In Bloom

by C. J. Skuse

  ‘You’ve been busy,’ I remarked, faced with a seating area so deluged in paper and washing baskets full of clothes I couldn’t decipher clean from dirty. Stacks of envelopes were piled up on every available flat space. The whole place stank of a vanilla PlugIn. ‘What’s with the letters?’

  She made her way over to a Lana-shaped space on the carpet and sat down cross-legged. She then proceeded to fold letters and stick down pre-addressed envelopes. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to get all this lot in the post by four.’

  ‘Your face has healed nicely,’ I said, pulling my handbag strap back up onto my shoulder from where it had slid down. The jars were getting heavy.

  ‘Yeah.’ She cut her tongue on an envelope as she licked it and I ran to the kitchen to get her a glass of water to wash down the blood. I secreted the jam jars in the under sink cupboard while I was there. Safe and sound.

  ‘I keep thinking about what I told the police,’ she said, taking the glass. ‘I’m so worried, Rhee.’

  ‘Why? You’ve told the truth – there were pockets of time unaccounted for when he could have slipped out and committed the murders. That’s all.’

  ‘No but they’ve twisted it. He’s going to hate me. What if he gets out and he comes looking for me?’

  ‘Well if he’s not a murderer you’ve got nothing to worry about.’

  ‘I acted so childishly when he told me you were pregnant,’ she said. ‘I cut my arm in front of him. I said I’d kill myself if he didn’t stay with me. All that’s going to go against me.’ She sobbed. ‘I’m so sorry for what I did to you.’

  ‘I told you before, that’s over now. This is bigger than that. That DI Géricault, she interviewed you before, yeah?’

  ‘Endless bitch.’

  ‘She’s only doing her job, be fair.’

  ‘No, I won’t. It’s got nothing to do with me, why won’t she leave me alone? Why won’t everybody leave me ALONE?’

  ‘Géricault told me that on the night Julia Kidner was murdered, Craig was in London. Watching a football match. They have him on CCTV.’

  ‘So what are you saying, he didn’t kill her?’

  ‘Or he did but he didn’t dump her body. They think he had help.’

  ‘Oh my god.’

  ‘Now I know where I was on that night. Where were you?’

  ‘Here.’

  ‘On your own?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Any neighbours corroborate that?’

  ‘I don’t have any neighbours. The ones in the flat next door were kicked out in April for squatting. It’s just me.’

  ‘What about CCTV outside?’

  ‘Only in the direction of Morrison’s car park… ’

  ‘So if you went out, you wouldn’t be picked up on CCTV?’

  ‘No, but I didn’t. I rarely go out at night anyway.’

  ‘Except if you’re meeting Craig?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I sat back and sighed. She reached for the cakes, picked one up, sniffed it, then put it back.

  ‘Have you gone off them?’ I said.

  ‘No, I’m not hungry right now.’

  ‘I’m sorry to bring all this to your door, Lana, but I’m only preparing you for what’s coming. You and me are innocent. We have to stick together.’

  I went to the window, looking up both sides of the street. ‘You’ve got to be strong and stick to the new story – he did have time. It’s perfectly possible. You knew nothing about it.’ I pressed my nose to the window again.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ She got to her feet.

  ‘Spies.’

  ‘Spies?!’

  ‘Yeah, Craig’s defence team. Do you know who owns that red Audi?’

  ‘What red Audi?’ She barged me out of the way and peeked out.

  ‘I saw a guy sitting in it when I arrived. He’s still there.’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know that car.’

  ‘You should keep an eye. Craig’s solicitor’s ruthless, a real pit bull.’

  ‘Why would he be watching me?’ She looked out, eyes fixed on the car.

  ‘To try and undermine your testimony. If he can prove you’re lying—’

  ‘Oh god, why is this happening to me? First the Plymouth Star guy won’t leave me alone, then Géricault, now them!’

  ‘They’ll watch you twenty-four-seven if they have to, just to get a bit of dirt,’ I said, my breath fogging up the pane.

  She barged me aside, looking through the window herself. As she did, she knocked a pile of envelopes off the dining table. I picked them up – it was received post. Junk mail mostly, To the Occupier envelopes, leaflets, flyers for carpet shampooing. And a plain white envelope with a prison postmark.

  ‘Sorry, can I use your loo?’ I said.

  ‘There’s no paper,’ she said, distracted by the Audi. ‘Use kitchen roll.’

  I sneaked the letter under my jumper on my way to the toilet.

  He must have written it the second after I’d left.

  NUMBER: MM2651

  NAME: Wilkins

  WING: G554

  Dear Lana,

  I want you to know first of all that I’m sorry for the way I treated you. I literally don’t know how else to say that cos I did what I thought was right for R and my baby. But I feel so guilty for how I left things with you. I still love you.

  Everything inside me quenched up.

  I didn’t do anything, you have to believe me. I know we haven’t known each other for long but you know me well enough. I’m not gay and I couldn’t do any of those things, especially not to that woman. I wouldn’t harm a fly!

  ‘He’s a demon with a fly swat, so that’s a lie for a start,’ I said. ‘And he hates wasps.’

  I’m sorry the police are hassling you – I know Rhiannon has got to you about changing alibis. That’s not your fault. I don’t blame you. I can see how bad all this looks but I swear I am totally innocent and I know you are too. I swear on my baby’s life—

  Interesting.

  —If I’m guilty of anything, it’s falling in love with you…

  Oh you absolute lying little skank-licking pig dog pus-boil from Hell’s filthiest armpit.

  But listen to me – Rhiannon is dangerous. Stay away from her. I don’t know how I didn’t see this before – I guess I wasn’t looking. I can’t say any more now because, to be honest, if she finds out I’m contacting you, I don’t know what she’s capable of. Or I do know what she’s capable of and that’s why I’m afraid. Please stay away from her. She’s toxic.

  Just know this – I do love you, Lana. With all my heart.

  Craig xxxx

  Four kisses. One for each of the years he and I were together.

  Told you. It was Daddy who loved you, not him. He’s a waste of space, Mummy.

  I folded up the letter and posted it inside my jeans pocket, my throat burning. I pulled the flush and stepped out.

  And there goes the alarm ringing in my head.

  ‘I don’t want to be here anymore,’ said Lana, back in her space beneath the window. ‘I’ve been thinking about ending it all.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And I know what you’re going to say but I can’t cope. I don’t have anyone.’ She was halfway through a Rice Krispie cake, tears falling into the empty cupcake case. ‘What would you do if you were me, Rhiannon?’

  I breathed out, sitting down on the arm of the sofa next to her. I stroked her hair. ‘I don’t think I’d want to live either if I were you. And I have a support network in place – Craig’s parents, good friends at my antenatal group. My Christian townswomen’s guild. I have plenty to fill my time. And not to mention Craig’s baby on the way. I have something to focus on.’

  She took another cake. ‘I want to do it. I want to do it before they come and find me.’

  ‘Seems like I can’t talk you out of it.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘How will you do it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘There
’s the multi storey car park in town?’

  ‘I don’t like heights.’

  ‘Well you’ll only have to go up there once, won’t you?’

  ‘I don’t think I can. You need courage to take you own life.’

  ‘You are courageous, Lana. You’re so strong. It’s not going to get any better, is it? And then there’s the trial. How are you going to get through that?’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘There you are then.’

  ‘Will you help me?’

  ‘Help you how?’

  ‘Be there for me. Call the ambulance and stuff.’

  ‘You don’t want an ambulance, do you?’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  ‘I mean, this isn’t a cry for help, is it? It’s a statement of intent.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay so what are you going to do? Keep talking about it? Keep slicing up your arms and crying in this poky flat with no proper job, no purpose, no one to support you?’

  ‘My mum and dad—’

  ‘They’ll understand eventually, don’t worry about them. You can write them a little note if you want.’

  ‘I could do it with pills. There’s some paracetamol in the bathroom cabinet. I think I could do pills.’

  ‘I have some more in my bag if you want them.’

  ‘I can’t believe I’m doing this. I can’t believe this is how it ends.’

  ‘It’ll be so easy, Lana. You’ll just fall asleep and then all of this will be over and done with forever. No more worry, no more sleepless nights. Gordon Ramsay clap done.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Will you stay though? Make sure I don’t wake up.’

  ‘Of course I will. It’s the least I can do.’

  Monday, 22nd October – 24 weeks, 1 day

  1. The elf who tangles up my earphones, my hair in the morning and Jim’s garden hose before I water the flowers – it’s getting personal.

  Went back to our flat today – the new couple were moving in. I watched the removal guys unloading their furniture. All IKEA shit and one white goods delivery from John Lewis. He carried her over the threshold. She was one of those preggos who has only put weight on at the bump so the rest of her was basically the same – a pencil with the rubber in the middle. Leafblower Ron stopped to chat with them. He didn’t see me.

  Drove round to Claudia Gulper’s house after. I knew she’d be at work so the place was deserted and I still had AJ’s key. Technically not breaking and entering – just entering.

  It was a family home with no family – just remnants of one bitter, twisted old shrew; a shopping list on the fridge, cork board loaded with To Do lists, yoga class times and neatly-written recipes, instead of term dates or letters about parents’ evening. Accents of copper and a pervading smell of proper coffee and fresh flowers. Fruit basket. Large manicured back garden. Huge lounge with cream carpets and marshmallow sofas. Next door to AJ’s empty room was a box room, bare but for a yellow bees and flowers border – the beginnings of a nursery for the sundry babies she never got to keep.

  We’re quite similar in a way, me and Claudia. She never got what she wanted either. Her passive aggression is my aggression. I’m aggressive enough for the both of us.

  Went into town afterwards to get some maternity trousers – I can’t deny it anymore. I’ve popped out of every single normal pair I own. I’ve also gone up two cup sizes in my bras, so I have to wear these hammocky things now. I am officially one of the whale family – the youngest member of the pod.

  How can this be when it’s only the size of a bloody grapefruit?

  I’m not a grapefruit anymore – I’m an ear of corn. If you were any kind of mother you’d know that.

  Continuing the Home Alone theme that has dominated my life of late, I then continued my journey to my little hideaway on the clifftop to eat junk and watch rubbish – no one came out and stopped me.

  I Googled Lana Rowntree. No news has broken yet. They haven’t found her. Surely she’d smell by now.

  I lay on AJ’s remains in the flower bed and fell asleep – comforted by my new non-pinchy trousers and the distant swelling of the sea beneath the cliffs. The weather is still pretty balmy so the soil was warm beneath my back. The baby’s heart rate didn’t go up like I thought it would. Mine did though.

  *

  At the Where’s Your Womb At? meeting tonight it was Bake Night and I’d forgotten to bake anything. Being good kind Christians though, the others had brought along ‘plenty to share’. Scones, Victoria sponges, macaroons, Battenberg, trays of baklava, iced fancies, cupcakes with little emoji wafers on top. They’d gone all out. Not that I partook in any of it, of course. I don’t trust other people’s homemade offerings if I haven’t first inspected their kitchens. Come on, you’ve seen what I keep in mine. Next meeting is a creative writing class as several Wombats are producing their own novels. Erica has titled the session ‘Tightening Your Opening’. I’ll just leave that one there.

  One of the younger WOMBATs – Amey Plainface – brought her baby twins in to show everyone. Now I like children, but these kids were butt-ugly. One was chubby and boggle-eyed and the other had this massive blood blister on its cheek which you can’t ignore on a baby because it’s so damn big. It was a quarter the size of its head. It was a blood blister on legs.

  I hope mine doesn’t have one of those. Can you have plastic surgery on a newborn? I have enough trouble loving humans as it is without them having squashed tomatoes on their faces.

  Amey was full of it though – all smiley and proudly showing off old Boggle Eyes and Blood Blister and all the WOMBATs crowded round the double buggy to gaze at them like they were a Banksy. They were all Awww, aren’t they adorable? And Bless their little cotton socks. I dropped in a few Ahhhs but my heart wasn’t in it.

  ‘It’ll be you next, Rhiannon.’ Amey grinned, rocking the buggy.

  ‘Yeah,’ I smiled my most convincing smile.

  ‘Do you know if you’ll go natural or C-section?’

  ‘Uh, dunno.’

  ‘You haven’t thought about it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I went natural. It is best for them, there’s no doubt. I’m stitched from John O’Groats to Land’s End, mind. Are you creaming your stretch marks?’

  ‘Every day, yeah.’

  ‘You stretch everywhere don’t you? Least I did. Still, they’re worth it.’

  ‘Are they?’ I said, looking down at old Boggle Eyes Billy and Squashed Tomato Features. ‘Well that’s all right then.’

  I watched her doing the mum thing. Burping and snuggling and all that. I tried to imagine me doing it but the images wouldn’t come.

  ‘I can pass on some of my old maternity wear if you like. I won’t be needing them now. Definitely not having any more.’

  ‘Oh right. That would be brilliant. Thanks.’

  I couldn’t bear the thought of stepping into someone else’s clothes. Her old skid-marked jeggings and vanilla-sick tunics? No thank you.

  ‘And they’re growing out of all their old romper suits too. I’ll get a nice bin bag up together for you.’

  ‘Thanks. Again.’

  It was only when everyone else started on the tea and fruit cake that one of the babies started crying and Amey settled on a chair in the corner of the hall and heaved her tit out of its sling.

  ‘I’ll let you get on,’ I said, creeping off like Burglar Bill.

  ‘You can stay and watch if you like, Rhiannon,’ she smiled, draping a muslin over her shoulder. ‘Might pick up some tips?’

  ‘Oh great.’

  ‘I’ve got the hang of it now but it was agony at first. I never thought I’d get it right.’ There was a dried patch of puke on her bare arm. I dry heaved.

  ‘No need to look so alarmed. It’s quite natural.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah of course.’ She stuffed her burger nip into the mewling thing’s gob and it latched on like an alien. ‘Fucking hell!’ I blurted. M
y remark echoed around the hall thanks to the acoustics and then I had everyone judging me – the Jesus Christ figurines, the stacks of Bibles, the tea ladies through the kitchen hatch, even the emoji sugar craft on the cupcakes. ‘Sorry. That looked so painful.’

  Amey didn’t take offence. ‘No, it’s all right. It was uncomfortable at first but you get used to it. I’ve got nipples like World War One helmets now!’

  ‘What happens when they both want feeding?’

  ‘I do them both at the same time,’ she said, indicating a pillow folded over in the buggy’s undercarriage. ‘Or I bottle feed, whatever’s easiest. I’m their mum so I do what needs to be done. It’s instinctive.’

  There was that word again – instinct. I knew the kind of instincts I had and not one of them was maternal. That instinct wants to argue, to slap, to kick, to chide, to slit throats open wide, to stab, to stake, to flay, to knock people down and laugh as the wheels bump over them. And it doesn’t matter how much I starve that instinct, it still won’t die.

  I wondered if somehow my maternal instincts would samurai through all those other ones when I give birth. I wondered if I wanted them to.

  Every atom in my body wanted to stop watching the sight in front of me but I had to at least pretend to be interested, so I started talking to her about what kind of pram I should buy, trying my best to look everywhere but at her giant throbbing bagpipe and the chugging haggis on the end of it.

  ‘So, twins,’ I said, swallowing down a heave. ‘So your vadge is pretty much toast then?’

  Thursday, 25th October – 24 weeks, 4 days

  1.Journalists who use pictures of preggos and say they’re ‘flaunting’ their bumps. Can’t exactly hide them, Dickhead. You try smuggling a dinghy up your jumper and let’s see how good you are at hiding it.

  Patrick’s stopped talking altogether now. I can only see the top of his head when I shine the torch down – he’s slumped against the side of the well. He’s scratched up the walls and there’s a hell of a stink rising. I’ve chucked a couple of Magic Trees down there and put the lid back. I’ll deal with him later.