The day that Emily came home with her picture of Mr Smallface, we’d been living with Dominic for six months. Six months of not worrying about food, or money for the meter. Emily had her own room; new clothes, new toys, new shoes, new books. What was more, I had just received good news. After twelve unsuccessful months of seeking a permanent teaching post, I’d had a call from King Henry’s. One of their French Department staff had died, suddenly, of a heart attack, at the start of the summer term, and they needed someone to stand in until they could find a permanent replacement. Although I mostly taught English, I had a dual-honours degree, which qualified me for the job, and I had been waiting for such a long time to go back to King Henry’s.
From the School’s perspective, the timing could not have been any worse. So near the end of the school year, all the likely candidates for a September post are already taken. Even newly qualified staff are often unavailable, leaving King Henry’s with no choice but to consider a supply teacher.
I was invited to take up the post for the remainder of the term, with the possibility of extending my contract in September, assuming I settled in adequately. The verdict, which was delivered that afternoon via the Headmaster’s Secretary, was both condescending and vaguely suspicious, like a colonial missionary addressing the representative of a hitherto uncontacted tribe. And Dominic didn’t like it, of course; Dominic, who had saved us, and who hated King Henry’s with all the evangelism of the newly converted zealot.
‘You deserve better than that,’ he said. ‘That shower of snobs in their Oxbridge scarves and House ties and doctoral robes. Imagine having to work with them!’
I shook my head. ‘The money’s good.’
‘You don’t need the money anymore.’ That was true; since we’d moved in with Dominic the previous year, I was actually starting to feel less anxious about money. ‘And anyway, how do you think you’ll feel, being back where your brother disappeared?’
‘It’s only temporary,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry, I can handle it.’
‘You ought to have got that Sunnybank job.’ There’d been a vacancy that year, in the English department at Sunnybank Park. I’d applied, at Dom’s request, but the post had gone to someone else. Even now, he resented the fact. Maybe even blamed me.
‘There’ll be other jobs,’ I said.
‘Not as good as the Sunnybank job.’
He turned away, and started to make tea. Dominic always made tea when he was upset or angry. I suppose he’d imagined both of us teaching side by side, every day, just as we had when I first arrived at Sunnybank to teach supply. But I’d set my sights higher, and now his disapproval was palpable. His dark face was as hard as a piece of oak. His eyes were fixed on the tea things.
‘You know I tried. They turned me down.’
Dominic shrugged. ‘If you say so.’
‘Do you think I didn’t try hard enough? That I failed the interview on purpose?’
My voice was rising. I was aware of Emily in the corner with her colouring book. Emily was always very aware of any tension between us. Dominic rinsed two cups in the sink, using more water than required. The water pipe protested, making a moaning, rattling sound. I have always hated that sound. It always reminds me of Conrad, somehow; of stagnant air; of darkness.
That’s where he lives. In the sink hole. That’s where he takes the children.
I lowered my voice again, and put my hand on Dominic’s shoulder.
‘It’s only a temporary post,’ I said. ‘I promise, I can handle it. As long as you’re still on my side.’
I saw his posture relax. ‘I am. I overreacted.’ He looked at me again, and smiled. ‘I’m sorry, Becks. I’m only looking out for you and Milly. You know that, right?’
‘Of course I do.’
Crisis averted, I told myself. Dominic was always so keen in his defence of me. He was like a good dog; trusting and dependable. He was kind and funny, too: attractive; clever; good in bed. Not for the first time, I wondered why it was I didn’t love him. There was nothing not to love; and yet where my love for him should have been, there was a kind of whistling gap, like a broken window. Or maybe the broken part was where my love for anyone should have been. My parents. Dominic. Emily –
From her corner, Emily said: ‘I drew a picture in class. Want to see?’
‘Of course we do,’ said Dominic. He beckoned her towards him. I still remember her rosy face, the piece of art paper in one hand, scrawled with that name from the shadows. I opened my arms to welcome her, but still she went to Dominic first. She always did. Maybe she sensed that broken window inside me.
‘Mummy got a job,’ I said.
‘She’s going to be an artist someday,’ said Dominic, taking the picture. ‘Here, sweetheart, let Mummy see.’ He held it up. From a distance, all I could see of Emily’s art was a blur of colours, but the shape of the image chilled me. As I drew closer, I recognized the formless body. The tiny head. The words, in yellow crayon –
‘Who’s this?’ My lips were cold and numb.
‘Oh, Mummy. Look. It says.’ She traced the words with a finger. ‘Mister Smallface.’
I felt my throat contract. My voice was down to a tiny whisper. ‘Tell me, sweetheart. Who is he?’
‘He lives down in the sink hole. He comes up through the drains. He looks up through the plughole and he sometimes makes a sound like this –’ She made a terrible, slurping sound, and I felt the hairs on my arms prickle. Suddenly I was four again, hands pressed against the bathroom door, with the ominous sound from the drain unfurling like a long black flag.
‘He’s coming,’ whispered a quiet voice from the other side of the door.
‘No!’
‘He knows. He can always tell. He’s coming to get you, Becks.’
‘No!’ My own voice was disappearing now, collapsing and spiralling into itself like water down a plughole. All that was left was a whisper, an airless sucking in my throat, all my senses lost beneath a weighted blanket of terror. Behind me the ratcheting, slurping sound had become a kind of guttural squealing.
‘Close your eyes,’ whispered the voice. ‘Close your eyes, curl up very small and maybe he won’t notice you.’
And so I made myself very small, very small against the door, and closed my eyes and waited, as little by little, the sounds from the drain receded to a series of hiccuping burps. And I remember sitting there, eyes closed, hugging my knees to my chest, just as I would sit inside the locker at King Henry’s.
The plumbing had always been bad at the house in Jackson Street; the drains were always protesting. My parents had said there was nothing to fear, but at four years old, the world is filled with superstitious terrors. And Conrad had told me it was true; Conrad, who could do no wrong; Conrad, who was my brother.
Mr Smallface lives in the drains. He knows if you don’t brush your teeth.
Mr Smallface can squeeze through the pipes. That’s why they make those noises.
Once there was a little girl who wouldn’t say her prayers at night. Mr Smallface came up through the plughole in her bedroom sink and pulled her into the drains by the hair. Some people say she’s still down there. People sometimes hear her, crying to be let out.