The Words That Fly Between Us

by Sarah Carroll

  ‘I knocked a vase over.’

  She nods.

  ‘He’s gone out,’ I say.

  I wait for her to say something. But she doesn’t speak at all. Just sits in simmering silence. The clock ticks and the traffic beeps and the silence bubbles over with all the words she doesn’t say.

  She reaches out to me and pulls me down, hugs me and kisses my head. Then she holds me at arm’s length and she smiles. But it’s not really a smile. It’s just a bad lie.

  Then she goes upstairs. I stay standing above the empty chair.

  He’s gone out. But it’s not over, is it? We’ve just pressed pause. Because he has another one. A bigger development.

  I feel like I’m in a theatre after the actors and audience have left. The lines have been delivered. You can still smell the last scene. But it’s quiet. It’s all make-believe. Until tomorrow.

  Taking out my phone, I call Megan. I don’t even let her speak, as soon as she picks up, I say, ‘I need you. Meet me in the park in fifteen minutes.’

  CHAPTER 20

  I’m pacing beneath the trees in the park but it doesn’t matter how fast I walk, the words stay with me.

  He would have hit her.

  I thought it would get better but it won’t. Because now he has another development, three times as big.

  I go out of the park to wait for Megan. Standing on the path, I look at Ms Cusack’s house. The red brick is stained to ash and the paint around the windows is peeling. Hers is the bad tooth, but it smells of varnish that’s seeped into wood and canvas over years and years. Ours tastes of the bleach that can’t lift all the lies that have been told. Lies that I’m a part of.

  He would have hit her.

  Megan pedals around the corner. As she locks her bike to a lamp post, I cross the road.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asks as she turns.

  Where do I start? I don’t know, so instead of talking, I walk.

  Had I really thought it would get better? That it was just the stress? It doesn’t even matter that he has a new, bigger deal coming, though. Because his studded words and clenched fist were not because of stress. They were because Mum questioned him. Stood up to him. He was going to hit her because she told him that what he is doing is wrong.

  And I didn’t stop him. I just smashed a vase. It’ll happen again.

  ‘Lucy?’ Megan says.

  We’re halfway down the street behind our house and I still don’t know what to tell her. So I start somewhere else. ‘I went into Ms Cusack’s house.’

  Stopping, I turn to her.

  ‘Okay,’ she says like she’s pretty sure that I’m not telling her the real problem.

  ‘It’s beautiful, Megan. Full of art. Paintings, furniture, books. I saw her there, painting. She looked –’ what’s the opposite to a waster? – ‘real,’ I say.

  Megan frowns. ‘I thought you said she was poor?’

  ‘I did. She’s not.’

  Megan speaks slowly because she’s not sure where this is going. Or what it’s got to do with me being upset. ‘So why did you think she was?’

  I study the roofs of the Georgian buildings across the road. ‘He called her a waster. He said all these things about her that weren’t true. Because she’s an artist.’

  ‘Who?’

  I look back at Megan. ‘Dad.’

  ‘Oh,’ Megan says. Then she says ‘Oh,’ again like she finally gets what I mean. ‘Lucy, it doesn’t matter what he thinks.’

  But she doesn’t get it. ‘Yes, it does, it’s all that matters. What he thinks. What mood he’s in.’

  ‘I know, but—’

  ‘Megan,’ I say in a voice so small it’s almost lost. ‘He was going to hit her.’ I’m biting my lip now. I can’t look at her, so I walk fast again. ‘He was going to hit her. Then I smashed a vase.’

  ‘Lucy! That’s . . . are you okay?’ she says, running to catch up. ‘I mean, what happened?’

  ‘They were fighting about money, and . . .’ But it wasn’t about money, was it? It was about what he did. Misappropriating funds. I’m not supposed to know. And I’m definitely not supposed to tell. But I’m sick of keeping Dad’s lie. So, finally, I tell her the truth: all about the cellar and Mr Reynolds. And then I tell her about Dad paying off the loan and me printing out the pdf. ‘Mum didn’t know until today,’ I say. ‘I kind of told her by accident, and she does his books, so she figured the rest of it out. Or maybe it was something else that he’d done that she found out about, I’m not sure. Whatever it was, she was asking him about it and they were shouting and he went to hit her but I came in.’

  Megan stops walking, and after a few steps, I do too. I turn to her.

  ‘Is she okay?’ she asks.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘This time.’ And we both hear the words I can’t say. What about next time?

  ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘Just now. I walked in on them and Dad stormed out.’

  ‘That’s . . .’ she says, and searches for the word.

  Awful, frightening, wrong. All of them at once. Whatever that word is.

  ‘I know,’ I say.

  We start walking again but slower this time. Neither of us speaks until we turn onto the street that leads back to mine. Then Megan says, ‘Have you talked to your mum about it?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Never. It’s like we’ve silently promised that if we don’t talk about it, it’s not real.’

  Megan shakes her head like she can’t believe we could ignore it. But ignoring is easy compared to actually sitting down with Mum and saying the words, He would have hit you. And I’ve no idea why it’s like that. But it is. ‘Maybe it’s because it was easier to ignore when it wasn’t so bad. And now that it’s bad, it’s like it’s too hard to stop ignoring.’

  We get to the corner and stop.

  ‘Do you think she’ll do something about your dad breaking the law?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Tell someone? The police, maybe?’

  I almost laugh. ‘No way. Anyway, I don’t think what he’s doing is really bad. I think it’s like cheating at Monopoly.’

  Megan gives me a look because she doesn’t understand.

  ‘You know, like a speeding ticket. It’s breaking the law, but it’s not that bad.’

  Megan nods to say she gets it.

  ‘He said something about hanging out in Brazil for a year if he got caught.’

  Megan thinks about this for a bit and then nods again.

  ‘I’d say that he’d probably worry more about people knowing he did something wrong than about getting in trouble with the law,’ I say.

  Back at the park, it’s almost empty. We go through the gate and sit. I pull out a clump of grass and let it slide through my fingers. The breeze carries it a little before it reaches the ground.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Megan asks, but I don’t have an answer and suddenly I’m biting my lip again and looking away. Then I feel Megan’s hand on mine. ‘Maybe he’ll get caught anyway. And end up in prison.’ But she’s joking. Or at least half-joking.

  I blink a few times and then turn back to her. ‘Get taken from our house in handcuffs?’

  ‘You’d be on the six o’clock news, smiling in the background,’ she says.

  ‘I’d have to smuggle things into prison that he needs. Like his Domaine de la Romanée and the special coffee that he has flown in from Africa.’

  ‘And moisturized toilet paper. Prison paper is awful,’ Megan says.

  ‘I bet prison clothes aren’t even real cotton. Poxy polyester,’ I say.

  ‘And the colour?’ Megan says. ‘Just awful.’

  I smile. But not for long. ‘He’s too clever to get caught.’ I let another handful of grass fall through my fingers.

  Where did he go when he stormed out, to the Local? Will he stay out for the evening or is he back already? ‘It’s going to get worse,’ I say. Then I take a deep breath. ‘And how do I stop him next time? Smash another vase? Shout at
him? Say I’ll tell the world that he’s a criminal?’

  Megan tilts her head like she’s considering that.

  ‘I’m joking,’ I say. ‘That’s like me pointing a gun at him when he knows that I won’t pull the trigger.’

  ‘I know, but still.’

  ‘Still, what?’

  ‘It would be nice to have a gun, right? Like having insurance,’ she says.

  I imagine standing in front of him, holding up the printout of his bank statement. And him taking it from me with a grin on his face. He wouldn’t raise his fist. He’d lift his foot and crush me like an ant.

  ‘Besides,’ I say, ‘I only have a printout showing money coming into his account and going out. But you can’t tell where it goes. I’d need a copy of Mr Reynolds’s statement to match up the account numbers and prove it went to him.’

  Megan chews this over for a while, then she says, ‘Who is Mr Reynolds anyway?’

  ‘A property developer, like Dad, I think. Except Mr Reynolds is bigger. And he practically owns a bank.’ Then I look across at our row. ‘And he lives there.’

  She looks where I’m pointing. ‘In that house at the end?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Huh.’

  We both watch the house for a while.

  I wonder did Dad owe Mr Reynolds or his bank? I think it was Mr Reynolds, though. I’d know for sure if I saw his bank statement. A ten million deposit to match Dad’s payment of ten million. But that’s not going to happen. I mean, how would I get into his account like I did to Dad’s? I couldn’t.

  After a minute, though, I remember that Mum gets her statements through the post, because recently she said that she must go green and switch to online statements.

  I lean sideways so I can see around a bush. There’s his front door. And there’s his letterbox. ‘Mr Reynolds is pretty old,’ I say. Megan doesn’t respond, so I explain. ‘So he might prefer the old-fashioned way of getting statements.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Which is through the letterbox.’

  After a few seconds, she gets what I mean. She leans sideways so she can see the letterbox too.

  ‘So if I wanted proof . . .’ I say.

  She looks at me. ‘Not that you would use it or anything . . .’

  ‘No,’ I say.

  She turns back to his house. ‘But if you wanted it . . .’

  ‘Yeah. If I did. That’s where it would be.’ We both watch the front door for a while. It’s just a little after four p.m. so not many people are passing by.

  ‘And it would be sitting on the floor of his hallway until he got home from work,’ Megan says.

  ‘Which is probably around five p.m.’

  ‘It would just sit there all day,’ Megan says.

  ‘Waiting to be picked up,’ I say.

  ‘By Mr Reynolds,’ she says.

  ‘Or someone else.’

  A woman passes his front door. I lose sight of her behind a bush. Then the street is quiet.

  At the same time, me and Megan look at each other. And I know we’re thinking the same thing. That even if I got my hands on that statement, I’d probably never do anything with it. Because I’d never actually fire a bullet.

  But, still. It would be nice to have a gun.

  CHAPTER 21

  I’m following the beam of my torch through the darkness, all the way down to the opposite end of the attics. To Mr Reynolds’s. I stop above his ceiling panel.

  Maybe he has motion sensors in his house. I’ll get arrested. And then what will I say?

  I take out my phone and call Megan, who is outside watching his front door. She picks up immediately. ‘Are you there?’

  ‘I’m in his attic.’

  ‘Haven’t seen him,’ she says. ‘But that doesn’t mean he’s not in there. What if he came back early?’

  My hand is on the panel. But she’s right. ‘Go ring his doorbell,’ I say. ‘If he answers just say wrong house and then call me.’ I hang up and wait. And as I do, I picture me in his hallway with his alarm going off and the police arriving and them calling my dad and him exploding with anger . . .

  Megan calls back. ‘No one answered the door.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Okay,’ I repeat. ‘I’m going in.’

  Hanging up, I force myself to open the ceiling panel and, before I can change my mind, drop through into the room below.

  It’s a small library and it smells like it was last used in 1950. But there’s a chair I can use to climb out on. That’s good. That’s something.

  Just a quick look, then I’ll leave. Out in the hall, I go straight for the stairs.

  Wait, what if his statement arrived before today? It might already be in a drawer somewhere, which means I need to check the whole house. Quickly.

  There are paintings on the walls as I go down the stairs. Old ones. Of people. Not beautiful, like the lined faces in Ms Cusack’s. Probably his ancestors, watching me as I steal down the stairs.

  By the time I get to the second floor, my heart’s already hammering. A door creaks as I push it open. It’s a private cinema. I won’t find anything in here. On the other side is a gym and stretch of grass. My brain is spinning and it takes me a second to realize that it’s for practising golf.

  I go downstairs. Two guest bedrooms. The master bedroom. I go in. Slippers lined up below the bed. Pyjamas laid out on the fresh sheets. And on the wall, a framed cheque for one million euro.

  At the window, I risk a peek. Megan is there, watching the street below me. I’m okay.

  I glance around the room and open a few drawers. No letters or statements.

  Leaving the thick carpet of the bedroom, I tiptoe down the polished wood stairs into the front hall. The post is sitting there on the hall floor. I grab it and flick through. Nothing says anything about a bank on it. Standing this close to the front door, my breath comes faster. I look towards the kitchen.

  I shouldn’t go in there. Even if Megan rings me the second that he comes around the corner or steps out of a car, I’ll barely have enough time to get out before he’s at the front door.

  But he’s old and I’m fast. One quick look, then I’m gone.

  My chest stings and my heart is pounding so hard as I move through the hallway that it’s difficult to breathe. I pass the cellar door. I stop.

  Mr Reynolds has a wine cellar. Maybe he has an office down there too. I had better check. Opening the door gently, I tiptoe down.

  This is nothing like Dad’s wine cellar. Dad’s is made of wood but this one’s like a vault or something. There are three arches, with alcoves off each. I creep past the first two. The wine racks are built into the stone with these tiny lights sunk into the walls. In each alcove there are little tables with two empty wine glasses on each. At the other end there’s a big dining table with a table cloth and it’s laid out with empty plates and glasses.

  And behind it, built into the wall, is a safe with one of those twisty combination locks. That’s where I’d keep documents if I was him. I have no idea how to break into one, though. I look around again but there are no drawers anywhere.

  As I turn, though, I see a decanter on the shelf in the corner filled with wine.

  Which means the wine is breathing.

  Which means someone intends on drinking it soon.

  I look at the table. There’s a plate on it with some cheese and grapes.

  Oh, no.

  I whip out my phone. There’s no signal. I sprint to the other end of the room until I see a bar appear. I run up the steps. A text from Megan arrives at the exact same moment that I hear voices in the hall.

  Megan

  Get out, he’s coming! He’s with two other men!

  I fly back down the steps. Above me, the door opens.

  No, no, no!

  I run through the room.

  There are voices. Footsteps on the stairs. I only have time to jump behind the last pillar when they start walking through the vault.

  I’m trapped!
/>   Over the pounding of my heart, I hear their footsteps. Then they stop. They’re chatting. I search around me. My eyes fall on the tablecloth. It reaches almost to the ground. It’s my only option.

  Taking a deep breath, I peek around the pillar. Mr Reynolds is in the middle of the vault. He has his back to me and he’s holding a briefcase. I can’t see the others, they must be behind a pillar. Now or never.

  I drop to the ground and crawl as fast as I can between two chairs and under the table. I scoot to the other side so that I’ve a better chance of being hidden.

  They’re coming. They get closer. Three sets of shoes stop by the table. Something is dropped on it and the table shakes.

  ‘How many times does it work for them?’ one voice says.

  ‘One in twenty?’ the other says.

  ‘So why keep kicking it? Nineteen times out of twenty, they lose possession. Look at the France game, if we had just held on . . .’

  I’ve been around my dad’s friends enough to know they’re talking about rugby. I watch one set of shoes go to the side of the room and there’s a gurgle as wine is poured.

  ‘Cheers, Charlie,’ one of the men says. That’s Mr Reynolds’s first name, I think. ‘Ooh, that’s a good glass of wine. By the way, the new house red at the Local? Absolute muck.’

  I squeeze myself until I’m as small as possible.

  They’re talking about rugby again. I take a peek. They wander around as they discuss tactics.

  Then Mr Reynolds’s voice cuts across them. ‘Anyway, this is just a quick chat to consolidate a few matters.’ It’s the voice he uses in cellars. ‘I understand there have been some . . . concerns . . . raised by you both, regarding the money I owe to BBR.’

  I hold my breath and listen. And it’s the gravel in his voice that makes me slip out my phone and open the microphone setting. I hold my finger against record. The red light on the screen flashes.

  ‘Our only concern, Charlie, is that you owe over eighty million at this stage and that this might raise a few eyebrows.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Mr Reynolds says, and I hear what I think is the clasps on his briefcase clicking open. ‘Which is why I’ve secured a temporary loan from our friends over at HMB. Eighty million has been lodged into BBR today and will remain there until after the audit on the thirtieth. So, along with the ten million that I received from Fitzsimmons yesterday . . .’