فصل بیست و یکم

I have been scared a lot in prison, Mr. Wrexham. The first night as I lay there, listening to the laughs and shouts and shrieks of the other women, trying to get used to the feeling of the narrow concrete walls closing around me, and many, many nights following that.

And later, after one of the other girls beat me up in the cafeteria and I was moved to another wing for my own protection, as I lay there trembling in a strange cell, remembering the hate on her face, and the way the guards had waited just that slight instant too long before intervening, counting down the hours until the next day when I’d have to face them all again. And the nights when the dreams come, and I see her face again, and I wake with the stench of blood in my nostrils, shaking and shaking.

Oh, God, I’ve been scared.

But I have never been quite as scared as I was that night in Heatherbrae House.

The girls flaked out early, thankfully, and all three of them were out for the count by half past eight.

And so, at quarter to nine, I climbed the stairs to the bedroom—I could no longer think of it as my bedroom—on the top floor.

I found I was holding my breath as I touched the door handle. I could not help imagining something horrible flying out and ambushing me—a bird, clawing at my face, or perhaps for the writing to have spread like a cancer out from behind the locked door and across the walls of the bedroom. But when at last I forced myself to turn the knob, shoving the door open with a violence that sent it banging against the wall, there was nothing there. The closet door was closed, and the room looked just as it had that first night I had seen it, apart from a few flecks of dust that Jack and I had trodden across the carpet in our haste to get out of the attic.

Still though, I knew I couldn’t possibly sleep here, so I slid my hand under my pillow and grabbed my pajamas, quickly, as if I were expecting to find something nasty there, waiting. I changed into my pajamas in the bathroom, did my teeth, and then I rolled up my duvet and carried it downstairs to the media room.

I knew if I just lay down and waited for sleep I would be waiting a long time, maybe all night, while the images of the attic intruded and the words on the wall whispered themselves again and again in my ears. Drugging myself into oblivion with a familiar film seemed like a better option. At least if I had a loud laugh track ringing in my ears, I would not be wincing at every warped floorboard and sigh from the dogs. I was not sure if I could bear to lie there in silence, waiting for the creak . . . creak . . . to start up again.

Friends seemed about the right level of intensity, and I put it on the huge wide-screen TV, pulled the duvet up to my chin . . . and slept.

When I woke, it was with a sense of complete disorientation. The TV had gone onto standby in the night, and there was daylight streaming underneath the blackout blinds in the media room.

There was a hot, heavy weight on my legs . . . no . . . two heavy weights, and my chest was tight and wheezing. Hauling myself into a sitting position and pushing my hair out of my eyes I looked down, expecting to see the two dogs, but there was only one black hairy monster sprawled across the foot of the sofa. The other hot little body was Ellie.

“Ellie?” I said huskily, and then felt in the pocket of my dressing gown. My inhaler was in there, as always, but it knocked against something unfamiliar as I drew it out, and with an odd rush I remembered the key, and all the crazy events of yesterday. Then wiped the mouthpiece of the inhaler on my dressing gown, put it to my lips, and took a long hissing puff. The relief was instant, and I took a deeper breath, feeling the release in my chest, and then said again, more loudly, “Ellie. Sweetheart, what are you doing here?” She woke up, blinking and confused, and then realized where she was and smiled up at me.

“Good morning, Rowan.”

“Good morning to you too, but what are you doing down here?”

“I couldn’t sleep. I had a bad dream.”

“Well, okay, but—”

But . . . what? I wasn’t sure what to say. Her presence had shaken me. How long had she been padding around the house last night by herself without me hearing her? She had evidently been able to get out of bed and come all the way downstairs and tuck herself in beside me without me hearing a thing.

There didn’t seem much I could say at this point though, so I just rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and then pulled my legs out from under the dog and stood up.

As I did, something fell out of the folds of the duvet and hit the floor with a dull ceramic-sounding crack.

The sound made me jump. Had I knocked over a forgotten coffee mug or something? I’d had hot milk last night, but I could have sworn I’d left the cup safely on the coffee table. In fact, yes, there was the mug still sitting on its coaster. So what had made the noise?

It was only when I pulled up the blind and folded the duvet that I saw it. It had rolled halfway under the sofa before coming to a halt, facing me, so that its wicked little eyes and cracked grin seemed to be laughing at me.

It was the doll’s head from the attic.

The feeling that washed over me was—it was like someone had poured a bucket of ice water over my head and shoulders, a drenching, paralyzing deluge of pure fear that left me unable to do anything but stand there, shaking and gasping and shivering.

I heard, as if from a long way away, Ellie’s reedy little voice saying, “Rowan, are you all right? Are you okay, Rowan? You look funny.” It took a huge effort for me to drag myself back from the brink of panic and realize that she was talking to me, and that I needed to answer.

“Rowan!” There was a frightened whine in her voice now, and she tugged at my nightshirt, her little fingers cold against the skin of my waist. “Rowan!” “I—I’m okay, honey,” I managed. My voice was strange and croaky in my ears, and I wanted to grope my way to the couch and sit down, but I couldn’t bring myself to go anywhere near that . . . that thing, with its mocking little grin.

But I had to. I couldn’t leave it under there, like an obscene little grenade, waiting to explode.

How? How had it got there? Jack had locked the door, I had seen him do it. And he had preceded me down the stairs. And I had the key in my pocket. I could feel it, warm against my thigh with my own body heat. Had I . . . could I have possibly . . . ?

But no. That was absurd. Impossible.

And yet, there it was.

It was while I was standing there, trying to get a hold of myself, that Ellie bent down to see what I was staring at and gave a little squeal.

“A dolly!”

She crouched, bum jutting in the air like the toddler she still half was, and reached, and I heard a sudden roar in my ears, my own voice shouting, “Ellie, for God’s sake, don’t touch it!” and felt myself snatching her up, almost before I realized what I was going to do.

There was a long moment of silence, Ellie hanging limp and heavy in my arms, my own breath panting in my ears, and then her whole body stiffened and she let out a wail of indignant shock and began to cry, with all the desolate surprise of a child told off for something they had not realized was wrong.

“Ellie,” I began, but she was struggling in my arms, her face red and contorted with upset and anger. “Ellie, wait, I didn’t mean—” “Let me go!” she howled. My instinct was to tighten my arms around her, but she was thrashing like a cat, digging her nails into my arms.

“Ellie—Ellie calm down, you’re hurting me.”

“I don’t care! Let me go!”

Kneeling, painfully, trying to keep my face away from her thrashing hands, I let her slide to the floor, where she collapsed with a wail onto the rug.

“You’re mean! You shouted!”

“Ellie, I didn’t mean to scare you, but that doll—”

“Go away!” she wailed. “I hate you!”

And then she scrambled to her feet and ran from the room, leaving me ruefully rubbing the scratches on my arms. I heard her feet on the stairs, and then the slam of the door of her room.

Sighing, I went through to the kitchen and tapped on the tablet. When I clicked through to the camera, it was to see Ellie facedown in bed, plainly bawling, with Maddie sleepily rubbing her eyes in puzzled surprise at being woken up like this.

Shit. She had come to me last night for reassurance—and for a moment there I had thought we were making a breakthrough. And now I had screwed it up. Again.

And it was all because of that vile little doll’s head.

I had to get rid of it, but somehow I could not bring myself to touch it, and in the end I went through to the utility room and got a plastic bin liner. I slid it over my hand, inside out, like a makeshift glove, and then knelt, and reached under the sofa.

I found I was holding my breath, absurdly, as I reached into the dark, slightly dusty space, my fingers groping for the hard little head. I touched hair first, just a few straggling strands, for the little porcelain skull was almost bald, and I used it to tug the head itself closer, and then closed my hand over it in one firm, swift movement, like scooping up a dead rat, or some insect you fear may still sting you, even dead.

I was gripping it hard—as if the force of my grip could stop it exploding or escaping from my grasp. It did neither. But as I stood, gingerly, I felt something twinge in my index finger, a shard of glass, so sharp I had barely felt it go in. It had pierced the bag itself and driven into my finger, drawing blood, which now dripped with a steady rhythm onto the wooden floor. The head was not china, I realized, but painted glass.

At the sink I pulled the glass out of my finger and then wound my hand in a piece of kitchen paper before wrapping the head in a tea towel, and then another bin bag. I tied the top and stuffed it deep, deep into the rubbish bin, feeling like I was burying a corpse. My finger throbbed as I pressed down on it, making myself wince.

“What happened to Ellie?”

The voice made me jump, as if I’d been caught hiding the evidence of something guilty, and swinging round I saw Maddie standing in the doorway. Her expression was slightly less truculent than usual, and with her hair standing on end she looked like what she was—just a little girl with a comical case of bed head, woken up too early.

“Oh . . . it’s my fault,” I said ruefully. “I’m afraid I shouted at her. She was about to touch some broken glass and I scared her, trying to stop her. I think she thought I was angry . . . I just didn’t want her to hurt herself.” “She said you found a doll and you wouldn’t let her play with it?”

“Just a head.” I didn’t want to go into the whys and wherefores with Maddie. “But it was made of glass, and sharp where it had got cracked. I cut myself clearing it up.” I held out my hand like evidence, and she nodded, somberly, seemingly satisfied with my incomplete explanation.

“Okay. Can I have Coco Pops for breakfast?”

“Maybe. But, Maddie—” I stopped, not quite sure how to phrase what I wanted to ask. Our rapprochement felt so fragile that I was scared of endangering it, but there were too many questions buzzing in my head to abandon the topic completely. “Maddie, have you ever . . . do you know where the doll came from?” “What do you mean?” Her face was puzzled, guileless. “We’ve got lots of dolls.” “I know, but this is a special, old-fashioned doll.”

I couldn’t bring myself to fish the nightmarish broken head out of the bin, so instead I pulled out my phone and searched on Google Images for “Victorian doll,” scrolling down until I found one that was a slightly less malevolent version of the doll from the attic. Maddie stared at it, frowning.

“There was one like that on TV one time. It was a program about selling ankeets.” “Ankeets?” I blinked.

“Yes, old things that are worth a lot of money. A lady wanted to sell an old doll for money but the person in charge of the show told her it wasn’t worth anything.” “Oh . . . antiques. I know the show you mean. But you’ve never seen one in real life?” “I don’t think so,” Maddie said. She turned away, and I tried to read her expression. Was she being too casual? Wouldn’t a normal child ask more questions than this? But then I shook myself. This second-guessing of everything was starting to border on paranoia. Children were self-absorbed. I knew that well enough from the nursery. Hell, there were plenty of adults who were incurious enough not to question something like this.

I was just trying to formulate a way of bringing the conversation back to the writing on the wall and Maddie’s Alphabetti Spaghetti, when she changed the subject abruptly, bringing it back to her original question with the single-mindedness typical of young children.

“So, can I have Coco Pops for breakfast?”

“Well . . .” I bit my lip. Sandra’s list of “occasional” foods were being consumed more and more frequently by the day. But then again, she shouldn’t have it in the house if she didn’t want the children to eat it, should she? “Yes, I guess so, just for today. But it’s the last time this week, okay? Back to Weetabix tomorrow. Go up and get your school uniform on, and I’ll have it ready by the time you get down. Oh, and will you tell Ellie there’s a bowl for her too, if she wants it?” She nodded, and as she disappeared upstairs I reached for the kettle.

I was spooning some porridge into Petra’s mouth with my uninjured hand when a little face appeared at the kitchen door and then just as quickly slipped away, leaving a piece of paper scudding across the floor.

“Ellie?” I called, but there was no answer, only the sound of feet disappearing. Sighing, I made sure that Petra’s straps were secure and went to pick up the piece of paper.

To my surprise it was a typed letter, formatted like an email, though with no subject, and nothing in the “To” field. Under the Gmail header was a single line of text with no punctuation.

Dave Owen I am very sorry for scratching and waning away from you and saying that I hate you please don’t be angry and don’t go away like the others I am sorry love Ellie p. S. I got dressed by myself Dave Owen? The words made my brow furrow, but there was no mistaking the intent of the rest of the message, and I unclipped Petra, put her in the playpen in the corner, and picked up the letter again.

“Ellie?”

Silence.

“Ellie, I got your letter, I’m really sorry for shouting. Can I say sorry to you too?” There was a long pause, then a little voice said, “I’m in here.”

I made my way through the media room to the living room. At first sight it looked empty, but then a movement caught my eye, and I walked slowly to the far corner of the room, filled with shadow where the morning sun had not yet come round. She was wedged in between the end of the sofa and the wall, almost invisible apart from her blond hair, and the tips of her shoes peeping out.

“Ellie.” I crouched down, holding out the letter. “Did you write this?” She nodded.

“It’s really good. How did you know all the spellings? Did Maddie help you?” “I did it myself. Only . . . the acorn helped me.”

“The acorn?” I was puzzled, and she nodded.

“You push the acorn and you tell it what you want to write and it writes it down for you.” “What acorn?” I was bewildered now. “Can you show me?” Ellie flushed with shy pleasure at demonstrating her own cleverness, and squeezed out of the little corner. There was dust on her school skirt, and her shoes were on the wrong feet, but I ignored both, and followed her through to the kitchen, where she picked up the tablet, opened up Gmail, and pressed the microphone symbol above the keyboard. Light dawned. It did look a little bit like a stylized acorn—particularly if you had no idea what an old-fashioned microphone looked like.

Now she spoke into the tablet.

“Dear Rowan, this is a letter to say I am very sorry, love Ellie,” she said slowly, saying the words as distinctly as her childish palate would allow.

Dave Owen the letters unfurled on the screen, as if by magic, this is a letter to say I am fairy— There was an infinitesimal pause and the app self-corrected.

very sorry love Ellie

“And then you press the dots here and it prints on the printer in Daddy’s study,” she said proudly.

“I see.” I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to laugh or cry. I compromised by crouching down and hugging her. “Well, you’re very clever, and it’s a lovely letter. And I’m very sorry too. I shouldn’t have shouted, and I promise I’m not going anywhere.” She hung on to me, breathing heavily on my neck, her chubby cheek warm against mine.

“Ellie,” I said softly, unsure if I was about to wreck our hard-won confidence, but unable not to ask. “Ellie, can I ask you something?” She didn’t say anything, but I felt her nod, her little pointy chin digging into the tendon that ran from my collar bone to my shoulder.

“Did you . . . did you put that dolly head on my lap?”

“No!” She pulled back, looking at me, a little upset but not as much as I’d feared. She shook her head vehemently, her hair flying like thistledown. Her eyes were wide, and I could see in them a kind of desperation to be believed. But why? Because she was telling the truth? Or because she was lying?

“Are you sure? I promise I won’t be angry. I just . . . I wondered how it got there, that’s all.” “It wasn’t me,” she said, stamping her foot.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” I backpedaled a little, not wanting to lose what ground I’d gained. “I believe you.” There was a pause, and she slipped her hand in mine. “So . . .” I was treading carefully now, but this was too important not to press a little further. “Do you . . . do you know who did?” She looked away at that, not meeting my eyes.

“Ellie?”

“It was another little girl,” she said. And somehow I knew that was all I would ever get out of her.