by KL Slater
I looked back at the lounge window. Watched as the vicious, striped, tiny bodies hurled themselves against the glass in their mad rage, still desperately trying to reach us. To do us harm.
6
Three Years Earlier
The Teacher
Harriet Watson emptied the shopping bags onto the worktop and began grouping the tins. She opened the cupboard door and placed them carefully, one by one, on the bottom shelf.
Three tins of baked beans, two tins of chopped tomatoes and four tins of tomato soup. All labels facing outwards and grouped by their contents.
‘Those belong on the second shelf.’
Harriet jumped back, dropping the tin of peaches in her hand, watching helplessly as it crashed down onto the worktop, narrowly missing the carton of free-range eggs perched there.
‘Mother.’ She turned around. ‘What are you doing up?’
‘This is my house, remember? I can get up any time I want to.’
Harriet narrowed her eyes until her mother’s outline came into sharper focus.
‘Tinned fruit, rice pudding and custard belong on the second shelf,’ the old woman said. ‘How many times do I have to tell you?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.’
The surface of the worktop felt smooth and cool beneath Harriet’s fingers. She picked up the tin of peaches and turned back to the cupboard, sliding it onto the second shelf, into its rightful place. In front of the fruit cocktails and adjacent to the orange segments.
When she turned back to the doorway, her mother was still standing there, watching.
Harriet noticed she was bare-footed and wearing her lily-of-the-valley embroidered cotton nightdress. The one that hung loosely on her bones, like a filmy shroud.
‘You ought to wear your dressing gown and slippers,’ Harriet said, reaching for her spectacles that lay abandoned next to the stainless steel sink. She took a few steps forward. ‘You’ll catch a chill on these floor tiles.’
‘Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Pneumonia would be a clever excuse to keep me bed-bound and out of your hair.’
‘That’s not the case at all, Mother.’
‘When is she coming?’ The old woman rubbed at the loose fabric that gathered around her frail wrists. ‘When will she be here?’
Harriet wanted to reach out and press the cool tips of her fingers into the pale, wrinkled skin on the old woman’s forearms. Skin that was once so firm, and decorated with clusters of merging freckles like skeins of spun sugar.
‘I told you, Mother,’ Harriet sighed. ‘I’m working on it.’
Her mother huffed, then turned and hobbled back down the hallway.
‘I’ll bring you some tea up once I’ve finished my jobs,’ Harriet called, but there was no response.
A minute or two later, she heard the stairlift whirring into action.
She finished arranging the last few tins before standing back to admire the symmetry. Then she sat down at the kitchen table with the enormous bag of her mother’s medication that she’d collected on repeat prescription that morning.
Harriet opened all the packets and carefully counted out the correct mix of multi-coloured tablets, dropping each tiny pile of seven pills into the daily sections of the medication box.
As she worked, deep frown lines lined up like tiny soldiers alongside the deep vertical scar that divided her forehead.
It was difficult to imagine how these minuscule, powdery torpedoes could keep a person alive. Twice a day, the old woman flipped open the relevant daily box and tipped the tablets into her palm. She studied each and every pill before tipping them all into her mouth and flushing the whole lot down with water.
It was the drug companies that her mother needed to watch; they were the ones who cared more about profits than people.
‘Medicine and money mix about as well as education and budgets,’ Harriet had commented only the previous evening whilst reading an article about NHS-banned medicines.
Her mother’s answer: ‘Did you take the salmon fillets out of the freezer?’
Luckily for the children in her care at school, money had never been Harriet’s primary motivator in life.
The education system focused on examinations, even for the youngest students. Harriet felt sure that Ofsted inspectors were only interested in test results, not the young people or their lives. She had been through four inspections now and the officers had never cared enough to carry out even a cursory study of exactly how she, personally, had affected the lives of her children.
The inspectors were only interested in the qualified teachers. It was an insult.
Well, more fool them. She had far more power and influence over these children than people realised.
In just under two months, it would be her nineteen-year anniversary as a teaching assistant at St Saviour’s Primary School. Nineteen long years of giving her all, of making sacrifices that nobody cared enough about to count or quantify.
As far as Harriet was concerned, she was a proper teacher and that’s exactly what she told anyone who asked what she did for a living.
‘But you’re not a teacher, you’re a teaching assistant,’ her mother was fond of pointing out. ‘That’s like the difference between a fully qualified doctor and his auxiliary who empties the bedpans.’
She had asked her mother to stop saying that but the request had fallen on deaf ears.
Harriet taught the children in her care. She gave them valuable insight about themselves, insight they wouldn’t find anywhere else in a world that pandered to their every whim.
Her mother didn’t have a clue. None of them did.
All she wanted to do was help people, couldn’t they see that?
But she hadn’t got this far by taking unnecessary risks. She picked her children very carefully; she knew exactly what she was looking for.
She pulled the new term’s class admission papers towards her and glanced over the names again. Yesterday, Harriet had logged into the pupil database, printed it out and made pencilled notes alongside each child.
This term there was a girl admitted from down south. Single mother, father deceased. They’d just moved into a property on Muriel Crescent. Harriet knew it, just off Cinderhill Road in Bulwell, not a million miles away from her own house.
According to the database, today was their moving-in date, their first proper day in the area. She smiled to herself, wondering how they were settling in.
Harriet turned back to the medicine organiser and snapped the lids firmly closed, pausing to stare briefly out of the kitchen window.
Steel-grey and fluffy white clouds butted up against each other as if they were battling for control. She watched as they scudded across the sky, burying the last bright rays, until not a single glimmer of sun remained.
7
Present Day
Queen’s Medical Centre
Beep, hiss, hiss, hiss, beep.
This is the sound of my life. What’s left of it.
I drift in and out of consciousness – not sleep exactly, just nothing. No dreaming, no turning over or shuffling to get comfortable. Just a sheet of darkness that falls without any warning.
Then suddenly I find myself back again, staring at the ceiling and trying to make sense of what has happened to me and when it might go away. When I might move and speak once more. So I can tell them about Evie, tell them what happened and how it was all my fault.
When I am conscious, I try to use every second to remember. Snatches of memory drift by my staring eyes like elusive wisps of cloud. I pluck at them, missing some but pulling others in, so that they turn like small, shimmering snow globes in my mind’s eye.
Old memories don’t always make a great deal of sense but they sometimes bring me comfort.
Today, the prize won for sifting through hours and hours of thoughts was recalling the softness of Evie’s hair, like spun gold that laced around my fingers as I stroked her head during those long nights she would sob herself to
sleep. And the smell of her damp skin after a bath, new and fresh, like morning dew.
The door opens, tipping me into the present, and I brace myself. I know the doctors can’t just switch me off, but one day, that time will arrive.
Inside I am screaming, thrashing, punching. Anything to let them know I am very much still here. Surely they have some way of knowing, of telling whether someone is alive or dead?
But the room remains perfectly silent and I remain perfectly still. I am trapped in a vacuum that exists between life and death.
I wait for the familiar voices, the medical terminology. The terrifying jargon that barely conceals the fact they are planning to murder me.
Because that’s what it would be. If they turn off the machine, they will kill me.
But the familiar voices do not come. Instead, I hear a new voice.
‘Hello, I’m looking after you, just for today. I’m doing temporary cover, you see.’ A beaming face appears above mine momentarily. She surprises me and my eyes struggle to focus. ‘I don’t know if you can hear me but I’ll carry on as if you can.’
None of the other nurses speak to me and I have never seen any of their faces.
She disappears again and I hear her humming something tuneless, busying around the equipment, taking her readings and making her evaluations.
‘It’s a nice day outside,’ she says. ‘Sunny, but not too warm, just how I like it. I’ll be going down the allotment for a couple of hours when I finish my shift. Nothing like being in the garden, is there?’
Another memory slips down and I manage to grab it.
From the first day Evie began playing in the garden at the new house, I made it my priority to keep a careful eye on her.
Being so unfamiliar with the estate, I had carried out a bit of a recce on moving-in day, walking around the exterior of the house and through the surrounding streets to get an overview of how secure the small, cramped garden was.
Unfortunately, the answer was not very.
The new house was at the end of its row. A four-foot fence surrounded three sides of the grassy back yard with a gate that did not lock. A ragged hedge separated the space from next door.
The gate led directly onto a narrow path that ran the length of the row of houses. This path in turn led onto the busy main road. The joined-on neighbours were a rough-looking family, a wretched looking woman . . . I reached for her name but it was gone . . . with her two grown up sons who seemed to spend their entire day smoking weed, if the smell leaking from the open windows was anything to go by.
There were days I had to ask myself the question, why on earth would anyone in their right mind choose to live here? What kind of mother would put her child at risk like this?
I made a promise to myself there and then that although there was nothing I could do about the decision now, I would do whatever it took to keep Evie safe. I would look after her, no matter what.
The sad thing was that, back then, I really believed that I could.
But in the end, I let Evie down just about as badly as I could have done.
8
Three Years Earlier
Toni
After all the silent moaning I’d done about Mum’s indulgent attitude towards Evie, the tables turned. After the wasp attack, I ended up thanking my lucky stars that she was around.
When we rushed outside, Evie screaming and Mum yelling, plenty of faces appeared at windows but only a lady from across the road came over.
‘I’m Nancy,’ she said, crouching down in front of Evie. ‘I’m a nurse. What happened?’
Mum told her.
‘Nasty,’ she said, scanning Evie’s stung cheeks and then reaching out to inspect her arms.
‘No!’ Evie pushed her face into the side of my leg and snatched her hands behind her.
‘Evie, let the lady see.’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘It’s OK.’ Nancy smiled at her and then looked up at me. ‘Just pop some Savlon on, all the swelling should go down in a few hours. There doesn’t look to be any stings to be left in there, so she should be OK.’
‘Thanks so much,’ I said. ‘You’ve saved us a trip to the walk-in clinic and probably several hours of waiting.’
‘Just keep an eye on those stings,’ Nancy added, standing up. ‘If they start swelling or get really red and painful, it could be an allergic reaction. Then you’ll need to take her in straight away.’ She glanced over mine and Mum’s angry red stings. ‘Same goes for you two.’
We thanked Nancy and moved into the back garden, away from prying eyes.
Unsurprisingly, Evie was inconsolable. She just couldn’t seem to settle, even though she’d completely tired herself out sobbing. She sat alternately on my and Mum’s knees, half-dropping to sleep one minute and then sitting bolt upright the next with wild eyes that searched every inch of the space around us.
From the garden, Mum phoned her neighbour, Mr Etheridge.
‘Mr Etheridge is a retired pest controller,’ Mum said. ‘He’ll know exactly what to do.’
Next, I rang the police. Once we’d been through the name, number and full address rigmarole, the controller asked me what was wrong.
‘Someone deliberately placed a nest of wasps in our home,’ I said, realising it was going to be a difficult one to explain. ‘My daughter has been really badly stung. We all have.’
‘Is the offender still on the premises?’ the controller asked calmly.
‘No, there was never anyone on the premises. The flowers were delivered anonymously.’
‘And the wasps came out of the flowers?’
‘Yes. When we brought it inside, they flew out of the bouquet and stung my young daughter badly.’
‘But you don’t actually know that someone deliberately intended to harm you?’
‘I know there was half a wasps’ nest wedged in the bottom of the bouquet.’ I clenched my jaw. ‘Someone must’ve put it in there. Can you just send an officer out, please?’
As the call ended, my heart sank. If the controller’s laconic reaction to my call was anything to go by, it would probably be days before the police bothered to visit. If at all.
Mr Etheridge was round within an hour, dressed in full head-to-toe white protective gear. Even his shoes were covered, and he was sporting one of those beekeeper nets on his head. Though he seemed rather unsteady on his feet as he ambled towards us.
‘Stand back,’ he instructed, his voice raspy. ‘I’m going in.’
‘Jeez, how old is he?’ I whispered to Mum.
‘Probably in his early eighties now, but that’s not the point,’ Mum said crossly. ‘He knows what he’s doing, Toni, he had his own pest control business for years.’
Mr Etheridge disappeared into the house, closing the door behind him. Fifteen minutes later he emerged again.
‘All dead.’ He peeled back his protective head covering. ‘There were only about a dozen wasps in the room at most.’
He held up a clear plastic bag containing the crumbling remains of the grey, conical nest that had tumbled out of the bouquet. Evie whimpered and turned quickly away, pressing her face into Mum’s neck.
‘You were lucky, most of them were already dead.’ He peered at the nest. ‘Where’s your wheelie bin, dear?’
I thanked Mr Etheridge and Mum slipped him a twenty-pound note, which he readily accepted. I watched as he surreptitiously pushed a can labelled ‘Wasp & Insect Killer’ into his rucksack. It was just the regular sort of spray you could buy from any supermarket – and for a hell of a lot cheaper than the twenty quid Mum had just stumped up. But I kept my mouth shut. After all, it had got a very unpleasant job done.
While Mum sat in the back garden with Evie, I swept up the soft, stripy bodies from the windowsill. The room was thick with insect spray so I wedged open the windows.
I stood there for a moment, taking a few breaths of fresh air and surveying the street. Directly opposite stood a neat row of houses, identical to our own.
It occurred to me that from any one of those windows, someone could be watching me right now. Enjoying the sight of me sweeping up the dead insects with satisfaction, congratulating themselves on a job well done.
Coming up with a reason why that might be the case was a little trickier. As far as I was aware, nobody here knew us. Perhaps someone nearby just didn’t like newcomers – but if that was true, they’d gone to pretty extreme and pricey lengths to show it.
A slight breeze tweaked the crisp, gossamer wings of a couple of the wasps piled on the plastic dustpan and I jumped back, terrified for a second that they weren’t quite dead.
Mr Etheridge had bagged up the flowers and tied the top of the bin bag in a knot. I shuddered as I took it outside and dumped it directly into the wheelie bin in the back yard.
‘All done,’ I said to Evie, loosening the damp strands of hair that tears had pasted to the side of her face. ‘You can come back inside now, poppet.’
‘No!’ She clung tightly onto Mum, burying her head into the top of her shoulder.
‘Now listen to me, sweetheart. Mr Etheridge is one of the top exterminators in the country,’ Mum tried to reassure Evie. ‘All insects and pests are terrified of him. They will never come back in this house now they know he is around.’
Doddery old Mr Etheridge the country’s top exterminator? It would be laughable if Evie wasn’t so distressed. But remarkably, Mum’s claims seemed to actually perk Evie up a little.
‘What’s an exterbinator?’ Evie asked, wide-eyed. ‘Is Mr Ethriz like a ghostbuster for wasps?’
‘That’s exactly what he is,’ Mum nodded. ‘Mark my words, there’ll not be so much as a harmless fly that dares to show its mucky face in this house again.’
Evie would remember such wild promises, but I was grateful to Mum for saying exactly the right things to reassure her for now.
‘Let’s go and sit in the kitchen and have some juice and biscuits,’ Mum soothed. She slid Evie gently from her knee and stood up, clutching her hand.