‘Oh God, Grace. Thank you so much for being you, for not letting me sit here getting myself into a complete pickle.’
I wipe at my eyes, noticing that our glasses are empty. Before she can refuse, I refill them to the brim, determined to go through both the bottles that I had chilling. I rarely drink alone. This is an opportunity to talk freely, forget about everything and simply get drunk without the usual solitude nudging its way in. I have a new friend and we are talking openly and laughing and reminiscing and it feels good. It’s long overdue.
‘You know,’ she says, her composure returning as she tucks her feet up under her bottom and shuffles into a more comfortable position, ‘I was always in awe of you and your family, how you just got on with everything after it happened. You came across as so strong, so determined to keep going despite what you had all been through.’
I try to think back to that time but my memories are dim. It happened such a long time ago. I was only six years old. Simon was eight. I want to remember more about it, to re-ignite that period of my life and put all the pieces together in my brain but it’s so difficult, swathes of dark clouds obscuring everything.
‘I suppose we just had to get on with it, really. No other option. What do you remember about Simon?’ I also rearrange myself into a more comfortable spot, ready to hear Carrie’s thoughts and recollections. Anything she says might help me to remember. Because I do want to. Unlike Kim, I’m not prepared to shut it all away. I’m here, living in the place where it all happened. I need to know.
‘He was a cute kid. I loved it when you used to come and play in our garden. Not that I joined in that much. I was unbelievably shy and if I’m being honest, a bit jealous of you all.’
The wine almost chokes me, a cold trail of it landing in the base of my stomach. ‘Jealous? Of what?’
Carrie laughs, a smudge of pink spreading over her face, down her neck, settling on her breastbone. ‘The fact that you had each other. Like my own daughter, I was an only child, nobody to play with, nobody to share things with. I always swore that when I grew up, I would have a houseful of kids but of course, that never happened.’
This time, I do squeeze her hand, the barriers that only seconds ago kept us apart, now dissolving.
‘And Simon, what do I remember about him? Oh, gosh. Some memories are more vivid than others, and of course he was in my class at school, wasn’t he?’
It’s my turn to feel a flush creep up my face. I wasn’t aware they were in the same class as each other but of course that makes sense. Carrie is a year or so older than me, the same age as Simon. The same age he would have been. I can say that to myself now because it’s obvious that he is dead. If not, then where has he been for the last forty-odd years? I repeat the phrase over and over in my head. Simon is dead. Simon is dead. If I allow myself to think that, then everything seems so much easier to handle. It’s the unknown, the what ifs, the entire mystery that surrounds his disappearance that makes me ill at ease. Sometimes, it’s as if I am waiting for him to walk back in the room, to smile and greet me as if nothing has happened. No passing of time.
‘He was a sweet boy, very gentle. Withdrawn on occasions as I recall. Am I okay saying that?’ She catches my eye, her head dipped slightly.
I nod and smile, willing her to go on. I want to know everything about him. Everything.
‘It’s weird, actually,’ she says, her voice suddenly energetic, as if she has been waiting a long time to speak about it to somebody who will understand, ‘because there was one particular memory that didn’t come to me until quite a few years ago, a good while after he went missing. I never really believed in repressed memories but it happened when Beth was younger and suffered with night terrors. It sprang into my mind and has never left me since.’
I suck in my breath, waiting, hoping she will reveal something about Simon that will help me restore the full version of him in my head, the brother I am struggling to remember. I don’t speak for fear of losing the moment. Instead, I sit and wait, my heartbeat a steady, solid metronome in my chest, my flesh prickling with anticipation.
‘I’m not exactly sure of the timeline but I think it happened a few months or maybe a few weeks before he disappeared. We were in class writing about what we liked and didn’t like, or something along those lines. I can’t really remember the exact lesson obviously, but what I do remember was what Simon said as he read his out to the rest of the class.’
She takes a drink, unaware of how on edge I am, of how every muscle, every fibre and sinew in my body is tensed, stretched like cat gut while I wait for her to continue. This may be something, it may be nothing, but what I do know for sure is that I need to hear it.
‘He said that he liked football and playing out with his friends, the usual stuff. But then he told everyone that he was frightened of somebody called The Midnight Child. He said he was terrified that The Midnight Child was going to come into his room and take him away.’
Perspiration breaks out on my top lip. I have no idea what this means but I can tell by Carrie’s face that she thinks little or nothing of it, that it was simply the musings of a young child with a vivid imagination.
‘Could it have been linked to him going missing, do you think?’ I say, my breathing suddenly difficult and onerous, a large bubble of air trapped in my chest. I drain my glass, needing the effects the alcohol will bring, the blurring of the edges, the numbing of my thoughts. The switching off of the fear that has lain dormant in me for almost all of my life.
‘Linked?’ Her eyebrows shoot up, her mouth shaped into a small O. ‘Oh my goodness, I shouldn’t think so. In fact, I’m almost certain it wasn’t. It was the awful coincidence of it that jarred in my mind. No,’ she murmurs, smiling at me, her eyes twinkling with what – sympathy? Happiness? Relief at having finally spoken about it? ‘It can’t possibly have been linked, can it?’
‘Really?’ I say, aware that my voice is a squeak, like the cry of a startled animal. ‘Why not?’
She puts down her glass and tips her head at me, a quizzical expression in her eyes. ‘Why not? Don’t you remember?’ Her voice softens a fraction, as if she is speaking to a timid child, one who is confused, unable to understand the words being put to them. ‘Because it was you, Grace. That was what they used to call you. It was your nickname. You were the one who scared him. You were The Midnight Child.’
8
I am lying in bed, the memory of Carrie and how her words left me winded as if all the air had been sucked out of the room, still in the forefront of my mind. And then her face when she realised my distress, her repeated apologies and then the memory of how she had to take my glass from me and place it to one side, like a carer with a patient who had become overtired and overwrought, unable to control their own emotions. It swallows everything, the image of her crestfallen expression, blocking out all logic and common sense in my head. I’m not sure I can bear to think about it, how upset I was, how embarrassing the entire situation became. My lack of control. My stricken expression. How I could hardly stand as I walked beside her to the door, my legs liquid, my guts churning like molten lava.
She left shortly afterwards, genuinely perplexed by my reaction, telling me it simply wasn’t possible that Simon’s fear of me was linked to his disappearance. I was a young child, she had said, a small, young child who was incapable of harming a boy who was older than me. It was all just a terrible coincidence, she had insisted before reiterating how awful she felt for mentioning it at all.
‘It was a stupid, thoughtless thing for me to say,’ she had said as we stood on the doorstep. Carrie red-faced, her manner jumpy and nervous, brought on by both the wine and the recollection of Simon. Of me. Me, The Midnight Child. And what I possibly did.
‘Grace. I’m really sorry.’ And she was. She was utterly ingenuous, convinced she had ruined a perfectly lovely evening. She didn’t ruin it at all. I did that with my reaction, my inability to handle the conversation. I am an adult, still trapped in my childhood years, forever dragged to the past. I asked, begged her for her memories, her recollections and images from the past and then couldn’t handle them when they surfaced.
I reassured her that it was perfectly fine and that I was over it even though my innards felt as if they were on fire, my bones as heavy as lead. Everything felt forced. Contrived. And it possibly would have been fine had the incident with the fox not taken place days earlier. The dead body in the garden. The blood. Me covered in it; crimson streaks smeared up my arms, over my legs and face. Her father seeing me outside in the early hours of the morning. The thought of that night had slammed into me as I listened to Carrie tell me that my own brother was frightened of me. That he was scared I would take him away. Perhaps I did? Perhaps something terrible happened and I’ve somehow blocked it all out?
I shiver, suppressing a sob. A shadow slinks around the back of my brain. How could I have not remembered such a thing? Was I even aware of it then? Am I aware of it now? There is a memory skulking about in the back of my mind but it is vague, elusive, refusing to reveal itself despite me trying to beckon it out of the shadows. Me, The Midnight Child. That title. That name. The bouts of sleepwalking. And now it’s happening again. History is repeating itself now that I’m back living at Woodburn Cottage. I have stirred up something from the past, opened up a Pandora’s Box of family secrets and I have no idea how to stuff everything back inside and lock it again.
The bed is cold as I turn over and curl up into a ball, my knees tucked up into my chest. I don’t want to think about it any more. And yet I do. I can’t just forget about this thing, allow it to fester in the recesses of my brain. It needs to be brought out into the open, teased and enticed out of its hiding place. Tomorrow, I will give Kim a call, speak to her about it. No matter how reluctant she is, I will demand she start being more open about our past. It was my childhood. Simon was – still is – my brother. Our brother. Whatever took place in this house, I have a right to know.
I’m standing in front of the garden shed, the cool breeze winding itself around my ankles, gliding against my bare calves, the flesh on my upper arms puckered in resistance to the cold. I blink, stare around. Everything is blurred, my vision marred by exhaustion and the darkness. An owl hoots in the distance, its call echoing through the night sky. Above, the inky blackness is punctuated with a smattering of stars, pinpricks of light that twinkle and glisten, forcing me to hang onto the fence for balance. My perspective is skewed, the darkness and the silence making me dizzy. I crane my neck, tilting my head upwards to stare at the sky, at the moon, the stars. I feel as if I can reach out and grab them, hold them tightly in my palm like diamonds, their weight and solidity anchoring me to this house, to this moment.
If I stand here for long enough, I am sure I can cast my mind back to all those years ago, force myself to remember my childlike nocturnal wanderings. They’re in there somewhere, my memories of that time, tucked away in a dusty corner of my brain. Very little has changed in this house. Aside from my efforts at cleaning up the old place and giving it a lick of paint, the design of the building is still the same as it was when I was a child. No internal walls knocked through to allow for more space, no patio doors, no sweeping extension with skylights and an expansive view out onto the back garden. It’s still the same ancient cottage with Georgian windows and uneven, flagstone flooring.
The only difference is that Woodburn Cottage, many, many years ago used to be two houses, built for local farm workers. Most properties nearby now resemble this one – two abodes knocked into one bigger house, making them more appealing to families. And the garden is almost the same. This shed, the old coalhouse, the shape of the lawn – it’s as I remember it from when I was a child. It’s being here that has triggered it, the sleepwalking. Of that I am certain. The familiarity of the place has unearthed something in my mind, the shifting sands of time calling me, making me cast my mind back to that time, to that night when Simon went missing from his bed, the one place where he should have been safe and yet wasn’t.
The police at the time, after investigating and finding no evidence to the contrary, went with the theory that he took himself off for a late-night walk and got lost. What sort of child would do such a thing? It’s silly. Unthinkable. Simon was a quiet boy, a gentle boy. Not the sort of lad to go off on adventures on his own in the dark. The police got it all wrong, of that I am certain. I don’t remember the details of their investigation but I do recall it being over with in what felt like no time at all. Perhaps my woolly memory and the passing of the years have made me view things differently. Perhaps they did all they could to find Simon. Or perhaps they put it down to misadventure and closed the case due to lack of evidence with the notion that boys will be boys and he probably deserved everything he got, wandering off on his own like that.
The breeze picks up, the noise of it in the tree forcing me out of my thoughts. I blink, rub at my eyes and head back inside, locking the door behind me. I should have done what I promised I would do and hidden the key from myself. Tomorrow, I will do just that. I will tuck it away somewhere safe. Somewhere I won’t think to look when I am confused and blinded by sleep.
My feet are freezing as I pad upstairs, longing for the warmth and comfort of my bed. After Warren died, I used to dread night-times, slipping in between the sheets knowing he wasn’t there and that I would have to lie alone, cold and miserable, but as the months passed, I grew accustomed to it. Now I long for a night where I remain asleep. I long to wake and find my body still in the same position as when I climbed into bed; not find myself standing in the garden or – worse still – out in the middle of the main road in the early hours with no memory of how I got there.
The bed is still marginally warm as I climb back in. I’m glad I haven’t been outside for too long and I am more than a little relieved that there were no dead animals laid at my feet.
Simon’s face merges with Carrie’s words as I slip into a fitful sleep, waking every hour or so before eventually falling into a deep and welcome slumber.
