‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, I did.’
‘Dawn’s amazing.’ He hesitates. ‘The magazine will be nice about her, won’t it?’
‘Sorry?’
‘The thing you’re writing. About the missing kids? When you talk about Dawn you’ll be nice about her.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Definitely. She probably won’t be in it much, to be honest. I couldn’t get a lot out of her.’
‘Like I said, she’s had a difficult time. The night her sister went, the days running up to it, and since…’ Craig reddens and drops his head.
‘Will you tell me about it?’ As soon as I ask the question, I feel dishonest; I shouldn’t be fishing for information behind her back. Thankfully, Craig shakes his head.
‘I’ve said too much already. It’s not my story to tell. If Dawn wants to talk to you, she will.’
THIRTY
Greg is in the reception, leaning on the counter talking to Fi. When I walk through the door he looks up at me and grins.
‘Hi,’ he says. ‘I hear you’ve become a permanent resident. Might have to get you a special sign for your door saying Tori’s Room.’
I flush red. ‘Not permanent, I’ve only booked until—’
‘I’m joking. You’re here until the end of July? That’s good; you’ll love St Ives.’
‘I love it already.’
‘I’m heading down the pub for a drink with a few friends in a bit. Do you want to join us?’
I am startled by his invitation; he’d mentioned it before when we met on the beach, but I didn’t think he meant it.
He laughs. ‘You don’t have to.’
‘I’m not … I’m just—’ I hesitate, unsure what to say. Part of me wants to, but the other part, the stronger part, is exhausted and uneasy about going out with a group of strangers. ‘I’m actually a bit tired today.’
‘No problem. Another time.’
‘Yes,’ I say a little quickly. ‘Another time would be good.’
‘There’s a party on the beach on Thursday night. Come along to that?’ He glances at Fi. ‘You’re coming, aren’t you?’
Fi shrugs.
‘Well, even if she isn’t, I am. Come. It’ll be fun. I promise.’
Say yes, says Tori’s voice. What harm can it do you? You might actually have some fun.
I hesitate but find myself nodding. ‘Yes. OK.’
‘Great. We’ll be leaving here around sevenish for a few drinks in the pub then we’ll hit the beach.’
‘Sounds good.’ I’m lying, of course. It sounds terrifying. I smile and then begin to head out of the reception.
‘Did you get what you wanted from the Tremayne girl?’ he calls after me.
‘Oh,’ I say, turning to face him again. ‘Yes, thanks.’
‘Hope you got a good story.’
I force a smile.
‘Is she still a bit of a weirdo? That sister of hers?’
Suddenly I am twelve years old and sitting with my head bowed at the back of the church. My hand is held in Elaine’s and she is squeezing too hard. I hear sniggering and glance up. Two girls in the pew across the aisle are looking at me, giggling and whispering behind raised hands. My neck flushes with heat as I stare at the embroidered hassock on the floor in front of me.
‘She’s so weird,’ one of the girls whispers loud enough for me to hear. ‘You know she doesn’t even go to school. She’s basically too weird for school.’
‘Her whole family’s weird. My mum said so,’ whispers the other so loudly that a woman behind taps her crossly on the shoulder and makes a shushing gesture.
The girl gave the woman evils and then the two girls giggled again. I held hot tears back all the way through the service, and when the vicar began The Lord’s Prayer, our signal to leave, I couldn’t get out of there quick enough, managing to make it to the door before he’d even said ‘deliver us from evil’.
‘Actually,’ I say to Greg. ‘She was lovely. And after her sister went, she singlehandedly cared for her mother, who’s really ill. She’s an amazing person. And not weird at all.’
But Greg just shrugged and turned back to Fi.
THIRTY-ONE
Henry Campbell – October 30th 1984
There was blood everywhere. It soaked her. Matted her hair. Slicked the floor. Her nightdress was saturated with it, the blood coming from between her legs mixing with the blood that ran from the cuts to her wrists. Thankfully she’d cut badly, so the flow had slowed before bleeding her dry. She would live. This time.
She still held the knife, which she flailed around her as she screamed and tore at her hair. There were words amongst the screams but they were mostly unintelligible. He had stumbled into a horror film and for far too long he stood rigid, a hapless idiot unable to help her. The only thing he could do was hold her, restrain her thrashing arms as she continued to claw at herself.
‘Elaine, enough,’ he begged, incapable of keeping his voice steady as she fought. ‘It’s OK, please. Don’t do this to yourself. Please.’
She turned her eyes on him and, as a vague recognition dawned, she began to batter him with her bloodied hands.
‘Why?’ she screeched as she beat his chest. ‘Why do they keep dying? How can He do this? How can He give them to me then rip them out of me like this?’
Henry wrapped his arms tighter around her body, finally able to trap her arms by her sides. He looked down at her, wished he could stroke the hair back from her face, wished he could wipe away the blood that was smeared across her cheeks, through which tears had streaked rivulets.
‘Nobody is doing anything. There’s no explanation. It’s just … happening.’
‘No,’ she growled. ‘God is doing it. He is taking them away from me.’
As Henry absorbed his wife’s anger and despair, he turned his head to hide his tears. After a few moments, when he felt able, he looked back at her and smiled kindly, whispering soft words he didn’t believe, ‘And God is raising them as angels, Lainey. Angels. He is caring for every single one of your children. He wants them with Him. Where they are safe.’
Her body relaxed a little and he drew her into him, held her head against his chest and hushed her.
‘I can’t do it,’ she said, her voice fallen to a weary murmur. ‘I want to give you a child so much. But I can’t do this anymore.’
‘I know, my love, but I don’t need a child. Not now, not ever.’
‘You do. Of course you do.’ She looked up at him, her madness absent, her face innocent, like a child.
He smiled at her, finally able to tuck her hair behind her ears. He trailed the backs of his fingers down her cheek. Leant forward and kissed her clammy forehead. ‘No, my love, I only need you. Only you.’
Then her body heaved into silent wracking sobs.
‘It’s over,’ he said. ‘I promise you it’s over.’
The guilt Henry felt was immeasurable. He would never forget tonight. The hellish scene into which he had walked would stay with him forever, the impotence he felt, the fear he might lose her. He vowed then and there, sitting on the floor of their bathroom, rocking his blood-drenched, emotionally destroyed wife, that he would never allow this to happen again. He was the only one who could help her, the only person in the world who was there for her, and until he drew his final breath, he’d make sure she never did anything like this to herself again.
THIRTY-TWO
I ask Phil to put my cappuccino in a takeaway mug and as he’s making it he tells me it’s going to be ‘dead tesa’ today, which, he tells me, means hot.
He’s not wrong. As I walk up the street, I can already feel the sun warming my body. I tilt my face upwards and close my eyes, pausing a minute to enjoy the light flickering its orangey dance on the backs of my eyelids. It’s odd, and I can’t explain it, but I’m looking forward to seeing Alice and this cheers me.
Dawn seems more pleased to see me today. She opens the door at my first knock and smiles as she steps to one side to let me in. We sit
at the kitchen table, her with a glass of water, me with the last of my coffee, and I broach the subject of helping her with Alice again. I need a role, something that will give me purpose in this brave new world of mine, and I’m convinced that helping out, being involved, will make it easier to feel anchored.
‘But I said already, I don’t need help.’
‘I’d like to though.’
‘It’ll take me longer to tell you what to do than if I just do it.’
‘You’ll only need to tell me the first time.’
‘You don’t want to do most of the jobs. Trust me. It’s not fun.’
‘Dawn, I don’t want to do it for fun. I want to get to know her.’
‘What’s there to know? She sits in her chair.’
I reach across the table and rest my hand on hers. ‘She’s my mother and I want to feel like her daughter.’
‘Helping someone in and out of the bath doesn’t make you feel like a daughter.’
‘No, but it—’
I am interrupted by a sharp bleeping from Dawn’s watch. Without saying a word, without even an embarrassed glance or a mumbled excuse, she silences the alarm, then reaches forward to unmute the television and, as crass, tinny music fills the room, she turns her chair to face the screen.
‘Dawn, don’t you—’
‘Sssh,’ she says, lifting a finger to her lips.
‘But—’
She frowns and reaches forward to turn up the volume.
I stand, baffled, and stare at the television to work out what she is watching. After the opening credits finish, I realise it’s a one of those daytime gossip shows with a panel of middle-aged women sitting behind a desk and smiling fixedly as they welcome Dawn back. Dawn stares at the screen and doesn’t move a muscle.
‘I’m going to go and sit with her. With Alice.’ I wait for a moment, but there’s no response.
I leave the kitchen and walk down the corridor, unsettled by Dawn’s behaviour. How can she switch off like that, right in the middle of talking to me?
I reach Alice’s room and open the door carefully, not wanting to startle her. She’s in her chair, wearing her ragged dressing gown, and staring at the collage I find too creepy to look at. When I walk in she turns her head. I smile at her and sit on the bed, which is militarily made, the corners tucked in tightly, not a wrinkle in sight.
‘Hello, Alice,’ I say quietly. ‘How are you this morning?’
An ache for our lost years grows inside me like a blackening bruise. I want to hold her face in mine and tell her it’s me. Tell her I’m back. That her baby is home, so now she can talk again. She can get better. We can rebuild our shattered lives and finally have the relationship denied us.
‘You know, my husband wants children,’ I say. It’s the type of thing I always wanted to share with my mum. I couldn’t talk to Elaine about it; she hated David. ‘He told me that the first time we slept together. We’ve been trying for about a year, but it’s not happened yet. I can’t bear seeing how disappointed he is each month when there’s no baby. I keep telling him it’s early days, that it will happen, but he’s so impatient. He got us tested. But the doctors say we’re both fine, that it’s unspecific infertility, whatever that means. They recommended having more sex, which was the last thing I wanted them to tell him.’ I sigh and pick at a thread on the bedcover. ‘Truth is, I’m not sure I even want a child. I don’t think I’d be a very good mother.’
I stand up and stretch my back a little.
‘I’m not an impressive person, Alice. You need to know that. I’m not that good at anything. I’m far too shy and I can hardly make my mind up about anything. I work in a library and I don’t even enjoy it that much. I’m not sure I’d make you very proud.’ I look at her then, hoping for some sort of change, but there is nothing in her face but impassiveness. I shake my head. ‘Let’s not talk about this anymore.’ I look around the room and notice the bookshelf on the wall. ‘Hey, how about I read to you? Would you like that? I’d like that. I love reading. Stories are the best places to lose yourself. Better than that horrid wall of clippings, anyway.’
Beside the ancient Argos catalogue with its corners bent and curling, are a few books. I tip my head so I can read their spines. There are two novels – a copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and a Moby Dick with most of its pages missing – and a book of Cornish legends.
‘Perfect,’ I say, as I slip the book from the shelf.
I sit on the floor, lean against the bed with my legs stretched out in front of me, so my toes rest against the foot of her chair, then look down the list of contents. I fall on a story about halfway down the list, The Merrymaid of Zennor. I recognise the name of the village from the pamphlets in the church I visited before I came to this flat that first day, and when I turn to the page, she’s there, the mermaid carving from the pew, in a grainy sepia photo.
I look up to check Alice is sitting comfortably and then I begin.
‘The village of Zennor nestles on the harshest coast of Cornwall. The houses turn in against the wind and waves beat at the foot of the cliffs. For hundreds of years the people of Zennor lived by the sea and, many a time, died by it too. When the sea was kind to them, and the fishermen returned safe and sound with a full catch, the villagers would make their way to the church to pray for more good days to follow and the choir would sing to give thanks. Now, in the choir was a handsome man called Matthew, whose voice was that of an angel. Loud and clear, he could be heard above all of the others. One evening, when the village was gathered in the church, a beautiful mermaid, part girl, part sea creature, with a magnificent silver green tail, climbed out of the sea to sit on a rock. Her name was Morveren—’
I stop reading.
‘Morveren? That’s her name? You called me after the mermaid? I love that. I’ve seen her – her carving – in the church.’
Alice makes no movement.
I’d hated the name Morveren up until now and was convinced I’d never get used to it.
Morveren.
I say the name quietly a few times and smile; it used to sound obscure and clunky, now it’s poetic and lyrical, and I smile.
‘Her name was Morveren and she sat and gazed at her reflection in the glassy water, combing her hair as she did. Then she closed her eyes, listening to the whisper of the wind and the gentle caress of the water against the shore. And then, from nowhere, she heard another sound, the like of which she had never heard before. Her heart quickened. It was singing, the voice of a young man; the most beautiful singing she had ever heard.’
The story continues, telling the tale of how these two became lovers, how Morveren listened to him each evening, until she could bear it no longer, and had to find out who he was. As I read, I fall into the words. I can hear his voice. I can smell the salt in the air. My heart physically lurches as she begs her father, the King, to give her legs so she can walk on land to find her love. I feel pain as she treads on dry land, the pain of a thousand needles that shoots up my legs in fiery shots. When she lays eyes on Matthew for the first time, it’s my own heart that soars. And when the beauty of his song so overwhelms her that she sighs aloud, and he looks up and falls instantly in love, I have to pause to gather myself.
‘Terrified of being seen by a mortal,’ I read on, ‘Morveren fled, but Matthew chased after her, begging her not to return to the sea. But she had no choice. “Then I will go with you,” Matthew cried and, picking her up, he raced towards the sea. The villagers shouted for Matthew to stop, but their cries only made him run faster. He and Morveren plunged into the sea and the water closed over their heads. Though they were never seen again, sometimes the villagers would hear his songs carried on the breeze, and even today, if you listen well, you can hear him singing his love to Morveren or warning of angry seas.’
I close the book.
‘What a beautiful story,’ I say.
I shuffle over to her, then reach out to rest my hand against her forehead and gently sweep the f
allen strands of hair from her eyes. She leans her head slightly into my touch. And then, for an instant, a fraction of a second, her eyes seem to fix on me. They unglaze, as if the fine layer of mist has lifted away from them.
‘Alice?’ I say. ‘Mum?’
I take her face in my hands and bring it towards me, but she has sunk away again, the moment has passed. I lean forward and plant a kiss on the tissue-paper skin of her forehead. ‘It’s me, Mum, I’m back,’ I whisper. ‘I’m back and I saw you.’
‘Everything OK?’ Dawn is standing in the doorway.
Do I tell her? Would she believe me? Would she panic and get angry? I decide not to say anything. There’s every chance that this type of thing has happened before and that Dawn is aware of it. Even if it hasn’t, I don’t want to get her hopes up.
‘Everything’s fine,’ I say and get to my feet.
‘Hungry?’ She asks. She doesn’t wait for an answer and disappears back to the kitchen. ‘I’ll put the soup on.’
I look again at Alice, peer close into her face, smell the warm sourness on her breath. ‘I saw you,’ I whisper again.
I stand and slowly back out of the room, keeping my eyes riveted to her in case something, anything, happens again.
Dawn is tipping a can of soup into a pan when I come into the kitchen. ‘We’ll eat first and then I’ll feed Mum. It’s minestrone today. Do you like it?’
The cloying smell of soup envelops the kitchen and eating a bowl of it is the last thing I want to do, but it seems too rude to say no. We are silent as we take our bowls to the tiny table. I toy with the soup, take spoonsful but let it pour right off again. Dawn watches me like a hawk and I wonder whether she might grab the spoon any minute and try feeding me like she does Alice. I manage a couple of mouthfuls and then, when she finishes, I stand to clear our bowls. She runs a sink of water and I reach for a tea towel to dry.
‘I was lonely growing up,’ I say, as I pick up one of the bowls she has washed.
In Her Wake Page 15
