She nods.
Do you want to know what I do next, John? Are you sure?
OK, then.
One, two, three… finger by finger, I squeeze down into the soft, pale skin of her neck.
Four, five six…
She reaches out and grasps and grasps at thin air, small fingers searching for some salvation, even as her young face submerges and her lungs fill with water.
Seven, eight, nine…
It doesn’t take long. I stroke her hair and smile into her frightened brown eyes.
Ten, eleven, twelve… I squeeze down until her arms grow limp and the last moments of life bleed into nothing.
When your father finds his daughter floating in the bath, you, Chubby and I are already making our way to the park. You both look at the blood on my arm, fascinated by the way it dribbles down.
‘That’s going to leave a scar. You know it looks a bit like a question mark. How did you do it?’ you ask.
I smile. ‘Slipped in the bath.’
Thursday 19 March, 1992
They come to you in waves, the wives clutching their hands to their chests, the husbands folding their arms in front of their stomachs, heads bowed, all wearing expressions they deem suitable for the occasion. Unbidden, they are trespassers on your grief and it’s as if they’ve pulled their expressions from their wardrobes, along with the black clothing they donned this morning. But their otherwise perfect appearance is bereft of the most crucial component: sincerity.
You and your parents barely notice. You accept their condolences and pats on the back with good grace, but I can see behind the well-mannered veneer to the part of you wanting to be left to the solitude of her absence. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve witnessed them smile, stroke your cheek and mutter to your parents, ‘Brave little soldier.’ You only nod and force a smile onto your lips, awaiting the next chorus of ‘Ohhs’ and ‘Ahhs,’ closely followed by the ensuing pulse of ‘Such a shame, such a terrible shame’.
As they leave, the expressions they wear already slipping, I walk up to your house and ram my nail into the puckered scratch that runs across my forearm, tears of pain slipping down my skin. Smudging them across my face, I knock on the door and wait. When you appear, you take in my appearance and I yours. Despite watching from afar all morning, I hadn’t realised how your posture has slumped, nor how your eyes are rimmed red.
‘I’m sorry, mate,’ I say, and like those before me I pat you on the back and smile; a mechanical act but an acceptable one.
You nod and step aside: an invitation into your home, to share in your grief, but most of all an invitation to comfort you. If only I could, properly. If only I could gather you up in my arms and stroke your short brown hair, kiss each of your fingers and banish the pain. The desire to do all of this, my beautiful boy, is nearly impossible to ignore. But I must. You need your friend. You need the person I’ve given you. You need the illusion. The good-little-boy pretence. The neighbour. Not me. Not the oddity. I realised a long time ago who I needed to be and what I needed to do to achieve in life. You don’t have to look hard to see that ‘good boys’ go further. They get what they want when they are as sweet as me.
It doesn’t matter that this is a pretence, though. Even being with you as someone else is good enough for me.
My hand lingers a second too long and you pull away, but you do not close the door. I follow you into her bedroom, where I can see you and your parents spent last night. Wads of used tissues are balled up like confetti across the bed. The pink duvet is rumpled and creased. And already, her posters are beginning to peel away. Strewn across the floor are her things: bears, dolls, storybooks, the shrapnel of four years of her life already slipping into the past. You perch on the bed and look at it all, hands tucked beneath your legs so I can’t see them shake. I sit close – this way you can feel me beside you. The smell of cheese and cucumber sandwiches wafts from your mouth. I imagine you ate them to assuage your mother’s concern, each bite tasting of ash on your lips.
You look at her toys and books, your lips parted in an ‘O’ shape as if you can’t quite believe the ferocity with which life has taken a swipe at your family. Tears trickle down your cheeks. My hand itches to wipe them away but I keep myself in check and instead pat you on the back again. That is the limit, the boundary. You slump into me as if I have stolen your remaining strength and begin to weep. And even as you do this, you are silent. We sit like this for what seems like hours. But it can’t be because when I leave you in her room, the sun is nudging its way into the middle of the sky. I take off down the street, words that have been bandied about by the neighbours repeating themselves over and over again in my mind:
‘Sweet girl. Funny girl. Happy girl.’
I stop and look back at your house. Through the crack in the curtains, I can see you, curled up in your mother’s arms, bright-red cheeks scarred by the pale tracks tears have made down your skin. Your mother rocks you to and fro. The last vestiges of strength that have kept you on your feet all morning burn up and slide away. And I turn away and smile.
Sweet girl. Funny girl. Dead girl.
Sunday 22 March, 1992
We walk side by side, companions, friends, lovers. Your hands are hanging by your legs and your face is drawn, haggard, corrupted with a grief that makes you look as if you are about to fall to the ground, curl up and cry. Since her death, you’ve been clutching your stomach as if there is a slice straight through the middle and, any moment, you will fall to pieces. I like the look of it because I like to imagine myself crawling after you, picking up those pieces and putting you back together again. Like Humpty Dumpty. But with so much more love.
Your mother worries this walk we are taking is unhealthy but I understand why you need to do it: to be close to her, or her memory at least. To the last few times you held hands and giggled, sharing secrets and promises.
Your mother blames your father and he blames himself. You, on the other hand, blame no one. You don’t care for accusations thrown like grenades across the room; you don’t care for appointed blame and crocodile tears. These things barely even graze the wall you hide your heart behind, the place you are lying in a state of agony, mourning the loss of Bessie. I can see it in your eyes, the shut-down look of you. I want to tell you that I’m going to make it my mission to knock down that wall and offer you a life free of pain and free of loss. A life with me in the middle.
Chubby, for once in all the years we have known each other, is lost for words, humour eluding him. He cries for you and he cries for her. Patting your back and saying he’s sorry. That is all he can offer. I can offer more.
When I asked if I could come with you this morning, you said no. When I asked again, you gave in, and now we walk together like you did with Bessie, the sweetshop and those acid drops luring us forward.
It is a risk, I know. But this is the only time I can take this chance and not be deemed strange. You might pull away, you might even look at me in disgust. But I don’t care. I want to touch you. I want to hold your hand like Bessie did. I want to know what it feels like. What she felt like, walking beside you. I reach out and entwine my fingers through yours. I hold my breath, then let it out when you squeeze my hand. You think I am trying to comfort you, trying to help you. I’m not, I want to say, not right now; now I just want this for myself.
We walk on in silence, and I work hard to conceal my happiness. Because now, here we are, doing the exact same thing you did last Sunday with her. Because the moment you backed down was the moment you agreed to let me be Bessie. The new Bessie. Now the special moments you had with her will be the ones you have with me.
Chapter 47
John
Tuesday 22 December, 2015
‘Hey, guys! I didn’t think you were going to make it!’
John forces a smile onto his lips and gently puts Bonnie on the ground. She waddles up to Don, hands grabbing at thin air, calling out his name.
‘Bon-Bon!’ He sweeps her up into his ar
ms and bounces her up and down, before patting John on the shoulder and kissing Jules’s cheek. ‘Mwah, mwah. So, how are we today then?’ He looks at them, happy expression slipping. ‘Oh, what’s happened? You both look terrible. What is it?’
John wraps an arm round Jules and shakes his head. ‘Nothing. Really.’
‘Johnny, mate, what is it? We’ve known each other for ever, I can see something’s wrong.’ He touches his arm, eyes growing round with concern.
‘Don, don’t worry about it. Nothing’s wrong. Come on, we came here to have some fun.’ He pats his hand away, gesturing to the barbecue.
‘Mmm, well, all right.’ He smiles. ‘Fun’s on the menu for this evening and a lot of it.’
‘Hey, John, hey, Jules.’ Kim flags them over and John is relieved, waving, pretending everything is OK. ‘How’s things? Good? Great! Oh, congrats on getting shortlisted for that award, love. How exciting.’ She kisses him on the cheek, warm and sweet as ever.
‘Thanks, Kim.’
‘You know, Don forgot to tell me. What a plonker. Too busy eyeing up a Porsche driving past.’
Don laughs, passing Bonnie to Jules and wrapping his arms round her waist. ‘Well, actually, I was looking at the woman inside the car. You do realise I’m trading you in as soon as you hit forty.’
She chuckles, swatting his hands away. ‘Oh, really?’
‘Yep! Enjoy life while it lasts.’ He kisses her.
‘What if I trade you in, huh? Get myself a younger, thinner model?’
He gasps, clutching at his chest. ‘You wouldn’t!’
She giggles. ‘I would.’
He gestures to his heart. ‘You’re breaking this right now, you know. Breaking it. It’s shattered.’
‘Awww.’
He takes her hand and squeezes it. ‘You love my fat – it makes me cute.’
She sighs. ‘Yeah, you’re right, I do. I suppose I’m stuck with you then.’
‘Yep.’ He grins.
John watches them both, inexplicably removed from the moment. Normally their banter would have him in fits but he feels cold, empty. He looks at Jules and knows she feels the same. They didn’t want to come to the barbecue but Bonnie had been looking forward to it.
He makes himself laugh but even to his ears it comes out harsh and forced. Don sends him a questioning glance, then reacquaints himself with the barbecue, wielding the tongs like a set of drumsticks. Kim tucks herself under his arm, nursing a champagne flute.
As they talk, John smiles, leaving his reactions to instinct. He nods when they nod and smiles when they smile, laughing on occasion, hand firmly wrapped around Jules’s waist. They are propping each other up the same way Bonnie props her dolls up against a wall.
John feels the force of their happiness crash into him, wave after wave, and it makes him want to sit down and rest his head in his hands. But he won’t. He knows Don hasn’t realised and he doesn’t blame him. He wishes he could forget about it but he can’t.
Jules squeezes his hand when they finally close the car doors and make their way home. John nods at her, then covers his eyes so Bonnie can’t see him cry.
*
He looks at the words and feels as if the floor has given way beneath his feet. Jules buries her face into his shoulder, arms wrapped round his waist, supporting him like she did at the barbecue on the anniversary of her death in 1992. Alice is looking at him, expecting tears, fury, but he has nothing. He feels empty, drained of all emotion.
‘John?’ She takes a hesitant step forward, as if she is worried he might crumble and she will be trapped beneath the debris. ‘John?’ she says again, sympathetic eyes searching his face.
He looks at her and hands back the sealed bag, inside of which is the seventh photograph. She takes it, then reaches for his hand. ‘John, I’m so s—’
He turns and walks away with Jules, the image of Bonnie’s crippled body the backdrop to the message that will for ever be burnt into his mind.
I think she would have loved Bessie.
John holds Jules close and, when he closes his eyes, he can see them together: his sister and his daughter smiling, entwined in each other’s arms. He can see a future, a different one. One in which she lived, grew up, married, had children of her own. One in which they laughed at each other’s wrinkles and soft edges, at the grey hairs and rickety bones. At the times gone and the times coming and everything in-between.
If he could answer the message, he would reply, ‘You’re right, she would have.’
Chapter 48
Maisie
Friday 29 January, 2016
‘How long have you known Watson?’
‘Years. We met when we were very young. Why?’
‘I was just wondering.’
‘He’s been wonderful since Tim was attacked. He’s practically living with us, cooking, cleaning, driving us around. I couldn’t have done any of this without him. He’s been my rock. I’m really grateful.’
‘That’s good of him.’
‘Yes. He’s a great guy – just gone through a bad breakup, though.’
Maisie injects the needle into Tim’s vein and withdraws a sample of blood for testing. ‘Really? I wonder why they broke up.’
‘His partner claimed he didn’t spend enough time with her – said he spent too much time with us. He was distraught, told her she was selfish and that his friends needed him. But she said it had been going on a lot longer than the past month. I think maybe she’s probably just stressed.’
‘Do you think they’ll get back together?’
‘No. No, Watson was upset but he said it was probably for the best. He slept on our sofa that night, couldn’t bear to go home to an empty house.’
‘Poor guy.’ Maisie forces the words out of her mouth.
‘He’ll be OK.’
‘Do you think she was right, his partner? About him spending too much time with you?’
Heidi shifts in her seat, frowning. ‘No, I don’t think so. We’ve always been very close. Watson and Tim are two peas in a pod. Most of his family have passed away. His mum doesn’t talk to him. He’s only really got us.’
‘It’s nice you all have each other.’
‘You know, last night, I was sitting at the table fretting, and he came in, stuck on some music and we danced around the kitchen. It was really sweet because that was what Tim and I used to do. It was like he was trying to remind me of happy times, give me hope.’
So they haven’t been having an affair. But Watson obviously wants Heidi for himself. Maisie nods, surprised Heidi doesn’t see what is right in front of her. Should she tell her? She has known her for nearly a month, he for years. Why would she believe Maisie over him?
‘That’s sweet,’ she says, biting her lip. How can she tell her? ‘Your friend is trying to take your husband’s place?’ That would sound terrible.
‘How’s he coping? I mean with the breakup on top of what’s happened to Tim.’ She gestures to him, wondering if he can hear them in some far-off part of his mind, and if he can see the wood for the trees.
‘Well, he’s broken up but he’s covering it up, trying to be strong for me and my daughter. He doesn’t think I know but I hear him talking to Tim sometimes. Asking for his opinion, wanting to know what he thinks he should do about work and the breakup. It’s heartbreaking.’ Heidi rubs her bump, gazing at Tim with a finality that makes Maisie’s stomach clench. ‘I’m trying to get our daughter ready, talk her through things, make sure she understands what’s happening. She’s too young to deal with all of this.’ She runs a hand across her face. ‘If Tim doesn’t recover, she needs to know he loves her. I tell her every morning and every night, “Daddy and Mummy love you.” I tell her so much. You want to know what I’m most afraid of?’ She gathers Tim’s hands up in her own and kisses his knuckles, voice catching in her throat. ‘It’s that she’ll forget him. That the memories they built up together will fade and one day, when she’s older, Tim will just be a man she used to know. That’s a
ll.’
‘You and Watson will remind her.’
‘We will. But what about this little one?’ She touches her bump, tears brimming in her eyes. ‘My baby will never know Tim. Never know how special he is. There is only so much I can do.’
Maisie leans forward and pats her hand. ‘Don’t give up yet.’
‘I’ll never give up, Maisie. Tim isn’t someone anyone would ever give up on. But I’m afraid and I need to get my daughter ready. And I need to be ready myself, for when this little one comes along. The longer he’s this way, the less likely it is he’ll recover. That’s what I’ve read. Well, I need to be prepared for both scenarios. Tim would want me to be ready.’
Maisie understands, but to her ears it sounds as if a small part of Heidi is losing hope.
Chapter 49
Miller
Tuesday 14 May, 1996
What separates you from me is the ability to see good in others, to seek it out and appreciate it. The worst thing I have ever heard you say about anybody is, ‘They need to dust down their jacket of morals.’ That made me smile because you sounded wise beyond your years. My John, an old soul.
When Ginger Addams moves into our small town, she steals your heart within an instant. You look at her as if she is the epitome of all the goodness in all the world, but I know, deep down, hidden under the debris of your infatuation, your first love, you see she harbours a bad side.
She rests a hand on her hip, thrusts out her chest and parts her lips, smiling, obviously taken with your good looks. She flicks her red hair over her shoulder, and I think how well her name suits her. Ginger.
‘So, what’s your name?’
‘Johnny Graham.’ You are nervous, self-conscious, palms sweaty, fingers fiddling with the bracelet around your wrist.
‘Nice to meet you.’ She glances at Chubby who is standing by your side, comrades-in-arms, just as always. ‘What are you?’
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