The Perfect House

by R. P. Bolton

  But she couldn’t ignore her bladder any longer. She lifted his arm up.

  ‘Back in a minute.’

  The hall and stairs were in darkness, but a faint light glimmered on the landing. She faltered as her foot landed on the top step. The nursery door stood wide open and a slice of pastel light illuminated the carpet. The soft cadences of a lullaby drifted out. Hesitantly, she crept towards the light that pointed like a bright arrow into the dark room.

  The nursery furniture stood where it always had. The cot under the window. The nursing chair to the side of it. The changing table against the chimney breast.

  It didn’t make sense.

  She gripped the doorframe for support and the cut across her palm immediately stung. Questions ricocheted around her skull. The nursing chair, yes. Table, yes. But how could he have moved the cot? There hadn’t been time for him to dismantle it and put it back together again.

  Raucous TV laughter floated up the stairs and the noise shocked her limbs from their temporary paralysis. She rushed to the cot. Her fingertips met unyielding, hard wood then frantically traced the screws, tightly inserted in the holes, and when she dropped to her knees to peer at the slatted base, every piece was present and correct. Untouched. Unmoved.

  At some point, she must have shouted out, because suddenly Tom stood in the doorway, holding the baby.

  ‘What’s up?’ he said.

  She jumped, slamming into the changing table.

  ‘How did you do it so quick?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said, puzzled. ‘Do what?’

  ‘I moved everything this afternoon. It took ages to take the cot apart.’

  Tom held his palm up in a placatory gesture.

  ‘I’m really confused, Els. Are you saying you moved the cot?’

  ‘And the chair and the table,’ she added. ‘Into our bedroom. But now they’re back in the nursery. How do you explain that?’

  The silence dragged on for a few seconds. Blood beat in her ears.

  ‘I can’t,’ he said with a helpless shrug. ‘Except … maybe you didn’t move them?’

  ‘Are you saying I’m lying?’ High-pitched and borderline hysterical, she didn’t recognise her own voice. Blood oozed, staining the cuff of her jumper and she thrust her hand out. ‘The screwdriver slipped. And look at that.’

  ‘That’ was where the slats had bent the thick pile of the carpet, leaving striped indentations.

  ‘Of course I don’t think you’re lying. But do you really believe I dismantled the cot, dragged it across to the nursery and reassembled it?’

  Her jaw tight, she nodded once, quickly.

  ‘But when? You’d have heard if I’d started shifting furniture.’

  Tom continued talking, but the words were just noise.

  A kaleidoscope of explanations dissolved and reassembled in her brain before she could make sense of them. How and what and who? He couldn’t possibly have bathed Trinity, pulled the cot apart and put it back together, and moved the furniture in half an hour. A crack squad of removal men couldn’t. Then suddenly, she was speaking out loud, her tongue tripping over the speed of her thoughts.

  ‘First, I thought the side effects of the medication were making me imagine things, but then I got new tablets and it hasn’t stopped. Or that being so tired and the stress of the move was making me confused and forgetful. Then I thought you must be gaslighting me to get me out of the way, but you’re not cheating with Tanya, so why would you want me to go? And today Diane told me the woman in black is a neighbour with dementia, so I thought that explained everything. But now this. There’s no way you could have moved the furniture back into the nursery without me hearing.’

  ‘Slow down, love.’ He laid Trinity in the cot and unwound paper from a loo roll.

  Breathlessly, she asked, ‘So what is going on?’

  When she faltered, he pressed a wad against the bloodied gauze.

  ‘I thought it must all be in my head, but it’s not. It’s her,’ Ellie said, her voice tinny and strange. ‘She never went away. I can feel her everywhere.’

  Murmuring in affirmation, Tom leaned over the cot to stroke the baby’s cheek. Trinity turned her head and smacked her lips in response.

  ‘I understand,’ he said quietly. ‘I feel exactly the same.’

  ‘Really?’ She widened her eyes until the sockets ached.

  ‘I can’t stop thinking about what happened. How scared and confused she must have been. And I keep seeing her all the time.’

  ‘You do?’

  He nodded. ‘The anniversary and Trinity’s birthday has triggered so much for me too. Remember when it first happened and you saw her everywhere we went? Going past on a bus. Walking down the street. That time in the canteen right before you went to—’ He paused and cleared his throat. ‘Anyway, that’s happening to me now. I keep catching myself reliving that night thinking what could I have done differently? And I know it’s been hard for Dan too.’

  There was a few seconds’ silence. Ellie had been listening with mounting disbelief. This man she’d loved since she was eighteen years old was the one person on the planet who knew her inside out. How could he have read her so wrong?

  ‘I’m not talking about Mia,’ she said, aghast. ‘I’m talking about Mary Brennan.’

  The lines deepened across his forehead.

  ‘Mary Brennan, the woman who used to live here?’ he said. ‘The one who died?’

  Finally! She nodded eagerly. ‘And I thought it was the PTSD back again, but this proves it. The cot proves it.’

  ‘What proves what?’ he said.

  ‘Mary Brennan never left. She’s still here. Everything that’s happening to me is because of her.’

  There. She’d said it. The vivid clarity was like diving into clean, cold water that washed away her confusion. She wasn’t losing her mind and the cot was the proof.

  Tom, however, was still struggling to understand.

  Fleeting incomprehension and then disbelief swept over his face. He rested his forehead briefly on the nursery wall. In that moment, his phone rang. He exhaled sharply in irritation, checked the screen and answered tersely. ‘Tanya? I’m just in the middle of something. Two minutes. I’ll call you back.’

  ‘Love,’ he said, turning back to Ellie. ‘Mary Brennan is dead and buried in the churchyard in Uppermoss. I get it’s creepy that she died here, but like I said before, it’s not the dead we need to worry about.’

  His eyes darted briefly to Trinity and away again so quickly, Ellie almost didn’t notice.

  Almost.

  Mothers can harm or even reject their babies.

  Casually, she slid her fingers under her daughter’s warm body, splaying them to support the fragile neck as she lifted. The wrinkled skin of prematurity that had given her a Shar Pei bagginess had plumped out, rounding those cheeks into rosy apples. And yet she was still so vulnerable. So easily harmed. So easily taken away.

  Tom’s phone shrilled again.

  ‘Look, I’m going to have to take this,’ he said, putting it to his ear. ‘Just give me a minute.’

  Ten seconds later, his shout of frustration reverberated through the house.

  Buzzing her lips across the baby’s silky ear, Ellie listened.

  Tom had one hand braced on their bedroom wall, leaning his weight into it. ‘You have got to be joking,’ he said. There was a long pause and when he spoke again, he didn’t sound angry. He sounded defeated.

  ‘I know you do … yeah … OK, early doors tomorrow. I’ll try. Bye.’

  The cords in his neck strained. He kicked the skirting board hard enough to rattle the photos on the chest of drawers.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Ellie said.

  ‘The main man was tipped off by someone at their end. We had him as well. Had the bastard.’

  He punctuated the sentiment with a slap of the wall.

  ‘Can I do anything to help?’ Ellie said.

  ‘No thanks, love.’ He brought his tightly clen
ched knuckles to his mouth. ‘I can’t believe this has happened. Listen, I’m going to have to make some calls. I might as well sleep on the sofa. Can we talk about the cot thing tomorrow?’

  Exhaustion and frustration gouged new tracks down the sides of his mouth. His entire body sagged, as though he’d aged ten years in ten minutes.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry about that now.’

  The spare duvet made soft whumping noises as Tom dragged it down the stairs.

  She lay back and tried to sleep but her consciousness writhed. A tiny, traitorous part of it explored the idea of returning to Willow Lodge, or whatever the equivalent would be nowadays. A room efficiently cleaned by anonymous hands. Meals prepared, cooked and cleared away by the same. Nothing to do but read or watch TV. And an abundance of time with nothing to do but sleep. Even imagining it felt like sinking into a tempting mound of soft, comfortable pillows.

  The web of skin between her thumb and finger throbbed as she fetched the Moses basket. It acted as a painful reminder that she had moved the cot. In her mind’s eye she saw herself wrestling with the screwdriver, dragging the heavy wooden foot and headboards into their bedroom, making a mental note of which was which.

  But that was impossible.

  And Tom couldn’t have done it in the time.

  And no one else was in the house.

  57. Now

  She woke to the sound of Tom moving around.

  Bleary-eyed, she fumbled for the bedside light. The clock said 5.37, which was technically morning, but it was still pitch-dark. She flopped back on the pillow. If the whole purpose of sleep was to recharge your batteries, why did she wake up every morning even more drained than the day before?

  ‘Morning, love,’ Tom whispered. He had a towel wrapped round his waist and was drying his hair with another. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.’

  She rolled over and propped herself on her elbow. ‘Have you heard any more about the job?’

  He brushed a straggle of hair from her cheek. ‘I did my best last night, but it’s not enough. I’m going to have to go in. I just can’t let these bastards go free. I can’t. Dad’s going to come and keep you company when the rush hour’s died down. And I’ll come home as soon as I’ve sorted this mess at work.’

  Then I can sort this mess at home, she silently finished off for him.

  A half-coughing cry interrupted from the Moses basket and Ellie gave up on any idea of going back to sleep.

  After being winded and changed into a yellow dress and leggings, Trinity seemed content to be put on her tummy on the playmat while Ellie danced Mr Giraffe in front of her and tried to act normal. Dogs picked up on tension – she was sure of that. Did babies too? Even now, Trinity’s infant brain could be rewiring itself, programming her mother’s stress into her internal code.

  ‘Look at Mr Giraffe!’ she said brightly. ‘He’s having fun. We’re all having fun. Not a care in the world.’

  There was a ping from Ellie’s phone.

  Hi Ellie. Is 10 OK with you? Howard.

  It was 8.20 now, so she had enough time to tidy up and get herself presentable. Her thumbs composed a quick reply: Fine, here all day!

  She needed to focus on something other than her spinning thoughts. When Howard came, she would make a start on one of the myriad of DIY projects the house needed. Hang the new shower curtain. Strip some more wallpaper. Reattach the chunk of skirting Tom kicked off last night.

  Jess had sent her a quick how’s it going message and she fired off a quick reply. All good thanks x. And there was another from Norah:

  Thought you might be interested in this. I’m writing another feature for the Stockfield Express. Let’s meet up for that coffee. Tomorrow? N

  ‘This’ was a link to a Facebook page. Without thinking, Ellie clicked it.

  Memories of Uppermoss High School

  She clutched the phone, so tight the plastic case creaked. The screen displayed tiered rows of children with bad home haircuts, grinning awkwardly in front of a shiny navy-blue curtain. Standing, sitting on a bench or cross-legged on the floor, their brown flares, wing collars and hand-knitted jumpers were pure Seventies.

  Only one of the pupils had been ringed in red.

  Everything about the girl screamed Don’t look at me. She shrank away from the camera and gazed at the floor, dipping her chin so the centre-parted dark hair hung on her hunched shoulders. Plain dark dress. Glasses. Ellie zoomed in. There was no mistaking it: the girl’s hands were clasped protectively in front of a rounded stomach.

  Uppermoss Secondary School 1979, the caption said.

  Mary Brennan.

  58. Now

  ‘Ellie?’

  Someone was saying her name.

  A shadow fell across her, turning the insides of her eyelids from red to black. She scrabbled upright, scraping her back on wood. A woman plucked out AirPods. Her minty breath clouded the air. Nylon rustled as she bent down.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  Australian accent. For a blank, confused moment, she could only stare.

  ‘It’s me, Asha.’

  Her feet stung. Dirt blackened the soles of her socks. Why wasn’t she wearing shoes?

  ‘What happened?’

  Cold. Ellie cleared her throat, gazed around at the crowding trunks of trees. A low humming sounded, like a distant swarm of flies. Behind, the trunk of a tree burned like ice against her spine.

  How did she get to Moss Pond? She tipped her head back. Saw bleached branches latticed against the grey sky. As she scrambled upright, she accidentally caught Asha, almost knocking her off balance.

  ‘Hey, it’s OK,’ Asha said in the tone you’d use for a frightened animal. She brushed leafy debris from her jacket. ‘Do you want me to walk home with you?’

  Ellie nodded mutely.

  ‘Your house is just’ – Asha narrowed her eyes and gestured, waving one finger to the distance – ‘over there.’

  Bile burned up her chest and for a horrible moment, she thought she would be sick. How did she get here? Shreds of memory swirled like the flakes in a snowglobe. The cot. Tom’s work upset. Playing with Trinity. The text from Norah. Text from Howard. The photo of Mary Brennan.

  ‘What time is it?’ she said.

  Asha clicked a button on her smartwatch. ‘It’s 9.20. Here, put this on.’

  The waterproof fabric whispered as she zipped Ellie into her jacket, like a child.

  ‘Have you banged your head?’

  Had she? Ellie prodded her scalp gingerly. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Good. Can you walk?’

  Bracing herself between Asha and the trunk of the tree, Ellie hobbled to standing. Her stiffened limbs suggested she’d been curled up in the same position for some time. Pins and needles shot up her calves and made her gasp, but there was no damage.

  Tiny stones bit through her wet socks. Asha crooked out an elbow to link arms and Ellie leaned on her gratefully. Despite her slim frame, the other woman’s arm was strong as steel. Still, they made slow progress with Asha holding low branches up for Ellie to stoop under.

  ‘How did you get here?’ Asha said gently. ‘Can you remember?’

  Ellie gave her head a little shake to help the swirling pieces fall into place. A photo. A girl.

  ‘Is Tom at home?’

  It took Ellie a few seconds to remember. ‘No, he had to go to work early.’

  Asha stopped so abruptly that Ellie stumbled on a tree root. She grabbed a branch and winced.

  ‘Listen to me carefully,’ Asha said urgently. She stood directly in front of Ellie, clasping her upper arms. ‘If you’re here and Tom’s at work, who is looking after the baby?’

  59. Now

  Ellie felt the blood drain from her face. Even if she’d been wearing trainers, she couldn’t have kept up with Asha. Stumbling behind, she watched the other woman side-step branches and tree roots, heard her swift feet beating across the forest floor.

  By the time she entered the kitch
en, her lungs raw and with blood hammering at her temples, Asha had lifted Trinity off the playmat and was cradling her.

  ‘Hush, it’s OK, honey,’ she murmured.

  Trinity’s legs drummed furiously.

  Stricken, Ellie reached out but Asha twisted the baby away.

  ‘Why don’t you wash your hands first?’

  She stared. Front. Back. The dirt went up her wrists and smudged the cuffs of Asha’s jacket. When she picked up the liquid soap, her fingers coated the bottle with dirt that blackened the white froth as she scrubbed.

  ‘Where’s the best place to change her?’ Asha said.

  ‘Nursery. Upstairs,’ Ellie said faintly. She scrubbed at a stubborn patch with the dishcloth. ‘I can do it.’

  ‘No worries.’ Asha jogged the baby and shushed her.

  She led the way upstairs and Ellie obediently followed.

  In the nursery, Trinity squalled on the changing mat, fists and feet punching the air in violent frog kicks while Asha stripped the dress and wet tights off.

  Ellie couldn’t speak. The baby had been spotless and now thick stripes of dried mud spoiled the yellow fabric.

  ‘Easy, gorgeous girl,’ Asha said, ripping open the tabs.

  Jesus.

  The stink of ammonia permeated the air. Visible chafed patches reddened the delicate folds and creases.

  ‘Have you got any cream?’

  She passed the tub over and glanced at the camera. Green light off. That was one small mercy, at least.

  When Asha finished, she folded the nappy and dropped it in the bucket and wiped over the vinyl changing mat. ‘Shall we put on some clean clothes?’

  Ellie opened the drawer and picked out fresh tights and a clean pinafore.

  With her nappy off. Trinity calmed down. Or maybe it was Asha’s capable presence that soothed her. Either way, Asha dressed her with no fuss and when she’d fastened the final popper, she passed her to Ellie, saying, ‘I think she might be hungry.’

  Trinity immediately began to suck wetly on Ellie’s T-shirt, triggering a fresh wave of mother guilt. How could she not remember when she’d last fed her? How could she not remember anything about the last hour?