Dead Head

by C. J. Skuse

  ‘Don’t you put Pete McMahon on me.’

  ‘That’s not what I’m saying. It’s about me. It’s in me forever, has been since, I don’t know, Priory Gardens, maybe since birth. Maybe it was Dad taking me to watch him beat up those guys on the register or Grandad molesting you. Or Julia cutting off my hair and burning holes in my school uniform with the Bunsen Burner when the teacher’s back was turned because a mute wouldn’t tell anyone. Maybe it’s all of those things. Maybe it’s none of those things. Maybe it’s fucking Maybelline.’

  ‘She looked like you. The woman… the woman I killed. She had your hair, your eyes. She’d even had a nose job. I mean, how insane is that?’

  ‘Whereas I was already insane and had surgery to not look like me.’

  ‘I wanted her gone. I wanted you gone.’

  ‘But you still aren’t sleeping. Or working. Or happy.’

  ‘No. Not at the moment.’ She looks at my hand. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’

  She puffs sharp air like a whale coming up out of the ocean. I see the flicker of a smile before it vanishes. There’s a noise outside and we both look to the window to see a van pulling away from the mailbox at the end of her drive. ‘Probably more fan mail for you,’ she says.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She leads me outside to the garage, lifts the door and shows me over to a pile of boxes labelled RL gifting and a date. A whole pile of them. She opens the first, dated last year.

  ‘Presents. From your fan club.’

  ‘What?’

  She shows me the edited highlights of what she’s been sent – Sylvanians, letters containing everything from death threats to marriage proposals, teddy bears, friendship bracelets, packets of Maoams, boxes of Pop Tarts, and a picnic hamper containing everything I’d need for life on the run – wet wipes, socks, charger, bottles of water – basically a festival survival kit.

  ‘I’d be touched if it wasn’t so pathetic. Why have you kept all this?’

  ‘Police told me to. I started off by reporting it every time I was sent something but there was so much and every day I’d get something new so they asked me to keep hold of it, label it and store it for them. Once they’d guaranteed none of it was from you.’

  ‘They thought I might send fan mail to myself?’

  ‘They were covering every eventuality, I guess.’

  One of boxes is labelled with two large red letters – KC. She lifts it down from the top shelf and brings it over, standing it on the floor between us.

  ‘This is from your head cheerleader – Kacey Carmichael.’

  ‘The woman you killed?’

  ‘Yeah. Your doppelganger.’

  I can’t help but laugh. The box contains countless letters and parcels of books, teddies holding hearts, more Sylvanians and handmade soaps.

  ‘That’s what she did, made soap.’

  ‘From the ass fat of rich widows by the smell of it.’ I closed the box.

  ‘It’s not funny. They’re obsessed. They dress like you, talk like you. Travel far and wide to visit your murder sites. Two of your fans were actually sectioned, did you know that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘One of them was prank-calling Dean Bishopston’s widow, saying she was you. She told her how her husband’s last words were about his kids.’

  ‘No, they weren’t.’

  ‘Whatever. But that’s the kind of sicko fan you have. In some ways they’re worse than you. They love you. They want to meet you, marry you, be you. Some of them actually want you to kill them.’

  ‘Then they should be careful what they wish for, shouldn’t they?’

  When we’re back in the hallway I remember my gift.

  ‘Oh, I forgot, I brought a present,’ I say, looking around for the box, but it’s not there.

  ‘I moved your things when the cop came,’ she says, striding into the lounge to retrieve them. She shows me where they are behind one of the chairs. I pick up the box and hand it to her.

  She frowns. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Well, it’s for the kids.’

  ‘Why’s the bottom damp?’

  ‘Just open it. It’s not a bomb.’

  She still isn’t sure around me, probably remembering the end of Se7en and thinking I’ve done a Paltrow on her, but she lifts the flaps of the box anyway and peeks down inside.

  ‘Oh my God.’ She scrabbles around gently. ‘A tortoise?’ she says.

  ‘Two tortoises. They’re babies. I read on Mab’s blog how her pets kept on dying so I got to thinking, What will outlive her so she won’t have to be sad again? And I knew someone once who said they had a tortoise for, like, sixty years or something so I knew they’d make great pets. And I had this layover in New York and I passed this pet shop and… voila.’

  She stares down into the box and shakes her head.

  ‘They don’t take much looking after. I think they’re hibernating at the moment. Guy at the pet shop didn’t seem sure. I put a little bowl of water in there in case and a head of lettuce. They hibernate for ages apparently.’

  She looks up at me. ‘You never forgot one of their birthdays.’

  ‘Why would I?’ I stare up at the picture of them dressed as pumpkins.

  ‘Do you want a picture of them? To keep?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  She leads me back into the kitchen and points to the fridge where there were an assortment of lists and photos and children’s drawings. There’s a photo of Ashton holding a football trophy.

  ‘He’s got Cody’s grin.’

  ‘Yeah, he does.’

  ‘Is there a way back for you two? You still love him.’

  ‘Yeah, of course but—’

  ‘If you love him, that’s enough. Put yourselves back together.’

  ‘For their sakes,’ she says.

  ‘No, for yours.’

  She takes down two photos – the football one and one of Mabli on a small horse. She hands them to me. ‘Thanks.’

  I look back towards the fridge. Ashton on his bike. Mabli and her (now dead) ginger cat. A shopping list, a school flyer for a Christmas fair, and a picture of a child I don’t recognise; it’s not Ashton or Mabli. A different little girl, a toddler, sitting in a small wooden chair before a Christmas tree and a mountain of presents, wearing a tartan dress. Big hazel eyes, hair like soft caramel, a one-toothed smile beaming enough to light up the room.

  ‘Who’s that?’ I ask, as the picture pulls me towards it.

  ‘Oh God,’ says Seren. ‘Yeah, uh… that’s Ivy.’

  ‘My Ivy?’ I take the picture down off the fridge and stare at it. The last time I saw her, she was a blob in an incubator, eyes like tiny black lines in her face. Now they’re wide open, the colour of tiger’s eyes. Like AJ’s eyes. She’s the most beautiful child I’ve ever seen. But she would be – she’s mine.

  ‘I totally forgot that was there, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Why have you got this?’

  Seren clears her throat. ‘Claudia sent it to me. We’ve kept in touch.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She friended me on Facebook a few months ago. Started sending me progress reports on Ivy. That picture came with her Christmas card.’

  ‘She’s got a tooth,’ I smiled.

  ‘Claudia wants me to be in Ivy’s life, if only from a distance. She looks so much like you. Well, like you used to look at that age.’

  ‘Does she?’

  ‘Yeah. Mirror image. Can’t you see it?’ I shake my head. ‘What do you feel when you look at her?’

  ‘Sick.’ I can’t take my eyes from the picture. ‘Sad.’

  ‘Is your heart thumping?’ I nod. ‘Do you want to cry?’ I nod again, unable to see the picture through water. ‘Do you want to touch her face, smell her hair, give her a hug? That’s how I feel when I look at my children. They don’t want hugs so much anymore but I’ll never stop loving them, wanting them near me. I even ache when they
go to school some days. That’s love.’

  I wipe my cheek and hand her back the photo but she hands it back to me. ‘No, you can keep that one too, if you want. You did the right thing, giving her to Claudia. She loves the bones of that baby. Ivy wants for nothing.’

  I can’t stop staring at her. ‘Claudia married again. Are they happy?’

  ‘What time’s your flight?’

  ‘I have a few hours. It’s a direct one at least. I had to get the bus here from New York because of the tortoises. What’s this Mitch like?’

  ‘The kids will be thrilled with their tortoises, thank you. Mabs will probably want to call them Jimin and J-Hope. Ash prefers the Yankees—’

  ‘Seren, you didn’t answer me. Is Claudia happy? Is Mitch good to her?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘They’re very happy. I’ll see you out.’

  She’s holding something back, I know she is. I stand in the porch facing her, like I did when I first arrived, waiting for it. She grabs something from a short fumble through the drawer in the hallway table and hands it to me.

  It’s a picture of two little girls in a swimming pool. Us in Madeira on the pool noodles. Sun shining. Bobby Fairly chatting to Dad in the background. ‘I always liked this one too.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Mum did love you, you know. She… didn’t know how to help you. Nor did Dad. Nor do I.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I can help myself now.’

  She wants to say something else, I know she does, and I wait for it.

  ‘Ivy is fine, OK? You don’t need to worry about her…’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Claudia’s sick. That’s why she got in touch with me. She has breast cancer. They’ve caught it early but she’s scared. If something happens to her, Mitch is going to adopt Ivy.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I didn’t want to tell you. You’re settled and happy and I’m so pleased.’

  ‘Why would Mitch getting Ivy be a bad thing?’

  ‘It wouldn’t,’ she says, guardedly.

  ‘You said Claudia was scared.’

  ‘Well, she’s asked me to take Ivy if the worst happens. She’s going to put it all in writing. It’s just belt and braces. That woman who arranged her adoption, Heather—’

  ‘—Wherryman?’

  ‘Yeah, she’s going to help her.’

  I can’t speak. I’m losing myself. Rhiannon’s rising up from her resting place, like a zombie from the dead. ‘Why doesn’t she want Mitch to have her?’

  ‘Well, Mitch isn’t really a… dad type.’

  ‘What do you mean, “a dad type”? Why marry him then?’

  ‘I don’t know, she fell in love, I guess.’

  My heart thumps in my ears. ‘What about Claudia’s sister in Australia, AJ’s mum?’

  ‘Claudia fell out with her when they heard about AJ’s death and she kept them from seeing Ivy. It escalated and they lost visitation rights.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I don’t really know. But Mitch was supposed to be the glue that kept them together. Claudia’s desperate to have the perfect family, and they almost have it. They’ve got this wonderful house in London, in a nice area, Claudia got a terrific job at this publishers but Mitch is a little—’

  ‘WHAT?’

  ‘A bit of a fly-by-night. Unpredictable. He was married before and he did some jail time but he’s a reformed character. He’s turned himself around—’

  ‘—my baby is in a house with an ex-jailbird? What did he do?’

  ‘Well, his sentence was commuted to two years from six—’

  ‘—WHAT. DID. HE. DO?’

  ‘It was a long time ago, twenty years or more. He was a young teacher. And he was… having a relationship… with a student. Claudia knew about it, well, she didn’t know how old the girl was—’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Old enough to know better if you ask me but—’

  ‘HOW. FUCKING. OLD?’

  ‘Thirteen.’

  ‘THIRTEEN?’

  ‘But this was years ago, and the girl admitted to leading him on—’

  ‘THIRTEEN?’

  ‘It’s history, Rhiannon, ancient history—’

  ‘IT’S RAPE.’

  ‘I’m sure he’s—’

  ‘—you’re sure what, you’re sure he doesn’t have a taste for pre-pubescent girls anymore? Jesus Christ, Seren. WHY DID YOU TELL ME? How can I leave her with him now I know that?’

  ‘I will do my best to help Claudia, I promise you. You don’t need to get involved with this. Listen to me – you have to stay away from her. For her sake. For mine. I could go to jail if they find out you’re still alive.’

  ‘Ivy’s my daughter. And she is living with a paedophile.’

  ‘Calm down, Rhiannon, please.’

  ‘Calm down? Calm down?! You tell me my kid is living with a convicted sex offender and you don’t think I’m gonna flip my fucking wig?’

  ‘You gave her up,’ she said, pleadingly. ‘She’s not your responsibility anymore. And Claudia is an amazing mom, I promise you. And she loves Mitch but— oh God, I shouldn’t have told you this. Why did I open my fat mouth?’

  ‘Maybe on some level you wanted me to know.’

  ‘Oh shit. No, no, Ivy wants for nothing. While Claudia is alive, Ivy is fine.’

  ‘Claudia is dying.’

  ‘We’ll figure it out, OK? I give you my word. I will make sure Claudia has support, as much as she needs. As far as the authorities are concerned, you are out of the picture now. You’re free to live your life. Stay away from this, Rhiannon. Please. Please?’

  Thursday, 23 January – Burlington International Airport, Vermont

  Journalist of the moment Guy Majors who called me a ‘depraved, evil maniac who needs burying in a lead-lined coffin’

  People with fully workable legs who stand still on travelators

  People who huff and puff about taking shoes and belts off at the cattle grid, I mean, security gates. Get a fucking mooooove on

  People who spread viruses and cause planes to be delayed

  Mitchell Aaron Silverton

  I google Mitch Silverton in the cab on the way to the airport. Everything Seren said was true. I find a picture – blond hair, dazzling blue eyes, bit of stubble, thin mouth, broad shoulders, sharp dresser, ever so slightly rapey about the eye.

  There’s an article from five years ago about the girl he would take home to his place on a lunchtime. A maths whizz without many friends. How she adored him. How he made her feel loved when her dad walked out. How he’d groomed her over many months. How he had hit her only ‘once when he’d lost his temper’.

  The rage crackles inside me – the pain intensifies, like I’m being cut open at the breastbone. Storm clouds gather in my head. I can’t catch my breath. He’s in the same house as Ivy.

  A message pings through on my phone from Rafael when I’m in the line for security. I need to hear his voice. I call him back as I’m redressing on the other side. I don’t think it even rings before he picks up.

  ‘Baby? Oh, thank God you’re OK.’

  His voice is the soother I need. Like ice cream on a chilli burn. ‘Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry, the meeting went on longer than I expected and after they wanted to take me out to lunch to discuss a sequel. I’ve missed you so much.’

  ‘Oh baby, me too. I can’t wait to see you. So you think they’re gonna publish you? If they’re talking about a sequel already, they must want you.’

  ‘Yeah, I think so. They said they will probably change the title to The Alibi Girl or something. “Girl” is a more sellable word than “clock”, apparently.’

  ‘Ahh well, that’s OK isn’t it? Not a deal breaker?’

  ‘No, I guess not.’

  ‘You don’t sound sure. Had something happened?’

  ‘No, I’m OK.’

  ‘What’s up? Talk to me.’

  ‘No, I’m just tired, honestly. And my hand aches a bit.’

&
nbsp; ‘You been doing your exercises?’

  ‘I forgot. I’ll do some on the plane. Do you want any Toblerone?’

  ‘No, I’m all set,’ he laughs.

  ‘Is everyone OK there? How’s Liv?’

  ‘She’s… OK,’ he said. A hesitation between the noun and the adjective – I was picking up on this more and more where Liv was concerned.

  ‘Raf? What’s happened?’ My skin prickles. Heat all up my neck.

  ‘I got back from the restaurant and she was talking to Mom in the kitchen. Wouldn’t let me see her face – she says she “fell over”. She won’t come out of the bathroom.’

  The chilli burn in my heart returns. ‘Get your dad and your brother and your uncles, grab your blow torches and go round to that fucker’s house and end it for her.’

  ‘She wouldn’t thank us.’

  ‘I’ll fucking do it then.’ I can’t keep the fork out of my tongue, the hiss out of my spit. Can’t keep my chest cool or my legs still – they’re jiggling about like I’m about to run.

  ‘We miss you.’

  His brother calls out, ‘He’s pining for you, Ophelia!’

  I laugh, despite myself. ‘I miss you all too. More than you know.’ I grab my things, tucking my passport into my coat. ‘I’ve got a direct flight this time. I’m walking to the gate now. It’s so busy – a lot of flights from China have been cancelled so there’s a backlog.’

  ‘Yeah, I saw something about that on CNN. Some virus going around in the Far East.’

  ‘I’m sure it won’t affect us. Look, don’t worry about picking me up from the airport. Traffic will be a nightmare.’

  ‘I don’t want you taking the bus home by yourself.’

  ‘You don’t need to worry about me.’

  ‘I know but I do. You sound out of breath.’

  ‘I’ve been running,’ I say. I stare up at the Departures boards. All the gates are open. My Delta flight to San Diego is Preparing. People are getting in line. The flight at the next gate is going to London – it’s carrying a two-hour delay. The gnawing in my chest is never going to go. It’s with me forever, like she is. Knotted up, tangled amongst my vital organs like bindweed. Like ivy.

  ‘What time do you think you’ll be home?’