WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 7, 2013
MORNING
I was with the National Childbirth Trust girls at Starbucks when it happened. We were sitting in our usual spot by the window, the kids were spreading Lego all over the floor, Beth was trying (yet again) to persuade me to join her book club, and then Diane showed up. She had this look on her face, the self-importance of someone who is about to deliver a piece of particularly juicy gossip. She could barely contain herself as she struggled to get her double buggy through the door.
“Anna,” she said, her face grave, “have you seen this?” She held up a newspaper with the headline WAS MEGAN A CHILD KILLER? I was speechless. I just stared at it and, ridiculously, burst into tears. Evie was horrified. She howled. It was awful.
I went to the loos to clean myself (and Evie) up, and when I got back they were all speaking in hushed tones. Diane glanced slyly up at me and asked, “Are you all right, sweetie?” She was enjoying it, I could tell.
I had to leave then, I couldn’t stay. They were all being terribly concerned, saying how awful it must be for me, but I could see it on their faces: thinly disguised disapproval. How could you entrust your child to that monster? You must be the worst mother in the world.
I tried to call Tom on the way home, but his phone just went straight to voice mail. I left him a message to ring me back as soon as possible—I tried to keep my voice light and even, but I was trembling and my legs felt shaky, unsteady.
I didn’t buy the paper, but I couldn’t resist reading the story online. It all sounds rather vague. “Sources close to the Hipwell investigation” claim an allegation has been made that Megan “may have been involved in the unlawful killing of her own child” ten years ago. The “sources” also speculate that this could be a motive for her murder. The detective in charge of the whole investigation—Gaskill, the one who came to speak to us after she went missing—made no comment.
Tom rang me back—he was in between meetings, he couldn’t come home. He tried to placate me, he made all the right noises, he told me it was probably a load of rubbish anyway. “You know you can’t believe half the stuff they print in the newspapers.” I didn’t make too much of a fuss, because he was the one who suggested she come and help out with Evie in the first place. He must be feeling horrible.
And he’s right. It may not even be true. But who would come up with a story like that? Why would you make up a thing like that? And I can’t help thinking, I knew. I always knew there was something off about that woman. At first I just thought she was a bit immature, but it was more than that, she was sort of absent. Self-involved. I’m not going to lie—I’m glad she’s gone. Good riddance.
EVENING
I’m upstairs, in the bedroom. Tom’s watching TV with Evie. We’re not talking. It’s my fault. He walked in the door and I just went for him.
I was building up to it all day. I couldn’t help it, couldn’t hide from it, she was everywhere I looked. Here, in my house, holding my child, feeding her, changing her, playing with her while I was taking a nap. I kept thinking of all the times I left Evie alone with her, and it made me sick.
And then the paranoia came, that feeling I’ve had almost all the time I’ve lived in this house, of being watched. At first, I used to put it down to the trains. All those faceless bodies staring out of the windows, staring right across at us, it gave me the creeps. It was one of the many reasons why I didn’t want to move in here in the first place, but Tom wouldn’t leave. He said we’d lose money on the sale.
At first the trains, and then Rachel. Rachel watching us, turning up on the street, calling us up all the time. And then even Megan, when she was here with Evie: I always felt she had half an eye on me, as though she were assessing me, assessing my parenting, judging me for not being able to cope on my own. Ridiculous, I know. Then I think about that day when Rachel came to the house and took Evie, and my whole body goes cold and I think, I’m not being ridiculous at all.
So by the time Tom came home, I was spoiling for a fight. I issued an ultimatum: we have to leave, there’s no way I can stay in this house, on this road, knowing everything that has gone on here. Everywhere I look now I have to see not only Rachel, but Megan, too. I have to think about everything she touched. It’s too much. I said I didn’t care whether we got a good price for the house or not.
“You will care when we’re forced to live in a much worse place, when we can’t make our mortgage payments,” he said, perfectly reasonably. I asked whether he couldn’t ask his parents to help out—they have plenty of money—but he said he wouldn’t ask them, that he’d never ask them for anything again, and he got angry then, said he didn’t want to talk about it anymore. It’s because of how his parents treated him when he left Rachel for me. I shouldn’t even have mentioned them, it always pisses him off.
But I can’t help it. I feel desperate, because now every time I close my eyes I see her, sitting there at the kitchen table with Evie on her lap. She’d be playing with her and smiling and chattering, but it never seemed real, it never seemed as if she really wanted to be there. She always seemed so happy to be handing Evie back to me when it was time for her to go. It was almost as though she didn’t like the feel of a child in her arms.
