Blink(9)

There were days I had to ask myself the question, why on earth would anyone in their right mind choose to live here? What kind of mother would put her child at risk like this?

I made a promise to myself there and then that although there was nothing I could do about the decision now, I would do whatever it took to keep Evie safe. I would look after her, no matter what.

The sad thing was that, back then, I really believed that I could.

But in the end, I let Evie down just about as badly as I could have done.





8





Three Years Earlier





Toni





After all the silent moaning I’d done about Mum’s indulgent attitude towards Evie, the tables turned. After the wasp attack, I ended up thanking my lucky stars that she was around.

When we rushed outside, Evie screaming and Mum yelling, plenty of faces appeared at windows but only a lady from across the road came over.

‘I’m Nancy,’ she said, crouching down in front of Evie. ‘I’m a nurse. What happened?’

Mum told her.

‘Nasty,’ she said, scanning Evie’s stung cheeks and then reaching out to inspect her arms.

‘No!’ Evie pushed her face into the side of my leg and snatched her hands behind her.

‘Evie, let the lady see.’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘It’s OK.’ Nancy smiled at her and then looked up at me. ‘Just pop some Savlon on, all the swelling should go down in a few hours. There doesn’t look to be any stings to be left in there, so she should be OK.’

‘Thanks so much,’ I said. ‘You’ve saved us a trip to the walk-in clinic and probably several hours of waiting.’

‘Just keep an eye on those stings,’ Nancy added, standing up. ‘If they start swelling or get really red and painful, it could be an allergic reaction. Then you’ll need to take her in straight away.’ She glanced over mine and Mum’s angry red stings. ‘Same goes for you two.’

We thanked Nancy and moved into the back garden, away from prying eyes.

Unsurprisingly, Evie was inconsolable. She just couldn’t seem to settle, even though she’d completely tired herself out sobbing. She sat alternately on my and Mum’s knees, half-dropping to sleep one minute and then sitting bolt upright the next with wild eyes that searched every inch of the space around us.

From the garden, Mum phoned her neighbour, Mr Etheridge.

‘Mr Etheridge is a retired pest controller,’ Mum said. ‘He’ll know exactly what to do.’

Next, I rang the police. Once we’d been through the name, number and full address rigmarole, the controller asked me what was wrong.

‘Someone deliberately placed a nest of wasps in our home,’ I said, realising it was going to be a difficult one to explain. ‘My daughter has been really badly stung. We all have.’

‘Is the offender still on the premises?’ the controller asked calmly.

‘No, there was never anyone on the premises. The flowers were delivered anonymously.’

‘And the wasps came out of the flowers?’

‘Yes. When we brought it inside, they flew out of the bouquet and stung my young daughter badly.’

‘But you don’t actually know that someone deliberately intended to harm you?’

‘I know there was half a wasps’ nest wedged in the bottom of the bouquet.’ I clenched my jaw. ‘Someone must’ve put it in there. Can you just send an officer out, please?’

As the call ended, my heart sank. If the controller’s laconic reaction to my call was anything to go by, it would probably be days before the police bothered to visit. If at all.

Mr Etheridge was round within an hour, dressed in full head-to-toe white protective gear. Even his shoes were covered, and he was sporting one of those beekeeper nets on his head. Though he seemed rather unsteady on his feet as he ambled towards us.

‘Stand back,’ he instructed, his voice raspy. ‘I’m going in.’

‘Jeez, how old is he?’ I whispered to Mum.

‘Probably in his early eighties now, but that’s not the point,’ Mum said crossly. ‘He knows what he’s doing, Toni, he had his own pest control business for years.’

Mr Etheridge disappeared into the house, closing the door behind him. Fifteen minutes later he emerged again.

‘All dead.’ He peeled back his protective head covering. ‘There were only about a dozen wasps in the room at most.’

He held up a clear plastic bag containing the crumbling remains of the grey, conical nest that had tumbled out of the bouquet. Evie whimpered and turned quickly away, pressing her face into Mum’s neck.

‘You were lucky, most of them were already dead.’ He peered at the nest. ‘Where’s your wheelie bin, dear?’

I thanked Mr Etheridge and Mum slipped him a twenty-pound note, which he readily accepted. I watched as he surreptitiously pushed a can labelled ‘Wasp & Insect Killer’ into his rucksack. It was just the regular sort of spray you could buy from any supermarket – and for a hell of a lot cheaper than the twenty quid Mum had just stumped up. But I kept my mouth shut. After all, it had got a very unpleasant job done.

While Mum sat in the back garden with Evie, I swept up the soft, stripy bodies from the windowsill. The room was thick with insect spray so I wedged open the windows.