My darling Sophia. This cannot be over. I refuse to believe it. I need to see you one last time. Please say you will give me one last chance.
Love Phillip xx
‘Well,’ he murmurs, his heart pounding in his chest. ‘I’m not sure what to say, except why is this written in your handwriting?’
Lauren sighs, stares down at the floor then back up at her father. ‘It was a text on her phone. I found it and copied it down word for word and then deleted it off her phone. I should have shown it to the police, shouldn’t I?’ Lauren looks away, her voice a whisper. ‘But after Mum died, everything went to pot and I forgot all about it.’ She blinks, bats away a rogue eyelash. ‘Actually, that’s not entirely true. I didn’t forget about it at all. How could I forget about something like this? I didn’t want to anybody to see it. I was so fucking embarrassed. I had snooped on her. My mum was clearly having an affair. It’s not exactly family of the year stuff, is it? Still,’ she says softly, ‘I guess it only confirms what we now know, doesn’t it? That he was angry with her and had every reason to kill her. He denied the affair, said he was just a friend, a colleague. But he wasn’t, was he?’
Peter places an arm around her shoulders, doing his utmost to keep his voice steady as he speaks. ‘What I think we should do now is get rid of this piece of trash. Throw it away and never look at it again.’ Peter had no idea that Lauren knew about Sophia’s affair before she died. He presumed she had only become aware of it after her death when the evidence was presented in court. Not that they attended on a regular basis. It was all too distressing, draining and humiliating, having their marital problems played out in front of everybody. Despite the arguments and acrimony between them, he had hoped that prior to her death, they had managed to keep it secret from their daughter – their issues. Sophia’s affair. She knew. All this time, Lauren knew and kept it to herself. Shame burrows under his flesh. His daughter bore the weight of Sophia’s deceit and said nothing.
Lauren nods, a lone tear travelling down her face, gathering in a thin stream on her jawline and dripping onto her beige T-shirt.
‘There’s nothing to be gained from going over old ground, is there? All that will do is make us feel upset and miserable. And I don’t know about you, but I’ve had a gutful of feeling upset and miserable. I want to be happy for a change. I want us to be happy.’ He sits down, pulling Lauren down with him. ‘What happened is in the past. Your mother and I had our problems but that doesn’t mean we have to go on brooding over it.’
‘I agree,’ she says hastily, crumpling the letter up in her hand.
He takes it from her, the paper sharp and cold against his skin. ‘So, can we get rid of it now please?’
Lauren watches as he throws it in the bin behind them where it lands in a heap.
‘Good riddance to bad rubbish, eh? Now, can we have a relaxing day with no more unpleasant memories to rake through?’ He smiles at her, relieved that that particular conversation is over with. Togetherness, he thinks fondly. That’s what they need more of in this house. A bond that draws the two of them together. No more talk of Sophia’s murder. No more reminders of his wife’s lover. Just him and his daughter. And Alice. He doesn’t want to forget about Alice.
‘Tell you what,’ Lauren says wistfully. ‘Why don’t we watch an old film, get some crisps and chocolate and just pig out like a pair of old slobs?’
He rests his head back on the sofa, surprisingly enamoured by the idea. He’s tired, every nerve, every muscle and sinew in his body crying out for respite. He’s ready to do nothing except lie back and be entertained by some mind-numbing movie that will glide over him and not force him to think too hard about Sophia and Phillip, about his own actions. About what he did. ‘You’re on. What you got?’ His voice echoes in his head, incorporeal and eerie, memories of that day still present, nagging at him, refusing to leave him be.
He had followed Sophia the night she was murdered, salting himself away behind trees and shrubbery as she headed along the path that ran parallel to the riverbank. She had told him she was going to meet up with some colleagues for a drink. He knew different. She was going to meet him – Kennedy. It was obvious in her body language, her tone, the way she put on another coat of lipstick and fluffed up her hair. This was no ordinary walk. It was a clandestine meeting.
Still dressed in her work clothes, she left the house, hands slung in the pockets of her coat, head dipped against the gathering breeze.
Knowing that Lauren was upstairs studying, her head buried in a book, Peter took the opportunity and slipped out into the night after his wife, his heart battering beneath his ribcage like a trapped bird, its wings fluttering wildly in a frantic bid for freedom.
‘How about this one, Dad?’ Lauren is standing in front of him holding up one of her firm favourites – Dirty Dancing.
He groans, shuts his eyes and listens to her laughter and she slips the disc into the machine and turns up the volume. Peter allows himself to be carried away by the noise, the music, the distant crackle of chattering voices. Anything is better than the continual whispering that storms through his head day after day after day, telling him that he is the guilty one, that he is the one who is responsible. That he is actually the one who killed his own wife.
15ALICE
‘Alice, I don’t suppose you’ve come across an old receipt, have you? I seem to have mislaid it.’ Jack is standing next to me, his face flushed, perspiration standing out on his top lip. He is wringing his hands, his knuckles making a sharp, cracking sound.
‘No, not that I recall,’ I say, keeping my expression neutral. ‘What sort of receipt?’
He hops from foot to foot, his usual cool demeanour absent. ‘Oh, nothing too important. It’s just for a meal I paid for recently for some clients at work. If you stumble across it, could you pass it onto me, please.’ He smiles at me and winks conspiratorially. ‘And it would be really helpful if we could keep this little mistake of mine between the two of us. Elizabeth gets rather riled at the amount of money I spend on some of my customers, so if you wouldn’t mind…?’
I give him a smile, indicating that I will keep our little secret between just the two of us, nodding and lowering my gaze away from his. Doing my best to look discreet, humble, unassuming. ‘Of course. No problem at all.’
He heads off in a different direction, his shoulders ever so slightly slumped. He’s definitely nervous and agitated. Jack is a cool customer, playing everything to perfection. Always the consummate professional, his behaviour is often difficult to decipher. But not today. Today, he is off balance, his usual reserved composure absent. It doesn’t trouble me too much. I have the receipt. I hold all the cards. I think about that small piece of paper that is laid out on my kitchen table at home, all the secrets it holds. And now it’s mine. For all the locked doors in this place and immaculately placed objects, I have finally managed to procure a piece of evidence that could damage their perfect little lives, perhaps irrevocably.
I spend the remainder of the afternoon vacuuming the children’s bedrooms, wondering who the woman is that he took out to that restaurant, what she looks like, where she lives. Not that it matters. I know about her and that’s enough. And I’m almost certain he knows that I know. I hum as I shake the rug and run the vacuum over it. It feels good to wield some power. For so long now, I have been scrambling around in the dirt, trying to make ends meet, wondering where the next nasty surprise is coming from and now, I have a way out of it. A way of making sure Jack Downey gives me what I want to keep his tawdry little secret away from his unsuspecting wife.
‘Alice, if you wouldn’t mind giving the surfaces a dust down before you go, that would be marvellous.’ Elizabeth is striding along the wide landing, her attention already fixated on something else. Her long skirt swishes along the rug as she glides down the stairs and click-clacks her way across the parquet flooring of the large hallway. I wonder what she does with her time, how she manages to appear so busy whilst doing absolutely nothing at all. I cannot remember the last time I saw her do any household chores, if indeed I’ve ever seen her do any at all.
Perhaps she has a secret lover as well. Maybe this is how the Downeys live their lives, with clandestine flirtations and liaisons and my hanging on to that receipt is a pointless exercise. Except I don’t think that’s the case at all. I think Jack Downey appeared very nervous and is desperate to get it back.
I pick up a duster and bite at my lip to suppress my excitement. It might be worth my while to snoop a little more. Not too much. Things suddenly going missing would look suspicious. For now, I have a piece of incriminating evidence, something he is keen to retrieve. I wonder how much he will part with to keep me quiet? I need to make it worth my while, perhaps find something else to raise the price of my silence because afterwards, he will find a way to fire me. If he dares, that is. I’m not so stupid as to hand it over without taking a photograph of it first. A photograph I could pass on to his wife. This all rather outlandish, and so very delicious. Elizabeth often goes out shopping leaving her husband alone in the house while I clean and look after her children. I could approach him then, let him know I have the evidence of his infidelity.
A frisson of excitement runs through me, firing up my senses. This and Peter, all within my grasp. And not before time. My downward-plummeting life appears to be taking an upturn. Perhaps my visits to church have paid off and God is finally smiling down on me.
None of the surfaces need dusting. They gleam and shine like cut glass but I dust them anyway. Fionn and Yasmin are at school and I’m not due to collect them for another half hour. There is little else for me to do around here. I have scrubbed surfaces, ironed, washed windows and swept floors Cinderella-style until my back aches and my temper frays. This house couldn’t be any cleaner if I tried.
It’s as I’m moving a pile of books in the library to dust behind them that I see it – a small, clear packet, sealed and full of white powder.
My heart thumps, a slight sheen of sweat breaking out under my armpits. A thousand thoughts run through my head – if I pick this thing up, my prints will be on it. What evidence do I have that it belongs to either of these two people and not to me? If I were to produce it and show it to them, they could claim that I brought it in the house and planted it there. My palms are slick with sweat as I pull out my phone and take a photograph of it without even touching the packet. I push the books back in place and head into the kitchen where I snap on a pair of latex gloves then make my way back to the library, stopping first to check for any signs or sounds of movement. There is nothing. This is a dead house, no love in it, no vibrancy. A house full of emptiness. Aside from the pristine furniture and expensive-looking trinkets, there is nothing at all to indicate that anybody even lives here. It’s as if spirits and ghosts roam the place, sailing past in a cold, invisible haze. They have everything anybody could ever want, these people, except the one thing that matters – love.
I check over my shoulder before moving everything again, picking up the packet and slipping it into my pocket. It weighs next to nothing yet feels as heavy as a brick as I carefully put the books back in place. I need to put this somewhere safe while I pick up the children from school. The thought of having it on me while I am standing there outside the gates, waiting for them to come out sends a shiver down my spine. Too risky by far.
My leather handbag is filled with detritus – old tissues, discarded lipsticks, loose coins that have fallen out of my purse. I open a side pocket inside and place the packet in there, zipping it up. Then I put the bag in a locker in the utility room that the Downeys provided for my belongings. I lock everything away, satisfied that it will be secure while I’m out of the house for the next half hour. I could present the picture and the evidence to Jack right now but time is against me. This type of thing shouldn’t be hurried. It takes careful planning. Just like the receipt, I have already decided that I will wait until one of them approaches me and asks if I have seen it, and then I will strike. I will produce the photograph and ask them to name their price so that their secret stays with me and doesn’t make it to the police or the school or social services. The Downeys are proud people. Prestige and wealth mean a lot to them, as does how they are perceived by others. Such a scandal would break them.
‘I’m going to pick the children up from school!’ Neither of them responds. They rarely do. They will have heard me for sure but in this house, my words carry no weight, sailing over their heads, unwanted and unacknowledged. But soon, they will take notice of what I have to say. They will be very interested when I speak, jumping to attention, desperate to quieten me down and supress any possible shame that may come their way.
I leave the house with a spring in my step, my body lighter than air. It was only a matter of time. The Downeys of the world are too complacent, too damn arrogant to think they are incapable of ever making mistakes. I smile as the sun hits my face, its rays beating down on my cold flesh. If this is what they leave lying around the rooms that I am allowed to enter, what the hell are they hiding in those locked rooms? That bedroom and study must be a minefield of secrets. The thought of getting in them makes my skin tingle with excitement. But of course, I don’t need to get inside them. I have enough to be going on with. A small packet of cocaine and a rogue receipt from a tryst with a lover is more than enough to get me what I want.
The sky is a little bit bluer, the clouds whiter, the sun that little bit brighter as I turn the corner and make my way towards the school, slipping among the crowds of parents standing outside the high, wrought-iron gates where I wait in silence.
16LAUREN
It’s been a long year and I was tired of feeling miserable, tired of seeing Dad so miserable. With Alice coming on the scene, maybe I can now look forward instead of continually looking backwards over my shoulder, analysing, questioning everything. I can think about university and there will be no guilt about leaving Dad on his own. I can see now that he’ll manage just fine without me.
The beep of my phone cuts into my thoughts, dragging me back to the here and now. A message flashes up from Josh. My face grows hot and my stomach goes into a spasm. Twice he has contacted me now. Twice since we got talking at the party he has asked if he can see me again. I thought it was the alcohol talking, his beer goggles skewing his judgement, but it appears he does actually like me and wants us to meet up.
