by Lucy Dawson
‘I feel safe here,’ she says suddenly and sighs.
Concerned, I sit down on her bed. ‘You are safe here, dearest. Of course you are.’ I put the washing down on the floor and turn back to her. ‘Isobel, you know I love you, don’t you?’
She nods.
‘Is there anything you want to tell me? Something that’s bothering you?’ I hesitate and risk reaching out to stroke her hair. She flinches slightly but then closes her eyes: her signal that I’m allowed to carry on. I wait to see if she’s going to say anything, but she doesn’t.
‘There is nothing that’s happened, or that you could have done, which would be so bad you couldn’t tell me, or that would stop me loving you,’ I tell her truthfully, stroking her gently. ‘I love you whatever happens. Nothing is ever, ever going to change that.’
She doesn’t open her eyes, but a tear escapes down her cheek.
‘Oh darling, what is it?’ I say desperately. ‘I can’t help you unless you tell me what it is?’
She reaches up and takes my hand. At first I think it’s to stop me smoothing her hair, but she holds onto me tightly.
I want to tell her I know about the baby, but something prevents me. If she wanted to confide in me, she would. I cannot force her to share intimacies. A child is not duty-bound to tell their parent anything, however painful that might be. Unconditional love between a child and parent must only ever flow in one direction.
She suddenly sobs and turns her face towards me, not letting go of my hand and gripping across my knees with her other hand. She hasn’t held me like this in years and, for a hideous second or two, I’m briefly back in the sports hall – like an old-fashioned camera flash popping – with her clinging to my legs in fear.
I don’t risk moving; I simply hold her hand and put my other arm around her shoulders, and lean as close to her as I can. ‘You’re safe, Isobel. I’m here. Mummy’s here.’
‘It wasn’t my fault,’ she whispers. ‘I promise.’
‘What wasn’t, darling?’ But she squeezes her eyes more tightly shut and tenses her shoulders. I can see she’s starting to panic.
‘Isobel, listen to me,’ I say gently but firmly, ‘whatever it is, I promise you, I know it is NOT your fault. I mean it – nothing would ever, ever stop me loving you.’ I wait, to see if she can hear me, if my words are soothing her at all. ‘It just couldn’t, no matter how bad it was. So whatever it is, you can tell me when you’re ready, but it WILL NOT change how I feel about you.’ My voice trembles slightly as she twists and looks up at me with frightened eyes, then nods, wiping her tears away.
‘I want to go to sleep now,’ she whispers.
I lean forward and kiss her head briefly. ‘Good night then, darling. I hope you sleep well. Try to stay in your bed tonight, won’t you? I wondered if perhaps I heard you leave at about quarter to eleven last night? I don’t think you came back until just after two o’clock?’
She shakes her head and her expression becomes blank again. ‘I was here all last night. In bed.’
I smile. ‘OK. My mistake then. I’m sorry.’
‘I have one last little thing to do,’ she blurts. ‘It’ll be finished by the morning, I’m sure.’ She smiles suddenly, with relief.
I look at her worriedly. ‘Please stay safe, Isobel.’
‘That’s why I’m doing this. To keep everyone safe. He won’t leave her on her own after this.’
I don’t know what that means, and perhaps it’s better that I don’t. I get up, gather the washing in my arms and nod in the direction of her en suite. ‘Can I get your things? I’m going to put this lot on before I go to bed myself.’
‘Yes.’ She yawns and snuggles down contentedly, pulling the duvet up around her shoulders.
I walk into her bathroom and gather the whites from her washing basket. I pull out the long nightie she was wearing last night. It’s been bundled into a tight ball and is damp. Shaking it out, I realise the hem is covered in mud; as if someone had trudged through a field in it and got caught in heavy rain. Again, I decide not to confront her about it – not to march back into her room and demand she explains herself.
What could I do to stop her in any case? She is far more likely to tell me the truth herself if I bide my time. I think she’s finally on the verge of telling me everything.
I can wait until the morning.
‘Good night, darling. I love you,’ I tell her, as I walk back through her room.
‘Mummy?’
I turn back.
‘I love you too,’ she says.
I blow her a kiss, turn off her light, and gently close the door.
Twenty-Three
Claire
The longer I stay awake, to wait and see if anything is going to happen, the more stupid and cross I feel. It’s now 11.47. I could have been asleep at least an hour ago.
I toss and turn in Rosie’s single bed, the iron frame creaking loudly under adult weight it’s not designed for. I text Jen, to see if she’s around – the light from the screen illuminates the cherry tree on the dark bedroom wall and casts odd shadows – but she doesn’t reply. It’s almost eleven a.m. on Sunday morning with her, she’s probably out getting brunch or something. She might even still be in bed herself. I sigh and turn onto my back, looking up at the ceiling, before restlessly turning back on my side and logging on to the Daily Mail TV and showbiz page. After ten minutes of scrolling through endless Kardashian stories, my eyes start to close and the phone becomes heavy in my hand. I yawn and place it next to my head on the mattress within easy reach. I’m done. The house is quiet. I can’t hear a sound. I don’t feel anxious. I don’t even feel on alert any more – just completely shattered. I start to slip into sleep and it’s a blissful release…
…but I’m dragged back, what feels like moments later, by something tapping the bare skin of my arm. I’m so deeply gone, it takes me a second or two to work out a dark figure is stood right next to me, about an inch away from my body. I have a split second of sheer panic before I realise the figure is also whispering.
‘Mummy.’
It’s Rosie.
‘I woke up and you weren’t there. I feel hot.’
I slump slightly, feeling sick and a bit dizzy myself. On autopilot, I reach up to her forehead: she’s right – she’s very warm indeed and needs another dose of paracetamol or ibuprofen.
‘Hang on, sweetheart, I need to look on my phone and see which medicine you need.’ I squint at the screen to check my note of what time she last took something… ibuprofen it is. ‘Come on, let’s get you back to bed and comfy again.’
‘Can’t you stay in with me and Daddy go in the other room?’ she whispers as I lie her alongside Tim after dosing her up. He is flat out and snoring, oblivious to us holding a conversation beside him.
‘Let’s not wake poor Daddy to move him,’ I suggest, generously. ‘He’s fast asleep.’
‘Can you wait until I fall asleep and then go back into my room?’ she pleads. ‘Please, Mummy.’
‘OK,’ I concede, too tired to argue. ‘Scoot over a little and I’ll get in with you.’
She does as I ask, but it’s not comfy for her any more than it is for me. It’s an average-sized double bed, and she’s getting so tall these days, that actually three of us is a bit of a squash. Especially when one of us has a temperature. I perch on the very edge of the bed, attempting to doze as she thrashes about trying to get comfy. There is no way on God’s green earth I can sleep in here all night, on an inch of mattress with my head barely on any pillow at all.
It’s 1.18 a.m. before I’m certain it’s safe to ease back out of the bed. I go to the loo and shiver across the landing clutching my phone, to get back into the now-cold bed I started off in several hours ago. It’s going to be one of those nights where Rosie is up and down like a jack-in-the-box, I can tell. It always happens when I’m most tired; it’s one of the many unwritten rules of young children. I’ve lost count of the times that I’ve been jolted awake to find t
hat small body – like something out of The Shining – motionless alongside me, whispering ‘Mummmyyyy’. It’s not the most relaxing way to wake up.
I plump the pillow and settle down again, yawning deeply. I’m facing the doorway and I’ve actually left the door open wider than need be; the light from the bathroom is just that little bit too bright, but I can’t be bothered to get up and push it to. Rosie will be back in a bit anyway. I close my eyes, sigh and start to drift again…
…only this time when I open my eyes, it feels completely different. There’s no Rosie next to me. I don’t understand why I am so suddenly awake. The house is completely still and very cold. I shiver under the duvet before rolling over onto my back to lift my head slightly, staring out into the hall and through to the bathroom with its spotlights brightly shining in the ceiling. I half expect to notice that a window is open, it’s so draughty, but it’s to my left that my gaze moves. The mirrored wardrobe door is slightly open – just a crack – and as I stare at my reflection in the half-lit glass and my brain begins to make sense of the confused repeat images, I realise one pair of the unblinking eyes staring back at me, is not my own.
Someone is crouched in the wardrobe.
My breath catches in horror and, very slowly, I push myself up onto my elbows. The eyes don’t move, but the tips of three fingers begin to creep around the edge of the doorframe, as if they are preparing to very, very slowly and noiselessly climb out. I cannot move. My heart is thumping an insistent fast, squishy alarm in my chest, and my breath begins to rasp as my own hand reaches around the mattress for my mobile. My fingers close around it, I drag it forward and fumble with the home button; swipe up, swipe up! My hands are shaking so wildly that I simply can’t keep it steady. If it was a gun and I was pulling the trigger right now, I’d hit the ceiling – without a doubt. I scramble up to seated, but the fingers shoot back, the eyes disappear and the door slams tightly shut, as if a life-sized human cuckoo clock has just finished chiming.
I stare at the now-closed door, unable to breathe. Are they about to burst out and attack me? I wait for what feels like an eternity – but is probably no more than seconds. The door doesn’t open again so much as a hair’s breadth. I am still too scared to move. This is every worst childhood nightmare coming true: there’s something under the bed, behind the curtains… in the wardrobe.
I can feel my breath quickening, becoming shorter. I don’t know that I’m going to do it, but I suddenly scramble out of the bed and hurtle from the room to our bedroom where Rosie and Tim are still asleep. I hasten round to Tim’s side and shake him.
‘Tim,’ I whisper urgently, while trying not to disturb Rosie. ‘Wake up.’
His eyes flicker open and he stares at me confused for a moment, then sits up, alert. ‘What’s wrong. Where’s Rosie?’
‘She’s right there.’ I put my finger to my lips, but realise I am shaking violently. ‘I think there’s someone in her bedroom, in the wardrobe! They were watching me sleep. I saw them start to push the door open but I sat up and they disappeared.’
‘What, vanished?’ He looks terrified.
‘No! They went back into it and the wardrobe door closed shut.’
‘Where’s my phone?’ He looks about him desperately. ‘I had it because I was watching a movie. I’m going to call the police.’
‘Wait – the police?’ I hesitate. ‘Are you sure?’
‘You just said there was someone in the house!’
‘I think so, I definitely saw something… I’d just woken up!’ I swallow, trying to concentrate. I did see a person, didn’t I?
‘I’ve found it. Oh my God, it’s got no battery.’ He pushes a button furiously. ‘It’s died completely. Where’s yours?’
‘I must have left it back in the room. I didn’t think about it, I just ran.’
‘Do you know where the car keys are?’ he whispers. ‘We could just drive to Mum and Dad’s?’
‘They’re by the front door. Tim, wait. Rosie’s ill – I don’t want to just…’ I try and think straight.
‘We need to do something!’
I look at him, frightened. ‘It felt real, but I was half asleep.’ I swallow. ‘We can’t just call the police and tell them we think there is something in the wardrobe, plus half the town probably already knows we had the place blessed earlier. We’re going to seem insane. I’m going to go and look.’
‘No!’ Tim says instantly and gets up. ‘I’ll go.’ He looks around him. ‘Where’s that pole to open the skylights with? I want to take something with me.’
‘It’s already in her room, by the en-suite door, but it’s pretty lightweight. Maybe this isn’t a good idea after all?’ I’m starting to feel frightened again.
‘No – you’re right. We can’t just call the police because you woke up and thought you saw someone looking at you in the wardrobe mirror.’ He takes a deep breath, but looking faint with fear. ‘Wait here with Rosie.’
I watch him walk uncertainly from the room, and get into bed, next to Ro, my heart thumping as I listen carefully. After a moment more, Tim reappears in the doorway, still clutching the pole.
‘It’s empty, just some of Rosie’s clothes and dressing-up dresses hanging in there.’
‘I was sure I saw something.’ I rub my eyes. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise, I believe you. I think you did see someone. Claire, can we just go, please? Something is really wrong. I don’t want us to stay here. We need to get her up.’ He points at Rosie. ‘Now.’
I hesitate, then nod. I know I saw those eyes, and the fingers edging round the frame.
He props the pole against the chest of drawers, then reaches down and grabs his jumper, lying on the floor next to him.
‘Rosie?’ He turns to her and touches her skin lightly. ‘We need to go to Grandma’s. Can you put this on to keep warm?’ He sits her up, all floppy and sleepy, and pulls the massive sweater on over her head, rolling the sleeves up until her hands emerge. ‘Daddy’s going to carry you.’ He lifts her up and she reaches her arms round his neck and cuddles her head onto his shoulder; she’s barely awake.
We reach the bedroom door, Tim hovers on the threshold briefly but then rushes across the landing and plunges down the stairs, me following closely behind him. In a matter of steps we are across the small sitting room and out in the front hall. Tim moves to one side and I see the keys hanging in the lock, lit by the moon shining in through the glass panel of the door.
We burst out onto the freezing forecourt, the sharp gravel digging into the soles of my bare feet as I hobble over to the car and open the back door so Tim can strap Rosie in. I jump into the passenger seat, shivering wildly as I stare up at the house. I can’t see Rosie’s bedroom from the front of the house but the other rooms are still in darkness. Tim jumps in and we roar off the forecourt.
Neither of us speak as we hurtle away round dark corners, only beginning to slow down as the roads turn into narrower lanes, the closer we get to The Rectory.
‘Now do you believe me?’ says Tim eventually, glancing at our sleeping daughter in the rear-view mirror.
I leap out of my skin and, gasping aloud, clutch a hand to my chest as a ghostly shadow drifts out of nowhere and breaks right before gliding off into the night – a hunting owl.
‘Yes. I believe you,’ I say. ‘There was something there. I’m sure of it.’
‘I didn’t tell you – I should have – but the night we moved in, Eve Parkes came round to remove some sort of doll they’d had up the chimney in the sitting room. A priest had put it there to refocus “negative energy”. She told me whatever it was had mostly persecuted Izzie. No wonder the house took so long to sell.’
I think instantly of the words painted on each leaf of the cherry tree in Isobel’s bedroom.
Get out Get out Get out
So maybe they weren’t threats after all, but a desperate wish made over again and again.
Or worst of all, a warning… that I ignored.
‘It’s very confusing!’ Rosie chatters away happily over her cereal as we adults sip coffee silently. ‘I went to bed at home but I woke up here!’ She laughs. ‘Daddy had to put me in his jumper, Grandma! It was hanging over my hands!’
‘How very funny!’ Susannah agrees, rolling her eyes conspiratorially. ‘What an adventure! Would you like anything else to eat, darling? I’m so glad you’re feeling a little bit better this morning!’
‘No, thank you.’ Rosie shakes her head. ‘My tummy doesn’t want any more now. It’s still a bit hurty. Can I get down, please?’
‘Of course you can. Grandpa will come and put the TV on for you in the sitting room, won’t you, Grandpa?’
Tony gets up, wiping his mouth with his napkin. ‘Come on, Rosy-Posy. Let’s get you sorted out, shall we?’
Susannah waits until they have left the room. ‘You’re here for Sunday lunch, of course?’ she says, pouring herself some more coffee, as if it’s not out of the ordinary at all for us to have arrived in the middle of the night, half dressed and gibbering with fear. ‘So, what are your thoughts this morning?’
‘I don’t think we know, do we?’ Tim looks at me, and I shake my head.
Susannah hesitates. ‘Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I do think you were sensible not to call the police during the night. Wouldn’t it be better to go back to the house first, in the cold light of day, as it were, and just make absolutely sure you want to go down that route, before you escalate things? I’m not saying don’t call them, just maybe walk around outside and check to see if there are any signs of someone having broken in, at the very least? I’m just thinking how it would sound to them otherwise; “we woke up in the night and saw someone in a wardrobe, so we ran up to my parents’ house and we haven’t been back since”. Their resources are so strapped, and I worry you’re going to get a bit of a name for yourselves at this rate; Father Mathew in on Friday doing a blessing, the police poking around in wardrobes on Sunday.’