The Playground

by Jane Shemilt

  “What about Martin and the children?”

  “His lady wife summoned them home.”

  Once back at home, Melissa takes her laptop to the kitchen for the warmth of the stove and looks up Salisbury, reading about the cathedral with its fourteenth-century clock and thick surrounding walls. The countryside nearby, the town itself, had a feeling of ancient peace, a place where one could escape. Women escape danger all the time, there are safe houses everywhere. She looked them up once; places run by Women’s Aid where your partner can’t rape you whenever he wants, because he’d have no idea where you are.

  She closes her laptop with a sharp click. What is she thinking of? People would say she’s lucky compared with most. She has a beautiful house, they’d say, money, a fantastic job, friends—though she’s afraid if she tells them the truth, they would struggle to believe her. She wouldn’t blame them; her marriage looks perfect from the outside and so does her husband. The truth would be humiliating and, worse, far too risky. Paul is clever. If he thought she was telling her friends, he’d hire a good lawyer, deny everything, and turn the tables on her. She’d be labeled anorexic, work obsessed, unfit to parent. He’d divorce her, gaining custody of Izzy.

  She puts her laptop back on the desk with trembling hands; she can’t afford to escape, ever. She picks up Venus and climbs slowly to her room. It’s early to go to bed, far earlier than usual, but she can do what she wants tonight, and she’s tired after the long drive, and very cold. She shivers as she passes Izzy’s empty room. Strange how chilly their house feels tonight, despite the radiators everywhere, the windows that are sealed against the outside air. By contrast, the unheated house today had been warm, as though heat were stored inside the walls and seeping into the rooms. She stretches out in the empty bed, her hand on the purring cat. Sleep comes after a while and in her dreams there is a garden, children playing on a lawn, Izzy among them, and a house that’s wide open to the sun.

  Grace

  Grace sits on her own in the dark flat, waiting for her family to come home from the party; they’re very late. The children will be exhausted and so is she. A little drama unfolded two hours ago; it began midway through her evening shift. She sips tea as the story spools back through her mind; she can still hear the voice that started it all off, that lazy, entitled, male voice.

  “Hey, you.”

  Guests had been entering the hotel from the dark street, shaking out their umbrellas, blinking in the bright lights of the foyer. The evening shift was only half done. She’d looked past the man leaning over the counter, to the lit-up sheets of water slanting onto the sidewalk outside. Rain at long last, rain on her skin would feel good. When you’ve spent a childhood in Zimbabwe, rain always feels good.

  “Take my case to my room, will you?” The man had a long jaw like a horse and a huge frame. He looked strong enough to heft three cases.

  “Let me call the porter for you,” she replied. “Sir.”

  “Get a move on then, honey pie.” The mouth twitched irritably.

  She was too tired to find an appropriate reply; she lifted the phone, made the call to the porter.

  “So where are you from, originally?”

  Too tired for this.

  “I asked you a question.” Anger feathered the voice, he leaned farther over the desk. She could smell alcohol on his breath and averted her face, feeling sick, her heart banging with fear. If she left, she could get another kind of job closer to home, one where angry men didn’t snarl in her face. There’d be less money but more time, much more time with the kids. The thought was irresistible, she smiled, she couldn’t help it.

  “Jesus Christ.” Then more quietly, “Bitch.”

  She stared at the screen, keeping her face neutral. The man moved off, muttering to himself. There would be a complaint to management, she would be called in, again. She could have put her head down on the desk then and gone to sleep. Blake had a nightmare last night; something’s worrying him, he’s sensed her fear perhaps. She walks in a cloud of terror these days, hurrying the children to the car, lest at any moment one of the gang should appear. She daren’t take the garbage out anymore. Those thugs could be hiding, watching from a doorway or huddled in the disused garage by the gate, waiting to pounce.

  A male guffaw came from the bar, her hands started to shake, her vision blurred. She pulled a sheet from the pad in front of her and scrawled a few sentences. She signed her name and then phoned the manager, explaining he would need to come to reception, she was leaving in the next few minutes.

  “How long will you be?” He sounded irritated.

  “A while.”

  The doorman tipped his hat at her. He came from Jamaica a long time ago; she would miss his stories. She put out her hand and he took it, smiling warmly. He’s seen staff come and go over the years, he could probably tell that she wouldn’t be back.

  The rain stopped on the drive home, the puddles shone in the streetlights. A sense of exhilaration began to grow. There was a job opening in the co-op around the corner from the flats, the notice had been in the window for weeks; it would take just minutes to get to work, there would be far more time in the evenings. She would be able to talk to the kids, find out about their day, eat supper with her family, all those ordinary things that she never gets to do. They could go to the park on weekends. She accelerated through the junction. There’d be more time with Martin. She’d be paid less but perhaps he could find some tutoring to make up the shortfall, he’s talked about that before. He’s been writing well recently, whistling in the shower, shaving with care, and ironing his shirts. It’s as if something had been unlocked. They could take the day off tomorrow, go somewhere, walk hand in hand as they used to. He can tell her about his writing, she’ll share hers. They’ll talk about books; they haven’t done that for years, not properly. She parked the car in the parking lot and called him, her heart beating fast with excitement.

  And that’s when it all changed. Grace unfolds her legs; her tea has gone cold. She walks into the kitchen and makes another cup. She’d been so happy just before she made that call. She pours boiling water onto the same teabag, stirs in the milk, adds sugar as a pick-me-up, and takes the cup back to the sofa. When Martin answered her excitement had quickly evaporated, which was ridiculous really; she hadn’t given him a chance to hear her out.

  “Can’t hear you, Gracie,” he had told her when he picked up; the rain had started again and she watched the drops colliding as they ran down the car windshield. “Speak up!”

  She could hear Charley shouting in the background, Ash crying, and the throaty sound of a woman’s laugh close to his phone. Eve’s laugh.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “At Eve’s. She’s started Wednesday sessions now, she only told us yesterday. Sorry, I forgot to pass that on, but—”

  “Martin, I left my job.” The statement had emerged as a flat little line of words one after another, not at all as she’d imagined.

  “It’s like a zoo in here, what did you say?”

  “When are you back?”

  “The kids want to stay the night; they’ve done some homework and now they’re having fun. Eve’s made food.”

  “It’s school tomorrow.”

  “Come on, Gracie.”

  “No.”

  His reply was lost in the noise and laughter. She’d ended the call and turned off the ignition. She sat in the car for a while; a young woman walked past in the downpour, with plastic bags of shopping and a toddler on either side. A teenager locked his bright orange bike to the railings. The landlady made a brief appearance, bulky in her padded anorak, her red hair hidden under the hood. She smoked a cigarette while her Pekingese urinated on the grass, then both disappeared back into her flat. Grace checked every shadowy doorway then got out, locked her car, and walked to the door—walked, not ran—staring straight ahead. When footsteps approached from behind, going fast, her head sang with panic. She cringed as a young bloke brushed by, jogging at speed. He
was shorter than her attacker had been but wore a hoody like his. One of the four who used to hang out by the dumpsters, she was convinced. The boy vanished around the corner of the building. She hurried inside, checked the lift was unoccupied and, after it reached the thirteenth floor, that the narrow hallway was empty. She unlocked the front door, stepped inside, and slammed it behind her. She was safe.

  The second cup of tea has now gone cold. She should get up, get on. Martin will be back soon. Once the children are in bed, they will curl close on the sofa as they used to do. She’ll share her news properly and he’ll put his arm around her and tell her that leaving her job was exactly the right thing to do. They’ll start to make plans and then they’ll go to bed together. They’ll make love, she promises herself. The drama of the evening will finish on a happy note; the kind of ending dramas are supposed to have. The flat is very quiet. She walks to the kitchen and turns on the radio. She could have joined them at the party though he didn’t suggest that. It’s too late now, and besides, she might have blurted out her news when she’d prefer to tell him in private. She’ll make the flat very tidy and then they can relax. She puts the breakfast cereal away and wipes down the appliances, polishing the surfaces till they shine; all the time, an image of the hooded boy who ran past her flickers in and out of her mind. It’s time to share exactly what happened to her that night in July and how she’s been feeling since. Martin will help, even if he simply listens with his arm around her; that will help.

  It’s only when she begins to sweep the kitchen that she notices the coins. Ten of them, pound coins, scattered all over the floor. The children, pinching cash for sweets? She takes the candy tin from its hiding place, realizing by the weight that it’s empty. Her hands begin to shake and the tin rattles in her hand, just a little. When she opens it, the coins are gone. There’d been two hundred of them at the last count, Martin was going to take them to the bank. There’s not one left. Instead there are a couple of keys: the key to the block of flats and the key to their own front door, the ones on the small ring with the little red tab, which she’d lost way back, just before the assault. For a while her head feels empty and thoughts refuse to come. Then she walks onto the balcony, craning her neck to see down to the parking lot. There’s no one there, but the gang is back for sure; she’s just seen one of them, after all. Her thoughts race. They must be acting out a plan that was hatched a while ago, maybe in the days following the attack as they watched their friend recover in the hospital with a policeman outside his room. They wanted vengeance for what she did and they’ve been prepared to wait for months. They must have pounced on those keys where she dropped them on the stairs perhaps, and not in the flat after all; a gift, but one they didn’t use straightaway. They’ve been much cleverer than that. They’ve waited all this time and even then they didn’t ransack the place, nothing so crude. She can see them strolling around the rooms, taking their time; they might have let themselves in before. The skin on her arms rises in little bumps; this isn’t about robbery, it’s about power. They have helped themselves casually, as if the flat was their territory to plunder at will. They’ve issued a warning; there’s probably worse to come. She feels calm, as you do in an emergency. She calls security to schedule a lock change for their door, and then the co-op to arrange for an interview. She’ll have to work longer hours than she’d hoped to make up the cash; she’ll have less time with the children after all. She won’t tell the kids about the robbery, just Martin. Where the hell is he? It’s so late; what can he be thinking of?

  She finishes sweeping the floor then hoovers the entire flat, removing every trace of their presence; it occurs to her she is removing evidence, but it’s far too risky to involve the police; she’d have to start from the beginning and could be blamed for the break-in. What did she expect, they could ask, since she’d stabbed one of the gang?

  One thing is very clear: they can’t stay here much longer; it feels far too dangerous now.

  Poppy is on the mattress, muttering in her sleep, her right arm resting on the outside cover. Izzy stares from the bed, narrowing her eyes, but Poppy’s arm is still wrapped up and Izzy can’t see the cut, so she turns to look out the window into the night. The evening worked out okay in the end in spite of the way it began, with Eve pretending that her stupid food and the music and everything were for the kids when it was completely fucking obvious who it was really for. Eve and Martin had been dancing and looking into each other’s eyes and everyone was too drunk or too stupid to see what was going on, except maybe Eric, but it was totally clear he wasn’t going to do anything about it. Dad was blitzed out of his mind; he tried to make her dance with him in front of everyone, as if she would. That was when she decided to go upstairs and start the games. It was a party; everyone knows you are supposed to play games at a party. She pulled her little bag of dice from her pocket and led the way upstairs; the others had followed.

  Blake hunches in the corner of the car on the way home as far away from Charley as he can get. Dad is singing so he blocks his ears. He wants to think about what happened: the feel of Izzy’s breath on the side of his face and the way her hair tickled his cheek. He’s been wanting to do something major to please her for ages, like rescuing her from a snarling dog or a burning building or drowning or something. Even though he didn’t exactly rescue her, she must be pleased with him now. He did exactly what she asked; she’d said cut deeper and he had. She’d been holding Poppy’s arm; Sorrel had been hanging on to Poppy’s hand, whimpering. Charley looked like she was going to be sick. Blake’s heart had been thudding in time with the music downstairs. He’d practiced on the tarpaulin covering Igor’s bike, but skin’s different, bouncier for a start. Warmer. He’d had to press harder on the blue handle and the skin on the underside of Poppy’s arm bulged up on either side of the blade, then the tip sank in. He’d felt all sweaty. He pulled the knife along about four inches, keeping the blade quite deep like Izzy said. The blood welled up straightaway. It felt wrong and interesting at the same time. Wipe it, Izzy had said, so we can see.

  Blake wiped the blood off Poppy’s arm with the bottom of his T-shirt; the cut was straight as though he had drawn the blade along the edge of a ruler. He felt as if he’d passed a test. Poppy said it didn’t hurt though she looked funny. Charley wrapped a shirt around her arm.

  Blake squashes himself farther into the corner of the car. He’s not going to start feeling sorry for Poppy. She’d thrown the dice with the fewest dots; what happened was fair, she knew the rules. They had been about to play it again but Dad called up and he and Charley had to go home and Eve said the others had to go to bed super quick because it was late. Poppy might have fallen asleep already but all the same he can’t get her pale face out of his mind.

  Part Three

  Watching the Grown-Ups

  If the police had thought of comparing the video from the summer and the photos of that Wednesday night in October they would have seen the differences, wouldn’t they? All the children were thinner by then and none of them were smiling. They were sitting in a row, keeping still. That’s the interesting, no, heartbreaking thing: they weren’t dancing. None of them. They weren’t eating or talking either. They were watching the grown-ups dance. It should have been the other way around: children dancing, adults watching. Charley is with Sorrel and Noah on the small sofa; Charley looks bored, Sorrel, sleepy. Poppy and Izzy are on the big sofa, both frowning. They must have felt cheated. Blake is sitting on a chair, looking fed up. Eric is leaning against the wall, watching his wife. Paul is watching his daughter and Izzy is watching him back.

  And let’s not forget Ash. He’s in his little seat, on the floor; he’s bigger than at the start of the summer, of course. At the age he was then, a few months make all the difference. He was laughing in all the scenes back then, but here his face is shiny, which means tears, current or recently shed. His eyes are shut and his mouth is open. He might have been yawning at the very moment someone took the photo, but when I imagine th
e noise of the music and the shuffling of feet and Eve laughing, I can also hear very clearly the sound of a child crying.

  7. October

  The Night After the Party

  Eve

  Sorrel pushes in between Eve and Eric; her flesh is cold, clammy. Eve half wakes and puts her arm around her daughter’s body; her nightie is soaked. Rain is spattering at the window. Eric is snoring.

  “Have you been outside?” she asks sleepily, wondering if they locked the door last night, or even closed it. She can’t remember. It had been so late by the time they went to bed, her head is still reeling from the wine and the dancing.

  Sorrel shakes her head. She burrows farther, elbowing her way between her parents; a sour scent leaches out in the warmth.

  “Let’s get this off you.” Eve pulls off the sodden nightie and throws it over the side of the bed. Accidents happen. She kisses Sorrel’s hair. “Better?”

  Sorrel cuddles closer. “I’m worried,” she whispers.

  “About?” Eve’s eyes are closing.

  “Dying.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, you mustn’t worry about that.” Eve sinks deeper.

  “I don’t want to die.” Sorrel’s voice wobbles.

  “You’re not going to die.” Eve forces her eyes open and kisses her daughter’s nose. “I won’t let you.”

  “Izzy says I am.”

  “She’s right, in a way.” Eric’s sleepy voice joins in. “But not until you’re a very, very old lady.”

  “I don’t want to be a . . . old lady.” Sorrel begins to sob.

  Eve’s head is thumping. She checks the little clock on her bedside table. Three A.M. “You’re going to be a beautiful girl forever and ever,” she whispers into her daughter’s hair. “Let’s all go to sleep now.” She kisses Sorrel’s warm cheek, touches a silky curl. Sorrel shuts her eyes. Eve hovers between waking and sleeping as she holds her daughter close and listens to her breathing gradually slow. Sorrel stopped wetting the bed years ago. Izzy was being truthful but she must ask her to be careful, Sorrel is easily scared. She strokes Sorrel’s hair and slips into sleep again.