A Daughter's Secret (35 page)

It’s strangely bare – a few lonely games she’s downloaded, some music (I don’t look to see if Lorcan still merits a playlist), no email account. I don’t trust it: she’s cleaned it up, pared it back. I click on the green messages icon, spinning the screen so we can both see it. I thought there’d be bubble after bubble, like there was when she slyly angled it towards me, but there’s barely anything here either.

Need my little rock
, says an unknown number, sent this afternoon at 5 p.m. Annie snorts angrily as she reads it.

I know you do.
xxx
, comes Gemma’s reply.

For real. It’s time to get your skates on
. No kisses, no ‘Dad’. There’s something so brutal about his stark diktats.

Love you, Daddy. Mum’s gone to Westfield, even though we don’t have any £$£!! xxx.

Meet me for dinner. Be there or be square. Tell Mum you’re with a mate.

The next message is from Christopher too, half an hour later. It’s almost the most chilling.

No more games. xx.

Annie’s face: pain and fury duking it out. I reach my hand out, cover hers, even though it feels corpse stiff to my touch. She’s got to stay with me.

‘She’s left this for you!’

‘Yeah I know,’ she says, a hardness in her tone that I don’t buy.

‘Annie, she’s not just left a trail of breadcrumbs, this is a full-scale ordnance survey map! Even if she has gone with him, she wants you to find her.’

‘Don’t!’ she says, pulling her hand away. ‘Don’t, OK? Despite all the evidence to the contrary, you don’t know my daughter better than I do. If she wants to say fuck you . . .’ Her voice starts to wobble. ‘If she wants to say fuck you this much, then maybe it’s time to let her.’

She sobs, a big, jagged sob that possesses her. I can’t wait for her grief to subside; it could take forever.

‘Annie, you’ve had years of her sticking two fingers up at you, I get how – how utterly impossible it must be to see the wood for the trees. I’m not saying this because I think I know her better than you, I’m just looking at the facts. Why leave the iPad behind, with only those messages, if she didn’t want to be rescued? Why not spin you a line like he told her to, so you’re not looking for her?’

She looks at me, eyes burning like a trapped fox’s.

‘To make damn bloody sure I’ve heard her?’

‘No!’ I shout, frustration boiling over. ‘Gemma might be the most confused child I’ve ever treated. She thinks she loves Christopher more than anyone, but part of her absolutely bloody hates him. She’s bright, Annie. She knows enough to be frightened of him.’ I brandish the iPad, shoving the screen towards her face. ‘You’re right here, look: that message is all about you. She’s holding you up to protect herself against him.’

‘How can you know that?’ she says, almost pleading.

‘You know – we all know – how it feels to love someone and hate them too.’ I hope she doesn’t hear the tremor in my voice. Her eyes meet mine, the years pressing down on her like some kind of medieval torture instrument. I stare back at her, silently imploring her to find the strength for this final lap. ‘She doesn’t know where she starts and he ends. It’s too scary to stand up to him. This is the best she’s got.’

Annie pauses for the longest time.

‘I think you should call her.’

‘I thought you said her phone was off?’

She shrugs, half smiles. She was lying. The lies just keep stacking up, a bottomless pit. No, there will be a bottom – I just hope I don’t reach it.

‘We’ve fought a battle over her from the day she was born. If she picks up the phone to you she won’t be choosing sides.’

I can’t think, I can only act. I grab my phone from my bag, find her number. There’s a missed call from Patrick – suddenly I wish with all my heart he was here. What made me think I could handle this? It rings, once, twice, three times. Just as I’m expecting the voicemail to kick in, preparing to plead with Annie to finally let me call the police, she answers.

‘I knew you’d ring!’

‘Gemma!’ Annie’s face collapses with relief as she hears her name. ‘Where are you?’

‘You can’t help it, can you?’

‘Can’t help what?’

‘You keep coming back to me,’ Gemma says smugly.

‘Gemma, please just tell me where you are. This isn’t a game. I’ve seen the messages.’ I desperately need to break through to her. I soften my voice, almost like I’m trying to hypnotize her, remind her what we’ve shared. ‘Your dad telling you you’re his little rock.’
He’s manipulating you.
‘Are you with him now?’

She can’t be, surely: she’d never have picked up. My eyes meet Annie’s, her face now white and rigid. Gemma doesn’t speak.

‘Can you come and get me?’ she says eventually, voice drained of bravado. ‘I need you to come and get me.’ She sounds like a little girl now. ‘That’s why I texted you.’

I smile at Annie, try to give her hope.

‘You’re not with your dad?’

‘He was meant to be here, but he’s not. I was late. I went to Westfield.’

‘You went to Westfield?’ Was she looking for Annie? ‘Is that where you are now?’

‘No. He told me to get a cab out here. It’s further than Twickenham even.’

‘What do you mean? What, a service station?’

‘Yeah. I’ll text you where it is. Just come and get me, Mia. I’m not lying to you. Wasn’t lying last time either.’

‘I know,’ I say, my voice gentle. I look at Annie and decide it’s safer not to mention her to Gemma. ‘I’m coming now.’

‘OK. I’ve got to go now, Mia. My phone’s nearly out of juice. Come quick.’

Chapter Twenty-Three

It’s like an alien city, a biosphere from some time in the future when we’ve forgotten how to have a soul. Harsh strip lighting bathes it yellow-grey; a half-empty Costa Coffee – bleary-eyed lorry drivers getting their late night fix – sits next to a burger joint, the rancid, fatty smell competing with the synthetic lemon disinfectant from the nearby toilets. This is no time to be composing some pretentious ode to modern Britain – the second set of toilets is exactly where I’m heading for. That’s where Gemma texted to say she’d be waiting, and Annie and I decided not to waste time questioning her decision: at least she’d be hidden away. I tried, yet again, to convince Annie that the police should be the ones to pick Gemma up, but she begged me not to call them, and the truth is, I didn’t take too much persuading. Gemma’s been through enough today without being shoved in the back of a squad car and thrown into an interview room, questions firing at her from all directions. She sounded so vulnerable on the phone, ready to give up the fight and tell me what Patrick and his team need to learn. I know Gemma well enough to know that official channels will make her silent and mutinous. Not that any of it matters right now: I’m not Patrick’s source, nor Gemma’s therapist, I’m just a person who cares deeply – too deeply – about making sure she’s OK.

I feel a deep shiver of unease as I cut through the belly of the place. Annie asked that I do this solo, save Gemma from being ripped in two by choosing between them, yet again. But now that I’m here, alone and unprotected, I’m starting to remember how many lies and half truths she’s scattered these last few weeks, a trail of breadcrumbs that I’ve doggedly followed. When my phone flashes up at me with Patrick’s name it takes all my strength not to answer. I just need to get through this, then I can call him. I pause a second, send him a single kiss, then push my way through the random stragglers who are milling around.

I push open the heavy door, my heart thumping hard in my chest.

There she is, framed by the pockmarked mirror, standing alone in the empty toilet. Our eyes meet in the dingy glass, her face pale and set, a tube of cheap-looking cherry lip balm held up to her mouth like she’s readying herself for a night out. How is it that she looks older and younger all at the same time?

‘Found you!’ I say, relief flooding my body.

‘You took a-ges.’

‘I’m here now.’ I step towards her, and she turns to face me, her vulnerability almost palpable. ‘Do you need a hug?’ I say, choking up. She nods, her sharp chin jutting downwards, and I open my arms wide. She kicks aside the tatty old rucksack that she’s got at her feet, steps into them, her heart hammering as hard as mine. She feels jerky, a frightened jack rabbit. ‘You’re safe,’ I murmur, my hand stroking her hair. I want to envelop her, keep her cocooned. ‘Your mum’s in the car. We’re going home.’

I pull away now, the sense of urgency flooding back, but Gemma seems almost rooted to the spot.

‘Thing is, Mia, my dad will always come and find me,’ she says, her voice little more than a whisper. The same words can be sculpted into so many different shapes: there’s no triumph in that statement now.

‘And you’ve got a voice,’ I say. ‘You know what you want. You didn’t want to go with him, and you haven’t – it was so brave of you. But Gemma, please, let’s go and find your mum now. We can talk about all of it when we’re in the car.’

Gemma looks back at me, blank and impassive. I feel helpless suddenly, held hostage by my own arrogant belief I could pull this off. How can I sustain an emotional connection in this bleak wasteland, the two of us stranded between a dripping tap and a scratched-up tampon dispenser? We’ve strayed so far from the safety of the four walls of my room. Her eyes pull back towards the smudgy mirror, far away from me.

‘He’s taking me to America again.’

‘Gemma, come on—’

‘He thinks I like Disneyland, but I’m too old really. Jake would still like it.’

Two more minutes and then I’m calling Annie. No, not Annie. Patrick. I’m going to give this one last try.

‘Jake’s seven, isn’t he?’

I keep my voice light, unthreatening, all the time tracking her reflection. Her eyes are cloudy, her grip shaky as she forces the pinkish sheen onto her dry, pale lips.

‘How do you know that?’

‘Everything I could find out about you, I found out. I care about you.’

‘Yeah and I found out everything I could about you,’ she says triumphantly. ‘Not cos I cared. Knowledge is power, Mia, everyone knows that. Anyway,’ she adds, voice so soft I can barely hear her, ‘you didn’t care about me, you cared about your job. And your dick boyfriend.
His
job.’

She knows it in her bones – she knew about me and Patrick long before I did. Poor Gemma: her curse is to always know too much.

‘That’s not true. Do you think I’d be here – risking my career, risking pretty much everything . . .’ My voice is rising now, fear and exhaustion getting the better of me. ‘If I didn’t care about you?’

Gemma stares at me, face deliberately blank, eyes stripping me down. The moment seems to stretch forever. She leans down, unzips the bulging rucksack.

‘I can’t go with you, Mia. I have to give him these.’

Papers. Reams and reams of papers, numbers closely typed. Patrick was right all along.

‘Gemma . . .’ I say, the words hard to liberate, fear closing my throat, ‘do you know how important these are?’

Of course she does. She shrugs with that infuriating fake nonchalance.

‘He told me to keep them at school. It was the safest place.’

‘The day he left? When he dropped you off?’

She looks away.

‘My locker was a state anyway. Bit more crap in there. No one knew.’ She looks back at me, defiant. ‘They never cleared it out when I left.’

We need to get out of here. She needs to want to get out of here. If she doesn’t, he’ll always be swooping overhead like that eagle she imagined, waiting to spirit her away.

‘Gemma, I know how much you love him, I really do. It’s not wrong for you to love him.’ I force her to look at me. ‘But I want you to love you too! Like your mum loves you, and your brothers. Everything you’ve done today tells me you don’t want to go with him. You want a normal life. You deserve a normal life. You can love him without giving him everything, Gemma.’ The truth of it fells me, tears streaming down my face. ‘You’re not his life support. You don’t have to keep him safe from harm.’

That’s when she collapses onto me, her slight frame racked with sobs, her foot viciously kicking out at the rucksack, papers flying across the sticky floor. Maybe it’s the force of my wanting it for her, but it feels as though his hold on her is draining out of her.

‘I love you, Mia,’ she says, her face buried in my chest.

‘I love you too,’ I say.

‘Don’t leave me again. Promise you won’t leave me.’

Can I promise that? I wish I could. She doesn’t deserve any more lies.

‘You’ll always be part of my heart. Always.’

‘Is Mum really angry with me?’

‘No. She just wants you home. It’s time we went and found her.’

We pull apart, finally ready to go, but before we reach the door it starts to swing open. It’s a miracle really that it’s taken so long for anyone to come in here. A miracle or a nightmare? Because there, right in front of me, stands Christopher Vine.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Blood swirls and rushes around my body, my legs like jelly. I surreptitiously hold on to the wet sink unit, keeping myself steady. Gemma’s face lights up, instinctive, but her legs don’t carry her towards him.

‘Daddy!’

He stops in his tracks, surveys the scene. It’s his eyes that get to me. They’re a deep blue – ice blue – alive with rampant calculation. He misses nothing, and yet he refuses to look at me. He takes in the scattered papers, looks back at Gemma, his jaw tight and clenched.

‘What you playing at, Gem?’ I can hear that same Northern-lite lilt that Annie has, his tone deliberately, chillingly, calm. Despite everything he looks freshly laundered: dark jeans and a blazer, a pristine white shirt underneath. He really is the display model: there’s no heartbeat there. ‘I’m watching you,’ he says, not turning his head towards me. ‘Don’t try any GI Jane bullshit. We’re done. You can go back to asking overpaid cunts what they dreamed last night.’

I recoil at the word, the violence of it. It’s a calculated move: he’s grinding us both under his hand-stitched leather heel and telling us who’s boss. I force myself not to react.

‘I’m not playing, Daddy.’