All the Little Things

by Sarah Lawton

  I didn’t think it was worth pressing Vivian about what was going on; she clearly was not going to tell me the truth. I wondered what else she had been lying about. She used to lie before, so easily, with marvellous sincerity. I never heard about the other children bullying her, teasing her, hurting her; about even Lexie, finally, refusing to be friends with her. And then it was too late. Her lies were the veneer that stopped me from seeing the truth. The steering wheel was slick suddenly, my palms sweating with anxiety and gripping it too hard. I forced myself to relax – I didn’t want my bad fingers to cramp up. We had another couple of hours’ drive ahead of us.

  We didn’t talk as the scenery flashed past. Viv was engrossed in her phone and I had to concentrate on the stupid sat nav. I always got lost coming over the Downs and I didn’t want to get stuck in Newbury again. Or Winchester, for that matter. I hated towns now, found them grey and toxic, suffocating. We passed by the potential urban pitfalls without a wrong turn and I made a mental note to thank Steve for convincing me to buy what was now my new favourite contraption. The dulcet tones of the woman in the little box on the windscreen were almost hypnotic. We were driving through the New Forest before I knew it. It is so beautiful there.

  ‘You should look out for ponies, Viv.’ She gave a cursory glance out the window and returned to tapping on her phone.

  ‘I’m not eight, Mum. I don’t really care about ponies.’

  You never have, I thought to myself. When had Vivian ever been interested in animals? She’d never asked for a pet, never shown any interest in other people’s. She hadn’t even been upset when she found our neighbours’ cat grotesquely dead in our garden, presumably killed by a fox. I’d always wanted to get a puppy, but I thought I’d wait until she left home.

  We made Dorset in record time, both sweltering from the heat, limp with tiredness. The cottage we always stayed in was a miracle unto itself. It was beautifully tiny, with two shoebox bedrooms and an open plan downstairs, with old beams in the ceiling. I briefly thought that Alex would have to duck in that room, and then I was furious again. I distracted myself by deciding to properly unpack for once, rather than living out of a ramshackle suitcase for the next few days like I usually did. I knew that next door Vivian would have already put everything away neatly and was probably straightening the furniture.

  I took out my clothes and turned to the ancient dresser. The drawers were lined with scented paper. I was immediately transported back to Walthamstow, to Mum’s bedroom. The dusty, floral smell caught in my throat and my eyes stung. I wished she was there. I wished I’d listened to her. I hadn’t listened, and then she died and the accident with Lexie happened and everything went so badly wrong, and it still hurt so much.

  I remembered the last time I saw her. I was about to leave for work, looking for my house keys. Vivian was milling around upstairs, getting ready for school, and Mum was in the kitchen. She’d tried to speak to me – she’d almost been wringing her hands, clearly anxious about something, some drawings she said she’d found. But, as always, I’d already got half my mind in the office, on the storyboard I was working on for a huge commercial we were pitching for. I ignored her, told her to stop worrying about nothing. I just left. A negligent kiss, dropped on her soft cheek as I rushed past her and out of the door, smoothing Vivian’s hair as she sat on the bottom stair putting her shoes on. You’d think I would have learnt to say goodbye properly to the people I loved.

  I got a call from school to say that Vivian hadn’t been picked up – I can still hear the phone ringing and ringing as I tried to call the house. I ended up texting and asking a neighbour to go in and check while I tried to get back as quickly as possible. I was too much a coward to just get there myself, to open the door.

  The ambulance was already pulling away as I turned onto Maynard Road, a small crowd gathered on the pavement outside our house. Grief vultures, their pitying eyes leaching from me as I tried to run with heavy, stumbling dream legs.

  I never did find those bloody drawings she was on about.

  The present rushed back to me as I flinched back from the painful memory, spinning my head. I suddenly felt like I had hot lead in my stomach, burning, and there was a metallic taste in my mouth that made me nauseous. I barely made it to the bathroom.

  London

  Sometimes when she was worried about something, truly worried, she felt it as an ache in her bones. A dragging weight she carried around, like when Rachel had been away at university with that awful man. Carol was sick with it again. There was something wrong, and she didn’t know what to do. Despite talking to Vivian, despite Vivian saying what sounded like the right things, like healthy things, there was just something wrong. Maybe there had always been something wrong. She had tried to reassure the little girl that her mum didn’t hate her, that she was busy because she needed to do much more work than a normal mum might because it was just her on her own, but she’d got the distinct impression that Vivian didn’t actually care, but was just pretending to. It wasn’t normal.

  It was compounded by the way Rachel was behaving. She had retreated into herself and Carol didn’t know how to reach her. Home late every night, out first thing. Exhausted. She had been like this after Vivian was born. Manic. Had to go to every baby group, had her weighed twice a week. Rocked her endlessly the nights she screamed incessantly, walking up and down the house fit to wear holes in the carpet, refusing help. Always prone to obsessing over everything: it all had to be perfect, all the time. Carol felt pulled between them, stretched to the point of breaking.

  The kettle bubbled and clicked off, juddering on its stand. Carol picked up Rachel’s travel mug and made her a coffee, the smell of it comforting somehow, reminding her of mornings she and Rachel’s father David had sat in the kitchen drinking it together. He’d always made the best coffee. She could hear footsteps in the rooms above, doors opening and closing as her daughter and granddaughter prepared themselves for another day. She felt tears start suddenly, the banality of the morning routine so at odds with the dread at her centre. Rachel bustled into the kitchen. ‘Oh, thanks, Mum!’ she said, spying her coffee. She picked up her handbag and rifled through it, rattling keys and putting in the phone that was always glued to her hand, before picking up the cup. ‘Right, I need to run, I won’t be late tonight, I promise.’

  ‘Wait, please,’ said Carol, her heart pounding, the words spilling out before she could think twice about them. ‘We need to talk, love, it’s important.’

  ‘Right now? I really need to go, Mum, I’ve got a meeting first thing—’

  But Carol couldn’t hold it in. ‘No, it can’t wait. It’s Vivian. I’m really worried about her – I found some drawings in her room, you need to look at them.’

  ‘Drawings? Of what?’

  ‘Rachel, please, will you just wait? I can get them, I’ve got them here—’ But Rachel turned away.

  ‘Mum, I can’t – I’m sure it’s nothing, okay? Just kid’s stuff… you worry too much, Vivian is fine, I have to go – love you!’ She pressed a quick kiss to Carol’s cheek and then went down the hallway and out of the front door; it slammed behind her as the wind caught it. As she did, Carol heard smaller footsteps going back up the stairs. She gasped, feeling short of breath. Had Vivian been listening again? She rubbed her face, pressing her fingers against her eyes. Guilt at betraying Vivian’s trust joined the worry.

  ‘Vivian!’ she called. ‘Are you ready, darling? Time to get your shoes on!’ There was no reply. Gritting her teeth she went to the foot of the stairs and called again. ‘Vivian?’ No answer. She felt heavy footed as she walked up the steps, imagining the conversation she might be about to have, how to explain breaking her promise. She stopped at the top of the narrow staircase, hand to chest, her heart fluttering like a panicked bird in a cage.

  Vivian was standing on the landing, her small face white, her breath hissing between clenched teeth as her hands came up. ‘You said you wouldn’t tell,’ she whispered. ‘You promised.�
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  Instinctively, Carol turned away from the hate she saw in Vivian’s face. The uneven carpet never had been re-pinned. Small hands outstretched, and Carol’s last feelings were of weightlessness, a flash of pain, darkness.

  Vivian

  We’ve only been here five minutes and Mum is chucking up in the bathroom. I’ve just been in the car with her for the eternal afternoon hell drive; if I catch her stupid bug I’m going to kill her. I hate this cottage. It hasn’t got any Wi-Fi. I’m not impressed at all. I can barely turn around in this bedroom, and I’m a bloody midget. Everything stinks like old people. I can’t believe I’m stuck here for days.

  I’ve already unpacked, and Mum’s still in the bathroom puking so I shout to her that I’m going to go for a walk. I grab my rucksack and fill up my water bottle, then head out of the door. I think I hear her shouting something down to me, but I ignore her. The weather is still scorching, but it feels even heavier now. It’s close, as Nana used to say. You can feel it touching you all the time with hot, slick fingers. I hope there will be a sea storm that we can watch from the windows. We’re really near to the cliffs here.

  The path to the top of Swyre Head is worn and pitted with pebbles; they are smooth and shine like glass. Thousands of feet have probably polished them on their way up here. I wonder how many of those feet never came down again. There is only a rickety, twisted wire-and-stake fence, broken in places, between me and the brink. I edge up as close as I can and look down at the waves smashing below, pounding against the beach again and again. I thought it would be calm with the day so bright but the sea attacks the shore relentlessly, it booms and crashes, and I think I can feel the vibrations underneath my feet, absorb its energy somehow. There’s a line of purple on the horizon, and a hot breeze that smells of salt, reminding me of how Alex tastes, pushes at me, drying my lips. I can feel something in the air.

  I amble along the path for the best view of the massive stone arch and the bay behind me. I take a couple of pictures and send one to Alex, then spend ages putting the same one online, using filters to enhance the shadows on the crevices in the cliffs. They look like an army of nightmare creatures, with long reaching arms and scratching fingers. Maybe they have come out of the arch, the gateway between the sea and sky, ready to rend and conquer. The creepy thoughts make my hairs rise on my neck and I laugh and the wind steals the sound away from my lips. Maybe I like it here after all.

  Rachel

  Porcelain always feels so blissfully cold. It was the only pleasant thing about that particular moment. I wondered if I’d eaten something bad, but when had I last eaten, even? The days had been falling into each other, tumbling senselessly, like they had before. Maybe it was delayed motion sickness from the journey, or an overdose of rage to the system.

  I heard Vivian leave, ignoring me when I asked her to get me a glass of water. I felt like I didn’t know her any more. The daughter I’d had at the start of the summer had been usurped by the disconcerting, silent child of my memory, all the oddness, the otherness, resurfacing. I thought she had changed, but it was still there underneath. She had just hidden it from me.

  My phone rang, an unknown mobile number. I didn’t want to answer, but I had to. I had a suspicion of who it might be, and I was right.

  ‘Rachel, it’s me, I—’

  ‘Stop. Just stop. I know what you’ve been doing, Alex. What the hell is wrong with you?’

  ‘Nothing, you don’t understand, please I need to tell you—’ But I cut him off again, furious, furious with myself about how the sound of his voice made me feel, even then.

  ‘No, you don’t understand, Alex, you sick little bastard. I’m going to tell the police what you have been doing – my daughter is fifteen years old! Fifteen, she—’

  ‘Please listen, Rachel – I’m sorry, it’s not what you think, I promise, you just need to know…’ He trailed off, sounding breathless, noises in the background fading away. Silence hung between us. What could he say? What could I?

  ‘What do I need to know, Alex?’

  ‘I didn’t… I didn’t plan any of this. I found you because I wanted to understand her, the truth about her, not you… I thought maybe you’d remember… I thought you would recognise me…’ His conflicted voice trailed away again, but his words triggered something in the recesses of my mind.

  Recognise? Find us? I had recognised him – he had reminded me of someone that very first night I saw him… I’d chosen to ignore it, though, thinking it didn’t matter. Remember. Remember. Oh, god, no. I felt the blood drain from my face, a rushing sensation that rocked me.

  Lexie’s pretty eyes. He looked nothing like Lexie, but his eyes! Of course, they were the same as his mother’s, his sister’s. Those pretty eyes. I hadn’t been able to place them in his grown, male face, so I had ignored my intuition that he reminded me of someone. His hair was so much darker than I remembered – the contrast had fooled me. He’d been so blonde as a child. All the revulsion I felt toward myself for the affair expanded inside me and it took every ounce of control I had not to be sick again.

  ‘Liam,’ I whispered, clutching my phone so hard I thought it might crack. ‘Liam. Oh, god, Liam.’

  ‘Finally she figures it out. Well done, Rachel.’ Confliction gone, sarcasm bathed his voice instead, and it didn’t suit him; it made him sound hard and uncaring. He was hard and uncaring. ‘Is Vivian with you?’ he demanded, brushing my realisation, my remembering, away, stoking again the blazing fury that he had sought to come between us like this, in such a vile way.

  ‘I’m not telling you!’ The line beeped as another call tried to connect; I couldn’t hear anything else he was saying, so I shouted over him: ‘Just leave us alone!’

  I hung up, and I put my head in my hands. What had I done? Who had I let into my life? I should have realised who he was. I cast my mind back over those hours we spent together, his strange questions about Vivian: what she was like, our relationship. There was only one reason he would have tracked us down, ingratiated himself with us, entwined himself so thoroughly in both our lives.

  Revenge. He was here to punish us, ruin us, for what happened to Lexie. An eye for an eye.

  Shaking, brushing away useless tears, I picked up my phone to call Vivian, to find her, warn her, when I saw that I had a voice message from Abi. I dialled in, expecting it to tell me that Molly had come home, desperate for a small relief.

  ‘Rachel?’ I felt a peculiar shift deep in my chest as I listened, the fluttering hope I’d had that Molly was safe being shredded by terror. Her voice. ‘Rachel… the police.’ The words caught and tore in her throat, choking her. ‘They found her, my baby, they found her body in the woods, and now they are at your house. Why are they at your house? What did you do? What did you do?’ Then she broke, wrenching cries echoed down the crackling line, silenced abruptly by the end of the message.

  I dropped the phone, fingers nerveless, ice cold. Molly hadn’t run away. Molly was dead.

  I had to find Vivian.

  Vivian

  The wind has really picked up. My face is stinging, my hair thrashing at it, sharp strands getting in my mouth and eyes. The thin purple line on the horizon is topped now with billowing clouds, dirty yellow, grey and blackening. Swelling up like bruises. I should get back down to the cottage. All the other people who were on the path are gone; I could be the only person in the world up here, a queen on high. I struggle to turn away from the scene, but I do, pulling my feet and legs around to follow the smooth stones back to my mother.

  My phone is ringing. It’s Alex.

  ‘Where are you?’ he says, loudly.

  ‘Er, hi, Alex. I’m fine, thanks. You know where I am. I just sent you a photo. I’m in Dorset, idiot.’

  ‘So am I – are you still on the cliff path?’

  ‘What? Why are you here?’

  ‘Are you still on the path?’ His voice is clipped, like he’s running.

  ‘Yes, but…’ He hangs up on me. Why the hell has he follo
wed us here? I stop at the top of the cliff path, to think. How will I explain him to my mother if she sees him with me? Why did he sound so weird? I am beginning to think that maybe Alex is more trouble than he is worth, that maybe it’s time to just start all over again. I’ve done it before. And if someone like him is interested in me, not Molly, then I don’t have anything to worry about, do I? I can be whoever I want to be. I don’t need either of them, any more.

  I don’t want Alex to find me until I have figured out what the hell is going on. I am debating trying to call him again from here, high on the cliff, where the reception is best, when suddenly Mum comes running up to me out of nowhere, making me jump. She grabs me with hard fingers, digging them into my arms.

  ‘Ow, Mum, what are you doing? Get off!’

  ‘Come back to the cottage, Vivian, quickly. We need to get back.’

  ‘Why? What’s going on?’

  ‘Oh, god, darling, I don’t know how to say this – Abi, she just called, she left a message…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They found Molly. They found her, in the woods. She’s dead.’ Her face creases and reddens horribly. ‘She said the police are at our house, Vivian. Why are the police at our house?’

  Shit.

  Rachel

  Vivian was silent, shocked, when I told her what Abi had told me. She collapsed, pulling me down beside her. She had gone painfully white, staring at nothing, hands clenching and unclenching in her lap, her lips moving soundlessly. I scanned the edges of her face, the face I loved. She was so beautiful, like a perfect line drawing, colourless. All the colour must have been on her inside.

  I took one cold hand in mine, rubbed it. It was no use, mine were just as cold as hers. There was suddenly no warmth left, the cauldron heat of the summer had died away, cooling the sweat on my skin to make me shiver. Vivian was the same, trembling. Her eyes were flickering from side to side as if she were reading something on a page in front of her.