‘Maybe she doesn’t need to see that shrink after all,’ he added. ‘What do you reckon?’
‘Yes,’ I said faintly. ‘Perhaps you’re right. I’ll cancel it.’ I made myself return his smile. When he went whistling out of the room, I poured myself another, extra-large glass, and drank it in three gulps.
My only joy during this time was Toby. He was the one thing that made life bearable. Hannah knew that. She knew he was all I had.
It was an evening in October a year later and it had been a long and tiring day: I’d slept badly the night before and Toby had been difficult for most of the afternoon – he was two years old by then. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t have a drink until both of the children were in bed so I was doing my best to chivvy Hannah along. Toby should have been in bed ages ago but he was refusing to settle, so I’d brought him into the bathroom with me while I kept an eye on his sister.
‘Come on now, Hannah,’ I said for what felt like the hundredth time, while Toby played on the floor, making a relentless ‘brrrrmmm brrrrmmm brrrrmmm’ noise as he pushed a toy car around my feet. ‘Get out of the bath now – it’s getting late.’
She glanced at me dismissively. ‘No, I’m not ready to.’
My anger seemed to come from nowhere. I was usually so careful to keep her onside, but I was tired, a bit hung-over from the night before, and there was something in the look she shot me, the disdain in her eyes that just made me snap. ‘Get out of the bath right this minute,’ I shouted so loudly that Toby jumped and started to cry. ‘I’m sick of you disobeying me!’
With infinite slowness, a maddening smirk on her face, she did what she was told. It seemed to take her forever, and I was suddenly desperate for a drink. I passed her a towel. ‘Go and put your night things on,’ I muttered. ‘I’ll be two minutes.’ I left the room and headed for the stairs, thinking only of the cold bottle of wine I had waiting for me in the fridge.
After I’d poured myself a glass I stood at the sink savouring that first gulp. I could hear Hannah talking to Toby, their voices getting louder, which meant they must have left the bathroom. I closed my eyes, summoning my last scrap of energy, then knocked back the rest of the glass. That was when I heard the scream. I ran from the kitchen, the bottle still in my hand, to find Toby lying at the bottom of the stairs. I heard myself shouting his name as I knelt down beside him. Time seemed to stop: I was senseless with panic. The relief I felt when he got up and threw himself into my arms was indescribable. ‘Are you OK?’ I asked as he screamed hysterically. ‘Oh my darling, are you OK?’ Frantically I checked him over for broken bones, but miraculously he seemed unharmed.
I have never known fury like it. When I looked up, I saw Hannah sauntering down the stairs towards me, a serene smile on her face. I admit, in that one brief moment I wanted to kill her. ‘What did you do?’ I screamed. ‘What the hell did you do?’
‘Nothing, Mummy,’ she said.
‘Did you push him, Hannah? Did you push your brother down the stairs?’
She reached the bottom step and considered me. ‘Nope. He fell,’ she said with a shrug. ‘It wasn’t my fault.’
And then I did it. I slapped her. I had never once raised a hand to either of my children before but everything seemed to boil up inside me in that moment. My handprint left a livid red mark on her cheek. ‘You little bitch!’ I shouted. I was completely beside myself, all I could think about was the fact Toby could have died. ‘Don’t you ever touch my child again. Do you hear me?’ I was screaming so loudly I didn’t hear Doug’s key in the door.
‘Beth?’ He stood in the hall in his coat, a look of horror on his face. ‘Beth. What the hell are you doing?’
The second she saw her father, Hannah began to cry. ‘Mummy hit me, Daddy! I didn’t do anything! Toby was sad because Mummy was gone so long, she went to get her wine and she never came back – and then Toby fell and Mummy hit me! She hit me and I don’t know why!’
I shook my head in disbelief and turned to Doug. ‘She’s lying. I was only gone a moment. She pushed him!’
His eyes still wide with shock, Doug bent down and took Toby from me, gathering him in his arms. ‘OK, little man,’ he soothed, ‘it’s OK, it’s OK now.’
‘No!’ I shouted at him, ‘No it’s not OK! Nothing is OK! She pushed our son down the stairs!’
His gaze fell to the bottle of wine that in my panic had fallen to the floor. ‘You’re drinking?’ he said. ‘You’re looking after our children and you’re drinking?’
‘Don’t you fucking dare say this is my fault,’ I said, my voice shaking. ‘I’ve had one drink. I was gone less than a minute!’
I sank to my knees and pulled Toby away from Doug’s arms. ‘Darling,’ I said, ‘tell Daddy what happened. Did Hannah push you, honey?’
But Toby was too hysterical to answer. ‘Want Daddy,’ was all he said, turning back to his father and burying his face in Doug’s chest. ‘Want my daddy!’ Meanwhile, Hannah’s own sobs rose to fever pitch.
I got up and went to Hannah. ‘What’s wrong with you? What the fuck is wrong with you?’ My anger and guilt and fear mingled, fuelled by the wine I’d drunk.
I felt Doug’s hands grip my shoulders as he pulled me away from her. ‘Stop it, Beth!’ he shouted. ‘This isn’t helping. Go and calm down, I’ll deal with it.’
I looked at Toby, still clutching Doug and sobbing, the satisfied glint in Hannah’s eyes, the puddle of wine on the carpet, and ran from the house.
13
London, 2017
Clara was still thinking about Tom when Mac called to say he was on his way over. She stood at the window while she waited, recalling the unsettling intensity of Tom’s gaze, the peculiar texture of the air between them as they’d stood together in the hall. Try as she might, she couldn’t work him out. He was such a strange mixture of contradictions. At times during his visit she’d seen flashes of sympathy in his eyes, yet there remained that strange reserve, the feeling that he was scrutinizing her intently. Mac had mentioned him going off the rails in his teens, but she couldn’t imagine him ever losing control, of him ever being vulnerable or lost. And then there was the distance he kept between himself and his parents, an ambivalence towards them that bordered on disdain, which had always seemed especially cruel after they’d suffered so much already. On the other hand, he’d cared enough about Clara to travel some distance to see her, to check that she was all right. It was all entirely baffling.
Beyond her window the sky hung tepid and sallow over Hoxton Square. She watched as a group of achingly hip twentysomethings appeared at its furthest corner, on a wave of energy and laughter. They passed an elderly man, his chin nearly on his chest, edging with painful slowness along the pavement, a blue plastic bag dangling from his fingers, until at last he crept off down a side street to be swallowed by the council estate that lay beyond view of the square’s bustling restaurants and bars.
She turned and considered her flat, its disorder reminding her of the day she and Luke had moved in – the excitement they’d felt as they’d unpacked their belongings and talked about the housewarming party they were planning that weekend. She remembered how happy she’d felt at the prospect of their living together, of waking up every morning next to him.
Her gaze travelled now over their ransacked belongings: the stuff they’d chosen together when they’d first moved in, gathering bits and pieces from markets and junk shops, slowly and lovingly transforming the small, modern, white-walled space into somewhere that felt more like home to her than anywhere she’d lived before.
She was dragged from her thoughts by the intercom’s buzzer. A few minutes later Mac looked around himself in dismay as he stood amidst the chaos of her flat. ‘What did the police say?’ he asked. ‘I mean, they must think this is linked to Luke’s disappearance, right?’