Paradise by Joanna Nadin

sees it dig into whitening skin, threatening to strangle her, to slice into flesh. But the metal is too fragile; the links give way and it snaps, the locket falling soundlessly onto the floor, the chain following as he drops it like a dirty swab, wipes his hand on the blue flap of his jacket.
    “Five minutes,” he says, then he turns and walks out, his tread steady on the stairs, trailing fury in his wake.
    Het lets a sob escape and Eleanor turns in shock. She had forgotten her, forgotten this witness.
    “Oh, Het . . .” She reaches a hand out, wants to pull the child into her lap, to tell her it is all right. But then she hears his words again, cutting through her like a knife into butter. She lets her hand drop and turns back to her reflection, forcing her lips into a wide coral-colored smile. “That’s enough, darling. It was just an accident. Mummy will wear the pearls instead. Now, run along, the babysitter is here. If you’re a good girl, she might let you watch telly.”
    Het wipes salty snot on the back of her hand, then bolts from the room. But she doesn’t go downstairs. Instead she runs to her bed, slides between the mattress and bedsprings. Lets the heavy foam and flanneled bulk pin her down, the iron coils dig into her back.
    When she comes out, it is dark. Het tiptoes along the corridor to her parents’ room. She opens the drawer in the vanity mirror, searches the sage carpet with her fingers, feeling for the hard metal. But the locket is gone.

IT’S LATE when I wake up, past breakfast. Yet my limbs are still heavy with sleep, aching, pinning me to the mattress. For a few seconds I think I’m ill, that the endless rain and cold has leached into my bones, filling me with flu. But then I see my clothes in a heap on the floor, feel the last drops of vodka in my stomach, an acid sting, and I remember. Remember the way his smile plays on the corners of his mouth, then broadens into a slow, lazy grin. Remember his eyes, treacle dark. Remember the way I look reflected in them, standing on the doorstep, wondering, waiting for what might happen next.
    But then the picture in my head changes, and I see something else. Someone else. Mum, sitting at the table, entranced, lost. And the warm-milk sweetness goes cold and curdles.
    When I get downstairs, the drawing room is a war zone. The polished mahogany lost under a haphazard pile of china ornaments and dust-heavy leather-bound books. Finn is going through a box of cutlery, silver set against navy velvet, counting forks and spoons, like Fagin in his slum. And in the middle of it all is Mum, eyes wide and wild, surveying the chaos.
    “What’s going on?” I ask quietly.
    Mum swings around, eyes narrowing to see who has interrupted her, then smiles when it is me. “I’m having a clear-out.” The words are hammered out, fast, like shots. She is speeding, racing. “Isn’t it marvelous? Look at it all.”
    I look. At the
Wisden Cricketers’ Almanack
s. The watercolors. Will’s trophies, stacked carelessly in a cardboard box. All that achievement tossed aside. Because, what? Because they loved him more? Because he died, leaving her alone with them?
    And something else. On the table, chain dangling over the side, is the locket. I pick it up, let the delicate links tumble through my fingers, then click it open to see who is inside.
    An oval photograph. A boy’s face. Blond hair and ruddy cheeks. Will. But where is Mum?
    “Where did you get it?” I ask.
    Mum snatches it out of my hand. “Nowhere. Doesn’t matter.”
    She snaps the locket shut, looks at it in her palm. “The chain’s broken, but it’s silver. Still worth something. I’m going to sell it on eBay.”
    “We don’t have a computer.” I state the obvious, though I know she’ll have an answer. She always does.
    “I’ll call an antiques dealer, then. They’ll take the good stuff. The rest can go to a charity shop. We need some space. Light. It’s too cluttered in here. Don’t you think,