The Stopped Heart

by Julie Myerson

  “But what about his son?”

  “What?”

  “He told me he had a son. A boy. In London.”

  Deborah looks at her.

  “Oh, what? You mean Ollie?”

  “That’s right.”

  Deborah sighs.

  “Ollie does exist. But he’s not his son. Of course he isn’t. He’s the son of someone we—well, an acquaintance. Someone I used to share a flat with.” She sighs again. “Oh dear. I’m afraid he’s done this before. Used Ollie in this way, I mean.”

  “Used?” Mary feels her hands go to her face. “Used in what way?”

  Deborah thinks for a moment.

  “Lied about him. Made stuff up. Talked about him as if he really is his son. Oh, don’t worry, I know, he can be very convincing. Like I said, I do sometimes think he manages to believe it himself. But it’s not true, none of it is. He’s never had a son. Far from it. In fact, it was very embarrassing because it got so confusing for poor Ollie that his mother had to ask me to stop him from contacting them.”

  TEN

  THAT LAST DAY. A SUNDAY. I REMEMBER EVERY PART OF IT. The parts that I knew about and the parts that I didn’t. The worst parts of all were the ones in shadow. The ones that I could hardly bear to think about—would never even dare to guess at.

  I woke that morning to a cool sky. A hush. Everything stilled and slowed. Even the cows—their low, steady moan as they waited to be milked—muted and unlikely and far away.

  I stood at the open window, trying to work out what it was that was different. The air, it no longer smelled of summer—was that it? I waited. All around me, something was happening. For a few uncanny moments it seemed as if everything was unfixed, hesitating, ready to be taken backward, started over again and undone.

  Then the feeling stopped. Time ceased to drift and became more certain. Everything resumed. Trees, walls, gates, suddenly clear and bright and solid. And once the day had got itself going, it moved along with a cold and horrible speed.

  My father was whistling to himself, spreading pork fat on two pieces of bread. One was for himself to eat, the other for my mother, who had taken to her bed since the new baby came. I asked him if they’d found James yet and he said no, they hadn’t found him, but they most certainly would.

  How do you know he hasn’t gone back to Lowestoft? I said. How do you know he hasn’t gone away to Yarmouth or Cromer?

  Or China? said Jazzy, who was blacking the little ones’ boots ready for Sunday school and kept on having to shout at Honey to get out of the way.

  Our father looked very serious. He put the knife back down on the plate. It rocked there for a moment, catching the bright yellow sunshine.

  He’s been seen in Yarrow’s field, he said. They think he may be hiding out in the woods.

  Hiding? I said.

  My father looked at me.

  All I’m telling you, Eliza, is he’s still here. He’s getting ready for us. That man hasn’t gone anywhere yet.

  THAT DAY—A SCHOOL INSET DAY. “INSECT DAYS,” THE GIRLS liked to call them. Mary always forgot to put them in her diary and often had to find childcare at the very last minute. Though sometimes Graham took time off and other times, as on that last terrible day, she managed to split the time with a babysitter and work from home in the afternoon.

  The day began badly. Upstairs after breakfast, stumbling accidentally into a conversation about when and how they should separate and if they should have some more counseling before they even thought about it, she and Graham had fought. Graham wanted more counseling; she did not. Graham accused her of giving up on the marriage and she accused him of lying about still seeing his lover.

  “If I was still seeing her, then why would I want to bloody well bother with counseling?” he said.

  “The counseling’s a smoke screen,” she told him. “You just want to be able to think well of yourself. You want it to look like you’re doing the right thing.”

  Both of them had raised their voices and Graham had kicked out in passing at the chest of drawers, causing two bottles, one of baby aspirin and one of perfume, to fall to the floor. The bottle of baby aspirin had no lid on and had spilled all over the floor. Ella had come in at that moment and what she had seen had made her cry.

  And Mary had been furious with Graham, really bitterly furious, because he was the one who’d been reckless, the one who hadn’t cared enough—who’d first raised his voice at her in anger even though she’d begged him not to. And now she did not know what and how much Ella had heard.

  “Sometimes Mummy and Daddy get cross with each other,” she whispered as she mopped the sticky pink mess off the floorboards with a towel, then pulled her daughter onto her lap and held her there. “Just like you and Flo get cross with each other.”

  Ella thought about this.

  “Flo hits me sometimes and I hate her.”

  “Well, Daddy and I don’t hit each other—”

  “But you want to.”

  Mary smiled, kissed her head.

  “No, honey. People who love each other don’t want to hit.”

  “And you and Daddy love each other?”

  Mary looked down at her daughter’s soft, dark hair.

  “Of course we do. You know we do. But most of all we love the two of you, our precious girls.”

  Ella was quiet for a moment. She took hold of Mary’s wrist and played with her gold bangle as she often did, twisting it around and around.

  “But Flo does it.”

  “What? What does Flo do?”

  “She hits me and she bites me and sometime she kicks me too.”

  Ella was tugging at the bangle, trying to get it off. Mary kept her hand there, letting her.

  “Flo’s a baby who doesn’t know any better,” she said. “And anyway, it’s not just Flo. You know it’s not. You’re as bad as each other. I’ve seen you hit her too, you know.”

  “I’m not a baby,” Ella said.

  She slid the bangle off Mary’s hand at last and held it.

  “No, you’re not. You’re a big girl, who does know better and who knows she shouldn’t hit people.”

  “Should Daddy know better?”

  “Daddy doesn’t hit people, but he should know better than to shout, yes.”

  “And kick things.”

  “And kick things, yes. He didn’t mean to do that. He just got cross and lost his temper.”

  Ella sighed. “Grown-ups lose their temper.”

  “They do. Yes.”

  “And did you lose your temper?”

  “I did. I’m sorry. Mummy should know better as well. I’ll try not to do it again.”

  Sitting there in her lap, Ella was silent a moment. She leaned back against Mary, then twisted her head around to look at her.

  “I don’t want you and Daddy ever to hurt each other.”

  “Of course you don’t. We never will. That’s a promise. Are you feeling better now?”

  Still holding the bangle, Ella blinked. “Are you better?”

  Mary smiled. “I’m better. Are you?”

  “I’m better.”

  “Good. We’re all better then. Can I have my bangle back now?”

  Ella looked at the bangle.

  “Is Daddy better?”

  Mary looked up to see Graham standing in the doorway. His face was pale. She thought that he looked exhausted, wrung-out, drained, not like anyone she knew.

  He looked at his daughter and he smiled but he didn’t say anything. Then he turned and went back downstairs. It was the last time he ever saw her. Mary held out her hand for Ella so that she could push the bangle back on. It took her a moment or two to do it, but she got it on.

  Mary did not take the bangle off again for a long time.

  WHILE THEY WERE WAITING FOR THE SITTER TO COME, BOTH girls wanted to watch TV. Mary said no, but they kept on pestering her, so finally she gave in.

  “Just ten minutes and no more,” she said.

  “Just until Becky gets
here?” said Ella.

  Mary smiled.

  “Nice try. Ten minutes and then we turn it off, whether she’s here or not.”

  She took the opportunity, while they were sitting still, to check their hair for nits. The school had sent home a note asking for them to be checked regularly. She aimed to do it at bath time but almost always forgot and then once she’d had a glass of wine, she was too tired to do anything.

  But there’d been several outbreaks lately, so she’d stuck a note on the fridge. Nits! it said. And under that: small soda waters, muesli, mayonnaise, handwash. And under that, Graham had written: AND MORE NITS! And under that Ella had written, in pink felt-tip: AND GUMMI BEARS!—and Mary had added please.

  She went to get the comb and some paper towels. Flo was in a bad mood. She wriggled and huffed and twitched and complained. But Ella sat very still, tilting her head this way and that, breathing heavily, her eyes fixed on the TV. Mary told her that she was a good girl.

  “I’ve got a lot of hair, haven’t I?” Ella said.

  “You certainly have,” Mary agreed. “It takes some going through. But at least you know how to sit nice and still. Unlike another person I could name.”

  A giggle from Flo.

  “I don’t mind being checked,” Ella said, her eyes on the TV. “I’d rather be checked than get nits.”

  “I like it when I get nits!” Flo said. “I do. I like wolves and I like monsters and I really, really, really like nits.”

  Mary looked at Flo.

  “What have wolves and monsters got to do with it?”

  “All the bad things, I like them all,” Flo said, and she reached over and tried to hit Ella on the head with Tuffy.

  “Shush!” Ella said. “Get off. I mean it, Flo. I’m trying to watch TV.”

  “You’re a bad thing,” Flo said. “Well, you are, aren’t you?”

  “Shut up,” Ella said.

  “You shut up yourself!” said Flo.

  “All right.” Mary put down the comb and swigged the last bitter dregs of her coffee. “That’s enough, both of you. And that’ll do for now. I think you’re both OK.”

  “Flo,” Ella said, her eyes still on the TV, “have you farted?”

  Flo said nothing. She lay on her front with her woolen legs sticking up at the back of the sofa and her arms dangling down on the rug. Walking Tuffy along and then pushing him under the sofa.

  “Ugh!” Ella said. “You have. Mummy, she has!”

  Flo said nothing. Laughing to herself and kicking her feet.

  “You’re making it worse!” Ella said. “You’re spreading it around!”

  “I’m swimming,” Flo said. “I’m a wolf who’s swimming. He’s swimming and swimming and swimming. He can do the crawl.”

  There were angels in the program on TV.

  “Not religious angels,” Ella explained to Mary. “Not church ones or anything. It’s a different kind of angel.”

  “Wolf angels!” said Flo. “Nit angels!”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Ella said.

  “Fart angels!” Flo shrieked, and then Ella grabbed her and they both laughed and rolled around on the floor till Flo got kicked in the eye and cried so much that the TV had to be turned off.

  “Thanks for ruining everything,” Ella said.

  “I don’t know where Tuffy is!” Flo sobbed.

  “He’s here,” Mary said. “Look, under the sofa, where for some strange reason you decided to put him.”

  She picked up the dog and gave it to her.

  “But can we go swimming?” Flo said, gasping out the tears as she sucked her thumb and rubbed Tuffy against her cheek. “Can we?”

  Mary looked at her.

  “What, you mean today? You want to go swimming today?”

  She pulled Flo onto her lap. Her warm girl’s body. The tops of her ears. Her unbrushed hair. She kissed the fusty crown of her head, breathing her in.

  “Yes, today!” Flo said.

  “Yes!” Ella said. “Can we?”

  Mary’s heart sank. She didn’t feel much like taking them. But Flo had only just stopped being scared of the water and was starting at last to enjoy it. And Ella was practicing for her first badge.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “It depends how Mummy’s day goes. We’ll see, OK?”

  “We’ll see means no,” Ella said.

  “It means it depends.”

  She kissed the top of Flo’s head once more and pushed her off her lap. Looking at her watch. Becky was late. She ought to go get her stuff together. Trying to think where she’d parked the car last night.

  “You could bring your work,” Ella said. “Flo can stay in the baby pool, then you won’t even have to come in with us.”

  “Not the baby pool!” Flo said.

  “If you go in the baby pool I’ll give you a horsey ride,” Ella said, and Flo made a little noise of pleasure.

  Mary thought about this. A quick, tempting vision of sitting on the chairs by the baby pool with her laptop and a coffee, instead of standing shivering with all that chlorine lapping around her thighs.

  “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe.”

  But in her heart she’d already decided she’d do it, she’d take them. She wouldn’t say it now, but she’d surprise them later when she got back home. It would be worth it for the look on their faces.

  And that was it, the decision made: her girls, already falling away from her, their lives already as good as over, the course of that day already set.

  I DON’T KNOW IF MY FATHER WENT TO SEARCH THE WOODS BY Yarrow’s field that morning, or if the man who called himself James Dix had ever been there at all or had all along been somewhere else altogether.

  In my heart, I thought it very unlikely that he would bother to hide himself in those woods. Why would he need to? He’d always had the knack of keeping himself very quiet and low if the mood took him, hadn’t he? I didn’t see why this would change just because a bunch of men were searching for him. I doubted, also, that he would ever be keen to hang around near Yarrow’s ditch, for obvious reasons.

  The police were no longer thick in the village. A man, a laborer from Wroxham, had already been caught for the murders of the three young girls. And, in fact, it was beginning to be said that Phoebe Harkiss had never been quite as innocent as was previously thought and might have run off with a sailor to Gorleston or something similar—but that didn’t mean he should be stupid enough to lay a trail for them.

  Why would the man who called himself James Dix want to hang around the farm like a lame rabbit simply waiting for the men to come and find him? Why wouldn’t he just get going, put some distance between himself and all of us? Take himself off to Yarmouth or Cromer or somewhere else, like I said?

  What was keeping him? Why would he bother to wait around for even a few more hours longer than he needed to? What on earth could there be left for him to do here on the farm?

  AFTER JAZZY HAD COLLECTED THE EGGS AND SWEPT THE kitchen floor and cleaned the tallow off the candlesticks, she got the little ones ready for Sunday school.

  Lottie said she wouldn’t go.

  You have to, Jazz said.

  Don’t have to.

  Lottie, come on, you do.

  Lottie rubbed at her eyes.

  Don’t want to. Not going. Not today.

  Why not?

  I don’t know.

  You do know. What is it? Tell me, Lottie!

  Lottie lifted her eyes and looked at Jazz.

  It’s because I’m frightened, that’s what it is.

  Jazzy laughed.

  Frightened? Whatever is there to be frightened of?

  Lottie looked down at the ground. She seemed to be searching for something. At last she put her finger in her mouth.

  Wolves. I’m afraid of wolves.

  Don’t be silly. There aren’t any wolves.

  Lottie coughed.

  I’m afraid of Miss Sands.

  Jazzy laughed.

  No, you’re not. No one
’s afraid of Miss Sands. She’s the kindest teacher in the whole world.

  Lottie made an angry face. She blew out some air.

  Well, I’m afraid of Jesus, then.

  You’re not afraid of Jesus.

  I am. He’s a bad man.

  Now Jazzy looked at me.

  You shouldn’t say a thing like that, Lottie. Not about our Lord. That’s a wicked thing to say, isn’t it, Eliza?

  I went over to Lottie, bent down to her.

  Why would you be afraid of Jesus, Lottikins? You know very well that Jesus loves all the little children.

  Lottie bit her lip and looked at me.

  Well, I don’t want it.

  What don’t you want?

  Don’t want him to love me, not at all.

  She hugged her arms to her chest as if she was cold. I put my hand to her head. I thought that she looked quite pale.

  What’s the matter? I said. Are you sick? Is something hurting?

  She shut her eyes and then she opened them again.

  Him. It’s him. He’s gonna hurt me.

  She means Jesus, Jazzy said.

  No! Lottie shouted. Not Jesus.

  I took hold of Lottie’s hand. It felt quite hot and alive. I didn’t think she was sick.

  Lottie, listen to me. No one’s going to hurt you, I said.

  She fixed her eyes on me then, and there was something about the look that turned my blood cold. Her eyes suddenly dark—too dark. No longer the eyes of a little girl, but full of dread and complication—a much older person’s eyes.

  She folded her arms.

  If I fall out of the highest window in this house, Eliza, she said, will I be dead?

  I gasped.

  What? I said.

  If I land on my head, will I? Because I really want to. I want to fall out of the window and be dead.

  I stared at her. And I was about to tell her to stop all this talk of being hurt and being dead—and that she would certainly not die, not until she was a very old and fragile lady of at least a hundred and ten. But then our father came in and told the kiddies they had to hurry up and get to school and not keep Addie Sands waiting.

  Now Lottie started to fret and wail. She stamped her foot.

  Not going! Don’t want to go! Don’t want to!

  Our father folded his arms.

  Do you want a spanking?