by Lulu Taylor
No one would connect that woman with the one I’m looking at: her skin greyish in comparison with the white hair, the eyes dull and tired, a general dryness everywhere.
I’m Rachel Capshaw. I’m an artist. I’m living here in this place on my own.
They would never see Heather, changed not one jot from that photograph. I would make sure of it. But how easy would that be?
I don’t know if I’m up to the challenge.
It would change everything. I would have to leave as soon as possible. The whole point of this escape is for Heather and me to be alone and undisturbed, and for us to have the time together that other people want to stop. If others arrived, that would no longer be the case.
I’d run again. Somewhere. Anywhere.
That night, when Heather is asleep, I take a glass of wine into the sitting room and connect the tablet to the router, and suddenly I have access to the internet. It feels like a guilty pleasure, something forbidden, but I remind myself that there is no way this IP address could be under surveillance. There are no new emails in my Rachel Capshaw account. A search on my name brings up dozens of articles, lots in our local papers. There are pictures, of all of us. And there is our old house too. That’s no surprise. These were all in print before I left. But now I can see that I’m in the national press too. My name is highlighted over and over until I can hear it chanted in my head:
Kate Overman. Kate Overman. Kate Overman.
The details are all the same. Rory is looking for me. I’m on the run. People are concerned. The police are interested in my whereabouts. There is a picture of Heather, too. The soft wavy blonde hair, the big blue eyes, the heartbreaking smile.
Kate Overman. Kate Overman. Kate Overman.
There I am. Normal, happy, smiling. Brown hair, lipstick, cashmere jumper, jeans and expensive boots. A privileged mummy in her happy life.
God, I can’t stand it!
I turn off the tablet and drink my wine with a shaking hand.
I’m not Kate Overman anymore. I don’t think I ever will be again.
The next morning, Heather comes to me, pale-faced, wan. She looks weak. I can’t seem to make her eat very much and I’m worried that she’s not well.
‘I’ve got nothing to play with, Mummy,’ she says, leaning against me. ‘I’m bored.’
‘You’ve got lots of toys and books,’ I say, stroking her hair. She pulls lightly away so that I can’t. ‘Do you want to watch the tablet?’
She shakes her head and sighs. ‘No.’
‘What about Sparkleknee? Do you want to play with her? You like that. In the hall, on the squares.’
She looks at me, puzzled. ‘Sparkleknee isn’t here.’
‘Yes, she is.’ I smile at her. ‘You brought her here, don’t you remember? You’ve been playing with her and taking her to bed.’
Heather looks at me sadly and shakes her head again, slow and sure. ‘Oh no, Mummy,’ she says. ‘Sparkleknee isn’t here. She’s gone. With all the rest.’
I stare at her, a sense of cold dread mounting in my chest. ‘That’s not right, darling.’
‘It is, Mummy. She’s not here. She was never here.’ And she wanders away to find something to do.
Chapter Nine
I’ve been searching and searching for Sparkleknee. It’s another of Heather’s games, I’m sure, to pretend that she’s not here. But she must be. I saw her myself. I know she was here. But I can’t find her. Instead I turn up Teddington, a battered old bear that I don’t remember bringing either. As soon as I show Teddington to Heather, she is delighted and tucks him under her arm. Now he is with her at night, not Sparkleknee. She doesn’t mention Madam again, either, which is a relief.
While I’m searching for the doll, I’m surprised to see a white envelope lying on the hall floor beneath the letterbox opening. There has been no post here at all since I arrived. I’ve assumed that there is a general redirection order in place, to send all the post to ARK. I go over and pick it up. There is no name on the front. I turn it over a few times and then open it. Inside is a postcard, a very old view of a church with the words ‘St James the Saviour’ printed across the top. I turn it over and there is a neatly written message in an old-fashioned hand.
Thank you for letting us shelter with you and for the tea. You were very kind. Please come and see us if you ever need to. You can telephone us on the number below.
Matty and Sissy
I’m comforted. I didn’t expect it. I don’t think I’ll need their hospitality, but it’s nice of them all the same. I put it back into the envelope and forget about it.
The weather starts to improve and the sunshine makes everything feel better and brighter. I send my report to Alison, but hear nothing back, so I relax and try to enjoy myself. It’s easier now we can go outside for walks. We have cleaning and tidying in the morning, then a lesson with some of the reading and maths books I’ve brought with us, then a walk. In the afternoon, another lesson, then playing, and later, a cartoon while I read, ignoring the temptation to look myself up on the internet. I don’t want to know what’s going on, I’d rather not think about it. In the same way, I shut the thoughts of that mysterious downstairs room out of my mind, although I often lie awake at night, listening for noises, thinking of the flickering lights inside it. On one of those sleepless nights, towards the end of our first week at the house, something hits me.
The router, I tell myself suddenly. That’s what it is. The thought releases me from some of my anxiety.
The next day, on impulse, while Heather is watching something, I get the easel and art box out of the car and set it up in the empty room at the front, still with its bucket under the hole in the ceiling of the bay. The light is cool but bright, and I start painting anything that flows from my brush. In fact, my consciousness seems barely engaged in what I’m doing – it roams freely as I work automatically, smearing colours about on the paper and creating an abstract painting. It doesn’t mean anything. It just is. After an hour or so, I leave the painting feeling refreshed and relaxed, as though for a short while I’ve been set free from everything that oppresses me. I can forget the chasers out there looking for me; Rory, and his implacable need to find me and change everything; the memories with their arsenal of pain. It all goes away and lets me be. I begin to sense very faintly that something better may lie ahead in the future, if I’m just given the time I need to get there.
But even as I begin to feel better, I am afraid that Heather is getting sicker. It’s nothing I can put my finger on. She has no temperature and no particular symptoms. She seems quite happy in herself. It’s just that she is getting ever so slightly weaker. She disappears for long periods of time and I find her curled up asleep on the bed in our room or hiding in the little snug she’s made. Then suddenly, she’ll be fine. She’ll come to life and be as animated and joyful as ever, bringing me such intense happiness. Then, inexorably, the fade will come and she’ll lose her high spirits.
I try not to think about it. It makes me too afraid to think about what will happen if she becomes truly sick. We’re happy here. To go anywhere else would threaten all of that. I cannot face the prospect of losing her.
We have been in the house for almost two weeks. I’m painting in the bay-windowed room, Heather lolling around colouring in, when a van roars up the drive, spurting gravel out from under its tyres. I run to the window, rubbing the paint off my hands on the old apron I’m using as an artist’s smock. The van is one of those cute, vintagey ones in baby blue with daisies painted on the sides. In the front are two figures, and as I watch anxiously, they climb out of the van, one from each door, and jump down onto the gravel. It’s two women, young, both in jeans. One wears an expensive-looking shaggy sheepskin gilet and a beanie hat with a fur pompom, blonde hair spilling over her shoulders. The other has on a black leather bomber jacket, the kind with extra zips. She has short fair hair cut close to her scalp and wears a pair of aviator sunglasses and high-heeled boots. I have no idea what gir
ls like these would want at a place like this.
There’s a strong knocking on the front door.
‘Who’s that?’ Heather asks, sitting up straight and looking out through the window.
‘Get down!’ I hiss. ‘Down, Heather!’
She obediently lies flat as I retreat from sight into the shadows at the rear of the room, then scuttles over to join me, clutching at my leg.
There’s another firm rapping on the door. Shivers of fear race over my back. I sense danger from these two. They don’t look like they’re here by accident. They don’t have the benign bumbliness of Matty and Sissy. They look like they’re on a mission.
‘Wait in here, sweetie,’ I say quietly, then slip out of the room and into the hall, shutting the door behind me.
‘Hello?’ The voice comes from behind the front door, followed by another sharp rapping. ‘Anyone there?’
I tiptoe towards the door. I can hear them talking now.
‘Shall we wait? Or go around the back, see if she’s outside?’ The voice is deepish, mellow, with the plummy vowels of private school and pony club.
‘I say just use the key.’ The answering voice is accented – it sounds Australian to me. Maybe South African. It’s higher, more brusque. ‘She might be out and we’re wasting our time anyway.’
‘Knock again. Give her a moment more. It’s a big place.’
There’s another strong rapping on the door and the Australian voice: ‘Hello? Anyone at home?’ Then, ‘Get the key, Soph. She’s not coming.’
I’m trembling with fright. These two are coming in whether I like it or not. How on earth have they got a key? Are they officials of some kind? I decide it’s better to take the decisive course and shout, ‘Hello, I’m coming! Just a second, I’ll get the bolt off the door.’
The rusty old bolt isn’t shut but I make a show of moving it so that it clanks and scrapes convincingly. Then, taking a deep breath and struggling to tame my beating heart, I slowly undo the latch and pull the door open. There they are, taller and slimmer now that they are right in front of me. Their youthful glamour is intimidating, both with smooth, tanned complexions and regular features. They wear it lightly, not knowing how fleeting all that easy beauty is. They probably think they’ll always look like this. Beside them, I feel shrunken and wizened, my white hair drier than ever, my skin untended. The old clothes I’m wearing, my trainers, and the paint-stained smock, make me feel dowdy and plain. But I need to appear confident, so I give them a big smile.
‘Hello, ladies. How can I help you?’
‘Are you Rachel Capshaw?’ asks the Australian. She is the one with the short blonde hair cut close to her scalp so that it shows off sharp cheekbones and a perfectly formed skull.
‘Yes. Who are you?’
‘I’m Agnes. This is Sophia.’
Sophia blinks big, slanted green eyes at me and says in her drawling way, ‘So lovely to meet you. Alison says you’re an artist’ – she looks pointedly at my smock – ‘and I can see she’s right. So fascinating!’
My insides seem to plummet downwards with fear. Alison has sent them. Are they here to check up on me?
‘You know Alison?’ I say, still smiling, my voice sounding less choked than I feel. I wonder if Heather is listening from behind the door. I hope she doesn’t decide to come out, but surely she knows by now that I don’t want anyone to see her.
‘Yep.’ Agnes slides her sunglasses down her nose, revealing china-blue eyes with heavy kohl outlines. She gazes over my shoulder into the dimness of the hall. ‘Can we come in?’
‘Are you here because of my report?’ I say quickly, still blocking the way. ‘I can do it again if Alison’s not happy. I can easily take some more pictures. There’s really no need for an inspection.’
Agnes laughs and says crisply, ‘It’s not an inspection. Didn’t Alison tell you to expect us?’
I shake my head. But then, I remember, I haven’t checked my email since yesterday.
Sophia says a little more sympathetically, ‘Maybe she forgot. She said she was going to let you know. The plans have been brought forward. We’re here to get the place ready.’
‘Really?’ Dread is flowing up through my body and flooding my brain. The feeling is almost overwhelming. I have an urge to fall to the floor and scream, but I fight it. ‘Ready for what?’
Agnes smiles. I have the distinct feeling that she is enjoying this. ‘Ready for us, of course.’
There’s nothing I can do. I have to let them in. As they stride through the hall in their clacking boots, I remember with relief that I tidied Heather’s scattered toys into a box this morning, so there’s nothing lying about. But there will be things in the sitting room: the colouring book and pens, for a start.
And she’s in the bay-windowed room. All alone. Wondering what’s happening.
The women head for the stairs. They seem to know exactly where to go.
‘Are you going up there?’ I ask.
‘Er . . . yeah,’ Agnes says, her tone bored, as though I’m stating the utter obvious.
‘Why?’
‘To scope it.’ They’re on the stairs now, hardly bothering to pay me attention. I need some answers, so I follow them onto the staircase. Agnes casts a look down the banister at me. ‘No need to come with us. We won’t be long.’
‘I’m dying for a coffee,’ Sophia says with a smile, ‘after that journey. If you wouldn’t mind . . .’
I stop on the stairs, torn by my desire to stick with them and by my need to reassure Heather. ‘Okay,’ I reply reluctantly. ‘I’ll put some on.’
They go quickly up the stairs and disappear through the door at the top.
I put my head in my hands, my shoulders slumping with defeat. What the hell is going on? What am I going to do?
I’m confident they won’t recognise me, but one glimpse of Heather and they’ll know. If they’ve seen any of the pictures on the news, they’ll know her in a heartbeat. And anyway, children are not part of the package here. They’re not allowed. Insurance, Alison said when she mentioned it. I said it didn’t matter as I wasn’t bringing any children. She’d sounded pleased.
What does it matter if they chuck me out now? I can’t stay. I’ll have to leave. But where can I go?
I hurry back to the bay-windowed room and open the door. ‘Heather?’
There’s no one in there. I stare about frantically. She was here. I left her here. Where is she? There’s nowhere to hide in here . . . ‘Heather, where are you?’
I go back into the hall, looking for her. She’s not there, not in the tent she made with the coats. She must have slipped out of the room while I was on the stairs with the visitors. I run down the hall into the west wing and our bedroom. It’s empty but Teddington is lying on the floor and the window is open. I hurry over and look out, just in time to see a flash of blonde hair disappearing under the bay tree.
Oh God. Poor kid. I’m making her as paranoid and fearful as I am. She’ll probably stay in her den until I come to tell her the coast is clear.
I feel guilty as I go to the kitchen and fill the kettle on autopilot. What must Heather be thinking and feeling? And what will we do if these women actually move in? My options are limited. I can’t take Heather on the run with nowhere to go. She’s only a child, she can’t live in a car. With our pictures in the press, we’d be recognised at once. The first service station we stopped at would be full of witnesses to our escape. We’d be picked up immediately. We can’t go home. We can’t go anywhere.
My thoughts are on an anxious loop as I finish making the coffee. I take a tray back to the hall, and hear the heavy swing of the upstairs door and voices. It’s Agnes I hear first, her tone more strident.
‘. . . fucking tip!’ she says. ‘Much worse than the photos. Those toilets are disgusting. If he thinks I’m cleaning them, he’s fucking nuts. This is definitely the worst so far.’
Sophia says soothingly, ‘Hey, it’s okay. It’s only a bit of dirt. We’ll manage
it. Besides, we can get help if we need it.’
‘I’ve got your coffee,’ I say, holding up the tray with its three mugs and milk jug. ‘Do you take sugar?’
They both shake their heads, staring down at me as though they’d forgotten my existence.
Then Sophia says, ‘Thanks, Rachel. We’ll come down.’
As they descend the stairs, I nod towards the eastern side of the house. ‘Let’s go in here.’ I lead them into the old dining room with its table and chairs. A moment later, we’re sitting down at the near end, holding our mugs of coffee. I’ve had time to think, and I feel more alert and more able to take the initiative.
‘Why are you looking at the upstairs?’ I ask lightly. ‘Is it going to be renovated? I’ve wondered what plans the company has for the house. It’s such an amazing old place.’
I mean it. This last fortnight in the house has been long enough for me to start to love it. Even though we inhabit a tiny part, I’ve begun to appreciate the beauty and character that lies below the dilapidation. It has a sort of sadness about it that I can’t identify, but that sits well with me right now. The house and I feel a kind of sympathy for one another, with all our losses and disintegration. We both feel like once glorious structures that have faded and been abandoned, now living with ghosts and memories.
‘Not exactly renovated,’ Sophia says. She seems to be the more emollient of the two. Perhaps she’s worried about appearing rude. That whole private school charm thing. ‘But prepared.’ She sends a small smile towards Agnes. ‘You know how it’s best to be prepared.’
‘Absolutely,’ I say. ‘But prepared for what?’
‘For events,’ Agnes says in a slightly snappy way. ‘And in your case that means being prepared for us.’
I frown at her, uncomprehending. ‘What do you mean?’
‘We’ll be moving in.’
‘When?’
‘Soon. Tomorrow. Early.’