‘I didn’t mean to,’ Luke mutters to the floor. ‘It was a joke.’
‘Didn’t mean to what?’ Matthew’s exasperated.
‘You must have had an idea,’ I interject, ‘and you did nothing. You covered it up, Matthew, like you did with that poor girl, Daisy…’
‘‘But we dealt with that.’ Matthew almost looks relieved – almost, but not quite. ‘It was an accident, truly, and Daisy’s going to be fine…’
‘You “dealt” with it?’ I think of Peter Bedford’s distress. ‘Not what her father thinks.’
‘He didn’t see her,’ Matthew interjects.
‘Look, sorry, but I’m more interested in Jeanie right now. Tell me, Luke, what did you think would happen if you scared her out of her wits?’
‘It was a joke,’ the boy repeats pathetically.
‘Like killing your own dog was?’ I hazard a guess.
‘Oh God! I thought you’d stopped murdering animals, Lukie.’ Kaye’s sigh is as dramatic as her statement. ‘We’re going to have to go back to the psychotherapist I realise.’
‘Murdering?’
‘I didn’t mean to,’ Luke mutters. ‘They were accidents…’
‘Oh, Luke.’ Matthew sits heavily. ‘What did you do?’
‘Made Jeanie think she was mad, mainly, I think,’ I say. ‘How did you manage it, Luke? All the whispering walls? The flickering lights.’
He shrugs. ‘S’not hard.’ And I’m amazed. He’s fessing up; rolling over apparently. ‘I just rigged up the Sonos system.’
Of course he did. The sound system in every room; the sound system that Frankie had been so impressed with; the horrible jazz rattling to its end now here and in the kitchen.
‘And the porn on Frank’s computer? That disgusting porn?’
Luke just stares at the floor.
‘And the emails from ‘Helpful’?’
‘I found the stuff in Scarlett’s room. An article about what Jeanie did with that boy.’ For the first time, Luke looks more impassioned. It’s all coming out like a release. ‘I just wrote it down and sent it to Dad.’
‘And the school where she’d got a job? Very clever. Know a thing or two about computers do you, Luke?’
‘He’s very good with programming actually.’ For a moment Matthew almost looks proud. ‘Natural aptitude.’ Then he remembers himself.
‘He made it look like the emails were from Frankie, and then when Frankie denied it, he must have changed the address. You made them look like they were from your own sister, Luke! But they weren’t, were they?’ I demand.
The teenager shakes his head, lower lip jutting.
‘Oh sweetheart.’ His mother goes to him. ‘I know you wanted to do it for me, but it’s been very cruel to Jeanie. I just wanted you to make her welcome.’
‘Really?’ I hear my own disbelief echo in the air. ‘I’d say you’re a liar – just like your son.’
She was in The Bill, I hear those girls from yesterday say. A born actress.
‘But you cried on their wedding day,’ Luke speaks to his mother, angry now. ‘I didn’t get why. I didn’t get why – and I just wanted to make you happy, Mum. You left Dad, and then you were meant to be happy, but you weren’t nice.’
‘It wasn’t me.’ Kaye’s voice has sharpened. Knife sharp. ‘I didn’t tell him to.’ She looks at both Matthew and me now. ‘You have to believe me.’
‘Do I?’ She’d sell her own son down the river for a song. ‘You didn’t coerce your son into making Jeanie’s life a misery then?’
‘You said it’d be funny, Mum,’ Luke whines. ‘You said imagine if she thought that old ghost was around again…’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake, Kaye.’ Matthew stands. ‘You child.’
The cards, the emails, the nooses around Jeanie’s neck, the photocopies of articles. The dead blackbirds: the maid was in the garden. Jeanie – the hired help.
This boy wasn’t up to all that – not alone, I don’t think.
But I’ve heard enough; I’m itching to leave.
‘I hope you’re really proud,’ I say. ‘How did you do the bird thing incidentally?’
‘What bird thing?’ Matthew looks confused. ‘The blackbirds Jeanie said she saw.’
‘She did see them.’ I want to slap him. ‘He knows, don’t you, Luke?’
The boy is shrinking further and further into himself.
‘Luke?’ his father demands.
‘I kept them in the attic in a cage. It was just a laugh.’
‘Killing birds?’ I pull a face. ‘A laugh?’
‘He thought he was protecting me…’ Kaye is half crying now – or trying to. Attempting to squeeze out a tear or two. ‘It’s just a son’s love for his mother. It’s natural. Stepfamilies are hard work.’
‘It’s a completely fucked-up love. Jesus – let them free, if you love them, you stupid woman. Don’t use them for your own ends.’ I look at Matthew. ‘You better get your son some help. Before it’s too late.’
* * *