I was terrified to look at you that night, to meet your eyes, as if the secret shame of what I’d done was scrawled. Spray-painted, on my face. I offered to do the ironing, anything to stop my hands from shaking, and so I’d be armed if the police came early and you went for me. You looked different, smaller, still intimidating but less so. But it wasn’t you who’d changed, it was me. The end in sight. Or the beginning.
I worried they might not come, change their minds, decide I was making it up. I tried to breathe normally, stand normally, not that it mattered since you could flip at any given moment. One minute you’d be arranging flowers, the next you’d demand I put on a show. There aren’t many everyday activities left that don’t remind me of you, of how you liked to do them. When bedtime came I waited to be told where I was to sleep. Sometimes in your bed, other times I’d be given a reprieve and sent to mine. The funny thing, or sad, was part of me wanted to sleep with you that night knowing it would be our last, and another part of me was too scared to go upstairs on my own. Up eight, up another four, the door on the right. Opposite mine. The playground.
You said nothing as you closed your bedroom door, it was one of those nights. You could go days without talking to or acknowledging me then swallow me up, my skin, my hair, in minutes, anything you could grab. I said goodbye that night, whispered it. I think I might have also said, I love you, and I did. Still do, though I’m trying not to.
When I went upstairs I leant into the corridor wall outside the room opposite mine, needed to feel something solid against me, yet I soon moved. I heard them. The voices of tiny ghosts bleeding out of the wall. Swooping. Plummeting. A no man’s land.
She’ll be there, waiting, the girl who gave Phoebe the finger, I know she will. I’ve seen her a couple of times since that first night. I turn the corner into my road, there she is, sitting on the wall. I feel something in my tummy, a squeeze, not fear. Pleasure, I think. Excitement. She’s small, alone. I haven’t spoken to her yet but I’m working on it. As I walk closer she begins to swing her legs up and down, hits the bricks of the wall that surrounds her estate opposite my house with alternating thumps. Her right eye, bruised and swollen, only open a little. A football strip, all blue. Her open eye stares at me as I walk past. It blinks, blinks again. A one-eyed Morse code. I pull the crisps out, the bag opens with a pop, it knows it has a part to play. I glance at her. Her good eye looks away, a chirpy whistle starts up, she’s all freckles and aloof. I shrug, cross the road. Three. Two …
‘You got anything to eat?’
One.
I turn to face her – ‘You can have some of my crisps if you like?’
She looks around, over her shoulder, as if checking we’re alone, then asks, ‘What flavour are they?’
‘Salt and vinegar.’
I walk towards her, hold the packet out. If she wants them she’ll have to leave the wall. She does. Quick as a flash, takes them, sits back down. Her scuffed trainers resume their dance: thump, thump, right, left. I ask her name but she ignores me. It takes only minutes, she shovels, more than eats the crisps. Devours them. Tips up the packet so it covers her mouth, taps it on the bottom, the remaining crumbs, gone. The empty bag floats to the ground. She’s older than she looks, twelve or thirteen maybe. Small for her age.
‘You got anything else?’
‘No, nothing.’
She blows a saliva bubble which is both disgusting and fascinating. The way it forms on her lips, the way she sucks it back in. Bold, yet babyish, all at once. I want to ask her why she sits here so often on her own, why a wall on a street is better than home, but she leaves. Swivels her legs over the back of the wall, walks away, towards one of the tower blocks. I watch her go, she knows somehow, feels my stare. Turns round, gives me a look that I think says, what’s your problem. I smile in response, she shrugs over her shoulder at me. I try again.
‘What’s your name?’ I call out.
She stops walking, turns her body round to face me, scuffs one of her trainers into the ground. Once. Twice.
‘Who wants to know?’
‘Milly, my name’s Milly.’
She scrunches her eyes, a flash of uncertainty across her face, but answers anyway.
‘Morgan,’ she says.
‘That’s a nice name.’
‘Whatever,’ she replies, peels into a jog and is soon out of sight. As I cross the road I roll the letters of her name up and in, over my tongue and lips, and while I search for the keys in my bag I can’t help but feel pleased. I stood up for myself with Clondine and Izzy, and spoke to the girl on the wall. I can do this, I can do life after you.
6
I’ve managed to keep your night-time visits a secret so far.
The fact you come as a snake, underneath the door. Up into my bed. Lie your scaly body next to mine, measure me. Remind me I still belong to you. I end up on the floor by morning, curled in a ball, the duvet over my head. My skin is hot, yet inside I’m cold, it’s hard to explain. I read in a book once that people who are violent are hot-headed, while psychopaths are cold-hearted. Hot and cold. Head and heart. But what if you come from a person who’s both? What happens then?
Tomorrow, Mike and I are due to meet the prosecution lawyers. The men or women recruited to take you down. Throw away the key. Do you sit in your cell and wonder why? Why I left when I did when so many years had already gone by? There are two reasons but only one I can talk about, and it’s this.
Sweet sixteen, mine. It’s not until December though you began planning it months ago, but not in the way a mother should. A birthday you’ll never forget, you said. Or survive, I remember thinking. Emails started to arrive from others you’d met. The dark belly of the internet. A shortlist. Three men and a woman, you invited them to come, share in the fun. Share me. It was to be my birthday, but I was the present. The pi?ata to punch. Sweet sixteen, you said, you couldn’t wait. The words like sugary treats in your mouth. Lemons for me. Bitter and sour.
I feel the beginnings of a migraine as I get ready for school, another little gift left over from you. The buttons on my shirt defy my fingers, like trying to thread a needle with chopsticks. It takes me longer than usual, and by the time I pass Phoebe’s room, the door’s closed and I wonder if she’s already left. I haven’t seen her since yesterday in the locker room at school. I hope she and the girls have had enough ‘fun’ with me now.
Three flights up we are, thick cream carpet. Changes to tiles once you reach the hallway below. I misjudge the last step and trip, landing on the cold marble. I must have called out because Mike comes out of the kitchen.
‘Easy now,’ he says. ‘Let me help you.’
He moves me on to the bottom step of the staircase, sits next to me. Stupid, I tell him. ‘Not to worry,’ he replies. ‘Easily done, the house is still new to you. You’re shading your eyes from the light, is it a migraine?’
‘I think so.’