A Game for All the Family

by Sophie Hannah

  To: AllisandeIngrey@hotmail.com

  I’m not getting in your taxi. Tell me your address and I’ll make my own way there.

  From: AllisandeIngrey@hotmail.com

  To: a.donbavand@exeter.ac.uk

  Sorry, I can’t do that. I’m not putting my address in an email that you could show to anyone. Let’s meet somewhere public. Why don’t I meet you off the train? I’ll wait on the arrival platform. We haven’t seen each other for years, but I’m sure you’ll recognise me. I have short spiky brown hair these days and I’ll be wearing a green coat with a large brooch on it: a boat made out of pearls.

  In peace –

  Sandie

  From: a.donbavand@exeter.ac.uk

  To: AllisandeIngrey@hotmail.com

  I’ll see you tomorrow.

  From: AllisandeIngrey@hotmail.com

  To: a.donbavand@exeter.ac.uk

  Thank you for agreeing to come, Lisette. This means so much to me. I promise you, you won’t regret it.

  Your loving sister Allisande

  ‘Is that my bit done?’ Olwen asks. ‘Can I go?’

  ‘Yes. I won’t be much longer. Half an hour after you, maximum.’

  We’re in an internet café near Shepherd’s Bush tube station. I chose somewhere random and far from Olwen’s house. Just to be extra safe, I didn’t want any communication to Anne’s university address to come from a computer or device associated with Olwen. I can’t let her end up in any kind of trouble for doing me a favour.

  She stops halfway to the door. ‘Why did I need to write the emails?’ she asks. ‘You could have done it. You told me what to say, pretty much.’

  ‘Author identification,’ I mutter, already busy with my next online task. In my former life as a slave to the TV industry, I made a drama about a forensic linguistic analyst who worked with the police in murder trials. His job was to identify who wrote what when it really mattered – did this murderer write that letter? As part of my research for the programme, I spoke to a real forensic linguistic analyst, Professor Malcolm Coulthard from Aston University in Birmingham. He told me it’s frighteningly easy to prove who wrote what if you have enough data to make comparisons.

  Anne Donbavand has other correspondence from me. I don’t want her hiring an expert to tell her I also wrote Allisande’s emails. Olwen used words and phrases I’d never use, like ‘In peace’ as a sign-off. And she uses a double-dash as punctuation – I’ve never seen anyone do that before.

  ‘Justine?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You don’t honestly think Anne believes those emails are from Allisande, do you?’

  I glance at the young Asian man behind the counter to check he’s not taking too keen an interest in our conversation. I needn’t have worried. He’s texting someone, with a smirk on his face and busily jabbing fingers. Perhaps he too is pretending to be someone he isn’t. Perhaps we all are: everyone in here – the people to my left and right and all along the row, staring at their screens, enjoying their private, insignificant deceits, or else trapped by them and wishing they could escape.

  ‘Maybe she does, maybe she doesn’t,’ I say. ‘She could be coming tomorrow because she’s convinced or because she’s curious.’

  ‘Or uncertain and confused,’ Olwen suggests.

  ‘I hope she’s confused as all fuck,’ I say. ‘If she is, she only has herself to blame. She’s the one who turned messing with other people’s heads into an Olympic sport and made me want to win the gold medal.’

  Olwen leans down and peers at the screen. ‘You’ve set up an email account in Anne’s name. Why?’

  ‘It’s nothing to worry about,’ I tell her. ‘Leave it to me.’

  ‘I should get back to the dogs, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes. Go.’ I need to do this next part alone.

  Once I’m sure Olwen’s not coming back, I write an email to my former boss, Donna Lodge, with the subject heading ‘Private and Confidential’. With forensic linguistics in mind, I alter my style as thoroughly as I can, using short, staccato sentences instead of my usual longer ones.

  From: a.donbavand@gmail.com

  To: Donna.Lodge@factotumproductions.co.uk

  Dear Donna Lodge,

  My name is Anne Donbavand. I’m a professor at the University of Exeter. I’m also a friend of Justine Merrison. I think you used to work with her. I urgently need to talk to you. It’s about Justine. I’m afraid it’s too sensitive and confidential to put in an email. I can’t risk sending this from my home or work computer. I’ve asked a friend in London to send it from an internet café. I’m in London tomorrow, as luck would have it. Could you meet me at two o’clock? We’d need somewhere private where no one is likely to see us. Also, we can’t be overheard. I’m afraid I don’t know London well. I’ll leave the choice of venue up to you.

  This is important. Indeed, it’s urgent. I would very much appreciate it if you could meet me.

  Very best wishes

  Anne Donbavand

  I press send. Donna, who must hate me for walking out and leaving her in the lurch, won’t be able to resist. If she has a meeting scheduled for two o’clock, she’ll cancel it. She’ll suggest meeting Anne at Pleasant’s Café in St Gregory’s Alley – it will be the first and most obvious ‘somewhere private’ that springs to mind. We used to joke about it being the perfect place to plan a heinous crime. It’s usually empty, being nowhere near trendy enough for the TV and media crowd, and there’s no CCTV nearby.

  Now there’s evidence that Anne Donbavand made plans to come to London tomorrow – plans that had nothing to do with me – and I can forward the correspondence between Donna and ‘Anne’ to Anne’s university email account any time I like.

  I don’t feel guilty. Anne deserves everything I’ve done, and more. Live by the lie, die by the lie.

  Not that anybody’s going to die tomorrow. It’s a turn of phrase.

  From: jmerrison71@gmail.com

  To: ellencthatsme@gmail.com

  Dearest Ellen,

  How I wish you were at home, at Speedwell House, so that I could come and visit you. My mother has gone to London at short notice, and I would have been able to hop on Lionel’s boat and be with you in no time at all. But, alas, it is not to be. I am disappointed, but it’s a useful disappointment, because it’s made me realise that our light signal system has a drawback. I only found out this morning at breakfast that my mother intended to go to London (my dad found out at the same time, and looked as surprised as I was. Could Mater be up to something? Fingers crossed she elopes with another man and never comes back, though I can’t think of anyone who would want her).

  Where was I? Oh, yes. Well, if disappearing at a moment’s notice (with a preoccupied expression all over her face, I should add) is going to be a thing that Mater does from now on, I might have sudden opportunities to visit you that I won’t know about the night before. How will I let you know that I’m on my way to see you? Do you check your emails in the morning at breakfast time? And what if you’ve already gone to school?

  Do you have any ideas?

  All my love forever,

  George xx

  From: ellencthatsme@gmail.com

  To: jmerrison71@gmail.com

  Just email me if you can come. I’ll get it straight away. Now that you can email me (yay!!) I’ll obviously be checking my emails every few minutes. If I don’t reply within half an hour, that means I’m at school. I mean, I assume Mum and Dad are planning to send me to one at some point in the near future??? I assume we will at SOME point go home? Maybe not?

  At the moment it’s like Mum and Dad have forgotten about my ENTIRE education. I woke up this morning and Dad whisked me out of the house for a day of shopping. He LOATHES shopping, AND he insisted on bringing Figgy with us, even though that means we can’t both go into shops at the same time – one of us has to wait outside. I asked him if something was going on and he said no with his mouth all twisted in a funny way that only happens when he’s keeping s
omething secret. Parents!?!?!

  Better go – Dad just moaned at me for being on my phone and ignoring him.

  Love you NEVERENDINGLY,

  E xxxxxxxxx

  From: jmerrison71@gmail.com

  To: ellencthatsme@gmail.com

  Your parents are wonderful, dearest Ellen. I’m not sure you realise how fortunate you are in the parent department. Having said that, I agree that there is a marked lack of transparency in the older generation.

  Your devoted George xx

  17

  I’m waiting in Olwen’s hall when the front door opens, as agreed. I hear the key slide out of the lock, then, ‘Go on, in you go.’ Olwen’s voice, normally warm, contains no emotion.

  Anne’s royal blue coat is what I see first, then the blue and brown checked bag. Anything to put off looking at the face, but I have to see it eventually. Have to be brave. I inhale as much air as I can before meeting her eye.

  She’s here: Anne Donbavand. The only person I’ve ever been mortally afraid of. It’s a shock to see that my plan has worked even to this small extent: getting her here. I expected and perhaps hoped that Olwen would return alone, with a shrug and a rueful ‘Sorry’.

  The worst shock is seeing Anne here, in my safe haven. That’s how I think of Germander. It’s not safe any more, now that she’s here. Never safe again. You can’t wash a presence like Anne’s out of a building. I want to cry, but it’s the wrong time. I have a whole script to get through, an unwritten one, and I must remember every word.

  ‘What’s that?’ Anne asks. She’s looking at me, but I’m not what she means. The dogs, shut in the lounge, heard the door open and have started to bark.

  ‘My Bedlington terriers. I told you I breed Bedlingtons.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Anne asks me. Despite the question, she doesn’t seem surprised to see me. I suppose when you agree to go home with a stranger pretending to be your invented sister, you prepare yourself for anything.

  ‘Good question, Justine,’ says Olwen, who has learned her lines more thoroughly than I have. ‘What are you doing here? How did you get in?’

  ‘Oh, I have my ways. I’m good at getting inside people’s houses. Their houses and their heads. Anne’ll tell you. Anne, this woman you’re all pally with suddenly – she’s not who she says she is, you know. She’s only pretending to be your sister Allisande.’

  Anne turns to Olwen. ‘I don’t want to see dogs,’ she says. ‘Can’t you put them outside while I’m here?’

  I walk to the lounge door and pull it open. ‘These dogs?’ I say as four of them run out into the hall.

  Anne holds herself very still.

  She’s just a person. Look at her. She’s not sure why she’s here or what’s about to happen. How can one person do so much harm and still look so ordinary, so vulnerable?

  I remind myself of how Anne looked when she insulted Ellen’s character: the sneer on her face. That was the same person. I don’t feel sympathy for that woman who stood in my kitchen and said those things: none at all.

  ‘Come on, Anne, you’re not scared of dogs,’ I say. ‘Not puppies, anyway. If you were, you wouldn’t have been able to get near enough to mine to put that nametag on him. Or did you make Stephen do that?’

  ‘Justine, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,’ says Olwen. ‘Lisette and I need to talk.’

  ‘Ah, Lisette.’ I laugh. ‘Your big sister, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Olwen. Anne says nothing.

  Come on, Professor. I’m the object of your hatred. You desperately want me to be defeated, so tell me I’m wrong. Tell me Olwen is your sister Allisande.

  ‘You’re as insane as Anne,’ I say to Olwen. ‘I wouldn’t have believed it possible. The two of you are – sorry, dogs, no offence – barking mad.’

  ‘Justine got her dog from me,’ Olwen tells Anne.

  ‘I’m so glad the subject of dogs has come up,’ I say. ‘Anne, did you get my letter, the one I emailed to you, about Malachy Dodd and how I worked out that he was probably a Sealyham terrier and definitely not a person? You didn’t reply, but I think you got it.’

  ‘Lisette, don’t listen to her,’ says Olwen. ‘Listen to me. I knew you’d find it hard to be in a house with dogs after Malachy’s murder. I know it brings back awful memories, but I had to show you.’

  ‘Show me what?’ Anne eyes the door. She wants to leave – she knows she ought to – but she can’t. Olwen and I agreed: the condition for telling Anne anything at all was that she had to come here, to the house. Olwen promised not to talk to her at all in the car on the way. Silence until they reached Germander, apart from the basics of ‘My car’s over here’ – that was the deal.

  So. If Anne wants to hear what Olwen has to say to her, she has to stay. If she goes, it’s the end of the conversation forever – a conversation she’ll never be able to have with anyone else.

  A groveling apology from a nonexistent sister.

  ‘Justine came to me because she wanted a dog,’ Olwen tells Anne. ‘I believe this is why you were so convinced she was Allisande – because of her connection to me. She’d been here, her dog’s related to some of mine. I think you felt that connection, Lisette. You picked up on it.’

  ‘Does Allisande call you Lisette, Lisette?’ I undercut Olwen’s solemn tone with my own mocking one. ‘Or was it Lizzie, since you call her Sandie? Bit of a giveaway, isn’t it, if she can’t get your name right?’

  ‘Sometimes Lisette and sometimes Lissy,’ says Olwen.

  I roll my eyes. ‘How can you trust this woman?’ I ask Anne. ‘You know she’s pretending to be someone who doesn’t exist.’

  ‘Don’t listen to her, Lisette. The bond between us is so strong, you felt it when you were around Justine – that’s why, at first, you thought she was me.’

  ‘Except she never was “around” me. But don’t let that stop you. Let’s all just make up lies all day long! I’m the reincarnation of Michael Jackson – hooray! Even though I was born long before he died. I’m the Pope, you’re St Francis of Assisi!’

  ‘You’re not my sister,’ Anne says, looking at nobody. Her voice is dull; it could be disappointment, boredom or something quite different. I wonder who she is inside her head at this moment: Anne? Lisette? Both?

  ‘I’m not your sister, and neither is the woman here who’s pretending to be,’ I tell her. ‘Your sister’s called Sarah Parsons and she lives in Totnes.’

  ‘Lisette, you know the truth when you hear it,’ says Olwen. ‘You know I’m your sister Allisande, don’t you?’

  ‘Anne, look at these dogs. Then think of my little puppy. That one over there’s his mother. You can really see the family resemblance, can’t you? Is there any such family resemblance between you and so-called Sandie over there? None whatsoever.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean anything,’ says Olwen. ‘Not all siblings look alike.’

  ‘All right, then, if you’re really her sister, tell her something about her childhood that only you and she would know. Something the two of you won’t have told anybody else.’

  ‘Actually, that’s why I invited Lisette here. Not that it’s any of your business, Justine. We have unresolved issues from the past that we need to discuss. So, if you’d kindly leave …’ Olwen gestures towards the door.

  ‘Your shared past? The blood-soaked childhood of the Ingrey sisters?’ I laugh. ‘I’m looking forward to hearing this. No, I’m not going anywhere, I’m afraid. Start talking. Convince me that you two are related and that your names were once Lisette and Allisande Ingrey.’

  ‘I’m not saying anything in front of you. It’s a private matter.’

  ‘Oh, Anne doesn’t mind, do you, Anne? If she’d wanted to keep her fantasies private, she’d have confined them to her imagination. How does it feel to see your lies walking around in front of you, Anne?’

  It was my idea that Olwen and I should keep calling her by her name – her real and only name. Part of me wants her to break down and scre
am, ‘I’m Lisette Ingrey!’ That same part can’t believe that she truly believes her own fiction, but also fears she might. I’d like it settled one way or the other.

  ‘You can’t accuse your fake sister here of lying, can you, Anne?’ I say. ‘That would mean siding with me, which you can’t bear to do.’

  ‘I’m not lying,’ says Olwen. ‘I am your sister Allisande – yes, I have a different name now – Olwen Brawn – but I’m still me. I invited you here to say I’m sorry, and I’ll say it in front of Justine if I have to. I threatened and disowned you because I was frightened, after our father murdered our sister. I should have stood beside you. We could have stayed strong together, protected each other.’

  Anne’s head jerks back, as if to avoid a blow.

  ‘Oh, wait, wait.’ I giggle. ‘Bascom Ingrey murdered Perrine? That seems incredibly unlikely – within the terms of the story, I mean.’

  ‘He and my mother planned it together,’ says Olwen. ‘They’re both murderers. But my father – our father, Lisette’s and mine – was the one who did the deed.’

  For a moment, Anne’s eyes are full of emotion. Shock and also … is she impressed that Olwen was clever enough to get it right? Or convinced, finally, that this is her estranged sister Allisande talking to her? Then it passes, and she’s staring expressionlessly ahead again. It’s strange watching her reactions like this. I feel like a scientist doing an experiment. She’s different today from how she was in my kitchen. Then she was more herself. The Anne-Donbavand-ness of her burned stronger. Now she’s like a hollow, person-shaped object. With her empty-tunnel eyes blank like this, it’s almost as if there’s no one inside the flesh and bone container.

  ‘Lisette, tell Allisande that her theory of Perrine’s murder makes no sense,’ I say. ‘Bascom and Sorrel Ingrey went to every conceivable length to protect Perrine from the local hordes who were determined to hang her from trees, etcetera etcetera. What I mean is: they would have gone to those lengths, if all of this weren’t total and utter crap – but since we’re pretending it’s not … There’s no way Bascom and Sorrel did it. If they wanted Perrine dead, why take her out of school after the attempt on her life? Why confine her to the house to keep her safe, and build gates and fences to protect her?’