He jumped back, but not before the stream of vomit hit him full on. In his hurry he caught a lamp on his bookcase, sending it crashing onto the floor. Sweet relief as I heard Auntie Maureen coming. While her footsteps drew closer, Anthony begged me not to tell her.
“Why?” I stared at him, wondering how he’d explain the vomit down the front of him, liking the power I suddenly had. Why shouldn’t I tell her what kind of a monster her son was? What was in it for me if I kept silent?
“She’ll fucking kill me. I know she will. ”
I didn’t care what she did to him. I glanced around the room, latched on to the first thing I saw that interested me. “Give me your radio.”
“Take it,” he whined, and I snatched it up.
“If you ever touch me again, I’ll tell her everything,” I spat at him just as we heard her voice outside.
I took my trophy home with me. Even though I thought of Anthony every time I looked at it, it represented a personal kind of victory over a world that seemed against me. I knew Anthony would never bother me again. And I was nearly fourteen. Old enough to be left alone. Not to have to go to Auntie Maureen’s ever again.
Life breaks you down into tiny, dirty pieces. If you’re one of the lucky ones, it builds you up again. When your safety is threatened, when you’re forced to confront fear, they say you grow stronger. But not all of us. Some of us stay broken.
But you always learn. Not to trust people. That evil comes in many forms. That every bully has an Achilles’ heel. That silence always has a price.
* * *
As Leah got older, I waited for her charm to fade, for things to get easier, but they didn’t. I had parents who were blinkered in their own small world, and I didn’t fit.
I still had that same freaking wallpaper. My father had refused to spend good money on something I’d destroy; that was how he’d put it. I’d already proved I wasn’t trustworthy. But neither was he.
I wasn’t shocked when I found out about his affair. Wrapped up with my perfect, pretty little sister, my mother pretended not to notice, but I could tell. All those excuses about staying to work late, having important out-of-the-blue meetings, coming home with booze on his breath and someone’s lipstick not quite wiped away.
It didn’t change anything. I already hated him. I had a mother who cared only about my sister, and a father who cared only about himself. I’d been born into a fragmented family, where children weren’t born equal, where everyone cared only about themselves.
Being alone was better, in my dark, shabby bedroom, which was the inverse of Leah’s pretty, light room. Lying on my bed, I’d pick at more wallpaper, unfairness eating away under my skin, into my very soul. One entire wall had been revealed, pocked with the stubborn bits of glue that refused to budge, and I’d started on another, loosening the edge of the paper with a short fingernail, freeing enough that I could grasp it between my fingers and slowly tear it.
I had perfected the art of keeping the pieces as long and thin as possible. When I finished one, it was discarded onto the floor, where it joined others, and I never noticed the untidiness. It didn’t matter. Not to my parents, not to me. They’d made it clear to me a long time ago that I wasn’t deserving of better.
There was something comforting about the air of decay in there. Maybe because it was the only corner in a bland suburban home where I felt I belonged, my frustration gouged into the windowsill in a legacy of deep scratches. On the naked wall, black Sharpie scrawls of anger. Screw you, fuckers. It didn’t actually say that in bold letters, but it may as well have.
It was the only place I could be alone. With the door closed, I could allow my mind to go wherever it pleased. Not to stupid dream worlds with handsome princes and happily ever afters. I wasn’t naive. There were other places, safer ones, that were more real, where illusions didn’t exist, where the pretense that life should be happy was dropped. Places of darkness.
Everything was clear in the dark. There were no distractions. Your senses, your intuition, were sharper, louder. There was no escape from what you thought, felt, or saw. And my mind wandered. I couldn’t stop it, any more than I could stop seeing the images that floated past me, opaque, unsettling, whispering in the darkness, playing their stories out against my peeling walls.
In there, it was my world. I was in control, was writing the script of the macabre theater scenes, manipulating the characters as I pleased. But projected onto my wall, they were no strangers. There was my father, for instance, in his golf clothes. On Sundays, he always played golf—code for picking up bored married women he wanted to shag. He’d taken me with him, but only once, because he realized I saw too much.
The scene in my room: my father stands above a golf hole, only instead of being surrounded by a pristine course, it’s a writhing black pit. The word “arrogant” hangs over his head, uneven, heavy letters suspended in the air for the world to see, because that was what he was. Arrogant and superior and overbearing, with a sense of self-worth I utterly detested. The caring father, successful businessman, loving husband stripped away, my images showed him as he was.
I enjoyed those pictures. With practice, I could make anything happen. Time and time again, I’d replay them, watching as someone emerged from the shadows beside him or behind him, raised the gun, fired. The gunshot was real. So were the birds, their song deafening, as the breeze ruffled my hair and the red mark appeared on his forehead. As he stopped talking for the last time, as his legs crumpled. His body prostrate, unmoving, lifeless.
Many times I killed my father. Sometimes the killer was another golfer, biding his time, his rifle hidden in his bag of golf clubs. Once it was a woman, her hair the same color as mine, her eyes blank as she fired. After, she dropped the gun, walked slowly away. And always birds, which would swoop down as I reached my arms out, their sound soothing me, my hair fanned across my face by the beating of their wings.
After it was over, I’d make another mark in the windowsill, gouging through the aging gloss paint, thinking of my father’s hateful face, feeling the anger build inside me because he was still alive. Needing a thousand deaths to assuage the gaping, hollow emptiness in me, because it wasn’t enough.
I needed more to make the pain, the hurt, go away. Only one thing helped. After rolling up my sleeve, I reached for the razor blade I kept hidden for such times, pressed it against my skin carefully, with just the right amount of pressure, felt the cool metal starting to cut.
* * *
When the gun became too quick, too painless a death for my father, I reached into my head for something worse. Suffocation, because he knew what was happening to him, was fully conscious as he realized he was going to die. A knife, straight through his heart, satisfying for its brutal imagery, as I eased the blade into my own pale skin, seeing instead a serrated knife, my father’s throat.
It made sense that a death should reflect a life, that someone guilty of inflicting years of suffering should themselves suffer. It was a thought that obsessed me as I made the punishment fit the crime, the justice last as long as the relief when I cut.
My mother didn’t deserve an ugly death. She wasn’t a bad person, just a weak, obsessive, small-minded one. When it came to her, I had the perfect murderer, a kind of ironic one. My mother was to die at the hand of the person she lived for. Leah. It was Leah who’d wind the narrow pink scarf around her neck, then pull, until our mother’s eyes bulged, and she was too weak to fight as her oxygen supply was cut off.
I could watch over and over, unemotionally, dispassionately, the same oddly quiet scene every time. The snow starting to fall, my mother collapsing to her knees. Her acquiescence as Leah slowly choked the life out of her, because Leah could do no wrong. The snow turning to glitter, so that in death, my mother’s body was far more beautiful than it had been in life.
Killed so prettily, with a pink scarf, snow, and glitter. For my mother, that was enough.
Of course, it was logical that after she’d killed my mother, Le
ah had to die, too. If you asked me why, I couldn’t explain. And when it came to her, I didn’t have to do a thing.
We went to a nearby lake, a place my mother had taken me to just once. Leah was standing on the bank, gazing at the giant lily pads that grew there, the buds unfurling in a wave of soft pink across the water.
As I watched, she stepped out onto it, a tiny figure surrounded by flowers, and jumped onto a giant leaf, then the next. I could have called to stop her any time. Instead, I stood and watched.
As she reached the third leaf, she turned back to look at me and started to sink—so slowly you couldn’t be sure it was happening; and silently, even when the water was at waist height—all the while her eyes staring into mine.
I sat on the bank, tearing the petals off a daisy, until the flowers closed over her head. Then I got up and walked away.
I didn’t want to think these things, and they weren’t real, but I couldn’t stop myself. It was my life that had made them happen. I’d become a reflection of the light and shadow, love and hate, inside my family and out.
* * *
As more time passed, I couldn’t stop thinking what it would be like without them. We had genes in common, but that was all. By now I rarely spoke to them. Why would you talk to someone who only ever told you off or put you down? Who took obvious pleasure in pointing out how you were a failure. Who, with every word, reminded you how worthless you were. Words, which could so easily have comforted or cared, were instead chosen to destroy you.
While I was a nothing, Xander Pascoe was all things to all people. In some ways he reminded me of Anthony. It was his arrogance, the sense of the world owing him a favor. The leer that brought bile rushing to my throat. Yet underneath was steely control. He was only a little older than me, but people did what he said. It was why, on one of my darkest, most desperate days, when he said, “Tell me,” I did.
He was the one person who listened. I told him how my parents didn’t trust me. How I wasn’t reliable. Look at the state of my room, they pointed out. I couldn’t look after myself, let alone my sister.
“No faith, no belief, no trust, because you’re unworthy, Casey. Can’t do anything right. No matter how hard you try, you’re not good enough. Lucky for us, we have Jen.”
Jen, with her sparkling eyes, her naive, trusting face. Jen, who was the same age as I was, who was from a world a million miles away from the one I lived in, where dreams came true and no one was ever nasty. The light to my shadow.
At school, she haunted me, flitting in and out of my classes with her shiny hair and her A grades, always there, everywhere I went. Do you know how that felt, Jen? To be the shadow? To have the name teachers didn’t remember, to be the girl no one wanted to be friends with? You were the lead in the school play, captain of the sports teams, constantly adding to the list of your achievements. But you didn’t know, did you, that no one has it all; that ultimately, at some point, unfairness is redressed, light fades; that there is always balance?
For me, there was no escaping you. No shielding myself from your brightness. Not at school, when friends flocked around you. You were in my home, too. I remember how it felt to watch as they paid you to replace me—trustworthy, reliable Jen, so much better at everything than I was.
They were pretty, Jen and Leah. I used to watch them from upstairs, talking and laughing, but it wasn’t until the second time she came that I realized what had happened, how cheap I was. For the price of a few pounds on a Saturday morning, I was so quickly replaced.
I let familiar hurt stab me inside, fought the desire to cut myself, lost the battle, grateful when numbness set in as I watched Leah and Jen, the pretty new sister my parents had bought her, spinning round in the yard, the sound of their laughter filling my ears, as another way came to me for how Leah could die. It wasn’t my fault, was it, that I had to watch her with Jen? Or that terrible pictures filled my head, one after another, when all I wanted was for them to go away?
They were so perfect, Leah and Jen, so liked, so likable. Jen, who actually was just another freaking teenager. The same as I was, but not the same. She lacked the cloud of reality that hung over me. “So lovely, so reliable, so loved by Leah”—words that crawled up the stairs and under my bedroom door every Saturday without fail. Only, upon reaching me, the letters had been rearranged, so that all I heard was how unreliable I was. How ugly, how hateful.
Cutting no longer helped. I had a disconnected feeling I couldn’t shake, a life that felt like someone else’s. When I caught my reflection in the mirror, it was someone else who looked back at me. Someone I didn’t know, with white skin and glittering eyes, from whom a power radiated out. I’d no idea what was happening to me.
A few times, the next step presented itself, dangled in front of me, daring me to be brave.
Take the step, Casey. . . . How close you are. How little it would take to cut harder, deeper, until you hit an artery. Orchestrate your own death....
Staring at my reflection, I watched the thought reflected in those glittering eyes, wondering how it would feel, whether the draining of blood from my body would bring the relief I craved, how long it would take for my life to ebb away. For me to die.
I floated the thought around in my head. And then something happened that changed the game completely. As I stood there, contemplating my end, staring at the face in the mirror, it smiled back at me, then turned away.
19
CHARLOTTE
October 10 . . .
I stay away from the hospital for a couple of days, until Abbie Rose calls me.
“Evie’s going home. I’d hoped her mother would be able to stay, but she’s had to fly back. She lives in Italy. I wanted to ask you if you’d be able to spend some time with her. I understand if you’re too busy, but it’s a big step and, understandably, she’s anxious.”
But also, there isn’t anyone else. She doesn’t have to say it. I’m all too aware. Jesus, as if I’m an unpaid police volunteer or something. “Of course, Detective Constable.” But I’m not doing it for her. “When’s she going?”
“The plan is tomorrow afternoon. We’re arranging a police guard round the clock, and I’ll be with her a lot of the time. It’s just . . .” She makes no mention of the body I found in the field. I wonder, Does she even know?
“You want someone there she trusts.”
Abbie Rose hesitates, but she doesn’t take the bait. “I suppose you could put it like that.” She pauses again. “I was thinking more along the lines of her needing a friend.”
* * *
The next morning, I oversleep. I’m hungover after too much wine, trying to blot out the memory of the girl’s body. It crosses my mind to cancel, but I’ve nothing else scheduled, and I’m curious, wondering what it will be like for Jen to be home. Since the attack, her life has consisted of that hospital bed in that bare white room, with vile food, fussing nurses, and Abbie Rose probing into her life.
I leave it till mid-afternoon. Knowing hospitals, I can’t imagine her being discharged any earlier than that. Then, as I drive over to Helen Osterman’s cottage, I’m reminded of the times we camped there. In truth, being outside Jen’s immediate circle, I wasn’t often invited. About twice, I think, during a year when we had a mutual friend. Sophie. Her name comes to me. I haven’t given Sophie a thought in over a decade.
I overshoot the rough road to Jen’s house the first time. When I slam on the brakes to reverse into a gateway, someone almost rear-ends me. Resisting the temptation to shout four-letter words as they honk, then accelerate past, I breathe deeply. Saving my energy. The world is full of arseholes.
The rough road that leads to the house is full of potholes. I drive slowly, picking my way around them, until parked up ahead, I see a BMW, which I guess must belong to Abbie Rose. I like her choice in cars. I pull up behind it, then get out and stand there for a moment, looking around, trying to remember where our teenage campsite used to be.
Then I shiver, as suddenly the past is bac
k. Ghosts of us all, the friendships, the closed circles, the cruel exclusions caused by teenage politics. I used to be in the background of it all, until I made a friend who felt the same way I did. After that, there was no stopping me.
This place isn’t as it used to be. Not just because the trees need cutting back. They’ve grown too tall, so that they overhang the rough road, blocking out the light and leaving the house in shade. The hedge, too, is unkempt and wild looking, heavy with overripe blackberries, the narrow gate in it hung unevenly.
As I walk up the path, I notice the air of neglect. The paint on the window frames is peeling, and there are tiles missing on the roof. Even so, it’s an interesting house. Mostly old—seventeenth century, I’d guess—and not big, even with the usual tacked-on additions that have come much later, but it isn’t friendly. In fact, the energy I pick up is anything but.
The front door is open, and I knock, then, without waiting for an answer, go in, curious to see inside. The interior looks as though it’s stuck in a time warp, with a tiny sixties fireplace that needs ripping out and a threadbare patterned carpet, under which I wouldn’t mind guessing are huge, uneven slabs of Cornish slate. The walls are wonderfully uneven, and the furniture is decades old. The odd piece is tasteful, though most of it’s not. And the curtains . . . I’m still trying to find the words to describe them when I hear footsteps.
“Hello . . . ,” I call out. “It’s Charlotte. Harrison.”
Further inside, a door opens, and Abbie Rose stands there. “Hi, Charlotte.”
“I’m so sorry. I should have been here an hour ago. I had something urgent to attend to,” I say, apologizing, thinking of my hangover, which has mercifully dissipated after a couple of ibuprofen and several cups of strong coffee drunk in the bracing air before I left.
Part of the Silence Page 10