by Abby Davies
From my books I knew that animals didn’t take other animals’ young. Lions didn’t take other lions’ cubs. Even cats, who could be sly and mean and liked to kill other animals for fun, never stole other cats’ kittens. It went completely against nature. Just like someone living shut up behind boarded windows for their whole life.
I’d also read about cuckoos – birds who liked to lay their own eggs in other birds’ nests and then abandon their own babies. They did something stranger too, which was to make their eggs turn the same colour as their victims’ eggs. They were experts in copying the eggs of their chosen target. The nastiest fact of all was that when the cuckoo chick was born, the mother cuckoo threw the other birds’ eggs and chicks out of the nest, so that her own baby would be better fed by its new mother. It was cruel and selfish and crazy. When I had first read about cuckoos I’d cried for the mummy bird and her poor unborn – or only just born – babies. Now, sitting on the floor in front of the mirror, I cried for myself. I also cried for Emma.
The cuckoo killed other baby birds so that her own baby would be brought up by another mummy. Mother hadn’t done that. She hadn’t killed me, but she had stolen me and shut me inside and kept me in constant fear of dying before I grew old. She had stolen Emma too and now Emma faced the same life as me. A life in the dark. A life full of lies.
I shuddered and stared into my bloodshot eyes. My face looked grey in the unlit room. Kind of dead.
Which was worse? Being killed by another baby’s mother when you were too young to know the difference, or being stolen from your mummy then made to live in the dark?
I had been living these past ten years but was I really alive? Mother called me a doll, but dolls weren’t alive. It made me think of Pinocchio, the wooden puppet turned into a real boy. Was I like Pinocchio – but in reverse? Had Mother been trying to turn me from a real-life girl into a lifeless doll? Someone she could control?
It was a weird thought. One that made me grow cold from the inside out.
Yes, you are alive. Of course you are. You can breathe and bleed and cry and breathe and bleed and cry some more. It’s better to be alive than dead.
But is it better to be alive than dead if I’m trapped in this house for the rest of my life?
The idea made my heart flutter with confusion and fear, yet a thrilling pulse of excitement shot through my veins.
I thought about the outside, about the wonderful things I could see and do, and the heart-stopping possibility of seeing my real mummy and daddy; and then I thought about the dangerous people I could meet. If what Mother said was true, there were evil people on the outside.
But there’s a dangerous person in here too. A person who took you ten years ago. A person who lies and keeps you locked up inside. A person who made you think you were dying.
Now that you know the truth, do you really want to stay here for ever, trapped in a prison with someone like that?
My reflection frowned. This was all I’d ever known. She was all I’d ever known.
And Clarabelle – no – Emma … what about Emma?
As if she’d read my mind, the little girl began to batter her fists against her bedroom door.
‘Mirabelle! Mirabelle! Are you there?’
I turned. My heart thumped. Mother was out, but she’d been out for a long time now. How long I didn’t know. Too long to be sure she wouldn’t return to the cottage any second.
Emma cried out again. She was shut up in her bedroom calling out for me. Me – the only person who knew the truth. Me – the only person who could tell her what was going on. Tell her the real reason she was here.
The question was: should I tell her? If I told Emma that Mother had taken us from our real parents, what would she do? She was only five years old. I was thirteen and I was having a hard time getting my head round it. How would someone so little cope with the fact that she’d been stolen from her parents? People she still remembered and loved.
My throat tightened. I didn’t remember my mummy and daddy. Not at all.
I wondered what that meant. I was only three years old when she took me from them, but surely I should recall something. Anything. Like the sound of my mummy’s voice or my daddy’s laugh or the way it felt to be cuddled and held by them.
Emma called my name again. I looked at the door and listened. Nothing sounded other than her fists hammering against her bedroom door. It was safe, for now, but something held me back from going to her.
‘Mirabelle! Mirabelle! Please! I’ve got something to show you!’
With a thick swallow, I pushed myself to my feet and opened the door. Without leaving the room, I said, ‘What is it?’
‘Come and talk to me. Please. I don’t like being alone.’
‘What is it you want to show me?’
‘A picture. I drawed it.’
‘But the door’s locked. I can’t come in.’
‘Oh. I really want you to see. It’s good. It makes me happy.’
‘Tell me about it then.’ I stepped onto the landing and winced at the creak of the floorboard under my foot.
‘OK – oh! I just had an idea! I can push it under the door!’
I looked down. Through the gloom, I saw a sliver of white paper slide under her door.
‘What do you think?’ she said excitedly.
I leaned over the banister and listened carefully to make sure Mother’s car wasn’t grumbling towards the house. Certain it wasn’t, I hurried along the landing, bent down and picked up the piece of paper.
‘It’s lovely,’ I said, turning it this way and that to try to work out what she’d drawn.
‘It’s Mummy – my old mummy, sorry – and my old daddy. Do you like it?’
My stomach twisted and turned like the random colours she’d scribbled across the paper; if Emma told Mother about this, she wouldn’t like it.
‘It’s really good, but … don’t show it to Mother, OK?’
There was a beat of silence. ‘Why?’
I considered telling her the truth. She had a right to know. But if she knew, and I made her promise not to say anything, would she break her promise? Mother couldn’t know that I knew the truth. If she found out, she’d be very angry. Maybe too angry to control what she did to me.
‘Why?’ she repeated, her voice whiny.
‘She just wouldn’t like it, that’s all.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because … because it will upset her that the picture you’ve drawn isn’t of her.’
‘Oh. Oh, OK! I’ll draw one of her then. Shall I do that?’
‘Yes. That’s a great idea. That will make her happy, and it’s good to make Mother happy.’ I almost choked on the words.
An odd silence followed, stretching on for too long. Feeling guilty, I shifted on my knees and thought about going back to my room.
‘Mirabelle?’ she whispered.
‘Yes.’
‘Do you like Mother?’
I hesitated. ‘Do you?’
The little girl sniffed. Her voice wobbled. ‘Sometimes she looks at me in a cross way and I don’t like it.’
Again, I fought the urge to tell her the truth.
Emma started to cry. ‘I think I want to go home. Mother says my old mummy is poorly, but I don’t care.’
‘Don’t cry, Emma. Please don’t cry.’
‘You called me Emma!’ she gasped.
I bit my lip.
Her crying grew louder. ‘I want to go home. I want to see Mummy and Daddy. I don’t like it here.’
‘Shush. Be quiet—’
I stopped talking. There was rumbling up the gravel path. Mother was back.
‘Stop crying. She’s back. She won’t like it. And don’t tell her about your picture. I’ve got to go.’
The front door clicked. I scurried back to my bedroom, shut the door and sat at my desk, heart hammering against my ribs. Emma went silent, but not before Mother heard her and thundered up the stairs.
Chapter 17
‘Clarabelle? Are you awake?’ Mother’s voice was quiet. Too quiet.
Her footsteps carried her to a stop outside my bedroom. I could feel her standing there, hovering on the landing like a giant spider.
Emma stayed silent. I tensed and dug my nails into my palms.
‘Little Doll? Were you crying? It’s all right. Mother won’t be angry.’
Emma said nothing.
Fear laced my spine. The lie in Mother’s words was as clear as water, her anger unmasked by her sugary tone – a tone I knew so well; knew better than the face of the grandfather clock or the grooves of the boarded windows. She was angry that Clarabelle had woken up or angry that she was upset. Maybe both. It must be killing her that her new little doll was finding it hard to accept her new home and new, fake mother.
‘Clarabelle, I know you’re awake. Answer me. Now.’
Why she didn’t unlock the door and go into Emma’s room, I didn’t know. It was almost like she was enjoying Emma’s fear.
‘Clarabelle—’
‘Mirabelle called me Emma. Why do you call me Clarabelle?’
My eyes widened and my pulse smashed against my temples.
‘What?’ Mother said.
I heard her unlocking Emma’s door, heard her open and shut it, heard their muffled voices. I couldn’t make out their words.
A sick feeling swirled in my tummy. I wasn’t supposed to talk to Clarabelle. I definitely wasn’t supposed to call her by her real name.
I glanced around the room, suddenly afraid that Mother’s rule of never drawing blood might have changed. Before I knew the truth, I’d believed she would never hurt me badly, but now I wasn’t certain of anything. She wasn’t the person I’d thought she was. The person I’d believed her to be would never have spoiled my looks, but now that she had Emma, her new little doll to paint and dress, would she care if I wasn’t perfect? Would she stop herself from spoiling my face or body?
I heard Clarabelle crying and winced. Mother could be frightening her, or worse – brushing her hair so hard it grazed her scalp, like she’d done to me before. She wouldn’t shed any of Emma’s blood, but the idea that the small girl was scared or in any kind of pain was horrible. And it was all my fault – I had called her Emma.
Mother’s voice cut through my thoughts, sending shudders through me. ‘There, there, Little Doll. Mirabelle is very jealous of you, that’s why she called you that silly old name. She just wants to confuse you. But don’t worry, Mother will punish her for it.’
She was speaking loudly on purpose so that I would hear.
Chapter 18
I sat at my desk and bent over a textbook, but I was oblivious to its words. My head whirled with uncertainty. And fear. Mother stood on the landing outside my room. I could hear her breathing, smell her orange-blossom moisturizer. Part of me wanted her to stand there for ever. Another part wanted her to come in and get it over with. Whatever it was, I could handle it. In the last few weeks, she’d ripped my clothes off me and scraped my scalp and slapped me in the face, and I’d handled it – what more could she do to me that she hadn’t already done?
Still, my heartbeat smashed against my chest like it was trying to break out. My hands trembled, so I sat on them and tried to read the book on my desk, but the words were a blur.
I flinched at the creak of the landing floorboards as she moved. She didn’t enter the room; she went into the bathroom for a few minutes then headed downstairs, footsteps hurried.
I lay on the floor and pressed my ear to the musty carpet. I could hear her doing something downstairs, moving things around aggressively by the sound of the thuds, bangs and crashes that came through the floor below me.
Stiff with tension, I tiptoed to the door. No sounds came from Emma’s room. I wondered if she was OK. I wanted to call out and ask her, but didn’t dare risk it – not with Mother in the house. Part of the reason she was mad was because I’d spoken to Emma.
Footsteps hammered up the stairs, making me jump. I leapt away from the door and dashed to my desk, sat down and stared at my exercise book.
Mother pushed open the door and stepped into the room. ‘Mirabelle?’
‘Yes, Mother?’ I said, turning to look up at her, finding her name odd on my tongue.
Her eyes looked like black buttons. She wore a flowery dress that made her look thinner than normal.
‘Did you talk to Clarabelle when I went out?’ Her voice was cold and thin.
‘Yes. She was calling out, so I went to see if everything was all right.’
She looked down at her hands and took another couple of steps into the room, bringing a sickly-sweet smell of sweat with her. Her face was flushed, hair pasted to her cheeks. A vein stuck out of her forehead, pulsing like a snake.
I swallowed, told myself she wouldn’t hurt me.
‘I was worried about her,’ I said.
‘She told me you called her Emma. Is that true?’
If a voice could cut, hers would.
I swallowed again. Took a breath. ‘When she first got here she told me that was her name. I was talking to her and it slipped out. It was an accident. I’m sorry, Mother.’
‘I told you not to talk to her. That you would only make matters worse and that’s exactly what you’ve done. You went against my instruction. You poisoned her mind. She’s already confused, and now, because of your selfish, jealous desire to stick your nose in, you’ve made her worse.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—’
She leaned over and stared into my eyes. ‘You’ve changed. You’re not the innocent, sweet, little doll I thought you were. You’re just like her.’
‘Like who?’ I said, though I was pretty sure who she meant.
‘Olivia,’ she spat.
Spittle hit my lip. I flinched and drew back.
She grabbed my upper arm and squeezed. ‘She lied and stole and did whatever she wanted. She was selfish too. All she wanted was to see me suffer. I’m beginning to think that’s all you want. Is it? Is that what you want, Mirabelle?’
‘You’re hurting me,’ I said, trying to pull my arm out of her grasp. She held on, dug her nails in harder.
‘Do you realize how difficult these past few weeks have been for me? Do you think it’s been easy, trying to get Clarabelle to see sense? To make her understand? To …’ She shook her head and trailed off. Tears glittered in her eyes.
I didn’t reply. For a split second I wanted to tell her I knew the truth: that I didn’t care any more, that she had stolen me and Emma, and I knew she was crazy, but the words died in my throat.
‘Answer me!’
‘No,’ I said, ‘I didn’t know.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Liar! There you go, lying again. Of course you knew. How could you not? How could you miss it?’
‘I, I’m sorry. I—’
‘Enough. Be quiet. I’ve had enough of your filthy lies.’
Without another word she hauled me off my chair and dragged me out of the room. I tried to pull back but she was too strong. She dragged me down the stairs so fast I nearly fell. At the bottom, she turned sharply, pulled me along the hallway and forced me to my knees in front of the under-stair cupboard.
I realized what all the banging had been about; she’d taken all the cleaning equipment out of the cupboard. It filled the floor space outside the kitchen. Cloths and bottles and the tin that held the key I’d used to get into her bedroom – all of it had been pulled out – but the light was on in the cupboard, the door open.
She seized the back of my neck and yanked my face up to hers. ‘You push and push and push. Is it any wonder I snap?’
I blinked and forced back tears.
‘Answer me!’ She shook me so hard my neck cracked.
‘I try to do everything you ask but it’s never enough,’ I said, surprised by my own words.
She rolled her eyes and laughed. ‘I’ve done everything for you. Everything, and this is how you repay me? By lying and going behind my back? Well, I’
ve had enough. You need to be punished. I should have done this a long time ago, when I first saw the signs.’
‘What signs? What are you talking about?’
‘Signs of evil. Signs you’re taking after Olivia. Signs you need to be brought back in line.
‘Grandfather was good at discipline. Far better than me. For once, I’m going to practise what he preached. You’ll thank me for it in the end. If I don’t beat this evil out of you, I’ll need to—’
She stopped abruptly. She looked miserable, utterly hollowed out, like someone had scraped out her heart and made her look at it. She slumped back onto her ankles. Her grip on my neck loosened. She let go of me and dropped her arms to her sides.
‘What?’ I said, my voice high with panic. ‘What will you need to do?’
Her eyes welled up and she stared at the cupboard blankly like she was in a trance.
Heart pounding, I waited a few more seconds then began to push myself to my feet, but her hand whipped out, her fingers curling around my wrist in an iron grip.
She looked up at me, a cold sneer twisting her mouth. She tilted her head to the side. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘No-nowhere.’
‘You haven’t received your punishment yet.’
She yanked me back down to my knees; grabbed my head in one hand, my left shoulder in the other.
In my ear she whispered, ‘If you disobey me again, next time will be even worse.’
Then she forced my head into the cupboard. Around the corner, standing against the far wall of the small space, was Deadly. Nothing else was in there; just the huge spider.
My heart stopped. Fear made me want to recoil, but Mother thrust my face closer and closer until my nose was three inches away from his hideous, black body.