Little Face

by Sophie Hannah

  ‘You knew about his first marriage, then?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Richard paused. He caught his wife’s eye and they both looked at their son.

  ‘Oliver, love, go and do your homework,’ said Maunagh.

  David Fancourt’s little brother shrugged and ambled out of the room, apparently uninterested in the presence of two detectives in his home. Simon, at his age, would also have done as his mother told him without complaint, but he’d have desperately wanted to know what was going on.

  Richard Rae stood in the middle of the room, still rocking back and forth. ‘Where were we?’ he said.

  ‘We only knew about Laura after she was killed,’ said Maunagh, with an exasperated glance at her husband. She sat where her son had been sitting and folded her hands in her lap.

  ‘You’re not in touch with David at all, then?’ said Simon.

  ‘No.’ Richard frowned. ‘Sadly, I am not.’

  ‘Do you mind if I ask why?’

  ‘His mother and I separated.’

  ‘Surely you could still have seen your son,’ said Charlie. There was no way she’d ever let any man keep her away from her kids. Just let one try.

  ‘Well, yes, but it was, you know, one of those things. One doesn’t always know what to do for the best, does one?’

  Simon and Charlie exchanged a look. Maunagh Rae was biting her lower lip. Her face was flushed.

  ‘So you decided it was for the best if you didn’t have any contact with your son?’ Charlie’s voice was sharp.

  ‘He had his mother, who was more than enough of a parent. Vivienne was rather like two parents rolled into one. I was always a bit superfluous.’

  Maunagh Rae sighed loudly.

  ‘It isn’t good for children to be passed back and forth between divorced parents,’ Richard said, more to his wife than to Simon and Charlie, it seemed.

  ‘You must have missed David,’ Charlie persisted. ‘Weren’t you ever tempted to write to him? At Christmas, on his birthday? When Oliver was born?’

  Richard Rae rocked more vigorously. ‘Vivienne and I decided it was best not to confuse him,’ he said. Maunagh muttered something inaudible. Simon wondered if she knew her husband was lying. There had been at least one letter, the one Alice had told him about. He wondered why Rae hadn’t mentioned it.

  Charlie was visibly impatient. She took off her glasses, rubbed the bridge of her nose. It was a signal to Simon. Time for the old trick; the two of them had done it countless times. ‘May I use your bathroom?’ Simon asked the Raes. They both appeared relieved, as if any other question he might have asked would have been more difficult to answer. Maunagh offered him a choice of three. He chose the nearest one, which turned out to be bigger than his own bedroom, and draughty. It also contained a sculpture of a curvaceous naked woman’s torso. Simon couldn’t imagine why anyone would want such a thing in their home.

  He locked the door, took his phone out and rang Charlie’s mobile. ‘Charlie Zailer,’ she said. Simon said nothing. ‘Yes. Excuse me a moment, I’ll have to go outside and take this call,’ he heard Charlie tell the Raes.

  He waited until he’d heard the front door shut, then flushed the toilet for the sake of authenticity. He tiptoed back into the hall, approached the lounge door as quietly as he could, and listened. Maunagh Rae was already in full flow.

  ‘. . . can’t bear to sit here and listen to you defend that woman!’ she was saying angrily. ‘Why did you tell them that you and Vivienne agreed it would be better if you kept out of David’s life? You didn’t agree at all! She drove you out and then poisoned his mind against you!’

  ‘Love, love, calm down. I’m sure it wasn’t quite like that.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Maunagh’s voice rose to a higher pitch. ‘It bloody well was like that.’

  ‘It’s all in the past now, anyway. Don’t get angry. There’s no point in raking over all that unpleasantness.’

  ‘It was clear from David’s reply to your letter about Oliver that he’s been taught to hate you . . .’ Maunagh Rae sounded like a woman for whom raking was still very much on the agenda.

  ‘Love, please, I’ll get upset . . .’

  ‘Well, maybe you should be upset. Maybe you should be bloody angry, like I am! David adored you and Vivienne couldn’t handle it, that’s the truth. She had to be the only one. If a woman like her were having her children now, she’d use donor sperm. She’s a megalomaniac, and you know it! So why don’t you bloody well say so when you’re asked?’

  ‘Love, what good would it do? It’s got nothing to do with David’s wife and daughter being missing . . .’

  ‘You’re a moral jelly, that’s what you are!’

  ‘I know, you’re right, love. But come on, now, you know that if I knew anything about Alice or the baby, I’d tell them.’

  ‘You know what happened to David’s first wife,’ said Maunagh. Out in the hall, Simon raised his eyebrows. He froze, waiting. He had an odd feeling of unpreparedness. ‘She was murdered, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Maunagh.’ Richard Rae sounded faintly irritated. From what he’d heard so far, Simon doubted the man could manage full-blown anger. ‘One can’t accuse people of murder willy-nilly. You’re not being fair.’

  ‘Fair! God, it’s like talking to a sponge! Why don’t you tell them you wrote to David about Oliver?’

  ‘It can’t be relevant. They’re looking for Alice and the baby. How could my letter be important?’

  ‘You’d do the same again, wouldn’t you?’ said his wife bitterly. ‘If we split up, and I decided to be a bitch and keep you away from Oliver, you’d bloody let me. Is anything worth a fight, as far as you’re concerned?’

  ‘You’re being silly, Maunagh. There’s no need for this. We weren’t arguing before the police arrived, were we? And nothing’s changed.’

  ‘No. Nothing ever does.’

  ‘Come on, now . . .’

  ‘Do you know the name of Oliver’s form teacher? Do you know what his favourite subject is?’

  ‘Love, calm down . . .’

  ‘It was only because of me that you wrote to David at all! I wrote the bloody letter for you, word for word. You copied it out! If I’d left it up to you, you wouldn’t even have tried, and he’s Oliver’s only brother, the only one he’ll ever have . . .’

  Simon wondered what would have happened if his own parents had separated. Kathleen would have wanted her son all to herself. Would his father have fought for equal rights?

  He couldn’t listen to any more of Maunagh Rae’s recriminations. He was about to knock on the door of the lounge when he became aware of a presence behind him. He turned and saw Oliver on the stairs, now dressed in jeans that were too big for him and an Eminem T-shirt. ‘I was just . . .’ Simon fumbled for an excuse to explain his eavesdropping. How long had the boy been there? Maunagh and Richard Rae had made no attempt to lower their voices.

  ‘Mrs Pickersgill. That’s the name of my form tutor,’ said Oliver, sounding, for a moment, much older than he looked. ‘And my favourite subject’s French. You can tell my dad if you like.’

  29

  Thursday October 2, 2003

  I am sitting in the rocking chair in the nursery, with Little Face on my lap, giving her a bottle. Vivienne suggested that I should. David’s face turned puce with anger, but he didn’t dare to object. I was appropriately effusive in showing my gratitude and made sure not to appear at all suspicious. It feels like a long time since I took anybody’s kindness at face value.

  Vivienne is changing the cot sheet, watching me without looking at me, to check that I am behaving appropriately. Little Face stares up at me every now and then, her expression intent and serious. Experts say newborns are not able to focus until they are about six weeks old, but I don’t believe that. I think it depends how clever the baby is. Vivienne would agree. She is fond of telling the story of her own birth, of the midwife who said to her mother, ‘Uh-oh, this one’s been here before.’ I can
not imagine Vivienne ever looking, or being, anything but completely focused, even as a baby.

  Little Face keeps turning away from her bottle. She wriggles on my knee. Her mouth twists into a crying shape, though no sound emerges.

  Having dealt with the cot, Vivienne throws open the doors of Florence’s wardrobe. She starts to empty the piles of clothes into a large carrier bag. I watch the Bear Hug babygro fall in, the sleep suit with the pink hearts on it, the red velvet dress. One by one Vivienne pulls the garments from their hangers. It is the most brutal sight I have ever seen, and I flinch. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m going to put Florence’s things in the attic,’ says Vivienne. ‘I thought I’d save you the job. It’ll only upset you to look at them if they stay here.’ She smiles sympathetically. A feeling of nausea swells inside me. Not knowing where Florence is or what might have happened to her, Vivienne is willing to empty her wardrobe as if she no longer exists. ‘David led me to believe that you didn’t want the baby to wear Florence’s clothes,’ she adds, as an afterthought.

  ‘No. Don’t.’ I cannot keep the anger out of my voice. ‘Little Face has to wear something. I only said that at first because I was upset. It was a shock to see her in Florence’s babygro, that’s all.’

  Vivienne sighs. ‘I’ll pick up some second-hand things from a charity shop in town. Little Face, as you and David both insist on calling her, can wear those. I’m sorry if I sound cruel, but these clothes belong to my granddaughter.’

  I have to press my lips together to hold in the scream that fills my mouth.

  Little Face begins to cry, just a whinge at first but it rises to a high-pitched wail. Her face turns red. I have never seen her like this before, and I panic. ‘What’s wrong with her? What’s happening?’

  Vivienne looks over at us, unperturbed. ‘Babies cry, Alice. That’s what they do. If you can’t cope with it, you shouldn’t have had one.’ She turns back to the wardrobe. I lean Little Face over my hand and try to wind her by patting her back, but she only howls louder. Her misery distresses me so much that I begin to cry too.

  David appears in the doorway. ‘What have you done to her?’ he yells at me. ‘Give her to me.’ Vivienne allows him to snatch her from my hands. He holds her small body close. Her cheek squashes out against his shoulder, and she is instantly silent, content. Her eyelids slide closed. Together, a perfect image of father and child, they leave the room. I hear David murmuring, ‘There, there, little darling. That’s better, isn’t it, now that Daddy’s here?’

  I wipe my face with the muslin square in my hand, the one that I tucked under Little Face’s chin to catch stray drops of milk. Vivienne stands over me, hands on her hips. ‘Crying is the only way babies can communicate. That’s why they do so much of it. Because they can’t control themselves.’ She pauses, to make sure I take in her full meaning. Then she says, ‘You know I disapprove of emotional incontinence. This is a difficult time for all of us, but you’ve got to try to pull yourself together.’

  Bit by bit, my soul and ego are being destroyed.

  ‘Whatever you might say, I can see that you are very attached to . . . Little Face.’

  ‘She’s a tiny baby. It doesn’t mean I’m trying to pretend she’s Florence, or to substitute her for Florence. Vivienne, I’m as sane as you are!’ She looks doubtful. ‘The police have said nothing about any babies being . . . you know. Found. I’m sure we’ll get Florence back. You must know that’s all I want. And for Little Face to be reunited with her mother, whoever she is.’

  ‘I have to go and pick Felix up from school. Do you think you can manage without me for an hour or so?’

  I nod.

  ‘Good. I’ll tell David to make you some food. I assume you haven’t eaten today. You’re starting to look gaunt.’

  My throat closes, stopping my breath. I know that my stomach would protest violently against anything apart from water. Silently, I watch Vivienne leave the room. Alone again. I sit and cry for a while, I don’t know how long. My tears run out. I feel empty, like a void. I have to remind myself to think, to move, to continue to exist. I would not have imagined, if someone had asked me before all this happened, that I could fall apart so quickly. It has been less than a week.

  I know that I must go downstairs, if Vivienne has told David to make me some food. I am about to, and then I remember that David’s Dictaphone is still in my trouser pocket. I listened to the tape in the bathroom a while ago, and there was nothing of any significance on it, just a business letter David had dictated.

  I cannot bring myself to go into his study. It is inconceivable to me that I was ever brave enough to do so. Instead, I put the Dictaphone in David’s wardrobe, in the pocket of a pair of trousers he hasn’t worn for ages. I sit down in front of the dressing-table mirror and brush my hair, not because I care how I look but because it is something I used to do every day before my life was ruined.

  I walk downstairs, stumbling occasionally on my way down. My brain feels hazy and frayed, as if it is slowly decomposing. My mental fog is broken every so often by a coherent thought. One of these is that it is better to seek David out than to wait to be summoned. If he has some horror in store for me, I would rather face it straight away, get it over with.

  I find him in the kitchen with Little Face, who is lying by the door on her Barnaby Bear changing mat, kicking her legs vigorously. Radio Three is on in the background, or maybe it’s Classic FM. Those are the only stations David ever listens to. The room is smoky, full of the smell of fried meat. I try not to gag. Tonelessly, David begins to recite, ‘Fried eggs, bacon, sausages, beans, mushrooms, tomatoes, fried bread.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Civilised people say pardon. That’s what’s on the menu. You didn’t have breakfast, so I thought you could have it now. Sorry, would you prefer something else? Smoked salmon? Caviar?’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ I say.

  ‘Mum told me to cook you something, so that’s what I’m doing.’

  I notice that my handbag, car keys and phone are on the counter under the window; Vivienne said she would put them there. As reliable as ever.

  ‘It’s ready,’ says David. ‘I’ve even warmed the plate for you.’

  I thank him. His face creases in irritation. It is an unpleasant task, to try to imagine the thoughts of a sadist, but I force myself to do so, and wonder if he would prefer me to be defiant, at least initially. That way he can watch my spirit crumble in the face of his cruelty. Perhaps that is what secretly thrills him.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to eat any of it,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry. I . . . I don’t feel well enough.’

  ‘Try,’ says David. ‘Have one baked bean, one mushroom, and see how you feel after that. Maybe it’ll stimulate your appetite.’

  ‘All right.’ I sit at the table and wait for him to put the food down in front of me.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he says.

  ‘I thought you wanted me to try to eat.’

  ‘Not there, silly.’ He laughs. I turn and see that he has put the plate down on the floor, next to the kitchen bin. ‘Kneel down and eat it,’ he says.

  I close my eyes. How can he do this in front of Little Face, a tiny, blameless baby? Her presence, her oblivious background gurgling, makes what is happening so much worse. ‘Please, David, don’t ask me to do that.’ I watch him swell with satisfaction. I’m not sure who I am appealing to, David the tyrant or the reasonable, kind man that I used to be married to.

  ‘You’re not housetrained,’ he says. ‘You can eat on the floor, like an animal.’

  My mind shrinks in on itself. If I refuse, David will be only too glad to remind me that it is within his power to separate me from Florence for ever. I don’t know if this is true, or if he would really do it, but it would be foolish of me to assume that his bark is worse than his bite. I have been naïve for too long.

  I kneel down beside the plate of hot food. Steam rises from it, wetting my face. The smell revolts me and
I nearly vomit. ‘I can’t, I’ll be sick,’ I whisper. ‘Please, don’t make me.’

  ‘You’re trying my patience, Alice.’

  I pick up a mushroom with one hand.

  ‘Put that down!’ David shouts. ‘Don’t use your hands. Put them behind your back. Use your mouth only to eat.’

  I am so shaky, I doubt that I can do as he asks without losing my balance. When I tell him this, he says, ‘Try,’ in a tone of mock-encouragement. I take a deep breath and lower my face, retching at the smell of greasy food. Somehow I manage to stop myself from vomiting up the bile in my stomach, but I cannot control my tears. They drip off my chin and land on the plate.

  ‘Eat,’ David orders. I want to do as he says, because I know that I have to and I want it to be over, but I physically cannot put my face in the orangey-yellow mess of beans and eggs. I look around, see Little Face’s pink kicking feet, the bristly brown mat next to the kitchen door, chair and table legs, David’s brown Italian leather shoes against the white gloss skirting boards. Everything looks so normal and correct. The sound of an orchestra playing something that I know only as the theme tune to the film Brief Encounter fills the room.

  I look up at David, helpless and desperate, sobbing hard. His face scrunches with anger. He marches across the room towards me, his hand raised. In that instant I am convinced he is going to beat me up, maybe even kill me. I recoil from him and topple over. As I fall on my back, my shoulder catches the side of the plate and it flips up in the air. The cooked breakfast slop lands on my face, neck and chest, its heat burning my skin through my jumper.

  ‘Please don’t hurt me!’

  ‘Hurt you? Alice, I have no intention of laying a finger on you.’ David looks down at me as I lie on my back, howling. He feigns shock. ‘I was just going to swat that fly on the bin, but it’s gone now.’

  I sit up, brush off as much food as I can.

  ‘I’m not a violent man, Alice. You’ve tested my patience to the limit with your lies and scheming over the past week, but I’ve kept my temper. Many husbands wouldn’t have been so tolerant. You’re lucky to be married to me. Aren’t you?’