The Turn of the Key(55)

Then he was gone, the door closed behind him, and the outside light clicked off, leaving a shocking, inky darkness in its wake. And I was left standing in there, my skin shivering, and fighting the urge to touch the place on my cheek where his lips had been with the tips of my fingers.

I did not know what he had meant when he offered to stay. What he had been hoping, expecting.

But I knew what I had wanted. And I knew that I had come very close to saying yes.





I know what you’re thinking, Mr. Wrexham. None of this is helping my case. And that’s what Mr. Gates thought too.

Because we know where this leads, you and I, don’t we?

To me, slipping out of the house on a rainy summer night, baby monitor in one hand, running across the courtyard and up the stairs to the stable-block flat.

And to a child’s body, lying— But no. I can’t think about that, or I’ll start crying again. And if you lose it in here, you really lose it, I know that now. I never knew there were so many ways to deal with pain so unbearable that it cannot be endured, but in here I have seen them all. The women who cut their skin, and tear out their hair, and smear their cells with blood and shit and piss. The ones who snort and shoot and smoke their way to oblivion. The ones who sleep and sleep and sleep and never get out of bed, not even for meals, until they’re nothing but bones and grayish skin and despair.

But I have to be honest with you, that’s what Mr. Gates didn’t—couldn’t—understand. It was acting a part that got me here in the first place. Rowan the Perfect Nanny with her buttoned-up cardigans, her pasted-on smile, and her perfect CV—she never existed, and you know it. Behind that neat, cheerful facade was someone very different—a woman who smoked and drank and swore, and whose hand itched to slap on more than one occasion. I tried to cover her up—to neatly fold my T-shirts when my instinct was to throw them on the floor, to smile and nod when I wanted to tell the Elincourts to fuck off. And when the police took me in for questioning, Mr. Gates wanted me to keep on pretending, keep on hiding the real me. But where did that pretense get me? Here.

I have to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Because to leave out these parts would be less than the whole truth. To tell you only the parts that exonerate me would make me slip back into the old, old trap. Because it was the lies that got me here in the first place. And I have to believe that it’s the truth that will get me out.

*

I had forgotten what day it was when I awoke. When my alarm went off I listened blearily for the sound of childish voices, and then, when only silence greeted me, I hit snooze and went back to sleep. It recurred ten minutes later, and this time I thought I could hear a noise coming from downstairs. After lying there for another ten minutes, gearing myself up for the day, I swung my legs out of bed and stood uncertainly, dizzy with lack of sleep. Then I went down into the kitchen to find not Maddie and Ellie but Jean McKenzie, scrubbing the dishes and looking disapproving.

“Are the bairns not up yet?” she said as I came into the room, rubbing my eyes and longing for a coffee. I shook my head.

“No, we had a . . .” What should I say? Suddenly I couldn’t bring myself to go into the whole story. “A bit of a disturbed night,” I finished at last. “I thought I’d let them sleep in.”

“Well that’s all very well on a weekend, but it’s seven twenty-five and they need to be washed, dressed, and in that car by eight fifteen.”

Eight fifteen? I did a mental double take, and then realized. Fuck.

“Oh God, it’s Monday.”

“Aye, and you’ll need to be getting a move on if you’re to make it in time.”

*

“I’m not going.” Maddie was lying facedown on her bed, with her hands over her ears. I began to feel desperate. It wasn’t so much what I would tell Sandra if I couldn’t get the girls to school, but the fact that I needed this break. I had had barely three hours’ sleep last night. I could cope with a fractious baby. I couldn’t cope with two primary school age–children as well, let alone one as stroppy and recalcitrant as Maddie.

“You’re going, and that’s that.”

“I’m not, and you can’t make me.”

What could I say to that? It was true after all.

“If you get dressed now there’ll still be time for Coco Pops.”

It had come to that then. Basically bribing her with Sandra’s list of forbidden foods at every single obstacle. But it had worked with Ellie, who was, I assumed, downstairs now, more or less dressed (though not washed or brushed) and eating cereal with Jean.

“I don’t want Coco Pops. I don’t like Coco Pops. They’re for babies.”

“Well, that seems about right, given you’re behaving like a baby!” I snapped, and then regretted it when I heard her laugh.

Don’t react, I thought. Don’t give her that hold over you. You have to stay calm, or she’ll know that she’s got the power to get to you.

I thought about counting to ten, then I remembered the painful “one and a half” of a couple of nights before, and hastily revised my plans.

“Maddie, I’m getting very bored here. Unless you want me to take you to school in your nightie, then I suggest you get your uniform on.”

She said nothing, and at last I sighed.