Page 60

CHAPTER 60

OLIVIA – D AY F IVE

I wake with a gasp. The sliver of light through the high bedroom window suggests it’s morning proper now. I’m furious that I let myself fall asleep. Tried so very hard not to.

I turn to Chloe alongside me and am shocked at the change in her. It’s freezing in the caravan bedroom but her hair is damp around her forehead. I press the back of my hand to her skin and she’s burning up. Oh dear God, no .

‘Chloe. Chloe,’ I whisper. ‘Are you OK, darling? How are you feeling, honey?’

‘I’m so thirsty, Mummy.’ Her breathing seems too fast. Shallow but much too fast.

‘I know, darling. Wait. Wait a moment.’

I get up and dart across the small room to bang loudly on the door, checking my left pocket at the same time where I’ve hidden the second fork.

No response.

I bang again. ‘I need to speak to you. Chloe’s not well. We need to get help for her. And she needs a drink.’

At last there’s the sound of movement next door. I bang again until I hear the jangling of keys.

Earlier in the night there was a terrible stand-off between me and my father. For a long time, he refused to let me pull the bedroom door to. He just sat on the banquette with the gun upright beside him. He said he was waiting to be told what to do next. I wanted to shout at him that voice in his head wasn’t God. It was evil. Madness. But I kept thinking of the cellar and was terrified to tip things the wrong way. I was frightened he’d put me to sleep again. That Chloe would be left all alone with him.

And then? Without explanation at around 4 a.m., he suddenly locked our bedroom door again ...

‘What the hell is all the noise about, Olivia? I need to listen. And think. And how can I listen with all that racket?’

As he unlocks the door, I stand in front of Chloe on the bed, arms out and my pulse pounding in my ears. I had so hoped to use the fork or the heavy pan to assault him in the night – escape – but he just watched me for what felt like hours, holding his gun close. And then he caught me by surprise, locking the bedroom door so very suddenly. Tired? Afraid of falling asleep himself? Who knows.

‘Chloe’s not well,’ I repeat as he swings the door open, standing there with the gun pointing right towards the bedroom. ‘She needs something to drink. And a doctor. She’s burning up. ’

‘And you seriously think I’m going to fall for that, Olivia? She’s probably just adjusting to the fast. I told you. It’s what the good Lord wants. Nothing to drink. Nothing to eat.’

‘But she’s too little. And I tell you she’s unwell. There’s something wrong with her breathing. Come and look.’

His head sort of twitches and his eyes narrow as if he’s thinking. Or listening? He looks tired. In the night this gave me hope as I watched him, praying he would fall asleep so I could belt him with that pan. Knock him out and get us away. But now with the gun in his hand, his exhaustion terrifies me. What if the voice in his head says the wrong thing again?

‘She needs a drink. And help. Come and see for yourself.’

‘No way. I need to wait out here,’ he says. ‘To listen. It’s not up to me what to do. And in any case. I’m not stupid. I know what this is really about.’ He puts one hand up to his sore ear and signals with the gun for me to move back. ‘You need to get back in there. And shut up . Let me pray. And let me listen.’

‘ Please .’ I move forward, feeling again for the fork in my pocket, but he cocks the gun – a terrible click – and then kicks our bedroom door closed. I push against it but it’s hopeless; he uses his weight on the other side of the door. Then there’s the sound of jangling again as he secures the lock.

‘No. Please don’t lock us in. Chloe’s ill, I tell you. She’s ill!’

I kick the door over and over in my frustration then stand for a second, a wave of absolute despair coursing through me.

‘What’s happening? Where are you, Mummy?’

I dart back to Chloe and smooth the hair from her hot forehead. She has her eyes open but it’s as if she’s not seeing. ‘It’s OK, darling. I’m here.’ I lift her top to do more checks. There’s no rash but there’s a strange pulsing in her chest, the skin dipping in and out in a triangular shape. I’ve never seen this before. I gently touch the triangle and feel the pulse. Rapid. Laboured.

‘What are you doing, Mummy?’

‘Just checking you, my darling.’ I reach for my bag and quickly rustle through pocket after pocket in case I’ve missed anything. A final juice carton? In frustration I tip the contents on the floor but there’s nothing. All gone.

I’m crying now as I lie down beside Chloe and stroke her hair. My mother used to do this when I was little and ill. Stroke my hair then brush it gently with a pretty silver brush which was a gift from her own mother.

I never met my grandmother but I remember how soothed and loved I felt by that hair brushing. So I lean down on to the floor to pick up my own very ordinary black plastic brush and I start to gently brush Chloe’s hair.

‘There, my darling. It’s going to be all right. Help will come.’ I can feel tears dripping right down my cheeks, my hand shaking. Angry and wretched and terrified and ashamed that comfort is all I have to offer my daughter.