The Turn of the Key

Instead, I found myself letting my hand drop and then backing away, almost as if that dark something might indeed come after me if I turned my back. Then, at the top of the stairs, I turned resolutely and all but ran back downstairs to the warmth of the kitchen, ashamed of myself, of my own cowardice, of everything.

The kitchen was cozy and bright, but when I shut my eyes I could still smell the chilly breath of the attic air coursing out beneath my bedroom door—and as I stood, irresolute, wondering whether to make up a bed on the sofa or try to stay awake for Rhiannon’s return, I could feel the throb of my finger where I had sliced it on that vile broken doll’s head. I had put a bandage over it, but the skin beneath felt fat and swollen, as if infection was setting in.

Walking over to the sink, I pulled off the dressing, and then jumped, convulsively, as there was a thud at the back door.

“Wh-who is it?” I called out, trying not to let my voice shake.

“It’s me, Jack.” The voice came from outside, muffled by the wind. “I’ve got the dogs.”

“Come in, I’m just—”

The door opened, letting in a gust of cold air, and I heard his footsteps in the utility room, and the thud of his boots as he pulled them off and let them drop onto the mat, and the barking of the dogs as they capered around him while he tried to hush them. At last they settled into their baskets, and he came into the kitchen.

“I don’t normally walk them so late, but I got caught up. I’m surprised you’re still awake. Good day?”

“Not really,” I said. My head was swimming, and I realized afresh how drunk I was. Would Jack notice?

“No?” Jack raised an eyebrow. “What happened?”

“I had a . . .” Jesus, where to start. “I had a bit of a run-in with Rhiannon.”

“What kind of a run-in?”

“She came back and we—” I stopped, unsure how to put this. It felt completely wrong to put the full picture to Jack before I confessed to Sandra, and I was pretty sure I would be breaking all sorts of confidentiality guidelines if I discussed Rhiannon’s problems with someone who was not her parent. But on the other hand, I felt that I might go crazy if I didn’t confide at least some of this in another adult. And perhaps there was history here, for it was becoming clearer and clearer that not everything had been included in that big red binder. “We argued,” I said at last. “And I threatened to call Sandra and she—she just—” But I couldn’t finish.

“What happened?” Jack pulled out a chair, and I sank into it, feeling despair wash over me again.

“She’s gone. She’s gone out by herself—with some awful unsuitable friend. I told her not to, but she went anyway, and I don’t know what to do—what to tell Sandra.”

“Look, don’t worry about Rhiannon. She’s a canny wee thing, pretty independent, and I highly doubt she’ll come to any harm, much as Sandra and Bill might disapprove.”

“But what if she does? What if something happens to her and it’s on my watch?”

“You’re a nanny, not a jailer. What were you supposed to do—chain her to her bed?”

“You’re right,” I said at last. “I know you’re right, it’s just— Oh God,” the words burst out of me of their own accord. “I’m so tired, Jack. I can’t think, and it doesn’t help that my hand hurts like a bastard every time I touch anything.”

“What happened to your hand?”

I looked down at it, cradled in my lap, feeling it throb in time with my pulse.

“I cut it.” I didn’t want to go into the hows and whys now, but the thought of that grinning, evil little face made me shudder, involuntarily.

Jack frowned.

“Can I take a look?”

I said nothing, just nodded, and held out my hand, and he took it very gently, angling it towards the light. Very lightly, he pressed the puffy skin either side of the cut, and made a face.

“It doesn’t look too good, if you don’t mind me saying. Did you put anything on it, when you cut it?”

“Just a bandage.”

“I didn’t mean that, I meant, antiseptic. Anything like that?”

“Do you think it really needs it?”

He nodded.

“It’s deep, and I don’t like the way it’s puffed up like that, looks like it could be getting infected. Let me go and see what Sandra’s got.”

He stood, pushing back his chair with a screech, and walked through to the utility room, where there was a small medicine cabinet on the wall. I had found the bandages in there earlier, and hadn’t noticed anything like antiseptic or rubbing alcohol, just a jumble of Peppa Pig bandages and bottles of children’s liquid paracetamol.

“Nothing,” Jack said, coming back through into the kitchen. “Or at least, nothing except six different flavors of Calpol. Come back to mine, I’ve got a proper first aid kit in the flat.”

“I—I can’t.” I straightened up, pulled my hand away, curled my injured finger to my palm, feeling it throb with pain. “I can’t leave the kids.”

“You’re not leaving anyone,” Jack said patiently. “You’re right across the courtyard, you can take the baby monitor. Sandra and Bill sit out in the garden all the time in the summer. It’s no different. If you hear a peep you can be back there before they even wake up.”