Mice (13 page)

A huge wave of depression crashed over me and swept me away. What a mess! What a disaster!
And it was all my fault.
I’d turned an unpleasant but commonplace domestic burglary into a disaster of monumental proportions, a calamity so shocking, so sensational it would be blazoned across the front pages in banner headlines.

In all likelihood I’d ruined my life and Mum’s life for good. We were never going to get away with what we’d done. No one gets away with murder, there’s always some clue, some loose end that they miss. The police always catch them sooner or later. We’d end up in prison, we’d both end up in prison. And all because I’d lost control. All because I’d refused to listen to Mum. She’d
told
me to stay calm, she’d
told
me not to panic. She’d
told
me that he wasn’t going to hurt us. What had come over me? Why hadn’t I listened? I’d ruined everything. I wanted to disappear, I wanted the ground to swallow me up.

Yet beneath all the guilt and self-recrimination there was something else, another emotion, stubborn and rebellious, refusing to bend to the dominant mood. It was as if in a piece of classical music, beneath the slow, sad weeping of violins and cellos, a tinny trumpet could just be made out, playing a different tune altogether – something defiant and brash, like a military march. What was it? What was this emotion – unfamiliar, rude, independent, causing trouble like a drunk at a wedding?

I looked at my bloodshot eyes, the bruises on my neck. He’d really tried to kill me – he’d really tried to choke the life out of me while I’d lain helpless on the kitchen floor. I remembered the determination and hatred on his face, how my air supply had ceased suddenly, absolutely, as if a valve had been shut off. And he would have done it, he would have wrung the life out of me and then gone into the lounge and done the same to Mum . . . but we’d turned the tables on him. The cat had got into the mouse hole, but this time the mice had killed the cat.

When I looked at myself in the mirror again, I was surprised to see my white teeth flashing. I was smiling broadly. And then I knew what that discordant emotion was:
it was exhilaration
.

 

My nightie was stuck to me where the blood had dried and I had to peel it off like a plaster. It felt so good to stand under the hot rain of the shower and let the hard drops hammer soothingly on my scalp. I watched the blood disappearing down the plughole in a slurping pink whirlpool with an odd satisfaction.

Was there some mysterious connection, I wondered, between women and blood? Hadn’t I been washing away blood since the age of twelve, washing it off my hands, washing it out of my clothes? That was something boys knew nothing about. Was blood somehow the special domain of women? Was this why so many women became nurses? I remembered the nurses at the hospital: those women who never fainted at the sight of blood, who never looked away, never winced, because blood held no fears for them, blood was an old friend.

I worked the soap up into a thick lather and plastered myself with it, enjoying the noisy smacking and squelching. I wanted to scrub every inch of my body clean, to make it immaculate, to step from the shower with a completely
new skin
. As I rinsed off the soap, I glimpsed in the mirror behind me the nasty welt where I’d fallen on the knife. Just above my buttocks, a raised black lump the size of a fist surrounded by an angry red inflammation.

I reached for the shampoo to wash my hair, but it wasn’t in its usual place and I remembered with a shudder that the burglar had taken it. I washed my hair with soap instead, softening it with some conditioner from a little green bottle that had stood on the bathroom shelf for so long its lid was covered in dust. When I’d rinsed out all the suds, I set about washing it all over again.

I dried myself thoroughly and put the towel in the bin bag where I’d already put my nightie, then wrapped myself in another towel and secured it under my arm. I put my favourite moisturizer on my face, working in the cold milk with circular movements of my fingertips, and I anointed my hands in Mum’s hand cream with the strong vanilla scent. I cleaned my teeth to get rid of the disgusting taste of blood that still lingered in my mouth, brushing and brushing until the minty toothpaste was burning so much I couldn’t keep it in my mouth a second longer.

When I’d finished, I rubbed away the steam and looked in the bathroom mirror again. The savage had disappeared, washed away in a torrent of cleansing hot water, and I was myself once more, my hair soft and limp, my face scrubbed so vigorously my cheeks glowed. Lady Macbeth’s words after Duncan’s murder drifted into my mind.

But she’d been proved hopelessly wrong; water had cleaned away the blood from her body, but it couldn’t remove the memory of what she’d done from her mind. Guilt over Duncan’s murder had eventually driven her insane . . .

What would it be like for Mum and me? Would we be able to wash away what we’d done with a little water? Or would our minds be affected too? Would we be able to return to a normal life with the burglar rotting away under a mere three feet of soil in our front garden? Would we be able to lie to the police when they came knocking at our front door? Can mice lie like that? Can mice gag their consciences and sleep peacefully when they’re surrounded by so many dark secrets?

And then a thought occurred to me. After what we’d done – killing the burglar, burying his body in the garden – maybe we weren’t mice any more.

But in that case –
what were we?

When I came out of the bathroom I saw Mum disappearing into the spare room, carrying two of the black bin bags. When she came out, I held up the one I’d put my nightie and towel in. ‘Do you want this one?’

‘Yes,’ she said, in barely more than a whisper. ‘I’ll put mine in there too.’ Her face was drained of colour, blanched, and she winced suddenly with pain, but before I could ask her if she was OK she’d slipped past me into the bathroom and locked the door.

While I was in my bedroom drying my hair I thought I heard her retching, but the noise had stopped when I clicked off the hair dryer to listen.

I got dressed in a pair of faded blue jeans and a white blouse, and tied a red scarf around my neck to hide the bruises. Even though it was going to be a warm day, I put on a thick pair of socks and my chunky-soled walking boots. When I stepped into the kitchen again, I wanted to have a good half-inch of vulcanized rubber between me and those tainted tiles.

Mum was still in the bathroom when I walked past, although I couldn’t hear the shower running. I was turning at the top of the stairs to go down when I caught sight of the black bin bags in the far corner of the spare room. Mum had piled them up around the mop and bucket like sandbags protecting an anti-aircraft gun.

I stopped. The sight of them excited me strangely. I didn’t have to reflect for long before I realized why.
In one of those bin bags was the burglar’s wallet.
And inside the wallet, I was sure, there’d be something which would have all his personal details on it. His name. His address. His date of birth . . .

I was seized by the sudden, overpowering urge to know what the burglar’s name had been. To know the name of the man I’d killed.

I listened at the bathroom door trying to hear what Mum was doing. I knew she’d go mad if she discovered me trawling through those blood-soaked objects just after I’d showered and put on clean clothes. I heard her tugging up the zip of her skirt. She was still getting dressed. She’d be some time yet, I thought, and I slipped silently into the spare room.

I was looking for the bag with the doormat and the broken crockery in it, the one she’d swept his mobile phone and wallet into. I knelt on the floor and started to run my hands over the bin bags one by one. It felt like a macabre parody of childhood Christmases, when I’d sit beneath the Christmas tree, squeezing and shaking my presents, trying to guess what they were. The bag stuffed with our dressing gowns was easy enough to identify, as was the bag with only our wellington boots inside. I thought I’d found the right one, but when I untied the neck it only contained the red sports bag (now emptied of its contraband), the marble chopping board, the wrapping paper from my laptop and the forlorn red bow.

Just then I heard Mum cough and fumble with the bathroom doorhandle and I jumped up and darted out of the spare room. On the landing, I called to her just in case she’d heard me.

‘Mum? Do you want anything to eat before you go?’

Even the thought of food made me feel nauseous. I felt as if my appetite had been destroyed for all time; it seemed impossible to imagine wanting to eat food ever again. I was sure Mum would be feeling exactly the same.

‘No, sweetheart,’ she answered weakly. ‘Just coffee, please – very strong coffee.’

 

Mum had worked hard while I’d been in the shower. All the smears and smudges of blood – on the cupboards, the pine table, the bread bin, the washing machine, the tiles around the sink – had disappeared. She’d taken down the blood-spattered kitchen curtains (no doubt upstairs in one of the black bin bags) and the kitchen was flooded with golden spring sunshine. The benchtops, the sink, the draining board gleamed in the bright light, and the kitchen floor – which she’d scrubbed and dried again – positively sparkled.

Mum had left the back door open to help the floor dry. Outside, I could see that she’d hosed down the patio – washing away our bloody boot prints and the glistening red slug trail the body had left as we’d dragged it over the paving stones. The open back door made me feel suddenly uncomfortable.
What if we hadn’t actually killed the burglar but only wounded him? What if he was dragging himself across the lawn towards the house right at that very moment?
I ran to the back door, and slammed it shut and pulled the bolt across, ashamed at myself for being at the mercy of such childish imaginings, but at the same time powerless to resist them.

Mum had worked a similar miracle in the dining room and lounge. The ragged pieces of rope had gone from the floor. The two chairs were back in their proper places. My flute was returned to its case,
Russian Folk Songs
slipped inside the stool and the piano lid closed. The contents of the sideboard and the antique writing desk had been carefully picked up and put tidily away in their drawers. The potpourri had been swept up and was back in its wooden bowl on the sideboard. Every fragment of the broken vase had disappeared and its identical twin – which had stood on the cabinet on the landing – now held the violet spray of dried flowers instead. All the ornaments had been put back in the exact spot they’d occupied when I’d gone up to bed at ten o’clock the night before. Miraculously, they’d survived their mistreatment at the hands of the intruder unscathed – save for the miniature thatched cottage, whose chimney, I saw on closer inspection, had been snapped off.

Mum had put all my birthday cards back on the sideboard and I noticed she’d added her card to them. It read, ‘On This Special Day’ and showed a close-up of a pink rose, its petals sprinkled with dewdrops. I looked inside and read the inscription:
To my beautiful, darling daughter Shelley. Sweet sixteen! May this year be one that you’ll remember for the rest of your life.

I smiled crookedly at the irony. My birthday wasn’t more than a few hours old, and I already knew that I would never (
What did you do
that
for?
) ever forget it.

I made a large pot of coffee, adding six spoonfuls instead of the usual four, thinking that we’d need all the help we could get if we were going to stay awake all day. I took the coffee and cups through into the dining room. I didn’t want to be in the kitchen. It wasn’t only that without the curtains the light was too bright for my sore eyes. It was as if in some strange way last night’s struggle was still going on in there, the stabbing, the struggling, the screaming, like a movie playing non-stop in an empty cinema . . .

It was just after eight when Mum came down, dressed in her navy blue suit and carrying her briefcase ready for work. I was amazed at how expertly she’d managed to disguise the injury to her face. She’d bathed her eye and radically reduced the swelling around it, then put on grey and purple eye shadow, cleverly camouflaging the real greys and purples of the bruising. She’d covered up the gouge on her cheek with heavy foundation, and brought her hair forward (she usually hooked it back behind her ears) to further disguise the swelling. Someone would have had to look at her pretty closely to guess that she’d been punched hard in the face.

‘Your eye looks amazing, Mum – how did you do that?’

‘I didn’t always hate make-up, Shelley. I was sixteen myself once, you know.’ She tried to wink at me, but her eyes watered with pain.

She sat down and took several noisy gulps of her coffee.

‘How’s your neck feeling now, sweetheart?’ she asked.

‘It’s still sore. It hurts when I swallow. I think something’s damaged – pushed out of place.’

Mum looked at me anxiously. ‘I’ll get you something in town today.’

‘I don’t think cough sweets will help,’ I said, trying to control the sudden irritation I felt. ‘I need to see a doctor.’

‘If it doesn’t get any better we’ll go the doctor’s, but it’s a risk, Shelley.’

‘I don’t know how I’m going to get through today, Mum,’ I whined. ‘I’m so tired! Can’t I just call Roger and Mrs Harris and tell them I’m ill?’

‘Absolutely not!’ she snapped with a fierceness that brought the heat to my cheeks. ‘We mustn’t change our routine in any way today – we’ve got to act
normally
. If the police come asking questions, the fact that you cancelled your classes or that I didn’t go in to work today is just the sort of thing that will arouse their suspicions.’

Then she smiled warmly at me and squeezed my hand, and I knew she was saying sorry for snapping. ‘I know it’s not going to be easy, Shelley, but you’ll do it, I know you will.’