The Stopped Heart (28 page)

She did not expect to be able to sleep—did not think she would ever in her whole life sleep again—but she did. She slept. Curled in a coma of her own making, rigid, defended, on her side of the bed, the safe side. It was a sleep without dreams or hope, without any sense of refreshment or of life waiting for her. Even now, if she lets herself think about it, she can precisely recall the taste of that sleep: its black deadness, its grip and flavor. Back then, of course, she would rather have died than slept. Death is what she would have chosen. But she could not leave Graham to cope on his own, so she made do instead with that hard, black, dirty sleep.

While she was sleeping, they came to get things. Anything would do, they said. Hairbrush, baby teeth, bedsheets. For the DNA. And it was very good that she was sleeping, because just the thought of these things would have been enough to break her down all over again. She was very glad Graham did not give them the baby teeth—tiny, jagged, bone-colored fragments she kept in a dark velvet compartment of her mother's old jewelry box. Instead, he gave them Ella's Mr. Men toothbrush and one of Flo's unwashed raggies.

But Mary did not know any of this till later. She slept through all of it. Waking only to eat and drink and go to the toilet and listen to phone messages, before groping her way back down into the numbing stupefaction of that sleep.

And when at last she had to be woken, it was only because the officer came. Even now she does not know why it was a police officer and not one of the family liaison officers who they'd come to like, trust and dread all at the same time. But it wasn't one of them. It was someone they'd not seen before.

Her name was Claire. She had short blond hair and small gold studs in her ears and there was a knitted thing in the shape of a teddy bear on the keys that hung with the handcuffs at her
waist. Claire said no to a cup of tea. She stood there in their kitchen and the look on her face was enough.

“We have a significant update for you,” she said. “Where do you want to be told and who do you want present?”

S
HE WAKES IN THE NIGHT AND SHE
'
S COLD, SO COLD
. S
HE GETS
out of bed and goes over to the drawer and, shaking all over, she pulls out a sweater, leggings, socks, anything she can find. She puts them all on. Then she picks up a hot-water bottle and, still trembling with cold, she creeps downstairs to the kitchen, puts the kettle on.

A spider is crouched on the counter. Huge, dark, motionless, waiting for something or someone. She brushes it off and it glides across the floor, through the muck and dirt. Dirt? As the kettle chugs to a boil, she bends to look more closely. She's never seen the floor so filthy, so covered in dust and muck. And whose are the black boots? The apron with blue flowers flung over the chair. Why is there a sheet of newspaper pinned to the wall? Where have all the feathers come from?

Straightening up, confused, and lifting her eyes, she sees that the half loaf of bread left out on the counter is furred with mold, a forest of blue-green hair. Worse than that, her fingers, held out in front of her, are suddenly dark and soft at the tips, her flesh blackening, dying. She gasps—

Sitting up in bed. Graham has the light on and is staring at his phone.

“It's Ruby.”

“What?”

“Veronica says she's taken something.” He jumps out of bed. “She's in King's. I've got to go. I'm going.”

Still struggling to wake, Mary starts to get up, but he stops her.

“There's no point in you coming. I mean it. Go back to sleep.”

Mary stares at him.

“What's she taken?”

“I don't know. Some pills.”

“What, on purpose?”

“I don't know.”

“I should come.”

He touches her head.

“There's no point. Nothing you can do. Stay with the dog. I'll call you as soon as I get there.”

T
HE SPADE HE HAD WAS DARK AND STICKY WITH SOMETHING.
I
T
was the one he had used to do it. She was watching us and moaning now. Her face was terrible. And her leg without the boot was twitching as though it was not attached to her but had a life of its own.

James was frowning, his face like a child's face, the lower lip pushed out.

It was her screaming, he said. I told her to stop but she would not. She went on and on, squealing like a ferret in a trap, I could not shut her up. You know what she's like.

I stared at him. I wanted to say that I wasn't sure that I knew what Phoebe Harkiss was like. I took a step away from him, felt the rough wood of the apple shed at my back. I watched as he lifted the spade.

No, I cried out as softly as I could, for fear someone should hear me. No, no! Stop it, James!

He paused, his eyes sliding over to me.

She's a nasty piece of work, Eliza, he said, still gripping the spade in his two hands. She would not stop. Don't you see? It was going to rouse the whole neighborhood. Also—he let the spade fall again and shut his eyes for a second—I'll admit I was very angry with her. For the things she'd told you. For the damage
she'd done already and the further damage I can promise you she intended to do.

I held my breath. I could not think. Thoughts were skittering around in every direction. Our whole lives and all the good things we'd had and said and done, pouring down into a place of darkness, an abyss.

I don't understand, I told him.

Yes, you do.

I don't.

He raised a finger.

Don't say that, Eliza. You do understand. You know very well that you wanted this.

Wanted it? I cried at him in horror. I don't know what you're talking about—who on earth could ever want this?

He looked at me and shook his head.

Easy to say that now, Eliza. But I've lost count of the number of times you've brought up the subject of Phoebe Harkiss with me and not in a good way.

I stared at him, my heart thudding so hard a taste of sick came up in my throat. When I tried to speak, it came out in a whisper.

You think I wanted you to hurt her? Is that what you're saying, James? That you thought I wanted you to hurt Phoebe Harkiss?

He sighed and let his hands drop down by his sides.

I don't know what you want, Eliza. Honest to God, I never do. But what I know for sure is that now we're in this together and you need to help me deal with it.

I took a step back away from him.

Why?

What do you mean, why?

Why would I help you with this?

Why? Because we love each other of course and because you're my girl and like I said before, we're in this together.

I was about to tell him that this was untrue, that seeing Phoebe Harkiss on the ground like this had banished all thoughts and feelings of love from my mind and that I wasn't at all sure any more that I wanted to be his girl. But then, as he grasped the spade in both his hands, I saw something in his eyes that I had not seen before.

He came very close to me. His face in my face. I saw that he was sweating so much that it was running from his hair and down his temples and dripping onto his shirt. His clothes were wet. The snake on his neck glistened wet. When he spoke, the slow and deliberate softness of it turned my insides cold.

All right, he said. All right, you win. You just walk away. Walk away now, Eliza, and leave me to it. Go on. Just do it.

I said nothing. I stayed very still. He bent his head closer to mine.

Do it, he said.

I waited a moment. My chest was tight. I could not speak. He licked his lips.

Why aren't you walking?

I said nothing.

I'm waiting.

Another quick silence.

I'm waiting, Eliza. Why aren't you walking? You're free to go—look at me, am I stopping you?

I snatched a breath, my blood jumping. He watched me for a moment and then he laughed.

Or do you want to stay and help me? Is that it? Would you like that? Would it give you pleasure to help me? I mean it, Eliza. I want an answer. Are we in this together or are we not?

I bowed my head. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a small, dreadful movement from the ground where Phoebe was. I realized I was shaking all over.

Well, Eliza? he said. Give me a sign that you understand me.
A nod will do. Give me a nod, Eliza. Because I swear that I won't proceed any further without a sign from you.

I could hardly breathe. My fingers were icy but my body felt as if it was on fire. I thought I was going to faint, but at last I must have nodded, because he stepped away, satisfied.

I let my eyes go back to Phoebe. One terrible thought chasing another in my head now.

Why is she burned? I whispered.

James stood the spade down in the earth and leaned on it a moment. He lifted one hand and rubbed at his hair.

Well, I thought if I could only get her in the apple shed, I could set it off. Chuck something in that would make it burn. An accident. That's what they'd think.

Oh God, I said.

But she wouldn't burn. Like a witch, she resisted the flame and it just smoked and sputtered away like some old biddy's pipe.

He laughed. And as he laughed, Phoebe moaned. I saw that more blood was coming out of her eyes. I felt some more sick come up in my mouth but swallowed it back.

James stepped forward and lifted the spade. I couldn't help it, I cried out for him to stop.

But he paid no attention. He whacked her so hard that all you could hear was a dull crunching sound. She gave a small whine, almost a shout—

He looked at me.

There, he said. You watched me do it, Eliza. We're finishing her off. We're in this together now.

And I turned away as he lifted the spade once more with two hands and brought it down straight like a blade.

M
ARY STANDS IN THE KITCHEN, ONE HAND ON THE OLD PINE
table, holding herself still and watching the space between the
chair and the dresser. Air, white-painted wall, skirting board. She can't take her eyes off it, that space. The dog gets up out of her basket and walks toward the same place and, head on one side, stares and begins to growl.

Mary can't help it, she takes a step backward, away. She looks at the dog.

“What?” she whispers. “What is it?”

The dog, listening, tilts her head the other way and looks at her.

“What is it?” Mary says again. “Is something there?”

The dog gazes at her and looks again at the space. Then at last, as if something has changed, she relaxes and goes over to her water bowl and starts drinking. The sound of her lapping filling the room.

Mary glances around her. There's a bottle of PLJ lime juice on the counter. Without warning, the yellow plastic lid pops off and hits the floor, rolling across the flagstones. Mary jumps so hard she almost cries out. Immediately the dog runs over to the door and whines.

The phone rings. Graham. He tells her that Ruby's all right. She's fine.

“They didn't even have to pump her stomach,” he says. “They tried to make her vomit but it didn't work. They gave her charcoal. They want to monitor her for a bit longer, but they're sure she's going to be fine. Medically anyway.”

Mary listens, still staring at the PLJ bottle. She asks him what Ruby took. He gives a short laugh, but she thinks she hears a catch in his voice.

“Would you believe, she took about two weeks' worth of her mother's antidepressants. Sertraline, I think it's called.”

Mary thinks about this. Veronica on antidepressants? He'd
never mentioned that. She bends to pick up the yellow lid off the floor.

“My God,” she says.

“I know.”

“But why on earth—do you know why?”

She hears him sigh.

“Well, that's the million-dollar question, isn't it? We'll give her a couple of days, wait till she's feeling a bit better. But then she's certainly got some explaining to do.”

“But what?” Mary gazes at the small piece of plastic in her hand. “You're saying you think she meant to hurt herself?”

Graham hesitates.

“God knows what she meant. A cry for attention, Veronica says. But I would say that girl has plenty of attention, wouldn't you? I mean, honestly, so much of the bloody time.”

Mary tries to think about this—about whether Ruby has their attention. She puts the lid back on the bottle.

“How's Veronica?” she says.

She hears Graham take a breath.

“Upset. Furious. Relieved. Shaken. She's all right,” he adds, and Mary thinks she hears gratitude in his voice, that she bothered to ask.

He tells her that he's going to stay over in London till tomorrow at least. That Ruby is seeing a psych person. That he's going to make sure Veronica eats something. That he'll call Mary later to give her an update.

“I just feel she needs me at the moment,” he tells her, and Mary isn't sure whether he means Ruby or Veronica. She tells him that's fine. Of course it's fine. She understands.

“I love you,” he says before he says good-bye.

“Me too,” she says. “I love you too.”

She turns the phone to silent and lays it carefully on the table and sits down. And suddenly there it is—a smell she remembers from childhood. Hot, feverish skin and hair, poorly breath, the bright metallic tang of long-ago sickness.

She looks around her.

Everything is in its proper place. Chairs, bench, stove, sink. The big casserole dish washed and turned over to drain. The flowers she picked that morning and put in an old jam jar. The picture Eddie gave her propped on the dresser next to a pile of bills. She can't see anything wrong anywhere.

Then her eyes go to the calendar on the wall by the fridge. A present from her mother. Bright yellow spring flowers, celandines or something, a Swiss mountain in summer. All the squares blank and white, their empty life. As she watches, the page moves, unmistakable, blowing upward, as if a breeze had lifted it.