I don’t regret it. Not one moment of it. Even when I thought he wasn’t going to ask for my number afterward, even when I thought he was never going to call, I didn’t regret it. But he did. He asked for my number and he did call.
He took me for a drive down the coast, bought me coffee. We sat in his warm car while a storm raged outside and we talked for hours. I kept staring at him, drinking him in, this beautiful, beautiful man. He kissed me when he dropped me off, but that was it. Then nothing, for days and days, until today. It’s been nine days and he’s just called to ask me to meet him in the park. Nine days, and winter seems to be fading, daffodil buds already pushing their way up through the ground. Nine days of me missing college and waiting by the phone, filling sketchbooks with drawings of a half-remembered him. The details of that first night are sketchy, but if I close my eyes, I can hear his voice, feel his hands on me; I can remember the smell and warmth of his skin, how he whispered in my ear, then kissed his way down my body.
He’s by the lake and I falter. I’m in black leggings and DMs; my perfume is oil paint and turpentine. He’s in a suit even at the end of the day. How is this picture ever going to work? I walk forward anyway. I want him to touch me again after those nine endless days.
Then he moves and I sink onto a bench, my breath stolen by shock, like a punch to the gut. Silly me, this isn’t a date. This is him here begging my silence.
He’s got a stroller.
I was a one-night stand. An aberration. A fling. A mistake.
How brutal, though, to bring his baby here as well. Extra bribery, maybe—please don’t tell my wife, please don’t hurt my child by telling her.
I won’t. I won’t tell. I won’t tell him he was my first, either. That I’d been waiting, I don’t know what for. But then he came along and I forgot I was waiting and he asked and I said yes and he took my hand, like he was sweeping me into a dance, like some old film, and that’s what it was like, all of it. I won’t tell him that.
He turns and waves, sensing me from fifty yards away, pushing the stroller toward me. He reaches in, lifts out the baby, who’s smaller than I thought, a tiny little thing, no more than a couple of months old. Then, without a word, he puts it into my arms. I look down and laugh.
It looks exactly like Patrick, dark eyes and tufty black hair. The baby smiles back at me, a big gummy grin, and I ache, I really do. Nineteen and aching inside for what I could have had with Patrick. Wanting it after one night with him, one long, dancing night. Aching for this baby to be mine.
“This is Joe,” Patrick says, sitting next to me. “His mother died.”
CHAPTER 37
I move my head and moan as knifelike pain seems to split it open. I reach to touch it and my hand comes away wet. I can’t see, but I know it’s blood. I’ve drifted… and as I drifted, I felt again fingers pushing pills into my mouth. I’m shivering one minute, boiling hot the next. The floor is cold and hard, but I stay down anyway because I don’t have the strength to stand or even sit. I lie, curled on my side, and my tears soak into the damp floor.
How long did they leave Patrick down here? Patrick, little boy Patrick, locked in the cellar, writing his lines on the wall. I’ve been bad, I’ve been very bad. Yes, you have, Patrick.
I’m overcome with another fit of shivering. I curl up tighter. My stomach hurts, a bone-deep ache. I don’t remember when I last ate, but I’m not hungry: that’s not what this gnawing, hollow ache is about. I am thirsty, though. My throat is so dry.
I should have left after Joe was attacked. I should have taken the children and left whether I thought it was Patrick or not. I should have left the second he went for Mia. I should have, and then he would never have…
I wrap my arms around my knees. I can’t. I can’t. He’s right. This is all me. All my fault.
I don’t know how long I’ve been down here, but the house is too quiet. I listen but hear no voices, no footsteps on creaky floorboards. Where’s Patrick? Where are Joe and Mia? I wish I had my phone. I wouldn’t even call the police first. I’d call the children to tell them how much I love them.
Where is everyone? What did Patrick do to Ben? Did he kill him?
Oh, God, I can’t curl up any tighter, but it hurts, it fucking hurts, and even when I wrap my arms around my head, I can’t keep Patrick’s words out.
I’ll tell him, Sarah.
I’ll tell him you’re not his real mother.
I’ll tell him you never wanted him.
I’ll tell him what his real mother was like.
I’ll tell him you stole him.
And then I’ll…
And then I’ll…
SARAH AND PATRICK—2000
“She was already taking drugs when we met, but I didn’t know. It was a casual thing between us, it didn’t last long, but long enough for her to get pregnant. I made sure Social Services knew she was taking drugs. She kept skipping appointments and I was worried about the baby.”
Joe’s falling asleep in my arms, his eyes drifting closed then snapping open to stare at me before drifting closed again. His eyelashes are long, sweeping down onto perfect rounded pink cheeks.
“He was born healthy, though, and they gave him straight to me. She left the hospital without looking back. It’s been a struggle, but better than he would have had with her.”
He tucks a loose end of blanket around Joe, his hand brushing my arm.
“Then last month, she took an overdose and died.”
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, stroking Joe’s cheek with one finger. It’s so soft and warm.
Patrick shakes his head. “Joe’s better off without her.”
I feel sorry for her, the unknown girl who never got to hold her baby.
“I should have told you, that night we met. But it was so beautiful, so perfect, I didn’t want anything to spoil it.”
It might have scared me off. It might have made me pause long enough to remember I was waiting. He’s right, though. It was beautiful and perfect.
“He deserves a better mother,” Patrick says.
I hope he doesn’t mean me.
CHAPTER 38
I wake with a gasp from a nightmare of blood and pain. What did I hear? It’s so dark down here, I’ve no idea whether it’s night or day. My throat hurts. I’m still burning hot and freezing cold. I think I’m bleeding. I can feel a trickling warmth between my legs.
I can hear whispering, a woman’s voice, a child’s voice crying. I don’t know if I’m still in the nightmare, or if Mia’s ghosts are here, cold breath on my neck. Patrick’s voice echoes in my head, whispering his awful truth as I lie bleeding on the cellar floor. He deserved a better mother. She was taking so many drugs it was only a matter of time before she overdosed. But I never would have done it if it weren’t for you. As soon as I met you, I knew you’d be a better mother for him. I took him for you, Sarah.
He told me this made me as guilty as him, an abductor: I’d stolen a child. But he’d told me Joe’s mother was dead, that Joe was his and his alone. He lied. He’s always been lying.
I sit up. Someone’s unlocking the door. I scuttle backward, I don’t want to see him—I can’t, I’m not ready, I’m…
It isn’t Patrick who appears in the doorway; it’s Anna. She’s wearing the same clothes I saw her in yesterday, and she’s so still and pale, I wonder if she’s been outside the house ever since, watching.
It was her who put the photo through the door. I know why.
“The door was open,” she says, in a light tone, like she’s just turned up for a cup of tea. “The front one anyway. Hope you don’t mind me just walking in. I saw the lock on the cellar door. I knew you’d be down here. This always was the Walker family’s favorite go-to punishment place.”
“I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say.
She pulls a dirty teddy bear out of her pocket, a tiny thing more gray than blue, worn and fraying. “Do you remember?” she says. “Do you remember when you asked me if I had ki
ds and I said no?” She looks at me, the fake-light tone all gone, and I see she’s crying. “I lied.”
Would I ever have realized if I hadn’t gone looking for that photo? I don’t know. I never knew her. I never knew…“He told me you died,” I say, and see her look down at her wrists, with their rivers of scars.
“I tried,” she says. “I tried really hard for a lot of years. He told me the same lie. He told me my baby died.”
“Died?” My voice shakes. “Died? What do you mean, died?”
I see her taking note of my swollen lip and red eyes, the blood matting my hair, the shaking mess of me locked in the cellar. “He got the photo, I take it?”
“And all the other things you left on the doorstep.”
She smiles. “Took you a while to work it out, didn’t it?”
“Why would I ever have thought it could be you? I thought you were my friend.”
Her smile disappears. “Friends? God, you really are fucking stupid, aren’t you?”
As soon as I’d figured out who she was, I knew the whole friendship had been false. “I don’t understand exactly what you’re trying to do, with the letters, the photo. Was it you watching the house? The night we moved in and after?”
She nods. “Before, too. I watched Patrick all suited up and pleased with himself, moving his perfect fucking family into his perfect fucking house.” She looks down at the teddy she’s clutching. “I was so… not angry, bitter. I was bitter. My life was destroyed. I had nothing left and he just walked away and started a new one, with you, his perfect girlfriend, going on to have the perfect children he always wanted. While I got left with nothing.” She scrunches up the bear and I think she’s going to rip it apart. “That was bad enough. All I wanted to do then was fuck with you. I wanted to make sure your perfect little life was anything but. I know Patrick—I know him far better than you do. I was with him first.”
She walks down two steps. “It fascinated me, the act he was putting on, this Patrick he was presenting to the world. When I knew him, he was still working on it. The Patrick I knew was a lot more volatile. It was still easy to push his buttons. His act hasn’t gotten that good.” She stops and looks down at me. “Did he like the shells I left? I used to collect them. He came to my room in the group home once and I’d done something to piss him off, so he smashed them all, crushed them to dust, and walked out.”
She pushes her hands through her hair so it stands on end. All the things Patrick had said about Joe’s real mother, the drugs, the neglect: Were any of them true? I can see it now, in the shape of her hands, the way she smiles. Joe. My boy who was never my boy but has always been mine.
“He hates that you paint, doesn’t he, Sarah? Hates that you have that talent, that it’s something he doesn’t share. So I pushed you to Ben, thinking it would be enough to have you showing your paintings in the gallery run by his old school friend, but then I saw you liked him, actually fancied the little creep. I never knew him back then, but Patrick told me he used to watch him, follow him around town. You really have odd fucking taste, Sarah. But it was so hilariously perfect—I couldn’t have planned it better. I knew it would send Patrick over the edge when he found out.”
She laughs. “I saw you pick the shells up and take them into the house. I whispered messages into the shells for Patrick. You took my words into the house.” Her smile fades. “I liked seeing Patrick get so mad.”
“What exactly were you trying to do?” I ask her again. “Were you trying to get him so angry he killed me?”
“No. No. I wanted… You stole my life. I thought at first you were just a replacement. Then you told me Joe was seventeen and I realized what Patrick had done.”
I’m shaking my head but scared to speak. “Anna…”
“Stop calling me that. My real name is Eve.”
“Eve. I’m sorry, but Patrick told me Joe’s mother was dead or I’d never have—”
“Never have what? Stolen my son?” she says, coming down the rest of the stairs and grabbing my arm.
Her grip loosens and I wish I had the strength to run.
“We were together from the beginning, Patrick and me. We were stuck in the same group home. He always said it was a mistake being there, and then he was released and I was sent to a shitty foster place… I was so damn jealous. He used to come into Cardiff to meet me and tell me all about his perfect home by the sea, this beautiful house and his perfect parents… I grew up yearning for that. He used to say we’d be together forever and tell stories of the life we’d live.” She breaks off and laughs again. “That photo you found? I thought I’d surprise him once—come and see this wonderful home of his. He was all smiles and introducing me to John, like he was happy to see me, but underneath he was furious. He cut me off for ages, wouldn’t speak to me.”
I don’t know how I didn’t see it before, the sense of familiarity I had when I saw her—she looks like Joe. I always thought he was too much like Patrick and that ate him up, screwed him up, but standing here looking at his real mother, all I can see is my boy. He’d see it too, if he were here now: he’d see it right away. His real mother and his fake mother, the liar.
“Then he came strolling back into my life like nothing had happened. I got pregnant and he moved me in here and, hey, the joke was on me, right?” she says. “It was like a prison, some Hammer House of Horror. His parents, those sick fucks. And him—everything he ever told me was a lie, and when I saw it, saw the reality of his life, he hated me for it. Blamed me for tainting it, for ruining his story. He punished me like they used to punish him. He hid me away, never let me out, never let me see any of his friends again. Locked me in the cellar. I’d be down here and I’d hear the baby crying and he wouldn’t let me out because I’d been bad. He didn’t trust me not to take drugs, or get drunk or fuck around. I was dirty. I was wrong.” She lets go of my arm and paces back and forth.
I try to edge away, toward the stairs.
“I deserved to be punished, he said. And they encouraged him. They gave him the key to the cellar, this fucking punishment room,” she says. “The Patrick I thought I knew—he was a false god. So he dumped me, destroyed me, went out and found himself a new girlfriend dumb enough to believe his lies. I had to get away, you see that, don’t you? I didn’t mean to leave my baby. I didn’t mean to be gone so long…
“I came back,” she says. “But when I came back Patrick told me he was dead. He said I abandoned him and he died because of me. He said all that and I ran and…”
I’m aching, physically hurting, overwhelmed with the horror of what Patrick did to her, to Joe, to me.
“Patrick never let him be mine,” I say. “I wanted to adopt him properly because he told me you died, but he wouldn’t do it. I’ve never even seen his birth certificate. I’ve never…” My voice dies as I take in everything Anna’s said. Oh, God—does Joe even have a birth certificate? No—he must have. Patrick must have registered his birth. He wouldn’t have… My mind skitters over years of evasiveness and lies and all the terrible things Patrick has done.
“Can’t even steal a child properly, can you, Sarah?” Anna mocks.
“I never knew he was stolen. Not then. I would never—”
“Liar.”
“What about Mia? What have you done with Mia?”
She smiles. “Worried I’ll do what you did? Worried I’m going to steal your child, Sarah?”
“Please…”
“She’s fine. I told her a few truths, that’s all. All the lies she’s been told—I told her what you’re really like, what you did.”
Anna takes a step back. “She didn’t want to listen, screamed abuse at me. And Joe… rushing back here to help you. After what you did, he still came running back for you.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s here.”
“What?”
“Joe. He’s here. I saw him come in. He left the door open and I waited, then followed. It was so quiet, I didn’t…” She bli
nks and looks up toward the open cellar door.
I struggle to my feet. “We have to help Joe,” I say. “Patrick will tell him. He’ll tell him—not the truth. More lies. And he’ll hurt him. He’ll try to punish me by hurting Joe.”
She shakes her head. “No, it’s good that he knows the truth. He’ll find out the truth and I’ll get my son back.”
“Anna… Eve,” I say, “that’s not how it works. You think Patrick will tell him the truth? He’ll tell him the same lies he told me—that you were a drug addict, that you neglected him, abused him, that you abandoned him and left him to die. And what will he do then? Look at me—look at what he did to me.”
Anna’s still shaking her head.
“You know him, you know what he’s capable of. He wants to punish me, and Joe, for leaving him. What do you think is going to happen?”
“No, no, no,” she says again. “That’s not what’s supposed to happen.”
“Joe has been self-harming,” I say. “Cutting himself. What do you think it’s going to do to him when Patrick spews his lies?”
“I’ll kill him,” Anna says. “I’ll kill him if he hurts my son.”
ANNA
The corridor is longer. In my dream, in the house that’s still just a house, the corridor is longer and there’s another door. This one is at the end. And instead of running and running and thinking I’ll never get to the end, this time I know I will. And I don’t want to anymore. There’s a door. There’s another door and this one is open.
I get to the end. I don’t want to look, but I can’t help it. It’s blue. The room is blue. Blue for boys. There’s a cot and the cot is white and the cot is empty.
You left me there, in that house that wasn’t yet the Murder House, just a house. You left me there pregnant, living with your parents while you finished university and then started work, coming back at weekends, the odd night in the week.
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