The Perfect House

by R. P. Bolton

  ‘I love you so much,’ she whispered, her lips against the velvet nap of the baby’s earlobe. ‘And it’s true: I really don’t deserve you.’

  Diane’s car rounded the corner, flashing the hazard lights as she pulled up at the kerb.

  ‘There you are,’ she said, concern and relief etched across her kind face. ‘It’s time to go.’

  70. Now

  The photo above Dr Monk’s PC showed three children with huge ice-cream cones somewhere blue-skied and sandy. Perfect, like kids in an advert. Whatever they were selling, Ellie needed a lifetime’s supply.

  Dr Monk finished reading the screen, picked up her pen and smiled expectantly.

  ‘How have you been getting on with the new medication?’

  ‘OK, I think.’

  ‘Diane said you’ve been having some issues. And last time you mentioned you were concerned about tiredness and not sleeping. How do you feel you’re coping now?’

  ‘I—’ Ellie breathed in deeply. ‘Sorry. It’s hard to know where to start.’

  ‘Take your time,’ the doctor said with an encouraging smile.

  ‘It’s complicated. I’ve started sleepwalking. And I was convinced my boyfriend was gaslighting me and having an affair and he isn’t. Really isn’t. I’m just so tired, sometimes I can’t tell what’s real and what’s in my head and time just blurs.’

  She paused. What else? I think my house is haunted.

  If she told the doctor about Mary Brennan, then they really would take Trinity off her.

  I’m cracking up.

  No, Dr Monk didn’t need to know that.

  Take it slow.

  ‘They’re waking nightmares, I suppose,’ she finished off with a shrug.

  ‘I see. And have you had any ideas about what’s triggering them?’

  ‘My boyfriend thinks it’s connected to something that happened to me when I was younger,’ she said slowly. ‘My best friend died when I was twenty and I was … I was there when it happened. I saw her.’ She swallowed hard. ‘And afterwards, I was diagnosed with PTSD and severe anxiety disorder and ended up spending twenty-eight days in a mental health unit.’

  From the way her finger moved on the mouse, Dr Monk was scrolling through Ellie’s records. With half an eye on the screen, she said, ‘And why does he think it’s having an effect on you now?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been fine since I came out of Willow Lodge – that’s the unit. I was over the PTSD and my anxiety has been manageable but then I had my daughter and it’s like it has all come back. Sleepwalking, panic attacks, confusion. I feel like I can’t trust what I’m hearing or seeing.’

  Dr Monk’s fingernails click-clacked across the keyboard. ‘Mmm-mm. It’s like we said last time, you’ve had a difficult time. It’s perfectly understandable.’

  ‘But it’s more than that,’ Ellie said.

  Something shifted inside a locked room deep inside her mind. And the truth about Mia, the truth no one else knew existed about that night, began to stir.

  ‘My daughter was born on the tenth anniversary of my friend’s death,’ she said, staring down at her lap. ‘Everyone thinks it’s a coincidence, but she was early. She wasn’t meant to be born on that day. And when we came out of hospital, we moved into a new house and nothing has been right since then.’ She twisted her fingers together. ‘And it’s all because I don’t deserve a baby. I don’t deserve to be happy.’

  Dr Monk sat back in her chair. ‘What makes you say that?’

  In another room, a phone rang. Muffled voices came through the thin partition wall. Ellie picked at the scab where the screwdriver had slipped. It had started to heal, but now fresh blood oozed from the ragged edges.

  ‘Because I did something bad.’

  There. It was out.

  Over the last ten years, she’d imagined this moment countless times. Sometimes it took place in an interview room with an angle-poise lamp shining in her eyes. Sometimes a neutral space with Tom, maybe a restaurant or bar. Or Danny. She’d come close on the phone to her mum, especially after a few glasses of wine. Mainly though, she was in the farmhouse kitchen with David and Anita.

  She had never envisaged a stifling room in Uppermoss Health Centre.

  ‘And I’ve never told anyone this before,’ she said, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath. ‘No one knows. Not even my boyfriend.’

  She stared down at her spread fingers.

  ‘You said you did something bad,’ Dr Monk prompted gently. ‘What did you do?’

  Deep inside Ellie’s mind, a lock clicked and a long-sealed door began to open.

  71. Then

  Ellie shoved her hair out of her eyes and patted along the bedside table till she found her phone.

  I can’t find my keys. Can you let me in? xx

  The nerve of the girl! Ellie clicked from vibrate to silent then let it slide through her fingers to the floor. At the thud, Tom stirred slightly and she wrapped her arms around him. Closed her eyes. A minute later, his own mobile buzzed deep within a pile of discarded clothes, light shining through the fabric of his jeans. Head throbbing from too much alcohol, she stretched her arm, pulling them towards her.

  Missed Call from Mia G.

  A second later, a text appeared. Lost keys. Please let me in. M x

  Ellie switched Tom’s phone to silent and lifted the corner of the duvet and carefully climbed in. A booming sounded above the storm, like an oil drum rolling on concrete.

  ‘Wassat?’ he murmured on a waft of beery breath.

  ‘I don’t know. It’s still dead windy. Maybe the bins blew over. Go back to sleep.’

  A minute later: Crack!

  Something hit the window.

  Crack, crack!

  Tom rolled on his back, flung his hand over his eyes, and murmured unintelligible sleep phrases.

  Ellie got up again to lift the curtain a fraction of an inch.

  The courtyard was petrol-black, slick with water. Rain lashed Mia’s pale upturned face and slicked her hair to her head. Soaked by the downpour, the shapeless black dress clung to her legs. As Ellie watched, she scooped up a handful of gravel.

  ‘Ellie?’ she called hoarsely. ‘Please can you come down and let me in?’

  Shit, she’d been seen.

  She put her hand on the catch. Two more stones hit the window. Hard.

  Crack! Crack!

  Wind and rain rushed in, threatening to fling the frame back. The net curtain billowed inwards.

  ‘Stop it, you’ll smash the glass,’ she hissed, fighting through the thin fabric.

  ‘Let me in then,’ Mia said. ‘I’m getting soaked out here. Chuck me your keys if you don’t want to come down.’

  Without another word, Ellie pulled the window closed. She picked her keys up off the bedside table and, checking Mia’s selfish behaviour hadn’t woken Tom, crept into the lounge and unlocked the balcony doors.

  ‘At last,’ Mia said in a low voice, hunching into her jacket. ‘Chuck me the keys.’

  Ellie put her hands on her hips. ‘Have you lost your keys again?’

  Mia tutted loudly. ‘I dunno. Does it matter?’

  ‘Well, yes. Because we’ll have to tell the landlady and get the locks changed again. It’s going to cost a fortune. She might even kick us out this time.’

  Down below, Mia twisted her soaking hair over one shoulder and pushed wet strands back from her cheeks and forehead.

  ‘Are you drunk? Stop being so bloody self-righteous. Just throw them down.’

  Something in her tone snapped the last shred of Ellie’s patience. White-hot fury erupted through her. She barely noticed the keys biting into the soft flesh of her palm.

  ‘I don’t know where mine are either,’ she lied.

  Rain streamed down Mia’s cheeks. ‘Can you come down and let me in, then?’

  ‘I really can’t deal with this today,’ Ellie said, careful to enunciate each syllable clearly. ‘Can’t you go back to Danny’s?’

  Mia stared, open-mouthed
, then set her jaw. ‘Right then, if you’re going to be like that.’ She slung her rucksack on the step. ‘I’ll climb up.’

  ‘Go for it,’ Ellie replied coldly. ‘I’m going back to bed.’

  She didn’t, though. Instead she retreated behind the curtain and watched Mia push her sleeves to her elbows.

  Her dad would have said the Manchester night was blowing a hooley. It entered the flat like a noisy intruder, rifling through notebooks and piles of artwork. Loosened the tendrils of ivy scratching the window. A deep metallic groan came from the drainpipe as Mia put her foot on the first bracket.

  When Mia hesitated, the first hooks of doubt tugged at Ellie’s conscience, but her anger shut them down. Look at her. Confident. Assured. Remember the farmhouse? She’s done this a million times before. Serves her right.

  Mia had reached the first floor already, hand over hand, occasionally dislodging small bits of mortar. A gust of wind tore a long strand of ivy from the wall and fluttered it like a streamer. She looked up, blinking in the rain. Mascara and eyeliner tracked black rivulets down her cheeks, turning her eyes into two deep black holes.

  The balcony groaned as she grabbed the railing. She grunted, trying to haul herself over, but the sides were too high. The whole thing swayed under her weight and more tiny fragments of stone fell to the ground.

  ‘Help me then,’ she said impatiently. ‘I know you’re there. I can see you behind the curtain.’

  The keys burned in Ellie’s fist. She dropped them to the floor and scuffled them out of the way. But not before Mia saw them.

  Her eyes widened. ‘You lying cow!’

  Leaning over the balcony railing, she grasped Ellie’s arm tightly. But as her fingers dug in, a ferocious blast rocked the balcony. Mia lost her footing and swayed back, pulling Ellie with her. Ellie felt herself lurch out of the flat onto the thin metal platform. Her hipbones hit the railings and the ground rushed towards her. Instinct took over. She flung her arms out to right herself, and the momentum shook Mia’s hand free. For a dizzying second, her friend’s mouth opened in a wordless plea. She scrabbled for the balcony but only caught the ivy. Ellie stepped forward; reached out, grasping.

  But it was too late. Her fingertips brushed Mia’s sleeve then clutched thin air.

  There was a ripping sound as the ivy detached from the wall. Then a scream. Then a horrible, sickening crunch.

  After that, things moved very quickly.

  Movement came from other flats. Lights came on. Windows opened. A neighbour called out.

  Tom came running out of the bedroom. ‘What’s happening?’

  He didn’t wait for an answer. The door slammed against the wall and she could hear his bare feet slapping against the stone stairs. The clicks of doors unlocking came up the stair well accompanied by murmuring voices. Then someone switched the exterior light on.

  The huge swathe of ivy hung from the building’s façade and draped over the porch. Falling masonry had dented the car parked directly under their balcony.

  Faint with disbelief, Ellie watched a bare-chested Tom run out and stop dead. Staggering, he grabbed fistfuls of his own hair and in a voice impossible to forget, shouted, ‘No!’

  Mia lay perfectly still with her neck at the wrong angle. A halo of blood oozed around her head, a glistening darker patch on the wet tarmac.

  The next thing Ellie knew she was standing outside. Blue flashing lights reflected on the dressing gowns and drained faces of the neighbours crowding behind police tape. Someone had put a blanket over the twisted body on the ground.

  Tom ran over, trying to get her to go inside and she realised she was crying; they were both crying. Then Tom was bent double, vomiting ropes of saliva. Then Ellie was kneeling in a patch of weed-filled earth, throwing up. Her hands, her feet, her shins were streaked with mud. At one point, a paramedic shone a light in her eyes. Someone put a jacket around her and led her inside. She felt the mud drying between her toes. A policewoman asked her some questions and a kind neighbour passed her a mug of hot sweet tea.

  And all of it – the people, the noise, the twisted hump lying motionless under the blanket – shrank to a nugget of unspeakable, granite-hard truth.

  Mia was dead. And Ellie had killed her.

  72. Now

  ‘You didn’t kill her,’ Dr Monk said, sliding a box of tissues across the desk.

  ‘I could have let her in,’ Ellie said. ‘I could have thrown her the keys. I heard the storm and I knew the building was falling to bits and I said go for it.’

  She folded a tissue in half. ‘She was holding on to me when she fell. It was my fault she died.’

  Dr Monk was filled with compassion. ‘No, it was a terrible accident. However mad you were with her, whatever you said in the heat of the moment, whatever happened, you are not to blame. Now …’ She started tapping on the keyboard. ‘What I’d like to do, if you’ll let me, is flag you as an urgent case to our mental health team. I’ll do the referral while you’re here and you should hear from a nurse within the next twenty-four hours. They can arrange an assessment and see what we can do about getting to the root of the problem.’

  ‘My boyfriend thinks having Trinity has brought everything about Mia to the surface,’ Ellie said. ‘And he doesn’t even know the truth about what I did. He thinks I went into the lounge because I heard her fall. So do the police, my mum, her parents.’ Her voice cracked with emotion. ‘I lied to everybody because I panicked. And now so much time has passed, what would they think of me?’

  Dr Monk finished typing and leaned towards Ellie. ‘It’s not up to me to judge your actions or to tell you to confess or otherwise, but maybe if you spoke to your boyfriend, that might help?’

  ‘No,’ Ellie said vehemently. ‘I lied to the police about what happened and now he is the police. If I brought it up now, he could lose his job.’

  ‘Well, it is certainly true that a major life event can reopen these old wounds, allowing unresolved feelings to come flooding back. And there’s nothing more life-changing than having a baby.’ The other woman half-smiled. ‘Apart from moving house, and you’ve done that too.’

  Tears flowed freely down Ellie’s face now and she scrubbed another tissue across her wet cheeks. ‘That’s the other thing. We bought the house on Moss Lane where Mary Brennan died. And I didn’t know anything about it and people keep telling me these awful, sad stories.’ She blew her nose. ‘Have you heard about what happened?’

  Dr Monk kept her professional composure, only raising her eyebrows slightly. ‘Yes, I have. Mary was one of our patients at the practice. How has that made you feel?’

  ‘I was freaked out at first. But now feel I belong there,’ she said slowly. ‘Because that house is a place that has known so much unhappiness and I don’t deserve to be happy. Not after what I did to Mia.’

  The doctor leaned forward. ‘But surely your baby deserves to be happy?’

  For a moment, the only sound was Ellie’s congested breathing.

  Babies.

  Everything always came back to babies.

  73. Then

  Sweat glued Ellie’s thighs to the leather sofa. Duct tape covered a split in the seat cushion and she picked at the curled edges.

  Danny’s closed bedroom door vibrated with thumping bass. Tom bit his lip and glanced over. ‘I’m worried he’s going to do something stupid.’

  Pick, pick, pick.

  He slammed his hands on the kitchen worktop. ‘Why didn’t we hear the phone?’

  Ellie tugged harder and the duct tape ripped free. Nasty yellow stuffing spilled out. She kept waiting for someone to say they knew what she did. That she was responsible for Mia’s death.

  But no one had.

  Danny finally stumbled out of his room at teatime. Ellie, who had been dozing, sat up. Tom jumped off the sofa.

  ‘Mate,’ Tom said.

  His crumpled clothes stank of smoke and sweat and his eyes were red and swollen. He looked like the dazed survivor of an apocalypse. ‘My mu
m and dad rang. They’ll be here in a bit. I’m going home.’

  ‘Do you want a drink? Something to eat?’ Tom said.

  ‘Nah.’ Danny wiped his nose with his sleeve. ‘I just want a shower. I need to pack.’

  ‘We can do that, can’t we, Els?’

  ‘Sure,’ she said, poking stuffing back in the hole. The tape wouldn’t stick back down.

  Danny was a portrait of grief. He clenched his fists and let out a guttural roar. A fraction too late, Tom stepped forward, not quick enough to prevent Danny aiming a punch at the door.

  ‘Mate. No.’

  He easily shook him off. Wood splintered as he pummelled to the beat of the words: ‘It’s. My. Fault.’

  Ellie jumped up, strode quickly to the kitchen. Images invaded her head. Mia, in her shapeless black dress, digging her nails into the wallpaper. Mia in the courtyard asking to be let in. Windmilling her arms, dislodging Mia’s fingers.

  Mia’s face.

  Mia on the ground, broken.

  With robotic efficiency, Ellie fashioned an icepack from frozen peas and a tea towel.

  ‘Can you move your fingers?’ Tom was saying.

  The knuckles swelled, discolouring by the second. Red and indigo. When Tom carefully wrapped them in the tea towel, Danny didn’t flinch.

  ‘You need to go to A & E,’ Tom said. ‘I’ll ring a cab and we can tell your mum and dad to meet us there.’

  ‘It’s my fault,’ Danny said, snot mingling with the tears that ran down his cheeks. ‘She told me she didn’t have her keys and I said so what?’

  At the mention of keys, Ellie paced rapid circles in the kitchen. Her chest grew tight and she clawed her T-shirt. This was it, she was going to have to tell the truth.

  She told me she was going to climb up and I said, ‘Go for it.’

  With one sentence, she could ease Danny’s guilt. All she had to do was confess.

  In the lounge, Danny drew a shuddering breath. ‘I shouldn’t have kicked her out. I was scared, that’s all. I panicked and even though I knew there was a storm and she’d have to walk home, I told her to go. I told her I needed space to think.’