Shock. Devastation . . . I remember those feelings and how my body felt paralyzed with them. I remember kneeling on Annabel’s floor, my hands shaking, nausea churning in my stomach. I reached for Panda and I cried into his tummy, sobbing until my throat hurt, my chest burning with the effort of making no noise so that I wouldn’t be heard. I remember trying to talk to Annabel in her room, trying to coax her to open up, feeling desperate, despairing and frustrated when she wouldn’t.
And guilt surged through me. I hadn’t known. I hadn’t protected her. I’d failed her. But whoever was doing this to her, I would find out. I would do everything I could to make them pay. But only once we were at a safe distance: I had to stick to the plan. I had to get the children away, and then everything would be all right . . . I believed that. I just had to hold everything together until after the party; I just had to act normal, as if nothing unusual was happening, as if everything was completely fine . . .
I spent the evening in a daze, piling up the twins’ birthday presents in the living room after they’d gone to bed, attaching “Happy 10th Birthday” balloons to the pile with ribbons: purple for Annabel, red for Aidan. When Dom came home later, he was drunk and I pretended to be asleep. I remember him stumbling around the room, slamming through cupboards, bumping into walls. I remember the hot, rough hand sliding over my hip; I remember it sliding round to my breasts, squeezing them until I thought I would cry out in pain and betray the fact that I wasn’t asleep. His hand shoving me over on to my stomach; his body slumping heavily on top of me: I remember pain—my head yanked back by my hair, a burning sensation between my legs as he spread my thighs apart and jerked violently inside me—once, twice, three times—grunting as he rolled off me.
I remember lying awake in bed all night, just waiting for the light of dawn and the start of the last day I would ever have to put up with this misery. Then, in the half-light, as night surrendered to morning, I remember the row, Dom’s anger before he stormed out . . . and everything fast-forwards from that point: decorating the cake, chatting with the twins, a smile on my face but my mind frantically rehearsing everything I had to do after the party: suitcase, photo, tickets . . . everything that was precious to me. Grab the twins and go!
I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, and Max’s dark, dank bedroom slides away and I’m right back there, in my own home, on the morning of the twins’ tenth birthday . . .
FORTY-ONE
“I can’t believe you actually made that cake all by yourself.” Aidan looked up from his DS to watch me pressing candles into the soft icing, my tongue sticking out of the side of my mouth in concentration.
“No offense taken, love,” I joked. “But Lucy did give me a hand—it’s one of her recipes.”
“Ooh. I might have a bit, then.” Annabel, reclining on the sofa like an off-duty princess, flicking through a magazine, poked her head up over the arm. “Is she coming swimming too? Or are all the grown-ups going to sit in the café and gossip?”
“Cheeky monkey!” I said, opening a second packet of candles.
“You’ll come in the pool with us, Mum, won’t you?”
I blessed Aidan for not yet being embarrassed at having his mum hanging around. How many more birthdays until the twins just wanted to do their own thing?
“Course I will, love. Wouldn’t miss the chance to dunk you both, now, would I? Mums have to get their revenge somehow for all the trouble you kids cause!”
“You love us really, though,” Annabel said confidently. “What would you do if you didn’t have us to boss around?”
“What indeed?” I exchanged another glance with Aidan: a smiling conspiracy, both of us happily indulging his sister’s conviction that she was the center of our universe. After all, it was true. Star.
“And, yes, I love you both loads. You’re the best things that ever happened to me.”
“Oh, Mum! Don’t be soft,” Annabel said, rolling her eyes.
The doorbell buzzed and our laughter died. The twins exchanged glances and I saw in their deliberately bland expressions that they had indeed both heard the row this morning. Damn. I saw questions flicker across their pale, softly freckled faces, so similar in features yet so different in expression: Annabel’s defiant, chin raised, reluctant to show any anxiety; Aidan’s troubled, almost identical blue eyes wide with concern.
Was it Daddy come back to apologize for storming out? Would he be in one of his good moods? Or would he have been to the clubhouse after his round of golf, as he’s taken to doing, lately—would he stumble round the house, impatient with every stray toy and un-ironed shirt?
I felt sad for a moment that he’d missed out on our lovely morning. He’d been a good dad, I acknowledged with a sigh; we’d been a happy family for the best part of ten years. But today, for the first—and last—time ever, he’d missed the twins’ favorite lemony, sugary pancake breakfast; he’d missed the delicious crackle of wrapping paper as I rearranged the pile of presents in one corner of the living room ready to open later.
“I’ll get it, Mum. You carry on, you’re doing a great job,” Aidan said seriously as he laid his DS carefully on the coffee table and headed into the hall.
“Hang on a minute, love. You know I don’t like you answering the door to strangers.” Sudden breathless fear—not premonition; I didn’t believe in that. Just my mum-radar, as Lucy always called it. Or perhaps simply a legacy of my overprotective neurosis when the children were babies.
“Who says it’s a stranger?” Annabel tossed down her magazine and leaped to her feet. “It might be Uncle Max. He said he had an extra-special surprise for us.”
“Huh.” I rolled my eyes, hoping it wasn’t yet another unsuitable DVD. I needed to tell Max to stop turning up with knock-offs he’d got from his mates on the estate. Perhaps I also needed to have a tactful conversation with him about not coming round here quite so often.
I looked at my watch. It couldn’t be Max, though. He wasn’t due for another half an hour. He wouldn’t have had a chance yet to pick up the extra rackets to play tennis in the garden later.
“Just give me one more sec,” I said, thinking it was most likely Dom trying to niggle me by making me open the door for him—forcing me to dance attendance on him after our row earlier. Well, he could wait. And he could damned well say sorry for being so nasty this morning. Plucking the last candles out of the packet, I carefully pressed them into the soft blue icing, sat back and licked my fingers as the last one slid into the cake. Perfect. “I’ll be right there!” I called out, feeling anxious now, worrying I’d push my luck if I kept Dom waiting any longer.
I hurried after the twins into the hall, frowning as I saw the bulky silhouette in the frosted-glass-paneled front door. It didn’t look like Dom. His clothes were always so stylish, his shape broad but not hulking.
Annabel seemed to read my mind. “It’s the postman, bet you—look at that giant shadow through the glass. He must have the most humongous stack of presents!”
“Hope one of them is a new Xbox,” said Aidan, hovering at Annabel’s shoulder as she reached for the front-door latch.
I smiled secretly to myself thinking of the PlayStation in his pile of presents. I’d found it in an end-of-season sale and knew he’d be so excited, as I hoped Annabel would be about the tickets I’d bought her for her first ballet at the Royal Opera House. I’d already asked Lucy to bring whatever gifts I couldn’t carry down to Brighton with her when she visited, and I’d hidden a couple of little surprise gifts in our suitcase, too, for the twins to open later—after Dom had headed off to Manchester and we were safely in Lucy’s cottage.
“You know your dad’s not keen on video games,” I said, trying to measure his disappointment. Dom was so rarely home to play with the kids, and any time he was here he spent glued to his phone and laptop.
“That’s because he always wants to win and hates getting shot,” Aidan excused his dad, and I heard the edge in his voice even as he rolled his eyes and laughed. I joined in with h
is laughter. Another conspiracy of smiles. Neither of us wanted to admit we were anxious about Daddy coming home.
For a second, the sunshine completely blinded me as Annabel swung the front door open wide and the bright morning light flooded our hallway with summer warmth. It was the perfect day for a birthday; the perfect day for heading off to the pool with a bunch of good friends, hanging out in the back garden later, chatting and eating cake, feeling glad that the last terrible nine months were behind us. Forever. Soon we would be gone. By the time Dom got back from Manchester, we’d be safely in our new home. He wouldn’t be able to find us, and any future meetings would have to be arranged through solicitors, and supervised . . .
I was still picturing Lucy’s seaside cottage as my eyes finally managed to focus through the glare, and for a second I couldn’t take in what I was seeing: rough, old-fashioned army fatigues . . . a balaclava. A gloved hand reaching out for the twins.
“MUMMY!”
My legs almost gave way and my heart seemed to stop as Annabel was dragged from the doorway, round the side of the house. I stumbled after her, my flip-flops catching on the front doorstep, my scream stuck deep in my throat as I watched Annabel’s fingers graze along the pebble-dashed wall, bloodying as she frantically grabbed on to anything that might help her escape the tall, bulky figure, his heavy boots carving a scar across my neat lawn as he yanked my daughter towards the seclusion of the rose bushes. Aidan stumbled after her, his eyes dry with fear and his slender arms reaching out for his sister. His clenched fists were no defense against the powerful gloved hand that grabbed him tightly by his shirt collar, effortlessly lifting him off the ground so that his arms flailed and his legs kicked uselessly.
I needed a weapon—I needed something heavy to strike out with—one of the twins’ swimming trophies, or one of Dom’s golfing ones that he always polished so meticulously. I looked around me for a spade, a gardening fork—anything. But there was nothing; I had no means of protecting them, and Annabel’s screams reverberated in my chest like the tremors of an earthquake as I tried to run, my legs turning to lead, clawing my body through the thick, sweet summer air towards my children.
Don’t you dare lay a finger on my daughter!
The gun pointed to each of us in turn and a maelstrom of fear set my head spinning. I clawed my way through the air to get to my children, terror clouding my eyes, the world closing in on me until I was trapped in tunnel vision: the twins seemed to kaleidoscope away from me, achingly vulnerable little people in their cool new birthday outfits, dwarfed by the murderous power of violence.
“Run! Hide! Don’t look back! ” I launched myself in front of them, throwing my arms wide as I forced the words from my terror-constricted throat.
“Choose one, bitch.”
“Choose me!”
He didn’t hesitate; he fired.
My ears were deafened by the bang. I felt Annabel make a grab for my hand at the last second before she reached for Aidan and pulled him after her, across the grass towards the French windows at the back of the house. My mind filled with an apology I couldn’t speak: I’m so sorry to leave you, my loves. I felt myself slump towards the rose bushes, my hands reaching out to clasp great handfuls of petals, thorns shredding my skin. They reminded me of Annabel’s diary and how I would never get to make things all right now.
My head rested in the soft mulchy grass, and for a split second I saw feet. Sneakers. A box of rackets and tennis balls ready for party games. Long legs in tracksuit bottoms; a backpack by his side.
Max.
My fingers squeezed the silky softness of the white roses.
And then there was darkness.
FORTY-TWO
Max arrived after I was shot.
Realization burns across my skin like a fever, leaving a scalding trail of fear that sets my body trembling. Then in the next second, a wave of relief that washes away pain.
I said, “Choose me.”
I fought for both my children. I tried my hardest to protect them. Equally.
“I thought mothers weren’t supposed to have favorites. That’s what you’ve always told me.” His angry accusation is laced with pained bitterness.
“And I meant it. I don’t!” I protest, feeling strength return to my body as I finally remember the events of that morning. After all the conversations I had with the doctor about sounds and smells prompting memories, it took only two words to trigger mine: Choose one. They crystalize the essence of what it means to me to be a mother: I didn’t choose.
But suddenly I realize why Dom needs to believe I did.
Because if I am capable of choosing one child over another, it means all parents are—it means that just because Max was the idolized big brother, Dom was still valued. He wasn’t unlovable, a failure; parental bias is normal. For a fleeting moment I feel sad as the realization sinks in that Dom has projected on to me every last atom of the resentment and childhood insecurity that has never left him. My supposed fatal flaw—my favoritism of Aidan over Annabel—holds the key to Dom’s redemption. In order to believe in himself again, he needs me to affirm that I did make that choice.
I remember his dogged fierceness as he talked about his family when we first met: It’s not about pride. It’s about vindication. He’s finally got one over on his big brother, and he’s punished me to justify his actions. He picked a hell of a way to make his point . . . But I refuse to make him feel better, to give him the vindication he’s been craving since his parents died without acknowledging that Dom was the strong one, the successful son.
The smell of smoke is strong, drawing me out of my thoughts. I look up and see the bright red tip of a cigarette arcing through the darkness. There is a tall, dark shadow against the wall. It moves, shifting like a ghost through the gloom, edging closer to the side of the bed; a slim beam of light slithers through the gap around the boarded-up window, outlining the bulky shape in an eerie glow. The silhouette twists and glides next to me, bending over me until the sliver of light casts twin glints in his blue eyes.
“Are you quite sure about that? You seemed pretty convinced to me that Annabel was dead,” he mocks me, and I have to strain my ears to catch his words.
If I couldn’t see and smell the smoke curling up from his cigarette, I could half imagine it was the voice of my conscience metamorphosed into a malignant spirit, haunting me with what will always remain my darkest secret: the fact that I did believe, even for a heartbeat, that I might have given up my daughter. It shames me, even as I know the truth: the guilt is entirely his. But I have to hold on to that; I can’t let him mess with my head any more. It’s over; or it soon will be.
“Was I supposed to die?” I say softly, feeling a flutter inside me at the thought that it was Annabel’s hand reaching out to grab me at the last moment that meant the bullet only grazed instead of obliterating my brain.
“I’m glad you didn’t,” he says, “because you’re going to suffer so much more living without your children. Death would have been merciful,” he tells me. “But I’m not an unreasonable man. I can do mercy. If you ask me nicely enough, I might yet grant you that release. Call it a sort of final tribute to our marriage. A belated tenth-anniversary gift.” He gives me a wry look. “Funny, hey? I always said I would never let you go, but suddenly I find that I can. Oh, so easily.”
“Stop playing games with me, Dom,” I say quietly, determined not to let him intimidate me any more with sick threats. “You’ve made your point and you’ve dragged me through hell and back. It has to end here. You won’t get away with this,” I add hoarsely, trying to ignore the shiver running up my spine.
“Oh, but I already have. Max has conveniently taken the rap for me, which is only fair, after all. I’ve got feelings for a special lady in your life, he said. And I’m sure she returns them. He sat opposite me in that pub and had the nerve to say he was worried how I’d feel about it—how hard he’d tried to stop feeling that way, how he’d tried to stay away but couldn’t resist those blu
e eyes, that pretty hair, her soft skin . . . He looked me in the eye and said he was addicted to his sugar.”
“But did he actually say he was in love with me? That we were—”
“You think I’d give him the satisfaction of taunting me with details? The smug look on his face said it all. He was stealing my wife, and he wanted me to know it—to know that I’d lost you, and that the kids were never mine in the first place. He wanted to take everything from me. So I’ve given it to him: all the blame, and half the punishment. The other half is yours, sweetheart. You just couldn’t go a day without seeing him, could you? Not even on your children’s birthday.”
“Max was lying. Or you’ve jumped to the wrong conclusion. You should have talked to me about it. But you didn’t—you never have. You always just assume the worst about me. You didn’t play golf that morning, did you?” I say, my mind replaying the dreadful sequence of events.
“Course I didn’t. You’d already told me Max was arriving at ten. All I had to do was change in the shed, and wait. I’d already stashed my dad’s old kit bag in there, ready to clean the gun. Just as Max asked me to.” He smirks.
“Your dad’s old army clothes. Sitting there in your terrifying disguise. Holding his gun. Waiting for the right moment to—” My voice rises hysterically as I picture it all.
“Max was early. It all happened a lot faster than I intended. I was rushing, or I wouldn’t have missed my aim.” His smirk turns into a frown.
“I saw his feet. Under the rose bushes.” I don’t need Dom to confirm it. My mind hasn’t stopped picturing those rose bushes for weeks, and I knew there had to be a reason they’d lodged so deeply in my imagination. “You shot me, then killed your own brother.”
“He fought hard, I’ll give him that. You should have seen the look on his face. He started this fight, but I had the last word. And he deserved to die. He fucked my wife and then he taunted me about it. Not as clever as he thought, Max. He really believed that telling me about his sordid infatuation would put me in my place. He underestimated me,” he grits out.
The Perfect Family Page 23