I walk down the stairs on shaking legs, holding Grace tightly. She’s still frightening me with her limp stillness. At the bottom of the steps there’s an open space containing a desk and two doors on either side. There is no sign of dangerous work tools, or damp: this isn’t the place I’d always pictured.
It seems strange that there’re rooms in Mum’s house that I didn’t know existed, like I’ve wandered into an M. C. Escher drawing; everything feels surreal. Of course, that might be the fluoxetine withdrawal or the effects of the ketamine.
Behind me there’s a crash, as Mum hits the door with the spade. ‘Come out of there, Bridget.’ Mum yells. ‘Come out, right now!’
I run to the desk, wobbling under Grace’s weight, which seems to be increasing, wondering if there might be something in there that can help us. The top drawer is slightly open and there, lying on top of a pile of old letters, next to a jiffy bag of window keys, is my mobile phone. For a few beats I just stare at it, barely able to believe it’s here. Then I snatch it up.
There’s only two per cent battery but there are bars; I have a signal. I turn and sit on the desk, balancing Grace on my knee, and without even thinking, I call Tom.
As the phone starts to ring, I realise I should have rung Naomi Shaw. I pull the phone from my ear and check, but even just making the call has used up precious battery life: one per cent left.
With every trill, I’m terrified that the battery will die. ‘Answer it. Answer it.’ I chant. If Tom has received a copy of Mum’s letter he may not. I look at Grace, her face unnaturally pale under the fluorescent light. ‘God, baby, what if Daddy doesn’t answer?’
‘Bridget?’ His voice comes through muted, as though the cellar walls are muffling the signal.
‘Tom!’ I sob into the handset. ‘Tom, you have to listen.’
‘Where are you? The woman from Social Services says you haven’t called her – what’s—’
‘Shut up, Tom,’ I scream. ‘You have to help us. She’s out of control, she’s drugging me. Grace too. I’m not me, Tom, I’m Frances Dobson. You have to call the police, call Naomi Shaw. She’s … are you listening to me?’ I pull the phone from my ear. It’s dead. I don’t know how much he heard, if anything. ‘Shit!’
Grace opens her eyes, then they drop closed again as if they’re too heavy for her.
The cellar door shudders and wood splinters. I run for the nearest room.
The door has a simple slide bolt on the outside, as if it was used to keep someone or something in. It isn’t locked. I step inside and freeze.
I’ve never been in the cellar and yet I know this room. There’s a bed in one corner, a simple frame with a mattress, and there’s an old-fashioned projector facing one wall. It’s linked up to an old video player. I stagger across the room, head pounding. Outside Mum is still hammering on the door. I don’t know how long we have before it breaks.
I know I should be trying to get us out but it’s as if I’m hypnotised. I turn on the projector and press play.
A picture appears on the wall in front of me: it’s the kitchen upstairs but the walls are a different colour. This is an old film. After a moment, Mum walks into view. She is younger here, but just as well put together as always. She goes to the oven and removes a roast chicken. Then she turns and talks to someone out of shot. There is no sound, only picture. I find myself unable to tear my eyes away as she puts the roast on the side and starts to carve.
Over the roaring in my ears, I realise that I’m hearing a soft voice, a woman’s voice: Aunt Gillian. She is telling me about this wonderful woman, how delicious her cooking is, how clean she keeps her house, what an excellent wife she is, how much she wants me to come and live with her.
The movie keeps going and so does the insidious voice. My heart skips as Dad appears, sits down and eats. The voice doesn’t mention him and he seems unaware of the camera. The two of them are talking but I can’t tell what they’re saying. I find myself leaning forward, trying to lip-read.
In the movie they clear the table as Aunt Gillian’s low voice, just on the cusp of hearing, talks about what wonderful people they are.
I don’t know how much time has gone by. My eyes are dry, as if I haven’t blinked for a long time. A loud crash sounds from the door at the top of the stairs and Grace wakes, screaming. I grab her, remembering the lock on the outside of this door. We can’t be trapped in here.
‘Bridget!’
Grace wails, a thin and reedy sound, and clutches at me. I rush from the room and look up. The door above us has a hole in it, large enough for Mum to slip her hand through. I shouldn’t have left the key in the lock. She puts her face against the gap and I freeze.
‘You’re being very badly behaved, Bridget! And you’re upsetting Grace, I can hear her crying.’
And then I hear something else. Under Mum’s fury is the sound of someone pounding on the front door. A voice yells for an answer. It sounds like Tom, but he’s in Chesterfield, so I know I must be hallucinating again. I look at the door to the other room at the same time Mum does.
‘Don’t you dare.’ Her face vanishes and her hand appears, groping for the lock. ‘You stay right there and wait for your punishment, you bad girl.’
I plunge through the other door and slam it behind us, leaning against it with all my weight.
It’s dark in here, so I reach sideways with one hand, looking for a light switch. I don’t find it with my left, so I switch Grace to my other side. ‘It’s all right, I’m going to get us out of here. Everything’s okay, Mummy loves you,’ I’m murmuring desperately, trying to keep my baby focused on my words rather than the cold terror that is streaming from me. I find the panel and turn on the light.
There are two things in the room: a cupboard and the end of the coal chute.
‘We have a coal chute.’ I tell Grace. ‘Hang on.’ I’d like to put her down at my feet so I can open it up, but she clutches at me with hysterical strength and I can’t let her go. I let her cling to my neck as I unlatch the wide door and look up. My heart sinks. I can’t climb up the chute. It’s too high, too steep.
But there’s a cupboard in the room. If I drag it over here, I could climb on it, maybe get high enough to reach the other end. ‘Grace, I have to put you down, just for a second.’ She snuffles miserably into my ear and then her body jerks. Her legs curl and I stiffen as she vomits over my shoulder, then releases an ear-piercing shriek.
Warm sick trickles down my spine and spatters on the floor behind me. I rub her back. I have to get her to a hospital. Then I hear it again: Tom’s voice. This time it’s coming from the other end of the coal chute. ‘Bridget! Are you down there? I can hear Grace. Can you hear me?’
‘Tom!’ I scream his name and the top end of the coal chute slams open, letting in a shaft of dusty light.
‘I can’t get to you.’ Tom looks desperate. ‘It’s too small. Can you climb to me?’ I shake my head. Now that light is flooding the shaft I can see that there’s no way I can get up there. But I might be able to pass Grace up to him.
I’ll have to put her down. I harden my heart and place her protesting little body on the floor where Tom can see her. ‘There’s Daddy, look.’ I take her chin and turn her face so that she can see him, and, for a blessed moment, she falls silent.
But that means I can hear Mum. She’s on the stairs, shoes clattering on the treads.
I run to the cupboard and tilt it sideways. It’s heavy, there’s something in it. I groan as I drag it, creaking across the floor.
The door to the room bursts open. ‘Bridget, no.’ Mum lunges for me, spade raised. I leap backwards and the spade hits the floor where I’d been standing. At the same time, the cupboard hits the ground. The door bursts open and Mum screams as if she’s been stabbed.
Something falls out of the cupboard and Mum staggers backwards. At first, I don’t get it. What has scared her so badly?
It’s a life-size doll of some sort, wearing a frilly mauve dress, identical to the one Grace is wearing. Perhaps it’s a dressmaker’s dummy. I tilt my head, trying to understand. And then I see it. This is not a doll.
‘Bridget,’ Mum gasps and I realise that she isn’t speaking to me.