‘I thought you were arriving tomorrow.’
‘I had a change of plans, had things to attend to. I thought I’d come earlier, perhaps see Emma in Fairhaven.’
‘Did you?’
‘No. She wasn’t where you said she would be. She’d gone out.’
Lizzie wrenched her head up. ‘Where was she?’
‘Her friend didn’t say. I got the feeling she didn’t trust me.’ John palmed Lizzie’s forehead, a soothing.
‘Helen’s always overcautious. She’s no fun,’ Lizzie said.
They sat on the step of the basement door and John swung his arm around her.
‘Everything alright around here? Abby seems stranger than usual. She’s a bit too quick in wanting to leave rooms.’ John whistled the words out.
‘Is she? I haven’t cared to notice.’
‘Has she been causing you heartache?’
‘Mrs Borden is as bad as Father. Sometimes I think she deliberately sets Father against me.’
John shook his head and rocked Lizzie back and forth. ‘Fancy pitting a parent against a child.’ John had a strange way with his niece, all that holding and stroking. I didn’t like the look of it.
‘She always has. And now she’s gone and got Father to deed a house to her and her sister.’
‘I can’t fathom why he would agree to such a thing.’
‘It should be for me and Emma to have. It’s our money too.’
I imagined Abby whispering into Andrew’s ear, like Angela into Papa, whispering how he should leave his children. I’d have to speak to Andrew about women like that.
‘What would you say if I told you there would be no more problems?’ John said.
Lizzie looked at him. ‘In what way?’
‘I’m going to arrange a man-to-man talk with your father, remind him to treat you and your sister properly.’
‘That could work.’ Lizzie brightened.
‘I suspect it will, Lizzie.’
‘When will you speak to him?’
‘How about tomorrow?’
Lizzie dug her fingernail under fingernail, wiped the debris on her skirt. ‘When?’
‘How about when he comes home from work to have lunch? I’d make it discreet so as not to embarrass him in his own home. Perhaps you could persuade Bridget and Abby out of the house?’ John was making it easier for me.
Lizzie rubbed her temples, closed her eyes. ‘That could work. That could work,’ she said quietly.
John smiled. ‘Well, it’s settled.’
‘It’s settled.’
He tightened himself around Lizzie, kissed her on the forehead. ‘You try to relax tonight.’
‘You know, I’m thinking I’ll go see my friend Alice.’
‘Splendid idea.’
Lizzie stood, said goodbye and went into the basement, left her lamp behind. The door closed.
Time passed. John raised his voice. ‘Did you catch that?’
‘Yes,’ I said, remained in the shadows.
‘You can see how distressing this is for her.’
‘Yes.’
‘Please do your best.’
‘Yes.’
John stood, dusted himself. ‘I’ll be off now.’
‘Will you let me in the house tonight?’
‘No. It’s too risky.’
‘Where will I go?’
He pointed. ‘The barn’s over there.’
I was no animal. I pulled myself up, stood tall and meat-cleaved towards him. Noses almost touched. ‘I don’t like how you’re speaking to me.’
‘That’s not my concern.’
‘I could easily make it so.’ I wanted to put him in his place.
He pulled away, patted me on the back. ‘That’s the way. Be just like that.’ He laughed, opened the basement and went inside. Crickets hammered the yard. There was no point staying outside getting bit by insects, those hate-filled things. I picked up Lizzie’s kerosene lamp, turned it to half-light and went to the barn. There were stacked wooden boxes, wooden crates of broken plates, odds and ends of discarded household items, an empty bird aviary. I made my way up the barn stairs to a small loft, got myself settled under the window. I turned off the lamp, looked out at the house, watched the comings and goings of shadows. I would become one of them.
NINE
LIZZIE
4 August 1892
IN THE DINING room, Father and Mrs Borden, stiff and straight on undertaker’s boards, were waiting for the coroner, waiting to tell them what it was to be dead.
The police had gone out for a moment, had left the inside of the house unguarded. Neighbours retreated back to their homes. Emma was somewhere. At the tip of my mind I heard Mrs Borden call to me, ‘Come and see us, Lizzie. Come see a secret.’ I didn’t want to let them down. I crept the stairs towards the dining room. I made sure I was alone. I opened the dining room door and lifted an eye into the room. I held my breath. There under white sheets, frightened and silent, their bodies held each other like first-time lovers. I closed my eyes while Father reached his arm around his wife and told her, ‘It will all be over soon.’
I walked into the room. A thick stain of heat and blood, of broken muscle and bone, dug under my nose, critter critter. I walked slowly to the dining table and stood at the end. I touched the edge of a crisp sheet. I lifted my head towards the ceiling. Underneath the light fixture, paint crumbled into tiny flakes of yellowing white, summer snow falling on top of the sheets covering Father and Mrs Borden. Father would hate such a mess.
I hid a smile underneath my palm and tasted salt. On my wrists there was a spatter of blood, tiny droplets that were still finding their way under my skin. I licked my finger and wiped at it, erasing Father, erasing Mrs Borden from my body. I lifted the sheets. Underneath, like an echo, I could feel Mrs Borden hum, her vibrations jumping through my body, humming the songs she sang when I was young and couldn’t sleep. I wanted to shout at her, ‘Stop it! You are not that person anymore,’ but instead I thought about what she was now: the beginning of carrion. Soft skin opened like a rock; hard underneath hard underneath cold. I lifted the sheets higher. They weren’t wearing any clothing. I poked Mrs Borden’s thigh, so cold, quickly pulled the sheet down.
I thought about Father, stretched out like a bone xylophone, one arm stuck to his torso while the other reached towards mercy, towards Mrs Borden. I went to Father’s side of the table, lifted the sheet again. His hair was matt and thin. He looked like he was in pain. I leaned in, just a bit, and kissed him on the side of his face where there had been a cut. The clock on the mantel ticked ticked.