Across the Water
INGRID ALEXANDRA

One More Chapter

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © Ingrid Alexandra 2020

Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Ingrid Alexandra asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

AU, NZ Ebook ISBN: 9780008363253

ROW Ebook ISBN: 9780008355494

B Format Paperback ISBN: 9780008355487

Trade Paperback ISBN: 9780008358990

Version: 2020-03-30

Content Notices

Please be advised this book features the following content notices: mental health issues, bereavement, alcoholism, murder, suicide references.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Content Notices

Dedication

Chapter 1: Liz

Chapter 2: Dee

Chapter 3: Liz

Chapter 4: Dee

Chapter 5: Liz

Chapter 6: Liz

Chapter 7: Liz

Chapter 8: Erica

Chapter 9: Dee

Chapter 10: Erica

Chapter 11: Liz

Chapter 12: Dee

Chapter 13: Liz

Chapter 14: Liz

Chapter 15: Liz

Chapter 16: Dee

Chapter 17: Liz

Chapter 18: Dee

Chapter 19: Liz

Chapter 20: Dee

Chapter 21: Liz

Chapter 22: Erica

Chapter 23: Dee

Chapter 24: Liz

Chapter 25: Liz

Chapter 26: Liz

Chapter 27: Liz

Chapter 28: Erica

Chapter 29: Liz

Chapter 30: Erica

Chapter 31: Liz

Chapter 32: Liz

Chapter 33: Liz

Chapter 34: Liz

Chapter 35: Liz

Chapter 36: Erica

Chapter 37: Dee

Chapter 38: Dee

Chapter 39: Liz

Chapter 40: Dee

Chapter 41: Liz

Chapter 42: Liz

Chapter 43: Liz

Chapter 44: Erica

Chapter 45: Liz

Chapter 46: Liz

Acknowledgements

Also by Ingrid Alexandra

About the Author

About the Publisher

For Mum

Chapter 1
Liz

June, 2017

Saturday, 7:17pm

We’re wet to the bone, teetering on tipsy feet and laughing as we reach the front door. Adam scoops me up and takes a wobbly step forward.

‘You don’t have to do this!’ I protest, though I’m secretly thrilled. ‘We don’t even live here!’

Adam grunts and digs determined fingers into his pocket until I hear his keys jangle. He fumbles with the lock and kicks the door open. ‘Well, it’s ours for the time being. And I want to. I want to do this right.’ He flashes me a dazzling smile as he carries me over the threshold. ‘Welcome home, Mrs Dawson.’

My heart feels so full it might explode. ‘You’re a sap,’ I tease, but I love that he’s doing this.

Inside, we trip about peeling off sopping clothes before tumbling into bed. His hot mouth on mine, those determined fingers finding all my spots, I’m devouring him while being devoured. It will never be enough.

Afterwards, still catching my breath, I murmur, ‘Shit. I hope the neighbours didn’t hear.’

I know Adam’s smiling, though at some point during our frantic coupling the room had grown dark. ‘I hope they did.’

‘Adam!’ I shove his shoulder. ‘What if there are kids next door?’

There’s a merry plink! as Adam turns on the bedside lamp. He stretches out his long, broad torso, still tanned from San Sebastian, and yawns. ‘I was kidding. No one would have heard. Nobody lives on this side of the creek.’

‘Oh?’ I pull the blankets up around my neck against the evening chill. ‘Nobody lives in any of them? But there’s, what, eight?’

Adam shrugs. ‘They’ve all been abandoned.’

‘But could people be on the other side?’

‘Not sure who’s there now. I think Rob and his wife still live in the middle house; they’re a bit older than you, I think. And I used to know the couple who live in the end house. Erica and Samir. Bit older than me, been there since the old days.’

‘Ah, yes. The golden summers when you and the lads gallivanted around town, breaking hearts.’

A smirk steals over Adam’s lips. ‘Long before you were born, of course.’

I smile. It’s silly, I’m only eight years younger than him, but it gives me a thrill to think of myself as the younger woman. I think Adam likes it, too.

I kiss him and snuggle against his chest, breathing in the smell of my new husband. My husband! His arms close around me and he presses his lips to my forehead with a tenderness that steals my breath. It’s impossible, this kind of bliss.

Adam’s breathing slows and evens and I feel myself slipping with him, down into oblivion.

***

2:07am

I wake with a start. For a moment, I don’t know where I am. My head is fuzzy with jetlag and the remnants of too many drinks. What exactly were we celebrating this time? And then I remember. All those months of dreading it and now we’re here. We’re actually here.

I glance at my phone and smother a groan. We must have fallen asleep just after dark and now it’s only, what … around 5pm, UK time? It would take a miracle for me to fall back to sleep. Just as well I’m prepared.

Glancing at Adam’s hazy silhouette, noting the slow rise and fall of his chest, I slip out of bed. I’m still naked, so I throw on my fluffy winter robe and some slippers and tiptoe out the door. It’s cold in this house, draughty. The wind blowing in from the water is like ice. As if it weren’t bad enough that we had to come here, we’re doing things the wrong way around. Sacrificing summer for winter.

Padding across the uneven floorboards, I approach the staircase that leads to the loft. Our honeymoon luggage sits at the foot of the stairs; unpacking seems too much like giving in and I can’t fathom it yet. The thought of the next couple of months makes my jaw clench, but it will be okay soon – at least for now – because my sleeping pills are somewhere in that luggage and when I take one, I’ll be out like a light. The luggage can be tomorrow’s problem.

I unzip the front pocket of my carry-on and slip my hand in until I hear the tell-tale crinkle of foil. As I pull my hand back, something comes with it: a crumpled pack of the Camel cigarettes we bought in Champagne. I smile and slip the cigarettes into the pocket of my robe, pop two pills from the foil pack and swallow them dry.

It’s still raining, but only lightly now. I can hear the pitter-patter on the roof beyond the loft. An eerie light bathes the stairs in a pale glow; I don’t know this house yet, but I imagine it’s the moon shining through the loft’s bay window. It should be safe up there. Adam won’t smell the smoke.

I lift my foot to ascend the staircase when I hear it – a sharp, high-pitched keening. My foot pauses on the stair. I don’t need to wonder at it; it’s the most universal sound in the world. The sound of a baby crying.

I must be imagining it. Adam said that no one lived on this side of the creek. I tiptoe up the stairs and on to the creaky wooden floor of the landing. It smells of mould and dust. The wailing continues, louder up here. I get a shiver, as I always do at the sound of a crying infant. A flash of porcelain skin, a halo of soft, downy hair and blue eyes flash through my mind and I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the image away.

I’m either going mad or there is undoubtedly a baby crying nearby. Where is the sound coming from?

Pulling my robe tighter around my body, I approach the window. Moonlight touches the windowsill with its icy fingers and when I look up, sure enough, the moon is full and low in the night sky.

The cries have reached fever pitch; I’m tempted to cover my ears. Leaning close to the glass, my breath mists its dusty surface and my eyes are drawn to another light across the water.

A wide, oblong window marks the top floor of a house, the middle of the three identical houses visible from this side of the creek. The creek must be at least ten metres wide, but sound travels across water, especially at night. The flanking houses are dark, but in this dimly lit window a shadow flickers and a figure appears. It’s a woman; I can see her quite clearly, swaying to and fro like a branch in the breeze. Thick hair, dark red or auburn – it’s hard to tell from here – tumbles over pale, rounded shoulders. She’s nude, Botticelli-esque in the soft lamplight, cradling a child to her chest.

The wails ascend like a siren. The woman rocks and sways and the infant squirms as she presses its tiny face to a large, white breast. Her hair falls over the child, her gaze on its face, and there’s a stab of something, sharp and deep, in my chest.

The woman stills, straightens. She turns to the window. It’s as if she’s seen me; she’s looking right this way. I’m paralysed for a moment, unable to breathe. She stands, motionless, as the child’s cries ring through the night.

The sound reaches an abrupt end, as if a switch has been flicked. And then the woman moves swiftly, and the light goes out. The window reveals nothing but blackness.

Chapter 2
Dee

December, 2016

Thursday, 7:59pm

I can see the lights flickering on in the house across the water. It’s that time of year, high summer, so I’m guessing the Dawsons have arrived. The father, at least, and maybe the son, although I hear he’s moved abroad. I used to wonder about the mother. I saw her once, all shiny silver bob and powder-blue cashmere, carrying boxes. Now she visits once, maybe twice, a year. Town gossip is she ran off with some Frenchman when the son was only six.

Running both hands over my swollen belly, I wonder if I’d be capable of the same. The afternoon light is dying, the sky growing dark, and since I’ve been still a while, the baby is starting to stir. I can feel her above my pubic bone and under my ribs. She’s small, they tell me, and I suspect I know why, but you wouldn’t know it, the way I feel. Tense and achy, I’m unable to relax. It could be any day now. I think of what’s to come and panic blooms.

Rob will be back soon. I’m counting the minutes, listening to the sounds from the neighbouring houses that signal the day’s end. The Spanish couple in the short-stay apartment on the top floor of the McCallister place are squabbling good-naturedly; there’s the clang of pots and pans from the kitchenette, glasses clinking, the aroma of something rich and spicy on the evening breeze. They’re the nicest of the parade of couples and families who’ve come through this season. The McCallisters like to keep the bottom floor free so they can come and go as they please, but they’re rarely there, so it falls to Rob and me to crisis-manage when things go awry. I’m getting bloody sick of it.

I hear the rumble of Samir’s voice from the balcony on the other side of the house followed by Erica’s nasal response. If I listen carefully, I can hear every word. I try not to, of course. There’s nothing worse than overhearing things you wish you hadn’t.

Erica’s the only one I’ve had to talk to, what with Rob gone so often and her home on stress leave. She’s told me she’ll help when the baby comes and I know she means it. But I’m not like most women. This is not like most pregnancies. And Erica, well-meaning as she is, is the last person who’d be able to understand.

The abandoned houses across the creek, left of the Dawson place, stand in shadow, ghosts of their former selves. I wonder about the people in those houses, what brought them here, why they chose to leave. Did they have children? Were they happy? I never imagined the two could be synonymous. Soon I will know for sure.

There’s the rumble of a car engine and I stick my head out of the window as a car pulls up beside the McCallister place. I recognise the embattled pale blue station wagon. He’s back. The Spanish couple are due to depart; he must be coming to collect the keys and resume his old job as caretaker in exchange for cheap rent. Slacker.

As he steps out, I’m reminded of why he gets away with it. Young, toned, healthy. He looks up and our eyes meet. He gives me that slow smile of his, as if we’re both in on a secret. And my thoughts stray, despite myself, and I fantasise that if I weren’t so pregnant …

I’m the first to look away and at that moment the front door slams. I flinch. Rob’s home. There’s a sharp stab in my lower abdomen, the vibrations of tiny feet kicking, and for the thousandth time I wonder at the repercussions of what I’ve done.

***

3am

I’m edgy, anxious, as though insects are crawling over my skin. I really need him right now. But somehow, on the other side of the bed, Rob seems too far away to reach.

I slip out from between the sheets and creep silently along the hall. Out on the balcony, under a veil of barely visible stars, I squeeze my eyes shut against a thrust of guilt. I take a half cigarette from the pack hidden behind a pot plant and light it, inhaling deeply once, twice, but the smoke comes spluttering back out again. It tastes acrid and wrong. Like failure. Yet, still, I crave it.

Something catches my eye and when I look up I see a faint red glow in the window of the Dawson house across the water. I squint, heart racing, but it disappears.

I stub the cigarette out hastily, lungs burning, tears spilling from my eyes. A single sob escapes, echoing through the silent night.

As I slide into bed, Rob murmurs in his sleep and rolls towards me. Shit. I clap a hand over my mouth, but it’s too late. I know it. Even though I’ve washed my hands and scrubbed my teeth, it was all in vain. Rob is still. Silent. And I can feel the disappointment radiating from him like waves.

***

Sunday, 4pm

I can’t go through with it.

I pace the house, stopping at the fridge to take out one of Rob’s beers, stare at it, then put it back. I do this four times before relenting and throwing back a long, hard swig.

I can’t go through with it.

The thought won’t go away, no matter what I do, no matter where I go. And I can’t go anywhere much, not in my condition. I’m sick of being trapped here like a beached whale, a ticking time bomb, alone, even though Rob promised – he promised! – he’d be here for the final week. Three days until my due date and I know in my heart, in my bones, I cannot go through with this.

I call the hospital, wait impatiently while it connects, and ask to be put through to the prenatal ward. I’m told everyone is busy, as per usual, and I nearly scream as I end the call and throw the phone in to the piled-high laundry basket.

Leah, bloody Leah Jones, who’s never taken my concerns seriously, calls back sounding polite, distant, harassed. ‘Delilah Waters, that you again? You doing okay?’ she says, a sigh in her voice, and I want to shout at her, tell her no I’m not fucking okay, I have never been this not okay! But my voice sticks in my throat. I’m suddenly mute.

‘Miss Waters?’

Help me. My brain screams. Please help me. But it’s useless. Because what can they do? What can anyone do? What’s done is done. It’s far too late to change anything now.

‘I’m sorry. It’s nothing. Just Braxton Hicks, I think,’ I murmur. ‘All good now.’

‘Oh, yes, that. Well. Glad you’re okay, love. Not long to go now!’ her voice rings with false cheer, her words more threat than promise.

I hang up. I can already see Leah mentally checking me off a list, moving on to other things. I’m just a number. I don’t matter. Nothing matters.

***

2:09am

I wake to blinding pain. Reaching across the sheets, my fingers find Rob’s arm and grip, vice-like, as the pain rolls through me with the force of a tidal wave.

‘Dee?’ his voice is thick with sleep. ‘What is it?’

I double over on my side, listening as a low, animal moan, a primal sound unlike anything I’ve ever heard, fills the room. It takes a moment before I realise it’s me.

Rob bolts upright, flicks on the lamp and I screw my eyes shut against the glare. ‘Dee? It’s happening, isn’t it? Is this it?’

I nod, then shake my head. I don’t know. I don’t know. Something feels wrong.

‘Dee? Talk to me! What’s happening?’

My chest expands and my lungs fill with air as the pain dulls to a throb. I can breathe again. ‘I … I don’t know. I think … I think she’s coming.’

‘Oh, God,’ he whispers. He clasps my hands. ‘Dee. Dee! We’re going to have a baby!’

His voice is too loud. It’s too bright in here. ‘Rob,’ I pant. ‘Please. Please.’ I don’t know what I’m asking for, but he’s nodding, kissing my forehead, tripping out of bed and into the clothes he’s had laid out for weeks. He’s beaming at me, delirious and terrified, bringing me my warm robe and slippers I’ve set aside for this occasion, fetching my overnight bag and the things for the baby. All I can think is, this is it. This is it this is it this is it.

Another wave rolls through me, so powerful I can’t even scream.

‘It’s fine; it will be fine,’ Rob’s saying as his face fades in and out of focus.

But I know he’s wrong. And I feel like I’m drowning. Like no matter what happens from here, my life as I know it is slipping away. As another life flutters frantically within me, mine is coming to an end.

Rob’s eyes hold mine and I grip his collar in two fists, pulling his face close to mine. I try to capture it, this beautiful thing we share – the essence of what we are, what we were – one more time, before it’s gone.

‘Don’t leave me,’ I beg him.

Rob’s eyes, familiar and foreign at once, are full of warmth and fear and something new I can’t identify.

‘Never.’

Chapter 3
Liz

June, 2017

Sunday, 8:49am

The smell of bacon tugs me from a fractured dream. I haven’t had this one before: a blue-eyed child stares at me with pleading eyes, reaching out as if asking to be held. It’s innocuous enough out of context, but I jerk awake, heart pounding, and reach out to find Adam’s side of the bed empty. I panic. Is it Monday already? Has he left without saying goodbye? But then I register the smell – bacon! – and remember – it’s Sunday! – and my heart sings.

I sit up and smooth down my hair just as Adam appears in the doorway wearing nothing but the cheesy love-heart boxers I bought him for Valentine’s day. His smile steals my breath.

‘Beautiful,’ he says when his eyes catch mine, with that breathless awe that makes me giddy. Grinning, he crawls across the bed and cups my face, then kisses my lips. ‘You’re so fucking beautiful.’

‘Shut up,’ I shove his shoulder, beaming beneath his attention. I marvel at how different he is to all the men I’ve known before – openly loving, saying whatever’s on his mind. He reminds me of an exuberant child. ‘Aren’t you cold?’

‘How can I be cold when I’m close to you?’

‘Ha.’ I roll my eyes, laughing despite myself.

‘Actually, I am a bit.’ Adam mock-shivers as he slips under the covers and wraps me in his arms. His skin is like ice. ‘Kitchen’s a bit draughty.’

‘The whole house is draughty,’ I mutter, then bite my lip because I know I’ve done nothing but complain since we got here.

My husband frowns.

‘Sorry,’ I say, feeling bad for spoiling the mood.

‘Stop it.’ He lifts my chin with his finger. ‘You know what? If this is too much, maybe you should come with me.’

‘What do you mean? Where?’

‘To Sydney. If things go well, I’ll only be up and down the next few weeks. I could do without the commute, and if you hate it here so much, we can find a short-stay apartment …’

I stop him with a finger to his lips. ‘Adam. We can’t afford it.’

My husband’s face clouds, the way it always does when we talk of money these days.

‘I’m sorry, baby,’ I keep my voice light. ‘It’s a lovely idea. I know it won’t be easy for you either, driving all that way. And I’ll hate being apart for so long. But it’s a short time in the scheme of things, and it will be worth it, when you get the deal.’

Adam exhales through his nose. ‘It’s not just that. I’m worried about leaving you here all alone. Especially after what you’ve been through.’ He looks up, his eyes so full of concern I have to look away.

‘I know. But I’ve been getting better.’

As a case worker for a counselling and respite centre for women in crisis, I can encounter some pretty distressing situations. But one case in particular involving a young, single woman and her baby really stayed with me. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder was the diagnosis. I saw a counsellor, was put on medication and it seems to be helping. But sometimes, still, I wake in a cold sweat.

Adam doesn’t say anything, so I add, ‘And we don’t have a choice. This is just what needs to be done. And it will be worth it, in the end.’

‘You’re right,’ he says with a sigh. ‘And when the settlement date for the sale of this old place is finally here, and we get the rest of the money. Then. Then we’ll be out of debt and we can finally relax.’

I smile and rub his arm reassuringly. ‘They’ve seen the house, paid the deposit … they’re keen. It will happen.’

Adam nods, but his sunny mood has evaporated. I can’t blame him. As if losing his father wasn’t bad enough, Tim’s left behind one hell of a mess to clean up. And until it’s sorted, until the sale of this house is final and the money from selling his dad’s business is in the bank, we’re neck-deep in debt.

Last year ended terribly for Adam. One thing after another went disastrously wrong for him and it was so hard to watch. My upbeat, generous husband – then, my fiancé after only a month’s courtship – was screwed over by the business partner who had not only stolen his girlfriend (he caught them in bed together a couple of months before he met me) but had cleared out the company’s joint bank account, leaving him penniless. And this year hasn’t been the easiest so far either. He says more often than I’m comfortable hearing from someone so dear to me, that I’m the only thing that’s keeping him holding on.

Adam has felt the loss of his father more than he’s let on, and I suspect that, in part, it might be that he’s mourning the relationship he wished he’d had with his father. They were never close and, according to Adam, visits between them were brief and strained.

I think part of Adam blames his father for his mother walking out on them when he was little. We have that in common, Adam and I. Absent mothers, both of whom shirked the role of motherhood and chose to lead lives separate from their families. I sometimes wonder if this has anything to do with us not wanting children, or whether some people just prefer their independence to willing slavery. Personally, I’d prefer to regret not having children than to regret having them. And there’s no way of knowing which way it will turn out until it’s too late.

Whenever Adam speaks of his father, which isn’t often, I get the sense that he’s never really respected him. ‘He was weak,’ he’s said more than once. ‘He should have tried harder – with both of us. I can hardly blame her for getting bored.’ And then he’ll get a faraway look in his eyes and, as I often do when I think of my own mother, I wonder whether he’s wondering why she didn’t take him with her. Perhaps it’s easier for him to blame his father than accept the terrible truth: his mother simply didn’t love him enough.

Adam’s father, Tim, only became successful after his wife, Diane, left and moved to France with a wealthy banker. Perhaps he thought he was showing her, in her absence, that she’d made a mistake. That he could succeed in business and provide the sort of life she wanted, after all. But with the exception of a brief phone call when Tim died, Adam hasn’t spoken to his mother in years.

In the end, I suppose we should be grateful to Tim because, for all his quirks and flaws, he raised Adam single-handedly, and he’s the reason Adam gets a second chance. And now – fingers crossed – we’ll have enough money to buy a house back in London and to rebuild the business. I want Adam to achieve his dream so badly it hurts. And I want him to make peace with the memory of his father.

***

I roll onto my side and drape an arm over Adam’s waist, kissing the patch of skin at his neck. ‘The woman across the creek has a baby,’ I say conversationally, determined to change the subject and coax back Adam’s good mood. ‘A new one, five, six months old maybe. Lucky we’re on this side of the creek, hey?’

‘Erica?’ Adam’s brow furrows.

‘No, not her. The younger one, the one in the middle house.’

Adam shakes his head. ‘No, that can’t be right.’

I laugh. ‘What, you think I’ve imagined it? I saw her! She was holding a new baby. It was crying, I could hear it from here.’

‘What did she look like?’

‘Long, red hair. Quite beautiful, actually.’

Adam taps a finger to his lips. ‘I don’t think I actually ever met Rob’s wife, but I’ve seen photos on Facebook and I’m fairly sure she had red hair. Hmm. Maybe she was babysitting or something.’

‘Ah. I didn’t know breastfeeding was part of babysitting services these days.’ I blush at what I’ve accidentally confessed. ‘Er, not that I was looking. I couldn’t help but see. She was standing right in the window.’

Adam looks strangely pensive.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’ He shrugs. ‘It’s just I’d heard they … you, know. Couldn’t. But maybe I’ve got that wrong. What did Rob say her name was …? Oh, I have it. Delilah! Like the song.’

I stare at him blankly and he laughs. ‘‘Hey there, Delilah’. No?’

‘Must be before my time,’ I quip and Adam grins. He leans in and kisses me on the lips.

‘Dee, Rob calls her. He’s been a local since Dad bought this place. Decent guy. I had a few pints with him at the pub once or twice and he got quite pissed one night … I’m pretty sure I remember him saying he was keen for kids, but …’ He looks thoughtful, then breaks into a warm smile. ‘Well, that’s great news! Good for them.’

I think of the woman, the jaybird cries of the flailing infant. ‘Is it?’ I say with a snort.

Adam tugs me to his chest, his stubble grazing my cheek. ‘I said it’s good for them,’ he repeats. And we both laugh.

Chapter 4
Dee

December, 2016

Monday, 9:45pm

Recovery Unit, Brave Cove Hospital

‘That’s not how you do it, little one,’ the midwife, Lisa, is cooing while another midwife I’ve never seen before hovers at my bedside. ‘You need to open your mouth, darling.’

Lisa’s been here since 7:30 this morning, and until recently I’ve been glad to have her around, but right now I just want her to fuck off.

I’m exhausted, numb with shock and disbelief, and the tiny creature she’s trying to coax to suckle at my breast looks bizarre and alien to me. She’s too skinny and doesn’t look right. Her features are unfamiliar; nothing about her is anything close to what I expected.

Lisa’s persisting with the breastfeeding, even though nothing’s happening. The baby doesn’t even seem to realise I’m it’s mother. I’m feeling more than faintly irritated. I don’t give a shit about breastfeeding right now. I don’t give a shit about anything. I just want to sleep. The lights are too bright in here, and I’m so groggy I feel half dead. I want everyone to go away and leave me alone instead of expecting me to pass some fucking breastfeeding exam when I’ve been in labour all day and was just drugged to the eyeballs after my emergency C-section went wrong. It’s all I can do not to shout at them all; except of course I haven’t the energy for that.

When the epidural wore off during the operation, the pain was so excruciating I screamed. I begged the anaesthetist for some relief (I swear to God he was the only person in the hospital who actually listened to what I wanted) and he was very obliging. He’d been there when they first started cutting me open; I asked him whether it was happening yet, as I was feeling a faint pulling around my abdomen. He told me yes, it had begun, and I remember lying there looking up at Rob, both of us paralysed by the enormity of what was happening.

I can’t remember what drug I was given, but it knocked me out so much I could barely process anything. Once it – Ruby – was out, they allowed Rob to cut the cord before taking him away. I couldn’t believe it. Why had they taken Rob away? Where was the baby? It seemed appalling that after what I’d just endured, my husband got to see our baby before I did. When I’d done all the work, made all the sacrifices, and was still lying on an operating table with my abdomen sliced open.

‘Come on, sweetie, you can do it,’ Lisa’s coaxing me again, and I can’t take it anymore. Where is Rob? Does he know where I am? That the baby and I are okay? It seems ridiculous that family aren’t allowed to be in the recovery room.

I try to speak but I can only croak. The midwives are oblivious to me anyway; the focus is all on Ruby. Is this the way it will be, now? Am I to be invisible forever?

How long do I have to lie here and let them do this to me? I just want them to take it away – for everyone to just leave me alone and let me rest.

Finally, finally, they accept defeat and they tell me Ruby needs to go to the special care unit. I’m not sure why and I don’t have the strength to ask. I know in some deep part of my brain that I shouldn’t want her to go, I should be wanting to hold her, to bond with her. But I feel none of that. I only want to close my eyes and have everything disappear. When they take her, all I feel is relief.

In the furthest corners of my consciousness, I’m aware that this isn’t right. My baby shouldn’t be an ‘it’ – it should be a she, Ruby. The name we chose for her the moment she came out with flame red hair. And I should be wanting to hold her. But the pain is creeping back in, even though the drugs are clearly still in my system, as my head feels like it’s full of concrete and I can barely keep my eyes open.

***

10:30pm

The next thing I know, I’m in a hospital bed in a tiny space with half-drawn curtains all around me. I’m in agony, the whole lower half of my torso feels like it’s on fire, but I can’t seem to move; I can barely lift my pinkie finger. Has something gone wrong? I can’t even call for help. I can barely breathe, let alone speak.

Every part of me yearns for sleep, but the pain keeps me conscious. It’s dark in here; the only visible light is a soft orange glow coming from behind the curtain next to me, and the one in front. What time is it? I don’t remember being brought here, and I don’t know where Rob and Ruby are. Why have I been left here alone? I want to die. The pain is too much; I simply can’t bear it.

I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here when Rob appears. His eyes widen when he sees me. ‘Are you okay?’

I try to speak but the pain is too much and I can only whisper. He leans in and puts his ear near my mouth. ‘Please. Help.’

‘What is it? What do you need?’ Rob looks panicked.

‘Pain. I’m … in … pain.’

Rob nods and springs into action. He disappears for a minute then reappears with a nurse who tells me they’ll contact the pain team, but it might be a while as they’re in the operating theatre.

I don’t know if I can survive that long. Every breath is agony.

‘Hold on, baby,’ Rob says, kissing my forehead, his eyes bright with tears. ‘It’s going to be okay.’

But I can’t imagine it’s ever going to be okay again.

***

Tuesday, 7:12am

Post Natal Ward, Brave Cove Hospital

Monday’s child is fair of face, Tuesday’s child is full of grace.

I can’t remember the rest, but that’s what’s going around in my head as I gaze at Ruby’s funny, squashed face. She is a Monday child, but so far the poem is proving to be inaccurate. At this moment she kind of reminds me of an old man. I don’t think she’s going to be very pretty, but I’m sure I’ll love her anyway. I can’t work out who she looks like just yet. But her colouring is all mine.

It’s bizarre to be holding this creature. I’m not one of those people who think all newborns are beautiful, and it seems my own child is no exception. But she is pretty miraculous, even if the very sight of her fills me with a panic so intense I almost can’t breathe.

Rob is in love. It’s almost worth it, seeing his face. He got to feed her her first meal while I was in recovery, after they couldn’t get any colostrum from me. It’s all fine, now, though, as she’s breastfeeding like a champion. I didn’t get to see her until this morning, however, because the pain team didn’t make it to me until three fucking thirty in the morning and once the morphine finally kicked in I passed out cold from sheer exhaustion.

The social workers have been in, as apparently the entire medical team who witnessed the birth, and learned of what happened afterwards, was worried that I might experience some post-traumatic stress. But seriously. I’m not worried about what happened before, that bit’s over. I’m worried about what on earth I’m going to do next, how we’re going to work out how this tiny creature fits in to our lives. Everything feels different now. And all I feel is a distant sort of terror.

Ruby makes a face and a different feeling takes over. I go cold. The expression that passed across her face in that moment was so familiar that I knew. I knew with cold-blooded certainty that the very thing I hoped wasn’t true, is. I glance worriedly at Rob. He meets my gaze and there’s the tiniest of frowns between his eyebrows, as if he is carefully considering something.

It’s then I feel the stab of an entirely different sort of terror.

Chapter 5
Liz

June, 2017

Monday, 6:45am

It’s the first time we’ve been separated for any significant length of time. Well, aside from Adam’s brief trip to Australia when his dad was first diagnosed with cancer. But at that time, I was still so consumed by what had happened at work I scarcely noticed.

This is different. I get the distinct feeling that the honeymoon is over – and, I suppose, technically it is. Adam kisses me on the nose and smooths my bed hair down behind my ears and though I put on a brave face, I can already feel the empty day stretching ahead of me. Bleak, pointless hours. I can’t think of it, I have to focus on something, so I pull my husband closer and kiss him on the mouth. I draw him in, gratified by the immediate hardness against my hip and the surprised, slightly annoyed look he gives me.

‘You can’t do that, Lizzie. It’s not fair,’ he says, slightly breathless.

‘I miss you already. We’ve barely even had time to speak this morning.’

‘I know. And I’ll miss you like crazy. It’s not ideal, I know.’ He pins me with that intense gaze of his that makes me feel both treasured and unsettled. ‘God knows this is the last thing I want to do.’

‘I know. I’m sorry.’

Adam’s gaze softens. ‘Don’t be. I understand.’ He presses his lips to my forehead. ‘Take the chance to relax. Remember what the doctor said about exercising and keeping up the meds.’

I nod, once.

‘And now I really have to go.’ He kisses me, too briefly, and lifts his satchel over his shoulder. ‘Bye, darling.’

And just like that, I’m alone.

***

8:30am

Back in London, I’d be on my way to work by now. Hell, I’d probably have already made my way from Liverpool Street to Euston, stealing sips from my precariously balanced refillable coffee cup, having inserted myself into a crammed tube carriage and lugged that cumbersome old briefcase I keep meaning to replace the two and a half blocks to my office building. I can almost smell the petrol fumes, the summer air, the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans and bacon grease.

As a case worker for a counselling and respite centre for woman in crisis, my job could get pretty intense. You’d think I’d be grateful for the break from it all, but in truth it was a matter of necessity. After my client, Christy and her six-month-old baby Bella were found murdered, I didn’t take it too well. I felt guilty, started having nightmares. Night terrors more like. I felt I’d failed her as her case worker. I should have seen the signs, listened to her fears. This had never happened to me before, and I simply couldn’t process it.

And then it was politely suggested by my boss that I might want to take some compassionate leave. They provide free counselling for employees, he said. You’ve been through a trauma; it’s the best thing for you.

I took the hint.

I saw a counsellor, was put on some meds and over the last few months I’ve been improving. But I know Adam worries, and he wishes we didn’t have to go through all this business with selling the house when I’m still recovering. I stare out of the grimy kitchen window as I pour the cold remains of my coffee down the sink. I find myself longing to be with Adam in Sydney, but if we’re to get out of here as soon as is humanly possible – and God knows that’s what I want – someone is going to have to sort through and get rid of all of Tim’s things of which, thankfully, there are few. I thought Adam might want to do it, but he’s said he doesn’t care what happens to any of it. I suppose I’ll see if there’s anything of value to sell and then throw away the rest.

Pinpricks of light sparkle like stars on the surface of the creek and the houses over the other side, shadowed by night when I saw them last, stand gleaming white in their grand, colonial-style glory. Large bay windows look out like lidded eyes and lush green lawns slope down towards the shimmering water.

London feels a world away from here.

I look for the woman from last night, but her curtains are drawn. The house to the right appears empty, but on the left, in the least grand of the three houses, the one with the peeling paint and shabby awnings, the curtains are open on the top floor. There’s movement in the window. A man – no, a boy? I can’t tell as his back is to me – stands shirtless, lifting weights. I watch him for a moment, mesmerised by his rhythmic movements. Then I shake my head and look away.

Someone’s in the backyard of the house on the right. It’s surrounded by a beautiful garden, full of brightly coloured flowers and lush with shrubs and trees. A woman stands beneath a row of trees that descend in size from left to right. What did Adam say her name was? Erica. Erica and Samir. She’s on her knees on the grass, her face in her hands.

It’s hard to tell from here, but it looks like she might be crying. Short, pale hair fluttering in the breeze, Erica stands and pulls something from her pocket and runs it across her face. A tissue, most likely. She reaches up towards one of the four trees and runs a hand over the leaves and then – wait, is it my imagination or did she just plant a kiss on one of the branches? I rub my eyes. Ridiculous. I must be seeing things.

I make another coffee, hoping to muster the energy for a jog. It’s the least I can do to occupy myself since I’ve sworn I won’t look at or touch anything work-related (doctor’s orders, literally) and the thought of starting on the piles of junk makes me want to gouge my eyes out with a rusty spoon. Besides, it might be nice to see the town, take in the scenery, ‘let myself relax’, as Adam says. Pearl Bay is ‘a little slice of paradise’, they tell me. Might as well make the most of it.

***

1:15pm

I wasn’t hungry – I rarely am, these days – but I forced down some soggy, left-over salad and managed to locate my running shoes at the bottom of a suitcase, and now I’m looking for a way across this God-forsaken creek. Adam’s taken the motorboat, of course, and I’m not keen on trying out the rickety-looking thing with oars. I’m sure he said there was a footbridge not far along the way, but I’ve been walking for at least five minutes now and all I’ve encountered is sludgy, marshy earth and dense bush.

I hadn’t known I’d be so isolated here. Adam painted this stop gap as if we’d be on an extended honeymoon. It’s a house by the water in sunny Australia, after all! But the reality is entirely the contrary. It’s creepy, if I’m honest. I’m trying not to get lost down a rabbit’s hole of negativity, but I really am starting to think we could have organised things a bit more sensibly. That I could have had some forewarning of what staying in this place, if only for a few weeks or months, would really be like.

The sun is so hot here, even at this time of year, and despite the wet season being over and winter creeping in, Adam’s warned me it can still get humid during the day. I wipe the beads of perspiration from the back of my neck, remembering how I hate the heat.

Something crunches loudly under my foot and I rear back in fright. I look down to see the long, curled up body of a snake.

‘Fuck!’ I stumble backwards, my heart pumping, before realising that it’s not a live snake, merely its discarded skin.

A whimper of relief escapes before I feel a surge of anger. For fuck’s sake, let’s admit it, this place is a nightmare. I’m either going to be killed be some horrible Australian creature or go mad imagining I might. How could anyone choose to live in a place like this?

Gathering myself, I trudge along, determined to find the footbridge and, in turn, civilisation. After a minute or two, the rhythmic thud of my shoes on the pebbly shore sounds suddenly amplified. Confused, I stop for a moment, listening. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Silence. I whirl around, straining to see through the dense trees, but I can’t see anyone. My pulse leaps in my throat. No one lives over this side of the creek. Adam said the other two houses are abandoned. Why would anyone be here?

It’s then that I notice it. In a small clearing just a metre ahead, something dangles from a tree. Squinting, I see it’s a plastic baby doll. Something has been placed on its head, vaguely representing hair – dark green tendrils of seaweed, still glistening with moisture, and its painted eyes stare vacantly ahead.

An unpleasant tingle travels down my spine. There’s what looks to be the remains of a campfire, some empty beer cans and a pair of tattered and muddied trainers strewn about beneath the doll. Has someone been camping over here?

There’s the crunch of leaves behind me, and instinctively I break into a run, feeling foolish after a time when no one materialises. I tell myself the campsite could have been there for a number of days – weeks, even. Except the seaweed was still wet …

I’m out of breath when I finally reach the bridge. It’s made of wood that looks partially rotted and is covered in moss. I sigh in disappointment, unsure I can trust it to carry my weight. Vines dangle from two large, moss-covered trees flanking its entrance, and the other side seems very far away. The river has widened here and when I look into its murky depths I can no longer see the bottom. From the direction of the water flow, it seems the tide is coming in.

I shiver, suddenly cold despite the humidity. It seems everything is damp here – the air, the earth, the plants. No wonder the house is full of mould.

I hesitate, pressing the ball of my foot down onto the first mossy plank. To my surprise, it doesn’t give an inch. Tentatively placing one foot after the other, I make my way across, breathing a sigh of relief when I reach the other side. I’m safe.

Chapter 6
Liz

June, 2017

Monday, 4:15pm

I’ve made it across the three-mile beach that runs along the other side of town, parallel to the creek, and now my lungs ache with each breath. I’m out of practice. Adam and I spent our three-week honeymoon over-indulging on everything imaginable (not to mention sending us knee-deep into debt) and now I’m paying for it in more ways than one.

The sun has passed over the mountain and a fog has descended. The air is thick with moisture and beads of perspiration cling to my forehead. I hadn’t realised how long I’d been gone, how early it would grow dark.

I reach Cockle Street on my way back to the house and stop to admire the three matching houses all in a row. They’re vastly different street-side; less decorative than the grand facades facing the creek. I’m staring at the house on the left with it’s perfectly trimmed hedge when a heinous screeching fills the air. I stop and cover my ears, looking up towards the sound. A flock of large white birds with yellow crests fill a tall, gnarly tree, one of several lining the street. They’re making an awful sound, like harpies squawking, and then another sound chimes in, battling to be heard over the din. The baby crying again, I think, but it isn’t that.

I turn to see the red-haired woman, Dee, standing in her driveway, the blue door slightly ajar. A fair-haired woman – Erica, I assume – is blocking her exit, waving her arms, screaming something incomprehensible, too hard to hear from where I stand, beneath the raucous birds. Dee’s cowering, shoulders hunched, head down. She’s shaking her head, the baby clutched to her chest, its chubby legs flexing at her hips.

I feel suddenly too visible, exposed. Should I go over there, check everything’s okay? Wrapping my arms across my chest against the sudden gust of cold air, I hesitate. Dee looks defeated. She stands, jiggling the baby mechanically, and lets Erica’s tirade crash over her, and I feel a rush of protectiveness. Leave her alone! She’s holding a baby, for fuck’s sake.

It’s then I realise who Dee reminds me of. My stomach clenches just as I feel the familiar pang of guilt. And when the baby begins to wail, I clap my hand over my mouth, closing my eyes against an unwanted image.

The urge to intervene has vanished. I walk fast, pulling my hood up around my face, hurrying along the narrow end of Cockle Street which tapers to the creek’s entrance. I’m not looking forward to crossing that bridge again, to the trek through the bush, but I do want to get warm and pour myself a glass of wine. As I pass the final house there’s a rustling in the bushes to my left. I lose my footing, tripping over a crack in the path as a tall shadow enters my peripheral vision.

My breath catches as I take in the tangled beard, tattered beanie and fierce eyes. The irises are piercing, electric blue against deeply tanned skin. The man makes a sound like a growl and I give an involuntary yelp, side-step him and run like hell.

***

8:48pm

Adam’s still not back. I spoke to him earlier; he was sorry I’d had a shock but explained there are plenty of fishermen about town. ‘He was most likely heading over to collect oysters,’ he told me. ‘There are oyster beds along our side of the creek. I’m so sorry, darling, I should have warned you.’

‘Yes, you should have,’ I grumbled, feeling foolish. I allow the familiar sound of his voice to soothe away my fears at being left alone in this house, especially after the campsite I spotted earlier. But since ending the call they’ve crept back in, whispering that ‘someone’s out there’, even though I know I’m just shaken from my earlier scare. Was the man I saw the one who’s been camping over here? Or was he just a local fisherman, like Adam said?

I check the lock on the bathroom door twice before I shower, startling at every sound as I stand beneath the spray.

I knew Adam would be late, but it’s disappointing all the same. It’s a two-hour commute one-way to Sydney and that’s excluding the short boat ride across the creek. I don’t know how anyone could live here permanently. And they don’t, really. Not on this side of the water. People eventually figured out that a nice view wasn’t adequate compensation for the damp and the mould, the proximity to tangled bushland and marshy swamp, the boat-only access. Everyone except Tim Dawson, who apparently thought there was nowhere better on earth.

I was trying to be positive for Adam when I told him the buyers that have paid the deposit will come through with the settlement, but the possibility they won’t does worry me. I won’t be able to rest until it’s finalised; the thought of living here indefinitely terrifies me. I think I’d go mad.

But no matter how I feel, I have to try to be strong for Adam. He’s been through enough, and I know he worries about me as it is. This is a partnership, the first real one I’ve had in truth. Men used to be just for fun, for distraction, but Adam’s changed all that. I’m married now. I have to be prepared to pull my weight.

I pull the musty blanket up to my chin, glass of red in hand, watching through the loft window as the lights flicker on across the water. People arriving home after a day’s work, no doubt exhausted after the long commute, happy to be home. Since there isn’t even a bloody television here, it seems they’re all I have for company.

Adam says the houses on this side of the creek are old fisherman’s cottages, and that back in the thirties when this town was established the wealthy lived on the main land and the fishermen lived over here, in the boat-access only part of town. Now Oyster Creek is more of a suburban commuter town, and all but this house across the water have been abandoned. There are still fishermen, apparently, but every sensible one has chosen to live on the ‘good side’ of town. The man on the left – it’s definitely a young man, not a boy – appears, passing across the upstairs window and through a door, emerging a minute later with a towel around his waist. He’s attractive in a generic, athletic sort of way. Probably an Aussie, born and raised with a surfboard under one arm.

It appears that the top floor of the house is self-contained: kitchenette, bathroom, lounge chair, wardrobe. I don’t see a bed, but perhaps there’s one on the left, out of sight. Is he travelling? Renting? Living alone? He looks like someone who’d park himself, if temporarily, in a generic seaside town somewhere on the Australian coast. The towel begins to slip from his hips and I quickly look away.

The couple on the right, Erica and Samir, are in the kitchen, sitting at an island, bathed in red-gold light from an overhead lamp. Erica stands and runs fingers through her short, light-coloured hair. There’s something about her stance, her movements, that makes her seem tense. What was she shouting at Dee for earlier? She picks up a wine glass and tips her head back to drink. The man sits with his head in his hands. I wonder if they’re fighting, and if so, what about?

I kneel on the window seat and press my nose to the glass. I’ve left the light on downstairs but up here it’s dark, rendering me invisible. I feel like a voyeur – and I suppose I am in this moment – and it gives me a guilty thrill. As I lean forward, my fingers touch something cold and hard. I pick up the thing, half buried in dusty cushions, and it’s heavy and black. Binoculars.

I snort and put them aside. Tim Dawson and his birdwatching. I always thought it was such a strange, isolating hobby. But then, as Adam says, he was a fairly isolated man. Just like this house.

Erica has put down her glass and is stirring something on the stove now. The man stands behind her, puts his arms around her but she tenses and pulls away. She turns to face him and points an accusing finger to her left. A light blinks on in that direction, as if her pointing triggered it.

It’s the upstairs light in the middle house. There she is, the Botticelli woman with long hair. Dee. She opens the sliding door to the balcony and walks slowly outside, as if trying to be silent. She looks from side to side then squats in the darkest corner. A small flame appears, lighting her face briefly, and then there’s the unmistakeable small, red glow of a cigarette.

I take a long sip of wine, an unpleasant tightness in my chest. I can’t help it; even as I pity her, I wonder about the baby. Where is it? Has she left it alone? Or is Rob there somewhere?

As if on cue, the wailing begins. It’s fever-pitched, loud even from here. My heartbeat speeds up. That sound can still get to me.

The woman doesn’t move. It’s a good minute before the red glow disappears and then she rises, slowly as if it’s a great effort, and half limps inside. Is she injured? Recovering from something? There’s something familiar about her gait, but I can’t put my finger on it. Despite the chill, she’s in a thin slip of a nightgown, her cascade of hair spilling everywhere, her engorged breasts low-hung and stark white as she bends, lifts her child from its cot and slides the straps from her shoulders.

Silence. The infant suckles, little legs kicking, and my heart thumps. There’s something world-weary, defeated, about the woman as she stands, motionless against the incessant wriggling of the baby, and turns to stare out of the window.

There’s something different about her face – a darkness surrounding one of her eyes. Without thinking what I’m doing I grab the binoculars and aim them at the window. I have a clear shot of her face, and there’s no doubting what I’m seeing. Dee is sporting a black eye: purple and blue and tinged with yellow. I feel a twinge of empathy and something else. Something deep in my muscle memory triggers a sense of panic. Did she have this when I saw her last, or is it new?

As if in slow motion, Dee bends and places the baby down, out of sight. Then she swings wildly to the right, grasps the stem of a floor lamp and throws it, like a javelin, to the floor. There’s the distant sound of splintering glass, and the scene goes black.

Chapter 7
Liz

June, 2017

Tuesday, 7pm

Adam will be late again tonight, so instead of being miserable and hiding in the attic like a crazy voyeur, I’ve taken his advice and crossed the creek to have a meal at the pub. Never mind about the money, he said, your sanity’s far more important. I didn’t miss the jibe, albeit well-intended, so just to prove him wrong, here I am, having made sure I crossed the creek in daylight. At least Adam will be here soon to escort me home, and we can take the boat.

It seems I’ve inadvertently arrived on locals’ night. There are at least fifty people here, unlike when Adam and I were last here and there were maybe two or three people at the bar. There are specials on the chalkboard, half-price drinks, and I’m fairly sure I recognise most of the faces from my walks about town.

I order a glass of white wine and stand by the fireplace, warming my hands over the flames. It really is a lovely old pub – or what counts for old in this country. Roughly cut stone walls, polished wooden counter tops, a fireplace taking up almost an entire wall. I smile as the wine starts to take effect, pleased I took Adam’s advice to come. Beats sitting alone in that draughty old house.

A woman is standing by the window, looking out into the darkness. She stands out not only because of her petite stature and pale gold hair but for the simple fact that she’s one of the very few women here. Then a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark skin and hair appears at her side holding a beer and a glass of red wine. She turns and gives him a small smile and I realise who they are – Erica and Samir.

I’m about to raise my hand to wave before catching myself. How ridiculous! Just because I’ve got nothing better to do than spy on my neighbours doesn’t mean they’ve been doing the same. I shake my head at my own stupidity and head to the bar for another drink. It’s a funny sort of feeling, seeing people in the flesh you’ve only watched from a distance. Almost like spotting a celebrity in the wild. I wonder whether the young man from the house on the left will come too, whether Dee will be here with Rob and their baby.

As if on cue, a woman with long red hair bustles through the door with a baby on her hip, bringing with her a gust of icy wind. I recognise her immediately, but she is so much more striking close-up. Her deep, dark auburn hair, while a bit wild and unruly, gleams in the low light, her vivid dress hugs her generous curves and contrasts sharply with her pale, almost translucent skin. She smiles at someone behind me, revealing straight, ever so slightly too large, white teeth.

Dee spots Erica and Samir and makes her way over to their table, bending to kiss Erica on the cheek and then handing her the baby.

I frown, thinking of the row I witnessed between them yesterday. Has it all been forgiven and forgotten then? As soon as the baby is in Erica’s arms, Dee turns and strides towards the bar until she is standing right beside me, so close I can detect the scent of perfume; it’s sharp and citrusy.

The barman appears in an instant, all smiles, filling a wine glass almost to the brim with white wine when Dee asks for ‘the usual’.

The breath I hadn’t realised I was holding comes out in a rush. I must make a sound because Dee turns towards me, and all of a sudden that dazzling smile is directed at me.

‘Bless you,’ she says, and I don’t correct her. Instead, I smile back and tell the barman, ‘I’ll have the same, thank you.’

‘Good choice,’ Dee nods in approval, taking a sip from her glass. There’s only the faintest hint of blue beneath her eye now; she must have covered the bruise with make-up. ‘It’s the only thing I’ll drink in this place. They mainly cater for the beer drinkers around here.’ She rolls her eyes.

‘Thanks for the tip. The one I was drinking earlier wasn’t particularly nice.’

‘What did you have?’

‘Erm … the sauvignon blanc?’

Dee makes a face. ‘Ugh. No, that one’s no good. This one’s the pinot grigio. Notice the use of the word the. As in they only serve one of each type here. Ha!’

Not knowing how to respond, I smile and take a sip of my own wine. My cheeks have grown warm and my pulse has quickened. Am I nervous? Embarrassed? I’ve been watching this woman without her knowledge, have witnessed vulnerable moments when she thought she was alone, when until now we hadn’t exchanged a single word.

‘You’re not local, are you?’ Dee squints at me, not bothering to hide her curiosity. ‘I’d have noticed you if you were. Not many young women in this town.’ She guffaws. ‘Not many women, period!’

‘I’m not local, no. We’re just passing through.’

‘Right. So is that a British accent?’

I can’t help but smile at her directness. Distinctly un-British. ‘You got it in one.’

Unable to help being nosy, and with Dee seeming so open, I nod in Erica’s direction and ask, ‘Is your friend okay? She looks a bit upset.’ I refrain from mentioning that I’ve seen her crying through the window on one occasion, and raging at Dee on another. There is definitely something a little odd about Erica.

Dee follows my gaze and gives a little shrug. ‘Yeah, she’s as fine as she can be, I guess. She’s just like that – a bit up and down. I guess you could say she’s been a bit … unwell lately. Which is understandable. She’s been through a lot.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’

Across the room the baby starts wailing and Dee groans. She catches my eye and rolls hers as she tips back the last of her wine and gestures for another. ‘Sorry, I’d better go see to her. My Ruby’s due a feed.’ She shrugs apologetically and takes her new drink with her. ‘Nice meeting you.’

‘Yes, you too.’ I smile and wave as she leaves. It’s a shame, I think, to have the conversation end when it was just beginning. I’m about to order a glass of mineral water when a pair of arms slide around my waist and a warm, wet kiss greets my neck.

‘Do you come here often?’ Adam whispers in my ear before he appears beside me, grinning.

I roll my eyes and slap at his shoulder. ‘God, you are so cheesy. How did I end up with such an old man?’

Adam gasps, mock-offended. ‘Can this old man buy you a drink?’

I tap a finger to my lips, pretending to consider his offer. ‘I suppose so. If he’s paying.’

As Adam buys drinks I let my gaze wander to the table in the far corner. It seems Ruby has had her feed and is now sleeping peacefully in Dee’s arms. She catches my eye and winks and I feel myself smile. Maybe Adam’s right and there’s a chance I could enjoy myself in this place. It’s not for long, but maybe Dee could be someone fun to spend time with while we’re here.

Samir bends and murmurs something to Erica, who still seems intent on staring out of the window, and heads towards the bathroom. Dee taps Erica on the shoulder and holds Ruby towards her. Erica’s face lights up as she accepts the tiny bundle and holds the baby close to her chest.

Dee makes her way to the other side of the bar, closest to the bathrooms, and I feel a pang of disappointment. She’s served straight away, and as she stands sipping her drink, Samir comes out of the bathrooms and with a glance in the direction of the corner table, approaches Dee. She turns her body to face him so that her back is to me, and even as Adam returns with the drinks, I find I’m craning my neck to see.

There’s a familiarity in the way Dee greets Samir, her hand on his shoulder as she leans in to kiss his cheek. She lingers – is she whispering something in his ear? Samir nods, his expression stern, and then Dee heads back to the table and Samir orders more drinks for him and his wife.

As Dee approaches the table, I see Erica looking at her, baby Ruby clutched to her chest. And for a second I could swear I see a flash of emotion cross her face before she’s quick enough to hide it.

Anger.

Chapter 8
Erica

May, 2017

Monday, 2pm

She’s calm now, nestled to my chest, her tiny body comforted by the warmth of mine, the gentle rocking motion of my arms. Her skin is as soft as the petals of the roses I tend to in my garden, her fine hair barely covering the pink skin of her small, perfectly round head. She smells so sweet and new; a scent I will never tire of.

‘Your silly mother is sleeping when she should be feeding you,’ I whisper to her, watching as she suckles greedily. I stroke her cheek, encouraging her, but nothing is coming. She’s starting to grow frustrated; she grizzles and beats her tiny hands against my chest, searching with her infant instincts for the sustenance she craves.

There’s a shriek from down the hall, and I look up to see the silly girl in her dressing gown, hair in an unwashed cloud, milk stains on the front of her night-dress. So she’s finally woken up then, I think, turning my back to the girl as she rushes at me at such a speed you’d think I was murdering the baby.

‘What are you doing!’ she shouts, her mouth agape, eyes blazing. She looks down at the infant sucking at my breast. ‘What the hell are you doing to my baby?’

Chapter 9
Dee

February, 2017

Tuesday, 5:09pm

Ruby’s dark lashes rest against her soft, round cheeks as she sleeps. She’s so fragile. Not as delicate as she was at birth – she was such a scrawny, twitchy thing, all skin and bone, a side effect of the placenta depleting early due to my gestational diabetes. But she is soft in all the ways a person can be soft. Her duckling-down fuzz of ginger hair, her tender ivory skin, her dewy eyes like a blue galaxy.

Despite it all, she’s healthy. I’ve fed her well, my supply plentiful in spite of my vices, and she’s filling out in all the right places. She’s a round, wriggly pudding, the picture of health when things could have – should have – gone so wrong. I’ve tempted fate, yet Ruby wasn’t punished. I couldn’t have forgiven myself if she was. It’s me who must pay the price.

You hear these names – gestational diabetes, mastitis, colic, croup – but no one can ever prepare you for what they actually are, the fact that they are not just innocuous words floating around in the ether but actual and, frankly, bloody horrible things that humans are occasionally forced to endure. I have new respect for people who have diabetes (it is relentless, and I can’t tell you how many times I nearly passed out from a hypo) and am pretty impressed whenever someone whose child has colic hasn’t killed them – or themselves – yet.

I can’t stop thinking of all the roads that led to here, which path I could have chosen to end up somewhere different. Somewhere far from here, an alternate reality where Rob and Ruby and I could be happy. How far back does it go? Which moment in time would I have to go back to in order to change things, make things right?

I’m worried, restless. I’ve got myself into a mess bigger than anyone else knows – well, anyone other than Samir – and now I have this beautiful creature I’m responsible for and she’s going to be dragged into it too.

Nobody listened when I told them I didn’t want a baby. Nobody believed me when I said I’d be a bad mother. And now it’s too late. There’s no going back.

‘Don’t you worry,’ they told me. ‘You’ll want kids by the time you’re thirty.’ And they’d laugh as though the thought of anything different was impossible. But thirty came and went and my biological clock seemed to have missed the memo.

They told me when I found the right man I’d start craving a family. But Robert came along, showed me the right kind of love, the sort that’s supposed to change you, and still …

They didn’t believe me – didn’t hear me – when I suggested that motherhood might just not be for me. ‘When will you be making a little friend for Johnny?’ my friends would ask, as though it was as simple as that, no question of it. As though I were a machine designed to produce playmates for their bratty kids.

Rob thinks the reason I didn’t want children is because of what happened with Mum’s boyfriend when I was younger. He wants to talk about it even though I beg him to leave it alone. He thinks it’s the source of all my problems, that everything will miraculously resolve itself if I can make my peace with it. What’s to make peace with? It happened. Talking about it isn’t going to change that.

Besides, does there have to be something wrong with me? Why does not wanting children require justification, whereas wanting them is natural … even admirable? It didn’t seem enough that I simply would have preferred to do other things than to take care of a screaming infant who would quickly become a tantrum-throwing toddler, who would all too soon become a sullen teenager. No, my decision had to mean something. Something bad.

They meant well, I know that. But they just didn’t get it. It’s not that I looked down on mothers – though, honestly, there was some of that. The whole idea of instantly becoming this sort of slave has just never appealed to me. I simply couldn’t understand the desire for children. It seemed I was a biological anomaly – a woman who didn’t have the urge to push out kids. It was lonely, shameful. I was tired of fighting what the world seemed to think was my duty.

When I fell pregnant, I cried for a week. I knew that the deep, burning terror wouldn’t go away until I did something about it. So I called a clinic and made an appointment, my cheeks hot with shame. But when it came to the day, I couldn’t go through with it. The look on Rob’s face when I’d told him he was going to be a father … How could I bear to take that away from him?

That was the second of many stupid decisions I made. I doomed myself to learn the hard way that you shouldn’t have a child for any reason other than the desire to do so.

And yet, biology took over, the pregnancy progressed, and I lived in denial of what was coming. People were full of helpful advice, shamelessly lying about how brilliant it was all going to be. How much love and joy motherhood would bring. And yes, it does, but that’s not fucking all it brings, is it? When I couldn’t generate the appropriate amount of enthusiasm, they were so helpful and positive. The first ultrasound will change things, they said. You’ll ‘feel it’ then. And when I couldn’t connect to the fuzzy black and white image on the screen, those twitching, wriggling parts they told me were arms and legs, those black holes where the eyes were meant to be, it was, ‘Oh, it will happen when you feel the baby moving.’

But I felt those tiny flutters like butterfly wings, the ‘quickening’ as they call it, and was sickened. There was this thing inside me, stretching my womb, nudging at my organs, sucking the blood and nourishment from my body like a parasite. A being who would come out screaming and needy, utterly dependent, wanting things from me I didn’t want – or know how – to give.

It was like watching it happen to someone else; it never quite felt real. And because it never felt real, I suppose I never truly thought anything would come of it. Totally stupid, I know. I’m not sure what I thought would happen – an accident, a miscarriage, something. Everyone knows plenty can go wrong during pregnancy. But somehow it all spiralled away from me until it was too late. Even when I thought something was wrong during the labour, and there was – the cord was wrapped around her little neck and I needed an emergency C-section to get her out safely – it still all turned out ‘just fine’.

But nothing is ‘just fine’ any longer. I can’t imagine it ever being fine again. I’d thought – hoped – once upon a time that Rob had frightened the darkness away. Perhaps not for good – I wasn’t that naïve – but for long enough that we might stand a chance at happiness. I’d hoped I’d managed to cut all ties with my previous life in Sydney. With my ex.

I was an idiot to think I’d escaped. My ex is a shitty character. He was involved with all the wrong sorts of people, in debt more than he wasn’t, and he’s managed to track me down and make my problems his once again. It’s the threats that concern me most. They’ve only just begun – I thought I had more time. But these blokes he’s indebted to are never the patient sort, and he’ll be sweating bullets by now.

I’d hoped I’d found security in Rob. In his warmth, his simplicity. I could press my face to the crook of his neck, breathe his scent and imagine I was absorbing his goodness. If I could be more like him, could be as hardworking, as simple-minded, life would be different. Easier. But I’m not simple. I never have been. It’s fantasy to think Rob could protect me from myself.

It’s all come to a head since Ruby came along. It’s like any problem we have ever had has been amplified. I know having a baby isn’t meant to be easy. ‘The first six months are the hardest.’ That’s what they say. But they don’t know my story. They don’t know how the darkness changes things, warps things, makes me different from other people. This isn’t the baby blues. This isn’t postnatal depression. I never wanted this – never wanted this – and now there’s no way out, no one I can tell, nobody who will understand and nothing that can make this go away.

If they knew the truth, I would be despised. Shunned. So now I’m trapped. A prisoner in my own house. And it makes me restless, edgy. Eager for distraction – any distraction. Eager for escape.

My phone pings and it’s Erica, asking if I need help with Ruby. I sigh. I’m not sure I can face anyone right now. With Erica it’s all shallow, surface stuff. Despite being the closest thing I have to a friend here, she isn’t someone I can be honest with.

There’s only one person who knows the whole truth, and it seems even he can’t help me.

Suddenly not wanting to be alone in this house, I text Erica a quick reply, suggesting I go over there for coffee. She’ll get distracted by Ruby – besotted, more like – and maybe I can sneak in a quick nap.

My hand trembles as I trace my finger along the silken curve of Ruby’s cheek. She’s a vortex, drawing me in, even though I want to turn away, to run. It’s too much, this tight band constricting my chest, the ache that fills me when she smiles and coos. The love tinged with guilt.

***

3:04am

I stare at the shadows on the ceiling, waiting. It can’t be long now; she only sleeps two, sometimes three hours straight at a time. No sense trying to get back to sleep. Rob snores beside me and I feel a surge of anger. How can he just fucking sleep through it all?

Everything has changed. Rob’s changed. I can sense it in his body when I flop, exhausted, into bed beside him. Can sense it in the way he touches me – still the perfunctory goodbye and hello kiss. The Saturday morning fuck before Ruby screams for her morning feed is robotic, lacking the tenderness I’d grown to expect. The tenderness I took for granted.

Am I imagining it? Is it possible I’m so jetlagged from this stop-start sleep routine, the constant feeling of drowning, the not knowing which way is up, that I can no longer see what’s real? Maybe things are as they were. Maybe it’s me who’s changed. Ruby who’s changed me.

But then I see him watching me. Standing at the kitchen sink, dressed in his suit, hair slicked back, coffee mug pressed to his lips. I can feel his eyes. And, when I look up, they’re narrowed, suspicious, fixed on me. I’ll smile and jiggle Ruby on my hip and sing ‘Say goodbye to Daddy!’ and she’ll stretch out her chubby fingers and grin at him and he’ll dissolve. He’ll smile at her, tears in his eyes, and kiss her cherubic face. But it’s too late. I’ve seen. And it’s like being touched on the inside with cold fingers.

A wail pierces the air and my skin zings with adrenalin the way it always does, even when I’m expecting it. I rush to her room, lift her warm little body from the cot and cradle her in my arms. Her seeking mouth finds my nipple and she latches on.

There’s no point pretending. The darkness, it’s back. As I stare at the electronic swirl of blue stars on the ceiling above Ruby’s cot, her squirming body – always squirming, never still – in my arms, the tinny, stylised rendition of ‘Twinkle, Twinkle’ filling the room, I can feel it. Unfurling within, scratching at the inside of my ribs. An anxious awakening. A bad omen.

Chapter 10
Erica

June, 2017

Saturday, 5pm

The garden is lovely at this time of year – a sea of pinks and purples, baby blues and daffodil yellows. Winter is beautiful here, most of the time at least. In summer it’s far too hot on this side of the house, and my babies tend to suffer in the heat. Still, I’ve managed to keep them alive all these years. More than twenty years and counting and I haven’t lost a single one. Letting them down a second time simply isn’t an option.

David is always the first I tend to, then Lucy, then Amanda, then You. It’s silly, perhaps, but I find comfort in keeping to a routine. That’s the order in which they were created, and that is how I always think of them. David, Lucy, Amanda and You. The family I’d have had if everything had gone the way it was supposed to.

Sometimes I lie on my back amongst them and close my eyes, letting the sunshine warm me and the gentle wind soothe me. I do this now, the freshly mown grass soft against my back and fragrant in the air, and in my mind they’re all here. David, the larrikin – he was always so active! Lucy, my gentle girl, Amanda my little livewire. And You. The angel I held in my arms.

In my mind I’m reading a book on the patio and David’s haring around after a ball – to think he’s now a young man! How time has flown. And Lucy and Amanda are squabbling over who’s the mother and who’s the baby in the make-believe game they always play. You’re in my lap, nearly ten years old but still loving to cuddle. The baby of the family, Mummy’s little shadow, my precious angel.

Samir’s upstairs making dinner – he’s a fabulous cook, much better than I am, try as I might – and the smell of something rich and savoury makes my mouth water. He’s the most wonderful father, as I always knew he would be, and the children just adore him. How jealous my silly sister was when I met him! How she envies me even now, because her two-year-old twins are giving her grief, unlike my angels, and Gary isn’t half as supportive as Samir. Nor half as wealthy. Fortune truly smiled on me on that fateful day, so many years ago now.

A sharp wailing shatters the illusion and reality rushes back with such force it leaves me breathless. I squeeze my eyes shut as the baby’s cries pierce through me like broken glass.

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