by R. P. Bolton
‘I’m not hungry,’ Ellie said and pushed the plate away.
Until Tom grabbed her hands in his warm grasp, she didn’t realise how cold she was. Her whole body carved in ice.
‘Me and your mum are worried about you,’ Tom said. ‘You won’t talk to anyone. You haven’t visited the counsellor. You don’t eat. You’re sleepwalking.’ He hushed his voice, leaned in closer. ‘Did you know you’ve started talking to thin air?’
His eyes shone with unshed tears.
‘I’m out of my depth here,’ he said thickly. ‘I don’t know what to do to help. And I’m scared.’
She turned to stare out of the window. And that’s when she saw her.
The girl’s long dark ponytail swished as she pushed the door open. She wore a black leather jacket over a jumper shot through with glittery threads. She had high cheekbones, a straight nose, and huge eyes ringed with liner.
Ellie shrank back in the plastic chair and let out a low moan.
Tom shot her a look of confusion. ‘What’s wrong?’
The girl turned her head and flashed that familiar smile.
Ellie began to whimper.
67. Now
From a distance, she heard Tom saying her name.
Her blurred vision sharpened, revealing her own maternity-jean-clad thighs, the worn denim soft against her forehead.
‘Keep your head down,’ Tom pressed his palm gently between her shoulder blades. ‘You fainted.’
‘I’m OK,’ she said. Or tried to say – her tongue lolled, too big for her mouth. The veins at her temples pulsed and her thoughts were muffled in a thick layer of bubble wrap. Giddy with rushing blood, she struggled to sit upright. ‘I’m OK,’ she said more clearly now. ‘I just want to have a lie-down.’
With Tom’s help, she climbed the stairs and sank gratefully onto the bed. Everything from Tom popping painkillers from a blister pack to her swallowing them down with a glass of water hammered in her ears. The headache clawed at the base of her skull and she closed her eyes.
‘You know I would never do anything to hurt our daughter,’ she said faintly when he returned with the baby.
‘Of course I do,’ he said with desperation in his voice. ‘But none of this is right. I think your PTSD is back, Ellie. Everything fits – the sleepwalking, the paranoia, the delusions … We need to get you some help before things get worse. Tomorrow. No arguments.’
With pain crawling across her scalp and burrowing into her eye sockets, an argument was the last thing she needed.
‘OK,’ she whispered and pulled the duvet over her head.
By the time the dawn finally seeped around the curtains, Ellie had been half-awake for hours. The headache lingered faintly like the thin grey fog outside. She had hoped to sink into oblivion for a while, but the birds of Mosswood had other ideas. Even burrowing under the pillow couldn’t block out their raucous cawing. Crows, rooks, magpies – it sounded like every bird in the country had gathered directly above her bedroom. She could hear their claws scrabbling on the roof tiles.
Tom slept on, face down and with his arms wrapped around the pillow, his nostrils clicking with each in-breath. Even after all these years, his ability to sleep through anything still amazed her. She carefully wriggled free of the duvet and crept to the nursery. Peered at the carpet. Sniffed the air. Closed her eyes and tuned in to the atmosphere.
Nothing to be afraid of.
Still, she wedged the door wide before gathering Trinity up and laying the small, precious bundle on the changing table. Unfasten tabs, remove nappy. Lift. Wipe. Place fresh nappy. Fasten new tabs. Feed. Her body autopiloted through the baby’s early morning routine, while her mind whirred with frantic activity.
‘Morning, love. You’re up early.’
She hadn’t heard Tom get up, but here he was with the inside of his wrists propped against the top of the nursery door. He bowed forward, the movement releasing a waft of day-old aftershave.
‘The birds were making such a racket,’ she said.
She pulled a pair of soft jersey dungarees from the drawer and fleetingly held them to her nose. She remembered buying them the day after her twenty-week scan, the black-and-white printout neatly folded in her purse. She’d been so happy, so optimistic, so excited about becoming a mum.
‘How’s your head?’
‘Better, thanks.’
He bounced on his toes, swaying against the doorframe. ‘Are you still up for going to the doctor’s?’
‘Definitely,’ she said.
Tapping fingertips joined the bouncing. Immediately, her senses sharpened. Why was he so nervous?
‘I’ve got to go out for a short while,’ he said. ‘But Diane’s going to come over and keep you company until I get back. OK?’
‘I don’t need a babysitter.’ She clicked the press studs into place. ‘When did you arrange that?’
‘Last night when you’d gone to bed. This used to be her job, remember, when she was a health visitor. In fact, she’s going to ring the clinic for us this morning and get you an emergency appointment with the same doctor you saw last time.’
She let herself be hugged from behind, felt his chin lightly resting on the top of her head and his body lightly press against her spine. At least until the enormity of his words sank in. She jerked her shoulders to dislodge him.
With one hand anchoring the baby to the changing mat, she turned, light-headed with anger at his stupidity.
‘For God’s sake, Tom. Diane knows I left the baby on her own yesterday. If she tells the clinic that, we’re screwed! They’ll have to report us for child neglect. They’ll take her off us.’
‘Hey,’ he said, edging towards her. ‘It’s OK. No one is taking the baby. You know I would never let that happen. And she is just going to be here for a couple of hours while I hand everything over to Tanya. I’ve taken the rest of the week off and then your mum will be here. OK?’
Mum.
She pressed down on the panic, starving it of oxygen until it subsided. Keep going. Once Mum was here, everything would be fine.
With a squeeze of her shoulder, Tom headed for the shower.
She slumped into the nursing chair and lifted her T-shirt. Trinity wriggled into position.
A puzzle, that’s what this was. She had been given a jumbled pile of pieces with Mary somewhere at the heart of it. Frustrating snatches of the full picture flashed in her mind, only to vanish before she could grasp them. She needed all the pieces before she could slot them together.
Now she just needed someone who could help her to find them.
68. Now
At exactly eight thirty, the front doorbell rang.
‘Hi, Diane,’ Tom said. ‘Come in.’
Ellie kissed the top of Trinity’s head and pressed her face into the soft warmth, inhaling the irresistible baby scent. In the unlikely event she was ever called upon to identify her daughter purely by smell, she’d know that part baby wash, part fabric softener, part unique Trinity-ness anywhere.
‘Thanks. Now, Dr Monk is fully booked this morning, but she has managed to squeeze Ellie in at twelve noon. Does that sound OK?’
‘That’s great,’ Tom said. He stood at the bottom of the stairs.
‘Ellie, Diane’s here. I’ll be back in time for the doctor’s.’
After Tom left, Diane did her best to put Ellie at ease. She didn’t mention Moss Pond or the weirdness at the front door afterwards. She didn’t interfere or try to take over or try to engage her in any discussion about her mental state. She asked if Ellie needed help with anything and when Ellie declined, Diane settled on the sofa with her crossword and a cup of tea. In short, she did everything possible to mitigate the truth of the matter: she was here because no one trusted Ellie with the baby. And after yesterday, she wasn’t sure she trusted herself.
Her phone pinged a message alert. OK. See you soon. Norah
Voluntarily spending time with Norah held all the appeal of an episiotomy, but the idea had come while she
fed Trinity. This woman had made it her business to find out everything about the history of 6 Moss Lane, so unappealing as it was, she could be the only person who could help Ellie figure out what the hell was happening.
She’d deleted Norah’s previous texts, but after rummaging through her bag, found the screwed-up business card with her number stuck to a half-melted packet of Polos.
Hi, are you free this morning? We could take the kids to the playground? Ellie
Norah had pinged straight back. Shall I come to your house? The kids can play in the garden? N
Ellie scoffed at the blatant rubbernecking attempt. No chance. After a few more exchanges, Norah had finally agreed to the playground.
‘Diane? I’m just popping into the village to take Trinity to the park,’ she said, one arm already in the sleeve of her coat.
‘Oh.’ Clearly ill at ease, her neighbour put her crossword on the table. ‘Erm, well why don’t I come with you? We could go in my car.’
‘Thanks, but I’m meeting a friend. Sort of,’ Ellie said. Christ, this was awkward. ‘It’s Norah. I think you know her from playgroup.’
‘Oh,’ Diane said again. She took her glasses off and folded them. ‘Well, I can at least give you a lift. I’ve got a few errands to run in the village.’
They were loading the buggy into the car when Diane stopped and waved. An elderly couple had emerged from the house across the road. Both had their heads thrust low and forward as they shuffled along.
‘Morning, Rita. Morning, Jack,’ Diane called.
The man raised a hand in greeting, but the woman gave no sign she had heard.
The boot slammed shut and Diane turned to Ellie. ‘Did you say you’d already met Rita?’
Ellie stared at the woman hobbling out of sight. So this was Rita, the wandering neighbour with dementia.
Black hair streaked with grey peeped out from under Rita’s hat. Not much of her face was visible thanks to the swathe of scarf and the turned-up coat collar. But she definitely wore glasses and her feet were clad in broad flat shoes.
Was she the woman in black? Maybe, maybe not. From this distance, it was impossible to tell.
‘Are you all right?’ Diane said, eyeing her with concern. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
Ellie gave a polite laugh and opened the passenger door.
As Diane drove the short distance to Uppermoss village, she kept up a running commentary about local landmarks and interesting facts about the village. Meanwhile, Ellie nodded, pretending to listen while she desperately tried to fit Rita into the puzzle. In many ways, the poor wandering neighbour piece made sense. It would explain the rudeness and the lack of respect for private property. Maybe someone had driven her to Boots to pick up a prescription. Or Nexus for a spot of Christmas shopping.
Ellie still hadn’t made her mind up when they arrived at the church car park. They were putting Trinity in the buggy when a silver Range Rover pulled up. The driver wound the window down.
‘Hi, Ellie. Won’t be a second.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Hello, Diane.’
Diane nodded curtly in reply and turned back to Ellie. ‘So, let me know when you’re ready. I won’t be far.’
Disregarding the ‘Blue Badge Holders Only’ sign, Norah had reversed expertly into the one remaining space. The door slammed and twin girls raced out. Norah lifted the baby out of the car, cradling him against the long camel coat that skimmed her slender frame. An Instagram-worthy snapshot of the perfect mother.
Until she opened her mouth, anyway.
‘What a week I’ve had,’ she said, barely glancing in Ellie’s direction as she settled the infant into the Porsche of prams. ‘This one’s teething and those two little shits have run me ragged. Never stop bickering, sticking their noses in everything so I don’t get a moment’s peace.’
The little shits clattered up the ladder and onto the fort, startling a pigeon. The gate opened with a creak as Ellie followed Norah to a bench. The cold metal slats chilled through her thighs and she pulled her coat down as far as it would go.
‘I must admit I was hoping we could meet at the house,’ Norah went on. ‘I’ve never been there. I’d love to see inside.’
Before Ellie could reply, thudding feet hurtled towards the bench. The little girl’s wavy chestnut hair was parted to the side and held with a clip and Ellie was instantly reminded of the twins in The Shining. An inappropriate giggle tickled her throat.
‘Push me on the swings,’ the little girl said, pulling at her mother’s cuff.
Norah unpeeled the grubby fingers with a dismissive ‘Mummy’s busy, darling. Get your sister to do it.’
See the trials of my life, she stated with an eye-roll while twiddling the keys of her Range Rover. Ellie tipped her head back in acknowledgement then smoothed her own daughter’s rosy cheek in a fervent promise she would always, always be pushed on the swings. Trinity, snug in her pram-suit, blew tiny spit bubbles and Ellie’s heart swelled with love.
‘Actually, you can probably see Mary Brennan’s …’ Norah half stood with one elbow braced on the top of the bench. Narrowing her eyes towards the churchyard, she pointed. ‘Yes. Do you see the big stone cross to the left of the angel? Mary is buried directly in front. It’s a sad little grave, really. Anyway, how are you getting on up there?’
‘Good,’ she said, choosing her words carefully. ‘But I was hoping you might be able to help me to learn more about Mary.’
Norah deflated visibly. ‘Oh. I thought you might have had something to tell me.’ Sitting up straighter, she smoothed her hands down her thighs in thinly disguised irritation. ‘What do you want to know?’
If Norah had been a different kind of person, perhaps Ellie would have been able to confide in her, and the temptation was there anyway, just to see Norah’s mind well and truly blown. But instead she said carefully, ‘Was there anyone Mary was close to who might know more about her? Maybe about the child she had adopted?’
Norah gave a derisory snort. ‘She rotted in that house for two weeks and not one person noticed, not even Diane. Who, in my opinion, is the only person who could know the details of the adoption but claims not to. I think you can safely assume the answer is no. She wasn’t close to anyone. No friends and her only known relative was her cousin.’
‘Catherine Wilson?’
Norah nodded. ‘Who was born and lived in Canada. And some more distant cousins scattered around the UK.’
‘Do you think it would be possible to trace who adopted Mary’s baby?’
Norah tilted her head to one side, considering. ‘It’s an interesting thought,’ she said. ‘Forcible adoption is a juicy human-interest angle. Selective mutism. Dying alone. Then there’s William Brennan’s suicide. Was it the guilt at giving away his only grandchild? Or fear of the skeletons in the closet at the council? That could work.’
‘Juicy,’ Ellie said, a shade too sarcastically.
Norah shot her a sharp glance, but twin one diverted her attention. Running up to the bench, stuffing her skirt between her legs she shouted, ‘Mummy, Mummy. My wee is coming out.’
‘Mine too,’ the other added, hopping on the spot.
‘I’ll have to take them into the church. I’ll be two minutes,’ she said, waving a finger at Ellie. ‘Don’t go.’
With a loud tut, Norah threw her bag and coat over the pram. The baby began to howl as the pram wheels bounced across the rubberised surface of the playground.
Ellie watched her herding the twins towards the parish hall and felt a flicker of sympathy. Maybe one child was nothing compared to three. She twisted back around to look at her perfect daughter and as she did, a sudden movement drew her gaze to the churchyard.
Across the lichen-covered headstones, stood a woman. A woman dressed in black with thick black glasses and her hair tied up.
A woman who, from here, did not look like poor, frail Rita Cohen.
69. Now
The vibration deep within her bag alerted her to a call. Dazed, sh
e tapped the green button.
‘Hello?’
Diane’s tone was determinedly light, but panic hovered at the edges. ‘Ellie, dear. Where are you?’
Good question. She scanned the surrounding hedgerows. In front and behind her, the road wound like a narrow concrete ribbon. Close by, a lone horse munched nettles in a field.
‘On the road out of Uppermoss. Heading towards Moss Lane.’
‘And are you OK?’
That was a harder question. Trinity’s eyes were wide, alert to the world around her. As Ellie brushed a stray eyelash from her cheek, her daughter smiled and gurgled.
‘We’re fine.’
There was no mistaking Diane’s tone this time. Pure relief. ‘Thank goodness. I went to the playground and Norah said you’d disappeared. Hang on right where—’
She heard a background slam and the timbre of Diane’s voice changed as the phone switched to hands-free.
‘Can you hear me? Tom is going to meet you at the health centre and I’m on my way to you.’
Ellie took her phone from her ear and the screen lit up as notifications flashed, one after the other. Missed calls, missed texts, missed voicemails, the last from Tom, five minutes ago at 11.40.
The horse lifted its head and snorted, blowing frosty air from its nostrils. She steadied the pram with her hip and stuffed her hands in her armpits. Pins and needles tingled as she wiggled her frozen toes. She could say where she was, but if Diane had asked her how she came to be on the road out of Uppermoss, she couldn’t have answered. One minute she had been at St Michael’s, the next her phone was ringing and she was here.
How much time had she lost?
A flock of migrating birds formed a ragged V against the low, grey-white sky, honking chaotically as they flew in search of warmer climes. On this dreary winter’s day, rags of low-lying mist swathed the fields, obscuring the muddy earth.
From the depths of her pram-suit, Trinity gave a little squawk. Ellie held her close, the warmth providing solid comfort.