Do No Harm

by L. V. Hay

  ‘We’re back!’ Triss announced her presence in a sing-song voice as the front door slammed behind her.

  Lily raised an eyebrow: See?

  But Sebastian still wasn’t sold. As Triss moved into the room ahead of Denny, Sebastian pounced. He grabbed her by both arms and slammed her against the wall like he was sure she had done to him the night before, taking advantage of surprise himself, this time. The back of her head hit the wall hard.

  ‘You did it, didn’t you?’ he screamed. ‘You killed Maxwell and tried to frame me! And the fire – you were there. It was you who put petrol through the letterbox, wasn’t it?’

  Stunned, Triss stared at Sebastian as he hollered in her face and shook her; behind him, Lily shrieked in both horror and rage. Denny burst into tears.

  ‘Get. Off. Her!’ Lily raced forwards and hooked her hands onto his shoulders, attempting to peel him off. Sebastian shook her off with ease as he choked Triss, who clawed at his hands with stubby fingernails.

  An explosion of pain ricocheted off his shoulder. It made him let go of Triss and fall to one knee. Dazed now, he looked up at Lily. She was holding a tall floor lamp like a staff, her chest heaving with the exertion of hitting him with it.

  Lily shook her head, tears pouring down her cheeks. ‘And you ask why I think you did it?’

  She threw the lamp down, holding out an arm for Denny who ran straight for her. He hid his face from the scene. Triss took a deep breath and sat down on the sofa, putting her head between her knees.

  Shame flooded through Sebastian. He stood up and moved across the room towards his Lily, but she jerked away. He raised both hands, as if to try and grab at the imaginary silken thread that once bound them together. But it was gone. Lily only glared at him with hatred and distrust.

  In that moment, Sebastian finally grasped that it was fruitless; the damage had been done. There could be no way back for them, even if he somehow managed to extricate himself from this mess.

  ‘What’s happened to us?’ he whispered.

  Sebastian reached out again towards her, wanting to caress her shoulder, her hair. One last time. But she raised her arm, a barrier against his touch. She brought Triss and Denny into her arms. Triss was shaking, burying her head in Lily’s neck.

  ‘You did,’ she spat. ‘You couldn’t just trust in us, could you? If you’d just kept away from Maxwell, not let him mess with us … But you had to be the big man, didn’t you?’

  The words fell on Sebastian’s ears. As he stared at Lily and Triss – Lily’s dark skin pressed against Triss’s pale face – he realised that Triss wasn’t capable of hurting the woman who had been her sister, her protector … the love of her life. And it was as if a light turned on then. It was if Sebastian could see time through a tunnel: the past, present and future were no longer fragmented, but all lined up in a linear fashion. The whole situation, from the very beginning, was illuminated for him.

  And it didn’t just start with Maxwell. The seeds of this day had been sown much further back.

  Of course.

  Sebastian turned on his heel and ran out of the flat.

  He could still fix this.

  Fifty-three

  Time compressed once again. Suddenly Sebastian was back at his mother’s house. He screeched to a halt outside. He delved into the backseat of the car, grateful that he’d forgotten to hand Lily’s bag back to her at Triss’s. It meant he still had her phone.

  He scrolled through the unfamiliar handset, looking for its record function. As he did so, it rang in his hand. He didn’t recognise the number, but it was an Epsom landline, so he answered.

  ‘Mr Adair.’ It was the curt, unflappable tones of Detective Su. ‘I hear you’ve left the hospital…’

  Paranoia struck him, now. How had Su known he had Lily’s phone, if she wasn’t with Lily right now? But then he took a deep breath. He had to get a hold of himself. Su was a detective, after all. She could have been trying all their numbers for hours, for all he knew.

  ‘I’m not on the run, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Your words, Sebastian,’ Detective Su sighed. ‘How about you come to the station, explain yourself?’

  Sebastian gritted his teeth. ‘I’ll do that. I just have to sort something first.’

  He rang off before she answered. Then he swiped through and found the voice memo app, pressed the red record button, and slipped the phone inside his jeans pocket.

  Getting out of the car he let himself into his mother’s house. Outside, dark had fallen. Was it really just twenty-four hours since he’d been here last? Since he’d discovered his mother in on the scam, he’d been beaten literally as well as figuratively by Maxwell; almost seen his wife and stepson killed in a fire; then felt the burn of Lily’s suspicion – and even his own – over Maxwell’s murder. Then he’d been accused of arson and the attempted murder of Lily and Denny. It felt like years, not just a single day. Yet at his mother’s home, everything looked the same.

  ‘Mum!’ Sebastian strode through the tiled hall, into the living room.

  The television was on, as usual. The patio windows were closed. He faltered as he took in the empty sofa. He ducked back out, calling as he went. She was not in the kitchen, either.

  ‘Mum?’

  He heard footsteps on the stairs behind him. He wheeled around as Fran appeared at the top. She peered down at him through the bannisters, her face a picture of maternal concern. She wore make-up now, her hair done, the headscarf abandoned. He noted she had a small bald patch at the back. That would be where she had pulled hair out, to present to him, evidence of her hair loss due to her imaginary chemo.

  ‘Darling, are you all right?’ She began her descent, one step at a time, still hiding behind the persona of the weak old woman, instead of the Lady Macbeth she really was.

  ‘You look awful. Let me fix you some cocoa.’ She appeared next to Sebastian in the hall, one hand still on the bannister.

  ‘Mum, I know.’

  His mother looked askance at him but did not reply. Sebastian followed her into the kitchen. He felt a nervous tremor ripple through him. Every inch of his body felt stressed: across his shoulders, down his spine and legs and into his feet. In his pocket, the phone was recording.

  ‘Know what, darling?’ She gave him an absent smile.

  ‘It was you, all along. You didn’t help Maxwell … Maxwell was the one helping you!’

  The first time I saw him, I was at the Cromwell for an appointment. Such is the old boys’ network, your dead father’s reputation meant I got first-class service, even thirty years later. That was why I got lead consultant Maxwell Stevens making an appearance when I’d only gone to have a nasty cut seen to that I’d sustained gardening.

  At least, that’s what he’d said; he must have thought I was born yesterday. He was an oncologist. Why would he see me? He had worked out I was related to you, of course. You and Lily had announced your whirlwind engagement just a few weeks earlier, the date already set for May the twenty-eighth, just a month away. I’d been knocked sideways by the news, so Maxwell must have been too. Dealing with my cut, he was very charming, but I realised straight away he was fishing for information about you both.

  That’s when I knew he would be perfect for my plan to split you up. To end the ridiculous charade of your marriage.

  ‘How about we continue this conversation over a drink, Frances?’ Maxwell flashed me his pearly white teeth.

  ‘Fran, please.’ I gave him my best girlish giggle; a man like Maxwell would require it. ‘But I’m a patient … Isn’t that against the Hippocratic oath?’

  Maxwell smiled. ‘Well, I won’t do you any harm.’

  Bless him, he thought he was the cat, not the mouse.

  We met in a delightful little country pub outside Epsom. Like me, Maxwell was keen on ensuring we were not seen together. He was fashionably late, as I expected, wandering into the dark bar dressed in an expensive shirt and aviators. He looked like a catwalk model: high cheek
bones, Roman nose, strong chin.

  ‘Here you go,’ Maxwell slid his body across the booth as he handed me my drink. It was clear from the way he was touching me he found me attractive – or perhaps he was the type of man willing to do whatever it took to get what he wanted. It made no difference to me. I felt an unfamiliar stirring in my abdomen looking at him: If I were twenty-five years younger … Well, if I could have a little fun too, why not?

  After some small talk, we got down to business. I outlined my plan. He put up some predictable, minor resistance, especially when it came to the boy, Dennis.

  ‘Nothing that hurts him in any way.’ Maxwell placed his fist on the table-top to show he meant business.

  I was unruffled. ‘That goes without saying. Besides, what I have in mind means you’ll be spending more time with Denny, not less.’

  Maxwell leaned forwards.

  I told him how I had already obtained and copied a key to your place and would be coming and going as I pleased for the next few weeks. I mentioned my existing plans for trashing the flat and causing various nuisances, in the hope the stress would set you at each other’s throats. Then, with a flash of inspiration, I proposed we make it seem like Maxwell was Lily’s stalker, to drive a wedge between you and her and put pressure on your new marriage.

  Maxwell was predictably nonplussed. ‘If I am a stalker, why would she want to come back to me?’

  I was prepared. ‘I’ve read about this. Many people go back to their stalkers, especially when they think they have no other option or escape. If you can’t beat them, join them, and all that. But even if she won’t come back to you, she will no longer be with Sebastian. You won’t have to compete with another man for Denny’s attention.’

  Maxwell appeared to mull this over. Finally, he nodded, satisfied. ‘So, what do you get out of this?’

  I smiled. ‘My own son back, of course.’

  Maxwell grinned. I didn’t tell him how this would really end for him – he might have been less enthusiastic, then. Nor did I say what getting you back meant for me.

  As we continued our chat, we settled on the idea of Maxwell and Lily needing to bond over some vital parenting matter. I proposed that matter could be Denny wetting the bed over the supposed stress of his mother’s remarriage. Maxwell was wary of this notion at first, but soon softened when I pointed out any anger Denny had would also be misconstrued as stress. Plus, it would be easy for me to pour small vials of urine on the boy’s bed on my visits to your maisonette. Freshening up in the bathroom upstairs would give me the opportunity.

  After that, Maxwell appeared to warm to the plan. He especially liked the idea of provoking you into hitting him and putting your job as a head teacher in jeopardy. It was also Maxwell who suggested cutting the electricity off. We needed a bill for the reference number, of course, so I promised to take a picture of one when I visited you. He also came up with the idea of sleeping with that common little harlot who clings so much to Lily. The betrayal would surely remind Lily who she really wanted to be with, he said. I was happy for him to work on this himself. I even gave him some direction about timings. He had so much promise did Maxwell.

  He also threw in the idea he could fetch Denny unexpectedly from after-school club. Apparently, he and the club leader, Kelly, had a ‘thing’ once and she still had a soft spot for him, so would hand the boy over without incident.

  Of course, the cancer diagnosis was my idea. It had been playing in the back of my mind from that first time I’d met Maxwell. With his role at the Cromwell, and my own powers of dissimulation, we were able to convince you – and everyone – that I truly was sick. Yes, it was hard work. I’m not a big eater, as you know, but even I struggled at times with starving myself for so many months to assume the required frailty.

  But when have I ever shied away from hard work when I have a goal in mind? And Maxwell was more than happy to help me – with the fake drugs and scans and so on. He didn’t need much persuading … although I was happy to do some of that, of course…

  Yes, it is sad Maxwell had to die. He was so creative. But no matter. He was disposable. I used him for what I wanted, then got rid of him – just like I did with Father.

  So now here you are, in my kitchen. Expecting me to spill my guts? You probably have a phone on record in your pocket, in a vain attempt to save yourself. Silly boy. It won’t be as easy as that.

  I’ve made sure of it.

  Fifty-four

  Sebastian was not sure what he’d expected. A confession would have been ideal, or perhaps a nod of assent. Anything.

  But his mother did not react. Instead, Fran reached into a cupboard and pulled out a milk pan. She removed a pint of milk from the fridge and poured a mug’s worth into the pan. She added two spoons of hot chocolate powder, plus a sprinkle of cinnamon. She turned the gas ring on and started to stir the milk with a small whisk, concentrating on her task as if Sebastian hadn’t even spoken.

  ‘I wondered how long it would take you to come in here, shouting the odds,’ she said quietly, looking into the pan, a calm, peaceful look on her face.

  ‘Maxwell never touched you, did he?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about never.’ Fran closed her eyes, a beatific smile on her face. ‘In fact, he was rather good. When I let him be.’

  Sebastian felt nausea roil in his stomach. ‘You won’t get away with this.’

  ‘With what?’ Fran’s sharp, beady gaze turned upon him now. ‘I didn’t make any false allegations about Maxwell to the police. As for trying to get between you and Lily? Well, you’ll find that isn’t a crime.’

  Sebastian licked his dry lips. His whole mouth felt moisture-less. It was a surreal conversation. ‘Murder is, though.’

  Fran looked at Sebastian like he’d gone mad. ‘You’ve lost me, darling.’

  ‘You killed Maxwell, didn’t you?’

  Maxwell despatched, dying inside his locked porch, I cleaned myself up in the car. Hidden by the tall leylandii surrounding the property, I reflected on how this was not even my first murder. Father’s death had been ruled an accident all those years ago when you were a baby. And, yes, he had been killed in a hit-and-run.

  However, I was the one behind the wheel.

  Nearly thirty years on and I’ve never forgotten the delicious thump of Father’s body against the bonnet, nor the surprised ‘o’ of his mouth as he saw me, just a microsecond before I drove the vehicle into him. You slept through the whole thing.

  I’d never planned on being married to Father for long, but I’d had to speed up the process of getting rid of him. One night, as I did my customary snoop through his office, I discovered he was planning on leaving me and taking you with him. He’d some tart on the go who was apparently going to fill in on Mummy duties. That wasn’t ever going to happen. You were mine and so was the money Father had brought into the marriage with him. I’d worked hard to gain his interest and had allowed him access to every part of me … in return for everything I now possessed. I was not going to bow out gracefully and let him leave me penniless and alone.

  Having to hurry meant I worried my plan would not come off. I hadn’t needed to worry; it appeared I had a natural talent for covering all the bases. I’d bought a little car miles away; paying in cash. I’d even taken a train to go and fetch it, so as not to arouse suspicion. I’d had to take you with me, so I’d bought one of those new baby carry-cots, not that you minded. You were a lovely, placid little thing … back then, anyway. What a shame that children grow up.

  Afterwards, I paid a man, some lowly criminal I found in a backstreet pub, a few weeks earlier. He’d been surprised to see a young woman with a baby in a sling in such a place late at night, but when I told him how much I was willing to pay, he took on the job, no questions asked, even when he saw the impression of your father’s body on the bonnet that night. What he did with the car I still have no idea, but it never resurfaced.

  Next, I played the grieving widow to perfection. I never even came under suspic
ion. The hit–and-run was written off as a terrible tragedy and has stayed that way for the last twenty-nine years.

  I told you Father’s car had broken down that night, which is why he was by the payphone in the layby. The police told me they were not sure why he’d been using it, but I knew: he used them to contact that slut of his. In the week before his death, I would wait with you outside the Cromwell, hanging back so he would not see us. We saw him stop at those orange emergency payphones multiple times, before gunning his engine and driving off in the direction of her house. It was a veritable mansion, so she was probably married too: he was checking her husband wasn’t in. A precaution that got him killed.

  How ironic.

  Now, the arson was possibly my most daring move. I first got the idea when I read about the case of a man who was convicted of the manslaughter of his children. God, I love tabloids. A never-ending source of inspiration. This man burned down his home to avoid a custody hearing with their mother the next day. I suppose he also wanted to feel and look like a hero, Daddy sailing forth to the rescue. That was perfect for my endgame.

  Things are a little more difficult these days, with such things as DNA in use, but I swiftly came to the conclusion that I’d be fairly safe. I’ve never been arrested, fingerprinted or profiled by the police. As long as I was wearing gloves and wasn’t seen in the vicinity of the maisonette, no one would point any fingers at me. Even better, fire is dramatic, and destroys any potential evidence as well.

  I’d already looked up online the best ways to set a house on fire; I discovered petrol through the letterbox might be predictable, but it was still effective. I bought a can and filled it to the brim, again miles away from Epsom, in a rural petrol station I was sure had no CCTV. I wore my hair tucked up in a baseball cap, as well as dark, shapeless clothes.

  I waited an hour in my car, to make sure no one discovered Maxwell. He’d been bleeding heavily when I left him, so just after one o’clock in the morning I decided his number had to be up. I debated about double-checking, but I was eager to get going with part two of the final phase. I already knew you were miles away from the maisonette: probably sleeping off the fight with Maxwell in your car. I still had the tracker app on my phone, showing me where you were.