by L. V. Hay
But for what … Fun? Because she could?
She changed now, holding a hanky to her face, turning instantly into the grief-stricken mother. She held up her other hand in a pleading gesture. Meyer hesitated, allowing Fran to catch up. Sebastian tried to summon up more words, ask her why, what he’d done to deserve this fate, but they died on his tongue as she dipped forwards, as if to kiss his cheek. But she didn’t. Instead, she whispered into Sebastian’s left ear, a triumphant hiss, audible only to him:
‘Just like Father … Let this be a lesson to you … for leaving me. No one does that to me.’
Comprehension stabbed through him, as shocking as a knife blade. It knocked his breath from his body.
He’d not walked straight into his mother’s trap. He’d been born into it. He’d dared to defy her by trying to live his own life, so she’d taken action to ensure he did exactly what she wanted, for the rest of his doomed life.
‘I hate you!’ The vitriol burst forth from him. He surged forwards, only for Meyer and two other officers to grab him, holding him back from attacking his mother.
‘I’ve always hated you! You’ve ruined my life! I should have killed you when I had the chance! You fucking bitch!’
But his mother simply regarded him with a woeful, puppy-dog expression, the fake black-mascara tears smudging her cheeks.
Su snapped her fingers at her colleagues: Get him out of here.
Meyer placed a brawny hand on the top of Sebastian’s head and pushed him inside one of the patrol cars.
The uniformed officer shut the door.
To Sebastian, it sounded like the clunk of a closing coffin lid.
PART FOUR
Eighteen Months Later
‘When a woman has lost her character, she will shrink from no crime.’
—Tacitus
Fifty-seven
‘Bye, darling, have a lovely day!’
I offered my cheek up to Denny for a last kiss, but he snubbed me. Stung, I watch him wander into the before-school club with Kelly. He was nearly eight now. My boy was growing up. He wouldn’t want to kiss me … Or was it because he was missing Maxwell. Was he still suffering after everything that’d happened? I couldn’t bear to think of even a small piece of Denny being damaged forever because of what Sebastian did, or my own actions in marrying that bastard in the first place. I wanted to call Denny back, take him into my arms again and magic the pain and confusion away for him.
But my boy had already gone inside the classroom and I had no time. I raced to the staffroom for the daily morning meeting, arriving late; some things never changed. The head teacher obviously had, though. The school’s reputation in tatters, parents had pulled their kids out left, right and centre – especially when I revealed I wasn’t going anywhere. Why should I? I hadn’t killed anyone and no one could shift me because of Sebastian’s sins. Besides, I needed the money. Maxwell had left Denny a little cash, but it was all tied up in trust. The rest of it had mysteriously vanished, presumably in probate and debts.
‘Decided to join us, Miss Okenodo?’
Awkward, I raised a hand in a ‘sorry’ gesture. Despite her tiny stature Miss Lipson, our new head, was a formidable figure. After the scandal of Sebastian’s arrest and subsequent conviction, the governers announced they were bringing in one of those ‘superheads’ to kick some ass. Miss Lipson was actually a Miss Trunchball. But at least she remembered I had switched back to my maiden name. Hardly anyone else did.
As Miss Lipson continued in her dull monotone about learning targets, I plonked down in a chair next to Triss. She handed me a banana. I hadn’t had breakfast and grabbed it eagerly. Triss had grown up considerably of late, looking out for me and Denny. Since we’d both sworn off men, it didn’t make sense to live apart when Triss was at my place most of the time anyway. We’d pooled our resources and furniture, finding a house together with Denny. On two teachers’ salaries, it was rather plain and boxy, but after the fire at the maisonette, I didn’t want to live in a period property again. And we had a garden at last. Forty feet wasn’t much, but it was a sun trap, with enough room for a barbeque, a trampoline and a garden bench. After everything we’d been through in the past year or so, I appreciated the simple things again.
The bell went. The meeting over, all the teachers scattered to their various classrooms. As usual, I found myself in my classroom seconds before the first children, inhaling the familiar scent of paint and PVA glue. There was an explosion of noise behind me as kids began to file in. Turning towards the window, I smiled as a variety of children bid me good morning.
There she was, again.
Though the morning sun was behind her, Fran’s form was unmistakeable. Tall and willowy, she stood near to the playground fence, a few feet down from the gates. I could guess why she was there: she wanted to catch a glimpse of Denny, or maybe even of me. Sebastian had been her world and now he was locked away, we were a reminder of how it could have been for her.
Guilt and shame bloomed in my belly as I considered my ex-mother-in-law at the gates. I’d been the prosecution’s star witness. I’d knocked down every one of the tactics that Sebastian’s defence team had attempted to employ. Obviously I had corroborated his story about Maxwell trying to get between us both, but I’d also recounted how Sebastian had magically appeared the night of the fire, smelling of petrol. What else could I do? I had to tell the truth. Sebastian might not have been well, but he still tried to burn me and Denny in our beds. I could never forgive him for that … Or myself, for marrying someone so unstable and putting Denny in danger. It was all just so sad.
We’d hoped Sebastian would at least have the decency to plead guilty and spare everyone the trauma and hassle of a trial, but he couldn’t even do that for us. The defence had been a mess, a logistical nightmare, no matter how much his poor barrister tried. Triss and I had gone to every day of the trial we could and just could not believe our ears. It was all so cut and dried: Sebastian had been the last one to see Maxwell alive, plus his own blood was found at the scene, with signs of a struggle. Fran’s neighbours had confirmed Sebastian had left her home, yelling that he wanted to kill Maxwell.
We’d watched a psychologist come into the court. He told the jury he believed Sebastian had suffered a ‘psychotic break’, due to ‘adverse life events’, culminating in the murder of Maxwell and the attempted murder of me and Denny. In other words, Sebastian didn’t remember either killing Maxwell, or setting the fire, which was why he was insisting he was innocent. Yet the ice-cream parlour boy also corroborated the fact Sebastian had been at the maisonette the day after the fire, which seemed highly suspicious now he thought about it … Maybe he’d been surveying his handiwork? Certainly sounded like it, to me.
I really couldn’t swallow Sebastian’s refusal to take responsibility for his crimes. I didn’t buy the ‘psychotic break’. But he never once admitted to anything, even trying to blame Fran for setting him up. Fran had been a victim of Maxwell’s schemes every bit as much as us … She’d thought she was dying from cancer! The idea she had killed Maxwell herself, then sent Sebastian the text from the missing phone to draw him to the maisonette seemed fanciful. For him to insist Fran had set the maisonette on fire and planted the knife in his car afterwards? Utterly delusional. It didn’t help his cause either when he tried to tell police Fran had killed his own father, Jasper, too. Sebastian came off looking crazier than ever.
I watched Fran move away from the fence, at last. I’d not visited Sebastian in prison, either when he was on remand or after conviction. And of course, he was not allowed to contact me and Denny.
I didn’t know if Sebastian’s fractured mind still believed Fran was evil and had plotted to put him away from the beginning, but I felt sorry for her. I’d seen her a few times at the trial and each time she’d been stoic, but I could see the pain in her eyes, always glassy with tears. I’d seen her in town from time to time too, but always accidentally. She’d told me she was visiting Sebastian, even thoug
h he was still saying terrible things about her. I felt bad I hadn’t been there for her more, but at the time I had to concentrate on Denny. He had just lost his father and he was just a child. And I was feeling too fragile. But I felt much stronger now.
As Fran disappeared down the road and from my view, I made a decision. I would take Denny to see his almost-grandmother that weekend. None of it had been her fault and it would be good for Denny to see her. Stabilising, even.
Fran was bound to like that.
It’s a pleasant enough drive, taking in just the right amount of greenery on the way. I’ve developed a taste for talking books recently. Give me a good romance any day; a little bit of escapism. None of those psychological thrillers about timid housewives with amnesia, whose husbands are involved in satanic rituals. Who buys such far-fetched nonsense I have no idea.
I pull up beside the prison. I had hoped you would be sent to Downview. It’s only up the road and they reopened it recently as a male prison, according to the Epsom Guardian. But it’s only forty miles or so to Belmarsh, so I suppose I should be grateful you weren’t housed further away. If I put my foot down, I can make it in fifty minutes. There’s a fairly large car park beside the dour brown nineties’ brick building. If one wasn’t paying attention to the huge signage or the beady eyes of multiple security personnel, one might be forgiven for thinking it was a leisure centre.
I make my way into the visitors’ reception. I join a small queue of people, mostly women with scraped-back hair, piercings and over-plucked eyebrows. A couple of them slouch, their posture defensive, fists dug into their tracksuit pockets. Some are carrying babies, some accompanied by older children.
I don’t catch anyone’s eye. I slip my phone into my bag and draw out a selection of change. A pound for the lockers, some coins for the vending machine. Having visited you on remand all those months, then every week following the trial, I’m a dab hand at this now.
Before I zip up my bag, I whip out my powder compact and check my hair and make-up. There was a young male guard last time, a natural flirt. He reminded me of Maxwell: all white teeth and puffed-up bravado. Sometimes, in the dead of night, I do find myself hankering after Lily’s ex, just a little. He was fun. And so easy to manoeuvre! Just like those digital soldiers and aliens on the games screen thing little Denny loves to play with so much.
The little queue surges forwards, towards two prison officers and a metal detector. If I close my eyes and ignore the institutional tang of disinfectant in the air, I can pretend I’m waiting at the airport. Maybe I’m going to Antigua, or Barbados this year? Perhaps I’ll go for real. The last year has been so stressful; I’ve earned it.
I’m at the head of the queue at the prison, at last. I step forwards to allow a tall, chubby female officer to search me. I’m disappointed to see the young man I’ve taken such a fancy to is not here. Not to worry; I’ll be visiting you in this place or another like it for a couple of decades or so yet … Even if you do manage to get out early on good behaviour.
But of course this is not likely, with your continued protestations of innocence and rantings and ravings about being fitted up. Parole boards like to hear expressions of remorse, culpability, responsibility. The idea that your own mother might have brought about your downfall is ludicrous.
As I move past the woman who has patted me down, I drift into the visitors’ hall with the others. Greetings echo in my ears, with children squealing at the sight of their fathers. A woman is warned to stop kissing her tattooed beau within seconds of walking in, but I have eyes only for you.
My boy.
You are already seated at a Formica table, nearest a burly guard, who is sprawled on a plastic chair nearby, observing. This is because of the last time we met here with the others; you tried to throw a chair at me. I am the only person who visits you, so for the last couple of months, we’ve had closed visits, with you behind glass, like a monkey at the zoo. But those sanctions have finally been lifted and here we are.
As you look up, I see the light in your eyes, the abject fury, has gone out.
‘Darling.’ I sit down and grip your hand. It’s limp in mine. ‘How are you?’
You open your mouth to speak, but no sound comes. Your eyes look dazed, though whether it’s because of the medication they’ve given you, or because you’ve finally accepted your predicament – or both – I’m not sure. Whatever the case, your shoulders are no longer hunched with resentment; your body is no longer sharp angles around me. It’s like you’ve deflated. The fight has left you.
At last.
Your gaze meets mine. In here, you’re isolated from the rest of the world, looking to me for news beyond your four walls. I feel a sense of deep satisfaction envelop me. It feels warm, all-encompassing, even sexual: a tingling sensation travels from my belly, through to my fingertips. As your sole contact, only I can help you navigate this strange, cruel world. I’m reminded of you as a little boy again: lost, depending on me for everything.
Just the way it should be.
Acknowledgements
So many people say parenthood is the best thing you can do with your life – and yet so few people admit it can also be the worst. When we say we’re proud of our children, it’s often because they delight us, since they have become just like us. It can challenge our egos as well as our own hopes and dreams for our kids when they do something we don’t expect.
For this reason, I would like to thank my own parents, Ian and Jan Hay, for never putting me in that straitjacket of parental expectation. Even when I came home as a teenager with a pregnancy announcement, they never told me they were ashamed of me or worried I would not fulfil my ‘potential’. Thanks for believing in me, even at such a young age with all the odds against me. I will ensure your legacy with my own daughters, Lilirose and Emmeline.
Since this is a book about control, thank you also to my husband David Cawsey, aka Mr C, who has NEVER been jealous or possessive. Mr C, you know I might have many friends, but you will always be my bestie! You realise I might need to roam, both literally and metaphorically, but I will always come back to you … Or if I can’t, that I will call you to come and pick me up!
Thank you to my son Alfie, whose own route to adulthood has been plagued with confusion: I think sometimes you want me to sort it all out for you, but I will never do that. Not because I don’t love you, but because I do. You’ve got this.
Thanks also to my fantastic agent, Hattie Grunewald, and all at Blake Friedmann: you guys have always had my back. Thanks as ever to my publisher Karen and editor West at Orenda Books, whose eagle eyes and discerning literary palates have made sure I dig deep and deliver. To the many beta readers for Do No Harm, especially YOU, mega-reader Cheryl Brown, plus the unstoppable JK Amalou! JK, you read every single incarnation, just as you did for The Other Twin, and I’m so grateful for your friendship and support.
Last (but by no means least!), thank you to the book bloggers – you guys rock! Thanks for your endless support and I hope you enjoy reading Do No Harm as much as I enjoyed writing it.
L. V. Hay
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lucy V. Hay is a novelist, script editor and blogger who helps writers via her Bang2write consultancy. She is the associate producer of Brit Thrillers Deviation (2012) and Assassin (2015), both starring Danny Dyer. Lucy is also head reader for the London Screenwriters’ Festival. She has written three non-fiction books: Writing & Selling Thriller Screenplays, its follow-up, Drama Screenplays, and, most recently, Writing Diverse Characters For Fiction, TV & Film. She is also the author of ‘The Intersection Series’ of Young Adult novels.
Her debut adult novel, The Other Twin, has attracted widespread praise.
She lives in Devon with her husband, three children, five cats and five African land snails. Follow Lucy on Twitter @LucyVHayAuthor; on Facebook: facebook.com/LucyHayB2W; and her website: lucyvhayauthor.com.
Copyright
Orenda Books
16 Carson Road
> West Dulwich
London SE21 8HU
www.orendabooks.co.uk
First published in the United Kingdom by Orenda Books 2018
Copyright © L. V. Hay 2018
L. V. Hay has asserted her moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publishers.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–1–912374–21–2
eISBN 978–1–912374–22–9
For sales and distribution, please contact [email protected]
If you enjoyed Do No Harm you’ll love…
Coming soon from Orenda Books…