A Daughter's Secret (36 page)

‘Then what’ve you been doing all day – fannying around buying lipstick?’ There’s something so icky about the insult, the way he’s hacking at her barely budding sexuality.

‘Maybe she was frightened,’ I say, unable to stop myself.

‘Maybe no one asked you for your opinion. Maybe my daughter would have been a lot better off if you hadn’t come marching into her life telling her what to think. Special branch of the thought police, are you?’

It’s the first time he’s looked straight at me, eyes glittering with dark power.

‘She didn’t do that, Daddy,’ says Gemma, voice childlike and shaky. ‘She took care of me.’

‘No.
I
took care of you. I always take care of you even when I’m not here. I’m the one who looks after you. You know that.’

‘No you didn’t!’ I say, the foolish words tumbling out of me before I can stop myself. ‘You made her lie for you. You put her in terrible danger. What kind of father does that?’

I regret it the second I’ve said it. Gemma sobs, the sound strangled and broken, and my hand reaches out uselessly into the space between us. Christopher steps towards me, visibly enjoying the way I instinctively press myself backwards against the sink. He draws out a knife, the blade gleaming and winking in the yellowy light, then steps back again, his point made.

I silently curse myself: how is it that even a wreath woven into my own name wasn’t enough to make me admit my limitations? I don’t want to die here. Now, finally, I understand what Mum was trying to make me understand on the doorstep. Their tired, lined faces as I slammed out of the house, self-righteous fury writ large. Please don’t let it be the last time I lay eyes on them.

Gemma’s frightened eyes dart towards me – a warning – then swivel obediently back towards him.

‘It’s time to go, sweetheart. Car’s out the back. We’ve got a route out. Got to be quick now.’ He’s holding her thin arms, something between an embrace and an assault. She looks at him, those big, expressive eyes full of competing emotions. He cocks his head. ‘Daddy knows best,’ he says, his semi-ironic twang telling me it’s a lifelong phrase. He probably whispered it in her pink conch shell of an ear when she was a baby – an intoxicating lie of a lullaby. Gemma tilts forward with her head bowed, leaning into him so he can trap her in his arms. He’s won.

Then she looks up, face plaintive.

‘I want to stay with Mum,’ she says, her voice a thin whisper.

My heart leaps up into my throat.

‘No you don’t,’ he says, utterly calm. ‘They’ve been turning you against me, I get it. But it’s you and me now.’ He grins at her. ‘Lone Ranger and Tonto.’

‘Oscar and Felix,’ she says softly.

‘Bonnie and Clyde,’ says Christopher, quick as a flash. It’s another well-worn routine this one. I force myself to stay silent. He links his arm through hers. ‘Chop chop.’

‘I don’t want to go!’ she says, voice rising. ‘I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m sorry. I love you. I love you so much.’

She’s sobbing, her face a wet mass of snot and tears. I direct a small smile in her direction, willing her to stay strong. Christopher’s face spins towards me, his strong jaw pulsing, eyes almost black now.

‘Enough!’ he says, grabbing her roughly. ‘I thought you were sharper than that, Gemma. Thought you’d inherited a bit of nous from your dad.’ She’s shaking her head, eyes full of desperation. ‘They’ve brainwashed you, sweetheart. We’ll get it all straightened out.’

He lets go of her, stuffing the mess of papers in the rucksack and thrusting it towards her like a battering ram. He can’t resist even the slightest opportunity to assert control.

‘Gemma,’ I say, gabbling, ‘if you start screaming, someone will come and help you. There are loads of people out there!’

‘She’s not going to pull anything like that,’ says Christopher, dismissive. ‘She knows enough about her dad to behave herself.’

Gemma’s eyes are wide, even though her mouth is firmly shut, her twig-thin body no longer resisting his powerful grip. There’s nothing more I can do until he’s out of my sightline. I hold her gaze. ‘I love you,’ I mouth. So stupid. Christopher catches it, his eyes flashing with rage.

‘I’m not finished with you,’ he says, stepping towards me.

‘Don’t you think you’ve given her enough nightmares for one lifetime?’ For some reason it catches on something, stops his progress. He looks back at Gemma, her frightened face, her body shrunk small, something shifting in him as he takes it in.

‘Gem . . .’ he says, almost vulnerable. But before he can say more, the door blasts open. It’s not a hallucination. It really is Patrick, battered but determined, a phalanx of police behind him.

‘Found you,’ he says, glancing at me before his eyes fix on Christopher. ‘Do the honours.’

A detective claps handcuffs on Christopher. ‘I’m arresting you . . .’ The words run on, no more than background noise, as I allow myself to collapse into Patrick, every fibre of my being still alert to Gemma. ‘Found you too,’ he says, holding me close with his good arm. ‘Traced your phone. You don’t get to dump me that easily.’

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Thank you for not giving up.’

Christopher is quiet now, the knife meekly handed over. Gemma’s crying, watching it all unfold. I stay near, but not too close – I want to spare her another tug of love.

‘Can I go with him?’ she says, her cheeks red raw with tears. ‘Let me go with him. Just as far as the car.’ She looks at the police team and then at me, her face a naked appeal. ‘I just want to say goodbye to my dad.’ She looks at him. ‘I want to say goodbye.’

Christopher looks back at her, all bravado sucked away. His face is as soft as melting wax, blue eyes brimming with tears. She’s right – he does love her. The tragedy is, that for a man like him, love is always first and foremost a weapon. ‘If I come with her . . .’ I say. Patrick and the lead detective exchange glances, nod.

‘No long speeches,’ says the detective, his gruffness a cover. I know it’s got to him too. ‘You just see him into the car.’

‘It’s not like you won’t see him again,’ I tell her quietly. She looks at me, something unreadable in her eyes. I’ve lost her for now. ‘Your mum’s out there too. She’s waiting to go with you in the other police car.’

The rucksack’s already been bagged up, the papers safely stowed. We make our way across the car park, Gemma walking close to the policeman leading Christopher. He’s talking to her, but I can’t make out the words. Patrick loops his good arm through mine, the feel of it all that’s keeping my knees from giving way.

He must’ve spotted the car first, heard the wheels squealing – living so long on the run, he had become perfectly attuned to danger. He broke from the policeman who was leading him. Still in his handcuffs, he shoved Gemma so hard she fell to the ground, out of harm’s way. There was no time left for him to save himself. Or maybe he felt he was beyond saving.

It was a single bullet. A single shot from a gun that would never be found. A few brief seconds to extinguish Christopher Vine forever.

JUNE

Chapter Twenty-Five

I’m sitting on Mum’s bed in my pyjamas, my knees drawn up under my chin, a mug of tea warming my hands. The room’s punctuated by open cardboard boxes, little bits of her life poking out like moles burrowing up from the soil.

‘Mum, it’s a month away,’ I say. ‘You haven’t even exchanged.’

‘We’ll exchange by Wednesday, the solicitor says. I’d rather get a head start.’

What she’s really saying is that she’d like to at least have the illusion of control. I get that. I stroke her arm, the skin looser than it once was, but still smooth. She’s a very elegant woman, my mum, even if she downplays it. She’s wearing a white chemise over some tartan pyjama bottoms, her hair pinned up in a bun. After everything that’s happened, I’m perversely grateful for my homeless state, my watertight excuse to spend this time with her.

‘I hate that you have to do this.’

‘I know,’ she agrees, her knees pulling up to mirror mine, ‘but it’s happening. We can’t wait for the whole sorry situation to be unravelled.’

‘Patrick’s doing his best!’

I’m still at that infatuated stage where I jump on any excuse to say his name out loud. It’s funny: the world seems so black and white right now, either wonderful or horrible.

‘It does sound like Wright will get his day in court, doesn’t it?’ She’s right: the cache of papers is what’s really clinched it for the prosecution. Her sense of triumph starts to fade almost immediately. ‘I can’t stop thinking about that poor child,’ she says, encasing my hand with hers. I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

‘I should get going,’ I say, jumping down from the bed, skittish as a cat. She looks at me, guilt shining in her ink-flecked eyes. ‘I’ll be OK.’

I’ve just got an address, a house in a lane somewhere outside Cambridge. I thought about Googling it, giving myself an early warning about the kind of life he’s living, but I decided to fly blind. It’s a shock, rolling up to the wrought-iron gates, a long drive leading up to a large, imposing brick house. Could you even call it a mansion? It’s modern – ugly-beautiful, with a complicated water feature that runs down its tall grey façade. My brain’s trying to kick in, control the situation with its relentless observations and judgements. I breathe in, breathe out, my hands gripping the wheel, the knuckles white and jumpy. I hit reverse, scoot backwards into the lane, stick the hazards on. They tick loudly, irritatingly, like a metronome. Patrick answers on the first ring.

‘Tell me why I’m doing this,’ I snap, no spare capacity for pleasantries.

‘Seems from where I’m sitting you’re doing it cos you can’t not,’ he says. ‘I’m not Mystic Meg, so I can’t give you a definitive answer, but that’s my guess.’

It’s true. When I close my eyes, it’s not Christopher’s crumpled, bloody body that I see, it’s Gemma’s face.

‘Where
are
you sitting?’ I ask, gentle now, the wind blown out of my sails.

‘On my mum’s sofa. She’s doing a roast.’

‘Can she hear us?’

‘Mum, can you hear us?’ he shouts.

‘Not a word, Pat,’ she shouts, suspiciously quickly.

‘Don’t worry. She’s a fan.’

‘Of yours.’

‘Yours too,’ he says more quietly. ‘She’s not got your natural charm, is all.’

He sounds so Irish in that moment, his voice dipping and curving around the phrase like a roller-coaster zooming round a track. Every new piece of him I uncover feels like a nugget of treasure – something to covet, admire, hold up to the light.

‘I’ll see you tonight,’ I say, determined to do this, then find myself incapable of cutting him off. ‘I . . .’

Silence hangs.

‘Yeah?’

‘I’ll see you tonight,’ I say again, hanging up quickly before I can find more excuses.

He’s framed by the doorway, his lanky form stooping forward, not a comma but a question mark. I stare at him, both of us frozen, and then he breaks the spell, striding down the driveway towards me on long, denim-clad legs.

‘Mia,’ he says quietly, his pale eyes watery with emotion. ‘Come here, petal.’ His shoulders drop a little as I stay still. ‘Only if you want to.’

Something that I can’t quite name drives me forward into his arms. A lump rises in my throat. He smells the same; it’s the scent he always had when I snuggled up to him, still rising up from beneath the layers of washing powder and expensive shower gel that his new life has painted over the top.

‘Welcome,’ he says, his eyes never leaving my face.

‘Impressive,’ I say, pulling away sharply, a stab of anger assailing me as I think of Mum piling her modest life into cardboard boxes from the corner shop.

‘Long story,’ he says. ‘Caroline’s disappeared herself.’ I give him a questioning look. ‘She’s your stepmother.’

‘She’s not,’ I snap, my eyes burning as I look at his left hand, the gold ring encasing his skinny finger. ‘She’s your wife.’

He shrugs the jutting wings of his bony shoulders,
mea culpa
. He married someone. He never married Mum, never made us the Enid Blyton version of a family that I longed for, then tossed his so-called principles to the wind once the big house was part of the equation. Why did I even come here?

‘I’ve booked a table for lunch at the pub.’ He must see something in my face. ‘It’s not a pub pub. I wasn’t trying to palm you off with a ploughman’s.’ I still don’t smile. ‘And I’ve been teetotal for six years’ – he looks up into the soupy grey sky – ‘five months and three days.’

‘Congratulations,’ I say, my voice pancake flat. It’s another blessing he failed to bestow on us. I feel a hot starburst of that old, familiar shame: did he not love us enough to step up and give us what we so desperately needed from him?

‘Mia, I meant what I said. I’m so sorry.’ He examines me in the aftermath of the word, looking for a sign it’s landed. ‘I’m honestly so sorry for not . . . not being better. For not being what you deserved.’ I stare at him, no words coming, my eyes fixed on his face, so familiar and so other all at the same time. Silent tears roll down my face. ‘Darling, come inside. I’ll make us some tea.’

I blindly follow him into a well-appointed kitchen, perching on a worn green-velvet sofa that’s more shabby chic than second hand. He brings me a mug, leans over me to hand it to me, something in his face that looks a bit like terror.

‘Sit down,’ I say, like it’s my house, not his. He folds his long body onto the sofa, the zigzag of his posture still utterly familiar to me. It’s how I feel about Patrick in perfect reverse. With Patrick I’m still seeking out all the fragments that coalesce and make him so utterly him: with Lorcan they’re assailing me, a million tiny reminders – a whole life I thought I’d lost forever, like an ancient winter coat that you chance upon in the darkest recesses of the wardrobe.

‘I’m so . . .’ He pauses, the energy quivering between us. ‘I’m so glad you got in touch.’

‘Yeah, well . . .’ I’m fighting an internal battle here, and I’m fighting it hard. ‘Is Caroline some kind of hedge fund power bitch then?’

I look around the cream kitchen, searching for the personal touches. There’s a neon installation above our heads, a heart with an arrow through that I’m guessing glows red when it lights up. There are some photographs on a chrome table in the opposite corner, but I can’t make out the images from here, and I’m grateful for that. When we cut someone out, some magical part of us imagines they’re preserved in that moment, like a sardine lying flat in a tin. I know I’ve been like that with exes – moving on, never casting so much as a glance behind me. But the truth is, we’re not responsible for animating the world. When we shut our eyes, it carries on regardless.