‘If I’m not to go near her . . .’
He was tight-jawed. ‘Lizzie is the young woman in the house, a little shorter than average height. Then there’s Bridget. There’s nothing much to say about her other than she looks like a maid, will have a uniform on.’ He smiled, bared his teeth.
I nodded.
He told me that all he needed from me was one night, that he would get me out of Fall River, that things would be easy. Fine things, but I wanted more. I had my own problems to take care of. So I asked John about payment.
He looked me over. ‘You’ll get your leg fixed.’
I laughed. ‘My leg isn’t payment. I want money.’
John rubbed his beard. ‘How about a thousand dollars, if it goes well?’
More than I expected. He really did have a big problem to solve. The things I could do. I thought of Papa, how I could finish his punishment. What a gold visit that would be. I nodded my head and nodded my head.
‘And their father. What’s his name?’
‘Andrew Borden. His wife is Abby. She’s rather heavy-set, if you know what I mean. I doubt you’ll have to talk to her.’
I churned everything through my mind, started thinking of the talk I’d have with Andrew. ‘Let’s go to Fall River.’
We made our way from the public bar into the light. The town clock chimed ten o’clock. We wound in and out of people all the way to the train station without saying a word. After John bought tickets he said, ‘Don’t forget it’s Fall River.’
‘I know where we’re going. You and I are going to have an interesting train ride together.’
He patted me on the back like I was his young pup. ‘I didn’t mean to confuse you.’ He gave me my ticket and pointed to the end of the train. ‘You’ll be down there.’
I didn’t like the way he said it. He left me then, went to the front carriages. There’s always someone thinking they’re better than me. I had second thoughts about helping him. I started walking to the end of the train. My leg ached, started to bleed like a little creek. I thought about payment. The train whistle blew. I thought about fathers, the problems caused. I would have to keep my eye on John. I hopped on the train. And the train slowly rolled forwards.
PART II
FIVE
LIZZIE
4 August 1892
I WAS ALMOST five when Father and Mrs Borden got married. Emma and I watched them like tiny gods from the doorway, watched Mrs Borden plait then pin her hair into fibrous loops by her temples. Father had looked on, his teeth sucking in air, a tin whistle. ‘Do you need help? I can ask Emma . . .’
‘No,’ Mrs Borden said. ‘A bride needs to do these things on her own.’
The church was full of flowers, white and crimson, and bells filled the air then my ears; tiny angel wings. As Emma and I walked down the aisle, dropping rose petals at our feet, I could smell the dresses of the women, violet-honey and camphor. I sneezed and there was laughter. Emma squeezed my hand tight, tugged my wrist to her belly, and we walked towards Father, organ music pumping blood. We stood and waited for Mrs Borden to walk the aisle. I swayed to the music, my feet jumping, small click beetles, and tried to make Emma dance with me. She was still, marble-limbed, looked like she might cry, so I huddled into her side, wrapped my arms around her legs, watched Father and Mrs Borden give each other silver-moon rings then kiss.
After, I heard people say, ‘He’ll completely dominate that woman.’ Others said it would mend his broken heart after Mother had died, what about our hearts? ‘Abby will have the children she has always wanted.’ These things people said.
These memories that came to me as I thought about Mrs Borden’s body on the floor, the way red and purple carpet flowers would be pressed against her teeth and eyes, let’s make flower presses, Emma, and it made me feel like there were tiny pebbles tumbling through my stomach, a skippy-skippy-do-da rhythm.
Two officers ran from the dining room, ran up the stairs, ran until their feet stopped above my head, sank into the floor. A pause. ‘Good Lord. Get the doctor right now,’ a voice bellowed. The house popped, sent cracks along windows and doorframes. Dr Bowen turned to me, his mouth a tinge of purple, said, ‘Lizzie, you must stay here.’ I nodded. A fog settled in my mind and everything slowed.
When Bridget and Mrs Churchill came back into the dining room, they came to me, sat at my feet, looked half dead. I sat straight, tall.
‘Miss Lizzie, it’s awful. It’s all bloody up there.’ Bridget’s eyes glassed, were wet.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘We found her, Lizzie. Abby is up there.’ Mrs Churchill seesawed her head to the ceiling, made all kinds of cracking sounds.
The back stairs were a thunder of boots. Another police officer came into the dining room, blue cap in hand. ‘Miss Lizzie,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid to say there’s been another death. Mrs Borden . . .’
‘Oh, did she finally come home?’ I asked. I’d been waiting to hear.
The officer stared blank. ‘No. She’s killed.’
I thought of Father. Then I thought of Mrs Borden. ‘Did someone cut her too?’ I said.
The officer stared blank, then looked towards the ceiling where Mrs Borden was lying face down in a swelling pool of dark red, her arms by her side, her feet crumpled in her soft leather boots. Her hair, plaited then rolled tightly around the crown of her head, hacked off and tossed aside onto the bed. What a horrid thing.
Mrs Borden’s hair used to taste like lavender. When I was seven, she would swoosh it around my face, all those thick strands tickling my cheeks. But then her hair grew grey and began falling out into bowls of food. She never noticed how she ate a piece of herself each night.
More police officers came into the dining room, formed a semicircle around me, let’s find out how many more people we can fit.
It made me hotter, feel like I needed to vomit. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked.
‘Miss Borden, under no circumstances are you to leave this room,’ an officer said.
‘Should I be very frightened?’ My hand moved across my stomach.
Bridget cried. Mrs Churchill cried. Those high-pitched wails.
‘We have reason to believe that the killer is still in the house.’
‘Good heavens,’ I said. My stomach tightened. ‘I need my sister. I really need my sister.’
An officer sat across from me, said, ‘What’s the matter, Miss Borden?’
‘Pardon me?’ I said.
‘You keep rubbing your head.’ He leaned closer, made the wooden dining chair creak, sinking wood logs in a river.
Fingers caught at the top of my forehead, a widow’s peak, a widow’s peak, and I pulled them away, placed them in my lap. ‘My head is feeling rather strange, Officer.’
‘It must be the commotion.’
‘Yes. That would be it,’ I said.
The pebbles tumbled. In the corners of my eyes, Mrs Borden lay like a giant stone crypt, waiting for me to come in. My body jumped, surprised me.
‘What is it?’ the officer said.
‘I’ve had the most hideous thought. Mrs Borden is up there all alone, all hurt like Father.’