Chapter 37
NOW
Persephone grips me tightly around my waist. I find myself holding very still, taking in the sensation of it—the rare, unexpected comfort of another person’s touch.
Her cheek presses against my stomach, damp and hot with tears.
She is trembling. I am trembling too. Nugget runs in circles around us both.
“There, there, child,” I say, my voice softer than I expect. “It’s all right. Everything’s all right.”
I smooth a hand over her hair. “Where’s your mother?”
“I don’t know,” she says, sniffling. “I looked in her room, but she wasn’t in her bed.”
“Which one is Mum’s room?”
Persephone points, and I walk to the door and flick on the light. The bed is an unmade island of rumpled sheets. A pile of folded laundry is balanced on a chair in the corner. No sign of Roxanne. I even check the cupboards and under the bed just to be sure.
“Let’s check the rest of the house,” I say.
There are not a lot of places to look. We check Persephone’s room, the bathroom, kitchen, laundry, and courtyard.
“Right,” I say. “She’s definitely not here.”
“Told you.” A trace of smugness comes to her tearstained face. In light of her recent trauma, I let it go.
“Has she ever left you home alone before?” I ask.
Persephone considers this. “I don’t think so.”
“Where is the phone?”
“I don’t have one,” she says. “Mum has one, but it’s not on charge. She must have taken it.”
“What about the landline?” I ask.
Persephone screws up her face. “The what-line?”
I sigh. “I need to go home and get my phone.”
“Why?”
“Because we need to call the police.”
“No!” Persephone cries. Her tears are instant, bubbling over like a shaken soda bottle. “Please, Elsa. You can’t call the police. They will arrest my mum for leaving me home alone.”
She clings to my forearms, her fingers clutching with surprising strength. Her eyes are wide and pleading.
I sigh. “Persephone, we need the police to come and arrest that man.”
“But he’s gone! Can’t we just wait for Mummy to get home?”
I feel a headache coming on. I’m too old to exercise this kind of judgment call so late at night.
“Wait there,” I tell her and go to the front room, peering out the window.
The neighbors’ faces have disappeared from their windows, the sirens have receded. There’s no sign of the Italian Stallion.
I return to the front door and check that it’s locked, then push a chair in front of it.
“Is he gone?” Persephone asks, yawning.
“It appears so,” I say. “Come on, why don’t you show me your room?”
Persephone’s room is a mirror image of mine, with its original fireplace and large sash window looking out onto the street.
But where mine is filled with old books and fading photographs, hers is alive with color—walls covered in butterfly decals, glow-in-the-dark stars dotting the ceiling like a night sky.
It’s sparsely furnished, just a single bed with pale pink linen, and an armchair in the corner.
I sink into it, expecting her to hop into bed. Instead, she clambers onto my lap, her limbs all awkward angles. I feel like I’m cuddling a baby goat. Her head rests against my shoulder, warm and featherlight. I have a strange sensation that I might cry.
“Did you know that man?” I ask her.
“No.”
“In that case,” I say lightly, “I’d say he’s just some silly fellow. Probably had too many drinks and knocked on the wrong door.”
“But he asked for Mum.”
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, that’s true.”
She yawns deeply, and her body becomes slack. “Elsa, will you stay here? Until my mum gets home?”
I know Roxanne told me she thought it was best if Persephone didn’t spend time with me, but I don’t see what other option I have, short of leaving the child alone in the house after what had happened.
“I suppose I’ll have to.”
“Pinkie promise?”
She holds out her baby finger, forcibly entangling it with mine.
“What on earth are you doing?”
“Say: pinkie promise,” Persephone instructs, her tone firm despite the sleep creeping into her voice.
For the love of God.
“Pinkie promise.” I remove my finger. “Now I think it’s time you went to bed.”
I have to push her into a standing position, then she scurries over to her bed and slips under the covers.
“Want to hop in?” she asks me.
“No,” I say. “The chair will do fine.”
“Mummy hops in with me.”
“Well,” I say, adjusting my nightie as I settle into the chair. “I’m not Mummy.”
I flick off the light and lean back into the armchair, which is surprisingly comfy. The tension in my temples eases just a little as I let my eyelids close.
Persephone lies on her side, her hands steepled beneath her cheek, eyes fluttering closed.
“I love you, Elsa,” she murmurs sleepily.
I open my eyes and see that she’s watching me in the darkness. For pity’s sake.
“Sleep well, child.”
Her eyes close, and her breath evens out. Only then do I allow myself the smallest of smiles.