Her Last Secret

by Barbara Copperthwaite

  Since then, she and her father had grown increasingly distant. Would things have been different had she explained to him why she had stopped playing? Almost certainly not, she decided. He was a complete wanker these days. No, she wouldn’t show weakness by telling him what she was going through. Instead, she forced herself to pick up her phone again and dial.

  It rang four times before a sleepy voice answered.

  ‘Harry, it’s me. Can you come over, please? I’ve had some more texts. They’re horrible… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t bother you, but you said to tell you.’

  ‘Hey, hey. I’ll be right over.’

  ‘Don’t come to the front door. Climb up to my window.’

  ‘No worries. See you soon.’

  Ruby sat up, wrapped her thin arms around her knees and waited, rocking slightly. Eyes closed, trying to calm herself down. She heard murmuring coming from Mouse’s room, and slipped from her own bed to see if something was wrong. When she opened her little sister’s door, a sliver of gentle light from the landing sliced through the darkness and cut dark shadows onto Mouse’s peaceful face.

  The kid must have been talking in her sleep. She giggled, turned without opening her eyes, face snuggled into Ted.

  Ruby remembered one time when Mouse was about three and hadn’t been able to sleep, so she had made up a story for her little sister. Each of her cuddly toys had had a part, and Ruby had never felt so content as she had watching Mouse’s rapt attention sliding into yawns and heavy sighs and finally sleep.

  Now, she took a step towards her, envious of the peace. Furious that she couldn’t find some herself. Another step. Another.

  She bent down. Felt her sister’s breath warming her chilled cheek.

  Ruby glanced over her shoulder. There was no one around to witness what she was about to do.

  Closer she leaned. Kissed her on the forehead.

  ‘Sleep tight.’

  She stole back into her bedroom, in time to hear a gentle tap on her window.

  * * *

  Once inside, Harry held her tight, listened to her fears, checked the messages and looked so angry that, for a moment, Ruby was afraid. She thanked her lucky stars he was on her side. When he dialled the number, there was no answer. There never had been when she had tried, either.

  ‘Come here,’ he said, lying down and pulling her down beside him. ‘I’ll stay with you until you go to sleep. You’re safe with me.’

  She put her head on his chest. This time when she curled up, it was in pleasure. Harry smelled of chicken in batter and chips, and the sharp, clean deodorant he always used, and the distinctive smell of cold air that still clung to him. Comforting things. She snuggled in closer, gave a deep sigh of contentment, as he talked gently about playing Xbox games, arguing with his little brothers, and getting shopping in because his mum was too out of it to do it. A lullaby of grit that soon had her drifting to sleep.

  Thirty-Nine

  CHRISTMAS DAY

  Despite the officers storming through the building, their body cams recording everything at the scene, Chief Inspector Ogundele walked cautiously. Slowly. He stuck to one side of the staircase as he climbed, hands still in pockets, trying to minimise scene contamination as much as possible.

  The second he got high enough to see through the balustrades on the landing, the calm perfection of the house shattered.

  On the floor were two male bodies. A teenage boy lay on his back, one lens of his green-framed glasses smashed. Blood from a wound on the back of his head soaked into his black hair and the thick, soft pile of the creamy golden carpet, beginning to coagulate. He was only wearing one boot, the other stood upright in one corner. His big toe poked through a hole in his exposed sock. The officer noticed the grazes on the boy’s slightly swollen knuckles, and several cuts to his left cheekbone. Discarded beside him was an ornate lamp, the stained-glass shade smashed, and the embossed base boasting a clot of blood and several tightly curled strands of jet hair.

  A man in his forties sprawled face down a few feet away, frozen in the throes of crawling to one of the bedrooms. One hand stretched out towards the door, as if fighting to reach his family.

  ‘He must have discovered the intruder, fought with him, overpowered him and then…?’ pondered Ogundele quietly.

  Then what? Ogundele frowned, peering closer. Although he had clearly been in a scrap, there were no serious injuries. Possibly the stress had brought on a heart attack?

  But what about the two shots reported? There was no sign of a gun so far, and neither man had bullet wounds.

  Nothing at this crime scene was adding up properly.

  Forty

  MONDAY 20 DECEMBER

  FIVE DAYS TO GO

  Panic was overwhelming Dominique. Her breathing so fast she was dizzy from hyperventilating. Where was Benjamin? He wasn’t there. He was never there. And now she could hear the noise again and knew that someone was in the house. Getting closer.

  She picked up the shotgun that was standing in the corner of her bedroom and edged towards the door. There was the noise again.

  ‘Who is it?’ she shouted.

  No reply. Just a shuffling sound. A gurgling noise like the central heating made sometimes, but meatier, more guttural.

  Her hands shook with the weight of the gun, the muzzle bounding around as she pulled the butt against her shoulder and fought to balance it with one hand. The butt’s wood felt smooth and silky against her sweaty palms as the bedroom door opened.

  No. Oh God, no. She gagged at the sight before her.

  Ruby lay in a scarlet pool of blood that oozed across the golden carpet.

  Dominique was too late to save her little girl. Who had done this? Why?

  She dropped to her knees, the shotgun cast aside, and hauled her daughter’s rag doll body into her arms. Rocked her against her chest, crying a river of tears that joined the scarlet puddle. There was so much blood. It covered her skin, gloved her hands, coated her fingernails until they looked like talons.

  No, not my baby. Not my little girl.

  Dominique held Ruby the way she was no longer allowed to, tight and fierce and protective. Bursting with love for her firstborn.

  Where was Benjamin? She threw her head back and screamed for him.

  Ruby twitched. Gave a jerk of life. Her hand flew up around her mum’s neck and patted her back like a thumping heartbeat. Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom.

  With a gasp, Dominique’s eyes flew open. Ruby’s body disappeared. She was hugging thin air, sobbing on the landing over nothing. Benjamin knelt beside her, tapping her back, trying to wake her. Lit by the Tiffany lamp that stood on a circular occasional table, his eyes were wide with concern.

  ‘Are you awake? Are you okay?’ he demanded. He sounded so full of love that she flopped against him in relief as reality flooded back. Her daughter was alive, her family was safe, everything was okay.

  It was only as Benjamin tenderly helped her to her feet, one arm around her waist, the other holding her hand, that she remembered with another jolt that everything wasn’t fine. That her husband’s love was an act.

  Despite herself, she felt a connection with him, though, and allowed herself to be put to bed, docile as a baby. He pulled the duvet over her, got in beside her. She put her head on his chest and let herself be comforted as she keened. His heartbeat sounded reassuringly real, strong, true. He whispered nonsense as he stroked her hair and promised she was safe now.

  Thank God he was there.

  Her anger twisted inwards from him to herself, because she still didn’t have the guts to call him out on his lies. She needed him.

  They lie together, in every sense of the phrase, until seven a.m. Time to get up and put the mask of normality back on.

  Forty-One

  The shower pummelled Benjamin awake, whether he wanted to be or not. He was so tired of fighting, of trying to stay one step ahead all the time. Some other way of solving his problem must be found. The Russian would have been perfect, and th
ere was still a slight chance he would land him. But not in time. Benjamin needed something fast.

  He leaned against the tiles, still cool enough that he twitched away before angling back fully. Hung his head and tried to let the water wash away his troubles. Fat chance.

  Benjamin had imagined that by this stage of his life, he would be living on easy street. The sheer slog and sacrifice he had put in for the past twenty years should have been worth it. By now he had imagined he’d be holidaying in Mauritius, jetting off whenever he fancied, own a couple of Mercs, have a mansion somewhere impressive. Instead, he had a decent-sized but not terribly impressive house in Blackheath. He only had one Mercedes, rather than one for every day of the week, and his wife drove a bright yellow Smart car which she referred to as the Canary. He hated it, but she insisted it was perfect for nipping around town and he pretended to agree because he couldn’t afford to get her anything else.

  But neither his car nor hers was paid for. The house, which they had only moved into six months earlier, was now security for a huge loan, which he had forged Dom’s signature to get. He had already borrowed up to the hilt against Kendra’s flat. He owed the tax man. And the business itself had massive debts, accrued after he had taken a few risks. When things had started to go wrong he had convinced himself it was an unlucky streak he’d soon get over. But the streak had turned into a monsoon of never-ending crap. It was too late for his luck to turn. Too late for him to save himself or his business.

  He was too ashamed to admit what he had done, because it was caused entirely by his own arrogance and stupidity.

  What were people going to say when the truth came out?

  How would the kids cope? Dom?

  They would hate him.

  Dominique wouldn’t survive the stress of it. She couldn’t cope with losing everything. With her husband being sent to jail. The strain of organising Christmas was making her sleepwalk, for goodness’ sake. All he wanted was to protect her. The urge so strong that sometimes he hated her for it with a passion that seemed to outstrip his love.

  He thought of how he had found her sobbing the night before, on the landing, and led her to bed. He’d wiped her tears away with the sleeve of his stupidly expensive shirt, kissed her and tasted the salt on her lips. He loved her so much.

  The consequences of discovery did not bear thinking about.

  Unpleasant flashes of the future spun through his mind, as though he were standing in a giant zoetrope. His stomach contracted, bile licked his throat. He clung onto the tiled walls of his shower to keep upright, even as panic tried to drive him to his knees.

  He would simply have to find a way to get some breathing space, and then everything would be fine.

  If he didn’t his life was going to follow his shower water straight down the plughole.

  Forty-Two

  Tendrils of the night’s terrible dream still clung to Dominique, making her shiver. Until she saw Ruby with her own eyes, she wouldn’t fully shake the conviction that something bad had really happened to her. She sat at the kitchen table twitchy with anticipation, clutching her glass of orange juice so hard it might shatter. Her yoghurt was untouched.

  Benjamin sipped his own coffee, watching her from the corner of his eye. Cleared his throat.

  ‘Are you all right then? After last night?’ he asked finally. Gruff, like he always was when nervous. Benjamin didn’t do nerves well, preferring to bulldoze over them until they were squashed. A habit he had picked up from his own father.

  ‘Fine. Just a bad dream.’ She didn’t take her eyes off the door. Why wasn’t Ruby up yet? Maybe she should knock on the door again. She had received the usual grumpy response to her morning knock on her eldest daughter’s door, and that had made her feel a bit better, but she needed to see her.

  ‘Right. Yes. Obviously. But come on, babe, it was bad. When you had those funny dreams before you said it was—’

  She threw a glance his way. ‘It’s the stress of getting everything ready for Christmas.’

  It showed a lot about the state of their marriage that he was so easily fobbed off.

  ‘Are you coming to Mouse’s—’

  ‘Amber’s—’

  ‘Nativity play later?’

  ‘No, I’m too busy with work. Have fun without me.’

  Footsteps made Dom turn her head.

  ‘Ruby. You’re up.’ Dominique pushed her chair back with a screech across the terracotta tiles. Her daughter rubbed her eyes.

  ‘Well, you woke me, so of course I’m up. Or don’t you think I’m even capable of getting out of bed?’

  Dominique clenched her hands to her sides, fighting the urge to hug Ruby and tell her she loved her. Goodness knows the reaction that would get. Instead she did the teenager some toast with marmalade, and drank her in through stolen glances.

  It was just a horrible dream. No need to be scared.

  Forty-Three

  Wow, there had been one weird atmos between Mum and Dad at breakfast. Even Mouse had picked up on it, appearing from behind her book to study them, roll her eyes, and return to her make-believe world. Ruby couldn’t wait to get away; didn’t want them ruining her buoyant mood. She felt happier after her decent night’s sleep, and even though her parents were probably cooking up some fresh hell for her, she went to school feeling good because she couldn’t wait to see Harry again. Lying in bed together the night before, with no attempt at funny business, had been such a wonderful moment. She felt it was yet another step to their path of love. Every time she thought they couldn’t possibly get any closer, they did.

  She pulled on her school clothes. In her hurry, she barely flinched in disgust at the scars at the top of her thighs as she pulled her thick black tights on. She almost skipped to the station.

  But Harry didn’t get on the train.

  * * *

  When she hopped off at Charlton, every step she sent hopeful glances ahead, but never spied him. She hid around the corner to put her make-up on, the heavy eyeliner a mask behind which she felt safe enough to march into school alone. Shoulders artfully slouched, head at an angle carefully calculated to convey bored insolence to anyone who looked at her. Definitely not giving away any nerves.

  She made her way to the lockers, passing easily through the crowds of pupils of varying ages who parted to let her through. She caught snatches of conversation, whispers on the air that floated to her and made her smirk.

  ‘… punched her lights out…’

  ‘… totally mental…’

  ‘… for no reason…’

  Only the slightest flare of Ruby’s nostrils might have given away her disappointment when she rounded the corner to her locker and saw… no sign of Harry. He must be wagging school. Which meant things must be really bad at home for him.

  Ruby didn’t even bother putting on a show of staying for her lessons. She did a one-eighty and walked straight back the way she’d come, pulling out her phone as she went.

  * * *

  Harry’s arms were burning with the weight of the shopping bags he was carrying. Any minute now his fingers were going to be cut off by the plastic handles of the bags; he could see the tips turning a weird purple-blue. He tottered straight past his mum, who was out for the count on the grubby sofa, sprawled like a drunk across a park bench. A little snore escaped. He threw a glance her way and clocked the drool glistening on her chin, but he didn’t slow.

  Ow, ow, ow! Fingers!

  He just managed to get to the kitchen in time, dumping the heavily laden bags on the floor then hopping around shaking his hands, trying to get blood flow back to his dangerously deprived digits. Once the pain subsided, he got to work.

  Baked beans, tinned soups, a ton of Pot Noodles, a loaf of white bread, a couple of litres of milk. That was one bag of shopping emptied. Harry dived into the rest.

  Biscuits, pop and crisps…

  Frozen burgers, fish fingers, oven chips and stuff he could shove in the microwave.

  Finally, it was al
l put away. Harry sighed, leaned against the counter in the tiny kitchen in which only one person could fit at a time, closed his eyes, and daydreamed. He loved to remember the first time he had seen Ruby, recognising something lost in the new girl that peeked out from behind the tough act. Before they had even spoken, he had felt drawn to her.

  Thinking about seeing her for the first time had been his favourite memory, but now it had been supplanted by the previous night. He replayed looking down at her, her head on his chest, and his heart expanded until he pure might float, man. That soft, gentle smile that had tweaked the ends of her lips, it made him melt.

  Imagining Ruby was Harry’s escape from his crappy life. His home was a council flat full of city clichés, from the often-broken lifts and stairwells that stank of urine to the drug dealers who lived next door and had a constant flow of visitors, day and night. He’d heard they had a crystal meth lab there, too, so he was permanently braced for an explosion if that went wrong, Breaking Bad-style.

  Reluctantly, he opened his eyes on reality again. He needed to do the washing-up.

  The flat was cramped, and not the cleanest, because his mum didn’t do housework. She couldn’t, not in her state. It was Harry who kept it all together, looking after his two kid brothers, and clearing up after his mum when she couldn’t make it to the loo in time, or holding her when she got the crazy shakes.

  ‘That you, son?’ she called now.

  His heart sank. He could hear the slur of her voice, the way her lips struggled and slid over the ‘s’. Too much effort in her state. He glanced at the clock. It was only 9.30 a.m.; it was going to be a long day.