The Couple at No. 9(76)

‘I’m not sure. I can’t work out if he had that newspaper clipping because the bodies had been discovered and he was close to getting found out for something, or because it told him where Rose is now. Murder, though?’ groans Theo. ‘It’s another thing entirely. And it –’ He stops, unable to voice what he’s really thinking.

‘What?’ Jen says, sitting up.

He takes a deep breath. ‘If my dad is capable of murder, it puts a whole different spin on my mum’s accident.’ He sits up too, facing his wife. ‘Jen, what if my dad killed my mum?’





41


Rose



April 1980


I couldn’t get out of bed for two days. It was like I was having a breakdown. I wanted to block it all out, the image of the knife going into his side, the horror on his face, the blood that gushed out of him, the hole we dug in the garden, the smell of the wet soil, the worms that squirmed inside, the thud of his body as he landed in the makeshift grave. It seeped into my dreams, turning them to nightmares. My act, his death, had opened up a floodgate of all the old feelings and fears.

Daphne was brilliant. She took care of you, taking you to playschool, picking you up, cooking for you, washing your clothes, keeping you safe. She was the only other person in the whole world I trusted to do these things, apart from maybe Joyce and Roy next door.

‘Rose, darling,’ she said, sitting on the edge of my bed the next evening, ‘you need to eat something.’

It was dark and you were fast asleep, tucked up in bed. Daphne had brought you up earlier to say goodnight and I had hugged you to me, as though your innocence could mend my dark, dark heart. And then I’d listened to your giggles from down the hall as Daphne read you a story in your bedroom, taking ages to do all the funny voices.

She had a cup of something in her hand. ‘Drink this. I’ve put some whisky in it. You’re in shock, that’s all. You’ll be as right as rain in a few days’ time.’

As right as rain. That was such an un-Daphne thing to say. And I realized she was as out of her depth as I was.

‘I’m a murderer,’ I said, sitting up and taking the mug. ‘I’ve crossed a line, taken a life. I’m never going to get over this.’ I couldn’t stop thinking of the mound of fresh earth near our patio slabs, the patch of brown in the grass that marked out his grave. How could I ever go into the garden again? Or look out of the kitchen window without that constant reminder?

‘You have to,’ she said, her voice stern. ‘You can’t stay up here feeling sorry for yourself, Rose. You’re a mother. That’s the greatest gift. You’ve cleansed the world of one evil man. It’s a shame we can’t do the same with the others.’ She laughed then to show she was joking but something in her eyes made me think if I suddenly agreed she would do it. Two thirty-something vigilantes.

‘I haven’t got the stomach for it,’ I said, trying to force a chuckle.

She smoothed the hair back from my face tenderly. ‘I know you haven’t. You’re too sweet. Too kind.’ She kissed my forehead.

‘Will you stay with me tonight?’ I asked. ‘I don’t want to be alone.’

‘Of course.’ She climbed into bed with me, fully clothed, pulling the duvet over us both, propped up by pillows. I could feel her socked feet against my bare legs. I sipped my tea, the whisky warm as it travelled down my throat.

‘Every time I close my eyes I can see his face.’

‘I know,’ she soothed.

‘I just want those images to go away.’

‘They will.’

‘Really?’ I turned to assess her. ‘You seem to know a lot about it.’ I hesitated. I needed to ask her. But I was terrified of the answer. What would I do if Neil was right?

I took her hand in mine, her bones fine underneath my fingers. You and she were the only two people I loved in the whole world. ‘Please just tell me the truth. I can’t bear lies. No more lies. But I need to know. Was Neil right? Are you Jean Burdon?’

She looked at me for the longest time, her pupils massive in the fading light, obscuring most of her iris. Just when I thought she wasn’t going to answer, she said, ‘Would you still love me, Rose?’

Would I? I had you to think about. Maybe if I hadn’t just killed a man I might have kicked her out there and then.

‘I need to know the truth.’

Her eyes filled with tears. ‘I didn’t mean to do it,’ she said, in such a small voice that I had to strain to hear her. ‘It was an accident. I was ten years old. My childhood – it wasn’t good, Rose. But I’ve never hurt anyone else. You need to believe me.’

I stared at her. She’d been a child. I couldn’t imagine her hurting anyone now. I was the one who had killed Neil after all. And I was so in love with her I would have believed anything she told me.

We sat up most of that night, talking. She opened up to me for the first time since we’d met. She told me the story of Jean Burdon – the little girl the newspapers had dubbed ‘evil’, of how she was neglected and physically abused by her father, left to roam around the abandoned bombsites of east London. ‘And then I made a friend,’ she said, her face ashen in the moonlight. ‘And I was so happy that I’d found someone who actually cared about me. I wasn’t emotionally intelligent. I didn’t understand about relationships, particularly with other kids. I had this rage inside me …’ She gave a little sob and I squeezed her hand in reassurance. ‘Anyway, when Susan – that was her name – decided she didn’t want to be friends with me any more I saw red. They said I picked up a brick and smacked her over the head with it. But I can’t remember doing that. I think I might have pushed her, though, and she fell and hit her head.’