All Your Fault

by NJ Moss

  “Uh, Grace.” She gripped the edge of the desk like she was debating hiding beneath it. “I didn’t think you’d be in today.”

  I bared my teeth like a predator. Like Mike, like Benny. “I was absolutely dying for one of your gorgeous coffees. I know it’s awfully rude, Olivia, me barging in like this, an ex-employee – a woman who fucked Clive to get the job, no less – but I’ve been unable to sleep thinking about Olivia Melhuish’s infamous coffee concoctions.”

  She stared at me in abject horror. “Grace…”

  “Is Clive in?”

  “He’s in a meeting, actually.”

  “I’ll go right through, shall I?”

  I felt a note of satisfaction at the way she slumped down, powerless as I strode toward Clive’s office. And then something else, a knifing guilt. She was a pawn. She’s not to blame.

  I ignored the frantic thumping of my heartbeat and pushed the door open. Clive was aiming his salesman’s grin at a client. I could only see the back of his head, but I recognised the grey-haired man as Timothy Richardson, the man whom Clive and I had been fleecing for months.

  Clive’s expression faltered when he saw me, his surface charm draining away. “Grace. I’m a little busy at the moment.”

  I revealed the USB stick with a magician’s flourish. “Shall I wait outside?”

  “No!” he blurted, causing Timothy to tense up. “No, of course not. We can sort this out. Yes. Fine. Great. Tim, if you’ll give me a moment.”

  “Um, sure. I’ll be outside.”

  I passed him on my way in, muttering, “You can do better than Clive, Mr Richardson.”

  He flinched and left, and I shut the door behind him, turning to Clive.

  “What do you want?” he asked. “Has Benny sent you to stir up more trouble? You and him have been working together since day fucking one, haven’t you?”

  I smiled and shrugged. Clive, if only it was that simple.

  “Let’s start with what I don’t want.”

  “Fine. And what’s that?”

  “I don’t want to ruin your business. I don’t want to cause any harm to your employees, even though a lot of them, frankly, are utter fucking arseholes.”

  “How do I know that thing is what you’re implying it is?” He took a bottle of whisky from a desk drawer and poured himself a glass. The prick thinks he’s in Mad Men. “You could be bluffing.”

  “Check your email.”

  He clenched his teeth and turned on his computer.

  A minute later he turned back to me and his eyelids seemed heavier. He necked the whisky, poured another glass, necked it, and poured another. I was sitting opposite him, idly studying my fingernails. “What do you want then?”

  “First of all I want you to know you’re a disgusting fucking pig for the way you treat the girls in this video. You look pathetic, old, worn out. You look sad, Clive, so very sad.”

  “Okay.” He didn’t care what I thought, only what his clients thought. It was classic Clive. “But what do you want, Grace?”

  “A fair severance package.”

  “Define fair.”

  “Six months’ pay in a lump sum.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Do you want me to release the video?”

  What a grimy situation this was. Benny had a video of me and so my hands were tied; I had one of Clive and it was the same for him. We were all down in the muck and I hated it. But there had to be something good that came of this, some small sign it wasn’t all soundless noise.

  “It looks like I don’t have a choice,” he said. “You know, I actually liked you. You were damn good at this job.”

  I stood up, telling myself the compliment didn’t mean anything. I wasn’t proud. “I’m sure you’ll make this a priority.”

  I walked from the office, returning to the Pen.

  It all seemed drabber, somehow. The carpet seemed grimier, the lights more artificially stark. I thought about Mia and Russ and the vividness of the living room when his toys and her paints and pencils were scattered everywhere.

  I hate this place, I thought, and I left.

  * * *

  I sat in Queen’s Square, just as I did when I’d first interviewed for this job, but now an eerie calm fell over me. The Pandora’s Box in my mind was cracked open. I felt it inching more and more ajar each second, and I knew one day the lid would fly off completely. I’d remember it all in high-definition detail instead of hazily, intermittently. Would I be able to face it? I didn’t know. But I had to try.

  My phone pinged with a bank alert. Clive had transferred the funds.

  I thought about the bottom of the hill and the ruined bike – the wheel wasn’t spinning, of course it wasn’t – and I saw Benny in his black hat. I saw, in a passing vignette, a broken girl lifeless in the rain.

  I opened my internet browser and navigated to the hit-and-run charity. I added every last penny to the donations field.

  And then I stopped. I stared at the figure.

  What the fuck was I doing?

  Hope was my past. What I’d done to her was wrong, evil, unforgivable.

  But Mia, Troy, Russ: they were my future. They needed my help, especially with both our incomes gone.

  I changed the figure, giving a third of it to the charity. It wouldn’t do much to ease my conscience – I sensed only time could do that, and even that might fail – but it was something, a gesture to the universe. It was fucking something. It had to be.

  There was a Comments field. I typed in one word. I stared and wondered if this could lead anybody back to me.

  I clicked Submit.

  Hope, I’d typed.

  Just Hope.

  61

  I sat in my car, looking across the sun-dappled street at Benny’s house.

  It had been two days since I’d donated to the hit-and-run charity, and a theory had taken root in my mind, niggling no matter how much I tried to ignore it. As I talked to Troy about possible job opportunities, about how I was still determined to get part-time work – as I played with Russ and chatted with Mia – as I white-knuckled my insanity, ate cake and drank coffee with Mother, Mum, through everything, it was there.

  It made sense.

  Benny was a liar. Of course he was capable of buying a few props that would make it seem like he had a daughter. It would add validation to his sob story. Pink roller skates in the hallway, a bike in the garden, a Frozen mug, all things that could’ve been for show.

  I had to know his story was true. Because otherwise nothing meant a damn thing. There was something else too, a savage inner voice telling me I was obligated to get revenge.

  Steal the confession, hand him over to the police. And then he’ll tell everybody what you really did. But without the confession, nobody would believe him.

  The door opened and a little girl came out, wearing full protective padding and a pink helmet, walking awkwardly in the roller skates. She walked up the path and into the residential road, Benny following after her.

  I found myself wanting to shout at them across the street. Benny should’ve known better than to let a child play in the road.

  But there was no traffic and Benny stood close to her the whole time, his eyes scanning up and down the street and then settling on me. He stared and I stared back, unsure of what to do. Then he said something to his daughter and they both started toward the car.

  I snatched my hand to the ignition, instinct telling me to flee. But too soon they were there, standing a few feet away, Benny raising his hand in a friendly-seeming way. He had stitches on his cheek from where I’d gouged him with my nails. Unfairly, I wanted to tell him I was sorry; a discreet visit to the doctor had told me that my injuries were superficial, and would heal with time.

  The girl’s blonde hair spilled from her helmet, her face nothing like my Hope’s. I was stunned I’d gotten them confused. Darkness and madness and paranoia will do that to a person.

  “Hey, Grace.” Benny smiled when I rolled down the
window a few inches. He seemed like a different man, Mr Family. “I was just telling Hope you’re not angry with her for the prank at your office. She’s feeling a little guilty.”

  “I didn’t mean to scare you,” the girl said shyly, looking at her dad even as she spoke to me.

  “It’s okay.” My feelings were suddenly muted. “It was all a big game.”

  “See?” Benny reached down and squeezed her shoulder. “You didn’t do anything wrong, sweetheart.”

  “Can I go skate, Daddy?”

  “Yeah, course. Stay on the pavement until I’m done talking with my friend.”

  She nodded and skated clumsily away, Benny watching the road until she was safely on the pavement. He turned to me, looking more surprised than angry. “It’s weird, Grace, this doesn’t look like hell.”

  “What?”

  “You said you only wanted to see me again in—”

  “Yes, I remember,” I snapped, thoughts fuzzy with caffeine withdrawal. I was still drinking coffee, but nothing as strong as the drugs with which he’d dosed me. “I wanted to…”

  His eyes gleamed perceptively. “To make sure I didn’t invent my daughter and my girlfriend.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, she’s there, she’s real. Anything else?”

  Thoughts of revenge drained away at the sight of his Hope skating up and down the path, lost in the activity, the same way my Hope looked as she ran across the beach or the stones, searching, always searching.

  In the front window Lacy stood with her arms folded, watching us. She was wearing an apron with little figures on. I was too far away to tell what they were, but I imagined rabbits, dozens of them, dotted all over the apron. Soon she’d turn away and lift some home-cooked dish from the oven, steam wafting around her.

  They were a family – a little broken, a little lacking, a little wonderful – just like mine, and it hurt, and it mattered. I didn’t know quite what to make of it.

  The girl turned at the end of the path, making a tight pirouette, opening her mouth in a proud giggle at the move.

  “Grace?” Benny prompted.

  I cleared my throat. Bleed. Kill yourself. Go insane. Die. “Take care of your family.”

  “I will. And you take care of yourself. I mean that.”

  I didn’t reply; I didn’t know what to say.

  I backed the car out and drove slowly down the street. The girl watched me go, lifting her hand in a wave. She was so adorable, so full of life. I couldn’t stop myself from smiling and waving back.

  62

  “I get to be the doggy,” Russ said, reaching for the silver Monopoly piece.

  We were sitting in the living room around the board, the night cold and dark and easy to forget beyond the glass. The room was warm, the central heating blasting and making my cheeks glow red. I shared a look with Troy, a half-happy look. We knew this moment was special, and we knew how hard we needed to fight for it.

  With his advance, our savings, my final pay cheque, and the money I’d kept from Clive’s blackmail, we had some breathing room. And after?

  We’d work at it together. As long as they still loved me; as long as they never knew the truth.

  I was the hat. Mia was the boot and Troy was the battleship.

  Russ walked his dog across the board, grinning as he made barking sounds. Fear quivered in me when I thought about Troy returning to work. What if the progress Russ had made at Reception was all for naught? But Russ was starting to adjust. Things were getting better and we’d make sure it stayed that way.

  We rolled and Mia got the highest score, and then she rolled for her turn.

  “Great.” She moved her boot to Park Lane. “I’ll buy it.”

  “No, you gotta go round first,” Russ said.

  “It’s not in the rules.” Mia sighed. “Dad, tell him that’s not in the rules.”

  “Afraid not, little man. She can either buy or start a bidding war.”

  “When we play at Ryan’s house, we go round.”

  Russ and Ryan, a new friend, just like he’d wanted when this all started. Perhaps they’d stay friends through all of primary school, maybe even secondary. Perhaps my son would be okay. Perhaps we all would.

  “Well, Ryan doesn’t know how to play,” Mia scoffed. “I’m buying it. Dad, can you do my money please?”

  They made the exchange and Russ sulked, but by the time it was his turn his mood had passed. Mia reached across and ruffled his hair. Troy and I shared a smile.

  I wanted to capture this moment. I wanted to glue it into my memory.

  I wanted the concept of my memory to be a true, solid thing, something I could rely upon and never had to second-guess, because I wasn’t sure anymore. I wasn’t certain I could count on this moment in the future; it might take on a different pallor, paint fading in the sun.

  I wanted to cling on to every single second so I could always be the person I was now: the wife, the mother who made her children smile and laugh.

  Not the killer. Not the liar.

  All too soon this evening would pass, reshaping and dying, and something new would take its place. Maybe I’d be the real me in my recollections. Or maybe I’d become the person I wished I was, or the person I never wanted to be. Most likely, I knew, I would be something in between.

  “Mummy,” Russ said, calling me from my reverie.

  I looked up. “Yes?”

  He was smiling, holding out the dice. “It’s your turn.”

  THE END

  Acknowledgements

  If I tried to list every single person I owe thanks to – who contributed to this novel’s existence in even minor ways – I’d add at least one hundred pages to this book’s length. Which is to say if I miss anybody, I am very, very sorry.

  I have so much gratitude for my editor, Morgen Bailey. Working with her was an absolute pleasure and she made my little story so much better. (Why didn’t I think of removing the duct tape?!) It is impossible to overstate how grateful I am to her. She did exceptional work and read the novel front to back several times, until she must’ve been absolutely sick of it.

  Everybody at Bloodhound Books has been professional, welcoming, and all around amazing to work with. Betsy and Fred, the wonderful cover designers, my proofreader, Shirley, the super-conscientious Tara, social-media guru Maria… all of you have my deepest thanks.

  This has been a crazy journey and I’ve already made some friends for life. I can’t list them all, but Keri Beevis, Patricia Dixon and Heather Fitt deserve a special mention. Trish, you were the one who welcomed me with open arms into this bookish world, you were there for me when I was feeling low. You will never know how grateful I am. The laughs the four of us have shared have been the highlight of my publication journey. (That will change the second I get a film deal, but there ya go.)

  I thank my dad, Raymond, for being the silent hero people rarely write books about. I thank my mum, Betsy, for inspiring much of what happens in this book, and for making me a bacon sandwich on Christmas Eve. I thank my brothers, Ben and Jake, for playing PlayStation VR with me and generally being the best. I thank my English teacher, Rachael Hobson… Miss, if you’re out there, I made it! I thank my dogs, Loki and Gizmo, for being cute and unmanageable and perfect. I thank my friends, James and Marshall and Kane and Joey, for making me laugh and letting me go a little crazy every now and then.

  Lastly, most importantly, I thank my wife. Krystle, without you I never could’ve written a single page, let alone a whole book. You inspire me more and more every day.

  (PS. If you have got this far, it means you have found something in my writing compelling enough to keep you going… in that case, I very humbly and not at all presumptively thank you for leaving a review on Amazon, and I thank you for telling your friends about my book, and for heading over to Facebook and joining the Paperback Writers group where we hold competitions and get up to all sorts of bookish shenanigans.)

  A note from the publisher

  Thank
you for reading this book. If you enjoyed it please do consider leaving a review on Amazon to help others find it too.

  We hate typos. All of our books have been rigorously edited and proofread, but sometimes mistakes do slip through. If you have spotted a typo, please do let us know and we can get it amended within hours.

  info@bloodhoundbooks.com

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