He nods. ‘Smithy was under the bed again, was he?’
‘He said he was going to eat my fingers!’ Her hands begin to tremble.
‘OK. Come here, sweetheart. It’s just a dream.’ He pries her arms from his neck and sits her in front of him. ‘We’re going to blow it away. Are you ready?’
She nods again, wiping her eyes. ‘Yes, Daddy.’
He rubs his hands together until they’re warm and cups her cheeks. He sucks in a breath and slowly blows on her forehead. Wisps of hair dance and sway on her skin. She closes her eyes and takes five deep breaths. He blows again, blowing the dream from her mind. He waits for her to sigh, something he has come to see as a good sign. He snaps his hands together. Her eyes ping open and she looks at him in surprise, as she always does. ‘I’ve got it! It’s in my hands! Shall we blow it away?’
‘Count!’
‘OK. On three, I’ll open my hands! Ready?’
‘Yes.’
‘One…’
‘Two…’
‘Three!’
He opens his hands and they blow into his palms. Bonnie sinks back into his arms and he cuddles her until her eyes begin to flutter closed. After he’s tucked her in bed, he makes his way to the door.
‘Daddy?’
He sighs. ‘Yes, Bonnie?’
‘What if Smithy comes back?’
He turns and kisses her head. ‘OK, sweetheart.’ John crouches down and slips himself under the bed. ‘Can I have one of your pillows, please, Bonnie?’
She drops one onto the floor and curls up on the edge of the mattress to be close to him. ‘Thanks, Daddy.’
He smiles and rests his head on the pillow, his limbs already screaming in protest. ‘He won’t come back now because he won’t fit under here with me.’
She giggles and dangles her hand over the bed. He reaches out and holds it until she falls asleep.
‘Goodnight, sweetheart.’
Will there be more photographs? More messages typed out and signed by his daughter? He isn’t sure which is worse: seeing the harm done to Bonnie or letting his imagination fill in the blanks. Both scenarios fill him with despair.
He looks round the small cottage they were relocated to that morning. With its orange sofa, inglenook fireplace, wooden floors and thick thatch, it isn’t something he is used to. But it oozes comfort. Any other time, he would have relaxed here. He would have sat crossed-legged like a boy with Bonnie on the rug, piecing together a puzzle, Jules beside him reading her book. Lemonade and plates of food scattered across their little world on the floor. The image makes him dizzy. Or perhaps it isn’t that. It probably has more to do with the fact he has hardly eaten for days. Jules on the other hand is overwhelmed with cravings. He often sits beside her, watching her eat, tears filling her eyes. Taking care of one baby while thinking of another. He dreads to think what the stress is doing to it. Him? Her? They don’t know and it really doesn’t matter.
How will they prevent this baby from being taken? What if Bonnie isn’t enough? What if this one is wanted too?
John rubs his neck, fraught with worry. A small part of his brain thinks that, if he cut himself, he would bleed fear and panic and pain.
John pulls himself up from the sofa and forces himself to make a sandwich. When he finishes, he is surprised to find it is the peanut butter sort Bonnie adores and he hates. He eats it anyway, cramming it into his mouth, wishing he could sweep Bonnie up onto his lap and kiss her head as he has so often done in the past. Overcome with emotion, he leaves the kitchen and climbs the stairs to the bedroom. Jules’s ‘panic bag’ sits on the bed, along with nappies, blankets, baby grows, towels, dummies and spare clothes for her. She took the panic bag out of their cupboard before they left for the cottage. Now all they have, aside from that, is a suitcase with toothbrushes, soap, aftershave, clothes and photographs of Bonnie. Their tablets, laptops and computers have been confiscated by the police. Their iPhones have been replaced with cheap pay-as-you-go mobiles for the time being.
DCI Alice Munroe had sat them down on the sofa as soon as she arrived that morning, Amy (their FLO) flanking her, and explained where they were with the investigation. He and Jules had sunk noticeably deeper into the sofa, clutched hands tightening until the blood drained away. Alice told them their examination of the photograph and envelope had turned up no DNA. They had nothing to go on but John’s past. He was the only clue in an otherwise clueless investigation.
They proceeded to comb through every inch of his past once again. Facets of his world strewn out on the floor and picked and poked at. He proffered it all with a desperation only Jules understood. They looked at him with sympathy and determination, but they didn’t know how it felt. How could they?
He gave Munroe his parents’ address and numbers so she could contact them for more of an insight into his past, a place this person resided so prominently. It was almost like the monster – Smithy – that Bonnie used to be so frightened of. Except this wasn’t Smithy, an imaginary creature they’d personified with a name. This was far worse. They had no face or name. Not a single modicum of knowledge. They were blind.
Munroe, delivering the onslaught of questions and information, had been tactful and almost gentle. John sometimes thought he glimpsed another side to her perfunctory manner. A soft middle to the hard edges. He looked at her and, before he could be completely sure, the humanity in her brown eyes slipped out faster than it had slipped in.
John wraps an arm around Jules’s shoulder, looking at the items splayed across the bed. If the baby comes early at least they will be ready. But he hopes it won’t. Where once he would have been eager to see his new child, now he wishes it could just remain where it is. Warm and protected. Safe from the torment of these long days.
Chapter 9
Maisie
Saturday 16 January, 2016
‘Excuse me, is your name Maisie Green?’
‘Yes. Can I help you?’ The man is in his early thirties with wavy brown hair, bright-green eyes and a spattering of freckles across his face. He’s wearing an Armani suit, black with silver cufflinks, which adds authenticity to the air of wealth and class surrounding him like a bubble.
‘I’m here to see Tim. He’s a friend. Heidi told me to ask for you.’
‘Oh. OK. I just need to check it’s OK for you to see him. Just bear with me while I give her a quick call.’
Maisie studies him out of the corner of her eye as she dials Heidi’s number. When she is finished she gestures him forward. ‘Great! He’s in room 217. Follow me.’ She walks with him through the door and down the corridor, dodging other staff members. ‘So how do you know Tim?’ She knows it isn’t her place to ask but she can’t help but wonder.
‘We knew each other years ago. I… I read about the attack in the paper. I would have come sooner but I’ve got a big case going on at the minute.’
‘I understand the nurse you talked to at reception explained the situation.’
‘Yes. She explained everythi—’ He stops mid-sentence. His expression turns blank, his eyes empty.
‘Hello. I didn’t expect to see you.’ She sees Watson walking up to them.
‘No… no, I didn’t expect to see you either.’ The man bites his lip and casts his eyes to the floor. What is that, Maisie wonders. Anger? Concern? Irritation? A change of atmosphere chokes the hall. The nurses – usually an insensitive bunch – turn and look, eyebrows raised. Lailah sends her a questioning glance. Maisie shrugs, putting her hands up as if to wave away the fug of tension. ‘So you know each other too?’
Watson pats the man’s back, a warm smile stretching across his lips. ‘Yeah. We go way back, don’t we, mate? Huh?’
He cringes, shuffling out from under Watson’s arm. ‘Yes. I suppose so. I’ve come to see Tim.’
‘He’d be so glad you’re here, mate.’
The man frowns, glancing at Watson. Glance. Glance. Glance. It’s almost as if he is looking for something. Something he can’t find.
> ‘Follow me, please.’
The three of them stop outside room 217. ‘I’ll leave you both to catch up.’ Maisie watches the man follow Watson into the room. They sit either side of Tim, Watson exuding warmth, his friend staring at the floor, cold and reticent. A sharp contrast to each other. Maisie wonders if they had a disagreement in the past. A tiff that has stretched long fingers into the present. She smiles, hoping they can resolve their issues, then turns and makes her way down the corridor to check on her other patient. When she returns the man is gone. Watson is leaning over Tim, holding his hand tenderly.
She watches thoughtfully, a smile playing across her face. Watson’s lips are moving but Maisie can’t tell what he is saying.
Chapter 10
Miller
Thursday 4 June, 1987
Mother holds the phone to her ear, nails tap-tap-tapping on the plastic. She preens her hair with the other hand, subconsciously flicking and twirling her dry and brittle locks. This is a habit that has withstood the derailment of everything else. The red varnish on her nails is chipped and cracked. Brown roots sit at the top of her head, a nasty contrast to the yellowy shade of blonde from copious amounts of Sun-In. Her face, once plastered with layer upon layer of make-up, is empty, the pores and blemishes she tried so hard to disguise there for all to see. A woman who was once confident in a beauty only she saw has sunk into a pool of disarray.
Father is much the same. I hear them in the bedroom next to mine. At night they take two deep breaths to steady themselves; in the morning they take four, bracing themselves for another day, needing strength to seep into their bodies. And for the rest of the time, a silence sits between them. Deep and unrelenting.
In the evening they watch television, flicking glances over to me. I know they are thinking about her. About their sweet angel, Mary, and wondering if perhaps it was not a game. I can see the question in their eyes. Did he have something to do with it? No, he couldn’t have. No child of theirs could do something as wretched as that. No. He is a naughty boy but never, no, never. They look at me, wondering, denying their wild thoughts, their eyes unblinking, a mixture of confusion and disbelief blurring together. When they do this, a smile I find hard to contain flips onto my lips. They look away instantly, banishing those wild thoughts to the backs of their minds. And even though there is no love or even warmth between them now, their hands nevertheless seek each other’s out.
The only enjoyment Mother sucks from life is to gossip with her friend Maggie. The silly, idle chatter they share reminds her of who she used to be. She performs with gusto, the blather blowing her up like a balloon. For a few hours she feels better, fuller, then, when she puts down the phone and looks at me, the air escapes her and she shuffles away. Poor, sad Mother.
I watch her now, tapping away with those nails. I grit my teeth and instead focus on the words falling one after the other out of her mouth.
‘I know, Mags. I know. Well, why don’t we take a cake round for her? Show her she has support. I know, she probably won’t eat it. Well, she can take it with her to the hospital, can’t she? Her husband’s had a stroke, I’m sure he can still eat cake. Sugar might do him some good. I know, Mags.’ She juts her lip out, brows knitting together, false sadness dancing across her features. ‘I know. So sad. Yes, let’s. She needs to know we’re here for her.’ Sympathy, if real in the first place, has a use-before date that prevents it lasting more than a few weeks. When the time is up, the avalanche of ‘I think she needs to move on now’ or ‘This has been going on for weeks’ pours in.
Mother puts a hand on her hip and begins tapping the cabinet instead.
I try, Blue-Eyes, I try so very hard. It is almost a game now, you know, holding down my anger, seeing how strong my reserve is. Sometimes, though, the sound of those nails is just too much to ignore.
She gasps as I pull her hand to my mouth and rip four fake nails off with my teeth. They taste chalky and sour in my mouth. She screams, shying away, eyes expanding into shocked saucers. I pull the last one away, feeling the varnish break up in my mouth as I so often imagine. She yanks her hand to her chest, cradling it, skin slick with saliva as I spit the nails into my cupped hand. I can hear rumbling in her throat, a combination of a groan and a whine. The phone skitters to the floor and I hear Maggie shriek, ‘June, June? What is it? June!’ I drop the mess onto the cabinet, stretch my arms around her weak little shoulders and kiss her cheek. ‘I’msorryI’msorryI’mreallysorryMum.’ Like a little naughty boy, I stare at my feet and force tears into my eyes, sniffing, wiping the snot from my nose because I know it will make her cringe.
She wriggles out from my arms and pats my head as if she is patting the back of a slug. Her nose wrinkles. ‘That’s… that’s OK. Now off you go.’
She picks up the phone and continues her conversation with Maggie, finger poking the mess of spit and fake nail on the cabinet. She won’t tell Maggie, not that I would be worried if she did. Her pride gets in her way: she could never admit to the oddity that is her son, to having a child as naughty and strange as me. I walk to the door, her gaze needling the back of my head as I go.
On the street, people cluster together in the sun, tongues wagging, hands waving, faces greasy with sunblock. It makes the wrinkles seem deeper on the old and the spots redder on the young. The middle-aged men, carrying paunches that bend their backs to the floor, stand and talk with their hips thrust out and their faces taut with arrogance. The women, stick-thin from attempts at keeping their husbands’ attention, mill about like hens, clucking and swapping titbits of information, glancing at the men as the men glance at the girls across the street.
The elderly sit in their deckchairs, sipping tea despite the blistering heat, gazing sadly at the young, wishing they could still leap and jump and run with their friends. Wishing their skin was as smooth and their hair was as thick. They sip and they sip, drowning their sorrows in tea. The young flitter about, playing hopscotch and riding their bicycles, alive with freedom, the perils of adulthood something far removed from their small universe.
Do you know the arrogance makes me sick? It turns my stomach and makes me want to heave. The teenagers flick their hair and flaunt their bodies like salesmen showing off their wares on the market. They see themselves as gods and angels in a world of mortals. The way they walk, the way they stand and talk and believe they are entitled to everything. I dig my hands into my pockets and walk along the street to the centre of town. A school, a few shops and a town hall. A small place to grow up, a place where everyone knows everyone. A place where they all look at me and quickly look away. Being different is bad. They think I am a strange boy. A boy who will be a strange man. They don’t like the look of me with my black hair and my black eyes. But I don’t care because the feeling is mutual.
I only love you, I will only ever love you. With your blue eyes and unassuming personality, you are not arrogant or insolent like everyone else. You exude something special, something precious. You make others flock to you, want to be your friend. Want to please you and comfort you and make you laugh. But you don’t see it. You are too good for that.
*
We sit in rows, waiting for Mr Philips to take us through our history lesson. A new teacher is going to take his place tomorrow. A girl Mother says is as ‘cute as a button’. I haven’t seen her yet, only heard how everyone adores her and yet she has only just moved into town. Mr Philips saunters in, balding head slick with sweat, and greets us all in his droning voice. As he begins his tirade on the Roman Empire, the boys and girls slump in their seats. They try to look interested because Mr Philips talks to their parents over coffee in the café but I can see how they really feel. Micro expressions flit across their faces. Tiny truths unveiling the boredom or irritation or even awe that sits there. One girl, smaller than the rest, ugly, looks at the tall, beautiful girl to her left with something akin to love. Her feet dance under the table and I wonder if she wants to step on the tall girl’s feet and spin round the room. The boy in fr
ont of me turns every few seconds to snatch a glimpse of a girl. Lust. Love. Hatred. Envy. Emotions are as transparent as glass. I see them all. And soon I will see you. Soon, you will crash into my life with more colour and sincerity than I have ever seen before.
Saturday 6 June, 1987
She stumbles into the classroom. Books fly out of her arms and land with a heavy thump on the floor. A strand of hair catches inside of her mouth. She swats it away and bends to pick up the books, blushing red. She gives a nervous smile to the pupils sniggering behind their hands. I can feel the embarrassment peeling off her in waves. It hits me in the chest and all of a sudden I want to scream at the girls and boys to stop it, stop it! Stop sniggering. I want to hurt them more than I have ever wanted to hurt anyone for making her feel this way. For making her feel small and silly. She is like you, Blue-Eyes. She is like Mary. She is special. A Good One.
She straightens her shirt and pushes her hair off her shoulders, standing a little taller, meeting the eyes of every pupil in the room; I sense Mr Philips has advised her to do this. A trick he uses when he wants our undivided attention.
‘Hello, class. My name is Sarah Hardman. I’ll be taking over from Mr Philips. Some of you might have seen me about – I’ve just moved into town.’ A pause. ‘I believe you’ve been learning about the Roman Empire and so we’ll carry on with that today.’ She folds her hands in front of her stomach; it is usually a gesture of self-satisfaction but with this woman I think it is a means of trying to make herself feel more confident. She smiles half-heartedly, snatches up a piece of chalk and fumbles with it for a moment before scratching across the blackboard. A girl behind me whispers to her friend, ‘Think I might just start liking school now! We’re not going to learn a thing.’ The friend sniggers.
They think she is an imbecile but I can see she is not. She is nervous and embarrassed. She is also clever, engaging and sweet. It shows in the way she moves, the way she holds herself. And sure enough, when she gets into the flow of teaching, the boys and girls around me stop pulling faces and pointing and instead lean forward, eyes glued to her, faces taut with concentration. She has pulled them from their silly habits. She has got their attention.
Lies Between Us Page 5