I was about to crawl from under the table when I saw Lizzie in an armchair in the sitting room. She slumped, sat leg-wide, made her skirt stretch into a tug of war, was lifeless-looking into the carpet. She’d removed her apron. Lizzie whispered to herself, little lisps of tongue over lip. How long had she been there? Had she seen me? Lizzie rubbed her forehead, tugged at her hair, kept quiet in a quiet house. My leg began to ache, tired from curling. Soon I’d have to move through the house. Lizzie reached into her lap, got out a half-eaten pear and sank her teeth into flesh. Sloppy-mouth. She bit again, pulled her feet together. Bite, she sat straight. Bite, she cracked her neck. Bite, she licked her lips, slurped herself into a smile.
Lizzie stood, went to the kitchen, and threw the pear into the sink. I crawled slow to the other side of the table, my hands dived into my own vomit. Cold, gravel-thick. What it took for me to stay silent. Lizzie pulled a spoon from a drawer, stuck it in her mouth, disappeared from sight. I could smell the deep pit of myself on my palms. Lizzie came back to view, raspberry jelly jar in hand, scooped her spoon deep into syrup fruit, made glass tink. Where had Abby gone? Lizzie ate jelly, emptied the jar and left it on the counter. She stretched her arms above her head and, like that, she left the kitchen and sometime later the side door opened, slammed shut. Lizzie was a strange little creature.
I crawled out from under the table, could hear Lizzie and Bridget speak in the yard, a mumble rush. With things the way they were, I couldn’t stay in that part of the house. I’d be caught. Getting to the backyard without them catching me wouldn’t be easy. I’d have to hide somewhere else in the house until Andrew came home. I headed to the front stairs, climbed up. Heat ate me like a crow. There was a dollop of syrup-red on the banister. I touched it, let it spread over fingertip then brought it to my mouth. I tasted fresh blood, the kind that sings. There was an open door to a room and I went inside, saw another red dollop on the doorjamb. I touched, brought fingers to mouth, tasted again. My cheeks recognised the tart metallic. I had tasted blood like this so many times before.
I stepped further inside, noticed something white lying by the radiator. I went closer, knew before I picked it up what it was. The underside piece of skull was coloured blood, its flesh still holding on to strands of greying hair. I lifted it to my face, inhaled; a tiny scream inside my nose and mouth. Someone had been dealing out punishment without me. I looked over my shoulder, heat slapped me across the face and I dropped the bone to the floor. ‘What is going on?’ Outside, the two children screamed, laughed.
I saw the bed then, a small spatter of blood on the white duvet cover, two neatly ironed pillow shams covering feather-down pillows, a chunk of plaited hair in the middle of the bed and, beside that, another piece of skull. The taste of metallic sulphur on my tongue. I slowed towards the bed, picked up the bone and held on to it. ‘My, my. What a treasure trove we have here.’ I leaned on the bed, felt the mattress depress underneath me. That’s when I saw Abby lying face first on the ground, her body caught part way between the dressing table and bed.
Her body was shaped like an S, face buried in folded arms, legs straight, stiff. Blood haloed around her head, a thick red honey-stick in the carpet. I crawled off the bed and kneeled beside Abby, rocked her shoulders. My fingers sank into flesh and I stared at the back of her head. Thick cuts like tree roots led all the way to the beginning of brain. I stuck a finger inside one of the incisions. The cuts were ferocious, and I moved my fingers in and out of bone track, and wiped them on my trousers. Papa always said not to waste spilled blood.
I looked around the room, looked for clues as to who had sorted Abby out. I didn’t like the idea that John might’ve asked someone else to help solve the family problem. Did Lizzie know Abby was there on the floor? I stroked Abby’s back, thought of Mama. I looked at the bed, at the small piece of skull bone, and reached for it. It weighed the price of gold in my hand. I held it to my nose, breathed it in, smelled a hint of violet flower. I placed the skull bone inside my trouser pocket for safe keeping, to show John what had happened while he was gone.
I was at the top of the stairs when I heard Bridget and Lizzie speak.
‘Miss Lizzie, have ya seen this? There’s a terrible mess in the dinin’ room.’ Bridget was quick.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Someone’s been sick all over!’
‘Show me.’ Lizzie, like she was on a deer hunt.
I needed to find John, needed to find Andrew. I headed downstairs, through the banister caught sight of Abby, under the bed. I heard Bridget say, ‘I’m worried ’bout Mrs Borden. What if this is her vomit?’
I wanted to call out, ‘She’s here. She’s dead.’ But I couldn’t get myself caught.
‘Perhaps it is,’ Lizzie said. ‘Perhaps she’s been very sick.’
‘Let’s go check on her.’
‘Oh, we can’t. Mrs Borden left. She had a note from an ill relative and she’s gone to help.’
‘I didn’t see anyone come,’ Bridget said.
‘They came.’ Lizzie hesitated.
Voices trailed, a door opened.
I went down the stairs, my shoes, echoes, only to find empty rooms, no one in the piano room, no one in the sofa room, the dining room. No one in the cupboard under the stairs. Someone had made that blood upstairs, had made things complicated for me. It wouldn’t be long before Abby was found, before police arrived. The time to deal with Andrew was running out.
The clock struck ten. Andrew would be home at one. I couldn’t chance hours in the house. I’d have to stay in the barn. I headed for the basement, descended, and when I touched a foundation post, I felt something wet, slightly sticky. I tasted. It was Abby. Someone had taken her blood underneath the house. There was an itch inside me, one that wanted to hunt. I made calculations—police would arrive and would search the house, would search down here. I took towards the double doors that led to the backyard, grabbed and pulled. My luck—they were unlocked. I let them open a crack. I peered an eye outside. Lizzie was by the pear arbour, picking, eating, letting pear flesh fall to the ground. Time passed and she dropped the pear core, came towards the basement, made me quick-step behind the doors, push myself up against the wall. She walked by me, wiped her hand across her mouth, brought with her the smell of grass, of hard sweat, and didn’t notice me at all. Lizzie went up the stairs and into the kitchen. I got myself out of the basement to the barn. I needed a good hiding place. A pigeon on the barn roof sounded and I looked up. That’s when I saw the crawl space above the loft. Coffin length. I climbed the stairs then jumped up, pulled myself into the little space and rolled against the wall. Abby’s skull piece dug into my leg.
I heard a woman wail morse code in the backyard. Scream, scream. Something unexpected. I wasn’t sure I was hearing things right. Then a short time later there was brute panic outside. ‘Make them all stand back on the sidewalk. Don’t let anyone onto the property.’
‘Yes, sir.’
I writhed to the edge of the crawl space, saw the barn door was open. Someone had come in. I hunched myself down, took a look out the loft window. A crowd was gathering on the street, police paced up and down the side of the house.