True Murder
Page 23
‘Polly?’
‘You took a long time! I thought you’d never look.’
‘Are you OK?’
She gives a little shrug, nodding. ‘What’s with you and mirrors, anyway?’
‘They frighten me.’
‘You’ve got problems, kiddo,’ she laughs derisively.
‘Are you really all right, Polly?’
She gleams with anger. ‘Hallo? My bitch of a mother murders me, and she wants to know if I’m all right! Jeez, Aj, give me a break. I thought you, of all people on this planet, would know what I’m feeling.’
‘But I do, Polly, I do!’
There is an awkward silence while she gauges the extent of my sympathy. Then I ask the question I’ve wanted to ask for a long time: ‘Does dying hurt as much as loving does?’
‘No way!’ The child in the mirror starts inspecting the split ends of her hair. Looking up for a moment she says, ‘A little, maybe, but not much. It was over quickly.’
‘That’s what I told Maria. She’s sleeping in your bed now, Polly.’
She continues inspecting her hair. Her disdain for Maria Richardson hasn’t diminished. Discarding a golden curl with an impatient flick, she looks at me with the cool, disinterested gaze of the vixen we saw in November. ‘Aj, you know I miss you, don’t you?’
‘I know. I miss you too, Polly.’
‘And you know that what happened to me could happen to you. You know that, don’t you, Aj?’
I shake my head vigorously. ‘I’m different to you, Polly. You were special.’
‘When it happens you’ll wise up. No one’s special. And, believe me, it’s happening all the time, Aj, like in True Murder. People hating each other, doing each other over. Shooting and strangling and knifing each other, beating the shit out of each other. It’s fucking gross, kid.’
‘Gross,’ I echo.
‘I mean, take Nina.’
A knocking sounds on the locked door.
‘She wouldn’t hurt me,’ I whisper.
The child in the mirror laughs. ‘She’s not even your real mother. Look what your real mother did. And what Isobel did to me.’
‘Nina wouldn’t hurt me. She’s trying to be nice to me.’
The knocking is getting louder as Nina twists the handle, trying to enter the room. I close my ears to my stepmother’s anxious calls. I want to talk to Polly.
‘She’s mad at you,’ hisses the angry child. ‘Wait till she gets her hands on you. Listen, you’ve got to be prepared for everything. You’ve got to be able to defend yourself, Aj.’
Sensing my uncertainty, the girl imprisoned in the looking-glass becomes belligerent. ‘Are you my best friend or not?’ she demands.
‘You’ll always be my best friend, Polly. You know that.’
‘Then do as I say. Do it now.’
I pick up a thin steel comb from the dressing-table. I finger the sharp tip of its handle as Nina rattles the door, calling me.
‘Go for it, kid!’
On the verge of opening up, I turn once again to the mirror. ‘I will see you again, won’t I, Polly?’
‘Sure you will. Wherever you look for me, you’ll see me. Whenever you want me, I’ll be there. I’m your best friend, aren’t I?’
‘Always?’
‘For ever.’
I smile, turning to open the door. At last my eyes have opened and I have seen what my mother saw in her mirror. The steel comb in my hand feels as cold and sharp as one of Isobel’s kitchen knives as I slowly open the door to Nina and her unborn child.
Acknowledgements
My thanks go to Ellah Allfrey at Jonathan Cape and my agent, Clare Conville. My thanks also to friends and colleagues whose encouragement and generosity contributed to the development of this book: Amina Mama, Abena Busia, Harvey Klinger, Cam Provis, Asmaa Pirzada, Annie Paul, Wendy Hollway, Fenella Greenfield, Juliet Annan and Margaret Busby. Finally, a big thank you to my family, and to my editor at Conville and Walsh, Matthew Hamilton, who helped transform an obsession in to an exhilarating voyage of discovery.
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