The Girls (21 page)

‘Oh, Clare, no. Of course you’re not.’

‘No. I am. I really am. I married a shit man. A dangerous man. I did that. I did that to them. And now, I’m just useless. I mean, seriously, look at you. You’re teaching your children. You’re giving them yourself. What do I do for my children? What kind of role model am I?’

‘Clare! For goodness’ sake! You’re a single mother. You’re doing everything you can. And your girls adore you. Be kind to yourself.’

‘I don’t deserve them,’ she said. ‘I don’t deserve my children.’

‘Oh, Clare. Come on. This is just the wine talking. Let me make you a nice big mug of coffee and we can have a little chat.’

‘You’re so lovely. And Leo’s so lovely. You’re so lucky to have him. Do you know that? Do you know that?’

Adele smiled. ‘We’re lucky to have each other.’

‘You know, Adele …’ Clare swayed gently and grabbed hold of the wall. She squinted into Adele’s eyes and then held a pointy finger out towards her. ‘I am almost jealous of you.’ She swayed again, this time nearly falling over completely. She righted herself. ‘
Nearly jealous of you
. But I can’t be because you are so
fucking nice
.’

Adele took her elbow and began guiding her towards the bathroom. Clare stopped halfway, spun round and said, ‘I used to be you, Adele. I used to have a big strong handsome husband and a rickety-rackety house full of old things and people. I used to be
you
.’ She jabbed Adele in the ribs with her pointy finger and then stumbled into the bathroom.

Adele stood for a moment outside the bathroom door, wondering what she should do. Should she oversee Clare’s toilet visit, make sure she was OK? But there’d been something in the tone of her voice, something harsh and unpleasant. It had felt, in some bizarre way, as if Clare hated her.

So she left Clare to it, went to the kitchen and made her a big strong coffee instead.

On her way back on to the terrace she passed Pip and Willow.

‘Where are you two going?’ she asked.

‘To the playground,’ said Willow, pushing her bare feet into filthy, battered trainers. Behind her Pip smiled uncertainly, looking as though she had no desire whatsoever to go into the playground with Willow. ‘We’re going to play the circus game again.’

Adele smiled. ‘That’s nice,’ she said. ‘But remember, Pip’s your guest. Make sure it’s what she wants to do too.’

‘Of course it’s what she wants to do,’ said Willow, grabbing Pip by the hand and yanking her out into the garden.

On the terrace she placed the mug of coffee on the table at Clare’s empty place and sat down next to Leo. ‘A bit of a mess,’ she whispered into his ear, ‘you might need to take her home soon.’

Leo nodded knowingly, and put his arm around her, squeezed her, loved her.
My man
, thought Adele, weirdly, unexpectedly, violently.
My fucking man
.

Even by Willow’s usual levels of hyperactivity, tonight she was entirely crazy. The circus game kept building up layers of surreal detail, going off at alarming tangents and developing increasingly complex rules and sub-rules, all issued by Willow in a breakneck staccato. Pip tried to go along with it, but her head was spinning and she was growing tired of being bossed about.

‘No!’ snapped Willow. ‘When the lion tamer takes off his hat you have to jump up like this’ – she jumped to demonstrate – ‘and say
I am Delilah Detroit and I am your daughter
and then you have to jump down again and run towards the fire eaters!’

Pip had reached the end of her capacity for Willow’s particular style of play and sat down on the bench. She smiled sadly and said, ‘I’m quite tired now. I don’t think I want to play any more.’

Willow’s face dropped. ‘But you have to! Or we won’t get to the end of the story!’

‘But, Willow, I don’t actually think there
is
an end to the story.’ She smiled again, apologetically. She was a tiny bit scared of Willow.

But before Willow could respond Fern appeared. She looked perturbed and distracted. She didn’t say anything, just sat on a different bench to Pip and stared into space.

Willow looked at her curiously. ‘Fern, will you play with me? We’re doing circus orphans and you can be the ringmaster.’

Fern glanced at her. ‘Er, no. Thanks.’

‘Please, Fern, please!’

Fern didn’t reply, got to her feet, stared over the top of the boundary hedge towards the top of the garden and then sat down again.

A moment later Tyler appeared. Her pointy face was extra-pointy, her eyes flashing with some kind of terrifying rage.

‘Tyler, will you play with me?’ Willow wheedled.

But Tyler didn’t even respond. She sat next to Fern and the two girls began talking to each other in hissy whispers, both turning every now and then to look behind them.

‘What’s going on?’ Pip asked Tyler.

‘Nothing,’ said Tyler.

‘What’s going on?’ Willow asked Fern.

‘
Nothing
,’ said Fern. ‘Go back to your game.’

The two older girls started hissing and whispering again. Stray words appeared through the impenetrable fog of their conversation.
Bitch. Slag. Whore.

‘Watch your language in there, young ladies!’

All four girls turned as one at the sound of Gordon’s voice.

He stood at the gate to the playground, leaning on his weird wooden stick, smiling alarmingly.

‘What are you all up to?’ he asked with narrowed eyes. ‘You all look highly suspicious.’

‘Nothing, Puppy,’ said Fern. ‘Just hanging about.’

‘Just hanging about, eh? Well, keep yourselves out of trouble, young ladies. Your parents are all pissed as farts and totally useless so you’ll need to keep your wits about you.’ He tapped the side of his swollen nose and continued on his way, turning just once to throw them all an amused look, his eye catching Pip’s for just a beat too long.

Pip shuddered. She thought of what Tyler had said about thinking that Gordon had killed Phoebe. She thought of Rhea slapping Gordon round the face for being inappropriate with her daughter. Then she watched him limping across the garden, stopping every few feet to mop his brow and take a breath.
Harmless old man
, she thought to herself, shuddering again,
just a harmless old man with a metal foot.

His interruption had punctured the strange tension hanging about the older girls and as he walked away Tyler turned to Willow, smiled and said, ‘OK, tell us about this game.’

So for a while Pip sat on a bench watching Tyler and Fern play circus orphans with Willow until the game became so twisted and weird – the older girls had somehow managed to persuade Willow that they were child sex traffickers who had infiltrated the circus to steal the orphans and transport them in the back of a truck to be child prostitutes in LA – that she began to feel uncomfortable. Tyler in particular was being very physical with Willow, snarling in her face about how she was going to get what she deserved and twisting her arm up behind her back when pretending to bundle her in the back of the truck.

Nobody noticed Pip leaving the playground and heading back to Leo and Adele’s terrace. Nobody said goodbye. And even from here she could hear the sound of her mother’s voice, loud and jarring, slurred as though heard through the hull of an upturned boat.

‘Pip!’ she said when she saw her return. ‘Listen. We’ve been talking and it’s been decided. Leo is going to be your new daddy.’ She stretched her arm around the back of Leo’s chair and pulled him to her. He smiled awkwardly. ‘Would you like that, Pip? Would you like him to be your daddy?’

Pip shrugged, stepping from foot to foot.

Leo unpeeled Clare’s arm from his shoulder and said, kindly, ‘Time to take you home, I think.’

‘I can do it,’ said Pip. ‘I’ll take her home.’ She’d never seen her mother drunk before. She’d barely seen her mother have a drink. She wanted to be away from here now, away from eyes and looks and neighbours and people. She held out her hand to her mother. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘time for bed.’

Her mother smiled at her, crookedly, blearily, almost gratefully, and took her hand.

AFTER

Twenty-one

A watery dawn crawled slowly up the walls of the waiting room, turning them from deathly grey to oyster-shell pink. Clare uncurled herself from a foetal ball and stretched herself straight. She hadn’t slept, not really, just skated about that ethereal plane just under the surface of consciousness where fleeting fragments of dreams come and go, where you can believe for a few seconds at a time that everything is OK.

Pip was awake already. She smiled bravely and moved closer, enfolding Clare’s hand inside hers. ‘Did you sleep well?’ she asked.

‘Not really. No. How about you?’

Pip shook her head. She looked like a ghost, haunted and hollow-eyed. ‘How’s your head?’ she asked.

Clare nodded. ‘It’s fine,’ she said. This wasn’t quite true. Her brain felt like a desiccated, throbbing lump of lava rock. Her stomach swirled. Her hands shook. She was clammy, confused. Thinking back to the moments after Pip appeared in her room last night, shaking her bodily, shouting into her face, ‘Mum! You have to wake up! It’s Grace! Something’s happened!
Wake up!
’ she was having trouble piecing it all together in her mind. She remembered trying to find shoes, failing; she remembered running, barefoot, across the gardens, adrenaline temporarily cancelling out the alcohol, the faces in the windows, the circle of people atop the hill, dark and unsettling, a hand against her arm,
She’s still breathing
. As though there’d been a moment when maybe they’d thought she wasn’t. Then:
An ambulance is on its way
.

Pushing her way past bodies to get to her. Her baby. Bleeding: from her nose, from her lips, from her mouth. Her skin corpse-white. Her breath hubblebubbling. Her eyes wide and glassy. Then the blue of the on-off lights, someone standing at the gates, already waiting,
They’re here
! through cupped hands. The soft thud of footsteps and fluorescent yellow glow of paramedics, oxygen mask, torchlight.
Please move away
. Kind hands on her shoulders. And then at some point during the ride to hospital in the back of the ambulance the adrenaline had run out. Nausea had encroached. She’d been sick in a paper bowl.

Her greatest shame.

And now she tried to recall events but the memories wouldn’t line up in any meaningful order. She knew this much, though: her daughter was in intensive care. She had a possible head trauma. She was in a coma.
We’ll let you know when you can see her. Not yet though, I’m afraid. Not yet
.

The police had arrived last night, alongside the ambulance. They’d taken down names and addresses and were due again this morning to talk to Clare and Pip. Clare was dreading it, having to admit to the level of her negligence. When she thought how obsessive she’d been about protecting her girls all this time. Then – the very first time she’d let her guard down, done something for herself, behaved selfishly – look what had happened.

A man appeared in the doorway then. It was Mr Darko, the consultant looking after Grace. He wore a suit and a serious expression. Clare’s gut clenched so hard that she had to massage it with her fist.

‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘Not much change, I’m afraid. Grace is stable, but still in a coma. So as far as Grace is concerned we’re still looking at highly intensive care. More of the same. Indefinitely. But …’

Clare kneaded at her stomach.

‘There have been other developments. And I think, Mrs Wild, that maybe it would be better if we could talk in private?’ He looked at Pip, who looked at her. Clare nodded and Pip went outside.

Mr Darko sat down and indicated that Clare should do the same. ‘Well, we’ve studied the MRI we took last night and we can’t actually see any damage from the head trauma consistent with Grace’s comatose state. And about an hour ago we had the results back from our blood tests and, well …’ He pulled down a pair of reading glasses and studied the notes in his hand. ‘Would Grace have had access to sleeping pills? At home?’

‘No. I don’t think so. I mean, I might have some Nytol somewhere, but—’

‘I’m talking about prescription sleeping pills. Specifically Ambien – zolpidem, that genre of drug. Very heavy-duty. In small doses it causes euphoria. In larger doses it can cause unconsciousness. In an overdose situation’ – he sucked in his breath – ‘well … it can bring on coma. And that’s the situation we find ourselves in, Mrs Wild. Grace has experienced an overdose.’

Clare nodded, as if what he’d just said was reasonable. Then the truth of his words hit her consciousness and she shook her head and said, ‘Are you telling me she tried to kill herself?’

‘Well, no, that’s unlikely. Possible, but unlikely.’ He paused; she could see him carefully forming his next words. ‘Mrs Wild,’ he said, ‘as well as its medical uses and recreational uses, Ambien does have another reputation. It’s what is commonly, somewhat sensationally, known as a date-rape drug.’

Clare brought her hands, balled up into fists, straight to her mouth. Then she whispered one word. ‘
Rape
.’

‘That doesn’t of course mean that your daughter has been raped, Mrs Wild. But it does mean that we should consider it as a possibility. So I need your permission to bring in a sexual-assault nurse examiner. A forensic nurse. Who would be able to examine Grace for any signs of assault. You could be present, of course.’

‘But’ – she held her fisted hands against her chest – ‘is there any sign of anything? I mean, surely, if there’d been – a rape – there would have been something. Blood. Or something.’

‘So far we’ve been focusing on other things. Now that we’ve got Grace stabilised we can look at further factors. I’ve been told this happened in your garden. Is it possible that someone could have got into your garden? Someone you don’t know?’

‘It’s a communal garden,’ she muttered. ‘There was a party.’

He nodded, knowingly. ‘Ah. Well, in that case it is possible that a sexual assault might have been a motive for the overdose. Would you like me to leave you to think about it? Or I could send someone to talk to you? From the unit? Talk you through what will happen. What it entails? Although …’ He paused. ‘I would recommend taking action sooner rather than later. In cases like this time really is of the essence. Forensically speaking.’