by Jane Holland
This used to be Rachel’s bedroom when we were kids, but Mum and Dad have cleared it out and turned it into a bright, modern sitting room for us. Rachel’s dusty old curtains have finally gone, replaced by Roman-style blinds in stern black. I haven’t opened them yet, but I know that view intimately. This side of the house overlooks the street, the quiet evenings often disturbed by sirens or car horns. There’s a flat-screen television and a DVD player where Rachel’s bed used to be. Before the new wallpaper went up, her old pop posters and the various pictures she had painted as a kid were taken down.
Rachel’s ‘art’.
The walls are blank now, except for a rectangular mirror that hangs just above the single bookshelf. That’s new, too. Perhaps that’s why it feels strange to be in here. Sitting in Rachel’s private space, making it my own. My sister would hardly approve. But then she never approved of much.
A sob wells up from deep inside, and I fight against it, my throat tight.
‘Shit.’
I hate feeling like this. Like a child, helpless, unable to make my voice heard above Mum and Dad. It’s stupid to still feel like this at my age. I’m an adult. I shouldn’t feel intimidated by my own parents. I should be able to explain myself and say how I feel. But now that I’m back living under their roof, in the same rooms where I grew up, it’s not easy to change my habit of deferring to Dad. Even when I know he’s wrong.
Someone is coming heavily up the stairs.
I recognise that tread.
‘Dom?’ I stand up awkwardly, wiping damp eyes. I don’t want my husband to see me broken. I need him to think I’m okay, that I’m functioning. ‘I’m in here.’
He comes in and our eyes meet.
‘Darling,’ he says, shaking his head. He disapproves of my accusations. Of course he does. He’s just like them, deep down. He doesn’t understand.
I feel angry and scared at the same time. But I dare not show it. My fingers buzz with some kind of nervous vibration, like pins and needles, and I hide them from him, shoving my hands behind my back.
‘They drive me up the wall.’
‘Christ, I can see that.’ His eyes are warm and sympathetic. He holds out his arms, as though everything is forgiven. ‘Come here, baby.’
I cross the room and let him hold me. It feels good. But I’m still guilty about the way I behaved downstairs. Uncomfortably so.
I lean my head on his chest and close my eyes. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise.’
‘I totally lost my cool.’
‘I know.’ He laughs softly. ‘It was impressive. Like standing too close to Mount Etna when it’s erupting.’
‘I wasn’t doing it for effect.’
‘Of course you weren’t.’ He strokes my hair, and laughs again. ‘It was still impressive though. My little volcano.’
‘Oh God. What must they be thinking?’
‘That their little girl isn’t quite so little anymore, I expect. But you have nothing to be ashamed of. It’s about time they stopped treating you like a child.’
His arms tighten about me, strong and comforting. I take several deep breaths and instantly feel better. Calmer, able to face the world again.
Dominic knows when I’m hiding something from him, though. He always knows. Putting a gentle finger under my chin, he tips my head back. ‘Hey, you okay in there?’
I gaze up at him silently.
He makes a noise under his breath, then kisses me. I kiss him back, hungry for affection. We sway together, and after a few minutes his hands slide down my spine, pressing me hard against him.
He’s aroused, I can feel it.
Then he cups my breast, running his thumb firmly over my nipple.
‘Dom . . .’
He doesn’t answer as he guides me backwards in a few shuffling steps to the sofa. I sit down, startled, his weight on top of me, and we keep on kissing.
His breathing has quickened, his tongue in my mouth. My heart hammering painfully, I cling onto his shoulders, my eyes shut tight, and hope he’s only playing. He likes to do stuff like this sometimes, to make love spontaneously, and push things too far. It’s not something I’m hugely comfortable with. But I think Dominic enjoys that element, too. Knowing that he’s forcing me beyond my limits, taking me places that I would never otherwise go.
Tonight though, I’m not in the mood to be pushed.
‘Not here,’ I say, our mouths close together. I panic, my skin in a cold sweat. ‘Let’s go in . . . in the bedroom. Please.’
He ignores me. Perhaps he thinks I’m play-fighting.
‘Dominic, no.’
I fight him in earnest, and he growls in my ear like an animal. A second later, he grabs my wrists and forces me back against the sofa cushions so I can’t get away. Then he crushes my mouth under his, effectively silencing me.
This isn’t a sex game anymore. It’s for real.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Dominic’s kisses are an assault. Or that’s how they feel. I wrench my head sideways and struggle for air. I’m suffocating under him. I can’t bear it any longer.
‘I said no, Dominic.’ I twist away, breathless and shaking. ‘I wasn’t joking, okay? I’m not in the mood.’
For a moment he stays where he is, kneeling on the sofa, his chest heaving. Then he pushes away from me and stands up, adjusting his clothing.
‘Sorry,’ he says thickly. ‘I forget sometimes that you . . . that we have different tastes.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
He makes a helpless gesture. ‘Nothing.’
‘Dom?’
He runs a hand through his hair. ‘I’m not trying to get at you. It’s just sometimes you can be a bit too passive in bed.’
‘Too passive,’ I repeat blankly.
‘For me.’
‘What, so now we’re sexually incompatible? That’s news to me, Dominic. Perhaps you could have discussed that with me before we got married.’
‘I thought . . . I assumed . . .’
But he doesn’t finish. He makes an angry noise under his breath and buries his head in his hands.
I stare at the wall and say nothing. The minutes pass, both of us silent and unmoving. I recall Rachel lying on her bed in here once, reading a vampire novel. It looked interesting, a glossy, exciting cover with a snappy title, but she wouldn’t let me see it. ‘It’s mine,’ she kept saying, her voice mean and taunting. ‘It’s a teen romance. With sex and everything. Not suitable for little girls.’ Though she could barely have been thirteen herself. But she thought of herself as mature, of course. Almost an adult. And I suppose she was frighteningly precocious.
Sometimes you can be a bit too passive in bed.
If Rachel had still been alive, would she have caught Dominic’s eye when we first started dating? Might he have preferred my more exciting sister to me?
I push the awful thought away. But it’s unsettled me, my hands clenched into fists. I shouldn’t have moved back into my parents’ house with Dominic. It was a mistake. There are too many bad memories here.
Dominic stands up eventually and turns, studying me. He holds out a hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, and I can tell that he means it. That he’s worried by my silence. ‘That was a bad call. I misjudged your mood. I shouldn’t have treated you so roughly. Or said . . . that.’
I stand up too, taking his hand. I feel numb inside after our row. But perhaps he’s right, at least in part. Perhaps I’m not as demonstrative towards him as I should be. He’s my husband, after all.
‘It was a misunderstanding,’ I say.
‘All the same . . .’
‘I love you,’ I whisper.
He smiles then, the deep frown lines disappearing. His whole face lights up, as if the sun has suddenly appeared from behind dark clouds. ‘I love you too, Catherine.’
‘I meant what I said though.’
‘About?’
‘About Rachel still being alive.’
He shakes his head
, then gently strokes a finger down my cheek. ‘You know that’s actually impossible, right?’
‘Is it?’
‘Your sister died years ago, sweetheart. There was no misunderstanding about that. It was a skiing accident. Your parents were there, you told me that yourself.’
‘Yes, but I didn’t attend her funeral,’ I say urgently. ‘Mum flew home with me after the accident, and Dad stayed on to collect the body. They said the funeral would upset me too much.’
He frowns. ‘But you told me she’d been cremated. That you’ve seen her ashes. In your dad’s study.’
‘But how can I be sure they’re Rachel’s ashes?’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘Darling . . .’
‘Look, my parents never talked about Rachel afterwards. Not once. They wouldn’t even hear her name mentioned. Like it was taboo. I tried a few times, but they always changed the subject.’
His brows contract. ‘Okay, I agree that’s odd.’
‘Then, about a year after she died, I asked Mum if we could scatter Rachel’s ashes in the back garden. She said no, but I kept on at her. I’d been having nightmares about her, and I thought it would help me . . . you know, lay her to rest. Eventually Mum yelled at me to shut up, then burst into tears.’ My hands tighten into fists at the memory of that appalling row. ‘I’d never seen my mother like that before. She’s usually so calm, so easy-going.’
Dominic nods, watching me.
‘I was so shocked by her reaction,’ I continue, lowering my voice, even though I know my parents can’t possibly hear me, ‘I never brought the subject up again. I didn’t dare.’
‘Poor baby.’
I pull away from him. ‘I’m serious, Dom. This is serious.’
‘Sorry, I wasn’t trying to diminish what you’re feeling.’ He takes a step back, respecting my need for space. ‘I just thought you might need comforting.’
‘What I need are answers.’
‘So go and ask your parents again. Keep asking until you get the truth.’
‘Oh, come on.’ I shake my head in frustration. ‘Now you’re being naive. You saw what Mum and Dad were like down there. They might not have said anything, but they looked at me like I’m crazy.’
‘Because you touched a sore point.’
‘I know, right?’ I shake my head, remembering Mum’s white face, the unspoken fear behind her fury. ‘This probably sounds weird, but it’s almost as though they’re . . . afraid.’
‘Afraid of what?’
‘I don’t know exactly. It’s obvious they want me to forget about Rachel. To forget everything about her.’ I meet his eyes. ‘Even her name.’
He reaches for my hand and I let him take it. His thumb caresses the soft skin of my palm. ‘Listen,’ he says quietly, ‘maybe they just want to protect you from what happened to Rachel.’
‘But I don’t know what happened. I don’t know how my sister died. Only that she did.’
‘Right,’ he says, squeezing my hand more firmly, ‘then we’ll get changed out of our work clothes, and go downstairs and ask them. Okay?’
I stare at him. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Of course I’m serious.’ He heads for the bedroom, pulling me gently behind him as if he’s taking me to bed. ‘We’ll ask them together.’ He pauses, then adds, ‘Straight after supper.’
‘Why not right now?’
‘Because supper’s almost on the table and we don’t want Robert to get another bout of indigestion.’ Dominic pulls a face as if he’s in pain. ‘Christ, you know what he’s like . . . all those gurgling noises. Belching discreetly behind his napkin when he thinks no one’s listening. Better wait until dinner’s gone down before mentioning the dead daughter, don’t you agree?’
‘Dom, please.’ I’m laughing, but reluctantly. I’m worried my parents may hear us downstairs. ‘Hush, not so loud.’
Dominic ignores me and gives several deliberate, pretend burps, kicking the bedroom door open. He flicks on the light. And stops mid-belch, dropping my hand as he stares at the wall opposite.
‘Christ,’ he says, his voice hoarse.
I look past him, still grinning at his irreverent impersonation of my father, and freeze in shock, too.
Someone has drawn on the wall above our bed in bright red lettering. Lipstick, I think at once, recognising the shade with a curious absence of shock. One of my own red lipsticks, in fact, is still lying on the white duvet, twisted up and with its lid off.
It’s a rough hangman’s gibbet and noose, exactly like the one in Rachel’s book from the toy chest, with the same three-letter word filled out beneath it in scarlet scrawl.
C A T
Chapter Twenty-Six
I can’t bear to look at the bedroom wall, so I wait in our sitting room opposite with the door closed while Dominic fetches my parents from downstairs. They come upstairs quickly but protesting, saying food is on the table, waiting for us.
I slip out and stand on the landing, arms folded, leaning unsteadily against the wall while Dominic takes them into our bedroom. I’m trembling and I hate it. But how else am I supposed to feel, under the circumstances?
I’m under attack.
But who’s doing this? And why?
The obvious answer isn’t one I want to contemplate. It makes me feel physically sick. And, to be honest, a little frightened, too.
Mum gasps at the sight of my name on the wall, which makes me feel better. At least I’m not being oversensitive. But Dad merely comes out of the bedroom and looks at me.
I know immediately what he’s thinking.
‘It wasn’t me,’ I say angrily.
‘I didn’t say it was.’
‘You didn’t need to say anything. I can see it in your face.’
‘What nonsense.’
I feel the sting but it barely registers. That’s how accustomed I am to my father putting me down.
‘But did you do it?’ he adds.
‘Of course not.’
Dad grunts, looking at me steadily. I get the strong impression he doesn’t believe me. Then he turns and enters our bedroom again.
After a momentary hesitation, I follow him, arms folded defensively across my chest.
Inside, Mum looks at me, then away, as though she does not know what to say. To my relief though, Dominic smiles reassuringly at me and puts an arm about my waist. I can’t quite bring myself to smile back at him. I’m not alone, I tell myself. Not this time.
My father studies the writing on the wall with great deliberation. ‘Right.’ He clears his throat. ‘Well, let’s not overdramatise this. What are we going to do about it?’
Let’s not overdramatise this.
‘For God’s sake,’ I begin, but Mum interrupts me, her voice brisk and businesslike.
‘I’ll fetch something to clean it off. That’s the first thing to do. Now, let’s see, lipstick . . . what will shift lipstick off wallpaper?’
‘It’s oil-based,’ Dominic says.
‘Yes.’ Mum touches his shoulder briefly, flashing a smile at him. ‘Hot water and some Jeyes, perhaps. Kasia will have just the thing under the sink, I’m sure.’
My father says, ‘Kasia’s gone home, remember?’
‘I’m perfectly capable of opening a kitchen cupboard, Robert,’ Mum says, and I’m not imagining the coldness in her voice. Maybe she’s on my side after all, even if she doesn’t show it. Though I don’t like the way this conversation is going. It’s all about damage control, not investigation. ‘I can put on a pair of Marigolds when an emergency occurs.’
‘Hold on a minute.’
My voice cuts through their deliberations. My father looks at me warily. Mum bites her lip, a touch of impatience in her face.
I don’t look at Dominic.
‘Before you start scrubbing lipstick off our bedroom wall, wouldn’t it be a good idea to take a photo of it first?’
Mum stares. ‘A photo? Whatever for?’
‘To preserve the scene.’ I look round at them,
shocked at their apparent slowness. ‘For the police.’
‘Catherine,’ Dominic begins, holding me close.
‘For God’s sake, it’s evidence,’ I burst out. ‘What’s wrong with you all? Someone’s broken in here and written that . . . that horrible thing on our bedroom wall. And none of you seem to think it’s worth calling the police.’
Dad looks at me wearily. ‘Catherine, it’s not like that.’
‘Then what is it like?’
‘Perhaps Dominic should take you downstairs while we clean up this mess.’ He turns to my husband with a significant nod. ‘We won’t be long. You could have a glass of wine.’
I swear, and my mother winces.
‘Why will no one say out loud what’s staring us in the face?’ I point at the obscene scrawl of the hangman’s noose with my name beneath it. ‘Rachel did this.’
Nobody says anything.
‘Are you going to deny she’s behind it?’ I turn and glare at Dad, who is shaking his head. ‘Seriously?’
‘Darling,’ he says heavily, ‘your sister’s dead, and you know it.’
‘Do I?’
It’s not entirely a rhetorical question, yet none of them answers me. It’s as if I’ve made myself ridiculous just by asking it. Except it’s not ridiculous. Someone wrote my name on the wall to intimidate and scare me. And it’s working.
In the ensuing silence, I feel my face grow hot. ‘Okay, then. How did she die?’
‘Please . . .’
‘How did Rachel die, Dad?’
He looks at Dominic, and there’s a kind of pleading in his face now. ‘I really think you should take your wife downstairs. Let us deal with this.’
Your wife.
How very Victorian of him. It makes me sound like a parcel that’s been handed from one responsible male to another. And a problematic parcel, at that.
‘Why can’t you just answer the question, Dad?’ I turn to my mother, who has been standing pale and silent all this time. ‘Mum?’
‘It was a . . . a skiing accident, you know that,’ she begins, hesitantly, then stops at a glance from Dad. ‘Sweetheart, why don’t you do as your father says? You’re overwrought. You’re not yourself. Look, we don’t have to do this now. We can talk about . . . about Rachel later. When the wall’s been cleaned.’