A Game for All the Family

by Sophie Hannah

  ‘If George has the numbers, it’s possible his mother also has them,’ I tell Figgy. ‘Am I saying that I think Professor Anne Donbavand is my mystery caller? No, not at all. But she could be. I’ve never heard her voice. She might have a weird lisp. She doesn’t want George to have any friends, right? Ellen is George’s friend. Doesn’t that make Anne Donbavand the person most likely to want our family to leave Devon and go back to London?’

  I try to make out the shape of a correct and wise answer in the silence, but Figgy offers no hint as to what he’s thinking.

  ‘I believe it does,’ I mutter, aware of how defensive I sound. ‘Whatever Ellen says, the idea that it’s someone at Beaconwood ringing up and threatening me … sorry, but I don’t buy it. And Alex will say I’m being ridiculous, but this Sandie business—’

  I break off. Figgy looks at me expectantly.

  ‘When I was talking to Lisp Woman this morning and Ellen started to cry – that wasn’t general distress at having a stranger ring up and threaten our safety. Ellen burst into tears and ran from the room immediately after hearing me say, ‘My name’s not Sandie.’ It was the name that broke her, and someone applying it to me. Later, she accused me of hiding my true identity – of being Sandie. Somehow …’

  I pick up my mug of tea and walk over to the window. Standing here looking out, I remember the feeling I had upstairs in Ellen’s room. Something not quite right about her window, or the view, or …

  No, it’s not coming to me. It’s silly to hope that it ever will.

  Figgy appears to be asleep. I go over the rest of my theory in my head: somehow, there’s a connection between Ellen getting so upset at the mention of Sandie, and Allisande from her story.

  If she suspected me of being Allisande Ingrey, that means Allisande Ingrey is real.

  Is it possible for three generations of a family, all with such unusual names, to have no online presence whatsoever? I Googled the Ingreys and found nothing. Maybe I should ask around about them – in pubs, in the post office at Kingswear. Not everyone is on Facebook or has a Twitter following, especially once you leave London. I’m the living proof. I haven’t looked at my Twitter timeline or Facebook page since giving up my job – not once. If there are messages for me, I have no interest in receiving them.

  I could have shut down all my social media accounts when I left London – could have and probably should have, but doing so would have meant going to each site at least once more, and I couldn’t face that. I knew exactly what sort of messages would be waiting for me, and how many there would be, because I’d dared to disagree, publicly, with the dominant view of an issue that, in a sane world, would never have been an issue at all. I didn’t want to see all the nonsense, and still don’t. I chose instead to pretend that Twitter and Facebook had ceased to exist.

  Devon must be full of people who feel the same way about the internet, and shun electronic devices in favour of fresh air, horse-riding and mulch.

  ‘But if Perrine Ingrey committed a murder then surely I’d find something,’ I say to Figgy, who has opened his eyes.

  He yawns.

  I go back to the table, sit down and start to click on the search results for Professor Anne Donbavand. Here’s her page from the University of Exeter’s website. No photo, but a square in the top right-hand corner containing a head-and-shoulders silhouette template. Damn. I’d like to see her face. Would I take one look at it and think, ‘Oh, yes – definitely an unhinged harrasser’? Or the opposite: ‘There’s no way someone with that face would be capable of doing anything malicious’?

  Professor Donbavand has three areas of expertise: the history of Mesopotamian medicine, the Babylonian language, and Akkadian grammar and textual criticism.

  Wow. As someone with only two specialisms – doing Nothing, and the internal politics of Lockhart Gardner, the law firm in The Good Wife – I can’t help feeling comparatively inadequate.

  ‘It’s got to be her making the calls,’ I tell Figgy. ‘If I had to spend my days researching “Cuneiform Tablets on Eye Diseases”, I’d soon be issuing hysterical death threats too.’

  I’ve looked through three pages of results and haven’t found anything about Anne Donbavand that isn’t connected to her work. If I have to read any more about the various papers she’s presented at Assyriology conferences, I’ll be tempted to bite chunks out of the kitchen table. Her email address is freely given on her university page. Should I email her?

  In my head, I hear Ellen wail, ‘No, Mum!’

  I start again with an empty search box and type in ‘Donbavand Exeter’. Ellen said George’s dad works there too. Yes, here we are: Dr Stephen Donbavand, Economics Department. In format, his page is the same as his wife’s, except he’s been considerate enough to add a photo.

  This could be the man I saw on Lionel’s boat. I think it is. I didn’t see his face, only the back of his head, but this looks like him. He has the absent-moustache look that some men have: not a trace of facial hair, but an oddly curved upper lip that makes you think about a moustache even though you can’t see one.

  Big smile. Big blue eyes. Glasses. He looks nice. Like a big, benign duck. Approachable.

  I don’t care that Ellen will scream at me later. Before I go to Beaconwood for round three of trying to get the truth out of somebody there, I’m going to send George Donbavand’s parents an email. Both of them.

  I go to my Gmail account and click on the ‘Compose’ button. An empty message box appears. ‘Dear Professor and Dr Donbavand,’ I type. ‘My name is Justine Merrison. I’m the mother of Ellen Colley, who is a pupil at Beaconwood and an acquaintance of your son George.’ Better not put ‘friend’, given what Ellen’s told me. ‘Acquaintance’ sounds formal and distant. No one could object to acquaintanceship.

  Should I refer to George’s expulsion directly? Probably better not.

  ‘I believe there’s been a kerfuffle recently about a coat that Ellen gave to George?’ I write instead. ‘I’m having trouble getting any sense out of the school about what’s happened, and I’d find it really useful to talk to one or both of you.’ I type out my home and mobile phone numbers and sign off, congratulating myself on my maturity in not adding, ‘Though of course you might know both these numbers already and be using them in a campaign of daily persecution.’

  I copy and paste the Donbavands’ email addresses from Exeter University’s website, press send, then slam my laptop shut as if that will cancel out what I’ve done.

  It was the right thing to do. Going to Beaconwood again is the right thing to do.

  ‘The more determined everybody is to keep secrets from me, the more determined I am to find out, Figgy.’

  He’s chasing his tail, going round and round in dizzy-making circles.

  ‘Who are the Ingreys, though?’ I sigh. ‘They can’t be real. Can they? If they’re real and they’re nowhere to be found on the internet, where did Ellen get them from?’

  The beauty of Beaconwood’s grounds in the bright winter light is unwelcome today. These are gardens you should only be allowed to see, breathe in, walk through when you’re happy. It’s too jarring otherwise. I look at the lush, frost-speckled trees and berry-studded bushes and all I feel is anger and frustration because I can’t enjoy them. Ellen’s misery is weighing me down: the knowledge that it’s there, inside her, and I can’t take it out and demolish it. It’s like carting a heavy rock around in a bag, with no choice about when to put it down.

  I hear a child’s voice behind me. ‘He’s cute. Is he an Airedale?’

  I turn and see a boy dressed in Beaconwood Juniors uniform. He’s about seven or eight, with auburn hair and missing front teeth. Like many children his age whose parents do their best but lead too-busy lives, he has a clean face and a dirty neck – a grime scarf, I used to call it when Ellen was little.

  Imagine being too busy to make sure your child washes properly. Oh, wait: you don’t need to imagine it, do you? You lived it.

  A black BMW scre
eches out of the school car park onto the road as if it’s auditioning for an Extra-Specially-Reckless Driving bumper episode of Top Gear. I catch a fleeting glimpse of a cufflinked shirt-sleeve and a man’s hand, waving. The boy waves back. He’s more sensible than his father. They’re both late – for school and work respectively – but only the boy realises there’s no point hurrying when you’ve already missed half the morning. Might as well take your time.

  ‘He’s a Bedlington,’ I say. I’m such a dog novice, I don’t know if that’s a commonly used abbreviation, or if I should have said ‘Bedlington terrier’. I’m guessing the short version’s acceptable, since I’m pretty sure an Airedale is also a kind of terrier.

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Eight weeks.’

  ‘Called?’

  ‘His full name’s Figgy Pudding – that was the name his breeder gave him – but we call him Figgy.’

  I’m braced for mockery, but the boy nods. ‘We’ve got a bull terrier called Woody, but his real name’s Cantorella Jumping Jack Flash. That’s what it says on his pedigree certificate.’

  ‘From the Kennel Club, right?’ Olwen told me about this.

  ‘Yes. If your dog’s a pure-breed you can get a certificate with all his ancestors on. Woody’s ancestors have won loads of prizes. Have Figgy’s?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I ought to thank him for helping me avoid a chore. I was probably never going to send off for Figgy’s pedigree certificate anyway, but now I definitely won’t. I hate family trees too much. Sorry, Figgs – even yours.

  ‘Can I ask you something else?’

  ‘Sure.’ The boy tries to look modest. ‘I’m an expert on dogs. Before we had Woody, we had—’

  ‘It’s not about dogs. It’s about a person: George Donbavand. He was at Beaconwood until recently. A bit older than you, I think. Did you know him? What’s your name, by the way? I’m Justine.’ I smile and give him my hand to shake.

  ‘Harry Shelley.’

  ‘Did you know George?’

  ‘A bit. I’m not allowed to answer questions about him, though. They told us all not to. You’ll have to ask one of the teachers.’

  So George is real. The heavy rock I’m carrying is suddenly lighter. My daughter might be unhappy, but she is not delusional.

  ‘I will. Thanks. Nice to meet you, Harry.’

  He runs ahead up the path towards the school building. I try to follow, but Figgy has other ideas. He sticks his nose into the bottom of a hedge, where it stays for the next ten minutes, snuffling around.

  I ring the bell and wait. When Helen Minchin appears, I don’t bother with pleasantries. ‘I’m coming in, so please don’t try to stop me.’

  ‘There’s no need to be unpleasant.’

  ‘I agree. No need to be pleasant, either. I was going for neutral-informative. How did I do?’

  When I try to move forward, she moves to stand directly in front of me. ‘I’m afraid we don’t allow dogs in the building.’

  ‘I know that’s not true, Helen. I’ve seen a large, white, curly-haired dog in here more than once.’

  ‘You mean Pippin. Yes.’ Helen’s mouth tightens. ‘That shouldn’t have happened. We’ve clamped down since then.’

  ‘Ha! I hate to think what clamping down means in a school that magics children out of existence whenever the fancy takes it. Guess what? I bumped into another Beaconwood parent last night and she knew George Donbavand. She confirmed that he used to be a pupil here.’ I don’t feel guilty about lying. Anyone who would prefer the truth had better start using it themselves.

  ‘You remember George, don’t you, Helen?’

  She looks at me as if I’ve said something offensive.

  ‘He used to attend this school, didn’t he?’

  ‘I’m afraid you won’t be able to go inside the building with a dog.’ Helen presents this as if it’s an answer to my question.

  ‘He isn’t a dog,’ I say. Because you can lie even when it’s ludicrous, even knowing no one will fall for it. You can present laughable nonsense as if it’s the cleverest scam ever dreamed up by a human mind – that’s what I’ve learned at Beaconwood. ‘Granted, he looks exactly like a dog, but in fact he’s a bizarre-looking human. Figgy, say hello to Helen. He used to go to a different school, but he got expelled – can you believe this? – for looking too much like a dog. Now, please get the fuck out of my way.’

  Helen stands aside. I’d have sworn at her sooner if I’d known it would be so effective.

  I head for Mr Fisher’s classroom, wishing I could remember his first name. Lincoln? No, that sounds too American. I’m sure it begins with L. Lachlan. Yes, that’s it. Lachlan Fisher.

  I peer through the thin glass panel in the door and see that he’s in full flow, talking and gesticulating. I can see why Ellen calls him the Nerd King. It’s easy to picture him hacking into GCHQ databases while dressed in cartoon-character pyjamas.

  His stupidly large glasses have slid down his nose, almost to the tip. The children laugh at something he says. They like him. I can tell from outside that there’s a good atmosphere in the classroom.

  I knock, and steel myself for another difficult encounter.

  Still talking and waving his arms to emphasise whatever point he’s making, Mr Fisher sidles slowly towards the door. He hasn’t seen me yet. Any second now he’ll look through the glass and his relaxed expression will give way to one of discomfort. I can’t believe Helen Minchin has been warned about me and he hasn’t. Lesley Griffiths would have left no member of staff unbriefed.

  The door opens. ‘Hey, Justine.’ Mr Fisher smiles at me. It looks genuine.

  Wait. You haven’t challenged him yet.

  ‘Are you looking for Ellen?’ He’s doing that weird, obtrusive blinking that he always does: squeezing his eyes shut, then popping them open. It’s offputting. Also difficult not to imitate. ‘She’ll be in her classroom now, with Mr Goodrick. Oh, who’s this?’

  ‘Figgy. He’s very new.’

  ‘Hello, funny chap.’

  It occurs to me that some people might greet Mr Fisher with those same words.

  ‘He’s a furry little character, isn’t he?’ He bends to stroke Figgy’s head. ‘Or is he a girl?’

  ‘No, she’s a boy.’ I laugh. ‘Sorry – daft joke. He’s a boy. I’m not here for Ellen. I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Me?’ Mr Fisher sounds surprised. ‘Oh. Huh. Okay, let me just … Class? 9F! Thank you. I’m going to step outside for a moment to talk to a parent. I don’t want to hear the sound of chaos breaking out, okay?’

  He closes the door on them and turns back to me. ‘This is good. I wanted to ask you something. I mean … funnily enough. Huh.’

  Someone at Beaconwood who isn’t actively wishing me away: wow. I resist the urge to hug him. ‘You go first,’ I say.

  ‘Oh. All right. I wanted to ask … This is kind of an out-of-the-blue question, but did you used to work in television? Did you make dramas and stuff?’

  My stomach flips. How does he know? No one who isn’t part of the industry notices the tiny names that appear in the end credits of a TV programme.

  I told Ellen at least ten times not to mention my former career to anyone at school. It’s not a secret, but as soon as people know they start asking questions, and I stop being able to pretend those years of my life never happened.

  ‘Yes, I did. It was a form of slavery, albeit voluntary and well paid, and I’m delighted not to be doing it any more. Ellen wasn’t supposed to tell anyone. I don’t like to talk about it – brings me out in hives.’

  ‘Oh, Ellen didn’t … tell me,’ Mr Fisher finishes the sentence uneasily. ‘So, there’s something you want to discuss?’

  Interesting that he doesn’t want to reveal his source. Particularly as I can’t think of a single other person associated with Beaconwood who would know what I did when I lived in London.

  Hopefully this will work in my favour. He’ll be feeling bad, hoping to compensate by being super-helpful
from now on. ‘Mr Fisher, I like you.’

  ‘I … I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I approve of you. You teach my daughter about narrative perspective. I think you’re a decent man. And recently I’ve been treated pretty indecently by some of your colleagues.’

  ‘Indecently?’

  ‘Yes. Lesley Griffiths and Craig Goodrick have both lied to me about George Donbavand.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mr Fisher hard-blinks at me.

  ‘George was expelled for stealing a coat he didn’t steal. I know he didn’t, because the coat was Ellen’s and she gave it to him as a present. When I tried to talk to Lesley Griffiths about it, she told me there was no such boy. She said George Donbavand didn’t exist, had never been at Beaconwood, had never been expelled. Craig Goodrick said the same thing. They’re both lying, aren’t they?’

  ‘Huh.’ Lachlan Fisher looks down at Figgy. ‘This is kind of awkward.’

  ‘It’s okay. You won’t be giving anything away if you tell me George Donbavand exists. I bumped into a kid on my way in today and he told me. I asked him directly.’

  ‘Justine, that’s not true.’

  ‘What isn’t true?’

  ‘I’m not allowed to discuss it, but … you’re wrong.’

  ‘Wrong how? George isn’t a real boy? He wasn’t expelled?’

  ‘He wasn’t expelled.’

  I turn away. I can’t stand to look at another lying face. ‘What about his sister, Fleur? I suppose you’ll say she wasn’t expelled either.’

  ‘Most definitely not.’

  ‘So she’ll be in her classroom now, will she, if I go and look for her?’

  Mr Fisher opens his mouth. No words come out.

  ‘You know Fleur’s not at school today, or else you’d have said, “Yes, why don’t you go and look for her?” Why isn’t she at school?’

  ‘Justine …’ Lachlan Fisher clears his throat. ‘Sometimes, with the best will in the world …’