so silly. Go to your room at
once.’
‘It’s not my room!’ he shrieks. ‘It’s Matthew’s. Matthew doesn’t live here any more. He growed up and moved out like—’
‘Upstairs,’ I hiss, barely able to speak. ‘Go upstairs right this minute and don’t let me hear another word out of you.’ He runs, his little feet stamping up the stairs, his bedroom door slamming shut.
It is happening again. He is turning against me. Somehow she has infiltrated my house. Whispering into his ear. Dripping poison.
*
In the park Matthew starts singing. That loud sort of singing people do when they don’t want to hear what is going on. ‘La la la, la la la.’ He is covering his ears with his hands too. He doesn’t like it. Never did like it when people cry, when they get cross.
*
There is no sound from Matthew’s bedroom. It has been quiet for a long time now. I wonder if the child has cried herself out and fallen asleep. I’m aware that she hasn’t eaten since breakfast. I check the clock. Six thirty. She would normally have had her tea by now. I would too. I’m a great believer in meals taken at the same time by all those in the household. I always used to insist on it with Malcolm and Matthew, and afterwards with Matthew. Not that I am at all hungry. My stomach has started to churn. Muscle is memory and I am sure it is remembering. Bubbling and turning over, aware of the rough ride to come. Every part of my body remembers. My palms are sweating. It is not something I ever suffered from, either before or since. But clearly they are remembering too. It is as if it is a disease, one which will reoccur every year, lying dormant in between. Shingles is like that. It lies dormant at the base of your spine after you have chicken pox as a child. Waiting in silence, ready to pounce when you are at your weakest. It preys on loss, on trauma. It really is the lowest of the low. If it was a criminal, the judge would lock it up and throw away the key. It doesn’t really matter to the shingles though. It has done what it needed to do. It has got under your skin.
It took ages for mine to clear. A wretched itching and prickling in my lower back. The doctor warned it might prevent me sleeping. Which was almost laughable in the circumstances.
It went in the end, slunk away in the dead of night. Although I actually thought I felt a tingle in my lower back when I finally came face-to-face with her months afterwards. As if she was capable of bringing it back from the dead. They always say it’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for. I never believed them – I mean Matthew was always very quiet. I should have, though, because then I could have drummed it into Matthew and he would have known to stay away from her. Once she had her claws into him it was too late. She poisoned him from the inside. The female of the species can be deadly like that.
I start to climb the stairs. My limbs feel heavy. They don’t want to go there. They are remembering too. I wonder if my whole body might seize up on the stroke of midnight. Rendered incapable of functioning by the memory of past events. It is a powerful thing, memory. There have been times in the past year when I forgot where I put my keys and seriously hoped it might be the onset of something. Dementia would be a friend to me if it came visiting, one I would welcome in and tell to make itself at home.
I pause at the top of the stairs. Matthew is there on the landing. He is always there. Smiling at me from beneath a fringe which is a little too short, pleading with me not to make him wear that itchy jumper again, sitting awkwardly in his first school tie and blazer.
I keep him on the landing and in the hall because those are the areas I am always passing through, so I can glimpse him on my travels, wave to him as I pass, feel he is close by. I understand that he cannot be here all the time, though.
The rest of the time he is busy playing in the park. He never did like to stray too far from home. It is good that he is close by, where I can visit. Some people’s children move a long way away. I would not have liked that. It is a comfort to know that he did not want to leave me either. Not really, he didn’t.
As I round the corner, my hand on the balustrade, I see the child’s photo. It jars now, whereas just a few days ago it seemed the right thing to do. I took her in, I made her my own. But she is not mine and she never will be. I reach up and take the photo frame down from the wall, push back the metal pins, remove the backing and take out her photograph. Matthew smiles back at me from underneath. I stroke his face. I was so wrong to think I was being sent another Matthew. Matthew was kind enough to send her to me in the hope that she would help, but he knows now. Knows that I do not need another Matthew. I just need the old one back.
I toss the child’s photo onto the floor and turn to face Matthew’s door. I have never shut it since. Always left it slightly ajar. But the child slammed it shut so I must prise it open, even if it means I avert my eyes as I do so.
I touch the door with the back of my hand. The fire brigade tell you to do that before entering a room. If the back of your hand feels the heat you will pull it away instinctively. Whereas if you touch it with your fingertips they will stick to the heat, melt with it, perhaps. I used to stroke Matthew’s head with my fingertips when he was a baby. I was never afraid, you see, of the love I felt. If the heat melted me, then so be it.
I grasp the door handle and open it a fraction. There is no noise from within and it is that which causes the tightening in my stomach. The clenching of my fists. The prickling sensation along my spine.
I open my eyes little by little. Like a blind being rolled up slowly by someone anxious not to let too much light in. My brain sees the shadow but knows instantly that it is just a memory. The room is empty. I am relieved and I stay that way for several seconds until it dawns on me that it should not be empty. There should be a child in here. The child I am looking after. My first thought is that my mind must be playing tricks on me. Perhaps I am indeed ceasing to function, unable to see what is in front of me. I pull back the sheets on the bed in case she has somehow slithered down inside. The bed is empty. She must have fallen out. I walk around to the other side of the bed and bend down to peer underneath but she is not there. And then it dawns on me. She must have heard me coming up the stairs. She will be playing hide-and-seek. She will be waiting for me to find her.
‘You win. I give up,’ I call out. ‘Come out now, wherever you are.’
Nothing. I swallow and go to the window, check that she hasn’t opened it. The catch on the sash window is firmly in place. I let out the lungful of breath I hadn’t realised I was holding and turn back to the room, trying to think logically, rationally. There is only one possible hiding place, even for a child of her size. I go to the wardrobe and open the door. It is her eyes I see first, peering sleepily at me through the gloom at the bottom of the wardrobe.
‘What on earth do you think you’re doing in here?’
‘I went to sleep. I made a bed and went to sleep.’ I look down and see a pile of cardigans and sweaters at the bottom of the wardrobe.
‘Well you’ve got a perfectly good bed out here – what’s wrong with that?’
‘I don’t want to be in Matthew’s bed, I want my own bed.’
I open the door wide, grab hold of her hand and pull her up and out of the wardrobe.
‘I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous.’ I stop as I notice the book she is clutching in her hand.
‘What’s that?’
‘I found it in wardrobe.’
‘What is it?’
She shrugs. ‘It’s got lots of writing in it.’
I snatch the book from her grasp. It is A5 size, black with a hard cover. I think I smell him first. It has the unmistakable scent of Matthew. There is nothing on the front. I open it and flick through a couple of pages. Matthew’s small, sloping handwriting stares back at me. The ink has long dried but I see his pen flowing across the pages, his fingers gripping tightly. I always told him he needed to relax his hand more when he wrote. He never seemed to find it an easy process though, certainly not as easy as playing the piano.
There are dates written in it in Matthew’s hand. It is not
an actual diary but he clearly used it as such. I carry on flicking through until I get to August. My hand slows then as I turn the pages one by one. The last entry is on Thursday, 4 September. One year ago today.
‘Where did you get this?’ I ask again.
‘In wardrobe.’
‘Show me where.’ I can’t believe it has been there all this time and I have never seen it. She opens the door and crawls in, pointing at the part where the two panels meet at the back.
‘In there. I saw the gold bit glittering. I pulled it out to look at it and then I fell asleep on my bed.’
I stare at her, struggling to take it all in. But I do not see her; I see an older girl standing there avoiding eye contact with me. Her lies buffeting my ears. Her voice getting louder all the time. And me sitting there shaking my head. Mouthing, ‘You’re lying,’ over and over again.
‘Get out,’ I scream at her. The child clambers out of the wardrobe, her eyes bulging.
‘You have no right to be in here. No right at all.’
Tears stream down the child’s face. She doesn’t understand what she has done.
‘Get out. Get out of Matthew’s room. Now.’
She runs to the door, pulling it shut behind her. A few seconds later I hear her feet running downstairs. Immediately I put the diary down on the bed and go to the other side to drag the bedside cabinet across in front of the door. It is a heavy one, made of solid wood. None of this MDF rubbish. She will not be able to move it. I turn back to the bed. To the diary lying on top of it. I shouldn’t read it, I know that. Diaries are private things. But I am his mother; there should be no secrets between a son and his mother. I move slowly around the bed, my eyes fixed on the diary, as if deciding which angle is best to approach my prey. I perch on one side of the bed, pick up one corner and drag it towards me. I stroke the cover with my fingertips. He won’t mind. I know he won’t. I can hear him humming. He wouldn’t be humming if he minded, I am sure of it. I turn to the last entry. His handwriting is not as neat as normal. Perhaps his hands were shaking as he wrote it. Or maybe it is just my hands shaking now as I read it that makes the letters appear so uneven.
