Page 37 of The Family Across the Street
I shake my head as I think about this. ‘I felt like I had no one to turn to when he died,’ I say, ‘that’s why I waited.’
When I returned the next day, the smell had seeped out of his bedroom and into the flat and I knew I couldn’t wait any longer so I called the police. Once they arrived the whole thing was set into motion and by that night I was back with my mother, back in the last place I wanted to be, because it was all her fault and he’d said as much.
He left a note. I never told anyone but he did.
Dear son,
* * *
Sorry about this. I know you don’t want to hear anything I have to say anymore so I’ll leave you with one last thought. Don’t trust women. They’ll make you the happiest man in the world and then they’ll break you into pieces so you can’t imagine living through another day. Don’t ever trust them.
* * *
Dad
I should have listened to him on that one, and I did for a while. But then I met the woman I thought would be the love of my life, and I fell so hard and so fast that I didn’t stop to think about what would happen when she was tired of me.
And so here I am in this room. As I look at this woman, I realise that I hate her with such a visceral force it’s a wonder I haven’t killed her already.
‘I don’t want to talk about this anymore,’ I say, and I go back to looking out of the window, at the green grass in the perfect garden that doesn’t tell the whole story of who she is and what she’s done.
20
Katherine
When the bell rings again her heart lifts a little because it’s possible – because anything is possible – that someone has come to help.
‘This shit never stops,’ he complains.
He’s getting tired and she can see that. They all are, but he’s been holding that gun for hours now, hurting them all by degrees for hours now. George’s face still has his handprint vividly visible on his cheek. Sophie keeps rubbing her head where Katherine is sure he must have pulled out some hair. And the throb from what she is certain is a broken wrist is an agony that she feels right throughout her body.
When she first saw the gun, she hadn’t imagined that he would use it, because it felt impossible.
But now she knows that it’s not impossible. She believed that if he wanted to kill her or the children, he would have done it already, but perhaps his intention is to make them suffer for as long as possible, knowing that watching George and Sophie suffer is hurting her more than any bullet might.
She is trying to formulate a plan, any plan beyond the simple thought of throwing her own body at him, attempting to stab him with the scissors, forcing him to shoot her and hoping that the children get away before he has a chance to fire the gun again. She cannot guarantee that they will get away or that they will know to run, and she cannot think of how to indicate to them that this is what they should do.
‘I think it’s Gladys at the door,’ she says now, grasping at straws. ‘She’ll be concerned because I didn’t invite her in. You should let George talk to her – he can tell her we’re sick, I’m sick. I already told her that… I think I did, but maybe… She makes things for us. Maybe she’s brought over a cake.’
‘Yoo-hoo,’ Gladys calls, ‘just dropping off some of my famous chocolate chip muffins.’
Katherine shrugs her shoulders as if to say, ‘I told you so,’ but she doesn’t say anything else. If she pushes, he will refuse to let George open the door, but if George can open the door to Gladys, then maybe, just maybe…
He rubs his head, forcing his hair to stand up. He looks suddenly younger, less threatening, and she can see that he is losing focus now. It’s not easy to kill someone, even though it looks easy enough in the movies and on television, but he’s intelligent enough to realise that the taking of a life is a permanent thing. He lost his father too young and has suffered for it. He knows what death means for those left behind.
‘If you don’t let George talk to her, she’ll just keep returning,’ she says.
‘Fine,’ he says, ‘go tell the old bat that everyone in the house is sick. And I swear to God, George, that if you say one other thing, if you so much as even sigh, I will rip your sister’s head off the same way I ripped that stupid stuffed toy.’
George glances at her, his eyes wide, disbelieving. No one has ever spoken to him like this. He cannot understand what to do with these terrible threats of violence. And she senses that even though it would be easy enough for George to tell Gladys to call the police, now is not the time. She is not strong enough to fight him off if he goes for Sophie. The pain is making her weak.
The risk is too great. She gives her head an imperceptible shake. He blinks and she knows that means he understands. It’s a wonder to her, even through the fear and the pain and the simmering anger that is underneath it all, that she is able to speak to her child like this, that he understands. She closes her eyes and sends up a small prayer that she will get to see him grow up and become the extraordinary man she knows he will be.
George gets off the sofa and goes to the front door.
She hears him open it, struggling with the lock that is at shoulder height for him. She listens to the murmur of voices, Gladys and George, and she can hear her son’s hesitancy. He is considering what to do. Just tell her we’re sick, my darling. Now is not the time. Just tell her we’re sick.
‘Why’s he taking so long?’ he asks, and then he gets up and goes to the front door and she hears something but cannot make out any words. She assumes he’s warning George to keep his mouth shut. Adrenalin floods her body, fear for her little boy drowning out her own physical pain. Don’t hurt him, don’t hurt him. Her muscles tense as she gets ready to run to the front door if she hears anything except the soft murmur of voices.
