Daughters of Darkness

by Sally Spencer

  ‘If it makes you happy.’

  ‘It makes me anything but happy,’ I tell him, ‘but it still has to be done. The bracelet was Jane’s. It’s made from the entwined hair of two women who consider themselves to be spiritual sisters or kimpums. When one of the kimpums dies, the other one burns her bracelet. Grace burned hers, because she thought Jane had died in an explosion in Bombay Terrace back in 1944, but Jane knew Grace wasn’t dead, and she wore hers until the end.’

  ‘It’s still all just a theory,’ he says. ‘A theory, furthermore, that has a lot of gaps.’

  ‘Then consider this,’ I say. ‘Given her background, it would never have occurred to Jane to decapitate Grace, because it’s simply not something that girls like her could ever imagine doing. And even if we accept – against all the odds – that that is something she might do, she would have used an axe or a knife, and made a complete hash of it. What she wouldn’t have done was recognize that the best weapon for the job – the weapon designed specifically for that purpose – was hanging on the wall in Grace’s study. Then, once the bloody deed was done, she’d never have thought to bury the body in the nearby woods – woods that she, as a stranger to the area, didn’t even know existed.’

  ‘Is that it?’ Stockton asks.

  ‘No,’ I tell him. ‘On her way here, Jane was photographed by all the cameras on Oxford Station. Why didn’t she try to avoid them, considering the fact that she was already on the run?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘She didn’t avoid them when she arrived because she’d been cut off from the world for so long that she had no idea that such things existed. Yet when she supposedly returned to the station, she not only knew that she should avoid the cameras, but she knew exactly where they were located. How did she acquire that knowledge in such a short space of time?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘The answer is that she didn’t!’

  ‘Then how do you explain her behaviour?’

  ‘I was puzzled right from the beginning about the timing,’ I say. ‘There were only four hours between Jane arriving here and her returning to Oxford Station. Given that killing and burying Grace would take her at least two hours, how did she get back to the station so quickly? She didn’t take a bus, she didn’t call a taxi, and she didn’t hitchhike. She might have stolen Grace’s car, I suppose …’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘… but she didn’t, firstly, because she’d never learned to drive, and secondly because if she had, the police would have found the car at the railway station, not in your garage.’

  ‘So you’re saying it wasn’t this Jane at all who was picked up by the station cameras?’ he asks.

  ‘You know it wasn’t. It was Grace, wearing Jane’s red duffle coat. If there was ever an investigation into Jane’s disappearance, Grace wanted it on tape that she had left Oxford again.’ I pause, because this really is taking it out of me. ‘And finally,’ I continue, ‘even if we choose to disregard everything I’ve just said, are we expected to believe that this woman – who had no experience of the world and no resources to draw on – could evade capture for over three years, even after an extensive manhunt during which her image had been flashed all over the television and the newspapers? Of course we can’t believe it – because it’s impossible!’

  ‘Why would my wife decapitate her?’ Stockton asks, tactically shifting his ground.

  ‘Because that’s how you have to go about killing your enemies. Once they’re dead, you see, you need to have their heads in your possession, since that’s the only way you can keep control of their souls.’

  ‘But what was her motive?’ Stockton persists.

  ‘There was nothing else she could do, after Jane confronted her and accused her of stealing her life,’ I say.

  THIRTY-ONE

  25th November, 1944

  For once, little Julia had allowed her the privilege of a few hours’ sleep, Grace thought, as she dragged her still-tired body out of bed, but now the baby really needed to be fed, even if it meant waking her up.

  She knew that something was wrong the moment she lifted Julia from her cot. Her little body seemed both too heavy and too unyielding.

  She laid the baby on the table, and felt first for a heartbeat and then for a pulse. She could find neither.

  She realized just how cold the baby’s skin was, and how her little arms seemed to have no flexibility at all.

  She tried to force Julia’s mouth open, so that she could breathe a little air into the tiny lungs, but her jaw was locked solid.

  The baby was dead!

  Julia was dead!

  What would she tell Derek? How could she ever confess to him that she had let him down so badly?

  She wanted to run headlong against the wall, crushing the brain which was responsible for these feelings of loss and failure, paying for her sins by baptizing the wall with her blood.

  But she didn’t.

  Instead, she forced herself to calm down, and consider what the proper thing to do was in the circumstances.

  The consideration did not take her long. It required her only to draw from the reservoir of ancient Trinka wisdom which was stored deep inside her.

  She pulled her suitcase from under the bed, and took out the jar of sacred cream that one of the tribal elders had given to her as a parting gift when she abandoned her home in the rainforest and journeyed overseas. She unscrewed the jar, and, after she had undressed the baby, began to gently rub the ointment on Julia’s tiny legs. She worked tenderly and slowly, singing, as she worked, an ancient Trinka chant that she was not even aware she knew. She worked steadily – occasionally stopping to wipe the tears from her eyes – and finally it was done.

  Later, she would lay her hands on a boat somehow, and push her darling baby out into the middle of the river. But for the moment, she had no role to play, because it was ordained that the baby be left alone, so it could make its peace with the world it was about to leave.

  The hammering on the front door was unexpected and frightening, and Jane’s first reaction was to freeze.

  Who could it possibly be? her panicked brain screamed.

  Apart from Grace and Annie, nobody ever came to visit her.

  Nobody!

  And both Grace and Annie had their own keys.

  The hammering continued.

  Bang, bang, bang; bang, bang, bang.

  It was growing louder with every knock, but even in her nervous state, she recognized that it didn’t sound like the police, because when they came calling, there was something confident and authoritative about the way they announced their presence, whereas this knocking merely sounded desperate.

  She wished Grace were there with her, because she would know how to handle this, as she seemed to know how to handle everything. But Grace wasn’t there, so it was up to her.

  She wondered if she could just sit it out, but she was worried all the noise would wake the baby, and so she rose reluctantly to her feet, forced herself to walk down the hallway, and opened the front door.

  The man standing there was around twenty-four or twenty-five. He had a pinched, poverty-lined face, and was wearing a cheap suit which must have looked pretty good the first two or three times he wore it.

  ‘You’ve had new locks fitted,’ he complained.

  But she scarcely heard his words.

  ‘Archie,’ she said in a voice which was almost a whisper, ‘you’ve come back to me.’

  He looked nervously over his shoulder, then pushed past her into the hallway. She followed him into the back room.

  ‘New furniture,’ he said.

  ‘It’s not new,’ she told him. ‘It’s only second-hand.’

  ‘Still, it’s a bloody sight better than what was here before,’ he said.

  She pointed to the cot standing in the corner. ‘Look, Archie, that’s your little baby daughter. Her name’s Ellen.’

  He barely gave the baby a glance. ‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘Listen, Jan
e, they told me in the pub that you’ve got a new friend – a posh one.’

  She herself had once thought of Grace as posh, but that had been a long time ago, and now it was strange to hear her described in that way.

  ‘She’s been very good to me,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah,’ Archie said. He licked his lips. ‘Was it her who bought the new furniture?’

  ‘Yes, it was.’

  ‘And has she given you any money?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Jane told him.

  ‘Bloody hell, girl, I should have thought it was a simple enough question. Has this rich friend of yours given you any money?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not for me, it’s for our baby,’ Jane said.

  ‘How much is it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Jane said, wishing she’d lied.

  ‘You don’t know how much it is?’

  ‘I forget. I haven’t counted it recently.’

  ‘But it must be a few quid, then.’

  ‘Yes,’ Jane agreed, reluctantly, ‘it’s a few quid.’

  ‘The thing is, I’m in a bit of trouble with some lads from Mile End Road,’ Archie said.

  ‘What do you mean by a bit of trouble?’ Jane asked.

  ‘I mean I owe them money. And believe me, you really don’t want to owe that particular bunch of lads any money, because they can turn very nasty if you don’t pay them back.’

  ‘You’re not having the baby’s money,’ Jane said firmly.

  ‘Come on, girl, it would only be a loan. I’d pay you back as soon as I could,’ Archie wheedled.

  ‘No,’ Jane said firmly.

  ‘I could make you, you know,’ Archie threatened.

  ‘Whatever you do to me, you’re not having the money,’ Jane said firmly.

  For a moment, it looked as if Archie would start hitting her, then he smiled, reached into his pocket, and produced a half-bottle of cheap whisky.

  ‘Let’s sit down and have a drink,’ he suggested.

  ‘I don’t drink,’ Jane told him.

  He laughed, disbelievingly. ‘Come on, girl, I know you – you like a drop of the hard stuff as much as I do.’

  ‘Not anymore. I haven’t had a drink for months.’

  ‘Come on,’ he cajoled her, ‘what’s a celebration without a drink?’

  ‘What would we be celebrating?’

  ‘The two of us getting back together again.’

  ‘Do you mean it?’ she asked.

  ‘Course I mean it. Why wouldn’t I mean it?’

  ‘So you’ll stay, and help me to bring up our baby?’

  ‘Nothing could give me greater pleasure.’

  She has already crossed him over the matter of the baby’s money and seemed to have got away with it, but she knew him well enough to realize how dangerous it would be to cross him a second time.

  ‘All right, then,’ she agreed. ‘I don’t suppose one little drink can do any harm.’

  They sat down on the sofa. One little drink soon turned into two, and then three, and four, and less than an hour after Archie had crossed the threshold, the bottle was empty.

  ‘If we are going to start a new life together, I really need that money to pay off my debts,’ Archie said.

  Jane looked around her. The patterned wallpaper which she and Grace had painstakingly pasted up together was starting to waver, and both floor and ceiling were rolling back and forth, like the waves she had seen on her one childhood visit to the seaside.

  She was drunk, she realized – as drunk as she had been when she had offered her body to the customers of the King’s Head. But she wasn’t drunk enough to give Archie what he wanted.

  ‘It’s baby’s money, not mine,’ she slurred.

  The first blow to her face was expected, but she had forgotten how much it could hurt – had forgotten just how vicious Archie could be when he was angry or drunk (and now he was both).

  He stood up, to get a better swing at her. His second punch was to her left breast, his third smashed into her stomach.

  ‘Are you going to give me what I want?’ he demanded.

  ‘No,’ she gasped.

  He grabbed her by the shoulder, dragged her off the sofa and threw her onto the floor. As he started to kick her, she instinctively shielded her head with her arms, and twisted into a foetal position.

  He kicked her on the spine once, twice, three times, then he stopped and said, ‘Have you had enough?’

  She’d had more than enough. She had been beaten many times before, but never as viciously and methodically – never as painfully – as this.

  ‘I won’t tell you where the money is,’ she groaned.

  And she was thinking, ‘Grace would be proud of me! I’m proud of me! I’m proud of what she made me.’

  She expected the kicking to start again, but it didn’t.

  So maybe he saw it was pointless.

  Maybe he would just give up and go away.

  And to think that just an hour earlier she had stood in the hallway and welcomed him back – had so wanted him to stay. But that had only been because she had slipped back into being the old Jane. The new Jane didn’t need him or any other adult. She was strong enough to face whatever life threw at her – as long as she had the baby.

  ‘Right,’ Archie said, ‘if hitting you hasn’t done any good, I’ll just have to start on the kid, won’t I?’

  ‘You wouldn’t,’ she moaned.

  ‘Just watch me.’

  ‘It’s your own child.’

  ‘That means nothing to me. I don’t want to have my face slashed, and I’m willing to do anything to stop that happening.’

  ‘Help me to my feet, and I’ll show you where the money’s hidden,’ she said, defeated.

  In later years, Grace would tell herself that she went to Bombay Terrace that day to seek comfort from her kimpum – and for no other reason. She would go on to argue that if she hadn’t discovered just how terrible conditions were in Jane’s house, she would never have acted as she did.

  And when that argument no longer convinced her, she would say that it was a good job that she had gone when she had, because by doing so she had saved a life. So maybe it really had nothing to do with her at all – maybe it was what some greater power, beyond her comprehension, had always intended to happen.

  But deep down she knew the truth, which was that even if Jane had been being a perfect mother, she herself was driven by so deep a desperation that she would always have acted the way she did.

  As Grace opened the front door of Jane’s house, a smell hit her which had been absent for months – the stench of cheap alcohol. She should have been distraught, because she had put her heart and soul into keeping her kimpum clean, and now it seemed as if it had all been for nothing.

  She should have been distraught, but she wasn’t – because despite herself, she felt a burst of happiness surge through her body.

  She opened the door to the living room. Jane was lying on the sofa, eyes closed, mumbling incoherently to herself. The baby had clearly soiled herself and looked very uncomfortable and unhappy, but when she sensed Grace’s presence, she looked up and gurgled.

  It didn’t seem fair that this baby, who was being so badly neglected, was still alive, while her own baby, who’d had all the care in the world lavished on her, was dead, Grace thought.

  She reached into the cot and lifted the baby out. ‘Hush, hush, sweet one,’ she cooed. ‘Hush, my little Julia. I’m your mummy now.’

  Jane stirred on the couch, then looked blearily up.

  Grace could see now that she’d been pretty badly beaten up, but that didn’t sway her an inch, because if Jane had been beaten up, she’d probably done something to deserve it, and that was further evidence that she was not a suitable mother for this baby.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Jane slurred.

  ‘It’s very stuffy in here. I’m just taking the baby out for a breath of fresh air,’ Grace said.

  She was doing her best to sound
innocent, but there was an edge to her words that warned Jane something was wrong.

  Jane struggled to her feet. ‘She’s … she’s my baby,’ she said. ‘If she needs taking outside, I’ll take her.’

  ‘Look at yourself,’ Grace said, with a contempt that was ugly and self-justifying. ‘You’re in no state to handle her. You can’t even manage to handle yourself.’

  ‘She’s my baby. Give her to me,’ Jane insisted, lurching forward.

  Grace cradled the baby on her right arm.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll drop her,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you sit down again, and then I’ll hand her to you.’

  ‘No,’ Jane said. ‘I want her now.’

  She took a shaky step forward, and Grace punched her in the face with her left fist.

  Jane tottered. There was a look of deep hurt on her face, but it was more the hurt of betrayal than it was of pain. She made one last attempt to maintain her balance, then toppled over backwards.

  Grace looked down at her. She might die there, she thought – but that didn’t matter. Only the baby mattered.

  She rushed down the hallway, opened the front door, and stepped outside. She knew she had to get away before the madness in her faded and she was forced to recognize her duty to her kimpum.

  She did not dare run too fast with the baby in her arms, but she made what progress she could, side stepping the rubble which had lain there since the dark days of 1940, choosing a clear path whenever one was available.

  She had gone maybe three hundred yards when she heard the sound of the rocket engine. She looked up, and saw the V-1 approaching, then whirled around and saw Jane staggering groggily through the door of the house.

  And then, suddenly, the flying bomb was making no noise at all.

  When you can’t hear it, that means you’re as good as dead, she thought in a panic.

  She was going to lose two babies in one day! And it wasn’t fair!

  There was a sudden loud explosion, and she felt the ground beneath her feet vibrate.

  She looked back again. Bombay Terrace was enveloped in a huge cloud of dust. The slates from the roofs surfed through the air, like flat stones skimmed across a pond. Chunks of brickwork rose high above house level and then, (as if they were part of some aerial ballet) delicately arced before tumbling back to the ground.