The woman at number 19, p.1
The Woman at Number 19, page 1
THE WOMAN AT NUMBER 19
J. A. BAKER
To Amy and Charlotte, the people who made this book possible. This one’s for you, ladies!
Remembrance of things past is not necessarily the remembrance of things as they were…
MARCEL PROUST
A clear conscience is the sure sign of a bad memory…
MARK TWAIN
I don’t know what’s worse: to not know what you are and be happy, or to become what you’ve always wanted to be, and feel alone.
DANIEL KEYES
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Acknowledgments
More from J. A. Baker
About the Author
The Murder List
About Boldwood Books
PROLOGUE
She sits in the garden, her face tilted towards the sky. Staring at the cloudless swathe of blue above, her eyes are drawn towards a distant flock of swallows as they swoop and dive in perfect formation, graceful and elegant, like tiny ballerinas dancing on the thermals. She is fascinated by them and watches as they twist and turn effortlessly; sees how their small bodies are perfectly adapted to their environment. She marvels at their speed and agility. It’s one of the most beautiful things she’s ever seen. It makes her feel calm and at peace. Not full of rage and dread, or full of murderous intent: just relaxed and at one with herself and the gentle forces of nature.
The distant song of the blackbird floats closer: a soothing, light chirrup carried on the breeze. It’s like having somebody close by, their warm breath next to her skin as they whisper poetry into her ear. She’s reminded that it’s the small things in life that count, that make her feel human. Being amongst the flora and fauna helps her get by, giving her a brief respite from her thoughts: the torturous ones, the dark, intense ones. The same thoughts that constantly remind her of who she is and what she did.
She blanks those thoughts out, denies any of those memories space in her head. Doesn’t want to think about any of it. Those terrible days. Those awful, unforgivable deeds…
Letting out a trembling sigh, she continues gazing upwards, breathing in the gentle warmth of the sun that kisses her face. A series of smoke trails criss-cross the cobalt sky thousands of feet above. She thinks of how wonderful it would be to be one of those passengers, to be transported somewhere exotic, somewhere beautiful. Somewhere far away from here.
Closing her eyes, she pictures the exquisiteness of it all, the decadence of having people wait on her hand and foot, catering to her every demand, speaking tenderly to her, smiling and asking if everything is to her liking. Making her feel as if she were the most important person in the world. Then her eyes abruptly snap open and she lets out a small gasp.
No.
She will not allow herself to feel that way. If she lets those happy thoughts in, then she will be playing into their hands, allowing herself to feel trapped and desperate by dreaming of another world where she is free. It’s all about making the best of what she has in here. That’s the only way she will make it through, the only way she can carry on living her life as a prisoner. Because for all the fancy terms applied to the reasons for her being held here, that is exactly what she is. She isn’t a patient; she is a detainee, a captive interred here against her will. And if she allows herself to dream about how much better her life would be if she were elsewhere, she knows for sure she will undoubtedly go mad, her mind too brittle and damaged to face the truth, to live up to the realisation that she is trapped, stuck at this place indefinitely until they decide what to do with her. Until they decide whether or not she will ever be able to leave.
So she shuts out dreams of happiness and contentment, the thoughts she has where she can fly like a bird, soaring through the skies like the swallows that feed on the wing, and forces herself to be happy, to make do with what she has in this place. The place she has been forced to call home.
She blinks repeatedly. And what is that? What exactly does she have?
That is a good question.
What she has is a roof over her head, a bed to sleep in at night, food to eat, and her thoughts. At least they are her own. Nobody has control over them. As much as the people here in this place would like to climb inside her head and work out what she’s thinking, what it is that’s going on inside her mind, she can rest easy, knowing she’s the only one who has the key to that particular area of her life. And as long as there is breath in her frail body, it will stay that way.
Her thoughts are all she has. They are hers and hers alone.
She leans down and carefully bends the stalk of a nearby flower towards her face, its silken, golden petals yielding to her touch, the pale, light scent billowing up and enveloping her in a delicate, perfumed haze.
Taking a deep, gratifying breath, she opens her fingers and releases the thin stem before sitting back up. The welcoming arms of spring reach out, temporarily lifting her mood. Soon it will be summer. She smiles, her face tight, unaccustomed to feelings of happiness. Summer reminds her of good times, better times. A time when she was loved and content. A time when her family was still together.
And then it’s gone. Her happiness in that moment vanishes like the last gasp of breath from a dying man, and in an instant, a thick mantle of misery descends, shrouding her, suffocating her, slowly killing her as it hooks its talons deep into her soul, tearing and shredding it into tiny pieces. One small memory, one rogue thought is all it takes to burst her bubble of brief contentment – the sound of birdsong, the smell of a garden, the memory of her fragmented family and shattered life. Her life before she came here. The life she lost and will never get back.
Suddenly, she’s consumed by sorrow, by raw, undiluted anguish that rushes up her abdomen, travelling up her throat and forcing its way out of her mouth. She sees them out of the corner of her eye: the people who jump up out of their seats and race across to where she sits, alerted by the noise escaping from her burning lungs. Her scream gains in pitch, a hollow, distorted, wailing sound, growing and growing until it reaches a crescendo. Their faces are full of anger and frustration when they reach her. They don’t like it when she does this, when she allows her demons to escape. They want her to stop, to keep it all under control and not shatter the illusion of equilibrium they have worked hard to create, the delicate balance that separates sanity and madness in this place, and she’s aware that they’ll do anything to make that happen.
But then, they don’t truly understand her plight or how she thinks. They don’t understand that she doesn’t want to stop the noise, or for the dark thoughts to subside and simply vanish into the ether. She wants them all to hear, to be exposed to her burning anger and unending terror, and be subjected to the desperate, hollow shrieks that emanate from the bottom of her gut.
Because this is how she is now and how she will always be from this point on. The spells of happiness and calm she experiences are short-lived. The memories of those painful, murky days are ingrained in her soul, entrenched forever. They’ll never leave, pushing instead any fresher memories and feelings aside, stomping on them and grinding them underfoot.
So now these people need to listen to her, to be sympathetic to her cries and howls, because they’re the ones who made her this way. They’re the people who forced her to see what took place, to realise what actually happened. This is all their fault. They are the ones who made her see what a monster she had become.
And she hates them for it.
She hears them talking to her, their voices distant and distorted, their pleas and whispers for her to calm down simply washing over her like liquid mercury. Their pedestrian persuasive techniques are a waste of time. She won’t respond. She knows it and they know it and yet still they persist. It’s just another hoop to jump through, a ticked box that says they tried with her, that they did their utmost to talk her around, and it didn’t work so they were forced to up their game. To do what she and they both knew they would end up doing from the start.
She continues screaming, roaring into thin air at the injustice of it all. She brings her hands up and uses her long, ragged nails to scratch at her bare skin, tearing them down her arms, tugging and digging until she is covered with blood, sickeningly warm and oleaginous, smeared over her t
Still the people plead with her. Still they try. And still she screams and tears at her own skin, ignoring their pleas for her to be silent and to take heed of their words.
Only when their begging and talking doesn’t work do they eventually move towards her. She thrashes about, bucking and bending her body as they pin her down and restrain her. She screams some more, swearing and cursing. They don’t stop. The small gang of people wrap their big, strong arms around her slight body, pulling at her shoulders to stop her from moving. An arrow of pain rips through her spine as her upper body is held fast. It doesn’t bother her. Doesn’t quieten her. She embraces the burning pain that shoots through her body. She deserves this. She deserves all of this and so much more.
In the end, they’re too strong for her. She can’t keep it up. No energy left. Exhaustion swamps her. She goes limp and feels herself being hoisted into the air and carried inside. Soon she’ll be given sedatives and will fall into a deep, synthetically induced sleep. She will drift off into a world of darkness, into a place where the full reality of her life repeats itself over and over again. And then she will wake into a hell of her own making. A hell from which there is no escape.
1
NUMBER 19
They sit, side by side, terror coursing through their veins. Today, they don’t feel so well, especially the boy. Their innards twist and roil as they watch her move about the room. She’s volatile, completely unpredictable. That’s what causes their fear, makes them feel on edge. Is today one of her better days or will today be the day she raises her voice to them and shrieks that they don’t deserve to have somebody like her in their lives? There’s no pattern to her moods, no set rules they can live by. What works one day can go against them the next.
The girl leans over and squeezes her brother’s hand. His skin is cold. She places her palm against his forehead. He’s trembling and his flesh is clammy. She listens to his breathing, ragged and uneven, as he pushes air out of his lungs and forces more in. Breathing is meant to be easy, effortless and reflexive, yet the rattle of his chest sounds like the death throes of a dying man. She shuffles closer to him. He is so small, so helpless. She wants to take care of him, to be the older sister he needs her to be, and she is doing her best, really trying to help him get better, but it’s so difficult. Nothing is easy in this house. The smallest of indiscretions can cause a tsunami of bitterness and punitive sanctions. There’s no way of knowing what lies ahead. No way of predicting her mother’s next move.
She wishes things were different. She has friends who do things with their parents – trips to the seaside, days out in the countryside, cinema visits with popcorn and big bags of sweeties. She feels sure there must have been times when they did those sorts of things together as a family – had fun, laughed, ran around the garden playing hide and seek. But if they ever did, those memories are lost in the mists of time and they certainly don’t do them now. It’s been a long, long time since they smiled or sang or did anything other than stay in the house, watching and wondering. Watching their mother’s growing irritation. Wondering what their next punishment will be; wondering what they did to deserve it.
She’s considered telling somebody about their situation but can’t seem to find the strength to articulate what it is she so desperately wants to say. The words simply won’t come. Besides, her teachers are all too busy to listen, their time taken up with other children who are already on their radar – the scruffy kids, the naughty kids, the skinny underfed kids. The girl with holes in her shoes, the quiet boy with no friends who sits alone in the playground; they are the ones who fit the bill. Not her and her brother who live in the nice house and are always on time with the correct equipment, ready to learn. They aren’t the children that people worry about. And it scares her. They are the forgotten ones. She knows that they’re slipping between the cracks of the system, falling so far down that one of these fine days they may never be able to find their way back up.
And anyway, what would she say if she were to tell somebody? How would she ever be able to verbalise the subtle ways that are used to reprimand them? The hidden bruises, the name calling, the sudden acts of love when their father is around. And their mother is always well-kempt and quite glamorous when she takes them to school. Her hair shines; her make-up is flawless. People rarely suspect the highly polished ones, the pretty, fashionable ones. Bad parents look bedraggled. They turn up in the playground with unwashed hair and dirty clothes, reeking of alcohol. Their mother is far too wily to be caught out by such a schoolboy error. Standards must be maintained and children need to present well. Wagging tongues at the school gate are a dangerous thing.
So their lives continue on a downward spiral, gaining in momentum with each passing day. It’s her brother she fears for. He is so small and defenceless. And there is something else that’s happening to him; she knows it by his laboured breathing and grey pallor. It’s just that she can’t quite put her finger on what it is that’s wrong. Perhaps he’s ill and needs medication? Treatment that will rid him of his awful cough and bring some colour back into his cheeks. Their mother takes him to see the doctor regularly, or if he’s too ill, the doctor comes to the house, but even that’s not enough. Something else is wrong. Something that frightens her. Something that she feels sure is worse than her mother’s shouting and unexplainable mood swings.
The girl swallows down the lump that has risen in her throat. She hasn’t the energy for tears. Tears will only get her into trouble. And she doesn’t like being in trouble. All she wants is for things to be back how they were before everything became too difficult, back to a time when they were happy and their mother remembered how to smile.
2
ESTHER
I’m always surprised by how cold it gets at this time of year. I shouldn’t be, I know that, but after a long hot summer, autumn and winter always catch me unawares. While I am still reminiscing over how glorious the garden is, or how pretty the children look as they march past my window in their checked summer dresses and smart grey shorts, the chill creeps in along with the darkness and dampness, reminding me that nobody can stop time. We all march to the tune of the Earth as it spins wildly in space, dictating our weather patterns and forcing us indoors as the nights draw in, the cold evenings spreading their impenetrable blanket of inky blackness over us all.
Pulling my shawl over my shoulders and tugging at it tightly, I gaze outside to the early-morning sky, my mind wandering over recent events. A host of unwanted images fill my mind. I try to stop them, to keep them at bay by thinking of other things, nicer things. Things that don’t involve illness and death and all the horror that accompanies such atrocities, but somehow the dreadful stuff manages to take up all the space in my head. This is how it is now – my life – day after day of empty longing. Day after day spent ruminating over what happened, how I let it happen. What sort of a mother am I?
A sudden knock at the door drags me away from my thoughts. I’m grateful for it, thankful to be heaved back into the sharp light of reality.
Amy is standing there, smiling at me, as I pull the door wide open. Amy is a natural smiler. That’s what she does. My mother used to say that the world is full of two types of people – frowners and smilers – and Amy is definitely the latter.
