by Kate Helm
‘It’s all right. Sit down for a bit.’
I feel the edges of a chair against the back of my legs, my knees folding as I sit.
‘I thought you were going to faint,’ Oli’s saying. ‘It is terribly hot in here. But there are no bloody windows to open.’
I don’t feel hot. My limbs tingle and my head throbs.
‘I’m so sorry. What an idiot.’
‘It’s absolutely fine,’ Imogen says, smiling her best head girl smile.
Millie is still watching me with those knowing eyes. It’s good that I’m seated now because I’m experiencing it again: the sensation of being back in the moment when I first saw Pip in hospital.
*
It was very different from this: my mother in a ward with five other women, the babies in plastic moulded cribs, a smell of tea and boiled veg. No flowers, too big an infection risk. Instead, balloons and teddies and huge padded cards flanked each bed, the women competing to prove how much her new baby was loved. As if it would protect them in their future lives.
Mum had tried to cover her exhaustion with make-up, but it looked orange in the artificial light.
‘Come here, Suzanne. Do you want to hold your baby brother?’
I was scared of holding him wrong, but Mum was insistent. As she passed the bundle to me, she winced from some unspoken injury. I took the baby then, to make her better.
He was heavier than I expected. The woollen blanket was rough against my arms and the baby scowled, skin deep pink, as though he’d been sunbathing.
‘He’s called Phillip,’ my father said, and I thought it seemed too grown-up for this small person. Phillip was a name for men, not children.
‘Pip,’ Mum said. ‘For now, we’ll call him Pip.’
That was when he opened his eyes. Of course, he couldn’t have recognised his name, though later I wondered if Mum had been calling him that when he was still in the womb, in those moments when I’d caught her stroking her belly, and whispering to herself.
‘You’re his big sister,’ Mum said. ‘It’s up to you to look after him.’
Those big, newborn eyes locked onto mine: huge black pupils, ringed with a strange, slate blue. Babies all have blue eyes, and they can’t focus at that age, I know that now, but I felt he was making a pact with me, to look after each other.
And I broke it.
*
‘You do look a bit ropey, Georgie,’ Oli is saying. ‘Have you eaten? The food here is very good. Or we can share some fizz?’
I blink, to send the memories of Pip away, so they don’t contaminate this room, this new life.
‘Another time,’ I say. ‘I haven’t been sleeping brilliantly. I ought to go, in case I’m coming down with something.’
That’s enough to make Oli recoil slightly.
‘Ah. Oh, yes. That’s a point. Will you be OK to get home? Reception can call you a cab to Victoria.’
‘The walk will do me good. Imogen, I’m sorry. She really is a beauty. And lucky, too. I can’t imagine two better parents.’
She laughs. ‘Let’s see about that in a few weeks’ time. Thanks for coming. We hope you’ll be a big part of her life.’
I blow them both a kiss as I leave the room. Oli follows me into the corridor, but stays at arm’s length.
‘I wasn’t sure whether to mention it, especially here, but . . . I heard something on the grapevine just before Imogen came in. I’d made a couple of calls when you got the book commission, and a mate sent me a text. About Daniel Fielding.’
The incongruity makes me light-headed again.
‘What?’
‘He’s in the prison hospital. He . . . Well, he tried to kill himself. Nearly bled out before they found him. But he’s going to make it.’
Cadmium red, sprayed across cold tiles.
I shake my head, banish the image.
‘You thought he might have been paroled by now.’
‘Couple of months to go, it turns out.’ Oli sighs.
‘What – he spent thirteen years inside, but waited until now to slit his wrists? It doesn’t make any sense.’
Oli reaches out to hold my hand.
‘Look, don’t dwell on it. I only told you because of the portrait thing. In case it comes up when you see Jim.’
‘Unlikely. Daniel seems to be the one topic that’s off-limits.’
‘Georgie, are you sure . . .?’ He shakes his head. ‘Forget it. On to happier things. We want you to be a part of our Millie’s life. Maybe even . . . be her godmother.’ He blinks. ‘Shit. I wasn’t meant to tell you. Imogen will kill me. When she asks you, act surprised, all right?’
Oh, how I’d love to be that person: the cool godmother with the funky seaside flat and the arty job, and the quirky advice that contrasts with Oli and Imogen’s conventional lives.
But I am not the person they think I am. I’m a liar, as unpredictable and damaged as Daniel Fielding.
‘Thank you. That’s an incredible thing to offer. I’ll – I’ll need to think about it.’
It’d hurt Oli too much if I said no now. I’ll let time pass and then let it slide. I cannot be trusted with a child. Because I promised my mother I’d look after Pip, and my promises mean nothing at all.
28
‘I feel really grubby.’ Neena says on Wednesday night, after filing her report for the six o’clock bulletin.
It’s been a day of innuendo and tetchiness, as Cruella brought in her medical expert witness to dispute the prosecution’s. Oli’s junior did the cross, while Oli takes two days of paternity leave, and he did a poor job. I sense the case is slipping away from the CPS.
Worst of all, Charlie is back.
He shouldn’t be. Last night, I paid for an MRI which found nothing wrong with my brain. I thought it was over.
But when I looked up from taking notes this afternoon, there he was, sitting in an empty seat in the press bench. He stayed for several minutes, by which time my concentration was shot to pieces.
‘It’s not been the most spectacular advertisement for British justice,’ I say to Neena.
‘We need several large gin and tonics to wash away the bad taste. And don’t you dare tell me you’ve got a prior appointment with your yogi.’
She’s crossing the road towards the Lamb before I have the chance to argue. In Brighton’s sea of gastropubs and vegan burger joints, the Lamb is unique. It reeks of coastal damp and is only kept afloat by coppers and lawyers and hacks.
‘I envy you living down here, George,’ Neena says, bringing the drinks over to our booth.
We’re boxed in by shelves of old books and dusty ships in bottles that would sell for a fortune to gullible tourists in North Laine.
‘It’s great. Apart from the killer gulls and bin strikes and the rampaging hen parties with their giant inflatable cocks.’
Neena holds up her glass and we clink them together. ‘Do you miss London?’
Does she mean London, or the lifestyle I left behind? Neena and her husband were regular dinner guests when I lived with Oli. Kitchen suppers in Clapham, Augusts in Dordogne, ticking almost every box for a barrister with old-money parents and an artistically leaning partner. We had everything except the offspring.
I don’t miss the suppers or the gites: I never wanted them in the first place. But maybe I miss London. My first refuge: a place where no one cared less, exactly what I needed when I was seventeen, and searching for an escape.
‘George?’ Neena is still waiting for my answer.
‘I miss the Croydon IKEA, maybe. But they say we’re even getting one of those, so there’s no reason to leave Brighton except for the National Portrait Gallery. Or a juicy murder trial.’
‘You have family down here, right?’
People assumed that when I announced the move, and I didn’t bother to correct them.
‘There aren’t many of us left,’ I say. ‘Anyway. How are the twins settling in at Steiner school?’
‘Oh, don’t pretend
you’re interested,’ she says. ‘Even I struggle to fake any enthusiasm for the holistic curriculum. And don’t change the subject either. I want to know what’s going on. Ever since this trial started, you’ve been weird.’
‘I’m sorry about the drawings, it’s—’
‘I don’t give a stuff about the drawings so long as they look vaguely like people and are done by the deadline. But you do care. Your work matters more to you than anything. So when that goes tits up, something must be really wrong.’
I sip the gin: the peppery juniper reminds me of sundowners in Neena’s garden, all the fears and confidences she shared after another round of IVF failed, or her bosses started moaning about the time off she needed for hospital appointments.
Now she’s offering to be there for me.
‘I . . .’
What would she say if she knew even a fraction of the secrets I keep hidden? I don’t know if she’d forgive me for the lies I’ve told.
‘Is it the commission?’
I frown – I haven’t told her about it yet.
‘Oli mentioned it. He doesn’t think it’s good for you.’
‘You’ve been talking about me behind my back?’
‘Well, obviously . . .’ Neena grins. ‘Look, I think he’s being a bit of an old woman about it, if it’s even politically correct to say that anymore. I think the project sounds fascinating.’
‘I was planning to tell you about it, Neen. It’s really interesting so far.’
So I tell her about the book, about Sharon Fielding’s suicide, and Jim’s need to tell me what a failure he is. I mention the derelict children’s home he’s now bought, the nosy neighbour, the oppressive gloom that hangs over Ashdean.
I don’t tell her about seeing the young Charlie.
She comes back with another round of doubles.
‘That sounds so Gothic,’ she says. ‘Hey, if Jim Fielding suddenly confesses to something juicy, I want the exclusive, OK?’
I smile. ‘What would he confess to?’
Neena shrugs. ‘I dunno. Wicker Man style rituals in the woods. Or maybe it was him who murdered both wives and framed his own son?’
‘I don’t think he’s a psychopath. I would have noticed.’
‘Isn’t that the point about psychopaths, that you don’t, until it’s too late?’
She laughs and I join in, though it doesn’t actually seem that funny.
‘The whole thing is a bit off. Jim’s son Daniel was convicted of starting the fire. But he’s just tried to top himself, a few months before getting out. That’s odd, right?’
Neena shrugs. ‘Killers are unpredictable. What was the evidence against him like?’
‘There wasn’t anyone else who could have done it. Daniel was at the scene, prints on the petrol can. Though he did plead not guilty to begin with, then changed his plea for no apparent reason. No motive, either.’
Neena downs her drink, and grins at me.
‘Why don’t you just ask him?’
‘Yeah. It’s that simple.’
‘It’s what I’d do. I’ve got a few prison contacts who could probably find you an only slightly dodgy way to visit Daniel Fielding. I bet you could get him to say something interesting to use for publicity when the book comes out.’
I scoff. I leave the investigations to Neena. Georgia Sage is logical, methodical, unemotional. A spectator, not a player.
And yet, perhaps the visions have changed that, whether I like it or not. At least if I could see Daniel, it’d reassure me that what happened in court was justice, and that any connection between him, me and the visions is merely in my head.
‘Just for argument’s sake, if I did want to . . . What would I have to do?’
‘Well, there’s the official way. Write to him, ask for a visitor’s order, all that jazz. But even if he did want you to visit, it could take months, by which time I guess you’ll have finished the painting.’
‘And the unofficial way?’
‘Smuggling you in the back of the laundry lorry?’ Neena laughs. ‘There are other options, especially if you can grease a few palms. Let me make a call. So long as a) you cheer up, and b) promise you won’t go to Sky News when you get your scoop.’
29
‘Woah, Dexter!’
Dexter the border terrier is no bigger than a cat, but he’s got the strength of an ox when there’s something he wants. And right now, he wants to be on the beach, and he’s pulling me down the steps next to the bandstand, past the children’s playground, towards the water.
A Motability scooter driver swears at me as she swerves out of the way.
‘Sorry, he’s not really my dog,’ I call.
Dexter’s too much for my elderly neighbour so I walk him as a favour.
We head towards the dog-friendly section of the sand, between the two cafes.
Families have taken possession of the entire beach from the Pier to the Lawns, staking little claims with buckets, spades and disposable barbecues that stink like jet engines. We won’t get our city back until September at the earliest.
In September it will be twenty years since I lost my family.
Dexter is dragging me down the final steps, onto the cold grey banks of pebbles the sea has made. The tide is way out, revealing honeyed sand I never knew was there until I moved to Brighton. The dog patters across it, chasing lazy gulls twice his size, leaving prints that last only a second before they fill with water again.
I slough off my sandals and step into the water, so cold still that it almost hurts.
‘Cheeky chappy, yours.’
A fiftyish woman is walking towards me, pointing further along the waterline.
I look up: Dexter is chasing a much larger dog in and out of the surf, silhouetted against the sun. I shade my eyes with my hands. Recognition makes my heart pound.
‘Is he yours? The German shepherd?’
‘She. Yes. Lena.’
I can’t take my eyes off the dog. A shower of memories, images, good days, bad days, rains down on me.
I try to hang on to now: the icy water, beach huts in regulation red and jade, the smell of scorched sausages and beer.
‘You don’t see so many of them these days, do you?’ I say.
‘No. Shame, they’re such lovely dogs.’
‘We had one. When I was a kid.’
Lena’s owner nods enthusiastically.
‘So gentle with children. People who see them as aggressive know nothing about the breed. What was yours called?’
‘Marmite. Because of his colour.’ I laugh. ‘It was the only name me and my brother could agree on.’
I stop. What the fuck am I doing?
‘Lena’s giving your little lad a run for his money.’
The two dogs are haring up and down.
‘He’s not my dog, I just walk him now and then. For my neighbour, she’s not as mobile as—’
‘Nothing against terriers, but once a German shepherd owner . . . You’ll want another one eventually, when you have time. Did yours live long?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Marmite. Did he reach a ripe old age? People say pedigrees are susceptible to all these chronic conditions, but Lena’s eleven, and look at her go!’
A coldness passes through me, even though the afternoon sun is as warm as it was a moment ago.
The sand under my feet shifts, and my head pounds. I remember when the police arrived and all I wanted to know was where Marmite was. They found him hiding at the bottom of the garden, catatonic with fear. My father had spared him as well as me. But I could hardly look after him: an eleven-year-old no one wanted, even without a dog in tow. The social worker told me he was rehomed but for all I know, he was put to sleep.
‘Sorry, but I – I need to go.’ I grope in my pocket for Dexter’s lead. Where is it? Shit. ‘DEXTER!’
The dog must hear something in my voice, because he responds for the first time, trotting back towards me obediently.
‘Hop
e to see you again, it’s nice to meet someone who doesn’t run in the opposite direction when they see poor Lena, they’ve had such a bad press—’
‘Yes. Goodbye.’
I fumble trying to reattach the lead to Dexter’s collar, jam my sandals onto my wet feet, then pull him up the steep bank of pebbles, back towards Brunswick.
‘Shit!’
I miss my footing and tumble back. The woman’s dog is still striding along in the lapping tide, but a boy has joined Lena, the child’s yellow flip-flopped feet slapping on the sand. He’s throwing a bright blue Frisbee, right across the dog’s field of vision.
The dog ignores him completely.
The boy turns.
He is grinning. He mimes throwing the Frisbee in one direction, to fool Marmite, a trick Dad taught us both.
We’ve done it ten thousand times, but Marmite falls for it every time.
‘Pip!’
I know it isn’t him. That it can’t be. And yet . . .
When he throws the Frisbee again, Lena ignores him once more.
Only I can see him.
Oh God. Charlie was bad enough. But Pip too?
I stand frozen. So many years on, my little brother’s absence still hurts the most.
I find myself walking towards him. I blink but he’s still there, so vivid, sun in his face, crescent moon eyes, as though he’s laughing at his latest silly joke. This is how I always remember my Pippin.
The sun disappears behind a cloud and, for just a moment, Pip’s face changes as though he’s glimpsed me.
He’s gone.
My legs buckle, and I collapse onto the pebbles, only just holding on to Dexter. I blink, over and over, willing my little brother to come back, but there is nothing on this stretch of the waterline except the retreating figure of Lena the Alsatian.
I long to hold my brother, smell his boiled sweet smell, feel the energy pulsing under his skin.
As I try to summon the strength to get up, I scan the length of the beach again. Happy families as far as I can see. There’s a buzzing in my ears and a sudden terror turns my blood to ice. Are some of them hallucinations too?
I know Pip can’t be real.
I saw him dead.
But Charlie looked utterly real to me, until I realised no one else could see him.