What Lies Between Us(47)

‘Mine. She’s my cousin. Anyway, her son Alan used to eat Marmite by the gallon. She took a few jars with her to California when he was working in that city with all the computers. Sylvanian Families or something.’

‘Silicon Valley.’ I chuckle.

‘Yes, that’s the one. But when customs officers singled her out to search her suitcase, all three jars had broken in transit, covering every single piece of clothing. She had a devil of a job trying to explain to them what it was and that she hadn’t been caught short and used her suitcase as a commode.’

We laugh together, but don’t look at one another. We have been sitting in the same position for three mornings in a row now. My handbag is already over my shoulder, my coat and trainers are on and the envelope is in my pocket. Then suddenly, we spot figures moving downstairs in the front room of the neighbours who are abusing their daughter.

‘They’re about ready to leave,’ says Maggie. ‘Are you ready?’

‘Yes,’ I reply, and pat my pocket to reassure myself the envelope is still there. ‘I’ll see you tonight.’

‘Good luck,’ Maggie says, and touches my arm. I don’t recoil. I grab another slice of toast to eat on the go and hurry down the stairs, locking the landing door behind me. Then I leave the house and at the same time, my neighbour appears with both children. They are well presented in their red school V-neck jumpers, charcoal-coloured trousers and black shoes, and there is no visible bruising to either of their faces. I wonder what damage lies beneath.

This is the first time I’ve seen them walk to school – their father normally gives them a lift. The mum is too consumed by her mobile phone to hold their hands or notice me behind them. The kids are too close to the road for my liking, their heads down, not conversing with one another.

This common cause means Maggie and I have spent more time together over the last few days than we have in the last two years, debating how to help that little girl. It doesn’t mean I’ve had a change of heart and am ready to give her life back to her. But I can’t deny I have enjoyed her company. Finally, we agreed upon a plan that I’d approach the child directly with a letter we composed together.

‘To the girl at Number 2,’ it began. ‘Please don’t be scared, but I want to help you. I know what has been happening to you at home. I have watched your mummy hurting you and I want you to know that she shouldn’t be doing it. Good mummies and daddies don’t treat their children like you are being treated. And no matter what they might be telling you, it’s not your fault. I want you to promise me that you are going to ask a grown-up for help. And I want you to do it as quickly as you can. At the bottom of this letter is a telephone number. Dial it and you can speak to a kind man or woman at a place called Childline who will help you. You don’t have to give anyone your name if you don’t want to, but you can tell them what has been happening to you. If you can’t use a phone, then please tell someone you trust, like a teacher or a friend’s mummy or daddy. They will help you and your brother. I know this isn’t going to be easy for you because you love your parents, but you have to believe me when I tell you that the moment you start being brave, everything will get better. Yours, a friend.’

There hasn’t been an opportunity to execute our plan and get the girl alone until now, when the family makes a detour and stops at a newsagent. Their mother makes her children wait outside and I half-expect her to tie them to a lamp post like she might a dog. They wait, reading postcard advertisements taped to the window. Through a gap, I spot their mum queuing at the counter. I’m going to walk into the girl, knock the bag off her shoulder and as I help to pick up its contents, I’ll slip the letter inside.

I take one last look around to make sure nobody is watching me, and then I make my approach.





CHAPTER 39





MAGGIE


I lingered at the window for most of yesterday, only leaving it to urinate in the bucket or to stretch my legs. Even when night fell, I kept at my post, hoping and praying that the girl might have found and read the note Nina slipped into her schoolbag and sought help.

I waited for a police car to pull up outside the house to take her awful parents away, or at least an official visit from a Social Services team. But there was nothing. The only person to knock on their door was a parcel delivery man. As the night drew in, I knew it was too late for anything to happen, yet still I remained where I was sitting with the lamp in my hands, ready to flash the bulb to show her I was still there. But I only saw her briefly as she entered her bedroom, then her mother turned off the light. Assuming that she was safely tucked up in bed, I left my viewing platform and got changed myself.

Just as I was wondering why I’d yet to be updated by Nina, I spotted it, lying half inside my bedroom and half in the landing. A white envelope with no name on it upon the floor. I knew what it was before I opened it. Inside was the letter Nina and I had written for the girl. She hadn’t given it to her. It explains why nothing has happened all day; no one has come to the girl’s aid because she doesn’t know that she has options. Despite what Nina had witnessed, she’d chosen not to believe me and not to help. And she didn’t have the guts to admit it to my face, either.

While helping the girl escape an unsafe environment was my priority, a part of me hoped it might lead to my freedom, too. I imagined her telling whomever she confided in about seeing someone in the attic of the house across the road flashing a light. It’s ridiculous, now I think about it. Regardless, I let out a long, defeated sigh.