The Cornflake House (16 page)

‘We don't take kindly to Mother Killers here,' they said as they kicked the shit out of me. Numb with shock as I was, I didn't respond. Later I almost laughed. It was ridiculous, the thought of me taking the life of my mum, destroying the thing I lived for. Yet it seems likely that I shall be tried for exactly that.

Nine

I walked with caution, aware of movement over my shoulder, expecting the sudden onslaught of fresh violence but I was still eager, if not exactly light of foot, when heading down the corridor to see you.

Thanks for your discretion, Matthew, and for the good advice; deep breathing, yes, I'll try that, and thinking positively, well, again I'll make the effort. Although it won't be easy, when the only certainty is that the rest of the world is lined up against me. I'd never have thought that the day would come when I was afraid of almost everybody.

Sorrow and nervousness are eating my insides. Causing weight loss; there, a positive thought. I must have mislaid several pounds with all the worry. I used to eat in times of crisis, as if buns and biscuits would cure a broken heart or get me through exams. It was a whale who sat my GCEs for me. Come to think of it, I used to eat in times of calm too. Meals in The Cornflake House were random affairs, it was a case of grab it while it was there or go without. Mum was an unwilling cook, not a regular meal-giver, not one who prepared food when it was needed. She cooked when she saw us pigging too many snacks. She could mix a cake as light as air or blend herbs and spices to make mouthwatering stews when the mood took her, but the mood didn't take her nearly often enough. We kids developed arm actions to accompany meals and some of these, embarrassingly enough, linger on. If you and I ever settle down to enjoy a quiet dinner in a smart restaurant, please feel free to place your hand on mine when I seem to be diving across the table to grasp the last remaining bread roll. No, I'll be fine really, either my glands have altered, or prison food has worked a transformation on my psyche. Somehow I'm not tempted to eat myself stupid anymore. An entrepreneur could make a fortune by prescribing instant mashed potato and lumpy gravy as a cure for obesity.

Since I'm hated for having cut myself off from company, perhaps I should write to other people, not confine my letter writing to you. I have been getting post, as it happens. I suspect Valerie of circulating my address, possibly even of writing to my family for character references, then adding a postscript to say she thinks I might appreciate letters or cards. I had a postcard from Fabian. Sea, sand, outrageously blue sky, made me long for freedom. I miss the weather. Of course I go outside but I'm unaware of the skies, in general. I'm excused exercise, my back hasn't recovered well, sudden movements bring spasms of pain to my spine. Flitting from block to block is about my limit now so I'm not out there long enough to notice what kind of day it is. And I haven't seen a night sky for months. No doubt the stars shine on, the moon glides through her phases, but all unseen by me. Whereas Fabian probably sleeps under a clear star-studded sky most nights. He didn't say much, always a master of the understatement, Fabe, but it's good to know he cares and that he lays no blame at my feet.

Then there was a letter from Perdita, written on a computer. It was her first communication with me since Mum died, so of course there was a lot about how sad she is, sincerely heart-rending stuff which made me sorry not to have seen her in person. On the other hand, she's also furious with me, not, as far as I can make out, for committing a crime, but for having been sent to a dump like this, thus bringing shame upon her head. I shan't reply to that one and I won't write back to Fabian because I can think of nothing suitable to say until I have definite news about my fate. The third piece of post is unopened. I know who it's from, the post mark and the smell of violets do rather give the game away. Taff. What's that old bat got to say to me? Must be something she thinks is important, I've never known her write to anyone before. I wasn't aware that she
could
write. Maybe she dictated it to some adoring old man. I can't bring myself to open the envelope. I'm afraid of all the memories and accusations buried in there, gasping for an airing.

Why should I suffer from guilt? Have you met this consequence before? Where the imprisoned grow accustomed to believing they're in the wrong? Between you, me and whoever has the job of reading these letters, I might be going a little mad. Stress, I suppose. My case is due in court any day. Scared? Yes, shitless.

I wonder who'll write to me next. Maybe I'll receive one of those hippy prayers from Zulema. She lives in a commune, with a group of weirdos who have dedicated their lives to the moon and the sun. It seems they are fine and dandy as long as there's light in the sky. On moonless winter nights, after sunless days, depression rules, suicides are almost commonplace. It's not a strict sect, they're allowed out, to shop, to pay visits, but mostly they choose not to leave their circle of huts, situated just off a motorway in Gloucestershire. Zulema is especially reluctant to make journeys. She joined them because she was attacked by two men one night; one moonless night, of course. To those of us who saw Zulema when the thugs had finished with her, and shared in her horror, the move to the sect made perfect sense. Where else might she have gone? She was too shaken, rendered too insecure, to sit in The Cornflake House garden unless there was another member of the family with her. So yes, we were full of understanding when she packed a bag and left for her hut. Not that understanding helped to ease the pain of losing her.

She's a dark, mysterious creature, her movements always graceful, her voice low and calming. Zulema has skin the colour of milky coffee and hair that hangs down to her waist. Once she stopped biting her nails, there was nothing jagged about her. She flows and floats through life.

Apart from Mum, I miss Zulema the most. I was closer to her than any of the others. As children we stood up for each other, invented games together, shared our toys. Like me, she inherited the ability to see what was coming, to predict and occasionally to change events. But she was nervous of using her magic; when she did put it to use it was only ever to improve a person's lot. No amount of coaxing could persuade her to do wrong. For example, she never joined in our taunting of Taff.

I once wasted a whole summer's afternoon begging Zulema to help me create a tidal wave in a pond. It was only a small pond, on the edge of the golf course opposite Fisher's Close, so I wasn't prompting a major environmental disaster. Two particularly obnoxious boys were rowing around this little haven, terrorizing shoals of fish and families of ducks. We could have upset their boat and dumped them head first in the water if we'd put both our minds to it. While I tried and failed to stir the waters by myself, Zulema stood at the pond's edge, her attention divided equally between willing me to stop devising horrid punishments for the boys and willing the lads to turn from their evil ways and become keen naturalists. All this wishing she managed without speaking a word, the only sign of life was her eyes moving sadly from one miscreant to the other.

She always was a little strange. The interest in the moon didn't start with the sect. When she read about them in one of Mum's occultish magazines, Zulema grew excited and said that she'd found her soulmates. Even as a tiny child Zulema's moods shifted with the moon's phases, and naturally as she grew up her menstrual cycle waxed and waned with the moon. I've often wondered if my sister is the only one who is truly in tune, or if the rest of the hut-dwellers are also sincerely motivated by that silver satellite. I'll tell you a secret. When the moon was full Zulema used to sleep on the landing. It was the only place in The Cornflake House where the glow could bathe her. There are people who can't sit out of the sun, if the sun shines, who get tetchy in the shade or indoors on bright days, Zulema is like that about moonshine. When she left, she gave me one of her pendants, a crescent opal, to remember her by. I never wore it, instead Mum and I hung it in the kitchen window where it winked at us and gleamed whitely. I can see it now, not hanging, spinning on its thread, but severed as it was on the night my mother died.

It was a great sacrifice I made, on my mother's behalf. I deserve praise, for being strong willed and obedient, rather than punishment.

I say that Zulema would only use her magic to improve a situation, but I suppose Mum was equally restrained. There was one time, in a queue for fruit and veg, when a fellow shopper pushed in front of me and Mum, then trod on Mum's foot. I knew by the scowl on my mother's brow that this shopper was about to suffer. When the woman's bag was full, it burst open, spilling greens and apples on the shop floor. As she bent, cursing, to pick these up, the food came alive in her hands. Cabbages and fruit which had been green and healthy seconds before were suddenly covered in maggots and flies. The insects clambered over the woman's hands and up her arms as if bug heaven lay above, in her armpits.

Retribution can be sweet. I've been tempted to name the women who attacked me, or the ring-leader at least. I know her; she's the one who tried to ‘tax' me by taking my Saturday biscuits. I'm too afraid of repercussions to give in to the temptation, a fear she banks on when putting in the boot, no doubt. Nobody names names here. I must have made a bitter enemy when I clung to my little packet of Rich Teas. Funny to think of her stewing in her cell, plotting how to get back at me. How pleased she must have been when she heard about the new charge, it made it easy for her to drum up support you see. Almost everybody hates a ‘mother killer'. It's a pity my magic has ceased to work. Before it left me so abruptly, I could have made her itch all over or given her a nasty dose of the runs. She ought to suffer somehow, though, don't you think, for having irrevocably damaged my confidence? It's impossible for me to conceive of standing in a court, never mind speaking up for myself. Come to that, I'm not sure if I can speak, my mouth's in such a state. Did I talk to you? I don't recall uttering a single word since I was beaten. Oh yes, I spoke to Merry; it must have been the first time we actually sounded as if we were related. I shall try another word now; two syllables, no prizes for guessing what they are.

Well, a sound of sorts, a poor thing. The ‘M' is difficult, let's hope I'm not obliged to say ‘Me Lord' frequently. Court; the idea fills me with dread, sending my mind on a crash course of history, cases and outcomes through the ages. On the toilet floor I discovered that some think beheading is too soft a punishment for the likes of me. Valerie smiles at our meetings but I see she has little faith in my case. As this rolling stone speeds downhill, I'm beginning to think my mother asked too much of me, not looking, for once, into the future at all. I wrote down the events of the last days of Mum's life. It's the truth, in black biro on white paper, but who knows if anyone will believe it? I would show it to you but I've already given it to Valerie. She wasn't overjoyed, funnily enough. Is she reticent because I've written a confession, more or less, or because she hopes to plead temporary insanity on my behalf? If it's the old mad-with-anxiety plea, I can see her point. My statement doesn't give the impression of a woman who is out of her mind. Words do little to express my feelings, in this case, so I aimed for being matter of fact; and that's what Valerie got, a list of facts.

This is a terrible time for me to be falling, or to have fallen, in love. Life as I knew it ended so violently and since that night my emotions have been raging around. It's exhausting. If, oh let's be hopeful and say when, I get out of here, I shall go to Fabian's island and sleep for three days and three nights. That is if I go alone. Should you decide to come with me, I promise to make every effort to stay awake.

I could do with a holiday. They're oddities, aren't they? We take them to relax but they say a trip abroad can cause as much stress as a divorce or house move. Not that I'd know; I never married, never moved home and only had one ‘proper' holiday in my life. During that, the only expedition we made when I was a child, Fabian remarked, ironically enough, ‘Prison would be a holiday compared to this.'

Is my life going in circles, or have I developed a selective memory? Needless to say, my childhood holiday was won for me by my mother. Not as exciting as it sounds, please expel all images of coconut trees and white, unruffled sand. I had ideas along the same lines at the time and was bitterly disappointed. Believe it or not, I used to be tormented by greed as a child. You see, we could have had anything, because when your mother has powers, anything is possible. But Mum set herself strict limits. She kept her gains within these confines, trying to instil in us an understanding of want. It wasn't easy, making do with second best when you knew full well that a bit more effort could have won first prize.

Once, I was about nine I think and at the local village fête, I saw a flicker of doubt cross my mum's face, witnessing the moment of decision. She was buying tickets for a raffle. The prizes included a walking, talking doll. It was every little girl's dream, blonde with a rosebud mouth, wearing a pink gingham frock and miniature white ankle socks. Standing at Mum's side, I grinned, imagining myself taking this cute creature for a stroll around Fisher's Close, showing the doll off to Fiona Powell. Fiona, who lived in a pretend Elizabethan monstrosity about three doors from us, was a pretty, spoilt blonde whose mother would have moved mountains to buy her anything she wanted; but the doll wasn't for sale. The raffle provided a rare chance for me to go one better than this brat. ‘Mumma,' the doll would have said as we passed Fiona's black and white residence. Dolls had never really interested me, if I wanted to dress and undress small beings, there was always a younger brother or sister needing attention; but this raffle doll wasn't a replica of real life, she came from an alien, exciting world where all eyes were sapphire blue and knickers never got soiled. Besides, I wanted that prize because I knew Fiona had her beady eye on it.