Tom closes the book, The Little Grey Men by BB. He and Fiona read to their daughter on alternate nights. And tonight, Gracey’s in their bed. After the death of her puppy, there was no argument from him about the sleeping arrangements.
As if to evoke reassurance from the toy, Gracey peers from under the covers and into the inert pupils and glittering irises of her second new penguin that arrived by courier that morning. Tom studies his daughter’s expression. Her questing eyes are framed by lashes as fine and soft as anything on the earth. They contain a vulnerability he finds near unbearable. The moment is fleeting but he feels that he only truly sees his daughter at bedtime and is granted glimpses into the wholeness of her. Once the chatter and antics subside and she rests, he is often struck by a breath-stealing recognition of the little person that he has created and must protect.
Gracey wants the best for everyone. Needs to be happy. Can only bear minor fluctuations from a condition of absolute security and contentment, or she will bruise and damage. Yet here she is, in a big, strange house echoing with black mysteries that her parents shield her from. She knows they do. Tom knows that she knows.
Out there, the old wood: a catacomb of shadows and tantalising trails boring undergrowth. An endlessly whispering sea. But into these vast spaces, these new places, death has now crept and snuffed out the warmth and companionship and love that she shared with another small life. Archie.
Tom reads all of this in his daughter’s expressive face: the fast thoughts that flit across a small mind, darting like minnows in shaded depths, between concerns and revelations, to matters too awful and final to endure when so small. Children suffer and always have done. But not mine. Not yet. That had been the plan.
Lowering himself to Gracey, he kisses her forehead lingeringly. Her arms circle his neck.
Gracey’s attention shifts to the windows.
‘You’re safe,’ he says.
Gracey isn’t convinced. ‘Them trees. Frighten me.’
Tom sits back and holds one of his daughter’s hands. Gracey grips her penguin tighter. Glancing over his shoulder at the doorway, he makes certain the coast is clear, then turns to his daughter. ‘Your dad would never let anything happen to you. You’re so precious to me.’
A small squeeze from her hand.
‘But the other day, when you and Archie were in those woods. What did you see? Mmm ? In the trees, before you turned back?’
Gracey’s eyes widen with fearful excitement and enough gleeful satisfaction at being asked the question that Tom suspects he’s inviting exaggeration.
‘White people was goin’ backwards in the wood house by the hill that was gonna be my den. Walkin’ funny. They put a foxy in the tree. Hurted it.’ Gracey’s face creases to cry.
Tom uses all of his willpower to keep his expression neutral, to not respond with horror to these childlike details. ‘Where was Archie?’
‘Inna wood house wiv the white things. First he was scared and growling at the foxy, then he crawled inside the ring and went up the tiny hill. Was licking the piggy’s leg.’
‘These … the white things were people?’
Gracey shakes her head emphatically. ‘Monsters with no clothes on.’
‘They fed Archie?’
‘He was licking a leg.’
‘A leg?’
‘Like he licks fingers.’
Outside a stair creaks. Fiona. ‘Tom. A word.’
Tom flinches. Then kisses Gracey.
‘Mommy gonna tuck me in?’
‘Of course. She’s right outside.’
‘Daddy don’t go.’
‘Dad’s just outside listening till he comes to bed. Then he’ll be right next to you. Hall light’s on.’ Tom rises slowly from the side of the bed, winks at Gracey.
She clutches his fingers. ‘When Archie goes in his garden bed, Daddy, take his blanket, so he’s warm.’
Tom smiles and nods. His eyes moisten and he can only see the room as if it’s underwater. He uses all of his will to not drown in the pity and love he feels for this small person, and to not sink before the horror that has come inside their lives today. He swallows but can hardly speak. Then he whispers, ‘Promise.’