‘I meant that, given your daughter’s character, yours is unlikely to be up to much. I’ve been asking myself what kind of mother might have a child like Ellen, and—’
‘And that’s the end of this conversation,’ says Alex, who has appeared behind me. ‘Now that you’ve insulted my wife and daughter, I’m not interested in anything else you might have to say. I’m going to close this door now – excuse me, Justine – and I expect to see you walking away. If you’re still on my property in five minutes’ time, I’ll call the police.’
He slams the door in Anne’s face.
‘Alex, I don’t want to stay here.’ I’m shaking. I can’t believe what she said about Ellen. It’s worse than the death threats. Given your daughter’s character … The idea that someone could say that about my lovely child …
‘I think she’ll go,’ Alex says. He doesn’t sound sure.
‘I don’t care. Let’s get out of Devon. I don’t want to be anywhere near that woman, even if she’s not on our land – even with a river between us. She’s obsessed with this house.’ It’s more than I can bear: the thought of Anne Donbavand, every night while we’re asleep, silently and resentfully roaming around our garden, imagining herself to be the wronged Lisette Ingrey whose home it once was.
‘But if we go, she’s won,’ I argue with myself.
‘It’d be temporary,’ says Alex. ‘We can have a higher wall built, a lockable gate.’ He runs his hands through his hair. ‘Do you think we’re overreacting?’
‘No.’
‘I’ve never had such a bad feeling about anyone as I have about her.’
A loud scream snatches my breath.
Ellen.
Alex is running. I freeze for a second, then run after him.
Kitchen.
All the rooms in this house are so fucking far apart. Too much time to think between here and there. To fear the worst. No, no, no. This is not happening. Nothing bad will happen.
Anne Donbavand is in my house. In the kitchen, sitting on the sofa. The window’s open. Ellen’s crying, curled up against one leg of the kitchen table, hugging Figgy close. His lead – navy blue with a pattern of pale blue paw prints – is lying on the floor, pointing from Ellen to George’s mother.
‘Dad, make her go,’ Ellen sobs. ‘She climbed in. I opened the window to hear what she was saying to you at the door. I couldn’t stop her and grab Figgy at the same time. I thought she’d gone! I was nearly in the hall, coming to find you, and I heard this noise. She was pushing the window open more from the outside, so that she could get in. She picked up Figgy’s lead and yanked him towards her. I think she was going to take him.’
‘That’s all lies,’ Anne says.
‘All?’ I say. ‘So you didn’t climb in through my kitchen window?’
She smiles at me. Now that she’s inside, she’s happier.
‘Wow.’ The disgust I feel almost overpowers me. ‘You really don’t give a shit what you say, do you? You’d literally say or do anything.’
‘Anne,’ says Alex.
‘Yes?’
‘What are you doing in our kitchen when Justine expressly said you couldn’t come in? Do you remember her saying that?’
‘Yes. But I need to talk to you both. It’ll be simpler if you allow the conversation to happen. It’s necessary, or I wouldn’t be here.’
‘If you want to talk, Justine and I will meet you somewhere – as soon as you like – but we don’t want you in our house. So please leave.’
‘No.’ Anne smiles. There’s a laugh behind it that she’s holding in.
‘All right, this is completely unacceptable,’ I say. ‘I’m going to ring the police and report an intruder.’ I move towards the phone on the wall.
‘Go ahead,’ says Anne. ‘When they arrive, I’ll tell them you harboured my fourteen-year-old son in your home against my wishes. You knew George wasn’t allowed to be here, but you did nothing about it. You let him stay. You didn’t phone his worried parents to let them know he was safe. That’s unforgivable.’
I laugh. ‘I’ll be happy to confirm to the police that it’s true. If I’d known what George was going back to, I’d never have let him leave.’
‘His family – that’s what he was going back to.’ Anne sounds annoyed. ‘We’re a very close, happy family.’
‘It’s not true,’ says Ellen, who has composed herself. She’s still holding Figgy tight. ‘George was never here. He’s never been to this house. Mum’s just angry. Ignore her. George would never come here without permission. He knows he’s not allowed to.’
Shit. Have I landed George in it by admitting he was here? Anne evidently knew already; I assumed he’d told her.
She throws back her head and laughs. ‘You’re a shameless little liar, aren’t you?’ she says to Ellen. ‘Have you told your parents you’ve talked George into agreeing to marry you?’
‘It was his idea,’ says Ellen. She looks at me, her eyes full of panic. No words, but I’m in no doubt about what she means: I’m not to think that because Anne knows about the marriage, she knows everything. She doesn’t know George is gay.
I nod: got it.
‘That was what I came here to talk about: this marriage rubbish,’ Anne says. ‘Then, lo and behold, I overhear Ellen talking about “something something George’s visit” – the visit she’s now denying ever took place!’
‘Wait.’ Anne has made a mistake, and I pounce on it. ‘Ellen, when you first came into the kitchen just now, did you touch the phone?’
‘Yes.’ Ellen looks surprised. ‘I hung it back up. It was off the hook, dangling against the wall.’
I turn to Anne. ‘Exactly. When Ellen mentioned George’s visit, you were nowhere near this house. You appeared a few seconds later, right at the bottom of the garden. You can’t possibly have overheard, unless …’ I laugh. ‘Anne, you’ve just totally given yourself away! I was on the phone to my deeply unpleasant anonymous caller when Ellen banged on the door. I dropped the phone and ran, without hanging up – as Ellen’s just told us. She came in here and found it off the hook. So, there’s only one way you could have caught what Ellen blurted out about “George’s visit”, and that’s if the anonymous caller was you. Ellen’s voice couldn’t possibly have reached where you were in the garden. The kitchen, on the other hand … I’d dropped the phone in the kitchen, but you were still listening. Weren’t you?’ I raise my voice. ‘And Ellen’s scared, raised voice in the hall was just loud enough for you to hear. Admit it!’
‘No. I heard Ellen from the garden,’ says Anne calmly, but her skin has changed. Like a snake. Her face is dark and mottled. I’ve riled her.
‘George wasn’t here, I swear,’ Ellen tries again. ‘What you heard – yes, I said, “George’s Visit”, but I wasn’t talking about George coming here. He’s never been to this house, honestly.’
‘Do you think I’m an idiot?’ Anne asks her.
‘No, listen. Dad’s a singer. I’ve grown up listening to a lot of opera, and my favourite’s Carmen, by Georges Bizet. When I was a child, before I’d learned any French, I saw his name on a CD case and pronounced it wrong. Mum and Dad thought I’d said “George’s Visit”, and it stuck. We’ve all called Bizet “George’s Visit” ever since. Haven’t we, Mum? It’s become like … a family joke.’
A game for all the family!
Ellen’s not looking at me, but a little to my left. I turn to see what might have caught her eye.
The noticeboard. Alex’s list. ‘CAR MEN!!’ at the top. Bizet’s Carmen. So that’s what gave her the idea.
‘It’s true,’ I lie. ‘That must be what you heard, Anne.’ Is this what Stephen Donbavand does – colludes because he can’t bear to expose lies told by someone he loves?
‘Justine, why are we justifying ourselves to this woman?’ Alex asks me. ‘Why are we talking to her at all?’
Anne walks over to where Ellen is sitting and stares down at her. ‘George’s Visit instead of Georges Bizet?’ she s
ays, with ice in her voice. ‘You honestly expect me to believe that?’
‘Yes,’ says Ellen defiantly.
Figgy barks.
Anne opens her bag. I open my mouth to shout, expecting her to pull something out – a knife or small spade – but she doesn’t. She lowers the open bag, holds it in front of Ellen’s face and says, ‘Stay away from my son in future.’
‘Dad, she’s got a dead thing in there!’ Ellen cries out.
Alex moves to grab Anne’s bag, but she slides out of his way, snapping her bag shut.
‘What have you got in there?’ I ask her. ‘Show me!’ Please don’t let it be some poor person’s puppy or kitten.
‘It was covered in blood. Its head was half torn off,’ Ellen sobs.
‘She’s lying again,’ says Anne.
‘Fuck you, you rank bitch, it had a fucking tail!’
Oh, God. A squirrel? Our garden’s full of them.
‘What appalling language from a child.’
‘If you don’t want to hear more of it from two adults, I suggest you get the fuck out of our house,’ says Alex.
‘Don’t worry, I’m going. I’ve made my point.’ Anne sweeps out of the kitchen. I hear her heels clack along the hall, and then the front door bangs shut.
I run to the drawer beneath the sink, pull it open and grab the biggest knife I can see. I lift it above my head and bring it down with force, stabbing the wooden work-surface as hard as I can, again and again.
I wish I’d killed her, wish I’d killed her, wish I’d killed her.
‘Justine, stop. Give me that.’ There’s a gap in the red mist in my head. Through it, I see Alex taking the knife from me. ‘Don’t take it out on the house.’
I have to do something. I’m not going to stand here and talk about this any more – not to anyone. It’s time to stop talking and start acting.
‘I’m going out,’ I say.
‘Where?’
‘Don’t be stupid, Mum!’
‘I’m forty-three. I can go where I like.’
‘Yes, and you can kill Anne Donbavand and end up in jail,’ says Alex.
‘I’m not going to kill anybody.’
‘Tell me where you want to go,’ says Alex.
I haven’t got the energy to lie. I shouldn’t have to. ‘Her house.’
‘She said she was going to work. Even if she isn’t, she won’t let you in.’
‘I didn’t let her in, but she got in, didn’t she?’ I say bitterly. ‘I can do the same to her. You think she’s on her way to Exeter University? That might have been her original plan, but it changed when she heard the words “George’s visit”. She’ll be driving back home, fast as she can, to make her son’s life more of a misery than it already is. Or maybe she won’t scream at him – maybe screaming’s what she does when she’s only mild-to-medium angry. For a serious mutiny like this, she might dig a grave for him in the back garden.’
‘So if you’re right, Anne’s on her way back home now,’ says Alex. ‘You want to turn up and get in the middle of a huge family row?’
‘I’ll get there before the row starts.’
‘And do what?’
‘Bring George back with you, Mum. Please. He can live with us.’
‘No, El, he can’t,’ Alex says. ‘That would be kidnapping.’
‘George would love to be kidnapped, Dad. Wouldn’t you, if that … thing was your mother?’
‘Yes, but …’ Alex groans and turns to me. ‘Justine, stop and think a minute. If you’re right and Anne’s heading home, she’ll get there before you.’
‘No. I’ll get there first.’
‘How can you? She’s had a head start, and you’re not even dressed. What do you want to go to Anne’s house for?’
I ignore the question and sit down on the floor beside Ellen. ‘Don’t cry, El – it’s going to be okay.’ I stroke Figgy, who growls. I’ve never heard him do that before. Could he be upset by all this? His eyes widen and he licks my hand, as if to apologise for growling.
‘Ellen, listen – you said Anne was leaning against her car at the bus stop. Right?’
Ellen nods.
‘If she’s going home, she’ll drive there,’ I say to Alex. ‘The only other way is Lionel’s boat. Why would she take the boat and leave her car this side of the river? She’d only have to retrieve it later.’ I glance at the time on the microwave. ‘Lionel’s boat leaves in eight minutes. I can make it if I take the Range Rover – then it’s five minutes across to the Dartmouth side, and it looks like no more than five up to George’s house. If Anne’s driving, she’ll have to go all the way round, which is forty-five minutes at least – probably more like an hour, this time of day.’
‘But what will you do when you get there?’ Alex asks. ‘What’s the point of this trip?’
‘No time to tell you.’
Or to work it out myself.
I grab my bag, phone, car keys, and pull on a coat over my pyjamas. In the hall, I slide my feet into what’s left of my puppy-chewed flip-flops and I’m on my way, with Alex’s question ringing in my ears.
What will I do when I get there? I’m about to find out. If I can just get there before Anne does …
In the car, I’m disciplined. Can’t look at the clock on the dashboard or I’ll worry about time, make frantic calculations, measure each second as it knocks itself out of the race. That’ll take my concentration away from driving as fast as I can. I keep my foot pressed down on the gas.
If I meet another car coming in the opposite direction up this narrow lane, I’m finished. I’ll miss Lionel’s boat.
Don’t think about that either. Don’t think, don’t feel, don’t breathe, don’t be human. You’re used to this, remember? It’s how work used to be.
I get to the boat with seconds to spare and sweat pouring down my face. The other passengers take care not to look at me. There are nine of them, all doing a convincing impression of Happy Tourist Under No Time Pressure At All. I hope they all drown – not literally, but in my head, to make me feel better.
Lionel, not known for his subtlety, leans his face in front of mine and says, ‘Somebody’s in a tizzy this morning!’ I tell him to get me across the water as fast as he can, then blank out his reply – something about journeys taking as long as they take; currents, headwinds, am I with him? If I allowed myself to hear the detail, I’d push him into the river, which would be counterproductive.
It seems to take years, but at last we’re moving across the Dart. A white-haired woman in a green raincoat points at my house as it comes into view at the top of the hill and says, ‘Look, Morris, up there – is that the Agatha Christie house?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Morris replies.
Is he suggesting Speedwell House isn’t good enough for Agatha Christie? He can drown too.
I love my house. There’s only one thing about it that I hate: its proximity to Anne Donbavand.
Using another trick from my London taxi-grabbing, meeting-hopping days, I get out my purse and prepare the exact change for the fare, so that I can press it into Lionel’s hand on the other side and make a quick getaway while the other passengers are fumbling in their pockets for pound coins.
Finally we arrive at the jetty on the Dartmouth side. While we were sailing, I identified the best footpath to take up the hill. I’ve never sprinted uphill before, and would have said it was something I couldn’t do, but there’s no such thing. Everything’s something you can’t do until you have to do it.
Now the foothpath has run out, or else I’ve lost it. That’s more likely. I scramble up the wooded hillside, nearly slipping a few times. Flip-flops aren’t the ideal footwear for this sort of thing. If I fell now, I might land in Lionel’s boat as it fills up to set off back to the Kingswear side.
Against the odds, I arrive in one piece. The Donbavands’ tangerine-coloured cottage has a wooden sign attached to its wall to the left of the front door. It must have a name, but I can’t see it. The sign has a large
sticker covering its surface – the same size and shape as the one that was stuck over my house sign. This one says, ‘Wavebreaker’.
To hide the cottage’s true identity, so that vengeful Allisande Ingrey can’t find her sister Lisette and kill her.
It’s too crazy, but now isn’t the moment to wonder how any of this is possible.
I knock hard on the door. Nothing happens. I hear no movements from within.
Bending down, I shout through the letterbox, ‘Hello! Anyone home? George? Stephen?’ I look in through the narrow, rectangular slit. All is still: an unoccupied house.
‘Justine? Is that you?’
I cry out and jump back. The voice is so clear and close. He must be sitting in the hall beneath the letterbox. ‘George?’
‘Yes. Hello! This is a nice surprise.’
‘Are you sitting against the door?’
‘Yes. It’s what I like to call “going out”. The closest I get these days, I’m afraid.’
Unimaginable. Yet, on this side of the river, in this house: normal.
‘Let me in, George.’
‘I can’t. The door’s locked and I haven’t got a key.’
Shit.
‘My mother took it. She’s no fool, my mother. She knows that if I had access to a key, the chances of her finding me here when she got home would be slim to say the least.’
‘Are you alone in there?’
‘Yes. Mum and Dad are at work, and Fleur’s having a trial day at a new school.’
‘But not you?’ My fingers are starting to ache from holding the letterbox open.
George laughs. ‘Don’t be silly. I can’t be trusted to be out in the world. Fleur can. She’s our mother’s creation. No mind of her own whatsoever. She’d never be so audacious as to make a friend, or – God forbid – trust someone outside the nuclear family. No danger there.’
Where did he learn to talk this way? From his mother? I wonder how many times she’s told him the story of Lisette, Allisande and Perrine Ingrey.
‘George, I need to get in.’
‘And I need to get out,’ he says. ‘I can’t work out if we share a dilemma or not. I think we probably do.’
‘Your windows look single glazed. I’m going to smash one.’
A Game for All the Family Page 31