Close Your Eyes

by Rachel Abbott

  The man who opened the door looked nothing like the pictures Becky had seen in the press when he was with Genevieve. He was above-average height with auburn hair brushed back from a wide suntanned forehead. His smile showed startlingly white teeth that had obviously been treated at great expense, but he seemed affable and friendly enough.

  ‘Come in, Inspector,’ he said, showing Becky into a wide hall with a polished oak floor. A cut-glass vase of mixed roses sat on a central circular table, and Becky had to reassess her opinion of footballers’ houses.

  He showed her into a comfortable living room, and she sank into the soft cushions of a dark turquoise velvet sofa.

  ‘What can I do to help? I assume this is about Genevieve.’

  ‘That’s right. We’re investigating her murder and trying to find out as much as we can about her – her friends, her life – so we can piece together a picture.’

  Eddie gave her a brief smile. ‘I know why you’ve come to talk to me. Genevieve made a big thing of my jealousy, but it was grossly exaggerated. I sometimes felt I had to protect her from herself, if you know what I mean. She would flirt outrageously with other men – beyond flirting, really. I didn’t mind so much, and that wound her up and made her do it even more. Sometimes I intervened to stop her from making a stupid mistake. I know she was trying to test me, to see how much I cared.’

  ‘Did it work?’ Becky asked.

  ‘In a way. It made me realise that I didn’t care much at all. And I never threatened her when our relationship ended. She got her side of the story out first, and so that was that. I behaved like an idiot, drank too much, was a bit of a coke-head, ruined my career.’ He shrugged.

  Becky looked around the room. ‘You don’t seem to have done too badly for yourself.’

  ‘It’s a good house – always was, although I can’t take credit for the revamp. It was fairly gruesome back then, I have to admit.’ He pulled a face at the memory.

  ‘Have you had any contact with Genevieve since then?’

  Eddie sat back on the sofa and folded his arms. ‘It’s interesting you should ask that. I hadn’t – not a peep for years – but when I got back here in June, she contacted me through my Instagram account. Said it would be great to catch up. I ignored her. I’m married now – happily – and I don’t want her back in my life.’

  ‘So what happened?’ Becky asked.

  ‘She tried Facebook instead and sent me a message. She suggested there might be things my wife might like to know about me. Why not meet up and talk about it?’

  Becky looked at him and waited.

  ‘I did nothing. I don’t know what her game was, but I warned my wife to steer clear. She knows the history. I don’t know whether Genevieve was interested in getting together again or in making trouble for me, but I was having none of it. I can promise you that.’

  Becky didn’t like the sound of this. Was there something wrong with Genevieve and Niall’s marriage? As she asked Eddie Carlson more questions, the picture she got of Genevieve became less and less favourable.

  ‘I think that’s all, and I appreciate your time, Mr Carlson. We might want to look at your social media accounts to check the communications, if that’s okay.’

  He pulled a face. ‘Sorry. I deleted everything.’

  ‘Right. We’ll let you know if there are any more questions.’

  As Becky made her way into the hall, a door opened from another part of the house and a bone-thin young woman in a T-shirt and shorts stepped through.

  ‘Oh!’ she said, flushing. ‘Sorry, Eddie. I didn’t know you had company.’

  She reversed back through the door before Eddie could say a word, and Becky gave him an enquiring look.

  ‘My wife. Kirsten.’

  He opened the door to show Becky out, but the smile had faded from his face. He must have known what Becky had seen.

  Kirsten’s arms were covered in bruises.

  41

  MARTHA

  ‘We need to go, Alfie. There’s somewhere we need to be.’

  ‘Can we come back later?’

  His eyes are round with the thrill of the seaside. He wants to paddle, and I feel cruel for saying no, but we’re not working to my timetable any longer. I don’t know how to answer his question, and I don’t want some of my last words to him to be a lie. After today, I don’t know when I might next see him.

  ‘Let’s see what happens, shall we, baby?’ I pick him up and cuddle him tightly. Just the feel of his skinny body makes me want to cry. He’d been such a chubby baby, but in the last year he had grown taller and thinner. ‘Come on. We need to make a move,’ I say before it all gets too much for me.

  The drive takes about forty minutes – plenty of time for me to decide if what I’m doing is totally insane, but the burden of guilt is strong, and growing ever stronger. As Alfie gets older he’ll find it more and more difficult to understand why we always have to leave.

  I pull into the supermarket car park, which isn’t too busy at this hour on a Wednesday morning. It had always been Dad’s job to do the weekly shop – he was the only person ever trusted to leave Lakeside. He went alone with no one to help him, and he told me he had to make three trips into the store, leaving each time with a fully loaded trolley to transfer into the back of the Range Rover.

  I can’t decide when I should show myself, or what I should say. Maybe it would be best to intercept him before he begins. That will give me the most time.

  I chew my nails anxiously. What if it’s a different car and I don’t recognise it? There’s no reason to have changed it – Dad only drives about forty miles a week. The bigger question is, what happens if he says no? What I’m about to ask him to do is immense, and I am far from certain he’ll even consider it.

  I throw my head back and gaze sightlessly at the roof of the car. The police won’t be far behind me. If they know who I am by now, they’ll trace the car. I should have driven to Leeds, dumped it and caught a train north. They would never have found me.

  The thoughts, doubts, conflicts, bang around inside my head, but it’s too late to think.

  He’s here.

  My stomach is in knots as I see the dark green Range Rover turn into the car park, but it’s a vast car park, and I’m too far away. I could get out of the car now and shout, but he won’t hear me. I hesitate. Maybe this is a sign. Maybe something’s trying to tell me I’m doing the wrong thing.

  I shake my head, frustrated with my weakness, switch on the ignition and start to move. I’ll intercept him before he reaches the supermarket entrance.

  The Range Rover door opens, and a figure appears.

  It’s not Dad.

  I stare, wondering if I am seeing things. It was always Dad. He was the only one trusted with the money, the shopping and the car. For as long as I can remember, the gates to Lakeside were kept locked, although Aram maintained this was to keep people out rather than in. The chains that bound Aram’s followers to him were not forged from steel. Had they been, they would have been far easier to break. Dad was the only person who ever left, for no more than a few hours at a time, because Aram knew he would return like a magnet to my mother’s side.

  Now, to my horror as I drive across the supermarket car park to where the Range Rover has pulled in, I watch Mum get out of the car and head towards the entrance. A sob catches at the back of my throat as I look at my once pretty, vivacious mother. Her long hair is straggly, her clothes look dirty, and she drags her feet as she walks, as defeated as an old woman for whom every step is an effort.

  I swerve the car to the left, away from the front of the store, no longer looking to intercept anyone. She hasn’t seen me. Her head is lowered, as if she has to look where to put her feet. I don’t know what to do. I was relying on Dad still being in charge of the shopping, and I’ve no idea how Mum will cope with three full trolleys. She doesn’t look as if she has the energy to lift a single carrier bag.

  As I swing the car round and head to a space from where I ca
n watch her, I pass close to the Range Rover. Someone is in the passenger seat. Perhaps it’s Dad, and he’s not feeling well so has brought Mum along to help.

  I can’t keep driving around the car park – someone will notice – so I continue along the row to the end, turn and head back down, parking a little further away, to the side. If it’s Dad, maybe all is not lost. Maybe I can get to him now, while Mum is in the shop, but I need him to be alone.

  A sudden burst of sunlight breaks through the clouds and illuminates the interior of the Range Rover. I can only see the back of a head, and it’s a man, but definitely not Dad. He turns his face into the sun, and the light catches his eyes.

  A cry of alarm bursts from me before I can stifle it, and I twist my head away, terrified that he’s seen me. The urge to duck down is immense, but any sudden movement is more likely to catch his eye.

  Aram!

  I want to watch him, to see what he’s doing. But to do that, I have to look. And if I look, he’ll see me. He’ll feel my eyes on him, as he always did. I have to keep still, not draw attention to myself, not look in his direction, but I’m desperate to know if he’s still in the car, or if he’s got out and is heading towards me.

  I slowly turn to look out of the windscreen, hoping I’ll catch him out of the corner of my eye if he’s coming my way. Each time someone walks by, I jump. Thank God Alfie is being quiet. He’s playing with the fuzzy-felt seaside pack I bought from the café gift shop and singing softly to himself.

  I wish I’d parked further back, but I can’t move the car now without drawing his attention. So I wait. I just want Mum to come back out, and for them to go. For a moment, I consider going into the supermarket and asking for her help. But I daren’t get out of the car for fear of Aram seeing me, and anyway, I’m certain she won’t help me. All I can do is wait until they’ve gone.

  For twenty minutes I wait, every second filled with the threat that at any moment there’ll be a tap on the window and I’ll look up into eyes that will see right through me, into the back of the car. To Alfie. Maybe I should go now – risk him spotting me. He’s not in the driving seat, so he couldn’t follow. But he will know I am here, close to Lakeside. Within his reach.

  Finally, I see Mum. She’s pushing a trolley, but it’s only half full, and I wonder how many trips she’ll have to make if that’s all she can manage.

  As she approaches the Range Rover, Aram makes no effort to get out to help her. She walks to the back and transfers the contents of the trolley into the boot and heads back towards the supermarket. I can’t sit here while she repeats the process. The strain of expecting to see Aram’s face staring through my window would be too much, and Alfie won’t stay quiet forever. I’m about to risk drawing attention to myself by driving off when I see Mum dump the trolley, retrieve her pound coin and head back to the car.

  What’s going on? She’s only done the equivalent of a weekly family shop. Who’s buying the food for the rest of the household? There were about thirty people there when I left. And where’s Dad?

  I have a sudden empty feeling. What if he’s died, and I wasn’t there to say goodbye to him? He was young, but it isn’t only old people who die. My eyes sting. I may not have seen him for years, but knowing he was out there somewhere has always been a comfort.

  The Range Rover starts up and moves away. If they’re following Dad’s routine, they’ll go to the post office to pick up the mail. I decide to follow. I don’t know what other choice I have.

  I hadn’t realised how much I was looking forward to seeing Dad, to introducing him to his grandson, and my throat is thick with unshed tears. I had thought this was my chance – not just to see him, but to begin to put right all that had gone wrong.

  42

  LAKESIDE

  After Aram took over our house, our money – in fact, every aspect of our lives – I was strangely content. As I passed through my early-teenage years, I didn’t miss what I’d never had, and I had no concept of the joy, excitement and pain that other girls of my age were experiencing. We were a community, and it was our duty to get along with each other. The only exception was on those days or nights when one person was selected by Aram to be publicly lambasted for their failings. There was never a trace of empathy in anyone’s eyes then, just relief.

  For a long time I believed Aram had been right to demand what he called equality but which I now recognise as something else entirely. After the changes to the financial ownership of the property, more people came to stay, and many of them remained with us for years. We all knew what our roles were, and as long as we understood the rules and behaved accordingly, life was sweet. I still wasn’t permitted to leave the grounds. But nor was anyone else.

  We all recognised that Aram’s word was law, and there could be no hint of argument, not even any discussion that suggested a trace of dissent. The slightest suspicion on his part that any member of the group was straying from his teaching brought about a public session of humiliation, so we all strived to please him.

  He continued to teach me, and I continued to swell with pride at his praise and tear myself to shreds with remorse when he rebuked me for some minor misdemeanour. The best times for me were the maths lessons, and it wasn’t long before Aram understood that I had an aptitude for numbers and logic, so he decided to put me to work. I was soon responsible for the household accounts and for ensuring that any private purchases Aram wanted to make were paid for. He was the only one allowed access to the Internet, and boxes arrived from all over the world for him.

  We didn’t welcome guests unless they were expressly invited by Aram. Those who came were required to break all ties with family and friends and agree to have no further contact with anyone outside the community, and I realised quickly that new members of the group always came with money. It was some time before I found out about the agreements they signed in order to secure their future as part of Aram’s world. Ownership of anything was to be abhorred, of course, so they were required to hand over control of their property to Aram on entry. In return they were promised that a weight would be lifted from them, their souls set free. Every penny committed went into an account, although not the trust account into which my parents had put all their money to pay for our daily lives. It was a separate account in Aram’s name only.

  I never dared to question it. I couldn’t bring myself to tell my father, and Aram didn’t feel the need to explain. I justified it by telling myself he might need the money in the future to finance his teaching, and I didn’t want to upset the rhythm of our lives.

  Of those who came, few left. Those who failed to go the extra distance, who were unwilling to be moulded into zealots committed to worshipping at the feet of Aram Forakis, were banished, bowing their heads in shame at their failure as they were escorted to the gates. On the rare occasions that someone chose to leave, denouncing Aram’s teaching, they were subjected to his abuse, his scorn, his derision. It was spelled out to them that the rest of the world would fail to understand their shortcomings, and that the corruption of society beyond our walls would lead to their ultimate destruction. He told them they would return to a life far emptier, poorer than before. If they stood strong, determined to go, he forced them to leave at night, humiliated and disgraced, when no one but Aram was there to bid them goodbye.

  As the years passed, Aram became more affectionate towards me. He would stand behind me during lessons to look over my shoulder, as if to study my work. Sometimes he would rest a hand on the back of my neck or reach forward and stroke my cheek. I couldn’t concentrate when he was behind me, not knowing if I was going to feel his hands on me, longing to know that he was pleased with me. Starved as I was of human touch, he made me feel special.

  On one such day when he must have been particularly satisfied with me, he had his hands on both my shoulders and was rubbing them gently with his thumbs. I turned my head to look up at him and I saw my mother standing in the doorway, staring, her eyes narrowed. I shivered at her expression.
/>   I realised then what I had no doubt known subconsciously for a long time: Mum was sleeping with Aram. I had been aware for years that Dad no longer shared her room, but I had no experience of what was normal in a marriage and hadn’t given it much thought. But from that day on, I watched her. She wasn’t the only one to share Aram’s bed, and I could see her struggle when she was usurped by one of the other women. I wanted to tell her that perhaps now she could understand how Dad felt, but jealousy wasn’t an acceptable emotion, so they both had to suffer in silence.

  On the day after I saw Mum watching us, Aram explained his attitude to sex to me. As he spoke, he held both my hands, his touch warm and dry, his thumbs rhythmically skimming over my skin. It made me shiver.

  ‘It’s not wise to allow yourself to be possessed by anyone, India. It’s a form of ownership, and you know how wrong that is. We all need freedom to be ourselves without being shackled to another person. You’re growing up now, and before long it will be your turn to enjoy men, or maybe women. Perhaps both. Don’t be afraid of who you are, but don’t let any of them own you. Be free. Be true to yourself. Your mother has yet to learn, but I’m doing my best to make her understand.’

  Maybe he was, but whatever he said to convince Mum, it definitely didn’t work with Dad, who looked hurt whenever his eyes rested on his wife. Back then I didn’t know whether I should feel sorry for him, or disgusted by his possessiveness. I was a true convert to Aram’s thinking.

  Such was his trust in me that when I reached seventeen he said I should learn to drive. I could be useful to him. He didn’t like new converts arriving by taxi – too many people were already asking questions about what happened in the house – so I was tasked with collecting arrivals from the station, and while the weekly supermarket shop and collecting the mail from the post office remained Dad’s responsibility, it became my job to go to the courier’s office to pick up Aram’s parcels.