All the Little Things Sarah Lawton (red white royal blue TXT) 📖

‘Mum, I can’t – I’m sure it’s nothing, okay? Just kid’s stuff… you worry too much, Vivian is fine, I have to go – love you!’ She pressed a quick kiss to Carol’s cheek and then went down the hallway and out of the front door; it slammed behind her as the wind caught it. As she did, Carol heard smaller footsteps going back up the stairs. She gasped, feeling short of breath. Had Vivian been listening again? She rubbed her face, pressing her fingers against her eyes. Guilt at betraying Vivian’s trust joined the worry.

‘Vivian!’ she called. ‘Are you ready, darling? Time to get your shoes on!’ There was no reply. Gritting her teeth she went to the foot of the stairs and called again. ‘Vivian?’ No answer. She felt heavy footed as she walked up the steps, imagining the conversation she might be about to have, how to explain breaking her promise. She stopped at the top of the narrow staircase, hand to chest, her heart fluttering like a panicked bird in a cage.

Vivian was standing on the landing, her small face white, her breath hissing between clenched teeth as her hands came up. ‘You said you wouldn’t tell,’ she whispered. ‘You promised.’

Instinctively, Carol turned away from the hate she saw in Vivian’s face. The uneven carpet never had been re-pinned. Small hands outstretched, and Carol’s last feelings were of weightlessness, a flash of pain, darkness.

Vivian

We’ve only been here five minutes and Mum is chucking up in the bathroom. I’ve just been in the car with her for the eternal afternoon hell drive; if I catch her stupid bug I’m going to kill her. I hate this cottage. It hasn’t got any Wi-Fi. I’m not impressed at all. I can barely turn around in this bedroom, and I’m a bloody midget. Everything stinks like old people. I can’t believe I’m stuck here for days.

I’ve already unpacked, and Mum’s still in the bathroom puking so I shout to her that I’m going to go for a walk. I grab my rucksack and fill up my water bottle, then head out of the door. I think I hear her shouting something down to me, but I ignore her. The weather is still scorching, but it feels even heavier now. It’s close, as Nana used to say. You can feel it touching you all the time with hot, slick fingers. I hope there will be a sea storm that we can watch from the windows. We’re really near to the cliffs here.

The path to the top of Swyre Head is worn and pitted with pebbles; they are smooth and shine like glass. Thousands of feet have probably polished them on their way up here. I wonder how many of those feet never came down again. There is only a rickety, twisted wire-and-stake fence, broken in places, between me and the brink. I edge up as close as I can and look down at the waves smashing below, pounding against the beach again and again. I thought it would be calm with the day so bright but the sea attacks the shore relentlessly, it booms and crashes, and I think I can feel the vibrations underneath my feet, absorb its energy somehow. There’s a line of purple on the horizon, and a hot breeze that smells of salt, reminding me of how Alex tastes, pushes at me, drying my lips. I can feel something in the air.

I amble along the path for the best view of the massive stone arch and the bay behind me. I take a couple of pictures and send one to Alex, then spend ages putting the same one online, using filters to enhance the shadows on the crevices in the cliffs. They look like an army of nightmare creatures, with long reaching arms and scratching fingers. Maybe they have come out of the arch, the gateway between the sea and sky, ready to rend and conquer. The creepy thoughts make my hairs rise on my neck and I laugh and the wind steals the sound away from my lips. Maybe I like it here after all.

Rachel

Porcelain always feels so blissfully cold. It was the only pleasant thing about that particular moment. I wondered if I’d eaten something bad, but when had I last eaten, even? The days had been falling into each other, tumbling senselessly, like they had before. Maybe it was delayed motion sickness from the journey, or an overdose of rage to the system.

I heard Vivian leave, ignoring me when I asked her to get me a glass of water. I felt like I didn’t know her any more. The daughter I’d had at the start of the summer had been usurped by the disconcerting, silent child of my memory, all the oddness, the otherness, resurfacing. I thought she had changed, but it was still there underneath. She had just hidden it from me.

My phone rang, an unknown mobile number. I didn’t want to answer, but I had to. I had a suspicion of who it might be, and I was right.

‘Rachel, it’s me, I—’

‘Stop. Just stop. I know what you’ve been doing, Alex. What the hell is wrong with you?’

‘Nothing, you don’t understand, please I need to tell you—’ But I cut him off again, furious, furious with myself about how the sound of his voice made me feel, even then.

‘No, you don’t understand, Alex, you sick little bastard. I’m going to tell the police what you have been doing – my daughter is fifteen years old! Fifteen, she—’

‘Please listen, Rachel – I’m sorry, it’s not what you think, I promise, you just need to know…’ He trailed off, sounding breathless, noises in the background fading away. Silence hung between us. What could he say? What could I?

‘What do I need to know, Alex?’

‘I didn’t… I didn’t plan any of this. I found you because I wanted to understand her, the truth about her, not you… I thought maybe