Before I Let You In (31 page)

It was getting dark by the time she pulled in to her street, the blue lights of the police car lighting up the sky intermittently. This was it then. The water had filled her up and the banks had burst. She’d let them drown. She’d failed.

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My hands are covered in warm, sticky blood and all I can do is stare at them stupidly. I hadn’t even noticed that her head had been bleeding when I’d lifted it on to my lap, cradled it as her breathing changed from desperate, ragged spurts to light, strangled gasps. Had I known then that she was dying? The words didn’t enter my head fully formed and with total clarity, but yes, I believe I knew it had gone further than I had ever planned or expected.

I didn’t stay to see Eleanor die. I regret that now. I’d driven the train off the tracks and I was too cowardly to stand and watch the crash. I know that it will hurt her family to know she died alone and scared. But there are plenty of things in my life I regret – this is just the biggest. I’d lost control and I was ashamed – of everything it was my control that was the most important thing to me. I’d let her rile me with her callous words and her refusal to listen to the danger she was in – the true danger. And when she turned away from me, dismissing me as though I was no more than one of her children to be ignored or humoured in equal measure, I grabbed her arm. I pulled her towards me and on her face I saw fear. She pulled back at the same time that I pushed her away. I don’t think I hit her with anything. I’m certain she fell. I know I pushed her too hard, but she wouldn’t stop saying those awful things. It wasn’t my fault. Maybe now they’ll all see.

Part Three

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Tell me about when you were four.

You’ve asked about that before. I’ve told you, it’s not relevant.

I think it is, and so do you. Is it hard for you to talk about?

Of course it is. I’ve never spoken about what happened with anyone.

Try.

I was three when Mum brought her home from the hospital. Amy. She was tiny, smaller even than the doll Dad had got me to prepare me for her arrival into the family. I loved that doll. I took her everywhere with me, I changed her nappy and fed her from my sippy cup. She was my best friend. And when Amy came home, I knew we would be best friends too.

Were you jealous of her?

Never. At least not that I can remember. She was so little, she needed our help with everything. She took up so much of Mum’s time, and Mum was always exhausted, but I don’t ever remember blaming Amy. If anything, I blamed Mum. I didn’t understand how she could be so snappy and miserable when we had this wonderful little thing to take care of. When Amy cried, I would give her my teddy to make her happy, and she would look at me with those huge blue eyes, eyes too big for her little face, and sometimes I would pretend that I was her mummy and that our mum didn’t even exist. Even at three I knew I wanted to take care of this baby for the rest of her life.

Go on.

My mum got worse. I didn’t know what zombies were then, but that’s how I remember her now – like the walking dead. She would spend whole days when she never talked to either of us. Of course she kept us fed and watered, we were always clean and well dressed, but I didn’t feel like I was even there. Sometimes I would pretend I was a ghost, and then it would be fun that she didn’t talk to me because it meant my disguise was working. Some days the only interaction Amy got was from me until Dad came home.

Did your dad do anything about it?

That was the thing, when Dad got home it was like having a different Mum. She would sing while she cooked our favourite things for tea and she would play with us and read us stories before bed.

That must have been confusing for you.

I’m not sure it was. I mean, of course now I know it was, but at the time I got used to living like that. I used to call her ‘real Mum’ and ‘day Mum’.

How long was it like that for?

My whole life after Amy was born. But it didn’t seem to matter. I had her to take care of, and to give all my love to, and she loved me back. Whenever I walked into the room she would beam and put out her arms for me to lift her up, and at four years old I would carry her round like she was a doll.

What happened when Amy was eleven months old?

When she was born, I would sing to her as softly as I could and let her hold my hair while she fell asleep. I would put her dummy back in when she cried and I let her have my favourite bear – it was the same size as she was. When she was six months I taught her to crawl. I would put toys in front of her, just out of her reach, and demonstrate crawling across the floor to them. When she was eight months I would—

Do you blame yourself for what happened to your sister?

Of course I do. It was my fault. I wasn’t taking good enough care of her. I know what you’re going to say, but it doesn’t make any difference how old I was. I should have been watching.

Tell me what happened, Karen.

My mummy is in her bedroom and I think she’s been crying again. I’ve been as good as I really could be. I fed Amy her tea and played with her while Mum rested her eyes for a bit, and I haven’t asked for anything today – Mummy hates it when I go on. Amy has been a bit loud, and even though I tried to shush her and sang to her loads she wouldn’t stop shouting and laughing at her pink singy bear.

I put my nose to Amy’s padded bottom and sniff. It smells sweet and ripe and I start panicking. I’m going to have to go and disturb Mummy – there’s a big orangey-brown stain on the babygro that Amy’s been wearing all day and she won’t hold still long enough for me to take it off. I wrestle with her a few minutes and manage to open a few of the poppers, but then she’s gone, crawling across the floor towards the closed gate at the top of the stairs.

‘Mummy?’ I whisper, pushing open her bedroom door and hearing the slow creak. ‘Mum?’

She’s lying on the bed – not in it – and her eyes are closed but I can’t tell if she’s asleep or not. She must be, though, because she doesn’t answer me when I call her. Her medicines are on the bedside table and I cross the room to put the lids on – if Amy sees them she’ll think they’re sweets, like I used to before Daddy explained they were grown-up medicines to help Mummy be happy. I understand that; my sweets make me happy so it makes sense to me that grown-up sweets can make Mummy happy too. It’s just that they don’t seem to work any more.

‘Mummy? Amy’s pooed. It smells yucky.’

Her eyes open slowly and for a minute she looks like she doesn’t know who I am. I wait for her to properly see me, and for a second I think she’s going to smile, but she doesn’t. Instead she says, ‘What’s the matter now?’

‘It’s Amy,’ I say in my bestest indoor voice. I’m good at remembering the things that make her head hurt and how not to do them. ‘She’s done a stinky poo and her nappy is leaking.’

She sighs, but only a little one, and she doesn’t shout or sound angry. She looks like all her parts are heavy as she gets off the bed and follows me to where Amy is still crawling around the landing, the stain on her babygro spreading down her leg now.

‘Oh Jesus!’ She’s always talking to God and Jesus, as if everything that goes wrong in our house is their fault. I’ve never met Jesus, but Mummy doesn’t seem to like him a lot – even though she’s always asking him for things.

‘Sorry, Mummy, I tried to help,’ I say. She doesn’t answer me or even look at me, but at least she doesn’t shout.

‘Oh God.’ She has taken off Amy’s babygro and the poo is everywhere. It stinks. One side of her nappy has come undone and her leg is covered in thick brown gloop. Mum puts her back down on the floor and pushes open the bathroom door, turns on the shower.

‘Can I have a bath too?’ I ask. I love the bath. We get to play and splash around and Amy always hugs on to me like I’m the mummy. ‘Please?’

‘When I’ve got this mess off her,’ Mum promises, and she even smiles a bit at me remembering my manners. She strips Amy down and plonks her under the shower, the poo running off her into the plughole. Amy starts to scream straight away and puts out her arms to me. I put my hand under the water.

‘It’s a bit chilly.’

Mum doesn’t look happy at my helping; she pulls her annoyed face and moves the hotter colder switch.

‘Can I get in now?’ All the poo has gone down the plughole and I’m desperate to get in to play with my sister. Mum sighs – I’m going on again – but she nods and I pull off my clothes, excited, and struggle to swing my leg over the side of the bath. I want to show her how much of a big girl I am getting in by myself, but she doesn’t even notice. She picks me up and plonks me in the bath next to Amy. I put the plug in just like I always do and sit under the shower as the water fills up the sides.

‘Watch her a second for me,’ Mum says, and gives me a frowny look. ‘Have you got her?’

I nod. Amy is sitting between my legs and I wrap my arms around her chest as Mum disappears from sight.

‘Here we go, Amy.’ I show her the little blue boat with the squirrel captain and she laughs when I duck it under the water and it bobs back up to the top.

The water on my head feels lovely and warm – I’m so grown up now that I don’t even mind any more when a little bit gets on my face. Amy puts her hands out to the taps and grabs hold of one, tries to pull herself up. She’s such a naughty little monkey – I always call her that – and she loves to stand up even though she can’t walk yet. I’m trying to teach her but she always falls back on her bum after a few seconds. I laugh and pull her back down. ‘Oh no you don’t,’ I say to her like I’ve heard Daddy say. She laughs louder, like we’re playing a game, and tries to crawl forward. The water isn’t very high, and it’s okay, it’s not up to her face when she crawls yet.

I get a little shock when the water falling on my head goes cold. ‘Mum!’ I shout. ‘It’s gone chilly!’

Mum doesn’t come and the water is freezing now. It’s filling the bath and soon we’ll be sat in a whole puddle of it. It’s okay, though, I know how to turn it off, I can stop it freezing us before Mum comes to put it warm again. I’m so grown up now, I think as I stand up to turn off the shower knob. I’m even going to school soon and my teachers will be really pleased with how grown up I am. But I turn the knob the wrong way first time, silly billy me, and the water goes faster and faster. Quickly I turn it the other way, but my hands are wet now and the tap is wet and my fingers are just slipping round and round on the cold silver. ‘Mum?’

Phew, it’s okay, the shower knob turns and the water goes off. ‘Thank goodness,’ I say to Amy with a grin. I’ve heard Daddy say that too and I like the way it sounds. Goodness. Oh goodness.

I turn around to smile at my sister and laugh to see her messing around under the water.

‘Oh Amy! You silly monkey.’ I pull her back up to sit in between my legs, just like Mummy said, but she feels heavier now, and her eyes are closed. I didn’t even know she was tired. ‘Amy, wake up, baba.’

She’s not waking up. And I know then that there’s something very, very wrong. I can feel myself starting to panic, the way I felt when I knocked my drink off the table and Mummy yelled and said why did I have to be so difficult? I give Amy a little shake – not too hard – but she is still sleeping.

‘Mum!’ I’m screaming really loud now, even though I’ve been told not to shout, not to give Mummy a headache, but I can’t help it and I can’t stop myself crying. ‘Mummy!’

Mum takes a long ages, but then she pushes open the door and suddenly she’s screaming and crying and pulling Amy away from me, out of the water. This is bad, this is really bad, and I’m crying lots now, but Mummy doesn’t even tell me to shut up or stop whingeing and I wish she would just yell at me or send me to bed and I wish Amy would cry or be a nightmare just like the other days. Then Mummy is on her phone and she tells me to get out of the way – only she uses one of those naughty words that Daddy doesn’t like and is always telling me not to use – and I run away into my bedroom and climb into the bottom of my wardrobe where I sit, naked and cold and being a cry-baby until my daddy comes to find me and take me to Nanny’s house for a little holiday. And Mummy and Amy aren’t there any more and Amy never comes back again and I know it’s my fault.

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Bea

Bea entered the bar area and scanned the room for Adam. She eventually found him huddled into the corner of one of the pub’s private booths, staring at the table, his face a mottled grey.

‘Oh Adam.’ She slid into the booth and wrapped her arms around her best friend’s husband, who sat rigidly while she squeezed him tightly.

‘I shouldn’t be here,’ he muttered. ‘I should be with the boys.’

‘Are they with your mum? How are they doing? If you need anything …’ She trailed off, knowing how empty the platitude sounded.
If there’s anything I can do … if you need any help
… She couldn’t be a mum or a wife, and that was what they needed – the only thing they needed.

‘They’re doing awful. Toby hasn’t spoken since I picked him up from school that day, and Noah hasn’t stopped screaming. We’re staying at Mum’s because I can’t bear to go back to the house, but we can’t stay there forever. What are we going to do, Bea? What will we do without her?’

For the third time that day, hot, angry tears sprang to Bea’s eyes, only this time she didn’t sniff and wipe them away, just let them fall. She’d barely stopped crying herself in the two days since the call had come from Eleanor’s mother, who had been barely coherent as she’d broken the news. Bea had tried to call Karen the minute she put down the phone, but there had been no answer; she’d taken a taxi to her house and there had been only darkness. Karen hadn’t been to work and they would tell her nothing – or they knew nothing. Bea was hurt, confused and angry; it felt as though she’d lost two friends in the space of a week. She had no answer to Adam’s question. She didn’t know how they were going to cope; she didn’t know if any of them would be okay ever again.