by Mark Lumby
She slept like a dead person. But when I heard the giggling no more, I speculated, or rather hoped, that it had come from Maggie. As I stepped off the bed, I was startled by a small figure to my left. At first, I froze as I saw Sarah as she was all those years ago, as if she had been playing outside in the summer sun, her long dark hair caked to her forehead by sweat, and blinding her sight. Until I was convinced by a second look that it was actually Samuel, and my heart returned from my mouth and back to my chest. I sighed, relieved, and placed my hand on his shoulder.
And then he spoke to me in a voice not of his making. “I’m lonely.” It was as though he wasn’t speaking to anyone at all, this murmur of dissatisfaction. “Its cold up there and you took him away from me.” I gasped, slipped my hand away from his shoulder as though he was some kind of contagious infection. Samuel’s arms hung by his sides, and the colour of the sunrise manifested his face into something else. His eyes stared vacantly. He didn’t seem to own them. He gaped, tongue inconsiderably leaning over his bottom lip, supporting a dumb expression, as he said again, “So lonely.” The sadness was heavy in the air, engulfed like a suffocating blanket of depression. And then he giggled. It wasn’t his voice, though. And throughout, Samuel did not even move his mouth; his tongue peeped over his bottom lip, spittle wetting his chin.
The voice was coming from the base of his stomach as though something else lived in there.
It was Sarah.
* * *
Eventually, Samuel had left the bedroom and returned to his own room. He did this on his own accord. He went straight to sleep without a hiccup. Before I crept downstairs, I checked on Samuel, and for some reason, looked behind his door, too. I was paranoid Sarah was hiding. Perhaps underneath his bed. Or she may still be inside of him. I wanted to wake him, to discover for myself whether this was so. But allowed him to sleep in the fear of hearing her voice again.
I couldn’t sleep. I stared out the kitchen window, my hands wrapped around a cup of coffee failing to provide the little comfort I’d hoped it would. I hoped watching the early morning light change the colours of the garden would distract me enough to put aside the events of Sarah. I cooled the rim of the cup with gentle blows. I hadn’t realised I was doing this, and had no idea for how long, but when I took a testing sip, it was cold. I disposed the rest down the sink. I remembered the image of Sarah standing in Samuels feet, her voice emitting from his mouth like she was inside of him.
They’d be around the same age, the age when she went missing—when she had died.
The clouds were beginning to overwhelm the brightness of day, grey and gloomy overhead, hiding a sun that once showed so much promise. And it was these clouds that delivered a sudden rush of rain to the garden, and made the window all blurry. And though the sound was heavy, it also provided a calmness. Through the blur of the glass the two trees had stood across the garden. There was no sign that the earth had been disturbed when she had been buried there. But then again, it was a long time ago. Grass would have grown over the mound, the burial site flattened over time. The wooden swing where Sarah and I played had decayed, the rope shredding where it desperately held on to its branch like old fingers ready to let go. I hadn’t remembered anything until Paul had mentioned it. Had no memory of playing in this house, either: in that garden, under the tree, pushing Sarah on the swing as she screamed out with happiness. Her soft giggles warming the person it was giving to and anyone else who cared to watch.
Everyone but Paul.
Now I remembered, a memory lost even when we had decided to buy this house. I could see a boy and a girl playing in the garden like on an old VHS video cassette. Sarah clutched her teddy bear,
desperate not to drop him onto the worn grass where we had dragged our feet so many times. The tree was a dome of sunshine from the past, and around it, rain fell onto the present.
I wondered why I had bought this house, contemplated whether I was drawn to it.
An obligation.
Perhaps in some strange supernatural way, I was made to purchase it. Destined even. Because, until I was reminded of Sarah, I had forgotten everything about her. She had become a faded memory in a story told long ago. I had grown up and she had become insignificant. So was this her way of reminded me, showing me what had happened, to allow her side of the story to be told? What was her side? Was I insinuating there was another truth apart from the story Paul had given me?
As I turned my back on the blurry window, I had a sudden urge to turn around again. To look at the garden a second time as if the rain would wash everything away. The swing rocked back and forth on its thin weathered rope, and where the grass had
grown back from years without use, there was a fresh mark of dragged feet where the grass had been freshly broken.
* * *
I suggested to Maggie that she took Samuel to the cinema. I had given her the excuse that moving had been stressful on Samuel, too, and that this would give him a break. When she queried why I didn’t want to go with them, I admitted that I wanted to start decorating and having an empty house would be better. Besides, Samuel was an asthmatic, and I would be making quite a lot of dust. She excepted the excuse with a glimmer of doubt in her eye.
Another easy lie. The decorating, of course, would have to wait another day, and I knew I would have to concoct another story to keep her from not asking questions. They left the house at noon, went to MacDonalds for lunch, and then onto the cinema.
They would be gone for between three and four hours.
I hadn’t put the step ladders away. I grabbed them from behind the bedroom door and took them to the side of the bed. I had some duct tape in hand and a roll of black refuse sacks and the torch I had used yesterday. I stared at them as I placed them on the ladder shelf, questioning what the hell I was doing. This was madness. I must be a fool to go along with Paul’s plan. For all I knew, he might be packing up his belongings right now, disappear for good. Or he might even be gone, Janice all alone in that chair of hers, clicking her knitting needles, oblivious that she was all alone, the tick tocking of a clock and the quiet playing of classical fm keeping her company.
Surely it wasn’t too late to call the police.
I looked up at the closed loft hatch with a deep sigh of what was to come. I hadn’t looked forward to seeing Sarah again, least of all because it was someone’s body, but because that body belonged to Sarah. A girl for whom I had thought a lot about throughout childhood, and now riddled with guilt because somehow, I had erased her from my mind and lived my life as if nothing had ever happened. I climbed the steps, slid the hatch aside, damp warm air striking by face like a sauna. It wasn’t warm outside, and the sun had disappeared behind the clouds so there was no reason for the loft to be warm like this. But it was. And as if hiding behind the mugginess, a dose of decay revealed itself, stinging through my nostrils like burning smoke. It overwhelmed the back of my throat, rancid and rotten where all smell should have dispersed long ago. Absorbed into the wooden beams, the fluids had leaked from her body making the soil around her soggy and wet before evaporating. But yet, it was here, as pungent as if she had been placed there a few days ago.
It lingered on my tongue like a coating of nastiness that needed spitting out, tickled the back of my throat, my stomach churning in protest. It was enough to make me feel nauseous and dizzy, and if it wasn’t for hearing Sarah’s voice oozing from the base of Samuels stomach, I don’t think I would have gone up there. Instead, I would have shut the hatch, and when Maggie had come home, at least one of the rooms would have dust sheets thrown over furniture.
I first put the refuse sacks and duct tape through the hatch, and then I squeezed myself through, the torch bitten securely in my mouth and already switched on. The hatch had seemed tighter than yesterday, and I struggled getting through. At one point it felt as though the hatch was getting smaller, crushing my torso, grazing at my skin the further I pushed like it didn’t want me in. But that was just stupid. How could it? But final
ly, I had made it clear through. And, although I had the torch, darkness was always somewhere around me where the light didn’t shine. It was in those shadows where I could swear there was something watching me, crouching in one of the corners—waiting. But as I skimmed the light in that direction, the feeling of being watched relocated itself to another part of the loft. I needed to seal up Sarah’s sack and get the hell out of here, because the darkness seemed to be compressing, holding onto me, wrapped up in a heavy blanket. It was starting to choke me up inside. As I shone the torch ahead and began to crawl towards Sarah, I glanced behind, at the light the bedroom offered. It appeared so far away, a spot of light that was rapidly fading away. And the more I moved away from it, the heavier and clumsier I felt. My arms were glazed with beads of sweat, tickling at my hairs like scurrying ants. Passed the chimney, still with the feeling that something else was there with me, I concentrated the light onto Sarah. The closer I got the more aware I became of her boney foot sticking through the hole I had made. And as I got even closer, it was clear there was more of the dried up soil that had spilled out of the hole. I was sure that she had leaned more to the left last time I saw her, because she had been wedged under the lower part of the roof where it sloped to the guttering outside. She couldn’t move away from this position unless something had moved her. But now she leaned forward and slightly to the right as though she had moved. But she was dead and that was impossible. Unless someone had moved her.
Samuel maybe, but doubtful. And certainly not Maggie.
Had I just imagined how she was positioned the first time round?
I scooped up the dried earth and tried to push it back through the hole, but the plastic was rotten and only caused the hole to widen and more soil spilled out between the wooden beams. I looked at my hands, a sudden thought that I was touching Sarah’s decayed remains. In this soil was her blood, her bodily fluids. I quickly wiped my hands on my t-shirt I had thrown on from yesterday.
I checked over my shoulder, squinting into darkness first before using the torch, because I did hear something. I called Maggie’s name, thinking she had forgotten something and was in the bedroom searching. I called for her a second time, and then said Samuels name. I waited, the torch focused on the edge of the chimney breast. “Hello?” I said, frowning. There was something, but it was neither Maggie nor Samuel. And just before I had chance to ask again, she giggled. That same happiness I had remembered from childhood. And for a moment, a smile escaped from that memory, then faded when I realised I had nowhere to go. I was backed up into the corner of the loft. Sarah was between myself and the way out. I was still sweating profusely, my mouth dry as sand. I tried to create moisture in my mouth, gather up some spittle and swallow it back down. My eyes were sore like I hadn’t slept in days, and I rubbed them awake until I realised where my hands had been, pulling them away sharply. “Sarah,” I tried to say, but I was sure it sounded slurred. Perhaps it was the dryness of my mouth. “Is that really you?” She didn’t answer, responding only with another playful giggle. Though behind it, I could detect a deep restless sadness. And I began to wonder whether it was laughter after all.
I never realised until I felt a moist tickle down my right cheek, the taste of salt running into my mouth. I was so sad, and angry too. I didn’t know why, but as my eyes stung, and I couldn’t stop the flow of tears, I thought of Sarah and her mischievous giggle. I had to sit down, crossed my legs like a child would, and bowed my head into my hands. I sobbed like I hadn’t cried since I was a child. I didn’t question why I felt this way, but as I sank deeper into depression, there was nothing in my head but Sarah. I closed my eyes tightly, pushing more tears out, and I felt sick in my belly, but a different kind of nausea. I could see in my mind the house where I live now, and where Sarah had lived when we were children. I thought the house was moving until I realised it was I who was moving. I was being pushed on the swing. I felt happy all of a sudden. Very light; the weight of the world free from my shoulders and not a single worry, the way it should be for a child. Where there was once darkness, I was shrouded in warm light. I caught my reflection in the kitchen window, a little girl with long dark hair, legs swinging.
As I was aware of a sensation against my back, I was in the dark again; my tears had dried but eyes still felt inflated. I put my hand on my lower back, felt something move, something furry. I spun around, picked up the torch and shined the light on the refuse sack. A rat scurried across the wooden beams, away from me. The refuse sack bulged just above where I had made the hole, dried soil raining through, and with it another rat dropped out and scurried over my foot. I made attempt to avoid it, pull my leg away, but I only broke through the plaster boards, and put my foot through Samuel’s ceiling. I tried to pulled it out, but it was stuck. And as I kept an eye on the sack, watching for other rats, which there was none, I discovered a piece of chord dangling from the hole. I peeled away the plastic. More dried earth filled between the wooden beams.
I managed to free my foot. I could now see into Samuel’s room as soil poured through and onto his Arsenal Football Club bed covers. But I continued to stretch through layers of plastic, making the hole wider; although it was so brittle the plastic seemed to crumble between my fingers. Sarah’s bones were revealing themselves. And I wondered if this is what Sarah would want me to do. I pulled at the chord until nothing more would come.
She said, “That’s it!” It was as if she was standing right there next to me. I never bothered to turn, although I could feel her presence, cold as ice down my right arm.
And not realising what I was doing, I answered her. “What’s what, Sarah? What am I looking for?” I rummaged into the sack, no longer worried that I was excavating her bones; it seemed the most natural thing to do. I ripped apart the whole front of the sack. Sarah was sat with her knees pulled to her chest. Her skull was down, and rested on her knees; her scalp revealed an ominous crack. Torch in mouth, I lift her chin with my hands on either side of her skull, and there the chord ended, anchored around Sarah’s neck.
From behind, I heard Sarah sigh like it had been her last breath.
* * *
There was no answer when I knocked. I suspected they were in the back. I pressed down the handle. The door opened and I went through. I had called the police before I left, so they shouldn’t be too long. “Paul?” I called out, curiously. I had a feeling in my stomach that I was talking to myself, though. I called his name again. I crept through to the back room, opened the door and Janice was sat knitting a blue jumper. She had a cigarette burning in the ash tray. “Janice?” She turned to me, glaring with her mouth slightly open. Her eyes bulged. “It’s me—I was here yesterday.”
“Are you one of Sarah’s friend? She has so many, you know, it’s hard to keep a track.” She turned away, plucked the cigarette from the tray and took a large drag. Smoke poured around her. She flicked the tip and rested the cigarette into the ash tray. She went back to her knitting. “I do wonder where that girl goes. Take a look in the back garden, dear. She loves that swing. That’s where she probably is.”
“Probably,” I smiled at her, thinking about her tumour, and that she thought she was still living in my house—living in the past. I glanced around the room, through the window and into the back garden. I checked the kitchen, and from the bottom of the stairs, I called out to Janice, “Is Paul around?”
“What was that? Paul? Is that you, dear? I thought you had gone to the shops.”
The shops? “Is that where Paul is?”
“Paul?”
“Yes—your husband.”
“My husband?”
“Paul!” I shouted up the stairs, then ran up two at a time. I searched the bedrooms, the bathroom, checked the utility cupboard. I ran downstairs, went into the back room. I looked at Janice. “He’s gone.”
She placed the knitting on the side, put her cigarette to her lips, sucking deeply, grey smoke oozing from her nostrils. “A disgusting habit, I know, but my only vice.”
> “Where is Paul, Janice? It’s important—real important.”
She stubbed out the cigarette in the ash tray. It still burned and she stared at the smoke when she said, “You know, don’t you?”
Did she know who I really was? “The police are on their way.”
“Good—Paul said it was only a matter of time.”
“You know?”
“Sometimes, when the tumour permits. Sometimes I like it; it makes me the woman I used to be. But then I think of our little girl.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s gone, my dear. I don’t know where, but he had to leave.”
“But—he gave me his word.”
“And he would have kept it, but Sarah wouldn’t keep quiet, would she? I think Paul knew she wouldn’t.” She looked at me, and lifted herself from the chair. “She loved you, you know. Spoke of you all the time. Wouldn’t shut up. I think she was calling you—to help her. To give up her secrets.”
“That idea did cross my mind. He killed her! Did you know that?”
She nodded, eyes shut, and her expression looked strained. She turned her head. As she cried, she wiped her eyes. “I did love her; you have to believe that. But—it was you. He was so jealous of you, of what you and Sarah had. He couldn’t cope with that because she was his little girl.”
“She was my friend. We were children.”
“But Paul didn’t see the innocence in that.”
“I found some rope. It was around her neck.”
Janice agreed. “That’s right. She fell down the stairs. Paul would have you believe it was an accident, but she was trying to hold on to him.”
“You saw this?”
“I watched through a gap in the door. I was scared of him too. His jealousy. It consumed him. Her neck didn’t break. He pulled a tightening chord from the trousers he wore. I watched him stand over her. She was dazed, had knocked her head too. He went to his knees and wrapped the chord around her neck. It took her a while to realise what he was doing. She tried to push him away, her nails digging into his arms. She fought against his face. He had a nasty scratch across his eye for weeks.” She paused like she was lost in her memories. Janice frowned, her eyes creasing in her pain as though she was living through the moments again. She said, “Then her hands fell to the floor. My poor little girl.” She wiped her moist eyes with the ends of her sleeves.