Through Despair

CHAPTER ONE – LUCY

Her soft whispers find me through the darkness. I slip out of bed, steadying myself as I feel my way towards the hall. My eyes adjust to the soft glow of the night light. And there she is, face turned up to the wall, hair resting on unicorn-print pyjamas. She leans closer to the painting.

‘No, silly, my name is Isabelle.’

I pause, smiling at my six-year-old’s imagination.

‘Can I bring Bramble?’ she asks, holding up the stuffed rabbit.

I step closer. ‘Isabelle?’

Her shadowed face turns to me.

‘What are you doing out of bed, honey?’

She flashes me a smile. ‘I’m talking to the sad man in the painting, Mummy.’

My gaze flicks to Oliver’s latest addition of overpriced art: a chaotic swirl of black and blue, slashed with jagged red. From it, a face pushes forward, mouth open in a silent scream. Cursing Oliver and his art, I scoop her up in my arms. ‘OK, young lady, it’s time for bed.’ 

Her arms tighten around me, her head resting on my chest as I carry her to her room.

‘No more talking to paintings, you two,’ I say, tucking her into bed and kissing her brow. She thrusts Bramble to my face. I obediently plant a kiss on the tattered bunny. 

Her eyelids flutter in a losing battle against sleep. I turn to the door.

‘The man in the painting says he’s my daddy,’ she murmurs, mid-yawn.

I pause. My smile falters. Her father’s absence must be hitting her harder than I’d thought.

‘Oh, silly man,’ I say, forcing a laugh, ‘Your Daddy’s home now. He’s sleeping.’

A wide grin illuminates her face. 

As I reach the door, I mentally add ‘find a child therapist’ to my to-do list. Maybe ‘find a divorce lawyer’ should be on there, too.

‘Night-night, Mummy.’ She closes her eyes, a warm, sleepy smile still lingering on her lips.

‘Night-night, sweet pea,’ I say, easing the door shut behind me. I let my forehead rest against it, releasing a long, tired breath. My head snaps up as an icy draft brushes the back of my neck. I spin, expecting to see Oliver. The empty hallway stares back at me, moonlight cutting through the skylights. I let out a slow breath, and, rolling my eyes at my own paranoia, I continue to creep across the hall. 

I pass the painting. The air shifts, cold and sharp.

A low, hoarse whisper grazes my ear. ‘Night-night, sweet pea.’

I freeze, holding my breath. My gaze snaps to the canvas, my cheeks tingle as blood rushes to my feet. I lean closer. Did I really hear that?

I shake my head. Ofcourse I didn’t. ‘OK. You’re coming with me,’ I say, pulling the canvas from the wall. Holding it at arm’s length like a dirty nappy, I march it across the hall, dump it on the guest-room bed and close the door.

Back in bed, I close my eyes. The raspy voice lingers. Oliver has his back to me, with the steady, rumbling breath of deep sleep. Too much gin and not enough water, I tell myself as my mind dissolves into the darkness.

Two hands on my shoulders drag me from sleep. I gasp, squinting in the morning light, my head throbbing. Oliver’s face hovers above me, pale and frantic. 

‘Wake up, Lucy. Where’s Izzy?’