The Midnight Child Page 3

  The morning passes quickly, lunch consisting of a piece of toast and a soft-boiled egg. I don’t spend the afternoon writing, deciding instead to rifle through some of Warren’s things – things I should have sorted before I moved, things that made my stomach flip when I thought of looking at them. Before moving here to Woodburn Cottage, I put them all in a suitcase, refusing to glance at any of it, and placed the case at the bottom of the wardrobe in the spare bedroom. The time has come to finally look through them. Tomorrow may be a darker day. I need to do it while the sun is bright and the sky is blue, while things are less oppressive and I have the stomach for such a task. Kim wanted me to throw them away. She tried to take them from me, insisting they were no longer needed.

  ‘It’s just old work documents and stuff, Grace. Why would you want to hang on to them if it’s a fresh start you’re after?’

  I held my ground, knowing that once the pain of losing Warren had passed, I might possibly find some solace from seeing his things again. I know she meant well but the idea of disposing of his belongings cut me in two. Getting rid of his clothes was one thing but throwing away his personal effects without first inspecting them felt completely immoral and cruel. Why would I ever consider doing such a thing? Warren was a person. He existed and to pretend otherwise just to preserve my sense of well-being is one of the most thoughtless things I could ever imagine doing.

  The case is heavier than I remember as I drag it out onto the floor with a thump. The contents spill out when I open it, spreading around me in an untidy papery mountain – envelopes of varying shapes and sizes, photo albums, notebooks – papers and documents that represent Warren’s life. I fight back tears and set about putting them in order; envelopes in one heap, notebooks piled high in another. It takes longer than I expect and by the time I have assembled them into something I can confidently tackle, almost an hour has passed.

  A small gathering of old business cards are the first things to be discarded. I doubt Warren would want me to hang on to the numbers of some of his colleagues and business contacts that he rarely spoke with when he was alive.

  The photo albums I put in the bookcase – pictures of Warren with his siblings when he was a child, family gatherings, the picnics we went on after we first met – they all mist my vision, tears burning at my eyes as I leaf through them. Happy tears. No sadness or regret. Just buoyancy and optimism that I have found the courage to do this task. A month ago it would have felt overwhelming.

  I flick through the notebooks, stopping as one catches my eye. Most of them are lists of his contacts from work but one stands out from the rest. It’s not an address book. It’s a diary. My heart stutters about my chest as I flick it open and stare at his handwriting, at the words written there.

  I saw her again. I shouldn’t have. We talked, that’s all. At some point this all needs to come out in the open.

  I can hardly breathe. It’s an old diary from before we met. It has to be. That’s the only explanation. It isn’t. I know it isn’t. It’s new. No old papery scent about it, no frayed edges, no yellowing pages.

  My fingers are made of stone, my palms clammy and slippery as I search through the pages for dates – anything that will tell me when this was written. The notebook slips out of my fingers, landing with a dull thud on the floor. I pick it up, the paper fluttering as I desperately skim through it looking for clues. There are other entries in it, dates for business meetings, a couple of vague sentences about new starters, a reminder for our wedding anniversary, a note about the kids moving away and how much he will miss them.

  I take a deep breath, try to steady myself, to think clearly. I’m overreacting. Of course I am. This could be anything – a poem, song lyrics – anything at all. Warren was big on his music and often used to tell me about his latest discovery on the music circuit, regaling me with tales about concerts he attended. He would quote verses to me, asking me what I thought they meant, whether they were romantic or stomach churning in their vain attempts to be hip.

  My insides loosen, the knots slowly becoming untangled as I think back. He did this so often it would sometimes drive me half insane. This is what this is. It’s from a piece of music or a poem that took his fancy. Warren wasn’t an expert on poetry but always harboured a desire to do some writing of his own. He would often watch me at work, commenting on how I could sustain it for long periods of time, asking me how I had such patience for a slowly developing plot or characters that took time to emerge.

  I’d go mad, sitting hour after hour like that, he would say as he shook his head and smiled at me. I’ll stick with writing emails and listening to my music. Or maybe a short story. I don’t think I have a full book in me. I love words. I just don’t love sitting still.

  A small bubble of laughter emerges out of nowhere, slipping out of me unbidden. Hysteria and relief, no doubt. I refuse to believe that Kim was right, that I should have binned these papers. This is something I have to do, to work through the documentation of Warren’s life in order to move on with mine. These words written down here are meaningless. Meaningless to me and Warren for sure. They were possibly priceless to the author, but I feel sure that that person wasn’t Warren. He was a romantic, a wannabe writer of modern poetry, a shameless plagiarist of the work of others. He wasn’t a philanderer. We were happy. Just a normal couple who, like everybody else, had their ups and downs, their good times and bad times. That’s how the world is, it’s how people are and we were no different.

  Were. That word still has the power to turn my blood to sand, my limbs to stone. I wonder how long it will be before I can truly say that I can accept what happened and press ahead with my life?

  I am still ruminating this when I hear a knock at the door, a gentle tapping that takes some time to filter through my thoughts and rouse me, dragging me out of my reverie where I am mulling over the past, colouring it in pastel shades and ignoring the charred edges. It’s easier that way, less painful. Less traumatic.

  Mr Waters is standing there, his shoulders stooped, his hair a shock of white. It glints under the glare of the hovering sun, silver strands jutting out at divergent angles like lengths of invisible thread. I think back to when we were children, Simon and me, how we would go into his garden to pick apples from his tree, how he would chase us around the patch of lawn pretending to be an ogre. I still recall our screams, how being terrified gave us such a thrill, glee and excitement turning the pair of us into shrieking monsters. Kim was older. Too old and too reserved for such frivolity. So many years ago. So much has happened since then. It’s as if my younger self was a different person. Sometimes I think I’ve lived two lives – before Simon and after. Before Warren and after. Cut me in half, you may just find the real Grace Cooper somewhere in the middle.

  ‘Just thought I’d call round. See ’ow you are after yer find t’other day.’

  I angle my body and wave him inside. He shakes his head and turns his gaze away to face the back of his house. ‘I’ll not bother if it’s all the same wi’ you. Got my daughter calling around shortly. She’s bringing her little grandson wi’ her. He’s a fine little thing, he is. Who’d have thought it, eh? Me, a great granddad.’

  ‘Oh, that sounds lovely. And I’m fine thank you. No more dead foxes so that’s a positive, isn’t it?’

  The image of Mr Waters’ daughter, Carrie, flashes into my brain, a brief picture of her as a child – quiet, withdrawn, the polar opposite of her father. Carrie was more like her mum. We rarely saw Mrs Waters. She was a homebody, always busy with housework, always scurrying around their kitchen, cooking, cleaning, her diminutive frame a shadowy form as we played in her garden and helped ourselves to the fruit from her tree.

  Carrie moved away when she was in her early twenties and we lost touch. We played together as children but didn’t form a lasting friendship. I think perhaps she moved to a little village somewhere in Scotland but can’t be sure of that. Time and tragedy have blurred a lot of my memories, pushing them out of the way so grief co
uld obliterate much of what happened. And now she is a grandmother. Time, that slippery elusive thing, so much of it has passed in the blink of an eye.

  ‘Right,’ he says, his rheumy gaze catching mine before he steps away and moves off down the path. ‘As long as you’re okay, lass. We all need to watch out for one another, don’t we? If you ask me, that’s what neighbours are for.’

  A lump is wedged in my throat. I blink away tears and nod, a sudden need to get back inside clawing at me. Such a kind man. I’m lucky in so many ways. I mustn’t ever forget that.

  I close the door and shut my eyes, squeezing away more memories, fighting them off. Rumours. That’s all they were. Nasty baseless rumours about Mr Waters and his family. I’d forgotten about them, my head too full of other things but now I’m back here they have presented themselves, emerging out of the darkness, slithering my way, gathering speed and momentum as they hurtle towards me.

  My chest rattles as I let out a long sigh and head back inside. I clear away the remainder of Warren’s things, stuffing them back into the suitcase, all the while making a promise to myself that from now on, I will save the drama for my books. That’s where it belongs. I’ve had enough of it in my life already, enough to see me through this life and another.

  4

  Kim sits, her coffee cup poised halfway to her mouth, eyes narrowed, glinting. Suspicion emanates from her, tiny invisible tendrils that curl into the air around us. I hate it when she gets like this. It puts me on edge, frays my nerves. Makes me want to be somewhere else.

  ‘I hope you didn’t let him in the house. He’s a creepy old bastard.’ She drinks her coffee, a thin foamy moustache of cream resting on her top lip. She licks it away, her tongue reminding me of a hungry lizard, stalking, waiting. Choosing its prey with the utmost care and precision.

  ‘He didn’t want to come in, but if he did, I would have let him.’ I am tiring of this, the games my sister plays with me, the invisible power she tries to wield. Even now, after all these years, she cannot let it go, the older sibling act. My heart is a steady thump under my sweater as I stare at her. ‘He was good to us when we were children. He was kind and funny. Still is.’

  ‘Then you have a poor memory,’ she murmurs from behind her cup. ‘Or a selective one.’

  She wants me to ask, to help perpetuate the story that Mr Waters was cruel to his family. It’s an impossibility. How can somebody be one thing to friends and neighbours and another to his family, turning into a monster as soon as he walks back through his front door? We would have seen glimpses of it, caught snatches of his moods and temper, heard it from their house, and we didn’t. They were a quiet, demure family. Always polite and helpful, always there when we needed them.

  ‘And you have chosen to go with the narrative that he beat up his family because you listened to the village gossips.’

  ‘Small villages have big eyes and ears. It wasn’t just gossip. It was the truth.’ Her mouth has curled up into a near snarl. She feels she knows everything there is to know about events that took place when she was young and inexperienced, lacking in enough wisdom to allow her to judge. Her view of the world was flawed. Youngsters see the world and those in it through different eyes. She was in no position to act as magistrate. Still isn’t.

  ‘That’s your opinion. Mr Waters is now my neighbour and I intend to remain on good terms with him. He has done nothing to offend me.’ I sniff and stare off into the distance to try to add some gravitas to my words. Beneath my skin, electric impulses prod at me, tiny hot needles stabbing, reminding me of Kim’s latent matronly ways, how easily she can turn, how quickly and without warning.

  ‘Just be careful, Grace. That’s all I’m saying. Just be careful.’

  I drain my cup and offer to pay but she is there before me, placing her card against the machine.

  ‘How’s your writing coming on?’ This is a lame attempt at re-establishing our connection. Kim doesn’t know or understand my writing regime having not read any of my books. We are very different people, my sister and I. I sometimes wonder if we’re actually related at all.

  ‘It’s fine. Slow but making progress.’

  Already her attention is elsewhere, her eyes darting about the café, her fingers carefully opening a compact mirror as she checks her make-up for minor flaws. She scrutinises her own features, her lips pursed in concentration. In just a few seconds, she has forgotten about me, her mind focused on her perfect face, her smooth complexion. Her fragile ego. Kim has remarkably thin skin for one apparently so self-assured. She is easily damaged, her nose quickly put out of joint. The immaculate appearance, the designer clothes are all a front, a veneer to mask the mass of writhing insecurities that burn and pulse just below the surface of her skin. I often wonder what it is she is desperately trying to hide.

  ‘Good, good,’ she murmurs, smacking her lips together, closing the mirror with a metallic snap.

  ‘I need to get back,’ I say, already wondering why we continue to meet like this. Habit, I guess. Habit and an invisible cord that will always bind us together. With Mum in the care home and Simon and our father long since gone, all we have is each other.

  ‘I’m going to visit Mum in the morning,’ she says lightly as if it is a passing comment, something we say in everyday conversation, like isn’t the weather awful or how are things with you?

  Going to visit our mother is a major event. It is exhausting, traumatic and any other extreme emotion you care to add. Not a thing we do lightly.

  ‘I’ll go with you.’ The words are out before I can stop them, an explosion of garbled syllables that have the power to make Kim freeze, to stop her from rummaging in her expansive handbag and to stare at me as if I have grown two heads. ‘I haven’t seen Mum for a few weeks. I’ll tag along. If that’s okay with you?’

  She widens her eyes, nods at me warily, turns away but not before I see the tremble in her hands, the slight tremor of her head. The tic that takes hold in her jaw. I often need to protect Mum from Kim’s sharp words, her unwillingness to soften her serrated manner. It may sound egotistical and I do not mean it to, but I am better at handling Mum. She is unpredictable, flighty. As her mind crumbles into dust, she has little or no control over what comes out of her mouth, saying things that simply aren’t true, things that often rile her eldest daughter, causing her to defend herself against Mum’s insults and accusations.

  ‘Whatever you want to do. Completely up to you.’ She shrugs and turns away, already slighted, already thinking that I have somehow usurped her. She shuffles through the door, her heels clicking on the stone flooring, making my scalp prickle with dread.

  We arrange to meet at the care home at 10am. Mum will be dressed by then, will have eaten and be at her best, rested after a good night’s sleep and a decent breakfast. Her demeanour declines the closer it is to bedtime, her brainpower depleted by simply existing and trying to make it through an average day. Not that all of her days are average. Some are better than others. And some are particularly hideous – a protracted stream of vile words and allegations fired out at anybody who will listen – swear words, invectives, attempts to hit out and scratch at anybody unfortunate enough to be close at hand. It’s as if the devil himself has landed deep in her soul and is doing his damnedest to tear her apart and burst out of her chest, a writhing spitting demon who will devour anybody within reach. We visit in the hope of catching her on a good day, but we never can tell.

  ‘See you there,’ I say as we part.

  Kim gives me a cursory wave over her shoulder before sliding into the car and disappearing around the corner before I’ve even had chance to find my keys.

  * * *

  It’s the howling wind that wakes me. That and the ground that feels unsteady under my feet. At least I think that’s what it is. When I come to, I am acutely aware of the cold and the noise of the breeze passing through the treetops; the branches groaning, the leaves rattling and whispering. I was dreaming that somebody was calling out to me, murmuring
my name but the memory is too distant, too ethereal to define.

  I stare down at my feet – bare, numb from the night air. I’m wearing pyjama bottoms and a vest top. I wrap my arms around myself, rubbing at the cool prickled flesh with my fingers to try to warm myself up.

  My eyes take some time to clear, my vision still blurry from sleep, my brain muddled and clogged up with dreams and weird visualisations. I blink, wait for things to come into focus and when they do, I begin to cry, shockwaves rippling through me. I am on the main road in the village, my house a good way behind me. Wandering into the back garden in my sleep was no longer good enough for me, not daring or brazen enough. My body and mind have now decided to steer me into a public area, half dressed and freezing cold while still asleep.

  Gravel cuts at my feet. I stumble and right myself, aware that I am in the middle of the street. My toes curl, a response to the pain as I tiptoe onto the path, doing my best to dodge the sharp stones and loose grit and tarmac that roll around the ground.

  The village is deserted. I thank God for that. Hempton is a small place. Nobody around, nobody out in the early hours who will see me. Or help me. What if something had happened? What if a car had come tearing around the corner at full speed in the dark?

  I shiver, my feet burning and throbbing as I head down the path towards home. My home. The place where I grew up. The place where Simon went missing. My head is aching, my back rigid and sore, the cool breeze forcing me to tense up, my spine as taut as a bowstring.

  The front door is wide open when I get there. Anybody could have wandered in. Any passing drunk. Any passing druggie or rapist. The chances of there being any in these parts is almost zero. I know this. It doesn’t stop the fear from nipping at me, or halt the vulnerability I am experiencing at being so exposed and alone.