While My Eyes Were Closed (32 page)

I get up slowly and drag the bedside cabinet from in front of the door. The child is not outside when I open it. I go to the bathroom, not that it is really worth it now but I must retain some degree of normal functioning. I remove my blouse and my wet skirt and knickers and wash my hands before taking my dressing gown from behind the door and folding it around me. My mouth is papery, my breath musty. I brush my teeth, aware suddenly of my rumbling stomach. Of my need for a cup of tea.

I go through to my bedroom, the silence closing in around me, take a fresh blouse and skirt off their hangers in the wardrobe and dress slowly before returning to the landing. Matthew smiles at me. Matthew always smiles. Matthew has never stopped smiling.

I descend the stairs, holding on tightly to the rail as I do not feel at all steady on my feet. The silence in the hall is oppressive. I have a crushing sense that there should be noise although I am not really sure why. And then I reach the kitchen and see the child lying there on the floor. For a moment my heart stills and I look to see if there is any blood, if she is hurt at all. But her little chest rises and falls as it should do. Her head is inside Melody’s basket, Melody herself curled tight against her shoulder. The biscuit bowl beside them is empty. The water bowl is too. Melody senses me first
and gets to her feet and stretches, miaowing loudly as she does so. The child opens her eyes. She looks at me, at Melody standing above her and then back to me.

‘I asked Melody if I could share her bed. She said I could.’

I nod and swallow.

The child sits up, glances at the empty biscuit bowl and looks down again. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I was hungry. I only had what Melody left. I didn’t really like them.’

I stare at the child. Hear the noises in the park. Touch her bloody knee. Smell the Germolene.

‘Crumpets,’ I say. ‘We’ll have crumpets for breakfast.’

She nods and yawns at the same time. I go to the cooker and turn the grill on. The flame roars at me. It takes a long time for the heat to filter through.

Afterwards, when she has finished every last crumb of her second crumpet and slurped her milk thirstily, she looks up at me.

‘Why were you crying?’ she asks. ‘Why wouldn’t you let me in? Were you poorly?’

‘Yes,’ I reply.

‘And are you better now?’

I shake my head. ‘It’s not a poorly that gets better. Not ever.’

‘Are we still going on holiday?’

‘Yes. Of course. We’ll go upstairs to pack in a minute.’

‘Is Matthew coming? Are you going to pack for him too?’

‘No. He’s not coming. Not this time.’

‘Because he’s all growed-up now?’

I nod. Unable to form any words.

‘Why have you still got all his old things?’

‘Because I don’t like throwing perfectly good things away.’

‘Mummy puts our old things on eBay. She says there wouldn’t be room for us if we kept stuff.’

I raise my eyebrows but say nothing. I can’t bear the thought of it, to be honest. Selling your memories to strangers like that. Everything seems to have a price nowadays.

‘Is that why you haven’t got any other children?’ she asks. ‘Because there wasn’t room for them with all Matthew’s stuff?’

I look down at her. She is oblivious as to how her words scour my skin, revealing traces of the flesh underneath. Flesh that is still smarting from the years of trying for a child.

‘Sometimes, when you have a special child, a child so perfect in every way, you don’t need another one.’

She thinks for a moment. ‘Chloe must have been very naughty then because Mummy still had Otis and me.’

The name,
her
name, shatters the stillness around us. I see long dark hair and dark eyes beneath when she flicks the hair back off her face.

I stare at the child. ‘Your sister’s name is Chloe?’

‘Yes, she wasn’t named after a big black singing lady.
Mummy said she wasn’t named after anyone. She just liked the name.’

I should leave it there, I know that. But I feel the need to pick at the scab.

‘How old is she? Your big sister.’

‘Nineteen. She’s a big girl. She’s all growed-up like Matthew.’

My fingers tense. Inside my stomach tightens. It is ridiculous to even think it, of course. What would the odds be? Besides, it is not that unusual a name. Not really.

‘What’s her last name?’ I hear myself asking. ‘Does she have the same surname as you?’

The child shakes her head. ‘No, she has Mummy’s old name because she didn’t have a daddy.’

‘And what is it? Her name?’

‘Benson,’ she says. ‘Chloe Benson.’

I nod slowly and close my eyes. Something agitates inside me. As if someone has put their hand in, swished everything around and brought some debris to the surface. Things I don’t want to see or think about. Snapshot images. A strand of hair. A stab of anguish. I should have realised. It is obvious now. Obvious why Matthew picked the child.

Something rises from deep within me. Surges up, rushing through my veins. I think for a few moments that I can hold it in, keep a lid on it. But when I open my eyes I do not see the child any more; I see her sister standing in
the courtroom at the inquest. Standing knee-deep in a puddle of conceit. The girl who does not think she is to blame. I can see where she gets it from now, of course. She is her mother’s daughter. Both of them so damn sure that they haven’t done anything wrong.

I put my face closer to the child’s. The words, when they come, practically spit at her. ‘She is worse than naughty. She destroys lives. She doesn’t think about anyone apart from herself. It’s what comes from having a mother like yours.’

The child recoils in her chair, her eyes wide and staring. ‘I want to go home. I want my mummy.’

‘She’s not a good enough mummy to look after you. That’s why I’ve been asked to take care of you.’

‘Who asked you?’

I take a moment before replying.

‘Matthew asked me. He knew you were in danger.’

‘How did Matthew know?’

‘Matthew sees a lot of things that other people don’t.’

‘How did he see me?’

‘He saw you fall in the park.’

‘I didn’t see him. I didn’t see any big boys.’

‘Well he saw you.’

‘Was he playing hide-and-seek?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I suppose he was.’

I take her hand before she has a chance to protest and lead her upstairs to Matthew’s room. She wrinkles her nose as soon as she enters.

‘Did you have an accident? Is it because you’re poorly? Otis had an accident once when he was poorly and he’s a big boy.’

I start stripping the bed, yanking off the sheets and freeing the pillows from their cases. I will not have
her
contaminating my home. I will not allow it.

‘What are you doing, piano lady?’

‘Stripping the bed,’ I shout, ‘to get rid of the smell.’

‘Why does your wee smell?’

‘It’s not my smell I’m getting rid of,’ I say, lowering my face to hers. ‘It’s your sister’s.’ She stares at me, her eyes wide, her frown deepening. But all I see is her sister staring back at me. Dark, little button eyes. Turned-up nose. A mouth that spouts nothing but lies.

‘How did Chloe do a smell in Matthew’s bedroom?’

‘She came here,’ I say. ‘Came here uninvited. And she took Matthew away from me.’

She frowns again. ‘Chloe’s on holiday. She went with her friend. Her friend is called Robyn not Matthew. Robyn is a big girl she used to go to school with.’

So the tears were crocodile ones. Put on at the inquest to try to make people feel sorry for her. Her life clearly didn’t stop that day. She’s off gallivanting with her friend. That is how much she cared about Matthew.

‘She’s a bad girl, your sister. That is what comes of having a bad mother like yours.’

I push past her and hurry downstairs. I need to get the smell out of my nostrils. Get the images from my head.
Simply looking at the child now fills me with repulsion. I need to get away from here but going on holiday with the child is now clearly out of the question.

The sound of crying drifts down from upstairs. I brought her here but now I don’t know what to do with her. I wonder if I should call the police. Tell them about the mistake I made. But it comes to me then, the realisation of what they will think. That I did this on purpose. They will have me down as some kind of stalker. Think I planned all this out as a way of getting back at the family. Because it makes perfect sense, if you think about it. I have a motive, and revenge is a very powerful thing. They will think I tracked the mother down, followed her in the park, waited until her back was turned and then pounced. They wouldn’t believe me for a moment if I said I didn’t know who the child was when I took her. I mean you wouldn’t, would you? It all sounds like such a perfect plan. Such a carefully thought-out way to hurt the person whose own daughter hurt you so much. An eye for an eye. They will laugh at me if I try to tell them otherwise. Tell me my story borders on the absurd. And I can’t say I would blame them. Imagine what a jury would make of my defence that it was a coincidence. That I had never met the mother, had no idea who she was, when her husband, both daughters and son had all been in my house. It is almost as if the mother laid a trap. Lured me to the park. Behaved so badly knowing that I would not be able to stand by and
watch. Made me take the girl because she knew that once I had her, they had me. There would be no way I could give her back without landing myself in trouble. And so here we are. I am stuck with her child. I can either be a prisoner in my own home or give myself up and probably go to prison for the rest of my days. It is not much of a choice to make.

I sit down heavily at the foot of the stairs. Fool that I am, I have walked into this with my eyes open. Too ready to give of myself. To put the welfare of others first. This is why people walk on by nowadays. Because it is always the good people who end up on the wrong side of the law. The police won’t listen if I tell them about the child’s mother. They won’t be interested in her neglect. They haven’t got the intelligence necessary to work out what has happened here. They will simply want to close this case and get back to whatever it is they do on quiet days in Halifax. Play cards, probably. Or do they play games on their computers these days?

It comes to me suddenly, the only thing left to do. I will not give her back and I will not stay here waiting to be found. There is another way out. For both of us.

I hurry back upstairs and go to the wardrobe in the guest room, take out the clothes she was wearing on the day I found her and carry them through to Matthew’s room, where I lay them on the dry side of the bed.

She stops crying and her face looks up at me expectantly.

‘Are you taking me back to the park? Have the big boys gone now? Will Mummy be waiting for me?’

I do not reply, simply start dressing her, making sure she looks presentable. I don’t want people to think I didn’t look after her well. When she is ready I turn her to face the mirror.

‘I don’t look like Matthew any more,’ she says. And she is right. She doesn’t.

She follows me downstairs asking constant questions which I do not answer as I fill Melody’s bowl with biscuits and top up her water. I pick up my bag, take my keys from the pot on the occasional table in the hall and turn to the shoe rack, where her lime-green Crocs lurk ominously on the bottom rack.

‘You’d better put those on,’ I say, pointing. She sits down on the floor in one swift movement, in the way small children can, and a few seconds later is back on her feet again.

‘Right, let’s go,’ I say.

‘Where are we going? Are we going to the park?’

‘No.’

‘Are we going on holiday?’

‘No.’

I reach for the door handle, see my shaking, bony hand before me. I turn back and take Matthew’s waterproof from the peg.

‘Is it raining?’ she asks. ‘I haven’t got my wellies.
Grandma says Crocs are no good when it’s raining because of the holes.’

I slip her arms into the sleeves and pull the waterproof around her.

‘It’s too big,’ she says. ‘My arms are all flappy.’

It’s only until we get to the car.’

‘Have you got a car? I didn’t know you had a car. Why haven’t we been out in it? Why didn’t you drive me back home?’

I open the door.

‘It isn’t raining,’ she says.

‘I never said it was,’ I reply, pulling the hood up over her head. ‘But you still need to wear it.’

I take her hand and hurry towards the car. It is a red Nissan Micra. It is reliable. At least it was the last time I drove it. My fingers fumble with the key fob. I open the rear passenger door.

‘Where’s your car seat?’ she says. ‘I have a blue car seat in Mummy’s car and a red one in Daddy’s. And a booster seat for when I go to Grandma’s.’

‘I haven’t got a car seat.’

‘You’ll get into trouble. The policeman will get cross. And Mummy won’t let me go in a car without a proper seat.’

‘Just get into the car, please,’ I say.

‘Are you taking me home? Is Mummy well again?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘That’s not going to happen. Not now. We’re going somewhere else. Somewhere very beautiful.’

I pull the seat belt across her and clip it in. She is craning her neck, struggling to see out of the window.

I slam the passenger door and walk round to the driver’s side. When I get in she is still complaining about not being able to see out. I start the engine. Classic FM comes on the radio. I squint in the bright sunlight, pull down my visor and check my mirrors before flicking down the indicator. Malcolm always used to say I drove the way people do when they take their driving test. That is the thing with shoddiness though. Once you give in to it, it’s a downward spiral.

I pull away from the kerb, wondering if anyone saw us leave the house. If they recognised her or maybe thought how odd it was that a child should be wearing a waterproof jacket six sizes too big for them on such a sunny day. I am not very good at this. It would be laughable really if it wasn’t such a serious matter.

We drive past the park and down through King Cross, past Tesco. The child’s chatter is constant but I tune it out, relegating it to the status of white noise. Like the white noise which used to get Matthew to sleep when he was a baby. I put him in front of the washing machine in his baby bouncer when he was at that over-tired stage. He would be asleep long before the spin cycle.