Chapter Fourteen
Raven called me mummy. She called me mummy. For a second I think my heart has stopped, that time itself has ceased. I wasn’t being delusional. It wasn’t wishful thinking or some crazy fantasy. Raven is Robin. She’s admitted it, or just about.
I knew I wasn’t imagining their resemblance. What I can’t understand is why she doesn’t want me to tell Skyla. Why did she silence me, and why is she hiding the truth? Is she afraid? Scared to be rejected? My mind becomes a hive of activity.
This girl clearly knows who we are. She knows our story. Is there a chance she’s toying with me? Like some of those Madeleine McCann lookalikes — does she simply think she looks similar enough to get away with this or does she genuinely think she’s Robin? Know she’s Robin? I wish I knew.
And if she is Robin, what could she possibly want if she doesn’t want Skyla knowing the connection?
Does she expect me to keep quiet to my husband now that she’s shared something so colossal?
I have to tell James, of course I do — but if Raven doesn’t want to admit it to anyone but me, will he even believe me? He didn’t before.
When I get inside, I drift into the living room in a complete daze.
My mind can’t seem to grasp onto anything concrete.
Every thought is cumbersome. My underwear on the floor of the guestroom.
Raven’s scar. The word mummy, the significance of it, its essence.
Skyla stopped calling me mummy long ago, shortened me to simply ‘mum’, so mummy sparked something in me.
A yearning I’ve had for what could be years, and perhaps Raven knows that.
Perhaps this is all part of her manipulation.
Slumping down, I let the sofa swallow me. I stare and stare at the stone floor, until each tiny speck of dirt I see on the tiles blurs.
It’s in the middle of the night when what I have to do comes to me. It’s the only option, really, and so I do some online shopping, my heart beating erratically as I do.
The party has wound down. James is snuffling into his pillow, the after-effects of too much Dom Pérignon, and Skyla’s bedroom door is sealed, another new thing she’s been doing lately.
I tread across the landing and pad down the cold marble steps.
I’m about to round the corner and get to the living room, where I know the clear tape I’m after is kept, but the sound of shattering glass stops me.
Someone is downstairs.
Alfie starts barking from his summer dog kennel out on the patio, furious snarls splitting through the silence of the night.
My natural instinct tells me to turn and run back up to the bedroom, wake James.
Have him deal with it. He’ll do a survey of the house, find some delirious bird that’s flown into our window and tease me for being so paranoid.
And maybe he’d be right. Maybe I am paranoid, but I can’t seem to turn on my heels and ask my husband to help.
Something is pulling me in the direction of the noise.
Without a phone on me I can’t call for help, and while we have a panic button, it’s by the alarm system in the direction the noise came from. Not much help to me right now.
The silence that follows as I try to work out what to do roars through my eardrums. Looking around me, I think about protection and consider my options.
There’s an umbrella resting against the wall by the front door, the royal blue fabric bound tight.
I pick it up by the handle, realising it has more weight to it than I thought.
Gripping it in the palm of my hand, I make my way into the depths of the house.
I find Raven perched on the ground, and I suppose all things considered I should be relieved it’s her in here and not a burglar who has broken in.
But it’s the way I find Raven that squeezes the air from my lungs.
She’s hovering over a picture I had framed of me, James and Skyla from our trip to Wales last year.
We’d gone to tick another medieval castle off Skyla’s list, Pembroke Castle.
In the photo we’re all leaning on the railing in front of the river with the timeworn castle behind us.
We’re huddled together, squinting through a torrent of rain.
But we’re smiling. Happy. A family on holiday making the most of a day despite the bad weather.
I look at it now, at the broken frame with a splinter of wood sticking out at an odd angle. Raven, who hasn’t noticed me yet, is picking through the glass scattered at her feet. She’s making piles, separating the larger shards from the small, humming gently under her breath.
‘What’re you doing in here?’ My voice breaks her concentration. She rolls her head over her shoulder lazily, as though she’s been disturbed in her sleep. When she spots me, she glares at me in the gloom of the night.
‘Oops,’ she says simply. ‘It fell.’
‘I said: what’re you doing in here?’ I repeat, fighting to keep the tremor from my words. I thought I’d made it quite clear to her that she was to go home after any visits going forward, for a while at least. Hadn’t I implied that when I’d dropped her off at her ramshackle caravan?
‘Skyla said I could stay over again. You and James had way too much to drink to drive me,’ she says uppishly, her lips pouting with a mean grin.
Standing, I notice her keeping a sharp sliver of glass in her hand, and for a second, as she takes a step towards me, I think she might use it. I clench onto the umbrella, ready to aim the end tip at her if needed, however pathetically.
‘Is your mum away again?’ I ask crisply.
‘Vicky. That’s right, she’s away.’ Raven nods, working the glass between her fingers. ‘Vicky.’
Everything about the way she says her mother’s name makes it seem like she’s testing it on her tongue. It sounds fictitious, and her expression only seems to confirm that it is. Why has she been lying to us?
I take a step back, not realising this simple move has me cornered against the wall. I don’t like the way this girl keeps closing any distance between us, encroaching on my space, making me feel trapped.
‘Raven, I have to ask, what did you mean earlier?’ I swallow, trying to keep my head held high. I won’t show fear, weakness. I’m stronger than that.
‘What d’you mean?’ she asks with doe-eyed innocence.
‘In the orchard. You asked me why I didn’t keep you safe. You called me . . .’ I pause, my eyelids fluttering. ‘Mummy.’
Taking another step towards me, she’s so close I can see the pores marking the tip of her nose in the scantily lit room. I glance down at the glass in her hand, then back up to her. She smiles. Skyla’s smile, Skyla’s teeth, yet it’s Raven’s mouth. So similar.
She rolls the glass between her fingers, scoffing as I purse my lips together tightly as I watch. Even though I’m trying my best to hide it, my distress must have a flavour. Raven seems to taste the air, dark yet gleaming.
Footsteps. Faint, but I hear them coming from behind us. Relief. She won’t hurt me now. I know she’s heard them too from the way she tilts her head just slightly in the direction of the noise.
‘Alright?’ James trudges in, rubbing at his eyes. His shirt’s off, revealing his treasure trail of hair leading down into his pants.
Raven and I both turn our attention towards him.
I like my husband’s body. Even in middle-age, he’s never let himself go.
And in this moment, as Raven seems to slip the shard of glass in her hand from view, I’m aware of her staring at his body too.
Feasting on it, almost. Is it my imagination?
A surge of possessiveness washes over me, and I reach over to the sofa where a chunky knit blanket lies usually forgotten about over the armrest. I chuck it at James, and he quickly covers himself up.
‘What happened here?’ James frowns, noticing the photograph and the glass on the floor.
I find myself glad he’s seen this, thinking maybe now he’ll finally believe me when I say there’s something about this girl I just don’t trust. And yet, in the same breath, I wonder how Raven will try to talk herself out of it. I don’t have to wait long.
‘I was trying to find the kitchen — it’s a bit disorientating here at night, in the dark,’ she says, her voice honeyed. ‘I knocked your picture off the wall by accident. I’m so sorry.’
She bends and starts to collect the pieces of glass, but James stops her.
‘Don’t be silly, you’ll cut yourself. We’ll deal with that. You grab a drink and head up to bed, it’s late,’ he says, reaching out and touching her arm, which stuns us all.
Pulling his hand back as though he’s been burned, he quickly starts towards the kitchen where he slaps on the light.
‘Water?’ he asks her, an octave too high.
Their interaction is strange, stilted. There’s something odd about it.
I can’t quite figure out what it is, but there is something .
. . something making their exchange seem staged somehow.
My mind whirls, a Ferris wheel spinning round and round.
Has something happened between them? It’s a ludicrous thought.
He’s old enough to be her father, and yet still my mind goes there.
I hate myself for it. It feels like I’m disrespecting James for even thinking it.
The water dispenser glugs as he fills Raven’s glass, and as it does, I crouch down to gather up the glass in the living room. That’s when I notice the photograph.
There are deep, angry scores in it, but it isn’t everywhere. It’s only scratched over my face. My squinting, smiling face, has been sliced away, right out of the photograph.