by Emma Healey
This sent another wave of angry heat through Jen’s body. She stood, rubbing the backs of her thighs where the bar stool had cut into them. She was furious, and his apology only made it harder to express that fury.
‘You’re sorry,’ she said, trying to match his calm tone. ‘You’re sorry you picked on a vulnerable girl and attempted to convince her that dinosaurs never existed, that her self-inflicted wounds were divine, that she’d visited Hell while on holiday in the Peak District.’
‘I don’t actually know where Lana was,’ Stephen said. ‘But I suspect there is more to her absence than she is admitting.’
This was something they could agree on, Jen thought. She didn’t like finding that they agreed about anything.
‘I also never encouraged her to hurt herself or suggested her injuries were a positive thing. I just wanted to help her with the guilt, the shame she felt for having made those marks on her body.’
‘She doesn’t feel shame about that.’
‘She told me she does.’
Jen tried to sit down but misjudged the height of the bar stool and slipped. Her cardigan slid to the floor and she knelt next to it, as if it were an injured child. She studied the sagging where her elbows had stretched the wool, the gap where a button had come off, she stroked the bobbly knap. Had Lana really chosen to confide in Stephen rather than her? Did she think this mad stranger was more trustworthy than her own mother?
‘So you know she’s had depression,’ Hugh asked Stephen, as he offered Jen a hand.
‘Yes, I know. I know because I had it myself once. And do you know what helped me?’
‘Let me guess. The New Lollards Fellowship.’
‘I was going to say faith, but yes. I think, when we’re feeling low, it can be a sign that God is preparing us to receive him. I didn’t want Lana to miss that window, miss that chance at healing.’
‘You’re a conservationist, then, a concerned citizen. Cleaning the highways and byways and trying to save the souls of passing teenagers.’ Hugh looked amused, but Jen noticed he was gripping the back of his empty chair. He was angry, too. She felt a rush of love for him.
‘Let me ask you another question,’ Jen said, pulling on her cardigan. ‘Did you tell Lana to cover her hair? For modesty? Did you make her cover up?’
‘No, certainly not. We don’t believe in any particular dress code. Though it’s a good idea for all women not to invite the glances of men.’
Jen sighed in relief, pleased to find she could hate him again. There was no need to challenge him, to get into an argument, to ask why the onus should be on women. She caught sight of Lana across the restaurant, walking back from the Ladies, head down, phone out. Somehow, Jen had forgotten her daughter was there, that they had come to lunch as a three.
‘There’s something else you should know,’ Stephen said, his feet shifting. ‘I’ve studied this for quite a time, and one or two of the accounts suggest the children returned with…a friend.’
‘A friend,’ Hugh repeated, in the blandest tones. ‘D’you mean you?’
‘No, no, I mean something else, a being,’ Stephen said, glancing round. ‘From their travels.’
Jen felt a sort of shiver pass over her body, and she grabbed at the collar of her shirt. She’d said nearly the same thing after hearing Lana talking alone in her room. I can’t get rid of the idea that Lana brought someone back with her.
‘And what do these beings do? What are they for?’ Hugh asked.
‘They continue to guide the children in some way,’ Stephen said. ‘Listen, you live with Lana. Have you noticed any unusual behaviour?’
Jen thought of the creeping about the house, the questions about violence, the imaginary cat that Dr Greenbaum said wasn’t imaginary. She scanned the restaurant, surprised Lana hadn’t arrived at their table yet, and spotted her standing half hidden by the counter, watching them.
‘This is ridiculous,’ she said, urgent, wanting to get her venom out, but wanting to get it out quickly, before Lana decided to join them. ‘Next, you’ll be suggesting an exorcism, and I’ve seen documentaries about those. Mothers in Italy being told to touch holy water to their daughters’ genitals.’
Stephen seemed slightly taken aback. ‘I’m not suggesting you do anything like that,’ he said, dropping his voice so low it was hardly audible over the clatter of the restaurant. ‘But I can help her.’
‘Ah, right, I understand now. You mean it would involve you touching her genitals with holy water.’
Still waters
They had bought some holy water on holiday in Norfolk last year, scooped from an ancient well and decanted into a little bottle. Jen had carried it around in her handbag for weeks, wondering what she should use it for, wishing she had an ailment she could test it on.
Then, during the train journey to the Peak District, she’d gone to the loo and, wanting to clean up afterwards, had covered her hands in a sugary scented liquid soap, only to find there was no water in the tap. So it was the holy water she’d used to wash away the soap. There had been no discernible difference to her hands afterwards – her nails were just as likely to break, her skin was still vulnerable to a casserole-lid burn – but she had noticed since using the water that every time she’d tried to hail a cab she’d been successful.
‘That’s a new one,’ the cab driver said, looking at her in the mirror. ‘I never thought picking up fares had anything to do with God.’
‘Nor did I,’ Jen said.
‘When have you taken a cab in the last few months?’ Hugh asked.
‘Just a few times with colleagues when we would have been late for a meeting.’
‘So your company paid?’
‘Wow, Dad, tight, much?’ Lana said, turning from the window. ‘Mum has her own salary, you know.’
‘I know.’
Did you just defend me? Jen wanted to ask Lana, but instead she said, ‘That was Stephen we were talking to in the restaurant. Stephen from the holiday.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘Didn’t you recognize him?’
‘What was wrong with his face?’
‘He’d got a kind of burn from a plant. Hogweed.’
‘Oh, hogweed,’ the cab driver said. ‘That’s terrible stuff. I read about that in the paper a few weeks ago. You have to be careful to keep kids away from it.’
‘He looked really gross,’ Lana said.
‘I’ll bet. People get blisters and everything.’
‘Yes, I almost felt sorry for him,’ Jen said. ‘Is that why you didn’t come over, Lana? Because of his face?’
‘I just didn’t expect him to look like that.’
‘Expect him? How could you? It happened recently.’
‘I know, but it was a shock.’
‘A shock?’ Jen felt her phone buzz in her pocket – an email arriving – but she didn’t reach for it because she was remembering Stephen’s question. Not How is Lana doing?, but How do you think Lana is doing? As if he already knew and just wanted Jen’s opinion. Had Lana found Stephen handsome before? Had she wanted to see him, arranged to meet him at the restaurant, and then changed her mind when she’d seen his face?
‘He looked frightening,’ Lana said.
‘Perhaps he needed some of that holy water,’ the cab driver said.
Bad press
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Boy who visited Hell article
Dear Mrs Maddox
Thank you for the email you sent to [email protected].
After careful consideration, we have decided not to remove Lana’s name from the article of 15 June, nor to take down the article altogether. There was extensive coverage in the paper during the time your daughter was missing in which her name was already mentioned, and we only remove names and articles as a very last resort, or if we think that not taking action will lead to extreme consequences, for example, if someone’s life is in danger.
We were
contacted by members of the New Lollards Fellowship and chose to pursue an interview because they had a different angle on Lana’s story. That story was, and still is, of great interest to our readers, and, as you’ll acknowledge, our initial coverage did help to locate her – it was seeing our article that made Mr Crossley of Yew Farm contact the police when he saw a young woman on his land. I would also remind you that you did give us several interviews yourself, as well as permission to use photos of Lana.
I’m sorry to hear she has had a few unwanted messages on social media, but I’d be very surprised if that had anything to do with us. There have been several more lurid articles online, on websites which (alas) attract significantly higher numbers of readers than the Derbyshire and Peaks Gazette.
I hope Lana is adjusting to life after her ordeal. If she does want to talk publicly about her experience and set the record straight, we are here for her.
Kind regards,
Luke Boyle, News Room Assistant
pp Susie Betts, Reporter
One of life’s little mysteries
Jen missed the woman hanging up her washing the next morning, but there was only a pair of men’s boxer shorts on the clothesline, swaying in the wind, and as a mist of rain swept the garden, a straight-backed, white-bearded man came out of the house to retrieve them. Jen stared at him from Lana’s window. He wasn’t the washing woman’s husband.
Astrological argument
‘Lapis lazuli is what you need,’ Grace said. ‘Especially worn near the throat or the third eye. It unlocks mysteries.’
Jen had been persuaded into accompanying Grace to a rock-and-gemstone fair in a community centre on the outskirts of north London, so there they were at three o’clock on a Monday afternoon, strolling between the stalls and surrounded by displays of bead necklaces and great hunks of phallic-looking pink rock.
‘And get Lana to wear some silver. And you should take more zinc, because it binds copper, and women produce too much copper.’
‘I didn’t know,’ Jen said. ‘If I had, I’d have kept my crop of copper to sell to a scrap-metal yard.’
‘Scrap metal? Don’t be so down on yourself, Jen.’
Grace brought out a shopping list and began to buy a series of lethal-looking crystals, ticking them off the list. ‘Metals and minerals, that’s what you should concentrate on, what we should all concentrate on,’ she told Jen. ‘You know, the microbes that live in underground caves subsist entirely on minerals that percolate through the rock? Pure nutrients. And they have lived down there for millions of years, have survived every kind of global catastrophe. They’re stronger than humans in so many ways. We could learn from them.’
Jen tried to imagine a lesson taught by a microbe, and she wondered, not for the first time, what it must be like to see wisdom, or the potential for wisdom, everywhere. It must be exhausting, surely, but Grace never seemed to tire.
‘It’s a pity you didn’t go caving while you were in the Peak District.’
‘Why, what was I supposed to do? Lick the rock?’
Grace laughed. ‘I’m only saying there are minerals we don’t get enough of but that are available in caves. Imagine if you ate like an underground microbe for a week.’
‘You’d certainly lose a lot of weight.’ Prompted by this thought, Jen suggested they stop for coffee and cake.
Grace sat down near the tea-serving hatch and arranged her collection of lumpy crystals on the table – fluorite, pyrite, hematite – explaining how each one would help absorb negativity, guard against manipulation (‘I’m particularly thinking of my mother, of course’) and balance energy. Jen bought the coffee and, when she put the cups down, saw that Grace was also unwrapping a piece of gritty-looking chocolate cake. The texture of the cake seemed designed to fit in with the theme of the fair, to be mimicking the rocks and crystals on sale around them. It was gluten-free, made with sweet potatoes or beetroot, or diabetic chocolate, or almond milk, and Jen wasn’t expecting to want more than a bite.
‘And this’ – Grace took a bracelet from a paper bag – ‘is agate.’
Jen slipped the bracelet on to her wrist, the movement sending a sheaf of paper napkins to the floor. ‘Lovely,’ she said, studying the variations in the colour of each bead, red to yellow to green.
‘Oh, that’s typical of you, Jen,’ Grace said, gathering the napkins and setting them back on the table.
‘What’s typical of me?’ Jen scooped up a bit of cake with a plastic fork and found it tasted better than it looked.
‘You weren’t interested in the things for you but immediately take a fancy to the necklace for my cat.’
‘Your cat?’
‘Yes. Agate acts as a sort of surrogate for the natural world. And Milo’s a house cat, so he needs that.’
Jen slipped the beads over her hand, doubting very much that Milo would think a weighty collar made up for not climbing trees or chasing birds. She took another forkful of cake, and then another, and realized with a shock that she hadn’t eaten all day.
‘Remember that personality test I got you to take last year?’ Grace said. ‘I thought at the time it was so accurate it was frightening. You’re a contrarian, Jen. Through and through. You have to be careful you’re not becoming passive aggressive, though. Actually, one thing that might help with that is concentrating on your heart chakra…’
‘Do you remember that conversation we had, ages ago, about your cat and the fact that I needed perspective?’
Grace looked blank. ‘We had a conversation about Milo?’ She unwound a sheer-silk scarf from her neck, sending a cloud of her expensive jasmine perfume Jen’s way.
‘About shutting his tail in the door.’
Grace winced, her eyes shut.
‘Sorry,’ Jen said. She gave up corralling the crumbs that danced about the foil wrapping. ‘I just thought I’d tell you, we have a cat now, too. Kind of. Not that you were actually telling me to get a cat, I know – that’s just a coincidence.’
‘Kind of? You mean you got a cat for Lana?’
‘No, not quite. It’s sort of an imaginary cat.’
Grace picked up a spoon and spent a long time stirring her coffee (though she didn’t take sugar) and not making eye contact.
‘An imaginary cat,’ she said at last.
Jen nodded. She had thought it was a funny thing to say, endearing, quirky, but saw now that Grace thought she was making fun of her. Jen never seemed to get the reaction she expected from other people. It was as though they didn’t think she was the person she thought she was. When Grace put down the teaspoon, Jen picked it up and looked at the tiny version of herself in the back of it.
‘What you were saying about perspective,’ Grace said. ‘When I talked about shutting Milo’s tail in the door, you know, that’s a technique for dealing with anxiety, not a solution for family problems. Also, it didn’t really happen…’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Well.’ Grace shifted in her seat. ‘Like I said, it’s a technique.’
‘But you winced just now, when I mentioned it.’
‘I’ve imagined it many times, it feels real to me, but that’s the point: the realer it feels, the more useful it is.’
Jen sat and stared, her coffee growing cold. ‘But you told me it had happened. I believed you. I did what you said. I listened to meditations and wore a citrine ring and ate cashew nuts and drank moon tea and I’ve carried a bit of stone about in my pocket. And I thought about your technique for perspective, tried to learn from it, only it turns out that was a lie.’
‘It wasn’t a lie. I’m trying to help. I’m always trying to help, Jen. You know, I was talking to my astrologer, and something else you can do is get Lana to give you flowers and sugar and also things made from white cloth on Mondays.’
‘Oh,’ Jen said with a laugh. ‘Brilliant. I’ll tell her that when I get home.’
‘You’re not really going to tell her, are you?’
‘No, Grace. No, I’m not. Have
you any idea how hard it is just to get her to talk to me? The likelihood that she’d be interested in giving me gifts on a Monday, or any other day of the week, is slim, to say the least.’
‘But it’s worth a try, surely? I mean, I would try, if it was me.’
‘What the hell would you know?’ Jen said suddenly. ‘She’s my daughter, not yours. And she’s real and her depression is real and I’ve never shut her tail in a door, fictional or otherwise.’
This was not the brilliant finish she’d been working towards and, somehow, the ideas and the words had become rather jumbled, but she stood and picked up her bag anyway, sweeping the napkins to the floor again.
For the next few minutes, as she walked through the fair, she kept catching sight of Grace, waving at her and gesturing. Jen’s anger had dissipated, but she wanted a break (just a tiny break) from Grace’s endless prescriptions, so she pretended an interest in the lapidary-club activities, watching someone polish a stone, and then another.
It seemed unnecessary to make anything else shiny – there were so many light-reflecting surfaces in the room already, including the lapidary’s fingers: wet from the polishing machines. And, amid all the glitter, she found herself drawn to a table of duller textures. The fossils on display were still rough and chalky, and smelled of earth. Here were things that had some meaning, Jen felt. Not a meaning for those born in July or those hoping to find a cure for lovesickness, but a meaning for every human, their history preserved in stone.
Her knowledge of evolution was a little vague and so she wasn’t sure humans were actually related to the creatures whose forms had been carefully exposed by fossil hunters, but she silently greeted them as if they were ancestors.
She nodded at the ammonites as she traced their tight whorls, and smiled, rather ridiculously, at the beetlish trilobites; she raised her eyebrows at the huge megalodon tooth, and half waved at the delicate traces of an ancient fern. She wondered what Stephen would say about this spectacle. That they had been created by some conspirator to test their faith, perhaps.