by Karen Osman
‘I know, but I just wanted to ask you something,’ replied Angela, all of Susan’s advice going out of the window.
‘What is it?’ replied Evelyn, letting go of Charlie as he jumped down from her lap.
‘Are you using again, Evelyn?’
‘What? Of course not, what do you take me for?’
‘Well, it’s just that you seem a little paranoid these last few weeks,’ replied Angela, not wanting to own up to the fact that she had been snooping in her bathroom.
‘Well, wouldn’t you be with everything that’s been going on around here? There’ve been murders across the hall, I’m getting threatening letters, someone broke into my house, and now someone’s trying to poison Charlie. Who could blame me if I needed a little something to relax these days?’
‘So, you are using again?’ persisted Angela, ignoring her complaints.
‘I didn’t say that,’ replied Evelyn, testily. ‘I said there’s a lot of strange things going on around here and if you want to start throwing accusations, you better look in the mirror, missy, because all this weird stuff only started happening when you came into my life.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ replied Angela.
‘Is it? Think about it. I gave you a key to get copied and everything goes to shit.’
‘Evelyn, we changed the locks.’
‘Yeah, but how long did that take? Anyway, it’s not just that. Sometimes I get the feeling I’m being followed.’
‘Followed? By who?’
‘If I knew that, I wouldn’t be stuck at home terrified to go out, would I? Is it you?’
‘Of course not! When have you been followed?’
‘I haven’t seen anyone, it’s just more like a feeling,’ answered Evelyn.
‘It’s your imagination,’ reassured Angela. She had read that prolonged drug use could lead to some terrifying mental ordeals. Who knew the damage Evelyn had inflicted on herself?
‘Are you calling me a liar?’ Evelyn shouted.
Angela felt her impatience rise. ‘I’m sure if you stopped taking drugs you wouldn’t have these experiences,’ she said a little more harshly than she’d intended.
‘Who the hell do you think you are, coming in here and telling me what to do?’ shouted Evelyn, jumping up from the chair, her gold hooped earrings swaying as her spittle landed on Angela’s jacket. ‘You come here with your do-gooding ways and your fancy-shmancy job, telling me how to live my life.’
‘Of course I’m not! All I meant was—’
‘You have no idea – no idea – what I’ve been through so don’t come in here telling me what to do. I’m not paranoid. I know what I saw and I know there’s some weird stuff happening around here. Is it your doing? Eh? Is it payback for giving you up for adoption?’ Evelyn was now in front of Angela, her bony forefinger punctuating Angela’s chest with each word.
‘Of course not!’ replied Angela.
‘Well, I’m telling you,’ said Evelyn menacingly as she took a step closer to Angela, ‘since you came back into my life, things just keep going wrong.’
71
Sunday 29 January 1989
Dear Diary,
I haven’t been able to find the courage to go and find St Matthew’s, but yesterday I knew I had to do it. My digging at the library told me that the building was still there and, unbelievably, was still being used as a children’s home. That threw me, but I took the bus anyway to see for myself. I had a bit of a walk once I got to Hackney and I was worried I would get lost. After a few minutes, though, the streets started to look familiar and I realised that it was just round the corner. The building was just as imposing as when I was a child and I was glad I’d skipped breakfast. I must have stood looking at it for ages. The curtains were closed on the upper levels, but the downstairs windows were naked apart from some net curtains that fell halfway down the window. I touched the main gate, its red paint fractured and peeling under my hands. I wasn’t sure I wanted to go inside but I’d come this far. I pushed it and was surprised to find it unlocked. That would never have happened back in my day. I walked to the front door but then I saw a face at the window on the second floor. Someone was peering down, probably wondering who the hell I was. As soon as they saw me look up, they dropped the curtain and a few moments later the front door opened. A woman stood there, a welcoming smile plastered across her face. She looked a bit startled when I told her I used to live there.
We chatted on the doorstep and I wasn’t sure if she was going to invite me in or not. In the end, I had to make up something about needing to use the bathroom and then she invited me in. Her name was Charlotte and she showed me where the children did their homework, ate their meals, and slept. She was one of those very annoying bubbly types that kids love. She seemed intent on proving to me how much the children enjoyed living there. And maybe it was true. The beds looked comfortable, there was central heating, and the dining room was already set for lunch. Some children were reading, some lounging on their beds, some playing games outside. They seemed happy enough. The last place Charlotte showed me, though, was the kitchen, and there they were: eight wooden spoons and utensils of different sizes hung from their familiar place on the wall.
A.
72
Evelyn
Evelyn felt something was wrong the moment she put the key in the lock. But it was when she opened the door that she knew for certain. Even if he had been sleeping, Charlie always ran to the door to greet her. Where was he? Perhaps he’d just got stuck in the washing machine. It had happened once before – he’d jumped in to investigate and then couldn’t get out. He’d not been near it since.
‘Charlie, here, boy,’ she called.
Nothing.
‘Charlie!’ She went into the kitchen where the washing machine was – empty.
‘Charlie, come on, where are you?’ She checked the living room and the bathroom, moving quickly.
The last room was her own bedroom and with a start she saw the door was ajar. Had she left it open? She was pretty certain she hadn’t because she knew, if she did, Charlie would be in there and on her bed. But she must have done – there could be no other explanation. Charlie was in there on her bed, marking his territory. But as she opened the door and saw him on the white duvet in a pool of blood, she let out an ear-piercing scream.
*
‘What did you do?’ A version of Evelyn’s voice came down the phone that Evelyn herself had never heard before.
‘Evelyn, is that you?’ replied Angela.
‘I said: What did you do?’ replied Evelyn.
‘Evelyn – what do you mean?’ Angela sounded taken aback.
Lying bitch.
‘Charlie is dead.’
The silence was deafening.
‘He’s dead,’ repeated Evelyn. ‘And you killed him.’
*
Evelyn was in the hallway when she saw the front door handle slowly turning and she knew then her time had come. The day before, she’d buried Charlie in a patch of grass on the estate and she couldn’t believe he’d gone. It had been a warning.
Evelyn had always been afraid of death – ever since she went to her father’s funeral as a little girl and saw him being lowered into a grave. She had felt her throat constrict at the thought of being buried in a box in the ground. What if her father was still alive in there? How would he get out? She had to be sure and her childish impulse was to let go of her mother’s hand and save him. But her mother held on to her hand tightly, her black leather glove like a vice around her pudgy four-year-old fingers.
The door opened slightly and Evelyn saw with horror a pair of heavy-duty bolt cutters slip through the gap to cut the security door chain. As the gloved hands holding the cutters disappeared and the door slowly opened, she simply stood there, waiting for the intruder to come in.
*
Evelyn woke up groggily. Her mouth was dry and her head felt heavy. Surely she hadn’t been on a drinking binge? Her thoughts were scrambled and she could sme
ll burning. With a start, she realised her hands were tied and she was strapped to a chair. As she took in the scene around her, she tried screaming but her mouth was gagged. She couldn’t move or speak, but as she became more lucid, she saw her living room had been transformed. Gone was her armchair and in its place was a structure of some sort, held together by wooden poles and covered with a blue tarpaulin. Photographs of individual children of different ages were stuck onto the structure with sticky tape to create a make-shift gallery. The television was upended and the screen smashed while on the coffee table lay a selection of wooden spoons and cooking utensils, including several large knives. It was only when Evelyn realised that her back was to the electric fire and felt the heat on her body that her fear gave way to a trickle of urine, which soaked through her leggings. In front of her, lounging on the sofa, was her daughter sucking on a lollipop. Evelyn closed her eyes and thought of God. She never asked him for much but now as her daughter increased the temperature of the electric fire and picked up one of the knives, she prayed for her death to be swift.
‘I hate lollipops,’ observed her daughter, looking at the one in her hand closely. ‘They’re just so sickly sweet. In fact, I think this is the first one I’ve had in years. Do you like lollipops, Evelyn? I know you have a sweet tooth.’
Evelyn opened her eyes but couldn’t answer. She was trying to understand where all this was going but, more importantly, she was wondering if she could escape. Her daughter looked utterly serene, as if they were having an everyday conversation about the weather, but the madness in her eyes told her otherwise.
‘Well?’ she demanded.
Evelyn shook her head cautiously. She had no idea what the right answer was.
‘What is it? The flavour? The hardness? Why don’t you like them, Evelyn? Never mind, I really don’t care. Shall I tell you why I don’t like them?’
She was pacing the living room now, agitated as she talked.
‘I don’t like them because at the children’s home, they’re what Ray – that’s the man who ran the place – used to entice and reward the littlies with when he abused them. That’s right, Evelyn – you left me in a home that was managed by a paedophile.’
Evelyn swallowed hard.
‘Every day. Every single day, he abused one of us in a den similar to this one,’ she said, pointing to the structure with the blue tarpaulin. ‘For the older ones, he gave us gifts and for the littlies, such as Julia here, he gave lollipops.’ She indicated to one of the photos stuck on to the structure: a beautiful girl of about four years old with blond hair and blue eyes.
‘Do you know what happened to Julia?’
Evelyn shook her head again, her heart pounding.
‘She committed suicide. Jumped in front of a bus because she couldn’t take it any more. She was fifteen years old.’ She threw the lollipop on the floor in disgust.
‘I’m so sorry,’ muffled Evelyn, but the words were lost, the gag pulled tight across her mouth.
‘You do not get to speak,’ said her daughter quietly. ‘It’s been about you for too long. Now it’s my turn.’
She took a few deep breaths as if trying to find the cold malice she’d had when she entered the flat.
‘This is Peter,’ she announced, indicating a photo of a good-looking boy who looked about fourteen. ‘He was beaten so hard one night that Ray broke both his arms and he couldn’t see because his eyes were so swollen from Ray’s fists. Recently, I found out he’s also dead – he died from a drug overdose.
‘And Maureen,’ she continued, pointing to a girl with her hair in plaits. ‘She lasted a little longer than Julia but also committed suicide – on her twenty-first birthday, by jumping from a balcony.’
Tears ran down Evelyn’s face. She’d had no idea of the conditions her new-born child would be placed in. St. Anne’s had simply told her she’d be placed for adoption. In her dreams, Evelyn had envisaged a faceless childless couple cooing over her baby, giving her everything that she could have ever wanted. Was she so damaged, despite the love and care of Jimmy and Rosemary? A silent scream of frustration flashed through her head. This was not how it was supposed to end.
‘You’d think someone would notice what was going on in such a flimsy structure,’ she said now as she kicked the den with her foot as if to prove her point, ‘but no one gave a damn about us. Not the teachers, not the inspectors. We tried to tell them but they didn’t care.’ She sat back down on the sofa, crossing her long legs. ‘But then why should they? We weren’t really their responsibility, after all. No, Evelyn, I don’t blame them – not Ray with his wandering hands, nor Kath with her vicious temper and wooden spoons. No, Evelyn, I blame you, and now you’re going to pay.’
*
Evelyn wasn’t sure how much more she could take. The soles of her feet stung from where they’d been lashed and her back was starting to burn. Her lip had been split open with one of the wooden spoons and she wondered when she would be satisfied. She feared her tormentor might never be. There was a part of Evelyn that just wanted to give up. If this is what she had had endured as a child, then perhaps she should be punished?
But something inside Evelyn fought back. If she could just untie her hands, then she might have a chance of escape. She worked the knots, trying to ignore the blistering heat on her fingers. But slowly, they were becoming looser, and she was able to feel the fastening holding her to the chair. It had a buckle and Evelyn realised that it was a belt. It seemed to take forever but slowly she managed to undo it. Her daughter was pacing up and down the living room, still talking about the home. Gone was her calm sophistication – she was deranged.
Evelyn was just about to make a run for it when she turned and Evelyn was struck once again by her beauty. She walked towards the living room door, blocking Evelyn’s exit, her hopes of escape dwindling. But then she moved towards the window and Evelyn took advantage of her turned back, got up and ran as fast as she could to the front door. But she wasn’t fast enough and she felt a long arm reach out and grab the back of her baggy jumper in the hallway, just inches from the front door, and she fell heavily. Evelyn turned on her back to fight her off, but the other woman straddled her, pinning her down, youth giving her an advantage. As she held her mother’s hands with one of her own, the other hand holding a knife, Evelyn couldn’t believe that this was the same polite, professional woman who had visited her for the first time all those months ago.
73
Wednesday 1 March 1989
Dear Diary,
It had all been quite easy in the end. After months of secretly following Angela and Evelyn’s movements, I knew their routines as well as my own. It was a 24-hour job and I spent far too many hours in the freezing cold but it was so worth it. I trailed Angela everywhere – when she went to the office, her dates with Mitchell, when she went to the adoption meetings, and even all the way to Tetbury at the weekends. I was her secret shadow and she never even knew.
It was a risk getting so close to Angela on the Tube to steal her bag but the lost key for Evelyn’s flat helped and I came and went as I pleased. Sometimes, I pretended to be Angela to get information from Evelyn – good job she’s such a talker – and the rest? Well, let’s just say Leo and I became quite good friends and he was willing to do pretty much anything for a tenner. The letters, the break-in, her dead dog. And the finale - coming face to face with Evelyn and inflicting all the pain I was subject to in the home. I can still see her eyes now begging me to stop. Well, Evelyn, I wanted it to stop too, but it was worse for me because I was a child. Evelyn was an adult and she should have to take responsibility for the hell she put me through. How could she not have known that she’d given birth to twins? Her pathetic excuse of being knocked out with drugs during the birth is exactly that – pathetic. She deserved everything she got.
And James? Well, at least he tried to find one of us. Shame he didn’t bother to check if he had any more children. Still, he served his purpose. Every day, I would wait outside Angela�
�s office but it was pure luck that I had arrived early the day James had gone to hospital and saw Angela leave the office in a hurry. I knew something was up when I saw her face – she looked distraught. I followed her all the way to Cirencester Hospital.
I shouldn’t be surprised at what people are willing to do when they’re hurt and angry, but I have to say I never expected prim and proper Rosemary to kill him. I do feel sorry for her, in a way, but it was easy to make sure she found the adoption letter. I knew I had to do something when I had secretly watched James go into his man cave with a document and suspected it might be important. I couldn’t see where he’d hidden it of course, but after an hour digging around I found it behind a false panel – sneaky. To think Rosemary could have had a baby after all? Anyway, who cares about her. I have never felt so powerful – everything is going to plan.
Amanda
74
Evelyn
That was the thing about Evelyn’s neighbours – they could be interfering, noisy, loud and offensive, but when times were tough, they all rallied round.
It was Doreen from upstairs who had called the ambulance. She had come downstairs to drop off her magazines and had seen the back of a woman with dark hair running down the stairwell. But when she saw the door ajar, she was suspicious. Evelyn didn’t hear her friend’s screams as she took in the blood, or see her shaking hands as she dialled 999. She didn’t remember Doreen removing the gag or feel her hands as she pressed the wounds to stop the bleeding. She had no memory of the ambulance crew arriving and lifting her onto the stretcher. And she certainly had no memory of grabbing Doreen’s hand and saying the name Angela over and over again. If she had, perhaps she would have watched in fascinated horror at the attempt on her own life, which could have been straight out of one of her favourite TV shows.
If she hadn’t been in hospital she would have enjoyed recounting the drama to Brenda. Brenda would have had to come around to her flat for a change to see ‘the scene of the crime’. And did Brenda know that Doreen was actually an ex-registered nurse? Had worked at Great Ormond Street, no less. Well, she would have seen some sights in her time, no doubt about it, and it had served her well.
