by Mark Edwards
Jessica finished laying out the tiles and got up to close the curtains. The wind was even stronger now, and the tree that stood by the side of the house, its branches winter-bare, swayed out of the darkness to tap against the window. It was hard not to believe that the wind was only swirling around their property, that Izzy was somehow responsible for it. Mum had said the same once when Larry visited during a storm. As hail bounced off the roof and thunder boomed across the sky, Mum had said, ‘We’ve made him angry’, as if they had awakened a god.
Ridiculous.
Jessica shut the curtains, then closed the door, and sat down beside the grid of Scrabble tiles. The house was silent apart from the wind, and the room was colder than ever. The malfunctioning radiator, said the rational part of her brain. The rest of her was convinced that Izzy was here in the room, as cold in death as she had been warm in life. She wondered what readings Simon’s equipment would be giving now.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Livvy, here’s what we’re going to do.’
Olivia’s face was pale with worry.
‘You know that Mummy isn’t able to talk to Auntie Izzy?’
A nod.
‘So I’m going to need you to help me. I’m going to ask Auntie Izzy a question, and I want you to listen to her answer. I’m going to ask her to choose letters.’ She indicated the Scrabble tiles. ‘And you just have to pick out the ones she tells you she’s chosen.’
If she asked Olivia simply to say what Izzy told her, there was no way of telling if Olivia was making it up, saying whatever she thought her mummy wanted to hear. But if Olivia was able to spell out words using the Scrabble tiles, words she didn’t know how to spell, that would be proof, wouldn’t it? Proof that she really was receiving messages from the dead.
‘Is Auntie Izzy here now?’ Jessica asked.
Olivia hesitated for a drawn-out moment, then whispered, ‘I think so.’
Jessica held her breath. Could it be true? Could Izzy really be here in the room? She couldn’t see anything. No shimmering presence. No imprint in the air. But it had been the same with Larry. He never showed himself.
‘Let’s start with something simple,’ she said, mainly to herself. She paused because she felt foolish, but forced herself to say, ‘Izzy, can you hear me? If you can, I need you to spell out the word. Tell Olivia which letters to pick. Olivia, when Izzy tells you the letters I want you to pick them up and lay them down here, okay?’ She touched the carpet in front of the spot where Olivia sat.
‘Okay.’
Nothing happened. Olivia stared at the ten-by-ten grid. She appeared to be concentrating hard, but she didn’t move her hand.
Jessica said it again: ‘Izzy, can you hear me? If you can, tell Olivia which letters to pick.’
Olivia sat cross-legged, gazing at the tiles. She was motionless, silent.
Something tap-tapped against the window: the tree, battered by the wind. The sound made Jessica suck in air, but Olivia showed no sign of having heard it. She continued to stare at the Scrabble tiles.
Her hand moved towards them and Jessica almost gasped, had to force herself to keep quiet. She watched as Olivia’s hand hovered over the letters, down in the right corner.
She picked up the Y and placed it in front of her. Then she stopped, apparently waiting for more instructions.
When nothing happened, Jessica said, ‘Y for yes?’ It had to be. But, of course, it meant nothing. Yes was one of the words Olivia had learned at school. Or perhaps she had only half-learned it and couldn’t remember what came after that first letter.
Jessica put the Y back in its place between the other Y and the Z.
Keeping her voice as calm and gentle as possible, Jessica said, ‘Izzy, can you tell me our mum’s name?’
Again there was a long, silent stretch of time when nothing happened. At least, it felt like a long time. Later Jessica would wonder if it had only been a few seconds before Olivia moved her hand.
It went straight to the middle of the grid, locating the first M. Olivia laid it on the carpet. Then her hand went back and picked up an O.
MO.
That was right.
Jessica took a deep breath. She had deliberately chosen a question with a short answer, something simple, to get things moving. But Olivia knew Mum’s name, heard Will and Pete use it all the time. And if there was a malevolent or mischievous spirit here, telling Olivia what to do, they probably knew the name too. Jessica needed to ask something else. Something only Jessica and Isabel knew. A question with a short, one-word answer. She wished she’d prepared for this, had had the questions ready when they started. Because what if Izzy disappeared, got bored with this game, while Jessica was hesitating?
She thought of something.
‘Izzy, what did we use to call our car when we were children?’
She waited. It was even chillier in the room now. Ambient temperature: Arctic. Olivia sat stock-still, staring at the letters. Jessica had never known her daughter to sit still for so long, even when she was exhausted. She appeared to be straining to hear something, as if listening to a voice in an adjacent room. The tree continued to tap and scrape at the window.
Olivia’s hand crept out, swaying back and forth above the letters like a cobra preparing to strike. The hand descended and she touched a C. That was wrong. Disappointment kicked Jessica in the gut – but Olivia didn’t pick that tile up. Her hand moved down two rows.
She picked up an F and placed it before her.
Oh Jesus. F. That was right.
Jessica could hardly breathe as Olivia’s fingers roamed above the letters before she plucked another tile, then another, then one more.
R then E then D. She placed them in order to spell the four-letter word: FRED.
Mum had only had one car when they were growing up, a red Citroën GS that was always breaking down. She’d bought it after Dad drove away in the family car, and kept it right up to the sad day when it finally failed its MOT and was sent to a scrapyard. Jessica and Izzy christened it Fred, just because they thought it was a funny name.
Jessica stared at her daughter. There was no way she could have known that. And it seemed unlikely that any malevolent spirit would know it either. Jessica had never really believed in the evil ghost that Simon had warned her about. But when it came to believing in Izzy’s spirit, her last shred of scepticism was blown away, like a leaf stripped from the tree that swayed outside.
Izzy was here.
This was real.
Gasping for breath, terrified and excited and trying desperately to stay in control, she counted to five in her head, stopping herself from babbling and telling Izzy all the things she wanted to say.
Like I miss you and I’m sorry and I love you.
She fought back tears, dug her fingernails into her palm, felt a shuddering breath course through her. At the same time, Olivia wriggled on the spot, as if she was getting restless. Oh God, the spell was going to be broken. Her chance would be lost. Immediately Jessica abandoned her plan to test Olivia and Izzy further. She set aside all the other questions that were begging to be answered. Because there was only question that really mattered, wasn’t there?
‘Izzy,’ she said, voice cracking. A small voice was shouting at her, telling her this was wrong, that she shouldn’t be doing this with Olivia. But it was too late. She was unable to stop herself. She needed to know. ‘Who pushed you off that balcony? Who killed you?’
She waited, heart thudding so hard she feared it would burst from her chest.
Olivia’s hand moved towards the letters – but then stopped.
‘I can’t,’ she said. She turned her face towards Jessica, tears spilling from her eyes.
‘Did she tell you the answer?’ Jessica whispered.
A tiny nod.
‘Then please, Livvy. You need to tell me.’
‘But I don’t want to.’
‘Please.’
She waited. Olivia was rocking back and forth, clearly distressed, and every par
t of Jessica longed to snatch her up, pull her into a hug. Stop this. But she had to know. She had to know.
‘Olivia. Who pushed Auntie Izzy?’
Olivia pulled a sleeve across her eyes, wiping away the tears. Jessica inched closer to her. Outside, the wind howled. The tree tapped at the window, faster and faster. Olivia stretched out her arm, her face turned half away from the letters as if she couldn’t bear to look at them, as if they burned her retinas.
She picked up a D. Placed it on the carpet.
Next, Olivia picked up an A.
Jessica watched, strangely calm, accepting what she was seeing. Mum had been right all along. It was Darpak. A man Jessica liked and respected, who was part of their family. She pictured him serving up his traditional Sunday roast, his face alive with joy as he set it down on the table; she saw him setting off fireworks, cuddling Olivia when she had a grazed knee. Kissing Izzy on their wedding day, promising to love and cherish her forever.
She was so lost in her head, so convinced she knew what Olivia was spelling out, that she stopped watching. But she got a jolt when she looked down to see that Olivia had laid down a third letter.
D.
That didn’t make sense. Olivia had made a mistake. She almost snatched the letter up, put it back, ready to tell her daughter she was spelling it wrong. But Olivia had already picked up letter four, which she placed beside the first three.
Another D.
Jessica watched as Olivia, with tears streaming down her face, picked up the fifth letter and laid it down.
Y.
Jessica stared, unable to take it in.
Who killed Auntie Izzy?
There was the answer, spelled out before her.
DADDY.
PART TWO
Chapter 25
December 2012
The doorbell rang, the chime loud and harsh to Isabel’s ears, reverberating through all that white empty space. She put down her wine glass and headed downstairs, holding the banister to steady herself. When they bought this place she had loved the straight lines, the blankness. It was clean, minimal. No dirt, no clutter. Now, though, as her footsteps echoed around her, the atmosphere felt oppressive. Cold. She missed the colour and chaos of the home she’d grown up in. She missed having somewhere to hide. And she missed dealing with the kind of mess that could be swept under the carpet.
‘Hey, Will,’ she said, letting him in and gesturing for him to follow her to the kitchen. ‘Wine?’
‘I shouldn’t. I’m driving.’ But he sounded hesitant.
‘One won’t hurt, surely? I really need one and I don’t want to drink alone.’ She didn’t tell him she’d already had two glasses, which she’d drunk on her own upstairs. She was confident that she was good at hiding it. Her voice wasn’t slurred; she could still walk in a perfectly straight line.
Will accepted a glass of red and took a sip. ‘Hey, this is really nice.’
‘It should be. It’s from the cellar.’
‘Whoa. I thought Darpak was saving this stuff till the apocalypse.’
Isabel smiled at him. ‘Life’s too short to wait for the end of the world.’
She led him up the stairs to the living room, taking the bottle with her. It was worth several hundred quid; she wasn’t sure how much exactly. But since that afternoon six weeks ago when she found the selfie, she had been helping herself to the finest pieces in Darpak’s precious wine cellar. A bottle a day, sometimes two. She couldn’t wait for him to notice.
‘Where is Darpak, anyway?’ Will asked, sinking into the sofa.
‘He’s taken a couple of clients out for dinner.’
‘Clients you don’t like?’
She looked at him. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Oh, just your tone of voice. Still, I wouldn’t want to go for dinner with Darpak’s clients either. All that talk about hedge funds and exchange rates.’ He pulled a face.
Isabel would have loved to know how Will saw her. The first time they’d met she’d been rude to him. She’d regretted it instantly but their relationship had never quite recovered. They were civil to each other; they got on well in company, when there was lots going on around them. But if Jess and Will split, Isabel doubted she’d see him again. It wasn’t as if there was anything wrong with him. He was a good dad, quite funny, knew a lot about films and books and music, and Jessica loved him. He was good-looking too, although he was a bit of a Peter Pan type, not wanting to grow up. The complete opposite of Darpak.
Had Will ever cheated on Jess? He seemed to adore his wife, almost to the point of annoying uxoriousness. But you could never tell, could you?
Until recently, she had thought Darpak would never cheat on her.
But then, on that terrible night five weeks ago, after she confronted him, he had confessed.
He came towards her, fists clenched by his side.
She took a step back, groped for a way to dial down the tension.
‘I just want to talk about it. Like adults. Who is she? What . . . what does it mean?’
But he didn’t answer. He turned around and stormed from the room.
She waited, counted to three. None of the mindfulness techniques she had practised and taught other people would help her now. On three, she followed him into the living room, where he sat on the sofa, breathing heavily.
‘Darpak . . .’
He turned his face to her, slowly. ‘Her name’s Camilla.’
She stared at him.
‘She was an intern at work.’
An intern. That meant she was young. Young and smooth and pert.
‘She left last week. The day she sent me that text. That photo.’
He hung his head, unable or unwilling to look at her. All the rage, all the fury that had been aimed inwards, appeared to have melted away.
‘You slept with her,’ Isabel said, surprised by how calm she sounded.
‘Only once.’
She waited.
‘It was a work night out. Everyone had too much to drink. Somebody brought cocaine. A group of us went back to Giles’s apartment, including Camilla.’
Isabel remembered that night. He’d told her he’d missed the last Tube and crashed at Giles’s place. She hadn’t thought anything of it at the time. She had trusted him.
‘Anyway, that’s where it happened,’ he said.
‘Do they all know? Everyone at work?’
‘No! There were only a few of us left, including Giles and this woman from marketing. They went to bed, leaving me and Camilla alone. I could hear Giles and Suzi doing it in the other room, and Camilla looked at me . . .’
Isabel thought she might be sick, but part of her craved details.
‘And then what?’ she asked.
He stared at an invisible spot on the floor. ‘It . . . happened. It was over in a minute. She left. I passed out, drunk. And woke up feeling like the biggest piece of shit on earth. I saw her later at the office and she acted like nothing had occurred. She never mentioned it, neither did I, and I tried to forget about it. Tried to pretend it wasn’t real.’ He rubbed his face. ‘I couldn’t believe it when she sent me that photo. I guess she thought it was funny. Maybe she wanted you to see it, to get me into trouble. I don’t know.’
She managed to ask, ‘You haven’t heard from her since?’
‘No.’
The living room lights were too bright. Isabel thought she might faint.
‘What are you going to do?’ he asked, his voice sounding like it was coming from a long way away. She was so cold inside, like her heart had stopped working, stopped pumping, and the blood in her veins was growing old.
‘I don’t know,’ she said, voice cracking.
‘Please don’t leave me,’ he said, getting up, his eyes shining with tears. He tried to grab hold of her and she resisted at first, then let him. He clung to her desperately while she stood there, limp, a conflicted mess of hate and love.
‘Shall we get down to it, then?’ Will asked, drawing her out of
her head. What was he talking about? She must have been more drunk than she realised because it took a few seconds to remember why he was here. He took out his laptop and flipped it open. Her website. He was here to talk to her about the Mind+Body website.
‘Okay, so I’ve knocked up a few ideas,’ he said.
Over the next hour he went through the rough mock-ups he’d designed. It was all quite straightforward, with big images, bold text, tasteful palettes. The site would encourage potential clients to request an information pack, after which they would be encouraged to attend a ‘taster’ class.
‘So what do you think?’ he asked.
She thought about it. All the way through the tour, something had been bugging her. She refilled her glass and was surprised to see the bottle was nearly empty. She might need to fetch another.
‘I like it,’ she said.
‘But . . .’ He was smiling but she could see that he was slightly hurt.
‘It’s just . . . I think it should be sexier.’
‘Sexier?’
‘Yeah. My business is about pleasure. It’s about couples connecting. The promise we make is that we will supercharge your relationship. It’s about orgasms, Will. The site needs to be tastefully sexy.’
‘Right.’ She saw his Adam’s apple bob.
‘Does this make you uncomfortable?’
‘No. Well, maybe a little. It’s a bit weird talking about orgasms with my sister-in-law.’
The look on his face, the way he was squirming, made her feel mischievous. ‘You and Jess should come to one of my classes.’
