The Attic Room: A psychological thriller (14 page)

It was the wrong thing to say. Sam’s voice was tight when he
replied.

‘Well, I can say the same about you, but I think I’d trust
you over a stranger with a criminal family background. I’m sorry if you don’t
feel the same way. I thought we were friends.’

His last sentence sounded nothing but petulant. Nina gripped
her phone, biting back an angry retort. She had neither time nor energy for
this right now. She forced herself to sound calm.

‘Sam, I don’t need any more hassle here. Paul’s due any
minute so I’m going to hang up. I’ll let you know what happens.’

She put the phone down and stared at it. Had she been too
hard on poor Sam? No, she was in charge of her own life and it was up to her
what she did and where she stayed. Though in a way Sam was right too, because
even if Paul was her cousin, she had no idea how trustworthy he was. Sam came
with the recommendation of being a lawyer, but Paul had no such testimonial. It
was always tempting to judge people by your own standards, she thought, running
upstairs to check that the lock on her bedroom door worked. It did, and the
door was solid oak.

Nina smiled suddenly – locking her bedroom door wouldn’t be
unnecessary. Paul felt like family in the same way Emily did. Maybe she could
persuade him to come with her and Naomi to visit Emily tomorrow. Somehow she
didn’t think Paul saw much of their great-aunt, and it would be interesting to
know why not. Of course, maybe he simply wasn’t into visiting family, but you’d
think a sense of duty would prompt the odd visit. Or was that more of a
girl-thing?

Paul appeared at twenty past four, clutching a well-used
sports bag and a bottle of wine.

‘All ready to stay, as you see,’ he said, grinning at her,
and Nina relaxed.

It was all right. This was her cousin – well, second cousin
or whatever, and he was going out of his way to help her.

She accepted the bottle. ‘Cabernet Sauvignon. One of my
favourites. How did you know?’

He looked pleased. ‘It’s one of mine too. Must be a family trait.’

‘Is your girlfriend – Melanie, isn’t it? – okay about you
staying here tonight?’ she asked, and he nodded.

‘She’s going out with friends anyway. I brought a sleeping
bag so if you give me a mattress somewhere I’ll be fine.’

Nina showed him into the little room beside the kitchen and
he dropped his bag on the bed.

‘What would you like to eat?’ she asked, watching him roll
out his sleeping bag. ‘We don’t do gourmet meals in this house but I could make
spaghetti, or we can send out for pizza.’

‘Let’s send out,’ he said. ‘Pizza’s easier to eat when you’re
looking at photos and things. Can I have a look round the house, please? I was
here a lot as a kid but I haven’t seen it properly for years.’

Nina gave him a guided tour. He showed her which bedroom had
been hers as a child, and told her about the time the two of them unravelled
all Nina’s children’s cassettes and tied the upstairs doors together with the
mess of tape.

‘It was no ice cream for us that day,’ he said, grinning. ‘Our
mums were not amused.’

Nina laughed. This was exactly the kind of thing she wanted
to hear, little stories about her life. She stood in the doorway of her old
bedroom, which now contained an anonymous single bed, a chest of drawers and a
wardrobe. What wouldn’t she give for a clear memory of those days, but nothing
was coming to mind. Disappointed, she turned back to Paul, now gazing into the
room she and Naomi were occupying.

‘Those blue vases were your mum’s, you know. She bought blue
ones for herself and green ones for my mum. It must have been just shortly
before you left.’

Nina hugged her arms round her middle, staring at the vases.
How amazing – the only beautiful things in John Moore’s house, almost, and they
were Claire’s. A little part of Claire still here in Bedford. She would take
them home when they left.

In the attic room, Paul walked down to the far end where the
mattresses lay, then turned and stared back towards the door, the expression on
his face unreadable. He was breathing heavily, Nina noticed – what was going
through his mind? She was still wondering what to say when he came out of his
trance and grinned at her.

‘I think you should do this place up to rent out. You could
easily have it turned into flats, and the way the market is at the moment that
might be a better investment than selling.’

‘I know,’ said Nina. ‘Nothing’s decided yet.’

No way was she going to keep this house, she thought,
following Paul downstairs. She wanted to be able to draw a very definite line
under John Moore and his sleaze.

Paul settled down with the photos while Nina phoned for
pizza and opened the wine. When she went back to the living room he was
engrossed in the ‘non-people’ pile, not even reacting when she made a remark
about the small size of most of these photos. Nina put his wine glass down
beside him and went to phone Cassie to say she’d be quite all right tonight. It
would be her last night under her father’s roof. And thank God for that.

The pizzas were good, a Mediterranean veggie topping on a
thin, crisp base, and Nina made a green salad to go with them. Working in John
Moore’s kitchen was a bit like camping, she thought ruefully, having searched
in vain for a salad bowl. Judging by the appliances and the meagre selection of
kitchen utensils, her father’s cooking had consisted of heating things in the
microwave and opening tins. Of course maybe he’d eaten out most of the time –
he’d certainly been able to afford it. What an odd set-up this was. John Moore
was so well-off, yet he’d chosen to live in this place, which was solid and
warm but – dowdy. Yes, that was a good word to describe the house. But when you
thought about his collection of paedophilic pictures it all became sick and
sordid, too. So maybe the dowdiness hadn’t mattered to John Robert Moore.

She and Paul ate in the living room, each ensconced in a
corner of the sofa as the table was covered with photos. Nina was silent, pity
almost closing her throat as Paul spoke of his mother’s struggle to make ends
meet. It didn’t make for a cheerful mealtime conversation.

His childhood had been nothing like her own. After the split
with his father, Paul’s mother gave up the fight to provide for her child, and
lived on social security. Alcohol had played a big part in Jane Wright’s life,
too. So while Nina was watching her mother and grandparents struggle to start
their business on Arran, Paul was watching his mother drink herself into her
grave. How dreadful for him.

‘What happened to you then?’ she asked gently, but he looked
away, shaking his head.

‘Nothing worth remembering today. I survived, thanks to
social services, and here we both are, back in John Moore’s house as adults.
You can survive anything, you know.’

He took a large swallow of wine. Nina frowned. It was
difficult to see what he meant by ‘survive’ and it didn’t look as if he was
about to enlarge on it. Poor Paul. She had always been loved and cared for, but
it sounded as if no one had loved Paul after his mother died.

He wiped his fingers on the paper napkin provided by the
pizza company. ‘Almost forgot,’ he said, going over to the table. ‘I found your
father’s parents here. Look.’

He lifted three black and white prints, and Nina took them
eagerly. John Moore senior, her grandfather, and his young wife Sylvia. They
must have been in their twenties here, standing side by side beside a
bandstand, presumably in some park or other, uncertain smiles for the camera
and uncomfortable, formal-looking clothes. Perhaps they’d been out for a Sunday
walk – people had worn ‘Sunday best’ in those days. Nina stared, trying in vain
to read their expressions and feeling the enormous distance separating them
from her life today. What had John and Sylvia Moore done to turn their son into
such a monster? Or maybe it wasn’t their fault, maybe young John had gone off
the rails by himself. You couldn’t blame parents for everything. Paul handed
her another photo showing a trio of people in various shades of grey.

‘My parents with Aunt Emily,’ he said.

Nina took the photos. Black and white pictures of days gone
by. She searched round for a pen and paper. ‘Let’s number them, and write down
who’s on which photo.’

They sat at the table, Paul numbering the photos and
providing the names and Nina writing the list. Halfway down her page she
squinted at him uneasily. He wasn’t happy doing this, so much was clear. His
earlier good humour was gone and his answers to her questions were getting
shorter all the time. At last they came to the end of the first pile; Paul
numbered the final black and white ‘people’ photo and Nina wrote down the
names, Emily and her sister Ruth, Paul’s grandmother. Family photos, and dear
God, what had gone on behind the scenes in the Moore family?

‘Thank you,’ she said, putting her hand on his arm. ‘I can
see it isn’t easy for you, revisiting the past like this. I’ll take the ones
you don’t know to Emily tomorrow and see if she can add anything. Or – would
you be able to come too? I’d be going in the morning, before we fly home.’

He shook his head. ‘I’m due another visit. But tomorrow’s
impossible, I’m afraid. Give her my love.’

Nina hesitated, uneasiness creeping over her. She couldn’t
put a finger on it but her previous rapport with Paul had vanished, and
something about what he’d just said didn’t ring true. According to Emily, Paul
hadn’t visited her for years. Maybe he was too ashamed to admit it, but why
would he cut all ties with his great-aunt? Confusion spread through Nina. There
was something he wasn’t telling her here and it was important, she could see
that. Looking at those photos had stirred something up in his head… oh dear
God… was this something to do with John Moore and the nasty photos… oh fuck…
had
Paul
been on any of those photos? Could that be?
The crying in the attic memory crashed back into Nina’s brain. Screaming, she
remembered the sound now, even – but had she screamed – or Paul? What had
happened back then? But before she could say anything Paul flung his pen down
on the table.

‘God! Emily was the only one of them who was nice to me,’ he
burst out. ‘My grandparents were all ‘children should be seen and not heard’.
But Emily was cool.’

‘What about your parents, and mine? Were they strict too?’
said Nina carefully.

He was in a strange mood now, looking at her with
over-bright eyes and pouring them both a generous second glass of wine. Nina
sipped, then put her glass on the table. She didn’t want to get plastered and
she’d already had a big glass. Hopefully the pizza would mop it up.

Paul flung himself down on the sofa and buried his head in
his hands. Nina’s heart began to race. What was he going to tell her?

‘Your mother had the right idea,’ he said at last, lifting
his head and staring at her.

The brightness in his eyes was unshed tears, and she passed
him a tissue without speaking.

He blew his nose and went on. ‘Your mam got you out. Mine
disappeared into a bottle.’

‘What are you saying?’ whispered Nina. Her stomach started
to heave. ‘Paul? What happened?’

He reached for another tissue and started ripping it into
shreds. ‘They hired – us – out,’ he said, spitting the words at her. ‘What do
you think?’

‘Hired – how?’ Nina’s voice came out in a croak and her
hands holding the tissue packet began to shake. For a few seconds the world
around her hummed and it was as if the colours in the drab living room were
turning silver. Quickly, she put her head between her knees. When the faintness
passed she leaned back again. Paul was staring at nothing and twirling his
empty wine glass. He wouldn’t meet her eye.

‘Our fathers?’ said Nina.

He nodded, still not looking at her. Nina raised her hands
to her face. Dear God, what the shit had she been through in this house?

‘Are you saying we were abused here in this house and our
fathers collected money for it?’

Paul gave a loud moan and jumped to his feet, pacing up and
down in front of the disused fireplace. ‘Oh yes. Money, that’s all we were
worth. They took photos, too. My dad was great with a camera, you know.’ His
voice broke on the last word.

Nina clapped her hands to her mouth, feeling her eyes widen
in horror. Dear Christ in heaven, this was worse than anything she’d ever
imagined. His eyes held hers, and she could see the horror and the loathing he
had felt back then; she could see how it was affecting his life today, how he
could never get away from it.

‘You mean we were – raped?’ It was difficult to get the
words out.

Paul laughed mirthlessly. ‘I was. I don’t know if you were.
Maybe not. You were so young, and there was the necessity to give you back to
your mother more or less in one piece, you see. Mine was usually too smashed to
notice. It was all so fucking sordid and it hurt, Nina, it hurt like hell.’

Nina leapt up and ran to the narrow downstairs toilet, her
hands over her mouth. Her gut cramped tightly as she vomited pizza and red wine
into the bowl. Dear God. Why, why, didn’t she remember any of this? How old had
she been? Two, three?

And shit, shit – but Claire couldn’t have known about that.
Quite definitely not.

Could she?

The spasm over, she rinsed her face and drank from her
cupped hands. Paul was waiting in the passageway, his eyes dull. He hugged her,
saying nothing, and Nina held on tightly, breathing deeply and feeling the
tension in her gut slacken. She knew the worst now, and she would have to learn
to cope with it. She would get over this, because if she didn’t, John Moore
would have won. That wasn’t going to happen.

Back in the living room, she took a cautious sip of wine.

‘My mother can’t have known,’ she said, leaning back in the
sofa.

Paul glared at the floor. ‘Mine did. I told her after you
left. I don’t know if she did anything, but nothing changed over the next
couple of years. Except it happened to me more often because you weren’t there
anymore. And then there was all the stuff with the business going down the pan.
Mam and me moved away and the abuse stopped. I’ve never told anyone else.’

Nina felt physically drained, as if she’d run a marathon.
Her muscles hurt. The thought of what had happened to her made her feel soiled,
wasted, but she knew this was the feeling she would have to change. She had
been an innocent child, she had
not
been made dirty
by these people. Tomorrow she would tell all this to the police and then she
would start the rest of her life.

Paul leaned towards her, and she saw how his hands were
shaking.

‘I wanted to kill him for a long time,’ he said, his voice
trembling. ‘Both of them, Dad and Uncle John. When I was older I even bought a
gun, but they were enemies by that time and I never got the two of them in the
same place at the same time and that was what I wanted. I wanted to pull the trigger
on your father and watch the fear in Dad’s eyes while I did it. And then I
wanted to kill him too. But it didn’t work out.’

Nina grasped his hand and squeezed it. The anger was
understandable; she felt it too. Maybe she always would.

‘You should get counselling, Paul,’ she said, feeling his
hand shake in hers. ‘That’s what I’ll do, I think. We need help to get over
this. Dear God. My own father.’ She had seen him in his coffin and she had
never known. Shit, she had looked at him and felt pity.

There was nothing left to say that evening. Nina went to bed
and dozed fitfully for a while, waking every time the house creaked or a car
drove by outside. At three in the morning she found herself wide awake, and
shivered. This was no good, she’d be dead on her feet in the morning if she
didn’t get some proper sleep. She would make hot chocolate and take a headache
pill, heaven knows her head felt the size of an over-ripe water-melon. She’d
had too much wine and she’d lost the pizza.

There was silence in the little room beside the kitchen.
Nina put a mug of milk into the microwave and when the drink was made she
wandered through the dark hallway to the study and sat down at the desk.

More than anything else she wanted to have a heart-to-heart
with Bethany, but she couldn’t possibly ring up at this time of night about
something that happened when she was two years old. She would phone tomorrow.
And she would phone Sam and – yes, she would go and stay with Cassie. There
would be more interviews with the police now; she and Naomi wouldn’t get back
to Scotland tomorrow. Nina sobbed silently for a few minutes, bent over shiny
mahogany. Why, why had she come here? The legacy had brought her nothing but
grief.

The headache slackened its hold, and Nina rose to her feet,
only then noticing the blue plastic folder Sam had brought before he left.
Heavens, she’d forgotten all about this. There might be something important in
here.

She sat down again and switched on the desk light. There was
a small family tree, rather like the one Emily had drawn, except this one had
dates and full names. Paul’s mother had been seven years older than his father,
she saw, unusual in those days. And beside George Wright’s name Sam had
scribbled ‘last known residence 2011 in Thailand’.

Well. Abusing more children, perhaps. Disgusting old man.
Nina paused. Paul had mentioned that his father spent time abroad, but of
course it was possible that George Moore was back in the UK now. Was he on the
sex offenders register? More questions for David Mallony.

Nina yawned as the warm milk and paracetamol took hold.
Good, maybe she would get some sleep after all. Upstairs again, she curled up
in the warmth of her bed, feeling her muscles relax. There wasn’t long to wait
now. Another few hours and she’d be out of this house forever.