Close Your Eyes

by Rachel Abbott

  I start in his sitting room – a room few visited. It seems more likely than his bedroom, which saw more than its fair share of traffic. I have to move quickly, silently, as I pull open drawers and bend low to look beneath furniture. I find nothing.

  The study might be a better option, although I am sure there was nothing there in the months before I left. This was my territory, and I would have known. Nevertheless, I have to look. There are papers neatly stacked on a table. They look official, and I can see Aram’s signature and my mother’s. I don’t have time to read them, but I pull out my phone and take a quick photo. Then I open the top drawer of the filing cabinet. It’s empty. I pull out the second, the third, the fourth. They are all empty. Where are his papers?

  I look back at the table, and underneath, pushed towards the back, there are boxes. I kneel down and pull them forward. Each one is marked alphabetically – A–E, F–J – in neat capital letters. There are five boxes in total, all taped shut.

  I hesitate for a moment. If I tear off the tape, he’ll know someone has been in here, and neither Mum nor Dad would open his boxes. But it’s too late to be timid, and I rip open the first box. Inside are the missing files from the cabinet – the agreements signed by every new member of the community. I open the second, and it’s the same. More files. I sit back on my heels.

  I doubt it’s worth opening the other boxes, but why has Aram emptied his filing cabinet?

  I have no time to think, and it’s not why I’m here.

  I hadn’t thought it would be so difficult to find what I am looking for. I had imagined I would instinctively know, but I don’t and it’s a huge house. It could be anywhere. I sit on the sofa and drop my head into my hands. What was I thinking? I’m an idiot, an arrogant fool who thinks she knows better than Aram Forakis. I’m never going to find it.

  I waste far too much time sitting there, and finally come to my senses with a groan. A few moments in this house, and he’s in my head, telling me I’m stupid. But I’m not. I may not know where to look, but I know someone who will. I just have to persuade her to tell me.

  I make it back down the stairs and out of the front door without being seen. To avoid any chance of encountering Aram I have to get to the kitchen from the back of the house, so once more keeping close to the wall, I approach the door that leads to the boot room. Not that it was ever used as that given that no one wore shoes, but the name stuck. I gently ease open the door from there into the laundry.

  I stand still, not breathing, just listening. I can hear movement in the kitchen and realise the door is ajar. I creep into the laundry. I can’t hear talking, but Aram doesn’t chatter. He only speaks if he feels there is something to be said, so he could be in there, sitting at the table, drinking one of his herbal brews. Mum used to chatter, but her need to talk gradually deserted her over the years.

  On tiptoe, I head to the crack of light seeping into the dark laundry from the brightly lit kitchen with its north-facing windows. I peer through the gap, and there’s Mum at the huge black Aga, stirring a pan of soup on the hob. Even from behind, she seems smaller. She’s slightly bent, without an ounce of flesh on her body. Despite everything, I want to go to her and put my arms round her. Even now I can remember her as she was, how gentle, thoughtful and considerate to our friends and neighbours when we lived in London. My hatred of Aram ratchets up a notch, and with it my courage.

  It’s now or never. I ease the door open and slip through the gap. I’m not making a sound, but even though she has her back to me, Mum’s shoulders stiffen. She stops stirring, but she doesn’t turn.

  I don’t need to tiptoe now. She knows someone is here, and she knows it’s neither Aram nor Dad. In Aram’s case she would have turned. Had it been Dad, she’d have carried on stirring.

  ‘Mum,’ I whisper, using the term that had been banned for years.

  She turns slowly, wooden spoon raised in her hand, as if to defend herself against an attack from me. She stares, and once again I see the dark circles round her eyes, the look of defeat on her features.

  I move closer, and finally she speaks: ‘Where’s Joel?’

  She doesn’t seem to care that her daughter, who she hasn’t seen for almost six years and had barely spoken to for many years more, has just walked through the door. If I had been expecting her to rush to me and gather me in her arms, I would have been bitterly disappointed. As it is, I feel a twinge of sadness but nothing more.

  ‘Where’s Aram?’

  ‘He’s meditating. He’ll be here for lunch in about an hour. Why are you here?’

  I walk across and touch her arm. She flinches and looks scared of me, and I don’t understand why. Maybe she thinks I’ve come back because I want Aram, and I’m about to ruin everything again.

  She retreats until her back is flat against the Aga, her hands grasping the chrome bar behind her, and I guess that’s where she’s going to stay. I remain where I am.

  ‘Dad’s not coming back. He’s left, Mum, but it’s not you he’s deserting. It’s this place. This… situation. I know where he is, and I can take you to him. He loves you – he’s never stopped, in spite of everything.’

  Two lines appear briefly between her eyes as if I’ve struck home, and it hurts. But then her face clears.

  ‘Joel thinks I’m his. But we don’t belong to others. We belong only to ourselves, and it’s for each of us to choose how we share our souls, our bodies, our minds.’

  I groan, but I know there’s no point arguing.

  ‘I need your help. I’m still your daughter, and I know you loved me once, so please help me, then we can both get away from here. You can be happy again.’ She looks at me as if I’m mad, but I plough on, hoping that something will get through to her. ‘You must realise that Aram has consumed you; sucked out the core of you and left an empty shell. Come with me, Mum. Dad will help you. You’re both still young. Please, I beg you, take a good look at yourself and see what’s happened to you.’

  She swallows, and for a moment I think I may have reached her. She must know that life before Aram had more to offer, but I don’t have time to persuade her. For now I just need her help.

  ‘Where would Aram hide something? Something important. You must know. You know this house like the back of your hand – a large plastic bag, maybe a small suitcase. Think, Mum.’

  ‘What do you want it for?’

  ‘Aram can use what’s in it to drag me back here. Even if you don’t want to leave, you don’t want me here, do you? So help me find it.’

  She stares at me, weighing up my words, and this time I know I’ve struck home. She doesn’t want me to return to Lakeside, and for a moment I believe she might help me.

  ‘What’s in the bag, India? Why is it so important?’

  I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing or not, but I decide it’s the only thing I can do.

  ‘A knife, Mum – with my fingerprints on it. And clothes, my clothes, covered in Leah Medway’s blood. He has proof that I killed Leah.’

  64

  MARTHA

  I don’t know how I expected Mum to react to my words, but they are met with silence. Her eyes narrow slightly, as if she is trying to work something out, but neither of us speaks.

  A wasp buzzes at the window, trying to get out. The soup bubbles gently on the hob. The air between us feels heavy with unspoken hostility. Will she help me or not?

  Before I get the chance to say any more, Mum jerks her hand into the air, palm out, and it’s not at my words. I heard it too – a door closing somewhere else in the house. There’s only Aram here, and he’s on the move. She’s telling me to be quiet. Maybe she’s going to help me after all.

  I scuttle towards the door to the laundry room. ‘Don’t tell him I’m here,’ I whisper frantically. ‘Please, whatever you do, don’t tell him.’

  I disappear into the laundry just as I hear the kitchen door opening.

  ‘Nicola, did I hear you talking to someone?’

  There is a mo
ment of silence, and I wonder what excuse she’s going to come up with.

  ‘Yes, Aram. I was talking to India. She’s hiding in the laundry room.’

  In the seconds after Mum speaks, I can hear my own heartbeats, the sound thumping in my ears. I don’t know why I’m surprised that she told Aram where I am. I should have realised her loyalty is still to him, and the pain of her betrayal shouldn’t still burn, but it does. I’d forgotten how every rejection always stung, each dismissal yet another thrust of the knife.

  I want to run, but I feel as if my feet are stuck to the stone flags of the floor. I’m waiting for him to speak. He won’t come to find me. He won’t chase me if I run. He moves slowly, never rushes, and he will wait for me to come to him. As I always have done. But I don’t move.

  The seconds tick by, and I know I could get away. I should get away.

  My whole body jerks as pinpricks of fear skim the surface of my skin.

  ‘Join us, India.’ His voice is soft, seductive.

  I don’t know what’s happening to me. It’s as if a giant magnet is pulling me towards the kitchen door. I know he’s doing it again – drawing me in, controlling me – and yet I can’t seem to stop him. The still silence of the laundry room is broken as a sob catches in my throat. I know he’s heard.

  Almost of their own volition, my feet move. Not towards the back door, to my escape, but towards Aram. He will be angry. I have displeased him. My head tells me he can’t control me. My heart and soul tell me I want his forgiveness.

  I slowly open the door and step into the kitchen. I gaze at the floor and still he doesn’t speak. Inch by inch, my chin lifts. In my head I hear Leah’s voice – ‘Close your eyes, India!’ – but it doesn’t work. I have been conditioned to obey him, and my eyes meet his. Once again I am the ten-year-old child that looked into their depths and wanted to run and hide. But I can’t move.

  ‘Where have you been, India?’ His voice is calm, measured, but his eyes sparkle like ice.

  I can’t answer. What can I say? I glance quickly at Mum, but she is looking at the floor, and I’ve no idea what she’s thinking.

  ‘We looked for you. I worried that you were unwell, that perhaps the events of recent years had disturbed your mind. Come with me, India. We’ll speak alone, and you will tell me everything.’

  He turns towards the door, confident that I will follow as I have done so many times before. It’s as if my body remembers what it’s supposed to do, and my feet begin to move. I know he’s got me – I’m his again. And I don’t know how to break free. No one speaks as Aram reaches the door. I’m right behind him, and Mum hasn’t shifted an inch.

  A loud buzz shatters the thick atmosphere of the room, and I jump as if I’ve been struck. The ties to Aram fray a little, and I wonder what I’m doing. We all stand perfectly still, as if any movement would break the spell.

  The buzzer sounds again.

  ‘Ignore it,’ Aram says.

  I know who it is. No one comes here uninvited. There’s only one explanation.

  ‘It’s the police,’ I say. ‘They’re here for me.’

  65

  Becky pressed the button beside the gates for a third time and waited. Nothing happened. She glanced over her shoulder at Tom and shrugged, then turned back and pressed it again, keeping her finger on the buzzer. Finally, there was a crackle and then a voice.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Greater Manchester Police, DI Becky Robinson and DCI Tom Douglas. We’d like to speak to Mrs Kalu, please.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Mrs Kalu is unwell at the moment. Can I help at all? My name is Aram Forakis.’

  ‘We’re looking for her daughter, India Kalu, also known as Martha Porter.’

  There was silence from the other end of the intercom.

  ‘Mr Forakis?’

  ‘I haven’t seen India for nearly six years. Thank you for visiting.’

  The line went dead.

  Becky swivelled round to face Tom, hands on her hips and a look of indignation on her face. She was about to turn back and press again when Tom put up a hand. ‘I’ll have a go. Maybe he’s the type of guy who objects to females in authority.’

  He gave Becky a grin, knowing the mere thought would wind her up, and pressed the buzzer.

  ‘I think I made myself clear,’ the disembodied voice said.

  ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Tom Douglas of the Greater Manchester Police. Mr Forakis, we have come a long way today in search of Martha Porter, who I believe you know as India Kalu. I’d be grateful if you would let us in so we can talk to you and her mother.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but she’s not here, and if you want to come in, you’ll need a warrant.’

  Before Tom had a chance to respond, Becky stepped forward to the intercom again. ‘We will apply for a warrant, Mr Forakis, and in the meantime, just so you know, we’ll be sitting at your gates. You may as well let us in now, don’t you think?’

  There was no response, other than a click as they were disconnected.

  ‘Sorry for butting in, Tom, but he riled me.’

  ‘You don’t say!’

  Becky’s phone rang.

  ‘DI Robinson,’ Tom heard. There was a pause. ‘And you’re sure that’s what she said?’

  Tom turned towards Becky as she hung up. ‘What was that about?’

  ‘Eddie Carlson’s wife – Kirsten – called. She’s feeling okay and wants me to call her about her conversation with Genevieve. She told Kirsten she was planning to leave Niall, and Kirsten wants to tell me exactly what she said.’

  ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me? Genevieve definitely seemed to have her own agenda, although Niall gave no hint of that, did he?’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t know. I’ll call Kirsten later, but this is a little more important. Do you think Martha’s in the house? Do you think he’s lying?’

  ‘Almost definitely, although why he would isn’t at all clear to me. From what we’ve been told, this is the only way in or out, so the stupid bugger’s got nothing to gain.’

  ‘Except perhaps time.’

  ‘For what, though? What’s he up to?’

  66

  MARTHA

  Aram’s aura of calm seems to have cracked. The police are here, and they are looking for me, as I knew they would be. For once in his life I don’t think Aram knows what to do.

  Before he has a chance to decide on his next steps, a sound seldom heard in this house fills the room. It’s the telephone – used so rarely, and only with Aram’s authorisation, that I often forgot we had one. Aram doesn’t want to take his eyes off me, so he motions to Mum to answer it.

  ‘Hello,’ she mumbles, her voice at first flat and uninterested. ‘Joel!’

  A sudden cold courses through my body. Dad! What are you doing?

  Aram swivels towards Mum, and the last of the slender threads binding me to him are broken. I want to dash to the phone, grab it from Mum and tell Dad to stay away, but Aram is right there, blocking my way. I’m about to scream, knowing he would hear me, but as always Aram reads my thoughts and he lunges at me, grabbing me by the throat.

  ‘Not a word, India.’

  Both his hands are around my neck now, squeezing – not hard enough to kill me, but enough to let me know that he could, if he wanted to. He always said that killing can be justified, and I don’t need to ask myself if he really meant it. I know he did.

  I would die for my son, but my death would put him in his father’s hands, so I take deep breaths to try to control the panic.

  The police are at the gates. If I could get to the intercom, I could summon help. But once again Aram reads my mind and squeezes tighter. By the time they get their search warrant he could have strangled and buried me. He’s told the police I’m not here. And Mum would back him up.

  Aram turns me round, so my back is against his chest. He has one arm around my shoulders, one hand grasping my throat, his thumb pressed hard on my larynx.

  Mum has barely said a word to Dad, but from
where I’m standing I can hear his voice, pleading with her. I have no idea what he’s saying, but my heart is filled with dread.

  ‘She’s not here, Joel,’ she says. Then, ‘No.’ With that, she hangs up.

  She turns to face us. ‘Joel asked if India was here. He said she was going to try to persuade me to leave with her.’ Her voice is a monotone, as if none of this matters to her. ‘He says we have a grandson. He’s five years old and he’s called Alfie. He says I’m not to tell you.’

  A choked sob bursts from my lips. Dad! I know how much he loves Mum, and he must have hoped that the lure of a grandchild would bring her rushing to his side.

  ‘So the child is a boy,’ Aram says.

  I sense no warmth in his voice, or curiosity about his son, and for one precious moment I allow myself to believe that he’s not interested, that maybe I’ve been wrong for all these years.

  There’s been a heavy silence in the room since Dad called, and I am sure Aram is working out his next move. He lets go of me, and I scurry to the other side of the table, out of his reach. But he’s watching me. He must realise that with the police at the gates I have a chance to tell them who he is, what he’s done. But I have no evidence. He holds all the cards.

  ‘Nicola, get the bag – the one with the clothes,’ he says.

  I was right. She knew all along where they were.

  Without a word, she walks out of the kitchen into the laundry room. I can’t believe I never thought to look there, where a bag of dirty clothes wouldn’t look out of place. Aram always said he would keep the evidence hidden while I was with him at Lakeside, but there was a clear threat that if I tried to leave or told anyone what had happened to Leah, he would use it against me. My clothes, her blood. A sharp knife, my fingerprints. What more did he need?