Before I Let You In

by Jenny Blackhurst

  ‘Not quite,’ Fran replied grimly. ‘But we don’t need to delete it; we just need to make sure no one opens it. Do you have email on your phone?’

  Bea nodded. ‘It’s where I first saw that one.’

  ‘Okay, great. I need you to write an email to all the people who received that last one. Put in the subject line “Virus warning: do not open emails from”, then type the address. Put it in capitals.’

  Bea did as her sister instructed. ‘Fran, you’re a genius. Do you think it will work? Will people really not open it?’

  ‘It’s our best shot.’ Bea could have kissed her for using the word ‘our’.

  ‘Okay, now lay it on thick in the body of the email. Make it sound like if they open the email their whole computer is at risk. Then you’ve just got to hope people open yours first.’

  Bea wrote what Fran had instructed and pressed send. She sighed. ‘I just can’t believe this is even necessary. Why would anyone do something so cruel? I don’t want to believe it’s Karen; she’s supposed to be my best friend. I mean, I can almost understand a threat, after what’s happened, but this isn’t a threat, she’s actually tried to ruin my life. All because I found out about her and Michael.’

  ‘I think you have a lot to tell me,’ Fran said, sitting down next to her on the sofa. ‘Why don’t you start at the beginning?’

  70

  Eleanor

  Eleanor backed gingerly out of the room, her shoulder hitting the door with a soft thud, making her cringe. Noah didn’t stir and she let out the silent breath she’d been holding. She pulled the door closed behind her and hesitated for a second, waiting for the screams that didn’t come. Maybe things were looking up. This was the third time this week Noah had slept in his cot during the day – yesterday she’d even managed a power nap without her Xanax.

  She had to move fast if she wanted to make the most of her new-found energy. There were piles of washing in the kitchen, last night’s dinner and this morning’s breakfast to wash up, and if he slept long enough she might grab a cup of tea and watch some Broadchurch – she was falling behind with her TV viewing now that Noah was sleeping longer at night and she had finally agreed to leave the house again after the incident with her hair. Bea had turned up one evening with an armful of beautiful hats she’d borrowed off a woman at work, and Eleanor had spent a good hour googling YouTube videos of side-parted hairstyles.

  The house was strangely silent without the noise from either of the children. Not that it had been that much noisier the last few days, what with Toby barely speaking to them ever since his birthday and Adam out as much as ever. Her stomach hurt when she thought about the look on poor Toby’s face as he’d walked in on her and Adam discussing whether to tell him about his real mother. As it turned out, they didn’t have much choice, and she’d called her mother to take Noah out for a few hours while they sat down and told Toby the truth. Or most of it, anyway.

  He’d been silent throughout as they took turns to try and explain why they’d never told him before that Eleanor wasn’t his real mum, but how did you explain a decision that was entirely based on selfish reasons? The fact was that if Eleanor hadn’t been so desperate for her family to be perfect, so obsessed with making sure there were never any problems, never any obstacles to overcome, they would have told him the truth from the start, and he wouldn’t be feeling so betrayed now.

  It could have gone so much worse, she knew that, and however painful this was for Toby now, he would come to understand one day that all they had ever done was love him and try to protect him. At least now the secret wasn’t hanging over their heads any longer, and the dread that had sat in Eleanor’s chest ever since Toby’s mother had walked out of his life had started to dissolve.

  Kneeling on the kitchen floor, she shoved one of the piles of washing into the machine, pushing it as far back in the drum as it would go to cram it all in. In spite of the fact that Toby hadn’t run away from home – hadn’t even shouted that he hated them – Eleanor still refused to be grateful to Karen for sending him the letter that had forced them into this position. She’d always known that Karen thought they were wrong to keep the truth from Toby – her and her morals, which were now basically a joke. But if all she had been trying to do was drive a bigger wedge into the gulf that was Eleanor and Adam’s relationship – well, to use a child to do that was just sick.

  She’d been trying not to think about it too much; she had no proof other than some late nights at work that Adam was having an affair with anyone. Was this Karen’s way of breaking them up because her claim hadn’t worked? Why would she do that? Because her own relationship was doomed to fail? What Karen had done with Michael didn’t have to be the end of their friendship, despite how furious Eleanor had been when she’d first found out. Doing one bad thing didn’t make someone a bad person, and maybe Karen didn’t realise the damage she was doing; she had never been married, after all. If Eleanor was crossing things off her Reasons To Hate Karen list, that one was a question mark – she still didn’t know if they could ever be as close unless Karen ended things with her married lover.

  That just left the letter to Toby. Eleanor didn’t want to lose someone she had been close to for her entire life over it, and maybe if Karen had replied to even one of her furious voicemail messages or missed phone calls, there might have been a chance that in time she would have accepted an apology from her friend. But there had been no apology, just one text message the evening before: I didn’t send that letter. I know who did and when I can prove it I’ll come and explain xx

  Eleanor hadn’t even bothered to reply. It was a pitiful attempt at shifting the blame, and not even a convincing one. Karen must know how devastated she would have been for Toby to find out about his real mother that way. It was almost as though she had made a conscious decision that Toby’s birthday would be the end of their friendship, the letter the death knell at the funeral of their lives together. Maybe Karen was fed up of the drama that came with a close friendship like theirs, the petty disagreements, the self-justification that she wasn’t even going to try and apologise, just a feeble denial so she didn’t look like the bad guy. Maybe this was the end of them all – maybe it was for the best. Heaven knows they were at the age where friendships should be trinkets to be picked up and admired, then put back on the shelf until someone noticed they were getting dusty, not dishwashers constantly in need of refilling and emptying daily.

  Eleanor grimaced at her choice of metaphor. Even thinking about her friends led her back to domestic tasks. She scanned the front room, unsure of where to start. Dusting could wait until Lesley came later in the week. She ran her finger over the top of a photo frame and shook the dust off on to the floor. That would have to do. Hoovering she wouldn’t risk until—

  She stopped in her tracks, looking at the photograph she’d just run her finger over. It was a 7x5 picture of Bea and Karen holding up a gigantic bed sheet with the words ‘Welcome Home’ emblazoned across it in red, white and blue sparkly letters. That one had been from when she’d spent two weeks in Italy on a work conference. She’d been in hysterics seeing them there, waving their banner as though she’d been on an expedition to the Amazon rainforest rather than at a two-week conference in a five-star hotel in Florence.

  ‘We missed you!’ Bea had declared when she’d asked them – tears running down her cheeks – what the bloody hell they thought they were playing at. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  Now Eleanor looked at the smiling faces of her best friends and tears stung her eyes again. What had it been about this picture that had given her reason to pause? Was it just the memory of a time when she’d thought there would be nothing on earth that could tear them apart? Karen had met Michael by then – she was already keeping the secret that had the potential to tear their friendship apart. How had she felt every time they had been out together, the five of them, to be playing a part? Had she experienced the same eternal dread that Eleanor herself had felt every time someone brought
up the subject of giving birth in the days when she was a mother who had never experienced it?

  Glancing again at the photograph, she felt that same pull that something wasn’t quite right. There was something her mind was stretching to remember. She pictured Karen the last time she’d seen her. She’d left the café throwing one last disgusted look over her shoulder, clutching her handbag as though it was a force field against the awful revelation she’d just heard. Karen had been sitting there, her elbows resting on the table, her head in her hands, Bea blank-faced opposite her.

  It still hurts, Eleanor told herself as she placed the picture back on the shelf. That was to be expected. Those kinds of lies could cut a relationship to shreds.

  An insistent beeping from the kitchen told her that the washing machine had finished its cycle, and she crossed the room to tackle the next load. Still her mind kept pushing her thoughts back to Karen – her best friend and her husband, both liars. Did she even know either of them any m—

  She cringed as her thoughts were interrupted by someone at the front door.

  71

  Karen

  Karen’s mind was a whirlpool of dread and panic as she drove towards the river. What she’d done could never be undone and now someone was going to have to face the consequences. How had things gone so wrong? Everything she’d ever worked for had disappeared in a puff of smoke, all because of one woman. No one would ever trust her again. She’d probably never work again, and she and Michael would almost definitely not survive this. Her life was falling to pieces in front of her and there was little or nothing she could do to glue it back together.

  The river was angry today, angrier than she had seen it of late. It was almost as if it knew that Karen had failed to heed its warnings, the swirling dark mass of water chastising her, mocking her stupidity. How could you? How could you?

  And what lay beneath it? Usually the idea of the life hidden under the water appealed to her, mirroring her own life, so much underneath the surface that people could not see. That people could not be allowed to see. The respected psychiatrist, the screwed-up mistress who used sex with nameless, faceless men to claw back some of the control she lost when she sent her boyfriend back to his wife and children every weekend. Who was she? Was she that woman who cheated and lied and used people? Or was she the loving, caring best friend who had dedicated her life to helping others through their problems, who held the hands – metaphorically, of course – of complete strangers who were at their lowest ebb? She knew she’d brought some of her patients back from the darkest places they’d ever visited. She’d saved lives. Was that the true Karen Browning? Which was real and which was the liar?

  She’d spent what felt like hours sitting on the cold, wet grass that divided the icy water from the people of the town. Those banks kept them safe; when they failed, when they burst, homes and businesses were flooded with dirty, stinking river water, lives were ruined. She’d failed her friends as completely as those banks had failed their town time and time again. As soon as the rain got too much to bear, they gave in and let the place drown.

  It was getting dark by the time she pulled in to her street, the blue lights of the police car lighting up the sky intermittently. This was it then. The water had filled her up and the banks had burst. She’d let them drown. She’d failed.

  72

  My hands are covered in warm, sticky blood and all I can do is stare at them stupidly. I hadn’t even noticed that her head had been bleeding when I’d lifted it on to my lap, cradled it as her breathing changed from desperate, ragged spurts to light, strangled gasps. Had I known then that she was dying? The words didn’t enter my head fully formed and with total clarity, but yes, I believe I knew it had gone further than I had ever planned or expected.

  I didn’t stay to see Eleanor die. I regret that now. I’d driven the train off the tracks and I was too cowardly to stand and watch the crash. I know that it will hurt her family to know she died alone and scared. But there are plenty of things in my life I regret – this is just the biggest. I’d lost control and I was ashamed – of everything it was my control that was the most important thing to me. I’d let her rile me with her callous words and her refusal to listen to the danger she was in – the true danger. And when she turned away from me, dismissing me as though I was no more than one of her children to be ignored or humoured in equal measure, I grabbed her arm. I pulled her towards me and on her face I saw fear. She pulled back at the same time that I pushed her away. I don’t think I hit her with anything. I’m certain she fell. I know I pushed her too hard, but she wouldn’t stop saying those awful things. It wasn’t my fault. Maybe now they’ll all see.

  Part Three

  73

  Tell me about when you were four.

  You’ve asked about that before. I’ve told you, it’s not relevant.

  I think it is, and so do you. Is it hard for you to talk about?

  Of course it is. I’ve never spoken about what happened with anyone.

  Try.

  I was three when Mum brought her home from the hospital. Amy. She was tiny, smaller even than the doll Dad had got me to prepare me for her arrival into the family. I loved that doll. I took her everywhere with me, I changed her nappy and fed her from my sippy cup. She was my best friend. And when Amy came home, I knew we would be best friends too.

  Were you jealous of her?

  Never. At least not that I can remember. She was so little, she needed our help with everything. She took up so much of Mum’s time, and Mum was always exhausted, but I don’t ever remember blaming Amy. If anything, I blamed Mum. I didn’t understand how she could be so snappy and miserable when we had this wonderful little thing to take care of. When Amy cried, I would give her my teddy to make her happy, and she would look at me with those huge blue eyes, eyes too big for her little face, and sometimes I would pretend that I was her mummy and that our mum didn’t even exist. Even at three I knew I wanted to take care of this baby for the rest of her life.

  Go on.

  My mum got worse. I didn’t know what zombies were then, but that’s how I remember her now – like the walking dead. She would spend whole days when she never talked to either of us. Of course she kept us fed and watered, we were always clean and well dressed, but I didn’t feel like I was even there. Sometimes I would pretend I was a ghost, and then it would be fun that she didn’t talk to me because it meant my disguise was working. Some days the only interaction Amy got was from me until Dad came home.

  Did your dad do anything about it?

  That was the thing, when Dad got home it was like having a different Mum. She would sing while she cooked our favourite things for tea and she would play with us and read us stories before bed.

  That must have been confusing for you.

  I’m not sure it was. I mean, of course now I know it was, but at the time I got used to living like that. I used to call her ‘real Mum’ and ‘day Mum’.

  How long was it like that for?

  My whole life after Amy was born. But it didn’t seem to matter. I had her to take care of, and to give all my love to, and she loved me back. Whenever I walked into the room she would beam and put out her arms for me to lift her up, and at four years old I would carry her round like she was a doll.

  What happened when Amy was eleven months old?

  When she was born, I would sing to her as softly as I could and let her hold my hair while she fell asleep. I would put her dummy back in when she cried and I let her have my favourite bear – it was the same size as she was. When she was six months I taught her to crawl. I would put toys in front of her, just out of her reach, and demonstrate crawling across the floor to them. When she was eight months I would—

  Do you blame yourself for what happened to your sister?

  Of course I do. It was my fault. I wasn’t taking good enough care of her. I know what you’re going to say, but it doesn’t make any difference how old I was. I should have been watching.

  Tell me wha
t happened, Karen.

  My mummy is in her bedroom and I think she’s been crying again. I’ve been as good as I really could be. I fed Amy her tea and played with her while Mum rested her eyes for a bit, and I haven’t asked for anything today – Mummy hates it when I go on. Amy has been a bit loud, and even though I tried to shush her and sang to her loads she wouldn’t stop shouting and laughing at her pink singy bear.

  I put my nose to Amy’s padded bottom and sniff. It smells sweet and ripe and I start panicking. I’m going to have to go and disturb Mummy – there’s a big orangey-brown stain on the babygro that Amy’s been wearing all day and she won’t hold still long enough for me to take it off. I wrestle with her a few minutes and manage to open a few of the poppers, but then she’s gone, crawling across the floor towards the closed gate at the top of the stairs.

  ‘Mummy?’ I whisper, pushing open her bedroom door and hearing the slow creak. ‘Mum?’

  She’s lying on the bed – not in it – and her eyes are closed but I can’t tell if she’s asleep or not. She must be, though, because she doesn’t answer me when I call her. Her medicines are on the bedside table and I cross the room to put the lids on – if Amy sees them she’ll think they’re sweets, like I used to before Daddy explained they were grown-up medicines to help Mummy be happy. I understand that; my sweets make me happy so it makes sense to me that grown-up sweets can make Mummy happy too. It’s just that they don’t seem to work any more.

  ‘Mummy? Amy’s pooed. It smells yucky.’

  Her eyes open slowly and for a minute she looks like she doesn’t know who I am. I wait for her to properly see me, and for a second I think she’s going to smile, but she doesn’t. Instead she says, ‘What’s the matter now?’