‘Well, somebody will have to,’ she says, her voice brittle with disdain, ‘because nobody has been for ages. And that can’t be right, can it?’
I remain quiet, the sound of my own breathing a pulsating, throaty rumble in my ears. Why is it I can never find the right words to say? Even after all these years, after all the heartache and tears, I am somehow supposed to make it all better. If only I could. If only …
‘Tell Mrs Lovett I was here and to give my best to her daughter.’ Her only remaining child. The words roll around my head, crashing and banging into my skull. My mother doesn’t reply but then I don’t really expect her to. I was just making small talk, helping to move the moment along, to rid us of the awkwardness that has settled. She nods instead, her body half turned away from me as she stares at the goings-on in the street outside; children playing, neighbours chatting, the entire world continuing to rotate when ours grounded to a juddering halt all those years ago. We have lived our lives in a state of suspended disquietude ever since. I have a friend who is constantly on edge, waiting for bad things to happen, waiting for that metaphorical hammer to fall. Ours fell years ago and we have never recovered from it. Our lives remain crushed beyond repair.
I bid my goodbyes, kissing my mother on both cheeks; her skin papery thin, her face cold to the touch. She doesn’t respond. But then what do I expect from her? She is not a tactile lady and her feelings towards me are as delicate as her ageing body; fragile and always on the cusp of fracture.
Only when I am safely seated behind the wheel of my car do I let it all out - the tears and unspent misery that these visits cause. No matter how many promises I make to myself that I will not let her get to me, she always does. She constantly manages to have the upper hand and pull those invisible strings, jerking me around frantically, pushing my emotions into overdrive with her silent, festering rage.
I drive away, wiping the tears from my face with angry, tight fists, vowing that next week I will be stronger. Next week I will not let her pointed comments and thinly veiled jibes drag me down. Next week I will be impervious to it all. Because by then, things will have been set in motion. I will soon be absolved of my sins. My wrongdoings will be a dim and distant memory.
Lissy
I find it hard to concentrate. The paint refuses to go where I want it to and my arm aches from the effort of trying to get it right. Eventually, after a stream of expletives and stomping around the room, I clean my brushes and give up. There’s no point in forcing it. I can spend the rest of the day tidying Rosie’s room and catching up with housework. The ever-growing pile of ironing that has been sitting in the spare room for the past two weeks needs doing. There are plenty of things I can occupy myself with. I’m almost certain there are some boxes in the attic that still haven’t been unpacked since moving in. Lots to be getting on with. Plenty of things for me to do.
I leave my studio and close the door behind me, thinking about Rosie’s exit this morning. My head is full of images of her sitting in class, miserable and alone, a sea of chattering faces around her, none of them speaking to, or including her. I quash them. Got to be positive. I really hope she is having as good a time there as she can. She is a bright girl, very skilled emotionally ; certainly a damn sight better than me. I just know that if she gives it a chance she will soon have an army of friends at her side. It takes time, that’s all. She just needs to be patient.
A tractor rumbles past outside, a low, slightly metrical sound that echoes throughout the house, accentuating how quiet it is here. Perfect. Better than living in the town. Fewer neighbours, fewer intrusions. We are one of only four houses a hamlet set up on a hill, six miles out of town. A life away from the living. I need solitude while I am painting. I sigh softly. I need solitude all the time. Rosie is constantly nagging me to get out more, to make friends, and get some kind of life for myself. I’m happy as I am, though. I don’t need other people. Other people are volatile and unpredictable, not to be trusted. I had a friend once and she let me down. I’m not about to make that mistake again. The memory of her is buried now. She is part of the past; a past I must never revisit. She was meant to be my friend, the first and only person I have ever trusted and she did the unthinkable. Never again. I am better off being alone. That’s just how it is. Rosie doesn’t understand it at all but then I don’t expect her to. I don’t expect anyone to, which is why I prefer being on my own. Much easier that way.
The thump drags me out of my thoughts, sending a pulse of electricity across my skin. My head buzzes, a small throb of anxiety rattles through my veins as I make my way towards the source of the noise. The living area. I am almost certain it came from in there. I hesitate before stepping into the room. There’s nobody here. I know that. Every door is locked, every window sealed shut, yet still I feel that overwhelming sense of dread as I walk in, every muscle in my body clenched in anticipation.
As my eyes scan the room, I let out the breath I have been holding in. Nothing. It is exactly as I left it an hour ago. Every cushion is strategically perched in place, each and every tassel on the rug flat and unruffled. Everything in order, just how I like it. I do another quick sweep of the room and smile. Relief floods through me. How silly to think something was amiss. This is a secure environment. Nobody can get to me. This is my home, my sanctuary. I am completely safe here.
I head back out into the hallway and stop at the door. Something looks different but I can’t quite work out what it is. Standing for a few seconds, I survey the immediate floor space and scan the walls and corners, leaving no crevice or dark corner untouched by my close scrutiny. And then I spot it. There is a mark on the panel of the door. A large, grey smudge is spread across the pattern on the glass. I move forward and reach out to touch it. The clean glass squeaks beneath my fingers as I drag them over the surface. The mark is on the outside. Of course it is. How could it be on the inside of the door? There is nobody here but me. My heart begins to pitter patter in my chest as I unlock the door and turn the handle to open it, a small arrow of fear stabbing at me as I do so. My stomach lurches when I see it lying there. Lifting my foot, I carefully step over the pigeon that is curled up on my doorstep, its wing sticking out at an unnatural angle. I kneel down to see if it is still alive and feel my body turn to stone when I hear the voice.
‘They do it all the time. One of the joys of living round these parts, I’m afraid.’
I look up to see a man at the end of the drive. He is shaking his head wistfully and looking at the bird on my doorstep. He is probably in his forties, quite close to my age, and is staring straight over at me. Everything else is a blur - his features, the timbre of his voice, what he is wearing - it all becomes unimportant as I scramble to my feet and slip back into the doorway. I am about to dart back into the house, to make my hasty retreat and lock myself in, when I think of the poor creature on my doorstep. I can’t just leave it there. I will have hordes of scavengers around it if I don’t move it. I need to do something. Somehow, I need to dispose of it. I lean down, my insides churning, and am about to pick it up when he shouts over again.
‘Do you want me to help you?’
Something about his voice, his stance, his casual manner, makes me turn to face him, allows me to relax my composure and let my guard down. He sounds friendly, non-menacing, helpful. And right now, I need some help.
‘I - I think it’s dead,’ I call back, my voice croaky with apprehension.
‘Not to worry,’ he says and starts to walk up the drive towards me. I suddenly wish I hadn’t spoken and had grabbed the dead bird and closed the door. I am unsure what to do and feel my breath catch in my chest as he comes into focus. He is in front of me, his body just feet from mine before I have a chance to do or say anything in protest, to tell him to leave and that I am too busy to chat or make small talk with neighbours.
Only when he stoops to inspect the creature do I take the time to notice his appearance. He has dark hair and a tanned complexion. I suppose he could be considered han
dsome in a conventional way. It’s been that long since I have thought about what constitutes attractive, I’m not even sure I’m qualified to make such a judgement. I watch the muscles on his shoulders flex slightly as he moves and scoops the bird up in his hands. Its head flops to one side making me feel slightly sick.
‘I’ll just go and dispose of it. You’ll find this happens quite a lot round this neck of the woods. The birds get disorientated and fly low, and with us being high up here they slam right into …’ he stops and looks away, suddenly embarrassed by it all, aware of his choice of words, aware of the look of horror on my face. ‘Well anyway, I’ll just go and get rid of it for you.’
I nod politely and watch as he walks off, his feet crunching on the gravel. It’s only then that I notice him properly. He is tall and broad across his shoulders. His hair is slightly longer at the back and flecked with grey.
At the bottom of the drive, he turns and heads up towards the property on my right. If I crane my neck I can just about see over the top of the conifers to what I assume is his house. I have been here for over a month now and haven’t heard or seen anyone there, which has suited me just fine. For some reason, I presumed it was inhabited by an older person, somebody immobile or incapacitated. Not by a younger person. Not by him.
I am about to close the door when I remember I haven’t thanked him properly for helping me out. It’s the least I can do, isn’t it? I move towards the hedge that separates our houses and stand on my tiptoes to see over the top. He is wrapping the bird in a plastic bag as I shout over to him.
‘Thank you for this. I very much appreciate it.’ My words sound so formal and cold, lacking in any real emotion. That’s just how I am. Any emotions that I do have, I usually pour into my paintings ; inanimate objects that can’t hurt me. Even Rosie finds me aloof, unreachable. Damaged goods.
He looks up, seemingly startled by my sudden presence; a pathetic face peering through a forest of green needles. He smiles and I feel a hot flush spread over my neck and curl its way up into my cheeks.
‘You’re welcome,’ he replies, ‘anytime.’
I step back as I watch him drop the dead pigeon into the bin. It hits the bottom with a dull thump, sending a jolt through me. Reminding myself of the chores I have waiting inside, I back away. I am halfway across the lawn when his voice sends a prickle of alarm up my spine.
‘Would you like to come in for a coffee? I mean, I just thought …’ He stops, suddenly conscious of how absurd this all is. I don’t even know him. We are strangers. He could be anybody; anybody at all. I shut my eyes and clench my fists tightly then take a deep breath before opening my eyes again, the sudden reappearance of the sun causing me to blink repeatedly against its harsh glare.
‘Sorry,’ he continues, ‘I realise how that sounded. All I meant was …’ He stops again and clears his throat. Turning around I let out a small shriek as I see him peering over the top of the hedge. He is standing on the fence and has his arms splayed over the top of the conifers.
‘I’m not doing very well here, am I?’ he laughs and once again I feel my face burn as he reveals a row of perfectly white teeth. His eyes twinkle at me and my gut instinct is to run inside and bolt the door behind me. No intrusions, complete privacy, that’s how I operate. But there is something about him that I feel drawn to; a connection, something I can’t quite put my finger on. A sensation I haven’t felt for so many years stirs somewhere deep down in my gut.
‘How about we have that coffee in my back garden?’ I offer. The words are out before I have a chance to stop them. My house overlooks a field at the back. There is a low fence. A place to escape should things take a turn for the worse. Not that they will. In fact, the chances of that happening are so slim they are probably non-existent. But still … I bite at the side of my mouth and feel my fingers begin to twitch. They hang at my sides, fearful, and impotent. I know that I have to stop doing this. I need to remind myself that the world isn’t full of bad people but I can’t seem to bring an end to it. He nods appreciatively and before I have a chance to change my mind, he is back on my driveway. His hands are slung deep in his pockets, giving him the look of somebody much younger, somebody who doesn’t have a care in the world. How little we have in common.
I lead him around the side of the house and into the garden where I drag the chairs over to the table and motion for him to take a seat. He slips into it effortlessly and stares around at the foliage and spread of colour. ‘Lovely garden you have here,’ he murmurs, taking in every aspect of it, his eyes roving greedily over the lawn and rows of flowers.
‘I wish I could take credit for it,’ I say quietly, ‘but as you know, we’ve not lived here for very long.’
Reaching into my pocket I pull out the keys I always have a set of keys on me, just in case then leave him sitting there as I head towards the back door and let myself in. It’s not that I enjoy living in a fortress; it’s simply a habit of old that I can’t seem to shake. From the safety of my kitchen I observe my visitor while I’m making coffee. He is undoubtedly good looking and charismatic, which leads me to a question I don’t have the answer to: what does he want with me? I remove the filter from the pot and empty it, then shake my head, cross with myself for thinking such thoughts. We’re just neighbours. He is simply being friendly, nothing more. I brush my suspicions aside, finish making the coffee and then head back outside into the warmth of the garden where shadows stretch over the lawn like dancing silhouettes.
‘Oh, that looks amazing. Thank you very much!’ He gently grasps the cup and takes a good, long gulp. ‘This is most welcome. I only arrived home a couple of hours ago. Been travelling most of the night.’
I raise an eyebrow to indicate my puzzlement. I won’t ask. I refuse to. Neighbours, that’s all we are. Maintaining a safe, healthy distance is a necessity I have to bear. I get close to people at my peril.
‘I work in Aberdeen and only got back a few hours ago,’ he says quietly as he takes another sip of scalding hot coffee. I nod and we sit for a while, the silence between us effortless and comfortable. He doesn’t explain and I don’t ask.
‘I’m Rupert, by the way,’ he says, in that easy manner of his that I am rapidly becoming accustomed to. I smile and roll my eyes to indicate I am a fool for forgetting to introduce myself.
‘Hi, Rupert. I’m Lissy,’ I say and despite myself, I take the hand that he has proffered and shake it vigorously. My sleeve pulls back and I drag my fingers away as if burnt, but not before I notice his expression, see his eyes scan my arm and watch how he blinks rapidly and colours up at this minor indiscretion. I hear the small, still voice inside my head telling me this was going to happen. This is why I need to stay away, to be a loner, to live in my own enclave of anonymity. People can’t be trusted, you see. Even the ones you think you know really well. We all have our dark secrets, don’t we? And everyone has emotions they can’t always keep in check. I put my trust in people in the past and they let me down. I won’t do it again.
From inside the house, I hear the phone ringing and feel my skin ripple with apprehension. I am quite literally being saved by the bell. I stand up quickly and wait for him to do the same. He continues to stay seated so I stride off into the house feeling rather aggrieved at his resistance to leave.
When I come back out five minutes later he is still in the same position. His cup is empty and he is smiling at me.
‘Sorry, Rupert,’ I say, trying to keep the edge out of my voice, ‘but that was my daughter’s school calling me. I need to go and collect her as soon as I can.’
Still, he doesn’t move, although a look of concern flashes over his face.
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Is she ill?’
I realise he is only trying to show some compassion but I start to feel irritated. He needs to leave. I need to leave and I need to do it now.
‘No, she’s not ill but I’m afraid I must get down there as soon as I can …’ I leave it hanging there and wait for him to move, to ge
t up and go. Very slowly, he rises from his seat but not before I see him cast another glance down at my arms. I suddenly feel vulnerable and naked. I want to be away from here from him. What was I thinking of inviting him round for God’s sake? I should have known, really. It’s not as if my own instincts can be trusted. I really, really should have known …
‘Right, well, good luck with whatever the problem is,’ he says as he sets his cup down and stares over at me.
‘Thank you,’ I reply, unable and unwilling to elaborate any further. This is my business, my problem. Rosie and I, in it together. A team.
I clench my teeth as I watch him walk off, silently chastising myself for being too relaxed. From now on I will be more vigilant, more measured when allowing people into my life. I can’t afford to be let down again. As long as I keep it in mind that I will always be on my own, with nobody to help me sort through life’s difficulties, then everything will be just fine.
CHILD A
She had no idea what to do with him. He stared up at her with his huge blue eyes, the ghastliest sound escaping from the back of his throat. He reminded her of a wild animal stuck in a trap, its limbs being severed by metal teeth that were slowly ripping into its body. The shrieking made her skin crawl. Standing over the cot she shook a cuddly toy at him, making silly baby sounds, trying her best to make him giggle. Nothing worked. The screams grew louder. Reaching down, she touched his skin and recoiled slightly. He was cold; really cold, despite his screaming and howling, despite his face being red with fury and despair. It was hardly surprising, though. She pulled her own sweater tighter around her body the room was freezing. She touched the cot lightly and rubbed her fingers over the thin sheet that was covering him. More blanket,s that was what he needed. If she could cover him up, he would stop crying. Racing around the bedroom, she flung cupboards open, searching for something, anything to put over him to warm him up. That would stop him, wouldn’t it? Toddlers cried for a reason, that much she did know. She just needed to work out what was wrong with him, that’s all it was, and if the extra warmth stopped him from crying and screaming then she will have sorted it, won’t she? She was desperate for the noise to stop.