by Sian Rosé
Her brother’s shoulders sagged. “You got married?”
“Well, it was an unofficial service,” Minnie admitted. “As I say, we avoid the police, anything government-related, really.”
Ross frowned. “So what about your kid? What about school and a birth certificate, and…” he trailed off. Even after two decades apart, he had an uncanny ability to read his little sister like a wide-open book.
“You’ve been living like an outlaw? This whole time?”
She ran a hand through her hair and forced herself to look him in the eye. “I know it sounds bad, Ross. But you’ve got to believe me, it’s necessary.
He pursed his lips, his pupils scanning her uncertainly from head to toe.
“Mum and Dad won’t care, Minnie,” he said at last. “Nor do I. To put it bluntly, I couldn’t give a fuck if you’re a crack-addicted bank robber. I beg you. Please come to Mum and Dad’s with us.”
Minnie paused. The knot embedded in her chest tightened and twisted as she tried to imagine her parent’s potential reaction to her sudden appearance after so many years. It was hard to imagine they’d be anything but furious with her for letting them believe she was dead all this time.
“They’re not going to be pissed off,” Ross said firmly, reading her mind. “Jesus, Minnie. You’re a mother yourself now. How would you react? Come on. Please. Just stay for dinner?”
She ran her tongue along the top row of her teeth. Ronnie wouldn’t like it. In fact, she was certain that Ronnie would be distinctly pissed off if she agreed. Perhaps she could just pretend they’d follow along in the RV after Ross had fixed it. She felt a stab of guilt pierce her in the stomach as the thought crossed her mind. For some reason, she couldn’t bring herself to lie to her brother.
Pathetic, she thought privately to herself. She’d literally witnessed a full-blown massacre just hours before, and here she was feeling uncertain over a white lie to an estranged relative.
Except, it wasn’t just an estranged relative. It was her beloved big brother, whom she’d missed very much over the years.
“How do I know they won’t call the police?” Minnie asked finally.
Ross smiled grimly and held out his hand. She clasped it tightly.
“You have my word,” he said.
She believed him.
Chapter Forty-six
Summer, 2000
It had been yet another deliciously warm and gloriously sunny summer’s day.
On the long stretch of luscious, emerald green grass that took up much of her lavish back garden, Willa Matthews sat with friends, sipping on an ice-cold glass of Pimms, savouring the sweet breeze that the evening was now blowing around the group. The sky was still light; swirls of pink now easing up against the electric blue canvas, and a pleasant fuzz had settled over the successful businesswoman as she sat back in her garden chair.
Finally, she’d made it.
By many people’s standards, Willa Matthews had made it a long time ago. Her empire of beauty salons had evolved and gone from strength to strength over the last decade, making her rich enough to retire at the tender age of just thirty. Her house was stunning and was set in a wealthy, picturesque part of London. It was there that she enjoyed hosting parties and dinners with her equally successful husband, Don Matthews. When the two were not in London, they enjoyed up to ten holidays abroad each year, travelling first class and staying in 5-star hotels, enjoying the best of absolutely everything that the world had to offer.
Yes, life for Willa and Don Matthews had been, by all accounts, perfect in every way. Except for just one.
But eight weeks ago, all of that had finally changed.
And now, Willa, at last, believed that she really had it all.
The adoption agency had finally found them a baby. And in the blink of an eye, Willa was a mother.
Still, it felt too good to be true. Most days, she had to pinch herself just to convince herself that it was all real. As delighted as she was, her intelligent, logical brain struggled to accept that someone out there had willingly given up a perfect little miracle, and he had been given to her.
“More drinks, ladies?” one of the women around the table asked hopefully, gesturing towards the empty jug.
Willa sighed and shook her head, placing the remainder of her glass down onto the table. “I’d better not,” she said, “no doubt I’ll be up again all night!” She tried to imitate the same fed-up tone that most mothers with young babies adopted because she enjoyed finally feeling like she was one of them. However, there was no concealing the joy that made her face seem to glow and made each word ring out like the lyric of a song. Truthfully, Willa loved the fact that the baby, little Patrick, woke up almost every hour during the night, crying for her. Needing her.
The other women nodded apologetically and offered mutters of advice, even though each of them knew full well that this was just the nature of newborns, and nothing could truly be done about their night-time antics. Whilst the conversation between friends sputtered to a natural end, Willa stood up and leaned down into the bassinet beside her chair, carefully lifting her sleeping son off of the mattress and onto her shoulder. He stirred, wrinkling his tiny face and letting out a tiny squeak of noise, causing fresh echoes of adoration from Willa’s friends.
Half an hour later, and Willa was standing at the foot of her driveway, still cradling Patrick’s sleeping body in her arms. She waved off the taxis, seeing off her visitors, secretly glad to finally be able to have her little boy all to herself once again.
She loved being the socialite- the lady of leisure; however, it didn’t even come close to being a mother.
“Now, are you hungry, little man?” she whispered, fussing with Patrick’s sun hat as she began to turn and walk back up the driveway. “Hmm? You want some…”
The sudden crack of a twig startled her.
Willa spun around, gripping her baby more tightly.
The Matthews’ home was a three-storey townhouse perched on a hill that lay at the end of a close of lavish houses. Its position meant that it was sort of tucked away out of sight from the rest of the neighbours- a feature which Willa had always loved. It was a romantic setting that gave off the impression that the house was isolated in the midst of a woodland; but was still conveniently close to central London, which she had grown so fond of.
But occasionally, it could feel eerie.
Only when she was alone, which she rarely was.
Willa almost always had company, and even when she didn’t, Don was never away for too long. On that particular day, he was at the golf course and would no doubt stay for a drink or two afterwards.
“Hello?” she called out, staring around the foot of the driveway. The taxi that had taken her friends was now out of sight, having crawled down the winding spiral of a slope that led down to the rest of the cul-de-sac.
A breeze came over her, colder this time, sending prickles of goose flesh running up and down her arms. But other than the gentle dancing of leaves and blades of grass, there was no movement. She was alone.
“Silly Mummy, eh?” she whispered to Patrick, shaking her head at her foolishness. But still, she hurried her pace as she padded back up the driveway and slipped back into the house. Once inside, with one hand, she double-locked the front door and then the porch door as well, just for good measure.
The rest of the evening progressed as normal, and soon enough, Willa had forgotten all about her bizarre moment of paranoia out on the driveway. She fed Patrick his milk, bathed him, read him a story, and then set him down to sleep in his side-sleeper that was attached to her side of the bed she shared with Don. Once she was sure the little boy was sound asleep, she ran herself a steaming hot bath, then attempted to call her husband.
He didn’t answer.
She tutted and rolled her eyes. No doubt he’d end up drinking too much and have to leave the car at the golf course.
Willa pulled off her summer dress and sank into the bubbling depths of the tub; t
he boiling, floral-scented liquid soothing her moderately sunburned skin as she leaned her head back and gazed up at the ceiling.
Yes, she thought to herself, as her heavy eyelids began to fall, this is the life.
When Willa opened her eyes again, the water had gone lukewarm.
Immediately, her heart began to thunder in her chest as the shrill echoes of her baby screaming spilled in from the hallway and bounced off the tiles of the bathroom.
The woman hurried out of the bath, not even pausing to drape her towel around herself as she sprinted from the bathroom, down the passage, and back into the darkness of her bedroom.
“Oh, Patrick!” she cried, tears of guilt and shame welling up in her eyes as she flicked on the light switch and saw the red-faced little bundle screeching his lungs out in the side sleeper. “Oh my darling, oh my baby…” she whispered, scooping his body up and holding him close to her chest. She rocked him, gently kissing his head as his cries quickly descended into quiet sniffles.
Willa glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was almost 11 pm. She’d been asleep for hours.
“Oh baby, you must be hungry,” she kissed Patrick’s squidgy cheek. She set him down on the bed and hurriedly pulled on her dressing gown before gathering him up again. “I wonder where Daddy is…” she muttered, bouncing him on her hip as she padded from the bedroom and stood at the top of the staircase.
For a moment, she paused there and looked down the steps at the well-lit landing. The air was tense and still. Far too quiet for her liking. But then, she sighed a breath of relief. By the front door, she noted Don’s golf clubs, and his shoes carelessly kicked off and left abandoned by their side.
“Oh silly Daddy,” she laughed, proceeding to descend the staircase. “I think he might have had just a bit too much to drink. Probably fell asleep in front of the television, silly man…”
Patrick, predictably, said nothing in response. Instead, his piercing blue eyes stared vacantly ahead as if he were deep in thought. Willa sighed as she got to the foot of the stairs and re-positioned the baby in her arms.
“Don?” she called out, “what’re you doing?”
She moved further down the downstairs hallway, peering into the dark, empty living room, then looking directly ahead at the state-of-the-art kitchen that took up the entirety of the back of the house.
The light, she noticed, was on.
A tight, prickling sensation constricted in the pit of her stomach, and a low, uncomfortable breath escaped her lips.
If Don had made a beeline for a kitchen, it usually only meant one thing, and that was that he was making himself another drink. This, in itself, did not concern Willa; however, her husband’s binge drinking had become a constant source of anxiety for her. What if Patrick’s social workers turned up one day to see empty whiskey bottles in the bin? Or the smell was still in the air, of Don himself was still hungover?
“For god’s sake,” she muttered angrily underneath her breath, quickening her pace as she stormed towards the archway of the kitchen.
“Don, I need to feed our son!” she barked, irritated. “So if you don’t…”
When she got to the doorway and caught sight of her carefully designed, open-plan kitchen, she froze and almost choked on her own words.
The designer tiles that she had agonised over for so long and the tasteful canvases that she and Don had selected together were ruined.
Stained.
Soiled.
Scarlet red splatter corrupted the pristine countertops, reminding Willa of a bowl of tomato soup she had dropped once as a child. But this was redder than tomato soup. It was bright red, more like the chicken tikka masala from the local Indian takeaway.
At first, her brow furrowed into a deep frown of confusion, absorbing the vast amount of space that the strange red concoction had covered. Then, the stench of iron hit her nostrils, causing her stomach to churn and boiling hot bile to climb up into her throat.
Suddenly, she felt afraid.
“Don?” she squeaked, forcing herself to take a few more steps forwards, past the marble breakfast bar, exposing the square of floor that she had not been able to see from the entrance to the kitchen.
In her arms, Patrick began to wail, unimpressed with the sudden shakiness of his adoptive mother’s hold.
He needn’t have worried because, in the next moment, he was slipping, falling from her grip, and smacking his head onto the cold, slippery tiles on the ground below. Willa’s bloodcurdling screams pierced his delicate ears, like screwdrivers being rammed into his brain.
Chapter Forty-seven
2019
It had started to rain. Wet, miserable slashes streaked the glass as the RV reluctantly crawled in front of Minnie’s family home, locking in Ross’s shitty camper van that had parked up on the drive. Truthfully, Minnie would have liked a few moments to collect herself and absorb the somehow terrifying image of her parent’s house glaring down at her, seemingly darker and towering in the downpour. The contents of the woman’s stomach churned and thrashed; acidic bile cruelly teasing the back of her throat. But, before Ronnie had even turned off the engine, Ross was getting out of the camper van and gesturing brightly to her. Paul got out the other side, pulling along a small, skinny figure behind him and racing around the vehicle to the front door.
“What’s the matter?” Ronnie challenged his voice as icy and sharp as freshly cut glass. “Cold feet?” Briskly, he pulled the keys from the ignition and called back into the main body of the RV for the kids. In the passenger seat beside him, Minnie remained frozen rigid, suddenly pregnant with nerves.
“You could say that,” Minnie replied distantly as she watched her brother come towards them through the blur of the window.
*
“My baby!” gasped Julie, her voice a long, drawn-out croak as she clung onto the door frame and half-staggered forwards.
Minnie breathed out, her chest immediately untightening as she stepped forwards and allowed herself to fall into her mother’s embrace, which was slightly frailer than she remembered. Around them, the reception area of their family home hung, different and unfamiliar to how Minnie remembered it.
“My baby, my baby, oh my god…” sobbed Julie into her daughter’s shoulder whilst Ross watched on, his eyes turning watery as he clutched his mouth.
Behind them, the kids stood, privately rolling their eyes at one another, completely sickened by this uncharacteristic display by their mother. Stella was particularly irritated at having to leave her new pet inside the RV. Despite his disapproval, Ronnie shot them all a warning glare. As much as all of this stunk of a terrible, terrible idea, it was not enough to deter him from making his wife happy. In his mind, the entire point of their lifestyle was that they could have whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted, regardless of the danger or potential consequences. If anyone pulled any funny shit, he’d concealed one of the guns from the caravan site on the inside of one of his boots and had also snuck one to Zach and one to Stella.
“Where have you been?” cried Julie, holding her daughter at arm’s length, her wrinkled eyes flitting up and down, examining every inch of her. “We thought… we thought…”
“Mum,” Ross chimed in, his voice deepening firmly, “remember. We’re not asking questions, right?”
Julie nodded quickly, “of course… of course, none of that matters. Not any more, I’m just… so pleased to see you, sweetheart…” she pulled Minnie close to her again, squeezing the air out of her lungs with her embrace.
“And Mum, look,” said Ross, gesturing shyly towards the kids and Ronnie, “more grandchildren. And a son-in-law!”
Julie’s mouth fell open as she gazed straight at Ronnie over Minnie’s shoulder. Her pupils flickered with recognition as she absorbed the familiar features that had been etched into her brain, from seeing his photo splashed across newspapers and news reports for so many weeks, many, many years ago.
“Hello, Ronnie,” she said stiffly, lips tightening.
“Hi, Mrs. Walter,” Ronnie coughed awkwardly. “Long time, no see.”
“Please,” said Julie, straightening up, “call me Julie.”
Ronnie nodded and felt his cheeks warm. How could it be, after all, he’d been through, that he still felt weirdly intimidated by Minnie’s mother? This weak, wrinkled old prune standing in front of him that he could snap in half if he really needed to.
“Where’s Dad?” Minnie asked in a small, choked voice.
Ross and Julie exchanged a look.
“Here, Min,” Ross said quickly, “I’ll take you in to see him. Meanwhile, Ronnie, why don’t you introduce Mum to the kids?”
“Oh, yes, please!” gushed Julie, nodding her approval at Ross and Minnie. The woman’s face brightened as she stepped forward and glanced over the four of them, standing in a height-ordered row like the Von Trapps. Ronnie noticed her lipsticked smile widen as she caught sight of Flo. “What’s your name, darling?”
“Fanny,” grinned Flo proudly, eyes twinkling wickedly as Lloyd stifled a snicker.
“It’s Flo,” Ronnie cut in, placing a subtle hand on Flo’s shoulder and pinching the flesh hard between his thumb and forefinger. “She’s a retard,” he smiled apologetically at Julie, whose sweet, grandmotherly smile had rapidly been replaced with a mild grimace.
“I see,” Julie frowned. “Well, Flo. How old are you? You know, you’ve got a little cousin who’s about your age.”
“How delightful,” Flo drawled sarcastically as Julie called out for someone named Annie.
Annie appeared just a few moments later, clinging tightly to her grandmother’s side as she shyly looked at the line-up of her four newfound cousins. Immediately, Flo recognised the girl as the skinny figure she’d watched dashing through the rain a few minutes ago. Looking at her now, face-to-face, Flo could see she was a flimsy little thing, pale-faced with wispy hair that was so fair that it was almost white. A runt.
“Hi Annie,” Flo greeted her, letting her face relax into a sweet, friendly smile. “So nice to meet you! My name is Flo.”