An A-to-Z map stored in the glove compartment guides me to the address written on the scrap of paper I found in Nina’s coat pocket. Also inside are a pair of Alistair’s leather driving gloves, which I slip on. I park close, but not too close, to the street and then wait. It’s early afternoon, so I have missed much of the lunchtime traffic and the teatime rush hour has yet to begin. I know time is of the essence, but if I hurry and make a mistake then I risk being seen. I allow a few minutes to go by and when nobody passes me on foot or by bike, I gather myself and exit the car. I leave it unlocked so I can hurry back inside when I am finished.
The row of four-storey houses faces the Racecourse, an historic parkland a stone’s throw from Northampton town centre. The homes here date back to Victorian times but many of them have been split into flats. The address on the paper reads 14a Winston Parade, so I assume the occupants live in a converted building. My palms grow clammy as the house numbers decrease until finally, I’m here. A set of stone steps leads up to the ground floor. Another set leads down to the basement flat, where I need to be.
Outside the entrance to 14a, I take one last look around me to assure myself I haven’t been spotted, then I press the intercom buzzer. It makes no noise and I wait just in case I can’t hear it but the occupants can. There is no answer.
I peer through the window but venetian blinds block the inside from the world outside. I turn to knock this time, and as soon as my hand makes contact with the front door, it gently falls open. I’ve seen this happen in enough films to know that no good comes from a door that opens with such little effort. But leaving is not an option. I love Nina too much to do that, so I press on.
‘Hello,’ I half-whisper, half-speak. I desperately want someone to reply, but they don’t. My fingers are trembling so I ball my fists to make them stop. Now, my whole hands shake. I slip them inside my coat pockets. ‘Hello?’ I repeat and again, there is nothing.
The interior is neat and tidy. The walls of the corridor leading to what I assume is the lounge ahead have been papered with woodchip and painted a fresh magnolia. To the right, the galley-style kitchen is clean and jars of spaghetti and pasta are lined up next to a breadbin. There’s a tea towel with a printed dog pattern hanging from an oven door and a handful of dishes on a draining board.
I continue to walk with caution, passing a bedroom. Inside is a double bed that’s been made and covered with a brightly coloured duvet. I pause to take a closer look. I don’t know quite what I expected but it wasn’t something as well kept as this. I notice make-up and perfumes scattered about the surface of a chest of drawers. They are the inexpensive Yardley and Avon brands. Perched on a radiator cover there’s a framed photograph of Jon Hunter, a pair of dark sunglasses on the crown of his head. He’s kissing the cheek of his pregnant girlfriend Sally Ann Mitchell, who is smiling for the camera.
I poke my head around the door of the second bedroom. All it contains is a large cardboard box with a photograph of a baby’s cot on the side and four framed drawings of Disney characters that have yet to be nailed to the wall.She is nesting, I think, and for a moment, I’m heartbroken for all that Nina is missing out on.
It’s only when I reach the lounge that I realise I’m holding my breath. I let it go, then sharply inhale when I spot him. Hunter is sprawled across the sofa wearing only his underwear; his legs are spread wide, his head is drooping forward and his breathing is shallow. He is either unconscious or fast asleep; I can’t be sure. The curtains are partially closed, making it difficult for me to see him properly, so I move closer.
The sound is turned off but the television remains on, the picture flickering and casting infrequent bursts of light across the room. I spot an overturned blackened spoon lying on the glass coffee table; next to it is a cigarette lighter. Wrapped around his sinewy arm is a piece of rubber tubing and a needle is still lodged inside a vein. The sight of such depravity jars against his home’s domesticity. Hunter’s chest rises and falls and I decide he must have passed out while high. How in God’s name did my daughter fall for this mess of a man?
I’m startled by a noise behind me. My head turns and I spot another door. It’s slightly ajar and appears to be a bathroom. I’m no fighter but I’m prepared to protect myself if needs be. However, the noise isn’t coming any closer. The sound is like that of a deflating car tyre, only more sporadic. I make my way towards it, using my foot to push the door open, then quickly I take a step backward in case someone bursts out of it.
The hinges creak before the door suddenly stops. Something is blocking it from opening completely. I inch towards it and that’s when I see Sally Ann Mitchell. She is staring right at me, her big blue eyes as wide open as they can be. She is clearly as shocked to see me as I am to see her and for a moment neither of us moves, each waiting for the other to react first.
I have little choice. Fingering the vegetable knife in my pocket, I move swiftly towards her.
CHAPTER 30
NINA
TWENTY-THREE YEARS EARLIER, ONE WEEK LATER
I can’t think in straight lines any more. My brain zigzags instead, leaving me muddled. It’s like a shaken wasps’ nest with angry, uncontrollable thoughts flying in all different directions. Everything is such a blur right now – it’s like the world is still moving as normal but I’m in slow motion, unable to speed up and rejoin it.
When I’m awake, Mum is never far away and she chats to me but I can’t process everything she says. My mind is as weak as my body and I don’t have the energy to ask her to repeat herself, so I just nod and fall back into my own little confused world. Sometimes I wake up and I think I hear noises and hushed voices, but I’m never sure.
I don’t know how long I’ve slept for today or how I even got into the bathroom, but I’m assuming Mum helped me. I find myself sitting inside a warm bubble bath that smells of mint. My back is facing her. She is shampooing my hair, and flashes of memories appear of Dad doing this when I was a little girl. I briefly tune in to what she’s saying and she’s naming people she saw when she went to get a prescription for me at the chemist.
She asked if I remembered Dr King coming to visit. I honestly don’t. When she saw it was stressing me out not being able to recall it, she said not to worry and filled in the blanks for me. She hadn’t told Dr King I’d lost a baby; instead she said I was struggling to come to terms with Dad leaving us. The doctor diagnosed me with ‘major depression’ and told Mum it’s as if my brain is struggling to cope with loss, so it’s protecting itself by shutting down for a while. It’s like when an electrical device overheats; sometimes it has to be switched off and left to rest before it’s turned on again.
If I don’t take the tablets he prescribed for my depression and anxiety, I want to curl up into a ball and die. But when I do take the tablets, they create a fog that’s so dense, I can’t separate what’s real from what I’m imagining. When I explained this to Mum, she admitted Dr King tried to talk her into sending me to stay in a special hospital that might help to sort me out quicker. I know the one she means, it’s St Crispin’s on the other side of town. Everyone knows that’s where they put the nutters. We learned about it at school – when it opened decades ago, it was a mental asylum for insane kids. And while it’s not used for that any longer, if I’m sent there, I’ll never shake the stigma. I begged Mum to look after me and she promised to, as long as I help myself and keep taking the pills.
Mum turns the shower attachment on, waits until the water is nice and warm and rinses the shampoo from my hair. When she opens the bathroom cabinet and reaches for the conditioner, I spy the breast pump on the shelf. She says I need to use it a few times a day because my stupid, insensitive body is producing milk for a baby it killed. It’ll dry up soon enough, she promises.
The grief appears in waves and I can’t control when or why I start crying. Like now. I’m suddenly overcome with emotion and start to weep again. Mum doesn’t say anything, but she places her hand on my shoulder as if to reassure me. I put my hand on hers. I used to think that I was so grown-up, but I’m not. And I’m certainly not strong enough to carry this pain alone. I don’t know where I’d be if I didn’t have her to share it. Actually, I do. I’d be throwing myself from the roof of the Grosvenor Centre car park.
Guilt continues to eat me up: guilt at what my stupid body did to my daughter, and guilt for letting Mum take her away without me even holding her first. When she wrapped Dylan’s tiny body up in towels, all I saw of her were five pink toes poking out. I wanted to reach out and touch them. Only now do I acknowledge that I never said hello or goodbye to her. She just sort of left my body and that was it.
Part of me wishes I’d felt her warm skin against mine, even if just for a second. I owed it to her to look at her properly, even though Mum thought it best I didn’t. I guess she was right because this way, she can be whatever I want her to be. In my imagination, she is a beautiful, perfect little girl who wasn’t strong enough for this world.
Like Mum said, perhaps it’s best she died before she was born as I’d hate to think of her suffering, even for a second. I hope she slipped away while she was sleeping inside me and that all she felt during her short life was the love between me and Jon.
‘Where is she?’ I ask.
‘Don’t you remember?’ Mum says. I think hard, but shake my head. ‘I chose a really nice spot in the garden because if we tell anyone about her, they’ll take her away from us. This way, she stays here and we can visit her whenever we like.’
‘I want to see her now.’
‘Why don’t you wait until you’re feeling better?’
