The Testament of Jessie Lamb (30 page)

‘I'd rather stay now I'm here,' she said. ‘Please.'

‘Explain me why,' he said kindly.

‘I don't want to do the goodbyes. All that fuss. I just want to get on with it.'

‘You must see your mother,' he said.

‘She can come and see me here. In the clinic.' Rosa knew how to get what she wanted, and in the end he said yes. Actually, it was a pity I didn't have the sense to do the same as her.

But I didn't. I went home, slipping out through the FLAME pickets and even stopping to tell the embarrassed girl, ‘My Dad wishes you the best of luck!' I was excited. Excited about Monday morning, excited about the weekend. I thought Mum and Dad were both so near to understanding, that the news about the baby, the baby that would be theirs, would be enough to tip the balance. I was thinking of all the things we might do, how we could go on a walk up to Dovestones and look for the kingfisher; of how I was going to relish every precious last minute of my time.

And when Dad asked me to visit Nanna Bessie's house with him, and said they were going to give it to motherless kids, I was happy. Happy that we were doing something useful together.

When I wake my head is clear. Today's the day. Today this must end. My feet and legs ache and my ankles are stiff. As for my clothes, they're disgusting. When he brings me my breakfast I ask if I can have a bath.

‘Of course.' He goes and turns it on. When I've eaten my brown toast and damson jam and the steam is beginning to curl into the room, he turns off the taps and comes to me with the bike key. ‘Tell me you're not going to try anything stupid.'

‘I'm not going to try anything stupid.'

He undoes the locks. I massage my ankles, then try to stand. I'm as bent and rickety as an old woman. He has to hold my elbow to steady me, I can barely walk.

‘The hot water will ease it,' he says. ‘You should have done this last night. I've put your clean clothes in the bathroom.' He holds me till I get inside the bathroom then he steps back and shuts the door. I lock it with the little bolt. I'm alone in here.

Bliss.

Bliss. Peeling off my smelly clothes and trailing my hand in the too-hot water. Watching the cold thundering in and making clouds of steam swirl up into my face. Holding the edge of the bath as I test one wonky foot in the water–too hot but OK–and then the other. Slowly lowering myself like a fussy hen settling down on her nest, and the lovely heat of the water lapping up my body, turning me pink as a shrimp. The dumb ache in my ankles lifting from my bones and floating out into the water.

Gradually, inch by inch, I lie back, until I am completely submerged apart from my face. The water enfolds me, wrapping me round and caressing me like hot silk. This is the best bath of my life. I stare up at the steam and wonder what Dad is doing. I imagine him sitting on the top step of the stairs (in case I dash out and make a run for it), his elbows on knees, head in hands. Staring dumbly at the carpet. Not knowing what he will do. Miserable. I need to save him from this, I need to save him from himself.

I'm hot all over now. Slowly, one at a time I raise my limbs, leg, leg, arm, arm, and luxuriously hold them up in the steamy air to cool. My body is warm and whole and buzzingly alive. I am in command. I am the one with power, because I am the one who knows what to do.

When I've washed myself I step out and wrap myself in the old familiar towel. It's the green stripy one from home–did Mum pack it for him? Imagine them packing, loading the boot, as if they were organising a holiday. Except their faces would be grim and grey, their voices pinched and whispery… I'm not going to think about that. The trouble is, there's not enough air in this bathroom, the steam is choking me. The longer all this goes on, the worse it is for them. I need to bring it to an end. I balance on the bath to open the little top window, and have a brainwave. OK, I can do it. I can make it end.

I dry myself quickly and put on the clean clothes. He's given me a blue t shirt of Mum's but it's not a bad fit. I'm annoyed that my shoes aren't here–but there didn't seem any point in putting them on, when I was only coming to have a bath. When I'm ready I put the toilet lid down and sit on it to consider.

Everything moveable in this room is made of plastic. There's nothing that would be capable of smashing the thick swirly patterned glass in the window. Think. Check. Look again. Above the bath, about a foot below the ceiling, there's a bent metal pole to hold a shower curtain. Not that Nanna ever used her bath as a shower. But there it is, screwed into the wall above the tap end of the bath, then running the length of the tub, turning the corner and fixing into the wall at the opposite end. I climb up on the side of the bath and peer at it, thinking maybe I can unpick the screws. It's old cloudy dirty metal, and the screws are rusted into the tiles. Then I notice a join. The rail isn't continuous, it's in three sections; two straight bits and a curved elbow to join them. I balance on the corner of the bath and try to twist the rail. I tug either side of the join until suddenly there's a tiny give, and then proper movement–and I can pull it apart. Now I can twist it at the other joint, and ease it out. It's the curved corner piece–the long bits are still screwed into the wall. Dad taps on the door. ‘Jess? You done?'

‘Nearly.'

I jump down with the curved section of rail in my hand. It's hollow so it's still quite light–but if I can put enough force behind it… I swing it a couple of times for practise then bash it against the window as hard as I can. There's a dull cracking noise, and the glass fractures.

‘What are you doing?'

‘I'm just–' I flush the toilet so he can't hear me, and bash again. It shatters. I climb on the bath and peer through to outside; it's a long way to the ground. In a film there'd be a handy waste pipe to balance on, but here it must be around the corner of the house.

‘Jessie!' he shouts. ‘Jessie, let me in!'

There's one big triangular shard still sticking up out of the bottom of the window frame. Carefully, holding it between my fingers and thumb on either side, I try if it will lift out. Yes. It's heavy. A long sharp triangle, still with old putty stuck to its lower edge.

He's banging on the door. ‘You can't get out that way. Don't be ridiculous! Let me in!'

The cold air swirling in through the window has cleared my head. ‘I'm not trying to get out,' I tell him. ‘Calm down, let me clean my teeth.' I put the glass down and turn on the tap in the sink. I test the pointed end of the glass on my thumb. Sharp. The straight end with putty on is blunt but if the whole piece fractures it could be bad. I try grasping the straight edge through the towel but the towel's too bulky. My dirty t shirt works better.

‘Jessie that's enough. Open the door or I'll break it down.'

‘I'm just using the toilet.' I need the element of surprise. I know what I am doing, it is coming to me as I need to know, I can trust it. I will outwit him and escape. Holding my weapon in my right hand I flush the toilet with my left and immediately draw back the bolt on the door. I yank it open fast and he's standing right in front of me. My glass dagger's pointing at his stomach.

‘Jess–'

‘Listen to me.'

‘Put that down before you cut yourself.'

‘Listen!'
I step forward, the point of the glass is practically touching him. He half raises his hands in the air, he's nearly smiling. It is quite comical, he looks like a bad actor in a western. ‘If you don't do what I say, I'll stab you.'

‘You wouldn't,' he says, and very stupidly he reaches his right hand to the side of the glass to take it off me. I don't let go. He snatches his hand away. He doesn't make a sound, just stands staring at the bright red line that magically appears across his palm.

My tummy does a flip but I have to keep going. ‘See. I mean it. Go backwards into the bedroom.'

‘Look,' he says, holding out his hand. The blood is running now, it drips onto the floor, drip drip drip, getting faster. Please don't let it be an artery. I have to make this
end
.

‘Move,' I say.

‘Stop it Jess, you've hurt me.'

‘D'you want me to kill you?' I move the glass a fraction so the point is touching his shirt. I am afraid I might burst into tears. He takes a tiny step back. ‘OK. Keep going.'

Slowly he backs into the bedroom, inched along by my dagger. I'm OK. I'm in control. Once we're through the doorway I see what I hoped for–the bike locks are lying where he unlocked me. ‘Pick up the locks,' I tell him. ‘Slowly.' He bends and grabs both with his left hand. He's holding his right up away from him, and it's dripping steadily, but not as fast as I thought before. ‘Now back to the bathroom,' I tell him. Slowly, we retrace our steps. In the bathroom I tell him to wind one lock around his ankle, like he did with me. His legs and trousers are thicker, it only fits round twice.

‘OK, now lock it. And now thread the other one through the bottom of the towel rail, and through the lock on your leg, and fasten it.'

He stops and looks at me. ‘For goodness sake, Jess.'

‘It's only what you did to me.'

He stops short of locking the two together, stands up and faces me. ‘Go on then, what're you going to do?'

‘I've told you.'

‘I'm already bleeding,' he says.

‘The quicker you do it the quicker a doctor can come.'

He stands still, staring at me. I make myself stare into his eyes. He has to do what I say. He has to believe me. He glances at his bleeding hand and I make myself inch forward with the glass. Please let him obey me, please–

‘Lock it. Lock it. Now!' My voice has turned into a mad squeak. He crouches quickly, closes the lock, then stands again, holding his hand up in the air. It's still dripping. How deep is it? Is it deep? You have to make this work. ‘Where's the key?'

‘What? Jessie for god's sake–'

‘Where's the key?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Turn out your pockets.'

He fumbles into his pocket with his left hand and drags stuff out, it spills to the floor. In among the loose change, door keys, penknife, pocket fluff, there are two little silvery keys on a metal ring.

I kick them out of his reach, and step out of the bathroom. He's crouched by the towel rail, supporting the elbow of his right arm with his left hand, staring at me. ‘Jess. You don't have to do this. Look, kill me if it makes you feel better. Just don't go back to the clinic.'

‘I'll phone a doctor. I'll tell Mum where to find you.' I'm shaking.

‘Jessie. Please, Jessie, please don't go…' He's crying. My legs are spindly strands of spaghetti. Trust me, this is for the best. This has to end, and I am the one with the power. I am the only one who knows what she must do. Dad's face is bloody where he's wiped his eyes, blood's trickling down his arm, how has it come to this?

‘I'm sorry.
I'm sorry!'
I throw down the glass, snatch up my shoes and run down the stairs. I yank back the bolts and undo the Yale before I pause to put my shoes on. He's upstairs. He's not coming after me. He's locked to the towel rail. When my shoes are laced I start to run. His voice trails after me: ‘Jessie! Je-e-ess-ieeee!'

I gulp in the cold damp air, and run and run to get away from his calling voice.

They have given me and Rosa two rooms up on the third floor. They are where staff can stay overnight if they have late or early shifts. We look into the park, on the other side of the main road. I sat by the window on my first evening and watched it starting to get dark. I felt calm. And grateful I was in a safe harbour after the crazy storm of the last few days. For a long time I just sat enjoying the peace, with my brain disengaged inside my skull, floating there like a tethered boat on a lake. Calmness lapped around me.

Eventually, as dusk fell outside, a question materialised in my head. I watched as the road beneath my window became clogged with rush hour cars. After I'd sat in the darkness watching them for a while, I decided to go and ask Mr Golding. His office is at the end of the corridor past the secretaries. I didn't know if he would still be there because the office staff had all gone home, but I went and knocked. He called to me to come in. His room was dim apart from his desk lamp. I couldn't see his face, only his arm and his hand holding the pen, in the small pool of light.

‘Jessie!' he said. ‘Come in, come in. What can I do for you?' He tilted the lamp so that the light shone up at the wall behind him. Its soft glow spread over the room, so the desk and chairs and bookcases seemed to be reaching up out of black shadow into the gentle light. He pointed to the leather chair where I could sit.

‘How will the embryos know–if they grow up and want to get married–how will they know they're not related?'

‘Aha! A young geneticist!' He rubbed his hands in a pleased way, as if I was the cleverest pupil in the class. ‘Each embryo has a number–for egg donor–and a colour, for sperm. This record will go to the guardians, and must be made known to the child. So. 2 Blue will know, when he meets 2 Green, that they have the same mother. A 7 Red girl with a 4 Red boy will know they share a father. We will tell guardians when a sibling is born. It will be a support to these children to know a sibling.'