It was different this time. She felt his loss of control, the escalation of desire. She closed her eyes tight. He sounded like the man she once found on top of her mother, the way the air rasped from his lungs in ugly pants and moans. She had thought he was attacking Linda and had taken a knife to him. She didn’t do him much harm, but it was enough to need stitches and to get her noticed by social services.
She reached blindly and her hand touched glass. She nudged at the vodka bottle, stretching her fingers as far as they would go, walking them up to the neck. Then with one last effort she gripped it, swung it up and brought it down hard on his shoulders. He whacked it away with a curse and it smashed against the steel frame of the coffee table. When she cried out he gagged her, covering her nose and mouth with his hand. She thought she was going to suffocate. She was drowning again, underwater, a hand pressing her down and keeping her there. She reached and her fingers touched something cold, wet and sharp. She moved the piece of broken glass closer, tipped it into her hand, plunged it into his neck and held it there. Luke bellowed and lurched up, blood spurting between his fingers, his colour draining as he staggered around the room like a drunk. Finally, he fell, his head hitting the fake-marble hearth with an audible crack.
Katya covered her face and sobbed, cramming herself into the corner of the sofa, trying not to hear the noises Luke was making. His moans slowly became weaker until eventually he fell silent. When he hadn’t moved for a while, she crawled over and crouched beside him. It was hard to tell if he was alive or not, even when she held the back of her hand near his lips. She could have imagined that there were signs; that his eyelid flickered, that a tiny thread of life still existed.
She shuffled back to the sofa on her bottom and found the phone lying in a pool of spilt vodka. She touched the keys then her fingers went slack and she let it drop on to the carpet. For the second time in her life, she did nothing.
It was the television programme finishing and the ads coming on that made her go in search of Luke’s address book. She knew Sally’s wouldn’t have the number she wanted.
After she had woken Maggie and summoned her to the house, she brushed broken glass off her pyjama bottoms, retrieved her book from under the sofa cushion and went to wait by the front door.
39
JENNY’S SPARE ROOM is on the top floor and hasn’t yet seen a paint roller. It isn’t half as bad as Browning Street, but it’s drab and dated, with yellow rag-rolled walls and white glossed woodwork. There’s even a yellow basin set into a dilapidated vanity unit with a white plastic framed mirror above it. I looked in it earlier and saw shadows under my eyes.
I try to read but I can’t stop thinking. I don’t trust Amber, not after everything she’s done lately. She may have taken back her demand for money and asked me to forgive her; but she hasn’t done that out of love for Vicky Seagrave. She’s done it for Amber Collins. I assume that Robert’s trip paid off and he’s got his contract. That at least would explain why the pressure is off. It doesn’t mean I can suddenly rely on her again. The question is, what does she hope to gain by returning to where we were at the beginning of January when all this began? I’m not a fool, not a complete fool anyway. I’m not going to fall into that trap.
But what if I decide not to take Jenny’s advice? I am still wavering. Tom and I would be in Amber’s power. My thoughts scatter as I panic. What if that man is arrested and tells Grayling what actually happened? What if I am charged with child abuse? Will she win? Will she take Tom? And what about when I got out? Would it be left to Mum to pick me up and take me with her to Bognor? Would my home be barred to me? Would I have access to my children? A tear dribbles down my cheek and I set aside the book with a groan of frustration. A. There is no point anticipating things that haven’t yet happened. B. Jenny said it was unlikely I’d be imprisoned. C. I need to get some sleep. I switch out the bedside light and fall back on the pillow. When my mobile rings, it takes me a moment to work out where I am.
‘Vicky, lovely. Thank God you’re awake.’
From the sound of her voice it’s clear Mum’s been drinking. I sit up and rotate my head, stretching my neck, trying to ease the grogginess. I get out of bed and move the curtains aside. The street is very quiet, the night cloudless, London glowing as bright as the sprinkling of stars that prick tiny stitches in the night sky.
‘There’s something I didn’t tell you.’
‘OK,’ I say slowly.
‘I want you to know that I’m truly sorry for what happened, but it wasn’t my fault. He lied to me.’
I yawn and rub my eyes. My body feels heavy. ‘Stop being mysterious and tell me what’s going on.’
‘She killed him.’
My eyes widen. ‘Who killed who?’
‘Amber – Katya, I mean. She killed her foster father. I’m sorry; I know I should have told you.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘Because I was ashamed. And there’s something else. Katya’s mother died of an overdose and Katya found her.’
‘Oh Christ.’
‘She said she was dead and that she called 999 straight away, but there was evidence that she waited. It was hushed up because she was so young. She may not even have realized Linda was still alive.’
I turn away from the window and let the curtains fall closed. I feel as though ice has entered my heart.
‘Say something, Vicky.’
‘Please don’t tell me you were having an affair with him.’
The silence that follows kills me. Of all the things she could have done, this is both the most unbelievable and the most believable. I am not surprised and yet I am so shocked I want to scream at her, smash something. Instead I push it all down and try very hard to stay calm.
‘You must have known it was morally wrong.’
‘Of course I did.’ Her voice wavers. She’s like a child being told off by a teacher. ‘I tried to stay away from him. But you never met Luke. He was so convincing, so charming, and I was lonely. I fell in love.’
‘With Katya’s abuser? With a man who preferred a little girl to you? Oh my God, Mum. How could you?’
My supper rises to my gorge and I lean over the basin and retch into it, dropping the phone. When I pick it up, I can hear Mum crying.
‘Vicky, listen to me. Let me explain.’
‘I don’t want to hear it and I don’t want to speak to you. I need to think.’
After I cut her off, I crouch in the middle of the room, my head in my hands, trying to understand. She was a defenceless little girl and he was a big man. She would have been terrified. She would have struck out with all the strength she possessed. No wonder Mum refused to believe her; she was too busy deluding herself she was in love with a decent man. What has it done to Amber’s mind? And what the hell do I do now? Do I tell her I know? Do I ignore it and hope it goes away? Should I even tell Tom?
Tomorrow morning I’m going to find her and speak to her. This is a woman who has been hurt and let down and she needs my help, so the least I can do is talk to her; give her a chance to tell her side of the story. She’s turned on me but she isn’t to blame for what’s happened. I’ve done that all by myself.
I crawl back into bed but a minute later my phone rings again. I should have turned it off. I groan and reach for it.