39
39
Fiona stood with her back to the closed door, squeezing the handle of the knife, the blade held lightly against Rose’s throat. Her other arm was wrapped around the girl’s waist, holding her still. It was rare for her pulse to get above eighty, but right now she knew it had to be right up at ninety. Heat spread through her veins. She had reached the culmination of one plan, the end of a chapter of her life and the beginning of another.
She could sense Maisie beside her, looking as she had when they’d first met. They had both been waitressing in a little café in Freo, Fiona fifteen years old, doing the Saturday shift, and Maisie in her forties. The Englishwoman who told everyone she was travelling the world, taking an extended stay in Western Australia because it was so beautiful. Later, she would tell Fiona she had stayed because of her.
‘I recognised it in you the first day we met,’ she would say. ‘I knew we had to be together.’
And so Maisie had stayed in Australia for several years, until her visa had long expired and immigration began to sniff around. After Maisie returned to England, Fiona had tried to get by on her own for a few years, but it was impossible. She needed her mentor. Had always needed her. So she had followed.
Here, in front of her, was the woman who had – and it didn’t matter if it had been unwitting – taken Maisie away from her forever.
And between them, not moving, playing her role perfectly – even if it was unrehearsed – was the girl who was to Fiona what Fiona had been to Maisie.
Emma stood with the little window behind her. Rain hammered the glass and the wind howled with a kind of madness, shaking the nearby trees. The shock that had frozen her in place since Fiona had grabbed her daughter had now thawed a little, allowing Emma to move.
‘Let her go.’
‘No, Emma. I want you to leave this room. We’ll be right behind you. If you do everything I say, I won’t hurt her. I’ll never hurt her. I promise you, after you’ve gone, she’ll be safe with— Ow!’
She cried out and pulled her arm away, staring in disbelief at her wrist – where Rose had bitten her. Bitten her! Rose darted away from both of them into the furthest corner. Fiona stayed by the door, blocking the exit.
Emma reached out towards her daughter. ‘Rose, come here.’
Rose didn’t move.
‘Rose!’ Emma commanded. ‘Come to me, now. I’ll protect you.’
Still, Rose remained motionless.
Fiona, recovering from the pain and surprise of the bite, said, ‘No, come to me, Rose. I wasn’t going to hurt you. I was just trying to get her to do what I asked.’
‘Rose,’ Emma said again. ‘Come here, to Mummy.’
Fiona laughed. ‘She doesn’t want to go to you, Emma. Like she keeps telling you, she’s not a baby anymore. Certainly not your baby. She’s something different. Something better.’
‘You’re insane.’
Emma tried to move towards Rose, but Fiona stepped forward, the knife held out. ‘Get back. Stay where you are.’
Emma had no choice but to obey.
‘Rose,’ Fiona began. ‘I know I should have explained everything to you before we came here, but I needed you to act natural. I promise, from now on, I’ll tell you everything, okay? We’ll do everything together.’
Emma sneered at her. ‘You’re out of your mind. Ethan’s not really interested in you .’
‘Oh, he will be. Men are easy, Emma. I’ll help him mend his broken heart. And I’ll make sure to remind him about you and Mike.’
‘You’re deluded. Also, if you think Dylan would ever accept you, you’re not just deluded, you’re stupid.’
‘Well, a second child isn’t a vital part of the plan. Perhaps he needs to have a little accident too.’
Emma took half a step towards Fiona, who pushed forward the knife, compelling her to stop.
‘So that’s the plan?’ Emma said. ‘To take my place? How do you feel about that, Rose?’
They both looked at the girl.
She shrugged, then turned towards Emma. ‘I’m not like you. I’m different.’
‘That isn’t true, sweetheart. You’re going through changes, that’s all. Puberty.’ Emma attempted a laugh. ‘All teenage girls feel different.’
‘No. It’s more than that.’ Rose paused, looking thoughtful. ‘And I think you must have always known it, deep down.’
‘What are you talking about? Rosie ...’
‘Don’t call me that!’
‘Sorry. I—’
‘I’ve never felt the way I’m meant to.’ Rose’s voice had gone dreamy. Distant. ‘The way they do in storybooks and on TV. Never felt warmth or love for anyone else. Never had a friend who didn’t irritate me. Other kids ... I look at them and either feel nothing or I want to hurt them. Like those boys across the road, Eric and Albie. When Fiona caused that accident, I was glad. I wanted him to suffer.’
Fiona saw Emma take this in. That she had caused the accident.
‘But that’s ... that’s kind of understandable,’ she managed. ‘He bullied you.’
Fiona knew she should be moving things on, but she was fascinated. Besides, it was good for Rose to articulate all this, to process it. It would make things easier afterwards.
‘Haven’t you ever wondered why I’ve never really had a best friend?’
‘What about Jasmine?’
‘She was an idiot. I hated her.’
Realisation dawned on Emma’s face, like she finally understood something that had been niggling at her for a long time. The kind of eureka moment that doesn’t make you want to leap out of the bath but jump into it and hold your head under the water. ‘And what about me, and your dad and Dylan?’ she asked, a pitiful, pleading tone creeping in. ‘You love us.’
Rose frowned and made a noise low in her throat. ‘Hmm. No, I don’t. I mean, I guess I always appreciated you giving me a home. Dylan could be a lot more annoying, I guess. But love? I don’t know what it feels like. When you’re sick, I don’t care. If I think about you dying, I don’t care about that either – except to wonder what it would mean for me. I wouldn’t want to be sent to a children’s home. That would be horrible.’
Tears ran down Emma’s cheeks. ‘Rose, you don’t mean this. You can’t. What about Lola? You love her, don’t you?’
‘I like owning her.’
Emma wiped at her wet face. ‘Rose, sweetheart. This isn’t you. And if it is, we can get you help. What about that woman we met on holiday? Keira and Henry’s mum. She’s a child psychologist. She can help you.’
The expression on Rose’s face was so full of contempt – a look that dripped poison – that Fiona wanted to clap her hands and cheer.
‘I. Don’t. Need. Help .’ Rose took a step towards her mother, which also took her closer to Fiona. ‘Don’t you get it, Mummy ? I like being like this.’
‘Rose, please.’
Emma moved towards her, arms outstretched, trying to gather Rose into a hug. Rose backed away like a feral cat, almost hissing, and Emma shook her head and said, ‘No, I’m not standing for this. You’re my daughter. You’re going to do as I say.’
She moved forward again, trying to take hold of Rose’s arm. Rose again backed away. ‘Don’t touch me.’
Fiona knew she ought to do something, but she was too fascinated, dying to see how this played out. The rain was drumming against the roof, wind entering through the broken windows, and she expected to see lightning flashes, hear thunder crashing, shaking the building.
‘Rose. Come with me now. We’re going.’
‘No!’
Emma had had enough. Fiona had seen this before, in parks and supermarkets and on beaches. The mother who tries to reason, to persuade, to threaten, and then, finally, snaps, asserting her authority, her status, her strength. Fiona’s mother had done it to her all the time, dragging her out of shops, on to buses, into classrooms.
Emma reached out and tried to grab Rose by the wrist.
Rose flung herself to the side, evading her mum’s grasp, and Emma shouted:
‘Rose! That’s enough .’
Rose screamed – not like a girl, but a full-grown woman. A scream of hatred and defiance and rage. And as she screamed, she darted towards Fiona, who wasn’t expecting this. Before Fiona could react, Rose snatched the knife from her hand.