Ronnie Turner grew up in Cornwall, the youngest in a large family. At an early age, she discovered a love of literature and dreamed of being a published author. Ronnie now lives in Dorset with her family and three dogs. In her spare time, she reviews books on her blog (https://ronnieturner.wordpress.com/) and enjoys long walks on the coast.
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CHAPTER ONE
Miller
Let me tell you something I haven’t told you before…
One, two, three, finger by finger, I squeeze down into the soft, pale skin of her neck.
Four, five, six…
She reaches out and grasps and grasps at thin air, small fingers searching for some salvation, even as her young face submerges and her lungs fill with water.
Seven, eight, nine…
It doesn’t take long. I stroke her hair and smile into her frightened brown eyes.
Ten, eleven, twelve… I squeeze down until her arms grow limp and the last moments of life bleed into nothing.
Thursday 19 March, 1992
They come to you in waves, the wives clutching their hands to their chests, the husbands folding their arms in front of their stomachs, heads bowed, all wearing expressions they deem suitable for the occasion. Unbidden, they are trespassers on your grief and it’s as if they’ve pulled their expressions from their wardrobes, along with the black clothing they donned this morning. But their otherwise perfect appearance is bereft of the most crucial component: sincerity.
You and your parents barely notice. You accept their condolences and pats on the back with good grace, but I can see behind the well-mannered veneer to the part of you wanting to be left to the solitude of her absence. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve witnessed them smile, stroke your cheek and mutter to your parents, ‘Brave little soldier.’ You only nod and force a smile onto your lips, awaiting the next chorus of ‘Ohhs’ and ‘Ahhs,’ closely followed by the ensuing pulse of ‘Such a shame, such a terrible shame’.
As they leave, the expressions they wear already slipping, I walk up to your house and ram my nail into the puckered scratch that runs across my forearm, tears of pain slipping down my skin. Smudging them across my face, I knock on the door and wait. When you appear, you take in my appearance and I yours. Despite watching from afar all morning, I hadn’t realised how your posture has slumped, nor how your eyes are rimmed red.
‘I’m sorry, mate,’ I say, and like those before me I pat you on the back and smile; a mechanical act but an acceptable one.
You nod and step aside: an invitation into your home, to share in your grief, but most of all an invitation to comfort you. If only I could, properly. If only I could gather you up in my arms and stroke your short brown hair, kiss each of your fingers and banish the pain. The desire to do all of this, my beautiful boy, is nearly impossible to ignore. But I must. You need your friend. You need the person I’ve given you. You need the illusion. The good-little-boy pretence. The neighbour. Not me. Not the oddity. I realised a long time ago who I needed to be and what I needed to do to achieve in life. You don’t have to look hard to see that ‘good boys’ go further. They get what they want when they are as sweet as me.
It doesn’t matter that this is a pretence, though. Even being with you as someone else is good enough for me.
My hand lingers a second too long and you pull away, but you do not close the door. I follow you into her bedroom, where I can see you and your parents spent last night. Wads of used tissues are balled up like confetti across the bed. The pink duvet is rumpled and creased. And already, her posters are beginning to peel away. Strewn across the floor are her things: bears, dolls, storybooks, the shrapnel of four years of her life already slipping into the past. You perch on the bed and look at it all, hands tucked beneath your legs so I can’t see them shake. I sit close – this way you can feel me beside you. The smell of cheese and cucumber sandwiches wafts from your mouth. I imagine you ate them to assuage your mother’s concern, each bite tasting of ash on your lips.
You look at her toys and books, your lips parted in an ‘O’ shape as if you can’t quite believe the ferocity with which life has taken a swipe at your family. Tears trickle down your cheeks. My hand itches to wipe them away but I keep myself in check and instead pat you on the back again. That is the limit, the boundary. You slump into me as if I have stolen your remaining strength and begin to weep. And even as you do this, you are silent. We sit like this for what seems like hours. But it can’t be because when I leave you in her room, the sun is nudging its way into the middle of the sky. I take off down the street, words that have been bandied about by the neighbours repeating themselves over and over again in my mind:
‘Sweet girl. Funny girl. Happy girl.’
I stop and look back at your house. Through the crack in the curtains, I can see you, curled up in your mother’s arms, bright-red cheeks scarred by the pale tracks tears have made down your skin. Your mother rocks you to and fro. The last vestiges of strength that have kept you on your feet all morning burn up and slide away. And I turn away and smile.
Sweet girl. Funny girl. Dead girl.
© Ronnie Turner 2020