Tom, Tatchwell’s clinical director, had left a message on Emma’s phone asking that she come straight to his office before she visited Connie that day. He’d sounded preoccupied, worried about something, inordinately formal. When she got to his door she sensed his secretary was being cagey with her, and she worried that it was bad news about the girls.
‘Ah, come in, come in, Emma!’ Tom said, holding his office door open for her and shutting it gently behind her. His office was a mess but he seemed unaware of it. He bowed his head and was rubbing his beard thoughtfully.
‘Are the girls all right? Annie and Polly?’ she asked.
‘I haven’t heard otherwise …’ he said, making a perfunctory effort to tidy up his desk.
‘Right,’ she said, waiting for him to elaborate, but he didn’t.
‘Do sit down,’ he said, gesturing to an uncomfortable-looking plastic chair.
‘Is something wrong?’ she asked.
He smiled using only his bottom lip and neck muscles before taking his place behind his desk. ‘How are you, Emma?’
‘Well,’ she said, taking the proffered seat and putting her bag down. ‘I think we’re getting somewhere. Both her verbal and non-verbal behaviour indicate no positive malingering. I’m undecided about her fitness to stand trial at the moment. The amnesia seems to have had a sudden onset and is blurry around the edges, which is to be expected, according to what I’ve read, in these rare cases of family annihilation. The psychotic episode seems to have been triggered by a number of events. In fact, there are serious questions to be raised concerning the benzodiazepine prescriptions from her GP and particularly the Clonazepam at Milton House—’
‘Um,’ he interrupted. ‘That’s not really want I meant.’
‘Oh?’
He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else on earth. ‘Emma, I was never made aware of your situation before assigning you to this case.’
‘My situation?’
‘This was always going to be a very sensitive case. I wasn’t aware of your … personal bereavement.’
Emma felt herself harden up inside; it wasn’t appropriate to hear him talk of Abigail. It wasn’t in his remit. She smoothed her skirt and looked him straight in the face. He shifted his glance.
‘My personal situation has nothing to do with this case,’ she said.
‘Right, no,’ he said, backtracking. ‘Except I don’t know if that is entirely true. Had I known—’
‘Had you known I had lost a child you wouldn’t have given me the case?’
‘Emma, there have been formal complaints made about you,’ he said, changing tack.
She looked puzzled. ‘I’m sorry? From who?’
‘Two members of staff have complained about you.’
‘Complained about me? In what way?’
‘There is going to have to be a formal review.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘They say you’ve been turning up to see Constance Mortensen, a very vulnerable patient …’ He paused and licked his lips. ‘Under the influence.’
Emma was speechless.
‘“Reeking of alcohol,”’ he added, making patronizing quote marks with his plump fingers.
She didn’t move a muscle but a deep blush rushed through her.
‘May I ask who complained?’
‘You see how this doesn’t look good …?’ he said, ignoring her, fiddling about on his laptop. ‘I was prepared to let one incident slip by but they sent me this.’
He turned his computer screen around so that Emma could appreciate the full impact of herself in muted colour lurching across Connie’s room and throwing up in the toilet while Connie, the very vulnerable patient, held back her hair and rubbed her back, and then took her over to the sink and cleaned her up before lying her down on the bed, taking off her shoes and stroking her hair. He had the grace to fast-forward through Emma falling asleep and Connie clearing up the vomit. He slowed it down again as Connie put on Emma’s jacket, shoes and bag and then, bizarrely, performed a little tap routine, all tits, teeth and jazz hands. Connie then tired of this, sat down and began rootling through Emma’s bag, checking her phone, going on her iPad and finally sitting by the bedside until Emma woke up.
It was truly shocking; there was no denying it.
‘I see,’ she said. ‘I apologize profusely. I came to …’ She petered out. There was no excuse.
‘I’m afraid, Emma, I’m going to have to take you off the case.’
Emma panicked. ‘Please, Tom. I’m so nearly there with her. She won’t talk to the social workers or the other doctors. If you take me off, she’ll have to start all over again. I know I can get there.’
‘No, Emma, I just can’t.’
‘Please. She needs me, Tom. I’m all she has right now.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Yup.’
She thought of him playing Call of Duty, lying here with his duvet in the office. What sort of a profession is this, are we supposed to be superhuman? ‘I understand,’ she said. She would have done the same in his position.
‘Perhaps you should consider a well-earned sabbatical …?’ he said, sounding cheerfully relieved that it had all gone in a reasonably painless fashion.
‘Yup.’ She just wanted out of there. She felt utterly humiliated; up until now hers had been a faultless career. The repercussions of this were too enormous to take in. She stood up and smiled at him. ‘Can we talk another time?’ she said briskly.
‘Of course. Although one more thing – I will need your pass,’ he said, ‘before you go.’
‘Right. I’ll hand it over. I just have something I have to do. I’ll return it later today.’
‘I think it’s best you give it to me now,’ he said.
Her insides clenched like a fist and her voice pierced straight through the room like a rod of steel. ‘I said I’ll hand it in, Tom.’
He let it go. She was older than him. That should count for something in this world. Next he’d be telling her she ought to get some professional fucking help.
‘Feel the weight of your eyelids. Be aware of the rhythm of your breath, in and out. Listen to the birds out there … the faint sound of cars in the distance somewhere, that siren a long way off, the aeroplane way up there in the sky, just a hum … listen until you can hear it no longer. Try and empty your mind of any thoughts that might be going round. Let them go; they are not important. Just focus on what you can hear outside … then come back into this room …’
Emma was surprised at the power of her own voice, at her own conviction. She was going to get Connie to the end of this. Connie was sitting in the chair with her eyes shut, her hands loose on her lap. Because it was so warm in this place she was wearing only a T-shirt and some boxer shorts, and it was the first time Emma had seen the burns on her upper leg. They covered her entire right thigh and the inside of her left and were now a dark maroon, scabby in patches, a few areas still an angry red where she’d picked at the scabs, the skin around them taut and thin, peeling in places. Emma had grown used to the deep dark gashes striping Connie’s left wrist and the acid burn marks up the inside of her right arm, but she hadn’t had the opportunity to stare before. What a wrecked thing she was.
‘You are feeling alert but relaxed now, Connie, and all you have to do is listen to the sound of my voice. You are in a safe, calm place and nothing bad is going to happen to you. If you want to stop you just say so. Nod if you understand …’
Connie nodded.
‘I’m going to take you back to Milton House … I’m going to count down from ten and when I get to one you will be in a deep state of relaxation. All right … ten … nine … eight …’
Connie was surprisingly receptive for such a combative spirit; she’d been wary of doing this and only agreed when Emma had insinuated that their time was extremely limited.
‘Three … two … one … I want you to tell me what happened at Milton House when you started taking yourself off the Clonazepam … What’s it like there? How are you feeling?’
Connie sighed heavily and shifted herself. She bit her bottom lip and frowned.
‘They’ve just put a tree up in the reception area although Christmas isn’t for ages. It’s really naff; it’s from Poundland by the look of it but we’re all staring at it like it’s the Taj fucking Mahal. I can stare for hours at the lights. They have all sorts of different settings, flash flash gap flash flash gap, which they have to change because one of them sets off the epileptics. But this is not a normal Christmas, is it …’
‘Do you still feel like dying?’
‘No.’
‘What’s changed?’
‘It’s not right.’
‘What’s not right? What’s not right, Connie?’
‘Her in my house with my babies. I need to get home where I belong … that’s what my mother says.’
‘But your mother is dead.’
‘She speaks to me … I can hear her.’
‘What does she tell you?’
‘The first thing I have to do is think straight and I can’t do that on my meds. I know I have to stop taking them. So at med-time I queue up with all the others, swallow them then regurgitate them in the toilet. Lin says Clonazepam is twenty times the strength of diazepam. Is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘She used to be a doctor in China.’
‘What’s the withdrawal like?’
Connie shook her head and paused. ‘Not good …’
‘Tell me.’
Connie continued to shake her head back and forth. She was getting agitated and Emma leant forward. ‘Observe yourself, Connie. Stay calm and focused on the question in hand …’
‘OK,’ she said, nodding. ‘It’s frightening …’
‘Why is it frightening?’
‘He comes to me. No one else can see him.’
‘Who comes to you?’
‘Him …’ She was shaking.
‘Who is he, Connie?’
She whispers, ‘The Devil.’
‘The Devil? But the Devil’s not real.’
‘He’s real to me. He’s been waiting for me, he says. Waiting in the darkness; he appears on the wall in the shadows.’
‘And what about your mother?’
Connie shook her head as if she didn’t have an explanation.
‘Why’s he come to you, Connie?’
‘He’s come to get me,’ she said, as if it was obvious. ‘I’ve been bad.’
‘What does he look like, the Devil?’
‘Like in the picture books. Exactly the same: red eyes, horns, a goatee, cloven hooves.’
‘But he’s not real, is he?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What does he do?’
She was still whispering. ‘He moves about the room at lightning pace. I never know where he’s going. He wants to get into my bed with me …’
‘What does he want from you?’
She crumpled up her face, as if about to cry. ‘He wants to drag me to hell …’
‘Why would he want to do that?’
‘Because I’m evil, because my children are scared of me, because I’m rotten to the core.’
‘Does he come only at night?’
Connie nodded; she was scared. ‘Mostly. He comes for three nights in a row … I’m so frightened I defecate in the bed … I wake up drenched in sweat with the stench of shit … I call for my mamma …’
‘It’s all right Connie, the Devil isn’t real.’
‘I close my eyes tightly and just keep repeating I’m in heaven, I’m in heaven. I find a staple on the floor and scratch it into the glass of the window, convinced that will stop him coming. I’m in heaven.’
Connie was breathing rapidly.
‘It’s all right, Connie. You’re past that now. You are safe. Tell me what happens on the day you escape …’
Connie sighed again and frowned and slowly rocked herself back and forth.
‘It’s pouring with rain outside and a group of us are watching the downpour through the window in the canteen. It’s like Armageddon out there and I wonder if it really is the end of the world. It sets a lot of people off; they’re dancing on the tables. Not me. I’m standing there with Lin, watching it, but I have this ache in my chest, in my heart – a real pain and it won’t go away. I can’t stop thinking of my children …’
‘And what happens?’
‘Suddenly there’s a loud crash from the reception area and raised voices and the whole herd of us rush over to the door to see what’s going on, myself and Lin included. Two men in boiler suits are freaking out. One of them is holding up the end of a pipe which has just burst and is now hanging from the ceiling, water gushing down on to the lino. The Christmas tree lights flash like crazy for a bit and then go out completely. We stand there in a huddle watching the gushing water fill the hall; it’s fantastic, it’s exciting, it’s sheer chaos. The security guy on the door is shouting at us, swearing, telling us all to leave the area, but it’s impossible, people are already paddling in the water and one plucky old bird, she has to be about eighty, she’s trying to swim …’
Connie began to smile, to laugh. ‘It’s mayhem. Several staff rush down the corridor and are trying to get people back to their rooms and the plumbers are trying to stop the water from going into the main block. Lin and I have moved over to watch the proceedings through the internal window in the canteen where some of us have been told to wait. Lin sees the opportunity: just for a moment there is no one on the door. The security door is open and the guard has abandoned his booth to talk to the plumbers outside while they get their kit from the van.
‘“Go now!” Lin says. I turn to her: “Come with me.” But she doesn’t want to, she’s just about to burst herself. She promises to put some pillows down my bed later and she gives me her slippers and her cardigan …’
Connie paused, lost in a reverie.
‘So you just walk right out of there?’ Emma asked, her voice low, urging her on.
‘I never thanked her. I don’t even know if she had a boy or a girl.’
For a moment, she looks as though she’s finished talking.
‘Then what happened, Connie?’
‘I just race out of there into the rain in the clothes I have on and dart into the bushes towards the gate. I have no idea where I am, the outskirts of the city somewhere, in this forgotten place that no one wants to go to. I have no memory of even arriving there. I start to run, heading down side streets until I feel far enough away to stop. No one’s following me so I stop running and just follow the sound of the traffic until I come to another main road where people seem to be going about their rushed businesses in the rain. Nobody pays me any attention at all.
‘I feel good. I’m free; I can’t believe it. But it’s getting dark and I’m cold and wet so I decide to catch a bus. The first bus that pulls up says it terminates at Sloane Square. I know I can get the 22 home from there. I wait with a group of people under the shelter and the bus pulls up. I slip on at the getting-off doors behind a couple of young girls. The girls are giggling and I wonder whether they are laughing at me and my patches of hair and Lin’s slippers. I suppose I look a right sight. I climb to the top deck and sit at the back and soon warm up. A man in front of me has glasses on and I’m pretty sure he is spying on me, filming me; they are special spy glasses. Then he gets off, pretending to ignore me. The journey takes for ever but I don’t care; I look out of the window at the wet streets and people have started to put Christmas decorations in the shops, in the houses. I start to get excited. I think of the kids. I think of all the Christmas shopping I need to do, stocking fillers and presents. There’s so much to get on with. It seems like hours before I change buses and get back to Putney …’
Connie’s eyes were still closed but she paused; she was thinking, lost in remembering.
‘And what happened when you got there?’
‘I walk down the short cut, cross the little bridge and pass the cemetery. I feel as if I’m in a different reality, like a ghost, indomitable. I walk down Ness’s street and slow down as I approach her house. I stand outside looking in. She has a tree in the window, flashing tasteful white lights, delicate baubles – Evie has probably decorated it. It feels strange to be here where absolutely nothing has changed except me. There’s a light on in the kitchen at the back but I know no one is in – she always leaves it that way if she’s going out. I keep staring at the house, the bright yellow front door behind which lie so many of my memories: happy times of bringing up our children, playing games, all of us watching Saturday night TV, the kids enacting their tangos or their waltzes, the adults marking out of ten, the kids racing around the house, the adults sitting round the table drinking wine and putting the world to rights, back to the days of Leah dishing the dirt on the entertainment business, New Year’s Eves, birthdays, kids’ parties, adult parties … happy days indeed. And now here it is, the same bricks and mortar, but all broken and riddled with invisible cracks. I slowly walk around the side of the house to the back.
‘Nobody’s in the kitchen. I take the back door key from under the flowerpot where she always leaves it. I open the French windows and let myself in, closing the doors behind me. The smell is as familiar as my own house; hers is fruity and sweet, silent save for the buzzing of the fridge. Ness is messier than me; there’s washing-up in the sink and kids’ work all over the table, a pile of dirty clothes in the laundry basket, clean clothes hanging up everywhere, over radiators and off the backs of chairs.
‘I step in, taking off my wet clothes and putting some of her dry ones on. I feel much better now. I go to the fridge and notice a photo on the door of us all at the school ball, laughing, oblivious to the misfortunes that lie ahead. I take it off to see it better but it makes me nostalgic, homesick for something that’s long gone. It actually hurts to look at it. So I open the kitchen drawer, pull out her big scissors and snip straight through her head between the eyes, and straight through his between his lips, and I feel the pain subside. The pieces fall to the floor.
‘I hook the scissors on my thumb and open the fridge. I eat a piece of leftover apple tart before moving through to the hall, where I open the coat cupboard and see that one of Karl’s jackets is hanging up inside. I press my nose into it. I can smell him on it. Next to it is Ness’s leather jacket – one of mine actually, a brown leather jacket that I’d bought for myself but gave to her because she looked better in it. These scissors are very sharp – it’s easy to slice clean through the leather, it’s … satisfying. I cut both jackets clean in two before closing the cupboard and heading onwards, running my hand along the wall, deliberately knocking the photos off kilter, my damp fingers leaving a mark on the blue paint – chosen by me in happier times; my shoes squelching on the floorboards that I had helped her nail down.
‘I go up the stairs, dragging the scissors along the wall, noticing the dirt on the carpet. I stop outside the bathroom; she’s painted it an insipid pale yellow – or maybe he has; these things are new to me. I go to her bedroom and turn on her bedside light. I look around; I remember lying in this bed with her after Leah had left, comforting her as she cried, reading out loud to her from Seeing Stars to stop her sobbing and holding her tightly when she couldn’t, bringing her tea when she couldn’t sleep – this bleak future truly unimaginable then. Everything will be all right, I’d told her, quite sure of it. But it hasn’t turned out that way …’
Connie moved her head this way and that as if she were standing in Ness’s room, smelling that sweet fruity smell.
‘I notice that he is in this room as well: a pile of loose change by the bed – his trademark night-time deposit. I pull back the duvet for more night-time deposits. I lean over and sniff their fuckdom; it’s a familiar smell, musty and sweet, enticing and repulsive. I snip across the sheet in messy jagged lines. Then I look in the laundry basket for more evidence. Yes, there’s some of his underwear, stains and all. I go over to the wardrobe and open it wide. I give myself a fright. In the reflection of the mirror is a monster with peculiar tufts of hair and ripples of burn scars down its neck. Its mauled arm reaches up to touch its patchy bald head. I turn back to the job in hand and bunch all her clothes together and smoothly chop the entire lot in half.
‘I pause in my scissor-play when I hear a key in the door downstairs. It’s too late to turn the bedroom light off so I swiftly move into Evie’s room next door and hide in the alcove where the sink is, above which is a mirror where I can see both the door and the bed. I can hear a man’s voice. I listen carefully – Evie is laughing. Then I realize that it isn’t a man at all, it’s Josh. Josh and Evie are coming up the stairs, chatting, giggling. I crouch down as they come into the room, pressing myself deep into the alcove, the scissors still in my hand. I watch him in the mirror, my boy, my man-boy. He doesn’t see me for he has eyes only for Evie. He takes her in his arms and kisses her, like a man might. They lie down on the bed and I wait until they are lost in each other’s bodies before I leave the room. I walk straight past them and leave them to their love. I go back down the stairs and exit the house the same way I came in, spinning the scissors in my hand like John Wayne might his gun.
‘It has stopped raining now but everything is wet and gleaming in the street light. I look up. From outside Ness’s house I can see the back of my own. What a beautiful house it is. We had it re-pointed and painted a very pale blue a few years ago, a lifetime ago. The lights are all on and smoke is coming out of the chimney, dark grey against the orange sky – Karl must have a fire going. The house radiates home, it’s all warmth and security. I let out a little gasp of joy as I see small figures running up and down the stairs in a chase, shadows bouncing off the walls. I know they’re Annie and Polly. I have to see them better. At the back of our house is a narrow overgrown alley that the neighbourhood cats crap in. I go down it, reach my hand over the wooden door and unlock our garden gate.’
Connie paused as if she were waiting for the time it took her to open the gate, her fingers twitching. ‘I close the gate behind me. From the back of the garden, I can see people downstairs in my kitchen. I know perfectly well that they can never see me. You can go right up to that window and still not be visible because of the lights inside. I hear sporadic muted laughter but I can’t make out the conversation. I walk down the garden path, past a pile of wilting footballs. Had Josh’s obsession ceased now that he was having sex? Ah, there’s Karl. He’s entertaining. I haven’t imagined him entertaining without me but there he is at the table, the jovial host, pouring out the wine, cracking the jokes. I stop.
‘Oh.
‘There she is, the jovial hostess, in my place, drinking from my glass, eating from my plate, lapping up my life. I wonder whether I ever existed at all. She is glowing, dressed in a T-shirt, hair tied back, radiant and unscathed as ever. I bend a little to see who the other adults are: the Stevensons and a woman I don’t know. The Stevenson kids must be upstairs hogging the PlayStation. They are the worst guests; it’s always the kids whose parents don’t let them play who make the dullest play-dates, glued to a screen of any sort. They are more Ness’s friends than ours. Karl and I don’t know them well at all, only in a social media sense where they seem rather earnest, saving-the-world type people, posting dull photos of unappetizing health drinks and sugar counts, running moonlit marathons, permanently outraged by the fascist regime yet furious if someone disagrees with them. Karl and I, we used to take the piss. Not any more, obviously. Where had we gone, he and I, the thing that we were?
‘The other woman is a stranger, possibly there as a stooge to distract from Ness and Karl’s adultery, to stop the table feeling too coupley. But there they all are, having a smashing time, getting on famously, forging new friendships now that the old regime had been ousted, drinking organic wine and munching on their thrice-baked arse-beans or whatever they’re eating, the remnants of which litter the table … this isn’t right … this isn’t right …’
Connie began to drum her fist into her palm and started mumbling something incoherently and Emma leant towards her. ‘Just say what you see, Connie …’
Connie nodded and angled her head upwards as if she were looking up to the window above the kitchen.
‘Upstairs, little people are still running all over the place – they’re probably playing sardines or water-bombs. I even find myself thinking about the mess I’ll have to clear up later on … You see, what I can’t get my head around is how everything is exactly how it always is except I’m not there. I am superfluous. I have been replaced. I am just a ghost on the outside looking in. And, ghost-like, I shrink into the wet bushes at the side of the window to crouch and watch proceedings. I can’t be more than twelve inches from the sink, not six feet from the table. In a way I am with them. I watch Karl get up, a gag on his lips, more laughter. I see the way his hand touches Ness’s back as he goes past her – it might have looked casual to any observer but I see the way her body responds, their own intimate language, the validation she gives him. Is that all we’re looking for in a lover? I hate him with his simple needs and his treacherous hands. He goes to the fridge and takes out another bottle of wine. I can see directly inside the fridge. It’s full. I see things I would never have bought: cans of Coke, pork pies, cheap sausages, expensive wine. I look for signs of me in there but there aren’t any. How has all trace of me disappeared so quickly? Then he shuts the fridge door and a school form wafts up into the air, revealing a photograph of me underneath: smiling, safe, sane. But the visit to the Horniman Museum, or wherever, flaps over my face like a veil.
‘I sit there for hours, scissors in hand, the point digging into my palm every time I see some intimacy between them. I don’t have a plan. I just want to be home. I get up to see better when Josh and Evie come back to the house, under the guise of having bought some lollies for the younger kids, but in reality they were fresh from the sheets; I can see their wonder, the wholly self-consuming appetite of first love. Annie, Polly and the younger kids come thundering down the stairs for lollies. I press my nose to the pane to see my little love. If anyone looks this way they might see the strange sight that is me, but no one does.
‘Annie is in her giraffe suit that she’s starting to outgrow; the legs come up to her knees. She’s cut herself a fringe and it rises jauntily across her forehead. No one has tidied it up. Josh hands the lollies out and the Stevenson brats squabble about flavours – so much sugar deprivation has made them whiny and Andrea Stevenson duly reprimands them. Annie is on her knees following Karl about the kitchen, hands in a prayer position, and Polly is doing the same to Ness. I know what they are up to: begging for a sleepover. And a pathetic part of me feels even more forgotten. Negotiations will have to begin. I suppose it must be a Saturday. Handsome Josh will have a match tomorrow. There he is, so grown up, so satiated; he lifts Annie up from the floor and holds her under his arm like a handbag and starts play-fighting with her on the sofa. My eyes well up. I yearn for them, just to hold them, to touch them. Children need their mother. Or do they? Or is it just me who needs them? Didn’t Karl say that they were scared of me? I think the Devil told me that too.
‘I retreat into the shadows as Ness moves to the sink, my sink, to commence the mountain of washing-up. Andrea Stevenson joins her. The men do fuck all. My loyalty wavers. I move to the side a little to see better, to get closer to her, sure that the fairy lights within make it impossible for her to see me. I could tap on the glass now, give her a fright. As she turns her head to reach for a dirty pan, I notice that she has a few red burn marks on her neck and I feel good about that, the fact that she too is scarred. I hate her. I hate him. I hate the way they’re all coping so well without me. I miss them all.
‘I wait. I am happy to wait all night. I follow their movements. I stand at the back door looking in when the Stevensons leave – no doubt with hopes and promises of future good times together. The other woman goes with them and I can’t see which kids are left behind but I can hear the boiler going on upstairs; someone is running a bath. Karl and Ness come back through to the kitchen, pausing right near me, his hand resting on her back, turning her around; they kiss each other hungrily as if they’ve been starved, wishing those Stevensons had gone hours ago. I see their passion. I watch as she pushes her body into his, moulding into his shape. They look wrong together, he’s far too tall for her. She’s too beautiful. I am mesmerized as they devour each other’s faces like slimy feasting sea creatures.
‘I see the way they leap apart when they hear footsteps upstairs, like thieves caught in the act. So they do feel guilt. They do feel what they are doing is wrong. Aha! They do have shame.
‘I move back to the window to watch them tidy up; I observe the way she leans over to blow out the candles, my candles; the way he creeps up and down the stairs checking on the kids. I see her go over to her coat to get out her cigarettes and I move quickly then; she’s coming outside. I spin the scissors in my fingers like I’m ready for the shoot-out and slip back into the bushes behind the bench as she unlocks the back door. She stands there to light up, like she has done a hundred times before. She’s humming. She’s happy. She probably never gives the monster in the psychiatric unit a thought. She steps out on to the gravel and wanders towards me, looking up into the night where the lights from a plane flicker in the foggy orange London sky. She stops a couple of feet in front of me and sits on the bench, back to me, and smokes with the nonchalance of a film star. She is true class, even alone. She is so close I can smell her; I can see the curls of hair at the back of her neck. I miss her, I want to reach out and touch her. Or ram the scissors into the softness of that skin.
‘I do neither. She goes back inside and I know she is going to sleep in my bed.
‘I wait for hours. I wait until the house is dark, all lights turned off, all doors locked, all boilers stopped, all embers dying. Even the distant traffic has ceased; London is at last asleep. Then I open the shed door and find the back door key in the jar and let myself into my own house. I’m not thinking anything. I just want to be in my own home and pretend for a moment that nothing has changed.
‘I leave Lin’s slippers outside the back door, carefully open it and step over the squeaky floorboard. I shut the door behind me and listen to the stillness of the house. I go through the kitchen, down towards the sitting room, and step inside. Ah! There is the Christmas tree, of course. It’s horribly decorated, naff silver baubles and coloured lights. The kids have been allowed to do it – always fatal. I stand in front of the fire and prod the embers with the poker; they glow an orange syrupy smile at me, welcoming me back. There are some cards on the mantelpiece; I’ve missed someone’s birthday: Karl’s. I read all the cards including one from Ness: Happy birthday you wonderful man. I John Wayne flip the scissors and cut it into small pieces over the embers and watch as the flames light up the room, making shadows on the wall. Briefly I think I see him there, the Devil watching me.
‘I leave the sitting room and stand in the hall. The counter is littered with various unopened letters, car keys, shin pads, the usual stuff. I look up the stairs towards the bedrooms. Everything is silent. I move towards the staircase and cautiously start to climb it, placing my feet with precision; every inch of this house is in my body’s recall, every creak is known from endless nights spent crawling out of the kids’ rooms, praying for sleep. I stand on the landing, looking left and right: all doors are shut. I’m home at last. I feel inexplicably tired.
‘I push open my bedroom door. And sure enough, there they are, there she is, sleeping in my great big bed, on my side, in my room, by my husband. Karl is on his side, sound asleep, facing her, his hand reaching out towards her. I walk round to where she’s lying and I look down at her: she’s on her back, lips parted, not a care in the world, her long frizzy hair splayed across my pillow, one breast exposed, the duvet pulled up to her ribcage. I can see the rise and fall of her chest, the exact place where her heart pumps beneath the skin.
‘Her iPhone is lying beside her. I pick it up and look at the screen. She has set the timer for two hours’ time, presumably so she can sneak out of the house and pretend to be a decent human being to her children. I turn the phone off.
‘I sit down on the end of the bed for a while to think. I wonder about getting into the bed with them; us all being together again. But it’s never going to work. So instead I pull up my sleeve and slice my wrist open.
‘I feel no pain. The blood oozes out in a satisfying way, black in the dimness of the room. As it spills on to the white duvet, I cut again. The blood pours out this time, down my arm, down my hand, on to the bed and on to the carpet. But still I feel absolutely nothing.
‘And then it occurs to me that perhaps I am a ghost, I am already dead. That is why no one saw me – not Josh, not Evie, not anyone on the bus, in the street. This is some other reality in the future that I have stepped into. I keep hacking at my wrist as if to prove it. Nothing! I can feel no pain at all because I am already dead. What a relief! What a marvellous relief! I cannot die again. The Devil didn’t get me! I tricked the Devil! I just keep slicing and the blood gushes out and I keep being a ghost.
‘I have to tell the children that I am safe, I am in heaven. Josh and Annie, my lovely children. I quickly leave the room and race up to Josh’s room, no longer caring about squeaking floorboards; I am made of light. I am weightless. I push open his door. It smells bad – of socks and teenager. But he isn’t there. Does he openly sleep with Evie? Was I never to be consulted again in decisions of this nature? Of course not, I was dead! I made my way back down the stairs and pushed open Annie’s door.
‘Polly and Annie are both in the lower bunk, sound asleep. Annie is taking up all the room, sleeping with her arms and legs akimbo like a starfish, still in her giraffe suit, poor Poll squashed up against the wall. I put the bloodied scissors down beside the bed and I bend down and kiss her warm cheek. I bury my face in her sticky neck. She doesn’t even stir.
‘“My darling,” I whisper. It’s like coming home. My love for her is all-consuming. “I’m dead, I’m in heaven.”
‘And it feels so good and so safe. I must protect her. I must keep her from the Devil. I know then, as I breathe her in, what I have to do. I can save her now. I have to save her. Poor Annie, she has my genes, there is no hope for her, far better that she come with me now, where I can protect her and shelter her from him, because he’ll want her too, to get his revenge on me. It’s too late to save Josh, he is a man now, but Annie, she needs me.
‘“Come with me, my little treasure,” I whisper, scooping up her sleeping body into my arms. She barely stirs; she’s so used to being carried in and out of various houses to and from cars and beds. She wraps her arms tightly around me and for a moment she knows it’s me; she nestles her nose into my skin and breathes a puppy-dog sigh. I stand there feeling the love between us, her face against my neck. She is all mine.
‘I take her down the stairs and pick up Karl’s keys from the counter. I open the front door and carry her out into the cool night air. She shifts in my arms but the giraffe suit is furry; she isn’t cold. I carry her down the steps. The night is dead. I look around for the car, our beaten-up old RAV4. I see it across the street and go towards it. I open the door and lay Annie down on the back seat, covering her with the old oily blanket from the boot. She stirs a little and asks me, “Mummy? Where are we going?” I tell her we’re going on a drive. “Can Polly come? Get Polly, Mummy.” “No,” I say. And then I think Polly? Why not? Yes, perhaps she’s right. Polly must be saved too – she’s already tainted by her proximity to us. Her suffering will be great; the Devil will take her too. If there were more children in the house I would take them all.
‘So I go back for Polly, following the dark splashes of blood, a Hansel and Gretel trail across the road, up the steps, into the house, along the hall and up the stairs. Polly is sound asleep and rolls into my arms without a fuss, vaguely waking for a moment, seemingly unsurprised to see me. “Where are we going?” she asks. I take her hand. She brings the duvet with her. Annie is sound asleep now on the back seat. Polly climbs in and sleepily leans against Annie. I cover them with the duvet.
‘I close the back door and get in the driver’s seat. I can see Polly’s eyes closing. For a moment I sit quite still before turning on the engine. I look down at my flesh hanging open on my wrist, pull the seat forward and turn the keys. The radio comes on. How perfect: a choir of angels begin to sing. It’s beautiful; I’ve no idea what it is. Hundreds of voices tearing at the heart, welcoming us home, letting the Devil know he can’t get us now – because I’m taking them to heaven with me. I smile, peaceful in my certitude of what has to be done.
‘Polly isn’t properly asleep; she keeps sitting up to listen to the angels singing, so I drive around the neighbourhood until she lies back down. I begin to notice all the flowers people have laid out for us: wreaths on doors, decorated lampposts, twinkling lights. When I am sure that they are both sound asleep I turn left near the bridge and drive down towards the river. I can see that the tide is high. I stop the car at the top of the road. I reach back to take Annie’s little black-nailed hand. I squeeze it tightly: “Here we go, my darlings, Granny will be waiting for us.” I wrap the seat belt around my neck once, just to be sure the Devil can’t drag me out. I take a deep breath. Then I put my foot down on the pedal and rev the engine, feeling the wheels spin on the tarmac. We lurch forward and begin to speed towards the edge of the walkway, my foot pressed to the ground. And the next thing I know the wheels are in the air, we are flying. Then the bullet-hard thud as we hit the water. We float for a moment. The temperature drops acutely and the river spins the car around and I can see the shore, the twinkling lights of life. The water begins to swallow us up, the car tilts on to its side and the singing angels stop their singing … no … no …’
Emma had not moved a muscle during the telling of this. Connie had been speaking quietly, unemotionally, her eyes closed throughout. Now she opened them wide and looked at Emma with a terror that Emma knew and recognized.
‘They’ve woken up! They’ve woken up!’ she cried. ‘They’re screaming!’
Emma reached out to hold Connie’s arms.
But Connie wasn’t aware of Emma; she could only hear their screaming. The blood was draining from her face, her body had gone rigid, the muscles in her scarred neck stood out; she was about to fit.
Emma got down on her knees and grabbed her firmly. ‘Listen to me! Annie’s OK. Both of them! They’re OK! They’re alive!’
But Connie could not hear her. ‘Get them out! Do something!’ She was screaming now, her whole body rigid as a plank of wood. ‘Help us!’ Then she let out a wail so inhuman, so visceral, so horribly private, that a chill went through Emma. She had heard that sound before; out of her own mouth a long time ago.
‘Connie!’ she cried, and slapped her hard across the face, and something in Connie shifted.
‘They’re out, Connie! Two men were returning from night shift at the cement factory … They saw your car go into the water, the force of the current dragging it. They went in, Connie. They got you all out. Annie’s OK. She’s OK. Polly’s OK …’
Connie stared at Emma, her lips trembling, tears on her cheeks. ‘Why did they save me?’ she cried. ‘They shouldn’t have saved me.’