Mother Loves Me

by Abby Davies

  I was unable to rid my head of the hideous sound of Mother’s laugh. I still couldn’t believe she’d laughed. It was like she’d enjoyed her sister’s pain.

  My jaw clenched. I tried to focus on that laughter and how only an evil person could laugh like that. Only an evil person could do all of the things she had done. She had hurt other people but she had also hurt me very badly and I would stop her from doing anyone any more harm.

  I slipped my right hand into the sock part of my tights, then wrapped the tights round my four fingers as many times and as tightly as I could. Easing myself off the bed so as not to rock the mattress and disturb Olivia, I shuffled my way back to the steps. Beneath my bandaged feet the ground was gritty with dirt and who knows what else, but I didn’t focus on that. I found the steps quickly now that I was getting to know my way around.

  In my mind’s eye I pictured the place I’d seen the nail. It had been in the wall on the left of the door in the ceiling. Buried deep in the brick, but not in completely. I needed that nail. It had been a big, long one – the longest, thickest nail I’d ever seen – and covered in rust, but it would do the job. If I could get it out of the wall.

  I climbed to the third from top step and felt the wall with my left hand. Rough brick, rough brick, rough brick … metal! Scooting my bottom close to the wall, I grabbed the rusted nail with my tight-bandaged hand and begin to twist with all my might. Tears ripped through the outer layer of the tights quickly but despite my efforts, the nail did not turn. The layering was too thick. It was protecting my fingers but it was also preventing me from working out the nail. I unwrapped three of the layers and tried again. No luck. Unwrapped another three. Tried again. Yes, I could get a grip on the nail now, but after ten twists my fingertips were beginning to burn. I kept twisting and tried wobbling the nail from side to side. I twisted and twisted, wobbled and wobbled. It didn’t budge. I kept going, gritting my teeth against the pain, knowing I had to keep trying. I felt wetness between my fingertips and the nail and knew my fingers were bleeding, but I couldn’t stop. I kept at it until my fingertips throbbed and I felt like I was going to throw up. I was about to stop when I felt it turn. Only once, half the way round – a tiny amount, but enough to make me carry on.

  I was sipping water from the bowl when Olivia moaned. I didn’t know whether to be happy or scared that she was conscious.

  ‘Polly! Help me – my finger – oh God, my finger.’

  ‘Hold on. I’m coming.’

  I carried the bowl down the steps and made my way back to the bed.

  ‘You have to find something. Something to tie it on,’ she said.

  ‘Tie it on?’

  Her breaths were fast and ragged. ‘My finger. It’s hanging off.’

  ‘Which finger?’ I said as calmly as I could.

  ‘My index finger.’

  I couldn’t use my tights. I needed them, plus they were covered in muck, sweat and blood which wouldn’t be good if she was right and her finger was actually hanging off. I racked my brain. I was wearing knickers and a dress. Nothing else. Both were dirty now.

  ‘What can I use?’ I said.

  ‘I don’t know. Oh God. It hurts so much. I’m losing a lot of blood. We need to stop the bleeding.’

  ‘What are you wearing?’ I said.

  She moaned. ‘Oh no – I’m going to be sick!’ And she was. I felt something wet splatter my leg.

  ‘Have you got a T-shirt on that I can tear up to make some kind of a bandage? I can use a little of our water to clean it.’

  ‘Yeah. But I can’t move my hand. I can’t. You’ll have to use my jeans. Pull them off.’

  ‘No – what are we talking about – I can use some of the sheet, can’t I?’

  She moaned her agreement. The pain seemed to be getting harder to bear.

  Quickly, I knelt on the ground by the foot-end of the bed, picked up the bed sheet and tried to tear it. It wouldn’t work. I put it between my teeth and tore a strip off. Then another.

  Olivia was muttering words I couldn’t make sense of, moaning all the while. I dipped the first strip in the water and gently felt for her arm. She groaned.

  ‘I’m going to clean it now,’ I said.

  ‘No, no, no, don’t touch it! It’s too painful,’ she was crying.

  ‘I have to. Like you said. We have to at least bandage it.’

  She screamed when I took hold of her palm, which was caked with blood. I felt her thumb, which was fine. My fingertips drifted to the right and then I felt it: a wet, fleshy stump. There was no finger attached any more, and I wondered uneasily where it was. I dabbed the stump with the sheet and she screamed again. Vomit rose in my throat. I tasted sick.

  ‘OK, OK. I won’t clean it. I’m going to bandage it as quickly as I can. Squeeze the mattress with your other hand and scream as much as you need to.’

  I didn’t know how tightly to wrap it round her hand so I veered on the side of caution and didn’t wrap it too tightly. She moaned and moaned and writhed around on the bed. I touched the bandage and felt blood soaking through.

  ‘It needs more,’ I said. I tore several strips off the sheet, trying not to think about how filthy they were, then wrapped and tied, wrapped and tied until I couldn’t feel any moisture soaking through.

  ‘It’s done,’ I said, close to tears and suddenly shattered.

  She continued to moan. I helped her drink water from the bowl then told her to try to get some sleep.

  I fell asleep on the floor not long after and had a nightmare about Mother painting my face with blood.

  Olivia drifted in and out of consciousness as I worked on extracting the nail from the wall. I couldn’t tell how much time had passed since Mother had left, but it felt like a very long time. I was plagued by hunger again, there was only an inch of water left in the bowl and the fingertips on my left hand were raw bloody nubs. But I kept at it with few breaks, changing hands when one felt too sore to twist the rusted nail. Wobbling the nail seemed to help; little by little I felt the thin metal rod edge out from its brick prison. That was one thing that kept me going. Another was the fact that Olivia’s hand felt strangely hot. When I hovered my hand above hers, heat radiated off it. And it was beginning to smell. It was a putrid smell. Did that mean it was infected? Did it mean she was dying? I thought about her twin boys and her husband and how devastated they would be if she died, and I twisted the nail harder. I thought about Derek. He shouldn’t have died. He wasn’t a nice man, but he didn’t deserve to die. I thought about Emma and hoped she had found her parents – or at least someone kind who could help her find them. I pictured Harold finding Dot and taking her to the hospital. I prayed she was alive. Prayed she made a full recovery. Lastly, I thought about Patrick and hoped he was still alive. I had barely known him, but he had been a good man and he’d tried to help us. Did he have people out in the world who were worried about him? Did he have a wife or children or a mother and father? If he did, they would be going through hell right now. They would not know what had happened to him, what Mother had done to him. They wouldn’t know he was a hero. Mine and Emma’s hero. If I ever did get out of here I would make it my mission to find Patrick’s family and tell them how brave he’d been.

  Olivia groaned so I rushed back to the bed.

  ‘Water,’ she croaked.

  I lifted the bowl to her mouth and helped her sip.

  ‘Careful. There’s not much left now,’ I murmured, but she seemed not to hear me. I tried to move the bowl away but she grabbed it with her unharmed hand and held it fast. I was surprised by her strength.

  ‘I have to tell you something,’ she rasped, ‘before I die.’

  ‘You’re not going to die. She’ll come back soon and—’

  ‘She’s not coming back,’ Olivia said.

  ‘Yes, she is. She always comes back. You told me she comes back with food and water. She came back before, she’ll come back again.’

  ‘It’s too late. And I need to confess something. Som
ething I’ve been holding in for a long time. Something I’ll never forgive myself for.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. You need to rest. You need to sleep. Sleep now, OK?’

  ‘No. Polly, you need to know … what I did.’

  I shushed her and took the empty bowl away, placing it on the floor beside the bed. I didn’t want her getting worked up. I patted her leg gently then went back to work on the nail, checking that my tights were still in position. When Mother came back, I would be close enough to grab the tights and carry out my plan. I only hoped I could get the nail out first.

  Chapter 47

  My fingers screamed. I took a breath, bit down on my lip and wrenched the nail out.

  It was in my fingers now. I’d got it out. I’d done it.

  Relief soared through me, making me feel like I was flying. Grinning, I tore off a strip of sheet and wrapped up my fingertips, glad for once that I couldn’t see anything down here. If I could see what my fingers looked like, I might not have continued working on the nail, because now that I had it clutched in my sweaty palm, pain slashed at my fingers.

  Fear rose and stamped on my relief. I began to wonder if it had been worth all the pain and effort. If Olivia was right and Mother never came back, my fingers would probably get infected and I’d die too.

  Olivia was convinced she was going to die. If I didn’t get her out of here soon, I knew she’d die. The stink of rot emanated off her hand in putrid waves and her body pulsed with unnatural heat. She’d tried again to tell me something but I’d silenced her. She needed to save her energy. I did too.

  I got in position on the fifth from top step and pulled the tights taut. I had tied the tights around the inner handle of the door – the handle I had seen when Mother had come. The handle I had known would be our saviour, if things went to plan.

  My muscles cramped so I shifted position for the tenth time. I couldn’t afford to move from the step. If Mother came back, I had to be here, ready. This was my only plan. There was no plan B. Plan A had to work or Olivia would die and I would be next. I could already feel the cuts on my bloodied fingertips and bitten wrist beginning to itch, burn and swell. Soon there would be pus and the rats would come.

  I waited. Shifted position again. She has to come soon. She has to. Blackness tugged on my eyelids. I could not remember the last time I’d slept. I battled and battled against the urge to drift into delicious sleep and I won, for a time …

  ‘She’s here!’ Olivia’s voice hit my brain like a hammer.

  My eyes flew open.

  Metal scraped metal. I pulled the tights taut just as Mother began to tug on the door in the ceiling. She was strong but I was in a better position and prepared. My arm muscles clenched and I held fast to the tights as she tried and tried to open the door. I waited one more second. She had to be using maximum effort for this to work. I bit my lip and prayed again to a god I did not believe in, then I let go of the tights.

  The door flew open and light burst into the blackness. Olivia gasped. I raced up the steps and out, out into the outside. Blinded, I raised the nail. Mother had fallen onto her back – just as I’d hoped. Sandwiches littered the ground. She was stunned and spluttering furiously, but she was already trying to stand. I threw myself onto her and straddled her ribs. Without hesitating, I stabbed the nail deep into her upper arm. She screamed and her eyes went wide with shock and pain. I pulled out the nail and tried to stab again but she roared and rolled over, sending me sprawling onto my side in the long grass.

  She crawled away from me. I scrambled to my feet and chased her, nail raised. I jumped onto her back and wrapped my left arm around her throat. She seemed possessed by inhuman rage and tossed me off her back. I hit the ground like a rag doll and she turned and grabbed my wrists and straddled me.

  ‘Stop,’ she panted.

  I struggled against her, writhing and thrusting and kicking out my legs, but she had me pinned. Still I thrashed and thrashed. I was possessed and I wasn’t giving in. Her hands squeezed my wrists so painfully that I nearly dropped the nail. Somehow I clung on to it. Sweat from her stringy hair dripped into my face when she shook her head. I tried not to focus on her glaring eyes, instead shifting my gaze to the blue sky and sparkling sun – so much beauty. My lungs burned. I could not go back in the shelter.

  I stopped struggling and turned my face to the side, forcing my body to go limp. I made tears come and fake-cried, made my chest heave with desperate sobs. She loosened her grip on my wrists and I brought up my knees and smashed them into her stomach. She made an ‘oomph’ sound and rolled onto her side. I sprang to my feet and ran. My plan was to lead her away from the cottage into the woods to the spot I remembered from before.

  She chased me, screaming, sounding like a demonic beast. She was a beast. A dangerous, crazy beast.

  I glanced back and saw her holding something that glinted in the sunlight. A knife. She always carried a knife. I still clutched my nail, now bloody with her blood, but a nail was nothing compared to a knife.

  I was shaking, legs wobbling like jelly, heart rattling about in my chest like shattered glass, but I made my arms pump, made my legs move. I had never run so fast. I was a wild bird flying through the trees. The thought gave me strength. I ran on, jumping and dodging, thorns tearing at my bare legs, the torn bandages on my feet trailing behind me like intestines ripped from a fresh kill.

  The canopy above blinked light and birds cried out in horror, branches rustling as they scattered in fear.

  ‘MIRABELLE! STOP!’

  I looked back. She was gaining on me. Catching up. Hair wild, eyes crazed.

  I ran on, looking for the place that would save me, hoping I had remembered it properly, and then I saw something up ahead. A body. A body on the ground. I slowed down. Stared.

  It was Patrick. Slumped up against a tree, his chin on his chest, eyes closed. Blood pooled around him. Caked him. Was he dead? I stopped. Maggots swarmed around his injured side. Flies buzzed in and out of the wound. His face was grey, his body was still. Dead. Patrick was dead.

  A sob caught in my throat, but I was nearly there. Mother was still coming after me. I could hear her thrashing through the wood. I was too scared to look around, too scared to see how close she was to me.

  I gritted my teeth. Gulped in air. I had to keep going. I had to find the place I’d seen before.

  I ran.

  Everything was a blur. Everything was strange yet familiar. There was no air. Fear strangled my lungs and panic pushed out every thought but somehow, through all the madness, I remembered where it was. I saw trees I recognized, clumps of moss, a clump of white fungi. And I knew. I knew I was close.

  ‘Mirabelle.’

  I whirled around. She stood a few yards away, chest rising and falling, eyes dark.

  ‘Get back!’ I screamed, waving my nail wildly.

  I stumbled, nearly fell, regained my balance. She stepped forward and raised the knife. Her shoulder dripped blood. Her white blouse turned redder with every passing second. We stared at each other.

  ‘I don’t want to hurt you but you’ve left me no choice,’ she said. Her eyes remained on mine. Her chest heaved.

  I inched backwards. My heart began to slow. I smiled and said nothing, just carried on edging backwards. She followed and tilted her head to the side. Her eyes narrowed and she glared murder.

  ‘Stop now. Listen to Mother.’

  I continued to shuffle away from her, then I stopped, anger rushing through me. ‘You deserved what your grandfather did to you. You deserved to be shut in there for a bit after what you did to Olivia.’

  She barked out a laugh. ‘I thought I raised you to be brighter than this.’

  I frowned, confused. ‘What do you mean?’

  Her eyes clouded and glazed over. She spoke slowly, as if recalling a long-buried memory, ‘He didn’t just shut me in that one time. He did it many, many times.

  ‘And she … she took everything from me. And he gave her everything and she loved
it. Lorded all of her dolls over me. Bragged about how many she had. So beautiful, so perfect in Grandfather’s eyes, but evil, and so, so, so spoiled.

  ‘Did you know she got me expelled? Told the teachers I was bullying other children. But it was lies. All of it. And Grandfather was worried I wouldn’t learn my lessons, that I was bad because of what she made him think I’d done, so he shut me down there every day to teach me a lesson. Oh yes, every day from the moment I turned thirteen. Every day for three years. And I learned all right. And you’ll learn too.’

  I shook my head, trying to process her words, knowing from the dreadful flatness in her voice that she was telling the truth about her grandfather. What that man had done to both of them was monstrous. Too horrible to imagine. Impossible to imagine. Who, I wondered, was telling the truth about Mother getting expelled? Mother or Olivia?

  But it didn’t matter. Not now. Only one thing mattered now.

  Mother was eyeing the nail in my hand. She took a small step forward.

  ‘Just let me leave,’ I said, inching back. ‘I’m not your daughter. Let me go home to my real parents. Let me go home.’

  She rolled her eyes. Took another step.

  ‘Don’t,’ I said.

  She stayed where she was and jabbed the knife at me, each jab punctuating a syllable. ‘I’m not perfect. What mother is? But you, Mirabelle – you were supposed to be perfect. You were supposed to be mine. My perfect little doll. Someone for me and only me. A perfect little doll I could raise as my own, a darling little creature who didn’t need anyone else except for me. I wanted to give you everything I never had and I couldn’t let the outside world spoil you like it spoiled her. I wanted to keep you safe. You understand that, don’t you, Mirabelle? I’ve been doing all of this to protect you. I saved you from those evil people in the outside world. I saved you from a life of cruelty and lies. I saved you, Mirabelle.’

  ‘I’m not Mirabelle. My name’s Polly.’

  She seemed not to hear me. She stabbed again. Only two yards away now. ‘But you ruined that. All my efforts to make you the perfect little doll, and what do you do? Betray me. Sneak around behind my back. Make up foul, hurtful lies about me. Try to leave me. Convince Clarabelle of your lies, make her turn on me too.’