by Sanjida Kay
I take a long swallow of beer and feel it track an ice-cold line through my chest. The outrage I’d felt earlier dissipates. I reckon I should stop feeling so fucking sorry for myself. I mean, look at Amy, she didn’t even get to have a childhood. What kid should know about her father’s affairs and that her mother is about to walk out on them, when she’s eleven years old? And yet all she thought about was making sure her little brother was okay. As for Bethany…
‘Are you okay?’ Amy asks.
I clear my throat. ‘They’ve brought our food over,’ I say, peering through the misted window of the pub. ‘I’ve got to go. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Love you,’ she says.
‘Love you too.’
As for Bethany – what kind of child would take the blame for something like that when she’s only nine? Have I made a terrible mistake about my sister?
22 NOVEMBER, BRISTOL
41
NICK
On the drive to Bristol, Dad asks me several times where we are going. I do my best to be a good son and politely, cheerfully say the same thing each time in response: ‘Lotte’s seventh birthday party at Amy’s house.’
And every time he replies, ‘But we haven’t got her a present!’
I suppose one of us should take him for a check-up at the Memory Clinic. A proper one, this time. I swerve into Toy World in Bedminister and we rush in, then amble around in a slow kind of panic: two men together, looking utterly ineffectual. We’re saved by a teenage shop assistant who fires a serious of questions at us and then hands Dad a bumper craft kit that seems to feature a lot of purple, sequins, glitter and some smelly pens. Dad looks at it in bemusement. The guy flicks his long jet-black fringe out of the way and stares directly at me. He’s got eyes like marbles, pale blue with swirls of indigo, and the tip of his tongue is pierced with a bolt.
‘A doll,’ I say, feeling as if my manhood has shrivelled and died in Aisle 3, next to the Barbies. ‘But not, you know, a normal one.’
‘Not a normal doll,’ he says under his breath. ‘This way, Gents.’
He marches through the shop, his DMs squeaking, and then grabs something off a shelf and thrusts it at me.
The doll has glossy brown hair and dark-brown eyes and a fierce expression: she’s like a plasticized version of Bethany. She’s dressed in a swimming costume and Hawaiian surf shorts; neatly laid out next to her is a life-ring, goggles and binoculars.
‘Lifeguard,’ the shop assistant says, and his tongue ring chinks against his teeth. ‘Complimentary dinghy included.’
I hope a doll with a life-saving boat and superhero swimming skills will be a good enough replacement for the one we buried on a beach in Italy.
‘Thanks, mate,’ I say and notice that my voice has dropped an octave. I turn to my father. ‘Dad, I do believe we have ageappropriate birthday presents that we are about to deliver to the intended recipient on time!’
‘Must be a first, Son,’ he says, smiling at me.
I don’t know how Amy does it. One afternoon and I’m smashed. We’ve been to the park and kicked a football about, eaten ice cream on a bench, in spite of the Siberian wind-chill, built a Lego spaceship, played three different board games, had two meltdowns and spent some time on the naughty step. Matt has now put Madagascar on, and we’re all slumped on the sofas with cups of tea, the kids on beanbags in front of us about an inch away from the screen. Amy’s stuck pizza and garlic bread in the oven and is icing a chocolate cake. It’s from a packet mix, she tells everyone, as if she’s just failed the Mothers’ High-Jump Championship.
I look at Matt to see if I’m meant to reply to this, but he shakes his head and says, ‘It’ll taste fantastic, love.’
I’m debating whether I can grab a beer, instead of finishing my cup of tea. Chloe trailed round with us all afternoon, barely speaking, but I suppose she does win the Teenage-Girl Prize for Teamwork, simply by being here in body, if not in spirit.
‘Hey, have you seen this?’ Amy sets down the bowl of buttercream and passes me a flyer.
It’s for a boot camp. I’m wondering if Amy is trying to tell me something. I don’t think I’m quite ready for press-ups and protein shakes yet. The icing is an alarming shade of blue, and she’s pushing small Playmobil figures into it. I glance at the leaflet. It’s for personal training in the sun. In Italy. I feel a sort of shudder run through me. Amy puts a water slide onto the cake, then glues a little girl on the top with extra icing.
‘Oh, I get it! It’s a swimming pool.’
My sister is now pressing red icing-sugar roses round the edge of the cake-pool. I notice the hashtag at the bottom of the flyer: #FitInFive.
‘Look on the back,’ Amy says. ‘Have you seen who’s running it?’
I turn the piece of paper over and see the contact details: Joe Hart and Luca Castaglioni. Something clicks into place.
‘I must admit I was surprised. Luca giving up being a child psychologist, to go into the fitness industry.’ She accidentally smudges blue icing across her cheek. ‘Lotte and Theo still miss him.’
It hadn’t been Chloe and Carlo, or Chloe and Joe, or Joe and Bethany in the shed by the pool; it had been Joe and Luca. What else did I get wrong on that holiday?
Chloe is sitting next to me, still bent over her phone, watching something. I remember what Dad said to me and decide I should make an effort.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
She looks up, her expression guilty. I want to tell her to chill: I’m not that into Madagascar, either. Reluctantly she turns the screen towards me, slips her headphones off one ear. It’s some sort of game show – not what I expected her to be looking at. I’m about to shrug and go and get that beer, when I realize. I snatch the phone and yank the headphones from her.
The woman’s accent sounds starched, she’s so English in comparison to the other hosts and the participants. Her dark hair has blonde highlights, she’s incredibly thin and her face looks weird: razor-sharp cheekbones, yet plump cheeks, and her forehead and eyebrows barely move. She’s in heels and has a gravity-defying cleavage. I wouldn’t recognize her if I bumped into her on the street.
‘She looks good, doesn’t she?’ says Chloe.
‘Are you kidding? She looks awful.’
The show itself is excruciating: the contestants are as thick as planks, their teeth too white, their skins orange.
‘What are you talking about?’ asks Amy, leaning over the sofa to pass me a glass of wine.
I’m so stunned I down half of it at once. It’s actually quite nice, for something that isn’t beer or cider.
‘Oh my goodness,’ she says. ‘It’s Bethany!’
She looks at Chloe, who ducks her head, letting her hair slide over her face. ‘It’s an LA game show. I found it on YouTube. She’s changed her name.’
The three of us look at the programme in silent horror. I feel as if we’re watching a train hurtling towards us, and the cinema audience all know there’s a child on the track up ahead.
‘What does she call herself?’ I ask.
Chloe says, ‘Trixie Flora.’
‘Jesus H. Christ,’ says Matt. ‘Sorry, kids.’
‘Is this what we’ve done to her?’ Amy says.
I shake my head. Bethany did this to herself. But then I have an image of myself seizing Bethany, my thumbs digging in beneath her collarbone, shaking her as hard as I could as I shouted, I will never forgive you.
We have all driven her to this hellish existence.
‘Turn it off,’ says Matt sharply. ‘I don’t want you getting upset again, love.’
Chloe reaches over and takes her phone back. She pauses the programme and swipes it from the screen. As she does, I notice her WhatsApp messages. The four of us are silent. In the background will.i.am is singing about being strange and feeling out of place. Lotte and Theo jump up and start dancing.
‘I hate her,’ Amy says.
‘Lion! Jungle!’ Lotte shouts, wiggling her hips.
‘I
miss her,’ Amy says.
Dad has fallen asleep and gives a loud snore, which makes the kids collapse with the giggles.
‘The pizza is ready.’ Amy’s voice is faint.
I hit my forehead as I suddenly remember. ‘Hey, you know what, Chloe? I’ve got your birthday present with me.’
‘My birthday was two months ago.’
‘Yeah. I know. I forgot.’
‘That’s kind of you, Nick,’ says Matt, giving Chloe a warning look, which she ignores.
I get up and hold out my wine glass for Amy to refill. ‘Back in a tick.’
I still had the three photos Chloe had taken, which I’d texted to myself when we were on holiday. I’d finally got round to printing and framing one, as a present for her. I go into the hall, where I’ve left my bag with the picture in it. I’m puzzling over the messages I saw on Chloe’s phone. It’s obvious she’s in touch with Bethany. I suppose that shouldn’t be a surprise. Bethany might have chosen to stay in contact with her – after all, they were close, more like friends or sisters than a step-aunt and niece. Or Chloe, with her better IT skills than the rest of us, could have tracked Bethany down. I’m not sure what the message meant, though. Bee had written: Promise you won’t tell them!!!
Don’t tell who what? Don’t tell us that Chloe knows where she is? I doubt Amy and Matt could bring themselves to speak to Bethany, even if they did have a number for her. I turn on the light in the hall and look at the photo I’ve printed and framed: the selfie of Chloe and Ruby-May. Their faces are squashed together, Ruby-May’s blonde hair blowing across Chloe’s olive-gold cheeks. They’re both grinning. A halo of sun sparks from behind my step-niece’s head and Ruby-May’s blue eyes are filled with light. I wasn’t sure I was man enough to actually print it out; I had to treat it as if it was a work assignment that I’d been asked to Photoshop for Tamsyn. Now I smile back at Ruby-May. I wonder when Chloe took the photo.
I look at the originals on my phone and check the digital data: 15 August, a year ago. I feel my heart constrict.
The day Ruby-May died.
My niece looks so happy – it must literally have been hours before she drowned. I check the time-stamp and yes, it was that afternoon. I wait for the map to load and it’s further proof – it was shot on the edge of the woods below the Mendips: our back garden at The Pines. I feel something crawl down my spine. I enlarge the photo and examine the background. Something about it doesn’t look right. At the back of my mind I’m also thinking about Bethany… and what she did when I was five years old. I’m conscious that Chloe is waiting for me to bring her birthday present; everyone else is expecting me to hurry back for pizza.
I send Chloe a text. Feeling awkward. Can u come get it. N
I go upstairs and listen for Chloe’s footsteps. When she’s on the landing, I open the door.
‘Why are you in Ruby-May’s room? Why didn’t you just give it to me in front of everyone?’
She’s amused and condescending, in true teenage-girl fashion.
‘You’re in touch with Bethany.’
‘Is that what this is really about?’ She taps the mobile hanging over Ruby-May’s bed with one finger, sending it spinning.
‘Not really, no. Look, I get it. You’re close to her, of course you want to keep in contact.’
Chloe tilts her chin defiantly. But then she sighs and says, ‘She didn’t stay in touch with me, either. I found her online eventually. She said not to tell anyone, especially Amy, as she’d be upset. Dad wouldn’t want me to talk to her, and I don’t suppose any of them – any of you – want to speak to her. Are you going to tell Amy?’ She looks up at me through her lashes.
‘Here’s your present,’ I say.
It’s not wrapped and I simply hand it to her.
‘Oh!’ she says. She snaps on the light.
I blink. Amy and Matt still haven’t cleared out Ruby-May’s bedroom. There’s a duvet with cartoon pigs on it, and some stuffed toys with massive sparkly eyes are lined up in a row on the bookcase. I notice small details: a black patent shoe with a purple heart, small enough to sit on the palm of my hand; a sunhat with a rainbow-horned unicorn on the brim; a Lego rocket with a broken booster.
‘That looks just like one I took!’
I force myself to face Chloe. ‘It is the one you took.’
‘How did you get it?’ She glares at me.
‘I saw it when I found your iPad at the villa. I texted it to myself. I didn’t look through your other photos, I promise.’ Okay, that’s a lie… ‘It’s just that Photos was open.’ Why the fuck am I apologizing to her? ‘I wanted to print it out as a birthday present for you. Maybe do one for Amy too.’
She shrugs and looks at the picture again.
‘Thanks. I like how you’ve printed it. The colours – kind of super-real. But why are we here, in Ruby-May’s room? That’s a bit creepy of you. Oh, wait, is it because you didn’t want to upset Amy by giving it to me in front of her?’
‘I was thinking about where this photo was taken.’
‘Your back garden in Somerset,’ she says, like I’m an imbecile. She’s still annoyed I’ve taken the photograph without her permission.
‘And then I realized there’s something not quite right about this picture.’
‘Has no one ever taught you how to give feedback? You’re meant to be specific, helpful and kind.’
‘Well, not this photo. This photo is fine. I looked at two others you took at the same time. Wider angle, see?’ I hold out my phone to show her, but I don’t get too close. ‘You’re next to the pond. There’s the fence, behind you. You’re inside. You can’t see the pond in this picture, but it’s just below you. The grassy bank you’re sitting on slopes down towards it.’
I think of my mother, sitting on that same mossy bank, her thumb hooked through her easel, trapping paint on the ends of her fine, flyaway hair.
I edge past Chloe and shut the door, lean against it. Her eyes widen and she steps away from me. I hold up my hands.
‘Five minutes. I want to talk to you for five minutes and then we’ll go downstairs and eat that fucking pizza. I’ll stay over here.’ To be honest, I don’t want to be near her. It’s for my own safety, as much as hers. I’m not sure I’ll be able to control myself.
I walk over to the window, keeping the same distance between us. I imagine sliding my hands around her delicate neck, tightening them, pressing my thumbs into her windpipe… I look out over Bristol. Beams of light have broken through the grey cloud and illuminate a hill in the distance.
‘Let me tell you a story,’ I say.
I remember a day, twenty-four years ago, and as I imagine it, I create a new memory for myself: of my blonde-haired eleven-yearold sister crying and my dark-haired nine-year-old sister holding her, comforting her, saying that it would all be okay, then turning and running across the lawn and past the pond, to tell our mother a make-believe story about what had happened. Taking responsibility for almost killing her little brother, when she hadn’t even been there.
‘One summer’s day, the day before Ruby-May’s third birthday, Bethany was looking after her niece. She noticed she had some missed calls on her phone from her agent and her producer. Bethany noticed that Dad was snoozing, so to be on the safe side she asked you, not Dad, to look after Ruby-May. You agreed, and Bethany went inside to make her calls using the landline because, as we all know, the signal is shit at The Pines.’
I glance at Chloe. She’s frozen, clutching the framed photograph of herself and her little sister.
‘At first, everything was great. You had a fantastic time with Ruby-May. You took some amazing photos of her. She wanted to go and play by the pond, so you fetched the key and you opened the gate and the two of you went in. And you took three more photos. These exact ones, in fact. Maybe you even escorted her back out. Maybe you thought you’d shut the gate. But you got distracted. Perhaps someone tried to phone you or text you, or you were trying to get some signal so that you could upload
your photos to Instagram. Perhaps you started filming yourself, back in the day when you still wanted to be an Instagram star. Bethany, meanwhile, was gone for ages. Longer than she said she’d be. And when she came out, looking for you and Ruby-May, you suddenly remembered what you were meant to be doing. Who you were meant to be looking after.’
I wheel round towards Chloe and she shrinks back. I put my hands in my pockets. Better to reduce temptation.
‘The Pines has a big garden. You felt safe there. You thought Ruby-May would be safe. You couldn’t see her straight away, but you thought: no need to worry, she’ll be here somewhere. And so you started looking for her. Bethany did too.’
She searched the ruins of the cottage, tearing her shins on brambles, pushing her head into the hearth and the remains of the old bread oven. She scrambled over the stone wall and ran across the field at the bottom of the garden, frightening the black calves. She tore through the edge of the woods and splashed down the stream, burning her arms on the giant hemlock.
‘Eventually you found her. In the pond.’
Chloe makes a choking sound. She sits down abruptly on Ruby-May’s bed, still holding the photograph.
‘Bethany dragged Ruby-May out. She cleared the water weeds from her nose and her throat and she tried to resuscitate her. She broke one of Ruby-May’s ribs, trying to start her heart. But you both knew it was too late. Her heart had stopped some time ago. You both knew she was dead. Bethany said she would take the blame. She loved you. She wanted to protect you. She said: You have your whole life ahead of you. Your dad, your stepmother, your half-siblings, your step-grandfather – none of them will ever speak to you again if they know the truth. She described how you’d end up on the news. You’d be trolled on the Internet. Your classmates would hate you. Your life would be ruined.’
Chloe is silently shaking her head. I turn away. The urge to smash her head against the wall is overwhelming.