‘I’m coming up!’ I yell. I try not to look at Alex, but still manage to see him shaking his head at the spectacle I’m making of myself.
Ellen’s door is wide open. She and George are sitting on the floor with glasses of orange juice beside them and a Monopoly board between them.
Curtains closed, door open. What does that mean? Did they only open it when I called Ellen’s name? They look as if they’ve been sitting like this for a while; there’s no sign from either of them of recent exertion, they’re both fully clothed …
Alex was right. They’re playing Monopoly.
George springs to his feet and walks towards me, holding out his hand. I shake it. ‘Ellen’s mum,’ he says, with a wide smile. ‘It’s a great pleasure and an honour to meet you. You have a supremely brilliant daughter who’s about to beat me at Monopoly.’
Ellen giggles. Her eyes are bright, her cheeks pink.
‘It hardly seems fair, when I’m the one who brought the game round. I won’t be making that mistake again. What a wonderful house you have, incidentally.’
‘Thank you.’ I have to say something. ‘George, did you …’ What am I doing? I can’t ask him, but I have to know.
Alex appears at the top of the stairs. This must be how escaped lions feel when their tamers hove into view.
‘Do please ask, whatever it is,’ says George eagerly. ‘Ask away!’ He’s got a wide, square face, fine golden-brown hair, thin lips, big eyes that I’m trying not to stare at. It’s the irises. Instead of circles of colour, they look more like hollow cylinders – curved blue surfaces and grey interiors. It’s as if they go back a long way into his head, like tunnels down which the black pupils of his eyes are falling.
I clear my throat and say, ‘It’s nothing, really.’ George’s willingness to be grilled makes me feel guilty.
‘Oh, do ask, or I’ll wonder forever,’ he says theatrically. ‘I’m insatiably curious.’
‘In that case you have something in common with my wife,’ Alex tells him.
‘I was going to ask you if you closed the curtains. Ellen’s window.’
You see, George, I had a peculiar feeling in this room recently. I thought, ‘There’s something wrong here – something to do with the window.’ And I couldn’t work out what it meant. Still can’t. And Ellen never closes her curtains, but here they are: closed.
Malachy Dodd was alive on one side of that window and dead on the other. But he’s not real, is he?
‘Oh. Yes, I did indeed,’ says George. ‘It was getting dark.’ His smile has vanished and he looks stricken. ‘Oh – should I not have done that? I know some households like to leave curtains open day and night. I come from a family that closes them as soon as the light starts to fade, but maybe you’re different?’
‘It’s fine, George,’ says Ellen contentedly. Everything is ideal in her world at this moment. She looks … joyful is the only word I can think of that comes close to describing it. ‘Mum always closes the curtains when it gets dark. Don’t you, Mum?’
She’s not angry with me for asking an embarrassing question. She’s too elated; resentment would be impossible.
‘Yes, but I’m in someone else’s house,’ says George, his brow still furrowed. ‘Your mother’s right. I shouldn’t have touched the curtains without asking.’ He turns back to me. ‘I should confess that I also lowered the blind in the kitchen, when Ellen sent me down to get orange juice. Unilaterally, without permission. I’m so sorry. What must you think of me?’
I’m thinking more questions: why lower a blind in a room that you’re only going to be in for a minute? Where do his parents think he is?
He speaks like a fussy old retired colonel with a monocle.
And that surprises you? After all you’ve heard about his family life, you expected him to be a normal kid, playing Grand Theft Auto on his Xbox?
‘Don’t give it another thought, George,’ says Alex firmly. ‘It’s fine. Helpful, in fact. Isn’t it, Justine?’
‘Yes. Very. Thank you, George.’ I smile, feeling a stab of pity for this child who obviously wants so much to be liked and approved of.
Instantly, he produces a broad grin of his own to mirror mine and says, ‘It’s cosier if you keep the darkness out, I think.’
‘I agree,’ says Alex. His deliberately jolly tone annoys me. He’s trying to compensate George for what he sees as my unreasonableness.
‘My house should be cosy, as it’s a little cottage, but it isn’t at all. I hate it.’
‘You … you hate your house?’ I say.
‘Oh, I don’t mind the building itself. It’s the people in it that are the problem. They’re positively unnerving. Every day they unnerve me.’ He pronounces every word loudly and deliberately, like an entrant in a diction competition performing before the judges. ‘That’s another reason I closed the blind and the curtains. But we don’t need to go there. In fact, we shouldn’t.’
I look at Ellen, hoping for a clue. She’s deliberately avoiding my eye. Alex has fallen silent.
Wonderful. The conversation’s taken a turn for the awkwardly unfathomable, and suddenly I’m its sole custodian.
‘Who unnerves you?’ I ask. ‘Are you talking about your family?’
‘Justine, I don’t think he wants to talk about—’
‘Hell, yes, my family!’ George laughs and rolls his eyes, giving the lie to Alex’s tactful warning. ‘They’re a sorry bunch. I’m the only normal one of the four of us. Ellen is so lucky to have you two – loving, reasonable parents.’
I have no idea what to say. I’ve known this boy less than five minutes.
‘And you’re lucky to have her, and so am I,’ George goes on. ‘Even if she does beat me at Monopoly.’
‘I haven’t yet,’ says Ellen. ‘Let’s carry on playing. You two can go downstairs.’
‘George … you said something about another reason you closed the blind and curtains?’
‘Mum, you’re obsessed,’ says Ellen.
‘It’s all right,’ says George. ‘Yes, I didn’t want to be seen.’
‘By …?’ I ask.
‘The secret police, otherwise known as my dad. Our house is halfway up the hill on the other side of the river, directly opposite you. I don’t think he’d be able to see me in here from there, but I didn’t want to take the risk. He doesn’t know I’m here, you see. I’m not allowed to go anywhere. You can imagine how oppressive I find it!’
I glance at Alex, whose face is caught halfway between a smile and a grimace. He can’t decide if George is joking.
I’m sure he isn’t.
‘Where does your dad think you are now?’ I ask.
‘He has no idea. I’m hoping to keep it that way.’
‘But if you’re not allowed to go anywhere, how did you …?’
‘A very good question!’ George follows this compliment with a small bow. ‘I snuck out. Is it sneaked or snuck? I think it’s snuck. I left a note saying I’d gone out for a long walk. My mother’s away at a conference, which makes life easier – in too many ways to list. I waited until I knew she wouldn’t be able to ring for several hours, then I wrote a note for Dad and slipped out.’
Seeing my look of concern, George adds in his strange, booming voice, ‘It’s perfectly all right, really. You’re safe. Dad’s more likely to saw off his own head than tell Mum, even if he finds out where I’ve been. She’d make him suffer horribly.’
You’re safe. He takes for granted that the whole world is as afraid of his mother as his father is. And as he is, despite his bold manner. This isn’t confidence I’m looking at; it’s a very frightened boy, putting on an act.
I ought to tell him that if he isn’t allowed by his parents to be here, then he can’t stay.
And send him back to the madhouse halfway up the hill? Ellen would never forgive you.
‘You’re welcome to stay as long as you like, George,’ I say. ‘Make yourself at home.’
‘Thank you, Justine. You’re too
kind. As long as I like would be forever, which is impractical. Still.’ He sighs. ‘I wish I had a nice, normal mother like you. Oh!’ He turns from me to Alex. ‘Would the two of you like to join Ellen and me in our Monopoly tournament? It would be a convenient excuse to scrap the game we’re in the middle of – the one I’m losing – and start a new one. You’d be helping me out greatly.’
He’s real, I find myself thinking, but is he really fourteen? While knowing that he is, I am simultaneously wondering if there’s any way at all that he might not be. Could he be a seventy-five-year-old trapped in a child’s body? He’s so polite, yet he calls me ‘Justine’ without waiting to be asked. Scrupulously polite and overly familiar – it’s an odd combination.
‘But if you abandon a game – any game – then whoever’s winning at the moment of abandonment has won,’ Ellen teases him. That’s my daughter, who, until today, thought board games were the dullest thing in the world.
‘The moment of abandonment,’ George repeats, amplifying each word. ‘What a marvellous phrase. Doesn’t it sound like a romantic novel?’
‘You’ve got a better chance of not losing if you keep playing,’ says Ellen. ‘It’s your only hope, however remote.’
George turns to me and rolls his eyes conspiratorially. ‘Your offspring is an evil genius. I am completely in thrall to her. Next time I come, I’ll make sure to bring a jigsaw puzzle instead. Collaboration, not competition! That’s the way forward.’
No doubt New Ellen will declare herself to be a devotee of jigsaws any moment now.
‘Righto,’ says Alex decisively. ‘Justine and I’ll leave you to it. We’d better go and track down the dog, who at this moment is probably crossing “Destroy the entire downstairs” off his to-do list.’
Ellen laughs. ‘You’re funny, Dad.’
‘Oh.’ George looks disappointed. ‘Well, if you change your minds, you’d be most welcome to join us at any time. The dog too! Monopoly’s fun with two players but four or five is ideal. It’s a game for all the family!’
Two hours later, with my mobile phone hot in my pocket from a long call, I’m returning to my house again, this time in a dripping raincoat and drenched trainers and socks. Figgy is soaked too. Without the padding of dry, fluffy fur, his legs look perilously thin. Luckily he doesn’t seem to mind. He and I have walked three times around the perimeter of Speedwell House’s grounds, on the inside. I’d have ventured beyond the big iron gates, but Alex, shocked to hear that I took Figgy to Beaconwood, was adamant that he can’t leave our land again until he’s had his second lot of vaccinations. I think he’s being neurotic, but arguing would have kept me in the house longer.
I had to get out. Being told by George that I would be ‘most welcome’ to join an activity taking place in my own house made me feel the opposite. I escaped so that I wouldn’t have to speak to him again before he left.
I don’t dislike him. How I could I fail to like a boy who’s so lovely and complimentary to Ellen, and so charming to me? I fled because I was upset for him – too upset to stay and endure any more of his weird conversation, to watch him set off for what passes for home and his godawful parents, knowing there’s nothing I can do to help him. If I can’t solve a problem, I don’t want to be around it.
You’re a coward.
I unlock the front door and open it. Figgy rushes into the house ahead of me, only to be jerked back by his lead. I unclip him and he goes racing towards the kitchen to find his food bowl.
‘Is that you?’ Alex calls out from the family room. ‘I was about to send a search party.’
‘Sorry. I had an important call to make.’ It’s not the sort of thing someone who does Nothing should be saying, but I’m too tired to worry about my life plan having drifted off course. ‘Where’s Ellen?’
‘In her room iPod-ing. Or Instagram-ing, or Video Star-ing. George left about an hour ago. Come and tell me about the call, which I assume was George-related. Bring alcohol if so inclined.’
I pull off my raincoat, hang it up in the hall, and swap my soaked socks and trainers for my indoor flip-flops.
Alcohol. Excellent idea. On my way to the fridge for tonic water to add to my gin, I stop in front of the kitchen window, raise the blind that George lowered, and stare out. All I can see in the blackness is moonlight bouncing on the water and small, square patches of gold from across the river: the windows of the cottages opposite.
One of those houses belongs to the Donbavands. Which one? I’m not close enough to see what’s going on in any of the rooms, though I can see flickers of movement. Perhaps with binoculars …
I don’t have any, and I doubt there’s anywhere nearby where I could get some. When I lived in London, if I didn’t have something I wanted, I went out and bought it. Since we’ve moved here, I’ve adopted a different attitude: anything I haven’t already got, I accept that I can’t have. When the view from your every window is leaves and water, it seems a sensible and hassle-free approach to take. If I ever wake up and find a department store on my lawn, I’ll rethink my policy.
Alex has made a fire in the family room, the only one with a working fireplace at the moment. All the others need attention before they can safely be used. Personally I’d rather manage with just the one than have to ring a chimney sweep, but Alex might disagree strongly enough to sort it out himself.
I pass him his whisky and tell him I’ve hired a private detective.
‘What? You’ve done what? Tell me you haven’t!’
‘I have. Don’t worry, it’s a reputable firm. They’ve got coverage all over the UK, a website, thousands of Twitter followers.’
‘Justine, are you demented or something?’
‘Not when I last checked. Why? Do I seem it?’ I sit down on the floor in front of the fire with my drink. Figgy dashes in from the hall and plonks himself down in my lap. Great. Another soaking from his wet fur.
‘Is there such a thing as a reputable private detective?’ Alex asks. ‘Aren’t they all crooks?’
‘I’ve no idea. Neither have you. We have no experience of that world.’
‘True, but—’
‘Let’s not waste time arguing. It’s done. I’ve paid upfront. He’ll either prove useful or he won’t. I thought it was worth a try.’
‘So you asked him to find out who’s making these phone calls? I think there was another one while you were out, by the way. The landline rang. When I picked it up, there was breathing, then they hung up.’
‘I mentioned the calls, yes, but we mainly talked about George.’
‘Why? There’s no mystery about George any more, is there? He’s real. I assume Lesley Griffiths explained to you why she expelled him?’
‘She didn’t expel him. She only pretended to.’
In between sips of gin and tonic, I tell Alex everything that happened at Beaconwood this afternoon. He listens without interrupting. When I’m finished he says, ‘So you’ve asked this investigator to find out … what? The Donbavands’ original name, before they changed it?’
‘Not only that – also where they used to live, what happened to make them want to run away, who’s after them with a view to harming them …’
Alex is wrinkling his nose dismissively. ‘Can he find out any of that stuff? How?’
‘I don’t know. He didn’t sound fazed by it at all. He said, “Yeah, should be able to get something for you,” as if I’d asked him for a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit.’
‘I can’t think how he’ll do it,’ Alex says.
‘That’s because you’re an opera singer and not a detective,’ I say impatiently. ‘I assume he has methods that he uses regularly, if his firm’s been in business for thirty years.’
‘Maybe.’ Alex sounds unconvinced. ‘I hope he’s not planning to break any laws, making you an accessory.’
‘I don’t care if he breaks every law known to man if he gets me the information I want,’ I say. ‘I’ve given him Anne and Stephen Donbavand’s email addresses and sugg
ested he hacks their accounts.’
Alex throws his head back in despair. ‘That’s idiotic! That could land you in jail. What did he say?’
‘He said hacking emails was against the law. He didn’t say he wouldn’t do it.’
‘Good on him. Justine, I’m worried about this.’ Alex slides off the sofa, landing on the floor next to me. It’s hard to deliver a stern lecture while reclining with your feet up. ‘It’s not only the possibly dodgy detective and the legality issues, it’s the chance that you might find out. Lesley Griffiths’ approach is the one I’d favour: something fucked up and dangerous is going on, therefore keep as far out of it as you can.’
‘For as long as George and Ellen are intent on doing their Heathcliff and Cathy bit, we’re involved whether we like it or not, Alex.’
‘Don’t be daft. George popping round once in a blue moon when he can escape from his parents isn’t going to put us at risk, but—’
‘Isn’t it? Are you sure? George was pulled out of school by his parents because of Ellen – because, after years of loneliness, he made a friend. His mother doesn’t want anyone getting close to him. Lesley said so. All right, maybe someone’s out to get the whole family. Maybe. If so, it’s made Anne Donbavand paranoid and she’s decided to take it out on George. And on us.’
Shall I go further and risk being wrong? I can’t keep it in. ‘I think she’s the one making the threatening calls.’
Alex makes a weary face. ‘You’ve no proof of that.’
‘Which is why I said, “I think”. I’ve never heard her voice, she didn’t answer the email I sent her – neither did her husband. Now we know Ellen’s friendship with George bothers her. To her disturbed mind, it must look as if our arrival here meant she had to take her kids out of Beaconwood. So, yes, when I think about who might want to ring me and say, “Go home or I’ll kill you and your family”, she’s at the top of the list. She is the list.’
‘Did you tell your detective you suspect her?’
‘Yes. I told him everything.’
‘Darling, you don’t know this man from a bar of soap.’
A Game for All the Family Page 20