The Godsend

by Bernard Taylor

  “I found Bonnie’s hair-ribbon clutched in his hand. Later—I don’t know when—she must have taken it back again.”

  Kate wrenched herself from my grasp, but she couldn’t stop me talking and I kept pressing on.

  “Just before he died we thought he was behaving strangely towards Bonnie. He was. He was afraid of her. No, not afraid—terrified.”

  I told her then of the incident when he had complained of Bonnie pulling his hair, when I had found them together in the nursery, and how, later, I had discovered a piece of his hair in the waste-bin—a piece torn from his scalp. “She had the strength,” I said. “She had the strength for it all. Sam told the truth when he said she had wrecked his toy cart. She did do it. It needed unnatural power for such a small child, but she’s got it. She proved that this afternoon. But I wouldn’t believe Sam. I thought he was lying. But she did it. She did everything!”

  “For God’s sake, stop!” Kate shouted. She turned and swept into the kitchen. I followed. She reached the sink and whirled to face me again.

  “You keep talking about Sam and Davie and Matthew, and I don’t want to talk about them! They’re gone! Gone . . . !” She turned back towards the clutter of cutlery and dirty dishes. “All I’ve got left are Lucy—and Bonnie. And now you’re trying to turn me against her.”

  “The reason there’s only Bonnie and Lucy left,” I said, “is because Bonnie murdered our other children. It happened, Kate. You won’t wake up and find it’s all been a nightmare. It’s real. Your daughter almost died today.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  There was no getting through to her at all. Determinedly she turned and made herself busy at the sink, running the hot water, rinsing dishes, squeezing in the washing-up liquid. I stood watching her, seeing the sag of her shoulders that belied her dismissing words. With her back to me she said:

  “You’re making Bonnie out to be some kind of awful—monster. How can you. You’ve only got to look at her.”

  “Yes. She’s the picture of innocence. As innocent-looking as a new-born chick.” A thought came to me suddenly. “Do you know what the cuckoo does—?”

  She moved to face me. “—The cuckoo—?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “What are you talking about? Now you’re on about birds! I think you must be ill.”

  “I heard a cuckoo this afternoon. There was something about its call that—that—stirred something in me. I know now what it was . . .”

  “Yes, you’re ill,” she repeated. “You’re ill.”

  “Listen,” I insisted. “Just listen to me! There’s something different about the cuckoo. It’s not like other birds—”

  “My God!” She moved her hands so quickly, in such a wild gesture, that soap suds flew in small white flecks like snow. “I don’t believe this conversation! I just don’t believe it!”

  “The cuckoo doesn’t build a nest. You know that, don’t you?”

  “—So—?” Her voice had taken on a note of false tolerance, as if she were humouring somebody slightly off-balance.

  “No,” I said, “instead—she—the female cuckoo—finds another nest, waits till it’s unguarded, then lays her egg in it and flies away.”

  “If you’re trying to give me a nature lesson,” she said dispar­agingly, “you’re a bit late. I learned all this in junior school.”

  I nodded. “So you know. You know that the owner of the nest hatches the cuckoo’s egg along with her own. And that when it’s born, the baby cuckoo does everything possible to make sure it gets the best of everything. And that means everything—food, space, love. It needs it all in order to survive. So what happens to the other eggs?—any other chicks that hatch out?”

  “You’re the teacher.” Her voice was full of disdain.

  “I’ll tell you. Any eggs that are unhatched the cuckoo chick just heaves over the side of the nest. And if any of the other chicks have already hatched then it does the same to them too. Out!”

  “Good boy,” she said witheringly. “Now go to the top of the class.”

  “Whatever happens,” I said, “not one of the eggs or the other chicks gets a chance. They all die. The cuckoo chick is born with one deadly instinct—to kill off any possible rival. And it does just that. Kills all of them. It only rests when, at last, it’s got the nest to itself. That, and the complete and undivided attention of its foster-­parents. Only then is it happy—content.”

  Silence. We stood there looking at each other. And gradually the disdainful expression left her face, to be replaced by sadness and strain. When she spoke she sounded pathetic, lost and frightened. I had exposed her to another kind of reality. One she could not possibly live with.

  “Alan . . . please . . . Please stop. I don’t know what you’re saying . . . and I don’t want to know.” She began to cry, twisting the handle of the dish-mop in her nervous fingers. “It’s all a nightmare. You said it isn’t, but it is.”

  “It’s real, Kate.”

  “It can’t be! Not in life! That’s in books. It doesn’t happen to people. Not real people. We live in London . . . London. We’re ordinary people. How could such a thing happen to ordinary people!”

  “I can’t explain it . . . I don’t know how.”

  “But—but—Bonnie—Not Bonnie. Not Bonnie. Please.”

  She threw herself into my arms, her wet, soapy hands holding on to me tightly. I soothed her—tried to—wrapping her close, stroking her dishevelled hair.

  “Don’t cry,” I whispered. “Don’t cry, darling. It’ll be all right . . .”

  “How can it be all right?” She was weeping against my shoulder. “How can it when you’ve just said all these things—? It can’t be—ever.”

  “It will be,” I said. I paused. “Later.”

  She looked up at me. “What do you mean?”

  “Well—Bonnie must go away.”

  She stared at me incredulously.

  “NO!!!”

  Shrieking out, she tore herself from me, backing up against the sink. “She’s our daughter. Our daughter!”

  “She’s not our daughter!” I shouted. “God knows whose daughter she is, but she’s not ours!”

  “She is!”

  “No, Kate. She never was. She never will be.”

  “But I’ve looked after her. I’ve loved her as much as if she were my own. I fed her from my own breast. She’s a part of me. She is! And you can’t send her away! I won’t let you!”

  “Bonnie’s got to go,” I said through gritted teeth. My voice was unsteady, but I was full of determination. “And soon.”

  “Never!”

  For a second she was facing me, then the next she was rushing past me, out through the kitchen doorway and into the hall. I turned and watched as she swept Bonnie up into her arms.

  How long had Bonnie been standing there at the bottom of the stairs? How long had she been listening? I saw her cling to Kate, heard her wail as it rang through the flat.

  “Have I got to go away, Mummy? Have I? Oh, don’t let Daddy send me away! Don’t! Oh, Mummy, please don’t!”

  “Hush, darling,” Kate said. “No one’s going to send you away. Not our Bonnie. Not my Bonnie.” She looked at me over Bonnie’s golden curls, repeating her last words with a look of hatred and disgust.

  “No one.”

  FIFTEEN

  Lying sleepless that night on my side of the bed, I listened to Kate’s breathing. She was awake too. Our bodies didn’t touch.

  I thought about all that had happened that day. I thought of her secretive happiness before I had left with the children for the park; and her words—“Perhaps I’ll tell you . . . when you get back . . .” I thought of her warmth then and her coldness now. And I marvelled again that things could have reached such a pass.

  Perhaps I’m really asleep, I thought. Like she had said—it was all a nightmare. Soon I would wake and find that all the horror had been just a bad dream—some dreadful dream that would vanish with the sun-light and th
e voices of my four children, Matthew, Davie, Sam and Lucy . . .

  No. I knew it was all too real. Matthew and Davie and Sam were gone forever.

  Beside me in the bed Kate’s breathing was all too controlled. There was no rest in our London flat. We had come here seeking comfort, forgetfulness and peace, and here we were, like strangers in a railway-carriage. No rest. None at all. Certainly not for me, knowing that in the next room my daughter slept next to a golden-haired, rosy-cheeked assassin.

  Yes—I said to myself, lying there in the darkness—Bonnie must go. But how? Kate would never let her go.

  So I made my decision. If Bonnie did not go, then I must take Lucy away. And at the first opportunity. To hell with the consequences, all I knew was that she had to be taken to safety.

  Kate hardly spoke to me all the next day, keeping her words down to the bare minimum that would suffice to get across any necessary information. On a couple of occasions I tried to bring her round, but it was no good, and in the end I stopped trying.

  When bed-time came I became aware that she was showing no signs of going up to our room. She didn’t want to sleep with me, I realised. I watched her for a few moments as she sat in the chair opposite my own, seemingly engrossed in a novel.

  “Aren’t you tired?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Kate . . . ?”

  She said quickly, still looking down at her book:

  “I just don’t feel like going to bed.”

  “. . . Why . . . ?”

  A shrug.

  “Tell me why, Kate.”

  Her lips were set, eyes steady on the page before her. She wasn’t going to answer. After a while, I said:

  “Perhaps it would be better if . . . if I made up a bed for myself down here . . .”

  She looked at me then. But coldly.

  “You must do as you wish.”

  “It isn’t what I wish,” I said quickly. “I just can’t get near you. I can’t reach you. Any attempt to hold a conversation with you is like pushing treacle uphill.”

  “I should think you’d said enough after yesterday. I’m surprised you’ve got anything left to say.”

  “Kate, why don’t we stop all this? Please. We’ve never been like this together in our lives before.”

  She answered sharply: “You never threatened to take one of our children away before!”

  I sat helplessly wondering what I could do, what I could say to make her see that there was reason in the incredible story I had offered her. Her voice cut into my thoughts.

  “You know where the spare bedding is.”

  “. . . Yes . . .”

  From a cupboard I took sheets and blankets. I got my own pillow and then arranged it all on the sofa. She looked up from her book, watching me in silence, but made no offer to help. There was such a barrier between us now that I could think of nothing that would dissolve it.

  Later, when I looked around, I found myself alone in the room. She had gone upstairs—just gone—without even a word.

  I lay back on the makeshift bed, fully dressed, feeling lost, unhappy and totally bewildered. Above me I could hear the sounds of her slippered feet as she moved around the bedroom. And suddenly I realised that I must act tonight. Her need for solitude had given me the perfect opportunity.

  In the dark I made my plan, then after a while I put on the light and sat up, smoking, waiting for the time to pass.

  At last I got to my feet. It had been silent up above me now for quite some time. The clock told me ten to one. Very quietly I moved about the room collecting things into a hold-all. I did it slowly, careful not to make the slightest sound. Nothing must waken her.

  In the hall I put down the bag and slipped on my raincoat, making sure the car keys were in my pocket. Then, conscious of the very sound of my own breathing, I crept silently up the stairs and eased open the door of the girls’ room. Noiselessly I moved across the carpet and switched on the light above Lucy’s bed. She slept soundly, not stirring as the warm light lit the soft lines of her face. I bent closer to her and breathed her name.

  “Lucy . . .”

  She didn’t move. I spoke her name again, closer still at her ear, at the same time touching her shoulder. I waited breathlessly as she stirred, her eyelids fluttering, then watched impatiently as she settled back into sleep again. I shook her gently, whispering imperatively in the stillness.

  “Lucy, wake up . . .”

  Sleepily her eyes opened and she looked up at me, uncomprehending. Her gaze widened. I put a finger to my lips.

  “Ssshhhh . . .”

  I looked round towards Bonnie’s bed and assured myself that she was asleep. I said, very softly, but clearly:

  “Lucy darling, I want you to get up. But quietly. So, so quietly . . .”

  “Is it morning yet?” She frowned slightly.

  “No, not yet. I’ll explain later. Be a good girl and don’t ask any questions now . . .” I saw the perplexed expression still on her face and added, forcing a smile, “It’s a secret.”

  She smiled at me, drowsily, then closed her eyes and turned, ready to drift off once more. Quickly I lifted her into a sitting position. “Don’t go back to sleep, darling. You’ve got to get up.”

  “Why?” Her own voice came in a whisper.

  “We’re going out.” Putting my hands under her arms I pulled her from the warmth of the sheets and sat down beside her, supporting her on the edge of the bed. She sagged against me, her arms reaching up to curl around my neck.

  “Come on. Hurry, please. There’s a good girl . . .”

  I dragged two blankets from the bed and wrapped them about her. Standing up, I lifted her into my arms. She was warm and soft against me and just for a second I held her close, aware of her vulnerability, how precious she was to me. Her breathing and the weight of her body now told me that she was asleep again. Quietly, so as not to disturb her, I turned and reached out to the lamp. It was then I saw that Bonnie was wide-awake.

  She lay there, her eyes looking into mine above the pink line of the sheet. There was a little smile on her face—barely discernible, but there. She knew what was happening.

  For an instant panic surged in me—she would cry out—she would yell for Kate—! But then, just as swiftly, the fear dissolved. No, she wouldn’t shout. She was glad. I was taking Lucy away. It was just what she wanted.

  I tore my eyes from her steady gaze and switched off the light. When I left the room just seconds later I didn’t even bother to close the door behind me. Bonnie wouldn’t raise the alarm.

  At the foot of the stairs I fumbled in the dark with the chain and the big key of the front door. Lucy was still asleep—so heavy on my left arm, but I didn’t want to put her down. There’d be time enough for her awakening.

  Damn the catch! It wouldn’t budge under my fingers. I cursed myself for not having fixed it weeks ago as I’d continually told myself I must. I switched on the hall light—had to risk it—and put my shoulder against the wood in an effort to release the lock. Still no good, though Lucy, jolted suddenly awake, opened her eyes and stared about her in surprise.

  “Where are we going, Daddy? What’s happening?”

  “Ssshhh. It’s a secret, I told you.” I tried to hint, with my whisper, of secret treats in store. Make a game of it, I thought.

  “Yes,” she nodded, “a secret,” and yawned. “Let me get down. Can I?”

  “Okay . . .” There was no reason now why not, and the door needed both hands.

  “Is Bonnie coming with us?” she asked as I set her bare feet on the mat.

  “No.”

  “Where’s Mummy?”

  “Sssshhh!” I said sharply. “Don’t waken her. She’s asleep.”

  Following my words the door-catch snapped back with the sharpness of a pistol-shot. I looked round in alarm and Lucy, seeing the fear in my face, cried out in panic.

  “I don’t want to go. I want Mummy!”

  Next moment she was off up the stairs.


  I took the steps three at a time and grabbed her just as she reached the landing, my hands catching her roughly about the waist. She gave a cry of surprise and fear, but I didn’t hesitate as I swept her up into my arms. Just as I turned to make my way back down again I saw a hairline of light appear down one side of Kate’s door. It didn’t matter now that Lucy wailed, “I don’t want to go! I don’t want to!”—Kate was awake and all I could do was to get down to the car before she caught us.

  At the foot of the stairs the front door yawned. I snatched up the hold-all and, with Lucy struggling frantically against me, hurried over the threshold. I turned immediately then and tried to slam the door shut behind me—give Kate something to cope with, delay her pursuit—but I couldn’t manage it and, angry at the wasted moments, I dashed on towards the stairs. Halfway down the first flight I knew I would have to move even more quickly: behind me, very clearly, I could hear Kate’s cry of alarm. Lucy heard it too, and screamed out in answer.

  “Mummy!”

  Her head bobbed on my shoulder with each jolting step I took. I held her roughly, desperately, while the panic that enveloped me communicated itself, meeting her own panic, so that she cried out even louder. As I started down the second flight, Kate’s screams echoed in the well of the stairs. She wasn’t far behind. I moved faster still.

  “Mummy! Mummy! Mummy!”

  Lucy was sobbing and shrieking hysterically now, and her voice joined with Kate’s. The stairway rang with their screams. I dashed on down, forced to stop at the first-floor landing in order to get her in a more secure position. And it wasn’t easy. She struggled and squirmed in my grasp and it was all I could do to get her back in my arms again. “Be quiet!” I said through gritted teeth. “I’m not going to hurt you.” But she kept on, shouting, screaming and crying, while up above, and coming closer all the time, came Kate’s running footsteps, her voice shrieking out, “Stop! Alan . . . stop . . . !”

  I couldn’t. I mustn’t. One flight to go. Turning, I headed down the stairs towards the main hall. I still had a chance. I was only yards away from the front door—and then, suddenly, my way was barred—by the old man who lived in the flat on the right.