Little Face (13 page)

Friday, September 26, 2003

I STAND AT the door of our bedroom. David is lying in bed. He doesn't
look at me. Every so often the hard, icy reality of our situation strikes
me afresh, as if for the first time: the unbearable fear, the possibility
that everything might not be all right in the end. It does so now. My
body quakes, and I have to struggle to keep still.

`Do you want me to sleep in another room?' I ask.

He shrugs. I wait. After ten seconds or so, when he sees that I am not
going anywhere, he says, `No. Let's not make things any more abnormal than they are already.' It's for Vivienne's benefit. He is still hoping
to present what has happened as a minor problem: `She's just being
silly, Mum, honestly. She'll snap out of it.' Neither of us wants to confront the worry and misery our news has caused her. At one time, I
believed that as long as Vivienne was happy, I, as a member of her
inner circle, would come to no harm. The flip side of that-a fear that
if Vivienne is displeased the world will end-has proved harder to
dispel.

I am relieved that David does not want to banish me. Perhaps, when
I get into bed, he will give me his usual goodnight kiss. I feel encouraged, enough to say, `David, it's not too late. I know it's hard to back
down after what you've said, but you must want the police to find Florence. You must! And the only way is to tell them you know I'm
right-then they'll look for her.' I try to keep my voice level, rational. David is afraid of excessive displays of emotion. I don't want to push
him further away.

`I could say the same to you,' he says tonelessly. `It's not too late for
you to abandon this ridiculous charade.'

`You know it isn't that. Please, David! What about the other mother,
the mother of the baby in the nursery? What about her? She'll be missing her daughter as much as I miss Florence. Don't you care?'

`The other mother?' he says sarcastically. `Oh, her. No, I don't give
a shit about her. You know why? Because there is no other mother.'

I think about Mandy from the hospital. How would her boyfriend
treat her, in this situation? I only talked to her properly once. She told
me she lived in a one-bedroom flat and didn't know how they'd manage for space now that they had the baby. `You know what men are
like when their sleep's interrupted.' She sighed. I felt awful when she
asked me how I was fixed for space. I didn't want to lie, and had to
admit I lived in a big house, though I made it clear I wasn't the owner.

`David, do you remember Mandy, from the maternity ward?' I
touch his arm but he pulls it away. `I told her where we lived. She knew
the house.' My voice begins to tremble. `Well, she said she'd seen it, she
knew what road it was on.'

`I don't know how you dare,' he says quietly. `Yes, I remember
Mandy. We felt sorry for her. What are you saying, that she's stolen
Florence?' He shakes his head. `I don't know how you have the nerve.'

I see that it is too late. He tried to reason with me earlier this afternoon, but I locked myself in the bedroom and ignored him. This is one
trauma too far for him. I have introduced panic and uncertainty into
his life. I am the source of all his troubles, the bogeyman.

David turns to face me. `Earlier today I thought you were mad, sick,'
he whispers, `but you're not, are you? You're as sane as I am.'

`Yes!' Tears flood my eyes. My shoulders sag with relief.

`You're just evil, then.' He turns away, his face hard with animosity. `You're a liar.'

My brain is in revolt, unwilling to accept what it has just heard. How can he apply the word evil to me? He loves me, I know he does. He
must. Even now, after the terrible things he's said today, I cannot banish from my mind all the kind things he has done, all his smiles, kisses
and endearments. How can it be so easy for him to turn against me?

`I'll go and get changed,' I say quietly, pulling out my nightie from
under my pillow. David and I are not in the habit of undressing in front
of one another. When we make love, it is always semi-clothed, in the
darkness. I thought David's modesty was unusual when we first got
together. Then I told myself that it was sweet that he was so oldfashioned, that perhaps it was a class thing. I had never had a relationship with a properly well-bred person before. I didn't know until
David told me that milk had to go in a jug, butter in a special dish. In
my parents' house it had been normal for milk bottles to sit on the big,
battered pine kitchen table, which was where we ate all our meals.

David climbs out of bed. Before I have time to wonder what he is
doing, he has slammed the door shut. He leans against it, saying
nothing, staring at me blankly.

`I was just going to go to the bathroom, to get ready for bed,' I say
again.

He shakes his head, doesn't move.

`David, I need to go to the toilet,' I am forced to say. I cannot physically remove him from my path. He is far stronger than I am.

He looks at me, then at the nightie in my hand, then back at me,
making it clear what he wants me to do. I see no way out, not with my
bladder as full as it is. Counting to ten in my head, I begin to undress.
I turn slightly to one side to obscure his view of my body, feeling as violated as if I'd been made to undress in front of a hostile stranger, but
David makes a point of moving, craning his neck to make sure he can
see everything. He smirks.

I think I would have found a punch in the face preferable.

Once I am in my nightie, I look at him again. I see triumph in the
set of his features. He nods and stands aside, allowing me to leave the
room. I have just enough time to lock the bathroom door and get to the toilet before I am sick. It is not fear that turns my stomach so much
as shock. Whoever that cold, cruel presence in the bedroom is, it isn't
David. I do not recognise my own husband. This cannot be the same
man who wrote, in the first birthday card he ever sent me, `You're the
measure of my dreams'. I later found out, by pure accident, that this
line was a lyric from a song by The Pogues. David grinned when I told
him I knew. `What, you didn't expect me to write my own romantic
lines, did you?' he said. `I write computer software, Alice. I can sweep
laptops off their feet, but not women. You're better off in the capable
hands of Shane McGowan, believe me.' I laughed. He has always
known how to make me laugh.

I cannot believe that forcing me to strip in front of him is rational
behaviour on David's part. Something must have flipped in his brain,
like when a fuse blows. He is terrible under pressure. People who don't
know how to talk about their feelings usually are.

I can't risk provoking him again, so I return to the bedroom and
slide silently under the duvet. David is facing away from me, at the furthest edge of the mattress. I fall quickly into the worst sort of sleep, an
agitated, jolting progress through unsettling dreams, like driving
through hell at a hundred miles an hour. I see Florence, alone and crying, and I can't go to her because I don't know where she is. I see
Laura, lying on the path between The Elms and the road, not yet dead,
trying to pull the knife out of her chest.

I hear rhythmic beating. Ticking. I sit up, confused, not sure if I'm
awake or asleep. David's side of the bed is empty. For a second I am
frozen, terrified. I am the one who is alone, the one who has been
stabbed, the one lying in the pitch black. Then realisation, appalling
knowledge, floods my brain with a cold, choking dread. Florence. I
want Florence. My lungs are full of something heavy, my breath
squeezed into my throat. I am too miserable to cry.

I look at the clock. Nearly five. I creep to the bedroom door and
open it as quietly as I can. The nursery door is ajar, and a sliver of
warm, yellow light has spilled on to the landing carpet. I can hear David's voice, whispering, though I can't make out what he's saying.
Resentment writhes inside me, threatening to burst out of my mouth
and give me away. I should be in that room, not shivering on the landing like an intruder.

But that's wrong too. Nobody should be in the nursery, not yet. Florence should be asleep in her Moses basket by the side of my bed. That
was what I wanted, but Vivienne objected, as usual, to `these modern
ideas'. `A child should be in its own room in its own cot from the day
it's born,' she said firmly. David agreed, so I gave in.

I spent my whole pregnancy giving in. Every time David supported
Vivienne, I swallowed my pride and hid the hurt I felt at being excluded
from yet another important decision that involved my child. I told
myself it was difficult for him to stand up to Vivienne; he's such a
devoted son. I have always thought this is a good thing. On the outside I must have looked like a model of obedience, while inside I
burned with unspoken defiance. And in a strange sort of way, my passivity didn't bother me because I knew it was only a temporary state.
It always felt as if I was just resting, gathering my strength. Florence
was my daughter, not Vivienne's, and I would have my say when the
time was right.

Sometimes I catch myself feeling sorry for Vivienne, as if I've let her
down by developing a mind of my own. Her interfering, controlling
nature is precisely what I loved about her at first. I wanted her as a
mother-in-law as much as I wanted David as a husband.

Feeling as if my breath and my heartbeat are, between them, louder
than a brass band, I tiptoe towards Florence's room, stopping as soon
as David's words become audible. `Good girl,' he says. `A whole four
ounces. Just what a growing girl needs. Well done, little girl. Well done,
Little Face.' That name again. I hear a soft pock-ing noise, a goodnight
kiss. `Now, a new nappy, I think.' I note the `I'. Not `Daddy', `I'. I must
tell Simon Waterhouse all of this. I know it won't count as evidence,
but it might help to shape his opinion. David has been referring to himself in the third person as Daddy for the past two weeks. I run back along the landing, not caring if he hears me, and throw myself into bed.
From some reservoir of despair deep inside me, I find more tears. The
sound of that kiss has finished me.

I want to kiss my daughter. I want to be able to hug and kiss my parents, but I never will again. I can't stand it. I want them to tuck me up
in bed and tell me that it was just a silly nightmare and everything will
be okay in the morning.

When I was a child, I had an elaborate bedtime ritual. First my dad
would read me a story, then my mum would come upstairs and sing
me some songs, usually three or four. However many she sang, I
always asked for another one and she always gave in. `Bye-Bye
Blackbird', `Second-Hand Rose', `The Sunny Side of the Street'-I
still know the words to all of them. After the songs, my dad would
come back upstairs for the finale, a bedtime chat. This was my
favourite part. He always let me choose what I wanted to chat
about, and, once the topic for the evening was decided, I asked as
many questions as I could think of, to keep him there for as long as
possible.

I must have been about four or five at the time. David was six when
his dad left home. I don't even know my father-in-law's name, and I
don't know why I feel I can't ask. All those nights I delayed my bedtime as a child, interrogating my dad. All the things I ask my patients,
to try to work out the best way to treat them. It is in my nature to ask
questions. Only David makes me feel I can't. He reacts as if I am being
rude or intrusive if he suspects me of trying to get to the bottom of
some aspect of his character. `What is this, the third degree?' he says.
Or `Objection, Your Honour. Counsel is badgering the witness.' Then
he laughs and leaves the room, to make it clear that the conversation
is over. I have attributed his defensiveness to past hurt and made
allowances accordingly.

This is a hard habit to break. Even tonight, I cannot help blaming
myself for his behaviour. I have always led him to believe that I would
do anything for him, and now he sees that is not true. I will not say that the baby in this house is Florence, even for him. I didn't mean to let
him down, but I have. Some situations are impossible to foresee.

I hear a low, rumbling sound. A car engine. Vivienne and Felix. Was
that what woke me? I climb out of bed and go over to the window. My
hands search for the gold chain. None of the curtains in Vivienne's
house are ones that you can pull open easily. After some unsuccessful
fumbling, I manage to tug the chain in the right direction and the curtains slide gracefully open. The headlights of Vivienne's Mercedes
stretch up the driveway, two long, white-gold bars of shining dust.
There is a softer light on the wall of the old barn that casts a dim,
orange glow over most of the area between the house and the road.
This has been installed since Laura was killed. Before that you wouldn't have been able to see a thing at this time of night.

I wonder if the police know the exact hour-minute, even-that
Laura was killed, whether they ever narrowed it down. When they
interviewed me and David immediately after her murder, all they
could tell us was that she'd been stabbed at some point between nine
in the evening and the early hours of the following morning. I do not
like to think of her dying in the pitch black. I only met Laura once. She
disliked me. She died believing that I was a shallow, spineless fool.

I reach for the chain that will close the curtains, not wanting Vivienne to see that I am awake. My heart pounds. Quick, quick. I am not
ready for her yet. The curtains slide shut, leaving just a small gap. Peering through it, I see her. She does not look happy. She is wearing dark
trousers with a crease in them and her black wool coat. She stares at
the house dispassionately for several seconds, like a woman planning
an onslaught of some kind, before extending a hand in Felix's direction. He takes it, and together they march up the driveway, stiffbacked and purposeful, Vivienne pulling a large suitcase on wheels
behind her. They do not speak as they walk. No two people have ever
looked less like holiday-makers, returning from a fun time in Florida.