I ran to open the door but the handle was so hot it burnt my hand, so it took me several goes. When I opened it there was smoke everywhere in the hallway. I started coughing, trying to see my way to Luke’s room. I just panicked and tried to get to him, but it was like a wall of fire in the hallway. I just couldn’t get through, and the flames were forcing me back. I was coughing, and could hardly see for the smoke and I got badly burned but I’d have died before I gave up. I somehow got in and ran to the cot, lifting Luke up. The smoke was so thick, and I went to the window in his room, struggling but eventually opening it.
Someone had already called the fire brigade and a ladder was put up to the window. Very soon a fire officer appeared there. He took Luke first, and then came back for me. When I was on the ground I saw that they had placed Luke on some makeshift mattress on the floor, and that they were giving him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, pressing his chest. I screamed. I couldn’t stop.
An ambulance arrived, and they sat me in it, putting a blanket over me and trying to calm me down, but I just couldn’t stop shaking. They explained that Luke was already dead when I handed him to the fire officer. The smoke had killed my son, probably before I even woke up.
Statement of Dominic Hatcher Age – Over 18
During the day my wife, Emma, and I had been out. We left our son Luke with Rose Wilks. She has babysat for him several times before.
Our trip out was not a success, and we came home following an argument. I don’t want to go into detail about what the argument was about, but I accused my wife of having an affair.
Because of the argument I packed a bag and spent the night at the school. I am the deputy head, and there are rooms for the staff on night duty, so I sometimes sleep there.
At around 5.30a.m. I was woken by a police officer, who had arrived at the school to tell me that there had been a fire at my home. I was told that my wife and son were at the hospital, and was taken there.
At the hospital I was taken to a room where Emma was being comforted by nursing and police staff. Just looking at her face, I knew that Luke was dead.
Black Book Entry
In our flat the emptiness smothered me, and sitting in the nursery left me desolate. When I was home I longed to be with Luke, with the comfort of his baby smells, the sight and touch of new life. I had become Emma’s best friend, and she was glad of my visits, glad to share the drudge of changing nappies, the messy feeding, the rocking to sleep, the general boredom of having a baby. She would tut when he pooed and groan when he posited. She found Luke to be a burden.
The best moments came when Emma was called to the phone or went to make lunch, and Luke and I were alone. Emma was always happy to leave the room and make herself busy elsewhere. He was always so peaceful in my arms. In those moments he was my little boy.
You saw that I was getting better, didn’t you? I was recovering. You saw the clean flat and that I’d neatened myself up and thought I was back to normal again. You asked breezy questions about how I’d spent my day, who I’d seen. I said I’d become good friends with a woman I’d met in hospital. Of course I never said anymore than that. I never told you her name.
That evening I put on the silky red camisole. It was tight on my bust, and across my back, but the silk was smooth and sensual, and the faint aroma of a spring orchard made me feel nice. I closed my eyes and imagined I was pretty. I imagined that you loved me.
I wanted to know more about her, the woman who had been your wife and lover. Whose son lived when mine died. I wondered what my life would be like if she hadn’t left you. If you were still together, a happy family with beautiful children. I would still be alone and unloved. The idea haunted me. All I wanted was what most people take for granted: a family.
Emma had everything I didn’t, and she wasted it all. She would moan and say how tired she was, and even went to the doctor for sleeping tablets. It seemed wrong to me, her taking sleeping tablets when Luke might cry out, need her in the night. Sometimes she ran out of baby milk or nappies and had to dash to the local shops for more. And she fed Luke from jars. If he were mine I’d have bought the freshest vegetables to cook and mash.
Dominic cast a shadow over our friendship.
He was the kind of man who people say has ‘authority’. He was a lot older than Emma, but I imagine that even when he was younger he commanded respect. Not exactly tall, he stood very upright, as if to attention. His hair was white and thick, a neat conservative style, cropped short over the ears, and his eyes were like two blue pools. I bet the kids at his school were terrified of him. But despite his austere good looks, it was when he spoke that I understood why Emma left you for him. It was never a choice I would have made, but I could see his appeal, especially to a woman like Emma. Every opinion was a fact, he was so sure of everything. And weak people admire arrogance. They think it’s strength.
If he were at home when I visited he’d watch me as I held Luke, even though I came round most days and Luke always smiled to see me. I could tell Dominic was suspicious from his snide comments, his sneaky glances. I worried that he thought I visited too much, and although it was agony I did manage to stay away for a few days at a time. I tried to avoid being there when he was home, but it wasn’t always easy, as he would pop home at odd hours.
He looked at me carefully; as if I was a puzzle he couldn’t quite figure out. A crossword with one clue missing. He didn’t see that we were the same. I never liked him, but I understood his jealousy. If he caught me there, I left quickly. I had to stay away until I was certain it was safe to go back.
Then I came up with the solution.
A way to love Luke, to keep an eye on Emma, and without any interference from Dominic Hatcher.
I’d been in Emma’s house enough times to know that the back door key was kept on a tiny hook on the wall at the rear of the kitchen. I knew that the key wouldn’t be missed if I were quick about returning it.
It was easy enough to take, a simple task of slipping it into my jeans pocket. For the first time I was eager to leave the house. I drove back to the supermarket where Emma had found me, and had a second key cut in the little shop there. I trembled as I watched the young assistant make my copy. Key rings were for sale on the counter and I chose one. It was inscribed: Home is where the Heart is.
I needed to return the original key quickly. The longer I waited the more chance there was of it being missed, so early the next morning I rang Emma.
“Rose,” she said when she heard my trembling voice, “you sound awful. What’s wrong?”
“I want to ask you a favour. Just say if you don’t want to...” I let the sentence trail off.
“You know I’ll do anything I can.”
I paused, and then said in a rush, “It’s three months today since Joel died.”
“Oh God, Rose, I’m so sorry.” She sounded sincere. I also heard her relief that it was my grief and not hers.
“I want to visit his grave, but I don’t think I can face it alone.” I let a second’s silence pass. “Would you come with me?”
How could she refuse such a request? She couldn’t. “What time shall I meet you ?”
A quarter of an hour had passed since I made the telephone call, and I sat in my car at the end of her road, watching her pull out of her driveway. I planned to arrive at the cemetery after her, when I would explain how difficult it was for me to get into my car to make the journey. I would tell her I’d stood in my flat for ages, trying to muster enough strength.
Instead I moved, quickly as a cat, on a journey that took me out of my car, along the street, then down the side passage and to her back door. My heart raced as I held my key. I remember as a child I would build nests with my mum under the duvet, our den, our mini-home to feel safe in, a place to hide. Emma’s home was now my nest. The feeling was so strange and powerful. My life had been out of my control since Joel died, but now I was taking it back.
I looked around, then slid the key in the lock and carefully turned it. The click of the lock being opened was like the approval of heaven, or some such place. I moved quickly inside, replacing the original key back on its hook and rubbed my copy between my right thumb and index finger. Emma shared her home with me now. I should have left for the cemetery, where Emma would be waiting, but I couldn’t resist going further.
My pilgrimage began in the kitchen, through to the hall. Rather than climbing the stairs I went to a room I didn’t know well. The front room. Emma had never taken me there. I noticed the absence of toys; this room was for adults only. The back wall was flanked by a massive bookshelf, weighed down by books of all sizes and colours. Ornaments and knick-knacks, some Russian dolls and an oriental fan decorated the spaces, but my eyes were drawn to the spines of books, mostly by writers I hadn’t read. I wondered if Dominic read them for pleasure; they must be his books since he was the teacher. There were a few books on dancing. She was a dance student when she met you, Jason, when you worked behind the Arts College bar. My biggest achievement, after Joel, was making you want me, after having had her.
But then I spied something that did interest me: photo albums. A whole shelf of them, neatly labelled by year. I took the one at the end and read its label: Luke’s first year. It was only half full; empty pages waiting for memories.
I turned the pages greedily. There were pictures of Emma, one of her heavily pregnant, wearing a party dress and holding a fluted glass of something. It must have been taken on New Year’s Eve. Onto the next page, and my heart was pumping fast. Here was Luke, just born, in a hospital crib. As I flicked the pages over he got bigger and fatter and then, at around six weeks old, a smile immortalised forever, his hair curled and golden. I took this photo from the album and slipped it into my pocket, careful not to crease it.
I remembered the photos of your wedding, hidden in her underwear drawer. What else had she kept of that day? I was like a dog following a scent.
I made my way upstairs and went immediately to the spare room.
This was the room where I’d helped her to store the outgrown baby clothes. As she’d regained her figure, I’d watched her fold her maternity clothes neatly and stow them away in this room, anticipating another baby at some future point. There was a cupboard over the narrow wardrobe, and I had to move a chair towards it to reach up. I was quick, knowing Emma would be at the cemetery, tussling Luke from the car seat into the buggy as she prepared to meet me.
The cupboard clicked open and I saw Christmas wrapping paper, tinsel and a leather overnight bag. Further back was a long white box and I knew that I had found what I was looking for. I wanted to snatch at it but I needed to be careful not to mess up the neatly stacked cupboard. I eased my fingers beyond the glittering tinsel and pulled at the box until it slid free.
Once it was safe on the floor I lifted the lid, tearing the thin tissue in my excitement.
My hands caressed pure white silk, slippery smooth under my fingertips. The dress from the wedding photographs. Emma’s wedding dress when she married you.
I removed my clothes, quickly, yanking my sweater over my head, pulling off my jeans, until I was just in my knickers and the red camisole. I lifted the dress, the weight of silk was heavy across my arm, and unzipped the back, stepping into the sea of white. The arms were tight, and I had to pull firmly to get the dress to my shoulder. It squashed me across the chest, and I couldn’t do the zip, but at least it was on. I lifted the train and went to the bedroom, where there was a full-length mirror.
Walking along the hall I played with the thought of being a bride, stepping slowly, smiling left and right. The red camisole under the white dress, both made me feel pretty. Like a bride. I stopped in front of the mirror. I looked ghastly. The dress was too tight, too slim, and its colour drained me. I looked lumpy and pale, my eyes unnaturally dark, my hair thick and lanky. I looked like a freak, some horrific mockery of a bride. Yelling in anguish, I unzipped the dress, pulling it off, flinging it to the floor.
I took the key from my pocket and slashed the beautiful fabric. The silk frayed easily. Slash, slash, her past, my present – with the same man.
When the dress was in tatters, I carefully folded it, sleeve over sleeve, silk to silk. I wrapped it into the delicate tissue paper and put it back into the box. Slowly, I carried the box back to the wardrobe, pushing it back into place.
Joel’s grave was in a modern plot, large and flat, and had a simple headstone. It still looked painfully new. The flowers on the grave were dead and brittle. I couldn’t bear to come often.
Emma saw me approach, and stood up from Luke’s pushchair, walking towards me. Her face was puffy and she wiped her eyes with a tissue. She cradled me in her arms. I prayed that she wouldn’t start crying and I could feel my anger boiling. She had no right to tears.
My heart had not stopped racing since I’d torn her wedding dress, and she seemed to recognise something hectic in my eyes. “Oh, Rose.” I felt her lips on my cheek and smelt her mint-fresh breath. “I’d do anything to take your pain away.”
Not knowing that by giving me her home she already had. “Looking after Luke helps me,” I said. “Just let me babysit sometimes.”
We stood silently together by Joel’s grave for about ten minutes, but it felt longer. She didn’t know what to say to me, or whether to speak at all. She fidgeted with Luke, adjusting his hat, giving him a dummy. I moved forward, towards the white headstone. I knelt on the fresh soil and traced the inscription with my finger.
Joel Clark
Taken by the Angels
“Oh!” she said, surprised. “My surname used to be Clark, before I re-married.”
“It’s a common name.” I said.
It had been important to me that Joel carried your name. It tied us together.