“You set fire to the house while Marianne and I were asleep inside. She died in there. I wouldn’t exactly call that supportive,” I said, trying my best to keep my voice calm, not entirely succeeding.
“Someone has been telling you lies—I knew it!” she said, triumph in her voice. She spoke brightly, full of enthusiasm. “Look, what I did, darling—anyone would have done the same thing in my situation. It’s like I told you: if something needs to change, change it! Of course, there will be inconveniences along the way . . . you simply have to deal with them, and not worry too much about the consequences.”
She sounded happy, glad to be dispensing advice. She was, I realized, talking about killing us, Marianne and me, her inconveniences. In a strange way, it helped.
I took a breath, although I didn’t really need to.
“Good-bye, Mummy,” I said. The last word. My voice was firm, measured, certain. I wasn’t sad. I was sure. And, underneath it all, like an embryo forming—tiny, so tiny, barely a cluster of cells, the heartbeat as small as the head of a pin, there I was. Eleanor Oliphant.
And, just like that, Mummy was gone.
Better Days
41
Although I felt completely fine and, indeed, ready to get back into the thick of it all, HR had insisted on a “phased return,” whereby I only worked during the mornings for the next few weeks. More fool them—if they wished to pay me a full-time salary for part-time hours, it was their lookout. At lunchtime on Friday, the end of my brief working day and my first week back, I met Raymond for the second time that week.
Since then, we’d been communicating solely by electronic means. I had spent the previous evening searching online. It was so easy to find things. Too easy, perhaps. I’d printed two newspaper articles without reading beyond the headlines, then sealed them in an envelope. I knew Raymond would have found them already himself, but it was important to me that I did the searching. It was my history and no one else’s. No one else alive, at any rate.
As requested, he’d joined me in the café, so that I wasn’t alone when I read them for the first time. I’d tried to cope alone for far too long, and it hadn’t done me any good at all. Sometimes you simply needed someone kind to sit with you while you dealt with things.
“I feel like a spy or something,” said Raymond, looking at the sealed envelope that lay between us.
“You’re completely unsuited to a career in espionage,” I told him. He raised his eyebrows.
“Your face is too honest,” I said, and he smiled.
“Ready then?” he said, serious now.
I nodded.
The envelope was a buff manila self-sealing A4, which I had purloined from the office stationery cupboard. The paper had come from there too. I felt slightly guilty about it, especially since Bob, I knew now, had to factor this sort of thing into his running costs. I opened my mouth to tell Raymond about the stationery budget, but he nodded toward the envelope encouragingly, and I realized that I could delay matters no further. I eased it open, then held it toward him to show him that there were two pages of A4 inside. Raymond shuffled even closer, so that we were touching, sides together, congruent. There was warmth and strength there and, gratefully, I drew on it. I started to read.
The Sun, August 5, 1997, p. 2
“Pretty but deadly” kiddie killer “fooled us all,” neighbors say
“Killer Mum” Sharon Smyth (pictured), 29, had been living in a quiet Maida Vale street for the last two years, neighbors said, before deliberately starting the fire that ended in tragedy.
“She was such a pretty young woman—she had us all fooled,” said a neighbor, who did not wish to be named. “Her little ones were always properly turned out, and they spoke so nice—everybody said what lovely manners they had,” he told our reporter.
“As time went on, you could tell something wasn’t right, though. The kiddies always seemed terrified of her. Sometimes they had bruises, and people heard a lot of crying in that house. She’d go out a lot. We just assumed there was a babysitter, but looking back on it . . .
“One time, I was talking to the older girl—she was only nine or ten, I’d say—and the mum shot her such a look, she started to shake like a little dog. I dread to think what went on in there behind closed doors.”
Police confirmed yesterday that the fatal blaze at the property had been started deliberately.
A child (10), who cannot be named for legal reasons, remains in hospital in critical condition.
I looked at Raymond. He looked at me. Neither of us said anything for a while.
“You know how it ends, right?” Raymond said, gentle, quiet, looking me in the eye.
I pulled out the second article.
London Evening Standard, September 28, 1997, p. 9
Maida Vale murder latest: two dead, plucky orphan recovers
Police confirmed today that the bodies recovered from the scene of last week’s Maida Vale house fire belonged to Sharon Smyth (29) and her youngest daughter Marianne (4). Her eldest child, Eleanor (10), was released today from hospital after making what doctors described as a “miraculous” recovery from third-degree burns and smoke inhalation.
The spokesman confirmed that 29-year-old Smyth started the fire deliberately, and died at the scene as a result of smoke inhalation as she fled the property. Tests on both children revealed that a sedative had been administered, and provided evidence that they had been physically restrained.
Our reporter understands that Eleanor Smyth initially managed to free herself and escape the blaze. Neighbors then reported seeing the badly injured ten-year-old re-entering the house before the emergency services arrived. Firefighters allegedly found her attempting to open a locked wardrobe in an upstairs bedroom. The body of her four-year-old sister was recovered inside.
Police have been unable to trace any living relatives of the child, who is being cared for by Social Services.
That’s all I found too,” Raymond said, as I pushed the printouts toward him.
I looked out of the window. People were shopping, talking on mobiles, pushing prams. The world just went on, regardless of what happened. That’s how it works.
Neither of us spoke for a while.
“Are you OK?” he said.
I nodded.
“I’m going to keep seeing the counselor. It helps.”
He looked at me carefully. “How do you feel?” he said.
“Not you as well.” I sighed, and then I smiled so that he would know that I was joking. “I’m fine. I mean, yes, obviously, I’ve got a lot of things to work through, very serious things. Dr. Temple and I are going to keep talking about all of it—Marianne’s death, how Mummy died too and why I pretended for all those years that she was still there, still talking to me . . . it’s going to take time and it’s not going to be easy,” I said. I felt very calm. “Essentially, though, in all the ways that matter . . . I’m fine now. Fine,” I repeated, stressing the word because, at last, it was true.
A woman jogged past, running after a Chihuahua, shouting its name in an increasingly anxious tone.
“Marianne loved dogs,” I said. “Every time we saw one, she’d point and laugh, then try to hug it.”
Raymond cleared his throat. More coffees came, and we drank slowly.
“Will you be OK?” Raymond said. He looked angry with himself. “Sorry. Stupid question. I just wish I’d known sooner,” he said. “I wish I could have helped more.” He glared at the wall, looking as though he was trying not to cry. “No one should have to go through what you’ve been through,” he said finally, furious. “You lost your little sister, even though you tried your best to save her, and you were only a child yourself. That you could come through that, all of it, and then spend all those years trying to deal with it on your own, it’s—”
I interrupted him. “When you read about ‘monsters’,” I said, “household names . . . you forget they had families. They don’t just spring from nowhere. You never think about the people that are left behind to deal with the aftermath of it all.”