‘Kate, I know this has been so hard for you,’ he says. ‘But …
‘This isn’t right.’ Charlotte interrupts. ‘What you’ve just said, do you realise how paranoid you sound? The police inspector is against you, acting oddly? What next, it’s a cover-up?’
The realisation’s sinking in now, my hopeful energy dissipating.
‘You’re not here to help me.’
They eye each other warily. ‘We do want to help you, Kate, love, of course we do,’ says Dad. ‘But we really feel that you’re not coping.’
‘Well, you’re wrong,’ I say.
Charlotte shakes her shiny bob, her arms crossed. She always gets angry when she’s upset. ‘I wish you could hear yourself. See yourself.’ I look down at my hoodie and bare feet; I know my hair’s unbrushed. ‘I told you, Dad—’
He interrupts now: ‘You were right, it’s history repeating. I’m so sorry, Kate, we should have done more; before, after Mark left, and you had all that trouble. Now’ – he shifts on his feet – ‘we did hear he’s got a new partner, so perhaps it’s not surprising that you’re finding things so hard right now …’
‘I don’t care about that! I mean I do but not compared to this.’ I can feel the headache coming, the heaviness thudding behind my eyes. ‘That’s why you’ve come to see me,’ I say dully. ‘But I don’t need looking after. I need help, yes. To find my daughter. Why won’t you listen to me?’
‘Kate!’ says Charlotte, frustrated. ‘This – this story you’ve just told us, and now? Someone’s broken in, with no sign of anything gone?’ I can see her trying to keep calm, never her strongest point. ‘I’m scared, honestly I am. You’re delusional. You need help, serious help. He said—’
‘Charlotte,’ Dad cuts in, a warning note in his voice.
‘No, Dad, it’s OK,’ says Charlotte. ‘Kate, when you didn’t want us to take the overdose any further; I thought we were helping, but we weren’t. We’ve allowed all this to get out of hand.’
‘How can you say that?’ I am not letting her do this. ‘You know that was an accident, not a real – God – attempt to do anything. And I am OK: I don’t have a problem with pills, I’m careful.’ Why is she being like this? ‘You know, I’ve only been using them to help me sleep, and not even that recently.’
A thought strikes me now, chilling me: ‘Why do you think I woke up in the night and heard whoever it was in my house?’ And what if I had taken a pill, as so often I have in the past? And the creak of the floorboard hadn’t woken me, instead the door knob had just kept turning silently, as I slept on … I suppress a shudder. I can’t think about this now. ‘Everything I’ve found out, everything that’s happened: why won’t you believe me?’
Charlotte looks at Dad, then back to me. ‘You should have been getting proper, professional help, Kate. A psychiatrist, not this grief coach who you never see anyway.’
Finally my temper flares, the strain and fear of the night, the anger at the officers just now, spilling out. ‘I know why you’re doing this. You’ve always been jealous of me and what I had. Now you’ve got a chance to cut me down, you just couldn’t wait, could you?’
Charlotte takes a deep breath, her eyes filling with tears. ‘Maybe I was … jealous, once. But who would be now?’ I flinch.
I can almost see her wresting back control of herself, as she becomes composed again. ‘I don’t think it’s healthy to do this; we need to sort this properly. Not here, not this way.’ She steps towards the hallway, grabbing her bag off the side. ‘Dad, I’m leaving. Now. I think you should come with me.’
‘Kate, I never meant …’ He looks at me, appealing.
‘We’ll talk later,’ I manage to say. I can’t bear him looking this upset. ‘We’ll sort it out. Let’s just – have a little break.’
I don’t move as I hear the engine start up, then Charlotte roaring off, no care for the gravel scratching her paintwork this time. I went too far, I think, even as another part of me says, no: why wouldn’t she believe me? What’s got into her?
I lean back against the countertop, the headache pulsing behind my eyes.
So here I am again, alone.
No, worse than I was.
No police on my side. No family. It’s all on me now.
To find her.
35
SOPHIE
You’d think it would have changed everything: his hands around my neck; the slap to my face. And it did for me. But the next time he came round, he just acted like nothing had happened, just setting down the bag of food and starting to unpack. So I went along with it, following his lead. I didn’t want to. But it was easier.
Safer.
We pretended he didn’t notice how nervous I was now, how jumpy.
And the days passed, lengthened into weeks, then months, then longer. I cried, when he wasn’t here. Because he didn’t like it when I cried. Through the skylight, I charted the passing of the seasons by that patch of sky: winter white; a green leaf blowing past, heralding spring; scattered clouds then the long blue of summer, giving way to grey. Eventually, the dull white of winter again.
I couldn’t forget what had happened, though. Now that I’d seen it, what lies underneath.
I knew he didn’t either. He stayed away longer, leaving days between his visits. When he does come here now, it’s never for long.
The really sick thing is, even now, we’re still pretending: that this isn’t what it is.
It was spring this year, when he’d turned up in the evening, looking pleased with himself. He had a plastic carrier bag in his hand, but it was too empty to be the usual food delivery.
He didn’t say anything as he handed it to me, where I was sitting on the mattress. I knew by his air of expectation how I had to react – that it’d be a bad idea to be less than enthusiastic.
It was just a little puddle of fabric inside, fuzzy and pink. ‘My blankie,’ I said. ‘Isn’t it?’ I pulled it out to smell it. Home. I looked down so he couldn’t see the tears welling up in my eyes.
‘Thank you,’ I managed. ‘But how did you – how did you get this?’
‘Don’t you like it?’ There was an edge in his voice, familiar by now.
‘Yes, of course,’ I said. I tried to make my face happy. ‘I missed this.’
That was the wrong thing to say. ‘Maybe this wasn’t a good idea, after all. I try and do these nice things for you.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Your parents spoiled you, that’s the problem.’ I hate it when he starts like this. I think he genuinely believes what he’s saying.
I was shocked the first time: ‘A spoiled little princess,’ he’d called me. I forget why, I hadn’t kept the place tidy enough, or got up quickly enough when he came in.
‘But you said …’ I’d trailed off at the look on his face, even as I thought of all the times before, when he’d told me the opposite: how it wasn’t fair how my parents treated me, that I needed looking after properly.
‘Thank you, really. It’s so clever of you to get it,’ I said carefully. I wanted to cringe at how transparent I was, but his shoulders relaxed. ‘I’d never have dared it.’ He liked that too. ‘I’d have thought it would be hard for you to get in …’ I wasn’t going to ask how.
‘It wasn’t too difficult.’ He picked up the remote and changed the channel.
So did someone let him into the house? I couldn’t think what excuse he’d use. But then what’s the alternative – that he waited until everyone had gone and … what? Let himself in?
A little chill ran down my spine then, as I remembered.
Once, he’d walked me back to the house, not just leaving me at the end of the road as usual. Mum and Dad must have been out, their cars weren’t in the drive. Still, he wouldn’t walk all the way up the house, seeing the security lights clicking on for me. I’d giggled, knowing he was behind me in the shadows, as I’d rummaged for the key under the old brick round the side. At the front door, I’d waved out at the darkness, confident that he was watching.
All the years later, is he still watching my house – my family?