The Lost Girl (Brennan and Esposito) (18 page)

P
hil was staring at the ceiling. Or what passed for the ceiling. Staring up at the darkness where he thought a ceiling was. Or should have been. He had been asleep again. Or unconscious. One of the two. He didn’t know what time it was, what day it was. He barely knew who he was any more. Or if he was dreaming or awake. Either way, the nightmare he was enduring was so unreal it felt more than real.

His mind was spinning, warping in and out of what passed for focus. It kept skipping, reversing over what had happened. The memory thudding back to him like a wrecking ball. Apt. A wrecking ball to his psyche.

She had raped him.
Raped
him.

He wouldn’t have thought it possible. Not physically or mentally possible. Yes, theoretically, maybe so. But not something that would have ever happened to him. Could have ever happened to him. An event so far out of the bounds of logic and experience that he couldn’t have even imagined it. Ever. Well, now he didn’t need to. It was there. It was real. It had happened.

He sighed, the weight of depressing reality on him like a physical thing. He wanted to run, scream. Throw himself against the wall just to see if he could still feel. Anything but lie here. Immobile; his mind running marathons through hell while his body remained bound. Or even just have the ability to curl up into a foetal ball. Put his hands over his head, keep the world and all its hurt out. Close his eyes, make it all go away. All the while his stomach was lurching, threatening to spew bile from his body like his head wanted to expel horrific memories. And he was helpless.
Helpless
.

The door opened. A hand felt the wall, put the light on.

Phil blinked at the sudden change. Kept his eyes closed until they gradually accustomed themselves then opened them fully.

‘What…’

The room had changed. It was no longer his bedroom. Or not the one he shared with Marina, at any rate. He looked around, stared at it. It still looked familiar but he couldn’t place it. Like a memory that was running out of synch with his mind.

Then he looked at the woman who had entered. She no longer looked like Marina. Her hair was shorter, lighter. Her clothes more conventional, those of an older woman. Her bearing was completely different. But something about the smile was exactly the same. That kind of gleeful madness couldn’t be disguised.

‘Good morning, Phil. Sleep well?’

He just stared at her, mouth open. Still trying to process this sudden change. No… no…

She stopped what she was doing, stared at him. ‘What’s the matter, Phil? You look confused. Don’t you recognise your own mother?’

‘My… What? Mother?’

She shook her head as if she couldn’t believe what he was saying, laughed. ‘Are you still asleep, is that it?’ She came over to him, sat on the edge of the bed. Took his hand in hers. ‘Yes. Your own mother. Eileen. Don’t you recognise me?’

Phil recognised the room now. It was the one he had been brought up in, when Don and Eileen took him in, adopted him. His old childhood bedroom. The first one that he had been able to truly call his own. He glanced at the bedside table, knew immediately it wasn’t really his old room. The same two capsules sat there.

He couldn’t bear to look any more. Either at the room or her. Kept his eyes firmly closed. Just felt the stroking of her fingers along his hand.

‘Why,’ he said eventually, his voice as broken as the rest of him, ‘why are you doing this to me?’

‘Doing what, Phil?’ Her voice all innocence.

‘This. All of… this. Why? What d’you want? What d’you want from me?’ Tears forming in the corners of his closed eyes.

‘Want from you, Phil? Nothing. Want to give you,’ he felt her body move closer to his, ‘yourself.’

He opened his eyes. She was right next to him on the bed.

He groaned. No… no… not again. ‘Please, no… Don’t touch me…’

‘What d’you mean?’ Again, all innocence. ‘I don’t know what you mean by that. I’m not going to do anything again. I’m your mother, Phil. Or what passed for your mother.’

Her words triggered something. He found his voice. ‘Eileen was my mother. Not biologically, but families are more than a matter of biology.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t agree more.’

‘You’re not my mother. You’re not Eileen.’ He was gripped by a stunned, impotent anger. ‘So stop playing games and tell me what you fucking want…’ The last few words shouted as loudly as he could.

She stared at him, not blinking for a length of time that he found unnatural for a normal person. Then stood up, her face as featureless and composed as marble. He held his breath, slowly realising what she had shown herself capable of until this point. Not knowing what she would do to him next, what indignity, what pain she would inflict. And that uncertainty scared him. More than that: terrified him.

She kept her face hard, still stared at him. Eventually she spoke. Her voice calm, measured.

‘I’m here to help you, Phil. Everything…’ She leaned in to him, hissed the word. ‘
Everything
is for your benefit.’ She straightened up once more. Continued. ‘Your life was going nowhere. Meaningless. You’d gone wrong, Phil. Badly wrong. Misguided, shall we say. To put it mildly. You’d lied to yourself. About who you were, who you are. What you’re supposed to be. All of it. Oh I know it’s easy to do, I’m sure you didn’t start off being like that, none of us do, but it’s how you ended up.’ She smiled. ‘So don’t worry. I’m here to put all that right.’

He just stared at her. Was she insane? Or was that him? His mind was spinning, out of control. He couldn’t grasp the thoughts that flew past, couldn’t hold on to them.

‘How?’ he asked eventually, his voice sounding rusted over. ‘How will you put me right?’

‘Rebirth,’ she said, her eyes shining. ‘I’m going to take you back to the womb. Show you where you went wrong. Show you who you really are, Phil.’

‘I know who I am.’ But as he spoke, he knew he didn’t believe the words. That he was lying, even to himself.

She picked up on that. Gave a small laugh. ‘You sure about that, Phil? You don’t sound too sure.’

‘I know who I am…’ Said with even less conviction this time. The words drying up as he exhaled.

Another smile, this one pitying, indulgent. ‘It’s sweet that you think that. But you honestly aren’t convincing me. You’re not even convincing yourself.’ She sat back on the edge of the bed. ‘I’m your mother, Phil.’

‘You’re… you’re not… my…’

She shushed him to silence. ‘I’m your mother, Phil. I’m your wife, I’m your…’ She smiled. ‘We’ll have to wait for that one. Your everything, Phil. I’m everything to you as you are to me. I’m taking you right back to the beginning. And you’re going to walk away from this a new man. Hand in hand with me.’

‘I… I don’t even know who you are…’

‘Yes you do, Phil. Yes you do.’

Those unhinged unblinking eyes staring into his own damaged ones.

‘D’you have nightmares, Phil? Do you?’ She seemed to be genuinely waiting for an answer.

He supplied her with one. ‘I’m having one now…’

She shook her head, dismissing the last sentence, concentrating on his answer. ‘You’re not. This is all real. But I know you have nightmares. About where you come from? About who you are?’

Still those eyes staring at him. He looked back into them, shocked at her words.

Since he made no sound, she kept searching his eyes for answers. She found them. ‘You do, don’t you? About your childhood. About what happened to you. About what it was like before you came to see me. And Don. God rest his soul. All the horror, the fear, the darkness you had in you then. Still gives you nightmares, doesn’t it?’

He had no choice but to answer. ‘Yes.’

‘I know. I know it does.’ She stood up. ‘I’m going to leave you for a little while. Give you some time to think. But I’ll be back soon. And I’ll show you a mother’s love like you’ve never experienced before.’ She stood there staring down at him, like a private school matron to a sick boy. ‘And I’ll make those nightmares go away forever. You’ll see.’

And she was gone.

Phil lay there, staring at the newly closed door. Thinking about her words.

Not knowing whether they brought him comfort or made him more afraid than ever.

S
he plotted. She planned. She subsumed her feelings about Fiona, kept them locked tightly inside, only letting them out when she was sure she was alone. Unobserved. A hard thing to do in a home. She took long walks. She went to private places, open spaces and screamed at the air till she was exhausted.
 

And plotted. And planned.
 

A housing estate was being built near the home. Beige-bricked and boxy, curling in round ribbons of conformity. But not quite there yet, still all scaffolding, breeze blocks and cheap cavity insulation tufting out. It became the new playground for the kids in the home. They kissed, they had tentative sex, they smoked whatever and drank whatever. The mesh fence and fierce dog signs were no barrier.
 

And that was where she decided it would happen.
 

Fiona didn’t want to go, initially. For the kids, she had said. Nothing for us there. She had a kind of detached amusement about the place. A smug, superior grin. But she insisted.
 

Come on, Fiona, we should go there. It’s fun. We’ll make it fun. On and on, wearing her down until eventually Fiona said yes.
 

Plotting and planning. All leading up to this.
 

Through the mesh fence, creeping along unconstructed roads. Distant streetlights casting long shadows in the darkness. Fiona laughing all the while, saying, Can you imagine what it would be like to live here? How dull and boring would you have to be to buy one of these houses?
 

She didn’t answer. Part of her would have loved to live in a house like this. Small, yes, but comforting. Comfortable. And secure. Lock the door, keep the world at bay. But she laughed along with Fiona, agreed with what she said.
 

In here, she said to Fiona, pointing to a half-built house. It had an upstairs but only wooden roof joists above. The clear, summer night sky moving slowly above.
 

Fiona looked up. How romantic, she said, her voice a sneer. So why have you brought me here? Are you going to declare your undying love to me again?
 

Fiona sat down on the bare, dusty boards, looking up, waiting for an answer. Challenging for an answer.
 

I hate you, she thought. I’ve never hated anyone the way I hate you. Not anyone ever. Not even the killers of my parents. You. Just you.
 

But she didn’t say any of this. Instead she just smiled, knelt beside Fiona.
 

I wanted you here
…
 

She fumbled in her pocket. Got closer to Fiona.
 

I wanted
…
 

Body against body, readying for a lover’s embrace.
 

I
…
 

And then she was on her. The cord, tight woven silk, bought from the market, round Fiona’s neck. Pulling tight on either end, like she’d seen them do in films.
 

No words. Just staring at Fiona, all the hatred she felt for her coursing through her hands, her wrists, knuckles and fingers white, pulling as hard as she could.
 

And then she stopped.
 

Fiona hadn’t responded. Just sat there, not even put her hands to her throat. Just stayed still as she was choked. And her eyes. Locked on, staring. And calm. Calm. And her face. Still smiling that smug, superior grin.
 

Go on then, said Fiona. If you’re going to do it, do it.
 

And then the last thing she expected to hear.
 

Fiona laughing.
 

She couldn’t do it after that. She let her hands drop, the cord loosening at Fiona’s throat. She sat back. Looked at Fiona.
 

Fiona smiled. Is that what you brought me here for?
 

She said nothing. She couldn’t speak.
 

Fiona stood up. Said nothing. Went down the stairs, out of the house.
 

She watched her go. Felt all sorts of things she couldn’t even begin to name. But one overriding emotion she could recognise: love. After all that, she still loved Fiona.
 

She avoided Fiona after that. As much as she could. She felt ashamed. Not because she had tried to kill her, but because she had failed. And in failing, let Fiona win.
 

But soon, that familiar feeling re-emerged. That hatred. Just seeing Fiona walking around, talking, unaffected. Enjoying herself. So she started again. Plotting. Planning. Loving her so much she wanted to kill her.
 

Or at least hurt her. And she thought she had found a way of doing it.
 

Sean. Fiona was still seeing Sean. The tall, good-looking boy was a constant presence at her side. And he seemed to genuinely make Fiona happy. Or as happy as she was capable of being.
 

That was it. That was the way to hurt her.
 

She tried to seduce Sean. Back to the housing estate, back to the house with no roof. Come and see something, Sean. I’ve got something to show you.
 

That something was herself.
 

Sean seemed eager at first. She made the first move on him, touching him, kissing him, and he responded. Green-lit, she moved up a gear. Have me, Sean. I’m better than Fiona, have me
…
 

Yes, said a voice. Have her. See what you think, Sean.
 

They both stopped, turned to the stairs. There was Fiona, smiling.
 

She looked at Sean, expecting to see him look mortified, start to apologise to Fiona. Allowing herself to feel a slight sliver of hope. But Sean didn’t respond that way. He smiled too. Then laughed.
 

He stood up, went to join Fiona.
 

Did you think it would be that easy? asked Fiona. Did you really think Sean would fall for you? When I can do this to him?
 

Fiona started on him. He responded.
 

Just watch, said Fiona. Don’t move. Just watch. Watch what he can do to me that you can’t. That you never could.
 

So she did. And it was difficult to decide which of the three of them she hated more at that moment.
 

She needed to do something more. Be cleverer.
 

She took herself off, alone once more. Tried to connect with the cold, steely part of herself. The way she used to be before Fiona came along. And sapped her of her strength. That part of her that ran the home before Fiona turned up. That turned all that damage outwards and kept herself intact. That would be the part of her to hurt Fiona through Sean.
 

So she watched them. Didn’t allow herself to become angry at the sight of them together, just used it as information. Material. She studied their movements. Made plans. She would do this properly. No room for error. No room for humiliation. No chance of her failing now.
 

Love wouldn’t get in the way. Just hatred. Pure, channelled, streamlined hatred.
 

And this time she would win.