Hide and Seek (29 page)

“You’ll be a good father, Will,” John says. “It just takes time. And practice. And knowing what’s right for your boy.”

But will Leo be a good son?

As if he knows what I am thinking, as if he’s learnt by now what answers I need, John says, “How Leo turns out is up to you.”

Except it isn’t though, is it? I look at my phone again. It’s up to Sophie. Or if she’s dead already, Alain, or the French police. Maybe they are examining a ‘crime scene’ even now. Maybe I shouldn’t have left. Maybe I should have stayed to give my side of the story. Because I’m not sure anyone else will. Not the real story, of course. But the one that they need to believe. If I’m to spend the time with Leo he deserves. Not return from prison years in the future to find him an angry, strong, young man. A strong young man, furious to be the son of a double-murderer – because yes, it would all come out. Furious that I was not at his birth. Furious that I abandoned him and his mother in my blood lust. I can see him now, red and sweating before me, physically strong through having to look after Ellie in her grief. He might knock me out with a single punch. I might as well have stayed in prison. I might even learn French, if they lock me up over there, and –

“Will? Will!” John’s voice is loud in my ear. “Your phone’s going.”

I start. He’s right. Oh God, this is it, my future determined. I look at the caller ID. Oh. Oh phew. It’s only Ellie.

“It’s only Ellie,” I tell John.

“Only?” he asks, eyebrows raised.

Yes. Yes, only the mother of my new and frightening child.

I answer the phone.

“Hi, sweetie,” she says. “How are you getting on?”

“Fine,” I say. Well, in the real world, I am. In the real world, I am being driven into the forecourt of a baby superstore. I will soon have a car seat. I will soon be home. Then I will be back at the hospital again. All is fine. “I’m just about to get the car seat now.” I consider telling her that John has given me a lift. But after the episode with Gillian, whether real or imagined, she might see it as some kind of betrayal. So I don’t.

“Leo says hi!” says Ellie.

I say hi back then ring off. Inside the baby superstore, I try to buy the first car seat that I see. But John points out its failings. In the end, under his recommendation, we get a different, more expensive one. I try to ignore that it is black and white. It doesn’t come in other colours, otherwise I would have bought it in red, yellow, orange, anything else. I’m not going back there again. Back to my monochrome nightmare.

We don’t say much on the drive from the superstore to my house. John tries, I think, but I’m not sure I answer. I’m just thinking about what the house is like. What the nursery is like. I can just imagine standing there, banging my head against the walls of the zebra piano, when Leo can’t or won’t sleep. As he is getting redder and redder, practising his rage. Maybe I’ll start banging my head in the rhythm of Max’s concerto. I imagine hearing that blood again in my ears. Maybe I haven’t recovered at all.

“Be safe,” says John, when he drops me off. “Make sure you keep your eyes on the road. Lots of accidents, with new fathers.”

Accidents, murders, either way. But he has a point. I must keep my eyes on the road. Remember the trip back from Paris. Remember when you realised it all had to be about Ellie, all about Leo, all living in the moment. Keep that. Stay strong. Focus. You are a father.

As I get into the hall, I have a plan. I ignore the envelopes that have piled up on the doormat. I go straight to the linen cupboard. I hope what I’m looking for will be there. Yes, yes, it is! The wonderful silk frieze that we bought back from honeymoon, that we never quite knew what to do with. Now, its flowing primary colours give it a purpose. I take it into the nursery and I hold it over the zebra pianos. It just about covers them. I get a nail and I beat it into the wall with a shoe. We don’t have a hammer any more. It’s with security at the Eurostar terminal. And if we had one, I wouldn’t trust myself to use it. I know what they can do. I stand back to admire my work. Yes, baby Leo will like that. It will give him something to gaze at. While I’m in prison, or not. At least if I’m prison, I can see a doctor. Get some treatment, if I need it. Because I cannot just go to my GP or to Harley Street and tell them what I’ve done, can I, and ask whether they think I’ll do it again? Whether this is full-on psychosis, as opposed to a passing phase. Not if I want the liberty to see Leo. If I do.

Stay in the moment, Will. Take the car seat, drive back to the hospital, eyes on the road.

My eyes are so fixed on their purpose that when I step out of the front door I almost trip on a basket of baby goodies that has appeared there. There’s no name on the sender label. Gillian, though, I assume. So she has been here. She intends to keep protecting me, silently, when I don’t expect it. I throw away the delivery box. I can pretend I bought them. Get father brownie points. Before I lose them all. Thanks to Sophie. Or rather, thanks to me.

Chapter Sixteen

-Sophie–

Dark, so dark, here, with eyes shut. Could just stay, always, in the dark and – But no. Here I am. Fighting for my future again. It is just a blink. Open your eyes. Perform.

“I need him back like I need a hole in the head,” I joke to Alain.

It’s not a very good joke. And I know I don’t deliver it well. My voice is too croaky. My emphasis too weak. But Alain laughs all the same.

What I cannot tell is whether it is real, his laughter. Or whether it is the laughter of a man who, as soon as I get out of hospital, will leave me. I have Will to thank for that.

When I opened up my eyes and saw Alain here, I told him straightaway,
“J’ai un fils.”

Alain just shrugged, reminded me he has a son too.

“Je suis désolée de ne pas te l’avoir dit plus tôt,”
I tell him. Because I am sorry, I think, that I didn’t tell him earlier. It might have meant he wouldn’t have to contemplate breaking up with me. It might have meant I wouldn’t be lying here. It might have meant I wouldn’t have had to carry all that guilt, alone. Or indeed any guilt. Because if there’s anything Will’s cordial visit tells me, it’s that I was right to leave. The boy is a killer. You cannot ignore two instances of a child trying to kill its parents. One where he succeeds. He has clearly lost his touch. Whatever I may have tried to tell myself over the years, that it was my fault for being a bad parent, or Max’s fault, or that he was just a child having a tantrum that went wrong, I know now that I was wrong. He is guilty. He is a killer. I should have confronted him straightaway! Not respected some failed restorative parenting method Gillian and John had decided on, when I realised they hadn’t told him, protecting him from his guilt! I owe him nothing. It is only by good luck, by the good fortune of Ellie calling, that I am not killed. And I don’t even know yet, I suppose, that this new me I took from England still lives. Because Alain has the power to end me. If he takes away this ring. If he takes away my hope.

And so when Alain asks why I didn’t tell him, I lean in and I whisper my secrets. I whisper as much as I want him to know about my son’s guilt. About Max. About my spiralling descent. About the careful rise again. I’m not sure if I will tell him everything, yet, about this latest episode. But that doesn’t mean that I forgive Will. Or that I’ve done with him yet.

Should I be merciful? I have dim memories of him telling me he has his own son. That I’m a grandmother. Is that an occasion for joy? Maybe if the son takes after the father. In the way he displays filial affection. That would be my own vengeance, by proxy. Or is it an occasion for mercy? Do unto others as you would have them do unto you? No. Will should have thought of that before.

I know what I will do. If Will was seeking closure as he opened my skull, this will not be it. What I have in mind is full disclosure. And it will stay with him for the rest of his life.

Chapter Seventeen

-Will-

We are all back home from the hospital when the phone call comes. Ellie is telling me she is pleased with the throw in the nursery. I’ve shown Leo his new room. He doesn’t seem that interested, so I’ve brought him back down to the living room while Ellie has a bath. At first, she doesn’t want to leave Leo. But I persuade her she must. She turns on the baby monitor – a special one with a screen, so you can see the baby as well as hear it – and takes the console upstairs with her. So. Leo and I will be watched. To keep us both safe. But I still plan for the two of us to do some mutual contemplation. To bond, while I am here.

The phone call spoils all that, of course.

It is to my mobile. A French number on the display. I knew ultimately there would be this moment. I would have heard by now, wouldn’t I, if she was dead? Seeing as I am probably her next of kin, whether she likes it or not. But if she is not dead, then she may have talked. And this may be the police.

I could let it go to voicemail. But no. I have to take responsibility. I answer the phone, keeping half an eye on Leo.

“Hello?” I ask.

“Check your emails,” a rasping voice says, then hangs up. That is it. Who even was that? My gut says Sophie. But it doesn’t sound like the Sophie I remember from Paris. Nor the one I remember from my childhood. Hah. Who am I kidding? I don’t remember anything with any accuracy from my childhood. I don’t want to. So it may not be Sophie. Maybe it is Alain, the little man in the pinny. Whoever it is, why the aggressive urgency that I check my emails? Is this some kind of threat, blackmail maybe?

But I do as I’m told. I haven’t opened the email function on my phone for the past few days. I’ve been too busy watching Leo sleep. In case he wakes up, while I’m not looking.

There’s an email from Sophie. Oh God. This will be it, then. The truth. Of whether she is pressing charges. Whether she will protect me or whether I’ll soon be on my way back across the Channel, in the hands of the French.

I open it up. Its words chill me, even though I don’t know what they mean.

“So I am alive. Do not consider yourself forgiven. Or safe. For here is a christening gift from me. Or rather, from your father. A little something he has passed down to you. I’ve made it digital, so it will last you a lifetime. Or at least until your heart breaks. Play it to your child. Teach him what it means. And may he teach you what your own father learnt in death. Never, ever stop looking over your shoulder.”

What is this gift? How can it be from Max? I scroll down to the bottom of the email. There is a file attached. It’s called ‘Max’s final tune’. I tap into it. It’s a sound file. I press play.

A piano. And I imagine from the title that it is Max at the keys. There’s a beautiful rolling passage, like a cadenza – it carries me away, almost to the ecstasies I was in when I first heard him play. It’s even more lyrical, even more bold than his earlier work. My spine starts to shiver. I haven’t listened to his music, since Paris. But then, there’s a discord. Discordant even for Max. Is he trying something new? There’s another, that can’t be right, it sounds like it’s a sudden unplanned key change. And the rolling of his cadences sounds too rolling, like his brain is rolling around. Like his genius has somehow been lost. Then a huge great chord, like he is playing every note on the piano at once. Or has just landed on it.

My mouth turns dry. I start to realise what I am hearing. This really is Max’s final tune.

On the recording there are cries of ‘Max! Max! Are you OK?’ Then another voice says. ‘Christ, he’s collapsed, call an ambulance!’ And then, worst of all, after a pause, the last voice. ‘It’s no good. He’s not breathing. He’s dead.’

And then the recording stops.

I try to breathe but air seems suspended. Nothing goes in, nothing goes out. There is only the sound of my dead father. The sound of his silence. That I created.

I have to listen again. The melody at the start is already part of me, hammering into my brain. But I have to hear where it goes wrong. I have to hear the turn. I have to hear when the pressure of the blood on his brain caused by my hammer-blows became too much. The moment when his genius goes.

There.

There is the falling off. There is what I did. When I was only four. There’s no escaping it now, no consigning it to a childish tantrum, no blaming Max or Sophie, or my younger self. Only my father dying, by my hand. There on the recording is the weight of my actions.

Sophie is right. Even as I play the music again, I know she is right. This is the only tune that will ever be with me. It will last me a lifetime. And it will teach me caution. Of myself. And of my son.

Leo tries to replace my father’s tune with one of his own. He starts to cry. Furiously, loudly.

“Aren’t you going to stop him?” calls Ellie. She is meant to be bathing. It is my turn to watch him.

“He just wants some attention,” she shouts. “Go on, pick him up, or something. Or bring him to me.”

I look at Leo. His red crying face looks back. Thirty years ago my father must have looked at a red crying face. One of the last faces he saw. I move over to Leo’s Moses basket. Just attention, Ellie said. I do a ‘peek-a-boo’ face at him, hiding behind my hands, then springing them apart. Except I don’t cover my face completely. I peer at him through gaps in my fingers. I will be watching him always. The crying continues. Maybe he doesn’t like the look of the father who emerges.

I put one of my fingers inside Leo’s balled up little hand. He stops crying. But he grips my finger. Hard. Like a hammer.

The End

Read on for an extract from YOURS IS MINE, Amy Bird’s sensational debut.

Chapter 1

The day the invitation appeared in her email inbox, Kate Dixon was ready to give up.

Cards congratulating her on the success of her dad’s funeral the previous week were still pouring through the letterbox of his Kielder cottage. ‘I thought it went well, all things considered’, they said, or ‘He would have been very pleased’. Kate knew the blue silk inside the coffin had been fetching, but she still thought Dad would have preferred to be alive. They could be going for a jog, even now, in the Kielder National Park surrounding his cottage, like they used to.