We lay calm in our bed that night. The baby, for once, sleeps soundly. The dog too, out in its kennel. Perhaps that was the oddest thing - how deeply, how peacefully, we slumbered. As if fate gifted us a few last innocent hours, before innocence fell away forever. I wake, early morning – what is it? Something is different. Silence – absolute silence. I open my eyes, and I know. Something has changed. Something is wrong.
In the half light I reach for the clock - feeling odd, displaced. Should I be awake? I drop it, drowsily, without glancing the clock face. Eyes sticky with sleep. Mouth dry, tongue fat, flaccid. Tom asleep, face half buried in the pillow, arm outstretched to my side of the bed. I sit up - a tight knot forms in the pit of my stomach. Thoughts scramble for place in my sleep addled brain. The baby. She always wakes. Always. Moving, clumsily, out of bed, stumbling - reaching for the door. A scream sticks in my throat – stifled by fear.
Standing in the hallway, everything goes into slow motion. Falling, staggering the few shorts yards to Nell's room. The door, ajar, exactly as we left it hours before. Nancy, her favourite bunny, discarded at the top of the stairs with last night's bath towel cast casually aside. So tired. Do it in the morning we'd yawned in unison. Tom, downstairs, fixing the night feed. Seeing it now, untouched on the stand - his turn to get up. Me, pulling tiny clothes on, groggily snapping baby-grow poppers shut. Nell cooing, I avoid eye contact with my beloved daughter. "It keeps them awake". That's what the books say. Kissing her, nuzzling her neck, drinking in her delicious scent. Soft kisses: "Mummy loves you" gurgling a delighted response, Nell wriggles in my arms . Lights out. A few short steps back to our room. Pulling my clothes off and pyjamas on. Falling gratefully into bed. Scenes races through my mind like a black and white slideshow. In the second it takes to push the door open, I see what I already know.
At first, darkness. Eyes struggle to adjust. That sweet familiar smell – muggy, warm, aromatic. Babies. Nappies. But then I get closer. Layers of soft blankets, toys at the far end of the cot where Nell can't reach them. The space she occupies, her sweet head with its furry caramel down – gone. Pressing my hand to the sheet – cold. Recoiling, falling back against the windowsill. Reaching for the cord, pushing the Peter Rabbit drapes aside. Forcing the black out blinds up.
Our street as yet quiet – a sleepy Sunday morning. My mind races, returns to events. Nell. Gone. And then it comes. Somewhere from deep within, low, brooding, moaning. Louder. Deep guttural growling. Primal. Like a wounded animal. Building. Spluttering. I cough something up - warm, gloopy. Blood? Hot phlegm. Snot hangs from my nose, tears course down my cheeks, splattering onto my wrist like water from a leaky gutter.
Tom runs to me, Sally, Sally! His eyes search mine. Nu, nuuu....I point blindly in the direction of the cot. A deep howl. Released. Terrifying. Disembodied. Momentary confusion. Tom's eyes – the last time they will look so innocent, so bewildered - turn, bemused, to the cot. Back to me. Nell? He says her name slowly, strangely - as if for the first time. But he knows. He sees it in my eyes. Smells the despair. Grabbing me quickly, urgently. Face close to mine. I can smell him. That hot earthy smell that's drawn me in on so many mornings, reaching for each other – becoming one. Now it feels alien and strange. Raw emotion replaced with sheer terror.
Suddenly I run - fling open doors: cupboards, spare bedroom, study. I tear towels from shelves. Searching. Downstairs. Racing from room to room. Trying every door. All locked. Windows clamped shut. Finally, sinking to the floor in the middle of the lounge. Screaming. Hysterical.
Tom. On the phone, clutching his hair like he does when he closes a deal - pensive over an early morning trade. This is different. Our daughter. Our life. Racing into the hall, turning abruptly into the utility, just off the downstairs lobby. And I know. The sliding door, slightly ajar. The morning breeze lifting the curtain: shoosh, shoosh, shoosh – it catches against the doorframe. Tom! Tom!
Outside. Aware, suddenly, that the dog hasn't barked. Hasn't come in. The knot in my stomach grows tighter. I see the bloody lead first. Amber's head twisted strangely to one side – her tawny body, contorted. I recoil in horror. Vomiting. Kneeling on all fours, like an animal. Wretching. Tom drags me in, we fall into each other, bodies entwined, gasping for breath, sobbing, clutching, gulping in air. He runs to the door. Police, lots of them. Quickly – into the house – officers race upstairs: a flurry of activity. A lady. Pat? Leads me into the living room. We sit. I don't want to. She says I need to. Questions. So many questions: what time did I put Nell to bed? Anything unusual? Was I aware of being watched? Followed? Have I upset anyone? The birth, hospital – mums on the ward. Any strange activity? Midwives, nurses, health visitors. Where do I take Nell? Our routine ... how long have we lived here? Neighbours? Tom – family, friends, colleagues.
This isn't happening. A smell - bloody and fresh. My period? Confused I look around as if seeing things for the first time. Comfy sofas, yesterday's papers. I stepped in Amber's remains – bloody footprints on the cashmere pile. Hands streaked with blood. Another smell: vomit. In my hair, splattered on my pyjama bottoms.
It's all a blur, until I remember. That smell when I got up to go to the bathroom in the night. I couldn't put my finger on it. I was tired, so tired. But I know it now. Voltax: hair tonic. Rare, no mistaking it. Dom - estranged ex boyfriend. Restraining orders, constantly broken, plaguing me. Eventually, prison. The probation letter – his release date. Tom, reassuring me, "it's all in the past". Discarding it, convinced that part of our life is over. Six years have gone by. He's moved on...
