She nodded, face shining with excitement. ‘I can do it.’
‘Good. But you have to promise you won’t tell anyone. Not your mummy or your daddy. And definitely not Johnny because he will be cross. Promise, Bessie?’
She nodded again. ‘Promise.’
‘OK. When you’re ready, reach out and touch it. I’ll be right here.’ I stepped back as she stepped forward. She finally reached out, but I was already in the kitchen with you and your mother. No blame would find me if I was by your side.
You moved with such speed, such purpose. Face black with fear. I could almost taste it in the air, streaming off you in thick rivulets, choking the room. Her wails rung out, your voice called her name. Your mother and I followed at your heels. Bessie was on her back, rolling around, red face bunched up, thick tears smeared across her cheeks. Your mother sank to the floor and gathered her up in her arms, rocking and soothing her. You knelt next to Bessie and stroked the hair out of her face.
‘Bessie, what did you do?’
She sobbed into her mother’s arm, slowly offering her burnt fingers up for you to see. ‘Oh, no!’
Your mother carried her into the kitchen and told her to put her fingers into a cup of water. ‘You must, Bess,’ you said when she shook her head. ‘It’s nice and cold. It will make you feel better.’ She shook her head. ‘Shall we do it together?’
A nod.
‘OK. On three. One. Two. Three.’ She cried out, biting her lip. You smiled at her. ‘Well done, Bess.’
‘John, take her. I need to find the lavender. She’ll get blisters.’ Your mother passed her to you and dashed out of the kitchen. Her feet thumped up the stairs. You rocked Bessie in your arms like you saw your mother do, shushing and cuddling, telling her she mustn’t touch flames. It was dangerous. That she was brave for putting her fingers in the water. She nestled into your shirt, the noise dying in her throat.
I stood by the door, a look of perfected concern on my face, a feeling of excitement and love blooming in my chest. How beautiful you were, John. Sitting with her in your arms, rubbing her back, kissing her head. I was so happy, seeing you like that.
But then it changed.
‘I love you,’ you said, and then I wanted to rip the brat from your arms and drown her in the river. I wanted to sit on your lap and fall asleep against your chest. I wanted you to whisper and cuddle me and kiss me. I wanted you to tell me how much you loved me.
Death.
That is what you are thinking of now, I can see it on your face. You are thanking those ‘lucky stars’ that her shirt didn’t catch the flame, that hers was a case of burnt fingers instead of burnt body. Your hand tenses around the bandaged mass of hers. Despite the questions thrown at her through the panicked lips of your father when he returned home, she only said, ‘I wanted to be a magician.’ That made me smile.
Good girl.
She skips along by your side, young mind already beginning to forget the blinding pain that brought tears to her eyes. But you can’t forget. ‘What shall we have today?’ you ask, smiling down at her.
‘Acid drops!’ She swings her arm around, giggling.
‘OK. A bag of acid drops. Shall we stop on the way home and eat them by the river? What do you think? I already asked Mum, she says it’s OK.’
‘Yeah! Want to, want to!’
I see you nod from behind a tree. I asked once if I could come with you and Bessie to get some sweets on Sunday. You politely said that Bess preferred it to be just the two of you. A kind, thoughtful reply. But I know it wasn’t Bessie. You want Sundays for yourself. Quiet time with your sister. They mean something to you, something so much more than the times you spend with me. I can’t describe the anger I felt when you turned me down. But no matter. Nothing lasts for ever. Those special Sundays certainly won’t.
As you take off down the street, bag of sweets passing back and forth between you, I rush into the shop, buy a bag of acid drops and follow close behind. The sun is shining down hot on our backs, and if I strain my eyes, I can see beads of sweat forming on your neck. When you and Bessie flop down on the riverbank, tipping your heads back and dropping in sweets, laughing, sharing jokes, I sit further down and tip my head back and drop one in my mouth. I don’t like sweets, but when you suck on yours I want to know what it feels like. Bessie throws a pebble into the river, giggling as it sinks with a soft plop!
‘Whoever can throw one furthest away wins the last acid drop,’ you say.
Of course, you let her win. You swing your arm back and watch the pebble fly through the air. I throw one in the opposite direction. When you sit back down and fiddle with a twig, I pick one up and fiddle with it too. When you wrap an arm round Bessie’s shoulder, I wrap my arm round my own, pretending it is yours. And when you laugh at something she says, I laugh too.
*
I climb the tree outside your house and watch through Bessie’s window every night. I am beginning to think I am making an impression in the bark. It is warm now but even when the nights grow shorter and the temperature drops, I’ll climb this tree and fold my hands into the pockets of a woollen jumper just so I can watch you. Just so I can be with you.
Tonight, you are sitting at the bottom of the bed, legs bobbing up and down, hands fidgeting. Even without these signs, I can tell by the way you are biting your lip that you are excited. Bessie is tucked up in bed, puzzled by your behaviour. Another thing I have grown a skill for since finding my spot in this tree: lip-reading.
Can I have a story?
You can, but first I’ve got a surprise for you. Do you want to know what it is?
Yes, please.
Close your eyes.
OK.
Are they closed tight?
Yes.
Good.
I do exactly as you say, imagining the surprise is for me. When I open my eyes, you are holding a stuffed teddy bear, smiling like you have never smiled before.
Ta dah! you say, offering the bear into Bessie’s waiting hands.
I love it! she squeals.
So do I.
My fingers itch with desire. If it wasn’t for a twig sticking painfully into my ribcage, I think I would dive into the room and snatch it out of her hands. I can only imagine how much it cost you, how much it took out of your piggy bank. That is not a cuddly toy. It is a symbol of you. Of love and friendship. Of everything I want.
When you and Bessie go out the next day, I take the bear from its place on the bed and hold it in my arms. I can smell Bessie but I can also smell you. I can feel you in the fibres of the fabric. I can feel your love surrounding me, filling me up, making me whole.
Tuesday 10 March, 1992
I see a couple walk hand in hand across the street. They look at each other the way your parents look at each other, the way Mother used to look at Father when Mary was alive. It isn’t love. What I feel for you is love, and that is something they will never feel. No one ever will.
The girl leans over and kisses him. When she pulls back, the boy smiles and squeezes her hand. I want this and I want it with you. I want to walk along the street, holding your hand, and oh so casually lean in for a kiss. Just the thought of it makes me feel light-headed. Can you even imagine?
*
You and Chubby are riding your bikes, cycling up to each other, whipping out your arms and high-fiving as you pass. Twelve years old, hanging on to the precipice of childhood, ready to fall into the abyss of adulthood. The last vestiges of it shine in both your eyes. Chubby is laughing and screaming at the top of his lungs, cracking jokes about his weight. I sit on the pavement, warming my fingers on the tarmac, enjoying the sound of your voice, singing the latest song Chubby and you adore. And which makes me squirm. Father once said that people who don’t like music are psychos. I told him I was one of them. He didn’t know what to say then.
Chubby giggles and you tease him, saying he sounds like his mum. He laughs, wagging his finger at you.
‘Yeah, but you sound like your dad when y
ou snore,’ he shouts.
A woman walking past looks at you as if you are a monster. You and Chubby turn red-faced. You are drunk on the sun and sugar and the promise of another day tomorrow.
‘Again, John!’
You turn your bike around and pedal as fast as you can towards Chubby, reaching out for a high five. The next time, you both go faster, then faster and faster, going further and further from my spot on the pavement.
You don’t see the rock in the middle of the road. And as you go speeding towards it, I am on my feet, waving my arms, screaming a warning. But it is too late. In an instant your body slams against the ground, skin scraped across the tarmac. I think I can smell the blood on your leg even as you pull yourself up to inspect the wound. I run as fast as my legs will carry me, my chest aching with fear. Chubby gets there first and kneels down next to you, laughing at something you say.
‘JOHN!’ I bellow.
It makes you jump, I think. You shake your head. ‘Don’t worry. It’s fine. Just a bit of a graze. It’s stopped bleeding already.’
‘I’ll go and see if your mum has a plaster.’ Chubby rushes off into the house.
I bend down beside you and put my fingers close to the wound, searching your eyes for signs of pain. I am panting, gasping, my heart hammering away like ten drummers have started banging away on the same instrument.
‘John, are you all right? Are you OK?!’ I wrap my hands around your leg, catching myself before I cup your cheek and brush the hair off your face. My hands begin to shake and so I hide them in my pockets. I am panicking but I try and keep a calm façade. It must work because you are perfectly fine, prodding the wound like it is something magical.
‘I’m good. That was fun. I think I flipped! Did you see? I kinda want to do it again. Yeah, no, I definitely want to do it again. So fun! I’m sure I flipped. Wish someone had recorded that. I could have shown everyone at school!’ You clap your hands, delighted.
I am lost for words, horrified by the blood on your skin, by the look of amazement scrawled across your face. You are injured. Wounded. The graze will leave a scar on your perfect skin. You will be this way for the rest of your life. My mouth pops open and I quickly close it, feeling my eyes bulge in their sockets.
You mother walks up to us, first-aid kit in hand, Chubby trotting along at her heels, saying how ‘awesome’ you were when you flipped. I deny the urge to snatch the kit from her hand and fix you up myself. Her slowness makes me dizzy with anger. How can she be so blasé? You are hurt, bleeding. Is she blind? HURRY UP, I want to scream.
‘OK, sweetheart?’
‘I’m fine, Mum. It was actually really fun! I flipped. Chubs told you, right?’
She laughs.
She laughs!
‘He did. It’s fine now but make sure to be a bit more careful, OK?’
‘OK, Mum. Thanks.’
She wipes the graze and sticks a plaster over it, smiling. ‘There we go. All better.’ With that, she kisses your head and goes back into the house.
All better?
I feel my face flush, my legs begin to tremble. How dare she leave you! How dare she say, ‘all better’! How could she be so calm?! How could she walk away? How could she not care?!
You and Chubby resume pedalling on your bikes and I return to my spot on the pavement. I have never been so angry in my life. I have never hated anyone as much as I hate your mother. I have never wanted to hurt anyone as much as I want to hurt her. She’ll regret not giving you the care you need. I would have. I would have held you and spoke comforting words. I would have kissed away your pain. Carried you to the hospital and waited with bated breath while all the nurses cleaned and bandaged your leg properly. I would have been a better mother than her.
Chapter 41
John
Friday 18 December, 2015
When he was five years old his mother dug holes in the back garden and filled them with water so he could splash in his new pair of wellingtons. He did the same for Bonnie when she turned three, laughing as droplets of muddy water flew through the air. He looks at the picture now, wondering with a peculiar calmness how life has taken such an unexpected turn.
And there is nothing he can do to prevent it getting any worse. He’s ripped his hair out searching his mind for memories – any memories – of someone hanging around when he was young. Someone who watched him and followed him. But there was no one. He wishes he could remember someone so Alice would have more to go on. But he can’t give them what he doesn’t have.
Jules is growing more and more frustrated with him as they feel the clock tick down the seconds to Bonnie’s demise. But what can he do? He can’t rewind the past, can’t hop in a time machine and revisit his childhood. He’s gone through every message that has been left for them to find.
So far there have been five. When will the sixth arrive? He has no doubt it will. Why stop terrorising someone if you are enjoying it? No, this person will have to get bored before they kill Bonnie. Until then, they’ll just pick off bits of her like a bird picking at a worm. He doesn’t dare imagine how frightened she is. He just hopes she knows how much they love her and that they are trying their hardest to find her.
‘John?’
He smiles at Jules and invites her into his arms. ‘I wish you’d met someone else. I wish you hadn’t married me and you’d had Bonnie with another man.’
She looks up at him. ‘You shouldn’t wish that.’
‘It’s my fault this creep’s got Bonnie. If it wasn’t for me, you’d both be having breakfast now, laughing at something on the radio. Bonnie would be nibbling some fake bacon and you’d be reminding her to use her knife and fork.’
She shakes her head. ‘Not your fault, John. None of this is.’
‘How can it not be?’
She takes a step away. ‘Because you aren’t the bastard who has Bonnie. You didn’t kidnap someone else’s child. You aren’t sending sadistic photos to the family. You haven’t done anything!’
He nods. She rests her head on his chest. ‘How long do you think we have?’
‘A few weeks. How long would it take for you to get bored? We’ve had five messages now – that would be enough for some.’
‘It’s like they’re taunting us.’
He shakes his head. ‘All of my memories feel tainted now. Was this person there when I was born? When I lost my first tooth? When I learnt to swim? When we met? Were they there when Bonnie was born? When she lost her first tooth or when she learnt to swim? They could have been there for everything and we were too stupid to notice.’
‘We weren’t stupid, John. This person’s clever. They’re making Bonnie sign their sick messages, for God’s sake.’
John nods, looking at the collage of photographs sticking to the wall, all of Bonnie and in all of which he can see the shadow of someone who doesn’t belong there. He can see a foot in one, a hand in another, lurking at the edge of the shot, on the periphery of their lives.
He wonders for the hundredth time how long Bonnie has. He looks at the pictures, at her sweet eyes and wavy brown hair, at the smattering of freckles and gap-toothed smile, thinking they should have done better. They should have done so much better.
*
He’d read about the kidnapping of a young boy in the Daily Mail over a year ago now. Lucas Styles. Six years old with blond hair, blue eyes and a lisp. The police searched high and low for him, until after three months they found his remains beneath a wind turbine on the outskirts of Manchester. His parents were crippled by the loss of their son. The father, Gerald, hung himself in his garage and the mother, Carrie, suffered a mental breakdown soon after. John followed their story with a crippling pain in his chest. Like a needle burrowing deeper and deeper into his skin. Whenever he glimpsed a picture of Lucas or his parents, he felt as if someone was throwing punch after perfectly aimed punch at his heart. He’d thought he understood their pain then. But now he realises he wasn’t even close. The true agony of losing a child exists in
another orbit entirely to the mere thought of it. It shreds your perception of life, of people, of every facet of who you are, tearing away the armour you wear to protect yourself until every scratch and every scrape is a scratch and scrape to your soul.
John wishes he could ask Gerald if he saw Lucas everywhere just as he sees Bonnie. He wishes he could ask Carrie if she heard Lucas call for her just as she woke, and if she leapt from the bed and searched for him. In the bathroom, in the kitchen, in the garden. He wishes he could ask how they lived through the days of guilt, shame and utter fear. Because his grasp on these long days is slowly weakening.
He now knows that, when he sees Bonnie, his imagination is tricking him, hope shaping the outline of a girl and desperation colouring life into her body right in front of his eyes, like a child with paper and a set of crayons. But like a dream, like a fantasy, he knows it is a product of grief.
John rubs his sore neck and watches people go about their lives from the safety of the café chair. In front of him is an untouched slice of cake. He won’t eat it. He can’t. He only bought it because he felt he should, like a muscle memory from a time before this. He is surprised at how the weight has dropped off him. Any more and his body could be deemed skeletal. But he can’t muster the energy to remedy it. Instead he pulls a photo of Bonnie from his pocket and weaves his way into the tide of bodies that surge along the street. He holds the photo out and preys. ‘Hello, have you seen this girl? Excuse me, do you recognise my daughter? Please, have you see her? Have you seen this girl? Please look at the picture, you might recognise her. Are you sure you haven’t?’
Words tumble from his lips. They look at him, smile and shake their heads, before moving on, happy in the glow of Christmas. There isn’t much point to this, he knows. He probably shouldn’t even be doing it. Alice would be furious. She is the one who will find her, if she can find her. He is not a police officer, he is not a detective. And the likelihood of someone having caught a glimpse of him moving her somewhere is small. But by doing this, he feels as if he is trying. He is going to do everything he can to find her.
Lies Between Us Page 17