He sounds like a fucking Chinky, she thinks as she slams her door and throws herself down on the mattress. All she really hears is rot. Like her life. Rotten before it’s begun. Her stomach rumbles. Apart from the Caramac and crisps, she’s eaten nothing today, but she won’t go back out there for shite sandwiches and cake. Instead she finishes the rest of the Thunderbird, sucking it out of Daniel’s dinosaur sippy cup, until her head spins and she feels sick. She falls asleep for a bit, or at least drifts into some drunken haze, because the next time she focuses, the house is quiet, and her ma is in the doorway.
‘I’m going to work,’ she says, her eyes defiant. ‘Tony’s going to the shop. Keep an eye on Daniel.’ She doesn’t wait for Charlotte to answer but calls out down the stairs that she’s coming and to wait a fucking minute, and then the door slams behind them and Charlotte can let out a long breath. She gives it a moment to be sure they’re gone before storming across the landing to grab her Walkman back.
‘That’s mine.’ She snatches it from where it’s sitting, untouched at the bottom of Daniel’s cot, and although all his focus is on the soft bunny rabbit he’s holding tight she makes him jump and the smile he had for her turns into a shocked frown and tears and the start of a quiet wail.
‘Fucking shut up,’ she mutters. The room stinks of dirty nappies and she can see one rolled up in the corner of the room where Ma obviously had thrown it and forgotten to bin it. At least he has clean nappies. He sobs and reaches one hand out for her.
‘I said shut up!’ She turns and leaves him clinging to his stupid rabbit, and by the time she gets back to her room, his sobs slow down to nothing. He’s learning too, that there’s no point if no one comes. Or maybe her ma’s right. Maybe he’s just better than Charlotte. A happy baby. Not like Charlotte was. She was always a little bitch. Fucking hell, she was hard work. Full of trouble from day one. Daniel’s always smiling. She knows what her ma means though. Daniel’s dad didn’t leave.
She carefully puts the tape back in and with a cautious glance at the door presses play, filling her head with Katie’s songs. She knows most of them from Top of the Pops even though she’s not as into music as Katie is and her ma never buys her any tapes or records. She hums along, imagining the seaside and being with Katie and their families disappearing in a puff of smoke. Then comes one song, ‘Drive Away, Baby’ by Frankie Vein, and she listens to the words, properly listens to them, before rewinding it and listening again. It’s all about getting away. Going somewhere else. Leaving all the shit behind. It’s their song, she knows that straight away. All their make-believe, their fantasies, their thoughts of their families being murdered by an unknown assailant in their beds, everyone who’s ever pissed them off disappearing, Katie’s suffocating ma and stinky little Daniel, pulverised to dust like the old houses on Spring Street, everything is wrapped up in this song. It’s why Katie’s put it on there. She feels the same. They always feel the same. That must be what love is.
Play. Rewind. Play. Time slides. Tony doesn’t come back for over an hour, the pub being too close to the shop to resist, and anyway it’s Daniel’s birthday and she luckily hears him coming up the stairs between plays, and quickly tucks the Walkman under her pillow.
He doesn’t knock but pulls open her door and stands there, drunk and angry. It’s a house full of simmering anger.
‘You were supposed to watch the bairn! He’s fell out of his cot. He’s hurt his head.’
Charlotte says nothing. There’s no point. From across the corridor, Daniel calls out for Ma. His voice sounds tired. How long has he been crying?
‘You want to bring the social down on us? On your ma?’
He’s pulling his belt off as he talks and his face is blotchy and she knows that’s always when he’s at his worst. It’s all Daniel’s fault, is all she can think as the first blow lands. Everything’s worse since the perfect child came along. No one ever hits Daniel. Why can’t they love her like they love him? What’s so fucking special about him? She focuses on her anger and bites down on her cheek. It stops her crying. Tony’s worse when she cries. It feeds the monster inside him. All his resentment at another man’s kid taking food from his table.
She wakes up in the night, sore and bruised and her bed is soaking under her, and the familiar tang fills the room. She’s wet herself again. She quietly strips the sheet off and scrunches it into a ball, stuffing it under the mattress. She’ll have to wash it when everyone is out or when Tony and Ma are in bed in the afternoon. Ma said she’d get a plastic sheet if she kept doing it. She doesn’t want that. Everyone will laugh at her if they hear about it, and everyone will because Tony’s a big gobshite at the pub and all the parents from the estate drink in there. All the kids would know. No one would be scared of Charlotte Nevill if they knew she wet the bed, and the little ’uns being scared of her is all she has. And what would Katie say if she found out? What would she think of her?
The welts on the back of her legs sting and it’s a cold night, but she hobbles to the window and opens it, hoping to blow the smell away by morning. She peels off her soaked underwear and wraps herself in the old parka jacket that’s too big for her but she loves anyway, and lies on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. She thinks about Katie until she falls asleep. In her dream they’re driving, fast and far, in a big pink convertible and laughing as they go. And in her dream they have blood on their hands.
42
NOW
MARILYN
It’s nearly midnight and I’m wide awake, staring at the ceiling and trying to get my thoughts and feelings into some kind of order. Whenever I close my eyes, all I see is the flash of worry on Lisa’s face when I told her I was having problems with Richard. As if she cared about me. As if we were still best friends. Ava’s missing and she was concerned because I was unhappy. How am I supposed to feel about that?
Someone isn’t who they say they are. Someone I know.
How crazy has Lisa become? Could she still be in love with Jon maybe, to come up with something that wild rather than think he took Ava? What sort of man is he anyway? Who would send those kind of messages to their daughter?
Too much thinking time, that’s my problem. It’s making the whole world murky and if I’m not careful I’ll start to see conspiracy theories everywhere. I’m too tired for this. I need to go back to work. Penny texted earlier to say Richard had called a couple of times but hadn’t caused any drama, and that there was some work to do on the Wharton account but if I wasn’t up to it then one of the others could manage. My teeth clench at the thought. No one’s stealing my client list.
Anyway, where else can I go? I can’t hide forever. That’s simply delaying the inevitable. If Richard shows up, I’ll call the police. I’m tired of living a pretence. That thought leads me straight back to Lisa/Charlotte. Did she ever get tired of living a lie? Had she ever been tempted to tell me about her past? I’m glad she didn’t. I wouldn’t have wanted to carry that. Even if I was her best friend.
Her name was Katie Batten. She was Charlotte’s best friend.
I give up on sleep and get up. I’ve got too many questions whirring around in my head to doze, and my broken ribs are throbbing, so I pull on some clothes, make a coffee in a takeaway cup in the machine, and pad downstairs. There’s a business centre on the ground floor near reception and I head there, wanting a computer. The lights buzz brightly against the night outside and the man at reception gives me a perfunctory smile as I pass by. This is the best thing about hotels. There is always someone awake. You’re never quite alone and it’s all so comfortingly sterile and impersonal.