Her Perfect Family

by Driscoll, Teresa

  All I can say for sure is this: my father didn’t always drink.

  I have some clear and real memories of outings in the car when I was little when my parents didn’t argue. And when I wasn’t afraid. Or anxious. Or confused.

  I remember that we went to the New Forest once to see the ponies. We stayed in a small hotel for a long weekend treat and went on outings every day. Walks and picnics. I enjoyed the ponies but was a little bit scared as they had quite big mouths. I watched one chewing the grass and I could see huge teeth.

  Why don’t you offer the pony a Polo mint, Rachel? My father’s voice.

  No way. And I remember thinking the pony would ‘have my hand off’.

  I also remember my parents laughing and I’m sure that picture is real. I can’t be certain of my age – six, maybe seven, I reckon. But I don’t think my dad was drinking then.

  My mum was a nurse. A really good one. She specialised in premature babies and worked part-time when I was in primary school while my father worked in a car factory. It was a very ordinary and solid sort of start, I guess. We owned our own little semi with a small garage and a small garden. My father worked hard and spent the weekends in the garden. And if you’d asked the little girl on that trip to the New Forest if she was happy, she would have said yes. But she would like a sister, please. Not a pony.

  And then things started to change. Raised voices. More and more arguments. I don’t know what triggered the change but I would see my dad staying up late with a glass of Scotch. He liked crystal glasses and expensive Scotch. It upset my mum.

  Why don’t you come to bed, love?

  This went on for a while and then my dad lost his job. I learned much later that this was because of the drinking. I can only guess that towards the end of his time at the factory, he was what you would now call a functioning alcoholic. I didn’t see him drunk back then. I saw him with a beer often. I saw him with those glasses of Scotch. But I don’t remember as a small child seeing him drunk. Or difficult. Or belligerent.

  That all came after he lost his job.

  I’ve never properly talked it through with my mum. I don’t know why. I don’t want to cause her more pain or make her feel guilty. It wasn’t her fault. And there’s not much point now, so I’ve put all this together myself. I may have some of it wrong but I do remember the creeping awareness of a dangerous change. It was like playing Jenga when someone has much too early removed the wrong blocks and made the tower prematurely unstable. You know it’s all going to come down but you just have to keep playing. Moving ever so carefully.

  Bottom line – my father couldn’t get another job and so his drinking got much worse.

  He no longer had to try to look sober to hang on to a job, so he didn’t bother. My mother switched to full-time work, taking on the night shifts for better pay. She also signed up with an agency for extra weekend shifts and so was hardly home. She explained all this to me, sitting on my bed before she left for work, whispering that the ‘difficult time’ was temporary and she hoped with all her heart that she could be home more very soon. That things would improve when Dad got a new job.

  He, meantime, became very argumentative and very bitter. He started to rant at the news on the telly. Rant at the news in the newspapers. Rant at anything and everything; and I started to see him drunk. A lot. They started to argue in the kitchen in the early evening when she was getting ready for work. I would be up on my bed, eyes wide and my hands over my ears, no idea what I was supposed to do.

  And that’s when the battle and the humiliation over my packed lunches began.

  Mum didn’t have time to make my lunch and Dad insisted it was his job. She was obviously wary and said that she would find time but it became like a red rag to a bull. An issue of pride. Don’t you trust me? Are you saying I can’t make a packed lunch for my daughter? Is that what you’re saying?

  Hot lunches were expensive and Mum made me a cooked meal before she left for her night shift so a dangerous new routine was agreed. Dad was supposed to make my lunchbox before he went to bed. I think I was around eight so maybe I should have been more independent and stepped up to make them myself. But I didn’t.

  My lunchbox became like this fuse. This ticking bomb.

  The trouble started with small things. I would get to school and find that Dad had put something odd in. A lime instead of an apple. A can of sardines. People would laugh and I pretended it was a joke. That he did it deliberately to make me laugh.

  I started to check my packed lunch in the playground. If there was anything too weird, I’d chuck the whole contents in a bin. But I got caught and the teacher got the wrong end of the stick; started to worry I had some kind of eating disorder.

  I then tried making my own sandwiches but Dad got really loud. Has your mother been talking to you? Move out the way. I . . . make . . . your lunch.

  I see now that it was never about the wretched sandwiches or the lunch, but something else entirely . . .

  And then we had the huge meltdown over the tea-bag sandwiches. The final straw. The day I got it all wrong; blew it. And Dad took it out on Mum and everything in my world went all the wrong colours. Angry colours. That’s it. I remember sitting up in my pink room with its pink bedspread and seeing only angry colours flashing around the walls as I heard the noises from the kitchen. Things smashing. Glass and pots and all manner of things.

  I went down, in my rabbit slippers, and stood in the doorway. I was going to tell them that I would do my own lunch. I was sorry to cause this horrible argument . . .

  But my mother was crouched by the bin, all ready for work in her nurse’s uniform. She was holding up her hands to try to protect herself but I could see blood on the side of her face. And this terrible rage on my father’s face.

  Go to your room, Rachel. Go to your room now . . .

  I don’t let myself even look at this picture in my head very often. What’s the point? It happened. It’s over. I got it wrong. I told my mum about the tea-bag sandwiches, you see. I caused the horrible argument and I made the bad thing happen. I am only thinking of it all now because I am having precisely the same feeling. Of dread. Of fear. Of confusion. The booming in my head and the palpitations in my chest. I suppose it’s the reason I just don’t feel that I can bear this . . . or handle this.

  Looking at the photograph that Ed has sent me, I know that we’re all in very, very big trouble. It’s her. Sure – she’s very much younger but Laura is so distinctively tall and has such striking hair. That pre-Raphaelite Titian hair. How could it not be her?

  The woman who was watching me on the drive. The woman who was stalking me outside the hairdresser’s and the woman who told me, so weirdly – he’s not who he says he is – was Laura. No mistake.

  She’s here. I don’t know why. And I don’t know what she’s capable of.

  All I know is that I need to wait for DI Sanders and my husband to get here. I’m going to have to come clean about the PI. And I feel all over again like that girl in the rabbit slippers who’s hearing her whole world crashing around downstairs. With flashes of dark and horrible colours blocking all the sunlight from the room.

  CHAPTER 32

  THE PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR

  Matthew Hill’s dribbling honey on his toast when his mobile goes. He’s feeling good. More relaxed today. Amelie’s counselling is going better than they dared hope. Sally’s just back from dropping her at nursery – just the morning session for now to see how it goes. Baby steps.

  It’s a week since the shooting, he’s not due at work until late morning and is hungry. His mobile’s on the work surface alongside the coffee machine and so he moves across the kitchen.

  ‘Leave it. Have your breakfast.’ Sally tilts her head to the side as she tosses her car keys on to the worktop. ‘Surely Mel can wait five minutes for you to have your breakfast.’

  ‘How do you know it’s Mel?’ He glances at the screen.

  It’s Mel.

  ‘Sorry. Gotta take this.’ H
e grins. Sally rolls her eyes as he clamps the mobile to his ear, marching through the French doors to their patio, toast in hand.

  ‘Matt, so sorry. But I need you earlier than we said. I’ve messed up.’

  ‘What do you mean – messed up?’ Honey’s running down the side of the toast on to the middle finger of his right hand. The phone in his left. ‘Excuse the noise.’ He bites into the toast to stop the honey trickling further. ‘Eating toast here.’

  ‘I had to let Alex go.’

  ‘But I don’t understand. Why?’ He’s now chewing as fast as he can. Though Laura’s their front runner now, Alex remains a suspect too.

  ‘He got himself a good lawyer. Some new phone footage from the cathedral proved he was right at the other end, near the main door, when Gemma was shot. He was with some friends. No gun. All verified.’

  ‘So he got bail?’

  ‘Yes. First thing.’

  ‘And why that does that equal you messing up?’

  ‘Because he’s now on the top of a multistorey car park, threatening to jump unless the Hartley family agree to tell him whether Gemma’s baby is his or not.’

  ‘Jeez.’

  ‘The car park in Lakes Lane. Meet you there?’

  ‘On my way.’

  The traffic’s bad and by the time Matthew turns the corner into Lakes Lane, there’s not only all the expected police activity – cordons and uniformed presence – but ominously two satellite TV trucks.

  As he turns off the ignition, a new call comes in. Amanda at the university press office.

  ‘Sorry to intrude, Matthew. But you said if I needed a return favour?’

  ‘Shoot. But you’ll need to be quick. Crisis here.’

  ‘I’m getting media calls about Gemma Hartley. Or rather her boyfriend. Suicide attempt. I’m saying nothing, obviously, but do you know what the hell’s going on? I’m just going in to see the chancellor. Can you help?’

  ‘At the scene right now. Can’t talk, Amanda. I’ll ring you back later. You know the drill. Say nothing to the media, please. Although—’ He lets out a breath as the camera crew get out of the van directly in front of him. ‘—you may want to switch on your TV.’

  He hangs up and marches to the barrier, showing his ID to the PC who checks on his radio before letting him through. He’s quickly met by one of Mel’s sergeants who leads the way to the car park’s main stairwell.

  ‘He’s on the roof. Six floors up. You can’t see this side but on the other side, he’s got quite an audience in the office block opposite. We’re working on getting that cleared. He’s got a banner and loudhailer. Oh, and he’s been in contact with the media.’

  ‘So I see.’

  ‘Mel’s up there already but she’s waiting for you. So I’m guessing you’re our official negotiator then?’

  Matthew feels a surge of surprise; it hadn’t occurred to him that Mel would cast him in this role. Sure, he did a course once. Sure he’s had a lucky break here and there but the police normally use their own people. Also – the media wouldn’t normally dream of covering a suicide attempt. What the hell’s going on here?

  His mind’s suddenly in overdrive, shooting back in time. To that conference centre. The course.

  You need to separate yourself from the team on the ground, especially the police. You need to connect with the target. Just you two.

  Don’t be a part of ‘them’.

  At the top of the stairwell, he finds Mel barking instructions into her mobile. She hangs up on seeing him.

  ‘I need to approach him from the other side. Away from your team.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Trust me, Mel. Can I get round?’

  She glances about. ‘There’s a route round there. You can skirt the top floor and approach from the west.’

  ‘Comms?’

  ‘No need. He can hear you fine. Be warned, he has a loudhailer. Small crowd. We’re moving people back.’

  ‘And the TV crews?’

  ‘I’ve spoken to the newsrooms. Warned that if they go live, it could trigger him jumping. Strictly between us, my gut says he’s doing this for the coverage and is unlikely to jump. But no way can we assume I’m right. We play this by the book, assuming he’s one hundred per cent serious. Understood?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘For now TV coverage is running edited footage only. We’ll see if that holds. He emailed widely so in theory he invited the media.’

  ‘Right. Let’s see if he’ll listen.’

  Matthew sets off, sweeping around the row of cars on the western side of the top floor. He moves quietly from pillar to pillar. As he nears the front of the other side of the car park, he sees Alex, sitting on the concrete outer wall. There’s some kind of banner spread out, with bricks positioned on the wall to keep it in place. It’s hanging over the edge so Matthew can’t see what it says. Alex has a loudhailer.

  ‘Hey there, Alex. Hello. My name’s Matthew and I’m here to see what I can do to help you. So what’s all this about? What’s it you want today?’

  ‘You police?’ Alex swings his head, his eyes glaring.

  ‘No, I’m not. But the police are here so I can pass on messages to them if you like.’

  Alex turns his head back to the front. ‘I have nothing to say to the police.’

  ‘Fine. That’s absolutely fine. So what’s going on, Alex? It’s very windy up here. You look cold.’

  Alex frowns. He moves his shoulders as if he’s only just registered how cold he is.

  ‘Would you like a blanket? A coffee. Shall I ask for that? Keep you a bit warmer and a bit more comfortable while we talk?’

  Alex looks confused. Matthew is remembering his training. To keep the focus on the future. On normal needs.

  ‘I don’t want anyone coming near me. I don’t want tricks.’ Alex’s voice is clearly affected by the chilly wind. He’s wearing just a shirt and jeans and is shivering. Matthew is worried that even if Mel is right and Alex isn’t planning to jump, the cold could trigger an accident.

  ‘I’ll tell the police not to come anywhere near you. How about I send for that blanket and coffee and I put it where you can reach it? I won’t come too close, I promise. You’ll be able to think more clearly if you’re warmer, Alex. Then we can talk properly. Work out exactly how I can help you. Yes?’

  Alex thinks for a while and then nods.

  ‘OK. I’m going to take out my mobile and get those things for you. It’s not a trick. OK, Alex? Just my mobile.’

  He nods again.

  Matthew takes out his mobile and rings Mel. ‘A large blanket and coffee with sugar, please. Fast as you can but leave it by the pillar behind me. Don’t send anyone close. No uniforms.’

  ‘Understood.’

  Matthew puts his phone back in his pocket. ‘Right. The police have said yes but I’ve told them to stay back. OK?’

  Alex nods again. Good. Whether he’s acting or whether he’s serious, Alex is starting to see Matthew as an intermediary.

  ‘So what do you want here, Alex? What can I do to help you?’

  ‘A father has rights.’

  ‘Of course. So is that what this is all about? A child? Is this about a child, Alex?’

  ‘You know it is. The Hartleys won’t talk to me. They won’t let me see Gemma. And they won’t do a paternity test.’

  Matthew has to think fast what to say here. No way could anyone sign off a paternity test while Gemma is in a coma. Alex is being totally irrational.

  ‘It must be very frustrating for you. Not knowing where you stand.’

  There’s a long pause. Alex puts the loudhailer down alongside him on the wall and shuffles forward a little.

  ‘You don’t want to go nearer the edge, Alex. We need to talk some more. Work out what I can do to help here. You can’t get what you want unless we talk, now can you?’

  A few moments pass. Matthew’s heart is beating very fast. Is Mel’s gut instinct right? Or is Alex serious here? Matthew hears a noise behind
him and turns to see a uniformed officer place a blanket two pillars back.

  ‘Right. The blanket’s arrived. I’ll fetch it. I expect the coffee will come soon too.’

  Matthew retreats to pick up the blanket and moves back to his position near the front wall but several feet from Alex. ‘I’m going to throw this on to the wall to your left, Alex. Don’t try to catch it. Sit very, very still where you are. I’m a good shot. Don’t move. Do you understand?’

  Alex nods again. Matthew throws the blanket so it ends up over the wall, an arm’s length from Alex.

  ‘I don’t want you to reach out, Alex. I want you to shuffle back, away from the edge. And then you can move more safely towards the blanket to your left. Is that OK with you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Alex does as he’s asked. He shuffles back a little and then moves, bit by bit, to the left to reach the blanket which he quickly wraps around his shoulders.

  ‘Good. That’s good, Alex. Stay like that and warm yourself up a bit.’

  Alex is now in a much better position, nearer the back of the ledge, but Matthew’s heart is still pounding. He glances at the office block opposite.

  If he says the wrong thing or gets the tone wrong . . .

  CHAPTER 33

  THE FATHER – NOW

  Ed expects DI Sanders to be waiting for him with Rachel at the hospital. Instead he finds the ward in a strange state of heightened activity. There are several huddles – nurses and visitors – each grouped around the various TVs set at intervals along the opposite wall. Several heads turn as he walks in.

  All he can make out on the televisions are different shots of a car park. He can’t read the scrolling headlines from where he’s standing, yet all the faces look sheepish.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  More heads turn to him.

  ‘You should go through and join your wife,’ a nurse says finally.