by Nikki Smith
I feel sick at the thought she knows I’ve lied to her. How did she find out I paid my father? She must have looked through my bank statements. And now she thinks there’s some kind of conspiracy going on. I need to explain it to her. Like I should have done last year. Tell her about my father. Tell her that she’d only heard my mother and I whispering because I’d asked Mum to lend me some money and she’d refused, telling me I was stupid to get myself into debt with a baby on the way. I hadn’t told her I needed the money for my dad. Or that I’d given him money before. I hadn’t wanted her to think she was in some way responsible, or worse, that she’d pluck up the courage to confront him about it and he’d get the opportunity to pull her back into a relationship. I wasn’t sure she’d have the strength to get out again.
I wonder how many times Ali has searched through my things. I know the photo she’s talking about. The only one of him that I’ve kept. I’d taken it. He and my mother had been holding hands, looking directly at the camera. Unless you knew to look closely, you’d never have seen the knuckles on his fist were white as he squeezed hers a little too tightly. That the shadow on her face wasn’t really a shadow at all. I look down at my hands as thoughts of what happened in the car run through my head. Perhaps Ali’s right. Perhaps I am turning into him.
I press the button to start a new message on my phone. He’s listed in my contacts under his name, John, rather than Dad. I begin to type.
I’m not giving you another penny. Feel free to tell whoever you want what you think you know. Jack.
I spend a few minutes re-reading the words, adding some more and then deleting them. There’s no point in trying to say I never want to see him again; he already knows and doesn’t care. He’ll reappear no matter what I write. That’s the thing about families, you’re bound to them forever by blood. I’m scared about how much of him is in me. What I’m capable of.
I press send. He’s used to getting what he wants, so my refusal to comply with his demands might come as a surprise.
I don’t know if he’ll try to contact Ali, but at the moment I don’t even care. She knows I’ve given him money already and I have to acknowledge there’s a part of me that wants the truth to come out so that we can get back to some semblance of normality. To confess my guilt and start again. How could she possibly think I’d hurt Tilly? The child we’d tried so hard for. I don’t understand. The woman in the room next door isn’t my wife. In less than a week she’s turned into someone I don’t recognise. Who scares me. I don’t know how to reach her – she doesn’t even look at me when I speak to her anymore, focusing instead on something that seems to hover behind my head. Something’s taken her and turned her into a stranger who’s living in our flat. I’ve made excuses for her behaviour but there’s no denying it anymore. I wish I could speed up time until Lisa’s due to arrive. Ali needs to see someone and I’m guilty of helping her avoid getting the help she needs. Lowering my head, I pray. It’s the only thing I can think of to do as the veneer of adulthood I’ve stuck over my emotions is ripped away.
I’d held Mum’s hand as she had sat on the floor, her lip swollen. I hadn’t wanted to speak until I was sure he’d gone. Sometimes he’d hide outside until we’d thought it was safe before he’d reappear,
that smile on his face as he’d knelt down beside her again. When I was sure I couldn’t hear anything apart from her wheezing, I’d crawled to the back door and turned the handle. It had swung open. No one had stepped out.
‘Carn ya geth thum iyth?’ she’d asked.
I’d passed her a piece of kitchen roll to press onto where her lip had split. It had come away bloody when she’d dabbed at it. I’d opened the freezer and had taken a packet of peas out of the drawer.
‘An a thee thowel.’
I’d pulled one off the oven handle. She’d wrapped the peas in the material and held it on the side of her face. I’d sat beside her.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I’d mumbled.
She’d shaken her head. ‘Noth your faulth.’ She’d stroked my cheek with her free hand.
‘Should I get someone?’ I’d asked.
She’d shaken her head again.
It had been my fault. I had watched through the banisters and had known what he was going to do. I’d always known what he was going to do. So had she. I could have gone in. I could have opened the kitchen door. Sometimes he’d stopped when I’d opened the door. But I hadn’t. I’d sat at the bottom of the stairs, my vantage point concealed, and looked on whilst the shouting got louder until I’d finally heard the familiar dull thuds.
She’d have understood if I’d told her. She’d have said I was scared, that it wasn’t my problem, that I didn’t need to feel responsible. It wasn’t my job to protect her. I’d have nodded and we’d have carried on as normal, me taking myself to school and her absence noted by the other mothers at the school gate.
But I hadn’t been scared. I’d been used to the shouting. I hadn’t helped because I’d been hoping he’d hit her. That he’d hit her so hard that she’d have to go to hospital and people would see what he’d done and then he’d have to leave us alone. So I hadn’t done anything. I’d been a fraud, holding her hand, when I’d known it was safe. Five minutes earlier, I’d been wishing he’d hit her harder. I’d wondered when I’d pay for that.
At six-fifteen I creep back into our bedroom, inching the door open a fraction at a time so the noise of it catching on the carpet doesn’t wake Ali. She doesn’t move as her blonde hair fans out over the pillow. She looks at peace. Angelic almost. I fumble for my trousers that lie on the floor. My T-shirt stinks of stale sweat but I’m not going to risk the noise of getting another one out of the drawer. I peer into the Moses basket. Tilly’s sound asleep. She lies on her back, completely relaxed, both arms raised up with her hands either side of her head.
I creep out of the room, open the front door of our flat and walk down the corridor to wait by the main entrance for Em to arrive. There’s normally a quiet calmness in the early hours that’s soothing, but this morning the echoing stillness that surrounds me in the hallway is heavy with unexpected dread. I hope Em can make Ali see reason. But as I head towards the door to let her inside, I have a horrible feeling I may already be too late.
THEN
Alison – Day Six
I lie awake with my eyes shut, listening to my breathing, steadily in, steadily out. Relax every muscle. Make him believe it. Now and again I raise my lids just enough to peer from beneath my eyelashes, watching him as he creeps around our bedroom. I’d heard him on the phone. He’d called them to come and get me. They’ll be here soon. Told you. I’d known he would. And once I’m gone, he’ll take Tilly away to somewhere I won’t be able to find her. Where she’ll be in danger. There’s no way I’m going to let that happen.
I wish I had time to tell my dad. He’ll understand when he sees what I’ve written. Why I had to do it to protect my daughter. He’d have done the same thing.
I’ve been shown the bridge in my dreams. It’s waiting for us. I’ve been told we need to strip ourselves of everything that keeps us tethered to this mundane existence and move forwards towards the light. Until now, a small part of me has been scared. I’d wanted to stay here, in this room, but tonight I’ve been reassured I’m doing the right thing. There’s nothing left for me and Tilly here. I need to take her where she’ll be safe. My mind isn’t big enough to hold in everything I’ve been told. It spills over, running out of my mouth and down my face in rivers of brightness, invisible to anyone except those like us. I want to tell everyone why we’re really here, but no one will believe me. I can only show them. And then she’ll be out of harm’s way forever.
I wait for Jack to leave and grab a used plastic carrier bag out of the waste-paper bin in the corner of the bedroom. I shove in Tilly’s blanket and search the room for any other essentials. There isn’t enough time. He’ll only be gone for a few minutes and then he’ll come back and take her away. Hurry up. There’s too much to remember.
I consider taking different objects off my dressing table, but I’m unable to make a decision. What do I really need? What are the absolute essentials? Her hat. My jacket. I realise I’m only taking the bag to make it look like I’m carrying something. Less of a reason for anyone who sees me to stop and ask questions. I don’t actually need anything. Other than Tilly. He’ll be back any second.
I pick up the photo that sits on my bedside table of us in a restaurant in Amalfi. We’d framed the shot the waiter had taken after the one we’d originally posed for, when a large bee had flown into my hair. I’d ruined the first one by frantically flapping my hands, but he’d caught us a few moments later, where for a split second we were looking at each other, our simultaneous laughter mirroring each other’s relief. It had used to make me smile every time I’d looked at it. When things had been different. Now. You need to go now. He’ll be back any minute. I think about putting it in the bag but change my mind and leave it where it is. It belongs to our past, not my future.
A week ago seems a lifetime. Everything before I had her seems indistinct; fuzzy oddments of memories that feel like they belong to someone else. I put my dressing gown on and pick Tilly up gently from her basket before walking a few steps and realising it’s too awkward to carry both her and the bag at the same time. I drop the bag on the sofa, pulling out her blanket and wrap it round her instead. I leave everything else. I leave my keys on the sitting-room table next to my mobile. There are three missed calls from my dad. Hurry. You need to hurry. I can hear footsteps in the corridor outside the flat. He’s coming back. I unlock the sitting-room doors to get out onto the patio, the fresh air helping to clear my head. Holding Tilly tight in my arms, I unfasten the gate in our fence with one hand, push it open and step out onto the street, walking towards the bridge and our salvation.
The breeze is stronger than I’d anticipated. I’d put my slippers on before I left the flat, but the pavement is cold beneath my feet, making the soles of my feet numb. Tilly’s asleep. I head down our road and cut through the narrow gap that takes me between the stone buildings onto the street parallel to mine. Walk faster.
I walk past the Georgian flats with their symmetrical rectangular windows, all staring at me. Some already have lights on inside, and I can see people having breakfast. The knowledge I have makes me realise how pointless our bland lives are. I cross over the road, heading up the hill. I can see the bridge in front of me, the stone towers at each end looming like castle turrets, guarding its entrance. The iron chains holding the bridge up fall away from the tower, suspended like pulleys on a giant’s drawbridge, dwarfing the traffic that runs across it. I look down at Tilly, whose forehead is partly hidden by the blanket wrapped around her. Her eyes are tightly shut and her lips are pressed together, making her look like she’s smiling. I can feel her warmth through the front of my dressing gown. My baby girl. This is the only way to keep her safe.
A car slows down beside me and the driver stares through the window but doesn’t stop. I wait for it to pass before I step off the pavement and walk over the small green that leads to the footpath that runs alongside the road across the bridge. It’s the beginning of rush hour and already a line of traffic snakes slowly along beside me. The wind is much stronger here.
I walk to the middle of the bridge and climb over the barrier, holding Tilly to my chest, and look out.
This is why you are here. You will both be safe with me.
It’s much harder to grip the railing than I had expected. The cold metal bites into my hand until I can’t tell if it’s attached to my body, the last brittle anchor holding me in place. A crowd gathers a short distance away from me on the bridge; some watching through their car windows, others standing with their vehicle doors wide open.
Remember how he’s lied. Remember how he wants to hurt Tilly. Remember how he wouldn’t let you go.
A woman points in my direction, her shouts muffled by the noise of the wind. The strands of hair that whip across my face sting my eyes, and I reach up to tuck them behind my ear. A sudden gust nudges me off balance and my stomach lurches, momentarily suspended, before I scrabble to retrieve the iron bar beneath my fingers.
Remember how he doesn’t believe in you. Remember he won’t let you follow the rules. Remember how he’s called people to come and take Tilly away.
Ripples appear as tiny white flecks on the muddy surface of the river far below me. The two giant towers guarding each end of the bridge look on in anticipation and I draw strength from their solidity. I glance back at the gathering ensemble whose numbers swell as their sense of urgency escalates. I wonder what Jack would say if he was here. What he would do.
Remember how he hit you. Remember the sound of his hand on your face. Remember he’ll end up like his father. He can’t escape who he really is.
I’d watched him this morning as he’d pulled on his trousers and T-shirt, and had realised I was staring at a complete stranger. The urge to get up and unpeel his skin to see if I could reveal something familiar underneath, some evidence that would prove we were once connected, had been almost irresistible. He’d walked out of the bedroom without speaking whilst I’d feigned sleep, my breath trapped under the edge of the duvet, warm against my chin.
He’s been observing my every move, waiting for an opportunity to vent the anger that flows just beneath the surface of our daily lives. I know he’s hiding something from me. He denies it, but his eyes say he’s lying every time we look at each other. As soon as he left the room, I knew I would do it. Now I’m standing on the narrow girder, there is no fear.
I believe in you. I’ve shown you the truth. I’m waiting for you.
Someone in the crowd breaks away from the group and walks slowly towards me, his hands held up in a gesture of surrender. The noise of wailing sirens grows louder. The stranger keeps coming, his confidence and pace increasing as he makes eye contact and smiles nervously. I turn my face back towards the river and look down. He sees the movement of my head and cries out. I hear his footsteps speed up as he tries to reach the barrier that separates us. He won’t make it.
Have no fear.
I let go of the railing, feeling the pressure of the wind against my face that offers up a final moment of contemplation. Then the breeze tapers off, as if acknowledging the decision has already been made, and I step forward into the silence.
THEN
Jack – Day Six
Em is already standing behind the door when I open it, pulling her grey throw around her against the early-morning chill. She steps forward and envelops me in a large hug. I shiver. I’m not sure whether it’s because I’m cold or tired or both.
‘Thanks for doing this,’ I murmur.
‘Don’t mention it,’ she replies.
I shut the door, pressing the handle down to stop it rising up too quickly so the lock doesn’t make a noise as it clicks back into place. We head up the empty corridor to the flat.
‘Is Ali still asleep?’ Em whispers.
I nod. I’ve left the front door ajar. I walk towards the bedroom, inching the door open. In the darkness, I can make out the contours of the large mound in the duvet, so I tiptoe out again. There’s a loud bang and I wince, waiting for a cry from Tilly which doesn’t materialise.
Em stands in the doorway to the hall holding an empty plastic carrier bag in one hand and Ali’s jacket in the other. ‘The patio door was open,’ she says. She doesn’t bother to
whisper.
‘What?’
‘Your door. To the patio. It was open.’
I frown as I walk into the sitting room.
‘The wind slammed it shut,’ she adds. ‘That’s what the noise was.’
I open it again and step out onto the crazy paving. The small space is empty, the road behind the flat visible through the gate in our fence, which swings gently on its hinges. A sense of unease flutters in my chest. I run back inside, past Em, towards the bedroom, throwing back the door as I reach for the light switch. Brightness illuminates t
he white duvet lying rumpled in a heap on the bed. Tilly’s Moses basket is empty. My stomach lurches.
I open the bathroom door. Please let her be in here. Please don’t let it be like yesterday. I flinch, but the room is spotless. And silent. I can’t catch my breath as I step back into the hall and the pain in my stomach forces me to bend over. I lower myself to the ground, my fingers pressing into the carpet.
‘She’s gone,’ I say. ‘And she’s taken Tilly with her.’
Em doesn’t speak. I wonder if she understands what I’m saying. Dropping Ali’s jacket and the bag, she walks towards me and puts her hand on my arm. I think she’s trying to comfort me, but it feels like she’s clutching me for support.
‘She can’t have gone far,’ she says. ‘Have you checked Tilly’s room?’
‘She won’t be in there,’ I reply. ‘We haven’t used it yet. It’s not finished.’
But I get up and go down the hall to look, Em following. I switch on the light and we stand in stunned silence as we absorb what’s on the wall in front of us. Black writing covers the entire surface of the cream paint. Words and numbers in abstract patterns. Odd sentences I can read, but their meaning is terrifying in its incomprehensibility.
I shut my eyes, pretending I haven’t seen it, but the picture is imprinted on the inside of my eyelids, and the letters move around, rearranging themselves to spell out my guilt. I know Ali’s done this, but my brain struggles to find another explanation, however far-fetched. Could someone have broken in? Was she forced to write this?
I look at Em, who’s glancing around the room, and realise she’s doing the same thing; searching for signs of an intruder.