We were quiet for a time. My palm itched. I thought of using my teeth to scratch, went to bring my hand to my mouth when Mrs Churchill said, ‘When did it happen, Lizzie?’
I rushed my hand to my side. ‘I’m not sure. I was outside then I came in and he was hurt. Bridget was upstairs. Now he’s dead.’ I tried to think but everything slowed. ‘Isn’t that funny? I can’t remember what I was doing. Does that ever happen to you, forgetting the simplest of things?’
‘I suppose so, yes.’ Her words slurped out.
‘He said he wasn’t feeling well and wanted to be alone. So I kissed him, left him asleep on the sofa and went outside.’ The roof popped. ‘That’s all I can remember.’
Mrs Churchill placed her hand on my shoulder, patted me, made me warm and tingle. ‘Don’t push yourself, dear. This is all very . . . unnatural.’
‘You’re right.’
Mrs Churchill wiped her eyes, made them red with tears and rubbing. She looked strange. ‘This can’t be happening,’ she said. She looked strange and I tried not to think of Father alone on the sofa.
My skin itched. I scratched. ‘I’m really thirsty, Mrs Churchill,’ I said.
She stared at me, ruby-eyed, and went to the kitchen counter. She poured water from a jug and handed me a cup. The water looked cloud warm. I sipped. I thought of Father. The water was tar down my throat. I should have poured it onto the floor and asked Mrs Churchill to clean it up, get me something fresh. I sipped again. ‘Thank you,’ I said. I smiled.
Mrs Churchill came close to me, wrapped her arm around my shoulder and held tight. She leaned into me and began whispering but there was the smell of sour yoghurt snaking out from somewhere inside her and it made me dizzy. I pushed her away.
‘We need to get your mother, Lizzie.’
There was noise coming from outside, coming closer to the side of the house, and Mrs Churchill ran to the side door and opened it. Standing in front of me were Mrs Churchill, Bridget and Dr Bowen. ‘I found him, miss,’ Bridget said. She tried to slow her breathing, she sounds like an old dog. ‘I went as fast as I could.’
Dr Bowen pushed his silver, round-rimmed glasses up his narrow nose and said, ‘Where is he?’
I pointed to the sitting room.
Dr Bowen, his wrinkled forehead. ‘Are you alright, Lizzie? Did anybody try to hurt you?’ His voice smooth, honey-milked.
‘Hurt me?’
‘The person who hurt your father. They didn’t try to hurt you too?’
‘I’ve seen no one. No one is hurt but Father,’ I said. The floorboards stretched beneath my feet and for a moment I thought I would sink.
Dr Bowen stood in front of me and reached for my wrist, big hands, and he breathed out and in, his air swiping my lips. I licked them. His fingers pressed into skin until they felt blood. ‘Your pulse is too fast, Lizzie. I’ll remedy that as soon as I check your father.’
I nodded. ‘Would you like me to come in with you?’
Dr Bowen. ‘That’s . . . unnecessary.’
‘Oh,’ I said.
Dr Bowen took off his jacket and handed it to Bridget. He headed for the sitting room, took his brown, weathered leather medical bag with him. I held my breath. He opened the door like a secret, pushed his body into the room. I heard him gasp, say, ‘Lord Jesus.’ The door was open just enough. Somewhere behind me Mrs Churchill screamed and I snapped my head towards her. She screamed again, the way people do in nightmares, and her noise rattled through my body, made my muscles tighten and ache. ‘I didn’t want to see him. I didn’t want to see him,’ Mrs Churchill screamed. Bridget howled, dropped Dr Bowen’s coat on the floor. The women held each other and sobbed.
I wanted them to stop. I didn’t appreciate how they reacted to Father like that, they are shaming him. I went to Dr Bowen, stood next to him at the edge of the sofa and tried to block sight of Father’s body. Bridget called, ‘Miss Lizzie, don’t go in there.’ The room was still and Dr Bowen pushed me away. ‘Lizzie,’ he said, ‘you mustn’t be in here.’
‘I just want . . .’
‘You cannot be in here anymore. Stop looking at your father.’ He pushed me from the room and shut the door. Mrs Churchill screamed again and I covered my ears. I listened to my heart beat until everything felt numb.
After a time, Dr Bowen came out of the room, all pale and sweat, and yelled, ‘Summon the police.’ He bit his lip, his jaw a tiny thunder. On his fingertips were little drops of blood confetti, and I tried to imagine the ways he had touched Father.
‘It’s their annual picnic,’ Mrs Churchill whispered. ‘No one will be at the station.’ She rubbed her eyes, made them raw.
I wanted her to stop crying and so I smiled and said, ‘It’s alright. They’ll come eventually. Everything will be alright, won’t it, Dr Bowen?’
Dr Bowen eyed me and I looked at his hands. I thought of Father.
I was four when I first met Mrs Borden. She let me eat spoonfuls of sugar when Father wasn’t watching. How my tongue sang! ‘Can you keep secrets, Lizzie?’ Mrs Borden asked.
I nodded my head. ‘I can keep the best secrets.’ I hadn’t even told Emma that I loved our new mother.
She spooned sugar into my mouth, my cheeks tight with the sweet surge. ‘Let’s keep our sugar meal between you and me.’
I nodded and nodded until everything was dizzy. Later, when I was running through the house yelling, ‘Karoo! Karoo!’ and climbed over the sitting room sofa, Father yelled, ‘Emma, did you let Lizzie into the sugar?’
Emma came into the sitting room, head bowed. ‘No, Father. I swear it.’
I ran by them and Father caught me by the arm, a pull at my socket. ‘Lizzie,’ he said while I giggled and hawed, ‘did you eat something you weren’t meant to?’
‘I ate fruit.’
Father came right into my face, smelled like butter cake. ‘And nothing else?’
‘And nothing else.’ I laughed.
Emma looked at me, tried to peer into my mouth.
‘Are you lying?’ Father asked.
‘No, Daddy. I would never.’
He had searched me over, searched dimpled cheeks for signs of disobedience. I smiled. He smiled. Off I went again, running and jumping and I passed Mrs Borden in the kitchen and she winked at me.
When the police arrived a short time later they began taking photos of the dark-grey suit Father wore to work that morning, of his black leather boots still tied over ankles and feet. Flashbulbs broke every six seconds. The young police photographer said he would prefer not to photograph the old man’s head. ‘Couldn’t someone else do it? Please?’ he said, wiped the back of his hand over his forehead, like oil was dripping from his head.
An older officer told him to go outside while they found a real man to finish the job. They didn’t need a man. A daughter would suffice. I had lovingly looked after Father all morning and his face didn’t scare me. I should have said, ‘How many photographs do you want? How close would you like me to get? Which angle will lead you to the murderer?’