by Alice Feeney
It could be a child’s coffin.
I realize that although whatever is shoved inside my mouth has stopped me from speaking, I can still make a noise. The muffled scream that comes out of me sounds so primal that I think that someone or something else must be making it. It seems harder to breathe than it did before, and I wonder how much oxygen there can be in a space this small. I try to kick my feet against the side of the box, and when I scream again, the lid opens.
I blink a few times into the light, my eyes trying to translate the silhouette looming above me.
“Hold on, Baby Girl, we’re almost home,” says a voice that changes in my ears with every distant word. At first the voice belongs to Maggie, then to my brother, then back again. He holds a cloth over my nose. I try to keep my eyes open, but they’re too heavy. I think it is Maggie who holds my hand for a little while before I hear the lid of whatever I am in slide closed, clicking shut.
I am a broken bird again.
I cannot open my eyes or sing or fly away.
I am sinking down farther and farther beneath the surface of a cold black sea.
Seventy-three
I wake up.
My eyes see that I am bathed in daylight, and I realize I am lying on a bed. I try to move and discover that my wrists and ankles are each tied to one of the four bedposts. I look around the room, twisting my head as far as I can, and I’m relieved to discover that I am at least alone. I stare at the crumbling, damp-stained walls, the dirty white net curtains crusted with mildew and age, and the elderly-looking wooden furniture. A faded painting of the Virgin Mary is on the wall in front of me, and a metal statue of Jesus is on the bedside table. I recognize this room. I’m in the house where I was born in Ireland; the sound of the sea in the distance confirms it. I haven’t been here since I was five years old, but the smell of the place transports me back in time, as though it might have been yesterday.
There is a dressing table, covered in a lace doily, with a framed photo on top. It’s me as a little girl, wearing a white blouse, red skirt, and white tights. My hair in the picture is tied in slightly uneven bunches and I look happy, even though I don’t remember ever being especially happy when I lived here. It seems, even at that age, I already knew how to pretend for the camera. There is a mirror on the dressing table, and when I twist my body as far as the restraints will allow, I can see myself in it. I am wearing clothes I don’t recognize. An adult-size white blouse, red skirt, and white tights. My hair has been tied into bunches. Red lipstick is all over and around my lips, so that they look twice as big as they should. The sight of myself like this makes me scream without thinking.
The door flies open and my brother rushes in. He’s dressed as a man, the wig and makeup are gone. He is Ben again, but different.
“There, there, you’re okay, Baby Girl. It was just a bad dream.” He strokes my cheeks and I stare in horror at the alterations he has made to his face.
“Oh, I’m afraid Maggie has gone now. I only dressed like a woman to mess with your head and hide from the police. Why are you looking at me like that? Is it my new face? I thought I’d make myself look more like Jack Anderson, seeing as you find him so irresistible and attractive. Do you like it? Doctors can do almost anything nowadays. Just give them a picture from a magazine, along with a big fat check, and away you go. I was hoping for a nice Jack-shaped six-pack, too, but life made other plans. I’m afraid it’s just you and me again now. Does that make you sad, Baby Girl?”
“Stop calling me that.”
“You said that’s what Maggie called you. I thought you liked it. I thought that’s why you left me and never came back. I made you some breakfast.” He lifts a blue bowl and spoon to my lips.
I keep my mouth closed and turn away.
“Come on now, don’t be like that. It’s porridge in your favorite bowl. Do you remember what I told you when it got chipped? Things that are a little bit broken can still be beautiful.”
“Please untie me.”
“I want to. I really do, but I’m scared you’ll run away again. Do you even remember that day? I never ate chicken again after he made me kill that bird.”
“Why have you dressed me like this?”
“Don’t you like it? If you’re upset about the red shoes, I’m afraid they don’t fit anymore. You could say you got a little too big for your boots.” He laughs at his own joke, then waits, as though expecting me to do the same. When I don’t, his smile vanishes and his whole face seems to twist and darken. “If you don’t like the clothes I got you, I can always take them off.” He roughly pulls up my skirt and starts to roll down the white tights.
“No, don’t! Please!”
“What’s the matter? Once upon a time you used to like it when I took your clothes off. You kept saying you wanted to have a baby together, despite me telling you that wasn’t a good idea. You understand now, right? Besides, it isn’t like I haven’t seen it all before.” He pulls the tights down to my thighs and puts his hand there, moving it slowly up. “It isn’t like I haven’t seen every single part of you, tasted you, been inside you. There is nobody on this earth who knows you better than I do. I know who you are. Who you really are. And I still love you.”
I turn my face away as his hand moves higher.
“You can pretend like you didn’t want it now, if that makes you feel better. But we both know that you did. Having me inside you was about the only thing that seemed to calm those nerves of yours, wasn’t it? Before a big interview, or one of your silly red carpet events?”
“I didn’t know who you were—”
“Didn’t you?”
I don’t answer.
“Had I really changed that much when we first met as adults? Look at you, with your perfect tits and curls and big pretty eyes. You could have had anyone, but you wanted me. Your own brother.”
“What do you want from me?”
“I just want us to be together. That’s all I ever wanted, but it was never enough for you, too busy flirting with directors or actors like Jack Anderson. Well, we’re going to be together now, till death do us part. We might not have very long. I’m sick.”
He climbs on top of the bed and arranges his body around mine. His fingers entwine with my own, and his head rests on my chest, so that I can smell his hair and see the pink skin beneath the beginnings of a bald patch. The weight of his body crushes me, but I don’t say anything. I keep perfectly still and silent until he falls asleep.
As he starts to gently snore, I hear only one voice inside my head, and it is Maggie’s, not my own.
So long as you never forget who you really are, acting will save you.
I silently repeat those words as I lie wide awake. I cradle the idea in my tired mind, rocking it gently, trying not to wake it or him, trying to keep the thought as quiet as possible, scared that someone else might hear it and snuff it out. Right now, it’s all I have left to hold on to. My fear thaws into hate, just enough to allow me to dare to think of a way out of this, to imagine an ending that isn’t my own. I start to rehearse my lines and play out the next scene in my imagination. Life is like a game of chess; you just have to play it backwards and work out all the moves you need to make in advance, to get where you need to be.
The wind starts to pick up, a mournful howl singing through the old house. Outside the window I can see the tree I used to climb when I was a little girl. It looks dead. Its branches sway in the breeze, creaking with effort, and its fingers of twigs tap on the glass like blackened bones.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
It gets dark inside the room before it does outside the window, and when it is almost completely black, I know exactly what I need to say and do.
Seventy-four
I kiss the top of his head.
Gentle, tender, loving kisses.
He stirs on top of me, then looks up.
“Kiss me,” I whisper. “Please.” He kisses my mouth, still half-asleep. The taste of him makes me want to retch, but I kiss him back.
His eyes are open the whole time, filled with confusion, examining my own. As soon as our lips part, I let the words out.
“I always knew that it was you.”
He stares at me for a long time, a frown folding itself onto his brow. “You knew?”
“I pretended not to, but of course I knew who you really were. I remember everything, you know that about me, so how could I forget my own brother?” I can see that he wants to believe me, but that he doesn’t. I need to try harder. “I’ve missed you since you left me. I know what that feels like now, and I don’t want us to be apart again.”
“You want us to be together?” He raises an eyebrow.
“Yes.” I nod.
“Together how?”
“In every way. Now that we’ve come back home, nobody needs to know who we are or what we do. We can start again. We can both have what we wanted.”
He frowns. “You still want to have a child, even though you know who I am?”
“Yes. That’s what I always wished for—a child. It would be a second chance. For both of us.”
He sits up a little. “I’m sorry about the Fincher movie.”
This catches me off guard and I struggle to keep my face neutral. “How do you know about that?”
“Because I know all your passwords, and I read all your emails, and I told Alicia White where he would be. It would have been too much for you. You would have been away too long again.”
I swallow the hate down. “You’re right. You’ve always known what was best for me.”
He seems surprised by my answer, concentration scratching itself onto his face.
“I did have a passport made for you, in your real name, just in case there were any complications with the van on the ferry. We could change the way you look a little, and you could have a life here. A real life. You hate all the attention acting brings anyway—”
I seize on this. The most believable lies always contain fragments of truth.
“Yes! I do hate it, you know I do. I get so scared all the time. A new life, a simpler life here with you, that’s all I want now. Kiss me how you used to. Please.”
He does, still watching me, as though this is a test he is expecting me to fail. He undoes the white blouse slowly, one button at a time, examining my face for any sign of betrayal. Then he reaches up to untie my hands, but I already know he has no intention of doing so. I know him just as well as he knows me.
“No, don’t, leave them tied. I want you to know you can trust me. I’m never going to run away again. I need you. I fall apart without you and I’ve been so lonely since you left.”
He looks confused, then he kisses my breasts, still checking for a reaction. I arch my back and feel him harden against me. He never needs a blue pill when I play my part. His head moves lower and I moan the way I know he wants to hear. He unties the rope around my feet, removes my white tights, and I smile while he unfastens his belt.
When it is over, he unties just one of my hands and holds it, then lays his head on my chest. When I think enough time has passed, I ease my fingers out of his, and when he starts to snore, I reach for the Jesus statue, stretching my arm as far as I can without moving the rest of my body. My fingers make contact with the cold metal. I grip it with all of the strength I have left, then smash it hard against his skull. He whimpers like a wounded animal, blood running down his face and over his eyes, as they stare at me in disbelief. I hit him again.
I know I don’t have any time to waste. I untie my other hand and crawl out from underneath him, fleeing from the room, wearing nothing except the white blouse. I run through the house, trying to remember the layout in the darkness, bumping into things I don’t remember, trying to find the nearest way out. I can already hear him coming after me before I reach the back door. The flaking wood has swollen over time, and I have to yank it hard to force it open.
It’s freezing outside and the howling wind takes my breath away. The tarmac driveway bites my bare feet, and I wrap the open blouse around myself, not that anyone lives close enough to see me in the darkness. Or hear me, if I were brave enough to scream. In my terror I can’t remember the geography of the place, and as I stumble towards what I think is the main road, I realize too late that I am running towards the back of the property and the sea. I hear the door slam behind me.
“Where you going, Baby Girl? I thought you wanted to be together. I thought you weren’t going to run away anymore?” He sounds like the version of himself that attacked me in our bedroom the night before he disappeared; the version of him that I believed might kill me.
I trip and fall, knowing he isn’t far behind.
I’m lost in the darkness. I’ve turned in the wrong direction again, and this time it will mean the end of me, not the beginning.
I hear the whiny sound of wood fighting elderly hinges, and make out the shadowy shape of a shed door banging in the wind. I run for it, choosing to hide from whatever comes next. I can’t see what I’m walking over in the shed, it feels like straw. The metal hooks that my daddy used to hang the chickens on are swinging up above me, disturbed by the storm. Screeching and scraping against one another to produce an animal-like warning. When I look up, I see their silver smiles lit by moonlight.
“Big brother will always find you.” I hear him close the shed door, trapping me inside with him. The gale outside is picking up, and the door doesn’t want to stay shut. It continues to bang against its hinges, as though wanting to set me free. I fall to the floor and crawl away from the sound of my brother’s voice. Knowing there is nowhere left for me to run away to now, nowhere left to hide.
That’s when my fingers find it.
I don’t know what it is at first. My hand slides along the length of the wood until it meets the cold metal end, still sharp enough to cut my finger.
I pick it up and turn around, crouching and facing the sound of his footsteps coming closer and closer. The shed door flies open, and the moonlight illuminates the face of my brother right above me. He’s distracted by the sound of the door, and I swing the ax with every last bit of strength that I have. It lodges itself in the side of his neck, blood spurting out of him as he falls to the floor.
I don’t move.
I can’t.
Nothing moves, except for the steady stream of blood.
I bend down, drawn to the sight of his broken body. With his eyes closed, and all the changes he has made to his face, he looks like a complete stranger to me now. A monster I never knew I’d met. His eyes open, and the hate I see in them makes me grab the handle of the ax once more. I yank it from his partially severed throat, lift it high above my head, and swing it down.
His eyes are still open, as if they are looking at me, as his head rolls across the shed floor.
Six Months Later …
I do not like movie junkets, they are always so melodramatic and distasteful.
One interview after another after another. The same questions, the same answers over and over. The eyes of journalists and their cameras all pointing in my direction, studying me, trying to catch me out, trying to see what lies lurk beneath my surface.
“Last one,” says Tony, before getting up to answer the knock on the door.
The production company has hired a hotel suite for the interviews today. There’s something quite surreal about working on a movie for months, then having almost nothing to do with it until sometimes a year later, when you’re in the middle of a completely different project. It’s as if I have become a time traveler, talking about different characters, in different stories, in different countries all over the world. I know that Jack is in the room next door, and I’m glad he’s not too far away. I’m also glad my agent is here; I don’t think I can do this on my own today. Just the thought makes me furious with myself; I’ve never needed anyone, and I don’t like the idea of needing someone now.
Nobody knows what really happened last year, and I plan to keep it that way.
Jennifer Jones sashays into the room, her came
raman desperately trying to keep up behind her while carrying all the gear himself. I can’t believe I agreed to do this.
“Aimee, darling, you’re looking so well!” She kisses the air on either side of my face, making sound effects with her lips. They are hot pink today and match her figure-hugging dress. “So, I know we don’t have very long, your agent has made that very clear.” She gives him a little wave. “No personal questions, I promise.” I look at Tony, a tiny shard of panic piercing my armor, but he nods reassuringly and I try not to fiddle with the hem of my dress.
“Rolling,” says the cameraman.
Jennifer Jones hones in on me, sharpening her tongue. “So, Sometimes I Kill is a great movie.” Her level of insincerity is genuinely impressive.
“Thank you.” I smile.
“And congratulations, how long do you have left to go?” She stares down at my bump.
“Three months.”
“Wow! And how is the father-to-be?”
He lost his head.
I look at Tony before answering. So much for no personal questions. “Jack is fine.”
“It’s just like a fairy tale, it really is. The two of you meeting on set last year, falling in love, getting married … I noticed that you’ve kept your name … again.”
“Yes, I have.”
“And now a little mini Aimee or Jack on the way, how delightful!”
“I’m very lucky.” I move my hand to my belly, as though wanting to protect my unborn child from Jennifer Jones’s potentially poisonous comments.
“So lucky that you’ve also just finished filming another project, this time with Fincher directing no less! I mean, wow, lady! How do you have the time?”
“Because of my growing bump, we filmed all my scenes in just a few months. It was full-on, but such a great experience, I loved every minute.”