The weekend in Norwich turned out to be a good idea. If Mags had stayed home, she would have rattled round the house and driven herself crazy. Being in a hotel, in a city she had never visited, where no one knew her, was perfect. She felt like a ghost, drifting around the streets in perfect anonymity. Her thoughts drifted to her daughter, but she could relax knowing she was only a twenty-minute drive away. Not that anything would happen, she told herself, despite knowing logic could never overcome the implacable force of a mother's fear.
Mags knew how it felt to lose a daughter.
Bradley called once, on the first evening. Mags had never enjoyed talking to him on the phone. She needed to see his face. The unfounded suspicions she had worked to quell in years of therapy were more likely to come back when she couldn't look into his eyes. He asked all the right questions, was solicitous as to her health and state of mind, but it was as if he were working his way down a checklist. She was glad when the call ended, then felt guilty at her sense of relief.
She only called the Guide centre once, although her finger had hovered over phone at least a dozen times since she had left Tam. Mrs Greaves had reassured her. "The girls are fine. Tam was first up to the top of the climbing wall this afternoon. She's really taken to it. Such a lovely girl, I'll tell her you called."
"No, no, please don't. She'll just think I'm checking up on her." Which I am, thought Mags. "I'm glad she's okay. See you tomorrow."
Just as Mrs Greaves, Bradley, and Tam had predicted, the weekend passed without a hitch. Tam was a ball of energy when Mags arrived.
"It was amazing, Mum. I found a secret passage in the house, and a girl from Cambridge ate a worm for a dare, and we went to sleep after midnight last night, and I learned how to roll over in the canoe, and it was amazing, and cool."
Mrs Greaves herded the girls towards the door, Mags following.
"Can I borrow you for two minutes, Mrs Barkworth?"
The girls were already loading their cases into the car. "Get belted in," called Mags.
Mrs Greaves led her into a small office. Mags paled. "Is Tam okay? What happened?"
The Guide leader shook her head. "Nothing to worry about. It's just… well, it's better if I show you."
Mrs Greaves took a phone out of her pocket and thumbed the screen, flicking through photographs. "You saw the whiteboard outside? It's where we write each day's activities. When I came down first thing yesterday morning, someone had rubbed everything out."
"What? You think Tam might have… no, I'm sure she would never do anything like that. She's not that kind of girl."
"I know." Mrs Greaves stopped what she was doing and handed the phone to Mags. "I found this on the board."
It was another picture. Mags knew immediately it was Tam's work. The similarities were too distinct to be a coincidence. Again, it was a picture of a house, seen from a low vantage point. This time, there was a fence between the artist and the building, and much of the detail could be seen through gaps in the wooden panels. The house beyond was smaller than the first one, brick built rather than clapboard. Mags could see a yard with a swing, a plastic ride-on tractor and a few discarded toys. There was a large window to the left. In the room beyond, pans hung from hooks. There was a woman inside, facing away, a long plaited ponytail reaching down to the small of her back.
"I wasn't sure what to do," said Mrs Greaves. "I was amazed and annoyed at the same time. Whoever had done it had come down during the night, and even though it's a fantastic picture, we lost our whole schedule for the day. It took half an hour to do it again. I took a photograph, then wiped the board clean. I don't know if I did the right thing. I felt bad doing it. Such talent. I was angry, though. I'm sorry."
"No, no," Mags said. "I understand. How did you know it was Tam? Did she say something?"
"No. But she had blue marker pen all over her fingers when she came down to breakfast. When I asked about it, she was surprised. I know when a girl is fibbing, and Tam was telling the truth. Has she ever walked in her sleep before?"
"No." Mags didn't know what to say. She gave the phone back. "Could you send me a copy, please?"
Her phone pinged when Mrs Greaves sent it across.
"I'm sorry she ruined your schedule," said Mags.
"I don't think she even knew she'd done it. We often have a sleepwalker, or a wet bed. It can be a reaction to being away from home for the first time. We don't draw attention to it."
"Thank you. I appreciate it."
Mags put her phone in her bag and walked out to the car.
When Bradley called the following night, Mags considered not telling him about the picture. After reminding herself to notice when she was being irrational, she changed her mind. Bradley deserved to hear about it. Ria had pointed out he had lost a daughter too. Of course he wanted to soak up every bit of information about Tam, especially when he was away so much.
"Well, there was one thing," she began.
"What thing?"
She told him about the whiteboard. While she talked, she emailed the photograph to him. Seconds into her story, something happened that didn't help her paranoia one bit.
"Honey?"
"Yes?"
She heard a muted click, and a change to the quality of the line. "Sorry," he said open, "just closing my office door. I couldn't hear you. Tell me again. From the beginning. You picked Tam up, and the Guide leader took you aside, right?"
Mags hesitated. "Are you recording this?" Even as she spoke, she wished she hadn't. How was he supposed to respond? If he wasn't recording the call, he would worry about her mental state, and if he was, well… she didn't want to think about the implications.
"Honey, are you okay? You've been so much better recently, but remember what Ria said. If you're getting too anxious, you need to consider going back onto some form of medication."
Mags rubbed her forehead. She should have kept her mouth shut. "No, no, I'm fine. I heard a click. That's all." It sounded pathetic when she said it out loud. "I think I'll have an early night. I'm tired. "
"Good idea, honey. Look after yourself. You and Tam are the most important people in my life. Tell me about the picture, then maybe you should go to bed."
Mags told him. It was only later, as she turned out her bedside lamp, that she wondered—if Bradley was so concerned for her well-being—why he'd insisted on hearing about the new picture before letting her go to sleep.
Chapter Nine
Bradley came home buoyant—a possible breakthrough at work, apparently—and went on a charm offensive. Mags had been dreading the moment he brought up her paranoid phone call, but, when he did, he surprised her.
"Mags, let's talk," he said, pouring her a glass of Valpolicella.
Tam had already eaten, been read to and was fast asleep. Bradley had cooked his roast beef sandwich, a dish which had once sounded boring to Mags, until she tried Bradley's version. It took an afternoon to prepare. Beef knuckle slow roasted and left to rest. Char-grilled buns from the Jewish bakery on the next street. Homemade mayonnaise and barbecue sauce. "There are roast beef sandwiches, and there are Boston roast beef sandwiches."
And now he wanted to talk.
"Okay," she said, sitting up, frowning despite herself. He smoothed away the frown lines on her forehead, and she smiled. He'd done the same on their first date, and it had been the moment she fell for him.
"That phone call," he said.
"Bradley," she began, remembering her paranoia, but he held up a hand.
"No, no, you were right."
She raised her eyebrows.
"Not about me recording the call," he said. He took her hand. "But there's something we need to discuss. Well, something I want to say. I've been thinking about this a lot on this trip, and I've let you down. For years. I've never talked to you properly about… I've never talked to you about…"
Mags squeezed his fingers. She didn't dare say anything. Was he crying?
"Mags, I need to say this all at once."
Mags nodded. Bradley said nothing for ten seconds, as he marshalled his thoughts. He swallowed. She'd rarely seen him so uncomfortable. Bradley was always in complete control. If the adage was true—that a tidy desk meant a tidy mind—Bradley's mind had everything arranged just so, each piece of information placed where it needed to be. She watched him struggle to begin and was surprised by her own reaction. Part of her wanted to reach out to him, comfort him. Another part watched almost coldly, unconvinced by his glistening eyes and ragged breathing.
"Clara was born first," he said. Mags kept her eyes on her husband, but his gaze dropped to the table between them. In the eleven years since the birth, they had never talked about what had happened. Not once. At first, she had been too ill, then they had fallen into a pattern of avoiding the topic, scared of its effect on her mental health. On the few occasions they'd come close to a proper discussion, they'd backed away. She dug her fingernails into her palms and let him talk.
"Their heart rates were monitored, so we were told she was in danger. The doctors tried everything, Mags, everything they could to keep her alive, but her heart failed. She was—"
He swallowed again, then lifted his eyes. He was crying. Even at the funeral, his eyes had been dry.
"She was beautiful, Mags. She looked like Tam, but there was something different about her. You could see she was her own person. She would have grown up into a different little girl, a friend and a sister for Tam. But I had no time to grieve. Not then. There was Tam, and you, to think about. Tam was strong when she was born. Healthy, breathing, crying. Perfect. I held her for a few seconds, but then they rushed around you and I knew something else was wrong."
Mags had no memory of the eighteen hours of her life that followed. Later, she was told she had bled heavily during the C-section. As soon as they had lifted the babies out of her womb, the surgical team diagnosed uterine atony. Her uterus didn't shrink back to normal size after the birth and she haemorrhaged. Bradley told her the surgeons lifted her uterus out of her body, wrapping it in sterile bandages to encourage it to return to its normal size. They did this three times before replacing it, and she spent nine hours in surgery as they kept her from bleeding out.
When she had woken up, she was a mother. And she had lost a child.
"Mags, I know you wanted to say goodbye to her."
Mags couldn't speak. She had never seen Clara. Never held her. Never said goodbye. There were special words for children whose parents were dead, or adults whose spouse had died, but there was no word for a parent whose child had died.
"We haven't spoken about it since," said Bradley, his voice husky. "I always thought we would talk about it, but weeks passed before you were out of physical danger, and your mental health took a turn for the worse. I tried to be there for you, but it wasn't me you wanted. For months, you could barely stand for me to touch you. I did my best to stay supportive and to give you space when you needed it. You were bonding with Tam, finding your own way through, your own way to heal."
A tear rolled down Mags' face and over her top lip. She reached out and took Bradley's hand. He looked at her as he continued talking.
"It was the right thing to do, but it meant we never spoke properly about what happened. Post natal depression was only natural after what you'd been through. Maybe I should have been braver, maybe we should have talked early on. But I believed it might push you into a breakdown."
Bradley's voice dropped to a whisper, and he looked away again.
"I know you blame me for what happened after the birth, Mags." She tried to speak, but he shook his head. "That's fair, I guess, because I was the one who decided. And it was a decision I based on my own beliefs, mostly. We'd only spoken about it once. I doubt you remember."
Mags tilted her head forward. "I remember." Of course she did. It was one of those earnest conversations young couples have when their relationship moves towards a commitment. Children, marriage, finances, career aspirations, which country to live in. They had talked about all of this, long into the night, usually in bed. And, one night, they had discussed organ donation, both agreeing it was a moral imperative. If their death led to someone else having even a few more years of life, why wouldn't they want that to happen? Mags remembered how glib, how easy that conversation had been. She imagined herself going to sleep that night with a warm glow produced by her selfless moral stance. It didn't seem so glib when they weren't talking about their own deaths but that of their daughter. Not glib at all.
"You were still in surgery," said Bradley. "I was waiting for news. When a surgeon appeared, I jumped up, assuming she had an update about you. But she wanted to talk about Clara. Mags, we hadn't filled in any forms, and she wanted to ask about organ donation. There was a baby in Cambridge with kidney failure. Clara had gone, but she could help him live. I signed the form, Mags. I signed the form to save that little boy's life, and I said they could take her other organs to use for transplants, or research. They flew her body to Cambridge. The surgeon told me they would remove any viable organs. I knew that what was left would not be our daughter. I didn't want you to see that. When I tried to tell you, I got it all wrong."
That wasn't a conversation she would ever forget. Bradley had told her what happened to Clara as she held Tam for the first time. He must have hoped that, with new life in her arms, she might cope better with the loss; even—at some level—be glad Clara's death hadn't been for nothing. But, seconds after he had finished speaking, Mags remembered the hospital room becoming darker. Then her field of vision was shrinking, and her body shook uncontrollably. Before she lost consciousness, she heard an alarm going off, and was aware of Bradley lifting Tam away from her.
Bradley looked at her now, his blue eyes searching her face for clues to how she might react.
"Forgive me," he whispered.
She remembered something Ria had said during one of her sessions. Mags had complained she had never seen Bradley grieve, not really. Ria, always ready to state the obvious, had pointed out that everybody grieves differently. Bradley had carried this horrible burden of guilt all these years. No wonder there was a distance between them, widening as the lack of communication kept them from healing this old wound.
She stood up and reached for him across the table, knocking her wine glass over as she did so. Then his arms were around her and she was pushing her face into his as if their flesh might merge. "There's nothing to forgive," she said. "Nothing. You did the right thing. I'm sorry we've never talked about it. I'm so glad you've done it now. Thank you. I love you."
They didn't make it upstairs. They didn't even make it out of the kitchen. They tore each other's clothes off like teenagers, and she didn't think about how uncomfortable she was, her head on the hard kitchen tiles; she only knew she never wanted to let him go.
They lay together afterwards, trembling. The only sound was the drip of red wine as it puddled on the floor beside them like blood.
Chapter Ten
I don't like the blood. There's too much of it. I'm getting better at judging the pressure I need, but it's only ever completely bloodless with those much weaker than I am. With the strong ones, there's always blood.
The father is strong. I thought he would be, which is why I visit him first. He struggles for a long time. If he hadn't been sleeping in the basement, the others would have heard him. It's strange. He fights for his life as if it is something he wants, something worth fighting for. I know the truth. I know he sleeps in a different bed to his wife because I've been watching them. She cries in the kitchen when he's not there, and I've seen him looking blankly at the TV with a glass of bourbon in his hand.
The fight goes out of him all at once. It's as if he realises I'm helping, that I'm not there to hurt anyone. This is always the point at which I am envious. Just a little. He is between life and death, between wakefulness and sleep. He stands on the threshold, and what he sees, I cannot see. Not yet. Not until my work is done, and I am allowed to rest.
I go upstairs,
not worrying much about the small amount of noise I make. Children sleep deeply, and if the woman wakes up, she will think it's her husband. She sits up in bed as I walk in, but she's not really awake yet, and in three quick strides I am across the room, on the bed, and I have her. The dim night-light shows her my face. There is a moment of confusion and fear as I wrap the device around her neck, before she relaxes. Everything is easier with her, and there is no blood. The last thing she does before the light leaves her eyes is to turn towards the door, towards the rooms at the far end of the house where her children are sleeping. I wish I could make her understand; I wish I had time to explain.
I always struggle with conversation. When I was a child, the doctors said my problems sleeping made it difficult for me to separate real life and fantasy. When I spoke to people, they sometimes looked at me as if I were crazy. When drugs didn't make me better, I learned to be more careful with the way I spoke, using words and phrases my doctors liked to hear, never what I was thinking. Now I speak just often enough to be seen as quiet, but not strange. Along with my average looks, it helps make me forgettable. And being forgettable means I can continue with my work. Sometimes I want to scream at people to look at me, to notice that an angel walks among them, a deliverer. But they won't understand. They'll lock me up. I can't let anyone stop me fulfilling my purpose.
I lay the woman's head on her pillow. Wherever she is now, I hope she can see that what I bring her family is a rare gift. If she understands that, she will be happy that I am going to her children now. More than happy. She will be joyous.
Chapter Eleven
Next morning, Mags was halfway to the station when she realised she'd left her phone. She checked her bag three times, indulged in some imaginative swearing, then turned back for home.
She spotted the phone on the kitchen table as she rounded the corner of the house. Mags wasn't forgetful. There had been a spell of absent-mindedness in the months after childbirth, but by the time Tam was at kindergarten she was back to being efficient and organised. Two drawers for stationery, a cloth bag on a hook hanging from the filing cabinet with two reams of printer paper in it, a cupboard by the door full of labelled keys, and a family calendar with colour-coded stickers showing who was doing what, when, and with whom.
The Picture On The Fridge: The debut psychological thriller with the twist of the year Page 4