by Ruth Harrow
I just need to find something good to spend it on before she gets back. I have plenty of time though; she will surely be at the cinema for hours.
My heart pounds as I hand Mrs Blake the battered note in the local shop. I think she gives me a suspicious look as she slips it into the cash register, but that might just be my conscience pricking me.
April deserves this for leaving me behind. It will serve her right.
I pocket the change thinking I'll put it to good use, perhaps even to buy an expensive box of chocolates before I go home. Then, I step back out into the glorious heat of the evening.
I've never been out alone before. A rush of exciting possibilities enters my head. I could go anywhere, do anything and no one will stop me. No one would say a word.
I take a step in the direction of the railway station but then take a seat near the old petrol station in the middle of the village instead.
I set out my purchase beside me on the bench and unfold the top of the white paper bag, inhaling the smell of sweets that seems to hit me whenever I set foot inside the newsagents. This is the biggest bag of penny mix I have ever seen.
Inside, I have spared no expense selecting every single sweet I wanted, even those that Mum and Dad never allow because they are too brightly-coloured. I take a massive blue round one and almost break my teeth biting into it.
Nearby someone laughs.
I look around. It is one of the Wakefield children. I know her name is Paige. She is in the same year as me at school.
Everyone in my science class one day heard Mrs Williams at school screaming at her in the corridor for being late a whole month in a row. She caused scandalised glances and even giggling by shouting back at the teacher, even using a swear word.
My initial instinct is to ignore her, but I'm feeling quite rebellious today and am in no hurry to stop.
'Hi,' I say.
She considers me for a moment, then says, 'Hi.'
Paige seems to take my greeting as an invitation to sit down. She settles herself down beside me and I notice how her eyes keep flicking down to the white paper bag between us.
'Help yourself,' I say, pushing them closer to her.
'Thanks.' She reaches in a grubby hand and pulls out a whole cluster of colourful jelly sweets stuck together.
She chews on them for a while and we watch as the occasional car pulls into the shabby old filling station and loads up with petrol. Hardly anyone uses the place any more. Dad says it won't be long before the place shuts down and is replaced by a supermarket.
I look at Paige and find her staring at me with her watery blue eyes.
'So what are you doing here, anyway?' she asks. 'Where's your old man got to?'
'You mean my Dad? He's at work.'
'Oh. I wish mine was. He is always in the house all the time. I can't ever do what I want.'
She stares into the distance now as though she can see something I can't.
'I can't do what I feel like either. My Mum is always around somewhere. She's always telling me what to do at home.'
I smile awkwardly, but it isn't returned. It suddenly occurs to me that since Paige started at my school two years ago I've never once seen her smile.
She takes another mixture of sweets from the bag and stuffs them all into her mouth at once. Then she focusses her attention on the skin around her dirty fingernails as she chews and starts picking at it, even though it has already been bleeding.
'I was supposed to be going to the cinema,' I say. 'With my sister and her boyfriend. But she changed her mind at the last minute.'
'She sounds like a real bitch,' Paige says, bending her head down to work on her thumb now.
I flinch at her casual use of a swearword. Mum and Dad would have me grounded for months for such a thing. Not that I would ever dare.
'Yes,' I say, as though I haven't noticed anything wrong. 'I think so too. Sometimes I wish she didn't exist. And it was just me in the house with Mum and Dad.'
'I know what you mean,' she says, flicking her greasy ponytail back over her shoulder impatiently. As she does so, I notice her necklace – a resin daisy on a black cord.
'I got her back though,' I say, watching Paige for a reaction. 'I took the money hidden in her room and used it to buy these sweets.'
I'm aware I'm showing off now, trying to get some recognition from Paige for my act of rebellion, but all she says is, 'Nice one.'
I'm left feeling disappointed.
Just last week, Dad was telling Mrs Blake from the shop how the Wakefield children are thieves. Surely Paige should be pleased with what I have done?
I expected her to smirk, warm to me or give me some kind of credit. Instead, she barely acknowledges my confession and remains intently working on drawing blood from her thumb.
I look away.
As I do, I recognise the car that has pulled in ahead of us and whose occupant now fills up with petrol. It is Reg's burgundy Rover.
Reg stares intently at a pair of children outside the corner shop as they pass something covertly to each other. The look on his face is inscrutable.
I reach inside the bag and pull out a squidgy milk bottle. I drop it back into the bag when a sudden shout makes me jump violently.
'Hey! And what do you think you are doing?!'
Reg stalks towards us, looking furious.
My heart pounds in terror. He has realised what I've done. He knows I have stolen my sister's money and been on a naughty spree in the local shop.
Why did I have to do it?
Then I realise that his eyes are focussed not on me, but upon the girl sitting beside me.
Paige says nothing, but jumps up, skulking away quickly and glaring at Reg over her shoulder as she goes.
My guilty conscious urges my hand across to slip the sweets out of sight. When it comes up empty, I look down and realise the bag is missing; Paige must have taken it.
She can have them, I think. Better than getting caught with them by Reg. I always think he can tell what you are thinking when he looks at you. If you have done wrong, he will see it.
Besides, I have enough money to buy more if I want. Although, I am hyper-aware of the coins in my pocket now; my leggings seem to pull them tightly into my thigh.
Reg stares after Paige until she joins the other two children by the shop. The three stare insolently back in our direction then disappear around the corner.
Reg turns to me and I notice his eyes linger on my face before he says anything.
I had forgotten I had applied so much makeup. I brace myself for a telling-off but it doesn't come.
'You want to be careful who you spend time with, Hannah. That girl is trouble. Hasn't your father told you that already?'
'Yes, he has. She came over to me, that's all. I didn't ask her to.'
He makes a noise of disapproval. 'What brings you to be on your own, anyway? Where is April?'
He glances around him as though my sister will simply step into his range of vision.
'She is at the cinema with her boyfriend,' I say, quietly.
I think I see a dark look flash over Reg's face, and there is a pause before he speaks again.
'I remember her saying something along those lines. Didn't you want to go with them?'
'Yes, I did …'
I don't know what to tell him. I can't seem to find the words to explain how April heartlessly left me behind. Somehow it was very different when I told Paige.
'But you didn't have enough money. Is that it?'
'Yes,' I say, glad of a ready-made excuse. I avoid looking him in the eye, however, in case it helps him smell the lie.
'You know, you should come around to my house sometime,' he says gently. 'I can find you some little chores to do. Earn yourself some money. You could buy yourself a nice new toy. Or tag along when April goes somewhere. That way, you wouldn't get left out. What do you say?'
Reg seems to be waiting for an answer, so I say, 'OK.'
He smiles. 'Super. You kno
w, the apples on my tree are about ripe for picking. Why don't you pop by next Saturday after one o'clock? My Vivienne will be at her class then.'
I look up at him. 'Why does she have to be out when I come over?'
'She is a little tight on the old purse strings, is my Viv. She doesn't like me spending money.'
He leans forward slightly and gives me an exaggerated wink that causes the deep lines around his eyes to crinkle further. I am strongly reminded of when I watched April carve her name alongside Will's into a tree in the woods a couple of weeks ago. She scored deep grooves with a corkscrew she nicked from Mum's kitchen drawer. We later giggled uncontrollably into our plates of chicken pie as Mum spent over twenty minutes rummaging around the kitchen for the missing utensil.
The effect of Reg's friendly gesture does nothing to make him seem less intimidating. In fact, I think privately to myself that nothing could get me inside Reg's house alone. I don't know how April can stand it.
Not even the promise of another crisp paper note would ever get me to walk in there by myself.
18
I'm left staring at the dark ceiling long after we have all retired for the night. The clock digits blink their way far beyond midnight. I'm far too anxious to idle away the time on my phone.
Nothing will occupy me, but it doesn't stop me from checking for calls and messages every ten minutes or so.
So far I have called Will three times. I've also sent him a text asking where he is and to come back but had no response. I am determined not to send an apology. My judgement was clouded with worry over Eva earlier when we had rowed. Any mother would have done the same. I won't say sorry for that.
Then there was the note. I can't imagine my husband writing that, but it must have been him. He does strange things sometimes when he is drunk. He has always struggled with his temper. I don't want to think of the number of times our daughter has been upset by our rows.
On New Year's Eve just last year, Will returned home drunk in the early hours of the morning.
We had argued badly. I had been convinced I could smell another woman's perfume on him.
He caused so much damage to the house that night. I found him amidst open drawers. I discovered he had even pulled down boxes from the loft, spilling their contents all over the landing carpet.
The next day I wasn't so sure what I had seen as I had been drinking rather heavily too that night. Besides, everything appeared intact and untouched, just as it had been before.
In the heat of our exchange downstairs, Will lost it and threw a glass of vodka at me. It missed and hit the dining room wall. At the time I was glad that Eva wasn't there to see it. I had thought her safely away in bed for the night, but later on, discovered that she had heard the commotion. I found her huddled in the corner of her bed when I checked on her later. She clutched her duvet up to her chin and had been sobbing uncontrollably in the dark.
That was over six months ago and I'm hoping she has forgotten. Perhaps, her subconscious has dismissed it as a bad dream. She hasn't mentioned it since anyway.
My phone lights up with a call and I answer it quickly before the buzzing disturbs the rest of the sleeping household.
It is Will.
I sigh. 'Will, where are you? I have been calling you for hours.'
'Don't worry, Little Rose,' he says. His speech is slurred and the regional edge to his voice seems more pronounced. 'I've just been out for a little walk. Catching up with old Dilly ...'
'Who? You're not talking about Dylan Brown, are you? Your old college friend? I thought you said he moved away?'
'Of course not. He's always lived on the edge of Little Bishopsford. His parents left him the farmhouse and now he can do whatever he wants. He's turned it into a proper man cave – you'll have to come and see it.'
'Look, why don't you just come back? Are you still at the Browns' farmhouse?'
'No, of course not. I'm back at the house ... But my key won't work. Stupid thing won't turn.'
'Why didn’t you ring the doorbell?'
'I did. No answer.'
'I didn't hear it. Look, don't ring it again, you'll wake everyone up. Hang on a second.'
I didn't pack a dressing gown, so I pull my jeans from yesterday back on.
Without switching on any lights, I sweep quietly along the hallway and down the stairs, phone still in hand. As I approach the welcome mat, I see no sign of Will through the frosted glass squares.
So when I open the front door, I brace myself for the fact he may be slumped across the front doorstep. I am grateful there are no overlooking neighbours to see him.
There is no one there.
I pull the door fully open and peer outside. There is no sign of my husband.
'Will, I don't see you. Did you go around the back?'
'No, I'm in the front garden.'
It strikes me as odd that Will would describe the smooth surface of Dad's driveway as a garden, but I flick on the porch bulb to shed some light. The summer night air is still and muggy.
Silent.
I pad out onto the tarmac in bare feet, paranoid the front door might slam shut behind me and somehow I'll be trapped outside. It is even warmer out here. The driveway has retained the heat of the day.
'Will, I can't see you. What on earth are you playing at? Why wouldn't your key work, anyway?'
'I don't know. I told you, it just won't turn. I looked for the spare in the birdbath, but it's gone.'
'Birdbath?' I let out a breath. 'Will, are you at your mother's old house?'
There is a silence at the other end.
'Look, just wait there and I'll come and pick you up. Let me get dressed. I'll be a few minutes, OK?'
*
It takes me just under ten minutes to drive across the village. As I pull up outside Will's childhood home, I spot him instantly. He is lying on his back in the grass of the front lawn, hand under his head. At first glance, he could be looking up at the stars of the night sky, but I can't tell from here if his eyes are open or not.
A shiver rakes over my body as I imagine the kind of fright the current homeowner would have if she were to see a strange man on her property in the middle of the night. Especially, like this; Will looks rather foreboding in the darkness, his dark hair and beard contrasting harshly with his skin.
This end of the street is almost completely black, away from the nearest of the sparse street-lighting.
I cross the soft grass gingerly. 'Will,' I hiss. I reach out and touch his shoulder.
My husband's eyes spring open. He awakes with a start and a sudden intake of air. He relaxes when he sees me.
'Oh, God,' he slurs, loudly. 'You scared me half to death. I thought you were your sister.'
'Shhh,' I say, looking up at the dark windows of the house. 'Let's just get out of here. Come on,'
I grab my husband by the arm and he heaves himself unsteadily to his feet. Once we are in the car, I start the engine, not daring to look back to the house again. The roar seems too loud for this quaint suburban hour.
We drive in silence for a few minutes. My husband gives a great sniff and clears his throat, his eyes drifting shut.
Disappointment swirls in my gut. I know I won't be able to discuss the note with him tonight. He is too gone to the alcohol. The smell of it fills the cabin and I open my window a little. The weakest of warm breezes lifts my hair.
I am still left with burning questions.
'Will,' I say, glancing across at him. 'Where have you been all night? You mentioned Dylan Brown – have you spent the evening with him?'
He doesn't answer. Instead, he perches his elbow on the window, trying to find the right angle to rest his head. His eyes shut once more.
'Will, is that where you were drinking?' I press, determined to get some answers before he drifts off to sleep. 'At the Browns' farmhouse?'
'Jesus, Babe ... So many questions ... You're starting to sound like Hannah.'
19
Police sirens scream throug
h the quiet of Dad's house. I wake up and feel around confusedly in the bed. Will isn't here.
I quickly try to scramble out of bed, but it has been a hot night and I'm tangled up in the sheets.
Finally free, I race over to the door and along the landing to my old bedroom where my daughter sleeps. I cross the threshold and rush over to the bulge beneath the blankets. I start tearing away sheets, but there seem too many.
After frantic pulling, I'm sweating and shaking. When I pull back the last sheet, I find Eva isn't there. She has put a pillow in her place and slipped off somewhere.
Where is she?
I dash down the stairs still in my t-shirt and bare legs and in the kitchen, I find Dad and Will.
They sit at the kitchen table eating a full breakfast. They don't look up when I enter.
I shout at them, telling them Eva is gone but they are uninterested. Dad simply tuts and adjusts the corner of tablecloth which has been tucked into the neck of his shirt and spears a sausage on his fork.
I race into the garden barefooted, the grass scratching my soles as I run.
A murder of crows erupts noisily from the treetops of the woods. They are screaming.
I find myself in the dark green gloom beneath the gloomy canopy of Little Bishopsford's woodland. Up ahead, I see a figure of a little girl lying sprawled over a tree stump.
Paige Wakefield.
I don't want to go nearer, but my feet carry me closer inexorably.
As I near, I realise the girl isn't Paige at all.
It is Eva.
Nearby, someone screams.
Her hazel eyes are open and blank, her skin a paler shade than I have ever dared imagine. Lank strands of hair stick to her cheek. A centipede crawls over her ear.
Penny arrives to clean up the scene, armed with bottles of bleach.
She starts to scrub at the tree base with her sturdy arms. Erasing any trace of forensic evidence. But she isn't trained for this sort of cleaning.
She wouldn't catch it all. There would be some scrap of DNA left, a clothes fibre, a hair, something.