The Enumerations Read online

  He didn’t notice what she was wearing either. Kate can’t remember the last time he commented on her appearance. Dominic isn’t one for compliments – that’s what he told her early in the relationship – but she used to be aware of him watching her. Days when the air between them was charged, when his eyes said what he was thinking and she couldn’t wait for night to fall and the bedroom door to close. When was the last time she had felt that way?

  Kate had lingered at the door. Should she go back, ask again, get him to look at her properly, but then Maddie was at her side, looking at the clock on the wall.

  ‘Come on, Mom, we’ll be late. Noah will be waiting.’

  135.

  Day 42 / 14:33

  Maddie runs towards her brother, arms stretched wide, stopping short before she touches him. She always has so much to tell him: all the news she saves up from the week, school, gymnastics, Spit and Spot, and how it’s nearly time to take them to the dog parlour. He’s happy to sit and listen.

  Juliet should be here soon. Noah looks at his watch. She’s late by 2 minutes, 21 seconds – and she had promised to be on time. He’s hoping Mr Bill will stroll down and get his mother talking because Juliet and he need to get Maddie on her own.

  But here she comes now, strolling along, hands in her pockets, her busy eyes shooting between them all, a wide grin on her face.

  ‘Mrs Groome,’ she’s saying, ‘how nice to see you again,’ and she’s being perfectly polite. She sits on the lawn and looks up at them.

  ‘So how has your week been?’ she asks. ‘We’ve had a blast here, haven’t we, Noah? We’ve both done a bit of weaving. Cloth, mind you, not baskets. Noah’s quite the weaving bomb. He’s already produced more than enough material to make bedspreads for us all.’

  136.

  Kate’s watching carefully and she sees her son’s lips lift in a smile. A small one, but a reaction nonetheless. What does this girl have that she doesn’t? How has she managed to transform the blank-faced boy who arrived here six weeks ago into someone who’s relaxed anough to smile at the irony behind her words? She feels another irrational twinge of resentment. She’s being cheated out of watching her son improve. She’s had to deal with all the hard stuff for so long, and now here he is, responding to Juliet in a way that he never does to her, or even to his sister. Not that it seems to bother Maddie. She’s looking at Juliet with star-struck admiration. All of a sudden Kate’s angry. They don’t belong to you, she wants to say. Get your own family. Leave mine alone.

  Juliet laughs and Kate’s mouth tightens. Even that laugh is enough to set her teeth on edge. Does she have to joke about everything? Noah’s no laughing matter, Juliet, she wants to say. But she can’t. The girl is bound to have summed her up in three quick words. Uptight, conservative, overprotective.

  At least I’m here, Kate wants to say. At least I’m visiting my child, but she has to bite back on the thought. Juliet never gets visitors and if Maddie and Noah are happy to have her gate-crash their family time, Kate should be too.

  If only—

  And then, there he is. Mr Bill. Kate smiles politely and hopes he hasn’t noticed the flush rising in her fair skin.

  Juliet jumps to her feet. ‘Tea anyone? Mrs Groome? Mr Bill? Come on you lot. Come and help me carry.’ Noah and Maddie stand up, leaving room on the bench for Mr Bill to sit and chat and ask Kate about her week.

  ‘Come on, Noah.’ Juliet nudges him.

  ‘Mom, Mr Bill? Tea?’ he asks.

  ‘Not for me, buddy.’

  Kate smiles. ‘Thanks, darling.’ Then, as he walks away, she says to Mr Bill, ‘Did I just see what I thought I saw? Noah doing something spontaneous?’

  He laughs. ‘Don’t ask me. Juliet seems to have him taped. She tells him what to do and he does it.’

  Kate feels a deeper pang now. Fear. What if Maddie has got it wrong?

  ‘But she doesn’t …? I mean, she isn’t …?’

  ‘No, no,’ Mr Bill says. ‘Don’t worry about Juliet and Noah. She hasn’t got him in her sights. In fact,’ he smiles as he says it and Kate’s stomach does a loop, ‘Noah may well be the first man – or boy – that Juliet hasn’t targeted in a long time. He could be the best thing that’s happened to her.’

  ‘But what about my boy?’ The words are out before Kate can stop herself, and she wishes she could take them back. They make her sound mean and churlish. Here’s Noah, doing some good, even if he isn’t aware of it, and there she is, begrudging Juliet the chance of a relationship that might help all of them in some way. And all the while, she’s aware of Mr Bill sitting close to her. Almost thigh to thigh. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I am glad to see Noah coping a bit better, I really am.’

  ‘He’s been out in the grounds quite a bit,’ Mr Bill says. Kate can barely hide her astonishment. ‘I’ve given him a few small jobs. Trimming edges, raking leaves. It’s good practice for him. Grass grows, leaves fall; he can’t control that. He can only tidy up after nature, not force it into a box.’

  ‘That’s clever. Is it something Ms Turner asked you to do?’

  ‘Ellen?’ Mr Bill laughs. ‘No, not at all. It’s just what I think might work for these kids. There’s no harm in letting them do everyday things, see how they manage them. And Noah likes being here. It’s confined, with rigid boundaries’ – Mr Bill glances at the high walls – ‘but at least he’s outside, in the fresh air.’

  ‘And he’s coming out here for visiting hours happily enough,’ Kate adds. ‘The third Sunday, without too much stress about his routines.’

  Mr Bill touches her arm lightly. ‘It’s a big step,’ he says.

  Kate’s consumed by the need to press against him, feel his heat seep into her, warm her body in the way that a scorching sun can’t.

  ‘Well,’ he says easily, getting to his feet. ‘I need to talk to Simon’s parents.’ He looks over to where a small woman is sitting silently next to a thin, bespectacled boy. ‘See you next week, Mrs Groome.’

  Kate, she wants to say, call me Kate, but the words won’t come. Her tongue is heavy, she can’t make it move.

  ‘You do take one sugar don’t you, Mom?’ Maddie’s walking carefully, balancing two teacups, one for her and one for her mother, careful not to let the tea slop onto the shortbread perched on the saucer. ‘Only Noah says it’s none and I told him you’ve started taking it again. That you need some sweetness in your life. I’m right, aren’t I?’

  ‘Thanks, Mads. You’re quite right. One sugar for me.’ Kate wishes she had been there to hear their argument, to hear her son insisting that he knows his mother better than Maddie.

  Juliet brings up the rear and flops down next to her children on the lawn.

  What’s going on here? Out in the grounds, off the bench, sitting on ground that might be damp. What’s happening to her orderly son and his demanding need for structure?

  137.

  Maddie chats to Noah while her mom sips her tea and gazes into space. Thinking about Noah probably. Maddie doesn’t mind that. She’s glad it isn’t about her. She wouldn’t be able to handle that. The intense scrutiny, every move she made, every breath she took … okay, so that’s from one of her mom’s cds, but still. Maddie doesn’t mind all the attention being focused on Noah. Her mom loves her and that’s enough. Maddie stops. Rethinks. Her mom and dad. Her parents love her and that’s enough.

  ‘Maddie?’ Juliet’s voice is serious. ‘Noah’s got something to ask you. He needs your help.’

  Then Noah’s explaining and his words are flying out of his mouth, pulling strands of story together.

  ‘It’s the Family Tree. Look here, I’ve made a rough copy.’

  Maddie hasn’t heard him speak so fast, or so easily, in ages.

  ‘We have to be quick, Mads. Otherwise it will be time for you guys to go.’

  ‘Sure, Noah.’

  Relax, she wants to say. Easy does it, bro, but instead she looks at Noah’s finger, jabbing at the sheet of paper.

  ‘That’s
Dad’s side, Maddie.’

  ‘There’s nothing to see,’ she says.

  A grin spreads across her brother’s face. Mom! Mom! she wants to yell, Noah’s smiling. But now Juliet’s talking.

  ‘Exactly!’ says Juliet. ‘There’s everything about your mom, about her family—’

  ‘And there’s nothing for Dad,’ says Maddie. ‘There never has been.’

  ‘There could be,’ Juliet’s talking for Noah now and he’s letting her. ‘Your dad says he can’t help Noah. He says his parents are probably dead. In fact, he won’t tell Noah anything. He says it’s none of his business.’

  Maddie nods. ‘Yes, that’s what he always says and Mom says, “Leave it, kids, Dad doesn’t want to go there’.’’

  ‘So Noah’s stuck,’ Juliet continues, ‘but I told him not to be such a wimp. Your dad must have an id number. If we can find out what it is, we can get a lead, even if it’s only where he was born.’

  ‘We’re not sure if that would work,’ Noah’s joining in now, ‘but it’s worth trying. I wrote to him, Mads. I sent him an email … Well, actually, quite a few. I’ve been using all my Internet time on them.’

  Maddie can imagine. Noah’s mega-persistent when he’s obsessing about something.

  ‘I told him it was really important. If I could leave it alone, I would. You know I would, don’t you? But I can’t.’ Noah’s talking even faster now and his fingers are starting their pre-tap tremors. ‘If I could get Dad’s id number, I reckon I can at least make a start.’

  Maddie nods. It would be good to know if she has aunts and uncles, cousins, grandparents on Dad’s side of the family. Interesting too. But if she never found out, would it bother her? Not much, she decides, and definitely not as much as it does Noah.

  ‘He wrote back,’ Noah’s filling Maddie in quickly, keeping an eye on their mother, ‘but he still says there’s nothing to talk about. He doesn’t want me “raking over the coals of the past”. That’s how he put it. He also said I had enough to cope with, trying to sort out my current problems, and adding this unhealthy obsession to the list of my complications wasn’t going to help me get better.’

  ‘Pretty harsh, hey, Maddie,’ Juliet says. ‘So that’s what we wanted to ask you. Can you find out your dad’s id number? Do you reckon you could do that?’

  ‘Me? I don’t know how—’

  ‘Could you just try, Maddie?’

  Maddie looks at her brother.

  ‘Sure, Noah,’ she says, anything to take the worry off her brother’s face. He smiles, just slightly, and when Juliet elbows him he says, ‘Thanks, Mads.’

  ‘That’s cool, Maddie. Really cool. Okay then, I’ll let you guys chat for a while.’ Juliet gets to her feet, ‘Bye Maddie, bye Mrs Groome.’ And then she’s gone and Maddie and Noah are left alone on the lawn.

  ‘Noah,’ Maddie tries, ‘why is it so important to get all these details about Dad? Can’t you just start another project?’

  Even as she asks, she knows the answer. It’s not the information that holds Noah in its grip, it’s knowing that the information is out there, waiting to be accessed and organised and contained. And once he knows for sure (absolutely and categorically) that there are no further roads to go down, he’ll be able to pack it all away. Their dad holds the key to Noah’s peace of mind.

  Her mom’s standing now, but Maddie isn’t ready to go. She wants to spend more time chatting to her brother, letting him know how strange it is without him at home, how distant her parents have become. Noah probably won’t have any advice, but it would be good to share her fears with someone safe. Too much is happening too fast, and she’s being swamped by it all. It’s probably best for her to concentrate on one thing and worry about everything else later. And Noah is reminding her what that one thing is. ‘You won’t forget?’

  ‘No, of course I won’t.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he says, as if Juliet’s prodding him from a distance. ‘Thanks so much, Mads. See you next week.’ He looks up and says ‘Bye, Mom,’ and then he’s walking away before his mother has a chance to pat his shoulder. They watch as he walks up to the steps where Juliet is sitting, waiting for him. As he approaches, she stands and smiles at him. Noah says something to her, opens the door, and the two of them walk inside.

  138.

  Week 7: Day 43 / 02:18

  Noah dreams of a room.

  It has 4 white walls, bright in the light of a 100-watt bulb, recessed in a white ceiling. There are no windows, just whiteness, immaculate, pristine. Nothing mars the walls. Not a jot, not a blot. Nothing, unless you look very, very closely. And there, just where wall meets wall (tap 5) meets floor, is a small, shadowy blot, ragged at the edges and about the size of a thumbnail.

  Something happens in that room on a day when Noah does not complete his chores correctly. Millimetre by millimetre the Dark grows. It creeps along the floor and up the wall, barely discernible, but definitely there. The sort of thing Noah would bend down to look at, to check. There is something there, and now that he’s noticed it, it starts to grow faster.

  It’s hard to tell what colour it is. In some lights it’s a crusty red, the colour of a fresh scab, in others it’s a deep purple. Almost black. Sometimes, when the light catches it at a certain angle, it’s every colour of a rainbow gone oily and dull. On bad days, when Noah hasn’t completed his tasks correctly, when he hasn’t had time to go back and start again, the Dark slinks almost to the centre of the white room. And there it sits, grubby against the white.

  On bad days, it takes on more of a shape. Sometimes it grows skinny arms and stalk-like legs, sometimes it’s lumpy, a sulky mass of imperfection, sluggish and morose. It skitters, or it slumbers. It all depends on the nature of his offence.

  In the middle of the room, gleaming and gold, stands a set of scales. On really bad days, the creature squirms up the shining leg of the scales and drops – with a light clink, or a squelching thud – into one of the brass cups.

  The other cup is always empty, and the longer the Dark sits there, the larger it grows, until one cup sits alarmingly close to the floor, and the other is pulled upwards, to the very limit of its filigree chain. The scale teeters on its one shiny foot and threatens to topple over. If it does, the Dark will split – burst and splatter – and Noah will never be able to clean the room, no matter how hard he tries.

  That’s his job – to keep the room pure. Because what no one but Noah can see is what lurks behind and above the joins in the wall. Those long arms clamped hard to the outer walls, those long strong legs squeezing the white room between muscular thighs, a shaggy head on top of the white block, a hungry belly flat against the wall, pointed nails plucking.

  No matter how high Noah builds the room, the Dark grows taller. No matter how thick he makes the walls, the Dark grows wider and broader, squeezing them until they threaten to crack.

  Noah searches every day, but he can’t find the small hole that allows it into his space.

  It has Noah in a death grip, and one of these days it will become so heavy, squeeze so hard, that Noah’s room will crack into useless chunks of brick and mortar and he will never be able to build it back up again.

  In another corner, so far that Noah can hardly see it, there’s a table with four seats around it. His family are sitting there. They’re laughing and Noah can smell the supper his mother has made. They’re far away from the creeping Dark, far from the teetering scales. Noah has managed to keep them safe. He pushes against the Dark, using his 5s. But in the hours after he closes his eyes at night and before he opens them fully in the morning, his powers are weak. That’s when he needs to start counting and checking. First thing in the morning, the checks are essential.

  Not much longer now, Noah. You can’t keep this up for ever.

  139.

  Her mother can’t get it together to visit. She can’t trust herself behind the wheel. Not with Lily in the car, not when she’s started her day with a hefty slug of cane in her coffee. Juliet knows all this, a
nd more, so why should she have to write about it? She could turn this into a story, a tall tale, another fantasy for Ellen, constructed from the scraps she has joined together to make her armour. It’s not that well hammered together though, there are still holes where Ellen can slip in a question, a thought. She’s one of the best Juliet has come across so far – she knows exactly what to ask, and when.

  Juliet waits for her to probe, and then she dodges, parries, catches a glancing blow and prays her dented breastplate can withstand more. She’s slowly losing the battle, though. She’s got to play the game by their rules – just enough to make them think she’s playing it because she wants to.

  She picks up her pen.

  I know Mom misses me, it’s not fair to say she doesn’t. It’s just … she doesn’t remember to call me, and when I call her she sounds surprised. But then again, she’s surprised by anything that gets between her and what she drinks to make it from the end of one day to the beginning of the next.

  Juliet hasn’t told Ellen about waiting before she picks up the phone to call her mother. She never calls her Mom when she’s in Ellen’s rooms talking about her, it’s always my mother, my father, my parents. Although, really, Juliet has to admit, she seldom needs to use the words ‘my parents’. Her mother and father never present a unified front. She doesn’t see them as a ‘together’, a ‘couple’. There’s so little love there, Juliet can’t imagine a time when they lay together in the same bed—

  She can’t think this, let alone spell it out.

  She sits, strangely still for once, pen in hand, waiting to write it all down; her father’s crumbling good looks, her mother’s housebound sorrow.

  Juliet hates Journal Time. She’s tired of trying to spin a web of lies. There are gaps in her story, the threads she has joined together over the years are wearing thin. Why not give up and let it out – the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth – and see what Ellen has to say about Juliet Ryan and her Shitty Little Life.