* * *
‘I’m surprised to see you, Kat.’ Angela adjusts her weight, an action she tends to perform frequently throughout our sessions. Her large frame is never quite contained in the high-backed armchair she uses. Whenever I come for my session, I always wonder why she doesn’t buy a bigger chair. ‘I’m sorry about Grace.’
‘Oh, you heard? But you didn’t come to the funeral.’
‘That’s right.’ She leans back and her light brown hair catches on the velveteen material. ‘Has that upset you?’
I have to think carefully about that, as I do with most of my emotions. While I often experience anger or annoyance, deeply hurt feelings don’t come naturally to me. After twelve years of therapy, she knows exactly how I process my emotions, which means I don’t have to pretend. ‘No.’
‘Well, I’m sorry that I didn’t come. I wanted to, but I didn’t think it would be appropriate given our professional relationship. That doesn’t mean that I’m not extremely sorry for what you’re going through, Kat. Our sessions have often focused on how much you loved your daughter, and I know those feelings were genuine.’
‘Are,’ I correct. ‘My love hasn’t stopped.’
‘You’re quite right. My apologies.’ She smiles. ‘I think you did the right thing, coming in for a session today. This must be a difficult time for you, and it’s good to talk through how you’re feeling. Can you tell me about your emotional response to Grace’s death?’
I try to compose myself. The green walls of the room are supposed to be soothing, but today they make me shiver. All I see are the fields surrounding Farleigh Hall and the lush woodland where Grace and I used to walk the dogs.
‘Take your time,’ Angela says patiently.
I nod, still thinking about Grace. ‘When she was younger, she wore red wellingtons and jumped in puddles.’ Red: the same colour as Angela’s top. ‘I find it hard to concentrate on anything but memories of her, but…’
‘But?’ she prompts. Despite her words, she’s now gently tapping the top of her pen against her notebook, betraying the serene smile on her face.
‘I’m angry at the injustice of it all. Grace was young – she had her whole life ahead of her. I know that sounds like a cliché, but it’s true. Now I understand why everyone always says that after the death of a child. She was all set to have a good life, too. I don’t know if that makes it more or less tragic. Charles and I have plenty of money, and we were both generous with it when it came to Grace. Charles was almost too soft with her. He gave her whatever she wanted.’
‘Daddy’s little girl,’ Angela says, raising her eyebrows.
The phrase makes me cringe.
‘Sorry,’ she says quietly, noticing the way my expression freezes. ‘That sounded a bit flippant.’ She pauses before continuing. ‘Do you think you’re getting enough support from others? Do you want more support from others?’
Again, I have to think about it. ‘No. I’m capable of taking care of myself. If anything, people want comfort from me, or they grieve for me. They stare at me, pity me. They cry.’
Her eyes narrow a touch. ‘Are you sure? They don’t hug or console you? They don’t listen to you when you speak?’
‘Well, yes,’ I say. ‘But it’s more for them than me.’
‘How do you know you’re not imagining this need for others to be comforted by you? This could be the personality disorder making you feel on the outside looking in.’
‘I suppose that’s true,’ I admit.
‘Kat, you know you’re doing very well. Your love for Grace has kept you from behaving in a destructive manner all these years. But there might be some triggers to watch out for, and isolating yourself from other people is one of them. Have you cried?’
‘Not much. Only while alone. I thought I’d cry at the funeral but I didn’t.’
She nods, and I try to figure out if she thinks that’s good or bad. ‘And how is your relationship with Charles since Grace died?’
‘He’s needy and clingy one minute, angry and distant the next.’ I shrug.
‘How does that make you feel?’
There’s a spot of dirt on the green wall above Angela’s head making me think of the mud we would track in after a long family walk with the dogs. I wish she would clean her office more often. ‘Annoyed, mostly.’
‘Marriages are always give and take,’ Angela says. ‘Perhaps you need to open up in order for him to open up to you.’
‘He hasn’t’ – I use air quotes – ‘“opened up” with me in months.’
‘Is this the lack of sex you’ve been telling me about?’
‘Yes. Obviously it started before Grace died.’
‘Is there a reason why you’re focusing on that right now?’
‘Because I’m a self-serving sociopath?’ My hands clench. Perhaps it was a mistake to come here. Perhaps I should have stayed at home and wallowed in grief like a normal person.
‘We both know that isn’t true, Kat.’ Angela leans closer to me, stomach bulging a little over her trousers, hair falling over her face, half-covering the bad nose job that I often find distracting. ‘You may be suffering from antisocial personality disorder’ – she puts emphasis on the words in a gentle chastisement of my use of ‘sociopath’, which she doesn’t like – ‘but you have not been self-serving for a long time now. Could it be that you want comfort? Sex is a form of comfort for many people.’
‘I guess.’ I haven’t thought about sex in that way before. To me, it’s a necessary part of life, a bit of enjoyment in this mostly bland world. It has never been anything emotional.
Angela picks up her pen and makes a few notes. Very quietly, she mutters, ‘It is odd, this lack of intimacy with Charles. I mean, given his preferences in that area…’
With those few words, my mind snaps back to the insinuations Mum whispered with her forked tongue. There are rumours. What rumours? About the way Charles and I met? About our sex life? About… Grace?
‘Kat?’
But in my mind, I’m wrapping my fingers around my husband’s throat, and the look in his eyes begs me to squeeze even harder. I flex my hands, feeling the tension all the way from my wrists to my fingertips, and when I notice Angela observing me, a hint of curiosity in the curve of her smile, I ball them back up before tucking them between my legs like a child hiding evidence of disobedience.
‘You seem agitated. I’ve never known you this agitated before.’ She bends over her notebook again. ‘Perhaps we could go over some stress-relief—’
‘Antisocial personality disorder is genetic, isn’t it?’
She lifts her head. ‘That’s a very complicated question, and one that scientists have been trying to answer for years. There’s certainly a biological component to the disorder, and there may be a genetic connection, but environment plays a big role, too. You, for instance, had a difficult relationship with your mother, which had a huge effect on your development.’
I half smile. ‘So, no matter what, it’s the mother’s fault?’
‘No, that isn’t what I meant. The relationship you have with your mother may have played a role. From what you’ve told me about her, she has her own sickness to deal with and in effect neglected you from a young age. Attachments are very important to a child and their developing conscience.’
‘Can a sociopath love?’
Angela sighs. ‘Not usually.’
‘Do you think I loved her?’
‘Grace? It’s impossible for me to say. Only you know that, Kat.’
‘But if I never truly loved her, she might have picked up on that, mightn’t she?’
‘It’s possible,’ Angela admits, making another note in her book.
‘Everything I did affected her,’ I say, half to myself. ‘Everything Charles and I did affected her. We created her.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Then we’re the murderers, when you think about it. We both killed her.’
Fourteen
I should go
home. There’s nothing to do, exactly, but I should be there, wallowing, drinking wine, burying myself in Grace’s bedclothes. But I’m officially drawing a line under that kind of behaviour. I’m no longer allowed to judge myself for not spending every waking moment bawling my eyes out. There are more important things to focus on, and I know Grace would approve of me spending my time trying to uncover the truth about what happened to her before she died.
First, I make several phone calls while driving. It takes some persuasion, but I manage to get everyone I need. I have no qualms about using the grieving-mother card to get people to do what I want; they all owe me a few moments of their time.
I have an hour to kill, and I find myself driving around, thinking about the funeral. Is it my imagination, or had Ethan’s tightly knitted facial expression given the impression of fear? Any one of Grace’s friends could have had some sort of involvement in her death or even been there when she died.
What I’ve come to understand is that if I want to learn more about Grace’s circle of friends at Lady Margaret’s, I need to get to know the parents better. That’s what I’m going to do this afternoon. They are the obvious ‘in’ to figuring out their children. Right now, I have everyone’s sympathy, and I’m not afraid to use that to my advantage. That’s why I suggested Jenny, Louise and Sasha’s mother, Rachel, all come to Lady Margaret’s for a quick meeting about a school memorial service for Grace.
Grace’s tutor, Preeya, cornered me at the wake to discuss arranging a memorial at the school, but at the time I’d been too lost in my own distress to give it any thought. She believed that the kids at school would find it easier to move on if they could say goodbye to Grace. Some had obviously come to the funeral, but most hadn’t, and they needed closure.
Even if none of those vicious little teenagers killed my daughter, I know someone is keeping secrets. Alicia sent Grace nasty messages; Ethan neglected her when she was in pain. I need to rectify those wrongs and find out what they’re hiding from me.
* * *
After I’ve parked the Land Rover, I switch on the radio and sit for a while, listening to the pop music Grace used to like. Different songs bring different memories. There are some that fill the car with the scent of her body spray, others that come with the sound of her voice. After about fifteen minutes have passed, I get out, hook my bag in the crook of my elbow and make my way through the gangs of students hanging out at the school entrance, heading for the faculty office at the back of the school. Preeya was right: the students need this memorial. Most of them don’t recognise me, and that’s a good thing. They’re largely standing around in groups, heads bowed, sniffing. Some of the girls are crying and others are describing Grace’s funeral. I hear ‘That’s so sad’ more than once.
It’s the kind of mass hysteria I remember well from my own school days, except we weren’t dressed in formal school uniforms; instead we refused to tuck in our shirts and wore striped tights beneath miniskirts. The sight of these distraught young girls makes me cringe. The last time I saw students standing around in groups, sniffing and crying, it was all because of me.
There’s no time to linger on history now. I push those memories away, because when I let them take hold, I find I can’t concentrate on anything else for the rest of the day. Angela says this is guilt trying to fight its way through my broken mind and starved conscience, but I’m not so sure. It just happens to be a moment in my life that I can’t forget. I did what I had to do, and guilt never came into it. Despite what my mother calls me. Despite the long discussions with child psychologists about my violent temper. Despite the life that was taken.
I’m the last to arrive, as I’d planned. The others have gathered around Preeya’s desk. As head of English, Preeya has her own office, though it’s rather small for the number of people in the room. I scan the faces of the others and see someone who surprises me.
‘Malc! I thought Jenny was coming.’
He rises to kiss my cheek. ‘The dog threw up on the carpet.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘She’s taken him to the vet.’
‘Was he picking up on her emotions again?’
Malc lets out a frustrated breath. ‘Something like that.’
He sits back down in the chair, casually leaning against one of the armrests. I briefly catch Rachel checking him out. Malc is a rich man with a lot of charm and a glint in his dark eyes, always on the lookout for a pretty face. Every year or so, Jenny discovers evidence of an affair, they spend a few days apart and then he crawls back to her. I glance at Rachel, tall and well-dressed in a red cashmere cardigan, and wonder if she will become his next fling.
As I move closer to Rachel, she pulls her gaze away from Malc and stands to give me a quick peck on the cheek. ‘Kat, how are you holding up after yesterday? It was a beautiful service.’
‘Coping, I think.’ I position myself closest to Preeya. ‘Except for the wobble during the eulogies.’
She takes my hand for a squeeze. ‘Oh, honey, you’re more than entitled to one. I’m surprised to see you today, though.’
‘Honestly, I think it’s what I need right now. If I stay in that house on my own… well…’ I pause, remove my phone from my bag and then say, ‘Charles is back to work, you know.’
‘I do,’ Malc replies. ‘He told me yesterday.’
‘You think it’s too soon as well?’ I ask.
‘Maybe. But he knows himself, so…’ He shrugs.
Louise gives me a little wave from the back of the room and I nod to her. She opens her mouth as though to speak before stopping. Sensing her awkwardness, I decide to move on.
‘Shall we get the kids in?’ I say to Preeya. ‘It would be good to have their input. Actually’ – I pull a notebook from my bag – ‘I have a few questions to ask them. I’m going to jot a few things down, if that’s okay.’
‘They’re on their way,’ Preeya says.
While we wait, I take off my jacket, set my notebook on my knee and think about all the notes I’d received during my school days, usually telling me to go to the headmaster’s office. In those meetings, I was regularly told in a clipped tone that I’d never amount to anything. I had potential but I was wasting it all. Why did I keep lashing out at the other students? Didn’t I feel any remorse for what I’d done? I’d sit in silence and wait until I was either sent back to class or suspended. Sometimes I had to sit even longer until my mother arrived. She’d cry during those meetings. She’d hug me and ask where she’d gone wrong. Then, when we were at home, she’d put a lock on the fridge and refuse to make me my dinner. I lived on dry crackers and old bread until I could find the key.
Ethan enters first, still tense, his gaze not meeting mine, moving straight to his mother. Alicia holds her head up high, exchanges a glance with her dad and sits down next to him. Sasha offers me a nervous smile before going to her mum. The extra bodies in the small space make the room claustrophobic and hot. Alicia’s perfume wafts over, bringing with it memories of Grace, and I’m forced to remind myself of the nasty message she sent to my daughter: HOW COULD YOU DO THAT TO ME? I’LL GET YOU BACK YOU FUCKING BITCH.
My voice cracks as I say, ‘Thanks so much for coming, everyone. Today, as well as yesterday. I know you’re hurting right now, and that’s why I want to do this.’
‘You okay?’ Preeya asks.
I nod my head and clear my throat. ‘Let’s talk about the memorial. Should it be for the whole school or just the sixth form?’
‘I think it should be open for anyone to come,’ Preeya says. ‘I had a chat with the head and she has agreed to block out the first period for the memorial. The sixth formers will definitely all come and I think a lot of the younger kids will want to. There’s been a huge outpouring of grief. Grace really made an impact on the younger girls – you know how they look up to the sixth formers. I think it’d be a good idea to get someone in from a suicide-prevention charity to speak after the memorial…’ She drifts off after noticing the expression on my face.
Every wall of
the room seems to close in on me. My chest tightens. That slumbering, flickering rage stirs inside, and I’m forced to push it back down as I take a moment to compose myself. ‘I’m sorry. I still find it difficult to accept that Grace killed herself. But you’re right. It is a good idea.’ Though it’s hard, I manage to force out a thin smile.
Preeya fiddles with the sleeve of her dress, suddenly full of nervous energy. This isn’t the best start. I’m supposed to be making myself approachable. Natural charm is one of the few perks of having a personality disorder like mine.
‘I, um…’ I pretend to fiddle with my notebook in an attempt to garner more sympathy. ‘I was thinking that it might be a nice idea for Grace’s best friends to share their favourite memories of Grace. I know it’s putting you on the spot a bit, but if any of you could talk about that today, I can jot it down and we can incorporate it into the memorial somehow.’
‘That’s a wonderful idea,’ Preeya says enthusiastically.
‘I’d like to put together a memory book for myself, so I might need a few extra details for that, too.’
‘Whatever you need, Kat,’ Malc says.
‘Thanks, everyone. I mean that. This is… Well, it’s brilliant that you’ve come together like this.’
Preeya reaches out to take my hand, squeezing my fingers gently. This is what Angela was talking about, these moments of comfort. Maybe she was right about people genuinely wanting to help me, and maybe she was right about my broken brain ascribing selfish ulterior motives to the good intentions of others.
And for a moment I falter, because my plan involves manipulation, which means being a bad person. The kind of person Grace wouldn’t want me to be.
She’s not here anymore, I remind myself.
‘Sasha, I’m sorry, sweetheart, but would you mind going first?’ I gently extract my fingers from Preeya’s and open my notebook. What none of them know is that my phone has a voice recorder app, which I have running in the background. It was a hasty download, though, and I haven’t tested it yet. Hence the backup notebook.
Only Daughter: An gripping and emotional psychological thriller with a jaw-dropping twist Page 9