‘There aren’t any gnomes in this garden,’ I whisper.
None.
A car passes slowly and I find myself forcing my back against the house and standing still. Giggles take over and I have to shove my fist in my mouth to keep myself quiet. Her head leans forward and scans the road, and she then does some weird army movements with her hands which I take to mean we have the all clear. We continue to snoop around the garden when a pair of eyes staring straight at me stop me short. The eyes in question are peering at me from over the fence. They are bespectacled and are resting above a white beard.
‘We’re in the wrong garden!’ Kerry exclaims.
‘Shush!’
I eye the gnome warily and tiptoe back out through the gate and into the adjoining garden. Square green lawn. Pots of flowers. And gnomes. Everywhere. This can’t be Nessa’s house, surely? But then I think about the way that Erica got pretty much whatever she liked: maybe she decided on gnomes for the garden and wouldn’t take no for an answer? They all stare at me as I close the gate, tracking my progress along the path, silently judging me beneath their red cone hats. One gnome in particular catches my eye; he is a grumpy gnome holding a sign that says ‘Go Away’. I swallow hard and tiptoe past him, launching him a challenging glance over my shoulder. Kerry and I continue to search for the whereabouts of the fishing gnome, giving cursory glances at a gnome leaning against a toadstool, the one dismissively smoking a pipe, taking care to step over the happy gnome couple smiling at each other, until I rest my eyes on the back of the gnome who had peered at me from over the fence.
Kerry does her army moves again. I creep over towards it, turn it slowly around to face me; the effect is like something out of The Exorcist.
‘Gnome-or-sist.’ Kerry sniggers.
The key is hanging from the end of the fishing rod, resting inside a clay fisherman’s net. A security light beams from the side of the house. I grab the gnome and crouch behind a rose bush until the light fades, whilst trying not to laugh out loud at the ridiculousness of the situation I have found myself in. The gnome is clearly an expert fisherman and it takes me some time to untangle its silvery haul.
As I catch my breath, I take in the immaculate borders around the garden, the pottery squirrels, the oversized butterflies attached to the brick. This can’t be Nessa’s house. I check my phone for the address again, as I slow my breathing and realise that I’m right: Nessa’s is the house that I had originally gone to, the one with the overgrown garden. I dodge the security light’s beam and run through the gate, the gnome watching our retreat with its catch of the day resting firmly in my palm.
I turn the key over and look over to the darkened windows of the house, wondering how to handle this. I can’t just go in; it would scare the child to death. I ring Nessa’s phone, but there is no answer; I swallow down my annoyance as I follow the overgrown path towards the door. A light flicks on inside the lounge, the yellowy haze framing the curtains, letting in uneven arcs of light. The curtain pulls to the side, framing Erica’s face. I wave and smile as if I’m just popping around for a playdate. The key eases into the lock and releases a yellow oblong of light onto the step surrounding Erica’s small body.
I bend down and meet her eyes. Gone is the angry expression and taunting face that I last saw; instead here is a very vulnerable little girl. Instinct guides my actions; it doesn’t need much thought. I bring her frail body into my embrace.
‘It’s OK, I’m here,’ I whisper.
‘Did you bring Oscar?’ she asks, sniffing and wiping her nose along her arm.
‘No, sweetie, he’s in bed.’
‘Oh. Mummy is asleep again and I couldn’t sleep because she is snoring. Really. Loud. Did you find the gnome? Mummy says nobody would think to look there for the spare key.’
‘I did and she’s right. Your mummy is a very clever lady.’
She takes my hand and leads me into the kitchen. I try not to notice the half-empty gin bottle without a lid, and the overflowing ash tray that litters the kitchen counter. Tea stains circle sticky patches of sugar which mix with crumbs along the worktop. Erica pulls a chair towards the counter and brings a piece of kitchen towel forward. On top are two Rich Tea biscuits, smeared with watery white icing. Some broken chocolate buttons have been arranged into two wonky, smiling faces.
‘I made this for Oscar. To say sorry for biting him.’
I blink back the tears that are stinging my sleep-deprived eyes.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ I say smiling, noticing as I do the red rims around her eyes, the chocolate smudges around her mouth.
‘Let’s get you a nice drink of milk and you can watch a bit of TV while I go and check on Mummy.’ She nods and wanders into the lounge as I head into the kitchen and pour her a glass of milk.
In the bedroom, air – warm and thick – hangs heavily above Nessa, who is, indeed, snoring loudly. The sour, stale smell of cigarettes cringes ashamedly in the corners of the room but alcohol, alcohol is draping itself over the furniture, its decadence proud and eager for attention.
On top of the sheets, Nessa is sprawled, wearing an old violet-coloured T-shirt of Kerry’s.
‘Nessa?’ I shake her shoulder. ‘Vanessa?’ I raise my voice. She turns towards me, her eyes glassy, confused, and trying to focus.
‘Kerry?’ She smiles. ‘You’re late.’ Her eyelids flicker and close. I sit down next to her and stroke the hair away from her face; there is almost a smile around her mouth. From downstairs, the sounds of cartoons ricochet into this room filled with sadness and debauchery, and a sob tries to escape my mouth.
‘Oh, God,’ she groans, sitting up just as she begins to retch. I try to grab the bin but I’m not there in time and Nessa vomits onto the duvet. ‘Sorry,’ she says. There is a brief pause before she retches again; this time she manages to be sick into the bin.
I wait until she is finished. ‘Better?’
She nods, wiping the back of her mouth with her hand. ‘Shower,’ Nessa instructs, her hand reaching out for the edge of the bed. Her body sways and I link my arm around her waist, guiding the way up.
The shower hangs from the wall and I reach over and turn it on, cool jets of water cascading into the bath as I pour the contents of the bin into the toilet and flush.
Nessa begins to discard her clothes, oblivious to me it seems. Her fingers tear off her T-shirt, but can’t negotiate the clasp of her bra. You would think I would feel awkward unfastening another woman’s bra, but I don’t, it feels like I’m looking after one of my children.
Nessa throws her underwear to the floor and tries to step over the rim of the bath and into the shower, her balance making the movement difficult, and my hand reacts quickly, holding on to her arm as she steps into the water. An unsteady palm lands on the tiles but before long, Nessa is retching again, her stomach empty as she sinks to her knees. Her head is bent, wet hair falling away from her scalp, running over defeated shoulders as she cries. I sit on the side of the bath, stroking the top of her head, watching the droplets of water cascade over the smooth olive skin covering her sharp shoulder blades, drawing trails along her spine.
I open my mouth to offer her some words of comfort, but I find that I don’t have any. Kerry is dead. She’s not coming back, not to Nessa anyway. Instead, I reach for the plug. The bath begins to fill as I open the shampoo and wash her hair, bringing up her chin and tipping her head back as I would with Oscar. I add conditioner and comb it through, the ends of her black hair resting in a neat line along her back, rinsing it while her eyes stare blankly ahead, conversation knowing its place and staying silent.