by Tana French
“But you were still upset.”
“Well, yeah, obviously I was. I could only come up with two answers, and they were both . . . they were bad. Either that same person had broken in again and left it there—except I checked the alarm, and it was on; and anyway, how would anyone know about JoJo’s? It would have to be someone who’d been stalking me, finding out everything about my whole entire life, and now they wanted me to know they knew—” She shuddered. “I felt like a crazy person even thinking about it. Stuff like that doesn’t happen, except in the movies. But the only other thing I could think of was that I actually still had my badge somewhere, and I had done the whole thing myself—gone and dug it out, put it down in the kitchen. And I didn’t remember anything about it. And that would mean . . .”
Jenny stared up at the ceiling, blinking to keep the tears back. “It’s one thing doing everyday stuff, autopilot stuff, and forgetting about it—going to the shop or taking a shower, things I would’ve done anyway. But if I was doing stuff like digging out that badge, crazy stuff that didn’t make any sense . . . then I could do anything. Anything. I could get up one morning and look in the mirror and realize I’d shaved my head or painted my face green. I could go to pick Emma up from school one day and find the teacher and all the other mums not talking to me, and I wouldn’t have a clue why.”
She was panting, working for each breath like the wind had been knocked out of her. “And the kids. Oh, God, the kids. How was I supposed to protect them, if I couldn’t tell what I was going to do the next second? How would I even know if I’d been keeping them safe or if I’d, I’d—I couldn’t even tell what I was scared of doing, because I wouldn’t know till it happened. Thinking about it made me want to get sick. It was like I could feel the pin upstairs, wiggling, trying to get out of the drawer. Every time I put my hand in my pocket, I was terrified I’d find it there.”
To remind her of being happy. Conor, floating in his cold concrete bubble, with nothing to moor him but the bright silent images of the Spains moving across their windows and the thick-twined anchor rope of his love for them: he had never dreamed that his gift might not do exactly what he wanted it to, that Jenny might not react the way he had planned; that, with all the best intentions in the world, he might smash down the frail scaffolding that kept her standing. I said, “So what you told me the first time we met, about that evening being an ordinary one—you and Pat giving the children their bath, and Pat making Jack laugh by playing with Emma’s dress: that wasn’t true.”
A wan, bitter half-smile. “God, that. I forgot I said that. I didn’t want you thinking we were . . . It should’ve been true. We used to do that, back before. But no: I washed the kids, Pat stayed down in the sitting room—he said he had ‘high hopes’ for the hole by the sofa. He had such high hopes, he hadn’t even eaten dinner with us, in case the hole did something amazing meanwhile. He said he wasn’t hungry, he’d get a sandwich or something later. Back when we were first married, we used to lie in bed and talk about someday when we had kids: what they’d look like, what we’d name them; Pat used to joke about how we’d all have family dinner round the table together every night, no matter what, even when the kids were horrible teenagers and they hated our guts . . .”
Jenny was still staring up at the ceiling and blinking hard, but a tear escaped, trickled down into the soft hair at her temple. “And now here we were, with Jack banging his fork on the table and yelling, ‘Daddy Daddy Daddy come here!’ over and over, because Pat was in the sitting room, still in his pajamas from last night, staring at a hole. And Emma with her fingers in her ears screaming at Jack to shut up, and me not even trying to make them both be quiet because I didn’t have the energy. I was just trying so hard to make it through the rest of the day without doing anything else insane. I just wanted to sleep.”
Me and Richie, on that first torch-lit walk-through, spotting the rumpled duvet and knowing someone had been in bed when it all turned bad. I said, “So you bathed the children and put them to bed. And then . . . ?”
“I just went to bed too. I could hear Pat moving around downstairs, but I couldn’t face him—I couldn’t handle hearing all about what the animal was doing, not that night—so I stayed upstairs. I tried to read my book for a while, but I couldn’t concentrate. I wanted to put something in front of the drawer where the pin was, like something heavy, but I knew that would be a crazy thing to do. So in the end I switched off the light and I tried to go to sleep.”
Jenny stopped. Neither of us wanted her to go on. I said, “And then?”
“Emma started crying. I don’t know what time it was; I was dozing off and on, waiting for Pat to come up, listening out for what he was doing downstairs. Emma’s always had nightmares, ever since she was tiny. I thought that was all it was, just a nightmare. I got up and went in to her, and she was sitting up in bed, totally terrified. She was crying so hard she could barely breathe; she was trying to say something, but she couldn’t talk. I sat down on the bed and I hugged her—she was clinging on to me, sobbing her poor little heart out. When she calmed down a bit I said, ‘What’s wrong, sweetie? Tell Mummy and I’ll fix it.’ And she said . . .”
Jenny caught a deep, openmouthed gasp of breath. “She said . . . ‘It’s in my wardrobe, Mum. It was going to come get me.’
“I said, ‘What’s in your wardrobe, sweetie?’ I still thought it was just a dream or maybe a spider, she hates spiders. But Emma went, she went, ‘The animal. Mummy, the animal, it’s the animal, it’s laughing at me with its teeth—’ She was starting to go to bits again. I said, ‘There’s no animal here; it was just a dream,’ and she wailed, this awful high noise that didn’t even sound human. I grabbed her, I even shook her—I’ve never done that before, ever. I was scared she was going to wake Jack, but it wasn’t just that. I was . . .” That great gasp again. “I was scared of the animal. That it would hear her and come after her. I knew there was nothing there. I knew that. But I still—the thought of it, Jesus, I had to make Emma shut up before . . . She stopped wailing, thank God, but she was still crying and clutching at me, and she was pointing at her schoolbag—it was on the floor by her bed. All I could make out was ‘in there, in there,’ so I switched on the bedside lamp and dumped everything out of the bag. When Emma saw that . . .”
Jenny’s finger hovered over the drawing. “This. She went, ‘That! Mummy, that! It’s in my wardrobe!’”
The gasping was gone; her voice had stilled, slowed, just a small pinpoint of life scratching at the thick silence of the room. “The bedside lamp’s only little, and the paper was in a shadow. All I could see was the eyes and the teeth, in the middle of black. I said, ‘What is it, sweetie?’ But I already knew.
“Emma said—she was starting to get her breath back, but she was still doing that hiccuppy thing—she said, ‘The animal. The animal Daddy wants to catch. I’m sorry, Mummy, I’m so so sorry—’
“I put on my sensible voice and I went, ‘Don’t be silly. There’s nothing to be sorry for. But we’ve talked about that animal before. It isn’t real, remember? It’s just a game Daddy plays. He’s just a bit confused. You know that.’
“She looked so wretched. Emma’s sensitive; things she doesn’t understand, they just rip her up inside. She knelt up in bed and hugged me around the neck, and she whispered—right into my ear, like she was scared something would hear her—‘I see it. For days and days now. I’m sorry, Mummy, I tried not to . . .’
“I wanted to die. I wanted to just melt into a little puddle and soak away into the carpet. I thought I’d kept them safe. That was all I ever wanted. But that animal, that thing, it had got everywhere. It was inside Emma, inside her head. I would have killed it if I could have, I’d have done it with my bare hands, but I couldn’t do that because it didn’t exist. Emma was going, ‘I know I wasn’t meant to tell about it, but Miss Carey said draw your home and it just came out, I’m sorry, I’m sorry . . .�
�� I knew I had to get the kids away, but there was nowhere I could take them. It had escaped; it had got outside the house, too. There wasn’t anywhere left that was safe. And nothing I could do was worth anything, because I couldn’t trust myself to do things right any more.”
Jenny laid her fingertips on the drawing, lightly and with a kind of bleak wonder: this tiny thing, this slip of paper and crayon that had changed the world.
“I kept so calm. I said to Emma, ‘It’s all right, sweetie. I know you tried. Mummy’s going to make it all OK. You go to sleep now. I’ll stay right here so the animal can’t get you. OK?’ I opened her wardrobe and looked in all the corners, so she could see there was nothing there. I put all her things back in her schoolbag. Then I switched off the lamp again and I sat there on the bed, holding her hand, till she fell asleep—it took a while, she kept opening her eyes to double-check that I was still there, but she was exhausted from getting so freaked out; in the end she went off. And then I took the drawing and I went downstairs to find Pat.
“He was on the kitchen floor. He had the cupboard door open, this cupboard where he’d made a hole at the back, and he was crouching in front of it like an animal, like this great big animal waiting to pounce. He had one of his hands in the cupboard, spread out on the shelf. In the other hand he had this vase, this silver vase, it was our wedding present from my grandmother—I used to put it on the windowsill in our bedroom with pink roses in it, like I had in my bouquet, to remind us of our wedding day . . . Pat was holding it by the neck, holding it up like he was about to smash something with it. And there was this knife, one of these really sharp cooking knives that we bought back when we used to do Gordon Ramsay recipes, it was on the floor right next to him. I said, ‘What are you doing?’
“Pat said, ‘Shut up. Listen.’ I listened but I couldn’t hear anything, there was nothing there! So I said that: ‘There’s nothing there.’
“Pat laughed—he didn’t even look at me, he was just staring into this cupboard—and he said, he said, ‘That’s what it wants you to think. It’s right there, inside the wall, I can hear it, if you’d shut up for a second you’d hear it too. It’s smart, it keeps very quiet till I’m just about ready to give up and right then it does a quick little scrabble, just to keep me on my toes, it’s like it’s laughing at me. Well fuck that, I’m smarter than it is. I’m staying one step ahead. Yeah, so it’s got plans, but I’ve got plans too. I’m keeping my eye on the prize. I’m ready to rumble.’
“I go, ‘What are you talking about?’ and Pat goes—he’s hunched over towards me, practically whispering, like he thinks this thing can understand him—‘I finally figured out what it wants. It wants me. The kids too, and you, it wants all of us, but most of all it wants me. That’s what it’s after. No wonder I couldn’t catch it before, fucking about with peanut butter and hamburger— So here I am. Come on, motherfucker, I’m right here, come and get me!’ He’s like beckoning at the hole with the hand in the cupboard, like a guy trying to get another guy to go for him. He goes, ‘It can smell me, I’m so close it can practically taste me, and that’s driving it wild. It’s smart, all right, it’s careful, but sooner or later—no, sooner, I can feel it, any minute—it’s going to want me so bad that it can’t be careful any more. It’s going to lose control and it’s going to stick its head out of that hole and take a big bite of my hand and then I’ll grab it and bam bam bam not so smart now motherfucker not so smart now are you—’”
Jenny was shaking with the memory. “His face was all red, all covered in sweat, his eyes were practically popping out—he was smashing the vase down over and over, like he was hitting something. He looked insane. I yelled at him to shut up, I was like, ‘This has to stop, I’ve had enough, look at this, look—’ and I shoved this thing in his face.” She had both palms on the drawing, pressing it into the blanket. “I was trying to keep it down because I didn’t want to wake up the babies, I couldn’t let them see their dad like that, but I guess I was loud enough that at least I got Pat’s attention. He stopped waving the vase around and grabbed this and stared at it for a while, and then he was like, ‘So?’
“I said, ‘Emma drew that. She drew it in school.’ He was still looking at me like, ‘What’s the big deal?’ I wanted to scream at him. Pat and I don’t have screaming rows, we’re not like that—weren’t. But he was just squatting there looking at me like all this was totally normal, and it made me—I could barely even stand to look at him. I knelt down next to him on the floor, and I said, ‘Pat. Listen to me. You have to listen to me. This stops now. There’s nothing there. There never was anything there. Before the kids wake up tomorrow morning, you fill in every single one of these bloody holes, and I’ll take these bloody monitors down to the beach and I’ll throw them in the sea. And then we’ll forget this whole thing and we’ll never mention it again, ever ever ever.’
“I actually thought I’d got through. Pat put down the vase and he brought his bait hand out of the cupboard, and he leaned over and took hold of my hands, and I thought . . .” A quick breath that caught Jenny off guard, juddered her whole body. “They just felt so warm, his hands. So strong, just like always, just like they’ve always felt since we were teenagers. He was looking straight at me, properly—he looked like Pat again. For that one second, I thought it was OK. I thought Pat was going to give me a hug, a big long hug, and then we’d find a way to fix the holes together, and then we’d go to bed and sleep wrapped round each other. And someday, when we were old, we’d have a laugh about the whole insane thing. I actually thought that.”
The pain in her voice went so deep that I had to look away in case I saw it open up in front of me, a blackness gaping right down to the core of the earth. Bubbles in the magnolia paint on the wall. Red leaves rattling and scraping at the window.
“Except then Pat goes, ‘Jenny. My sweetheart. My lovely little missus. I know I’ve been a crap husband the last while. God, I totally know that. I haven’t been able to look after you, I haven’t been able to look after the kids, and you guys have stood by me while I sat here and let us fall deeper into the shite every day.’
“I tried to tell him it wasn’t about money, money didn’t even matter any more, but he wouldn’t let me. He shook his head and went, ‘Shhh. Hang on. I need to say this, OK? I know you don’t deserve to live like this. You deserve all the fancy clothes and expensive curtains in the world. Emma deserves dance lessons. Jack deserves tickets to Man U. And it’s been killing me that I can’t give you that stuff. But this, at least, this one thing, this I can do. I can get this little fucker. We’ll have it stuffed and mount it on the sitting-room wall. How’s that?’
“He was stroking my hair, my cheek, and he was smiling at me, actually smiling—he looked honest-to-God happy. Joyful, like the answer to all our problems was shining right there in front of him and he knew exactly how to catch it. He went, ‘Trust me. Please. I finally know what I’m doing. Our lovely house, Jen, it’s going to be all safe again. The kids, they’re going to be safe. Don’t worry, baby. It’s OK. I won’t let this thing get you.’”
Jenny’s voice was rocking wildly; her hands were fisted in the bedclothes. “I didn’t know how to say it to him: that was exactly what he was doing. He was letting this thing, this animal, this stupid insane imaginary it was never even there animal, he was letting it eat Jack and Emma alive. Every second he sat there staring at that hole, he was giving it another bite out of their minds. If he didn’t want it to have them, all he had to do was get up! Fix the holes! Put the bloody vase away!”
Her voice was so thick with damage and tears and rising hysteria, I could barely make out the words. Maybe someone else would have patted her shoulder and come out with the perfect thing to say. I couldn’t touch her. I took the glass of water from her bedside table and held it out. Jenny buried her face in it, choking and coughing, until she got some water down and the terrible noises subsided.
S
he said, down to the glass, “So then I just sat there next to him, on the floor. It was freezing cold, but I couldn’t get up. I was too dizzy, it was the worst it’s ever been, everything kept sliding and tilting. I thought if I tried to stand up I’d fall over face-first and smash my head on one of the cupboards, and I knew I couldn’t do that. I think we sat there for a couple of hours, I don’t know. I just held onto this thing”—the drawing, spattered with drops of water now—“and I stared at it. I was terrified that if I stopped looking at it even for a second, I’d forget it had ever existed, and then I’d forget that I needed to do something about it.”
She wiped at her face, for water or for tears, I couldn’t tell. “I kept thinking about that JoJo’s pin, up in my drawer. How happy we were back then. How that had to be why I’d dug it out of some box: because I was trying to find something happy. All I could think was How did we get here? I felt like there had to be something we had done, me and Pat, to make this happen, and if I could just find that, then maybe I could change it and everything would be different. But I couldn’t find it. I thought right back to the first time we kissed, when we were sixteen—it was on the beach in Monkstown, it was evening but it was summer so it was still bright and so warm, the warm air on my arms. We were sitting on a rock talking, and Pat just leaned over to me and . . . I went through every moment I could remember, every single one, but I couldn’t find anything. I couldn’t work out how we had ever got here, this kitchen floor, from where we started out.”
She had quieted. Behind the fine gold haze of hair, her face was still, turned inwards. Her voice was steady. I was the one who was afraid.
Jenny said, “Everything looked so weird. It felt like the light kept getting brighter, till it turned into searchlights everywhere; or like there had been something wrong with my eyes for months, some kind of haze blurring them up, and all of a sudden it was gone and I could see again. Everything looked so shiny and so sharp it hurt, and it was all so beautiful—just ordinary stuff like the fridge and the toaster and the table, they looked like they were made out of light, floating, like they were angel things that would blow you to atoms if you touched them. And then I started floating too, I was floating up off the ground, and I knew I had to do something fast, before I just drifted away through the window, and the kids and Pat were left there to get eaten up alive. I said, ‘Pat, we have to get out now’—at least I think I did, I’m not sure. He didn’t hear me, either way. He didn’t notice when I got up, didn’t even notice I was leaving—he was whispering something to that hole, I couldn’t hear what . . . Going up the stairs took forever because my feet weren’t touching the ground, I couldn’t move forward, I kept hanging there trying to go up in slow motion. I knew I should be scared that I wasn’t going to get there in time, but I wasn’t; I didn’t feel anything at all, just numb and sad. So sad.”
