Lasting Damage

by Sophie Hannah

  ‘You said there were two things.’ Charlie realised she was at an advantage, as the person who cared least. She also felt excluded. Simon was worried about Connie Bowskill; Alice was, if anything, even more worried. They could get together and have a panic party. Charlie was as convinced as she’d ever been that Crazy Connie was talking nonsense; she wouldn’t be invited. ‘What else did Connie say that scared you?’ she asked Alice.

  ‘It won’t make sense out of context: “the Death Button Centre”.’

  Charlie laughed. ‘The what?’

  ‘I wasn’t the only one who was scared. Something occurred to Connie when she said it – something she hadn’t thought of before. I saw it dawn on her, whatever it was. Like she’d seen a ghost inside her head. She ran – literally, ran away.’

  ‘The Death Button Centre?’

  ‘Connie and Kit nearly moved to Cambridge in 2003. The house they were going to buy was next to a school building called the Beth Dutton Centre. Connie was stressed at the thought of leaving her family behind. She got it into her head that she couldn’t live in a house that didn’t have a name.’

  ‘A name?’

  ‘You know: The Beeches, The Poplars, Summerfields . . .’

  ‘Right, I see,’ said Charlie. Did she? No, not really. Not at all, in fact. ‘Why couldn’t she live in a house without a name?’ Plenty of people did; most people.

  ‘It was an excuse. Connie’s lived in Little Holling all her life, and all the houses there have names – it’s what she’s used to. She was afraid of straying too far from the only place she’d ever known, and ashamed to admit it. She and Kit had found this house – the perfect house, or so she said – and she told him she wouldn’t buy it unless they could give it a name. It was attached to the Beth Dutton Centre on one side, and Kit – as a joke – suggested calling it the Death Button Centre. He asked her if she thought it’d annoy the Beth Dutton Centre people, and the postman.’

  Charlie turned away to hide her smile. Alice and Connie could find it terrifying if they wanted to; she reserved the right to find it amusing. ‘So you think Connie realised something as she was telling you this? Something that frightened her enough to make her run?’

  ‘I’m certain of it. I keep going over the conversation in my mind – there was nothing else that could have panicked her. It was the last thing she said before she left.’

  ‘What exactly did she say, can you remember?’

  ‘Only what I’ve already told you: that Kit wanted to call the house the Death Button Centre, or pretended to want to – it wasn’t clear which. I assume he was joking. No one would really give a house that name, would they?’

  Charlie didn’t think there was anything about which you could safely say, ‘No one would do it.’ There was always some lunatic who would step forward to prove you wrong. After what Alice had been through – after what she herself had done – Charlie wondered how she could be so naïve.

  ‘He said the name was growing on him the more he thought about it, suggested getting a plaque made for the front door.’ Alice’s eyes narrowed as she concentrated on the memory. ‘I think that was the last thing Connie said before she . . . Oh, no, sorry. Kit suggested another name for the house, even sillier – 17 Pardoner Lane – but that wasn’t what provoked Connie’s fearful reaction.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘It’s hard to explain. You probably don’t believe in energetic vibrations . . .’

  ‘Probably not,’ Charlie agreed.

  Alice changed tack. ‘Take my word for it: it was the Death Button Centre that frightened Connie – that horrible name. Who would dream up such a disturbing name for a house they loved and wanted to live in? Even as a joke, you wouldn’t.’

  Somehow, Charlie felt the shiver as it passed through Alice’s body. How was that possible?

  The Death Button Centre. Press the button and someone dies.

  ‘17 Pardoner Lane was the address of the perfect house they didn’t buy,’ said Alice.

  ‘So Kit wanted to stick with just the address?’

  ‘No, he . . .’ Alice looked up at the sky. ‘Oh,’ she said, sounding surprised at having interrupted herself. ‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe what he meant was, “Let’s not call the house something daft – let’s be sensible and call it by its address: 17 Pardoner Lane.” Though, I have to say, that wasn’t my impression, from what Connie said.’

  ‘You’ve lost me,’ said Charlie.

  ‘I thought she meant that Kit had leapt from the absurd to the even more absurd and suggested 17 Pardoner Lane as a name for the house – one that also happened to be its address. I thought the duplication was the joke.’ Seeing the expression on Charlie’s face, Alice looked embarrassed. ‘I know – it’s mad. But so is the Death Button Centre. Connie’s often described Kit as funny, witty – maybe he’s got a surreal sense of humour.’

  ‘So letters would be addressed to 17 Pardoner Lane, 17 Pardoner Lane, Cambridge?’ Charlie found herself smiling again. ‘Sounds to me like he was taking the piss out of her.’ The more Charlie thought about it, the more she liked the idea: giving a house its own address as a name was a bit like sticking two fingers up at everyone who took the business of house-naming too seriously. She decided to suggest it to Simon: 21 Chamberlain Street, 21 Chamberlain Street, Spilling. They could have labels printed. Simon’s mother, who had no sense of humour, would be horrified, and, although nothing would be said in so many words, Simon and Charlie would be given to understand that the Lord shared her horror. It was nothing short of miraculous, the way God and Kathleen Waterhouse saw eye to eye on every issue.

  Liv would think it was hilarious.

  ‘I’m going to have to go.’ Alice looked at her watch. ‘I’ve got to take my daughter to a birthday party.’

  ‘If you remember anything else, can you ring me?’ said Charlie. Simon wasn’t going to be happy. A joke about calling a house the Death Button Centre was unlikely to be the answer to anything. If Connie Bowskill was in a fragile emotional state, on a self-destruct mission, mightn’t the word ‘death’ be enough to bring on an attack of paranoia? She had probably put two things together that weren’t connected at all – a daft joke her husband made years ago, and the dead woman she’d seen on her computer screen, or claimed to have seen.

  As she watched Alice walk away, Charlie felt something vibrate against her stomach. Energy vibrations. What crap. She pulled her mobile phone out of her bag. It was Sam Kombothekra. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked without preamble.

  ‘Not much,’ said Charlie. ‘How about you?’ Under normal circumstances, she would have told him, but she didn’t want to say the name ‘Alice’ out loud in case Sam sensed her guilt down the phone. Not that she felt guilty; she simply recognised that she was. Or soon would be. On this occasion, her culpability didn’t bother her. Tucking her phone under her chin, she used both hands to retrieve Alice’s letter from her handbag.

  ‘Where are you?’ Sam asked.

  Charlie laughed. ‘Is your next question, “What colour underwear are you wearing?” ’

  ‘My next question is, where’s Simon? I’ve been trying to ring him.’

  ‘He’s in Bracknell talking to Kit Bowskill’s parents,’ Charlie told him. How ludicrous that she felt proud: she knew where Simon was and Sam didn’t.

  ‘Can you meet me at the Brown Cow in fifteen minutes?’

  ‘Should be okay. What’s the problem?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when I see you.’

  ‘I’ll get there quicker with a hint to speed me on my way,’ said Charlie. Her fingers traced the sealed flap of the envelope. Nothing good would come of opening it; Simon was unaware of its existence, and Charlie didn’t want its contents in her own head any more than she wanted them in his. She ripped the envelope into small pieces, then smaller ones still, letting them fall at her feet.

  ‘Jackie Napier,’ said Sam. ‘The problem is Jackie Napier.’

  ‘You have to treat it as you would a berea
vement,’ Barbara Bowskill told Simon. ‘You used to have a son, but you don’t any more. You’re in the same position as a mother whose son went to fight in Iraq and was killed by a bomb, or someone whose child died of cancer, or was murdered by a paedophile. You tell yourself there’s nothing you can do – they’re gone – and you stop hoping.’ She looked like Simon’s idea of what a bereavement counsellor ought to look like, though in reality they rarely did: frizzy dyed auburn hair, grey at the roots; an embroidered tunic over flared jeans, chunky wooden jewellery, sandals with fabric tops and heels made of rope and cork. And no real bereavement counsellor would advise pretending that one’s child had been murdered by a paedophile when that child was alive and well and living in Silsford.

  Not for the first time since he’d arrived, Simon had doubts about Kit Bowskill’s mother. It wasn’t only the paedophile remark. He found her smile unsettling, and was glad he’d only seen it twice – once when she’d opened the door to let him in, and then again when she’d handed him a mug of tea and he’d thanked her. It was intrusive, a violation of a smile – one that suggested extreme empathy, shared pain, yearning and a strong desire to devour the soul of its recipient. There was too much crinkling of the skin around the eyes, too much pursing of the lips, almost as if she was about to blow a kiss and start crying simultaneously.

  Nigel Bowskill looked as if he belonged to a different world from his wife, in his grey suit trousers, green T-shirt and white trainers. ‘It’s too painful otherwise,’ he explained. ‘We can’t spend the rest of our lives waiting for Kit to change his mind. He hasn’t for seven years. Probably never will.’

  ‘Why should he have that power over us?’ Barbara sounded defensive, though no one had criticised her. There was something odd about the way this couple spoke, thought Simon – as if each disagreed violently with what the other had just said, though if you listened to the words rather than the tone, they appeared to be unanimous all the way down the line.

  So far, Simon hadn’t enjoyed being in their house: a detached beige-brick modern villa which, together with its built-on double garage, made an L-shape. He reminded himself that it didn’t matter; this was unpaid work, not fun. Day eight of his honeymoon. He wished he’d brought Charlie with him, but knew that if by some miracle time were to rewind to yesterday, he would choose again to make the trip alone. ‘It must be hard,’ he said. ‘Do you mind if I ask what caused the rift?’

  ‘Kit didn’t tell you?’ Barbara rolled her eyes at her own foolishness. ‘No, of course he didn’t, because he couldn’t, not without revealing something about himself that he didn’t want you to know – that once he tried to do something and didn’t succeed, shock horror. What you’ve got to understand about my son is that he’s the most intensely private person you’ll ever meet, as well as the proudest. Since he refuses to come to terms with his own fallibility, his pride is easily wounded – that’s where the secrecy comes in, all in the good cause of saving face. There’s no doubt in Kit’s mind that the whole world is watching him, eagerly awaiting his downfall. He might seem relaxed and chatty on the surface, but don’t be fooled – it’s all image management.’

  ‘He spent his whole childhood hiding from us,’ said Nigel.

  Automatically, Simon looked round the living room for possible hiding places, and saw none; there was nothing here to hide behind, only two leather sofas at right angles to one another, each one pushed up against a wall. The hall Simon had been ushered through had been the same, as had the kitchen he’d stood in, briefly, while Barbara made him a cup of tea. He’d never seen a less cluttered house. There were no shelves, no ornaments, no coats on pegs by the front door, no plants, no fruit bowls or clocks, no occasional tables. The house was like a film set, not yet fully installed. Where did Kit’s parents keep all their things? Simon had asked them if they’d only just moved in, and been told that they’d lived in the house for twenty-six years.

  ‘I don’t mean he hid physically,’ Barbara was saying. ‘We always knew where he was. He never stayed out and left us worrying, like some of his friends did to their parents.’

  ‘We thought we knew who he was, too,’ said Nigel, whose face was his son’s plus two and a half decades. ‘A contented, polite, obedient boy – sailed through school, loads of mates.’

  ‘He showed us what he knew we wanted to see,’ Barbara blurted out, as if afraid her husband might get to the punch-line first if she wasn’t quick about it. ‘All through his childhood, our son was his own spin doctor.’

  ‘What was he trying to hide?’ Simon asked. So far, the questioning had been all one way. If either of Kit Bowskill’s parents wondered why a detective had invited himself to their house in order to ask about their son, they were keeping quiet about it. If only everyone Simon interviewed could share their lack of curiosity; he hated having to explain himself, even when the explanation was a good one.

  ‘No guilty secrets,’ said Nigel. ‘Only himself.’

  ‘His low opinion of himself,’ Barbara amended. ‘What he perceived as his weakness. Of course, we’ve only worked all this out in retrospect – we’ve been rather like detectives, you might say. We’ve spoken to his school friends, found out things we had no idea about at the time because Kit made sure to conceal them from us – the torture he inflicted on boys who won the prizes he thought he should have won, the bribes he offered those same boys once he’d come to his senses, so that they wouldn’t say anything to their parents or teachers about who’d injured them.’

  ‘He terrified the life out of all those who came within his orbit,’ said Nigel.

  Barbara smiled. ‘In his absence, we’ve put together a psychological profile of him, the way you lot do with criminals. At the time, he had us completely fooled. Deliberately or not, he played on our egos. Nigel and I were happy, prosperous – we had a successful business. Of course we believed that our son was this blessed golden boy who never suffered a set-back, never got upset or angry, never admitted to having a problem.’

  ‘His act was watertight.’ The regret in Nigel’s voice was laced with admiration, Simon thought. ‘He couldn’t bear for anybody to see that he was an ordinary human being who sometimes made a fool of himself – with highs and lows, just like the rest of us. Kit had to appear to be above all that – always in control, happy all the time . . .’

  ‘Which meant that no one was allowed to know what mattered to him, or that he sometimes got upset, that he sometimes failed or wasn’t the best at something.’ Barbara’s frenzied delivery made it hard to listen to her. Her eagerness to speak made her sound unbalanced. She seemed to find it unbearable when it was her husband’s turn and she had to wait. ‘All his life, Kit’s worked on an image of perfection. That’s the real reason he can’t forgive us – for a few hours in 2003, the mask slipped and we saw him agitated and unhappy, having cocked up something that really mattered to him. It’s himself he won’t forgive, for allowing things to reach the point where he needed to come to us for help – nothing to do with us not giving him the fifty grand.’

  ‘Fifty thousand pounds?’ Simon asked. Was that what Kit had meant when he’d said his parents had failed to ‘rally round’?

  Nigel nodded. ‘He needed it to buy a house.’

  ‘I’ve still got the brochure somewhere, I think,’ said Barbara. ‘Kit brought it round to show us. When we wouldn’t cooperate, he told us he didn’t want the brochure, not if he couldn’t have the house. “Why don’t you tear it up, or burn it?” he said. “I expect you’d enjoy that.” I think he thought that as soon as we looked at the pictures and saw how stunning it was, we’d hand over the money. And it was stunning, but . . . it wasn’t worth the amount the vendor was asking Kit to pay on top, and we didn’t think it would be fair on the people who thought they were buying it if Kit and Connie were to pull the rug out from under them all of a sudden. What kind of charlatan behaviour is that?’

  ‘It was no way to treat them, and no way to treat us.’ Nigel threw this out as a challenge,
daring someone to disagree. He was gearing up to have the fight all over again, as if Kit were sitting here opposite him instead of Simon. ‘Connie and Kit could easily have afforded a house in Cambridge that was more than adequate for their needs – there’ll have been any number of places they could have bought. Why did they have to have this particular house, which was effectively already sold?

  Because Kit was too proud to compromise, determined to hold out for the ideal?

  ‘Kit saw no need to tell us why,’ said Barbara. ‘He behaved as though it was his God-given right to have that house, at whatever cost.’

  ‘He had a damn nerve, telling us he wanted to waste fifty thousand pounds doing something immoral and expecting us to foot the bill. He didn’t even ask for a loan, that was what got to me. Said nothing about paying the money back, just expected us to give it to him. When we said no, he turned vicious.’

  Simon wanted to ask Nigel what he’d meant about the house already being sold, but he didn’t want to interrupt. He could get the details later. ‘Vicious how?’ he asked instead.

  ‘Oh, it all came out. Barbara and I had no standards – we didn’t know the difference between a good thing and a bad thing, didn’t know a beautiful house when we saw one, didn’t understand the importance of beauty, didn’t notice it when it was staring us in the face. Oh, and we didn’t notice ugliness either, and didn’t take the appropriate steps to avoid it – we’d only ever bought ugly houses.’ Nigel tried to sound light-hearted as he reeled off the list of his son’s insults, but Simon could hear the hurt in his voice.

  ‘And of course we’d made Kit suffer, because he’d had to live in those ugly houses with us,’ Barbara contributed. ‘He said we were like animals, we didn’t understand about aiming high and only accepting the best. What did we know about anything? We’d chosen to live in three awful, barbaric places one after another: first Birmingham, then Manchester, then Bracknell – all places that should be wiped off the face of the earth. How could we have made Kit live in them? How could we have lived in them ourselves?’