The Murder of Graham Catton

by Katie Lowe

  ‘I knew you weren’t ready to go back. I shouldn’t have …’ He sighs, and raises a hand to his face. He rubs his jaw, closing his eyes.

  He looks exhausted. Instinctively, I feel a stab of pity for him. It’s a betrayal. I resent it.

  He looks up. ‘You were so bloody determined to make your point. So some of the blame for this is on me.’

  ‘The blame for what?’

  ‘Your patient. Lucie Wexworth. You let her off the grounds, even though she’s on suicide watch. She’s just been found.’

  I steady myself. I grip the bannister so tightly it hurts. ‘Found—’

  ‘Dead. Obviously.’ The revulsion in his voice burns me. ‘Slit her wrists in a hotel bathtub.’

  ‘I didn’t—’ I begin.

  ‘Don’t waste your breath. Darren’s already doing his best to cover your tracks. He’s telling the parents you checked the wrong box on her form – not that I imagine that’ll be much of a comfort.’

  In my mind, I see my hand hover over the page: the two boxes, one beside the other. Supervised/Unsupervised. I feel Darren’s eyes on me. I check a box – the wrong box – and look up. ‘He was – he kept—’

  ‘He was what, Hannah?’ I can feel his anger growing, building steam. ‘Go on. Explain it to me. How is this someone else’s fault? Hmmm?’ I can’t speak. All my words fall away. ‘I am so ashamed of you. Really. I went out on a limb to get you this job, and you end up killing a patient. That means there’s blood on my hands, too. Do you realize that?’

  You’re wrong, I think, but don’t say. Instead, I fix my eyes on the floor. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘And now, what – you’re going to be suspended, at the very least. Probably sacked. And we can’t afford childcare without your wages, but somehow I’m meant to trust you to look after our child?’

  I look up. ‘What?’

  ‘Half the reason I was OK with you going back to work was because I had concerns about what you were doing here, all day, as it was. I’m not an idiot. I saw the bottles in the bins. And now you’ve killed a girl it was your actual job to look after. I think I’d be forgiven for having concerns.’

  ‘I didn’t kill—’

  The crash cuts me dead. ‘Oh, take some fucking responsibility, for once in your damn life.’

  We’re in darkness, now, the table lamp shattered on the floor.

  Graham’s breath beats, close to my face.

  I don’t cry. I don’t move. I barely breathe. This is it, I think. I don’t want to acknowledge what it is, exactly, though I’ve imagined it, so many times. Hands in my hair, at my throat; a physical hurt. After all this time, it would almost be a relief.

  Evie’s scream pierces the silence.

  My husband hangs his head, and walks away.

  43

  Derbyshire, 2018

  I lie on Evie’s bed and I call her. It rings for a moment; then goes to voicemail.

  I need to know what she’s thinking; what she’s said. What she’s done. I swallow, the warm wine slipping all too easily down my throat. I think back to who I was before: so together. So wholly in control. Five weeks later, and I’m back to drinking alone; back to hurting the people I’m supposed to love the most.

  I tap call, again. She doesn’t answer. She might be sleeping, I tell myself. But somehow, I know – I’m sure – she isn’t. She’s awake. And she doesn’t want to talk.

  Her open laptop on the desk feels like an invitation – a temptation I know I should resist. To look would be an invasion of privacy, a breaking of boundaries she’d be unlikely to forgive, if she knew.

  Then again – I am, after all, lying uninvited on her bed, our former boundaries long-blurred – is there any reason she would know, if I didn’t tell her?

  I pull open the bedside drawer beside me, holding the handle loosely – as though I might convince myself it opened of its own accord.

  The desk chair creaks as it rotates, slowly. There’s nobody there. It’s a draught. It has to be. But I feel him: his disapproval, his disappointment. His eyes on me.

  ‘You’re dead,’ I say, out loud. I peer into the drawer, looking for something – I don’t know what, exactly. Some insight into her: into who she is, now, when she’s alone. But there’s nothing. Hairpins, highlighter pens, a blister pack of aspirin, a lighter (an itch of disapproval, here, though I suspect it’s for the candle on the desk).

  I stand, and scan the walls: the photographs and posters. The slips of paper, ticket stubs. The miscellany of her life, runes I can’t read, no matter how I try. It isn’t enough. I sit in the desk chair and run my hands along the worn-away arms. I see Lucie, tracing her figure of eight.

  I turn the laptop on – a single, decisive motion, my hand instantly back by my side, a denial, of sorts – and watch it boot up, the wait endless.

  This isn’t fair, Hannah, I hear Graham say.

  The screen lights up. Enter password.

  I type in her birthday. My birthday. Her favourite band (or, at least, what I think might’ve been her favourite band once). Names on the walls above me, festivals, poets, fashion designers; names that might have some meaning to her, though they’ve none at all for me.

  Nothing works. I close the laptop shut with a crack, and stand. I imagine myself Evie. I walk around the room as though I’m her. I adopt her lightness, the way her body works, without thinking.

  I open the laptop again. I type Dan’s birthday into the password lock screen, and it works. Of course. I feel guilty for not thinking of it before.

  The screen brightens. I see her smiling face among friends, behind layers of disorganized files – SCIENCE ASSIGNMENT 1, ENGLISH PAPER V4 – piled on top of each other, her life laid bare. I smile back at her photos instinctively, an automatic response.

  I click the browser, and it slides to fill the screen, the white search bar blinding. I hover over the History button. I know I shouldn’t be doing this. For a moment, I’m back at the kitchen counter. My stomach kicks, a memory, and I lean back in the chair. I could choose not to look. It would be better not to know.

  But I do it so often – this self-destructive looking, this searching for things that I know will hurt (psychopath, murderer, cunt, fucking whore) – that to do this, now, feels inevitable. I sit forward again. And I click.

  I scroll, searching for my name; then, for his. But I find nothing. There’s no sign of her searching at all. She’s only clicked on the occasional news article, here and there. Otherwise, it’s as though she’s reconciled to it; as though the case doesn’t trouble her at all.

  I know that isn’t true. It can’t be. So I keep looking.

  In the next tab, a notification flickers. It’s gone in an instant. I chase after it with a click. It’s a messenger programme. A chat window, open, the blue bar blinking, and then white. Unread. Read.

  I imagine her, now, on her phone, typing her reply. I watch the bar flash blue again. I feel a little tug, anxiety mingling with pure, guttural want.

  Read the message, Evie, I will her. Go on.

  The box turns white, and I click.

  I know, it says. It must be so hard for you. I wish I was there to give you a hug.

  A sad face.

  I wish you were, too, Evie replies. You’re the only person who really understands.

  I love you, he says, followed by a stream of kisses.

  There’s a pause. I wonder if it’s the first time he’s said it. I imagine her flushed cheeks, the soft little intake of breath.

  I love you too, she replies.

  I click on the name: Callum Turner. A beaming, blond boy, skin browned from the sun. I read through the information he’s chosen to share. Location: London. Age: 19. Interests: Philosophy. Books. The sea.

  So this is the boyfriend, I think as I watch the conversation tick on. Let me distract you, he says. I need to talk to someone about the new episode, anyway. A link. Let’s watch it together.

  You’ve already seen it, she replies.

  It’s n
ot the same without you.

  I click the link, and watch the cartoon colours fill the screen, the room flickering brightly around me.

  I take the laptop over to the bed, and lie back. I sip the last of my wine as I watch. I pretend, for a little while, that she’s shared this – willingly – with me.

  Maybe she’s fine, I tell myself. Maybe this hasn’t affected her as much as I think.

  I feel an echo of memory: Graham’s breath, close – too close – to my face.

  Take some fucking responsibility, for once in your damn life.

  ‘Mum?’

  The laptop sits open on my stomach, the crust of wine stuck to the base of the glass. Evie stares at me, and blinks, disbelieving. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I was …’ I sit up, too quickly. The room lurches around me, as it always does in the morning, these days. ‘I was just …’

  ‘How dare you? You were spying on me.’

  ‘I didn’t …’ I pause. There’s no point in denying it. It’ll only make things worse. ‘I’m sorry, Evie. I didn’t mean to—’

  She laughs and, for a second, she’s her father. Fear ricochets through me. ‘What did you do: trip and accidentally type in my password?’

  ‘I thought you might …’ I gather myself. ‘I—’

  ‘Wait, wait.’ She’s paled a little, now. ‘You thought I was going to tell Will the truth. After you lied to him. You thought I was going to—’

  ‘I didn’t lie. I …’ My headache is thunderous. The room moves, flickering, around me. ‘I lost track of time. If I was gone longer than I realized, I’m sorry. But I swear, Evie, I only walked away to take a call. I promise you. I came right back.’

  I hear the bed in the next room creak; Dan’s footsteps, unsteady, on the wooden floor.

  ‘I swear, Evie. I’m not lying. To you, or to Will.’ She wants to believe me, I’m sure of it; can see it in her eyes. ‘I promise you … I was gone for five minutes, at most.’

  Dan emerges, still pale, his skin slick with sweat. ‘What’s going on?’

  She looks at him. Then back at me. ‘Mum was trying to find out if I lied for her. Which I did, by the way. Although I’m starting to wish I hadn’t.’

  I feel myself swallowed whole. I’m ice-cold, right through to the bone.

  ‘Lied about what?’ Dan says. He’s barely awake, still. Barely there.

  ‘About disappearing. I told you she ran off during the match, and Will asked me if it was possible she’d been back here, and I didn’t say anything, even though—’

  ‘Whoa,’ he says. ‘Hang on. Calm down a minute, everyone.’

  ‘Why? So she can work out how she’s going to slither out of this one? No.’

  She steps towards me. I’m rooted to the spot. I can’t speak. She’s so like him.

  ‘You’re a liar, Mum. Everybody says it.’ She laughs, again. ‘Do you have any idea what it’s like, being related to you? I’m alone all the time, because apparently this kind of thing runs in the family – so when your mum murders your dad, people don’t exactly line up to be your friend.’

  She takes another step; seems to grow, as I shrink.

  ‘Evie …’ Dan says, uselessly.

  ‘And all this time I’ve been trying to defend you, saying you wouldn’t do it – saying you were a good mum. Like anyone believes me anyway. Even though all the evidence says you did it – even though the whole world says you did it – I still thought there might be some other explanation. But there isn’t. You killed my dad. You—’

  The force of the slap stuns her. She staggers back, her eyes wide, while I stare at my hand like a thing possessed. A red burn sweeps across it. I look up, and there’s another, staining her cheek. Behind her, Dan’s eyes are wide, his mouth open. He inhales, slowly, and sighs, and I see it: disappointment, and shame.

  I find my voice. ‘Evie – I’m sorry, I—’

  She looks over her shoulder, eyes glassy. ‘Don’t ever touch me again.’

  She walks away, and Dan follows, wearied, behind.

  I know, now, that I’ve gone too far. I’ve crossed a line. I’ve become someone else.

  And this time, there’s no coming back.

  44

  I hear the murmuring below. The two of them, in quiet conference, Evie’s voice occasionally rising in frustration; words I can’t help but overhear.

  Murderer.

  Whore.

  How dare she? I think, palms gripped tight around my knees. I stand and turn the taps on full. I need to drown them out. To be alone.

  My reflection stares back at me, a woman I barely know. I look like the woman they say I am: cheekbones pushing through haggard skin under cold, blank eyes. My lips are chapped and bitten. My hair pulled back, severe.

  I tug it down, and stare at myself again. I hear a too-familiar sound. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  ‘You’re not there,’ I hiss. ‘Leave me alone.’

  The door creaks open, and my heart leaps to my throat.

  Dan peers through the crack. He doesn’t acknowledge my comment. I’m not sure if he heard me speak, or if he’s choosing to ignore it. ‘Can we talk?’

  The light overhead flickers, and goes out. I’m relieved when his eyes flit to it. He saw it, too. It’s just a power cut. That’s all.

  I nod, and he closes the door behind. ‘Hannah … Are you OK?’

  I know what he’s asking here. This isn’t a general enquiry about my mood, or my health. He wants to know if I think I’m losing my mind. He wants to know if I’m seeing things, hearing things; if I’m losing minutes at a time, experiencing blackouts. If I think it’s possible that I’m doing awful things without knowing it.

  This is my opportunity. My chance to tell him everything: to get help. To make it stop.

  Because I’m a doctor. I know what’s happening here isn’t good. I know something is horribly wrong. I know I need help. ‘I—’

  A phone buzzes. I glance at mine, but the screen is dark. Dan reaches into his pocket. A receipt catches in his fingers and swoops to the floor in a low arc. ‘I’m really sorry. I have to take this.’

  I nod, again. ‘Go ahead.’

  He closes the door behind him, and I turn back to the mirror. If anything, the mass of curls has made things worse: I picture the comments, my face pasted on to the Medusa.

  I pull my hair back again. The band snaps against my fingers and falls to the floor.

  I crouch to pick it up, and see the receipt lying there beside it. I think of Dan, scribbling notes, clues, leads on scraps of paper; fragments I used to find scattered throughout the house. Insights into his thought process, abstract pieces of him.

  They’ve disappeared, since Conviction. Since he lost his job. Since we started keeping secrets from each other.

  I reach for the receipt and peel it open.

  Sophie Wexworth, it says in his distinctive scrawl, 4 p.m.

  I feel myself burned up, the betrayal tearing through me. He’s arranged to meet Lucie’s sister. It’s the missing piece, the thread Conviction is yet to pull. Another mark against my name.

  I think of the way he’s always envied Anna Byers and the rest of them: the people he’s always considered beneath him, as a real writer. He didn’t ever want to work as the editor of a local paper, with a tiny readership – he craved more. He always has.

  And I’ve brought him that. I’m his meal ticket. His book deal. His way out of obscurity into something better. Something more.

  If it weren’t for Evie, I think, he’d have gone public with this long ago. It’s only because he loves her that he hasn’t.

  I stand, and I look at myself in the mirror, once more.

  I have nothing left, I realize. I see it in the eyes of the woman staring back.

  But instead of grief, all I feel is a vast and blissful relief. Because now, I have nothing more to lose.

  ‘Evie,’ I shout as I push the bathroom door. ‘Come on. It’s time to go to school.’

  45

  ‘M
um!’ Evie growls. ‘School’s that way.’

  I glance in the mirrors, the turn-off disappearing behind. I say nothing. I’ve been forming and abandoning words, uselessly, since we left, my resolve weakening with every passing minute.

  I had a plan: talk to Evie. Tell her everything I did was for her. Make that clear. And then, go to Will. Ask him to take me to the station. Tell them everything. No more lies. No more half-truths. I was delusional to think I might be able to make it work – to hold my life together against the tide. So now, it’s over. It’s finished. I’m done.

  ‘I want to talk to you,’ I say, finally.

  She pulls her knees up, and places her feet on the dash. ‘I’d rather not, thanks.’

  I swat them down with my hand. ‘You know what I’ve told you about that. I knew a girl in school who broke her skull with her own knees.’

  ‘That’s only going to happen if you crash. And you’re the slowest driver I know.’ She reaches for the radio knob and turns it up before I can reply. It’s a saccharine pop song, the singer’s voice ringing through my teeth.

  ‘Evie.’ I turn the music back down, and then off. I feel her tense beside me. Her hands grip her backpack, tighter, knuckles exposed. ‘I want to apologize. For last night.’ I wait for her to answer, but she doesn’t. ‘I really fucked up, didn’t I?’

  She turns, surprised to hear me swear; surprised, I suppose, at the very fact I’m apologizing; admitting fault. She knows this isn’t what I do.

  ‘Yeah,’ she says, turning back to stare out of the window. ‘You did.’

  ‘I’m just … I’m so terrified that all this – this Conviction stuff – I was worried it was going to come between us. Which it has. So I just wanted to know where your head was really at, so I could talk to you about it, and … you know. Explain.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, I know. I get it.’ There’s a flatness in the words. Something unsaid.

  I turn to look at her. ‘Evie—’

  ‘No, I mean it. I really do. I understand. You wanted to see what I was really thinking, so you could work out how to manipulate me into believing your side of the story. Just like you try to do with everyone else.’