“The woman asks, ‘Who is the head of the household?’
“Mother manages to say, ‘I am.’
“The woman asks Mother her name.
“Mother says she is Cora Byrn. A White Witch. Daughter of Elsie Ashworth and David Ashworth. White Witches.
“The woman asks who her children are.
“Mother says, ‘Jessica, age eight. Deborah, five. Arran, two.’
“The woman asks, ‘Who is their father?’
“Mother says, ‘Dean Byrn. White Witch. Member of the Council.’
“The woman asks, ‘Where is he?’
“Mother says, ‘He is dead. Murdered.’
“The woman says, ‘I’m sorry.’
“Then the woman asks, ‘And the baby? Where is the baby?’
“Mother says, ‘It’s there, in that drawer.’”
Jessica turns to me and explains. “After Arran was born, Mother and Father didn’t want any more children. They gave away the cot, the pram, and all the baby things. This baby isn’t wanted and has to sleep on a pillow in a drawer, in an old, dirty onesie that Arran used to have. No one buys this baby toys or presents, because everyone knows it isn’t wanted. No one gives Mother presents or flowers or chocolates, because they all know she didn’t want this baby. Nobody wants a baby like this. Mother only gets one card but it doesn’t say ‘Congratulations.’”
Silence.
“Do you want to know what it says?”
I shake my head.
“It says, ‘Kill It.’”
I chew my knuckles, but I don’t cry.
“The woman approaches the baby in the drawer, and the Hunter joins her because he wants to see this strange, unwanted thing.
“Even asleep the baby is horrible and ugly, with its puny little body, grubby-looking skin, and spiky, black hair.
“The woman asks, ‘Does he have a name yet?’
“‘Nathan.’”
Jessica has already found a way of saying my name as if it is something disgusting.
“The young woman asks, ‘And his father . . . ?’
“Mother doesn’t answer. She can’t because it’s too awful; she can’t bear it. But everyone knows just by looking at the baby that its father is a murderer.
“The woman says, ‘Perhaps you can write the father’s name.’
“And she takes her clipboard to Mother. And Mother is crying now and she can’t even write the name. Because it’s the name of the most evil Black Witch there has ever been.”
I want to say “Marcus.” He’s my father and I want to say his name, but I’m too afraid. I’m always too afraid to say his name.
“The woman goes back to look at the sleeping baby and she reaches out to touch it . . .
“‘Careful!’ the Hunter warns, because even though Hunters are never afraid, they are always cautious around Black witchcraft.
“The woman says, ‘He’s just a baby.’ And she strokes its bare arm with the back of her fingers.
“And the baby stirs and then opens its eyes.
“The woman says, ‘Oh goodness!’ and steps back.
“She realizes she shouldn’t have touched such a nasty thing and rushes off to the bathroom to wash her hands.”
Jessica reaches out as if she’s going to touch me but then pulls her hand away, saying, “I couldn’t ever touch anything as bad as you.”
My Father
I am standing in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at my face. I’m not like my mother at all, not like Arran. My skin’s slightly darker than theirs, more olive, and my hair’s jet black, but the real difference is the blackness of my eyes.
I’ve never met my father, never even seen my father. But I know that my eyes are his eyes.
My Mother’s Suicide
Jessica holds the photograph frame high to her left and brings it down diagonally, slicing the edge of the frame across my cheekbone.
“Don’t ever touch this picture again.”
I don’t move.
“Do you hear me?”
There’s blood on the corner of the frame.
“She’s dead because of you.”
I back against the wall.
Jessica shouts at me. “She killed herself because of you!”
The Second Notification
I remember it raining for days. Days and days, until even I am fed up with being alone in the woods. So I’m sitting at the kitchen table, drawing. Gran is in the kitchen, too. Gran is always in the kitchen. She is old and bony with that thin skin that old people have, but she is also slim and straight-backed. She wears pleated tartan skirts and walking boots or wellies. She is always in the kitchen and the kitchen floor is always muddy. Even with the rain, the back door is open. A chicken comes in for some shelter, but Gran won’t stand for that, and she sweeps it out gently with the side of her boot and shuts the door.
The pot simmers on the stove, emitting a column of steam that rises fast and narrow and then widens to join the cloud above. The green, gray, blue, and red of the herbs, flowers, roots, and bulbs that hang from the ceiling by strings, in nets, and in baskets are blurred in the fog that surrounds them. Lined up on the shelves are glass jars filled with liquids, leaves, grains, greases, and potions, and some even with jam. The warped oak work surface is littered with spoons of all kinds—metal, wooden, bone, as long as my arm, as small as my little finger—as well as knives in a block, dirty knives covered in paste lying on the chopping board, a granite pestle and mortar, two round baskets, and more jars. On the back of the door hang a beekeeper’s hat, a selection of aprons, and a black umbrella that is as bent as a banana.
I draw it all.
I’m sitting with Arran watching an old movie on TV. Arran likes to watch them, the older the better, and I like to sit with him, the closer the better. We’ve both got shorts on, and we’ve both got skinny legs, only his are paler than mine and dangle farther over the end of the comfy chair. He has a small scar on his left knee and a long one up his right shin. His hair is light brown and wavy, but somehow it always stays back off his face. My hair is long and straight and black and hangs over my eyes.
Arran is wearing a blue, knitted jumper over a white T-shirt. I’m wearing the red T-shirt that he gave me. He’s warm to lean close to, and when I turn to look up at him he moves his gaze from the telly to me, sort of in slow motion. His eyes are light, blue-gray with glints of silver in them, and he even blinks slow. Everything about him is gentle. It would be great to be like him.
“You enjoying it?” he asks, not in a hurry for an answer.
I nod.
He puts his arm round me and turns back to the screen.
Lawrence of Arabia does the trick with the match. Afterward we agree to try it ourselves. I take the big box of matches from the kitchen drawer and we run with them to the woods.
I go first.
I light the match and hold it between my thumb and forefinger, letting it burn right down until it goes out. My small, thin fingers, with nails that are bitten to nothing, are burnt but they hold the blackened match.