Suddenly I see it. Aiden. Jodie. Bryan. Dougal. Felicity. They are like cards in a poker hand, a full house. That’s what Evie saw last night—some shard of light from my subconscious mind. The “tell.”
“Let me go in,” I say. “I know why she’s doing this.”
Lenny hesitates and glances at the tactical response group. She hands me a radio device that clips to my belt.
“Give us the word and we’re going in. If that happens, keep your head down.”
Moments later, I’m walking alone past parked cars, cutting across the grass verge to the front gate. I press the doorbell. Smelling the turpentine that has been splashed on the threshold.
A voice from inside. “Aiden?”
“No. It’s Cyrus.”
“Where’s Aiden?”
“He’s on his way.”
“I’ll torch this place! I’ll burn her first!”
“I promise you he’s coming.”
Felicity is talking to me from the hallway with only the door separating us.
“I’m just going to sit here,” I say, lowering myself onto the step and leaning against the brickwork. I pluck a flower from the overgrown garden and begin picking off the petals one by one. The silence is filled with quiet breathing.
“I had a pen friend when I was at school,” I say, remembering the postcards that were stuck on Felicity’s fridge. “Her name was Camille. She lived in Manila, in the Philippines. We wrote to each other every month for about ten years. Letters at first, then emails. We promised that one day we’d meet up.”
“Did you ever do it?”
“We came close. We were both turning twenty-five and we planned to celebrate our birthdays in Singapore.”
“What happened?”
“She had a baby—a little boy.”
I pluck another petal from the flower.
“You could still make your world tour—see all your friends,” I say.
Felicity makes a mocking sound. She’s closer now, only inches away from me. I imagine her leaning her back against mine, with only the door separating us.
“I’ve heard some of Aiden’s music. He’s very good.”
“Music is just a hobby. He’s going to Cambridge. He won a full scholarship.”
“Did he apply for that, or did you?”
Felicity ignores me. “He was a straight-A student. His teachers said he was the best and brightest. He’s going to be a lawyer. He’s going to make a difference.”
“A difference for who?” I ask.
Felicity goes quiet. The pause stretches out for so long I wonder if she’s still leaning against the door.
“What does Aiden want?” I ask. “Have you asked him?”
There is no reply.
“I know it feels good basking in Aiden’s successes, but if children are pushed into fulfilling parental expectations, they can fail to explore other opportunities. They can feel stifled. Trapped.”
“I know my son.”
“I’m sure you do, but Aiden is scared of disappointing you. He wants you to listen. I’ve treated kids who feel pressured to fulfill some sort of destiny. Some achieve great things, but others suffer anxiety and depression, which feeds addictions. Some even sabotage themselves rather than risk disappointing those who expect too much.”
“That’s not me,” she says savagely.
“I talked to Aiden. He was sleeping with Jodie. He got her pregnant.”
“No! It was Bryan.”
“You’ve known all along, haven’t you?”
Silence. I can hear her breathing.
Glancing along the front path, I see Lenny moving into place. Aiden is with her. They’re both wearing body armor. Firemen have unspooled hoses and hooked them to the nearest hydrants, positioning them just in case.
“I know what you did, Felicity. I know why you did it. You couldn’t fall pregnant. It wasn’t your fault. You did everything the doctors suggested—the vitamins and diets. Rounds of IVF. How many times did you try?”
“Four,” she whispers.
“That must have been expensive.”
“It almost broke us. Bryan didn’t want to keep paying. ‘If it happens, it happens,’ he said.”
“That must have been hard. Being around Maggie made it worse because she had Felix. Every day you were being reminded of what you couldn’t have . . .”
She gives a hiccupping sob.
“In your desperation to have a child, you slept with your brother-in-law. Dougal is Aiden’s father, not Bryan.”
Felicity groans.
“Nobody could ever find out—not Maggie or Aiden or your husband. That’s why you couldn’t let Aiden fall in love with Jodie. You couldn’t let them sleep together or have a baby.”
“It was incest. It was wrong,” she whispers.
“When Bryan told you that Jodie was pregnant, you didn’t know that Aiden was the father until you overheard them together in the caravan that night. You confronted Jodie. You begged her to have an abortion.”
“I wanted her to understand,” says Felicity. “But she wouldn’t listen.”
“You followed her.”
“She was being foolish. She was risking Aiden’s future and her own. He’s going to Cambridge. She’s going to the Olympics.”
“Did you tell her that Aiden was her half brother?”
I hear another stifled sob. “She wouldn’t have believed me.”
“What happened?”
“I wanted her to hear what I was saying . . . to think about the implications. She was ruining everything.”
“You tried to stop her.”
“I didn’t hit her hard.”
“What did you use?”
“A piece of iron—a fence post. It was lying on the ground . . . near the bridge. I only hit her once. I thought she was pretending, you know. I shook her. I said her name. I put my hand on her chest . . .”
“You pushed her body into the water.”
“I thought she was dead. I thought I’d killed her.”
“She was still alive.”
Felicity moans.
Lenny is signaling me from the road. Aiden is with her.
“He’s here,” I say. “The police have brought Aiden.”
I hear the floorboards creak as Felicity stands. Moments later, the library curtains twitch and open a crack.
“I want to talk to him,” she says. “I need to explain.”
“Come out and you can talk to him.”
“No! Send him in.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
Her voice changes: “SEND HIM IN, OR I’LL KILL HER!”
“Please stay calm,” I say. “If you lose your temper the police will storm this place.”
“Let them try.”
“You don’t want that. Let me come inside. Swap me for Evie. I can make them understand. I can get Aiden for you.”
There is a long pause before the lock turns. The door swings inwards. Felicity has her arm around Evie’s neck.
“Let her go.”
“Not until you’re inside.”
“Don’t believe her,” yells Evie. Her eyes are swollen and almost closed, and vomit stains the front of her pajamas. I slip past them into the hallway, which reeks of turpentine, gas, and alcohol.
Felicity keeps her distance, holding the cheap plastic cigarette lighter to Evie’s cheek.
“Put your hands through the railings,” she says, pointing towards the stairs.
Felicity kicks a roll of packing tape across the floor and tells Evie to bind my wrists. Evie struggles to unspool the tape because her own wrists are bound, but manages to secure my hands while Felicity stands over her.
“Turn off the gas and open the windows,” I say. “We have to air the house.”
Felicity ignores me, jerking her thumb towards the door, telling Evie to get out.
“I’m not going without Cyrus.”
“Please, Evie, just go,” I say.
“She’s going to set the
house on fire. She’s poured stuff all over your books.”
Felicity waves the lighter in front of Evie’s face, threatening to flick at the flint wheel. “Last chance.”
Evie seems to react instinctively, spinning around and scrambling up the stairs. Blindly, she collides with a wall and bounces off but keeps going, disappearing into the upper floors. This is madness. She has to get out.
“Stupid little cow,” curses Felicity, climbing past me on the stairs.
“Leave her,” I say. “You have other things to worry about.”
Lenny’s voice interrupts me, projected through a loud-hailer.
“Mrs. Whitaker . . . we have your son.”
67
* * *
ANGEL FACE
* * *
I squeeze between boxes in the turret room, half-blind and navigating by touch. I slide my hand beneath a pillow until my fingers close around the oily rag. The pistol. I rack the slide, putting a bullet in the chamber, pointing it towards the door. There are no footsteps on the stairs. No blurry shadow in the doorway.
I put down the handgun and pick up the knife. Jamming the handle inside a closed drawer, I lean my hip against the front panel to keep the blade steady. I run my wrists back and forth against the sharpest edge, cutting the masking tape before ripping it with my teeth, spitting out bits of torn plastic.
I can hear Cyrus yelling my name, telling me to get out, until another voice drowns him out. Coming from outside.
Feeling my way between boxes, I stand on tiptoes at the window. Through watery eyes, I see two figures standing near the front gate.
I recognize Aiden’s voice. “Mum? It’s me.”
Mrs. Whitaker answers, repeating his name, as though wanting to be sure.
“What are you doing, Mum?” yells Aiden.
“I’m so sorry, baby. I didn’t mean . . . I need to explain.”
“OK. Are you coming out?”
“Listen, baby.” Her voice seems to break. “You’re going to hear some things about me, but you have to believe that everything I did was for you.”
“What did you do?”
“I tried to protect you. I wanted you to be happy.”
“I was happy.”
“You and Jodie . . . it was wrong. You couldn’t be with her—not like you were.”
“Why?”
The question brings silence. Aiden asks again. “Mum? Why couldn’t I be with Jodie?”
Felicity answers in a wheedling, sorrowful voice. “She was your half sister.”
“You mean my cousin,” says Aiden, less certain now.
“No.”
“How can she be my half sister?”
“I couldn’t get pregnant . . . not with your dad.”
“So, who is my father?” asks Aiden.
Felicity answers hoarsely. “Your uncle Dougal.”
Aiden doesn’t respond.
“Are you there, baby? I know it’s a shock. I know I should have told you.”
Aiden’s voice changes. “Did you hurt Jodie?”
Another pause, followed by a defeated moan. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean it. You have to forgive me.”
He says nothing.
“Aiden?”
Without a word, he turns and brushes past the shoulder of the detective, walking past the police cars and the barricades and the watching crowd. Mrs. Whitaker is calling after him. Begging him. He doesn’t stop.
68
* * *
CYRUS
* * *
“It’s over, Felicity. Put down the lighter.”
She’s kneeling on the hallway rug, hunched over, breathing raggedly. Words get caught in her throat. She tries again.
“What have I done? What have I done?”
“Listen to me. You have to open the windows. The house is full of gas.”
Rocking on her knees, she holds her stomach, moaning.
“You can get Aiden back. Explain things to him. It’s not too late. Right now, we have to get out of here.”
She’s not listening to me.
I hear Lenny on the loud-hailer: “Mrs. Whitaker, can you hear me? You talked to your son. I want you to come outside.”
She doesn’t respond.
I can picture the SWAT team outside ready to break down the doors. The smallest spark will light this place up.
“Give us a minute,” I yell to Lenny.
I concentrate on Felicity, who can’t see beyond her misery.
“It was an accident,” I say. “I don’t think you meant to hurt Jodie. But what you’re doing now is making things worse. Open the windows. Let’s walk out of here together.”
“I’ve ruined everything,” she sobs. “He’ll never forgive me.”
“You made some bad decisions. Don’t make another one. Open the windows. Let’s walk out of here together.”
“It’s too late.”
“It’s only too late if you give up,” I say. “If something happens to you, it won’t end the pain. You’ll be passing it on to Aiden and Tasmin.”
“They’ll be better off if I’m dead.”
“You’ll stain their lives. You’ll be betraying them. Rejecting them.”
She is staring at the cigarette lighter, which is cupped in her hands like an offering. An answer. A key.
“I lost my parents and my sisters. You know the story. Not a day goes by when I don’t wonder if I could have saved them. If I’d come straight home from football practice; if I hadn’t stopped for chips; if I hadn’t ridden my bike past Ailsa Piper’s house. What if? Maybe? If only. Don’t let the same thing happen to Aiden. Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
I yell up the stairs. “Evie, it’s time to go!”
She doesn’t answer.
“Can you hear me, Evie? We’re leaving.”
69
* * *
ANGEL FACE
* * *
“I can hear you.”
I’m on the landing, peering through the wooden railings. My eyes are swollen shut and the shapes below me are vague and indistinct, like I’m watching them from the bottom of a swimming pool.
Cyrus is sitting on a lower step with his hands taped around the wooden spindles. Mrs. Whitaker is kneeling in the hallway.
“You have to open the doors and windows. Then go outside. Get away from the house.”
I descend, touching the wall with my right hand. I’m holding the pistol behind my back. As I get closer, I can see Mrs. Whitaker more clearly, but not her face. I want to see her face.
“Open the windows, Evie. Then leave.”
“What about you?”
“The police will cut me free.”
“Stay where you are!” Mrs. Whitaker gets to her feet. Swaying. Sweating.
I am between steps. The gun is heavy in my hand. I pull it out, aiming at the center of her chest. Cyrus takes a sharp breath. He utters my name and the word “no.”
She turns to face me, holding the cigarette lighter in her hand, her thumb on the flint wheel.
“Don’t do it!” says Cyrus. “The gas!”
I realize my mistake, but don’t lower the gun.
“She’s not going to let us go,” I say.
“Yes, she is. We’re all getting out.”
“Are you letting us go?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer.
The gas and fumes are making me light-headed. Rocking forward, I catch myself before I fall, and slide down onto a step, holding the gun in my lap, no longer aiming.
Cyrus looks up at me. “We’re getting out of here.”
“She’s not going to let us go,” I say.
“Yes, she is.”
“No.”
Mrs. Whitaker hasn’t spoken. I give her the evil eye. It’s the look I sometimes used on Guthrie and Miss McCredie and kids who pissed me off at Langford Hall.
“You’re too selfish to let us go,” I say. “It’s always been about you. You wanted a baby so badly, you cheated on your husband. You wante
d Aiden to go to Cambridge because it made you look good. You wanted Jodie to get rid of the baby because it threatened your secret. You’re such a coward you can’t even die alone.”
Anger flares in her eyes.
“You asked me about my mother. You see this?” I open the palm of my left hand and show her a tortoiseshell button the size of a fifty-pence piece. “It’s all I have left of her. She had this bright red coat with a fur-lined collar that she said made her feel like a Russian czarina. I think that means princess. She was wearing it when they found her body. I hugged her for as long as I could, until they had to bend back my fingers to make me let go. When she’d gone, I found this button in my fist.”
I close my fingers and hold it against my cheek.
“She gave up—just like you’re doing. She abandoned me. She pushed me away. For years I told myself that I didn’t blame her, but I’ll never forgive her because she can’t tell me why.”
There is a beat of silence and I wonder if anyone is listening.
Slowly, Mrs. Whitaker gets up from her knees. She glances into the kitchen.
“I’ll turn off the gas. You open the door,” she says.
I slide down the stairs until I reach Cyrus. I don’t have the knife.
“Open the front door,” he says, nodding along the hallway.
I’m a step below him when I hear a surprised cry or half a curse. In that same instant, the house seems to breathe in and then out, as though someone has suddenly opened the window of a moving car, lifting dust and litter from the floor. The world explodes around us, filling the air with wood, plaster, dust, and debris. Flames shoot out of the kitchen doorway and suck back again as the walls buckle.
Mrs. Whitaker appears, her face blackened, eyes white and wide. She touches her smoking head, as though seeking physical proof, and looks at me curiously before collapsing forwards. The entire back of her head has disappeared, and her clothes have burnt off like a plastic doll held too close to the fire.
Good Girl, Bad Girl Page 34
