So Pretty, page 19
‘Tell me about him?’ The words come out as squeaks.
He pauses. Then:
‘That belonged to my mother!’
‘But before that it belonged to him,’ I say.
He is caught off guard. His hand lowers, rises, lowers, as if he can’t decide what he wants to do. I want him to hit me. Just not yet.
‘Tell me about your father, Teddy.’
‘What?’
‘I remember. I remember hearing about him. Seeing a picture of him. You look the same. You could be brothers.’
‘I’ve already told you about him.’
‘Not everything. Why did he take them? The girls?’
‘What—?’
‘What did he do to them? He didn’t rape them or torture them. Did he just like watching them? Did he like talking to them? Did he play with them like they were his dolls? Did he do what you do with us?’
Sadness wraps round his face. His hand lowers to his side. ‘My father was a bad person. I’m not. I love you. I take care of you, provide for you. We’re not lonely anymore.’
I rise, move closer. I feel his breath on my skin. Can he hear my heart banging? Can Albie? Can Rye? It’s all I hear.
‘He pulled them into his van, didn’t he? Drugged them, drove them to that place. I can see them all stacked up, the little bodies, like boxes and paper packages, like gifts. Pretty things for him to unwrap.’
His brow sinks over his eyes, his lips curve down. This isn’t the reaction I want.
‘Why are you behaving like this?’
‘What did he do then? Killing wasn’t his favourite part was it? What was?’
He shuffles, tries to take my hand. I push him back.
Then he says: ‘My father liked to dress them, neat and nice, my mother said. He liked to collect them up. He buried them, all of them close together, so they wouldn’t be lonely.’
‘Why?’
He looks at me, smacks his lips together, and it is a crack of thunder inside my head. ‘Why not?’
The breath catches in my throat. ‘That rot is there. It’s quiet but present. You are what everyone always expected you to be.’
Still there is no anger. Just boredom and irritation.
I think about the girls, their bodies under the earth, heaped together. Bones to bones. I think about his father, the man who lives in Teddy’s face. He is there. It is his voice, his touch.
‘You’re his son. Your blood is dirty.’
Nothing. I have this wrong. I take a step forward, feel his mother’s necklace break under my foot. The black beads. It has always been her. His father is just an empty figure. I laugh.
‘Your mother would be ashamed of you.’
It catches me off guard. His hand is at his side and then it is on my face, sharp, throwing me back. I land on my side, fingers at the lump on my lip.
‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Ada. You made me do it. You … you get me so confused and frustrated sometimes. You twist me up. I … I just lose my head. It’s … it’s not my fault really. I can’t help it. You … you mess with my head, don’t you? You do. And you really shouldn’t.’ He is beside me, drawing me to my feet. ‘I’m sorry. Are you alright?’
It is not guilt on his face. More a softening of his resolve. I breathe, move my jaw. ‘You hurt me.’
‘You shouldn’t have said what you said. It was cruel. You hurt me first.’
He sounds like a child, meek, squabbling over nothing.
‘You can make it up to me. I think I landed funny. Let me stretch my legs. Take me upstairs. Let me walk round,’ I say.
He shakes his head.
‘Albie needs the exercise anyway. Didn’t you when you were a boy? Didn’t your mother nag you to get fresh air and exercise?’ I bring her into this conversation now because I know it will soften his resolve. Make him pliable.
‘My mother…? She … she used to say my legs would turn to jelly.’ He pauses, looks at Albie with a smile that makes me sick. Nods. ‘OK.’
I have been holding my breath, finally I release it. My heart jumps to a kinder rhythm. I pray, firing the words off between clenched teeth. Please, please. I am about to turn, feverish with hope, to wake Albie, when I feel Teddy’s hand tighten round my wrist.
The smile is gone, his face is slack.
‘Let me go, Teddy.’
His eyes are on my mouth, the blood oozing from the cut. The air thickens and I feel I might choke on it.
Slowly, he runs a finger along my lip, smudging the blood. His voice, when it comes, is empty and strange, and I wonder what is going through his mind.
‘Let’s put some colour into those lips.’
Upstairs, I am lightheaded, drunken. The air is thin, clear, and I gulp it down. The space beckons me and repulses me all at once. The shop is just as strange as it has always been, but now it feels like a cavern, me a mouse stuck inside. It could swallow me. It already has.
Mr Vincent stands by the door – I see its key poking from his fingers. His expression is vacant, I want to cut some expression into it. Teddy keeps a firm hand on my shoulder, humming, his strange turn forgotten.
‘Is it nice to stretch your legs, fella? We don’t want them to turn to jelly, do we?’ A laugh. ‘Hold my hand. Let’s walk together.’
‘No.’
Another laugh. ‘Alright. Alright. You be a big boy.’
The blinds are down, the streetlights picking at the edges like yellowed fingers. The shop is tense, its breath held in tight. Albie stares about, wide-eyed, as if he had forgotten the image of all these things. Bears and dull-eyed dolls and glass jars of buttons and birds and rings and plastic cars and leathery faces and waxy bodies and things I cannot name. So many eyes all on us.
‘How does that feel, fella? Nice to stretch your legs?’
‘Yes.’
‘Love you, fella. Tell Daddy you love him too.’
‘No.’
Laughter. ‘I love you anyway.’
We are walked round the shop, pets on a leash. I’m not going to attempt an escape. Better to wait, to plan. I’ve been a good girl – he’ll bring me up here again. As we round the bend, walk back to the stairs, my reflection catches my eye. A mirror, tarnished and dull hangs to my left. My feet clump to a stop.
I see myself, the blood dried to a crust on my lips, and I remember what my father said:
‘His favourite part. Dressing them up. Red lipstick on their lips and cheeks, like dolls. Perfect, pretty little things.’
Albie is tugging me, but my legs won’t move. Teddy taps me on the shoulder, and finally we continue, descend. The door closes behind us. The shadows welcome us back as if we are two of their own.
‘Mummy? Your … your lips.’
He’s made me look like his father’s dead girls.
TEDDY
Smoke and Mirrors
The bell rings. Mr Vincent and I move, draw together, it is instant, an instinctual response. We stand, shoulder to shoulder, behind the counter, push smiles onto our lips. The silence is taut, thick, I could bite it through with my teeth.
The men enter with their collars drawn up against the chill. They bring with them the acid tang of coffee and cigarette smoke. It’s a heady blend, and it makes my eyes water. Mr Vincent moves from foot to foot. I nudge him. He stills.
There is no need to be nervous. We are prepared. We are ready for this. ‘You must speak,’ I reminded him, moments ago when I saw them coming up the hill. ‘You have no room to make errors. Understand?’
He knows what he is and isn’t allowed to say. I’ve schooled him on his responses, his actions, so he can appear to possess some semblance of normalcy. We are just two collectors in a shop. Nothing more.
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. May we have a moment of your time?’
The taller of the two men gazes round the shop, takes an immediate step back, as most visitors do. He has bold eyebrows and full, pillowy lips. He looks better suited to a magazine cover than a police investigation. His companion is small, fair, with wheat-coloured hair and lines in his face.
Bold recovers, offers a polite smile. He pulls out a notebook, licks his pencil, regrets it. Wipes his tongue on his cuff. Fair meets my gaze, nods.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Purcell. This is PC Miller. As I’m sure you’re aware, a local mother and her young son have recently been reported missing. Do you know them – Ada and Albie Belling?’
The question is rhetorical. They know the answer. They’ve had it confirmed by the townspeople.
I speak first, lay my hands flat on the counter. It’s an open gesture, a confident and honest gesture. ‘Yes, we do. I haven’t seen her for a long time, though. Did her father call you? Mr Belling? He’s been around Rye looking for her.’
‘Her father has expressed his concerns, yes. We have been going door to door, asking for any sightings of Miss Belling and her son. We believe her to have gone missing around the twenty-third of March. Can you recall the last time you saw her? Any unusual behaviours? How did she seem, emotionally?’
Bold is scribbling in his notebook, his writing such a chaotic mess, I wonder how he will decipher it later. Fair is watching me, little bug eyes running over my features. He knows, he knows this face.
‘She was kind, sweet. When I came to Rye, she made me feel welcome. It’s difficult in a new place. I … I think she might have been a bit lonely herself. She walked around the village a lot, round and round. That’s what first struck me.’
‘And more recently?’
‘We became friends. We’d go to the park, have lunch together occasionally.’
‘And did Miss Belling mention any concerns; for example, was she receiving any unwanted attention? Was anything bothering her?’
‘No. No. But I do think she seemed … off. Sort of nervous.’
‘Any guesses why?’
‘No. I’m afraid not. She didn’t mention anything.’
Those eyes, scouring my face. This must be Bold’s first time meeting a serial killer’s spawn.
‘During the course of our enquiries it’s been noted that Miss Belling was more than a “little nervous”. According to witnesses, she came across as agitated, anxious, in the days leading up to her disappearance. Can you remember how her son, Albie, seemed in the lead up?’
‘He was absolutely fine. He was well, healthy, so I don’t think she could have been worried about him. I assumed she’d gone on holiday. Or she was staying with her parents. Then I saw Mr Belling, and he told me she’d disappeared. I hope she’s OK.’
The scratch, scratch of Bold’s little pencil. Mr Vincent takes a breath. Finally, he speaks. His voice is scraggy but passable.
‘Has she ever taken off before – Ada? She’d only lived in Rye two years but nothing like this has ever happened.’
I glance at him. There is a knot of concern on his brow, something I taught him to fasten there. His words are mine, carefully practised, to the slightest cadence. I brushed his hair this morning, smartening him up just in case, stuck a finger into his gut when he grumbled. He could be normal now. Could be.
‘I’m not at liberty to say, but we will do our best to find Miss Belling and her son. May we have a look round?’
Mr Vincent nods, spreads his hands. ‘Of course.’
They move into the aisle, their backs to us, poking things with their pencil stubs. Mr Vincent looks at me. I smile.
Perhaps now it will seem to Bold and Fair just a simple case of bad apples. Small towns can sour over time, turn against each other. Berry & Vincent is just the brunt of a few terse arguments. Mr Vincent is no more rotten than Molly or Charlotte.
At least until you cut into him.
We watch from the counter. I’ve hidden the stranger items in the shop’s collection, covered them over. The door to the cellar is concealed by a shelf so stuffed with books and jars and toys and trinkets, I wonder how it still stands, how it does not bow and crack like a log in a fireplace. Still, we hold our breath when they pass it. We cannot help it.
‘Are you able to tell us what Miss Belling and her son were wearing the last time you saw them? Also, we’d like to see any CCTV footage you have? It would be helpful to get a clear picture of the two of them.’
Mr Vincent bites his lip. ‘We don’t keep anything like that in here. I’m sorry.’
‘Right. And Mr Colne, can you remember what she was wearing the last time you saw her?’
He’s slipped up. He didn’t ask my name, and I didn’t offer it.
‘No, I’m afraid I can’t. It was a while ago now.’
Blue torn jeans, black boots and a shaggy grey cardigan. She had a red band in her hair. It’s in my pocket now.
‘Alright. Thank you for your help, gentlemen. If you remember anything or hear anything, please contact us.’ Fair slides a card into my hand.
They leave. I watch them through the window, wonder if they will glance back. They do not.
We turn to each other, Mr Vincent and I, and smile.
ADA
Live and Die
There is a piece of black thread loose in his black shoe. He dresses sharp now. He could cut us all to ribbons. His jacket is buffed to a reluctant shine; his hair is ruched into a slick wave. I wonder, does he think himself more than a proprietor of an old antiques shop? I wonder, will he ever feel remorse, say, ‘I finally see what we have done’?
I list their behaviours in my mind, the father’s and the son’s:
Johnny Colne made his victims fat with sweet meats and cheeses, fine food that was found in their stomachs later. I see Teddy opening the door, arriving with food, oranges tucked deep into his pockets.
Johnny Colne painted their faces, and when they were found, these rows of little girls in the soil, their lips were still red. I touch my fingers to my mouth, recall the taste of blood.
Johnny Colne bathed them, dressed them in fresh cotton shirts and woollen jumpers because where he took them was cold. The clothes I wear now, slightly fusty from spending so long on the shop floor, scratch my skin. I want to burn them. Give me a match and I would.
I wake to his face above mine, a large and pale moon. I scream, Albie screams. Mr Vincent only watches me, a smile like a sickness on his lips. I tell him to get out, to GET OUT! But he remains standing there in the shadow.
‘Mummy…’
‘What do you want?’ I demand.
Mr Vincent flicks a switch, and yellow light pierces my eyes. I cover my face. When I look up, I see what he has done.
I see what he has done for us.
Across the walls are countless photographs, portraits, black and white and peppered with damp spores, dust, stains of ink, blood. Some are crusted, peeling, others are torn right through. And in all of them, their faces no bigger than my thumb, children.
So many children
I cover Albie’s eyes.
Mr Vincent rocks on his heels, hands tucked behind his back like a proud man. A proud madman. He is still smiling, and if I could scratch away a smile, I would do.
‘Mummy? What is it?’
‘Nothing. It’s nothing.’ The breath lodges in my throat like a rock.
He has decorated our walls with dead children.
And he thinks he has done a good thing. He thinks this is a kindness.
He touches my cheek as he leaves, grazing it with his thumbnail. I wipe his touch away, and when the door closes, I tear every photograph from every brick, dig a hole in the soft ground with a spoon and give these children a burial.
Albie is shaking. And so I lick the dirt from my lips, begin my chorus of good words to bring him back to himself.
I speak of birds and of wings, of movement, a storm of it; I speak of music, so loud and chaotic, it is like a fever; I speak of the freedom of water, rivers, able to drift you to a new place. I speak of so many things to quieten the scream wobbling in his throat and to bring fresh dreams.
Tonight, if I sleep, I will dream of children in the earth.
TEDDY
Tragedy and Trauma
I drag my thumb across her face, the nose and chin smudging, stretching into a strange shape. The ink stains my skin. There is a woman stood next to me, reading the cover, her eyes flickering to Ada and Albie’s faces. She sighs, says, ‘Poor girl,’ more to herself than to anyone else.
Doubt is a barb in my chest. Have I done wrong? Should I have left her be? No. No. She was lonely. She wanted a family. She wanted to be my family.
In my mind, I tap the woman on the shoulder, say, ‘She’s happy now. They are happy now. We’re not lonely anymore.’
And the woman smiles, goes on her way. Ada and Albie peer up at me, countless faces from countless front pages. The same picture, printed again and again. In it, they wear simple smiles, curled round each other on a picnic blanket, their hair turned golden by the sun. I wonder who took it. Her father perhaps?
Now his photograph is everywhere. And the headlines:
‘Mother and Son Missing From Rye’
‘Ada and Albie Belling Missing. Police Appeal for Information’
‘Local Woman and Child Disappear. Residents of Rye Aiding the search’
‘Where Are Ada and Albie?’
‘Have Ada and Albie been Taken?’
The regional papers flesh the story out, but in the nationals they appear as little more than names, a three-sentence description and a plea for sightings, information. There is a brief statement from DI Fair himself. I turn the page, begin to read.
‘Ada and Albie Belling were last seen on Monday, 23rd February in their hometown of Rye, Sussex. Ms Belling is described as five foot, with a slight build and long dark hair, and was last seen wearing jeans and a grey jacket. Her four-year-old son is described as having short brown hair, brown eyes and an ear deformity on his left side.
Specialist officers are searching the area for Ms Belling and her son. We are concerned for the two of them and their safety and ask that anyone with fresh information on their whereabouts come forward.’
