While My Eyes Were Closed (34 page)

‘You know, all I ever wanted was to be like you,’ she says. ‘The way you brought me up on your own when you were only the same age as I am now.’

I shake my head.

‘What?’ she says.

‘All
I
ever wanted was for you not to be like me. That’s why I gave you all those bloody lectures about not getting yourself in trouble.’

She is silent for a moment.

‘I did sleep with him,’ she says. ‘Just the once, though. She found out, his mum. Went mental. I think she had a screw loose, to be honest.’

‘She hasn’t left any flowers,’ I say, looking down.

‘No, she never has. None that I’ve ever seen, anyway. Robyn heard from someone that she’d cracked up a bit, lost her teaching job at The Grange. She does piano lessons from home now.’

The blood inside me comes screeching to a halt against the wall of my chest. I feel myself thrown forward. My head hurts with the sudden impact. Chloe grabs hold of my arm as my legs buckle beneath me.

‘What?’ she says. ‘What is it? Are you OK?’

‘He lived near the park, didn’t he? Matthew lived near the park.’

She nods.

‘That’s where Otis goes,’ I say. ‘That’s where he goes for his piano lessons. And Alex takes Ella to the park until it’s time for them to pick him up. What’s her name? What’s Matthew’s mum’s name?’

‘Muriel,’ she says. ‘Her name is Muriel.’

‘I don’t want to close my eyes. I don’t like it here. I want to go home.’ The child tightens her grip on my hand. I feel my body sway slightly in the breeze. I am teetering on the edge, in every sense of the phrase.

‘Matthew always liked it here. It was one of his favourite places.’

‘Is he coming today? Is he bringing the picnic?’

‘No. He’s not.’

‘Why not?’

I glance at the child. She is trying very hard not to look down. It is a moment or two before I can get the words out.

‘Because he’s dead.’

She looks up at me, a frown creasing her brow. I am aware of a tear running down my cheek. I try very hard
to ensure it isn’t followed by another one. It is though, shortly after the point when I realise she is squeezing my hand.

‘When did he die?’

‘A year ago today.’ I inch forward, aware that my big toe is now sticking out over the edge.

‘Did he have cancer? Lots of people die from cancer but you can’t catch it from someone.’

‘No. No, he didn’t.’

‘What did he die from? Was it something Chloe did?’

I close my eyes for a second. I could do it now. I could step out from the edge. I have her hand. She would fall with me. There is nothing she would be able to do about it. And all things would be equal then. An eye for an eye and all that. Her mother would understand, truly understand what I went through, am still going through every second of every day. Her life would be blighted for ever like mine. The child grips my hand tighter. I wonder if she knows on some subconscious level what I am going to do. I don’t think she does. I glance down and see her looking up at me with enquiring eyes. And I realise that I do not want her to die thinking that about her sister. I do not want her to have that shard of guilt in her heart.

‘No,’ I say. ‘It wasn’t her fault. It was mine, actually.’

She gives a little laugh, like I have just said something ridiculous.

‘No,’ she says. ‘You’re his mummy.’

I look down at her. We stand there for a while in silence, the breeze playing with the bottom of my skirt and gently flapping the sleeve of her waterproof jacket.

‘Ah, but I loved him too much, you see.’

‘You can’t die from that. You can die from being run over by a car or from being shot by a man with a gun – or from melting but only if you’re a snowman like Olaf in
Frozen
.’

I find myself smiling unexpectedly.

‘Did your mummy take you to see that film?’

‘Yes, and Otis came too but he said he didn’t want to because it was a girls’ film, but I saw him crying when Olaf nearly melted. He said he didn’t afterwards but I saw him. And I said I didn’t want an Elsa dress last Christmas, but I do now and Mummy says I might get one for my birthday if I’m good.’

I nod, unable to stop another couple of tears squeezing themselves out of my eyes, and ask, ‘When’s your birthday?’

‘Next month. September the 29th.’

‘It’s this month actually. It’s September already.’

‘Is it? How many sleeps?’

I bite my lip and look down. I deserve to be down there, lying in a heap on the rocks. I know that only too well. But she doesn’t.

‘Twenty-four,’ I say as I step back from the edge.

‘I’ll be a big girl then, won’t I?’

‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘Yes, you will.’

I take another step back. Something rushes into the void inside me. Fills it until it is in danger of overflowing. It is soft and warm and comforting. ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘It’s time to go.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘There’s somewhere I need to go. Somewhere I should have gone a long time ago.’

‘OK,’ she says before turning with me and leading me back up the path.

*

I haven’t been since the funeral. To visit would have been to acknowledge it had happened. To put Matthew firmly in the past tense. That’s why I visit him in the park instead. Where he is very much in the present.

The first thought I have when I arrive at the cemetery is that I won’t be able to find Matthew’s grave. The funeral was all very much a blur. I have a vague recollection of being guided to the graveside, possibly by Malcolm, or even the vicar, I can’t be sure.

And then I see the tree and it comes back to me, the sense of wonder that they should have chosen this plot for him. ‘Underneath the Spreading Chestnut Tree’, I used to sing to him at the park when he was a toddler. We used to do the actions to it. It always made him smile.

That they had chosen for him to lie here is the closest thing I have felt to comfort. It almost makes me believe there is a god. Almost but not quite.

The tree is in full leaf, as it was on this day last year. I sometimes wish I had asked Malcolm to take a photograph of it. I didn’t, of course, because that is not the done thing at funerals. But I wish now that I hadn’t cared so much about that.

As I walk towards the tree, the child’s hand still firmly in mine, all I can think about is what it must look like in autumn when the colours are rich and golden. And in spring, when the buds bring promise of what is to come.

‘He’s there,’ I say. ‘Underneath that chestnut tree.’

‘Does everyone get a tree when they die?’

‘No. Not everyone.’

‘Is it because Matthew was special?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, I think it is.’

She is quiet for a moment, seemingly deep in thought. As we draw closer I can see flowers on the grave. Fresh ones, presumably left this morning. Red roses. About two dozen of them.

‘Who are they from?’ the child asks.

‘I don’t know.’

The child lets go of my hand and walks closer. She has taken the waterproof off now. I said she could. There doesn’t seem to be any point in keeping it on any more.

‘Look,’ she says, picking up a card and and running back to me with it before I can tell her not to. I hold it in my hand. I think I know before I look at it. I think that is why my hand is shaking.

I read the words and swallow hard, conscious that my vision has blurred. She did not come to the funeral. I put a notice in the
Courier
, a death announcement. I got them to put ‘Private Funeral, Family Only’ in bold letters. It was my way of letting her know she was not welcome. It must have been hard for her, not coming. Not having the opportunity to say goodbye. I didn’t really think about that at the time, I was so consumed by my own grief. And then later, when I saw her at the inquest, when she read out her statement, said that he hadn’t told me about her because he knew I wouldn’t be able to bear it if someone took him away from me, I was glad I hadn’t allowed her to come. Glad she hadn’t been able to take him away from me in death as she had done in life.

I look down again at the card, step forward and put it back among the flowers. Back where it belongs.

‘Who are they from?’ the child asks.

‘A friend. Someone who loved him very much. Who misses him almost as much as I do.’

She comes and holds my hand without being asked to.

‘I’m glad Matthew had a friend like that,’ she says.

‘Yes.’ I nod, wiping my eyes. ‘So am I.’

Alex’s phone only rings once before he answers.

‘I’m with Chloe,’ I say. ‘She’s OK. What’s the name of Otis’s piano teacher?’

‘Why do you—’

‘Just tell me, please.’

‘Miss Norgate,’ he says. ‘I don’t know her first name but I write the cheques to Miss M. Norgate.’

‘Muriel,’ I say. ‘I think she’s called Muriel. I think she’s Matthew’s mother. She lost her job teaching at The Grange. Chloe says she teaches piano lessons from home.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘She hates us, Alex. She blames Chloe – me as well, probably. She’s got a grudge against our family.’

‘Fucking hell. Are you sure?’

‘I don’t know. Let me put Chloe on. She’s been there, Matthew’s house. Tell her what it looks like, where you go for Otis’s lessons.’

I pass the phone to Chloe. I see her nod repeatedly, watch as what little colour she has left slides from her cheeks.

I take the phone back. ‘It’s her,’ I say. ‘It’s the same person.’

‘Oh Jesus.’ There is a slight pause before Alex continues. ‘She cancelled, didn’t she? She texted to cancel his lesson. On Saturday. The day after Ella disappeared. And she’s got a cat. Ella always strokes her cat.’

‘Is Claire there?’

‘No, not yet.’

‘Phone her now. Get her to tell Johnston straight away. Get them to go to her house and see if Ella’s there. We’re going there now.’

‘Lisa, don’t do anything stupid.’

‘What, like get my own fucking daughter back?’

‘You know what I mean. Don’t knock on the door or let her see either of you. You don’t know what state she’s in.’

‘I do. I know exactly what state she’s in. Call Claire now. Tell her everything. Get her to send someone straight away.’

We run back to the car, past the grave of the four-year-old, further and further away from it. She could still be alive. Ella could still be alive. She’s been taken,
kidnapped, except she would have gone quietly. Because Ella knew her. She probably chatted all the way to her house.

My mobile rings as we get to my car. It’s Claire.

‘Lisa, we’re on our way there now. Plain-clothes officers in an unmarked car. You’re not to approach the house before we get there, do you understand?’

‘Yeah, whatever. I have to be there though.’

‘I know, but park around the corner or something, somewhere out of sight. Have you got your go bag with you?’

‘Yeah, it’s in the boot, like you told me.’

‘Good. Well stay in your car when you get there, OK? I’ll call you when I’m there.’

I end the call.

Chloe looks at me. Her face is ripped with guilt. ‘This is all my fault,’ she says.

‘No, it’s not. I should have worked it out earlier. I can’t believe I didn’t think of her.’

‘You never met her?’

‘No. Alex always takes him. I’ve never even spoken to her on the phone. I couldn’t have told you her name. She’s just the piano lady.’

‘She’s doing this to get back at me,’ says Chloe. ‘She holds me responsible. I could see it in her eyes at Matthew’s inquest.’

I curse myself for not going. Chloe didn’t want me there though. She went with Robyn. I bet Matthew’s
mother couldn’t believe her luck when Otis came for his lessons. I wonder when she realised. Whether Otis said something. She could have been stalking us for months, waiting for the right moment.

‘Come on,’ I say. ‘We need to get there. We need to get Ella back.’

*

‘Her car’s not there,’ says Chloe as we drive past the house. ‘She’s got a red Nissan Micra. Well, she used to, at any rate.’

She might not have come back to the house afterwards. She might have taken Ella somewhere else.

I park on the other side of the road but further along. I am not hiding round the corner. She doesn’t even know what car I have. She has never seen my car, not unless she has been following me. It doesn’t matter if she has, though. I have to see what is going on. I have to see her the second she comes out of that house.

I undo my belt and call Claire. My hands are shaking as I do so.

‘We’re here,’ I say. ‘Chloe says Muriel’s car’s missing.’

‘OK, I’ll let them know. They’ll be there any minute. Don’t leave the car.’

We sit in silence, my heart battering against my ribcage.

Chloe is the first to speak. ‘At least Ella won’t have been—’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘That’s what I keep thinking. That’s
what I was most scared of. What a man might be doing to her.’

Chloe grabs hold of my arm. We sit there clutching each other’s shaking bodies. I see the police car drive past and pull up outside her house, and two plain-clothes officers get out. I lower the window so I can hear what’s going on. I need to know if she is screaming because if she is I am going to go in there and no one is going to stop me.

One of them knocks at the front door. This strikes me as being ridiculously polite, like saying, ‘Please can I have my child back.’ There is no answer. He knocks again. A minute later I see him call something through the letter box before going to look through the front window. He signals to another copper who I hadn’t noticed in the back of the car. He gets out and goes up to the house next door, then when there is no reply, to the house next door but one. An elderly woman comes to the door. I see her shaking her head and gesturing as she talks to him. A few moments later he speaks to the other officers and disappears around the back of the house. One of the remaining officers gets something out of his pocket.

‘They’re going to force the door,’ says Chloe.

‘Ella will hate that,’ I say. ‘She won’t understand what’s happening.’

We cling to each other as they do it. Seconds later and with a minimum of fuss they are in.