‘No,’ he says, but John wonders if he is keeping something back.
‘OK. Thanks, mate.’ John stands and gently pulls him into his arms. ‘Don’t think I’m falling out of touch with you again, Mill. You’re stuck with me this time.’
Miller tucks his head into his shoulder and pats his back. ‘It’s good to see you again, Johnny.’
He looks at Miller and smiles, thankful he’s at least found Miller in the search for Bonnie. ‘I’ll see you soon, mate.’
As John turns to leave, Miller looks at him with something that sends a shiver down his spine.
‘I hope you find her, Johnny. I really do.’
*
The letter is addressed to John. He can still recognise Miller’s thick scrawl after all these years. It is propped up against his door. Inside is a note with four words that frighten him more than he can describe.
Look closer to home.
The note is signed with the drawing of a robin.
Chapter 57
Maisie
Monday 1 February, 2016
She tells herself it is just her imagination. It’s just her eyes playing tricks. But when she takes another look, a shiver runs down her spine and, before she can say a word, her legs give way and she lands on the floor with a thump.
It slips from her fingers and scuttles across the floor.
Maisie reaches out and folds it in her hands, holding it to her chest like a secret. She can hear him saying her name in the other room, but no matter how hard she tries, the words refuse to come.
This can’t be happening.
It isn’t possible.
She cups her mouth, hands shaking, eyes watering. When she looks at it again, a part of her is shocked to see the same result.
‘Maisie, are you OK?’ He knocks on the door, his concern seeping through the wood to greet her in her corner of shock.
‘I… I… I’m fine.’ The words mean nothing to her. They roll off her tongue without any meaning whatsoever. She is more than fine.
She runs her finger along it, a smile breaking across her lips, her heart beating out a rhythm she thought she’d never feel again.
‘What are you doing? Are you sure you’re OK? I heard a bang.’
Ben’s voice again.
She knows she needs to reply. She doesn’t want him to worry but she also wants to hold it in her hands for a little longer, savour the moment, because the likelihood of feeling this way again, she knows in her gut, is small.
‘I’m fine,’ she repeats. She closes her eyes and laughs, squeezing it to her chest, marking the moments with thoughts of what awaits them in the future.
When she opens the door, she shows Ben what is in her hands, wraps him in her arms and smiles.
Because miracles do happen more than once.
Chapter 58
Miller
Wednesday 8 July, 1998
Oh, John, how it makes me cringe. The shriek fills the trees and frightens away the birds – they scatter into the sky, eyeballing the spectacle like it is a catastrophe they narrowly avoided. I follow the noise, picking out his head bopping just above the water. His arms push and swipe and flail about. His mouth opens and closes like a goldfish in a tank, eyes widening as panic and fear chase each other round his face. He splutters and coughs, hitting the water like it is a bully who must be defeated. But he never could stand up to those bullies. And he can’t stand up to the water now.
I peer at him from behind a tree, basking in the panic that crackles in the air. He screams again, and I think to myself I have never heard anyone as frightened as he is now. His hands claw the air as if he is grabbing for an imaginary ladder, tears dropping into the frothing water like cubes of sugar into a cup of tea. His head submerges and his cries die on pale lips.
One.
Two.
Three.
I count the seconds on my fingers, wondering how long it will take. He can’t swim; he has made sure everyone knows this.
You would be panicking right now, pulling him out, hoping against hope your friend, your dear, dear Chubs, is OK. You’d lay him flat on his back, put your soft ear to his cold mouth, listen, careful not to miss it, then you’d pinch his nose with gentle fingers and press your lips to his and breathe and breathe and breathe him back to life. The strength of you, the strength of him. And then he’d open his eyes, he’d look at you and he’d taste you, your skin on his lips, and feel the breaths you’d given him rattling in his soaked lungs. Later, you’d both joke about it, embarrassed about the kiss, but glad and grateful all the same there wasn’t a death that day. Neither of you would have noticed the boy standing on the periphery, hand clutched to his chest as if his heart had just broken. That boy would have wished it was him who had been in the water, who had been given that kiss. That boy would have been me.
When his head pops through the surface, I step forward and meet his gaze, thoughts of what might have been turning my mind black with anger. He looks at me with relief, joy, and it makes me want to turn and walk away, just to hear him scream again. But I don’t. I kneel down and stretch my arm towards him. He tries to grab it but I swat his hand away. It is only when I take a fistful of his hair that I think he realises. The look on his face. Oh, John! For the first time in his life, he is beautiful. Your little friend, your little pet, is mesmerising.
‘Help! Hel… help me! Please!’ Tears drip into the water. I watch them, all of the emotion, all of the anger draining away. Suddenly I feel calm, I feel peaceful. I feel at home.
He shouts my name then, over and over again. When he realises I’m not going to help, he starts to shout for you, John. He cries and screams for you to save him. To help him.
It is then I push his head under the water.
Shall I tell you something funny?
As he squirms and screams under the water, I turn my face to the sun and I smile.
I smile because the world, for those few moments, is perfect.
And then I pull him out.
Friday 10 July, 1998
I am surprised how frightened he is of me. How he casts a wide berth not only around me but around my house, Mother, even my bike, taking care to tread carefully, casting fearful eyes around like a demon is about to jump out and carry him away. You have noticed the change in him; it worries you and for that I am truly sorry. When you ask him, beg for answers to what’s bothering him, he simply shakes his head, looks at me and walks away. You sigh, shoulders slumping and wipe away a tear before anyone can see. Despite his refusals, you keep asking, keep trying to make him laugh, to right whatever wrong has taken place.
I heard you talking to your mother, you know. I was standing outside the door, peering through the keyhole, listening to your voice with bated breath.
‘I think Chubs is angry with me,’ you said, looking at your mother, proving, despite your age, that you still relied on her for guidance; it made my heart flutter. All those other boys, shrugging off their parents’ love like a dirty shirt, and there you were, savouring yours.
‘Why?’ she asked, puzzled.
‘I think something’s happened. He’s acting really weird. He’s avoiding me but I haven’t done anything. I… I think it’s because of Jules.’ You looked up at your mother, and it was then I saw how much you were hurting. I saw the pain in your eyes as easily as the scar Bessie left on my arm. It poured from your blue eyes like light from a bulb.
‘I’ve noticed he’s been a little strange. What makes you think it’s because of Jules, though?’
The words swayed on your lips, hesitant to be spoken and become real. ‘I think he loves her. He’s angry with me because he feels like I’ve betrayed him. I didn’t know, though. It only hit me the other day when we were having a picture taken. I don’t know what to do, Mum. What do you think?’
‘Speak to him, sweetheart.’ She kissed your head. ‘Speak to him. Get things out into the open. That’s what I’ve found helps. Do you remember how you made your father and me sit down in the
evenings and talk after Bess died? Well, that’s what you need to do with him. Talk. Sort it out.’
You nodded and smiled at her. I was so tempted to open the door and tell you then, just to wipe that sadness from your face. I wanted to tell you it wasn’t you or even Jules he was looking at when that photo was taken. It was me.
I’m sorry now. I lost control and I shouldn’t have. Not with Chubby, not with anyone. But the thought of you kissing him, saving him as I stood on the sidelines, frightened me, infuriated me. It snapped the cord keeping the act in position and released a part of me which has been locked away for so long. I won’t slip again, though. I’ll make sure I’m more prepared, stronger, because you could so easily have been watching. And if I slip in front of you, I’ll lose you for ever.
You make a vow to go round to his house tomorrow morning and speak with him. But when you open the front door, you are surprised to see men loading his family’s possessions into a removal van. Once you realise what is happening, you stand there and cry. Quietly. Tears slipping down your cheeks and dribbling onto your shoes. I walk up and wrap an arm round your shoulder, comrades-in-arms, softly reminding you that I am still here. Because our friend is halfway down the road, looking back at us through the window of his parents’ car, crying with you and rubbing his head as if he can still feel my hand holding him down.
Monday 18 January, 1999
I know a change is coming. I’ve seen you bat the idea round in your mind, worrying away at it like a stray piece of cotton sticking out of your shirt. At first, it frightened me. But now I know how to handle your idea. Now I know how to keep us close as you part from our childhood home to make your way in the world with Jules. It won’t just be Jules, though. We will all do it together. Like we always have.
Before you tell me your news, I tell you mine. And you can’t believe what you’re hearing.
It’s time to get myself a life, strive for more, go for my dreams, I tell you, palms flat, expression open, echoing what you planned to say to me. I need to do this. I’m sorry to leave you but we’ll always keep in touch. Don’t forget about me.
You shake your head, more in shock than as a response. Then you mutter your own news and I display the appropriate measure of surprise, then excitement. And that does it.
The recipe for our future is all set to deliver perfection.
Sunday 31 January, 1999
This is the first time since Bessie’s death you and I haven’t taken a trip to the sweetshop for acid drops. It became a way for you to remember her, didn’t it? A way of honouring her memory and letting her know you loved her. But that tradition was never destined to last for ever. And now, as I pack my boxes into the car we both learnt to drive in, I know it ends here. Today.
Mother, you, Jules and your parents stand by the hood of the car, lined up, awaiting my farewells. All of you are smiling except for Mother. I think she is relieved to see me go; perhaps she thinks she can live out the remainder of her life freely now. I don’t care, either way. You are all that matters to me.
I hug Mother and smile when I feel her shudder. Then your parents, Jules, and finally you. I pull you into my arms and make a joke. You laugh, nod, pull away and, on the pinnacle of this life change, I see the years of our love affair shine in your eyes. It makes my heart swell with pride. I see the times by the river, the games of rock-paper-scissors, I can hear the laughter. I feel the years of knowing you brush against my skin like the night your foot brushed against mine through the duvet. I see it all. And it makes me happy.
‘See you in a few days,’ you say, grinning.
I nod, get in the car and start the engine. As I pull away, I send a smile in your direction.
You are waving as I drive away, into a new life, a new future. Your absence in the next few days will be torturous for me, but it is a worthy sacrifice for the rest of our lives together.
I can just see it now: you hugging your parents, getting into your loaded car and driving away, Jules’s hand firmly wrapped around yours. I can see you following in my wake, joining me in a new town and a new world. You’ll be worried, perhaps even a little scared. But don’t be, Blue-Eyes.
I will be ready. I will be there waiting for you.
Chapter 59
John
Thursday 31 December, 2015
If someone were to see him now, they’d probably think he was a brave man, a strong, fearless man. But if they peeled back the layers they’d see the truth.
He can’t say he isn’t afraid. Truth be told, this is the most frightened he has ever been. He can’t say he is strong because now he feels anything but. And he can’t say he is brave because he knows in his bones this part of his life is drawing to a close.
The disc sits on his doormat. Scrawled across the top are the words ‘The End’.
They have found them then. Perhaps they have always known where they are. Perhaps when he and Jules held each other on the sofa each night, they were spectating, peering through the window at the torment they’d created. Perhaps this ‘safe house’ has never really been safe.
He looks at the words scrawled across the disc. ‘The End.’ As if this is a story and he is one of the characters. As if this is as harmless as a game between friends. Something as inconsequential as a dream.
He picks up the disc and takes it into the lounge. The house has fallen silent around him, the air thick with a miasma that sends chills trickling down his spine. His feet shuffle a slow tune in his ears, and he makes himself walk faster, pushing through the thickness of the air.
The disc, he knows, is the weight of a piece of paper, but it feels as heavy as ten bags of sugar. He stares down at it, wondering whether, if he doesn’t play it – if he simply throws it away – he’ll be able to trick himself into believing Bonnie is alive. Because this disc will show his daughter’s death. And John knows it won’t be the end of one life; it will be the end of three.
He sits on the sofa and pushes the disc into the DVD player, wishing Jules were by his side. John closes his eyes, takes a breath and presses play.
Bonnie appears on the screen, sitting in torn, dirty clothes. Blood is spattered across her face. Her arm is hanging by her side, shoulder sticking out at an odd angle, fingers twisted like the roots of an old tree. She looks up at him, and he sees the last remnants of hope slip from those eyes like sand slipping through the neck of an hourglass. He kneels down in front of the TV and presses his hands against the screen, tears running down his cheeks.
‘Bonnie…’
She looks at the floor, as if she has heard him and can’t bear to look at him. John sobs, tears pattering on his hand like raindrops. ‘Bonnie…’
A gloved hand appears at the edge of the screen. John jumps back, watching its progress to Bonnie’s face, dread prickling the back of his neck like a cold cloth. ‘Don’t touch her!’ He slams his hand against the screen. ‘DON’T TOUCH HER! DON’T FUCKING TOUCH HER!’
Bonnie’s face screws up into a thousand creases. Thick tears stream down her face. The sound of her voice carries through the room, making the hairs rise on John’s arms. ‘N… no. No… no. Please.’ She scoots back, dragging her arm, screaming, begging, blood oozing down her nose.
‘No! P… please! Please! No! Won’t do it again! Won’t! P… please!’ She curls herself up into a ball, mouth open in a silent plea.
A hand rests on her cheek, forefinger by her right eye, little finger by the corner of her lip, and runs their nail across her eyelashes, slowly, tenderly, as if they’re memorising the web of perfect lines in her skin.
And suddenly John realises.
The strength seeps from his body as if it is being sucked away. He stands up and his legs give beneath him, a noise working its way up his throat. John touches the floor as if he is trying to remind himself it hasn’t fallen away. He shuffles back, away from the TV, away from his daughter, away from the man’s hand, lips quivering in what looks like a silent conversation with himself.
This can’t b
e happening? It can’t be Him? He wouldn’t do this? This is a mistake. John shakes his head, a refusal to believe his own eyes. ‘No,’ he says. ‘NO!’ It’s Him. It’s HIM!
Bonnie turns her head away, then the screen goes blank.
*
The darkness is blinding. The stench of blood and urine suffocating. John stumbles back as it hits him, cupping a hand over his mouth. He fumbles for a light switch, his heart thump-thump-thumping in his chest, blood cold in his veins. He doesn’t care where He is. He doesn’t even care if He’s in the house. All he wants is Bonnie. A bang reverberates through the walls. John follows the sound down into the cellar, remembering the first time he heard it sipping tea in the lounge.
How could he have not known?
John flicks the light switch. The blood is the first thing to greet him, and he cries out, fear weaving through his muscles. Bundles of clothes are thrown haphazardly in the corner of the cellar. Opposite them sits a coffee table, knives and scissors shining under the bulb. John takes the steps one at a time, his breath catching in his throat. He glances from side to side, panic blowing through his body. Where is she?
He catches a snatch of movement from the corner and within an instant is by Bonnie’s side. He pushes the mound of clothes off her and wraps his arms around her bony body. ‘Bonnie! Bonnie!’ Small, broken fingers fumble against his shirt as she peers up at him. ‘Bonnie!’
She looks at him uncertainly, as if she can’t quite decide if he is real or a dream. Her lips open a fraction and one word escapes through. ‘Daddy?’
He brushes her hair back and nods, cradling her back and legs in his arms, rocking her from side to side. ‘It’s me, sweetheart. It’s me. Daddy’s here. Daddy’s here now.’
She smiles. He kisses her forehead and sobs into her hair, eyes taking in every inch of her bloodied, broken mess of a body. She nestles her head into his chest and shivers. He pulls an old jacket over her chest and, as he does so, sees her feet clad in the Dorothy shoes. ‘I love you, sweetheart. You’re safe now. You’re going to be OK.’ She nods, tears snaking across her cheeks, making small trails through the blood and dirt. Her trembling body is like a small earthquake in his arms. John runs his hand over her head, smoothing down her hair and purging her mind of every pain and fear. ‘I love you, sweetheart. Mummy loves you. You’re going to be OK. You’re going to be fine.’ He wipes away the tears. ‘We’re going to go home and we’re going to curl up on the sofa with a hot-water bottle, lots of sweets, and we’re going to watch The Wizard of Oz. We’re going to go home. OK. Mummy’s waiting, sweetheart. She waiting for you.’
Lies Between Us Page 22