‘Let’s go home.’
* * *
Farleigh Hall sits proudly atop its hill of green fields. We drive past the empty stables – wooden doors marred by horse’s teeth, the ground still littered with stalks of hay. The cross house comes into view, with the ivy hanging over the door and the white gables covered in black beams. Inside the house, there’s an antique tapestry in the smoking room and a grand piano in the library. These are the luxuries that many covet. This is what I dreamed of when I was living above a chippy on my own, fighting the smell of grease seeping up through the floor.
But it means nothing.
Because I built a family here by accident. It wasn’t my life’s goal to be a mother and a wife, because I’d convinced myself that I didn’t care about people. They weren’t supposed to be family members, they were supposed to be pawns in my games. What I’d never considered was the fact that there was no game, and my life has been little more than a series of moments to survive. First, I survived my childhood, then I survived the attack, then I survived poverty, before surviving a new life surrounded by people who looked down on me. I survived being a mother and I survived the death of my daughter.
I survived the Suicide Spot. What else is there to survive?
We get out of the car and Michelle opens the front doors to let out the dogs. I stumble up the drive while Charles distracts Georgie and Porgie, to prevent them from knocking me clean off my feet.
There is time for more survival. To rebuild and make a new life.
But there is one more event that I need to go through in order to be able to do that.
Hidden away from Charles and Michelle is an anger I’m carefully stoking. It’s true that I never played the game, merely survived the one I was thrust into as a child, but now a new game is about to begin, and I will win.
Forty-One
The first part of the game is waiting, and it’s this part that generates the most frustration. There’s a delay on getting the results back from Charles’s biopsy, which adds to my impatience, to the limbo we currently inhabit. Not only does he stay home from work for several days, but he has Michelle around me all the time, fussing over cushions and making me sandwiches and cups of tea. I’d rather be alone with my thoughts, or up in Grace’s bedroom watching her vlogs.
Still, I know that waiting is essential, and I can live with that. At first, I worried that my anger would fizzle out. But it hasn’t. Not even after a week.
Anger is the one human emotion we don’t tolerate as a species. Sadness, happiness, emptiness – all are treated with the respect they deserve, but anger is shunted away. From a young age, we’re told that our anger is not valid. Tommy stole my toy and I’m angry at him. Well, kiddo, you’re the one who should be ashamed of those feelings. Suck it up, kid, and get over it.
And we do get over it. We stop ourselves shouting at the person who cuts in front of us in the queue, and we ignore rude people in the street. Worse, we shrug when our politicians let us down, and we change the channel when injustice occurs around the world. Maybe the reason why we do all of those things is because, a long time ago, you were shamed when Tommy stole your fucking truck and you screamed at him.
Now that I know the truth about Angela, I consider whether I was so ready to believe what she told me about myself because I was too afraid to confront my anger. When I hit Jamie over the head with that rock, I’d been in the midst of a rage that burned through me as fast as a firework. When Grace died, I finally allowed myself to feel angry again.
I spent my entire life feeling disconnected and cold because of the opinions of others. I believed the child psychologist who diagnosed me when I was thirteen and traumatised. I believed Angela as she told me over and over again that I was a sociopath. Grace was the one person who could penetrate my hard exterior, and when she died, she became the one person who could reignite that suppressed anger.
There is a hardness in me that I can’t deny, and it will take me a long time to figure out who I am, to introspect without Angela’s voice telling me what to think. I’m tough, I’m spontaneous, I do things and make decisions that other people might not be comfortable with. But am I truly a sociopath, devoid of any conscience? Self-serving, manipulative and charming? I don’t know. Perhaps my final plans will answer that question.
Finally, Charles goes back to work, and I can arrange a meeting with Matthew Gould at the house. By now I’ve learned I can hobble around more easily with my ankle tightly bandaged. My ribs are less sore and my back no longer hurts at all. Still, I decide that he can come to the house, as long as Michelle stays out of the way.
‘Mrs Cavanaugh, it’s good to see you again.’ He follows me as I limp through to the family room. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Well, alive to tell the tale, thanks to you,’ I say. ‘Really, thank you for what you did.’
‘You’re welcome, and I hope I can help again.’ He pats me gently on the arm and it feels good to have an ally.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Oh no,’ he says. ‘I’m good.’
He’s sparing me the annoyance of having to arrange a drink with my injuries. Could someone diagnosed with a personality disorder, who is supposed to have no conscience, understand such a kind gesture? I’m not sure I know anymore.
‘Did you find the address for me?’ I ask.
‘I did.’ He places a folder down on the ottoman between us. ‘But they’re not there.’
‘Really?’
‘No, they up and left about a week ago. But they haven’t gone far. They’re in a holiday cottage on the edge of Edale.’
I lift the folder and flick through it. ‘That’s very interesting. Lily isn’t going to school and Angela hasn’t resumed her therapy?’
‘No, she’s taken two weeks off work, according to her receptionist.’
They’re running scared, I think, hoping that they can distance themselves in case I remember everything and tell the police. What will happen after two weeks? Will they come back, hoping that things have died down? Or will they disappear to a new town with new identities? They know they’ve made a mistake. No doubt they’re considering their options right now, which means that I need to act quickly, before they decide to run away.
* * *
My sore ankle makes this less than ideal, but I slowly begin to piece together what I want to do. First, I write my husband a note to explain everything, then I put it in an envelope and give it to Michelle.
‘You’re not to give this to him until tomorrow,’ I tell her.
She stares at me with wide eyes. ‘Why? What’s going on? You know that I can’t allow you to do anything stupid. I’ll have to tell him.’ She knows all about my ‘suicide attempt’ at the quarry and isn’t about to allow me to try again.
I grasp her by the shoulders, catching her by surprise with the strength of my grip. ‘Listen to me. I’m not going to kill myself. Look at me. I didn’t try before, but I couldn’t tell you the truth.’
‘Why not?’
I’ve thought about whether to do this many times over. I’ve considered all the options, wondering what a good person would do in the same situation. In the end, I sit Michelle down and I tell her everything, from the very beginning. Her face pales, and then she shakes her head angrily.
‘You need to go to the police,’ she says.
‘I have a better way to deal with this.’
‘Kat, I don’t think I can let you go through with this.’
‘I have to. For Grace.’
She nods her head slowly, and I leave her with my letter to Charles.
* * *
The car comes later that afternoon, before Charles gets home from work. I’ve already sent him a text message to say that I’m meeting Vanessa for dinner and will be home late. His reply is quick and panicky, worrying about how I’ll manage to get there and back. But I reassure him that I’ve hired a driver and that relaxes him. He sends me a message telling me to have fun, and I contemplat
e whether the lie makes me feel guilty or not. I shake it away. Guilt won’t help me now. At least I have Michelle on hand to make sure he has a bit of whisky and relaxes on the sofa tonight.
My insides feel like a bag of squirming snakes, but I keep on stoking the fury spreading beneath my skin. Anger often burns itself out in a fiery burst, unless we allow it to build and build, pushing it down until there are hundreds of scorched layers wrapped around our bones and organs. I can barely breathe with all that fire inside me.
The sun drops as we make our way out of Ash Dale village, and the distant hills and valleys fade away into the shadows. Instead I see the street lights and houses of nearby towns. Every dot represents people going about their evening: cooking, watching television, holding their loved ones.
Neither Grace nor I was perfect. I’m still figuring out who I am, but I think I may have pieced together some of who Grace was. My daughter. Flawed inside and out, part of my body, uniquely mine, uniquely herself.
We continue on in darkness until we reach Edale, and the driver takes me to my cottage. He lifts my suitcase and carries it through to the bedroom. I didn’t pack much. A change of clothes. A toothbrush. A lighter. A small can of gasoline.
Forty-Two
The holiday cottage in front of me is in darkness, and for a split second I think I’m at the wrong place. But then I see Angela’s car in the driveway. The same red Fiat was always parked next to her office. I used to remark on the grubby windows. In adulthood, Angela appears to have difficulty with making changes for herself – the chair that’s too small, the car that’s never clean. I wander closer and peer in through the grubby windows. There are old food wrappers and bottles littering the floor.
I grip the can in my hand. My plan was simple. I was going to come here and stuff a rag through the front door, covered in gasoline, and set it on fire. Then I was going to do the same at the back of the house. Whatever pity I once felt, because of what happened to us in the past, was eradicated when Angela targeted my vulnerable daughter and took her away from me. But now that I’m here, I’m all too aware that Angela is not alone in this house. Lily is here with her.
Since the night at Stonecliffe Quarry, I’ve thought of Lily many times. I’ve thought of her smirk, her knee in my face, the sneer in her voice, and I’ve thought of her hurt expression when Angela began to talk. The arrogance I saw from that young girl reminded me of something else: bravado. As much as I want to hate them both, all I can think is that Lily is the same age as Grace. Just seventeen.
And then there’s Angela. I want to see her one last time, and I want to talk to her. I want to get answers from her, face-to-face. But I have a sore ankle and ribs, and I’ve never broken into a house before. All Angela needs to do is call the police and this whole thing is over. But I know she won’t do that.
As I move around the house, the outside light flickers on and off, triggered by my movement. The lights within are off, suggesting they’re both asleep. It’s 1 a.m. – surely they’re asleep by now. I gently test the windows on the ground floor as I make my way around the building. When in an unfamiliar house it’s easy to forget to check all the doors and windows. Sure enough, Angela has locked them all except one. It’s small, and I’m not sure if I can fit through it, but I jimmy open the stiff hinges, which were no doubt what tricked Angela into thinking it was locked. When I lean in, I see that it opens into the downstairs toilet, and I’ll have to negotiate my way over the toilet to get in. Staring down at my sprained ankle, I deliberate how exactly I’m going to do that. First, I push the can through the window and place it on the closed toilet seat. Then I take the rag, already coated in gas from when I stood outside the house pondering my plan, and shove it in one pocket. I put the lighter in the other pocket.
With my hands now free, I place both on the bottom of the window and attempt to push myself up, resting my weight against the house. This is not a good move for my ribs, and after one attempt I’m forced to lower myself down. It’s as I land on my feet that I begin to laugh. It’s a quiet, manic laugh that builds up from my belly. I need to pull myself together.
Then I hear footsteps inside the house and freeze. A light goes on, and then there’s the unmistakable sound of a key scraping in the lock on the front door of the house. I edge quietly towards the noise, my back to the wall. All manic laughter gone. Soon I’m standing next to the front door, but it doesn’t open.
Instead, a voice drifts through the wood. ‘Katie?’
I move to face the door. ‘Angela?’ A few options run through my mind. Forcing the door open and tackling Angela to the ground. Running her down and searching for a weapon.
She speaks again, interrupting my thoughts. ‘What are you doing here, Katie?’
‘I want to talk.’
The door opens, and her hand reaches out and grasps me by the shoulder of my jacket. She shoves a knife to my face, stopping a centimetre from my left eyeball. She regards me carefully, taking everything in – from the wince when I lean on my right foot to the bruises on my face.
‘You probably should’ve waited until you’d healed,’ she says.
‘You’d have been gone by then.’
She pulls me roughly into the house, lowering the knife to my throat. ‘That’s true.’
‘Have you called the police?’ I ask.
‘Not yet.’
‘Why not?’
She shrugs. ‘I guess we do need to talk.’
Angela shoves me away from her while she locks the door. There’s the sound of movement behind me and I spin around, carefully avoiding the knife, to find Lily rubbing sleep from her eyes, dressed in blue striped pyjamas. When she sees me, her face pales.
‘Sorry I woke you.’
She nods. Her jaw is clenched and her eyes are furtive, constantly flicking back to Angela. Where is the arrogance of the girl at the quarry? This is off script for her. Everything else has been orchestrated by her mother, but neither of them expected me to come here. They didn’t expect me to survive.
‘I guess you decided on a holiday,’ I say. ‘It’s nice. Quaint. Better than the homes we grew up in. Isn’t that right, Angela?’
‘How did you find us?’ She moves the knife to my lower back. Gently, she pushes me through the hallway, past Lily and into the small living-room area.
‘The same way I found out Daniel Hawthorne was having sex with my daughter. I hired a private detective.’
‘Always using your money these days, Katie. Remember when you actually had to work?’
I scoff at that. ‘I never worked.’
‘No, that’s right, you didn’t.’ She pushes me down onto the floor and sits over me on the sofa, the knife never far away. ‘I was the one who worked. I read the textbooks, achieved my A’s, paid for university with a part-time job, created my practice from nothing.’
I can’t help but roll my eyes. ‘Everyone got loans for university fees back then.’
She shoves the knife in my face. ‘At least I didn’t get pregnant to marry rich.’
Fire smoulders underneath my skin. ‘Then I guess we both worked for what we have.’
While she seethes, I take a quick scan of the room. There’s a log fire in the hearth, two armchairs, a large sofa and long curtains that extend to the plush carpet. A lot of flammable items in this room. Lily sits opposite us on one of the chairs, her mobile phone in her hand.
‘Are you going to call the police, Lily?’ I ask.
Lily glances at Angela, rather than answer.
‘What have you done to that girl, Annie?’ I say. ‘You’ve used her every step of the way. Lily, did you really want to kill my daughter? Or did your mother make you? Did you want to do any of this?’
‘It was my choice,’ Lily says. ‘She shoved dog shit in my face.’
I redirect my attention to Angela. ‘You’ve been creating sociopaths for twelve years, haven’t you? You messed with my head, and you’ve starved this girl of love, tricking her into doing your bidding so you get
to keep your hands clean.’
‘What makes you think you’re not a sociopath, Katie? You did plenty of bad things before we started our therapy sessions. Do you remember knocking out Susie P’s front tooth with a headbutt? What did she do to you? Do you remember? She looked at you funny. That was her crime.’
‘I was a troubled kid. You know the stuff I went through with my mother.’
‘Even after you left your mother behind, you orchestrated a pregnancy and tricked a man into marriage.’
‘Charles loves me.’
She chuckles to herself, staring at the logs in the hearth, and for a split second I deliberate whether I have an opportunity to take the knife, but then she turns back to me and the moment is gone. ‘You keep forgetting how well I know you. You’ve paid, weekly, to come to my office and tell me your thoughts. And you know what? Your thoughts are black. Every week, I sit there and I listen to you berate your friends and family. Every week. It’s not just your mother that you complain about; you constantly complain about your husband, your daughter, your friend Jenny. According to you, no one is as good as you. No one lives up to your expectations, and you don’t want them to. You’re a wall, Katie. Nothing gets through. Is that any different to being a sociopath? You talk about trying to be better, about giving to charity, doing the right thing, being a decent parent, but your thoughts are who you are, and they are rotten.’
A sick feeling builds in the pit of my stomach. My voice is quiet. ‘No. My thoughts were dark because of what you told me I was.’ Not wanting to gaze at Angela’s hateful face any longer, I seek out Lily and watch in surprise as she wipes a tear from her eye.
‘I wasn’t the one who diagnosed you with antisocial personality disorder, was I?’ she points out.
‘Maybe they got it wrong.’ My voice sounds uneven, because how can I be sure? I was a kid then, and I’d been through a lot. But what those psychologists said to me shaped me well into my adult life, before I even started therapy.
Only Daughter: An gripping and emotional psychological thriller with a jaw-dropping twist Page 27