by Jane Shemilt
Grace pauses, the lemonade halfway to her lips; another piece of the puzzle slots in.
“Ah. Paul was already on trial; was that necessary?”
“I had to make absolutely sure. I had to think of something, and it fitted so well.” Izzy laughs, she’s warming up. The policeman was right; she’s forgotten him completely. “You should have seen Dad’s face.”
“Your father loves you. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“He’s a monster.” Izzy’s voice sharpens. “He hurt my mother. He got what he deserved.”
“You hurt her too,” Grace points out, then stops; Izzy’s a child, after all. A damaged child. She may not have realized that her lies in court could make it harder for her mother to get justice for herself.
“Don’t pretend you care about my mother,” Izzy snaps back. “You must have seen how scared she was, but you didn’t bother to think what that meant. You didn’t have a clue about us kids either. None of you did.” Her face has become pink with anger. “We could have been on a desert island for all you cared, as long as we kept out of the way.”
The words hit Grace like little stones—the sharp-edged ones she saw under the bed in the attic. Had they all been that careless, that distracted?
“I gave you a chance,” Izzy continues angrily. “I did things to wake you up.”
“What kind of things?” Grace isn’t sure if Izzy will answer, but Izzy is hitting her stride.
“I got Blake to steal your door keys for me, but you didn’t notice, it made no difference to you at all.”
“You’re wrong there, it made all the difference,” Grace replies. If those keys had been with my other ones on the night of my assault, she continues silently, I would have escaped back into my flat. I wouldn’t have been attacked. I wouldn’t have been terrified for weeks or pushed Martin away. I might have noticed what was happening to Melly or Sorrel.
“I didn’t need keys to get into Eve’s house, though,” Izzy is continuing, contemptuously. “I walked right in and took her ring while they were having sex.” She laughs. “Eve must’ve been so spooked when she saw it had gone.” Then her face changes, a note of irritation creeps into her voice. “I let their dog into the garden by mistake, he messed up their shed. If Eve was brighter she might have suspected something.” Then she frowns. “And you were supposed to discover the ring. I put it in your bed specially; Martin must have got there first, or you wouldn’t’ve been so surprised by the photos.”
Grace closes her eyes. It might have been better to have found Eve’s ring in her bed; the images Izzy showed her on her phone are still vivid; they still hurt.
“I made Blake steal your money too.” Izzy’s eyes narrow as if watching for pain, but Grace feels an unexpected stirring of pity. All the coins in the world wouldn’t have bought Izzy what she wanted. She’d needed precisely those things money can’t buy: a stable home, parents who loved each other, who spent time with her. All kids do—including her own. Guilt twists inside her stomach.
“He did anything I wanted him to—anything.” Izzy’s voice is jubilant.
“Like stealing knives?”
Izzy shrugs, a careless little gesture. “I gave him those, we needed them for the games.”
“What games?”
“Oh, you know.” Then she shakes her head. “Actually, you wouldn’t want to.”
“Tell me.”
Izzy unwinds gracefully from the chair to stand at the open window. Sorrel and the policewoman are on the lawn, throwing a ball for Noah. Poppy is sitting nearby leaning against Eve, whose head is lowered so she can’t see her face. The police siren is so faint it could be imaginary.
“Tell me about the games,” Grace says again; they might not have long.
Izzy turns and stares at her, triumph in her eyes. She’s deciding not to talk about the bruises and the burns, the cuts, those bloodstained little stones under the bed. Why would she? Silence is power, the last she will have for a while.
The shadows are growing longer on the lawn and darker under the trees where they emptied the little bottle of earth from Ash’s grave. The children troop back into the house; she can hear them in the hall.
“Why Ash?” Grace speaks softly. “Was he just another game to you?”
She didn’t expect an answer, but neither was she prepared for the expression on Izzy’s face, a flicker more than an expression, gone in a flash. A kind of impatience, but with herself, that look of regret people have if they feel they could have done better, given time. After all, she might have gotten away with it completely if Sorrel had died as she’d planned. They could have been playing upstairs right now: Izzy, Poppy, Charley, and Blake, somewhere out of sight. She and Melly would be cooking supper. Eve, twice bereaved, might not have come, but she would have let Poppy have a holiday with her best friend. The kids are fine, that’s what she and Melly would have said to each other as they sipped wine in the kitchen, they’re just playing games. Grace shivers. The house is unheated; spring evenings are chilly and it’s starting to get dark. A police van pulls up; a policewoman gets out with another woman in plainclothes, probably the social worker they’ve been expecting.
Later she stands with the children at the front door as Izzy is led away; Melissa follows with bags she must have hastily packed. Izzy looks around for her mother at the last minute and they get in the van together.
Grace didn’t get the answer to her last question—why Ash?—that final piece of the jigsaw puzzle is still missing. Children are born barbarians, Eric had said, and need to be tamed. Melly had been powerless to tame anyone, but as Izzy said, they were all at fault; they didn’t notice anything; they didn’t have a clue.
The children huddle together as if watching for a sign, a wave, one last look out the window as the police van pulls away.
“She didn’t even say goodbye,” Sorrel says, sounding disappointed.
19. May
Melissa
“Do you want to know whether it’s a girl or a boy?” the ultrasound tech asks.
Melly holds her breath. Lina says that she knows it’s a girl anyway and the technician smiles. Little girl or boy, it doesn’t matter. A life that was conceived in fear is becoming itself, will be welcomed, cherished. Loved. The monitor glides over Lina’s swollen abdomen. The technician is checking the position, the reason for this late scan. The baby is overdue but not breach; despite the obstetrician’s concern, everything’s fine.
Melissa’s eyes fill. Her baby is in custody now, for at least fourteen years.
“Look,” Lina whispers. “The hands.”
She’d had to let go of Izzy’s hands. The staff at the secure unit in Bristol had been kind but precise, very firm. The gates had shut behind her; the high fence barred her view.
“See the face, she’s so beautiful.” Lina’s English is much better than it was. She can speak fluently; six months in the shelter has worked wonders. Lina retreats to her room to dress; Melissa waits in the corridor outside.
Izzy’s face had been shuttered when it was time to part; she could have stared at those lovely features for hours and still not understood. In the end there wasn’t much time to say goodbye. She’d put her arms around her daughter and Izzy had hugged her back. Melissa didn’t cry until she was outside the unit and then she couldn’t stop. Grace rescued her; she organized the overnight hotel in Bristol and met her there; they went back to the unit together the next day. Grace was with her in the youth court and later in the Crown court where Izzy was referred for sentencing. She came to the first meeting with the psychiatrist and counselors when Izzy’s program was explained. She held Melissa’s hand when the diagnosis of psychopathy was first discussed.
A couple walk down the corridor toward Melissa as she waits for Lina. Their heads are bent over a photograph; she can’t see their faces but the man has his arm around the woman and they are chatting softly, absorbed in the magic of the image. They don’t notice her sitting there, watching them; they will be thinking of nothing else
except the birth of their tiny baby. They won’t be thinking of the child at three or thirteen; they have no idea at all of the complex life that will unfurl.
Visits to the unit are allowed weekly, more often once Izzy settles. Izzy’s detention worker told Melissa that Paul had been informed and wanted to see her, but Izzy refused. Melissa watches the man’s face as the couple walk past her, the love in his eyes. He looks kind, which is everything. The little baby will have a kind, loving father. Paul hadn’t abused his daughter, as it turned out, but he’d possessed her all the same, while ruthlessly excluding his wife. He’d dominated them both and manipulated their lives. Izzy’s rejection must have been hard for a man with his pathological need to control. For the first time ever, Melissa feels almost sorry for him. He’s been released on bail with conditions, pending a retrial for marital rape; the case isn’t due for several months. Melly needs the time to gather strength.
Lina reappears, dressed and still holding the photo; Melissa looks at her watch. “We’ve got lots of time before school’s out. It’s a sunny day, let’s go into town and find a cup of tea. We could go round the cathedral.”
Later they are walking around the ancient cloisters. It might have been something to do with the peace of the place, the way you can rely on time to make things right in the end. She is thinking about this and about Eve when Lina’s gentle voice breaks across the bird-filled quietness.
“I wonder if she will look like her father.” Lina’s tone is interested. “I wish in a way I could send him a copy of this, despite everything.”
Melissa glances at Lina, shocked. “It’s your decision, of course, but I’d be careful, really careful. Paul has been released; if he hurt you once it could happen again.”
“Paul?”
“He’s out of prison, remember, at least for now. He’s not allowed to come near me, but he might find his way to you.”
Lina looks up, bewildered. “Paul never hurt me.”
“He raped you,” Melissa says softly. “If he finds out he is the father of your baby—”
“Paul didn’t rape me. No one did. He is not the father of my baby.” Lina shakes her head, her dark eyebrows are raised in surprise. She lifts her hands, clearly astonished. “It was my boyfriend.”
It’s Melissa’s turn to feel stunned. “But I thought you finished with him, way back last autumn. The first time I found you in the kitchen, you said—”
“I had finished with him—at least that’s what I thought. I’d just found out I was pregnant. Hassan wanted me to have an abortion. That’s why I was upset; I told him it was over.”
Melissa sits down on the stone ledge by the pillars that run around the cloisters; her legs are trembling. Lina sits with her.
“Hassan carried on pestering me,” she continues. “He used to wait outside the door on my days off, he forced his way in to be with me sometimes. He began to hurt me; it was like he was punishing me for being pregnant. He said if I told anyone, he would let the authorities know I didn’t have a work permit. That morning you found me in the kitchen, the second time—remember?” She pauses.
Melissa nods. She remembers everything about that morning: Lina asleep in the pantry, her bruised face, the swelling in her abdomen. It was the morning Melissa finally realized she had to leave her husband.
“Hassan had got into the house again. He hit me,” Lina is continuing. “He would have carried on but there were noises from upstairs, so he left. I hid in the pantry in case he came back.”
Melissa puts her arm around Lina. Reeling from Paul’s vicious attack, she’d assumed he’d assaulted Lina as well; what Lina told her had seemed to fit, though she’d actually said so little. They could hardly communicate back then.
“Karen told me some men like to hurt their girlfriends when they’re pregnant; she said it would have got worse. You rescued me.” Lina touches Melissa’s hand gently. “Hassan is in Syria now,” she goes on softly. “He still texts me, he says he loves me.”
“Do you believe him, Lina?”
She shakes her head. “He hurt me,” she replies very simply. “That’s not love.”
Melissa nods, pushing herself upright, and then she helps Lina to stand. The photograph is still in Lina’s hand; Melissa watches the tenderness in her face as she studies the grainy image. You are wiser than I was, she thinks, you’ve got to the truth much more quickly. What Hassan says isn’t love, not even close. Love is what you are feeling for the baby you are carrying. It will survive everything. You will find this out for yourself, you are right at the beginning of love.
They link arms and walk through the wooden door of the cloisters into the bright sunshine of the Close.
20. December
Eve
Eve is outside in the herb garden gathering sage, partly to escape. The house is noisy, Sundays are always noisy. Jean-Claude’s wish is coming true, according to Melly. He wanted the house filled up. There are four women and five children; three when Grace goes to London to meet her lawyer. It might be difficult to prove historical assault, but luckily she kept the DNA, and once Grace has made up her mind, things tend to get done.
Eve can hear Charley calling and Blake calling back; Poppy shouting at them to shut up, she wants to do her homework. Sorrel will be telling Noah not to worry, that this kind of noise is normal in families. Charley and Sorrel go to school in Broad Chalke; Poppy and Blake catch the bus into Salisbury. It’s quieter on a weekday, Eve tells the sleeping baby in her arms.
The dark green sage has the scent of Greece. She holds a crushed leaf under the baby’s small nose. “Your mother is sleeping,” she says, “she’s tired out. Well, you did keep her awake all night with your antics.”
A car enters the gates and begins to drive slowly toward the house. Eve is surprised. They weren’t expecting anyone. The car stops and two men get out and walk toward the house. They haven’t noticed her. The taller man has the swinging gait of someone who spends much of his life outside, a wind-tanned face, a face she has known for most of her life. He looks around at the grounds, interested, as you’d expect him to be. The other is shorter, with gray hair straggling over his collar. His face is tanned. She knows him too, of course. She bends to pick another handful of sage. She’ll have to make more stuffing now.
The baby sneezes.
She hears Grace calling the children down and then she goes inside.
Epilogue
Grace sits back, puts her pencil down, stretches and shakes out her hand. She walks to the window and opens it as wide as she can, which isn’t that far. The new locks allow eighteen inches; Eve measured.
She looks at the photos on the floor, the old newspapers. It looks like a crime scene, and in a way it is.
She walks back and sits down again, then opens a new document. She calls it Aftermath for now. She starts to type, copying from her notebooks, slowly at first then faster, warming up.
It was surprising how quickly things took off in the end, like a bonfire, one of those big ones the children loved so much. Some nights I hear that sound of crackling again, like a bomb ticking down. I wait for the roar and see the flames; the scent of scorching fills the air. I can feel that searing heat.
The children danced around fires all summer, lit up and yelling like wild things.
The attic is quiet, apart from the tapping and the birdsong that comes through the window along with the noise of sheep. Some of them have tiny lambs already; she can hear them in the fields, calling for their mothers.
Acknowledgments
Warm thanks are due to the following.
Women’s Aid staff: for information about admitting procedures and the running of shelters. This crucial charity provides vital support for countless victims of domestic abuse.
Sir John Royce, High Court judge and neighbor, for his reading of the text and invaluable advice. Any mistakes in the legal aspects of the book are mine alone.
Pat Jones, OBE, founder and principal of the Bristol Dyslexia Center, for much help
and advice.
Simon Williams, deputy head of the Charter School North Dulwich, for meeting me at the school and for information about knife crime and school safety procedures.
Nick Shaw, police constable, for his invaluable advice about police procedures and investigations.
Erenie Mullens-Burgess, charity manager at Bell House, in Dulwich, for kindly showing me around the house, an educational center that provided inspiration for the setting of Eve’s house.
Alan Grieg, whose bid to FundingNeuro’s auction won the right for Karen McFetters’s name to be included in this story. FundingNeuro is the charity that supports my husband Steve Gill’s work with children’s brain tumors, Parkinson’s disease, and amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS).
Julian Power, whose bid to the charity CLIC Sargent’s “Get in Character” auction won the right for Marian Power’s name to be included in my story.
I am very grateful to the following people and teams whose support throughout has been invaluable.
Eve White, my agent, and her assistant Ludo Cinelli, on whom I rely for help, wise advice, and friendship.
Jessica Leeke, Clare Bowron, Sarah Bance, Nick Lowndes, and the whole team at Michael Joseph, Penguin Random House, and Lisa Brewster, who designed the beautiful cover of Little Friends.
Rachel Kahan and all her hardworking team at William Morrow, especially Ashley Caswell, who designed the fabulous cover of The Playground.
My writing group for their reading of early drafts of this novel, including Tanya Attapatu, Victoria Finlay, Emma Geen, Susan Jordan, Sophie McGovern, Mimi Thebo, and, from farther away, Hadiza el Rufai.
Tricia Wastvedt, for her kind advice and wisdom, as always.
My husband, Steve, and our children, Martha, Mary, Henry, Tommy, and Johny, for everything.
About the Author
While working as a general practitioner, JANE SHEMILT completed a postgraduate diploma in creative writing at Bristol University and went on to earn a master’s in creative writing at Bath Spa, gaining both with distinction. Her first novel, The Daughter, was selected for the Richard & Judy Book Club, was shortlisted for the Edgar Award and the Lucy Cavendish Fiction Prize, and went on to become the bestselling debut novel of 2014. Jane and her husband, a professor of neurosurgery, have five children and live in Bristol.