So Pretty, page 23
‘This was before I knew. Before I knew where my father took the girls, why some people called him Johnny Appletree.’
‘But your mother knew?’ I ask.
‘Yes, my mother knew,’ Teddy says.
‘It must have bothered her.’
‘It did. All the ways I am like my father. My heart on my right side, my rare condition, my face, my walk, my mannerisms. These things must have hurt her.’
‘Your heart…?’
‘I’ve told you that when I was older, her mind wandered. Pieces of her were scrambled. The weight of all that my father had done stripped her, ruined her, like water over wet paint. But there is more.
‘I was cleaning out her room one day and I found an old pair of slippers shoved to the back of the wardrobe. They were threadbare and full of holes. I stuck my finger straight through the middle, wagged it at my mother. She did not laugh, she did not see, she did not see much of anything.’
‘Didn’t you ever think you should call someone? Get her proper care?’ I ask.
He looks at me with needle eyes. I bite my lip.
‘I did care for her. She was better with me. She was safe. I loved her. Other people wouldn’t have understood. They wouldn’t have known to put three spoons of sugar in her tea, or that she liked to spritz her pillow with lemon water, or that she hated biscuits that didn’t have chocolate on. “Bland as a cardboard box, Ted. Who wants that, I ask you?”’
‘Alright. Alright. I’m sorry.’
He nods. ‘It’s OK. I forgive you.’
‘You do that a lot. You quote her. Is that what she sounded like?’
‘Yes. She occasionally had moments of lucidity. I loved those.’ He picks the flayed skin at his hairline. I want to bind his hands together, get my lips close to his ear and scream with all the breath in my lungs, Stop! You’re making me sick!
‘There was something inside her slippers. A roll of papers. She must have hidden them, forgotten they were there.’
I do not think I have ever seen his face so full of clouds. ‘What were they?’
‘Newspaper cuttings.’
‘About your father?’
‘About me,’ Teddy says.
‘I’m confused. How old were you?’
‘Three. A year after my father was imprisoned, killed in his cell, the newspapers tried to revive the story. They wrote about me. About what I was, what I would become. Because every son is like his father.’
‘Why did your mum keep those cuttings?’
‘Suspicion. What she must have thought every time I took something, pins and bits of thread and keys. Collecting things, like my father collected girls. What she must have thought when I spoke and his voice came out of my mouth.’
‘You think she was always looking out for bits of him in you?’
‘How could she not? Wouldn’t you?’
I stroke Albie’s ear. ‘Yes.’
‘I tried to speak to her about it. But she couldn’t understand me. I felt betrayed in a way. That she kept these things, hid them away. These suspicions about me.’
‘What did the articles say?’
‘That blood is incurable. What he had, I would have too. A rot, a rust, ran in my veins. Can’t be cleaned or cleared or cured. Three years old and already ruined,’ Teddy says.
‘We don’t get to decide what we inherit from our parents.’
‘I have it all. I am full up. My mother wondered why he left me alone, when he hurt so many others. If perhaps it was because he saw so many similarities between us. “What man ever wants to harm himself?” That’s what she said.’
‘And if you’d been a girl not a boy?’
He shrugs. ‘Perhaps I’d be where the apples are, and those girls he killed would be my sisters.’
Sickness roils in my belly. I turn my head away, look at Albie, waking up, rising. What would I have done in his mother’s position? I would have always been looking, smoothing down his strange edges. I would keep him close to me, looking, looking.
‘That’s why she used to pretend it was the house “making mischief”. She was trying to take him out of you, wasn’t she?’ I say.
He nods. ‘She loved me.’
‘What was her name?’ I ask.
‘Betty.’
‘Poor Betty.’
‘Come here, fella.’ Teddy draws Albie onto his lap, kisses his head. ‘Do you think Mummy is a little pale?’
Albie looks at Teddy, looks at me, nods. Then he rises and, with his small, chill fingers, pinches the red into my cheeks.
‘Pretty,’ my son says, and smiles.
TEDDY
Guilty and Damned
‘Look at that boy’s eyes, Marie. Black blots, like peppercorns. Turns my stomach. Can you see them?’
‘I can. Strange little things, aren’t they?’
‘Gets them from his dad. I’ve seen pictures.’
‘Gets everything from his dad. Can you see any of his mother in him?’
‘No. Not a bit.’
This is what they say about me now. And more besides. I stand before one of the shop’s many gilded mirrors. Silver-and-golden birds, open-beaked, open-winged along the edges. They look at me. I wish they would not.
Peppercorns, they chirp. Peppercorns. Peppercorns. I draw new, blue irises on the glass with a marker. Well, they are not peppercorns anymore.
ADA
Cut and Cripple
It is time. I nudge Albie with my finger, and instantly he rises, leaps off the bed, stretches his back into an arc. Teddy is watching, grinning at the boy he calls our son.
He is not your son, I think. I tell it to his hand still tight round my own – too tight. I tell it to the crown of spit on my hand, where I can still feel his kiss.
Albie yawns, and I say, ‘His back was hurting last night. I was worried. I think he needs more exercise.’ I pause, my breath stuck like a ball of paper in my throat. ‘Shall we take him for a walk round the shop?’ We. Did you hear it?
He nods, looks at me. ‘OK. That should be fine.’ His words confuse me, unsettle me.
‘Hey, fella. You fancy a little walk round the shop? I think we might have another box of toys you’ve yet to rummage through.’
Albie nods, takes Teddy’s hand. Teddy knocks twice on the door. I note the swift, light rhythm that emulates it. Mr Vincent unlocks the door, and the four of us move up the stairs and into the yellowed light of the shop.
The window display has gone. All the toys and masks and pocket watches and rolls of ribbon, it’s all gone. The window is empty, polished and free of its skin of dust. But why? So they have a better view outside? Or so curious eyes have a better view in? Do they have customers?
‘Look at this, fella.’ Teddy releases me, kneels, plucks a contraption from the shelf. It is a toy car, old-fashioned and sculpted from copper.
‘Wow. Look at that, Albie.’
Teddy glances at me, proud, as if I have made him happy, as if I am a good girl and all my odd behaviour, my attempts to leave, were just naughtiness, a game.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
‘A music box. Turn that little wheel there. It will play.’
I do as he says, and it does. It’s a tinkling sound and if fills the shop, makes my skin feel as if it is coming away.
Albie takes it, tucks it under his arm to keep. Teddy laughs. Mr Vincent grimaces. We move on. Please don’t let it have moved. Please. I fire off prayers, tuck my hands under my arms so they do not shake. But it’s there. It’s there…
I pick at a loose bit of cotton on Albie’s collar, and he drops once more to the box on the floor, as I have asked, as I have taught him. He throws out squares of lace and tulle, plastic toys and beads and dolls, throwing them higher and higher. Teddy is laughing, and Mr Vincent’s face is darkening.
‘Whoah! Steady on, fella,’ Teddy says.
My heart is a sharp point, pressing on my front. Now, I tell myself. Now! I check they are not looking, lean my back against the shelf, and with shaking fingers lift the letter opener, slip it into the waistband of my trousers.
We move, on and on, and already I am thinking about what comes next.
TEDDY
Evidence and Accusation
The days are growing warmer, and it’s the kind of warmth that slicks your underarms, makes you pant as you walk. I look outside and see countless bald heads, red and crusted, and I think steam will rise from them soon. The cameras have stopped flashing, if only for people to break, sip from bottles and snack on treats from the bakery. More have arrived since news of the break-in.
I hold my hand before my eyes, nudge my thumb to the side, and all the people are rubbed away.
‘I’m going out. I’ll be back later. Keep to the routine. Don’t diverge from it. You don’t speak to anyone. You don’t let anyone in. You don’t go into the basement. You keep to the shop floor. Understand?’
He is glaring at me. I flick his eyelid, and he winces. ‘Understand?’
He nods. ‘Where are you going?’
‘A town a few hours away. I need to get something. For the family.’
‘What?’
I do not tell him. He will see soon enough.
‘What about the detectives?’ he asks.
‘See them coming, and you go upstairs. Don’t let them in. Don’t speak to them without me.’
‘And them?’ He gestures to the rows of eyes pressed against the glass. They are always watching.
‘Stick to the routine.’
He gives a stiff nod, licks his lips. I do not trust him, but it is the only way of getting what I need. What she will need. I leave through the back door, and I hear voices rising, my name called out, rumours, accusations thrown into the air.
‘TEDDY! If your dad was around what would you say to him?’
‘What’s it like being the son of a killer, Teddy?’
‘Teddy! Tell us, what made you take them. What makes them so special?’
‘Take me, Teddy. Me! She can’t love you like I can.’
It is a manhunt now. And only time will slow the pace of it. I have done nothing wrong. These voices will quieten, the bodies will disperse, and Rye will be Rye again. We need only wait.
I pause, hear a new voice, heavier, bolder:
‘The missus has had to flee. Can you even believe it? We’ve lived in this town all our lives, and now she’s been forced out. She’s taken the kids, bolted. Bolted! I’m staying behind to keep an eye on the house. Can’t trust a man like Teddy Colne. He could burn the entire town to the ground if he wanted to. No. I’m staying, going to keep my eye on things. Pamela is scared out of her wits. She’s taken the kids to a B&B until he’s been locked up. We’re going to be out of pocket now. Think Teddy should reimburse us.’ A laugh.
‘I agree. I’m taking my kids away too. We’re leaving today. I’m not taking the risk. Imagine he takes a fancy to little Jessie or my Peter. Peter! He’s into boys, isn’t he? Not like his dad.’
‘What I heard. You know, I used to see him sitting on his own at the park, just sitting there. I wonder now if he was there to watch the kiddies play.’
‘Sickening. He should be locked up. We none of us are safe here anymore.’
Says the woman who asked me to keep an eye on her children while she paid for their dripping ice creams.
‘They’re the worst kind. Kiddie fiddlers. Makes my skin crawl just thinking about it. It’s a good thing Pamela has gone.’
‘The police are as good as useless. Haven’t got any evidence against him. Well, I think it’s a bit bloody obvious he’s done it.’
‘I agree. I wonder what he’s done with them. The bodies.’
Says the man who spent an hour moaning about his family over a pint, slapped me on the back, told me I was ‘a good ’un’.
‘Probably in the ground somewhere. That poor little boy.’ A sigh. ‘I’d better get going, love. I’ve got to pack. I’ll see you when I see you.’
I move on, nails biting into my skin. I jump in my car, squeeze the steering wheel. I lick my cuff, rub a curl of blood onto the leather. It will pass, it will pass, I tell myself.
I start the engine, drive, leave Rye and its rumours – so damning, if they don’t choke a man, they will sit in his lungs, set in a rot and kill him later. If they knew we were happy, we were a family, they would understand. They are too small-minded, too plump and puffed with their own false stories and judgements. But they will calm. The rumours will ease, become dust. And all dust must settle.
I see a girl with ringlets so tight, I can scarcely fit my fingers between them, but she laughs when I try, pushes me away, then pulls me back for a kiss. I see a boy with a dimple in his chin – it makes him look strange, off-balance, but when he is older, he will be handsome. I see them as babes, small loaves, wrapped tight, their foreheads and cheeks wrinkled. I see them in my lap, her wrist to his toe, still pink from birth, their eyes closed. You, I say, to the girl, and you, I say to the boy. I love you.
And their names? What will their names be?
Ada is ready, I think now. It’s as I had hoped. She’s found her rhythm in this new life of ours. Settled into our home, our new family. I knew it would take time and patience. When I touch her now, she embraces me, smiles for me. She is the Ada I love. And I know she will want this as much as do. Later, when I ask Mr Vincent to take Albie from the basement, she will draw me to her, chest to mine, mouth to mine, and together, we will grow our family.
I take a fourth test, drop it into the basket with a grin. I look at the stick, the blue bars on the box, wonder which of my children will come first. The boy or the girl.
ADA
Crime and Punishment
Mr Vincent is where he always is. Though tonight there is something different about him. Albie is awake, he notes it too. Usually Albie sleeps by me, curved like a walnut, his nose pressed against my chest, so bent it is as if it has been folded in half. Now, he fiddles with the key, turning it this way and that, looking at Mr Vincent, looking at me, working away at the question that sits stubborn between his lips.
It’s alright, I say, Sleep. But the words do not come out. I try again, and they are useless things, strange and half formed. Something sits at the back of my throat, I recognise the shape of it, the smoothness of its skin. Panic.
What’s happening?
I am shaking and I want to be still, to keep my emotions to myself. But my blood and heart know what my mind does not. Something has changed with him. There is an arrogance, an intention, a danger that blisters the air. It walked in with him, it sits with him now, sits with us now.
‘Mummy?’
I keep my eyes on Mr Vincent, but I feel Albie move. He is looking at me, for answers.
‘It’s alright, bean. Everything is going to be OK.’
‘What’s … what’s…?’
I dip my head, say, ‘I promise. Everything is going to be OK.’
I have the letter opener tucked at my side. I planned to use it earlier, but Teddy didn’t come. I waited and waited. I kept Albie close to the wall, safe. I practised, like a fool. I stretched and prepared, the blood thick in my veins. But he did not come. Why did he not come? Has he realised I’ve been playing with him? Does someone suspect him? Is it just Mr Vincent now? Is Teddy even outside, ready to unlock the door? Is he even in the shop?
‘Where is he?’
Mr Vincent is silent, something of a smile on his lips.
‘Where is Teddy? He’s not here, is he?’
Perhaps the thought should bring me comfort, but it does not. I do not want to be alone with Mr Vincent.
‘Tell me where he is.’
Nothing. My hands are shaking. I’ve spent so long planning for this, the thoughts are smooth from my mind working them over. I can manage one. He is an old man, a cripple. I could kill him. It would be easy. I’ve been preparing myself all day. It will just be a different man.
‘He’s not outside, is he? I don’t think he’s upstairs. Or in the shop at all.’ My heart is banging. Is the key in Mr Vincent’s pocket? Does he have it? He must.
Albie lifts his head. ‘Mummy, what’s wrong?’
My body is tense, coiled. Mr Vincent rises, about to leave, but then he pauses, comes to me. The downy hairs on my arms rise, stiff, and a voice, my voice, says, ‘Brace. Brace.’
He comes, and I move with a swiftness, a thoughtlessness, as if my bones are not bones and there is no blood in my veins that can run out. I swing my body round, drive Albie back. He cries out. Calls for me.
I am low enough to swing out, drive the blade across Vincent’s kneecaps. To punch it into the soft, flat skin at the back. Mr Vincent kneels with a click of his legs, presses his cold body to mine. Albie is screaming, and I throw back my hand, rest it on his chest to keep him where he is, Be calm, be calm.
‘Mummy!’
Mr Vincent’s fingers are at his belt, his zip. Albie moves, wriggles, tries to reach me, but I keep my hand firm, keep him down, feel his pulse stamping.
‘Mummmmy!’
Vincent strikes me, sudden, hard, his rings gouging notches into my cheek. He drags me by the legs, until I am on my back, with more strength than I knew he possessed.
‘MUMMY!’
‘Stay there!’ He is crying, and I scream, ‘Don’t move!’
He picks at my zip, his tongue between his teeth, pale as a fish. I lift the blade, slow, press it to his side. Between his first and second rib, where his old heart moves. I push, feel cloth and skin pucker but then I stop because I see the door is open.
I see Teddy, standing where the light and dark meet.
TEDDY
Life and Death
He sees me, and a noise comes from his mouth, the half-strangled yelp of an animal. He trips, over his feet, Ada’s feet, over nothing. His legs are shaking, but I cannot move mine. My lungs are cotton wool. I cannot breathe. All that moves is my heart, and even this is sluggish, stilted, as if it has lost its ability to beat.
