January 1990
Laura drove her mother’s yellow Ford Capri along the country roads towards the closest village, Rachel asleep in her car seat. Was a mother and toddler group such a good idea? Rachel was a difficult child.
But Laura had known she had to do something. Living a hermit lifestyle was affecting Rachel, and she knew if she didn’t force herself to do something about it now – for Rachel’s sake – perhaps she never would.
And it was affecting her too. Sometimes she would pick up the phone, place the receiver to her ear, and listen to the hum of the dialling tone, searching her mind for someone to call. She’d even looked up an old school friend a few weeks back in the hope she might be able to meet up with her – but she’d moved away from Sligo a long time ago.
She still hadn’t seen Imogen since the day of the cigarette burns, and Dillon hadn’t come near the house since November, despite Laura watching out for him. It was as though they’d closed ranks, and sent her into solitary confinement.
Rachel stirred in her car seat, and gave a little grizzle as she rubbed her eyes with clenched fists. Laura pulled into a space along the road, a two-minute walk from the village hall. Despite the short distance, Laura lifted Rachel into her buggy, and headed along the pavement. She opened the wooden doors of the hall and stood, framed in the doorway, as the blast of children’s happy squeals and motherly chatter penetrated her eardrums.
‘Are you new?’ It was a woman in her forties, her fair hair in a Princess Diana style. Laura took her to be the organiser.
‘Yes. I called yesterday. I’m Laura Hogan, and this is Rachel.’ She pointed down at Rachel in her buggy.
‘Well, do come in. Get yourself a cuppa. We’re all very friendly.’ Her smile was wide and welcoming.
Laura’s stomach tipped as she took in the room full of strangers happily sitting on small chairs with cups of tea or coffee, their well-behaved and well-balanced children playing happily. She lifted Rachel from her buggy and put her down on the floor, where the child looked bewildered.
She took her daughter’s hand and, chanting I must do this for Rachel in her head, made her way towards a plump woman in glasses, who was dressed in a long black jumper with Liquorice Allsorts on the front, and a pair of Oxford Bags she must have had since the Seventies.
‘Hi,’ Laura braved, sitting down, and putting Rachel on the floor by her legs.
‘Hi, I’m Libby.’ The woman was confident – her voice deep and strong.
‘I’m Laura, and this is Rachel.’
‘Pretty name – reminds me of Daphne Du Maurier’s My Cousin Rachel.’
‘Yes, me too.’ The conversation felt stilted, and uncomfortable tingles shuddered through Laura’s body. She was so far from her comfort zone she needed a telescope to find it. But Rachel seemed fine. She was happily banging on a drum with drumsticks.
‘Mine’s the red-headed chap.’ Libby pointed at a child pushing a metal truck around the carpet, making brumming noises. ‘He’s two and a half.’
‘The same as Rachel.’
‘Super age, isn’t it?’
Laura nodded, wishing she felt the same.
‘Aaron,’ Libby called. ‘Come and play with Rachel.’
Rachel stopped drumming, and stared at the boy.
‘Brum brum,’ he said, rolling the truck across the floor towards Rachel.
Laura could hear Libby chatting to her about how she’d just got a desktop computer with a CD-ROM drive from Comet, and how Aaron’s favourite toy was his Glo Worm – won’t sleep without it. But the words were muffled as Laura stared at her daughter and began to overheat, a sense of foreboding washing over her. Was she afraid of what Rachel was capable of? For goodness’ sake, she was only two and a half.
There was a thud as Aaron rammed the truck into the drum, and Rachel stopped drumming, and looked at the child.
‘I’m afraid Rachel doesn’t like trucks,’ Laura said, bending forward to see her daughter’s face redden. ‘Why not go and play with that little boy over there?’ Laura went on, pointing to a boy with spiked gelled hair.
But it was too late. Rachel lifted one of the drumsticks and smacked the boy around the face with it, leaving a red welt. His scream was piercing, but before anyone could react, Rachel picked up his truck and smashed it on his forehead.
‘Oh my God,’ Libby cried, jumping from her chair and picking him up, cuddling him close. ‘Hush, darling,’ she said, jiggling him up and down as he continued to scream. She stared at Laura. ‘Your child is an absolute monster,’ she cried, as the friendly Princess Diana woman from earlier bustled over, and other mothers approached, comforting the crying child and his mortified mother.
‘Is he going to be OK?’ Laura said, as a trickle of blood rolled down the child’s forehead. ‘Can I do anything? Should we take him to hospital?’
‘For God’s sake! Just take Rosemary’s Baby and leave!’ Libby yelled.
Laura looked down at Rachel, who smiled up at her. She whipped her up from the floor and dashed from the hall, tears filling her eyes. Once she’d strapped Rachel into her buggy, she left the village hall and raced down the road, her vision blurred from tears. ‘What the hell is wrong with you, Rachel?’ she muttered through her teeth. ‘Why can’t you be like normal children?’
‘Laura!’
Laura stopped and dashed her sleeve across her eyes to see Marcus McCutcheon, holding a child’s hand, blocking her path.
‘I’m so sorry, I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a rush,’ she said, embarrassed she was in such a state.
‘Is everything OK?’
Does it look as though it is? ‘Yes, yes, everything’s fine,’ she said. ‘I just need to …’
‘You haven’t met my daughter, have you?’ he interrupted, gesturing to a child of about seven in a dark green school uniform, with pale blue eyes and a sprinkling of freckles. ‘She’s just been to the dentist.’
‘No fillings, I hope,’ Laura said, trying for breezy and not succeeding.
‘Laura’s parents were driving the car that killed Mummy, Yolanda,’ Marcus said to his daughter. Oh God, can this day get any worse?
‘Really?’ The girl stared up at Laura.
‘Yes. Yes, that’s right.’ Laura looked at Marcus, but his stare was more penetrating, and she averted her gaze. He was calmer than he’d been the day he came to her house. She glanced down at the child. ‘I’m so sorry about your mum.’
‘Thank you, it doesn’t get any easier,’ she said, sounding too grown-up, and Laura knew she’d been listening to her father. ‘I know they say it does. But it doesn’t.’
‘No, I don’t suppose it does.’
‘You must know what I mean – you lost your parents, didn’t you?’ She scrutinised Laura from under a neat, honey-blonde fringe. ‘That must have been horrendous. At least I still have Daddy.’ She looked up at him, smiled, and gripped his hand.
‘It’s worse for you.’ I was never close with mine.
‘I disagree. I’ve been told my pain won’t last forever, because I’m just a child; it’s harder for Daddy – for you.’
Before Laura could answer, Marcus chipped in, ‘Well, it was good to see you again. But we should get on. School beckons and all that.’ He nodded to a Victorian school with a wrought-iron fence, fifty yards away.
And as they hurried away, leaving Laura staring after them, Rachel began to cry.