The safe house

‘What’s mine?’

‘Blue. Elsie, shall we go into the safe house and have a look? Elsie?’

‘Oh, all right,’ she said like a truculent adolescent.

‘All right, my darling, close your eyes. That’s right. Let’s walk up the path. What’s on the door?’

‘There’s round leaves.’

‘Round leaves? That’s a funny thing. Let’s open the door and see what’s down on the doormat.’

‘There’s a glass of milk.’

I noted it down.

‘A glass of milk on a doormat?’ I said in my best nursery-school teacher’s tone. ‘How strange! Let’s walk carefully round the glass of milk, without spilling it, and into the kitchen. What’s in the kitchen?’

‘A drum.’

‘A drum in the kitchen? What a mad house! Let’s go and see what’s on TV, shall we ? What’s on the television ?’

‘A pear.’

‘That’s nice. You like pears, don’t you? But let’s not have a bite of the pear yet. Don’t touch it. I saw you touch it.’ Elsie giggled. ‘Let’s go upstairs. What’s on the stairs?’

‘A drum.’

‘Another drum. Are you sure?’

‘Ye-e-es, Mum,’ Elsie said impatiently.

‘All right. This is a lovely game, isn’t it? Now, I wonder what’s in the bath.’

‘A ring.’

‘That’s a funny thing to have in a bath. Maybe it fell off your finger when you were splashing in the bath?’

‘It did not!’ Elsie shouted.

‘Now we’ll get out of the bath and go into Elsie’s bed. What’s in the bed?’

Elsie laughed.

‘There’s a swan in the bed.’

‘A swan in a bed. How is Elsie going to get to sleep if there’s a swan in her bed?’ Elsie’s eyes were starting to nutter, her head wobbling. She would be asleep in a second. ‘Now let’s go into Mummy’s bedroom. Who’s in Mummy’s bed?’

Now Elsie’s voice sounded as if she was drifting away.

‘Mummy’s in Mummy’s bed,’ she said softly. ‘And Elsie’s in Mummy’s arms. And their eyes are closed.’

‘That’s beautiful,’ I said. But I saw that Elsie was already asleep. I leaned across and stroked some strands of hair away from her face. Paul, the mysterious absent proprietor of the flat, had a desk in the corner of his bedroom and I tiptoed over to it and sat down with the notebook. I brushed my neck gently with my fingertips and felt the pulse in my carotid artery. It must have been close to 120. Today the murderer of my lover had kidnapped my little daughter. Why hadn’t she killed her or done something with her? Suddenly I rushed to the bathroom. I didn’t vomit. I took a few deep slow breaths, but it was a close thing. I returned to the desk, switched on the small light and scrutinized my notes.

The murderer, X, had seized my daughter, risking capture, and all so that she could play one of the silly little mind games we used to play together at my house in the country with her. When Elsie told me what they had done, I expected something grisly, but instead there was this stupid collection of mundane objects: round leaves, a glass of milk, a drum, a pear, another drum, a ring, a swan and then Elsie and me in my bed with our eyes closed. What are round leaves? I drew little sketches of them. I took the first letter of each and played around with them uselessly. I tried to make some connection with where each object had been put. Was there something deliberately paradoxical about a swan in a bed, about a glass of milk on the doormat? Perhaps this nameless woman had put random objects into my child’s mind as a means of demonstrating her power.

I left the scrawled piece of paper and returned to bed and lay next to Elsie, listening for the sound of her breath, feeling the expansion and contraction of her chest. Just when I was feeling that I had gone a whole night without sleep and wondering how I could possibly get through a whole day, I was woken up by Elsie pulling my eyelids apart. I gave a groan.

‘What’s happening today, Elsie?’

‘Don’t know.’

It was the first day at her new school. On the phone my mother had been disapproving. Elsie is not a piece of furniture that can just be moved out of London and then back again whenever you want. She needs stability and a home. Yes, I knew what my mother was saying. That she needed a father and brothers and sisters and, preferably, a mother as unlike me as possible. I was brisk and cheerful with my mother on the phone and cried when she had rung off and got cross, depressed and then felt better. The primary school was obliged to take Elsie because the flat we were staying in virtually overlooked the playground.

I felt an ache in my stomach as Elsie, in a new yellow dress, with her hair combed flat and tied in a ribbon, walked across the road with me to her new school. I saw small children arriving and greeting each other. How could Elsie survive in this? We went to the office and a middle-aged woman smiled at Elsie and Elsie glared at the middle-aged woman. She led us along to the Reception class, held in an annexe. The teacher was a young woman, with dark hair, and a calm manner that I immediately envied. She came over immediately and hugged Elsie.

‘Hello, Elsie. Do you want Mummy to stay for a little bit?’

‘No, I don’t,’ said Elsie with a thunderous brow.

‘Well, give her a hug bye-bye, then.’

I held her and felt her small hands on the back of my neck.

‘All right?’ I asked.

She nodded.

‘Elsie, why are the leaves round?’

She smiled.

‘We had round leaves on our door.’

‘When?’

‘For Father Christmas.’

Round leaves. She meant a garland. I was unable to speak. I kissed Elsie on her forehead and ran out of the classroom and down the corridor. Emergency, I shouted at a disapproving teacher. I sprinted across the road, up the stairs to the flat. There was a pain in my chest and a bad taste in my mouth. I was unfit. Almost everything was in storage but I had a couple of cardboard boxes full of Elsie’s books. I tipped one of them on to the floor and scrambled among them. It wasn’t there. I tipped the other one over. There. The Twelve Days of Christmas Picture Book. I took it into the bedroom and sat at the desk. That was it. The swans a- swimming. Five gold rings. The drummers drumming. And a par-tri-idge in a pear tree. But what about the glass of milk? I flicked through the book, wondering if I was on the wrong track somehow. No. I allowed myself a half-smile. Eight maids a-milking. So, a contorted reference to a Christmas song. What was the point of it?

I jotted them down in the order Elsie had visited them: eight maids a-milking, nine drummers drumming, a partridge in a pear tree, nine drummers drumming again, five gold rings, seven swans swimming. I stared at the list and then suddenly the objects seemed to recede and the numerals to float free. Eight, nine, one, nine, five, seven. Such a familiar number. I grabbed the phone and dialled. Nothing. Of course. I dialled directory inquiries and got the Otley area code, then dialled again. There was no ring, just a continuous tone. Had it been cut off when I moved out? In confusion I rang Rupert at Stamford CID.

‘I was about to call you,’ were his first words.

‘I wanted to tell you…’ I stopped myself. ‘Why?’

‘Nobody’s been hurt, there’s nothing to worry about, but I’m afraid there’s been a fire. Your house burned down last night.’ I couldn’t speak. ‘Are you there, Sam?’

‘Yes. How? What happened?’

‘I don’t know. But it’s been so dry and hot. There’s been a rash of fires. Could be some electrical fault. We’ll have a careful look. We’ll know soon.’

‘Yes.’

‘Funny thing you should ring just now. What did you want to say?’