Lock Me In Read online

  EP: She’s just worried I’m going to talk about Siggy.

  CC: Your mum doesn’t like you talking about her.

  EP: No, I mean, we talk about her, at home. It’s just, other people can be really, um, freaked out.

  CC: Freaked out?

  EP: Yeah.

  CC: Tell me about that.

  EP: I mean, like, when I was six or seven or something we had this neighbour who said he was going to report us to the police because Siggy kept getting me up and wandering off at night and Mum had to go out looking for me. We moved away because of it.

  CC: That must have been very unsettling for you.

  [pause: 15 sec]

  C: You’re shrugging. It wasn’t?

  EP: I don’t know. I was just a little kid. My memory’s always … it’s pretty bad. Like, this kind of thing, this therapy stuff: like, I know I’ve had therapy, but my memory of it is … it’s just, not there.

  CC: That’s entirely understandable. The kind of dissociation you’ve been experiencing, that often comes with periods of amnesia, of not remembering. This is something that we can work on here.

  EP: But there’s whole loads of stuff I remember perfectly.

  CC: OK, tell me about that.

  EP: What, anything?

  CC: Sure. If I was to ask you to tell me the first thing you remember about growing up, what would you tell me? I mean, aside from things like the fugues.

  EP: Moving.

  CC: OK. You remember moving house?

  EP: A lot. We moved house a lot. Like, I think where we live now, it’s like the twelfth, or the thirteenth maybe? I don’t just mean round the corner, whatever, I mean like different towns, whole different places.

  CC: You never really settled.

  EP: No. But, it was … normal. It was just what we did. Everywhere was just where we lived for now. It kind of never occurred to me that we would stay anywhere.

  CC: Were these moves planned? Did you know in advance that they were going to happen?

  EP: No. Mum always said that was part of the … fun.

  [pause: 27 sec]

  CC: And was it fun, Ellie?

  [pause: 17 sec]

  CC: Is that shrug a no?

  EP: I-I don’t know. Sometimes.

  CC: OK. Why do you think it was that you moved so often?

  EP: Well … like that time, that I was saying about, it was because of Siggy. We’d decided we didn’t want any more, um, intervention from anyone and, you know. If anyone involved the police it would have led to social services, doctors, all of that.

  CC: And you didn’t want that.

  EP: No. We’d had enough. Nothing worked, nothing made me better. Like I said.

  CC: OK.

  [pause: 28 sec]

  CC: And the other times you moved. Was that all because … there was a concern that people were going to find out about your condition?

  [pause: 32 sec]

  EP: I-I don’t know.

  CC: That’s OK. That’s fine. The reason I ask is that moving house, and especially moving to and from different areas the way that you’re describing, when families do that it’s usually because of a pull or a push factor. So, if you’re pulled somewhere, you’re making a conscious effort to get to the new house or the new town. Let’s say like a new job in a new area, that would pull you towards a particular place. Or moving to be closer to something or someone, like a relative, someone who needed looking after, for example—

  EP: No, that was never it. There isn’t anyone. My mum doesn’t have any family.

  CC: None at all?

  EP: No. Her parents died.

  CC: I see. And do you talk about these relatives much, at home? No? OK. Or your dad, you talk much about him? That’s a no? Never?

  EP: No. We never do.

  CC: Do you think we can learn anything from that? What kind of a person he might have been? I’m saying this because most mothers would want to keep the memory of their child’s father alive, if there was a bereavement, unless the father was—

  EP: I don’t know what he was like. I’ve asked. I don’t ask any more, she doesn’t like me doing it. He wasn’t great, would be my guess.

  CC: OK. OK, look, we can come back to that. But, right … where were we? Ah, yes, regular upheavals, moving house. So, there was no pull effect. But with a push effect, that’s when the emphasis is on leaving. So that’s when it doesn’t matter so much where you end up, as long as you don’t stay where you are.

  EP: OK … I mean, I don’t know, like what?

  CC: Well, for example, what you were saying about this neighbour. Or sometimes it can be that there’s not enough work available, or housing is problematic for whatever reason—

  EP: Mum always found work, and we always rented, it wasn’t like we were homeless or anything.

  CC: I see. But sometimes a push factor can be social. Sometimes a person, or a family, will feel they have to leave where they are, to get away from something dangerous.

  [pause: 29 sec]

  CC: Or someone.

  EP: Like who? We don’t have any … we don’t know anyone. Look it’s not, it isn’t like that with us.

  [pause: 18 sec]

  EP: She would have told me if there was someone … I don’t know, who wanted to hurt her.

  CC: Or hurt you.

  EP: Yeah.

  CC: You have a very close relationship, and she takes great care of you.

  EP: She does. She really … yes.

  CC: That’s not in any doubt. But it’s possible, isn’t it, that … let’s put it this way. If a mother had a child who was already struggling with … feeling anxious, being very concerned about their own safety. If that mother loved that child very much and knew that there was a threat of some kind, is it possible that she would try to keep that threat a secret?

  EP: I don’t know.

  [pause: 28 sec]

  EP: I suppose so. But, what kind of threat? What do you mean?

  CC: Well, let’s start with the things that Siggy is afraid of. Fire, for example.

  EP: Everyone’s scared of fire.

  CC: Right, but—

  EP: We read once that fire is like, it’s a metaphor. You know, like it destroys everything, it’s just a – what did they call it – a cypher. Like a metaphor for losing the stuff you care about.

  CC: You read this with your mum?

  EP: Yeah.

  CC: That’s an interesting idea. Sure, all right. But what about the man?

  EP: From the … from Siggy’s dream?

  CC: Yes. You said he wears a uniform? Can you say anything else about it?

  EP: Why?

  CC: Why? Well, because it might help us to isolate the source of the—

  EP: But it’s just a dream, though.

  CC: OK. But, tell me anyway.

  EP: Fine. OK. It’s, um, it’s kind of green, so like a soldier? But I don’t know any soldiers, though. He’s not a real person, he’s just like, kind of like the fire, you know? A man with a gun is scary. Fire is scary. He’s just a … just a symbol, you know?

  CC: OK

  [pause: 17 sec]

  CC: OK, Ellie, I think that’s something we’re going to have to take a look at.

  22.

  Mae

  Mae offered to carry Bear inside, but she wasn’t having any of it. She stormed out of the car and off across to the gate and waited there, not looking back at the adults.

  ‘Give her time,’ Kit said, falling into step beside him.

  ‘I don’t have any. Got to take her back to her mother in an hour.’

  They walked across the threadbare lawn to the front of his building and went inside. The smell of urine hit him the moment he opened the stairwell door.

  ‘Wow!’ Kit said, wrapping an arm across her face. ‘Is it usually that bad?’

  ‘No,’ Mae said.

  ‘Yes,’ Bear said.

  Kit raised her eyebrows at Mae. ‘OK, well. Good to know things are looking up for me when I hit
your paygrade.’

  ‘I’ve nagged the management,’ he said, although if he was honest with himself he’d mentioned it only once, and that was more than three years back when he’d moved in. As long as the inside of his home was clean and decent, he supposed he wasn’t bothered about the outside. He wasn’t exactly big on entertaining: in all honesty the majority of his good friends were still in Brighton and contact had pretty much faded away when he left. As for here, although there was five-a-side and a handful of colleagues he’d happily spend a night in a pub with, the only person he regularly had over was Bettina, who lived above him and was seventy-two years old.

  He unlocked and they followed him inside. The twenty he’d left for his cleaner on the sideboard was gone, and the whole place smelled of artificial pine. Bear shed her coat and bag, and Kit stood taking the place in, amused.

  ‘What?’ he asked her.

  ‘Well. You’ll never hear me say anything about a woman’s touch or anything—’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he said, rolling his eyes. But he knew she had a point. Nadia had kept most of the stuff they had bought together, and although he’d bought the furniture he needed, it was true that it wasn’t exactly – homely. There was nothing decorative, no pictures in frames: apart from the windowsill that was home to the growing collection of houseplant cuttings from Bettina, there was nothing to signal to a visitor what kind of person Mae was, what he cared about. He’d somehow never got round to unpacking the tubes of old gig posters and N.W.A. merch that even Bear would probably have had to admit was kind of cool. But it wouldn’t exactly kill him to pick up some paint for her room.

  He found Bear a clean pair of pyjamas to change into, then remembered his promise that he’d call Nadia as soon as they were home. He dispatched Kit into the living room to get something for Bear to watch, then dialled her number.

  It rang just once. ‘This,’ his ex-wife told him, ‘is the lowest point. OK? It doesn’t get any worse than this for her.’

  He wasn’t sure if that was an accusation or a threat, but he said, ‘Yeah. I know.’

  ‘Put her on, Ben. I’ll have a chat and then I’ll come and get her.’

  He nudged the living room door shut with his toe. ‘She’s tired, though, Naddy.’ He crossed the fingers of his free hand. ‘I think it might be best if she stays here.’

  Nadia exhaled, and he waited for the immediate no fucking way, but as the seconds ticked by, he knew she was thinking it over.

  He tried again. ‘She’s all right, honestly. And I’ve got dinner started so—’

  ‘What are you giving her?’

  He hesitated, tucked the phone between shoulder and ear and opened the fridge, crouching. Half a chorizo, some parsley, and there were tins of beans and chopped tomatoes in the cupboard. The ingredients assembled themselves in his head until he could almost see it bubbling on the stove.

  ‘Cassoulet?’ he said, about two-thirds confident.

  ‘Let me check with Mike,’ Nadia said eventually, and ended the call.

  Bear came out, rubbing her eyes. ‘I’m hungry.’

  He picked her up, taking care not to make the oof noise that said something was heavy. She laid her head on his shoulder and yawned as he stroked her hair.

  He hadn’t done anything to earn her forgiveness, but he was forgiven, all the same.

  The text came through from Nadia giving Bear the unexpected green light to stay over. Kit said she’d deal with the food and sent them both into the living room, where Mae sat with his little girl bunched up beside him, watching some animated thing Kit had streamed from her phone. He didn’t realize pizza had been ordered until it arrived fifteen minutes later, eliciting a yelp of glee from Bear. She strategically avoided his eye as she opened the lid, filling the room with the calorific fumes of melted cheese and pepperoni.

  ‘Daddy?’ she said, a slice halfway to her mouth.

  Mae didn’t even blink. ‘Sure. Go nuts.’

  *

  It was gone ten before the movie finished. Mae had left halfway through, mumbling vaguely about getting some work done, and Kit had wordlessly taken his spot, wrestling an extra cushion from Bear and settling in for the long haul.

  For the next hour, Mae methodically entered alternative spellings of the guy Matt had been in touch with from the photography meet up. He found a couple of hopefuls and sent them messages to call him. When the familiar credits music started up, Kit came out into the kitchen. She was carrying the empty pizza box in one hand and two tumblers in the other. Theatrically soundless, she placed the empties beside the sink, half an inch of milk in the bottom of each.

  ‘Asleep,’ she whispered. She raised a knee, bent the pizza box across it and folded it in half. ‘Recycling?’

  Mae pointed to the corner cupboard then crossed to the living room door to peer in at Bear. Her arm was hanging limply off the edge of the sofa, but Kit had draped her with a blanket. On the muted TV, the credits were rolling. With her eyes shut, his daughter’s face bore no sign of the probably irreparable trauma of the afternoon. He clicked the door closed.

  Kit had her head in his fridge.

  ‘Beer,’ she said, removing a bottle. ‘Want one?’

  He was fairly sure that both the fridge and beer inside it were his, but he accepted her offer, nonetheless. She did something cool with her hand and the bottles were open.

  After a long pull, she leaned against the wall, head back, bottle hanging loosely from her fingertips.

  She jerked her head towards the living room. ‘She’ll be all right.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘No, you don’t. You think you’re fucking it up, and that she’ll be miserable because you and her mum aren’t together.’

  ‘Oh, I do, do I?’ Mae halved the contents of the bottle in one go, and immediately thought of the fresh crate under the sink.

  Kit went over to his kitchen table, pushed herself up and sat on it, feet on the seat of a chair.

  ‘I’m one of seven.’ A small smile played at the corner of her mouth. ‘Third youngest. My biggest brother, bit of a wordy fucker, he’s got this theory that I’m the wilderness baby.’

  ‘Oh Jesus, is this the payoff for the free pizza? Listening to your life story?’

  She drank, smiling at him as she tipped the bottle, swallowed. ‘You’re hilarious.’ She cleared her throat and went on. ‘So, my brother. He says the first kid’s the biggest investment, to the parents. Everything’s a big deal with child number one. New parents somehow manage to forget how they don’t really give that much of a toss about other people’s babies, and they fail to apply that to themselves. The kid is the only thing they think and talk about. What they’re eating, how long they’re sleeping, and the whole lot goes on Facebook, blah blah blah.’ She dismissed infancy with a benevolent wave of her hand. ‘Then number two comes along and stuff gets a bit more normal, no one goes apeshit if the kid gets a scraped knee or misses breakfast once in a while. Third one, the mum’s still trying to hold the fort—’

  ‘What about the dads?’

  She skewered him with a look. ‘You know many dads of seven kids staying home?’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘’Course you fucking don’t. But listen. Four kids in, the mum – or dad – is aware it’s a sinking ship now and it’s all about getting through it. The last kid’s going to be the baby, always, and when the mum sees that one off to their first days at school or whatever, she’s going to be all weepy and she’ll spend the rest of the time wanting to keep them close and wishing they were little again.’

  ‘Hold on though, you missed some out.’

  ‘Number five?’ She upended the bottle into her mouth, swallowed, pointed at herself. ‘Want to know how many times I got left at school?’

  And so they arrived at the point. ‘More than once.’

  She laughed, threw her head back. ‘Try once a week. Reception onwards. Easily once a week, standing there like a dick, everyone going, poor little Catherine, where’s your
mummy and all those brothers and sisters?’ She rolled her eyes but smilingly, no trace of sadness about it. ‘There was a special seat outside the school office, and I used to think it was mine. Just for me. I used to hide a comic down the back so I had something to do while I waited for my mum to remember me.’

  The rest of Mae’s beer was gone. Just for a fleeting moment it occurred to him that he could open up a bit here. He could tell her he knew about this, that what she said before about craving order and control was probably pretty much spot-on. But he couldn’t say that, could he? Couldn’t say anything of the sort, couldn’t really even drop the expression from his face that told her that this was all a bit heavy and personal. Because if he did that, then he’d need to talk about his mother. And that was not something he was prepared to do.

  ‘What I’m saying is …’ Kit started.

  ‘I know what you’re saying.’ He felt the atmosphere change as he said it, but it was like his tone had a mind of its own. ‘There’s always going to be some tragic kid who everyone feels sorry for.’

  She raised an eyebrow, hopped down from her perch on his table and handed him the empty.

  ‘Nope,’ she said, shrugging on her coat. ‘What I’m saying is, case in point. I turned out fine. Mistakes get made, life goes less than perfectly, and you cope. Shit happens and you move the fuck on. She’ll be awesome. Give yourself a break.’

  *

  Long after Kit had left, around midnight, there was a familiar thump from the floor above. Mae checked the time: just gone eleven, meaning Bettina would have finished moderating the chat site she worked for and was ready for her glass of rum. He looked in on Bear, who was sound asleep in her bare-walled room, the side of her perfect face illuminated by the nightlight she’d had since she was born. He softly closed the door, transferred half a dozen tin trays of casserole from the freezer into a plastic bag, then went upstairs, locking the flat behind him.

  Bettina was waiting for him with her front door opened just a crack. She undid the chain and ushered him in. Her flat, although structurally identical to his, could not have been any more different. Every wall was covered in paintings, photos of the places she’d been, even letters and notes that she’d been sent over the years. There were scores if not hundreds of plants of all kinds, flourishing in buckets, trailing from pots stacked high on shelves the way Nadia stacked books.