22nd November 2019
Night
‘I heard you were back,’ she said, her voice deep and harsh.
Hearing her voice again after so long made me want to shiver. News travelled fast; it had to have been Derrick. Or maybe Dad expressed more interest than I thought. ‘Yes,’ I replied quietly.
‘Because Jamie has gone missing?’
‘Yes.’
Reaching in her pocket, she took out and lit a cigarette. ‘Want one?’
‘No, thank you, I don’t smoke.’
There was nothing in the way I replied that was funny, but she smiled at me, like she knew something I didn’t.
‘How are you, Brenda?’ I asked, filling the unbearable silence. When we were young, Brenda terrified me. It seemed time didn’t change everything.
‘Oh, you know,’ she said, taking a drag on her cigarette, the glowing tip intensifying, throwing ugly angles on her face. ‘Come to say hello to my daughter?’
‘Yes,’ I replied quietly.
‘It’s a bit weird you’re here in the middle of the night, isn’t it?’
‘I guess so, I’ve just got back. Wanted to pay my respects.’
‘Pay your respects.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, that’s nice,’ she said abrasively, taking another drag on her cigarette, her eyes catching in the glow. Eyes that were hard, unblinking. ‘And then are you going to see your father or run away again?’
I didn’t like her tone, but she intimidated me, so I didn’t challenge it. ‘Yes, I’m staying with Dad for the night.’
‘That surprises me, you’re just like your mother.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘We don’t abandon our own, Neve,’ she said, her eyes steely. She waited for me to reply, but the words caught in my throat. Smiling, she took another drag on her cigarette, looking from me to Chloe’s grave before exhaling. ‘I often come here at night. It’s more peaceful. I get to talk to my daughter without any interruptions.’
‘Interruptions?’ I asked, regretting it instantly.
‘I know some folk here think I had something to do with her disappearance.’ She smiled, bitterly. Taking one more drag she stubbed it out on the top of Chloe’s grave. I recoiled in shock.
‘Well, it’s not like she’s actually buried here, is it, Neve? I’ll leave you to pay your respects,’ she said, turning and walking away.
I watched her scramble over the gate and head back towards the main road. Only once she was out of sight did I let out the breath I had been holding. I didn’t want to be here anymore, so without speaking to Chloe, I walked away. My eye kept being drawn to the window in the row of houses that I knew was Brenda’s bedroom. It was dark, but for a moment, I thought I saw a curtain move, like someone was peering from behind it. It was impossible, there was no way Brenda had managed to get back that quickly. This place… it was already doing funny things to me.
I climbed the fence, almost breaking into a jog as I headed further away from Chloe’s house, the pub, the mine behind them all. After what felt like the longest time, I was standing at the bottom of Forest Road. Up the steep hill, beyond where my eye could see, was Dad’s house. I’d not walked up this hill for over twenty years, the two visits since my childhood I brought a car both times, quickly in, quickly out. When I was a teenager the walk made my calves ache, but it was now so hard I needed to stop on three occasions to ease the burn in my muscles. With laboured breathing I eventually made it to the top of the approach to Dad’s door. Hesitating before stepping onto the front path, I looked at my watch, my eyes struggling to focus on the hands. It was only just after ten thirty, and yet the house was dark. I gingerly made my way to the door, after taking a deep breath.
I rang the doorbell and waited. No lights came on, no movement within, and for a while I thought he was out. But, through a gap in the living-room curtain I could make out the eerie glow of a television screen. Pressing my nose into the glass I cupped my hands and could just about make out the shape of his arm on the chair in front of the TV. I knocked on the window, but he didn’t respond. I knocked louder, longer, and still nothing. A wave of heat flooded into my face – the same feeling I’d had once many, many years ago – and I rushed back to the front door, kicking over a potted plant beside it. I slammed the knocker down three times, loud enough to wake the neighbours, and still nothing. Grabbing the door handle, I turned it, I expecting it to be locked; Dad was a real stickler for locking and bolting the front door like he was sure we would be burgled if he didn’t. To my surprise, it opened, and I knew something was wrong.
I held my breath and moved towards the lounge. From the doorway I could just see the top of his bald head above the high-backed chair he sat in. I listened but I couldn’t hear him breathing. My hands began to shake, and I forced myself to exhale the breath I’d held at the front door, forced myself to take in another. Stepping around the chair I looked at him, his face longer than the last time I saw him, his skin ashen. I shook his shoulder gently and jumped when he sat bolt upright.
‘What, what is it?’ he slurred, getting to his feet and looking around at everything but me stood in front of him.
‘Dad, it’s me,’ I said, startled but relieved.
‘What time is it?’ he said, squinting towards a wall where we once had a clock that was no longer there.
‘It’s late, Dad.’
He looked at me then, and I didn’t see any happiness in his eyes. I hoped he would be delighted his little girl was home. But there was nothing.
‘You woke me.’
‘I’m sorry, Dad.’
‘Well, make yourself at home.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, sounding formal, unsure of how else to behave.
‘Good, good.’
He hesitated, and for a moment, we looked at each other like strangers. I wanted to know what he was thinking, as if I weren’t vulnerable enough already.
‘I’ve had a long drive, and I’m pretty tired, I’m gonna go up.’
‘Yes, it’s late. You should get some sleep.’
‘Shall I sleep in my old room?’
‘Yes, your room is your room.’
‘OK, I’ll see you in the morning?’
‘Yes. In the morning.’
‘Night, Dad.’
‘Bye, Neve.’
I hoped he would get up and hug me, stroke my arm, even ask for a bloody high five. But nothing. I headed for the stairs, taking my time as I ascended. In my peripheral vision, I watched him slump back into his armchair, like I wasn’t even there. When I reach the top, I flicked on a light, and waited for my eyes to adjust. Nothing had changed, nothing in twenty years. The wallpaper was the same, as were the light shades and doors. I could see into the bathroom; the loo and sink were still the same olive green that was all the rage in the Eighties.
I opened the door to the room that was once mine. The single bed was still tucked up against the wall furthest away from the window, on it an old suitcase and a few boxes. Dad had forgotten I was coming. Or he didn’t care. Likely both. The wardrobe still had the corners of posters that had remained stuck with sellotape long after the rest had been torn down, and through the window, the headstocks of the mine looked in. The wheels atop it once spun 24/7 looked like two beady eyes, always watching. I dragged the case and one of the boxes from the bed. The other box was too heavy for me to move on my own, not without creating a deafening bang when I dropped it on the floor. I pushed it against the wall and lay down, curling my body around it like I used to with Oliver when he slept with his back to me. I wanted nothing more than for the alcohol that made the room spin to take me into a booze-infused sleep. But it didn’t and laying there, wrapped around a huge box, I thought of Oliver, of Dad, of Jamie. I thought of Chloe. Turning to face the window I listened to the rain that had started back up, lash against the glass, while the eyes of the headstocks looked in.