‘ ’Cept he’s not, is he?’ She scowls. ‘He’s never here, and he never used to be either.’
‘Oh?’ I say. ‘Was he away a lot before then?’
She laughs drily. ‘Yeah, always away. Always working, so we could have nice things apparently. But I didn’t want nice things.’
‘Right,’ I say.
‘And then my mum was always busy, and then neither of them were here. We even had a nanny for a bit…’ She trails off, biting her lip.
‘A nanny?’ News to me. ‘Was she nice?’
‘Oh it wasn’t for long. But Luke didn’t like her, and he was getting bullied at the time.’
‘Bullied? About what?’
‘Stuff. Too much coding club. Being a geek. Dad and Mum divorcing, that kind of stuff. So she… she had to go. Can I have a drink?’ She changes the subject abruptly.
‘Course. Must have been really hard for you both.’ I stand, turning the overhead lights on now. ‘I’m going to make some tea.’
I feel like my bones are heavier than they’ve ever been.
In the kitchen, I think about the manner in which Scarlett delivered this information.
This house is haunted. No, not haunted – no more ghost stories. Tainted. I didn’t notice it at first, but I notice it more and more now: the air is dark and sullied.
The sandwich I made Matthew is still in the fridge I see as I get the milk out. The sandwich with the note inside.
I take it out of the fridge and throw it in the bin, and I’m wondering how I can rectify things between us when the telephone rings.
‘Hello?’ I answer without thinking. It’s rarely for me.
‘You stay away, you fucking bitch,’ a voice says. I nearly slam it down again – but then I realise I recognise the voice.
Ma Lundy.
‘How did you get this number?’ I ask.
‘It wasn’t hard; you’re in the phone book, love.’
‘Phone book?’
‘Or 118 – whatever you call it these days. So stay away.’
‘Look, I’m sorry, but I only wanted to know if you—’ I start, but she cuts across me, in her familiar raspy tone.
‘Stay away from my boy if you know what’s good for you.’
Sue Lundy is the archetypal jealous mother, despite neglecting her son badly.
When I tried to talk to her at the time of the allegations, she refused to believe my story; she refused to believe I hadn’t pursued her beloved son to within an inch of his life. She loved him – her version of love anyway – so every other woman in the world must love him too.
When she was warned by the school that nothing had been proven, the woman made it a vendetta that she passed on to Otto’s father. He posted on social media about me until the Facebook administration agreed to take the page down. Next the Lundys began to tweet about me, trying to get anything in the press.
By this time avarice had taken hold, I was sure; they were looking to sell their ‘tragic’ story – a story less tragic than farcical.
‘I meant no harm – really. I never meant any harm, you must know that,’ I say – and then I realise Matthew’s standing behind me, staring at me.
‘Who was that?’ he asks suspiciously as I hang up abruptly.
‘It’s a long story.’ If I try to explain where I went today, it won’t look good, I know that – so what’s the point? ‘It’s not important now.’
Matthew frowns, as if he doesn’t believe me, but he leaves it. ‘Where’s Scarlett?’ he asks. ‘Is she here?’
‘She’s in the living room. It’s nice to see her – she seemed fine with me,’ I reassure him – but he’s not listening.
‘Scarlett?’ He crosses the hall and pushes open the door, and I follow him.
The television is blaring, Hollyoaks or some teenage nonsense. Someone’s shouting that they love someone else, but they know they shouldn’t, and Scarlett’s not there. Matthew turns it off – and the DVD player comes on.
Images of Scarlett and her mother fill the screen, on some open-air ice rink, Alpine perhaps: Kaye clad in beige cashmere and fur, skating well as she flashes smiles for the camera.
But it’s Scarlett I’m more interested in. I stare at the expression on the girl’s face. I realise what it was that I found so odd before.
‘Scarlett?’ Matthew says again. ‘She’s obsessed by these old home movies.’
‘She’s probably upstairs,’ I suggest, my eye caught by a vivid blur outside the patio doors.
A big healthy fox runs across the terrace, something in its mouth. It’s a muscular creature, and Matthew hates them with a passion.
‘Bloody things,’ he swears. ‘One’s just killed all Sylvia’s chickens you know.’
Good, I think. Good. I have nothing against chickens, but I don’t like Sylvia one tiny bit.
Matthew slides the patio doors open to chase the animal off, and I go to call Scarlett.
Above me I hear giggling and a burst of music as a door opens and shuts. Frankie’s rusty little car is parked haphazardly on the drive, in front of Matthew’s big black beast.