The Turn of the Key (Ruth Ware)

SIMON&SCHUSTEReGalleyDisclaimer
Donotquoteforpublicationuntilverifiedwiththefinishedbook.Thisadvance,uncorrectedreader’sproofisthepropertyofSimon&Schuster.Itisbeingmadeavailableforpromotionalpurposesandreviewbytherecipientandmaynotbeusedforanyotherpurposeortransferredtoanythirdparty.Simon&Schusterreservestherighttoterminateavailabilityoftheproofatanytime.Anyduplication,saleordistributiontothepublicisaviolationofthelaw.Thisfilewillnolongerbeaccessibleuponpublicationofthisbook.Fromthe#1NewYorkTimesbestsellingauthorofInaDark,DarkWood,TheWomaninCabin10,TheLyingGame,andTheDeathofMrs.WestawaycomesRuthWare’shighlyanticipatedfifthnovel
Whenshestumblesacrossthead,she’slookingforsomethingelsecompletely.Butitseemsliketoogoodanopportunitytomiss—alive-innannyingpost,withastaggeringlygeneroussalary.AndwhenRowanCainearrivesatHeatherbraeHouse,sheissmitten—bytheluxurious“smart”homefittedoutwithallmodernconveniences,bythebeautifulScottishHighlands,andbythispicture-perfectfamily.Whatshedoesn’tknowisthatshe’ssteppingintoanightmare—onethatwillendwithachilddeadandherselfinprisonawaitingtrialformurder.Writingtoherlawyerfromprison,shestrugglestoexplaintheunravellingeventsthatledtoherincarceration.Itwasn’tjusttheconstantsurveillancefromthecamerasinstalledaroundthehouse,orthemalfunctioningtechnologythatwokethehouseholdwithboomingmusic,orturnedthelightsoffattheworstpossibletime.Itwasn’tjustthegirls,whoturnedouttobeafarcryfromtheimmaculatelybehavedmodelchildrenshemetatherinterview.Itwasn’teventhewayshewasleftaloneforweeksatatime,withnoadultsaroundapartfromtheenigmatichandyman,JackGrant.Itwaseverything.Sheknowsshe’smademistakes.Sheadmitsthatsheliedtoobtainthepost,andthatherbehaviortowardthechildrenwasn’talwaysideal.She’snotinnocent,byanymeans.But,shemaintains,she’snotguilty—atleastnotofmurder.Whichmeanssomeoneelseis.FullofspellbindingmenaceandtoldinRuthWare’ssignaturesuspensefulstyle,TheTurnoftheKeyisanunputdownablethrillerfromtheAgathaChristieofourtime.
RuthWareworkedasawaitress,abookseller,ateacherofEnglishasaforeignlanguage,andapressofficerbeforesettlingdownasafull-timewriter.ShenowliveswithherfamilyinSussex,onthesouthcoastofEngland.Sheisthe#1TheNewYorkTimesbestsellingauthorofInaDark,DarkWood,TheWomaninCabin10,TheLyingGame,andTheDeathofMrs.Westaway.VisitheratRuthWare.comorfollowheronTwitter@RuthWareWriter.
DearReader,
WhenwelaunchedScoutPressin2015,RuthWare’sInaDark,DarkWoodwastheveryfirstbookonourlist.Inthefouryearssince,Ruthhasbecomeaworldwidebestsellingphenomenon.Herfirstfourbooks—InaDark,DarkWood,TheWomaninCabin10,TheLyingGame,andTheDeathofMrs.Westaway—haveproventhat.SoitshouldcomeasnosurprisethatRuth’sfifthbook,TheTurnoftheKey,justmightbeherbest.
Thoughfirmlycontemporary,Ruth’sbooksalwayshaveagothicairaboutthem.Vulturecreditsherwithreinventingthelocked-roommysteryforanewgenerationofwriters.ThisnewnovelisRuth’smostmodern.Init,shetakesustoaneleganthouseintheScottishcountryside,onlytopeelbackthelayersofhistoryandreveala“smart”homefittedwithcamerastocaptureeverymoveourmaincharactermakes.Butwhenthetechnologybeginstomalfunction,wearelefttowonderifitisreallyatoolforsafetyorifitisperhapsbeingusedforsomethingmoresinister.Trustme,you’llthinktwiceaboutthewisdomofa“smart”homebythetimeyouturnthefinalpage….
IhopeyouloveTheTurnoftheKeyasmuchaswedohereatScout.Asalways,Iwelcomeyourthoughtsandcanbereachedatthecontactsbelow.
Sincerelyyours,
ALISONCALLAHANVicePresident&ExecutiveEditor212-698-2442Alison.callahan@simonandschuster.com
PraiseforRuthWare’sinstantNewYorkTimesbestseller
THEDEATHOFMRS.WESTAWAY
*StarredreviewsfromKirkusReviews,LibraryJournal,andBooklist*NamedoneofthebestbooksoftheyearbyCrimeReadsandtheNewYorkPublicLibrary*IncludedinsummerreadinglistsbyUSAToday,People,theNewYorkPost,PopSugar,GoodHousekeeping,Medium,AARP,Bustle,B&NReads,CrimeReads,Harper’sBazaar,Goodreads,BookBub,LiteraryHub,Insider,Today.com,DCRefined,andBuzzFeed*Among“The10BestThrillersandMysteriesof2018”accordingtotheWashingtonPost*OneofBuzzFeed’s“20ThrillersThatWillMessWithYourSleepSchedule”*
“FansofTheWomaninCabin10,rejoice.RuthWareisbringingyouanotherpage-turningtaleofsuspense….Thrillingandclever,TheDeathofMrs.Westawaywillbehardtoputdown.”
—PopSugar
“Adelightfullychillymystery.”
—People
“ThisBritishwriterknowshowtohookcrime-novel/psychologicalsuspensefans.”
—USAToday
“[A]captivatingandeeriepage-turner.”
—WallStreetJournal
“RuthWarereturnswithanotherchillingpage-turner.”
—UsWeekly
“Aclassicnevergoesoutofstyle.Considertheconfidentsimplicityofthedrymartini,theEdisonlightbulb,andMeghanMarkle’sweddingdress.Now,addtothatlistRuthWare’snewnovel,TheDeathofMrs.Westaway…aperfectlyexecutedsuspensetaleverymuchinthemodeofDaphneduMaurier’sRebecca.”
—TheWashingtonPost
“NobodywritespsychologicalthrillerslikeRuthWare.Nobody.Andherlatestatmosphericnovel,aboutawomanwhoistheaccidentalrecipientofamysteriousletterofferingheralargesumofmoney,isnoexception.You’llthoroughlyenjoyplayingdetectivealongtheway.”
—HelloGiggles
“Ware’sfourthnovelisherbestyet,withsteadilyincreasingtension,acomplicatedtwistymystery,andasharp,sympatheticheroinewho’suptothechallengeofsolvingit…well-crafted,gothic-tingedsuspense.”
—LibraryJournal(starredreview)
“Ware’snovelscontinuetoevokecomparisontoAgathaChristie;theycertainlyhavethatclassicflavordespitethecontemporarysettings.Expertlypaced,expertlycrafted.”
—KirkusReviews(starredreview)
“Ware,who,witharunofacclaimedthrillers,includingTheLyingGame(2017),hasestablishedherselfasoneoftoday’smostpopularsuspensewriters,twiststheknifequiteexpertlyhere….ThelabyrinthWarehasdevisedhereismuchmorewindingthanexpected,withrevealsevenonthefinalpages…acleverheroineandanatmosphericsetting,accentedbywispsofmeaningthatdriftfromthetarotcards.”
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“Evocativeprose,artfullyshadedcharacters,andacreepy,claustrophobicatmospherekeepthepagesofthisexplosivefamilydramaturning.”
—PublishersWeekly
“I’veadoredRuthWare’sworkforsometime,eversinceIpickedupherfirstplayfulpuzzlerofamystery,InaDark,DarkWood.She’sbeenmakingherwaythroughclassicmysterysettings,makingeachherown,andhernewvolumepromisestocontinuethetrend,inataleofaconartistheadedtoafamilyfuneralthatpromisestobethemostentertainingfictionalBritishburialsincethefilmDeathataFuneralfirstgracedourscreens.”
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“Thebest-sellingwriterofpsychologicalthrillers(InaDark,DarkWoodandTheWomaninCabin10)hasanewwinner…thesituationgrowsincreasinglycomplicatedandcreepy,AgathaChristie–style.”
—AARP
“RuthWare’smasterstorytellingagainsetsreadersonedge.”
—RTBookReviews
“Ifyou’vebeenpiningawayforafirst-rategothicmurdermysteryforthepastforty-oddyearssinceAgathaChristie’spassing,hieyourselftoyourlocal(oronline)bookvendorforRuthWare’sTheDeathofMrs.Westaway.Ithaseverythingyou’relookingfor….AtmosphericandtwistinginaveryChristie-likemanner(manor?),TheDeathofMrs.Westawayisguaranteedtokeepyouflippingpageswellpastyourbedtime.”
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“RuthWarecontinuestorevitalizethetraditionalmysteryformillennialaudiencesinTheDeathofMrs.Westaway,foranothermysterythatfunctionsbothastributetothegenre’stropesandaplayfulrevisioningofthedrawingroommystery.”
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“RuthWarehaswrittenanothergrippingthriller…Creepyandatmospheric,TheDeathofMrs.Westawaywillkeepreadersontheedgeoftheirseats.Warespinsaconvincingwebofintrigueandtension.”
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“Ifyou,likeme,haveaweaknessforBritishhaunted-housenovels,thisone,bytheauthorofTheWomaninCabin10andTheLyingGame,mightkeepyouflippingpageslateonasummer’snight.”
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“[RuthWare’s]newestnovel,TheDeathofMrs.Westawaymaybeherbestnovelyet,andit’smostdefinitelymyfavoriteWarenovelthusfar.”
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“Withlotsofclevertwistsandsurprises,thiscreepyandentertainingthrillerwillkeepyouinsuspenserightupuntilthelastfewpages.Ifyou’reafanofWare’sTheWomaninCabin10,you’llalsoenjoythischillingandgrippingthriller.”
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“TheDeathofMrs.Westawayisatautlyatmosphericnovelthatisperfecttocurlupwithonastormynight….Therearealotofpsychologicalthrillersbeingpublishedthesedays,butTheDeathofMrs.WestawayisoneofthebestI’vereadthisyear.”
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“ThisisthemysteryI’vebeenravingabouttoeveryone,butparticularlytofansofDaphneduMaurier’smasterpiece,Rebecca….Agloomyancestralmansion,never-endingrainstorms,amaniacalkillerandplottwistsaplentygracethisstandoutsuspensenovel.”
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“RuthWareisamagician.Hernovels—suspenseful,sophisticated,relentlesslycompelling—blowthedustoffhalfadozencrimegenres,fromGoldenAgewhodunitstopsychologicalsuspense.AndTheDeathofMrs.Westaway,herlatest,isalsoherbest:adarkanddramaticthriller,partmurdermystery,partfamilydrama,altogetherriveting.More,please,andsoon.”
—A.J.Finn,#1NewYorkTimesbestsellingauthorofTheWomanintheWindow
DedicationTK
3rdSeptember2017
DearMr.Wrexham,
Iknowyoudon’tknowmebutplease,please,pleaseyouhavetohelpme
3rdSeptember2017
HMPCharnworth
DearMr.Wrexham,
Youdon’tknowme,butyoumayhaveseencoverageofmycaseinthenewspapers.ThereasonIamwritingtoyouistoaskyouplease
4thSeptember2017
HMPCharnworth
DearMr.Wrexham,
Ihopethat’stherightwaytoaddressyou.Ihaveneverwrittentoabarristerbefore.
ThefirstthingIhavetosayisthatIknowthisisunconventional.IknowIshouldhavegoneviamysolicitor,buthe’s
5thSeptember2017
DearMr.Wrexham,
Areyouafather?Anuncle?Ifso,letmeappeal
DearMr.Wrexham,
Pleasehelpme.Ididn’tkillanyone.
7thSeptember2017
HMPCharnworth
DearMr.Wrexham,
YouhavenoideahowmanytimesI’vestartedthisletterandscreweduptheresultingmess,butI’verealizedthereisnomagicformulahere.ThereisnowayIcanmakeyoulistentomycase.SoI’mjustgoingtohavetodomybesttosetthingsout.Howeverlongittakes,howevermuchImessthisup,I’mjustgoingtokeepgoingandtellthetruth.
Mynameis…AndhereIstop,wantingtotearupthepageagain.
BecauseifItellyoumyname,youwillknowwhyIamwritingtoyou.Mycasehasbeenalloverthepapers,mynameineveryheadline,myagonizedfacestaringoutofeveryfrontpage—andeverysinglearticleinsinuatingmyguiltinawaythatfallsonlyjustshortofcontemptofcourt.IfItellyoumyname,Ihaveahorriblefeelingyoumightwritemeoffasalostcauseandthrowmyletteraway.Iwouldn’tentirelyblameyou,butplease—beforeyoudothat,hearmeout.
Iamayoungwoman,twenty-sevenyearsold,andasyou’llhaveseenfromthereturnaddressabove,IamcurrentlyattheScottishwomen’sprisonHMPCharnworth.I’veneverreceivedaletterfromanyoneinprison,soIdon’tknowwhattheylooklikewhentheycomethroughthedoor,butIimaginemycurrentlivingarrangementswereprettyobviousevenbeforeyouopenedtheenvelope.
Whatyouprobablydon’tknowisthatI’monremand.
AndwhatyoucannotknowisthatI’minnocent.
Iknow,Iknow.Theyallsaythat.EverysinglepersonI’vemethereisinnocent—accordingtothem,anyway.Butinmycaseit’strue.
Youmayhaveguessedwhat’scomingnext.I’mwritingtoaskyoutorepresentmeasmysolicitoradvocateatmytrial.
Irealizethatthisisunconventionalandnothowdefendantsaresupposedtoapproachadvocates.(Iaccidentallycalledyouabarristerinanearlierdraftofthisletter—Iknownothingaboutthelaw,andevenlessabouttheScottishsystem.EverythingIdoknowIhavepickedupfromthewomenI’minprisonwith,includingyourname.)
Ihaveasolicitoralready—Mr.Gates—andfromwhatIunderstand,heisthepersonwhoshouldbeappointinganadvocatefortheactualtrial.Butheisalsothepersonwholandedmehereinthefirstplace.Ididn’tchoosehim—thepolicepickedhimformewhenIbegantogetscaredandfinallyhadthesensetoshutupandrefusetoanswerquestionsuntiltheyfoundmealawyer.
Ithoughtthathewouldstraighteneverythingout—helpmetomakemycase.Butwhenhearrived—Idon’tknow,Ican’texplainit.Hejustmadeeverythingworse.Hedidn’tletmespeak.EverythingItriedtosayhewascuttinginwith“Myclienthasnocommentatthistime,”anditjustmademelooksomuchmoreguilty.IfeellikeifonlyIcouldhaveexplainedproperly,itwouldneverhavegotthisfar.Butsomehowthefactskepttwistinginmymouth,andthepolice,theymadeeverythingsoundsobad,soincriminating.
It’snotthatMr.Gateshasn’theardmysideofthestoryexactly.Hehas,ofcourse—butsomehow—OhGod,thisissohardtoexplaininwriting.He’ssatdownandtalkedtome,buthedoesn’tlisten.Orifhedoes,hedoesn’tbelieveme.EverytimeItrytotellhimwhathappened,startingfromthebeginning,hecutsinwiththesequestionsthatmuddlemeupandmystorygetsalltangledandIwanttoscreamathimtojustshutthefuckup
AndhekeepstalkingtomeaboutwhatIsaidinthetranscriptsfromthatawfulfirstnightatthepolicestation,whentheygrilledmeandgrilledmeandIsaid—God,Idon’tknowwhatIsaid.I’msorry,I’mcryingnow.I’msorry—I’msosorryforthestainsonthepaper.Ihopeyoucanreadmywritingthroughtheblotches.
WhatIsaid,whatIsaidthen,there’snoundoingthat.Iknowthat.Theyhaveallthatontape.Andit’sbad—it’sreallybad.Butitcameoutwrong;IfeellikeifonlyIcouldbegivenachancetogetmycaseacross,tosomeonewhowouldreallylisten…doyouseewhatI’msaying?
OhGod,maybeyoudon’t.You’veneverbeenhereafterall.You’veneversatacrossadeskfeelingsoexhaustedyouwanttodropandsoscaredyouwanttovomit,withthepoliceaskingandaskingandaskinguntilyoudon’tknowwhatyou’resayinganymore.
Iguessitcomesdowntothisintheend.
IamthenannyintheElincourtcase,Mr.Wrexham.
AndIdidn’tkillthatchild.
Istartedwritingtoyoulastnight,Mr.Wrexham,andwhenIwokeupthismorningandlookedatthecrumpledpagescoveredwithmypleadingscrawl,myfirstinstinctwastoripthemupandstartagain,justlikeIhadadozentimesbefore.Ihadmeanttobesocool,socalmandcollected—Ihadmeanttoseteverythingoutsoclearlyandmakeyousee.AndinsteadIendedupcryingontothepageinamessofrecrimination.
ButthenIrereadwhatI’dwrittenandIthought,No.Ican’tstartagain.Ijusthavetokeepgoing.
AllthistimeIhavebeentellingmyselfthatifonlysomeonewouldletmeclearmyheadandgetmysideofthestorystraight,withoutinterrupting,maybethiswholeawfulmesswouldgetsortedout.
AndhereIam.Thisismychance,right?
140days,theycanholdyouinScotlandbeforeatrial.Thoughthere’sawomanherewhohasbeenwaitingalmosttenmonths.Tenmonths!Doyouknowhowlongthatis,Mr.Wrexham?Youprobablythinkyoudo,butletmetellyou.Inhercasethat’s297days.She’smissedChristmaswithherkids.She’smissedalltheirbirthdays.She’smissedMother’sDayandEasterandfirstdaysatschool.
297days.Andtheystillkeeppushingbackthedateofhertrial.
Mr.Gatessayshedoesn’tthinkminewilltakethatlongbecauseofallthepublicity,butIdon’tseehowhecanbesure.
Eitherway,100days,140days,297days…that’salotofwritingtime,Mr.Wrexham.Alotoftimetothink,andremember,andtrytoworkoutwhatreallyhappened.Becausethere’ssomuchIdon’tunderstand,butthere’sonethingIknow.Ididnotkillthatlittlegirl.Ididn’t.Howeverhardthepolicetrytotwistthefactsandtripmeup,theycan’tchangethat.
Ididn’tkillher.Whichmeanssomeoneelsedid.Andtheyareoutthere.
WhileIaminhere,rotting.
Iwillfinishnow,becauseIknowIcan’tmakethislettertoolong—you’reabusyman;you’lljuststopreading.
Butplease,youhavetobelieveme.You’retheonlypersonwhocanhelp.
Please,comeandseeme,Mr.Wrexham.LetmeexplainthesituationtoyouandhowIgottangledintothisnightmare.Ifanyonecanmakethejuryunderstand,it’syou.
Ihaveputyournamedownforavisitor’spass—oryoucanwritetomehereifyouhavemorequestions.It’snotlikeI’mgoinganywhere.Ha.
Sorry,Ididn’tmeantoendonajoke.It’snotalaughingmatter,Iknowthat.IfI’mconvicted,I’mfacing—
Butno.Ican’tthinkaboutthat.Notrightnow.Iwon’tbe.Iwon’tbeconvicted,becauseI’minnocent.Ijusthavetomakeeveryoneunderstandthat.Startingwithyou.
Please,Mr.Wrexham,pleasesayyou’llhelp.Pleasewriteback.Idon’twanttobemelodramaticaboutthis,butIfeellikeyou’remyonlyhope.
Mr.Gatesdoesn’tbelieveme;Iseeitinhiseyes.
ButIthinkthatyoumight.
12thSeptember2017
HMPCharnworth
DearMr.Wrexham,
It’sbeenthreedayssinceIwrotetoyou,andI’mnotgoingtolie,I’vebeenwaitingforareplywithmyheartinmymouth.EverydaythepostcomesroundandIfeelmypulsespeedup,withakindofpainfulhope,andeveryday(sofar)you’veletmedown.
I’msorry.Thatsoundslikeemotionalblackmail.Idon’tmeanitlikethat.Igetit.You’reabusyman,andit’sbeenonlythreedayssinceIsentmyletterbut…IguessIhalfhopedthatifthepublicitysurroundingthecasehaddonenothingelse,itwouldhavegivenmeacertaintwistedcelebrity—madeyoupickoutmyletterfromamongalltheothersyoupresumablygetfromclientsandwould-beclientsandnutters.
Don’tyouwanttoknowwhathappened,Mr.Wrexham?Iwould.
Anyway,it’sthreedaysnow(didImentionthatalready?)and…well,I’mbeginningtoworry.There’snotmuchtodoinhere,andthere’salotoftimetothinkandfretandstarttobuildupcatastrophesinsideyourhead.
I’vespentthelastfewdaysandnightsdoingthat.Worryingthatyoudidn’tgettheletter.Worryingthattheprisonauthoritiesdidn’tpassiton(cantheydothatwithouttellingme?Ihonestlydon’tknow).WorryingthatIdidn’texplainright.
It’sthelastonethathasbeenkeepingmeawake.Becauseifit’sthat,thenit’smyfault.
Iwastryingtokeepitshortandsnappy,butnowI’mthinking,Ishouldn’thavestoppedsoquickly.Ishouldhaveputinmoreofthefacts,triedtoshowyouwhyI’minnocent.Becauseyoucan’tjusttakemywordforit—Igetthat.
WhenIcamehere,theotherwomen—Icanbehonestwithyou,Mr.Wrexham—theyfeltlikeanotherspecies.It’snotthatIthinkI’mbetterthanthem.Buttheyallseemed…theyallseemedtofitinhere.Eventhefrightenedones,theself-harmersandtheoneswhoscreamedandbangedtheirheadsagainsttheircellwallsandcriedatnight,eventhegirlsbarelyoutofschool.Theylooked…Idon’tknow.Theylookedliketheybelongedhere,withtheirpale,gauntfacesandtheirpulled-backhairandtheirblurredtattoos.Theylooked…well,theylookedguilty
ButIwasdifferent.
I’mEnglish,forastart,ofcourse,whichdidn’thelp.Icouldn’tunderstandthemwhentheygotangryandstartedshoutingandallupinmyface.Ihadnoideawhathalftheslangmeant.AndIwasvisiblymiddle-class,inawaythatIcan’tputmyfingeronbutwhichmightaswellhavebeenwrittenacrossmyforeheadasfarastheotherwomenwereconcerned.
Butthemainthingwas,Ihadneverbeeninprison.Idon’tthinkI’deverevenmetsomeonewhohad,beforeIcamehere.ThereweresecretcodesIcouldn’tdecipher,andcurrentsIhadnowayofnavigating.Ididn’tunderstandwhatwasgoingonwhenonewomanpassedsomethingtoanotherinthecorridorandallofasuddenthewardenscamebarrelingout,shouting.Ididn’tseethefightscoming;Ididn’tknowwhowasoffhermeds,orwhowascomingdownfromahighandmightlashout.Ididn’tknowtheonestoavoidortheoneswithpermanentPMS.Ididn’tknowwhattowearorwhattodo,orwhatwouldgetyouspatonorpunchedbytheotherinmates,orwhatwouldprovokethewardenstocomedownhardonyou.
Isoundeddifferent.Ilookeddifferent.Ifeltdifferent.
AndthenonedayIwentintothebathroomandIcaughtaglimpseofawomanwalkingtowardsmefromthefarcorner.Shehadherhairscrapedbacklikealltheothers,hereyeswerelikechipsofgranite,andherfacewasset,hardandwhite.Myfirstthoughtwas,OhGod,shelookspissedoff;Iwonderwhatshe’sinfor
Mysecondthoughtwas,MaybeI’dbetterusetheotherbathroom
AndthenIrealized.
Itwasamirroronthefarwall.Thewomanwasme.
Itshouldhavebeenashock—therealizationthatIwasn’tdifferentatallbutjustanotherwomansuckedintothissoullesssystem.Butinastrangewayithelped.
Istilldon’tfitincompletely.I’mstilltheEnglishgirl—andtheyallknowwhatI’minfor.Inprisontheydon’tlikepeoplewhoharmchildren,Mr.Wrexham;youprobablyknowthat.I’vetoldthemit’snottrue,ofcourse—whatI’maccusedof.ButtheylookatmeandIknowwhatthey’rethinking—Theyallsaythat
AndIknow—Iknowthat’swhatyou’llbethinkingtoo.That’swhatIwantedtosay.Iunderstandifyou’reskeptical.Ididn’tmanagetoconvincethepolice,afterall.I’mhere.Withoutbail.Imustbeguilty.
Butit’snottrue.
Ihave140daystoconvinceyou.AllIhavetodoistellthetruth,right?Ijusthavetostartatthebeginningandsetitallout,clearlyandcalmly,untilIgettotheend.
Andthebeginningwastheadvert.
WANTED:LARGEFAMILYSEEKSEXPERIENCEDLIVE-INNANNYABOUTUS:Weareabusyfamilyoffourchildren,livinginabeautiful(butremote!)houseintheHighlands.MumandDadco-runthefamilyarchitecturepractice.ABOUTYOU:Weareseekinganexperiencednanny,usedtoworkingwithchildrenofallages,frombabyhoodtoteens.Youmustbepractical,unflappable,andcomfortablelookingafterchildrenonyourown.Excellentreferences,backgroundcheck,firstaidcertificate,andcleandrivinglicenseareamust.ABOUTTHEPOST:MumandDadworkmainlyfromhome,andduringthoseperiodsyouwillhaveasimpleeight-to-fivepost,withonenightaweekbabysittingandweekendsoff.Asfaraspossiblewearrangeourschedulesothatoneparentisalwaysaround.However,therearetimeswhenwemaybothneedtobeaway(veryoccasionallyforuptoafortnight),andwhenthisoccurs,youwillbeinlocoparentis.Inreturnwecanofferahighlycompetitiveremunerationpackagetotaling￡55,000perannum(gross,includingbonus),useofacar,andeightweeks’holidayayear.ApplicationstoSandraandBillElincourt,HeatherbraeHouse,CarnBridge.
Irememberitnearlywordforword.Thefunnythingwas,Iwasn’tevenlookingforajobwhenitcameuponmyGoogleresults—Iwassearchingfor…well,itdoesn’treallymatterwhatIwaslookingfor.Butsomethingcompletelydifferent.Andthenthereitwas—likeagiftthrownintomyhandssounexpectedlyIalmostdidn’tcatchit.
Ireaditthroughonce,andthenagain,myheartbeatingfasterthesecondtime,becauseitwasperfect.Itwasalmosttooperfect.
WhenIreaditathirdtimeIwasscaredtolookattheclosingdateforapplications—convincedIwouldhavemissedit.
Butitwasthatveryevening.
Itwasunbelievable.Notjustthesalary—thoughGodknows,thatwasaprettystartlingsum.Notjustthepost.Buttheluckofit.Thewholepackage—justfallinginmylap,rightwhenIwasintheperfectpositiontoapply.
Yousee,myflatmatewasaway,traveling.We’dmetattheLittleNippersnurseryinPeckham,workingsidebysideinthebabyroom,laughingaboutourterriblebossandthepushy,faddyparents,withtheirfuckingfabricnappiesandtheirhomemade—
Sorry.Ishouldn’thavesworn.I’vescribbleditout,butyoucanprobablyseethewordthroughthepaperand,Godknows,maybeyou’vegotkids,maybeyouevenputtheminLittlePlushyBottomsorwhateverthefashionablebrandwasatthetime.
AndIgetit,Ido.They’reyourbabies.Nothingistoomuchtrouble.Iunderstandthat.It’sjustthatwhenyou’retheonehavingtostockpileawholeday’sworthofpissy,shittybitsofclothandhandthembacktotheparentatcollectiontimewithyoureyeswateringfromtheammonia…it’snotthatImindexactly,youknow?It’spartofthejob.Igetthat.Butwealldeserveamoan,don’twe?Weallneedtoletoffsteam,orwe’dexplodewithfrustration.
Sorry.I’mrambling.MaybethisiswhyMr.Gatesisalwaystryingtoshutmeup.BecauseIdigmyselfaholewithmywordsandinsteadofknowingwhentostop,Ikeepdigging.You’reprobablyaddingtwoandtwotogetherrightnow.Doesn’tseemtolikekidsmuch.Freelyadmitstofrustrationwithrole.Whatwouldhappenwhenshewascoopedupwithfourkidsandnoadultsto“letoffsteam”with?
That’sexactlywhatthepolicedid.Allthoselittlethrowawayremarks—allthoseunedifyingfacts.IcouldseethetriumphontheirfaceseverytimeIdroppedone,andIwatchedthempickingthemuplikebreadcrumbs,addingthemtotheweightofargumentsagainstme.
Butthat’sthething,Mr.Wrexham.Icouldspinyouawebofbullshitaboutwhataperfect,caring,saintlypersonIam—butitwouldbejustthat.Bullshit.AndIamnotheretobullshityou.Iwantyoutobelievethat—Iwantitmorethananythingintheworld.
Iamtellingyouthetruth.Theunvarnished,uglytruth.Anditisallthat.Itisunpolishedandunpleasant,andIdon’tpretendIactedlikeanangel.ButIdidn’tkillanyone.Ijustfuckingdidn’t.
I’msorry.Ididn’tmeantoswearagain.
God,Iammessingthisupsobadly.Ihavetokeepaclearhead—getthisallstraightinmyhead.It’slikeMr.Gatessays—Ishouldsticktothefacts.
Okaythen.Fact.Theadvert.Theadvertisafact,right?
Theadvert…withitsamazing,dizzying,fabuloussalary.
Thatshouldhavebeenmyfirstwarningsignal,youknow.Thesalary.Becauseitwasstupidlygenerous.ImeanitwouldhavebeengenerousevenforLondon,evenforalive-outnanny.Butforanannyinsomeone’shouse,withfreeaccommodationprovided,andallbillspaid,evendowntothecar,itwasridiculous.
Itwassoridiculous,infact,thatIhalfwonderediftherehadbeenatypo.Orsomethingthattheyweren’tsaying—achildwithsignificantbehavioralneedsmaybe?Butwouldn’ttheyhavementionedthatinthead?
SixmonthsagoIprobablywouldhavepaused,frownedalittle,andthenpassedonwithoutthinkingtoomuchmoreaboutit.Butthen,sixmonthsagoIwouldn’thavebeenlookingatthatwebpageinthefirstplace.SixmonthsagoIhadaflatmateandajobIliked,andeventheprospectofpromotion.SixmonthsagoIwasinaprettygoodplace.Butnow…well,thingswereabitdifferentnow.
Myfriend,thegirlImentionedatLittleNippers,hadlefttogotravelingacoupleofmonthsago.Ithadn’tseemedliketheendoftheworldwhenshetoldme—tobehonest,Ifoundherquiteannoying,herhabitofloadingthedishwasherbutneveractuallyswitchingiton,herendlessEuro-popdiscohits,hissingthroughmybedroomwallwhenIwastryingtosleep.Imean,IknewI’dmissher,butIdidn’trealizehowmuch.
Shehadleftherstuffinherroom,andwe’dagreedshe’dpayhalfrentandI’dkeeptheroomopenforher.Itseemedlikeagoodcompromise—I’dhadaseriesofterribleflatmatesbeforewefoundeachother,andIwasn’tkeentoreturntopostingonFacebookLocalandtryingtoweedoutweirdosbytextmessageandemail,anditfelt,insomesmallway,likeananchor—likeaguaranteethatshewouldcomeback.
Butwhenthefirstflushoffreedomworeoff,andthenoveltyofhavingthewholeplacetomyselfandwatchingwhateverIlikedonthesharedTVinthelivingroomhadstartedtofadealittle,IfoundIwaslonely.Imissedthewayshe’dsay“Wineo’clock,darling?”whenwerolledintogetherfromwork.ImissedsoundingofftoheraboutVal,theownerofLittleNippers,andsharinganecdotesabouttheworstoftheparents.WhenIappliedforapromotionanddidn’tgetit,Iwenttothepubalonetodrownmysorrowsandendedupcryingintomybeer,thinkinghowdifferentitwouldhavebeenifshehadstillbeenhere.Wecouldhavelaughedaboutittogether,shewouldhaveflippedValthebirdbehindherbackatwork,andgivenherearthybellylaughwhenValturnedaroundtoalmostcatchherintheact.
Iamnotverygoodatfailing,Mr.Wrexham,that’sthething.Exams.Dating.Jobs.Anykindoftest,really.Myinstinctisalwaystoaimlow,savemyselfsomepain.Or,inthecaseofdating,justdon’taimatall,ratherthanriskbeingrejected.It’swhyIdidn’tgotouniversityintheend.Ihadthegrades,butIcouldn’tbeartheideaofbeingturneddown,thethoughtofthemreadingmyapplicationswithascornfulsnigger.“Whodoesshethinksheis?”
Bettertoachieveperfectmarksonaneasytestthanflunkahardone,thatwasmymotto.I’vealwaysknownthataboutmyself.ButwhatIdidn’tknow,untilmyflatmateleft,wasthatIamalsonotverygoodatbeingalone.AndIthinkitwasthat,morethananything,thatpushedmeoutofmycomfortzoneandmademescrolldownthatadvert,holdingmybreath,imaginingwhatlayattheotherendofit.
Thepolicemadealotoutofthesalarywhentheyfirstquestionedme.Butthetruthis,themoneywasn’tthereasonIappliedforthepost.Itwasn’tevenreallyaboutmyflatmate,thoughIcan’tdeny,ifshehadn’tleft,noneofitwouldhavehappened.No,therealreason…well,youprobablyknowwhattherealreasonwas.Itwasalloverthepapers,afterall.
IcalledinsicktoLittleNippersandspenttheentiredayworkingonaCVandgettingtogethereverythingthatIknewIwouldneedtoconvincetheElincourtsthatIwasthepersontheywerelookingfor.Backgroundcheck—check.Firstaidcertificate—check.Spotlessreferences—check,check,andcheck.
Theonlyproblemwasthedrivinglicense.ButIpushedtheissueasideforthemoment.IcouldcrossthatbridgewhenIcametoit—ifIgotthatfar.Rightnow,Iwasn’tthinkingpasttheinterview.
Iaddedanotetothecoverletter,askingtheElincourtsnottocontactLittleNippersforareference—ItoldthemthatIdidn’twantmycurrentemployersknowingthatIwascastingaboutforanotherjob,whichwastrue—andthenIemaileditofftotheaddressprovidedandheldmybreathandwaited.
Ihadgivenmyselfthebestpossiblechanceofmeetingthemface-to-face.TherewasnothingelseIcoulddonow.
Thosenextfewdayswerehard,Mr.Wrexham.NotashardasthetimeI’vespentinhere,buthardenough.Because—God—Iwantedthatinterviewsomuch.Iwasonlyjustbeginningtorealizehowmuch.Witheverydaythatpassed,myhopesebbedalittlemore,andIhadtofightofftheurgetocontactthemagainandbegforananswer.Theonlythingthatstoppedmewastheknowledgethatlookingsodesperatewouldcertainlynothelpmycaseiftheywerestilldeciding.
Butsixdayslateritcame,pingingintomyemailinbox.
To:supernanny1990@ymail.comFrom:sandra.elincourt@elincourtandelincourt.comSubject:Nannyposition.
Elincourt.Thesurnamealonewasenoughtomakemystomachstartchurninglikeawashingmachine.Myfingerswereshakingalmosttoomuchtoopenit,andmyheartwashammeringinmythroat.Surely,surelytheydidn’toftencontactunsuccessfulapplicants.Surelyanemailmustmean…?
Iclicked.
Hi,Rowan!Thankyousomuchforyourapplication,andapologiesfortakingsolongtogetbacktoyou.Ihavetoadmit,wewereslightlytakenbysurpriseatthevolumeofapplications.YourCVwasveryimpressive,andwewouldliketoinviteyoutointerview.Ourhouseisratherremote,sowearehappytopayyourtrainfareandcanofferyouaroominourhouseovernight,asyouwillnotbeabletomakethetripfromLondoninoneday.However,thereisonethingImustmakeyouawareofupfront,incaseitaffectsyourenthusiasmforthepost.SinceweboughtHeatherbraewehavebecomeawareofvarioussuperstitionssurroundingthehouse’shistory.Itisanoldbuildingandhashadnomorethantheusualnumberofdeathsandtragediesinitspast,butforsomereasonthesehaveresultedinsomelocaltalesofhauntings,etc.Unfortunately,thisfacthasupsetsomeofourrecentnannies,totheextentthatfourhaveresignedinthepastfourteenmonths.Asyoucanimagine,thishasbeenverydisruptiveforthechildren,nottomentionextremelyawkwardformyselfandmyhusbandprofessionally.Forthatreasonwewantedtobecompletelyhonestaboutourpredicament,andweareofferingageneroussalaryinthehopesofattractingsomeonewhocanreallycommittostayingwithourfamilyforthelongterm—atleastayear.Ifyoudonotfeelthatisyou,orifyoufeelatallconcernedaboutthehistoryofthehouse,pleasesaysonow,asweareverykeentominimizefurtherdisruptiontothechildren.Withthatinmind,thesalarywillbemadeupofabasicstipend,paidmonthly,andthenagenerousyear-endbonusontheanniversaryofemployment.Ifyouarestillkeentoattendtheinterview,pleaseletmeknowyouravailabilityfortheforthcomingweek.Bestwishes,andIlookforwardtomeetingyou.SandraElincourt
Icloseddowntheemailandforamomentjustsattherestaringatthescreen.ThenIgotupanddidalittlesilentscream,punchingtheairinjubilation.
Ihaddoneit.Ihaddoneit.
Ishouldhaveknownitwastoogoodtobetrue.
Ihaddoneit,Mr.Wrexham.Ihadclearedthefirsthurdle.Butitwasonlythefirsthurdle.Ihadtogetthroughtheinterviewnext—andwithoutslippingup.
AlmostexactlyoneweekafterIhadopenedtheemailfromSandraElincourt,IwasonatrainuptoScotland,doingmyverybestimpressionofRowanthePerfectNanny.Mynormallybushyhairwasbrushedtoashineandtamedintoaneat,jauntyponytail,mynailswerebuffed,andmymakeupunobtrusivelyonpoint,andIwaswearingmybest“approachableyetresponsible,funyethardworking,professionalyetnottooproudtogetdownonmykneesandclearupvomit”outfit—aneattweedskirtandawhitecottonfittedshirtwithacashmerecardiganoverthetop.NotquiteaNorlandnanny,butdefinitelyanodinthatdirection.
Mystomachwasflippingwithbutterflies.Ihadneverdoneanythinglikethisbefore.Notthenannying,Imean.Obviously.Ihaddonethatfornearlytenyears,thoughmostlyinnurseriesratherthanprivatehomes.
But…this.Puttingmyselfontheline.Settingmyselfupforrejectionlikethis.
Iwantedthissomuch.SomuchthatIwasalmostscaredofwhatIwasgoingtofind.
Muchtomyannoyance,thetrainwasdelayed,soittooknearlysixhourstogettoEdinburghinsteadofthetime-tabledfourandahalf,andwhenIgotoffthetrainatWaverley,stifflyflexingmylegs,Ifounditwaspastfiveo’clock,andIhadmissedmyconnectionbyagoodhour.Fortunatelytherewasanothertraindue,andwhileIwaited,ItextedMrs.Elincourt,apologizingprofuselyandwarningherthatIwouldbelateintoCarnBridge.
Atlastthetrainarrived—muchsmallerthanthebigintercity,andoldertoo.Isettledmyselfinawindowseat,andasthetrainheadednorthIwatchedthecountrysidechangefromrollinggreenfieldstothesmoke-blueandpurplesofheatheredmoors,mountainsrisingbehind,darkerandbleakerwitheverystationwepassed.Itwassobeautifulitmademeforgetmyirritationatbeinglate.Thesightofthehugehillsrisinginexorablyaroundussomehowputeverythingelseintoperspective.Ifeltthehardlumpoftrepidationlodgedinmygutstarttosoften.Andsomethinginsidemebegan…Idon’tknow,Mr.Wrexham.ItwaslikeIbegantohope.Tohopethatthiscouldtrulybereal.
Ifelt,insometwistedkindofway,likeIwascominghome.
Wepassedthroughstationswithhalf-familiarnames,Perth,Pitlochry,Aviemore,theskygrowingdarkerallthetime.AtlastIheard“CarnBridge,nextstopCarnBridge,”andthetrainpulledintoalittleVictorianstation,andIgotout.Istoodontheplatform,jumpywithnerves,wonderingwhattodo.
Someonewillmeetyou,Mrs.Elincourt’semailhadsaid.Whatdidthatmean?Ataxi?Someoneholdingupasignwithmyname?
Ifollowedthesmallstraggleoftravelerstotheexitandstoodawkwardlywhiletheotherpassengersdispersedtocarsandwaitingfriendsandrelatives.Mycasewasheavy,andIsetitdownbymyfeetasIlookedupanddowntheduskyplatform.Theshadowswerelengtheningintoevening,andthefleetingoptimismIhadfeltonthetrainwasstartingtofade.WhatifMrs.Elincourthadn’tgotmytext?Shehadn’treplied.PerhapsaprebookedtaxihadcomeandgonehoursagoandI’dbeenmarkedupasano-show.
Suddenlythebutterflieswereback—andbadly.
ItwasearlyJune,butwewereprettyfarnorth,andthenightairwassurprisinglycoldafterthefuggysummerwarmthofLondon.IfoundIwasshiveringasIpulledmycoataroundme,acoolwindwhippingdownfromthehills.Theplatformhademptied,andIwasallalone.
Ifeltastrongurgeforacigarette,butIknewfromexperiencethatturninguptoaninterviewstinkingoffagswasnotagreatstart.Instead,Ilookedatmyphone.Thetrainhadarrivedexactlyontime—atleast,exactlyattherevisedtimeIhadtoldMrs.Elincourtinmytext.Iwouldgiveitfiveminutesandthencallher.
Fiveminutespassed,butItoldmyselfI’dgiveitjustfiveminutesmore.Ididn’twanttostartoffonthewrongfoot,badgeringthemiftheywerestuckintraffic.
Fivemoreminutestickedaway,andIwasjustdigginginmybag,lookingfortheprintoutofMrs.Elincourt’semail,whenIsawamanwalkingdowntheplatform,handsinpockets.
Foramomentsomethingseemedtostutterinmychest,butthenhegotcloserandhelookedup,hiseyesmeetingmine,andIrealized,itcouldn’tpossiblybehim.Hewasmuchtooyoung.Thirty,thirty-fiveattheoutside.Hewasalso—andeveninmynervousnessIcouldn’thelpbutclockit—extremelygood-looking,inascrubbyunshavenkindofway,withtangleddarkhairandatall,leanframe.
Hewaswearingoveralls,andashecameuptomehetookhishandsoutofhispocketsandIsawtheywereblackwithsomething—soil,orengineoil.ForamomentIthoughtperhapshewasanemployeeoftherailway,butashedrewlevelwithmehespoke.
“RowanCaine?”
Inodded.
“I’mJackGrant.”Hegrinned,hismouthcurlingdisarminglyattheedges,asthoughappreciatingaprivatejoke.HisaccentwasScottishbutsofterandmoredistinctthantheGlaswegiangirlI’dworkedwithafterschool.Hepronouncedhissurnamewithalilt,torhymewithant,notthelongerEnglishaunt.“IworkupatHeatherbraeHouse.Sandraaskedmetopickyouup.SorryI’mlate.”
“Hi,”Isaid,suddenlyshyfornoreasonIcouldpindown.Icoughed,tryingtothinkofsomethingtosay.“Um,it’sfine.Noproblem.”
“It’swhyI’minsuchastate.”Helookedruefullydownathishands.“I’doffertotakeyourcase,butyouwouldn’tthankme.Shedidn’ttellmeyou’dbewantingaliftuntilhalfanhourago.Iwashalfwaythroughfixingthemower,butIwasworriedI’dmissyourtrain,soIjustsetout,dirtandall.”
“Honestly,it’sfine.”Ipickedupmycase.“It’snotheavy.Thankyouforcomingout.”
Heshrugged.
“Noneedtothankme;it’smyjob.”
“YouworkfortheElincourts?”
“ForBillandSandra,aye.I’m…wellIdon’tknowquitewhatmyjobtitlewouldbe.IthinkBill’sgotmeonhiscompanypayrollasadriver,butodd-jobmanwouldcoveritbetter.Idothegardening,fixthecars,runtheminandoutofCarnBridge.You’llbethenanny?”
“Notyet,”Isaidnervously,buthegrinnedsidewaysatme,andIsmiledinspiteofmyself.Therewassomethinginfectiousabouthisexpression.“Imean,that’sthepositionI’mgoingfor,yes.Havetheyhadmanyotherinterviewees?”
“Twoorthree.You’redoingbetterthanthefirstone.Shedidn’tspeakmuchEnglish;Idon’tknowwhoshegottowriteherapplication,butfromwhatSandrasaiditwasnaeher.”
“Oh.”Somehowhiswordsmademefeelbetter.I’dbeenimaginingaparadeofstarchedandfiercelycompetentMaryPoppinstypes.Istoodstraighter,smoothingthewrinklesoutofmytweedskirt.“Good.Imean,notgoodforher,Isuppose.Goodforme.”
Wewereoutsidethestationnow,walkingacrossthelittlesparselypopulatedcarpark,towardsalongblackcarontheoppositesideoftheroad.Jackclickedsomethingonafobinhispocketandthelightsflashedandthedoorsopened,shootinguplikebatwings,makingmyjawdropinvoluntarily.Ithoughtofmystepfather’sblandgrayVolvo,hisprideandjoy,andgaveashortlaugh.Jackgrinnedagain.
“It’sabitconspicuous,isn’tit?It’saTesla.Electric.Idon’tknowifitwouldhavebeenmychoiceofvehicle,butBill…well,you’llsee.He’sintotechnology.”
“Ishe?”Thewordsweremeaninglessasaresponse,butsomehow…justtheknowledgeofthissmallthingwasalittlenugget,aconnectiontothisfacelessman.
JackstoodbackasIputmycaseintotherearofthecar.
“Doyouwanttorideintheback,orupfront?”heasked,andIfeltmyfacecolorup.
“Oh,infront,please!”
Thethoughtofsittingregallyintheback,treatinghimlikeachauffeur,wasenoughtomakemesquirm.
“Theviewsarebetteranyway”wasallhesaid,butheclickedsomethingthatmadethebatwingdoorsattherearofthecarswingclosed,andthenheldopenthefrontpassengerdoor.
“Afteryou,Rowan.”
ForamomentIdidn’tmove,almostforgettingwhohewasspeakingto.Then,withastart,Ipulledmyselftogetherandclimbedintothecar.
Ihadknown,onsomelevel,Isuppose,thattheElincourtswererich.Imean,theyhadadriverslashodd-jobman,andtheywereofferingfifty-fivegrandforanannyposition,sotheymusthavehadcashtospare,butitwasn’tuntilwereachedHeatherbraeHousethatIbegantorealizequitehowrichtheywere.
Theknowledgegavemeastrangefeeling.
Idon’tcareaboutthemoney,IwantedtotellJackaswestoppedatahighsteelgate,whichswungslowlyinwards,clearlysensingsomesortoftransmitterinthecar.Butitwasn’tcompletelytrue.
HowmuchdoSandraandBillmake?Ifoundmyselfwondering.
TheTeslawaseerilysilentaswedroveupthelongwindingdrive,thesoundofthegravelbeneaththewheelslouderbyfarthanthehushedelectricengine.
“Jesus,”Imutteredundermybreathasweroundedyetanotherbendandstillnohousewasinsight.Jackshotmeasidewayslook.
“Bigplace,isn’tit?”
“Justabit.”
Landmustbecheaperroundherethandownsouth,ofcourse,butitcouldn’tbethatcheap.Webumpedacrossabridgeoveraquick-runningburn,thewatersdarkwithpeat,andthendrovethroughaclusterofpines.IthoughtIsawaflashofsomethingscarletthroughthetreesandcranedtolook,butitwasgettingdark,andIwasn’tcompletelysureifIhadimaginedthemovement.
Atlastwecameoutoftheshelterofthetreesandintoaclearing,andIsawHeatherbraeHouseforthefirsttime.
Ihadbeenexpectingsomethingostentatious,aMcMansion,maybe,orasprawlinglog-builtranch.Butthatwasn’twhatgreetedmeatall.ThehouseinfrontofmewasamodestVictorianlodge,foursquare,likeachild’sdrawingofahouse,withaglossyblackdoorinthecenterandwindowsoneachside.Itwasnotbigbutsolidlybuiltofgraniteblocks,withlushVirginiacreeperramblinguponesideofit,andIcouldnothaveputmyfingeronexactlywhy,butitexudedwarmthandluxuryandcomfort
Duskhadfallen,andasJackturnedofftheengineoftheTeslaandextinguishedtheheadlights,theonlyilluminationfromallaroundwasthestars,andthelampsfrominsidethehouseitself,shiningoutacrossthegravel.Itlookedlikesomethingfromasentimentalillustration,thosenostalgia-soakedtwinklyphotographsonthefrontofthejigsawsthatmygrandmotherhadloved.
Softgraystone,lichenedandweathered,goldenlampsshiningoutthroughthecleanrippledglassofthewindows,overblownrosesscatteringtheirpetalsinthedusk—itwasalmosttooperfect,unbearablyperfect,insomestrangeway.
AsIsteppedoutofthecarandthecooleveningairsettledaroundme,pine-scentedandsharpandclearasmineralwater,Ifeltsuddenlychokedwithlongingforthislifeandallthatitrepresented.Thecontrastwithmyownupbringing—thecheerlessboxysuburbiaofmyparents’1950sidentikitbungalow,everyroomexceptmyownneatasapin,yetallutterlydevoidofanycharacterorcomfort—wasalmosttoobittertobear,anditwasmoretobanishthethoughtthanbecauseIwasreadytomeetSandrathatIsteppedforwardintotheshelterofthecoveredporch.
Instantlysomethingfeltoff-kilter.Butwhatwasit?Thedoorinfrontofmewastraditionalenough,paneledwoodpaintedarichglossyblack,butsomethingseemedwrong,missing,even.Ittookmeasecondtorealizewhatitwas.Therewasnokeyhole.
Therealizationwassomehowunsettling.Suchasmalldetail,andyetwithoutitIwasleftwondering—wasthedoorafake?ShouldIgoroundtheothersideofthehouse?
Therewasnoknockereither,andIlookedovermyshoulder,seekingJack’sguidanceastohowIshouldannouncemyself.Buthewasstillinsidethecar,checkingsomethingonthebigilluminatedtouchscreenthatservedasthedashboardcontrols.
Iturnedbackandputoutmyhand,readytoraponthewoodwithmyknuckles,butasIdidso,somethingembeddedinthewalltotheleftofthedoorcaughtmyeye.Aghostlyilluminatediconintheshapeofabellhadappearedfromnowhere,shiningoutofwhathadseemedtobesolidstone,andIsawthatwhatIhadtakenforsimplypartofthewallwasactuallyacleverlyinlaidpanel.Iwenttopressit,butitmusthavebeenmotionsensitive,forIhadnotevenmadecontactwhenachimesoundedfrominsidethehouse.
Iblinked,suddenlythinkingofJack’scommentinthecar.Bill…well,you’llsee.He’sintotechnology.Wasthiswhathehadmeant?
“Rowan!Hello!”Thefemalevoiceseemedtocomeoutofnowhere,andIjumped,lookingaroundforacamera,amicrophone,agrilletospeakinto.Therewasnone.OrnonethatIcouldsee.
“Um…y-yes,”Isaid,speakingtotheairingeneral,feelinglikeacompletefool.“Hi.Isthat…Sandra?”
“Yes!I’mjustgettingchanged.I’llbedownintenseconds.Sorrytokeepyoustandingaround.”
Therewasnoclicktotellmethatareceiverhadbeenreplaced,oranyotherindicationthattheconversationwasover,butthepanelfadedbacktoblankandIstoodwaiting,feelingcuriouslybothwatchedandignored.
Finally,afterwhatfeltlikealongtimebutwasprobablylessthanthirtyseconds,therewasasuddencacophonyofbarkingandthefrontdooropened.TwoblackLabradorsshotout,followedbyaslimhoney-blondwomanofperhapsforty,laughingandsnatchingineffectuallyattheircollarsastheyranringsaroundher,yelpingjoyfully.
“Hero!Claude!Getbackhere!”
Butthedogspaidnoattention,leapingupatmeasItookacoupleofstepsbackwards.Oneofthemshoveditsnoseintomycrotch,painfullyhard,andIfoundmyselflaughingnervously,tryingtopushitsmuzzleaway,thinkingofmyonesparepairoftightsinmybagandgrittingmyteethincasethedogrippedtheonesIwaswearing.Itjumpedupatmeagain,andIsneezed,feelinganitchingbegininthebackofmyskull.Shit.HadIbroughtmyinhaler?
“Hero!”thewomansaidagain.“Hero,stopit.”Shesteppedoutoftheshelteroftheporchandtowardsme,holdingoutherhand.“YoumustbeRowan.Calmdown,Hero,honestly!”Shemanagedtocliptheleadshewasholdingontothedog’scollaranddraggeditbackbesideher.“Sorry,sorry,she’ssofriendly.Doyouminddogs?”
“Notatall,”Isaid,thoughitwasonlypartlytrue.Ididn’tminddogsexactly,buttheytriggeredmyasthmaifIdidn’ttakemyantihistamines.Besides,asthmaornoasthma,Ididn’twanttheirnosesshovedbetweenmylegsinaprofessionalsituation.Ifeltmychesttighten,thoughouthereitcouldn’tbeanythingotherthanpsychosomatic.“Goodboy,”Isaid,withalltheenthusiasmIcouldmuster,pattingitonthehead.
“Goodgirl,actually.Hero’sabitch;Claudeistheboy.They’rebrotherandsister.”
“Goodgirl,”Iamendedhalf-heartedly.Herolickedmyhandenthusiastically,andIstifledtheimpulsetowipemypalmonmyskirt.BehindmeIheardadoorslam,followedbyJack’sfeetcrunchingacrossthegravel,anditwaswithsomereliefthatIwatchedthedogsturntheirattentiontohim,woofinghappilyasheretrievedmycasefromthebackofthecar.
“Here’syourcase,Rowan.Pleasuremeetingyou,”hesaidashesetitdownbesideme,andthen,turningtoMrs.Elincourt,“I’llbegettingbacktofixingthemower,ifit’sallright,Sandra.Unlessyouneedmeforanythingelse?”
“What’sthat?”Mrs.Elincourtsaiddistractedly,andthenshenodded.“Oh,themower.Yes,pleasedo.Canyougetitworkingagain?”
“Ihopeso.Ifnot,I’llcallAleckieBrowninthemorning.”
“Thankyou,Jack,”Sandrasaid,andshookherheadashewalkedawayroundthesideofthebuilding,hissilhouettetallandsquare-shoulderedagainsttheeveningsky.“Honestly,thatmanissuchatreasure.Idon’tknowwhatwe’ddowithouthim.HeandJeanhavebeenabsoluterocks—it’swhatmakesthewholenannybusinessallthemoreinexplicable.”
Thewholenannybusiness.Thereitwasthen.Thefirstreferencetotheoddfactthathadbeenatthebackofmymindallthewayuphere:fourwomenhadalreadywalkedoutofthispost.
IntheinitialflushofexultationIhadn’treallyworriedverymuchaboutthatpartofSandra’sletter.Inthecontextofgettinganinterviewithadn’tseemedveryimportant,butasIrereadtheemailsandtravelinstructionsonthewayuptoCarnBridge,Ihadstumbledoveritagain,andthistimetheremarkhadstuckout—itsstrangenessandfaintabsurdity.Ihadspentsometimethinkingaboutitduringthelong,boringhoursonthetrain,turningherwordsoverinmymind,tornbetweenadesiretolaughandsomethingmorepuzzledanduneasy.
Ididn’tbelieveinthesupernatural—Ishouldsaythatupfront,Mr.Wrexham.Iwasnotasuperstitiousperson.Andsothelegendsofthehousedidn’tbothermeatall,infactthewholeideaofnanniesandservantsdrivenoutbymysteriousspookyhappeningsseemedmorethanalittleridiculous—almostVictorian.
ButthefactwasthatfourwomenhadlefttheElincourts’employmentinthelastyear.Havingthebadlucktoengageonenervous,superstitiousemployeeseemedquitelikely.Gettingfourinarowseemed…lessso.
Whichmeantthattherewasastrongchancethatsomethingelsewasgoingon,andallsortsofpossibilitieshadrunthroughmymindonthelongjourneyuptoScotland.IhadbeenhalfexpectingtofindthatHeatherbraewasadraughtyruinofahouse,orthatMrs.Elincourtwasaverydifficultemployer.Sofar,atleast,thatdidn’tseemtobethecase.ButIwasreservingjudgment.
InsideHeatherbraethedogswere,ifanything,moreboisterousandexcitedtofindastrangeradmittedintothehouse,andatlastMrs.Elincourtgaveuptryingtocontrolthemanddraggedthembothbytheircollarsthroughtoaroomatthebacktoshutthemup.
Asshedisappeared,Ihastilyfumbledmyinhaleroutofmypocketandtookasurreptitiouspuff,thenwaitedforherjustinsidethefrontdoor,feelingtheatmosphereofthehousesettlearoundme.
Itwasn’tabighouse,justafamilyhome.Andthefurnishingsweren’tostentatious,justincrediblycomfortableandwell-built.Buttherewasasenseof…ofmoney.That’stheonlywayIcanputit.Fromthepolishedwoodenbanisteranddeeppeat-coloredcarpetrunnerthatcurvedaroundthelong,elegantflight,tothesquashybronzevelvetarmchairsqueezedbeneaththestairsandthefrayedPersianrugspreadacrossthewornflagstonesinthehall.Fromtheslow,suretickofabeautifulgrandfatherclockstandingbesidethelongwindow,tothedeeppatinaofageontherefectorytableagainstthewall,everythingconspiredintoanalmostoverwhelmingsenseofluxury.Itwasn’tthatitwasneatexactly—therewerepilesofnewspapersscatteredbythesofa,andachild’sWellingtonbootleftabandonedbythefrontdoor.Buttherewasnotasinglethingthatfeltwrong.Thesofacushionswereplumpwithfeathers,therewerenodriftsofdoghairsinthecornersoftheroom,ormuddyscuffsonthestairs.Eventhesmellwasright—notatraceofwetdogorstalecooking,justbeeswaxpolish,woodsmoke,andthefaintesthintofdriedrosepetals
Itwas…itwasperfect,Mr.Wrexham.ItwasthehouseIwouldhavemadeformyselfifIhadthemoneyandthetasteandthetimetocreatesomethingsodeeply,infinitelywelcomingandwarm.
Iwasjustthinkingallthis,whenIheardadoorshutandsawSandracomingbackfromthefarsideofthehallway,shakingherheavy,honey-coloredhairoutofherfaceandsmiling.
“Ohdear,sorry,theydon’tseemanystrangers,sotheydogetterriblyexcitedwhennewfacesappear.Theyaren’tlikethisallthetime,Idoassureyou.Let’sstartagain.Hello,Rowan,I’mSandra.”
Sheheldoutherhandforthesecondtime,slimandstrongandtanned,andstuddedwiththreeorfourexpensive-lookingrings.Ishookit,feelingherfingersgripminewithunusualfirmness,andreturnedhersmile.
“Right,well,youmustbefamishedandrathertiredaftersuchalongtrip.YoucameupfromLondon,isthatright?”
Inodded.
“Letmeshowyoutoyourroomandthenwhenyou’vechangedandmadeyourselfcomfortable,comedownandwe’llhavesomethingtoeat.Ican’tbelieveit’ssolate.Pastninealready.Wasyourjourneyawful?”
“Notawful,no,”Isaid.“Justslow.TherewassomekindofpointsfailureatYork,soImissedmyconnection.I’mreallysorry;I’musuallyverypunctual.”
Thatatleastwastrue.Whatevermyotherflawsandfailings,I’mveryrarelylate.
“Igotyourtext.SosorryIdidn’treply.Ididn’tseeitatfirst;Iwasuptomyelbowsinthekids’bathtimewhenitcamethrough,andIonlyjustmanagedtorushoutandtellJacktocollectyou.Ihopeyouweren’twaitingatthestationforages.”
Itwasn’taquestionexactly—moreofaremark,butIansweredanyway.
“Nottoolong.Arethechildreninbedthen?”
“Thethreeyoungest,yes.Maddieiseight,Ellieisfive,andthebaby,Petra,isjusteighteenmonths,sothey’reallinbed.”
“Andyourotherchild?”Iasked,thinkingoftheflashofredI’dseenbetweenthetreesonthedriveup.“Yousaidintheadvertyouhadfour?”
“Rhiannonisfourteengoingontwenty-four.She’satboardingschool—notreallyourchoice;I’dprefertohaveherathome,butthere’snosecondariescloseenough.Thenearestdayschoolismorethananhour’sdrive,anditwouldjustbetoomucheveryday.SosheboardsovernearInvernessandcomeshomemostweekends.Itbreaksmyheartalittlebiteverytimeshegoes,butsheseemstoenjoyit.”
Ifyouwantherathomethatbadly,whydon’tyoumove?Ithought.
“SoIwon’tmeether?”Iasked.Sandrashookherhead.
“No,unfortunatelynot,buttobehonestyourtimewouldbespentmostlywiththelittleones.Anyway—itmeanswecanhavealovelychatnow,andyoucangettoknowthekidstomorrow.Oh,andI’mafraidmyhusband—Bill—can’tbehereeither.”
“Oh?”Itwasasurprise—ashockeven.Iwasn’tgoingtomeethim,then.Ihadbeensosurethatsomeonewouldwanttomeetthepersontheywereconsideringhiringtolookaftertheirchildren…butItriedtokeepmyfaceneutral.Nonjudgmental.“Oh,that’sashame.”
“Yes,he’saway,working.It’sbeenaprettyhorrendousstruggle,Ihavetosay,withsomanynanniesleavingthisyear.Thechildrenareunderstandablyverydestabilized,andthebusinesshasreallysuffered.We’rebotharchitectsinatwo-manfirm.Well,oneman,onewoman!”Sheflashedasmile,showingverywhite,perfectlyeventeeth.“It’sjustmeandhim,anditmeansthatinbusyperiodswhenwe’vegotmorethanoneprojectgoingon,wecangetterriblystretched.Wetrytojuggleitsothatthere’salwaysoneofusaround,butwithKatyaleaving—shewasourlastnanny—it’sjustbeenchaos.I’vehadtopickupalltheslackhere,andBill’sbeentryingtoholdthebusinesstogether—Ineedtobecompletelyhonestandsaythatwhoeverdoesgetthepostisn’tgoingtogetaverysmoothintroductoryperiod.NormallyItrytoworkfromhomeforthefirstmonthorsotomakesureeverythingisgoingokay,butthatjustwon’tbepossiblethistime.Billcan’tbeintwoplacesatonce,andwehaveprojectsthatdesperatelyneedmetobethereandontheground.Weneedsomeoneveryexperiencedwhoisn’tgoingtobefazedbybeingleftwiththekidsearlyon,andtheyneedtobeabletostartASAP.”Shelookedatme,alittleanxiously,afurrowbetweenherstronglymarkedbrows.“Doyouthinkthatdescribesyou?”
Iswallowed.TimetoshedmydoubtsandstepintotheroleofRowanthePerfectNanny.
“Definitely,”Isaid,andtheconfidenceinmyvoicealmostconvincedmyself.“Imeanyou’veseenmyCV—”
“WewereveryimpressedwithyourCV,”Sandrasaid,andIgavealittleblushingnodofacknowledgment.“Quitefrankly,it’soneofthemostimpressiveoneswe’vehad.Youtickalltheboxesweneedintermsofexperiencewiththevariousagegroups.Butwhat’syournoticeperiodlike?Imeanobviously”—shewastalkingquicklynow,asifslightlyuncomfortable—“obviouslygettingtherightnannyisthemostimportantthing,thatgoeswithoutsaying.Butactuallywedoneedsomeonewhocanstartprettymuch…well,prettymuchnow,ifI’mbeingcompletelyhonest.Soitwouldbedisingenuousofmetopretendthat’snotafactor.”
“Mynoticeperiodisfourweeks.”IsawSandra’smouthtwistinalittleworriedmoue—andaddedhastily,“ButIthinkIcouldprobablynegotiateanearlierfinish.Ihavequiteabitofannualleaveleft…andI’dhavetositdownwithacalendaranddothesums,butIthinkthere’sagoodchanceIcouldgetitdowntotwoweeks.Maybeless.”
IfLittleNipperswerepreparedtobeflexible,thatwas.Godknows,theyhadn’tgivenmemuchreasonforloyalty.
Ididn’tmisstheflashofhopeandreliefthatcrossedSandra’sface.Butthensheseemedtorealizewherewewere.
“Lookatme,keepingyoutalkinginthehallway.It’shardlyfairformetobeinterviewingyoubeforeyou’veevengotyourcoatoff!Letmeshowyoutoyourroom,andthenwecanretreattothekitchenandhaveapropertalkwhileyougetsomefoodinsideyou.”
Sheturnedandbegantomakeherwayupthelongcurvingflightofstairs,herfeetsilentonthethick,velvet-softcarpet.Atthelandingshestoppedandputherfingertoherlips.Ipaused,takinginthewidesweepofspace,thelittletablewithavaseofblushpeoniesjustbeginningtoshedtheirpetals.Acorridordisappearedoffintosemidarkness,litonlybyarose-tintednight-lightpluggedintoawallsocket.Halfadozendoorsledofffromit.Theoneatthefarendhadwonkywoodenlettersstuckonit,andasmyeyesgotusedtothelowlighting,Imadeoutthewords.PrincessEllieandQueenMaddie.Thedoorclosesttothestairwellwasslightlyopen,anight-lightshiningdimlyintherecessesoftheroom.Icouldhearababy’ssoftsnortingbreathcomingthrough.
“Thekidsareasleep,”Sandrawhispered.“Atleast,Ihopeso.Iheardsomepatteringearlier,butitallseemstobequietnow!Maddieinparticularisaverylightsleeper,soIdohavetotiptoearoundabit.BillandIsleeponthisfloor,butRhisleepsupstairs.Thisway.”
Atthetopofthesecondflight,threefurtherdoorsledoffaslightlysmallerlanding.Themiddleonewasopen,andinsideIsawasmallcupboardhousingajumbleofmopsandbroomsandacordlessHooverchargingonthewall.Sandrashutithastily.
ThedoortotheleftofitwasclosedandhadFUCKOFF,KEEPOUTORYOUDIEwrittenacrossthepaneledwoodinwhatlookedlikesmearedredlipstick.
“That’sRhiannon’sroom,”Sandrasaidwithaslightliftofhereyebrowsthatmighthaveindicatedanythingfromamusementtoresignation.“Thisone”—sheputherhandontheknobofthedoortothefarrightofthestairs—“isyours.Well,Imean—”Shestopped,lookingalittleflustered.“Imean,it’swherewealwaysputthenanny,andit’swhereyou’llbesleepingtonight.Sorry,don’twanttobetoopresumptuous!”
Igaveaslightlynervousattemptatalaugh,assheopenedthedoor.Itwasdarkinside,butinsteadofgropingforaswitchSandrapulledoutherphone.Iwasexpectinghertoturnonthetorch,butinsteadshepressedsomething,andthelightsinsidetheroomflickeredintolife.
Itwasn’tjustthemainoverheadlight—infactthatwasturneddownverylow,givingoffnothingbutakindoffaintgoldenglow—thereadinglightbythebedhadcomeontoo,aswellasastandinglampbythewindownexttoalittletableandsomefairylightstwinedaroundthebedhead.
Mysurprisemusthaveshownonmyface,becauseSandragaveadelightedlaugh.
“Prettycool,isn’tit!Wedohaveswitches,obviously—well,panels,butthisisasmarthouse.Alltheheatingandlightsandsooncanbecontrolledfromourphones.”Sheswipedatsomething,andthemainlightgrewsuddenlymuchbrighter,andthendimmeragain,andacrosstheroomalightturnedonintheensuitebathroomandthenflickedoffagain.
“It’snotjustlighting…,”Sandrasaid,andshepulledacrossanotherscreenandtappedabutton,andmusicstartedplayingsoftlyoutofaninvisiblespeaker.MilesDavis,Ithought,thoughIwasn’tverywelluponjazz.
“There’salsoavoiceoption,butIfindthatabitcreepy,soIdon’toftenuseit.Still,Icanshowyou.”Shecoughed,andthensaidinaslightlyartificialraisedtone,“Musicoff!”
Therewasapause,andthentheMilesDavisshutoffabruptly.
“Obviouslyyoucanalsocontrolthesettingsfromthepanel.”Shepressedsomethingonthewalltodemonstrate,andawhitepanelglowedfaintlyintolifeasthecurtainsonthewindowoppositeswishedclosed,andthenopenedagain.
“Wow,”Isaid.Ireallywasn’tsurewhattosay.Ontheonehanditwasimpressive.Ontheotherhand…IfoundmyselfcomingbacktoSandra’sword.Creepy.
“Iknow,”Sandrasaidwithalittlelaugh.“It’sabitridiculous,Idorealize.Butbeingarchitectsit’saprofessionaldutytotryoutallthecoolgadgets.Anyway…”Shelookedatherphoneagain,checkingtheclockthistime.“Imuststoptalkingandgetthesupperoutoftheoven,andyoumusttakeoffyourcoatandunpack.ShallIseeyoudownstairsin…fifteenminutes?”
“Soundsgood,”Isaid,alittlefaintly,andshegavemeagrinanddisappeared,closingthedoorbehindher.
AftershehadgoneIsetmycaseonthefloorandcrossedtheroomtothewindow.Outsideitwascompletelydark,butbypressingmyfacetotheglassandcuppingmyhandstomytemplesIcouldjustmakeoutastar-spatteredskyandthedarkshapesofmountainsagainstthehorizon.Therewerealmostnolights.
Therealizationofhowisolatedthisplacereallywasmademeshiver,justforamoment,andIturnedmybackonthewindowandsetaboutsurveyingtheroom.
Whatstruckmeinstantlywasthatitwasanoddmixtureoftraditionalandmodern.ThewindowwaspureVictorian,rightdowntothebrasslatchandtheslightlyrippledglasspanes.Butthelightsweretwenty-firstcentury—noboringbulbinthecenteroftheceiling.Instead,therewasaplethoraofspotlights,lamps,anduplighters,eachfocusedonadifferentpartoftheroom,andtunedtoadifferentwarmthandbrightness.Therewerenoradiatorseither,infactIcouldn’tseewheretheheatwascomingfrom,butclearlytheremustbesomesource—thenightwascoolenoughformybreathtohaveleftwhitemistonthewindowpane.Underfloorheating?Somekindofconcealedvent?
Thefurniturewasmoreconservative,withastrongairofanexpensivecountry-househotel.Oppositeme,facingthewindow,wasaking-sizebedcoveredwiththeubiquitousarrayofbrocadecushions,andbeneaththewindowwasasmallplumplystuffedsofa,withalittletablebesideit—theperfectspaceforentertainingafriend,orhavingadrink.Therewerechestsofdrawers,adesk,twouprightchairs,andanupholsteredblanketchestatthefootofthebedthatcouldhavedonedutyeitherasstorageoradditionalseating.Doorsledofftoeachside,andopeningoneatrandomIfoundawalk-inclosetfilledwithemptyracksandshelves,spotlightsflickeringintolifeabovethebareshelvesautomaticallyasIpulledopenthedoor.Itriedthesecondone,butitseemedtobelocked.
Thethirdwasajar,andIremembereditwastheonethatSandrahadlituptoshowthebathroominside.Venturingin,Isawtherewasapanelonthewall,liketheoneSandrahadpressedbythemaindoortotheroom.Itouchedit,notentirelyexpectingittowork,butitglowedintolife,displayingaconfusingconfigurationoficonsandsquares.Ipressedoneatrandom,notcompletelysurewhatwasgoingtohappen,andthelightsbecameslowlybrighter,revealingastate-of-the-artwetroomwithahugerainwatershowerandaconcretevanityunitthesizeofmykitchencounter.TherewasnothingfauxVictorianaboutthisroomatall.Itwasspace-ageinitscomplexity,sleekandmoderninitsstyling,andhadmoreglamourinonemetrotilethanmostbathroomspossessedintheirentirety.
Ithoughtofmybathroomathome—hairintherustingplughole,dirtytowelskickedintothecorner,makeupstainsonthemirror.
God,Iwantedthis.
Before…Idon’tknowwhatIhadwantedbefore.IhadfocusedonnothingexceptgettinghereandmeetingtheElincourtsandfindingoutwhatwasattheendofthisadvert.Thatwasit.Ihonestlyhadn’teventhoughtaboutactuallygettingthejob.
Now…nowIwantedit.Notjustthefifty-fivethousandayear,buteverything.Iwantedthisbeautifulhouseandthisgorgeousroom,rightdowntothesumptuous,marble-tiledshower,withitssparklinglimescale-freeglassandpolishedchromefittings.
Morethanthat,Iwantedtobepartofthisfamily.
IfIhadhadanydoubtsaboutwhatIwasdoinghere,thisroomhadcrushedthem.
Foralong,longmoment,Ijuststoodatthevanityunit,myhandssplayedonthecounter,staringatmyselfinthemirror.Thefacethatstaredbackatmewassomehowunsettling.Nottheexpressionexactly,butsomethinginmyeyes.Therewassomethingthere—akindofhunger.ImustnotlooktoodesperateinfrontofSandra.Keen,yes.Butdesperation—thekindofhungrydesperationIsawstaringbackatmenow—thatwasnothingbutoff-putting.
Slowly,Ismootheddownmyhair,lickedafinger,wettedanunrulybrowbackintoplace.Thenmyhandwenttomynecklace.
Iworeiteveryday—haddonesoeversinceIhadleftschoolandjewelrywasnolongerbannedbyuniformcodes.EvenasachildI’dwornitatweekendsandwheneverIcouldgetawaywithit,ignoringmymother’ssighsandhercommentsaboutcheapnastyrubbishthatturnedyourskingreen.Ithadbeenapresentformyfirstbirthday,andnow,aftermorethantwodecades,itfeltlikepartofmyself,somethingIbarelyevennoticed,evenwhenIreachedtoplaywithitinmomentsofstressorboredom.
NowInoticedit.
AnornatesilverRontheendofadanglingchain.Orrather,asmymotherhadsofrequentlyremindedme,notsilver,butsilverplate,somethingthatwasbecomingmoreandmoreapparent,asthebrassymetalbeneathshonethroughwhereIhadrubbedthependantabsentmindedlywithmyfingers.
Therewasnoreasontotakeitoff.Itwasn’tinappropriate.Thechancesofanyoneevennoticingitwereverylow.Andyet…
Slowly,Ireachedroundtothebackofmyneckandundidtheclasp.
ThenIputonaslickoflipgloss,straightenedmyskirt,tightenedmyponytail,andpreparedtogobackdownstairstoSandraElincourtandgivetheinterviewofmylife.
WhenIgotdownstairs,Sandrawasnowheretobeseen,butIcouldsmellsomekindofdelicious,savoryscentcomingfromthefarsideofthehallway.RememberingthatthatwaswhereSandrahadusheredthedogs,Imovedforward,cautiously.ButwhenIpushedopenthedoorIfoundIhadsteppedintoanotherworld.
Itwaslikethebackofthehousehadbeenslicedoffbrutallyandgraftedontoastartlingmodernistbox,almostaggressivelytwenty-firstcentury.Soaringmetalbeamswentuptoaglassroof,andbeneathmyfeettheVictorianencaustictilesofthehallhadabruptlystopped,replacedbyapouredconcretefloor,polishedtoadullsheen.Itlookedlikeacombinationofabrutalistcathedralandanindustrialkitchen.Inthecenterwasashinymetalbreakfastbar,surroundedbychromestools,dividingtheroomintothebrightkitchenarea,andbeyonditthedimlylitdiningspace,wherealongconcrete-toppedtableranthelengthoftheroom.
InthemiddlewasSandra,standinginfrontofamonstrousfreestandingstove,thelargestIhadeverseen,andladlingsomekindofcasseroleintotwobowls.ShelookedupasIcamein.
“Rowan!Listen,I’msosorry,butIforgottoask,you’renotveggieareyou?”
“No,”Isaid.“No,Ieatprettymuchanything.”
“Ohphew,that’sarelief,becausewe’vegotbeefstewandnotalotelse!IwasjustfranticallywonderingifIhadtimetodoabakedpotato.Whichremindsme.”Shewalkedacrosstothehugesteelfridge,tappedaninvisiblebuttononthefridgedoorwiththeknuckleofonehand,andsaid,enunciatingherwordsclearly,“Happy,orderpotatoes,please.”
“Addingpotatoestoyourshoppinglist,”repliedaroboticvoice,andascreenlitup,showingatypedlistofgroceries.“Eathappy,Sandra!”
Theshockofitmademewanttolaugh,butIpusheddowntheurgeandinsteadwatchedasSandraputbothbowlsonthelongtable,alongwithacrustyloafonaboardandalittledishofsomethinglikesourcream.ThebowlswerebonechinaandlookedasiftheywereprobablyVictorian,hand-paintedwithdelicatelittleflowersandembellishedwithgoldleafdetails.Somehowthecontrastbetweenthemathematicallyseveremodernistlinesoftheglassroomandthefragileantiquebowlswasalmostabsurd,andIfeltslightlyoff-balance.Itwasliketherestofthehouseinreverse—Victorianstuffinesspunctuatedbysplashesofspace-agemodernity.Here,themodernismhadtakenover,butthebowlsandtheheavyfloralwhirlsofthesilvercutlerywereareminderofwhatlaybehindthecloseddoor.
“Therewego,”Sandrasaidunnecessarilyasshesatdownandwavedmetotheseatoppositeher.“Beefstew.Helpyourselftobreadtosoakupthejuices,andthat’shorseradishcrèmefra?che,whichisverynicestirredin.”
“Itsmellsamazing,”Isaidtruthfully,andSandrashookbackherhairandgavealittlesmilethattriedtolookmodestbutreallysaid,Iknow.
“Well,it’sthestove,youknow.ALaCornue.It’salmostimpossibletoscrewup—youjustpoptheingredientsinandforgetaboutit!Idomissagasrangesometimes,butwe’renotonthemainshere,soit’sallelectric.Theburnersareinduction.”
“I’veneverusedaninductionburner,”Isaid,eyeingthestoveratherdoubtfully.Itwasabeastofathing,sixfeetofmetaldoors,knobs,drawers,andhandles,andontopasmoothcookingsurfacethatseemedtobezonedinwaysIcouldn’tevenbegintoguessat.
“Theytakeabitofgettingusedto,”Sandrasaid.“ButIpromiseyou,they’rereallyveryintuitivetouse.Theflatplateinthemiddleisateppanyaki.Iwasratherskepticalaboutthecost,butBillwasinsistent,andIhavetoadmit,itwaswortheverypennyandthensome.”
“Oh,”Isaid.“Isee,”thoughIdidn’treally.Whatonearthwasateppanyaki?Itookamouthfulofthestew—whichwasthickandrichanddelicious,thekindofmealIneverhadthetimeororganizationtocookformyselfathome—andletSandraplopablobofcrèmefra?cheontopandplymewithacrustychunkofbread.Therewasabottleofredwinealreadyopenonthetable,andshepouredusouttwoglassesinbeautifullyetchedVictoriangobletsandpushedoneacrosstome.
“Now,wouldyourathereatfirstandthentalk,orshallwegetstarted?”
“I…”Ilookeddownatmyplate,andthengaveamentalshrug.Nopointinputtingitoff.Ituggedmyskirtdownandsatupalittlestraighteronthemetalstool.“GetstartedIsuppose.Whatwouldyouliketoknow?”
“Well,yourCVwasverycomprehensive,andveryimpressive.Ialreadycontactedyourpreviousemployer—whatwashername?GraceDevonshire?”
“Er…yes,that’sright,”Isaid.
“Andshecouldn’tsayenoughgoodthingsaboutyou.Ihopeyoudon’tmindmetakingupreferencesbeforetheinterview,butI’vebeenbittenafewtimeswithunsuitablecandidates,andIthinkthere’snopointinwastingeveryone’stimedraggingyouuphereonlytofailatthelastfence.ButGracewaspositivelygushingaboutyou.TheHarcourtsseemtohavemoved,butIalsospoketoMrs.Grainger,andshewasverycomplimentaryaswell.”
“Youdidn’tcontactLittleNippers,didyou?”Isaidslightlyuneasily,butsheshookherhead.
“No,Icompletelyunderstand.It’snotalwayseasyjobhuntinginanexistingpost.Butperhapsyoucouldtellmeaboutyouremploymentthere?”
“Well,it’sprettymuchlikeIexplainedontheCVreally—I’vebeentherefortwoyears,inchargeofthebabyroom.Iwantedachangefromone-familynannying,andanurseryseemedlikeagoodoption.It’sbeenexcellentexperiencehavingabitmoremanagerialresponsibilityandhavingtoorganizestaffschedulesandstuff,butquitehonestlyI’vefoundImissthefamilyfeelofnannying.Ilovethechildren,butyoudon’tgettospendasmuchone-on-onetimewiththemasyoudowithaprivateposition.Whatwasstoppingmemakingachangewastheideaoftakingastepbackwardsintermsofpayandresponsibility,butyourpostseemslikeitmightbethechallengeI’mlookingfor.”
Ihadrehearsedthespeechinsidemyhead,onthetrainonthewayup,andnowthewordsrattledoutwithapracticedauthenticity.Ihadbeentoenoughinterviewstoknowthatthiswasthekey—toexplainwhyyouwantedtoleaveyourcurrentpostwithoutrunningdownyourexistingemployerandlookinglikeadisloyalemployee.Butmy—slightlymassaged—versionofeventsseemedtohavedonethetrick,forMrs.Elincourtwasnoddingsympathetically.
“Icanquiteimagine.”
“Plus,ofcourse,”Iadded,thisonthespurofthemoment,forIhadnotthoughtthisparticularlinethrough,“I’mkeentogetoutofLondon.It’ssobusyandpolluted,IguessI’mjustlookingforachangeofscenery.”
“ThatIcanquiteunderstand,”Mrs.Elincourtsaidwithasmile.“BillandIhadthesamelongnightofthesoulafewyearsback.Rhiannonwasabouteightornineandwewerebeginningtothinkaboutsecondaries.Maddiewasatoddler,andIwassosickofpushingherarounddirtyparksandhavingtocheckforneedlesinthesandpitbeforeIletherplay.Thisjustseemedliketheperfectchancetobreakawaycompletely—buildanewlife,findareallysuperindependentschoolforRhi.”
“Andareyougladyoumadethemove?”
“Oh,totally.Itwastoughonthechildrenatthetime,ofcourse,butitwasdefinitelytherightthing.WeadoreScotland—andweneverwantedtobethatkindoffamilywhobuysasecondhomeandthenputsitonAirbnbforninemonthsoftheyear.Wewantedtoreallylivehere,becomepartofthecommunity,youknow?”
Inodded,asthoughsecond-homedilemmaswerepartofmyeverydayexistence.
“HeatherbraeHousewasarealproject,”Sandracontinued.“Ithadbeentotallyneglectedfordecades,livedinbyaveryeccentricoldmanwhowentintoacarehomeandthenallowedtofallintodisrepairuntilhisdeath.Dryroteverywhere,burstpipes,dodgyelectrics—itwasacaseofreallystrippingitbacktothebonesandcompletelyrevampingit.Twoyearsofabsolutegrind,reconfiguringtheroomsanddoingeverythingfromrewiringtoputtinginanewcesspit.Butitwasworthit—andofcourseitmadeawonderfulcasestudyforthebusiness.Wehaveawholefolderofbeforeandafter,anditreallyshowsthatgoodarchitecturecanbeasmuchaboutbringingoutthespiritofanexistinghouseascreatinganewonefromscratch.Thoughwedothattoo,ofcourse.Ourspecialtyisvernaculararchitecture.”
InoddedasthoughIhadacluewhatthismeantandtookagulpofwine.
“Butthat’senoughaboutmeandthehouse—whataboutyourself?”Sandrasaid,withtheairofgettingdowntobusiness.“Tellmeabitaboutwhatattractedyoutonannying?”
Wow.Thatwasabigquestion.Aboutadozenimagesflashedthroughmymind,allatonce.Myparents,shoutingatmeforgettingPlay-Dohinthecarpettilesagesix.Agenine,mymother,shakingherheadovermyreportcard,notbotheringtohideherdisappointment.Attwelve,theschoolplaynoonebotheredtocometo.Agesixteen,“Whatashameyoudidn’trevisemoreforhistory,”insteadofcongratulationsontheAsIgotinmaths,English,andscience.Eighteenyearsofnotbeinggoodenough,notbeingthedaughterIwassupposedtobe,eighteenyearsofnotmeasuringup.
“Well…”Ifeltmyselfflounder.ThiswasnotpartofthestoryIhadpracticed,andnowIcursedmyselfforit.Itwasanobviousquestion,oneIshouldhaveprepared.“Well,Isuppose…Imean…Ijustlikekids.”Itwaslame.Verylame.Andalsonotcompletelytrue.Butasthewordsleftmymouth,Irealizedsomethingelse.Sandrawasstillsmiling,buttherewasacertainneutralityinherexpressionthathadnotbeentherebefore,andsuddenlyIunderstoodwhy.Awomanonthecuspofherthirties,goingonabouthowmuchshelikeskids…
Ihurriedtorepairmymistake.
“ButIhavetosay,I’minaweofanyonewhowantstobeaparent.I’mdefinitelynotreadyforthatyet!”
Bingo.IcouldnotmisstheflashofreliefthatcrossedSandra’sface,thoughitwasquicklysuppressed.
“Notthatit’sanoptionrightnowanyway,”Isaid,feelingconfidentenoughforalittlejoke,“sinceI’mfirmlysingle.”
“So…notiestoLondonthen?”
“Notreally.Ihavefriendsofcourse,butmyparentsretiredabroadafewyearsback.Infact,onceI’vesortedthingsoutwithLittleNippersthere’sreallynothingkeepingmeinLondon.Icouldtakeupanewpostalmoststraightaway.”
Icarefullyavoidedsayingyourpost,notwantingtoseemlikeIwasmakingassumptionsthatIwouldgetthejob,butSandrawassmilingandnoddingenthusiastically.
“Yes,asyoucanprobablytellfromourtalkearlier,I’dbelyingifIsaidthatwasn’tasignificantfactor.We’recominguptothesummerholidays,andweabsolutelymustgetsomeoneinthepositionbeforetheschoolsbreakuporI’llbesunk.Plusthere’sareally,reallyimportanttradefairinafewweeks,andbothBillandIreallyneedtobethere.”
“What’syourdeadline?”
“RhibreaksuptowardstheendofJune,whichiswhat…aboutthreeorfourweeks?Butthetradefairbeginstheweekendbeforeshebreaksup.Thetruthis,thesoonerthebetter.Twoweeksisdoable.Threeweeksis…well,justaboutokay.Fourweekswouldbestartingtogetintodisasterzone.Yousaidyournoticeperiodisfourweeks?”
Inodded.“Yes,butIwasfiguringitoutwhileIunpacked,andIhaveatleasteightdaysholidayowing,soIcandefinitelygetitdowntojustovertwoweeks,ifIfactorinmyleave,andmaybeevenless.Ithinkthey’llbepreparedtonegotiate.”
Inactualfact,Ihadnoideahowhelpfultheywouldbe,andmysuspicionwas,notvery.Janine,myboss,andcurrentheadofthebabyroom,wasn’tmybiggestfan.Ididn’tthinkshe’dbeparticularlysorrytoseemego,butIdidn’tthinkshe’dbendoverbackwardstohelpme.However,therewerewaysandmeans—nurseryworkersweren’tallowedtocomeintoworkforforty-eighthoursafteravomitingbug.IwaspreparedtohavealotofvomitingbugsaroundthemiddleofJune.Again,though,Ididn’tsaythattoSandra.Forsomereason,noonewantsanannywithaflexiblemoralcode,evenwhenshe’sflexingittohelpthemout.
Asweate,Sandraranthroughafewmoreinterviewing-by-numbersquestionsofthekindIhadcometoexpect—outlineyourstrengthsandweaknesses…givemeanexampleofadifficultsituationandhowyouhandledit…alltheusualsuspects.Ihadansweredthesebeforeinadozenotherinterviews,somyresponseswerepracticed,justslightlytweakedforwhatIthoughtSandrainparticularwouldwanttohear.Mystandardanswertothequestionaboutadifficultsituationconcernedalittleboywhohadcometohissettling-indayatLittleNipperscoveredinbruises—andthewayIhaddealtwiththeparentsoverthesubsequentsafeguardingconcerns.Itwentdownwellwithnurseries,butIdidn’tthinkSandrawouldwanttohearaboutmesnitchingonparentstotheauthorities.Instead,Igaveadifferentstory,aboutalittlebullyingfour-year-oldatapreviouspost,andthewayIhadmanagedtotraceitbacktoherownfearsoverstartingprimaryschool.
AsItalkedshelookedthroughthepapersIhadboughtwithme,thebackgroundcheck,thefirstaidcertificates.Theywereallinorder,ofcourse;Iknewthat,butIstillfeltalittleflutterofnervesbeneathmyribsasshecheckedthem.Mychesttightened,thoughwhetherthatwasdowntonervesorthedogs,Icouldn’tquitetell,andIpusheddowntheurgetopulloutmyinhalerandtakeapuff.
“Andthedrivinglicense?”sheaskedasIfinishedmyanecdoteaboutthefour-year-old.Iputdownmyforkontothesmoothpolishedconcretetopofthetableandtookadeepbreath.
“Ah,right,yes.I’mafraidthat’saproblem.IdohaveafullUKdrivinglicenseandit’sclean,buttheactualcardwasstolenlastmonthwhenIlostmypurse.I’veorderedanewone,buttheywantedanupdatedphotoandit’stakinganagetocomethrough.ButIpromiseyou,Icandrive.”
Thatlastpartwastrueafterall.Icrossedmyfingers,andtomyreliefshenoddedandmovedontosomethingaboutmyprofessionalambitions.DidIwanttogetanyadditionalqualifications.WheredidIseemyselfinayear’stime.Itwasthesecondquestionthatreallymattered;IcouldtellthatfromthewaySandrasetdownherwineglassandactuallylookedatmeasIanswered.
“Inayear’stime?”Isaidslowly,franticallytryingtofigureoutwhatshewantedtohearfromme.Didshewantambition?Commitment?Personaldevelopment?Ayearwasafunnylengthoftimetochoose,mostinterviewerssaidfiveyears,andthequestionhadthrownme.Whatwasshetesting?
AtlastImadeupmymind.
“Well…youknowIwantthisjob,Sandra,andtobehonest,inayear’stimeIwouldhopetobehere.Ifyouweretooffermethisposition,Iwouldn’twanttouprootmyselffromLondonandallmyfriendsjustforashort-termpost.WhenIworkforafamily,Iwanttothinkit’salong-termrelationship,bothformeandthekids.Iwanttoreallygettoknowthem,seethemgrowupalittlebit.Ifyou’daskedmewhereIsawmyselfinfiveyears…well,that’sadifferentquestion.AndI’dprobablygiveyouadifferentanswer.I’mambitious—I’dliketodoamaster’sinchildcareorchildpsychologyatsomepoint.Butayear—anypostItooknow,Iwoulddefinitelywanttothinkofitlastinglongerthanayear,foralloursakes.”
Sandra’sfacebrokeintoahugegrin,andIknew—IjustknewthatIhadgiventherightanswer,theoneshehadbeenhopingfor.Butwasitenoughtogetmethepost?Ididn’thonestlyknow.
Wechattedforaboutanotherhourorso,Sandrarefillingmyglassalongwithherown,thoughatsomepointafterthesecondorthirdtop-upIhadthesensetoputmyhandoverthegobletandshakemyhead.
“Betternot.I’mnotreallymuchofadrinker;winegoesstraighttomyhead.”
Itwasn’tcompletelytrue.Icouldholdmywineaswellasmostofmyfriends,butIknewthatanotherglasswouldprobablyseemethrowcautiontothewind,andthenitwouldbehardertokeepmyanswersdiplomaticandonmessage.Storieswouldgettangled,I’dgetnamesanddatesinamuddle,andI’dwakeuptomorrowwithmyheadinmyhandswonderingwhattruthsI’dletslipandwhatterriblefauxpasIhadmade.
Asitwas,Sandralookedattheclockasshetoppedupherownglassandgavealittlegulpofshock.
“Heavens,tenpasteleven!Ihadnoideaitwassolate.Youmustbeshattered,Rowan.”
“Iamabit,”Isaidtruthfully.I’dbeentravelingallday,andthefactwasstartingtocatchupwithme.
“Well,look,Ithinkwe’vecoveredeverythingIwantedtoask,butIwashopingyoucouldmeetthelittleonestomorrow,seeifyouclick,andthenJackwilldriveyoubacktoCarnBridgetocatchyourtrain,ifthat’sokay?Whattimedoesitleave?”
“Eleventwenty-five,sothatworksfineforme.”
“Great.”Shestoodupandsweptallthecrockeryintoastack,whichsheputbesidethesink.“Let’sleavethatforJeanandcallitanight.”
Inodded,wonderingagainwhothismysteriousJeanwas,butnotquitewantingtoask.
“I’lljustgoandletthedogsout.Goodnight,Rowan.”
“Goodnight,”Isaidback.“Thankyousomuchforadelicioussupper,Sandra.”
“Mypleasure.Sleepwell.Thechildrenareusuallyupatsixbutthere’snoneedforyoutogetupthatearly—unlessyouwantto!”
Shegavealittletinklylaugh,andImadeamentalnotetosetmyalarmforsix,evenwhilemyeyesfeltheavyatthethought.
AsSandrashooedthedogsintothegarden,Imademywaybackintotheoldpartofthehouse,withthesamestrangesenseofjoltingdislocationIhadfeltbefore,goingtheotherway.Thesoaringglassceilingabruptlyloweredtowedding-cake-stylefrosting.Theechoingsoundofmykittenheelsontheconcretefloorchangedtothesoftclickofparquet,andthenthehushofcarpetasIbegantomakemywayupthestaircase.AtthefirstlandingIstopped.Thedoorclosesttome,thebaby’sroom,wasajar,andIcouldn’tresist,Ipusheditverygentlywithmyhandandsteppedinside,smellingthegood,warmsmellsofclean,contentedbaby.
Petrawaslyingonherback,herarmsandlegsthrownoutfroggy-style.Shehadkickedoffherblanketand,verygently,Idrewitbackoverher,feelinghersoftbreathstirringthefinehairsonthebackofmyhand.
AsItuckeditaroundher,shestartled,flinginguponearm,andforamomentIfroze,thinkingthatshewasabouttowakeandcry.Butsheonlysighedandsettledbackdown,andIpaddedquietlyfromtheroomanduptomyluxurious,waitingbedroom.
ItiptoedaroundcautiouslyasIwashedandbrushedmyteeth,listeningtothefloorboardsbeneathmyfeetquietlycreakingandnotwantingtodisturbSandrabelow.ButatlastIwasreadyforbed,myalarmset,myclothesfortomorrowneatlysetoutontheplumplittlesofa.
ThenIrealized,Ihadnotdrawnthecurtains.
Wrappingmydressinggownaroundmyself,Iwalkedacrosstheroomandtuggedgentlyattheirfabric.Theydidn’tmove.
Puzzled,Itriedharder,thenstopped,peeringbehindthemincasetheyweresomehowfake,ornamentaldrapes,andIwasreallysupposedtouseablind.Butno,theywererealcurtains,theyhadrealrunners.ThenIremembered—Sandrapressingsomethingonthewall,andthecurtainsswishingclosed,thenopenagain.Theywereautomatic.
Shit.Iwalkedacrosstothepanelbesidethedoorandwavedahandinfrontofit.Instantlyitglowedintolifewiththatconfusingconfigurationofsquaresandicons.Nonelookedlikecurtains.Therewasonethatmighthavebeenawindow,butwhenIpressedit,cautiously,ablastofjazztrumpetsplitthesilence,andIhastilystabbeditwithafinger.
ThankGoditcutoffimmediately,andIstoodforamoment,waiting,poisedforawailfromPetra,orforSandratocomepoundingupthestairsdemandingtoknowwhyIwaswakingthechildren,butnothinghappened.
Ireturnedtostudyingthepanel,butthistimeIdidn’tpressanything.ItriedtorememberwhatSandrahaddoneearlier.Thebigsquareinthecenterwasthemainlight,Iwasfairlysureofthat.Andthemishmashofsquarestotherightpresumablycontrolledtheotherlightsintheroom.Butwhatwasthatspiralthing,andtheslidertotheleft?Musicvolume?Heat?
ThenIrememberedSandra’scommentaboutthevoicesettings.
“Shutcurtains,”Isaidinalowvoice,andsomewhattomyshock,thecurtainswhiskedacrosswithabarelyaudibleswoosh.
Great.Okay.Thatonlyleftthelightstofigureout.
Thebedsidelighthadaswitch,soIknewI’dbeabletohandlethatone,andtheothersImanagedtofigureoutbytrialanderror,buttherewasonelampbythearmchairthatIcouldnotmanagetoextinguish.
“Turnofflights,”Itried,butnothinghappened.“Turnofflamp.”
Thebedsidelampextinguished.
“Turnoffarmchairlamp.”Nothinghappened.Bloodyhell.
IntheendItracedthecordbacktoanoddlyshapedplugsocketonthewall,notlikeanormalappliancesocket,andpulleditout.Theroomwasplungedinstantlyintodarknesssothick,Icouldalmostfeelit.
SlowlyIgropedmywaybackacrosstheroomtothefootofthebedandcrawledintoit.IwasjustsnugglingdownwhenIremembered,withasigh,thatIhadn’tpluggedmyphoneintocharge.Shit.
Icouldn’tfacecontendingwiththelightsagain,soinsteadIswitchedonthetorchonmyphone,gotoutofbed,andbegantorummagethroughmycase.
Thechargerwasn’tthere.HadItakenitoutalready?IwassureI’dpackedit
Itippedthebagupsidedown,lettingmypossessionstumbleoutontothethickcarpet,butnoelectricalwirecamesnakingoutwiththeotherbelongings.Shit.Shit.IfIcouldn’tchargemyphone,I’dhavetheworld’smostboringjourneytomorrow.Ihadn’tevenboughtabook—allmyreadingmatterwasontheKindleapp.HadIforgottenit?Leftitonthetrain?Eitherway,itclearlywasn’tinmycase.Istoodthereforamoment,chewingmylip,andthenopeneduponeofthedrawersinthebedsidetable,hopingagainstexpectationthatapreviousguestmighthaveleftachargerbehindwiththem.
And…bingo.Notacharger,butacharginglead.ThatwasallIneeded—therewasaUSBportbuiltintothesocket.
WithasighofreliefIuntangledtheleadfromtheleafletsandpapersinthedrawer,pluggeditin,andattachedmyphone.Thelittlechargingiconilluminated,andIgotthankfullybackintobed.Iwasabouttoturnoffthetorchandliebackdown,whenInoticedthatsomethinghadfallenoutofthedrawerontomypillow.Itwasapieceofpaper,andIwasabouttoscrewitupandthrowitontothefloor,butbeforeIdid,Iglancedatit,justtocheckitwasnothingimportant.
Itwasn’t.Justachild’sdrawing.Atleast…
Ipickedupthephoneagain,anglingthetorchatthepage,lookingmorecloselyatthepicture.
Itwashardlyaworkofart,juststickfiguresandthickcrayonedlines.Itshowedahousewithfourwindowsandashinyblackfrontdoor,notunlikeHeatherbrae.Thewindowswerecoloredinblack,allexceptforone,whichshowedatinypalefacepeepingoutofthedarkness.
Itwasoddlydisconcerting,buttherewasnonamesignedtoit,andnowayofknowingwhyitwasinthebedsidedrawer.Iturneditover,lookingforclues.Therewaswritingontheotherside.Itwasn’tachild’sbutanadult’s—slopedandloopingandsomehownon-EnglishinawayIcouldn’tquitedefine.
Tothenewnanny,itreadinneat,regularitalics.MynameisKatya.IamwritingyouthisnotebecauseIwantedtotellyoutopleasebe
Andthenitstopped.
Ifrowned.WhowasKatya?Thenamerangabell,andthenIrememberedSandra’svoiceatdinnersayingbutwithKatyaleaving—shewasourlastnanny…
SoKatyahadlivedhere.Slepthereeven.Butwhathadshewantedtosaytohersuccessor?Andhadsherunoutoftime,orthoughtbetterofwhatshewasabouttosay?
Pleasebe…kindtothechildren?Pleasebe…happyhere?Pleasebe…suretotellSandrayoulikedogs?
Itcouldhavebeenanything.Sowhywasthephrasethatkepthoveringonthetipofmytonguepleasebecareful?
Thetwotakentogether,theeerielittledrawing,andtheunfinishednote,gavemeastrangefeelingthatIcouldnotputmyfingeron.Somethinglikeuneasiness,thoughIcouldnothavesaidwhy.
Well,whateveritwasshehadwantedtosay,itwastoolatenow.
Ifoldedthedrawingandslippeditbackintothedrawer.ThenIswitchedoffmyphone,pulledthecoversuptomychin,andtriedtoforgeteverythingthathunginthebalanceandsleep.
WhenIwoke,itwastotheinsistentshrillbeepofmyalarm,andforamomentIcouldnotthinkwhereIwas,orwhyIwassotired.ThenIremembered.IwasinScotland.Anditwas6:00a.m.—afullhourandahalfearlierthanIwasaccustomedtowakingup.
Isatup,smoothingmyrumpledhairandrubbingthesleepfrommyeyes.DownstairsIcouldhearthumpsandshrillsoundsofexcitement.Itsoundedasthoughthechildrenwereprobablyup….
Thecurtainswereblackout,butthesunshinewasalreadystreamingthroughthegapsaroundtheedges,and,forcingmylegsoutofbed,Iwalkedacrossandtriedtopullthemopen,beforerememberingthepreviousnight.
“Curtainsopen,”Isaidaloud,feelingmorethanslightlystupid,andtheyswooshedapartlikeamagician’strick.Idon’tknowwhatIwasexpecting,butwhateveritwas,Iwasnotpreparedforthereality.
Thebeautyofthesceneinfrontofmetookmybreathaway.
Thehousehadbeenperfectlysitedbysomelong-deadVictorianarchitecttogazeoutacrossanuninterruptedvistaofbluehills,greenvalleys,anddeep-verdantpineforests.Onandonitstretched,therollingfoothillspunctuatedbylittledarkburnsthatrambledhereandthere,andthecorrugatedroofsoffarawaycrofts,andafewmilesawayaloch,reflectingthemorningsunsobrightlyitlookedlikeapatchofsnow.Inthedistance,presidingaboveitall,weretheCairngorms—Gaelicforthebluemountains,accordingtoGoogle.
WhenIhadlookeduptheoriginoftheirname,thetranslationhadseemedfaintlyabsurd.Thephotosonlineshowedallthecolorsyoumightexpect—greengrass,brownbracken,reddishearthwiththeoccasionalpurplesplotchofheather,andinwinteracoveringofcrispwhite.Theideathattheywereblueseemedfancifulintheextreme.
Buthere,withthemistrisingfromtheirslopesinthemorningsun,andthedawnpinkstilltingeingtheskybehindthem,theydidlookblue.Notthebrackenyfoothills,buttheunforgivinggraniteslopesthemselves,alljaggedcragsandpeaks,farabovethetreeline.Thehighestpeaklookedlikeitwastippedwithsnow,eveninJune.
Ifeltmyheartlift,andthenIheardanoiseinthegardenbelowandlookeddown.
ItwasJackGrant.Hewaswalkingacrossfromahuddleofoutbuildingstuckedjustaroundthecornerofthehouse.Hishairwaswet,asifhehadjustshowered,andhewasholdingabagoftoolsinhishand.ForaminuteIwatchedhim,staringdownatthetopofhisdarkhead,beforeitbegantofeelmorethanalittlevoyeuristic,andIturnedawayfromthewindowtoheadtothebathroomformyownshower.
Insideitwasdark,andIautomaticallyfeltaroundforaswitch,before,withasigh,Irememberedthedamnpanel.Atmytouchitleaptintolife,presentingmeagainwiththatconfusingmosaicofsquares,sliders,anddots.Ipressedoneatrandom,hopingIwasn’tgoingtogetmoreMilesDavis.IhadbeenaimingforthesameoneI’dpressedyesterday,butevidentlyI’dmissedmymark,becauselowbluelightssuddenlyilluminatedthebaseboards.Somesortofnightsetting,forifyouwantedtogototheloowhileyourpartnerwasasleep?Notbrightenoughtoshowerby,atallevents.
ThenextbuttonItriedmadethebluelightsdisappear,andtwolow,goldenlampscameonoverthebath,suffusingmyskinwithawarm,flatteringglow.ItwasexactlywhatIwouldhavewantedifIwassoakinginalongbubblebath,buttheshowerenclosurewasstilldark,andIneededsomethingbrighterandmore…well,moremorningish.
Ifounditonthefourthorfifthtry—asettingthatwasbright,butnotagonizinglyso,withanilluminatedrimaroundthemirrorperfectfordoingmymakeup.WithasighofreliefIdroppedmyrobetothefloorandsteppedintotheshower,onlytobefacedwithadifferentchallenge.Therewasadazzlingarrayofdifferentnozzles,spouts,andshowerheads.Thequestionwas,howdidyouoperatethem?Theanswerseemedtobeyetanotherpanel,awaterproofonethistime,setinamongtheshowertiles.WhenItouchedit,lettersglowedintolife.Goodmorning,Katya.
Thenamegavemeafunnylittlejolt,andIrememberedagainthatunfinishednoteonthechild’sdrawing,fromthenightbefore.Therewasasmileyfaceandlittledownbutton.Well,Iwasn’tKatya.Ipressedthedownbutton,andtheletterschanged.Goodmorning,Jo.Ipressedagain.Goodmorning,Lauren.Goodmorning,Holly.Goodmorning,guest.
Therewerenomoreoptions.Guestitwas,then.Ipressedthesmileyface.Nothinghappened.Instead,thedisplaychangedtothosecrypticdots,squares,andsliders.Ipressedoneatrandomandscreechedwhenabouttwentyforcefuljetsofice-coldwaterblastedmystomachandthighs.HastilyImashedtheoffswitchtotheleftofthepanelandthejetsturnedoff,leavingmepantingandshivering,andmorethanalittleannoyed.
Okay.Fine.MaybeIshouldtryapresetoption,untilIhadfiguredouthowtoworkthisthing.ItouchedthepanelandGoodmorning,Katyaflashedupagain.Thistimewithafeelingofslighttrepidation,Ipressedthesmileyface,andthemessageWe’repreparingyourfavoriteshower.WashHappy!appearedonthescreen.Asthemessagefadedaway,tomyastonishment,oneoftheshowerheadsslidsmoothlyupwardstoapreprogrammedheight,tiltedtoanangle,andajetofwarmwaterbegantogushout.Istoodforamoment,gaping,andthentestedthewaterwithonehand.WhoeverKatyawas,shehadbeenverytall,andshelikedhershowersalittlebithotterthanIdid.Icouldhaveputupwiththeheat,butunfortunatelyshewassotallthatthejetmissedthetopofmyheadcompletelyandbouncedofftheglassscreenopposite,whichwasgoingtomakewashingmyhairverytricky.
Ipressedtheoffbuttonandtriedagain.ThistimeIselectedGoodmorning,Hollyatrandomandwaited,teethgritted,fortheresult.
Bingo.Holly’ssettingturnedouttobesettoakindofhotdrenchingrainfromthegridoverhead,whichwas…well,itwasglorious.Therewasnootherwordforit.Thewatergushedoutwithanalmostabsurdabundance,soakingmewithwarmth.Ifeltthehotwaterdrummingonthetopofmyskull,drivingoutthelastremnantsofmysleepinessandlastnight’sredwine.Holly,whoevershewas,hadclearlybeenawomanaftermyownheart.Ishampooedmyhair,conditioned,andthenrinsed,andthenstood,myeyesclosed,simplyenjoyingthefeelofthewateronmynakedskin.
Thetemptationtostaythere,revelingintheluxury,wasverystrong,butithadtakenmeprobablytenminutestoevenfigureoutthebathroom.IfIwastedanymoretime,Iwouldrenderthatearlyalarmpointless.TherewasnopointinforcingmyselfoutofbedatthecrackofdawnifIdidn’tmakeanappearanceandrammyenthusiasmhometoSandra.
Withasigh,Ipressedtheoffbuttononthepanel,reachedoutforthefluffywhitetowelwarmingontheheatedrail,andremindedmyselfthatifIpulledthisoff,itwouldn’tbethelasttimeIgottoenjoythatshower.Veryfarfromit
***
Venturingdownstairs,thefirstthingthatgreetedmewasthesmelloftoastandthesoundofchildrenlaughing.WhenIroundedthecornerofthebottomofthestairs,Iwasmetbyaverysmalltartandressinggownabandonedonthebottomstepandasingleslipperinthemiddleofthehall.Pickingbothup,Imademywaythroughtothekitchen,whereSandrawasstandinginfrontofahugegleamingchrometoaster,holdingapieceofbrownbreadandwavingitatthetwolittlegirlsinbrightredpajamassittingatthemetalbreakfastbar.Theircurlyheads,onedark,theotherwhite-blond,weretousledwithsleep,andtheywerebothgigglinghelplessly.
“Don’tencourageher!She’llonlydoitagain.”
“Dowhatagain?”Isaid,andSandraturned.
“Oh,Rowan!Gosh,you’reupearly.Ihopethegirlsdidn’twakeyou.We’restilltryingtotraincertainmembersofthefamilytostayinbedpastsixa.m….”Shenoddedpointedlyattheyoungerofthetwogirls,theonewithwhite-blondhair.
“It’sfine,”Isaidtruthfully,adding,slightlylessaccurately,“I’manaturallyearlyriser.”
“Well,that’scertainlyagoodtalenttohaveinthishouse,”Sandrasaidwithasigh.Shewaswearingadressinggownandlookedmorethanalittleharassed
“Petrathrewherporridge,”saidthegirl,withagurglinglaugh,pointingatthepink-cheekedbabysittinginthehighchairatthecorner,andIsawthatshewasright.Therewasadollopofporridgethesizeofaneggslidingdownthefrontofthestovetoplopontotheconcretefloor,andPetrawascrowingwithdelightandscoopingupanotherspoonful,readytothrowitagain.
“Petafrow!”shesaid,andtookaim.
“Uh-uh,”Isaidwithasmile,andheldoutmyhandforthespoon.“Petra,giveithere,please!”
Thebabylookedatmeuncertainlyforamoment,sizingmeup,herfaintblondbrowsdrawnintoanadorablefrown,andthenherchubbyfacesplitinagrinandsherepeated,“Petafrow!”andlaunchedtheporridgetowardsme.
Idodged,butnotquickenough,andithitmefullinthechest.
ForaminuteIjustgasped,andthenawaveofabsolutefuryroseupinsidemewhenIrealizedwhatshehaddone.StupidlyIhadn’tbroughtaspareoutfit,andyesterday’stopwascrumpledandhadared-winestainonthetopthatIdidn’tremembermakingbutmusthavedoneso.
Ihadliterallynocleanclothesleft.Iwasgoingtobecoveredinporridgefortherestoftheday.Thelittleshit
Itwastheyoungerofthetwogirlswhosavedme.Sheburstoutgigglingandthenclappedherhandsoverhermouth,asifhorrified.
IrememberedwhoIwas,whereIwas,whyIwashere.
Iforcedasmile.
“It’sokay,”Isaidtothelittlegirl.“Ellie,isn’tit?Youcanlaugh.Itisprettyfunny.”
Shetookherhandsawayandgaveacautiousgrin.
“OhmyGod,”Sandrasaidwithakindofwearyresignation.“Rowan,Iamsosorry.Theytalkabouttheterribletwos,butIswear,Petra’sbeenauditioningforthemforsixmonths.Isyourtopokay?”
“Sandra,don’tgiveitasecondthought,”Isaid.Thetopwasnotgoingtobeokay,atleastnotuntilIcouldwashit,andpossiblynoteventhen.Itwasasilkblouse,dry-cleanonly,astupidchoiceforanannyinginterview,butIhadn’tthoughtaboutthefactthatIwouldbeinteractingwiththekids.MaybeIcouldgetasmallmoraladvantagefromthesituation.“Honestly,thesethingshappenwhenyouhavekids,right?It’sonlyporridge!However—”IleanedoverandtookthebowlofporridgeawayfromPetrabeforesherealizedwhatwashappeningandputitoutofherreach.“Ithinkyou’vehadenough,littleMissPetra,somaybeI’lltakechargeofthatwhileIcleanup.Where’syourmop,Sandra,andI’llcleanupthatblobonthefloorbeforeoneofthegirlsslipsonit.”
“It’sintheutilityroom,thatdoorthere,”Sandrasaid,withagratefulsmile.“Thankyousomuch,Rowan.Ihonestlywasn’texpectingyoutostartpitchinginunpaid,thisisbeyondthecallofduty.”
“I’mgladtohelp,”Isaidfirmly.IruffledPetra’shairasIpassedwithanaffectionIdidn’tentirelyfeel,andgaveElliealittlewink.Maddiewasnotlookingatme;shewasstaringdownatherplateasthoughthewholethinghadpassedherby.Maybeshewasashamedatherearlierrole,eggingPetraon.
Theutilityroomturnedouttobeintheolderpartofthehouse—probablytheoriginalsculleryjudgingbytheVictoriansinkandstone-flaggedfloor—butIwasn’tinthemoodtoappreciatearchitecturaldetails.Instead,Ishutthedoorbehindmeandtookacoupleofdeepbreaths,tryingtoridmyselfofthelastofmyirritation,andthensettoworktryingtorescuemytop.Theworstoftheporridgeflickedoffintothesink,butIwasgoingtohavetospongetherest.Afterseveraltriesthatonlysucceededingettingporridgywaterontomyskirt,Ipushedamopagainstthehandleofthekitchendoorandpeeledoffmytop.
Iwasstandingthereinmybraandskirt,dabbingattheporridgypatchunderthetapandtryingnottogettherestoftheshirtwetterthannecessary,whenIheardasoundfromtheothersideoftheutilityroomandturnedtoseethedoortotheyardopenandJackGrantcomein,wipinghishandsonhisoveralltrousers.
“Mower’sgoing,San—”hecalled,andthenbrokeoff,hiseyeswideninginshock.Avividblushspreadacrosshisbroadcheekbones.
Igaveayelpofsurpriseandclutchedmywettoptomybreasts,tryingmybesttopreservemymodesty.
“OhmyGod,I’msosorry,”Jacksaid.Hewascoveringhiseyes,lookingattheceiling,thefloor,anywherebutme.Hischeekswereflaming.“I’ll—I’llbe—sosorry—”
Andthenheturnedandfled,slammingtheyarddoorbehindhimself,leavingmegaspingandnotsurewhethertolaughorcry.
Therewasnotmuchpointineither,soIhastilydriedmywettopwithatowelhangingovertheradiator,filledupthemopbucket,andthenmademywaybacktothekitchenwithmycheeksalmostaspinkasJack’s.
“Shirtfixed?”SandrasaidoverhershoulderasIcamein.“Letmegetyouacoffee.”
“Yes,”Iwasnotsurewhethertotellherwhathadjusthappened.Hadsheheardmysqueakofsurprise?WouldJacksaysomething?“Sandra,I—”
Butthenmynervefailedme.Icouldn’tthinkofawayofsaying,Sandra,Ijustboob-flashedyourhandyman,withoutsoundinghopelesslyunprofessional.Ifelttheblushonmyfacedeepeninshameatjustthethoughtofit.Icouldnotbringitup.IwouldjusthavetohopethatJackwasenoughofagentlemannottorefertoithimself.
“Milkandsugar?”Sandrasaidabsently,overhershoulder,andIsettheconversationaside.
“Milk,thanks,”Isaid,andputdownthemopbucketandbeganclearingupPetra’smissilesfromthestoveandfloor,feelingmycheekscoolasIworked.
Atlast,whenthecoffeehadcomethroughandIwasseatedatthetable,eatingapieceofexcellenttoastandmarmalade,Iwasalmostabletopretendithadneverhappened.
“So,”Sandrasaid,wipingherhandsonacloth.“Girls.Ididn’tgetachancetointroduceyoutoRowan.She’scometohavealookaroundourhouseandmeetyou.Sayhello.”
“Hi,”Maddiemuttered,thoughshesaiditmoretoherplatethanme.Shelookedyoungerthanhereightyears,withdarkhairandasallowlittleface.BeneaththecountertopIcouldseetwoskinnyknees,coveredinscabs.
“Hello,Maddie,”Isaid,withwhatIhopedwasawinningsmile,butshekepthereyesfirmlydown.Elliewaseasier;shewaslookingatmewithfrankcuriosityfrombeneathawhite-blondfringe.“Hello,Ellie.Howoldareyou?”
“I’mfive,”Elliesaid.Herblueeyeswereroundasbuttons.“Areyougoingtobeournewnanny?”
“I—”Istoppedshort,notsurewhattosay.WouldIhopesocomeacrossastoonakedlypleading?
“Maybe,”Sandracutin,firmly.“Rowanhasn’tdecidedyetwhethershewantstoworkhere,sowemustbeverywellbehavedtoimpressher!”
Shegavemealittlesidewayswink.
“Itellyouwhat,runupstairsandgetdressed,andthenwecanshowRowanaround.”
“WhataboutPetra?”Ellieasked.
“I’llsortherout.Goon—chop-chop.”
Thetwogirlsslidobedientlyoffthetallstoolsandpatteredawayacrossthehallwayandupthestairs.Sandrawatchedthemgo,fondly.
“Gosh,they’reverygood!”Isaid,genuinelyimpressed.Ihadnanniedenoughchildrentoknowthatfive-year-oldsgettingdressedoncommanddefinitelywasn’tagiven.Eveneight-year-oldstendedtoneedsupervision.Sandrarolledhereyes.
“Theyknownottoplayupinfrontofvisitors.Butlet’sseeifthey’reactuallydoingasthey’retold…”
ShepressedabuttononaniPadlyingonthecounter,andapictureflickeredintoview.Itwasachildren’sbedroom,thecameraobviouslysitedupneartheceiling,pointingdownwardsattwolittlebeds.Therewasnosound,butthenoiseofadoorslammingwasloudenoughtofilterdownthestairs,andateddybearonthemantelpiecerockedandfell.Aswewatched,Maddiestampedangrilyintoviewatthebottomofthescreenandsatcrosslyontheleft-handbed,herarmsfolded.SandrapressedsomethingelseandthecamerazoomedinonMaddie’sface,orratherthetopofherhead,forshewaslookingdownatherlap.TherewasafaintcracklecomingfromtheiPadnow,asifamicrophonehadbeenswitchedon.
“Maddie,”Sandrasaid,“whathaveItoldyouaboutslammingdoors?”
“Ididn’t.”ThevoicecamesmallandtinnyfromtheiPadspeaker.
“Youdid,andIsawyou.YoucouldhavehurtEllie.NowgetyourclothesonandyoucanwatchsomeTV.They’realllaidoutonyourchair,Iputthemoutthismorning.”
Maddiesaidnothing,butshegotupandpulledoffherpajamatop,andSandrashutdownthescreen.
“Wow,”Isaid,slightlytakenaback.“Impressive!”
ItwasnotthewordIwasthinking.Stalkerishwasclosertothemark,thoughIwasn’tcompletelysurewhy.PlentyofplacesI’dworkedhadnannycams,orbabymonitorswithbuilt-inspeakersandcameras.PerhapsitwasthefactthatIhadn’tknownaboutituntilnow.Ihadn’tnoticedanycameraslastnight,sowherevertheywere,theymustbewellhidden.HadSandrawatchedmegouptobedlastnight?HadsheseenmelookintoPetra’sbedroom?Thethoughtmademycheeksflame.
“Thewholehouseiswiredup,”Sandrasaidcasually,droppingtheiPadbackontothecounter.“It’sveryhandy,especiallyinaplacewithseveralfloors.ItmeansIdon’thavetoalwaysberunningupanddowntocheckonthegirls.
“Veryhandy,”Iechoedfaintly,suppressingmyunease.Thewholehouse?Whatdidthatmean?Thechildren’srooms,clearly.Butthereceptionrooms?Thebedrooms?Thebathrooms?Butno,thatwasbeyondpossibility.Andillegal,surely.Iputtheremainingbitoftoastbackontheplate,myappetitesuddenlygone.
“Finished?”Sandrasaidbrightly,andwhenInoddedshesweptthebitoftoastintoawaste-disposalunitandputtheplatewiththegirls’porridgebowlsbythesink.Theonesfromlastnighthaddisappeared,Inoticed.HadthemysteriousJeancomeandgonealready?
“Well,ifyou’vehadenough,letmegiveyouthegrandtourwhilethegirlsgetdressed.”ShescoopedPetraoutofherhighchair,scrubbedherfacewithadampwashcloth,hitchedherontoherhip,andtogetherwereenteredtheoldpartofthehouseandcrossedthestone-flaggedentrancehalltothetwodoorsoneachsideofthefrontdoor.
“Right,sojusttogiveyouthelayout—thehallisthecenterofthehouse—outthebackisthekitchen,andleadingoffthatistheutilityroom,whichyou’vealreadyseen,ofcourse.Thatwaspartoftheoldservants’quarters,theonlybitthatsurvived,actually.Therestwehadtopulldown.Atthefrontofthehousewehavethegranderrooms—that’stheolddiningroom”—Sandrawavedahandatanopeningtotherightofthefrontdoor—“butwefoundwewerealwayseatinginthekitchen,sowe’veconverteditintoastudyslashlibrary.Haveapeek.”
Iputmyheadaroundthedoorandsawasmallishroomwithpaneledwallspaintedabeautifulrichtealcolor.Rangedatoneendwerebookshelvesfromfloortoceilingcoveredinamixoffictionpaperbacksandhardbackbooksonarchitecture.ItcouldhavebeenasmallbutperfectlyformedlibraryinaNationalTrusthistoricproperty—exceptthatinthemiddleoftheroomwasanenormousglassdeskwithahugedouble-screeniMacsprawlingacrossit,andakindofaeronauticalergonomicchairfacingthescreens.
Iblinked.Therewassomethingdisconcertingaboutthewaytheoldandnewcombinedinthishouse.Itwasn’tlikemosthomes,wheremodernadditionsrubbedupalongsideoriginalfeaturesandsomehowcombinedintoafriendly,eclecticwhole.Heretherewasastrangeimpressionofoilandwater—everythingwaseitherself-consciouslyoriginalorglaringlymodern,withnoattempttointegratethetwo.
“Whatabeautifulroom,”Isaidatlast,sinceSandraseemedtobewaitingforsomekindofresponse.“Thecolorsarejust…they’refabulous.”
Sandrasmiled,jigglingPetraonherhipinapleasedsortofway.
“Thankyou!Billdoesallthetechnicallayoutstuff,buttheinteriordesignismostlyme.Idolovethatshadeofteal.ThisparticularroomisreallyBill’sdomain,soIreinedmyselfin,butyou’llseeI’vegoneabittotownonitinthelivingroom.Ifigure,it’smyhouse,Idon’thavetopleaseanyoneelse!Comethroughandhavealook.”
Theroomsheledmeintonextwasthelivingroomshehadmentioned,aclusterofdeepbutton-backedsofasarrangedinasquarearoundabeautifultiledfireplace.Theceilingandwoodworkwerethesameshadeoftealasthepanelinginthestudy,butthewallsthemselveswerestartling—coveredinarich,intricatewallpaperwithadesignalmosttooconvolutedtomakeoutindeepblues,emeralds,andaquamarines.AsIpeeredcloserIsawthatitwasamixofbramblesandpeacocks—bothstylizedandintertwinedtothepointofbeingpracticallyunrecognizable.Thebramblesweredarkgreenandindigoblack,thepeacocksiridescentblueandamethyst,theirtailscurlingandspreadingandtanglingwiththebramblesintoakindofnightmarishlabyrinth—halfaviary,halfbriarthicket.
Thedesignechoedthetilesaroundthefireplace,whichweretwopeacocksstandingtalloneachsideofthegrate,theirbodiesonthebottommosttile,theirtailsspreadingupwards,Thefireitselfwasdead,buttheroomwasnotcold,farfromit.WroughtironVictorianradiatorsaroundthewallsgaveitacozywarmth,andthesunslantedacrossanotheroftheartfullyfadedPersianrugs.Morebookswerestrewnacrossabrasscoffeetablealongwithanothervaseofpeonies,theseonesdroopinginadryvase,butSandraignoredthemandledthewaytoadoorontheleftsideofthefireplace,leadingbackinthedirectionofthekitchen.
Behinditwasamuchsmalleroak-paneledroomwithascuffedleathersofaandaTVonthefarwall.Itwaseasytoseewhatthisroomwasusedfor—thefloorwascoveredwithdiscardedtoys,scatteredDuplo,decapitatedBarbiedolls,andapartlycollapsedplaytentslumpedinonecorner.Theratherdarkpaneledwallshadbeendecoratedwithstickersandchildren’sdrawings,eventheoddcrayonedscribbleonthepanelingitself.
“Thiswastheoldbreakfastroom,”Sandrasaid,“anditwasratherdark,asitfacesnorthandthatpinetreeblocksoutalotofthelight,sowemadeitintoamediaroom,butobviouslythechildrenendedupcompletelytakingover!”
Shegavealaughandpickedupastuffedyellowbanana,handingittoPetra.
“Andnow,tocompletethecircuit…”
Sheledthewaythroughtowardsaseconddoorconcealedinthepaneling—andagainIhadthefeelingoftrippingandfindingmyselfinadifferenthouseentirely.Wewerebackintheglassvaultatthebackofthehouse,butwehadentereditfromtheoppositeside.Withoutthebigstoveandthecupboardsandappliancesblockingtheview,therewasliterallynothinginfrontofusbutglass—andbeyondthatthelandscapefallingaway,patchedwithforestandthefarawayglimmeroflochsandburns.Itwasliketherewasnothingbetweenus,andthewildernessbeyond.Ifeltthatatanymomentanospreycouldhaveswoopeddownintoourmidst.
Inonecornerwasaplaypen,carpetedwithjigsawshapedrubbermats,andIwatchedasSandraploppedPetrainsidewithherbananaandwavedherhandaroundthewalls.“Thissidewastheoldservants’hall,backintheday,butitwasriddledwithdryrotandtheviewsweremuchtoogoodtobeconfinedtonarrowlittlesashwindows,sowemadethedecisiontojust”—shemadeaslittinggestureatherthroat,andthenlaughed—“Ithinksomepeopleareabitshocked,buttrustme,ifyou’dseenitbefore,you’dunderstand.”
IthoughtofmytinyflatinLondon,thewayitcouldhavefittedintoevenjustthisoneroom.
Somethinginsidemeseemedtotwistandbreak,justalittle,andsuddenlyIwasnotsureifIshouldhavecomehereafterall.ButIknewonething.Icouldnotgoback.Notnow.
You’reprobablywonderingwhyI’mtellingyouallthis,Mr.Wrexham.BecauseIknowyou’rebusy,andIknowthatonthesurface,atleast,itseemsasifthisisnothingtodowithmycase.Andyet…it’severything.IneedyoutoseeHeatherbraeHouse,tofeelthewarmthfromtheheatingstrikingupthroughthefloor,thesunonyourface.Ineedtoyoutobeabletoreachoutandstrokethesoftcat’s-tongueroughnessofthevelvetsofasandthesilkysmoothnessofthepolishedconcretesurfaces.
IneedyoutounderstandwhyIdidwhatIdid.
***
Therestofthemorningseemedtopassinablur.IspentthetimemakinghomemadePlay-Dohwiththechildrenandthenhelpingthemfashionitintoavarietyoflumpy,lopsidedcreations,mostofwhichPetramashedintoshapelessnessagainwithcrowsoflaughterandhowlsofannoyancefromEllie.Maddiewastheonewhopuzzledmemost—shewasstiffandunyielding,asifdeterminednottosmileforme,butIpersisted,findinglittlewaysofpraisingher,andatlast,inspiteofherself,sheseemedtounbendalittle,evengoingasfaraslaughing,alittleunwillingly,whenPetraunwiselyshovedahandfulofthepinkdoughintohermouthandspatitout,retchingandgaggingatthesaltytaste,withacomicalexpressionofdisgustonherchubbylittleface.
AtlastSandratappedmeontheshoulderandtoldmethatJackwaswaitingtotakemetothestation,ifIwasready,andIstoodupandwashedmyhandsandgavePetraalittlechuckunderthechin.
Mybagwasbesidethedoor.IhadpackedbeforeIcamedownstairsforbreakfast,knowingthatImightnothavemuchtimelater,butIhadnoideawhohadbroughtitdownfromthespareroom.NottheunseenJean,Iferventlyhoped,thoughIdidnotknowwhythethoughtmademeuncomfortable.
Jackwaswaitingoutsidewiththesilentlyidlingcar,hishandsinhispockets,thesunshinefindingspecksofdeepauburnandredinhisdarkhair.
“Well,itwasatotalpleasuretomeetyou,”Sandrasaid,andtherewasagenuinewarmthinhereyesassheheldoutherhand.“I’llneedtodiscussthingswithBill,butIthinkIcansay…well,let’sjustsay,you’llbehearingfromusverysoonwithafinaldecision.Verysoon.Thankyou,Rowan,youwerefabulous.”
“Itwaslovelytomeetyoutoo,Sandra,”Isaid.“Yourgirlsarelovely.”Ugh,stopsayinglovely.“IhopeIgetthechancetomeetRhiannonsometime.”IhopeIgetthejob,thatmeant,incode.“Goodbye,Ellie.”Istuckoutmyhand,andsheshookitgravely,likeafive-year-oldbusinesswoman.“Goodbye,Maddie.”
ButMaddie,tomydismay,didnottakemyhand.Instead,sheturnedandburiedherfaceinhermother’smidriff,refusingtomeetmyeyes.Itwasacuriouslychildishgesture,onethatmadeherseemmuchyoungerthanherage.Overthetopofherhead,Sandragavealittleshrugasiftosay,whatcanyoudo?
Ishruggedback,ruffledthebackofMaddie’shair,andturnedtowardsthecar.
Ihadstowedmyluggageinthebackseat,andwasjustwalkingaroundtheoppositesideofthecartoclimbintothefrontpassengerseatwhensomethinghitmelikeasmall,darkhurricane.Armswrappedaroundmywaist,ahardlittleskulldiggingintomylowerribs.
WrigglingroundinthefierceembraceIsaw,tomysurprise,thatitwasMaddie.MaybeIhadwonheroverafterall?
“Maddie!”Isaid,butshedidnotanswer.Iwasunsureofwhattodo,butintheendIbentdowntogiveheralittlehugback.“Thankyouforshowingmeyourlovelyhouse.Goodbye.”
Ihopedthatthelastwordmightmakeherletgo,butsheonlytightenedhergrip,squeezingmeuncomfortablytight,makingmybreathcomeshort.
“Don’t—”Iheardherwhimperintomystill-damptop,thoughIcouldn’tmakeoutthesecondword.Don’tgo?
“Ihaveto,”Iwhisperedback.“ButIhopeI’llbeabletocomebackverysoon.”
Thatwasthetruth,allright.God,Ihopedso.
ButMaddiewasshakingherhead,herdarkhairswishingagainstherknobblyspine.Ifelttheheatofherbreaththroughmytop.Therewassomethingstrangelyintimateanduncomfortableaboutthewholething,somethingIcouldnotputmyfingeron,andallofasuddenIverymuchwantedhertoletgo,butmindfulofSandra’spresence,IdidnotprizeMaddie’sfingersaway.Instead,Ismiledandtightenedmyarmsaroundhermomentarily,returningherhug.AsIdid,shemadealittlesound,almostawhimper.
“Maddie?Issomethingwrong?”
“Don’tcomehere,”shewhispered,stillrefusingtolookatme.“It’snotsafe.”
“It’snotsafe?”Igavealittlelaugh.“Maddie,whatdoyoumean?”
“It’snotsafe,”sherepeated,withalittleangrysob,shakingherheadhardersothatherwordswerealmostlost.“Theywouldn’tlikeit.”
“Whowouldn’tlikeit?”
Butwiththat,shetoreherselfaway,andthenshewasrunningbarefootacrossthegrass,shoutingsomethingoverhershoulder.
“Maddie!”Icalledafterher.“Maddie,wait!”
“Don’tworry,”Sandrasaidwithalaugh.Shecameroundtomysideofthecar.ItwasplainthatshehadnotseenanythingapartfromMaddie’ssuddenhugandhersubsequentflight.“That’sMaddie,I’mafraid.Justlethergo,she’llbebackforlunch.Butshemusthavelikedyou—I’mnotsureshe’severvoluntarilyhuggedastrangerbefore!”
“Thankyou,”Isaid,ratherunsettled,andIletSandraseemeintothecarandslamthedoorshut.
Itwasonlyaswebegantowindslowlydownthedrive,keepingoneeyeoutforafleetingchildamongthetrees,thatIfoundmyselfreplayingMaddie’sfinalremark,wonderingifshehadreallysaidwhatIthoughtI’dheard.
Forthethingshehadcalledoverhershoulderseemedalmosttoopreposteroustobetrue—andyetthemoreIbroodedoverit,themoreIwassureofwhatI’dheard.
Theghosts,shehadsobbed.Theghostswouldn’tlikeit.
“Well,seemsit’sgoodbyefornow,”Jacksaid.Hestoodatthebarriertothestation,holdingmybaginonehand,hisotheroutstretched.Itookitandshookit.Therewasoildeeplygroundinaroundthenailsfromyesterday,buthisskinwascleanandwarm,andtheoddintimacyofthecontactgavemealittleshiverIcouldn’texplain.
“Nicetomeetyou,”Isaid,alittleawkwardly,andthen,withafeelingthatImightaswellbecauseI’dregretitifIdidn’t,Iadded,alittlerashly,“SorryIdidn’tgettomeetBill.Or…orJean.”
“Jean?”Jacksaid,lookingalittlepuzzled.“She’snotaboutmuchintheday.Goeshometoherdad.”
“Isshe…issheyoung,then?”
“No!”Hegavethatgrinagain,thesidesofhismouthcurvingintoanexpressionofsuchbeguilingamusementthatIfeltmyownmouthcurveinhelplesssympathy,eventhoughIdidn’treallyunderstandthejoke.“She’sfiftyifshe’saday,maybemore,thoughI’dneverdareaskherage.No,she’sa—what’stheword.Acarer.Herfatherlivesdowninthevillage;hehasAlzheimer’s,Ithink.Hecan’tbeleftaloneformorethananhourortwo.Shecomesupinthemorningbeforehe’sawakeandthenagainfirstthingintheafternoon.Doesthedishesandthat.”
“Oh!”Ifeltmyfaceflush,andIsmiled,absurdly,andgavealittlelaugh.“Oh,Isee.Ithought…nevermind.Itdoesn’tmatter.”
IdidnothavetimetoanalyzethereliefIfelt,butitgavemeastrangesenseofbeingoff-balance,struckbysomethingIhadnotexpectedtoencounter.
“Well,goodtomeetyou,Rowan.”
“Goodtomeetyoutoo—Jack.”Thenamecameoffmytonguealittleawkwardly,andIblushedagain.UpthevalleyIheardthesoundoftheapproachingtrain.“Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”Heheldoutthecase,andItookit,stillechoinghiscurving,beguilingsmile,andbegantowalktotheplatform,givingmyselfasterninjunctionnottolookback.WhenatlastthetrainhaddrawninandIhadclimbedaboardandsettledmyselfinacarriage,Ididriskonelastglanceoutthewindow,towherehehadbeenstanding.Buthewasgone.Andso,asthetrainpulledoutofthestation,mylastglimpseofCarnBridgewasofanemptyplatform,crisplycleanandsun-soaked,awaitingmyreturn.
***
BackinLondon,Ipreparedmyselfforanagonizingwait.Verysoon,Sandrahadsaid.Butwhatdidthatmean?She’dclearlylikedme—unlessIwasdeludingmyself.ButI’ddoneenoughinterviewstobeabletopinpointthefeelingintheairasIleft.InrecentmonthsI’dexperiencedboththetriumphofhavingdonemyselfjusticeandthefuriousdisappointmentofhavingletmyselfdown.I’dfeltmuchclosertothefirstoneonthetrainbackdowntoLondon.
Didtheyhaveotherpeopletointerview?Shehadseemedsoverydesperatetohavesomeonestartsoon,andshemustknowthateverydaythattickedpastwithoutmegivingnoticewasadayIcouldn’tworkforher.Butwhatifoneoftheothercandidatescouldstartimmediately…?
GivenSandra’semphasisonverysoon,IhaddaredtohopeforsomethingonmyphonebythetimeIgothome,buttherewasnothingthatevening,northenextdaywhenIleftforwork.WehadtoleaveourphonesturnedoffinourlockersatLittleNippers,soIresignedmyselftoalongmorning,listeningtoJaninerattlingonaboutherboringboyfriendandbossingHayleyandmeabout,whileallthetimemyheadwaselsewhere.
Mylunchshiftwasn’tuntilone,butwhentheclocktickedoverIhastilyfinishedthenappyIwaschangingandstoodup,handingthebabytoHayley.
“Sorry,Hales,canyoutakehim?I’vegotanemergencyIneedtosortout.”
Ipulledofftheplasticdisposableapronandvirtuallyrantothestaffroom.There,Igrabbedmybagfrommylockerandescapedoutthebackentrance,intothelittleconcreteyard—farawayfromthegazeofthechildrenandparents—thatweusedforsmoking,phonecalls,andotheractivitiesthatweweren’tsupposedtodoonclock.Itseemedtotakeanageforthephonetoswitchonandgothroughtheendlessstart-upscreen—butatlastthelockscreencameup,andItypedinmypasscodewithshakingfingersandpressedrefreshonmyemails,reachingasIdidformynecklace,myfingerstracingtheloopsandridgesasthemessagesdownloaded.
One…two…threecamethrough…alleitherspamorcompletelyunimportant,andIfeltmyheartsink—untilInoticedthelittleiconinthecornerofthescreen.Ihadamessage.
Mystomachwasturningoverandover,andIfeltakindofflutteringnauseaasIdialedintovoicemailandwaitedimpatientlythroughtheautomatedprompts.Ifthisdidn’tworkout…Ifthisdidn’tworkout…
Thetruthwas,Ididn’tknowwhatI’ddoifitdidn’tworkout.AndbeforeIcouldfinishthethoughttherewasabeepandIheardSandra’sclippedplummyaccent,soundingtinnythroughthelittlespeaker.
“Oh,hello,Rowan.Sorrynottospeaktoyouinperson—Iexpectyou’reatwork.Well,I’mdelightedtosaythatI’vediscusseditwithBillandwe’dbehappytoofferyouthejobifyoucanstartonJuneseventeenthattheabsolutelatest,earlierifyoucan.Irealizethatwedidn’tdiscusstheexacttermsandthebonusImentionedintheletter.Theplanwouldbeforustoissueyouwithanallowanceofathousandpoundsamonth,withtheremainderofthesalarytocomeatyear-endintheformofacompletionbonus.Ihopethat’sacceptable—Irealizeit’salittleunconventional,butgivenyou’llbelivingwithusyouwon’thavemanyday-to-dayexpenses.Ifyoucouldletmeknowassoonaspossibleifyou’dliketoaccept,andoh,yes,lovelytomeetyoutheotherday.Iwasveryimpressedwithhowthechildrenwarmedtoyou,particularlyMaddie.She’snotalwaystheeasiestchild,and—well,I’mrambling,soI’dbettercutthisshort,butwe’dbehappytohaveyouonboard.Lookingforwardtohearingbackfromyou.”
Therewasaclick,andthemessageended.
ForaminuteIcouldn’tmove.Ijuststoodthere,thephoneinmyhand,gapingatthescreen.Andthenahugerushofexhilarationracedthroughme,andIfoundIwasdancing,hoppingincircles,punchingtheairandgrinninglikealunatic.
“Bloodyhell,what’sgotintoyou?”asmoke-roughenedvoicesaidovermyshoulder,andIturned,stillgrinning,toseeJanineleaningagainstthedoor,acigaretteinonehand,lighterintheother.
“What’sgotintome?”Isaid,huggingmyself,fullofagleeIcouldn’teventrytosuppress.“I’lltellyouwhat’sgotintome,Janine.I’vegotanewjob.”
“Well…”Janine’sexpressionassheflickedopenthelighterwasalittlesour.“Youneedn’tlooksotriumphantaboutit.”
“Oh,comeon,you’reasfedupwithValasIam.She’sscrewingusall,andyouknowit.Tenpercentsheputupfeeslastyear,andusassistantsarebarelygettingminimumwage.Shecan’tkeepblamingtherecessionforever.”
“You’rejustpissedoffthatIgotmadeheadofthebabyroom,”Janinesaid.Shetookadragofhercigarette,andthenofferedmethepacket.Iwastryingtogiveuptoimprovemyasthma(well,officiallyIhadgivenup)butherwordshadhithome,andsoItookoneandlititslowly,moreasawayofgivingmyselftimetorearrangemyexpressionthanbecauseIactuallywantedtosmoke.Ihadbeenpissedoffthatshe’dgotpromoted,whenhonestlyIthoughtIhadthebettershot.I’dappliedthinkingIwasashoo-in—andtheshockwhenthepositionhadgonetoJaninehadbeenlikeapunchtothegut.ButasValhadsaidatthetime,thereweretwocandidatesandonlyonejob.Therewasnothingshecoulddoaboutthat.Still,ithadrankled,particularlywhenJaninehadbegunthrowingherweightaroundandissuingordersinthatgratingdrawl.
“Well,itdoesn’tmatternow,”Isaid,handingthelighterbackwithasweetsmileandexhalingthesmoke.“Onwardsandupwards,eh?”Theslightlypatronizingsmileshegavemademeadd,alittlemaliciously,“Verymuchupwards,infact.”
“Whatdoyoumean?”Janinesaid.Shenarrowedhereyes.“ArewetalkingmorethanthirtyK?”
Imadearisingmovementwithmyhand,andhereyeswidened.
“Forty?Fiftygrand?”
“Andit’sresidential,”Isaidsmugly,watchingherjawdrop.Sheshookherhead.
“You’rehavingmeon.”
“I’mnot.”SuddenlyIdidn’tneedthecigaretteanymore.Itookafinaldrag,thendroppedittojointhemushofdeadbuttsintheyardandgrounditoutundermyheel.“Thanksforthefag.Andnow,ifyou’llexcuseme,Ineedtophoneupandacceptajob.”
IdialedSandra’snumber,listeningasitrang,andthenclickedthroughtovoicemail.InawayIwasrelieved,Ididn’twanttogetgrilledaboutmystartdateinfrontofJanine.Ifsheknewitwasamake-or-breakcondition,shemightwelltellVal,whocoulddeliberatelymakelifedifficultforme.
“Oh,hi,Sandra,”Isaid,whenthebeephadsounded.“Thankssomuchforyourmessage,I’mthrilled,andI’dbedelightedtoaccept.IneedtosortafewthingsoutthisendbutI’llemailyouaboutthestartdate.I’msureitwon’tbeaproblem.And…well,thanks,Iguess!I’llbeintouch.Letmeknowifthere’sanythingyouneedfrommetogettheballrolling.”
AndthenIhungup.
***
IhandedinmynoticetoValthatsameday.Shetriedtoactpleasedforme,butintruth,shelookedmostlypissedoff,particularlywhenIinformedherthattheamountofleaveIhadstackedupmeantthatIwouldbefinishingonthesixteenthofJune,ratherthanthefirstofJuly,asshehadassumed.ShetriedtotellmethatIneededtoworkmynoticeandtaketheleaveaspay,butwhenImoreorlessinvitedhertoseemeincourt,shecaved.
Thenextfewdayspassedinawhirlofactivityandpracticalities.SandradidallherpayrollremotelythroughacompanyinManchesterandwantedmetocontactthemdirectwithpaymentdetailsandIDratherthansendingallthepaperworkuptoScotland.Ihadexpectedtheprocesstobeamajorstumblingblock,maybeevenrequiringmetotraveltoManchesterforaninterviewinperson,butintheeventitwassurprisingly,almostdisconcertingly,simple—IforwardedthemSandra’semailwithareferencenumber,andthenwhentheyreplied,Isentthepassportscan,utilitybills,andbankdetailstheyrequested.Itwentthroughwithoutahitch.Likeitwasmeanttobe.
Theghostswouldn’tlikeit
Thephrasefloatedthroughmyhead,spokeninMaddie’sreedylittlevoice,itschildlikequaverlendingthewordsaneerinessIwouldnormallyhaveshruggedoff.
Butthatwasbollocks.Utterbollocks.Ihadn’tseenawhiffofthesupernaturalthewholetimeIwasinCarnBridge.Morelikelyitwasjustacoverstoryseizedonbyhomesickaupairs,girlsbarelyoutoftheirteenswithpoorEnglish,unabletocopewiththeisolationandremotelocation.I’dseenenoughofthemworkingatplacesinLondontoknowthedrill—I’devenpickedupsomeemergencyworkwhentheyscarperedinthenightwiththereturnhalfoftheirplaneticket,leavingtheparentstopickupthepieces.Itwasn’tuncommon.
Iwasconsiderablyolderandwiserthanthat,andIhadverygoodreasonsforwantingtomakethiswork.Noamountofalleged“haunting”wasgoingtomakemeturnthischancedown.
Ilookback,andIwanttoshakethatsmugyoungwoman,sittinginherLondonflat,thinkingsheknewitall,hadseenitall.
Iwanttoslapherfaceandtellhershedoesn’tknowwhatshe’stalkingabout
BecauseIwaswrong,Mr.Wrexham.Iwasvery,verywrong.
Lessthanthreeweekslater,IwasstandingonCarnBridgestationplatform,surroundedbymorecasesandboxesthanitseemedpossibleforonepersontocarry.
WhenJackcamestridinguptheplatform,carkeysjanglinginhishand,heactuallybrokeintoalaugh.
“Christ,howdidyougetallthatacrossLondon?”
“Slowly,”Isaidhonestly.“Andpainfully.Itookataxi,butitwasabloodynightmare.”
“Aye,well,you’reherenow,”hesaid,andtookmylargesttwocases,givingmeafriendlyshovewhenItriedtotakethesmalleronebackoffhim.“No,no,youtakethoseothers.”
“Pleasebecareful,”Isaidanxiously.“They’rereallyheavy.Idon’twantyoutoputyourbackout.”
Hegrinned,asifthepossibilitywassoremoteastobelaughable.
“Comeon,car’sthisway.”
Ithadbeenanothergloriousday—hotandsunny—andalthoughthesunwasbeginningtosinktowardsthehorizonandtheshadowsweregrowinglonger,thegorsewasstillpoppingaudiblyaswedrovesilentlythroughthewoodedlanesandmoorlandroadstowardsHeatherbrae.Thehouse,aswedroveupthedrive,wasevenmorebeautifulthanIhadremembered,baskingineveningsunshine,thedoorsflungopenandthedogsrunningeverywhere,barkingtheirheadsoff.Itsuddenlyoccurredtome,withalittlejolt,thatIwouldpresumablybeinchargeofthedogsaswellasthekids,whenSandraandBillwereaway.OrmaybethatwasJack’sjobtoo?Iwouldhavetofindout.Twochildrenandababywereinmycomfortzone.Ateenaswell,Icouldjustaboutmanage.Atleast,IhopedIcould.Butaddintwoboisterousdogs,andIwasstartingtofeelalittleoverwhelmed.
“Rowan!”Sandracamerunningoutthefrontdoor,herarmsoutstretched,andbeforeIwasfullyoutofthecarshehadenvelopedmeinamaternalhug.Then,shestoodbackandwavedherhandatafigurestandingintheshadowsoftheporch—atallman,baldingslightly,withshavendarkhair.
“Rowan,thisismyhusband,Bill.Bill—meetRowanCaine.”
Sothis—thiswasBillElincourt.ForamomentIcouldn’tthinkofwhattostay,Ijuststoodthere,awkwardlyconsciousofSandra’sarmaroundme,notsureofwhetherIshouldbreakawayfromhergriptogoandgreethimor—
Iwasstillfrozeninindecisionwhenhesolvedtheissuebystridingtowardsme,stickingouthishandandgivingmeaquick,businesslikesmile.
“Rowan.Goodtomeetyouatlast.Sandra’stoldmeallaboutyou.Youhaveaveryimpressiverésumé.”
Youdon’tknowthehalfofit,Bill,Ithought,ashepickeduponeofthecasesfromthebootandmadehiswaybacktothehouse.Itookadeepbreathandpreparedtofollow,andasIdid,myhandwentnervouslytomynecklace.Butthistime,insteadoftracingitsfamiliargrooves,Islippedthependantinsidetheneckofmyshirt,andhurriedafterthem.
Insidethekitchenwehadcoffee,andIsatnervouslyontheedgeofoneofthemetalbreakfaststoolswhileBillquizzedmeaboutmyqualifications,feelingonedgeinawaythatIneverhadwhenSandrahadinterviewedme.Iwanted…Idon’tknow.Iwantedtoimpresshim,Isuppose.Butatthesametime,ashedronedonabouthispunishingscheduleandthedifficultiesofrecruitingstaffintheHighlands,andtheinadequaciesofhispreviousnannies,Iincreasinglywantedtoshakehim.
Idon’tknowwhatIhadimagined.Someonesuccessful,Iguess.Ihadknownthatfromtheadvertandthehouse.Someonefortunate—withhisbeautifulkidsandaccomplishedwifeandinterestingjob.AllthatIhadtakenforgranted.Buthewasso…socomfortable.Hewaspadded—everyinchofhim.Idon’tmeanhewasfat,buthewascushioned,physically,emotionally,financially,inawaythathejustdidn’tseemtograsp,anditwashisveryignoranceofthefactthatmadeitevenmoreinfuriating.
Doyouknowwhatit’slike?Iwantedtoshoutathim,ashecomplainedabouttheirgardenerwhohadlefttotakeupafull-timeteachingjobinEdinburgh,andthehomehelpwhohadbrokenthe￡800wastedisposalunitinthesinkandthenrunawaybecauseshecouldn’tfacetellingthemwhatshe’ddone.Doyouunderstandwhatit’slikeforpeoplewhodon’thaveyourmoney,andyourprotection,andyourprivilege?
Ashesatthere,holdingforthasiftherewasnothingintheworldsoimportantashisinconsequentialproblems,Sandragazingadoringlyintohisfacelikeshewashappytolistentohimdroneonforever,therealizationcametome,painfully.Hewasselfish.Aselfish,self-centeredmanwhohadbarelyaskedmeasinglepersonalquestion—notevenhowmyjourneyhadbeen.Hejustdidn’tcare.
Idon’tknowwhatIhadexpectedtofeelwhenImethim—thismanwhohadn’tbotheredtointerviewawomanhewasplanningtoleavehischildrenwithforweeksatatime—butIhadn’texpectedtofeelthislevelofhostility.IknewIhadtogetagriponmyself,oritwouldshowinmyface.
PerhapsSandrasawsomethingofmydiscomfort,forshegavealittlelaughandbrokein.
“Darling,Rowandoesn’twanttohearaboutourdomestictravails.Justmakesureyoudon’tgoputtingcutlerydownthegrinder,Rowan!Anyway,quiteseriously,alltheinstructionsarehere”—shepattedafatredbinderatherelbow.“It’saphysicalcopyofthedocumentIemailedyoulastweek,andifyou’venothadachancetositdownandreadityet,it’sgoteverythingfromhowtoworkthewashingmachine,rightthroughtothechildren’sbedtimesandwhattheydoanddon’tliketoeat.Ifyou’vegotanyconcernsatall,you’llfindtheanswershere,althoughofcourseyoucanalwaysringme.DidyoudownloadHappy?”
“I’msorry?”
“Happy—thehome-managementapp.Iemailedyoutheauthorizationcode?”
“Oh,I’msorry,theapp,yesIdownloadedit.”
Shelookedrelieved.
“Wellthat’sthemainthing.I’vesetupyourHappyprofilewithallthepermissionsyou’llneed,andofcourseitstandsinasababymonitor,thoughwe’vegotaregularoneforPetra’sroomaswell.Justincase,youknow,buttheappisverygood.Whatelse…oh,food!I’vedoneyouamenuplannerhere”—shepulledoutaloosesheetfromaplasticwalletonthefirstpageofthebinder—“whichisfullofstuffthey’lleatfairlyreliably,andboughtalltheingredients,soyou’reabsolutelysetforthefirstweek.PlusallthepasswordsareinthereforWaitroseonlineandsoon,andhereisacreditcardforanyhouseholdexpenses.ThestatementcomesdirecttomeandBill,butobviouslydokeepreceipts—aquicksnaponyourphoneisfine,youdon’tneedtokeepthephysicalbitofpaper.Um…whatelse…Iexpectyou’refullofquestions?”
Shesaidthelastinaslightlyhopefultone,thoughIwasn’tcompletelycertainwhethershewashopingIwouldpromptherorhopingI’dsayno.
“Ididreadtheemail,”Isaid,thoughintruth,sincethedocumentwasaboutfiftydensepages,I’donlyskimmedthroughthepages.“Butit’llbebrilliantlyhelpfultohaveaprintoutofcourse—it’salwayssomucheasiertoflickthroughaphysicalcopy.Itwasimpressivelycomprehensive.IthinkI’vegotahandleoneverything—Petra’sroutine,Ellie’sallergies,Maddie’s…um—”Istopped,unsurehowtophrasewhatSandrahadcalledherdaughter’sexplosivepersonality.ItsoundedasthoughMaddiewasquitethehandful,orcouldbe.
Sandracaughtmyeyeandsawmypredicament,andgavealittleruefulsmilethatsaid,Yup
“Well,yes,Maddiereally!Rhiannonisstayingatschoolthisweekendforend-of-termcelebrations.She’llbecominghomenextweek,andI’vesortedoutherliftandeverythingsoyou’venothingtoworryaboutthere.Whatelse…whatelse…”
“Idon’tthinkwecompletelysortedoutwhenyou’releaving,”Isaidtentatively.“Iknowyousaidinyouremailthatyouhadthetradeshowcomingupnextweek—whendoesitstart,exactly?IsitnextSaturday?”
“Oh,”Sandralookedtakenaback.“DidInotsay?Gosh,thatwasabitofanoversight.That’sthe…um…well,that’stheonlyissuereally.ItisSaturday,butnotnextSaturday,thisone.Weleavetomorrow.”
“What?”ForamomentIthoughtIhadn’theardproperly.“Didyousayyou’releavingtomorrow?”
“Yeess…,”Sandrasaid,herfacesuddenlyuncertain.“We’reonthetwelvethirtytrain,sowe’llbeleavingjustbeforelunch.I…isthataproblem?Ifyou’renotconfidentaboutcopingstraightoutofthebox,Icantrytoreschedulemyearlymeetings…”
Shetrailedoff,andIswallowed.
“It’sfine,”Isaid,withaconfidenceIdidn’tcompletelyfeel.“Imean,I’dhavetohitthegroundsometime;Ireallydon’tthinkit’llmakemuchdifferencewhetherit’sthisweekendornext.”
Areyoumad?avoicewasscreaminginsidemyhead.Areyoucrazy?Youbarelyknowthesechildren
Butanotherpartofmewaswhisperingsomethingverydifferent—Good.Becauseinaway,thismadethingsconsiderablyeasier.
“Wecanplayitbyear,”Sandrawassaying.“I’llkeepintouchbyphone—ifthechildrenaretoounsettled,thenIcanflybackmidweekperhaps?You’llonlyhavethelittleonesforthefirstfewdays,sohopefullythat’llmakethetransitionalittlebiteasier…”
Shestoppedagain,alittleawkwardlythistime,butIwasnodding.Iwasactuallynodding,myfacestiffwiththeeffortofholdinginmyrealfeelings.
“Well,”Sandrasaidatlast.Sheputdownhercoffeecup.“Petra’salreadyinbed,butthegirlsarethroughintheTVroomwatchingPeppaPig.Idon’twanttodelegatemylastbedtimewiththemtoyoucompletely,butshallwedoittogether,soyoucangetafeelfortheirroutine?”
InoddedandfollowedherassheledthewaythroughthedarkenedglasscathedraltowardstheconcealeddoortotheTVroom.
Insidetheblindsweredrawn,thefloorwasstillcarpetedwithscatteredDuploandbattereddolls,andtwolittlegirlswerecurleduptogetheronthesofa,wearingflannelpajamasandclutchingsoft,wornteddybears.Maddiewassuckingherthumb,thoughshetookitswiftlyoutofhermouthashermothercamein,withaslightlyguiltyjump.Iresolvedtolookthatoneupinthebinder.
Weperchedonthearmsofthesofa,SandrafondlyrufflingherfingersthroughEllie’ssilkycurls,whiletheepisodewounditswaytotheclose,andthenshepickeduptheremotecontrolandshutdownthescreen.
“Oh,Mummeeeee!”Thechoruswasimmediate,thoughslightlyhalf-hearted,asiftheydidn’treallyexpectSandratoacquiesce.“Justonemore!”
“No,darlings,”Sandrasaid.ShescoopedupEllie,whowrappedherlegsaroundherwaistandburiedherfaceinhermother’sshoulder.“It’ssuperlate.Comeon,let’sgoup.Ifyou’reverylucky,Rowanwillreadyouastorytonight!”
“Idon’twantRowan,”Elliewhisperedintothecrookofhermother’sneck.“Iwantyou.”
“Well…we’llseewhenwegetupthere,”Sandrasaid.ShehitchedEllieintoamorecomfortablepositionandheldoutherhandtoMaddie.“Comeon,sweetie.Upwego.”
“Iwantyou,”ElliesaiddoggedlyasSandrabegantoclimbthestairs,metrailingafterher.Sandragavemealittleeyerollandasmileoverhershoulder.
“Itellyouwhat,”shewhisperedtoEllie,thoughdeliberatelyloudenoughformetohear.“Maybeyou’llgetastoryfrommeandastoryfromRowan.Howdoesthatsound?”
Elliemadenoreplytothis,onlydugherfacefurtherintoSandra’sshoulder.
Upstairsthecurtainsonthelandingweredrawn,andIcouldseethedimpinklightofPetra’snightlightfilteringacrossthecarpet.SandrasupervisedtoothbrushingandtheloowhileImademywaydownthesoftlycarpetedhallwaytoMaddieandEllie’sdoorway.
Theretheywere—twolittlebeds,eachbathedinthesoftglowofabedsidelight—onepink,theotherakindofduskypeach.Aboveeachonewasacollectionofframedprints—ababyfootprint,ascribble,justrecognizableasacat,abutterflymadeoutoftwochubbyhandprints—andtangledaroundtheframeswerestringsoffairylights,givingouttheirgentleillumination.
Itwaspicture-perfect—likeanillustrationfromanurserycatalog.
Isatgingerlyonthefootofoneofthelittlebeds,andatlastIheardfeetandwhiningvoices,swiftlyhushedbySandra.
“Shh,Maddie,you’llwakePetra.Comeonnow,dressinggownsoffandintobed.”
Elliejumpedintohers,butMaddiestoodstonilyforamoment,regardingme,andIrealizeditmustbeherbedIwassittingon.
“Doyouwantmetomove?”Iasked,butshesaidnothing,onlyfoldedherarmsmutinously,gotintobed,andturnedherfacetowardsthewall,asifpretendingIwasn’tthere.
“ShallIsitonthebeanbag?”IaskedSandra,whogavealaughandshookherhead.
“You’refine.Staythere.Maddietakesabitoftimetowarmuptopeoplesometimes,don’tyou,sweetie?”
Maddiesaidnothing,andIwasn’tsureIblamedher.Itmustbeuncomfortablehearingherselfdiscussedwithastrangerlikethis.
SandrabegantoreadaWinniethePoohstory,hervoicelowandsoporific,andwhenatlastshefinishedthefinalsentence,sheleanedover,checkingEllie’sface.Hereyeswereclosed,andshewassnoringverygently.Sandrakissedhercheek,clickedoffthelights,andthenstoodandcameacrosstome.
“Maddie,”shesaidveryquietly,“Maddie,doyouwantastoryfromRowan?”
Maddiesaidnothing,andSandraleanedoverandpeeredatherface,stillturnedtothewall.Hereyeswereshuttight.
“Outlikealight!”Sandrawhispered,atouchoftriumphinhervoice.“Ohwell,yourrenditionwillhavetowaituntiltomorrow.I’msorryIdidn’thearit.”
ShekissedMaddie’scheektoo,drewhercoversupalittle,andtuckedsomekindofsofttoyunderherchin—Icouldn’tseewhatexactly—andthenclickedoffherlightaswell,leavingjusttheglowofthenightlight.Thenshegavealastglancebackathersleepingdaughtersandmadeherwaytothedoor,withmefollowingbehind.
“Canyouclosethedoorafteryou?”shesaid,andIturned,readytodoso,glancingbackatthelittlewhitebedsandtheiroccupants,bothinshadownow.
Thenightlightwasverysoftandtooclosetothefloortoshowmuchexceptforshadowsaroundthegirls’beds,butforamoment,deepintheblackness,IthoughtIsawtheglintoftwolittleeyes,glaringatme.
Thentheysnappedshut,andIpulledthedoortobehindme.
Icouldn’tsleepthatnight.Itwasn’tthebed,whichwasassumptuouslycomfortableasbefore.Itwasn’ttheheat.TheroomhadbeenoppressivelywarmwhenIfirstentered,butIhadmanagedtopersuadethesystemtoswitchtocoolingmode,andnowtheairwaspleasantlytemperate.Itwasn’tevenmyworriesoverbeingleftalonewiththechildrenthenextday.IfanythingIwasfeelingrelievedatthethoughtofgettingridofBillandSandra.Well…notSandra…mostlyBill,iftruthweretold.
Theuncomfortableendtotheeveningflashedthoughmyheadoncemore.Wehadbeensittinginthekitchen,talkingandchatting,andthenatlastSandrahadstretchedandyawnedandannouncedherintentiontomakeanearlynightofit.
She’dkissedBillandheadedforthestairs,andjustasIwasthinkingaboutfollowingher,Billhadrefilledbothourglasseswithoutaskingme.
“Oh,”Isaid,half-heartedly.“Iwas…ImeanIshouldn’t…”
“Comeon.”Hepushedtheglasstowardsme.“Justonemore.ThisismyonlychancetogettoknowyoubeforeIentrustmykidstoyourcare,afterall!YoucouldbeanyoneforallIknow.”
Hegavemeagrin,histannedcheekswrinkling,andIwonderedhowoldhewas.Hecouldhavebeenanythingfromfortytosixty;itwashardtotell.Heworerimlessglassesandhadoneofthosetanned,slightlyweather-beatenfaces,andhiscroppedhairgavehimanalmostagelessquality,slightlyBruceWillis–esque.
Iwasverytired—thelongjourneyandthestressofpackinghadfinallyhitmelikeatonofbricks.Buttherewasenoughtruthinhisremarkformetosighinwardlyanddrawtheglasstowardsme.Hewasrightafterall.Thiswasouronechancetogettoknoweachotherbeforeheleft.Itwouldseemstrangeandevasivetorefusehimthat.
HerestedhischinononehandandwatchedasIpickeduptheglassandputittomylips—hisheadtilted,hiseyesfollowingthemovementofthewinetomylipsandstayingthere.
“So,whoareyou,RowanCaine?”heasked.Hisvoicewasalittleslurred,andIwonderedhowmuchhe’dhadtodrink.
Something,somethinginhistone,inthedirectnessofthequestion,intheuncomfortablyintenseintimacyofhisgaze,mademystomachshiftuneasily.
“Whatdoyouwanttoknow?”Isaid,withanattemptatlightness.
“Youremindmeofsomeone…butIcan’tthinkwho.Afilmstar,maybe.Youdon’thaveanyfamousrelatives,doyou?AsisterinHollywood?”
Igaveasmileatthisrathertiredline.
“No,definitelynot.I’manonlychild,andanyway,myfamily’saboutasordinaryasyoucanget.”
“Maybeit’swork…anyoneinthefamilyworkinarchitecture?”
Ithoughtofmystepfather’sinsurancesalesbusinessandonlyjuststoppedmyselffromrollingmyeyes.Instead,Ishookmyhead,firmly,andhelookedatmeoverhiswineglass,frowningsothatadeepfurrowappearedatthebridgeofhisnose.
“Maybeit’sthat…what’shername.ThatDevilWearsPradawoman.”
“What,MerylStreep?”Isaid,startledoutofmynervousnessenoughtogiveashortlaugh.Heshookhisheadimpatiently.
“No,theotherone.Theyoungone.AnneHathaway,that’sit.You’vegotalookofher.”
“AnneHathaway?”ItriednottolookasskepticalasIfelt.AnneHathawaymaybeifshegainedfortytosixtypoundsandhadacnescarsandahaircutbythesalontrainee.“Ihavetosay,Bill,you’reverykind,butthat’sthefirsttimeI’veeverheardthatcomparison.”
“It’snotthatthough.”Hegotupandcamearoundthebreakfastbartomysideofit,sittingonthegleamingchromestoolfacingme,hislegsspreadwidesothatIcouldn’teasilymovewithoutrubbinghisthigh.“No,it’snotthat.Idefinitelyfeellikewe’vemet.Whodidyousayyouworkedforbeforethis?”
Irattledoffthelistagain,andheshookhishead,dissatisfied.
“Idon’tknowanyofthem.MaybeI’mimaginingit.IfeellikeI’drememberaface…well,afacelikeyours.”
Fuck.Somethingtwistedinthepitofmystomach.Ihadbeeninthissituationtoooftennottorecognizewherethiswasheading.Myfirstjoboutofschool,ayoungwaitresswithabosswhodangledapayraiseandcomplimentedmeonmyfuchsia-pinkbra.Countlesscreepsoncountlessnightsout,puttingthemselvesbetweenmeandthedoor.Randydadsatthenursery,anglingforsympathyabouttheirpostpartumwiveswhodidn’tunderstandthem…
Billwasoneofthem
Hewasmyemployer.Hewasmyboss’shusband.Andworstofallhewas…
Jesus.Ican’tbringmyselftosayit.
Myhandshadbeguntoshake,andIclenchedmyfingersmoretightlyaroundthestemofmywineglasstotrytohideit.
Iclearedmythroatandtriedtopushmystoolback,butitwaswedgedagainsttheedgeofthebreakfastbar.Bill’smeatydenim-cladthighsblockedmyway,effectivelypreventingmefromgettingdown.
“Well,I’dbetterbeheadingup.”Myvoiceflutedslightlywithnerves.“Earlystarttomorrow,right?”
“There’snohurry,”hesaid,andhereachedoutandtookthewineglassfrommyfingers,filleditup,andthenputouthishandtowardsmyface.“You’vejust…you’vegotalittlebit…”
Hissmooth,slightlysweatythumbstrokedthecornerofmybottomlip,andIfeltonekneenudge,verygently,betweenmine.
ForasecondIfroze,andaflutteringpanickednausearoseup,chokingme.Thensomethinginsidemeseemedtosnap,andIslidabruptlydownoffthestool,bargingpasthimsofastthatthewinesloppedandspilledontotheconcrete.
“Sorry,”Istammered.“Sosorry,letme,I’llgetacloth—”
“It’sfine,”hesaid.Hewasnotoneiotadiscomfited,onlyamusedatmyreaction.Hestayedinplace,halfsitting,halfleaningcomfortablyagainstthebarstool,asIgrabbedadishclothandmoppedatthefloorbetweenhislegs.
ForonesecondIlookedupathim,andhelookeddown,andthequipI’dheardathousandtimes,alwaysaccompaniedbyribaldlaughter,flashedthroughthebackofmymind.Whileyou’redownthere,love
Istoodup,myfaceburning,anddumpedthewine-stainedclothintothesink.
“Goodnight,Bill,”Isaidabruptly,andIturnedonmyheel.
“Goodnight,Rowan.”
AndIwalkedupthetwoflightsofstairstobed,notlookingback.
AsIshutthedoorofmynewroombehindme,Ifeltasenseofoverwhelmingrelief.I’dunpackedearlier,andeventhoughtheroomdidn’tfeellikehomeyet,itdidhaveasenseofbeingalittlecornerofthehousethatwasmyownterritory,somewhereIcouldspreadout,stopactingapart,stopbeingRowanthePerfectNannyandjustbe…me.
Ipulledtheelasticbandoutofmytight,perkyponytailandfeltmythickwiryhairspringoutintoacrownaroundmyheadandthepolite,people-pleasingsmilethatI’dhadplasteredonmyfacesinceI’darrivedrelaxintoawearyneutrality.AsIstrippedoffthebuttoned-upcardigan,blouse,andtweedskirtIfeltlikeIwassheddinglayersofpretense,backtothegirlIwasbehindthefacade—theonewhoworepajamasuntilbedtimeattheweekends,wholayonthesofanotreadingaself-helpbook,butmainliningJudgeJudy.TheonewhowouldhavecalledBillafuckingpiginsteadofstandingthere,paralyzedintopoliteness,beforeofferingtowipeupafterherself.
Theintricaciesofthecontrolpanelswereawelcomedistractionfromhavingtothinkaboutthatpartofthings,andbythetimeI’dwrestedcontrolofthetemperaturedowntosomethingmorereasonableandrememberedhowtoworktheshower,myheartwasthumpinglessandIwastalkingmyselfroundintoanacceptanceofthesituation.
Okay,soBillwasacreep.Hewasn’tthefirstI’dencountered.WhywasIsodisappointedtofindhimhere?
Iknewtheanswerofcourse.Butitwasn’tjustwhohewas.Itwaseverythingherepresented—allthehardworkandcarefulplanningthathadbroughtmehere,allthehopesanddreamsboundupwithmydecisiontoapply.Thatfeelingthatforonceinmylifesomethingwasgoingright,fallingintoplace.Thewholesituationhadseemedperfect—tooperfectperhaps.Therehadtobeaflyintheointment,andmaybeBillwasit.
Suddenlythesupernaturalstuffdidn’tseemsomysteriousafterall.Notapoltergeist.Justyouraveragefiftysomethingmanwhocouldn’tkeephisdickinhispants.Thesameold,boring,depressingstory.
Still,itfeltlikeakickintheguts.
Itwasn’tuntilIhadfinishedshoweringandhaddonemyteeth,andwaslyinginbed,thatIlookedupattheceiling.Attherecessedlightfittings,andthelittleblinkingsmokealarmbythedoor,and…somethingelseinthecorneroverthere.Whatwasthat?Aburglaralarmsensor?Asecondsmokedetector?
Orwasit…
IthoughtofSandra’sremarkatmyinterview:Thewholehouseiswiredup…
Itcouldn’tbeacamera…couldit?
Butno.Thatwouldbemorethancreepy.Thatwouldbeillegalsurveillance.Iwasanemployee—andIhadareasonableexpectationofprivacy,orwhateverthelegalterminologywas.
Allthesame,Igotup,wrappedmydressinggownaroundmyselfanddraggedachairovertothecarpetbeneaththeegg-shapedthinginthecorner.OneofmysockswaslyingonthefloorwhereI’dstrippeditoffbeforegettingintheshower,andIpickeditup,climbedontothechair,andstoodontiptoestofititoverthesensor.Icouldjustreach.Itfittedperfectly,andtheemptytoeofthesockhungthere,flaccidandslightlydisconsolate.
Onlythen,comforted,thoughwithafeelingofslightridiculousness,didIgetbackintobedandfinallyletmyselffallasleep.
***
Iawokeinthenightwithastart,andthevaguefeelingofsomethingwrong—withoutbeingabletoputmyfingeronit.Ilaythere,myheartpounding,wonderingwhatitwasthathadwokenme.Ihadnomemoryofhavingbeendreaming—onlyasuddenjerkintoconsciousness.
Ittookaminute,andthenitcameagain—anoise.Footsteps.Creak…creak…creak…slowandmeasured,asthoughsomeonewaspacingonawoodenfloor,whichmadenosenseatall,sinceallthefloorsupherewerethicklycarpeted.
Creak…creak…creeeeak…Thesoundwashollow,heavy,resonant…aslowtreadlikeaman’s,notthescamperofachild.Itsoundedasthoughitwascomingfromabove,whichwasridiculous,asIwasonthetopfloor.
SlowlyIsatupandgropedforthelight,butwhenIturnedtheswitch,nothinghappened.IflickeditagainandthenrealizedwithacursethatImusthaveoverriddenthelampatthemainpanel.Icouldn’tfacegrapplingwiththecontrolpanelinthemiddleofthenightandriskingturningonthesoundsystemorsomething,soIgrabbedmyphonefromwhereitwaschargingandswitchedonthetorch.
Mychestwastight,andasItookapullatmyinhalerIrealizedsuddenlythattheroomwasextremelycold.NodoubtwhenIhadchangedthetemperaturesettingsIhadoverdoneit.Now,outsideofthewarmcocoonofbedclothes,thechillwasuncomfortable.Butmydressinggownwasonthefootofthebed,soIpulleditonandstoodthere,tryingnottoletmyteethchatter,thethinbeamoftorchlightilluminatinganarrowsliverofwheat-coloredcarpetandnotmuchelse.
Thefootstepshadstopped,andIhesitatedforamoment,holdingmybreath,listening,wonderingiftheywouldstartupagain.Nothing.Itookanotherpuffatmyinhaler,waiting,considering.Stillnothing.
Thebedwaswarm,anditwastemptingtocrawlbackundertheduvetandpretendIhadn’theardanything,butIknewthatIwouldn’tsleepwellunlessIatleasttriedtocheckoutthesource.Pullingmydressinggownbelttighter,Iopenedthedoorofmyroomacrack.
Therewasnooneoutside,butneverthelessIpeeredintothebroomcupboard.Itwas,ofcourse,totallyemptyexceptforthebrushes,andthewinkingchargelightoftheHoover.Nopossibilityofanythingbiggerthanamousehidinginhere.
Ishutthecupboardandthen,feelingalittlelikeatrespasser,ItriedRhiannon’sdoor,resolutelyignoringthescrawledKEEPOUTORYOUDIE.Ihadthoughtitmightbelocked,butthehandleturnedwithoutresistance,andtheheavydoorswungwide,shushingacrossthethickcarpet.
Insideitwaspitch-black,theblackoutcurtainsfirmlydrawn,butithadtheindefinablefeelofanemptyroom.Still,Iheldupmyphoneandswungthenarrowtorchbeamfromwalltowall.Therewasnoonethere.
Thatwasit.Therewerenootherroomsonthisfloor.Andtheceilingabovewassmoothandunbrokenbysomuchasanattichatch.Foralthoughmymemoryofthesoundswasfadingfast,myimpressionhadbeenthatthesoundswerecomingfromabove.Somethingontheroofmaybe?Abird?Itwasn’tapersonprowlingaroundatanyrate,thatmuchwasclear.
Shiveringagain,Ireturnedtomyownroom,whereIstoodforamoment,irresolute,inthemiddleofthecarpet,listeningandwaitingforthesoundtocomeagain,butitdidnot.
Iturnedoffthetorch,climbedbackintobed,anddrewthecoversup.ButitwasalongtimebeforeIslept.
“Mummy!”
TheTeslawounditswayalongthedrivewayandtowardsthemainroad,withEllierunninginitswake,thetearsstreamingdownherfaceasJack’sdrivingspeedoutpacedhershortlegs.
“Mummy,comeback!”
“Bye,darlings!”Sandra’sheadleanedouttherearwindow,herhoney-coloredhairwhippinginthebreezeasthecarpickedupspeed.Therewasacheerfulsmileonherface,butIcouldseethedistressinhereyes,andIknewthatshewaskeepingupahappyfacadeforthesakeofthechildren.Billdidnotturnaround.Hewasbentoverhisphoneinthebackseatbesideher.
“Mummy!”Ellieshouted,desperationinhervoice.“Mummy,pleasedon’tgo!”
“Bye,sweeties!You’llhaveawonderfultimewithRowan,andI’llbebackverysoon.Goodbye!Iloveyouall!”
Andthenthecarroundedthebendinthedriveanddisappearedfromsightamongthetrees.
Ellie’slegsslowed,andshestumbledtoahalt,lettingoutawailofgriefbeforeshethrewherselfdramaticallytotheground.
“Oh,Ellie!”IhitchedPetrahigheronmyhipandjoggeddownthedrivetowhereEllielay,face-firstonthegravel.“Ellie,darling,comeon,let’sgoandgetsomeicecream.”
IknewfromSandra’sinstructionsthatthiswasabigtreat,somethingnotallowedeveryday,becauseitmadebothgirlsratherhyper,butEllieonlyshookherheadandwailedlouder.
“Comeon,sweetheart.”Ibentdown,withsomedifficulty—asIwasholdingPetra—andtookherwrist,tryingtopullherup,butsheonlyletoutascreamandwrenchedherarmoutofmyhand,slammingherlittlefistontothegravel.
“Ow!”shescreamed,redoublinghersobsandlookingupatmewithangry,red,tear-filledeyes.“Youhurtme!”
“Iwasjusttrying—”
“Goaway,youhurtme,I’mgoingtotellmymummy!”
Istoodforamoment,irresoluteoverherangry,proneform,unsurewhattodo.
“Goaway!”shescreamedagain.
Atlast,Igaveasighandbegantowalkbackupthedrivetowardsthehouse.Itfeltwrongleavingherthere,inthemiddleofwhatwas,basically,aroad,butthegateatthefootofthedrivewasshut,anditwouldbeatleasthalfanhourbeforeJackreturned.HopefullyshewouldhavecalmeddownlongbeforethenandIcouldcoaxherbackintothehouse.
OnmyhipPetrahadbegungrousing,andIsuppressedasigh.Please,notameltdownfromheraswell.AndwherethehellwasMaddie?Shehaddisappearedbeforeherparentsleft,flittingoffintothewoodstotheeastofthehouse,refusingtosaygoodbye.
“Oh,lethergo,”Billhadsaid,asSandraflappedaroundtryingtofindhertokisshergoodbye.“Youknowwhatshe’slike;shepreferstolickherwoundsinprivate.”
Lickherwounds.Justasillycliché,right?AtthetimeIhadn’tdweltonit,butnowIwondered.WasMaddiewounded?Ifso,how?
***
UpinthehouseIsatPetrainherhighchair,strappedherin,andcheckedtheredbinderincaseitgaveinstructionsforwhattodoifthechildrendisappearedoffthefaceoftheearth.Thewholethingmusthavebeenatleastthreeinchesthick,andacursoryflick-throughafterbreakfasthadtoldmethatitcontainedinformationoneverythingfromhowmuchCalpoltogiveandwhen,throughtobedtimeroutines,favoritebooks,nappy-rashprotocol,homeworkschedules,andwhatwashingcapsulestouseforthegirls’balletuniforms.Virtuallyeverymomentofthedaywasaccountedfor,withnotesrangingfromwhatsnackstoserve,rightthroughtowhichTVprogramstochoose,andhowmuchtheywereallowedtowatch.
Theonethingitdidn’tcoverwastotaldisappearance—oratleast,ifitdid,Icouldn’tfindthepagewhereitwasmentioned,butasIskimmeddownthecarefullyannotated“typicalweekendday,”IsawthatPetrawasoverdueforlunch,whichmightexplainherirritability.Ididn’treallywanttostartpreparingfoodbeforeI’dtrackeddownMaddieandEllie,butatleastIcouldgivePetraasnacktotideheroverandstophergrumbling.
6:00,thepagebegan.Alltheyoungerones(butparticularlyEllie)arepronetoearlywakings.Tothatend,wehaveinstalledthesleep-training“Happybunnyclock”inthegirls’room.It’sadigitalclockwithascreenimageofasleepingbunnythatsoundlesslyswitchesovertoanimageofawide-awake“Happybunny”at6:00a.m.IfElliewakesbeforethis,pleasegently(!)encouragehertochecktheclockandgetbackintobedifthebunnyisstillasleep.Obviouslyuseyourjudgmentregardingnightmaresandtoiletaccidents.
Jesus.Wastherenothinginthishousethatwasn’tcontrolledbythebloodyapp?Iscanneddownthepage,skippingpastsuggestedoutfitsandwet-weatherclothes,andacceptablebreakfastmenus,downtomidmorning.
10:30–11:15—snack,e.g.,somefruit(bananas,blueberries,grapes—QUARTEREDforPetra,please),raisins(sparinglyonly—teeth!),breadsticks,ricecakes,orcucumbersticks.Nostrawberries(Ellieisallergic),nowholenuts(nutbuttersareokay,butweonlybuythesugar-/salt-freekind),andfinallyPetraisnotallowedsnackscontainingrefinedsugarorexcesssalt(oldergirlsareallowedsugarinmoderation).Thiscanbehardtopoliceifyouareout,sointhatscenarioIsuggesttakingasnackbox.
Well,atleasttheappdidn’tpreparethesnacks.Still,I’dneverencounteredanythinglikethislevelofdetailatanyothernannyingjob—atLittleNippersthestaffhandbookwasaslimpamphletthatconcentratedmostlyonhowtoreportstaffsickness.Rules,yes.Screentime,sanctions,redlines,allergies—allofthatwasnormal.Butthis—didshethinkIhadspentnearlytenyearsinchildcarewithoutknowingyouhadtocutupgrapes?
AsIclosedthescarletfolderandpusheditawayfrommeacrossthetable,Iwondered.WasittheunsettlingchangesofstaffthathadmadeSandrasocontrolling?Orwasshejustawomandesperatelytryingtobethereforherfamily,evenwhenshecouldn’tbephysicallypresent?Bill,itwasclear,feltnocompunctionaboutleavinghischildrenalonewithacomparativestranger,howeverwellqualified.ButSandra’sbinderspokeofaverydifferenttypeofparent—oneveryconflictedaboutthesituationshewasin.Whichbeggedthequestionofwhy,inthatcase,shewassodeterminedtobewithBillratherthanathome.Wasitreallyjustprofessionalpride?Orwastheresomethingelsegoingon?
Therewasahugemarblefruitbowlinthecenteroftheconcretetable,freshlystockedwithoranges,apples,satsumas,andbananas,andwithasigh,Irippedabananaoffthebunch,peeledit,andplacedafewchunksonPetra’stray.ThenIwentintotheplayroomtoseeifMaddiehadreturned.Shewasn’tthere,norwassheinthelivingroom,oranywhereinthehouse,asfarasIcouldtell.AtlastIwenttotheutilityroomdoor,theoneshehadleftby,andcalledoutintothewoods.
“Maddie!Ellie!PetraandIarehavingicecream.”Ipaused,listeningforthesoundofrunningfeet,crackingbranches.Nothingcame.“Withsprinkles.”IhadnoactualideaifthereweresprinklesbutatthispointIdidn’tcareaboutfalseadvertising,Ijustwantedtoknowwheretheybothwere.
Moresilence,justthesoundofbirds.Thesunhadgonein,leavingtheairsurprisinglychilly,andIshivered,feelingthegoosebumpsriseonmybarearms.Suddenlyhotchocolateseemedmoreappropriatethanicecream,inspiteofthefactthatitwasJune.
“Okay!”Icalledagain,moreloudlythistime.“Moresprinklesforme!”
AndIwalkedbackintothehouse,leavingthesidedooropenacrack.
InthekitchenIdidadoubletake.
Petrawasstandingupinherhighchaironthefarsideofthebreakfastbar,triumphantlywavingachunkofbananaatme.
“Fuck!”
Foramomentallfeelingdrainedoutofme,andIstood,frozentothespot,lookingatherprecariousstance,theunforgivingconcretebeneathher,hersmallwobblyfeetontheslipperywood.
Andthen,regainingmysenses,Iran,stumblingoverastrayteddy,staggeringaroundthecornerofthebreakfastbartosnatchherup,myheartinmymouth.
“OhmyGod,Petra,youbad,badgirl.Youmustn’tdothat.Jesus.Oh,JesusChrist.”
Shecouldhavedied—thatwasthelongandshortofit.Ifshe’dfallenandstruckherheadontheconcretefloor,shewouldhavebeenconcussedbeforeIcouldreachher.
HowcouldIhavebeensostupid?
I’dsupervisedtoddlersamilliontimesbefore—I’ddonealltherightthings,pulledherchairawayfromthecountersoshecouldn’tpushherselfbackwardswithherfeet,andIwassure,certaininfact,thatI’ddoneupthoseclips.Theywerefartoostiffforlittlefingers.
Sohowhadshegotfree?
Hadshewriggledout?
Iexaminedtheclips.Onesidewasstillfastened.Theotherwasopen.Shit.Imusthavenotpushedonehomequitehardenough,andPetrahadworkeditlooseandthenmanagedtosquirmoutoftheothersideoftherestraint.
Soitwasmyfaultafterall.Thethoughtmademyhandsfeelcoldwithfear,andmycheeksfeelhotwithshame.ThankGodithadn’thappenedwhenSandrawashere.Thatkindofsafeguardingstuffwasprettymuchnannying101.Shewouldhavebeenwithinherrightstosackmethereandthen.
Though,ofcourse…shestillcould,ifshewaswatchingoverthecameras.Inspiteofmyself,myeyesflickeduptotheceiling,andsureenoughtherewasoneofthoselittlewhiteegg-shapeddomesinthefarcorneroftheroom.Ifeltmyfaceflushandlookedawayhastily,imaginingSandraseeingmyguiltyreaction.
Fuck.Fuck.
Well,therewasnothingIcoulddo,apartfromhopethatSandraandBillhadbetterthingstodothanporeoverthefootageoftheirsecuritycameraseveryhourofthedayandnight.IwasprettyconfidentthatBillhadn’tsomuchasglancedattheappsinceleaving,butSandra…somehowthatbinderspokeofalevelofintensitythatIhadnotquiteanticipated,fromherrelaxed,cheerfulmanneratinterview.
Butwithanylucktheywouldbeinamobileblackspot,orevenintheairbynow.Didthefootagerecord?Howlongwasitstoredfor?Ididn’tknow,andsomehowIdoubtedwhetherthatinformationwasinthebinder.
Therealizationwasunsettling.Icouldbebeingwatched,rightnow.
ItwaswithastrangeperformativefeelingthatIhuggedPetratightlytomychestanddroppedashakykissonthetopofherhead.BeneathmylipsIfeltthegentleflexofherfontanelle,thefragilityofababy-softskullalmost,butnotquite,closedover.
“Don’tdothatagain,”Itoldher,firmly,feelingtheadrenalinestillpulsingthroughme,andthen,withaneffortatrestoringnormality,Iliftedherupandtookherovertothesink,whereIwipedherface.ThenIlookedatmywatch,tryingtobreatheslowlyandnormally,andrememberwhatIhadbeendoingbeforePetrascaredthelifeoutofme.
Itwasjustgoneone.ThebinderhadsaidPetraatelunchtwelvethirtytooneandthenwentdownforanapattwo.Butinspiteofthat,shewasgrousingandrubbinghereyescrossly,andIfoundmyselfmentallyaddinguptimingsandtryingtofigureouthowtohandlethis.Atthenurserythey’dgonedownstraightafterlunchmoreorless,aroundone.
Ididn’twanttomesswithherroutinesoearlyintheday,butontheotherhand,stretchingoutatired,crankybabyuntilthespecifiedtimewasn’tagreatideaeither,andwouldprobablyresultinabadnight’ssleepifshewasthetypeofchildwhogotmorewiredthemoreexhaustedshebecame.Istareddoubtfullydownatthetopofherhead,tryingtodecide.Suddenly,theideaofaquiethourorsotoroundupMaddieandElliewasveryappealing.Itwoulddefinitelybeeasierwithoutafussytoddlerintow.
FretfullyPetrascrubbedaballed-upfistathereyesandgaveatiredsob,andImadeupmymind.
“Comeon,you,”Isaidaloud,andtookherupstairstoherroom.
Inside,theblackoutblindswerealreadydrawn,andIswitchedontheilluminatedmobileasthebinderhadinstructedandputhergentlydownonherback.Sherolledoverontohertummyandrubbedherfaceintothemattress,butIsatquietlybesideher,onehandonherwrigglingspine,whilethesoftlightshowplayedovertheceilingandwalls.Petrawasgrumblingtoherself,buthercriesweregettingfartherapart,andIcouldtellshewasreadytogounderatanymoment.
Atlast,sheseemedtobecompletelyasleep,andIstoodcarefullyandlaidherrabbitcomfortergentlyoveronehand,whereshecouldfinditifshewoke.ForamomentshestirredandIfroze,butherfingersonlytightenedontothematerialassheletoutasoftlittlesnore.Withasighofrelief,Ipickedupthemonitorthatwashookedovertheendofthecot,tuckeditintomybelt,andtiptoedoutoftheroom.
Thehousewascompletelysilent,asIstoodonthelanding,listeningforthesoundofrunningfeetorchildishlaughter.
Wherethehellwerethey?
Ihadn’tbeeninSandraandBill’sroom,butIknewfromthelayoutofthehousethatthewindowmustoverlookthedrive,andholdingmybreathslightly,Iturnedthehandleandopenedthedoor.
Thesightmademybreathcatchinmythroatforamoment.Theroomwashuge.Theymusthaveknockedtogetheratleasttwootherbedroomstomakeit—maybeeventhree.Therewasanenormousbedpiledhighwithplumpcushionsandwhitebedlinen,andfacingitahugecarvedstonefireplace.Threelongwindowsoverlookedthefrontofthehouse.Onewasopenafewinches,andmuslincurtainsflutteredalittleinthebreeze.
Thereweredrawersleftslightlyopen,andaclosetajar,andIfeltasharptugofcuriosityasIcrossedthesilver-graycarpettothecentralwindow,butIpusheditdown.ForallIknew,SandraandBillcouldbewatchingmerightnow,andwhileIhadanalibiforwantingtolookoutthewindowoverthedrive,Icertainlyhadnoexcuseforrummagingintheircupboards.
WhenIreachedthewindow,Elliewasnowhereinsight;thecurveofdrivewhereshehadbeenlyingwasempty.Iwasnotsurewhetherthatwasarelief.AtleastJackwouldn’trunheroverwhenhebroughttheTeslaback.Butwhereonearthwasshe?Sandrahadseemedremarkablyrelaxedaboutthechildrenrunningoffintothewoods,buteveryboneinmybodywasscreechingdiscomfortwiththesituation—atthenurserywe’dhadtoriskassesseverything,fromatriptotheparkthroughtomessyplaywithporridgeoats,andtherewereabillionrisksIhadabsolutelynowayofknowing.Whatiftherewasapondwithinthegrounds?Orasteepfall?Whatiftheyclimbedatreeandcouldn’tgetdown?Whatifthefencingwasn’tsecureandtheywanderedoutintotheroad?Whatifadog—
Ibrokeoffmymentallitanyofworst-casescenarios.
Thedogs.I’dforgottentoaskSandrawhethertheirroutinewasdowntome,butpresumablyanextrawalkcouldn’thurt,andsurelytheywouldbeabletofindthechildren.Ifnothingelse,theirpresencewouldgivemeanexcusetogohuntinginthewoodswithoutlookingtothechildrenliketheywererunningringsaroundme.Ihadtoestablishmyselfassomeonefirmlyinchargerightfromtheoutset,otherwisemyauthoritywasgoingtobeshottopieces,andIwouldneverrecover.
IpushedasidetheunsettlingthoughtofwhatwouldhappenwhenRhiannonreturnedandateenagerwasaddedtothemix.HopefullySandrawouldbehomebythentobackmeup….
Downstairsthedogswerelyingintheirbasketsinthekitchen,thoughtheybothlookeduphopefullyasIwalkedincarryingtheirleads.
“Walkies!”Isaidbrightly,andtheyboundedover.“Goodgirl…er…Claude,”IsaidasIstruggledtofindtherightattachmentonthecollar,thoughintruthIwasn’tsureifIhadthegirlortheboy.ClaudeboundedaroundmeexcitedlyasIwrestledwithHero,butatlastIhadthembothonleadsandahandfulofdogbiscuitsinmypocketincaseofproblems,andIsetoff,outoftheutility-roomdoor,acrossthegraveledyard,pastthestableblock,andintothewoods.
Itwasabeautifulday.Inspiteofmygrowinganxietyaboutthechildren,Icouldn’thelpbutnoticethatasIwalkeddownawinding,faintlymarkedpaththroughthetrees,thedogsstrainingattheirleashes.Thesunfilteredthroughthecanopyabove,andourmovementssentgoldendustmotesspinningandwhirlingupfromtherichloamunderneathourfeet,thesungleamingoffthetinyparticlesofpollenandoldman’sbeardthatfloatedinthestillairbeneaththetrees.
Thedogsseemedtohaveadefiniteideaofwheretheyweregoing,andIletthemlead,consciousofthefactthattheywereprobablypuzzledaboutbeingkeptonleashesintheirowngarden.They’dhavetoputupwithitthough.Ihadnoideaifthey’dcomewhenIcalled,andIcouldn’trisklosingthemaswell.
Wewereheadingdownhill,towardsthebottomofthedrive,thoughIcouldn’tseeitthroughthetrees.BehindmeIheardthecrackofatwigandturnedsharply,buttherewasnoonethere.Itmusthavebeenananimal,afoxperhaps.
Atlastwebrokeoutofthecoverofthetreesintoalittleclearing,andmystomachgaveanuncomfortablelurch,forthereitwas—thethingI’dbeenfearingeversincethegirlshaddisappeared—apond.Notverydeep,butplentydeepenoughforasmallchildtodrown.Thewaterwaspeat-coloredandbrackish,anoilyscumfloatingonthesurfacefromthedecomposingpineneedles.Ipokeditdoubtfullywithastick,andbubblesofstagnantairfloatedlazilytothesurface,buttomyrelieftherestofthepondlookedundisturbed,thewaterclearexceptfortheswirlsofmudmystickhadstirredup.Or…nearlyundisturbed.WalkingaroundthefarsideIsawtheimprintsofsmallshoesonthebank,skiddingasiftwolittlegirlshadbeenmessingaroundbythewater’sedge.Therewasnowayofknowingwhentheyhadbeenmade,buttheylookedfairlyfresh.Theprintsleddownthebank,becomingdeeperanddeeperasthemudsoftened,andthenturnedandwentawayagain,backintotheforest.Ifollowedthemforafewmetersuntilthegroundbecametoohardtotakeaprint,butthereweretwosetsofshoes,andatleastIknewnowthattheywereprobablytogether,andalmostcertainlysafe.
Thedogswerewhiningandstrainingagainsttheirleads,desperatetogetintothemuddypondandsplashabout,buttherewasnowayIwashavingthat.Iwasn’tbathingapairoffilthydogsonmyfirstdayontopofeverythingelse.
Therewasnopathupthroughthewoodsinthedirectionthefootstepshadbeenleading,butIfollowedinasnearanapproximationasIcould,whensuddenlyacracklingscreamsplittheair.Istoppeddead,myheartthumpingerraticallyinmychestforthesecondtimethatday,thedogsbarkinghystericallyandleapingattheendoftheirleashes.
ForasecondIdidn’tknowwhattodo.Istood,lookingwildlyaround.Thescreamhadsoundedcloseathand,butIcouldseenoone,andIcouldn’thearanyfootstepsoverthenoisethedogsweremaking.Thenitcameagain,longandalmostunbearablyhigh-pitched,andwithastomach-lurchingrealization,Iunderstood
Ipulledthebabymonitoroutofmypocket,andwatchedasthelightsflaredanddippedintimewiththelong,bubblingshriekofpurefear.
ForamomentIjuststoodthereparalyzed,holdingthemonitorinmyhand,thedogs’leadsloopedaroundmywrist.ShouldItrytoaccessthecameras?
Withshakinghands,Ipulledoutmyphoneandpressedtheiconofthehome-managementapp.
WelcometoHappy,Rowan,thescreensaid,withagonizingslowness.HomeiswheretheHappyis!Andthen,tomydespair,Updatinguserpermissions.Pleasebepatient.HomeiswheretheHappyis!
Iswore,stuffedboththephoneandthereceiverbackintomypocket,andbegantorun.
Iwasalongwayfromthehouse,downaslope,andmybreathwastearinginmythroatbythetimeIleftthecoverofthetreesandsawthehouseinfrontofme.Thedogshadbrokenawayfrommesomewayback,tuggingtheirleadsoutofmynumbfingers,andnowtheywereleapingandgambolinginfrontandbehindme,barkingjoyfully,convincedthatthiswasallsomekindofgame.
WhenIreachedthefrontdoor,itwasstandingajar,inspiteofthefactthatIknewithadbeenclosedwhenIleft—Ihadusedtheutility-roomdoor,leavingitopenforMaddieandEllieincasetheyreturned,andforasecondIthoughtImightbesick.WhathadIdone?WhathadhappenedtopoorlittlePetra?
Iwasalmosttoofrightenedtostumblethelastfewstepsuptheflightofstairstothenursery,butIforcedmyself,leavingthedogsinthehallway,tangledupintheirownleads,andatlastIwasoutsidePetra’sdoor,sickwithfearaboutwhatIwasabouttofind.
Itwasclosed,justasI’dleftit,andIpusheddownasobinmythroatasIturnedtheknob—butwhatIfoundtheremademestopshortonthethreshold,blinkingandtryingtofightdownmygaspingbreath.
Petrawasasleep,inhercot,armsflungouttoeitherside,sootylashessweepingherpinkcheeks.Herbunnywasclutchedinherlefthand,andshehadplainlynotstirredsinceIhadputherdown.
Itdidn’tmakesense.
Ihadjustenoughself-controllefttobackoutoftheroom,closingthedoorquietlybehindme,beforeIsanktothefloorinthehallwayoutside,mybackhardagainsttheknobblybanisters,myfaceinmyhands,tryingnottosobwithshockandrelief,feelingthewheezeinmychestasmylungslaboredtotakeinenoughoxygentostabilizemypoundingpulse.
Withshakyhands,Ipulledmyinhaleroutofmypocketandtookapuff,thentriedtomakesenseofitall.Whathadhappened?
Hadthesoundnotcomefromthemonitor?Butthatwasimpossible—itwasequippedwithlightsthatilluminatedtoshowwhenthebabywascrying,incaseyouhadthevolumeturnedlowforsomereason.Ihadseenthelights.Andthenoisehadbeencomingfromthespeaker,Iwascertainofit.
HadPetrahadanightmareandcriedout?ButwhenIthoughtback,thatdidn’tmakesenseeither.Itwasnotababy’scry.Thatwaspartofwhathadfrightenedmesomuch.ThesoundI’dheardwasnotthefretfulwailIknewsowellfromthenurserybutalong,throbbingshriekofterror,onemadebyamucholderchild,orevenanadult.
“Hello?”
Thevoicecamefromdownstairs,makingmejumpagain,convulsivelythistime,andIstood,mypulseracing,andleanedoverthebannisters.
“Hello?Whoisit?”Myvoicecameoutnotsharpandauthoritative,asIhadintended,butquaveringandsqueakywithfear.“Who’sthere?”Ithadbeenanadultvoice,awoman,andnowIheardfootstepsinthehallandsawafacebelow,peeringupatme.
“You’llbethenewnanny,Idaresay?”
Itwasawoman,perhapsfiftyorsixtyyearsold,herfaceruddyandherbodyforeshortenedbymyperspective.Shelookedplumpandmotherly,buttherewassomethinginhervoiceandherexpressionthatIcouldn’tquitepindown.Itwasn’twelcome,thatwasforsure.Asortof…pincheddisapproval?
Therewereleavesinmyhair,andasIbegantomakemywaydowntheflightofstepstowardsthegroundfloor,IsawthatI’dleftatrailofspatteredmudonthethickcarpet,inmyheadlongflighttoPetra.
TwobuttonshadcomeadriftonmyblouseandIfastenedthemandcoughed,feelingmyfacestillhotwithexertionandfright.
“Um,hello.Yes.Yes,I’mRowan.Andyoumustbe…”
“I’mJean.JeanMcKenzie.”Shelookedmeupanddown,nottroublingtoconcealherdisapproval,andthenshookherhead.“It’suptoyou,miss,butIdon’tapproveofkeepingchildrenlockedout,andIdaresayMrs.Elincourtwouldnalikeiteither.”
“Lockedout?”Iwaspuzzledforamoment.“Whatdoyoumean?”
“IfoundthepoorbairnsshiveringonthestepintheirsundresseswhenIcametoclean.”
“Butwait”—Iputoutahand—“hangonasecond.Ididn’tlockanyoneout.Theyranawayfromme.Iwasoutlookingforthem.Ileftthebackdooropenforthem.”
“ItwaslockedwhenIarrived,”Jeansaidstiffly.Ishookmyhead.
“ItmusthaveblownshutbutIdidn’tlockit.Iwouldn’t.”
“ItwaslockedwhenIarrived,”wasallshesaid,withatouchofstubbornnessthistime.
Angerflaredinsideme,replacingthefearI’dfeltforPetra.Wassheaccusingmeoflying?
“Well…maybeitcameoffthelatchorsomething,”Isaidatlast.“Arethegirlsokay?”
“Aye,they’rehavingabiteinthekitchenwi’me.”
“Wereyou—”Istopped,tryingtofigureouthowtophrasethiswithoutplacingmyselfevenlowerinherestimation.Plainly,forwhateverreason,thiswomandidn’tlikeme,andImustn’tgiveheranyammunitiontoreporttoSandra.“IcamebackbecauseIheardasoundfromPetraonthebabymonitor.Didyouhearher?”
“She’snotletoutapeep,”Jeansaidfirmly.“I’vebeenkeepingmyeyeonthemall”—Unlikeyou,wastheunspokensubtext—“andI’dhaveheardherifshewasgreeting.”
“Greeting?”
“Crying,”Jeansaidimpatiently.
“Maddiethen?OrEllie?Dideitherofthemcomeup?”
“They’vebeendowninthekitchenwithme,miss,”Jeansaid,atouchofrealcrossnessinhervoice.“Now,ifyou’llexcuseme,Ineedtobegettingbacktothem.They’retooweetobeleftalonewi’thestove.”
“Ofcourse.”Ifeltmycheeksflushwiththeimpliedcriticism.“Butplease,that’smyjob.I’llgivethemlunch.”
“I’vegivenittothemalready.Thepoorweemiteswereravenous,theyneededsomethinghotinthem.”
Ifeltmytemper,alreadyfrayedbythestressofthemorning,begintobreak.
“Look,Mrs….”Igropedforthename,andthenfoundit,“McKenzie,I’vealreadyexplained,thegirlsranawayfromme;Ididn’tlockthemout.Maybeiftheygotabitcoldandscaredwaitingforsomeonetoletthemin,that’llmakethemthinktwiceaboutrunningoffnexttime.Now,ifyoudon’tmind,I’vegotworktodo.”
Ipushedpastherandstalkedintothekitchen,feelinghereyesboringintomyback.
InthekitchenMaddieandEllieweresittingatthebreakfastbareatingchocolatechipcookiesanddrinkingjuice,withwhatlookedliketheremainsofapizzaonaplatebythesink.Ifeltmyjawtighten.AllthosefoodswerestrictlyonSandra’s“occasionaltreat”list.I’dbeenplanningtosettlethemdownforafilmintheafternoonwithsomecookiesintheTVroom.Nowthatwasoffthemenu,Mrs.McKenziewasintheirgoodbooks,andIwouldbethebitchnannywholockedthemoutandhadtoenforceahealthysupper.
Ipusheddownmyirritationandmademyselfsmilepleasantly.
“Hello,girls,wereyouplayinghide-and-seek?”
“Yes,”Elliesaidwithagiggle,butthensherememberedourearlierquarrel,andfrowned.“Youhurtmywrist.”
Shehelditout,andthere,tomychagrin,wasaringofbruisesonthepaleskinofherstick-thinwrist.
Ifeltmycheekscolor.
Ithoughtaboutarguingwithher,butIdidn’twanttoraisetheissueinfrontofMrs.McKenzie,andbesides,itseemedlikeI’ddoneenoughtoantagonizethembothtoday.Bettertoswallowmypride.
“I’meversosorry,Ellie.”Ibentdownbesideheratthebreakfastbarsothatourheadswereonalevel,speakingsoftlysothatMrs.McKenziewouldn’thear.“Itrulydidn’tmeanto.Iwasjustworriedyou’dhurtyourselfonthedrive,butIreallyapologizeifIwasholdingyourarmtoohard.Itwasanaccident,Ipromise,andIfeelterribleaboutit.Canwebefriends?”
Forasecond,IthoughtIsawElliewavering,thenshejerkedandgavealittlewhimper.
BeneaththebreakfastbarIsawMaddie’shandwhipbackintoherlap.
“Maddie,”Isaidquietly,“whatjusthappened?”
“Nothing,”Maddiesaid,almostinaudibly,speakingtoherplatemorethanme.
“Ellie?”
“N-nothing,”Elliesaid,butshewasrubbingherarm,andthereweretearsinherbrightblueeyes.
“Idon’tbelieveyou.Letmeseeyourarm.”
“Nothing!”Elliesaid,morefiercely.Shepulleddownhercardiganandgavemealookofangrybetrayal.“Isaidnothing,goaway!”
“Okay.”
Istoodup.WhateverchanceIhadhadtherewithEllie,I’dblownitforthemoment.OrratherMaddiehad.
Mrs.McKenziewasstandingagainstthecounter,herarmscrossed,watchingus.Thenshefoldedtheteatowelandhungitoverthestoverail.
“Well,I’llbeawaynow,girls,”shesaid.Hervoice,whenshespoketothechildren,wassofterandfarmorefriendlythantheterse,clippedtoneshe’dusedwithme.Shebentanddroppedakissontopofeachhead,firstEllie’sblondcurls,thenMaddie’swispydarklocks.“Yougiveyourweesisterakissfromme,now,mind.”
“YesMrs.M,”Elliesaidobediently.Maddiesaidnothing,butshesqueezedMrs.McKenzie’swaistwithonearm,andIthoughtIsawawistfullookinhereyeashergazefollowedthewomantothedoor.
“Goodbyenow,girls,”Mrs.McKenziesaid,andthenshewasgone.OutsideIheardacarstartupandbumpdownthedrivetotheroad.
AloneinthekitchenwiththetwolittlegirlsIfeltsuddenlydrained,andIsankdownonthearmchairinthecorneroftheroom,wantingnothingmorethantoputmyfaceinmyhandsandbawl.WhathadItakenonwiththesetwohostilelittlecreatures?Andyet,Icouldn’tblamethem.IcouldonlyimaginehowIwouldhavereactedifI’dbeenleftforaweekwithatotalstranger.
ThelastthingIcouldcopewithwaslosingthechildreninthegroundsagain,sowhiletheyfinisheduptheircookies,Icrossedintothehallwayandexaminedtheinsideofthebigfrontdoor.Therewasnokey—nokeyholeeven,asI’dobservedtheveryfirsttimeIhadarrived.Instead,thewhitepanelIhadnoticedcontainedathumbsensor—Sandrahadprogrammedmythumbprintintoherphoneappearlierthatmorning,beforesheleft,andshownmehowtooperateit.
Therewasamatchingpanelontheinside,andIgingerlytouchedit,watchingasaseriesofilluminatediconssprangintolife.Oneofthemwasabigkey,andrememberingSandra’sinstructions,Itappeditcautiously,andheardagrindingclickasthedeadlocksinsidethedoorslidhome.Therewassomethingratherdramatic,evenominousaboutthesound,almostlikeaprison-celllockgrindingintoplace.Butatleastthedoorwassecurenow.TherewasnowayMaddieorElliecouldevenreachthepanelwithoutasetofsteps,letaloneactivatethelock,sinceIverymuchdoubtedSandrawouldhaveprogrammedtheirfingerprintsintothesystem.
ThenIwentintotheutilityroom.Thedoorthereoperatedwithjustaregularlockandkey—asifSandraandBill’sbudgethadrunout,orasiftheydidn’tcareabouttheservants’entrance.Ormaybetherewassomepracticalreasononedoorneededtobetraditionallyoperated.Somethingtodowithpowercutsorbuildingregulations,perhaps.Eitherway,itwasarelieftobefacedwithtechnologyanaveragepersoncouldfigureout,anditwaswithafeelingofsatisfactionthatItwistedthekeyfirmlyinthelockandthentuckeditawayonthedoorframeabove,justasthebinderhadinstructed.Wekeepallkeysforthedoorsoperatedbytraditionallocksonthedoorframeabovethecorrespondingdoor,sothattheyarehandyincaseofemergencybutoutofreachofthechildren,theparagraphhadread.Therewassomethingcomfortingaboutseeingitupthere,farawayfromlittlefingers.
Missionaccomplished,Iwentbackintothekitchen,mybestandbrightestsmilefirmlyplasteredon.
“Right,girls,whatdoyousaywegothroughtotheTVroomandwatchamovie.Frozen?Moana?”
“Yay,Frozen!”Elliesaid,butMaddiebuttedin.
“WehateFrozen.”
“Really?”Imademyvoiceskeptical.“Really?Becausedoyouknow,IloveFrozen.InfactIknowasing-alongversionofFrozenwheretheyhavethewordsonthescreenandI’mreallygoodatjoininginonallthesongs.”
BehindMaddieIcouldseeEllielookingdesperatebuttooscaredtocontradicthersister.
“WehateFrozen,”Maddierepeatedstubbornly.“Comeon,Ellie,let’sgoplayinourroom.”
Iwatchedasshesliddownfromherstoolandstompedintothehallway,thedogs’eyesfollowingherwithpuzzlementasshewent.Inthedoorwayshepausedandjerkedherheadmeaningfullyathersister.Ellie’sbottomlipquivered.
“Wecanstillwatchitifyouwant,Ellie,”Isaid,keepingmyvoiceaslightasIcould.“Wecouldwatchittogether,justyouandme.Icouldmakepopcorn.”
ForaminuteIthoughtIsawElliehesitate.Butthensomethinginherfaceseemedtoharden,andsheshookherhead,slidfromherstool,andturnedtofollowhersister.
Asthesoundoftheirfootstepsfadedawayupthestairs,Isighedandthenturnedtoputonthekettle,tomakemyselfapotoftea.AtleastIwouldhavehalfanhourtomyself,totrytofigureoutthesituation.
ButbeforeIhadevenfinishedfillingthekettle,thebabymonitorinmypocketgaveacrackleandthenbrokeintoafretfulcoughingcry,tellingmethatPetrahadwokenup,andIwasbackonduty.
Norestforthewickedthen.
WhathadItakenon?
IknowI’mgoingon.AndIknowyoumustbewonderingwhenthehellI’mgoingtogettothepoint—tothereasonI’mhere,inthisprisoncell,andthereasonIshouldn’tbe.
AndIpromiseyou,it’scoming.ButIcan’t—Ican’tseemtoexplainthesituationquickly.ThatwastheproblemwithMr.Gates.Heneverletmeexplainproperly—toshowhowitallbuiltup,allthelittlethings,allthesleeplessnightsandthelonelinessandtheisolation,andthecrazinessofthehouseandthecamerasandeverythingelse.Toexplainproperly,Ihavetotellyouhowithappened.Daybyday.Nightbynight.Piecebypiece.
OnlythatsoundsasifI’mbuildingsomething—ahouseperhaps.Orapictureinajigsaw.Piecebypiece.Andthetruthis,itwastheotherwayaround.Piecebypiece,Iwasbeingtornapart.
Andthefirstpiecewasthatnight.
Thatfirstevening…well,itwasn’ttheworst,butitwasn’tthebesteither,notbyalongstretch.
Petrawokeupfromhernapcrankyandfretful,andMaddieandEllierefusedtocomeoutoftheirroomallafternoon,evenforsupper,nomatterhowmuchIpleaded,nomatterwhatultimatumsIlaiddown.NopuddingunlessyouaredownstairsbythetimeIcountfromfive…four…three…nosoundoffeetonthestairs…two…oneandahalf…
ItwaswhenIsaidoneandahalfthatIknewIhadlost.
Theyweren’tcoming.
ForamomentIthoughtaboutdraggingthemout.Elliewassmallenoughformetograbherroundthewaistandcarryherforciblydownstairs—butIhadjustenoughsanitylefttoknowthatifIstartedthatway,Iwouldneverbeabletodialitback,andbesides,itwasn’tElliewhowastheproblem,itwasMaddie,andshewaseightandsolidlybuilt,andtherewasnowayIcouldcarryakicking,screaming,fightingchilddownthatlong,curvingstaircaseallbymyself,stillless,forcehertositdownandeatsomethingonceIgotherintothekitchen.
IntheendIcapitulatedand,aftercheckingSandra’ssuggestedmenuplaninthebinder,Itookpastaandpestouptotheirbedroom—thoughthememoryofthosemeeklittleheadsbentoverJeanMcKenzie’schocolatechipcookieswasbitterinthebackofmyheadasIknockedonthedoorandheardMaddie’sfierceGoaway!
“It’sme,”Isaidmeekly.“I’vegotyourpasta.I’llleaveithereoutsidethedoor.ButmeandPetrawillbedownstairshavingicecreamifyouwantsomepudding.”
AndthenIleft.ItwasallIcoulddo.
Downstairsinthekitchen,ItriedtostopPetrafromthrowingherpastaonthefloor,andIwatchedMaddieandEllieontheiPad.Mypersonalizedlog-ingavemepermissiontoviewthecamerasinthechildren’sroom,playroom,kitchen,andoutside,andtocontrolthelightsandthemusicinsomeoftheotherrooms,buttherewasawholemenuofsettingsontheleftthatwasgrayedoutandunavailable.IguessedIwouldhaveneededSandra’slog-intocontrolthose.
AlthoughIstillfounditalittlecreepytobeabletospyonthechildrenfromafarlikethis,Ibegantoappreciatehowusefulitwas.IwasabletowatchfrommyseatbythebreakfastbarasMaddiemovedtowardsthebedroomdoorandthencamebackintoviewofthecameras,draggingthetrayoffoodacrossthecarpet.
Therewasalittletableinthemiddleoftheroom,andIwatchedasshedirectedEllietooneseatandputouttheirbowlsandcutlery,andsatoppositehersister.Ididn’thavethesoundon,butitwasplainfromheractionsthatshewasbossingElliearoundandtellinghertoeatup…probablymakinghertrythepeasIhadmixedintothepesto,judgingbyEllie’sgesturesassheprotested.Myheartgaveafunnylittleclench,ofangrypitymixedwithakindofaffection.Oh,Maddie,Iwantedtosay.Itdoesn’thavetobelikethis.Wedon’thavetobeenemies.
Butforthemomentatleast,itseemedlikewedid.
AftersupperIbathedPetra,listeningwithhalfaneartothesoundsofsomekindofaudiobookcomingfromMaddieandEllie’sroom,muffledbythesplashingofwater,andthenIputhertobed,orrathertriedto.
Ididexactlyasthebindersaid,followingtheinstructionstotheletter,justasIhadatlunchtime,butthistimeitwasn’tworking.Petragrousedandthrashedandrippedoffhernappy,andthenwhenIputherfirmlybackintoitandbuttonedhersleepsuituptheback,soshecouldn’ttakeitoff,shebegantowail,loudlyandpersistently.
FormorethananhourIfollowedthebinder’sinstructionsandsatthere,withmyhandpatientlyonherback,listeningtothesoothinglyrepetitivejingleofthemobileandwatchingthelightscircleontheceiling,butitwasn’thelping.Petrawasgettingmoreandmoreupset,andhercrieswereraisinginpitchfromirritatedtoangry,andfromtheretoborderlinehysterical.
AsIsatthere,strokingandtryingnottoletthetensioninmywristandhandconveyitselftoPetra,Iglancednervouslyupatthecamerainthecorneroftheroom.MaybeIwasbeingwatchedrightnow.IcouldimagineSandraatsomecorporateevent,tenselysippingchampagneasshefollowedthenurseryfeedonherphone.WasIabouttogetacallaskingmewhatthehellIwasdoing?
ThebindersaidtoavoidtakingPetraoutofhercotafterthelightswereout,butthealternative,justleavingherthere,didn’tseemtobeworkingeither.IntheendIpickedherupandputherovermyshoulder,walkingherupanddowntheroom,butshewailedangrilyinmyarms,archingherbackasthoughtryingtotipherselfoutofmygrasp.SoIputherbackinthecotandshehauledherselftoherfeetandstood,sobbingfuriously,herlittleredfacepressedagainstthebars.
ItseemedliketherewasnothingIcoulddo,andmypresencewasonlymakinghermorefurious.
Atlast,withafinal,guiltyglanceatthecamera,Igaveup.
“GoodnightPetra,”Isaidaloud,andthenstoodandlefttheroom,closingthedoorfirmlybehindme,andlisteningasthesoundofhercriesdiminishedasIwalkeddownthecorridor.
Itwaspast9:00p.m.,andIfeltwrungout,exhaustedbytheeffortofbattlingwiththechildrenallevening.Ithoughtaboutgoingstraightdownstairsforaglassofwine,butinrealityIhadtocheckonMaddieandEllie.
Icouldhearnothingcomingfrombehindtheirbedroomdoor,andwhenIpeeredthroughthekeyhole,everythinginsideseemedtobedark.Hadtheyturnedoffthelights?Ithoughtaboutknocking,butdecidedagainstit.Iftheywerefallingasleepthesoundofaknockwouldprobablyundoallthat.
Instead,Iturnedtheknobveryquietly,andpushed.Thedooropenedacrack,butthenmetresistance.
Puzzled,Ipushedharder,andtherewasatopplingcrash,asapileofsomething—Iwasn’tsurewhat—stackedupagainsttheinsideofthedoorfellwithaclattertothefloor.Iheldmybreath,waitingforwailsandcries,butnonecame—apparentlythechildrenhadsleptthroughit.
Gingerlynow,IslidthroughthegapIhadcreatedandswitchedonthetorchofmyphonetosurveythedamage.Iwasn’tsurewhethertolaughorcry.Theyhadpiledupnearlyalltheirmovablefurniture—cushions,teddies,books,chairs,thelittletablefromthecenteroftheroom—intoabarricadeontheinsideofthebedroomdoor.Itwascomic,andyetatthesametimemorethanalittlepathetic.Whatweretheytryingtoprotectthemselvesagainst?Me?
Iswungthetorcharoundtheroom,andsawoneofthebedsidelamps,whichtheyhadunpluggedandstackedontopofthepileofstuff.IthadfallentothefloorwhenItoppledthestack,andtheshadewaswonky,butfortunatelythebulbwasnotbroken.Carefully,Istraightenedtheshade,andthenpluggeditbackinandsetitonEllie’sbedsidetable.Asthesoftpinkglowsuffusedtheroom,Isawthem,curledtogetherinMaddie’sbed,lookingforalltheworldliketwolittlecherubs.Maddie’sarmswerefirmlyaroundhersister,almostconstrictively,andIthoughtabouttryingtoloosenhergripbutthendecidedagainstit.I’ddodgedabulletoncewiththathugecrash,nopointinrockingtheboatfurther.
Intheend,Imovedjustenoughstuffawayfromthedoortomakeitpossibletoslipinandoutwithoutcausinganavalanche,andthenleftthem,turningonHappy’slisteningfunctiononmyphonesoIcouldheariftheywokeup.
PetrawasstillsobbingasItiptoedquietlypastherroom,butthevolumehaddecreased,andIhardenedmyheartanddidn’tlookin.ItoldmyselfshewouldsettlefasterifIlefthertoit.Andbesides,I’dhadnothingtoeatordrinksincenoon—toobusytryingtofeedandbathethegirlstomakesupperformyself.Iwassuddenlyravenous,light-headed,anddesperateforfood.
***
Downstairs,inthekitchen,Iwalkedovertothefridge.“Youarelowonmilk,”saidtherobotvoice,asItouchedthedoor,makingmejumpconvulsively.“ShallIaddittotheshoppinglist?”
“Er…yes,”Imanaged.WasIgoinginsane,talkingaloudtoahouseholdappliance?
“Addingmilktoyourshoppinglist,”saidthevoicebrightly,andagainthescreenonthedoorlitup,showingalistofgroceries.“Eathappy,Rowan!”
Itriednottothinkabouthowitfiguredoutwhowasstandinginfrontofit.Facerecognition?Proximityofmyphone?Eitherway,itfeltdistinctlyunsettling.
Atfirstsightthefridgecontentslookeddistressinglyhealthy—ahugedrawerfullofgreenveg,tubsoffreshpasta,variouspotsofthingslikekimchiandharissa,andalargejarofsomethingthatlookedlikepondwater,butwhichIthoughtmightbekombucha.Howeverrightattheback,behindsomeorganicyogurts,Isawacardboardpizzabox,andwithsomedifficultyIinveigleditoutandopeneditup.Iwasjustslidingthebakingtrayintotheovenwhentherewasasharprapfromtheglasswallonthefarsideofthekitchentable.
Ijumpedandswungaround,scanningtheroom.Itwasgettingdark,rainspatteringtheglass,andalthoughthefarsideoftheroomwasinshadow,Icouldseeverylittleoutsideexceptthejeweleddropletsrunningdowntheenormousglasspane.IwasjustbeginningtothinkImighthaveimaginedit,orthatperhapsabirdhadflownintotheglass,whenadarkshapemovedagainstthegloaming,blackagainstgray.Something—someone—wasoutthere.
“Whoisit?”Icalledout,alittlemoresharplythanIhadintended.Therewasnoanswer,andImarchedpastthebreakfastbar,aroundthekitchentable,andtowardstheglasswall,shroudedindarkness.
Therewasnopaneloverhere—ornonethatIcouldsee—butthenIrememberedthevoicecommands.
“Lightson,”Isaidsharply,andsomewhattomysurprise,itworked—thehugebrutalistchandelierabovemyheadilluminatingsuddenlyintoablazeofLEDbulbs.Theblastofbrillianceleftmeblinkingandastonished.Butassoonasmyeyesadjusted,Irealizedmymistake.Withthelightson,Icouldseeabsolutelynothingoutsidenowapartfrommyownreflectionintheglass.Whereaswhoeverwasouttherecouldseemeveryplainly.
“Lightsoff,”Isaid.Everylightintheentireroomwentoutimmediately,plungingthekitchenintoinkydarkness.
“Shit,”Isaidundermybreath,andbegantofeelmywaybackacrossthekitchen,towardsthepanelbythedoor,totrytorestorethesettingstosomethinghalfwaybetweenretinaburningbrillianceandtotaldarkness.Myeyeswerestilldazzledandhurtingfromtheblastoflightfromthechandelier,butasmyfingersfinallysoughtoutthecontrolpanel,Ilookedbacktowardthewindow,andthought,thoughIcouldnotbesure,thatIsawsomethingwhiskawayaroundthesideofthehouse.
***
Ispenttherestofthetimewhilethepizzawascookingglancingnervouslyovermyshoulderintothedarkshadowsatthefarsideoftheroom,andchewingmynails.Ihadturnedthebabymonitoroff,thebettertohearanymoresoundsfromoutside,butPetra’ssobsstillfilteredfaintlydownthestairs,nothelpingmystresslevels.
Iwastemptedtoputonsomemusic,buttherewassomethingunnervingabouttheideaofdrowningoutthesoundofapotentialintruder.Asitstood,Ihadn’tseenorheardanythingdefiniteenoughtocallthepolice.Ashapeinthedarknessandaknockthatcouldhavebeenanythingfromanacorntoabird…itwasn’texactlyFridaythe13th
Itwasmaybetenorfifteenminuteslater—thoughitfeltlikemuchmore—thatIheardanothersound,thistimefromthesideofthehouse,aknockthatsetthedogsbarkingfromtheirbasketsintheutilityroom.
Thenoisemademejump,thoughtherewassomethingmorehomelyandordinaryaboutitthanthehollowbangofbefore,andwhenIwentthroughtotheutilityroom,Icouldseeadarkshapesilhouettedoutsidetherain-spatteredglasspanesinthedoor.Thefigurespoke,hisvoicealmostdrownedbythehissoftherain.
“It’sme.Jack.”
Relieffloodedthroughme.
“Jack!”Iwrenchedthedooropen,andtherehewas,standingjustunderthethreshold,hunchedinaraincoat,handsinpockets.Thewaterwasstreamingdownhisfringeanddrippingfromhisnose.
“Jack,wasthatyou,before?”
“Beforewhen?”heasked,lookingpuzzled,andIopenedmymouthtoexplain—andthenthoughtbetterofit.
“Nevermind,itdoesn’tmatter.WhatcanIhelpwith?”
“Iwon’tkeepyou,”hesaid,“Ijustwantedtocheckyouwereallright,withitbeingyourfirstdayandall.”
“Thanks,”Isaidawkwardly,thinkingoftheawfulafternoonandthefactthatPetrawasprobablystillsobbingintothebabymonitor.Then,onanimpulseIadded.“Willyou—Imean,doyouwanttocomein?Thekidsareinbed.Iwasjustgettingmyselfsomesupper.”
“Areyousure?”Helookedathiswatch.“It’sprettylate.”
“I’msure,”Isaid,standingbacktolethiminsidetheutilityroom.Hestood,drippingontothemat,andthensteppedgingerlyoutofhisboots.
“I’msorryit’ssolate,”hesaid,ashefollowedmeintothekitchen.“Iwasmeaningtocomeoverbefore,butIhadtotakethatbloodymowerovertoInvernesstobeserviced.”
“Youcouldn’tfixit?”
“Oh,aye,Igotitrunning.Butitclappedoutagainyesterday.Whatever’sthematter,Ican’tseemtogettothebottomofit.Butnevermindaboutthat.Ididn’tcometomoanatyouaboutmytroubles.Howwasitwiththekids?”
“Itwas—”Istopped,feeling,withhorror,mybottomlipquivertreacherously.Iwantedtoputonabraveface—whatifhereportedbacktoSandraandBill?ButIjustcouldn’tdoit.Andbesides,iftheylookedatthesecurityfootagetheywouldknowthetruthsoonenough.Asiftosetthesealonit,PetragavealongbubblingwailofgrieffromupstairsthatwasloudenoughtomakeJack’sheadturntowardsthestairs.
“OhGod,whoamIkidding?”Isaidwretchedly.“Itwasawful.ThegirlsranawayfrommeafterBillandSandraleft,andIwenttolookfortheminthewoodsandthenthatwoman—what’shername?Mrs.McKinty?”
“JeanMcKenzie,”Jacksaid.Hepulledhisraincoatoffandsatatthelongtable,andIfoundmyselfsinkingintoachairopposite.Iwantedtoputmyheadinmyhandsandcry,butIforcedmyselftogiveashakylaugh.
“WellsheturneduptocleanandfoundthegirlssittingonthedoorstepclaimingI’dlockedthemout,whichIabsolutelydidn’t,I’ddeliberatelyleftthedooropenforthem.Theyhateme,Jack,andPetra’sbeenscreamingforlikeanhourand—”
Thewailcameagain,andIfeltmystresslevelriseintandemwithitspitch.
“Sitdown,”Jacksaidfirmly,asImadetorise.Hepushedmebackintothechairoppositehis.“I’llseeifIcansettleher.She’sprobablyjustnotusedtoyourface,it’llbebettertomorrow.”
ItwasindefianceofeverysafeguardingruleI’deverbeentaught,butIwastootiredanddesperatetocare—andbesides,Itoldmyself,SandraandBillwouldhardlyhavekepthimonthepremisesiftheythoughthewasadangertotheirkids.
Asthesoundofhisstepsrecededupthestairs,IswitchedonthebabymonitorandlistenedtothedoorofPetra’sroomswishgentlyopenandherchoking,gaspingcriessubsideasherbodywasliftedfromthecrib.
“There,there,mylittlelove,”Iheard,alow,intimatecroonthatmademycheeksflushasifIwereeavesdropping,thoughJackmustsurelyknowthebabymonitorwaspluggedin.“There,there,mapoorweelassie.”Upstairs,awayfromme,hisaccentwassomehowstronger.“Shh…shhnow,Petra…there,there…whatafussovernothing.”
Petra’scrieswerelowernow,morehiccupsandgrumblingthanrealdistress,andIcouldhearthecreakoftheboardsasJackpacedsoftlyupanddown,holdingher,soothingandgentlingthefretfulbabywithasurprisinglypracticedtouch
Atlastshefellsilent,andIheardhisfeetstop,andtherattleofthecotbarsasheleanedover,loweringhergentlytothemattress.
Therewasalongpause,andthentheshushofthedooragainstthecarpet,andJack’sfeetonthestairsagain.
“Success?”Isaid,hardlydaringtobelieveit,asheenteredthekitchen,andhenoddedandgavealittlewrysmile.
“Aye,Ithinkthepoorweethingwasknackered,shewasjustlookingforanexcusetoputherheaddown.ShefellasleepalmostassoonasIpickedherup.”
“God,Jack,youmustthinkI’macomplete—”Istopped,notsurewhattosay.“ImeanI’mthenanny.I’msupposedtobegoodatthiskindofstuff.”
“Don’tbesilly.”Hesatagainatthetable,oppositeme.“They’llbefinewhentheygettoknowyou.You’reastrangertothem;that’sall.Andthey’retestingyou.They’vehadenoughnanniesthispastyeartomakethemabitmistrustfulofanewonewaltzinginandtakingover.Youknowwhatkidsarelike—oncetheyseeyou’reheretostayandwon’tbeoffabandoningthemagain,it’llgetbetter.”
“Jack…”ItwastheopeningI’dbeenwaitingfor,andyetnowitwashere,Iwasn’tsurehowtophrasemyquestion.“Jack,whatdidhappenwiththoseothernannies?Sandrasaidtheyleftbecausetheythoughtthehousewashaunted,butIcan’tbelieve…Idon’tknow,itjustseemspreposterous.Haveyoueverseenanything?”
AsIsaiditIthoughtoftheshadowI’dseenoutsidetheglasswallofthekitchenandpushedtheimageaway.Itwasprobablyjustafox,oratreemovinginthewind.
“Well…,”Jacksaid,ratherslowly.Hereachedoutoneofhisbig,work-roughenedhands—thenailsstillalittlegraywithoilinspiteofwhatmusthavebeenrepeatedscrubbing—andpickedupthebabymonitorIhadlaiddownonthetable,turningitthoughtfully.“Well…Iwouldn’tsay—”
Butwhateverhehadbeenabouttosaywascutshortbyaloud,ratherperemptoryvoicesaying,“Rowan?”
Jackbrokeoff,butIjumpedsohardIbitmytongueandswunground,lookingwildlyforthesourceofthevoice.Itwasthatofanadultfemale,notoneofthechildren,anditwasveryhuman,quitedistinctfromtheroboticdroneoftheHappyapp.Wassomeoneinthehouse?
“Rowan,”thevoicerepeated,“areyouthere?”
“He-hello?”Imanaged.
“Ah,hi,Rowan!It’sSandra.”
Witharushofmingledreliefandfury,Irealized—thevoicewascomingoutofthespeakers.Sandrahadsomehowdialedintothehousesystemandwasusingtheapptotalktous.Thesenseofintrusionwasindescribable.Whythehellcouldn’tshehavejustphoned?
“Sandra.”Iswallowedbackmyanger,tryingtorestoremyvoicetothecheerful,upbeattoneI’dmasteredatinterview.“Hi.Gosh,howareyou?”
“Good!”Hervoiceechoedaroundthekitchen,magnifiedbythesurround-soundsystem,bouncingoffthehighglassceiling.“Tired!Butmoretothepoint,howareyou?How’severythingonthehomefront?”
IfeltmyeyesflickertoJack,sittingatthetable,thinkingofhowhehadbeentheonetogetPetradown.HadSandraseen?ShouldIsaysomething?Iwilledhimnottocutin,andhedidn’t.
“Well…calm,rightnow,”Isaidatlast.“They’reallinbedandsafelyasleep.ThoughIhavetoadmit,Petrawasabitofastruggle.ShewentdownlikealambatlunchtimebutmaybeIlethersleeptoolong,Idon’tknow.Shewasreallyhardtogetdownthisevening.”
“Butshe’sasleepnow?Welldone.”
“Yes,she’sasleepnow.Andtheothertwowentdownquietasmice.”
Scared,defensive,angrymice—buttheyhadatleastbeenquiet.Andtheywereasleep.
“Iletthemhavesupperintheirroomastheyseemedreallytired.Ihopethatwasokay.”
“Fine,fine,”Sandrasaid,asthoughdismissingthequestion.“Andtheybehavedokaytherestoftheday?”
“They—”Ipursedmylips,wonderinghowtruthfultobe.“Theywereabitupsetafteryouleft,tobehonest,especiallyEllie.Buttheycalmeddownintheafternoon.IofferedtoletthemwatchFrozen,buttheydidn’twantto.Theyendedupplayingintheirroom.”Wellthatpartwastrueenough.Theproblemwasthattheyhadn’tcomeoutoftheirroom.“Listen,Sandra,arethererulesaboutthegrounds?”
“Howdoyoumean?”
“Imean,aretheyreallyallowedtojustroamaround,orshouldIbekeepingthemin?IknowyouandBillarerelaxedaboutit,butthere’sthatpond—I’mjust—it’smakingmeabitnervous.”
“Ohthat,”Sandrasaid.Shelaughed,thesoundechoingaroundthespaceinawaythatmademewishIknewhowtocontrolthevolumeonthespeakers.“It’sbarelysixinchesdeep.Honestly,it’sthereasonBillandIboughtaplacewithbiggrounds,togivethechildrenabitoffreedomtorunwild.Youdon’tneedtohelicopterthemeverysecond.Theyknowthey’renotallowedtodoanythingsilly.”
“I—I’m—”Istopped,strugglingwithhowtoputmyconcernswithoutsoundinglikeIwascriticizingherparenting.IwashorriblyconsciousofJacksittingacrossthetablefromme,hiseyespolitelyaverted,tryingtopretendhewasn’tlistening.“Look,youknowthembetterthanIdo,ofcourse,Sandra,andifyou’rehappythatthey’reokaywiththatI’lltakeyourwordonit,butI’mjust—I’musedtoacloserlevelofsupervision,ifyouknowwhatImean.Particularlyaroundwater.Iknowthewaterisn’tthatdeep,butthemud—”
“Well,look,”Sandrasaid.Shesoundedalittledefensivenow,andIcursedmyself.Ihadtriedsohardnottosoundcritical…“Look,youmustuseyourcommonsense,ofcourseyoumust.Ifyouseethemdoingsomethingstupid,stepin.It’syourjobtosupervisethem,thatgoeswithoutsaying.ButIdon’tseethepointofhavingchildrenstuckinfrontoftheTVallafternoonwhenthere’sabigbeautifulsunnygardenoutside.”
Iwastakenaback.WasthisadigaboutthefactthatIhadtriedtobribethemwithafilm?
Therewasalong,uncomfortablepause,whileItriedtofigureoutwhattosay.Iwantedtosnapthetruth—thefactthatitwasimpossibleforonepersontoadequatelysuperviseafive-year-old,aneight-year-old,andababywhocouldbarelytoddle,whentheywerescatteredacrossseveralacresofwoodedgrounds.ButIhadafeelingthatdoingsowouldgetmefired.ItwasplainthatSandradidn’twanttodiscusstherisksinvolvedinlettingthegirlsroam.
“Well,”Isaidatlast.“Itotallytakethatpoint,Sandra,andobviouslyI’mverykeentotakeadvantageofthebeautifulgroundsformyselfaswell.I’ll—”Istopped,gropingforwhattosay.“I’llusemycommonsense,asyousuggest.Anyway,wehadaprettygoodday,considering,andthegirlsseem—theyseemtohavesettledwell.Wouldyoulikemetocheckinwithyoutomorrow?”
“I’llbeinmeetingsallday,butI’llcallbeforebedtime,”Sandrasaid,hervoiceslightlysofternow.“I’msorryIdidn’tmanagetospeaktothegirlsbeforebed,butwewerehavingdinnerwithaclient.Andanyway,itprobablywouldhaveunsettledthem.Ifindit’sbettertobeoutofsight,outofmindatfirst.”
“Yes,”Isaid.“Sure.Icanappreciatethat.”
“Well,goodnight,Rowan.Sleeptight.I’msureyouwill;you’llhaveanearlystarttomorrow,I’mafraid!”
Shegaveanotherlaugh.Imademyselfechoit,thoughintruthIwasfeelinganythingbutamused.Theideaofstartingallthisalloveragainat6:00a.m.wasgivingmeakindofsickfeeling.HowhadIeverthoughtIcoulddothis?
Rememberwhyyou’rehere,Ithoughtgrimly.
“Yes,I’msureIwill,”Isaid,tryingtoinfuseasmileintomyvoice.“Goodnight,Sandra.”
Iwaited—buttherewasnoclick,oranysignthatshehadhungup,orclosedtheapp.
“S-Sandra?”Isaiduncertainly,butsheseemedtobegone.Islumpedbackinmychair,andranmyhandovermyface.Ifeltexhausted.
“Ishouldbegoing,”Jacksaid,awkward,evidentlytakingmygestureasahint.Hestood,pushingbackhischair.“It’slate,andyou’veanearlystart,I’dimagine,withthegirlstomorrow.”
“No,stay,”Ilookedupathim,suddenlydesperatenottobeleftaloneinthishouseofhiddeneyesandearsandspeakers.Thecompanyofaperson—areal,flesh-and-bloodperson,notadisembodiedvoice,wasirresistible.“Please.I’dratherhavesomeonetoeatwith.”Awhiffofsomethingburningcamefromtheoven,andIsuddenlyrememberedthepizza.“Haveyoueaten?”
“No,butIwon’ttakeyoursupper.”
“Ofcourseyouwill.Iputapizzaintheovenjustbeforeyouarrived.It’sprobablyburntbynow,butit’shuge.Iwon’tmanageitallmyself.Please,givemeahand,honestly,Iwantyouto.”
“Well…”Heglancedattheutility-roomdoor,towardsthegarage,and,Iassumed,hislittleflatabove,itswindowsdark.“Well…ifyouinsist.”
“Ido.”Iputonovenglovesandopenedthedoorofthehotoven.Thepizzawasdone.Overdone,infact,thecheesecrispingandcharredaroundtheedges,butIwastoohungrytocare.“Sorry,it’sabitblackened.Icompletelyforgotaboutit.Doyoumind?”
“Notatall.I’mhungryenoughtoeatahorse,letaloneaslightlyburntpizza.”Hegrinned,thetannedskinofhischeekscrinkling.
“AndIdon’tknowaboutyou,”Isaid,“butIneedaglassofwine.You?”
“Iwouldn’tsayno.”
HewatchedasIchoppedthepizzaintoslicesandfoundtwoglassesinthecupboard.
“Areyouokaywitheatingofftheboard?”Iasked,andhegaveanotherofhiswidegrins.
“I’mmorethanokay.It’syouwho’stakingtherisk.I’llgobbleallyourdinnerifit’snotsafelyring-fenced,butifyou’refinewiththat,it’snotmylookout.”
“I’mmorethanokaytoo,”Isaid,andtomysurprise,Ifoundmyselfreturninghisgrinwithaslightlyshysmileofmyown,butarealone,nottheforced,wateryattemptofearliertonight.
Therewassilenceforafewminutesaswebothworkedourwaythroughagreasy,delicioussliceeach,andthenanother.AtlastJackpickeduphisthird,andspoke,balancingitonhisfingertips,anglingtheslicesothatthegreasedrippedbackontotheboard.
“So…aboutwhatyouwereaskingearlier.”
“The…thesupernaturalthing?”
“Aye.Well,thetruthis,I’venotseenanythingmyself,butJean,she’s…well,notsuperstitiousexactly.Butshelovesagoodyarn.She’salwaysfillingthekids’headswithfolktales—youknow,selkiesandkelpies,thatsortofthing.Andthishouseisveryold,orpartsofare,anyway.There’sbeentheusualamountofdeathsandviolence,Isuppose.”
“So…youthinkJean’sbeentellingthegirlsstuffandthey’vebeenpassingitontothenannies?”
“Maybe.Iwouldn’twanttosayforsureeitherway.But,look,thoseothernannieswereveryyoung,mostofthem,atleast.It’snoteveryonewho’scutouttoliveinaplacelikethis,milesawayfromatownorabarorapub.Aupairs,theydon’twanttobehere,theywanttobeinEdinburghorGlasgow,wherethere’snightclubsandotherpeoplewhospeaktheirownlanguage,youken?”
“Yeah.”Ilookedoutofthewindow.Itwastoodarktoseeanything,butinmymind’seyeIsawtheroad,stretchingawayintodarkness,themilesandmilesofrollinghills,themountainsinthedistance.Therewassilenceapartfromtherain.Notacar,notapasserby,nothing.“Yeah,Icanunderstandthat.”
Wesatinsilenceforamoment.Idon’tknowwhatJackwasthinking,butIwasfilledwithamixofstrangeemotions—stress,tiredness,trepidationatthethoughtofthedaysstretchedoutaheadofme,andsomethingelse,evenmoreunsettling.SomethingthatwasmoreaboutJack,andhispresence,andthescatteroffrecklesacrosshisbroadcheekbones,andthewayhismusclesmovedbeneaththeskinofhisforearmashefoldedthefinalpizzasliceintoaneatparcelandfinisheditoffintwoquickbites.
“Well,I’dbestbeawaytomybed.”Hestood,stretchingsothatIheardhisjointsclick.“Thanksforthemeal,itwasnicetohavesomeonetotalkto.”
“Same.”
Istood,suddenlyself-conscious,asifhehadbeenreadingmythoughts.
“You’llbeallright?”heasked.
Inodded.
“Well,I’mjustoverthegarage,intheoldstableblockifyouneedanything.It’sthedooraroundtheside,theonepaintedgreenwithaswallowontheplate.Ifanythinghappensinthenight—”
“Whatwouldhappen?”Ibrokein,surprised,andhegavealaugh.
“Thatcameoutwrong.Ijustmeant,ifyouneedmeforanything,youknowwhereIam.DidSandragiveyoumymobile?”
“No.”
Hepulledaleafletoffthefridgeandscribbledhisnumberinthemargin,thenhandedittome.
“Thereyougo.Justincase,like.”
Justincase,what?Iwantedtoaskagain,butIknewhewouldonlylaughitoff.
Hisgesturehadbeenmeantasareassuringone,Iwassureofit.Butsomehowithadleftmefeelinganythingbut.
“Well,thanksJack,”Isaid,feelingalittleawkward,andhegrinnedagain,shruggedhimselfintohiswetcoat,andthenopenedtheutilityroomdoorandduckedoutintotherain.
***
AfterhehadgoneImademywayintotheutilityroommyselftolockup.Thehousefeltverystillandquietsomehow,withouthispresence,andIsighedasIreachedabovethetopofthedoorframeforthekey.Butitwasn’tthere.
Ipattedmywayalongthedoorframe,feelingwithmyfingertipsamongthedustandlittlecrunchinglumpsofdeadinsect,buttherewasnothingthere.
Itwasn’tontheflooreither.
CouldJeanhavemovedit?Orknockeditdownwhiledusting?
Except,IhadacrystalclearmemoryofputtingthekeyupthereafterJeanleft,justasSandrahadinstructed,tokeepithandyincaseanemergencybutoutofreachofthechildren.Couldithavefallendown?Butifso,whathadhappenedtoit?Itwaslargeandbrass.Toobigtogounnoticedonthefloor,ortofitupaHooverpipe.Haditgotkickedundersomething?
Igotdownonmyhandsandkneesandshonemyphone’storchunderthewashingmachineandtumbledryer,butcouldseenothingundereither,justflatwhitetilesandafewdustbunniesthatquiveredwhenIblewthemaside.Itwasn’tbehindthemopbucketeither.Then,inspiteofmydoubts,IwenttothecupboardwherethedownstairsHooverlived—butthedustchamberhadbeenemptied.Therewasnothinginthere.Itwasthebaglesskindwithaclearplasticcylinderthatyoucouldseethedustcirculatingin—evensettingasidethequestionofwhetherthekeycouldhavegotinside,therewasnowayanyonecouldhavetippedoutabigbrasskeywithoutnoticingit.
AfterthatIscouredthekitchen,andevencheckedthebin—buttherewasnothingthere.
AtlastIopenedtheutility-roomdoorandstaredoutintotheraintowardsthestableblock,wherealighthadcomeonintheupstairswindow.ShouldIcallJack?Wouldhehaveasparekey?Butifhedid,couldIreallybearforhimtothinkmesodisorganizedandhelplessthatIhadwaitedonlytenminutesbeforetakinguphisofferofhelp?
AsIwaswavering,thelightinhiswindowwentout,andIrealizedhehadprobablygonetobed.
Itwastoolate.Iwasn’tgoingtodraghimoutinhisnightclothes.
Afteralastglancearoundattheyarddirectlyoutsidethedoor,incasethekeyhadgotkickedoutsidesomehow,Ishutthedoor.
I’daskJackinthemorning.
Inthemeantime,ohGod,whatwouldIdo?I’d…I’dhavetobarricadethedoorwithsomething.Itwasabsurd—weweremilesawayfromanywhere,behindlockedgates,butIknewIwouldn’tsleepwellifIfelttheplacewasinsecure
Thehandlewasaknob,notthekindyoucouldputachairundertostopitfromturning,andtherewasnobolt,butatlast,afteralotofsearching,IfoundawedgeshapeddoorstopperintheHoovercupboard.Irammeditfirmlyintothegapbeneaththedoorandthenturnedthedoorknobtotestit.
Somewhattomysurprise,itheld.Itwouldn’tstopadeterminedburglar—butthenverylittlewould.Ifsomeonewasthatdeterminedtobreakintheycouldjustsmashawindow.Butattheveryleast,itdidgivetheimpressionthatthedoorwaslocked,andIknewIwouldsleepmoresoundlybecauseofit.
WhenIwentbackintothekitchentoclearawaythepizzaboxandourplates,theclockabovethestoveread11:36,andIcouldnotsuppressagroan.Thegirlswouldbeupatsix.Ishouldhavebeeninbedhoursago.
Well,itwastoolatetoundothat.I’djusthavetoforgoashowerandgettosleepasquicklyaspossible.Iwassotired,Iwasprettysurethatwouldn’tbeaproblem,anyway.
“Lightsoff,”Isaidaloud.
Theroomwasinstantlyplungedintoblackness,justthefaintglowfromthehallwayilluminatingtheconcretefloor.Smotheringayawn,Imademywayupthestairstobed,andwasasleepalmostbeforeIhadundressed.
WhenIwoke,itwaswithastart,tocompletedarkness,andasenseoftotaldisorientation.WherewasI?Whathadwokenme?
Ittookaminuteforthememorytocomeback—HeatherbraeHouse.TheElincourts.Thechildren.Jack.
Myphoneonthebedsidetablesaiditwas3:16a.m.,andIgroanedandletitfallbacktothewoodwithaclunk.Nowonderitwasstilldark,itwasthemiddleofthefuckingnight.
Stupidbrain.
Butwhatthehellhadwokenme?WasitPetra?Hadoneofthegirlscriedoutintheirsleep?
Ilayforamoment,listening.Icouldhearnothing,butIwasaflooraway,andthereweretwocloseddoorsbetweenmeandthechildren.
Atlast,suppressingasigh,Igotup,wrappedmydressinggownaroundmyself,andwentoutontothelanding.
Thehousewasquiet.Butsomethingfelt…wrong,thoughIcouldn’tputmyfingeronit.Therainhadstopped,andIcouldhearnothingatall,noteventhefaroffroarofacar,orthewhisperofwindinthetrees.
Whenrealizationcame,itwasintheshapeoftwothings.Thefirstwastheshadowonthewallinfrontofme,theshadowcastbythewiltingpeoniesonthetabledownstairs.
Someonehadturnedthehalllightsondownstairs.LightsthatIwassureIhadnotleftonwhenIwenttobed.
ThesecondcameasIbegantotiptoedownthestairs,anditmademyheartalmoststopandthenbeginbeatinghardenoughtoleapoutofmychest.
Itwasthesoundoffootstepsonawoodenfloor,slowanddeliberate,exactlyliketheothernight.
Creak.Creak.Creak.
Mychestfeltlikeitwasconstrictedbyanironband.Ifroze,twostepsdown,lookingatthelightonthelandingbelow,andthenupatwherethenoiseseemedtobecomingfrom.JesusChrist.Wassomeoneinthehouse?
ThelightIcouldhaveunderstood.PerhapsMaddieorElliehadgotuptousethelooandleftiton—thereweredimlittlenight-lightspluggedintothewallatintervals,buttheywouldprobablyhaveswitchedonthemainhallwaylightanyway.
Butthefootsteps…?
IthoughtofSandra’svoice,suddenlycomingwithoutwarningoverthesoundsysteminthekitchen.Couldthatbetheanswer?ThebloodyHappyapp?Buthow?Moreimportant,why?Itdidn’tmakesense.TheonlypeoplewithaccesstotheappwereSandraandBill,andtheyhadnopossiblemotivationtoscaremelikethis.Quitethereverseinfact.Theyhadjustgonetoenormoustroubleandexpensetorecruitme.
Besides,itjustdidn’tsoundlikeitwascomingfromthespeakers.Therewasnosenseofadisembodiednoise,thewaytherehadbeenwithSandra’svoiceinthekitchen.There,I’dhadnoimpressionofsomeonestandingbehindme,talkingtome.Ithadsoundedexactlylikewhatitwas—someonebeingbroadcastthroughspeakers.This,though,wasdifferent.Icouldhearthefootstepsstartononesideoftheceilingandmoveslowlyandimplacablytotheother.Thentheypaused,andreversed.Itsounded…well…asiftherewassomeonepacingintheroomabovemyhead.Butthatmadenosenseeither.Becausetherewasnoroomupthere.Therewasnotsomuchasalofthatch.
Animagesuddenlyflashedintomyhead—somethingIhadn’tthoughtofsincethedayIarrived.Thelockeddoorinmyroom.Wherediditleadto?Wasthereanattic?Itseemedimprobablethatsomeonecouldhaveenteredthroughmyroom,butIcouldhearthefootstepsfromabove.
Shivering,Itiptoedbackintomyownroomandflickedtheswitchonthelampbymybed.Itdidn’tturnon.
Iswore,Mr.Wrexham.I’mnottooproudtoadmitit.Iswore,longandloud.Ihadturnedthatlightoffbytheswitch,sowhythefuckwouldn’titturnbackonbytheswitch?Whatkindofsensedidthisstupidlightingsystemmakeanyway?
Furiously,notcaringaboutthemusicortheheatingsystemoranythingelse,Imashedmyhandagainstthefeaturelesspanelonthewall,bashingrandomlyatthesquaresanddialsastheyilluminatedbeneathmypalm.Lightsflickeredonandoffinclosets,thebathroomfancameon,abriefburstofclassicalmusicfilledtheairandthenfellsilentasIjabbedatthepanelagain,andsomeunseenventintheceilingsuddenlybegantoblowoutcoldair.Butfinally,themainoverheadlightcameon.
Iletmyhandfalltomyside,breathingheavilybuttriumphant.ThenIsetabouttryingtoopenthelockeddoor.
FirstItriedthekeytomybedroomdoor,whichSandrahadshownme,tuckedawayonthedoorframeabovethedoor,liketheothers.Itdidn’tfit.
Then,Itriedthekeytothewardrobeontheotherside.Itdidn’tfiteither.
Therewasnothingabovethedoorframeexceptalittledust.
Finally,Iresortedtokneelingdownandpeeringthroughthekeyhole,myheartlikeadruminmybreast,beatingsohardIthoughtImightbesick.
Icouldseenothingatall—justunendingblackness.ButIcouldfeelsomething.Acoolbreezethatmademeblinkanddrawbackfromthekeyhole,myeyewatering.
Itwasnotjustacupboardinsidethatspace.Somethingelsewasthere.Anattic,perhaps.Attheveryleast,aspacebigenoughtohaveadraftandasourceofair.
Thefootstepshadstopped,butIknewthatIwouldnotsleepagaintonight,andatlastIwrappedmyduvetaroundmyselfandsat,myphoneinmyhand,theoverheadlightblazingdownonme,watchingthelockeddoor.
Idon’tknowwhatIwasexpecting.Toseethehandleturn?Forsomeone—something—toemerge?
Whateveritwas,itdidn’thappen.Ijustsatthere,astheskyoutsidemywindowbegantolightenandathinlemon-yellowstreakofdawncreptacrossthecarpet,mixingwiththeartificiallightfromabove.
Ifeltnauseouswithamixoffearandtiredness,anddreadofthedayahead.
Atlast,whenIheardalowfractiouswailcomefromdownstairs,Iloosenedmygriponmyphone,flexedmystifffingers,andsawthatthedisplaysaid5:57a.m
Itwasmorning.Thechildrenwerewakingup.
AsIcrawledfrommybed,myhandwentupinvoluntarilytotouchmynecklace—butmyfingersgrazedonlymycollarbone,andIrememberedthatIhadtakenitoffthatfirstnight,spoolingitonthebedsidetable,justasIhaddonebeforetheinterview.
Now,Iturnedtopickitup,anditwasn’tthere.Ifrownedandlookeddownthebackofthelittlenightstand.Nothing.HadJeanMcKenzietidieditaway?
Thewailfromdownstairscameagain,louderthistime,andIsighedandabandonedthehunt.Iwouldlookforitlater.
ButfirstIhadtogetthroughanotherday.
***
Coffeemaker—preloadedwithbeansandconnectedtomainswater.Operatedviatheapp,select“Appliances”fromthemenu,then“Baristo”andthenchoosefromthepreprogrammedselectionsorcustomizeyourown.Ifbeanslogoshows,thehopperneedstoberefilled.Ifthe!errorlogoshowsthenthereiseitheraWi-Fiissue,oraproblemwiththewaterpressure.Youcanprogramittodispenseataparticulartimeeveryday,whichisgreatformornings,butofcourseyoumustnotforgettoputacupunderneathitthenightbefore!Thepreprogrammedselectionsareasfollows—
Jesus.Ihadconfinedmyselfmostlytoteasincegettinghere,mainlybecausethecoffeemakerwassoextremelyintimidating—achromebeastofathingcoveredwithbuttonsandknobsanddials.SandrahadexplainedwhenIarrivedthatitwasWi-Fienabled,andapp-operated—butHappywasprovingtobetheleastintuitivesystemIhadeverencountered.However,aftermysleeplessnight,Ihaddecidedthatacupofcoffeewastheonlythingthatwasgoingtomakemefeelhalfwaynormal,andwhilePetrachewedherwaythroughadishofminiricecakes,Ihadresolvedtotrytofigureitout.
Ihadn’tevenswitcheditonwhenavoicebehindmesaid,“Knock,knock…”
Ijumpedandswunground,mynervesstilljanglingwiththetracesoflastnight’sstalefear.
ItwasJack,standingintheopendoorwaytotheutilityroom,jacketonanddogleashesinhand.Ihadnotheardhimcomein,andevidentlymyshockandambivalencemusthaveshowninmyface.
“Sorry,Ididn’tmeantomakeyoujump.Ididknock,butyoudidn’thear,soIletmyselfin.I’vecometocollectthedogsfortheirwalk.”
“Noproblem,”Isaid,asIturnedtotakeawayPetra’sricecakes.Shehadstoppedeatingthemandwasmashingoneintoherear.Jack’sunexpectedpresenceatleastansweredmyquestionaboutwhetherIwasalsoresponsibleforthedogs,andwasonethingIcouldtickoffmylist.ClaudeandHeroweregambolingaround,excitedtogetgoing,andJackhushedthemsharply.Theyfellsilentatonce,noticeablymorequicklythantheyhadobeyedSandra,andhegrabbedthecollarofthelargestoneandbeganclippingonitslead.
“Sleepwell?”heaskedcasually,astheleadslippedintoplace.
Iturned,myhandfrozenintheactofwipingPetra’sface.Sleepwell?Whatdidthatmean?Didhe…didhe…know?
ForaminuteIjuststoodthere,gapingathim,whilePetratookadvantageofmymomentarylapseofattentiontograbaparticularlysoggyricecakeandmashitintomysleeve.
ThenIshookmyself.Hewasjustaskinginthewaypeopledo,tobepolite.
“Notparticularlywell,actually,”Isaid,rathershortly,wipingmysleeveonthedishclothandtakingPetra’sricecakeawayfromher.“Icouldn’tfindthekeytothebackdoorlastnight,soIcouldn’tlockupproperly.Doyouknowwhereit’sgone?”
“Thisdoor?”Hejerkedhisheadtowardstheutilityroom,oneeyebrowraised,andInodded.
“There’snoboltoniteither.IntheendIwedgeditwithabitofwood.”Thoughmuchgoodithaddone.PresumablyJackhadsimplyshovedthewedgeasidewithoutevennoticingwhenheopenedthedoor.“Iknowwe’reinthemiddleofnowhere,butitdidn’tmakeforaverycomfortablenight.”
Thatandthesoundoffootsteps,Ithought,butIcouldn’tquitebringmyselftotellhimaboutthat.Inthecoldlightofdayitsoundedcrazy,andthereweretoomanyalternativeexplanations.Centralheatingpipesexpanding.Joistsshrinkingastheroofcooledfromtheheatoftheday.Oldhousesshifting.Inmyheartofhearts,IknewthatnoneofthosefullyexplainedthesoundsIhadheard.ButIdidn’tknowhowtoconvinceJackofthat.Thekeyhowever,wasdifferent.Itwassomethingclear…andconcrete.
Jackwasfrowningnow.
“Sandrausuallykeepsthekeyonthedoorframeabove.Shedoesn’tliketokeepitinthelockincasethekidsmessaroundwithit.”
“Iknowthat.”TherewasanedgeofimpatienceinmyvoicethatItriedtodampendown.ItwasnotJack’sfaultthatthishadhappened.“Imean,shetoldmethat.Itwasinthebinder.AndIputitupthereyesterday,butit’snottherenow.DoyouthinkJeancouldhavetakenit?”
“Jean?”Helookedsurprised,andthengaveashortlaughandshookhishead.“No,Idon’tthinkso.Imean,whywouldshe?Shehasherownkeys.”
“Someoneelsethen?”
Buthewasshakinghishead.
“Noonecomesupherewithoutmeknowingaboutit.Theycouldn’tgetthroughthegateforastart.”
Ididn’ttellhimthatJeanhadfoundthedoorlockedwhenIcamebackfromlookingforMaddieandEllie.Ihadn’tlockedit.Sowhohad?
“Maybeitfelldownsomewhere,”hesaid,andwentbackthroughtotheutilityroomtolook,thedogsfollowinglikefaithfulshadows,sniffingaroundashepushedasidethedryerandpeeredunderthewashingmachine.
“Ialreadylooked,”Isaid,tryingtokeepirritationoutofmytone.Andthen,whenhedidn’tstraightenupordeviatefromhissearch,“Jack?Didyouhearme?Icheckedeverywhere,eventhebin.”
Buthewasshiftingthewashingmachineaside,gruntingalittlewiththeeffort,thecastorsscreechingonthetiledfloor.
“Jack?Didyouhearme?IsaidIalready—”
Heignoredme,leaningoverthecounter,onelongarmstretcheddownthebackofunit.
“Jack—”Therewasrealirritationinmyvoicenow,butheinterruptedme.
“Gotit.”
Hestraightened,triumphantly,adustybrasskeyinhisfingers.Iletmymouthsnapshut.
Ihadlooked.Ihadlooked.Ihadaclearmemoryofpeeringunderthatwashingmachineandseeingnothingbutdust.
“But—”
Hecameacross,droppeditintomypalm.
“But…Ilooked.”
“Itwastuckedbehindthewheel.Iexpectyouwouldn’thaveseen.Probablyfelloutwhenthedoorslammedshutandskiddedunderthere.All’swellthatendswell,isn’tthatwhattheysay?”
Iletmyhandclosearoundthekey,feelingthebrassridgesbiteintomypalm.Ihadlooked.Ihadlookedcarefully.Wheelornowheel,howcouldIhavemissedathree-inchbrasskey,whenthatwasexactlywhatIwaslookingfor?
TherewasnowayIcouldhavemissedseeingthatkeyifitwasthere.Whichmeantthatmaybe…itwasn’tthere.Untilsomeonedroppeditdownthere.
IlookedupandmetJack’sguilelesshazeleyes,smilingdownatme.Butitcouldn’tbe.Hewassonice.
Maybe…abittoonice?
Youwentstraighttothewashingmachine,Iwantedtosay.Howdidyouknow?
ButIcouldnotbringmyselftovoicemysuspicionsaloud.
WhatIactuallysaidwas,“Thankyou.”Butmyvoiceinmyownearssoundedsubdued.
Jackdidn’treply,hewasalreadydustingoffhishandsandturningforthedoor,thedogswheelingandyelpingaroundhisfeet.
“Seeyouinanhourorso?”hesaid,butthistime,whenhesmiled,itnolongermademyheartleapalittle.Instead,Inoticedthetendonsinthebackofhishands,thewayhekeptthedogsleashesveryshort,pulledinagainsthisheel,dominatingthem.
“Sure,”Isaidquietly.
“Oh,andInearlyforgot—today’sJean’sdayoff.Shewon’tbecomingup,sonopointinleavingthedishesforher.”
“Noproblem,”Isaid.
Asheturnedandmadehiswayacrossthecourtyard,dogsfirmlyatheel,Iwatchedhimgo,turningthesequenceofeventsoverinmymind,tryingtofigureoutwhathadhappened.
AlthoughI’dsuggestedJean’snametoJack,Ididn’thonestlybelieveshewasresponsible.Irememberedputtingthekeyontheframeaftershehadgone.Sounlessshe’dcomeback—whichdidn’tseemlikely—thenshecouldn’tbetoblame.
Whathadhappenedafterthat…Jackhadcomeinbythatdoor,Irecalled,buthadIunlockedit?No…IwasprettysureI’djustopenedit—presumablyJackmusthaveunlockeditwithhisownsetofkeys.OrhadIunlockeditthen?Itwashardtoremember.
Eitherway,itwastechnicallypossiblethathehadpocketedthekeyatsomepointduringhisvisit,anddroppeditdowntherejustnow.Butwhy?Tofreakmeout?Itseemedunlikely.Whatcouldhepossiblygainbyengineeringanothernanny’sdeparture?
Jean,Icouldhavebelievedmoreeasily.Shehadplainlydislikedme.Buteventhere—settingasidethelikelihoodofhercreepingbacktothehouseaftershe’ddeparted,whichseemedmoreandmoreimplausiblethemoreIthoughtaboutit,sheseemedtohaveagenuineaffectionforthechildren,andIcouldn’tbelieveshewoulddeliberatelyleavethehouseunsafeandunsecuredwhiletheywereasleep.
Becausethatwasthefinal,unnervingpossibility.Thatsomeonehadtakenittoensureaccesstothehouseinthenight.NotJeanorJack,whohadtheirownsetsofkeysbut…someoneelse.
Butno—thatwascrazy,Iwasbeginningtotalkmyselfintohysteria.Maybeithadbeenthereallalong.Tuckedbehindthewheel,Jackhadsaid.WasitpossibleIjusthadn’tlookedhardenough?
Iwasstillthinkingmyselfroundincircles,whentherewasanimpatientnoisefromthekitchen,andIturnedtoseePetrakickingirritablyagainstherhighchair.Ihurriedbackintotheroom,undidherstraps,anddumpedherintotheplaypeninthecornerofthekitchen.ThenIpulledmyponytailtighter,plasteredonmybestsmile,andbeganlookingforMaddieandEllie.
Theywereintheplayroom,huddledinacorner,whisperingsomething,butbothheadsturnedwhenIclappedmyhands.
“Right!Comeon,girls,we’regoingtogoforapicnic.Wecantakesandwiches,crisps,ricecakes…”
Ihadmorethanhalfexpectedthemtorefuse,buttomysurpriseMaddiegotup,dustingdownherleggings.
“Wherearewegoing?”
“Justthegrounds.Willyoushowmearound?IheardfromJackyouhaveasecretden.”Thatwascompletelyuntrue—hehadn’tsaidanythingatall,butI’dnevermetachildwhodidn’thavesomekindofhidey-holeorcache.
“Youcan’tseeourden,”Elliesaidinstantly.“It’ssecret.Imean—”Shestoppedataglaring,furiouslookfromMaddie.“Imean,wedon’thaveone,”sheaddedmiserably.
“Oh,whatashame,”Isaidbreezily.“Well,nevermind,I’msurethere’slotsofotherinterestingplaces.PutyourWellieson.I’mgoingtoputPetrainthepushchairsoshedoesn’twanderoff,butthenlet’ssetoff.Youcanshowmeallthebestpicnicspots.”
“Okay,”Maddiesaid.Hervoicewascalmandlevel,evenalittletriumphant,andIfoundmyselfglancingathersuspiciously.
EvenwithMaddie’scooperation,ittookasurprisinglylongtimetomakethepicnicandgeteveryoneoutofthehouse,butatlastweweredone,andheadingoffroundthebackofthehouse,alongabumpypebbledpaththatcrestedasmallhillandthenleddowntheotherside.Theviewsfromthissideofthegroundswerejustasspectacular,but,ifanything,evenbleaker.Insteadofthelittlecroftsandsmallvillagesscatteredbetweenusandthedistantmountains,heretherewasnothingbutrollingforest.Inthefardistancesomekindofbirdofpreycircledlazilyoverthetrees,lookingforitskill.
Wewoundourwaythrougharatherovergrownvegetablegarden,whereMaddiehelpfullyshowedmetheraspberrycanesandherbbeds,andpastafountain,fullofaslightlybrackishscum.Itwasnotworking,andthestatueontopwascrackedandgraywithlichen,anditoccurredtomethenwhatastrangecontrastthehousemadewiththisratherwild,unkemptgarden.Iwouldhaveexpectedoutdoorseatingareasanddeckingandelaborateplantingschemes,notthisslightlysad,crumblingneglect.PerhapsSandrawasn’tanoutdoorperson?Ormaybetheyhadspentsolongworkingonthehouse,theyhadn’thadtimetotendtothegroundsyet
Therewasasetofswingstuckedbehindadilapidatedkitchengreenhouse,andEllieandMaddieleaptonthemandbegancompetingtogohigher.ForamomentIjuststoodandwatchedthem,andthensomethinginmypocketgaveabuzzing,janglingleap,andIrealizedmyphonewasringing.
WhenIpulleditout,myheartgaveafunnylittlejoltasIreadthecallerID.ItwasthelastpersonI’dbeenexpecting,andIhadtotakeadeepbreathbeforeIswipedthescreentoacceptthecall.
“Hello?”
“Heeeeey!”sheshrieked,herfamiliarvoicesoloudIhadtoholdthephoneawayfrommyear.“It’sme,Rowan!Howareyou?OhmyGod,longtimenospeak!”
“I’mgood!Whereareyou?Thismustbecostingyouafortune.”
“Itis.I’minacommuneinIndia.Mate,it’samazinghere.Andsooocheap!Youshouldtotallyresignandcomeandjoinme.”
“I—Ididresign,”Isaid,withaslightlyawkwardlaugh.“Didn’tItellyou?”
“What?”
Iheldthephoneawayfrommyearagain.Ithadbeensolongsincewe’dhadanactualphoneconversation,I’dforgottenhowloudshecouldbe.
“Yup,”Isaid,stillholdingthephoneafewinchesfrommyear.“HandedmynoticeinatLittleNippers.IleftafewdaysagoThelookonJanine’sfacewhenItoldhershecouldstickherstupidjobwasalmostworthallthehoursthere.”
“Ibet.God,shewassuchacow.Istillcan’tbelieveValdidn’tgiveyouthatjobwhenIleft.”
“Metoo.Listen,Imeanttocallyou,Iwantedtotellyou—I’vemovedoutoftheflat.”
“What?”Thelinewascrackly,hervoiceechoingacrossthelongmilesfromIndia.“Ididn’thearyou.Ithoughtyousaidyou’dlefttheflat.”
“Yeah,Idid.ThepostI’vetakenup,it’saresidentialone.Butlisten,don’tworry,I’mstillpayingtherent,thepayhereisreallygood.Soyourstuffisstillthere,andyou’llhaveaplacetocomebacktowhenyoufinishtraveling.”
“Youcanaffordthat?”hertinnyfarawayvoicewasimpressed.“Wow!Thispostmustpayreallywell.Howdidyouswingthat?”
Iskatedroundthatone.
“Theyreallyneededsomeone,”Isaid.Itwasthetruth,atleast.“Butanyway,howareyou?Anyplanstocomeback?”
Itriedtokeepmyvoicecasual,notlettingonhowimportantheranswerwastome.
“Yeahofcourse.”Herlaughechoed.“Butnotyet.I’vestillgotsevenmonthsleftonmyticket.Butoh,mate,it’sgoodtohearyourvoice.Imissyou!”
“Imissyoutoo.”
EllieandMaddiehadgotdownofftheswingandwerewalkingawayfrommenow,downawindingbrickpathbetweenovergrownheathers.Ituckedthephoneundermyearandbeganpushingthebuggyacrosstheroughground,following.
“Listen,I’mworkingrightnowactually,so…Ishouldprobably….”
“Yeah,ofcourse.AndIshouldgotoo,beforethisbankruptsme.Butyou’reokay,yeah?”
“Yeah,I’mokay.”
Therewasanawkwardpause.
“Well,byeRowan.”
“Bye,Rach.”
Andthenshehungup.
“Whowasthat?”saidalittlevoiceatmyelbow,andIjumpedandlookeddown,toseeMaddiescowlingupatme.
“Oh…justafriendIusedtoworkwith.Wewereflatmates,backinLondon,butthenshewenttraveling.”
“Didyoulikeher?”
ItwassuchafunnyquestionIlaughed.
“What?Yes,yes,ofcourseIlikedher.”
“Yousoundedlikeyoudidn’twanttotalktoher.”
“Idon’tknowwhereyougotthatidea.”Wewalkedabitfurther,thebuggybumpingoveraloosebrickinthepath,whileIconsideredherremark.Wasthereagrainoftruthinit?“Shewascallingfromabroad,”Isaidatlast.“It’sveryexpensive.Ijustdidn’twanttocosthertoomuchmoney.”
Maddielookedupatmeforamoment,andIhadthestrangestfeelingofherblackbuttoneyesboringintomine,andthensheturnedandscamperedafterEllie,cryingout,“Followme!Followme!”
Thepathleddownanddown,awayfromthehouse,growingmoreunevenbythesecond.Onceithadbeenherringbonebrick,butnowthebrickshadcrackedinthefrostandgrownloose,someofthemmissingalltogether.InthedistanceIcouldseeabrickwall,aboutsixfoothigh,withawroughtironmetalgate,whichseemedtobewherethechildrenwereheading.
“Isthattheedgeofthegrounds?”Icalledafterthem.“Holdup,Idon’twantyougoingoutontothemoors.”
Theystoppedandwaitedforme,Elliehadherhandsonherhipsandwaspanting,herlittlefaceflushed.
“It’sagarden,”shesaid.“It’sgotawallaroundit,likearoombutnoroof.”
“Thatsoundsexciting,”Isaid.“LiketheSecretGarden.Haveyoueverreadthat?”
“Ofcourseshehasn’t,she’snotoldenoughtoreadchapterbooks,”Maddiesaid,repressively.“ButwewatcheditonTV.”
Wehaddrawnlevelwiththewallnow,andIcouldseewhatElliemeant.Itwasacrumblingredbrickwall,slightlytallerthanIwas,thatseemedtobeenclosingonecornerofthegrounds,formingarectangularsectionquiteseparatefromtherestofthelandscaping.Itwasthekindofstructurethatmighteasilyhaveenclosedakitchengarden—protectingdelicateherbsandfruittreesfromfrost—butthetreesandcreepersIcouldseeemergingabovethehighwallsdidn’tlookatalledible.
Itriedthehandleofthegate.
“It’slocked.”ThroughthetwiningmetalworkIcouldseeawild,overgrownmassofbushesandcreepers,somekindofstatuepartlyobscuredbygreenery.“Whatashame,itlooksveryexcitinginthere.”
“Itlookslocked,”Elliesaideagerly,“butMaddieandIknowasecretwayofgettinginside.”
“I’mnotsure—”Ibegan,butbeforeIcouldfinish,shewoundherlittlehandthroughtheintricatemetalfretwork,throughaspacefartoonarrowtoadmitevenafine-bonedadult’shand,anddidsomethingIcouldnotseetothefarsideofthelock.Thegatesprangopen.
“Wow!”Isaid,genuinelyimpressed.“Howdidyoudothat?”
“It’snotveryhard,”Elliewasflushedwithpride.“There’sacatchontheinside.”
GentlyIpushedthegateopen,listeningtothehingessqueal,andpushedPetrainside,thrustingasidethetrailingfrondsofsomecreeperthatwashangingoverhead.Theleavesbrushedmyface,ticklingmyskinwithanalmostnettlishsensation.Maddieduckedinbehindme,tryingnottolettheleavestrailinherface,andElliecameintoo.Therewassomethingmischievousaboutherexpression,andIwonderedwhyBillandSandrakeptthisplacelocked.
Inside,thewallsprotectedtheplantsfromtheexposedpositionoftherestofthegrounds,andthecontrasttothemutedheathersandtreesoutside,andtheausterityofthemoorsbeyond,wasstartling.Therewerelushevergreenbushesstuddedwithberriesofalltypes,overgrowntangledcreepers,andafewflowersstrugglingtosurvivebeneaththeonslaught.Irecognizedafew—helleboresandsnowberriesspringingupfrombetweendark-leavedlaurels,andwhatIthoughtmightbealaburnumupahead.Asweturnedacorner,wepassedunderneathanancient-lookingyewsoolditformedatunneloverthepath,itsstrange,tubularberriescrunchingunderfoot.Itsleaveshadpoisonedtheground,andnothinggrewunderneathitsspread.Thereweremoregreenhousesinhere,Isaw,thoughtheyweresmaller,stillwithenoughglassintheirbrokenframestohavebuiltupanimpressiveamountofcondensation.Theinsideoftheglasswasblotchedwithgreenlichenandmold,sothicklythatIcouldbarelyseetheremainsoftheplantsinside,thoughsomestruggledupthroughthebrokenpanesoftheroof.
Fourbrickpathsquarteredthegarden,meetinginasmallcircleinthecenter,wherethestatuestood.Itwassocoveredinivyandothercreepersthatitwashardtomakeout,butasIdrewnearer,brushingasidesomeofthefoliage,Isawthatitwasawoman,thinandemaciatedandbrokendown,herclothesragged,herfaceskull-like,herblankstoneeyesfixingminewithanaccusingstare.Hercheekswerescoredwithwhatlookedlikescratches,andwhenIpeeredcloserIsawthatthenailsonherskeletalhandswerelongandpointed.
“God,”Isaid,takenback.“Whatahorriblestatue.Whoonearthwouldputupsomethinglikethat?”Buttherewasnoanswer.Thetwolittlegirlshaddisappearedintothethicketofgreenery,andIcouldnotseethem.PeeringcloserIsawthattherewasanameonthepedestalshecrouchedon.Achlys.Wasitsomekindofmemorial?
AllofasuddenIfeltaviolentdesiretogetoutofthisovergrownnightmarishtangleofplants,outtotheopenairofthemountainsandgrounds.
“Maddie!”Icalledsharply,“Ellie,whereareyou?”
Noanswercame,andIsuppressedamomentaryunease.
“Maddie!We’regoingtohavelunchnow.Let’sgoandfindaspot.”
Theywaited,justlongenoughformetostartfeelingseriouspanic,andthentherewasaburstofgigglesandbothchildrenbrokecoverandpelteddownthepathinfrontofme,towardsthegateandthecoolcleanairoutside.
“Comeon,”Maddieshoutedoverhershoulder.“We’llshowyoutheburn.”
Therestofthemorningpassedwithoutincident.Wehadaquiet—evenanice—lunchontheshoresofthepeat-darkburnthatcutthroughthecornerofthegrounds,andthenafterwardsthegirlstookofftheirshoesandsocksandpaddledinthetea-coloredwaters,screechingatthecold,andflickingmeandPetrawithice-colddropletsthatmademeshriek,andPetrababblewithexcitedglee.Onlytwothingsmarredthegeneralcontentment—thefirst,Ellie’sshoefallingintheburn.Imanagedtoretrieveit,butshewastearful,andsobbedwhenwehadtogo,andshehadtoputthesoggyshoebackon.
Theotherwasthepricklingofmyforehead,wherethecreeperhadbrushedme.Fromaninitialtingle,itwasnowproperlyitching,likeanettlesting,butmorepainful.Isplashedthecoldwaterfromtheburnontoit,buttheitchingcontinued,hardtoignore.Wasitsomekindofallergicreaction?I’dneverexperiencedaplantallergybefore,butperhapsthiswassomethingnativetoScotlandIwouldnothaveencountereddownsouth.Eitherway,thethoughtofthereactiongettingworsewhileIwasalonewiththechildrenwasnotcomforting—norwastherealizationthatIhadleftmyinhalerbackatthehouse.
AllinallIwasgladwhentheskycloudedover,andIcouldsuggestpackingupandstartinghome.Petrafellasleeponthewaybacktothehouse,andIparkedherbuggyintheutilityroom.Tomysurprise,bothMaddieandElliefellinwithmysuggestionofafilm,andwewerecuddledupinthemediaroom,mewithagrowingsenseofsuperiority,whentherewasacrackleandSandra’svoicecameoverthespeakers.
“Rowan?Isnowagoodtimetochat?”
“Oh,hi,Sandra.”Itwaslessunnervingthesecondtimearoundbutstillunsettling.Ifoundmyselfglancingupatthecameras,wonderinghowsheknewwhichroomIwasin.Thegirlswerebothabsorbedinthefilmanddidn’tseemtohavenoticedtheirmother’svoicecomingoverthespeakers.“Hangon,I’llgothroughtothekitchen,sowecanchatwithoutdisturbingthegirls.”
“Youcandivertthecalltoyourphoneifthat’seasier,”Sandra’sdisembodiedvoicefollowedmeasIeasedmyselfoutfrombeneathEllieandwalkedthroughtothekitchen.“JustopentheHappyappandclickonthephoneicon,thenthedivertarrow.”
Ididasshesaid,ignoringthebloodyHomeiswheretheHappyis!,pressedtheiconsshehadinstructed,andthenliftedthephonetomyear.Tomyrelief,hervoicesoundedagain,thistimefromthephonespeaker.
“Done?”
“Yes,I’monthephonenow.Thanksforshowingmehowtodothat.”IfshecouldonlyhavementioneditlastnightratherthanhavingthatawkwardconversationinfrontofJack…butnevermind.Therashonmyforeheadprickled,andItriedtoignorethedesiretoscratchit.
“Noproblem,”Sandrawassayingbriskly.“Happyisamazingwhenyougetusedtoit,butIhavetoadmit,ittakesawhiletofigureoutalltheintricacies!How’stodaygoing,anyway?”
“Oh,reallygood.”Iperchedontheedgeofastool,resistingtheurgetolookupatthecamerainthecorner.“It’sgoinggreat,thanks.Wehadareallygoodmorningexploringthegrounds.Petra’sasleep,andthegirlsare—”Ihesitated,thinkingofherremarkyesterday,butthenforgedon.Nopointinsecond-guessingmyselfallthetime,andbesides,shewouldpresumablyknowwhatthegirlswereupto,ifshehadcheckedthecamerasbeforecalling.“Thegirlsarewatchingafilm.Ithoughtyouwouldn’tmindastheywereoutinthefreshairthismorning.Ithinktheyneededsomedowntime.”
“Mind?”Sandragavealittlelaugh.“Heavens,no.I’mnotoneofthosehelicopterparents.”
“Wouldyouliketospeaktothem?”
“Absolutely—it’swhyIcalled,really.Well,andtocheckyouwerecopingofcourse.DoyouwanttoputEllieonfirst?”
IwentbackthroughtothedenandhandedElliethephone.
“It’sMummy.”
Herfacewasalittleuncertainasshepickedupthereceiver,butshebrokeintosmilesassheheardhermother’svoice,andIwentbackintothekitchen,notwantingtohovertooobviously,butlisteningwithhalfaneartoEllie’sendoftheconversation.AtsomepointSandramusthaveaskedtobeputacrosstoMaddie,fortherewasashortwhiningcomplaintfromEllie,andthenIheardMaddie’svoice,andElliecamepaddingdisconsolatelythroughtome.
“ImissMummy.”Herbottomlipwaswobbling.
“Ofcourseyoudo.”Icroucheddown,notwantingtoriskahugthatmightberejected,buttryingtomakemyselfavailableonherlevelifshewantedcomforting.“Andshemissesyoutoo.Butwe’llhavelotsof—”
ButmyremarkwascutoffbyMaddie,comingthroughwiththephoneheldoutandastrangeexpressioninherblackeyes.Iwasnotsurewhatitwas—amixoftrepidationandglee,itlookedlike.
“Mummywantstotalktoyou,”shesaid.Itookthephone.
“Rowan,”Sandra’svoicewasclippedandannoyed.“What’sthisIhearaboutyoutakingthemintothelockedgarden?”
“I—Well—”Iwastakenaback.Whatthehell?Sandrahadn’tsaidanythingaboutthegardenbeingoutofbounds.“Well,Idid,but—”
“Howdareyouforceyourwayintoanareaofthegroundsthatweexpresslykeeplockedforthechildren’ssafety,Ican’tbelievehowirresponsible—”
“Hangonaminute,I’mverysorryifI’vemadeamistake,Sandra,butIhadnoideathewalledgardenwasoutofbounds.AndIdidn’tforcemywayinanywhere.EllieandMaddie—”
EllieandMaddieseemedtoknowhowtoopenthegate,waswhatIhadbeengoingtosay,butSandradidn’tletmefinish.Instead,sheinterruptedinwithanangrysighofexasperationandIfellsilent,reluctanttotalkoverherandincreaseherannoyance.
“Itoldyoutouseyourcommonsense,Rowan.Ifbreakingintoapoisongardenisyourideaofcommon—”
“What?”Ibuttedin,notcaringaboutrudenessnow.“Whatdidyousay?”
“Itisapoisongarden,”Sandraspat.“Asyouwouldknowifyou’dbotheredtoreadthebinderIprovided.Whichyouclearlydidnot.”
“Apoison—”Ireachedforthebinder,beginningtofranticallyflickthroughthepages.Theinjusticestung.Ihadreadthefuckingthing,butitwas250pageslong.Iftherewascriticalinformationsheshouldhaveputitupfront,ratherthanburyingitinpagesandpagesaboutacceptabletypesofcrispsandtherighttypeofshoestowearforPE.“Just—Whatevenisthat?”
“ThepreviousownerofHeatherbraewasananalyticalchemistwithaspecialtyinbiologicaltoxins,andthiswashispersonal”—shestopped,clearlytoopissedoffwiththewholesituationeventofindwords—“hispersonaltestingground,Isuppose.Everysingleplantinthatgardenistoxicinsomedegree—someofthemextremelytoxic.Andmanyofthemyoudon’tneedtoingest,brushingpastthemortouchingtheleavesisenough.”
Oh.Myhandwentuptotheblisteringrashonmyforehead,whichmadeasuddenkindofsense.
“We’retryingtofindthebestwaytodealwithit,butthebloodythinghasheritagestatusorsomething.Inthemeantimewekeepitfirmlylockedup,andImustsay,itneveroccurredtomethatyouwouldtakethechildrenforastroll—”
Itwasmyturntobuttinnow.
“Sandra.”Imademyvoicelevel,andcalmerandmorereasonablethanIreallyfelt.“Iapologizeunreservedlyfornotpayingsufficientattentiontothatpageinthebinder.Thatisonehundredpercentonme,andI’llrectifythatimmediately.Butyoushouldknow,itwasn’tmyideatogointhere.MaddieandElliesuggestedit,andtheyknowhowtoopenthelockwithoutakey—there’ssomekindofoverrideontheinside,andElliecanreachit.They’veclearlybeenintherebefore.”
ThatshutSandraup.TherewassilenceontheotherendofthephonewhileIwaitedforherresponse.Icouldhearherbreathing,andIwonderedforaminuteifIhadmadeabadstrategicmistakeinbringingupthefactthatsheclearlyhadnoideawhereherchildrenhadbeenroaming.Thenshecoughed.
“Well.We’llsaynomoreaboutitforthemoment.CanyouputmebackontoMaddie,please?”
Andthatwasit.No,“thanksforbringingittomyattention.”Noadmissionthatsheherselfwasn’texactlywinningparentinggolds.Butperhapsthatwouldhavebeentoomuchtohopefor.
IhandedthephonebacktoMaddie,whogavemealittlesmileasIhandeditover,herdarkeyesfullofmalice.
Shetookitbackthroughtothemediaroom,Elliepaddingafterher,hopingforanotherturn,andasMaddie’sendoftheconversationgrewfainter,IpickedupthetabletthatwaslyingonthekitchencounterandopenedGoogle.ThenItypedinAchlys
Aseriesofterrifyingimagespoppedupacrossthetopofthescreen—avarietyofwhite,skull-likefemalefacesindifferentstatesofdecomposition,somepaleandbeautiful,withravagedcheeks,othersrottingandputrefying,withastenchofdeathcomingfromtheirrictusmouths.
Beneaththemwerevarioussearchentries,andIclickedoneatrandom.
“Achlys—(pronouncedACK-liss)—Greekgoddessofdeath,misery,andpoison,”itread.
Ishutthescreendown.Well,binderornobinder,Icouldn’tsayIhadn’tbeenwarned.Ithadbeenrightthere,writtenonthebaseofthestatueinthecenterofthegarden.Ijusthadn’tunderstoodthemessage.
“I’mdone.”Maddie’svoicecamefromthemediaroom,and,pushingdownmyirritation,Iwalkedbackthroughtowherethegirlswerecrouchedonthesofa,plainlywaitingformewithsometrepidation.IsaidnothingasMaddiehandedmebackthephone,justunpausedthefilm,andsatdownonthefarendofthesofatocontinuewatching,thoughtheireyeskeptflickingacrosstome,verydifferentemotionsoneachface.Ellie’swasanxious…waitingtobetoldoff.Shehadknownthattheywerenotsupposedtogointothatgarden,andshehadallowedherselftobetempted—toshowherclevernessinopeningthegateandlettingusin.Maddie’sexpressionwasverydifferent,andhardertoread,butIthoughtIcouldtellwhatitwas.Triumph.
Shehadwantedmetogetintotrouble,andIhad.
***
Itwasmuchlater,oversupper,asIwipedtomatosaucefromPetra’scheek,andswallowedmyownmouthfulofalphabetspaghetti,thatIsaid,casually,“Girls,didyouknowthattheplantsinthatgardenweredangerous?”
Ellie’seyesflickedtoMaddie,whoseemedtobewavering.
“Whatgarden,”shesaidatlast,thoughhertonedidn’tholdaquestionmark.Shewasbuyingherselfmoretime,Ithought.Igavehermysweetestsmileandshotheralookthatsaid,Don’tfuckwithme,dear
“Thepoisongarden,”Isaid.“Theonewiththestatue.Yourmumsaidweweren’tsupposedtogointhere.Didyouknow?”
“We’renotallowedinwithoutagrown-up,”Maddiesaidevasively.
“Ellie,didyouknow?”Iturnedtoher,butsherefusedtomeetmyeyes,andatlastItookherchin,forcinghertolookatme.
“Ow!”
“Ellie,lookatme,didyouknowthoseplantsweredangerous?”
Shesaidnothing,justtriedtotwistherchinaway.
“Didyouknow?”
“Yes,”shewhisperedatlast.“Anothergirldied.”
ItwasnottheanswerIhadbeenexpecting,andIstopped,lettingherchingoinmysurprise.
“Whatdidyousay?”
“Therewasanotherlittlegirl,”Ellierepeated,stillnotmeetingmyeyes.“Shedied.Jeantoldus.”
“Jesus!”Thewordslippedoutwithoutmyrealizing,andIsawfromMaddie’ssmirkthatthattoowouldbestoreduptorepeattoSandranexttimeshecalled.
“Whathappened?When?”
“Alongtimeago,”Maddiesaid.Itwasplainthat,unlikeEllie,shedidnotmindtalkingaboutthesubject.Infacttherewasevenakindofrelishinhertone.“Beforewewereborn.Shewasthelittlegirlofthemanwholivedherebeforeus.It’swhyhewentsaft.”
ForamomentIdidn’tunderstandthelastword,butthenitcametome.ShewassayingthewordsoftbutwithaScottishaccent,repeatingwhateverJeanMcKenziehadsaidtoher.
“Hewentsoft?Softintheheadyoumean?”
“Yes,hehadtobeputaway.Notstraightaway,butafterawhile.Livingherewithherghost,”Maddiesaid,matter-of-factly.“Sheusedtowakehiminthemiddleofthenightwithhercrying.Aftershewasgone.Jeantoldus.Soafterawhilehestoppedsleeping.Hejustusedtopacebackwardsandforwardallnightlong.Thenhewentmad.Peopledogomad,youknow,ifyoustopthemfromsleepingforlongenough.Theygomad,andthentheydie.”
Pacing.Thewordgavemeasharpjolt,andforasecondIdidn’tknowwhattosay.ThenIrememberedsomethingelse.
“Maddie,”Iswallowed,tryingtofigureouthowtophrasemyquestion,“Maddie…is…isthatwhatyoumeant?Before?Whenyousaid,theghostswouldn’tlikeit?”
“Idon’tknowwhatyoumean.”Herfacewasstiffandexpressionless,andshehadpushedherplateaway.
“Whenyouhuggedme,thatdayIfirstcame.Yousaidtheghostswouldn’tlikeit.”
“No,Ididn’t,”shesaidstonily.“Ididn’thugyou.Idon’thugpeople.”Butshehadoverreachedherselfwiththatlastremark.Imighthavebelievedthatshehadn’tsaidwhatIthoughtI’dheard,buttherewasnowayIcouldforgetthatstiff,desperatelittlehug.Shehadhuggedme.AndtheknowledgesuddenlymademesureofwhatI’dheardtoo.Ishookmyhead.
“Youknowthere’snosuchthingasghosts,right?NomatterwhatJeanhastoldyou—it’sjustrubbish,Maddie,it’sjustpeoplewhoaresadaboutotherpeoplewhohavedied,andwishtheycouldseethemagain,sotheymakeupstories,andtheyimaginetheyseethem.Butit’sallnonsense.”
“Idon’tknowwhatyou’retalkingabout,”Maddiesaid,andsheshookherheadsothatherstraightdarkhairflappedagainsthercheeks.
“Therearen’tanyghosts,Maddie.Ipromiseyouthat.They’rejustmake-believe.Theycan’thurtyou—orme—oranyofus.”
“CanIgetdownnow?”sheaskedflatly,andIsighed.
“Don’tyouwantpudding?”
“I’mnothungry.”
“Goonthen.”
Sheslidfromherchair,andElliefollowed,herobedientlittleshadow.
IputayogurtinfrontofPetraandthenwentroundtoclearthegirls’plates.Ellie’swasjusttheusualmessoftoastcrustsandspaghettisauce,withasmanypeasaspossiblehiddenunderherspoon.ButMaddie’s…IwasabouttoscrapeitintothecompostbinwhenIstopped,turningtheplate.
Shehadeatenmostofhersupper,butadozenorsoalphabetlettershadbeenleft,andnowIsaw,justasIwasabouttothrowthemaway,thatthelettersseemedtobearrangedintowords.ThephrasewasslidingdiagonallyacrosstheplatewhereIhadtippedittowardsthecompostbin,butitwasstilljustreadable.
WEHATEU
Wehateyou.
Somehow,seeingitthereintheinnocenceofAlphabettiSpaghettiwasmoreupsettingthanalmostanythingelse.Iscrapedtheplatewithaviolencethatmadethespaghettiricochetofftheinsideofthecompostbinlid,andthenthrewitintothesink,whereithitaglass,andtheybothshattered,sendingshardsofglassandspattersoftomatosauceflying.
Fuck.
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck
Ihateyoutoo!Iwantedtoscreamaftertheirretreatingbacks,astheypaddedquietlyawayintothemediaroomtofireupNetflix.Ihateyoutoo,youvile,creepylittleshits!
Butitwasn’ttrue.Notcompletely.
Ididhatethem—inthatmoment.ButIsawmyselftoo.Apricklylittlegirl,fullofemotionstoobigforhersmallframe,emotionsshecouldnotunderstandorcontain.
Ihateyou,Irememberedsobbingintomypillow,aftermymotherthrewawaymyfavoriteteddybear,tooold,tooshabby,toobabyishforabiggirllikeme,accordingtoher.Ihateyousomuch!
Butitwasn’ttruetheneither.Ilovedmymother.Ilovedhersomuchthatitsuffocatedher—orthatwasthatimpressionshegave.Allthoseyearsofsmallhandsbeingdisentangledfromsleevesandskirts,anduntwinedfromaroundnecks.That’senoughnow,you’llmessupmyhair,and,Oh,forgoodness’sake,yourhandsarefilthy,andStopbeingababynow,abiggirllikeyou.Allthoseyearsofbeingtooneedy,andtoograbby,andtoogrubby-handed—oftryingtobebetterandneater,andjustmorelovable.
Shedidn’twantme.Orthat’swhatitfeltlike,attimes.
ButshewasallIhad.
Maddiehadsomuchmorethanme—afather,threesisters,abeautifulhouse,twodogs…butIrecognizedhersadnessandherangerandherfrustration—anangrylittledarkchangelingamongherblondesisters.
Weevenlookedalike.
Whenshelookedatme,withthattouchoftriumphinherdark,boot-buttoneyes,Ihadrecognizedsomethingelsetoo,andnowIknewwhatitwas.Itwasaflashofmyselfinthoseeyes.Aflickerofmyowndarkbrowneyes,andmyowndetermination.Maddiewasawomanwithaplan,justlikeIwas.Thequestionwas,whatwasit?
IwassotiredaftermynearsleeplessnightthenightbeforethatIbundledthegirlsupstairstobedridiculouslyearly.Tomysurprisetheydidn’tprotest,andIfoundmyselfwonderingiftheywereastiredasIwas.
Petrawentdownwithnomorethanatokenprotest,andwhenIwenttocheckonMaddieandEllietheywerebothintheirpajamas—oralmostthere,inthecaseofEllie.Ihelpedherfigureoutwhichwayhertopwentandthenshepherdedthemintothebathroom,wheretheydidtheirteethobedientlyasIstoodoverthem.
“Doyouwantastory?”IaskedasItuckedthemintotheirlittlebeds,andIsawEllie’seyesflickertoMaddie,lookingforpermissiontospeak.ButMaddieshookherhead.
“No.We’retoobigforstories.”
“Iknowthat’snottrue,”Isaid,withalittlelaugh.“Everyonelikesbedtimestories.”
AnyothernightImighthavesatmyselfdown,crackedopenabook,andbegunanyway,indefianceofMaddie’srefusals.ButIwastired.Iwassotired.Beingwiththegirlsalldayfromsunuptosunsetwasexhaustinginacompletelydifferentwaytothenursery,awayIhadn’tfullyanticipatedorunderstooduntilnow.Ithoughtofallthemumswhohaddroppedtheirchildrenofftalkingabouthowexhaustedtheywere,andtheslightcontemptI’dfeltforthemwhenalltheyhadtodealwithwasoneortwoatthemost,butnowIrealizedwhatthey’dbeentalkingabout.Itwasn’tasphysicalastheworkatthenursery,orasintense,butitwasthewayitstretched,endlessly,thewaytheneedingneverstopped,andtherewasneveramomentwhenyoucouldhandthemovertoyourcolleagueandrunawayforaquickfagbreaktojustbeyourself.
Iwasneveroffdutyhere.Oratleast,notfortheforeseeablefuture.
“Itellyouwhat,”Isaidatlast,seeingEllie’schinwobble.“HowaboutIputonanaudiobook?”
Pullingoutmyphone,ImanagedtonavigatetotheHappymediasystem,andthentotheaudiofiles,whereIscrolledthroughthelistoftitles.Theorganizationwasconfusing—theredidn’tseemtobeanydistinctionbetweenthedifferentfiletypes,andMozartwaslistedalongsideMoana,TheloniousMonk,andL.M.Montgomery—butasIscrolled,Ifeltalittlewarmheadthrustupundermyarm,andEllie’ssmallhandtookthephone.
“Icanshowyou,”shesaid,andpressedaniconthatlookedlikeastylizedpandabear,andthenanothericonthatlookedlikeaflattenedoutv,butwhichIrealized,asElliepressedit,mustbesupposedtoindicatebooks.
Alistofchildren’saudiobooksflashedup.
“Doyouknowwhichoneyouwant?”Iasked,butsheshookherhead,andscanningthelist,Iselectedoneatrandom—TheSheepPigbyDickKing-Smith,whichseemedperfect.Long,calming,andniceandwholesome.Ipressedplay,selected“Girls’bedroom”fromthelistofspeakers,andwaitedforthefirstnotesoftheintroductorymusictocomeoutofthespeakers.ThenItuckedElliein.
“Doyouwantakiss?”Isaid.Shedidn’treply,butIthoughtIsawalittlenod,andIbentandswiftlykissedherbaby-softcheekbeforeshecouldchangehermind.
Next,IwentacrosstoMaddie.Shewaslyingtherewithhereyestightlyshut,thoughIcouldseeherpupilsmovingbeneaththepaperthinnessofherlids,andIcouldtellfromherbreathingshewasnowherenearasleep.
“Doyouwantagoodnightkiss,Maddie?”Iasked,knowingwhattheanswerwouldbe,butwantingtobefair.
Shesaidnothing.Istoodforamoment,listeningtoherbreathing,andthensaid,“Goodnight,girls.Sweetdreams,andsleepwellforschooltomorrow,”andthenIleft,shuttingthedoorbehindme.
OutinthehallwayIbreathedatremulous,almostincreduloussighofrelief.
Coulditbetrue?Weretheyreallyallsafelyinbed,washed,brushed,andnoonescreaming?Itseemed,comparedtolastnight,anyway,deceptivelyeasy.
Butperhaps…perhapsIhadturnedacornerwiththem.Perhapsthatfirstangryprotestwasjustshockatbeingawayfromtheirmum,withacomparativestrangerincharge.MaybeanicedaytogetherandaphonecallfromSandrawasallithadtaken?
MyheartsoftenedasIcheckedthelockontheutility-roomdoor,didbattlewiththefront-doorpanelandthelightsinthehall,andthenclimbedtheflightsofstairstomyownroomwithawearinessIwashavingincreasingtroubleovercoming.
IwaspassingBillandSandra’sroomwhenIthoughtIheardsomething.Orperhapssawit—itwashardtoknow.Alittleflickerofmovementinthesliverofdarknessbetweenthedoorandtheframe.Wasitjustmyimagination?Iwassotired.Itcouldbemymindplayingtricksonme.
Very,veryquietly,notwantingtodisturbthegirls,Ipushedthedoorwiththeflatofmyhand,listeningtoitshushingacrossthethicksilvercarpet.
Inside,theroomwasquiteemptyandstill.Thecurtainswereundrawn,andthoughinLondonitwouldhavebeengettingdark,hereweweresofarnorththatthesunwasonlyjustslidingbehindthemountains.Lividsquaresofreddishlightslantedobliquelyacrossthefloor,turningthecarpetintoakindoffierychessboard,thoughthecornersoftheroomwereindeep,impenetrableshadow.Iletmyhandslipoverthethick,crispcottonoftheirduvetcoverasIpassedtheirbed,glancingintotheshadows,feelingmypulsequickenwiththeaudacityofthisintrusion.IfSandrawerewatchingthroughthemonitornow,whatwouldshesee?Someoneprowlingaroundherbedroom,fingeringherbedlinen.IthoughtIheardanoise…Ipracticedtheexcuseinmyhead,butIknewitwasnolongertrue.Ihadbeenlookingforanexcuse.
Therewasapairofearringsonthebedsidetableclosesttothedoor.ThismustbeSandra’sside.WhichmeantthatBillslept…
Itiptoedaroundthebed,keepingtotheshadowsasfarasIcould.IknewfrompeeringatMaddieandEllie’sbedroommonitorthattheresolutionoftheimagesindarknesswasnotgood.Itwasveryhardtomakeoutanythingbeyondthelittlepoolofwarmlightcastbythenight-light,andinherethecontrastbetweenthesquaresofsunsetandthedeepshadowintherestoftheroomwasevengreater.
Very,veryquietly,IslidopenBill’sbedsidetabledrawer,andlookeddownatthetumbleofpersonalpossessionsinside.Awatchwithabrokenstrap.Aslewofloosechange.Afewtickets,ahay-feverspray,acomb.I’mnotsurewhatIhadbeenhopingfor—butifitwastogetasenseofthepersonwholivedhere,slepthere,laidhisheadonthecrispwhitepillow,Iwasdisappointed.Itwasstrikinglyimpersonal.
Ithoughtofthatmeetinginthekitchen,ofhisdenimedlegslippingbetweenmythighswithaconfidentintrusivenessbornoflongpractice,andIfeltsick.Whoareyou?
SuddenlyIhadtogetout,andIhurriedacrossthecheckeredcarpet,nolongercaringaboutkeepingtotheshadows,orwhetherSandraorBillsawme.Letthemsee.Bothofthem.
Upinmyroom,Iclosedthedoorwithafeelingofbarricadingmyselfawayfromtherestofthehouse.Asthecurtainsdrewthemselvesroboticallyoverthewindowpane,mylastglimpseoftheoutsideworldwasofthebloodystreaksofsunsetfadingbehindthefar-offpeaksoftheCairngorms,andofalightinJack’swindowshiningsteadfastlyacrossthedarkeningcourtyard.
Ithoughtofhim,asIletmyheadsinkintothegoose-feathersoftnessofthepillow.Ithoughtofhishandsthatmorning,theeasewithwhichherestrainedthetwoexciteddogs,thewayhedominatedthem,keepingthematheel.AndIthoughtofthekey,andhowhehadgoneunerringlytotheplacewhereithadbeenhidden,aplaceIhadalreadychecked.
ButthenIrememberedotherthings—hiskindnessthatfirstnight,incomingtocheckonme.Andhisvoiceoverthebabymonitor,puttingPetratosleep,crooningtoherwithagentlenessthatmademystomachclenchinastrangewayIcouldnotpindown.Therehadbeennodeceptionthere.Nopretense.Thatgentlenesswasreal,Iwascertainofit.
AndIwondered,ifithadbeenhiminthekitchenthatnight,insteadofBill,wouldIhavelurchedqueasilyfromtheroomwithpanickeddisgust?OrwouldIhavereactedverydifferently?Openedmylegstohis,perhaps.Leanedforward.Blushed.
Butevenasthethoughtcametome,makingmycheeksflushinthedarkness,Irememberedagain,kneelingontheflooroftheutilityroom,sweepingmyphonetorchbeneaththatwashingmachine.Thatkeyhadnotbeenthere.Theinterveninghourshadnotmademedoubtthatfactanymore—quitethereverse.Iwastotallysurenow.
Whichmeant…
Irubbedmyhandsovermyface,resistingtheurgetoscratchthefadingitchleftbythecreeper.Iwasbeingabsurd.Therewasnoearthlyreasonwhyhewouldstealthatkeysimplytounnerveme.Hehadhisownset,afterall,andhisthumbprintwasauthorizedforuseonthefrontdoor.(Though…therewasprobablyarecordeverytimesomeoneusedthatlock,mysubconsciouswhispered.Arecordthatwouldn’texistwithanold-fashionedlockandkey.)
Butno.No.Itmadenosense.Whywouldhegotothetroubleofmakingakeydisappearforafewhours?Whatwouldhegainfromit?Nothing,excepttoputmeonmyguard.Andtherewasmynecklacetoo—mynecklace,whichIhadstillnotfound,thoughI’dnothadtimetolookproperly.ThatcouldnothavebeenJack,surely.Thiswasparanoia,allofit.Thingsgetlostallthetime.Keysfalldown.Necklacesgettidiedawayintopocketsanddrawers,anduneartheddayslater.Therewouldbeaperfectlyreasonableexplanationforallofthis—onethatdidnotrequireaconspiracytheory.
IpushedthethoughtdownasIrolledoverandletsleepcovermelikeaheavyblanket.
Mylastthought,assleepclaimedme,wasnotofJack,norofthekey,norevenofBill.Itwasofthefootstepsintheattic.
Andtheoldmanwhohadlosthisdaughtertohispoisongarden.
Therewasanotherlittlegirl.
Myhandwentvainlytomythroat,tryingtoholdanecklacethatwasn’tthere.AndthenatlastIslept.
Iwoketothesoundofscreamsandaconfusionsoloudthatmyfirstinstinctwastoclapmyhandsovermyears,evenasIbolteduprightinmybed,staringwildlyaround,shiveringwithcold.
Thelightswereon—allofthem,turneduptotheirbrightest,mosteye-searingmaximum.Andtheroomwasicy-cold.Butthenoise—Jesus,thenoise
Itwasmusic,oratleastIsupposedso.Butsoloudanddistortedthatthetunewasunrecognizable,thehowlingandsquealingcomingfromthespeakersintheceilingturningitintoaformlessdin.
ForaminuteIcouldn’tthinkwhatthehelltodo.ThenIrantothepanelonthewallandbeganpushingbuttons,mypulsepoundinginmyears,thescreechingmisshapenmusiclikeahowlinmyhead.Nothinghappenedexceptthatthelightsintheclosetsturnedontojointherest.
“Musicoff!”Ishouted.“Speakersoff!Volumedown!”
Nothing,nothing.
FromdownstairsIcouldhearfuriousbarking,andterrifiedsteam-trainshriekscomingfromPetra’sroom,andatlast,abandoningmyattemptswiththepanel,Igrabbedmydressinggownandfled.
Themusicwasjustasloudoutsidethechildren’srooms—loudereven,forthenarrowwallsofthehallwayseemedtofunnelit.Andthelightswereondownheretoo,showingmeaglimpseofPetrathroughthenurserydoorway,standingupinhercot,herhairtousledonend,screaminginfear.
Isnatchedherupandrantothegirls’roomattheendofthecorridor,shovingthedooropentofindMaddiecurledinafetalpositioninherbed,herhandsoverherears,andEllienowheretobeseen.
“Where’sEllie?”Ibellowed,abovethenoiseofthemusic,andPetra’sfire-enginewails.Maddielookedup,herfaceblankwithfear,herhandsstillclappedoverherears,andIgrabbedherwristandhauledhertoherfeet.
“Where’sEllie?”Iyelled,directlyintoherface,andshepulledawayandfleddownthestairs,withmefollowing.
Intheentrancehallthenoisewasjustasbad,andthere,inthemiddleofthePersianrugatthefootofthestairs,wasEllie.Shewascrouchedintoalittleball,herarmswrappedaroundherhead.Allaboutherleapttheterrifieddogs,releasedfromtheirbedsintheutilityroom,addingtheirfranticbarkstothecacophony.
“Ellie!”Ishouted,“whathappened?Didyoupresssomething?”
Shelookedupatme,blankanduncomprehending,andIshookmyheadandthenranovertothetabletsittingonthemetalbreakfastbar.Iopenedupthehome-managementapp,butwhenItappedinmyaccesscode,nothinghappened.HadImisrememberedit?Itappeditinagain,thedogs’furiouswoofslikeajackhammerofsoundagainstmyskull.Stillnothing.Youarelocked—Ihadtimetoread,beforethescreenlitupmomentarilyandthendied—aredbatterywarningflashingforaninstantbeforeitwentblack.Fuck
IslammedmyhandontothewallpanelandthelightsabovethecookerturnedonandascreenonthefridgebeganblastingoutYouTube,butthemusicvolumedidn’treduce.Icouldfeelmyheartthumpingwildlyinmychest,growingmoreandmorepanickedasIrealizedIhadnowayofturningthisthingoff.Whatastupidfuckingidea—asmarthouse?ThiswastheleastsmartthingIcouldimagine.
Thechildrenwereshiveringnow,Petrastilllettingoutearsplittingshrieksofdistressnexttomyearasthedogsranincirclesaroundus,andItriedthepowerbuttononthetablet,morehelplessly,notexpectingthethingtowork,anditdidn’t.Thescreenwascompletelydark.Myphonewasupstairs—butcouldIleavetheterrifiedchildrenlongenoughtofetchit?
Iwasstaringround,wonderingwhatonearthIwasgoingtodo,whenIfeltatouchonmyshoulder.IjumpedsowildlyIalmostdroppedPetra,andswungroundaccusinglytofindJackGrant,standingsoclosebehindmethatmyshouldertouchedhisbarechestasIturned.Webothtookaninvoluntarystepback,menearlytrippingoverastool.
Hewasnakedfromthewaistupandhadplainlybeenasleep,judgingbyhisrumpledhair,andhebellowedsomething,pointingatthedoor,butIshookmyhead,andhecameclose,cuppinghishandsaroundmyear.
“What’shappening?Icouldhearthedinfromthestables.”
“Ihavenoidea!”Iyelledback.“Iwasasleep—maybeoneofthegirlstouchedsomething—Ican’tgetittoturnoff.”
“CanItry?”heshouted,andIfeltlikelaughinginhisface.Couldhe?Iwouldkisshimifhesucceeded.Ishovedthetabletathim,almostaggressively.
“Bemyguest!”
Hetriedtoturnthetabletonandthenrealized,asIhad,thatitwasoutofpower.Thenhewenttotheutilityroomandopenedupacupboardthere,theonewheretheWi-Firouterwaskept,alongwiththeelectricitymeter.I’mnotcompletelysurewhathedidinthere,IwastoobusycomfortinganincreasinglydistraughtPetra,butallofasuddeneverythingwentpitch-black,andthesoundstoppedwithanabruptnessthatwasdisorienting.Ifoundmyearswereringingwiththeaftermath.
Inthesilence,IcouldhearEllie’spanickedgaspingsobsandMaddierockingbackandforth.
Petra,inmyarms,stoppedcrying,andIfeltherlittlebodygostiffwithsurprise.Thensheletoutagurglinglaugh.
“Nightnight!”shesaid.
Thentherewasaclick,andthelightscamebackon—lessbrightlythistime,andfewerofthem.
“There,”Jacksaid.Hecamebackthrough,wipinghisforehead,thedogspaddinginhiswake,suddenlycalmagain.“It’sgonebacktodefaultsettingsnow.Bloodyhell.Okay.”
Therewassweatonhisforeheadinspiteofthechillintheair,andwhenhesatdownatthekitchencounter,thetabletinhishands,Icouldseehishandswereshaking.
Mine,asIsetPetrabesideMaddie,weretremblingtoo.
Jackpluggedthetabletinandnowheputitdowntowaituntilithadenoughchargetoturnon.
“Th-thankyou,”Isaidshakily.Elliewasstillsobbinginthehallway.“Ellie,there’snoneedtocry,sweetie.It’sokaynow.Look…um…”Icrossedthekitchenandbeganrummaginginthecupboards.“Look…hereweare,haveajammiedodger.Youtoo,Maddie.”
“We’vebrushedourteeth,”Maddiesaidblankly,andIsuppressedahystericallaugh.Fuckteeth,waswhatIwantedtosay,butImanagedtobiteitback.
“Ithinkjustthisonce,it’llbeokay.We’veallhadashock.Sugarisgoodforshock.”
“Aye,it’strue,”Jacksaid,rathersolemnly.“Backintheolddaythey’dmakeyoudrinksweettea,butsinceIdon’treallylikesugarinmytea,I’llhaveajammiedodgertoo,thanks,Rowan.”
“See?”IhandedonetoJackandbitintoonemyself.“It’sfine.”Ispokearoundthecrumbs.“Hereyougo,Maddie.”
Shetookit,warily,andthenshoveditinherownmouthasifIwasabouttotakeitawayagain.
Ellieatehersmoreslowly.
“Mine!”Petrashouted,holdingupherarms.Igaveamentalshrug.Iwasn’tgoingtowinanyprizesforchildnutrition,butInolongergaveafuckaboutthat.Breakingoneinhalf,Igaveherapieceofbiscuittoo,andthenthrewachunktoeachofthedogsforgoodmeasure.
“Okay,we’reupandrunningagain,”Jacksaid,asPetrabeganjoyfullystuffingthebiscuitintohermouth.ForaminuteIdidn’trealizewhathemeant,andthenIsawthathewasholdingthetablet,thescreencastingaglowontohisface.“I’vegottheappopen.TryyourPINfirst.”
Itookthetabletfromhim,selectedmyusernamefromthelittledrop-downmenu,andputinthePINSandrahadgivenmeforthehome-managementapp.
Youarelockedout,flasheduponthescreen,andthenwhenItappedthelittleibuttonnexttothemessage,Sorry,youhaveenteredyourHappynumberincorrectlytoomanytimesandarenowlockedout.Pleaseenteranadminpasswordtooverridethis,orwait4hours.
“Ah,”Jacksaidruefully.“Easymistaketomakeinthecircumstances.”
“Butwait,”Isaid,annoyed.“Hangon,thatmakesnosense.Ionlyenteredmypasscodeonce.Howcanitlockmeoutforthat?”
“Itdoesn’t,”Jacksaid.“Yougetthreegoes,anditwarnsyou.ButIsupposewithallthenoise—”
“Ionlyentereditonce,”Irepeated,andthen,whenhedidn’treply,Isaid,moreforcefully.“Once!”
“Okay,okay,”Jacksaidmildly,buthelookedatmesidewaysbeneathhisfringe,somethingalittleappraisinginhiseyes.“Letmetry.”Ihandedhimthetablet,feelingirrationallyannoyed.Itwasclearthathedidn’tbelieveme.Sowhathadhappenedthen?Hadsomeonebeentryingtologinundermyusername?
AsIwatched,JackswitchedusersandenteredhisownPIN.Thescreenlitupbriefly,andthenhewasinsidetheapp.
Hisscreenwaslaidoutdifferentlytomine,Isaw.HehadsomepermissionsthatIdidn’t—accesstothecamerasinthegarage,andoutside—butnottothoseinthechildren’sbedroomandplayroom,asIdid.Theiconsforthoseroomsweregrayedoutandunavailable.Butwhenheclickedonthekitchen,hewasabletodimthelightsbytappingonthecontrolsontheapp.
Therealizationwaslikealittleshock.
“Hangon.”ThewordsblurtedoutbeforeIhadthoughtthroughhowtophraseit.“Youcancontrolthelightsinherefromtheapp?”
“OnlyifI’mhere,”hesaid,clickingthroughtoanotherscreen.“Ifyou’reamasteruser—that’sSandraandBill,basically—youcancontroleverythingremotely,buttherestofuscanonlycontroltheroomswe’rein.It’ssomesortofgeolocationthing.Ifyou’recloseenoughtothepanelintheroom,yougetaccesstothatsystem.”
Itmadesense,Isupposed.Ifyouwerecloseenoughtoreachalightswitch,whynotgiveyouaccesstotherestoftheroom’scontrols.Butontheotherhand…howclosewasclose?WeweredirectlybeneathMaddieandEllie’sroomhere.Couldhecontrolthelightsintherefromhisphonedownhere?Whataboutoutsideintheyard?
ButIcaughtmyself.Thiswaspointless.Hedidn’tneedtoaccessthecontrolsfromtheyard.Hehadasetofkeys.
Except…whatbetterwaytomakesomeonethinkyouweren’tinvolved…whenreallyyouwere?
Ishookmyhead.Ihadtostopthis.ItcouldhavebeenEllie,fiddlingwiththeiPadinthemiddleofthenight.PerhapsshehadcomedowntoplayCandyCrushorwatchamovie,andaccidentallypressedsomethingsheshouldn’thave.Itcouldhavebeenanaccident,somekindofpreprogrammedsettingthatI’daccidentallyswitchedon,theappversionofabuttdial.ItcouldhavebeenBillandSandra,ifitcametothat.IfIwasgoingtobeparanoid,Imightaswellgothewholehog,afterall.Whystopatrandomhandymen?Whynotextendthesuspiciontoeveryone?Thefactthattheyhadonlyjustrecruitedmeandhadleastreasonofanyonetodrivemeawaywasneitherherenorthere.Or,forthatmatter,therewereotherusers.WhoknewwhatpermissionsRhiannonmighthave?
IbecamesuddenlyawarethatJackwaswatchingme,hisarmsfoldedacrosshisverynakedchest.Icaughtaglimpseofmyselfreflectedintheglasswallofthekitchen—bralessinmyskimpytop,withmyfacestillpillow-crumpled,andmyhairlikeI’dbeendraggedthroughabushbackwards—sofarfromtheneat,buttoned-upprofessionalimageItriedtoprojectduringthedaythatthecontrastwaslaughable.Ifeltmycheeksgrowhot.
“God,I’msosorryJack.Youdidn’thaveto—”Igroundtoahalt.
Helookeddownathimselfinturn,seemingtorealizehisownstateofhalfdress,andgaveanawkwardlaugh,aflushofredstaininghischeekbones.
“Ishouldhaveputsomethingon.Ithoughtyouwereallbeingmurderedinyourbeds,soIdidn’treallystoptodress…Listen,yougetthegirlstosleep,I’llputashirton,settlethedogs,andthenI’llrunsomevirussoftwareontheapp.”
“Youdon’thavetodothattonight,”Iprotested,butheshookhishead.
“No,Iwantto.Ican’tforthelifeofmeseewhyit’splayingup,andI’llnothaveyoualloutofyourbedsasecondtimeinonenight.Butyoudon’tneedtowaitupforme.Icanlockupaftermyself.OrIcansleephereifyou’reworried.”Hegesturedtothecouch.“Icanbringoverablanket.”
“No!”ItcameoutsharperandmoreemphaticthanIhadmeant,andIstruggledtocovermyoverreaction.“No,Imean…youdon’thavetodothat.Honestly.I’ll—”
Shutup,youstupidgirl.
Iswallowed.
“I’llgetthegirlstobed,andcomebackdown.Iwon’tbelong.”
Atleast,IhopedIwouldn’t.Petrawaslookingworryinglywideawake.
***
Itwasmaybeanhourlater,afterI’dtuckedthegirlsbackintobedforthesecondtimethatnight,andsoothedPetraintoastateofnotquitesleeping,butatleastalmostthere,thatImademywaybackdowntothekitchen.IwashalfexpectingJacktohavepackedupandgone,buthewaswaitingforme,acheckedflannelshirtonthistime,andacupofteainhishand.
“Doyouwantone?”heasked.ForaminuteIwasn’tsurewhathewastalkingabout,thenheraisedhiscup,andIshookmyhead.
“No,thanks.Iwon’tsleepifIhaveanythingcaffeinatednow.”
“Fairenough.Areyouokay?”
Idon’tknowwhy,itwasthatsimplequestionthatdidit.Maybeitwasthegenuineconcerninhisvoice,ortheenormousreliefofbeingwithanotheradultaftersomanyhoursspentalonewiththechildren.Maybeitwasjusttheshockofwhathappened,finallysettingin.ButIburstintotears.
“Hey.”Hestoodawkwardly,shovinghishandsinhispocketsandthentakingthemoutagain,andthen,asifmakinguphismind,hecrossedthekitchenquicklyandputanarmaroundme.Iturned—Icouldn’thelpit—andburiedmyfaceagainsthisshoulder,feelingmywholebodyshakewiththesobs.“Hey,heythere…,”hesaidagain,butthistimehisvoicecametomethroughhischestwall,deeperandsofter,andsomehowslower.Hishandhoveredabovemyshoulder,andthensettled,verygently,onmyhair.“Rowan,it’sgoingtobeokay.”
Itwasthatoneword,Rowan,thatbroughtmebacktomysenses,remindedmeofwhoIwas,andwhohewas,andwhatIwasdoinghere.Igulpedfuriouslyandtookastepback,wipingmyeyesonmysleeve.
“OhmyGod,Jack,I’msos-sorry.”
Myvoicewasstillshaky,androughfromcrying,andheputouthishand.ForaminuteIthoughthewasgoingtotouchmycheek,andIwasn’tsurewhetherIwantedtopullaway,orleanintohiscaress.ThenIrealized—hewasofferingmeatissue.Itookitandblewmynose.
“God,”Imanagedatlast,andthenImovedacrosstothekitchensofaandsatdown,feelingmylegsabouttogiveway.“Jack,youmustthinkI’macompleteidiot.”
“Ithinkyou’reawomanwho’shadabadscareandwaskeepingittogetherforthebairns.AndIalsothink—”
Hestopped,bitinghislipatthat.Ifrowned.
“What?”
“No,itdoesn’tmatter.”
“Itdoes.”SuddenlyIwantedhimtosaywhateveritwashehadbeenabouttosayverybadlyindeed,eventhoughIwasmorethanalittleafraidofwhatitmightbe.“Tellme,”Ipressed,andhesighed.
“Ishouldn’tsayit.Idon’tbad-mouthmyemployers.”
Oh.SonotwhatIhadbeenhalffearingthen.NowIwasjustplaincurious.
“But?”
“But…”Hebrokeoff,chewinghislip,andthenseemedtomakeuphismind.“Ah,fuckit.I’vesaidtoomuchalready.IthinkthatSandraandBillshouldneverhaveputyouinthisposition.It’snotfaironyou,andit’snotfaironthechildren,ifitcomestothat.”
Oh.
Nowitwasmyturntofeelawkward.WhatcouldIsaytothat?
“IknewwhatIsignedupfor,”Isaidatlast.
“Aye,butdidyou?”Hesatdownbesideme,makingthesofacushionssqueak.“Ibettheyweren’t100percenthonestaboutyonone,eh?”
“Who,Maddie?”
Henodded,andIsighed.
“Okay,no,you’reright,theyweren’t.Ornottotally.ButI’machildcareprofessional,Jack.It’snothingIhaven’tencounteredbefore.”
“Really?”
“Okay.Imaybehaven’tencounteredanyonequitelikeMaddie,butshe’sjustalittlegirl,Jack.We’regettingtoknoweachother,that’sall.Wehadagooddaytoday.”
Itwasn’tquitetruethough,wasit?Shehadtriedtogetmesacked,firstbyluringmeintothatbloodypoisongarden,andsecondbytattlingonmetohermotherinawaydesignedtomakemelookasbadaspossible.
“Jack,isthereanywayitcouldhavebeen…”Istoppedmyself,andamendedwhatIhadbeengoingtosay,“oneofthekidswhosetallthatstuffoff?Theywereplayingwiththetabletearlier,isthereanywaytheycouldhave…Idon’tknow…preprogrammeditbyaccident?”
Ordeliberately,Ithought,butdidnotsay.
Butheshookhishead.
“Idon’tthinkso.There’dbearecordofalog-in.Andanyway,fromwhatyousaid,itoverrodeeverysinglespeakerandlightingsysteminthehouse.Noneoftheusersonthistablethaveaccessrightstodothat.You’dneedanadminpasswordforthat.”
“So…you’dhavetobeBillorSandra,basically?Isthatwhatyou’resaying?”Thethoughtwasveryodd,andmydoubtsmusthaveshownonmyface.“CouldthekidshavegotholdoftheirPINsomehow?”
“Maybe,butthey’renotevendownasusersonthistablet.Look.”Heclickedthelittledrop-downmenuonthehome-managementappthatlistedthepossibleusersforthisdevice.Me,Jack,Jean,andafinalonemarked“Guest.”Thatwasit.
“Sowhatyou’resayingis…,”Ispokeslowly,tryingtothinkitthrough,“togetanadminlevelofaccess,youwouldn’tjustneedSandra’sPIN,you’dneedherphone?”
“Prettymuch,yeah.”Hepulledouthisownphone,andshowedmehisaccesspanel.“See?I’mtheonlyusersetuponmyphone.It’sthewayit’sconfigured.”
“Andtosetupnewusersonadevice…”
“Youneedaspecificcode.Sandrawouldhavegivenyouonewhenyoucamehere,no?”
Inodded.
“Andletmeguess,thecodecanonlybegeneratedby…”
“Byanadminuser,yup.That’saboutthesizeofit.”
Itmadenosense.HadSandraorBilldonethissomehow?Itwasn’tbeyondtheboundsofpossibility—IhadreadupontheappwhenSandrahadfirsttoldmeaboutit,andfromwhatIcouldmakeout,thewholepointofthesystemwasthatyoucouldcontrolitfromanywherewithinternetaccess—checktheCCTVwhenyouwereonholidayinVerbier,turnonthelightswhenyouwereupstairsandwantedtocomedown,lowertheheatingwhenyouwerestuckinatrafficjaminInverness.Butwhywouldthey?
IrememberedwhatJackhadsaidwhenIwenttotakethegirlsuptobed,andthoughIknewIwasclutchingatstraws,Istillhadtoaskthequestion.
“Andthevirusscans…?”
Heshookhishead.
“Nothingonthetablet,atanyrate.It’scleanasawhistle.”
“Shit.”Iranmyhandsthroughmyhair,andheputhishandonmyshoulder,touchingmeagain,lightly,butIfeltakindofstaticchargerunbetweenus,makingthehairsonmyarmprickle,andIshiveredlightly.
Jackmadearuefulface,misinterpretingmyreaction.
“Lookatme,blatheringaway.Youmustbecoldandtired—I’llletyougettobed.”
Itwasn’ttrue.Notanymore.Iwasn’tcold,andsuddenlyIwasveryfarfromtiredtoo.WhatIwantedwasadrink,withhim—andpreferablyoneasstrongaspossible.Ididn’tusuallydrinkspirits,butitwasonthetipofmytonguetomentionthebottleofScotchinthecupboardinthekitchen.ButIknewthatifIdid,Iwouldbestartingsomethingverystupidindeed,somethingImightnotbeabletostop.
“Okay,”Isaidatlast.“That’sprobablygoodadvice.Thankyou,Jack.”
Istoodup,andhedidtoo,settingdownhisteaandstretchinguntilIheardhisjointscrack,andalittlesliverofflatstomachshowedbetweenthebottomofhisshirtandhiswaistband.
Andthen,Ididsomethingthatsurprisedevenmyself.SomethingIhadnotintendedtodo,untiltheinstantIfoundmyselfdoingit.
Istoodontiptoes,and,pullinghisshoulderdowntowardsme,Ikissedhischeek.Ifelttheleannessofhisskin,theroughnessofaday-oldbeardbeneathmylips,andthewarmthofhim.AndIfeltsomethingatthecoreofmeclenchwithwanting.
WhenIsteppedback,hisexpressionwasblanksurprise,andforamomentIthoughtIhadmadeahorriblemistake,andthebutterfliesinmystomachintensifiedtothepointofqueasiness.Butthenhismouthwidenedintoabroadgrin,andhebent,andkissedmeback,verygently,hislipswarmandverysoftagainstmycheek.
“Goodnight,Rowan.You’resureyou’llbeallrightnow?Youdon’tneedmeto…stay?”
Therewasaninfinitesimalpausebeforethelastword.
“I’msure.”
Henodded.Andthenheturnedandleftbytheutility-roomdoor.
Ilockeditafterhim,thekeyturningwithareassuringclunk,andthenItuckedthekeybackintoitsrestingplaceandstood,watchinghissilhouetteagainstthelightstreamingfromthestablewindowsashewalkedbacktohislittleflat.Ashemountedthestairstohisfrontdoorheturnedandliftedahandinfarewell,andeventhoughIwasnotsurehewouldbeabletoseemeinthedarkness,Iraisedmineinreturn.
Thenhewasgone,thedoorclosedbehindhim,andtheoutsidelightclickedoff,leavingashocking,inkydarknessinitswake.AndIwasleftstandinginthere,myskinshiveringandfightingtheurgetotouchtheplaceonmycheekwherehislipshadbeenwiththetipsofmyfingers.
Ididnotknowwhathehadmeantwhenheofferedtostay.Whathehadbeenhoping,expecting.
ButIknewwhatIhadwanted.AndIknewthatIhadcomeveryclosetosayingyes.
Iknowwhatyou’rethinking,Mr.Wrexham.Noneofthisishelpingmycase.Andthat’swhatMr.Gatesthoughttoo.
Becauseweknowwherethisleads,youandI,don’twe?
Tome,slippingoutofthehouseonarainysummernight,babymonitorinonehand,runningacrossthecourtyardandupthestairstothestableblockflat.
Andtoachild’sbody,lying—Butno.Ican’tthinkaboutthat,orI’llstartcryingagain.Andifyouloseitinhere,youreallyloseit,Iknowthatnow.Ineverknewthereweresomanywaystodealwithpainsounbearablethatitcannotbeendured,butinhereIhaveseenthemall.Thewomenwhocuttheirskin,andtearouttheirhair,andsmeartheircellswithbloodandshitandpiss.Theoneswhosnortandshootandsmoketheirwaytooblivion.Theoneswhosleepandsleepandsleepandnevergetoutofbed,notevenformeals,untilthey’renothingbutbonesandgrayishskinanddespair.
ButIhavetobehonestwithyou,that’swhatMr.Gatesdidn’t—couldn’t—understand.Itwasactingapartthatgotmehereinthefirstplace.RowanthePerfectNannywithherbuttoned-upcardigans,herpasted-onsmile,andherperfectCV—sheneverexisted,andyouknowit.Behindthatneat,cheerfulfacadewassomeoneverydifferent—awomanwhosmokedanddrankandswore,andwhosehanditchedtoslaponmorethanoneoccasion.Itriedtocoverherup—toneatlyfoldmyT-shirts,whenmyinstinctwastothrowthemonthefloor,tosmileandnodwhenIwantedtotelltheElincourtstofuckoff.Andwhenthepolicetookmeinforquestioning,Mr.Gateswantedmetokeeponpretending,keeponhidingtherealme.Butwheredidthatpretensegetme?Here.
Ihavetotellthetruth,thewholetruth,andnothingbutthetruth.Becausetoleaveoutthesepartswouldbelessthanthewholetruth.Totellyouonlythepartsthatexoneratemewouldmakemeslipbackintotheold,oldtrap.Becauseitwastheliesthatgotmehereinthefirstplace.AndIhavetobelievethatit’sthetruththatwillgetmeout.
***
IhadforgottenwhatdayitwaswhenIawoke.WhenmyalarmwentoffIlistenedblearilyforthesoundofchildishvoices,andthen,whenonlysilencegreetedme,Ihitsnoozeandwentbacktosleep.Itrecurredtenminuteslater,andthistimeIthoughtIcouldhearanoisecomingfromdownstairs.Afterlyingthereforanothertenminutes,gearingmyselfupfortheday,Iswungmylegsoutofbedandstooduncertainly,dizzywithlackofsleep.ThenIwentdownintothekitchentofindnotMaddieandElliebutJeanMcKenzie,scrubbingthedishesandlookingdisapproving.
“Arethebairnsnotupyet?”shesaidasIcameintotheroom,rubbingmyeyesandlongingforacoffee.Ishookmyhead.
“No,wehada…”WhatshouldIsay?SuddenlyIcouldn’tbringmyselftogointothewholestory.“Abitofadisturbednight,”Ifinishedatlast.“IthoughtI’dletthemsleepin.”
“Wellthat’sallverywellonaweekend,butit’sseventwenty-fiveandtheyneedtobewashed,dressed,andinthatcarbyeightfifteen.
Eightfifteen?Ididamentaldoubletake,andthenrealized.Fuck.
“OhGod,it’sMonday.”
“Aye,andyou’llneedtobegettingamoveonifyou’retomakeitintime.”
***
“I’mnotgoing.”Maddiewaslyingfacedownonherbed,withherhandsoverherears.Ibegantofeeldesperate.Itwasn’tsomuchwhatIwouldtellSandraifIcouldn’tgetthegirlstoschool,butthefactthatIneededthisbreak.Ihadhadbarelythreehours’sleeplastnight.Icouldcopewithafractiousbaby.Icouldn’tcopewithtwoprimaryschoolagechildrenaswell,letaloneoneasstroppyandrecalcitrantasMaddie.
“You’regoing,andthat’sthat.”
“I’mnot,andyoucan’tmakeme.”
WhatcouldIsaytothat?Itwastrueafterall.
“Ifyougetdressednowthere’llstillbetimeforCocoPops.”
Ithadcometothatthen.BasicallybribingherwithSandra’slistofforbiddenfoodsateverysingleobstacle.ButithadworkedwithElliewhowas,Iassumed,downstairsnow,moreorlessdressed(thoughnotwashedorbrushed)andeatingcerealwithJean.
“Idon’twantCocoPops.Idon’tlikeCocoPops.They’reforbabies.”
“Well,thatseemsaboutright,givenyou’rebehavinglikeababy!”Isnapped,andthenregretteditwhenIheardherlaugh.
Don’treact,Ithought.Don’tgiveherthatholdoveryou.Youhavetostaycalm,orshe’llknowthatshe’sgotthepowertogettoyou.
Ithoughtaboutcountingtoten,thenIrememberedthepainful“oneandahalf”ofacoupleofnightsbefore,andhastilyrevisedmyplans.
“Maddie,I’mgettingveryboredhere.Unlessyouwantmetotakeyoutoschoolinyournightie,thenIsuggestyougetyouruniformon.”
Shesaidnothing,andatlastIsighed.
“Okay,well,ifyouwanttobehavelikeababy,I’llhavetotreatyoulikeone,andgetyoudressedthewayIdowithPetra.”
Ipickeduptheclothesandadvancedslowlytowardsthebed,hopingthatabitofwarningmightinducehertoscrambleupandgetherclotheson,butshejustlaythere,makingherselfaslimpandheavyasshepossiblycouldsothatmybackscreamedinprotestasIbeganmanhandlingherintoherclothes.Shewasasfloppyasaragdoll,butahundredtimesasheavy,andIwasbreathinghardwhenatlastIsteppedback.Herskirtwasaskew,andherhairwasrumpledfromwhereIhaddraggedtheT-shirtoverherhead,butshewasmoreorlessdressedwithinthemeaningoftheact.
Finally,figuringthatImightaswelltakeadvantageofherpassivity,Ipulledasockoneachfootandthenjammedherschoolshoeson.
“There,”Isaid,tryingtokeepthetriumphoutofmyvoice.“You’redressed.Welldone,Maddie.Now,I’llbedownstairseatingCocoPopswithEllieifyouwanttojoinus.OtherwiseI’llseeyouinthecarinfifteenminutes.
“Ihaven’tdonemyteeth,”shesaidwoodenly,nothingmovingapartfromhermouth.Igavealaugh.
“Idon’tgivea”—Istoppedmyselfjustintime,andthenrephrased—“amonkey’s.Butifyou’rebothered…”
Iwentthroughtothebathroominthehallwayandputsometoothpasteonthetipofthebrush,intendingtoleaveituptoherwhethershebrushedherteeth,butwhenIcameback,holdingthebrush,shewassittinguponherbed.
“Willyoubrushforme?”shesaid,hervoicealmostnormalafterthesulkymaliceofafewminutesago.Ifrowned.Wasn’teightabitoldtobehavingherteethbrushed?Whathadthebindersaid?Icouldn’tremember.
“Um…okay,”Isaidatlast.
Sheopenedhermouthlikeanobedientlittlebird,andIpoppedthetoothbrushin,butIhadn’tbeenbrushingformorethanafewsecondswhenshetwistedherheadawayfromthebrushandspatfullinmyface,agobofmintywhitephlegm,slidingdownmycheekandlipsandontomytop.
ForaminuteIcouldn’tspeak,couldn’tsayanything,andthen,beforeIhadtimetothinkwhatIwasdoing,myhandshotouttoslapherface.
Sheflinched,andwithwhatfeltlikeasuperhumaneffort,Istoppedmyself,myhandinchesfromherface,feelingmybreathfastandraggedinmychest.
Hereyesmetmine,andshebegantolaugh,totallywithoutmirth,akindofjoyless,cacklinggleethatmademewanttoshakeher.
Mywholebodywasshudderingwithadrenaline,andIknewhowcloseIhadcometoreallylettinggo—slappingthesmirkoffherknowinglittleface.IfshehadbeenmyownchildIwouldhavedoneit,noquestions.Myragehadbeenwhite-hotandabsolute.
ButIhadstoppedmyself.Ihadstopped.
Wasthatwhatitwouldlooklikeonthemonitorthough,ifSandrahadbeenwatching?
Icouldn’ttrustmyselftospeak.Instead,Igotup,leavingMaddielaughingthatjoyless,grindinglaughonthebed,andIwalkedshakilythroughtothebathroom,stillholdingthetoothbrush,andwithhandsthattrembledIwipedthetoothpastefrommyfaceandchest,andrinsedtheflecksofspitoutofmymouth.
ThenIstoodoverthebasin,lettingthetaprun,onehandoneithersideofceramicrim,feelingmywholebodyshakewithpentupsobs.
“Rowan?”Thecallcamefromdownstairs,faintoverthesoundofrunningwaterandmyownweepinggasps.ItwasJeanMcKenzie.“JackGrant’soutsidewi’thecar.”
“I’m—I’mcoming,”Imanagedback,hopingmyvoicedidn’tbetraymytears.ThenIsplashedwaterovermyface,driedmyeyes,andwalkedbackintothebedroom,whereMaddiewaswaiting.
“Okay,Maddie,”Isaid,keepingmyvoiceaslevelasIcould.“Timeforschool.Jack’soutsidewiththecar,let’snotkeephimwaiting.”
Andtomyunendingshock,shegotupcalmly,pickedupherschoolbag,andheadedforthestairs.
“CanIhaveabananainthecar?”shesaidoverhershoulder,andIfoundmyselfnodding,asifnothinghadhappened.
“Yes,”Isaid,hearingmyownvoiceinmyears,flatandemotionless.ThenIthought,Ihavetosaysomething,Ican’tletthisgo.“Maddie,aboutwhatjusthappened—youcannotspitatpeoplelikethat;it’sdisgusting.”
“What?”Sheturnedtolookatme,herfaceapictureofinjuredinnocence.“What?Isneezed.Icouldn’thelpit.”
Andthensherandowntherestoftheflightofstairsandouttothewaitingcar,asifthebitterstruggleofthelasttwentyminuteshadbeennothingbutafigmentofmyownimagination.
Ifoundmyselfwonderingwhohadwoninthatencounter,asIcheckedPetra’scarseatandbuckledmyselfinthefrontbesideJack.Andthenitstruckmewhatafucked-updynamicthisreallywas—thatmyrelationshipwiththisdamagedlittlegirlwasnotaboutcaringandcaregivingbutaboutwinninganddominanceandwar.
No.Nomatterwhattheoutcomeofthatsituationwas,Ihadn’twon.IhadlostthemomentIletMaddiemakeitintoabattle.
ButIhadn’thither.Whichmeantthat,ifnothingelse,Ihadtriumphedovermyownworstinstinct.
Ihadn’tletthedemonswin.Notthistime.
Astheschoolgateclangedshut,Ifeltakindofweakreliefcomeoverme,sothatIalmostsanktothepavement,mybacktotheironrailings,myfaceinmyhands.
Ihaddoneit.Ihaddoneit.Andnowmyrewardwasfivehoursofsomethingclosetorelaxation.IstillhadPetraofcourse—butfivehourswithherwasnothingcomparedtoEllie’suncomfortablemisery,andMaddie’sbittercampaignofvengeance.
SomehowthoughIstayeduprightandwalkedbackroundthecornertothesideroad,whereJackwaswaitinginthecar,withPetra.
“Success?”heaskedasIopenedthecardoorandslidinbesidehim,andIfeltagrincrackmyfacewide,unabletoconcealmyownrelief.
“Yes.They’rebehindbarsforthenextfewhoursanyway.”
“See?You’redoingagreatjob,”hesaidcomfortably,pressingontheacceleratorsothatweslidawayfromthecurbwiththeunnervinglysilenthumIhadcometoexpectfromthecar.
“Idon’tknowaboutthat,”Isaid,alittlebitterly..“Itwastouch-and-gogettingMaddieouttothecar,tobehonest.ButI’vesurvivedanothermorning,whichisprobablythemainthing.”
“Now,whatdoyouwanttodo?”Jackaskedpractically,aswedrovetowardsthecenterofthelittletownwherethegirls’primaryschoolwas.“Wecangostraightbacktothehouseifyou’vestufftobegettingonwith,orwecanstopoffforacoffee,ifyoulike,andIcanshowyouaweebitofCarnBridge.”
“Alittlebitofatourwouldbelovely.I’venotreallyhadachancetoseeanythingmuchapartfromHeatherbraeyet,andCarnBridgelookedreallyprettyaswewerecomingthrough.”
“Aye,it’sabonnylittleplace.Andit’sgotagoodcoffeeshoptoo,theParritchPot.It’sdownattheotherendofthevillage,butthere’snotmuchinthewayofstreetparkingthere,soI’llparkupbythekirk,andwecanwalkdownalongthehighstreet.andI’llshowyouwhatthereistosee.”
Tenminuteslater,IhadwrestledPetraintoherpramandwewerewalkingdownthemainstreetofCarnBridge,withJackpointingoutshopsandpubs,andnoddingattheoccasionalpasserby.Itwasaquaintlittleplace,somehowbuiltonasmallerscalethanyouexpectedfromafar,thegranitebuildingsneaterandnarrowerthantheyseemedfromadistance.Therewereemptyshopstoo,Isawonethathadoncebeenabutcher’sandanotherthatlookedlikeitmighthavebeenabookshoporastationer’s.JacknoddedwhenIpointedthemout.
“There’splentyofbighousesroundabout,butthelittleshopsstillfindithardgoing.Thetouristonesareallright,butthesmallplacescan’tcompetewiththesupermarketsforprice.”
TheParritchPotwasaneatlittleVictorianteashoprightatthebottomofthehighstreet,withabrassbellthatjangledasJackopenedthedoorandhelditformetomaneuverPetraacrossthethreshold.
Inside,amotherlylookingwomancameoutfrombehindthecountertowelcomeus.
“JackieGrant!Well,andit’sagoodwhilesinceyouwereinhereforapieceofcake.Howareyoudoing,mydear?”
“I’mwell,Mrs.Andrews,thankyou.Andhowareyou?”
“Och,well,Icannaecomplain.Andwho’syourladyfriend?”ShegavemealookIcouldn’tquitedecipher.Therewassomething…well,archwastheclosestwordIcouldfindtodescribeit,asiftherewassomethingmoreshecouldhavesaidbutwasholdingback.Perhapsitwasjustgoodold-fashionedcuriosity.Iwantedtorollmyeyes.Itwasn’tthe1950sanymore.Surelymenandwomenwereallowedtohaveacupofteawithoutsettingtongueswagging,eveninalittleplacelikeCarnBridge.
“Oh,thisisRowan,”Jacksaideasily.“Rowan,thisisMrs.Andrews,whorunstheteashop.RowanisthenewnannyupatHeatherbrae,Mrs.Andrews.”
“Oh,soyouare,mydear,”Mrs.Andrewssaid,herbrowclearing,andshesmiled.“JeanMcKenziedidtellme,anditslippedcleanoutmyhead.Well,it’sapleasuretomeetyou.Let’shopeyou’vemorestayingpowerthantheotherlassies.”
“Iheartheydidn’tlastlong?”Iventured.Mrs.Andrewslaughedandshookherhead.
“No,indeed.Butyoudon’tlooklikethetypetobeeasilyscared.”
IponderedherwordsasIunclippedPetrafromherpramandslidherintothehighchairJackhadfetchedfromthebackoftheteashop.Wasittrue?AfewdaysagoIwouldhavesaidso.Butnow,asIrememberedmyselflyingtherestiffandtremblinginbed,listeningtothecreak…creak…offootstepsaboveme,Iwasnotsosure.
“Jack,”Isaidatlast,afterwe’dplacedourorderandwerewaitingforourdrinkstoappear.“Doyouknowwhat’sabovemybedroom?”
“Aboveyourbedroom?”Helookedsurprised.“No,Ididn’tknowtherewasanotherfloorupthere.Isitastorageloft,oraproperattic?”
“Idon’tknow.I’veneverbeenupthere.Butthere’salockeddoorinmyroomthatI’massumingleadsupthere,and,well…”Iswallowed,unsurehowtophrasethis.“Ithought…well,Iheardsomeoddnoisesupthereacoupleofnightsago.”
“Rats?”heasked,oneeyebrowcocked,andIshrugged,tooembarrassedtotellthetruth.
“Idon’tknow.Maybe.Maybenotthough.Itsounded…”Iswallowedagain,tryingnottosaythewordthathoveredonthetipofmytongue—human.“Bigger.”
“Theymakeanawfulracketinthenight,oratleasttheycando.I’veabunchofkeyssomewhere,doyouwantmetohaveatrythisafternoon?”
“Thanks.”Therewasakindofcomfortinsharingmyfear,howeverguardedly,thoughIfeltlikesomethingofafoolnowthewordshadleftmylips.Afterall,whatwasIgoingtofindupthere,otherthandustandoldfurniture?Butitcouldn’thurt,andmaybetherewassomesimpleexplanation—awindowleftopen,anoldchairrockinginthedraught,alampswinginginthebreeze.“That’sreallykind.”
“Thereyougo,now.”Thevoicecamefrombehindus,andIturnedtoseeMrs.Andrewsholdingtwocoffees—propercappuccinos,madebyahumanbeing,ratherthanabloodyapp.Isetminetomylipsandtookalong,hotgulp,feelingitscaldtheinsideofmythroat,heatingmefromwithin,andforthefirsttimeinafewdays,Ifeltmyconfidencereturn.
“Thisisgreat,thankyou,”Isaid,toMrs.Andrews,andshesmiledcomfortably.
“Och,you’rewelcome.Idon’tsupposeit’sapatchonMr.andMrs.Elincourt’sfancymachineupatHeatherbrae,butwedoourbest.”
“Notatall,”Isaidwithalaugh,thinkingofmyreliefatdealingwitharealpersonforonce.“Actually,theircoffeemakerisabittoofancyforme,Ican’tgettogripswithit.”
“FromwhatJeanMcKenziesays,thewholehouseisabitlikethat,no?Shesaysthatyoutakeyourlifeinyourhandstryingtoturnonthelight.”
Ismiled,exchangingaquickglancewithJackbutsaidnothing.
“Well,itwouldn’tbemytaste,whatthey’vedonetoit,butit’snicethattheytooktheplaceonatleast,”Mrs.Andrewssaidatlast.Shewipedherhandsonherapron.“There’snotmanyroundherethatwouldhave,withthathistory.”
“Whathistory?”Ilookedup,startled,andshemadeashooingmotionwithherhand.
“Och,don’tlistentome.I’mjustagossipyauldwoman.Butthere’ssomethingaboutthathouse,youknow.It’sclaimedmorethanonechild.Thedoctor’slittlegirlwasn’tthefirst,byallaccounts.”
“Whatdoyoumean?”Itookanothergulpofcoffee,tryingtoquelltheuneaserisinginsideme.
“BackwhenitwasStruanHouse,”Mrs.Andrewssaid.Sheloweredhervoice.“TheStruanswereaveryoldfamilyandnotquite”—shepursedherlips,primly—“well,notquiterightinthehead,bytheend.Oneofthemkilledhiswifeandchild,drownedthembothinthebath,andanothercamebackfromthewarandshothimselfwithhisownrifle.”
Jesus.IhadasuddenflashoftheluxuriouslyappointedfamilybathroomatHeatherbrae,withtheoutsizetubandMoroccantiles.Itcouldn’tbethesamebathtub,butitmightconceivablybethesameroom.
“Iheardtherewas…apoisoning,”Isaiduncomfortably,andshenodded
“Aye,thatwasthedoctor,Dr.Grant.Hecametothehouseinthefifties,afterthelastStruansoldupandmovedovertheborder.Hepoisonedhislittlegirl,orsotheysay.Some’lltellyoubyaccident,others—”
Butshebrokeoff.Anothercustomerhadcomein,settingthebellabovethedoorjangling,andMrs.Andrewssmoothedherapronandturnedawaywithasmile.
“Butlistentomerattlingon.It’sjustidlegossipandsuperstition.Youshouldn’tpayanyheed.Well,hello,Caroline.AndwhatcanIgetforyouthismorning?”
Asshemovedawaytoserveherothercustomer,Iwatchedhergo,wonderingwhatshehadmeant.ButthenIshookmyself.Shewasright.Itwasjustsuperstition.Allhousesaboveacertainagehadexperienceddeathsandtragedies,andthefactthatachildhaddiedatHeatherbraedidn’tmeananything.
Stillthough,Ellie’swordsranginmyheadasItiedPetra’sbibmorefirmlyunderherchinanddugoutthepotofricecakes.
Therewasanotherlittlegirl.
***
WetookthelongwayroundbacktoHeatherbraeHouse,drivingslowlyalongpastpeat-darkburnsandthroughsun-dappledpineforests.PetrasnoozedinthebackasJackpointedoutlocallandmarks—aruinedcastle,anabandonedfort,aVictorianstationdecommissionedlongago.Inthedistancethemountainsloomed,andItriedtokeeptrackofthepeaksthatJacknamed.
“Doyoulikehillwalking?”heasked,aswewaitedatajunctionwiththemainroadforalorrytopass,andIrealizedthatIdidn’tknowtheanswertohisquestion.
“I—Well,I’mnotreallysure.I’veneverdoneit.Ilikewalking,Iguess.Why?”
“Oh…well…”Therewasasuddenhesitationinhisvoice,andwhenIlookedsidewaysathim,therewasaflushofredacrosshischeekbones.“Ijustthought…youknow…whenSandraandBillarebackandyourweekendsareyourownagain,perhapswemight…IcouldtakeyouuponeoftheMunros.Ifyoulikedtheidea.”
“I…do,”Isaid,andthenitwasmyturntoblush.“Idoliketheidea.Imean,ifyoudon’tmindmebeingslow…IsupposeI’dhavetogetbootsandstuff.”
“You’dneedgoodshoes.Andwaterproofs.Theweathercanturnveryfastuponthemountain.But—”
Hisphonegavealittlechirrup,andheglanceddownatit,andthenfrowned,andhandeditacrosstome.
“Sorry,Rowan,that’sfromBill.D’youmindtellingmewhathesays?Idon’twanttoreaditwhileI’mdriving,buthedoesn’tnormallytextunlessit’surgent.”
Ipressedthetextonthehomescreenandapreviewflashedup,allIcouldseewithoutunlockingthephone,butitwasenough.
“‘Jack,urgentlyneedthehardcopiesofthePembertonfilesbytonight.Pleasedropeverythingandbringthem—’Andthat’swhereitcutsoff.”
“Fuck,”Jacksaid,andthenglancedguiltilyintherearviewmirrortowherePetrawassleeping.“Sorry,Ididn’tmeantoswear,butthat’smyafternoonandeveninggone,andmostoftomorrowtoo.Ihadplans.”
Ididn’taskwhathisplanswere.Ifeltonlyasuddenswoopof…notquiteloss…notquitefeareither…butasortofuneaseattherealizationthathewouldbegoneandIwouldbequitealonewiththechildrenforthebestpartoftwenty-fourhours,bythetimeJackhaddrivendown,rested,andthendrivenback.
Itmeantsomethingelse,too,Irealized,aswecameoutofthedarktunnelofpinetreesintotheJunesunlight:nopossibilityoftryingtheatticdooruntilhegotback.
***
Jackleftalmostassoonaswegotback,andalthoughIhadgratefullyacceptedhisoffertotakethedogswithhim,andrelievemeoftheresponsibilitytofeedandwalkthemontopofeverythingelse,thehousehadanunfamiliar,quietfeelingtoitaftertheyhadallgone.IfedPetraandputherdownforhernap,andthenIsatforawhileinthecavernouskitchen,drummingmyfingersontheconcretetabletopandwatchingthechangingskyoutofthetallwindows.Itreallywasanincredibleview,andindaylightlikethis,IcouldseewhySandraandBillhadhewnthehouseinhalfthewaytheyhad,sacrificingVictorianarchitectureforthisallencompassingexpanseofhillandmoor.
Still,though,itleftanoddsensationofvulnerability—thewaythefoursquarefrontlookedsoneatanduntouched,whileatthebackithadbeenrippedopen,exposingallthehouse’sinsides.Likeapatientwholookedwellenoughabovetheirclothesbutlifttheirshirtandyouwouldfindtheirwoundshadbeenleftunstitched,bleedingout.Therewasastrangefeelingofsplitidentitytoo—asthoughthehousewastryinghardtobeonething,whileSandraandBillpulleditrelentlesslyintheotherdirection,choppingofflimbs,performingopen-heartsurgeryonitsdignifiedoldbones,tryingtomakeitintosomethingagainstitsownwill—somethingitwasnevermeanttobe,modernandstylishandslick,whereitwantedtobesolidandself-effacing.
Theghostswouldn’tlikeit…IhearditagaininMaddie’sreedylittlevoiceandshookmyhead.Ghosts.Howabsurd.Justfolktalesandrumors,andasadoldman,livinghereafterthedeathofhischild.
ItwasmoreforwantofanythingelsetodothatIopenedupmyphone,typedin“HeatherbraeHouse,child’sdeath,poisongarden.”
Mostoftheearlyresultswereirrelevant,butasIscrolleddownanddown,Icameatlasttoalocal-interestblog,writtenbysomesortofamateurhistorian.
“STRUAN—StruanHouse(nowrenamedHeatherbrae)nearCarnBridge,inScotland,isanothercuriosityforgardenhistorians,beingoneofthefewremainingpoisongardensintheUnitedKingdom(anotherbeingthefamousexampleatAlnwickCastleinNorthumberland).Originallyplantedinthe1950sbytheanalyticalchemistKenwickGrant,itisthoughttofeaturesomeoftherarestandmostpoisonousexamplesofdomesticplants,withaparticularfocusonvarietiesnativetoScotland.Sadly,thegardenwasallowedtofallintodisrepairafterthedeathofGrant’syoungdaughter,Elspeth,whodiedin1973,ageeleven,having,accordingtolocallegend,accidentallyingestedoneoftheplantsinthegarden.Althoughinitsdayoccasionallyopentoresearchersandmembersofthepublic,Dr.Grantclosedthegardencompletelyafterhisdaughter’sdeath,andafterhehimselfpassedawayin2009,thehousewassoldtoaprivatebuyer.Sincethesale,StruanhasbeenrenamedHeatherbraeHouse,andit’sbelievedthatithasbeenthesubjectofextensiveremodeling.Itisunknownwhatremainsofthepoisongarden,butitistobehopedthatthecurrentownersappreciatethehistoricalandbotanicalimportanceofthispieceofScottishhistoryandmaintainDr.Grant’slegacywiththerespectitdeserves.”
Therewerenophotographs,butIreturnedtogoogleandtypedin“Dr.KenwickGrant.”Itwasanunusualname,andtherewerefewresults,butmostofthepicturesthatcameupseemedtobeofthesameman.Thefirstwasablack-and-whitepictureofamanagedperhapsforty,withaneatlyclippedgoatlikebeardandsmallwire-framedspectacles,standinginfrontofwhatlookedlikethewroughtirongateofthewalledgardenwhereMaddie,Ellie,andIhadenteredthedaybefore.Hewasnotsmiling,hisfacehadthelookofonethatdidn’tsmileeasily,withanexpressionnaturallyseriousinrepose,buttherewasakindofprideinhisstance.
Thenextphotographmadeasadcontrast.Itwasanotherblack-and-whiteshot,recognizablythesameman,butthistimeDr.Grantwasinhisfifties.Hisexpressionwastotallydifferent,adistortedmaskofemotionthatcouldhavebeengrief,orfear,oranger,oramixofallthree.Heseemedtoberunningtowardsanunseenphotographer,hishandoutstretched,eithertopushthecameraawayorshieldhisownface,itwasnotclearwhich.Behindthegoatlikebeardhismouthwastwistedintoasnarlinggrimacethatmademeflinch,eventhroughthetinyscreen,andthepassageofdecades.
Thefinalphotographwasincolor,anditwasashotthatseemedtohavebeentakenthroughthebarsofagate.Itshowedanelderlyman,stoopedandbent,wearingabuffoverallandawide-brimmedhatthatshadedhisface.Hewasextremelythin,tothepointofemaciation,andleaningonastick,andhisglasseswerethickandfogged,buthewasstaringfiercelyatthepersontakingthephoto,hisfreehandupraisedinabonyfist,asthoughthreateningtheviewer.Iclickedonthepicture,tryingtofindoutthecontextfortheshot,buttherewasnone.ItwasjustaPinterestpage,withnoinformationonwherethepicturehadbeenfound.Dr.KenwickGrant,thecaptionread,2002.
AsIcloseddownthephone,myoverwhelmingemotionwasakindofdesperatesadness—forDr.Grant,forhisdaughter,andforthishouse,whereithadallhappened.
Unabletositinsilencewithmythoughtsanylonger,Igotup,putthebabymonitorinmypocket,andgrabbingaballofcaterers’stringfromthedrawerbythecooker,Ileftthehousebytheutility-roomdoor,tracingthepaththegirlshadshownmethedaybefore.
***
Thesunofthemorninghadgonein,andIwascoldbythetimeIreachedthecobbledpaththatledtothepoisongarden.ItwasstrangetothinkitwasJune—downinLondonIwouldhavebeensweatinginshortskirtsandsleevelesstops,andcursingtheshittyairconatLittleNippers.Uphere,almosthalfwaytothearcticcircle,Iwasbeginningtoregretnottakingmycoat.ThebabymonitorwassilentinmypocketasIreachedthegateandslippedmyhandthroughthemetalworktotrytotripthecatch,asElliehaddone.
Itwasmoredifficultthanshehadmadeitlook.Itwasnotjustthefactthattheholeinthewroughtironwastoonarrowformyhandtofitcomfortably,itwasalsotheangle.EvenafterIhadforcedmyhandthrough,swearingastherustrippedskinoffmyknuckles,Icouldnotgetmyfingerstothecatch.
Ichangedposition,kneelingonthedampcobbles,feelingthechillstrikeupthroughthethinmaterialofmysheertights,andatlastmanagedtogetafingertiptothetongueofthelatch.Ipressed,pressedharder…andthenthegateopenedwithaclangandIalmostfellforwardontothewornbricks.
ItwashardtobelievethatIhadevermistakenitforaregulargarden.NowthatIknewitshistory,thewarningsignswereeverywhere.Fat,blacklaurelberries,thethinneedlesofyew,stragglingpatchesofself-seededfoxglove,clumpsofnettles,whichIhadtakentobeweedswhenIfirstenteredthegardenbutwhich,Inowsaw,borearustedmetaltagdugdeepintotheearth,labeledUrticadioica.Andotherstoo,thatIdidnotrecognize—aplantwithflamboyantmauveflowers,anotherthatbrushedmylegwithasensationliketinyneedles.Apatchofsomethingthatlookedlikesagebutmusthavebeensomethingverydifferent.And,asIpushedopenthedoorofatumbledownshed,aprofusionofmushroomsandtoadstools,stillsproutinggamelyinthedark.
IcouldnotsuppressashudderasIdrewthedoorquietlyshut,feelingthedampwoodgrateontheflags.Somanypoisons—sometempting,somedecidedlynot.Somefamiliar,andsomeIwascertainIhadneverseenbefore.SomesobeautifulIwantedtobreakoffabranchandstickitinajuginthekitchen—exceptthatIdidnotdare.Eventhefamiliarplantsinthesesurroundingslookedstrangeandominous—nolongergrownfortheirlovelyflowersandcolors,butfortheirdeadliness.
IhuggedmyarmsaroundmybodyasIwalked,partlytoprotectmyself,butthegardenwassoovergrownthatitwasimpossibletoavoidbrushingupagainsttheplantscompletely.Thetouchoftheleavesfeltlikepricklesonmyskin,andIwasunabletotellanymorewhichplantsweretoxictotouch,orwhetheritwaspureparanoiaonmypartthatsentmyskinitchingandtinglingwhenIbrushedpast.
ItwasonlywhenIturnedtoleavethatInoticedsomethingelse—asetofpruningshears,sittingonthelowbrickwallholdingbackoneofthebeds.Theywerenewandbright,notintheleastrusted,andlookingup,Isawthatthebushabovemyheadhadbeenpruned—notmuch,butenoughtoclearthepath.Andfurtherup,Isawthatapieceofgardentwinehadbeenusedtoholdbackaswagofcreeper.
Infact,themoreIlooked,themoreIwassure—thisgardenwasnotasneglectedasitappeared.Someonehadbeentendingtoit—andnotMaddieorEllie.Nochildwouldhavethoughtofneatlycuttingbackthathangingbranch—theywouldhavesnappeditoff,orjustduckedunderit,iftheywereeventallenoughtonotice.
Sowhothen?NotSandra.Iwassureofthat.JeanMcKenzie?JackGrant?
Thenamesoundedinmyheadwithacuriouschime.Jack…Grant.
Itwasn’tanuncommonsurname,particularlyaroundhere,but…still.Dr.KenwickGrant.Coulditreallybecoincidence?
AsIstood,wondering,thebabymonitorinmypocketgavealittlegrumblingsquawk,recallingmetoreality,andIrememberedwhatIhadcomeheretodo.
Pickinguptheshears,Ihurriedbacktothegate,andpulleditfirmlyshutbehindmyself.Theclangasitclosedsetaflockofbirdsrisingintotheskyfrompinetreesuptheslope,andseemedtoechobackatmefromthehillsopposite,butIwasintoomuchofahurrynowtocare.
Takingthestringoutofmypocket,IclippedoffagenerouslengthandthenIstoodontiptoesandbegantowinditroundandroundthetopofthegate,abovetheheightofmyownhead,wherenochildcouldpossiblyreach,twiningitinandoutoftheornatefittingandroundthebricklintelabove,untilatlastthestringwasusedup,andthegatewastotallysecure.ThenItieditinagrannyknot,wrappingtheendsaroundmyfingersandpullingthestringtightuntilmyfingertipswentwhite.
Thebabymonitorinmypocketwailedagain,moredeterminedlythistime,butIwassurenowthatthegatewassecure,andthatnothingshortofaladderwouldenableMaddieandEllietobreakinthistime.Droppingtheshearsintomypocket,IpickedupmyphoneandpressedtheHappyappicon.
“Coming,Petra.There,there,sweetheart,noneedtocry,I’mcoming.”
AndIranupthecobbledpathtothehouse.
***
ThenextfewhoursweretakenupwithPetra,andthenfiguringouthowtodrivetheTeslatocollectthegirlsfromschool.JackhadtakentheElincourts’secondcar,aLandRover,withhimtomeetBill,andhadgivenmeaquickcrashcourseindrivingtheTeslabeforeheleft,butitwasanundeniablydifferentstyleandittookmeafewmilestogetusedtoit—noclutch,nogears,andastrangeslowingeverytimeyoutookyourfootofftheaccelerator.
Thegirlswerebothtiredaftertheirdayatschool.Theysaidnothingaswedrovehome,andtheafternoonandeveningpassedwithoutincident.Theyatesupper,tookturnsplayingonthetablet,andthengotintotheirpajamasandclimbedintobedwithbarelyapeep.WhenIwentupateighttoturnouttheirlightsandtuckthemin,Iheardanadult’svoice,comingoverthespeakers.
Atfirst,Ithoughtthattheywerelisteningtoanaudiobook,butthenIheardMaddiesaysomething,hersmallvoiceinaudiblethroughthedoor,andtheamplifiedvoiceonthespeakersreplied,“Ohdarling,welldone!Tenoutoften!I’mveryproudofyou.Andwhataboutyou,Ellie?Haveyoubeenpracticingyourspellingstoo?”
ItwasSandra.Shehaddialedintothechildren’sroomandwastalkingtothembeforetheyfellasleep.
ForamomentIstood,hoveringoutsidethedoor,myhandonthedoorknob,listeningtotheirconversation,halfhoping—halffearing—tohearsomethingaboutmyself.
Butinstead,IheardSandratellthegirlstosnuggledown,thelightsdimmed,andshebegantosingalullaby.
Therewassomethingsoloving,sopersonalaboutthesimpleact,Sandra’svoicewaveringoverthehighnotes,andtrippingoveranawkwardlyric,thatIwasleftfeelinglikeaneavesdropper.Iwanted,morethananything,toopenthedoor,tiptoein,andcuddleMaddieandEllie,kisstheirhotlittleforeheads,tellthemhowluckytheyweretohaveamotherwhoatleastwantedtobethere,evenifshecouldn’t.
ButIknewthatwouldbreaktheillusionthattheirmotherwasreallypresent,andIbackedaway.IfSandrawantedtospeaktome,nodoubtshewoulddialdowntothekitchenaftershehadfinished.
WhileIateandtidiedup,Iwaited,slightlynervously,forthesoundofhervoice,cracklingovertheintercom,butitdidn’tcome.By9:00p.m.thehousewassilentandIlockedupandwenttobedwithafeelinglikewalkingoneggshells.
AfterIhaddonemyteethandturnedoutthelights,Ilaydowninbed,feelingmylimbsachewithweariness.Myphonewasinmyhand,butinsteadofpluggingitintochargeandgoingstraighttosleep,IfoundmyselfgooglingDr.Grantagain.
Istaredathisphotoforalongtime,thinkingofMrs.Andrews’swordsinthecafé.Therewassomethingaboutthecontrastbetweenthatfirstpictureandthelastthatwasalmostshocking,somethingthatspokeoflongnightsofgriefandagony—perhapseveninthisveryroom.Whathaditbeenliketolivehereallthoseyears,withthelocalgossipswirlingaroundhim,andthememoriesofhisdaughtersostarkandpainful?
Returningtothesearchscreen,ItypedinElspethGrantdeathCarnBridgeandwaitedasthelinkscameup.
Therewasnophoto—atleastnonethatIcouldfind.Andshehadnothadmuchofanobituary,justapassageintheCarnBridgeObserver(nowdefunct),statingthatElspethGrant,muchloveddaughterofDr.KenwickGrantandthelateAilsaGrant,haddiedinStVincent’sCottageHospitalon21stOctober1973,agedelevenyears.
Anotherbriefpieceafewweekslater,thistimeintheInvernessGazette,recordedtheresultsofapostmortemandinquestonElspeth’sdeath.ItseemedshehaddiedfromeatingPrunuslaurocerasus,orcherrylaurelberries,whichhadbeenaccidentallymadeintojam.Theberrieswereapparentlyeasilymistakenforcherriesorelderberries,byinexperiencedforagers,anditwasthoughtthatthechildhadgatheredthemherselfandbroughtthemtothehousekeeper,whohadsimplytippedthemintothepanwithoutchecking.Dr.Grantneveratejamhimself,preferringporridgeandsalt,thehousekeeperdidnotliveinandtookhermealsatherownhouseinthevillage,andElspeth’snannyhadresignedherpostalmosttwomonthsbeforetheincident,soElspethwastheonlypersontoingestthepoison.Shehadbecomeunwellalmoststraightawayandhaddiedofmultipleorganfailure,inspiteofstrenuouseffortstosaveher.
Averdictofmisadventurewasbrought,andnochargeswerefiledasaresultofherdeath.
So.Elspethhadbeentheonlypersonwhowaseverindangerofeatingthatjam.Icouldseewhygossiphadarisen—thoughquitewhyithadsettledonDr.Grant,andnottheunnamedhousekeeper,wasunclear.Perhapsithadbeenacaseoflocalpeoplelookingaftertheirown.Andwhatofthenanny?Shehadresigned“justtwomonthsbefore,”accordingtothewriterofthepiece,managingtoputthesimplephraseinsuchawayastomakeitsoundbothinnocentandsuggestive,butpresumablyshecouldhavehadnothingtodowiththeincident,oritwouldhavebeenraisedattheinquest.HerabsencehadbeennotedpurelyinconnectionwiththefactthatElspethhadbeenunsupervisedatthetimeofpickingtheberries,andtherefore,byinference,morelikelytomakeaslipconcerningidentificationoftheplants.
ThemoreIponderedtheideathough,themoreproblemsthereseemedtobewiththesuggestionthatElspethhadgatheredtheberriesbyaccident.Iwasa1990schildofthesuburbs,totallyunusedtofruitpicking,andevenIhadavagueideaofwhatlaurellookedlike,comparedtoelderberry.Wouldthedaughterofapoisonsexpert,withalockedgardenexplicitlydedicatedtodeadlyplantsreallymakesuchaslip?
Rereadingthepiece,Ifeltasuddensurgeofsympathyforthenanny,themissinglinkinthecase.Shewasnotinterviewed.Whateverhadbecomeofherwasnotstated.Butshehadmissed,byjustafewweeks,thepossibilityofbeingembroiledinscandal.Whatfuturewasthereforanannywhosechildhaddiedinhercare,afterall?Averybleakoneindeed.
***
I’mnotsurewhenfinallyIdriftedoff,myphonestillinmyhand,butIknowthatitwasverylatewhenasuddensoundjerkedmefromsleep.Itwasading-dongnoise,likeadoorbell,notoneofmyusualalerts.Isatup,blinkingandrubbingmyeyes,andthenrealizedthenoisewascomingfrommyphone.Istaredatthescreen.TheHappyappwasflashing.Doorbellsounding,readthescreen.Itcameagain,alowbing-bongthatseemedtobeabletooverrideallmydo-not-disturbsettings.WhenIpressedtheiconamessageflashedup.Opendoor?Confirm/Cancel.
Ihastilypressedcancel,andclickedthroughtothecameraicon.Thescreenshowedmeaviewofthefrontdoor,buttheoutsidelightwasnoton,andinsidetheshelteroftheporchIcouldseenothingbutgrainypixelateddarkness.HadJackcomeback?Hadheforgottenhiskeys?Eitherway,asthedoorbellsoundedforthethirdtime,Icouldhearthechimesfilteringupthestairwellaswellascomingoutofmyphone,andIknewIhadtoansweritbeforethenoisewokethegirls.
Theroomwasunnaturallycold,andIpulledonmydressinggownbeforepaddingquietlydownstairs,myfeetsoftonthethickcarpetrunner,pickingmywayinthesemidarknessbutnotwantingtoturnonthelightsandriskwakingthechildren.InthehallwayIhadamoment’sstrugglewiththethumbpanel,andthenthedoorswungsilentlyopentoreveal…nothing.
Itwasquitedark.TheLandRover’sparkingspacewasstillempty,andnoneofthemotion-sensitivesecuritylightsaroundtheyardwereon,thoughtheporchlightflickedonassoonasIsteppedoverthethreshold,detectingmypresence.Ishadedmyeyesagainstitsharshglareandpeeredacrosstheyardanddownthedrive,shiveringslightlyinthecoolnightair.Nothing.TherewerenolightsoninJack’sflateither.Hadsomethingtriggereditbymistake?
Closingthedoor,Imademywayslowlybackuptowardsmybedroom,butIwasbarelyhalfwayupthesecondflightwhenthebellsoundedagain.
Damnit.
Withasigh,Ibeltedmydressinggowntighterandmademywaybackdownstairs,hurryingthistime.
ButwhenIwrenchedopenthedoor,again,therewasnoonethere.
IslammedthedoorharderthanImeanttothistime,thetirednessmakingmyfrustrationboiloverforasecond,andIstoodinthedarkofthehallway,holdingmybreathandlisteningforasoundfromupstairs,therisingsirenofPetra’swailperhaps.Butnonecame.
Nevertheless,thistime,insteadofsettingbackupstairstomyownroom,IstoppedandpeeredinatPetra,sleepingpeacefully,andthenintoMaddieandEllie’sroom.Inthesoftglowoftheirnight-lightIcouldseebothofthemlyingfastasleep,sweatyhairstrewnacrossthepillows,theircherubiclittlemouthsopen,theirsoftsnoresbarelydisturbingthequiet.Theylookedsosmallandvulnerableinsleep,bothofthem,andmyheartclenchedatmyangertowardsMaddiethatmorning.ItoldmyselfthattomorrowIwoulddobetter—thatIwouldrememberhowyoungshewas,howdisorientingitmustbetobeleftwithawomanshebarelyknew.Eitherway,itwasclearlynotoneofthemplayingwiththedoorbell,andIshutthedoorsoftlyandmademywaybackupstairstomyroom.
Itwasstillverycold,andasIclosedthedoorbehindme,thecurtainsbillowedout,andIrealizedwhy.Thewindowwasopen.
IfrownedasIwalkedacrosstoit.
Itwasopen,andnotjustslightly,asifsomeonehadwantedtoairtheroom,butcompletelyopen,thebottomsashpushedupashighasitwouldgo.Almost—thethoughtcameunbidden—asifsomeonehadbeenleaningouttosmokeacigarette,thoughthatwasabsurd.
Nowondertheroomwascold.Well,itwaseasilysolvableatleast—easierthanbattlingwiththecontrolpanelatanyrate.Thecurtains,doors,lights,gates,andeventhecoffeemachineinthisplacemightbeautomated,butthewindowsatleastwerestillVictorianoriginals,blessedlyoperatedbyhand.ThankGod.
Iyankedthesashdown,drewthebrasscatchacross,andthenscamperedbackintothestill-warmsanctuaryofthefeatherduvet,shiveringpleasurablyasIsnuggledbackintoitsfolds.
IwasdriftingbackofftosleepwhenIheardit…notthedoorbellthistime,butasingle,solitarycreeeeak.
Isatupinbed,myphoneclutchedtomybreast.Shit.Shitshitshit
Butthenextsounddidnotcome.HadImisheard?Wasitnotthefootstepsthathadwokenmethenightbefore,butsomethingelse…?Justabranchinthewind,perhaps,oranexpandingfloorboard?
Icouldhearnothingapartfromthewhooshofmyownbloodinmyownears,andatlastIlayslowlybackdown,stillclutchingmyphoneinmyhand,andshutmyeyesagainstthedarkness.
Butmysenseswereonhighalert,andsleepseemedimpossible.FormorethanfortyminutesIlaythere,feelingmypulsethumping,feelingmythoughtsracewithamixtureofparanoiaandwildsuperstitions.
Andthen,halfasI’dfeared,halfasI’dbeenwaitingfor,itcameagain.
Creeeeak…
Andthen,afterthesmallestofpauses,creak…creak…creak…
Thistimetherewasnodoubt—itwaspacing.
Myheartleaptintomythroatwithakindofnauseatinglurch,andmypulsespedupsofastthatforamomentIthoughtIwouldfaint,butthenangertookover.Ijumpedoutofbedandrantothelockeddoorinthecorneroftheroom,whereIknelt,peeringthroughthekeyhole,myheartlikeadruminmychest.
Ifeltabsurdlyvulnerable,kneelingthereinmynightclotheswithoneeyewide-openandpressedtoadarkhole,andforamomentIhadasick,joltingfantasyofsomeoneshovingsomethingthroughthehole,atoothpickperhaps,orasharpenedpencil,roughlypiercingmycornea,andIfellback,blinking,myeyewateringwiththedustydraft.
Buttherewasnothingthere.Notoothpick,maliciouslyblindingme.Nothingtoseeeither.Justtheunendingblackness,andthecool,dust-ladenbreezeofstaleatticair.Eveniftherewasaturninthestair,oracloseddooratthetop,withalightonintheatticitself,somelightwouldhaveescapedtopollutetheinkydarkofthestairs.Buttherewasnothing.Noteventhesmallestglimmer.Iftherewassomeoneupthere,whatevertheyweredoing,theyweredoingitinthedark.
Creak…creak…creak…itcameagain,unbearableinitsregularity.Thenapause,andthenagain,creak…creak…creak…
“Icanhearyou!”Ishoutedatlast,unabletosittherelisteninginsilenceandfearanylonger.Iputmymouthtothekeyhole,myvoiceshakingwithamixofangryterror.“Icanhearyou!Whatthefuckareyoudoingupthere,yousicko?Howdareyou?I’mcallingthepolicesoyou’dbettergetthefuckoutofthere!”
Butthestepsdidn’tevenfalter.MyvoicediedawayasifIhadshoutedintoanemptyvoid.Creak…creak…creak…andthen,justasbefore,alittlepause,andtheyresumedwithouttheslightestlossofrhythm.Creak…creak…creak…AndIknewintruththatofcourseIwouldn’tcallthepolice.WhatthefuckcouldIsay?“Oh,please,Constable,there’sacreakingsoundcomingfrommyattic”?TherewasnopolicestationcloserthanInverness,andtheywouldhardlybetakingroutinecallsinthemiddleofthenight.Myonlyoptionwas999—andeveninmyshakingstateoffear,Ihadaprettygoodideawhattheoperatorwouldsayifahystericalwomanrangtheemergencynumberinthemiddleofthenightclaimingspookysoundswerecomingfromherattic.
IfonlyJackwerehere,ifonlysomeonewerehere,apartfromthreelittlegirlsIwaspaidtoprotect,notscareevenfurther.
OhGod.SuddenlyIcouldnotbearitanylonger,andIunderstoodwhatdarkterrorshaddriventhosefourpreviousnanniesoutoftheirpostandaway.Toliehere,nightafternight,listening,waiting,staringintothedarknessatthatlockeddoor,thatopenkeyholegapingintoblackness…
TherewasnothingIcoulddo.Icouldgoandsleepinthelivingroom,butifthenoisesstarteddownthereaswell,IthoughtImightloseitcompletely,andtherewassomethingalmostworseabouttheideaofthosesoundscontinuingupintheatticwhileI,ignorant,sleptdownbelow.AtleastifIwashere,watching,listening,whateverwasuptherecouldnot…
Iswallowedinthedarkness,mythroatdry.Mypalmsweresweating,andIcouldnotfinishthethought.
Iwouldnotsleepagaintonight,Iknewthatnow.
Instead,Iwrappedmyselfintheduvet,shiveringhard,turnedonthelight,andsat,withmyphoneinmyhand,listeningtothesteady,rhythmicsoundofthefeetpacingaboveme.AndIthoughtofDr.Grant,theoldmanwhohadlivedherebefore,themanSandraandBillhaddonetheirverybesttogetridof,paintingandscouringandremodelinguntiltherewasbarelyatraceofhimleft,exceptforthathorriblepoisongarden,behinditslockedgate.
Andexcept,perhaps,whateverpacedthatatticinthenight.
Iheardthewordsagain,inMaddie’scoldlittlematter-of-factvoice,asifshewerebesideme,whisperinginmyear.Afterawhilehestoppedsleeping.Hejustusedtopacebackwardsandforwardsallnightlong.Thenhewentmad.Peopledogomad,youknow,ifyoustopthemfromsleepingforlongenough…
WasIgoingmad?Wasthatwhatthiswas?
Jesus.Thiswasridiculous.Peopledidn’tgomadfromtwonight’slackofsleep.Iwasbeingcompletelymelodramatic.
Andyet,asthefootstepspassedabovemeagain,slowandrelentless,Ifeltakindofpanicriseupinsideme,possessingme,andIcouldnotstopmyeyesturningtowardsthelockeddoor,imaginingitopening,theslowtread,treadofoldfeetonthestairsinside,andthenthatcadaverous,hollowfacecomingtowardsmeinthedarkness,thebonyarmoutstretched.
Elspeth…
Itwasasoundnotcomingfromabove,butinmyownmind—adeathrattlecryofagriefstrickenfatherforhislostchild.Elspeth…
Butthedoordidnotopen.Noonecame.Andyetstillaboveme,hourafterhour,thosestepscontinued.Creak…creak…creak…theceaselesspacingofsomeoneunabletorest.
Icouldnotbringmyselftoturnoutthelight.Notthistime.Notwiththoseceaseless,restlessfootstepsaboveme.
Instead,Ilaythere,onmyside,facingthelockeddoor,myphoneinmyhand,watching,waiting,untilthefloorbeneaththewindowoppositemybedbegantolightenwiththecomingofdawn,andatlastIgotup,stiff-limbedandnauseouswithtiredness,andmademywaydowntothewarmthofthekitchentomakemyselfthestrongestcupofcoffeeIcouldbeartodrink,andtrytofacetheday.
Downstairswasemptyandechoing,eerilyquietwithoutthesnuffling,huffingpresenceofthedogs.Iwassurprisedtofindthatapartofmemissedthedistractionoftheirquestingnosesandconstantbeggingfortreats.
AsImademywayacrossthehalltothekitchen,IfoundIwaspickingupatreasuretrailofthegirlspossessions—ascatterofcrayonsonthehallrug,aMyLittlePonyabandonedbeneaththebreakfastbarandthen—oddly—asinglepurpleflower,wilting,inthemiddleofthekitchenfloor.Ibentdown,puzzled,wonderingwhereithadcomefrom.Itwasjustasinglebloom,anditlookedasifithadfallenfromabouquetordroppedfromahouseplant,buttherewerenoflowersinthisroom.Hadoneofthegirlspickedit?Butifso,when?
Itseemedashametoletitdie,soIfilledacoffeemugwithwaterandstuckthestemintoit,andthenputitonthekitchentable.Perhapsitwouldrevive.
Iwasquietlynursingmysecondcupofcoffeeandwatchingthesunriseabovethehillstotheeastofthehouse,whenthevoicecame,seeminglyfromnowhere.
“Rowan…”
Itwasareedyquaver,barelyaudible,andyetsomehowloudenoughtoechoaroundthesilentkitchen,anditmademejumpsothatscaldingcoffeesloppedovermywristandthesleeveofmydressinggown.
“Shit,”Ibeganmoppingup,twistingatthesametimetoseethesourceofthevoice.Therewasnoonethere,atleast,noonevisible.
“Who’sthere?”Icalled,andthistimeIheardacreakfromthedirectionofthestairs,asinglecreak,soeerilylikethoseofthenightbeforethatmyheartskippedabeat.“Whoisit?”Icalledagain,moreaggressivelythanIhadintended,andstrodeangrilyoutintothehallway.
Abovemeasmallfigurehesitatedatthetopofthestairs.Ellie.Herfacewasworried,herliptrembling.
“Oh,sweetheart…”Ifeltinstantlycontrite.“I’msorry,youscaredme.Ididn’tmeantosnap.Comedown.”
“I’mnotallowed,”shesaid.Shehadablanketinherhands,twistingthesilkytrimbetweenherfingers,andwithherbottomlipstuckoutandwobblingdangerouslyclosetotears,shelookedsuddenlymuchyoungerthanherfiveyears.
“Ofcourseyouare.Whosaysyou’renotallowed?”
“Mummy.We’renotallowedoutofourroomsuntilthebunnyclock’searsgoup.”
Oh.SuddenlyIrememberedtheparagraphinthebinderaboutEllie’searlyrising,andtheruleabouttheHappybunnyclock,whichclickedovertothewide-awakebunnyatsix.Ilookedbackthroughthearchtothekitchenclock—5:47.
Well,Icouldn’texactlycontradictSandra’srule…butherewewere,andtherewasalargepartofmethatwasrelievedtoseeanotherhumanbeing.SomehowwithElliearound,theghostsofthenightbeforeseemedtoretreatbackintoabsurdity.
“Well…,”Isaidslowly,tryingtopickmywaybetweenbackingupmyemployer,andcompassiontoasmallchildhoveringonthevergeofcrying.“Well,you’reupnow.Justthisonce,Ithinkwecanpretendthebunnywokeupearly.”
“ButwhatwillMummysay?”
“Iwon’ttellanyoneifyoudon’t,”Isaid,andthenbitmylip.It’soneofthecardinalrulesofchildcare—don’taskachildtokeepsecretsfromaparent.That’sthepathtoallkindsofriskybehaviorandmisunderstandings.ButI’dsaiditnow,andhopefullyElliehadreaditasalightheartedremarkratherthananinvitationtoconspireagainsthermother.Icouldn’thelpbutglanceupatthecamerainthecorner—butsurelySandrawouldn’tbeawakeat6:00a.m.unlessshehadtobe.“Comeondownandwe’llhaveahotchocolatetogetherandthenwhenthebunnywakesupyoucangoupandgetdressed.”
Downinthekitchen,Elliesatononeofthehighstools,kickingherheelsagainstthelegsofthechair,whileIheatedupmilkontheinductionhobandstirredinhotchocolatepowder.AsElliedrank,andIsippedmynow-coolingcoffee,wetalked,aboutschool,aboutherbestfriendCarry,aboutmissingthedogs,andatlastIventuredtoaskaboutwhethershemissedherparents.Herfacecrumpledalittleatthat.
“CanwephoneMummyagaintonight?”
“Yes,ofcourse.Wecantry,anyway.She’sbeenverybusy,youknowthat.”
Ellienodded.Then,lookingoutofthewindowshesaid,“He’sgone,hasn’the?”
“Who?”Iwasconfused.Wasshetalkingaboutherfather,orJack?Orperhaps…perhapssomeoneelse?“Who’sgone?”
Shedidn’tanswer,onlykickedherlegsagainstthestool.
“Ilikeitbetterwhenhe’sgone.Hemakesthemdothingstheydon’twanttodo.”
Idon’tknowwhy,butthewordsgavemeasharpflashbacktosomethingIhadbarelythoughtaboutsincemyveryfirstnighthere—thatcrumpled,unfinishednotefromKatya.Thewordssoundedinsidemyhead,asthoughsomeonehadwhisperedthemurgentlyintomyear.Iwantedtotellyoutopleasebe—
Suddenlyitfeltmorelikeawarningthanever.
“Who?”Isaid,moreurgentlythistime.“Whoareyoutalkingabout,Ellie?”
Butshemisunderstoodmyquestion,orperhapsdeliberatelychosetomisinterpretit.
“Thegirls.”Hervoicewasmatteroffact.Andthensheputdownherhotchocolateandslidfromthestool.“CanIgoandwatchsomeTV?”
“Ellie,wait,”Isaid,standingtoo,feelingmyheartsuddenlypoundinginmychest.“Whoareyoutalkingabout?Who’sgone?Whomakesthegirlsdothings?”
ButIwastoourgent,andasmyhandclosedonherwrist,shepulledaway,suddenlyfrightenedbymyintensity.
“Nothing.Idon’tremember.Imadeitup.Maddietoldmetosayit.Ididn’tsayitanyway.”Theexcusestumbledout,oneafteranother,eachassillyastheonebefore,andshetwistedhersmallhandoutofmygrip.Ihadnoideawhattosay.Ithoughtaboutfollowingherassheslippedfromtheroom,andthesoundofthePeppaPigthemetunefilteredbackintotheplayroom,butIknewitwouldn’twork.Ihadscaredherandmissedmychance.Ishouldhaveaskedmorecasually.Nowshehadcloseddowninthatwaythatsmallchildrendowhentheyrealizetheyhavesaidsomethingmoremomentousthantheymeantto.ItwasthesamepanicIhadseeninlittlechildrenwhentheyrepeatedaninappropriatewordwithoutunderstandingthereactionitwouldelicit—astartledattempttopedalbackfromaresponsetheyhadnotanticipated,followedbytotalshutdown,andadenialthattheyeversaidit.IfIpushedEllienow,Iwouldonlybeshootingmyselfinthefoot,andpreventinganyfurtherconfidences.
Thegirls…Hemakesthemdothingstheydon’twanttodo…
Mystomachturnedover.Itwasthekindofthingeverysafeguardingmanualwarnedabout—thenightmarescenarioyouhopednevertoencounter.But…wasit?WhatgirlswasEllietalkingabout?HerselfandMaddie?Orsomecompletelydifferentgirls?Andwhowasthe“he”?Bill?Jack?Orsomeoneelseentirely—ateacheror…
Butno.Ipushedawaytheimageofthewildgrief-strickenfacestaringoutofmyphonescreenatme.Thatwaspurefantasy.IfIwenttoSandrawithsomethinglikethat,she’dbeentitledtolaughinmyface.
But…couldIgotoSandrawithsomethinglikethis?WhenElliewoulddenywhatshesaid,andwhenitmightbenothingatall?TherewasnothingthatIcouldpinpoint,afterall,tosay“thisisdefinitelyworrying.”
IwasstillstaringafterEllie,bitingattheedgeofmynail,whenanoisefromthehallwaymademejump,andIturnedtoseethedooropening,andJeanMcKenziestandingonthedoorstep,takingoffhercoat.
“Mrs.McKenzie,”Isaid.Shewasneatlydressedinawoolenskirtandawhitecottonblouse,andIsuddenlyfeltveryconsciousofmyownstateofundress,inadressinggown,withnotagreatdealbeneath.
“You’reupearly,”wasallshesaid,andIfelttheprickleofherdisapproval.Maybeitwasthelackofsleep,ortheleftoveranxietyfromEllie’swords,butmytempersuddenlyboiledup.
“Whydon’tyoulikeme?”Idemanded.
Sheturnedtolookbackatmefromstashinghercoatinthehallcupboard.
“Ibegyourpardon?”
“Youheardme.You’vebeencompletelyoffwithmeeversinceIarrived.Why?”
“Ithinkyou’reimaginingthings,miss.”
“YouknowfullwellI’mnot.Ifit’saboutthatbusinessonthefirstday,Ididn’tshutthedamndoor,andIdidn’tlockthechildrenout.WhywouldI?”
“Kindnessisaskindnessdoes,”JeanMcKenziesaidcryptically,andsheturnedtogointotheutilityroom,butIranafterher,grabbingherarm.
“Whatthehelldoesthatevenmean?”
Shepulledherselfoutofmygrip,andsuddenlyhereyesblazedatmewithwhatIcouldonlycallhatred.
“I’llthankyounottohandlemelikethat,miss,andnottoswearinfrontofthebairns,either.”
“Iwasaskingyouaperfectlyreasonablequestion,”Iretorted,butsheignoredme,stalkingawaytotheutilityroom,rubbingherarmwithexaggeratedcareasifI’dgivenherafrictionburn.“Andstopcallingmemiss,”Icalledafterher.“We’renotinbloodyDowntonAbbey.”
“Whatwouldyouprefermetocallyouthen?”shesnappedoverhershoulder.
Ihadturnedonmyheel,preparingtoandwakeupMaddie,butherwordsstoppedmeinmytracks,andIswungroundtostareatherexpressionlessback,bentovertheutility-roomsink.
“Wh-whatdidyousay?”
Butshedidnotanswer,onlyturnedonthetaps,drowningoutmyvoice.
***
“Goodbye,girls!”Icalled,watchingthemthroughtheschoolgateastheytraipsedintotheirclassrooms.Maddiesaidnothing,shejusttrudgedonwards,headdown,ignoringthechatteroftheotherlittlegirls.ButEllielookedupfromherconversationwithalittleredheadedgirlandwaved.Hersmilewassweetandcheerful,andIfeltmyselfsmileback,andthendownatPetra,jigglingandgurglingonmyhip.Thesunwasshining,thebirdsweresinging,andthewarmthofabeautifulJunedaywasfilteringthroughtheleavesofthetrees.Thefearsandfantasiesoflastnight—thememoryofthattwisted,grief-rackedfacepeeringoutfromthescreenofmyphone—allofthatseemedsuddenlypreposterousinthelightofday.
IwasjuststrappingPetrabackintohercarseatwhenmyphonepinged,andIglancedatit,wonderingifitwassomethingimportant.Itwasanemail.FromSandra.
Ohshit.
Paranoidthoughtsflittedthroughmymind—hadsheseenthecamerafootageofmealmosthittingMaddie,ortheendlessstreamoftreatsIhadbeenbribingthegirlswith?Orwasitsomething…else?SomethingJeanMcKenziehadsaid?
MystomachwasflutteringbutterfliesasIclickedtoopen,butthesubjectheaderwasmatteroffactenough:Update.Whateverthatmeant.
Hi,Rowan,SorrytoemailbutI’minameetingandcan’ttalk,andIwantedtosendyouaquickupdatewithhowthingsaregoinghere.Thetradefairhasgonesuperwell,butBillhasbeencalledawaytoDubaitodosometroubleshootingoutthere,whichmeansI’mgoingtohavetotakeoverontheKensingtonproject—notidealasitmeansIwillbeawayforalittlelongerthanIhadhoped,butitcan’tbehelped.IshouldbebackbynextTuesday(i.e.,aweektoday).Areyoumanagingokay?Doesthatsounddoable?Intermsofthechildren,Rhiannonfinishesschooltoday.Elise’smumhaskindlyvolunteeredtocollectbothgirls(theylivedownnearPitlochrysohavetodrivepastanyway)andRhiwillbebackatHeatherbraeanytimefromabouttwelveonwards.Ihavetextedher,sosheknowswhat’sgoingon,andshe’sexcitedtomeetyou.JackspoketoBillyesterdayandmentionedthatyouaregettingonverywellwiththegirls;I’mverygladtohearit’sallgoingokay.Docallifyouhaveanyconcerns—Iwilltrytoringtonightbeforethegirls’bedtimes.Sandrax
Ishutdowntheemail,unsurewhethermyoverridingemotionwasoneofrelief,ortrepidation.Imostdefinitelywasrelieved—notleastaboutthefactthatJackhadapparentlyputinagoodwordforme.Butanotherweek…IhadnotrealizeduntilIreadSandra’swordshowmuchIhadbeencountingonherarrivalbackthisFriday,tickingoffthedaysinmyheadlikeaprisonsentence.
Andnow…fourmoredaysaddedontomyterm.Andnotjustwiththelittleones,butwithRhiannontoo.HowdidIfeelaboutthat?
Theideaofhavingsomeoneelseinthehousewasundeniablycomforting.Therewassomethingabsurdaboutthememoryofthoseslow,measuredfootsteps,butevenindaylight,IcouldfeelthehairsbeginningtoriseuponmyarmsasIrecalledlyingthere,listeningtothempacingbackandforth.Havingsomeone,evenastroppyfourteen-year-old,inthenextbedroomwoulddefinitelytaketheedgeoff.
ButasIstarteduptheTesla,theimagethatflashedthroughmyheadwasadifferentone—thatscarletscrawlacrossthebedroomdoor:FUCKOFF,KEEPOUTORYOUDIE.Therewassomethingthere.SomethingveryclosetoMaddie’sfurious,wordlessanger.
Perhaps,whateveritwas,IwouldbeabletogettothebottomofitwithRhiannon.
TheschoolrunbacktoHeatherbrae,tooklongerthanthepreviousmorning,becausetherewasavanontheroadaheadofme.IfolloweditslowlyfromCarnBridge,tappinggingerlyattheaccelerator,surethatitwouldturnoffateveryjunctionwecameto,butinexplicablyitseemedtobegoingthesameway,evenastheroadnarrowedandgrewmorerural.ItwaswithsomereliefthatIrealizedwewerenearlyattheturnofftoHeatherbraeHouse,andIwasjustabouttosignalleft,whenthevansignaledtoo,anddrewupoverthedrive,forcingmetostamponthebrakes.
AsIwaited,theTeslasilentlyidling,thepassengerdooropenedandagirljumpedout,arucksackonhershoulder.Shesaidsomethingtothedriver,andthebackdoorofthevanpoppedopen.Shedraggedahugecaseout,thumpingitcarelesslyontothegravel,andthenslammedthedoorandsteppedbackasthedriverpulledawayfromthecurb.Iwasjustabouttoleanoutandaskherwhoshewasandwhatshewasdoinginthemiddleofnowhere,whenshepulledherphoneoutofherpocketandheldituptotheproximitysensorofthegates,andtheyswungopen.
Itcouldn’tbeRhiannon,surely—shewasn’tduebackuntiltheafternoon,andthatdisreputablevancertainlydidn’tlooklikeitbelongedtoanyone’smother.Wasitsomeonewhoworkedhere?Butinthatcase,whythehugetrunk?
Iwaitedafewminutesforhertoclearthegates,andthenpressedontheaccelerator.TheTeslaslidsmoothlyupthedrive,behindthegirl,whoturned,withalookofsurpriseonherface.However,insteadofmovingoutofthewayshestoodherground,handsonherhips,andthehugecaseatherfeet.Ibrakedagain,feelingthegravelscrunchbeneaththetires,andwounddownthewindow.
“CanIhelpyou?”
“Ishouldbetheoneaskingyouthat,”thegirlsaid.Shehadlongblondhair,andaclippedexpensiveaccent,withoutatraceofScotsinit.“Whothehellareyouandwhatareyoudoinginmyparents’car?”
SoitwasRhiannon.
“Oh,hello,youmustbeRhiannon.Sorry,Iwasn’texpectingyoubackforanotherfewhours.I’mRowan.”
Thegirlwasstilllookingatmeblankly,andIadded,beginningtofeelalittleimpatient,“Thenewnanny?Ithoughtyourmumtoldyou.”
Itseemedstupidtobecarryingonthisconversationthroughacarwindow,soIputthecarintoparkandgotout,holdingoutmyhand.
“Nicetomeetyou.Sorrynottobeexpectingyou,yourmumsaidyouwouldn’tbehereuntiltwelve.”
“Rowan?Butyou’re—”thegirlbegan,afurrowbetweenhernarrowbrows,thensomethingclearedandsheshookherhead.Therewasasmileonherlips,anditwasnotaveryniceone.“Nevermind.”
“I’mwhat?”Idroppedmyhand.
“Isaid,nevermind,”Rhiannonsaid.“Anddon’tpayanyattentiontowhatmymumtoldyou,shehasn’tgotafuckingcluewhichwayisup.Asyoumayhavealreadyrealized.”Shelookedmeupanddown,andthensaid,“Well,whatareyouwaitingfor?”
“What?”
“Givemeahandwithmycase.”
Iwasgettingmoreandmoreirritated,buttherewasnopointinstartingoffonthewrongfoot,soIswallowedmyangerandwheeledthecasearoundtothebackoftheTesla.Itwasevenheavierthanitlooked.Rhiannondidn’twaitformetoloaditup,butclimbedintothebackseat,besidePetra.
“Hello,brat,”shesaid,thoughtherewasanundertoneofaffectioninhervoicethathadbeennotablyabsentwhenshespoketome.Andthen,tome,asIslidintothedriver’sseat.“Well,let’snotsitherealldayadmiringtheview.”
Igrittedmyteeth,swallowedmypride,andpresseddownsohardontheacceleratorthatgravelspatfrombehindthewheelsaswebegantomoveupthedrivetowardsHeatherbraeHouse.
***
InsidethehouseRhiannonstalkedintothekitchen,leavingmetounloadbothPetraandthehugeheavytrunk.WhenIfinallymadeitinside,Petraintow,IsawthatRhiannonhadalreadyinstalledherselfatthemetalbreakfastbarandwaseatingagiantsandwichshehadclearlyjustputtogether.
“Sooooo,”hervoicecameoutlikeadrawl.“You’reRowan,areyou?Imustsay,youdon’tlookanythinglikewhatIwasexpecting.”
Ifrowned.Therewassomethingalittlemaliciousinhervoice,andIwonderedwhatexactlyshemeant.
“Whatwereyouexpecting?”
“Oh…Idon’tknow.Justsomeone…different.Youdon’tlooklikeaRowan,somehow.”Shegrinned,andthenbeforeIcouldreact,tookanotherbiteofsandwichandsaid,thickly,throughthemouthful,“Youneedtoputmoremayonnaiseonthefridgeorder.Oh,andwherethehellarethedogs?”
Iblinked.Ifeltlikeitshouldbemeaskingthequestions,grillingher.WhydidIalwaysseemtobeonthewrongendofapowerstruggle?Butitwasaperfectlyreasonablequestion,soItriedtokeepmyvoiceevenasIansweredit.
“Jackwascalledawaytotakesomepaperworktoyourdad.Hetookthedogswithhim—hethoughtthey’denjoythetrip.”
Thathadn’tbeenwhathe’dsaidatall,butsomehowIdidn’twanttoadmittothishaughtyteenagerthatIhadn’tfeltequaltothetaskofwranglingthreesmallchildrenandtwoLabradors.
“When’sheback?”
“Jack?Idon’tknow.Today,Iimagine.”
Rhiannonnodded,chewingthoughtfully,andthensaid,aroundamouthfuloffood,“Bytheway,it’sElise’sbirthdaytonightandhermum’sinvitedmeoverforasleepover.Isthatokay?”
TherewassomethinginhertonethatmadeitclearthatIwasbeingaskedonlyasaformality,butInodded.
“I’dbettertextyourmumandcheck,butofcourse,that’sfinebyme.Wheredoesshelive?”
“Pitlochry.It’saboutanhour’sdrive,butElise’sbrotherwillgivemealift.”
Inodded,pulledoutmyphone,andtextedaquickmessagetoSandra.
Rhiannonsafelyback—wantstogotoasleepoverwithElisetonight.Assumethat’sokaybutpleaseconfirm.
Themessagepingedbackalmoststraightaway.
Noproblem.Willcall6pm.GivemylovetoRhi.
“Yourmumsendsloveandsaysit’sfine,”IreportedbacktoRhiannon,whorolledhereyesasiftosay,Well,duh.“Whattimeareyougettingpickedup?”
“Afterlunch,”Rhiannonsaid.Sheswungherlegsoverthesideofthestoolandshovedthedirtyplateacrossthecounter,towardsme.“Laters.”
Iwatchedherasshemadeherwayupthestairs,longlegsinschooluniformstalkingupthegracefulcurveofthestaircase,andthendisappearingaroundthebend.
***
Shedidnotcomedownforlunch.Iwasn’tparticularlysurprised,giventhesandwichshe’deatenacoupleofhoursbefore,butsinceIwasmakinglunchformeandPetra,Ifeltlikeshouldatleastaskifshewantedtojoinus.Itriedtospeaktoherusingtheintercomfunction,butitrefusedtoconnect.Instead,amessagepingedbackviatheapp.NOTHUNGRY.Huh.Ihadn’tevenknownitcoulddothat.
OKAY,Imessagedback.AsIwasputtingmyphoneaway,anotherthoughtoccurredtome,andIpulleditbackoutofmypocketandreopenedtheHappyapp.Feelingalittlequeasy,Iclickedonthemenuthatshowedthelistofcamerasavailableformetoaccess.AsIscrolleddownthelisttoR,ItoldmyselfIwouldn’tlook,butatleastthatwayIwouldknow…butwhenIgotdownthereRhiannon’sroomwasgrayedoutandunavailable,whichwasmostlyarelief.Therewouldhavebeensomethinginexpressiblyinappropriateaboutcamerasinafourteen-year-oldgirl’sbedroom.
ItwasasIwasspooningyogurtintoPetra’seagermouth,dodgingher“helping”fingersasshetriedtograbthespoon,thatIheardfootstepsonthestairsandpeeredintothehallwaytoseeRhiannon,holdingasmallbaginonehandandherphoneintheother.
“Elise’sbrother’shere,”shesaidabruptly.
“Atthedoor?”Iglancedautomaticallyatmyphone,puzzled.“Ididn’thearthebell.”
“Duh.Atthegates.”
“Okay,”Iresistedtheurgetobitebackasarcasticretort.“I’llbuzzhimin.”
Myphonewasonthecounter,butI’dbarelyevenopeneduptheapp,letalonenavigatedthemenuofthevariousgates,doors,andgaragesIhadaccesstoo,beforeRhiannonwasalreadyhalfwaytothedoor.
“Noneed.”Shepressedherthumbtothepanelandthenswungopenthefrontdoor.“He’swaitingformedownbytheroad.”
“Wait,”ImovedtheyogurtoutofPetra’sreachandthenranhastilyafterRhiannon.“Hangonasec,IneedanumberforElise’smum.”
“Uh…why?”Rhiannonsaid,heavywithsarcasm,andIshookmyhead,refusingtogetdrawnintoherdefiance.
“Becauseyou’refourteenyearsold,andI’venevermetthewoman,andIjustdo.Doyouhaveit?IfnotI’llaskyourmum.”
“Yeah,I’vegotit.”Sherolledhereyes,butpulledoutherphoneandthencastaroundforabitofpaper.OneofMaddie’sdrawingswaslyingonthestairs,andshepickeditupandscribbledanumberontheback.“There.Happy?”
“Yes,”Isaid,thoughitwasnotentirelytrue.Sheslammedthedoorbehindher,andIwatchedthroughthewindowasshedisappearedaroundthecurveinthedriveandthenlookeddownatthepieceofpaper.ThenumberwasscribbledacrossonecorneralongwiththenameCass,andItappeditintothemessengerapponmyphone.
Hi,Cass,it’sRowanhere,I’mtheElincourts’newnanny.IjustwantedtosaythankyouforhavingRhiannontonightandifthere’sanyproblems,pleasecallortextthisnumber.Ifyoucouldletmeknowwhattimeyou’llbedroppingheroff,thatwouldbegreat.Thanks.Rowan.
Thereplycamebackreassuringlyquickly,whileIwasspooningthelastoftheyogurtintoPetra.
Hi!Niceto“meet”you.Pleasure,it’salwaysnicetohaveRhiover.Iimaginewe’llhaveherbackbylunchtimetomorrowbutlet’splayitbyear.Cass.
ItwasonlywhenIwenttoputMaddie’sdrawingbackonthestairsthatIfinallylookedatit.ItremindedmeofthedrawingI’dfoundonthefirstnight,ofthehouse,andthepalelittlefacestaringout.Buttherewassomethingdistinctlydarkerandmoredisturbingaboutthisone.
Atthecenterofthepagewasacrudefigure—alittlegirl,withcurlyhairandasticking-outskirt—andsheseemedtobelockedinsidesomekindofprisoncell.ButwhenIpeeredatitmoreclosely,Irealized,itmustbemeanttorepresentthepoisongarden.Thethickblackbarsoftheirongatewerescoredacrossherfigure,andshewasclutchingatthemwithonehand,andholdingsomethingintheother—abranch,Ithought,coveredingreenleavesandredberries.Tearswerestreamingdownherface,hermouthwasopeninadespairingwail,andtherewereredscribblesofbloodonherfaceandonherdress.Thewholeimagewasencircledinthickblackspiralinglines,asifIwerestaringdownthewrongendofatelescope,intosomekindofnightmarishtunnelintothepast.
Ontheonehand,itwasjustalittlegirl’sdrawing,nodifferentfromthesometimesviolentscribblesIhadseenatthenursery—superheroesgunningdownbaddies,policemenfightingrobbers.Butontheother…Idon’tknow.Itwashardtoputmyfingeronwhatmademerecoil,buttherewassomethingsoindescribablynastyaboutit,sochillingandsofullofsatisfactionandgleeinthemacabresubjectmatter,thatIletthepaperdropfrommyfingerstothefloorasifithadburnedme.
Istoodthere,ignoringPetra’sincreasinglyirritablecriesof“down.Down!PetadownNOW!”behindme,andstaredatthepicture.Iwantedtoscrewitupandthrowitaway,butIknewwhatthechild-protectionadviceatLittleNipperswouldhavebeen.Putthedrawingonfile.Flagconcernswiththesafeguardingofficeratthenursery.Discusstheissuesraisedinthedrawingwithparents/guardiansifdeemedappropriate.
Well,therewasnosafeguardingofficerhereexceptme.ButifIwereSandra,IwasprettysurethatIwouldwanttoknowaboutthis.WhereMaddiewasgettingthisstufffrom,Iwasn’tsure,butitneededtobestopped.
FeelingmoredisturbedthanIwantedtoadmit,Ipickedthedrawingupfromthefloor,andsliditcarefullyintooneofthedrawersinthestudy.ThenIreturnedtothekitchenandsetaboutcleaningPetraup,andputtingherdownforhernap.
Ihadn’tmeanttofallasleepinPetra’sroom,butIwokewithastart,thearmchair’sginghamcoverwetwithdroolbeneathmycheek,andmyheartpoundingforreasonsIcouldnotputmyfingeron.PetrawasstillslumberinginhercotasIstruggledupright,tryingtofigureoutwhathadhappened,andwhathadwokenmesoabruptly.
Imusthavedriftedoffwhilewaitingforhertofallasleep.HadI—Shit,thethoughtcamelikeasuddenpunchtothesolarplexus—hadIsleptthroughschoolpickup?Butno.WhenIcheckedmyphoneitwasonlyonethirty.
Thenitcameagain,thenoisethathadwokenmefromsleep.Thedoorbell.Doorbellsoundingflashedmyphone.AndthenOpendoor?Confirm/Cancel.
APavlovianjoltofdreadfloodedthroughme,andforamomentIsatthere,paralyzed,halfdreading,halfexpectingthecreak…creak…tocommenceasithadlastnight,butitdidn’t,andatlastIforcedmyselftomove.Iswungmyfeettothefloorandstoodup,waitingformybloodpressuretosettleandmyhearttostopdrummingwithpanicinmyears.
AsIdidso,Iwipedthecornerofmymouthandlookeddownatmyself.ItwasonlyafewdayssinceI’dturnedup—note-perfectinmyrenditionofRowanthePerfectNanny,inhertweedskirtandneatlybuttonedcardigan.Ilookedfarfromperfectnow.Iwaswearingcrumpledjeans,andmysweatshirtwasstainedwithPetra’sbreakfast.IlookedmuchclosertothepersonIreallywas,asiftherealmewasleakingoutofthecracksinthefacade,takingover.
Well,itwastoolatetochangenow.Instead,IleftPetrasleepingpeacefullyinhercot,andmademywaydownthestairstothehallway,whereIpressedmythumbtothepanel,andwatchedasthedoorswungsilentlyopen.
Foraseconditseemedlikeacontinuationoflastnight—therewasnoonethere.ButthenIsawtheLandRoverparkedacrossthedriveway,heardtheretreatingcrunchofgravel,andpeeringroundthesideofthehouse,Isawatall,broadfigure,disappearingtowardsthestables,twodogsboundingathisheels.
“Jack?”Icalled,myvoicecroakywithsleep.Iclearedmythroatandtriedagain.“Hey,Jack,wasthatyou?”
“Rowan!”Heturnedatthesoundofmyvoiceandcamestridingbackacrosstheyard,grinningwidely.“Yes,Irangthebell,Iwasgoingtoaskifyoufanciedacupoftea.ButIthoughtyoumusthavegoneout.”
“No…no,Iwas…”Ipaused,unsurewhattosay,then,inviewofmysleep-crumpledfaceanddraggledclothes,decidedmaybethetruthwasbest.“I’dfallenasleepactually.Petra’sdownforhernapandImusthavedriftedoff.I—Well,Ididn’tgetaverygoodnight’srestlastnight.”
“Oh…werethegirlsplayingup?”
“No,noit’snotthat.It’s…”Ipausedagain,andthenscrewedupmycourage.“It’sthosenoisesIwastalkingabout.Fromtheattic.Igotwokenupagain.Jack,youknowthosekeysyoumentioned…”
Hewasnodding.
“Aye,sure,noproblem.Wanttotryitnow?”
Whynot?Thegirlswereatschool,Petrawouldprobablynapforatleastanhourlonger.Itwasasgoodatimeasany.
“Yes,please.”
“I’llhavetohuntthemout,givemetenminutesandI’llbewithyou.”
“Okay,”Isaid.Ifeltbetteralready.Thechanceswere,therewasasimpleexplanationforthenoise,andweweregoingtodiscoverit.“I’llputthekettleon.Seeyouintenminutes.”
***
Intheevent,hewasbacksoonerthanten,atangleofrustykeysinonehandandatoolkitintheother,abigbottleofWD-40stickingoutthetop.Thedogsfollowedhimin,pantingexcitedly,andIfoundmyselfsmilingasIwatchedthemsniffingdiligentlyaroundthekitchen,Hooveringupallthescrapsthechildrenhaddropped.Thentheyfloppeddownontheirbedsintheutilityroomasthoughthewholetriphadexhaustedthembeyondmeasure.
Thekettlehadjustboiled,andIpouredouttwomugsandheldoneouttoJack.Heshovedthekeysinhisbackpocket,tookitandgrinned.
“JustwhatIneeded.D’youwanttofinishtheteasdownhereortakethemup?”
“Well,Petra’sstillasleepactually,soitmightbeagoodideatocrackonbeforeshewakesup.”
“Suitsme,”hesaid.“I’vebeensittinginthecarallmorning.I’dratherdrinkonthego.”
Wecarriedeverythingcarefullyupstairs,tiptoeingpastPetra’sroom,althoughwhenIpeeredinshelookedlikeshewasoutforthecount,sprawledlikesomeonedroppedfromagreatheightontoasoftmattress.
Upinmybedroom,thecurtainswerestilldrawn,thebedrumpled,andmywornclotheswerestillscatteredacrossthesoftwheat-coloredcarpet.Ifeltmycheeksflush,andputtingdownmycupIhastilypickedupmybraandknickersfromthenightbefore,alongwithablouse,andshovedthemintothelaundrybasketinthebathroom,beforeopeningthecurtains.
“Sorry,”Isaid.“I’mnotnormallysuchaslob.”
Thatwastotallyuntrue.BackatmyflatinLondonthemajorityofmyunderwearlivedinapileinthecorneroftheroom,washedonlywhenthecleanpairsinmydrawerranout.Buthere,I’dbeentryingtohardkeepuptheimageofmeticulousneatness.Apparentlyitwasslipping.
Jackhoweverdidn’tseembotheredandwasalreadytryingthedoorinthecorneroftheroom.
“It’sthisone,isit?”
“Yes,that’sright.”
“Andyou’vetriedalltheothercupboardkeys?”
“Yes,ItriedalltheonesIcouldfind.”
“Well,let’sseeifanyofthesematch.”
Theringhewasholdingheldmaybetwentyorthirtykeysofallvaryingsizes,fromahugeblackironone,whichIguessedmustbetheoriginalkeytothegate,beforetheelectriclockhadbeeninstalled,throughtosmallbrassonesthatlookedliketheymightbefordesksorsafes.
Jacktriedamedium-sizeonethatfittedthroughtheholebutrattledaroundlooselyinside,plainlytoosmallforthelock,andthenaslightlylargerone,whichfittedbutdidnotturnalltheway.
Hesquirtedthecanoflubricantinsidethelockandtriedagain,butitstillturnedonlyaquarteroftheway,andthenstopped.
“Hmm…itcouldbejammed,butifit’sthewrongkeyIdon’twanttoriskforcingitandbreakingtheshankinthelock.I’lltryafewmore.”
Iwatchedashetriedmaybefourorfiveothersofthesamesize,buttheywereworse,eithernotfittinginatall,orjammingbeforehe’dmanagedevenaquarterturn.Atlastheseemedtomakeuphismindandreturnedtothesecondkeyhe’dpickedout.
“Thisistheonlykeyonthebunchthathasanygiveatall,soI’lltryitagainwithabitmoreforce,andifitbreaks,well,we’lljusthavetogetthelocksmithin.Wishmeluck.”
“Goodluck,”Isaid,andhebegantoforcethekey.
IfoundIwaswincingpreemptivelyasIwatchedhimapplypressure,firstgently,andthenharder,andatlastsohardthatIcouldseetheshaftofthekeybendingslightly,theroundbowatthetoptwisting,twisting…
“Stop!”Icried,justasJackgaveanexclamationofsatisfactionandtherewasanoisyscrapeandclick,andthekeycompletedthefullturn.
“Gotit!”Hestood,wipingthelubricantoffhishands,andthenturnedtomewithamockcourtlybow.“D’youwishtodothehonors,milady?”
“No!”ThewordwasoutbeforeIcouldthinkbetterofit,andthenIforcedalaugh.“Imean…Idon’tmind.It’suptoyou.ButIwarnyou,ifthere’srats,I’llscream.”
Itwasalie.I’mnotafraidofrats.I’mnotafraidofverymuch,normally.AndIfeltliketheworstkindoffemaleclichéshelteringbehindthebigstrongman.ButJackhadnotlainthere,nightafternight,listeningtothatslow,stealthycreak…creak…abovehishead.
“I’lltakeonefortheteam,then,”hesaidwithaverysmallwink.Andhetwistedthehandle,andthedooropened.
Idon’tknowwhatIexpected.Astaircasedisappearingintothedarkness.Acorridorhungwithcobwebs.IfoundIwasholdingmybreathasthedoorswungback,peeringoverJack’sshoulder.
WhateverIexpected,itwasn’twhatwasthere.Itwasjustanothercloset.Verydusty,andbadlyfinishedsothatyoucouldseethegapsintheplasterboard,andmuchsmallerandshallowerthantheonewhereI’dhungmyclothes,butaclosetnonetheless.Anemptybarhung,slightlylopsided,aboutsixinchesdownfromtheceilingasifawaitinghangersandclothes.
“Huh,”Jacksaid.Hetossedthekeysonthebed,lookingthoughtful.“Well,that’sweird.”
“Weird?Youmean,whylockupaperfectlyusablecloset?”
“Well,Isupposeso,butwhatIreallymeantis,thedraught.”
“Thedraught?”Iechoedstupidly,andhenodded.
“Lookatthefloor.”
Ilookedwherehepointed.Acrossthefloorboardswerestreaks,whereabreezehadplainlyforceddustthroughthenarrowgaps,andlookingmorecloselyatthestainedanddustyplasterboardIcouldseethesamething.WhenIputmyhandtothegap,therewasafaintcoolbreeze,andthesamedanksmellthatIhadnoticedcomingfromthekeyholelastnightwhenIhadpeeredthrough,intothedarkness.
“Youmean…”
“Thereissomethingbackthere.Butsomeoneboardeditup.”
Hemovedpastme,andbeganrummaginginhistoolkit,andsuddenly,IwasnotatallsurethatIwantedtodothis.
“Jack,Idon’tthink—Imean,Sandramight—”
“Ah,shewon’tmind.I’llboarditbackupmoreneatlyifitcomestoit,andshe’llhaveaworkingclosetinsteadofalockeddoor.”
Hetookoutasmallcrowbar.Iopenedmymouthtosaysomethingelse—somethingaboutitbeingmybedroom,aboutthemess,about—
Butitwastoolate.Therewasacrunchingnoise,andaslabofplasterboardtoppledforwardintotheroomsothatJackonlyjustgotoutoftheway.Hepickeditup,carefullyavoidingtherustynailsthatwerestickingoutoftheedges,andproppeditagainstthesideofthecloset,andIheardhisvoice,echoingnow,asheletoutalong,satisfied,“Ah…”
“Ah,what?”Isaidanxiously,tryingtopeerpasthim,buthisbigframefilledthedoorway,andallIcouldseewasdarkness.
“Havealook,”hesaid,steppingback.“Seeforyourself.Youwereright.”
Andthereitwas.JustasIhadimagined.Thewoodentreads.Theswagsofcobwebs.Thestaircasewindingupintodarkness.
Ifoundmymouthwasdry,andmythroatclickedasIswallowed.
“Doyouhaveatorch?”Jackasked,andIshookmyhead,feelingsuddenlyunabletospeak.Heshrugged.
“Norme,we’llhavetomakedowithphones.Mindyourfeetonthosenails.”Andhesteppedforwardintotheblackness.
ForamomentIwascompletelyfrozen,watchinghimdisappearupthenarrowstairs,thebeamofhisphoneathinglimmerintheblack,hisfootstepsechoing.creak…creak…
Thesoundwassoclosetothenoiseoflastnight,andyet,therewassomethingdifferentaboutittoo.Itwasmore…solid.Morereal,faster,andmixedwiththecrunchofplasterboard.
“Holyshit,”Iheardfromabove,andthen,“Rowan,getuphere,you’vegottoseethis.”
TherewasalumpinmythroatasifIwasabouttocry,thoughIknewthatIwasn’t,itwaspurefearthathadlodgedthere,silencingme,makingmeunabletoaskJackwhatwasupthere,whathehadfound,whatheneededmetoseesourgently.
Instead,Iswitchedonmyphonetorchwithfingersthatshook,andfollowedhimintothedarkness.
Jackwasstandinginthemiddleoftheattic,staringopenmouthedathissurroundings.Hehadswitchedoffhisphone,andtherewaslightcomingfromsomewhere,athin,graylight,thatIcouldn’timmediatelylocate.Theremustbeawindowsomewhere,butthatwasn’twhatIwaslookingat.WhatIwaslookingatwerethewalls,thefurniture,thefeathers
Theywereeverywhere.
Strewnacrossthebrokenrockingchairinthecorner,inthedusty,cobwebbedcrib,overthericketydoll’shouseandthedustychalkboard,acrossthepileofsmashedchinadollspiledupagainstthewall.Feathers,feathers,andnotdownfromaburstpilloweither.Thesewerethickandblack—flightfeathersfromacrow,oraravenIthought.Andtherewasastenchofdeathtoo.
Butthatwasn’tallofit.Itwasn’teventheworstofit.
Thestrangestthingwasthewalls—orrather,whatwaswrittenonthem.
Scribbledonallofthem,inchildishcrayonletters,somesmall,somehugeandscrawled,werewords.Ittookmeaminuteortwotomakethemout,forthelettersweremisshapenandthewordsbadlyspelled.Buttheonerightinfrontofme,theonestaringmeinthefaceoverthesmallfireplaceinthecenteroftheroom,wasunmistakable.WEHATEYOU.
ItwasexactlythesameasthephraseMaddiehadspelledoutinherAlphabettiSpaghetti,andseeingithere,inalocked,boarded-uproomshecouldnotpossiblyhaveentered,gavemeajolttothestomachasifIhadbeenpunched.ItwaswithakindofsickdreadthatIheldupmyphonetorchtosomeoftheotherphrases.
Thegoastsdonetlikeyou.
Theyhateyu.
Wewantyoutoogoawa.
Thegostsareangrie.
Theyhaiteyou.
Getout.
Thereangry
Weehateyou.
Wehiteu.
GOAWAY.
Wehateyou.
Againandagain,smallandlarge,fromtinylettersetchedwithconcentratedhateinacornerbythedoor,tothegiantsprawlingscrawlabovethefireplacethatIhadseenwhenIfirstentered.
Wehateyou.Thewordshadbeenbadenough,slidinginslimyorangejuiceacrossaplate.Buthere,scrawledinadementedhandacrosseveryinchofplaster,theywerenothingshortofmalevolent.AndinmyheadIheardMaddie’slittlesobbingvoiceagain,asthoughshehadgaspedthewordsinmyear—theghostswouldn’tlikeit
Itwastooclosetobecoincidence.Butatthesametime,itwastotallyimpossible.Thisroomwasnotjustlocked,itwasboardedup,andtheonlyentrancewasthroughmyownbedroom.Andwithoutquestion,someoneelsehadbeenuphere,andithadnotbeenMaddie.Ihadheardthoserelentless,pacingfootstepsjustmomentsafterstaringdownatMaddie’ssleepingform.
Maddiehadnotwrittenthosewords.Butshehadrepeatedthemtome.Whichmeant…wassherepeatingwhatsomeonehadwhisperedtoher…?
“Rowan.”Thevoiceseemedtobecomingfromagreatdistance,hardtohearbeneathashrillbuzzingcomingfrominsidemyownskull.ThroughtheringingIfeltahandonmyarm.“Rowan.Rowan,areyouokay?Youlookabitstrange.”
“I’m—I’mokay—”Imanaged,thoughmyvoicewasstrangeinmyears.“I’mallright.It’sjust—ohGod,whowrotethat?”
“Kidsmessingabout,don’tyouthink?And,well,there’syourexplanationforthenoise.”
Henudgedwithhisfootatsomethinginthecorner,andIlookedtoseeapileofmolderingfeathersandbones,heldtogetherbylittlemorethandust.
“Poorweebastardmusthavegotinthroughthatwindowandcouldn’tgetout,batteredhimselfhalftodeathtryingtoescape.”
Hepointedtotheoppositewall,toaminutewindow,onlyalittlebiggerthanasheetofpaper.Itwasgraywithdirt,andpartwayopen.LettinggoofmyarmJackstrodeoverandslammeditshut.
“Oh—ohmyGod,”IfoundIcouldn’tcatchmybreath.Theringinginmyearsintensified.WasIhavingsomekindofpanicattack?Igropedforsomethingtoholdonto,andmyfingerscrunchedagainstdeadinsects,andIletoutastrangledsob.
“Look,”Jacksaidpractically,seemingtomakeuphismind,“let’sgetoutofhere,getyouadrink.I’llcomebackinabit,clearupthebird.”
Takingmyhand,heledmefirmlytowardsthestairs.Thefeelofhislarge,warmhandinminewasunspeakablyreassuring,andforamomentIletmyselfbepulledtowardsthedoorandthestairs,backtowardsthemainhouse.Butthensomethinginsidemerebelled.Whateverthetruthofthisattic,Jackwasnotmywhiteknight.AndIwasnotsometerrifiedchildwhoneededprotectingfromtherealityofwhatlaybehindthislockeddoor.
AsJackturnedsidewaystoedgebetweenapileofteeteringchairsandadried-uppaintbox,Itooktheopportunitytopullmyhandoutofhis.
PartofmefeltIwasbeingungrateful.Hewasonlytryingtobereassuring,afterall.ButtheotherpartofmeknewthatifIfellintothisrole,Imightneverescapeit,andIcouldnotallowJacktoseemethatway—asyetanotherhysterical,superstitiouswoman,hyperventilatingoverapileoffeathersandsomechildishscribbles.
Andso,asJackdisappeareddownthestairstowardsthefloorbelow,Imademyselfstopandturn,takingalast,longlookbackatthatdust-shroudedroom,filledwithsmasheddollsandtoys,brokenfurnitureandthespoileddebrisofalostchildhood.
“Rowan?”Jack’svoicecamefromdownthestairs,hollowandechoingupthenarrowcorridor.“Areyoucoming?”
“Yes!”Isaid.MyvoicewascrackedandIcoughed,feelingmychesttighten.“I’mcoming!”
Imovedquicklytofollowhim,filledwithasuddendreadofthedoorshutting,beingtrappedupherewiththedustandthedollsandthestenchofdeath.Butmyfootmusthavecaughtonsomething,forasIreachedthetopofthestairs,therewasasuddenrushingclatterandthepileofdollsshiftedandcollapsedinonitself,chinalimbscrackingagainsteachotherwithominouschinks,dustrisingupfromthreadbaremoth-eatendresses.
“Shit,”Isaid,andwatched,horrified,asthelittleavalanchesubsided.
Atlastallwasquiet,exceptforonesingledecapitatedchinaheadrollingslowlytowardsthecenteroftheroom.Itwasthewaythewarpedfloorboardsbowed,Iknew,butforacrazysecondIhadtheillusionthatitwaspursuingmeandwouldchasemedownthestairs,itscherubicsmileandemptyeyeshuntingmedown.
Itwasjustthatthough,anillusion,andafewsecondslateritcametoarockinghalt,facingthedoor.
Oneeyehadbeenpunchedout,andtherewasacrackacrossonepinkcheekthatgaveitssmileacuriouslymockingappearance.
Wehateyou,Iheard,inthecornerofmymind,asifsomeonehadwhispereditinmyear.
AndthenIheardJack’svoiceagain,callingmefromthebottomofthestairs,andIturnedandfollowedhimdownthewoodensteps.
Steppingoutintothewarmthandlightoftherestofthehousefeltlikereturningfromanotherworld—afteratripintoaparticularlydarkandnightmarishNarniaperhaps.Jackstoodasidetoletmeout,andthenshutthedoorbehindusbothandlockedit.Thekeyscreechedinprotestashedidso,thenwebothturnedandmadeourwaydowntothebright,homelycomfortofthekitchen.
***
IfoundmyhandswereshakingasItriedtorinseouttheteacupsandputthekettleontoboil,andatlast,afterafewminutesofwatchingme,Jackstoodupandwalkedovertome.
“Sitdownandletmemakeyouacupforachange.Orwouldyouprefersomethingaweebitstronger?Adram,maybe?”
“Whiskey,youmean?”Isaid,slightlystartled,andhegrinnedandnodded.Igaveashakylaugh.“Bloodyhell,Jack.It’sbarelylunch.”
“Allrightthen,justtea.ButyousittherewhileImakeit.You’realwaysrunningaroundafterthosekids.Haveasitdownforachange.”
ButIshookmyhead,stubborn.Iwouldnotbethatwoman.Iwouldnotbeoneofthoseotherfournannies…
“No,I’llmakethetea.Butitwouldbegreatifyoucould—”Ipaused,tryingtothinkofajobhecoulddo,tosoftentherefusalofhelp.“Ifyoucouldfindsomebiscuits.”
IrememberedmyselfgivingMaddieandElliejammiedodgersaftertheshockofthespeakersgoingoffinthemiddleofthenight.Sugarisgoodforshock,Iheardmyownvoicesaying,asifIwereafrightenedchild,abletobejolliedbacktocheerfulnesswithaforbiddentreat.
I’mnotnormallylikethis,Iwantedtosay,anditwastrue.Iwasn’tsuperstitious,Iwasn’tnervy,Iwasn’tthekindofpersonwhosawsignsandportentsaroundeverycornerandcrossedthemselveswhentheysawablackcatonFridaythethirteenth.Thatwasn’tme.
ButforthreenightsnowI’dhadlittleornosleep,andnomatterwhatItriedtotellmyselfIhadheardthosenoises,loudandclear,andtheywerenotabird,whateverJackthought.Thesenseless,panickedcrashingofatrappedbird—thatwouldhavebeenscaryenough,butitwasnothingliketheslow,measuredcreak…creak…thathadkeptmeawake,nightafternight.Andbesides,thatbirdwasdead—longdead.Therewasnowayitcouldhavebeenmakingnoiseslastnight,oranynightforawhile.Infactjudgingbythesmellandthestateofdecomposition,ithadprobablybeenupthereforseveralweeks.
Thesmell…
Ithadstayedwithme,fustyandchokinginmynostrils,andasIcarriedtheteaacrosstothesofa,IfoundIcouldstillsmellit,eventhoughI’dwashedmyhands.Itclungtomyclothes,andmyhair,andglancingdownIsawalongstreakofgrayonthesleeveofmyjumper.
Thesunhadgonein,andinspiteoftheunderfloorheating,theroomwasnotparticularlywarm,butIshruggedthesweatshirtoffandputitaside.IfeltthatI’dhavefrozenratherthanputitbackon.
“Hereyougo.”Jacksatbesideme,makingthespringsofthesofasqueak,andhandedmearichteabiscuit.Idippeditautomaticallyintomytea,thentookabite,andshivered,Icouldn’thelpmyself.“Areyoucold?”
“Abit.Notreally.Imean,Ihaveajumper,it’sjustIdidn’t—Icouldn’t-”
Iswallowed,then,feelinglikeafool,InoddedatthestreakofatticdustI’dnoticedonthesleeve.
“Ican’tgetthesmellofthatplaceoutofmyhead.Ithoughtmaybeitwasinmysweater.”
“Iunderstand,”hesaidquietly,andthen,asifreadingmythoughts,hestrippedoffhisownjacket,streakedwithcobwebs,andlaiditaside.HewasonlywearingaT-shirtunderneath,butincontrasttomychill,hisarmswerewarm,sowarmthatIcouldfeeltheheatfromhisskinaswesat,notquitetouching,butuncomfortablycloseonthesmalltwo-seatersofa.
“You’vegoosepimplesallupyourarms,”hesaid,andthen,slowly,asifgivingmetimetomoveaway,heputoutahandandrubbedtheskinofmyupperarmgently.Ishiveredagain,butitwasnotwithcold,andforalongmomentIhadanalmostoverwhelmingurgetoclosemyeyesandleanintohim.
“Jack,”Isaid,atthesametimeasheclearedhisthroat,andthebabymonitoronthecounterletoutacracklingwail.
Petra.
“I’dbettergoandgether.”Istood,settingtheteadownonthecounter,andthenstaggeredasasuddenwashofdizzinesscameoverme,fromstandinguptoofast.
“Hey.”Jackstoodtoo,puttingahandonmyarm,steadyingme.“Hey,areyouallright?”
“I’mfine.”Itwastrue,themomentoffaintnesshadpassed.“It’snothing.Igetlowbloodpressuresometimes.AndI’mjust—Ididn’tsleepwelllastnight.”
Ugh.Ihadalreadytoldhimthat.HewasgoingtothinkIwascomingapart,addingamnesiatomylistoffrailties.Iwasbetterthanthis.Strongerthanthis.Ihadtobe.
Ibadlywantedacigarette,buttheCVIhadhandedintoSandrahadsaid“nonsmoker”andIcouldn’triskunpickingthatparticularthread.Imightdiscovereverythingunraveled.
Ifoundmyselfglancingup,towardstheever-watchingegg-shapedeyeinthecorneroftheroom.
“Jack,whatarewegoingtotellSandra?”Iasked,andthenthebabymonitorcrackledintolifeagain,thistimeamoredeterminedcrythatIcouldhearboththroughthespeaker,andcomingdownthestairs.“Holdthatthought,”Isaid,andsprintedhastilyforthestairs.
***
TenminuteslaterIwasbackdownwithafreshlychangedPetra,grumpyandblinking,andlookingastousledandconfusedasIfelt.ShegloweredatJackasIcamebackintothekitchen,herlittlehandsgrippingmytoplikeasmallmarsupial,butwhenhechuckedherunderthechinshegavealittle,reluctantsmile,andthenaproperoneashepulledafunnyexpression,laughingandthentwistingherfaceawayinthatfunnywaychildrendowhentheyknowthey’rebeingcharmedintogoodspiritsinspiteofthemselves.
Sheletherselfbesettledinherhighchairwithsomesegmentsofsatsuma,andthenIturnedbacktoJack.
“Iwasjustsaying—SandraandBill.Wehavetotellthemabouttheattic—right?Ordoyouthinktheyknow?”
“I’mnotsure,”Jacksaidthoughtfully.Herubbedhischin,hisfingersraspingoverdarkauburnstubble.“They’resortofperfectionists,thewaythatcupboardwasboardedupinsidedidn’tlookliketheirwork.AndIcan’timaginethey’dleaveallthatcrapupthere.Sorry,excusemyFrench,Petra,”hesaidformally,givingheralittlemockbow.“Allthatrubbish,iswhatImeanttosay.TheyclearedthehousewhentheymovedinfromwhatIunderstand—Ididn’tstartworkuntilacoupleofyearsaftertheyboughtit,soIdidn’tseetherenovations,butBill’llborethehindlegoffadonkeyifyougivehimanexcusetotalkaboutthework.Ican’timaginethemjustignoringsomethinglikethat.No,mybestbetisthatthey’dneveropenedthecupboardanddidn’tknowtheatticwasthere.Thekeywasprettystiff,you’dbeforgivenforthinkingyouhadthewrongone.It’sonlybecauseI’mastubbornbastardIforcedit.”
“But…thepoisongarden,”Isaidslowly.“Theydidjustignorethat,right?”
“Thepoisongarden?”Helookedatme,startled.“Howdoyouknowaboutthat?”
“Thegirlstookmein,”Isaidshortly.“Ididn’tknowwhatitwasatthetime.Butmypointisthey’vedonethesamethingthere,haven’tthey?Shutthedoor,forgottenaboutit?”
“Well,”Jacksaidslowly,“I…well,Ithinkthat’sabitdifferent.They’veneverbeenashands-oninthegrounds.There’snothinguptheretoharmanyone,though.”
“Whataboutthewriting?”
“Aye,that’sabitweird,I’llgiveyouthat.”Hetookalonggulpofteaandfrowned.“Itlookedlikeachild,didn’tyouthink?ButaccordingtoJean,there’dbeennokidsinthehouseformorethanfortyyears,whentheElincourtsmovedin.”
“Itdidlooklikeachild.”MythoughtsflickeredtoMaddie,thenElspeth,andthentotheheavymanliketreadI’dheard,nightafternight.Thathadnotbeenthestepofachild.“Or…likesomeonepretendingtobeachild,”Iaddedslowly,andhenodded.
“CouldbevandalsIsuppose,tryingtocreeppeopleout.It’struethehousewasemptyforalongtime.Butthen…no,thatdoesn’tmakesense.Vandalswouldhardlyhaveboardedupbehindthemselves.Itmusthavebeenthepreviousownersdidthat.”
“Dr.Grant…”Ipaused,tryingtothinkhowtophrasethequestionthathadbeenhoveringattheedgeofmymindeversinceIhadreadthenewspaperarticle.“Didyou…Imean,areyou…?”
“Related?”Jacksaid.Hegavealaugh,andshookhishead.“God,no.Grantsaretenapennyuphere.Imean,Isupposewe’dhaveallbeenpartofthesameclanbackintheday,butthere’snoconnectionbetweenourfamiliesnowadays.I’dneverevenheardofthemanuntilIbeganworkinghere.Poorbastardkilledhisdaughter,isn’tthatthestory?”
“Idon’tknow.”IlookeddownatPetra,atthesoftvulnerablecurveofherskullbeneaththethistle-downhair.“Idon’tknowwhathappenedtoher.Sheatepoisonberriesaccordingtotheinquest.”
“Iheardhefedhersomeexperimentfromhisdabblings.That’swhatthefolkinCarnBridge’lltellyouifyouask.”
“Jesus.”Ishookmyhead,thoughwhetherindenialordisgust,Iwasn’tsure.TherewassomethinginexpressiblyupsettingabouthearingthesuggestioninJack’scheerful,matter-of-factvoice,andIwasn’tsurewhatbotheredmemost—theideathatDr.Grantmighthavekilledhisownchildandgotawaywithit,orthefactthatlocalgossiphadapparentlytriedandcondemnedhimasamurdererintheabsenceofanyconcreteproof.
Itseemedimpossiblethoughthatanyonewouldpoisontheirownchild,andithardlyfittedwiththewild,grief-strickenfaceI’dseenontheweb.Helookedlikeamandestroyedbyhisownpainanddespair,andallofasudden,Ifeltafierceurgetodefendhim.
“ThearticleIreadsaidthatElspethaccidentallypickedcherrylaurelberriesthinkingtheywereelderberriesorsomething,andthecookmadethemintojam,notrealizingwhattheywere.Ican’tseehowthatcouldbeanythingmorethananaccident.”
“Well,thefolksroundherewouldhaveyoubelievethathewas—”Hestopped,lookingatPetra,andseemedtothinkbetterofwhateverhehadbeenabouttosay,eventhoughshewastoolittletounderstandanyofit.Iknewhowhefelt.Therewassomethingobsceneaboutdiscussingsuchhorriblethingsinfrontofher.“Well,nevermind.Notaprettystory,eitherway.”Hedrainedhiscupandputitneatlyinthedishwasher,andthengavealittlewrysmile,verydifferentfromthewarmthofhisusualbroad,expansivegrin.“There’sareasonthehousewasemptyforadecadebeforeSandraandBillbroughtit.There’snotmanyfromroundherewouldhavelivedatStruan,eveniftheyhadthemoneytorenovateit.”
Struan.Thenamefromthearticlegavemealittleprickle,areminderthatwhateverSandraandBillhaddonetoeraseit,thishousehadapast,andthatpeopleinCarnBridgerememberedit.ButJackwascontinuingon,untroubled.
“Whatd’youwantmetodoaboutit,then?”
“Me?”Iasked,startled.“WhydoIneedtodecide?”
“Well,it’syourbedroomitopensonto.I’mnotasuperstitiousman,butIwouldn’tfancysleepingnexttothatlotmyself.”
Ishuddered,unabletohelpmyself.
“Yup,meeither.So…whataremyoptions?”
“Well,IsupposeIcanboarditup,leaveitforSandraandBilltodecidewhentheygetback.OrIcouldtryto…tidytheatticupaweebit.”
“Tidyitup?”
“Paintoversomeofthatwriting,”hesaid.“Butthatwouldmeanleavingitopen.Imean,Icouldlockthedoor,butitwouldn’tbeworthboardingovertheinsideagain,ifwewereplanningtogobackin.Idon’tknowhowyoufeelaboutthat.”
Inodded,bitingmylip.Truthbetold,Ididn’twanttosleepinthisroomagain,andinfactIwasn’tsureifIcould.Thethoughtoflyinginthatbed,listeningtothecreak…creak…oftheboards,withthatdementedwritingjustfeetawayfrommebehindnothingmoresturdythanalockedcupboarddoor…well,itcreepedmeout.Buttheideaofboardingtheroombackupdidn’tseemmuchbettereither.
“Ithinkweshouldpaintit,”Isaidatlast.“IfSandraandBillagree,ofcourse.Wecan’t—wecan’tjustleaveit.It’stoohorrible.”
Jacknodded.Thenhepulledthebunchofkeysoutofhisbackpocket,wherehehadstashedthem,andbeganwinklingthelongblackattickeyoffthebunch.
“Whatareyoudoing?”Iasked,justasitcameclearwithalittleclick.Hehelditout.
“Takeit.”
“Me?ButIdon’twant—”Iswallowed,tryingnottoshowthedepthofrevulsionIfelt,“Idon’twanttogoupthere.”
“Iknowthat.Butifitwereme,I’dfeelbetterknowingthatIhadthekeyinmyownhands.”
Ipressedmylipstogether,thentookthekeyfromhim.Itwasheavy,andverycold,buttomysurprise,hewasright.Therewassomething…notquitepowerful,butatleastanillusionofcontrolinholdingthekeyinmyownhands.Thatdoorwaslocked.AndonlyIhadthepowertounlockit.
Ipusheditintomyjeanspocket.Iwasjusttryingtoworkoutwhattosay,whenJacknoddedagain,butthistimeathiswatch.
“Haveyouseenthetime?”
Ilookeddownatmyphone.
“Shit.”
Iwaslatetopickupthegirls.
“I’dbettergobut—butthankyou,Jack.”
“Whatfor?”Helookedgenuinelysurprised.“Thekey?”
“Notthat.Just—Idon’tknow.Takingmeseriously.Notmakingmefeellikeanidiotforbeingfreakedout.”
“Listen,”hisfacesoftened.“Thatwritingfreakedmeouttoo,andI’mallthewayacrossthecourtyard.Butit’sover,okay?Nomoremysteriousnoises,nomorewriting,nomorewonderingwhat’sbehindthatdoor.Weknownow,andit’screepyandalittlebitsad,butit’sdone,okay?”
“Okay,”Isaid,andInodded.Ishouldhaveknownitwastoogoodtobetrue.
Ihavebeenscaredalotinprison,Mr.Wrexham.ThefirstnightasIlaythere,listeningtothelaughsandshoutsandshrieksoftheotherwomen,tryingtogetusedtothefeelingofthenarrowconcretewallsclosingaroundme,andmany,manynightsfollowingthat.Andlater,afteroneoftheothergirlsbeatmeupinthecafeteriaandIwasmovedtoanotherwingformyownprotection,asIlaytheretremblinginastrangecell,rememberingthehateonherface,andthewaytheguardshadwaitedjustthatslightinstanttoolongbeforeintervening,countingdownthehoursuntilthenextdaywhenI’dhavetofacethemallagain.Andthenightswhenthedreamscome,andIseeherfaceagain,andIwakewiththestenchofbloodinmynostrils,shakingandshaking.
Oh,God,I’vebeenscared.
ButIhaveneverbeenquiteasscaredasIwasthatnightinHeatherbraeHouse.
Thegirlsflakedoutearly,thankfully,andallthreeofthemwereoutforthecountbyhalfpasteight.
Andso,atquartertonine,Iclimbedthestairstothebedroom—Icouldnolongerthinkofitasmybedroom—onthetopfloor.
IfoundIwasholdingmybreathasItouchedthedoorhandle.Icouldnothelpimaginingsomethinghorribleflyingoutandambushingme—abird,clawingatmyface,orperhapsforthewritingtohavespreadlikeacanceroutfrombehindthelockeddoorandacrossthewallsofthebedroom.ButwhenatlastIforcedmyselftoturntheknob,shovingthedooropenwithaviolencethatsentitbangingagainstthewall,therewasnothingthere.Theclosetdoorwasclosed,andtheroomlookedjustasithadthatfirstnightIhadseenit,apartfromafewflecksofdustthatJackandIhadtroddenacrossthecarpetinourhastetogetoutoftheattic.
Stillthough,IknewIcouldn’tpossiblysleephere,soIslidmyhandundermypillowandgrabbedmypajamas,quickly,asifIwereexpectingtofindsomethingnastythere,waiting.Ichangedintomypajamasinthebathroom,didmyteeth,andthenIrolledupmyduvetandcarrieditdownstairstothemediaroom.
IknewifIjustlaydownandwaitedforsleepIwouldbewaitingalongtime,maybeallnight,whiletheimagesoftheatticintrudedandthewordsonthewallwhisperedthemselvesagainandagaininmyears.Druggingmyselfintooblivionwithafamiliarfilmseemedlikeabetteroption.AtleastifIhadaloudlaughtrackringinginmyears,Iwouldnotbewincingateverywarpedfloorboardandsighfromthedogs.IwasnotsureifIcouldbeartoliethereinsilence,waitingforthecreak…creak…tostartupagain.
Friendsseemedabouttherightlevelofintensity,andIputitonthehugewide-screenTV,pulledtheduvetuptomychin…andslept.
***
WhenIwoke,itwaswithasenseofcompletedisorientation.TheTVhadgoneontostandbyinthenight,andtherewasdaylightstreamingunderneaththeblackoutblindsinthemediaroom.
Therewasahot,heavyweightonmylegs…no…twoheavyweights,andmychestwastightandwheezing.HaulingmyselfintoasittingpositionandpushingmyhairoutofmyeyesIlookeddown,expectingtoseethetwodogs,buttherewasonlyoneblackhairymonstersprawledacrossthefootofthesofa.TheotherhotlittlebodywasEllie.
“Ellie?”Isaidhuskily,andthenfeltinthepocketofmydressinggown.Myinhalerwasinthere,asalways,butitknockedagainstsomethingunfamiliarasIdrewitout,andwithanoddrushIrememberedthekey,andallthecrazyeventsofyesterday.Thenwipedthemouthpieceoftheinhaleronmydressinggown,putittomylips,andtookalonghissingpuff.Thereliefwasinstant,andItookadeeperbreath,feelingthereleaseinmychest,andthensaidagain,moreloudly,“Ellie.Sweetheart,whatareyoudoinghere?”
Shewokeup,blinkingandconfused,andthenrealizedwhereshewasandsmiledupatme.
“Goodmorning,Rowan.”
“Goodmorningtoyoutoo,butwhatareyoudoingdownhere?”
“Icouldn’tsleep.Ihadabaddream.”
“Well,okay,but—”
But…what?Iwasn’tsurewhattosay.Herpresencehadshakenme.Howlonghadshebeenpaddingaroundthehouselastnightbyherselfwithoutmehearingher?Shehadevidentlybeenabletogetoutofbedandcomeallthewaydownstairsandtuckherselfinbesidemewithoutmehearingathing.
Theredidn’tseemmuchIcouldsayatthispointthough,soIjustrubbedthesleepoutofmyeyesandthenpulledmylegsoutfromunderthedogandstoodup.
AsIdid,somethingfelloutofthefoldsoftheduvetandhitthefloorwithadullceramic-soundingcrack.
Thesoundmademejump.HadIknockedoveraforgottencoffeemugorsomething?I’dhadhotmilklastnight,butIcouldhaveswornI’dleftthecupsafelyonthecoffeetable.Infact,yes,therewasthemugstillsittingonitscoaster.Sowhathadmadethenoise?
ItwasonlywhenIpulleduptheblindandfoldedtheduvetthatIsawit.Ithadrolledhalfwayunderthesofabeforecomingtoahalt,facingme,sothatitswickedlittleeyesandcrackedgrinseemedtobelaughingatme.
Itwasthedoll’sheadfromtheattic.
Thefeelingthatwashedovermewas—itwaslikesomeonehadpouredabucketoficewaterovermyheadandshoulders,adrenching,paralyzingdelugeofpurefearthatleftmeunabletodoanythingbutstandthere,shakingandgaspingandshivering.
Iheard,asiffromalongwayaway,Ellie’sreedylittlevoicesaying,“Rowan,areyouallright?Areyouokay,Rowan?Youlookfunny.”
Ittookahugeeffortformetodragmyselfbackfromthebrinkofpanicandrealizethatshewastalkingtome,andthatIneededtoanswer.
“Rowan!”Therewasafrightenedwhineinhervoicenow,andshetuggedatmynightshirt,herlittlefingerscoldagainsttheskinofmywaist.“Rowan!”
“I—I’mokay,honey,”Imanaged.Myvoicewasstrangeandcroakyinmyears,andIwantedtogropemywaytothecouchandsitdown,butIcouldn’tbringmyselftogoanywherenearthat…thatthing,withitsmockinglittlegrin.
ButIhadto.Icouldn’tleaveitunderthere,likeanobscenelittlegrenade,waitingtoexplode.
How?Howhaditgotthere?Jackhadlockedthedoor,Ihadseenhimdoit.Andhehadprecededmedownthestairs.AndIhadthekeyinmypocket.Icouldfeelit,warmagainstmythighwithmyownbodyheat.HadI…couldIhavepossibly…?
Butno.Thatwasabsurd.Impossible.
Andyet,thereitwas.
ItwaswhileIwasstandingthere,tryingtogetaholdofmyself,thatElliebentdowntoseewhatIwasstaringatandgavealittlesqueal.
“Adolly!”
Shecrouched,bumjuttingintheairlikethetoddlershestillhalfwas,andreached,andIheardasuddenroarinmyears,myownvoiceshouting,“Ellie,forGod’ssake,don’ttouchit!”andfeltmyselfsnatchingherup,almostbeforeIrealizedwhatIwasgoingtodo.
Therewasalongmomentofsilence,Elliehanginglimpandheavyinmyarms,myownbreathpantinginmyears,andthenherwholebodystiffenedandsheletoutawailofindignantshockandbegantocry,withallthedesolatesurpriseofachildtoldoffforsomethingtheyhadnotrealizedwaswrong.
“Ellie,”Ibegan,butshewasstrugglinginmyarms,herfaceredandcontortedwithupsetandanger.“Ellie,wait,Ididn’tmean—”
“Letmego!”shehowled.Myinstinctwastotightenmyarmsaroundher,butshewasthrashinglikeacat,digginghernailsintomyarms.
“Ellie—Elliecalmdown,you’rehurtingme.”
“Idon’tcare!Letmego!”
Kneeling,painfully,tryingtokeepmyfaceawayfromherthrashinghands,Iletherslidetothefloor,whereshecollapsedwithawailontotherug.
“You’remean!Youshouted!”
“Ellie,Ididn’tmeantoscareyou,butthatdoll—”
“Goaway!”shewailed,“Ihateyou!”
Andthenshescrambledtoherfeetandranfromtheroom,leavingmeruefullyrubbingthescratchesonmyarms.Iheardherfeetonthestairs,andthentheslamofthedoorofherroom.
Sighing,Iwentthroughtothekitchenandtappedonthetablet.WhenIclickedthroughtothecamera,itwastoseeElliefacedowninbed,plainlybawling,withMaddiesleepilyrubbinghereyesinpuzzledsurpriseatbeingwokenuplikethis.
Shit.Shehadcometomelastnightforreassurance—andforamomentthereIhadthoughtweweremakingabreakthrough.AndnowIhadscreweditup.Again.
Anditwasallbecauseofthatvilelittledoll’shead.
Ihadtogetridofit,butsomehowIcouldnotbringmyselftotouchit,andintheendIwentthroughtotheutilityroomandgotaplasticbinliner.Isliditovermyhand,insideout,likeamakeshiftglove,andthenknelt,andreachedunderthesofa.
IfoundIwasholdingmybreath,absurdly,asIreachedintothedark,slightlydustyspace,myfingersgropingforthehardlittlehead.Itouchedhairfirst,justafewstragglingstrands,forthelittleporcelainskullwasalmostbald,andIusedittotugtheheaditselfcloser,andthenclosedmyhandoveritinonefirm,swiftmovement,likescoopingupadeadrat,orsomeinsectyoufearmaystillstingyou,evendead.
Iwasgrippingithard—asiftheforceofmygripcouldstopitexplodingorescapingfrommygrasp.Itdidneither.ButasIstood,gingerly,Ifeltsomethingtwingeinmyindexfinger,ashardofglass,sosharpIhadbarelyfeltitgoin.Ithadpiercedthebagitselfanddrivenintomyfinger,drawingblood,whichnowdrippedwithasteadyrhythmontothewoodenfloor.Theheadwasnotchina,Irealized,butpaintedglass.
AtthesinkIpulledtheglassoutofmyfingerandthenwoundmyhandinapieceofkitchenpaperbeforewrappingtheheadinateatowel,andthenanotherbinbag.Itiedthetopandstuffeditdeep,deepintotherubbishbin,feelinglikeIwasburyingacorpse.MyfingerthrobbedasIpresseddownonit,makingmewince.
“WhathappenedtoEllie?”
Thevoicemademejump,asifI’dbeencaughthidingtheevidenceofsomethingguilty,andswingingroundIsawMaddiestandinginthedoorway.Herexpressionwasslightlylesstruculentthanusual,andwithherhairstandingonendshelookedlikewhatshewas—justalittlegirlwithacomicalcaseofbedhead,wokenuptooearly.
“Oh…it’smyfault,”Isaidruefully.“I’mafraidIshoutedather.ShewasabouttotouchsomebrokenglassandIscaredher,tryingtostopher.IthinkshethoughtIwasangry…Ijustdidn’twanthertohurtherself.”
“Shesaidyoufoundadollandyouwouldn’tletherplaywithit?”
“Justahead.”Ididn’twanttogointothewhysandwhereforeswithMaddie.“Butitwasmadeofglass,andsharpwhereithadgotcracked.Icutmyselfclearingitup.”
Iheldoutmyhandlikeevidence,andshenodded,somberly,seeminglysatisfiedwithmyincompleteexplanation.
“Okay.CanIhaveCocoPopsforbreakfast?”
“Maybe.But,Maddie—”Istopped,notquitesurehowtophrasewhatIwantedtoask.OurrapprochementfeltsofragilethatIwasscaredofendangeringit,butthereweretoomanyquestionsbuzzinginmyheadtoabandonthetopiccompletely.“Maddie,haveyouever…doyouknowwherethedollcamefrom?”
“Whatdoyoumean?”Herfacewaspuzzled,guileless.“We’vegotlotsofdolls.”
“Iknow,butthisisaspecial,old-fashioneddoll.”
Icouldn’tbringmyselftofishthenightmarishbrokenheadoutofthebin,soinsteadIpulledoutmyphoneandsearchedonGoogleImagesfor“Victoriandoll,”scrollingdownuntilIfoundonethatwasaslightlylessmalevolentversionofthedollfromtheattic.Maddiestaredatit,frowning.
“TherewasonelikethatonTVonetime.Itwasaprogrammaboutsellingankeets.”
“Ankeets?”Iblinked.
“Yes,oldthingsthatareworthalotofmoney.Aladywantedtosellanolddollformoneybutthepersoninchargeoftheshowtoldheritwasn’tworthanything.”
“Oh…antiques.Iknowtheshowyoumean.Butyou’veneverseenoneinreallife?”
“Idon’tthinkso,”Maddiesaid.Sheturnedaway,andItriedtoreadherexpression.Wasshebeingtoocasual?Wouldn’tanormalchildaskmorequestionsthanthis?ButthenIshookmyself.Thissecond-guessingofeverythingwasstartingtoborderonparanoia.Childrenwereself-absorbed.Iknewthatwellenoughfromthenursery.Hell,therewereplentyofadultswhowereincuriousenoughnottoquestionsomethinglikethis.
IwasjusttryingtoformulateawayofbringingtheconversationbacktothewritingonthewallandMaddie’sAlphabetSpaghetti,whenshechangedthesubjectabruptly,bringingitbacktoheroriginalquestionwiththesingle-mindednesstypicalofyoungchildren.
“So,canIhaveCocoPopsforbreakfast?”
“Well…”Ibitmylip.Sandra’slistof“occasional”foodswerebeingconsumedmoreandmorefrequentlybytheday.Butthenagain,sheshouldn’thaveitinthehouseifshedidn’twantthechildrentoeatit,shouldshe?“Yes,Iguessso,justfortoday.Butit’sthelasttimethisweek,okay?BacktoWeetabixtomorrow.Goupandgetyourschooluniformon,andI’llhaveitreadybythetimeyougetdown.Oh,andwillyoutellElliethere’sabowlforhertoo,ifshewantsit?”
Shenodded,andasshedisappearedupstairsIreachedforthekettle.
***
IwasspooningsomeporridgeintoPetra’smouthwithmyuninjuredhand,whenalittlefaceappearedatthekitchendoorandthenjustasquicklyslippedaway,leavingapieceofpaperscuddingacrossthefloor.
“Ellie?”Icalled,buttherewasnoanswer,onlythesoundoffeetdisappearing.Sighing,ImadesurethatPetra’sstrapsweresecureandwenttopickupthepieceofpaper.
Tomysurpriseitwasatypedletter,formattedlikeanemail,thoughwithnosubject,andnothinginthe“to”field.UndertheGmailheaderwasasinglelineoftextwithnopunctuation.
DaveOwenIamverysorryforscratchingandwaningawayfromyouandsayingthatIhateyoupleasedon’tbeangryanddon’tgoawayliketheothersIamsorryloveElliep.S.Igotdressedbymyself
DaveOwen?Thewordsmademybrowfurrow,buttherewasnomistakingtheintentoftherestofthemessage,andIunclippedPetra,putherintheplaypeninthecorner,andpickeduptheletteragain.
“Ellie?”
Silence.
“Ellie,Igotyourletter,I’mreallysorryforshouting.CanIsaysorrytoyoutoo?”
Therewasalongpause,thenalittlevoicesaid,“I’minhere.”
Imademywaythroughthemediaroom,tothelivingroom.Atfirstsightitlookedempty,butthenamovementcaughtmyeye,andIwalkedslowlytothefarcorneroftheroom,filledwithshadowwherethemorningsunhadnotyetcomeround.Shewaswedgedinbetweentheendofthesofaandthewall,almostinvisibleapartfromherblondehair,andthetipsofhershoespeepingout.
“Ellie,”Icroucheddown,holdingouttheletter.“Didyouwritethis?”
Shenodded.
“It’sreallygood.Howdidyouknowallthespellings?DidMaddiehelpyou?”“Ididitmyself.Only…theacornhelpedme.”
“Theacorn?”Iwaspuzzled,andshenodded.
“Youpushtheacornandyoutellitwhatyouwanttowriteanditwritesitdownforyou.”
“Whatacorn?”Iwasbewilderednow.“Canyoushowme?”Ellieflushedwithshypleasureatdemonstratingherowncleverness,andsqueezedoutofthelittlecorner.Therewasdustonherschoolskirt,andhershoeswereonthewrongfeet,butIignoredboth,andfollowedherthroughtothekitchen,whereshepickedupthetablet,openedupGmail,andpressedthemicrophonesymbolabovethekeyboard.Lightdawned.Itdidlookalittlebitlikeastylizedacorn—particularlyifyouhadnoideawhatanold-fashionedmicrophonelookedlike.
Nowshespokeintothetablet.
“DearRowan,thisisalettertosayIamverysorry,loveEllie,”shesaidslowly,sayingthewordsasdistinctlyasherchildishpalatewouldallow.
DaveOwenthelettersunfurledonthescreen,asifbymagic,thisisalettertosayIamfairy—
Therewasaninfinitesimalpauseandtheappself-corrected.
verysorryloveEllie
“AndthenyoupressthedotshereanditprintsontheprinterinDaddy’sstudy,”shesaidproudly.
“Isee.”Iwasn’tsurewhetherIwantedtolaughorcry.Icompromisedbycrouchingdownandhuggingher.“Well,you’reveryclever,andit’salovelyletter.AndI’mverysorrytoo.Ishouldn’thaveshouted,andIpromiseI’mnotgoinganywhere.”
Shehungontome,breathingheavilyonmyneck,herchubbycheekwarmagainstmine.
“Ellie,”Isaidsoftly,unsureifIwasabouttowreckourhard-wonconfidence,butunablenottoask.“Ellie,canIaskyousomething?”
Shedidn’tsayanything,butIfelthernod,herlittlepointychindiggingintothetendonthatranfrommycollarbonetomyshoulder.
“Didyou…didyouputthatdollyheadonmylap?”
“No!”Shepulledback,lookingatme,alittleupsetbutnotasmuchasI’dfeared.Sheshookherheadvehemently,herhairflyinglikethistledown.Hereyeswerewide,andIcouldseeinthemakindofdesperationtobebelieved.Butwhy?Becauseshewastellingthetruth?Orbecauseshewaslying?
“Areyousure?IpromiseIwon’tbeangry.Ijust…Iwonderedhowitgotthere,that’sall.”
“Itwasn’tme,”shesaid,stampingherfoot.
“It’sokay,it’sokay,”Ibackpedaledalittle,notwantingtolosewhatgroundI’dgained.“Ibelieveyou.”Therewasapause,andsheslippedherhandinmine.“So…”Iwastreadingcarefullynow,butthiswastooimportantnottopressalittlefurther.“Doyou…doyouknowwhodid?”
Shelookedawayatthat,notmeetingmyeyes.
“Ellie?”
“Itwasanotherlittlegirl,”shesaid.AndsomehowIknewthatwasallIwouldevergetoutofher.
“Maddie,Elliecomeon!”Iwasstandinginthehallway,keysinhandasMaddiecameflyingdownthestairswithhercoatandshoesalreadyon.“Oh,welldone,sweetie.Youdidyourshoesyourself!”Sheslippedpast,avoidingmyoutstretchedarms,butEllie,comingoutofthedownstairstoilet,waslessquickandIcaughtherup,growlinglikeabear,kissedhersquashylittletummy,thensethersquealingandlaughingbackontothefloor,andwatchedasshescamperedoutofthefrontdoorafterhersistertoclamberintothecar.
Iturnedback,topickuptheirschoolbags,andasIdid,IalmostcollidedwithMrs.McKenzie,standingwithherarmsfoldedinthearchwaythatledtothekitchen.
“Shit!”Thewordslippedoutwithoutmeaningto,andIflushed,annoyedwithmyselfforgivinghermoreammunitionforherdislikeofme.“Imean,gosh,Ididn’thearyoucomein,Mrs.McKenzie.Sorry,youstartledme.”
“Icameinthebackway,Ihadmuckyshoes,”wasallshesaid,buttherewassomethingalittlebitsofterthanusualinherface,ashereyesfollowedthegirlsouttothecar.“You’re…,”shestopped,andthenshookherhead.“Nevermind.”
“No,what?”Isaid,feelingannoyed.“Comeon,ifyou’vegotsomethingtosay…”
Shepursedherlips,andIfoldedmyarms,waiting.Then,quiteunexpectedly,shesmiled,transformingherrathergrimface,makingherlookyearsyounger.
“Iwasjustgoingtosay,you’redoingverywellwiththosegirls.Now,you’dbestbegettingamoveon,oryou’llbelate.”
***
AsIdrovebackfromCarnBridgePrimarySchool,Petrastrappedintothecarseatbehindme,pointingoutthewindowandbabblingherhalf-talk,half-nonsensesyllablestoherself,IfoundmyselfrememberingthatfirstdrivebackfromthestationwithJack—theeveningsunsetgildingthehills,thequiethumoftheTeslaaswewoundthroughtheclose-croppedfields,filledwithgrazingsheepandHighlandcows,andoverstonebridges.Itwasgrayanddrizzlingtoday,andthelandscapefeltverydifferent—bleakandrawandentirelyun-summer-like.Eventhecowsinthefieldslookeddepressed,theirheadslowered,raindrippingoffthetipsoftheirhorns.
Whenthegateswunginwardsandwebegantoclimbthewindingdriveuptothehouse,Ihadasharpflashofdéjàvubacktothatfirstevening—thewayIhadsattherebesideJack,scarcelyabletobreathewithhopeandwanting.
Weswungaroundthefinalcurveofthedrive,andthesquatgrayfacadeofthehousecameintoview,andIrememberedtoo,therushofemotionIhadfeltonseeingitforthefirsttime,goldenandwarmandfullofpossibilities.
Itlookedverydifferenttoday.Notfullofthepotentialforanewlife,newopportunities,butgrayandforbiddingasaVictorianprison—onlyIknewthatwasakindofalieaswell,thattheVictorianfacadepresentedtothedrivewaywasonlyhalfthestory,andthatifIwalkedaroundtotheback,Iwouldseeahousethathadbeenrippedapartandpatchedbacktogetherwithglassandsteel.
Lastofall,mygazewenttotheroof,thestonetileswetandslickwithrain.ThewindowJackhadshutwasnotvisiblefromhere,itopenedontotheinnerslopeoftheroof,butIknewthatitwasthere,andthethoughtmademeshiver.
TherewasnosignofJeanMcKenzie’scarinthedrive—shemusthavealreadyleftfortheday—andbothJackandthedogswerenowheretobeseen,andsomehow,whatwitheverythingthathadhappened,Icouldnotbringmyselftoenterthehousealone.Ithadcometosomething,Ithought,asIparkedthecarandunclippedPetrafromherseat,thatevenfendingoffthedogsfromtryingtoputtheirnosesupmyskirtwouldhavebeenawelcomedistractionfromthesilentwatchfulnessofthathouse,withitsglassyegg-shapedeyesobservingmefromeverycorner.
AtleastouthereIcouldthinkandfeelandspeakwithoutwatchingmyeveryword,myeveryexpression,myeverymood.
Icouldbeme,withoutfearingthatIwouldslipup.
“Comeon,”IsaidtoPetra.Herbuggywasinthebootofthecar,andIopeneditupandslidherin,clippingtheraincoveroverher.“Let’sgoforawalk.”
“Mewalk!”Petrashouted,pushingherhandsagainsttheplastic,butIshookmyhead.
“No,honey,it’stoowet,andyou’venotgotyourwaterproofson.Youstaysnuganddryinthere.”
“Puggle!”Petrasaid,pointingthroughtheplastic.“Jumpinmuggypuggle!”Ittookmeaminutetorealizewhatshewassaying,butthenIfollowedhergazetothehugepoolofwaterthathadcollectedonthegravelintheoldstableyard,andunderstandingclicked.
Muddypuddles.Shewantedtojumpinmuddypuddles.
“Oh!LikePeppaPig,youmean?”
Shenoddedvigorously.
“Youhaven’tgotyourWellieson,butlook—”
Ibegantowalkfaster,andthenjog,andthenwithanenormoussplash,Iran,buggyandall,throughthepuddle,feelingthewatersprayupallaroundusandpatterdownonmyanorakandthebuggy’sraincover.
Petrascreamedwithlaughter.
“Again!Morepuggle!”
TherewasanotherpuddlefartheraroundthesideofthehouseandobliginglyIranthroughthattoo,andthenanotheronthegraveledpathdowntowardstheshrubbery.
Bythetimewereachedthekitchengarden,Iwassoakedandlaughing,butalsogettingsurprisinglycold,andthehousewasbeginningtoseemalittlebitmorewelcoming.Fullofcamerasandmalfunctioningtechitmightbe,butatleastitwaswarmanddry,andoutheremyfearsofthenightbeforeseemednotjustsilly,butlaughable.
“Puggle!”Petrashouted,bouncingupanddownunderneathherclips.“Morepuggle!”
ButIshookmyhead,laughingtoo.
“No,that’senough,sweetie,I’mwet!Look!”Icameroundtostandinfrontofher,showinghermysoakedjeansandshelaughedagain,herlittlefacescrunchedupanddistortedthroughthecrumpledplastic.
“Woanwet!”
Woan.Itwasthefirsttimeshehadmadeanattemptatmyname,andIfeltmyheartcontractwithlove,andakindofsadnesstoo—foreverythingIcouldnottellher.
“Yes!”Isaid,andtherewasalumpinmythroat,butmysmilewasreal.“Yes,Rowaniswet!”
ItwasasIwasturningthebuggyaroundtostarttheclimbbackuptothehouse,thatIrealizedhowfarwehadcome—almostallthewaydownthepaththatledtothepoisongarden.IglancedovermyshoulderatthegardenasIbegantopushthebuggyupthesteepbrickpath—andthenstopped.
Forsomethinghadchangedsincemylastvisit.
Somethingwasmissing.
Ittookmeaminutetoputmyfingeronit—andthenIrealized.Thestringtyingupthegatehadgone.
“Justasecond,Petra,”Isaid,andignoringherprotestsof“morepuggles!”Iputthebrakeonthebuggyandranbackdownthepathtotheirongate,thegatewhereDr.Granthadbeenphotographed,standingproudlybeforehisresearchplayground,somanyyearsago,thegateIhadtiedupsecurely,inaknottoohighforlittlehandstoreach.
Thethickwhitecateringstringhadgone.Notjustuntied,orsnippedandthrownaside,butgonecompletely.
Someonehadundonemycarefulprecautions.
Butwho?Andwhy?
ThethoughtnaggedatmeasIwalkedslowlybackupthehilltowherePetrawasstillsitting,growingincreasinglyfretful,anditcontinuedtonagasIpushedthebuggylaboriouslybackupthehill,towherethehousewaswaiting.
***
BythetimeIreachedthefrontdoor,Petrawascrossandgrizzling,andlookingatmywatchIsawthatitwaslongpasthersnacktime,andinfactgettingonforlunch.Thebuggy’swheelswerecakedwithmud,butsinceIhadleftthekeytotheutilityroomontheinside,Ihadnooptionotherthanthefrontdoor,soatlastIgotheroutofthebuggy,foldeditawkwardlywithonehand,holdingPetraagainstmyhipwiththeothertostopherrunningoffinsearchofmorepuddles,andleftitintheporch.ThenIpressedmythumbtothewhiteglowingpanel,andstoodbackasthedoorswungsilentlyopen.
Thesmelloffryingbaconhitmeinstantly.
“Hello?”
IputPetradowncautiouslyonthebottomstair,shutthedoor,andprizedoffmymuddyboots.
“Hello?Who’sthere?”
“Oh,it’syou.”ThevoicewasRhiannon’s,andasIpickedupPetraandbegantomakemywaythroughtothekitchen,shecameoutofthedoorway,holdingadrippingbaconsandwichinonehand.Shelookedterrible,greenaroundthegillsandwithdarkshadowsunderhereyesasifshe’dsleptevenlessthanme.
“Oh,you’reback,”Isaidunnecessarily,andsherolledhereyesandstalkedpastmetothestairstakingagreatbiteofsandwichasshedid.
“Hey,”Icalledafterherasablobofbrownsaucehitthetiledfloorwithasplat.“Hey!Takeaplate,can’tyou?”
Butshewasalreadygone,lopingupthestairstowardsherroom.
AsshepassedthoughIcaughtawhiffofsomethingelse—lowandmaskedbythescentofbacon,butsooddandoutofplace,andyetsofamiliar,thatitstoppedmeinmytracks.
Itwasasweet,slightlyrottensmellthatjerkedmesharplybacktomyownteenageyears,thoughitstilltookmeaminutetopindown.Whentheassociationfinallyclickedintoplace,though,Iwascertain—itwasthecherry-ripereekofcheapalcohol,leachingoutofsomeone’sskin,themorningafterit’sbeendrunk.
Shit.
Shit
Partofmewantedtomutterthatitwasnoneofmybusiness—thatIwasanannyandhadbeenhiredformyexpertisewithyoungerchildren—thatIhadnoexperiencewithteenagers,andnoideaofwhatSandraandBillwouldconsiderappropriate.Didfourteen-year-oldsdrinknow?Wasthatconsideredokay?
ButtheotherpartofmeknewthatIwasinlocoparentishere.WhetherornotSandrawouldbeconcerned,Ihadseenenoughtoworryme.AndtherewereplentyofredflagsaboutRhiannon’sbehavior.Butthequestionwas,whatshouldIdoaboutit.WhatcouldIdoaboutit?
ThequestionsnaggedatmeasImademyselfandPetraasandwichandthenputherdownforhernap.IcouldgoandquestionRhiannon—butIwasprettysureshe’dhaveareadyexcuse,assumingshedeignedtotalktome.
ThenIremembered.Cass.Ifnothingelse,shewouldbeabletoexplaintheexactsequenceofthenight’seventstome,andmaybegivemeanideaofwhetherIwasascribingmoretothisthanIshould.Abunchoffourteen-year-oldgirlsatabirthdayparty…itwasn’timpossibleCasshadsuppliedsomealcopopsherself,andRhiannonhadjustdrunkmorethanherfairshare.
Cass’sreturntextwasstillinmylistofmessages,andIscrolleddownuntilIfoundit,andpulledoutthenumber.ThenIwaitedwhileitrang.
“Yup?”Thevoicewasrough,andScottish,andverymale.
Iblinked,lookedatthephonetocheckIhaddialedtherightnumber,andthenputitbacktomyear.
“Hello?”Isaid,cautiously,“Whoisthis?”
“I’mCraig,”saidthevoice.Itdidn’tsoundlikeakid,thevoicehadtobesomeoneatleasttwenty,maybeolder.Anditdefinitelydidn’tsoundlikeanyone’smum,ordadforthatmatter.“Moretothefuckingpoint,whothefuckareyou?”
Iwastooshockedtoreply.ForasecondIsimplysatthere,mouthopen,tryingtofigureoutwhattosay.
“Hello?”Craigsaid,irritably.“Hellooo?”Andthen,beneathhisbreath,“Stupidcuntswi’theirfuckingwrongnumbers.”
Andthenhehungup.
Ishutmymouth,andwalkedslowlythroughtothekitchen,stilltryingtofigureoutwhathadjusthappened.
Plainly,whoeverthatnumberbelongedto,itwasn’tElise’smum.Whichmeant…wellitcouldhavemeantthatRhiannonhadwrittenitdownwrong,exceptthatIhadtextedthatnumberandgotbackaconfirmation,supposedlyfrom“Cass.”
WhichmeantthatRhiannonhadbeenlyingtome.
Whichalsomeantthatveryprobably,shehadn’tbeenoutwithEliseatall.Instead,shehadverylikelybeenwithCraig.
Fuck.
Thetabletwaslyingonthekitchenisland,andIpickeditupandtriedtocomposeanemailtoSandraandBill.
Theproblemwas,Ididn’tknowwhattobeginwith.Therewastoomuchtoosay.ShouldIstartwithRhiannon?OrMaddie’sbehavior?OrshouldIleadwithmyconcernsabouttheattic?Thenoises,andthewayJackandIhadbrokenin,andthecrazywriting?
WhatIwantedtotellthemwaseverything—fromthedead,rottensmellthatstillhunginmynostrils,andthebrokenshardsofthedoll’sheadintherubbishbinatthefootofthedrive,rightthroughtoMaddie’sscribbledprison-celldrawing,andmyconversationwithCraig.
Somethingiswrong,Iwantedtowrite.No,scrapthat,everythingiswrong.But…howcouldItellthemaboutRhiannonandMaddiewithoutseeminglikeIwascriticizingtheirparenting?Letalone,howcouldIsaywhatIhadseenandheardinthishouse,withoutbeingdismissedasjustanothersuperstitiousnanny?Jackhadbeenhere,afterall,andhehadseennothingoutoftheordinary.HowcouldIexpecttopersuadesomeonewhohadn’tevenseentheinsideofthatcreepy,dementedroom?
Thesubjectlinefirstthen.AnythingIcouldthinkofseemedeitherhopelesslyinadequate,orridiculouslydramatic,andintheendIsettledonAnupdatefromHeatherbrae.
Okay.Okay.Calmandfactual.Thatwasgood.Nowforthebodyoftheemail.
DearSandraandBill,Iwrote,andthensatbackandnibbledatthefrayingedgeofthebandageonmyfinger,tryingtothinkwhattoputnext.Firstofall,IshouldtellyouthatRhiannonarrivedbackthismorningsafeandsound,butIhaveafewconcernsaboutheraccountofhertriptoElise’s.
Okay,thatwasgood.Thatwasclearandfactualandnonaccusatory.Butthenhowtoseguefromthatinto
Stupidcuntswi’theirfuckingwrongnumbers.
Letalonefromthatto
wehateyou
Thereangry
GOAWAY
Wehiteyou
Mostofall,howtoexplainthatIwouldnot—couldnot—sleepinthatroomagain,listentothosefootstepspacingabove,breathethesameairasthoserotteddustyfeathers.
IntheendIjustsatthere,staringatthescreen,rememberingtheslowcreak…creak…ontheboardsaboveme,anditwasonlywhenIheardPetra’scrankywailcomingovertheintercomandlookedattheclockthatIrealizeditwastimetopickupMaddieandElliefromschool.
GonetogetthegirlsItappedoutonthemessagingscreentoRhiannon,weneedtotalkwhenIgetback.Andthen,leavingtheemailunsentonthetablet,IranupstairstochangePetraandbundleherintothecar.
***
Ididn’tthinkoftheemailagainuntilnearly9:00p.m.Theafternoonhadbeenagoodone—MaddieandElliehadbothbeendelightedtoseeRhiannon,andshe’dbeentouchinglysweetwiththem—afarcryfromtheglossy,entitledprivateschoolbratsheplayedwithme.Shewasvisiblyhungover,butsheplayedBarbieswiththemintheplayroomforacoupleofhours,atesomepizza,andthendisappearedupstairswhileIdidbattlewithbathsandbedandthentuckedthegirlsinwithakissandturnedoutthelights.
WhenIcamedownstairsIwasgearingmyselfupforthepromiseddiscussion,tryingtoimaginewhatRowanthePerfectNannywouldhavedone.Firmbutclear.Don’tleadwithsanctionsandaccusations,gethertotalk.
ButRhiannonwaswaitinginthekitchen,tappinghernailsonthecounter,andIdidadoubletakeatwhatshewaswearing.Fullmakeup,heels,miniskirt,andamidriff-baringtopthatshowedoffapiercednavel.
Ohshit.
“Um,”Ibegan,butRhiannonforestalledme.
“I’mgoingout.”
ForasecondIhadnoideawhattosay.ThenIpulledmyselftogether.
“Idon’tthinkso.”
“Well,Ido.”
Ismiled.Icouldaffordtosmile.Itwasgrowingdark.IhadthekeystotheTeslainmypocket,andtheneareststationwasthebestpartoftenmiles.
“Areyouplanningtowalkinthoseheels?”Iasked.ButRhiannonsmiledback.
“No,I’vegotaliftcoming.”
Doubleshit.
“Okay,look,Rhiannon,thisisveryfunnyandeverything,butyoudoknowthere’sabsolutelynowayIcanletyoudothat.I’llhavetocallyourparents.Ihavetotellthem—”Ohfuckthis,fuckaccusations,Ihadtosaysomethingtomakeherrealizeshe’dbeenrumbled.“Ihavetotellthemyoucamehomestinkingofalcohol.”
Iexpectedthewordstoactlikeapunchtothegut,butshebarelyreacted.
“Idon’tthinkyoushoulddothat,”wasallshesaid.
ButIhadalreadypickedupmyphone.
Ihadn’tcheckeditsincebeforesupper,andtomysurprise,therewasanemailiconflashing.ItwasfromSandra.
Ipressedit,incaseitwassomethingIshouldknowaboutbeforeIspoketoher,andthenblinkedinpuzzlementasthesubjectheadercameup.
Re:AnupdatefromHeatherbrae
What?HadIsenttheemailwithoutmeaningto?IhadloggedintomypersonalGmailonthechildren’stablet,theonetheyusedforplayinggames,andhadahorriblefeelingthatIhadforgottentologout.CouldPetraoroneofthegirlshaveaccidentallypressedsend?
Panic-stricken,IopenedupSandra’sreply,expectingsomethingalongthelinesof??What’sgoingon?butitwastotallydifferent.
ThanksfortheupdateRowan,soundsgood.GladRhiannonhadafuntimewithElise.BillisofftoDubaitonight,andI’mataclientdinner,butdotextifanythingurgentandI’lltrytoFaceTimethegirlstomorrow.X
Itdidn’tmakesense.Atleast,itdidn’tuntilIscrolleddownalittlefurtherandlookedattheemailIhadsupposedlysent,at2:48p.m.,agoodtwentyminutesafterI’dlefttocollectMaddieandEllie.
DearBillandSandra,justanupdatefromhome.Allisgood,RhiannonisbacksafeandsoundfromElise’shouse,andsheseemstohavehadagreattime.We’vehadaveryniceafternoonandshe’sacredittoyouboth.MaddieandElliebothsendlove.Rowan.
TherewastotalsilenceandthenIturnedtoRhiannon.
“Youlittleshit.”
“Charming,”shedrawled.“IsthatthekindoflanguagetheyexpectedatLittleNippers?”
“Little—what?”HowdidsheknowwhereI’dworked?ButthenIpulledmyselftogether,refusingtobederailed.“Look,don’ttrytochangethesubject.Thisisutterlyunacceptable,andstupidtoboot.Firstofall,IknowaboutCraig.”AlookofshockflickeredacrossRhiannon’sfaceatthat.Sherecoveredherselfquickly,herexpressionbacktoboredindifferencealmostinstantly.However,IhadseenitandIcouldn’tstopatriumphantsmilefromspreadingacrossmyownface.“Ohyes,didn’thetellyouthat?Irang‘Cass.’ObviouslythefirstthingI’mgoingtodoiscallyourmumandexplainthatyousentthatemail,andthesecondthingI’mgoingtodoistellheraboutthisCraigpersonandexplainthatyouproposewaltzingoutwiththisguyI’venevermet,inatopthatbarelycomestoyournavelandseewhatshehastosayonthatsubject.”
Idon’tknowwhatIhadexpected—perhapsashowoftemper,orevenforRhiannontostartcryingandbeggingtobeletoff.
Butherreactionwasneitherofthosethings.Instead,shesmiled,rathersweetly,inawaythatwastotallyunnerving,andsaid,“Oh,Idon’tthinkyou’lldothat.”
“Givemeonegoodreasonwhynot!”
“I’lldobetterthanthat,”shesaid.“I’llgiveyoutwo.Rachel.Gerhardt.”
Ohfuck.
Thesilenceinthekitchenwasabsolute.
Forasecond,Ithoughtmykneeswereabouttogiveway,andIgropedmywayforabarstoolandslumpeddownonit,feelingmybreathcatchinmythroat.
Iwascornered.Irealizedthatnow.Ijustdidn’tknowquitehowtightthatcornerwasgoingtoget.
Becausethisiswhereitgetsvery,verybadforme,doesn’tit,Mr.Wrexham?
Thisiswherethepolicecaseonmeshiftedfrombeingsomeoneinthewrongplaceatthewrongtime,tosomeonewithamotive.
Becauseshewasright.Icouldn’tringSandraandBill.
Icouldn’tdothat,becauseRhiannonknewthetruth.
Itwillbenosurprisetoyou,Mr.Wrexham,notifyou’vereadthenewspaperpieces.
BecauseyouwillhaveknownrightfromtheoutsetthatthenannyarrestedintheElincourtcasewasnotRowanCainebutRachelGerhardt.
Buttothepolice,itwaslikeabombshell.Or,no,notabombshell.Morelikeoneofthoseexplodingpi?atasthatshowersyouwithgifts.
BecauseIhadhandedthemtheircaseonaplate.
AfterwardstheyfocusedveryhardonhowImanagedtodoit,asifIweresomekindofcriminalmastermind,whohadplottedallthisinexhaustivedetail.Butwhattheycouldn’tseemtounderstandwashowtemptingly,laughablysimpleithadbeen.Therehadbeennoforgery,noelaborateidentitytheftormanufacturedpapers.Howdidyouobtainthefakeidentitypapers,Rachel?theykeptasking,butthetruthwas,therehadbeennofakepapers.AllIhaddonewaspickupmyfriendRowan’snannyingpaperworkfromherbedroominoursharedflat,andshowittoSandra.Backgroundcheck,firstaidcertificate,CV,noneofithadanyphotographs.Therewasabsolutelynoneedformetofakeanything,andnowayofSandraknowingthatthewomanstandinginfrontofherwasnotthepersonnamedonthecertificatesshewasholdingout.
And,Itriedtotellmyself,itwasn’tmuchofadeception.Afterall,Ireallydidhavethosecredentials—mostofthem,anyway.Ihadabackgroundcheckandafirstaidcertificate.LikeRowan,IhadworkedinthebabyroomatLittleNippers,albeitnotquiteaslongasshehad,andnotassupervisor.AndIhaddonenannyingbeforehand,thoughnotasmuch,andIwasn’tsurethatmyreferenceswouldhavebeenquiteasgushing.Butthebasicswereallthere.Thenamethingwasjusta…technicality.Ievenhadacleandrivinglicense,justasIhadtoldSandra.TheonlyproblemwasthatIcouldn’tshowittoherbecauseofthephoto.ButeverythingIhadtoldher—everyqualificationIhadclaimed—itwasalltrue.
Everythingexceptformyname.
Therewasluckinvolvedofcoursetoo.IthadbeenluckythatSandrahadagreedtomyrequestandhadn’tcontactedLittleNippersthemselvesforareference.Ifshehad,theywouldhavetoldherthatRowanCainehadleftacoupleofmonthsback.Luckythatsheneverpushedmeonthedrivinglicense.
Andithadbeenluckytoothatsheusedaremotepayrollservice,sothatIneverhadtopresentRowan’spassportinpersonandcouldsimplyforwardthescanshehadleftonhercomputerdesktopalongwithoursharedbills.
Thebiggestpieceofgoodfortunewasthatbanks,slightlyincredibly,didn’tseemtocarewhosenamewasonabanktransfer,aslongastheaccountnumberandsortcodematchedup.ThathadbeensomethingI’dneverexpected.Ihadlainawakewonderinghowtofigurethatpartout.Claimthatmyaccountwasinadifferentname?Askforcash,orchecksmadeouttoR.GerhardtandcrossmyfingersSandradidn’taskwhy?I’dpracticallylaughedwhenIfoundoutthatnoneofthatmattered,thatifyoupaidbytransferyoucouldputDonaldDuckinthepayeebox,anditwouldgothrough.Itseemedunbelievablycareless.
Butthetruthwas,tobeginwith,Ihadn’tevenlookedpastthatfirststage.AllIhadfocusedonwasgettingthatinterview,standinginHeatherbraeHouse,lookingSandraandBillintheeye.ThatwasallIhadwanted.ThatwastheonlyreasonIhadansweredthead.Andyetsomehow,theopportunitieshadkeptpresentingthemselves,liketemptinglywrappedgiftsonaplate,beggingmetopickthemupandmakethemmine.
Ishouldn’thavedoneit,Iknowthatnow,Mr.Wrexham.Butcan’tyousee—can’tyouseewhatitmusthavebeenlike?
Now,standinginthekitchenwithRhiannonlaughinginmyface,Ifeltagreatwaveofpanicbreakoverme,followedbyastrangesenseofsomethingelse—almostofrelief,asifIhadknownthismomentwascoming,andwasrelievedtohaveitoveranddonewith.
ForamomentIthoughtaboutbluffing,askingherwhatshemeant,pretendingIhadneverheardthenameRachelGerhardt.Butonlyforamoment.Ifshehadgotfarenoughtodiscovermyrealname,shewasnotgoingtobethrownoffthescentbyanindignantdenial.
“Howdidyoufindout?”Iaskedinstead.
“Because,unlikemydearparents,Ibothertodoalittlediggingwhenanewgirlturnsupoutoftheblue.You’dbesurprisedwhatyoucanfindoutonline.Theyteachitinschoolnow,youknow,managingyourdigitalfootprint.Iguesstheydidn’tdothatinyourday?”
Thebarbwaspalpable,butIdidn’tbothertorespond.Itscarcelyseemedimportant.Whatmatteredwashowfarshehaddug,andwhy—andwhatexactlyshehadfoundout.
“Itdidn’ttakemelongtotrackdownRowanCaine,”Rhiannonwassaying.“She’sprettyboringisn’tshe?Notmuchammunition.”
Ammunition.Sothatwaswhatthiswasabout.Rhiannonhadbeendiggingaroundonlineforanylittleindiscretionshecoulduseasleverage.Onlyshehadstumbledonsomethingmuch,muchbigger.
“Icouldn’tunderstandit,”shesaid,alittlesmiletuggingatthecornerofhermouth.“Itallmatchedup—thename,thedateofbirth,thetimeatthatnurserywiththestupidtweename—LittleNippers,”shesaidmockingly.“Ugh.ButthensuddenlytherewereallthesepicturesfromThailandandVietnam.AndwhenIsawyouonthedriveway,IbegantothinkI’dfuckedup,thatmaybeIdidhavethewrongperson.Ittookmeafewhourstotrackdowntherealyou.Mustbelosingmytouch.Shameforyoushedoesn’tkeepherfriendlistprivate.Orthatyoudidn’tbothertodeleteyourFacebookprofile.”
Fuck.Soithadbeenassimpleasthat.AssimpleasscrollingdownalistofRowan’sFacebookfriendsandpickingoutthefaceIhadsoobliginglypostedupforalltheworldtosee.HowcouldIhavebeensostupid?Buttruthfully,ithadneveroccurredtomethatanyonewouldjointhedotssoassiduously.AndIhadn’tbeensettingouttodeceive,that’sthething.That’swhatItriedtoexplaintothepolice.IfIhadreallybeensettingupafraudulentsecondlife,wouldn’tIhavebotheredtocovermytracks?
Becausethiswasn’tfraud,notreally.Notinthewaythepolicemeant.Itwas…itwasjustanaccident,really.Theequivalentofborrowingyourfriend’scarwhilethey’reaway.Inevermeantforallthistohappen.
Theproblemwas,thethingIcouldn’ttellthepolice,waswhyIhadcometoHeatherbraeunderanassumedname.Theykeptaskingmeandaskingmeanddigginganddigging,andIkeptfloundering,andtryingtocomeupwithreasons—thingslike,Rowan’sreferenceswerebetterthanmine(whichwastrue)andshehadmoreexperiencethanme(trueagain).IthinkatfirsttheythoughtImusthavesomedeep,darkprofessionalsecret—alapsedregistration,oraconvictionasasexoffenderorsomething.Andofcoursenoneofthatwasthecase,andashardastheytriedtofindsomething,therewasnothingwrongwithmyownpapers.
Itlookedvery,verybadforme,Iknewthat,evenatthetime.ButIkepttellingmyself,ifRhiannonhadn’tdiscoveredwhyIhadcomehere,thenperhapsthepolicewouldn’teither.
Butthatwasstupid,ofcourse.Theyarethepolice.It’stheirjobtodig.
Ittookthemsometime.Days,maybeevenweeks,Ican’ttotallyremember.Theinterrogationstartstoruntogetherafterawhile,thedaysblurringintoeachother,astheypickedandpickedandproddedandprobed.ButeventuallytheycameintotheroomholdingapieceofpaperandtheyweresmilinglikeCheshirecats,whilesimultaneouslysomehowtryingtolookgraveandprofessional.
AndIknew.Iknewthattheyknew.
AndIknewthatIwassunk.
Butthatwasafterwards.AndI’mgettingaheadofmyself.
Ihavetotelltheotherpart.Thehardestpart.ThepartIcan’tquitebelieveevennow.
AndthepartIcan’tfullyexplain,eventomyself.
Ihavetotellyouaboutthatnight.
AfterRhiannonwalkedout,Istoodforalongmomentinthehallway,watchingthelightsofthevandisappeardownthedrive,andtryingtofigureoutwhatIshoulddo.ShouldIphoneSandra?Andsaywhat?Confess?Brazenitout?
Ilookedatmywatch.Itwasjusthalfpastnine.ThelinefromSandra’semailfloatedintomyhead—BillisofftoDubaitonight,andI’mataclientdinner,butdotextifanythingurgent.
TherewasnowayIcouldambushherwithallthisinthemiddleofaclientdinner,stillless,textitthrough.
Oh,hi,Sandra,hopeallisgood.FYI,Rhiannonhasgoneoutwithastrangebloke,andIappliedforthisjobunderafakename.Speaksoon!
Theideawouldhavebeenlaughableifthewholesituationhadn’tbeensoserious.Shit.Shit.CouldIemailherandexplainthesituationproperly?Maybe.ThoughifIweregoingtodothat,Ishouldreallyhavedoneitearlier,beforeRhiannonsentthatfakeupdate.Itwouldbeevenhardertoexplainmyselfnow.
ButasIpulledthetablettowardsmyself,Irealized,Icouldn’treallyemail.Thatwasthecoward’swayout.Iowedheracall—toexplainmyself,ifnotface-to-face,thenatleastinperson.ButwhatthehellcouldIsay?
Shit.
Thebottleofwinewasthereonthekitchencounter,likeaninvitation,andIpouredoutaglass,tryingtosteadymynerves,andthenanother,thistimewithaglanceatthecamerasquattinginthecorner.ButInolongercared.Theshitwasabouttohitthefan,andsoonwhateverfootageSandraandBillhadonmewouldbetheleastofmyworries
Itwasdeliberateself-sabotage,Iknewthatreally,inmyheartofheartsasIfilledtheglassforthethirdtime.BythetimetherewasonlyoneglassleftinthebottleIknewthetruth—IwastoodrunktocallSandranow,toodrunktodoanythingsensibleatall,exceptgotobed.
***
Uponthetoplanding,Istoodforalongtime,myhandontheroundedknobtomybedroom,summoningupthecouragetoenter.ButIcouldnotdoit.Therewasadarkcrackatthebottomofthedoor,andIhadasudden,unsettlingimageofsomethingloathsomeandshadowyslitheringoutfrombeneathit,followingmedownthestairs,envelopingmeinitsdarkness…
Instead,Ifoundmyselflettingmyhanddropandthenbackingaway,almostasifthatdarksomethingmightindeedcomeaftermeifIturnedmyback.Then,atthetopofthestairs,Iturnedresolutelyandallbutranbackdownstairstothewarmthofthekitchen,ashamedofmyself,ofmyowncowardice,ofeverything.
Thekitchenwascozyandbright,butwhenIshutmyeyesIcouldstillsmellthechillybreathoftheatticaircoursingoutbeneathmybedroomdoor—andasIstood,irresolute,wonderingwhethertomakeupabedonthesofaortrytostayawakeforRhiannon’sreturn,IcouldfeelthethrobofmyfingerwhereIhadsliceditonthatvilebrokendoll’shead.Ihadputaplasteroverit,buttheskinbeneathfeltfatandswollen,asifinfectionwassettingin.
Walkingovertothesink,Ipulledoffthedressing,andthenjumped,convulsively,astherewasathudatthebackdoor.
“Wh-whoisit?”Icalledout,tryingnottoletmyvoiceshake.
“It’sme,Jack.”Thevoicecamefromoutside,muffledbythewind.“I’vegotthedogs.”
“Comein,I’mjust—”
Thedooropened,lettinginagustofcoldair,andIheardhisfootstepsintheutilityroom,andthethudofhisbootsashepulledthemoffandletthemdropontothemat,andthebarkingofthedogsastheycaperedaroundhim,andhetriedtohushthem.Atlasttheysettledintotheirbaskets,andhecameintothekitchen.
“Idon’tnormallywalkthemsolate,butIgotcaughtup.I’msurprisedyou’restillawake.Goodday?”
“Notreally,”Isaid.Myheadwasswimming,andIrealizedafreshhowdrunkIwas.WouldJacknotice?
“No?”Jackraisedaneyebrow.“Whathappened?”
“Ihada…”Jesus,wheretostart.“IhadabitofaruninwithRhiannon.”
“Whatkindofarunin?”
“Shecamebackandwe—”Istopped,unsurehowtoputthis.ItfeltcompletelywrongtoputthefullpicturetoJackbeforeIconfessedtoSandra,andIwasprettysureIwouldbebreakingallsortsofconfidentialityguidelinesifIdiscussedRhiannon’sproblemswithsomeonewhowasnotherparent.Butontheotherhand,IfeltthatImightgocrazyifIdidn’tconfideatleastsomeofthisinanotheradult.Andperhapstherewashistoryhere,foritwasbecomingclearerandclearerthatnoteverythinghadbeenincludedinthatbigredbinder.“Weargued,”Isaidatlast.“AndIthreatenedtocallSandraandshe—shejust—”ButIcouldn’tfinish.
“Whathappened?”Jackpulledoutachair,andIsankintoit,feelingdespairwashovermeagain.
“She’sgone.She’sgoneoutbyherself—withsomeawfulunsuitablefriend.Itoldhernotto,butshewentanyway,andIdon’tknowwhattodo—whattotellSandra.”
“Look,don’tworryaboutRhiannon.She’sacannyweething,prettyindependent,andIhighlydoubtshe’llcometoanyharm,muchasSandraandBillmightdisapprove.”
“Butwhatifshedoes?Whatifsomethinghappenstoherandit’sonmywatch?”
“You’reananny,notajailer.Whatwereyousupposedtodo—chainhertoherbed?”
“You’reright,”Isaidatlast.“Iknowyou’reright,it’sjust—OhGod,”thewordsburstoutofmeoftheirownaccord.“I’msotired,Jack.Ican’tthink,anditdoesn’thelpthatmyhandhurtslikeabastardeverytimeItouchanything.”
“Whathappenedtoyourhand?”
Ilookeddownatit,cradledinmylap,feelingitthrobintimewithmypulse.
“Icutit.”Ididn’twanttogointothehowsandwhysnow,butthethoughtofthatgrinning,evillittlefacemademeshudder,involuntarily.
Jackfrowned.
“CanItakealook?.”
Isaidnothing,justnodded,andheldoutmyhand,andhetookitverygently,anglingittowardsthelight.Verylightly,hepressedthepuffyskineithersideofthecut,andmadeaface.
“Itdoesn’tlooktoogood,ifyoudon’tmindmesaying.Didyouputanythingonit,whenyoucutit?”
“Justaplaster.”
“Ididn’tmeanthat,Imeant,antiseptic.Anythinglikethat?”
“Doyouthinkitreallyneedsit?”
Henodded.
“It’sdeep,andIdon’tlikethewayit’spuffeduplikethat,lookslikeitcouldbegettinginfected.LetmegoandseewhatSandra’sgot.”
Hestood,pushingbackhischairwithascreechandwalkedthroughtotheutilityroom,wheretherewasasmallmedicinecabinetonthewall.Ihadfoundtheplastersinthereearlier,andhadn’tnoticedanythinglikeantisepticorrubbingalcohol,justajumbleofPeppaPigplastersandbottlesofchildren’sliquidparacetamol.
“Nothing,”Jacksaid,comingbackthroughintothekitchen.“Oratleast,nothingexceptsixdifferentflavorsofCalpol.Comebacktomine,I’vegotaproperfirstaidkitintheflat.”
“I—Ican’t,”Istraightenedup,pulledmyhandaway,curledmyinjuredfingertomypalm,feelingitthrobwithpain.“Ican’tleavethekids.”
“You’renotleavinganyone,”Jacksaidpatiently.“You’rerightacrossthecourtyard,youcantakethebabymonitor.SandraandBillsitoutinthegardenallthetimeinthesummer.It’snodifferent.Ifyouhearapeepyoucanbebacktherebeforetheyevenwakeup.”
“Well…”Isaidslowly.Thoughtsflickeredthroughthebackofmyhead,theiredgessoftenedandblurredbytheamountofwineI’ddrunkearlier.Icouldaskhimtobringthefirstaidsuppliesbackhere,couldn’tI?Butalittlepartofme…okay,no,abigpartofme…thatpartwascurious.IwantedtogowithJack.Iwantedtoseeinsidehisflat.
And,tobecompletelytruthful,Mr.Wrexham,Iwantedtogetoutofthishouse.
Ifyoureallythoughttherewasathreat,howcouldyouleavethekidstodealwithit?Itwasthewomanpoliceofficerwhoaskedmethat,barelytryingtoconcealherdisgustassheaskedthequestion.
AndItriedtoexplain.Itriedtotellherhowthekidshadseennothing,heardnothing.HoweverylittlebitofmalevolencehadseemedtobedirectedsolelyatmeIhadheardthefootsteps.Iwastheonewhohadreadthosemessages.Ihadbeenkeptawake,nightafternight,bythenoisesandthedoorbellsandthecold.
Noneoftheothers,evenJack,hadseenorheardwhatIhad.
Iftherewassomethinginthathouse,andevennowIonlyhalfbelievedthattherecouldbe,inspiteofeverythingthathadhappened,iftherewas,thenitwasouttogetme.Meandtheotherfournannieswhohadpackedupandleftinahurry.
AndIjustwantedfiveminutesoutfromitsinfluence.Justfiveminutes,withthebabymonitorinmypocketandthetabletwithitssurveillancecamerasundermyarm.Wasthattoomuchtoask?
Thepoliceofficerdidn’tseemtobuyit.Shejuststood,shakingherheadindisbelief,herlipcurledwithcontemptforthestupid,selfish,carelessbitchsittingoppositeher.
Butdoyoubuyit,Mr.Wrexham?Doyouunderstand,howharditwas,shutupthere,nightafternightwithnothingbutthesoundofpacingfootsteps?Doyouunderstandwhyjustthosefewyardsacrossthecourtyardseemedlikebothnothingatall,andeverything?
Idon’tknow.I’mnotsureifI’vemanagedtoconvinceyou,toexplainwhatitwaslike,whatitwasreallylike.
AllIcantellyouisthatIpickedupthemonitor,andthetablet,andIfollowedJackashecrossedthekitchenandheldopenthebackdoorforme,shuttingitbehindusboth.Ifeltthewarmthofhisskin,asheshepherdedmeacrossthedark,unevencobblestonedcourtyardtothestairsuptohisflat.AndImountedthestairsafterhim,watchingtheflexandshiftofhismusclesunderhisT-shirtasheclimbed.
Atthetophepulledakeyoutofhispocket,twisteditinthelock,andthenstoodbacktoletmepassinside.
Inside,IexpectedJacktofumbleforapanelorpullouthisphone,butinsteadhereachedout,flickedsomething,andasthelightscameon,Isawaperfectlyordinarylightswitchmadeofwhiteplastic.Thereliefwassoabsurd,andsogreat,thatIalmostlaughed.
“Don’tyouhaveacontrolpanel?”
“No,thankGod!Theseweredesignedasstaffaccommodation.Nopointinwastingtechnologyonthelikesofus.”
“Isupposeso.”
Heflickedonanotherlight,andIsawasmall,brightsittingroom,furnishedwithgoodbasicsandafadedcottonsofa.Theremainsofalogfiresmolderedinthelittlestoveinthecorner,andIcouldseeakitchenetteonthefarside.Beyondwasanotherdoor,thatIsupposedwashisbedroom,butitdidn’tseempolitetoask.
“Right,sithere,”hesaid,pointingatthesofa,“andI’llbebackwithaproperdressingforthatcut.”
Inodded,gratefulforthesenseofbeingtakencareof,butmostlyjustcontenttositthere,feelingthewarmthofthefireonmyfaceandthereassuringlycheapandcheerfulIkeacushionsatmybackwhileJackrummagedinthekitchencupboardsbehindme.ThesofawasexactlyliketheoneRowanandIhadbackinourflatinLondon.Ektorp,itwascalled,orsomethinglikethat.IthadbeenRowan’smum’sbeforeshehandeditdowntous.Guaranteedtolastfortenyears,withawashablecottoncoverthathadoncebeenred,inJack’scase,buthadfadedtoaslightlystreakydarkpinkwithsunandrepeatedlaunderings.
Sittingonitwaslikecominghome.
AftertheluxurioussplitpersonalityofHeatherbrae,therewassomethingnotjustrefreshing,butendearingaboutthisplace.Itwassolidlybuilt,andallofapiece—nosuddendisorientingswitchesfromVictorianopulencetosleekfuturistictechnology.Everythingwasreassuringlyhomey,fromthemugstainsonthecoffeetable,tothemedleyofphotosproppedonthemantelpiece—friendsandtheirkids,ormaybeniecesandnephews.Onelittleboycroppedupmorethanonce,clearlyarelativefromthefamilyresemblance.
Ifeltmyeyesclosing,twosleepdeprivednightscatchingupwithme…andthenIheardacoughandJackwasstandinginfrontofme,adressingandsomedisinfectantinonehand,andtwoglassesintheother.
“D’youwantadrink?”heasked,andIlookeduppuzzled.
“Adrink?No,I’mfine,thanks.”
“Areyousure?YoumightneedsomethingtotaketheedgeoffwhenIputthisstuffon.It’sgoingtosting.AndIthinkthere’saweebitofglassorsomethingstillinthere.”
Ishookmyhead,buthewasright.Itdidstinglikefuck,firstwhenhedabbeditwithantiseptic,andthenagainwhenhepushedapairoftweezersdeepinsidethecut,andIfeltthesickeninggrindofmetalagainstglass,andthestingofaforgottenshardslidingdeeperintomyfinger.
“Fuck!”Thegroanslippedoutwithoutmemeaningtovoiceit,butJackwasgrinning,holdingsomethingbloodstainedupattheendofhistweezers.
“Gotit.Welldone.Thatmusthavehurtlikeabastard.”
Myhandwasshakingashesatdownbesideme.
“Youknow,you’vestuckitoutlongerthanthelastfew.”
“Whatdoyoumean?”
“Thelastcoupleofnannies.Actually,Itellalie,Katyamadeittothreeweeks,Ithink.ButsinceHolly,they’vecomeandgonelikebutterflies.”
“WhowasHolly?”
“Shewasthefirstone,theonewhostayedthelongest.LookedafterMaddieandElliewhentheywerewee,andshestayedfornearlythreeyears,until—”Hestopped,seemingtothinkbetterofwhathehadbeenabouttosay.“Well,nevermindthat.Andnumbertwo,Lauren,shestayednearlyeightmonths.Buttheoneafterherdidn’tlastaweek.AndtheonebeforeKatya,Majahernamewas,sheleftthefirstnight.”
“Thefirstnight?Whathappened?”
“Shecalledataxi,leftinthemiddleofthenight.Lefthalfherthingstoo;Sandrahadtosendthemon.”
“Idon’tmeanthat,Imean,whathappenedtomakeherleave?”
“Oh,well…that,Idon’treallyknow.Ialwaysthought—”Heflushed,thebackofhisneckstainingredashelookeddownathisemptyglass.
“Goon,”Iprompted,andheshookhishead,asifangryathimself.
“Fuckit,IsaidIwouldnadothis.”
“Dowhat?”
“Idon’tbad-mouthmyemployers,Rowan,Itoldyouthatonthefirstday.”
Thenamegavemeaguiltyjolt,areminderofallthatIwasconcealingfromhim,butIpushedthethoughtaside,toointentonwhathehadbeenabouttosaytoworryaboutmyownsecrets.SuddenlyIhadtoknowwhathaddriventhemaway,thoseothergirls,mypredecessors.Whathadsetthemrunning?
“Jack,listen,”Isaid.Ihesitated,thenputahandonhisarm.“It’snotdisloyalty.I’mtheiremployeetoo,remember?We’recolleagues.You’renotshootingyourmouthofftoanoutsider.You’reallowedtotalkaboutworkstufftoacolleague.It’swhatkeepsyousane.”
“Aye?”Helookedupfromhiscontemplationofthewhiskeyglass,andgavemealittlewrysmile,ratherbitter.“Isthatso?Well…I’vesaidhalfofitalready,soImightaswelltellyouthewholelot.You’vemaybearighttoknowanyway.Ialwaysthoughtwhatscaredthemoff—”Hetookabreath,asifsteelinghimselftodosomethingunpleasant.“Ithoughtitwasmaybe…Bill.”
“Bill?”ItwasnottheanswerIhadbeenexpecting.“In—inwhatway?”
ButthewordswerenosooneroutofmymouththanIknew.Irememberedhisbehavioronmyownfirstnight,thespreadthighs,thepersistentofferingsofwine,hiskneeinsinuatingitself,unwanted,betweenmyown…
“Shit,”Isaid.“No,youdon’tneedtosay.Icanimagine.”
“Maja…shewasontheyoungside,”Jacksaidreluctantly.“Andverypretty.Anditcrossedmymindthatmaybehe’d…well…comeontoher,andshe’dnotknownwhattodo.I’dwonderedbefore…Billhadablackeyeonetime,whenLaurenwashere,andIdidthinkmaybeshe’d…youknow…”
“Beltedhimone?”
“Aye.Andifshedid,hemusthavedeserveditorshe’dhavebeensacked,youknow?”
“Iguess.Jesus.Whydidn’tyoutellme?”
“Bithardtosay,Oh,aye,bytheby,mabossisaweebito’aperve,youknow?Difficulttobringituponafirstday.”
“Icanseethat.Fuck.”MycheeksfeltasflushedasJack’s,thoughinmycaseitwasmorethanhalfwine.“God.Ugh.Ohyuck.”
Thesenseofbetrayalwasoutofallproportion,Iknewthat.Itwasn’tlikeIhadn’tknown.He’dtrieditonwithme,afterall.Butsomehowtheideathathe’dbeensystematicallypreyingonhisdaughters’carers,timeaftertime,carelessofthefactthathewashelpingtodrivethemaway…Isuddenlyfeltadesperateurgetowashmyself,scruballtracesofhimoffmyskin,eventhoughI’dnotseenhimfordays,andwhenIhad,he’dbarelytouchedme.
Ellie’svoicefilteredthroughmyhead,herreedylittletreble.Ilikeitbetterwhenhe’sgone.Hemakesthemdothingstheydon’twanttodo
Wasitpossibleshehadbeentalkingaboutherownfather,predatingtheyoungwomenandgirlshiswifehadpickedouttolookafterhischildren?
“Jesus.”Iputmyfaceinmyhands.“Theabsolutefucker.”
“Listen,”Jacksoundeduncomfortable.“Icouldbewrong,Idon’thaveanyproofofthis,it’sjust—”
“Youdon’tneedproof,”Isaidwretchedly.“Hetrieditonwithmethefirstnight.”
“What?”
“Yup.Nothing—”Iswallowed,grittingmyteeth,“NothingI’dgetveryfarwithatanemploymenttribunal.Allvagueremarksand‘accidentally’blockingmyway.ButIknowwhenI’mbeingharassed.”
“Jesus,God,Rowan,I’mso—I’msosorry—I’mjust—”
“It’snotyourfault,don’tapologize.”
“Ishouldhavebloodysaidsomething!Nowonderyou’vebeenabagofnerves,hearingblokescreepingaboutin—”
“No,”Isaidforcefully.“That’snothingtodowithit.Jack,I’magrownwoman,I’vebeenhitonbefore;it’snothingIcouldn’thandle.Theatticstuffiscompletelyunrelated.Thisis—it’ssomethingelse.”
“It’sfuckingdisgusting,iswhatitis.”Hischeekswereflushed,andhestood,asifunabletocontainhisangerwhilesittingstill.Hepacedtothewindow,thenback,hisfistsclenched.“I’dliketo—”
“Jack,leaveit,”Isaid,urgently.Istooduptoo,andputmyhandonhisarms,pullinghimroundtofaceme,andthen—God,Idon’tevenknowhowithappened.
Idon’thavethewordsforit,withoutwritingitlikeatrashynovel.Meltingintoeachothers’arms.Lipscomingtogetherlikeacrashofwaves.Allthosestupidclichés.
Excepttherewasnomelting.Nosoftness.Itwashard,andfast,andurgent,andmorethanalittlepainfulinitsintensity.Iwaskissingandbeingkissed,andthenIwasbiting,myownskinbetweenhisteethtoo,andthenmyfingerswereinhishair,andhishandswerefumblingmybuttons,andthenitwasskinagainstskinandlipsagainstlipsand—Ican’twritethistoyou.Ican’twritethisbutIcan’tstoprememberingit.Idon’tknowhowtostop.
***
Afterwards,welayineachothers’armsinfrontofthewoodfire,ourskinslickedwithsweatandstickiness,andhefellasleep,hisheadonmybreast,risingandfallinggentlywitheverybreathItook.Forawhile,Ijustwatchedhim,thewayhisskinpaledtomilkwhitebelowhiships,thebrushoffrecklesonthebridgeofhisnose,thedarksweepofhislashesonhischeeks,thecurlofhishandaroundmyshoulder.AndthenIlookedup,tothemantelpieceaboveusboth,wherethebabymonitorsat,silentlywaiting.
Icouldnotgoback.AndyetIhadto.
Atlast,whenIcouldfeelIwasbeginningtoslipintosleepmyself,IknewthatIhadtogetuporrisklyinghereallnight,andwakingtofindthegirlsmakingtheirownbreakfast,whileIconductedachillywalkofshamebacktothemainhouseinthedawnlight.
AndtherewasRhiannontoo.Icouldn’ttakethechanceofherfindingmeherewhenshedidcomebackfromwherevershewas.IhadenoughexplainingtoSandratodoalready,withoutaddingnighttimewalkstotheagenda.
BecauseIhadtofessuptoher.Thatwastheonlypossibility,IhadrealizedthatasIlayinJack’sarms…maybeIhadevenknownbefore.Ihadtofessuptoeverything,andrisklosingthejob.Ifshesackedme—well,Icouldn’tblameher.Andinspiteofeverything,inspiteofthefinancialholeIwouldfindmyselfin,withnojob,andnomoney,andnoreferences,inspiteofallthat,Iwouldjusthavetosuckitup,becauseIdeservedit.
ButifIexplained,ifIreallyexplainedwhyIhaddonewhatI’ddone,thenmaybe,justmaybe…
IhadmyjeansalmostonwhenIheardthenoise.Itwasnotoverthebabymonitor,butitcamefromsomewhereoutsidethehouse,anoisehalfwaybetweenacrackandathud,asifabranchhadfallenfromatree.Istopped,holdingmybreath,listening,buttherewerenomoresounds,andnosquawkingwailfromthebabymonitortoindicatethatwhateveritwashadwokenPetraandtheothers.
Still,Ipulledoutmyphoneandcheckedtheapp.ThecameraiconmarkedPetra’sroomshowedherflungonherbackwithherusualabandon,thepicturepixelatedandill-definedinthesoftglowfromthenight-light,buttheshapewasclear.AsIwatched,shesighedandstuckherthumbinhermouth.
Thecamerainthegirls’roomshowednothingatall,I’dforgottentoswitchtheirnight-lightonwhenItuckedthemin,andtheresolutionwastoopoortoshowanythingexceptgrainyblack,punctuatedbytheoccasionalgrayspeckleofinterference.Butifthey’dwokenuptheywouldhaveswitchedonthebedsidelight,sotheabsencewasgoodnews.
Shakingmyhead,Ibuttonedupmyjeans,pulledmyT-shirtovermyhead,andthenbent,andverysoftlykissedJackonthecheek.Hesaidnothing,justrolledoverandmurmuredsomethingindistinct,thatmighthavebeen,“’Night,Lynn.”
Foramomentmyheartstilled,butthenIshookmyself.Itcouldhavebeenanything.’Night,love’Nightthen.Andevenifitwas’Night,LynnorLiz,oranyothername,sowhat?Ihadapast.MaybeJackdidtoo.AndGodonlyknew,Ihadtoomanysecretsofmyowntoholdsomeoneelse’suptothelighttocondemnthem.
Ishouldhavejustleft.
Ishouldhavepickedupthebabymonitor,walkedtothedoor,andletmyselfout
ButbeforeIreturnedtothehouse,IcouldnotresistonefinallookbackatJack,lyingthere,hisskingoldeninthefirelight,hiseyesclosed,hislipspartedinawaythatmademewanttokisshimonelasttime.
AndasIglancedback,Isawsomethingelse.
Itwasapurpleflower,lyingonthecountertop.ForaminuteIcouldn’tworkoutwhyitlookedfamiliar,norwhymygazehadsnaggedonit.AndthenIrealized—itwasthesameastheflowerIhadfoundtheothermorninginthekitchenandputintothecoffeecuptorevive.HadJackleftthefloweronthekitchenfloor?Butno—hehadbeenawaythatnight,runningerrandsforBill…hadn’the?Orwasthatadifferentnight?Lackofsleepwasmakingthedaysblur,runintoeachother,anditwasbecominghardtorememberwhichofthelong,nightmarishstretchesofdarknessbelongedtowhichmorning.
AsIstoodthere,frowning,tryingtoremember,Inoticedsomethingelse.Somethingevenmoremundane.Butsomethingthatmademestopinmytracks,mystomachlurchingwithunease.Itwasalittlecoilofstring.Totallyinnocuous—sowhyhaditunnervedmeso?
Iwalkedbackacrosstheroomandpickeditup.
Itwasahankofwhitecaterers’string,doubledandtripledup,andtiedwithagrannyknotthatwassuddenlyhorriblyfamiliar.Andithadbeencleanlysevered—snippedinhalfbyaverysharpknife,orperhapstheverypairofpruningshearsIhadrescuedfromthepoisongarden.
Whicheveritwas,itdidn’treallymatternow.
WhatmatteredwasthatitwasthehankofstringIhadwoundaroundthepoisongardengate,toohighforlittlehandstoreach—thestringIhadputtheretokeepthegirlssafe.ButwhatwasitdoinginJack’skitchen?Andwhywasitlyingnexttothatinnocent-lookingflower?
AsIpulledoutofmyphoneandopenedupGoogle,therewasasickflutteringfeelinginmychest,asifIalreadyknewwhatIwasgoingtofind.PurpleflowerpoisonousItypedintothesearchbar,andthenclickedonGoogleImages,andthereitwas,thesecondimage,itsstrangedroopingshapeandbrightpurplecolortotallyunmistakable.Aconitumnapellus(monkshood),Iread,thefeelingofsicknessgrowinginsidemewitheveryline.OneofthemosttoxicflowersnativetotheUK.Aconitineisapotentheartandnervetoxin,andanypartoftheplant,includingstems,leaves,petalsorroots,canbedeadly.MostdeathsresultfromingestingA.napellus,butgardenersareadvisedtouseextremecautioninhandlingcuttings,asevenskincontactcancausesymptoms.
Underneathitwasalistofdeathsandmurdersassociatedwiththeplant.
Ishutdownthephone,andturnedtolookatJack,unabletobelieveit.Haditreallybeenhim,allalong?
Himinthelockedgarden,pruningthepoisonousplants,keepingthathorribleplacealive.
HimundoingthesafetymeasuresIhadsetup,totrytoprotectthechildren.
Him,carefullyselectingthemostpoisonousblossomhecouldfindandleavingitlyinginthemiddleofthekitchenfloor.AllIhaddonewashandleit—butitcouldsoeasilyhavebeenfoundbythechildren,orevenoneofthedogs.
AndIhadjustfuckedhim.
Butwhy?Whywouldhedoit?Andwhatelsewasheresponsiblefor?
Hadhebeenthepersonwhohackedintothesystemtojoltusalloutofourbedsinthemiddleofthenightwithdeafeningmusicandterrifiedscreams?
Washetheonewhohadbeensettingoffthedoorbell,jerkingmefromsleep,andkeepingmeawakewiththeterrifyingcreak,creakofstealthyfootsteps?
Andworstofall,hadhebeentheonewhowrotethosehorriblethingsinthelockedatticroom,andthenboardedupafterhimself,onlyto“rediscover”itwhenthetimewasright?
Ifoundthatmybreathwascomingquickandshort,myhandsshakingasIshovedthephonebackintomypocket,andsuddenlyIhadtogetout,getawayfromhimatallcosts.
Nottroublingnowtobesilent,Iflungopenthedoortotheflat,andsteppedoutintothenight,slammingitbehindme.Ithadstartedtorainagain,andIran,feelingtherainonmycheeks,thetightnessinmythroat,andtheblurringofmyeyes.
Theutility-roomdoorwasstillunlocked,andIletmyselfin,leaningbackagainstthedoorandusingmyT-shirttowipemyeyes,tryingtogetaholdofmyself.
Fuck.Fuck.Whatwasitaboutmeandthemeninmylife?Whyweretheysuchshits,allofthem?
AsIstoodthere,tryingtocalmmygulpingbreath,IrememberedthefaintsoundI’dheardbefore,asIwasdressing.ThehousewasjustasI’dleftit,nosignofRhiannon’shighheelskickedoffinthehallway,orhandbagabandonedonthebottomstepofthestairs.ButIhadn’treallyexpectedthat.Iwouldhaveheardacarpullingup.Ithadprobablybeenoneofthedogs.
Iwipedmyeyesagain,peeledoffmyshoes,andwalkedslowlythroughtothekitchen,feelingthefaintwarmthoftheunderfloorheatingstrikingupthroughtheconcrete.HeroandClaudewerecurledsleepilyintheirbaskets,snoringquietly.TheylookedupasIcamein,andthenlaidtheirheadswearilybackdownasIsatatthebreakfastbar,putmyheadinmyhands,andtriedtodecidewhattodo.
Icouldnotgotobed.NomatterwhatJackhadsaid,Rhiannonwasstillmissing,andIcouldn’tjustforgetthatfact.WhatIshoulddo—whatIneededtodo,infact—waswriteanemailtoSandra.Aproperone,explainingeverythingthathadhappened.
ButtherewassomethingelseIhadtodofirst.
ForthemoreIthoughtaboutit,themoreJack’sbehaviordidnotaddup.Itwasn’tjustthepoisongarden—itwaseverything.Thewayhewasalwayshangingaroundwhenthingswentwrong.Thefactthatheseemedtohavekeystoeveryroominthehouseandaccesstopartsofthehome-managementsystemthatheshouldn’t.Howhadheknownhowtooverridetheappthatnightwhenthemusiccamescreamingoutofthespeakers?Howhadhejusthappenedtohaveakeytothelockedatticdoor?
Andwhateverhesaid,hewas,afterall,aGrant.WhatiftherewassomeconnectionIwasmissing?Couldhebesomelong-lostrelativeofDr.KenwickGrant,comebacktodrivetheElincourtsoutfromhisancestralhome?
Butno—thatlastwhat-ifwastoomuch.Thiswasn’tsomenineteenth-centurypeasant’srevengedrama.WhatwouldJackgainfromdrivingtheElincourtsoutoftheirownhome?Nothing.Allhe’dgetwouldbeanotherEnglishcoupleintheirplace.Andbesides,itwasn’ttheElincourtswhoseemedtobetargeted.Itwasme.
Becausethefactwasthatfournannies—fiveifyoucountedHolly—hadlefttheElincourts.No,notleft,theyhadbeensystematicallydrivenaway,onebyone.AndImighthavebelievedthatBill’srovinghandswereresponsible,ifithadn’tbeenformyownexperiencesinHeatherbraeHouse.Someoneinthishouse,someoneorsomething,wasdrivingthenanniesaway,inadeliberateandsustainedcampaignofpersecution.
Ijustdidn’tknowwho.
Somewherebehindmyeyes,adullthrobbingachehadbegun,echoingthepaininmyhand—thelight-headednessfromthewineI’ddrunkearlierwasalreadymorphingintothebeginningsofashockinghangover.ButIcouldn’tgivewaytothatnow.Slowly,unsteadily,Islidfromthebreakfastbarstool,walkedovertothesink,andsplashedmyface,tryingtowakemyselfup,clearmyheadforwhatIwasabouttodo.
ButasIstood,waterdrippingfrommyloosehair,handsbracedeithersideofthesink,Isawsomething.SomethingthathadnotbeentherewhenIleft,Iwassureofit—oratleast,assureasIcouldbe,fornownothingseemedcertainanymore.
Totherightofthesinkwasmyalmost-emptywinebottle.Onlynowitwastotallyempty.Whatshouldhavehadaglassleftinit,wasnowcompletelydrained.Andinthegroovearoundtheedgeofthewastedisposalunitwasasinglecrushedberry.
Itcouldhavebeentheremnantsofablueberryoraraspberry,mashedoutofallrecognition,butsomehow,Iknewitwasnot.
MyheartwasthumpingasIreached,veryslowly,intothewaste-disposalunit.
Deep,deepintothemetalmouthIreached,untilmyfingerstouchedsomethingatthebottom.Somethingsoftandhardbyturns,intowhichmyfingerssankasIclawedupthemass.
Itwasamushofberries.Yew.Holly.Cherrylaurel.
AndinspiteofthewaterI’dsluiceddownthedrain,Icouldsmell,quiteclearly,thedregsofwinestillclingingtothem.
Itdidn’tmakesense.Noneofitmadesense.ThoseberrieshadnotbeeninthewinewhenIleft—howcouldtheyhavebeen?Ihadopenedthebottlemyself.
Whichmeant,someonehadputthemintherewhenIwasnotlooking.Someonewhohadbeeninthiskitchentonight,afterthechildrenwereinbed.
Butthen…butthensomeoneelsehadtippedthemout.
Itwaslikethereweretwoforcesinthehouse,onefightingtodrivemeaway,anothertoprotectme.Butwho—whowasdoingthis?
Ididn’tknow.Butiftherewereanswerstobefound,IknewwhereIhadtolook.
MychestwastightasIstraightenedup,andIgropedinmyjeanspocketformyinhalerandtookapuff,butthetensiondidn’tloosen,andIfoundmybreathwascomingquickandshallowasImademywaytothestairs,andbegantoclimbintothedarkness.
***
AsIgotcloserandclosertothetoplanding,Icouldn’thelprememberingthelasttimeIhadstoodthere,handontheroundedknob,simplyunabletogoanyfurther—unabletofacewhateverwatchfuldarknesslaybehindthatdoor.
Now,though,IwasbeginningtosuspectthatwhateverhauntedHeatherbraewasveryhuman.AndIwasdeterminedthatthistime,Iwouldturntheknob,openthedoor,andfindevidencetothateffect—evidencethatIcouldshowSandrawhenItoldherabouttonight’sevents.
ButwhenIgottothelanding,IfoundIdidn’tneedtoopenitatall.Formydoor…thedoortomyroom,wasopen.AndIhadleftitclosed.
Ihadaclear,acrystalclearmemory,ofstandinginfrontofit,lookingatthecrackbeneathit,totallyunabletoturnthehandle.
Andnowitstoodopen.
Itwasverycoldagain,evencolderthanithadbeenthattimeIwokeinthenight,shivering,tofindthethermostatturneddownandtheairconditioningblastingout.ButthistimeIcouldfeelitwasmorethanjustthechilloftheroom,itwasanactualbreeze.
ForamomentIfelteverypartofthatfirmresolutionshriveldownlikeplasticinaflame,disappearingdownintothecoreofme,meltingandcurlingintoahardblackenedcore.
Wherewasthebreezecomingfrom?Wasittheatticdoor?Ifitwasopenagain—inspiteofthelockandthekeyinmypocket,andinspiteofJacklyingasleepinhisflatacrossthecourtyard—IthoughtIwouldscream.
ThenIgotaholdofmyself.
Thiswasinsane.Therewasnosuchthingasghosts.Nosuchthingashaunting.Therewasnothinginthatatticbutdustandtherelicsofboredchildren,fiftyyearsdead.
Iwalkedintotheroomandpressedthebuttononthepanel.
Nothinghappened.Itriedadifferentsquare,oneIwassurehadmadethelampscomeonlastnight.Stillnothing,thoughanunseenfanbegantohum.ForalongmomentIstoodinthedark,tryingtofigureoutwhattodo.Icouldsmellthecolddustyairthatblewthroughtheattickeyhole,andIcouldhearsomethingtoo—notthecreak,creakofbefore,butalow,mechanicalbuzzingthatpuzzledme.
Andthen,outofnowhere,asuddenwaveofangerwashedoverme.
Whateveritwas,whateverwasupthere,Iwouldnotletmyselfbescaredlikethis.Someone,something,wastryingtodrivemeawayfromHeatherbrae,andIwasnotgivingintoit.
Idon’tknowifitwastheremnantsofthewineinmyveinsthatgavemecourage,ortheknowledgethatwhenIrangSandrathenextday,verylikelyIwouldbegoinghomeanyway,butItookmyphoneoutofmypocket,switchedonthetorch,andstrodeacrossthebedroomtotheatticdoor.
AsIdidso,thebuzzingsoundedagain.Itwascomingfromabovemyhead.Thesoundwasfamiliar,butIcouldn’tputmyfingeronwhy.Itsoundedlikeafuriouslyangrywasp,buttherewassomething…somethingroboticaboutit,aqualitythatdidnotmakemethinkitwasalivingthing.
Ifeltinmyjeanspocketforthekey,whichwasstilltherefromyesterday,hardandunyieldingagainstmyleg,andIdrewitout.
Softly,verysoftly,Iputthekeyintotheclosetdoor,andturnedit.Itwasstiff—butnotasstiffaslasttime.TheWD-40haddoneitswork,andalthoughIfeltresistance,itturnedquietly,withoutthescreechofmetalonmetalithadgivenwhenJackforcedthelock.
ThenIsetmyhandtothedoor,andopenedit.
***
ThesmellwasjustasIrememberedfromlasttime—dank,musty,thesmellofdeathandabandonment.
Buttherewassomethingupthere,Icouldseethatnow,somethingcastingalowwhiteglow,thatilluminatedthecobwebsthespidershadwovenacrosstheatticsteps.Yet,noonehadbeenuptheresinceJackandme,thatwasplain.Itwasnotjustthekeyinmypocketthattoldmethat—butthethickunbrokenwebsacrossmypath,painstakinglyrespunsincemylastpassage.Therewasnowaysomeonecouldhavepassedthiswaywithoutdisturbingthem.Asitwas,Iwasforcedtostepcautiously,sweepingmyhandinfrontofmyfacetotrytokeeptheclingingstrandsoutofmyeyesandmouth.
Whatwasthelight?Themoon,shiningthroughthattinywindow?Perhaps,thoughitwassocoveredwithgrot,Iwouldhavebeensurprised.
AtthetopofthestairsIdrewasilentbreath,steelingmyself,andthenIsteppedintotheattic.
Isawtwothingsstraightaway.
ThefirstwasthatatticwasjustasIhadlastseenitwhenItookafinalglancebackattheplacebeforefollowingJackdownthestepsthedaybefore.Theonlythingthatwasmissingwasthedoll’sheadthathadrolledoutfromthepiletorestinthecenteroftheroom.Thatwasgone.
Thesecondwasthatthemoonwasshiningintotheattic,andsurprisinglybrightly,forthewindow—thewindowthatJackhadshut—wasopenagain.Hehadevidentlynotlatcheditproperlyandithadblownopeninthenight.StridingangrilyacrossthecreakingboardsIslammedit,harderthanhehad,andfumbledinthedarknessforacatch.AtlengthIfoundone—alongtonguedrilledwithholes.Itwascoveredinthickcobwebs,andIwasforcedtobrushthemasidewithmyhands,feelingthecrunchoflong-deadpreyinthewebs,asIwiggleditbackintoplace,ensuringthattherewasnowaythewindowcouldworkitselfopenagain.
Atlastitwassecure,andIsteppedbackintotheroom,wipingmyhands.ThelighthaddimmedinstantlyasIshutthewindow,themildewedglassshuttingouteverythingbutathintrickle.ButasIturnedbacktothestairs,thethinbeamfrommytorchilluminatinganarrowpathacrossthefloorboards,Inoticedsomethingelse.Therewasanotherlight.Afainter,blueronethistime,anditwascomingfromacorneroftheatticoppositethewindow,acornertotallyinshadow,acornerwherenolighthadarighttobe.
MyheartwasthuddingasIcrossedthefloor.Wasitanopeningtooneoftheroomsdownstairs?Somethingelse?Whateverthesourceofthelightwas,itwashiddenbehindatrunk,andIpulleditroughlyaside,nolongertryingtobequiet,forInolongercaredwhofoundmeuphere,Ihadonlyoneinstinct—tofindoutwhatwasreallygoingon.
WhatIsawmademedrawback,astonished,andkneeldowninthedusttolookcloser.
Hiddenbehindtheoldtrunk,wasasmallpileofbelongings.Abook.Somechocolatebarwrappers.Abracelet.Anecklace.Ahandfuloftwigsandberries,wiltingyes,butbynomeansdesiccated.
Andamobilephone.
ItwasthelightfromthephonethatIhadseenfromacrosstheattic,andasIpickeditup,itbuzzedagain,andIrealizedthatwasthesourceoftheoddnoiseIhadheardearlier.Ithadevidentlyupdated,andwasstuckinaloopoftryingtoturnitselfbackon,failing,andrestarting,buzzingeachtime.
Itwasanoldmodel,similartooneI’dhadmyselfafewyearsago,andItriedatrickthathadsometimesworkedwhenmyownphonewasdying,holdingthevolumeupandpowerbuttonssimultaneouslyforalongpress.Ithungforamoment,thescreenwhirling,andthenwentblack,andIpressedrestart.
ButasIwaitedforittoreload,somethingcaughtmyeye.Asilveryglint,comingfromthelittlepileofrubbishIhadpushedasidetopickupthephone.
Andthereitwas,strewninnocentlyacrossthefloorboardsamongtherestofthatpatheticpileofdetritus,thelightfrommyphonetorchglintingfromoneofitscurves.
Mynecklace.
MyheartwasbeatingfastinmythroatasIpickeditup,unabletobelieveit.Mynecklace.Mynecklace.Whatwasitdoinghere,inthedarkness?
Idon’tknowhowlongIsatinthekitchen,myfingerswrappedaroundamugoftea,lettingthethinlinksofmynecklacechaintricklethroughmyfingers,andtryingtomakesenseofitall.
Ihadbroughtthephonedowntoo,butwithoutaPINIcouldn’topenittoseewhoitbelongedto.AllIcouldtellwasthatitwasold,andthatitappearedtobeconnectedtotheWi-Fibutdidn’tseemtohaveaSIMcardin.
Itwasn’tthephonethatbotheredmethough.Thatwasstrange,yes,buttherewassomethingpersonalaboutfindingmynecklacehiddenupthere,amidthedarknessandtherottingfeathers.IshouldhavebeenthinkingaboutRhiannon,worryingaboutwhereshewas,andtheargumentwewereboundtohavewhenshewalkedthroughthedoor.IshouldhavebeenthinkingaboutSandra,consideringmyoptionsandtryingtoworkoutwhattosay—howtotellherthetruth.
Iwasthinkingaboutboththings.Butaboveandbelowandaroundthosethoughtsweretwinedthelinksofmynecklace,asItriedtofigureoutchronologiesandtimingsandworkouthowmynecklacecouldhavedisappearedinsidealockedroom,behindadoortowhichtheonlykeylayinmypocket,upacorridorsealedbyahundredunbrokenspiderwebs.Haditbeenuptherebefore,whenJackandIfirstbrokein?Butthatexplainednothing.Thatcupboardhadbeenboardedupformonths,years.Thedusttraces,thethickswagsofcobwebs,noonehadenteredviathestairsforalong,longtime.Andthewindowwasbarelylargeenoughformetogetmyheadandshouldersthrough,anditlookedoutontosheerslates.
AfterIfoundthenecklaceIhadscouredeveryinchoftheroomlookingfortrapdoors,lofthatches,hiddendoors—buttherewasnothing.TheVictorianfloorboardsranfromsidetosideinanunbrokenline,thewallsgaveontonothingexceptfortherooftiles,andIhadmovedeverystickoffurniture,lookedateveryinchoftheceilingfrombelow.WhateverelseIwasunsureof,Iwasabsolutelycertainthattherewasnowayinoroutapartfromtheflightofstairsleadingupfrommyroom.
Themoonwasstillhighinthesky,buttheclockabovethestovehadtickedthrough3:00and4:00a.m.,whenIatlastheardtiresonthegravelofthedrive,whisperedlaughteroutsidetheporch,andthesoundofthefrontdoorswingingautomaticallyopenassomeoneactivatedthethumbpadlock.Thedoorclosedstealthilyasthevandroveoff,andIheardcautiousfootsteps,andthenastumble.
Mystomachflipped,butIforcedmyselftostaycalm.
“Hello,Rhiannon.”Ikeptmyvoicelevel,andIheardthefootstepsonthehallwayflagsfreeze,andthenanexclamationofdisgustasRhiannonrealizedshehadbeenbusted.
“Fuck.”
Shewalkedunsteadilythroughtothekitchen.Hermakeupwashalfwaydownherface,andhertightswereladdered,andshesmelledstronglyofsomemixofsweetalcohol—therewasDrambuieinthereIthought,andMalibutoo,alongwithsomethingelse,RedBull,perhaps?
“You’redrunk,”Isaid,andshegaveanastylaugh.
“Kettle,black.Icanseethewinebottlesintherecyclingfromhere.”
Ishrugged.
“Fairpoint,butyouknowIcan’tletyougetawaywiththis,Rhiannon.Ihavetotellyourparents.Youcan’tjustwalkoutlikethat.You’refourteen.WhatifsomethinghappenedandIdidn’tknowwhereyouwereorwhoyouwerewith?”
“Okay,”shesaid,slumpingdownatthekitchenislandandpullingthebiscuittintowardsher.“Youdothat,Rachel.Andgoodluckwiththefallout.”
“Itdoesn’tmatter,”Isaid.
Asshepickedoutabiscuitandpushedthetinaway,Itookabiscuittoo,dunkingitcalmlyinmytea,thoughmyhandswereshakingalittlebeneathmycarefulcontrol.“I’vemadeupmymind.I’mgoingtotellyourmum.IfIlosemyjob,sobeit.”
“Ifyouloseyourjob?”Shesnortedderisively.“If?You’redelusional.You’rehereunderafakename,probablywithfakequalifications,forallIknow.You’llbeluckyifyoudon’tendupgettingsued.”
“Maybe,”Isaid,“butI’lltakethatrisk.Nowgetupstairsandwipethatstuffoffyourface.”
“Fuckyou,”shesaid,throughamouthfulofbiscuit,herwordsaccompaniedbyanexplosionofcrumbsthatspatteredacrossmyface,makingmerecoil,blinkingandbrushingfragmentsoutofmyeyes.
“Youlittlebitch!”Mytemper,socarefullyheld,wassuddenlyfrayingfast.“Whatiswrongwithyou?”
“What’swrongwithme?”
“Yes,you.Allofyou,actually.Whydoyouhatemesomuch?WhathaveIeverdonetoanyofyou?Doyouactuallywanttobeleftherealone?Becausethat’swhat’sgoingtohappenifyoukeepbeingsuchafuckingbitchtothestaff.”
“Whatthefuckdoyouknowaboutit?”shespat,andsuddenlyshewasasangryasme,pushingbackhermetalstoolsothatittoppledandfellwitharingingclangontotheconcretefloor.“YoucanfuckoffasfarasI’mconcerned,wedon’twantyou,wedon’tneedyou.”
Therewasabitingretortonthetipofmytongue,butsomehow,asshestoodthere,thekitchenspotlightsmakinghertousled,tangledblondhairglowlikefire,herfacetwistedintoagrimaceofrageandpain,shelookedsolikeMaddie,solikeme,thatmyheartgavealittleskip.
Irememberedmyself,agefifteen,cominginaftercurfew,standinginthekitchenwithmyhandsonmyhipsshoutingatmymum,“Idon’tcareifyouwereworried.Ineveraskedyoutostayup;Idon’tneedyoulookingoutforme!”
Itwasalie,ofcourse.Atotallie.
BecauseeverythingIdid,everytestIaced,everycurfewIbroke,everytimeItidiedmyroomandeverytimeIdidn’t—allofitwasaimedatonething.Makingmymothernoticeme.Makinghercare.
Forfourteenyears,Ihadtriedsohardtobetheperfectdaughter,butitwasneverenough.Nomatterhowneatmyhandwriting,nomatterhowhighIscoredinthespellingtest,orhowgoodmyartprojectwas,itwasneverenough.Icouldspendawholeafternooncoloringapictureforher,andshewouldnoticetheoneplaceIhadsneezedandjerkedmypenacrosstheline.
IcouldspendmySaturdaytidyingmyroomtoperfection—andshewouldgrumblethatIhadleftmyshoesinthehall.
WhateverIdidwaswrong.Igrewtoofast,myclothesweretooexpensive,myfriendsweretoonoisy.Iwastoochubby,orconversely,Ipickedatmyfood.Myhairwastoomessy—toothick,toohardtotameintotheneatplaitsandponytailsshefavored.
AndsoasIcrossedthelinefromchildtoteenager,Ibegantodotheopposite.Ihadtriedbeingperfect—sothenItriedbeingimperfect.Istayedout.Idrank.Iletmygradesslip.Iwentfromtotalcompliancetoserialdefiance.
Itmadenodifference.NomatterwhatIdid,IwasnotthedaughterIshouldhavebeen.AllIwasdoingnowwasconfirmingthatfacttobothofus.
Ihadruinedherlife.Thatwasalwaystheunspokenmessage—thethingthathungbetweenus,makingmeclutchatherevenharderasshepulledaway.Andatlast,Icouldn’tdealwithseeingthattruthinherfaceanymore.
Ilefthomeateighteen,withnothingbutahandfulofmediocreAlevelsandtheofferofanaupairjobinClapham.BythattimeIwasoldenoughnottohaveacurfew,orsomeonesittingupformepasttheirbedtime,reproachintheireyeswhenIcamehome.
ButIwasvery,veryfarfromnotneedinganyonetolookoutforme.
MaybeRhiannonwastoo.
“Rhiannon,”Isteppedforward,tryingtokeepthepityoutofmyvoice,“Rhiannon,IknowthatsinceHolly—”
“Don’tyoudaresayhername,”shegrowled.Shetookastepbackwardsstumblingonherhighheels,andsuddenlyshelookedlikewhatshewas—alittlegirl,teeteringinclothestoooldforherthatshehadbarelylearnedhowtowear.Herlipswerecurledinawaythatcouldhavebeenanger,butIsuspectedmeantshewastryingnottocry.“Don’tyoudaretalkaboutthatslut-facedhellwitchhere.”
“Who—Holly?”Iwastakenaback.Therewassomethinghere,somethingdifferentfromthegeneralizedworld-hatinghostilityIhadfeltemanatingfromRhiannonupuntilnow.Thiswaspointed,vicious,personal,andRhiannon’svoiceshookwithit.
“What—whathappened?”Iasked.“Isthisbecausesheabandonedyou?”
“Abandonedus?”Rhiannongaveakindofderisive,hootinglaughing.“Fuckno.Shedidn’tabandonus.”
“Thenwhat?”
“Thenwhat?”sheimitated,cruellymockingmysouthLondonaccent,blurringhercut-glassconsonants,swallowingthefinaltintoanestuarydrawl.“Shestolemyfuckingfather,ifyoumustknow.”
“What?”
“Yes,mydeardarlingdaddy.ShaggedhimforthebestpartoftwoyearsandhadMaddieandElliewoundroundherlittlefingercoveringupforthemboth,tellingmymotherlies.Anddoyouknowwhattheworstpartofitwas,Ididn’tevenrealizewhatwasgoingonuntilmyfriendcametostayandpointeditout.Ididn’tbelieveheratfirst—soIsetthemuptofindoutthetruth.Mydaddoesn’thavecamerasinhisstudy—didyouevernoticethat?”Shegaveabitter,staccatolaugh.“Funnythat.Hecanspyontherestofus—buthisprivacyissacrosanct.IgotPetra’sbabymonitor,andIpluggeditinunderhisdeskandIheardthem—IheardhimtellingHollythathelovedher,thathewasgoingtoleavemymum,thatshejusthadtobepatient,thattheyweregoingtobetogetherinLondon,justlikehe’dpromised.”
Ohfuck.Iwantedtoputmyarmsaroundher,hugher,tellitwasokay,thatitwasnotherfault,butIcouldn’tmove.
“AndIheardhertoo,begging,wheedling,tellinghimshejustcouldn’twait,thatshewantedthemtobetogether—Iheardit,allthestuffthatshewantedtodotohim—itwas—”Shestopped,chokingwithdisgustforamoment,andthenseemedtopullherselftogether,foldingherarms,herfacesetinamaskofgrieftoooldforher.“So,Iframedthebitch.”
“What—?”ButIcouldn’tfinish.Icouldbarelyevenformtheword.
Rhiannonsmiled,butherfacewastwistedlikeshewasholdingbacktears.
“Igotherinfrontofthecameras,andIwoundherupuntilshehitme.”
OhGod.SothiswaswhereMaddiehadlearnedit.
“AndthenItoldhertogetout,orI’dputthefootageonYouTubeandensuresheneverworkedinthiscountryeveragain,andeversincethen—”
Shestopped,gulping,andthentriedagain.
“Andeversince—”
Butshecouldn’tfinish.Shedidn’tneedto.Iknewthetruth,whatshewastryingtosay.
“Rhiannon,”Isteppedtowardsher,myhandoutstretchedlikeIwastryingtotameandgentleawildanimal,myownvoiceshakingnow.“Rhiannon,Isweartoyou,thereisnowayinathousand—no,amillionyears,I’deverhavesexwithyourfather.”
“Youcan’tpromisethat.”Herfacewasswollen,thereweretearsrunningdownhercheeksnow.“That’swhattheyallthink,whentheycomehere.Buthekeepson,andon,andon,andtheycan’taffordtolosetheirjobs,andhe’sgotmoney,andhecanevenbekindofcharming,whenhewantstobe,youknow?”
“No,”Iwasshakingmyhead.“No,no,no.Rhiannon,listen,I—Ican’texplain,butjust—no.There’snoway.There’sjustnowayI’deverdothat.”
“Idon’tbelieveyou,”shesaid.Thewordscameoutlikesobs.“He’sdoneitbefore,youknow.BeforeHolly.Andthattimehedidleave.Hehadanotherfamily.Anotherchild,ababy.Iheardmym-mothert-t-talkingoneday.Andhel-leftthem—it’swhoheis,andifIhadn’tstoppedhim—hej-just—”
Butshecouldn’tfinish.Hervoicedissolvedintosobs.Ifeltanawfulkindofrealizationwashoverme,andIputmyhandsonherarms,tryingtosteadyusboth,linkingusboth,tryingtocommunicateeverythingIcouldnotsaywiththecertaintyofmyvoice.
“Rhiannon,listen,Icanpromiseyouthis—thisisabsolutelycast-iron.Iswearon—onmygrave,Iamnever,nevergoingtosleepwithyourfather.”
Because.
Itwasonthetipofmytongue.
Iamnever,nevergoingtosleepwithyourfatherbecause—
IwishIhadfinishedthesentence,Mr.Wrexham.IwishIhadjustsaidit,toldher,explained.ButIwasstillclingingontotheideaofexplainingthereasonformydeceptiontoSandrathenextday,andIcouldn’ttellRhiannonthetruthbeforeIconfessedtohermother.IhadtoconfessthatIwasn’tRowan,andSandra’spityandunderstandingaboutwhyIhadcometoherhouseunderafalsenamewasmyonlychanceofmakingitoutofthesituationwithoutbeingatminimumsacked,andverypossiblysued.
Butyoudon’tneedmetofinishthesentence,doyou,Mr.Wrexham?Youknowwhy.Atleast,Iimagineyoudo,ifyou’vereadthepapers.Youknow,becausethepoliceknow.Becausetheyfoundout.Becausetheyputtwoandtwotogether,asyouareverypossiblydoing,evennow.
YouknowthatthereasonIwouldneversleepwithBillElincourtwasbecausehewasmyfathertoo.
Itoldyou,Mr.Wrexham,didn’tI,thatIwasn’tevenlookingforajobwhenIstumbledacrosstheadvert?InfactIwasdoingsomethingtotallydifferent,somethingI’ddonemanytimesbefore.
Iwasgooglingmyfather’sname.
I’dalwaysknownwhohewas,andforawhileI’devenknownwherehewas—afancysemidetachedhouseinCrouchEnd,withelectricgatesthatslidautomaticallyacrossthedriveway,andashinyBMWontheforecourt.Ihadbeenthereonceinmymidteens,underthecoverofapretendedshoppingtriptoOxfordStreetwithafriend.Irememberthetasteinmymouth,thewaymyhandsshookwhenIshowedthebusdrivermytravelcard,everystepofthewalkfromCrouchEndBroadway.
Istoodoutsidethatgateforalongtime,consumedwithastrangemixoffearandanger,tooafraidtoringthebellandfaceuptothemanI’dnevermet,themanwhohadwalkedoutwhenmymotherwasninemonthspregnant.
Hesentchecksforawhile,buthewasn’tonmybirthcertificate,andIsupposemymotherwastooproudtopursuehimandforcehimtopay.
Instead,shepickedherselfup,gotajobinaninsurer’sfirm,andmetthemansheeventuallymarried.Theman—themessagewasveryclear—thatsheshouldhavebeenwithallalong.
Andso,whenIwassix,wemovedintohisboxylittlehouse.
Itwastheirhome.Hersandhis.Itwasnevermine.NotfromthedayImovedintothelittleroomabovethestairsandwastoldsharplynottoscuffmysuitcaseonthehallbaseboards.NotuntilthedayIpackedadifferent,largersuitcase,andmovedout,twelvelongyearslater.
Itwastheirhome,butI—Iwasalwaystheretospoilitforthem.Thisliving,breathing,constantreminderofmymother’spast.Ofthemanwhohadlefther.Andeveryday,shehadtolookatmestaringatheroverthebreakfastcerealwithhiseyes.Whenshebrushedmythick,wiryhairintoaponytail,itwashishairshebrushed,notherownfine,flyawaystuff.
ForthatwasallIhadfromhim.That,andthenecklacehehadsentmeonmyfirstbirthday,thelastcontactIhadfromhim.Anecklacewithmyinitialonit—RforRachel
Cheap,nastyrubbish,mymotherhadcalledit,butthatdidn’tstopmefromwearingitallthehoursIwasallowed.Atweekends,atfirst,andeverydayintheholidays,andthenwhenIbeganworkasanaupair,tuckingitbeneathmyT-shirtsandplasticaprons,sothatitwasalwaysthere,thewornmetalwarmbetweenmybreasts.
IwasworkingasanannyinHighgatewhensherangmeupandtoldme.SheandmystepfatherweresellingthehouseandretiringtoSpain.Justlikethat.Itwasn’tthatIhadanyparticularaffectionforthathouse—Ihadneverbeenhappythere.
Butithadbeen…well,ifnotmyhome,atanyrate,theonlyplaceIcouldcallhome.“Ofcourseyou’rewelcometocomeandvisit”shesaid,hervoicehighandslightlydefensive,asifsheknewwhatshewasdoing,andIthinkitwasthat,morethananything,thatmademeloseit.You’rewelcometocomeandvisit.Itwasthekindofthingyousaytoadistantrelative,orafriendyoudon’tparticularlylike,hopingtheywon’ttakeyouupontheoffer.
Itoldhertofuckoff.I’mnotproudofthat.ItoldherthatIhatedher,thatI’dhadfouryearsoftherapytotrytodealwithmyupbringing,andthatIneverwantedtohearfromheragain.
Itwasn’ttrue.Ofcourseitwasn’ttrue.Evennow,evenhere,atCharnworth,shewasthefirstpersonIputonmyprisoncalllist.Butshe’snevercalled.
ItwastwodaysafterherannouncementthatIwentbacktoCrouchEnd.
Iwastwenty-two.AndIwasn’tangrythistime.Iwasjust…Iwasterribly,terriblysad.IhadlosttheonlyparentI’deverknown—andmyneedtoreplaceherwithsomething,howeverpoorandinadequate,wasconsumingme.
“Hello…Bill.”Ihadpracticedthewordsinmybedroomthenightbefore,standinginfrontofthemirror.Myfacewasscrubbedcleanofmakeup,makingmelookyoungerandevenmorevulnerable,thoughthathadn’tbeenmyintention,andIfoundthatmyvoicewasunnaturallyhigh,asifIwantedtomakeanappealtohispity.Ididn’tknowwhatkindofdaughterhe’dwant—butIwaspreparedtotryandbethatperson.“Hello,Bill.Youdon’tknowmebutI’mRachel.I’mCatherine’sdaughter.”
MyheartwasthuddinginmychestasIwalkeduptothegateandrangthebell,waitingforthegatetoslideback,orperhapsthecrackleofvoicestocomeovertheintercom.Butnothinghappened.
Itriedagain,holdingthebuzzerlongandhard,andeventuallythefrontdooropenedandasmallwomaninanoverall,holdingaduster,cameoutacrosstheshingleddrive.
“Hello?”Shewasinherfortiesorfifties,andhervoicewasheavilyaccented—Polish,Ithought,orperhapsRussian.EasternEurope.“Icanhelpyou?”
“Oh…hello.”Mypulseratehadspedup,untilIthoughtImightpossiblyfaintfromnerves.“Hello.I’mlookingforMr.—”Iswallowed.“Mr.Elincourt.BillElincourt.Ishehere?”
“Heisnothere.”
“Oh,well,willhebebacklater?”
“Hegone.Newfamilynow.”
“Wh-whatdoyoumean?”
“Heandhimwifemovedlastyear.Differentcountry.Scotland.Newfamilyisherenow.Mr.andMrs.Cartwright.”
Oh.Fuck.
Itwaslikeapunchtothegut.
“Doyou…doyouhaveanaddress?”Iasked,myvoicefaltering,andsheshookherhead.Therewaspityinhereyes.
“Sorry,Idonothave,Iamjustcleaning.”
“You—”Iswallowedhard.“Youmentionedawife.Mrs.Elincourt.CanIask—what’shername?”
Idon’tknowwhythatwassuddenlyimportanttome.OnlythatIknewthetrailhadgonecold,andanyscrapsofinformationseemedbetterthannothing.Thecleanerlookedatmesadly.WhodidshethinkIwas?Aspurnedgirlfriend?Aformeremployee?Ormaybeshehadguessedthetruth.
“ShecalledSandra,”shesaidatlast,veryquietly.“Imustgonow.”Andthensheturnedandmadeherwaybackintothehouse.
IturnedtooandbeganthelongwalkbacktoHighgate,savingthebusfare.Therewasaholeinmyshoe,andasIstartedupthehill,itbegantorain,andIknewIhadlostmychance.
***
AfterthatIdidn’ttrylookingagaininearnestforafewyears.Andthen,oneday,whenIwasidlytypingBillElincourtintoGoogle,thereitwas.Theadvert.WithahouseinScotland.AndawifecalledSandra.
Andafamily.
Andsuddenly,Icouldn’tnot
Itwasliketheuniversehadsetthisupforme—togivemeachance.
Ididn’twanthimtobemydad,notnow,notafteralltheseyears.Ijustwantedto…well,justtosee,Isuppose.Butobviously,Icouldn’ttraveluptoScotlandundermyownnamewithouttellinghimwhoIwas,andsettingupawholeweightofexpectationandpotentialrejection.Evenwithnearlythirtyyearsofwaterunderthebridge,itwasunlikelythatBillwouldhaveforgottenthenameofhisfirstborndaughter,andGerhardtwasunusualenoughasasurnameforhimtodoadoubletake,andregisteritasthatofthemotherofhischild.
ButIdidn’tneedtogoundermyownname.Infact,Ihadabettername,abetteridentity,justreadyandwaitingforme.Onethatwouldgetmethroughthefrontdoorwithoutanystringsattached,atwhichpointIcoulddowhateverIwanted.AndsoIpickedupthepapersthatRowanhadleftsotemptinglylyingaroundinherbedroom—thepapersthatwere,almost,goingtowaste.Thepaperssovery,veryclosetomyownthatreally,itdidn’tseemlikemuchofadeceptionatall.
AndIapplied.
Ididn’texpecttogetthejob.Ididn’tevenwantit.Ijustwantedtomeetthemanwhohadabandonedmeallthoseyearsbefore.ButwhenIsawHeatherbrae,Iknew,Mr.Wrexham.Iknewthatonevisitwasnevergoingtobeenoughforme.Iwantedtobeapartofallthis,tosleepinthesoftnessofthosefeatherbeds,tosinkintothevelvetsofas,tobaskundertherainwatershowers—tobeapartofthisfamily,inshort.
AndIwanted,very,verybadly,tomeetBill.
Andwhenhedidn’tappearattheinterview,Icouldseeonlyonewaytomakethathappen.
Ihadtogetthejob.
ButwhenIdid…andwhenImetBillthatfirstnight,andrealizedthekindofmanhewas,God,it’slikeametaphorforthiswholething,Mr.Wrexham.It’sallconnected.Thebeautyandluxuryofthishouse,andtheseepingpoisonunderneaththehigh-techfacade.ThesolidVictorianwoodofaclosetdoor,withitspolishedbrassescutcheon—andthecold,ranksmellofdeaththatbreathesoutofthehole.
Therewassomethingsickinthathouse,Mr.Wrexham.AndwhetherBillhadbeensickwhenhewentthereandbroughtitwithhim,orwhetherhehadcaughtitssicknessandbecomethemanImetonthatfirstnight,thatpredatory,abusiveman,Idon’tknow.
AllIknowisthatthetworunhandinhand,andthatifyouscratchedthewallsofHeatherbraeHouse,scoringthehand-blockedpeacockwallpaperwithyournails,orgougingthepolishedgranitetiles,thatsamedarknesswouldseepout,thedarknessthatlayveryclosebeneathBillElincourt’sskin.
Don’tlookforhim.Thatwasoneofthefewthingsmymotherhadsaidtomeabouthim,beforesheshutoffthesubjectcompletely.Don’tlookforhim,Rachel.Nothinggoodwillcomeofit.
Shewasright.God,shewassoright.AndhowIwishI’dlistenedtoher.
“Comeon,”Isaidatlast.“Uptobed,Rhiannon.You’retired,I’mtired,we’vebothhadtoomuchtodrink….We’lltalkaboutallthisinthemorning.”
I’dringSandraandexplain.Somehow.Withmyheadachingfromthebeginningsofahangover,andtirednessscratchingatthebackofmyeyesIcouldnotquitethinkofthewords,buttheywouldcome.Theywouldhaveto.Icouldn’tcarryonlikethis,beingblackmailedbyRhiannon.
Foramoment,asIclimbedthestairs,Rhiannoninfrontofme,IhadanabsurdmentalpictureofSandrawelcomingmewithopenarms,tellingmeIcompletedtheirfamily,tellingme—Butno.Thatwasridiculous,andIknewit.Eventhemostgenerousofwomenwouldtaketimetoadjusttoalong-loststepchildturningup,andtofindoutthisway,inthesecircumstances…well.Ihadnoillusionshowtheconversationwaslikelytopanout.Difficultwouldbethebest-casescenario.
Well,Ihadmademybed,andIwouldhavetolieonit.Iwouldalmostcertainlybesacked—Icouldn’treallyseeanywayaroundthat.ButIwasfairlysurethatBillwouldnotwanttosuehisestrangeddaughter,towhosemotherhehadpaidjustpenniesinchildsupport,beforedisappearingforgood.ItwouldnotbeagoodlookforElincourtandElincourt.No,itwouldbesweptundertherug,andI’dbefreetocarryon.Alone.
AndfarawayfromHeatherbrae.
***
Ihadn’treallythoughtaboutmyroomandwhereIwasgoingtosleepuntilwegottothesecond-floorlanding,andRhiannonturnedthehandleonhergraffitiedbedroomdoorandflunghershoesin,withtotalunconcern.
“Goodnight,”shesaid,asifnothinghadhappened,asiftheeventsofthenighthadbeenjustanotherfamilyrow.
“Goodnight,”Isaid,andItookadeepbreathandopenedthedoortothebedroom.Thestrangephonewashardinmypocket,andmynecklace—thenecklaceIhadfearedBillElincourtmightrecognize—laywarmaroundmyneck.
Inside,thedoortotheatticwasshutandlocked,asIhadleftit.Iwasabouttograbmynightthingsandtakethemdownstairstothesofatotrytocatchafewhoursbeforedawn,whentherewasasuddengustofwind,makingthetreesoutsidegroan.Thecurtainsflappedsuddenlyandwildlyinthebreeze,andthefreshpine-ladenscentofaScottishnightfilledtheroom.
Theroomwasstillpainfullycold,justasithadbeenearlierthatnight,andsuddenlyIrealized.Thecoldhadnevercomefromtheattic—itmusthavebeenthewindow,openallalong.OnlybeforeIhadbeensofixatedonfindingoutthetruthofwhatwasbehindthelockeddoorthatIhadn’tevenglancedtowardsthecurtains.
Atleastthechillwasexplainedthen.Nothingsupernatural—justthecoldnightair.
Buttheproblemwas,Ihadnotopenedthatwindow.Ihadn’teventoucheditsinceIslammeditshutafewnightsbefore.Andnow,suddenly,mystomachwasturningoverandoverinawaythatmademefeelvery,verysick.
Turning,Iranoutoftheroomanddownthestairs,ignoringRhiannon’ssleepy“Whatthefuck?”asIslammedthedoorbehindme.Downstairs,myhearthammeringinmychest,IopenedPetra’sbedroomdoor,thewoodshushingonthethickcarpet,andwaitedformyeyestogetadjustedtothedimlight.
Shewasthere,quiteasleep,herarmsandlegsflungout,andIfeltmypulseratecalm,justalittle,butIhadtocheckontheothersbeforeIcouldrelax.
Downthecorridorthen,tothedoormarkedPrincessEllieandQueenMaddie.
Itwasshut,andIturnedthehandleverysoftly,pushinggently.Itwaspitch-blackinsidewithoutthenightlight,theblackoutcurtainsshuttingouteventhemoonlight,andIcursedmyselfforforgettingtoswitchiton,butwhenmyeyesgotusedtothedarkness,Icouldhearthefaintsoundofsnores,andIfeltmybreathcomingalittlemoreeasily.ThankGod.ThankGodtheywereokay.
Itiptoedacrossthethickcarpetandfeltalongthewallfortheleadtothenight-light,followeditbacktotheswitch,andthenIswitchediton.Andtheretheywere,Elliescrunchedintoatightlittleballasthoughtryingtohidefromsomething,MaddiescoocheddownundertheduvetsothatIcouldseenothingexcepthershapebeneaththecovers.
MypaniccalmedasIturnedbacktothedoor,laughingatmyselfformyparanoia
Andthen…Istopped.
Itwasridiculous,Iknewthat,butIjusthadtocheck,Ihadtosee…
Itiptoedacrossthecarpetanddrewbackthecover.Tofind…
…apillow,pushedintothecurvedshapeofasleepingchild.
Myheartbegantoracesickeninglyhard.
***
ThefirstthingIdidwascheckunderthebed.Thenallthecupboardsintheroom.
“Maddie,”Iwhispered,asloudasIdared,notwantingtowakeElliebuthearingthepanickedurgencyinmyownvoice.“Maddie?”
Buttherewasnoansweringsound,notevenastifledgiggle.Justnothing.Nothing.
Iranoutoftheroom.
“Maddie?”Icalledlouderthistime.Irattledthehandleofthebathroom,butitwasunlocked,andwhenthedoorswungopenIsawitsemptiness,themoonlightstreamingacrossthebaretiles.
“Maddie?”
NothinginSandraandBill’sbedroomeither,justtheunruffledsmoothnessofthebed,themoonlitexpanseofcarpet,thewhitecolumnsoftheopencurtainsstandingsentineleithersideofthetallwindows.Iflungopentheclosets,butthefaintilluminationoftheautomaticlightsshowednothingbutneatrowsofsuitsandracksofhighheels.
“Whatisit?”Rhiannon’ssleepyvoicecamefromupstairs.“Whatthefuck’sgoingon?”
“It’sMaddie,”Icalledup,tryingtokeepthepanicoutofmyvoice.“She’snotinbed.Canyoulookupstairs?Maddie!”
Petrawasstirringnow,wokenbymyincreasinglyloudcalls,andIheardhercrotchetygrumble,preparatorytoafull-onwail,butIdidn’tstoptocomforther.IhadtofindMaddie.HadshecomedownstairstofindmewhenIwaswithJack?Thethoughtgavemeanunpleasantlurch,followedbyanother,evenmoreunpleasant.
Hadshe—OhGod.Hadshepossiblyfollowedme?Ihadleftthebackdoorunlocked.Couldshehavegonelookingformeinthegrounds?
Horriblevisionsranthroughmymind.Thepond.Thestream.Eventheroad.
IgnoringPetra,Irandownthestairs,shovedmyfeetintothefirstpairofWellingtonsIfoundatthebackdoor,andranoutintothemoonlight.
Thecobbledyardwasempty.
“Maddie!”Icalled,full-throated,desperatenow,hearingmyvoiceechofromthestonewallsofthestablesandbacktothehouse.“Maaaddie?Whereareyou?”
Therewasnoanswer,andIhadasudden,evenmorehorriblethought,worsethantheforestclearing,withthetreacherouslymuddypond.
Thepoisongarden.
ThepoisongardenleftunlockedandunguardedbyJackGrant.
Ithadalreadykilledonelittlegirl.
DearGod,Iprayed,asIbegantosprinttowardsthebackofthehouse,towardsthepathdownthroughtheshrubbery,myfeetslippinginthetoo-bigWellingtons.Pleaseletitnotclaimanother.
ButasIroundedthecornerofthehouse,Ifoundher.
Shewaslyingcrumpledfacedownbelowmybedroomwindow,sprawledacrossthecobblestonesinhernightdress,thewhitecottonsoakedthroughandthroughwithblood,somuchbloodIwouldneverhaveimaginedhersmallbodycouldholditall.
Itranacrossthecobblesliketreacle,thickandsticky,slickingmykneesasIkneltinit,clingingtomyfingersasIpickedherup,cradlingher,feelingthebirdlikefragilityofherlittlebones,beggingher,pleadingwithhertobeokay.
Butofcourseitwasimpossible.
Shewouldneverbeokayagain.Nothingwould.
Shewasquite,quitedead.
Thenextfewhoursaretheonesthatthepolicehavemademegooveragainandagain,likenailsscratchingandscratchingatawound,makingitbleedafresheverytime.Andyet,evenafteralltheirquestions,thememoriesonlycomeinsnatches,likeanightilluminatedbyflashesoflightning,withdarknessinbetween
Irememberscreaming,holdingMaddie’sbodyforwhatfeltlikethelongesttime,untilfirstJackcame,andthenRhiannon,holdingawailingPetrainherarms,almostdroppingherwhenshesawthehorrorofwhathadhappened.
Irememberherwail,thatawfulsound,asshesawhersister’sbody.Idon’tthinkIwilleverforgetthat.
IrememberJacktakingRhiannoninsideandthentryingtopullmeaway,sayingshe’sdead,she’sdead,wecan’tdisturbthebody,Rowan,wehavetoleaveherforthepolice,andIcouldn’tlethergo,Icouldonlyweepandcry.
Iremembertheflashingbluelightsofthepoliceatthegate,andRhiannon’sface,whiteandstrickenasshetriedtocomprehend.
AndIremembersittingthere,coveredinbloodonthevelvetsofa,astheyaskedmewhathappened,whathappened,whathappened.
AndIstilldon’tknow.
***
Istilldon’tknow,Mr.Wrexham,andthat’sthetruth.
Iknowwhatthepolicethink,fromthequestionstheyasked,andthescenariostheyputtome.
TheythinkthatMaddiewentuptomyroomtofindmemissing,andthatshesawsomethingincriminatingupthere—perhapsshewenttothewindow,andsawmecreepingbackfromJack’sflat.Orperhapstheythinkshefoundsomethinginmybelongings,somethingtodowithmyrealname,mytrueidentity.
Idon’tknow.Ihadsomuchtohide,afterall.
AndtheythinkthatIcamebacktofindherthere,andrealizedwhatshehadseen,andthatIopenedthewindowandthat—
Ican’tsayit.It’shardeventowriteit.ButIhaveto.
TheythinkthatIthrewherout.TheythinkthatIstoodthere,withthecurtainsblowingwide,andwatchedherbleedtodeathonthecobblestones,andthenwentbackdownstairstodrinktea,andwaitcalmlyforRhiannontocomehome.
TheythinkthatIleftthewindowopendeliberately,totrytomakeitseemlikeshecouldhavefallen.Buttheyaresurethatshedidn’t.Iamnotcertainwhy—Ithinkit’ssomethingtodowiththepositionofwhereshelanded—toofarawayfromthebuildingtobeaslip,withanarcthatcouldonlyhavebeencausedbyapush,orajump.
WouldMaddiehavejumped?That’saquestionIhaveaskedmyselfathousand,maybeamilliontimes.
Andthetruthis,Ijustdon’tknow.
Wemayneverknow.Becausetheironyis,Mr.Wrexham,inahousefilledwithadozencameras,therearenonethatshowwhathappenedtoMaddiethatnight.Thecamerainherroomshowsnothingbutdarkness.Itpointsawayfromthedoor,atthegirls’beds,sothereisnotevenasilhouetteinthedoorwaytoshowwhattimeMaddieleft.
Andasformyroom…ohGod…asformyroom,thatisoneofthebricksintheedificeofevidencethepolicebuiltagainstme.
“Whydidyoucoverthesecuritycamerainyourroomifyouhadnothingtohide?”theykeptaskingmeagain,andagain,andagain.
AndItriedtotellthem—toexplainwhatit’sliketobeayoungwoman,alone,inastrangehouse,withstrangerswatchingyou.ItriedtotellthemhowIwasokaywithacamerainthekitchen,theden,thelivingroom,thecorridors,evenwithcamerasinthegirls’rooms.ButthatIneededsomewhere,justoneplace,whereIcouldbemyself,unwatched,unmonitored.WhereIcouldbenotRowanbutRachel—justforafewhours.
“Wouldyouwantacamerainyourbedroom?”Iaskedthedetective,point-blank,buthejustshruggedasiftosay,It’snotmeontrial,love
Butthetruthis,Ididcoverupthatcamera.AndifIhadn’t,wemightknowwhathappenedtoMaddie.
Because,Ididn’tkillher,Mr.Wrexham.IknowI’vesaidthatalready.ItoldyouintheveryfirstletterIsentyou.Ididn’tkillher,andyouhavetobelieveme,becauseit’sthetruth.ButIdon’tknow,writingthesewordsinmycrampedcell,withtheScottishraindrizzlingdownthewindowoutside…HaveIconvincedyou?HowIwishIcouldpersuadeyoutocomehere.I’veputyouonmylistofvisitors.Youcouldcometomorrow,even.AndIcouldlookintoyoureyesandtellyou—Ididn’tkillher.
ButIdidn’tconvincethepoliceofthat.Ididn’tconvinceMr.Gateseither.
Intheend,I’mnotsureIevenconvincemyself.
ForifIhadn’tleftherthatnight,ifIhadn’tspentthosehourswithJack,inhisflat,inhisarms,noneofthiswouldhavehappened.
Ididn’tkillher,butherdeathisonmyhands.Mylittlesister.
Ifyoudidn’tkillher,whodid?Helpusouthere,Rachel.Telluswhatyouthinkhappened,thepoliceasked,againandagain,andIcouldonlyshakemyhead.Becausethetruthis,Mr.Wrexham,Idon’tknow.Ihaveconstructedathousandtheories—eachwilderthantheother.Maddie,leapinglikeabirdintothenight;Rhiannon,comingbackearlyfromhernightoutsomehow;JeanMcKenzie,hidingintheattic;JackGrant,creepingpastmewhileIwaswaitingdownstairsforRhiannon.
BecauseJackturnedouttohavesecretstoo,didyouknowthat?NothingasgrandormelodramaticaswhatIhadimagined—hewasn’trelatedtoDr.KenwickGrant,oratleastifhewas,neitherhenorthepolicemanagedtotracethelink.AndwhenItoldthepoliceaboutthehankofstringinhiskitchenandtheAconitumnapellusblossom,he,unlikeme,hadaquickandreasonableexplanation.BecauseJack,itseemed,hadrecognizedthepurpleflowersittinginthecoffeecuponthekitchentable—orthoughthehad.Andsohehadtakenitwithhimtocompareittotheplantsinthepoisongarden.Whenhediscoveredthatwhathehadsuspectedwascorrect,thattheflowerinthekitchenwasnotjustpoisonousbutdeadly,hehadremovedmymakeshiftstringbarrier,andreplaceditwithapadlockandchain
No,Jack’sdeep,darksecretwasmuchmoremundanethanthat.Andinsteadofexoneratingme,itonlypileduptheevidenceagainstme—addingtotheweightofreasonsImighthavewantedtocoverupmyliaisonwithhim.
Jackwasmarried.
WhentheyrealizedIdidn’tknow,thepolicetookgreatdelightinrammingthefacthome,remindingmeateverypossibleopportunity,asiftheywantedtoseemewincewithpainafresheachtime.Butthetruthwas,Iwasbeyondcaring.Whatdiditmatter,ifJackalreadyhadawifeandatwo-year-oldbackinEdinburgh?Hehadpromisedmenothing.AndinthefaceofMaddie’sdeath,noneofitseemedimportant.
IwouldbelyingthoughifIsaidthatinthedaysandweeksandmonthssinceI’vebeeninhereIhadn’tthoughtofhimandwonderedwhy.Whyhadn’thetoldmeabouther?Abouthislittleboy?Whyweretheylivingapart?Wasitfinancial—washesendingmoneybacktothem?IftheElincourtswerepayinghimhalfasmuchasthey’dofferedme,itwasmorethanplausiblethathe’dtakenthejobformoneyreasons.
Butmaybenot.Perhapstheywereseparated,estranged.Perhapsshe’dthrownhimout,andthisofferofajob,withaflatattached,hadbeentheperfectwaytomoveon.
Idon’tknow,becauseIneverhadthechancetoaskhim.Ineversawhimagain,afterIwastakendowntothestationforquestioning,andthencautioned,andthenremandedincustody.Heneverwrote.Heneverphoned.Henevervisited.
ThelasttimeIsawhimwasasIstumbledintothebackofapolicecar,stillcoveredinMaddie’sblood,feelinghishandsgrippingmine,strongandsteady.
“It’llbeallright,Rowan.”Itwasthelastthinghesaidtome,thelastwordsIheardasthecardoorslammedshutbehindmeandtheenginestartedup.
Itwasalie.Alie,fromfirsttolast.IwasnotRowan.Andnothingwasevergoingtobeallrightagain.
ButthethingIkeepcomingbacktoiswhatMaddiesaidtomethatveryfirsttimeImether,herarmswrappedhardaroundme,herfaceburiedinmytop.
Don’tcomehere,shehadsaid.It’snotsafe.
Andthen,thoselastwords,sobbedinparting,andlaterdenied,wordsthatIamstillcertainIheard,monthslater.
Theghostswouldn’tlikeit.
Idon’tbelieveinghosts,Mr.Wrexham.Ineverhave.I’mnotasuperstitiousperson.
ButitwasnotsuperstitionthatIheardpacingtheatticaboveme,nightafternight.Itwasnotsuperstitionthatmademewakeinthenight,shivering,mybreathwhitecloudsinthemoonlight,myroomcoldasanicebox.Thatdoll’shead,rollingacrossthePersianrug,thatwasreal,Mr.Wrexham.Realasyouandme.Realasthewritingonthewallsoftheattic,realasmywritingtoyounow.
BecauseIknow,Iknowthat’swhenIreallysealedmyfatewiththepolice.Itwasn’tjustthefakename,andthestolendocuments.Itwasn’tjustthefactthatIwasBill’sestrangeddaughter,comebacktoexactsomesortoftwistedrevengeonhisnewfamily.Itwasn’tanyofthat.
ItwaswhatItoldthemonthatfirstawfulnight,sittingthereinmybloodstainedclothes,shakingwithshockandgriefandterror.Becausethatfirstnight,Ibrokedownandtoldthemeverythingthathadhappened.Fromthefootstepsinthenight,tothedeep,seepingsenseofevilIfeltwhenIopenedtheatticdoorandsteppedinside.
That,morethananythingthatcameafter,wasthemomentthekeyturnedinthelock.
Thatwaswhentheyknew
***
I’vehadalotoftimetothinkinhere,Mr.Wrexham.Alotoftimetothink,andponder,andfigurethingsoutsinceIstartedthislettertoyou.Itoldthepolicethetruth,andthetruthundidme.Iknowwhattheysaw—acrazedwoman,withabackstorymorefullofholesthanabullet-pockedsignpost.Theysawawomanwithamotive.Awomansoestrangedfromherfamilythatshehadcometotheirhouseunderfalsepretenses,toexactsomekindofterrible,unhingedrevenge
IknowwhatIthinkhappened.Ihavehadalongtimetoputpiecestogether—theopenwindow,thefootstepsintheattic,thefatherwholovedhisdaughtersomuchthatitkilledher,andthefatherwhowalkedawayfromhischildrenagainandagainandagain.
Andmostofall,twopiecesIneverconnectedrightupuntiltheveryend—thephone,andMaddie’swhite,pleadinglittleface,thatveryfirstdayasIdroveaway,andherwhispered,anguishedtheghostswouldn’tlikeit.Andthosetwothingswerewhatdidformewiththepolice.Myfingerprintsonthephone,andmyaccountofwhatMaddiehadsaidtome,andthedominoofeffectsherwordsbegan.
Butattheendoftheday,itdoesn’tmatterwhatIthink,orwhatmytheoriesare.It’swhatthejurythinksthatmatters.Listen,Mr.Wrexham,Idon’tneedyoutobelieveeverythingthatI’vetoldyou.AndIknowthatpresentingevenhalfofwhatI’vesaidherewouldgetyoulaughedoutofcourt,andriskalienatingthejuryforever.That’snotwhyItoldyouallthis.
ButItriedtogivejustpartofthestorybefore—andit’swhatgotmelockeduphere.
Ibelievethatthetruthiswhatwillsaveme,Mr.Wrexham,andthetruthisthatIdidn’t,thatIcouldn’tkillmysister.
Ipickedyou,Mr.Wrexham,becausewhenIaskedtheotherwomeninherewhoIshouldgettorepresentme,yournamecameupmorethananyotherlawyer.Apparentlyyou’vegotareputationforgettingevenno-hopersoffthehook.
AndIknowthat’swhatIam,Mr.Wrexham.Ihavenohopeanymore.
Achildisdead,andthepolice,andthepublic,andthepress,theyallwantsomeonetopay.Andthatsomeonemustbeme.
ButIdidn’tkillthatlittlegirl,Mr.Wrexham.Ididn’tkillMaddie.
Ilovedher.AndIdon’twanttorotinjailforsomethingIdidn’tdo.
Please,pleasebelieveme.
Yourstruly,
RachelGerhardt.
8thAugust2019
RichardMcAdams
AshdownConstructionServices,internalpost.
Rich,bitofafunnyone,oneoftheguysworkingontheCharnworthredevelopmentfoundthispileofoldpaperswhenhewasrippingoutawall.Lookslikeoneoftheprisonershidthem.Hedidn’tknowwhattodowiththem,sohepassedthemtomeandIsaidI’daskaround.I’veonlyglancedatthetopfew,butlookstobeabunchoflettersfromaninmatetohersolicitorbeforehertrial—don’tknowwhytheywereneverposted.Theguywhofoundthemleafedthrough,andsaysitwasquiteawell-knowncase;he’salocalfromroundhere,andherememberedtheheadlines.
Anyway,hefeltabitawkwardchuckingthemintheskipincasetheywereevidenceorlegallyprivilegedorsomething,andheendeduponthewrongsideofthelawbydestroyingthem.TBH,Idon’timagineitmattersnow—buttoputhismindatrest,IsaidI’dseeitwasproperlydealtwith.Isthereanyoneinmanagementyoucouldsoundoutaboutit?Ordoyouthinkjustignoreandbin?Don’twanttogettiedupinaloadofpaperwork.
Thetoppartisherletterstothelawyer,butshe’dalsohiddenafewletterswrittentoherinthesameplace.Theseemtobejustfamilystuff,butI’mstickingtheminthepacketaswell,justincase.
Anyway,beverygratefulifIcouldleaveitwithyoutodecidewhattodo,ifanything.
Cheers,
Phil
1stNovember2017
DearRachel,
Well.Itfeelsverystrangeaddressingyoubythatname,buthereweare.
ImuststartbysayinghowsorryIamaboutwhathappened.Iimaginethat’snotwhatyouexpectedmetosay,butIam,andI’mnotashamedtosayit.
WhatyoumustunderstandisthatIhavewatchedoverthosechildrenforthebestpartoffiveyearsnow—andI’vewatchedmorenanniescomeandgothanI’vehadhotdinners.IwastheonewhohadtositandwatchwhilethatbaggageHollycarriedonwithMr.Elincourtunderhiswife’snose,andIwastheonewhopatchedeverythingupwhenshewalkedoutandleftthegirlsinbits.Andsincethen,I’vehadtositthereandwatchasnannyafternannycameandwent,andbrokethosepoorbairns’heartsabitmoreeverytime.
Andeverytimetheycame,andtheywereanotherprettyyounglass,IfeltitlikeacoldhandaroundmyheartandIlayawakeatnightandIwondered—shouldItellMrs.Elincourtwhatkindofamanherhusbandwas,andwhatkindofawomanthatHollywas,andwhyshereallyleft?AndeverytimeIfoundIcouldn’tdoit,andIswallowedmyanger,andItoldmyselfitwouldbedifferentnexttime.
SoIconfess,whenImetyou,andfoundoutthatMrs.Elincourthadhiredyetanotherprettyyounggirl,myheartsank.BecauseIknewwhathewouldbeupto,andwhateverkindofgirlyouwere,whetheryouwereonetomakethemostofyouropportunities,likeHolly,oronewhoshrankfromhim,Ikneweitherwaythosepoorchildrenwouldbetheonestosufferagainwhenyouuppedandleft,maybetakinghimwithyouthistime.Andthatmademeveryangry.Yesitdid.I’mnotashamedtosaythat.ButIamashamedofhowItreatedyou—Ishouldnothavetakenmyangeroutonyoulikethat,andIfeelheartsorrywhenIthinkbackonsomeofthethingsIsaidtoyou.Becausewhateverthepolicesay,Iknowthatyouwouldhavewalkedamileoverglassbeforeyouhurtoneofthoselittlelassies,andItoldtheofficerwhointerviewedmeso,Iwantedyoutoknowthat.Isaid,Ididnotlikethatgirl,andImadenosecretofit,butshewouldnothavehurtweeMaddie,andyouarebarkingupthewrongtree,youngman.
Soanyway,thatispartlywhyIamwriting.Tosayallofthattoyou,andgetitoffmychest.
ButtheotherreasonisbecauseElliehaswrittenyoualetter.Sheputitinanenvelopeandsealeditupbeforeshegaveittome,andshemademepromisenottoreadit,andIsaidIwouldnot.Ihavekeptthatpromise,becauseIthinkyoushouldkeepyourword,eventochildren,butImustaskyou,ifthereisanythinginthatletteryouthinkIshouldknow,oranythingthatyouthinkhermothershouldknow,youmusttellus.
Thereisnopointinwritingtothehouse,foritisshutup,andGodknowsMrs.Elincourthasenoughonherplatetoworryabout,poorwoman.Shehasleftherhusband,didthepolicetellyouthat?Shehastakenthechildrenandmovedbackdownsouthtoherownfamily.AndMr.Elincourthasmovedawaytoo—thereissomesortoflawsuitagainsthimconnectedwithaninternathisfirm,orsotheyaresayinginthevillage,andtherumoristhatthehousewillhavetobesoldtopayforthelegalfees.
ButIamputtingmyaddressatthebottomofthisletter,andIaskthatifyouhaveanyconcerns,youwritetomethere,andIwilldowhateverneedstobedone.Ihavefaiththatyouwilldothat,forIbelievethatyoulovedthosechildren,asIdidanddo.Idon’tbelieveyouwillletanyharmcometoEllie,willyou?IhaveprayedtoGod,andtriedtolistentohisanswer,andIamtrustingyouonthis,Rachel.Ipraythatyouwon’tletmedown.
Yoursverysincerely,
JeanMcKenzie
15aHighStreet
CarnBridge
From:To:Subject:DaveOwenonlytheysaidthatyournameisRachelisthattrueImissyoualotandIamfairyverysorryaboutwhathappenedespeciallybecauseit’sallmyfaultbutIcan’ttellanyoneespeciallynotmummyorDaddybecausetheywillbesoangryandthendaddywillgoawaylikehetriedtobeforelikeMaddiealwayssaidhewoulditwasmeRowanIpushedmadhebecauseshewasgoingtomakeyougoawayliketheothersshemadealltheothersgoawaybyplayingtrickswithMummy’soldphoneshetooktheirthingsandshekindintotheAtticwindowuptherooffromyourroomtheAtticwashersecretdenwhereshealwayswentbutshesaidIwastoolittletoclimbupandtheshemadethehappywakethemupinthenightandshetookaYouTubevideoandplayeditonthespeakersonthehappytomakeitsoundliketherewaspeopleintheAtticwalkingaroundbutitwasn’titwasjustthevideoandshetookthedolliesheadoutoftheatticandshemademeputthedoggiesheadonyourlapandIamsosorrybecauseIsaiditwasn’ttrueanditwasitwasmewhodidthatshewokeupandyouweren’tthereandmadhewasgoingtopoisonyouwithyouberriesbutIranafterherandIpouredthewinedownthesinkandthenMaddiewasfairyangryandshesaidshesaidshewasgoingtoclimbintotheatticwindowagainandgetyouintotroublewithMummybysettingoffallthealarmsbecauseyouhadgoneandIranafterheraneyeaskednottodoitandshesaidnoIwilldoitorshewilltakeDaddyawayandIsaidnodon’tRowanwithniceandIdon’twanthertogoshewouldn’tdothatandmadhesaidI’mgoingtoanewcan’tstopmeandshekindupandIpushedherIdidn’tmeanfor2happenandIamsosorrypleasepleasepleasedon’ttellthepoliceRowanIdon’twanttogotoprisonandIamsosorrybutitisn’tfairforyoutogettoldoffforathingIdidsocanyoujustsaythatitwasn’tyouandthatyouknowwhodiditbutyoucan’tsaywhobecauseit’sasecretbutitwasn’tyouwearegoingawaytomorrowtoanewhousedaddycan’tcomerightnowbutIhopeyoucanIloveyoupleasecomebacksoonloveEllieelancourtage5goodbyeAcknowledgments
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Contents
Cover
Dedication
3rdSeptember2017
3rdSeptember2017
4thSeptember2017
5thSeptember2017
7thSeptember2017
Chapter1
12thSeptember2017
Chapter2
Chapter3
Chapter4
Chapter5
Chapter6
Chapter7
Chapter8
Chapter9
Chapter10
Chapter11
Chapter12
Chapter13
Chapter14
Chapter15
Chapter16
Chapter17
Chapter18
Chapter19
Chapter20
Chapter21
Chapter22
Chapter23
Chapter24
Chapter25
Chapter26
Chapter27
Chapter28
Chapter29
Chapter30
Chapter31
8thAugust2019
1stNovember2017
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Copyright
Guide
Startofcontent