The Hiding Place by Trezza Azzopardi

Author:Trezza Azzopardi [Azzopardi, Trezza]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780330526166
Publisher: Picador

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The kitchen doesn’t get the light in the evenings. I’d forgotten. My way downstairs seems shorter too, a few quick steps, a right turn, the final three steps with the last one wider than the rest. You could sit here, on the bottom step. I try it now. It feels awkward, cold; there’s a draught blowing down from upstairs. I haven’t checked the other bedrooms properly. Perhaps there’s a window open, or a pane smashed. It feels wrong to sit on this step, my back exposed to the chill. Nothing to lean against. The door shutting off the upstairs has been removed. That’s what the difference is: you used to be able to rest your back on the closed door. The hinges have gone, leaving two shallow depressions top and bottom of the frame. I put my hand on the one nearest me. It’s been painted over. Beneath my fingers, the solid drips of gloss feel like a message in Braille. I wonder if my mother painted it. The idea of shutting off the stairs, hiding up from down, it appeals to me now.

I want to run away. I want my warm flat, my warm yellow kitchen again. This room looks so empty. In my head, it’s full of people, steamy with smoke and cooking smells and talk. Perhaps my mother had a home help; or maybe the social services have been here and cleared up. I should go through the drawers before the others arrive, sort things out: if there’s something to be found, I want to find it.

I’m sure it used to be sunny in this room: it was lighter in the mornings. I try to recall it, with the chill coming down and the darkness coming down – what it was like, the day of the wedding.

Something wakes me and I can’t place it; a sound perhaps, a cry. It’s early yet, but I’m excited: I’ve never been a bridesmaid before. My mother is still asleep and as I slide away from her, she turns herself round towards Luca. I creep downstairs. The air tells me that the back door is open, but there’s an odd smell drifting up, like iron: a hot tangy heat. Such a wet smell.

The kitchen is full of sunshine, the back door slightly open; it’s like the outside has come in. The taps dazzle over the sink, and the sound is rushing water, spilling from the cold tap, trapping threads of sunlight in its stream. I can hear birdsong and feel a warm breeze, and everything is Right and Summer, except for that smell.

From the last step of the stairs, I see it all: my father with his hand inside the rabbit. He’s pulling hard on the split fur, tearing the length of the body. The skin slides back on itself. Underneath, the flesh is purple and shining like rubies.

When he sees it’s only me, he smiles.

Come and look, he says, as if he’s going to do a party trick, produce a coin from my ear, or a rabbit from this bloody skin,

See, the heart.

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