by Katie Lowe
Will blinks, and looks at Stevens. He gestures to Will to go on. ‘The thing is, Hannah …’ He looks embarrassed for me. ‘Well, a couple of things, really. First, we looked at those papers, and … We need to get more tests done, but the typing on them must have been done on a computer. We’ve got an exact match on the font. And …’
Stevens loses his patience. He picks up the thread. ‘And we’ve had two neighbours say they saw a woman matching your description coming into the cottage, at the time you say you were at the match, though there are parents there who dispute that – plenty of them.’
I search desperately for an explanation, a memory. Anything.
‘But why would I—’
‘That’s my question, Hannah. I have theories, but you’re the psychiatrist here. You’re the one who’s in a position to explain all this. Because to me, it seems like pretty crazy behaviour. Pretty nuts, don’t you think?’
He pauses, as though waiting for me to explain. But I can’t. There’s no way I can explain all this, rationally, unless …
‘All right,’ he says. ‘Let me give you my working theory, then.’ He reaches for his phone, and searches. The wait is endless. He knows, and still, he takes his time. He hands me the screen.
COPYCATTON, the headline reads. HOW CONVICTION ACCUSED’S PSYCHO GRAN INSPIRED HORRID HANNAH.
‘You’ve been fixated on this case for a while, haven’t you?’ I shake my head. ‘Careful, Hannah. Don’t get yourself in a knot here. Because we have transcripts from Graham’s statement at your tribunal hearing, in 2008. The day he died. He said you’d been obsessed with it. He found the searches on his laptop. And he pinpointed that as the moment you started losing your grip.’
I shake my head again. I feel Graham there. I think I hear him laugh.
‘So my theory is: that’s why you killed your first husband. You couldn’t help yourself. You identified too much with this grandmother of yours, and started thinking you were one and the same. That whatever she did, you’d do, too.’
‘No. No. I—’
‘But you got away with it – and so, you moved on. You were happy for a while. You forgot all about it. You made a life with this guy, here.’ He gestures at Dan, who still doesn’t move. ‘And then Conviction came along, and lifted up the rock you were hiding under. And out crept all those old thoughts.
‘But you’d been in denial for so long, by that point, you couldn’t face that – not head on, anyway. So you created this story about an old intern just happening to come along and offer you a job at the place your gran was locked up, and then just happening to find a bunch of letters that gave you a reason to open up the obsession.
‘But that obsession, for you, is a kind of hands-on affair – isn’t it?’
He waits for me to respond. I don’t.
‘Trouble is, no matter how hard Dan’s been trying to convince himself of your innocence …’ His tone is snide, cruel. The idiot, he seems to say. ‘You’ve lost your element of surprise. If you went for him, under normal circumstances, he’d react. And he’s a big guy. So you need to incapacitate him.’
A flare of anger sparks. ‘I would never …’
‘We have a prescription for some pretty heavy benzodiazapenes, issued to Dan, three days ago.’
All the air is pulled from my chest. I can’t breathe. I think of Darcy, offering me diazepam. I’d taken the pills from her hand. But she doesn’t exist. She never did.
‘You signed for it. Which is playing fast and loose, really, because I’m sure doctors aren’t supposed to prescribe to their families – right?’ He smiles. He knows he’s right. ‘Although it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve written a prescription you shouldn’t, would it?’
A shock of memory hits me.
The wine glass, on the granite countertop, the night Graham died. The powder clinging to the base.
Stevens doesn’t wait for me to respond, though he sees the realization on my face. He’s right.
‘So you incapacitate Dan. You get Evie out of the house. And you come back. It’ll only take a minute. You know this from before.
‘But something stops you – I’m guessing it’s these neighbours of yours. You realize you can’t do it then. It’ll be too obvious. So you vandalize your home, to deflect the attention. So you can put yourself in the position of the victim, again. So you can convince yourself of your own innocence, a little bit longer.
‘And then—’
‘Stop.’ I barely recognize my voice. I sound cold. Barely human. ‘I don’t want to talk about this any more. I can’t—’
‘No, you’re right.’ Stevens is unflappable; all arrogance, a smug knowingness. ‘You should call your solicitor before you say anything else. That’s sensible.’
He reaches for his jacket and shrugs it back on. Will stands, and pats Dan on the shoulder. Dan doesn’t move.
Stevens smiles, and it sickens me. I feel wrung out, washed ashore. ‘We’ll be back soon, Hannah. Don’t go too far, OK?’
52
When they leave, the silence is devastating. I feel shot through with holes.
I stare at Dan’s shoulders. At the ridge of his knuckles at the edge of the countertop.
‘It’s not possible,’ I say, though I’m not sure I believe it.
I think of the conversations I’ve had with Darcy. The way she’s always taken my side; offered soothing diagnoses, and a resolute absence of doubt. All the things I couldn’t quite let myself feel – anger, resentment, bitterness – she’s felt on my behalf. And with her plans for the House – all of which so perfectly matched my own – she’s done the things I’d never let myself do; things I was too weak to do, myself.
I’m a doctor, I’d thought. I can manage this. I’ll know if I’ve gone too far. I’ll seek help.
But Stevens is right. I have imagined things. I knew Graham wasn’t there, every time I felt him, or heard his voice. He’s been dead for a decade. Each time, I wrote him off as a trick of the mind, anxiety brought to life. A memory, relived.
But some small part of me felt him, truly; felt his existence as something I couldn’t ignore. And so, to offset the doubt, I convinced myself I was getting help – from a woman my mind created, there to tell me exactly what I wanted to hear.
I’m a psychiatrist. I respect the mind for what it’s capable of; for what it can do, to help a person cope. But I never could’ve imagined my own fabricating something that seemed – that still seems, her voice in my memory so different from my own – so real.
Dan’s voice breaks the silence, slicing through my thoughts. He doesn’t turn around. ‘Did you hurt her?’ He’s nervous. No: he’s afraid.
I can’t speak. I didn’t think I could have. But now, I’m not so sure.
He turns, looking not at, but through me. He can’t bring himself to meet my eye. ‘Hannah, I need to know. If it was an accident, or—’
I slip through time. I feel a cold fist squeeze my palm.
It was an accident, I think. It was an accident.
‘For God’s sake, Hannah.’ Dan slams the counter, and I flinch. He looks at his hand in horror, as though it belongs to someone else. ‘If you don’t tell me, I’m going to …’
He can’t bring himself to say it. He doesn’t have to. He’s going to tell them he believes that it was me. Every doubt that’s nipped at him, every thought he’s blinked away, too terrible to believe …
He’s going to go to them, and tell them that, at last, he sees the truth.
This is my last chance to be honest with him.
It comes to me, all at once, like coming up for air. ‘I didn’t hurt her. I didn’t.’
I know this is true.
I believe it is true.
It was an accident, I hear myself say, in another life.
I don’t know what’s true any more.
Dan sighs, a shudder in it.
‘Please, Dan, I need you to believe me. I wouldn’t.’ There’s defeat in my voice. Doubt. It’s impossible
not to hear. ‘She’s my daughter.’
He says something I can’t catch. I stare at him. I will him to say it again. ‘What were you going to say?’ He’s holding back tears. ‘When you wanted to talk? What was it you wanted to tell me?’
I know I’m condemning myself now. But I want to tell him the truth. I need him to know.
‘I think … I think it’s possible I did … what they say I did. To Graham. But it wasn’t …’
He turns away for a moment. Then turns back. ‘I believed you. All this time. In spite of overwhelming evidence to the contrary, I …’ He gasps, as though he’s been hit. ‘I’m such an idiot. It was so obvious.’
‘It wasn’t – Dan, I need you to believe me. He was awful. He made me—’
He laughs. I feel my heart fall through me, an absence. ‘Did Evie make you do it, too?’ As soon as he’s said it, he pales. It’s a viciousness that’s so unlike him. As though the loss has turned him into someone he’s not.
‘I didn’t – she’s got to be with that boy – her diary says—’
‘Don’t, Hannah. I don’t want to talk about that bloody “diary”. Even I could see through that. And it turns out I’m the world’s biggest mug.’
‘What?’
‘Will and I searched that room with a fine-toothed comb. There was nothing there. And then, all of a sudden, you’re alone in the house for two hours and that conveniently appears? Why would you think anyone would—’
‘She’d hidden it, Dan, I swear. I only saw it because—’
He looks away, shaking his head. And then he looks at me in a way that makes him unrecognizable to me. ‘You know what, Hannah – no. I’m sorry, but … I can’t do this. I don’t believe a word you say.’
It’s a gut-punch, the words, the coldness in his voice. I reach for the glass on the table with shaking hands, but it tips, water spilling across the oak. He doesn’t move. Only watches as I try to clean up, my hands shaking.
I stop, and drop the clod of wet paper towel in front of me. ‘Please, Dan. Please. You have to believe me. She was your daughter as much as mine. It’s like you said: we’re a united front. We’re …’
A sob tears through him. It’s the worst sound I’ve ever heard. And then, I realize why.
‘She is your daughter. She’ll come back, soon, and it’ll all be—’
‘No. No. I think you’re lying. You’ve been lying this whole time, and I’ve been so bloody …’ He staggers, abruptly off-balance and clings to the back of the chair. It’s the shock of realization. I know the feeling well. ‘I’ve tried really, really hard. But … I can’t do this. I’m sorry. I can’t.’
My knees buckle beneath me. ‘Dan—’
‘I need to talk to Will.’ He hands me my phone as I reach for him. ‘Call your solicitor,’ he says. ‘Will and … They’re probably lining up the press for your arrest as we speak. So you should … You should call them. Soon.’
He peels my fingers from his skin, and walks away.
53
London, 2008
Graham stands by the sink, arms folded across his chest. The solicitor asks me something, but I miss it. I can’t focus. All my thoughts have coalesced around him. Around the way he’s looking at me.
‘Hannah?’
I blink. ‘Sorry – what?’
‘I just need to make sure I’m absolutely clear on this. If you’re not going to attend, I need to …’
I nod. I wanted to attend. I wanted to be in court today: to see the Wexworth family. To face them.
But Darren doesn’t want me there. He’s afraid I’ll say something that makes them liable. He’s worried I’ll apologize. Apparently, that’s the worst thing I could do.
Darren thinks it, and Graham naturally agrees. I can argue with one, but not the other. So I’m staying home. Graham is attending in my place.
The solicitor thinks this is my idea, of course. I told him it was. That’s what happens, now: I say words I don’t mean. I parrot the things Graham tells me to say. I say them so many times, I almost believe them. And when I contradict them, I doubt myself.
I know this is wrong. Occasionally, when I’m alone, I’m visited by my old self: a woman who knows better. Then, I think about leaving him. Once, I even packed a bag. One for Evie, too. I stood by the front door for maybe twenty minutes – and then, turned back. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t even unlock the door.
‘Just so I’m clear,’ the solicitor says – an eerily thin man, with a haunted look perpetually in his eyes. (I wonder if that happens, when your life is spent defending people who tell you, outright, that they’re guilty.) ‘You agreed to let Lucie go out on a supervised walk, in exchange for … what, exactly?’
I sigh. I see her sitting on the chair opposite, legs tucked underneath her, the strings of her headphones dangling around her neck. ‘I wanted her to talk to me. Properly. We’d had a few sessions that had been … unproductive. She didn’t say much. We’d started to make progress, the day before, but then …’
Graham rolls his neck, loosening a crick. I lose my thread each time he moves.
‘But then?’
‘She’d received a letter overnight that … It upset her. So she’d gone back to not talking. Which is why I had to … I needed to give her an incentive to talk to me, and I knew she wanted to go outside, so …’
‘What was in the letter?’
I feel an itch, an urge to say nothing. Old habits, I suppose: patient confidentiality had been drilled into me as a student, and I’ve since drilled it into my own. Not that I have students, now. I’ve been out of work for almost three years. I no longer have anyone to teach; and when you’re talking to the man paid to defend you, confidentiality ceases to apply.
Graham unfolds his arms, and leans against the counter.
‘It was from her sister, Sophie. She said … She’d invited Lucie to stay with her when she got out.’
‘And that upset her, how, exactly?’
I don’t know how to say it, in front of Graham. There’s no way he won’t take it as a slight. If he believes it at all. More likely, he’ll assume I’m lying. Coming up with a story designed to hurt him, to wound his pride.
She was torturing her, I want to say. She was coercive, and cruel. She made Lucie end a relationship with a boy who seemed to be good for her. Because he told Lucie she deserved better. Her sister wouldn’t let her believe that was true.
Graham taps his fingers. I feel like a hunted animal, primed to run. I feel like this all the time.
‘I don’t know,’ I say, finally. ‘We didn’t get into that.’
The solicitor says nothing. I wonder if he knows I’m lying. Graham does. I can see it in his eyes. He glances at his watch. ‘We’d better get going, then.’
I think he – the solicitor, whose name I still don’t know – is about to say something. He wants to speak to me alone. I can feel it. He’s a good person, I realize. I see it in the look of concern, in the way he glances from me, to Graham, and back again. But whatever he might’ve said, or done – he doesn’t. He thinks better of it.
After all, it’s Darren who’s paying his fees. My husband he’s been dealing with, who’s joining him in court. I’m incidental to all of this, though it’s all my fault. He stands and shrugs on his coat.
Graham steps towards me. ‘I’ll call you after the hearing.’
He tips my head back, and plants a kiss there, for show. The solicitor doesn’t see it: the thumb in the well of my neck. He holds it, for another beat, and I know what he’s saying. No one’s ever going to intervene. He can do whatever he wants, in front of whoever he wants to.
It doesn’t matter.
I’m crazy.
No one would believe me, even if I told them the truth.
54
Derbyshire, 2018
I follow Dan for a couple of steps.
And then, I stop.
I want to beg him to come back, to grab hold of him. To make him stay.
But it
’s too late. It’s done.
When the police come back, they’ll arrest me. They’ve enough already, I’m sure of it. And when they ask Dan to give a statement, he’ll tell them everything. He’ll tell them I murdered Graham – I said so myself – and he thinks I killed Evie, too.
I can’t face it. I can’t be here for that.
55
I stare out at the quarry below, the sawn-off rocks jagged and black, grizzled with moss.
I look out at the cold blue water, and I wait for them to come for me.
On the passenger seat, my phone vibrates. I scan the screen, and see me and Dan laughing, my hair on his lips. It’s five years old or more, this photo – taken on an afternoon like this one, when we’d gone for an ill-advised picnic, laughing as we sheltered from a storm. I’d attached the photo to his contact in my phone later that day: a reminder of the way he made me feel so happy, and so loved.
As I stare at it, the call rings out, and stops. I wonder if he’ll call again. Somehow, I know he won’t.
A bird, silhouetted, darts through the sky, trailed by another.
My phone lights up and vibrates again. One (1) new voicemail message. I tap the icon, and it plays.
‘Hannah,’ Dan says. ‘I’m really sorry. I love you. I’m sorry.’ Then, a pause. An inhale, a terrible shudder on the breath. ‘Please. I love you.’ A deathly beep. A cold voice asks if I’d like to hear the message again. I turn it off.
I know what this call is. I hear the fear in his voice, the regret. I imagine Stevens standing behind him, listening in. He wants me to come home, so he can finally make his arrest.
Stevens needs it to be me. Because then the story will change – it’ll no longer be about the ways he failed, his partner manipulating a case around an innocent man. My arrest will set things right: the focus rightfully turned back to me, the woman who started it all. Who lied, for a decade, and ran.
I close my eyes. I try to feel Graham beside me. But he’s gone. I’m alone with the reality of it, now. It’s all been in my mind. A delusion. Nothing more. I imagined him, just as I imagined Darcy. I imagined hauntings, things pulled from ghost stories, so I could hide from the truth.