by Kerena Swan
Susan emits a low groan and Ivy grabs the cushion off her chair and presses it to Susan’s face. Her movements are as spry and agile as a woman twenty years younger. It’s easy to pretend to be frail and arthritic when others are present. People are so gullible. She kneels on the carpet, wincing a little at an ache in her knee then throws her weight across the pillow, pinning it to Susan’s face. The woman bucks weakly a couple of times then lies still.
Ivy waits several minutes. She made the mistake of getting up too quickly on a previous occasion and nearly got caught out. When she’s sure Susan is dead she climbs off her carefully and lifts the cushion. Bloody hell. Alarmed to see Susan’s eyes wide open in shock she almost puts the cushion back. The body isn’t moving though. Ivy sits back in her chair and watches in delight. She loves this moment. One minute they are thinking, feeling human beings and then the next minute they are merely useless carcasses of flesh and bone. Power is so exhilarating. Ivy can feel it rising from her gut and warming her on a wave of euphoria.
‘Here’s my gift of everlasting life for you, Susan. Have you bumped into God up there yet? Tell him from me that he’s a waste of space.’ Ivy chuckles at the use of one of Max’s sayings.
The sudden ring of the doorbell shocks Ivy half-way out of her chair. Crikey. Who is it? She rushes up and steps nimbly around the body, grabbing her stick as she heads for the front door. Opening it just an inch she peers out.
‘Hello, we’re sorry to disturb you. Is our friend Susan with you?’ Two smartly dressed women are on her doorstep.
‘No, she isn’t. I saw a woman in a navy suit going into Mr Brentwood’s next door, if that’s who you mean. But I’ve been in the bathroom for a while so I don’t know where she went after that. Don’t you folks usually go around in pairs?’
‘Someone took ill before we left and Susan insisted she’d be fine on her own.’
The couple thank her and walk back down the path. Ivy leans heavily on her stick until the door is closed then almost runs back into the lounge.
Her hands are clammy, so she pulls the antimacassar her mum had embroidered off the back of her chair, dabs at her sweaty palms then buries her face in it. Blimey, that was close. She used to cuddle the chair cloth in bed every night when she was little and even now it soothes her.
Dorothy had given it to her. She’d come back to the area to visit relatives and sought out six-year-old Ivy to say hello, taking her into town for a knickerbocker glory. It was wonderful. Even now, Ivy can recall the taste of the ice cream. As they sat in the café, Dorothy told Ivy the story of her birth. Ivy already knew her mother had died giving birth to her but now she learned that it was Dorothy who discovered Nora dead on the kitchen floor; the new-born Ivy crying piteously. Dorothy cut the cord then wrapped her in the antimacassar, taking it from the back of one of Nora’s chairs. Dorothy cared for Ivy for two years and loved her like a daughter until Ivy’s father demanded her return. Dorothy had kept the antimacassar for her.
‘Keep it safe, Ivy,’ she said, handing it over in the café. ‘Don’t let your stepmother find it, or she’ll throw it away.’
After the café, Dorothy took her into a department store and let her choose a keepsake. Ivy was drawn to the paperweight, fascinated by the prickly teasels frozen in the middle.
She’d managed to keep the antimacassar hidden from her stepmother.
‘It’s all you’ve got left of your mum,’ Dorothy had told her.
She’d left the paperweight on her shelf though. It had been nice to have something new and lovely to look at. There weren’t any fripperies or homely touches in her father’s house when she was growing up. Mavis made sure of that. Every trace of Nora had been eradicated; apart from Ivy, of course, who grew more like her mother the older she got.
What puzzled Ivy was why her father took her from Dorothy. He never showed her any love or affection, so it had to be a wish to claim ownership of what was rightfully his now he had a new wife to look after his daughter.
What would Ivy’s life have been like if her mother had lived or if she’d stayed with Dorothy? Better than the cold, loveless atmosphere that she grew up in, that was certain.
Ivy looks down at the corpse. The fun has been taken out of the killing now. She’s worried people will come looking for the woman again.
Picking up her phone, Ivy calls Max. He doesn’t reply. The bastard. Where is he? She needs Max to come and move the body. The carer is due in an hour. Maybe Ivy shouldn’t have killed the woman, but the silly bitch really got to her. She kicks Susan’s rump then trundles into the kitchen to put the kettle on again.
While the kettle builds to a boiling frenzy, Ivy closes the curtains in the living room. She can’t afford to have anyone peering in and she may have to ignore the door if the body is still there when Patience arrives.
Ivy feels disappointed. Usually she feels elated for some time after she’s killed. That sense of wonder when the essence of the person passes to emptiness. But the power she feels from stealing life is eluding her today. Thinking back, she didn’t enjoy it as much last time either, although getting rid of Lydia means she sees more of Sophie now. Keep your enemies close, as the saying goes.
She knows Max has been hankering after a woman for the past few months. She can read the signs. Not answering the phone, visiting less, an air of distraction. Now she knows who that woman is. She’s seen the obvious, longing looks when they’re in the same room. When did he first meet Sophie? Did he plan for the One and Only agency to look after Ivy so that he could get closer to Sophie? The conniving bugger. Thinks he’s so clever, does he? Well, Ivy’s smarter.
With Lydia gone, Sophie won’t just be attending meetings. No, she’ll be stepping in and looking after Ivy and Ivy can watch the pair of them until it’s time for a bit of fun. The stronger Max’s feelings are the more Ivy will enjoy it. She tries his phone again. Still no answer. Where the bloody hell is he?
Ivy peeks between the curtains to see if the evangelists are still around. A fluttering in the corner startles her until she sees a butterfly caught in the net fabric. She picks it off gently then returns to her chair. Placing it in the palm of her hand she strokes the red and black wing then tugs it hard. The wing comes away in her fingers and the insect struggles to get away. The first time she’d done this, her stepmother had seen and cringed in horror. Ivy had laughed inwardly.
Popping ants with her magnifying glass was also fun but her favourite moment had been when she’d fed the rabbit rhubarb leaves by accident thinking they were cabbage leaves. It had been fascinating watching the rabbit twitch and die but the distress on her stepmother’s face had been priceless. She’d never shown Ivy a fraction of the love she bestowed on that sodding rabbit. Ivy had tried so hard to win affection from her new mother, but was rejected every time. She remembers trying to wrap her arms around the woman’s legs and being pushed away; ‘Get off, Ivy. You’re being silly.’
The overwhelming sense of worthlessness she’d felt has never left her.It was gratifying when her stepmother’s attitude towards her shifted from pure rejection and neglect to disgust. That was much more satisfying than being ignored.
When that disgust was joined by fear it was even better. Ivy was seven the day she had played hide-and-seek with the local children in the lanes and gardens around her home. Pearl stood facing the tree counting to two hundred while the others scattered in search of hiding places.
On seeing little Margie frantically trying to squeeze into a prickly bush, Ivy grabbed her hand. ‘Come on. I’ve got a great hiding place for you.’
Margie looked up at Ivy in awe. Ivy was older and rarely showed any interest in the little ones. Margie took her hand reverently and followed her.
They slipped through a broken fence and into the garden of the empty cottage. Ivy often came here when her home life was unbearable. Sometimes sitting alone was soothing. Stepping gingerly over nettles they reached the bottom of the old vegetable plot. A large cream refrigerator stood with it
s door yawning open.
‘Quick, get inside. I can hear them coming,’ Ivy said.
Margie scrambled in then sat on the floor hugging her knees. She looked a bit alarmed as Ivy closed the door and dropped the latch handle.
‘Come back in a minute, Ivy. It’s dark in here.’ Margie’s voice was muffled.
‘Shush, Margie. If they don’t find you soon I’ll let you out and you’ll be the winner.’
Ivy squeezed back through the fence and hid in a shed, listening to children calling their names. The hunt for Margie was fun for everyone at first then it was teatime and they started to worry. The repeated calls attracted the adults and soon the search began in earnest. Ivy joined in trying to lead people away from the fridge. It took them several hours to locate Margie, by which time she had used up all the oxygen.
Ivy’s stepmother helped in the search and Ivy watched her carefully. Mavis had a soft spot for Margie and often gave her little treats; a few sweets or a pressed flower and, most upsetting of all, a cuddle. Ivy never got anything except angry words and rejection.
Ivy stood and observed from the side lines as Margie was pulled from the fridge and laid on the ground. Someone had fetched Margie’s mother who screamed and sobbed but Ivy felt no sorrow. Inside, she felt powerful after all. She’d done this. She could make things happen to change other people’s lives. The power filled her with delight and she watched the spectacle with an outward detachment. What a load of fuss over an insignificant kid. Ivy was glad Margie was dead and she couldn’t stop a small smile tugging at her lips. Her stepmother glanced over at her at that moment, her face freezing with horror.
‘Did you do this?’ she demanded, roughly pulling Ivy’s arm.
Ivy began to howl loudly that it wasn’t her fault.
‘Leave the child alone, Mavis. She’s not to blame,’ someone said.
After that Mavis had been wary in Ivy’s presence and even more vindictive towards her. Ivy took her revenge in any small way she could, mixing salt with the sugar, spitting in Mavis’s food, and even wiping Mavis’s toothbrush in the juice from the bin. These petty paybacks gave Ivy a small measure of satisfaction, but Margie’s absence was much more significant. She delighted in seeing her stepmother wipe away a tear when she put flowers on Margie’s grave.
Looking at the clock, Ivy starts in surprise. Bloody hell, the carer will be here in forty-five minutes. She doesn’t have time for reminiscing. She picks up the phone and tries Max’s number again. This time he answers on the fourth ring.
‘Max. Get here now or else,’ she says and puts the phone down.
27
The girl in pink Lycra spots Max across the busy room and smiles. She slows her running machine then steps off and sashays across to the step machine next to him. Distracted by thoughts of Sophie, he smiles at her. She adjusts her ponytail and bra strap before starting the machine.
Max realises his error when she continues to give him sideways glances and a smile that promises so much more. He adjusts the control and quickens his pace. She’s struggling to keep up with him now; her breathing is laboured, and her face is changing hue to match her outfit. This is good fun, he thinks, and won’t do the woman any harm. He could have her following him around the gym for the next hour matching exercises. He’s really not interested in her though. She’s too fake with her stupidly long eyelashes and plastic nails. In fact, he’s never been interested in any woman until now. His thoughts are all for Sophie.
Sophie is a brightly-coloured ribbon in the dull fabric of his life. He still can’t believe he’s actually kissed her. He’s relived the moment over and over in his head. He’s never felt this way before. He’s bursting with something he can’t put his finger on and it’s filling him with energy. The girl next to him is flagging now and has accepted defeat. She gets off the machine and moves away, giving him a reproachful look. She knows it was his way of getting rid of her.
After a cooling-down exercise, Max hauls his sports bag out of the locker and reaches for his phone. The screen shows three missed calls from his nan and his spirits plummet. She usually only rings when she has an unpleasant task for him. With a growing sense of dread, he throws the phone back in the bag and drags on his jacket then heads to the exit. He’ll call in on his way home.
Max parks further down the road and approaches Ivy’s bungalow from the alley leading to the back garden. He doesn’t want that nosy old bastard next door spying on him again. He keeps close to the hedge, treading quietly. When his phone vibrates again, he answers it before Mr Brentwood is alerted to his presence. He has to be so careful now. He hates being embroiled in his nan’s horrific crimes but he can’t see any way out of it. If he tells the police he’ll go to prison too and the thought of being locked in makes him feel nauseous and faint.
‘Hello,’ he whispers. ‘I’m just outside.’
He enters the small kitchen and sees his nan standing in the hall doorway, her arms folded and a frown on her face.
‘What’s up?’ he asks.
She doesn’t reply, just turns on her heel and goes into the lounge. Max follows and stops abruptly behind her.
‘For fuck’s sake, Nan! What did this person do to annoy you?’
‘Never mind that now. I’ve been trying to call you. Get her moved quickly, Patience will be here in twenty minutes.’
Max looks wildly around the room as though expecting a hiding place to miraculously present itself. He really can’t cope with this. He’d been so happy after spending time with Sophie. Why did his nan have to ruin everything?
For a moment, he really hates her and wants to call the police but then stops himself. No one will believe his nan had killed this woman. They’ll blame him, and he’ll be incarcerated for a very long time.
Stepping into the hall, he opens the cupboard where the ironing board and Henry hoover are kept. He shunts them as far back as possible, trying to quell the feeling of panic that rises in him every time he goes in utility cupboards, the smell of dust and polish mingling in his memory with the smell of urine. He then approaches the body. Sending her a silent apology, he grabs the woman under her armpits, drags her and sits her on top of the hoover, leaning her back against the ironing board. He tries to close the door but her foot jams it open. He wants to scream in frustration. He’s about to move the foot when the doorbell rings.
‘Don’t answer it, Nan,’ he whispers urgently. ‘Wait!’
He rearranges the body and manages to shut her in then goes to the front door. Ivy has fetched her stick and is hobbling into the hall as Patience crosses the threshold.
‘I finished my last call early so thought I’d come straight here.’ Patience’s smile is neon bright on her dark-skinned face and her laugh is infectious. Max and Ivy are not laughing though.
‘Anything the matter?’ she asks. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost!’ she laughs uproariously again and bustles into the lounge.
‘How are you feeling today, Ivy? How are your bruises?’
Ivy smiles and sits in her chair then pulls up her floral dress. Blooms of green and yellow cover her thigh like faded autumn flowers.
‘Nearly gone,’ Patience says brightly and starts preparing Ivy’s medication.
Ivy rearranges her clothing and Max watches her thinking of how Ivy had thumped her thigh with the paperweight to inflict the bruises. It had been easy for her to fake a fall and confusion and she told him she’d enjoyed her little holiday in hospital. She said it was so lovely to have people running around after her; until they got on her nerves, of course.
‘Would you like tea?’ Max asks, poking his head in the room.
Patience is about to reply when a loud crash emits from the hall cupboard.
Max rushes into the hall. Is the woman still alive? Patience is on his heels looking over his shoulder.
‘It’s nothing,’ Max says, turning to her. ‘I was stacking paint tins earlier and can’t have made a good job of it. I’ll wait until you’ve gone before I open the
cupboard in case they all spill out.’
Patience accepts his explanation and goes back to Ivy who has a look of alarm on her face.
‘Don’t worry, Nan,’ Max says with secret pleasure at seeing her discomfort. She bloody deserves to feel scared after what she’s done. ‘I’ll sort it out later.’
There are no further sounds from the cupboard. Max makes tea while Patience sorts out food for Ivy and writes her reports.
‘I’ll be off now.’ Her smile isn’t as wide this time and she looks relieved to go. Maybe she can sense something is wrong.
As soon as the door is closed, Max checks the cupboard. Two tins of varnish have fallen off the shelf. He must have dislodged them earlier and gravity did the rest. He peers into the woman’s face to make sure there are no signs of life. Her stare chills his blood so he reaches across and drags her eyelids down. Where is he going to put this one?
‘How am I going to get her out of the house without old Brentwood seeing me again?’ he asks Ivy.
‘Don’t you worry, I’ll take care of him,’ Ivy replies.
‘No! Please don’t. I can’t cope with any more. I have to prepare a hiding place and it’ll take me a couple of hours. I’ll come back later tonight. Don’t let anyone near that cupboard.’
He knows his nan is scared of prison but not as much as he is. Max was six when his mother said, ‘Let’s play hide-and-seek. I used to be really good at this when I was a kid. Your nan couldn’t find me for hours.’
Max had reluctantly agreed. He’d have preferred his mum to cook him some food. He felt quite weak with hunger and the only provisions in the house were raw sausages, potatoes, and onions. Maybe if he played this for a short while he could persuade her that they could cook dinner together.
He’d sat in the cupboard under the stairs for ages, the old hoover digging into his back and dust tickling his nose. When he could no longer hear his mum moving about he decided to give himself up and tried to open the door. The handle wouldn’t work. Max gripped it tightly but it just spun round uselessly and wouldn’t move the latch. He hammered on the door.