The Second Life of Amy Archer

by R. S. Pateman

  His name appears on the electricity, phone and water bills too, and is replaced by Libby’s at around the same time.

  The latest council tax bills show Libby’s discount for single adult occupancy, but there is no such discount on the older bills, which name two adults: Libby and Henry Campbell Black.

  I put the bills back quickly but neatly. I don’t know what it is I’ve found, only that I’ve discovered a lie. Libby hasn’t always been on her own like she told me.

  Whoever he is, whatever happened to him could be completely irrelevant. The details are less important than the fact of him. He is proof that Libby has lied to me at least once. Proof too that she can be careless. Or that she thinks she has nothing to hide.

  I take my laptop from the suitcase and search online for Henry Campbell Black. The only one I can find on Facebook is a long-dead American lawyer. The book he wrote, some kind of legal dictionary, takes up pages and pages on Google, to the exclusion of everyone else. It’s as if he’s the only person with that name who ever lived.

  It would have been less frustrating if there were hundreds of Henry Campbell Blacks. At least I’d know the size of the task in hand and could begin working my way through them, however hit-and-miss the process might be, however time-consuming.

  But since the only Henry Campbell Black to leave a digital footprint has been dead for nearly ninety years, what I thought might be a critical clue is cold within just a few hours.

  If I ask Libby about him she’ll know I’ve been snooping around and put up her guard even further. Fob me off with another lie. If I ask the neighbours, it might get back to Libby. I can’t risk losing whatever trust they have in me and being told to get out of the flat.

  The buzz of my phone makes me jump.

  ‘Hello?’ I say.

  ‘Mrs Archer? It’s Ian Poynton.’

  Maybe he is Henry Campbell Black.

  ‘How did you get my number?’ I say, my voice sharp with suspicion.

  ‘You gave it to me in your email,’ he says. ‘Remember? You asked if I could help find your friends in Manchester.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I say sheepishly. ‘That’s right . . . What is it? Did my cheque bounce or something?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that,’ he says. He sounds hesitant and vague. ‘To be honest, Mrs Archer, I’m not sure what this is all about. All I know is I saw something earlier today. Something to do with you. I just know it. I felt the same connection I had with that picture of Jesus.’

  ‘What did you see?’ I’m on my guard but can’t deny my curiosity.

  ‘Plates,’ he says.

  The Man Who Didn’t Wash His Dishes. I should have seen that coming.

  ‘Plates?’ I say. ‘Like the plates in a book?’

  He doesn’t catch the sneer in my voice.

  ‘No. Dinner plates. Different-coloured dinner plates.’

  ‘Black ones?’ I’m making it easy for him to fake a link between the plates and Henry Campbell-Black, but he tries to outwit me.

  ‘Every colour but black,’ he says.

  ‘Oh, really?’ I toss my head dismissively. Does he think I’m that stupid to be thrown off the scent by his bluff?

  ‘But then they fell to the ground,’ he says, ‘and smashed into bits. That’s when I realised they weren’t plates as such, but plates of meat.’

  ‘Meat?’ It almost makes me laugh.

  ‘As in rhyming slang,’ he says, his tone slightly patronising. ‘You know, feet. There were footsteps. Multicoloured footsteps. Big ones. Like a clown’s shoes would make.’

  Maybe I’m the clown.

  ‘Will you take it?’ he says.

  I hang up, get Esme’s laptop from the front room and type Henry in the password box. The error message blinks and invites me to try again.

  Henry4Libby123.

  Libby-Henry-Esme.

  Henry Campbell Black.

  I try permutation after permutation.

  Nothing.

  10

  The lasagne is glutinous and chewy, full of salt; I can taste the plastic tray it was cooked in during its four-minute spin in the microwave. We eat it, with chips instead of salad, in the company of The Simpsons, Esme slurping a glass of Coke and jiggling her legs.

  After we’ve finished, Esme turns the volume up, ready for Hollyoaks.

  ‘Have you got homework?’ Libby says.

  Esme nods, distracted by a parade of pretty boys and pouting girls on the opening credits.

  ‘I’ll do it after this, okay?’ she says.

  She’s as good as her word. At the end of the programme she switches the television off with no prompting or argument, and gets out her laptop.

  I watch her fingers closely as she types in her password, but she’s too quick, her fingers a blur. It’s all I can do to count the number of keystrokes. Nine, I think, possibly ten, but I can’t be sure.

  All I’m certain of is that she didn’t touch any of the numbers. It’s progress of a kind, but it’s still impossible to guess the password even if it does contain only letters.

  Software logos pop out like acne over the screensaver photo of Baby Spice. I take in as much of the detail as I can. Esme sends the cursor darting around the screen like a frantic ant.

  ‘You make it look so easy,’ I say.

  ‘It is easy.’

  ‘Not to me it isn’t.’

  ‘Or me,’ Libby says. She’s sprawled on the sofa, yawning. ‘Facebook. Twitter. It’s all gibberish to me.’

  Esme shakes her head.

  ‘She doesn’t even know how to use iPlayer,’ she says to me. I try not to look lost, but Esme sees through me.

  ‘It’s the thing that lets you watch TV programmes on the internet,’ she explains, slowly. ‘I have to get it working for her.’

  Libby nods sheepishly.

  ‘Yeah, she does,’ she says. ‘Dead handy, though. I like to watch it when I’m in bed and can’t get to sleep.’

  Perhaps that’s what they were doing last night. It’s feasible, and that leaves me feeling disappointed.

  ‘Other than iPlayer,’ Libby says, ‘the only thing I know how to do is turn it off. And I only learnt that because I had to. She’d be on it all day otherwise.’

  ‘You don’t worry about what she’s up to on it?’ I say, turning back to the computer.

  ‘I don’t know enough about it to stop her,’ Libby says. ‘Some of the other parents say they’ve tried to lock certain sites, but the kids always find a way into them. It’s not a battle I can win.’

  ‘But aren’t you concerned about what she might see?’ I say, hoping I don’t sound too shocked or judgemental.

  ‘Porn, you mean?’ Libby says, yawning again.

  I flinch, feel a blush run to my cheeks. Esme looks up from the screen and giggles.

  ‘Porn makes me sick,’ she says.

  She’s so matter-of-fact, she makes me feel old and prudish. I look to Libby, baffled. It seems to me that she’s enjoying my embarrassment.

  ‘We looked at it together and talked it through,’ she says. ‘Making a fuss about it would only make her more inquisitive, more determined to see it. This way I’ve snuffed out any interest before it starts.’

  I can understand her argument, but I don’t want her to see that I don’t really agree with it. She’s been doing what she thinks is right for her daughter; it’s just not what I would do with mine. Not that Amy would have looked at porn, let alone been so blasé about it.

  If Esme is Amy, then I’ll take the mantle of mother – and all its responsibilities – without hesitation. But I’ve too many doubts, too many questions, to rush in. And the longer it takes, the more I questions I have, the greater my doubts.

  If Esme can’t prove that she is Amy, it’s up to me to prove that she’s not.

  ‘It’s a different world nowadays, isn’t it?’ I say, trying to sound casual. ‘Kids grow up quicker because they’re exposed to so many different things much earlier. It’s a good thing in some ways, of course
, but . . .’

  ‘What?’ Libby says.

  ‘Well, it’s not all one-way, is it?’ I say. ‘The internet, I mean. Esme can go exploring, but what about people – strangers – who are interested in her?’

  Esme turns from the computer. There’s an odd, blank look in her eyes, unseeing, as if hypnotised. Her head twitches, begins to shake.

  ‘Esme?’ I say, putting my hand out towards her. ‘What is it?’

  The tremors creep through her body until she slumps from the chair to the floor.

  ‘Esme!’

  ‘Shit!’ says Libby, jumping up from the sofa. ‘Not again!’

  She kneels beside Esme, cradling her head in her hands. I grab the cushion in the crook of my back and pass it to her. She slides it under Esme’s head, dabs at the saliva bubbling in her mouth with a tissue. Gradually the convulsions abate, draining away like an ebbing tide.

  If she’s acting, it’s an astonishing performance. I’ve seen the photos of her on stage. I’ve heard her talk about becoming a famous singer and actress. But this is too good for a child, however gifted or crafty. To pull this off when I’m so close to her, right in her face, would take more talent than she could possibly have. Wouldn’t it?

  If so, then Esme has a serious medical condition that has nothing to do with channelling Amy, but which could offer a glimpse behind the curtain of her consciousness and show me how she knows what she knows.

  As I shake her, gently, I don’t know if I’m trying to rouse her from the seizure or push her deeper into it.

  ‘Shall I call the doctor?’ I say.

  ‘No point,’ Libby replies. ‘There’s nothing they can do. Help me get her up on to the sofa.’

  Libby’s tone strikes me. It’s abrupt and cool – too matter-of-fact to be caring. Esme’s slack, drooling mouth suddenly seems to be smirking.

  The water I fetch from the kitchen splashes on Esme’s face. She opens her mouth, the glass clattering against her teeth as she drinks. She tries to say something, but only air comes out of her mouth.

  ‘It’s okay, love,’ Libby says, stroking her hair. ‘You’ve had another one of your turns. All over now.’

  Esme shakes her head.

  ‘No,’ she says, her voice dry and raspy. ‘What about the man who didn’t wash his dishes?’

  ‘It’s only a book,’ Libby says. ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘It’s more than just a book.’

  Libby’s hand strokes Esme’s cheeks, as if trying to coax the information from her like a genie from a lamp.

  ‘He’s real,’ Esme says, sitting up quickly. ‘Really real.’

  My head races with confusion once more. Is this a genuine memory of Amy’s or another of Esme’s sick jokes?

  ‘Can you tell me what he looked like?’ Libby says.

  Esme’s face creases with concentration.

  ‘He’s old,’ she says.

  ‘How old?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Esme says.

  ‘Older than me?’ Libby says.

  Esme nods.

  ‘Older than Beth?’

  Esme screws her eyes up and nods her head, slowly.

  ‘Maybe a bit.’

  ‘What else?’ I say in a rush. ‘What else did you see?’

  Even I can’t tell if I’m playing along with a performance or witnessing a genuine breakthrough for Amy. My hands grip Esme’s shoulders and shake her so hard she bounces up and down on the sofa.

  ‘Beth! Stop it!’ Libby says, pulling my hands away.

  ‘He has . . .’ Esme squirms around on the sofa. ‘He has a funny mouth. His lips are sewn up.’

  Libby looks up at me, baffled.

  ‘Mean anything to you, Beth?’ she says.

  I shake my head, although I could tell her it’s probably the same man Ian pretended to contact. He couldn’t speak either. I’m no closer to understanding who he is, but at least the story is consistent.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’

  ‘Okay, poppet,’ Libby says to Esme. ‘Let’s get you into bed.’ She slips her arms around her. ‘She needs to be in her own bed, Beth. You’ll have to take the sofa tonight.’

  I nod, and help her carry Esme to the bedroom and lay her down on the bed. Esme is suddenly asleep, deeply asleep, the sound and rhythm of her breathing almost imperceptible. She looks like a corpse.

  Amy’s corpse.

  A ball of bile burns in my stomach. I run to the toilet and puke it out in a hot and bitter stream.

  The next morning, Esme is the first one up and dressed.

  ‘I know what you’re after,’ Libby says when Esme makes her a cup of tea.

  ‘What?’ Esme says, coyly.

  ‘It’s Saturday. You’re angling to go to the rehearsal.’

  ‘Can I?’ Esme pleads. ‘Mrs Frobisher will be angry. She says we’re behind with the show anyway. I don’t want to let everyone down.’

  Libby presses her hand to Esme’s forehead.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ she says.

  ‘Fine. Really I am.’

  Libby looks at me.

  ‘What do you think, Beth?’

  It’s nice to be consulted.

  ‘Rehearsal for what?’ I ask.

  ‘Her drama and dance group do a show a couple of times a year,’ Libby says.

  ‘We’re doing Moulin Rouge! I get to do the can-can,’ Esme says, bouncing up and down, bringing one knee up to her waist and twirling her leg.

  I’ve seen the film. Nicole Kidman’s character faints and coughs convincingly from tuberculosis. A perfect role model for Esme’s little show last night, maybe. Or perhaps it’s just a coincidence.

  ‘She seems well enough,’ I say, ‘given how ill she was.’

  ‘It took her a couple of days to recover from her last fit,’ Libby says, ‘but this one wasn’t anywhere near as bad.’

  ‘I can’t imagine what that was like then,’ I say. ‘This was scary enough.’

  There’s a hint of pride in Esme’s smile.

  ‘So I can go?’ she asks.

  ‘As long as you promise to stop if you don’t feel right,’ Libby says.

  ‘I promise!’

  ‘We can stay and watch the rehearsal too if you want,’ Libby says. ‘We’ll have to sit at the back and keep quiet. And we will – Mrs Frobisher will make sure of that! God, anyone would think she’s Andrew Lloyd Webber, the way she carries on.’

  It’s a chance for me to talk to some of the other mothers, see what they know about Henry Campbell Black.

  ‘Why don’t you let me take Esme?’ I say. ‘You put your feet up for a bit. Have a nice bath or something.’

  Libby stretches and yawns.

  ‘That does sound tempting,’ she says. ‘I didn’t get much sleep last night. Are you sure you don’t mind?’

  ‘Not at all.’ I put my coffee mug on the table. ‘Right, better get a move on. I don’t want Mrs Frobisher on my case, do I?’

  Esme dashes out of the kitchen to pack her bag and put her coat on. Libby leans towards me across the table.

  ‘Don’t go asking her questions about last night, Beth, just because I’m not around. I don’t want you hassling her – ever – but especially not so soon after a fit. I’m trusting you here. Don’t screw it up.’

  ‘I won’t say a thing,’ I say. ‘Just keep it light. Besides, she’ll be on the stage most of the time.’

  We’re out of the door ten minutes later, the windows of the flat misting up with the steam from Libby’s bath.

  We pass a muddy scrap of grass where a handful of older lads sit on the back of a broken bench. One of them, a boy of about twelve, stares at us – at me in particular. I’m conscious that I stand out. The people I’ve seen on the estate have been dressed in jeans or tracksuit bottoms, their faces pinched and pallid. They either shuffle about, as if weighed down by countless troubles, or swagger by, daring anyone to get in their way. My woollen coat has a smooth, deep nap, my shoes have heels and p
olish and my back is straight, my hair well groomed.

  The boy mutters something to the rest of them, and they start sniggering.

  ‘Where you going, Esme?’ the gang leader shouts.

  ‘I’ve got a rehearsal,’ she snaps back.

  ‘Royal Command Performance, is it?’ he says, looking at me.

  ‘It is for charity,’ Esme said. ‘For people with learning difficulties. It’s on the posters we’ve put up. But I suppose you have to be able to read to understand them.’

  ‘Don’t have to read to know what shit looks like,’ the boy shouts. ‘No one’s gonna come to your crappy show.’

  ‘How would you know what it’s like?’ Esme says.

  ‘My mum told me,’ he says. ‘She used to be a dancer.’

  ‘Pole dancing’s not proper dancing,’ Esme says with a shake of her head.

  ‘Your mum’s not a proper mum.’

  She sticks two fingers up at him. He laughs, then bows at me. I’m relieved when we turn the corner.

  ‘Who was that?’ I say.

  ‘Only Billy Gibson. He’s thick. Always in trouble. His dad’s been in prison. And his mum. The whole family have been banned from Lidl because they’ve robbed so much off the shelves.’

  ‘What did he mean about your mum not being a real mum?’ I say.

  Esme shrugs.

  ‘Because she doesn’t let me smoke and makes me go to school, probably. His makes him go shoplifting.’

  The school hall is a shabby one-storey building, its concrete walls scarred by rust from the drainpipes and faded graffiti. It smells of disinfectant and custard, its floor tiles scuffed by shoes and chair legs. On the raised platform at the far end, a woman pores over some notes on the clipboard in her hand as a chorus line of girls fail to kick their legs out in unison.

  ‘That’s it, girls,’ the woman says, without looking up from her notes. ‘Nice straight legs. Pointy toes. Smile.’

  She sounds tired, as if she’s said the words a thousand times.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, miss,’ Esme says, dashing up on to the stage and quickly stripping off to her leotard.

  She takes her place in the chorus line and gives me a wave. Mrs Frobisher turns around.

  ‘Can I help?’ she says.

  ‘I just brought Esme along. I wondered if it was okay to stay and watch.’