The Midnight Child Read online

  I stand at the sink, splash my face with water, my flesh numb from the cold. Icy water laps at my skin, the gush from the tap dragging me out of my sullen musings. It feels good, the cold against my flesh – revitalising, blocking out any unwelcome thoughts. Thoughts that have been rekindled now I am living alone. I push them away, shove them back in that dark place in my head and get on with my day.

  2

  The words won’t come. It’s all such a mess, my ideas jumbled, my thoughts non-linear and chaotic. I should stop writing, not force it. Find something else to do, something that will distract me and free up my thinking. And yet I don’t. I stay seated at my desk, deflated and desperate, my self-confidence shrinking by the second. Despite many cups of coffee, the plot and characters refuse to show themselves, staying half hidden in the shadows, dancing on the periphery of my thoughts.

  A sandwich later and I am up at the kitchen window staring out into the garden, ruminating over last night. Thinking about the dead fox. Thinking about the blood. The muddy footprints. My dirty feet. Did I do it? Am I capable of such an act? Moreover, why would I be out there and why can’t I remember anything?

  Behind me, my phone pings, a shrill reminder of how empty this house feels today, how empty I feel inside.

  It’s Kim. She has sent me a text, checking how I am, monitoring my mood and making sure I’m up and functioning, getting on with my day.

  I sigh, bite at my lip and think hard before sending my reply.

  I’m fine thanks. Sitting trying to write. Shall we meet for coffee sometime this week?

  Communicating with her is never easy. In her mind, I am still her younger sister, the sibling who never grew up. She sees it as her duty to take care of me and whilst her interventions and actions are well-intentioned, she forgets that I’m now a grown woman with adult children of my own and therefore perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Warren’s death heightened her need to protect me, to keep checking up on my every movement. It is kind and I’m lucky to have somebody watching out for me, I do know that, but there are times when her constant monitoring overwhelms me more than any bouts of loneliness ever could, her messages often reminding me of my current predicament. Of my bleak state of mind.

  That sounds perfect. Tomorrow at midday. Our usual haunt.

  Her reply is immediate. I am being pushed into a corner. Her text reads as they usually do, worded as a fait accompli. I have no choice in the matter.

  My head aches. I am being uncharitable. I am also at an all-time low. Kim knows this. I would do well to loosen up, allow her in, let her care for me a little. I should indulge her, let her feel as if she is helping. She too, has her foibles and needs. We all want to be wanted, including Kim.

  I consume more coffee, dark and as strong as my taste buds will allow, while I sit at my computer in the small den next to the kitchen, hoping an influx of caffeine will stimulate my brain. Ideas begin to flow, a slow but steady stream. Not an earth-shattering amount but I manage to write over 2,000 words. It’s better than nothing and more than I expected after this morning’s rude and unwelcome introduction to the day. Words are words. They all help to build the story, to flesh out the bare bones of the plot. Words help me escape. They are a way of blocking out the darkness, a way of stepping back into the light.

  Listen to me, wallowing in my own wretchedness. Anybody watching would think I enjoy living like this, suspended in a well of unhappiness. I don’t. I need to stop it, start being more positive. My life has changed and it is what it is. Time to accept my lot and move on. Time to start again.

  * * *

  We have the café almost to ourselves. A young couple sit in the corner, their voices lowered as they sip at their coffee. They are locked into their own conversation, unaware of our presence. Outside, a large raven pecks at a pile of indistinguishable scraps in the gutter. People pass by the window next to where we are seated, their eyes fixed forward, their minds focused on other things. I sometimes forget that there is a world out there, a world full of people who have their own lives, their own thoughts and worries. All together and yet all very much alone.

  ‘How are you settling in? I wish you’d let me come over and help you more often. I feel as if I’m neglecting you.’

  I shake my head and smile. ‘I’m fine, honestly.’

  Kim is being polite, going through the motions. She doesn’t particularly care for spending time in our childhood home. Never did, as I recall. She was utterly incredulous when I told her I wanted to buy it and move out of Lilac Crescent in York, convinced I did it just to infuriate and upset her. My sister forgets that not everything is about her.

  ‘Put the past behind us. Put it behind you,’ she had said when I told her of my plan.

  She put every obstacle possible in my way when I tried to purchase it, claiming it had rising damp, that the 150-year-old roof was leaking and would need replacing. ‘You’ll live to regret it. That place is an ever-open mouth,’ she had said, her eyes dark with smouldering fury.

  I had ploughed ahead anyway, ignoring her words, blocking out her negative comments. Besides, I needed a project. Lilac Crescent was a bland box, each room resembling a show home with its magnolia walls and neat modern furniture. I needed a change. I needed to challenge myself, try to take my mind off Warren, my circumstances, my fogged-up brain.

  The purchase also put some cash into Kim’s pocket. Mum signed the house over to us before her dementia accelerated, leaving her a husk of the woman she used to be. I bought Kim’s half. She has no reason to be aggrieved. Apart from the memories, that is, those dark harrowing remnants of our past. Yet, I’m the one living with them every day. If I can cope then why can’t she do the same? Simon was a long time ago. And yet there are days when it feels as if it was only yesterday. I feel closer to him here. The thought of selling the house to strangers has always filled me with dread – an army of faceless people traipsing through the place, trampling the memory of our brother underfoot, ripping the very soul out of it – it makes me shiver. His memory is embedded deep within the house, imprinted into the walls, his voice, his face embroidered into the very fabric of the building. To leave him alone with strangers would be a sin. He may not be a tangible form but I have always felt that he is around, still here, his soul wandering free. Still the same boy he used to be.

  That sounds ridiculous I know, as if I am able to see into the future, which I am most definitely not. I do feel as if we would be abandoning him if we sold Woodburn Cottage. It is where Simon was born, where he lived as a child. Where he will always remain.

  Warren died of natural causes, a heart attack taking him before his time and it was tragic, horrific actually, completely unexpected, but leaving Lilac Crescent wasn’t a wrench. I wasn’t leaving him behind. We had only lived there for five years, having moved from our previous home where we lived for much of our married lives. Lilac Crescent didn’t define him, wasn’t a part of him. As I couldn’t go back to our other home, this place was the next best thing. It’s comforting, living somewhere familiar when my world has been tipped upside down.

  Warren was also a grown man. Simon was a child, still is. He will remain forever a child, his life stunted by the passing of time. He will always be my little older brother, the child who never grew old. The child who disappeared one day never to return.

  ‘I need to tell you something.’ The words are out before I can stop them. Probably the best way. No overthinking or preamble. That would stop me and I don’t want to be stopped. I want to talk about it, get it off my chest.

  ‘Go ahead.’ Kim lowers her cup, her eyes locked on mine.

  I had forgotten how intense she can be, how powerful a presence she is. Most of the time she is simply my older sister but then sometimes…

  ‘I woke up yesterday morning covered in blood.’ The sentence spills out of me. No more thinking or delaying. Just get on with it. Let it all out. ‘It wasn’t mine, the blood. At least, I don’t think it was. I couldn’t find any cuts or bruise
s. And when I went downstairs, I discovered the back door was wide open.’

  I don’t tell her about the dead fox. I can’t. Something inside stops me, shame perhaps. Shame that I may have carried out such an atrocious act.

  She clears her throat, glances away briefly, gives herself some thinking time. ‘So, where do you think the blood came from? I mean if, as you say, it wasn’t yours?’

  She doesn’t have to say, I told you so. I told you that you should never have moved back into that house. It’s written all over her face; in her probing gaze, her sullen countenance, her hunched shoulders.

  I lower my gaze, suddenly wishing I hadn’t mentioned it. Kim doesn’t know loneliness. She doesn’t know me or how I feel. And as for the blood, well I have no answers. I just wanted to talk about what happened, to have somebody listen to me. My words were impulsive, ill thought out. It’s not easy having no sounding board, nobody around to listen to my woes. Having no Warren. And now I’ve said too much, made myself look foolish. My face burns, a rush of blood travelling up my neck, settling in my cheeks, my ears, making me slightly nauseous and dizzy.

  I sip at my coffee. It tastes like nicotine, strong and bitter, coating my mouth, leaving a pungent aftertaste. ‘Just forget about it. It was nothing. I made a mistake.’ I sound bitter, my voice tinged with anger. Not a rough-edged sort of anger, more of a softer, resigned sort. The type of anger that is tired of everything and everyone.

  ‘Forget that you woke up covered in blood or that your back door was wide open while you were asleep upstairs?’

  The heat in my face grows, my frustration at her lack of empathy gathering momentum. It builds in my chest, pulses through my veins. I do my utmost to appear calm, measured, sipping at my coffee and allowing myself time to formulate my answer. It’s not easy being the younger sister, having an invisible barrier between us. I think of Mum and wish she were here now with her gentle ways and affable manner. The mum we once knew. Not mum as she is now. The large age gap between Kim and me has often set us apart, me feeling inferior in her presence and her forever wanting to control everything I do.

  ‘Maybe you’re doing it again. You did it when you were younger, Grace. Can’t you remember?’ Kim’s brash tone has softened, her body supple and relaxed once more. I look into her hazel eyes, wishing I could see inside her head, work out her thinking. See who she really is beneath her tough exterior and steely resolve to never weaken.

  ‘Doing what?’ I won’t want to remember once she reveals what it is she is about to say. Something about this conversation is making me uneasy.

  My flesh prickles as she lets out a protracted sigh and drums her fingernails on the table. ‘Sleepwalking. You did it when you were little. When…’

  We both look away. No need to say it out loud. We rarely speak about Simon’s disappearance these days. What is there to say? It’s been over forty years. The case, although not entirely closed, has for the most part been shelved and forgotten. Not by me, it hasn’t. I will always remember even if Kim doesn’t want to.

  Something flits into my brain but is gone before I can pin it down, butterfly wings fluttering about on the periphery of my consciousness. Sleepwalking. Is that what it was I did yesterday? Sleepwalk into the garden and do God knows what to some poor defenceless animal? It doesn’t feel right, the words not fitting properly in my head. I know my own capabilities, my strengths and weaknesses and even in the grip of a deep sleep, am sure I could never do such a thing. And yet, it explains everything – the open door, the blood. Mr Waters thinking he possibly saw me out there…

  I want to go home, now. I don’t want to give any more thought to any of this. It helps cement the idea in Kim’s head that I’m defenceless, weaker than her. Inferior. Which I’m not. I’m grieving, upset, lonely even, but I can sort out my life without any judgemental input from anybody else. What I need right now, is to be alone.

  ‘I’m a bit tired,’ I say, my voice feebler than I would like it to be. ‘I need to get on with my writing.’

  She nods and juts out her bottom lip. I know that look. I know it all too well. It is one of superiority. No matter how old we get, she will always be my older sister, the one who came first.

  ‘See you next week? Same time, same place?’

  I don’t answer. There’s no need. She knows me well enough to know that I will return. No matter how difficult life is, no matter how down I feel, no matter how domineering and annoying she is, I always come back for more.

  3

  I’m in the middle of the kitchen. It’s dark. I’m cold. I shiver, hop about from foot to foot, squint and rub at my eyes, a veil of mistiness marring my vision. Once again, the door is open. Not wide open but ajar. A cool breeze laps around my bare legs, pricking the flesh on my calves, on my arms and face. I step forward, slam the door shut and turn the key, my fingers trembling, numb from the cold.

  I look down at my feet. No slippers but at least I’m wearing a short nightgown. I’m not naked. I recall putting it on last night for fear of finding myself outside again and now here I am, standing barefoot, wondering if I am coming in or about to leave.

  I lift up my left foot, inspect it for dirt and feel a small amount of relief when I see that it is clean. Small mercies and all that. I’m suddenly grateful for them. Grateful that I haven’t been outside causing distress to helpless animals and rousing neighbours from their beds in the middle of the night.

  Slightly less terrified, less hysterical than I was when this happened a few nights back, I grab a cup and make myself some tea. I need something to settle me, something normal and reassuring and comforting, and tea is just that.

  The low hiss of the kettle fills the silence in the kitchen. As it boils, I inspect the rest of the house, peeking into the living room, the dining room, the downstairs shower room. All clear. All exactly as I left them before going to bed just over three hours ago. No need for any alarm or fear. No need for any hysteria. Not this time.

  Adding a spoonful of honey to the tea makes me feel better. I sip at it, each consecutive mouthful soothing me. Why have I started sleepwalking? I don’t try to think too hard about it, unwilling to stress myself and thus put sleep completely out of reach. I will give it more thought in the morning once I’m rested, once my mind is clearer, less prone to worry and anxiety, imagining scenarios that don’t exist, coming up with explanations that don’t quite fit.

  Visions of me wandering out of the front door, heading down the road in my pyjamas or God forbid, nothing at all, fill me with horror. So far, I’ve kept my journeys to the back garden. What happens if that changes? What if I find myself outside the front of the house in the middle of the night? I push that thought out of my mind, finish my tea and rinse out the cup, the rattle as it lands on the draining board setting my teeth on edge. Enough with the overactive imaginings. Enough with it all.

  I climb into bed and lie awake, fretting that I may get back up and wander some more, the thought of how to stop it niggling at me. When I do finally succumb, my dreams are littered with images of a naked me ambling down the road, my mind fogged up with sleep, people passing by, their eyes fixed ahead appearing to not see me. At the bottom of the street, I think that I see Simon, hear his voice calling to me. When I get there, I realise that it isn’t Simon at all but Kim. She is standing next to a huge hole in the ground and she is crying.

  He’s in there, Grace. Can you see him? It’s Simon.

  I lean closer to look and feel her hand on my back as she pushes me in. I fall through the air, my stomach clenched, a scream caught in my throat.

  * * *

  I can see a narrow strip of daylight through the curtains when I wake up the following morning. My heart is thumping and a thin film of sweat coats my chest and neck, the dream still fresh in my mind.

  My hands travel down to my torso, my legs. I feel the warmth, touch the creases in the bedsheets and almost laugh with relief. No nocturnal wanderings, thank God. I am here, safe in my bed. For now. Who knows what ton
ight will bring?

  For the next few seconds, I lie and listen, tuning in to the silence, appreciative of the peace and quiet. Warren used to wake with a start, jumping up out of bed, banging about the bedroom, driving me insane with his relentless chatter. A tension of opposites tugs at me as I lie here, acutely aware of my solitude whilst savouring the stillness and calm of the morning.

  I miss Warren. God, I miss him so much it’s a physical presence within me. Some of my days are so dark I have to summon every ounce of strength to get out of bed. Then there are other days – like today – when everything doesn’t seem so bad after all, when the sun is that little bit brighter, the grass that little bit greener, everything sweeter than it has been in a long time. Even that awful dream doesn’t dampen my disposition.

  I get up, shower, force myself to forget about the sleepwalking. I refuse to ruin my day by researching it, by stumbling upon some rogue piece of information that will blacken my mood. Information that will fixate on a damaged mind borne out of a tragedy or a trauma. Instead, I set to with my latest book, surprised at how easily it all flows, such a change to the previous day when words got stuck, my mind clogged up with the clutter and detritus of my life.