The Stopped Heart (35 page)

“What are you doing?”

“Listening to music.”

“What sort of music?”

“Just music.”

Mary hesitates.

“I wanted to see if you were OK.”

“I'm OK.”

Ruby waits for her to go. She doesn't go.

“You're all right? You don't mind staying here? With us, I mean?”

Ruby shrugs.

“I don't have any choice, do I?”

Mary takes a step closer to the bed.

“Can I sit down?”

She doesn't wait for an answer but puts herself on its edge. As the mattress moves under her weight, the duvet is pulled off Ruby's knees. Ruby yanks it back, but before she does so, Mary sees a bright plastic lighter, a packet of something she doesn't recognize.

“I want to talk to you,” she says. “Can you take those out for a minute?”

Very slowly, Ruby removes the other earphone. Keeping them both in her hand. She looks at Mary, holding her gaze in a direct, faintly insolent way that Mary knows is supposed to make her uncomfortable.

Mary sighs. Choosing her words carefully.

“Look, Rubes, I know you're angry. I know that, OK? I'd just like to be able to understand why, that's all.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

Ruby looks down at the bed. The earphones in her hand.

“Why do you need to understand? What's the point?”

Mary takes a breath, touches her hand.

“You poor thing. You've had such a tough time recently, haven't you?”

Ruby says nothing. Shrugs. But as she presses her lips together, Mary thinks she sees her chin wobble. She puts a hand back on the duvet, close to where Ruby's leg is. Immediately the leg moves away.

“We've all been very worried about you,” Mary says. She watches Ruby's face. “Do you realize that? I hope you do realize that.”

“Whatever,” Ruby says.

“You don't care that everyone's been worrying about you?”

Ruby shrugs. Looking away. Mary sees her chin wobble again.

“Are you anxious about anything?” she asks her. “Is there something we don't know about?”

Ruby looks at her.

“What do you know about?”

Mary hesitates. “All right, is there anything you'd like to talk about?”

Ruby blinks.

“Why would I talk to you?”

“Because I care about you.”

“Why do you care?”

Mary looks at her hand on the bed.

“Why do I care? Oh God, Ruby. Where do I start? So many reasons. Come on, you know very well how much I care about you.”

Ruby mutters something Mary doesn't catch. She lifts her head.

“What?”

“I said you're not my mum.”

Mary takes a breath.

“I know I'm not your mum. I'm not trying to be your mum. Why would I try to be your mum? You've got a great mum who loves you very much. But that doesn't mean I can't care as well, does it?”

Ruby says nothing.

Mary looks around the room. The mirror. The chest of drawers with clothes spilling out. The window with its tattered old blind, Ruby's incense burners and joss sticks lined up along the sill. The faded, peeling wallpaper. The blackened, soot-charred remains of what was once a small fireplace.

“We should paint this room for you,” she says. “We really should. We could make it a lot nicer, you know.” She looks at Ruby. “Get you some better curtains as well. Would you like us to do that?”

“Do what you like.”

“You don't care what it looks like?”

“Not really.”

“You don't think it's worth making it nice? If you're going to be spending a bit of time here?”

“I'm not going to spend any time here,” Ruby says.

Mary is silent a moment. Something occurs to her.

“You're not still scared, are you? Of the house, I mean.”

Now Ruby lifts her head, suddenly alert.

“You fucking well know I am.”

Mary stiffens. She tries to breathe, smoothing her hand over the duvet.

“Really? What are you scared of?”

Ruby narrows her eyes.

“How can you act all surprised like that? You were the one
who told me there was something, remember? You said it. You said you knew.”

Mary takes a breath.

“You're right. I did say that.”

“Well, then.”

“Look, when I said that, I think I was just talking about a feeling. A vague feeling I sometimes get. I just wanted to tell you I understood and that I felt it too. I didn't mean it was anything to be frightened of.”

Ruby looks at her.

“So what do you feel?”

“What, in this house?”

Ruby nods, waiting. Mary hesitates, looking around the room.

“I don't know. You get a sense of other people, don't you? It happens in lots of houses. Old houses. Sometimes you almost think you can hear them.”

“Hear what?”

“I don't know. The things that used to go on. The people.”

“What people?”

Mary tries to smile.

“I don't know. No one in particular. Just—I suppose whoever it was who was here before.”

Ruby is watching her.

“You've seen him. Don't lie. I know you have.”

“What? Seen who?”

“The ginger guy. I know you've seen him.”

Mary hesitates.

“What, the young man with the red hair? Yes, I've seen him. I know who you mean. I think he must live in the village.”

Ruby looks at her.

“But why is he always here?”

“Here?”

“Everywhere. All over the fucking place. In the garden.”

Mary's heart sinks.

“You've seen him in the garden?”

“Yeah, down at the bottom of the garden doing stuff—I don't know, digging around. And by the old shed thing. He's the one who took Dad's tools, isn't he?”

“Is he?”

“Well, come on, it must be him, mustn't it?”

Mary tenses, her body suddenly light and still.

“Ruby. You've never told us any of this.”

“I'm telling you now. Come on. You've seen him too. He's always here, outside in the lane, looking at this house.”

“Is he?”

“For fuck's sake. You know he is. And the kids too.”

“The kids?”

Ruby hesitates.

“All those children. The little kids.”

“You've seen them too?”

“Not really.”

“You haven't seen them?”

Ruby blinks.

“I know they're there. I've heard them. So have you.” Mary feels Ruby watching her. Her eyes on her face. She hugs herself, suddenly bone cold, trying to stop her teeth knocking together. She makes herself meet Ruby's gaze.

“And you're saying this scares you?”

“I don't know why it doesn't scare you. You know that time Lisa and me came back to watch a film, after we'd been to that dinner down the road with you?” Mary nods. “Well, Lisa went to the toilet and I was putting the DVD in and I looked up and he was there at the window.”

“What? Who was?”

“Him. That man. Ginger guy. He was staring in through the window, his face pressed right up. It was fucking terrifying. I thought he was going to try and come in. He kept his whole face pressed right up against the glass for about ten seconds.”

Mary stares at her.

“Seriously?”

Ruby rolls her eyes.

“I'm not making it up.”

“And then what?”

“What do you mean?”

“What happened? What did you do?”

“I didn't do anything, did I? I was too fucking scared even to move. I shouted for Lisa to come, but when she came she couldn't see him.”

“What do you mean she couldn't see him?”

“I don't know. She just couldn't. And I couldn't either then, so I suppose he must have gone.”

Mary thinks about this.

“But for goodness' sake—a man at the window, Rubes. You should have called us. Why didn't you phone your dad immediately?”

Ruby smiles.

“What would you have done?”

“I don't know. We'd have done something. Your dad would have. He'd have called the police.”

“The police?” Ruby starts to laugh.

“What's funny about that?”

Ruby shakes her head.

“It's not like that. What the fuck would the police do? He's not a burglar or anything.”

Mary takes a breath.

“What is he then?”

“I don't know.” Ruby looks at her again. “I don't know what he is. I thought you might know.”

“Me? Why on earth would I know?”

She feels Ruby staring at her, inspecting her face.

“Well, come on, it's something to do with you, isn't it?”

Mary shakes her head, trying to smile.

“I don't know what you mean.”

Ruby keeps on looking at her.

“That's right. Of course you don't.”

Mary stares at her.

“What do you mean? What are you saying? Please stop this, Ruby, don't talk like that, I don't like it.”

“Why don't you like it?”

“Because it's horrible. You're giving me the creeps.”

Ruby looks down for a moment at the earphones in her hand.

“I told you the first time I came here, didn't I, that I didn't like the house? Lisa feels it too. I told you. But there's no point telling you anything, you and Dad, because you never listen. And anyway, even if you did listen, you're no use. You're the very last person who'd be able to help.”

Mary stares at her.

“What do you mean? Why am I the last person?”

Ruby lifts her head and looks at her.

“Well, it's why you're not scared of it, isn't it?”

“What?”

“The thing in the house. Ginger guy. And the kids. Everything. You say you don't know about it, but whatever it is, even Lisa agrees, it's definitely coming from you.”

I
HAD THOUGHT THAT ONCE
P
HOEBE WAS SAFELY LAID IN THE
ditch, that would be the end of it. I told myself I hated and de
spised James—that even though he had made me feel more alive than anyone else I had ever known or perhaps would ever know—still enough was enough. I wasn't going to wait around like some simple little fool for him to grab and threaten and hurt me whenever he felt like it.

But another part of me felt very sorry for him. I saw that, despite all his fine, bold talk, he was angry and anxious. Anyone could see he wasn't sleeping at night and there was a rash of small scabs across his forehead where he wouldn't leave off scratching. One night I was sure I heard him being sick in the barn. He was bothered and listless and his face looked worn out with tiredness.

And my heart missed him. And so did the rest of me. At night, I'd lie in my bed and pull up my chemise and whisper to myself about all the things we'd done and a little flame of madness would light up inside me, only to go out again as soon as I remembered I was all untouched and alone. But one morning, sitting on the yard wall in the hard sunlight and watching as Lottie and the twins pulled the moss from between the cracks, I suddenly felt that nothing in the world was worth anything if I could not feel him against me again. I jumped down so fast I heard a ripping noise.

Lottie looked up.

Your dress!

What?

You've torn it. Look, Eliza.

I pulled it down.

It's all right, I said.

Ma will be cross.

No, she won't.

Where are you going?

Nowhere.

Yes, you are.

None of your business, I said.

G
O AWAY, HE SAID WHEN, HAVING SEARCHED EVERY OTHER
place, I found him at last, hunched in a dark and dusty corner of the tool loft above the cowshed. I mean it, Eliza, just go.

I stood there on the ladder, half up and half down, looking into the shadows of his poor, wild face.

What do you want? he said when I still didn't move. Can't you just leave me alone?

What did I want? What I had wanted was to ask him to touch me, hold me, come up close to me and lift up my skirts and say sweet things and beg to do what we always did—for hadn't we after all done it enough times in the private, gritty dark of that place while the cows chewed and shifted around beneath us?

But I saw now that he did not want it. I saw that his face that had once contained nothing but desire for me was blank and empty. I had thought that I'd be the one who'd stop loving him first—I did not think I could love a murderer. But it turned out I was wrong. He had nothing left for me: there was no trace of our love left anywhere on him—not in his eyes or his mouth nor any part of him. I knew it was already hopeless but I said it anyway:

I came to be with you, I said.

I propped my elbows on the rough wooden boards of the loft and stared at his boots, which, though I did not like to think about it, still had the black, caked mud of Yarrow's ditch on them.

James did not look at me. Instead, he walked over to the bench. I watched as he picked up a small sharp knife that was used for slitting the young pigs. He held it, frowning, testing the blade against his fingers.

Well, don't, he said.

What?

You can't be with me, Eliza. I'm afraid you can't. Not anymore. I'm sorry, but it's for your own good.

My own good?

Yes, your own good! Is that so difficult to grasp? It's over, Eliza. It has to be. We're finished with each other now.

Finished?

I can't have you anywhere near me, he said.

My mouth dropped open. I felt my insides dissolve and fall away.

But I love you! I cried.

He said nothing. He shrugged. Keeping his hands on the knife, twisting it around and around. Now and then I saw sunlight squeeze itself from between the broken tiles of the roof and move along its ragged edge.

I swallowed. My mouth was dry.

I thought I was your princess, I said, and when he did not answer: What is it, James? What is it that's different? I don't understand. Don't you love me anymore?