I let down my guard, fall asleep too fast. You come to congratulate me. Remind me if it hadn’t been for your lessons, I’d never have got Morgan to trust me. I wake up crying.
Up eight. Up another four.
The door on the right.
Put the trousers on.
Put the shirt on.
Do as you’re told.
Dress up. Your favourite game.
The boys dressed as boys, the girls did too.
Life-size, walking, talking dolls to play with. Discard when bored.
How special you look as a boy, Annie.
Come closer, let Mummy see.
9
Saskia offers to drive me and Phoebe to school this morning, noticing that as well as my usual load, I have to carry a large portfolio case for art in which I’ll store my work for this term. Phoebe, dressed in sports gear, says no, plans to go for a jog before school with two of the other girls who live close by, reminds them she’s staying at Izzy’s overnight. Mike shouts to her when she’s putting her shoes on in the porch, make sure you eat something for breakfast. The front door opens, and slams. He tuts, smiling shortly afterwards.
‘I saw the note about losing your phone. Usually I’d say wait a few days to see if it turns up but I feel better knowing I can get hold of you if needs be. I’ll replace it this time, but please be more careful.’
I ask him to change the number, helps me feel secure. He says he understands, he’ll have it sorted by tonight. I eat a bowl of cereal while I wait for Saskia to get dressed and, when she’s ready, we head out to her car, a soft-top Mini. I load the portfolio case into the boot, just about fits. An area of London where style trumps practicality. Appearance matters. Air kisses, as knives are simultaneously slid into backs. Twisted.
‘Ready?’ she asks, climbing into the driving seat.
I nod, annoyed by the way she said ‘ready’ in an overly chirpy manner. Scratch the perfectly applied foundation on her skin, weakness lurks. A cardboard cut-out of a mother. She hits the accelerator too hard, the car jerks across the gravel with protest. I want to say, relax, I don’t bite. Well I do, but I won’t. She’s wary of me. Female intuition maybe. She can’t forget who I am, who I’ve come from. Belong to. When she thinks I’m distracted, and I won’t notice, I see her looking.
I notice.
‘This is nice,’ she says as we turn out of the drive.
‘Yes,’ I reply, looking for Morgan.
‘How’s school going?’
‘Busy, a lot to take in.’
‘Mike tells me you’re interested in art.’
‘I like drawing.’
‘I was always terrible at art, terrible at most things to be honest. Not like you, very smart I hear.’
‘I’m not really sure about the smart bit, but thanks. Can I ask you something?’
‘Sure, fire away.’
‘What do you do during the day when Mike’s at work and we’re at school?’
‘Lots of different things, I suppose.’
‘Like what, if you don’t mind me asking?’
I turn to face her, she clears her throat, looks away. An involuntary response to being in the hot seat, with something to hide, secretly she’s glad the school run’s only a couple of minutes.
‘Bits and bobs really. Online shopping for the house.’
Yes, which the housekeeper puts away.
‘Sometimes I get together with the other mums to discuss school stuff and before you know it the day’s gone and the house is full of you guys again.’
‘You forgot yoga. You love it, don’t you?’
‘Yes, that’s right, silly of me to forget. I like it very much, do it most days.’
I wait a few seconds, then say, ‘And your teacher, you really like him.’
The creamy complexion of her face changes colour. Reddens. A tightening round her lips. She removes her left hand from the gear stick, flicks her nose a few times. Deceit. I’m not the only one withholding.
‘Yes, he’s excellent,’ she replies.
‘Was he over last night by any chance?’
She looks at me. I read her thought process easily. Surely not, she’s wondering. The house was empty, wasn’t it? She turns away before answering.
‘As a matter of fact, he was. I ordered a new mat and he decided to drop it in. He was passing by, I think.’
The pitch of her voice. Up a fraction. The car comes to a halt, traffic lights add pain. Hers. Pleasure, mine. Then guilt. I don’t know why I’m taunting her, why I’m enjoying it.
I tell Saskia that was nice of him, to deliver the mat. She nods, wary of what else is to come, but I stop there. I don’t tell her that before I closed the door to the basement last night, I heard noises. I don’t tell her I went down the steps to the gym and saw her being fucked on the floor by a man half her age. Slut. I don’t tell her because secrets, when handled carefully, can be useful.
‘This is about as close as I can get,’ she says and pulls the car into the kerb outside the newsagent across the road from school.
‘It’s fine, I’ll just grab my stuff from the boot.’
As I turn to open the car door, I see you on the front cover of a newspaper outside the shop. Saskia hurries me, says she’s holding up traffic. I climb out, shut the door, collect my portfolio case from the boot and, once I close it, Saskia toots her horn and drives off. I take as long as possible to load my things from the pavement into my arms, my eyes on you. Somebody behind me says, could you be any more in the way? I gather everything up and head for the zebra crossing. Tall orange lollipops, a stream of pupils in uniform.
I make my way to the common room, usually a place much like the ‘middle corridor’ I avoid, but a compulsory meeting for our year group’s school play, Lord of the Flies, is scheduled there first thing this morning. I open the door. Phoebe is the first person I see, already changed from her running gear into uniform. A handful of other girls lounge on the beanbags and sofas. Most of them don’t look up as I come in, heads bent over phones. Fingers tap. Scroll. Up. Down. The kidnapping of women and children in Nigeria is not what they read about. They obsess over the small things, the insignificant things. The celebrity break-ups. Make-ups. The babies. Divorce. Who cheated on who. She deserved it anyway, stupid cow. Comments thrown back and forth. Fingers pick up speed. Tap. Double tap. Tap again. Un-tap, because they change their minds. Fickle like that.
I leave my art case by the door and without thinking pick up a newspaper from the table closest to me and take a seat. My heart rate increases when I realize you’re on the front cover of this one too. Now is not the time to enjoy you, enjoy looking at you. I open the paper, doesn’t matter which page, can’t concentrate on the words anyway. A minute or so later Phoebe moves from her position on the window seat, walks towards me, grabs it from my hands. Shield. Armour. Gone. She has you, your face, in her right hand.
‘Thanks, dog-face, you know how much I love to keep up with the news.’
She flops into the chair opposite me. Her school skirt, rolled over at the waist, sits shorter than it should, reveals the remnants of a summer tan on her toned legs. Ankle-length socks, we’ll be switching to tights next week, I bet she’ll find a way to make them alluring. She draws up her legs, rests her feet on the table between us, knickers visible, newspaper on her thighs. Ink scribbled below her knee, a doodle of a love heart next to an old scar. Oval in shape. Looking at it reminds me of you, you loved to leave your mark on me. Conquered and claimed. I stare when I think about you, it’s a problem I have. Layers of thoughts, pinball speed in my head.
Don’t realize I’m doing it.
‘Like staring at girls’ knickers, do you?’
I look away, some of the girls laugh, others busy, engaged in their shallow cyber graves. Phoebe goes back to reading and out of the corner of my eye I see her shaking her head and when she says, fuck, I know she’s talking about you.
‘Clonny.’
‘Yeah?’
‘
There’s some more stuff about that psycho bitch that killed those kids.’
‘Fuck, really? What does it say?’
‘Something about a playground. Come here, I’ll show you.’
Clondine heaves herself off a beanbag, crawls towards her. My body reacts. Panic. Cold sweat. The back of my neck.
‘Shall I read it out loud?’ Phoebe asks.
‘Yeah, go on,’ Clondine replies.
I swallow, try to. Gremlin fingers block my throat. A nasty taste. Don’t be sick, can’t be. Not here.
Interest is piqued. Girl by girl, bees to honey. They slide into the chairs next to Phoebe, peer over shoulders, she knows how to work a crowd.
‘Forty-eight-year-old Ruth Thompson was a popular member of staff at the women’s refuge where she worked. Employed as a Nurse Counsellor, she was the main point of contact for the scores of frightened women and their children who were in hiding, often fleeing dangerous and violent partners. Little did they know they had met a person equally, if not more evil in her. Thompson was arrested in July this year and charged with nine counts of child murder, said to have been committed over a period of ten years, from 2006 to 2016. New details emerging claim these murders were carried out in a bedroom she called the playground at her home in Devon. Following her arrest, the bodies of eight children were discovered in the cellar of the house and a ninth found in the so-called playground. The victims are thought to be between the ages of three and six years old. Thompson lived in this property with a teenage child of her own who is said to have provided crucial evidence in the case against her.’
‘What the fuck? She was a mum? Oh my god, imagine living with her.’
‘Yeah, you’d be thinking you’d be next the whole time.’
‘The playground? What a sick fucker. I wonder what else is still to come out.’
The rest of the words Phoebe reads – Abuse – Peephole – Secrets – merge into one as I think about what Aimee said – ‘you’d be thinking you’d be next the whole time’.
I used to think that too, about being next. But you couldn’t, could you? Not because you love me, not because you would have been devastated, bereft without me. You kept me alive because you needed me. I was part of your disguise.
When Phoebe’s finished reading, silence. Breath held, exhaled. F-bombs drop. French Marie cuts the atmosphere, says, maybe our mothers are not so bad after all, hey? Heads nod. Bit by bit the pack splits, back to their original seats. Heads down, fingers tap. Quick, five minutes, gone. Catch up. The world can change in the blink of a social media eye. Not Phoebe, her head isn’t down, she’s looking at me. All I can think is, I’m the spit of you, and somehow she’s worked it out.
‘What are your thoughts, dog-face? Reckon she’s guilty?’
I know she is.
‘It’s up to the court to decide.’
‘You don’t sound very bothered, or perhaps you’re into fucked-up stuff as well, we all know foster kids aren’t right in the head.’
I turn my face to the side, ashamed by an urge to cry, but this provokes her further. She hates being ignored.
‘Such a smart-arse, aren’t you, told Dad you lost your phone, did you? How about I tell him exactly what kind of extra-curricular activities you’re into? Schoolgirl down to fuck, isn’t that what the advert said?’
The way she says it. Drips off her tongue, from those lips. Glistening. Divine. I turn back to face her as do most of the heads in the room. Clondine sniggers as she films, her phone held in the air. Standard. It’ll be played, replayed, edited. Music added. Anything to make it worthy of views on Facebook or Instagram. The bell sounds, first period. Somebody asks where the fuck Miss Mehmet is. A sharp throbbing sensation, my hand in my blazer pocket, I don’t need to look to know I’ve peeled away the skin on my thumb, enough to make it bleed. I know what time it is from the bell but I look at the clock anyway, away from Phoebe’s eagle eyes. The cushion she throws pounds me on the side of my face. I jump, nerves on edge after hearing her read about you, and the fact you had a child too.
Me.
We’re about to clear out when Miss Mehmet arrives, flounces in, announces who’s playing which part in the play and asks for volunteers for backstage and scenery painting. The auditions were held on Tuesday when I was off with the migraine but she asks me to take the job of prompt, goes on to remind us to use the Year Eleven forum as an arena for brainstorming ideas.
‘Get together to practise your lines, girls, immerse yourself in your characters. Eat, sleep and drink this play, I expect nothing but the best from all of you.’
The common room empties. I stay behind, smooth out the wrinkles Phoebe left after reading you out loud. I place you on top of the bookshelf, the idea of your face being scribbled on or used as a coaster. Too much. A minute after I leave I return, rip out the page with your picture on and place it in the front pocket of my school bag.
Third period, I log on to the forum. A private place, a private space, a show of trust from the headmistress for the Year Elevens. Password protected by a nominated individual, none other than queen bee, Phoebe Newmont. Quotes and poems. Homework. And videos, now. The most recent one uploaded, ‘Dog-face gets cushioned.’ The responses are mainly ‘crying with laughter’ emojis. Izzy commented, ‘More please!!’
I tried so hard not to believe the things you used to say – it’s just me and you, Annie, nobody else will want you. I’d agree, say, yes, you’re right, of course. Programmed to obey. But late in the night when the threat of your visiting shadow kept me awake, I’d reject your words in my head. Clinging on to the thought that, one day, I could be liked and accepted for being me. Whoever. Whatever that might be. But currently I don’t stand a chance, Phoebe’s seen to that. Quickly decided not only was I someone she didn’t like, but someone that nobody else should either. Powerful, like you.
Hurt. It does, to be Phoebe’s target, but it is at some level inclusion. A learning opportunity, one I am hungry for. I’m my own teacher now though your lessons still ring loud in my head. I remember one weekend, helping at your work. I played with the children while you tended to their mothers. One of the women commented on me, called me beautiful. Striking. In the car on the way home you told me, beauty gives a person power.
And camouflage.
It has for me, you said, and it will for you.
I asked you what you meant. It’s nature, you replied. Beauty blinds, draws people in. A brightly coloured tree frog, a spider that smiles. The beautiful shade of blue on its head distracts its prey. The web, sticky. Thick. The prey realizes too late. Realizes what, Mummy? You smiled, pinched my thigh, hard, and said – there’s no escape.
Your voice, the way you told stories. Captivating, yet terrifying. I remember thinking I didn’t want to blind people or draw them in so they couldn’t escape.
I didn’t want to be like you.
10
When I check my computer this morning the news is full to the brim of you. Snippets of information leaked and gobbled up by journalists.
One of the articles reads:
The jury are expected to hear evidence not only from the mother of Daniel Carrington, the last child found dead at Thompson’s home, but also from a forensic expert who will answer questions both on his death and the crime scene, the room in Thompson’s house of horrors that she called the playground. It’s unclear at present if this is a normal part of the proceedings or if the forensic expert has been called upon at the request of the defence. Thompson is currently being held in Low Newton Prison and the trial date is yet to be released.
I wish I could rationalize it in my mind. That the reason the defence want to focus on Daniel’s death is because it’s the most recent and the evidence is fresh. But I know you better than that. It’s you. You’ve told them to focus their efforts there because you know it’ll hurt me the most. I knew Daniel from the refuge. Him and his mum. I think about her all the time, and the other mums. How they must have felt when they realized what you’d do
ne. Who they’d given their children to. Monsters for husbands, but in you, something worse. You’ll be thinking about it too, remembering it in a different way though. A way that feeds your penchant for the macabre, enjoying all the buzz surrounding you, seeing how far your lies can reach. I think about the jury too, who they’ll be, what kind of people they’ll be. And how sorry I feel for them. The things they’ll hear, the images they’ll be shown. Months it’ll take, maybe longer, for them to stop seeing. Imagining. If ever.
The picture the press use, I don’t know where they got it from, I’ve never seen it before. The public will look at your face, into your eyes, and say, look at her, you can tell she’s evil, gives me the creeps she does. You won’t care, you believe in your beauty, your likeability, even still. The men and women in uniform who guard you, some of them will forget, discuss the weather with you. Maybe even share a joke. You, charming.
The interest from professionals, the many who’ll want to interview you, scan images of your brain in an attempt to decode you, will only grow as more details emerge. Female killers who operate alone (yes I was there, but still), are rare. Then there’s the others, like the ones you invited for my birthday, lurking, creeping in the shadows. Admiration for you. Pen pals, perhaps even a future marriage proposal, or two. The queen of an underworld nobody wants to acknowledge exists. Ordinary people. Extraordinary evil inside. The brain of a psychopath is different from most, I’ve weighed up my chances. Eighty per cent genetics, twenty per cent environment.
Me.
One hundred per cent fucked.
I’m glad it’s the weekend, no school to worry about. My first whole week over. Survived. Mike left a new phone outside my door on Thursday night. I reach down, unplug it from charging. When I get up and part the curtains to the balcony door, the sky is clear and blue. In the next few weeks when October arrives the sun will sit lower in the sky. When I was very little, three maybe four, I used to like the darkness of winter. We’d light the fire in the living room and sometimes toast marshmallows. It wasn’t just us at home then, Dad and Luke were there too. I don’t like to think about my brother, how he found a way out, left me behind. The feelings, buried deep. It’s something you should think about addressing in time, the psychologist at the unit said, but as part of a longer-term therapy plan, and after the trial. I remember watching the way you were with Luke and wishing it was me, a wish I came to regret.