by Ali Land
You said nothing as you closed your bedroom door, it was one of those nights. You could go days without talking to or acknowledging me then swallow me up, my skin, my hair, in minutes, anything you could grab. I said goodbye that night, whispered it. I think I might have also said, I love you, and I did. Still do, though I’m trying not to.
When I went upstairs I leant into the corridor wall outside the room opposite mine, needed to feel something solid against me, yet I soon moved. I heard them. The voices of tiny ghosts bleeding out of the wall. Swooping. Plummeting. A no man’s land.
She’ll be there, waiting, the girl who gave Phoebe the finger, I know she will. I’ve seen her a couple of times since that first night. I turn the corner into my road, there she is, sitting on the wall. I feel something in my tummy, a squeeze, not fear. Pleasure, I think. Excitement. She’s small, alone. I haven’t spoken to her yet but I’m working on it. As I walk closer she begins to swing her legs up and down, hits the bricks of the wall that surrounds her estate opposite my house with alternating thumps. Her right eye, bruised and swollen, only open a little. A football strip, all blue. Her open eye stares at me as I walk past. It blinks, blinks again. A one-eyed Morse code. I pull the crisps out, the bag opens with a pop, it knows it has a part to play. I glance at her. Her good eye looks away, a chirpy whistle starts up, she’s all freckles and aloof. I shrug, cross the road. Three. Two …
‘You got anything to eat?’
One.
I turn to face her – ‘You can have some of my crisps if you like?’
She looks around, over her shoulder, as if checking we’re alone, then asks, ‘What flavour are they?’
‘Salt and vinegar.’
I walk towards her, hold the packet out. If she wants them she’ll have to leave the wall. She does. Quick as a flash, takes them, sits back down. Her scuffed trainers resume their dance: thump, thump, right, left. I ask her name but she ignores me. It takes only minutes, she shovels, more than eats the crisps. Devours them. Tips up the packet so it covers her mouth, taps it on the bottom, the remaining crumbs, gone. The empty bag floats to the ground. She’s older than she looks, twelve or thirteen maybe. Small for her age.
‘You got anything else?’
‘No, nothing.’
She blows a saliva bubble which is both disgusting and fascinating. The way it forms on her lips, the way she sucks it back in. Bold, yet babyish, all at once. I want to ask her why she sits here so often on her own, why a wall on a street is better than home, but she leaves. Swivels her legs over the back of the wall, walks away, towards one of the tower blocks. I watch her go, she knows somehow, feels my stare. Turns round, gives me a look that I think says, what’s your problem. I smile in response, she shrugs over her shoulder at me. I try again.
‘What’s your name?’ I call out.
She stops walking, turns her body round to face me, scuffs one of her trainers into the ground. Once. Twice.
‘Who wants to know?’
‘Milly, my name’s Milly.’
She scrunches her eyes, a flash of uncertainty across her face, but answers anyway.
‘Morgan,’ she says.
‘That’s a nice name.’
‘Whatever,’ she replies, peels into a jog and is soon out of sight. As I cross the road I roll the letters of her name up and in, over my tongue and lips, and while I search for the keys in my bag I can’t help but feel pleased. I stood up for myself with Clondine and Izzy, and spoke to the girl on the wall. I can do this, I can do life after you.
6
I’ve managed to keep your night-time visits a secret so far.
The fact you come as a snake, underneath the door. Up into my bed. Lie your scaly body next to mine, measure me. Remind me I still belong to you. I end up on the floor by morning, curled in a ball, the duvet over my head. My skin is hot, yet inside I’m cold, it’s hard to explain. I read in a book once that people who are violent are hot-headed, while psychopaths are cold-hearted. Hot and cold. Head and heart. But what if you come from a person who’s both? What happens then?
Tomorrow, Mike and I are due to meet the prosecution lawyers. The men or women recruited to take you down. Throw away the key. Do you sit in your cell and wonder why? Why I left when I did when so many years had already gone by? There are two reasons but only one I can talk about, and it’s this.
Sweet sixteen, mine. It’s not until December though you began planning it months ago, but not in the way a mother should. A birthday you’ll never forget, you said. Or survive, I remember thinking. Emails started to arrive from others you’d met. The dark belly of the internet. A shortlist. Three men and a woman, you invited them to come, share in the fun. Share me. It was to be my birthday, but I was the present. The piñata to punch. Sweet sixteen, you said, you couldn’t wait. The words like sugary treats in your mouth. Lemons for me. Bitter and sour.
I feel the beginnings of a migraine as I get ready for school, another little gift left over from you. The buttons on my shirt defy my fingers, like trying to thread a needle with chopsticks. It takes me longer than usual, and by the time I pass Phoebe’s room, the door’s closed and I wonder if she’s already left. I haven’t seen her since yesterday in the locker room at school. I hope she and the girls have had enough ‘fun’ with me now.
Three flights up we are, thick cream carpet. Changes to tiles once you reach the hallway below. I misjudge the last step and trip, landing on the cold marble. I must have called out because Mike comes out of the kitchen.
‘Easy now,’ he says. ‘Let me help you.’
He moves me on to the bottom step of the staircase, sits next to me. Stupid, I tell him. ‘Not to worry,’ he replies. ‘Easily done, the house is still new to you. You’re shading your eyes from the light, is it a migraine?’
‘I think so.’
‘We were told to expect these. It’s probably best if you stay off school, certainly for the morning anyway. Try and sleep it off.’
My first instinct is no, but then I remember where I am – and where you are. Sometimes you’d take a Friday off work, a long weekend. You’d call school, tell them I was sick, a stomach bug or flu. Three whole days, just me and you.
‘The kettle’s boiled, I’ll make you some tea then back to bed, okay?’
I nod, he helps me up. I ask him where Phoebe and Saskia are, they’ve gone already, he explains.
‘Which reminds me, Sas left you a present in the kitchen.’
The present is small, shaped like a square. Wrapped in blue paper, a red bow.
‘Open it if you like.’
The gesture is kind. I sit down at the table and as I watch Mike make the tea, the gentle way he lifts things, places them down, I’m flooded with gratitude. Not many people would take someone like me in, not many people would want that responsibility. That risk. I fight back the tears but they win. Land on the lilac tablecloth. Mike notices as he brings the mugs over, sits in the chair next to me. He looks at the unopened present in my hand, tells me not to worry. Take your time, he says, drink the tea, there’s some honey in it, the sweetness will help.
He’s right, and the warmth.
‘I know it’s only Tuesday but we should meet later, if you’re up to it. I think you’d benefit from some time today, what do you think?’
I nod, though I want to say no. I don’t want him to trample, wade through my inner thoughts and desires. He’d be disgusted to know I miss you, am missing you now as I sit here. When I opened the curtains this morning I noticed a bird box in the neighbours’ garden and it reminded me of the time we built one together. You used a hammer to bang in the nails. When I asked to have a go, you stroked my hair, said yes, but be careful with your fingers. The nurse in you, thinking about preventing pain rather than causing it, for once.
‘Good to see you’ve got some colour back. Why don’t you head up to bed and I’ll wake you later?’
I manage to sleep for the rest of the morning. Mike works from home for the day and we have lunch toge
ther, soup prepared for us by Sevita the housekeeper, and ham sandwiches. Rosie sits with her nose almost touching my leg, dewy brown eyes boring into my side. I slip her a piece of meat while we clear the table.
The lighting is kind in Mike’s study, two lamps, nothing on overhead. He explains he’ll drop the blinds but keep the shutters open. The blinds have elaborate purple pom-poms at the end of their ropes. He follows my gaze, smiles.
‘Sas. She’s the artistic one, not me.’
He walks to his desk, closes the lid of his laptop, takes his glasses off. Take a seat, he says, pointing to the armchair I sat in last time. I count as I sit, backwards from ten, try to calm my breathing. He picks up a cushion from one of the other armchairs. Blue velvet. Walks over to me, places it on the arm of the chair I’m sitting in. Smiles. He sits down opposite me, crosses his legs, interlocks his fingers, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair.
‘I’m sure tomorrow’s been on your mind, the meeting with June and the lawyers. You remember June, don’t you? She’s your Witness Case Officer, you met briefly in hospital.’
I nod.
‘We’ll be discussing a few things, but primarily the fact you might be cross-examined on your evidence.’
I reach for the cushion, hold it into my body.
‘I know this is hard for you, Milly, and I know how painful it was giving a statement against your mother in the first place, but whatever happens we’ll get you through it.’
‘What will they want to ask? Will I have to tell them everything all over again?’
‘We’re not a hundred per cent sure yet, the prosecution lawyers are working on finding out what the defence are up to.’
I wish I could tell him it’s not the defence they need to worry about, it’s you. The hours and hours spent every day, confined to a cell, you’ll be putting them to good use. I know you will. You’ll be thinking up a plan.
‘You look troubled, Milly. What are you thinking about?’
That if I’d gone to the police sooner, Daniel, the last boy you took, would still be alive.
‘Nothing really. I was just wondering if the lawyers that are defending my mum have been given a copy of my statement?’
‘Yes, they have, and likely that’s what you’ll be questioned on. You’re the key witness in your mother’s trial and the defence will look to find ways to undermine your statement, try and create reasonable doubt around certain events.’
‘What if I mess up, or I say the wrong thing?’
‘I don’t want you to worry about that at the moment. We’ve plenty of time to prepare if you are called upon. Hopefully we’ll find out a bit more tomorrow. But what’s important here is that you remember you’re not the one on trial. Okay?’
I nod, say yes. For now, I think.
As soon as Mike starts I realize he’s better than the unit psychologist, or maybe I’m just more comfortable with him. I want to move on from the past. I do. Yet even so, I try to resist relaxing into the session. My hands clench into fists, he tells me to unclench, concentrate on breathing. Close your eyes, rest your head on the back of the chair. He asks me to describe my safe place, I tell him. His voice in response, low. Steady. Soothing. Breathe in, and out. He moves through each limb of my body, asking me to tense and relax each one. Again. And again. Heavy now, full. Let your mind go where it wants, where it needs to.
My safe place dissolves. Other things come into the foreground. Images sharpen. My mind cycles, swims against them, tries to reject them. A room. A bed. Darkness, the outline of trees dancing manic patterns on the ceiling. The feeling of being watched, a dark shadow behind me. Beside me. Breath on my neck. The bed depresses as the shadow lies next to me. Too close. It doesn’t speak, it moves all around me. Over me. Bad. Worse. Mike’s voice is far away now, I can hardly hear what he’s saying. I keep going back to a place I don’t want to, the room opposite mine, the sound of children crying. You laughing.
He asks me what else I can see, or hear. A pair of yellow eyes glowing in the dark, I tell him. A black cat, the size of a human, a sentry by my bed, sent to watch, to keep me there. Extending and retracting its claws.
‘I don’t like it there, I want to leave.’
Mike’s voice, clearer now, tells me to go back to my safe place. Walk towards it, he says. So I do. The hollow in the old oak tree, behind our house. I used to climb into it, the heart of the tree, when you worked weekends and didn’t always take me with you, watch the way the light changed over the field. Crimson and orange.
Safe.
‘When you feel ready, open your eyes, Milly.’
I stay still for a minute or two. A feeling of wet under my chin. I open my eyes, look down at the cushion, tie-dyed with tears, the velvet mottled. I look over at Mike. His eyes are closed, he pinches his fingers above the bridge of his nose, massages a little. Making the switch from psychologist to foster dad. He opens his eyes when I speak.
‘I must have been crying.’
‘Sometimes remembering does that to us.’
‘Isn’t there another way?’
Mike shakes his head, sits forward in his seat, says, ‘The only way out is through.’
I open Saskia’s present when I get back to my room. The first thing I see inside the small square box is: gold. A chain with a name. Milly, my new name, not Annie. I run my fingers over the edges of the letters, the sharp points, wondering how much a name can change a person, if at all.
I finish off an essay for French and am about to do some drawing when I hear Phoebe’s door open, close again, footsteps on the stairs as if she’s dumped her stuff and gone back down. I follow a few minutes later. I want to see if Saskia is home so I can thank her.
I find her in the snug with Phoebe, a cosy room full of soft sofas, a cinema screen mounted on the wall. The TV’s on but Saskia flicks it off when I come in. She cradles a drink against her chest. The clink of ice cubes, a heavy short glass, crystal. A slice of lime. Phoebe’s slouched over her phone, doesn’t look up.
‘Hi, Milly, are you feeling better? Mike said you had a migraine.’
‘Much better, thanks, and thank you for my present.’
I hold up the necklace, she smiles, foggy. She likes her drink strong and, when it’s mixed with the tablets she takes, lethal. Phoebe looks up, pushes herself off the sofa, walks over to me.
‘Let me see,’ she says, but doesn’t wait for me to show her, grabs the chain from my hand. Saskia untucks her legs, puts the glass down on the low table in front of her, piles and piles of interior design magazines. She’s about to stand up, I think, but before she can Phoebe turns towards her and says, ‘Unbelievable. Special you said, you had mine made for passing my exams last year. What’s she done that’s so special?’
‘Phoebs, don’t. It’s a welcome present, it was supposed to make –’
‘I know exactly what you meant to do.’
Phoebe turns back to face me, says, ‘Don’t think you’re special, because you’re not.’ She thrusts the necklace into my chest, shoves past me.
I turn to Saskia and say I’m sorry, but she says it’s her fault not mine, then picks up her drink, finishes it, sinks back into the sofa and stares at the blank television screen.
7
The next morning I try to ignore the nerves I feel about Phoebe, the way she views me as another unwelcome intruder, the newest on a long list of foster kids. As I go down the stairs I vow to find a way to make it better, make it work with her. I pause on the first-floor landing, listen to the conversation going on between her and Mike.
‘Why does she get to miss school again?’ she asks. ‘Why don’t I?’
It’s obvious by the jovial, teasing way Mike responds to her that Miss Kemp hasn’t told him about the poster on my locker. She must be dealing with it in her own way. Handling it ‘on the quiet’.
I feel through my shirt for the ridges across my ribs. The familiar pattern of scars hidden high. A language only I understand. A code, a map. Braille on my skin. W
here I’ve been, what happened to me there. You hated it when I cut myself, a filthy disgusting habit you’d say, but try as I might, I couldn’t stop.
Footsteps above me jolt me into the present, I lower my hand. One floor up, Saskia walks on to the landing, makes her way down towards me.
‘Morning, everything okay?’
A pang in her voice, desperate to be trusted, to do a better job with me than she has with Phoebe. I nod my head. Withhold. The reality is, most people can’t handle the truth, my truth. A padding sounds across the marble below. Rosie. She circles a few times, collapses on to the tiles, a shaft of September sun. I watch her breathe. Her scruffy underbelly rises and falls. I think about my dog, Bullet, a Jack Russell we rescued from the pound, another attempt to look normal, and to rid the old house we lived in of rats. They soon moved on, you called him a good boy until he turned his attentions to the cellar. Scratching and sniffing at the door. Instinct told him, he knew what was in there.
He could smell it.
You drowned him in a bucket when I was at school. Left his body rigid, sleek wet fur. I wrapped him in the blanket from his basket, buried him in the garden. I couldn’t bring myself to put him in the cellar. Not there.
It took less than a week for the rats to come back.
Saskia smiles, says, I know it’s a big day today, let’s get a good breakfast into you. I follow her and the scent of her expensive body oil into the kitchen.
The radio is on, the headlines.
You.
The star attraction for all the wrong reasons. It’s subtle, but I hear it, the edge in the presenter’s voice as she details the charges against you. Saskia and Mike glance at each other. Phoebe doesn’t know, but pauses anyway, toast swaying at the entrance to her mouth.