Seven Days. Alex Lake
ill, or slip and fall, and then what? By the time they got to her and Max they might have starved.
If Max was still here then. It might be another two-year-old, unknowingly awaiting removal as soon as his third birthday arrived.
Max leaned forward, resting his face against her chest. He had always loved the feel of bare skin; often in the morning he would lie awake on top of her, his torso pressed to hers. She wondered why it felt so good to him. Perhaps he was listening to the sounds of her body, sounds he remembered in some dim way from his time in her womb.
‘Mummy,’ he said. ‘Can I have a story?’
Maggie kissed his head. The soft curls of his hair brushed her cheek.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘About Superman? Since you’re wearing your Superman undies?’
He shook his head. His eyes were closing. ‘About the light beam,’ he said.
‘Ah,’ Maggie replied. ‘The beam of light. Our magical beam of light. Our beautiful beam of light. Is that the story you want?’
Max nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Then you can have it.’ She paused, wondering where to start. A few months back she had started telling him a story about a beam of light that had a special property: you could ride on it and it could take you, in an instant, to places far, far away. They had ridden it to visit kangaroos in the Australian outback and beaches on the Australian coast, to experience snow-capped mountains and winter storms in Antarctica, to shop in frantic markets in Thailand where you could buy anything you wanted, to marvel at giant skyscrapers in America and to stare in awe at ancient civilizations hidden in deep jungles. They had gone to meet Harry Potter at Hogwarts, and to stroke Aslan in Narnia and to ride with the hobbits and elves of Middle Earth. Maggie saw no reason to exclude those places – some of the most magical of her childhood – from the adventures.
Today, she decided, they were going into the cosmos.
‘So,’ she said. ‘The beam of light—’
‘Mummy,’ he said, suddenly. ‘Am I a beautiful boy?’
‘Yes,’ Maggie replied. ‘Of course. That’s why I tell you so often.’
‘You’re a beautiful mummy,’ he said.
Maggie blinked, tears springing to her eyes. All parents probably marvelled at the things their children picked up, the words they came back from nursery or kindergarten or school with, the games they learned from their friends, the interests they developed out in the world. Max did not have any of those things, but even he made connections on his own. She had never asked him to call her beautiful, never explained why that would be a nice thing to do, but, somehow, his infant brain had understood that this person who loved him and who he loved used a word to describe him and so it would be nice to use it about them.
It showed that all her stories were working.
‘Close your eyes,’ she murmured, holding him against her and speaking into his hair. ‘Here comes the beam of light.’
He snuggled closer to her. ‘I don’t see it,’ he said.
‘That’s because it’s invisible,’ she replied. ‘But it’s here.’ She made a small jumping motion. ‘We’re on board,’ she said. ‘Hold on tight!’
She pursed her lips and made the noise of rushing air.
‘Oh my,’ she said. ‘We’re going very high. I can see the clouds already. Everything’s so small down below.’ She paused. ‘I think, Max – I think we’re going into space.’
His eyes blinked open. ‘Space?’ he said. ‘Is space scary?’
‘No,’ Maggie replied. ‘It’s beautiful. And so quiet. Look – there’s the Earth, below us. You can see the oceans and the continents. You remember Australia – there it is. And over there’ – she pointed to the door, watching as Max’s gaze followed her finger – ‘there’s the moon.’
It was incredible to see how easily he slipped into make-believe. In his mind, the room really was transformed into space, although exactly what he thought space was she had no idea. She remembered doing the same in her own childhood. She had gone through a spell when she was obsessed with some He-Man and She-Ra dolls her dad had bought for her. She had played with them for hours, inventing all kinds of scenarios and stories in which they were rescued from danger or won battles or made and broke friendships. She had really believed in them.
And for Max the moon and stars and Narnia were just as real as anything else. As far as he was concerned, Warrington Town Centre was as remote and exotic as the moon. They both existed only in his mind.
‘Look,’ she said. ‘There’s the man in the moon.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘He lives on the moon. You can see his face on a dark night.’
Max looked at her. ‘Can I see it tonight?’
Maggie tried to smile. ‘You have to be outside.’
‘Oh,’ Max said. ‘Outside.’
Outside was a place Max had heard of, but never been. For him it was a bit like space, or Hogwarts, or Narnia.
‘We can see him in our imagination, though,’ Maggie said. ‘There he is!’
‘What’s he doing?’ Max asked.
‘He’s digging up some moon rocks to eat,’ Maggie said.
‘He eats rocks?’
‘The moon is made of green cheese. That’s what he eats.’
‘Where’s his mummy?’ Max asked.
Maggie’s answer caught in her throat. He hadn’t asked where are his friends or where is his brother, but where’s his mummy. It was an unwelcome reminder of the smallness of his life.
‘She’s at his moon house,’ Maggie said. ‘She loves him very much.’
‘I love you very much,’ Max said, his eyes nearly closed. ‘And I want to go back to the moon.’
He was starting to fall asleep, his body relaxing. Maggie kissed him on the forehead as his breathing deepened.
‘I love you too,’ she whispered. ‘More than you will ever know.’
Maggie was nearly asleep when she heard him coming. She always knew he was on his way; there was a kind of scraping noise, like rock or steel grinding, which she assumed was a door of some kind hiding the entrance to the stairs that led to the room.
She had imagined it many times since the first time she had heard it. Was it a manhole cover in the corner of his garage? Or a heavy stone in his garden? Or a thick wooden cover hidden at the back of a wardrobe? She had no idea; all she knew was that, twenty or so seconds after she heard the noise it made when he moved it, the door to the room would open, and he would be there.
He came every morning, with breakfast, and every afternoon with dinner. It was how she knew the days were passing for her calendar.
And sometimes he came at night. It was when he brought things she needed. Fresh clothes. Cleaning supplies. A new toothbrush.
And when he wore the blue bathrobe. He never took it off. He just undid the belt and let it fall apart and then made her lie face down while he did what he did.
After he’d raped her he would often stare at her, silent and impassive. She had the impression he was waiting for her to say something, but she never had anything to say. All she wanted was for him to leave her alone.
Now, though, three or four days could go by without him showing up at night. She