I open the thread of messages to Ella. There’s a brief conversation, two months earlier, about a project they were working on at school but that’s it. There’s nothing else – nothing about Liam or Keisha or why they might have fallen out.
I continued to search through her text history – through the ones between Charlotte and her dad (mostly requests for money or lifts), Charlotte and Oli (his version of her request for a hotel room was spot on) and then start going through the names I don’t recognize. The texts between Charlotte and the girls from school don’t reveal anything apart from a bit of gossip about who fancies who. And that’s it. That’s all there is apart from one more name – K Dog. My heart sinks as I select it. I really thought Charlotte’s phone would provide some answers. I felt sure the mystery would be solved if only—
My skin prickles with goosebumps and I go cold.
My dad’s a sick pervert and I don’t know who else to talk to. Call me asap. Charlotte x
I read the text again.
No, it’s not possible.
He’d never hurt her.
Memories flood my mind. Brian taking Charlotte to the swimming pool. Brian teaching her to ride a bike. Brian giving her a bath. She would have told me if he’d done anything inappropriate or started behaving unusually. Wouldn’t she?
No. I give myself a mental shake. Stop it, Sue. Your first instinct was right. Brian would never do anything to harm his daughter. He loves her. He was devastated by her accident. He still is. But …
The image of cars hurtling towards us flashes through my mind.
Why did he drive into oncoming traffic when I told him Charlotte had talked about killing herself in her diary? Why turn the argument on me when I asked him about the swimming pool and his early morning walks?
I need to find out what Charlotte’s text means. I fumble with the phone as I select the name ‘K-Dog’ and then press ‘Call’.
There’s a click, then a dial tone and I’m mentally rehearsing what I’m about to say when a noise from upstairs makes me jump.
Brian.
He’s walking around his study.
‘Answer the phone,’ I urge as the dial tone continues to sound and footsteps cross the landing. ‘Please answer the phone.’
Come on. Come on. Come on.
There’s a click.
Someone’s picked up.
‘Hello?’ I breathe. ‘Hello, my name is Sue—’
This is the Vodaphone voicemail service for 07972 711271. Please leave your message after the tone.
The stairs creak.
‘Hello?’ I say after the beep. ‘You don’t know me but my name is—’
‘Sue?’ There’s a sharp knock on the toilet door. ‘Sue, who are you talking to?’
‘No one!’ I frantically stab at the ‘End Call’ button and shove the phone down my bra. ‘I’ll be out in a sec.’
I brace my hands against the toilet walls, suddenly lightheaded, and steady myself.
‘Sue?’ More knocking, louder, more frantic. ‘What are you doing in there?’
‘Nothing. I’ll be out in a second.’
‘Okay.’ I hear him take a deep breath. ‘We need to have a chat, Sue. I’ll wait for you in the living room.’
I turn on the cold tap and splash my face then look in the mirror. A tired forty-something with dark circles under her eyes and a haunted expression pats her skin dry with a towel. I barely recognize myself. And what of Brian? Do I still know him or has he morphed into the very worst kind of man? Someone deceitful, someone predatory, someone dangerous. There’s only one way to find out.
I drape the towel back over the rail and unlock the toilet door.
Tuesday 24th October 1990
‘I’m sorry, Suzy.’
James reached an arm around my shoulders and pulled me into his chest. I closed my eyes, still half asleep. He smelt musky and warm. He smelt like home.
‘What for?’
He didn’t say anything for a couple of seconds, then stroked my hair out of my eyes and tilted my face up towards him. I opened my eyes.
‘For the way I’ve been recently. For the way I’ve treated you. I’ve been …’ he paused, ‘… unfair.’
I said nothing but a huge wave of relief washed over me. His behaviour over the last couple of days had really worried me. It had seemed so out of character and when he’d screamed at me, calling me a liar, it was horrible.
‘I’ve got a lot of anger in me, Suzy; anger about something that happened in the past that I fight to keep suppressed. Sometimes it explodes …’ He traced a thumb over my cheekbone. ‘I took it out on the wrong person. I took it out on the person who would never hurt me and for that I am truly sorry. I don’t want to be a monster. I don’t want to be like him.’
‘Who was a monster?’ I rested my hand on his chest. ‘What happened, James?’
He shook his head and a single tear wound its way down his cheek.
‘Tell me. Tell me what I can do to help, James.’
He passed a hand over his face, roughly rubbing the tear away and looked down at me.
‘See, that’s why I love you. You’re so incredibly caring.’ He pressed a palm to my chest. ‘You’ve got such a huge heart.’
‘What is it? Tell me so I can understand.’
He took a deep breath and I readied myself for what was about to come. But nothing came. We lay together in uncomfortable silence for several minutes. Finally James spoke.
‘Yesterday was the anniversary of my uncle’s death.’
I started to say that I was sorry but he shook his head.
‘He died when I was twelve, suddenly, of a heart attack. No one saw it coming. Men like Uncle Malcolm didn’t just drop dead in their fifties My mother was distraught, she locked herself in her room and cried and cried and cried. I didn’t comfort her. I ran into the woods behind our house and I picked up the biggest branch I could find – so heavy I could barely lift it – and I smashed it against one of the trees until it was splintered and broken and my palms were bleeding and then I screamed at God. I hated him for taking Uncle Malcolm away from me before I had a chance to grow up and I could kill him myself.’