‘I’m fine,’ she said again.
‘Let’s walk through to the kitchen then. Once you’ve done that, you can tell me why you’re still in your nightie at four p.m. I’m not going until we’ve at least done that.’
She hesitated. She had her hands behind her back. She pushed off. Her face flinched immediately. She gestured for him to walk through first.
He stood his ground. ‘After you.’
She hesitated. When she took a step, it looked stiff and difficult. She took a couple more and her walking seemed to get better as she went. She walked down the hall to the kitchen. There were high stools under a work surface and she sat on the edge of one with her body turned back towards him. He moved past her to fill the kettle. It was stone cold. On the bench next to him was a slow cooker that was plainly the source of the delicious scent.
‘Don’t worry about offering to make your old dad a cup of tea! I don’t think I’ve ever known you to have a cold kettle,’ he quipped. He ran his gaze over her body again then raised it to meet her in the eyes. She was flushed red and he reckoned she was embarrassed. He was trying his best to stay calm about her being injured in the first place, but the fact that she was too embarrassed to even show it to her dad was eating him alive. The kettle overflowed over his hands where he wasn’t concentrating. He moved it back and swore. He put it back down on the bench and sighed.
‘Please. Don’t boil that!’ she snapped, seeking a way to stop him turning it on. ‘It’s had descaler in it . . . I still need to give it a proper clean.’ Her eyes were still wide and they flicked from him to the kettle and back again. It had to stay cold.
‘Did he do this?’ His voice was low. He couldn’t bring himself to say the words louder.
‘What?’
‘You heard me, Gracie. You heard what I said. You know I’m not stupid so you can stop pretending. I don’t want to argue, but please . . .’ He still wasn’t looking at her; he was trying to stay calm. The sink was under a window and he looked through the spotless glass to a cheerful windmill that picked up a breeze in the neat garden. Its tiny, yellow sails whirled around and he watched it until they ran out of steam. That was his cue to turn his attention back to his daughter. She still hadn’t replied. She was hanging her head as if she had done something wrong. Her hand was resting on her thigh and she was still perched on the edge of the stool. It wasn’t the stance of someone who looked comfortable. There was a clock somewhere that had a loud tick; he counted nine of them until he broke away to open a cupboard. He took out two cups and put them on the bench — anything to keep him occupied, to stop him talking. He didn’t want to push her away, to make her clam up. He had seen it too many times. He was quite literally biting his tongue. He started to look for a pan to heat water for the tea. Finally his silence worked. She was the next one to speak.
‘I’m getting out, Dad.’ Her voice was soft, so soft he almost missed it.
‘What?’
‘I’m leaving him. I know I need to. It’s getting worse. But I have to do this right and I need you to leave. If you’re here when he gets home . . .’
‘Craig? You’re leaving Craig?’ He tried to keep his voice low. He knew he couldn’t show his emotion. He wasn’t angry with her.
‘Yes.’
‘He did this to you? He hurt you?’ He choked down a sob of both rage and sorrow.
‘I’m scared, Dad! I’m so scared. But I know him. I know how to handle him — after all this time, I know. I have to get out. I’ve been planning it for a long time. I’ve spoken to the police and they know what I’m doing.’ She lifted her eyes; the skin around them was puffed up and red, standing out against her pale cheeks.
He swallowed hard. He could feel his heart beating strong and quick. He wanted to erupt, he wanted to burst out of the door right now and go find him. He wanted to tear bits off him until there was nothing left. He swallowed again. ‘Where are you hurt?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Gracie!’ He checked himself. He lowered his voice again. ‘Please, Gracie, where does it hurt? Do you need to go to the hospital?’
‘I can’t go anywhere yet, Dad, okay? I told you . . . I know what I’m doing. Please don’t get involved. I’ve got a plan — we’ve got a plan. Me and the police. I’ve been talking to a woman — DS Ives — she’s helping me get out. But it needs to be done right. I need to be sure that he can’t come back for me.’
‘Prison? You’re talking about prison! What has he been doing to you?’
‘Please, Dad! You will know. Soon everyone will know. I’ve written it down. Every single thing he’s done to me . . . how it felt . . . what he said . . . what he threatened me with . . . it’s all in a diary. DS Ives told me how to do it. And there are pictures. I have pictures of every scrape and every bruise. It’s all they’ll need. Please, you have to trust me. I will be in touch real soon and it can be like it was. I know I’ve shut you out and I haven’t been very nice. I’ve shut everyone out. But you don’t understand. If I talk to people other than him, if I go out to see people, it’s so much worse. I have to do this right.’
‘How soon?’
There were noises from the front of the house. Grace’s eyes snapped to the kitchen doorway where she could see all the way to the bottom of the drive. Her eyes bulged in terror and she pushed herself to stand.
‘Dad! He’s back! His car! You need to go — you have to go now!’ She limped to the back door. She tried the handle one-handed and flinched as she did so. The door didn’t budge. She spun the lock in a panic and pushed it open. Ian hadn’t moved. She turned back to him, her eyes still wide with fear and desperation.
‘When does this end, Gracie? When?’ Ian said.
‘Please, Dad! Please, just go! He made me promise I wouldn’t let you in! That I wouldn’t see you!’ Her voice was hurried and whispered.
‘When?’ he said again, his voice a growl. He wasn’t moving until he got an answer. He could hear movement at the front now. Some shoes being kicked off, keys thrown on a table. Then a bellowed voice.
‘GRACE!’
‘Tomorrow! I swear! It’s all been building up to tomorrow. I’ve got enough now but it’s all hidden away. The diary of everything, the photos; I go tomorrow — the morning. As soon as he goes to work, I’m getting it all together and I am going . . . Please! You have to go!’ She still stood by the open door.
‘Now. Do it now, while I’m here.’
Her head glanced away from him, then snapped back just as quickly. ‘Tomorrow! I swear! There are plans — please don’t mess them up or he’ll walk free and then I don’t know what happens! The diary, the camera, it’s all hidden. I have to do it right. I can handle him — it’s just one more night! Please, Dad, this time tomorrow it will all be over. You have to trust me! You have to go!’
He took a step towards the door.
‘GRACE! WHERE ARE YOU, GRACE?’ Heavy footsteps clumped up the stairs. Ian had a choice to make. Craig was a big man. He would take some stopping, but he fancied his chances on rage alone. Or he could sneak out the back door, walk away and trust that his daughter would be safe — for one more night. And what if he did front Craig up and he couldn’t handle him, he might knock him down first but then he would surely take it out on Grace too. He might find what she had been hiding. Ian’s eyes rose to where the ceiling squeaked. The footfalls moved back to the stairs and he could hear Craig starting back down.
‘Please go! For me!’ Grace whispered. Then she raised her voice to call out. ‘I’m in here, just finishing the dinner is all!’ her voice was nervous, laden with panic. The footsteps sped up. Craig was back on the ground floor. It was decision time.
* * *
Craig burst through the door. He was flushing red and slightly out of breath. His eyes quickly searched the room and Grace waited until they rested on her.
‘You didn’t answer me?’ he said.
‘I did. You didn’t hear me is all! How was work?’ She leant back on the work
surface, doing her best to appear casual. She had moved into the kitchen. The patio door caught in the breeze and creaked as it opened to its full extension. Craig’s head jerked to it.
‘You been outside?’ he said.
‘In my nightie! No, it was a little warm in here.’
He turned back to her. He lingered on her. She felt instantly uncomfortable, as if he would know she was lying. The breeze rattling through was cold; she had goose pimples everywhere. His eyes searched all over her. Then they rested on the two cups on the surface.
‘You have someone in?’ He moved closer.
She stood straighter. ‘No.’
‘Why two cups out? Did you not have chance to put them away before I got back?’ he said. His tone was still low but there was an edge to his words that she had come to recognise.
‘I wanted a cup of tea. I thought you might too. I was just waiting for you to get home. I don’t boil the kettle when you’re not here — like you asked.’ He stepped to the kettle. She had got it back on its base. It had dripped from the spout where it was so full. Her eyes rested on the droplets of water and she bit her bottom lip. Craig made a show of resting his palm on the kettle to check the temperature. Over the last few weeks he had been insisting she didn’t have hot drinks during the day. She knew it was part of his control: he reasoned that anyone coming over would have a hot drink — standard etiquette. If she hadn’t made tea he could be happier no one had been there and she had been abiding by his rules. He had taken to dropping in at different times to test its temperature. He seemed satisfied, but he still eyed her suspiciously.
He walked past her and out of the open door into the back garden. She lost sight of him when he turned right towards the gate. Her dad had gone that way. She took a breath and mouthed another silent prayer that he had left and was clear away. Enough time had passed for him to be fully gone, but he could be stubborn — he might even have changed his mind completely and be on his way back. Her pulse was quickening; she could feel it in her temple when she bent down to get the dinner plates. Her thighs jabbed with pain and her arm was a perpetually dull ache but she knocked it gently on the corner of the unit and this was enough to take her breath away until the worst of the pain passed.
Craig came back in as she straightened up.
‘What are you doing out there?’ she said. She was still trying to be casual. She pulled cutlery out of a drawer next. There were potatoes baking, ready to be covered in homemade chilli con carne, Craig’s favourite. She pulled the oven door open to check on them. When she turned back Craig was right on her. She stopped still. Her eyes were looking down. She could still feel his gaze boring into her. He was so close she had to turn her face to one side.
‘Was there someone here, Grace? You know what happens when you lie to me. You know how angry it makes me. I don’t want to be angry.’ She could feel his breath on her cheek.
‘What? No, of course there was no one here. Who would come here?’
He didn’t move. She was still looking out to the side.
‘Look at me, Grace. Look at me and tell me there was no one here.’
She turned to him. She had to push her head back against the wood of the units behind. She could feel the warm air from the oven rising up through her hair. The top of the oven was neck height and directly behind. She had to arch her back to keep it away from the heat. He lifted his palm and pushed it quickly towards her. She flinched, her eye slammed shut as she readied herself for the blow. It never came. He had gripped onto the oven’s handle behind her. She felt the oven mitt fall onto her shoulder and then heard it slap against the floor. He must have knocked it from where she hung it over the handle. She opened her eyes and met his gaze.
‘This is silly, Crai—’
‘TELL ME!’ he snarled. He then seemed to check himself and his head shook slightly. ‘I just want you to tell me,’ he said.
‘There was no one here. Okay? Of course there wasn’t.’ She stared into his eyes. He lifted his free hand. It rested on the front of her neck. She flinched to his touch.
‘You’re not lying to me are you, Grace?’
‘I’m not lying to you.’
His grip on her neck tightened — enough to pin her against the unit. Her thighs burned with having to stand straighter. His fingers tightened more. With his other hand he wrenched the oven door open and it hit her in the back and stopped so it was resting against her shoulder blades. The warm breeze turned instantly into a scalding heat that saturated the back of her neck. She struggled instinctively against his grip but he was too strong. She felt him kick her lightly as he adjusted his feet to get a firmer base. He was breathing faster.
‘Who was here?’ he snarled. His face was closer still, his eyes bright and intense. The heat was unbearable.
‘No one! You’re hurting me, Craig, you’re hurting me for no reason!’ She uttered the phrase Maddie had told her. It was supposed to be able to break through a fog of violence. Maybe it worked; he seemed to loosen his grip slightly. The oven was still searing against her neck and lower back. He hesitated for a second, maybe two, and then she heard the oven slam shut. He pushed off her neck and stepped back. She moved forward, just enough to be away from the heat. She rubbed at the back of her neck with her right hand, her left still hung useless. Craig turned away, strode out of the kitchen and was gone.
Grace moved to the side. She leant forward with her right palm to take her weight. The only sound was the bubbling cooker. She concentrated on lining up the plates, trying to ignore the burning sensation on her neck. She pulled open the cutlery draw. Serving the dinner became her focus. She was well practiced at getting on with things to take her mind off her pain and discomfort.
‘Let me do that.’ Craig was back in the room. He was smiling. He had a small bunch of flowers in his hand. He held them out as he walked over to her.
‘Are they for me?’ she said. She took them in her right hand. She tried to disguise the shake. They were beautiful: an arrangement of pinks and whites — and from a proper florist. She fought off tears — the sight of beautiful flowers combined with the shock maybe? Surely she was losing her mind.
‘I got them for you today,’ Craig said. ‘I’ll serve the dinner. You have a seat.’ He pulled out a stool from under the counter. She limped to it. The seat scuffed under her as he moved it in. He ran some water into a plain vase and put it gently on the table next to her. He laid a pair of scissors down for her to use, then turned to the oven. She stripped the string and wrapping away from the stems then dropped them into the vase. The flowers stood high — too high — to be on the table; they blocked her view. Craig moved them over to the other side of the kitchen. ‘You can put them where you want to later,’ he said.
‘Thank you. They’re beautiful. But what did I do to deserve this?’ She was uncomfortable. She couldn’t sit in these stools for long. She was trying not to show it.
Craig cut into the potatoes. They spewed steam so he had to turn away, and he met eyes with hers. He spoke softly: ‘You’re good to me. I know sometimes we can fight — we’re as bad as each other for that. But I know how lucky I am. Sometimes I like to do things for you. I should do more.’
‘You work all day. I know it’s difficult to—’
‘So do you! You work hard here. I know that.’ He moved to the table and leant across, his hands reaching out towards her. He took her hand in his. It was her left. As he pulled it gently towards him, she couldn’t help but gasp.
‘Is that arm really so painful?’ he said.
‘It can be. If you catch it wrong.’ She forced a chuckle.
He stood back up straighter. He pulled open the drawer. ‘There’s only one thing for it then . . . It’s gonna have to come off!’ He lifted out a meat cleaver. She could see his grip was strong as he raised it. She flinched, nearly toppled off her stool. Then she saw him laughing.
‘A joke! Just a joke. As if I would hurt you!’ He laughed harder. Then put the cleaver back in the drawer
and walked out of the kitchen. Grace exhaled. She could feel her pulse racing; her breathing was quicker too. She heard the stairs creak, and moments later there was a whooshing noise from the boiler in the utility room. She heard Craig coming back down the stairs and then he reappeared.
‘I’m running you a bath. We can have a proper look at that arm. Is that why you’re still in the nightie?’
Grace nodded. ‘Yes, I’m sorry. I can’t get it over my head at the moment. I didn’t think you would mind . . .’
Craig clapped his hands. ‘Of course I don’t mind!’ He turned his attention back to the two plates and finished serving the meal. He cut Grace’s potato into fork-sized chunks so that she was able to eat with her left arm resting in her lap. She considered asking for painkillers. She’d done so before, but he’d said that he didn’t like her taking pills. She actually believed that he didn’t like considering that she was hurt. She did her best not to show her discomfort; it seemed to make him angry. Maybe today was different. She might ask later.
Craig took her plate. She’d not eaten much. Her appetite hadn’t been good for a while now. He scraped the leftovers into the bin and stacked the dishwasher. He started it on a cycle and walked back up the stairs. The boiler went silent. He must have stopped the water. When he came back down this time he made straight for the fridge and opened a bottle of wine. He poured two glasses and handed one to Grace.
‘Oh . . . I thought maybe I would take a painkiller. I don’t think it’s good with wine . . .’ She didn’t make eye contact, but kept her gaze down at the table. He didn’t reply immediately. There was a silence for a few seconds. She was just about to relent, to change her mind, to say she wasn’t in any real pain anyway when he spoke.
‘I’ll see if we have any.’ He fidgeted in a cupboard, took away her wine and replaced it with a glass of water. He popped two tablets straight onto the table. She scooped them up and threw them into her mouth. The water followed. She finally looked up at him.
HE WILL KILL YOU an absolutely gripping crime thriller with a massive twist Page 12
