by R. P. Bolton
Less than a minute later, she was carrying both the baby and the cake tin towards Diane’s porch.
Knock. Wait. Knock louder.
‘Come on, come on,’ she murmured, casting furtive glances through the green-black wall of conifers that divided the two gardens. From this angle there were no windows, no doors; number six was an expanse of blank, impassive brick.
It looked as though the house had something to hide.
54. Now
Diane, glasses nesting in her blonde hair, held a newspaper at the crossword page. Radio voices came up the hall and out onto the porch.
‘Hello, Ellie. Is everything all right?’
Reminding herself to smile, Ellie held the cake tin out. ‘Fine thanks. I’m returning this.’
Her neighbour folded the newspaper and placed it on the hall table. ‘Bless you. You didn’t have to do that.’
When there was no reply, she studied Ellie for a second then mimed a shudder. ‘It’s too cold to stand out there. Come in for a cuppa?’
Diane’s kitchen was wonderfully normal. An Aga radiated heat and informal framed pictures on the wall depicted a happy family growing up. A pair of red wool gloves lay on top of a copy of Gardener’s World. A British Wildlife calendar hung from a hook, reminders scribbled on almost every day. There was a teapot, an apron, wellies and the smell of something sweet baking. The heart of Diane’s home beat strongly.
‘Milk and sugar?’
‘Just milk, please.’
Almost unbearably transported back to Anita and David’s farmhouse kitchen, Ellie felt her eyes sting. Diane clicked the radio off.
‘Have a seat,’ she said. ‘Would you like me to hold the baby?’
Shaking her head, Ellie pulled Trinity closer, feeling the warm body safely sheltered by her own.
‘Can’t say I blame you,’ Diane said, stroking Trinity under the chin. ‘She’s gorgeous.’
The kettle bubbled on the stovetop and Diane dropped teabags into a striped pot, talking about the weather, Christmas, babies. Her soft voice and unhurried movements soothed Ellie’s frazzled nerves.
Diane set two cups on coasters.
‘Asha said you’ve been busy with the house.’
‘Still lots to do. Tom’s dad has done most of it.’
The other woman dried her hands on a tea towel and took the lid off an Emma Bridgewater biscuit barrel.
‘Yes, I met – Howard, is it? – a few days ago. Must be a godsend having someone handy around. Are your parents local too?’
Ellie took a chocolate digestive from the tin as she explained about her dad and Spain and Mum’s broken leg.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Diane said. ‘Well, you’re always welcome to pop round if you fancy a chat or need a hand.’
‘Thanks.’ Ellie swallowed the lump in her throat along with a bite of the biscuit. ‘Sorry. I’m all over the place today.’
‘No need to apologise, my love.’ Diane pushed a box of tissues across the table. ‘Would it help to talk?’
‘Oh it’s just Tom’s been so busy at work.’ She pressed a tissue to the corner of each eye in turn. ‘And I’m tired and the tablets for my blood pressure were messing with my sleep and that’s on top of everything with the house.’
Trinity moaned and Ellie jiggled her.
‘Shall I pop her in Freddie’s playpen to give your arms a rest?’ Diane said, holding out her arms.
Ellie let the older woman take Trinity and settle her onto the cosy mat in the cosy playpen. It looked so cosy, in fact, she wanted to curl up in there herself and sleep for days in the warm tranquillity of Diane’s kitchen.
‘You’ve had an awful lot to cope with recently. It’s perfectly natural to feel overwhelmed at times.’
‘That’s what the doctor said. But it’s hard to explain without sounding, you know—’ She mimed corkscrewing at the temple.
Diane laughed. ‘I’ll keep an open mind.’
Deep breath, Ellie.
‘So, I met another of the neighbours when I came to view the house. She walked straight past me in the garden and now I keep seeing her. She’s got dark hair. Wears glasses. Do you know who she is?’
Diane tilted her chin in affirmation. ‘Dark hair and glasses sounds like Rita Cohen at number three. Have you spoken to her?’
‘Not exactly. Every time I’ve met her, it’s been a bit …’ She grimaced. ‘Odd.’
‘Ah.’ Diane nodded. ‘Please don’t be offended. Poor Rita has dementia.’
Dementia?
‘Jack, her husband, is having such a hard time,’ Diane continued. ‘I can’t imagine he’ll be able to cope for much longer. She’s almost completely stopped talking and she keeps leaving the house at all hours of day and night.’
Diane carried on detailing Rita’s gradual decline and recent wanderings while Ellie murmured politely, ‘That’s awful. How sad. Poor people.’
Meanwhile, she mentally reviewed the silent encounters with the woman in black. Excluding the nightmares, this curveball certainly moved things in the direction of ‘Not crazy. Logical explanation.’
A neighbour with dementia who didn’t speak and was prone to wander? Well.
It took significant willpower not to fling herself at Diane’s knees, sobbing with gratitude.
‘Is there anything else I should know?’ Ellie said, when Diane finished. She picked at a thread hanging from her cuff. ‘About Moss Lane, or Mary? It’s my house and everyone seems to have a theory about what happened there, or they know something I don’t.’
Diane lifted her glasses from the top of her head and pushed them into a case printed with roses.
‘I’m not sure how much help I can be. I know it seems hard to believe, but I’d barely seen Mary for years. She never left the house. Wouldn’t have visitors, except for the grocers in the village and the postman.’
‘But you knew her when she was young?’
‘Most of what I know came from the Cohens, actually. Rita was a teacher at Uppermoss High and from what she said, one day Mary was at school, the next she wasn’t. No warning, she just stopped coming.’
‘OK,’ Ellie said, digesting the information. ‘Someone told me Mary might have had a baby that was adopted.’
‘Well, again, this is according to Rita, but apparently Mary had a boyfriend from another school for a short while and she was clearly pregnant when she stopped attending. She certainly would have had no choice but to give up her baby. Bill Brennan would never allow the stigma of an illegitimate child under his roof. I know you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but the man was a despicable human being. Even taking his own life right behind the house was designed to cause maximum pain. You know he left a note so Mary would be the one to find him? Can you imagine the cruelty?’
She laid her palms on her flushed cheeks and exhaled loudly, a sound filled with misery and remorse.
‘There hasn’t been a day since Mary died that I haven’t regretted not trying harder back then. When Bill Brennan said she’d gone to stay with relatives, we believed him. Nowadays, you’d question it. Thinking about that poor girl going through a pregnancy all alone only to have her child taken away. It doesn’t bear thinking about.’
Ellie knew all about regret. Before she could stop herself, she had a flashback to Mia.
‘It’s not your fault.’ She squeezed Diane’s forearm and got a half-smile in return.
‘Thank you. But I know I should have done more. It’s no excuse that things were different then and I was busy with the children and my job at the clinic. I did try several times after her father died. I could feel her standing right behind the door, but she wouldn’t open it. Of course, she was an adult by then so I had to respect the fact she wanted to be left alone.’
‘Poor Mary,’ Ellie said.
Apart from the wall clock ticking, the kitchen fell silent. The guilt in Diane’s stricken features resonated with Ellie.
Could have done this. Should have done that.
‘
When I think of her dying in that awful way …’ Diane said, lost in contemplation. ‘Yes, if I could turn the clock back, there are so many things I would do differently.’
55. Now
There were no delicious aromas of home baking in Ellie’s own kitchen when she returned from Diane’s with an open invitation to return whenever she wanted. Instead, dirty clothes and dirty worktops welcomed her home. Dirty floor too, which come to think of it, she’d already mopped. Or maybe that had been yesterday.
‘Forget about perfect,’ she muttered, slinging her jumper over the chair. After two cups of tea and the conversation with Diane, her anxiety had ebbed, but as ever, the housework remained.
She was in the nursery when Tom called to ‘see what my two favourite girls are up to’.
In the background, a printer whirred and a keyboard click-clacked under urgent fingertips.
‘I’m feeding Trinity,’ she said, smiling down at their hungry daughter. ‘How’s the job going?’
‘To plan so far, but we’ll see.’
The tension in his voice was unmistakable and Ellie got the impression that he was less hopeful than he’d been. Even the usual background office noise – the laughs, the hubbub of conversation – seemed subdued.
‘What have you been doing?’ he continued.
‘We went to Diane’s for a coffee. And Mum rang to say she’s booked a flight.’
She filled him in with some of the details.
‘Sounds like you’re having a good day,’ Tom said.
He wasn’t cheating on her. Mum would be here soon. Six Moss Lane belonged to them and the woman in black was a poor, confused neighbour.
‘Yeah,’ she said, a grin blooming. ‘I am.’
Less than a minute later, the phone rang again. This time it was Mum on Facetime.
‘Are you feeling any better now, love?’ she said.
‘So much better,’ Ellie replied.
‘I cannot wait to see my two beautiful girls,’ Carol said with obvious longing. ‘Can I have a peek at the baby now?’
Ellie lowered Trinity into the cot, her serene expression at odds with the clenched fists on either side of her head.
‘Oh my goodness, she looks just like you did,’ Carol whispered. ‘Hello, gorgeous girl. Nanny can’t wait to spoil you rotten. Now, tell your mummy to send me those photos.’
Trinity mumbled and stirred.
A fly strafed Ellie’s ear. She flapped at it with her free hand. ‘Bloody hell.’
‘What’s up?’ Carol said.
‘Massive bluebottle,’ Ellie said in disgust. Another fat insect dived and she batted it away with the phone.
Her mum spoke distantly, ‘What are you doing, Ellie? The screen’s gone funny.’
Now there were two flies.
‘I’ll have to call you back in a minute.’
She tugged the chain on the blackout blind and wafted them towards the window with a copy of The Tiger Who Came to Tea. Their lazy barrel rolling over the cot continued.
She shoved the window. Cold air rushed in and the buzzing intensified. Turning, Ellie reeled in shock.
Flies.
Not one or two, but half a dozen or more above the cot. Red-eyed, plastic-winged. Worst of all was the grotesque spectacle of a bluebottle quivering on her daughter’s wet bottom lip. Trinity’s tongue lolled, an inviting red carpet. Batting at the obscene cloud as she went, Ellie snatched her up. Hesitated.
‘Oh God,’ she moaned softly, lifting one foot.
The stain had returned, spreading out from under the cot. Jet black against the pale grey carpet. She hopped back sharply, lost her balance and half-fell into the hallway, catching her hip agonisingly on the doorframe as she twisted awkwardly to protect the baby’s precious skull.
Trinity conveyed her gratitude with an unrelenting wah wah wah that continued unbroken while Ellie turned the bath taps on, fumbled over the press studs and washed her thoroughly and carefully with antibacterial soap. When she finally hushed – cocooned in a warm towel – Ellie slid her back down the bathroom wall, sat on the floor and listened to the silence pulsing through the house. Slowly, holding the drowsy baby, she crept across the landing and put her ear to the door, straining to hear. But there was nothing. The buzzing had stopped.
OK. She pushed the door with one fingertip. Listened. Peered in.
Benign, friendly, welcoming. The room looked and smelled perfect. She switched the light on and cautiously dabbed the carpet with her toe. Showroom-perfect. No flies. No stain.
Almost as if they’d never been there at all.
Ellie shivered and closed the window.
Whatever had summoned the flies and the stain had gone for now. But her daughter’s things would not be here when they came back.
56. Now
The Allen key slotted into the cot side first time. Stiff at first, she put her weight on it and it soon loosened. The base needed a screwdriver, not the flat-head sort, the other kind, which meant another trip to the toolbox and a check on Trinity mesmerised by the TV in their bedroom. Thank God for CBeebies.
Coaxing twenty tiny screws out of the base made her fingertips red and sore. After a few tries, she found a rhythm: insert, twist, twist harder. The last screw was stuck fast. She grunted and leaned her full weight on the screwdriver handle. But her palms were damp with sweat and it slipped into the web of skin between her thumb and index finger.
‘God’s sake!’ She ran her hand under the cold tap and the water turned pink. She pressed a clean flannel against the cut, dabbed until the bleeding slowed. Not deep enough for stitches, but deep, nonetheless.
This time, the screw turned easily. She stacked the last slat and sat back on her heels, blowing a damp strand of hair from her eyes. The cot was a pile of dismantled parts.
Done.
She switched the light out and closed the door firmly behind her.
Dragging the nursing chair and the changing table into their bedroom had been easy, compared to reassembling the cot but finally, she had turned the last screw. She licked a smear of blood from her thumb and looked around the crowded room. There was barely any floor space left. Now came the hardest part of the whole operation: coming up with a convincing reason for emptying the nursery. What could she say that Tom would believe?
The Moses basket. That was it. She’d say lugging it up and down was a pain, so it made sense to keep it downstairs and move the cot in here.
The familiar sound of their car engine was the signal to gather the tools and glance at the nursery for a final time. Clean. Tidy. Bare.
Keys rattled downstairs and the front door creaked open.
‘This is a nice surprise,’ she said from the top of the stairs. ‘I thought you were back late tonight.’
‘I know.’ Tom unwound his scarf and slipped his jacket off. ‘Tanya said she’d stay late so I could get off early.’
‘That’s kind of her,’ she said, descending slowly and carefully. The baby’s fingers clutched at her top, the little nails surprisingly sharp.
‘Yeah. Luckily, now we’re not having an affair she has loads of spare time.’
He threw her an exaggerated wink as she reached the bottom step.
‘Funny. How was your day?’
‘Honestly? I couldn’t take anymore. I have seen things today I never want to think about again.’ He pulled his shoulders back and reached his arms out. ‘But tomorrow. Tomorrow, we will have the bastards locked up. Fingers crossed. Anyway, how is my other beautiful girl?’
He cradled the baby tight, peppering her with tiny kisses and burying his nose in her neck, inhaling deeply as though the innocent baby-ness could cleanse him of the horrors of work.
‘Great,’ Ellie said. ‘Do you want to do her bath?’
Half an hour later, she brought two plates piled high with spaghetti bolognese and garlic bread in from the kitchen while Tom lowered a freshly bathed and tranquil Trinity into the Moses basket.
She had her lines prepped. Why did I mov
e all the baby things out of the nursery? Oh, it’s just easier to have all her stuff close by.
OK, as excuses went it was pretty flimsy, but what else could she tell him? The truth? She could barely admit that to herself: she was afraid of the nursery. She watched him from the corner of her eye, waiting for her cue. Moses basket downstairs. Easier.
‘God, this is good,’ he said through a mouthful of spaghetti. ‘I’ve hardly eaten all day.’
Well, that was strange. But if he wasn’t going to bring the subject up then neither was she.
‘How come?’ she replied, picking up her fork.
‘I lost my appetite. But you don’t want to know why.’
‘I do. Tell me.’
‘OK, I’ll give you the PG version.’ He broke off a chunk of bread and mopped up the last of the sauce. ‘First, I watched an hour of unimaginable webcam footage. Then, frame by frame, I cross-referenced all the tattoos, scars and body parts I saw with the ones we already have on the database. Then I signed off the paperwork for the raid and came home.’
‘That sounds awful.’ She squeezed his arm sympathetically, instantly regretting it as the cut on her hand sent out stinging barbs of pain.
‘But if it goes our way tomorrow, it’ll be worth it.’ He scrolled through the TV menu. ‘Stop me when you see something you fancy. Nothing heavy, though.’
‘Anything but the chateau people, please.’
Canned laughter issued from the TV and Tom’s answering chuckle vibrated through Ellie. When their plates were empty, she pulled the throw over both of them, its soft fleece as cosy as the warm lamplight illuminating the room. Sliding her hand up Tom’s T-shirt, she laid her palm flat against the warmth of his belly. Here, in his arms, with their baby asleep and the house snug and secure, what would be the point in bringing up photos and flies? The shirt buttons pressed into her cheek as she buried her nose in his chest, breathing in the new-bread scent of him. So warm, so comfortable.