by M. A. Hunter
My head scans the room again, and I can’t ignore the voice in the back of my mind. There must be a dozen pictures on the wall, but only this one includes Daisy. Where are all the baby photos? Our living room and bedroom have so many pictures of Grace in various states of age and craziness as we endeavoured to capture each of her ‘firsts’, as all new parents do. Where are the pictures of Morag cradling her firstborn in hospital? Or the pictures of Daisy and her first baby teeth?
I don’t recall seeing any photographs on the wall of the staircase, and as much as I try to convince myself that those photographs are probably just waiting to be tacked up, I can’t avoid questioning whether there’s another reason that the first picture of the three of them is less than a year old.
She’s not my mum.
Chapter Ten
Before – Morag
Wiping the last of the plates with the dishcloth, I keep replaying the moment Jess and Charlie left with Grace earlier on. Her demeanour was so different – so cold and detached – almost as if she thought I’d somehow caused her to throw up. I mean, why would she think such a thing? Despite my reservations about her true nature and motivations, I was nothing but pleasant and welcoming, so what gives her the right to judge me?
At least Daisy seemed to have fun; that ought to make her more malleable this evening. It’s been so long since I’ve seen her laugh and play so openly that it almost brought tears to my eyes. Even Angus seemed to enjoy himself, chatting to Charlie. I could see the two of them becoming good friends, despite the gap in their ages, and that’s what troubles me most.
I can’t put my finger on it, but there is something about Jess that I simply do not trust. Inviting wee Grace and her dad into our lives is all well and good, but not if it means allowing Jess in too. I can’t escape the overwhelming feeling that she will be the end of all of us.
‘I want some milk,’ I hear Daisy say sullenly over my shoulder.
‘I want some milk, what?’ I challenge.
‘I want some milk now.’
I turn so I can face her, and show that my corrections are meant as a learning tool, and not because I’m trying to be abrasive. ‘I think you meant to say: please may I have some milk?’
She stares blankly back at me, and in that instant she is almost the spitting image of her mother, with an equal amount of spite. Turning on her heel she storms from the room without repeating her request.
I sigh loudly, closing my eyes and counting to ten as I was once taught to do. Does she think this is any easier for me? For us? It wasn’t my decision to move us down here, away from her friends. Doesn’t she realise I feel lonely and isolated too?
Of course she doesn’t, I remind myself. She’s about to turn six… five, I correct myself. She’s about to turn five. That’s what her doctored birth certificate says, that’s what we’ve told the school, and that’s what we’ve told Daisy. I need to remember that if anyone asks, she is going to be five, and is just a bit more advanced for her age.
I’m pretty sure Grace didn’t notice the disparity in their heights and mannerisms. And who picks up on things like that in this day and age anyway? All children are different, and I’m sure if you compared a six-year-old boy with a five-year-old girl, there’d be little difference, as girls mature quicker at that age (at all ages, my mother would have said!).
Reaching a plastic cup down from the cupboard, I half fill it with milk from the fridge, and carry it through to the living room where Daisy is sulking on the sofa. Angus is in the armchair, eyes closed and snoring, oblivious to the rest of the world.
‘Here you go, Daisy,’ I say with all the restraint I can muster.
She hesitantly reaches for the cup. ‘Th – thank you,’ she stammers, but it’s enough to break through my concern.
‘You’re welcome, sweetheart. It’s important to remember to be polite and courteous at all times. In this house we use “please” and “thank you” whenever we can. I don’t mean to be off with you at times, and I know none of this is your fault.’
I watch her drink the milk silently.
‘Did you have fun with wee Gracie today, sweetheart?’
Her face brightens momentarily. ‘Yeah, she’s funny.’
‘That’s good, sweetheart. You never know, she might even be in your class when you start school next week. That’d be grand, wouldn’t it?’
The sulk returns. ‘I miss my friends.’
I had hoped that today’s jaunt with Grace would stop her thinking back to the last place we’d been, and the handful of friends she’d made while attending the last school.
‘Why can’t I go back to my old house?’
She asks me this question every day, and it never gets easier to answer. I wish I could tell her the truth, but she wouldn’t understand; nobody would. I did what I did because…
I shake the thought away. I’m not going back to that place. Not now. Not ever again. It’s too upsetting, and I want to keep things light and positive in here today.
‘Hey, I was thinking, you and I need to go to the shops and buy you some bits and pieces for school this week. What do you say? Maybe Monday or Tuesday we could go into Harrow and pick up what you need. Your new teacher sent a list of things you’ll need, including wellington boots, and a gym bag. We could make a day of it. Just us girls, leave old misery boots here on his own.’
Angus grunts loudly as if he’s picked up on the fact that I’m referring to him, but his eyes remain closed and the loud rhythm of his snoring soon returns.
Daisy finishes the milk and hands it back to me. ‘Maybe.’
I had hoped a shopping trip would inspire a little more excitement, but I suppose I was being naïve.
‘I miss my mum,’ she sighs, and as she looks up at me, I can see her eyes welling up.
Ah, this again. I’ve tried so hard to get her to think of me as her real mum, but every time it feels like we’re making progress, something happens and she ends up mentioning her.
‘As do we all,’ I say, standing, not prepared to get drawn into that conversation again. Carrying the plastic cup out to the kitchen, I rinse it in what is left of the soapy water in the sink, and place it on the draining board. Then heading to the fridge, I once again reach for the bottle of wine, knowing it will only numb the memories for so long, but hoping it will keep them at bay until the morning.
Chapter Eleven
Now
The ache behind Mike Ferry’s eyes was even more exaggerated beneath the harsh white light of the overhead halogen bulbs, bathing everything in its clean glow. Each of the three unused stainless steel slabs reflected the light back at odd angles, making the glare seem so much worse.
‘You okay?’ Dr Karen Murphy asked, her County Down accent grating.
‘I’ll be fine,’ Mike replied, wishing he’d brought his prescription sunglasses into the lab, instead of leaving them in the car.
It wasn’t the first time he’d had to come to a morgue to hear a forensic pathologist’s preliminary report on a murder victim, but it was the first time he’d been the sole attendee. He could have dragged along Polly or any of the team assigned to him, but there were plenty of other urgent tasks that needed completing. Usually he only accompanied the Senior Investigating Officer to such meetings, listening attentively as the SIO asked pertinent questions. And as he tried to replay any of his previous visits, his mind remained bare of questions.
‘You sure you’re okay?’ Dr Murphy checked again, staring out through her protective goggles. ‘You wouldn’t be the first wet-behind-the-ears copper to hurl at the sight of a dead body.’
He ignored the dig, and nodded for her to start her briefing. It wasn’t the purple tinge of the corpse’s skin, nor the overpowering smell of bleach, that was making his stomach turn.
‘Victim is male, obviously,’ the pathologist began, the blue polythene over-suit crackling as she leaned across the statuesque body, pointing at the gaping wound beneath the chin. ‘Death was caused by a single puncture wo
und to the neck, severing the left carotid artery. There is some evidence of a struggle prior to the stabbing. The bruising to the torso here is quite pronounced, but I would say was caused at least two days ago, so may be unrelated to whatever led to today’s incident.’
‘Or today could have been a continuation of what occurred previously,’ Mike corrected, refusing to rule anything out at this stage. With domestic abuse cases on the rise, there was every chance the victim wasn’t as guilt-free as she was presuming.
‘Quite. The blade made a real mess of the artery and surrounding veins, so he would have bled out rapidly. I imagine the scene was a river of blood, no?’
Mike’s own cheeks drained as he thought back to the visceral crime scene photographs, and the canteen conversation with the first responders; a cold sweat dampened his shirt collar.
‘I would also expect the killer’s clothes would have been saturated in the victim’s blood,’ Dr Murphy added. ‘There was a witness found at the scene, or so I heard?’
Mike nodded. ‘Woman in a wheelchair was at the house when the first responders arrived. Bloody tyre tracks led from the body in the kitchen to where she was discovered in the hallway. Head to toe in blood apparently. Shouldn’t be too difficult to confirm if it was the victim’s.’
‘That’s interesting,’ Dr Murphy said, forming a fist above the victim’s face. ‘I was going to add that the trajectory of the blade looks like it was angled upwards when it struck the flesh.’ She mimed the action. ‘The killer was probably shorter than the victim, or on the floor when the blow was struck. But I suppose he could have been on his knees when it occurred.’
‘How tall is he?’
‘Five feet, eleven inches, so pretty average.’
Mike pictured the victim crawling across the floor towards the woman in the wheelchair, reaching out to her for mercy when the blade flew through the air and hit its target.
‘How long would it have taken him to die?’
She considered the question. ‘The brain goes into shock when the blood supply is cut, starts shutting down, like a fire sale. He would have passed out pretty quickly, knowing that something awful had happened, but probably unable to comprehend exactly what. The speed would depend on how upright he was when he was struck. Gravity is the biggest catalyst with blood loss, so if he was standing, he would have been unconscious within a few seconds. If he was flat on the floor, it would have taken a little longer, but he probably didn’t suffer too much because the brain goes bat shit crazy when it’s under such threat.’
Mike took a breath to steady the bile building at the back of his throat. ‘Any foreign DNA discovered on the body?’
‘You’ll have to check with the team running the forensics. They came in and took nail clippings, and examined the body for trace examples – hair, et cetera – but they neglected to confirm whether they’d found anything out of the ordinary.’
Mike scribbled a note in his book to have Polly chase up the nail clippings. The witness in the wheelchair didn’t have any scratch marks that had been noted when they’d taken her clothes for processing, but that didn’t mean the victim hadn’t managed to grab a handful of her hair as he’d lain on the floor, the life draining from him.
‘Anything else you can tell me about the victim?’ Mike asked, narrowing his eyes against the harsh white light.
‘A deep scratch on his neck, so check your suspect’s nails for skin tissue. Also, I found a birthmark behind his right knee.’ She lifted the white sheet covering his legs, and angled the knee so Mike could see behind it. ‘Might help identify him if there’s no DNA or prints match in the database.’ Returning the sheet, she moved away from the slab, and over to the large counter against the wall.
Mike followed her across, in awe of the array of medical machinery that beeped and whirred, none of which he understood. ‘Stomach contents?’
She looked impressed by the question. ‘Still being processed, but I’ll send the findings across when I know more.’
Mike thanked her, keeping his head dipped as he headed for the door, willing himself not to bring up the salt and vinegar crisps before he made it out into the safety of darkness.
Chapter Twelve
Before – Jess
I’m running around after Grace in the park, when a gentle shaking of my arms wakes me. For a moment, it feels like I’ve fallen, and I start, until I open my eyes, and see Charlie’s exhausted face in the dimly lit room.
‘What time is it?’ I try to ask, my mouth and throat so dry that I croak it rather than enunciate the question properly.
‘Just after seven,’ he says, smiling empathetically.
I glance over at the bedside clock for confirmation. How is it so late? After we got home from Morag and Angus’s house I felt so tired that I told Charlie I would have a little rest. The last thing I recall is reading. The book in question is balanced on top of the bedside clock.
‘I thought I should wake you, or you won’t be able to sleep tonight,’ Charlie continues. ‘How are you feeling? Any more sickness?’
Thankfully, I haven’t thrown up since Morag’s bathroom, and my cheeks burn at the memory. As I replay the afternoon in my mind, it’s like I’m watching someone else picking at the food, before expelling the contents of her stomach all over the patio.
‘Better now,’ I croak, though my stomach is empty, and my throat feels like liquid hasn’t passed along it in months.
Charlie rubs my arm, and this is the first I realise how cold it feels, and shudder involuntarily. ‘I can’t take you anywhere, can I?’ He chuckles. ‘I think we should put some after-sun gel on your face, neck and shoulders just to be safe.
As he mentions each body part, I realise it isn’t my embarrassment that is causing the warmth. I gently press icy fingertips against my collarbone, and flinch.
‘Even with the lights low, I can tell we could fry an egg on that neckline,’ he gently teases. ‘Come on, I’ll help you get out of bed. It’s time for your medication anyway.’
He pulls back the thin sheet, and I’m relieved to see I haven’t had an accident in bed. I must have been asleep for three hours or more, and I haven’t emptied my bladder since we were at their house. As Charlie scoops an arm under my knees, I spot the tell-tale sign of the incontinence pants I don most evenings. During the day I’m more than capable of identifying when I need to go to the toilet. What little feeling I have left allows me to avoid the need for a catheter, which is a blessing, but the signals to my brain are not as strong when I am lying flat in bed, which we discovered very early on.
I don’t remember slipping on the pants before going for a doze, and Charlie must notice my confusion, as he adds, ‘I put them on you. I came in to check if you’d like a tea, and found you zonked out, your book on my pillow. I thought it would be safer if I… I hope that’s okay?’
It’s moments like this that remind me how lucky I am to have a considerate husband. He may be late home from work most days, but he has the patience of a saint. I lean forward and kiss his cheek, as he lifts me out of bed and carries me to my chair. Despite the lack of food in my system, the nap has had a wondrous effect on my energy levels. Charlie offers to push me out of the room, but I politely decline, gripping the side of the wheels and manoeuvring myself through the doorway, into the corridor, and to the right.
‘You hungry?’ he calls out, heading the opposite way to the kitchen.
‘Starved,’ I reply, rolling into the living room, surprised to see the television switched off, and no sign of Grace.
‘How about I whip up my world-famous tortilla Española?’ he asks, appearing in the doorway. ‘Full of everything an unwell patient needs, and kind on the stomach.’
Essentially it’s an omelette with cheese, potatoes, and onions, not exactly cordon bleu, but something he knows how to cook without weighing all the ingredients. Right now I’d eat anything he offered.
‘Sounds delicious,’ I reply, smiling gratefully, as my stomach rumbles.
‘Charlie,’ I say, as he’s turning back towards the kitchen. ‘Where’s Grace?’
‘Oh, I put her to bed already,’ he replies. ‘She was so tired from all that bouncing on the trampoline and tearing around that enormous garden with Daisy. Plus, I figured you weren’t really in any state to sort her and read.’
‘Okay,’ I say, as he disappears towards the kitchen, but there is sorrow in my heart. I know that he’s done a kind thing with the best of intentions, but it saddens me that I won’t get to say goodnight to my daughter, nor apologise for any embarrassment my sickness might have caused.
The living room is so quiet without Grace haring about, and as I roll across to the television remote, I catch a glimpse of the photo frame standing on the coffee table. It’s one of those frames pregnant women receive, allowing them to display the first two ultrasound scans, and finally a picture of the swaddled baby: the first ever photographs of Grace.
We did buy an identical frame for Luke too, but it’s just too painful a reminder to have on display. It’s safely wrapped in the old brown suitcase with all the other mementos that remind me of the short time we spent together. One day I pray I will have the courage to display all of his things, but I’m not there yet.
I lift the frame into my lap, studying the evolution from two lumps and a skinny arm, to two much larger lumps and four spindly limbs, and then the bundle of pink, tightly wrapped in white blankets. The swaddled Grace looks nothing like she does now; her hair was so dark when she was born that we were convinced she would look more like Charlie than me. Over time, the hair colour softened until it resembled my own caramel tones. Her essence is there in the picture though.