Drift Stumble Fall

Home > Other > Drift Stumble Fall > Page 17
Drift Stumble Fall Page 17

by M. Jonathan Lee


  “Hmm,” I say. “Not sure it’ll be much fun.”

  “That’s just the point,” Kenneth says, his smile widening further, “a bit of company for you.”

  “Thanks, but it’s okay. I’ll be working late into the evenings every night. It’ll be boring for you.”

  “Right,” says Kenneth, nodding. His tone is one of disbelief. His eyes narrow and widen as he talks, and I am suddenly hypersensitive to his every expression. Like he is passing codes to me through his movements and expressions. The room is suddenly very quiet.

  “Right,” repeats Oscar, “right, right, right, right, right, right, Bompa.”

  All eyes turn to Oscar.

  His distraction is perfect. I could kiss him.

  Hannah begins laughing, her little shoulders rising and falling in rapid bursts. She leans into me and I place my arm around her shoulders to hold her closer. She looks up at me, her deep-brown eyes wet with tears. She has an enormous grin on her face, and the gap between her teeth looks cuter than ever before. I smile at her, and she begins laughing again.

  “Right, right, right,” she repeats between laughs.

  The rest of those around the table begin laughing, and Oscar stands on his chair and inexplicably begins beating his chest. I laugh, breathing a sigh of relief that I’ve just managed to escape the clutches of Detective Inspector Kenneth – this time.

  “Well,” says Lisa, “it’s bath-time for you two.”

  “I’ll do it,” I offer. This seems a much safer option than clearing the table and washing up with my father-in-law.

  The kids cheer and climb down from their chairs. After a brief bottleneck – when they both reached the gap between Lisa’s chair and the dining room doorframe at the same time – they are free and Hannah tears up the stairs as quickly as she can. Her footsteps remind me of a gazelle in clogs. Quick and free. Oscar, on the other hand, ascends the stairs like a sloth, each part of his body seemingly having to touch every part of every step.

  I scrape the leftovers into one bowl, and stack the empty bowls on the table. Then I turn to follow the children.

  “Leaving?” says Kenneth. He reaches around the back of his head and scratches his opposite shoulder.

  I’m taken off guard, and I turn quickly to him. “Sorry?”

  “I just asked if you are leaving, son?”

  “Yep,” I say, composing myself. “Just going up to bath the kids.”

  Lisa stands and takes the bowls through to the kitchen. Dina collects two handfuls of empty glasses from the table and follows quickly behind her.

  “What did you think I meant?” says Kenneth, rubbing the top of his head.

  “Oh, er, nothing,” I say. “It was just when you said ‘leaving’?” “I meant to bath the kids,” he says, before sneezing twice. “I know,” I smile.

  Just as I reach the hall, he calls behind me: “I didn’t mean leaving, like leaving permanently. To go to some faraway place…”

  I am halfway up the stairs when I hear: “…like Africa. Or Nebraska.”

  CHAPTER_FORTY-ONE

  The day passed as slowly as most days did nowadays.

  Bill remained in his chair again, watching as the endless loop of news continued throughout the day. The story of ‘The Girl in the Garden’ had been overtaken by North Korea’s missile testing, but it was still of interest enough to appear every half hour or so. He wondered what they were still doing there. Still digging. Still carefully carrying bags of dirt from beneath the tent, down the side of the house. At times, he wondered whether the news from the telephone call that Rosie had passed on was correct. Perhaps she had misheard the officer; perhaps it had been Victoria after all. He had questioned Rosie several times as the day passed, but she was resolute. In fact, at one point she became quite irritated. It was not Victoria.

  From time to time, a new piece of footage would appear. A different officer, chatting outside the front gate of the obscured semi-detached house. A macabre gathering of neighbours and onlookers, watching the house from the street outside. That type of thing.

  Bill felt tired. His whole body ached like it had never ached before. He felt like he could feel every single individual bone in his body and each one ached. If he hadn’t known better, he would have put it down to being in the same chair for nearly two days, but he knew it wasn’t that. It was an aching – a longing – for Victoria. And it physically hurt.

  He looked over at Rosie. Her eyes were fixed on letters she held on the little green rack in her hand. He watched as her eyes jumped from side to side, as she pulled the letters into her mind to create a word. Although she obviously looked older, he could still see the face of the young woman he had met at Sunday school all those years before. Her skin may have become creased, her eyes drawn and dark, but she was still ‘his Rosie’ beneath.

  As he watched her, he felt saddened that he hadn’t been able to protect her the way that he had vowed, as they had stood at the front of the small Methodist chapel all those years before. He hadn’t been able to protect any of them. It was his only role and he had failed spectacularly at it. He wondered why she was still there with him.

  At that very moment, she looked up and smiled, and somebody might as well have plunged a knife deep into his heart.

  “Very good,” said Rosie, looking at the board. Her finger danced along the tiles as she counted out the score for the word Kevin had just placed.

  “Thank you,” said Kevin. “Triple word score as well.” Kevin smiled.

  “I’m not sure I can beat that,” she said, passing the bag of letters to Kevin. It was nearly empty.

  Rosie turned back to her tiles and yawned. She was tired.

  This must have been the fifth game they had played this morning. All this thinking was exhausting. Her eyes turned to the television and then quickly back to her letters. It didn’t matter how tired she was, she’d rather play another hundred games than hear the same broadcast again.

  The telephone rang.

  Kevin looked at Rosie. She looked at Bill.

  He looked back at her. Neither of them moved.

  The phone continued to ring.

  Neither of them made any kind of movement to get to it. They both just stared, as if the noise was alien. And now, both were trapped in fear.

  Kevin reached across the sofa, the only one who seemingly still had the ability to move. He pushed the button on the phone.

  “Hello?” he said.

  Kevin could feel all eyes fixed on him. Bill and Rosie were statuesque. He listened carefully and put his hand over the receiver. “It’s the police,” he said to Bill.

  There was no movement, no reaction that Kevin had even spoken. Bill’s stare seemed to go directly through Kevin and meet Rosie’s. Kevin turned to his right. There Rosie was, just the same – staring, not moving. Kevin stood and gently shook Bill’s knee.

  “It’s the police,” he repeated.

  Bill began to shake his head, his eyes still fixed on Rosie.

  Kevin didn’t know what to do.

  “Rosie,” he said.

  She didn’t look at him. There was no sound. Her head slowly moved from side to side, mirroring Bill’s. Kevin got the feeling that they both knew something.

  He walked out of the lounge and into the dining room. He stood at the far end, by the window, and watched the snow on the trees turn to water.

  He partially covered the receiver with his hand and spoke quietly. “I’m sorry,” he said, “neither seems able to come to the phone.”

  “It’s extremely important,” said the Chief Inspector.

  Kevin looked through to the dining room. Nothing had changed. The only movement was their heads shaking, perfectly synchronised. Both were facing in his direction, their eyes vacant.

  “I think they’re in some kind of shock,” he said. “Shock?”

  Kevin explained who he was and his relationship to Bill and Rosie. The Chief Inspector asked Kevin to take a seat. Kevin ignored the request and leaned against
the windowsill. The voice went on to describe how the forensic team had found the remains of ‘at least three more people’ in the garden. Although they were yet to formally identify the remains, they were ‘absolutely sure’ that some of the remains were those of Victoria Marsden. Kevin asked how they could be so sure.

  “I’ve worked this case for more than twenty years,” the man said, his voice slightly breaking, “I know the jewellery and clothes Victoria was wearing when she left. I see them most nights when I close my eyes.”

  “Right,” said Kevin. There really was nothing more to say.

  “Please tell Bill and Rosie I’ll call them again later. I just wanted them to know in case the journalists get hold of it.”

  CHAPTER_FORTY-TWO

  Like, just a bit of consistency would be good.

  By the time I make it to the top of the stairs, Oscar and Hannah are nowhere to be found. I pop my head around each of their bedroom doors, but there is no sign of them.

  I go into the bathroom and set the water running, then take the bubble bath from the cupboard and squeeze the bottle so that what’s left of the liquid falls just below the taps. It has the consistency of treacle, and I watch it lethargically make its way down the bottle. It reminds me of a fat red slug reluctantly taking its last breaths before throwing itself to certain death in the scalding torrent beneath. I feel the water. I am not surprised it is taking its time.

  I prepare the towels, folding them into squares and placing them on the floor near the edge of the bath. Pink at the tap end. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles at the other. I select their favourite bath toys from the cupboard and drop them into the bath. I hang the children’s dressing gowns on the radiator, so they will be warmed for when they get out. I wouldn’t want the kids to be cold.

  I head down the landing, knowing exactly where they are. I call into every room on my way, elongating the search, shouting out their names as I pop my head around each door. At the bottom of the attic stairs, I shout, “Are you in here?” and that’s the first time I hear a slight giggle. It comes from behind me, and I follow the sound. The light from the landing throws a vanilla parallelogram into our bedroom. The light reaches the end of our bed, and I catch the children’s faces peeping out. I pretend that I haven’t seen them and continue my shouts.

  “Oscar! Hannah! Where arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrre youuuuuu?”

  I walk around the edge of the bed and stand at the window.

  “Oscar! Hannah!”

  I hear the sound of stifled laughter and I imagine their faces slug-red and inflated with happiness, about to burst. I hear the sound of spit creeping out between their pursed lips as they try not to blow giant raspberries. Outside, the world is peaceful. For once, the weatherman was correct and the snow has now stopped. The higher clouds move quickly, flashing past those closest to me. The moon is bright and lights the shadows of the clouds as they pass me by like dark, ragged cloths.

  “Hannah! Oscar! Where in the world are you?”

  I hear the sound of two sets of tiny lips vibrating.

  “Oh, I do hope they’re alright,” I consider out loud. “I hope they’re not lost outside in the snow.” Spit. Giggles. Mini raspberry.

  Across the road, I notice that the curtains are wide open again. I don’t remember seeing them closed for a couple of days now. Through the window, I can see the flickering of orange and red flames in the fireplace. The lambent light is alluring, and aside from the open curtains, the room looks so much more inviting than where I am. I am Charlie, peering from outside the sweet shop. Blowing into my hands for warmth. Yearning for a Wonka Bar.

  I can see the television casting its blue light in contrast to the fire. It is impossible to see whether anyone is in the room from this angle. I have only ever noticed any human life when Bill stands at the window. I pull the bedroom curtains across carefully, still not entirely convinced that my handiwork will last. As I do, I notice for the first time drips of water falling from the trees that line the road.

  I walk back through to the bathroom, muttering about how worried I am that I can’t find my children. There are further sounds coming from beneath the bed, and I imagine that both their faces are now deep purple from holding their breath. I switch off the taps and stare at the meringue-like white bubbles rocking gently on the surface of the water.

  “Okay,” I shout, stretching out the word as far as I can, “I’m coming for you…”

  I wander around our bedroom for a second time, making sure they can see me, pretending to look in places in which they couldn’t possibly fit. In the laundry basket; in the airing cupboard; under a shoe. And then I fall to my knees at our bedroom door and spot them.

  “There you are!” I exclaim, dosing my sentence with mock- relief. “I was so worried about you.”

  Two white bottoms shuffle out from under the bed and both children run to me.

  “Really, Daddy, were you worried?” says Hannah, throwing her arms around me.

  “We were under there!” says Oscar, pointing to the bed from which they’ve just crawled. He arrives behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders and his face into the back of my head. I feel his hands pull me as close as he can.

  “Okay,” I say, laughing, “the water’s getting cold.”

  The children loosen their grip and I manage to get to my feet. My knees crack as I do. I look down at Hannah and Oscar, standing in front of me completely naked, and I am struck by how much they’ve both changed from when they were babies. When they were first born, I suppose that I felt no real affinity for them. Perhaps less for Oscar than Hannah. After all, he was the nail in the coffin as far as my life was concerned. When Hannah was born, there was always a chance that Lisa and I may split up and…well, leaving her with just one child arguably wouldn’t have been so bad. I remember arriving home from work one day to find her sitting on the bottom step in the hall. It was early evening and she was missing one of her TV programmes, so I knew whatever she was about to say was serious. I hadn’t even got my coat off when, from behind her back, she pulled out a little white stick that smelled strongly of urine. Across the middle was a distinct blue line, and I knew that my fate had been sealed. At that moment, she may as well have just drawn a pistol, placed it at my temple and pulled the trigger.

  Aside from the obvious changes that the children have gone through – growth being the main one – I realise right now that something else has changed.

  I try to put it out of my mind. I clap my hands together.

  “Right, let’s go!” I say.

  They race past me, and I rest on our bedroom doorframe and watch Oscar tottering behind his older sister as fast as he can. And it’s now that I properly see them for the first time in I-don’t- know-how-long. The length of their arms, the colour of their hair, the size of their feet. The children reach the bathroom and Hannah leaps straight into the bath. It’s the sort of moment parents experience daily in the early years. Time stops and you brace yourself for a tooth loss or a forehead colliding with the bathroom tiles. On this occasion, all is well.

  “Aaah,” says Hannah, tipping her head back into the water, “this is nice.”

  “Aaah,” copies Oscar, his leg over the side of the bath. Then, in one swift movement, he slips and crashes into the water.

  He is beneath the water for less time than it takes me to dash into the bathroom. As I reach the door, he has resurfaced with a little help from Hannah and is smiling, clouds of bubbles stuck to his hair and shoulders. Hannah is laughing as loudly as she can.

  At the moment my foot touches the bathroom floor, I know that I am about to lose control. I step into the soapy water which fled the bath moments earlier and my foot immediately leaves the floor. As my standing foot hits the same puddle, I am completely airborne for a moment. Then I smash down on my bottom, my back. My feet are in the air – as are my arms – and I resemble Cliff when he wants his tummy stroking. I slide across the floor, spinning slightly, before my entire body weight crashes into the side of the
bath.

  I come to a stop, and lie on the floor for a few moments to catch my breath and check that I’m okay. I think I am.

  When I can breathe again, I pull myself up, using the edge of the bath, until my eyes reach Hannah’s. Her mouth is wide open and she is motionless. She looks like a child I saw on a documentary I watched about Pompeii. I smile at her, and as soon as I do, her face completely cracks. She throws her head back and begins to laugh. Oscar looks at me, then does the same. A short moment of concern on their part; a smile on mine, which signalled to them it was alright to laugh.

  Their laughter is infectious and I can’t help but join in. I rest my head on the side of the bath and all three of us laugh. Long, deep laughs, the type that slightly hurt the back of your throat. The type that make breathing difficult. Gasping for air while pushing out laughter. I look down and notice that my t-shirt is soaked.

  “What’s going on here?” says Lisa.

  I don’t think any of us heard her come upstairs. We continue to laugh.

  “I heard a bang,” she says. “Seems you’re okay, though?” “Daddy slipped,” Hannah says, snorting bubbles from her nose.

  I watch Oscar laughing, his tummy turning concave, his tiny ribs showing, and then blowing back up again, like some tropical bird attracting a mate. His mouth is wide, his eyes closed, his shoulders making rapid, repeated shrugs. This is unparalleled joy. The type that I want to feel. I take mental photographs of him and store his face to memory. I know this is a time I’ll want to draw upon sometime in the future.

  I turn to Lisa. “I’m fine,” I say, finding it hard to form the words through my laughter.

  “Good,” she says, winking. “I just wish I was there to see it.”

  CHAPTER_FORTY-THREE

  “This is your time.”

  Eventually, we all got dry.

  After putting on pyjamas, brushing hair, drying hair, brushing hair again, plaiting hair (Hannah), brushing teeth and having a drink of water, we finally make it to Hannah’s bed. She lies closest to the wall, and as usual pats the bed so I lie next to her. She decides that Oscar can choose which books I read, and he returns from his bedroom with more books than he can carry. He scatters them like bread in a forest, and when he reaches the bed he is only holding three. He smiles broadly and passes me the books. I rest them on my legs and then lift him onto the bed alongside me. There are a few moments of wriggling and sighing until we are all settled.

 

‹ Prev