by Clare Boyd
‘You’re a right wrong ’un, you are Mira Moose-face.’
Remembering that casual insult rushed Mira back to that sitting room, as though she was standing in front of her mother again. Mira recalled how her mother had been reclining on the sofa, licking her finger as she lazily turned the page of her tabloid, scolding her whilst flicking through the news. How repellent Mira had found her, in her pink leggings with the hole, and the thinning wires of hair around her forehead.
‘He was the one who did it, Mum!’ Mira had cried, defending herself.
‘Why did you have to go tell Deidre? Just when she’s happy with Craig, you’ve gone and upset her for no reason.’
‘But his hand was in my pants! He’s horrible. She should dump him for doing that!’
‘Just because you’re a jealous little minx?’
‘I’m not jealous of Deidre going out with that creep!’
Mira had held back the tears. Nobody would care what she did or where she went. She marched down the lane, armed with a cigarette she had plucked at home from the splay in the glass tumbler: a bunch of flowers with no heads. Swollen with more anger than she knew what to do with, she lit a cigarette for the first time. The heady hit from the nicotine calmed her. With each inhale, she sucked back the wild, clanging anger that threatened to overtake her. The sullen, sulky Mira returned. Back to normal. The barriers in place.
Mira still kept a packet of cigarettes on top of the bookshelf in the lounge, for moments just like these. Barry would turn a blind eye when she had the odd one after a stressful day, but she would be too self-conscious to smoke around Deidre.
Twenty-two minutes after the call to the police, there were flashing lights outside the window. A blue film tinged the outdoors. Their front gate, the hedges, the grass, the sky, the very air they breathed changed colour. The blue turned the familiar into the unknown.
Mira placed her fan of cards neatly down on the table and took a deep breath.
Barry looked directly at her over his cards but his expression was inscrutable.
‘Oh Lord, they’re here,’ Deidre said, leaping up with more energy than she had shown all day. She moved into the lounge to peer out of the window, which Mira knew would not give her a view of anything but the hedge.
If they wanted to see, they would have to go into their bedroom and look down over the hedge, but Mira didn’t want to see any more.
When the police cars’ lights switched off, the white sunshine blanched Mira’s confidence.
Chapter Thirteen
I was clearing up a murder scene, or so it seemed. I felt sullied as I picked up the pieces of glass and carefully placed them in the bin bag. Nothing could tidy away the unpleasant aftertaste of guilt. With a damp cloth, I gently wiped the blood from the prints of our smiling faces, and longed to go back to that day, when Rosie was three years old, and she had been difficult, yes, but less complicated. Had I been a better mother back then? Had I been a better person?
The doorbell rang. I hadn’t heard Peter arrive. I had been at the back of the house in Noah’s bedroom choosing an appropriate outfit for him for our visit next door. I had changed into clean clothes and the bloody shirt was already spinning around the washing machine.
I checked my watch, five past two. He had said he would be home at roughly two o’clock, give or take half an hour. Part of me had hoped he would get back in time to persuade me out of my visit next door. If I explained everything to Peter, I hoped he would think I was making something out of nothing, that our business was not Mira’s, that he would forbid me to carry out the humiliating task of persuading Mira that I was not a child abuser. Deep down, I would know I had to do it anyway, but his blind loyalty would bolster me.
With the dustbin bag full of glass and the broken-up frame, I opened the door, distractedly, ready to launch into the story of the past hour to Peter.
Two dark figures in hats blocked my passage. Time stopped. The bin bag was suspended in the air between them and me. The synthetic smell from the bag brought bile onto my tongue and its heaviness felt like it might snap my arm from its socket.
The figure on the right spoke. ‘Mrs Bradley?’
‘Yes? Sorry, I’m just putting this out,’ I said, panicking. I squeezed through them with the bin bag, in an attempt to be casual. I was so inappropriately casual that I probably looked unhinged. I imagined them making a note of it in their heads, building a picture, before the notebooks were brought out. A slither of glass poked through the bag and pierced my thigh as I carried it to the bin and I wanted to cry. I stared at the gates, willing Peter through them.
They allowed me to pass back across the threshold of my own home.
‘Hello, I’m PC Yorke and this is PC Connolly, we’ve had an incident reported to us from your neighbour about some screaming and we’re just here to check that everything’s in order.’
It felt like my brain had caved in. The muscles around my womb clenched my baby, instinctively preparing for the danger ahead. It took every ounce of self-control I possessed to contain the panic. My first instinct was to tell them that they could not come in, that it was inconvenient, that I was outraged.
‘I really think there has been a terrible misunderstanding,’ I said, half-laughing, trying to convey how risible I thought them being here was. But I didn’t move to let them in. My brain’s messages to my body weren’t working.
‘Can we come in please?’ The officer said, more sternly this time. ‘We need to see your children to make sure they’re safe.’
‘They are absolutely safe. I’ll get them for you,’ I said, incredulous, standing aside to let them in. They followed me through the house to the kitchen. ‘Rosie! Noah! Come in here, please!’ I called out the back door, high-pitched, near hysterical.
They ran in, flushed, grinning from ear-to-ear, a little scruffy in their outfits contrived for Mira. They looked happy and well cared for, and I had a stab of pride.
‘This is Rosie,’ I said, noticing how both officers immediately clocked the bandage on her hand, ‘and this is Noah.’
The children stared up at them agog, and looked over to me for reassurance.
‘It’s okay, the officers are here to make sure everyone is safe after the accident with the picture.’
‘What’s that?’ Noah asked, pointing to the square black device in PC Connolly’s hand.
‘It’s an MDT. A Mobile Data Terminal. We write in it,’ PC Connolly said.
‘Can I see?’ Noah said.
‘Noah,’ I admonished.
‘It’s okay. Here.’
PC Yorke showed Noah the screen briefly, but his eyes were on the move, up and down the children’s bodies, around my house, scanning for something. Neither officer made eye contact with me for more than a second.
‘Hello,’ PC Connolly said. Her blonde bob was flicked under either side of her wide jaw. She bent down to Rosie. Her voice was gentle and relaxed. ‘What happened to your hand, Rosie?’
Rosie looked down at her hand and bit her lip, nervy and timid, she wouldn’t answer.
I leapt in to save her. ‘It is just a small cut under that big bandage! The picture frame fell off the wall and it shattered all over the floor, didn’t it Rosie?’
Rosie was wide-eyed at me, as though I had lied, which was true, I had lied, sort of, to protect her. The picture frame hadn’t just ‘fallen off the wall’. When do picture frames just fall off walls? It sounded like the domestic abuse cliché, ‘she just walked into a door’.
The female officer stood up and addressed me sternly. ‘Could you please remain silent. We need to hear from your daughter.’
Taken aback, I looked searchingly at PC Yorke, whose finger seemed to point briefly at PC Connolly as he brushed it under his nose awkwardly. His flat, grey face was unreadable, like a concrete wall.
‘Let’s hear from you, Rosie? Tell me what happened,’ PC Connolly said.
Rosie just stood there frozen to the spot, holding a strange faraway expression.
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Both police officers glanced at one another, an all-knowing click of recognition giving away their obvious concern, and I wanted to smack them.
In spite of my fear of PC Connolly, I stepped in and wrapped my arms around Rosie. ‘Come on, darling, it’s okay,’ I said, coaxing her. ‘Go on. Tell them exactly what happened.’
‘I don’t want to,’ she said, looking up at me. Her chin was dimpling.
‘You have to, Rosie.’
‘Am I in trouble?’ she whispered, as though she and I were alone in the room.
‘No, no, poppet, you are absolutely not in trouble. Just tell them how you cut your hand. Nobody is going to be cross with you.’
‘I tell you what, why don’t you show me where it happened? It might be easier to explain,’ PC Connolly said, and she held her hand out to Rosie, who, much to my amazement released me, took it and led PC Connolly up the stairs. I could hear the beginning of what she said, before their voices were quiet.
I felt heady. My separation from her was a wrench I could hardly believe I was allowing. Everything about letting her walk upstairs with this stranger felt unnatural and wrong.
Noah pulled at my leg. ‘Why is that police going upstairs with Rosie, Mummy?’
I was just about to answer, when PC Yorke did it for me. ‘She’s just making sure everything is safe for you and your sister.’
PC Yorke’s portable radio let out a crackle of voices, distracting me from the angry retort that was building in my head. I was aggrieved by the imposition of these two officers in my home.
‘Sorry about that.’ He turned the volume down. ‘Right, I’ll need to take down a few details from you, if that’s okay?’
I felt angry prickles cross my chest, which was probably flashing red, highlighting my discomposure. I placed my hand there, feeling my skin’s heat throb into the pads of my fingertips.
‘Noah, do you want to play outside?’ I said.
Noah scampered off.
‘Is it okay if we sit down?’ I said.
His black uniform was thick and heavy with equipment around his belts, and his coat dwarfed my upholstered chair where he hung it. He shuffled far back from the table, as though giving himself space for the important task ahead. I pushed my torso tight into the opposite side of the table, prim, ready for a test. I had to adopt a practical approach, as I would in a boardroom meeting at work. I would answer his questions efficiently and without emotion. The facts would be gathered and they would leave us alone.
It was easy to do at first. He began by asking me for exact spellings of our names, our dates of birth, telephone numbers, the children’s school, and lastly, our doctor’s surgery. I didn’t tell him I was pregnant. I’m not sure why. Perhaps because it was none of his business. Perhaps because I didn’t want his sympathy. Perhaps because I wanted to protect my baby from his scrutiny.
‘So, now we’ve got all that out of the way, let’s talk about what happened,’ PC Yorke said. ‘We have established that Rosie has cut her hand, which you say doesn’t need any medical attention?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘We have reason to believe the incident with Rosie happened in her bedroom, is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were you with Rosie at the time?’
‘No.’
‘Where were you at the time?’
‘I was in the study with Noah.’
‘Could you please show me where that is?’ he said, standing up.
We stood in the book-lined room and my eye was drawn through the French windows to the stone patio, where I caught sight of a robin dart from the hydrangea bush to a limp, wilting leaf on the dead rose vine. It bounced for a second and flew off.
‘And what were you doing in here?’
‘I was listening to music with Noah.’ I pointed to the computer on the leather desk.
‘Were you aware that Rosie was screaming while you were listening to music?’
‘Yes. Well, yes.’
‘But you decided not to check on her?’
‘I’ve read that it’s best to ignore a child when they’re having a tantrum.’
His eyes flicked up from his device. Under his questioning stare, the advice I had read online shrivelled up as namby-pamby nonsense.
‘At what point did you know that the picture fell off the wall?’
‘After I heard the crash, and when her screaming sounded different.’
‘At what point did you decide to go upstairs?’
‘When I heard the crash.’
‘So, you heard the crash, and her screaming sounded different. When you say “sounded different”, can you describe the scream to me?’
‘It became really high-pitched, I suppose.’
‘And then what did you do when you heard this high-pitched scream?’
‘I ran straight upstairs to check on her.’
‘Could you call Noah in here, so I can talk to him please?’
‘Is that really necessary? He’s only six.’ Stay calm, stay calm, I said to myself, co-operate, I have nothing to hide.
‘I’m afraid it is important I talk to him. Could you get him please?’
I called Noah in from outside. ‘Jump up onto the swivel chair a minute, poppet. PC Yorke has a few questions for you too,’ I said, trying to sound upbeat, as though it was such a big treat to be interviewed by a police officer who suspected your mother might have intentionally harmed your big sister.
Noah sat twisting back and forth on the chair while I hovered in the corner, leaning into the bookshelf, fearing that my insignificant life was about to become as meaty as those behind the book spines.
PC Yorke crouched down to his level. ‘So, Noah, what were you doing in the study with your mummy today?’
‘Rosie was screaming like this WAH, WAH, WAH!’ Noah, the showman, said, obviously deciding to play up the comedy for his audience, as he had a habit of doing.
‘And when Rosie was going WAH, WAH, WAH, what was Mummy doing?’
‘We were dancing to Luuuuuther!’ He jumped off the chair and wiggled his bum.
I couldn’t help smiling, and I caught PC Yorke smiling too.
‘And then after you were dancing with Mummy, then what happened?’
‘Mummy was really, really cross, like this,’ he said, and he screwed up his face into his best angry-face grimace. ‘And then she went like this,’ he said, miming stomping out of the room and stroking his tummy, as I would do often, unconsciously connecting to my baby.
‘I think you should be on the stage when you grow-up, eh?’
‘Yeeeeeaaah!’ Noah cried, doing a tah-dah with his arms. I began to cringe slightly. It was little over the top, possibly a reflection of his anxiety.
‘Tell me, did you hear anything apart from Rosie screaming from upstairs?’
‘Only this, WAH, WAH, WAH!’ Noah screeched.
‘All right, Noah. Calm down, please,’ I said.
‘Okay,’ PC Yorke laughed. ‘Did you hear anything else?’
Noah shrugged. ‘Nope.’
‘So, where did Mummy go then after she walked out of here?’
‘Ummm. She went upstairs to Rosie’s bedroom.’
‘And what did you see there?’
‘I was a good boy.’ He became serious.
‘You were a good boy, were you?’
‘Yes, Mummy told me to stay down here and so I was good and I stayed here.’
‘You stayed down here, did you. And did you hear anything while you were down here, being a good boy?’
‘No.’ He shook his head slowly and looked up at me.
‘Good boy,’ PC Yorke replied, standing up again. ‘Okay, well done, Noah, thank you very much for answering all my questions.’
‘Can I watch telly, Mummy?’
‘Go outside for a bit. You can watch some later when Daddy’s home.’
I checked my watch. It was a quarter to three. Three-quarters of an hour late. Of all days. Of all bloody days. I wanted to
scream out of a window, across the tree-tops to bring him home, like a bird’s call across a jungle.
PC Yorke tapped furiously into his device and walked out of the study, back down the corridor, towards the bottom of the stairs, and looked up, paused, tapped some more information, and back into the kitchen, where we sat down again. His command of my space was disconcerting. In another context, I imagined that it would be reassuring, say, if we’d been burgled, and he was on our side automatically.
‘So, tell me what happened upstairs, Mrs Bradley.’
Again, the look of sympathy. It put me instantly on edge. Did he know more than I did before he had heard my story?
‘I went straight into her bedroom and saw that Rosie was kneeling in the middle of all this broken glass and there was blood everywhere,’ I said, pressing my fingers to my mouth. I noticed my top lip was sweaty.
‘You saw blood. Where was the blood?’
Tap, tap, tap.
‘On the photographs and on the mount, and on her hands.’
‘What did you do when you saw this?’
‘I lifted her out of the room away from the glass and then I carried her to the bathroom to clean her up. That’s how I got covered in blood, but I hadn’t noticed it on my clothes until Mira saw me,’ I trailed off, trying to fight back the tears.
‘And you found a cut on Rosie?’
‘Yes, on her hand.’
‘How do you think she cut her hand?’
‘I don’t know, when it fell maybe?’
‘Was she hurt anywhere else?’
‘I found several small cuts over her shins and knees where she’d knelt on the glass.’
‘Where was the cut exactly on her hand?’
‘On her palm.’ I showed him on mine, and wished with all of my heart that the laceration had been mine.
‘The left hand, then?’
‘Err. Yes, left.’
‘And your husband? Where is he now?’
