At school I attracted the nickname of Bin, thanks to my habit of throwing my packed lunch in the trash as soon as I arrived at school. While this was clearly not meant in a nice way, I wasn’t singled out for bullying in the way that some girls were. The nickname simply confirmed my position as a loner and an outsider. Which suited me fine. I had no real friends, though at school I hung around with a small group of other quiet, studious girls. We would sit together at break times, reading or working, ignoring the raucous behaviour of the more extrovert girls around us.
I was ignored. Virtually invisible.
Looking back it is clear to me that I simply wanted to disappear. It beggars belief that nobody either at home or at school realised how unhappy I was, but I had learned to be bright-eyed and superficially engaged at home and made sure I paid just enough attention at school and that I always did my homework on time. Things improved a little during my last term in the sixth form: prompted to socialise by Mummy, I started hanging out with a couple of girls from church. We didn’t do much more than read and chat at each other’s homes – the height of our vanity and camaraderie was encouraging each other to try out new hairstyles and admiring a new nail polish. But it helped a little. I had worked hard and done well at school and when I was accepted at London University (I had insisted on staying at home for my degree) to study history that autumn my confidence increased still further.
Of course in mid-September the terrible anniversary came around again. As I had in previous years, I sobbed into my pillow, imagining my unborn child on their birthday – this time wreathed in cherubic smiles and all excited to blow out their candles. But all in all, I was starting to recover. I began my history degree and though I steered well clear of the heavy drinking and socialising in which most of my peers indulged, I found for the first time in a long while that my life had structure and meaning.
And then, the following April, almost exactly four years to the day since my abortion, when I had managed to build a fortress of sorts around the sin I had committed, came some devastating news which laid siege to all my hard-won defences and threatened to expose my shame to the world. I realised then that my sin was not gone, merely temporarily buried – an unexploded bomb that could still destroy my family.
All I have left is my faith. It sustains me but, as I sit here in this airless car, beside my sister in her agony, I realise how deeply I have failed her. If only Francesca had faith, maybe she would be able to get through this. Without it, I can’t see all of us surviving.
FRAN
I’m hunched over the steering wheel, trying to keep my focus on the traffic ahead. For goodness’ sake, what is Lucy’s problem? She keeps going on about faith and the power of prayer . . . doesn’t she understand that I’m in agony here?
Ruby is gone. I can’t bear to think of how utterly terrified she must be feeling, that’s if she’s still . . . no, I can’t let myself think that . . .
Meanwhile Lucy is still banging on about her termination from a million years ago. ‘It fractured everything,’ she muses, an expression on her face that makes me want to slap her. ‘It started the rot between Mummy and Daddy.’
‘How?’ I demand, wrenching the steering wheel to speed around the next corner. Only another few minutes and we’ll be at Auntie Sheila’s. ‘As I remember Mum and Dad were furious at me, not each other.’
‘Yes, maybe at first. But even then they were furious differently. Mummy was angry because she was jealous that I’d gone to you, not her. Daddy thought the whole thing was as much Mummy’s fault as yours. More, actually.’
I say nothing. Who cares about the ancient history of our parents’ relationship? All marriages have their ups and downs. Which Lucy would know if she hadn’t led such a bloody sheltered life. I gaze at the soft light from the streetlamps as it glimmers on the wet road ahead. If only I could somehow let Ruby know I was thinking about her, trying to find a way to get her back.
When we were younger Dex and I made up a game called Telepathy Cousins. It was basically a trick on Lucy, a way of paying her back for dripping round after us, being annoying. We would pretend to be able to mind-read what word the other person was thinking. We fooled Lucy many times before we got bored. But there was one time when it actually worked. I’d imagined the word ‘red’ and much to both his and my astonishment, Dex guessed it.
Maybe, if I concentrated hard enough, I could perform the same trick now with Ruby. I imagine her face.
Ruby. I’m thinking about you, Ruby. I’m here, baby girl. I’m going to find you. Everything’s going to be all right.
Lucy is still babbling in my ear, but I’m barely listening.
‘So you see my . . . my episode really did drive them apart,’ she explains. ‘Mummy got more and more depressed, she couldn’t settle to anything, she got bitter and sad. And . . . and I think in the end she might have looked for comfort elsewhere.’
Her words suddenly penetrate my silent communion.
‘What?’ I glance round.
Lucy looks up at me through long eyelashes.
‘You’re saying Mum had an affair?’ She cannot be serious. I turn off the main road onto Auntie Sheila’s street. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘Just stuff I picked up at the time,’ Lucy says vaguely.
I’m seriously doubtful – and really not in the mood to think about my parents’ marriage right now. I pull up outside Sheila’s manicured front garden. A pair of chintzy curtains, closed, hang at the kitchen window. Lights are on both upstairs and downstairs. The fabric in that video flashes into my mind’s eye again. Why can’t I place it? Why can’t I picture anything else in the room where I saw the fabric? It makes no sense. Curtains and wall hangings don’t exist in isolation.
‘To be honest, Lucy,’ I say with a sigh, ‘all I care about is getting Ruby back.’
‘Of course.’ Lucy nods. ‘Let’s go in.’
As we hurry up the path to Sheila’s front door, the frosty air biting at my cheeks, I fight the panicky sick feeling in my stomach. I press the bell. One of Ruby’s old drawings is visible through the glass panel of the door, pinned to Sheila’s noticeboard. It breaks my heart.
My darling girl, I’m doing my best to find you.
Is she okay? I glance at my phone. It’s barely an hour and a half since Ruby was taken and only 6.30 p.m. – though the dark sky above and my strung-out nerves make it feel much later. There’s no way I can make it through to morning. Sheila has to help us talk to Dad. And Dad has got to help us confront Perry.
It’s stopped raining but the air is damp and heavy as well as cold. Lucy’s blonde hair glints gold under the porch lights. Auntie Sheila welcomes us in with a look of surprise.
‘Francesca, three times in one week? Is everything all right? Oh, Lucy. Hello, come in.’
I stride into the kitchen. How do I begin? A man’s coat hangs over one of the chairs.
‘Is Uncle Graham here?’ I ask, too stressed to be subtle.
‘Yes, well, not like that . . .’ Sheila blushes. ‘He’s upstairs taking a shower. But it’s not what you think, I—’
‘I don’t care,’ I say, relieved that at least if he’s upstairs I won’t have to deal with him on top of everything else. ‘Sheila, I need your help.’
‘Of course, dear.’ Sheila frowns. ‘What is it?’
‘Do you know where Daddy is?’ I ask.
‘No, I’m afraid I don’t,’ Sheila says. ‘Why? Is something wrong?’
‘It’s Uncle Perry,’ I say. ‘We . . . we’re fairly certain he’s involved with PAAUL the, er, the extreme anti-abortion organisation.’
Sheila stands, blinking at me. Beside me Lucy shuffles from foot to foot, her fingers anxiously entwined.
I take a deep breath. ‘He’s had Ruby taken. Whoever he’s got to kidnap her is threatening to kill her.’
Sheila’s mouth falls open.
‘It’s all because of PAAUL’s campaign to kill off abortion doctors in the UK. We think . . . we’re
sure Uncle Perry is behind the campaign.’ My guts twist into a knot. It’s almost impossible to say the whole truth out loud. ‘Perry had Caspian killed and . . . and I just found out Harry Elliot too . . . and now Ruby’s been kidnapped to stop me speaking out.’
‘No, that can’t be true,’ Sheila gasps. ‘None of this.’
I turn to Lucy. She bites her lip. Come on, I urge her silently. Step up for once.
‘It is true, Auntie Sheila,’ Lucy stammers at last. ‘And we need you to help us talk to Dad . . .’
‘. . . so we can get Ruby back,’ I finish.
‘Oh dear Lord,’ Sheila breathes.
I lean against the kitchen counter, feeling faint. There’s the soft pad of footsteps down the stairs. I brace myself as Uncle Graham walks in. He looks far better than when I saw him yesterday in the pub: sober and in clean clothes, with his damp, pink skin glowing from his shower. He’s a big man – taller even than Dad – with a strong, storm-cloud sort of presence. Right now he exudes an air of barely repressed anger. It’s not hard to imagine Mum being scared of him. Perhaps she wasn’t making up what she told Ayesha after all.
He raises his eyebrows. ‘What’s all this then?’
I glance at Lucy. She’s always been intimidated by Uncle Graham. True to form, she’s shrinking back against the fridge as if she’s trying to make herself invisible.
‘I’m hoping Auntie Sheila will come with us to speak to Dad,’ I say. ‘It’s important.’
‘Course it is,’ Graham sneers. ‘Always is where bloody St Jayson’s concerned.’
‘Please don’t start, dear,’ Sheila says wearily. She turns to me. ‘Francesca, all these things you’ve said . . . I can’t believe they’re true . . . I’m sure there’s been a misunderstanding. Perhaps Perry took Ruby out somewhere and forgot to leave his phone on. I’m always doing it myself and you know how absent-minded he can be.’
Has she not heard a word we’ve said?
I stare at her, aware of Graham grinning nastily by the kitchen door. For a moment I hesitate, not wanting to speak in front of him. Then I remember it was Graham who told me my father and uncle were ‘up to their necks in evil’, which was what prompted me to search Dad’s house in the first place.
‘Uncle Perry is a murderer.’ I say the words slowly, for emphasis. ‘Dad doesn’t know but we need to make him see it’s true.’
Sheila’s cheeks flush a deep red. ‘I’m sorry, dear, but I don’t want to listen to any more of this. If you’re really intent on badmouthing your family, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’
She simply doesn’t want to face the truth. The thought hits me like a brick. Surely there’s no other explanation for this refusal to help. Which effectively means that, like the rest of my family, she is closing ranks – with me and my children on the outside: the black sheep to the end.
An image of poor Ruby on that video sent to my phone sears through my head. I see her on the sofa, that still somehow familiar fabric behind. The pain of it coruscates me.
I can’t stay here any longer.
Without speaking, I turn and hurry out of the house. No one will help. I’m all alone. I can’t breathe. How on earth am I going to make it through the rest of the evening, the whole of the night, knowing how scared Ruby must be? Panic fills me. I should never have come here. I hurry inside the car and roar the engine. I drive fast along the back streets, eager to get away. I have to go to the police. Don’t I? Whatever the risks. Oh, God. If Harry were here he would know what to do.
But he’s dead. Gone, like Caspian. A tear trickles down my cheek. I wipe it angrily away. Me feeling sorry for myself is the last thing that will help Ruby. As I stop at the next set of lights I look at the video again. I’m hoping that the sight of my little girl’s sweet face will give me courage and strength. I’m not even thinking about that criss-cross patterned fabric – but, this time, as it flutters into view I know what it is.
I know where I’ve seen it before.
LUCY
Francesca’s driven off. Goodness knows where. And I’m stuck here. Abandoned without a word. Left to find my own way home. As I leave Auntie Sheila’s, I pray for poor Ruby. And for you. Even though I hate you, I must pray for you also. It’s the right thing to do.
Though there was a time not so long ago when I could not have brought myself to do that. Certainly not on that grim April morning, as clouds gathered outside in a steely grey sky, and Mummy came into my bedroom with a face to match.
At the time – the Easter holiday at the end of my second term at uni – my faith was still only a nominal outer coat I wore as and when I thought of it, while my taste in décor hadn’t moved on much from when I was fourteen. I had a pink duvet, soft toys on the bookshelves and a row of prints from Mummy’s ballet dancing collection along my rose-wallpapered walls.
Mummy walked straight in – she never knocked – and said: ‘Lucy, I need to talk to you.’ There was a terrible uncharacteristic solemnity in her voice. Mummy was the lightest, sparkliest of people. I knew at once something awful had happened.
Mummy shut the door, muffling the sound of the dance music blaring out of Francesca’s room along the corridor. It was a total coincidence Francesca happened to be visiting at the time – and on her own. She was going out soon with some friends, which was why Mummy hadn’t made a fuss about the volume.
I put down my book. ‘What’s the matter, Mummy?’
‘Is it true, darling?’ she asked.
I gawped at her, genuinely having no idea what she was talking about.
‘Lucy?’ Mummy’s voice cracked. ‘Please, for goodness’ sake, tell me.’
‘Tell you what?’ I sat bolt upright and made the sign of the cross – a theatrical gesture really. At the time crossing myself was a habit put on to impress.
Mummy perched on the end of my bed. ‘I’ve just spoken to your father. He’s had a phone call from a reporter with Catholic London.’ She cleared her throat. ‘The man claims to have evidence from a clinic that four years ago, when you were fifteen, you had a . . . an abortion.’
My chest tightened.
‘Your father told him to get lost of course, that there was no way our daughter . . . you . . . that it wasn’t even possible . . . Daddy was threatening injunctions and libel suits but the reporter just laughed and said none of that would hold up because he can prove the story is true and that Daddy is a hypocrite for speaking out against abortions while allowing his underage daughter to have one . . . that it calls into question Daddy’s integrity.’ She sighed. ‘Daddy’s furious . . . says it’s the new editor, that he’s always been resentful of your father’s success and that he must be making things up, but . . .’ Mummy leaned forward. The fear in her eyes was unbearable to see. I looked away.
‘We need to know the truth, Lucy.’ Her voice shook. A long, terrible silence filled the room.
‘It’s true,’ I whispered, staring down at my duvet. Shame filled me, worse than ever. ‘I’m so sorry.’ I clutched at the edge of the pink cotton. ‘I sinned. I sinned and I know God hates me and now you’ll both hate me and . . . and I hate myself . . .’ I dissolved into tears and, though I didn’t realise it at the time, they were partly tears of relief. It had been harder than I’d known to keep my terrible secret.
Mummy’s face went ghost-white.
‘How . . .?’ she gasped. ‘Who . . .? I didn’t even . . . oh, my darling, why didn’t you tell us?’
I bit my lip and hung my head. Another long stretch of silence until I finally murmured, ‘I didn’t want you to be ashamed of me.’
‘Oh, sweetheart.’ Mummy took my hand. ‘Who . . . how did it happen? How did you meet the . . . the boy?’
It wasn’t a boy. It was a man.
It was you.
There was no way I could say that of course so instead I just mumbled: ‘It was a one-off thing, an accident . . . not someone I knew . . .’
‘I see.’ Mummy’s voice grew colder. ‘And what did this boy say w
hen you told him about . . . that you were pregnant?’
‘I never saw him again . . . I didn’t tell him . . .’
‘Who did you tell?’ Mummy demanded. ‘Lucy? Who did you tell?’
‘Just Francesca.’ I regretted giving her name as soon as it was out of my mouth.
‘Francesca knew?’ Mummy crossed herself – the customary action dramatic and exaggerated in much the same way, I realise all these years later, as I used to do it myself. ‘Did Francesca arrange the abortion?’
I hung my head.
Mummy stormed to the door. Every muscle in her body seemed tense with fury. I thought at the time she was angry that I’d taken an innocent life but now I know better. She was actually just furious that I’d confided in Francesca.
As with everything with Mummy, it was all about her.
‘Francesca!’ she yelled. I could hear her thumping on Francesca’s bedroom door which was, presumably, locked. ‘Get out here!’
A second later Mummy appeared in my doorway again. Her cheeks were flushed with fury, her long dark hair wild around her face.
‘Francesca helped me, please don’t be cross with her.’ I clasped my hands together.
‘Was the abortion Francesca’s idea?’ Mummy asked, her voice like ice as she walked over to me.
‘I don’t know.’ My own voice was barely a whisper. ‘I just know I’ve regretted it ever since. It was a terrible—’
‘Was it Francesca’s idea?’ Mummy repeated.
‘Was what my idea?’ Francesca was leaning against the doorframe, grinning. She was dressed in denim shorts and ripped tights with heavy eye make-up, the very antithesis of Mummy’s flowery shirtdress.
‘Lucy’s . . . baby and what happened to it,’ Mummy said, her voice shaking. ‘You knew?’
A terrible silence fell.
The Black Sheep Page 24
