The Stopped Heart (46 page)

Mary glances away at the darkening sky. The beginnings of a moon.

“I couldn't have had it anyway. Even if I had been pregnant. I couldn't have had it. You know that.”

He turns to her.

“What do you mean? Why couldn't you have had it?”

She shuts her eyes.

“Come on, Graham. Look at us.”

He takes a breath. He puts his hands to his face.

“You wouldn't have had it? You're saying you wouldn't have wanted to have our child?”

She looks at him. Tears standing in her eyes. Shaking her head.

“Would it have been our child?” he says then.

She keeps her eyes on him, trembling now.

“Who on earth else's would it be?”

I
CRIED HARD WHEN
I
WOKE FROM MY DREAM ABOUT
J
AMES
D
IX
because I knew then that my dreaming life was the one I wanted,
not my waking one, which had always been small and empty and drab.

And, lying there awake and alone in the bleached light of that early morning, I dared at last to remember what he'd said to me that day in the tool loft above the cowshed—the day he had told me that he was finished with me forever, that he could not have me anywhere near him, that it was for my own good, and all because something terrible had happened.

At first I hadn't understood. I had thought that he meant the thing that had happened with Phoebe Harkiss. I could not think of anything more terrible than what he had done to her and the way I had helped him hide it. But then he told me. He told me what the terrible thing was. Still holding the knife in one hand, he reached out with the other and he drew me close and he kept me there while he let me know exactly what it was.

It's you, he said. You're what's happened to me, Eliza. You've got inside me, under my skin, right here into the very center of my heart.

I searched his face, my eyes wide now, my heart lit up again and beginning to dare to hope.

Oh, James, I said.

No, he said. No, Eliza. You don't understand.

I gazed at him.

But I love you too. You know I do. My heart is the same. My heart is full with it, you cannot possibly ever know how much.

He put down the knife and he took hold of me with both hands. My wrists. Gripping them so hard they began to burn.

Yes, he said. But you don't get it, do you? It's a bad thing. It's terrible—

Terrible?

Look at how I am, Eliza. Look at what you did. Is this how a man should be? I am not good. I am all on edge. Look at me.

On edge? I said, hardly daring to breathe now. But, James, my dear, if you truly love me—

His face was cold now.

Love? What is love? Please pay attention, Eliza. Please try and listen to what I say. You are nothing but a child. You haven't even the slightest understanding, have you, of what you've done?

I stared at him.

What? What have I done? All I ever did was love you, James.

Stop it, he said. Stop talking about love. Don't you see I don't want your love? Your love isn't good. It's bad. It makes me do bad things—

He let go of me very harshly and he picked up the knife again. I watched him hold it and turn it, handling it as if it were a thing of great interest to him.

Bad things? I said.

Why do you think I killed her? Your love, Eliza. It has a kind of poison in it. It's not right.

Poison? My heart was thudding now. I had no idea what he was saying. If anyone had poisoned anyone, then it was him—he'd poisoned me. His love was the one that contained the poison.

I thought of the small alive thing that was growing so fast inside me that it felt frightening. Each day, more and more now, all sensations, all feelings, were turned inside out, the edges of me made of nothing—thinner than paper and more stinging than salt. I blinked away some tears.

Not right? I said, for I was becoming very confused. This is just me, James. The ordinary, young Eliza that you know and like. It's only me, for pity's sake. What is it you are so afraid of? What isn't right?

He shook his head and he put down the knife again, turning his whole body away from it as if he was somehow afraid of it. I
saw sweat on his face. It was the same look I'd seen on him so many times before. I watched as he wiped himself with his sleeve.

I'm not well, Eliza. I can't see straight anymore. I'm not at all well, and it's all your fault.

I stared at him.

My fault?

If I can't have you, then—well, I have no idea what I might do.

I took a breath, trying to keep myself steady, all my thoughts spinning and colliding. I did not understand a thing he was saying.

But you can have me, I said, keeping my voice as calm and quiet and careful as I could. Don't you believe me? Here I am, James, I am yours.

I said it and I meant it, but even as I spoke the words, my heart was plummeting because I knew that wasn't it.

No, he said. Don't you see, that can't happen? It's you. It's all your fault. I wish I'd never met you. I wish I'd never lain down under that tree and I wish I'd never listened to you and watched your pretty face and kissed you and—

What? I was wild now, shaking all over, I was beginning to think he was quite mad—What are you saying? I don't understand you, James. I've done nothing. What in God's name have I done?

I held my hands out to him but, as if he was afraid of what he might do, he was already backing away from me.

Don't come near me, he said. Don't come anywhere near me. I'm telling you, Eliza, this is over now. I've had a lucky run of it but my luck has run out. It is over now.

And he backed away and went toward the other tools. The sharp tools that were there to be used on the crops and on the
animals—the blades and the castrating knives, the sickles, the weedhooks, the spikes.

I stood and watched him and I felt hopelessness wash over me. I was drowning in it. I knew there was nothing I could do. I was gasping for air.

What are you doing? I said.

You know what I'm doing.

But I don't know anything.

That's right. You don't know anything. Let's keep it that way.

I took a step away.

I've done nothing but love you, I said again, my voice hardly more than a whisper now.

He looked at me as if he'd never seen me before, but also as if he could never see me well enough.

That's it, Eliza. That's exactly it. Listen to yourself. That's what you've done.

Is there nothing I can do to stop you? I cried.

But it was pointless to ask. I already knew the answer. The answer had been there all along.

T
HINGS THAT
M
ARY DID NOT SEE COMING: THE DAY WHEN, TAKING
the girls to nursery, going around to get Flo out of the car, she stepped into the road holding Ella's hand just seconds after a heavy truck had thundered by. Standing there in its ripe, diesel backdraft, a cold and sickening realization passing through her.

Or, the time with Flo as a baby, in their old kitchen with the flagstone floor. Handing her to a friend because the soup was about to boil over. Realizing in less than two seconds that the friend—a young man not used to babies—hadn't quite got her. Even though he reacted just in time, pulling her awkwardly into his lap and balancing her there.

Mary doesn't remember what she said, what she did. All she remembers is the fragile eggshell curve of that moment: Flo's small head, its skin so thin that a pale blue vein shone through her temple—and all that cold stone beneath her.

Did she snatch her baby back? She doesn't think so. She thinks she was polite, that she just got on with stirring the soup, her hand trembling. And the young man—it was clear that he had no idea what had just happened. “Hasn't she got the most amazing eyes?” he said.

Twelve or thirteen days into the trial, he—the defendant—finally broke down. He admitted taking the girls to the ditch. He even admitted pouring petrol on their bodies, to attempt to set light to them. But it was because he had panicked, he said. It had all been a terrible accident. He had never meant to kill them.

He said that he wished that he could turn the clock back. He really was very sorry now. It was pure chance, he said, that he happened to be passing the leisure center on that day—“I was on my way to see my mother. She's in a nursing home near there.” It had happened in a moment, their deaths, an instant. He did not remember anything—did not know how it had happened. All he knows is he had not intended it. Afterward he had been in a state of shock, of disbelief.

“What did you do?” his QC asked him. “After you had killed them and left them there half-burned in that ditch. What did you do?”

A pause. The court was very still. Mary found herself looking up, away, at the high, colorless walls of the courtroom. A long way above them, light—sunshine—poured in through a window.

“I went home and I think I had a shower, then I played on the PlayStation and I made myself a sandwich,” he said.

“A sandwich?”

“That's right.” He allowed himself a quick, careful glance at
his questioner. “I was hungry. I always eat like a horse when I'm stressed.”

A pause. The QC's face did not change.

“And is it true that you also put some sheets in the washing machine? That you washed some sheets?”

“I don't know,” the man said.

“Think about it. Did you wash some sheets?”

“I might have,” said the man—and yet again he wept.

I
N THE MORNING,
R
UBY COMES DOWN EARLIER THAN USUAL,
while Mary is still clearing away the breakfast things. She has on a plaid shirt that Mary's never seen before. Tracksuit bottoms. Dirty, thick socks slopping off her feet.

She opens the fridge and takes out a Diet Coke. Goes into the sitting room, shutting the door. After a moment or two, Mary hears the crackle of the TV coming to life. Loud voices. Music. The volume being ratcheted up.

She goes in and starts to open the curtains.

“Hey!” Ruby says.

“What?”

“I wanted those closed.”

Mary hesitates, trying to decide whether she has the energy for a fight. She twitches them back halfway across.

“We need a little bit of light in here,” she says.

“Why?”

“Because it's depressing otherwise.”

“But I can't see the TV.”

“You can. You can see it well enough.”

“I can't. I'm not joking,” Ruby adds in a milder voice. “It's my eyes. I really can't.”

Mary turns and looks at her.

“What's wrong with your eyes?”

Ruby blinks.

“I don't know. Just they always hurt in the mornings, that's all. I think I might have some kind of infection or something. I looked in the mirror just now and they were bright red.”

Mary looks at her.

“Have you been smoking?”

“Fuck's sake. Why would I be smoking?”

“Have you been smoking weed?”

Ruby shifts on the sofa.

“I don't really do that anymore, if you really want to know.”

“Why not?”

“What?”

“Why wouldn't you do it?”

Ruby gazes at the TV.

“What is this? Some kind of Spanish fucking Inquisition?”

Mary looks at her.

“Where's Lisa, anyway?” she says, only just realizing.

Ruby tilts the Diet Coke can to her mouth.

“Oh, she went.”

“What? Went where?”

“Dunno. Back to London, I suppose.”

Mary stares at her.

“Lisa's gone? But when? How did she get to the station?”

Ruby looks at her.

“How do I know? Maybe she got a ride or something.”

Mary comes and sits down on the sofa. She picks up the remote and pauses the TV.

“Ruby. Look at me.” Slowly, Ruby turns her head. “I need to know right now where Lisa is and if she's safe.”

“Why?”

“You bloody well know why.”

Ruby sighs.

“She's fine. Don't worry. It's nothing bad. I think she'd just had enough, that's all. She suddenly wanted to get back.”

“Suddenly? So—what? She just got up and walked out of the house without telling anyone. What time did she go?”

“How do I know? I was asleep.”

“Then how did you know she was going?”

“She told me she might. Last night. She said I could have her things. She gave me this.” Ruby plucks at the collar of the shirt.

Mary lets out a breath.

“But why?”

“Why what?”

“Why on earth would she give you her things?”

“What do you mean, why would she?”

“Well, why didn't she want them?”

Ruby looks at the paused TV and yawns.

“For God's sake. How am I meant to know?”

“You didn't ask her?”

“Not really.”

Mary hesitates.

“Seriously, Ruby, why didn't she tell us she wanted to go? Dad would have given her a lift to the station. Should I call him? Do you think we should go looking for her?”

Ruby sighs.

“For fuck's sake. Just calm it, will you? Stop overreacting to everything. She'll be fine. She's not a child.”

“She's sixteen years old.”

“That's not a child.”

Mary looks at Ruby.

“Can you phone her please? I want to know exactly where she is.”

“I can't do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because she left her phone.”

“She what? No one leaves their phone.”

“She did. She said I could have it. She said she didn't need it anymore. That phone is a piece of shit anyway. Someone's getting her a proper one.”

A
T FIRST, WHEN
M
ARY HEARS THE SHARP KNOCK ON THE
door, she jumps. Her first thought—entirely, almost frighteningly irrational—is that it's the odd girl in the brown clothes and the floppy hat, come back down the lane and standing there wanting to come in. But when she goes over and pulls it open, she sees that Deborah is standing there.