by Vikki Patis
I was sixteen years old when he killed her. Patrick had gone back to the family, an uncle having given him a job breeding horses, and our father descended further into a drunken haze. He hadn’t wanted to leave the camp, had begged my mother to stay, and it was the final straw for his son to return to the life he wanted. Life on the road was hard, but as a child I’d loved the feeling of closeness, loved that I could walk twenty steps and be with my friends. But my mother hated it. She hated the lack of privacy, the lack of mod cons. Most of all she hated the rain, the way the roof of our caravan leaked, and the mud we had to squelch through and which always ended up coating the floor. She hadn’t been born to that life, my mum; she had grown up in a semi-detached house in Ireland, and had followed my father in a haze of young love. But it hadn’t been enough.
That awful day, I came home from my part-time job at the supermarket to find the front door ajar. I followed the sound of sobbing, my skin prickling as I crept down the hall and pushed open the kitchen door. He was crouched beside her, his head in his hands, blood covering his fingers. She was lying in the corner of the room, her body limp like a rag doll, her hair covering her face. I remember the blood splashed against the tiles, staining the wooden cupboards and pooling on the floor beneath her body.
I gasped and he lifted his head, his eyes meeting mine, and I knew what he had done. I turned and ran, almost falling down the concrete stairs as I fled our fourth-floor flat towards the exit and the payphone on the corner.
‘He forgives you, you know.’ My brother’s voice brings me back to the present. ‘He never held it against you.’
‘Held what against me?’ I snap. ‘He killed my mother. What did you expect me to do, help him bury her body? Mop her blood from the tiles?’ I cannot stem the flow of words, the fury that is engulfing me. How dare he call me, how dare he insinuate that I was to blame for our father going to prison. Patrick has always supported him, has continued to trot out the same excuses I heard in the weeks following her murder, when we went back to live with the family. What did she expect? She knew what she was signing up for when she married him. It must have driven him mad, being snatched away from his family. From his culture.
It was all about him, how she had wronged him. How unhappy he was living a different life to the one he had been born into. To them, he was a man who had simply snapped under the pressure. To them, his actions were perfectly understandable.
‘Fuck off, Patrick,’ I hiss, injecting my words with as much fury as possible. ‘Both of you can just fuck off and leave me alone.’ I hang up, my hands shaking as I grip the wooden barrier. I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart, seeking solace in the sea. After my father was arrested, I was sent back to the family where they were camped near Dartmoor, but before long I ran away to the city, spending a year on the streets before I finally got a room in a hostel near Plymouth University. Back then, I would spend hours by the sea, picking my way across the rocks, trying to find my place in this world.
And then I met Richard, and everything changed. I shudder at the memories of those early days. The jobs he got me, how he encouraged me to go to university. The nights spent in the flat he owned, rented out to me for free. At the time I’d thought he was so kind, so generous. But nothing was free when it came to Richard. Everything had a price. He thought he could control me, could hold our secrets over me like a guillotine, until I met Felix and everything changed again.
I suppose he never expected me to fall for his son. And I did fall for him, in the beginning. He was so confident, I thought, though I eventually learned to see it as arrogance as our relationship soured and I lost the rose-tinted glasses. Why am I incapable of seeing people for who they truly are? My mother used to say it was a blessing, that there wasn’t enough kindness in the world so I created it, pushed aside the shadows and dug deep to find the good in everyone. She never warned me that it might be used against me.
The door opens and Felix steps out, his face a mask of frustration, and I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand up. This is the reaction my body has when he is near, a sudden wariness, all senses on high alert. Just like his father, Felix is capable of incredible cruelty, except Felix isn’t as good at hiding it.
25
The Deceased
THEN
He had first been drawn to her long, wild hair, the way the ends curled back up into themselves, like perfect spirals. Her body was slim, if erring on the side of too thin, and her skin was the colour of the sand at low tide. When she asked him for his order, he detected a faint northern accent; not a local, then. Richard had always been amazed at how people made their way down to his part of the country, a small town on the north coast of Cornwall. He’d met people from across the world: Norway, New Zealand, China, Africa. From all over the US and Europe, from across the UK too. Somehow, all these people ended up in his little town, despite the decrease in jobs in the off season and a severe lack of affordable housing. Some towns closed completely between October and April, shops shuttered against the cold, desolate winters. He had heard of people camping up Godrevy and by the old tin mines, or inland in the middle of the woods or a farmer’s field, waiting for the weather to change and for peak season to arrive again.
Richard sat back, watching her walk away with his order, and began to wonder where she had come from. He could understand the pull of Plymouth, the thriving student city which he often visited and where he now sat, watching her. The restaurant was on the Barbican, walls made almost entirely of glass, giving diners a view of the gentle lapping waves. She was a student, he decided, his eyes drawn now to the sea beyond the window, the boats bobbing up and down on the water. An art student, perhaps, or literature. Something creative, something different. He could tell that she was different, with her dark skin and light curls and her bright, sea-glass eyes. She could be a model, he thought when she placed his drink on the table before him, her nails clean and shaped, her fingers long and delicate. A ring flashed on her thumb; a silver band with a small turquoise stud, and he admired it, wondered if it had any significance, a history.
He watched her float around the restaurant, carrying plates and smiling with an almost genuine warmth as she spoke to the diners. Her tinkling laughter carried across the room, captivating him. He would ask for her name, Richard decided once he’d finished his meal. He would find out her name and he would get to know her.
But she was gone by the time he was ready to pay. The waiter in her place was older, the skin around her lips wrinkled as if she’d spent her forty years on the planet constantly sucking on a cigarette. He left quickly, scanning the cobbled street outside, shielding his eyes with a hand as he looked across the shimmering water. And there she was, a portion of chips open beside her, her long legs dangling over the wall as she stared out to sea. Boats bobbed in the harbour, the tide rising with every second. The air was full of chatter, families making their way through the streets, groups of friends laughing, tanned arms linked, sunglasses covering their eyes. It was a beautiful summer’s evening, the type of evening Richard liked to spend in a pub garden, a glass of wine in hand, the sun warming him inside and out. But this, he decided, would be far more exciting.
‘Hello,’ he said, coming up behind her. She turned quickly, pushing her sunglasses up into her hair, her eyes searching his face. Was that a flicker of annoyance, or of recognition?
‘Hi,’ she replied warily, and Richard quickly realised his error. He wasn’t usually the type of man to accost a young woman on the street. He had no need to accost anyone anywhere, for that matter; people, as a rule, flocked to him. But she was different. She was young, possibly early twenties, young enough to be his daughter, was in fact probably younger than his daughter, but he ignored that small fact as he sat down beside her, feeling the warm stones beneath his palms.
‘Beautiful day,’ he said, tipping his head back and enjoying the warmth on his face. The waves lapped against the wall beneath them, and seabirds called out greetings in the sky
above. The woman covered her chips, placing a hand on top of the box. He turned to her. ‘Richard,’ he said, holding out a hand. ‘You were my waitress this evening.’
A small smile, then. ‘I remember,’ she said, slipping her hand into his, the cool metal of her ring pressing against his thumb. ‘Was everything satisfactory?’ She had a strange accent, a hybrid of north and south. He couldn’t pin it down.
‘More than,’ he said, smiling back at her and unwillingly releasing her hand. She slid her sunglasses back down over her eyes and sat back, her body language relaxing as she looked out across the water.
‘I love it here,’ she said, her chest rising as she inhaled the sea air. ‘It’s so peaceful.’
‘Even on a Friday evening?’ He chuckled as he indicated the crowds of people walking past, their footsteps loud on the cobblestones. A woman shrieked as her ankle almost turned over, her high heel stuck in a crack.
She smiled. ‘Even so.’
Richard followed her gaze, enjoying the gentle ripple of the water, the setting sun casting a pink glow across the waves. It was peaceful, he decided, his ears tuning out the noise of the Friday night crowd behind them. It was perfect.
They sat in silence for a while, their legs dangling over the wall, him still in his shiny shoes, her feet bare, the toenails painted a shimmery purple. He had had a stressful week at work; a lot of travelling, one punctured tyre which left him stranded on the side of the M5 until the AA saw fit to come and tow him to the nearest garage; a particularly tight-arsed client, who had seemed to expect a palace for the price of a council flat; and an argument with Fiona which had resulted in him punching the wall of his hotel room. He flexed his hand as the memory of the pain came back, and the woman glanced at him, her eyes hidden behind the dark glasses, her expression unreadable.
In one quick movement she got to her feet, slipping into her shoes and reaching down for her chips. She paused, tilting her head to one side as Richard gazed up at her. The sun was behind her, her long curls lifting gently in the breeze, and he raised a hand to shield his eyes.
‘See you later, Richard,’ she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder and smiling.
‘But – wait!’ he protested as she turned and began to walk away. ‘I don’t know your name!’
‘It’s Alexandrina!’ she called over her shoulder, disappearing up the hill, not once looking back. ‘But you can call me Lexi.’
26
The Daughter
I’m still seething from my encounter with Felix when I make my way back to our table, my fingers clutching our drinks so hard I think the glass will shatter between them. Fleur has Leo beside her, his curls splayed against her hip, and she smiles at me as I sit down, her eyes clouding as she takes in my expression.
‘What happened?’ she asks.
I shake my head. ‘Nothing. Just… families.’ I take a sip of my drink. ‘Where did Lexi go?’
‘She went outside, I think,’ Fleur says, twirling one of Leo’s curls around her finger. ‘He is so precious.’
‘Don’t get any ideas,’ I say, only half joking, and she grins.
‘One day, we will have four babies – no, five! And we will live in a cabin by the sea.’
‘All those children in one tiny cabin?’
She ignores me. ‘And they will learn how to swim in the ocean, learn how to climb trees and make friends with the animals.’
I sigh theatrically. ‘And where will we get these children, my dear?’ Fleur’s eyes are suddenly sad, and I regret my words immediately. She grew up in the French care system, her parents having died in a car crash when she was three and her brother five. They were separated, and Fleur has been hoping to find him ever since. ‘Hang on,’ I say quickly, ‘you’re forgetting one key thing.’ Her eyes brighten as I grin. ‘How many dogs will we have?’
‘Oh, but that is easy! Ten.’
‘Ten?!’
‘Oui, ten,’ she says, and I kiss her lightly on the lips, tasting her strawberry lip balm.
‘Can I have a doggy?’ a small voice says, and we look down to see Leo blinking up at us.
Fleur laughs. ‘Do you want a dog?’ The little boy nods solemnly. ‘What dog would you like?’
‘A golden repriever!’ he exclaims excitedly as he sits up, and we burst into laughter, Leo joining in without understanding.
‘I have never heard of this breed,’ Fleur says, ‘but I have heard of a golden retriever. They look like this.’ She gets out her phone and taps the name into Google, bringing up an image and showing him. Leo’s eyes widen.
‘Yes! That’s my doggy.’
‘And what would you call her?’
He screws his face up. ‘Is it a her?’ he asks. ‘Mummy says it’s rude to assume.’ He says the word carefully, as if it is new to him.
I smile at him. He truly is precious. Lexi should be proud.
‘It can be a boy or a girl,’ Fleur says. ‘Your choice.’
‘A girl!’ Leo says, grinning again. ‘My doggy is a girl because I like girls. Mummy is a girl.’
‘She is,’ I say, ‘and so are we.’
‘But I like Uncle Toby too. He’s not a girl, is he?’
I laugh again, unable to stop myself, but Fleur shoots me a look, and something suddenly clicks and my laughter stutters to a stop. ‘I don’t think so,’ I say, choosing my words carefully. ‘Uncle Toby is just Uncle Toby.’
Leo considers this for a moment before nodding sagely. ‘Uncle Toby is just Uncle Toby,’ he repeats. ‘And my doggy is called Lucy, because I like Lucy from the park.’ He frowns then. ‘Lucy has two Mummies, and Grandma said they’re going to hell.’
I feel my insides freeze, my gaze flicking up to find Fiona standing at the bar with the celebrant. Hell is empty, I think, and all the devils are here.
‘Do you believe that?’ Fleur asks Leo, who shakes his head.
‘Mummy said hell might not exist. She said we don’t know what happens when we die.’ He places a tiny hand on Fleur’s arm. ‘Do you know what happens when we die?’ he whispers, his eyes huge, his thick lashes dark against his skin.
Oh, Jesus, I think, and I can see the same thought crossing Fleur’s mind. We are not qualified to be having this conversation. Just then Lexi reappears, and I see the relief flashing across Fleur’s face as Leo flings himself at his mother, his arms circling her neck as she takes her seat opposite us.
‘Everything all right?’ I ask her. She nods, her mouth in a line, before reaching out and gulping down her drink in one. The door slams and Felix enters, his eyes searching the room. I hold my breath, willing him to sit somewhere else, for our table to become invisible, and breathe a sigh of relief when he turns towards the opposite end of the pub.
‘How are you doing?’ Fleur asks Lexi, her brow furrowed with concern. Lexi is radiating energy; her skin is alive with it, her eyes flashing when she looks up at us.
‘Fine,’ she snaps, her voice unnaturally sharp, then sighs. ‘Sorry. It’s just…’
‘Families?’ I supply, and she nods, a small smile tugging at her lips. We understand one another, I realise. We are two of a kind. Outsiders; her by blood, me by choice. But we are the same, or at least similar enough to recognise one another.
Leo announces that he needs the toilet, and I see Lexi’s face crumple. She suddenly looks exhausted, as if she hasn’t slept for a week.
‘I’ll take him,’ I say. ‘I mean, if that’s okay,’ I add hastily. I am almost a stranger to her, the long-lost sister she’s never met before, but she smiles gratefully and nods.
‘Thank you, Skye,’ she says, turning to her son and touching his cheek. ‘Your aunt is going to take you. You remember what to do?’ Leo nods, leaping over his mother and onto the floor. ‘He sits down at the moment,’ she says quietly to me, ‘we’re working on his… aim.’ She smiles, her eyes glittering. ‘He wipes himself, he just needs help washing his hands.’
I return her smile. ‘Got it. Back in a jiffy.’
�
��What is jiffy?’ I hear Fleur ask Lexi as I take Leo’s hand and lead him towards the toilets, Lexi’s laughter following us across the room.
Leo really does know what to do. He tells me to stand at the cubicle door and turn my back to him while he ‘does his business’. A woman I don’t recognise comes in just as Leo announces that he’s finished, and she smiles as she goes into the next cubicle. I help him wash his hands, holding him up under the dryer. He giggles as the hot air blasts his hands, and I can’t help but grin too. I don’t have much experience with children, have never felt the tug of motherhood like Fleur seems to, but with a child like Leo, I can see the appeal. Maybe.
As we exit the toilets, Leo chattering about a beetle that came into his room last week which he named Alfred, a figure rears up before us, stopping us in our tracks.
‘What are you doing with my son?’ Felix demands, his voice too loud, his eyes bloodshot. How much has he been drinking?
I pull myself up to my full height, which is slightly taller than him. I take after my mother that way. I feel Leo tuck himself next to my leg as if he is hiding behind me, and the realisation that he is scared of his father fills me with a sudden, surprising fury. ‘Get out of the way,’ I say, my voice ringing out across the hushed room. I see Lexi turn towards us and scramble out of the booth.
‘Leo,’ Felix says, holding out a hand. ‘Come here.’ But Leo doesn’t move.
For the second time today, Lexi inserts herself between us, a hand on Felix’s shoulder. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asks quietly. Felix shrugs her off.
‘Why are you letting a stranger go off with my child?’ he hisses, and I see her recoil.
‘He needed the toilet,’ she whispers, her eyes dropping from his face. ‘She’s not a stranger, she’s–’
‘Why didn’t you take him?’ Felix demands, raising a finger and pointing it in her face, and I feel the anger surge in me again. He has already tried to intimidate me today, managed to get his digs in when I was too shocked to respond. But I will not let him bully me. I will not let him bully his child, like our father did.