My Name is Anna

by Lizzy Barber

  ‘I’ll tell Dad I broke it – I’ll find a way to get another one.’ He wraps my fingers around it. ‘I want you to keep it on, and with you, at all times.’

  ‘O-K …’ The object weighs against me as I turn it over in my hands. I barely know how to use one, and yet I have to admit that having some sort of lifeline out of the house is a quietening thought.

  ‘And I want you to call me on it, any time, day or night.’ His hands are back on mine, pressing them into the phone. ‘If you feel anything’s not right, or you think you’re in danger … Promise me, Anna?’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Because I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if—’

  ‘Nothing’s going to happen to me, William. I promise.’

  ‘Well, OK then.’ He sits, frozen, rubbing his keys distractedly on the side of his jeans.

  ‘Thank you, for the lift.’ I open the door and race round to unclip my bicycle from the rack, making the decision for both of us. He reluctantly clambers out of the car to help. ‘I’ll see you on Sunday?’ I say, clutching the handlebars. ‘At church?’

  He hangs his head. ‘Yes.’

  ‘So … goodnight?’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  I turn to go.

  ‘I still love you, Anna,’ he murmurs at my back.

  ‘I know,’ I tell him.

  But I don’t turn around.

  I tense as my key turns in the lock, sure my new knowledge must be evident in my face, the way I hold myself, even without saying a word. I hear the thud of her footsteps as she flies from the kitchen: ‘Where have you been?’

  Anger is etched into her face, but I can’t help myself scouring it for similarities. Some tiny signal to prove to me that I’m wrong, that there’s some unmistakable element that proves we’re related. I’ve never paused to question it before. Why would I? Our base features are similar enough that it wouldn’t have thrown me off guard: we’re both fair; we both get freckles on our noses when we spend too much time in the sun; we both have two eyes, a nose and a mouth. I have friends who are always being told they look ‘just like your mother’. Why did I never stop to think it was odd I wasn’t told the same?

  I swallow. ‘I’m sorry, Mamma … practice ran over.’ The lie skitters out. ‘I should have called.’ I turn my eyes to the ground, worried that just by looking at me, she’ll read Father Paul’s visit all over my face, and my visit to William’s. I think of William’s own warning: how do I know I can trust her?

  I can feel her assessing me. ‘How did you ride home without getting wet? It’s pouring with rain out there.’

  I dimly acknowledge the dusting of moisture over me, from the short walk from the car. ‘I got a ride home.’ I am sure she can hear the beating of my heart.

  ‘From who?’ Mamma’s voice peaks, instantly on edge.

  ‘Jessica Willis.’ Surely she can read the lies written in the creases of my forehead. ‘You know, the pre-school teacher who lives over in Jonesville? She was visiting her mother in High Springs, so she dropped me off en route.’ I think this will put her at ease, but she remains where she stands, blocking my path into the house.

  ‘I thought perhaps William … or someone else …?’

  ‘No, Mamma. It was Jessica,’ I say quickly.

  ‘And how was William?’

  ‘I barely spoke to him. It was a busy session.’ I don’t know where these words are coming from. It’s as if another force is guiding me, speaking before I have a chance to think.

  ‘You better not be lying to me, Anna.’ With no warning, she grabs me by the wrist and marches me to the kitchen sink, where she turns the taps on full blast. ‘You know full well that lying is a sin; that liars will go to the lake that burns with fire and sulphur.’ She stretches for the soap, rolls up my sleeves like I’m a child, lathering me right up to the elbows.

  When my arms touch the water, I yelp – hot water scalds my skin and I try to pull them free. ‘Ow, Mamma, you’re hurting me!’ I cry out, shrinking away from her.

  ‘You’ve been riding around on that bike all day, Anna; stop acting like a child, you need to wash your hands.’ She holds me firm as I try to wriggle away from her. ‘The Lord wants you to remain righteous, and pure, and I’m the only one who can make sure of that. It’s the only way.’ She scrubs so hard her nails scrape into my skin. ‘Only then will He see fit to show you His mercy and His grace. Do you understand? Righteous, and pure.’ Scrub, scrub. The water splashes up from the sink and lacerates my cheeks. ‘That’s why I have to protect you. Why can’t you see, Anna? I’m saying this for your own good.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything wrong, Mamma,’ I insist. ‘Practice ran over; I got a ride with Jessica!’ Lies, lies.

  ‘I have to protect you, Anna, to keep you safe. If you’re pure, if you’re good, nothing – no one – can take you away.’

  ‘I am good, Mamma! I am!’ I moan, praying for it to stop.

  As quickly as she grabbed me, she releases me. I grip hold of the sideboard to steady myself. ‘I know you are,’ she says. I examine my hands, my water-bloated fingers. My skin is pink and shiny, as a newborn’s. ‘I’m sorry, Anna.’ There’s a huskiness to her voice, and she turns away from me to close the taps, almost as if she’s embarrassed to show me her face. ‘I don’t mean to hurt you. I just need you to understand. Everything I’ve ever done has been to keep you safe. If I didn’t have you … if you ever left me, I …’ She bites her lip, silences herself. Whatever she was about to say evaporates into the walls. When she looks back at me, there’s a softness in her eyes, pleading with me. ‘I had a call from that Ms Abrams at work today. She told me that there’s a school dance on Friday.’

  I blink up at her, trying to keep up with her fickle rhythm. ‘Oh?’

  ‘She said that she was worried about you.’ Mamma takes a kitchen towel from the drawer and pats gently at my arms, nursing them, as if she weren’t the cause of their initial injury. ‘She thinks you’re working too hard, and that the stress of finals might have been what made you unwell. She said that she strongly believes the dance would be good for you. That you’d be missing out if you don’t go.’ She sighs deeply, and in the silence between us I can feel her weighing up whatever she is about to say next. ‘So,’ she eventually says, carefully, an eyebrow cocked as if she’s about to regret it. ‘What do you think? Would you like to go?’

  Does she see this as some kind of peace offering?

  She moves towards me, and I can’t help my natural reflexes, my muscles flinching at the potential hurt she might inflict. Instead, she strokes my cheek, brings a finger under my chin so my face is tilted in her direction.

  ‘I want you to be happy, Anna. I know sometimes it may not seem like it, but everything I do, I do for you. If this would make you happy, I want you to go.’

  ‘Mamma … I …’ My thoughts tumble together like a ball of twine. It’s just like her, to throw kindness and meanness at me in equal measure, so I’m never sure whether I’m coming or going. How can I possibly think of going to a dance, with Father Paul waiting for me, for us, around every corner? When I don’t know what harm, if any, Mamma might bring me.

  But if I say no, if I reject the gift she’s so keenly handing out, who knows what questions will start to arise.

  If I am in danger, I should get out now. Slip out of the house in the dead of night and run to William; run away from it all. But if Mamma is in danger, how can I leave her to face it alone? And how can I leave without knowing what happened to me; and why? I have to press on until I get those answers.

  ‘Yes,’ I say quietly, pulling my injured hands into myself.

  ‘Then it’s settled.’ She looks relieved, almost pleased. ‘I’ll speak to Mrs Murray. She has a grandson of about your age; Jonah, I think he’s called.’ I realise a beat too late that she won’t expect me to go with William. I know Jonah, why Mamma picked him: she knows there’s no danger of him whisking me away anywhere.

  Even still, I thank her, qu
ickly.

  ‘Good girl.’ For a second I think she might kiss my cheek, but then she straightens. Her features close up, and I know any momentary softness was just that – a moment. ‘You see, Anna, I’m your mother. I know what is best for you. Now, why don’t you go to your room and read over your Scriptures? You’ll find Ephesians 6 particularly elucidating this evening.’ She folds up the kitchen towel, places it delicately on the dirty laundry pile. Like me, another object she has neatly put away.

  Ephesians 6. I know without looking why she’s picked that chapter.

  Children, obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right.

  ROSIE

  16

  The party wraps up by early evening: most guests tore into the champagne from the start, and are complaining of burgeoning hangovers by the time they leave. Dad’s speech was such a success that it brought a number of the guests to tears, so that we’ve had to work hard to rally the mood before it descends into melancholy.

  I let it lie for a week. Let the dust settle. Hoping, partly, that something will come of the party, or that perhaps enough distance has passed from the interview that someone will uncover something of note. But the world remains inert, whichs means I have to act. I ask Keira over on Saturday night. In the morning, we ring the Chesterfield Bugle.

  It’s surprisingly easy, it turns out, to find a journalist’s home address.

  ‘Hi there,’ I say pathetically when the receptionist’s chirp answers the phone. ‘I was wondering if you can help me. I’m calling from Il Salvatore, and I believe that a Mr Michael Davis, who is a journalist for your paper, left his credit card with us when dining here last night.’

  ‘Right?’ she answers.

  ‘Well, I was wondering if you can give me his address, so we can give it back to him?’

  She sighs. ‘Sorry, unfortunately I am unable to give out personal information for staff. If you’ve got a pen, I can give you our address, and you can send it back here.’

  ‘Oh no …’ I force a slight wobble into my voice. ‘Please, is there any way you can find it out for me? You see, it’s my fault that he left his card in the first place. I forgot to give it back.’

  ‘Look, I’m only the weekend receptionist, so there’s no one around to confirm this. I’m just supposed to cover the phones.’

  ‘Oh, please,’ I say. ‘I know it’s a Sunday. That’s why I need his home address. My manager’s going to fire me if I don’t get it back today. He says Mr Davis is a very important journalist from London, and I need to personally hand-deliver the card to him today, otherwise I’ll lose my job.’

  Keira holds a pillow over her mouth to stop herself from laughing as I lisp into the phone. I can imagine the girl thinking it over in her head, then eventually she groans into the receiver. ‘Oh, all right. I wouldn’t want you to lose your job. But if he asks you how you got the address, don’t say you got it here. Otherwise it’ll be my job instead of yours. Did you say you had a pen?’

  The train to Chesterfield leaves from St Pancras. It takes over two and a half hours, and there’s one at half ten, which means we’ll be there just after one. I check the balance of my savings account: birthday cheques, the hoard from my summer job last year at the coffee shop down the road. Even with railcards, the tickets are fifty quid each. Keira sees me wince and offers to pay her way, but I shake my head. ‘It’ll be worth it.’

  In the kitchen, Mum’s making a pot of coffee, plunging the top of the cafetière, a pan of milk warming on the hob. ‘Hi, Mum.’ I walk over and kiss her on the cheek.

  ‘Hi, darling. Hi, Keira, did you sleep well? Coffee?’

  I search her face, seeing the bags under her eyes, the telltale signs that she hasn’t slept. ‘Actually, Mum,’ I say, ‘we think we’re going to head out.’

  ‘Head out? But it’s barely past ten o’clock.’

  ‘I know, but Keira’s going to revise in Regent’s Park. I thought I’d go with her, seeing as it’s such a nice day.’ Now I’m doing the Well-Behaved Child bit.

  Mum folds her arms, observes us. ‘So conscientious. To think, I remember feeding you chicken nuggets and chips and having to bargain with you both to eat your peas. All right, I’ll see you later then. Keira, you’re welcome to stay for dinner, if you fancy?’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Archer,’ says Keira. ‘I’ll probably head home though.’

  ‘Of course.’ Mum pulls at my arm just before we duck out the door. ‘Have fun, darling, and, you know …’

  ‘I know. “Be safe.” Don’t worry, I will.’ For a moment, I consider telling her. Maybe she’ll give me her blessing. Maybe she’ll even help. I imagine myself sticking my head round the door: Oh, by the way, I’m just popping off to Derbyshire to stalk some weird guy I think might know something about Emily, only he seems really freaked out and, like, really scared of some man who seems to be following him. Yeah, good luck leaving the house for the next ten years.

  When we arrive at Chesterfield station it’s raining. Neither of us has brought an umbrella, and we huddle together by the taxi rank with our bags over our heads. Next to us at the station entrance is a bronze statue of a man holding up a small train – at an angle that makes it look as if he’s giving future passengers the middle finger.

  Keira bops me with her hip. ‘Insta?’ She jerks her head at the statue and mimics his gesture.

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘Aunt Pam’s on there. She might see it and say something to Mum.’

  ‘Fine,’ she says reluctantly, pulling her mac tighter around her.

  ‘Visiting someone, are we?’ the taxi driver asks as we give the address and haul ourselves into the back seat.

  ‘Yes … my uncle.’ I barely miss a beat.

  We wend through the centre of town, where the driver points out a church with an oddly shaped, crooked spire – ‘The Leaning Tower of Chesterfield,’ he says, laughing at his own joke – and then the houses thin out, interspersed with dark green fields dotted with tangle-haired sheep and mournful black cows. Eventually we pull into a paved driveway, facing a white, flat-fronted detached house. My eyes scan the drive for cars, and with a sinking heart I see there aren’t any. I didn’t think about that. What if he’s out for the day? Or, worse, on holiday?

  I try the doorbell, but as expected, there’s no answer.

  As the driver revs off, I turn to Keira. ‘Now what?’

  She sticks her bag on the ground and sinks down beside it. ‘I guess we wait.’

  When it gets to half an hour, we take out the sandwiches we bought at the station and rest them on our laps, our hands fighting for the bag of crisps we wedge between us. When half turns into full, I look at what time the next train is, and then realise, stupidly, that we don’t know the number of a taxi.

  As the time creeps towards two hours, I’m about to suggest we give up and go when the soft rumble of a car makes my ears prick up. We stiffen as we watch a deep-green Mini turn into the drive, then we hastily stuff our rubbish back into our bags, and stand. The car judders to a stop; my breathing gets shallower, and my throat gets drier, and I begin to feel very, very nervous.

  The passenger door opens and a woman with dark hair and a confused expression starts towards us. Seconds later the back door opens, and a little boy of about four or five leaps out and clings to her legs.

  ‘Excuse me, can I help you?’ she asks, but before she’s got even halfway towards us, the driver’s door opens, and Michael Davis’s grey head comes into view.

  ‘Rosie.’ His tone is brusque, and I see a snarl of irritation knot his features.

  ‘Hi, Michael,’ I mumble, feeling suddenly embarrassed.

  ‘You know this girl?’ the woman asks, a fractiousness creeping into her voice.

  ‘Not exactly.’ He shuts the car door sharply, comes closer. ‘Rebecca, it’s Rosie Archer. The sister of Emily.’

  ‘What?’ Instinctively, the woman takes the little boy by the hand and pulls him into her.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ I say, hanging my head
and wishing there was a way I could scrub out this whole day – and yesterday as well, when I first had this stupid idea.

  ‘Becs,’ he speaks deliberately, not taking his eyes from me, ‘why don’t you take Hugo up for his nap. I’ll be in soon.’

  She gives us a long look, but then bounces Hugo onto her hip and says with false cheer, ‘Come on then, Huggers; why don’t you come and choose a story for me to read, while Daddy chats to his friends.’ She pushes past us without giving us so much as a second glance.

  ‘You shouldn’t have come,’ he says plainly as soon as the front door has clicked shut.

  ‘I—’

  ‘No, Rosie.’

  I look up, surprised by the sudden sharpness. ‘What do you mean, turning up here like this?’ He has a richness to his voice that is striking in its power; I can imagine how he must have been, the commanding journalist he once was. ‘I thought I made it quite clear yesterday: I just wanted to pay my respects; to see how you all were. I told you I didn’t want to be dragged into it any more than that. I can’t. This is my home, Rosie. My family. I can’t have you here, risking their safety. What if someone saw you? What if they think …?’ His head whips up and his eyes search the landscape around us, as if someone may be watching, right now. ‘What if they think I’m helping you?’ I see his jaw set, his shoulders stiffen – a decision made. ‘You have to leave. You have to turn around now and go back home; forget you ever saw me.’ He places a hand on my shoulder, physically trying to propel me out of his driveway. ‘Come on, let’s get you back to the station. There are trains back to London every hour. I’ll even give you a lift.’

  I hear a rattle of keys as he fumbles with his jacket pocket, moving towards the car. I can’t bear the thought of this being it, of having come all this way and having to turn around again. My hands clench into fists. He knows something – I can feel it. I can’t just go back, watch everything shut down, watch my family collapse, Mum disintegrate, if there’s even the smallest, tiniest chance that I could have done something to stop it.