“It’s just, some of the stuff I told you—it’s best if it stays between us.”
“All right,” she says, unsure what she’s just agreed to.
She extricates herself and walks back home down the lane carrying the picture and the milk. Away from Eddie, she feels oddly light, unencumbered—noticing all over again how bright the air is, dancing with insects and bits of something seedlike that seems to come floating down from the trees.
When she gets to the house, she sees that the gate is swinging open again. She closes it and goes inside and moves briskly across the kitchen, fast and purposeful, ignoring the feeling that there are other people in there—hands and skirts and faces, the plump wrist of a child, a blur of voice and limb and the quick childish gasp of breath.
She unclips her hair as she goes, shaking it out over her shoulders and, putting the milk on the table and drawing back the heavy bolts on the back door, she lets the dog out into the garden. And she stands there for a few moments, holding the picture and still hardly daring to look for the long shadow of the man who waits just around the corner for she doesn’t know what.
JAMES DRAGGED ME DOWN THE GARDEN WITH HIM BUT BEFORE we even got near, I could hear it—a thick, throaty sound that wasn’t crying and wasn’t screaming, but something else much worse. And as we went around the old fallen tree and he began to pull me behind the apple shed, I knew that whatever was there, I could not look at it.
At first there seemed to be nothing, and for a quick second my spirits calmed. Then, as my eyes got used to the dark and the faint moonlight, I saw that she was farther back, in the dry, grassy shadow cast by the old wall, the same hidden place where him and me so often had our fun with each other.
You could see that she’d dragged herself quite a way across the grass, because even the tallest stems were flattened and broken and slicked with a trail that shone blackish in the moonlight. She must have got herself as far as the wall before reaching out with her hand and scraping her nails against the cold brick and giving up.
Her pinafore was dirty and torn and her skirts all hitched up and you could see the backs of her legs, which were smeared and bloody. One of her boots had come off and was by the wall, the other still on but unlaced. She was lying with her head on one outstretched arm almost as if she was sleeping, but the other was twisted harshly around and pointing the wrong way entirely and the hand was bloody and partly severed and one of the fingers was hanging right off.
There was blood all over her neck and face and in her hair—it came from her mouth and nostrils and even her eyes—and I saw with a shock that she was burned and blackened under the arms and around the chest, as if her clothes had been set on fire and then put out. But that wasn’t the worst thing. The worst thing was that she was looking right at me and her mouth was still moving.
I couldn’t help it, I turned away. I thought I would begin to be sick. I was gagging and heaving. I wanted to run, but he grabbed me by the shoulder.
You’ve got to help me, he said.
What? I cried.
We have to finish her off.
I covered my face with my hands. I was shaking so hard I could not breathe. When I took my hands away, there was wet there. I did not know if it was sweat or tears.
Oh God, I whispered. Oh God, oh God, James. What have you done?
I swear she’s not meant to still be alive, he said. Honest to God, Eliza, after what I did to her, I don’t know how she can be.
With his eyes still on me, he picked up a spade.
“HAVE YOU MOVED ANY OF MY TOOLS?” GRAHAM ASKS HER. “From behind the apple shed?”
She looks at him, standing there on the step in his old gardening clothes. “No,” she says. “What tools?”
He scratches his head.
“There was the rake and the hoe and a couple of spades. And a mallet, I think. I don’t know. I can’t remember what I left there.”
“And they’re gone?”
“All gone. Really annoying. It was the brand-new hoe, the one we got the other day. But my fault, I suppose, for leaving them there. And for not getting around to doing that fence.”
Mary stares at him.
“You think that someone came in from the fields?”
He shrugs.
“Must have. How else? Don’t fret. It doesn’t matter. Nothing we can do about it now.”
He looks at the table. Eddie’s picture propped against the fruit bowl.
“What’s that?”
Mary explains and shows him that it’s just around the corner. “If you went around there,” she says, pointing into the photograph, “you’d come to this house.”
This house. She looks at it again. For a moment she doesn’t know what it is that’s changed. Then she does. In the picture the lane now seems entirely light and bright, all shadows gone.
Graham frowns at her over the top of his glasses.
“But why would he give it to you?”
“What—Eddie?” Mary feels the color go to her cheeks. “I don’t know. I asked him that myself and I didn’t get much of an answer. You know what he’s like. He didn’t say anything really.”
AFTER THE GIRLS WERE TAKEN, AFTER WEEKS HAD PASSED AND they realized they were probably gone forever but still didn’t know why or in what circumstances, Mary slept.
She did not expect to be able to sleep—did not think she would ever in her whole life sleep again—but she did. She slept. Curled in a coma of her own making, rigid, defended, on her side of the bed, the safe side. It was a sleep without dreams or hope, without any sense of refreshment or of life waiting for her. Even now, if she lets herself think about it, she can precisely recall the taste of that sleep: its black deadness, its grip and flavor. Back then, of course, she would rather have died than slept. Death is what she would have chosen. But she could not leave Graham to cope on his own, so she made do instead with that hard, black, dirty sleep.
While she was sleeping, they came to get things. Anything would do, they said. Hairbrush, baby teeth, bedsheets. For the DNA. And it was very good that she was sleeping, because just the thought of these things would have been enough to break her down all over again. She was very glad Graham did not give them the baby teeth—tiny, jagged, bone-colored fragments she kept in a dark velvet compartment of her mother’s old jewelry box. Instead, he gave them Ella’s Mr. Men toothbrush and one of Flo’s unwashed raggies.
But Mary did not know any of this till later. She slept through all of it. Waking only to eat and drink and go to the toilet and listen to phone messages, before groping her way back down into the numbing stupefaction of that sleep.
And when at last she had to be woken, it was only because the officer came. Even now she does not know why it was a police officer and not one of the family liaison officers who they’d come to like, trust and dread all at the same time. But it wasn’t one of them. It was someone they’d not seen before.
Her name was Claire. She had short blond hair and small gold studs in her ears and there was a knitted thing in the shape of a teddy bear on the keys that hung with the handcuffs at her waist. Claire said no to a cup of tea. She stood there in their kitchen and the look on her face was enough.
“We have a significant update for you,” she said. “Where do you want to be told and who do you want present?”
SHE WAKES IN THE NIGHT AND SHE’S COLD, SO COLD. SHE GETS out of bed and goes over to the drawer and, shaking all over, she pulls out a sweater, leggings, socks, anything she can find. She puts them all on. Then she picks up a hot-water bottle and, still trembling with cold, she creeps downstairs to the kitchen, puts the kettle on.
A spider is crouched on the counter. Huge, dark, motionless, waiting for something or someone. She brushes it off and it glides across the floor, through the muck and dirt. Dirt? As the kettle chugs to a boil, she bends to look more closely. She’s never seen the floor so filthy, so covered in dust and muck. And whose are the black boots? The apron with blue flowers flung over the chair. Why
is there a sheet of newspaper pinned to the wall? Where have all the feathers come from?
Straightening up, confused, and lifting her eyes, she sees that the half loaf of bread left out on the counter is furred with mold, a forest of blue-green hair. Worse than that, her fingers, held out in front of her, are suddenly dark and soft at the tips, her flesh blackening, dying. She gasps—
Sitting up in bed. Graham has the light on and is staring at his phone.
“It’s Ruby.”
“What?”
“Veronica says she’s taken something.” He jumps out of bed. “She’s in King’s. I’ve got to go. I’m going.”
Still struggling to wake, Mary starts to get up, but he stops her.
“There’s no point in you coming. I mean it. Go back to sleep.”
Mary stares at him.
“What’s she taken?”
“I don’t know. Some pills.”
“What, on purpose?”
“I don’t know.”
“I should come.”
He touches her head.
“There’s no point. Nothing you can do. Stay with the dog. I’ll call you as soon as I get there.”
THE SPADE HE HAD WAS DARK AND STICKY WITH SOMETHING. IT was the one he had used to do it. She was watching us and moaning now. Her face was terrible. And her leg without the boot was twitching as though it was not attached to her but had a life of its own.
James was frowning, his face like a child’s face, the lower lip pushed out.
It was her screaming, he said. I told her to stop but she would not. She went on and on, squealing like a ferret in a trap, I could not shut her up. You know what she’s like.
I stared at him. I wanted to say that I wasn’t sure that I knew what Phoebe Harkiss was like. I took a step away from him, felt the rough wood of the apple shed at my back. I watched as he lifted the spade.
No, I cried out as softly as I could, for fear someone should hear me. No, no! Stop it, James!
He paused, his eyes sliding over to me.
She’s a nasty piece of work, Eliza, he said, still gripping the spade in his two hands. She would not stop. Don’t you see? It was going to rouse the whole neighborhood. Also—he let the spade fall again and shut his eyes for a second—I’ll admit I was very angry with her. For the things she’d told you. For the damage she’d done already and the further damage I can promise you she intended to do.
I held my breath. I could not think. Thoughts were skittering around in every direction. Our whole lives and all the good things we’d had and said and done, pouring down into a place of darkness, an abyss.
I don’t understand, I told him.
Yes, you do.
I don’t.
He raised a finger.
Don’t say that, Eliza. You do understand. You know very well that you wanted this.
Wanted it? I cried at him in horror. I don’t know what you’re talking about—who on earth could ever want this?
He looked at me and shook his head.
Easy to say that now, Eliza. But I’ve lost count of the number of times you’ve brought up the subject of Phoebe Harkiss with me and not in a good way.
I stared at him, my heart thudding so hard a taste of sick came up in my throat. When I tried to speak, it came out in a whisper.
You think I wanted you to hurt her? Is that what you’re saying, James? That you thought I wanted you to hurt Phoebe Harkiss?
He sighed and let his hands drop down by his sides.
I don’t know what you want, Eliza. Honest to God, I never do. But what I know for sure is that now we’re in this together and you need to help me deal with it.
I took a step back away from him.
Why?
What do you mean, why?
Why would I help you with this?
Why? Because we love each other of course and because you’re my girl and like I said before, we’re in this together.
I was about to tell him that this was untrue, that seeing Phoebe Harkiss on the ground like this had banished all thoughts and feelings of love from my mind and that I wasn’t at all sure any more that I wanted to be his girl. But then, as he grasped the spade in both his hands, I saw something in his eyes that I had not seen before.
He came very close to me. His face in my face. I saw that he was sweating so much that it was running from his hair and down his temples and dripping onto his shirt. His clothes were wet. The snake on his neck glistened wet. When he spoke, the slow and deliberate softness of it turned my insides cold.
All right, he said. All right, you win. You just walk away. Walk away now, Eliza, and leave me to it. Go on. Just do it.
I said nothing. I stayed very still. He bent his head closer to mine.
Do it, he said.
I waited a moment. My chest was tight. I could not speak. He licked his lips.
Why aren’t you walking?
I said nothing.
I’m waiting.
Another quick silence.
I’m waiting, Eliza. Why aren’t you walking? You’re free to go—look at me, am I stopping you?
I snatched a breath, my blood jumping. He watched me for a moment and then he laughed.
Or do you want to stay and help me? Is that it? Would you like that? Would it give you pleasure to help me? I mean it, Eliza. I want an answer. Are we in this together or are we not?
I bowed my head. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a small, dreadful movement from the ground where Phoebe was. I realized I was shaking all over.
Well, Eliza? he said. Give me a sign that you understand me. A nod will do. Give me a nod, Eliza. Because I swear that I won’t proceed any further without a sign from you.
I could hardly breathe. My fingers were icy but my body felt as if it was on fire. I thought I was going to faint, but at last I must have nodded, because he stepped away, satisfied.
I let my eyes go back to Phoebe. One terrible thought chasing another in my head now.
Why is she burned? I whispered.
James stood the spade down in the earth and leaned on it a moment. He lifted one hand and rubbed at his hair.
Well, I thought if I could only get her in the apple shed, I could set it off. Chuck something in that would make it burn. An accident. That’s what they’d think.
Oh God, I said.
But she wouldn’t burn. Like a witch, she resisted the flame and it just smoked and sputtered away like some old biddy’s pipe.
He laughed. And as he laughed, Phoebe moaned. I saw that more blood was coming out of her eyes. I felt some more sick come up in my mouth but swallowed it back.
James stepped forward and lifted the spade. I couldn’t help it, I cried out for him to stop.
But he paid no attention. He whacked her so hard that all you could hear was a dull crunching sound. She gave a small whine, almost a shout—
He looked at me.
There, he said. You watched me do it, Eliza. We’re finishing her off. We’re in this together now.
And I turned away as he lifted the spade once more with two hands and brought it down straight like a blade.
MARY STANDS IN THE KITCHEN, ONE HAND ON THE OLD PINE table, holding herself still and watching the space between the chair and the dresser. Air, white-painted wall, skirting board. She can’t take her eyes off it, that space. The dog gets up out of her basket and walks toward the same place and, head on one side, stares and begins to growl.
Mary can’t help it, she takes a step backward, away. She looks at the dog.
“What?” she whispers. “What is it?”
The dog, listening, tilts her head the other way and looks at her.
“What is it?” Mary says again. “Is something there?”
The dog gazes at her and looks again at the space. Then at last, as if something has changed, she relaxes and goes over to her water bowl and starts drinking. The sound of her lapping filling the room.
Mary glances around her. There’s a bottle of PLJ lime juice on the c
ounter. Without warning, the yellow plastic lid pops off and hits the floor, rolling across the flagstones. Mary jumps so hard she almost cries out. Immediately the dog runs over to the door and whines.
The phone rings. Graham. He tells her that Ruby’s all right. She’s fine.
“They didn’t even have to pump her stomach,” he says. “They tried to make her vomit but it didn’t work. They gave her charcoal. They want to monitor her for a bit longer, but they’re sure she’s going to be fine. Medically anyway.”
Mary listens, still staring at the PLJ bottle. She asks him what Ruby took. He gives a short laugh, but she thinks she hears a catch in his voice.
“Would you believe, she took about two weeks’ worth of her mother’s antidepressants. Sertraline, I think it’s called.”
Mary thinks about this. Veronica on antidepressants? He’d never mentioned that. She bends to pick up the yellow lid off the floor.
“My God,” she says.
“I know.”
“But why on earth—do you know why?”
She hears him sigh.
“Well, that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? We’ll give her a couple of days, wait till she’s feeling a bit better. But then she’s certainly got some explaining to do.”
“But what?” Mary gazes at the small piece of plastic in her hand. “You’re saying you think she meant to hurt herself?”
Graham hesitates.
“God knows what she meant. A cry for attention, Veronica says. But I would say that girl has plenty of attention, wouldn’t you? I mean, honestly, so much of the bloody time.”
Mary tries to think about this—about whether Ruby has their attention. She puts the lid back on the bottle.
“How’s Veronica?” she says.
She hears Graham take a breath.
“Upset. Furious. Relieved. Shaken. She’s all right,” he adds, and Mary thinks she hears gratitude in his voice, that she bothered to ask.
He tells her that he’s going to stay over in London till tomorrow at least. That Ruby is seeing a psych person. That he’s going to make sure Veronica eats something. That he’ll call Mary later to give her an update.
“I just feel she needs me at the moment,” he tells her, and Mary isn’t sure whether he means Ruby or Veronica. She tells him that’s fine. Of course it’s fine. She understands.
The Stopped Heart Page 24