by Jane Shemilt
At first it’s too dark to make out more than a curled shape at the bottom of the chest, thin legs twisted awkwardly together. She forces her glance to travel up the small, inert body. The face is the kind of stark white that happens after a major haemorrhage, though there is no blood to be seen apart from cuts on her legs and arms and dark crusting on her fingers and yes, an enormous bruise on her forehead that looks like a painting of a flower, a deep mauve and red one with unfurling petals. She looks lovely. A lovely dead child, like Sleeping Beauty or Snow White, Babes in the Wood after all. Is there no end to the fairy tales that fit?
DI Gordon turns his head, asking quietly for something. She doesn’t catch his words but his glance falls on her and he looks aghast. She doesn’t care. In that moment of his surprise she straddles the edge and is over, inside the freezer, half lying and half kneeling in the shit and the vomit and the broken glass, crying, at least she must be, someone is making that low groaning noise. She takes her daughter’s body in her arms. She pushes her face against Sorrel’s and wraps her arms around her. She was expecting her to be cold, icy cold, but she’s still warm and her skin still smells of her. DI Gordon reaches over the edge of the freezer.
‘Fuck off,’ Eve whispers. ‘Leave us alone.’
DI Gordon doesn’t take any notice. He slides his hand past Eve’s face to place his fingers against Sorrel’s neck.
‘She’s alive,’ he says.
14. November
Eve
The paediatric intensive care ward is hot and brightly lit. Eve is getting used to the background hum; nurses at the desk and the doctors on their rounds, the never-ending bleep of machines. She’s learnt to ignore the constant movement around the beds. From time to time there are muffled gasps of someone weeping. She focuses on Sorrel’s fingers lying curved on the sheet; the crusted blood has been washed away. She holds her hand, the small palm lying motionless against hers, and watches the rise and fall of her chest under the sheet.
Sorrel’s brain scan was normal. The blood tests showed early starvation and dehydration, nothing that can’t be reversed, the nurse tells her. Her name is Annie. Her voice is pleasant, the rhythm sings. She is from the south of Ireland and has a creamy skin and black curly eyelashes, one of those kind, brisk girls, whose quiet way of moving inspires confidence. Annie’s glance plays constantly over the machines by Sorrel’s bed, her fingers adjust the rate of the drip and the height of the pillows, she smooths strands of damp hair off her forehead. Eve watches to see if Annie is on at the start of a shift and if she is, allows herself to doze.
Eric tells her to go home, but what if she misses the moment when Sorrel’s eyes open? Eve has hardly moved from her bedside for three days, not even to clean her teeth. Eric holds Sorrel’s hand; he is polite but more remote than ever. She wonders if Melly let slip about her relationship with Martin. She can’t ask her, they haven’t talked since Sorrel was found, she has no energy to cross the little gap that has opened between her and Melly.
The affair with Martin seems irrelevant now, like a film she saw long ago, with an actress taking her part, playing a character she hardly recognizes now. It’s impossible to tell what thoughts lurk behind Eric’s brooding face opposite or whether he knows; only that he seems to have gone as far away from her as she has from him.
He brings Poppy into the ward after school; she’s allowed ten minutes at a time. Her chestnut hair and the bright splash of her freckles shine against the beige of walls and beds. Eve holds her, breathing in her health, her fresh air scent. Poppy doesn’t twist away any more but her glance moves rapidly over the immobile bodies on the beds around them; it takes in the drips, the catheters and machines, the electrodes placed on small chests.
‘Can I bring Noah to see Sorrel?’
‘I wish you could, darling, but things in here have to be very clean.’
‘Noah’s clean.’
‘I mean sterile clean, in case of germs; some of these children are very sick.’
‘Is Sorrel very sick?’
‘She’s tired. Too tired to wake up properly yet; she didn’t have anything to eat or drink for nearly two days, remember.’
‘Was she scared?’ The tone shifts higher.
The thought of Sorrel’s terror is like a flame that burns Eve’s mind. Those soft fingers scrabbling at the lid above her face, the despair as she wet herself, how her voice must have sounded as she lay calling for her mother in the dark. The admitting team told her there was no sign of sexual abuse, a life jacket in a sea of horror.
‘You know, Pops, I think she was asleep most of the time.’
‘You mean she was unconscious? Like now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did he do it – Izzy’s dad?’
‘I don’t know, darling.’ She looks at Poppy’s hands stroking Sorrel’s. Poppy’s fingers are ink stained and pink; Sorrel’s skin is yellow next to her sister’s, even her nails are pale. Eve touches Poppy’s hair gently; it’s longer now and falls forward as she leans over the bed. ‘We’ll probably never understand completely,’ she tells Poppy, ‘though we might find out more in court.’
‘Izzy’s still my friend, though,’ Poppy says, tucking her hair behind her ear. ‘It’s not her fault. I feel sorry for her, actually.’
She seems to have made up her mind in that generous way children often do; pity being better than anger, easier to bear. They can’t abandon Paul’s family, Poppy is saying, none of this is Izzy’s fault. Eve watches Poppy root around in the bedside locker for a hairbrush. She’s right. It isn’t Izzy’s fault and it’s not Melly’s either, but she can’t help wishing Melly had found the strength to stand up to Paul sooner. If she had escaped or even fought back, Paul wouldn’t have been part of their lives; Sorrel would have been safe. If she’d shared what was happening with her friends earlier on, they could have helped her leave him behind. She watches Poppy brush her sister’s hair off her face with gentle strokes, and thinks of Melly’s bruised face as she last saw her. Melly was Paul’s victim too, she reminds herself, long before Sorrel was; she must have been terrified of defying him, what that would bring down on herself.
‘Izzy wants to come and see Sorrel.’ Poppy leans forward over the bed to touch her mother’s hand.
‘The nurse said only family, my darling.’
‘Izzy’s family.’
‘Let’s wait and see.’
In the end she misses the exact moment when Sorrel opens her eyes. Eric had taken Poppy home for supper by the time the consultant arrived on a late ward round. Dr Ari comes every day, a small man with a rapid walk, a little bent as if with the years of study and examining patients. There is a quietness about him that he carries into the room. Eve is watching his face as he listens to Sorrel’s chest when the expression of pure delight breaks on his hawk-like features, drawing her eyes instantly to her daughter. Sorrel is staring at the man in front of her, her eyes blank with surprise. Eve’s tears come instantly. She takes Sorrel’s hand and presses it to her cheek; her heart hammering with joy. ‘Sweetheart, you’re awake!’
Sorrel turns to her; her eyes widen before the lids flutter shut again.
‘A good sign?’ Tears run down Eve’s cheeks.
‘An excellent sign.’ The skin around those dark eyes creases in a smile.
Eric is there when Sorrel opens her eyes again later that evening; she smiles at her father. His mouth tightens in an effort not to cry. When he leaves that evening he presses his lips against Sorrel’s forehead. Eve stands up thinking he will kiss her too, but he nods without smiling and leaves the ward.
Dr Ari comes on to the ward the next day; by then Eric has arrived. He ushers them both into a side room. Eve reaches for Eric’s hand but he hunches forward to listen.
‘So it seems our little Sorrel was lucky,’ Dr Ari begins.
‘Lucky?’ Eric frowns.
‘The oxygen deprivation was only partial. A small amount of air had continued to circulate in the chest.’
She and Eric have read a copy of the forensic report: the magnetic seal in the freezer had become faulty in the damp shed over time. Sorrel, pushing desperately at the lid, must have managed to lift it a fraction. The thought of Sorrel struggling for her life is unbearable; beside her Eric shifts uncomfortably in his chair.
‘Her speech?’ Eve asks, dreading the answer.
‘Speech should recover fully; memory might take longer. I should warn you some memories may never come back.’
The consultant’s face is set in tired lines despite his cheerful voice. He has two days’ growth of beard; he might have been working all that time. He is watching their faces as he talks, as if to check how they feel about the information he gives them. He might have a little girl of Sorrel’s age at home; he seems to know exactly how they are feeling.
‘The hippocampus is a small area of the brain responsible for processing memory. It’s particularly sensitive to lack of oxygen.’
‘Are you saying that there’s some microscopic damage to the brain despite her normal scan?’ Eric glares at Dr Ari as if he blames him for what has happened.
Eric’s upset, Eve wants to explain to the consultant, angry at what’s happened to his daughter, not with you, but Dr Ari is experienced, he has probably seen this reaction before.
‘Damage is a misleading word,’ Dr Ari says gently. ‘A child’s brain has a great recovery capability. You should think in terms of months or a year. In the meantime, we’ll be moving her to the general paediatric ward where she’ll be for two or three weeks of rest and monitoring.’
‘Recovery capability,’ Eric repeats contemptuously in the hospital canteen later. ‘If he means she’s really brain damaged he should just tell us.’
‘He didn’t mean that at all.’ Eve sips the weak tea; it’s late, they are the only people in the canteen. ‘He was telling us she’s likely to recover. In the meantime, it’s a blessing. Who’d want her to remember that hideous incident?’
‘The police.’
‘Paul’s in custody. They’re not looking for anyone else.’
‘The police are bound to come sooner or later,’ he replies. ‘They’ll want to talk to Sorrel. There was none of his DNA on her.’
‘Of course there wasn’t. Paul’s cleverer than that. Grace told me he was still wearing gloves when he arrived at the house the evening he took her. I thought you knew.’
A day later Sorrel is moved from intensive care to the paediatric ward. Disney animals scamper over the yellow walls, the atmosphere is cheery, there are fewer machines. She is able to sit up and sip fluids. She has just taken a few mouthfuls of orange juice from a beaker when the policewoman enters the ward, a pretty woman with a tilted nose and thick fair hair drawn off her face. She sits down and smiles at Sorrel. Eve takes the beaker away gently.
‘Hello there, Sorrel, my name’s Donna. We’ve met before.’
Eve glances at her, puzzled.
‘You were in hospital when I talked to Sorrel the last time,’ Donna says softly.
The day Ash drowned; Eve takes Sorrel’s hand. Sorrel stares at the policewoman without the slightest hint of recognition.
‘Do you know why you are here?’
Sorrel’s forehead wrinkles; it’s as if Donna is talking in a different language, one she has never learnt.
‘We want to find out what happened to you before you were brought to hospital; is that all right with you?’
No answer.
‘Do you remember going to Izzy’s house recently?’
The blue eyes close.
‘I was wondering how you got there?’
Sorrel turns her head away.
‘Who were you with, perhaps you can just tell us that?’
Eve wants to tell Donna to leave. There’s no point in these questions right now. She must see that her daughter doesn’t want to talk, doesn’t want to remember anything at all.
‘Well now, Sorrel.’ A light sigh. ‘Have you any questions for us?’
The eyelids flicker open. Sorrel’s eyes meet Eve’s.
‘Where’s Ash?’ she whispers.
Grace
‘Can we see her?’
‘That’s the tenth time you’ve asked me.’ Grace is squashed between Charley and Blake on the sofa. The television is on; they are watching the news. There are three pairs of bare feet on the table. They had sausages and beans for supper, the children’s favourite. Grace is making an effort to be relaxed. It’s easier than she thought it would be, up to a point.
‘Please?’ Charley takes another bite of her apple and turns beseeching eyes to her mother’s.
‘Family only, I told you already.’
‘She’s getting better; they’ve just said so.’ Charley gestures to the screen with the apple. ‘And the police are allowed, so why not us?’
Grace shakes her head. ‘The doctors say she needs lots of rest.’ She’s explained all this before.
‘When, then?’
‘She’ll be allowed home soon enough.’
‘In time for Christmas?’
‘Maybe.’ Grace puts an arm around her daughter and pulls her in, kissing the crown of her head. It could have been Charley trapped in that freezer. Paul came so close to them all; thank God he’s been apprehended now. ‘The main thing is she was found and she’s recovering,’ she continues cheerfully. ‘Let’s focus on that.’
‘Yeah, it’s amazing.’ Charley rests her head on Grace’s shoulder.
Blake gets off the sofa and bounds up on the chair the other side. His cheeks are bulging in a grin.
‘Blake, how many times—’
‘When’s Dad back?’ Charley interrupts.
Blake jumps to the floor and waits, poised for the answer.
‘The tutorial ends at eight, so half an hour after that, maybe?’ Martin’s in demand, the agency phones most days. He doesn’t seem to mind. At least, he doesn’t say that he minds, but he doesn’t say much these days. He might even be relieved to escape.
‘So, you and Dad …’ But here Charley’s bravery forsakes her.
‘I’ll text him to bring home a cake from the Co-op; he passes it on his way back. We can celebrate Sorrel’s recovery.’ Grace picks up the plates.
‘Mum?’ Charley follows her to the kitchen with the knives and forks.
‘Yeah?’ Bracing herself.
‘You know those blokes who used to hang around by the bins?’ Charley puts the cutlery in the sink.
‘What about them?’
‘The warden said they’ve gone, she said to tell you.’
‘Since when have you been talking to the warden?’
‘She came out today when Melly dropped us off. She’s nice, she’s got a cute dog. She told me to say they won’t be coming back. Can I watch Neighbours?’
Grace stares at her daughter. What else does the warden know? What did she see?
‘Mum?’
‘Homework first.’
She’ll take the warden a bunch of flowers tomorrow, maybe a box of chocolates as well. She feels warmed, the way you do when you realize you’ve a friend you hadn’t known was there, someone who’s been on your side all the time.
There’s a brief scuffle at the door as Charley leaves and Blake enters, pushing past his sister. He roots noisily in the cutlery drawer while Grace runs hot water over the plates.
‘What are you looking for?’
‘A knife.’
‘Jesus, Blake. What d’you want a knife for now?’
He bangs a jar of strawberry jam down on the counter and grins. ‘Lid’s stuck.’
She takes a coin from the few that have re-accumulated in the tin, slides it under the lid, which gives with a little pop. Blake laughs.
This is the chance you’ve been waiting for, she tells herself. Things have calmed down, Sorrel’s out of danger. Go on, now, while he’s in a good mood. She reaches into the cupboard behind the bucket and mop for the blue-handled knife she hid in her largest saucepan four days ago.
‘I fo
und this.’ The rusty stain along the edge of the blade is now a faint pinkish line. She can tell by the way his face has fallen that she only has a few seconds to talk. ‘Whose blood is this?’
‘What were you doing in my rucksack?’ The tone is belligerent; the good mood has vanished.
‘What if I showed this to the police?’
‘You wouldn’t.’
‘I would.’
He tries to snatch the knife but her fingers close tightly around the handle. ‘I’d do anything to stop you ending up like that lot in the car park.’
His eyes darken with anger.
‘What have you done, Blake?’
No answer. She picks up her phone. ‘I’m phoning the police, right now.’
He watches in silence as she punches the keypad three times, then waits. They stare at each other across the kitchen.
‘Police, please.’
After a few seconds, his breathing becomes wheezy; she hands him the inhaler from the shelf as she waits.
‘Ah, yes, good evening. I’m phoning to report possession of a bloodstained knife—’
‘Rabbits,’ he mutters.
‘What?’ She lowers the phone.
‘Rabbit blood.’
‘How come?’
No answer.
‘How come, Blake?’
He grabs the jam and walks out of the kitchen without the knife. Rabbits, for God’s sake. It’s crazy enough to be true; there must be lots of rabbits in Eve’s place. He might catch them and skin them for supper; she can see Eric teaching him, skilful, unsentimental. She hopes Charley didn’t see. She puts the knife back in her saucepan; she’ll give it to Eric next time she sees him; it’s probably his. She hadn’t dialled 999, she’d punched three zeros instead and talked into a dead phone. She looks at the dirty plates on the kitchen table. They can wait. She’s tired, as if she’s reached the end of a journey and she’s somewhere better than the place she left, though she’s still not sure where she is.