ThankyoufordownloadingthisSimon&Schusterebook.GetaFREEebookwhenyoujoinourmailinglist.Plus,getupdatesonnewreleases,deals,recommendedreads,andmorefromSimon&Schuster.Clickbelowtosignupandseetermsandconditions.CLICKHERETOSIGNUPAlreadyasubscriber?Provideyouremailagainsowecanregisterthisebookandsendyoumoreofwhatyouliketoread.Youwillcontinuetoreceiveexclusiveoffersinyourinbox.Thisbookisdedicatedtomyreaders,withloveandgratitude.Prologue
Itwouldbeinaccuratetosaythatmychildhoodwasnormalbeforetheycame.Itwasfarfromnormal,butitfeltnormalbecauseitwasallI’dknown.It’sonlynow,withdecadesofhindsight,thatIcanseehowodditwas.
Iwasnearlyelevenwhentheycame,andmysisterwasnine.
Theylivedwithusformorethanfiveyearsandtheyturnedeverythingvery,verydark.MysisterandIhadtolearnhowtosurvive.
AndwhenIwassixteen,andmysisterwasfourteen,thebabycame.
I
1
Libbypicksuptheletteroffthedoormat.Sheturnsitinherhands.Itlooksveryformal;theenvelopeiscreamincolor,madeofhigh-gradepaper,andfeelsasthoughitmightevenbelinedwithtissue.Thepostalfranksays:“SmithkinRudd&RoyleSolicitors,ChelseaManorStreet,SW3.”
Shetakestheletterintothekitchenandsitsitonthetablewhileshefillsthekettleandputsateabaginamug.Libbyisprettysuresheknowswhat’sintheenvelope.Sheturnedtwenty-fivelastmonth.She’sbeensubconsciouslywaitingforthisenvelope.Butnowthatit’shereshe’snotsureshecanfaceopeningit.
Shepicksupherphoneandcallshermother.
“Mum,”shesays.“It’shere.Theletterfromthetrustees.”
Shehearsasilenceattheotherendoftheline.Shepictureshermuminherownkitchen,athousandmilesawayinDénia:pristinewhiteunits,lime-greencolor-coordinatedkitchenaccessories,slidingglassdoorsontoasmallterracewithadistantviewtotheMediterranean,herphoneheldtoherearinthecrystal-studdedcasethatshereferstoasherbling
“Oh,”shesays.“Right.Gosh.Haveyouopenedit?”
“No.Notyet.I’mjusthavingacupofteafirst.”
“Right,”shesaysagain.Thenshesays,“ShallIstayontheline?Whileyoudoit?”
“Yes,”saysLibby.“Please.”
Shefeelsalittlebreathless,asshesometimesdoeswhenshe’sjustabouttostandupandgiveasalespresentationatwork,likeshe’shadastrongcoffee.Shetakestheteabagoutofthemugandsitsdown.Herfingerscaressthecorneroftheenvelopeandsheinhales.
“OK,”shesaystohermother,“I’mdoingit.I’mdoingitrightnow.”
Hermumknowswhat’sinhere.Oratleastshehasanidea,thoughshewasnevertoldformallywhatwasinthetrust.Itmight,asshehasalwayssaid,beateapotandaten-poundnote.
Libbyclearsherthroatandslidesherfingerundertheflap.Shepullsoutasheetofthickcreampaperandscansitquickly:
ToMissLibbyLouiseJonesAstrusteeoftheHenryandMartinaLambTrustcreatedon12July1977,Iproposetomakethedistributionfromittoyoudescribedintheattachedschedule…
Sheputsdownthecoveringletterandpullsouttheaccompanyingpaperwork.
“Well?”sayshermum,breathlessly.
“Stillreading,”shereplies.
Sheskimsandhereyeiscaughtbythenameofaproperty.SixteenCheyneWalk,SW3.Sheassumesitisthepropertyherbirthparentswerelivinginwhentheydied.SheknowsitwasinChelsea.Sheknowsitwasbig.Sheassumeditwaslonggone.Boardedup.Sold.Herbreathcatcheshardatthebackofherthroatwhensherealizeswhatshe’sjustread.
“Er,”shesays.
“What?”
“Itlookslike…No,thatcan’tberight.”
“What!”
“Thehouse.They’veleftmethehouse.”
“TheChelseahouse?”
“Yes,”shesays.
“Thewholehouse?”
“Ithinkso.”There’sacoveringletter,somethingaboutnobodyelsenamedonthetrustcomingforwardinduetime.Shecan’tdigestitatall.
“MyGod.Imean,thatmustbeworth…”
Libbybreathesinsharplyandraiseshergazetotheceiling.“Thismustbewrong,”shesays.“Thismustbeamistake.”
“Goandseethesolicitors,”sayshermother.“Callthem.Makeanappointment.Makesureit’snotamistake.”
“Butwhatifit’snotamistake?Whatifit’strue?”
“Wellthen,myangel,”sayshermother—andLibbycanhearhersmilefromallthesemilesaway—“you’llbeaveryrichwomanindeed.”
Libbyendsthecallandstaresaroundherkitchen.Fiveminutesago,thiskitchenwastheonlykitchenshecouldafford,thisflattheonlyoneshecouldbuy,hereinthisquietstreetofterracedcottagesinthebackwatersofSt.Albans.Sherememberstheflatsandhousesshesawduringheronlinesearches,thelittleintakesofbreathashereyecaughtupontheperfectplace—asuntrapterrace,aneat-inkitchen,afive-minutewalktothestation,abulgeofancientleadedwindows,thesuggestionofcathedralbellsfromacrossagreen—andthenshewouldseethepriceandfeelherselfafoolforeverthinkingitmightbeforher.
Shecompromisedoneverythingintheendtofindaplacethatwasclosetoherjobandnottoofarfromthetrainstation.Therewasnogutinstinctasshesteppedacrossthethreshold;herheartsaidnothingtoherastheestateagentshowedheraround.Butshemadeitahometobeproudof,painstakinglycreamingoffthebestthatT.J.Maxxhadtooffer,andnowherbadlyconverted,slightlyawkwardone-bedroomflatmakesherfeelhappy.Sheboughtit;sheadornedit.Itbelongstoher.
ButnowitappearssheistheownerofahouseonthefineststreetinChelseaandsuddenlyherflatlookslikearidiculousjoke.Everythingthatwasimportanttoherfiveminutesagofeelslikeajoke—the￡1,500-a-yearraiseshewasjustawardedatwork,thehenweekendinBarcelonanextmonththattookhersixmonthstosavefor,theMACeyeshadowshe“allowed”herselftobuylastweekendasatreatforgettingthepayraise,thesoftfrissonofabandoninghertightlymanagedmonthlybudgetforjustoneglossy,sweet-smellingmomentinHouseofFraser,theweightlessnessofthetinyMACbagswingingfromherhand,theshiverofplacingthelittleblackcapsuleinhermakeupbag,ofknowingthatsheownedit,thatshemightinfactwearitinBarcelona,whereshemightalsowearthedresshermotherboughtherforChristmas,theonefromFrenchConnectionwiththelacepanelsshe’dwantedforages.Fiveminutesagoherjoysinlifeweresmall,anticipated,longed-for,hard-earnedandsaved-up-for,inconsequentiallittlesplurgesthatmeantnothingintheschemeofthingsbutgavetheflatsurfaceofherlifeenoughsparklestomakeitworthgettingoutofbedeverymorningtogoanddoajobwhichshelikedbutdidn’tlove.
NowsheownsahouseinChelseaandtheproportionsofherexistencehavebeenblownapart.
Sheslidestheletterbackintoitsexpensiveenvelopeandfinisheshertea.
2
ThereisastormbrewingovertheC?ted’Azur;itsitsdarkasdamsonsonthehorizon,lyingheavyonthecrownofLucy’shead.Shecupsherskullwithonehand,grabsherdaughter’semptyplatewiththeother,andlowersittothegroundsothatthedogcanlickoffthegravystainsandcrumbsofchicken.
“Marco,”shesaystoherson,“finishyourfood.”
“I’mnothungry,”hereplies.
Lucyfeelsragepulseandthrobathertemples.Thestormisedgingcloser;shecanfeelthemoisturecoolinginthehotair.“Thisisit,”shesays,hervoiceclippedwiththeeffortofnotshouting.“Thisisallthereistoeattoday.Thisistheendofthemoney.Nomore.Notellingmeyou’rehungryatbedtime.It’llbetoolatethen.Eatit.Please.”
Marcoshakeshisheadlong-sufferinglyandcutsintohischickenschnitzel.Shestaresatthetopofhishead,thethickchestnuthairswirlingfromadoublecrown.Shetriestorememberthelasttimetheyallwashedtheirhairandshecan’t.
Stellasays,“Mama,canIhaveadessert?”
Lucyglancesdownather.StellaisfiveyearsoldandthebestmistakeLucyevermade.Sheshouldsayno;she’ssohardonMarco,sheshouldnotbesosoftonhissister.ButStellaissogood,soyieldingandeasy.Howcanshedenyhersomethingsweettoeat?
“IfMarcofinisheshisschnitzel,”shesaysevenly,“wecangetanicecreamtoshare.”
ThisisclearlyunfaironStella,whofinishedherchickentenminutesagoandshouldn’thavetowaitforherbrothertofinishhis.ButStella’ssenseofinjusticeseemsstilltobeunformedandshenodsandsays,“Eatquickly,Marco!”
LucytakesMarco’splatefromhimwhenheisdoneandputsitonthepavementforthedog.Theicecreamcomes.Itisthreeflavorsinaglassbowlwithhotchocolatesauce,crumbledpraline,andapinkfoilpalmtreeonacocktailstick.
Lucy’sheadthrobsagainandsheeyesthehorizon.Theyneedtofindshelterandtheyneedtodoitsoon.Sheasksforthebill,placeshercardonthesaucer,andtapshernumberintothecardreader,herbreathheldagainsttheknowledgethatnowthereisnomoneyinthataccount,thatthereisnomoneyanywhere.
ShewaitswhileStellalicksouttheglassbowl,thensheuntiesthedog’sleadfromthetablelegandcollectstheirbags,handingtwotoMarco,onetoStella
“Wherearewegoing?”asksMarco.
Hisbrowneyesareserious;hisgazeisheavywithanxiety.
Shesighs.ShelooksupthestreettowardNice’sOldTown,downthestreettowardtheocean.Sheevenlooksatthedog,asthoughhemighthaveagoodsuggestiontomake.Helooksathereagerly,asthoughtheremightbeanotherplatetolick.There’sonlyoneplacetogoandit’sthelastplaceshewantstobe.Butshefindsasmile.
“Iknow,”shesays,“let’sgoandseeMémé!”
Marcogroans.Stellalooksuncertain.TheybothrememberhowitwaslasttimetheystayedwithStella’sgrandmother.SamiawasonceafilmstarinAlgeria.Nowsheisseventyyearsold,blindinoneeye,andlivinginascruffyseventh-floorapartmentinatowerblockinl’Arianewithherdisabledadultdaughter.Herhusbanddiedwhenshewasjustfifty-fiveandheronlyson,Stella’sfather,disappearedthreeyearsagoandhasn’tbeenintouchsince.Samiaisangryandrawandrightlyso.Butshehasaroofandafloor;shehaspillowsandrunningwater.ShehaseverythingrightnowthatLucycan’tofferherchildren.
“Justforonenight,”shesays.“JusttonightandthenI’llsortsomethingoutfortomorrow.Ipromise.”
TheyreachSamia’sbuildingjustastherainstartstofall,tinywaterbombsexplodingonthehotpavement.Inthegraffiti-daubedliftonthewaytotheseventhfloor,Lucycansmellthem:thehumidaromaofunwashedclothes,ofgreasyhair,oftrainersthathavebeenworntoolong.Thedog,withhiscoatofdensewiryhair,smellsparticularlyhorrible.
“Ican’t,”saysSamiaatherfrontdoor,blockingtheirentrance.“Ijustcan’t.Mazieissick.Thecarerneedstosleepheretonight.Thereisnoroom.Thereisjustnoroom.”
Acrackofthunderboomsoverhead.Theskybehindthemturnsbrilliantwhite.Sheetsofrainsluicefromthesky.LucystaresatSamiadesperately.“Wehavenowhereelsetogo,”shesays.
“Iknow,”saysSamia.“Iknowthat.IcantakeStella.Butyouandtheboyandthedog,I’msorry.You’llhavetofindsomewhereelse.”
LucyfeelsStellapushagainstherleg,ashiverofuneaserunningthroughhersmallbody.“Iwanttostaywithyou,”shewhisperstoLucy.“Idon’twanttostaywithoutyou.”
LucycrouchesdownandtakesStella’shands.Stella’seyesaregreen,likeherfather’s;herdarkhairisstreakedhazel-blond,herfacetanneddarkbrownfromthelonghotsummer.Sheisabeautifulchild;peoplestopLucyonthestreetsometimestotellherso,withasoftgasp.
“Baby,”shesays.“You’llbedryhere.Youcanhaveashower;Méméwillreadyouastory…”
Samianods.“I’llreadyoutheoneyoulike,”shesays,“aboutthemoon.”
StellapressesherselftighteragainstLucy.Lucyfeelsherpatienceebbing.ShewouldgiveanythingtobeallowedtosleepinMémé’sbed,tobereadthebookaboutthemoon,toshowerandslipintocleanpajamas.
“Justonenight,baby.I’llbeherefirstthingtomorrowtocollectyou.OK?”
ShefeelstheflutterofStella’sheadnoddingagainsthershoulder,theintakeofherbreathagainsttears.“OK,Mama,”saysStella,andLucybundlesherintoSamia’sflatbeforeeitherofthemcanchangetheirmind.ThenitisjustherandMarcoandthedog,yogamatsrolledupontheirbacks,headingintotheheavyrain,intothedarkeningnight,withnowheretogo.
Forawhiletheytakeshelterbeneaththeflyover.Theconstantfizzofcartiresoverhotwettarmacisdeafening.Therainkeepsfalling.
Marcohasthedogheldinhislap,hisfacepressedagainstthedog’sback.
HelooksupatLucy.“Whyisourlifesoshit?”heasks.
“Youknowwhyourlifeisshit,”shesnaps.
“Butwhycan’tyoudosomethingaboutit?”
“I’mtrying,”shesays.
“Noyou’renot.You’relettingusgounder.”
“Iamtrying,”shehisses,fixinghimwithafuriousgaze.“Everysingleminuteofeverysingleday.”
Helooksatherdoubtfully.Heistoo,toocleverandknowshertoo,toowell.Shesighs.“I’llgetmyfiddlebacktomorrow.Icanstartmakingmoneyagain.”
“Howareyougoingtopayfortherepairs?”Henarrowshiseyesather.
“I’llfindaway.”
“Whatway?”
“Idon’tknow,allright?Idon’tknow.Somethingwillcomeup.Italwaysdoes.”
Sheturnsfromhersonthenandstaresintotheparallellinesofheadlightsburningtowardher.Ahugecannonofthunderexplodesoverhead,theskylightsupagain,therainbecomes,ifitispossible,evenheavier.Shepullsherbatteredsmartphonefromtheoutsidepocketofherrucksack,turnsiton.Sheseesthatshehas8percentbatterychargeleftandisabouttoswitchitoffagainwhenshenoticesherphonehassentheranotificationfromhercalendar.It’sbeenthereforweeksnowbutshecan’tbringherselftocancelit.
Itsays,simply:Thebabyis25.
3
Chelsea,Late1980s
Myname,likemyfather’sname,isHenry.Thisduplicationwasthecauseofoccasionalconfusion,butasmymothercalledmyfatherdarlingandmysistercalledhimDaddyandprettymucheveryoneelsecalledhimMr.Lamborsir,wegotby.
Myfatherwasthesolebeneficiaryofhisownfather’sfortune,madefromslotmachines.Ineverknewmygrandfather—hewasveryoldwhenmydadwasborn—buthewasfromBlackpoolandhisnamewasHarry.Myfatherneverworkedadayinhislife,justsataroundwaitingforHarrytodiesothathecouldberichinhisownright.
HeboughtourhouseonCheyneWalkinChelseatheverysamedayhegothishandsonthemoney.He’dbeenhouse-huntingduringHarry’sdyingdays,hadhiseyeontheplaceforafewweeks,wasterrifiedthatsomeoneelsewasgoingtoputanofferinonitbeforehecouldclaimhisinheritance.
Thehousewasemptywhenheboughtitandhespentyearsandthousandsfillingitwithwhatheusedtocallobjets:mooseheadsloomingoffpaneledwalls;huntingswordshangingcrossedabovedoorways;mahoganythroneswithbarley-twistbacks;amedieval-stylebanquetingtableforsixteen,repletewithscarsandwormholes;cabinetsfullofpistolsandbullwhips;atwenty-foottapestry;sinisteroilportraitsofotherpeople’sancestors;reamsofgold-blockedleather-boundbooksthatnoonewouldeverread;andafull-sizedcannoninthefrontgarden.Therewerenocomfortablechairsinourhouse,nocozycorners.Everythingwaswoodandleatherandmetalandglass.Everythingwashard.Especiallymyfather.
HeliftedweightsinourbasementanddrankGuinnessfromhisownprivatekeginhisownprivatebar.Hewore￡800handmadesuitsfromMayfairthatbarelyaccommodatedhismusclesandhisgirth.Hehadhairthecolorofoldpenniesandraw-lookinghandswithtightredknuckles.HedroveaJaguar.Heplayedgolfalthoughhehateditbecausehewasn’tdesignedtoswingagolfclub;hewastoosolid,toounyielding.Hewentonshootsontheweekends:disappearedonSaturdaymorningwearingatight-fittingtweedjacketwithatrunkfullofgunsandcamehomeonSundayeveningwithabraceofwoodpigeonsinanicebox.Once,whenIwasaboutfive,hebroughthomeanEnglishbulldoghe’dboughtfromamanonthestreetusingthemint-freshfifty-poundnoteshekeptrolledupinhisjacketpocket.Hesaiditremindedhimofhimself.Thenitshitonanantiquerugandhegotridofit.
Mymotherwasararebeauty
Notmywords.Myfather’s.
Yourmotherisararebeauty.
ShewashalfGerman,halfTurkish.HernamewasMartina.Shewastwelveyearsyoungerthanmydad,andbackthen,beforetheycame,shewasastyleicon.ShewouldputonapairofdarksunglassesandtakeherselfofftoSloaneStreettospendmyfather’smoneyonbrightsilkscarvesandgold-encasedlipsticksandintenseFrenchperfumeandshewouldbephotographedsometimes,herwristsencircledwithbaghandles,andputintheposhpapers.Theycalledherasocialite.Shewasn’treally.Shewenttoglamorouspartiesandworebeautifulclothesbutwhenshewasathomeshewasjustourmum.Notthebestmum,butnottheworst,andcertainlyarelativelysoftspotinourbig,masculine,machete-adornedChelseamansion.
She’doncehadajob,forayearorso,introducingimportantfashionpeopletoeachother.Oratleastthatwasmyimpression.Shehadlittlesilverbusinesscardsinherpurse,printedwiththewordsMartinaLambAssociatesinhotpink.ShehadanofficeontheKing’sRoad,abrightloftroomoverashop,withaglasstableandleatherchairsandatelexmachine,railsofclothesinclearplasticandavaseofwhiteliliesonaplinth.Shewouldtakemeandmysisterintoworkwithheronschoolholidaysandgiveuscrisppilesoftantalizinglywhitepaperfromareaminabox,andahandfulofMagicMarkers.Thephonewouldringoccasionally,andMummywouldsay,“Goodmorning,MartinaLambAssociates.”Sometimesavisitorwouldbebuzzedinviatheintercom—mysisterandIfightingoverwhoseturnitwastopressthebutton.Thevisitorswereshrill,verythinwomenwhoonlywantedtotalkaboutclothesandfamouspeople.Therewereno“associates,”justourmotherandtheoccasionalwide-eyedteenagegirlonworkexperience.Idon’tknowwhathappenedtoitall.Ijustknowthattheloftofficedisappeared,andthesilverbusinesscardsdisappeared,andMummyjustcarriedonbeingahousewifeagain.
MysisterandIwenttoschoolinKnightsbridge—quitepossiblythemostexpensiveschoolinLondon.Ourfatherwasnotafraidofspendingmoneythen.Helovedspendingmoney.Themorethebetter.Ouruniformwasshitbrownandbileyellowwithknickerbocker-styletrousersfortheboys.Thankfully,bythetimeIwasoldenoughtobehumiliatedbytheattire,myfatherhadnomoneylefttopayforschoolfees,letaloneforcorduroyknickerbockersfromtheHarrodsschooluniformdepartment.
Itallhappenedsoslowly,yetsoextraordinarilyquickly,thechangetoourparents,toourhome,toourlivesaftertheyarrived.Butthatfirstnight,whenBirdieappearedonourfrontstepwithtwolargesuitcasesandacatinawickerbox,wecouldneverhaveguessedtheimpactshewouldhave,theotherpeopleshewouldbringintoourlives,thatitwouldallendthewayitdid.
Wethoughtshehadjustcometostayfortheweekend.
4
Libbycanhearthewhisperofeverymomentthatthisroomhasexisted,feeleverybreathofeverypersonwhohaseversatwheresheissitting.
“Seventeenninety-nine,”Mr.Roylehadrepliedinanswertoherearlierquestion.“Oneoftheoldestlegalpracticesinthecapital.”
Mr.Roylelooksathernowacrosshisheavilywaxeddesktop.Asmileflickersacrosshislipsandhesays,“Well,well,well.Thisissomebirthdaypresent,no?”
Libbysmilesnervously.“I’mstillnotconvincedit’sreallytrue,”shesays.“Ikeepexpectingsomeonetotellmeit’sabigwindup.”
Herchoiceofwords—bigwindup—feelswronginthisvenerableandancientsetting.Shewishesshe’dusedadifferentturnofphrase.ButMr.Royledoesn’tseemconcerned.HissmilestaysinplaceasheleansforwardandpassesLibbyathickpileofpaperwork.“Nowindingup,Icanassureyou,MissJones.
“Here,”hesays,pullingsomethingfromthepileofpaper.“Iwasn’tsurewhethertogivethistoyounow.OrmaybeIshouldhavesentittoyou.Withtheletter.Idon’tknow—it’sallsoawkward.ItwasinthefileandIkeptitback,justincaseitdidn’tfeelright.Butitdoesseemtherightthingtodo.Sohere.Idon’tknowhowmuchyouradoptiveparentswereabletotellyouaboutyourbirthfamily.Butyoumightwanttotakeaminutetoreadthis.”
Sheunfoldsthepieceofnewsprintandlaysitoutonthetableinfrontofher.
Socialiteandhusbanddeadinsuicidepact.Teenagechildrenmissing;babyfoundalive.PoliceyesterdaywerecalledtotheChelseahomeofformersocialiteMartinaLambandherhusband,Henry,afterreportsofapossibletriplesuicide.PolicearrivedatlunchtimeandfoundthebodiesofMr.andMrs.Lambsidebysideonthefloorofthekitchen.Asecondman,whohasyettobeidentified,wasalsofounddead.Ababy,believedtobefemaleandtenmonthsold,wasfoundinaroomonthesecondfloor.Thebabyhasbeentakenintocareandissaidtobeingoodhealth.Neighborshaveobservedthattherewerenumerouschildrenlivinginthehouseinrecentyearsandtherearevaryingreportsofotheradultslivingattheproperty,butnotracewasfoundofanyotherresidents.Thecauseofdeathisstilltobeascertained,butearlybloodsamplestestedappeartosuggestthatthetriomayhavepoisonedthemselves.HenryLamb,48,wasthesolebeneficiaryoftheestateofhisfather,Mr.HarryLamb,ofBlackpool,Lancashire.Hehadsufferedfromillhealthinrecentyearsandwassaidtobewheelchair-bound.Policearenowtrawlingthecountryforsightingsofthecouple’ssonanddaughter,whoaredescribedasroughlyfourteentosixteenyearsold.AnyonewithanyinformationonthewhereaboutsofthechildrenisinvitedtocontacttheMetropolitanPoliceattheearliestpossiblejuncture.Anyonewhomayhavespenttimelivingatthepropertywiththefamilyinrecentyearsisalsoofgreatinteresttothepolice.
ShestaresatMr.Royle.“Isthat…?Thebabyleftbehind—isthatme?”
Henods.Shecanseegenuinesadnessinhiseyes.“Yes,”hesays.“Suchatragicstory,isn’tit?Andsuchamystery.Thechildren,Imean.Thehousewasintrustforthem,too,butneitherofthemevercameforward.Icanonlyassume,well,thatthey’re…anyway.”Heleansforward,clutcheshistie,andsmiles,painfully.“MayIofferyouapen?”
Hetipsawoodenpotofexpensive-lookingballpointpenstowardherandshetakesone.Ithasthenameofthefirmprintedonitsbarrelingoldscript.
Libbystaresatitblanklyforamoment.
Abrother.
Asister.
Asuicidepact.
Sheshakesherhead,veryslightly;thensheclearsherthroatandsays,“Thankyou.”
Herfingersclutchthesolidpentightly.Shecanbarelyrememberwhathersignatureissupposedtolooklike.Therearestickyplasticarrowsattachedtotheedgesofthepagessheisexpectedtosign,pointingherintherightdirection.Thesoundofthepenagainstthepaperisalmostexcruciating.Mr.Roylewatchesbenignly;hepusheshisteacupacrossthedeskafewinches,thenbackagain.
Asshesigns,shefeelsverystronglytheimportofthismoment,thisinvisibleturninginherlifetakingherfromheretothere.Ononesideofthispileofpapersarecarefulsupermarketshops,oneweekawayayear,andaneleven-year-oldVauxhallCorsa.Ontheotherarethekeystoaneight-bedroomhouseinChelsea.
“Good,”hesays,almostwithasighofrelief,asLibbypasseshimbackthepaperwork.“Good,good,good.”Heflicksthroughit,castinghisgazeoverthespacesnexttotheplasticarrows,andthenhelooksupatLibbyandsmilesandsays,“Right.Ithinkit’stimeforyoutotakeownershipofthekeys.”HepullsasmallwhiteJiffybagfromadrawerinhisdesk.Thelabelonthepacketsays“16CheyneWalk.”
Libbypeersinside.Threesetsofkeys.OnewithametalkeyringwiththeJaguarlogoonit.Onewithabrasskeyringwithacigarettelighterbuiltintoit.Andonesetwithoutakeyring.
Hegetstohisfeet.“Shallwego?”hesays.“Wecanwalk.It’sonlyjustaroundthecorner.”
It’saviolentlyhotsummer’sday.Libbycanfeeltheheatofthepavingstonesthroughthesolesofherslip-oncanvasshoes,theglareofthemiddaysunburningthroughthethinfilmofcloud.Theywalkdownastreetfilledwithrestaurants,allopentothepavement,fullylaid-uptablessetonspecialplatformsandprotectedfromthesunbyvastrectangularparasols.Womeninoversizedsunglassessitintwosandthreesdrinkingwine.SomeofthemareasyoungasherandshemarvelsathowtheycanaffordtositdrinkingwineinaposhrestaurantonaMondayafternoon.
“So,”saysMr.Royle,“thiscouldbeyournewneighborhood,Isuppose.Ifyoudecidedtoliveinthehouse.”
Sheshakesherheadandissuesasmallnervouslaugh.Shecan’tformaproperreply.It’salljusttoosilly.
Theypasstinyboutiquesandantiquesshopsfilledwithbronzesoffoxesandbears,vasttwinklingchandeliersthesizeofherbathtub.ThentheyarebytheriverandLibbycansmellitbeforesheseesit,thewet-dogtangofit.Wideboatsslipbyeachother;asmallerboatwithmorerichpeopleonitbubblespast:champagneinasilvercooler,awindsweptgoldenretrieverattheprowsquintingagainstthesun.
“It’sjustdownhere,”saysMr.Royle.“Anotherminuteortwo.”
Libby’sthighsarechafingandshewishesshe’dwornshortsinsteadofaskirt.ShecanfeelsweatbeingabsorbedbythefabricofherbrawherethecupsmeetinthemiddleandshecantellthatMr.Royle,inhistight-fittingsuitandshirt,isfindingtheheatunbearable,too.
“Hereweare,”hesays,turningtofaceaterraceoffiveorsixredbrickhouses,allofdifferingheightsandwidths.Libbyguessesimmediatelywhichishers,evenbeforesheseesthenumbersixteenpaintedonthefanlightinacurlyscript.Thehouseisthreefloorshigh,fourwindowswide.Itisbeautiful.Butitis,justassheimagineditwouldbe,boardedup.Thechimneypotsandguttersareovergrownwithweeds.Thehouseisaneyesore.
Butsuchabeautifuleyesore.Libbyinhalessharply.“It’sverybig,”shesays.
“Yes,”saysMr.Royle.“Twelveroomsintotal.Notincludingthebasement.”
Thehousestandswellbackfromthepavementbehindornatemetalrailingsandanovergrownparterregarden.Thereisawrought-ironcanopyrunningtowardthefrontdoorandtotheleftisafull-sizedcannonsetonaconcreteblock.
“Wouldyoulikemetodothehonors?”Mr.Royleindicatesthepadlocksecuringtheboardoverthefrontdoor.
Libbynodsandheunlocksit,heftingthehoardingawaybyloopinghisfingersaroundit.Itcomesawaywithaterriblegroanandbehinditisahugeblackdoor.Herubshisfingertipstogetherandthengoesthroughthekeysmethodicallyuntilhefindstheonethatopensthedoor.
“Whenwasthelasttimeanyonewasinthishouse?”sheasks.
“Gosh,Isupposeafewyearsbacknowwhensomethingflooded.Wehadtogetinwiththeemergencyplumbers.Repairsomedamage.Thatsortofthing.Right,hereweare.”
Theystepintothehallway.Theheatofoutdoors,thehumoftraffic,theechooftheriverallfadeaway.It’scoolinhere.Thefloorisasoftdarkparquet,scarredanddusty.Astaircaseaheadhasadarkwoodbarley-twistbanister,withanoverflowingbowloffruitcarvedintothetopofthenewelpost.Thedoorsarecarvedwithlinenfoldsandhaveornatebronzehandles.Thewallsarehalfpaneledwithmoredarkwoodandpaperedwithtattywine-redflockwallpaper,whichhasvastbaldpatcheswherethemothshaveeatenitaway.Theairisthickandfullofdustmotes.Theonlylightcomesfromthefanlightsaboveeachdoorway.
Libbyshudders.There’stoomuchwood.Notenoughlight.Notenoughair.Shefeelslikeshe’sinacoffin.“CanI?”Sheputsherhandtooneofthedoors.
“Youcandowhateveryoulike.It’syourhouse.”
Thedooropensupintoalongrectangularroomatthebackofthehousewithfourwindowsoverlookingadensetangleoftreesandbushes.Morewoodenpaneling.Woodenshutters.Moreparquetunderfoot.
“Wheredoesthatgo?”sheasksMr.Royle,pointingatanarrowdoorbuiltintothepaneling.
“That,”hereplies,“isthedoortothestaffstaircase.Itleadsdirectlytothesmallerroomsontheatticfloor,withanotherhiddendooronthesecond-floorlanding.Verynormalintheseoldhouses.Builtlikehamstercages.”
Theyexplorethehouseroombyroom,floorbyfloor.
“Whathappenedtoallthefurniture?Allthefittings?”Libbyasks.
“Longgone.Thefamilysoldeverythingtokeepafloat.Theyallsleptonmattresses.Madetheirownclothes.”
“Sotheywerepoor?”
“Yes,”hesays.“Isuppose,ineffect,theywerepoor.”
Libbynods.Shehadn’timaginedherbirthparentsaspoor.Ofcourseshehadallowedherselftocreatefantasybirthparents.Evenchildrenwhoaren’tadoptedcreatefantasybirthparents.Herfantasyparentswereyoungandgregarious.Theirhousebytheriverhadtwofullwallsofplate-glasswindowsandawraparoundterrace.Theyhaddogs,smallones,bothgirls,withdiamondsontheircollars.HerfantasymotherworkedinfashionPR,herfantasyfatherwasagraphicdesigner.Whenshewastheirbabytheywouldtakeherforbreakfastandputherinahighchairandbreakupbriochesforherandplayfootsiewitheachotherunderthetablewherethesmalldogslaycurledtogether.Theydieddrivingbackfromacocktailparty.Mostprobablyinacrashinvolvingasportscar.
“Wasthereanythingelse?”shesays.“Apartfromthesuicidenote?”
Mr.Royleshakeshishead.“Well,nothingofficial.Buttherewasonething.Whenyouwerefound.Somethinginyourcribwithyou.Ibelieveit’sstillhere.Inyournursery.Shallwe…?”
ShefollowsMr.Royleintoabigroomonthesecondfloor.Heretherearetwolargesashwindowsoverlookingtheriver;theairisstagnantanddense,thehighcornersoftheroomfilledwiththickcurtainsofcobwebanddust.Thereisanopeningatthefarwallandtheyturnthecornerintoasmalladjoiningroom.It’sfittedasadressingroom,threewallsofwardrobesanddrawersdecoratedwithornatebeadingandpaintedwhite.Inthecenteroftheroomisacrib
“Isthat…?”
“Yes.That’swhereyouwerefound.Gurglingandchirrupingbyallaccounts,happyasLarry.”
Thecribisarockingdesignwithmetalleversforpushingbackandforth.Itispaintedathickbuttermilkcreamwithascatteringofpaleblueroses.ThereisasmallmetalbadgeonthefrontwiththeHarrodslogoonit.
Mr.Roylereachesforashelfonthebackwallandpicksupasmallbox.“Here,”hesays.“Thiswastuckedawayinsideyourblankets.Weassumed,weallassumed,usandthepolice,thatitwasmeantforyou.Thepolicehelditasevidenceforyears,thensentitbacktouswhenthecaserandry.”
“Whatisit?”
“Openitandsee.”
Shetakesthelittlecardboardboxfromhimandpullstheflapsapart.Itisfilledwithshredsoftornnewspaper.Herfingersfindsomethingsolidandsilky.Shebringsitfromtheboxandletsitdanglefrombetweenherfingertips.It’sarabbit’sfoothangingfromagoldchain.Libbyrecoilsslightlyandthechainslithersfromhergraspandontothewoodenfloor.Shereachesdowntopickitup.
Herfingersdrawovertherabbit’sfoot,feelingthecolddeathlinessofitssleekfur,thesharpnibsofitsclaws.Sherunsthechainthroughherotherhand.Herhead,whichaweekagowasfilledwithnewsandals,ahennight,hersplitends,thehouseplantsthatneededwatering,isnowfilledwithpeoplesleepingonmattressesanddeadrabbitsandabig,scaryhouse,emptybutforalargerockingcribfromHarrodswithstrangelysinisterpalebluerosespaintedonthesides.Sheputstherabbit’sfootbackintotheboxandholdsit,awkwardly.Thenslowlyshelowersherhandontothemattressatthebaseofthecrib,feelsfortheechoofhersmall,sleepingbody,fortheghostofthepersonwholastlaidherdownthere,tuckedherinsafewithablanketandarabbit’sfoot.Butthereisnothingthere,ofcourse.Justanemptybed,thesmellofmust.
“Whatwasmyname?”shesays.“Didanyoneknow?”
“Yes,”saysMr.Royle.“Yournamewaswrittenonthenotethatyourparentsleftbehind.ItwasSerenity.”
“Serenity?”
“Yes,”hesays.“Prettyname.Ithink.Ifalittle…bohemian?”
Suddenlyshefeelsclaustrophobic.Shewantstorundramaticallyfromtheroom,butitisnotherwaytobedramatic.
Insteadshesays,“Canweseethegardennow,please?Icoulddowithsomefreshair.”
5
Lucyturnsoffherphone.SheneedstokeepthechargeincaseSamiatriestogetintouch.SheturnstoMarco,whoislookingathercuriously.
“What?”shesays.
“Whatwasthatmessage?Onyourphone?”
“Whatmessage?”
“Isawit.Justnow.ItsaidThebabyistwenty-five.Whatdoesthatmean?”
“Itdoesn’tmeananything.”
“Itmustmeansomething.”
“Itdoesn’t.It’sjustafriend’sbaby.Justareminderthattheyturnedtwenty-five.Imustsendacard.”
“Whatfriend?”
“AfriendinEngland.”
“Butyouhaven’tgotanyfriendsinEngland.”
“OfcourseIhavefriendsinEngland.IwasbroughtupinEngland.”
“Well,what’shername?”
“Whosename?”
Marcoroarswithfrustration.“Yourfriend’sname,ofcourse.”
“Whatdoesitmatter?”sherepliessharply.
“Itmattersbecauseyou’remymumandIwanttoknowstuffaboutyou.Ilike,literallydon’tknowanythingaboutyou.”
“That’sridiculous.Youknowloadsaboutme.”
Hegazesatherwide-eyedandstupefied.“Likewhat?Imean,Iknowyourparentsdiedwhenyouwereababy.IknowyougrewupinLondonwithyourauntandthatshebroughtyoutoFranceandtaughtyoutoplaythefiddleanddiedwhenyouwereeighteen.SoIknow,like,thestoryofyou.ButIdon’tknowthedetails.Likewhereyouwenttoschoolorwhoyourfriendswereandwhatyoudidontheweekendsorfunnythingsthathappenedoranythingnormal.”
“It’scomplicated,”shesays.
“Iknowit’scomplicated,”hesays.“ButI’mtwelveyearsoldnowandyoucan’ttreatmelikealittlebabyanymore.Youhavetotellmethings.”
Lucystaresatherson.He’sright.He’stwelveandheisnotinterestedinfairystoriesanymore.Heknowsthere’smoretolifethanfivemajorevents,thatlifeismadeupofallthemomentsinbetween.
Shesighs.“Ican’t,”shesays.“Notyet.”
“Thenwhen?”
“Soon,”shesays.“IfweevergettoLondon,I’lltellyoueverything.”
“Arewegoing?”
Shesighsandpullsherhairawayfromherhairline.“Ijustdon’tknow.I’vegotnomoney.YouandStelladon’thavepassports.Thedog.It’salljust—”
“Dad,”saysMarco,cuttingheroff.“CallDad.”
“Noway.”
“Wecanmeetsomewherepublic.Hewouldn’ttryanythingthen.”
“Marco.Wedon’tevenknowwhereyourfatheris.”
Thereisastrangesilence.Shecansensehersonfidgetingedgily,buryinghisfaceintothedog’sfuragain.
“Ido.”
Sheturnsagain,sharply,tolookathim.
Hecloseshiseyes,thenopensthemagain.“Hecollectedmefromschool.”
“When!”
Marcoshrugs.“Acoupleoftimes.Towardtheendofterm.”
“Andyoudidn’ttellme?”
“Hetoldmenotto.”
“Fuck,Marco.Fuck.”Shepunchesthegroundwithherfists.“Whathappened?Wheredidhetakeyou?”
“Nowhere.Justsortofwalkedwithme.”
“And?”
“Andwhat?”
“Whatdidhesay?Whatishedoing?”
“Nothing.Justonholiday.Withhiswife.”
“Andwhereishenow?”
“Stillhere.He’shereforthewholesummer.Inthehouse.”
“Thehouse?”
“Yes.”
“God,Marco!Whydidn’tyoutellmebefore?”
“BecauseIknewyou’dgomental.”
“I’mnotgoingmental.Lookatme.Totallynotmental.Totallyjustsittinghereonthehard,wetgroundunderaflyoverwithnowheretosleepwhileyourfatherisamileuptheroadlivinginthelapofluxury.WhywouldIgomental?”
“Sor-ry.”Hetuts.“Yousaidyouneverwantedtoseehimagain.”
“ThatwaswhenIwasn’tsleepingunderamotorway.”
“Soyoudowanttoseehimagain?”
“Idon’twanttoseehim.ButIneedawayoutofthismess.Andhe’stheonlyoption.Attheveryleasthecanpaytogetmyfiddleback.”
“Oh,yeah,’causethenwe’llbereallyrich,won’twe?”
Lucyclenchesherhandsintofists.Hersonalwaysputstheunpalatablebottomlineintowords,thenslapsherroundthefacewithit.
“It’sthemiddleofJuly.AlltheUKandGermanschoolswillbebreakingupaboutnow.There’llbetwiceasmanytourists.Itshouldn’ttakelongtomakeenoughtogettotheUK.”
“Whycan’tyouaskDadtopayforustogo?Thenwecanjustgo.IreallywanttogotoLondon.Iwanttogetawayfromhere.JustaskDadtopay.Whycan’tyou?”
“BecauseIdon’twanthimtoknowwe’regoing.Noonecanknowwe’regoing.NotevenMémé.OK?”
Henods.“OK.”
Hischinfallsagainsthischestandsheseestheclumpsofmattedhairthathaveformedatthebackofhisheadintheweekthatthey’vebeenhomeless.Herheartachesandshecupsherhandaroundthebackofhisslenderboyneck,squeezesitgently.“I’msosorry,mylovelyboy,”shesays.“I’msosorryabouteverything.Tomorrowwe’llseeyourfatherandtheneverythingwillstartgettingbetter,Iswear.”
“Yes,”hesnaps,“butnothingwilleverbenormal,willit?”
No,shethinks.No.Itprobablywon’t.
6
Chelsea,1988
Birdiecamefirst.BirdieDunlop-Evers.
Mymotherhadmethersomewhereorother.Atado.BirdieplayedthefiddleinapopbandcalledtheOriginalVersionandwas,Isuppose,vaguelyfamous.There’dbeenajanglysinglethathadalmostgottonumberoneandthey’dbeenonTopofthePopstwice.NotthatIcaredmuchaboutsuchthings.Ineverreallylikedpopmusicandthedeificationofcelebritiesslightlydisgustsme.
Shewassittinginourkitchendrinkingteaoutofoneofourbrownmugs.IjumpedslightlywhenIsawherthere.Awomanwithlongthinhairdowntoherwaist,men’strouserstiedaroundwithabelt,astripedshirtbeneathsuspenders,alonggrayovercoat,andgreenfingerlessgloves.Shelookedsowronginourhouse,Ithought.Theonlypeoplewhocametoourhouseworehand-stitchedsuitsandbias-cutsatin;theysmelledofChristianDioraftershaveandl’AirduTemps.
BirdieglancedupatmeasIwalkedin,smallblueeyeswiththinpencillinesofeyebrowabove,ahardmouthwhichdidn’tclosequiteproperlyoverarowofsmallteeth,aratherweakchinthatappearedtohavebuckledunderthejoylessnessofherface.Ithoughtshemightsmile,butshedidn’t.
“Henry,”saidmymother,“thisisBirdie!TheladyIwastellingyouabout,fromthepopgroup.”
“Hello,”Isaid.
“Hello,”shereplied.Icouldn’tmakesenseofher.Shesoundedlikemyheadmistressbutlookedlikeatramp.
“Birdie’sgroupwantstousethehousetofilmapopvideo!”saidmymother.
Iadmit,atthispointIdidhavetofeigndisinterestsomewhat.Iheldmyfeaturesstraightandsaidnothing,headingsilentlytothebiscuitbarrelonthecounterformydailyback-from-schoolsnack.IselectedtwoMaltedMilksandpouredmyselfaglassofmilk.ThenandonlythendidIsay,“When?”
“Nextweek,”saidBirdie.“Wehadalocationchosen,buttheyhadafloodorsomesuchdisaster.Bouf.Canceled.”
“SoIsaid,comeandlookatourhouse,seewhatyouthink,”mymothercontinued.
“AndhereIam.”
“Andheresheis.”
Inoddedcasually.IwantedtoaskwhentheywerecomingandcouldItakethedayoffschoolandcouldIhelpbutIwasnotthen,andneverhavebeen,apersontoshowenthusiasmforanything.SoIdippedmyMaltedMilkbiscuitintomymilk,theexactwayIalwaysdid,justtotheTin“Malted,”wheretheendofthestandingcowmeetstheendofthelying-downcow,andateitsilently.
“Ithinkit’sbrilliant,”saidBirdie,gesturingaroundher.“Betterthantheotherplaceinfact.Justperfect.Ithinkthere’dbethingstosign.”Sherolledhereyes.“Youknow,waivers,etc.Incasewesetfiretoyourhouse.Oroneofyourmooseheadslandsononeofusandkillsus.Thatsortofthing.”
“Yes,yes,”saidmymotherasifshehadtosignwaiversforaccidentalmoose-headfatalitiesallthetime.“Thatmakessense.AndobviouslyI’dneedtodiscussitwithmyhusbandfirst.ButIknowhe’llbehappy.Helovesyourmusic.”
ThisIsuspectedwasuntrue.Myfatherlikedrugbysongsandbawdyopera.Buthedidlikefussandattentionandhedidlikehishouse,andanyonewholikedhishousewasalwaysgoingtogodownwellwithhim.
Birdieleftafewminuteslater.Inoticedasmallpileofdryskinpickingsonthetablebyhermugandfeltabitsick.
TheshootforthevideolastedtwodaysandwasmuchmoreboringthanI’dthoughtitwouldbe.Therewasendlesstimespentfinessinglightreadingsandgettingthescruffybandmemberstorepeatactionsoverandoveragain.Theywerealldressedalikeinbrownishclothesthatlookedliketheymightsmellbutdidn’tbecausealadywithaclothesrailhadbroughtthemalonginclearplasticbags.Bytheendofthedaythesongwasembeddedinsidemyheadlikeatrappedfly.Itwasaterriblesongbutitwenttonumberoneandstayedthereforninelong,dreadfulweeks.ThevideowasoneveryTVscreenyoupassed,ourhouse,there,onviewtomillions.
Itwasagoodvideo.I’llgiveitthat.AndIgotaminorthrillfromtellingpeoplethatitwasmyhouseinthevideo.Butthethrillfadedastheweekspassed,becauselongafterthefilmcrewhadleft,longafterthesinglehaddroppedoutofthecharts,longaftertheirnextsingledroppedoutofthecharts,BirdieDunlop-Evers,withherbeadeyesandhertinyteeth,wasstillinourhouse.
7
Libbyworksforanexpensivekitchendesigncompany.She’sheadofsales,basedinashowroominthecenterofSt.Albans,neartothecathedral.Shehastwosalesmanagersandtwoassistantsalesmanagersbeneathherandanassistantsalesdirector,aseniorsalesdirector,andamanagingdirectoraboveher.She’shalfwayuptheladder,theladderthathasbeenthefocusofherexistenceforthepastfiveyears.InherheadLibbyhasbeenbuildingabridgetowardalifethatwillbeginwhensheisthirty.Whensheisthirtyshewillbethedirectorofsalesandifsheisnotthenshewillgoelsewhereforapromotion.Thenshewillmarrythemanwhomsheiscurrentlytryingtofindbothonlineandinreallife,themanwiththesmilelinesandthedogand/orcat,themanwithaninterestingsurnamethatshecandouble-barrelwithJones,themanwhoearnsthesameasormorethanher,themanwholikeshugsmorethansexandhasniceshoesandbeautifulskinandnotattoosandalovelymumandattractivefeet.Themanwhoisatleastfivefeetten,butpreferablyfivefeetelevenorover.Themanwhohasnobaggageandagoodcarandasuggestionofabdominaldefinitionalthoughaflatstomachwouldsuffice.
ThismanhasyettomaterializeandLibbyisawarethatsheispossiblyalittleover-proscriptive.Butshehasfiveyearstofindhimandmarryhimandthenanotherfiveyearstohaveababy,maybetwoifshelikesthefirstone.She’snotinarush.Notyet.She’lljustkeepswipingleft,keeplookingnicewhenshegoesout,keepacceptinginvitationstosocialevents,keeppositive,keepslim,keepherselftogether,keepgoing.
It’sstillhotwhenLibbygetsupforworkandthere’sakindofpearlescentshimmerintheairevenateightinthemorning.
Shesleptallnightwiththebedroomwindowopeneventhoughsheknowswomenareadvisednotto.Shearrangedglassesinarowalongherwindowsillsothatifamandidbreakinatleastshewouldhavesomewarning.Butstill,shetossedandturnedallnight,thesheetstwistedandcloyingbeneathherbody.
Thesunwokeherupfromabriefslumber,laserbrightthroughatinygapinhercurtains,heatingtheroomupagaininminutes.Foramomenteverythingfeltnormal.Andthenitdidn’t.Herthoughtsswitchedviolentlytoyesterday.Tothedarkhouseandthelinen-foldpanels,thesecretstaircase,therabbit’sfoot,thepalebluerosesonthesideofthecrib.Didthatreallyhappen?Wasthathousestillthereorhaditturnedtoparticlesinherwake?
She’sthesecondtoarriveatworkthatmorning.Dido,theheaddesigner,isalreadybehindherdeskandhasgottheairconditionerrunning.Theicedairfeelsexquisiteagainstherclammyskin,butsheknowsinhalfanhourshe’llbefreezingandwishingshe’dbroughtacardigan.
“Goodmorning,”saysDido,notlookingupfromherkeyboard.“Howdiditgo?”
ShetoldDidoyesterdayinconfidencethatsheneededthedayofftovisitasolicitoraboutaninheritance.Shedidn’ttellheraboutbeingadoptedorthepossibilityoftheinheritancebeingahouse.Shesaiditwasanelderlyrelativeandsuggestedthatshemightbeinlineforafewhundredpounds.DidogotveryexcitedaboutthepossibilityofafewhundredpoundsandatthetimeLibbywasn’tsureshe’dbeabletofaceherreactionifshetoldherthetruth.Butnowthatshe’shere,andit’sjustthetwoofthemandit’sTuesdaymorningandshewon’tbeseeingherbestfriend,April,untiltheweekendandshehasn’treallygotanyoneelseshecantell,shedecidesmaybeitwouldbegoodtoshare,thatmaybeDido,whoistwelveyearsolderthanher,willhavesomethingwiseorusefultoimparttohelphermakesenseofthewholeridiculousthing.
“I’veinheritedahouse,”Libbysays,runningwaterintotheNespressomachine.
“Haha,”saysDido,clearlynotbelievingher.
“No.Ihave.It’sinChelsea,bytheriver.”
“Chelsea,London?”saysDido,hermouthhangingopen.
“Yes,”saysLibby.“Bytheriver.It’shuge.”
“Areyouwindingmeup?”
Sheshakesherhead.“No,”shesays.
“OhmyGod,”saysDido.“Soyou’rebasicallyamillionaire?”
“Iguess.”
“Andyethereyouare,atNorthboneKitchensonaTuesdaymorning,actinglikeanormalperson.”
“I’mlettingitsinkin.”
“God,Libby,ifIwereyouIwouldbelettingitsinkinrightnowdrinkingchampagneinthegardenatSt.Michael’sManor.”
“It’stwentytonine.”
“Well,teathen.AndeggsBenedict.Whatonearthareyoudoinghere?”
Libbyfeelsherseamsloosenandbegintocomeapartatthethoughtthatsheneednotbehere,thatthesturdyladdershe’sbeengrippingontofordearlifehasjustdissolvedintoaheapofgoldencoins,thateverythinghaschanged.
“Ionlyfoundoutyesterday!Ihaven’tsoldityet,”shesays.“Imightnotbeableto.”
“Yeah,right,becausenobodywantsahouseinChelseaoverlookingtheThames.”
Roughlysixorsevenmillionpounds.Thatistheestimatethatthesolicitorgaveheryesterdaywhenshefinallygotupthenervetoask.Minus,hesaid,expensesandfeesowedtothefirm.Andthentherewouldbeinheritancetaxestopay.You’llendupwithaboutthreeandahalfmillion,hesaid.Orthereabouts.
Hegaveherahighfive.Confusedherwithayoungpersonliketheoneshereadaboutinthenewspapers.Itwasquitedisconcerting.
“It’sinabadstate,”Libbysays,now.“Andithasahistory.”
“History?”
“Yes.Somepeoplediedthere.Abitshady.Distantrelatives.”She’sabouttomentionthebabyleftbehindinthecribbutstops.
“Noway!”
“Yeah.Allabitshocking.SofornowI’mjustgoingtoactlikeeverything’snormal.”
“You’regoingtokeeponsellingkitchens?InSt.Albans?”
“Yes,”saysLibby,feelingherequilibriumstarttorebalanceitselfatthethoughtofnothingchanging.“I’mgoingtokeeponsellingkitchensinSt.Albans.”
8
MarcoandLucyspentthenightonthebeachintheend.Therainstoppedatabouttwoa.m.andtheygatheredtheirthingsandwalkedthetwentyminutesacrosstowntothePromenadedesAnglais,wheretheyunrolledtheiryogamatsonthewetpebbles,tuckedthemselvesundersarongs,andwatchedshredsofspentgrayraincloudschaseeachotheracrossabigpinkmoonuntilthesunstartedtoleakthroughthelinebetweentheseaandthesky.
Ateighto’clockLucycollectedtogetherallthecentsfromthebottomofherrucksackandthebottomofherpurseandfoundshehadenoughtobuycroissantsandacoffee.Theyatethemonabench,bothstultifiedbylackofsleepandtheawfulnessofthenightbefore.ThentheywalkedbackacrosstowntoSamia’sflattocollectStella,andSamiadidnotinvitetheminforlunchdespitethefactthatitwasmiddayandtheyhadclearlynotsleptinbeds.Stellahadbeenbathedandre-dressedincleanclothes,hersoftcurlsbrushedoutandpinnedbackwithpinkfluffyclips,andastheywalkedbackacrosstownyetagain,LucyponderedthatitprobablylookedlikesheandMarcohadkidnappedher.
“Icankeepherforanothernight,”Samiahadsaid,herhandonStella’sshoulder.LucyhadseenStellashrugagainstSamia’shand,almostimperceptibly,atinyshakeofherhead.
“That’skindofyou,butI’vefoundussomewheretosleeptonight.”She’dfeltMarco’seyesburningintohershoulderatherlie.“ButIamso,sogratefultoyou.Really.”
Samiahadtiltedherheadslightlyandnarrowedhereyes,processingsomesilentaccountofLucy’ssituation.Lucyhadheldherbreath,awaitingsomedamningpronouncementonherappearance,herparenting,thepartshe’dplayedinSamia’spreciousson’smoonlightflit.InsteadSamiahadmovedslowlytowardthetablehalfwayupthehallwayandpulledasmallpursefromhershoulderbag.She’dpeeredintothepurseandpulledoutatwenty-euronote,whichshepassedtoLucy.
“It’sallIhave,”she’dsaid.“Thereisnomore.”
LucyhadtakenitandthenleanedintoSamiaandhuggedher.“Thankyou,”she’dsaid.“Godblessyou.”
NowsheandthechildrenandthedogarewalkingalongthePromenadedesAnglaisintheburningafternoonsunwithabagfullofcleanclothesfromthelaundromatandbelliesfullofbreadandcheeseandCoca-Cola.TheyheadtowardoneofthemanybeachclubsthatlinethebeacheshereinNice:leBeachClubBleuetBlanc.
Lucyhaseatenhere,inthepast.ShehassatatthesetableswithMarco’sdad,workedherwaythroughpilesoffruitsdemer,aglassofchampagneatherelboworawhitewinespritzer,whilebeingcooledbyintermittentpuffsofchilledwatersquirtedfromtinynozzles.Theywouldn’trecognizehernow,thosejadedoldwaitersintheirincongruouslytrendyblue-and-whitepoloshirts.Shewasasightforsoreeyestwelveyearsago.
Awomansitsonaperchattheentrancetotherestaurant.SheisblondinthatwaythatonlywomeninthesouthofFrancecanbeblond,somethingtodowiththecontrastbetweenvanillahairanddarklytoastedskin.SheglancesatLucy,indifferently,takinginthestateofStellaandMarcoandthedog,beforereturninghergazetohercomputerscreen.Lucypretendsthatsheiswaitingforsomeonetojoinherfromthebeach,cuppinghereyeswithherhandandpeeringtowardthehorizonuntilthewomanisdistractedbyapartyoffivepeoplearrivingforlunch.
“Now,”shehisses,“now.”
ShecollectsthedogintoherarmsandpushesStellaaheadofher.Herheartracesasshestridesasnonchalantlyasshecandownthewoodenplatformthatrunsbehindtherestauranttowardtheshowerblock.Shelooksstraightahead.“Keepmoving,”shehissesatStellaasshestops,inexplicably,halfwaydown.Thenfinallytheyarethere,inthedank,humidgloomoftheshowerblock.
“ReservedexclusivelyfortheuseofpatronsofleBeachClubBleuetBlanc,”saynumeroussignsnailedtothewoodenwalls.Theconcretefloorissandyanddampunderfoot;theairisfusty.LucyguidesStellatotheright.Iftheycangetthroughthewoodensaloondoorstotheshowerswithoutbeingspotted,thentheywillbefine.
Andthentheyarein.Theshowersareempty.SheandMarcostripofftheirclothesforthefirsttimeinnearlyeightdays.Shefindsabinforherknickers.Sheneverwantstowearthemagain.Shepullsshampooandconditionerfromherrucksack,abarofsoap,atowel.Shetakesthedoginwithher,massagesshampooallthroughhisfur,underhistail,underhiscollar,behindhisears.Hestandssteadyandstill,almostasthoughheknowsthatthisisneeded.ThenshepasseshimtoStella,whoiswaitingoutside.HeshakeshimselfoffandStellagigglesassheissplatteredwithdropletsfromhisfur.AndthenLucystandsundertheflowofwarmwaterandletsitrunoverherhead,intohereyesandears,underherarms,betweenherlegsandtoes,feelsthehellofthepastweekstarttodissolvealongwiththedustandthemudandthesalt.Sheshampoosherhair,pullingherfingersthroughthelengthofituntilitsqueaks.ThenshepassesthebottleunderthestalltoMarco.Shewatchestheircombinedsudsmeetinginthegapbetweenthem,thesadgraytingeofit.
“Reallygetintothehairatthebackofyourneck,Marco,”shesays.“It’sallclumpythere.Andarmpits.Reallydoyourarmpits.”
After,theysitsidebysideonawoodenbench,wrappedintowels.Theycanseepeoplepassingbyontheothersidethroughgapsinthewood,seeslicesofshimmeringbluesky,smellsun-warmedwoodandfriedgarlic.Lucysighs.Shefeelsunburdened,almost,butstillnotquitereadytodothenextthing.
TheyputoncleanclothesanddeodorantandLucyrubsmoisturizerintoherfaceandgivesthechildrensuncreamfortheirs.Shehasasmallbottleofperfumeinthebottomofhertoiletrybagwhichshespraysbehindherearsandintohercleavage.Shetwistsherdamphairintoarollatthebackofherheadandclipsitwithaplasticclaw.Shelooksatherselfinthemirror.Nearlyfortyyearsold.Homeless.Single.Penniless.Notevenwhoshesayssheis.Evenhernameisfake.Sheisaghost.Aliving,breathingghost.
Sheputsonsomemascara,somelipgloss,adjuststhependantofhergoldennecklacesothatitsitsinhersun-burnishedcleavage.Shelooksatherchildren:theyarebeautiful.Thedoglooksnice.Everyonesmellsgood.Theyhaveeaten.Thisisasgoodasthingshavebeenindays.
“Right,”shesaystoMarco,shovingherdirtyclothesbackintoherrucksackandpullingitclosed.“Let’sgoandseeyourdad.”
9
Chelsea,1988
I’dbeenwatchingfromthestairs,soIalreadyknew.Amanwithdarkcurls,ahatwithabrim,adonkeyjacket,tweedtrouserstuckedintobiglace-upboots.Suitcasesthatlookedlikepropsfromanolden-daysmovieandawickerworkcatboxheldtogetherwithawornleatherstrap.AndBirdiestandingbyhisside,inadressthatlookedlikeanightie.
“Darling!”Iheardmymothercallouttomyfather.“ComeandmeetJustin!”
Iwatchedmyfatherappearfromthedrawingroom.Hehadacigarclenchedbetweenhisteethandwaswearingahairygreensweater.
“So,”hesaid,squeezingtheman’shandtoohard,“you’reBirdie’sboyfriend?”
“Partner,”Birdieinterjected.“Justinismypartner.”
Myfatherlookedatherinthatwayhehadwhenhethoughtsomeonewasdeliberatelymakinghimlookafool,asthoughhewasconsideringviolence.ButthelookpassedquicklyandIsawhimpushthroughitwithasmile.“Yes,”hesaid.“Ofcourse.That’sthemodernway,isn’tit?”
Birdiehadtoldmymotherthatsheandherpartnerneededsomewheretostayforafewdays.Theirlandlordhadkickedthemoutbecausethey’dgotacat—whatsortofidiotgetsacatwithoutcheckingthetermsoftheirlease?IwasnotevenelevenyearsoldandhadneverlivedinarentalandIknewthatmuch—andBirdiehadn’tknownwhomelsetoturnto.Asanadultmannowofforty-oneyearsoldIhaveoftenusedthisrefraintogetpeopletodowhatIwantthemtodo.Ididn’tknowwhoelsetoturnto.Itgivesthepersonyou’retryingtomanipulatenowheretogo.Theironlyoptionistocapitulate.Whichisexactlywhatmymotherdid.
“Butwehavesomanyrooms,”she’dsaidwhenIcomplainedabouttheupcomingarrangement.“Andit’sonlyforafewdays.”
Mymother,inmyopinion,justwantedapopstarlivinginherhouse.
Mysisterpassedmeonthestairsandstoppedwithasmallintakeofbreathwhenshesawthecatbasketinthehall.“What’sitcalled?”shesaid,droppingtoherkneestopeerthroughthegrille.
“It’sagirl.She’scalledSuki,”saidBirdie.
“Suki,”shesaid,tuckingtheknucklesofherfingersbetweenthebars.Thecatpusheditselfagainstherhandandpurredloudly.
ThemancalledJustinpickeduphisstage-propsuitcaseandsaid,“Whereshallweputourthings,Martina?”
“We’vegotalovelyroomforyouatthetopofthehouse.Children,showourgueststotheyellowroom,willyou?”
Mysisterledtheway.Shewasbyfarthemoregregariousofthetwoofus.Ifoundgrown-upsrelativelyterrifying,whereassheseemedtoquitelikethem.Shewaswearinggreenpajamas.Iwaswearingatartandressinggownandbluefeltslippers.Itwasnearlynineandwe’dbeenonacountdowntobedtime.
“Oh,”saidBirdieasmysisterpushedopenthehiddendoorinthewoodpanelingthatledtothestairstothetopfloor.“Whereonearthareyoutakingus?”
“It’sthebackstairs,”mysistersaid.“Totheyellowroom.”
“Youmeantheservants’entrance?”Birdierepliedsniffily.
“Yes,”mysisterrepliedbrightly,becausealthoughshewasonlyayearandahalfyoungerthanmeshewastooyoungtounderstandthatnoteveryonethoughtsleepinginsecretroomsatthetopofsecretstaircaseswasanadventure,thatsomepeoplemightthinktheydeservedproperbigbedroomsandwouldbeoffended.
Atthetopofthesecretstaircasetherewasawoodendoorleadingtoalongthincorridorwherethewallsweresortofwonkyandlumpyandthefloorboardswarpedandbouncyanditfeltabitlikewalkingalongamovingtrain.Theyellowroomwasthenicestofthefourupthere.IthadthreewindowsintheceilingandabigbedwithayellowduvetcovertomatchtheyellowLauraAshleywallpaperandmoderntablelampswithblueglassshades.Ourmotherhadarrangedyellowandredtulipsinavase.IwatchedBirdie’sfaceasshetookitallin,asortofgrudgingtiltofherchinasiftosay:Isupposeitwilldo
Weleftthemthere,andIfollowedbehindmysisterassheskippeddownthestairs,throughthedrawingroom,andintothekitchen.
Dadwasuncorkingwine.Mumwaswearingherfrilledapronandtossingasalad.“Howlongarethosepeoplestayingfor?”Icouldn’thelpblurtingout.Isawashadowpassacrossmyfather’sfaceatthenoteofimpudenceI’dfailedtomask.
“Oh.Notforlong.”Mymotherpushedthecorkbackintoabottleofredwinevinegarandplacedittooneside,smilingbenignly.
“Canwestayup?”mysisterasked,notlookingatthebiggerpicture,notlookingbeyondthenoseonherface.
“Nottonight,”mymotherreplied.“Tomorrowmaybe,whenit’stheweekend.”
“Andthen,willtheygo?”Iasked,verygentlynudgingthelinebetweenmeandmyfather’spatiencewithme.“Aftertheweekend?”
IturnedthenasIsensedmymother’sgazedriftacrossmyshoulder.Birdiewasstandinginthedoorwaywiththecatinherarms.ItwasbrownandwhitewithafacelikeanEgyptianqueen.Birdielookedatmeandsaid,“Weshan’tbestayinglong,littleboy.JustuntilJustinandIhavefoundaplaceofourown.”
“MynameisHenry,”Isaid,hugelytakenabackthatagrown-upinmyownhomehadjustcalledme“littleboy.”
“Henry,”repeatedBirdie,lookingatmesharply.“Yes,ofcourse.”
MysisterwasstaringgreedilyatthecatandBirdiesaid,“Wouldyouliketoholdher?”
Shenoddedandthecatwasplacedintoherarms,whereitimmediatelytwisteditselfaround180degreeslikeapieceofunfurledelasticandescaped,leavingherwithaterribleredscratchontheinsideofherarm.Isawhereyesfillwithtearsandhermouthtwistintoabravesmile.
“It’sOK,”shesaid,asmymotherfussedoverher,dabbingatherarmwithawetcloth.
“Henry,fetchsomeGermolene,willyou,frommybathroomcupboard.”
IthrewBirdiealookasIpassed,wantinghertoseethatIknewshehadn’ttakenenoughcarepassingthecattomysister.Shelookedbackatme,hereyessosmallIcouldbarelymakeouttheircolor.
Iwasastrangeboy.Icanseethatnow.I’vesincemetboyslikeme:slowtosmile,intense,guarded,andwatchful.IsuspectthatBirdiehadprobablybeenaverystrangelittlegirl.Maybesherecognizedherselfinme.ButIcouldtellshehatedme,eventhen.Itwasobvious.Anditwasverymuchmutual.
IpassedJustinasIcrossedthehallway.HewasholdingabatteredboxofBlackMagicchocolatesandlookinglost.“Yourparentsthatway?”heasked,pointinginthegeneraldirectionofthekitchen.
“Yes,”Isaid.“Inthekitchen.Throughthatarch.”
“Mercibeaucoup,”hesaid,andalthoughIwasonlytenIwasoldenoughtoknowthathewasbeingpretentious.
Weweresenttobedshortlyafterthat,mysisterwithastickingplasterontheinsideofherarm,mewiththebeginningsofanupsetstomach.Iwasoneofthosechildren:myemotionsmadethemselvesfeltinmygut.
Icouldhearthemshufflingaboutupstairslaterthatnight.Iputapillowovermyheadandwentbacktosleep.
TheBlackMagicsatunopenedonthekitchentablethenextmorning,whenIcamedownextraearly.Iwastemptedtounpeelthecellophaneandopenthem.Asmallactofrebellionthatwouldhavemademefeelbetterintheshorttermbutway,wayworseinthelong.Ifeltamovementbehindmeandsawthecatsqueezingthroughthekitchendoor.Ithoughtaboutthescratchonmysister’sarmandrememberedBirdie’simpatienttut:“Itwasanaccident,shewasn’tholdingherproperly,Sukiwouldneverscratchonpurpose.”
AbubbleofhotredangerpassedrightthroughmeatthememoryandIhissedloudlyatthecatandchaseditoutoftheroom.
Itwasalmostarelieftogotoschoolthatday,tofeelnormalforafewhours.I’djuststartedmylasttermofprimaryschool.Iwouldturneleventhefollowingmonth,oneoftheyoungestboysinmyyear,andthenIwouldbemovedontoabiggerschool,closertohome,withnoknickerbockers.Iwasveryfixatedonitatthispoint.IhadverymuchoutgrowntheknickerbockerschoolandallthechildrenI’dgrownupwith.IcouldtellIwasdifferent.Completelydifferent.TherewasnoonelikemethereandIhadfantasiesaboutgoingtothebigschoolandfindingmyselfsurroundedbypeoplelikeme.Everythingwouldbebetteratthebigschool.Ijusthadtenweekstogetthrough,thenalongboringsummer,andthenitwouldallbegin.
Ihadnoidea,nonewhatsoever,howdifferentthelandscapeofmylifewouldlookbytheendofthatsummerandhowallthethingsI’dbeenwaitingforwouldsoonfeellikedistantdreams.
10
Libbysitsatherkitchentable.Herbackdoorisopenontohercourtyard,whichisovercastinthelateafternoonsun,butstilltoohumidtositin.ShehasaDietCokepouredintoatumblerfulloficetohandandisbarefooted,hersandalscastasidemomentsafterwalkingintoherflat.Sheflipsopenthelidofherrose-goldlaptopandbringsupherChromebrowser.Sheisalmostsurprisedtoseethatthelastthingshebrowsed,fourdaysago,beforetheletterarrivedandupturnedeverything,waslocalclassesinsalsadancing.Shecanbarelyimaginewhatshewasthinking.Somethingtodowithmeetingmen,shesupposes.
Sheopensupanewtabandslowly,nervously,typesinthewordsMartinaandHenryLamb
SheimmediatelyfindsalinktoanarticleintheGuardianfrom2015.Sheclicksit.Thearticleiscalled:“TheMysteriousCaseofSerenityLambandtheRabbit’sFoot.”
SerenityLamb,shethinks,thatwasme,thatisme.IamSerenityLamb.IamalsoLibbyJones.LibbyJonessellskitchensinSt.Albansandwantstogosalsadancing.SerenityLambliesinapaintedcribinawood-paneledroominChelseawitharabbit’sfoottuckedinsideherblanket.
Shefindsithardtolocatetheoverlap,thepointatwhichonebecomestheother.Whenheradoptivemotherfirstheldherinherarms,sheimagines.Butshewasn’tsentientthen.Shewasn’tawareofthetransitionfromSerenitytoLibby,thesilenttwistinganduntwistingofthefilamentsofheridentity.
ShetakesasipofherDietCokeandstartstoread.
11
ThehouseinAntibesisthecolorofdeadroses:adusty,mutedred,withshutterspaintedbrightblue.ItisthehousewhereLucyoncelived,alifetimeago,whenshewasmarriedtoMarco’sfather.Tenyearsaftertheirdivorceshecanstillbarelybringherselftousehisname.Thefeelofitonhertongue,onherlips,makeshernauseous.Buthereshestands,outsidehishouse,andhisnameisMichael.MichaelRimmer.
ThereisaredMaseratiparkedonthedriveway,leasednodoubt,asMichaelismanythingsbutasrichashethinksheshouldbeisnotoneofthem.SheseesMarco’sgazehoverintentlyonthecar.Shecanseethenakeddesirewrittenonhisfeatures,hisheldbreath,hisawe.
“It’snothis,”shemutters,“he’sjustrentingit.”
“Howdoyouknow?”
“Ijustdo,allright?”
ShesqueezesStella’shandreassuringly.StellahasnevermetMarco’sfatherbefore,butsheknowsfullwellhowLucyfeelsabouthim.TheyapproachthedoorandLucypressesthebrassbell.Amaidcomestothedoor,wearingwhiteoverallsandlatexgloves.Shesmiles.“Bonjour,madame,”shesays.
“IsMr.Rimmerathome?”asksLucy,usingherbestandclearestEnglishaccent
“Oui,”saysthemaid.“Yes.Heisinthegarden.Waitoneminute.”ShepullsasmallblackNokiafromthepocketofheroveralls,peelsoffoneofherlatexgloves,anddialsanumber.Sheglancesupather.“WhoshallIsayishere?”
“Lucy,”shesays.“AndMarco.”
“Sir,Mr.Rimmer,thereisaladyherecalledLucy.AndaboycalledMarco.”Shenods.“OK.Yes.OK.OK.”Shehangsupandslipsthephonebackintoherpocket.“Mr.Rimmersaystobringyoutohim.Come.”
Lucyfollowsthetinywomanthroughthehallway.Sheavertshergazeasshewalks,awayfromthespotatthefootofthestonestaircasewheresheendedupwithabrokenarmandafracturedribwhenMichaelpushedherwhenshewasfourmonthspregnantwithMarco.SheavertsitfromthespotonthewallinthecorridorwhereMichaelbangedherheadrepeatedlybecausehe’dhadabaddayatwork—orsoheexplainedanhourlaterwhenhewastryingtostopherfromleavingbecausehelovedhersomuch,becausehecouldn’tlivewithouther.Oh,theirony.Becausehereheis,marriedtosomeoneelseandutterlyandentirelyalive.
Lucy’shandsshakeastheynearthebackentrance,theonesheknowssowell,thevastwoodendoubledoorsthatswingopenintothetropicalsplendorofthegarden,wherehummingbirdmothssipfromhorn-shapedflowersandbananatreesgrowinshadycorners,whereasmallwaterfalltricklesthroughafloweryrockeryandasparklingrectangleofazure-bluewatersitsinthesouthernmostpoint,baskingintheafternoonsun.Andthereheis.ThereisMichaelRimmer.Sittingatatablebythepool,awirelessheadpieceinoneear,alaptopopeninfrontofhimandtwophones,asmallbottleofbeerbelyingthehecticbusiness-guyacthe’sclearlyputtingon.
“Lucy!”hesays,beaming,gettingtohisfeet,suckinginhistannedstomach,tryingtocoverupthefactthatatforty-eighthenolongerhasthegym-sculptedphysiqueofthethirty-eight-year-oldmansheescapedfromtenyearsearlier.Hepullstheearpiecefromhisearandheadstowardher.“Lucy!”hesaysagain,withaddedwarmth,hisarmsoutstretched.
Lucyrecoils.
“Michael,”sherespondscircumspectly,movingawayfromhim.
HetakeshisoutstretchedarmstoMarcoinsteadandgiveshimabearhug.“Soyoutoldherthen?”
Marconods.
Michaelgiveshimamock-witheringlook.
“Andwhoisthis?”saysMichael,turninghisattentiontoStella,whoisclingingtoLucy’sleg.
“ThisisStella,”saysLucy.“Mydaughter.”
“Wow,”saysMichael.“Whatabeautifullittlegirl.Lovelytomeetyou,Stella.”HeoffershishandforhertoshakeandLucyresiststhetemptationtopullStellafromitspath.
“Andthisis?”Hepeersdownatthedog.
“ThisisFitzgerald.OrFitzforshort.”
“ForF.Scott?”
“Yes,forF.Scott.”Shefeelsthesmallshotofadrenaline:thememoryofthequestion-and-answersessionsheoncesubjectedherto,toshowherthatshewasstupidanduneducated,unworthyofhim,luckytohavehim.Buttherehadalwaysbeensomethingsmallandhardandcertainatherverycoreremindingherthathewaswrong,remindingherthatonedayshewouldfindherescapeandthatonceshedidshewouldnevereverlookback.Andnowheresheis,nervouslyansweringhisquestions,abouttoaskhimformoney,almostbackwhereshestarted.
“Well,hello,Fitz,”hesays,scruffingthedogunderhischin.“Aren’tyouacutelittleguy.”ThenhestandsbackandappraisesLucyandherlittlefamily.It’sthesamewayheusedtoappraiseLucywhenhewasconsideringthepossibilityofpunishingher.ThatknifeedgeoftimethatcouldendwithalaughandahugorcouldendwithabrokenfingeroraChineseburn.
“Well,well,well,”hesays,“lookatyouall.Youarealljustadorable.CanIgetyouanything?Somejuice?”HelooksatLucy.“Aretheyallowedjuice?”
ShenodsandMichaellooksupatthemaid,whoishangingbehindintheshadeoftheterraceatthebackofthehouse.“Joy!Somejuiceforthechildren!Thankyou!Andyou,Lucy?Wine?Beer?”
Lucyhasn’thadadrinkforweeks.Shewoulddieforabeer.Butshecan’t.Shehastokeepallherwitsaboutherforthenexthalfanhourorso.Sheshakesherhead.“No,thankyou.Juicewouldbefineformetoo.”
“Threejuices,Joy.Thankyou.AndI’llhaveanotherbeer.Oh,andsomepotatochips.Those,erm,whataretheycalled,youknow,withtheridges?Great.”
HeturnshisgazebacktoLucy,stillplayingitwide-eyedandboyish.“Sitdown,sitdown.”
Herearrangesthechairs;theysit.“So,”hesays,“LucyLou,howthehellhaveyoubeen?”
Sheshrugsandsmiles.“Youknow.Gettingonwithit.Gettingolder.Gettingwiser.”
“Andyou’vebeenouthere,allthistime?”
“Yup.”
“NeverwentbacktotheUK?”
“Nope.”
“Andyourdaughter…herfather?Areyoumarried?”
“Nope,”shesaysagain.“Welivedtogetherforacoupleofyears.ThenhewentbacktoAlgeriato‘visitfamily’aboutthreeyearsagoandwehaven’theardfromhimsince.”
MichaelwincesasthoughStella’sdad’sdisappearancewasaphysicalassaultuponher.Tooironictobear.“Tough,”hesays.“That’stough.Soyou’reasinglemom?”
“Yes.Iam.Verymuchso.”
Joyreturnswithatraylaidwithacarafeofchilledorangejuice,threeglassesonpapercoasters,crispsinsmallsilverbowls,tinypapernapkins,straws.Michaelpoursthejuiceandpassestheglassestoeachofthem,offersthemtheridgedcrisps.Thechildrenpounceonthemeagerly.
“Slowdown,”shehisses.
“It’sfine,”saysMichael.“Ihavepacketsandpacketsofthethings.So,whereareyouliving?”
“Hereandthere.”
“Andareyoustill…?”Hemimesplayingthefiddle.
Shesmileswryly.“Well,Iwas.Yes.UntilsomedrunkEnglishdickonastagnightdecidedtosnatchitoffmeandthenmademechasehimandhismatesaroundforhalfanhourtryingtogetitbackbeforetossingitoverawall.Nowit’sbeingrepaired.Oratleast,ithasbeenrepaired.But…”Theinsidesofhermoutharedrywithdread.“Idon’thavethemoneytopaytocollectit.”
HethrowsherhisOh,poorbabylook,theoneheusedtogiveherafterhe’dhurther.
“Howmuch?”hesays,andhe’salreadytwistinginhisseattolocatehiswalletinhisbackpocket.
“Ahundredandteneuros,”shesays,hervoicecatchingslightly.
Shewatcheshimpeelingoffthenotes.Hefoldstheminhalfandpassesthemtoher.“There,”hesays.“Andalittleextra.Maybeforahaircutformyboy.”HescruffsMarco’shairagain.“Andmaybeyou,too.”Andit’sthere,whenheglancesatherhair,thatterribledarklookofdisappointment.You’veletyourselfgo.You’renottryinghardenough.HowcanIloveyouwhen.You.Don’t.Make.Any.Fucking.Effort.
Shetakesthefoldednotesfromhishandandfeelsthealmostimperceptibletugashegripsthemalittletighter,thehintofanastygameofcontrolandpower.Hesmilesandloosenshisgrip.Sheputsthenotesinhershoulderbagandsays,“Thankyou.I’mverygrateful.I’llgetitbacktoyouinacoupleofweeks.Ipromise.”
“No,”hesays,leaningback,spreadinghislegsalittle,smilingdarkly.“Idon’twantitback.But…”
AtrickleofcoldnessrunsdownLucy’sspine.
“Promisemeonething.”
Hersmilefreezes.
“I’dlovetoseeyou.Imean,moreofyou.YouandMarco.Andyoutoo,ofcourse.”HeswitcheshisgrimgazetoStella,winkingather.“I’mhereallsummer.Untilmid-September.Betweenjobs.Youknow.”
“Andyourwife,isshe…?”
“Rachelhadtogoback.ShehasimportantbusinesstoattendtointheUK.”Hesaysthisinadismissivetoneofvoice.RachelcouldbeabrainsurgeonorapoliticianforallLucyknows;shemightholdthelivesofhundreds,thousandsinherhands.ButasfarasMichaelisconcerned,anythingthatdistractsawoman’sattentionawayfromhimforevenamomentissomekindofpatheticjoke.Includingbabies.
“Oh,”shesays.“That’sashame.”
“Notreally,”hesays.“Ineededsomespace.BecauseguesswhatI’mdoing…”
Lucyshakesherheadbriskly,andsmiles.
“Iamwritingabook.Orinfact,amemoir.Orpossiblyablendofthetwo.Asemi-autobiographicalkindofthing.Idon’tknowyet.”
God,helookssopleasedwithhimself,Lucythinks,likehewantshertosay,Ohwow,Michael,that’samazing,youaresoclever.Insteadshewantstolaughinhisfaceandsay,Ha,you,writingabook?Areyouserious?
“That’sgreat,”shesays.“Howexciting.”
“Shouldbe,yes.Althoughquiteabitofdowntime,too,Ishouldn’twonder.Soitwouldbejustgreattoseemoreofyouguys.Hangoutabit.Makesomeuseofthepool.”
Lucy’sgazefollowshis,towardthepool.Shefeelsherbreathcatchhard,herlungsexpandandthenshrink,herheartpoundatthememoryofherheadunderthatperfecttealwater,thepressureofhishandsonhercrown.Pushingher.Pushingheruntilherlungsnearlyexploded.Thensuddenlylettingherbobtothetop,choking,rasping,whilehepulledhimselffromthepool,snatchedatowelfromasunlounger,wrappeditaroundhimself,andstrodeintothehousewithoutabackwardglance.
“Icouldhavekilledyou,”hesaidaboutitafterward.“IfI’dwanted.Youknowthat,don’tyou?Icouldhavekilledyou.”
“Whydidn’tyou?”sheasked.
“BecauseIcouldn’tbebothered.”
“Well,”shesaysnow,“maybe.Thoughwe’reprettybusyourselvesthissummer.”
“Yes,”hesayspatronizingly.“I’msureyouare.”
“Youknow,”shesays,turningtolookatthehouse,“Ialwaysthoughtyoumusthavesoldthisplace.I’veseenotherpeoplelivinghereovertheyears.”
“Holidaylet,”hesays.Andshecanheartheshameinhisvoice,theideaofshiny,incredible,successful,wealthyMichaelRimmerhavingtostoopsolowastorentouthisAntibesholidayhometostrangers.“Seemedashame”—herallies—“tohaveitsittingemptyallthetime.Whenotherpeoplecouldbeenjoyingit.”
Shenods.Letshimholdontohispatheticlittlelie.Hehates“otherpeople.”Hewillhavehadtheplacedisinfectedfromtoptobottombeforehecouldhavefacedreturning.
“Well,”shesays,turningtosmileatthechildren,“Ithinkit’sprobablytimeforustohittheroad.”
“No,”saysMichael.“Stayawhile!Whynot?Icanopenabottleofsomething.Thekidscansplashinthepool.It’llbefun.”
“Themusicshopwillbeshuttingsoon,”shesays,tryingnottosoundnervous.“Ireallyneedtopickupmyfiddlenow,soIcanworktonight.Butthankyou.Thankyousomuch.Whatdoyousay,children?”
TheysaythankyouandMichaelbeamsatthem.“Beautifulkids,”hesays,“reallybeautiful.”
Heseesthemtothefrontdoor.HelookslikehewantstohugLucyandsherapidlydropstoherkneestorearrangethedog’scollar.Michaelwatchesthemfromthedoorway,acrossthebonnetofhisridiculouscar,asmilestillplayingonhislips.
ForamomentLucythinkssheisgoingtobesick.Shestopsandbreathesinhard.Andthen,astheyareabouttoturnthecorner,thedogsuddenlysquatsandproducesasmallpileofcrapupagainstthewallofMichael’shouse,rightinthepathoftheafternoonsun.Lucyreachesintoherpurseforaplasticbagtopickitupwith.Thenshestops.Inanhourtheshitwillbebakedandbubblinglikeabrie.Itwillbethefirstthingheseesnexttimeheleaveshishouse.Hemightevenstepinit.
Sheleavesitthere.
12
Libbyissupposedtobegoingtoafriend’sbarbecueonSaturday.She’sbeenlookingforwardtoit.HerfriendApriltoldhershewasinvitinga“fitblokefromwork.Ithinkyou’llreallylikehim.He’scalledDanny.”
ButasSaturdaydawns,anotherhotdaywithaskyfullofnothingbutblue,thewindowpanesalreadyredhotbeneathherhandasshepushesthemopen,LibbyhasnothoughtsofhotDannyorofApril’sfamousspicycouscoussaladorofaglowingorangeglobeofAperolspritzinherhandandherfeetinarubberpaddlingpool.ShehasnothoughtsofanythingotherthanthemysteriouscaseofSerenityLambandtherabbit’sfoot.
ShetextsApril.
I’msososososorry.Haveanamazingday.Letmeknowifyou’restillgoingstrongthiseveningandI’llpopinforasundowner.
Thensheshowersandputsonatropical-printplaysuitandopensandalsmadeofgoldleather,rubssuncreamintoherarmsandshoulders,sitshersunglassesonherhead,checksherbagforthedoorkeystothehouse,andgetsthetrainintoLondon.
Libbyputsthekeyintothepadlockonthewoodenhoardingandturnsit.Thepadlockslidesopenandsheputsanotherkeyintothefrontdoor.Shehalfexpectsahandonhershoulder,someonetoaskherwhatshe’sdoing,ifshehaspermissiontoopenthisdoorwiththesekeys.
Thensheisinthehouse.Herhouse.Andsheisalone.
Sheclosesthedoorbehindherandthesoundofthemorningtrafficdiesawayimmediately;theburnonherneckcools.
Foramomentshestaysentirelystill.
Shepicturesthepolicehere,whereshestands.Theyarewearingold-fashionedhelmets.SheknowswhattheylooklikebecausetherewerepicturesofthemintheGuardianarticle.PCsAliShahandJohnRobbin.Theywerefollowinguponananonymouscalltothestationfroma“concernedneighbor.”Theconcernedneighborhasneverbeentraced.
ShefollowsShahandRobbin’svanishedfootstepsintothekitchen.
PCShahrecalledthesoundofflies.Hesaidhethoughtsomeonehadleftapairofclippersrunning,oranelectrictoothbrush.Thebodies,theysaid,wereintheveryearlieststagesofdecay,stillrecognizableasanattractive,dark-haired,thirtysomethingwomanandanoldermanwithsalt-and-pepperhair.Theirhandswerelinked.Nexttothemlaythecorpseofanotherman.Fortyish.Tall.Darkhair.Theyallworeblack:thewomanatunicandleggings,themenakindofrobe.Theitems,ittranspired,hadbeenhomemade.They’dlaterfoundasewingmachineinthebackroom,remnantsofblackfabricinabin.
Apartfromthebuzzingflies,thehousewasdeathlyquiet.Thepolicesaidtheywouldn’thavethoughttolookforababyifithadn’tbeenforthementionofherinthenoteleftonthediningtable.They’dalmostmissedthedressingroomoffthemasterbedroom,butthenthey’dheardanoise,an“ooh,”PCShahhadsaid.
An“ooh.”
Libbystepsslowlyupthestaircaseandintothebedroom.Shepeersaroundthecornerofthedoorintothedressingroom.
Andthereshewas!Bonnyasanything!That’swhatPCRobbinsaid.Bonnyasanything!
Herfleshcrawlsslightlyatthesightofthepaintedcrib.Butshebreaksthroughthediscomfortandstaresatthecribuntilsheisdesensitized.Afteramomentshefeelsneutralenoughtolayahanduponit.Shepicturesthetwoyoungpolicemen,peeringoverthetopofthecrib.Sheimaginesherself,inherpure-whiteBabygro,herhairalreadyafullhelmetofShirleyTemplecurlsevenatonlytenmonthsold,herfeetkickingupanddownwithexcitementatthesightofthetwofriendlyfacesstaringdownather.
“Shetriedtostandup,”saidRobbin.“Shewaspullingupatthesidesofthecrib.Desperatetobetakenout.Wedidn’tknowwhattodo.Shewasevidence.Shouldwetouchher?Shouldwecallforbackup?Wewereflummoxed.”
Apparently,theydecidednottopickherup.PCShahsangsongstoherwhiletheywaitedtohearwhattheyshoulddo.Libbywishesshecouldrememberit;whatsongsdidhesingtoher,thiskindyoungpoliceman?Didheenjoysingingherthesongs?Didhefeelembarrassed?Accordingtothearticle,hewentontohavefivechildrenofhisown,butwhenhefoundSerenityLambinhercrib,he’dhadnoexperienceofbabies.
Acrimesceneteamsoonarrivedinthehouse,includingaspecialofficertocollectthebaby.HernamewasFelicityMeasures.Shewasforty-oneatthetime.Nowsheissixty-fiveandnewlyretired,livingintheAlgarvewithherthirdhusband.“Shewasthedearestbaby,”thearticlequotedher.“Goldencurls,wellfedandcaredfor.Verysmileyandcuddly.Incongruousgiventhesettinginwhichshe’dbeenleft.Whichwasgothic,really.Yes,itwasquite,quitegothic.”
Libbypushesthecribanditcreakspathetically,evidencingitsgreatage.Whowasitboughtfor?shewonders.Wasitboughtforher?Orforgenerationsofbabiesbeforeher?Becauseshenowknowsthereareotherplayersinthestoryofher.NotjustMartinaandHenryLamb,andthemysteryman.Notjustthemissingchildren.Neighborsspokeofnottwobut“numerous”children,ofotherpeople“comingandgoing.”ThehousewasfilledwithuntraceablebloodstainsandDNA,withfibersanddroppedhairsandstrangenotesandscribblesonwallsandsecretpanelsandagardenfullofmedicinalherbs,someofwhichhadbeenusedinherparents’apparentsuicidepact.
“Wearesettingourselvesfreefromthesebrokenbodies,fromthisdespicableworld,frompainanddisappointment.OurbabyiscalledSerenityLamb.Sheistenmonthsold.Pleasemakesureshegoestonicepeople.Peace,always,HL,ML,DT,”thenotebytheirdecayingbodiessaid.
Libbyleavestheroomandslowlywandersthehouse,seekingoutsomeofthestrangethingsfoundintheaftermathofthedeaths.Whoeverelsehadbeeninthehousethenightofthesuicideshadrun,thearticlesaid,leavingwardrobedoorsflungopen,foodinthefridge,half-readbooksopenonthefloor,piecesofpapertornfromwallsleavingbehindtheirsticky-tapecorners.
Shefindsoneofthesestripsofstickytapeonthewallinthekitchen,yellowedandcrisp.Shetugsthesmallshredofpaperfromitandstaresatitforamomentinthepalmofherhand.Whatwasonthepieceofpaperthatthepeoplefleeingthissinkingshipdidnotwantothereyestosee?
Thereisafridgeinthecountry-stylekitchen,ahugerustingAmerican-stylefridge,creamandbeige,probablyquiteunusualintheUKintheeighties,sheimagines.Shepullsitopenandpeersinside.Specklesofmold,apairofcrackedandbrokenplasticicetrays,nothingmore.Inthekitchencupboardsshefindsemptyenameledtins,apacketoffloursooldthatithasturnedtoabrick.Thereisasetofwhiteteacups;achrometeapot;ancientpotsofherbsandspices;atoastrack;alargetray,paintedblack.Shescratchesattheblackpainttorevealthesilverbeneath.Shewonderswhysomeonewouldpaintasilvertrayblack.
Andthenshestops.Shehasheardsomething.Somesortofmovementfromupstairs.Sheslidesthetraybackintothecupboardandstandsatthefootofthestairs.Shehearsthesoundagain,asortofdullthump.Herheartquickens.Shetiptoestothelanding.Thereitisagain.Andagain.Andthen—herheartratedoublesatthesound—someoneclearstheirthroat.
Mr.Royle,shethinks,itmustbeMr.Royle,thesolicitor.Itcouldn’tbeanyoneelse.Sheshutthedoorbehindherwhenshearrived.Definitely.
“Hello?”shecallsout.“Hello.Mr.Royle!”
Butthereissilence.Animmediate,deliberatesilence.
“Hello!”shecallsoutagain.
Thesilencesitslikeastillbearatthetopofthehouse.Shecanalmosthearthethumpofsomeone’spulse.
Shethinksofalltheothermysteriesthemagazinearticlerevealed:thechildrenwhofledthishouse,thepersonwhostayedbehindtocareforher;shethinksofthescribblesonthewallsandthefabricstriphangingfromtheradiatorandthescratchesgougedintowalls,theawkwardnoteleftbyherparents,thebluepaintedrosesonthecreakingcrib,thesheetsofpapertornfromwalls,thebloodstains,andthelocksontheoutsideofthechildren’sbedroomdoors.
ThenshethinksagainofherfriendApril’sneatlawn,herspicycouscous,theneonorangeofanAperolspritz,herstickyfeetinanicypaddlingpool.ShethinksofhotDannyandthepotentialbabiestheymighthavewhensheisthirty.Orearlier.Yes,whynotearlier?Whyputitoff?Shecansellthishousewithitsbleak,dreadfullegacy,itsmoldyfridgeanddeadgarden,itsthroat-clearing,thumpingpersonintheattic.ShecansellitnowandberichandmarryDannyandhavehisbabies.Shedoesn’tcareanymoreaboutwhathappenedhere.Shedoesn’twanttoknow.
Shefiddlesforthedoorkeysinherhandbagandshelocksupthebigwoodenfrontdoorandthepadlockedhoardingandsheemergeswithreliefontothehotpavementandpullsherphonefromherbag.
Savesomecouscousforme.I’llbethereinanhour.
13
Lucyturnsherfiddlethiswayandthatinthemutedlightofthemusicrepairshop.
Sheplacesitunderherchinandquicklyplaysathree-octaveA-majorscaleandarpeggio,checkingforevennessofsoundqualityandforwolfnotesorwhistles.
ShebeamsatMonsieurVincent.
“It’samazing,”shesays,inFrench.“It’sbetterthanitwasbefore.”
Herheartsoftensinherchest.Shedidn’trealize,inthedreadfulnessofsleepingonbeachesandundermotorwayflyovers,justhowhardshefoundittobepartedfromherinstrumentandhowmuchangershewasharboringtowardthedrunkendickheadswho’dbrokenit.Butmorethanthat,shedidn’trealizejusthowmuchshemissedplayingit.
Shecountsoutthetwenty-euronotesontothecounterandMonsieurVincentwritesheroutareceipt,tearsitfromapad,handsittoher.ThenhepullstwoChupaChupslollipopsfromadisplayonhiscounterandhandsonetoeachofthechildren.
“Lookafteryourmother,”hesaystoMarco.“Andyoursister.”
Inthejust-coolingeveningairoutsidetheshop,LucyuntwiststhecellophanewrapperfromStella’slollipopandhandsittoher.Thentheywalktowardthetouristiccenter,herchildrensuckingtheirsweets,thedogsnufflingatthehotpavementlookingfordiscardedchickenbonesorspilledicecreams.Lucystillhasnoappetite.ThemeetingwithMichaelkilleditoffcompletely.
Theearlydinershavejustarrived:olderholidaymakersoroneswithsmallchildren.Thisisatoughercrowdthanthelaterone.Thelatercrowdhasbeendrinking;they’renotembarrassedtoapproachtheladyinthefloatyvoileskirtandcamisole,withthetannedsinewyarms,thelargebreasts,thenosestudandanklebracelet,withthetwobeautiful,tired-lookingchildrensittingonayogamatbehindherintheshade,thescruffyJackRussellwithitsheadonitspaws.They’renotdistractedbyirritabletoddlersuppasttheirbedtimes.Orcynicallywonderingifshe’llspendthemoneyondrugsorbooze,ifthechildrenandthedogarejustforshow,ifshe’llbeatthemwhentheygethomeifshehasn’tmadeenoughmoney.She’sheardeverythingovertheyears.She’sbeenaccusedofitall.She’sgrownaverythickskin.
Shetakesthehatfromherrucksack,theonethatMarcousedtocallthe“moneyhat”;nowhecallsitthe“begginghat.”Hehatesthathat.
Sheplacesitonthegroundinfrontofherandsheunclipsherfiddlecase.Shechecksbehindherthatherchildrenaresettled.Marcohasabooktoread.Stellaiscoloring.Marcolooksupatherwearily.“Howlongarewegoingtobehere?”
Somuchteenageattitude,somanymonthsyettogobeforeheturnsthirteen.
“UntilI’vemadeenoughmoneyforaweekattheBlueHouse.”
“Howmuchisthat?”
“Fifteeneurosanight.”
“Idon’tknowwhyyoudidn’tjustaskmydadforsomemoremoney.Hecouldhavesparedit.Hecouldhavegivenyouanotherhundred.Soeasily.”
“Marco.Youknowwhy.Nowplease,justletmegetonwithit.”
Marcotutsandraiseshiseyebrows;thenheletshisgazedroptohisbook.
Lucyliftsherfiddletoherchin,pointsherrightfootawayfromherbody,closeshereyes,breathesindeep,andplays.
Itisagoodnight;thepassingofthestormlastnighthascalmedtheether,it’snotquitesohot,andpeoplearemorerelaxed.LotsofpeoplestoptonighttostandandwatchLucyplayherfiddle.SheplaysPoguessongsandDexysMidnightRunnerssongs;duringherrenditionof“ComeOnEileen”aloneshecalculatesroughlyfifteeneurosbeingthrownintoherhat.Peopledanceandsmile;onecoupleintheirthirtiesgiveheraten-euronotebecausetheyjustgotengaged.Anolderwomangivesherfivebecauseherfatherusedtoplaythefiddleanditremindsherofahappychildhood.ByninethirtyLucyhasplayedinthreelocationsandhasnearlyseventyeuros.
Shegathersthechildren,thedog,theirbags.StellacanbarelykeephereyesopenandLucyfeelsnostalgicforthedaysofthebuggywhenshecouldjustscoopStellaintoitattheendofthenightandthenscoopheroutandstraightintobed.Butnowshehastowakeherhard,forcehertowalk,trynottoshoutwhenshewhinesthatshe’stootired.
TheBlueHouseisaten-minutewalkaway,halfwayupthehilltoCastlePark.It’salongthinhouse,originallypaintedbabyblue,aonce-eleganttownhouse,constructedforitsviewsacrosstheMediterranean,nowpeelingandgrayandweather-beatenwithcrackedwindowpanesandivyclingingtodrainpipes.AmancalledGiuseppeboughtitinthe1960s,letitgotorackandruin,andthensoldittoalandlordwhofilleditupwithitinerants,afamilytoaroom,sharedbathrooms,cockroaches,nofacilities,cashonly.ThelandlordletsGiuseppestayoninastudioapartmentonthegroundfloorinreturnformaintenanceandmanagementandasmallrent.
GiuseppelovesLucy.“IfIhadhadadaughter,”healwayssays,“shewouldhavebeenlikeyou.Iswearit.”
ForafewweeksafterherfiddlewasbrokenLucyhadnotpaidanyrentandhadbeenwaiting,waitingforthelandlordtokickherout.ThenanothertenanthadtoldherthatGiuseppehadbeenpayingherrentforher.She’dpackedabagthatsamedayandleftwithoutsayinggoodbye.
LucyfeelsnervousnowastheyreachtheturningfortheBlueHouse;shestartstopanic.WhatifGiuseppedoesn’thavearoomforher?Whatifheisangrythatsheleftwithoutsayinggoodbyeandslamsthedoorinherface?Whatifhe’sgone?Died?Thehousehasburneddown?
Buthecomestothedoor,peersthroughthegapleftbythesecuritychain,andhesmiles,awallofbrownteethglimpsedthroughabushofsalt-and-pepperbeard.Hespiesherfiddleinitscaseandsmileswiderstill.“Mygirl,”hesays,unclippingthechainandopeningthedoor.“Mychildren.Mydog!Comein!”
Thedoggoesmadwithjoy,jumpsintoGiuseppe’sarmsandnearlyknockshimbackward.StellawrapsherarmsaroundhislegsandMarcopusheshimselfagainstGiuseppeandletshimkissthetopofhishead.
“Ihaveseventyeuros,”shesays.“Enoughforafewnights.”
“Youhaveyourfiddle.Youstayaslongasyoulike.Youlookthin.Youalllookthin.Ionlyhavebread.Andsomeham.It’snotgoodhamthough,butIhavegoodbutter,so…”
Theyfollowhimintohisapartmentonthegroundfloor.Thedogimmediatelyjumpsontothesofaandcurlshimselfintoaball,looksatLucyasiftosay,Finally.GiuseppegoestohistinykitchenetteandreturnswithbreadandhamandthreetinydimpledglassbottlesofOrangina.Lucysitsnexttothedogandstrokeshisneckandbreathesout,feelsherinsidesuntwistandunfurlandsettleintoplace.Andthensheputsherhandintoherrucksacktofeelforherphone.Thebatterydiedsometimeduringthenight.ShefindsherchargerandsaystoGiuseppe,“IsitOKifIchargemyphone?”
“Ofcourse,mylove.There’sanemptysockethere.”
Sheplugsitinandholdstheonbuttondown,waitingforittospringintolife
Thenotificationisstillthere.
Thebabyis25.
Shesitswiththechildrenoverthecoffeetableandwatchesthemeatthebreadandham.Thehumiliationsofthelastweekstarttowashaway,likefootprintsontheshore.Herchildrenaresafe.Thereisfood.Shehasherfiddle.Shehasabedtosleepin.Shehasmoneyinherpurse.
Giuseppewatchesthechildreneat,too.Heglancesatherandsmiles.“Iwassoworriedaboutyouall.Wherehaveyoubeen?”
“Oh,”shesayslightly,“stayingwithafriend.”
“N—”Marcobegins.
SheprodshimwithherelbowandturnstoGiuseppe.“Alittlebirdtoldmewhatyou’dbeendoing,younaughtyman.AndIcouldn’thavethat.Ijustcouldn’t.AndIknewifItoldyouIwasgoingyou’dhavepersuadedmetostay.SoIhadtosneakoffand,honestly,we’vebeenfine.We’vebeenabsolutelyfine.Imean,lookatus!We’reallfine.”Shepullsthedogontoherlapandsqueezeshim.
“Andyouhaveyourfiddleback!”
“Yes,Ihavemyfiddleback.So…istherearoom?Itdoesn’thavetobeourusualroom.Itcanbeanyroom.Anyroomatall.”
“Thereisaroom.It’satthebackthough,sonoview.Andalittledark.Andtheshowerisbroken,justatap.Youcanhaveitfortwelveeurosanight.”
“Yes,”Lucysays,“yesplease!”SheputsthedogdownandgetstoherfeetandhugsGiuseppe.Hesmellsdustyandold,alittledirty,butshedoesn’tcare.“Thankyou,”shesays,“thankyousomuch.”
Thatnightthethreeofthemsleepinatinydoublebedinthedarkroomatthebackofthehousewherethesoundoftireshissingonthehottarmacoutsidecompeteswiththecreakingofacrappyplasticfanasitoscillatesacrosstheroom,thetelevisionofthepeopleintheroomnextdoor,andaflycaughtsomewhereinbetweenthecurtainsandthewindow.StellahasherfistinLucy’sface,Marcoismoaninggentlyinhissleep,andthedogissnoring.ButLucysleepshardanddeepandlongforthefirsttimeinoveraweek.
14
Chelsea,1988
Thatday,September8,1988,shouldhavebeenmyseconddayatthebigschool,butyou’veprobablyalreadyguessedbynowthatIdidnotgettogotomylong-anticipatedbigschoolthatyear,theschoolwhereIwouldmeetmysoulmates,mylifelongfriends,mypeople.AtintervalsthatsummerIwouldaskmymother,“WhenarewegoingtoHarrodstobuymyuniform?”Andshewouldsay,“Let’swaituntiltheendoftheholidays,incaseyouhaveagrowthspurt.”AndthentheendoftheholidaysapproachedandstillwehadnotbeentoHarrods.
NeitherhadwebeentoGermany.WeusuallywentforaweekortwotostaywithmygrandmotherinherbigairyhouseintheBlackForestwithitsdankabovegroundswimmingpoolandsilkenpineneedlesunderfoot.Butthissummerwecouldnotaffordit,apparently,andifwecouldn’taffordtoflytoGermany,thenhowonearth,Iwondered,werewegoingtobeabletoaffordschoolfees?
BythebeginningofSeptembermyparentsweremakingapplicationstolocalstateschoolsandputtingournamesontowaitinglists.Theyneverspecificallysaidthatwehadfinancialproblems,butitwasobviousthatwedid.Ihadastomachachefordays,worryingaboutbeingbulliedataroughcomprehensive.
Oh,suchpetty,tinyconcerns.Suchtriflingworries.Ilookbackateleven-year-oldme:aslightlyoddboyofaverageheight,skinnybuild,mymother’sblueeyes,myfather’schestnuthair,kneeslikepotatoeswedgedontosticks,adisapprovingtightnesstomynarrowlips,aslightlyhaughtydemeanor,aspoiledboyconvincedthatthechaptersofhislifehadalreadybeenneatlywrittenoutandwouldfollowaccordingly;IlookbackathimandIwanttoslaphisstupid,supercilious,starry-eyedlittleface.
Justinwascrouchedinthegardenfingeringtheplantshe’dbeengrowingoutthere.
“Apothecarialherbs,”heexplainedtomeinhisalmostcomatosedrawl.“Theplantingof,growingof,anduseof.Thebigpharmaceuticalcompaniesareouttocorrupttheplanet.Intwentyyears’timewe’llbeanationofprescriptiondrugaddictsandtheNHSwillbeonitskneestryingtopayforasicknation’scandy.Iwanttoturnbacktheclockandusewhatthesoilprovidestotreateverydayailments.Youdon’tneedeightdifferenttypesofchemicaltocureaheadache.Yourmothersaysshewantstostopusingpillsandstartusingmytinctures.”
Igazedathim.Wewereafamilyofpilltakers.Pillsforhayfever,pillsforcolds,pillsfortummyachesandheadachesandgrowingpainsandhangovers.Mymumevenhadsomepillsforwhatshecalledher“sadfeelings.”Mydadhadpillsforhisheartandpillstostophishairfromfallingout.Pillseverywhere.Andnowwewere,apparently,togrowherbsandmakeourownmedicine.Itbeggaredbelief.
Myfatherhadhadasmallstrokeduringthesummerholidays.Itlefthimwithalimpandaslightslurandnolongerhimselfinsomekindofbarelydefinableway.Toseehimdiminishedinthiswaymademefeelstrangelyunprotected,asthoughtherewasnowasmallbutsignificantgapinthefamily’sdefenses.
Hisphysician,adry-as-they-comemanofindeterminateagecalledDr.Broughtonwholivedandranhispracticeinasix-storyhousearoundthecorner,cametovisitaftermyfathergotbackfromanovernightstayinthehospital.Heandmyfathersmokedcigarsinthegardenandtalkedabouthisprognosis.“I’dsay,Henry,thatwhatyouneedaretheservicesofareallygoodrehabilitationphysiotherapist.Unfortunately,alltherehabilitationphysiotherapistsIknowarebloodyawful.”
Theylaughedandmyfathersaid,“I’mnotsure,anymore,I’mnotsureaboutanything.ButI’dhappilytryit.Tryanythingreally,justtogetmyselfbacktomyself.”
BirdiewastendingJustin’sherbgarden.Itwashotandshewaswearingamuslintopthroughwhichhernippleswereplainlyvisible.Shetookoffafloppycanvashatandstoodinfrontofmyfatherandhisdoctor.
“Iknowsomeone,”shesaid,herhandsonherhips.“Iknowsomeoneamazing.He’samiracleworker.Heusesenergy.Hecanmovechiaroundpeople’sbodies.He’scuredpeopleIknowofbadbacks.Ofmigraines.I’llgethimtocomeandvisit.”
Iheardmyfatherbegintoprotest.ButBirdiejustsaid,“No.Honestly,Henry.It’stheleastIcando.Theveryleast.I’llcallhimrightnow.Hisname’sDavid.DavidThomsen.”
Iwasinthekitchenwithmymotherwatchinghermakecheesesconeswhenthedoorbellchimedthatmorning.Mymotherwipedherhandsonherapron,nervouslyadjustedtheendsofherpermedandscrunch-driedbob,andsaid,“Ah,thatmustbetheThomsens.”
“Who,”Iasked,notrememberingBirdie’srecommendationoftheweekbefore,“aretheThomsens?”
“Friends,”shesaidbrightly.“OfBirdieandJustin.Thehusbandisaphysiotherapist.He’sgoingtoworkwithyourfather,tryandgethimbackintoshape.Andthemotherisatrainedteacher.She’sgoingtohomeschoolyouboth,justforashortwhile.Isn’tthatgood?”
Ihadnochancetoaskmymothertoexpandonthisrapidlyintroducedandrathershockingdevelopmentbeforeshe’dpulledopenthedoor.
Withmyjawslightlyajar,Iwatchedthemtroopin.
First,agirl,aroundnineorten.Blackhaircutintoabob,cut-offdungarees,scratched-upknees,ablobofchocolatesweptacrosshercheek,afaintairofpent-upenergy.Hername,apparently,wasClemency.
Andthenaboy,myage,maybeolder,blond,tall,darkfeatheredlashesthatswepttheedgesofsteel-cutcheekbones,handsinthepocketsofsmartblueshorts,afringeflickedoutofhiseyeseffortlesslyandwithmorethanalittleattitude.HisnamewasPhineas.Phin,weweretold,forshort.
Theirmotherfollowednext.Bigboned,pale,flatchested,withlongblondhairandaslightlynervousdemeanor.This,Iwastodiscover,wasSallyThomsen.
Andbehindthemall,tall,broad-shouldered,slim,tanned,withshortblackhair,intenseblueeyes,andafullmouth,wasthefather.DavidThomsen.Hegrippedmyhandhardinsidehisandcuppeditwiththeother.“Goodtomeetyou,youngman,”hesaidinalow,smoothvoice.
Thenheletmyhandgoandheldhisarmsaloft.
Hesmiledateachofusinturnandsaid,“Goodtomeetyouall.”
Davidinsistedontakingusalloutfordinnerthatnight.ItwasaThursday,stillwarmaroundtheedges.Ispentquitesometimethateveningfinessingmyappearance,notmerelyinthewayIusuallydidofensuringmyclotheswerecleanandmypartingsharpandmycuffsstraight,butmorefoppishly;theboycalledPhineaswasfascinatingtome,notonlyintermsofhisgreatbeauty,butalsointermsofhisstyleofdressing.Alongwiththecasualblueshorts,he’dwornaredpoloshirtwithwhitestripesdownthecollarandbrightwhiteAdidassportsshoeswithwhiteanklesocks.Isearchedmywardrobethateveningforsomethingequallyeffortless.Allmysocksreachedmycalves;onlymysisterhadanklesocks.Allmyshortsweremadeoutofwoolandallmyshirtshadbuttons.IevenconsideredmyoldPEkitforamoment,butquicklydismissedtheideawhenIrealizeditwasstillbunchedupinmyPEbagfrommyverylastPElesson.EventuallyIsettledonaplainblueT-shirtandjeans,withmyplimsolls.Itriedtomakethelickofhairthatgrewfrommyhairlinefalluponmybrow,asPhineas’sdid,butitstubbornlyrefusedtomoveoutofplace.IstaredatmyselfforafulltwentysecondsbeforeIlefttheroom,hatingtheawfulnessofmystupidface,theplainnessofmyT-shirt,thesadcutofmyJohnLewisforBoysjeans.Imadeastrangulatednoiseundermybreath,kickedthewall,andthenheadeddownstairs.
Phinwasthere,inthehallway,sittingononeofthetwohugewoodenchairsthatsateithersideofthestaircase.Hewasreadingabook.Istaredathimthroughthebalustradeforamomentbeforemakingmyentrance.HereallywasthemostbeautifulthingIhadeverseeninmylife.IfeltmycheeksflushredasItookinthelinesofhim:thedelicateoutlineofamouththatlookedlikeithadbeenmoldedoutofthesoftest,reddestclay,asifafingertipwouldleaveanimprintonit.Hisskinwaslikechamoispulledacrosscheekbonesthatlookedasthoughtheymighttearthroughit.Heevenhadthethrillingsuggestionofamoustache.
HetossedhisfringeoncemoreandthenglancedupatmedisinterestedlyasIdescended,hiseyesfallingimmediatelybacktohisbook.IwantedtoaskhimwhathewasreadingbutIdidn’t.Ifeltawkward,notsurewheretoputmyselforhowtostand.Butothersquicklyappeared:firstmymotherandfather;thenthegirlcalledClemency,whowaswithmysister,thetwoofthemalreadychattingeasilywitheachother;thenSally;thenJustinandBirdie;andthenfinally,andvirtuallyencasedinacircleoflightatthetopofthestaircase,DavidThomsen.
WhatcanItellyouaboutDavidThomsenfrommyperspectivethen,asayoungboy?Well,Icantellyouthathewasveryhandsome.Notinthesoft,almostfemininewaythathissonwashandsome,butinamoretraditionalway.Hehadadensefiveo’clockshadowthatlookedasifithadbeenpaintedon,aheavy,definedbrow,ananimalenergy,apotentpower.Hehadawayofmakinganyonewhostoodnexttohimappearsomewhatlesserthanhim,evenwhentheyweren’t.Icantellyouthatheappalledmeandfascinatedmeinequalmeasure.AndIcantellyouthatmymotheractedstrangelyinhispresence,notflirtatiouslybut,ifanything,moreguardedly,asthoughshedidn’ttrustherselfaroundhim.Hewasbothpuffedupanddown-to-earth,warmyetcold.Ihatedhim,yetIcouldseewhyotherslovedhim.Butallthatwasyettocome.Firstofallwasthatveryfirstdinneronthatveryfirstnightwheneveryonewasshowingtheirverybestselves.
WesatsquashedaroundalongtableintheChelseaKitchenwhichwasreallyonlymeantforeight.Thechildrenhadallbeenputatoneend,whichmeantIfoundmyselfelbowtoelbowwithPhineas.Iwassoelectrifiedbymyproximitytohim,mynerveendingssoraw,mybodysoprimedandachingforsomethingthatIwastooyoungtoevenbegintounderstand,thatIhadnochoicebuttoturnmybacktohim.
Iglanceddownthelengthofthetabletowardmyfather,whosatatthehead.
AtthesightofhimIfeltsomethinginsidemeplummeting,likeanuntetheredlifthurtlingdownashaft.Ididn’tquiteunderstandwhatIwasfeeling,butIcantellyounowthatwhatIexperiencedwasaterrifyingmomentofprescience.IhadseenmyfathersuddenlyrenderedshortinthecompanyofDavidThomsen,whowasunusuallytall,andIhadseenthathisholdontheheadofthetable,oncesounquestionableanddefined,wasflimsy.Evenwithoutthedamagethatthestrokehadcaused,everyoneatthetablewasclevererthanhim,evenme.Hewasdressedwrong,inhistoo-tightjacket,theflourishofadarkpinkhandkerchiefinhisbreastpocketthatclashedwiththerustofhishair.Isawhimshuffleinhisseat;Isawtheconversationdashacrossthetopofhisheadlikecloudsonawindyday.Isawhimstareatthemenuforlongerthanwasnecessary.IsawDavidThomsenleanacrossthetabletowardmymothertoemphasizeapointandthenleanbackagaintoobservemymother’sresponse.
Isawallthis,Isawallthis,andIknewalreadyonsomesubliminalbutincrediblyuncomfortablelevelthatapowerstrugglehadstartedundermyverynoseandthateventhen,atmomentzero,myfatherwasalreadylosing.
15
OnMondaymorningLibbygetsintoworktwentyminuteslate.
Didolooksupatherinsurprise.Libbyisneverlateforwork.
“Iwasabouttocallyou,”shesays.“IseverythingOK?”
Libbynods;takesherphoneoutofherbag,thenherlipbalmandhercardigan;tucksthebagunderherdesk;untiesherhair;tiesitupagain;pullsoutherchair;andsitsdownheavily.“Sorry,”shesayseventually.“Ididn’tsleeplastnight.”
“Iwasgoingtosay,”saysDido.“Youlookawful.Theheat?”
Shenods.Butitwasn’ttheheat.Itwastheinsideofherhead.
“Well,letmegetyouanicestrongcoffee.”
NormallyLibbywouldsayNo,no,no,Icangetmyowncoffee.Buttodayherlegsaresoheavy,herheadsowoolly,shenodsandsaysthankyou.ShewatchesDidoasshemakeshercoffee,feelingreassuredbythesheenofherdyedblackhair,thewayshestandswithonehandinthepocketofherblacktunicdress,hertinyfeetplantedwideapartinchunkydarkgreenvelvettrainers.
“There,”saysDido,restingthecuponLibby’stable.“Hopethatdoesthetrick.”
LibbyhasknownDidoforfiveyears.Sheknowsallsortsofthingsabouther.Sheknowsthathermotherwasafamouspoet,herfatherwasafamousnewspapereditor,thatshegrewupinoneofthemostillustrioushousesinSt.Albansandwastaughtathomebyagoverness.Sheknowsheryoungerbrotherdiedwhenhewastwentyandthatshehasn’thadsexforelevenyears.Sheknowsthatshelivesinatinycottageontheedgeofherparents’estateandthatshestillhasthehorsesherodeasateenagerandthatthathorseiscalledSpangles.SheknowsthattheillustrioushousehasbeenleftinDido’sparents’willnottoherbuttotheNationalTrustandthatsheisfineaboutthat.
SheknowsthatDidolikesPGTips,BenedictCumberbatch,horses,Gianduja,coconutwater,DoctorWho,expensivemattresstoppers,JoMaloneOrangeBlossom,stir-fries,Nando’s,andfacials.ButshehasneverbeentoDido’shouseormetDido’sfamilyorfriends.ShehasneverseenDidooutsideofworkhoursapartfromattheannualChristmaspartyattheposhhoteluptheroadandtheoccasionalafter-workdrinks.Shedoesn’tactuallyknowwhoDidois
ButshelooksatDidonowanditissuddenly,blindinglyobvioustoherthatDidoisexactlythepersonsheneedsrightnow.ShesatinApril’sbackgardenonSaturdaynightflirtingmildlywithDanny—whowasnotreallyallthathot,hadafacelikeaneight-year-oldboyandverysmallhands—andshelookedaroundforsomeoneshecouldtalktoaboutthecrazythingshappeningtoher,aboutthehouseandthemagazinearticleandthedeadparentsandthepersoncoughingintheattic.Butallshesawwaspeoplelikeher,normalpeople,withnormallives,peoplewhostilllivedathomewiththeirparentsorintinyflatswithpartnersandfriends,peoplewithun-paidoffstudentloans,unexceptionaljobs,unexceptionaldreams,faketans,handbagdogs,whiteteeth,cleanhair.Shefeltcaughtbetweentwopainfullydisparateplacesandleftbeforeeleven,camehometoherlaptopandbacktotheinternet’stakeonwhathadhappenedtoSerenityLamb.
Butthisraisedmorequestionsthanitansweredandshefinallyslammeddownthelidofherlaptopattwoa.m.andwenttobed,wherehersleepwasdisturbed,herdreamsfilledwithstrangeleitmotifsandencounters.
“Ineedsomeadvice,”shesaystoDidonow.“AbouttheChelseathing.”
“Ohyes,”saysDido,rubbingtheoversizedsilverdiscthathangsfromachainaroundherneck.“Whatsortofadvice?”
“Well,justtotalkaboutit,really.Youknowabout…houses.Ithoughtyou’dknowabouthouses.”
“Well,Iknowaboutahouse.Nothousesingeneral.Butsure,yes,whynot.Comeforsupper.”
“When?”
“Tonight?”
“Yes,”Libbysays,“yes,please.”
Dido’scottageisbeautiful.It’sdouble-frontedwithleadedwindows,hastinypinkrosesgrowingacrossthedoorway,andthere,outside,ishershinyblackFiatSpiderwithitstanconvertibleroof.Thecarcomplementsthecottageandthecottagecomplementsthecar,andLibbycan’thelpherselffromtakingherphonefromherbagandphotographingitforherInstagrampage.Didogreetsheratthedoorinwidefloraltrousersandablackcamisole.Herhairisheldfromherfacebylargeredsunglassesandsheisbarefoot.Libbyhasonlyeverseenherinclumpyworkshoessoit’sasurprisetoseetwosmall,white,perfectlypedicuredfeetwithrose-pinknails.
“Thisissolovely,”shesays,steppingthroughthesmalldoorintoawhitehallwaywithaterra-cottatiledfloor.“Justbeautiful.”
Dido’shouseisfullofwhatLibbyassumesmustbeheirloomsandinheritances;nothingherefromT.J.Maxx.ThewallsarehungwithbrightabstractartandLibbyremembersDidooncementioningthathermotherwasalsoanartist.DidotakesthemthroughFrenchdoorsatthebackofthecottageandtheysitinherperfectlittlecountrygardenonold-fashionedLloydLoomrattanchairs,upholsteredwithfloralcushions.ItoccurstoLibbyasshetakesinthebackofDido’sbeautifulhousethatmaybeDidodoesn’tactuallyneedtowork.Thatmaybeherjobdesigningposhkitchensisjustanicelittlehobby.
Didobringsoutabowlofquinoaandavocadosalad,anotherbowlofbutteredpotatoes,aloafofdarkbread,andtwochampagneglassesfortheproseccothatLibbybroughtwithher.
“Howlonghaveyoulivedhere?”Libbyasks,butteringsomeofthedarkbread.
“SinceIwastwenty-three,whenImovedbackfromHongKong.Itwasmymother’scottage.Shekeptitforme.Mybrother,ofcourse,wassettoinheritthehouse,butthen,well,thingschanged…”
Libbysmiles,blankly.ThehouseThecottage.Anotherworldentirely.“Sosad,”shesays.
“Yes,”Didoagrees.“Butthehouseisacurse.I’mgladit’snothingtodowithme.”
Libbynods.Aweekagoshe’dhavehadnonotionofbigbeautifulhousesbeingcurses;nowsheisclosertounderstanding.
“So,tellmeaboutyourhouse.Tellmeeverything.”
Libbysipsherprosecco,placestheglassonthetable,andthenleansbackintoherchair.“Ifoundanarticle,”shebegins,“intheGuardian.Aboutthehouse.Aboutmyparents.Aboutme.”
“You?”
“Yes,”saysLibby,rubbingatthepointsofherelbows.“It’sallabitbizarre.Yousee,Iwasadoptedasababy,whenIwasnearlyayearold.ThehouseinChelsea,itbelongedtomybirthparents.AndaccordingtothearticleIwasbornintoacult.”
Thewordsoundshorribleleavinghermouth.It’sawordshe’sbeentryingherhardesttoavoidusing,toavoideventhinkingabout.It’ssoatoddswiththepatheticfantasyshespentherlifewallowingin.SheseesDidobristleslightlywithexcitement.
“What!”
“Acult.AccordingtothisarticletherewasasortofcultinthehouseinChelsea.Lotsofpeoplelivedthere.Theywerealllivingspartanly.Sleepingonthefloor.Wearingrobesthattheymadethemselves.Yet…”Shereachesintoherbagandpullsouttheprintoutofthearticle.“Look,thiswasmymumanddad,sixyearsbeforeIwasborn,atacharityball.Imean,lookatthem.”
Didotakesthearticlefromherhandsandlooks.“Gosh,”shesays,“veryglamorous.”
“Iknow!Mymotherwasasocialite.SheranafashionPRcompany.ShewasonceengagedtoanAustrianprince.She’sjuststunning.”
Seeinghermother’sfacewasextraordinary;therewassomethingreminiscentofPriscillaPresleyaboutthedyedblackhairandpiercingblueeyes.Hermotherliveduptoeveryoneofherchildhoodfantasies,rightdowntothejobinPR.Herfather…well,hewasverywelldressedbutsmallerthanshe’dimagined,shorterthanhermother,withaslightlyarroganttilttohischinbutsomethingoddlydefensiveinthewayhelookedatthephotographer,asthoughhewasexpectingtroubleofsomekind.HeheldhisarmaroundMartinaLamb’swaist,thetipsofhisfingersjustvisibleintheshot;shegrippedasilkshawlaroundhershoulderswithringedfingersandtheedgesofherhipbonemadeindentsinthefabricofhereveningdress.Itwas,accordingtothearticle,thelastphototakenofthe“socialitecouple”beforetheydisappearedfromview,onlytobefounddeadontheirkitchenfloorsevenyearslater.
“Ihadabrotherandsister,”shesays,feelingthefreshshockpropellingthewordsfromhermouthtoofast,leavingnogapsbetweenthem.
Didoglancesupather.“Wow,”shesays.“Whathappenedtothem?”
“Nooneknows.Thesolicitorseemstothinktheymightbedead.”
Andthereitis.Theheaviestofalltheextremelyheavyfactsthathavebeenweighingherdownfordays.Itlandsbetweenthem,weightyasathrownhammer.
“God,”saysDido.“That’s…Imean,howcanthatbe?”
Sheshrugs.“Thepolicecameafteracallfromaneighbor.Theyfoundmyparentsandsomeothermandeadinthekitchen.They’dcommittedsuicide,somekindofpact.Andtherewasme,tenmonthsold,healthyandwellinacribupstairs.Butnosignofmybrotherandsister.”
Didofallsbackintoherchair,hermouthagape.Shesaysnothingforamoment.“OK.”Shesitsforwardandclampshertempleswiththeheelsofherhands.“So,therewasacult.Andyourparentscarriedoutasuicidepactwithsomerandomman…”
Libbynods.“Theypoisonedthemselveswithplantsthey’dgrowninthegarden.”
Dido’sjawfallsagain.“Yes,”shesaysdrily.“Ofcoursetheydid.Fuck.Thenwhat?”
“There’dbeenotherpeoplelivinginthehouse.Possiblyanotherfamily,withchildren.Butwhenthepolicegotthere,therewasnobody.Justthedeadbodiesandme.Allthechildrenhadjust…disappeared.Neverbeenheardofsince.”
Didoshiversandputsahandtoherchest.“Includingyourbrotherandsister?”
“Yes,”shesays.“They’dbarelybeenseeninyears.Theneighborsassumedtheywereawayatboardingschool.Butnoschoolevercameforwardtosaythey’dbeenstudentsthere.Andoneofthemmusthavestayedoninthehouseaftermyparentsdied,becauseapparentlysomeonehadbeenlookingafterme.Mynappywasfresh.Andwhentheytookmeoutofthecrib,theyfoundthis.”Shetakestherabbit’sfootfromherbagandpassesittoDido.“Itwastuckedintomyblankets.”
“Forluck,”saysDido.
“Isupposeso,”Libbyreplies.
“Andtheotherguywhodied,”Didoasks,“whowashe?”
“Nobodyknows.Therewasnopaperworktoidentifyhim,justhisinitialsonthesuicidenote.Noonereportedhimmissing,noonerecognizedhimfrompolicesketches.Thetheoryisthathewasanitinerant.AGypsy,maybe.Whichwouldperhapsexplainthat.”Shegesturesattherabbit’sfootinDido’shand.
“Gypsies.”Didomassagesthewordwithrelish.“Gosh.”
“Andthehouse,it’sweird.It’sdark.AndIwasthere,onSaturdaymorning,andIheardsomething.Upstairs.”
“Whatsortofsomething?”
“Well,asomeone.Someonemoving.Acough.”
“Andyou’resureitwasn’ttheneighbors?”
“Isupposeitcouldhavebeen.Butitreallysoundedlikeitwascomingfromthetopofthehouse.AndnowI’mtooscaredtogobackthere.IfeellikeIshouldjustputitonthemarketandgetridofitandmoveon.But…”
“Yourbrotherandsister…?”
“Mybrotherandsister.Thetruth.Mystory.It’sallboundupinthathouseandifIsellit,Imayneverfindoutwhatreallyhappened.”
Didostaresforamomentatthenewspaperarticle.ThenshelooksupatLibby.
“Here,”shesays,tappingatthetopofthenewspaperarticlewithherfingertip.“Him.Thejournalist.”Shesquintsatthebyline.“MillerRoe.He’syourman.Youneedtogetintouchwithhim.Justimaginehowamazedhe’llbeafterallhismonthsofinvestigativejournalismtosuddenlyfindyouinhisinbox.SerenityLambherself.Completewithactualrabbit’sfoot.”
Theybothfallsilentthenforamomentandlettheirgazesdroptotherabbit’sfootwhereitsitsonthegardentableinapoolofsoft,dappledeveninglight.
LibbytakesthearticlefromDido’shandandfindsthebyline.“MillerRoe.”Anunusualname.EasyenoughtoGoogle.Shepullsherphonefromherbagandtypesitin.InunderaminuteshehashiscontactemailaddressattheGuardian.SheturnsherphonetoshowittoDido.
Didonodssagely.“Goodwork,”shesays.ThensheliftsherglassofproseccoandholdsittowardLibby.“ToSerenityLamb,”shesays,“andtoMillerRoe.Mayonebegetthetruthabouttheother.”
16
Lucyisawakeatfivethirtythenextmorning.Sheslidescarefullyoffthebedandthedogjumpsdownandfollowshertothekitchenette,hisclawsclackingagainstthelinoleum.Giuseppehasputteabags,granulatedcoffee,andaplasticbagofchocolatebriochefingersonthecounter.Thereisalsoabottleofmilkinthefridge.Lucyputsapanofwaterontoboilandthensitsforawhileontheplasticchairinthecornerstaringatthecurtainedwindow.Afteramomentshestandsandtugsopenthecurtain,thensitsandstaresatthebuildingopposite,thedarkwindowsreflectingtheorangeoftheearlydawn,thegraywallsbrieflyturnedpink.Theskyoverheadisdetergentblueandfilledwithcirclingbirds.Thetraffichasnotstartedyetandtheonlynoiseisthesteadyrumbleofthewatercomingtoaboil,thewhineofthegasflamebeneath.
Lucylooksatherphone.Nothing.Thedogisstaringathermeaningfully.Sheslipsoutofherapartment,quietlyopensthebackdoorontothestreet,andgesturestothedogtogooutside.Hepassesher,liftshislegagainsttheoutsideofthebuildingforhalfaminute,thenrunsbackinside.
Indoors,Lucypullsherrucksacktowardherandunzipsaninsidepocket.Inthereisherpassport.Sheflipsitopen.Asshesuspected,itexpiredthreeyearsearlier.ThelasttimesheuseditwaswhenMarcowastwoandsheandMichaeltookhimtoNewYorktomeetMichael’sparents.TheysplitupshortlyafterwardandLucyhasn’tuseditsince.
Michaeloriginallygotthepassportforher.HewasbookingtheirhoneymoonintheMaldives.“Givemeyourpassport,honey,”hesaid,“Ineedthedetails.”
“Idon’thaveapassport,”shesaid.
“Well,you’regoingtoneedtorenewit,ASAP,orthere’llbenohoneymoon.”
Shesighedandlookedupathim.“Look,”shesaid.“Idon’thaveapassport.Fullstop.I’veneverhadapassport.”
Hestoppedthenandgazedatherforamoment,themachinationsofhismindvisibleinthespacebetweenhistopandbottomlips.“But…”
“IcametoFranceasapassenger,inacar.WhenIwasmuchyounger.Nooneaskedtoseemypassport.”
“Whosecar?”
“Idon’tknow.Justacar.”
“So,like,astranger’scar?”
“Notquite.No.”
“Butwhatwastheplan?Ifthey’daskedyouforapassport,whatwouldyouhavedone?”
“Idon’tknow.”
“Sohowhaveyoubeenliving?Imean…”
“Well,likeyoufoundme,”sherepliedtersely.“Playingafiddleforcents.Payingbythenightforlodgings.”
“Sinceyouwereachild?”
“SinceIwasachild.”
Shetrustedhimthen,thetall,genialAmericanwiththewinningsmile.Backthenhewasherhero,themanwho’dcometowatchherplayeverysinglenightforalmostamonth,who’dtoldhershewasthemostbeautifulfiddlerhe’deverseen,who’dbroughthertohiselegantrose-pinkhouseandhandedhersofttowelstodryherselfwithafterhalfanhourinashowercubicletiledwithgoldmosaic,who’dcombedoutthewetstrandsofherhairandmadehershudderwhenhisfingertipsbrushedagainstherbareshoulders,who’dhandedhergrimyclothestohismaidtobewashedandpressedandreturnedtoherinanorigamifanuponthecounterpaneofherbedintheguestsuite.Backthenhewasnothingbutsofttouchesandaweandgentleness.Ofcourseshetrustedhim.
Soshetoldhimeverything,thewholestory,andhelookedatherwithshininghazeleyesandsaid,“It’sOK,you’resafenow.You’resafenow.”Andthenhegotherapassport.Shehadnoideahoworfromwhom.Theinformationonitwasnotentirelyaccurate:itwasnothercorrectname,norwasithercorrectdateofbirthorhercorrectplaceofbirth.Butitwasagoodpassport,apassportthatgothertotheMaldivesandback,thatgothertoBarbadosandback,toItalyandSpainandNewYorkandbackwithoutanyoneeveraskinganyquestions.
AndnowithasexpiredandshehasnomeansofgettinganotheroneandnomeansofgettingbacktoEngland.Nottomentionthefactthattherearenopassportsforthechildrennorapetpassportforthedog.
Sheclosesherpassportandsighs.Therearetwowaysaroundthisobstacle,andoneofthemisdangerousandillegalandtheotherisjustplaindangerous.Heronlyotheralternativeisnottogoatall.
AtthisthoughthermindfillswithimagesofleavingEnglandtwenty-fouryearsago.Shereplaysthoselastmomentsasshe’sreplayedthemathousandtimes:thesoundofthedoorclickingbehindherfortheverylasttime,whispering,I’llbebacksoon,Ipromiseyou,Ipromiseyou,Ipromiseyou,underherbreathadozentimesassherandownCheyneWalkinthedarkofthemiddleofthenight,herheartpounding,herbreathcatching,hernightmarebothendingandbeginning.
17
Chelsea,1988
ItwasalmosttwoweeksbeforePhineasThomsendeignedtotalktome.Ormaybeitwastheotherwayaround,whoknows.I’msurehe’dhavehisowntakeonit.Butinmyrecollection(andthisis,ofcourse,entirelymyrecollection)itwashim.
Iwas,asever,hangingaroundthekitchenwithmymother,eavesdroppingonherconversationwiththewomenwhonowseemedtoliveinourhouse.I’dsubliminallydeterminedatthispointthattheonlywaytoreallyknowwhatwasgoingonintheworldwastolistentowomentalk.Anyonewhoignoresthechatterofwomenispoorerbyanymeasure.
BynowBirdieandJustinhadbeenlivingwithusforalmostfivemonths,theThomsensfornearlytwoweeks.Theconversationinthekitchenonthisparticulardaywasonethatoperatedonakindofforty-eight-hourrotatingcycle:thevexingmatterofwhereSallyandDavidweregoingtolive.AtthispointIwasstillclingingpatheticallytothefallacythatSallyandDavidwereonlystayingforashortwhile.Everyfewdaysapossibilitywouldappearonthehorizonandbetalkedaboutatlength,andthefeelingthatSallyandDavidwereabouttomoveonwouldhangbriefly,tantalizinglyintheairuntil,pop,the“possibility”wouldbefoundtohaveaninherentflawandthey’dbebacktothedrawingboard.Rightnowthe“possibility”wasahouseboatinChiswick.ItbelongedtoapatientofDavid’swhowasgoingbackpackingforayearandneededsomeonetolookafterherbeardeddragons.
“Onlyonebedroom,though,”SallywassayingtomymotherandBirdie.“Andatinybedroomatthat.ObviouslyDavidandIcouldsleepontheberthsinthelivingroom,butit’sabitcrampedbecauseofthevivariums.”
“Gosh,”saidBirdie,picking,pickingatthedryskinaroundhernails,theflakeslandingonthecat’sback.“Howmanyarethere?”
“Vivariums?”
“Whatever.Yes.”
“Noidea.Sixorso.Wemighthavetofindawaytopilethemup.”
“Butwhataboutthechildren?”mymotherasked.“Willtheywanttoshare?Especiallyadoublebed.Imean,Phin’sgoingtobeateenager…”
“OhGod,itwouldonlybeshort-term.Justuntilwefindsomewherepermanent.”
Iglancedup.Thiswasthepointwheretheplanusuallyfellapart.Themomentitbecameclearthatitwasinfactastupidplan,Sallywouldsay,stoically,“Oh,well,it’snotpermanent,”andmymotherwouldsay,“Well,that’sridiculous,wehavesomuchspacehere.Don’tfeelyouhavetorushintoanything.”AndSally’sbodylanguagewouldsoftenandshe’dsmileandtouchmymother’sarmandsay,“Idon’twanttostretchyourhospitality.”Andmybeautifulmotherwouldsay,inherbeautifulGermanaccent,“Nonsense,Sally.Nonsense.Justyoutakeyourtime.Somethingwillcomeup.Somethingperfect.”
Andsoitcametopass,thatafternooninlateSeptember.Thehouseboatplanwasmootedanddispatchedwithinacool,possiblyrecord-breaking,eightminutes.
Iwastorn,itmustbesaid,bythepresenceoftheThomsens.Ontheonehandtheywereclutteringupmyhouse.Notwithobjects,perse,butjustwiththemselves,theirhumanforms,theirsounds,theirsmells,theirotherness.MysisterandClemencyhadcometogetherlikeanunholyunionofloudandlouder.Theycareeredaboutthehousefrommorningtobedtimeensconcedinstrangegamesofmake-believethatallseemedtoinvolvemakingasmuchnoiseaspossible.Notonlythat,butBirdiewasteachingthembothtoplaythefiddle,whichwasutterlyexcruciating.
Then,ofcourse,therewasDavidThomsen,whosecharismaticpresenceseemedtopermeateeverystratumofourhouse.Aswellashisbedroomupstairshehadalsosomehowcommandeeredourfrontroom,whichhousedmyfather’sbar,asasortofexerciseroomwhereIhadonceobservedhimthroughacrackinthedoorattemptingtoraisehisentirebodyfromthefloorusingjusthisfingertips.
AndattheotherendofeverythingwasPhin.Phinwhorefusedeventolookatme,letalonetalktome;PhinwhoactedasthoughIwerenoteventhere.AndthemoreheactedasthoughIwerenotthere,themoreIfeltlikeImightdieofhisrefusingtoseeme.
Andthen,finally,thatday,ithappened.IleftthekitchenafterithadbeenestablishedthatSallyandDavidwouldbestayingandalmostbumpedintoPhincomingtheotherway.Heworeafadedsweatshirtwithletteringonitandjeanswithtearsintheknees.Hestoppedwhenhesawmeandforthefirsttimehiseyesmetmine.Icaughtmybreath.Isearchedmytangledthoughtsforsomethingtosay,butfoundnothingthere.Imovedtotheleft;hemovedtohisright.Isaidsorryandmovedtomyright.Ithoughthe’dpasssilentlyonward,butthenhesaid,“Youknowwe’reheretostay,don’tyou?”
“I’msorry?”
“Justignoreanythingmyparentssayaboutmovingout.We’renotgoinganywhere.Youknow,”hecontinued,“weendedupinthathouseinBrittanyfortwoyears.Wewereonlysupposedtobethereforaholiday.”Hepausedandcockedaneyebrow.
Iwasclearlysupposedtoberespondinginsomeway,butIwasstupefied.Ihadneverstoodsoclosetosomeonesobeautifulbefore.Hisbreathsmelledofspearmint.
HestaredatmeandIsawdisappointmentflickeracrosshisface,ornotevendisappointmentbutresignation,asthoughIwassimplyconfirmingwhathe’dalreadysuspectedofme,thatIwasboringandpointless,notworthhisattention.
“Whydon’tyouhaveyourownhouse?”Iaskedfinally.
Heshrugged.“Becausemydad’stootighttopayrent.”
“Haveyouneverhadyourownhouse?”
“Yes.Once.Hesolditsowecouldgotraveling.”
“Butwhataboutschool?”
“Whataboutschool?”
“Whendoyougotoschool?”
“Haven’tbeentoschoolsinceIwassix.Mumteachesme.”
“Wow,”Isaid.“Butwhataboutfriends?”
Helookedatmeaskance.
“Don’tyoumisshavingfriends?”
Henarrowedhiseyes.“No,”hesaidsimply.“Notevenslightly.”
Helookedasthoughhewasabouttoleave.Ididnotwanthimtoleave.Iwantedtosmellhisspearmintbreathandfindoutmoreabouthim.Myeyesdroppedtothebookinhishand.“Whatareyoureading?”Iasked.
Heglanceddownandturnedthebookupward.ItwasTheDiceManbyLukeRhinehart,anovelIhadnotheardofatthetime,butwhichIhavesincereadroughlythirtytimes.“Isitgood?”
“Allbooksaregood,”hesaid.
“That’snottrue,”Isaid.“I’vereadsomereallybadbooks.”IwasthinkingspecificallyofAnneofGreenGables,whichwe’dbeenforcedtoreadthetermbeforeandwhichwasthemoststupid,annoyingbookI’deverencountered.
“Theyweren’tbadbooks,”Phincounteredpatiently.“Theywerebooksthatyoudidn’tenjoy.It’snotthesamethingatall.Theonlybadbooksarebooksthataresobadlywrittenthatnoonewillpublishthem.Anybookthathasbeenpublishedisgoingtobea‘goodbook’forsomeone.”
Inodded.Icouldn’tfaulthislogic.
“I’venearlyfinishedit,”hesaid,glancingdownatthebookinhishand.“Youcanborrowitafterme,ifyouwant.”
Inoddedagain.“OK,”Isaid.“Thankyou.”
Andthenheleft.ButIstoodwhereIwas,myheadpulsating,mypalmsdamp,myheartfilledwithsomethingextraordinaryandnew.
18
MillerRoestandsasLibbyapproacheshim.Sherecognizeshimfromhisphotoontheinternet,althoughhehasgrownabeardsincehehadhisbylinephototaken,andalsogainedsomeweight.Heishalfwaythroughaverymessysandwichandhasaspeckofyellowsauceinhisbeard.HewipeshisfingersonanapkinbeforehetakesLibby’shandtoshakeandsays,“Libby,wow,sogoodtomeetyou.Sogoodtomeetyou!”HehasaLondonaccentanddarkblueeyes.Hishandaroundhersishuge.“Here,sitdown.WhatcanIgetyou?Thesandwichesareamazing.”
Sheglancesdownathiscar-crashsandwichandsays,“Ionlyjusthadbreakfast.”
“Coffee,tea?”
“Acappuccinowouldbenice.Thankyou.”
ShewatcheshimatthecounterofthetrendycaféonWestEndLanewherehesuggestedtheymeetasamidwaypointbetweenSt.AlbansandSouthNorwood.He’swearinglow-slungjeansandafadedT-shirt,agreencottonjacketandwalkingboots.Hehasabigbellyandalargeheadofthickdarkbrownhair.He’sslightlyoverwhelmingtolookat,ursinebutnotunappealing.
Hebringsbackhercappuccinoandplacesitinfrontofher.“Sogratefultoyouforcomingtomeetme.IhopeyourjourneywasOK?”Hepusheshissandwichtoonesideasthoughhehasnointentionofeatinganymore.
“Noproblem,”shesays,“fifteenminutes,straightthrough.”
“FromSt.Albans,right?”
“Yes.”
“Niceplace,St.Albans.”
“Yes,”sheagrees.“Ilikeit.”
“So,”hesays,stoppingandstaringmeaningfullyather,“you’rethebaby.”
Shelaughsnervously.“ItseemsIam.”
“Andyou’veinheritedthathouse?”
“Ihave,yes.”
“Wow,”hesays.“Gamechanger.”
“Complete,”sheagrees.
“Haveyoubeentoseeit?”
“Thehouse?”
“Yeah.”
“Yes,acoupleoftimes.”
“God.”Hethrowshimselfbackintohischair.“Itriedsohardtogetthemtoletmeintothathouse.Iwasvirtuallyofferingtheguyatthesolicitorsmyfirstborn.OnenightIeventriedtobreakin.”
“Soyouneveractuallysawit?”
“No,Iverymuchdidn’t.”Helaughswryly.“Ipeeredthroughwindows;Ievensweet-talkedtheneighborsaroundthebacktobeallowedtolookoutoftheirwindows.Butneveractuallygotinthehouse.What’sitlike?”
“It’sdark,”shesays.“Lotsofwoodpaneling.Weird.”
“Andyou’regoingtosellit,Iassume?”
“Iamgoingtosellit.Yes.But…”Shetrailsherfingertipsaroundtherimofhercoffeecupassheformshernextwords.“FirstIwanttoknowwhathappenedthere.”
MillerRoemakesasortofgrowlingnoiseunderhisbreathandrubshisbeardwithhishand,dislodgingthespeckofyellowsauce.“God,youandmeboth.Twoyearsofmylife,thatarticletookfromme,twoobsessed,insane,fucked-upyearsofmylife.DestroyedmymarriageandIstilldidn’tgettheanswersIwaslookingfor.Nowherenear.”
Hesmilesather.Hehas,shethinks,aniceface.Shetriestoguesshisage,butshecan’t.Hecouldbeanywherebetweentwenty-fiveandforty.
ShereachesintoherbagandpullsoutthekeystoCheyneWalk,placesthemonthetableinfrontofhim.
Hisgazedropsontothemandsheseesawaveoflongingpassacrosshiseyes.Hishandreachesacrossthetable.“OhmyGod.MayI?”
“Sure,”shesays.“Goahead.”
Hestaresateachkeyinturn,caressesthefobs.“AJag?”hesays,lookingupather.
“Apparently.”
“Youknow,HenryLamb,yourdad,heusedtobequitetheJacktheLad.Usedtogoscreamingoffhuntingontheweekends,partyingatAnnabel’sonschoolnights.”
“Iknow,”sherepliessanguinely.“Ireadyourarticle.”
“Yes,”hesays.“Ofcourseyoudid.”
Thereisabriefsilence.Millerpullstheedgeoffhissandwichandputsitinhismouth.Libbytakesasipofhercoffee.
“So,”hesays,“whatnext?”
“Iwanttofindmybrotherandsister,”shesays.
“Sothey’venevertriedtogetintouchwithyou?”
“No.Never.What’syourtheory?”
“Ihaveamilliontheories.Butthebigquestionis:Dotheyknowthehousewasheldintrustforyou?Andiftheyknow,willtheyknowthatyou’veinheriteditnow?”
Libbysighs.“Idon’tknow.Thesolicitorsaidthatthetrusthadbeendrawnupyearsbefore,whenmybrotherwasborn.Itwasmeanttogotohimwhenheturnedtwenty-five.Buthenevercametoclaimit.Thentohissister,butshenevercametoclaimiteither…and,ofcourse,thesolicitorshadnowayofcontactingeitherofthem.Butyes,Iguessthere’sachancetheyknewitwouldcometome.Assuming…”She’sgoingtosaythey’restillalive,butstopsherself.
“Andtheguy,”shesays.“Themanwhodiedwithmyparents.Inthearticleyousaidyoufollowedalotofdeadleads.Butyounevermanagedtofindoutwhoitwas?”
“No,frustratinglynot.”Millerrubshisbeard.“Althoughtherewasonenamethatcameup.Ihadtogiveupinmysearchforhim.Butit’snaggedatmeeversince.DavidThomsen.”
Libbythrowshimaquizzicallook.
“Therewereinitialsonthesuicidenote,remember?ML,HL,DT.SoIaskedpolicefornamesofmissing-personcasesthathadinvolvedtheinitialsDT.DavidThomsenwasoneofthirty-eightthattheyunearthed.Thirty-eightmissingpersonswiththeinitialsDT.TenwithintheJohnDoe’sestimatedagerange.AndonebyoneIeliminatedallofthem.
“Butthisonefascinatedme.Idon’tknow.Therewasjustsomethingabouthisstorythatrangtrue.Forty-two-year-oldguyfromHampshire.Normalupbringing.Butnorecordofhimanywhere,notsincehearrivedbackintheUKfromFrance,in1988,withawifecalledSally,andtwochildren,PhineasandClemency.ThefourofthemarrivebyferryfromSaint-MalointoPortsmouthin…”Heflicksthroughanotebookforamoment.“…September1988.Andthenthereisliterallynotraceofanyofthemfromthatpointonward:nodoctors’records,notaxes,noschoolregisters,nohospitalvisits,nothing.Theirfamiliesdescribedthemas‘loners’—therewereriftsandgrudges,ahugefalling-outoveraninheritanceofsomesort.Sonobodywonderedwheretheywere.Notforyearsandyears.UntilDavidThomsen’smother,nearingtheendofherlife,decidesshewantsadeathbedreconciliationandreportshersonandhisfamilyasmissingpersons.Thepolicerunsomeperfunctorysearches,findnotraceofDavidorhisfamily,thenDavid’smotherdiesandnooneasksaboutDavidorSallyThomseneveragain.Untilme,threeyearsago.”Millersighs.“Itriedsohardtotrackthemdown.Phineas.Clemency.Unusualnames.Iftheywereouttherethey’dhavebeeneasyenoughtofind.Butnothing.Notatrace.AndIneededtofilethearticle,Ineededtogetpaid,Ihadtogiveup.”Heshakeshishead.“Canyouseenow?Canyouseewhyittooktwoyears,whyitnearlykilledme?Whymywifeleftme?Iwasliterallyaresearchzombie.ItwasallItalkedabout,allIthoughtabout.”
Hesighsagainandrunshisfingersacrossthebunchofkeys.“Butyes.Let’sdoit.Let’sfindoutwhathappenedtoallthosepeople.Let’sfindoutwhathappenedtoyou.”
Heholdshishandouttoherstoshake.“Areweon,SerenityLamb?”
“Yes,”saysLibby,puttingherhandinhis.“We’reon.”
LibbygoesstraighttotheshowroomfromherbreakfastwithMillerRoe.It’sonlyhalfpastnineandDidobarelyregistersherlateness.Whenshedoes,shedoesadoubletakeandsays,inanurgentwhisper,“OhGod!Thejournalist!Howdiditgo!”
“Amazing,”Libbyreplies.“We’regoingtomeetatthehousethisevening.Startourinvestigation.”
“Justyou,”saysDido,hernosewrinklingslightly,“andhim?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm.Areyousurethat’sagoodidea?”
“What?Why?”
“Idon’tknow.Maybehe’snotwhatheseems.”Didonarrowshereyesather.“IthinkIshouldcome,too.”
Libbyblinksslowlyandthensmiles.“Youcouldhavejustasked.”
“Idon’tknowwhatyoumean.”Didoturnsbacktoherlaptop.“Ijustwanttolookoutforyou.”
“Fine,”saysLibby,stillsmiling.“Youcan‘lookout’forme.I’mmeetinghimatseven.We’llneedtobeonthesixeleven.OK?”
“Yes,”saysDido,hergazeresolutelyonhercomputerscreen.“OK.Andbytheway”—shelooksupsuddenly—“I’vereadeverysingleAgathaChristienoveleverpublished.Twice.SoImightevenbequiteuseful.”
19
LucyleavesthechildrensleepingwithanoteonthebedsidetableforMarcothatsays:“I’vegonetosortoutpassports.I’llbebackinacoupleofhours.Giveyoursistersomethingtoeat.Thedog’swithGiuseppe.”
Sheleavesthehouseateighta.m.andtakesthelongrouteacrosstowntotheGaredeNice.Shestopsforawhileandsitsonabench,lettingthesoftmorningsunwarmupherskin.Ateightforty-five,sheboardsthetraintoAntibes.
Justafterninea.m.sheisinfrontofMichael’shouse.AmetaljacketofbluebottlessitsonFitz’sshitfromthemorningbefore.Shesmilesatightsmile.Then,veryslowly,bileburninginthepitofherstomach,sheringsonMichael’sdoorbell.
Themaidanswers.ShesmileswhensherecognizesLucyandshesays,“Goodmorningtoyou!YouarethewifeofMichael!Frombefore!ThemotherofMichael’sson.IdidnotknowbeforethatMichael,hehadason!”Shehasherhandclaspedtoherchestandshelooksgenuinelyjoyful.“Suchbeautifulboy.Come,comein.”
Thehouseissilent.Lucysays,“IsMichaelavailable?”
“Yes,yes.Heishavingashower.Youwaitforhimonterrace.IsOK?”
Joyleadsherontotheterraceandtellshertosit,insistingonbringingcoffeewithamarettiontheside,evenwhenLucysayswaterwillbefine.Michaeldoesnotdeservesuchawoman,shethinks.Michaeldoesnotdeserveanything.
Sheputsherhandintohershoulderbagandpullsoutheroldpassport,andthetinywalletwiththephotosofStellaandMarcotuckedinside.Shedrinkshercoffeebutleavestheamaretti,whichshecannotstomach.Acolorfulbee-eatersitsinatreeoverheadsurveyingthegardenforsnacks.Shebreaksuptheamarettianddropsitonthegroundforhim.Hedoesn’tnotice,andfliesaway.Lucy’sstomachrollsandreels.It’shalfpastnine.
Thenfinallyheisthere,immaculateinawhiteT-shirtandpea-greenshorts,histhinninghairstillwetfromtheshowerandhisfeetbare.
“Well,mygoodnessme,”hesays,brushinghercheekwithhisonbothsides.“Twiceintwodays.Itmustbemybirthday.Nokids?”
“No.Ileftthemsleeping.Wehadaverylatenight.”
“Nexttime.”Hehitsherwithhisbiggoldensmile,sits,andcrosseshislegs.“So,towhatdoIowethepleasure?”
“Well.”Shelaysherfingertipsontopofherpassportandhiseyesfalltoit.“Ineedtogohome,”shesays.“Myfriendisill.Maybedying.Iwanttoseeher,beforeshe…incase…youknow.”Atearfallsfromherlefteyeandlandswonderfullyontopofherpassport.Shewipesitaway.Shedidn’tplantocry,butithappenedanyway.
“Oh,honey.”Michaelputshishandoverhers.
Shesmilestightlyandtriestolookgratefulforthegesture.
“That’sterrible.Whatisit?Isitcancer?”
Shenods.“Ovarian.”Shetakesherhandfromunderhisandbringsittohermouthtostifleasmallsob.“Iwanttogonextweek,”shesays,“butmypassport,it’sexpired.AndIdon’tevenhaveanyforthechildren.AndI’msososorrytoaskyou.Andyouweresogenerousyesterdaywiththemoneyformyfiddle.AndIreallywouldn’taskifIhadanyotheroptions.Butdoyoustillknowthepeople?Theoneswhogotmethispassport?”Sherunsafingerunderhereyesandthenlooksupathim,pathetically,buthopefullystillalluringly.
“Well,gosh,notreally.No.But,look,I’lltry.”Hepullsthepassporttowardhim.“Leaveitwithme.”
“Here.Ibroughtphotos.And,God,Iknowthismightsoundnuts,butIneedoneforthedog.He’soverduesomevaccinationssoIcan’tgothetraditionalroute.AndGodknowshowlongitwouldtake,anyway…”
“You’retakingthedog?Toseeadyingfriend?”
“Idon’treallyhaveanychoice.”
“Well,Icouldtakehim.”
Shetriesnottolooktooappalledatthethoughtofherpreciousdoglivingherewiththismonster.“Butwhatwouldyoudowithadog?”
“Er,gosh,Idon’tknow.Playwithit?Walkit?Feedit?”
“There’smoretoitthanthat.Youhavetogetupeverymorningandtakethemtothetoilet.Andyouhavetopickuptheirshit.”
Michaelrollshiseyesandsays,“Joylovesdogs.She’dlovehavinghimaround.AndsowouldI.”
Ofcourse,thinksLucy,Michaelhaspeopletopickupdogshit.
“Well,”shesays,“I’drathertakehimwithme.Thechildrenareattachedtohim,andsoamI…”
“I’llseewhatIcando,”hesays.“Ithinkdogpassportsarepushingtheremitjustatad.ButI’lltry.”
“God,”shesays,eyeswidewithfeignedgratitude.“Thankyousomuch,Michael.Ican’ttellyouhowrelievedIam.IliterallyjustgotthemessageaboutmyfriendlastnightandIcouldn’tsleepallnightforworryingabouthowIwasgoingtogettoher.Thankyou.”
“Well,Ihaven’tdoneityet.”
“Iknow,”shesays.“Iknowyouhaven’t.Butstill,I’msograteful.”
Sheseeshisfaceturnfromgenialtocreepy.“Really,reallygrateful?”
Sheforcesasmile.Sheknowswherethisisgoing;shewaspreparedforit.“Really,really,reallygrateful,”shesays.
“Ah.”Heleansbackintohischairandsmiles.“Ilikethesoundofthat.”
Shereturnshissmileandrunsherhanddownherhair.
Hiseyesreachtotheshutteredwindowsoverhead,towardthemasterbedroomsuite,locationofmultiplemaritalrapes.Thentheyreturntoherandshestiflesashudder.“Maybenexttime,”shesays.
Hecocksaneyebrowandslingsonearmacrossthebackofthechairtohisright.“Areyouincentivizingme?”
“Possibly,”shesays.
“Ilikeyourstyle.”
Shesmiles.Andthenshesitsstraightandpicksupthestrapsofherhandbag.“Butrightnow,”shesays,“Ineedtogetbacktomysleepingchildren.”
Theybothgettotheirfeet.“Whendoyouthink…,”shesayshesitantly.
“I’llgetonthecaserightnow,”hesays.“Letmehaveyournumber,andI’llcallyouwhenI’vegotnews.”
“Idon’thaveaphonerightnow,”shesays.
Hegrimaces.“Butyoujustsaidyougotamessagelastnight,aboutyourfriend?”
Ifsleepingonthebeachforaweekdidanythingforaperson,ittaughtthemtothinkontheirfeet.“Oh,thatwasonthelandline,inthehostel.Someoneleftitforme.Onapieceofpaper.”
“Rightthen,howwillIgetholdofyou?ShallIcallyouatthehostel?”
“No,”shesayscoolly.“No.Givemeyournumber.I’llcallyoufromthepayphone.I’llcallonFriday?”
Hescribblesdownhisnumberandhandsittoher.“Yes,callmeFriday.Andhere…”Heputshishandintohispocketandpullsoutafoldedwadofnotes.Hepullsoffafewtwentiesandpassesthemtoher.“Getyourselfaphone.FortheloveofGod.”
Shetakesthetwentiesandsaysthankyou.Shehasnothinglefttolosenow.She’sjustsignedhersoulawayforapassport.
20
Chelsea,1989
Monthsandmonthspassed.PhineasturnedthirteenandgrewanAdam’sappleandasmallblondmoustache.Igrewaninchandfinallygotmyhairlongenoughtoflop.MysisterandClemencybecamemoreandmoreinsanelybonded,sharingasecretlanguageandspendinghoursinadenmadeofbedsheetsandupturnedchairsintheemptybedroomontheatticfloor.Birdie’sbandreleasedaterriblesinglewhichgottonumber48inthecharts,sheleftthebandinahuff,nobodyinthemusicpressappearedtonoticeorcare,andshebegantoteachfiddleprofessionallyinthemusicroom.
Meanwhile,Justinturnedmyfather’sgardenintoacommercialenterprise,sellinghisherbalremediesthroughclassifiedadvertsinthebacksofnewspapers;Sallytaughtusall,forfourhourseveryday,aroundthekitchentable;andDavidranthreeweeklyclassesforhisalternativetherapiesinachurchhallinWorld’sEndandcamehomewithpocketsfullofcash.
Phinhadbeenabsolutelycorrectinhispredictionallthosemonthsearlier.
TheThomsensweregoingnowhere.
IcanlookbackatthoseyearsinthehouseonCheyneWalkwiththeThomsensandseeexactlythetippingpoints,thepivotsuponwhichfatetwistedandturned,uponwhichthestorylinewarpedsohideously.IrememberthedinnerattheChelseaKitchenandseeingmyfatheralreadylosingapowerstrugglehewastooweaktorealizehadbegun.AndIremembermymotherholdingherselfbackfromDavid,refusingtoshineforfearofhisdesiringher.Irememberwhereitstarted,butIhavenoideahowwe’dgotfromthatnighttothepointninemonthslaterwhenstrangershadtakenovereverycornerofourhomeandmyparentshadletthem.
Myfatherfeignedaninterestinthevariousgoings-on.He’dpotteraroundthegardenwithJustin,pretendingtobefascinatedbyhisrowsofherbsandplants;he’dpourtwofingersofwhiskeyintotwobigtumblerseverynightatsevenp.m.andsitwithDavidatthekitchentableandhavestrainedconversationsaboutpoliticsandworldaffairs,hiseyesbulgingslightlywiththeeffortofsoundingasifhehadacluewhathewastalkingabout.(Allmyfather’sopinionswereeitherblackorwhite;thingswereeitherrightorwrong,goodorbad:therewasnonuancetohisworldview.Itwasembarrassing.)He’dsitinonourclassroomlessonsinthekitchensometimesandlookterriblyimpressedbyhowcleverweallwere.Icouldnotworkoutwhathadhappenedtomyfather.ItwasasthoughHenryLambhadvacatedthehousebutlefthisbodybehind.
Iwanteddesperatelytotalktohimabouteverythingthatwashappening,theupendingofmyworld,butIwasscaredthatitwouldbelikepullingascaboffhislastremainingholdonhisownsenseofsignificance.Heseemedsovulnerable,sobroken.Isawhimonelunchtimeinearlysummer,clutchinghismohaircapandhisjacket,checkingthecontentsofhiswalletatthefrontdoor.We’dfinishedlessonsforthedayandIwasbored.
“Whereareyougoing?”Iasked.
“Tomyclub,”hereplied.
Ah,hisclub.AsetofsmokyroomsinasidestreetoffPiccadilly.I’dbeenthereoncebeforewhenmymotherwasoutandourbabysitterhadfailedtomaterialize.Ratherthanbestuckathomewithtwosmall,dullchildrentoentertain,he’dputusintothebackofablackcabandtakenustohisclub.LucyandIhadsatinacornerwithlemonadesandpeanutswhilemyfathersatsmokingcigarsanddrinkingwhiskeywithmenI’dneverseenbefore.I’dbeenenchantedbyit,hadwishednevertoleave,hadprayedthatourbabysitterswouldfailtoturnupforevermore.
“CanIcome?”
Helookedatmeblankly,asthoughI’daskedhimahardmathquestion.
“Please.I’llbequiet.Iwon’ttalk.”
Heglancedupthestaircaseasthoughthesolutiontohisconundrummightbeabouttoappearonthelanding.“Youfinishedschool?”
“Yes.”
“Fine.”
HewaitedwhileIputonmyjacket;thenwewalkedoutontothestreettogetherandhehailedataxi.
Intheclubhefoundnobodyheknewandwhilewewaitedforourdrinkstobedeliveredhelookedatmeandsaid,“So,howareyou?”
“Confused,”Ibegan.
“Confused?”
“Yes.Abouthowourlivesareturningout.”Iheldmybreath.Thiswasexactlythesortofimpudentapproachthatwouldhavehadmyfathergrimacingatmeinthepast,turninghisgazetomymotherandaskingherdarklyifshethoughtthissortofbehaviorwasacceptable,ifthiswasthesortofchildtheywerebringingup.
Buthelookedatmewithwateryblueeyesandsaid,simply,“Yes.”
Hisgazeleftmineimmediately.
“Areyouconfused,too?”
“No,son,no.I’mnotconfused.Iknowexactlywhat’sgoingon.”
Icouldn’ttellifhemeantthatheknewwhatwasgoingonandwasincontrolofit,orthatheknewwhatwasgoingonbutcoulddonothingtostopit.
“So—what?”Isaid.“Whatisit?”
Ourdrinksarrived:alemonadeonawhitepapercoasterforme,awhiskeyandwaterformydad.Hehadn’tansweredmyquestionandIthoughtmaybehewouldn’t.Butthenhesighed.“Son,”hesaid,“sometimesinlifeyougettoaforkintheroad.YourmotherandI,wegottoaforkintheroad.Shewantedtogooneway,Iwantedtogoanother.Shewon.”
Mybrowshotup.“YoumeanMummywantsallthepeopleinthehouse?Sheactuallywantsthem?”
“Wantsthem?”heaskedgrimly,asthoughmyquestionweresomehowridiculouswhenitclearlywasn’t.
“Doesshewanttolivewithallthesepeople?”
“Christ,Idon’tknow.Idon’tknowwhatyourmotherwantsanymore.Andhere,takemyadvice.Nevermarryawoman.Theymightlookgood,buttheydestroyyou.”
Noneofthiswasmakinganysenseatall.Whatdidmarryingwomen—somethingIhadnoearthlyintentionofeverdoing,butalsosomethingaboutwhichIthoughttherewasnootheroption;Ifyoudidn’tmarryawoman,thenwhowouldyoumarry?—havetodowiththepeopleupstairs?
Istaredathim,willinghimtosaysomethingclearandenlightening.Butmyfatherdidn’thavetheemotionalintelligenceor,indeed,sincehisstroke,thevocabularytobeclearorenlightening.Hepulledacigarfromthepocketofhisjacketandspentsometimepreparingittobesmoked.“Areyounotkeenonthem,then?”hesaideventually.
“No,”Ireplied.“I’mnot.Willtheyevergo?”
“Well,ifIhadanythingtodowithit…”
“Butit’syourhouse.Surelyyouhaveeverythingtodowithit.”
Icaughtmybreath,worriedI’dpushedhimtoofar.
Buthejustsighed.“You’dhavethoughtso,wouldn’tyou?”
Hisobtusenesswaskillingme.Iwantedtoscream.Isaid,“Can’tyoujusttellthemtogo?Tellthemwewantourhouseback.Thatwewanttogotoschoolagain.Thatwedon’twantthemhereanymore.”
“No,”saidmyfather.“No.Ican’t.”
“Butwhy?”
MyvoicehadrisenanoctaveandIcouldseemyfatherrecoil.
“Itoldyou,”hesnapped.“It’syourmother.Sheneedsthem.Sheneedshim.”
“Him?”Isaid.“David?”
“Yes.David.Apparentlyhemakesherfeelbetteraboutherpointlessexistence.Apparentlyhegivesherlife‘meaning.’Now,”hegrowled,openingupanewspaper,“yousaidyouwouldn’ttalk.Howaboutyousticktoyourword?”
21
MillerRoestandsoutsidethehouseonCheyneWalk,staringathisphone.HelooksevenmorerumpledthanhelookedthatmorninginthecaféonWestEndLane.HestraightenswhenheseesLibbyandDidoapproachandhesmiles.
“Miller,thisisDido,mycolleague—”Shecorrectsherself:“Myfriend.Dido,thisisMillerRoe.”
Theyshakehandsandthenallturntofacethehouse.Itswindowsglowgoldeninthelightoftheeveningsun.
“LibbyJones,”saysDido,“goodgrief.Youownanactualmansion.”
Libbysmilesandturnstoopenthepadlock.Shefeelsnosenseofownershipastheyclustertogetherinthehallway,lookingaroundthemselves.Shestillexpectsthesolicitortoappear,stridingaheadofthemauthoritatively.
“Iseewhatyoumeanaboutallthewood,”saysMiller.“Youknow,thishouseusedtobefullofstuffedanimalheadsandhuntingknives.Apparentlytherewereactualthrones,justhere…”Heindicatesthespotsoneithersideofthestaircase.“Hisandhers,”headdswryly.
“Whotoldyouaboutthethrones?”asksDido.
“OldfriendsofHenryandMartina,whousedtocomehereforraucousdinnerpartiesintheseventiesandearlyeighties.WhenHenryandMartinaweresocialites.Whentheirchildrenweretiny.Itwasallveryglamorous,apparently.”
“So,allthoseoldfriends,”Didocontinues,“whereweretheywheneverythingturneddark?”
“OhGod,theyweren’tproperfriends.Theywereparentsofthechildren’sfriendsatschool,transientneighbors,cosmopolitanflotsamandjetsam.Nobodywhoreallycaredaboutthem.Justpeoplewhorememberedthem.”
“Andtheirthrones,”saysLibby.
“Yes.”Millersmiles.“Andtheirthrones.”
“Andwhataboutfamily?”Didoasks.“Wherewerethey?”
“Well,Henryhadnofamily.Hewasanonlychild,bothparentsweredead.Martina’sfatherwasestranged;hermotherremarriedandwaslivinginGermanywithasecondfamily.ApparentlyshekepttryingtocomeoverandMartinakeptputtingheroff.Sheevensentoneofhersonsover,in1992;hecameandknockedatthedooreverydayforfivedaysandnobodyeverreplied.Hesaidheheardnoises,sawcurtainsmoving.Thephonelinerangdead.Themotherwasrackedwithguiltthatshehadn’ttriedhardertoaccessherdaughter.Nevergotoverit.CanI…?”Heveerstotheleft,towardthekitchen.
LibbyandDidofollowhim.
“So,thisiswherethechildrenweretaught,”hesays.“Thedrawerswerefullofpaperandtextbooksandexercisebooks.”
“Whotaughtthem?”
“Wedon’tknow.Itwouldn’thavebeenHenryLamb.HefailedallhisOlevelsanddidn’tgointohighereducation.Martinadidn’thaveEnglishasherfirstlanguage,soitwasunlikelytobeher.So,oneofthemystery‘others,’weimagine.Andmostlikelyawoman.”
“Whathappenedtoalltheschoolbooks?”Libbyasks.
“Ihavenoidea,”saysMiller.“Maybethey’restillhere?”
Libbylooksatthebigwoodentableinthemiddleoftheroomwithitstwosetsofdrawersoneachside.Sheholdsinherbreathandpullsthemopeninturn.Thedrawersareempty.Shesighs.
“Policeevidence,”saysMiller.“Theymaywellhavedestroyedthem.”
“Whatelsedidtheytakeaspoliceevidence?”Didoasks.
“Therobes.Bedclothes.Alltheapothecarialstuff,thebottlesandtraysandwhathaveyou.Soap.Facecloths.Towels.Fibers,ofcourse,thatsortofthing.Butreally,therewasnothingelse.Noartonthewalls,notoys,noshoes.”
“Noshoes?”Didorepeats.
Libbynods.ItwasoneofthemostshockingofallthedetailsinMiller’sGuardianarticle.Ahousefullofpeopleandnotonepairofshoes.
Didoglancesaround.“Thiskitchen,”shesays,“wouldhavebeentheabsoluteheightofkitchenchicbackintheseventies.”
“Wouldn’titjust?”agreesMiller.“Topoftherange,too.Virtuallyeverythingthathadbeeninthehouse—beforetheysoldeverything—wasboughtfromHarrods.Thearchivistintheirsalesdepartmentletmeseethesalesinvoices,goingbacktothedateHenryboughtthehouse.Appliances,beds,lightshades,sofas,clothes,weeklyflowerdeliveries,hairappointments,toiletries,towels,food,everything.”
“Includingmycrib.”
“Yes,includingyourcrib.Whichwasbought,ifIrecall,in1977,whenyoungHenrywasanewborn.”
“SoIwasthethirdbabytosleepinit?”
“Yes.Iguessso.”
TheyheadtowardthesmallroomatthefrontofthehouseandDidosays,“What’syourtheory?Whatdoyouthinkhappenedhere?”
“Inanutshell?Strangepeoplemoveinwithwealthyfamily.Strangethingshappenandeveryonedies,apartfromsometeenagechildrenwhoareneverheardofagain.And,ofcourse,thebaby.Serenity.Andtherewasevidencethatsomeoneelselivedhereonce.Someonewhodevelopedtheherbgarden.IspentanentiremonthtrackingdowneveryapothecaryintheUKandabroadwhomighthavebeenlivinginLondonatthattime.Nothing.Notatrace.”
Theroominwhichtheystandiswoodpaneledandwoodfloored.Thereisahugestonefireplaceonthefarwallandtheremainsofamahoganybarontheother.
“Theyfoundequipmentinhere,”Millersaysgravely.“Thepolicethoughtitwastortureequipmentatfirst,butapparentlyitwashomemadecalisthenicsequipment.Thebodiesoftwoofthesuicidevictimswerefoundtobeveryleanandhyper-muscled.Thiswasclearlytheroomwheretheyexercised.Possiblytomitigatethenegativeeffectsofneverleavingthehouse.Soagain,IspentamonthhuntingdowneveryteacherofcalisthenicsIcouldfind,toseeifanyoneknewaboutthistechniquebeingusedinChelseaintheeightiesandearlynineties.Again—nothing.”Hesighs,andthenturnssuddenlytoLibby.“Didyoufindthesecretstaircase?Totheattic?”
“Yes,thesolicitorshowedmewhenhebroughtmehere.”
“Didyouseethelocks?Onthechildren’sdoors?”
Libbyfeelsatremorpassthroughher.“Ihadn’treadyourarticlethen,”shesays,“soIdidn’tlook.AndlasttimeIcame…”Shepauses.“Lasttime,IthoughtIheardsomeoneupthereandfreakedoutandleft.”
“Shallwegoandlook?”
Shenods.“OK.”
“There’soneofthesesecretstaircasesinmyparents’house,”saysDido,clutchingthehandrailastheyascendthenarrowstaircase.“Alwaysusedtogivemetheheebie-jeebieswhenIwaslittle.IusedtothinkthatacrossghostwasgoingtolockbothdoorsandI’dbetrappedinthereforever.”
Atthis,Libbyquickensherpaceandemergesslightlybreathlesslyontotheatticlanding.
“YouOK?”Milleraskskindly.
“Mm,”shemurmurs.“Justabout.”
Heputshishandtohisear.“Hearthat?”hesays.
“What?”
“Thatcreaking?”
Shenods,hereyeswide.
“That’swhatoldhousesdowhentheygettoohot,ortoocold.Theycomplain.That’swhatyouheardtheotherday.Thehousecomplaining.”
Shecontemplatesaskinghimifhousesalsocoughwhentheygethot,anddecidesagainstit.
Millertakeshisphonefromhispocketandfixesthecameraaheadofhim,filmingashegoes.“God,”hesaysinaloudwhisper.“Thisisit.Thisisit.”
Heangleshiscameratowardthedoorofthefirstroomontheleft.“Look,”hesays.
SheandDidobothlook.Thereisalockattachedtotheoutsideoftheroom.Theyfollowhimtothenextdoor.Anotherlock.Andanotherandanother.
“Allfourrooms,lockablefromtheoutside.Thisiswherethepolicethinkthechildrenslept.Thisiswheretheyfoundsometracesofbloodandthemarksonthewalls.Look,”hesays,“eventhetoilethadalockontheoutside.Shallwe?”
Hehashishandonthedoorknobofoneoftherooms.
Libbynods.
WhenshefirstreadMiller’sarticle,sheskimmedovertheparagraphsabouttheatticrooms,unabletostomachthethoughtofwhattheysuggested.Nowshejustwantstogetitoverwith.
It’sagood-sizedroom,paintedwhitewithflashesofyellowaroundtheskirtingboards,barefloorboards,tatteredwhitecurtainsatthewindows,thinmattressesinthecorners,nothingmore.Thenextroomisthesame.Andthenext.Libbyholdsherbreathwhentheygettothefourthbedroom,convincedthatbehindthedoortherewillbeaman.Butthereisnoman,justanotherempty,whiteroomwithwhitecurtainsandbarefloorboards.TheyareabouttoclosethedoorbehindthemwhenMillerstops,takeshiscameratothefarthestendoftheroom,andaimsitatthemattress.
“What?”
Ashenearsthemattress,hepullsitawayfromthewallslightlyandzoomsinonsomethingwedgedthere.
“Whatisit?”
Hepicksitupandshowsitfirsttohiscameraandthentohimself.“It’sasock.”
“Asock?”
“Yes.Aman’ssock.”
It’sared-and-bluesock,anoddblastofcolorupontheblankcanvasoftheatticbedrooms.
“That’sweird,”saysLibby.
“It’smorethanweird,”saysMiller.“It’simpossible.Becauselook.”HeturnsthesockoverandshowsittoLibbyandDido.
ThesockbearstheGaplogo.
“What?”saysDido.“Idon’tgetit.”
“That’sthecurrentGaplogo,”hesays.“They’veonlybeenusingthatlogoforthepastcoupleofyears.”HelockshisgazewithLibby’s.“Thissockisnew.”
22
LucycallsMichaelatfiveo’clockonFridayafternoonfromapayphonearoundthecorner.Heanswersimmediately.“Ithoughtitmightbeyou,”hesays,andshecanhearthelascivioussmilebehindhisvoice.
“Howareyou?”sheasksbrightly.
“Oh,I’mjustgreat,andhowareyou?”
“I’mjustgreat,too.”
“Didyoubuyyourselfaphoneyet?Thisisalandlinenumber,no?”
“SomeoneIknowisgettingmeone,”sheliessmoothly.“Somethingreconditioned.Shouldbegettingittomorrow.”
“Good,”saysMichael,“good.AndsinceIrealizethatthisisnotasocialcall,Iguessyou’llwanttoknowhowIgotonwithyourlittlerequest.”
Shelaughslightly.“Iwouldquiteliketoknow,”shesays.
“Well,”hecontinues,“youaregoingtofuckingloveme,LucyLou,becauseIhavegotyouthefullmonty.Passportsforyou,forMarco,yourgirl,andevenyourdog.Infact,Ipaidsomuchforthepassportsthattheythrewthedog’sinforfree!”
Shefeelstheever-presentbilecurdleherlunch.Shedoesn’twanttothinkabouthowmuchmoneyMichaelspentonthepassportsandhowmuchhewillwantinreturn.Sheforcesalaughandsays,“Oh!Howkindofthem!”
“Kind,myass,”hesays.Andthenhesays,“So,wannacomeover?Comeandcollectthem?”
“Sure!”shesays.“Sure.Nottoday.Butmaybetomorrow,orSunday?”
“ComeSunday,”hesays.“Comeforlunch.It’sJoy’sdayoffSundaysowe’llhavetheplacetoourselves.”
Shefeelsthebilerisefromherstomachtothebaseofherthroat.“Whattime?”shemanagestoaskbreezily.
“Let’ssayone.I’llputsomesteaksonthebarbecue.Youcanmakethatthingyouusedtomake,whatwasit?Withthebreadandtomatoes?”
“Panzanella.”
“That’stheone.God,youusedtomakethatsowell.”
“Oh,”shesays,“thankyou.IhopeI’vestillgotthemagictouch.”
“Yeah.Yourmagictouch.Ireally,reallymissyourmagictouch.”
Lucylaughs.Shesaysgoodbye,shesaysshe’llseehimonSundayatonep.m.Thensheputsdownthephone,runstothetoilet,andthrowsup.
23
Chelsea,1990
Inthesummerof1990,whenIhadjustturnedthirteen,Icameuponmymotheroneafternoononthelanding.Shewasplacingpilesofcleanbeddingintheairingcupboard.Onceuponatimewe’dhadourlaundrytakenawayonceaweekinasmallvanwithgoldletteringonthesideandthenreturnedtousafewdayslaterinimmaculatebaleswrappedinribbonorhangingfromwoodenhangersunderplasticsheets.
“Whathappenedtothelaundryservice?”Iasked.
“Whatlaundryservice?”
Herhairhadgrownlong.Shehadnot,asfarasIwasaware,haditcutinthetwoyearssincetheotherpeoplehadmovedinwithus.Birdieworeherhairlong,andsodidSally.Mymotherhadwornherhairinabob.Nowitwaspasthershoulderbladesandpartedinthemiddle.Iwonderedifshewastryingtobeliketheotherwomen,inthesamewaythatIwastryingtobelikePhin.
“Remember?Thatoldmanwhocameinthewhitevantocollectourlaundry,andhewassotinyyouusedtoworrythathewouldn’tbeabletocarryitall?”
Mymother’sgazepannedslowlytotheleft,asthoughrememberingadream,andshesaid,“Ohyes.Iforgotabouthim.”
“Howcomehedoesn’tcomeanymore?”
Sherubbedherfingertipstogether,andIlookedatherwithalarm.Iknewwhatthegesturemeant,anditwassomethingI’dlongsuspected,butthiswasthefirsttimeI’dhaditconfirmedtome.Wewerepoor.
“ButwhathappenedtoallDad’smoney?”
“Shhh.”
“ButIdon’tunderstand.”
“Shhh!”shesaidagain.Andthenshepulledmegentlybythearmintoherbedroomandsatmeonherbed.Sheheldmyhandinhersandshestaredhardatme.Inoticedshewasn’twearinganyeyemakeupandwonderedwhenthathadstopped.Somanythingshadchangedsoslowlyoversuchalongperiodoftimethatitwashardsometimestospotthejoins
“Youhavetopromise,promise,promise,”shesaid,“nottotalktoanyoneelseaboutthis.Notyoursister.Nottheotherchildren.Notthegrown-ups.Nobody,OK?”
Inoddedhard.
“AndI’monlytellingyoubecauseItrustyou.Becauseyou’resensible.Sodon’tletmedown,OK?”
Inoddedevenharder.
“Dad’smoneyranoutalongtimeago.”
Igulped.
“What,like,allofit?”
“Basically.”
“So,whatarewelivingon?”
“Dad’sbeensellingstocksandshares.There’sstillacoupleofsavingsaccounts.Ifwecanliveonthirtypoundsaweekwe’llbeOKforatleastacoupleofyears.”
“Thirtypoundsaweek?”Myeyesbulged.Mymotherusedtospendthirtypoundsaweekonfreshflowersalone.“Butthat’simpossible!”
“It’snot.David’ssatdownwithusandworkeditallout.”
“David?ButwhatdoesDavidknowaboutmoney?Hedoesn’tevenhaveahouse!”
“Shhh.”Sheputherfingertoherlipsandglancedwarilyatthebedroomdoor.“You’llhavetotrustus,Henry.We’rethegrown-upsandyou’rejustgoingtohavetotrustus.Birdie’sbringingmoneyinwithherfiddlelessons.David’sbringingmoneyinwithhisexerciseclasses.Justin’smakingloadsofmoney.”
“Yes,butthey’renotgivinganytous,arethey?”
“Well,yes.Everyoneiscontributing.We’remakingitwork.”
Andthatwaswhenithitme.Hardandclear.
“Isthisacommunenow?”Iasked,horrified.
Mymotherlaughedasthoughthiswasaridiculoussuggestion.“No!”shesaid.“Ofcourseitisn’t!”
“Whycan’tDadjustsellthehouse?”Iasked.“Wecouldgoandliveinalittleflatsomewhere.Itwouldbereallynice.Andthenwe’dhaveloadsofmoney.”
“Butthisisnotjustaboutmoney,youdoknowthat,don’tyou?”
“Thenwhat?”Isaid.“Whatisitabout?”
Shesighed,softly,andmassagedmyhandwithherthumbs.“It’s,well,it’saboutme,Isuppose.It’sabouthowIfeelaboutmyselfandhowI’vefeltsosadforsolongandhowallofthis”—shegesturedaroundhergrandbedroomwithitsswaggedcurtainsandglisteningchandelier—“doesn’tmakemehappy,itreallydoesn’t.AndthenDavidcameandhe’sshownmeanotherwaytolive,alessselfishway.Wehavetoomuch,Henry.Canyouseethat?Way,waytoomuch,andwhenyouhavetoomuchitdragsyoudown.Andnowthatthemoneyisvirtuallygoneitisagoodtimetochange,tothinkaboutwhatweeatandwhatweuseandwhatwespendandhowwefillourdays.Wehavetogivetotheworld,notkeeptakingfromit.Youknow,David”—Iheardhervoiceringlikeaspoonagainstawineglasswhenshesaidhisname—“hegivesnearlyallhismoneytocharity.Andnow,withhisguidance,wearedoingthesame.Togivetoneedypeopleissogoodforthesoul.Andthelifewelivedbefore,itwaswasteful.Sowrong.Doyousee?Butnow,withDavidheretoguideus,wecanstarttoredresstheimbalance.”
Iallowedmyselfamomenttoabsorbthefullmeaningofwhathadbeensaid.
“So,they’restaying,”Isaideventually.“Forever?”
“Yes,”sherepliedwithasmallsmile.“Yes.Ihopeso.”
“Andwe’repoor?”
“No.Notpoor,darling.We’reunburdened.We’refree.”
24
Libby,Miller,andDidosearchthehousefromtoptobottomlookingforapossiblemeansofentryforthemysterysockman.Thereisalargeglazeddooratthebackofthehouse,whichopensontostonestairsdowntothegarden.Itisboltedfromtheinsideand,ittranspireswhentheytrytoopenit,isalsolocked.Wisteriagrowsthicklyacrossthecracksbetweenthedoorandthedoorframe,indicatingthatithasnotbeenopenedinmanymonths,maybeevenyears.
Theypushatthedustysashwindows,butthey’realllocked.Theypeerintodarkcornerslookingforsecretdoors,buttherearenone.
TheygothroughallthekeysonLibby’sbunchonebyoneandfinallyfindtheonethatunlockstheglazeddoor.Butstillthedoordoesn’tbudge.
Millerpeersdownwardsthroughtheglasstotheoutsideofthedoor.“It’sbeenpadlocked,”hesays,“fromtheoutside.Doyouhaveasmallkeyonthatbunch?”
LibbyfindsthesmallestkeythatshecanandpassesittoMiller.
“HowwouldyoufeelifIweretotakeoutapaneofglass?”
“Takeitout?”shesays.“Withwhat?”
Heshowsherhiselbow.
Shewinces.“Goonthen.”
Heusesthetatteredchintzcurtaintosoftentheimpact.Theglasscracksandcomesoutintwoperfectpieces.Heputshisarmthroughtheholeandunlocksthepadlockwiththetinykey.Finallythedooropens,rippingaparttheknotsofwisteria.
“Here,”saysMiller,stridingoutontothelawn.“Thisiswherethedrugsweregrown.”
“ThedrugsthatkilledLibby’sparents?”asksDido.
“Yes.Atropabelladonna.Ordeadlynightshade,inotherwords.Thepolicefoundabigbushofthestuff.”
Theywalktothebottomofthegarden,shadyandcoolunderthecanopyofatallacaciatree.Thereisabenchhere,curvedtofollowtheshadowofthetreeandfacingthebackofthehouse.EvenduringthehottestsummerthatLondonhasknowninovertwentyyears,thebenchisdampandmildewed.Libbylaysherfingertipsgentlyontothearmrest.ShepicturesMartinaLambsittinghereonasunnymorning,amugoftearestingwhereLibby’sfingerslie,watchingthebirdswheeloverhead.Shepicturesherotherhandgoingtocupherpregnantbump,smilingasshefeelsherbabykickandrollinsideher.
Andthenshepicturesherayearlatertakingpoisonwithherdinner,thenlyingdownonthekitchenflooranddyingfornogoodreasonatall,leavingherbabyallaloneupstairs.
Libbysnatchesherhandbackandturnsabruptlytolookatthehouse.
Fromheretheycanseethefourlargewindowsthatspanthebackofthedrawingroom.Theycanseeanotherfoursmallerwindowsabove,twoineachofthebackbedrooms,plusanevensmallerwindowinthemiddlethatsitsatthetopofthelanding.Abovethatareeightnarrowwindowswitheaves,twoforeachatticbedroom,andatinycircularwindowinbetweenwherethebathroomis.Andthenaflatroof,threechimneystacks,andtheblueskybeyond.
“Look!”saysDido,reachingontohertiptoesandpointingwildly.“Look!Isthataladderthere?Orafireescape?”
“Where?”
“There!Look!Justtuckedbehindthatchimneystack,theredone.Look.”
Libbyseesit,aglintofmetal.Shefollowsitdownwithhereyestoabrickworkledge,thenalipabovetheeaves,thenadrainpipethatattachesitselftoanotherbrickworkpromontoryonthesideofthehouse,ashorthopacrosstotheadjoininggardenwall,thendowntoakindofconcretebunker,thentothegarden
Shespinsaround.Behindisdensefoliage,boundedbyanoldbrickwall.Shepushesanobviouspaththroughit,herfeetfindingthebarepatchesintheweeds.Thegrowthislacedwitholdspiderwebswhichcatchonherclothesandinherhair.Butshekeepsmoving.Shecanfeelthiscourse,it’salreadyinher,sheknowswhatshe’slookingfor.Andthereitis,abatteredwoodengate,painteddarkgreen,hangingoffitshinges,andleadingintotheovergrownbackendofthegardenofthehousebehind.
MillerandDidostandbehindher,peeringacrosshershoulderthroughthewoodengate.Shepushesthegateashardasshecanandpeersintotheneighbor’sgarden.
It’sscruffyandunmanicured.There’sawonkysundialinthemiddleofthelawn,andsomedustygraveledpaths.There’snofurniture,nochildren’stoys.Andthere,downthesideofthehouse,apathwaythatseems,fromhere,toleaddirectlytothestreet.
“I’vegotit,”shesays,touchingthepadlock,whichhasbeensnappedopenwithboltcutters.“Look.Whoeveritisthat’sbeensleepinginthehousehasbeengettinginthroughthisgate,acrossthegarden,upontothatconcretethingoverthere”—sheleadsthembackintothegarden—“upontothegardenwall,upthedrainpipeontothatplatform,see,upthere,thenupthereontotheledge,andthenontotheroofandtotheladder.Wejustneedtoworkoutwherethatladdergoes.”
ShelooksatMiller.Helooksbackather.“I’mnotveryagile,”hesays.
ShelooksatDido,whopuffsouthercheeksandsays,“Oh,comeon.”
Theyheadbackintothehouseandbackuptotheatticrooms.Andthereitis,asmallwoodentrapdoorintheceilinginthehallway.MillerputsLibbyonhisshouldersandshepushesatit.
“Whatcanyousee?”
“Adustytunnel.Andanotherdoor.Pushmeuphigher.”
Millergruntsandgivesheranotherboost.Sheclingsontoawoodenslatandpullsherselfup.Theheatisintenseuphere,andshecanfeelherclothesstickingtoherbodywithsweat.Shecrawlsalongthetunnelandpushesthenextwoodentrapdoorandisimmediatelyhitbyfull,glorioussunshine.She’sonaflatroof,wheretherearesomedeadplantsinpotsandtwoplasticchairs.
Sheputsherhandsonherhipsandsurveystheviewfromuphere.Infrontisthesun-bakedgreeneryofEmbankmentGardens,beyondthatthedarkbeltoftheriver.BehindhershecanseethegridofnarrowstreetsthatstretchesbetweenhereandtheKing’sRoad;abeergardenfilledwithdrinkers;apatchworkofbackgardensandparkedcars.
“Whatcanyousee?”shehearsDidobellowfrombelow.
“Icanseeeverything,”shesays,“absolutelyeverything.”
25
MarcolooksatLucythroughnarrowedeyes.“Whycan’twecome?”hesays.“Idon’tunderstand.”
Lucysighs,adjustshereyelinerinthesmallhandmirrorshe’susing,andsays,“Justbecause,OK?He’sdonemeahugefavorandhe’saskedmetocomealoneandsoI’mgoingalone.”
“Butwhatifhehurtsyou?”
Lucystopsherselffromflinching.“He’snotgoingtohurtme,OK?Wehadaverytwistedmarriagebutwe’renotinthatmarriageanymore.Thingsmoveon.Peoplechange.”
Shecan’tlookathersonwhilesheliestohim.Hewouldseethefearinhereyes.Hewouldknowwhatsheisabouttodo.Andhewouldhavenoideawhysheisabouttodoitbecausehehasnoideaaboutherchildhood,aboutwhatsheranawayfromtwenty-fouryearsago.
“Youneedacode,”saysMarcoauthoritatively.“I’llcallyouandifyou’rescaredyoujustsay,How’sFitz?OK?”
Shenodsandsmiles.“OK,”shesays.Shepullshimtoherandkisseshimbehindhisear.Heletsher.
StellaandMarcostandinthekitchenandwatchherleaveafewminuteslater.
“Youlookpretty,Mama,”saysStella.
Lucy’sstomachsinks.“Thankyou,baby,”shesays.“I’llbebackataboutfour.AndIwillhavepassportsandwecanstartplanningourtriptoLondon.”Shesmilesbroadly,showingallherteeth.Stellahugsherleg.Lucydetachesherafteramomentandleavesthebuildingwithoutturningback.
Fitz’sshitisstillthere.Ithastwiceasmanybluebottlesonit.Shefindsitstrangelyreassuring.
Michaelopensthedoor;hehassunglassesonhisheadandiswearinglooseshortsandabrightwhiteT-shirt.Hetakesherbagofgroceriesfromher,thetomatoesandbreadandanchoviesshepickeduponthewayover,andheswoopsintokissheronbothcheeks.Lucycansmellbeeronhisbreath.
“Don’tyoulookpretty?”hesays.“Wow.Comein,comein.”
Shefollowshimintothekitchen.Twosteakssitonpaperonthecounter;abottleofwinesitsinasilverwinebucket.He’slisteningtoEdSheeranontheSonossoundsystemandseemstobeinveryhighspirits.
“Letmegetyouadrink,”hesays.“Whatwouldyoulike?G&T?BloodyMary?Wine?Beer?”
“I’llhaveabeer,”shesays,“thankyou.”
HepassesheraPeroniandshetakesasip.Sheshouldhavehadabigbreakfast,sherealizes,feelingthefirstmouthfulalreadyheadingstraighttoherhead.
“Cheers,”hesays,holdinghisbottletohers.
“Cheers,”sheechoes.Thereisabowlofhisfavoriteridgedcrispsonthecounterandshetakesalargehandful.Sheneedstobesoberenoughtostayincontrolbutdrunkenoughtogothroughwithwhatshecameheretodo.
“So,”shesays,findingachoppingboardinoneofthedrawersandaknifeinanother,takingthetomatoesoutoftheshoppingbag.“How’sthewritinggoing?”
“God,donotask,”hesays,rollinghiseyes.“Ithasnotbeenaproductiveweek,let’sputitthatway.”
“Iguessthat’showitgoes,isn’tit?It’sapsychologicalthing.”
“Hm,”hesays,passingheraservingdish.“Ontheonehand.Ontheotherhand,allthebestwritersjustgetonwithit.It’slikedecidingnottogoforajogbecauseit’sraining.It’sjustanexcuse.So,Imusttryharder.”Hesmilesatherandforamomentheseemsalmosthumble,almostreal,andforamomentshethinksmaybetodaywon’tpanouthowshethoughtitwouldpanout,thatmaybetheywillsimplyhavelunchandtalkandthenhewillgiveherthepassportsandlethergowithnothingmorethanahugonhisdoorstep.
“Fairenough,”shesays,feelingMichael’shyper-sharpenedknifeslidingthroughthesofttomatoesliketheyarebutter.“Isupposeit’sjustajob,likeanyother.Youhavetoshowupandgetitdone.”
“Exactly,”hesays,“exactly.”Hedownsthesecondhalfofhisbeeranddropstheemptybottleintherecyclingbin.HepullsanotherfromthefridgeandthenholdsoneouttoLucy.Sheshakesherheadandshowshimherbottle,stillnearlyfull.
“Drinkup,”hesays.“IhaveabeautifulSancerrechillinghereforyou,yourfavorite.”
“Sorry,”shesays,bringingthebottlebacktoherlips.“I’vebeenonthewagonforquitealongtime.”
“Ohyeah?”
“Notdeliberately,”shereplies.“Justhaven’thadthemoney.”
“Well,let’scallthisOperationGetLucyofftheWagon,shallwe?Comeon.Drinkup.”
Andthereitis,thatedge,soclosetofriendly,yetjustadegreetowardaggression.Notalightheartedrequest,butacommand.Shesmilesanddownshalfthebottle.
Hewatchesherintently.“Goodgirl,”hesays,“goodgirl.Andtherest.”
Shesmilesgrimlyandneckstherest,almostchokingonitasitgoesdowntoofast.
Hebeamsather,sharklike,andsays,“Oh,goodgirl.Goodgirl.”
Hetakestheemptybottlefromherandthenturnstopulltwowineglassesfromacupboard.“Shallwe?”hesays,gesturingtowardthedoorintothegarden.
“Letmejustfinishthis.”Sheindicatesthetomatoesstillonlyhalfchopped.
“Finishthatlater,”heinstructs.“Let’shaveadrinkfirst.”
Shefollowshimouttothepatio,holdingthebowlofcrispsandherhandbag.
Hepourstwolargeglassesofwineandpushesoneacrossthetabletowardher.Theytoasteachotheragainandthenhepinionsherwithhiseyes.“So,LucyLou,tellme,tellmeeverything.Whathaveyoubeendoingforthepasttenyears?”
“Ha!”shesaysshrilly.“Whereonearthdoyouwantmetostart?”
“Howaboutyoustartwiththemanwhogaveyouyourdaughter?”
Lucy’sstomachflips.SheknewfromthemomentMichaelsethiseyesuponStellathathewouldbethinkingaboutherhavingsexwithanotherman.
“Oh,really,”shesays,“notmuchtotell.Itwasadisaster.ButIgotStellaoutofit.So,youknow.”
Heleanstowardher,fixesherwithhishazeleyes.Heissmilingbutitdoesn’treachhiseyes.“No,”hesays.“Ireallydon’tknow.Whowashe?Wheredidyoumeethim?”
Shethinksofthepassportssittingsomewhereinthishouse.Shecannotaffordtomakehimangry.ShecannottellhimthatStella’sfatherwastheloveofherlife,themostbeautifulmanshe’deverseteyeson,thathewasanexquisitepianistwhosemusicbroughthertotears,thathebrokeherheartandthatshewasstillcarryingtheshatteredpiecesofitaroundinherpocketsevennow,threeyearssinceshelastsawhim.
“Hewasanarsehole,”shesays.Thenshepausesandtakesalargesipofwine.“Justaprettyboy,acriminal,withnothingbetweenhisears.Ifeltsorryforhim.Hedidn’tdeserveme,andhecertainlydidn’tdeserveStella.”Shespeaksthewordswithconviction,becausewhileshelooksMichaeldirectlyintheeyes,littledoesheknowthatsheisdescribinghim.
ThisdescriptionseemstosateMichaelforamoment.Hissmilesoftensandhelooksrealagain.
“Whereishenow,thisidiot?”
“Hedidarunner.WentbacktoAlgeria.Brokehismother’sheart.Hismotherblamesme.”Sheshrugs.“Butreally,hewasalwaysgoingtodisappointher.Hewasalwaysgoingtodisappointeveryone.Hewasjustoneofthoseguys.”
Heleanstowardheragain.“Didyoulovehim?”
Shesnortsderisively.“God,”shesays,stillthinkingofMichael.“No.”
Henods,asthoughgivingherapproval.“Andwasthereanyoneelse?Overtheyears?”
Sheshakesherhead.It’sanotherliebutaneasieronetotell.“No,”shesays.“Noone.I’vebeenlivinghand-to-mouthwithtwosmallchildren.EvenifIhadmetsomeone,youknow,itwouldn’thaveworked.Logistically.”Sheshrugs
“Yeah.Icanseethat.Andyouknow,Lucy”—helooksatherearnestly—“youknow,anytimeyou’dasked,Iwouldhavehelped.Allyouhadtodowasask.”
Sheshakesherheadsadly.
Hesays,“Yeah.Iknow.Tooproud.”
Thisissofarfromthetruththatitisalmostfunny,butshenods,knowingly.“Youknowmesowell,”shesays,andhelaughs.
“Insomanywaysweweretheworst,worstcombinationofpeople.Imean,Jesus,rememberthetimesweusedtohave?Christ,wewerecrazy!Butinotherwayswewere,God,wewerefuckingawesome,weren’twe?”
Lucymakesherselfsmileandnodagreement,butshecan’tquitebringherselftosayyes.
“Maybeweshouldhavetriedharder,”hesays,toppinguphisglassalreadyandthentoppingupLucy’seventhoughshe’sbarelyhadtwosips.
“Sometimeslifejusthappens,”shesaysmeaninglessly.
“That’strue,Lucy,”heagreesasthoughshehasjustsaidsomethingveryprofound.Hetakesalargegulpofwineandsays,“Tellmeallaboutmyboy.Isheclever?Ishesporty?”
Ishekind?sheaskssilently.Ishegood?Doeshetakegoodcareofhislittlesister?Doeshekeepmegrounded?Doeshesmellnice?Canhesing?Canhedrawthemostbeautifulportraitsofpeople?DoeshedeservebetterthanmeandthisshittylifeI’vegivenhim?
“He’sprettyclever,”shereplies.“Averageatmathandscience,excellentatlanguages,art,English.Andno,notsporty.Notatall.”
Shelooksathimsteadily,searchinghisgazeforashadowofdisappointment.Buthelookspragmatic.“Youcan’twinateverything,”hesays.“Andboyishegood-looking.Anysignofaninterestingirlsyet?”
“He’sonlytwelve,”Lucysays,somewhatbrusquely.
“That’soldenough,”hesays.“God,youdon’tthinkhemightbegay,doyou?”
ShewantstothrowherwineinMichael’sfaceandleave.Insteadshesays,“Whoknows?Nosignsofit.ButasIsay,he’snotreallyinterestedinthatsortofthingyet.Anyway”—shechangesthesubject—“Ishouldprobablygetbacktothepanzanella.Giveittimetosteepbeforeweeat.”
Shegetstoherfeet.Hegetstohisandsays,“AndIshouldgetthebarbecuegoing.”Sheheadstowardthekitchenbutbeforeshecanwalkaway,hecatchesherhandsinhisandturnshertofacehim.Shecanseehiseyesareswimming,thathe’salreadylosingfocusandit’sonlyhalfpastone.Heputshishandsontoherhipsandpullsthemtowardhim.Thenhepushesherhairawayfromherear,leanstightintowardher,andwhispers,“Ishouldneverhaveletyougo.”
Hislipsgrazehers,briefly,andthenhepatsheronherbottomandwatchesherasshewalksintothekitchen.
26
Chelsea,1990
ShortlyaftermymothertoldmethatDavidwasmakingusgiveallourmoneytocharityandthathewasgoingtobelivingwithusforever,IsawhimkissingBirdie.
Itwassickeningtomeatthetime,onsomanylevels.
First,asyouknow,IfoundBirdiephysicallyrepellent.ThethoughtofherhardlittlelipsagainstDavid’sbiggenerousmouth,hishandsonherbonyhips,hergrosstonguechasinghisaroundinsidethedankcavemadefromtheirmouths.Oof.
Second,Iwassomethingofatraditionalistandfoundthesightofadulteryshockingtomycore.
Andthird:well,thethirdawfulthingdidn’tstrikemeimmediately.Itcouldn’thavereally,becausetheimplicationsofwhatI’dunwittinglyseenwerenotentirelyobvious.ButIcertainlyfeltsomethinglikedreadpassthroughmeatthesightofDavidandBirdiecomingtogether,aninnatesensethattheymightbringthingsoutofeachotherthatwerebetterleftburiedaway.
IthappenedonaSaturdaymorning.Sallywasawaytakingphotosonafilmsetsomewhere.Justinhadgonetosetupastallatamarkettosellhisherbalremedies.Mymotherandfatherweresittinginthegardenintheirdressinggownsreadingthepapersanddrinkingteaoutofmugs.I’dsleptuntileightthirty,lateforme.I’vealwaysbeenanearlyriser;Irarelysleptlaterthannineevenduringmyteenageyears.I’dbarelyrubbedthesleepfrommyeyesasIemergedfrommyroomwhenIsawthem,clingingtoeachotherinthedoorway.Sheworeamuslinnightdress.Heworeablackcottonrobewithabeltedwaist.Herlegwasjammedbetweenhisknees.Theirgroinswereforcedtogether.Hehadahandtoherpale,moleythroat.Shehadahandonhisleftbuttock.
Iimmediatelyretreatedintomybedroom,myheartpumpinghard,mystomachwellandtrulyturned.Iputbothmyhandstomythroat,tryingtoquellthenauseaandthehorror.Isaidthewordfucksilentlyundermybreath.ThenIsaiditagain,properly.Iopenedmydooracrackamomentlaterandtheyhadgone.Ididn’tknowwhattodo.Ineededtotellsomeone;IneededtotellPhin.
Phinflickedhisblondcurtainsawayfromhisface.Hewas,ludicrously,growingevenmorehandsomeashepassedthroughpuberty.Hewasonlyfourteenandalreadysixfoottall.Hehadnever,asfarasIwasaware,hadsomuchasapimple.Andifhe’dhadone,Iwouldhavenoticedit,asstudyingPhin’sfacewasvirtuallymyhobby.
“Ineedtotalktoyou,”Ihissedurgentlyintohisear.“It’sreally,reallyimportant.”
Wewalkedtotheendofthegardenwhereacurvedbenchcaughtthemorningsun.Withthetreesinblossomandfullleafwecouldnotbeseenfromthehouse.Wesatdownonthebenchandturnedtofaceeachother.
“Ijustsawsomething,”Isaid.“Somethingreally,reallybad.”
Phinnarrowedhiseyesatme.IcouldtellhethoughtIwasgoingtosaythatI’dseenthecateatingoutofthebutterdishorsomethingequallybabyishandbanal.Icouldtellhehadnofaithinmyabilitytoimpartgenuinelyshockingnews.
“Isawyourdad.AndBirdie…”
Theexpressionofindulgentimpatienceshifted,andhelookedatmeinalarm.
“TheywerecomingoutofBirdieandJustin’sroom.Andtheywerekissing.”
Hejoltedslightlyatthesewords.I’dmademyimpact.Finally,aftertwoyears,Phinwasreallylookingatme.
IsawamuscleinPhin’sjawtwitch.“Areyoufuckinglyingtome?”heasked,almostgrowling.
Ishookmyhead.“Iswear,”Isaid.“Isawit.Justnow.Abouttwentyminutesago.Iswear.”
IsawPhin’seyesfillveryquicklywithtearsandthenIsawhimtryingveryhardtoforcethemtogoaway.SomepeopletellmeIlackempathy.Thismightbetrue.Ithadn’toccurredtomeforamomentthatPhinmightbeupset.Shocked.Yes.Scandalized.Disgusted.Butnotupset.
“I’msorry,”Isaid.“Ijust…”
Heshookhishead.Hisbeautifulblondhairfellacrosshisfaceandthenpartedagaintorevealanexpressionofgrim,heartbreakingbravery.“It’sfine,”hesaid.“I’mgladyoutoldme.”
Therewasabeatofsilence.Icouldn’tworkoutwhattodo.IhadPhin’sfullattention.ButI’dhurthim.Ilookedathisbig,suntannedhandstwistedtogetherinhislapandIwantedtopickthemup,caressthem,holdthemtomylips,kissthepainaway.Ifeltaterriblesurgeofphysicaldesirerisingthroughme,fromtheveryrootsofme,anagonizinglonging.Iturnedmygazequicklyfromhishandstothegroundbetweenmybarefeet.
“Willyoutellyourmum?”Isaideventually.
Heshookhishead.Thehairfellagainandhidhisfacefromme.
“Itwouldkillher,”hesaidverysimply.
Inodded,asthoughIknewwhathemeant.Butreally,Ididn’t.Iwasonlythirteen.AndIwasayoungthirteen.IknewthatI’dfoundthesightofBirdieandDavidkissingpassionatelyintheirnightclothesdisgusting.Iknewthatitwaswrongthatamarriedmanshouldbekissingawomanwhowasnothiswife.ButIcouldn’tquiteextrapolatethosefeelingsbeyondme.Icouldnotimaginehowthatmightmakeanotherpersonfeel.IdidnotreallyunderstandwhySallywouldwanttodiebecauseherhusbandhadkissedBirdie.
“Willyoutellyoursister?”
“I’mnotfuckingtellinganybody,”hesnapped.“Christ.Andyoumustn’teither.Seriously.Don’ttellanyone.Don’tdoanythingunlessItellyouto.OK?”
Inoddedagain.IwasoutofmydepthandgladtofollowPhin’slead.
Themomentwasfallingawayfromme;Icouldfeelit.IcouldtellPhinwasabouttostandupandgoindoorsandthathewasn’tgoingtoinvitemetogoinwithhimandthatIwouldbelefthereonthebenchstaringatthebackofthehousewithitallstillblowingaboutinsideme,allthewantingandtheneedingandtheredrawdesiring.AndIknewthatdespitewhathadjusthappened,we’dgobacktonormal,backtotheplaceofmutualpolitereserve.
“Let’sgoouttoday,”Isaidbreathlessly.“Let’sdosomething.”
Heturnedtolookatme.Hesaid,“Haveyougotanymoney?”
“No.ButIcangetsome.”
“I’llgetsome,too,”hesaid.“I’llmeetyouinthehallatten.”
Hestoodthenandheleft.Iwatchedhimgo,watchedtheshapeofhisspineunderhisT-shirt,thebreadthofhisshoulders,hisbigfeethittingtheground,thetragichangofhisbeautifulhead.
Ifoundahandfulofcoinsinthepocketsofmyfather’sBarbour.Itooktwopoundsfrommymother’spurse.Icombedmyfringeandputonajerseyzip-upjacketthatmymotherhadboughtformeafewweeksbeforefromacheapshoponOxfordStreet,whichwasaboutahundredtimesnicerthananythingIevergotfromHarrodsorPeterJones.
Phinsatinhisthroneatthefootofthestaircasewithapaperbackbookinhishand.Tothisday,thisishowIalwayspicturePhin—exceptinmyfantasieshelowersthebookandhelooksupatmeandhiseyeslightupatthesightofmeandhesmiles.Inrealityhebarelyacknowledgedmyarrival.
Hestood,slowly,thenglancedaroundthehousefurtively.“Coastclear.”Hegesturedformetofollowhimthroughthefrontdoor.
“Wherearewegoing?”Iasked,chasingafterhimbreathlessly.
Iwatchedhimraisehisarmintoasaluteandmovetowardthecurb.Ataxipulledoverandwegotin.
Isaid,“Ican’taffordtopayfortaxis.I’veonlygottwopoundsfifty.”
“Don’tworryaboutit,”hesaidcoolly.Hepulledarolloften-poundnotesfromhisjacketpocketandcockedaneyebrowatme.
“Jesus!Wheredidyougetthatfrom?”
“Mydad’ssecretstash.”
“Yourdadhasasecretstash?”
“Yup.Hethinksnooneknowsaboutit.ButIknoweverything.”
“Won’thenotice?”
“Maybe,”hesaid.“Maybenot.Eitherwaythere’snowayofprovingwhotookit.”
ThetaxidroppedusonKensingtonHighStreet.Ilookedupatthebuildinginfrontofus:alongfa?ade,adozenarchedwindowsabove,thewords“KENSINGTONMARKET”inchromeletters.Icouldhearmusiccomingfromthemainentrance,somethingmetallic,pounding,disturbing.IfollowedPhininsideandfoundmyselfinaterrifyingrabbitwarrenofwindingcorridors,eachhometomultipletinyshops,frontedbyblank-facedmenandwomenwithrainbowhair,black-rimmedeyes,rippedleather,whitelips,shreddedchiffon,fishnets,studs,platforms,nosepiercings,facepiercings,dogcollars,quiffs,drapes,netpetticoats,peroxide,pinkgingham,PVCthigh-highboots,pixieboots,baseballjackets,sideburns,beehives,ballgowns,blacklips,redlips,chewinggum,eatingabaconroll,drinkingteafromafloralteacupwithablack-paintedpinkiefingernailheldaloft,holdingaferretwearingastuddedleatherlead.
Eachshopplayeditsownmusic;thustheexperiencewasofswitchingthroughchannelsontheradioaswewalked.Phintouchedthingsaswepassed:avintagebaseballjacket,asilkybowlingshirtwiththewordBillyembroideredontheback,arackofLPs,astuddedleatherbelt.
Ididn’ttouchanything.Iwasterrified.Incensebillowedfromthenextlittleshopwepassed.AwomansittingoutsideonastoolwithwhitehairandwhiteskinlookedupatmebrieflywithicyblueeyesandIclutchedmyheart.
Inthenextstallawomansatwithababyonherlap.Icouldnotimaginethatthiswasagoodplaceforababytobe.
Wewanderedthecorridorsofthisstrangeplaceforanhour.Weboughtbaconrollsandverystrongteafromaweirdcaféonthetopfloorandwatchedpeople.Phinboughthimselfablack-and-whiteprintedscarfofthetypewornbymenintheSahara,andsomeseven-inchsinglesofmusicI’dneverheardof.HetriedtopersuademetolethimbuymeablackT-shirtwithillustrationsofsnakesandswordsonit.Ideclined,althoughpartofmeratherlikedit.Hetriedonapairofbluesuedeshoeswithcrêpeysoleswhichhereferredtoasbrothelcreepers.Helookedathimselfinafull-lengthmirror,pulledhiscurtainedhairawayfromhisface,andturneditintoaquiff,renderinghimsuddenlyabeautiful1950sheartthrob,MontgomeryCliftcrossedwithJamesDean.
Iboughtmyselfabootlacetiewithasilverram’shead.Itwastwopounds.Itwasslidintoapaperbagbyamanwholookedlikeapunkcowboy.
WeemergedanhourlaterintothenormalityofaSaturdaymorning,offamiliesshopping,peoplegettingonandoffbuses.
WewalkedforamileintoHydePark,wherewesatonabench.
“Look,”saidPhin,unfurlingthefingersofhisrighthand.
Ilookeddownatasmallcrumpledclearbag.Insidethesmallbagweretwotinysquaresofpaper.
“Whatisthat?”Iasked.
“It’sacid,”hereplied.
Ididn’tunderstand.
“LSD,”hesaid.
IhadheardofLSD.Itwasadrug,somethingtodowithhippiesandhallucinating.
Myeyeswidened.“What?Buthow…?Why?”
“Theguyintherecordshop.Hejustsortoftoldmehehadit.Ididn’task.IthinkhethoughtIwasolderthanIam.”
Istaredatthetinysquaresofpaperinthetinybag.Mymindswamwiththeimplications.“You’renotgoingto…?”
“No.Atleast,nottoday.Butsomeothertime,maybe?Whenwe’reathome?Youupforit?”
Inodded.IwasupforanythingthatmeantIcouldspendtimewithhim.
Phinboughtussandwichesinaposhhoteloverlookingthepark.Theycameonplateswithsilverrims,andaknifeandfork.WesatbyatallwindowandIwonderedhowweappeared:thetall,handsomeman-boy,histinybaby-facedfriendinascruffyjerseyjacket.
“Whatdoyouthinkthegrown-upsaredoingnow?”Iasked.
“Icouldn’tgiveashit,”saidPhin.
“Theymighthavecalledthepolice.”
“Ileftanote.”
“Oh,”Isaid,surprisedbythisactofconformity.“Whatdiditsay?”
“Itsaid‘MeandHenryaregoingout,we’llbebacklater.’?”
MeandHenry.Myheartleapt.
“TellmewhathappenedinBrittany?”Iasked.“Whydidyouallleave?”
Heshookhishead.“Youdon’twanttoknow.”
“No,Idowanttoknow.Whathappened?”
Hesighed.“Itwasmydad.Hetooksomethingthatwasn’this.Thenhesaid,oh,youknow,Ithoughtwewereallsupposedtobesharingeverything,butthiswas,like,afamilyheirloom.Itwasworthaboutathousandpounds.Hejusttookitintotown,soldit,thenpretendedhe’dseen‘someone’breakintothehouseandstealit.Keptthemoneyhiddenaway.Thefatherfoundoutthroughthegrapevine.Allhellletloose.Wewereturfedoutthenextday.”Heshrugged.“Andotherstufftoo.Butthatwasthemainthing.”
Isuddenlyunderstoodhislackofguiltabouttakinghisfather’smoney.
Davidclaimedtobemakingalotofmoneyrunninghisexerciseclasses,butreally,howmuchmoneycouldyoumakeoutofahandfulofhippiesinachurchhalltwiceaweek?Couldhehavesoldsomethingofoursfromunderournoses?He’dalreadybrainwashedmymotherintolettinghimhandleourfamilyfinances.Maybehewastakingmoneydirectlyoutofourbankaccount.Ormaybethiswasthemoneythatmymotherthoughtwasgoingtocharitytohelppoorpeople.
AllmyvaguemisgivingsaboutDavidThomsenbegantocoalesceintosomethinghardandreal.
“Doyoulikeyourdad?”Iasked,fiddlingwiththecressonthesideofmyplate.
“No,”hesaidsimply.“Idespisehim.”
Inodded,reassured.
“Howaboutyou?”hesaid.“Doyoulikeyourdad?”
“Mydadisweak,”Ireplied,knowingwithaburningclaritythatthiswastrue
“Allmenareweak,”saidPhin.“That’sthewholebloodytroublewiththeworld.Tooweaktoloveproperly.Tooweaktobewrong.”
Mybreathcaughtatthepowerofthisstatement.IimmediatelyknewittobethetruestthingI’deverheard.Theweaknessofmenlayattherootofeverybadthingthathadeverhappened.
IwatchedPhinpeeltwoten-poundnotesfromhiswadtopayfortheexpensivesandwiches.“I’mreallysorryIcan’tpayyouback,”Isaid.
Heshookhishead.“Myfather’sgoingtotakeeverythingyouownandthenbreakyourlife.It’stheleastIcanbloodydo.”
27
Libby,Dido,andMillerlockthehouseupbehindthemandgotothepub.It’sthepubLibbysawfromtheroofofthehouse.It’sheavingbuttheyfindahightableinthebeergardenanddragstoolsacrossfromothertables.
“Whodoyouthinkitis?”saysDido,stirringherginandtonicwithherstraw
Millerreplies,“It’snotsomeonehomeless.There’snotenoughstuff.Youknow.Ifhewasactuallylivingthere,therewouldbelotsmorethings.”
“Soyouthinkit’ssomeonewhojustcomesoccasionally?”saysLibby.
“Thatwouldbemyguess.”
“AndsotherewassomeoneuptherewhenIwashereonSaturday?”
“Thatwouldalsobemyguess.”
Libbyshudders.
“Look,”saysMiller,“here’swhatIthink.YouwerebornaroundJune1993?”
“Junethenineteenth.”Achillgoesthroughherasshesaysthedate.Howdoesanyoneknow?Maybeitwasjustmadeup.Bythesocialservices?Byheradoptivemother?Shefeelshergrasponthecertaintyofherselfstarttoslipandslide
“Right.Soyourbrotherandsisterwouldhaveknownyourdateofbirthgiventhattheywereteenagerswhenyouwereborn.Andiftheysomehowknewthatthehousewasbeingheldintrustforyouuntilyourtwenty-fifthbirthday,itwouldmakesensethattheymightwanttocomebacktothehouse.Toseeyou…”
Libbygasps.“Youmean,youthinkitmightbemybrother?”
“IthinkitmightbeHenry,yes.”
“Butifheknewitwasme,andhewasthere,inthehouse,whydidn’thecomedownandseeme?”
“Well,thatIdonotknow.”
Libbypicksupherwineglass,putsitbrieflytoherlips,andthenputsitdownagain.“No,”shesays,forcefully.“Itdoesn’tmakesense.”
“Maybehedidn’twanttoscareyou?”suggestsDido.
“Hecouldhaveleftmeanote,”shesays.“Hecouldhavegotintouchwiththesolicitorandletthemknowhewantedtomeetme.Butinstead,he’shidingoutintheatticlikeaweirdo.”
“Well,maybeheisaweirdo?”saysDido.
“Whatdidyoufindoutabouthim?”LibbyasksMiller.“Apartfromhimbeingmybrother?”
“Nothing,really,”saysMiller.“IknowhewenttoPortmanHouseSchoolfromtheagesofthreetoeleven.Histeacherssaidhewasacleverboy,butabitfullofhimself.Hedidn’treallyhaveanyfriends.Andthenheleftin1988,hadaplaceofferedtohimatSt.Xavier’sinKensingtonbutdidn’ttakeitup.Andthatwasthelastanyoneheardofhim.”
“Ijustdon’tgetit,”saysLibby.“Lurkingaround,slinkingthroughtunnelsandbushes,hidingupstairswhenheknewIwasdownstairs.Areyousureit’sHenry?”
“Well,no,ofcoursenot.Butwhoelsewouldknowyouweregoingtobethere?Whoelsewouldknowhowtogetintothehouse?”
“Oneoftheothers,”sheanswers.“Maybeit’soneoftheothers.”
28
LucychecksthetimeonherphonewhenMichaelisbrieflydistractedbyawaspthatisbotheringhisplate.Heflapsatitwithhisnapkin,butitkeepscomingback.
It’snearlythreeo’clock.Shewantstobehomebyfour.Sheneedsthepassports,butshealsoknowsthatinaskingforthepassports,shewillbequickeningtheinevitablejourneytowardMichael’sbed.
Shestartstocleartheirplates.“Here,”shesays,“let’sgetthisstuffinside,that’llgetridofyourannoyingfriend.”
Hiseyesareglassyandhesmilesathergratefully.“Yup,”hesays.“Goodplan,andlet’sgetsomecoffeeon,too.”
Sheleadsthewayintothekitchenandstartstoloadthedishwasher.Hewatchesherwhilethecoffeemachinegrindsbeans.“Youreallykeptyourfigure,Luce,”hesays.“Notbadforaforty-year-oldmomoftwo.”
“Thirty-nine.”Shesmilestightlyanddropstwoforksintothecutlerybasket.“Butthankyou.”
Theatmosphereisclumsy,slightlysour.They’veleftittoolongforwhatcomesnext.They’vedrunktoomuch,eatentoomuch,satfortoolonginthelanguorousairofthegarden.Lucysays,“Ineedtogetbacktothekidssoon.”
“Oh,”saysMichaellightly.“Marco’sabigboy.Hecanlookafterhislittlesisterawhilelonger.”
“Yes,sure,butStellagetsalittleanxiouswhenshe’snotwithme.”
Sheseeshisjawtwitchalittle.Michaeldoesnotliketohearaboutweaknessinothers.Heabhorsit.“So,”hesayswithasigh,“Isupposeyou’llwantthepassports?”
“Yes.Please.”
Herheartthumpssohardunderherribcagethatshecanfeelitinherearcanals.
Hecockshisheadandsmilesather.“Butdon’trushoffjustyet.OK?”
Hegoestohisstudyandshecanhearhimopeningandclosingdrawers.Hereturnsamomentlater,thepassportsinafeltdrawstringbaginhishand.Hewavesitather.
“Iamnothingifnotamanofmyword,”hesays,walkingslowlytowardher,hiseyesonher,danglingthefeltbaginfrontofhim.
Shecan’tworkoutwhathe’sdoing.Isheexpectinghertosnatchthemfromhim?Chasehim?What?
Shesmilesnervously.“Thankyou,”shesays.
Andthenheisstandingupagainsther,thesmallofherbackhardagainstthekitchencounter,thefeltbagclutchedinhishand,hismouthheadingtowardthecrookofherneck.Shefeelshislipsagainstherthroat.Shehearshimgroaning
“Oh,LucyLucyLucy,”hesays.“God,yousmellsogood.Youfeelso…”Hegrindshimselfagainsther.“Sogood.Youare…”Hegroansagainandhismouthfindshersandshekisseshimback.Thatiswhysheishere.ShecameheretofuckMichaelandnowsheisgoingtofuckMichaelandshehasfuckedhimbeforeandshecanfuckhimagain,shereallycan,especiallyifshepretendsheisAhmed,pretendsheisastrangereven,thenyes,shecandothis,shecandothis.
Sheletshistongueintohermouthandcloseshereyes,tight,tight,tight.Andhishandsarepushingherupfrombehind,pushingheruponthecounter,andhetakesherlegsandhewrapsthemaroundhisbody,hishandsgrippingherankleshardenoughtomakeherwince,butshedoesn’tstop,shecarriesonbecausethisiswhatshecameheretodo.Behindthemthecoffeemachinebubblesandhisses.Sheknocksanemptyglassanditrollsacrossthecounter,smashesagainstthesideofthekettle.ShetriestomoveherhandawayfromthebrokenglassbutMichaelispushingherclosertowardit,hishandspushingupthefabricofherskirt,searchingforthewaistbandofherknickers.Shetriestomoveacrossthecounterawayfromtheglass,butshedoesn’twanttostopthemomentumofwhat’shappening,sheneedsittohappensothatitisdone,sothatshecanpullonherunderwearandtakethepassportsandgohometoherbabies.Shetriestofocusonhelpinghimtakeoffherunderwear,butshecanfeelashardofglassunderthesmallofherback,pressingintoherflesh.ShetriesonelasttimetoshiftherselfacrossthecounterandthenMichaelsuddenlypullsawayandsays,“Fuckinghell,willyoustopfuckingwrigglingawayfromme.Fuck’ssake,”andthenhepushesdownhardagainstherandshefeelstheglasspierceherskinandshejoltsforwardandshoutsoutinpain.
“Whatthefuckisitnow?Forfuck’ssake!”
Almostinslowmotionsheseeshishandcomingdowntowardherfaceandthenshefeelsherteethjoltinsideherhead,herbrainslappingofftheinsidesofherskullashehitsher.
Andthereisbloodnow,warmbloodrunningfromthesmallofherback.“I’mhurt,”shesays.“Look.Therewasglassand…”
Buthe’snotlisteningtoher.Insteadheforcesherbackontothecounteragain,theglasspiercinganewsectionofherback,andthenhe’sinsideherandhishandisoverhermouthandthiswasnothowitwasgoingtobe.Itwasgoingtobeconsensual.Shewasgoingtolethim.Butnowshehurtsandthereisbloodandshecansmellthecharredmeatonhishand,seetheblankfuryonhisfaceandshejustwantsthepassports,shewantsthefuckingpassports,shedoesnotwantthisandherhandfindsaknife;it’stheknifesheusedtoslicethetomatoes,theknifethatcutthroughtheirskinsliketheywerebutter,andhereitisinherhandandsheplungesitintothesideofMichael’sbody,intothespacebelowthehemofhisT-shirt,thesoft,tenderwhitepartwheretheskinislikeachild’sskinanditgoesinsoeasilyshealmostdoesn’tregisterthatshe’sdoneit.
Sheseeshiseyescloudoverbrieflywithconfusion,thenuncloudwithrealization.Hepullsoutofherandstaggersbackward.Hegazesdownatthebloodpumpingoutoftheholeinhissideandcoversitwithhishandsbutthebloodkeepspumpingout.“FuckingChrist,Luce.Whatthefuckhaveyoudone?”Hegazesatherwithwide,disbelievingeyes.“Helpme.Fuck.”
Shefindsteatowelsandputsthemintohishands.“Holdthemtight,”shesays,breathlessly,“holdthemagainstit.”
Hetakestheclothsandpressesthemtohissideandthensheseeshislegsbuckleandhe’sfallingtothefloor.Shetriestohelphimupagainbuthebatsheraway.ItsuddenlyoccurstoLucythatMichaelisdying.Sheenvisagesherselfmakingaphonecalltotheemergencyservices.Sheimaginesthemarrivinghere,askingherwhathappened.Shewouldtellthemthatherapedher.Therewouldbeevidence.Thebrokenglassstillembeddedinherbackwouldbeproof.Thefactthathestillhashistrousersaroundhisankles.Yes,theywouldbelieveher.Theywould.
“I’mcallinganambulance,”shesaystoMichael,whoseeyesarestaringblindlyintonothingness.“Justkeepbreathing.Keepbreathing.I’mcallingthem.”
Shepullsherphonefromherbagwithshakingfingers,switchesiton,andisabouttopressthefirstdigitwhensherealizesthis:shemaywellbebelieved,butshewillnotbereleased.ShewillhavetostayinFrance,answerquestions;shewillhavetorevealthatsheishereillegally,thatshedoesnotexist,andherchildrenwillbetakenawayfromherandeverything,absolutelyeverythingwillunravel,horribly,quickly,nightmarishly.
Herfingerstillrestsonthescreenofherphone.SheglancesdownatMichael.Heistrembling.Bloodstillflowsfromhisside.Shefeelssickandturnstofacethesink,breathinghard.
“OhGodohGodohGod.OhGodohGodohGod.”
Sheturnsback,looksatherphone,looksatMichael.Shedoesnotknowwhattodo.Andthensheseesit;sheseesthelifepassfromMichael’sbody.Shehasseenitbefore.Sheknowswhatitlookslike.Michaelisdead.
“OhGod.OhGod,ohGod.”Shedropstoherhaunchesandfeelsforhispulse.Thereisnothing.
Shebeginstotalktoherself.
“OK,”shesays,standingup.“OK.Now.Whoknowsyouwerehere?Joy,hemighthavetoldJoy.ButhewouldhavetoldherthatLucySmithwascoming.Yes.LucySmith.ButthatisnotmyrealnameandnowIamnotevenLucySmith.Iam…”Hershakinghandsfindthelittlefeltbagandshepullsoutthepassports.Sheflickstothebackandreadsthetext.“IamMarieValerieCaron.Good.Good.IamMarieCaron.Yes.AndLucySmithdoesnotexist.JoydoesnotknowwhereIlive.But…
“School!”shesays.“MichaelknewwhereMarcowenttoschool.ButwouldhehavetoldJoy?No.HewouldnothavetoldJoy.Ofcoursenot.Andevenifhedid,theyonlyknowLucySmith,notMarieCaron.AndStellaisatadifferentschoolthanMarcoandnooneapartfrommeandSamiaknowswherethatis.So,whataboutthepassportpeople?No.Theywouldbesomewheresodeeplyburiedawayinthecriminalunderworldthatnoonewouldeventhinktolook.Thechildren:theyknewIwashere,buttheywouldnottellanyone.Good.OK.”
Shepacesasshespeaks.ThenshelooksdownatMichael’sbody.Shouldsheleaveit?LeaveitforJoytofindtomorrowmorning?Orshouldshemovehim,cleaneverything?Hidehisbody?Heisabigman.Wherewouldshehidehim?Shewouldnotbeabletohidehimcompletely,butmaybeforjustlongenoughforherandthechildrentogettoLondon.
Yes,shedecides,yes.Shewillcleaneverything.Shewillpullhisbodydownintohiswinecellar.Shewillcoveritupwithsomething.Joywillcometomorrowandthinkhehasgonesomewhere.Shewon’tknowhe’smissinguntilhisbodystartstosmell.BywhichtimeLucyandthechildrenwillbelonggone.Andeveryonewilljustassumehewaskilledbysomeonefromtheshadierpartsofhislife.
Shepullsopenthecupboardbeneaththesink.Shetakesoutbleach.Sheopensanewrollofsuper-absorbentkitchentowel.
Shestartstoclean.
29
Chelsea,1990
PhinandIsatontheroofofthehouse.Phinhadfoundtheroof.Ihadnoideaitexisted.Toaccesstheroof,onehadtopushopenatrapdoorintheceilingoftheattichallway,climbupintoalow-roofedtunnel,andthenpushopenanothertrapdoorwhichopenedoutontoaflatroofwiththemostremarkableviewsacrosstheriver.
Wewerenot,itseemed,thefirsttodiscoverthesecretroofterrace.Therewasalreadyapairofscruffyplasticchairsupthere,somedeadplantsinpots,alittletable.
Icouldbarelybelievethatmyfatherdidnotknowaboutthisspace.Healwayscomplainedabouthavinganorth-facinggarden,thathecouldnotenjoytheeveningsun.Yetupherewasaprivateoasiswhichcaughtthesunalldaylong.
ThetinysquaresofpaperthatPhinhadbeengivenatKensingtonMarkettheweekbeforeturnedouttobecomprisedoffourevensmallersquaresofpaperjoinedtogether.Eachtinysegmenthadapictureofasmilingfaceonit.
“Whatifwehaveabadtrip?”Iasked,feelingunutterablyfoolishusingsuchlanguage.
“Weshouldjusthavehalfeach,”saidPhin.“Tostartoffwith.”
Inoddedeffusively.I’dhavepreferredtotakenoneatall.Ireallywasn’tthattypeofperson.ButitwasPhinandIwould,tousetheparentalcliché,havefollowedhimoffacliffifhe’daskedmeto.
IwatchedhimswallowdownthetinyshredandthenhewatchedasIdidthesame.Theskywaswatercolorblue.Thesunwasweakbutuphere,inthistrap,itfeltwarmagainstourskin.Wefeltnothingforquitesometime.Wetalkedaboutwhatwecouldsee:thepeoplesittingintheirgardens,theboatsidlingdowntheThames,theviewofthepowerstationontheothersideoftheriver.AfterhalfanhourorsoIrelaxed,thinkingthattheacidwasclearlyfake,thatnothingwasgoingtohappen,thatI’dgotawaywithit.ButthenIfeltmybloodbegintowarmbeneathmyskin;Iglancedupwardintotheskyandsawthatitwasfilledwithpulsingwhiteveinsthatbecameluminousandmultitoned,likemotherofpearl,thelongerIstaredatthem.Irealizedthattheskywasnotblueatallbutthatitwasamilliondifferentcolorsallconspiringtogethertocreateapaleblueandthattheskywasconnivingandlying,thattheskywasinfactmuchclevererthanusandthatmaybeeverythingweconsideredtobeinsentientwasinfactclevererthanusandlaughingatus.Ilookedattheleavesinthetreesandquestionedtheirgreenness.Areyoureallygreen?Iaskedmyself.Orareyouactuallytinylittleparticlesofpurpleandredandyellowandgoldallhavingapartyandlaughing,laughing,laughing.IglancedatPhin.Isaid,“Isyourskinreallywhite?”
Helookedathisskin.Hesaid,“No.It’s…”Helookedatmeandlaughedoutloud.“Ihavescales!Look!Ihavescales.Andyou!”Hepointedatmewithgreathilarity.“Youhavefeathers!OhGod,”hesaid,“whathavewebecome?We’recreatures!”
Wechasedeachotheraroundtheroofforaminute,makinganimalnoises.Istrokedmyfeathers.Phinunfurledhistongue.Webothexpressedshockandaweatthelengthofit.“YouhavethelongesttongueIhaveeverseen.”
“That’sbecauseIamalizard.”Herolleditbackinandthenoutagain.Iwatcheditkeenly.Andwhenitcameoutagain,Ileanedinandtrappeditbetweenmyteeth.
“Ow!”saidPhin,grabbinghistonguebetweenhisfingersandlaughingatme.
“Sorry!”Isaid.“I’mjustastupidbird.Ithoughtitwasaworm.”
Andthenwestoppedlaughingandsatintheplasticdeckchairsandstared,stared,staredintothewhirlingauroraborealisaboveandourhandshungdownsidebyside,ourknucklesbrushingeverynowandthen,andeachtimeIfeltPhin’sskintouchmineIfeltasthoughhisverybeingwaspenetratingmyepidermisandbitsofhisessencewereswirlingintomyessence,makingasoupofmeandhim,anditwastootootantalizing,IneededtoplugmyselfintohimsothatIcouldcaptureallofhisessenceandmyfingerswrappedthemselvesaroundhisfingersandheletme,heletmeholdhishand,andIfelthimpourintomelikewhenwewentonacanalboatonceandthemanopenedthelockandwewatchedthewaterflowfromoneplacetoanother.
“There,”Isaid,turningtolookatPhin.“There.Youandme.We’rethesamepersonnow.”
“Weare?”saidPhin,lookingatmewithwideeyes.
“Yes,look.”Ipointedatourhands.“We’rethesame.”
Phinnoddedandwesatthenforsometime,Idon’tknowhowlong,itmighthavebeenfiveminutes,itmighthavebeenanhour,ourhandsheldtogether,staringintotheskyandlostinourownstrangechemicallyinducedreveries.
“We’renothavingabadtrip,arewe?”Isaideventually.
“No,”saidPhin.“We’rehavingagoodtrip.”
“Thebesttrip,”Isaid.
“Yes,”heagreed.“Thebesttrip.”
“Weshouldliveuphere,”Isaid.“Bringourbedsuphereandliveuphere.”
“Weshould.Weshoulddothat.Rightnow!”
Webothleapttoourfeetandjumpeddownthroughthetrapdoorintothetunnelabovetheattic.Isawthewallsofthetunnelthrobbing,liketheinsideofabody;Ifeltwewereinathroat,maybe,oranesophagus.Wealmostfellthroughthetrapdoorintothehallway,andsuddenlyitfeltlikewewereinthewrongplace,likeinDoctorWhowhenheopensthedoortotheTARDISanddoesn’tknowwhereheis.
“Wherearewe?”Isaid.
“We’redown,”saidPhin.“Indownworld.”
“Iwanttogobackup.”
“Let’sgetthepillows,”saidPhin.“Quick.”HepulledmebythehandintohisbedroomandwegrabbedthepillowsandwewereabouttoclimbbackupintothetunnelwhenDavidappearedinfrontofus.
Hewaswetfromtheshower,hisbottomhalfwrappedinatowel,hischestbare.Istaredathisnipples.Theyweredarkandleathery.
“Whatareyoutwoupto?”heasked,hiseyesswitchingforensicallyfromPhintomeandbackagain.Hisvoicewaslikealowrumbleofthunder.Hewastallandabsolutelyhard,likeastatue.Ifeltmybloodturncoldinhispresence.
“We’retakingpillows,”saidPhin.“Toup.”
“Up?”
“Up,”repeatedPhin.“Thisisdown.”
“Down.”
“Down,”saidPhin.
“Whatthehelliswrongwithyoutwo?”saidDavid.“Lookatme.”HegrabbedPhin’sjawhardwithhishandandstaredintohiseyes.“Areyouhigh?”heasked,turninghisgazetome.“God,bothofyou.Whatthehellhaveyoutaken?Whatisit?Hash?Acid?What?”
Soonwewerebeingordereddownstairsandmyparentswerebeingsummoned,andPhin’smum,andDavidwasstillinhistowelandIstillstaredathisleatherynipplesandfeltmybreakfaststarttoroilinsidemygut.Wewereinthedrawingroomsurroundedbystaringoilportraits,loomingdeadanimalsnailedtothewall,fouradultsaskingquestions,questions,questions.
How?What?Wherefrom?Howdidyoupayforit?Didtheyknowhowoldyouare?Youcouldhavedied.You’retooyoung.Whatthehellwereyouthinking?
AnditwasatthatprecisemomentthatBirdiewalkedintotheroom.
“What’sgoingon?”sheasked.
“Oh,goaway,”saidPhin,“thisisnothingtodowithyou.”
“Don’tyoudaretalktoagrown-uplikethat,”saidDavid.
“That,”saidPhin,pointingatBirdie,“isnotagrown-up.”
“Phin!”
“Sheisnotagrown-up.Sheisnotevenahuman.Sheisapig.Look.Lookatherpinkskin,hertinyeyes.Sheisapig.”
Agaspwentaroundtheroom.IstaredatBirdieandtriedtopictureherasapig.Butshelookedmorelikeaveryoldcattome,oneofthosebonycatswithpatchyfurandrheumyeyes.
ThenIlookedatPhinandsawthathewasstaringathisfatherandIsawhimopenhismouthwideandlaughandthenIheardhimsay,“So,thatmakesyouapigkisser!”
Helaugheduproariously.
“She’sapigandyouareakisserofpigs.Didyouknowthat,whenyoukissedher,didyouknowshewasapig?”
“Phin!”Sallygrimaced.
“HenrysawDadkissingBirdie.Lastweek.That’swhywetookallDad’smoneyandwentoutwithoutasking.BecauseIwascrosswithDad.ButnowIknowwhyhekissedher.Because…”—Phinwasnowlaughingsohardhecouldbarelyspeak—“…hewantedtokissapig!”
IwantedtolaughtoobecausePhinandIwerethesameperson,butIcouldn’tfeelitanymore;thatintenseconnectionhadgone,andnowallIcouldfeelwascold,hardhorror.
Sallyranfromtheroom;Phinfollowedher,thenDavid,stillinhisbathtowel.IlookedatBirdieawkwardly.
“Sorry,”Isaid,forsomestrangereason.
Shejustgawpedatme,beforeleavingtheroom,too.
Thenitwasjustmeandmymotherandmyfather.
Myfathergottohisfeet.“Whoseideawasit?”hesaid.“Thedrugs?”
Ishrugged.Icouldfeelthetrippassingfrommybeing.Icouldfeelmyselfdriftingbacktoreality.“Idon’tknow.”
“Itwashim,wasn’tit?”
“Idon’tknow,”Irepeated.
Hesighed.“Therewillberepercussions,youngman,”hesaidgruffly.“Wewillneedtodiscussthem.Butfornow,let’sgetyouaglassofwaterandsomethingtoeat.Somethingstodgy.Sometoast,Martina?”
Mymothernodded,andIfollowedhersheepishlytothekitchen.
Icouldhearvoicesraisedoverhead:Sally’sglassyvowels,David’sboom,Birdie’swhining.Icouldhearfootsteps,doorsopeningandclosing.MymotherandIexchangedaglanceasshepostedbreadintothetoasterforme.
“Isthattrue?”askedmymother.“WhatPhinsaidaboutDavidandBirdie?”
Inodded.
Sheclearedherthroatbutsaidnothing.
Amomentlaterweheardthefrontdoorbangshut.IpeeredintothehallwayandsawJustin,hishandsfilledwithcanvasbags,returningfromhisSaturdaymarketstall.Soonenoughhisvoicewasaddedtothesymphonyofshoutingcomingfromabove.
MymotherpassedmethetoastandIateitsilently.IrememberedthestrangedreadI’dfeltseeingBirdieandDavidkissingtheweekbefore,thesenseofsomethingputridbeingunleashedintotheworld,asthoughtheywerekeysandthey’dunlockedeachother.AndthenIthoughtofthefeelingofPhin’shandinmyhandontheroof,andthoughtthatwewerealsokeysunlockingeachother,butlettingoutsomethingremarkableandgood.
“What’sgoingtohappen?”Iasked.
“Ihavenoidea,”saidmymother.“Butit’snotgood.It’snotgoodatall.”
30
MichaelisinthecellarandLucyhascleanedforoveranhour.Shecollectsabinbagfromthefrontdoor;it’sfilledwithblood-soddenpapertowels,apairofJoy’slatexgloves,andeverylasttraceoftheirmeal:emptywinebottles,beerbottles,napkins,uneatenpanzanella.ShehasdressedthecutsonherbackwithplastersfromMichael’sensuiteandinherbagarethreethousandeurostakenfromadrawerinhisbedsidecabinet.
SheglancesattheMaseratiasshepassesitonthedriveway.Shefeelsastrangewaveofsadnesspassoverher:Michaelwillneverdriveanotherperformancecar.MichaelwillneverbookanotherspontaneousflighttoMartinique,neverpopthecorkonanotherbottleofvintagechampagne,neverwritehisstupidbook,neverjumpinhispoolinallhisclothes,nevergiveawomanahundredredroses,neverfuckanyone,neverkissanyone…
Neverhurtanyone.
Thefeelingpasses.Shedropsthebinbaginahugemunicipalbinbythebeach.Adrenalinecoursesthroughher,keepinghercenteredandstrong.Shebuystwobagsfullofsnacksanddrinksforthechildren.Marcotextsheratfivep.m.Whereareyou?
Attheshops,shereplies.Behomesoon.
Thechildrenarecooperative.Theylookinthebagofsnacksandtreatswithdisbelief.“We’regoingtoEngland,”shetellsthem,musteringalightandwhimsicaltone.“We’regoingtomeetmyfriend’sdaughter,tocelebrateherbirthday.”
“Thebaby!”saysMarco.
“Yes,”shesays.“Thebaby.Andwe’regoingtostayinahouseIoncelivedinwhenIwasachild.Butfirstwe’regoingonanadventure!Firstofallwe’regoingtoParis!Onthetrain!Thenwe’regettinganothertrain,toCherbourg.Thenwe’regoingtogetonalittleboattoalittleislandcalledGuernseyandwe’regoingtostayinasweetlittlecottageforanightortwo.Thenwe’regettinganotherboattoEnglandanddrivingtoLondon.”
“Allofus?”asksStella.“EvenFitz?”
“EvenFitz.Butweneedtopack,OK?Andweneedtogetsomesleepbecausewehavetobeatthestationatfiveo’clocktomorrowmorning!OK!Solet’shavesomethingtoeat,let’sgetniceandclean,let’spack,andlet’sgotobed.”
SheleavesthechildrenpackingandeatingandgoestoGiuseppe’sroom.Thedogjumpsupatherandsheletshimlickherface.ShelooksatGiuseppeandwonderswhattotellhim.Heisloyal,butheisoldandcangetconfusedsometimes.Shedecidestotellhimalie.
“I’mtakingthechildrenforaholidaytomorrow,”shesays.“We’regoingtoMalta.Ihavefriendsthere.”
“Oh,”saysGiuseppe.“Maltaisamagicalplace.”
“Yes,”sheagrees,feelingsadthatsheismisleadingoneofthekindestpeoplesheknows.
“Buthot,”hesays,“atthistimeofyear.Sohot.”Helooksdownatthedog.“Youwantmetolookafterhimforyou?”
Thedog.Shehadn’tthoughtaboutthebloodydog.Shepanicsmomentarilyandthensheralliesandsays,“I’mbringinghim.Asanassistancedog.Formyanxiety.”
“Youhaveanxiety?”
“No.ButItoldthemIdidandtheysaidIcouldbringmydog.”
Giuseppewon’tquestionthis.Hedoesn’tentirelyknowhowthemodernworldworks.Itisroughly1987inGiuseppe’sworld.
“That’snice,”hesays,touchingthedog’shead.“Yougetaholiday,boy!Aniceholiday!Howlongwillyoubegone?”
“Twoweeks,”shereplies.“Maybethree.Youcanrentoutourroom,ifyouneedto.”
Hesmiles.“ButIwillmakesureit’sherewhenyougetback.”
Shetakeshishandinhers.“Thankyou,”shesays.“Thankyousomuch.”Shehugshimhard;shehasnoidea,noideaatallifshewilleverseehimagain.Sheleaveshisroombeforehecanseehertears.
31
“I’mgoingtostayatthehousetonight,”saysMiller,placinghisemptypintglassonthetable.“Ifthat’sOKwithyou?”
“Wherewillyousleep?”
“I’mnotgoingtosleep.”
Hisfaceissetwithresolve.
Libbynods.“OK,”shesays.“That’sOK.”
TheywalkbacktothehouseandLibbyunlocksthepadlockagain,pullsbackthewoodenhoardingagain;theyenterthehouseagain.Theystandforamoment,eyescastupward,listeningformovement.Butthehouseissilent.
“Well,”saysLibby,glancingatDido,“Iguessweshouldgetback.”
DidonodsandLibbytakesasteptowardthefrontdoor.“AreyougoingtobeOK?”shesays.“Here?Allbyyourself?”
“Hey,”saysMiller,“lookatme.DoIlooklikeI’dbecreepedoutallaloneinadark,emptyhousewherethreerobedcultmembersdied?”
“Doyouwantmetostay,too?”
“No.Yougohome,toyournicecomfybed.”Hehashisfingerssplayedoverhisbeardandlooksatherwithappealingpuppyeyes.
Libbysmiles.“Youwantmetostay,don’tyou?”shesays.
“No.Nonono.”
LibbylaughsandlooksatDido.“Doyoumind?”sheasks.“I’llbeintomorrowmorning.Ipromise.”
“Stay,”saysDido.“Andcomeinwhenevertomorrow.Norush.”
It’sjuststartingtogetdarkasLibbymeandersbacktothehouseafterwalkingDidotothetubestation.Sheabsorbstheatmosphereofahotsummer’snightinChelsea,thethrongsofblondteensinrippeddenimhotpantsandoversizedtrainers,theviewsthroughsashwindowsofbeautifulrooms.Foramomentshefantasizesaboutlivinghere,beingpartofthisrarefiedworld,being,indeed,aChelseagirl.SheimaginesthehouseonCheyneWalkfilledwithantiques,withdrippingcrystalchandeliersandmodernart.
Butthemomentsheopensthedoortonumbersixteenthefantasydissipates.Thehouseistainted,blighted.
Millerissittinginthekitchenatthebigwoodentable.Heglancesupasshewalksinandsays,“Quick,lookatthis.Look.”
Heisusinghisphoneasatorchandlookingatsomethinginsidethedrawer.Shepeersinside.
“Look,”saysMilleragain.
Attheverybackofthedrawer,inblackpencil,someonehasscrawledthewords:“IAMPHIN.”
32
Chelsea,1990
Sallymovedoutofourhouseafewweekslater.Thenafewdaysafterthat,BirdiemovedintoDavid’sroom.ButJustindidnotmoveout.Hekeptthebedroomhe’dsharedwithBirdie.
Iwasneverpunishedfortheacidtripincident,andneitherwasPhin.ButitwasclearthatPhinfeltthatthelossofhismotherwasworsethananypunishmenthisfathercouldhaveconcocted.Heblamedhimself,firstandforemost.ThenafterthatheblamedBirdie.Hedespisedherandreferredtoheras“it.”Thenheblamedhisfather.Andthen,unfortunately,andmainlysubliminally,heblamedme.Afterall,Iwastheonewho’dimparteduntohimtheterrible,fatalbulletofknowledgewhichhe’dusedtoinadvertentlydestroyhisparents’marriage.IfIhadn’ttoldhim,thennoneofitwouldhavehappened:theshoppingtrip,theacid,thehideousafternoonofthepig-kissingrevelations.Andsothatbondwe’dmadeupontheroofthatday,itdidn’tjustfade,itkindofcombustedinacloudoftoxicsmoke.
ItwashardnottoagreethatI’dbroughtitalluponmyself.WhenIthinkofmyintentionwhenItoldhimwhatI’dseen,mykeennesstoscandalizeandimpress,mylackofempathyorappreciationofthewayitmightmakehimfeel,Ifelt,yes,asenseofpersonalliability.AndIdidpaythepriceforthat,Ireallydid.Becauseinunwittinglydestroyinghisparents’marriage,I’dunwittinglydestroyedmyentirelife.
ShortlyafterSallymovedout,IcameuponJustinsittingatthetableontheterraceinthegarden,sortingthroughpilesofherbsandflowers.Thefactthathehadstayedunderthesameroofashisadulterousgirlfriendstruckmeassadandalittlesubversive.Hecarriedonmuchasbefore,tendingandharvestinghisplants,turningthemintolittlecanvasbagsofpowder,tinyglassphialsoftincture,tyingonhislittletagsthatsaid“TheChelseaApothecary.”Heworethesameclothesandtrundledaboutinthesameway;therewerenoexternaltelltalesofanyinnerturmoilorheartbreak.SufferingasIwaswithmyownsenseofheartbreakattheendofmybriefrelationshipwithPhin,Iwascurioustogetinsidehisheadalittle.AndwiththedepartureofSallyandthematingofBirdieandDavid,nottomentionmyownparents’becomingsmallerandsmallershadowsoftheirformerselves,heseemedoddlylikeoneofthemorenormalpeopleinthehouse.
Isatoppositehimandhelookedupatmegenially.
“Hello,boy.Howarethings?”
“Thingsare…”Iwasabouttosaythatthingswerefine,butthenrememberedthattheywerenotfineatall.SoIsaid,“Weird.”
Helookedatmemoreclosely.“Well,”hesaid.“That’sforsure.”
Wefellsilentforamoment.Iwatchedhimdelicatelypickingbudsfrombranchesandlayingthemonatray.
“Whyareyoustilllivinghere?”Isaideventually.“NowthatyouandBirdie…?”
“Goodquestion,”hesaid,notlookingupatme.Helaidanotherbuddownonthetray,rubbedhisfingertipstogether,andthenlaidhishandsinhislap.“Iguess,becauseeventhoughI’mnolongerwithher,she’sstillapartofme?Youknow,thepartoflovethatisn’taboutsex,itdoesn’tautomaticallydie.Oratleastitdoesn’thaveto.”
Inodded.Thiswascertainlytrueforme.AlthoughtherewasalargeprobabilitythatImightnevergetthechancetoholdPhin’shandagain,orevenhaveanothermeaningfulconversationwithhim,thatdidnotdiminishmyfeelingsforhim.
“Doyouthinkyoumightgetbacktogetherwithher?”
Hesighed.“Yeah,”hesaid.“Maybe.Butmaybenot.”
“WhatdoyouthinkofDavid?”
“Ah.”
Hisbodylanguagechangedsubtly.Hedrewhisshouldersclosertogether,entwinedhisfingers.
“Jury’sout,”hesaidfinally.“InsomewaysIthinkhe’sawesome.Inotherways…”Heshookhishead.“Hefreaksmeout.”
“Yes,”IsaidlouderandmoreferventlythanI’dintended.“Yes,”Isaidagain,quietly.“Hefreaksmeout,too.”
“Inwhatway,exactly?”
“He’s…”Icastmyeyestothesky,lookingfordecentvocabulary.“Sinister.”
Justinemittedarumbleoflaughter.“Ha,yeah,”hesaid.“Exactlyspot-on.Yeah.Sinister.
“Here.”Hepassedmeahandfulofsmallyellowdaisy-shapedflowersandarollofstring.“Tiethemintolittlebundles,bytheirstalks.”
“Whatarethey?”
“It’scalendula.Forsoothingskincomplaints.Brilliantstuff.”
“Andwhat’sthat?”Igesturedtowardthetrayoftinyyellowbuds.
“Thisischamomile.Formakingtea.Smellthat.”Hepassedmeabud.Iputittomynose.“Isn’tthatjustthenicestsmell?”
Inoddedandloopedsomestringaroundthestemsofthecalendula,tyingitinabow.“IsthatOK?”
“Brilliant.Yeah.So,”heopened,“IheardaboutyouandPhin.Theotherweek.Youknow,tripping.”
Iflushedpink.
“Man,”hesaid,“Ididn’ttouchdrugs’tilIwasalmosteighteen!Andwhatareyou?Twelve?”
“Thirteen,”Irepliedfirmly.“I’mthirteen.”
“Soyoung!”hesaid.“Hatsofftoyou.”
Ididn’tunderstandthissentiment.ItwassoclearlyabadthingI’ddone.ButIsmiledanyway.
“Youknow,”hesaidconspiratorially,“Icangrowanythingouthere.Virtually.DoyouknowwhatImean?”
Ishookmyhead.
“Idon’tjustgrowstuffthat’sgoodforyou.Icangrowotherstuff.Anythingyoulike.”
Inoddedseriously.AndthenIsaid,“Likedrugs,youmean?”
Helaughedhisbelly-rumblelaughagain.“Well,yeah,Iguess.Goodones.”Hetappedhisnose.“Andbadones,too.”
Thebackdooropenedatthatmoment.Webothturnedtoseewhoitwas.
ItwasDavidandBirdie.Theyhadtheirarmsloopedaroundeachother’swaists.Theyglancedbrieflyinourdirectionandthenwentandsatattheotherendofthegarden.Theatmosphereshifted.Itfeltlikeacloudpassingoverthesun.
“AreyouOK?”ImouthedatJustin.
Henodded.“I’mcool.”
Wesatforawhileinthemufflingblanketoftheirpresence,chattingaboutdifferentherbsandplantsandwhattheycoulddo.IaskedJustinaboutpoisonsandhetoldmeaboutAtropabelladonna,ordeadlynightshade,which,legendhasit,wasusedbyMacbeth’ssoldierstopoisontheincomingEnglisharmy,andhemlock,usedtokillSocratesathisexecution.Healsotoldmeaboutusingenchantingherbs,withspells,andaphrodisiacslikeGingkobiloba
“Howdidyoulearnallthis?”Iasked.
Justinshrugged.“Frombooks.Mainly.Andmymumlikestogarden.Soyouknow,Iwasbroughtuparoundplantsandthesoil.So…naturalprogression,really.”
Atthispointwehadnotbeengivenaday’steachingsinceSallyhadleft.Wechildrenhadbeenfreewheelingaroundthehouse,boredandrestless.“Readabook,”wastherefraintoanyonecomplainingofhavingnothingtodo.“Dosomesums.”
SoIwasripe,Isuppose,tolearnsomethingnewandallthatwasonofferelsewherewasDavid’sweirdexercisesorBirdie’sfiddling.
“Arethereanyplantsthatcanmakepeople,youknow,dothings—againsttheirwill?”
“Well,therearehallucinogenics,ofcourse,magicmushroomsandthelike.”
“Andyoucangrowthese?”Iasked.“Inagardenlikethis?”
“Icangrowvirtuallyanything,boy,anywhere.”
“CanIhelpyou?”Iasked.“CanIhelpyougrowthings?”
“Sure,”saidJustin.“Youcanbemylittleapprenticebuddy.It’llbecool.”
IdonotknowwhatsortofpillowtalkoccurredbehindthedreadfuldoorofDavidandBirdie’sroom;Ididn’tliketothinktoohardaboutanythingthathappenedbeyondthatdoor.Iheardnoiseswhichevennow,nearlythirtyyearslater,makemeshuddertothinkabout.Isleptwithmypillowovermyheadeverynight.
Inthemorningstheywoulddescendthestairstogether,lookingself-satisfiedandsuperior.DavidwasobsessedwithBirdie’swaist-lengthhair.Hetoucheditconstantly.Hetwisteditaroundhisfingersandbuncheditupinhishands;heranhishandsdownit,twirledshanksashetalkedtoher.Ioncesawhimpickupastrandandholdittohisnostrils,thenbreatheindeeply.
“Isn’tBirdie’shairwonderful,”hesaidonce.HelookedacrossatmysisterandClemency,whobothworetheirhairattheirshoulders.“Wouldn’tyouliketohavehairlikethis,girls?”heasked.
“Youknow,”saidBirdie,“inmanyreligionsitisseenashighlyspiritualforwomentoweartheirhairlong.”
Despitenotbeingatallreligious,DavidandBirdietalkedalotaboutreligionintheearlydaysoftheirrelationship.Theytalkedaboutthemeaningoflifeandtheterribledisposabilityofeverything.Theytalkedaboutminimalismandfengshui.TheyaskedmymotherifitwasOKiftheyrepaintedtheirbedroomwhite,iftheycouldmovetheirantiquemetalbedframeintoanotherroomandhavetheirmattressonthefloor.Theyabhorredaerosolcansandfastfoodandpharmaceuticalsandman-madefibersandplasticbagsandcarsandairplanes.Theywerealreadytalkingaboutthethreatofglobalwarmingandworryingabouttheimpactoftheircarbonfootprints.Theywere,lookingbackonitfromthepointofviewoftheend-of-daysscenariocurrentlyplayingoutduringthisominousheatwaveof2018,withtheoceanfullofplastic-chokedseacreaturesandpolarbearsslidingoffmeltingicecaps,wellaheadoftheirtime.Butinthecontextof1990,whentheworldwasjustwakinguptoallthatmoderntechnologyandthrowawayculturehadtoofferandembracingit,theywereanaberration.
AndImighthavehadsomerespectforDavidandBirdieandthestrengthoftheircommitmenttotheplanetifithadn’tbeenforthefactthatDavidexpectedeveryoneelsetoliveaccordingtohiswill.Itwasn’tenoughforhimandBirdietosleeponmattressesonthefloor.Weallhadtosleeponmattressesonthefloor.Itwasn’tenoughforhimandBirdietoeschewcarsandaspirinandfishfingers.Weallhadtoeschewcarsandaspirinandfishfingers.IthadbecomeverycleartomethatwhatIhadpredictedsubliminallyallthoseweeksagowhenIsawDavidandBirdiekissinghadcometopass.ShehadunlockedsomethingterribleinDavidandnowshewantedDavidtocontroleverything.
Wewerenolonger,itseemed,free.
33
Itdoesn’tgetdarkuntilnearlyten.LibbyandMillertalktoeachotheracrossthegardentableintheencroachingdarkness,notnoticingthatithascomeuntiltheycannolongerseethewhitesofeachother’seyes.Thentheylightcandles,whichjumpanddanceinthebreeze.Theyspentthelasthourofdaylightsearchingthehouseandthisiswhattheytalkabout:thethingstheyhavefound.
Apartfromthewords“IAMPHIN”scrawledontheinsideofthetabledrawer,theyfoundthesamewordsscrawledontheundersideofthebathontheatticfloor,ontheskirtingaroundoneofthebedroomdoors,andinsideabuilt-inwardrobeinoneofthebedroomsonthesecondfloor.Theyfoundahandfulofmusical-instrumentstringsinoneofthesmallerreceptionroomsdownstairsandamusicstandcrammedintoacornercupboard.Theyfoundapileofcleanterrynappies,safetypins,nappycream,andBabygrosinthewardrobeintheroomwhereLibbyhadbeenfoundinhercrib.Theyfoundapileofbooksinatrunkinthebackhallway,moldyandgray,booksaboutthehealingpropertiesofherbsandplants,booksaboutmedievalwitchcraft,booksofspells.Thebookswerewrappedinanoldblanketandcoveredoverwithupholsteredcushionsthatmusthaveonceadornedasetofgardenfurniture.
Theyfoundathingold-bandringwedgedbetweenthewoodenfloorandtheskirtingboard.IthadahallmarkwhichMillerphotographedwithhiscameraandthenzoomedinon.WhentheyGoogledittheydiscoveredthatitwashallmarkedin1975,theyearofHenryandMartina’swedding.Atinything,losttotheworld,savedfromtheeyesoflootersanddetectivesinitsdarkhidingplacefortwenty-fiveyearsormore.
Libbywearstheringnow,ontheringfingerofherlefthand.Hermother’sring.Itfitsherperfectly.Shetwirlsitastheytalk.
Theypauseeverycoupleofminutes,listeningforthesoundoffootstepsintheundergrowth.Millergoestothebackofthegardennowandthen,lookingforshadows,forsignsofsomeoneenteringthroughthegateinthebackwall.Theybringouttheupholsteredcushionstheyfoundinthetrunkandtheyblowoutthecandlesandsitonthecornerofthelawnfurthestfromthebackdoor.TheyaretalkinginwhisperswhenMillersuddenlystaresatherwithwideeyesandhisfingertohislips.“Shh.”Thenhiseyesswiveltowardthebackofthegarden.Thereissomethingthere.Shesitsupstraight.Andastheywatchtheyseeamanstalkacrossthelawn,atall,slimman,withshorthair,glassesreflectingthemoonlight,whitetrainers,ashoulderbag.Theywatchhimslinghisshoulderbagontothetopofthebunkerandthenfollowsuit.Theyhearhimshimmyupthedrainpipetothepromontoryonthesecondfloor.Thentheybothmoveveryquietlyandwatchhimashedisappearsupontotheroof.
Libby’shearthammers.“OhmyGod,”shewhispers,“ohmyGod.Whatdowedo?”
“Ihaven’tgotafuckingclue,”Millerwhispersback.
“Shallweconfronthim?”
“Idon’tknow.Whatdoyouthink?”
Sheshakesherhead.She’shalfterrifiedandhalfdesperatetoseethismanface-to-face.
ShelooksatMiller.Hewillkeephersafe.Orhewillatleastgivetheimpressionofbeingabletokeephersafe.Themantheysawwassmallerthanhimandwearingglasses.Shenodsnowandsays,“Yes,let’sgoin.Let’stalktohim.”
Millerlooksvaguelypetrifiedbutquicklyralliesandsays,“Yes.Right.”
Thehouseisdark,litonlybytheblurofstreetlightsfromoutsideandthesilvershimmerofthemoonontheriver.LibbyfollowsMiller,reassuredbythesolidwidthofhim.Theystopatthefootofthestaircase.Thentheytakeeachstepslowlyandsurely,untiltheyareonthesecond-floorlanding.Hereitislighter,themoonvisiblethroughthelargewindowoverlookingthestreet.Theybothglanceupwardandthenateachother.
“OK?”whispersMiller.
“OK,”repliesLibby.
Thehatchintheceilingoftheatticfloorisopenandthebathroomdoorisshut.Theycanhearthesoundofpeehittingatoiletbowl,thestop-startofitasitcomestoanend,thetaprunning,athroatbeingcleared.Thenthedoorisopenandamanwalksoutandheiscute.ThatisLibby’sfirstthought.Acuteguy,withneatlycutfairhair,ayouthful,clean-shavenface,tonedarms,agrayT-shirt,slimblackjeans,trendyglasses,nicetrainers.
Hejumpsafootintheairandclutcheshischestwhenheseesthemstandingthere.“OhmyfuckingGod,”hesays.
Libbyjumps,too.AndsodoesMiller.
Theyallstareatoneanotherforamoment.
“Areyou…?”asksthemaneventually,attheprecisemomentthatLibbysays,“Areyou…?”
TheypointateachotherandthenbothturntolookatMillerasthoughhemighthaveananswerforthem.ThenthemanturnsbacktoLibbyandsays,“AreyouSerenity?”
Libbynods.“AreyouHenry?”
Themanlooksatthemblanklyforamomentbutthenhisfaceclearsandhesays,“No,I’mnotHenry.I’mPhin.”
II
34
Chelsea,1990
Mymother,beingGerman,knewhowtodoagoodChristmas.Itwasherspecialty.ThehousewasfestoonedfromthebeginningofDecemberwithhomemadedecorationsmadeofcandiedorangesandredginghamandpaintedpineconesandfilledwiththearomaofgingerbread,stollen,andmulledwine.Notackytinselorpapergarlandsforher,notinofQualityStreetorCadbury’sselectionboxes.
EvenmyfatherenjoyedChristmas.HehadaFatherChristmasoutfitwhichheusedtodoneveryChristmasEvewhenwewerelittle,andIstillcan’texplainhowIcouldbothknowitwashimbutalsohavenoideaitwashimatthesametime.Lookingbackonitnow,Icanseethatitwasthesamesortofterribleself-deceptionthatplayedapartinthewayeveryonefeltaboutDavidThomsen.Peoplecouldlookandseejustaman,butinthesameglance,theanswertoalltheirproblems.
Myfatherdidn’tweartheoutfitthatChristmasEve.Hesaidwewerealltoooldforit,andhewasprobablyright.Buthealsosaidhedidn’tfeeltoowell.MymotherlaidontheusualChristmasEvecelebrationanyway.Wesatarounda(smallerthanusual)Nordicpineandunwrappedour(fewerthanusual)giftswhileChristmascarolsplayedontheradioandafirecrackledinthegrate.Afterabouthalfanhour,justbeforedinner,myfathersaidheneededtogoandliedown,hehadaterribleheadache.
Thirtysecondslaterhewasonthefloorofthedrawingroom,havingastroke.
Wedidn’tknowitwasastrokeatthetime.Wethoughthewashavingsomekindoffit.Oraheartattack.Dr.Broughton,myfather’sprivatephysician,cametolookhimover,stillinhisChristmasEveoutfitofredwoolenV-neckandholly-printbowtie.Irememberhisfacewhenmyfathersaidthathenolongerhadprivatehealthcover,howquicklyheleftthehouse,howhedroppedhisunctuousdemeanorlikeabrick.HesenthimstraighttothehospitalinanNHSambulanceandleftwithoutsayinggoodbye.
MyfathercamehomeonBoxingDay.
Theysaidhewasfine,thathe’dhavesomecognitivechallengesforawhile,somemotorproblems,butthathisbrainwouldfixitself,thathewouldbebacktonormalwithinweeks.Maybesooner.
But,aswithhisfirststroke,heneverrecoveredproperly.Therewasanevengreatervacancythere.Heusedthewrongwords.Orcouldn’tfindanywordsatall.Hespentwholedayssittinginthearmchairinhisbedroomeatingbiscuits,veryslowly.Sometimeshe’dlaughatinappropriatejunctures.Othertimeshewouldn’tgetthejoke.
Hemovedslowly.Heavoidedstairs.Hestoppedleavingthehouseentirely.
Andtheweakermyfatherbecame,theclosertothemarkDavidThomsenstepped.
BythetimeIturnedfourteeninMay1991,wehadrules.NotjustnormalfamilyruleslikenofeetonthefurnitureordoyourhomeworkbeforeyouwatchTV.Notthesortofruleswe’dhadforallourlives.
No,nowwehadcrazy,despoticrules,writtenoutinblackmarkeronalargeposterthatwastapedtothekitchenwall.Icanstillrememberthemtothisday:
NohaircutsWITHOUTPERMISSIONofDavidand/orBirdie
Notelevision
NovisitorsWITHOUTPERMISSIONofDavidand/orBirdie
Novanity
Nogreed
NobodytoleavethebuildingwithouttheEXPRESSPERMISSIONofDavidand/orBirdie
Nomeat
Noanimalproducts
Noleather/suede/wool/feathers
Noplasticcontainers
Nomorethanfourpiecesofrubbishperdayperperson,includingfoodwaste
Nounnatural-coloredclothes
Nopharma
Nochemicals
OnewashorshowerPERPERSONPERDAY
Oneshampooperweek
ALLRESIDENTSmustspendaminimumoftwohoursadaywithDavidintheexerciseroom
ALLCHILDRENmustspendaminimumoftwohoursadaywithBirdieinthemusicroom
Allfoodmustbehomecookedfromorganicingredients
Noelectricorgasheating
Noshouting
Noswearing
Norunning
ThislistofruleshadstartedquiteshortandwasaddedtoatintervalsasDavid’scontrolofourhouseholdgotstrongerandstronger.
Sally,atthisstage,stillusedtocometothehouseonceortwiceaweek,totakethechildrenoutfortea.Shewassleepingonafriend’ssofainBrixtonanddesperatelytryingtofindsomekindofaccommodationbigenoughforthemalltolivein.Phinwouldbeextrasullenafterspendingtimewithhismother.Hewouldlockhimselfinhisroomandmissthenextcoupleofmeals.ItwasbecauseofPhin,infact,thatalotoftheruleswereputinplace.Davidfoundhismoodsuntenable.Hecouldnotbearthewastedfood,orthedoorwhichhewasunabletoopenatwill.Hecouldnotbearanyonedoinganythingthatdidnotdirectlycorrespondwithhisownviewoftheworld.Hecouldnotbearteenagers.
Twonewruleswereadded:
NOLOCKEDDOORS
ALLMEALSTOBEATTENDEDBYALLMEMBERSOFTHEHOUSEHOLD
Onemorning,shortlyafterthefifthtimePhinhadcomebackfromspendingtheafternoonwithhismotherandbrokentheruleabout“NOLOCKEDDOORS,”IwentupstairstofindDavidremovingthelocksfrominsidePhin’sroom,hisjawclenched,hisknucklestightaroundthehandleofthescrewdriver.
Phinsatonhisbed,watchingwithhisarmsfoldedhardacrosshischest.
WhenatdinnertimePhinwasstillsittingonhisbedwithhisarmsfolded,silentanddeathly,Daviddraggedhimdownbyhis—stillfolded—armsandthrewhimintoachair.
HeaggressivelypushedthechairintoplaceandservedPhinalargebowlofcurriedmarrowandrice.Phin’sarmsremainedcrossed.Davidgottohisfeet,piledsomecurryontoaspoon,andforcedittoPhin’slips.Phinlockedhislipstogether.Icouldhearthespoonhittinghisteeth.Theatmospherewasshocking.Phin,atthisstage,wasfifteenandahalf,butlookedmucholder.Hewastallandhewasstrong.Thesituationappearedasthoughitcouldturnviolentveryeasily.ButPhinstoodhisground,hiseyesboringaholeintothewallopposite,hiswholefacerigidwithangeranddetermination.
EventuallyDavidgaveuptryingtofeedthespoonintohisson’smouthandhurleditacrosstheroom,thecurryforminganuglyyellowcrescentacrossthewall,thespoonmakinganangrymetallicscreamasithitthefloor.
“Gettoyourroom!”Davidshouted.“Now!”Aveinthrobbedonhistemple.Hisneckwastensedandpuce.IhadneverbeforeseenahumanbeingasengorgedwithrageasDavidatthatmoment.
“Withpleasure,”hissedPhin.
David’shandappeared;then,almostinslowmotion,asPhinpassedhimitconnectedwiththebackofhishead.Phinturned;hiseyesmethisfather’seyes;Isawtruehatredpassbetweenthem.
Phincarriedonwalking.Weheardhisfootsteps,sureandsteadyupthestaircase.Someoneclearedtheirthroat.IsawBirdieandDavidexchangealook.Birdie’slook,pinchedanddisapproving,said,You’relosingcontrol.Dosomething.David’slook,darkandfurious,said,Iintendto.
ThemomentthemealwasoverIwenttoPhin’sroom.
Hesatonhisbedwithhiskneesdrawntighttohischin.Heglancedupatme.“What?”
“AreyouOK?”
“Whatdoyouthink?”
Iedgedalittlecloserintotheroom.Iwaitedforhimtoaskmetoleavebuthedidn’t.
“Didithurt?”Iasked.“Whenhehityou?”
Myparents,strangeastheybothwere,hadneverhitme.Icouldn’tevenimaginesuchathing.
“Notreally.”
Iedgedcloseragain.
Then,suddenly,Phinlookedupatmeanditwasthereagain.Hewasseeingme.Properly.
“Ican’tstayhere,”hesaid,shakinghishead.“I’vegottogetout.”
Myheartskippedabeat.Phinwastheonlythingthatkeptanysenseofpossibilityalive.
“Wherewillyougo?”
“Idon’tknow.ToMum’s.”
“But—”
IwasabouttosaythathismumwassleepingonasofainBrixton.Butheinterjected.“Idon’tknow,allright?Ijusthavetogetoutofthisplace.Ican’tbehereanymore.”
“When?”
“Now.”
Helookedatmethroughhisridiculouseyelashes.Itriedtoreadhisexpression.IfeltIsawachallengethere.
“Doyou…ShouldI…comewithyou?”
“No!Fuckinghell.No.”
Ishrunkbackintomyself.No.Ofcoursenot.
“WhatshallIsay?Whentheadultsask?”
“Nothing,”hehissed.“Justnothing.Don’tsayanything.”
Inodded,myeyeswide.Iwatchedhimthrowthingsintoadrawstringbag:pantsandsocks,aT-shirt,abook,atoothbrush.Heturnedandsawmelookingathim.
“Go,”hesaid.“Please.”
Ilefttheroomandwalkedslowlytothebackstaircase,whereIsatonthethirdstepdownandclosedthetopdoortojustacrack,throughwhichIwatchedPhindisappearthroughthehatchintotheatticspacewithhisbag.Icouldn’timaginewhathewasdoingorwherehewasgoing.ForamomentIthoughtmaybehewasplanningtoliveontheroof.ButalthoughitwasMay,itwasstillcold:hecouldn’tpossibly.ThenIheardscufflingnoisesoutsideanddashedintoPhin’sbedroom,cuppedmyhandstotheglassofhisdormerwindow,andwatchedthebackgarden.Therehewas:dartingacrossthedarkgardenintotheink-blackshadowsofthetrees.Andthensuddenlyhewasgone.
Iturnedtofacehisemptyroom.Ipickeduphispillowandheldittomyface.Ibreathedhimin.
35
It’sstilldarkwhenLucyleavestheBlueHousethenextmorning.Thechildrenarewalleyedandsilent.SheholdsherbreathasshehandsoverthecashforthetrainticketstoParistoawomanwholookslikesheknowsallofLucy’sdeepestsecrets.Sheholdsitagainastheyboardthetrain,andsheholdsitagainwhentheinspectorenterstheircarriageandaskstoseetheirtickets.Everytimethetrainslowsdownsheholdsherbreathandscansthesidingsforaflashofbluelight,forthenavykepiofagendarme.AtParisshesitswiththechildrenandthedoginthequietestcornerofthequietestcaféastheywaitfortheirtraintoCherbourg.Andthenitstartsagain:thestultifyingfearateverystage,ateveryjuncture.Atlunchtime,astheyboardtheirnexttrain,sheimaginesJoyatMichael’shousestartingtowonderwhereheis,andtheadrenalinepumpssohardandfastaroundherbodythatshefeelsshemightdieofit.ShementallypansaroundMichael’shouse,lookingforthethingsheforgot,thehugeredflagthatwilltellJoytolookinthecellarimmediately.Butno,she’scertain,absolutelycertain,sheleftnotaclue,notatrace.Shehasboughtherselftime.Atleastaday.Maybeeventhreeorfourdays.Andeventhen,wouldJoytellthepoliceanythingabouther,thenicewomancalledLucy,themotherofMichael’sson,thatwouldleadthemtosuspectherinanyway?No,shewouldtellthemaboutMichael’sshadyunderworldconnections,therough-lookingmenwhosometimescametothedoortodiscuss“business.”Shewouldleadtheminanentirelydifferentdirectionandwhentheyeventuallyrealizeditwasadeadend,Lucywouldbenowheretobefound.
BythetimethetrainpullsintoCherbourgthateveningherheartratehasslowedandshefindsenoughappetitetoeatthecroissantsheboughtinParis.
AtthetaxiranktheyclimbintothebackofabatteredRenaultScenicandsheasksthedrivertotakethemtoDiélette.Thedogsitsonherlapandrestshischinonthehalf-openwindow.Itislate.Thechildrenbothfallasleep.
Diéletteisatinyharbortown,greenandhilly.TheonlypeoplecatchingthelateferrytoGuernseyareBritishholidaymakers,mostlyfamilieswithsmallchildren.Lucyclutchesthepassportshardinsidesweatyhands.HerpassportsareFrench,butsheisEnglish.Bothchildrenhavedifferentsurnamesthanherontheirpassports.Stellaisadifferentcolorthanher.Theyhavehugegrubbyrucksacksandaresotiredthattheylookunwell.Andtheirpassportsarefake.Lucyiscertain,utterlyconvincedthattheywillbestopped,pulledaside,askedquestions.SheplannedthislongandmeanderingjourneybacktoLondontodilutehertrail,butstill,assheshowsthepassportstotheinspectorattheferryportherheartbeatssohardsheimagineshecanhearit.Heflicksthroughthepassportslookingfromphototopersonandbackagain,handsthepassportsback,gesturesthemthroughwithhiseyes.
Andthentheyareonthesea,thechurning,navyandgrayfrothoftheEnglishChannel,andFranceissoonbehindthem.
SheholdsStellaonherkneeatthebackoftheferrysothatthelittlegirlcanwatchthecountryofherbirth,theonlyhomeshehaseverknown,recedetoafairy-litwreathonthehorizon.
“Bye-bye,France,”saysStella,wavingherhand,“bye-bye,France.”
36
LibbystaresatPhin.
Hestaresather.“Iusedtolivehere,”hesays,althoughnoonehasaskedhimtoexplainwhoheis.Thenquickly,beforeLibbycanformaresponse,hesays,“You’rereallypretty.”
Libbysays,“Oh.”
ThenhelooksatMillerandsays,“Whoareyou?”
“Hi.”Milleroffershimabighand.“I’mMillerRoe.”
Phinpeersathimquestioningly.“WhydoIrecognizethatname?”
Millermakesastrangenoiseunderhisbreathandshrugs.
“You’rethatjournalist,aren’tyou?”
“Yup.”
“Thatarticlewassuchshit.Youwerewrongabouteverything.”
“Yup,”saysMilleragain,“Ikindofknowthatnow.”
“Ican’tbelievehowprettyyouare,”hesays,turningbacktoLibby.“Youlooksolike…”
“Mymother?”
“Yes,”hesays.“Likeyourmother.”
LibbythinksofthephotosofhermotherwithherdyedblackPriscillaPresleyhair,herdarkkohledeyes.Shefeelsflattered.
Thenshesays,“Whatareyoudoinghere?”
Phinsays,“Waitingforyou.”
“ButIwasheretheotherday.Iheardyouupstairs.Whydidn’tyoucomedownthen?”
Heshrugs.“Idid.ButbythetimeI’dgottothebottomofthestairs,you’dgone.”
“Oh.”
“Shallwe…?”Phingesturesatthestaircase.
Theyfollowhimdownthestairsandintothekitchen.
Phinsitsononesideofthetable;MillerandLibbysitontheother.LibbystudiesPhin’sface.Hemustbeinhisearlyforties,buthelooksmuchyounger.Hehasextraordinarilylongeyelashes.
“So,”hesays,spreadinghisarmswide,“thisisallyours.”
Libbynods.“Although,really,itshouldhavebeenmybrotherandsister’s,too?”
“Well,morefoolthem.Oh,andIsupposeIshouldwishyouahappybirthday.Alittlebelated.”
“Thankyou,”shesays.“Howlongsinceyouwerelasthere?”
“Decades.”
Thereisalongandverybrittlesilence.Phinbreaksitbysaying,“Iimagineyouhavesomequestions.”
MillerandLibbyexchangeabriefglance.Libbynods.
“Well,”saysPhin,“shallwegetoutofthisplace?Ilivejustacrosstheriver.Ihavecoldwine.Andaterrace.Andcatsthatlooklikecushions.”
Theyexchangeanotherglance.
“I’mnotgoingtokillyou,”saysPhin.“Andneitherwillmycats.Come.I’lltellyouabsolutelyeverything.”
Twentyminuteslater,LibbyandMillerfollowPhinoutofasleekliftandintoamarble-flooredcorridor.
Hisapartmentisattheotherend.
Lightsturnonautomaticallyasheleadsthemdownhishallwaytoalivingroomwithglassdoorsontoaterraceoverlookingtheriver.
Everythingispaleandjustso.Ahugewhitesheepskinisdrapedoverthebackofaverylongcreamsofa.Thereisanextravagantarrangementofliliesandrosesinavasethatwouldn’tlookoutofplaceintheshowroomofNorthboneKitchens.
Phinusesasmallremotecontroltoopenthedoorsontotheterraceandinvitesthemtositonapairofsofasaroundalowtable.Whilehegoestofetchwine,LibbyandMillerexchangealook.
“Thisplacemustbeworthacoupleofmillion,”saysMiller.
“Atleast,”saysLibby.Shestandsupandtakesintheviewacrosstheriver.“Look!”shesays.“It’sthehouse.We’recompletelybangoppositeit.”
Millerjoinsher.“Well,”hesaysdrily,“Ithinkwecanassumethatthatisnotacoincidence.”
“Doyouthinkhe’sbeenwatching?”
“Yes,Itotallythinkhe’sbeenwatching.Whyelsewouldyouchooseanapartmentwiththisview?”
“Whatdoyouthinkofhim?”shewhispers.
Millershrugs.“Ithinkhe’sabit…”
“Weird?”
“Yes,abitweird.Andabit…”
ButthenPhinreturns,abottleofwineandthreeglassesinanicebucketinonehand,acatheldagainsthischestwiththeother.Heputsthebucketdownonthetablebutkeepsthecatinhisarms.“MeetMindy,”hesays,holdingthecat’spawupinanapproximationofasalute.“Mindy,meetLibbyandMiller.”
ThecatignoresthemandtriestowriggleoutofPhin’sembrace.“Oh,”hesaystothecat’sretreatingform,“fine.Beabitch,seeifIcare.”
Thenheturnstothemagainandsays,“She’smyfavorite.Ialwaysfallinlovewiththeoneswhocan’tbearme.It’swhyI’msingle.”
Heopensthewineandpoursthemeachalargeglass.
“Cheers,”hesays,“toreunions.”
Theytouchglassesandaslightlyweightedsilencefollows.
“Thisisanincredibleview,”saysMiller.“Howlonghaveyoulivedhere?”
“Notlong.Imean,theyonlyjustfinishedbuildingtheseapartmentslastyear.”
“Amazing,isn’tit,beingrightoppositeCheyneWalk.”
Phinnods.“Iwantedtobeclose,”hesaystoLibby,“forwhenyoucameback.”
AnotherPersiancatappearsontheterrace.Thisoneishorriblyoverweightandhasbulgingeyes.“Ah,”saysPhin,“hereheis.Mr.Attention-Seeker.He’sheardIhavevisitors.”Hescoopsupthegiganticcatandrestsitonhislap.“ThisisDick.IcalledhimthatbecauseitwastheonlywayIcouldmakesureIgotsome.”
Libbylaughsandtakesasipofwine.Inanotherrealm,thiswouldconstituteabrilliantnightout:twohandsomemen,awarmsummer’snight,aglamorousterraceoverlookingtheThames,aglassofcoldwhitewine.Butinthisrealm,everythingfeelswarpedandvaguelythreatening.Eventhecats.
“So,”saysMiller,“ifyou’regoingtotelluseverythingaboutwhatreallyhappenedinCheyneWalk,willitbeofftherecord?OrcanIbeajournalist?”
“Youcanbewhateveryoulike.”
“CanIrecordyou?”Millerreachesforhisphoneinhisbackpocket.
“Sure,”saysPhin,hisfingersrakingthroughthethickfuronthecat’sback.“Whynot?Nothingtoloseanymore.Goforit.”
Millerfiddleswithhisphoneforawhile.Libbynoticeshishandsshakingslightly,betrayinghisexcitement.Shetakesanotherlargesipofwinetocalmherownnerves.ThenMillerlayshisphoneonthetableandasks,“So.YousayIgoteverythingwronginmyarticle.Canwestartthere?”
“Certainly.”ThefatcatjumpsdownfromPhin’slapandheabsentmindedlybrusheshairsfromhistrouserlegswiththesidesofhishands.
“So,whenIwasresearchingthearticle,IcameuponamancalledDavidThomsen.ThomsenwithanE.”
“Yes,”saysPhin.“Myfather.”
LibbyseesakindoftriumphantrelieffloodacrossMiller’sface.Heexhalesandsays,“Andyourmother—Sally?”
“Yes,Sallyismymother.”
“AndClemency…?”
“Mysister,yes.”
“Andthethirdbody…”
“Wasmyfather.”Phinnods.“Spot-on.Suchashameyoudidn’tworkallthatoutbeforeyouwroteyourarticle.”
“Well,Ikindofdid.ButIcouldn’tfindanyofyou.Isearchedformonths,withoutatrace.So,whathappenedtoyouall?”
“Well,Iknowwhathappenedtome.ButI’mafraidIhavenoideawhathappenedtomymotherandClemency.”
“Youhaven’tstayedintouch?”
“Farfromit.Ihaven’tseenthemsinceIwasateenager.AsfarasI’mawaremymotherlivesinCornwallandI’mgoingtoassumethatmysisterdoes,too.”Heshrugsandpicksuphiswineglass.“Penreath,”hesays.
Millerthrowshimaquizzicallook.
“I’mprettysureshelivesinPenreath.”
“Oh,”saysMiller.“That’sgreat,thankyou.”
“Youareverywelcome,”hereplies.Thenherubshishandstogetherandsays,“Askmesomethingelse!Askmewhatreallyhappenedonthenightthateverybodydied.”
Millersmilesgrimlyandsays,“OK.So,whatreallyhappenedthen?Onthenightthateveryonedied?”
Phinlooksatbothofthem,mischievously,thenleansinsothathismouthisdirectlyoverthemicrophoneonMiller’sphoneandsays,“Well,forastart,itwasn’tsuicide.Itwasmurder.”
37
Chelsea,1991
Phinwasgoneforaweek.Icouldhardlybearthepointlessnessofeverythingwithouthimaround.Withhiminthehouse,everyjourneytothekitchenwasripewiththepossibilityofseeinghisface,everymorningbeganwiththethoughtofpotentialencounters.WithouthimIwasinadarkhousefullofstrangers.
Andthen,aweeklater,Iheardthefrontdoorslamandvoicesrisingfromthehallway,andtherewasPhin,Sallybehindhim,talkinginurgenttonestoDavid,whostoodwithhisarmsfoldedacrosshisstomach.
“Ididnottellhimtocome.ForGod’ssake.That’sthelastthingIwouldhavedone.It’sbadenoughmeoverstayingmywelcomeatToni’s.Letalonemyteenageson.”
Davidsaid,“Whydidn’tyoucall?”
“Hetoldmeyouknewhewascoming!HowwasIsupposedtoknow?AndIcalledyounow,didn’tI?”
“Ithoughthe’dbeenkilled.We’vebeenworriedsick.”
“We?Whothefuckis‘we’?”
“Us,”saidDavid.“Allofus.Andpleasedon’tusethatlanguageinourhome.”
“Phintellsmeyouhithim.”
“Oh,Ididnothithim.ForGod’ssake.Itwasaslap.”
“Youslappedhim?”
“GoodGod,Sal,youhavenoidea,noideaatallwhatit’slikelivingwiththischild.He’srude.Hesteals.Hetakesdrugs.Hedisrespectstheotherhousemates—”
Sallyputherhandupbetweenthem.“Enough,”shesaid.“He’sateenager.He’sagoodkid,buthe’sateenager.Itcomeswiththeterritory.”
“Well,thatmightbetrueinyourslightlypatheticviewoftheworld.Buttherestoftheworldwoulddisagree.There’snoexcuseforanyofit.IwouldneverhavedreamedofbehavinginsuchawaywhenIwashisage.It’sdiabolical.”
IsawSally’shandgripPhin’sshoulder.Isawhercheekshollow.Thenshesaid,“I’mlookingataflattomorrow.InHammersmith.Twobedrooms.Wecanstartsplittingaccesstothechildren.”
Davidlookedskeptical.“Howareyougoingtopayforit?”
“I’vebeenworking,andsaving.”
“Well,we’llsee.Butseriously,Idon’tthinkPhin’ssafeinyourcare.You’retoosoftonhim.”
“Iamnotsoft,David,Iamloving.Youmightwanttotryitsometime.”
Sallystayedforacoupleofhours.Theatmospherewastoxic.Birdiedidn’tcomedownfromherroom,butIheardherostentatiouslycoughingandsighingandpacing.WhenSallyfinallyleft,BirdiesweptdownthestairsandthrewherselfintoDavid’sarmsandwhisperedmelodramatically,“AreyouOK,mydarling?”
Davidnoddedstoically.“I’mfine.”
Andthen,lookingstraightatPhin,henarrowedhiseyesandsaidthewordsthatsignaledthebeginningoftherealnightmare.
Hesaid,“Thingsaregoingtochangearoundhere.Youmarkmywords.”
ThefirstthingthatchangedwasthatPhinwaslockedinhisbedroomwheneverDavidorBirdiewasunabletomonitorhim.Somehowtheadultscolludedtopersuadeusthatthiswasnormal,explicable,sane,even.It’sforhisownsafetywasthemantra.
Hewasallowedouttoshower,totendthegarden,tohelpinthekitchen,forfiddlelessons,meals,andexerciseclasses.
Sincewealreadyspentmostofourfreetimeinourrooms,thisdidn’tatfirstfeelquiteassinisterasitlookswrittendownlikethis.It’sverystrange,lookingback,howacceptingchildrencanbeoftheoddestscenarios.Butstill,seeingitnow,inblackandwhite,itreallyisquiteshocking.
Iwassittingcross-leggedonmybedonedayshortlyafterPhinreturnedwithhismother.Iwasreadingabookthathe’dlentmeafewweeksearlier.IjumpedatthesightofhimbecauseitwaslateeveningandI’dassumedhisdoorwouldbelockedforthenight.
“How…?”Ibegan.
“Justinbroughtmeupafterdinner,”hesaid.“Accidentally-on-purposeforgottoturnthelockproperly.”
“GoodoldJustin,”Isaid.“Whatareyougoingtodo?Youwon’trunaway,willyou?”
“No,”hesaid.“Nopointnow.Mymum’smovingintotheflatnextweekandthenI’mgoingtolivewithher.Allthisshitwillbeover.”
Ifeltasifhe’dpunchedmeinthethroat.MyvoicecrackedasIreplied,“Butyourdad—willheletyou?”
“Idon’tgiveafuckwhetherheletsmeornot.I’llbesixteeninDecember.Iwanttolivewithmymum.There’snotmuchhecandoaboutit.”
“AndwhataboutClemency?”
“She’llcome,too.”
“DoyouthinkyourdadandBirdiewillmoveout,too?OnceyouandClemencyaregone?”
Helaughedharshly.“Er,no.Noway.He’sherenow.Feetunderthetable.Goteverythinggoinghisway.”
Asmallsilencedrewoutbetweenus.ThenPhinsaid,“Rememberthatnight?Whenwewentupontheroof?Whenwetooktheacid?”
Inoddedeffusively.HowcouldIforget?
“Youknowthere’sanotherone.Stillupthere.”
“Another…?”
“Tab.Anothertabofacid.TheguyatKensingtonMarketgavemetwo.Weonlyhadone.”
Iletthisfactpercolatewithinmeforamoment.
“Areyousaying…?”
“Iguess.Imean,theyallthinkI’msafelylockedup.Thegirlsareasleep.Noonewillcomeupnow.Youcouldgodownandtelleveryoneyou’regoingtobed,thenbringupaglassofwater.I’llwaithere.”
OfcourseIdidpreciselyasIwastold.
Wegrabbedablanketandputonsweaters.Iwentfirstthroughthehatch;Phinpassedmethewaterandthenfollowedupbehindme.ItwasJulybuttheairwasdampandcool.Phinlocatedthelittlebagwherehe’dleftitinaplantpot.Ididn’treallywanttotakeit.Ihopedthatithadsomehowlostitstoxicityduringthemanymonthsithadsatoutthere,subjecttotheelements.Ihopedthatasuddengustofwindwouldblowitaway.OrthatPhinwouldputitbackandsay,Wedon’tneedthat.Wehaveeachother.
Webrushedsomedeadleavesfromtheplasticchairsandsatsidebyside.
Phintippedthetabintothepalmofhishand.
Theskywasremarkable.Royalblue,burntamber,lipstickpink.Itdoubleditselfinthefaceoftheriver.Inthedistance,BatterseaBridgesparkled.
IsawPhinwatchthesky,too.Itfeltdifferentfromthelasttimewe’dbeenuphere.Phinfeltdifferent.Morepensive,lessrebellious.
“Whatdoyouthinkyou’llendupdoing?”heaskedme.“Whenyou’regrownup?”
“Somethingtodowithcomputers,”Isaid.“Orfilmmaking.”
“Orboth,maybe?”hesuggested.
“Yes,”Iagreedhappily.“Makingfilmswithcomputers.”
“Cool,”hesaid.
“Andwhataboutyou?”
“IwanttoliveinAfrica,”hesaid.“Beasafariguide.”
Ilaughed.“Wheredidthatcomefrom?”
“Wedidasafariwhenweweretraveling.Iwassix.Wesawhipposhavingsex.That’swhatImainlyremember.ButIalsojustreallyremembertheguide.ThisreallycoolEnglishguy.HewascalledJason.”
Inoticedahintoflonginginhisvoiceatthispoint.ItmademefeelclosertohiminawayIcouldn’tfullyprocess.
“Iremembersayingtomyparentsthatthat’swhatIwantedtodowhenIgrewup.MydadsaidI’dnevermakemyfortunedrivingtouristsaroundinaLandRover.Asifmoneywastheonlythingthatmatters…”
Hesighedandglanceddownintothepalmofhishand.“So,”hesaid,“shallwe?”
“Justatinybit,”Isaid.“Likeareallytinybit.”
Thenextcoupleofhoursunfoldedlikeabeautifuldream.Wewatchedtheskyuntilallthedifferentcolorshadconsolidatedtoblack.Wetalkedremarkablenonsenseaboutthemeaningofexistence.Wegiggleduntilwehiccupped.
AtonepointPhinsaid,“You’llhavetocome,sometimes,whenImovetoHammersmith.You’llhavetocomeandstay.”
“Yes.Yesplease.”
AndthenatsomeotherpointIsaid,“WhatwouldyoudoifIkissedyou?”
AndPhinlaughedandlaughedandlaugheduntilhegotacoughingfit.HewasdoubledoverwithmirthandIwatchedhimwithablindsmile,tryingtofathomthemeaningofhisresponse.
“No,”Isaid,“really?Whatwouldyoudo?”
“I’dpushyouoffthisroof,”hesaid,stillsmiling.Thenhespreadhisfingersapartandsaid,“Splat.”
Imademyselflaugh.Haha.Sofunny.
Thenhesaid,“Comeon,let’sgetoutofhere.”
“Andgowhere?”
“I’llshowyou.Followme.”
AndIdidfollowhim.Stupid,stupidboythatIwas.Ifollowedhimbackontotheatticlandingandoutofawindowandthendownthesideofthehouseinsomedreadfulawe-inducing,nausea-inspiringactofdaredevilinsanity.
“Whatareyoudoing?”Ikeptasking,myfingernailsdugintobarebrick,mytrouserlegsbreakingapartonjutsofmasonry.“Wherearewegoing?”
“It’smysecretroute!”hesaid,lookingupatmewithwildeyes.“Let’sgototheriver!Noonewillknow!”
Bythetimewelandedflat-footedonthelawnIwasbleedingfromthreedifferentplaces,butIdidn’tcare.IfollowedhimashesteppedthroughtheshadowstoagatethatIhadnoideaexistedatthefootofourgarden.Suddenly,Narnia-like,wewereinsomeoneelse’sgardenandthenPhingrabbedmyhandandhoikedmearoundtwocorners,throughthemagicalgloomofChelseaEmbankment,acrossfourlanesoftraffic,andontotheriverside.Hereheletmyhanddrop.Foramomentwestood,silently,sidebyside,andwatchedgoldandsilverwormswrigglingacrossthesurfaceofthewater.IkeptstaringatPhin,wholookedmorebeautifulthaneverinthedark,movinglight.
“Stopstaringatme,”hesaid.
Istaredathimharder.
“Imeanit,”hesaid.“Stopstaring.”
ButIstaredharderstill.
Andthenhepushedme,withbothhishands,pushedmehardandintotheblackwaterandthenIwasunderandmyearsfilledwithechoingbubbles,andmyclothesbecameheavyandattachedthemselvestomyskinandItriedtoscreambutswallowedinsteadandmyhandsfeltfortheriverwallandmylegskickedagainstthick,gloopynothing.AndthenmyeyesopenedandIsawfaces:aconstellationofblackenedfacescirclingmine,andItriedtotalktothem,triedtoaskthemtohelpme,buttheyallturnedawayandthenIwascomingup,apainaroundmywrist,Phin’sfaceabove,draggingmeupthestonestepsandontothebank.
“Youbloodyloony,”hesaid,andlaughed,asthoughIweretheonewhohadchosentofallintotheThames,asthoughitwerealljusthighjinks.
Ishovedhim.“Youfuckingbastard!”Iscreamed,mynot-yet-brokenvoicesoundingshrillandunbearable.“Youabsolutefuckingbastard!”
Istormedpasthim,acrossfourlanesoftraffic,causingsomeonetohoottheirhornatme,andtothefrontdoorofthehouse.
Phinchasedmeandapproachedmeatthefrontdoor,breathlessly.
“Whatthefuckareyoudoing?”
Ishouldhavestoppedthereandthen,Ireallyshould.Ishouldhavetakenadeepbreathandevaluatedthesituationandmadeadifferentdecision.ButIwassoengorgedwithrage,notbornjustofbeingpushedintothefreezing,filthyThames,butofyearsofPhin’sblowinghotandcoldatme,ofgivingmetitbitsofattentionwhenitwasinhisintereststodosoandtotallyignoringmewhenitwasn’t.AndIlookedathim,andhewasdryandbeautifulandIwaswetandugly,andIturnedandveryfirmlypressedmyfingertipintothedoorbell.
Hestaredatme.Icouldseehimdecidingwhethertostayortorun.ButasecondlaterthedooropenedanditwasDavidandhelookedfrommetoPhinandbackagainandhisshouldersroseupandhismouthtightenedandhelookedlikeacagedanimalabouttopounce.Veryslowlyandthunderouslyhesaid,“Getinsidenow.”
Phinturnedthenandbegantorun,buthisfatherwastallerthanhim,fitterthanhim;hecaughtupwithhimbeforePhinhadevenmadeittothecornerofthestreetandfelledhimtothepavement.Iwatchedwithmychintippedupdefensively,myteethchatteringinsidemychildskull,myarmswrappedaroundmybody.
Mymotherappearedatthedoor.“Whatthehellisgoingon?”sheasked,peeringoverthetopofmyhead.“Whatonearthhaveyoubeendoing?”
“Phinpushedmeintheriver,”Istutteredthroughmychatteringteeth.
“DearJesus,”shesaid,pullingmeintothehouse.“DearJesus.Getin.Takeoffthoseclothes.Whatthehell…”
Ididn’tgoinandtakemyclothesoff.IstoodandwatchedDaviddraghisfullygrownsonacrossthepavement,likeafreshkill.
That’sitthen,Ithought,that’sit.
38
OnWednesdaymorning,aftertwonightsinaratherbasicB&B,andachoppycrossingovertheremainderoftheEnglishChannel,LucyrentsacaratPortsmouthandtheybeginthedrivetoLondon.
ItwaswinterwhensheleftEnglandandinherminditisalwayscoldthere,thetreesarealwaysbare,thepeoplealwayswrappedupagainstinclementweather.ButEnglandisinthegripofalonghotsummerandthestreetsarefulloftanned,happypeopleinshortsandsunglasses,thepavementsarecoveredintables,therearefountainsfullofchildrenanddeckchairsoutsideshops.
StellastaresoutofthewindowinthebackofthecarwithFitzonherlap.She’sneverleftFrancebefore.She’sneverlefttheC?ted’Azurbefore.HershortlifehasbeenlivedentirelyonthestreetsofNice,betweentheBlueHouse,Mémé’sflat,andhernurseryschool.
“WhatdoyouthinkofEngland,then?”Lucyasks,lookingatherintherearviewmirror.
“Ilikeit,”saysStella.“It’sgotgoodcolors.”
“Goodcolors,eh?”
“Yes.Thetreesareextragreen.”
LucysmilesandMarcogivesherthenextdirectiontowardthemotorwayfromtheGoogleMapsapp.
ThreehourslaterLondonstartstoappearinflashesofshabbyhighstreet.
SheseesMarcoturntofacethewindow,expectingBigBenandBuckinghamPalaceandinsteadgettingDixiefriedchickenandsecondhandappliancestores.
FinallytheycrosstheThamesanditisaglorioussunnyday:theriverglitterswithdroppeddiamondsofsunlight;thehousesofCheyneWalkgleambrightly.
“Hereweare,”shesaystoMarco.“Thisistheplace.”
“Whichone?”heasks,slightlybreathlessly.
“There,”saysLucy,pointingatnumbersixteen.Hertoneislightbutherheartracespainfullyatthesightofthehouse.
“Theonewiththehoarding?”saysMarco.“Thatone?”
“Yes,”shesays,peeringatthehousewhilealsokeepinganeyeoutforparking.
“It’sbig,”hesays.
“Yes,”shesays.“Itcertainlyis.”
Butstrangely,itlookssmallertohernow,throughadults’eyes.Asachildshethoughtitwasamansion.Nowshecanseeitisjustahouse.Abeautifulhouse,butstill,justahouse.
ItbecomesclearthatthereisnoparkingtobehadanywherenearthehouseandtheyendupattheotherendoftheKing’sRoad,inaspaceinWorld’sEndthatrequiresdownloadingaparkingappontoherphone.
It’seighty-sixdegrees,ashotasthesouthofFrance.
Bythetimetheygettothehousetheyareallsweatingandthedogispanting.
Thewoodenhoardingispadlocked.Theystandinarowandstudythebuilding.
“Areyousurethisistherighthouse?”saysMarco.“Howdoesanyonelivehere?”
“Nooneliveshereatthemoment,”shesays.“Butwe’regoingtogoinsideandwaitfortheotherstoarrive.”
“Buthowarewegoingtogetin?”
Lucybreathesindeeplyandsays,“Followme.”
39
Libbyawakesthenextmorninginashaftofbrightsunlight.Shetrailsherhandacrossthefloorbeneathherbedandthenacrossthetopofthebedsidetabletryingtolocateherphone.It’snotthere.Thenightfeelsfurryandunformed.Shesitsupquicklyandscanstheroom.Itisasmallwhiteroomandsheisonaverylowwoodenbedwithanenormousmattress.AndsoisMiller.
Sheinstinctivelyclutchesthesheettoherchestbeforerealizingthatsheisdressed;sheiswearingthetopshehadonthenightbefore,andherunderwear.ShevaguelyrememberspullingoffhershortswhileMillerwasinthebathroomandduckingunderthecover.Shevaguelyremembersswillingwithtoothpasteandcanfeelitstillstucktoherteeth.Shevaguelyremembersalotofthings.
SheisinPhin’sflat.
SheisinbedwithMiller.
Theyarebothdressedandsleepingtoptotoe.
LastnightPhinpouredthemglassafterglassofwine.Andinsisted,almosttothepointofbeingabitweirdaboutit,thattheystay.
“Don’tgo,”hesaid.“Please.Ionlyjustfoundyou.Idon’twanttoloseyouagain.”
Andshesaid,“You’renotgoingtoloseme.We’revirtuallyneighborsnow.Look!”Andshepointedacrosstheriveratthenoblerowofhouseswherenumbersixteensat.
“Please,”hewheedled,hislongeyelashestouchinghisperfectlycoiffedeyebrows.“It’sgottobebetterthansleepingonthosemankyoldmattressesoverthere.Comeon.I’llmakeyouadeliciousbreakfastinthemorning!I’vegotavocado.That’swhatyoumillennialslike,isn’tit?”
“Iprefereggs,”Millerreplied.
“Areyouactuallyamillennial?”Phinaskedhim,eyesnarrowed,slightlybitchy.
“Just,”Millerreplied.“ButImissedtheavocadomoment.”
Libbylooksatthetimeonthealarmclockonthebedsidetablenowandworksoutthatifsheleavesineightminutesshe’llstillmakeittoworkbynineo’clock.Whichislate,forher,butfineintermsofthephoneringingandcustomerswalkinginoffthestreet.
Sheslideshershortsbackonandhaulsherselfoffthelow-slungbed.
Millerstirs.
Sheglancesathim.
SheseesthesuggestionofatattooonhisupperarmwherethesleeveofhisT-shirthasriddenup.Shecan’tbeartattoos.Whichmakesdatingparticularlyawkwardinthisdayandage.Buthelookssweet,shecan’thelpobserving.Softandappealing.
Shepullshergazefromhissleepingformandtiptoestotheensuitebathroomshevaguelyremembersusingverylatelastnight.Inthemirrorshelooksreasonablyunscathed.Thepreviousmorning’sblow-dryhassurvivedallthesubsequentadventures.Sheswillsagainwithtoothpasteandgargleswithtapwater.Shepullsherhairbackintoaponytailandfindsacanofdeodorantinthebathroomcabinet.
WhenshecomesbackintothebedroomMillerisawake.
Hesmilesather.“Goodmorning,”hesays.Hestretcheshisarmsabovehisheadandsheseesthefullextentofhistattoo.It’ssomekindofCelticthing.Itcouldbeworse.
“I’mgoingnow,”shesays,pickingupherhandbag.
“Goingwhere?”
“Work,”shesays.
“God,areyoureally?Youdon’tthinkyourbosswouldgiveyouthemorningoff?”
Shepauses.Ofcourseshewouldgiveherthemorningoff.ButLibbydoesn’tworklikethat.Itmakesherfeeledgyjustthinkingaboutit.
“No,”shesays.“Iwanttogotowork.I’vegotabigday.Someclientmeetingsinthediary.”
“Youdon’twanttoletpeopledown?”
“Idon’twanttoletpeopledown.”
“Well,”hesays,throwingbackthesheet,revealingthefactthatheiswearingred-and-bluejerseyboxershortsandhassolidrugby-playerlegs,“givemethirtysecondsandI’llcomewithyou.”
“Youdon’tknowwheremyphoneis,doyou?”sheasks.
“Noidea,”hesays,haulinghimselfoutofbedandpullingonhistrousers.
Hishairisnuts.Hisbeardisalsonuts.Shestiflesasmile.“Areyougoingto,youknow,checkyourreflection?”
“ShouldI?”Helooksconfused.
Shethinksofthetimeandsays,“No.Youlookfine.Let’sgoandfindourphonesandgetoutofhere.”
Sheputsherhandonthedoorhandleandpushesitdown.Thedoordoesnotopen.Shepushesagain.Again,itdoesnotopen.Shepushesitfourmoretimes.
ThensheturnstoMillerandsays,“It’slocked.”
40
Chelsea,1991
DavidkeptPhinshutupinhisroomforaweekafterthenighthepushedmeintotheriver.Awholeweek.IwasgladinsomewaysbecauseIcouldn’tbeartolookPhinintheeyes.Hehadpushedmeintheriver,butwhatIhaddonewasmuch,muchworse.
ButmainlyIjustached.Iachedwithremorse,withregret,withfury,withhelplessness,andwithmissinghim.Phin’smealswerebroughttohimandhewasallowedtoiletvisitstwiceaday,hisfatherhoveringoutsidethedoorwithhisarmsfoldedacrosshisstomachlikeamalevolentbouncer.
Theatmosphereinthehouseduringthosedayswasponderousandimpossibletoread.EverythingemanatedfromDavid.Heradiatedaterribledarkenergyandeveryoneavoidedangeringhimfurther,includingme.
OneafternoonduringPhin’sincarceration,IsatwithJustin,sortingherbswithhim.IglancedupatthebackofthehousetowardPhin’swindow.
“Don’tyouthinkit’sbad,”Isaid,“thatDavid’slockingPhinuplikethat?”
Heshrugged.“Hecouldhavekilledyou,mate.Youcouldhavedied.”
“Yeah,Iknow.Buthedidn’t.Ididn’t.It’sjust…wrong.”
“Well,yeah,it’sprobablynothowI’ddothings,butthenI’mnotadad,Idon’tknowwhatit’sliketohavekids.David’sjustdoing‘hisjob,’Iguess.”Hemadequotesintheairashesaidthesewords.
“Hisjob?”Isaid.“Whatdoyoumean?”
“Well,youknow,havingultimatecontroloverabsolutelyeverything.”
“Ihatehim,”Isaid,myvoicebreakingunexpectedly.
“Yeah,well,thatmakestwoofus.”
“Whydon’tyouleave?”
Heglancedfirstatmeandthenatthebackdoor.“Iintendto,”hewhispered.“Butdon’ttellasoul,OK?”
Inodded.
“There’sasmallholding.InWales.ThiswomanImetatthemarkettoldmeaboutit.They’relookingforsomeonetosetupanherbgarden.It’llbelikehere,freeboardandlodgingandallthat.Butnofuckingdick-swingingoverlords.”Herolledhiseyestowardthehouseagain.
Ismiled.Dick-swingingoverlord.Ilikedit.
“Whenareyougoing?”
“Soon,”hesaid.“Reallysoon.”Helookedupatme,quickly.“Wanttocomewith?”
Iblinked.“ToWales?”
“Yeah.ToWales.Youcancarryonbeingmylittleapprenticebuddy.”
“ButI’monlyfourteen.”
Hedidn’tsayanything,justnoddedandcontinuedtyingtheherbs.
Itwasn’tuntilalittlelaterthatthesignificanceofwhathe’dsaidhitme.HewasnotinvitingmetoWalestobehislittleapprenticebuddy;hewasn’tinvitingmebecauseheneededme.HewasinvitingmebecausehethoughtI’dbesafertherethaninmyownhome.
Justindisappearedtwodayslater.HetoldnobodyhewasgoingandleftsoearlyinthemorningthatevenDavidhadyettowakeup.HavinglearnedalessonabouttellingtalesfromwhathadhappenedwithPhin,ItoldnobodyabouttheWelshsmallholding.Igottheimpressionhedidn’twantanyonetoknowwherehewasgoing.Iwalkedintohisroomlaterthatday.He’darrivedwithverylittle,andleftwithevenless.Iwenttothewindowsillwhereallhisbookssatinarow.
TheModernBookofWitchcraftandSpells.
WiccaforBeginners
WiccaBookofHerbalSpells
Ifeltsurehe’dleftthemformeonpurpose.
Iglancedoutintothehallwayand,havingascertainedthattherewasnobodyabout,Ibundledthebooksundermysweater.
Iwasabouttorunbacktomybedroomwhenmyeyeswerecaughtbysomethingelseonhisbedsidetable.Somethingsmallandfurry.Ithoughtatfirstitwasadeadmouse,butuponinspectionIfoundittobeadisembodiedrabbit’sfootattachedtoasmalllengthofchain.Ihadavagueideathatitwassupposedtobeluckyinsomeway,likeheatherandfour-leafedclovers.Ijammeditquicklyintomypocketandrantomybedroom,whereIslideverythingundermymattress.
IalwaysexpectedtohearfromJustinagain.
AfterthebodieswerediscoveredandthepolicewereinvestigatingthedeathsandtryingtotracetheLambs’“tragicmissingchildren,”IwaitedandIwaitedforJustintosuddenlyappearonthesixo’clocknewstotalkabouthistimeinthehouse,abouthowDavidThomsenusedtolockhisteenagesoninhisbedroomandtelleveryonewhattoeatandwhattowearandwheretheycouldandcouldn’tgo.
I’veGoogledJustinsince,many,manytimes,butfoundnotraceofhim,anywhere.Icanonlyassumeeitherthathedied,thatheemigratedsomewhereobscureandremote,orthatheknewwhathadhappenedtousallbuthaddecidedtokeepsilentandnotgetinvolved.Whateverthetruth,Iwasalwayssecretlyrelieved.Butoncehewasgone,Imissedhim.Ihadn’tlikedhimatfirst,buthe’dturnedouttobetheleastofmybloodyproblems.
Monthspassed.Summerturnedtowinter.ItookoverJustin’sherbgarden.Davidactivelyencouragedthisasitfitwithhisideology.Childrenshouldbehardatworkdoingwholesomethings.Theyshouldnotbelearningskillsthatmightbringthemintotheevilwaysofcapitalism.HehadnoideaaboutthebooksundermybedortheveryparticularskillsetIwasdeveloping.EacheveningIbroughtwhoeverwascookinghandfulsoffreshbasilandfreshmint,andwaspettedandapprovedof.Birdieevenranmeabathonenightwhenshesawmeoutintheraincoveringoversomedelicatenewseedlings.
“You’redoingagoodjob,”shesaid,handingmeatowelasIwalkedupthestairs.“David’sverypleasedwithyou.”
David’sverypleasedwithyou.
Iwantedtobiteher,likeadog.
Predictably,SallyhadnotgottheflatinHammersmithandwasstillonthesofainBrixtonandwasnowtalkingaboutmovingdowntoCornwall.
ShearrivedoneeveningwithPhinandClemencyintow,threehourslateaftertakingthemtoafriend’spartyfortheafternoon,where,itwasclear,shehadbeendrinkingheavily.Ihadseenadultsdrunkbefore,manytimes,whenmyparentswerestillsociableandthrewpartieseveryweekend.ButI’mnotsureI’dseenanyonequiteasdrunkasSallywasthatevening.
“Ican’tbelieve,”IheardDavidsayinavoicetensewithanger,“thatyouthinkthereisachanceinhellthatanyonewouldletthesechildrenlivewithyou.Lookatthestateofyou.”
“You!”saidSally.“Youcantalk!Lookatthestateofyou!Whodoyouthinkyouare?You’repathetic.Pathetic.Youandthatuglygirl.AndGodknowswhoelseyou’refucking.Godknows.”
IsawDavidtryingtomanhandleSallytowardthedoor.Icouldtellhereallywantedtohitherandwastryinghishardestnotto.
Butthenmymotherappeared.“I’llmakeyouacoffee,”shesaid,touchingSally’selbow,throwingDavidawarningglance.“Comeon.Let’sgetyousortedout.”
Ifeignedignoranceofthedramaandappearedinthekitchenamomentlater.
“Justgettingsomewater,”Isaid,thoughnobodyreallycared.Ipretendedtoleavebutskulkedquietlyjustinsidethepantrydoor.
Sallywascrying,silently,ahandkerchiefpressedtoherface.Iheardhersay,“Pleasekeepthemsafe.Pleasekeepthemsafeforme.Ijustdon’tknowifI’lleverbeableto…”Therestofherwordswereswallowedupbyariverboathonkingitshornbeyondthefrontdoor.“I’msoworried.PhintoldmeaboutbeinglockedinhisroomandIcansee,yes,thathedidabadthing.ImeanGod,Iknow,Henrycouldhavedied.Butit’sjustso…cold?Isn’tit?Tolockachildawaylikethat?He’ssuchacoldman…”
“YouknowwhatDavidislike,”repliedmymother.“It’shiswayofkeepingeverythingtogether.Hesavedus,Sally.Hereallydid.Beforehecame,Icouldnotseethepointoflivingeachday.ButnowIwakeupeachmorningandIfeelhappyaboutmyexistence.Aboutmyself.Iamnottakingfromtheplanet.Iamnotplunderingtheearth.Iamnotcontributingtoglobalwarming.Mychildrenarenotgoingtoendupsittingbehindglass-toppeddeskstakingmoneyfromthepoor.Ijustwish,”shesaid,“thatDavidhadcomeintoourlivesmanyyearsbefore.”
41
Libbybangsherfistsagainstthedoor.Millerbangshis,too.Thedoorisasolidfiredoor.Hegoestothewindowtoseeifthereareanymeansofescapethere,butitissealedshutandleadsonlytoasheerten-floordrop.
Theysearchtheroomonceagainfortheirphonesbutfailtounearththem.
Afterhalfanhourtheystopbangingandsitdefeatedonthefloorwiththeirbacksagainstthefootofthebed.
“Nowwhat?”saysLibby.
“Let’sgiveithalfanhourandthenI’lltryandkickitdown.”
“Whydon’tyoutryandkickitdownnow?”
“I’mnotasstrongasIlook,youknow.I’vegotanoldbackinjury.Ihavetobecareful.”
“Tenminutesthen,”shesays.
“OK,tenminutes.”
“Whatthehelldoyouthinkhe’splayingat?”sheasks.
“Ihaveliterallynoclue.”
“Doyouthinkhe’sgoingtokillus?”
“Oh,Idoubtit.”
“Thenwhyhashelockedusinhere?”
“Byaccident,maybe?”
Libbyglancesathimdisbelievingly.“Youdon’treallybelievethat,doyou?”Thealarmclocksaysthatitisnow7:37a.m.She’sstilltryingtocalculatehowlateshe’sgoingtobeforworkwhentheybothsitupstraightatthesoundofadoorbanging.Thentheyhearavoice.It’sPhin’svoiceandhe’saddressingoneofthecats.Theyhearkissy-kissysounds.Theyjumptotheirfeetandstarttopoundonthebedroomdooragain.
AmomentlaterthedooropensandPhinispeeringatthem.
“OhGod,”hesays,hishandclampedoverhismouth.“OhGod.Iamsosorry.Ihavethisterriblesleepwalkinghabit.I’vewalkedinonhouseguestsbefore—actuallytriedtogetintobedwiththemonce.SoIlockedyouinbeforeIwenttobed.AndthenIwokeupthismorningstupidlyearlyanddecidedtogoforarun.Completelyforgotaboutyoutwo.Iamsoincrediblysorry.Comeonnow.Come.Let’shavebreakfast.”
“Ican’thavebreakfast.I’mlateforwork.”
“Oh,justcallthemup,tellthemwhathappened.I’msurethey’llunderstand.Comeon.Igotfreshorangejuiceandeverything.It’sabeautifuldayagain.Wecaneatontheterrace.Please.”
He’sdoingthethingagain,thewheedlingthinghedidthenightbefore.Libbyfeelstrapped.
“Whydidn’tyoutellus?”shesays,“Lastnight?Whydidn’tyoutellusyouweregoingtolockthedoor?Ortellustolockitfromtheinside?”
“Itwasverylate,”hereplies,“andIwasverydrunk,andverystupid.”
“Youreallyfreakedusout,youknow.Iwasreallyscared.”Libbyfeelshervoicecrackingonherwords,thetensionofthelastmomentsstartingtofade.
“Pleaseforgiveme,”hesays.“I’manidiot.Iwasn’tthinking.YouwereasleepandIdidn’twanttowakeyou.Ijustlockedit.Mindlessly.Comeon.Comeandhavesomethingtoeat.”
SheandMillerexchangeaglance.Shecantellhewantstostay.Shenods.“OK,then,butjustaquickone.And,Phin?”
Helooksathersweetly.
“Whereareourphones?”
“Oh,”hesays.“Aretheynotinyourroom?”
“No,”shereplies.“Neitherofthem.”
“Well,youmusthaveleftthemoutlastnight.Let’sfindthem.”
Theyfollowhimdownthehallwayandbackintotheopen-planlivingroom.“Oh,”hesayslightly.“Heretheyare.Youleftthemcharginginthekitchen.Wemustallhavebeenvery,verydrunklastnighttohavebeenthatorganized.Go,”hesays,“goandsitontheterrace.I’llbringbreakfastouttoyou.”
Theysitnexttoeachotheronthesofa.Thesunisshiningontheothersideoftheriverbanknow,pickingoutthewindowsofthehousesonCheyneWalk.
ShefeelsMillermoveclosertoher.“Itdoesn’twash,”hehissesinherear.“Idon’tbuythe‘IwasdrunksoIlockedyouinyourbedroomwithouttellingyou’story.AndIdon’tbuythemobilephonethingeither.Iwasdrunklastnight,butIremembermyphonebeinginmyhandwhenwewenttobed.Ismellarat.”
Libbynodsheragreement.“Iknow,”shesays.“Somethingdoesn’tquiteaddup.”
SheswitchesonherphoneandcallsDido.Itgoesthroughtohervoicemail.“It’salongstory,”shesays,“butI’mstillinChelsea.WouldyoubeabletoaskClairetotalktotheMorganswhentheycomeinatten?Shehasallthedetails.Andthenewestquotesareonthesystem.Theyjustneedtobeprintedoff.AndI’llbeinwaybeforemynextmeeting.Ipromise.I’msosorry,I’llexplaineverythingwhenIseeyou.AndifI’mnotinbytenthirty,callme.IfIdon’tanswer”—shelooksquicklybehindher,whereshecanseePhinstillatthekitchencounter,slicingbread—“I’minBatterseainanapartmentblockdirectlyoppositethehouse.OK?Idon’tknowwhatnumberitis.ButI’maboutthetenthfloorup.I’llseeyousoon.I’msorry.Andbye.”
SheendsthecallandlooksatMiller.
Helooksatherfromthecornerofhiseyeandsmilesgently.“Iwon’tletanythingbadhappentoyou,”hesays.“I’llmakesureyougettoworkforyournextmeeting.Alive.OK?”
Awashofaffectionfloodsthroughher.Shesmilesandnods.
Phinappearswithatrayandplacesitinfrontofthem.Scrambledeggs,smashedavocadosprinkledwithseeds,apileofdarkryetoast,apatofwhitebutter,andajugoficedorangejuice.“Howgooddoesthislook,”hesays,handingoutplates.
“Itlooksamazing,”saysMiller,rubbinghishandstogetherbeforestartingtopiletoastontohisplate.
“Coffee?”offersPhin.“Tea?”
Libbyasksforcoffeeandtopsitupwithmilkfromajug.Shepicksupasliceoftoastbutfindsshehasnoappetite.
ShelooksatPhin.Shewantstoaskhimsomethingaboutthestoryhetoldthemlastnightbutshecan’tquitegetagriponit;itkeepsmovingoutoftouchingdistance.SomethingtodowithawomancalledBirdiewhoplayedthefiddle.Somethingtodowithacat.SomethingtodowithalistofrulesandapagansacrificeandsomethingreallyverybadtodowithHenryJr.Butit’sallsovaguethatit’salmost,sheponders,asthoughhenevertoldthemanythingatall.Insteadshesays,“Doyouhaveanypicturesofyouallwhenyouwerechildren?”
“No,”herepliesapologetically.“Notaone.Remember,therewasnothinginthehousewhenweleft.Myfathersoldeverything,everylastshred.Andwhateverhedidn’tsell,hedumpedoncharityshops.But…”Hepauses.“Doyourememberasong?Fromtheeightiescalled…No,ofcourseyouwon’t,you’refartooyoung.ButtherewasasongbyabandcalledtheOriginalVersion?Itwasnumberoneforweeksthesummerbeforewecametoliveinthehouse.Birdie,thewomanIwastellingyouaboutlastnight.Shewasinthebandforawhile.BirdieandJustinbothwere.AndthevideowasfilmedinCheyneWalk.Doyouwanttoseeit?”
Libbygasps.ApartfromthephotoofherparentsintheireveningclothesinMiller’sGuardianarticle,thiswillbetheclosestshe’sbeentogettingasenseoftheplaceshecamefrom.
TheymoveintothelivingroomandPhinconnectshisphonetothehugeplasmaTVscreen.HerunsaYouTubesearchandthenpressesplay.
Libbyrecognizesthesongimmediately.Sheneverknewwhatitwascalledorwhoitwasby,butsheknowsitverywell.
Thevideoopenswiththebandperforminginfrontoftheriver.TheyarealldressedsimilarlyintweedandsuspendersandcapsandDocMartens.Therearemanyofthem,probablyabouttenmembersinall.Twoofthemarewomen,oneofwhomplaysthefiddle,theothersomekindofleatherydrum.
“There,”saysPhin,pausingthevideoandpointingatthescreen.“That’sBirdie.Herwiththelonghair.”
Libbystaresatthewomanonthescreen.Ascrawnything,weakchinnedandserious.Sheholdsherfiddlehardagainstherchinandstaresatthecameraimperiously.“That’sBirdie?”Libbysays.Shecannotequatethisfrail,unimpressive-lookingwomanwiththewomaninthestoryPhintoldthemlastnight,thesadisticwomanwhopresidedoverahouseholdofcrueltyandabuse.
Phinnods.“Yup.Fuckingevilbitch.”
Hepressesplayagainandthebandisnowinsideahouse,aglorious,riotoushousefilledwithoilpaintingsandoverblownfurniture,redvelvetthrones,gleamingswordsandpolishedpaneling,swaggedcurtains,mooseheads,stuffedfoxes,andglitteringchandeliers.Thecamerafollowsthebandastheyskipthroughthehousewiththeirinstruments,posingonanornatecarvedstaircase,chargingdownwood-paneledcorridors,play-fightingwiththeswords,modelingaknight’shelmet,astridethecannoninthefrontgarden,andinfrontofahugestonefireplacefullofburninglogs.
“OhmyGod,”saysLibby.“Itwassobeautiful.”
“Yes,”saysPhindryly,“wasn’tit?Andthatbitchandmyfathersystematicallydestroyedit.”
Libby’sgazereturnstotheimageonthetelevisionscreen.Tenyoungpeople,ahousefulloflifeandmoneyandenergyandwarmth.“Idon’tunderstand,”shesaysquietly,“howitallturnedoutthewayitdid.”
42
TheearlyafternoonsunisstillhotagainsttheirskinasLucy,thechildren,andthedogwalkaroundthecornertotheblockofflatsbehindnumbersixteenCheyneWalk.Theytiptoequicklythroughthecommunalgardentothericketydooratthebackandshegesturestothechildrentobesilentastheypassthroughthewoodyareaandoutontothelawn,whichisparchedbrownbythelonghotsummer
Shenoticeswithsurprisethatthebackdoortothehouseisunlocked.Apaneofglassisbroken.Thebreaksintheglasslookfresh.Ashiverrunsdownherspine.
Sheputsherhandthroughthebrokenpaneandturnsthehandleontheinside.Thedooropensandshebreathesasighofreliefthatshewon’thavetoscalethesideofthehousetogetinthroughtheroof.
“It’sscary,”saysStella,followingLucyintothehouse.
“Yes,”agreesLucy,“itis,abit.”
“Ithinkit’sawesome,”saysMarco,runninghishandacrossthetopofahugepillaredradiatorandgazingabouttheroom.
AssheshowsthechildrenaroundthehouseitfeelstoLucyasifnotonemoteofdustorstringofcobwebhasmovedsinceshewaslasthere.Itfeelsasthoughithasbeeninstasiswaitingforhertocomeback.Thesmell,whilemusty,isalsoeerilyfamiliar.Thewaythelightslicesthroughthedarkrooms,thesoundofherfeetagainstthefloorboards,theshadowsacrossthewalls.Itisallexactlythesame.Shetrailsherfingertipsacrosssurfacesastheystepthroughthehouse.Inthespaceofaweekshehasrevisitedthetwomostsignificanthousesofherlife,AntibesandChelsea,thetwoplaceswhereshewashurt,whereshewasbroken,fromwhichshewasforcedtoescape.Theweightofitallliesheavyinherheart.
Afterthetourofthehousetheysitoutinthegarden.Theshadowscastbytheovergrownfoliagearelongandcool.
LucywatchesMarcopickingaroundthegardenwithastick.He’swearingablackT-shirtandforafleetingmomentsheseeshimasHenry,tendinghisherbgarden.Shealmostjumpstoherfeettocheckhisface.Butthensheremembers:Henryisamannow.Notaboy.
ShetriestopictureHenry,butshecan’t.Shecanonlyseehimasshesawhimthatlastnighttheywerealltogether,thesetofhisjawagainsttheshockofwhathadhappened,thecandlelightflickeringacrosshischeeks,thedreadfulsilenceofhim.
“What’sthis?”Marcocallstoher.
Lucyputsherhandtoforeheadandpeersacrossthegarden.
“Oh,”shesays,standingandmovingtowardhim.“It’sanoldherbgarden.Oneofthepeoplewhousedtoliveheregrewmedicineouthere.”
Hestopsthenandholdsthesticklikeastaffbetweenhisfeetandlooksupatthebackofthehouse.“Whathappenedinthere?”heasks.
“Whatdoyoumean?”
“Imean,Icanjusttell.Thewayyou’vebeensincewegothere.Yourhandsareshaking.AndyoualwaysjustsaidyourauntbroughtyoutoFrancebecauseyouwereanorphan.ButI’mstartingtothinkthatsomethingreally,reallybadmusthavehappenedtomakeherbringyou.AndIthinkithappenedinthishouse.”
“We’lltalkaboutitlater,”shesays.“It’saverylongstory.”
“Whereareyourmumanddad?”hesays,andshecanseenowthatbringingMarcoherehasopenedupthedamstoallthethingsheneverthoughttoaskherbefore.“Wherearetheyburied?”
Shepullsinherbreath,smilestightly.“Ihavenoidea.Noideaatall.”
Lucyusedtowriteitalldown,constantly,whenshewasyounger.She’dbuyalinednotepadandapenandshe’dsitsomewhere,anywhere,andshe’dwriteitandshe’dwriteitandshe’dwriteit.Streamsofconsciousness.Phintiedtoapipeinhisbedroom,theadultsdead,thevanwaitingintheshadowswithitsenginerumbling,andthelongdarkdrivethroughthenight,theshell-shockedsilence,andthenthewaitingandthewaitingforthethingtocomeanditneverdidcomeandnow,twenty-fouryearslater,she’sstillwaitingforittocomeandit’ssocloseshecantasteitonthebackofhertongue.
Thiswasthestoryshewroteoverandoveragain.She’dwriteitandthenshe’dtearthepagesfromthenotepad,screwthemintoaball,andtosstheminabin,intothesea,intoadanksewer.She’dburnthemorsoakthemortearthemintoshreds.Butsheneededtowriteitdowntomakeitintoastoryinsteadofthetruthaboutherlife.
Andallthetimethetruthjangledathernerves,squeezedatherstomachmuscles,playeddrumsonherheart,tauntedherinherdreams,sickenedherwhensheawoke,andkeptherfromsleepingwhensheclosedhereyesatnight.
She’dalwaysknownthattheonlythingthatwouldbringherbacktoLondon,tothisplacewheresomanyterriblethingshadhappened,wasthebaby.
Butwhereisshe?She’sbeenhere,thatmuchisclear.Thereisevidencearoundthehouseofrecentactivity.Therearedrinksinthefridge,usedglassesinthesink,theholeinthebackdoor.
Nowshejusthastowaitforthebabytocomeback.
43
Chelsea,1992
Thenextthingthathappenedwasthatmymotherfellpregnant.
Well,clearlyitwasn’tmyfather’sbaby.Myfathercouldbarelygetoutofhischair.Andtheannouncement,whenitcame,wascuriouslyunsurprising.BecausebythisstageithadalreadybecomehideouslycleartomethatmymotherwasobsessedwithDavid.
I’dseenherthenighthefirstarrived,pullingbackfromhim,andI’dknownthenthatitwasbecauseshewasattractedtohim.AndI’dseenthatinitialattractionturntoinfatuationasmyfathergrewweakerandDavid’sinfluencegrewstronger.IcouldseethatmymotherwasunderDavid’sspellentirely,thatshewaswillingtosacrificeeverythingforDavidandhisapproval,includingherfamily.
ButlatelyI’dnoticedotherthings,too.
Ihearddoorsopeningandclosinglateatnight.Isawaflushuponmymother’sneck,feltloadedmoments,heardthingswhisperedurgently,smelledhissmellonherhair.IsawBirdieregardmymotherwatchfully,sawDavid’seyesuponpartsofmymother’sbodythatshouldhavebeennoconcernofhis.WhateverwashappeningbetweenmymotherandDavidwasferalandaliveandwasspreadingintoeverycornerofthehouse.
Theannouncementwasmadeasallannouncementsweremade,overthedinnertable.Davidmadetheannouncementofcourse,andashemadeithesatbetweenBirdieandmymotherholdingoneoftheirhandseach.Youcouldalmostseetheproudswellofthebloodunderhisepidermis.Hewassopleasedwithhimself.Whataguy.Twobirdsonthegoandnowabunintheoven.What.A.Guy.
MysisterimmediatelyburstintotearsandClemencyranfromthetableandcouldbeheardthrowingupinthetoiletbythebackdoor.
Istaredatmymotherinutterhorror.WhileIwasn’tentirelysurprisedbythedevelopment,Iwassurprisedthatshehadallowedittobeannouncedsopublicly,sohappily.Icouldnotbelievethatshehadn’tfeltthatmaybeaquiettête-à-têteinadarkcornermighthavebeenabetterwaytobreaksuchnewstoherchildren.Wasshenotembarrassed?Wasshenotashamed?
Itappearednot.Shegrabbedmysister’shandandsaid,“Darling,youalwayswantedalittlebrotherorsister.”
“Yes.Butnotlikethis!Notlikethis!”
Sodramatic,mylittlesister.ButonthisoccasionIcouldn’tsayIblamedher
“WhataboutDad?”Ipipeduphopelessly.
“Dadknows,”shesaid,nowclutchingmyhandandsqueezingthat,too.“Dadunderstands.Dadwantsmetobehappy.”
DavidsatbetweenBirdieandmymotherwatchinguscarefully.Icouldtellhewassimplyhumoringourmotherbyallowinghertocomfortus.Icouldtellhedidnotcareoneiotawhatwethoughtabouthimandhisrepulsiveactofpenetratingandimpregnatingourmother.Hecarednothingaboutanythingotherthanhimself
IlookedatBirdie.Sheappearedoddlytriumphant,asifthisweretheresultofsomegreatmasterplanofhers.
“I’mnotabletobearchildren,”shesaid,asthoughreadingmymind.
“Somymotheris—what?”Ifoundmyselfaskingquitesharply.“Ahumanincubator?”
Davidsighed.Hetouchedhislipswiththesideofhisfinger,aposeheaffectedfrequentlyandwhichtothisdaystillunnervesmewhenIseeotherpeopledoingit.“Thisfamilyneedsafocus,”hesaid.“Aheart.Areason.Thishouseneedsababy.Youramazingmotherisdoingthisforallofus.Sheisagoddess.”
Birdienoddedsagelyinagreement.
Clemencyreturnedatthispointlookingashenandunwell.Shefloppedheavilyintoherchairandshuddered.
“Darling,”Davidsaidtoher.“Trytolookatitthisway.Thiswillbringourtwofamiliestogether.Youfourwillallhavealittlebrotherorsisterincommon.Twofamilies”—hereachedfortheirhandsacrossthetable—“united.”
MysisterburstintofreshtearsandClemencykeptherhandpulledintoafist.
Birdiesighed.“Oh,forgoodness’sake,youtwo,”shehissed,“growup.”
IsawDavidthrowherawarninglook.Shereturnedthelookwithapetulanttossofherhead.
“Itwilltakeafewdaystogetusedtotheidea.Iunderstand,”saidDavid.“Butyouhavetotrustme.Thiswillbethemakingofusall.Itreallywillbe.Thisbabywillbethefutureofourcommunity.Thisbabywillbeeverything.”
MymothergrewinawayIcouldnothaveimaginedwaspossible.She,whohadalwaysbeensoslenderwithherjuttinghipbonesandlongnarrowwaist,wassuddenlythebiggestpersoninthehouse.Shewasfedconstantlyandtoldtodonothing.
The“baby”apparentlyneededathousandextracaloriesadayandwhileweallsatpickingovermushroombiryanisandcarrotsoups,mymothergorgedonspaghettiandchocolatemousse.HaveImentionedhowthinweallwerebythispoint?Notthatanyofushadbeenparticularlyoverweighttobeginwith,apartfrommyfather.Butwewerevirtuallyemaciatedbythetimemymotherwasbeingfatteneduplikeaceremonialgoat.IwasstillwearingclothesthathadfitmewhenIwaseleven,andIwasnearlyfifteen.ClemencyandmysisterlookedasthoughtheyhadeatingdisordersandBirdiewasbasicallyatwig.I’lltellyoufornothingthatveganfoodgoesstraightthroughyou;nothingstickstothesides.Butwhenthatfoodisofferedinmeanportionsandyouareconstantlytoldnottobegreedybyaskingforseconds,whenonecookhatesbutter,sothereisneverenoughfat(andchildrenmusteatfat),anotherhatessalt,sothereisneverenoughflavor,andanotherrefusestoeatwheatbecauseitcausestheirstomachtoswelllikeawhoopeecushion,sothereisneverenoughstarchorstodge,well,thatmakesforverythin,malnourishedpeople.
Oneofourneighbors,shortlyafterthebodieswerefoundandthepresswerebuzzingaroundourhousewithmicrophonesandhandheldcameras,appearedonthenewsonenighttalkingabouthowthinwehadalllooked.“Ididwonder,”saidtheneighbor(whomIhadneverbeforeseeninmylife),“iftheywerebeinglookedafterproperly.Ididworryabit.Theywereallsoterriblythin.Butyoudon’tliketointerfere,doyou?”
No,mysteriousneighborlady,no,youclearlydonot.
Butwhilewewastedaway,mymothergrewandgrew.Birdiemadehermaternitytunicsoutofblackcotton,balesofwhichshe’dboughtcheapfromafabricsalemonthsearlierinordertomakeshoulderbagstosellatCamdenMarket.Shehadsoldagrandtotaloftwobeforebeingchasedawaybyotherstallholderswhoallhadlicensestosell,andhadinstantlygivenupontheproject.Butnowshewassewingwithafervor,desperatetobeapartofwhatwashappeningtomymother.DavidandBirdiesoontooktowearingBirdie’sblacktunics,too.Theygavealltheirotherclothestocharity.Theylookedutterlyridiculous.
Ishouldhaveguessedthatitwouldn’tbelongbeforewechildrenwereexpectedtodresslikethis,too.
Birdiecameintomyroomonedaywithbinbags.“We’retogiveallourclothestocharity,”shesaid.“Wedon’tneedthemasmuchasotherpeople.I’vecometohelpyoupackthemaway.”
InretrospectIcan’tbelievehoweasilyIcapitulated.InevergavemyselfovertoDavid’sethos,butIwasscaredofhim.I’dseenhimfellPhinonthepavementoutsideourhousethatawfulnighttheyearbefore.I’dseenhimhithim.Iknewhewascapableofmoreandofworse.AndIwasequallyscaredofBirdie.Shewastheonewhohadunleashedthemonsterinsidehim.SowhileIoftenmoanedorgrumbled,Ineverrefused.AndthusIfoundmyselfatthreeo’clockonaTuesdayafternooninlateAprilemptyingmydrawersandcupboardsintobinbags;therewentmyfavoritejeans,therewentthereallynicehoodiefromH&MthatPhinhadpasseddowntomewhenI’dadmiredit.TherewentmyT-shirts,mysweatersandshorts.
“ButwhatwillIwearwhenIgoout?”Iasked.“Ican’tgooutinthenude.”
“Here,”shesaid,passingmeablacktunicandapairofblackleggings.“We’realltowearthesefromnowon.Itmakessense.”
“Ican’tgooutinthis,”Isaid,appalled.
“We’rekeepingourovercoats,”shereplied.“Notthatyouevergooutanyway.”
Itwastrue.Iwassomethingofarecluse.Whatwithallthe“householdrules,”thenotgoingtoschool,andthefactthatIhadnowheretogo,Ibarelyleftthehouse.Itooktheblackrobeandtheleggingsfromherandheldthemtomychest.Shestaredatmemeaningfully.“Comeonthen,”shesaid.“Therest.”
Ilookeddown.ShewasreferringtotheclothesIwasalreadywearing.
Isighed.“CouldIhaveamomentofprivacyplease?”
Shelookedatmesuspiciouslybutthenlefttheroom.“Bequick,”shecalledthroughthedoor.“I’mbusy.”
IclimbedoutofmyclothesasfastasIcouldandfoldedthemroughlyintoapile.
“AmIallowedtokeepmyunderwear?”Icalledthroughthedoor.
“Yes,ofcourseyoucan,”sherepliedimpatiently.
Isteppedintothestupidblackrobeandleggingsandobservedmyselfinthemirror.Ilookedlikeaverysmall,verythinmonk.Istifledthedesiretolaughoutloud.ThenveryquicklyIranmyhandaroundthebacksofmydresserdrawers,searchingforsomething.MyfingersfounditandIstaredatitforamoment.ThebootlacetieI’dboughtinKensingtonMarkettwoyearsago.I’dneverwornit.ButIcouldnotbearthethoughtthatIneverwould.IslippeditundermymattresswithJustin’switchcraftbooksandhisrabbit’sfootandthenIopenedthedoor.IpassedmyfoldedclothestoBirdie.
“Goodboy,”shesaid.Shelooked,foramoment,asthoughshemighttouchmyhair.Butthenshesmiledinsteadandrepeated,“Goodboy.”
Ipausedforamoment,wondering,assheseemedmomentarilysoft,ifIcouldpossiblyaskthequestionIdesperatelywantedtoask.Idrewinmybreathandthenblurteditout.“Aren’tyoujealous?”Iasked.“Aren’tyoujealousaboutthebaby?”
Shelookedbrokenthen,forjustasplitsecond.IfeltasifIsuddenlysawrightinsideher,rightintotherunnyyellowyolkofher.Sheflinchedandthensherallied.Shesaid,“OfcourseI’mnot.Davidwantsababy.I’mgratefultoyourmotherforlettinghimhaveone.”
“Butdidn’thehavetohave…sexwithher?”
Iwasn’tentirelysureI’deversaidthewordsexoutloudbeforeandIfeltmyfacebegintoflushred.
“Yes,”shesaidprimly.“Ofcourse.”
“Buthe’syourboyfriend?”
“Partner,”shesaid,“he’smypartner.Idon’townhim.Hedoesn’townme.Allthatmattersishishappiness.”
“Yes,”Isaidthoughtfully.“Butwhataboutyours?”
Shedidn’treply.
Mysisterhadturnedthirteenafewdaysaftermymother’spregnancyannouncement.Iwouldsay,althoughitisnotparticularlymyareaofexpertise,thatshewasblossomingintoaveryprettygirl.Shewastall,likemymother,andnow,ayearsincethe“nohaircut”rulehadbeenimplemented,herdarkhairhungtoherwaist;andunlikeClemency’shairandBirdie’shair,whichgrewthinandscraggyattheends,herswasthickandshiny.Shewasthin,asweallwere,butshehadacertainshapetoher.Icouldimagine(notthatIspentverylongatalldoingsuchathing,Icanassureyou)thatwithanotherstoneonher,shewouldhavehadaknockoutfigure.AndtherewasaninterestingfacewithacertainimpishcharmtoitstartingtoemergefrombeneaththebabyfaceI’dbeenusedtoseeingallherlife.Almostbeautiful.
ImentionallofthisnotbecauseIthinkyouneedtoknowwhatIthoughtaboutmysister’slooks,butbecauseyoumaystillbeenvisagingalittlegirl.Butshewasnolongeralittlegirl.
Shewas,whenthenextthinghappened,muchclosertobeingawoman.
44
Libbyarrivesatwork,breathless,twominuteslateforhermeetingwithCerianTahany.CerianisalocalDJandminorcelebritywhoisspendingfiftythousandpoundsonanewkitchenandeverytimeshewalksintotheshowroomakindoflow-levelelectricbuzzstartsup.UsuallyLibbywouldhavebeenultra-preparedforseeingher,wouldhavehadthepaperworkready,coffeecupsetup;shewouldhavecheckedherreflectionandeatenamintandtidiedherskirt.TodayCerianisalreadyseatedandstaringtenselyatherphonewhenLibbyarrives.
“Iamso,sosorry,”shesays.“Sosorry.”
“It’sfine,”saysCerian,turningoffherphoneandslidingitintoherhandbag.“Let’scrackon,shallwe?”
Foranhour,Libbyhasnotimetothinkabouttheeventsofthepastday.AllshecanthinkaboutisCarraramarbleworktopsandcutlerydrawersandextractorhoodsandcopperpendantlightsversusenamelpendantlights.It’scomfortingtoher.Shelovestalkingaboutkitchens.She’sgoodatkitchens.Thensuddenlyit’soverandCerian’sputtingherreadingglassesbackinherhandbagandhuggingLibbygoodbyeandassheleavestheatmosphereintheshowroomdeflatesanddiffusesandeveryonekindofflops.
Didobeckonsherintothebackoffice.
“So,”shesays,clickingthetabonacanofDietCoke.“Whatthehellhappened?”
Libbyblinks.“I’mnotentirelysure.Itwasallcompletelybizarre.”
LibbytalksherthroughcominguponPhinonthetoplandingandwalkingacrossAlbertBridgetohisstunningriverfrontapartmentinBatterseawithitsviewdirectlyacrosstothehouse.ShetellsDidowhatshecanrememberofthestorythatPhinrecountedtothemontheterrace.AndthenshetellsheraboutawakingthismorningtofindherselftoptotoewithMillerinabigdoublebedandDidosays,“Well,Icouldhavetoldyouthatwasgoingtohappen.”
Libbylooksatheraskance.“What?”
“YouandMiller.Youhaveaconnection.”
“Wedonothaveaconnection.”
“Youdohaveaconnection.Trustme.I’mbrilliantatthisstuff.I’vepredictedthreemarriagesfromvirtuallybeforethecoupleshadevenmeteachother.Seriously.”
Libbywavesthisnonsenseaway.“Weweredrunkandrolledintobedwithallourclotheson.Wokeupthismorningstillwithallourclotheson.Oh,andhehasatattooandIdonotliketattoos.”
“Ithoughteveryonelikedtattoosthesedays.”
“Yes,I’msuretheydo,butIdon’t.”
Libby’sphonevibratesthenandshepicksitup.“Talkofthedevil,”shesays,seeingMiller’snameflashup.
“Hi!”
“Listen,”hebeginsurgently.“Somethingweird.Ijustopenedupmyfilefromlastnight,therecordingofPhin’sstory.It’sgone.”
“Gone?”
“Yes.It’sbeendeleted.”
“Whereareyou?”
“I’minacaféinVictoria.Iwasjustabouttostarttranscribingitandit’snotthere.”
“But—areyousureitwasthere?Maybeyouhadn’tpressedrecordproperly?”
“Itotallypressedrecordproperly.Iremember,lastnight,Icheckedit.Ilistenedtoit.Itwasthere.I’devengiventhefileaname.”
“So,youthink…?”
“ItmusthavebeenPhin.Rememberyousaidyouthoughtyouhadyourphonewithyouwhenyoucametobed?Well,sodidI.Andmyphonehasathumbprintrecognition.Imean,hemusthavecomeintoourroom,whenweweresleeping,andopenedupmyphoneusingmyactualthumb,whileIwassleeping.Andtakenyourphone,too.Thenlockedusin.Andthere’smore.I’veGoogledhim.PhinThomsen.Notraceofhimanywhereontheinternet.IGoogledtheflathe’slivingin.It’sanAirbnb.Accordingtotheirbookingsystemit’sbeenbookedsincethemiddleofJune.Basicallysince…”
“Sincemybirthday.”
“Sinceyourbirthday.”Hesighs.“Ihavenocluewhothatguyis.Butheisdodgyasfuck.”
“Thestory,”shesays.“Canyourememberthestory?Enoughtoworkoutthetruth.”
Hepauses,briefly.“It’shazy,”hesays.“Icanremembermostofit.Butthebitstowardtheendarereally…”
“Me,too,”shesays.“Reallyhazy.AndIslept…”
“Likeadeadperson,”hefinishes.
“AndalldayI’vefelt…”
“Really,reallystrange.”
“Reallystrange,”sheagrees.
“AndI’mstartingtothink—”
“Yes,”sheinterjects,“me,too.Ithinkhedruggedus.Butwhy?”
“That,”saysMiller,“Idonotknow.Butyoushouldcheckyourphone.Doyouhaveapasscode?”
“Yes,”shereplies.
“Whatisit?”
Shesighs.Hershouldersslump.“It’smybirthdate.”
“Right,”saysMiller.“Well,checkyourphoneforanythingweird.Hemighthaveleftsomethingonit.Spywareorsomething.”
“Spyware?”
“God,hellknows.He’sodd.Everythingaboutlastnightwasodd.Hebrokeintoyourhouse.Hedruggedus—”
“Mighthavedruggedus.”
“Mighthavedruggedus.Attheveryleasthesnuckintoourroomwhileweslept,usedmyfingerprinttoaccessmyphone,tookyourphonefromyourbag,andthenlockedusin.Iwouldn’tputanythingpastthisguy.”
“No,”shesayssoftly.“No,you’reright.Iwill.I’llcheckit.Imean,hemightevenbelisteningtousnow.”
“Yes.Hemight.And,buddy,ifyou’relistening,we’reontoyou,youcreepyfuck.”Shehearshimdrawinhisbreath.“Weshouldmeetupagain.Soon.I’vebeenresearchingBirdieDunlop-Evers.She’sgotaninterestingbackstory.AndIthinkImighthavefoundoutmoreabouttheotherguywholivedhere:Justin,Birdie’sboyfriend.Whenareyoufree?”
Libby’spulsequickensattheprospectofdevelopmentsinthestory.“Tonight,”shesaysbreathlessly.“Imean,even…”ShelooksupatDido,whoisstaringintentlyather.“Now?”SheaimsthequestionatDido,whonodsatherfuriouslyandmouthsGo,go
“Icanmeetyounow.Anywhere.”
“Ourcafé?”hesays.
Sheknowsexactlywherehemeans.“Yes,”shesays.“Ourcafé.Icanbethereinanhour.”
Didolooksatheraftershehangsupandsays,“Youknow,Ithinkthismightbeagoodjunctureforyoutotakesomeannualleave.”
Libbygrimaces.“But—”
“Butnothing.I’lltakeontheMorgansandCerianTahany.We’llsayyou’reill.Whateverthehellisgoingonhereismoreimportantthankitchens.”
Libbyhalfopenshermouthtosaysomethinginsupportoftheimportanceofkitchens.Kitchensareimportant.Kitchensmakepeoplehappy.Peopleneedkitchens.Kitchens,andthepeoplewhobuythem,havebeenherlifeforthelastfiveyears.ButsheknowsthatDido’sright.
Shenodsinsteadandsays,“Thankyou,Dido.”
Thenshetidiesherdesk,repliestotwonewemailsinherinbox,setsheraccounttoout-of-officeautoreply,andheadsawayfromSt.AlbansHighStreettothetrainstation.
45
Chelsea,1992
ByMay1992ourhouseholdhadcurdledandtransmogrifiedintosomethingmonstrous.Theoutsideworld,filledasitwaswithmeateatersandfumesandgermsthatcouldnotbefoughtoffbysweatyexerciseandprettyflowersalone,wassuretobringaboutthedeathofDavid’spreciousspawn.Sonobodywasallowedtogooutside.Wehadvegetablesdeliveredtoourdoorweeklyandourlarderwasfilledwithenoughpulses,grains,andbeanstofeedusforatleastfiveyears.
Thenoneday,shortlybeforemyfifteenthbirthday,Davidorderedustosurrenderourshoes.
Ourshoes.
Shoes,apparently,evenshoesthatwerenotmadeofdeadanimals,werebad,bad,bad.Theyweresuggestiveofdirtypavementsandjoylesstrudgestoevilofficeswherepeoplemadeyetmoremoneytolavishuponthealreadyrichwhileleavingthepoorintheshacklesofgovernment-manufactureddeprivation.PoorpeopleinIndiadidnot,apparently,wearshoes;therefore,neithershouldwe.Allofourshoeswerecollectedtogetherintoacardboardboxandleftoutsidethenearestcharityshop.
FromthedaythatDavidtookourshoesuntilthenightofourescapetwoyearslater,nobodysetfootoutsideourhouse.
46
MilleriseatingwhenLibbywalksintothecaféonWestEndLane.
“What’sthat?”sheasks,hangingherhandbagonthebackofthechairandsittingdown.
“Chickenandchorizowrap,”hereplies,wipingsomesaucefromthecornerofhismouth.“Sogood.So,sogood.”
“It’sfouro’clock,”shesays.“Whatmealdoesthisconstitute?”
Hepondersthequestion.“Latelunch?Orearlysupper?Dunch?Linner?Haveyoueaten?”
Sheshakesherhead.She’snoteatensincebreakfastonPhin’sterracethismorningandneitherhasshewantedto.“I’mnothungry,”shesays.
Heshrugsandbitesintohiswrapagain.
LibbyordersapotofteaandwaitsforMillertofinisheating.
ThereissomethingstrangelyattractiveaboutMiller’sappetite.Heeatsasthoughthereisnothingelsehewouldratherbedoing.Heeats,sheobserves,mindfully.
“So,”saysMiller,openinguphislaptop,typingsomethingintoit,andthenturningittofaceLibby.“MeetBirdieDunlop-Evers.OrBridgetElspethVeronicaDunlop-Evers,togiveherherfullname.BorninGloucestershireinApril1964.MovedtoLondonin1982andstudiedviolinattheRoyalCollegeofMusic.UsedtobuskontheweekendsandthenjoinedabandcalledGreenSundaywithherthen-boyfriend,RogerMilton.RogerMilton,incidentally,wentontobetheleadsingerintheCrows.”
Helooksatherexpectantly.
Shestaresbackblankly.“Aretheyfamous?”
Herollshiseyes.“Nevermind,”hecontinues.“Anyway,shejobsaboutwithherfiddleforafewyearsbeforeauditioningforabandcalledtheOriginalVersion.ShestartsarelationshipwithamancalledJustinReddingandbringshimintothebandasapercussionist.Accordingtointerviewsfromthetime,shewasquitecontrolling.Nobodylikedher.Theyhadtheirbignumberoneinthesummerof1988andthenreleasedonemoresinglewithherandJustin,butwhenthattanked,sheblamedeverybodyelse,hadahissyfit,andleft,takingJustinwithher.AndthatistheendofBirdieDunlop-Evers’sinternetlifestory.Nothingsince.Just…”Heuseshishandtodescribesomethingfallingoffacliff.
“Butwhataboutherparents?”
“Nothing.Shewasoneofeightchildren,fromabigposhCatholicfamily.Herparentsarestillalive,asfarasIcantell—atleast,I’vefoundnothingtosuggestthatthey’renot—andtherearedozensofposhlittleDunlop-Eversesoutthereplayingmusicalinstrumentsandrunningveganhome-deliveryservices.Butforwhateverreason,herfamilydidn’tnoticeormaybejustdidn’tcarethattheirfourthdaughterdisappearedoffthefaceoftheearthin1994.”
“Andwhataboutherboyfriend?Justin?”
“Nothing.AcoupleofmentionsofhimduringhisbriefphaseasapercussionistonthetwoOriginalVersionhitsingles.Butnothingelse.”
Libbypausestoabsorbthis.Howcanitbepossibleforpeopletoslipofftheedgeofexistencelikethat?Howcanitbepossiblefornoonetonotice?
Heturnsthescreenbacktohimselfandtypessomething.“So,”hesays,“thenIstartedlookingintoPhin.IgotintouchwiththeAirbnbownerandsaidIwasinvestigatingamurdercaseandneededthenameofthelastpersontorenthisapartment.Hewasveryforthcoming,clearlywantedinontheexcitement.JustinRedding.”
Libbylooksathim,startled.“What?”
“Phin,orwhoeverthatguywas,usedthenameofBirdie’sex-boyfriendtocheckintoanAirbnb.”
“Oh,”shesays.“Wow.”
“Yeah,right?”Hetypessomethingelseintohislaptop.“Andlast,butbynomeansleast,IgiveyouSallyRadlett.”
Heturnsthescreentowardheragain.Thereisanolderwoman,silverhaircutintoahelmet,horn-rimmedglasses,wateryblueeyes,asuggestionofasmile,alightblueblouseunbuttonedtothethirdbutton,apalecollarbone,echoesofbeautyintheanglesofherface.Underneathherphotographarethewords“LifeTherapistandCoach.Penreath,Cornwall.”
“Righttown.Rightage.Looksliketherightcareerareagenerally—youknow,lifetherapist.Kindofbullshitthingyou’dendupdoing,isn’tit?IfyouwereinfactSallyThomsen?”
Helooksathertriumphantly.“Whatdoyouthink?”hesays.“It’sher,isn’tit?”
Sheshrugs.“Well,yeah,Iguessitcouldbe.”
“Andthere’sheraddress.”Hepointsatthescreenandshecanseethequestioninhiseyes.
“Youthinkweshouldgo?”
“Ithinkweshould,yes.”
“When?”
Heraisesaneyebrow,smiles,andpressesanumberintohisphone.Heclearshisthroatandsays,“Hello,isthatSallyRadlett?”
Shecanhearavoicedownthelinesayingyes.
Then,assuddenlyashemadethecall,Millerendsit.HelooksatLibbyandsays,“Now?”
“But—”She’sabouttostartforagingforareasonwhyshecannotpossiblygonow,butremembersthatshehasnoreason.“Ineedashower,”shemanages.
Hesmiles,turnsthelaptopbacktofacehimagain,andstartstotype.“BandB?”hesays.“OrPremierInn?”
“PremierInn.”
“Excellent.”Withafewmoreclickshe’sbookedthemtworoomsataPremierInninTruro.“Youcanshowerwhenwegetthere.”Hecloseshisscreenandunplugshislaptop,slidesitintoanyloncase.“Ready?”
Shegetstoherfeetfeelingstrangelyexcitedattheprospectofspendingtherestofthedaywithhim.
“Ready.”
47
Chelsea,1992
Idecidedthattheoncomingbabywasthecauseofallourills.Isawmymothergettingfatter,therestofusgettingthinner.AndIsawDavidfluffingouthistailfeathers,preeningandstrutting.Everypoundmymothergained,everytimethebabykickedorwriggled,Daviddevelopedanotherlayerofsickeningself-belief.ItriedtokeepholdofwhatPhinhadtoldmethedaywewenttoKensingtonMarket,aboutDavidbeingthrownoutofthelasthomehe’dtriedtoinfiltrateandtakecontrolof.Itriedtoimaginethehumiliationforhimofbeingcaughtred-handedstealingfromhishosts.Itriedtoremindmyselfthatthemanwho’dturneduphomelessandpennilessonourdoorstepfouryearsearlierwasthesamemanswaggeringnowaboutmyhouselikeapuffed-upturkey.
Icouldnotbearthethoughtofthatbabycomingintoexistence.IknewthatDavidwoulduseittocementhisroleasthegodofourwarpedlittleuniverse.Ifthebabydidn’tcome,mymothercouldstopeatingallthetime,andwe’dbeabletobringgermsintothehouseagain.And,moreimportant,there’dbeabsolutelynoreasonwhatsoeverforustohaveanythingmoretodowithDavidThomsen.There’dbenothingtoconnectus,nothingtolinkus.
IknewwhatIhadtodoanditdoesnotcastmeinagoodlight.ButIwasachild.Iwasdesperate.Iwastryingtosaveusall.
Thedrugsweresurprisinglyeasytoadminister.Imadesuretocookformymotherasmuchaspossible.Imadeherherbalteasandvegetablejuices.IlacedeverythingIgaveherwiththethingslistedinthechapterinJustin’sbookentitled“NaturalTerminationofUnwantedPregnancies.”Tonsofparsley,cinnamon,mugwort,sesameseeds,chamomile,andeveningprimroseoil.
AsI’dpassheraglassofjuiceshewouldstrokemyhandandsay,“Youarebeingsuchagoodboy,Henry.Ifeelveryblessedtohaveyoutakingcareofme.”AndIwouldflushalittleandnotreplybecauseinsomewaysIwastakingcareofher.Iwasmakingsurethatshedidn’tgetshackledtoDavidforevermore.ButinotherwaysIwasnottakingcareofherintheleast.
Andthenoneday,whenshewasaboutfivemonthspregnantandthebabywasproperandrealandhadbegunkickingandwrigglingandmovingabout,mymothercamedownstairsandIheardhertalkingtoBirdieinthekitchenandshesaid,“Thebabyhasnotmoved.Nottodayatall.”
TheconsternationgrewoverthecourseofthedayandIfeltaterribledarksicknessinthepitofmybelly,becauseIknewwhatwascoming.
Ofcoursenodoctorswerecalled,nohospitaltripswereembarkedupon.ApparentlyDavidThomsenwasafullyqualifiedobstetricianontopofallhisothermyriadskills.Hetookchargeofeverything,sentpeoplerunningofffortowelsandwaterandpointlesshomeopathictinctures.
Ittookfivedaysforthebabytocomeoutafterithaddied.
Mymotherwailedforhours.ShestayedinherroomwithDavidandBirdieandthebaby,makingnoisesthatcouldbeheardthroughoutthehouse.Wefourchildrenhuddledsilentlytogetherintheatticroom,unabletoproperlyprocesswhathadjusthappened.Andthenfinally,muchlaterthatday,mymotherbroughtthebabydownstairswrappedinablackshawlandDavidmadeagraveforthebabyatthefarendofthegardenandthebabywasburiedinthedarkofnightwithlitcandlesallaround.
Isoughtoutmyfatherthatnight.IsatoppositehimandIsaid,“Didyouknowthatthebabydied?”
Heturnedandstaredatme.Iknewhewouldn’tanswerthequestionbecausehecouldn’tspeak.ButIthoughttheremightbesomethinginhiseyestoletmeknowwhathewasthinkingabouttheeventsoftheday.ButallIsawinhiseyeswasfearandsadness.
“Itwasalittleboy,”Isaid.“They’recallinghimElijah.They’reburyinghim,now,inthebackgarden.”
Hecontinuedtostareatme.
“It’sprobablyjustaswell,isn’tit?Don’tyouthink?”
Iwasseekingredemptionformysins.Idecidedtoreadapprovalintohissilence.
“Imean,itprobablywouldhavediedanyway,wouldn’tit?Withoutmedicalassistance?Orevenworse,Mummighthavedied.So,youknow,maybeitwasbetterthisway.”Iglancedatmyreflectioninthedarkglassofthewindowbehindmyfather.Ilookedyoung,andfoolish.“Itwasverysmall.”
Myvoicecaughtonthislastword.Thebabyhadbeensoverysmall,likeastrangedoll.Myhearthadachedatthesightofit.Mybabybrother.
“Anyway.That’swhat’sbeenhappening.Andnow,Isuppose,wecanalltryandgetbacktonormal.”
Butthatwastheproblem.Becausetherewasnonormal.Myfather’slifewasnotnormal.Ourexistencewasnotnormal.Thebabyhadgone,butIstilldidn’thaveanyshoes.Thebabyhadgonebutmyfatherstillsatinachairalldaystaringatthewall.Thebabyhadgonebuttherewasnoschool,noholidays,nofriends,nooutsideworld.
Thebabywasgone,butDavidThomsenwasstillhere.
48
It’snineo’clock.Lucyandthechildrenaresettledforthenightinherparents’oldbedroom.Thewallsoftheroomdancewithcandlelight.Stellaisalreadyasleep,thedogcurledupinthecrookofherknees.
Lucyopensasmallcanofginandtonic.MarcoopensacanofFanta.TheyknocktheircanstogetherandsaycheerstoLondon.
“So,”hesaysquietly.“Areyougoingtotellmeaboutthebabynow?”
Shesighs.“OhGod.”Shedrawsherhandsdownherface.“Idon’tknow.It’sallso…”
“Justtellme.Please.”
“Tomorrow,”shesays,stiflingayawn.“I’lltellyoutomorrow.Ipromise.”
MarcofinallyfallsasleepafewminuteslaterandthenitisjustLucy,awake,inthisblightedhousethatshesworeshewouldneverreturnto.ShecarefullyliftsMarco’sheadfromherlapandstands.Atthewindowshewatchesthesunsettinginthewindowsoftheshinynewapartmentblocksontheothersideoftheriver.Theyweren’ttherewhenshelivedhere.Maybeiftheyhadbeen,sheponders,someonemighthaveseenthem,someonemighthaveknown,someonemighthaverescuedthemandsparedthemalltheirsorryfates.
Shefallsasleepsometimeafterthreea.m.,hermindstubbornlyrefusingtoshutdownforhoursbefore;suddenly,sheisinherdreams.
Andthen,justassuddenly,sheisawakeagain.Shesitsupstraight.Marcositsup,too.Herphonetellsherthattheyhaveallsleptlateintothemorning.
Therearefootstepsoverhead.
LucyputsonehandoverMarco’sandtouchesherlipswithtipofherindexfinger.
It’ssilentagainandshebeginstorelax.Butthenshehearsitagain,thedefinitesoundoffootsteps,floorboardscreaking.
“Mum…”
Shesqueezeshishandandgetsslowlytoherfeet.Shetiptoesacrosstheroomtowardthedoor.Thedogawakesandraiseshishead,uncurlshimselffromStella’sbody,andfollowshertothedoor.Hisclawsareloudagainstthewoodenfloorboardsandshepickshimup.Shecanfeelagrowlforminginthebackofhisthroatandshushesathim.
Marcostandsbehindherandshecanhearhisbreathing,hardandheavy.
“Stayback,”shehisses.
ThegrowlinFitz’sthroatisbuildingandbuilding.There’sanothercreakoverheadandthenFitzletsrip.
Thecreakingstops.
Butthentherecomesthesoundoffootsteps,sureandsteady,comingdownthewoodenstaircasethatleadstotheatticbedrooms.Shestopsbreathing.Thedogstartsbarkingagainandstrugglingtogetoutofherarms.Shepushesthedoorshutandthrowsherbodyagainstit.
Stellaisawakenowandstaresatthedoorwithwideeyes.“What’sgoingon,Mama?”
“Nothing,darling,”shewhispersacrosstheroom.“Nothing.Fitzisjustbeingsilly.”
Thedoorontothesecond-floorlandingcreaks,thenbangsshut.
Adrenalinecoursesthroughher.
“Isitthebaby?”Marcoasksinanurgentwhisper,hiseyeswidewithterror.
“Idon’tknow,”shereplies.“Idon’tknowwhoitis.”
Footstepscomeupthehallwayandthenthereissomeonebreathingontheothersideofthedoor.Thedoggoesquiet,hisearspinnedback,hislipsopenoverhisteeth.Lucymovesawayfromthedoorandpullsitopenacrack.Thenthedogleapsoutofherarmsandforceshiswaythroughthecrackofthedoorandthere’samanstandingoutsidetheirroomandthedogbarksandsnapsaroundhisanklesandthemanlooksdownatthedogwithasmallsmile,offershimhishandtosniff.Fitzquietsandsniffshishandandthenletshimstrokethetopofhishead.
“Hello,Lucy,”saystheman.“Nicedog.”
III
49
Libbyliesstretchedoutonthehotelbedwithitsfamiliarstripofaubergine-coloredfabricdrapedacrossthefoot.APremierInnhotelroomisahappyplaceforLibby;sheassociatesthemwithhennightsandcitybreaksandweddingsindistantcities.AbedinaPremierInnisfamiliarandcomforting.Shecouldstayhereallday.ButshehastomeetMillerinthelobbyatninea.m.Sheglancesnowatthetimeonherphone.Eightforty-eight.Shepullsherselfoffthebedandhasaveryquickshower.
ItwasalongjourneyfromLondonthenightbeforeandshelearnedalotaboutMillerinthefivehourstheyspenttogether.
Hewasinacaraccidentwhenhewastwenty-twoandspentayearinawheelchairandbeingrehabilitated.Hewasverythinandsportywhenhewasyoungerbutneverregainedhisformerlithephysique.HehastwooldersistersandagaydadandwasbroughtupinLeamingtonSpa.Hestudiedpoliticsatuniversity,wherehemethisex-wife,whosenamewasMatilda,orMatiforshort.HeshowedLibbyaphotoofheronhisphone.Shewasextraordinarilyprettywithdarkredhairandfulllipsandablockyhipsterhaircutthatwouldlookdreadfulon99percentofotherpeople.
“Whydidyousplitup?”she’dsaid.Thenadded,“Ifyoudon’tmindmeasking?”
“Oh,myfault,”hesaid,puttingahandtohisheart.“Myfaultentirely.Iprioritizedeverythingoverher.Myfriends,myhobbies.Butmainlymyjob.Andmainly”—hepausedtosmilewryly—“theGuardianarticle.”Heshrugged.“Lessonlearnedthough.Iwillneverputmyworkbeforemypersonallifeagain.
“Andwhataboutyou?”heasked.“IsthereaMr.Libbysomewhereinthepicture?”
“No,”shereplied.“No.Thatisanongoingproject.”
“Ah,butyou’restillyoung.”
“Yes,”sheagreed,forgettingforonceherusualsenseofrunningoutoftimetoachieveallherarbitrarygoals.“Iam.”
Shere-dressesinyesterday’sclothesandgetstothelobbyattwominutespastnine,whereMillerisalreadywaitingforher.Hehasnotchangedor,itseems,showered.Helooksdisheveled,everybitlikeamanwhohasnotseenhisownbedforforty-eighthours.Butthereissomethingpleasingtobeholdabouthisshagginessandhiscarewornnessandshehastoresistthetemptationtoarrangehishairforhim,tostraightentheneckofhisT-shirt.
Hehas,ofcourse,partakenofaheartyPremierInnbreakfastandisjustdowningthedregsofacoffeewhensheappears.Nowhesmilesather,putsdownhiscup,andtogethertheyleavethehotel.
Sally’spracticeisonthehighstreetofPenreathinasmallstonebuilding.TheshopfronthousesaspacalledtheBeach.Sally’sroomsareupaflightofstairsonthesecondfloor.Millerringsthebellandaveryyounggirlanswers.
“Yes?”
“Hello,”saysMiller.“We’relookingforSallyRadlett.”
“I’mafraidshe’swithaclientatthemoment.CanIhelp?”
Thegirlispaleandnaturallyblondandsharesthesamewell-formedbonestructureasSally.ForamomentLibbythinksthatthismustbeSally’sdaughter.Butthatcan’tberight.Sallymustbeatleastsixty,probablyolder.
“Erm,no,wereallydoneedtospeaktoSally,”saysMiller.
“Doyouhaveanappointment?”
“No,”hesays,“sadlynot.It’ssomethingofanemergency.”
ThegirlnarrowshereyesslightlyandthenturnshergazetoaleatherChesterfieldsofaandsays,“Wouldyouliketotakeaseat,whileyou’rewaiting?Shewon’tbemuchlonger.”
“Thankyousomuch,”saysMiller,andtheysitsidebyside.
It’satinyroom;theyarecloseenoughtothegirl,whoisbackbehindherdesk,tohearherbreathing.
AphonecallbreakstheawkwardsilenceandLibbyturnstoMillerandwhispers,“Whatifit’snother?”
“Thenit’snother,”hesays,shrugging.
Libbygazesathimforasplitsecond.Sherealizesthathedoesn’tseelifethewaysheseesit.He’spreparedtobewrong;hedoesn’talwaysneedtoknowwhat’sgoingtohappennext.ThethoughtoflivinglifeasMillerliveshislifeisstrangelyappealingtoher.
Atallwomanappears.Sheiswearingagrayshort-sleeveddressandgoldsandals.Shesaysgoodbyetoamiddle-agedmanandthencatchestheireyes,givingthemanuncertainlook.Sheturnstothegirlbehindthedeskandsays,“Lola?”
Thegirllooksatthemandsays,“Theyaskedforanemergencyappointment.”
Sheturnsbacktothemandsmilesuncertainly.“Hello?”
Itisclearthatshedoesnotlikepeoplewalkinginaskingforemergencyappointments.
ButMillerisunfazedandgetstohisfeet.“Sally,”hesays.“MynameisMillerRoe.ThisismyfriendLibbyJones.Iwonderifyoumightbeabletospareustenminutesorso?”
SheglancesbackatthegirlcalledLola.LolaconfirmsthatSally’snextappointmentisnotuntileleventhirty.Shebeckonsthemintoherofficeandthenclosesthedoorbehindthem.
Sally’sconsultingroomiscozyinaScandinavianstyle:apalesofawithacrochetedblanketthrownacrossit,palegraywalls,awhite-painteddeskandchairs.Thewallsarehungwithdozensofframedblackandwhitephotographs.
“So,”shesays.“WhatcanIdoforyou?”
MillerglancesatLibby.Hewantshertostart.SheturnsbacktoSallyandshesays,“Ijustinheritedahouse.Abighouse.InChelsea.”
“Chelsea?”sherepeatsvaguely.
“Yes.CheyneWalk.”
“Mm-hm.”Shenods,justonce.
“Numbersixteen.”
“Yes,yes,”shesayswithanoteofimpatience.“Idon’t—”shebegins.Butthenshestopsandnarrowshereyesslightly.
“Oh!”shesays.“You’rethebaby!”
Libbynods.“AreyouSallyThomsen?”sheasks.
Sallypauses.“Well,”shesaysafteramoment,“technically,no.Irevertedtomymaidennameafewyearsago,whenIstartedthispractice.Ididn’twantanyoneto…well.IwasinabadplaceforquitesometimeandIwantedafreshstart,Isuppose.Butyes.IwasSallyThomsen.Nowlisten,”shesays,hertonesuddenlybecomingclippedandofficious.“Idon’twanttogetinvolvedinanything,youknow.Mydaughter,shemademeswearnevertodiscussanythingaboutthehouseinChelsea.Nevertotalkaboutit.ShesufferedfromyearsofPTSDafterwhathappenedthere,andreally,she’sstillverydamaged.It’snotmyplacetosayanything.AndasmuchasI’mgladtoseeyouhere,aliveandwell,I’mafraidI’mgoingtohavetoaskyoubothtoleave.”
“Couldwe,maybe,speaktoyourdaughter?Doyouthink?”
SallythrowsasteelygazeatMiller,theaskerofthisquestion.“Absolutelynot,”shesays.“Absolutelynot.”
50
Chelsea,1992
Mymotherneverreallyrecoveredfromlosingthebaby.
Sheslowlywithdrewfromcommunitylife.ShealsowithdrewfromDavid.Shebegantospendmoretimewithmyfather,justthetwoofthemsittingquietlysidebyside.
I,ofcourse,feltcompletelyresponsibleformymother’sunhappiness.IattemptedtoremedythesituationbyfeedingherconcoctionsfromJustin’sbooksthatclaimedtocurepeopleofmelancholia.Butitwasvirtuallyimpossibletogethertoeatanything,sonothingIdidmadeanydifference.
Davidseemedtohaveabandonedher.Iwassurprised.Iwouldhaveexpectedhimtowanttobeinvolvedinherrehabilitation.Buthewasdistantwithher,practicallycold.
Oneday,shortlyaftermymotherlostthebaby,IaskedDavid,“Whyaren’tyoutalkingtomymotheranymore?”
Helookedatmeandsighed.“Yourmotherishealing.Sheneedstofollowherownpathtowardthat.”
Herownpath.
Ifeltawaveoffurybegintobuildinsideme.“Idon’tthinksheishealing,”Iresponded.“Ithinkshe’sgettingworse.Andwhataboutmyfather?Shouldn’thebegettingsomekindofcare?Somekindoftreatment?Allhedoesissitinthatchairallday.Maybeintheoutsideworldsomeonecoulddosomethingforhim.Maybesomekindoftherapy.Maybeevenelectricshocktherapyorsomethinglikethat.Theremightbeallsortsofmedicaladvancesbeingmadeforstrokevictimsthatwedon’tevenknowaboutbecausewe’realljuststuckinhere…”I’dbeguntoshoutandassoonasthewordswereoutofmymouth,IknewI’dpassedintoabadplaceandthenthereitwas,thecold,sharpskinofhishand,hardagainstthesideofmyjaw.
Itastedthemetallicstingofbloodinsidemymouth,feltanumbnessbuildinguparoundmylips.ItouchedthebloodwithafingertipandlookedatDavidinhorror.
Hestareddownatme,hisbigshouldershuncheduparoundhisears,aveinthrobbingonthesideofhishead.Itwasincrediblehowquicklythisquiet,spiritualmancouldturnintoaragingmonster.“Youhavenorighttotalkaboutthesethings,”hegrowled.“Youknownothingaboutanything.Youareaninfant.”
“Buthe’smyfather.Andeversinceyoucameyou’vejusttreatedhimlikeshit!”
Hishandcameback,thistimeacrosstheothersideofmyface.Ihadalwaysknownthiswasgoingtohappen.IhadknownfromthemomentIfirstsawhimthatDavidThomsenwouldstrikemeifIconfrontedhim.Andhereitwas.
“Youruinedeverything,”Isaidinanothing-to-lose-nowrushofemotion.“Youthinkyou’resopowerfulandsoimportantbutyou’renot!You’rejustabully!Youcameintomyhomeandyoubulliedeveryoneintobeingwhatyouwantedustobe.Andthenyoumademymumpregnantandnowshe’ssadandyoudon’tcare,youdon’tcareatall.Becauseallyoucareaboutisyourself!”
Thistimehehitmehardenoughtothrowmeacrossthefloor.
“Getup!”heyelled.“Getup,andgotoyourroom.Youareinisolationforaweek.”
“You’regoingtolockmeup?”Isaid.“Fortalkingtoyou?FortellingyouhowIfeel?”
“No,”hesnarled.“IamlockingyouupbecauseIcannotbeartolookatyou.Becauseyoudisgustme.Now,youcaneitherwalkorIcandragyou.What’sittobe?”
IgottomyfeetandIran.ButIdidn’truntothestairs,Irantothefrontdoor.IturnedthehandleandIpulledandIwasready,readytofly,readytoflagdownastrangerandsay,God,helpus,we’retrappedinahousewithamegalomaniac.God,helpusplease!Butthedoorwaslocked.
HowhadInotknownthis?Ituggedandtuggedandthenturnedtohimandsaid,“You’velockedusin!”
“No,”hesaid.“Thedoorislocked.Thatisnotthesamethingatall.Now,shallwe?”
Istampedupthebackstairstotheatticfloor,Davidfollowingbehind.
Iheardthesoundofthelockonmybedroomdoorturning.
IwailedandIcriedlikeaterriblepatheticovergrownbaby.
IheardPhinshoutingatmethroughhisbedroomwall:“Shutup!Justshutup!”
Iscreamedformymotherbutshedidn’tcome.
Nobodycame.
ThatnightmyfaceachedfromwhereDavidhadhitmeandmystomachgrowledandIcouldn’tsleepandlayawakeallnightstaringatthecloudspassingoverthemoon,watchingthedarkshapesofbirdsinthetreetops,listeningtothehousecreakingandgasping.
Iwentalittlemad,Ithink,overthecourseoftheweekthatfollowed.Iscratchedmarksintomywallswithmyfingernailsuntilmynailbedsbled.Ibangedmyheadagainstthefloor.Imadeanimalnoises.Isawthingsthatweren’tthere.IthinkDavid’sideawasthatIwouldemergefrommyimprisonmentfeelingsubduedandreadytostartafresh.Butthiswasnotthecase.
WhenthedoorwasfinallyunlockedaweeklaterandIwasoncemoreallowedtoroamaroundthehouse,Ididnotfeelsubdued.Ifeltmonstrouslyconsumedwithrighteousire.IwasgoingtofinishDavidoffforgood.
TherewassomethingelseintheairwhenIfinallygotmyfreedomback,ahugesecretwaftingaboutintheatmosphere,carriedalongbythedustmotesandthesunrays,stuckinthestrandsofthespiderwebsinthehighcornersoftherooms
AsIjoinedeveryoneatthebreakfasttablethatfirstmorningoutofisolation,IaskedPhin,“What’sgoingon?Whyiseveryoneactingsoweird?”
Heshruggedandsaid,“Isn’tthathoweveryonealwaysactsroundhere?”
Isaid,“No.Weirderthanusual.Likethere’ssomethinggoingon.”
Phinwasalreadyillbynow,itwascleartome.Hisskin,oncesosmoothandflawless,lookedgrayandpatchy.Hishairfloppedgreasilytooneside.Andhesmelledalittleoff,alittlesour.
ImentionedittoBirdie.“Phinseemsill,”Isaid.
Sherepliedprissily,“Phinisabsolutelyfine.Hejustneedsmoreexercise.”
Iwouldhearhisfatherthroughthedooroftheexerciseroomimploringhimtotryharder.“More—youcandoit.Pushback.Reallypushback.Comeon!You’renoteventrying!”AndthenI’dseePhinleavingtheexerciseroomlookingwanandagonized,takingthestepsuptotheatticfloorslowly,asifeachonecausedhimpain.
Isaid,“Youshouldcomeintothegardenwithme.Thefreshairwillhelp.”
Hesaid,“Idon’twanttogoanywherewithyou.”
“Well,youdon’thavetocomewithme.Gointothegardenalone.”
“Don’tyousee?”hesaid.“Nothinginthishousewillmakemewell.Theonlythingthatwillmakemewellisnotbeinginthishouse.Ineedtoleave.Ineed,”hesaid,hiseyesboringintomine,“toleave.”
Thehouse,itfelttome,wasdying.Firstmyfatherhadfaded,thenmymother,nowPhin.Justinhadabandonedus.Thebabywasdead.Icouldn’treallyseewhatthepointofanyofitwasanymore.
AndthenoneafternoonIheardthesoundoflaughercomingfrombelow.IpeereddownintothehallwayandsawDavidandBirdieleavingtheexerciseroom.Theywerebothglowingwithhealth.DavidswunganarmaroundBirdie’sshouldersanddrewhertohim,kissedherhardonthelipswithasickeningmwahnoise.Anditwasthem;Iknewitclearly.Itwasthem,drainingthehouse,likevampires,ofallofitsdecentenergy,ofallofitsloveandlifeandgoodness,drainingitallforthemselves,feastingonourmiseryandourbrokenspirits.
ThenIlookedaroundmyselfatthebarewallswheretheoilpaintingshadoncehung,attheemptycornerswherethefinepiecesoffurniturehadoncestood.Ithoughtofthechandeliersthathadoncesparkledinthesunlight.Thesilverandthebrassandthegoldthathadgleamedoneverysurface.Ithoughtofmymother’swardrobeofdesignerclothesandhandbags,theringsthatusedtoadornherfingers,thediamondearringsandsapphirependants.Allgonenow.Allgonetoso-calledcharity,tohelpthe“poorpeople.”Iestimatedthevalueofalltheselostpossessions.Thousandsofpounds,Isuspected.Manythousandsofpounds.
AndthenIlookeddownagainatDavid,hisarmcirclingBirdie,thetwoofthemsofreeandunburdenedbythethingsgoingoninthishome.AndIthought:Youarenotamessiahoraguruoragod,DavidThomsen.Youarenotaphilanthropistorado-gooder.Youarenotaspiritualman.Youareacriminal.Youhavecometomyhouseandyouhaveplunderedit.Andyouarenotamanofcompassion.Ifyouwereamanofcompassion,youwouldbesittingnowwithmymotherwhileshegrievesforyourlostbaby.Youwouldfindawaytohelpmyfatheroutofhislivinghell.Youwouldtakeyoursontothedoctor.YouwouldnotbelaughingwithBirdie.Youwouldbetooweigheddownbyeveryoneelse’sunhappiness.So,ifyouhavenocompassion,thenitfollowsthatyouwouldnothavebeengivingourmoneytothepoor.Youhavebeenkeepingitforyourself.Andthatthatisprobablythe“secretstash”thatPhintoldmeaboutallthoseyearsago.Andifthatisthecase,thenwhereisit?Andwhatareyouplanningtodowithit?
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Chelsea,1992
TwoweeksafterDavidreleasedmefrommyroom,heannouncedmysister’spregnancyaroundthedinnertable.Shewasbarelyfourteen.
IsawClemencyrecoilfrommysister,springapartfromherasthoughburnedwithhotoil.Isawmymother’sface,theblankdeathlook,anditwasclearthatshealreadyknew.IsawBirdie.Shesmiledatme.AndatthesightofthosetinylittleteethIexploded.IleaptacrossthetableandthrewmyselfatDavid.Itriedtohithim.Well,infact,Itriedtokillhim.Thatwasmymainintent.
ButIwassmallandhewasbigandBirdie,ofcourse,camebetweenusandIwassomehowpulledawayandbacktomysideofthetable.Ilookedatmysister,atthestrangesmileplayingonherlips,andIcouldnotbelievethatIhadneverseenitbefore,hadnotseenthatmystupidlittlesisterhadfallenforthewholething,thatshesawDavidasmymothersawDavid,asBirdiesawDavid.ThatshewasproudthatDavidhadchosenher,andproudtobecarryinghischild.
Andthenithitme.
Daviddidn’tjustwantourmoney.Davidwantedthehouse.
Thatwasallhe’deverwantedfromthemomenthe’dfirstsetfootinit.Andhavingababywithmysisterwouldsecurehisstakeinit.
Iwenttomyparents’bedroomthenextday.Iopenedthecardboardboxesintowhichalltheirnonvaluablepossessionshadbeenemptiedwhenthefurniturewasgivenaway.Icouldsensemyfather’seyesonme.
“Daddy,”Isaid,“where’sthewill?Thewillthatsayswhathappenstothehousewhenyoudie?”
Icouldseethesuggestionofwordsforminginthebaseofhisthroat.Heopenedhismouthamillimeterortwo.Imovedclosertohim.“Dad?Doyouknow?Doyouknowwhereallthepaperworkis?”
Hisgazewentfrommyfacetothebedroomdoor.
“It’soutthere?”Iasked.“Thepaperwork?”
Heblinked.
Hedidthissometimeswhenhewasbeingfed.IfMumsaid,“Isthatnice,darling?”hewouldblinkandMumwouldsay,“Good.Good,”andgivehimanothermouthful.
“Whichroom?”Iasked.“Whichroomisitin?”
Isawhiseyesmovetotheleftafraction.TowardDavidandBirdie’sroom.
“InDavid’sroom?”
Heblinked.
Myheartplummeted.
IcouldnotpossiblygointoDavidandBirdie’sroom.Theykeptitlocked,forastart.Andeveniftheyhadn’t,theconsequencesofbeingcaughtintherewereunthinkable.
IreferredonceagaintoJustin’senormouslyusefulbookofspells.
“ASpellforTemporaryStupefaction.”
ThatsoundedlikeexactlywhatIneeded.Itpromisedafewmomentsofgeneralbefuddlementandsleepiness,a“smallandunnoticeablefugue.”
Itinvolvedtheuseofdeadlynightshade,Atropabelladonna,thepoisonousplantthatJustinhadtoldmeaboutallthosemonthsbefore.I’dbeengrowingit,secretly,afterfindingsomeseedsinJustin’sapothecarialchest.Theseedshadneededtobesoakedinwaterinthefridgefortwoweeks.I’dtoldthegrown-upsIwasexperimentingwithanewherbforPhin’sennui.
ThenI’dtakentheseedsandplantedthemintwolargepots.IthadtakenthreeweeksfortheseedlingstoshowandthelasttimeI’dlookedthey’dbeeninfullbloom.Accordingtotheliterature,Atropabelladonnawasverydifficulttogrow,andI’dfeltincrediblypleasedwithmyselfwhenthefirstpurpleflowershadblossomed.NowIsnucktothegardenandpluckedacoupleofsprigs,tuckedthemintothewaistbandofmyleggings,andascendedquickly.InmyroomImadeupthetincturewithchamomileleavesandsugarwater.Itwasalsosupposedtocontaintwohairsfromthebackofaredcatandapuffofbreathfromanoldwoman’smouth,butIwasanapothecary,notawizard.
Myherbalteasweremuchloved.ItoldDavidandBirdiethatI’dbeenexperimentingwithanewblend:chamomileandraspberryleaves.Theylookedatmefondlyandsaidthatsoundeddelicious.
IapologizedtoBirdieasshedrankhersthatitwasmaybealittlesweet;Itoldheritwasjustatouchofhoney,tobalanceouttheratherbitteredgeoftheraspberryleaves.Thespellhadspecifiedthattherecipientofthespellneededtodrinkatleasthalfacup.SoIsatandwatchedwithanaffectionatelookonmyface,asifIweredesperatelyseekingtheirapproval,sothattheywouldkeepdrinking,eveniftheydidnotlikethetaste.
Buttheydidlikethetasteandeachofthemdranktheirfullcup.
“Well,”saidBirdieawhilelaterasweputawaythewashingup.“Thatteawassuper,superrelaxing,Henry.IfeelIcould…Infact…”Isawhereyesrollbackslightlyinherhead.“Imighthavetogotobed,”shesaid.
IcouldseeDavidstrugglingnow,too,tokeephiseyesopen.“Yes,”hesaid.“Justalittlenap.”
“Comeon,”Isaid,“letmehelpyouboth.Gosh,I’msosorry.Maybethatteahadtoomuchchamomileinit.Here,here.”IallowedBirdietoholdontomyarm.
Sherestedhercheekagainstmyshoulderandsaid,“Iloveyourtea,Henry.It’sthebestteaever.”
“Really,reallygoodtea,”Davidagreed.
Davidfumbledforthekeytotheirbedroominthefoldsofhistunic.Isawashedidsothatbeneathhistunic,heworeacross-bodyleatherpurse.Iassumedthatthismustbewherehekeptallthekeystoalltheroomsinthehouse.HewashavingtroubleputtingthekeyinthelocksoIhelpedhim.ThenIgotthembothontothebed,wheretheyfellinstantaneouslyintoadeepsleep.
AndthereIstood.InDavidandBirdie’sbedroom.Ihadnotsetfootinthisroomforyears,notsinceDavidandSallyhadstillbeentogether.
IlookedaroundandcouldbarelyabsorbwhatIwasseeing.Pilesofcardboardboxesoverthetopsofwhichspilledsuggestionsofclothing,ofbooks,ofpossessions,thepossessionswehadbeentoldwereevilandbad.Isawtwopairsofshoesinthecorneroftheroom,hisandhers.Isawalcohol,ahalf-drunkbottleofwinewiththecorkreplaced,aglasswithadarkstickyresidueatthebottom,someofmyfather’sveryexpensivewhiskey.Isawaboxofbiscuits,aMarsbarwrapper.Isawaslipofsilkyunderwear,abottleofElviveshampoo.
ButIignoredallthisfornow.Ihadnoideahowlongthisstateof“temporarystupefaction”wouldlast.Ineededtofindmyfather’spaperworkandgetoutofthere.
AsmyhandspassedthroughtheboxesIcameuponmypencilcase,notseensincemylastdayofprimaryschool.Ihelditbrieflyinmyhandandstaredatitasarelicfromanothercivilization.Ithoughtbrieflyofthatboyinthebrownknickerbockers,skippingfromhislastdayatschool,atriumphanttiptohischinasheimaginedthebravenewworldabouttobepresentedtohim.Iunzippedit,heldittomynose,inhaledthesmellofpencilshavingsandinnocence;thenItuckeditintomyleggingstobesecretedlaterinmyownroom.
Ifoundaballgownofmymother’s.Ifoundmyfather’sshotguns.Ifoundmysister’sballetleotardandtutu,thereasonforthekeepingofwhichIcouldnotfathom.
Andthen,inthethirdbox,Ifoundmyfather’sfiles:graymarbledboxfileswithfiercemetalclipsinside.Ipulledoneoutthathadwrittenontheside“HouseholdAffairs”andflippedquicklythroughthecontentsandthereitwas,thelastwillandtestamentofHenryRogerLambandMartinaZeynepLamb.Islippedthis,too,intothewaistbandofmyleggings.Iwouldreaditquietly,inmyownroom.IheardBirdie’sbreathinggrowquickerandsawherlegtwitch.Iquicklypulledanotherboxtowardme.InhereIsawpassports.Ipickedthemupandflickedtothebackpages:mine,mysister’s,myparents’.Ifeltaflameoffurybuildupinsideofme.Ourpassports!Thismanhadtakenourpassports!Thisseemedalmosttosurpassthesheereviloflockingusintoourownhome.Tostealanotherhumanbeing’spassport,theirmeanstoescape,toadventure,toexplore,tolearn,totakefulladvantageoftheworld—myheartpoundedwithrage.Inotedthatmyownpassporthadexpired,thatmysister’shadanothersixmonthstogo.Uselesstousnow.
IheardDavidmumbleunderhisbreath.
ThetemporarystupefactionhadbeenslightlytootemporaryandIwasn’tsureI’deverpersuadethemtodrinkaspecial“newtea”again.Thiscouldbemyoneandonlyopportunitytouncoverthesecretsburiedawayinthisroom.
Ifoundapacketofparacetamol.Apacketofcoughsweets.Apacketofcondoms.AndIfound,buriedunderneathallofthis,apileofcash.Iranmyfingersdownthesides.Itriffledsatisfyingly,suggestingagoodamount.Athousand,Iestimated.Maybemore?Ipulledafewten-poundnotesfromthetopofthepileandfoldedthemintothepaperworkheldinsidemyelasticwaistband.
Birdiegroaned.
Davidgroaned.
Igottomyfeet,myfather’swill,mypencilcase,andfiveten-poundnotesclutchedtightlyagainstmystomach.
Ilefttheroomontiptoe,shuttingthedoorsilentlybehindme.
52
Lucy’smindisspinning.Theman’sfeaturescomeinandoutoffocus.Foramomenthelookslikeoneperson,thenext,another.Sheaskshimwhoheis.
“YouknowwhoIam,”hesays.
Thevoiceisbothfamiliarandstrange.
StellahascrossedtheroomandisclingingontoLucy’slegwithherarms.
LucycanseeMarcostandingtallandstrongbesideher.
Thedogacceptstheman’saffectionhappily,rollingnowontohisbacktoallowhimtoticklehisbelly.
“Who’sagoodboy,”saystheman.“Who’savery,verygoodboy.”
HeglancesupatLucyandpusheshisglassesuphisnosewiththetipofhisindexfinger.“Iwouldsoloveadog,”hesays.“Butyouknow,it’snotfair,isit,leavingthemathomealldaywhenyou’reworking.SoImakedowithcatsinstead.”Hesighsandthenhestandsupstraightandlooksherupanddown.“Iloveyourlook,bytheway.Iwouldneverhavethoughtyou’dturnoutso,youknow,bohemian.”
“Areyou…?”Shesquintsathim.
“I’mnotgoingtotellyou,”saysthemanplayfully.“Youhavetoguess.”
Lucysighs.Sheissotired.Shehastraveledsofar.Herlifehasbeensolongandsohardandnothinghasever,everbeeneasy.Notforonesecond.Shehasmadeterribledecisionsandendedupinbadplaceswithbadpeople.Sheis,asshehassooftenfelt,aghost,themerestoutlineofapersonwhomightonedayhaveexistedbuthasbeenerasedbylife.
Andnowheresheis:amother,akiller,anillegalimmigrantwhohasbrokenandenteredintoapropertythatdoesnotbelongtoher.Allshewantsistoseethebabyandtoclosethecircleofherexistence.Butnowthereisamanhereandshethinkshemightbeherbrother,buthowcanhebothbeherbrotherandyetnotbeherbrother?Andwhyisshescaredofhim?
Sheglancesupattheman,seestheshadowofhislongeyelashesagainsthischeekbones.Phin,shethinks.ThisisPhin.Butthensheglancesdownathishands:smallanddelicate,withnarrowwrists.
“You’reHenry,”shesays,“aren’tyou?”
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Chelsea,1992
Iwenttomymotheraftertheannouncementandsaid,“Youletyourdaughterhavesexwithamanthesameageasyou.Thatisjustsick.”
Shemerelyresponded,“Itwasnothingtodowithme.AllIknowisthatababyiscomingandthatweshouldallbeveryhappy.”
Ihadneverandstilltothisdayhaveneverfeltsoentirelyalone.Inolongerhadamothernorafather.Wehadnovisitorstothehouse.Thedoorbellneverrang.Thephonehadbeendisconnectedmanymonthsbefore.Therewasatime,inthedaysaftermymotherlostherbaby,whensomeonecametoourhouseandbangedonthedoor,solidly,forhalfanhoureverydayfornearlyaweek.Wewerekeptinourroomswhilethepersonbangedonthedoor.Afterwardmymothersaiditwasherbrother,myuncleKarl.IlikedUncleKarl,hewasthetypeofboisterousyoungunclewhowouldthrowchildrenintoswimmingpoolsandtelloff-colorjokesthatwouldmakealltheadultstut.Thelasttimewe’dseenhimwasathisweddinginHamburgwhenIwasabouttenyearsold.He’dwornafloralthree-piecesuit.Theideathathe’dbeenatourdoorandthatwehadnotlethiminbrokeanothersmallpartofmyheart.“Why,though?”Iaskedmymother.“Whydidn’twelethimin?”
“Becausehewouldn’tunderstandthewaywechoosetolive.Heistoofrivolousandlivesalifewithoutmeaning.”
Ididn’trespondtothatbecausetherewasnoresponsetobemade.Hewouldnotunderstand.Noonewouldunderstand.Atleastshecouldseethatmuch.
Vegetablesweredeliveredinacardboardboxonceaweek;cashwasleftinahiddenenvelopebythefrontdoor.Onceortwicethevegetabledeliverymanwouldringthebellandmymumwouldopentheletterboxandthevegetabledeliverymanwouldsay,“Noparsnipstoday,miss,replacedthemwithswedes,hopethat’sOK?”Andmymotherwouldsmileandsay,“Thatisfine,thankyousomuch,”andafterthebodieswerefound,thismanwouldcometothepoliceandtellthemthathethoughtitwasaclosedconventandthatmymotherwasanun.Hereferredtothisdrop-offonhisrouteas“thenunnery.”Hesaidhe’dhadnoideatherewerechildrenlivinginthehouse.He’dhadnoideatherewasaman.
Iwasverylonelybynow.Itriedtorekindlemyfriendship(orwhatsemblancetherehadeverbeenofafriendship)withPhin,buthewasstillsoangrywithmeforbetrayinghimthenighthepushedmeintotheriver.Andyes,IknowIshouldhavebeenangrywithhimforpushingmeintotheriverinthefirstplace,butwe’dtakendrugs,andIwasannoying,IcouldseethatIwasannoying,andinawayI’ddeservedtobepushedintotheriverandmyfuryafterwardwasmoretodowithhurtprideandfeelingsthananysensethathe’dputmeinmortaldanger.Andalso,Iwasinlovewithhimandwhenyou’reinlove,you’llforgivealmostanything.It’satraitthatI’vecarriedwithmeintoadultlife,unfortunately.Ialwaysfallinlovewithpeoplewhohateme.
IcameuponClemencyinthekitchenoneafternoonshortlyaftertheannouncementofmysister’spregnancy.
“Didyouknow?”Isaid.
Sheflushedalittle,asobviouslywe’dbarelyspokenovertheyearsandnowweweretalkingaboutherbestfriendhavingsexwithherfather.
Shesaid,“No.Ihadnoidea.”
“Butyou’resoclose.Howcouldyounothaveknown?”
Sheshrugged.“Ijustthoughttheywereexercising.”
“Whatdoyouthinkaboutit?”
“Ithinkit’sdisgusting.”
Inodded,vehemently,asiftosay,Weareonthesamepage,good
“Hasyourfathereverdoneanythinglikethisbefore?”
“Youmean…?”
“Thebabies.Hasheevergotpeoplepregnantbefore?”
“Oh,”shesaidsoftly.“No.Onlymymum.”
Itoldhertocometomyroomandshelookedscaredforaminute,whichhurtmyfeelings,butthenIthoughtitwasgood.ItwasgoodtobescaryifIwasgoingtooverthrowDavidandgetusalloutofthishouse.
InmyroomIpulledmymattressawayfromthewallandretrievedtheobjectsI’dfoundinDavidandBirdie’sroom.Ispreadthemacrossthefloorandletherlookatthem.ItoldherwhereI’dfoundthem.
“Buthowdidyougetinthere?”sheasked.
“Ican’ttellyou,”Isaid.
Isawconfusionsluicethroughherasshelookedattheobjects.“Yourpencilcase?”
“Yes.Mypencilcase.Andtherewassomuchotherstuff.”Itoldheraboutthesilkyunderwearandthewhiskeyandthepilesofcash.AndasItoldherIsawthatIwasbreakingher.ItwaslikethedayI’dtoldPhinaboutseeinghisdadkissingBirdie.I’dforgottenthatIwastalkingtoachildaboutherfather,thattherewasadeepseamofsharedgeneticmaterial,memories,connectionthereandthatIwasrippingitallapartwithmywords.
“He’sbeenlyingtousallalong!”shesaid,rubbinghereyeswiththeheelsofherhands.“Ithoughtweweredoingallofthisforthepoorpeople!Idon’tunderstand.Idon’tunderstand!”
Ilookedherfirmlyintheeyes.“It’ssimple,”Isaid.“Yourfather’stakeneverythingofvaluefrommyparentsandnowhewantstheirhouse.Legallythishouseisheldintrustformeandmysisteruntilwe’retwenty-five.Butlook.”IshowedherthewillI’dpulledoutofthebox.IthadacodiciladdedinDavid’shandwriting.Thehouse,he’dstatedincodlegallanguage,wasintheeventofthedeathsofmyparentsnowtopassdirectlytoDavidSebastianThomsenandhisdescendants.ThiscodicilhadbeenwitnessedandcountersignedbymymotherandBirdie.Itwouldn’tstandachanceinhellofmakingitthroughacourtoflawbutitsintentwasclear.
“Andhe’shavingababytosecurehisstakeinthehouse.”
Clemencydidn’tsayanythingforawhile.Thenshesaid,“Whatarewegoingtodo?”
“Idon’tknowyet,”Isaid,rubbingmychinasthoughtheremightbeawiseman’sbeardthere,but,ofcourse,therewasnothingofthesort.Ididn’tgrowabearduntilIwasinmytwentiesandeventhenitwasprettyunimpressive.“Butwearegoingtodosomething.”
Shelookedatme,wide-eyed.“OK.”
“But,”Isaidfirmly,“youhavetopromisemethatthisisoursecret.”IgesturedattheobjectsI’dpurloinedfromDavidandBirdie’sroom.“Donottellyourbrother.Donottellmysister.Donottellanyone.OK?”
Shenodded.“Ipromise.”Shewassilentforaminuteandthenshelookedupatmeandsaid,“He’sdonethisbefore.”
“What?”
Shedroppedhergazetoherlap.“Hetriedtogethisgrandmothertosignherhouseovertohim.Whenshewassenile.Myunclefoundoutandkickedusout.That’swhenwemovedtoFrance.”Shelookedupatme.“Doyouthinkweshouldtellthepolice?”shesaid.“Tellthemwhathe’sbeendoing?”
“No,”Isaidinstantly.“No.Because,really,hehasn’tbrokenthelaw,hashe?Whatweneedisaplan.Weneedtogetoutofhere.Willyouhelpme?”
Shenodded.
“Willyoudowhateverittakes?”
Shenoddedagain.
Itwasaforkintheroad,really.Lookingbackonitthereweresomanyotherwaystohavegotthroughthetraumaofitall,butwithallthepeopleIlovedmostintheworldfacingawayfrommeIchosetheworstpossibleoption.
54
LibbyandMillerleaveSally’sofficetenminuteslater.
“AreyouOK?”heasksherastheyemergeintotheswelteringheat.
Shemanagesasmilebutthenrealizesthatsheisabouttocryandcandonothingtostopit.
“OhGod,”saysMiller.“Ohdear.Comeon,comeon.”Heguideshertowardaquietcourtyardandtoabenchunderatree.Hefeelshispockets.“Notissues,I’msorry.”
“It’sOK,”shesays.“Ihavetissues.”
ShepullsapacketoftraveltissuesfromherbagandMillersmiles.
“Youaresoexactlythesortofpersonwhowouldcarryapacketoftravel-sizedtissuesaround.”
Shestaresathim.“Whatdoesthatevenmean?”
“Itmeans…Itjustmeans…”Hisfeaturessoften.“Nothing,”hesays.“Itjustmeansyou’reveryorganized.That’sall.”
Shenods.Thismuchsheknows.“Ihavetobe,”shesays.
“Andwhyisthat?”heasks.
Sheshrugs.It’snotinhernaturetotalkaboutpersonalthings.Butgivenwhatthey’vebeenthroughinthelasttwodaysshefeelstheboundariesthatdefineherusualconversationalpreferenceshavebeenblownapart.
Shesays,“Mymum.Myadoptivemum.Shewasabit—well,isabitchaotic.Lovely,lovely,lovely.Butitwasmydadwhokeptherontrack.AndhediedwhenIwaseightandafterthat…Iwasalwayslateforeverything.Ineverhadtherightstuffforschool.Ididn’tusedtoshowhertheslipsfortripsandthingsbecausetherewasnopoint.ShebookedaholidayinthemiddleofmyGCSEs.EmigratedtoSpainwhenIwaseighteenyearsold.”Sheshrugs.“SoIjusthadtobethegrown-up.Youknow.”
“Thekeeperofthetissues?”
Shelaughs.“Yes.Thekeeperofthetissues.IrememberthisonetimeIfelloverintheplaygroundandcutmyelbowandmymumwasjustsortofflappingaboutlookingforsomethinginherhandbagtocleanitupwithandthisothermumcameoverwithahandbagexactlythesamesizeasmymum’sandsheopeneditandpulledoutanantisepticwipeandapacketofplasters.AndIjustthought:Wow,Iwanttobethepersonwiththemagichandbag.Youknow.”
Hesmilesather.“You’redoingreallywell,”hesays.“Youknowthat,don’tyou?”
Shelaughsnervously.“I’mtrying,”shesays.“TryingtodothebestIcan.”
Foramomenttheysitinsilence.Theirkneestouchbrieflyandthenspringapartagain.
ThenLibbysays,“Well,thatwasawasteoftime,wasn’tit?”
Millerthrowsheradeviouslook.“Well,”hesays,“notentirelyawasteoftime.Thegirl.Lola?She’sSally’sgranddaughter.”
Libbygasps.“Howdoyouknow?”
“BecauseIsawaphotoonSally’sdeskofSallywithayoungerwomanholdinganewborn.AndthenIsawanotherphotoonherwallofSallywithayounggirlwithblondhair.AndthenIsawachild’sdrawingframedonthewallthatsaid‘ILoveYouGrandma.’?”Heshrugs.“Iputitalltogetherandheypresto.”ThenheleanstowardLibbyandshowshersomethingonthescreenofhisphone.
“Whatisit?”sheasks.
“It’saletteraddressedtoLola.Itwaspokingoutofherhandbagunderherdesk.Iperformedtheclassickneeling-to-tie-my-shoelacemaneuver.Click.”
Libbylooksathiminawe.“Butwhatmadeyoueventhink…?”
“Libby.I’maninvestigativejournalist.ThisiswhatIdo.Andifmytheoryiscorrect,LolamustbeClemency’sdaughter.WhichmeansthatClemencymustlivelocally.Andtherefore,thisaddress”—hepointsathisscreen—“isalsoClemency’saddress.Ithinkwemightjusthavefoundthesecondmissingteenager.”
Awomancomestothedoorofthesmartbungalow.Awell-behavedgoldenretrieverstandsathersideandwagshistaillazilyatthem.Thewomanisslightlyoverweight;shehasathickmiddleandlonglegs,aheavy-lookingbosom.Herhairisverydarkandcutintoabobandshewearsgoldhoopearrings,bluejeans,andapalepinksleevelesslinentop.
“Yes?”
“Oh,”saysMiller.“Hello.Clemency?”
Thewomannods.
“MynameisMillerRoe.ThisisLibbyJones.We’vejustbeentalkingtoyourmum.Intown.Shementionedyoulivedclosebyand…”
ShelooksatLibbyanddoesadoubletake.“Youlook…IfeellikeIshouldknowyou.”
LibbybowsherheadandletsMillerdothehonors.
“ThisisSerenity,”hesays.
Clemency’shandsgotothedoorframeandgripit,momentarily.HerheadrollsbackslightlyandforamomentLibbythinkssheisabouttofaint.Butthensherallies,putsherhandsouttoLibby,andsays,“Ofcourse!Ofcourse!You’retwenty-five!Ofcourse.Ishouldhavethought—Ishouldhaveknown.Ishouldhaveguessedyou’dcome.Ohmygoodness.Comein.Please.Comein.”
Thebungalowisbeautifulinside:hardwoodfloorsandabstractpaintings,vasesfullofflowers,sunlightshiningthroughstained-glasswindows.
ThedogsitsatLibby’sfeetasClemencygetsthemglassesofwaterandLibbystrokesthecrownofhishead.He’spantinginthemuggyairandhisbreathsmellsbadbutshedoesn’tmind.
Clemencyreturnsandsitsoppositethem.“Wow,”shesays,staringatLibby.“Lookatyou!Sopretty!So…real.”
Libbylaughsnervously.
Clemencysays,“YouwerejustababywhenIleft.Ihadnophotosofyou.Noideawhereyouwentorwhoadoptedyouorwhatsortoflifeyouendeduphaving.AndIcouldnotpictureyou.Ijustcouldnot.AllIcouldseewasababy.Ababywholookedlikeadoll.Notquitereal.Neverquitereal.Andoh…”Hereyesfillwithtearsthenandshesays,inacrackedvoice,“Iamso,sosorry.Areyou…?Haveyoubeen…?HaseverythingbeenOKforyou?”
Libbynods.Shethinksofhermother,withthemanshecallshertoyboy(althoughhe’sonlysixyearsyoungerthanher),stretchedoutonthetinyterraceofherone-bedapartmentinDénia(noroomforLibbytostaywhenshecomestovisit)inahot-pinkkaftan,explainingoverSkypethatshewastoobusytobookflightstocomeandseeLibbyforherbirthdayandthatbythetimeshelookedonlineallthecheaponeshadgone.Shethinksofthedaytheyburiedherfather,herhandinhermother’s,lookingupintothesky,wonderingifhe’dgottheresafelyornot,worryingabouthowshewasgoingtogettoschoolnowashermothercouldn’tdrive.
“It’sbeenfine,”shesays.“Iwasadoptedbylovelypeople.I’vebeenverylucky.”
Clemency’sfacebrightens.“So,wheredoyoulivenow?”
“St.Albans,”shereplies.
“Oh!That’snice.And—areyoumarried?Anychildren?”
“No.Justme.Single.Livealone.Nokids.Nopets.Iselldesignerkitchensforaliving.I’mvery…Well,there’snotreallyalottosayaboutme.Atleast,therewasn’tuntil…”
“Yes,”saysClemency.“Yes.Ishouldimagineit’sallbeenabitofashocktothesystem.”
“Puttingitmildly.”
“Andhowmuchdoyouknow?”sheaskscircumspectly.“Aboutthehouse.Aboutallofit.”
“Well,”Libbybegins,“it’sallabitcomplicated.Firstofalltherewaswhatmyparentshadalwaystoldme,whichwasthatmybirthparentshadbeenkilledinacarcrashwhenIwastenmonthsold.ThentherewaswhatIreadinMiller’sarticle,whichwasthatmyparentsweremembersofacultandthere’dbeensomekindofsuicidepactandI’dbeenlookedafterbyGypsies.Andthen,well,twonightsagoMillerandIwereatthehouse,inCheyneWalk,andthisguyappeared.Quitelateatnight.Hetoldus…”Shepauses.“HetoldushewascalledPhin.”
Clemency’seyesopenwideandshegasps.“Phin?”shesays.
Libbynodsuncertainly.
Clemency’seyesfillwithtears.“Areyousure?”shesays.“AreyousureitwasPhin?”
“Well,hetoldusthatwashisname.Hesaidyouwerehissister.Thathehadn’tseenyouoryourmotherforyears.”
Sheshakesherhead.“ButIdon’tunderstand!HewassoillwhenIlefthiminthehouse.Soill.Andwelookedeverywhereforhim,meandmymum.Everywhere.Foryearsandyears.WewenttoeveryhospitalinLondon.Wanderedaroundparkslookingatroughsleepers.Keptwaitingandwaitingforhimtosuddenlyappearonourdoorstep.Andheneverdidandeventually…well,weassumedthathemusthavedied.Otherwise,whywouldn’thecomeback?Whywouldn’thecometofindus?Imean,hewouldhave,wouldn’the?”Shepauses.“AreyouabsolutelysureitwasPhin?”sheasksyetagain.“Tellmewhathelookedlike.”
Libbydescribesthehorn-rimmedglasses,theblondhair,thelongeyelashes,thefullmouth.
Clemencynods.
AndthenLibbytellsherabouttheluxuryapartment,thePersiancats.SherepeatsthejokeaboutthecatcalledDick,andClemencyshakesherhead.
“No,”shesays.“Thisdoesn’tsoundlikePhinatall.Itreallydoesn’t.”Shepausesforamoment,hereyesroamingaroundtheroomasshethinks.“YouknowwhatIthink?”shesayseventually.“IthinkitmightbeHenry.”
“Henry?”
“Yes.HewasinlovewithPhin.Totallyunrequited.Obsessivealmost.Hewouldjuststareandstareathim.Hedressedlikehim.Copiedhishairstyles.Heeventriedtokillhimonce.Pushedhimintheriver.Heldhimunder.LuckilyPhinwasstrongerthanHenry.Bigger.Hemanagedtofighthimoff.HenrykilledBirdie’scat,youknow.”
“What?”
“Hepoisonedher.Cutoffhertail.Threwtherestofherbodyintotheriver.Sothesignswerethereallalong.It’saterriblethingtosayaboutachild,itreallyis,butinmyopinionHenryhadastreakofpureevil.”
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Chelsea,1993
IdidnotkillBirdie’scat.OfcourseIdidn’t.Butyes,shediddiebecauseofme.
Iwasworkingonsomethingwiththebelladonna,anothersleepingdraft,somethingalittlestrongerthanthedraftI’dgivenDavidandBirdietogetintotheirroom.Somethingtobringaboutaslightlylesstemporarystupefaction.Itesteditonthecatfiguringifitdidn’tharmthecat,thenitwasprobablysafeonhumans.Sadlyitdidharmthecat.Alessonlearned.Imadethenextdraftmuch,muchweaker.
Asforthecat’stail,well,itsoundsharshwhenputlikethat:cutoffhertail.Itookit.Itwasbeautiful,sosoftandfullofremarkablecolors.Ihadnothingthen,remember,nothingsoft,ithadallbeentaken.Shedidn’tneeditanymore.Soyes,Itookthecat’stail.And—fakenews—IdidnotthrowthecatintheThames.HowcouldIhave?Iwasn’tabletoleavethehouse.Thecat,infact,remainstothisdayinterredinmyherbgarden.
AsforitbeingmewhohadpushedPhinintotheThamesratherthantheotherwayaround:well,thatiscategoricallynottrue.WhatmightbetrueisthatPhinpushedmeinduringastrugglethatensuedafterIattemptedtopushhimin.Yes.Thatmighthavebeenthecase.HetoldmeIwasstaringathim.Isaid,“Iamstaringatyoubecauseyouarebeautiful.”
Hesaid,“You’rebeingweird.Whydoyoualwayshavetobesoweird?”
Isaid,“Don’tyouknow,Phin?Don’tyouknowthatIloveyou?”
(Remember,please,beforeyoujudgemetooharshly,thatIhadtakenLSD.Iwasnotofsoundmind.)
“Stopit,”hesaid.Hewasembarrassed.
“Please,Phin,”Iimplored.“Please.I’velovedyousincetheminuteIsawyou…”AndthenItriedtokisshim.MylipsbrushedhisandforaminuteIthoughthewasgoingtokissmeback.Icanstillremembertheshockofit,thesoftnessofhislips,thetinypuffofbreaththatpassedfromhismouthintomine.
Iputmyhandtohischeekandthenhebrokeawayfrommeandlookedatmewithsuchundisguiseddisgustthatitfeltlikeaswordpassingthroughmyheart.
HepushedmeandInearlyfellbackward.SoIpushedhimandhepushedmeandIpushedhimandhepushedmeandinIwent,andIknowitwasn’tdeliberate.WhichiswhyitwassomuchworsethatIallowedhisfathertothinkthathe’dpushedmeinonpurpose,thatIlethimbelockedinhisroomforallthosedaysandnevertoldanyonethatitwasanaccident.Henevertoldanyoneitwasanaccidenteither,becausetohavedonesowouldhavebeentotellthemthatI’dkissedhim.And,well,clearlytherewasnoworseconfessiontomakethanthat.
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Chelsea,1993
Onesummer’snight,towardthemiddleofJune,Iheardmysisterbegintomoo.
Therewasnootherwordforit.
Shesoundedentirelylikeacow.
Thiswentonforsometime.Shewasinthesparebedroom,whichhadbeenreadiedforher.ClemencyandIwereusheredawayfromthedooroftheroomandorderedtostayinourownroomsuntilweweretoldwecouldcomeback.
Themooingcontinuedformanyhours.
Andthen,ataroundtenminutespastmidnight,therewasthesoundofababycrying.
Andyes.Itwasyou.
SerenityLoveLamb.DaughterofLucyAmandaLamb(fourteen)andDavidSebastianThomsen(forty-one).
Ididn’tgettoseeyouuntillaterthatdayandImustconfessthatIquitelikedthelookofyou.Youhadafacelikeababyseal.Andyoustaredatmeunblinkinglyinawaythatmademefeelseen.Ihadnotfeltseenforalongtime.Iletyouholdmyfingerinyourlittlehandanditwasstrangelynice.I’dalwaysthoughtIhatedbabies,butmaybeIdidn’t,afterall.
Andthen,afewdayslater,youweretakenawayfrommysisterandmovedtoDavidandBirdie’sroom.MysisterwasbroughtupstairsandputbackintheroomshesharedwithClemency.AtnightIcouldhearyoucryingdownstairsandIcouldhearmysistercryingnextdoor.Shewasbroughtdownstairsduringthedaytopumpbreastmilkintoamedieval-lookingcontraption,whichwasthenpouredintomedieval-lookingmilkbottles,andthentoldtogobacktoherroom.
Andsoeverythingchangedagain:thelinesbetweenthethemsandtheussesshiftedafewdegreesandmysisterwasoncemoreoneofus,anditwasthisfinalactofcrueltythatbroughtusbacktogether.
57
Lucystepstowardhim.
Herbrother.
Herbigbrother.
Shecanseeitnow.
Shestaresdeepintohiseyesandsays,“Where’veyoubeen,Henry?Where’veyoubeen?”
“Oh,youknow,hereandthere.”
Awaveoffurystartstoengulfher.Alltheseyearsshehasbeenalone.Alltheseyearsshehashadnoone.AndhereisHenry,tallandfreshfacedandhandsomeandglib.
Shepuncheshiminthechestwithtwofurledfists.
“Youlefther!”shecries.“Youlefther!Youleftthebabybehind!”
Hegrabsholdofherhandsandhesays,“No!Youleft!Itwasyou!Iwastheonewhostayed.Theonlyonewhostayed!Imean,youaskwhereI’vebeen.Whereonearthhaveyoubeen?”
“I’vebeen…,”shebegins,andthensheletsherfistsunfurlandherarmsdrop.“I’vebeeninhell.”
Theyfallsilentforamoment.ThenLucystepsbackandcallsMarcotoher.“Marco,”shesays.“ThisisHenry.He’syouruncle.Henry,thisismyson.Marco.AndthisisStella,mydaughter.”
MarcolooksfromhismothertoHenryandbackagain.“Idon’tunderstand.Whatdoesthishavetodowiththebaby?”
“Henrywas—”shebegins.Shesighsandstartsagain.“Therewasababy.Shelivedherewithusallwhenwewerechildren.Wehadtoleaveherherebecause…well,becausewehadto.AndHenryishere,likeme,toseethebaby,nowthatshe’sgrownup.”
Henryclearshisthroatandsays,“Um.”
Lucyturnstolookathim.
“I’vemetheralready,”hesays.“I’vemetSerenity.Shewashere.Atthehouse.”
Lucygaspssoftly.“OhmyGod.IssheOK?”
“Sheis,”hereplies.“Haleandhearty,prettyasapicture.”
“Butwhereisshe?”sheasks.“Whereisshenow?”
“Well,sheiscurrentlywithouroldfriendClemency.”
Lucyinhalessharply.“Clemency!OhmyGod.Whereisshe?Wheredoesshelive?”
“Shelives,Ibelieve,inCornwall.Here,look.”Henryswitchesonhisphoneandshowsheralittleflashingdotonamap.“There’sSerenity,”hesays,pointingatthedot.“NumbertwelveMaisieWay,Penreath,Cornwall.Ipoppedalittletrackingdeviceonherphone.Justsowewouldn’tloseheragain.”
“Buthowdoyouknowthat’swhereClemencyis?”
“Aha,”hesays,closingdowntheappdisplayingSerenity’slocationandopeningupanotherapp.
Hepressesanarrowonanaudiobar.Andsuddenlytherearevoices.Twowomen,talking,quietly.
“Isthathertalking?”asksLucy.“IsthatSerenity?”
Helistens.“Yes,Ibelieveitis,”hesays,turningupthevolume.
Anothervoicebreaksin.
“Andthat,”hesays,“isClemency.Listen.”
58
ClemencyhasaskedMillertoleavethemalone.ShewantstotellLibbythestoryinprivate.SoMillertakesthedogforawalkandClemencytucksherlonglegsunderheronthesofaandslowlybegins.
“Theplanwasthatwewouldrescuethebaby.Henrywoulddrugthegrown-upswiththissleepingdrafthe’dmadeandwewouldstealtheshoesthatwereintheboxesinDavidandBirdie’sroom,stealsomenormalclothes,takethemoneyandthebaby,andthenwe’dtakethekeyfrommydad’spouchandrunintothestreetandstopapolicemanoratrustworthy-lookinggrown-upandwe’dtellthemtherewerepeopleinthehousewho’dkeptusprisonersforyears.Thensomehowwe’dallfindourwaydownheretomymum.Wehadn’tquiteworkedouthowwe’dcontacther.Aphonebox,reversethecharges,awingandaprayer.”Clemencysmileswryly.“Asyoucansee,wehadn’treallythoughtitthroughverywell.Wejustwantedtobegone.
“AndthenonedaymydadannouncedhewasgoingtothrowapartyforBirdie’sthirtiethbirthday.Henrycalledusintohisroom.Hewaskindofourunofficialleaderbythispoint,Isuppose.Andhesaidweweregoingtodoitthen.DuringBirdie’sbirthdayparty.Hesaidhe’doffertocookallthefood.Heaskedmetomakealittlepocketforhimtotuckintohisleggingssothathecouldputhisbottlesofsleepingdraftinthere.Andthenwe’dallneedtoactasifwewerereallyveryenthusiasticaboutBirdie’sbirthdayparty.LucyandIevenlearnedaspecialpieceonthefiddleforher.”
“AndPhin?”asksLibby.“WherewasPhininvolvedinallofthis?”
Clemencysighs.“Phinkepttohimselfgenerally.AndHenrydidn’twanthiminvolved.Thosetwo…”Shesighed.“Itwaskindoftoxicbetweenthem.HenrylovedPhin.ButPhinhatedHenry.Plus,ofcourse,Phinwasill.”
“Whatwaswrongwithhim?”
“Weneverreallyfoundout.Iwonderedifmaybehehadcancerorsomething.It’swhyMumandIalwaysthoughthemighthave,youknow,passedaway.
“Anyway,”shecontinues.“Thedayofthepartyweweretense.Allthreeofus.Butwekeptupthepretenseofexcitementaboutthestupidbloodyparty.Andinsomeways,ofcourse,wewereexcitedabouttheparty.Itwasourfreedomparty.Attheotherendofthepartylayanormallife.Oratleastadifferentlife.
“AndweplayedourfiddlepieceforBirdie,distractingthegrown-upswhileHenrycookedthefood,anditwassobizarre,thecontrastbetweenmyfatherandBirdieandeveryoneelse.Wealllookedsosickly,youknow.ButBirdieandmydad,theywerebothglowingwithvitalityandsatisfaction.Mydadsatwithhisarmslungaroundhershoulder,thislookofabsoluteandutterdominiononhisface.”Clemencykneadsatthecushiononherlap.Hergazeishardandtight.“Itwaslike,”shecontinues,“likehe’d‘allowed’hiswomanaparty,outofthebountifuldepthsofhisheart,asifhewasthinking:LookatthehappinessIhavecreated.LookhowIcandowhateverIwantandyetpeoplestillloveme.”
HervoicebeginstobreakandLibbytouchesherkneegently.“AreyouOK?”sheasks.
Clemencynods.“I’venever,evertoldanyoneanyofthisbefore,”shesays.“Notmymother,notmyhusband,notmydaughter.It’shard.Youknow.Talkingaboutmyfather.Aboutthesortofmanhewas.Andaboutwhathappenedtohim.Becauseinspiteofeverything,hewasmyfather.AndIlovedhim.”
LibbytouchesClemency’sarmgently.“Areyousureyou’reOKtocarryon?”
Clemencynodsandstraightenshershoulders.Shecontinues.“Normallyweplaceddishesinthecenterofthetableandservedourselves,butthatnightHenrysaidhewantedtoserveeveryoneasthoughtheywerecustomersinarestaurant.Thatwayhecouldmakesurethateachplateendedupinfrontoftherightperson.Thenmydadmadeatoast.Heraisedhisglassaroundthetabletoeachpersonandhesaid,‘Iknowthatlifehasn’talwaysbeensoeasyforusall,particularlyforthoseofuswhohaveexperiencedaloss.Iknowsometimesitmustfeelhardtokeepthefaith,asitwere,butthefactthatweareallhere,afteralltheseyears,andwearestillafamily,andnow,infact,abiggerfamily’—andashesaidthathetouchedthecrownofyourhead—‘justshowshowgoodweallhaveitandhowluckyweallare.’AndthenheturnedtoBirdieandhesaid…”Clemencypausesandpullsinherbreath.“Hesaid,‘Mylove,mylife,motherofmychild,myangel,myreasonforliving,mygoddess.Happybirthday,darling.Ioweeverythingtoyou,’andthentheykissedanditwaslongandwetanditmadenoisesandIrememberthinking…”ShestopsforamomentandthrowsaruefullookatLibby.“Ithought:Ireallyreallyhopeyoubothdie.
“Ittookabouttwentyminutesforthedrafttostarttotakeeffect.Threeorfourminuteslaterallthegrown-upswereunconscious.LucygrabbedyoufromBirdie’slapandwemovedintoaction.Henrytolduswehadabouttwentyminutes,halfanhour,tops,beforethedraftworeoff.Welaidthegrown-upsdownonthekitchenfloorandIsearchedthroughmydad’stunicfortheleatherpouch.AtthetopofthestairsIfumbledandfumbledthroughthebunchuntilIfoundtheonethatopenedthedoortohisandBirdie’sroom.
“And,ohGod,itwasshocking.Henryhadtolduswhattoexpect,butstill,toseeitthere;whatremainedofHenryandMartina’sbeautifulthings,hoardedaway,theantiquesandperfumesandbeautyproductsandjewelryandalcohol.Henrysaid,‘Look.Lookatallthisstuff.Whilewehavenothing.Thisisevil.Youarelookingatevil.’
“Wewerefiveminutesintotheestimatedthirtyminutes.Ifoundnappies,babysuits,bottles.ThenIrealizedthatPhinwasstandingbehindme.Isaid,‘Quick!Findsomeclothes.Youneedtobewarm.It’scoldoutthere.’
“Hesaid,‘Idon’tthinkIcan.IthinkI’mtooweak.’
“Isaid,‘Butwecan’tleaveyouhere,Phin.’
“Hesaid,‘Ican’t!Ijustcan’t.OK?’
“WewerenearlytenminutesinbythensoIcouldn’tspendanymoretimetryingtopersuadehim.IwatchedHenryfillingabagwithcash.Isaid,‘Shouldn’tweleavethatasevidence?Forthepolice?’
“Buthesaid,‘No.It’smine.I’mnotleavingit.’
“Youwerecryingnow,screaming.Henrywasshouting,‘Makehershutup!ForGod’ssake!’
“Andthentherewasthesoundoffootstepsonthestaircasebehindus.AsecondlaterthedooropenedandBirdieappeared.Shelookedabsolutelycrazyandwasbarelycoordinated.Shestumbledintotheroom,herarmsoutstretchedtowardLucy,going,‘Givememybaby!Givehertome!’
“AndBirdiejustlunged,”saysClemency.“Straightatyou.AndHenrywaslosingtheplot.Massivelyscreamingateveryone.Phinwasstandingtherelookingasifhewasabouttopassout.AndIjustfroze,really.BecauseIthoughtthatifBirdiewasawake,theneveryoneelsemustbeawake.Thatmyfathermustbeawake.Thatanymomenteveryonewasgoingtoappearandweweregoingtobelockedinourroomsfortherestofourlives.Myheartwasracing.Iwassoterrified.Andthen,Idon’tknow,I’mstillnotentirelysurewhatreallyhappened,butsuddenlyBirdiewasonthefloor.Shewasonthefloorandtherewasbloodsortofdrippingoutofthecornerofhereye.Likeredtears.Andherhair,justhere”—Clemencypointstoaspotjustaboveherear—“itwasdarkandsticky.AndIlookedatHenryandhewasholdingatusk.”
Libbylooksatherquestioningly.
“Itlookedlikeatusk.Fromanelephant.Oranantler.Somethinglikethat.”
LibbythinksofthepopvideoPhinshowedthem.Shethinksoftheanimalheadsloomingoffwallsandthestuffedfoxesposedasthoughstillaliveatopenormousmahoganydesks.
“Andithadbloodonit,likeastreakofblood.AnditwasinHenry’shand.Andweallstoppedbreathing.Forsomeseconds.Evenyou.Anditwasjustcompletelysilent.Wewerelisteningfortheothers.WewerelisteningtoBirdie’sbreathing.Ithadbeenrattly.Nowithadstopped.Atinylittledribbleofbloodranfromherhair,downhertemple,intohereye…”Clemencydemonstratesitonherownfacewithafingertip.“Isaid,‘Isshedead?’
“Henrysaid,‘Shutup.Justshutupandletmethink.’
“IwenttocheckherheartbeatandHenrypushedme.PushedmesohardIfellbackward.Heyelled,‘Leaveher,leaveher!’
“Thenhewentdownstairs.Hesaid,‘Stayhere.Juststayhere.’IlookedatPhin.Hewasclammylooking.Icouldseehewasabouttofaint.Imovedhimtowardthebed.ThenHenrycameback.Hewasashen.Hesaid,‘Something’shappened.Something’sgonewrong.Idon’tunderstand.Theothers.They’realldead.Allofthem.’?”
Clemency’slastwordcomesoutasagasp.Hereyesfillwithtearsandshebringsherhandstohermouth.“Allofthem.Myfather.Henry’smumanddad.Dead.AndHenrykeptsaying,‘Idon’tunderstand,Idon’tunderstand.Ihardlygavethemanything.Suchatinyamount,notenoughtokillacat.Idon’tunderstand.’
“Andsuddenlythiswholething,thisamazingrescuemission,thisthingweweregoingtodothatwasgoingtosetusfree,hadtotallytrappedus.Howcouldwerundownthestreetlookingforafriendlypolicemannow?Wehadkilledfourpeople.Fourpeople.”
Clemencystopsforamomentandcatchesherbreath.Libbynoticesthatherhandsaretrembling.“Andwehadababytolookafterandthewholething—thewholethingwasjust…God,doyoumindifwegooutinthebackgarden?Ineedacigarette.”
“No.No,ofcourse,”saysLibby.
Clemency’sbackgardenisallchippedslatebedsandrattansofas.It’slatemorningandthesunismovingoverhead,butit’scoolandshadyatthebackofthehouse.Clemencypullsapacketofcigarettesfromadrawerinthecoffeetable.“Mysecretstash,”shesays.
There’saphotoonthesideofthepacketofsomeonewithmouthcancer.Libbycanhardlybeartolookatit.Why,shewonders,whydopeoplesmoke?Whentheyknowtheymightdieofit?Hermothersmokes.Her“boys,”shecallsthem.Wherearemyboys?
ShewatchesClemencyholdamatchtothetipofthecigarette,inhale,blowitout.Herhandsimmediatelystopshaking.Shesays,“WherewasI?”
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Chelsea,1994
Iknowitsoundslikeitwasalljustaterribledisaster.Ofcourseitdoes.Anysituationinvolvingfourdeadbodiesisclearlyfarfromideal.
Butwhatnobodyseemstorealizeisthatwithoutme,Christalmighty,wemightallstillbethere,middle-agedskeletons,havingmissedoutonourentirelives.Ordead.Yes,let’snotforgetwecouldallbedead.Andyes,absolutely,thingsdidnotgoexactlyaccordingtoplan,butwegotoutofthere.Wegotoutofthere.Andnobodyelsehadaplan,didthey?Nobodyelsewaspreparedtostepuptotheline.It’seasytocriticize.It’snoteasytotakecontrol.
NotonlydidIhavefourdeadbodiestodealwith,ababy,andtwoteenagegirls,IhadPhintodealwith,too.ButPhinfeltlikealiability,so,justtomakethingseasier,IlockedPhininhisbedroom.
Yes,Iknow.ButIneededtothinkstraight.
WecouldhearPhinwailingfromhisroomupstairs.Thegirlswantedtogotohim,butIsaid,“No,stayhere.Weneedtoworktogether.Don’tgoanywhere.”
ThefirstprioritytomeseemedtobeBirdie.Itwasbizarretoseeherthere,sosmallandbroken,thispersonwhohadcontrolledourlivesforsolong.ShewaswearingthetopthatClemencyhadmadeherforherbirthday,andachainthatDavidhadgivenher.Herlonghairwastwistedupinabun.Herpaleeyesstaredhardatthewall.Oneeyeballwasbrilliantred.Herfeetwerebareandbony,hertoenailsoverlongandslightlyyellow.Iunclippedthechainfromaroundherneckandputitinmypocket.
Clemencywascrying.“It’ssosad,”shesaid.“It’ssosad!She’ssomeone’sdaughter!Andnowshe’sdead!”
“It’snotsadatall,”Isaid,harshly.“Shedeservedtodie.”
ClemencyandIgotherontotheatticfloorandthentheroof.Shewasverylight.OntheothersideoftheflatroofwhereI’doncesatholdingPhin’shand,therewasasortofgully.Itwasfilledwithdeadleavesandledtothegutteringthatrandownthesideofthebuilding.Wewrappedherintowelsandsheetsandrammedherinthere.Thenwecoveredheroverwithhandfulsofdeadleavesandthensomepiecesofoldscaffoldingwoodthatwefoundupthere.
InthekitchenafterwardIstareddispassionatelyatthethreedeadbodies.Icouldnotletmyminddwellontherealityofthesituation.Ihadkilledmyownparents.Mybeautiful,stupidmotherandmypoor,brokenfather.Ihadtodistancemyselffromthefactthatbecauseofme,mymotherwouldneveragainrunherhandthroughmyhairandcallmeherbeautifulboy,thatIwouldneveragainsitinamembers’clubwithmyfathersilentlydrinkinglemonade.TherewouldbenofamilytoreturntoforChristmasDay,nograndparentsforanychildrenImighthave,nopeopletoworryaboutastheygotolder,noonetoworryaboutmeasIgotolder.Iwasanorphan.Anorphanandaninadvertentmurderer.
ButIdidn’tpanic.IkeptacheckonmyemotionsandIlookedatthethreefiguresstretchedoutonthekitchenfloorandIthought:Theylooklikemembersofacult.Ithought:Anyonewalkinginherenowwouldlookatthemintheirmatchingblacktunicsandthinktheyhadkilledthemselves.
AnditwasobviousthenwhatIneededtodo.Ineededtosetthestageforasuicidepact.Wearrangedthepartyparaphernaliaintosomethingthatlookedalittleless“frivolousthirtiethbirthdayparty”andmore“veryseriouslastsupper.”Wegotridoftheextraplates.Wewashedupallthepotsandpansandthrewawayalltheoldfood.Wearrangedthebodiessothattheyalllayinthesamedirection.Ipressedtheirfingertipsagainsttheemptyphialsandthenplacedthemonthetable,onebyeachplacesettingasthoughtheyhadtakenthepoisonsinunison.
Wedidn’tspeak.
Itfeltstrangelyholy.
Ikissedmymother’scheek.Shewasverycold.
Ikissedmyfather’sforehead.
Ilinkedtheirhandstogether.
AndthenIlookedatDavid.Therehelay,themanwho,justasPhinhadpredictedmonthsearlier,hadbrokenmylife.Themanwho’ddestroyedus,beatenus,deniedusfoodandfreedom,takenourpassports,impregnatedmymotherandmysister,triedtotakeourhouse.IhadsnuffedouthispatheticexistenceandIfelttriumphant.ButIalsofeltaterriblesenseofdisgust.
Lookatyou,Iwantedtosay,justlookatyou,whatanabsoluteloseryouturnedouttobe.
IwantedtostampmyfootintoDavid’sfaceandgrindittoabloodypulp,butIresistedtheurgeandmademywaybackuptoBirdieandDavid’sroom.
Weclearedoutalltheboxes.InonewefoundastashofBirdie’sstupiddrawstringbagsthatshe’dmadetotaketoCamdenMarketandwefilledthemwithasmuchstuffaswecouldconceivablyfitinthem.Wefoundnearlyseventhousandpoundsincashanddivideditfourways.Wealsofoundmymother’sjewelryandmyfather’sgoldcufflinksandplatinumcollarbonesandawholeboxfullofwhiskey.Wepouredthewhiskeydownthesinksandputtheemptybottleswiththechampagnebottlebythefrontdoor.Weputthejewelsinourbags.Thenwebroketheboxesdownandlefttheminapile.
Oncethehousewasclearofanythingthatmightcastdoubtupontheideaofitbeingacult,wequietlyleftbythefrontdoor,andwemadeourwaytotheriver.Itwasearlymorningbynow.Itmusthavebeenaroundthreea.m.Afewcarspassedby,butnooneslowedorseemedtonoticeus.Westoodbytheriver,attheveryspotwherePhinandIhadtussledallthoseyearsbefore,whereI’dendedupunderwaterseeingapparitionsinthemurk.Iwascalmenoughtoappreciatemyfirstmomentsoffreedomintwoyears.Aftertossingtheemptybottles,thesilkunderwear,thebottlesofperfume,andtheeveninggownsintotheriver,inbagsweighteddownwithstones,westoodforamomentandIcouldhearusallbreathing,thebeautyandpeaceofthemomentbrieflyovershadowingthehorrorofitall.Theaircomingoffthesteelyblacksurfaceoftheriverwasthickwithdieselandlifeforce.Itsmelledofallthethingswe’dmissedsincethemomentDavidThomsenhadwalkedintoourhouse,sincethedayheandhisfamilyhadcometoliveupstairs.
“Smellthat,”Isaid,turningtothegirls.“Feelthat.Wedidit.Wereallydidit.”
Clemencywascryingsilently.Shesniffedandwipedthetipofhernoseagainsttheheelofherhand.ButIcouldtellthatLucyfeltit,too,thepowerofwhatwe’ddone.
Ifitwasn’tforyou,Serenity,shewouldhavebeenweaker.Shewouldhavebeenmourningforhermummy,sniffingintotheheelofherhandlikeClemency.Butbecauseshehadyou,sheknewthattherewasmoreatstakeherethanouridentitiesasbelovedchildrenofamotherandfather.Shehadabrave,almostrebellioustilttoherchin.Ifeltproudofher.
“We’regoingtobeOK,”Isaidtoher.“Youknowthat,don’tyou?”
Shenoddedandwestoodforaminuteortwountilwesawthelightsofatugboatheadingtowardusandwedashed,fleet-footed,backacrosstheroadandtowardthehouse.
Andthatwaswhenithappened.
Clemencyran.
Shewasnotwearingshoes.Onlysocks.ShehadlargefeetandtheshoesbelongingtomymotherthatBirdiehadkeptwerefartoosmall,David’sshoesfartoobig.
ForamomentIwatchedherrun.Iletabeatortwoofindecisionandinactionpass,thenIwhisperedloudlytoLucy:“Getbackinthehouse,getbackinthehouse.”AndIturnedonmyheelandIgavechase.
ButIquicklyrealizedthatindoingsoIwasdrawingattentiontomyself.Afewsoulswanderedthestreets:ithadbeenaThursdaynight,youngpeopleweremakingtheirwayhomefromnightbusesontheKing’sRoad.WhatexplanationwouldIgiveformyself,inablackrobe,chasingayoungterrifiedgirl,alsoinablackrobe,withnoshoesonherfeet?
IstoppedonthecornerofBeaufortStreet.Myheart,whichhadnotexperiencedtheshockofrunningforaverylongtime,thumpedundermyribslikeapistonuntilIthoughtIwasgoingtothrowup.Icollapsedinuponmyself,heardmybreathenterandleavemybodylikeIwasastrangledfarmanimal.Iturnedandheadedslowlybacktothehouse.
Lucywaswaitingformeinthehallway.Yousatonherlap,feedingfromherbreast.“Whereisshe?”shesaid.“Where’sClemency?”
“Gone,”Isaid,stillsomewhatoutofbreath.“She’sgone…”
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LibbystaresatClemency.“Where?”sheasks.“Wheredidyougo?”
“Iwenttothehospital.IfollowedthesignstotheA&Edepartment.Isawpeoplelookingatme.Butyouknow,atthattimeofnight,inanemergencydepartment,noonereallynotices.It’salljustsomad,everyonedrunkorofftheirheads.Everyonescaredandpreoccupied.IwenttothedeskandIsaid,‘Ithinkmybrother’sdying.Heneedsmedicalhelp.’
“Thenurselookedatme.Shesaid,‘Howoldisyourbrother?’
“Isaid,‘He’seighteen.’
“Shesaid,‘Andwhereareyourparents?’AndIjustsortofclammedup.Ican’treallyexplainit.Itriedtosaysomewords,buttheyliterallywouldn’tleavemymouth.Ijusthadthisimageinmymindofmyfather,dead,laidoutlikeafreakishholyman.AndBirdieontheroofwrappeduplikeamummy.Ithought:HowcanItellpeopletocometothathouse?Whatwouldtheysay?Whatwouldhappentothebaby?WhatwouldhappentoHenry?AndIjustturnedthen,andIwalkedaway.Ispentthenightmovingfromchairtochairinthehospital.Everytimesomeonegavemeastrangelookorseemedliketheywereabouttosaysomethingtome,I’dmoveon.
“ThenextmorningIwashedinthetoiletsandthenIwentstraighttoashoeshop.Ihadacoaton;I’dtiedmyhairback.IwasasinconspicuousasachildwalkingaroundinearlyAprilwithoutshoesoncouldbe.Ihadmybagfullofmoney.Iboughtsomeshoes.Iwanderedaroundthecity.Nobodylookedatme.Nobodynoticedme.IwalkedallthewaytoPaddingtonStation,justfollowingstreetsigns.EventhoughI’dbeenlivinginLondonforsixyears,Ihadnomentalmapofhowitworked.ButImanagedtogetthere.AndIboughtatraintickettoCornwall.WhichwasmadbecauseIdidn’thaveaphonenumberformymother.Ididn’thaveanaddress.Ididn’tevenknowthenameofhertown.ButIhadmemories,thingsshe’dtalkedaboutwhenshecametovisitusjustaftershemovedhere.Thelasttimewe’dseenher.She’dmentionedarestaurantonthebeachwhereshewouldtakeuswhenwecametovisitthatsoldblueicecreamandslushies.Shesaidtherewerealotofsurfers,thatshewatchedthemfromthewindowofherflat.Shementionedaneccentricartistwholivednextdoorwhosegardenwasfullofphallicsculpturesmadeofcolorfulmosaic.ShementionedfishandchipsonthecornerofherstreetandmissingthefasttraintoLondonandhavingtogothrougheighteenstations.
“Andsoyes,Ifoundmywaytoher.ToPenreath,toherstreet,toherflat.”
Hereyesfillwithtearsatthismemoryandherfingersgobacktothecigarettepacketinfrontofher.Shepullsoutafreshone;shelightsitandinhales.
“Andshecametothedoorandshesawmethere.”Hervoicecracksoneverysinglewordandshebreathesinhard.“Shesawmethereandshejustpulledmein,pulledmestraightinandheldmeinherarmsfor,oh,forsolong.AndIcouldsmellthestaleboozeonherandIknewshewasn’tperfectandIknewwhyshehadn’tcomeforusbutIknew,Ijustknewthatitwasover.AndthatIwassafe.
“Shetookmeinandshesatmeonhersofaandherflatwas,well,itwasamess,stuffeverywhere.Iwasn’tusedtothatbynow;Iwasusedtolivingwithemptiness,withnothing.
“ShemovedthingsfromhersofasoIhadsomewheretositandshesaid,‘Phin?WhereisPhin?’
“Andthen,ofcourse,Istopped.BecausethetruthwasthatI’drunawayandI’dlefthimthere,lockedinhisroom.AndifIexplainedwhyhewaslockedinhisroomthenI’dhavetoexplaineverythingelse.AndIlookedatherandshewassodamagedandIwassodamagedandIshouldhavetoldhereverything.ButIjustcouldn’tdoit.SoItoldherthattheadultshadkilledthemselvesinapact.ThatHenry,Lucy,andPhinwerestillatthehousewithyou.Thatthepolicewerecoming.ThatitwouldallbeOK.AndIknowitsoundsridiculous.Butremember:rememberwhereI’dbeen,whatI’dbeenthrough.Myallegiancesweresoskewed.Wechildrenhadhadnoonebuteachotherforyears.LucyandIwereinseparable,ascloseasrealsisters…well,upuntilshegotpregnant.”
“Lucy?”saysLibby.“Lucygotpregnant?”
“Yes,”saysClemency.“Ithought…Didyounotknow?”
Libby’sheartstartstorace.“Knowwhat?”
“ThatLucywas…”
ButLibbyalreadyknowswhatshe’sabouttosay.Herhandgoestoherthroatandshesays,“Lucywaswhat?”
“Well,shewasyourmother.”
LibbystareshardatthephotoofthemouthcanceronClemency’scigarettepacket,takesineveryvile,disgustingdetail,totrytoblockoutthewaveofsicknesscomingtowardher.HermotherwasnotabeautifulsocialitewithPriscillaPresleyhair.Hermotherwasateenagegirl.
“Whowasmyfather?”shesaysafteramoment.
Clemencylooksatherapologeticallyandsays,“Itwas…myfather.”
Libbynods.She’dbeenhalfexpectingthis.
“HowoldwasLucy?”
Clemency’schindropsintoherchest.“Shewasfourteen.Myfatherwasinhisforties.”
Libbyblinks,slowly.“Andwasit…?Didhe—?”
“No,”saysClemency.“No.NotaccordingtoLucy.AccordingtoLucyitwas…”
“Consensual?”
“Yes.”
“Butshewassoyoung.Imean,that’sstilllegallyrape.”
“Yes.Butmyfather…hewasverycharismatic.Hehadaway,awayofmakingyoufeelspecial.Orawayofmakingyoufeelworthless.Anditwasalwaysbettertobeoneofthespecialones.Youknow,Icanseehowithappened.Icansee…Butthat’snottosayIdidn’thateit.Ididhateit.Ihatedhimforit.AndIhatedher.”
Theyfallsilentforamoment.Libbyletstherevelationsofthelastfewminutessinkin.Hermotherwasateenagegirl.Ateenagegirl,nowamiddle-agedwomanlostsomewhereintheworld.Herfatherwasadirtyoldman,achildabuser,ananimal.Andatthisthought,Libbystartsatthesoundofanotificationcomingfromherphone.It’saWhatsAppmessagefromanumbershedoesn’trecognize.
“Sorry,”shesaystoClemency,pickingupherphone.“CanIjust?”
There’saphotoattached.Thecaptionsays,We’rewaitinghereforyou!Comeback!
Libbyrecognizesthelocationofthephoto.It’sthehouseinCheyneWalk.Andthere,sittingonthefloor,holdingupherhandstothecamera,isawoman:slender,darkhaired,verytanned.She’swearingacamisoleandhassometattoosencirclinghersinewyarms.Toherleftisabeautifulyoungboy,alsotannedanddarkhaired,andagorgeouslittlegirlwithgold-tingedcurls,oliveskin,andgreen,greeneyes.Onthefloorbytheirfeetisalittlebrown,black,andwhitedog,pantingintheheat.
Andintheforegroundofthephotograph,holdingthecameraatarm’slengthandbeamingintothelenswithverywhiteteeth,isthemanwhocallshimselfPhin.SheturnsthescreentofaceClemency.
“Isthat…?”
“OhmyGod.”Clemencybringsafingertipclosertothescreenandpointsatthewoman.“That’sher!That’sLucy.”
Libbyusesherfingertipsonthescreentozoominonthewoman’sface.LucylookslikeMartina,thewomanshebrieflythoughtwashermother.Shehasthedarkskinandtheglossyblackhair,buthersissingedrustybrownatthetips.Herforeheadislightlylined.Hereyesaredarkbrown,likeMartina’s.Likeherson’s.Shelooksweathered;shelookstired.Shelooksabsolutelybeautiful.
LibbyandMillergetbacktoCheyneWalkfivehourslater.
Atthedoor,Libbyfeelsforthehousekeysinthepocketofherhandbag.Shecouldjustletherselfin;it’sherhouseafterall.Andthenshegulpsasithitsher.It’snotherhouse.It’snotherhouseatall.ThehouseisforMartinaandHenry’sbaby.Ababythatwasneverborn.
SheputsthekeysbackintoherbagandshecallsthenumberattachedtotheWhatsAppmessage.
“Hello?”
It’sawoman.Hervoiceissoftandmelodic.
“Isthat…Lucy?”
“Yes,”saysthewoman.“Who’sthis?”
“Thisis…thisisSerenity.”
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LucyputsthephonedownandstaresatHenry.
“She’shere.”
Theygotothefrontdoortogether.
ThedogstartstobarkatthesoundofpeopleoutsideandHenrypickshimupandtellshimtoshush.
Lucy’sheartracesasherhandgoestothedoorhandle.Shetouchesherhair,smoothsitdown.Shemakesherselfsmile.
Andtheresheis.Thedaughterthatshehadtoleavebehind.Thedaughterthatshehaskilledtocomebackfor.
Herdaughterisaverageheight,averagebuild,nothinglikethehugeroly-polybabysheleftbehindintheHarrodscrib.Shehassoftblondhair,butnocurls.Shehasblueeyes,butnotthepaleaquablueofthebabyshehadtoabandon.She’swearingcottonshorts,ashort-sleevedblouse,pinkcanvasplimsolls.She’sclutchingagrass-greenhandbagtoherstomach.She’swearingsmallgoldhoopswithcrystaldropshangingfromthem,justoneineachearlobe.She’snotwearinganymakeup.
“Serenity…?”
Shenods.“OrLibby.Formydayjob.”Shelaughslightly.
Lucylaughs,too.“Libby.Ofcourse.You’reLibby.Comein.Comein.”
Shehastoresisttheurgetoputherarmsaroundher.Insteadsheguidesherintothehallwaywithjustahandagainsthershoulder.
FollowingbehindSerenityisabig,handsomemanwithabeard.SheintroduceshimasMillerRoe.Shesays,“He’smyfriend.”
Lucyleadsthemalltothekitchen,whereherchildrensitwaitingnervously.
“Marco.Stella,”shesays.“ThisisSerenity.OractuallyLibby.AndLibbyis…”
“Thebaby?”saysMarco,hiseyeswide.
“Yes,Libbyisthebaby.”
“Whichbaby,Mama?”saysStella.
“She’sthebabyIhadwhenIwasveryyoung.ThebabyIhadtoleaveinLondon.ThebabyInevertoldanyoneabout,ever.She’syourbigsister.”
MarcoandStellabothsitwiththeirjawshangingopen.Libbysortofwavesatthem.Foramomentitisawkward.ButthenMarcosays,“Iknewit!Iknewitallalong!FromtheminuteIsawitonyourphone!Iknewitwouldbeyourbaby.Ijustknewit!”
HegetstohisfeetandrunsacrossthekitchenandforamomentLucythinksheisrunningaway,thatheisangrywithherforhavingasecretbaby,butherunstowardLibbyandthrowshisarmsaroundherwaist,squeezesherhard,andoverthetopofhisheadLucyseesLibby’seyesopenwithsurprisebutalsowithpleasure.ShetouchesthetopofhisheadandsmilesatLucy.
Then,ofcourse,becauseMarcohasdoneit,StellafollowssuitandclingstoLibby’ships.Andthere,thinksLucy,theretheyare.Herthreebabies.Together.Atlast.Shestandswithherhandsclaspedtohermouthandtearsfalldownhercheeks.
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I’mnotcompletelyheartless,Serenity,Ipromise.
RememberhowIletyouholdmyfingerthedayyouwereborn,howIlookedatyouandfeltsomethingbloominsideme?Istillfeltthat,whenyouandIcameface-to-faceheretwonightsago.Youwerestillthatbabytome;youstillhadthatinnocenceaboutyou,thattotallackofguile.
Butyouhadsomethingelse.
Youhadhisblueeyes,hiscreamyskin,hislongdarkeyelashes.
Youdon’tlookmuchlikeLucy.
Youdon’tlookanythinglikeDavidThomsen.
Youlookjustlikeyourdad.
Andit’sridiculouslookingbackonitthatIcouldn’tseeitwhenitwasrightthereundermynose.Whenyourblondcurlscamethroughandyourbrightblueeyesandyourfulllips.HowdidDavidnotseeit?HowdidBirdienotseeit?Howdidanyonenotseeit?Iguessbecauseitwasimpossibletobelieve.Impossibleeventoconceive.
ThatmysisterwassleepingwithDavidandPhinatthesametime.
Ididn’tfindoutuntilthedayafterBirdie’sbirthdayparty.
LucyandIhadnotdecidedwhattodoyet.Phinwasthrashingaboutinhisroom,soItiedhimtoaradiator,tokeephimsafe.Forhisowngood.
Lucywasappalled.
“Whatareyoudoing?”shecried.
“He’sgoingtohurthimself,”Isaidrighteously.“It’sjustuntilwedecidewhattodowithhim.”
Shewasholdingyouinherarms.Youandshehadnotbeenapartforamomentsinceshe’dtakenyououtofBirdie’sarmsthenightbefore.
“Weneedtogethimsomehelp.”
“Yes.Wedo.Butwealsoneedtorememberthatwe’vekilledpeopleandthatwecouldgotoprison.”
“Butitwasanaccident,”shesaid.“Noneofusmeanttokillanyone.Thepolicewouldknowthat.”
“No.Theywouldn’t.Wehavenoevidenceofanyabuse.Ofanythingthathappenedhere.Weonlyhaveourversionofevents.”
ButthenIstopped.IlookedatLucyandIlookedatyouandIthought:Thereitis.There’stheproofweneed,ifwediddecidetoaskforhelp,theevidenceoftheabuseisthere.Rightthere.
Isaid,“Lucy.Thebaby.Thebabyisproofthatyouwereabused.You’refifteen.Youwerefourteenwhenthebabywasborn.TheycandoaDNAtest.ProvethatDavidwasherfather.Youcansayherapedyou,overandoveragain,fromwhenyouwereayoungchild.YoucansaythatBirdieencouragedhim.Andthentheystoleyourbaby.Imeanit’svirtuallytrueanyway.AndthenIcansay…IcansayIfoundthegrown-upslikethat.Icouldleaveafakednote,sayingthattheyweresoashamedofwhatthey’ddone.Ofhowthey’dtreatedus.”
Iwassuddenlyovercomewiththefeelingthatwecouldgetoutofthis.WecouldgetoutofhereandnotgotojailandPhincouldgetbetterandLucycouldkeepherbabyandeveryonewouldbenicetous.
AndthenLucysaid,“Henry.YouknowSerenityisn’tDavid’s,don’tyou?”
MyGod,whatagullibleidiot,Istilldidn’tseeit.Irememberthinking,Oh,well,thenwhosecoulditpossiblybe?
Andthenitfellintoplace.Ilaughedatfirst.AndthenIwantedtobesick.AndthenIsaid,“Really?You?AndPhin?Really?”
Lucynodded.
“Buthow?”Iasked.“When?Idon’tunderstand.”
Shedroppedherheadandsaid,“Inhisroom.Onlytwice.Itwaslike,Idon’tknow,acomfortthing.IwenttohimbecauseIwasworriedabouthim.Becauseheseemedsoill.Andthenwejustfoundourselves…”
“OhmyGod.Youwhore!”
Shetriedtoplacateme,butIpushedheraway.Isaid,“Getawayfromme.You’redisgusting.Youaresickandyouaredisgusting.Youareaslut.Adirty,dirtyslut.”
Yes,Ilaiditonwithatrowel.IhaverarelybeenasdisgustedbyanotherhumanbeingasIwasbyLucythatday.
Icouldn’tlookather.Icouldn’tthinkstraight.EverytimeItriedtothinkaboutsomething,triedtodecidewhattodonext,mymindwouldfillwithimagesofLucyandPhin:himontopofher,himkissingher,hishands,thehandsthatIhadheldthatdayontheroof,allovermysister’sbody.Ihadneverfeltaragelikeit,neverfeltsuchhatredandhurtandpain.
Iwantedtokillsomeone.AndthistimeIwantedtodoitonpurpose.
IwenttoPhin’sroom.Lucytriedtostopme.Ipushedherawayfromme.
“Isittrue?”Iscreamedathim.“IsittruethatyouhadsexwithLucy?”
Helookedatmeblankly.
“Isit?”Iscreamedagain.“Tellme!”
“I’mnottellingyouanything,”hesaid,“untilyouuntieme.”
Hesoundedexhausted.Hesoundedasifhewasfadingaway.
Iimmediatelyfeltmyragestarttodissipateandwentandsatdownatthefootofhisbed.
Idroppedmyheadintomyhands.WhenIlookeduphiseyeswereclosed.
Therewasamomentofsilence.
“Areyoudying,Phin?”Iasked.
“Idon’t.Fucking.Know.”
“Weneedtogetoutofhere,”Isaid.“Youhavetogetittogether.Seriously.”
“Ican’t.”
“Butyouhaveto.”
“Fuckingjustleavemehere.Iwanttodie.”
Itdidoccurtome,Ihavetoconfess,thatIcouldputapillowoverhisfaceandpushdown,holdmyfacenexttohistodrawinhisdyingbreath,whispersoothingwordsintohisear,overpowerhim,snuffhislifeforce,takehispowerformyself.But,remember,apartfrommymother’sunbornbaby—andIhaveGoogledthisextensivelyovertheinterveningyearsandreally,itwouldbeveryhardtoabortahealthypregnancyusingparsley—Ineverkilledanyonedeliberately.Iamadarkperson,Serenity,Iknowthat.Idon’tfeelthewaythatotherpeoplefeel.ButIamcapableofgreatcompassionandgreatlove.
AndIlovedPhinmorethanIhaveeverlovedanyotherpersonsince.
Iuntiedhiswristfromtheradiator,andIlaydownnexttohim.
Isaid,“Didyoueverlikeme?Evenforaminute?”
Hesaid,“Ialwayslikedyou.Whywouldn’tIlikeyou?”
Ipausedtoconsiderthequestion.“Becauseofmelikingyou?Toomuch?”
“Annoying,”hesaid,andtherewasanoteofwryhumorinhisfadingvoice.“Veryannoying.”
“Yes,”Isaid.“Icanseethat.I’msorry.I’msorryforlettingyourdadthinkyou’dpushedmeintheThames.I’msorryfortryingtokissyou.I’msorryforbeingannoying.”
Thehousecreakedandgroanedaroundus.Youwereasleep.Lucyhadsetyoudownintheoldcribinmyparents’dressingroom.Ihadbeenawakeforthirty-sixhoursbythispointandthesilence,thesoundofPhin’sbreathing,lulledmeintoanimmediateandrapturoussleep.
WhenIawoke,twohourslater,LucyandPhinhadgone,andyouwerestillasleepinyourcrib.
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LibbylooksatLucy,thiswomansurroundedbylovingchildrenwhomshehasbroughtallthewayfromFrancetoEngland.Shehasevenbroughtherdog.Sheclearlyisnotthesortofwomantoleavebehindpeoplesheloves.Shesays,“Whydidyouleaveme?”
Lucyimmediatelystartstoshakeherhead.
“No,”shesays,“no.No.Ididn’tleaveyou.Ineverleftyou.ButPhinwassoillandyouweresohealthyandwell.SoIputyoudowninyourcrib,waiteduntilyoufellasleep,andIwentbacktoPhin’sroom.HenrywasasleepandImanagedtopersuadePhintostandup,finally.Hewassoheavy;Iwassoweak.Igothimoutofthehouseandwewenttomyfather’sdoctor’shouse.Dr.Broughton.IrememberedbeingtakentherewhenIwassmall,justaroundthecorner.Hehadabrightredfrontdoor.Iremembered.Itwasaboutmidnight.Hecametothedoorinadressinggown.ItoldhimwhoIwas.ThenIsaid”—shelaughswrylyatamemory—“Isaid,‘I’vegotmoney!Icanpayyou!’
“Atfirsthelookedangry.ThenhelookedatPhin,lookedathimproperly,andsaid,‘Ohmy,ohmy,ohmy.’Hewentupstairsquickly,grumblingunderhisbreath;thenhecamebackdownfullydressedinashirtandtrousers.
“Hetookusintohisexaminationroom.Allthelightswereoff.Heturnedthemon,tworowsofstriplights,allcomingonatonce.Ihadtoshieldmyeyes.AndhelaidPhinonabedandhecheckedallofhisvitalsandheaskedmewhatthehellwasgoingon.Hesaid,‘Whereareyourparents?’Ihadnoideawhattosay.
“Isaid,‘They’regone.’Andhelookedatmesideways.Asiftosay,We’llgettothatlater.Thenhecalledsomeone.Iheardhimexplainingthesituationtothem,lotsofmedicaljargon.Halfanhourlaterayoungmanappeared.HewasDr.Broughton’snurse.Betweenthemtheydidaboutadozentests.Thenursewentoffintothemiddleofthenightwithabagofthingstotaketoalab.Ihadn’tsleptfortwodays.Iwasseeingstars.Dr.Broughtonmademeacupofhotchocolate.Itwas…crazyasitsounds,itwasthebesthotchocolateofmylife.AndIsatonthesofainhisconsultingroomsandIfellasleep.
“WhenIwokeupitwasaboutfiveinthemorningandthenursewasbackfromthelab.Phinwasonadrip.Buthiseyeswereopen.Dr.BroughtontoldmethatPhinwassufferingfromseveremalnutrition.Hesaidthatwithplentyoffluidsandsometimetorecover,he’dbefine.
“Ijustnoddedandsaid,‘Hisfather’sdead.Idon’tknowwherehismotherlives.Wehaveababy.Idon’tknowwhattodo.’
“WhenItoldhimthatwehadababy,hisfacefell.Hesaid,‘GoodLord.Howoldareyouexactly?’
“Isaid,‘I’mfifteen.’
“Hegavemeastrangelookandsaid,‘Whereisthisbaby?’
“Isaid,‘She’satthehouse.Withmybrother.’
“?‘Andyourparents?Wherehavetheygone?’
“Isaid,‘They’redead.’
“Hesighedthen.Hesaid,‘Ihadnoidea.I’mverysorry.’Andthenhesaid,‘Look.Idon’tknowwhat’sgoingonhereandIdon’twanttogetinvolvedinanyofthis.ButyouhavebroughtthisboytomydoorandIhaveadutyofcaretowardhim.So,let’skeephimhereforawhile.Ihavetheroomforhim.’
“AndthenIsaidIwantedtoleave,togobackforyou,buthesaid,‘Youlookanemic.IwanttorunsometestsonyoubeforeIletyoubackoutthere.Giveyousomethingtoeat.’
“Sohefedme,abowlofcerealandabanana.Hetooksomeblood,checkedmybloodpressure,myteeth,myears,likeahorseatmarket.
“HetoldmeIwasdehydratedandthatIneededtospendsometimeunderobservationandonfluids.”
ThenLucylooksupatLibbyandsays,“I’msosorry,so,sosorry.ButbythetimehesaidIwasOKtoleavethehouse,itwasallover.Thepolicehadbeen,socialserviceshadbeen,youweregone.”
Hereyesfillwithtears.
“Iwastoolate.”
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Iwastheonewholookedafteryou,Serenity.Istayedbehindandgaveyoumashed-upbananasandsoyamilkandporridgeandrice.Ichangedyournappies.Isangyoutosleep.Wespentmanyhourstogether,youandI.ItwasclearthatLucyandPhinweren’tcomingbackandthebodiesinthekitchenwouldstarttodecomposeifIstayedmuchlonger.Ialsosuspectedthatsomeonemighthavegonetotheauthoritiesbynow.Iknewitwastimeformetogo.Iaddedafewlinestothesuicidenote.“OurbabyiscalledSerenityLamb.Sheistenmonthsold.Pleasemakesureshegoestonicepeople.”IpushedthepenI’dwrittenthenotewithintomymother’shand,thenremoveditandleftitonthetable.IfedyouandputyouinafreshBabygro.
Andthen,asIwasabouttoleave,IfeltinthepocketofmyjacketforJustin’srabbit’sfoot.I’dputitinthereforluck,notthatIbelieveinsuchthings,andithadclearlybroughtmenoluckatallsinceI’dtakenitfromJustin’sroom.ButIwantedthebestforyou,Serenity.Youweretheonlytrulypurethinginthathouse,theonlygoodthingtocomeoutofanyofit.SoItooktherabbit’sfootandItuckeditinwithyou.
ThenIkissedyouandsaid,“Goodbye,lovelybaby.”
Ileftthroughthebackofthehouse,inoneofmyfather’soldSavileRowsuitsandapairofhisJermynStreetshoes.I’dtiedthebootlacetiearoundthecollarofoneofmyfather’soldshirtsandcombedmyhairintoasidefringe.Mybagwasfilledwithcashandjewels.Istrodeoutintothemorningsun,feelingitgoldenuponmytiredskin.IfoundaphoneboxandIdialed999.InafakevoiceItoldthepolicethatIwasworriedaboutmyneighbors.ThatIhadn’tseenthemforawhile.Thattherewasababycrying.
IwalkeduptotheKing’sRoad;alltheshopswerestillshut.IkeptwalkinguntilIgottoVictoriaStationandthereIsatoutsideascruffycaféinmySavileRowsuitandIorderedacupofcoffee.Ihadneverhadacupofcoffeebefore.Ireallywantedacupofcoffee.ThecoffeecameandItasteditanditwasdisgusting.Ipouredtwosachetsofsugarintoitandmademyselfdrinkit.Ifoundananonymoushotelandpaidforthreenights.Nobodyaskedmyage.WhenIsignedtheregisterIusedthenamePhineasThomsonThomsonwithanO.NotThomsenwithanE.IwantedtobealmostPhin.NotcompletelyPhin.
IwatchedtheTVinmyhotelroom.Therewasasmallnewsarticleattheendofthebulletin.Threebodies.Asuicidepact.Acult.Ababyfoundhealthyandcaredfor.Childrenbelievedtobemissing.Policesearchunderway.Thephotostheyhadwereourschoolphotosfromourlastyearatprimaryschool.Iwasonlytenandhadashortbackandsides.Lucywaseightandhadapageboycut.Wewereunrecognizable.TherewasnomentionofPhinorofClemency.
Ibreathedasighofrelief.
Andsothenwhat?Whathappenedbetweenthen,sixteen-year-oldmeinmyunderwearonanyloncoverletinacheaphotelroomwatchingthenews,andmiddle-agedmenow?
Doyouwanttoknow?Doyoucare?
Well,Igotajob.IworkedinanelectricalrepairshopinPimlico.ItwasownedbyamadBangladeshifamilywhocouldn’thavecaredlessformybackstorysolongasIturneduptoworkontime.
Imovedintoabedsit.Iboughtcodingbooksandacomputerandstudiedathomealoneatnight.
BythentherewasaproperinternetandmobilephonesandIlefttheelectricalrepairshopandgotajobataCarphoneWarehouseonOxfordStreet.
Imovedintoaone-bedroomflatinMarylebone,justbeforeMarylebonebecameunaffordable.Istartedtodyemyhairblond.Iworkedout.Ibuiltsomebulk.Iwenttoclubsatnightandhadsexwithstrangers.Ifellinlove,buthehitme.Ifellinloveagain,butheleftme.Igotmyteethwhitened.Igottropicalfish.Theydied.Igotajobatanewinternetcompany.Therewerefiveofusatfirst.WithinthreeyearstherewerefiftyofusandIwasearningsixfiguresandhadmyownoffice.
Iboughtathree-bedroomflatinMarylebone.Ifellinlove.HetoldmeIwasuglyandthatnoonewouldeverlovemeagainandthenheleftme.Ihadanosejob.Ihadeyelashextensions.Atinybitoffillerinmylips.
Thenin2008,Iwenttothesolicitornamedontheletterheadofmyparents’originallastwillandtestament.ForsolongI’dtriedtoputCheyneWalkandwhathappenedtheretothebackofmymind,triedtoforgeanewlifewithanew(ifslightlyborrowed)identity.IwantednothingtodowithpatheticlittleHenryLamborhishistory.Hewasdeadtome.ButasIgotolderandmoresettled,Istartedtothinkofyou,moreandmore;Iwantedtoknowwhereyouwereandwhoyouwereandwhetherornotyouwerehappy.
IknewfromthenewsreportsthatithadbeenassumedyouwerethechildofMartinaandHenryLamb.My“suicidenote”hadbeentakenatfacevalueandnoDNAtestshadbeenruntodisprovetheassumption.Andrememberingthetermsofmyparents’willitoccurredtomethatmaybeonedayyouwouldcomebackintomylife.ButIhadnoideaifthetrustwasstilllodgedwiththesolicitors.Andifitwas,whetherDavidhaddoneanythingtoalteritstermsduringthetimehehadmymotherentirelyunderhiscontrol.
Iwasinmythirtiesbynow.Iwastall,blond,buff,andtanned.IintroducedmyselfasPhineasThomson.Isaid,“I’mlookingforsomeinformationaboutafamilyIusedtoknow.Ibelieveyouweretheirsolicitors.TheLambs.CheyneWalk.”
Ayoungwomanshuffledthroughsomepapers,clickedsomebuttonsonherkeyboard,toldmethattheymanagedatrustforthefamilybutthatshewasnotatlibertytotellmeanymore.
Therewasacuteboythere.I’dcaughthiseyewhenIsatinreception.IwaitedoutsidetheofficeuntillunchtimeandthenIcaughtupwithhimashelefttheoffice.HisnamewasJosh.Ofcourse.Everyone’snameisJoshthesedays.
Itookhimbacktomyflatandcookedforhimandfuckedhim,and,ofcourse,becauseIwasonlyusinghim,hefelltotallyinlovewithme.IttooklessthanamonthofpretendingIlovedhim,too,togethimtofindthepaperwork,copyit,andbringittome.
Andthenthereitwas,inblackandwhite,justasmyparentshaddecreedwhenIwasatinybabyandLucywasnotyeteveninexistence.NumbersixteenCheyneWalkandallitscontentstobeheldintrustforthedescendantsofMartinaandHenryLambuntiltheoldestreachestheageoftwenty-five.Davidhadnotmanagedtogethishandsonitafterallandneither,itseemed,hadLucyreappearedtomakeaclaim.Thetrustwasstillsittingthere,readyandwaiting,waitingforyoutoturntwenty-five.SomeonemorecynicalthanyoumightthinkIcametofindyousimplyasawaytogetmyhandsonmyowninheritance.Afterall,IhadnoproofIwasHenryLambsotherewasnowayI’dbeabletoclaimitformyself,andwithyouinmylifeI’dstandachancetogetwhatwasrightfullymine.Butyouknow,itreallywasn’taboutthemoney.Ihaveplentyofmoney.Itwasaboutclosure.Anditwasaboutyou,Serenity,andthebondIsharedwithyou.
So,inJunethisyearIrentedtheAirbnbacrosstheriver.IboughtapairofbinocularsandIkeptwatchfromtheterrace.
OnemorningIscaledthebackofthehouseonCheyneWalkandspentawholedayontheroofdismantlingBirdie’sskeletonfromitsmummifiedcasing.Pullingaparthertinylittlebones.Droppingthemintoablackplasticbag.Inthedarkofnight,IdroppedthebagintotheThames.Itwassurprisinglysmall.IspentthenightonmyoldmattressandreturnedtotheAirbnbthefollowingmorning.Andthen,fourdayslater,thereyouwere.Youandthesolicitor.Heavingbackthehoarding.Openingthedoor.Closingitbehindyouagain.
Ibreathedasighofrelief.
Finally.
Thebabywasback.
65
LibbystaresatLucy.“WhathappenedtoPhin?AfteryoulefthimatDr.Broughton’s?Didhe,Imean,didhegetbetter?”
“Yes,”saysLucy.“Hegotbetter.”
“Ishestillalive?”
“AsfarasI’maware.Yes.”
Libbycovershermouthwithherhands.“OhmyGod,”shesays.“Whereishe?”
“Idon’tknow.Ihaven’tseenhimsinceIwasabouteighteen.WewereinFrancetogetherforafewyears.Andthenwelosttouch.”
“HowdidyoubothendupinFrance?”
“Dr.Broughtontookus.Oratleast,hegotsomeoneheknewtotakeus.Dr.Broughtonseemedtoknoweveryone.Hewasoneofthosepeople—afacilitator,Isupposeyou’dcallhim.Healwayshadanumberhecouldring,afavorhecouldcallin,amanwhoknewaman.Hewastheprivatephysiciantosomeveryhigh-profilecriminals.Ithinkhe’dbeenwokeninthemiddleofthenightbefore,stitchedupsomegunshotwoundsinhisrooms.
“Andoncehesawthatwewereonthenewshejustwantedusgoneandaway.AweekafterI’dknockedonDr.Broughton’sdoor,hesaidwewerewellenoughtoleave.AmancalledStuartsquashedusintothebackofaFordTransitvanandtookusthroughtheEurotunnel,allthewaytoBordeaux.Hetookustoafarm,toawomancalledJosette.AnothercontactofDr.Broughton’s.Sheletusstayformonthsinreturnforworkingthefarm.Shedidn’taskwhowewereorwhywewerethere.
“PhinandI,wedidn’t…youknow.Whathappenedbetweenus,before,itwasonlybecauseofthesituationwewereintogether.Oncewewerefreefromallofthatwefellbackintobeingjustfriends.Almostlikebrotherandsister.Butwetalkedaboutyouallthetime,wonderinghowyouwere,whowaslookingafteryou,howprettyyouwere,howgoodyouwere,howamazingyou’dgrowuptobe,howcleverweweretohavemadeyou.”
“Didyouevertalkaboutcomingbackforme?”asksLibby,pensively.
“Yes,”repliesLucy.“Yes.Wedid.Oratleast,Idid.Phinwasmorecircumspect,moreworriedabouthisfuturethanthepast.Wedidn’ttalkabouttheotherstuff.Wedidn’ttalkaboutourparents,aboutwhathadhappened.Itriedto,butPhinwouldn’t.Itwaslikehe’djustcompletelyblankeditallout.Shutdown.Itwasasifnoneofithadeverhappened.Andhegotsowelloverthatfirstyear.Hewastannedandfit.Webothwere.AndJosettehadanoldfiddleshedidn’tplay,andsheletmeuseit.I’dplayforher,inthewinter,andtheninthesummerwhenherfarmfilledupwithstudentsanditinerants,I’dplayforthem,too.SheletmetakethefiddleintothelocaltownandI’dplayonFridaynightsandSaturdaynightsandIstartedtoearnsomemoney.IsaveditupthinkingthatI’duseittogetPhinandmebacktoLondon,tocomeandfindyou.
“Thenonemorning,abouttwoyearslater,IwokeupandPhinwasgone.Heleftmeanotethatsaid,‘OfftoNice.’?”Lucysighs.“IstayedinBordeauxfortherestofthatsummer,savedupuntilIhadenoughmoneyforacoachtoNice.IspentweekssleepingonthebeachatnightandtryingtofindPhinbyday.EventuallyIgaveup.IhadJosette’sfiddle.Iplayedeverynight.Imadeenoughmoneyforaroominahostel.Iturnednineteen,twenty,twenty-one.AndthenImetaman.Averyrichman.Hesweptmeoffmyfeet.Hemarriedme.Ihadababy.Ilefttheveryrichmanandmetaverypoorman.Ihadanotherbaby.Thepoormanleftmeandthen—”ShestopsthenandLibbystudiesherexpression.There’ssomethingunknowable,almostunthinkableinit.Butthelookpassesandshecontinues.
“AndthenitwasyourbirthdayandIcameback.”
“Butwhydidn’tyoucomebackbefore?”LibbyasksLucy.“Whenyouturnedtwenty-five.Didyounotknowaboutthetrust?”
“Iknewaboutit,yes,”shesays.“ButIhadnoproofthatIwasLucyLamb.Ihadnobirthcertificate.Mypassportwasfake.Iwasinaterrible,terriblemarriagewithMarco’sfather.Itwasalljust…”Lucysighs.“AndthenIthought,Youknow,ifHenrydoesn’tcomeforthehouseandIdon’tcomeforthehouse,thenitwillautomaticallygotothebaby,toyou,becauseeveryonethoughtyouweremyparents’baby.AndIthought,That’swhatI’lldo.I’llwaituntilthebabyistwenty-fiveandI’llcomebackforherthen.WhenIgotmyfirstsmartphoneafewyearsago,thefirstthingIdidwasputareminderintothecalendar,soIwouldn’tforget.AndeveryminuteofeverydaysincethenI’vebeenwaitingforthis.I’vebeenwaitingtocomeback.”
“AndPhin?”saysLibby,desperately.“WhathappenedtoPhin?”
Lucysighs.“Icanonlyassumehewentsomewherethathewouldnotbefound.Icanonlyassumethatthatiswhathewanted.”
Libbysighs.Thereitis.Finally.Thewholepicture.Apartfromonepiece.
Herfather.
IV
66
Libbysitswithherthumboverherphone.She’sonherbankingapp,whereshe’sbeenrefreshingherbalanceeveryfifteenminutes,sincenineo’clockthismorning.
It’scompletiondayonthehouseinCheyneWalk.
Theysolditamonthago,finally,aftermonthsofnoviewingsandthenaflurryofofferswhentheyloweredthepriceandthentwoabortiveattemptsatexchangingcontractsuntil,atlast,acashbuyerfromSouthAfrica,alldoneanddusted,signedandsealedwithintwoweeks.
Sevenmillion,fourhundred,andfiftythousandpounds.
Butherbalancestillsitsat￡318.Thedregsofherlastpaycheck.
Shesighsandturnsbacktothescreenofhercomputer.Herfinalkitchenproject.AnicelittlepaintedShaker-styleonewithcopperknobsandamarbleworktop.Newlyweds’firsthome.It’sgoingtolookbeautiful.Shewishesshe’dstillbearoundtoseeit.Butshewon’teverseeit.Notnow.TodayisherlastdayatNorthboneKitchens.
It’salsohertwenty-sixthbirthday.Herrealtwenty-sixthbirthday.NotJune19afterall,butJune14.Soshe’sfivedaysolderthanshethought.That’sfine.Fivedaysisasmallpricetopayforsevenmillionpounds,amother,anuncle,andtwohalfsiblings.Andnowthatshe’snotclimbingsomespuriousladderinherheadtosomearbitrarybirthday,whocaresifshegetstherefivedaysaheadofschedule?
Shepressesrefreshagain.
Threehundredandninepounds.APayPalpaymentshemadeaweekagohascomeoutofheraccount.
It’sabeautifulday.SheglancesacrossatDido.“Shallwegooutforlunch?Mytreat.”
Didolooksupatheroverthetopofherreadingglassesandsmiles.“Absolutely!”
“Dependingonwhetherthispaymentcomesthroughbythenornot,it’llbeeithersandwichesandCoke,orlobsterandchampagne.”
“Lobster’soverrated,”Didosaysbeforeloweringherglassesandreturninghergazetohercomputerscreen.
Libby’sphonebuzzesatelevena.m.It’satextfromLucy.Shesays,Seeyoulater!We’vebookeditfor8p.m.!
Lucy’slivingwithHenrynowinhissmartflatinMarylebone.Apparentlytheyarenotgettingonatall.Henry,whohaslivedalonefortwenty-fiveyears,doesn’thavethestomachforsharinghisspacewithchildren,andhiscatshatethedog.She’salreadybeenhouse-hunting.InSt.Albans.LibbyherselfhashereyeonabeautifulGeorgiancottageinhalfanacrejustontheoutskirtsoftown.
Shepressesrefreshagain.
Threehundredandninepounds.
Shechecksheremail,incasethere’sbeensomekindofnotificationofsomethinghavinggonewrong.Butthere’snothing.
Themoneywillgothreewaysoncetheinheritancetaxhasbeentakencareof.Sheofferedtoforgoanyoftheinheritance.It’snotherhouse.She’snottheirsibling.Buttheyinsisted.Shesaid,“Idon’tneedathird.Afewthousandwillbefine.”Butstilltheyinsisted.“You’retheirgranddaughter,”Lucysaid.“Youhaveasmuchrighttoitaswedo.”
Atonep.m.sheandDidoleavetheshowroom.
“I’mafraidit’sstillsandwiches.”
“Good,”shesays.“I’minthemoodforsandwiches.”
Theygotothecaféintheparkandtakeatableoutsideinthesunshine.
“Ican’tbelieveyou’releaving,”saysDido.“It’sgoingtobeso,well,Iwasgoingtosayquiet,butyou’veneverbeenexactlyloud,butit’sgoingtobeso…utterlydevoidofLibbywithoutyou.Andyourlovelyhair.Andyourneatpiles.”
“Myneatpiles?”
“Yes,your…”Shemimessquaringoffapileofpaperwithherhands.“Youknow.Allthecornersaligned.”Shesmiles.“I’mgoingtomissyou.That’sall.”
Libbyglancesatherandsays,“Didn’tyoueverthinkaboutleaving?Afteryougotleftthecottage?Andalltheotherstuff?Imean,surelyyoudon’thavetowork,doyou?”
Didoshrugs.“Isupposenot.AndtherearetimesI’djustliketochuckitallinandspendalldayatthestableswithSpanglesbeforehecopsit.But,ultimately,Ihavenothingelse.Butyou—nowyouhaveeverything.Everythingthatkitchenscan’tgiveyou.”
Libbysmiles.Thereisatruthtothis.
It’snotjustthemoney.It’snotjustthemoneyatall.
It’sthepeoplewhomshenowbelongsto,thefamilywho’veencircledhersocompletely.Andit’sthepersonshediscoveredshewas,underneathalltheneatpilesandcarefulplanning.Shewasneverreallythatperson.Shemadeherselfintothatpersontocounterbalancehermother’sinconsistencies.Tofitinatschool.Tofitinwithagroupoffriendswhosevaluessheneverreallyshared,notreally,notdeepdowninside.Thereismoretoherthanarm’s-lengthfriendshipsandstupidlyproscriptiveTinderrequirements.Sheistheproductofbetterpeoplethanherfantasybirthparents,thegraphicdesignerandthefashionPRwiththesportscarandthetinydogs.Howunimaginativeshe’dbeen.
Shepressesrefreshonherphone,absentmindedly.
Shelooksagain.Astupidnumbersitsthere.Anumberthatmakesnosensewhatsoever.Ithastoomanyzeros,toomanyeverythings.SheturnsherphonetofaceDido.“Oh.My.God.”
Didocoversherfacewithherhandsandgasps.Thensheturnstofacethefrontofthecafé.“Waiter,”shesays.“TwobottlesofyourfinestDomPérignon.Andthirteenlobsters.Andmakeitsnappy.”
Thereisnowaiter,ofcourse,andthepeopleatthetablenexttothemthrowthemastrangelook.
“Myfriend,”saysDido,“hasjustwonthelottery.”
“Oh,”saysthewoman.“Luckyyou!”
“Youknow,”saysDido,turningbacktoher,“youreallydon’thavetogobacktoworkafterthis.It’syourbirthday.Andyou’vejustbeengiveneleventysquillionpounds.Youcould,ifyouwanted,taketherestofthedayoff.”
Libbysmiles,screwsupherpapernapkin,anddropsitontheplastictray.“No,”shesays.“Noway.I’mnoquitter.Andbesides,I’mprettysureIleftsomepaperworkslightlyaskew.”
Didosmilesather.“Comeonthen,”shesays,“threeandahalfmorehoursofnormality.Let’sgetitoverwith,shallwe?”
67
Lucyhastheflattoherselfforanotherhour.Sheusesittohaveabath,topaintherfingernails,todryherhairwithadryerandmakeitsitneatlyoverhershoulders,tomoisturize,toputonmakeup.Shestilldoesn’ttakethesethingsforgranted.IthasbeenayearsinceHenryfoundherinthehouseinCheyneWalk,sincehebroughtSerenitytothem,sincetheywereallreunited.ForayearLucyhaslivedwithHenryinhisimmaculateflatinMarylebone,whereshehassleptonadoublebedundersoftcottonsheetsandhadnothingmoretodowithherdaysthanwalkthedogandpreparedeliciousmeals.SheandClemencymeetuponceamonthanddrinkchampagneandtalkabouttheirchildrenandmusicandHenry’sidiosyncrasiesandanything,infact,otherthanwhathappenedtothembothwhentheywereyoung.Theywillneverbeascloseastheyoncewere,buttheyarestillthebestoffriends.
MarcoisthirteennowandenrolledatatrendyprivateschoolinRegent’sPark,whichHenryhasbeenpayingforandwhere“everyonevapesandtakesketamine”apparently.HehaslosthisFrenchaccentcompletelyandsays“InowidentifyasaLondoner.”
StellaissixandinyearoneofaniceprimaryschoolinMarylebone,whereshehastwobestfriendswhoarebothcalledFreya.
YesterdayLucytookthetubetoChelseaandstoodoutsidethehouse.ThehoardinghasbeentakendownandtheForSalesignoutsidehasbeenswappedforaSoldsign.Soonthehousewillbealivewiththesoundofdrillsandhammersasitistakenapartandputbacktogetheragaintosuitthetastesandneedsofanotherfamily.Soon,someoneelsewillbecallingithomeandtheywillneverknow,neversuspectforevenamomentthetruthaboutwhathappenedwithinthosewallsallthoseyearsago,howfourchildrenwereimprisonedandbrokenandthenreleasedintotheworld,damaged,incomplete,lost,andwarped.It’shardforLucytorememberthegirlshewasthen,hardforhertoacceptanincarnationofherselfthatwassodesperateforattentionthatshewouldsleepwithbothafatherandason.ShelooksatStellasometimes,hertinyperfectgirl,andtriestoimagineheratthirteenyearsoldgivingherselflikethatjusttofeelloved.Itmakesherfeelunimaginablepain.
Herphonepingsandsheexperiences,asshealwaysdoes,andprobablyalwayswill,ashiverofunease.Michael’smurderhasnotbeensolvedbuthasbeenwidelyacceptedtohavebeentheresultofsomeunpaiddebtstohisassociatesinthecriminalunderworld.ShesawonementionofherselfinaFrenchpapershortlyafterthemurderhittheheadlines:
Rimmer,whohasbeenmarriedtwice,isbelievedtohaveachildwithhisfirstwife,aBritonknownonlybythenameof“Lucy.”AccordingtoRimmer’shousekeeper,heandhisformerwiferecentlyhadabriefreunion,butsheisnotconsideredtobeasuspectinthecase.
Butshewillneverbetrulyrelaxedaboutthepossibilityofbeingtrackeddownbysomefresh-facedyoungdetective,newlyqualifiedanddesperatetoprovethemselves.Shewillnever,shesuspects,betrulyrelaxedeveragain.
Butit’snotamessagefromarookiedetective,it’samessagefromLibby:ascreenshotofapagefromherbankstatementaccompaniedbythewordKerching!
Thereitis,thinksLucy,andashiverofreliefrunsthroughher.Theendofthisphaseofherlife.Thebeginningofthenext.Nowshecanbuyaplaceofherown.Atlast.Aplaceforherandherchildrenandherdog.Aforeverplacethatnoonewillbeabletotakeawayfromher.Andthen,shethinks,thenshewillbeabletodiscoverexactlywhatitisthatsheshouldbedoingwithherlife.Shewouldlike,shethinks,tostudytheviolin.Shewouldliketobeaprofessionalmusician.Andnowtherearenobarriersinherway.
ThefirsthalfofLucy’slifewastaintedanddark,onestruggleafteranother.Thesecondhalfwillbegolden.
SherepliestoLibby’smessage.
Champagneallaround!Seeyoulater,sweetheart.Icannotwaittocelebratewithyou.Everything.
Libbyanswers:Ican’twaittoseeyoueither.Loveyou.
Loveyou,too,shefinishes,thenaddsalongrowofkissesandswitchesoffherphone.
Hergirlisglorious:agentle,caringsoul,ablendofStellaandMarcoinmanywaysbutalsosoverymuchherfather’schildinthewaythatshewalksherownpathandmakesherownrules,thatsheissoentirelyandutterlyherself.Andsheisgrowingandchangingsomuch,leavingbehindsomeoftheticsandcompulsionsthatheldherback,lettinglifeshowherherjourneyratherthanimposingajourneyontoherlife.Shehasbeenwortheverybadmomentbetweenleavingherinhercribandfindingheragain.Sheisanangel.
LucypicksupherphoneagainandshescrollsthroughhercontactsuntilshegetstotheGs.Shecomposesamessage:
DarlingGiuseppe.ThisisyourLucy.Iammissingyousomuch.IjustwantedyoutoknowthatIamhappyandhealthyandwellandsoarethechildrenandsoisFitz.Iwon’tbecomingbacktoFrance.Ihaveawonderfulnewlifenowandwanttoputdownroots.ButIwillthinkofyoualwaysandforeverbesogratefultoyouforbeingthereformewhenmylifewasoutofcontrol.I’dbelostwithoutyou.Mylove,always,Lucy.
68
IntherestaurantinMarylebonethateveningLibby’sfamilyawaitsher.
Lucy,Marco,Stella,andHenry.
Marcogreetsherwithanawkwardlydramatichalfhug,hisheadknockingagainsthercollarbone.“Happybirthday,Libby,”hesays.
Stellahugshergentlyandsays,“Happybirthday,Libby.Iloveyou.”
Thesetwochildren,herbrotherandsister,havebeenthegreatestgiftsofall.
TheyarewonderfulchildrenandLibbyputsthatdownentirelytothewomanwhoraisedthem.SheandLucyhavebecomeveryclose,veryquickly.ThesmallagegapmeansthatoftenLucyfeelsalikegreatnewfriend,ratherthanthewomanwhogavebirthtoher.
Lucygetstoherfeet.ShecirclesLibby’sneckwithherarmsandkissesherloudlyinthevicinityofherear.“Happybirthday,”shesays.“Properhappybirthday.Thistimetwenty-sixyearsago.God.IthoughtIwasgoingtosplitinhalf.”
“Yes,”agreesHenry.“Shewasmooinglikeacow.Forhours.Wehadourhandsoverourears.”Thenhegivesheroneofhiscautiousembraces.
Libbystillcan’tworkHenryout.SometimesshethinksaboutClemencysayingthatshethoughthehadastreakofpureevil,andashiverrunsacrossherflesh.Shethinksofwhathedid,theexecutionoffourpeople,themummificationofayoungwoman’sbody,themutilationofacat.ButkillingwasneverhisintentionandLibbystillbelievesthatifthefourchildrenhadturnedthemselvesintothelocalpolicethatnightandexplainedwhathadhappened—howthey’dbeensomistreated,imprisoned,thatithadbeenaterribleaccident—thattheywouldhavebeenbelievedandrehabilitated.Butthat’snothowitwasandtheyallmadefugitivesofthemselvesandtooktheirlivesoffonunimaginabletangents.
Henryisodd,butthenheisveryopenaboutthefactthatheisodd.HestillmaintainsthathedidnotintentionallylockthemintothesparebedroomofhisAirbnbrentalthatnight,thathedidnottaketheirphonesanddeleteMiller’srecording.Hesaid,“Well,ifIdidImusthavebeenevendrunkerthanIthought.”AndLibbyneverdidfindatrackingorlisteningdeviceonherphone.Butthensheneverchangedthepasscodeonherphoneeither.
HealsodeniesthathehashadcosmeticprocedurestomakehimlooklikePhin.Hesays,“WhywouldIwanttolooklikePhin?I’msomuchbetterlookingthanheeverwas.”Heisimpatientwiththechildrenandslightlyflusteredbythesuddeninfluxofpeopleintohistightlycontrolledlittleworld,oftengrumpybutoccasionallyhilarious.Hehasavaguegraspofthetruthandseemstoliveveryslightlyontheedgesofreality.AndhowcanLibbyblamehim?Aftereverythinghe’sbeenthrough?Shewouldprobablyliveontheedgesofrealitytooifherchildhoodhadbeenastraumaticashis.
Sheopenshiscardtoherandreads:“SweetLibbyJones,Iamsoproudtocallyoumyniece.IlovedyouthenandI’llloveyoualways.Happybirthday,beautiful.”
Helooksatherwithaslightflushofembarrassmentandthistimeshedoesn’tacceptoneofhiscautiousembraces.Thistimeshethrowsherarmsaroundhisneckandsqueezeshimuntilhesqueezesherback.“Iloveyou,too,”shesaysintohisear.“Thankyouforfindingme.”
AndthenMillerarrives.
Didowasright.
Therewassomethingthere.
DespitethefactthatRoedouble-barrelshorriblywithJones,thathismotherisratherdistant,thathisstomachwobbles,thathehastoomuchfacialhair,nopets,andanex-wife,therewassomethingtherethatamountedtomorethanallofthat.Andwhatisatattoootherthanadrawingonskin?It’snotanideology.It’sascribble.
MillerabandonedhisstoryforLibby.Afterthenightlastsummerwhenshewasreunitedwithherfamily,hetookhisnotepadandherippedoutallthepages.
“But,”shesaid,“that’syourlivelihood,that’syourcareer.Youcouldhavemadesomuchmoney.”
Hesilencedherwithakissandsaid,“I’mnottakingyourfamilyawayfromyou.YoudeservethemmuchmorethanIdeserveascoop.”
NowLibbytakestheemptyseatnexttohimandgreetshimwithakiss.
“Happybirthday,Lamb,”hesaysintoherear.
That’shisnicknameforher.She’sneverhadanicknamebefore.
Hepassesherafatenvelope.
Shesays,“What’sthis?”
Hesmilesandsays,“Iwouldsuggestopeningittofindout.”
It’sabrochure,glossyandthick,forafive-starsafarilodgeinBotswanacalledtheChobeGameLodge.
“Isthis…?”
Millersmiles.Hesays,“Well,yes,apparently.AccordingtotheveryforthcomingmanIspoketoonreception,theirheadguideisamaninhisearlyfortiescalledPhin.ButhespellsitwithanFnow.Finn.FinnThomsen.”
“Andisit?Isithim?”
“I’mninety-ninepercentcertainthatitis.Butthereisonlyonewaytofindoutforsure.”
Hepullssomeprintedpaperoutofhisjacketpocketandpassesittoher.It’sanemailconfirmationofabookingforadeluxeroomfortwoattheChobeGameLodge.
“Icantakemymum,”hesays.“Ifyoudon’twanttocome.She’salwayswantedtogoonsafari.”
Libbyshakesherhead.“No,”shesays.“No.Iwanttocome.OfcourseIwanttocome.”
Sheflicksthroughthepapers,thenbackthroughthebrochure.Andthenhereyeiscaughtbyaphoto:ajeepfilledwithtouristslookingataprideoflions.Shepeerscloseratthephoto.Shelooksatthetourguidesittingatthefrontofthejeep,turningtosmileatthecamera.Hehasathatchofthick,sun-burnishedblondhair.Hisfaceiswideopen;hissmileislikethesunshining.
Helookslikethehappiestmanintheworld.
Helookslikeher.
“Doyouthinkthat’shim?”sheasks.
“Idon’tknow,”saysMiller.HeglancesacrossthetableatHenryandLucy,turnsthebrochuretowardthem.Theirfacesbunchupastheyexaminethephoto.AndthenLucyputsherfisttohermouthandHenryfallsagainstthebackofhischair.
Lucynods,hard.“Yes,”shesays,hervoicebreaking.“Yes,that’shim.That’sPhin.He’salive.Lookathim!He’salive.”
69
Chelsea,PresentDay
He’salive.Phinisalive.MyhearttwistsandroilsandIfeeldizzy.Heishandsomeasalldamnation.Lookathimtherewithhistanandhiscombatsandhisbigshit-eatinggrin,sittinginajeepinAfricawithbarelyacareintheworld.Ibetheneverthinksaboutme,betheneverthinksaboutanyofus.Especiallynotyou,Serenity.Especiallynotyou.Hewasn’tinterestedinyouwhenyoulivedinourhouse.Hewon’tbeinterestedinyounow.
LucywasclearlylyingwhenshesaidthattheytalkedaboutyouallthetimewhentheylivedinFrance.Phin’snotababyperson.He’snota“familyguy.”Helivesinsidehimself.He’saloner.Theonlytime,theonlytimeImanagedtogethimoutofhimselfwasthefirsttimewetooktheacid.Thetimeweheldhands,whenIfelthimpassingintome,whenIbecamePhin.Hedidn’tbecomeme,ofcourse—whowouldwanttobecomeme?ButIbecamehim.Iusedtowriteitalloverthehouse,wheneverIcould,likesilentshoutsintocornersandnooksandhiddenplaces.“IAMPHIN.”
ButhowcouldIbePhinwhilePhinwasthereremindingme,constantly,ofhowmuchIwasnotPhin?Witheverycarelessflickofhisfringe,shrugofhisshoulders,broodinglookacrossanemptyroom,slowlyturnedpageofacultnovel.
Itstartedasalovepotion.Itwassupposedtomakehimloveme.Itdidn’twork.Allitdidwasdiminishhim.Makehimweaker.Lessbeautiful.AndtheweakerhegotthestrongerIbecame.SoIkeptgivingittohim,thetincture.Nottokillhim,thatwasnevermyintention,butjusttodimhislightssothatIcouldshinealittlebrighter.Andthatnight,thenightofBirdie’sthirtiethbirthdayparty,whenLucytoldmethatPhinwasherbaby’sfather,Iwentintohisroomtokillhim.
Butwhenhetoldmetountiehim,Isaid,“Onlyifyouletmekissyou.”AndIkissedhim.Withhishandstilltiedtothewaterpipe,hisbodyalmostbroken,Ikissedhim,onhislips,onhisface.Hedidn’tfight.Heletmedoit.Ikissedhimforalongminute.Itouchedmyfingertohislips,Iranmyhandsthroughhishair,IdideverythingI’ddreamedofdoingfromtheveryfirstminutehe’dwalkedintoourhousewhenIwaselevenyearsold,whenIhadn’tknownthatIwouldeverwanttokissanyone.
Iwaitedforhimtopushmeoff.Buthedidn’t.Hewascompliant.
Then,whenI’dkissedhimenough,IuntiedhimfromtheradiatorandIlaydownnexttohim.
Iwrappedmyarmaroundhiswarmbody.
Iclosedmyeyes.
Ifellasleep.
WhenIwokeup,Phinwasgone.
I’velookedforhimeversince.
Butnowhe’sfound.
IknewLibby’sbigbearwouldfindhim.
Andhedid.
IlookupatMiller;Ilookatyou.
IslaponmybestjollyUncleHenrysmileandIsay,“Roomforonemore?”
Acknowledgments
Thankyoutoatrioofincredibleeditors:TomyUKeditor,SelinaWalker,whoworkedthroughweekendsandlongintonightstosplice,polish,andreworkmymanuscriptintosomethingreadable.ThentoLindsaySagnetteintheUS,whoaddedawholenewlayerofextrainsightandclarity.Andlastly,toRichendaTodd,whowentwaybeyondtheroleofacopyeditorandmademedealwithlotsofproblematicissuesI’dbeentryingtoignorebecauseIcouldn’tworkouthowtofixthem.Youthreehavebeenamasterclassinthedifferencethatagoodeditorcanmake.Thanksalsotomyamazingagent,JonnyGeller,whodidnotletmesendmybookintotheworldwithoutitbeingthebestitpossiblycouldbe.Theharderyou’remadetoworkonanedit,themoreyourpublisherscareaboutyouandyourwork.Iamso,soluckytohaveyouall.
ThankyoutoNajmaFinlay,myamazingUKpublicist,whoisheadingoffonmaternityleaveandwon’tbebackuntilwehavethenextbooktopublicize;enjoyeveryminuteofyourtimewithyourbeautifulbaby.
ThankyoutoDeborahSchneider,myincredibleagentintheUS,for…well,youknowwhatfor!Whatayearithasbeen!
ThankyoutoCocoAzoiteiforthetechnicaljargonIneededtoexplainwhathappenswhensomeonetestsanewlyrepairedfiddle,andthankyoutoeveryoneonFacebookwhoofferedinformationaboutfamilytrusts.Anymistakesineitherregardareentirelymyown.
ThankyoutomypublishingteamsintheUK,theUS,andallovertheworldfortakingsuchgoodcareofmywork—andme!—withespecialthankstoArieleandHaleyintheUS,PiaandChristofferinSweden,OdainNorway,andElisabethandTinainDenmark.
Thankyoutoallmyaudiopublishersandtherecordingstudioswhoproduceworkofsuchastoundinglyhighquality,andthankstoalltheactorsandvoiceartistswhoreadmywordssobeautifully.
Thankstothelibrarians,thebookshops,thefestivalorganizers,andanyonewhohashelpedputmybooksintothehandsofreaders.
Thankstomyfamily(includingmymenagerie),whokeepmegrounded,atalltimes
Andlastly,thankyoutothetwodoublevodkaandtonicsthatsawmethroughthelastthreechaptersofthisbooklateonaFridaynightandhelpedmefindthelastfewlinesthatIknewwerehiddenawayintheresomewhere.Cheers!
TheFamilyUpstairs
LisaJewell
ThisreadinggroupguideforTheFamilyUpstairsincludesanintroduction,discussionquestions,andideasforenhancingyourbookclub.Thesuggestedquestionsareintendedtohelpyourreadinggroupfindnewandinterestinganglesandtopicsforyourdiscussion.Wehopethattheseideaswillenrichyourconversationandincreaseyourenjoymentofthebook.
Introduction
Soonafterhertwenty-fifthbirthday,LibbyJonesreturnshomefromworktofindthelettershe’sbeenwaitingforherentirelife.Sheripsitopenwithonedrivingthought:IamfinallygoingtoknowwhoIam.ShelearnsnotonlytheidentityofherparentsbutalsothatsheisthesoleinheritoroftheirabandonedmansiononthebanksoftheThamesinLondon’sfashionableChelseaneighborhood.Thehome,eveninitsdilapidatedstate,isworthmillions.Everythinginherlifeisabouttochange.Whatshedoesn’tknowisthatothershavebeenwaitingforthisdayaswell—andalthoughthey’vebeeninhiding,theyarenowheadingherway.
Nearlytwenty-fiveyearsago,policewerecalledto16CheyneWalkwithreportsofababycrying.Whentheyarrived,theyfoundahealthyten-month-oldsafeandsoundintheupstairsbedroom.Inthekitchen,threedeadbodies,alldressedinblack,wereseeminglyposednexttoahastilyscrawlednote.ThefourotherchildrenreportedtoliveatCheyneWalkweregone.
InTheFamilyUpstairs,theNewYorkTimesbestsellingauthorofThenSheWasGoneandmasterof“bone-chillingsuspense”(People)deliversanotherpowerfulandpropulsivestoryoftwofamilieslivinginahousewiththedarkestofsecrets.
Topics&QuestionsforDiscussion
TheFamilyUpstairsistoldfromthreeperspectives:Henry,Lucy,andLibby’s.Wasthereonecharacterinparticularwhosepointofviewyouespeciallyenjoyed?WhatistheeffectofhavingHenry’ssectionstoldinfirst-personnarrationandLucyandLibby’stoldinthird-personnarration?WhydoyouthinkLisaJewellstructuredhernovelthisway?
Henry,rightfully,hatesDavid.Yet,HenryandDavidsharemanysimilartendenciesandqualities.Compareandcontrastthetwomen.
Therearemanyintriguingcharacterswhodonotdirectlynarratethenovel.Isthereacharacterwhosepointofviewyou’dhavelikedtohadincluded?WhatdoyouthinkMartina,forexample,thoughtaboutDavidandBirdie’schoices?
WhatistheeffectofcharacterscallingLibby“thebaby”throughoutthenovel?HowdoesthisinformyouropinionofLibbyandherroleinthestory?
WhichofadultHenry,Lucy,andClemency’sbehaviorscanyoudirectlytracebacktotheirharrowingexperiencesaschildren?Howdoyouseetheinfluenceoftheirabuseintheirgrownuplives?
TherelationshipbetweenHenryandPhinispivotaltotheplot,butwearen’ttoldasmuchaboutthefriendshipbetweenLucyandClemency.WhatdetailsdowegleanabouttheirrelationshipfromHenryandLucy’smemoriesandClemency’saccounttowardtheendofthenovel?
Whattypesofpowerarewieldedinthisnovel?Whohaspower,wholosesit,andwhowantsit?Isthereacharacterwithoutanyagency?
DoyouthinkHenry’sliesandviolentactswerebornoutofhisneedtosurviveanunimaginablesituation,ordoyouthinkthereis,asClemencystates,“astreakofpureevil”inhim?
LucyandClemencyexperiencedunspeakableabuseaschildren,but,miraculously,theymanagedtobreakthecycleandbecomegoodmotherstotheirchildren.Whataretheirrelationshipslikewiththeirchildren?Whatmakesthemgoodmoms?
AfterClemencytellsHenrythatherfathertriedtoconhisownfamilyonce,HenrydecideshemustactagainstDavid.AsheremembershisconversationwithClemency,hethinks,“Itwasaforkintheroad,really.Lookingbackonitthereweresomanyotherwaystohavegotthroughthetraumaofitall,butwithallthepeopleIlovedmostintheworldfacingawayfrommeIchosetheworstpossibleoption”.WhileHenryclaimshewouldhaveresortedtolessviolentwaysofescapingtheLambhouse,doyoureallybelievehim?Ordoyouthinkpartofhimwantedrevenge?
Libbyfindsmanydisconcertingtracesofthehouse’spreviousinhabitantswhenshetoursit.Whichartifactsdidyoufindtheeeriest?Whichintriguedyouandmadeyouwanttofindoutwhathadhappenedinsidethehouse?
Inyouropinion,whoisthemosttragicfigureinthisnovel?Dotheyexperiencehealingorredemption?
EnhanceYourBookClub
WhenLibbytellsDidothatsheandMillerareinvestigatingherpastandthehomesheinherited,Didoinsistsonhelping,sayingshemaybeusefulbecause,“I’vereadeveryAgathaChristienoveleverpublished.Twice”.ChooseoneofAgathaChristie’smysteriessetatafamilyhomewithadarksecret,suchasCrookedHouseorPerilatEndHouse,anddiscusshowLisaJewellandAgathaChristieusefamilyhomestosimilarordifferenteffects.
Withitsatmosphericsetting,darkmystery,andtwistsandturns,TheFamilyUpstairsseemsliketheperfectbooktoadapttoamovie.Whowouldyoucastasitsstars?Discussasagrouphowadirectormightadaptabookwithsomanynarratorsandperspectives.
Manyofthecharactersinthisnovelsurvivedabusiverelationshipsofvarioustypes.Asagroup,considervolunteeringatalocalwomenandchildren’ssheltertosupportthoseinyourcommunitywhoarerecoveringfromtheirowntraumas.
MorefromtheAuthor
WatchingYou
ThenSheWasGone
IFoundYou
TheGirlsintheGarden
TheThirdWife
TheHouseWeGrewUpIn
AbouttheAuthor
LISAJEWELListheinternationallybestsellingauthorofseventeennovels,includingtheNewYorkTimesbestsellerThenSheWasGone,aswellasWatchingYou,IFoundYou,andTheGirlsintheGarden.Herdebutnovel,Ralph’sParty,wasaninstantSundayTimesbestseller,andmorerecentlyherbookshavebecome#1bestsellersinCanadaandtheUK.Intotal,hernovelshavesoldovertwomillioncopiesacrosstheEnglish-speakingworld.Herworkhasalsobeentranslatedintosixteenlanguages.
LisalivesinLondonwithherhusbandandtheirtwodaughters.ConnectwithheronTwitter@lisajewelluk,onInstagram@lisajewelluk,andonFacebook@lisajewellofficial
SimonandSchuster.com
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AlsobyLisaJewell
WatchingYou
ThenSheWasGone
IFoundYou
TheGirlsintheGarden
TheThirdWife
TheHouseWeGrewUpIn
BeforeIMetYou
TheMakingofUs
AftertheParty
TheTruthAboutMelodyBrowne
31DreamStreet
AFriendoftheFamily
Vince&Joy
One-HitWonder
Thirtynothing
Ralph’sParty
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Thisbookisaworkoffiction.Anyreferencestohistoricalevents,realpeople,orrealplacesareusedfictitiously.Othernames,characters,places,andeventsareproductsoftheauthor’simagination,andanyresemblancetoactualeventsorplacesorpersons,livingordead,isentirelycoincidental.
Copyright?2019byLisaJewell
OriginallypublishedinGreatBritainin2019byPenguinRandomHouseUK
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ISBN978-1-5011-9010-0
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TableofContents
TitlePage
Dedication
Prologue
PartI
Chapter1Chapter2Chapter3Chapter4Chapter5Chapter6Chapter7Chapter8Chapter9Chapter10Chapter11Chapter12Chapter13Chapter14Chapter15Chapter16Chapter17Chapter18Chapter19Chapter20Chapter21Chapter22Chapter23Chapter24Chapter25Chapter26Chapter27Chapter28Chapter29Chapter30Chapter31Chapter32Chapter33
PartII
Chapter34Chapter35Chapter36Chapter37Chapter38Chapter39Chapter40Chapter41Chapter42Chapter43Chapter44Chapter45Chapter46Chapter47Chapter48
PartIII
Chapter49Chapter50Chapter51Chapter52Chapter53Chapter54Chapter55Chapter56Chapter57Chapter58Chapter59Chapter60Chapter61Chapter62Chapter63Chapter64Chapter65
PartIV
Chapter66Chapter67Chapter68Chapter69
Acknowledgments
ReadingGroupGuide
AbouttheAuthor
Copyright
© Copyright Notice
The copyright of the article belongs to the author. Please do not reprint without permission.
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