“If the spirit is invisible how did they beat yours?”
“People beat your spirit when they hurt your feelings, or do something to you that makes you feel sad and broken.”
I nod. At that moment, I realize that my spirit must have been beaten too.
“Actually, I have something to ask you,” Uncle Dave says switching off the cooker and coming to crouch in front of me.
“What is it?” I ask.
He takes a deep breath. “Will it be okay with you if I became your stepdaddy?”
“Mama is getting married to you?” I ask surprised.
“Yes, do you mind?” he asks eagerly, his eyes shining with excitement, as if being my stepdaddy is the most exciting thing he can think of.
Papa is long gone, even his urn has been hidden away in a dark cupboard, and I like Dave a lot. He has a warm smile and he makes Mama happy. “No, I don’t mind,” I tell him with a smile.
“Thank you,” he says. Suddenly his eyes fill with tears.
“Are you crying, Uncle Dave?”
His lips tremble so much he can’t answer me.
I take his hand. “Don’t cry, Uncle Dave.”
“Oh, Chelsea,” he cries. “You are such a good child. You don’t deserve this. I wish I could take you away from this life, but I can’t. You’re not my daughter, but I promise you this. As long as I am alive I will always protect you. No matter who tries to hurt you, just come to me straight away and I will sort it out for you. No matter who tries to harm you, okay?”
I don’t understand why he is crying, or why he pities me, or who he thinks wants to hurt me. Or even why he wants to take me away from this life. “Okay,” I say softly.
“Is there anything you want me to do for you?” he asks.
I hesitate.
“Don’t be scared, poppet. You can ask me anything. I will never tell anyone. It’ll just be between us.”
“Promise?”
“Promise,” he says immediately.
I look into his warm brown eyes and I believe him. “If I write a letter can you post it for me?”
He frowns. “Of course. Who is it for?”
“It’s for Monsieur Lemarie. He has my dog, Momo, you see, and I just want to find out if Momo is all right, and maybe ask if he can send me some pictures. I miss my Momo every day.”
As if a dam breaks, Uncle Dave’s face contorts. He pulls me to him and hugs me tightly. “Of course, I can send your letter for you, you poor, poor, child. Of course, I can.”
Years later, I would wonder if it was my fault. If I had not asked him to post my letter. If I had not let him hug me. If I had just stayed in my room. Mama would not have come into the room, picked up the brass candlestick standing on the counter and smashed it into the back of Uncle Dave’s head. She doesn’t stop with the first blow. She carries on smashing it into his head.
When the man stabbed Papa in the woods, I froze. The world stopped turning, I became numb, I couldn’t speak or move, but I knew it hadn’t happened to me. When Mama slams the candlestick on Uncle Dave’s head, I feel it all, the pain of my skull smashing, my blood rushing out of my head. I hear the sound the blood makes, like someone pouring orange juice out of a carton.
I even feel faint.
I look down at Uncle Dave, at his still face, at the dark red stain spreading on the green carpet. I’ve seen that look before. In my father’s face. Uncle Dave is dead.
I can’t understand it. Why did this happen? It’s so terribly wrong.
I look up at Mama. Her face is white and she is staring at Uncle Dave as if he has suddenly become a snake, but I see something else in her eyes. Something that terrifies me. For the first time in my life I become afraid for her. In her eyes I see a light. A strange light. Like she is secretly happy and excited. As if she has been given five scoops of ice cream and told she can go to Disneyland, but she mustn’t tell anyone, or she cannot have the ice cream or go to Disneyland.
“Why did you do that, Mama?” I gasp.
She tears her gaze away from Uncle Dave. “He was interfering with you,” she says in a high, shrill voice.
I stare at her blankly. “What does inter … fering mean?”
“It means he was doing something he shouldn’t have been doing to you.”
“He was not interfering with me. He was just hugging me, Mama. He wanted to protect me.”
“Protect you?” she screeches furiously. “It’s not his bloody job to protect you. I’m your mother. I’ll protect you.” Her face twists. “I know his game. The sick pervert. Don’t think I didn’t see exactly what he was doing. He was touching you.”
Mama calls the police, and when they come she shows them Uncle Dave’s body. She looks frightened. Her hands are shaking, and she is crying. She tells them she caught him interfering with me. They turn to look at me with pity in their eyes.
I don’t say anything.
Then she tells them she has parents who can take care of me. I look at Mama astonished. Once when I asked where my grandparents were, Papa said I had no grandparents. He never wanted to speak to his parents again, and both mama’s parents were dead. I wonder why Papa lied. Maybe he didn’t know. Maybe Mama didn’t tell him the way she didn’t tell me.
They take Mama away, but before they do she crouches on the ground, and opens her arms to me. I walk into them and stand there while she hugs me and kisses my cheeks. Her lips are cold. Her breath smells of peppermint toothpaste.
“I did it to protect you. I’m all you’ve got and you’re all I’ve got now. I love you. Nobody will love you like I do,” she says. There are tears in her eyes.
I want to ask her if she loved Uncle Dave, but I don’t. “I love you too, Mama.”
“I know you do. You will be good for your grandmother and grandfather, won’t you?”
“I will.”
“Don’t make me ashamed of you,” she warns.
“I won’t,” I promise, with a shake of my head.
“Stay with them until I come for you,” she says, standing up.
My throat chokes up and I can’t speak so I just nod.
I watch them lead her away. I don’t cry. I don’t resist when a female police officer takes me to one side and asks me if I am all right. If I want a little drink of milk.
I am no longer bewildered or surprised by her offer. In exactly the same way the social worker thought that offering me biscuits would make me feel better, this police officer is offering me milk to comfort me.
I think of Uncle Dave, lying dead on the kitchen floor. Uncle Dave is dead. He won’t be coming back. He has gone where Papa went.
I drink the milk she gives me, and tell the two Officers that it’s true. Uncle Dave was interfering with me. He was touching me when Mama came into the room and saved me.
I’m so very sorry, Uncle Dave, but I have to protect Mama now. She’s all I’ve got and I’m all she’s got.
Chelsea
It’s an unusually warm day for this time of year. I am wearing tight jeans and a white cotton shirt. It is the most casual thing in the closet, but it still screams money and class.
I tell Anabel that I’ll be calling an Uber to take me to London and to please inform the security staff to expect my driver, but she immediately tells me that no such action will be necessary. Ralph, the driver, will take me.
“It’s not necessary, Anabel,” I protest.
“It is Mr. Thorne’s wish that you should be taken by Ralph wherever you need to go.”
“Fine. Please tell Ralph that I’d like to go about ten thirty.” To be honest, I’m relieved to find out I’m not actually a prisoner in this house. Even though I was putting on a brave face while telling her about my Uber arrangement I was worried that she would turn around and say that I am not allowed to leave the premises.
“He will be waiting for you outside at ten thirty,” she says.
At ten thirty I go downstairs and a dark green Bentley is already waiting for me with Ralph standing outside and t
alking to someone. When he sees me he quickly goes to open the rear door for me.
“Morning, Miss.”
“Good morning, Ralph,” I say as I slide inside.
When he gets behind the wheel I give him my mother’s address. Ralph nods and says he knows the area, then he falls silent for the ride, which is fine by me since I am too nervous to spark up any conversation or ask him questions. I don’t know why I always get like this when it is time to see my mother. I mean, I always think of her and I want to see her, but when the moment arrives to actually come into her presence I start to feel insecure, as if I am still a child.
Nineteen years ago
Grandma looks a lot like Mama, only her eyes are not fierce and wild. She looks at me with great sadness. Granddad is tall with a straight stern line for a mouth. He has blue eyes like me, but his nose is like an eagle’s beak.
“Pleased to meet you, Chelsea,” he says.
I step back in fear.
My grandmother crouches in front of me. “We’re your family, honey. We’re not going to hurt you. That’s your granddad and I’m your nan, and you’re going to come and stay with us.”
“Can’t I wait here for Mama to come back?”
“No, sweetheart. Your mama will not be coming back for a long time.”
I looked in her eyes and I wanted to burst into tears. I didn’t want to go with them. I wanted to stay in our little flat until Mama came back from the police station. “How long will Mama be gone?”
She shakes her head. “It’ll be a long time, I’m afraid. But you know what. You’ll love our house. We have a garden and you can have your mother’s old room. It’s very pretty.”
“You have a garden?” I ask.
She nods and smiles. “Yes, we do. You can play there. Some of your mother’s toys are still in the attic.”
But I was not thinking of the toys or playing in the garden, I was thinking of Momo. Maybe I could bring him back from France and keep him with me at my grandparents’ house.
I go with them. We take a taxi and I sit in between Grandma and Granddad. It is a strange journey. Granddad doesn’t smile at all and Nan smiles too much. Their house is in Kennington. It is an upstairs downstairs house.
Grandma shows me to Mama’s old room. It is a beautiful room. The walls are pink. There are dolls on the shelves still in their packaging. On the bed there is a Cinderella bedspread. Cinderella is my second favorite Disney princess. The first one is Belle from Beauty and the Beast. I love Belle best. I wish I could wander into a big old castle and meet a kind Beast, but I am happy with Cinderella too. I always liked her blue dress and she has gold hair like me.
That night Grandma makes spaghetti with mushrooms for dinner. I tell Grandma that I cannot eat mushrooms.
“Why not?” Granddad asks sternly.
“I just can’t,” I reply in a small voice.
“Well, in this house we eat what the good Lord puts on our table. So you will finish what is on your plate.”
“Maybe she can just eat around the mushrooms,” Nan suggests timidly.
“No, she will eat it all. There is no reason to waste perfectly good food.”
I sneak a glance at Granddad. He is staring at me with anger.
I start to eat the mushrooms, but my stomach begins to feel funny.
Suddenly, I throw up on the dining room floor and granddad crashes his hand on the table. All the plates jump and I wet myself with terror. Nan takes me upstairs as I sob my eyes out. She helps me to undress, cleans me up, and gets me into bed.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “It will all work out. You’ll be happy here.”
She was wrong. I wasn’t.
Chelsea
As Ralph drives into familiar territory my nervousness gets worse. I hate this area. There is a French bakery on the next street that makes my mother’s favorite pastries. I take a deep breath. It will be a nice surprise for her if I arrive with her favorite treats.
“Can you stop by Patisserie Chambon, please?” I ask Ralph.
Ralph waits by the curb. Before I can enter the shop I notice the newsagent next door and a rack of newspapers. Thorne’s name is the headline. I change direction and walk towards it.
Oh, my God! Thorne’s AI is the first one in the world to have legs.
I look at the image of her in amazement. The only AIs I have seen have transparent plastic at the back of their heads showing the wires that make up their brains so they are unmistakably robots to the human eye.
It is impossible to tell Alli is not human. She is astonishingly human-like.
I take a copy of all the newspapers carrying the story and go to the cash register. I have to pay with my credit card since I have no cash. The man tells me there will be a fifty pence charge to use my credit card. Afterwards, I go next door and pick out the pastries that my mother likes.
Leaving the newspapers on the seat, I place the box carefully on my lap and wait for my mother’s apartment building to come into view. It is a tall gray building in a concrete jungle. The walls are all full of graffiti, and children wearing their school uniforms are playing by the entrance. Ralph drives right up to the entrance. The children are immediately fascinated by the car. It is not often they see a Bentley pull up in this depressed area of London.
Ralph says that he will wait for me until I’m ready to leave.
I thank him, step out of the car, and look up at the building. It feels as if it is an old adversary. I can see my mother’s apartment from where I am standing. The door that leads to the balcony is open, and there is a thin burgundy curtain billowing in the light breeze. I walk into the building and make my way into the elevator. The door closes around me. For a second there is a sensation of panic, then I press the button that will take me to her floor, and I feel the car move upwards.
The ping of the elevator arriving at its destination is a relief. I hated the smell in the small space. The doors open and I head towards her front door. My hand raises, but I do not knock just yet. I stare at the midnight blue door while I clear my throat and collect myself.
Then I tap on the wood with my knuckles. Just once. My mother has an acute sense of hearing and it annoys her if people knock more than once.
My weight shifts from one foot to the next while I wait for her to answer the door. There is the familiar sound of several locks coming undone before the door opens.
“Hello, Chelsea.”
“Hello, Mama.” I hold the box of pastries in front of her. “These are for you.”
My mother looks similar to me, but her hair is darker and she has gained some weight, mostly on her hips and thighs. She also has some crow’s feet and she is shorter than me by about two inches. She is wearing an ox-blood red dress and black shoes.
She takes a puff of her cigarette, and regards me silently through the smoke before she takes the box and moves back to allow me to enter. While she closes and locks the door, I look around the apartment, but I do not move from the spot that I am in. I never move from one room to the next without letting her know. Everything is the way it was when I was last here two years ago.
“Should you be smoking?”
“Don’t nag.”
“The doctor said—”
“Oh for God’s sake, stop nagging. I’m an old woman now. I should be able to have a cigarette now and again if I want to.”
I exhale slowly. My mother is right. I shouldn’t have said anything.
“Come in and make yourself comfortable. There is a pot of rabbit stew on the stove if you want it.”
I wonder where she gets her rabbit from now. Papa used to bring them home. He would insert his whole arm down holes in the ground and pull out struggling rabbits. Sometimes they were too scared to make a sound, but sometimes they screamed with fear. I always hated it when I saw him do it. I shake my head. “I’m not hungry.”
“No, you never liked rabbit, did you? Oh well, I’m having a glass of red wine. Care to join me?”
I shake my head agai
n. It’s too early to drink. She walks towards the living room, and I follow her silently. She sits in her green armchair and I take a seat on the couch opposite her.
She lifts her glass and takes a sip. “You look well. Life must be good.”
I chew at my bottom lip. “It’s not bad.”
“Hmmm …” She pins me with a hard look. “So what are you doing in England?”
“I’m …” God, I can’t believe I never thought up a reason for my presence here.
Her eyes narrow to suspicious slits.
“I’m here with Thorne,” I say truthfully.
She frowns. “I thought you stopped working for him two years ago.”
Hot blood runs up my throat and cheeks. “I’m not here in a professional capacity.”
My mother smiles slowly. “Ah, hence the expensive clothes.” She draws deeply from her cigarette. “I’m happy for you, don’t get me wrong, but don’t you think he might be toying with you?”
I swallow hard. “Probably. I don’t expect it to last.”
She looks out of the dusty window. “Yes, it’s good to have fun while your breasts are still unaffected by gravity.” She turns back to look at me. “You in London long?”
“Maybe three months, maybe less,” I say.
“Your grandmother is very ill. She asked about you the other day. You should visit her.” My mother stares at me.
What am I doing here? The walls feel like they’re closing in on us. I can smell that stale smell of cigarette smoke and old sweat. I clear my throat. “I can send her some money if she needs it.”
“She’s dying, Chelsea. What’s she going to do with money? She just wants to see you before she leaves.”
“Send her my regards.” My voice sounds hard and cold.
“Does he know?” my mother asks.
“Does who know what?” I ask, frowning.
She gives me a look that I cannot fathom. “That you stole his money.”
I look away and nod. Suddenly my focus is on finding a way to escape. Talking to my mother always feels like I’m navigating a minefield.