I laughed, kissing her on the cheek. ‘You know me, I’ll give anything a go once. The pot’s boiling over, by the way.’
Her attention diverted, I grabbed the keys from the hall and made my way to the car. That was close. Too close. I made a mental note to tell Emma we had been flossing if she pressed me about it. Not that she would. She’d be too busy throwing up. I caught the unkind thought as it shot across my consciousness. What had happened was changing all of us, and I hated the direction in which I was being taken.
After posting the sample and picking up some groceries, I headed back home. I could have left it until tomorrow, but I wanted to make the post. The three hundred pounds I was paying for a quicker result would be worth every penny. There was no way I could have waited. I hated putting on a pretence that everything was OK. Jamie was mine, he had to be, and the sooner I got a positive result confirming this, the better, because the alternative did not bear thinking about.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
EMMA
2017
Blinking in the darkness, I lay next to Alex, his shallow breathing the only sound in the room. It was one of those utterly black nights when the sky was thick with clouds, the moon and stars extinguished from view. My darkest memories crawled out of their box, clawing at my insides as I recalled what I had done. I imagined our oak tree, its bare branches stark against the grey, lifeless landscape. Dad sitting on the bench he had built at its base, staring mournfully into the skyline as he thought about Mum. It was a haunting scene in my memory, coming to me with greater clarity now the lights had been doused in every room of our home.
It had been Alex’s idea to turn them off, citing a migraine that had come on after supper. But I knew from his sideways glances that he could not bear to look at my face. I closed my eyes as tiredness washed over me, my throat still sore from bringing up the food I had so carefully prepared. So much for my resolve. Had Alex really gone to the shops before dinner, or was it just an excuse to get away? The thought swam with all the others in a murky distillery of gloom.
Falling into sleep, my dream returned me to my childhood. I was four years of age, squirming as I awoke in damp flannel sheets. I had wet the bed again. I knew that Mummy would be mad. I blinked in the darkness. Eyes open or closed, it all looked the same. My room was blacker than the night outside. I slid from between the sheets, landing the balls of my feet on the harsh wooden floor. My heart fluttered like a hummingbird as my wet nightdress sent a chill through to my skin. Mummy told me if I got out of bed that the ghost of the Strood would get me. But I was more afraid of my mummy than the ghost. I reached out with my fingers splayed, blindly patted the blankets until I found the bedpost, which led me to the wall. Grasping the edge of the thick polyester curtains, I pulled hard until a chink of light filtered through my small box room. My gaze fell to the floor, half expecting a decaying hand to shoot out and grab me by the ankle. Grunting, I tugged the blankets on my bed, but they were too thick and heavy, and hot tears fell down my cheeks as I realised I couldn’t change the sheets by myself. The more I pulled, the heavier they became. A whine growing in my throat, I climbed on top of the bed and curled up on my pillow.
With a slow creak my bedroom door opened. My heart pounding hard, I stuffed my fist into my mouth, trying to hold back my scream at the sight of the long reedy shadow bleeding through. Was the ghost really coming to get me? A hand reached out, flicking the light switch on the wall. Bright light flooded my bedroom, stinging my eyes and chasing the shadows away. It was my father. I jumped from my bed, wrapping my chubby fingers tightly around his neck as he crouched down to speak to me. I took comfort from his earthy smell. I knew Daddy went away to dig for treasure, but archaeology was too big a word for me to fully understand. Frowning, he took in the messy bed, the damp nightdress.
‘Have you wet the bed again? Why didn’t you tell Mummy?’ he said.
My words came in choked sobs as my four-year-old body shuddered in response. ‘Muh . . . Mummy said the ghost would get me if I le . . . left my bed.’
Undoing my fingers, he rose from his position, his leather shoes creaking on the floorboards as he walked. Picking up the empty jug on the dresser, he gave me a curious glance. ‘How much have you had to drink?’
I stood open-mouthed, but my words would not come.
He knelt for a second time, his voice soft and coaxing as he told me I had done nothing wrong.
‘Mummy said I had to drink it all,’ I said. My voice was barely a whisper.
As his frown returned, I realised it was Mummy who was in trouble, not me. It gave me a certain satisfaction that I wasn’t the only person who got things wrong.
Quickly, Daddy changed the sheets and dressed me for bed. Tugging at my curtains, he opened them wide and left them that way. I liked it when Daddy was home. I scooted to the edge of the bed. The stale scent of urine hung in the air, the damp mattress soaking through the freshly laid sheets. Muffled voices filtered from my parents’ bedroom as my father asked my mother why she had insisted I drink so much before bed.
Mum denied it, of course, calling me an attention seeker and a liar. I knew what those words meant because I had been called them before.
I had come to hate the sound of her angry voice. It was a rough, grating noise, echoing like a trapped crow in the room. I wished that Daddy didn’t have to go away, so Mummy could be happy all the time and wouldn’t drink the brown stuff from the bottle that made her so mad.
‘You’ve been drinking again, haven’t you? For Christ’s sake, Isobel, she’s four years old,’ my father said, and I wondered what my age had to do with it.
The bedsprings bounced and squeaked as if to signal it was the end of the conversation. I imagined my mother turning around to face the wall, grasping handfuls of blankets in her bony fists.
A light switch clicked off, and the sound of change rattled against the floor as my father undressed. It was a comforting noise. But morning would bring more disapproval after he left. I whimpered, tears pricking my eyes.
‘Emma,’ a voice said from so very far away. ‘Emma. It’s OK. It’s just a dream.’
I blinked in the darkness at the hand gently shaking my shoulder. Disorientated and groggy, it still felt as if I were a child, back in the room where Jamie now slept. ‘What?’ I murmured, taking a slow breath.
Alex stretched to switch on his bedside lamp. ‘You were crying in your sleep. Are you all right?’
I touched my cheeks, which were wet with tears. No wonder the dream felt so real. I steadied my voice, vowing my son would never hear the harsh whispers that had been a backdrop to my childhood. ‘I’m OK; sorry I woke you.’
Seconds ticked by as we lay in the dark, my past circling around us like a kettle of vultures. Slowly, Alex’s hand reached across the void and cupped mine.
I squeezed it back. ‘It’s going to be OK,’ I whispered. ‘We’ll get through this.’
But my voice contained more confidence than I felt.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
EMMA
2017