Another drawing catches my eye now, and I step closer to look at the big buck teeth and cartoon eyes – it’s a bunny character to colour in, drawn in pencil by a skilled adult hand. Colourful scrawls burst out of the lines. The artist’s initialled her character – SH for Sophie Harlow, just like she always did – but I’ve already recognised her confident, easy style.
And I almost missed seeing them. It’d be easy, with the door open like that. You might forget the drawings were there, if you were clearing a room, say. Taking everything out, removing any sign that someone was ever here. Perhaps rushing a little, for whatever reason. You might not remember to check behind the open door, flat against the wall. You might walk straight out, if you had other things to think about.
Like he did. He missed them. He’s forgotten to take these down.
I’m on the floor now. My legs gave way, I register in a corner of my brain, as both my hands reach out to the door. This is it. Sophie. I know it, I can touch it. Here she is.
My beautiful girl. And her baby.
41
SOPHIE
It wasn’t a lie, what I wrote in my leaving letter. Runaway note. I don’t like the sound of that. Runaway sounds cowardly, like you couldn’t face the music. I thought what I was doing was brave. But who am I kidding.
I got Holly to do the test with me. And at the last minute, some instinct told me to go into the bathroom alone. I don’t know why, not really. She would walk around without a top on, would chat away with the toilet door open, but I’d never been like that. And he’d always warned me that we needed to be careful, to keep this just between us.
So she believed me. Somehow, I’d walked out of there with a smile. ‘Negative,’ I’d said, then taken a deep breath. I’d wrapped the wand in tissue, quietly slipped it into my bag to get rid of later. I wouldn’t leave it in the house.
I don’t know how I forgot about the packaging; I was flustered, I suppose. Holly took the blame. She was a good friend to me. I wish I could talk to her now. But I felt like he would know what to do. He was always so reassuring, always so capable.
I remember when I told him. I said to Mum and Dad that I was taking the dog for a walk, then slipped out to the end of the road. They always believed me. I ran to his car, the rain pelting down, pushed King into the back seat and climbed in the front, my heart racing.
Afterwards, he was so quiet.
‘Because they’re not always reliable,’ I said. ‘They can tear, I read, and you might not notice …’ I trailed off. Of course he knew that. But I needed to fill the silence.
‘I know. Don’t worry. It’s OK.’
I was so relieved. He didn’t even seem that surprised.
And I told him I wanted to keep it. I didn’t even say the word – abortion. It might make the idea more real, the only way forward.
‘I’m sixteen soon,’ I kept saying, as he stared ahead, over the steering wheel. ‘It’s OK. We’ll be OK.’ We spent so much time in that car. There weren’t many places that were safe for us.
When he turned to face me, his face stayed in shadow. ‘No.’ He was shaking his head. ‘You don’t understand. You were fifteen at the time. And they’ll be able to work that out.’
For a moment, it was strange. I had a funny feeling like – like I didn’t know him, not really. He seemed so distant. I couldn’t imagine what he was thinking.
Then I’d reached out, touched his arm softly. ‘Let’s go away,’ I’d said. ‘Like we’ve talked about.’ It was like breaking a spell.
‘You’d do that for me?’ His voice came out of the darkness. I wished I could see his face.
‘Yes.’ I had no doubts. ‘For you I would.’ I couldn’t lose him.
‘Let me think,’ he said. But he sounded pleased, speculative. He’d leaned forward to kiss me then, his eyes dark. Dark with emotion, I thought. It was so romantic, how much he cared. The things he’d say, so lovely and surprising from someone like him. I can’t live without you. I’ll do whatever it takes. I’m not letting you go.
Now? Now I know better – he reminds me of something else. I couldn’t get it out of my head, once I realised. It was a nature programme I’d seen at Grandpa’s on TV, when I was little, so it scared me, when the big fish swam past too close to the camera. That’s what he reminds me of, funny as it sounds. He’s got shark’s eyes. Alive but dead, at the same time.
I suppose I panicked. My stomach was still flat, but somehow hard now. Alone in my bed, before I went to sleep, I’d press a hand to it, feeling its solidity. In the end his idea seemed like … not just the best option. The only option. There would be much less upset, he said, if they were only looking for me. Then we could explain things in our own time – when we were ready.
‘We’ll have to go to a hospital,’ I’d kept saying. We could go out of the county, he’d said when we made our plans, it would be fine.
‘Don’t worry about that. It’s all under control. Don’t you trust me?’
I never knew how to answer that. So I tried not to worry, once I was in here. I ate the vegetables he brought. I read the books he gave me. My belly felt like it wasn’t part of me, huge and swelling and marbled with blue. I couldn’t quite accept it, even then. It was like a dream.
When it started, that cool autumn evening when the pains got really bad, he was there. He was checking up on me all the time back then. He talked me through the breathing and the rest of it.
‘We need to go,’ I said. I knew I needed to stay calm. ‘Soon.’
‘Not yet.’
‘Soon.’
And at some point, as the day turned to night, it dawned on me – I’m not going anywhere, not at this stage. I think I must have said as much. It was all blurry by then. Maybe a part of me, the bit that I’d buried deep down, knew that this would happen all along.
‘Keep going,’ he kept saying. I didn’t want to hold his hand.
I was fine. I made it through it, anyway. He gave me something that made the pain less. Far away, I could hear someone whimpering, then I realised it was me. Then I must have slept.
Eventually, I woke up. It was daytime again. He wasn’t there. The baby was sleeping in a cot by the mattress. I propped myself up on one arm, carefully, and looked at his tiny eyelashes, his little fists. I stroked one with a finger. His skin was incredibly soft. Slowly, very gently, I picked him up.
He’d told me I could pick the baby’s name. I knew he wouldn’t like family names: Mark for my dad, or Harlow for me. And suddenly I knew: those button eyes and so cuddly. Teddy.
‘You know, that’s the beauty of having a baby young,’ he told me when he came back. ‘You’ll bounce back quickly.’
I said nothing. I felt … so different. He’d said we’d go to the hospital. He’d promised me.
You lied. I couldn’t stop thinking that – you lied to me – as I watched the tall figure moving around at the bottom of the mattress, tidying up the wet towels and other things. Who are you? What am I dealing with?
Then I looked down. Little starfish hands, dark eyes. I knew the baby couldn’t really see anything, not just yet, but it felt like he was peeping at me. I held him close and sniffed his baby smell. And that’s when I felt it. Totally silent, nothing you’d ever notice from the outside. I know he didn’t. But my whole world shifted. You come first now, little Teddy.
Suddenly, now it was all over, I felt it. A wave of pure fear. So strong, I almost couldn’t breathe. Later I couldn’t understand why it hit me then, after I’d come through it, but I do now.
Some part of me realised what I couldn’t fully face back then: what I now had to lose.
There’s only been the one time I forgot, just for a second. That evening soon after he’d strangled me, when I rushed for the door, was almost through it – and then I heard that small cry from the corner. That’s when I froze, stunned I’d ever forgotten. Teddy—
And then his full weight was on me. I’d missed my chance. But I’d never really had one. I couldn’t leave without the baby. And now I couldn’t risk doing anything that might hurt him.