Perfect Little Children

by Sophie Hannah

  “Flora’s a mess,” Lewis says dismissively. “No one would have believed in her as the nanny. Plus, I wanted her to be able to play Mummy again. Yanina’s got a Russian accent, as nannies often do. It worked better that way.”

  I look at Flora. “How could they go along with it?” I ask her. “Are they monsters too?”

  She shakes her head slowly, woodenly. There’s a puzzled look in her eyes, as if she’s searching for the right word to describe Kevin and Yanina.

  “You’ve never had a really large amount of money, have you, Beth?” Lewis says. “Life-changingly large, I mean. Cater and Yanina have. I’ve never explicitly told them that Flora’s drunken binge caused Georgina’s death, but I know it’s what they both think happened.” He looks pleased with himself. “Remember, Flora has also ‘gone along with it,’ as you put it. All these years. She could have walked away from that house any time she chose to. She could have gone to the police if she thought what I was inflicting on her was so terrible. But she never did, and she never will. That ought to tell you something.”

  “Because I know you’d kill my children,” Flora tells him. Like an everyday wife reminding her husband of the bad thing that will happen if they don’t both take care to avoid it. I know what I’m hearing, yet part of me is still thinking, “Is there anything else that this could all mean? It can’t mean what I think it does.”

  “You’re making that up.” Lewis sneers at Flora. “I’ve never said it.”

  “Why are they called Thomas and Emily?” The gun in his hand is no longer pointed at me. I didn’t notice him lowering his arm, which is now by his side. If he fired, the bullet would hit the floor.

  “Who?” Lewis asks me. His face breaks into a grin. “Think about it,” he says.

  “Thomas and Emily Cater. I know they’re both yours,” I tell him.

  “Of course they’re mine.” He looks impatient. “Who else’s would they be?”

  I wait.

  “What more do you want to know?” Lewis asks. “I told you, I felt sorry for Flora. She’d deceived me and trashed my family, and I knew exactly what she deserved, but . . . I don’t know. I hate to admit it, but maybe on some level I still loved her. I had Thomas and Emily, and she had no one. She was still my wife, still mine. I had to do something with her, I couldn’t just leave her to rot. Then I realized there was absolutely no reason why she shouldn’t have a second family.” His face hardens. He stares at me, eyes wide, as he says slowly, “One. Baby. At. A time.”

  I stare back at him, full of a cold numbness. Is this what it feels like to look at the worst thing you’ve ever seen? I’m not really feeling anything, not anymore.

  He says, “While Flora was pregnant—this time with my permission and without hers—it came to me. Of course the baby had to be called Thomas, if it was a boy. And a girl would be Emily. Same house, same names. Are you starting to understand, Beth? I saw a way of giving Flora some of it back, some of her old life. Me, from time to time. Every day, on the phone. A Thomas. An Emily.” He walks toward Flora. “And one day soon, I hope, a Georgina,” he says quietly. “We’ll just have to keep trying, won’t we?”

  Any second now, if he keeps walking, he’ll be facing away from me.

  And you’re going to do what? Run at him, try to overpower him? Risk getting killed sooner?

  “I’m not lucky. I’m not lucky,” Flora repeats as he walks toward her, her voice rising. “I’m unlucky.”

  “You’re not as lucky as you could have been if you’d been more resourceful,” Lewis says. “You could have made friends if you’d wanted to: mums at school, neighbors. You chose not to. It was your decision to become a virtual recluse, to sit around all day stewing in your misery.”

  “I’m not going to get pregnant again. I’m in my forties.” Flora backs away from him as he approaches.

  I stand completely still. How many chances to escape have I missed already? Do I have one now? This might be my one chance and I’m missing it because I’m thinking this instead of . . . I can’t bring an alternative to mind. I’m frozen. Action feels impossible.

  “Forties is nothing,” says Lewis. “You’re fit and healthy.”

  “Every time, I order my body not to get pregnant,” Flora says. “Every single time.”

  Lewis laughs. “Well, it’s ignored your orders twice already.”

  “You’re a rapist,” I tell him. “A rapist and a murderer.”

  “Everything you’ve done, you’ve done it to torture me,” says Flora as he moves closer to her. “Making me live in that house, making me have more children, calling them the same names.” She’s breathing hard and fast, as if she’s been running. In my head, I’m running away from Lewis. I wonder if she is too.

  “The lies you made me learn by heart to repeat to Beth, while my children that I haven’t seen for twelve years are just around the corner, and I can’t see them, not even once, for a second. What’s next? Let’s say you get your way and I have another baby—what’s next on your torture list after that?”

  “Why are you saying all this now?” Lewis asks her.

  There’s a pause. Flora looks at me. Then she says, “I don’t know.”

  “Your friend’s here, and you’ve got some moral support for the first time in years. Clearly it’s gone to your head. But Beth’s not going to be here for much longer. Maybe you aren’t either. Did you stop to think of that?”

  He’s going to kill us both. And if he does that, if he’s killed once and will happily kill twice more . . . “Why has Thomas been taken out of school?” I ask him as he raises his arm to point the gun at Flora’s head.

  Her eyes fill with fear. “What?” she says.

  “Ignore her,” says Lewis. “She’s talking shit.”

  “I’m not. Thomas isn’t at the school anymore. And Emily’s place has been canceled. Kevin and Yanina . . .” The missing words stick in my throat.

  What did Kevin and Yanina do? And why, if Lewis knows nothing about it? They’re supposed to do what they’re told in exchange for life-changing money.

  “What the fuck?” Lewis swings around and points the gun at me. It makes a clicking noise. Everything inside me starts to shake. His face is twisted: a mixture of rage and confusion.

  Flora lunges at him from behind. The gun falls from his hand and lands on the floor. He trips and tumbles, taking her with him. She lands half on top of him, with a noise that’s halfway between a scream and a howl. Lewis lunges for the gun, not quickly enough. It’s in my hand.

  It’s in my hand. I stare down at it.

  Lewis lunges toward me.

  “Beth!” Flora screams.

  “Lewis, don’t!” I say, aiming the words at his phone on the table. “Don’t kill me. Please.”

  He was about to lunge again, but he stops. Confusion spreads across his face. He can’t think why I’d say those words when I’m the one holding the gun. “Don’t do it!” I cry out. There’s nothing fake about the panic in my voice.

  “What . . . ?” Lewis tries to scramble to his feet.

  I fire the gun.

  27

  “Why did you turn it off?”

  “You’re not saying anything. No point me recording silence.”

  “I’ve already repeated it twice.”

  “I know. And I’m sorry to have to ask you to go through it again. You’ve been so incredibly helpful.”

  “Wasn’t the recording on his phone clear enough for you?”

  “Loud and clear, ma’am. You have no idea how grateful I am to have it. But I need to hear the story from you, in your own words. I know you’ve already told Detective Gessinger, but—”

  “And then can I call my family?”

  “Absolutely for sure. Don’t worry, they know you’re safe. I reached out to your husband myself.”

  “Can’t we do this after I’ve phoned home? And slept? I’ve missed a whole night’s sleep.”

  “I have an idea: how about if you only tell me about the last part, fo
r now? Then tomorrow we can talk properly, once you’re rested.”

  “Where’s Flora?”

  “Detective Gessinger’s with her now. She’s hanging in there. Her parents are on a plane, on their way over.”

  “And her children? She’s got four children!”

  “Mrs. Leeson, please let us take care of everything. There’s nothing you need to concern yourself with. Trust me. We’ve got this.”

  “Okay.”

  “Now, I need you to tell me what happened. From the beginning.”

  “All right. I—”

  “Wait a second. Resuming the interview at 1100 hours. Detective Sophia Steel interviewing Mrs. Elizabeth Leeson. All right, Mrs. Leeson, I need to hear your account of how Mr. Braid lost his life.”

  “He had a gun. He’d come to the house to kill me—he made that clear over and over again. Kept saying it. I don’t know about Flora. I didn’t think he was going to kill her—I think he might even have said he wasn’t—but then later he implied that maybe he would. It’s all in the recording, just listen to it.”

  “Go on. You’re doing great.”

  “He would have done it. He’d have killed both of us. I had no idea that my question would throw him in the way it did. I assumed—”

  “Wait, back up. You asked him a question while he was pointing the gun at you?”

  “I think . . . I’m trying to remember. I think he was facing away from me, pointing the gun at Flora, when I asked him why Thomas had been taken out of school. I assumed he knew that had happened, but he didn’t. He was shocked. We both saw it, me and Flora. Any second, he was going to kill us. We both knew it. When he turned around to say something to me, she ran at him and either grabbed him or shoved him, I don’t know which.”

  “And then?”

  “The gun fell out of his hand. Landed on the floor. Oh—he’d clicked it just before that happened, like people do when they’re about to shoot.”

  “What happened after the gun fell?”

  “I picked it up and started to back away toward the front door. I was thinking I could open it, run outside and scream for help. Lewis and Flora were both on the floor at that point. She’d landed on top of him. He was struggling to climb out from under her. Then he did, and he grabbed a knife from the block on the kitchen island. He started walking toward me, holding the knife like this—his hand was level with his head, in position to stab down.”

  “Go on. This is what we need. You’re doing well.”

  “I was close to the door, and he was coming toward me slowly. I thought I’d have time to get out before he got to me, but the door was locked. He must have locked it when he first came in. I couldn’t unlock it, not at the same time as keeping the gun on him, and if I didn’t do that . . .”

  “I understand.”

  “He was coming closer. I couldn’t get away. There was nowhere for me to go. I knew he was going to kill me if I didn’t do something, so I aimed the gun at his right arm—or I thought I did. I never meant to hit his head.”

  “You’ve never fired a gun before?”

  “No. Never.”

  “Then the odds were against you hitting him at all. How much distance would you say there was between you when you fired that shot?”

  “I don’t know. The closer he got, the more scared I was. I fired when I knew . . .”

  “It’s okay. Take your time.”

  “When I knew that if he came any nearer I’d freeze and it’d be too late. I remember thinking, ‘Soon he’ll be too close and there’ll be no point.’ I shouted at him not to do it, not to kill me—”

  “Excuse the interruption. You were the one holding the gun, and Mr. Braid was not yet close enough to reach you, and you shouted ‘Don’t kill me’?”

  “I told you: he was walking toward me with a knife. Holding it like this.”

  “But you had a gun. Wasn’t he worried you’d kill him? I mean, that’s what happened, yes? You killed him.”

  “No, he wasn’t worried. He still totally believed he was going to walk away without a scratch after killing me and Flora. He didn’t think I’d ever fire the gun. He thought I was too weak. So did I, until I did it.”

  “All right. Thank you, Mrs. Leeson. We’ll let you have a little rest, maybe call your family in England. And then—I’m sorry, but it’s necessary—you’re going to need to go back a little further and talk me through all this from the very beginning. How it all started.”

  Epilogue

  Four months later

  The narrow road winds around and around, perilous zigzag corners all the way up the hill. Every so often we pass a large pile of rubbish, bagged in multicolored plastic sacks, that’s been dumped by the side of the road and left to rot in the sun. There’s a strike going on according to Dom. I don’t know how he knows anything about the work disputes of Corfiot refuse collectors; I never got to find out. When he started to tell us, Ben and Zannah both groaned and put their earphones in, and he gave up with a sigh.

  “How can there be any more turns?” he asks. “I mean . . . this is it. We’re at the top. But I think I’m supposed to turn right again here. Didn’t Flora’s email say turn right at the Lavandula bar?”

  “Yeah. We must be nearly . . . Look, there. There’s a sign saying ‘Villa Agathi,’ with an arrow.”

  “Okay,” Dom says in a low voice. He sounds as if he’s readying himself for an ordeal.

  “It’ll be fine,” I tell him.

  “Will it?”

  “Yes. The kids aren’t worried.” I adjust our rental car’s rearview mirror and inspect each of them in turn. They’re half asleep, undisturbed by the loud music that’s pouring into their ears.

  “What are you expecting to happen?” I ask Dom.

  He shakes his head, keeping his eyes on the bumpy track ahead.

  “We’re not going to walk into an awful scene of pain and anguish. Is that what you’re worried about?”

  “I wouldn’t say I’m worried, exactly.”

  “It’ll be fine. They’re on holiday.”

  “We’re not, though. Are we?”

  “Not in the same way, no.”

  “Not in any way. This doesn’t feel like a holiday to me.”

  “It’s a short visit. Who cares what we call it?”

  “I just want to be prepared,” Dom says. “I don’t know. Maybe that’s impossible.”

  I put my hand on his arm. “Relax. Flora could have invited us any time in the past few months, to her parents’ house, but she invited us here. To a villa on the top of a hill in Corfu. I think that means she wanted us all to meet in good circumstances this time. Happy circumstances. I know that’s what it means.”

  “It’s not all of us, though, is it? Will that be mentioned?”

  “I don’t know.” It’s a good question. “Flora and I will probably talk about it at some point. You can avoid it if you want to. You’ll be able to go off somewhere with Ben, maybe.”

  “I can handle a conversation about unpleasant things, Beth. It’s not that I’m worried about.”

  “Then what?”

  “I don’t know. Awkwardness, I guess. Not knowing what’s going to happen.”

  “Here’s what’ll happen. Flora’s going to say hello and ask how we are, like a normal person. Thomas and Emily will probably be jumping around on a trampoline, or splashing in the pool. Flora’s mum or dad will offer us a cup of tea.”

  “I want a beer,” Dom says. “I’ll need one.”

  “And it won’t be awkward. Not for more than about two seconds, anyway. Flora’s doing okay, Dom. She says the kids are too. They’re getting better, all of them.”

  “And the other Thomas and Emily, the older ones? Do we mention them at all, or just carry on as if they don’t exist? It’s not that I want to bring them up, but . . .”

  “No. Definitely don’t.”

  “It’s so horrible for Flora.”

  I agree, but I say nothing. Even saying, “Yes, it’s awful,” would make a te
rrible situation feel worse somehow, by officially confirming its existence. Not that it can be denied or changed. Thomas and Emily Braid are living with Lewis’s mother, who has relocated to Delray Beach, in the same home they lived in with Lewis. They won’t see Flora. She’s written to them several times and so have I. So has Detective Sophia Steel. They’ve been told the true story of Georgina’s death and everything that happened between their parents before and after that, and they don’t believe it. Lewis’s mother doesn’t either. Their version of events, the one they’re determined to stick to though there’s no evidence for it, is that Flora and I conspired to murder Lewis, who never did a single thing wrong in his life. The one and only time I spoke to Emily Braid on the phone, a month ago, she said, “Why should I believe the mother who abandoned me and Thomas and who killed my little sister? I know that’s what happened—Dad told us when he thought we were old enough to know. And she never once tried to make contact in twelve years. And then you and she plotted to murder him and get away with it. You make me sick!” I was cut off before I could say anything in Flora’s or my defense.

  It’s not true, Emily. The truth is that only I planned to murder your dad, during those few seconds that I had the gun in my hand, when I realized that I could. I planned it alone, with no help from Flora. I made up the lie about the knife and him coming at me with it in his hand, I said what I wanted Lewis’s phone to record for the police to listen to later; I thought of all of it, the whole story and how it would play out, in those few seconds, while I clung to the gun with my trembling hands. All Flora did was corroborate.

  Then I lied to Detective Steel. I didn’t aim for Lewis’s shoulder. I aimed for his head, and, even with my hand shaking violently, I must have aimed well. And maybe in a looser sense it was self-defense, but I’m never going to be able to think of it that way, knowing how much I wanted him dead, how deliberately I pointed the gun at the spot right between his eyes, willing the bullet through the air and into his warped brain.

  And then I lied to Dom. And to Zannah and Ben. And I’ll never know their opinion of what I really did, whether they would praise me and say, “I’d have done the same” or disapprove because I killed a man, deliberately, wanting him to die. Praying for it with every cell in my body, and feeling proud once it was done. That’s the truth, Emily.