No Child of Mine by Susan Lewis Page B

she’d learned to help herself to food from the fridge. Sometimes Brian read her stories, or played games with her, the kind of games that Erica could never take part in. She’d put on her music while they were happening, Brahms or Debussy, and lose herself in the thrall of her favourite sonatas until the kindly substances reached her brain and quietly closed it down. She hated the games, despised them as much as she despised her husband, her mother, her father, her whole rotten life.
    Seeing Brian’s car turn into the drive she drew back from the window before he could see her. They slept in separaterooms now and only communicated when they had to. He knew the truth and so did she; it was a secret that bound them together, so tightly that she had no idea how she managed to breathe in its grasp.
    As she walked across the room she could feel the ghosts parting, past residents of the house always lurking, perhaps they were trying to shame her. Could they hear the voices inside her head? Maybe the voices were theirs. Did they listen when she spoke to Ottilie? Did they scoff at the things she told her in rambling or frenzied whispers? She wouldn’t look at Ottilie now, she couldn’t; her nerves were jumping, her eyes were waterfalls of tears. She knew Ottilie’s head was bowed. Was she waiting for her mother’s touch, or preparing to shrink from it? Her limbs were tiny, too small for her age, and white; precious few rays of sun found their way on to this wretched child. She almost never went out, not even into the garden to play with the toys her grateful daddy had bought her.
    He took her out though, once in a while, but they never went far, or for long.
    ‘He’s home,’ she said, passing the child and going through to the kitchen. He’d want his usual whisky and soda and in this Erica was happy to please him, provided he brought what pleased her. Sometimes he’d put his little girl on his knee and tell her about his day, the children he taught at the school where he was the deputy head, those who’d excelled at drawing or sums or spelling; and those who’d had to be scolded for not trying their best.
    They were aged five up to eleven. Jonathan would be seven by now, if he’d lived.
    They didn’t have any photos of him around the house. In many ways it was as though he’d never existed, except his memory lingered around her conscience and tormented her soul with the same testing presence she felt from Ottilie.
    Ottilie trailed her into the kitchen. Erica wished she would go away. She felt like a nemesis. Get away from me. Get away from me. GET AWAY FROM ME YOU FILTHY LITTLE BITCH .
    Except Erica didn’t care if Ottilie saw what her father brought home and gave to her mother. She wouldn’t know what it was, and even if she did she wouldn’t understand.
    He wouldn’t forget, he couldn’t, he knew what would happen if he did.
    It was her only power, her only escape.
    As the door opened she tried not to look at him, but her desperation was too great. Seeing it, he drew an envelope from his pocket and tossed it on the table, his eyes full of contempt. Then, turning to Ottilie, he opened his arms for her to come to him.
    Ottilie stayed where she was, her faithful bear pressed to her mouth. Her eyes were round and frightened; her tiny frame seemed as though it might be blown away in a draught. Had Erica not been swimming in relief she might have smirked in triumph to see that Ottilie was heeding her mother’s frantic advice, doing as she said like a good little girl. Don’t go to Daddy. Don’t go to Daddy. STAY AWAY FROM DADDY YOU FILTHY LITTLE BITCH .
    Brian would be furious if he knew.
    But why would she want to go to Daddy?
    ‘Come here,’ he said shortly to Ottilie.
    Ottilie looked up at her mother, waiting to be told what to do, but Erica only pushed her out of the way as she went past, eager to get to her room. Ottilie turned to watch her, then feeling her father’s arms lifting her she went limp and