Dark Lullaby Polly Ho-Yen (drm ebook reader .txt) 📖

of the cupboards and take one after another, washing them down with mouthfuls of cold milk. Only minutes have passed since I began eating but the food is already restoring me.

Now I can plan ahead.

I take the contents of the fruit bowl – glossy apples and thick-skinned oranges, tins of baked beans, the remains of the loaf of bread, a block of cheese from the fridge.

I take some cutlery and a few more of her tea towels from the drawer. I pluck a couple of water bottles from the draining board and fill them from the tap.

Then I check back on Mimi. As I whip around the kitchen I have the sudden dread that when I return to the sofa, I will find an empty space in place of her: an indentation on the pillow instead of the solid squishiness of her body.

I breathe again when I see her still curled up there. I shouldn’t have left her, I tell myself, and this time I scoop her up, nestle my head into her shoulder and climb the stairs carefully.

Clothes next.

Evie’s bedroom is the first room that I try. I settle Mimi on the bed. She flops down, still lost in a soundless sleep. I worry again that she’s still not woken, what drugs she was given that have made her this way. Though I say her name, stroke her cheek, squeeze her feet, she will not be roused. Reluctantly, I leave her on the bed.

It’s there, in the bedroom, skimming through Evie’s clothes and opening drawers to search for what is tucked at the back that I have a sensation of guilt. I detach from what I’m doing and see it from another side and not my desperate, skewered lens. I find tops that I remember Evie wearing years ago but which I have not seen her wear since. An old black jumper that she bought when we were out shopping together and she wore until moths took a liking to it. She has kept it still. I can’t help but take off my coat and pull it on over my milk-stained top. I tug at its sleeves so it covers my wrists. I begin to feel a little warmer, wrapped up in its softness.

I can smell her again here; vestiges of her perfume linger in the folds of wool and cotton. I wonder briefly what she will think when she discovers the broken window, when she follows the trail of my looting. She will work out it was me. Will it fill her with anger or drown her in sadness? I’d rather not find out.

I put my guilt aside and delve into the drawers with renewed energy. There are many new things, recently folded and tucked in with the old. They look like they’ve never been worn. Evie’s been shopping recently. They are softer, cleaner and glossier than anything else.

A light grey jumper with a diagonal neckline and blocky three-quarter sleeves. A white T-shirt that will never look this clean again. I resist the temptation to take them, though they lure me with their newness; I want these things that are fresh and untouched. A new skin.

Grudgingly, almost, I find some loose trousers that have been squashed into a ball at the back of a drawer and a T-shirt that is somewhere in between blue and grey. A thin, ivory jumper that is a bit too small and will cling to me, but will have to do. There’re some white vests that Evie has multiple versions of and so I pack a few of them, and some outstretched underwear that looks forgotten and unloved.

I steal a lip salve from one of the bathroom boxes, a small tube of handcream, a half-empty deodorant. My luxury goods, I tell myself.

The bag feels reassuringly full now and the edge of the book that I filled with money knocks against my side.

That’s when I hear a sound from the bed – an unmistakable sound. I rush towards Mimi and as I do, I drop the spoils.

They tumble from the bag, decorating the floor with my thievery.

THEN

‘Have it,’ Evie said, pushing the bag into my hand. ‘I don’t want them. If you don’t want them, just give them away.’

I peered into the bag to see a few of the velvety soft toys that Jakob used to favour; a white bear that doubled as a rattle, a felt owl with wide-spaced round eyes.

Jakob had been gone for three weeks.

I’d met up with Evie and we walked together round and round the small park that was near her house.

Sometimes our footsteps would slow until we almost came to a standstill but still we walked quietly around the circular path, past flowerbeds that had become so drenched with water that they were muddy trenches where nothing could grow.

Now and again, a child on a scooter would come past us so close that they almost knocked into us. They’d be kitted out, wearing a helmet, clad in arm and leg protectors in case they fell.

One child we saw was allowed to ride her scooter only if she let her mother keep a hand on the handlebar at all times. They wheeled slowly along, like a version of the three-legged race. Other parents ran after their scooting children with no chance of catching them up. They shouted out warnings, they tried to predict the future to create one where no tears were shed, where no one was hurt.

Each time, I heard Evie’s sharp intake of breath as they glided effortlessly past us. At first I thought she was worried that they might fall but then, from the way her eyes followed them, I wondered if she was imagining Jakob, grown, solid and speeding past us.

‘I’ve found this woman in Bristol who’s written a programme that will take all your input of your child from your workSphere and goSphere and use it to make pictures and videos of what they might look like when they’re older. It