We will walk under the trees and listen to the sounds of the forest in autumn.
The tired possum detective and the police are searching the woods near the lake. They want to find the little boys Mommy took. They think there might have been as many as six, over the years. It’s hard to say because children do wander off. They were mostly boys from sad families, or who had no families. Mommy would have chosen the ones who wouldn’t be missed. Little Girl With Popsicle was a big deal because she had parents.
Maybe one day the boys will be found. Until then I hope they are peaceful under the forest green, held by the kind earth.
In the late afternoon perhaps Night Olivia and I will doze on the couch, watching the big trucks. When darkness falls they will hunt. A moment of unease travels through me, like the brush of a wet leaf on the back of my neck. Night Olivia is large and strong.
Well, it’s a beautiful day, and it is breakfast time. As we pass the living room I peer in, and take a moment to admire my new rug. It’s the colour of everything – yellow, green, ochre, magenta, pink. I love it. I could have thrown away that old blue rug any time since Mommy left, I guess. Strange that it never occurred to me until after everything happened.
We go into the kitchen. So far we have only discovered one thing that all of us like to eat. We have it together in the morning, sometimes. I always describe what I’m doing as I do it, so that we all remember. I don’t need to record my recipes any more.
‘We’re going to make it like this,’ I say. ‘Take fresh strawberries from the refrigerator. Wash them in cold running water. Put them in a bowl.’ We watch them gleam in the morning sun. ‘We can dry them with a cloth,’ I say, ‘or we can wait for the sun to do its work. It is our choice.’
I used to saw the strawberries into quarters with a blunt knife, because there was nothing sharp in the house. But now I keep a set of chef’s knives in a block on the counter. ‘This is called trust,’ I say as I slice. ‘Some of us have a lot to learn about it. See my point?’ I guess that is what Lauren calls a dad joke.
The blade reflects the red flesh of the fruit as it slides through. The scent is sweet and earthy. I feel some of them stir with pleasure within. ‘Can you smell that?’ I have to be careful with the knife near my fingers. I don’t give my pain to the others any more. ‘So we slice the strawberries as thin as we can and pour over balsamic vinegar. It should be the kind that is old and thick like syrup. Now we take three leaves from the basil plant that grows in the pot on the window ledge. We slice these into narrow ribbons and breathe the scent. Now add the basil to the strawberries and balsamic vinegar.’ It is a recipe, but sometimes it sounds like a spell.
We let it sit for a few minutes, so the flavours can mingle. We use this time to think, or watch the sky, or just be ourselves.
When I feel it’s ready I say, ‘I’m putting the strawberry, basil and balsamic mixture on a slice of bread.’ The bread smells brown and nutty. ‘I grind black pepper over. It’s time to go outside.’
The sky and trees are flooded with birds. The song flows and ebbs around us, on the air. Lauren gives a little sigh as the sun warms our skin.
‘Now,’ I say. ‘We eat.’
Afterword
If you haven’t finished The Last House on Needless Street yet, please don’t read on – what follows is one long spoiler.
This is how I came to write a book about survival, disguised as a book about horror. In the summer of 2018 I was writing about a cat and I couldn’t work out why. I had always been fascinated by the apparent ease with which those who lack empathy form strong, passionate attachments with their pets. Serial killer Dennis Nilsen’s dog, Bleep, was the only creature he could be said to have had any functional relationship with. He loved Bleep and the fate of the dog was the only thing he was concerned with after his arrest. So I thought, Maybe this is the right story, the one I should be working on. Olivia the cat, who lives with Ted and gives him comfort, even though he took a young girl named Lauren and keeps her captive. But it wasn’t working. Ted didn’t seem like a murderer, or a kidnapper. I kept finding pockets of compassion for him. His story felt like one of suffering and survival, not like that of a perpetrator. And Olivia didn’t really behave like a cat. She did have cat-like qualities but her voice seemed neither human nor feline, but something other. She seemed like a part of him. So did Lauren, the girl who was ostensibly Ted’s prisoner.
I was researching the effects of childhood abuse when I came across a video online of a young woman named Encina, who has dissociative identity disorder, discussing her condition. She talked with great frankness and compassion about her younger alter. She treats her as her child, adopting a maternal attitude, taking care of her, making sure she’s not scared, or faced with activities she can’t accomplish, like driving. The younger alter came forward, for a time, and spoke. She talked about how lonely she is, because no other children want to play with her, because the body she’s in is big and they don’t understand. I felt that my outlook on life changed as I watched them
