by Ali Land
Do I?
I fall asleep fast, two nights without does that, it forces your eyes closed, takes you to places you don’t want to go. A little boy at the end of my bed, eyes wide and frightened. I can’t breathe, he says, I can’t breathe.
Up eight. Up another four.
The door on the right.
I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth.
And nothing but the truth.
This, along with the birthday plans you had for me, is the other reason I left when I did.
You were at work, I was alone in the house, not through the peephole but inside the room.
A spare key, I knew where you hid it.
His tiny body curled up on the bed, in the corner.
He stirred as I came in, I closed the door behind me.
Skin pale, a lack of fresh air. Black circles under his eyes, he asked for his mummy. Yes. You’ll see her soon, I told him.
His brown eyes, wet with relief.
I held him close to my body, warmed his blood through.
Your voice in my head, the things you said to his mummy so she would give him to you.
What if your husband comes after you, Susie? What if he hurts your son? Worse even. I have a contact in America who works in adoption.
A loving family awaits, a better life for Daniel.
Tell no one.
I gave him a teddy to hold, one of mine, name sewn in the ear.
Close your eyes, I told him, make a wish. I held him tight through the worst, as the air left his lungs.
As I suffocated him.
You were outside the room when I opened the door, back earlier than expected, your turn to watch through the peephole.
You looked at me in a way I hadn’t seen before.
That’s my girl, you said. Proud.
I never told you, Mummy, that I did it to save him.
Not to please you.
When I said I told the police everything, almost everything.
I meant it.
29
It was the way she said it yesterday, when we’d finished Sunday brunch with Mike and Saskia and we were going up to our bedrooms. So how was your little procedure anyway, she asked, what actually was it? It was fine thanks but I’d rather not talk about it. She smiled, nodded, said, must be difficult for you, not being able to talk about things, lots of things. The emphasis on ‘lots’. An uneasy feeling, a seed planted in my stomach. Pandora’s Box being nudged open. She knows. What does she know? How can she? Mike and me have been so careful, haven’t we?
Today is the last day to enter our portfolios for the art prize, the winner is to be announced next week. The first thing I do when I get to school this morning is send MK an email. We arrange to meet at the end of the day and when I arrive she tells me I’m a little behind.
‘The other entrants finished last week, while you were … away.’
I don’t want to be paranoid but it was the pause, the gap she left before finishing her sentence, as if she harbours doubt as to where I was, what I was doing. Imagining it, I must be, just as I am with Phoebe. Surely.
‘Why don’t you lay out all of your sketches in the order you did them and we’ll whittle them down to the five you need.’
As I lay out the sketches of you I think of the trial still going on, you sat in a chair, handcuffed, facing life in prison, no contact with me. You don’t cope well with loss. Losing Luke changed everything, your desires turned darker, more fatal. You got bored of it just being me and you, took Jayden, the first boy, less than a year after Luke left. Love is a lubricant and, though it was warped, you got it from us. Who will you get it from now? You might make the woman in the cell next to yours swallow her tongue. There’s always possibilities you said, opportunities for mischief.
MK’s voice interrupts my thoughts.
‘Wow, when they’re laid out like that you can really see.’
‘Really see what?’ I ask her.
‘The journey, as if each one’s a piece in a puzzle.’
Then she asks me something strange.
‘Are you feeling more secure now you’re staying with the Newmonts?’
The sketches are heavily disguised, face smudged, eyes a different colour from yours. It’s not possible to recognize the subject, I’m certain.
‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
She shakes her head and says, ‘It doesn’t matter. I’d go with those two for definite, that one at the end, and you choose the other two, perhaps some that demonstrate a real depth of shading.’
Somebody says goodnight as they pass the door. MK says, hang on, Janet, is that you? But the corridor door opens and closes again, she can’t have heard.
‘Give me a second,’ she says. ‘I need to catch her about something.’
The room feels empty, less appealing, when she leaves. I choose the last two sketches, find myself walking over to her desk, her diary, open. A Post-it note – order more clay. Her writing’s glorious, all loop di loops. Loving. The y in the word clay is drawn long, wraps round the other letters, an inky hug. A thick piece of card is sticking out of the back page of the diary. Cream. Gold calligraphy on the front. I slide it out. A wedding invitation, names I don’t know, but it’s not the names that interest me it’s something else, the envelope behind the invite. I turn it over, an address, an address for MK. I know where her road is, I’ve walked along it with Morgan. I replace both the card and the envelope, hear the door at the end of the corridor open and walk back to my sketches.
‘Sorry about that. Have you made a decision?’
‘Yes, these five.’
‘Great choice, they’ll be hard to beat, that’s for sure. Janet just reminded me that the Muse gallery on Portobello Road has a fantastic exhibition of charcoal sketches on at the moment. It’s a shame it’s the last night, I think you’d have enjoyed it.’
‘We could still go, couldn’t we? Tonight? I’d have to ask Mike but he won’t mind if it’s for school.’
‘Actually, I meant for you, you should go. I didn’t mean we’d go together.’
‘Oh, okay, sorry, it just sounds really great but I don’t think Mike will let me go on my own.’
Anxious, a bit overprotective since court, wants me home every night until the verdict’s announced.
‘I’d really like to go, Miss Kemp, especially after the procedure I had last week.’
‘Yes, how was that by the way?’
‘It was okay, it’s over now.’
‘Something to be glad about, I’m sure. I’m not promising anything, I have plans tonight, but I might try and pop into the gallery around sevenish. I wouldn’t mind a quick look myself. Why don’t you go with Mike and if I see you there, great.’
‘Okay, sure, I’ll ask him. You’ll be there at seven?’
‘I’ll try.’
Mike offers to accompany me to the gallery, I say no, it’s only a short walk away. I left out the part about meeting MK, told him all of the entrants for the art prize were going. He was unsure at first but I persuaded him, I’m good at that. After everything that’s been going on, I say. He nods. Understands.
Before I leave he checks I have my phone, tells me I look lovely, grown up even. I hope I haven’t got it wrong, chosen the wrong dress. I wait for her outside the gallery, it’ll be nice to walk in together I think. A few people drift in and out, I was a little early, so when it gets to ten past seven I’ve been standing there for almost twenty minutes, can barely feel my feet, pull my school coat tight round my body. I check my phone which is pointless as she doesn’t have my number nor do I have hers.
When it gets to twenty past I try to stay calm, reassure myself she’s just a bit late, that her artistic chaos will wrap round me when she arrives, making everything feel better. Timekeeping and discipline are the keys to success you used to say but I don’t want to think about you.
‘MK’s nothing like you.’
‘Sorry?’ comes a reply.
I realize I’ve spoken ou
t loud as a trio of women exit the gallery and pass by. I mumble an apology, say something about practising my lines. They smile as they remember their schooldays long gone, happy days, judging by their smiles. Or the fact that time dilutes the bad memories as I hope it will mine.
I look at my phone, twenty-five to eight. She’s not coming, I know that now. When I get home I go straight to my room, hug a pillow to my chest. I long for the one from Mike’s office, blue, so soft.
You whisper in my ear, remind me that you’re my mummy, and what MK did was wrong. I put the duvet over my head, but your words get to me anyway and after a while I begin to listen to what you’re saying, begin to agree. You’re right, I know you are, what MK did wasn’t nice.
I hear it when you reply, the excitement in your voice.
THAT’S MY GIRL, ANNIE. WHAT WILL YOU DO?
TELL ME, WHAT WILL YOU DO?
30
The verdict comes in on Wednesday, just under a week after I was in court. I check my phone as usual on the way back from school, three missed calls from Mike in the past half hour. I log on to the BBC news web page, your picture. The word: sentenced.
Guilty.
Guilty.
Guilty times twelve.
You go down for all nine murders, the judge passed sentence immediately. Life, no chance of parole. Mike’s waiting for me by the front door, opens it as I arrive. I nod to let him know I’ve seen the news. He says, come here, shh, it’s okay.
I thought I’d be happy, relieved. That after the trial was over I’d be able to leave behind what I did to Daniel. I did what I did to be good, to save him, yet it still makes me bad. It makes me the same as you.
Saskia comes into the hallway, rubs the spot in between my shoulder blades.
‘I’m sorry, Milly. But at least it’s over now, we can start planning your birthday,’ she says.
When I look up I see Mike signal no with his eyes. Too soon, he means. She clocks it, looks disappointed for getting it wrong. Again.
‘Whenever you feel ready then, Milly,’ she says, walking away.
Mike asks me if I’d like to catch up, he’s keen, the next chapter of his book to be written I bet. The day of the verdict. I tell him no, I’d like to be alone.
I sit on the floor, my back against the end of the bed. I sit and think of you. Of the times we had. The times you sat there in your chair, no such thing as underwear. A programme on killers, brethren you said, though I’m better than them, I won’t get caught. How will they catch me? You berated their inadequacies, their failings. It’s because they’re men, you said, being a woman gives me a shield and you do too, Mummy’s little helper.
The press, the name they gave you, you’ll have heard, and seen your face on the front of the newspapers. Your nickname, my favourite book, written in bold:
THE PETER PAN KILLER
You’ll like it I think, the sentiment is right. Out of your hands anyway, now under lock and key. The extra details I provided to the police must have leaked to the press. The words you whispered to each limp body that lay in the room, tucked up asleep. For ever. That’s what you get for leaving your mummy, your voice, through clenched teeth as you hissed in their ears though they couldn’t hear any more. I tried to say to you it wasn’t their choice, their mummies gave them away. No, no, no, you shouted at me, I didn’t give my son away, he was taken. They’re not Luke, I said, you can’t replace him. You beat me black, you beat me blue for mentioning his name.
You beat me.
More disturbing than hurt is love when it’s wrong. In your arms you swayed them, placed them down as if they could be broken, even more, or again. Six boys. Daniel was seven but he wasn’t yours. Six little princes of sorts, wrapped up in blankets, new pyjamas each time. Two little girls. You didn’t care for the girls. Don’t disturb me until I’ve finished, you used to say. Finished what?
Saying goodbye.
Every single time, that’s what it was about. The rituals, the dressing of the boys in pyjamas. Pyjamas is what Luke was wearing the evening he was taken away after they discovered it was him that snuck out one night and set fire to the post office in our village, the flat above thankfully empty at the time. He was eleven years old.
Hellos are important, it’s how we begin, but to steal a goodbye, not giving you the chance to hold Luke one last time before he was taken. To you that was the ultimate sin.
I’m interrupted by my bedroom door opening and Phoebe walking in. She doesn’t say anything, stands there, looks down at me and stares.
‘What are you looking at?’ I ask.
She doesn’t answer. Tiny piranhas tear at my insides.
And all the king’s horses, and all the king’s men.
She stares for a bit longer, then backs slowly out of the room, not bothering to close the door behind her.
I meet with Mike after dinner, he asks me how I feel about the verdict. Sick, I tell him, not how I expected to. He spoke to June, wanted to know the details of what happened in court, asks me why I never told anybody I was home alone with Daniel. I was scared, I reply, I knew my mum might try and blame me. And what about you, do you still blame yourself, he asks. Yes, I tell him, I always will. Why, he persists. Why wouldn’t I, I reply. He looks at me strangely, a scrutiny of sorts, but lets it drop.
Later on I take out the remainder of my sketches of you, the ones I didn’t enter into the art prize. I can’t explain why it’s comforting to look at you. But it is. What’s not comforting is feeling Phoebe’s eyes on me. Coming into my room, staring at me.
It hurts me to do it but I rip up your sketches until you’re nothing more than a pile of eyes, lips and ears. I want to move on, I want a normal home filled with normal things. Mike asked me once what I wanted from life. Acceptance. That’s what my answer was. To accept where I’ve come from and who I am, to be able to believe and prove the curious shape you twisted my heart into could be untwisted. And it will be, Milly, he replied, just wait and see. He doesn’t know how curious a shape it is though. I gather up the ripped sketches, put them in the bathroom bin. An hour or so later I remove them, tape them back together.
Morgan’s text comes through after midnight, are you awake, she asks, I need to see you. I tell her to come to the balcony and when she does she looks smaller than before, shrunk a size or two. I open the door. Cold air chases its way in, the jester of winter fills up each corner, dances. Jeers. Her mouth is bloody and swollen, the skin on the left-hand side of her forehead scraped, looks like a carpet burn. I take her by the hand, bring her inside, close the door and lock it. Check it twice.
‘What happened?’
She shakes her head, small stiff movements, her eyes on the floor.
‘I didn’t know where else to go,’ she replies.
Her fingers cycle the air in front of her, tying and untying imaginary knots. I walk over to the bedside lamp, switch it on. Her jeans are stained and a salty sour smell emanates from her, a hint of alcohol on her breath.
‘Are you hurt anywhere else?’
She wipes her sleeve across her nose and straight away it runs again, a stream of clear liquid into her mouth. Her chin begins to wobble. No tears. The shock of whatever’s happened stops them. I pick up the box of tissues on the floor by my bed.
‘Here.’
I raise my arm to throw them to her, she flinches, cowers a little. I lower my hand, want to say, it’s me, don’t be afraid, but then I remember I’ve hurt her before.
‘You can stay here tonight.’
She shakes her head.
‘Yes, I’ll help you, I’ll make it better.’
‘What if somebody comes in?’
‘They won’t, everybody’s asleep.’
I take a pair of pyjamas from my drawer, soft cotton ones. You’d punish me for caring for her, she’s not a boy, you’d say, girls don’t need gentle. No, I’d reply, she’s not a boy, but she’s something to me.
The lamp from the light is low but when I help take off her top I see bruis
es beginning to form. An imprint, the outline of a shoe on the side of her ribs. I rest her hands on my shoulders as I lean down, lift each leg out of her trousers into the pyjamas. I straighten up, her hands stay on my shoulders. We stand like that for a while, facing each other. Eventually I move away, gather her clothes into a pile, put them on the chair by the balcony door.
‘Sit down on the bed, I’ll get a cloth for your face.’
She winces as I clean the blood from the swelling around her mouth.
‘Who did it?’
‘I wish he was dead,’ she replies.
‘Who?’
‘My uncle.’
She bursts into tears, I hold her, rock us back and forth, begin to hum. Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly … Her breathing calms, her tears stop.
‘I love that song,’ she says.
‘I know. Lie down, you need to rest.’
She does without protest, turns on her side towards me, draws her knees up to her chest. I cover her with the duvet, an extra blanket. Her eyes close. She pushes one of the pillows from under her head on to the floor.
‘I only have one at home,’ she says.
I sit next to her on the bed, watch her face contract, relax, as she tries to forget what happened. You shall be safe, dilly dilly, out of harm’s way, Morgan. I can’t help with her uncle but she’s different. Out of harm’s way, that’s what I can do. I pick up the pillow, think how much she’d like Neverland, a place where dreams are born and time is never planned, but she moves, rubs her eyes, balled-up little fists like small children when they’re tired. She opens her eyes, looks up at me, at the pillow in my hand, asks me what I’m doing.
‘Nothing, just putting it back on the bed.’
‘I’m safe here, aren’t I, Mil?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good,’ she replies, the smallest voice.
When I wake up in the morning she’s gone. Pyjamas at the foot of the bed, a tiny pile.
31
I didn’t see Phoebe at home this morning but she and Izzy are the first people I see when I walk into Thursday assembly. I sit in the row behind them, a few seats to the left. I listen to the conversations going on around me, any hint people might know, but it’s the usual. Hairstyles and boys, plans for Christmas, who still needs tickets for the play. The organ starts, we stand up as the teachers file in on to the stage. A younger girl, from Year Nine I think, gives a presentation about ‘paying it forward’, the good things we can do over the festive period to help the less fortunate. She gets a strong round of applause. Ms James stands up to deliver the weekly announcements, talks about the proposed refurb of the senior common room, if anybody’s interested in fundraising please see Mrs McDowell in the office. A couple of other items related to the running order of the performance days for our play are detailed, and the last announcement is: