by Jane Holland
‘Was it a trial run?’
‘What?’
‘For killing another human being?’
Again, the careless shrug. ‘Amateur psychiatry now.’ He sounds contemptuous. ‘I thought you were smarter than that.’
‘I was sent away the morning after you killed Cleopatra. For years, I had the worst nightmares about that night. But I could never remember exactly what happened, I was so high at the time. I thought I must have done something dreadful to be sent away like that. My head couldn’t cope with that idea, so I blanked it out. Only it wasn’t me who killed the cat. It was you.’
I meet his eyes at last, and see a terrible, empty darkness in them. A darkness he’s been hiding behind all the different masks he learned to wear instead.
‘Why did you do that?’ My voice breaks. ‘Why kill that beautiful, helpless cat?’
For a moment I think he isn’t going to respond. Then Jean-Luc says slowly, almost grudgingly, ‘Because I could. Because I knew how much it would hurt them to find her dead.’
‘Them?’
‘Emily and Tante Tamsin. Maman too.’ He pauses. ‘And to get your attention. I didn’t know they’d send you away, of course. Or I would never have done it.’ Jean-Luc looks down at my hand, still lying on his chest, and then covers it with his own. His skin is warm and clammy. ‘But I should have guessed. They didn’t want you either, Caitlin. You and I, we were never part of their little family.’
I’m finding it hard to breathe, drowning in the chilly depths of his madness.
‘We were both outsiders,’ he continues softly. ‘That’s why we’re perfect for each other, don’t you see? I was never good enough for David Halifax. He was such a hypocrite. He wanted everything in his life to be pure. To be perfect. Like his perfect film star girlfriend. Like Emily and Robin. The golden kids.’ His lips draw back, showing his teeth. ‘Not like me. I was imperfect, illegitimate, the son of a whore … Yet he was the one who made me, fucking your aunt’s maid behind her back, behind his wife’s back. First he tried to make her get rid of me, then when she refused, he simply shoved me out of sight. Lied to everyone, even to me. God forbid the world’s media should ever realise what an adulterous bastard he was.’ His throat moves convulsively. ‘I was an adult before I realised who he really was. That David Halifax was my father.’
I try to slide my hand out from under his, but his grip tightens, holding me still.
‘I idolised Halifax in my early twenties. Before I found out the truth. I watched all his films, I even got work in the industry. I thought maybe if I could become like him, he would accept me. They would all accept me.’ His voice is low and rapid, disjointed now. ‘Then he called me over one night. Told me the truth, that he was my father.’
The topaz brooch moves, heaving with his chest, the ragged breaths he’s taking. I stare at its jewel rather than look into his face.
‘I was furious. I demanded to know why he’d never acknowledged me as his son. And do you know what he did? He threw me out of his house. Said I was a waste of space. That Robin was worth a dozen of me.’ He laughs wildly. ‘Robin, the fucking druggy.’
‘So you decided to burn his wife and child to death?’
‘I didn’t decide anything at the time,’ he says. ‘I waited.’ His smile is chilling. ‘I’m very good at waiting.’
I shudder, closing my eyes.
‘Later, while Robin was busy drinking himself stupid, I came here. Told my father what I’d done. I explained how I was going to tell the world about me, about his affairs, all his dirty little secrets. I didn’t kill him, you know. His heart gave out. Too many years of abuse, I guess. My visit gave him a little push, that’s all.’
‘The same way you pushed Emily?’
‘She always loved the water. So I made sure she took it all in. Became one with the sea.’
I feel sick, listening.
‘She treated me like dirt.’ There’s a vicious flick of anger in his voice now. ‘I wasn’t good enough to hang around with her and her friends. I was just a servant. Not even that. The housekeeper’s ugly bastard kid. That’s what she used to call me. She deserved to die.’
‘And my aunt?’
‘Tante Tamsin was the vilest of them all,’ he spits. ‘Everyone thought she was such a lady. But she was the one who insisted Lucille kept me hidden for years, practically a prisoner, in case one of the paparazzi caught a glimpse of me and Robin in the same space, and put two-and-two together. So terrified about her precious public image.’
‘But what about the spyhole in my bedroom? I know that was you.’ I see the flash of secret pleasure in his face. ‘Have you been in there this summer too? Watching me?’
‘Maman begged for the key back. But it was too good an opportunity to miss. I love the way you sleep on your back, Caitlin, with all the sheets kicked back … Especially when you sleep in the nude.’
The leer on his face makes me feel like throwing up.
‘You wrote that entry in my diary,’ I say doggedly, and glance to the door, wondering if Robin is stirring yet. ‘About the cat.’
‘Did you mind that? I only wanted to know how it felt like to be you. To write in your journal, to speak with your voice.’ His smile horrifies me. ‘To wear your skin.’ I say nothing, but my whole body chills. ‘Maman caught me reading it one day. She was so angry when she read what I’d written, it was almost funny. She took the diary away, made me promise not to touch it again.’ He makes a petulant face like he’s still an adolescent boy, tied to his mother’s apron strings. ‘Just as well Maman doesn’t know I’ve been hiding out here.’
She probably knows now, I think.
‘After you were sent away to that clinic,’ I say, trying to keep him talking, ‘you blamed us all for what happened to you. You hated us, crossed out our faces in that beach photograph.’
‘Yes.’
‘My face too. Even though I wasn’t one of them.’
‘But you wanted to be.’ The venom behind his words is terrifying. He runs a finger down my cheek and I try not to shudder. ‘Didn’t you? One of the beautiful Cap kids.’ He smiles. ‘Maman was so pleased that I was finally part of the gang. Little did she know they only wanted me to fetch and carry, and buy their fucking drugs for them.’
‘So what happens now?’ I whisper. ‘What’s your plan?’
‘As I see it, you have two choices.’ Jean-Luc drags off the clip-on pearl earring and tosses it aside, then looks down into my eyes. His dark gaze is hypnotic. ‘First, we could follow my original plan. You marry me and we live in the chateau together. Exactly as I dreamed when we were kids.’ He smiles distantly, as though at a tender memory. ‘Mr Nobody and the exiled princess. The beggars inherit the kingdom, just like in a fairy story.’
‘And what’s the second choice?’
He puts his hand around my throat again, a strangely loving gesture.
‘I strangle you,’ he says calmly. ‘Then I kill Robin, if he’s still alive, and blame your murder on him. The police have always suspected Robin killed his wife and child, they just couldn’t prove it. And we’re in his villa. It would be easy to pin this on him too.’
I think about his words, listening to their echo in my mind. My hand is still resting on his chest, fingers splayed. Next to the topaz brooch.
‘Of course, there’s a third possibility,’ I say softly.
‘And what’s that?’
‘I could kill you.’
Jean-Luc laughs, as though genuinely amused. ‘Cherie, you could try. But you’d fail.’
‘Because I’m not as good as you? Not a natural born killer.’
‘Not even close.’
I rip the topaz brooch from his sweater. The open steel pin gleams in my hand, one of those thick Victorian brooch pins designed to pierce even the densest material.
‘Temper, temper,’ he begins to say, amused.
I thrust the steel pin deep into the carotid artery in his throat.
Jean-Luc stares down at m
e, stunned.
I drag the pin back out, and his warm blood jets after it with incredible velocity, spraying me and the wall as he staggers backwards. I follow, holding him close like we’re dancing, and thrust it deep into his neck again, just to be sure. Then a third time.
Finally, I push him away and he falls. I wipe the blood from my face, and force myself to stand watching until it’s over. The gargling noises Jean-Luc makes are appalling. I feel sick by the end. It takes longer than I expected and isn’t very pleasant.
Afterwards, I crouch over his motionless body and pat his jeans pockets for his mobile. It’s a messy business. Blood has sprayed everywhere, even up the walls and over the dusty kitchen surfaces.
The phone is password-protected but to my relief it accepts emergency calls. I make a brief call to the police, sounding remarkably calm given what I’ve done.
Then I stumble back to the cellar.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Robin is conscious again, struggling to climb the stairs on hands and knees. Without much success, it seems. Like a tortoise clambering up a slippery slope, his limbs shift slowly back and forth, his body refusing to support his weight up to the next step. His expression is dazed, his eyes bleary, but he’s not giving up.
The man with the dreadlocks lies completely still on the cellar floor below us. As dead as his friend in the kitchen. Either my push did for him, or Robin finished him off when he’d recovered from being Tasered.
‘Caitlin?’ Robin croaks, staring up at me in the doorway. ‘Oh, thank God. What’s happening up there? Where’s Jean-Luc? I heard you two fighting, but I couldn’t figure out ...’ As I stumble down towards him, he sees the blood caking my face and clothes. His eyes widen in horror. ‘What’s that evil bastard done to you? Jesus, how bad are hurt?’
‘Not hurt at all.’ Wearily, I sit down beside him on the wooden steps. ‘It’s not my blood. It’s his.’
Now that I’m sitting down, my body starts to unravel. I’m bloody exhausted, my legs are wobbly, and as the adrenalin begins to seep away, I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.
But I have to hold it together a little longer.
‘Jean-Luc is dead.’
‘What?’ Robin’s shock is palpable. I’m not even sure if he believes me. But it doesn’t matter.
I try to smile but can’t quite manage it. I look at my hands. They’re damp and sticky, smeared with Jean-Luc’s blood.
‘It’s true. I … I stabbed him in the throat.’ My hands are shaking violently. I stick them between my knees to steady them. ‘He bled out. It didn’t take as long as I thought. But it was messy.’
‘Good God.’ He studies me anxiously. ‘You sure you’re okay?’
I suck in a deep breath, and nod.
‘Poor Lucille,’ I say.
‘Poor Lucille?’ Robin makes an incredulous noise. ‘That’s like being sorry for Doctor Frankenstein.’
‘Lucille isn’t Frankenstein.’
‘Well, she created a monster in my half-brother. Even if that woman had nothing to do with Jean-Luc’s plans, she’s no innocent victim. She knew what was going, and she said nothing. She could have saved Emily … She could have saved my wife and child.’ His voice falters, and I suddenly hear how rough his breathing is. ‘Look, forget Lucille. It’s you I’m worried about right now.’
‘Says the dying man.’
‘I’m not dying. I got Tasered, that’s all. And banged my head. I should go to hospital. And perhaps have a huge, greasy meal to make up for a year of starvation rations. Double hamburger with large frites and half a vat of ketchup.’ When I don’t laugh, he touches my knee, the contact reassuring. ‘Hey, are you sure Jean-Luc is … dead?’
‘Pretty sure, yes.’
‘Jesus Christ.’ He studies me, his face sombre. ‘We need to call the police.’
‘Already done. Ambulance on its way too.’
‘Good.’ He pauses. ‘I don’t want to be rude, but you look like you need to go to hospital too.’
‘I need a swim,’ I say simply, and show him my hands. ‘To wash off all this crap. To feel … reborn.’
‘A swim? It must be the middle of the night.’
‘That never used to stop you.’
‘True enough.’ Robin squints up at me through one bloodshot eye, looking almost as shitty as I feel. ‘Nude or in bathing suits?’
I stare at him, momentarily speechless. The whole idea is ridiculous, of course. I wasn’t being serious when I suggested a night swim. We have to wait and tell the police everything that’s happened. Then I have to go home and bury my father, if the police will let me leave the country once they get here and find two dead bodies in the villa.
It’s tempting though.
We could go wild. We could go down to the beach, strip off these clothes, clamber over the rocks in the darkness, and let ourselves down into the cool, black waters of the Mediterranean.
Like old times.
‘Nude.’
Robin’s mouth twitches. ‘You swim. I’ll watch.’
‘Like Jean-Luc did?’
He grimaces. ‘All right, God damn it. I’ll come in with you. But after the police have finished with us, and after you’ve been checked over in hospital, okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘It’ll be our little secret.’
I study his face, taken aback. Then Robin winks, and with a deep shock I realise he’s kidding. Despite everything he’s been through, he’s still himself, still trying to be charming, still the guy I remember.
Watching Jean-Luc die, I thought I would never smile again.
I was wrong.
EPILOGUE
One year later
I climb the steep track in full sunshine, carrying a cellophane-wrapped bouquet of white roses, Dad’s favourite flowers. Probably because they reminded him of Mum. The roses have a subtle fragrance, soon lost in the salt air as I reach the top and find myself dazzled by the glittering, blue-green expanse of the Atlantic Ocean.
‘Couldn’t we have driven up to the church?’
‘Not much of a pilgrimage in a hatchback though, is it?’ I look round at my husband, and laugh at his long-suffering expression. ‘Oh come on, it’s not far to walk now.’ I point ahead. ‘Look, there’s the church.’
He stops, shielding his eyes against the sun, which is close to setting directly opposite us, and then purses his lips in a low, appreciative whistle. ‘God, what a spot,’ he says, and closes his eyes, head back, drinking in the fresh and tangy sea air. ‘I can see why someone would want to be buried here. It’s definitely off the beaten track.’ He stamps the dirt under his feet. ‘Well, on the beaten track. But you know what I mean.’
‘Actually, this is a tourist trap.’
He laughs again, his eyes still closed. ‘Now you’re just making shit up.’
‘Not at all. Tintagel Castle is right across the headland.’ I turn in that direction, nostalgic for the old days when I was a tour guide along the Atlantic coast of Cornwall. It’s only a year ago, but feels more like a dozen, my life has changed so dramatically since last summer. ‘King Arthur’s birthplace. You don’t get much more touristy than that in Cornwall.’
‘Seriously?’ His eyes have snapped open, instantly fascinated. ‘King Arthur was born near here? For real?’
‘So local legend says.’
‘Oh, local legend …’ He grins. ‘I thought you meant, like, the British Museum or the BBC or something. You know, a proper authority.’
‘Robin!’
The wind off the sea is a little chilly up here, so close to the Atlantic, to the very edge of England, but his laughter warms me.
‘Okay, maybe not the BBC.’ He follows as I keep walking. ‘Hey, wait up. I thought you wanted us to do this together.’
Without saying anything, I turn, and accept the hand he’s holding out. We interlace our fingers. I’m glad he’s with me. Today of all days.
Robin squeezes my hand. ‘Come on then,’ he says softly. ‘Tog
ether.’
It’s an old church. I could explain its history, and Robin would be interested, as he always is when I talk history and dates and legends, but there’s something more important on my mind today. There’s a low dry stone wall about the churchyard, the long windswept grasses outside wild and unkempt, grown almost to the height of the wall. Together we walk through the open gate and past the gravestones that lean on either side of the path, ancient and lichened, their names and dates obliterated by time. There’s nobody in the sunlit churchyard, though I can see an old couple walking along the headland just beyond us, a black dog bounding along beside them.
Robin is looking at the headstones too. It’s hard not to feel sad in such a place. So many graves, so many names, so many generations …
‘Here.’
I stop before a more recently dug plot. Almost a year ago exactly, in fact. Today is the first anniversary of Dad’s death. I still miss him. I shall probably miss him forever. And I’m still dogged by my guilt at not being there.
Robin releases my hand, and I crouch, placing the flowers before Dad’s marbled headstone. ‘I love you, Dad,’ I whisper. ‘I’m sorry, and I hope you can forgive me.’
We stay there at the graveside as the sun drops lower into the ocean, listening to the waves crashing against the base of the cliffs, and the wind rustling grasses in the churchyard. It’s a very different summer’s day to the one among the white rocks at Les Baux de Provence, that simmering claustrophobic heat that left me breathless and on edge. This Cornish summer is cooler and less predictable, yet somehow more merciful.
I straighten up, my limbs aching. My heart aching too. ‘I hope Dad’s at peace.’
‘I’m sure he is.’
I take his hand again, grateful for his company. ‘Thank you.’
‘We could move here if you want,’ Robin says suddenly. ‘Leave California and start all over again in Cornwall.’
‘What, just as your film career is starting to take off again?’
‘I’d do it for you, Caitlin. I’d do anything for you.’ He meets my eyes, his tone earnest. ‘I’ve not touched a drop of alcohol since you said you’d marry me, have I? Or popped a single pill.’
