by Katie Lowe
I stare at her, a terrible sickness creeping through me.
Sweetheart, please, Graham says, again. Please don’t do this.
‘I know that’s par for the course, in a psychiatric institution, but the way it was written … I don’t know. It was like a ghost story. It really creeped me out. So now, every time I hear a rustle of wings, or a creaky beam, I near enough have a heart attack.’
My heart thuds, horribly, in response. I turn my eyes to the fallen-through stairs, so I don’t have to meet her stare. ‘I think that’s fair enough, given the circumstances.’
‘I know it sounds completely mad,’ she goes on. She’s backtracking, I realize. I wonder whether to tell her that it doesn’t. That I think there might be something in it. But I don’t get the chance.
‘Anyway,’ she says, ‘it’s getting dark. I’d better pack up and head out.’
I look out of the empty window, the sky shot through with streaks of pink.
How did it get so late? I think, with a thump of guilt. Dan’s going to think I’ve disappeared. Again.
‘But come back any time. Please come back,’ she adds, ushering me towards the door. ‘Mi haunted mansion es tu haunted mansion.’ A pause. She sees something in my face, and smiles – though there’s a flicker of doubt in it. ‘I’m joking. It’s a joke.’
‘You too. Come to me, I mean,’ I say, stiffly. ‘Any time.’
She wraps her arms around me, a hug that throws me off balance.
‘Thank you. Really. You make me feel so much more sane.’
21
As I reach the car, my phone buzzes, three times in quick succession. Three messages, hours apart, from Dan.
Have got dinner in if you’ve gone to shops. Abort mission!
Hello? Are you with S?
Where are you? S says you’re not with her. Please let me know you’re OK.
I know I had signal, inside. I’m sure of it.
I look back at the house, at the top of the hill.
That’s it, I think, with a resolution that feels final: like the closing of a door. I’m done. I’m not coming back.
I begin typing a reply, before thinking better of it. What would I say? ‘I’m a rational person, Dan – but I’ve been secretly visiting a house that I’m increasingly convinced contains my murdered husband’s ghost. And today, I think that very house blocked your innocuous texts about dinner from getting through.’
It sounds so utterly absurd – more so with every passing minute, now I’m outside, in the sharp, fresh air – I almost laugh. I slip the phone back in my pocket, my hand brushing against the photograph of Margot. Of me.
I pull it out and examine it again.
I wasn’t imagining the similarity between us: the sharp, cold arch of our brows, the high cheekbones, the wild mass of curls. My mother was right. Margot and I were one and the same.
I stuff the photo back into my pocket, and I drive. I see her face in the rear-view mirror all the way home.
I let myself in, the smallness and simplicity of the cottage a relief, a ward against the darkness and gloom of the house.
All the little things I’ve come, over time, to bristle against – the imperfections: the ugly, pocked carpets we’ve never found time to replace; the wallpaper in the hallway tattered, a hideous green; the scattered mess for which both Evie and I are to blame, Dan constantly making jokes about his ‘whirlwind’ girls – seem, now, like delicious little comforts.
It’s superstitious, perhaps. But here, at least, I feel safe.
Here, those things I’d felt – imagined – at the house seem like nothing more than errant draughts; nothing more than tricks of the light.
‘Dan?’ I call out as I kick off my shoes. I flick the switch, and curse under my breath as the bulb remains determinedly out.
I hang up my coat and call again. ‘Hello? Anybody home?’
I see a shadow move in the kitchen, flickering in a candle’s light. I follow it.
‘There you are,’ I say as Dan turns to face me, and I see his expression. ‘I’m sorry – I …’ I wave my phone in the air. ‘I think this is a dud. I just got all of your messages at once.’
‘Where were you?’
I slip into a cold stream of memory. Graham and I, in our kitchen, hundreds of miles and a decade from here. The words are different, but their tone is the same: that familiar mix of disappointment and despair.
‘You can’t keep doing this, Hannah,’ he says – they say, both of them, each wearing the other’s skin. ‘Not to me. It’s not fair. I love you, and—’
Evie’s bedroom door creaks overhead, her footsteps padding softly to the bathroom.
She’s enough to break the spell.
I’m alone, with Dan, in our cottage, and Graham is ten years gone.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say again. I mean it, though I’m not sure he believes me. ‘I didn’t mean to …’
My eyes catch on the table behind. Two candles; the bottle of champagne we’ve kept in the cupboard for years, waiting for the ‘right’ celebration. And the blue velvet box I’d found, weeks before, in the pocket of Dan’s coat – the perfect sapphire gleaming within. I’d forgotten all about it.
‘Oh,’ I say, stiffly. ‘I …’
The buzz seems to ring through my teeth.
The lights turn on, one by one, as the power returns. Devices flash on in sequence: oven, coffee machine, laptop charger, clock.
And then, out of the corner of my eye, I see him again.
This time, he’s real.
This time, he’s absolutely there.
‘The investigation into the 2008 murder of Graham Catton has today been reopened,’ the voiceover says, as my husband smiles at me from the TV screen.
Instinctively – with the same magnetic pull I’d felt the night we met, and on so many nights that followed – I find myself pulled to him.
I kneel in front of the screen, static nipping at my fingers, while Dan watches, forgotten, behind.
22
It’s a photograph I took that they’re using.
He’s outside our old house, some stranger’s initials carved into the brick wall behind, his hands tight around the handles of the bike he’d bought, and was so endearingly proud of.
I remember the way the air was that day, humid and stewing, the smell of melting tarmac and rotting meat, the fruit-fly hum from the bins just out of shot. The noise of London basking in a heatwave: chatter and music and laughter, glasses clinking, filled with ice.
The baby monitor in my hand. A sweet little snuffle, enough to pull me back inside.
‘I need to talk to Evie,’ I say now.
Dan opens his mouth to say something, but doesn’t. I leave him standing there, face to face with my husband’s ghost.
The newsreader’s voice stalks me up the stairs. ‘Seemingly looking to pre-empt another overturned conviction by the popular podcast Conviction – whose fourth season has already raised numerous concerns about flaws in the police investigation – a spokesperson from the Met today said that “in light of new public concerns”, they would welcome any information with regards to Professor Catton’s murder,’ she says, her tone flat, coolly professional. ‘As yet, there has been no comment on whether Michael Philips – whose family have campaigned for his innocence since he was charged with the murder over a decade ago – will be released, or whether further appeals will take place.’
I knock at Evie’s door. Gently, at first. There’s no answer. I knock again.
‘Evie?’
I hear a shuffling inside. But still, no answer. I knock again. And then, I break my rule. I push the door open. Just a crack. ‘Evie, sweetheart—’
I stop. Sweetheart. That’s his word. Not mine.
‘I’m OK, Mum,’ she says. ‘I’m just tired.’ There’s a current of something in her tone I don’t recognize. Not, at least, in her.
I push the door a little more and step inside.
‘Mum,’ she says. ‘Please. I ju
st want to go to sleep.’
A lie. She’s suppressing tears. I can hear it, her throat clenched around the words. I close the door behind, and sit beside her on the bed. I’m invading her space; forcing her to let me in. I know this, and I do it anyway. ‘I won’t stay. I just … I need to talk to you.’
She pulls the covers up around her, like a shield. ‘If it’s about Dad, I already know.’
Fear slips through my veins, ice-cold. You can’t, I think, automatically.
‘I saw it on Twitter. They’re reopening the case. I get it.’
‘Oh.’ I try to disguise the relief in my voice. ‘It’s … I’m sorry you had to find out like that.’
‘It’s fine.’ She doesn’t meet my eye. She’s hiding something. I can feel it.
‘Evie … What’s wrong?’ She shakes her head. I wonder if she’s willing me not to ask again, or willing herself not to crack.
I open my arms. ‘Come here.’
And she does. She curls into me, like a child. I wonder if I’m imagining the fact she seems smaller, now. She’s always been slight, but athletically so. She’s never felt quite this delicate.
I scan the room for signs, for clues, for something that might explain what’s happening to her. I see her laptop on the desk behind, the screen pitch black. I wonder what she does on there, at night; what she’s been reading. Whether she searches for news about me.
She says something, muffled between sobs. I squeeze tighter, as though I might hold her together through sheer will alone. ‘Shhh,’ I say, gently. ‘Deep breaths. It’s OK. It’s all right.’ Finally – after another swell of tears, rising and falling like a wave – she pulls away.
‘I’ve done something stupid.’ She doesn’t look at me; keeps her gaze fixed on the empty space between us. My stomach flips. Still, I set my face to a sympathetic blankness, and reach for her hand.
‘I’m sure whatever it is, it isn’t as bad as you think,’ I say, though I don’t believe it. ‘If you tell me what it is, we can fix it.’
She shakes her head again. I let her sit, for a moment, in the silence. To gather herself. She reaches for her phone. She taps once, then again, and hands it to me. I stare at the screen, the words smudging into view. It’s a screenshot, from an app I don’t recognize, with a countdown in the corner.
Evie’s name and photo have been blurred out, though I see both, there, in the replies beneath – a conversation I already know will dissolve into arguments about privacy, truth, and free speech. Her words, though, are clear.
All my family and I want is justice. My dad was murdered, and the only thing we’ve ever wanted is for the person who killed him to pay for the life that they took. That’s literally all we ask. If that’s not Mike Philips, then I stand behind the campaign to free him – and behind the call for a new investigation into who really DID murder my dad, Graham Catton.
And above the screenshot, the Conviction logo, handcuffs open and swinging, their response in a single, icy tweet: Wonder if this’ll still stand after Episode Three?
‘Oh, Evie,’ I say, my voice barely more than a croak. ‘What … What were you thinking?’
I know this is the wrong thing to say. It’s too accusatory. Too cold. I know this, but the bright blue flame of anger in the pit of me makes me do it. I can’t help myself. I’ve always had a temper.
Her cheeks flush, two red blotches mottled with tears. ‘I didn’t think anyone would …’ She shakes her head. ‘My profile is private. It’s only my friends on there, so …’
I draw breath, slowly. How could you be so stupid? I want to say. But I don’t. I scroll down through the replies.
Sorry, I know she’s only 16 but how dumb IS she?
Maybe she ISN’T – maybe she’s scared of her mum – cry for help???
I would be scared if I lived in that house lol … hide the knives at bedtime haha
Inappropriate but she is CUTE, look!
Beneath the last, a photo of Evie and her friends, all clutching enormous iced drinks and posing. The faces of the other girls have been covered with heart-eyed emojis. Only Evie beams, brightly, back.
She’s a child, I think, a tremor of rage rattling through me. How dare you?
I hear the creak of the stairs behind, Dan’s footsteps heavy on the carpet. He peers through the door. ‘Everything OK?’
I place the phone face down on the bed. ‘Conviction has somehow got hold of something Evie posted on …’
‘Snapchat,’ Evie whispers.
‘Snapchat,’ I echo. ‘It’s all over Twitter.’
Dan leans against the doorframe. ‘Oh dear.’ I wonder if I’m imagining the stiffness in his tone. Not that I can begrudge him that. Not after how I’ve behaved this evening.
‘I just thought …’ Evie begins. ‘I wanted to do something. It’s not fair that they get to say whatever they want, while we have to …’ She trails off. ‘It isn’t fair.’
‘What does Callum think of all this?’ Dan says. I look at him; he looks determinedly past me, refusing to meet my eye. I turn to Evie, who looks away from us both.
‘Who’s Callum?’ I say, finally. She doesn’t answer.
I look back at Dan. He sighs. ‘Evie’s boyfriend.’ This time, there’s no mistaking it: he’s being purposely cold.
I shake my head. ‘Evie, I don’t know if it’s wise to be—’
‘Don’t, Mum. I knew you’d say that, so … don’t.’
I’m used to this flash of indignation from the girls on the unit. I’m hardened to it: usually, it’s my job to let it go. But coming from her – my sweet little girl – it hits me like a blow to the chest. The anger in my voice ripples through, electric. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You have to control everything. It’s like … pathological, or something. You force everyone to do what you want them to do, or else you play the victim.’
I stare at her. I know what this is.
The part of me that deals with teenagers, day in, day out, knows she’s lashing out; knows that her anger is likely to dissipate as quickly as it’s appeared. I know I ought to walk away. To let her think about it and calm down; to wait for the inevitable apology, the retraction. As a professional, I know this. But as her mother … I can’t.
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I hear myself say, in a voice that seems to come from someone else. ‘You have no idea what you’re—’
Evie’s face turns a deathly white. She looks away, her eyes brimming with tears.
‘You have no idea—’ I say, again, stumbling over the words. I feel as though I’m watching the scene from above. As though I’m not myself.
Dan’s hand touches my shoulder, and I flinch. ‘Get off me.’
‘Whoa, whoa.’ He raises his palms in submission. ‘It’s OK. Let’s just take a timeout, shall we?’
I stare at him for a moment. And then, I stand and leave, slamming the door behind.
At the foot of the stairs, all my anger dissipates. It’s replaced by something that feels like grief; has the same sharp, needling itch. The news has moved on to some puff-piece, a feel-good local-interest story. I flick it off and step into the kitchen. I blow out the candles, useless in the bright overhead light, and I uncork the champagne, the bottle slick with condensation. I pour one glass. And another. I stare into the empty seat opposite. The open box. The ring. Graham has disappeared again. And all I have is the mess he’s left behind.
‘Are you going to tell me what that was about?’
I look up from my empty glass. Dan is at the sink, watching me.
‘I’m sorry. I … I honestly don’t know. I need to apologize to her.’
I rise to stand, but he shakes his head. ‘I’d leave it. I think you could both do with time to cool off.’
I search his face, looking for some sign of cruelty; some reason not to trust him when he says this.
But there’s nothing. Only concern. Only – somehow – love.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I
say. ‘For everything. This is all my fault.’
He drags the empty chair close to me and sits, his knees touching mine. He presses his forehead to mine, his hand at my neck. ‘Hannah. I love you.’
I wait for him to go on. To tell me it isn’t my fault; to tell me he knows I didn’t ask for any of this. To tell me I’m the victim. That he believes me, no matter what. But he doesn’t. I feel a new piece of me break open, a hairline crack that splits apart. I pull away. ‘When were you going to tell me about this Callum boy?’
His shoulders slump. ‘She told me his name this morning. I’d have told you this afternoon, if you hadn’t disappeared.’ His eyes flit back and forth, reading my expression. ‘You know, Hannah, it’s not me that’s keeping secrets here.’
‘I told you – I didn’t get your texts.’
‘You told me that. But you also told me you were going to stay home, and then you just … disappeared.’
There’s an accusation in his voice. He sounds like Graham. I can’t help but harden; turn cold.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Dan. I went for a drive. I needed some air. That’s all.’
A lie. But I don’t want to tell him about Hawkwood House. Because I’m not going back. There’s no point trying to explain it. Not now.
The memory swells again. I see Graham there, in his eyes. I feel my hand twitch, the urge to push him away. The urge to hurt him. I reach for the champagne and pour another slug into the glass. It’s warm now, a little sour.
‘Dan,’ I say, my tone as calm as I can make it. ‘I don’t know what you want from me. My whole life is being picked over by these … these strangers. Sometimes I just need some space. Some privacy. That’s all.’
He nods. It’s reluctant, I can see. But he doesn’t want to argue. He never does.
‘OK,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’m sorry, too. I really … I do appreciate you. For everything.’
It’s a weak reply, non-committal; made more so by the ring, still gleaming in its box between us. Neither of us seems quite prepared to acknowledge it, knowing that the moment we do, the night we might have had will be made solid, all too horribly real.