‘Do you know what it means?’ Jessica asks.
I shake my head.
‘It means that you are a Half Code. A Black Code. Non-White.’
‘Gran says I’m a White Witch.’
‘No, she doesn’t.’
‘She says I’m half White.’
‘You’re half Black.
‘After the woman has finished reading out the Notification, Mother still doesn’t say anything but goes back inside the house, leaving the front door open. The woman and the Hunter follow her in.
‘We’re all in the lounge. Mother is sitting on the chair by the fire. But the fire isn’t lit. Deborah and Arran have been playing on the floor but now they sit either side of her on the arms of the chair.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Standing right by her.’
I imagine Jessica standing there with her arms folded, knees locked back.
‘The Hunter positions himself in the doorway.
‘The woman with the clipboard perches on the edge of the other chair, her clipboard on her tightly clenched knees, pen in her hand. She says to Mother, “It’ll probably be quicker and easier if I fill the form in and you just sign.”
‘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 Babygro 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.’