VII. February

Sat 4^th February

Helen’s cough has started to get on my nerves. The two of us are standing side-by-side on the rug in our mother’s study, swaying gently. According to my Swatch, we’ve been here for precisely one hour forty-seven minutes. We’re not allowed to speak or move from this spot until one of us confesses. Helen’s desperate to go to the toilet, but our mother won’t let us leave the room.

Another ten-pound-note has gone missing from the housekeeping tin.

Rebecca drums her fingers on the arm of the chair. She smokes cigarette after cigarette, observing us closely. Every five minutes she shouts, ‘Just own up! Who took it?’

The vertical lines in her forehead look like they’ve been drawn with a ruler.

I have stronger willpower than them both.

            About half an hour ago, Rebecca tried to appeal to the innocent party’s sense of injustice at being held captive like this alongside the guilty party, but the innocent party knows what would happen to her if she walked into that kind of trap.

My dressing-gown reeks of smoke. Confined like this, at least I can keep an eye on my sister.

Helen’s resolve starts to crumble after two hours. Fidgeting and whimpering, she says she’s going to wet herself and asks to go to the toilet.

I have no idea what my sister will do next. I’m as curious as the next person.

Rebecca shifts position in the chair. ‘Not until you tell me who took the money. You know who it was, and I’ve got a jolly good idea. Just tell me. Don’t pee on my rug!’

Knees trembling, my sister owns up to the crime.

            Up-down, up-down goes our mother’s slipper on my sister’s backside. She still hasn’t been to the toilet.

I feel a bit sorry for Helen. She’s got to pay the money back from her Post Office savings account.

*          *          *          *

Tues 7^th February

‘Stay outside until she’s done her business, girls. Don’t let anyone catch you if she does a you-know-what on the pavement!’ Mrs Nelson waves a tumbler at us. The dense orange liquid drink slops dangerously close to the rim, and the ice-cubes thump against the side of the glass. ‘Do up your coat, Katie!’

‘Let’s go up the road, not down, so we can spy through the window of the shop,’ Katie whispers as we hover at the top of the path, lit by the floodlight, looking left and right in the icy drizzle.

Katie hasn’t stopped asking questions since the time we saw them dancing Flamingo. Neither of us has seen anything since then, and Katie’s weekly reports contain no sightings at all. She won’t shut up about the Flamingo dance, though, and poses all kinds of impossible questions that trail off into the mist. The other day she asked me why Mr Phillips wants to play with Helen when he’s got children of his own. Why can’t he play with them instead? I said it’s because he’s only got boys. He’s always wanted a girl. Another time she asked why, if they’re such close friends, Helen never mentions their games. I knew the answer to that one, but I didn’t tell Katie Nelson: it’s because Helen doesn’t want to share him with me.

I wish I’d never let Katie Nelson come to observe them with me, and I regret asking her to write those weekly reports. I suspect she didn’t hide properly when I first sent her up the road, and got seen. As a result, Helen and him have gone underground.

‘It’s not spying,’ I insist as she struggles to do up each toggle on her coat. ‘It’s information-gathering. Anyway, we won’t see anything tonight. Helen only goes up there Mondays and Wednesdays.’

‘But she never goes up there any more, not even Mondays and Wednesdays.’

Katie’s too immature ever to be a real friend of mine. She seems to think Mr Phillips is a funny, brightly-coloured fish illuminated behind the shop window, flitting hither and thither for our personal entertainment.

We set off up the road. Shafts of light spill out of the cracks in people’s curtains and flash in the puddles.

The dog has a lead that extends thirty-three feet. Knowing the length of its freedom, it usually trots at a distance of precisely thirty-three feet, tugging at the string like a kite in the breeze. Happily out of reach, it zig-zags across the road, knots itself around trees and dives into people’s front gardens to squat on their paths and lawns.

On the rare occasions that I agree to hold the lead, like now while Katie buttons up her coat, I keep the dog reeled-in at choker length and my finger firmly pressed on the lock. The dog lurches forward, gags, is thrown into reverse, lurches forward, chokes, halts abruptly, lurches forward, gags, sits down on the wet road, looks up at me.

Katie skips up to the shop and peers in.

‘Nobody there.’ She sounds a bit relieved. ‘Just like always.’

I hand her the lead and the terrier gusts away. We hunch our shoulders in the rain. Katie tries not to step in any puddles because she’s wearing her new Nikes, but it’s difficult to see the pavement in this light.

We turn back before we get to the churchyard and the dog gallops ahead, homeward-bound, name-tag tinkling on its collar.

‘Let’s watch a video when we get in,’ Katie suggests. ‘How about Wizard of Oz?’

‘I’ll probably have a quick chat to your mum first,’ I reply, pressing my tongue against the back of my teeth and sucking, thinking about how the liquid clung like a sugary blanket to the side of Mrs Nelson’s crystal tumbler this evening.

Suddenly the terrier stops in its tracks up ahead and stands stock-still, nose pressed against a garden gate. The lead gets shorter and shorter as we approach.

‘Trixy!’ Katie calls nervously. ‘Come on!’

The dog doesn’t move a muscle. Katie gives the lead a sharp tug, but the terrier’s legs remain rigidly fixed to the spot.

Three feet away, we see what Trixy is looking at.

On the other side of a slatted wooden gate, a vast Rottweiler stands on a dark path, silently staring at Trixy with eyes like dim lamps. The small dog looks into the face of the big dog, transfixed. Predatory and silent, the big dog doesn’t acknowledge us at all: it only has eyes for the terrier.

‘Come on!’ Katie yanks the lead. The spell is broken.

Quietly, as she is wrenched away, Trixy snuffles the grass by the big dog’s gate.

*          *          *          *

Fri 10^th February

I’m not surprised that Helen’s sulking at dinner this evening because two hours ago Mr and Mrs Phillips drove off into the fog together.

Two cracked plastic crates sit outside the door of the shop, abandoned in the cold until Tuesday. Everything on the shelves looks stagnant when you peer through the blinds. You can almost smell the stale light as it falls through the slats.

            Until yesterday, I didn’t feel particularly happy about the situation either, but there was nothing I could do to stop them leaving. I struggled to think of ways to delay them. Given the way their cat wanders through the shop spraying up the vegetables, I thought about composing a letter on Rebecca’s typewriter saying a team of experts from the County Council would be coming for a compulsory sanitary inspection on Monday, but I couldn’t get past the first sentence in any of my drafts. Next I wrote a letter to Mrs Phillips from the Baby Clinic containing an urgent summons to an appointment on Monday morning. In the absence of any headed paper, I typed the letter on one of Rebecca’s blank index cards. I was extremely unhappy with the result of this experiment because I couldn’t provide a single detail about the clinic, not even its location.

            In the end, I adjusted my arrangements and came up with a revised plan to take account of the situation. Now I think their absence will actually work in my favour because it gives me more time. Instead of having to post the Valentine’s card on Saturday using Royal Mail, I will be able to deliver it in person, by hand, tomorrow. By royal female! And just in case he gets to the card first, opens it and tries to hide or destroy it before Mrs Phillips sees it, I’ll take my time tomorrow and deliver some supplementary items to the house as well.

With the approach of their holiday, a sour lump has been forming in my stomach, getting bigger, spreading through my body, weighing down my arms and legs like concrete, sealing up my lungs.

Every night I lie in bed panting for air like a fish washed up on the seawall. I can’t think of anything apart from his hands, fingers reaching out in the dark.

Something is suffocating me.

For all these weeks I’ve been lurking in the shadows. I can’t wait in the darkness any more. I need to grasp a fistful of facts, bunch them up and not let go however hard they struggle.

*          *          *          *

Sun 12^th February

Locating the garden shed is tricky without a torch, but I can’t risk being seen by the neighbours. As it is, I think I saw a net curtain twitch when I bumped into the dustbin at the corner of the building.

The garden’s chaotic: I kick terracotta tubs and bump my forehead on a prong of the washing-line. Finally at the shed, I fumble with the bolt and tug the door open. The spare key is easy to find, hanging on a nail of its own just inside the door.

As I close the shed door, something alive and heavy brushes against my leg in the blackness and I nearly scream. Then it meows and writhes.

The pressure behind my eyes intensifies.

I fumble for the keyhole and turn the key. All the while, I watch myself incredulously. I see my fingers with the key, my arm reaching out for the handle, but I can’t feel responsible for any of these actions.

I put the key in my jeans pocket.

I’ve never been in this house without the children upstairs. Apart from that one incident with Samuel, the boys always sleep soundly whenever I’m here. The whole house breathes with them at night, giving shape to the air, moving in and out on a gentle current. I feel their presence in all the rooms, upstairs and down. When I’m delving around in the bureau, or nosing through the messy recesses of cupboards and drawers, I hear sneezes, rustling bedclothes, coughs, brief whimpers.

                Now I feel like a ghost. I have no place here. I am nothing here.

Moving into the kitchen, eyes adjusting to the half-light, I feel a thrill in my stomach, but can’t work out if it’s pleasure or terror. I’m breathing stolen air. No object that I’ve ever taken, no matter how valuable or precious to its owner, can compete with this sensation.

The kitchen stinks of cat food. I tiptoe over to the window and tug the curtains closed. Then I switch on the lights and take a look around.

The floor is littered with heaped bowls of cat meat and dried food, enough for a week. But the obese black-and-white creature is more interested in me than the food on the floor. It bundles around my feet, purring, meowing, nudging my ankles and calves with its cheeks. Perhaps it recognises me. Perhaps it thinks I’ve got a place here after all.

            The family’s been away since last night, but the smell of their cooking still lingers in the kitchen. Above the stench of cat food, I catch a spicy aroma that’s completely alien to our kitchen at number eleven.

Two stray children’s books lie on the table, pages splayed open. A teddy bear eyes me from the sideboard. Half-empty jars of baby food sit on the sideboard, plastic spoons sticking out hopefully. These objects look absurd in the absence of their owners.

            I move through the downstairs of the house, opening doors, closing curtains and turning on lights. The whole place is heavy with nappy smells. The rooms are covered with jetsam and flotsam in erratic patterns. In the hall and living-room, all the surfaces are strewn with children’s toys. Poor Mr Phillips. How does he put up with this stench, this mess? Bumper-sized packets of Pampers and half-chewed biscuits litter the carpets. I rescue one of his records from suffocation by a stained silk cushion on the floor.

I open the connecting door to the shop and prop it with the wedge of folded cardboard he uses as a stop. Letters lie messily on the ‘Welcome’ mat. Each time a car drives past, the dull innards of the shop are illuminated through the blinds in a momentary flash.

Before leaving number eleven this evening I tucked the Valentine’s card into my jeans at the back. The edges of the card bite squarely into my bum. My coat pockets bulge with the other items.

I tug on the envelope and extract it. The card’s slightly dented, but it soon straightens out when I bend it to and fro.

During a lull between vehicles, I nip forward and place my card on top of all the other letters. In this light my glossy envelope looks grey, but when she sees it on Tuesday it will pulse with romantic pink, covered with kisses and the swirling letters of his beautiful name. The envelope will call to her from the mat. It will whet her appetite like the shiny icing on top of a cake.

The card has a picture of a teddy saying ‘Be My Valentine.’ It was quite expensive at ninety-nine pence, but I had to get this one because all the others had silly poems inside, like ‘Sweet love, you make my heart beat true, I promise never to part from you.’ I wanted a clear blank space to insert my lines.

I wasn’t lying when I wrote in the card that I love him. I think about him constantly. I will marry him. These sentences were easy to compose. I wrote the whole message in my sister’s handwriting and signed it with an H. Serious statements like these from a ten-year-old will definitely frighten him off and put an end to their silly games. The most difficult part of the card came when I tried to think of dirty things to shock Mr Phillips and Mrs Phillips, to really put them off my sister. I sat for hours with a completely blank mind. I inserted some phrases about French kissing and heavy petting which I remembered Those Three Girls saying when they followed me around at school. Finally I remembered Rebecca’s disgusting Japanese cartoon book. I went down to the study and forced myself to look at it for a few minutes. After that, I wrote a detailed description inspired by the pictures. This used up every last ounce of my energy, and I went to bed.

My card is designed to hit two birds over the head with the same stone. First, it will force Mr Phillips to stop his misplaced favouritism of my sister by making it look as if she is in love with him. When he realises she wants a great deal more than their childish games, not only will he go off her permanently, but he will be obliged to end their connection. The second bird is Mrs Phillips, who will read the card and think that my sister and Mr Phillips have been doing dirty things together. There’s no way she’ll stay with him after that. In this way, the Valentine’s card will act as a catalyst, speeding things up, helping me to flush out my sister and get rid of Mrs Phillips.

I close the door to the shop, walk back into the house and climb the stairs, followed by the cat.

Whenever I’m babysitting, I avoid using the upstairs bathroom because I don’t want to wake the kids. It’s the only room I haven’t explored properly.

The mirrored cabinet contains several strange-looking objects, including a concave rubber disk the colour of flesh and the size of a small jellyfish. I jab at it with my finger and sniff it, but can’t work out what it’s for. Other things I recognise from the Nelsons’ bathroom, such as the shaving brush, the aftershave and the clippers to snip hair out of men’s noses. My brain throbs with disbelief when I see all the packets of condoms. I can’t imagine Mr Phillips needing such dirty things. Taking the safety-pin from the broken zip on my jeans, I carefully prick a hole in each square packet.

            When I turn on the bedside lamp in Mr and Mrs Phillips’s room, the sparkle of a wide-rimmed glass bowl catches my eye on the dressing table. It’s filled with pot pourri, sending out a strong fruity smell. For the first time I realise that the shadow of glass is solid, not transparent. In the lamp light, the shadow seems to have more substance than the glass. On top of the loose dry petals and buds in the glass bowl, a wire lizard sits alone with its head alert, poised to run.

Quickly, I dig in my coat pockets and extract the two items I brought from Helen’s room. I lay them side-by-side on the bedspread. Taking Helen’s Mr Men knickers first, I search for a suitable spot. I need to position them in a place that looks subtle enough to suggest she’s accidentally forgotten them during a secret visit to him, but visible enough for Mrs Phillips to discover. I bunch them up and stuff them into the toe of a woman’s slipper inside the pine wardrobe.

            Just as I’m kneeling by the bed contemplating where to put the page I tore out of the False Diary, a door slams downstairs. I freeze. My other hand reaches out and switches off the lamp. My ears begin to roar. My body flops down by the bed.

The voices downstairs are muffled, but I can hear Mrs Phillips saying, over and over again, ‘I locked it. I did, I locked it!’

‘Maybe you forgot in the hurry.’

‘No. I locked it!’

As my dizziness recedes, I try to wedge myself into the cramped space under the bed. Pressed flat, I inch along the floor like a ground-feeding fish. Aiming for the far wall, I slowly withdraw every trace of my self into the darkest hiding place.

Their voices become more distinct. They’re standing at the bottom of the stairs. The cat meows at the top.

              ‘Why are the lights on?’ Her voice is shrill, almost screaming. ‘Is somebody here? Why is the cat up here? I locked him in the kitchen.’

                ‘There’s no sign of a break-in.’

She half-whispers, ‘go upstairs. I’m not going up there!’

‘Give me the suitcase. I’ll put it in the room and take a look around.’

            I’ll say that I’m being pursued by a criminal gang and this is my safe house. I’ll say that I’m Mr Phillips’s secret daughter and he lets me stay here whenever they are away. I’ll say that I left an important piece of homework here while babysitting, and that I came back to fetch it.

            ‘Out of my way! Shit!’ Like an arrow on a map, the cat is leading the way directly to me.

Mr Phillips heaves and bumps the suitcase into the bedroom and turns on the main light. I watch his feet walk over to the bed. He’s wearing scuffed white trainers with two black stripes across each toe. I hear the cat purring and meowing. It minces along the bed, pacing out the full length of my hiding place.

The suitcase appears on the floor by the bed, blocking my view. I close my eyes, trying not to breathe.

                ‘Are you here?’ he whispers, and my hair stands on end. He must be able to sense my presence.

I watch his feet shuffling around. The wardrobe door opens and closes.

‘Shit!’ Mr Phillips says, then the light is switched off and the footsteps recede.

‘Nobody here! No need to raise the alarm!’ he calls in a funny voice as he descends.

‘Why are all the lights on? This isn’t right. Someone’s been in. Let’s call the police.’

I picture her sniffing the air at the bottom of the staircase with her freckly snout, smelling me up here in my hiding place.

‘We’re both tired,’ he replies in the same funny voice. He sighs heavily. ‘I think it was me. I must’ve forgotten to turn off the lights when we left. Everything’s fine upstairs. Phone your mum and tell her we’ll be over in a few minutes. Find out if she’s called a doctor for Sammy, or whether it can wait till the morning.’

Metal bars press into my shoulders and upper arms. My nostrils and throat are coated with dust, and my eyes stream uncontrollably. As the voices move away from the staircase, I try to imagine that I’m with Mrs Nelson, sitting on the sofa sipping one of her James Bond Real Martinis. I’m not feeling hungry right now, so I don’t nibble any imaginary peanuts.

The cat crawls in with me, purring. It dabs my face with a paw. I try to push it away. It dabs again. I push again. It curls up, a contented ball leaning heavily into my side. We breathe in and out together in the cramped space.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here. The lights are still on downstairs, but the house is silent. My rib cage is too cramped to inhale properly. Long term, I know that this is a bad hiding place. I must try to get out of this house.

I nudge the cat to one side and haul my body into the bedroom, pushing the suitcase out of the way as I crawl out.

At the top of the stairs I pause and then creep down, one by one, until I’m by the living room door. After that, I run through the house to the kitchen, fumble for the key in my pocket, unlock the door.

I fall, half-sobbing, into the fresh night air.

When I get home, I realise that I left the page of Helen’s diary on top of the bed. I wonder if he saw it? Also, I didn’t put the suitcase back in place by the bed. I forgot to lock their back door behind me, and I didn’t put the key back in the shed.

*          *          *          *

Mon 13^th February

Mrs Phillips stands on our doorstep with the rosepink Valentine’s envelope in her fingers. Its triangular tongue flaps in the breeze. Her frizzy hair sticks out stiffly like a windsock. ‘Can I come in, Lizzie? I need to talk to your mum about something important.’

‘Hello.’ I try to sound calm. I went up the road after school today, but when I caught sight of him moving around inside the shop, my body froze and I couldn’t go in.

She hasn’t given me a single funny look yet, and this gives cause for cautious optimism. If people are suspicious, they’ll always show it in the first five seconds. When they see you for the first time after you’ve done something, you’ll see their eyes examine you and probe you in a very particular way.

I usher her in. All my hard labour will yield a rich harvest tonight.

In spite of my growing optimism, however, I decide it would be a policy error to look too confident, so I don’t try to make polite conversation, nor do I comment on the fact that she isn’t at her evening class tonight. Instead, imitating the dull conversation of grownups, I ask, ‘Did you have a nice holiday in Paris?’

‘Where’s your mum? Through here?’ Mrs Phillips heads for the open kitchen door. She walks in a jerky way, like a soldier.

‘She’s in here.’ I rap on the study door. ‘Visitor!’

When Rebecca opens the door, Beethoven spills out, rolling towards the front of the house on a wave of smoke. She masks her surprise by saying, ‘Lovely to see you!’

I can tell she doesn’t want to be disturbed tonight because her voice is too high-pitched and it enters the air at the wrong angle.

I act as if I’m going through to the kitchen, but as soon as the study door closes I return and loiter outside.

Helen hasn’t come out of her bedroom since dinnertime. This works to my advantage because it’ll make her look even more guilty when the moment comes.

Everything is quiet for a few minutes behind the door, then suddenly Rebecca howls with laughter. Nothing in my card was designed to cause that kind of response. I move closer.

‘It’s not funny!’ Mrs Phillips cries out. ‘Things like this cause trouble. It’s not a joke. This could get my husband into very deep water.’

‘I shouldn’t laugh. But… Oh dear!’

‘What she’s written, it’s disturbing. Disturbed. Listen to this.’ After a pause, Mrs Phillips reads out my line inspired by the Japanese sex-book. ‘I like it when you do that dirty thing where you wiggle your finger inside my c-u-n-t, while the cats do it on the windowsill.’

Our mother hoots and, in spite of myself, I nearly laugh too. My line sounds different when it’s read out loud like this.

‘Oh dear! Sorry! This stuff is so infantile. Can’t you see? It’s just some kids messing about, some vulnerable kids who’ve got hold of a pornographic magazine.’

‘I certainly don’t see it as just kids messing about. This could get my husband into a lot of trouble.’

‘It looks a bit like Helen’s writing, but listen, I really don’t think we should take this too seriously. Children’s sexuality, especially at that age, is…’ Rebecca hesitates. ‘Polymorphous and perverse,’ she ejaculates enthusiastically.

‘It’s my husband who’ll be called perverse. He’s extremely upset, as you can imagine.’

‘Oh dear…’ Rebecca’s voice trails off as Mrs Phillips reads another section of my card.

‘“Your hands are soft and warm when you touch me on the arm. You are the only man for me for ever. Will you marry me?” If your little girl has a crush on my husband, that’s one thing. But if the police got hold of this, I can tell you, they’d turn the tables and take a very close look at him.’

I start to panic. The last thing I want is for the police to take Mr Phillips away. An unexpected sob rises quickly in my throat, like the winter tide. I bite my bottom lip to stop it coming out.

When I saw him inside the shop today, I couldn’t unlock my knees. I tried really hard to push my legs forward. One of the most important Rules to remember, if you are trying to cover something up, is that you must mingle with your targets as quickly as possible. The sooner you show your face, the more likely you are to secure your escape from suspicion. But I couldn’t get past the door. When somebody nudged past me, I turned and ran home.

I drank a miniature bottle of Southern Comfort in my bedroom after that, but it didn’t provide any comfort.

‘Let’s see what she’s got to say for herself, shall we?’ Rebecca moves toward the door and I rush into the kitchen.

‘Helen! Come down here a minute!’ she calls.

After a long guilty pause, my sister emerges from her bedroom and drags one sulky foot after the other downstairs, leaning heavily on the banisters.

In she goes, and I move forward again.

‘Do you recognise this card? Did you write these things to Mr Phillips?’ Rebecca asks.

There’s a long pause. My sister says, ‘No.’

‘Just tell the truth, Helen.’ Mrs Phillips’s voice is gentle, but I recognise in it a common tactic adopted by adults to extract information from young people like ourselves.

‘I didn’t write anything.’

‘What’s going on? Is something going on?’ Mrs Phillips asks.

Silence.

‘Tell me what’s going on!’

‘Nothing! Nothing! He said I was too old!’ Helen’s shriek rises through the house on a shrill, steady current.

This kind of overreaction during interrogation is a very bad strategy because now she looks guilty from a thousand miles away.

‘Too old for what?’ Mrs Phillips’ voice matches Helen’s voice, pitch for pitch.

‘Okay, stop this! Come on, let’s drop it. I’ll have a chat to Helen later.’ I can’t see her face, but I think our mother has lost patience because Mrs Phillips can’t see the funny side of the Valentine’s card.

But Mrs Phillips won’t let it drop. ‘What do you mean, “too old,” Helen? Too old for what? You mustn’t write lies like this. Promise me you’ll never do it again.’

I think I hear them moving over to the door again, so I hurry back to the kitchen. I sit at the dinner table and gaze at the dirty dishes. I’m not satisfied with developments this evening. Although my card caused a reaction, Mrs Phillips’s behaviour has defied all expectations. There it is in writing, yet instead of driving off in disgust, leaving home as she was supposed to do, she’s attacked my sister and wrapped a protective cape round him. In spite of what’s written in the card, she seems to believe nothing happened. Meanwhile, I can’t stop reliving my terrifying experiences up the road. I didn’t sleep at all last night. Things like this leave permanent scars, especially on vulnerable young people like me.

‘We had to come home two days early,’ Mrs Phillips says in a calmer voice as she emerges from the study. ‘My mum overreacted. Thought Sammy had meningitis. Called us home. This card’s the last thing I need on top of the stress.’

                The front door closes. Helen runs upstairs.

Rebecca comes through to the kitchen and puts the kettle on. ‘Phew!’ she says.

‘What did she want?’

                Rebecca sits down. ‘Helen – or some kid from the village – played a prank on Mr and Mrs Phillips. Sent a Valentine’s card. She’s all upset about it. Thinks it’s more serious than it is.’

               ‘But how do you know it’s a prank?’

               ‘Just the tone of the whole thing,’ Rebecca sighs. ‘The stuff in the card. So immature and naïve. It’s clearly a joke. If not, they certainly need their head examined.’

                ‘Oh!’ I say, and stare at my hands.

*          *         *          *

Tues 14^th Feburary

He’s gone!

While everybody slept last night, he climbed into the car and drove away. I didn’t hear a thing.

I can’t believe it. I was so tired I slept through it all.

While the mist rolled into the village from the marshes, he tiptoed off. My Mr Phillips. Nobody saw him go. He simply disappeared. Evaporated. Mrs Nelson was full of it this morning. She came round to tell our mother.

What about me?

Did he hope the sound of the car would wake me so he could take me with him? Maybe he waited for me on the road, just outside my window, hoping I would catch a trace of his presence and wake up with a jolt. He couldn’t hoot or call my name because it would wake people up. Helen might even think he’d come to fetch her instead of me.

I sit in Rebecca’s study playing the Bob Dylan tape I made last time I babysat, scouring the lyrics for a clue about where he might be. Did I make a mistake with that Valentine’s card? I should’ve sent him one in my own name, then he’d know how much I love him. Why was I so shy? I should’ve told him how much I love him. Now I can’t stop crying.

Poor Mr Phillips! He must’ve waited hours, tapping his fingers nervously on the steering wheel, heart racing in case he got caught. He must’ve felt terrible when I didn’t appear. Now he’s somewhere out there, all alone. If only I knew where to find him I’d take all my savings and join him.

*                                                   *     *          *

Wed 15^th February

‘You did it. You wrote those things.’

‘What things?’

‘You know what I’m talking about.’ Helen takes an unsteady step into my room. ‘As soon as I saw it, I knew you’d done it. Specially that “H” at the bottom. It’s your writing, not mine. Like you did on the walls. And the mirror.’

If my sister chooses to cast aspersions at me, then I will be forced, against my better nature, to adopt a formal and severe tone with her. I tell her that I presume she’s referring to the infantile card which caused so much distress to Mrs Phillips on Monday evening. I tell her I would never be responsible for such a naïve prank as that.

‘Why did you do it? Tell me! Why did you pretend to be me?’

I carry out a rapid risk assessment of the situation. Although I feel sorry for my sister right now (especially because she must know that there will be no more secret outings with Mr Phillips now their little friendship is public knowledge at the shop), nevertheless, when all the variables are taken into consideration, outright denial is still the best bet. Also, since he disappeared, and since Rebecca made those remarks about the content of the card, I’m no longer willing to take responsibility for writing it. As far as I’m concerned, that card belongs to history.

‘It wasn’t me,’ I say indignantly. ‘I reckon I know who did it, though. Katie Nelson. You know what she’s like.’

Helen keeps placing her hand on the table, sliding a few inches forward, letting go, placing her hand down again. The neat rows of calligraphy nibs scatter in all directions, and my carefully prepared sheets of cartridge paper ruck and buckle under her fingers.

‘Be careful!’

She’s deep inside my room now, looping towards the chest of drawers. Before I can stop her, she grabs my porcelain ballerina in both hands and flings it at the radiator. The head of my statuette hits the metal with a bang and the whole figure breaks into smithereens. Only her pirouetting toes remain intact on the plinth.

‘Rebecca!’ I scream, trying to grab Helen’s arms.

My sister slithers out of my grip like a lump of soap in the bath and stands by my bottle collection making strange gagging noises.

‘Mum!’ I shout, reaching for Helen’s arms again.

Helen tries to knock the bottles in my display off the shelf, but she misses most of them. The ones that hit the floor are cushioned by the carpet.

‘Mum!’ I scream.

Helen kneels down and vomits on my bedroom floor. I can’t hear what she’s saying any more, except the word ‘old.’

*                                                   *     *          *

Fri 17^th February

Rebecca refuses point-blank to budge from the bedside. She’s been sitting in the same chair for a night and a day and a night and a day while the nurses move around inside the curtained space to replace drips and check the monitors.

                 This is my first visit since Wednesday, when we had to stay up all night waiting for news.

My sister’s hands look like dry crabs lying on the shore. Rebecca’s been holding each one in turn, covering them with salt water splashes. I give her a quick pat on the shoulder to let her know I’m here.

Helen stares at me steadily. She doesn’t move her eyes away. My face heats up.

‘Hello,’ Rebecca says, but her fingers remain locked to my sister’s hand.

‘Did they get all the pills out of her stomach?’

‘There’s no major damage. This morning she asked where she was. It’s a good sign! She’s going to be okay!’

‘When’re you coming home?’ I ask.

Rebecca shrugs. ‘I’m not sure yet, love. How’re you doing over at Katie’s house? Being spoilt rotten, I expect.’

I can’t explain to Rebecca. Even though Mr and Mrs Nelson are generous and friendly, and they’ve given me the spare room all to myself, I’ve been missing number eleven. At Katie’s house there’s too much heat from the radiators. There’s too much food on the table. I get too many cuddles from Mrs Nelson. ‘It’s all a bit too much,’ I say.

‘Sorry, darling.’

Helen’s eyes are fixed on me. Her skin’s a horrible colour, green and grey on a base shade of yellow. Inside my head I can hear her voice listing all the terrible things I’ve done. ‘Will she get better?’

‘It’ll take a long time. They don’t know how much internal damage…’ Rebecca chokes and stops talking.

Tall, silent machines lean over the bed like trees.

Liquids drip in. Fluids drain out.

The only sound in the ward is the steady suck-blow of a ventilator from the bed next-door, making a boy’s chest rise and fall. His mum’s asleep in the chair by the bed. She looks dead.

Helen’s still staring at me.

‘I’ll be off then,’ I say, handing Rebecca her Marlboro and matches.

‘I think I’ll be here a few more days.’ She takes the cigarettes and slides them into the drawer of the bedside cabinet.

‘Katie and Mrs Nelson are waiting for me outside.’

I can feel Helen’s eyes following me as I hurry away.

*          *         *          *

Thurs 23^rd February

‘Call that a bob, do you? More like a pudding-bowl! Where does your mum take you for haircuts?’

                 ‘She does it herself.’ I flick through my biology textbook with a studious expression. On a scrap of paper I’ve been designing an elegant secret code where his initials clasp mine. Once I’m happy with the design I’ll write it out properly in calligraphy.

‘And she’s a qualified hairdresser, is she?’ Mrs Nelson has criticised Rebecca a lot this week. I need some peace and quiet.

                 ‘No.’

                 ‘It’s disgraceful for a girl your age.’ Mrs Nelson slams down her tumbler, releasing a rush of angry bubbles, and reaches into her Gucci handbag. She pulls out a pink suede address book, holds it at arm’s length, and locates a number with a scarlet fingernail.

They make an appointment for me straight away because she says it’s an emergency.

‘Come along, Katie!’ she calls up the stairs. ‘Chop-chop! We’re taking this young lady for a proper haircut!’

I stuff my homework into my schoolbag for later.

Katie appears on the landing wearing the red birthday dress I gave her, a cream mohair wrap-around cardigan, and Mrs Nelson’s cerise stilettos. She’s been trying on clothes and makeup in different combinations all evening, coming downstairs and cat-walking along the corridor to the kitchen. She looks really fat.

I haven’t changed out of my school uniform. All I wanted to do after school today was sink into the sofa with my scraps of paper and a glass of bubbly.

‘Get out of those shoes! They make you look bloody cheap,’ Mrs Nelson shouts.

Mrs Nelson drives the Cortina like an ambulance into town.

‘Cheri’s the best hairdresser round here,’ she explains as we tear along the country roads. ‘Senior stylist, very experienced for her age, used to work at Head Case and Hair Necessities, but now she’s nicely settled at Hairobics. Did my perm.’ She glances in the rear-view mirror and pats her tight yellow curls. ‘They always start having babies just when you’ve got them trained.’

‘Mum, slow down! I feel sick.’

Mrs Nelson plugs in the Simon and Garfunkel tape. ‘This’ll calm you down.’

The walls of the salon are plastered with posters of models with shiny suntans and hair that looks synthetic. The whole place smells strongly of chemicals.

Leaning back in the chair, exposing my throat like this, having a strange woman’s fingers in my hair makes my heart race uncontrollably. I try to concentrate on breathing slowly, in out, in out, but this reminds me of the ventilators in hospital, so I stop. But now I can’t remember how to breathe without thinking about it.

Once I’m upright again, Cheri lifts handfuls of my wet hair in her fingers and moves closer to examine each clump. ‘How would you like it cut?’ she asks, pumping the swivel-chair with her foot.

There’s a haircut I’ve secretly wanted for ages. ‘Can you do me a Princess Diana haircut?’

‘A nice bob please, Cheri,’ says Mrs Nelson, laughing.

Mrs Nelson sits down to read Cosmo and Katie goes across town to tell her dad to meet us at Pinocchio’s for dinner.

All around me are women in white gowns. They sit completely still, leaning back, heads half-lost inside metal domes. I watch them in the mirrors. Some of them have closed their eyes. Stylists hurry to and fro, checking the monitors, making incisions with scissors, putting on plastic gloves, delicately unwrapping little plasters and prodding people’s heads with tongs.

I don’t like the way I am bound to my chair in this white gown.

I need fresh air.

‘Stop fidgeting, please,’ Cheri says, drawing a comb through my hair and snipping slowly, strand by strand, with exaggerated flicks of her wrist. ‘Uncross your legs.’

I don’t like the way she presses her stomach into my head. ‘Will you be finished soon?’

‘Not yet. Magazine? Cup of tea?’

Before I know what’s happened, I’ve flung off Cheri and I’m standing in the cold street outside, gasping for air.

I can’t work out how I got to be on the wrong side of the door.

A man walks past and winks at me. ‘Didn’t like your haircut, eh?’

Katie runs down the street. ‘What’s the matter? What’re you doing out here?’

‘Come back in!’ Mrs Nelson shouts through the door. ‘You’re only half-done!’

Katie puts her arm round me. She smells strongly of cigarettes. ‘You okay?’

‘She was standing too close.’ Scarlet with embarrassment, I wish I was sitting quietly in the chair again.

Cheri stares at us critically through the smoked glass.

Katie opens the salon door. ‘Lizzie thought she was going to faint. Can you give her a couple of minutes? We’ll be in again soon.’

‘Thanks.’ My whole body feels limp.

Katie laughs suddenly. ‘Watch out, they’ll think you’re pregnant! You should see the way Cheri’s looking at us.’

When we go back inside, Cheri accelerates the pace of the haircut. She doesn’t speak to me again.

I don’t recognise myself in the mirror when she’s finished. My hair looks like a glossy wig, ruffed up and perched dangerously high on my head.

I slip my arm through Mrs Nelson’s as we walk down the High Street to Pinocchio’s. She smells strongly of sweat, and her forehead looks damp. ‘I’m really sorry about what happened. I felt dizzy.’

‘It was ever so stuffy in there. Full of ammonia.’ She gives me a brief smile, but I’m sure she thinks I’m ungrateful.

Although the bill came to ten pounds, the only thing I can think to do is refund the cost of the haircut.

‘No!’ Mrs Nelson says firmly. ‘My treat. Don’t mention it again.’

Mr Nelson is at the table already with a glass of beer. His tan leather jacket hangs over the back of his chair. He wolf-whistles at me when we approach. ‘Look at you! Well! A real lady!’

There’s a picture of the Leaning Tower of Pisa on the wall. The town of Pisa is the birthplace of all pizzas, Mrs Nelson tells me.

‘We always come here. The desserts are rubbish,’ Katie complains, sitting down heavily in the chair next to her dad. ‘Can’t we go somewhere else for a change?’

‘It’s the best food in town,’ Mr Nelson replies. ‘You must have a steak, Lizzie.’

I try to remember all the rules of politeness Dad taught us as children. I unfold the linen napkin and place it on my lap. My mouth is dry, but I don’t reach for the jug of water because it’s on the other side of the table, beside Mr Nelson’s elbow. I remember to say please and thank you when placing my order and, to be on the safe side, I choose ‘medium rare’ for my steak because it’s the middle option out of three completely unknown choices.

‘Mercy bow coop,’ Mrs Nelson says when the food arrives.

We start to eat.

Blood runs out of the meat when I try to cut it. I gulp each piece down with a mouthful of wine so I don’t have to chew. It takes quite a lot of wine to get the lumps down.

‘You alright, Lizzie?’ Mrs Nelson asks after a while as she tops up my glass. ‘You’ve gone very quiet.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Poor love.’

I cut the remainder of my steak into minute pieces and slide each one surreptitiously into the napkin on my lap. My head spins when we get up to leave, but I manage to throw the meaty parcel under the table without anybody seeing.

*           *          *          *

Fri 24^th February

A crusty black nose, stained yellow whiskers and a pink tongue insert themselves through the crack in the bedroom door, followed, as the door creaks open, by a pair of adoring black eyes.

The pink tongue extends and rasps across the nose.

‘Go away!’ I purse my lips and close The Lord of the Flies.

It was a mistake to read my second-favourite book again. I needed a distraction because I was trying to stop thinking about the way Helen is threaded with tubes as if somebody has started to sew up her seams and wandered off in the middle of the job. But the story has changed. The printed words are all in the same position on the pages, but the characters seem different. I try to recapture my old way of seeing the island and the boys, but I can’t stop feeling sorry for that fat one. I used to think he deserved what he got. I wanted to hurt him too, but now I want the others to stop torturing him. I want the ending to be happy.

Trixy tunnels silently through the carpet, crawling on her stomach, a rogue white streak causing a ripple in the livid pattern. She tries not to meet my eyes and worms her way over to me, halting just beyond the radius of my feet.

                 ‘Shoo!’ I throw a fluffy cushion in the shape of a monkey at her, and it hits her head with a thump.

                 Instead of running away, she holds her ground. Growling, she pounces on the monkey and clamps her teeth over its fluffy rump. The cloth makes a splitting noise. She shifts position. Now she’s standing directly over the cushion, sinking her jaws into its neck.

‘Drop!’

She tugs on the monkey’s arm, half-severing it from the body. I watch her jaws closely and wait for the muscles to relax for an instant, then grab the cushion and throw it back on the bed. She jumps up and leaps on the monkey, extracting toothfuls of stuffing from the open seams, spitting white blossoms all over the room.

We play tug-of-war with the cushion until it’s in shreds, except I’m not playing any more. I don’t want her to destroy the monkey. I want to rescue it.

I’m not one hundred per cent certain, but I don’t think I’m in love with Mr Phillips any more.

*          *         *          *

Sat 25^th February

Mrs Phillips plays with a biro on the counter, spinning it on the flat surface. When it comes to a halt, the nib points directly at me.

                ‘But you must have some idea where he’s gone,’ Mrs Nelson explodes indignantly. ‘He’s your husband after all!’ She waves her hands in the air. ‘Why haven’t you phoned the police?’

                Mrs Phillips keeps rubbing her eyes. ‘Is there something I can get you from the shop?’

               ‘What if he’s lying in a ditch somewhere?’

                ‘The police would have contacted me if that was the case,’ she replies. ‘I’m sure he’s fine.’ Her eyes are more piggy than ever, narrow little slits with puffy pink lids.

I hover by the window and stare out at the road. Every time I look at the interior of the shop I think he’s going to magically reappear out of a trapdoor and point an accusing finger at me.

                Against my better judgement, Mrs Nelson persuaded me to accompany her on this mission to find out the truth about Mr Phillips.

The whole shop smells different. Not one of the packets and tins looks the same as before.

‘How’s your little sister doing?’ Mrs Phillips asks me gently.  I’m not sure I like the way she keeps talking to me.

‘They’re going to send her to a special unit.’ I can’t breathe again.

‘Up the loony-bin,’ Mrs Nelson says. ‘Unusual for a little girl, isn’t it?’

Mrs Phillips ignores Mrs Nelson. ‘They’ll get her back on her feet in no time. I hope she got my card? I’m so sorry this happened to her. I had no idea that he… I’m so glad I had boys.’

‘If you mean boys are less of a worry than girls, I choose to disagree!’ Mrs Nelson walks over to me and puts an arm around my shoulders. ‘All that violence. Drugs. Gangs! I’m glad I’ve got my Katie. And Katie’s got Lizzie here,’ she adds with an encouraging squeeze.

‘Try not to worry too much,’ Mrs Phillips says to me.

Mrs Nelson tries to steer the conversation back on course. ‘If my husband vanished in the middle of the night, I’d be on his case, I can tell you!’

I’m not going to speak because anything I say may be taken down and used in evidence against me.

‘What can I get you from the shop?’ Mrs Phillips asks Mrs Nelson.

We buy a bag of oven chips from the freezer.

*         *        *          *

Sun 26^th February

‘Is Helen in hospital because Mr Phillips has gone away?’

Katie’s question makes a certain amount of sense to me. I’ve been struggling to connect the two events myself. But however much I think about it, I can’t understand why he disappeared. Of all the possibilities contained in my Valentine’s card, this was the most remote. Katie’s question doesn’t solve the riddle, but I feel as if she’s threaded a needle and tied a knot at the bottom of the strand, ready to make the first stitch. She deserves a certain amount of credit for showing she’s capable of independent reasoning like this.

Mr and Mrs Nelson look at their daughter, then at each other, with bewildered expressions.

Mrs Nelson takes a sip of wine, swallows, and dabs her pink lips with a napkin. ‘Now, why would you say something like that, baby?’

‘I don’t know. I was just thinking.’

‘What were you just thinking?’ Mrs Nelson saws her slice of beef. The room is silent and very warm.

‘Nothing.’

Sticking out her tongue a fraction of an inch, Mrs Nelson raises her fork and the tender mouthful goes in. She holds the handle of the knife in her fingertips, with her little finger poised in a delicate hook.

By now I’m sitting forward in my chair, eagerly waiting to hear what Katie says next. I hope Mrs Nelson doesn’t interrupt and put Katie off this line of reasoning.

‘He probably got bored of being nagged by his Mrs all the time!’ Mr Nelson drags his fork over his plate, scraping up all the gravy and lifting it quickly, dripping, to his mouth. ‘Big bossy-boots, that one. Two screaming kids. Not that I think he should’ve done it.’

Mrs Nelson looks at her husband indulgently. ‘Don’t you go getting ideas, now!’

‘Wouldn’t know which car to take!’ He laughs, but he looks a bit sheepish. Then he turns to Katie with a sombre face and says, ‘stop dwelling on it.’

Mrs Nelson nods. ‘Ten-year-old girls don’t try and top themselves. When she’s better and the doctors talk to her, they’ll find it was all a terrible mistake. She probably thought they were sweeties.’

‘People should be more careful. Strong pills like that. Lying about in the house.’

Mrs Nelson nods vigorously, eyes me, and swallows a mouthful of wine.

Katie frowns at a roast potato. ‘But,’ she says, turning to me, ‘what about that funny game we saw Mr Phillips playing with Helen, where she hid down behind the counter, then he did the Flamingo dance on her face?’

Mrs Nelson blanches. ‘What dance on her face?’

I want to see what shape Katie has created out of all the pieces, but she seems nervous about starting.

‘You tell them, Lizzie. You must’ve seen it loads of times, but I only saw it once.’

I shake my head. ‘No, you say.’

‘Jesus Christ!’ Mr Nelson shouts, jumping up.

Katie doesn’t sound as confident as she did. She starts to whine. ‘I only saw it once. Helen was crouching down. He did this jiggly dance in her face, then she ran into the shop and he used tissues on her hands. Lizzie says it’s called Flamingo. That’s right, isn’t it, Lizzie?’ There’s panic in Katie’s voice.

                Suddenly Mr Nelson turns on me. ‘Another one of your tall stories?’

                ‘No, Dad! It’s true! She didn’t make it up. I saw it too.’

Mrs Nelson rushes around the table and cradles Katie’s head in her arms.

‘I’ll deal with this.’ Mr Nelson throws his napkin on the table and marches towards the phone. We hear him asking for the police. After a pause, he says, ‘No, the man disappeared a couple of weeks ago.’

                I can see Katie’s eyes peeping out of Mrs Nelson’s fleshy arms like a crocodile in a swamp, but unlike a crocodile she’s looking out with extreme alarm. I try to give her a reassuring smile, but I can’t get my mouth to smile properly because I know this situation spells big trouble for me.

*         *          *          *

Mon 27^th February

‘Help me hide!’ I whimper.

‘Are they here?’ Katie turns pale.

                ‘They’re going to lock me up!’

We’ve known they were coming since last night. I paced the bedroom all night trying to work out a plan. I wanted to disappear like Mr Phillips, but I couldn’t be sure whether or not there was a police car waiting outside the house, watching, ready to arrest me. And unlike Mr Phillips, I had no get-away vehicle, not even a bike.

My knees feel like jelly. I fling open Katie’s wardrobe door, pull all the clothes out of the cubby-hole, and try to climb in. But the hiding place is too high up and I’m shaking too much to be able to get inside.

I race downstairs and disappear through the connecting door into Mr Nelson’s garage just as the two figures approach the frosted glass. The doorbell rings.

It feels like ages before they come to get me. I’m underneath the Ford Capri in a pool of black oil.

First of all, a pair of sensible brown shoes appears by the front wheel, attached to slim ankles in grey tights.

‘Hello Elizabeth.’

The woman has a husky voice a bit like Rebecca’s. She doesn’t try to bend down to get a look at me. She just stands there. I stare at her feet silently.

‘I’m Barbara Foster, the social worker assigned to this case. There’s no need to be scared. This isn’t your fault. We just need to ask you some questions. We’ve spoken to your mum, and she knows we’re here.’

‘Where’s my dad? I want my dad.’ I’ve got no control over what I’m saying.

The feet shift. ‘Unfortunately we couldn’t get hold of your dad. But your mum phoned you this morning, didn’t she? She’s sorry she can’t be here while we talk to you. She needs to stay at the hospital with your sister.’

‘Why can’t you bring my dad?’ I’m whimpering like a dog.

‘We tried. He simply wasn’t contactable, I’m afraid. Perhaps you would like Mr or Mrs Nelson to be in the room when we talk to you? Your mum suggested Mrs Nelson.’

Before I can think, my mouth says, ‘Mr Nelson.’ I don’t know why I said his name instead of Mrs Nelson’s. I imagine Mrs Nelson pursing her lips and saying, ‘suit yourself, little madam.’

‘Are you coming out, then, Elizabeth?’ the woman with sensible shoes asks gently. ‘Sorry we can’t bring your dad. You get on well with him, by the sound of it?’

Even though I know she’s using the voice grownups adopt when they want to manipulate children, I can’t help thinking Barbara Foster sounds quite nice. She seems interested in what I think and feel. And this is the first time anybody’s noticed how close I am to my dad.

‘I’m just like him,’ I tell her as I emerge from my safe place.

Barbara Foster has light brown hair and a smile that stretches all the way across her face. She leans over slightly in my direction, but she doesn’t try to help me stand up.

‘Let’s go through when you’re ready. There’s no need to hurry. Take your time. You’ll need to change out of that top. It’s all oily!’

Barbara Foster is a social worker, and I know for a fact that social workers, like teachers and nurses, are obliged to help and not harm vulnerable young people like me. But the other woman standing in the Nelsons’ living-room, the tall one, turns out to be from the police. I’ve walked into a trap. At first I think she’s another social worker because she isn’t wearing her uniform, but when she introduces herself, I sit down with a thump.

They stay in the living-room and interview Katie first, with Mr and Mrs Nelson present. I have to wait upstairs to stop me escaping again. I put on my black Dorothy Perkins top.

There are far too many grownups in this house for my liking.

After a while, I sneak out and hover at the top of the stairs with the dog.  We both listen. I strain to hear what they’re saying, but can’t decipher the murmuring sounds. At least nobody’s shouting. Nobody’s getting angry.

I walk over to Katie’s bedroom and look out of the window at the creek. White smoke curls out of the bone factory chimneys.

All I wanted was for their secret games to stop and for him to pay me a little bit of attention. That’s not too much to ask. Now their secret has caught me and wrapped itself round me like underwater netting tangled in a rudder.

The living-room door opens, releasing voices into the hall. One of the strange women laughs. Perhaps this interview won’t be too bad after all.

Barbara Foster comes upstairs. ‘Okay, Elizabeth. We’re ready to ask you a few questions now. Don’t look so worried. It’s okay! There’s nothing to be scared of. Nobody’s going to accuse you of anything.’

The last thing I see before going downstairs is the creek mud glistening in the winter sunshine, sprinkled with gulls, outside Katie’s window.

Now it’s Katie’s turn to wait upstairs with Mrs Nelson. I try to read Katie’s expression as we pass each other at the living-room door, but she offers no clues except a look of immense relief.

‘We have come here to ask you a few questions,’ the policewoman says. She has a pointed nose with a wart growing out of one nostril. I don’t like the sound of her voice, cold and official. ‘Your mother knows we are talking to you today. Is that your understanding, too?’

I can’t stop staring at the wart.

‘Is that correct, Elizabeth?’

I briefly catch Mr Nelson’s eye. He nods. I nod.

When Rebecca phoned this morning, she said we need to find out exactly what’s been going on with Helen in recent months, and that I must help with any information I can offer. She kept repeating herself, saying I must be truthful and not hide anything. I must tell them exactly what I’ve seen. But what would change if I told them the truth? Are secrets the same as lies? Can I reveal Helen’s secret without also revealing my lies?

‘I’ll write things down as we talk,’ the policewoman says. ‘This is to make sure we get your answers right. To start with, Elizabeth, can you tell us your full name and address?’

I’ve seen this kind of thing on telly, where the detective pretends not to have any information at all, not even a person’s name or address, and this causes the suspect to become falsely confident. As a consequence, the suspect digs a deep, muddy hole and climbs into it without even knowing that the hole is there. But I don’t want to get off to a bad start with this tall warty woman, so I tell her my name and address, speaking carefully, all the while examining each word to find out whether I’m still balanced on the edge of the hole, or whether I’m trapped inside it yet.

‘Thank you,’ she says, writing in her notepad.

‘Well done,’ says Barbara Foster enthusiastically, as if I’ve passed an exam. ‘Would you like a drink of something?’

I nod, and she pours me a glass of Pepsi from the bottle on the table. As she puts the glass on the table in front of me, she smiles. The bubbles dance like midges on the surface of a pond. ‘You’re doing fine! I expect you’re feeling a bit strange, aren’t you, having to stay here and not being at home with your mum?’

‘I always come here. She works late.’

‘I see.’ Barbara Foster looks over at the tall warty one.

Mr Nelson says gruffly, ‘never at home.’ I can’t work out if he’s referring to me or Rebecca.

In my opinion, these two women are not particularly intelligent. They are missing a solid gold opportunity to find out everything. When Barbara Foster discovered me in my hiding place, I was too terrified to tell anything but the whole unbroken truth. Now, even though these two are pretending to be professional with their notebooks and pens, they still haven’t asked me a single proper question. The tall warty one can’t even be bothered to wear her police uniform and badges.

‘Let’s move on now, shall we?’ she says. ‘I want to ask you about some people from the village. Mr and Mrs Phillips at the shop. Do you know them?’

‘Yes of course.’

‘Do you know when they moved in?’

‘Last summer.’ I remember the lumbering shadow of the removal lorry, the warm air, the light evening, and the way Mr Phillips flitted through the shop and stopped directly in front of me, smiling.

‘How often did you go to the shop when they first came?’

‘Not much.’

‘And your sister, Helen. Do you know how often she visited the shop?’

‘I don’t know. Hardly ever.’ I can’t bring myself to look at the policewoman’s face in case she sees I’m lying.

‘Did she go there when the shop was shut?’

‘I can’t remember. Maybe.’

‘Try to remember. Do you know if Helen went to the shop when Mrs Phillips was out?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Come on!’ Mr Nelson interrupts. ‘Katie’s already told us. You tell the truth, now!’

The social worker hushes Mr Nelson, saying she and her colleague will ask all the questions. ‘Did your mother know when Helen was at the shop?’ she asks gently.

Barbara Foster is okay because I can answer all her questions easily. Whenever I speak or lift my head, she nods at me encouragingly and smiles.

‘No,’ I say. ‘She just went up there whenever she wanted.’

‘How did you know she was there, not somewhere else?’ the policewoman asks.

We are moving into extremely dangerous territory. I wish Barbara Foster would interrupt and tell the tall warty one how well I’m doing.

Now the policewoman’s questions are direct and swift like darts. What’s worse, she acts as if she knows all the answers already. Mr Nelson won’t take his eyes off me. I feel as if I’m trapped in a dome of glass like the bird on the mantelpiece, being stared at by all these grownups.

I try to be as evasive as possible. I can’t work out whether revealing Helen’s secret is the same as telling the truth because the truth includes all the things I’ve done alongside my sister’s games with him. Helen has kept a secret whereas I have told lies. Is there a difference between the two? Secrets are clean and transparent, while lies are dirty and blurred. When I tell a lie, each part of the story forms a layer that sits on top of the other layers. There’s no firm kernel hiding underneath, waiting to be found.

But now I’m lying about Helen’s secret.

‘Let’s move on. The doctors say your sister swallowed a lot of pills. Is that right?’

I nod. My heart’s racing.

‘Do you know why she swallowed all those pills?’

If I’m not careful, the details of the Valentine’s card will emerge and then I’ll be in trouble.

‘Please can I go to the loo?’ I ask the social worker. Mr Nelson snorts. Maybe they don’t call it a loo in this house. Maybe I should call it a toilet.

‘Of course. I’ll take you.’

‘I know where it is.’

‘I’ll accompany you. I’ll wait just here for you to finish.’ She stands in the corridor.

As I lock the door and sit down, a disorderly queue of questions jostles my mind. I need to give these people a clear story, one which will take them off the scent of how I saw Helen in the shop with him those times. I need to offer one simple statement to make them sympathise with me and to stop them talking about my sister as if she’s the special one.

Barbara Foster breaks the silence. Her voice sounds muffled and sad through the door. ‘We know this is hard for you, Elizabeth. We’re sorry we have to ask you these questions.’

We return to the living-room and sit down.

‘Actually, I think he was secretly in love with me,’ I say.

‘Who was in love with you?’ the policewoman asks. ‘Please be specific.’

‘Him. Mr Phillips.’ It’s much easier to pretend to reveal a secret than to untangle the series of lies you’ve told.

‘What makes you say this?’ the policewoman asks carefully.

At last I feel the finger of suspicion moving away from me. Now the two women ask a lot of questions about him. I describe how he taught me to juggle with clementines, how he put his hands on my shoulders and legs, how he taught me lots of different card tricks and games, and how we finally danced Flamingo on the blue and grey lino.

Unfortunately the tall warty woman keeps interrupting my flow with stupid questions like ‘do you know what time it was?’ and ‘what was the weather like?’ She obviously isn’t concentrating on her job because she keeps repeating the questions she asked before, confusing me.

‘Did you say apples or clementines?’

‘Apples. I think I said apples.’

‘What time was it when you juggled with the apples?’

‘Did you forget to write my answers down or something?’ I demand. ‘I answered all these questions already.’

Barbara Foster smiles at me and says there’s nothing to worry about. They want to double-check that my information is correct. Now I see what’s going on. They’re deliberately trying to corner me because I can’t remember what I said earlier on.

‘What time was it when you juggled with the apples?’

                ‘Was it four o’clock?’ I ask.

                Mr Nelson’s staring at the carpet, frowning.

‘Did your mother know when you were at the shop?’ Barbara Foster asks.

                ‘I didn’t mention it to Rebecca,’ I reply.

                ‘Rebecca? Do you always call her that?’ the social worker asks.

The policewoman writes something in her notepad.

After that I shut my trap because if there’s one thing I want at the moment, it’s for Rebecca to come back to number eleven so we can all return to normal. I think it’s about time my mother took responsibility for the neglected members of her family. I can’t possibly allow my answers to prevent her from returning home, so I sit in silence and try to think of a plan.

‘How about we come back tomorrow? We can pick up where you left off?’ Barbara Foster asks.

Meanwhile, the tall warty woman makes it crystal clear that she will come back as often as necessary to ask her questions and clarify my answers. I need to offer them something to make them leave me alone, so I present them with a fig leaf and an olive branch.

‘I’m not very good at talking,’ I say. ‘But there’s lots more I’d like to tell you. Lots of facts and information. And details.’

The policewoman snaps, ‘Good. See you tomorrow, then!’

‘No. I don’t want to talk to you about it. Can’t I write it down instead?’

Barbara Foster looks at the tall warty one, who shrugs. She looks back at me. ‘Well, I suppose that’s okay. But we’ll need to arrange another date with you soon. To talk to you again.’

When they leave, the tightness in my chest evaporates. For the first time in ages I can breathe without feeling dizzy, and when I look at other people they don’t seem distant or blurred.

Mr Nelson sits silently in the armchair, head turned away from me.

‘Poor love! They’ve gone now.’ Mrs Nelson bustles around, then sits next to me and gives my shoulders a comforting squeeze. ‘Silly girl for hiding! It’s not your fault!’

Katie comes downstairs from the bathroom.

‘Come and sit with me, princess. Tell Dad and Lizzie what they asked you,’ Mrs Nelson says, adding bitterly, ‘I didn’t interrupt you that much! They had no right to keep shushing me like that. Cheek!’

‘I just told them what we saw that time,’ Katie tells me. ‘How we looked through the window and saw them dancing Flamingo. I told them how I didn’t see anything all the times after that.’

With horror, I realise she’s referring to her weekly reports. I’m not sure what the policewoman would make of our arrangement. Was Katie stupid enough to mention our secret contract of employment during her interview? If so, I’ll have to emphasise her unreliability in my written account, how she’s a shoplifter and bottle-thief, certainly not to be trusted as an eye-witness.

‘Did he do something bad to Helen?’ Katie’s voice quavers. ‘Will they find him and arrest him?’

‘If they hadn’t kept telling me to shut up, I could answer your questions,’ Mrs Nelson says bitterly. ‘I simply wanted answers to some basic questions.’ She looks at me. ‘If you’d let me come in with you, Lizzie, I’d have a bit more information.’ Then her chest heaves. ‘Poor Lizzie! Would you like to go over to the hospital and tell your mum all about it?’

‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘Is it okay if I stay here?’ I urgently need to start planning my document to save myself from future interrogations. I don’t want to talk to those two women ever again.

*         *        *          *

Tues 28^th February

The winter sunshine bounces off Dad’s glasses and I can’t see his eyes. All I can see is my face reflected twice, once in each lens like a pair of identical twins.

‘Beautiful day! Let’s go out somewhere rather than sitting in.’ He leans forward to give me a hug and tries to kiss me on the cheek.

I hunch my shoulders, face burning uncontrollably.

‘Nice haircut!’ Dad’s face, neck and arms look patchy and leathery like a dry lump of beef.

‘I had it done ages ago.’

He gets the message. ‘Sorry I haven’t been able to see you, Lizzie. I’ve been trying to find a place to live. And a job. I’ve had to prioritise things. And hospital comes top of the list at the moment.’

If I repeated what I told that policewoman yesterday about what Mr Phillips did to me, he’d soon find out who should come top of the list at the moment

‘Hey, Lizzie. Do you know how to ask someone in German if they’d like to do a poo?’ He interrupts my thoughts, speaking in a cheerful voice.

I shake my head and look over my shoulder. I don’t want Mrs Nelson to emerge from the kitchen and start talking to him about yesterday. Today I’m going to have my dad all to myself for a special day out. We arranged it last night on the phone. At the hospital, Rebecca told him about my interview and gave him the Nelsons’ number.

He adopts a comic German accent and raises his hand in a Nazi salute. ‘Durst du do doo-doos?’

I laugh at top volume to ensure that Katie, up in her bedroom, can hear what an excellent rapport I’ve got with my dad. My laughter’s so loud it explodes out of the front door and cartwheels up the path to the road.

In reality, however, I don’t think my dad’s joke is remotely funny. I’m learning German at school, and what he said isn’t even half-German. ‘To do’ isn’t ‘do’ and ‘poo’ isn’t ‘doo-doos.’ I remember how he and Rebecca used to chuckle in amusement during dinner when one or the other told a joke. They would play ping-pong with words, batting them back and forth across the table. As their puns got increasingly complicated, they would go into convulsions of laughter, shutting me out.

In the awkward silence that follows, Dad fidgets with a bunch of keys. ‘Want to go for a walk? Have a chat about yesterday?’

He doesn’t have a musky smell any more. I inhale vigorously, seeking the lost scent, but all my nose can find is a hint of lavender washing powder.

‘Can’t we go into town for a Big Mac?’

In planning today, I’d imagined us starting out at Macdonald’s for an early lunch, followed by an hour’s clothes shopping, then the cinema for Trading Places and perhaps a bite to eat afterwards at Pinocchio’s. I don’t want to discuss the interview with him because I still can’t work out whether or not my story about Mr Phillips fits with what Katie said. Mr Nelson, who was present at both interviews, has hardly spoken a word to me since then.

Dad says, ‘Sorry, love, I haven’t got the money for meals out.’

‘Not even for a special treat? Please?’ I hear myself wheedling.

‘Let’s go for a walk on the seawall. I’ve got to be at the hospital for lunchtime. We’re sorting out Helen’s transfer arrangements.’

I look at my Swatch. ‘But it’s half ten now.’ I try not to let my disappointment show because I know Dad can’t bear sulky behaviour. That’s one of the main reasons he left Rebecca, in my opinion.

We quick-march down the road and turn left through the boatyard.

A thread of water trickles along the centre of the creek, forming a sharp line that divides the mud banks on either side.

I struggle to keep up with Dad. I can’t ask him to slow down because I don’t want him to think I can’t do it. He strides ahead, feet thudding firmly on the path.

The cold air stings my eyes and I squint in the sunshine. I keep tripping over tufts of grass.

After half a mile or so, Dad slows his pace. I wait for him to speak. I’m sure he’s got a significant announcement to make because he keeps breathing in and pausing. Each time he exhales, his breath becomes visible like a speech-bubble in a cartoon. But the bubbles are empty of words.

When we reach the wrecked barge, we halt and sit side-by-side on the seawall, gazing at the blackened ribs jutting out of the mud.

‘Want to talk about yesterday?’ Dad asks.

After Barbara Foster and that policewoman left, I sat in the bedroom and secretly composed a list of my crimes. Each crime stood out beside its neighbour like a bead on a string digging into my neck.

1. Trying to poison my sister to death.

2. Breaking into Mr and Mrs Phillips’ house.

3. Stealing large sums of money from Katie and Rebecca.

4. Forging other people’s handwriting in order to make things happen.

One or two more commonplace offences need to be added to the string, like telling lies to people at school, taking things from the cloakroom and shoplifting in town. But everybody I know is guilty of petty theft, especially Katie Nelson.

After writing it, I destroyed the list immediately.

‘They wanted to find you to be here too.’ I try not to let my voice sound too accusing.

‘I haven’t got a number at the moment, love. I’m staying odd nights here and there with friends.’ He looks across the mud, which shimmers in the sunshine, forming a smooth blank surface. ‘Sofa-surfing. Not pleasant, I can tell you.’

I decide to offer him an exit clause. ‘Yes, but I bet Rebecca didn’t even try to contact you.’

‘Lizzie! Don’t be so horrible! Your mum’s trying her best in very difficult circumstances.’

‘She makes up all kinds of stories about you. She says I used to follow you round when I was small. She doesn’t like the fact we’re so similar.’

‘You did follow me around. You wouldn’t let me out of your sight. You burst into tears whenever I disappeared from view.’

I can’t understand why he’s taking Rebecca’s side rather than mine. I’m the loyal one, not her. He shouldn’t repeat her story just because they’re both adults.

A greylag goose roots around on the saltmarsh, panning the foliage for edible stems. Closer and closer it comes, beak moving rapidly to and fro, ignoring me and Dad. From afar it looks grey all over, but now I see the flash of white beneath its tail and the detail of an intricate bodice, a subtle mosaic of grey and brown feathers.

I look for the rest of the flock, but can only see herring gulls.

I stare at a bundle of rope half-buried in the mud and wonder if I should tell my dad about some of the things he’s missed while he’s been away. What would I start with? School? Helen’s special friendship with Mr Phillips?

Dad picks at stalks. ‘Do you think that man abused Helen? Did you see something?’

Suddenly he starts to cry. Tears stream past his down-turned mouth, which looks exposed and raw in the absence of his beard.

I look at him, appalled. ‘Stop it!’

Shoulders heaving, he says, ‘I can’t stop thinking about it. What that man did to her. We need to know what happened. But I can’t bear the idea of what might’ve happened.’

‘I saw them.’

His noise halts. ‘What did you see?’

The distance between the sides of the story is too vast to cross. Helen’s secret. My lies. ‘I told them everything yesterday. Don’t worry, Dad. They were only playing games. Card games, hide and seek, dancing. It’s because he wanted a girl, and he’s only got boys.’ I gaze at the graylag for a while. ‘Why don’t you come back and live with us, Dad?’

‘I can’t see Rebecca agreeing to it after all this time,’ he says quietly.

Even though I wouldn’t admit this to a single living soul, my dad is cowardly and indecisive. He lacks motivation. He gives up too easily. He’s passive. I was always the one to help and encourage him at home.

‘I’ll persuade her.’ I insert a cheerful, problem-solving tone into my voice, but I know I sound crestfallen in the face of all this negativity.

He sighs. ‘No. There’s no point trying. It’s all such a mess.’

‘You’re useless! You can’t do anything!’

‘Don’t attack me, Lizzie.’

‘You’ve changed.’ I stare angrily at the bone factory, roof and chimneys looming through the trees, exposed in the winter sunshine.

‘You don’t understand a bloody thing. You’re the one who’s changed!’

A sudden cackling and gabbling noise makes us look up. A loose V of geese passes overhead, heading for the salt marshes at the mouth of the estuary. The greylag near us launches into the sky.

Suddenly, a smile spreads over Dad’s face. He gives me a playful smack on the arm and grins. ‘Naughty Lizzie! Trying to blame me for everything!’

*         *        *          *

Wed 29^th February

‘Please stop!’ I beg from the doorway. Every time she drops a fresh glass, a picture of Helen flashes across my eyes, throwing my precious ballerina at the radiator and toppling my bottles, then collapsing in a bony heap on my floor.

‘Fuck off!’

Katie ran upstairs, closed her bedroom door and turned on her stereo the instant she heard the first tinkle of glass, but I hung around because I thought she’d listen to me.

The Waterford crystal shatters in an explosion of light. Shards of glass stick to the toes of Mrs Nelson’s slippers. I want to grab her hands and tie them up so she can’t do any more damage.

‘Please come and sit down! I’ll make us a cup of tea.’ My voice is almost a squeal.

Starting with the tumblers, moving through the wine glasses and ending with the champagne flutes, Mrs Nelson has smashed her way through the entire set. It’s the opposite of drying-up and putting away. She takes each glass from the cabinet, holds it high above her head and releases it. She has studiously ignored me for the last ten minutes, but now she staggers through the broken glass and lurches at me, pointing a finger at the ceiling. ‘Ger ourra my shite!’

She turns around and makes a bee-line for the dinner plates.

I run through the connecting door to the garage.

Wearing oily blue overalls, Mr Nelson tinkers with his Ford Capri and whistles along to a tune on Radio Two. Pieces of the car lie in haphazard patterns all around him on the floor. He seems to have no inkling that the family home is being destroyed from within.

‘She’s breaking everything!’ I feel as if I’m telling tales. But I need him to stop her from destroying all those beautiful things.

‘Stay in here for a bit. No point trying to stop her.’ He wipes his hands on an oily rag.

‘What’s the matter with her?’

‘She won’t remember in the morning,’ he replies. ‘Stay in here for a bit. Be alright in the morning.’

‘But she’s breaking all your things.’

‘Leave her alone. She’ll be okay.’ His voice is firm. He wipes his hands on the rag again and looks around. ‘Where’s that broken doll of yours?’

I bring my box over to the workbench and take off the lid.

Inside, my ballerina lies on a crackly bed of tissue paper. Pieces of her head are positioned at the top of the box, and her chest, skirts and legs lie roughly where they used to be when she was whole, with the severed feet and plinth at the bottom. I’ve tucked the hands and arms around the edges, wherever there’s space.

She looks like a mosaic version of her previous self.

                ‘Give us a look.’ He leans over, frowning, picks up a segment and examines every edge. His fingernails are ragged and dirty. ‘Nice clean lines. Good quality china. Want me to get you a new one? Haven’t got the same one. Want a different one from the shop?’

                ‘I like this one. Can’t we try to mend this one?’

                ‘Worth a try.’

                He rummages in a toolbox the size of a sink, taking out clamps, masking tape, wooden splints and Araldite. I ask why he doesn’t use the new extrastrong stuff everybody’s talking about at school, and he explains that good craftsmen need more than a split second to decide how to mend broken objects.

                He squeezes equal parts from the two tubes of glue and stirs them together with a matchstick. The mixture looks like snot. When I joke that it smells good, he tells me to promise never to take that turning or go down that road.

We line up each fragment. He carefully presses each piece into position, wiping away the excess glue with a clean rag that looks just like one of Mrs Nelson’s blouses.

Nose almost touching the china, he fixes each limb with a splint and tape.

I’m concentrating so hard I don’t hear anything apart from his breathing and the satisfying click as each piece slides into position. Slowly, the familiar figure rises out of the board, and we leave her standing in the garage, shrouded in tape until morning.

*           *         *          *

Thurs 1^st March

The rigging rattles against the masts and, further off, a faint clatter fills the air from the bone factory.

I sit at my table by the window in the peace and quiet of number eleven, home at last. The spotlight I borrowed from Rebecca’s study illuminates the first page of the deluxe hardback notebook I got from W. H. Smiths the other day. Rebecca has challenged me to a game of Scrabble later on, but first I want to write some things for Barbara Foster and warty-nose.

The paper in this notebook is really good quality.

My calligraphy pen is poised in my hand. I dip the nib in the bottle of black ink, but I’m not sure where to start. My notes form a neat pile beside me, ordered by date, but I’ve crossed out a lot of material from my rough drafts. Before beginning, I will open the dictionary and study it, so that I can be in control of the best vocabulary and the best combinations of words.

I pull the notebook towards me, then pause and look through the glass.

People disappear so easily.

THE END

Acknowledgements

I am indebted to Anna Kerr for her detailed guidance on the police and social worker interview scene. Dave Swann, Karen Stevens, Jill Campbell and Graham Minett, plus members of the creative writing workshop at the University of Chichester, gave valuable feedback on drafts of the novel. Ideas about family secrets came from the work of Carol Smart.