And he knows it. ‘Don’t lie to me.’
I see bright lights dazzling me. A car coming towards me. I taste fear in my mouth. The sickening sideways wrench of a car too powerful for me to control.
I throw up my arm, hiding my face from those lights. ‘Please . . . !’
‘Back when you were still Catherine, you told me what Rachel did to some unfortunate cat. Tormented it cruelly, gouged out its eyes.’
‘No.’
‘Only it wasn’t a flesh-and-blood cat, was it?’ His voice nags at me, implacable. ‘It wasn’t even a metaphor for yourself, for Cat.’
‘No.’
‘It was a car with the figurine of a big cat on the bonnet.’
‘No, I told you—’
‘It was your father’s classic Jag, the one you drove into my sister, leaving her here in this bed, with no idea who she is or what happened to her.’ He stares at me furiously. ‘Rather like you, shutting off completely from Rachel after the accident. Reinventing her as your big bad sister. The sister nobody talks about. Only I’ve found a way to bring her back, haven’t I?’ His smile is worse than his threats. ‘And now you’ll never be rid of her again. Rachel’s here to stay and she’s going to pay for what she did.’
He reaches for me again, but I jerk away.
‘Wait, wait,’ I say urgently. ‘Does Dad ever come here?’ My voice is high-pitched, unrecognisable. ‘You said he pays for all this. Does he visit her too?’
‘Robert Bates doesn’t give a damn about Felicity,’ Dominic tells me. ‘He pays for her care because of a deal he made with my dad. A financial arrangement that kept all the embarrassing details out of the papers, and let my dad hope she might recover one day. But she’ll never recover, and my dad’s dead now.’ He swallows, suddenly paling. ‘It’s time to let her go. Turn off these machines. Then your dad will be free of it. But you never will be, Rachel.’ His voice hardens again. ‘I’m going to make sure of that.’
‘So you’re reading to her, are you?’
He looks blank. ‘I don’t read to Felicity, no. I talk to her, and bring flowers, and play her music. The music she used to love as a teen.’
I point to the book on the bedside cabinet. ‘Then what’s that?’
‘Nurse Trudi, perhaps. Or one of the other nurses who come in to look after her.’
I slip round the bed and pick up the book, Through the Looking-Glass.
He’s instantly furious again, chasing after me. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ He grabs my arm. ‘Get away from her.’
‘It’s not one of the nurses who left this,’ I say huskily, and show him the flyleaf, where my name is written. My other name. I read aloud, ‘To Catherine, on your twelfth birthday, love Daddy.’ I give a harsh laugh and close the book. ‘One of his little acts of rebellion when I was going through my Rachel phase. Daddy hated calling me Rachel, even though he knew it made me even crazier when he didn’t. I threw the book out of my bedroom window that morning when I saw which name he’d used. He ran outside in the rain to rescue it. In his slippers.’
Dominic stares down at the book, momentarily speechless, then says slowly, ‘I don’t understand.’
A deep voice asks, ‘Don’t you?’ from the doorway.
We both turn.
I start in surprise and horror, tears springing to my eyes. Dominic does not release me, his hand squeezing my wrist even harder.
Dad watches us, filling the doorway with his tall figure. ‘Hello, Rachel,’ he says, then looks at the woman in the bed, his voice softening. ‘Hello, Felicity.’
‘Daddy,’ I gasp.
‘Get away from my daughter,’ he tells Dominic, a steely note in his voice.
Dominic hesitates, his face tense, still grasping my wrist.
‘I know who you really are, Nick,’ Dad continues icily. ‘I’ve known for some time, thanks to Wainwright.’
Dominic’s eyes widen at the use of his childhood name.
‘I didn’t want to precipitate a crisis with Cat, so I said nothing. But that horse has well and truly bolted. So your little charade here is finished.’ Dad pauses, his face a mask of cold authority. ‘If you stay away from Cat, I won’t pursue this any further. But if you persist, I will intervene, don’t think I won’t. I doubt the police will believe you weren’t involved in Wainwright’s death, for instance.’
Dominic says nothing, but I can feel his sudden stillness.
‘I’m sorry for what happened to Felicity. It was a terrible tragedy, a talented young life cut short.’ Dad glances towards the woman in the bed, a sudden throb of emotion in his voice. ‘Yes, I come here sometimes to sit and read to her. And ask her to forgive me. Though I’ve never been able to forgive myself.’
I stare at him. ‘For what?’
‘For not managing your condition better. And for not being a stricter parent at times. Perhaps if I hadn’t let you have your way so often . . .’ He shakes his head, then looks at Dominic, a significant edge to his voice. ‘I’ll do whatever it takes to protect my daughter. Do we understand each other?’
Dominic hesitates, then nods silently.
‘Good, I’m glad.’ Behind my father, I can see Nurse Trudi hanging about in the hallway, peering over his shoulder with a curious expression. Dad lowers his voice, choosing his words carefully as though aware of this unwanted audience. ‘Because none of us will come out of this unscathed if you decide to go public. You’ve had your revenge. You’ve turned Cat back into Rachel. Don’t make things any worse than they already are.’
I twist away from Dominic and run towards my father.
‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him wildly. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’
Dad opens his arms.
‘Hush, darling, it’s all forgiven,’ he says, and clutches me to his chest, then kisses my forehead. ‘Are you hurt?’ He puts a finger under my chin and raises my face to examine me, his eyes dark with concern. ‘Christ, what’s that on your cheek? Did that bastard hit you?’
I bury my face in his chest. ‘Take me home, Daddy,’ I say huskily, not looking at Dominic again. ‘It’s over.’
Epilogue
‘You can’t put the genie back in the bottle,’ Dr Aebischer tells my father, his tone apologetic. ‘We’ve come to the end of our usefulness, I’m afraid. To keep Catherine here any longer would be against her best interests. The best thing you can do is take your daughter back to London, and continue with the therapy sessions we’ve started here.’
I ignore them, staring out of the window at the snow instead. It’s been a poor year for the ski resorts again, one of the warmest springs for a decade, but the mountains are still white-capped. Anyway, what does it matter what these doctors say? I’ve been here for weeks now, locked in this bedroom, only let out for exercise or therapy sessions, and Dr Aebischer is about the fifth specialist to assess me. The others have said the same, but Dad doesn’t want to listen. He won’t give up but I’m beginning to wish he would.
The bedroom is cold, but through choice. I turned down the thermostat deliberately. I wanted to feel the cold.
My dress is white, knee-length, buttoned up to the neck. It’s prim and controlled, the sort of outfit Catherine might wear.
I hate it.
But it’s what I need right now. To be controlled.
‘Medication can only do so much, you see,’ Dr Aebischer continues in that very correct Swiss accent. He’s the clinic director, a large man with a bald head and a kind smile. I like him instinctively. He tends to oversee treatments rather than deal with patients individually. ‘As my colleagues have informed you, it’s a question of therapy now. Therapy and integration.’
‘I thought it was a question of money,’ Dad says coolly.
The clinic director inclines his head. ‘Your donations to our research work have been most generous, and we are very grateful. But whether Catherine stays another month or another year, it will not change our recommendations.’