Yet again, Emma had not made it to bed. She sat cross-legged on her living-room floor, encircled by photos, occasionally lifting one up and angling it toward the light.
Intermittently there were footsteps from above. Steph was still awake, too, maybe listening to Emma’s movements just as she was hearing Steph’s, feeling the other woman’s presence and trying to predict what she was thinking. Emma glanced at the Chertsey address lying just beyond her moat of photos, a reminder of the decision she had to make. It seemed even more complicated now that she suspected Zeb hadn’t told her the whole truth about Freya. She kept picking up her phone to text him, then putting it down again. I’ll Skype him in the morning. Look him in the eye and ask calmly.
The pictures she was sifting through were mostly of him. In one, he was six months old and she held him on her knee, still a kid herself, the baby seeming physically to overwhelm her. Perhaps most parents divided their existence into the era before they’d had children and the era after, but Emma often got the feeling she’d lived her life on shuffle. At times she felt ancient compared to her friends, who used Tinder, drank fifteen-pound cocktails, and never seemed afraid. Other times she would try to embrace her early thirties: She’d allow herself to be set up on dates but would usually chicken out, telling herself she was a mum and a businesswoman, no room for romance.
She stalled over a picture of herself in school uniform, year ten, not long before she’d fallen pregnant. Automatically, she started picking faults. Her arms were awkward twigs, her chest was concave, eyes too big for her face. Suddenly she was that girl again: that spiky, slow-to-develop teenager, who felt as if a layer of her skin peeled off each time she was taunted by the class bully.
Not even the class bully, in fact. Her own personal bully, or so it had seemed, who would relentlessly single her out, always accompanied by two silent, smirking disciples.
Alien Girl, he used to call her. He would draw cartoon aliens with goggle-eyes and pinched faces, leaving the sketches on her desk or sticking them to the back of her school sweater. They really did bear an uncanny resemblance to her—Emma could see it and so could their sniggering classmates. Sometimes he would point at her braless chest, in front of everyone, and declare that her species obviously didn’t have tits. Maybe all your species are actually lads, even the ones pretending to be chicks. What have you got down there, Alien “Girl”? She recalled how his eyes had dropped toward the hem of her skirt, how he and his two mates had roared with laughter when she’d hovered a protective hand in front of her crotch.
One lunchtime—and Emma’s stomach still liquefied at the memory—he’d crept up behind her while she was eating sandwiches with her small group of friends, and she’d felt something cold and wet touch the back of her neck. She’d let out a shriek of surprise, but her bully had stayed silent for once, his fingers delving into her hair, spreading slimy wetness. She’d tried to pull away but he’d pushed her head forward and ground the gunge into her roots. Only as he’d extricated his fingers had she heard his familiar guffaw, cueing the obedient snickers of the other two.
Later, she’d discovered that it was a large blob of “alien ectoplasm” from a joke shop. Green and sticky with a strong rubbery smell. She’d spent the rest of the day in the toilet trying to get it out of her hair, crying as she’d snapped her friend’s comb and the knotted, gluey mess had just got worse. Eventually she’d been forced to hack into it with a pair of blunt school scissors, leaving bald patches that she’d covered with a hat for months.
She’d felt powerless, not wanting to tell her mum or the teachers, even assuring her friends it was all fine, quite funny, really. But whenever she reached the limits of what she could laugh off, he would decide to be nice to her for a while. Perching on her desk, calling her “Em” and asking if she knew what this quadratic-equation bollocks was all about. After months of humiliation, one friendly word could melt her into a puddle of gratitude. She’d never known how long these interludes would last, though, could never predict when she’d next find her chair drowned in black ink (“Alien Girl blood”), or adorned with a dead frog that had been squeezed to make its eyes bulge like hers.
She remembered the day he’d followed her home from school. The thrum of her heart as she’d sensed him on her heels, the shock and relief as he’d caught up with her and behaved like they were buddies. When he’d offered to carry her bag she’d been sure he would bowl it into the river; when he’d flirtatiously poked her ribs she’d waited for some comment about her figure.
She’d been spellbound with fear and fascination. That knife edge of pride and dread as she’d gone into a pub with him, as he’d managed to get served, as cheap vodka had bubbled through her veins and he’d asked if she’d got a boyfriend.
Uh . . . no. I haven’t. She had to admit, it had flattered her that he’d even thought she might.
A slow smile had spread across his face. Good.
Her heart had started to pound, the vodka setting off stars in her head.
Good, he’d said again. Because Robin really likes you.
She hadn’t understood at first. The tipsiness had slowed her brain. Her bully, Andy, had nodded toward the corner of the pub and she’d followed his gaze to notice his two loyal followers sitting there. When had they come in? Emma had often thought of them as one entity: Andy’s audience who validated his bullying with their devoted attention, their emotionless laughter.
For the first time, across the pub, she’d contemplated them separately. Robin was the quieter of the two, with brown hair and freckles, not the redhead whose gormless grin exposed the fillings in his back teeth.
Emma had returned her gaze to her lap. Yeah, right.
I mean it, Andy had insisted. He thinks you’re really fit. And he likes how clever you are at school.
She’d wanted to believe that part. Often she’d fantasized about a boyfriend who would admire her intelligence instead of mocking it, but who would fancy her, too, be proud to be seen with her. Nervously, she’d considered Robin again. He’d been looking at Andy but he’d glanced at her and their eyes had met. She remembered how he’d shuffled, seemed awkward; she’d recognized that awkwardness and, somewhere in her woozy head, had convinced herself they had things in common.
Andy had beckoned Robin over. He’d hesitated, and Emma had considered bolting, to save herself from any possibility of humiliation. But she’d felt glued to her sweaty seat as Robin had approached and Andy had urged them to sit next to one another, widening his legs on their shared bench to force them closer together. Of course, looking back now, she could see that Andy had been reveling in yet another game of control. But she’d lapped up the attention, blushing as Robin had paid her compliments under Andy’s instruction.
You like how smart she is, don’t you, Rob?
Maybe Robin’s next words had been the real turning point. Eyes to the table, he’d mumbled: Yeah, and good at art.
The warmth in her cheeks had deepened. Robin had noticed she was good at art? She’d been pretty sure that hadn’t been part of Andy’s script. But clearly he’d thought, Nice one, Rob, because he’d stood up then and declared he was going to stop playing gooseberry now.
Emma had seen his suggestive wink as he’d left. Could replay it to this day. But at the time, her skin still aglow from Robin’s comment, she’d chosen to ignore it.
An awkward silence had fallen once they were alone. Robin had moved a few inches away, especially when a group of popular girls from school had sauntered in. Emma’s glow had started to die. Memories had returned: The frog on her chair . . . had Robin sourced that for Andy? The ectoplasm: Had Robin been the one holding her still as Andy had mashed it into her scalp, or had it been the other guy, or had she imagined the hand on her arm? Goose bumps drove any last warmth from her skin and she’d come close to fleeing, until Robin had murmured something.
Sorry about him.
Emma hadn’t known what to say. Sorry didn’t cover it, not even a fraction, but still there’d been a power in hearing it that had almost made her burst into tears. She’d felt light and soft and strange, and when he’d asked if she wanted another drink she’d nodded.
Let’s sit outside, he’d said. It’s too hot in here.
They’d perched on a wall in the pub’s deserted garden, chatting quite normally. Then he’d stubbed out his fag and shuffled closer. The kiss had been clumsy at first but he’d seemed to relax into it, and she’d tried to as well, tried to calm the tornado of her thoughts. This is okay. He’s not like Andy. He said he was sorry. He thinks I’m good at art. She’d even giggled as they’d rolled off the wall and lain behind it on the cold concrete, shielded by a row of stinking trash bins.
She’d been so nervous about going back to school the next day. Excited, though, about seeing him. Surely others would be able to tell how last night had changed her. Surely they’d guess she felt both ashamed and alive, that she hadn’t been able to look her mum in the eye, that she’d cried in the shower but hugged her secret close.
In the homeroom, people had started tittering as she’d arrived. Shooting glances her way, grinning behind their hands.
There’d been a new drawing on her desk. The usual goggle-eyes and tiny twig body, but this time Andy had made the lips bigger, poutier, redder. Emma had started to panic. More laughter had rumbled as she’d grabbed the drawing and screwed it in her fist, breaking her normal policy of not reacting. She would never usually sit down without checking her chair first, either, but she had done that morning, straight onto a condom blown up like a balloon.
The room had erupted. The effort of holding back tears had made her cheekbones throb. She’d gripped the edges of her desk and only when she’d been sure of not crying had she lifted her eyes to seek out Robin. He’d been looking at her, his face solemn, unreadable. Ashamed, perhaps? Of what was happening now, of what they’d done last night, of being associated with her at all? Emma’s expression had become pleading, but when he’d noticed Andy observing them, Robin had turned abruptly away. He hadn’t laughed with everybody else, but he hadn’t stopped the laughter either. He’d spared her just one more glance before they’d returned to their places in the social order.
From then on Robin had ignored her. Wouldn’t look at her, speak to her, continued to watch Andy make her days a misery. Emma’s shame had brewed hot and angry. She felt like she’d fallen for their final trick. As if the loss of her virginity on grubby concrete had been the culmination of his mission—Andy’s, or Robin’s, or both.
By the time she’d discovered she was pregnant, it was too late to do anything about it. And year ten was over, the stress of school had melted into listless summer. All her peers were shopping for bikinis and trying not to think about next year’s big exams. Emma, instead, was plucking up the courage to tell her parents she had something alive and terrifying wriggling inside her belly. Her own alien baby. Her dad had been the one to fixate on who the father was, but Emma had refused to give a name, or to tell Robin he’d got her pregnant. She’d wanted to leave that school and never see him again.
And then there was Zeb. Zeb, with his little star-shaped hands reaching out from beneath a cloud of blankets. Zeb, with the tender swirl at the back of his head, the miniature feet that would kick as if air-swimming. Zeb, whom she wanted to pretend was nothing to do with bullies, or a patch of concrete behind a wall of trash bins.
They’d lived for almost eighteen years in their little bubble, Robin never knowing of Zeb’s existence, and Zeb seemingly content with his mum and grandparents and only a question mark of a dad. Emma should have known the bubble would burst, but she hadn’t expected it to happen quite so spectacularly. Five months ago, Robin had bumped into an old classmate who knew why Emma had moved schools and, assuming Robin knew, too, had casually released the secret Emma had kept for so long. Robin had tracked Emma down and had been bombarding her with emails ever since, insisting they should talk, meet, even asking where she lived, pushing for photos of Zeb. Each new message in her inbox had triggered the kind of panic she hadn’t experienced since school. Delete, delete, delete. Pretend this isn’t happening. Pray it will all go away.
What she hadn’t realized, though, was that Zeb had made a discovery of his own. As he’d grown up and started college, branching outside their bubble, he’d begun to wonder about his father. Thinking back now, Emma realized he’d tried to ask her about him, but she’d shut down every discussion. So he’d resorted to snooping for clues, eventually learning Robin’s identity by eavesdropping on a conversation between Emma and her mum.
At the same time as Emma had been deleting Robin’s emails, feeling nauseous even at the sight of his name on her screen, Zeb had been googling that name, posting it on Facebook, trying to find the man Emma was so keen to erase.
Except she hadn’t even erased him well enough. She’d left one of his emails in her inbox, her laptop open in the living room, and she’d heard Zeb’s shout as she’d been putting away washing in her room. What the fuck, Mum? She still remembered freezing while hanging up her favorite 1970s blouse, letting it slide off the hanger as she’d realized her mistake.
How could you have denied me a dad? Zeb had said during the awful argument that had followed, or maybe even a subsequent one—they all merged now. How could you not tell me he’s been emailing you about me, while I’ve been scouring the fucking internet to find him?
It’s about the worst thing you could’ve done.
After that, things had slipped out of her control. Zeb had Robin’s email address and was determined to make contact. When he’d come to her at work, already packed, and announced he was moving in with his dad to help renovate an old remote house, Emma had lost her cool. She’d clutched at straws to explain why she wouldn’t let him go, her voice getting higher and louder in the street outside her shop. The house didn’t sound safe, the dust would aggravate his asthma . . .
After he’d gone, Emma had cried on her mum’s shoulder and Julie had tentatively suggested that maybe Robin was a different person now. But Emma wouldn’t be fooled again. He’d taken her son and he was sending her messages: that she was in need of a parenting book; that she could be unraveled by some heavy breathing down a phone, or a raw egg that was surely supposed to remind her of the ectoplasm. Just as easily unraveled as when she was fifteen.
She put down the school photo, blinking back tears. Her eyes were tugged again to the address Steph had given her, and guilt crashed over her for sitting on it, not doing anything.
After I’ve spoken to Zeb, she promised, her stomach a ball of nerves.
The sound of a vehicle pulling up outside diverted her. She returned to the window, where dawn was rolling back the night and George was climbing out of a police car. Emma frowned as she noticed his face, drawn and somber. Maybe he was just exhausted, maybe he’d been up all night, too, but something about his demeanor made hairs rise on her arms.
She watched him straighten his posture and step up to the house. Heard the buzzer trill in the flat above, the beep of the exterior door being released, George’s heavy tread on the stairs. Moments later, a terrible sound came from overhead. It pierced down through the ceiling, tearing across the memory of everything she’d ever heard from upstairs before.
It felt like more than just a cry: It seemed to have its own color, even a texture, dark and raw.
It was Steph, howling as if her heart was broken.
All the air left Emma’s lungs and her arms lifted toward the ceiling, as though to catch her neighbor if she fell.