So Pretty, page 17
ADA
Prayers and Omens
The door swings open and Teddy enters carrying a tray. Bread and cheese and oranges. I never want to taste another orange.
‘Here we are. Some lunch. Eat up, fella, you need to keep your strength up.’
Albie glances at me, and I give a nod. He crams the food in his mouth. Teddy sits beside me, watches Albie. ‘Good boy,’ he says.
‘Tell me about your father?’ I say, ‘What did he do? Why did no one go to your mother’s funeral?’
The question has been cornering me, worrying away at my thoughts. Did he have more than one family? Was he a serial abuser?
Teddy shakes his head. ‘He took my mother’s peace. I don’t think she ever really found it again.’
‘Did she not meet anyone new? After your father?’
‘No. She didn’t trust anyone. She wasn’t lonely though. We had each other.’
The words are thick in my mouth, and I struggle to speak. ‘You loved your mother. She loved you. But what would she think, Teddy, of what you have done?’
He frowns, the lines in his face deepening. ‘What have I done?’
His hand is tightening around mine. I hear my heart thumping in my ears and I tell myself to keep breathing. The skin around Teddy’s mouth is taut, and his eyes are hard, like the black bead eyes of all the stuffed animals upstairs.
I no longer think of the shop as Mr Vincent’s. It has exchanged hands. It is under new management. Albie and I are Teddy’s possessions. One day, our bones will lose their movement and he will have to move them for us. I see him curling my fingers round a cup, raising my arm, higher, higher, until the cup reaches my mouth. He will help us to and from the bucket, he will clothe us, bathe us, and when our words dry and become brittle, he will speak for us, our voices from his mouth.
He is talking to Albie now. I inch closer, try to put myself between them.
‘I see a lot of myself in you, fella. A lot of my mother, actually. Your grandmamma. She used to take me to feed the ducks when I was little. Every weekend, without fail. Have I told you this?’
Albie shakes his head.
‘She’d buy me a whole loaf of bread, and we’d walk to the park, even if it was raining.’ Teddy tucks a strand of hair behind Albie’s ear. ‘When you were younger, I did the same. You probably don’t remember but the ducks followed us home once.’
Albie’s eyes widen. ‘They … they did?’
‘Yep. A long line of them, all the way. You loved them, gave them all names. You were so upset when they left.’
Albie is leaning forward, eyes bright. Panic jumps in my gut, and I try to catch his attention.
‘We returned to the park the next day and they were all there. Billy and Olly and Suzy and Jonny and the rest.’
I think, Albie has forgotten, he has forgotten again.
Look at me, look at me.
But he is caught.
I reach out, tap the back of his hand. His eyes come to mine, he blinks, retreats into himself, as if he is disappointed it isn’t true. Teddy doesn’t seem to notice and continues.
A sob bursts from Albie’s lips. The air is thick now, so thick I could nick it with my nail.
‘Do you remember, fella? Do you remember all these times together?’
‘You’re not my daddy.’
The smile on Teddy’s face runs, wet paint down a canvas. ‘What?’
‘You’re not my daddy. You’re not my daddy!’
Albie’s words rise and tangle. Louder now. Teddy’s lip twitches, it is an omen. An omen I have come to dread.
‘Albie, be quiet. Albie, stop it,’ I say. I try to draw him close but he will not be moved.
‘You’re not my daddy. You’re NOT my daddy!’
‘Stop!’ I shout, and I try to cover my son’s mouth. To stop these words.
‘You’re not my daddy. You’re NOT my daddy!’
Teddy strikes him, so fast I do not see his hand move. Albie opens his eyes, wide, confused, as if he is unsure what has just happened. Then he teeters, falls into me. A red bud appears on his cheek, and he begins to scream.
Teddy’s mouth pops open, his eyes bulge. ‘You … you shouldn’t have been so rude to your father. It’s … it’s naughty! We need to teach you some manners. You’re a bad boy.’
‘Touch my son again, and I swear to God, Teddy, I will kill you. I will fucking kill you.’
I look at him, with this humming, heaving mass in my arms, and I want to put my hand through his chest, take this heart, this cold and stony thing, break it, make it powder.
TEDDY
Killing Hands and Cutting Words
‘John?’ she says when she wakes. ‘John?’
‘No, Mum. It’s me.’
There is relief in her eyes.
I run the damp cloth across her forehead, buds of sweat and oil soaking into the cotton. Her hair is a tangled mess, breadcrumbs and old spittle glued to the ends. I must wash it when she is better.
‘Mum, you’re burning up. I’ve got to cool you down.’ I drag the blanket back, remove her socks and jumper, roll up her trousers and sleeves. ‘Can you sit up and have some water?’
She nods her head, but her eyes are strange, far away, and I wonder from what distance she has heard me.
‘Here you go.’ I press the glass to her lips, cup the back of her head with my palm. ‘Keep drinking. We need to get you better, OK?’
She pushes me away. ‘I thought you were Johnny. You sound like him, you look like him.’
‘I know, Mum.’
She reaches for the bedside cabinet, takes something in her hand. I grit my teeth. The beads are black as beetles. Her expression has changed: it was distant and blurred, now it is tight, the edges sharper, all her concerns returning, thickening her skin. If I press my finger to her chin, it will meet something unrelenting as wood.
The beads were a gift from Father. When he was convicted, she ripped them from her body, furious fingers snapping a cord so thick it should have needed cutting. They scattered, she said, on the ground, under mucked rugs and tables, and into dusty skirting.
She never told me she collected them up.
‘Where did you find them? Were you going through your wardrobe yesterday?’
She looks back at me. ‘What will you do, Teddy? What will you do when you are older? When you are lonely and the girls won’t stick? And friends scarper? Because of your face. You have his face. You could be twins.’
Her eyes are red, sore, the skin will scab if I let it. ‘You don’t need to worry about that yet, Mum. I’m only seventeen.’
‘He ate with his fingers, that front lip of his pulled up so high, I could see his gums. Pale. It used to make me sick. It was the one thing that I hated about him.’
‘You sound like you’ve been swallowing razors. I’m going to get you some honey.’
She grips my arm. ‘You do the same. You eat with your lip back and your gums out. How are you going to find a girl like that?’
The panic in her face makes my heart jabber. ‘Mum, don’t worry. I’ll be fine. You don’t need to worry about the future yet.’
‘Who’s going to love you? How are you going to have a family?’ Her voice is louder now. But there is no malice in it, only concern.
‘Mum, calm down.’
The beads rattle in her hand. I want to take them, crunch them with my boot. ‘I’ll be OK.’
‘He was always a peculiar man. He’d starch his shirts, his collars and his cuffs, perfect, then go out with tomato seeds and syrup dried onto his trousers. He’d walk with his right shoulder raised a little higher than his left, as if he had a weight strapped to his side. At night, before he could sleep, he had to blow on his pillow. “Removes the dust,” he said.’
‘I’m going to get you some honey.’
When I return, she is calmer, her eyes half closed. I blot her forehead with a fresh cloth until she finally sleeps.
Then I take the beads from her balled hand, take them outside, bury them in the soil. But later, she wakes and cannot find them, and there is little peace to be had. I dig, plucking them from the soil until my nails are gummed with muck. I return them to her palm.
And there they begin their rattle.
They are cold to the touch, dulled from my mother’s fingers. I will give them to Ada. Perhaps she will smile at me, thank me with a kiss, swift before Albie sees, but flushed with something hot. ‘I love them. Thank you, Teddy. I love them so much.’
‘I thought you might. They belonged to my mother.’
‘Help me with the clasp. What do you think?’
‘So pretty.’
The day is a fine one, clear and fresh, and white shirts and sheets hang like tufts of cotton wool in the gardens ahead. We had a handful of visitors to the shop yesterday. Mr Vincent stilled, as if he was a puppet with no puppeteer. He does not want people in the shop, he especially does not want them to touch its things with their sticky hands. But I like it. I like the wide-eyed stares as they enter, the curiosity and the fear at it all.
‘Oh my Lord, look. Look!’
‘I don’t like it in here.’
‘Is that a…?’
‘Don’t look. Let’s go.’
The way they trip out the door because they can only bear to be inside for so long. I used to look like them.
I tuck the beads in my pocket, head to the shop. The town stirs with theories, wilder and wilder each day. But as yet, I have seen nothing and heard nothing of the police. Only yesterday a man claimed he’d seen Ada in Hastings: ‘Bright as a button, with that little boy in tow.’ Another man said he’s seen her in the next village, ‘doing a spot of shopping’. There are versions of her scattered about the county. Some even as far as London.
‘You might ask Teddy. He works at Berry & Vincent. Only been here a little under a year now. But he seemed close to her.’
‘In what way?’
‘They were friends, I think. Often saw them together.’
‘Don’t bother with Teddy. Talk to Mr Vincent. He’ll know something about it. Rye hasn’t been the same since he arrived. The things he’s done over the years.’
‘Can you elaborate?’
‘We came to you lot before about him once. You were useless.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. And Miss Belling, can you tell me more about her?’
My feet stick to the cobbles. I cannot move them. One of Rye’s elderly couples stand in their doorway. I cannot see who they are speaking to. The man has his head down, nodding as he scribbles in a notebook.
‘Yes, I agree with Bill. Go and talk to Mr Vincent. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s done away with her. Always so quiet and watchful, you know what I mean? Ran poor Mr Berry out the town. Maybe he did the same to Ada.’
‘And why would you suspect him?’
‘Where are you from? You’ve obviously not been in Rye long if you’ve got to ask me that.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Get yourself to Berry & Vincent, Detective. All I’m saying.’ It’s not all she says because then, ‘Mind yourself with that man.’
I back-step, crane my neck, catch a glimpse of a badge, a brief flash of silver. I run to the shop, close the blinds. Mr Vincent stands behind the counter. He looks at me, his lips move, and I think, He’s speaking, what’s he saying? But all I can hear is the rush of my own blood and the rattle of the beads as they settle in my pocket.
ADA
Screams and Whispers
Here the darkness is long. I work happy words round my mouth, speak them into the sickness of this air, to make my boy happy. But then they curdle, and I spit them out instead. I am careful.
I speak of the sun and not of the moon.
I speak of light, fire. But not of the darkness, not of the burn.
I speak of sweetness, honey on the tongue. Of sea salt on skin. Of footsteps through this door and back into the world.
He cries, yes, his face a red rumple of envy for these simple things. But then he smiles, ties himself like a knot across my stomach. He is too big, too heavy, and I cannot breathe. But I will not remove him, so I take small breaths, my head becoming light, my heart heavy as a rock.
‘What’s that, Mummy?’
‘What’s what?’
‘That.’
I hear it then. A fingernail across wood. On the other side of the door.
‘Mouse?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘No mouse.’
I expect the air to give way, for Teddy to enter with all his madness. Albie and I cinch together, limbs like ropes wrapping round one another. But the door remains closed. Why is he doing this? Why does he not just come in?
‘Teddy?’
No answer. At least not in words. A hum rises like a heat haze, blistering the air, running across our ears. It is deep, the sound, gravel. I want to clap my hands together. To break it.
Vincent.
It is as if this sound is driving us further into the earth. I feel further from the surface than I ever have. Albie is whimpering now. I think, It can’t hurt us, this voice. But if a voice ever could, this one would. I know it.
‘Mummy, come back.’
I knock on the door, once, with my finger, and he knocks back. Tap, tap. I am here.
Tap, tap. So am I.
What does Vincent want? Does Teddy know he is here?
Vincent’s voice rises, into words, into such strange words. He is singing to us.
About a boy, a man, a traveling show. About girls who fly through the air like wingless birds, men so large they look like mountains next to their children. Families who come from the towns to watch the families from the show move and act and exist for them. Then he sings about a fire, a burning, of all that life. He sings about the death of the man, the freedom for the boy. Sings a song of murder like it is a lullaby.
I look through the keyhole. His is on the other side, one black eye peering into mine. He has been watching me this entire time. I fall back, the air rushing from my lungs. Blood ribbons along my wrist. Albie drags me back. I go with him.
We bury our heads in our hands, as if in prayer. And we wait for this song to end.
TEDDY
Fate and Fury
‘My mother had more than her share of encounters with them, but she kept it all hidden from me. Before she died, her mind was weak, it wandered off, and she told me things, so many things. That’s how I learnt about the women.’
‘What women?’
Their smiles were gummy and red. Their hair, bleached to straw, was drawn back into tight pigtails, making their scalps pucker. They abandoned make-up for a guise of innocence and purity, but I always spotted the bits of eyeliner or lipstick leftover in the cracks of their skin.
‘“Hello, hello, Teddy Bear,” they said. “Aren’t you going to invite me in? Come on, Teddy Bear. Don’t be rude to me. I’ve come such a long way. Let me in”.’
‘What women? You aren’t making sense,’ Ada says.
‘They came to me in school uniforms, scuffing their shoes against the doorframe. The first time, I assumed the woman had got lost, knocked on the wrong door. I assumed she was late for a slutty fancy dress party, or she was some stripper-gram, but then she spoke and with a twist of my gut, I knew.’
‘I don’t understand. Why did he have fans? Was he famous? What was his name?’
Ada is curled round Albie on the mattress, the black beads rattling in her palm. For a moment, I thought she might throw them at me, but then she looked at our son and slumped, the bones of her spine poking through her shirt like tree roots through soil.
‘He was famous in a way.’ I edge closer to Ada, rub my finger across the veins in her wrist. Mr Vincent is outside, he thinks I can’t hear him snuffling at the door like a pig stuck in muck. I wonder, does he stand there for me or her?
‘For what reason?’
‘You really don’t know?’
A stillness has come over her face, a look of concentration. She is so young. By the time he had killed his girls and been found bloodless in his cell, she would have still been an itch in her father’s trousers. This face I swear was in every newspaper, on every bulletin on the television, but now it is just a picture in books and on forums, a memory buried in many minds.
‘During his trial, women were attracted to him, some wanted to help him, nurture him. Some thought they could, claimed he was innocent despite the evidence. The blood they found on his skin, the pictures they found balled up in his socks.’
Her expression changes now, draws inward, brows down, lips pulled back, like a scrunched up piece of paper. The boy is awake, his face oddly vacant. And I wonder if he is listening. He should know about his grandad.
‘What … what did he do?’
‘Of course, they also came for me when I was older. They looked for it inside me, all of them, for that rot.’ I scratch my neck, sniff the blood on my fingers. ‘I don’t know how they found me. But they came, a stream of women dressed as good little girls, trying to tempt me. Red lips. Always such pretty red lips.’
‘Tempt you to do what?’
‘To hurt them. To fuck them. To let them save me.’
Ada gasps.
‘Why do you think they dressed as his victims? I was his son. I was the next best thing.’
‘Who was he? Who was your father? Tell me.’
‘John Colne.’
She shakes her head.
‘They weren’t the worst. There were others. Women who came and pretended to be my mother, who called my real mum a whore, a cruel cunt, who believed my father deserved better than her. They cursed her, spat her name in my face. They were the worst. My mum didn’t deserve that. She didn’t deserve any of it.’
‘What happened?’
‘I called the police. Moved house. They found me again.’
‘Who are you, Teddy?’
She is looking at me, the muscles bunching in her neck. I want to poke them, feel them move. I’m not worried about her knowing the truth now. She loves me. She won’t leave me.
