Dad puts a foot on the lower rung of the gate and hoists himself over, then he starts to walk along the hedge line. It’s much more of a stretch for me to get over and I narrowly avoid a puddle on my jump down as I follow. For every one of his strides, I’m taking at least one and a half and am almost jogging to keep up as he continues relentlessly until he reaches a stile between a pair of overgrown hedges that connects two fields. He waits for me to go first and then tells me to stop when I’m standing at the highest point.
‘What can you see?’ he asks.
I stare out into the distance towards half a dozen large four- or five-bedroom houses and a larger expanse of mud.
‘Some random houses,’ I reply.
‘It’s called Queen’s Landing. One of the companies I used to do some work for are building an exclusive estate.’
‘We’re in the middle of nowhere.’
‘Not exactly but… that’s the point. The people with the money to buy those homes are the ones who want to live in the privacy of a small private estate in the middle of nowhere. They’re building it in two stages. The first set of houses were finished a couple of months ago and the next lot are about a year off. It should be quite nice when it’s all done.’
I slouch down so that I’m sitting on the rail at the top of the stile. ‘I don’t understand why you’ve brought me here.’
‘They were laying the foundations for the first set of houses about a year ago.’
I don’t understand at first what the house-building has to do with Uncle Alan. Then it hits me.
‘Oh…’
It’s all I can say. Nothing, really.
Dad reaches up and lifts me down and then we both lean on the stile, looking out towards the housing development. If someone ever goes digging deep down beneath their patio, they might get a surprise.
‘I love you,’ Dad whispers.
I wrap my arm around his waist, tucking my head underneath his armpit and waiting for him to put his arm around me.
‘This isn’t who I am,’ he says.
‘I know.’
‘It’s just… sometimes people need to be put down like dogs. I know that sounds awful. I know, I know, I know. There’s a huge part of me that doesn’t think that – but it’s true. I wish it wasn’t, but it is. People will never say it. They refuse to think those things but, honestly, some people in this world are bad. There’s no better way of putting it. They’re bad people, Lil, and rehabilitation will never work. They don’t deserve another chance. They deserve to be put down like the dogs they are.’
He squeezes my shoulder.
‘I let you down, Lil. A father’s supposed to look out for his daughter but I didn’t do that. I can never say sorry – but all I can say is that he won’t do it again.’
I allow myself to be pulled closer. I can feel Dad’s heartbeat through his top, racing and spiking. I’ve made him this, turned him into a person he wasn’t.
And it’s so hard not to wish I’d never said a word about Uncle Alan.
Twenty
Saturday
The scientist from the lab doesn’t look particularly sciencey in the sense that there’s no white coat or glasses. I realise that sounds ridiculous but sometimes the cliché is comforting. She’s mid-twenties at most, her hair is down and she’s in trendy tight jeans. Police officers should be big burly blokes that ooze authority; dentists should be evil – and scientists should wear white coats and glasses.
Her name is Cassie and she turns from my mother to me and holds up a pair of giant cotton buds that must be fifteen centimetres long. ‘All it takes is a mouth swab from each of you,’ she says. ‘You rub the soft end into the inside of your cheek, get it nice and moist and then put it into one of these tubes.’
The tubes are long and thin – and there is a separate bag for each to be stored within.
Mum is handed her swab and I take mine. It’s an extended version of the type of thing I’ve used to clear out my ears in the past. Not a pleasant thought.
Things moved ridiculously quickly after talking to Nattie and Rhys in the Black Horse. I called Mum to say I wanted to do a DNA test with her to get rid of any doubt. She was surprised and said it wasn’t necessary – but I made the same argument Nattie, Rhys, the journalist and DI McMichael had. If we didn’t do this, there will always be doubt. The whispers will never go away.
I thought it would take a while to set up. Days, for sure; perhaps a week. It’s the next morning and here we are. Through Mum’s ‘friends of friends’, she knows someone who manages a laboratory. Among other things, one of their specialities is analysing DNA. It’s a booming thing on the Internet, apparently, largely with fathers wanting to check for sure that their new baby is indeed their own. Broken Britain again, I guess.
It feels murky, that if somebody doubts that sort of thing, there’s probably something wrong with the relationship regardless of what any test might show.
We agreed to meet at Mum’s house the next morning and it’s turned out to be something of a sideshow. As well as Mum, myself and Harry; Max and Ashley are both here. It seems the two brothers are rarely apart. When I first met her, Georgie said they were practically conjoined and that’s proved to be true. Max was dealing with Harry when I got to the house but Ashley had watched me in the way a fox stalks a hen. His skin is so brown that it looks like he’s been sleeping on the sun. He’s not shaved for a few days and his stubble is becoming sharp, with grey pepper-pot specks eating into the black.
Luckily for me, it’s not the Pitman brothers against just me. Nattie is at my side and it feels like everyone is on their best behaviour because of her. Not counting Cassie from the laboratory, Nattie is the only person in the conservatory who isn’t a member of this family.
Mum holds her swab up a little higher. ‘You don’t have to do this,’ she says to me.
‘I want to.’
I speak to her but look towards Max and Ashley, who are both focusing on me. Ashley in particular looks as though I’ve given him a quadratic equation and asked for an instant answer. He doesn’t understand what’s happening. It’s probably him who started talking about DNA tests and the like. Whispers, as Nattie and Rhys said. It’s what the village runs on, and who better to start those whispers than a taxi driver?
Have you seen the new girl in the Black Horse? Have you heard who she is? Do you think it’s her? Do you really think it’s her? It’s been thirteen years. It could be anyone. What do you think?
That’s all it takes. One person tells another, who tells another – and suddenly police officers are knocking on the door and journalists are asking about DNA tests.
If it was Ashley, then he got what he wanted – or he thought he did. He thought I’d find a reason to avoid this, guilty until proven innocent, and yet here I am, swab in hand.
Mum is more nervous than me. This is the seventh or eighth time she’s told me I don’t have to do this. The swab doesn’t go near her mouth as she turns back to the scientist.
‘What happens next?’ she asks.
If Cassie senses the tension in the room, she doesn’t show it. ‘I can get as technical as you want but, in essence, we extract and compare the saliva from the two swabs. Every cell in the human body contains a complete set of DNA. Most of the DNA between all human beings is the same – but we look for specific genetic markers that vary from person to person. A child receives half of his or her DNA from a mother and the other half from the father. Your DNA is what we’ll start with. Let’s call that DNA Sarah. After that, we’ll check Olivia’s. If Olivia is Sarah’s daughter, we would expect to see her make-up to be half DNA Sarah and half DNA Dad.’
‘How long does it take?’ I ask.
‘My boss says this is a special case, so we’ll be working on it straight away. I’d imagine you should have an answer by Monday.’
‘Is it accurate?’ I ask.
‘It’s very close to one hundred per cent. There are more than seven billion people on the earth, so there might be a chance so
meone else shares an identical DNA sequence – but the chance of that person knowing about it and then tracking down the person with whom they share an identical genome… well, that’s about as close to zero per cent as you can get.’
It doesn’t get a lot more conclusive than that. I grip the swab tighter. ‘So if our results come back as a match, there’s no doubt we’re mother and daughter?’
‘No question at all.’
I open my mouth ready to collect the saliva but Mum puts a hand on my wrist and locks me into a stare. ‘You don’t have to.’
It’s only with the gaze that I realise she doesn’t know what she believes. There might be a part that wants to trust everything I’ve said but there’s a voice in there somewhere saying it can’t be true. Whispers. Perhaps from Max, Ashley or others around the village; perhaps her own internal monologue.
She prefers the idea of her long-lost daughter returning to having that wrecked by science.
Losing a daughter once is soul-destroying, losing one twice is something from which not many would be strong enough to recover.
‘I want to do this,’ I say.
I don’t break the stare as I swish the cotton end around the inside of my mouth and drop it into the tube. Cassie plugs the top and then places it into the bag. Mum hesitates, holding the swab in front of her mouth.
‘You can do it,’ I say. ‘Trust me.’
There is a second of hesitation but then she does. She twirls and swishes the swab around like a toothbrush and then the scientist does the rest.
I know in that moment that she actually does trust me. It’s a burden I know I can’t betray.
‘That’s that,’ Cassie says cheerily and then she packs her things away. She wishes us well before saying she’s going directly to the lab.
There’s an unspoken malaise after she’s left, as if there are two tribes ready to clash, with Mum in the middle as referee. There’s also a sense of disbelief. At the absolute least, Ashley did not think I’d go through with it, yet I wonder if the person who is most surprised is Mum. She’s watching Harry toddle around but there’s an emptiness about her expression.
Max is harder to read. He sits on the sofa next to his wife, hand on her shoulder, and asks if she’s okay. ‘Won’t be long,’ he assures her, but I don’t know if he’s talking about the length of time for the results to return, or some apparent confidence that it ‘won’t be long’ before I’m exposed as a fraudster.
‘Can we talk?’ I ask.
He looks up to me and there’s a moment where it feels like everyone else is staring between us.
‘Me?’ Max replies.
‘Just us. Somewhere else for a couple of minutes.’
‘What do you want to say?’
‘I’d rather we could talk alone…’
Mum is frozen as Max looks to his brother blankly and then pushes himself up from the sofa, leading me through the house until we’re in the kitchen. He closes the door and rests against it. His features are nowhere near as hardened as his brother’s and, now I’m able to see them apart, I can understand a little of what Mum might have seen in him. He has a strong jaw and set-back eyes that make his cheekbones almost angular. His voice is a little softer than Ashley’s and I wonder if he’s one of those siblings who ends up browbeaten by the older brother; who feels constantly in the shadow of the child who came before.
‘You’re going to be my stepdad,’ I say.
‘You sound very sure.’
‘I know what the test will show.’
He nods shortly. It’s hardly welcoming but it’s better than outright hostility.
‘I want you to know that it means something to me,’ I add. ‘I hope we can get on and have some sort of relationship, if only for Mum’s sake.’
He takes his time, breathing in and staring into my very soul. It’s like he’s trying to see me for what or who I am. ‘Is that right?’
‘Isn’t that what you want?’
His nose wrinkles, as if there’s a bad smell in the room. He takes a long breath and glances away towards the door, perhaps wondering if there’s someone listening on the other side. His voice might be softer than his brother’s but he knows how to turn it on. When he replies, it’s with a low growl. A wolf warning off a potential predator.
‘Whoever you are, whatever your name is, however that test comes back: one kid is more than enough for me.’
His eyes burn into mine, making sure I understand and then, with that, he turns and opens the door.
Twenty-One
The front door swings inwards and Mrs Winter – Janet – stands staring at me. It takes her a moment to place who I am and then her face brightens.
‘Olivia, my dear. You’re back. I’ve been hearing all about you. I did wonder if you might return. You should’ve said who you were when you were asking about your mother.’
The woman who now owns my parents’ old house is excited, like a rock star has turned up at her door. Given her age and the fact it doesn’t look like she gets out much, it’s more testament to how quickly news spreads around this place. She turns to the man at my side and clearly doesn’t recognise him.
‘How can I help?’ she asks.
‘I was hoping my dad and I could have a look around the house. Nothing intrusive, nothing you’re unhappy about, I’m trying to jog a few memories…’
Mrs Winter looks to Dad and gawks. She can’t believe it’s him and, in many ways, neither can I. All the facial hair has gone, as have the baggy old clothes. Now he’s in something that fits, he looks trim and in shape. I doubt that’s the truth underneath. He’s underweight and undernourished – but the impression is enough. He looks at least ten years younger than since I last saw him and, more importantly, he no longer smells. It’s possible to stand next to him and not want to gag.
‘Good afternoon, Janet,’ Dad says politely.
‘Daniel… you look very, um… different.’
She holds the door open and says we’re welcome to look around. As soon as we get into the kitchen, Dad is saying how nice everything is. Turning on a bit of the charm Georgie told me about from when he was younger. Everything has been refitted with stainless steel taps and thick, solid worktops. He talks about where things used to be, the thin patchy linoleum from the floor; the plastic appliances and the time when the sink leaked and he woke up to a mini flood.
The living room is full of ornaments, tat and framed photographs, but Dad talks about where the television used to be and the old battered pair of sofas that took up one half of the room. He’s very complimentary to what Mrs Winter has done to the place and the pride beams from her face.
She asks if we’d like to see the garden and it’s only then that Dad hesitates. As I head outside, he stands on the precipice of the door watching. Mrs Winter has disappeared back into the house somewhere.
‘Are you sure?’ he asks – but I’m already on the lawn. It’s bowling-green perfect and the whole space is meticulously looked after. Flower beds run along both sides and there is a small apple tree in the far corner. At the furthest end is a metal gate that’s taller than me and connected to a tidy hedge that runs the full width of the garden.
‘Come on,’ I say, offering him my hand. Dad steps tentatively forward and takes it. We head along the lawn together until we reach the metal table and chairs. It’s surrounded by green, like something Alice might find on the other side of the looking glass. A proper English country garden.
We pass the table and chairs, continuing on to the gate and pressing against the bars to look both ways along the narrow lane. It’s crumbling and dank, surrounded by hedges or fence panels on both sides, the type of land that will never quite dry out.
‘I’ve not been out here in thirteen years,’ Dad says quietly. He shivers as if someone’s walked across his grave. His confidence and charisma has slipped.
He doesn’t say anything else but then he pulls on my fingers, leading me back to the table where we sit. He gulps and it looks like h
e might start to cry, though he just about holds it together.
‘This was our first house,’ he says. ‘We thought we’d be paying the mortgage on it forever, but I guess things didn’t work out quite like that.’
Small beads of sweat are forming above his eyebrows. It’s a warm day and he’s bald. He should probably be wearing a hat. It’s odd to find myself concerned for him.
‘How did you meet?’ I ask.
He turns back towards the house and blinks, then he’s focused on me once more.
‘We were at a house party,’ he says. ‘I was twenty or twenty-one, something like that. Sarah was a little younger. I’d only moved to the village a couple of weeks before and one of the neighbours had a lad who was about my age. It was a friend of a friend thing. I hardly knew anyone in Stoneridge and thought I’d end up sitting in the corner by myself all evening.’
He curves his lips into an O and scratches his chin. ‘Most memories fade,’ he says quietly. ‘There’s a time when you’re not sure if what you think happened is what actually happened. It doesn’t help that I spent so long… well, you know… but I remember the moment I saw Sarah. It was like, ping!, as if someone turned on a light or something. There were no awkward introductions. I said “hi”, she said “hi” and then we spent the whole evening talking about everything and anything. She liked hearing about places other than here.’
‘She told me that.’
His eyes widen. ‘Did she?’
‘I think she remembers it, too.’
‘Oh… I didn’t know that.’ He stops and stares back towards the house. ‘She used to talk about how she felt trapped here because she knew everyone and everyone knew her. We’d go for these really long walks, following the river out of the village for miles before turning around and coming back again. We didn’t have any money to do much else. It wasn’t long and then she was pregnant.’
‘She told me unplanned didn’t mean unwanted.’
Dad looks to me and then nods slowly. ‘That’s a good way of putting it. It sounds horrible, like it was some massive accident and there you were – but it didn’t feel like that. We were young. It’s not like we sat down and talked about having children, getting married and all that. Things happened and they felt right. We thought we were going to live here forever.’
The Girl Who Came Back Page 16
