by Sarah Lotz
Mrs Wallbank blinked at me, and I tried to make a joke of it.
Feeling that sense of relief I always feel whenever I’m not around her, I ran out of there.
Outside, I tried to ignore the hacks’ usual questions: ‘When are you going to let Marilyn see her granddaughter?’ I muttered the usual bollocks about ‘when Jess is feeling up to it’, etc. etc. Then I jumped in Stephen’s Audi and just drove around a bit. Found myself in the heart of Bromley. I parked and went to Marks & Spencer to buy something special for Jess’s first-day-back-at-school supper. And all along I knew I was just playing a part. Pretending to be the caring uncle. But I can’t… I can’t stop thinking about Stephen and Shelly–the real Stephen and Shelly, not the Stephen who comes to me at night–and it’s only the thought of not letting them down that keeps me going. I keep thinking that if I throw myself into the part, eventually it will become reality. Eventually I’ll get back onto an even keel.
Anyway, I was standing in the queue, clutching a basket full of those ghastly pasta ready-meals Jess likes so much, when I found my eyes drifting over to the Wines of the World section. Pictured myself sitting down, right there, and gulping bottle after bottle of Chilean red until my stomach exploded. ‘Come on, love,’ the old woman behind me said, ‘there’s a till open,’ and that snapped me out of it. The cashier recognised me straight away. Gave me what I’ve come to call a standard ‘supportive smile’. ‘How’s she doing?’ she whispered conspiratorially.
‘Why’s it always about her?’ I almost snapped. I forced out something along the lines of, ‘she’s doing wonderfully, thanks so much for caring,’ and somehow managed to leave without punching her in the face or buying the whole of the alcohol aisle.
24 April, 11.28 p.m.
I’m doing okay this week, Mandi. It’s better now that she’s at school. We even spent an evening together watching a The Only Way Is Essex marathon. She loves that appalling reality programme, can’t seem to get enough of spray-tanned morons talking utter shit to each other in nightclubs, which should worry me slightly. But I suppose all her friends at school are into that kind of rubbish, so I should look at it as reassuringly normal behaviour. She’s still relentlessly cheerful and well-behaved (just once I wish she’d throw a tantrum or refuse to go to bed). I keep convincing myself that Dr K’s right, that of course her behaviour is going to change after going through all that trauma. It’ll just take time for us to adjust. ‘Jess,’ I asked, during a commercial break–a relief from all the banality on screen. ‘You and me… we’re okay, right?’
‘Of course we are, Uncle Paul.’ And for the first time in ages I thought, it’s going to be fine. I’ll get over this.
I even phoned Gerry to let him know I was ready to get back to work. He asked about the recordings of course, said your publishers were on his back, desperate for me to send through more material, and I made my usual excuses. They’d have an orgasm if I sent this through unedited.
But I’ll sort it out. Yeah.
25 April, 4.00 p.m.
Phew. Big big day, Mandi. Darren’s just left (God, he can be an anal twat, went through the cupboards and the fridge to check what Jess was eating, which I’m fairly sure isn’t standard procedure), when the phone rang. As you know, it’s usually either the press or a tenacious religious freak who’s somehow managed to scalp or bribe someone to get my new number. But today, surprise, surprise, it was one of the alien abduction people. They’ve been keeping schtum since I sicced the cops onto them just after Jess got out of hospital. I almost hung up straight away, but something stopped me. The guy calling–Simon somebody–sounded fairly reasonable. Said he was phoning to see how I was doing. Not Jess, but me. I had to be careful; ten to one the phone’s being hacked, so I let him do most of the talking. I didn’t really have to say much to be fair. As I listened, I almost felt like I was watching myself from across the room. I knew it was mental to give him the time of day. He says that what the aliens do–he called them ‘the others’, like in a lazily scripted B-movie–is abduct people, place a microchip inside their body and use ‘alien technology’ to control them. He says they’re in cahoots with the government. It made me… why not be honest? No one else is going to hear this. Shit, okay… Look, on some level it made a weird kind of sense.
I mean… what if Black Thursday is a government experiment thingy after all? There are an awful lot of people who believe there’s no way those kids could have survived those crashes. And I don’t mean the obvious nutters like those Bible bashers. Or the freaks who think the kids are possessed by the devil. Even that investigator who came to ask Jess if she remembered anything about the crash stared at her as if he couldn’t believe she was alive. Sure, in the Japanese crash there were other people who initially survived the impact, but they didn’t last long. And how exactly did Jess survive? Most of the other bodies… well, they were in pieces, weren’t they? And that Maiden Airlines plane looked like it had been through a blender when they started dredging it up from the Everglades.
Okay… deep breath, Paul. Calm the fuck down. Lack of sleep, it can screw with your mind, can’t it?
29 April, 3.37 a.m.
He’s back. Three nights in a row now.
It sounds crazy, but I’m getting used to it. I no longer get a fright when I wake up and see him sitting there.
Last night I tried to talk to him again. ‘What are you trying to tell me, Stephen?’
But he just said the same thing he always says, then disappeared. The smell is getting worse. I can still smell it on the sheets, even now. Rotten fish. Rotten… flesh. Fuck. I can’t be imagining that, can I? Can I?
And… I have an admission. I’m not proud of it.
I couldn’t take it last night. I left the house at four a.m.–yeah, that’s right, leaving Jess alone–and drove to the all-night Tesco’s in Orpington. Bought myself a half-jack of Bells.
By the time I got home it was empty.
Hid the bottle under the bed with the others. Mrs E-B may be my new sneaky fag ally, but she’d be horrified at the number of empties I’m collecting. I’m getting out of control; got to cut back again. Got to stop this shit.
30 April
So much for my resolution to get my act together.
I’ve just been through Jess’s bedroom. I don’t know what I was expecting to find. A ‘To Serve Man’ manual maybe, like in that old Twilight Zone episode, ha ha.
(Paul’s laughter makes way to sobbing)
It’s okay. I’m okay.
But she is different. She is. There’s no getting away from that. She’s even taken down all her old Missy K posters. Maybe aliens have good taste.
(Another laugh that turns into a sob)
But… how can she not be Jess?
It has to be me.
But…
It’s getting harder to hide all this from Darren. I can’t allow myself to crack. Not now. I need to cover all bases. Get to the bottom of this. I’ve even considered giving in and taking her to see Marilyn. But would the fat cow even be able to tell if there’s something different about Jess? Shelly hated going round there, so Marilyn saw the girls less than I did. I suppose it’s worth a shot. She is Jess’s flesh and blood, isn’t she?
But in the meantime, I asked Petra, one of the yummy mummies at Jess’s school, to bring her daughter Summer over to play this afternoon. Petra’s always emailing and calling and asking if there’s anything she can do to help, so she jumped at the chance. She even offered to collect the girls from school and bring them here.
So… I’m leaving the recorder in Jess’s bedroom. Just to check. Just to be sure. See what Jess talks about when I’m not around. It’s what a good uncle would do, isn’t it? Maybe Jess is in pain and will open up to Summer and then I’ll know that the way she’s behaving is because she has what Dr K calls ‘unexplored trauma’. They’ll be here in five minutes.
(Sound of approaching children’s voices, which get gradually louder)
‘… So you can be R
ainbow Dash and I’ll be Princess Luna. Unless you want to be Rarity?’
‘Have you got all of the ponies, Jess?’
‘Yeah. Paul bought them for me. He also bought me Pageant Gown Barbie. Here.’
‘Oh cool! She’s so beautiful. But it’s not even your birthday.’
‘I know. You can have her if you like. Paul can get me a new one.’
‘Really? You’re the bestest! Jess… what are you going to do with all of Polly’s toys?’
‘Nothing.’
‘And, Jess… did it hurt? When you got burned?’
‘Yes.’
‘Will the scars go away?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘What doesn’t?’
‘If they go away or not.’
‘Mummy says it’s a miracle you got out of that plane. She says I’m not to ask you questions about it in case it makes you cry.’
‘I’m not going to cry!’
‘Mummy says you can cover the scars with make-up later on so that people won’t stare.’
‘C’mon! Let’s play!’
(For the next fifteen minutes the girls play ‘My Little Pony meets Barbie in Essex’)
(Distant sound of Paul’s voice calling them to come downstairs for a snack)
‘Aren’t you coming, Jess?’
‘You go first. I’ll get the ponies. They can eat with us.’
‘ ’Kay. Can I really have Pageant Gown Barbie?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re my bestest friend ever, Jess.’
‘I know. Now you go first.’
‘ ’Kay.’
(The Dictaphone captures the sound of Summer leaving the room. There’s a pause of several seconds, followed by the sounds of approaching footsteps and breathing. Then, a second later: ‘Hello, Uncle Paul.’)
When I flew to London to meet with my UK publishers a few days after Jess’s funeral in July, Marilyn Adams invited me to interview her at her residence, a well-maintained, three-bedroomed council house, filled with mod-cons.
Marilyn is waiting for me on the couch, her oxygen tank close to hand. As I’m about to start the interview, she digs out a box of cigarettes from the side of the couch, lights up and takes a deep drag.
Don’t tell the boys, will you, love? I know I shouldn’t, but after all this business… How can it hurt? A ciggy is my only bit of comfort these days.
I know what you’ve read in the papers, love, but we didn’t really have bad feelings towards Paul back then, other than him wanting to keep Jess away from us. I had a cousin who was like that, a gay, I mean. We’re not bigoted, honest to God. Lots of them about aren’t there, and I love that Graham Norton. But the press… well, they twist your words around, don’t they? Do I blame Shelly for giving Paul custody? Not really. She just wanted a better life for herself and the girls, and who can blame her? Never had much growing up. I know people think we’re scroungers, but we have every right to live how we want to live, don’t we? You try getting a sodding job these days.
Some people think we only wanted Jess because we were after Stephen and Shelly’s house and all that insurance money. I’d be lying if I said it wouldn’t have come in handy, but that was the furthest thought from our minds, honest to God. We really just wanted to spend time with little Jess. It dragged on and on, and some days the stress would just get so much I could barely sleep. ‘You’re going to give yourself a heart attack with all that worrying, Mum,’ the boys kept saying. So in the end, when I got really ill, I backed off, decided not to get the lawyers involved. Thought it would be for the best. Jessie could always come and find us when she was older, couldn’t she?
So when Paul rang and asked if we wanted to see Jess, well, you could have knocked me over with a feather. The social had been promising for ages that they would do what they could, but I didn’t put any store in what they said. We were all dead excited. We thought it would be best not to overwhelm her, it can be right chaos here sometimes when we all get together, so I decided that it would be just me, the boys and her cousin Jordan, who was closest to her age. I told little Jordan that his cousin was coming for a visit and he said, ‘But isn’t she an alien, Nana?’ His dad went to cuff him round the ear, but Jordie was only repeating something he’d heard at school. ‘How could anyone believe any of that bollocks?’ Keith would always say whenever one of those bloody Americans started up about The Three being out of the Bible or whatever it was they was saying. He said the buggers should be sued for defamation, but that wasn’t up to us, was it?
I got a right shock when the social worker dropped her off. She’d shot up like a tree since I’d last seen her. All those photographs in the press didn’t do her justice. The scars on her face weren’t too bad, made her skin look a bit tighter and shinier, that was all.
I nudged Jordan and told him to go up and give her a hug. He did as he was told, although I could see he wasn’t too keen.
Jase went out and got us all a McDonald’s, and I asked Jessie all about school and her friends and that. She was a right little chatter-box. Bright as a button. Didn’t seem at all out of her depth around us. I was a bit surprised, to be honest. The last time I’d seen her, she was dead shy, her and her sister Polly. Hung around their mother’s skirts whenever Shelly brought them over. A pair of little princesses, me and the boys used to joke. Not rough and tumble like the others. Not that we saw the twins often, mind. Shelly only really brought them round on Christmas and birthdays, and there was a right set-to one year when Brooklyn bit Polly. But Brooklyn was only a toddler back then; she didn’t know what she was doing.
‘Why don’t you go show Jessie your room, Jordan? Maybe she wants to play on the Wii?’ I said.
‘She looks funny,’ Jordan said. ‘Her face is funny.’
I gave him a smack and told Jess not to take any notice.
‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘My face is funny. It wasn’t supposed to happen. It was a mistake.’ She shook her head as if she was a thousand years old. ‘Sometimes we get it wrong.’
‘Who gets it wrong, love?’ I asked.
‘Oh, just us,’ she said. ‘Come on, Jordan. I’ll tell you a story. I have lots of stories.’
Off they went, the two of them, Jess and Jordan. It warmed my heart seeing them together like that. Family’s important, isn’t it?
I find it hard to get up the stairs these days, what with my lungs like they are, so I asked Jase to pop up and keep an eye on them. He said they were getting on like a house on fire, Jessie talking ten to the dozen. Before you knew it, it was time to send her home.
‘Would you like to come again, Jess?’ I asked her. ‘Spend more time with your cousins?’
‘Yes please, Nana,’ she said. ‘That was interesting.’
After the bloke from the social had collected her, I asked Jordan what he thought of Jess, if he thought she’d changed and that, but he shook his head. Wouldn’t say much about her at all. I asked him what they’d been talking about all afternoon, but he said he couldn’t remember. I didn’t press him on it.
Paul phoned me that evening, and I got a right shock again when I heard his voice! Civil he was, as well. Asked me if I’d noticed anything strange about Jess. His words. Said he was a bit concerned about her.
I told him what I’m telling you now, that she was a lovely little girl, a real joy to be around.
He seemed to find this funny, laughed like a ruddy drain, but before I could ask him what was amusing, he hung up.
Course, it wasn’t that long afterwards that we heard what he’d done.
Lillian Small.
The call came in at six that morning, and I rushed to answer it before it woke Reuben. I hadn’t been sleeping well since that day at the museum, and I’d got into the habit of slipping out of bed at around five, in order to spend a few minutes alone and settle my nerves before I discovered which husband I would be facing.
‘Who is this?’ I snapped into the phone. If it was one of the papers or a meshugener taking a c
hance by calling so early, I wasn’t in a mood to treat them lightly.
There was a pause, and then the caller introduced himself as Paul Craddock, Jessica’s uncle. His clipped English accent reminded me of one of those characters on that Cavendish Hall show Betsy never stopped talking about. It was a strange conversation, full of long, uncomfortable pauses, although you’d think we’d have lots to talk about. I remember thinking how strange it was that neither of us had thought to be in contact before. The children were always being linked together in the news articles, and every so often, the producers of one of the big talk shows would get it into their heads to try to get all three children to appear together, but I always turned them down. I could immediately pick up that there was something not right with Paul; I suppose I put it down to the time difference or maybe a distortion on the line. He finally managed to make himself clear. He wanted to know if I’d noticed anything different about Bobby, if his personality or behaviour had changed after the crash.
It was the same sort of question those damn reporters were always asking and I was short with him. He apologised for disturbing me and hung up without saying goodbye.
I was agitated after the call, couldn’t settle down. Why would he ask me something like that? I knew that Paul, like me and the family of that little Japanese boy, must be suffering under the pressure of all the press attention. I suppose I also felt guilty that I’d been so short with him. He’d sounded troubled, like he needed to talk.
And I was tired of feeling guilty. Guilty about not sending Bobby back to school; for not taking Reuben back to Dr Lomeier so he could be seen by the specialist; for hiding his condition from Betsy. Like Charmaine, who still called to check up on us every week, Betsy had been there for me from the beginning, but I couldn’t shift the feeling that what was happening to Reuben was my private miracle. And my private burden. I knew what would happen if the story got out. The ridiculous story about the little Japanese boy interacting with that robot his father made him was all over the news for days.