by Ruth Heald
It’s not until after midnight that I give in to the temptation and go downstairs and open a bottle of wine. I need it to help me sleep. If I don’t sleep I’ll be too exhausted to look after Olivia properly tomorrow. I don’t mean to polish off the bottle, but I can’t stop myself. When I’ve finished the last dregs, I put my head in my hands and sob.
I’m losing control.
* * *
I wake up covered in sweat. I feel sick. I can taste the sourness of stale alcohol on my tongue. I roll over in bed and my head pounds.
Switching the light on, I look round the room. I’m at home. I’m OK.
The baby monitor is flashing, the blue lights reflecting off the white ceiling. Something must have set it off.
I stare at it, but it makes no sound.
Olivia must have woken up and gone back to sleep. I turn the pillow over and try to get comfy. I’m in a cold sweat and I feel shaky. I need more sleep before the alcohol wears off and I feel stable enough to pick my daughter up. It will be even longer before the wine leaves my milk and I can breastfeed her.
Outside, the foxes scream and screech, dividing and conquering our back garden. Maybe they set off the baby monitor.
‘Rock-a-bye baby on the tree top.’
I freeze.
The voice sings softly through the monitor.
‘When the wind blows the cradle will rock.’
Am I still asleep?
‘When the bough breaks the cradle will fall.’
The voice is ghostly, almost a whisper.
The lights of the baby monitor flicker and then go off. The air is still. Even the foxes are silent.
I stumble out of bed, knocking my bedside light onto the floor with a crash.
I race down the corridor to Olivia’s room.
She’s lying in the cot, next to her toy bunny, fast asleep. The room is still. I watch my daughter’s chest moving up and down.
I release my breath.
Then I notice the rocking chair, where I sit to breastfeed Olivia when she wakes in the night. It’s moving.
There’s no breeze in the room. No reason for the chair to be rocking back and forth.
I turn to the baby monitor beside the cot. It’s been turned off.
It was on a few minutes ago. In my bedroom the blue lights had been flashing. I heard the voice singing softly through it. Didn’t I?
Someone has turned it off in the last few minutes. Someone has been here, in my baby’s room. I have to stifle my scream.
I gather Olivia up in my arms.
We are not alone. There’s someone in the house with us. I hear the stair creak and I jump. Olivia starts to cry.
I daren’t go downstairs. I don’t want to confront whoever’s down there. I’m too woozy, too confused.
All that matters is that Olivia’s safe and that I’m with her. I take her into my room and hold her in the bed with me. We breathe as one, as I lie awake, my ears pricked up, terrified of who might be lurking in the dark shadows of the house.
They come in noisily. Trampling boots and loud ringtones.
They don’t know I’m here, until they enter my daughter’s bedroom and I’m pointed out.
‘Is she dead?’
Their hands are on my neck, feeling for my pulse.
‘No. She’s alive.’
‘God, I didn’t even realise that was a woman.’ A younger voice, high pitched.
‘Ambulance on its way.’
I want to ask them about my daughter, but the words come out slurred and incomprehensible.
‘Don’t try to speak, love. Just rest. The ambulance will be here soon.’
But I need to speak. I need to tell them to find my daughter.
Thirty-Seven
The feeling from last night hasn’t left me. I’m convinced there was someone in the house. I know I heard them singing softly through the baby monitor. I’m sure of it. The voice had sounded half-familiar, but I still can’t think why, or who it might have been. Would it have been Ruth? Or Sarah? In the cold light of day, the details that replay in my mind are hazy and dream-like. But as much as I’d like to believe it was a dream, I’m certain there was someone in the cottage.
I can’t stay here a moment longer. I must get out. If I have to keep walking and walking forever, I don’t care. I just need to escape. I pile Olivia into her buggy in her sleep-suit and coat and leave the cottage, letting the door slam behind me. I need to get away. From Matt. From Ruth. From Sarah. From a cottage that’s a shrine to a dead woman. My head is full as I walk down the street. I push the pram as fast as I can, twisting it this way and that to avoid the dawdling shoppers on the pavement.
I wonder when Emma’s kitchen will be finished, when I might be able to move in with her. Or if I could find work and move far away, back to London. But neither of these are short-term options. I think about asking Miriam to take me in. Just for a few days, until we get ourselves settled. But our relationship is still rocky. Despite the help she’s given me recently, I don’t think our friendship stretches that far.
I need to get out for my own sanity. This morning I found myself going through Pamela’s cupboard of pills. There are more than enough to kill me. I hate myself for it, but I’m starting to feel the way I felt before, when I ended up standing on the edge of a multi-storey car park in London, intending to take my own life.
Olivia starts screaming from her buggy. She’ll want feeding again and I’ll need to find a place to do it. A café maybe. I could stop and get a coffee, rest for a while. But I don’t want to. I don’t want to be alone with the stillness, alone with my thoughts. I need to keep walking, to keep moving.
‘Look right, look left, look right again.’ I repeat the mantra my own mother taught me, as I go to cross the side road. I wish she was beside me now. I need her more than ever.
Concentrate, I think. Concentrate. My mind is so crowded that I can hardly see in front of me. A car I didn’t see zooms past.
‘Look right, look left, look right again.’ I repeat the process, focusing on the road, making myself look for cars before I step out.
When I get to the other side Olivia’s screams are the only sound in an otherwise peaceful countryside scene. Breathe. A bus careers down the main road at speed. I grip the pram tighter as images flash through my head. The bus hitting the pram and skidding. The pram concertinaing in on itself, Olivia inside, her small body trapped within the frame and the frame trapped under the huge wheel, as the bus continues to travel further down the road before it comes to a stop.
I need to go back to the doctor. I need help. I need the counselling now. Or antidepressants. Something. Otherwise, I am spinning out of control, speeding towards the end.
I wonder if I should ring someone. But who do I have? Emma has already told me she’s busy today and there’s no one else. No husband. No mother. No family. I want someone to tell me everything will be all right. That I’ll be all right. I consider ringing one of the helplines on the leaflet the doctor gave me. Just to have someone to talk to, someone to listen. But I can’t bring myself to. I can’t. I can’t trust anyone. I have to look after myself.
We get to the park and Olivia is still screaming. I try and block it out and focus on the morning sunlight shining through the branches of the trees, the fresh, crisp air. Another mother smiles at me sympathetically as she pushes her own screaming toddler in his buggy. I keep my head bowed and find a bench to sit on. I adjust my top and put Olivia to my breast.
I have a water bottle filled with vodka in my bag. I know I shouldn’t, but I only have it just in case. For emergencies. But now it’s calling me. I take it out and have a few sips. The thrill of the burn on the back of my throat hits me and I’m content for half a second, before I’m taken over by shame and regret. I take another few sips. At least if anyone sees me, it doesn’t look as if I’m drinking.
Olivia pulls away from my breast, and spits up. I put her over my shoulder and burp her, before I remember that I should have put a mus
lin cloth over my coat to protect it. I take her off my shoulder and crane my neck to see the back of my coat. A white splatter of baby sick runs down the green fabric. Holding Olivia in one arm, I root around in my bag until I find the baby wipes. I twist my arm round and dab at the shoulder of my coat.
As an afterthought I wipe round Olivia’s mouth.
I don’t know what to do with myself. There are no playgroups on today. Not that I’ve been to any before anyway. I spend all my time with Emma, the only friend I’ve got around here.
With Olivia back in the buggy, I walk to clear my head, but I’m foggy and confused from lack of sleep. I must start looking for jobs. I need to get away from Matt and Ruth and Sarah. Any work will do. Freelance work for the papers would be a good start. If I have to share custody with Matt, then I might have time to do it from home. And then I can save enough money to return to London.
After four circuits of the park, Olivia is asleep. There is nowhere to go but home.
* * *
Olivia doesn’t wake as I lift the buggy carefully over the threshold and into the cottage, putting it down gently.
Silence.
I shut the door and hold my breath as the latch clicks.
Olivia shifts slightly in the buggy, but remains asleep.
I go into the living room to look for my laptop. I should email more editors to ask about freelance work.
The clock on the mantelpiece strikes three. It always makes me jump. I must take the battery out.
Then there’s another noise. The stairs creaking.
My imagination.
But no. It’s not. Someone is coming down the stairs.
Slowly.
Creak.
Pause.
Another creak.
They are placing one foot down at a time, carefully, deliberately.
I can hear my own breathing and I still it, holding my breath.
They must know I’m here. They’ll have heard me come in.
Now the footsteps have stopped.
They’re at the bottom of the stairs.
I look desperately round the room for something to grab, but there are only Olivia’s toys, scattered. Pamela’s walking sticks are long gone.
Seconds pass.
The silence is so loud that I can hear my own watch, ticking half a beat behind the clock on the mantelpiece.
And then there’s a knock on the living room door.
‘Claire?’
I remain still. This feels like a test, a game.
The door swings open.
And there’s Emma, smiling uncertainly.
‘Emma!’ I say. Confusion quickly follows the relief. ‘What are you doing here?’
She pauses, looking uncomfortable.
‘I don’t know how to tell you this, Claire.’
‘Tell me what?’
‘Let’s sit down,’ Emma indicates my sofa as if this is her house.
I sit, and she perches down beside me, and turns to me.
‘I’ve been worried about you.’
‘Oh,’ I say. The vodka clouds my brain and I find it hard to digest her words. A part of me is relieved, glad someone cares. If only there was a way out of how I’m feeling.
‘Matt told me about your problems with alcohol. I wish I’d known. I could have helped you.’ She puts her arm round me.
Matt. Again. He’s trying to control me and now he’s got to my best friend, shared my secrets.
‘I’m OK.’
‘We’re both worried about Olivia.’
‘I didn’t realise you were friends with Matt.’
‘I’m not. But ever since you disappeared on the night out in London, we’ve both been concerned. And when Matt told me you were an alcoholic, I didn’t want to believe it. But when I thought about it, it made sense. You were off your head at the club.’
‘We were letting our hair down.’
Emma looks at me sympathetically. ‘I think you need help, Claire. With your postnatal depression and everything else going on, you’re not coping.’
‘You don’t need to worry,’ I say. But my words are empty. I’m not even sure I can look after Olivia any more.
‘I think I do.’
‘What are you doing in my house? Did Matt send you?’
‘Well, yeah. He wanted to see if you were OK. You wouldn’t let him in. He asked me to check how you were coping, to see if you’d stocked up on alcohol again after he left. He lent me his key.’ I stare at her, disbelieving. I feel totally betrayed. I wish I could take the vodka out of my bag and knock it back to numb my pain, but I know I can’t. That would only prove Matt right.
‘You shouldn’t trust Matt,’ I say.
‘I know he cheated on you, but he’s doing this in your best interest.’
‘It’s worse than cheating.’
‘What?’
I haven’t told Emma the reason I chucked Matt out for the second time. But I need to tell her now.
‘Matt confessed to a murder,’ I say.
‘What?’ She looks bemused.
‘He pushed Sarah’s sister. She fell from a hayloft. And eventually died.’
‘I didn’t know Sarah had a sister… And why hasn’t he been arrested?’ Confusion etches Emma’s face.
‘It was years ago. Before we met. But the case was never solved. And he was the main suspect.’
‘Claire…’ Emma strokes my arm. I have a bad feeling that she doesn’t believe me.
‘It’s the truth,’ I say urgently. ‘It’s why we’re not together any more.’
‘Claire, I hate to say this, and I know it’s going to hurt you, but I’m only saying it because I care.’
‘What?’
‘I think you’re confused. Matt told me you were paranoid, that you thought you were being watched in the cottage, that you had vivid nightmares. And sometimes when we’re that confused and down, then we imagine things, or forget things. We think things are true that aren’t true. Especially when we’ve been drinking.’
‘I’m telling the truth!’ I don’t know how to convince her, how to make her believe me.
There’s no one left on my side. My closest friend has betrayed me.
She touches my arm. ‘I’m sorry it’s come to this. But you need help, Claire.’
She’s right – I do need help. I want it so badly. I’m not coping but I can’t confide in Emma. She’ll just tell Matt. And Matt and Ruth will tell social services. Then I’ll be left all alone, Olivia torn away from me.
‘I’m OK,’ I insist. When my tears start to fall, she puts her arms round me and holds me, then goes to make me a cup of tea.
She places a mug down in front of me and we sit in silence, sipping our drinks.
Then she looks at her watch.
‘Matt will be here in a minute,’ she says.
‘I don’t want to see him.’ But my words come out in a whisper. I’ve lost my energy. I’ve lost myself.
‘We all want to help you,’ Emma says. ‘Just speak to him.’
I’m aware of the sounds first. The beeping of a machine. Idle chatter.
For a moment I wonder if I’m asleep, dreaming of somewhere other than the confines of my house.
Then the panic overwhelms me, taking over every ounce of my being.
Something awful has happened.
Where is my daughter?
A staccato of images I can’t make sense of: A packed case. A key in a lock. Footsteps. My daughter standing in the doorway, her eyes meeting mine.
Where is she?
I open my eyes, see the blue curtain, the row of beds. I’m in hospital.
The fear takes my breath away.
Where is my daughter?
Thirty-Eight
Consciousness rises in me as if I’m struggling out of a deep, black hole. I can smell sour milk, antiseptic and sweat. My sweat. I’m exhausted. I ease open my eyes and look around, expecting to see Olivia.
It hurts to turn my head.
Olivia’s not her
e.
Where am I?
My eyes pound, pain radiating from the sockets, as if they might burst. The fluorescent strip light above me shines brightly. A blue curtain surrounds my bed. The bed itself is propped up at an angle, with metal bars to stop me rolling out.
Realisation hits me. I’m in hospital.
I must have been in an accident.
I move each limb in turn, checking for injuries, and then reach down under the sheets and run my hands over my body. No pain. No bandages.
What’s happened to me? I feel a flash of fear. What if something’s happened to Olivia?
‘Hello?’ I call out tentatively. There’s no response.
I jump down from the bed, wincing in anticipation as my feet hit the ground. But there’s no pain in my body. Only my head pounds.
There’s a small metal set of drawers next to my bed and I open each one in turn, searching for my phone. They’re all empty.
I draw back the curtain. Eyes from the bed opposite meet mine and I jump.
I find my voice. ‘Where’s my daughter?’ I ask them. ‘Where is she?’
But they just stare.
I scan the room for medical staff. No one.
I push open the double doors and step out of the ward. Rows of doors on each side of a corridor. Another ward. And another one. I go the other way. I find a nurses’ station.
I lean over the desk and interrupt the bleary-eyed man as he picks up the phone.
‘Excuse me – do you know where my daughter is?’
The man looks me up and down and sighs. He puts his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone.
‘Your daughter?’
‘Yes, Olivia Hughes. Did she come in with me?’
‘Which ward are you on?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Your name?’
‘Claire. Claire Hughes.’
He drags his mouse lethargically across the mouse mat.
‘And your daughter’s name?’
‘Olivia. Olivia Hughes.’ I repeat the name quickly. He clicks the mouse a few times and his eyes scan from side to side.
