ANNA

WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 7, 2013
MORNING
I was with the National Childbirth Trust girls atStarbucks when it happened. We were sitting in ourusual spot by the window, the kids were spreading Lego all over the floor, Beth was trying (yet again) topersuade me to join her book club, and then Dianeshowed up. She had this look on her face, theself-importance of someone who is about to deliver apiece of particularly juicy gossip. She could barelycontain herself as she struggled to get her doublebuggy through the door.
“Anna,” she said, her face grave, “have you seenthis?” She held up a newspaper with the headlineWAS MEGAN A CHILD KILLER? I was speechless. I juststared at it and, ridiculously, burst into tears. Eviewas horrified. She howled. It was awful.
I went to the loos to clean myself (and Evie) up,and when I got back they were all speaking inhushed tones. Diane glanced slyly up at me andasked, “Are you all right, sweetie?” She was enjoyingit, I could tell.
I had to leave then, I couldn’t stay. They were allbeing terribly concerned, saying how awful it must befor me, but I could see it on their faces: thinlydisguised disapproval. How could you entrust yourchild to that monster? You must be the worstmother in the world.
I tried to call Tom on the way home, but his phonejust went straight to voice mail. I left him a messageto ring me back as soon as possible—I tried to keepmy voice light and even, but I was trembling and mylegs felt shaky, unsteady.
I didn’t buy the paper, but I couldn’t resist readingthe story online. It all sounds rather vague. “Sourcesclose to the Hipwell investigation” claim an allegationhas been made that Megan “may have been involvedin the unlawful killing of her own child” ten yearsago. The “sources” also speculate that this could be amotive for her murder. The detective in charge ofthe whole investigation—Gaskill, the one who came tospeak to us after she went missing—made nocomment.
Tom rang me back—he was in between meetings,he couldn’t come home. He tried to placate me, hemade all the right noises, he told me it was probablya load of rubbish anyway. “You know you can’tbelieve half the stuff they print in the newspapers.” Ididn’t make too much of a fuss, because he was theone who suggested she come and help out with Eviein the first place. He must be feeling horrible.
And he’s right. It may not even be true. But whowould come up with a story like that? Why wouldyou make up a thing like that? And I can’t helpthinking, I knew. I always knew there was somethingoff about that woman. At first I just thought she wasa bit immature, but it was more than that, she wassort of absent. Self-involved. I’m not going to lie—I’mglad she’s gone. Good riddance.
EVENING
I’m upstairs, in the bedroom. Tom’s watching TVwith Evie. We’re not talking. It’s my fault. He walkedin the door and I just went for him.
I was building up to it all day. I couldn’t help it,couldn’t hide from it, she was everywhere I looked.
Here, in my house, holding my child, feeding her,changing her, playing with her while I was taking anap. I kept thinking of all the times I left Evie alonewith her, and it made me sick.
And then the paranoia came, that feeling I’ve hadalmost all the time I’ve lived in this house, of beingwatched. At first, I used to put it down to the trains.
All those faceless bodies staring out of the windows,staring right across at us, it gave me the creeps. Itwas one of the many reasons why I didn’t want tomove in here in the first place, but Tom wouldn’tleave. He said we’d lose money on the sale.
At first the trains, and then Rachel. Rachel watchingus, turning up on the street, calling us up all thetime. And then even Megan, when she was herewith Evie: I always felt she had half an eye on me,as though she were assessing me, assessing myparenting, judging me for not being able to cope onmy own. Ridiculous, I know. Then I think about thatday when Rachel came to the house and took Evie,and my whole body goes cold and I think, I’m notbeing ridiculous at all.
So by the time Tom came home, I was spoiling fora fight. I issued an ultimatum: we have to leave,there’s no way I can stay in this house, on this road,knowing everything that has gone on here.
Everywhere I look now I have to see not onlyRachel, but Megan, too. I have to think abouteverything she touched. It’s too much. I said I didn’tcare whether we got a good price for the house ornot.
“You will care when we’re forced to live in a muchworse place, when we can’t make our mortgagepayments,” he said, perfectly reasonably. I askedwhether he couldn’t ask his parents to help out—theyhave plenty of money—but he said he wouldn’t askthem, that he’d never ask them for anything again,and he got angry then, said he didn’t want to talkabout it anymore. It’s because of how his parentstreated him when he left Rachel for me. I shouldn’teven have mentioned them, it always pisses him off.
But I can’t help it. I feel desperate, because nowevery time I close my eyes I see her, sitting there atthe kitchen table with Evie on her lap. She’d beplaying with her and smiling and chattering, but itnever seemed real, it never seemed as if she reallywanted to be there. She always seemed so happy tobe handing Evie back to me when it was time forher to go. It was almost as though she didn’t likethe feel of a child in her arms.