The Playground

by Jane Shemilt

  Sorrel holds her hand more tightly. “He couldn’t breathe. He was trying to breathe but he couldn’t.” She is crying in earnest. “He couldn’t . . .” She starts hiccuping violently.

  “I know.” Melissa kneels to take the little girl in her arms. “I know, sweetie. Shall we go back in now?”

  Sorrel shakes her head. “I want to say goodbye to them.”

  She lifts the child, surprised by her lightness. Sorrel waves at the donkeys, they stare back, and in the light of that calm gaze Melissa feels momentarily reprieved. At least Ash won’t have to bear anxiety or bullying, he will never face fear or violence, never feel anguish over a beloved child. They return to the kitchen where Eric is sitting, staring at the floor. Sorrel clambers onto his lap.

  “Time for a nap.”

  Melissa jolts to see Izzy staring at Sorrel; she must have come in very quietly without making a sound.

  “Hurry up,” Izzy says.

  “Being mother?” Eric asks Izzy as Sorrel slips obediently from his lap; his voice sounds sharper than usual.

  “Someone has to,” Izzy replies in a reasonable tone, and taking Sorrel’s hand, she leads her out of the room. Melissa watches them go; at least Sorrel is being included now.

  “Eric, I’m sure Izzy didn’t mean—”

  “It’s okay, she’s right. A nap is a good idea, I’m exhausted. Maybe we should all have a little sleep.”

  Five minutes later the house is quiet. Melissa sits on the sofa by the fire; as her eyelids drift together, she hears, or imagines, the quiet crunch of gravel outside, footsteps, arriving or leaving.

  Grace

  Grace leaves the co-op and jogs the few streets home. Sleet is falling, the air is turning colder, there’s a chilly wind. A storm has been forecast, the shop manager told her, Storm Adelina. Hurry home, snow is on the way. She is icy by the time she reaches the flat, slamming the door behind her. Much of the day has been spent filling bags with mince pies and frozen stuffing, customers stocking up for Christmas in advance. Her face feels stiff from smiling. She stands in the kitchen boiling the kettle for tea, and downs it quickly. She must hurry. She promised Melly she would bring fresh laundry to Eve’s and stay for supper, though it’s time they stopped going over so often. Eve’s family needs a chance to grieve in peace; she needs time with hers. She takes sheets from the airing cupboard and kneels down to fill a suitcase with them. She’s hardly talked to Charley or Blake despite changing jobs; in fact, they’ve talked even less. The children have been tired at night and silent at mealtimes, evasive with their answers as if their real life was somewhere else. They are all grieving, but that should be a time to draw closer, not move further away. They didn’t ask her to change jobs, but all the same, the disappointment stings; nothing has turned out as she’d expected. She collects towels, stuffing them into Martin’s old backpack. They can talk tonight after they’ve all come home; she could make hot chocolate and sit on their beds for a while, listen to whatever they might want to say. Martin will be with her and afterward they’ll be together, curled on the sofa. It seems a long time since they’ve done that. They’re busy, she knows that: his tutorials, her hours, both of them supporting Eve’s family. Tutoring turns out to suit him; the agency calls most days, he’s earning decent money, but she’s missed him, missed the old closeness. She wants to see him suddenly, fiercely. She needs to feel his arms around her. She throws the suitcase and backpack into the car and drives fast through the sleet. On arrival at Eve’s, she hurries up the drive with her load, the gravel crunching under her feet. Sleet blows hard into her face; the evening has darkened. Igor’s bulky figure is just visible, retreating down the path to his home.

  Melissa is draining potatoes at the sink when she enters the kitchen, Charley banging down cutlery on the table. Poppy has a book in her lap but is staring into space, her back leaning against Izzy’s. Izzy and Blake are playing cards; her legs, splayed on either side of him, are covered with mud. Blake is staring at Izzy as though transfixed. Grace puts the suitcase on the floor, drops the backpack on a chair, and peels off her coat.

  “Hi there.” Melly puts the potatoes on the table, adding a lump of butter and a scattering of parsley. She seems calm, as though fixing meals for a large group of people is something she does often. “Perfect timing. The children had a nap and I fell asleep, but we’re ready to go now. Gosh, are you okay? You look a bit tired.”

  “It’s been a long day. Where’s Martin?”

  “He’s around. Paul had to call in to the office; he’s coming back for supper.”

  “Where exactly is Martin, Melly?”

  “Oh, writing somewhere, I expect.” Melly sounds evasive.

  “I’ll search him out. We need to chat before supper, there’s so much—”

  “Martin’s upstairs,” Izzy says. “With Eve.”

  “I’m starving,” Charley announces in the little silence. “Can we eat now?”

  “Could you call your daddy down?” Melissa asks her.

  “I’ll get him.” Grace walks out of the kitchen, crosses the hall, and starts up the stairs, aware as she does of the swift patter of feet behind her, then Izzy brushes past, ascends a couple of steps ahead, and turns to face her.

  “It might be better if you don’t go upstairs right now.” There is a mixture of sympathy and curiosity in her bright blue eyes.

  Grace stares then laughs. “Excuse me, Izzy.” She begins to walk past her but Izzy moves sideways to block her way.

  “If this is a game, Izzy, it’s a boring one; please let me pass.”

  “You’ve a right to know what’s been happening. I’d better tell you.” Izzy sighs. “No one else will, they’re all too stupid to guess.”

  Grace feels cold. The house isn’t heated, which is strange, because Eve can afford to turn the radiators on as high as they will go.

  “I’m going upstairs to find Martin,” she says as calmly as she can. “Perhaps you could help your mum with supper.”

  “They’re sleeping together.” Izzy’s eyes flicker over Grace’s face.

  “Sorry, what?” The words don’t make sense straightaway, though Grace’s heart beats so fast she feels dizzy.

  “They’ve been sleeping together since Greece, in the afternoons when he was supposed to be at the library; I heard them. They were making these noises, so—”

  “I expect you made a mistake.” Grace is gripping the banister tightly. “Eavesdroppers often do.”

  “I saw them.” Izzy lifts her phone in front of Grace’s eyes. Her movement is swift, there isn’t time to look away. The image is startlingly clear; Izzy has been bought the best kind of phone available. The photo was taken from above and the side, but the shape of her husband’s naked back and shoulders is unmistakable; his head is turned sideways, revealing the familiar profile of his nose. Eve is beneath him, instantly recognizable as well, although her eyes are closed; they are lying on the carpet.

  “. . . thought you have the right to know the truth.” Izzy’s voice has become softer and sweeter. She turns to go. Along with the sympathy there is a gleam of triumph in her eyes. She runs down the stairs, crosses the hall, opens the kitchen door, and disappears inside.

  Grace’s mind fills with boiling hurt and anger, she can hardly move; a message pings through from Izzy with another image, a different one this time, a different angle: Eve and Martin are facing each other in close-up, clearly blind to the child who must have been crouching nearby, her phone on silent. Fury crescendoes. Grace begins to ascend the stairs, shouting for Martin; she doesn’t want to surprise him in bed with Eve. Martin comes out from Eve’s room as she reaches the final flight.

  “Shh.” Martin hurries down the stairs to join her. “She’s asleep.”

  “You fucking shit.” She slams her phone against his chest. Martin staggers back against the banister, his hands automatically clasping the phone. “Look at the screen,” she hisses.

  He regains his balance and stares at the image. His face pales the
n flushes a dull red; for a moment she is disarmed. He looks like Blake does when she catches him in the cookie jar, wondering if it’s too late to lie.

  “How the hell—”

  “Izzy.”

  “Jesus.” He hands back the phone, his hand shaking. “Why would she do that?”

  “God knows. Who cares? The important thing is that I know you’re a cheating, lying bastard—”

  “We can’t do this now; the children will hear.”

  “How dare you bring the children into it,” she whispers hoarsely, “when they must have heard you screwing Eve for months.”

  “Suppertime!” Melly calls from the kitchen.

  “If it’s any help, Gracie, it’s been over for weeks.”

  Gracie. Evie. Why does he do that with their names? Does it make them sound younger or sweeter, less threatening? Let him be threatened.

  “Do you actually think I’d believe anything you say?”

  “We have to go down now; we’ll talk about this later.” He walks ahead stiffly, his face crimson. She follows him across the hall and into the kitchen, trying to breathe slowly and calmly.

  Melissa’s glance flicks between them as she puts a casserole on the table and takes off her apron. “Sit down,” she says cheerfully, though her cheeks flame; so she knew, or at least suspected. The betrayal stings.

  “I hope you’re hungry,” Melissa adds, smiling. “I’ve cooked a lot.”

  Eric has emerged and takes his place at the table, yawning. “Sorry, I nodded off in my study.”

  “That’s fine. We all went to sleep, even the children,” Melissa tells him. “I think everyone needed it. I know I did.”

  “I’ve been out of it for at least a couple of hours,” Eric replies, rubbing his face.

  You’ve been out of it for longer than that, Grace wants to tell him; otherwise Martin wouldn’t be fucking your wife in your house, under your nose. She can’t say this, though, or anything like it; Eric is holding on to sanity by a thread. Their eyes meet, he smiles a brief, unhappy smile. Does he know? She looks at the lines on his face and the way his mouth turns down; his wife’s affair could seem unimportant compared to the loss of his son. He might have decided to wait and see what’s left when that loss is more tolerable. Eric is wise and patient. Wiser than she is, far more patient. She returns the smile with an effort and sits down next to him. She passes him the wine. The children file into the kitchen and take their places.

  “We’ll start without Paul,” Melly says. Grace glances at her, a new Melly, more decisive. At that moment the door opens and Paul comes in, sleet sticking to his hair. He takes off his coat and gloves.

  “Smells good. It turns out my wife can cook, or did anyone help her?” No one replies and he sits down, pouring himself a large glass of wine. He downs it swiftly, then pours another and drinks that too. He sits back and sighs loudly.

  Melly’s bright expression doesn’t falter; she doles out portions of chicken in an herb-scented sauce and the plates of food are passed around.

  “One too many. Trying to fatten me up?” Paul passes the extra plate back.

  Melissa scans the table. “Who isn’t here?”

  Eric glances around at the faces; he looks at Poppy. “Call your sister down.”

  “Why is it always me?” Poppy stares back at her father and doesn’t budge.

  “I’ll go.” Charley bounds from the room. She is gone for a surprisingly long time, and when she reappears, she looks scared. “She’s not in the bedrooms. I’ve looked everywhere, in Eve’s room too. Actually, I haven’t seen her since we woke up.”

  In Zimbabwe, immediately before the rains, everything goes quiet. Animals flatten themselves against the earth, small ones disappear, even the trees seem to batten down. The deep hush appears to last for a while, though it’s probably only moments, then the adults rise and begin to move. Eric shoves his chair back so quickly it thuds to the ground, then he disappears outside, Blake at his heels. Paul stands, forking another spoonful into his mouth, then he follows too. Melissa vanishes into the hall, Grace hears the sound of doors opening and closing. The girls bunch together in the kitchen like little animals in a storm, undecided which way to run.

  “She might be with Eve. I’ll double-check; meanwhile can you kids look in all the rooms again with Melly?” Grace leaves the kitchen and begins to climb the stairs; Martin follows her.

  “Don’t say anything about Sorrel being missing yet.” His voice is tight with anxiety. “You’ll worry her needlessly.”

  “Fuck off.”

  She knocks at Eve’s door; there’s no answer so she opens it and walks in quietly. Eve is lying on her back with her eyes closed. Sorrel isn’t with her. Grace hesitates, about to back away. Eve opens her eyes and turns her head slowly toward her.

  “Hello, Grace.” Her voice is dull. “You okay?”

  Grace sees she might be wrong. The affair might be over as Martin said. Eve obviously wasn’t fucking her husband this evening and probably hasn’t been for a while; she is barely surviving. “Sorrel hasn’t been with you this evening by any chance?”

  It was that casual any chance; Eve rears up in bed, breathless as if surfacing from the depths. “Look outside. The pond—”

  “There’s no pond now, remember? I’m sure . . .” Grace doesn’t finish, she doesn’t feel sure of anything.

  Eve pushes back the bedclothes. Her legs are thin, much thinner than they were. She wrenches down her nightgown, Grace takes her hand; it feels cold and bony. The glowing woman in Greece, the one her husband couldn’t resist, has been replaced by a wraith. Grace finds herself helping her up at the same time that she wants to scream; she wants to scream and shake her. The image of Martin’s body on top of Eve’s grates alongside ones of Sorrel’s gap-toothed, uncertain smile, of the child struggling in the grip of some monster, screaming for help. Sorrel needs them, all of them. She must focus on that for now. She slips an arm around Eve and, half lifting her, guides her to the door. They are walking down the stairs together when the children clatter down behind her.

  “We’ve looked in all the attic rooms. We can’t find her anywhere.” Charley sounds scared. Poppy’s pale face is streaked with tears. Izzy is gripping her hand tightly. Melissa follows them, shaking her head and looking frightened.

  In the kitchen they meet Eric coming in through the garden door. “I’m getting Igor to search the woods now.” He is speaking in gasps. “We need flashlights. Call the police.”

  Dirt is wedged under Charley’s fingernails. All their clothes are muddy from searching for Sorrel in the wood. Poppy says it’s okay because they are sitting on floorboards so it’s not like they are getting carpets dirty or anything. It’s cold up in the attic. The floor is splintery. They can hardly see one another. It’s getting late; they are hiding though no one seems to be looking for them.

  “Which is pretty fucking incredible considering, and also typical. Jesus,” Poppy says; she sounds angry. “My sister is missing and they still don’t care where we are.”

  “It’s like ten green bottles.” Izzy’s actually got green bottles, empty wine bottles, taken from the recycling box. She lines them up and pushes two over. “See? Two of us have gone now.”

  “Sorrel hasn’t gone like Ash has gone,” Charley says, and stands one of the bottles back up. “She’s somewhere, obviously. We just need to find her.”

  Izzy stares at her and she stares straight back. Charley doesn’t bother trying to be Izzy’s best friend like Poppy, nor is she under some sort of stupid spell like her brother. Blake looks different from how he used to, smaller, though that’s not possible—people don’t shrink if they’re unhappy, or do they?

  Izzy reaches under the bed where they keep the dice and candles and stones and matches. “We are going to play another game. It’ll take our minds off all this stuff.” She doesn’t light the candle, though; she pulls a packet of cigarettes from her pocket and lights one up. She offers them around but nobody takes one.


  “We should carry on looking for Sorrel,” Charley says.

  “You playing?” Izzy asks Blake, without taking any notice of what Charley said. Blake scratches his scalp like he’s got lice, though it’s probably dried mud. He nods because he never says no to Izzy, but he looks worried—not that anyone would notice, except Charley.

  “I’ll go first.” Izzy rattles the dice in the cup and throws them on the floor. She looks at the dice then she picks them up and writes down the numbers in her little book, which she keeps in the back pocket of her jeans. It’s too difficult to remember them otherwise, she says.

  “Are you completely sure you’re writing them down right?” Charley asks, but Izzy doesn’t answer. Charley doesn’t want to play, but if she does that means there are more of them, which means Blake’s less likely to lose. It doesn’t help because Blake ends up losing anyway. He’s brave, her brother, braver than her, because he doesn’t make one sound. She is the one who ends up with tears streaming down her face.

  9. November

  Eve

  Eve is no longer underwater. She can see more clearly; everything is bright as if floodlit. Voices are loud as though everyone is shouting; most people are shouting. It’s been two hours since Sorrel went missing. Police officers have swarmed onto the property, accompanied by dogs, German shepherds moving fast, noses to the ground. A helicopter hovers above the garden, beams are directed onto the wood and the meadow and the surrounding streets. Men are searching the garage, the barns, Igor’s bungalow, the garden shed, fanning out into the woods. Voices echo from between the trees. Sorrel is scared of shouting and bright lights and dogs she doesn’t know; she could be too scared to come out.

  An incident room is being set up in a van outside the gates. A police officer sits next to Eve in the kitchen, a darkhaired young Welsh woman called Brenda. The woman’s lilting voice is warm with sympathy. “What was Sorrel wearing before she vanished?”