Cathy’s eyes light on Frannie, and maybe she is thinking something similar, because she’s staring straight at Cathy instead of taking notes. Cathy ignores the chilly feeling across her arms and back, and grabs a pad from one of the desks to distract herself.
They discuss profit margins and efficacy of drugs. They discuss how the conjunctivitis drops are never in stock. Frannie says she will chase it up.
They keep it short, Evan’s first ever meeting. Cathy’s shoulders sag in relief as Evan leaves. Another bullet dodged. The rest of them file out in silence, coffee cups placed in the sink and the doors locked up. In the carpark out back, Maria and Evan gone home, the hot bins making it smell of Verona, Cathy looks at Frannie. She’s so striking. That wide nose, those cheekbones.
‘I can’t believe it’s come to this,’ Frannie says softly to Cathy. Joe, smoking again, looks up sharply. Macca sits at Cathy’s feet, just waiting.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I just mean – it was foolish. The whole thing.’ Frannie takes his cigarette. ‘It was foolish to attempt anything other than to hand ourselves in.’ She straightens up as she says it, a strange jerk of her body that Cathy finds impossible to read.
‘There was nothing we could’ve done that would’ve been right – or easy,’ Joe says. The sky behind him is luminescent. The smell of roses, somewhere, drifts towards them on the breeze. Cathy wishes for a second that this was a normal late August, just a mundane partnership meeting. She’d enjoy the smell of those roses. But they must live their August, their descent into criminality, their family crisis playing out in front of them like some Mafia movie.
As Cathy idles in neutral on the way home, Macca in the boot, Radio 4 playing softly, she remembers those goosebumps, and something repeats on her. Something … something sinister. Some moment in that meeting. She can’t recall it. Maybe it is just the fact that Evan was there. A non-Plant, for the first ever time. Knowing what they had collectively done.
It is only later, at midnight, that Cathy realizes. She feels too keyed up, as ever, to relax, and is carrying an armful of wet washing up her stairs, the sheets and shirts making her arms cold.
It isn’t general fear or concern. It is something Evan said. Something that seemed to Cathy like a veiled threat, or at the very least a hint at his mind-set. Why wouldn’t you get the most out of a situation? he’d said.
Anxiety flashes up Cathy’s body. She drops the clothes on the stairs and sits a step beneath them, trying to think. No, he just meant … no. She can’t think it. Can’t even think that he would blackmail them again. And again and again, until it’s over.
58.
Now
First Day of Trial R. v. Plant
‘We wanted to fix the mess we were in,’ I say, shrugging helplessly in the witness box, under oath. I wonder if they will document this shrug in the courtroom transcript the stenographer is painstakingly tapping out. ‘We were desperate. As time went on, we had less and less to lose.’
‘Are you saying that it … that it was easier to commit a crime because you already had committed others?’
Right before it all blew up, Frannie had become about as thin as it’s possible for an adult to be without being hospitalized. Gone was the beauty. What was left was a shaky frame on which her old, gorgeous features used to hang. Her hair had lost its thickness, exposing more of her hairline, like after she had Paul and she grew back a fuzz that she had hated. There was no fat in her cheeks. Her skin used to crease when she smiled. We met on that final night in the outhouse in the back of Frannie’s garden. There was no wine, but everything else was the same. The same ritualistic feel of our old Friday nights, only this time it was made sinister.
An owl was out, hooting softly nearby. It was the last time I saw both of them, before the police.
I stare at Joe. He staunchly refuses to meet my gaze.
‘And so your collective desire to fix the mess –’
‘Yes,’ I say quickly, knowing what’s coming, unable to stop looking at it, to move away, like it is a fast train approaching me. I’m frozen.
‘That is what led to the second murder?’
‘Yes,’ I say quietly, looking at the blank space in the public gallery. ‘Yes.’
59.
Then
Cathy
It’s three days since Evan joined the partnership. It’s late. Cathy is the only one left at work. She has two tasks left to do: check where they are against their target for August and read a report on probiotics for dogs that’s come in.
Maria walks into the backroom. Cathy is surprised to see her there, both because it’s late but also because it is the week their parents usually go into hiding. ‘You’re here,’ Cathy says. She is tired, is three coffees down, not sleeping well. Tom surely knows she’s keeping him at arm’s length, but he hasn’t said anything.
‘No rest for the wicked,’ Maria says lightly. ‘This need checking off?’ she says, gesturing to the prescription food. Cathy nods.
They work in companionable silence for a while. The room is quiet around them, the night sky dark beyond the window. There is a strange atmosphere, Maria’s busyness almost deliberately studied, and Cathy mimics her, going through their balance sheet robotically.
‘I thought I’d help,’ Maria says after a few more minutes. ‘Now – show me the profit and loss.’
‘No, I …’ Cathy stammers. ‘It’s fine. I’ve just finished it. I don’t want to have to do it again.’ She rubs at her forehead.
‘But what about –’
‘Mum. It’s fine.’
Maria blinks, staring at Cathy. ‘It’s just worry,’ she says.
Cathy crosses the room towards her mother. ‘It makes us have to do everything twice,’ she says quietly. ‘I know where it’s come from …’
Maria freezes, saying nothing, her gaze on the floor. ‘Right,’ she says.
‘We’re all fine,’ Cathy says. It’s a lie, but it’s an important one. ‘We are fine, the practice is fine – you know?’
Maria nods quickly, still not saying anything. They don’t broach the Rosie topic, not directly. That’s Cathy’s own battle to put to bed, she guesses.
They work together in silence for a while longer. ‘It was my only job to keep you all safe,’ Maria says quietly, after several minutes. She says it to the wall, not looking at Cathy.
‘I see,’ Cathy says quietly. ‘Well, we all feel guilty about that.’
‘You shouldn’t,’ Maria says.
‘Neither should you.’ Cathy may have returned the sentiment but, inside, her heart is singing. You shouldn’t. Two simple words to heal a twenty-year-old wound.
‘I won’t tell you that these need doing,’ Maria says when she leaves, waving a stack of referrals.
Cathy can’t help but laugh. ‘Right,’ she says. ‘I can see you’re reforming.’
‘Never,’ Maria says, coming closer to Cathy and ruffling her hair. ‘Never. Anyway – best go to my calligraphy class.’
‘You’re learning calligraphy?’ Cathy says, thinking of the swirl of her name on the box.
‘Yes, I just learnt a few weeks ago to do your name,’ her mother says.
Cathy’s eyes fill with tears. So her mother saved her box of things in the afterworld. After Rosie. She only wrote Cathy’s name on it recently. Suddenly Maria’s refusal to let go of the business doesn’t seem like micro-management or a refusal to trust. It seems like love.
Cathy and Frannie take a lunch break outside the next day. They never usually take them together, but Evan is covering. One of the positives, Cathy supposes.
It’s finally bright and dry, a blustery kind of day that makes your cheeks sting from the combination of cold wind and the sun. Cathy can feel the beginning of autumn’s tendrils. Cold nights and apples falling from trees and sitting outside with Tom in knitted jumpers …
Evan is staring at her through the back window in the staff room as she gets up. He’s talking to Maria. ‘I’ll get us
some coffees,’ Cathy says to Frannie, who nods.
Cathy dashes inside, through the back. Something has evidently just been said, because Evan and Maria stop talking as soon as she arrives. ‘What?’ she says. ‘I was getting a chair –’
‘Evan thinks he has become a partner?’ Maria says questioningly to Cathy. ‘Which sounds absurd to me?’
Cathy’s heart descends in a chute that seems to run from her throat to her feet. ‘What?’ she says, stalling for time.
Cathy’s eyes meet Evan’s. She is the David to his Goliath. She sends a signal to him with her expression. Her face feels stiff and dry. With emotion, with stress, with the constant rug-pulling of what they have done. ‘Does he?’ she says, staring at Evan, not knowing which way this is going to go, not knowing what his game plan is. What did he say to Maria? And why?
‘My mistake,’ Evan says. ‘I said I’m going for partnership. It’s my ambition,’ he says to Maria, still looking at Cathy.
‘Right,’ Maria says. ‘Well, it would be a big step for us to do that, you know,’ she says. She widens her eyes at Cathy.
Cathy swallows and looks at Evan as he leaves the staff room, whistling. And that’s when she realizes. Games are Evan’s plan. He knows she doesn’t know. He saw her coming in, and said something to Maria, designed to create exactly this effect. The actions of a man who has been powerless for years, and is now drunk on his fortunes. Cathy can’t say anything to him, can’t even look at him for fear the conversation will escalate, so she makes the drinks in silence and goes back outside.
‘Evan just told Mum he’s a partner and then retracted it,’ Cathy says to Frannie.
‘What? Why?’
‘Games, I think. It’s a threat, isn’t it?’ Cathy says.
‘But he’s got what he wants.’ Frannie’s voice is stern, but her hand is trembling as it worries at her lip.
‘He’s got the first thing he wants,’ Cathy says, thinking of what he said last night: Why wouldn’t you get the most out of a situation?
Joe arrives out back and lights a cigarette.
‘You’re a regular smoker now, then,’ Frannie says, avoiding the subject. ‘Just – like that.’
Joe rolls his eyes and doesn’t answer. He breathes smoke out of his nose in two distinct streams, then turns his gaze to Frannie. Something seems to pass between them. Cathy intercepts it, but isn’t sure what it means. She thinks of what Tom said: I hope they’re as loyal to you as you are to them, and something moves inside her.
‘What do you think’s happening?’ Joe asks softly. He directs his question to Cathy, who knows exactly what he’s referring to.
‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’ The BBC News coverage has stopped. They won’t google it. They’re in the dark.
Joe drags on his cigarette, looking out into the sun. ‘Guess we just need to wait,’ he says.
Cathy fills him in on what Evan said just now, and on what she thinks he meant last night, too. Joe lights a second cigarette. ‘What a fucking twat,’ he deadpans.
‘Hear, hear,’ Frannie says, and Joe smiles around the cigarette.
‘He’s going to ask for more,’ Cathy says. ‘Or he’s going to tell Mum. Or someone worse.’
‘You think?’ Joe says. The tip of the cigarette glows red, a warning sign. ‘Leave it with me.’ He goes back inside, leaving Frannie and Cathy alone.
Frannie begins picking at a sandwich. ‘Do you know what?’ she says softly, looking down into her lap.
‘What?’
‘I’m finding it harder and harder to keep this secret,’ she says. ‘Are you?’
‘Well, yeah.’ Cathy bites into her sandwich, squinting into the sun. The wind gusts her hair into her face, but she doesn’t mind. These things feel like mindful things that keep her in the now, sensations of nature, things she feels instinctively that one day she might miss.
‘Deb’s dropping by in a minute.’
‘Right,’ Cathy says.
‘I saw her last night. Left my purse.’
‘How is she?’ Cathy says conversationally.
Frannie says nothing, and Cathy moves her hair out of her eyes and looks closely at her sister. She has her bare legs crossed at the ankles in front of her. She’s wearing a rose-gold anklet with Paul’s name on it, white trainers and a strange expression on her face. As Cathy looks at her, Frannie brings a hand to shield her eyes and gazes back.
‘She’s fine,’ Frannie says. She stands as Deb approaches. She’s tall, over six feet, with a mouth that turns down at its sides attractively.
‘Oh, nice to see you,’ Deb says warmly to Cathy. She hands Frannie her black leather purse, bought from a Mulberry outlet store last winter for – apparently – a steal.
‘And you,’ Cathy says to Deb.
‘Did you have to Apple Pay your coffee?’ Deb says to Frannie. Cathy feels a pang in her stomach for this sort of intimacy. Of knowing someone so completely, their routines, what they like to do each morning.
‘I did!’ Frannie says. She looks at Deb and there’s a beat – just one, and that’s when Cathy knows. Something about the hesitation, their eye contact, the set of Frannie’s mouth, the way she swallows, just as she does when she’s feeling guilty.
‘Anyway,’ Frannie says. ‘Thanks for bringing it.’
‘Yeah, no problem. Hope you’re okay …’ Deb says, turning to leave. Cathy watches them go, thinking: Frannie has told her. Cathy would bet her house on it. The wine, the lost purse. It all points to chaos. A secret told. Another person involved.
But Cathy doesn’t feel anxious about it: she feels enticed. Frannie’s breached their trust. If Cathy’s right, maybe now she can too.
Frannie’s standing in reception, ready to go home, shivering even though it’s August. She looks like an actor on a stage without an audience, just waiting. Cathy wants to wrap her up, those skinny limbs in clothes that now look too large, and usually she’d at least go over to her, give her a smile maybe, but something stops her tonight. A strange kind of feeling, like somebody has removed the foundations of their relationship and forgotten to replace them. Has Frannie actually ever considered how Cathy feels? And, just like that, with that one straightforward question, the sympathy dies before it can really begin, like a rained-off sporting match.
‘It’s late,’ Joe says, shutting his consultation-room door behind him. He nods to his car, parked out front, and presses the key. It flashes orange, for a second, like a pair of eyes opening and closing. Frannie pulls on her coat and opens the door, letting in the smells of wet earth and thunder.
‘What do you reckon one fifth of the business is really worth?’ Frannie says, standing there, the glass door open. ‘I’ll pay it back to you, every penny.’ Joe waves his hand, not exactly in a forget it gesture, more one of tiredness, jadedness.
‘At least thirty thousand,’ Cathy says, and Frannie winces. Joe is still gathering up his things, and Frannie lets the door swing shut.
‘A pound,’ she says, watching the door close. ‘We gave away thirty thousand for a pound.’
‘What’re we going to do, though?’ Cathy says, looking out on to the dark countryside beyond Joe’s car, trying to elicit the conversation that they need to have. ‘I just don’t think – I don’t think he’s really gone away yet.’
‘What?’ Frannie looks at her sharply. She folds her freckled arms and leans her back against the plate-glass windows. Above her head, in backwards font, is the logo for Vets 24. They designed it one night almost a decade ago on a piece of paper in Frannie’s cottage, the week after they formally took over the company from their mother, and now here it is, immortalized.
‘I basically told Evan what would happen if he came back for more,’ Joe says quietly. ‘So,’ he adds, rubbing a hand across his forehead, then evidently decides not to speak. The words hang unspoken in the dim reception.
‘What?’ Frannie says. ‘What did you say would happen to him?’
Joe says nothing.
Cathy
reaches out and straightens a few of the chairs, separating the cat and dog areas better, then sweeps up a load of fur. Something about this conversation feels volatile. The same feeling she might get if they were all drunk and speaking too many truths, or in a fast-moving car driven in a temper.
‘Well – I just … there is no next step, is there?’ he says, looking across at Frannie, who’s messing with the buttons on her denim jacket, all that hair piled up on the top of her head. ‘We can’t exactly rob a bank.’
‘Don’t say that,’ Frannie says quietly, tears pooling in her eyes that disappear with a blink, like she’s become adept at suppressing her emotions.
Frannie’s phone rings, breaking the atmosphere, and she answers it. Joe turns to Cathy and shrugs helplessly, in that way that he does sometimes, like Frannie is a child they are co-parenting. Cathy keeps busying herself, cleaning the front desk, running the cloth along the keyboard, between the mouse and the chip-and-PIN machine. Joe turns off the television, the rolling news gone for another day, and a sigh builds and escapes from Cathy as he does it.
She thinks of Tom as she cleans and as Joe straightens the products on the shelves and Frannie murmurs into the phone. It’s probably Deb.
Something changes in the reception and Cathy’s back immediately tenses. ‘What did she just say?’ Joe is shouting, and when Cathy looks up he’s cornering Frannie, right against the door to Cathy’s consultation room.
‘What are you doing?’ Cathy says.
Frannie is chuntering frantically at Joe. The phone is now somehow in his hands. It’s happened too fast, like an altercation in a night club that nobody can quite pinpoint the beginning of.
‘You’ve told her,’ Joe says, after hanging up the phone. His tone is completely without emotion. There is nothing positive or negative contained in it. Only a strange kind of empty factualness which scares Cathy. He’s so big these days, her brother. Chest like a drum. He’s holding Frannie’s phone and standing over her like a bouncer.
‘No,’ Frannie says.
That Night Page 27
