Grace coughs. “Wesley, are you all right?”
He keeps his mouth firmly shut, holding the knife and fork like daggers. Pressing them into the plate.
George scrapes out the bowl of his pipe with a little metal thing. “Who’s Hugh?”
A deep breath through gritted teeth. “He’s Angelina’s stepfather.”
“Ah . . . But you’re her . . . biological parent?”
“I’m her father, yes.” He stares at Angelina.
She stares back. “Yeah, and you’re doing such a good job, Wesley.” She turns to Ellie. “It must be so great living here. Having such lovely parents and all these beautiful cats.” She looks back over her shoulder at him again. “I wish I was that lucky.”
“Really?” Wesley’s voice trembles. Keep it calm. No domestics. Calm. “Because I seem to remember paying for music lessons, private schools, phones, computers, clothes, holidays.”
“That’s all that matters to you, isn’t it? Money. You can’t bribe your way out of what you did, Wesley.”
“It’s not bribery, it’s because I love—”
“If you loved us, you wouldn’t have cheated on Mum. The only thing you ever loved is your bloody bank!”
“That’s enough, Angelina.” He places his trembling cutlery down, getting gravy on the tablecloth. “These nice people don’t want to hear you acting like a spoiled child. Just eat your dinner and behave.”
“I’m spoiled?” She stands up, chair legs scraping the floor. Her face clenches like a toddler’s about to have a tantrum. “That’s rich coming from you, Dad.” She marches out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind her.
Silence settles into the room, everyone looking at anything other than Wesley.
“Ahem. Right, better get on.” George gets to his feet. Heads over to the worktop, grabs the carcasses, and disappears out through the back door.
Jeanette sighs. “I suppose the washing up isn’t going to do itself.” She holds out a hand and Ellie passes her Angelina’s plate. “Thanks, love. You know, maybe you should go . . . have a word or something?”
Ellie nods, then gets to her feet and hurries out after Angelina.
Wesley picks up his knife and fork and places them in the middle of his plate, then pushes it away. Not really hungry anymore.
“Would you like anything else?” Jeanette looms at his shoulder. “I’ve got some trifle, or there’s syrup sponge and custard?”
“No, thank you. It was a lovely dinner.”
She carries the dirty dishes over to the sink and turns on the taps.
“I’m sorry.” He takes his napkin and dabs at the splots of gravy left behind. “She’s . . .” What? Poisonous? Vicious? Spiteful? Or just an eleven-year-old girl from a broken marriage, lashing out because he’s closest? Wesley clasps both hands around his whisky tumbler.
A warmth seeps through his sleeve and into his skin. Grace’s hand is on his arm.
He raises his glass. “To happy families.”
Grace clinks her tumbler against his. “She’ll come round. Teenagers’ brains are all over the place, and girls are the worst. I speak from personal experience.”
“She hates me.”
“At her age, they hate everyone. It’s a phase. You’ll see.”
“She doesn’t hate her mother. Or Bloody Hugh. Pair of them have been dripping poison in her ear since day one. I’m not the bad guy, Grace.”
She takes a sip of Talisker, rolls it around her mouth, then sits back in her chair, those big brown-and-gold eyes wide, like he’s the only thing worth looking at in the world. “Go on then: shock me. What did they tell her?”
It’s nice to be special for a change. To be interesting. To be wanted. “That I tried to persuade her mother to have an abortion.”
Grace runs a hand through her gray quiff, and when she’s finished, it’s leaning in the other direction. She places the whisky tumbler down on the tabletop between them. “Wow. That’s quite an accusation.” Her eyes grow even wider, pinning him to the chair. “Did you?”
Heat rises up the back of his neck and he looks away. “Point is, it’s not something you tell an eleven-year-old.”
WESLEY PAUSES ON the landing, one hand on the carved wooden railing. The hall light glows pale gold, casting shining reflections on the sea of framed baby pictures. Downstairs, from the kitchen, Grace’s and Jeanette’s muffled voices are accompanied by the clink and clatter of dishes being washed in the sink.
He takes a breath and marches down the corridor toward Angelina’s room.
The door creaks open when he’s a dozen paces from it and Ellie slips out. She closes the door behind her, then turns, and her eyes go wide. She jumps. Makes a little squeaking sound. Then clamps a hand over her chest. “Pfffff . . .” A smile makes her face shine. “Sorry, you frightened the life out of me.”
“Didn’t mean to scare you.”
Silence.
“Right, well, I’d better . . .” She points along the corridor toward the stairs, a flush blooming across her cheeks.
“Yes.”
He flattens himself against the wallpaper as she inches by. And as soon as she’s past him, she runs off, thumping down the stairs. Teenagers—completely incomprehensible.
Wesley straightens his shirt, then knocks on Angelina’s door. There’s no reply, so he does it again. “Angel? Are you okay?”
Her voice is small, barely audible through the wood. “Go away.”
“Please?” He tries the handle. It isn’t locked. He opens the door a couple of inches.
She’s sitting on the bedspread, knees together, feet pointing in toward each other. Buttons is curled next to her, making droning whirring noises as she strokes the long gray fur on his back. She doesn’t look up as Wesley slips into the room and clicks the door shut behind him.
“I know you’re confused, and you think you hate me, but—”
“Why do you have to ruin everything?”
Wonderful. “It might look like that, but I’m only doing all this because I love you. It really is for your own good . . . And I know grown-ups say that all the time, but this time it’s true.”
She keeps her eyes on Buttons’s back, fingers moving through the ash-colored fur. “Hugh says—”
“Hugh’s a cock.” Shit. Wesley pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingertips. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.” Yes, he did. And more. “He’s not what you think he is, Angel: believe me, I know. Your mother . . .” Deep breath. “Your mother loves you very much, but Bloody Hugh is . . .” He sinks down onto the bed beside her. “Before she started seeing me, they were going out together. She came back from his place this one time all bruised and limping. Told everyone she’d slipped and fallen down the stairs, but it was him.”
That gets him a shrug.
“I would never do that.” He reaches out and caresses the hair at the nape of her neck. Always liked that when she was little. “I’d never do anything to hurt you, Angel.”
A chime sounds in the small room, something electronic, and she pulls out her phone. Buttons stretches his front legs, paws spread wide, yawns, then settles down again as Angelina squints at the screen. “Ellie says I should cut you some slack.”
“Well . . . Ellie’s obviously a smart cookie.”
“She says you don’t mean to be a dick.”
Lovely. “Look, how would you feel about coming to stay with me for a bit? Not just until your mum and Bloody Hugh get back, but for a couple of weeks, maybe? I miss you, Angel.” He licks his lips, then brings out the big guns. “We could get a cat?”
Her head comes up at that, her eyes wide and greedy. “Can we get one of Ellie’s kittens when they come? Maine Coon cats are just the best.”
Buttons raises his head, that broad white chin trembling as he purrs. Sometimes you have to make sacrifices for the people you love . . .
THE RADIATOR UNDER the window pings and gurgles in time to the rattling pipes. Wesley sweeps his hand through the water poundi
ng into the big enamel bathtub: not quite scalding, but close to it. Good. Nothing like a hot bath after a bad day, and by Christ, today couldn’t have been much worse.
Still, look on the bright side—at least now Angelina wants to come stay with him.
He turns off the tap and gives the water another swirl. Perfect.
Okay, so it was going to cost him a pedigree cat—and there was no way something like that was going to come cheap—but it was worth it just to see her smile at him like she used to when she was a kid. Before Bloody Hugh reappeared on the scene . . .
He steps out through the door of his en suite bathroom and back into his bedroom, then gets undressed, laying his clothes neatly on the chair by the wardrobe.
But that’s all behind them now. They’re going to be friends again. Daddy and his little girl, without anyone screwing it up. Poisoning her against him. Ruining everything . . .
Wesley’s reflection frowns at him from the dark window. Pasty naked skin, sagging under the weight of forty-three years of disappointment. Two failed marriages. And today.
A slab of bruises spread midnight-blue and violet stains around his ribs; bite marks carve ragged circles across his forearm.
He pulls on the fuzzy white dressing gown hanging in the wardrobe, wraps it around himself, and ties the cord in a knot at the front. Should really close the curtains, too. Not that there’s a risk of anyone seeing him—not unless they’re up one of the trees in front of the house with a pair of binoculars. Still. Habits, like so many other things, die hard.
A sharp draft knifes in under the bottom edge of the sash window. Thing isn’t shut properly.
He slips a finger through each of the two hooks set into the white-painted wood and stops.
It’s not snowing anymore. The night is perfectly still, the landscape blanketed under a smothering of cottony blue as the moon cuts through a break in the clouds. Moonlight shimmers on the surface of Loch Righ, revealing what looks like a boathouse with a small jetty. Must be lovely in summer—take a rowboat out onto the calm water, fish for your dinner.
Have to take Angelina back here next year, when everything’s settled down. She’ll like that . . .
A familiar voice drifts up from below, muffled by the window, and there she is, skipping through the snow, her breath steaming out behind her. “Come on, then.”
Ellie follows her out, stops a dozen feet from the front of the house, and hunches her shoulders. Cups her hands to her face. Then a flickering yellow light illuminates her features. The smoke of a sly fag billows out into the cold night air.
Ellie holds the cigarette out to Angelina. “Want a puff?”
So Jeanette’s perfect family isn’t so perfect after all. They’re normal people, a little screwed up, white lies and secrets, just like everyone else.
Instead of forcing the window shut, Wesley tugs it open and cold air slumps into the room, wrapping itself around him, making the hair on his arms stand up. He fills his lungs, ready to shout down that she better bloody not . . . then closes his mouth. It’s going so well—finally, after all this time—why spoil it?
Angelina shakes her head.
“You sure? They’re Turkish!”
“Tried one of my stepdad’s once. Nicked it from his study while they were throwing this swanky party for his latest book launch. Threw up all over my party frock.” She reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out something small and dark. “Besides, smoking and woodwind instruments totally don’t go together.”
Good girl.
She points the thing in her hand at the BMW and the indicators flash.
No, don’t go in there!
She pulls open the back door and reaches inside.
Oh thank God . . . The air rushes out of his lungs, taking all the strength in his knees with it. He rests his arms against the sash window’s frame.
“Of course, I’m not very good.” She reappears with a rectangular leather case, pops the catches, and opens it. It’s the case for her clarinet. She lifts the pieces out and slots the instrument together.
“I’m sure you’re brilliant.” Ellie takes a long draw on her cigarette, then throws her arms wide. “Play something sad.”
“Not today. Today’s the best day ever.” She raises the clarinet to her lips and the adagio from Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto floats out across the moonlight. All that expensive tuition’s worth it after all. Her embouchure, tone, and expression are all perfect.
Something swells in his throat. How can a tube made of wood, reed, and metal in a factory in Worthing produce something so beautiful?
Ellie raises her arms, laughter sparkling in counterpoint to the clarinet’s soaring notes. She moves her feet through the drifts of white, turning and weaving in slow motion, tracing the melody—trailing ribbons of smoke from the cigarette in her hand—as Angelina sways from side to side. Eyes closed. Lost in Mozart.
It’s been so long since he’s heard her play. It’s the most wonderful . . . And then the music stops.
Angelina pulls the clarinet from her mouth and looks back into the car. “Can you hear that?”
Ellie slithers to a halt. “Don’t stop, that was great.”
“No, shhh; listen!”
The warbling strains of Whitney Houston ruining “I Will Always Love You” leak out from somewhere inside the BMW.
A bitter taste fills his mouth. “Angel? That’s enough. Come inside, okay?”
She takes a step toward the car. “Hugh?”
Oh God, it’s Bloody Hugh’s phone. Bastard always did have rotten taste in music. Of all the stupid things to miss.
Icy sweat prickles across Wesley’s forehead. “It’s too cold out there. You’ll catch your death.”
Angelina looks over her shoulder at him, frowning, mouth slightly open. Then turns back to the BMW.
The ice seeps into his skin, leaches into his veins, spreads into his chest, suffocating him. Make her stop. “ANGELINA, YOU COME INSIDE RIGHT NOW!” Holding on to the window frame, bellowing loud enough to make his throat raw. “DO WHAT I TELL YOU!”
“Hugh?” She’s at the back of the car.
Another plip from the car keys and the boot hinges up on its own, the courtesy light casting a soft golden glow inside.
Angelina reaches inside.
No, not now. Not like this. Please . . .
Ellie turns to face him, hiding the cigarette behind her back. “We weren’t doing anything wrong. I just wanted to hear her play.”
Angelina staggers back from the car, one hand up to her mouth. The clarinet falls, swallowed by the blanket of white. She stares up at him, face pale as the snow. “Oh God, Dad. What did you do?”
HIS BARE FEET hit the snow as he stumbles out of the house, the cold drilling up through his soles and into the bones. Angelina looks at him, eyes half closed, mouth slack and open, like she’s barely awake. He steps toward her. She turns her head away and her shoulders tremble, then shake, arms wrapped around her stomach—as if she’s been punched. He moves toward her . . . but a scream stops him.
Ellie.
She’s hunched over by the BMW, hands up at her face, fingers splayed like claws. She screams again. Keeps screaming. The noise pulses in his teeth.
Drag her away from there, close the boot.
Feet numb, he staggers through the snow to the car, breath spuming out in ragged clouds, forehead burning. He grabs her. She tries to pull away, hands pushing against his chest. Convulses with hard sobs that wrench out of her and ping back like stretched elastic.
He doesn’t let go.
Over her shoulder, in the boot, a corner of the blanket’s folded back. Hugh stares up at them, waxy eyes in his lopsided face, temple bruised and blood caked. Lying on his side. A bare foot pokes out by his chin, the skin like silk, the toenails painted a rich burgundy. A dark line cuts across his cheek, shirt stippled with bloody fingerprints, his pink tie a grotesque tongue.
“What’s going on?” George stands in the doorway, shotgun in his hands.
Wesley lets go of Ellie. She steps away; his body grows colder.
Too late . . .
Angelina’s mouth moves but nothing comes out. She raises a shaking finger and points at the boot of the BMW.
Snow scrunches under George’s slippers as he picks his way over to the boot, the shotgun pointing at Wesley’s chest. Then he leans over. . . . His mouth sags open. He takes a handful of the blanket and pulls it out. Lets it fall to the ground. Stands there in silence.
Natalie’s curled up in the hollow of Hugh’s body. The oversize man’s shirt she’s wearing rides up on one side, showing a slice of hip and a bare leg. But it’s her face that makes Wesley’s chest clench. It’s swollen and dark, those stunning green eyes bugging and bloodshot. Mouth open slightly, teeth stained with blood. Her neck’s a patchwork of purple, blue, and red—pale stripes marking the path of the belt she was strangled with.
Angelina makes a choking sound. Then a sob.
Wesley clears his throat. “Natalie was . . . she was dead when I got there. Bloody Hugh . . . He was dragging her into the boot of his car. Her face was all . . .” Wesley swallows something sharp. “He had a shovel. He went for me. I . . . I didn’t have any choice. He killed her . . .”
George lowers the blanket again. “Ellie, get in the house.”
“But—”
“It wasn’t my fault. What if he’d gone after Angelina?”
“Ellie!” Jeanette’s voice booms across the driveway. “You heard your father. Inside, now. And take Angelina with you.”
George raises the gun, points it at Wesley.
Ellie hurries over to Angelina, high-stepping through the snow. “Come on, we’ve got to go.”
Wesley stands there, an ice statue, as Ellie wraps her arms around his daughter, makes little cooing noises, steers her toward the house.
George’s gaze doesn’t flinch from Wesley. “Jeanette, you see they’re safe inside.”
A nod. “Come on girls, we’ll get you some nice hot sweet tea.”
Dark Duets Page 10
