I gather up Yasmin and Fionn, aware that the young girl is watching me closely, evaluating my every move, wondering when I’m going to turn on her for being insolent or rude or for simply breathing too loudly.
‘Right, come on then. Let’s get going,’ I say breezily as I slip my feet into my shoes, my voice as light as air. ‘We don’t want to be late, do we?’
25LAUREN
I thought there would have been stricter rules when contacting a prisoner but it appears not. You simply write your letter, find out the address of the prison that your recipient is in, put a stamp on the envelope and post it. Voilà.
I finish writing and lean back, reading it over and over, wondering if I’ve said too much, thinking perhaps I’ve not said enough.
My back aches from sitting here, poring over every word, every single sentence. My handwriting looks like a childish scrawl; I’m more accustomed to using a keyboard and seem to have lost some of my fine motor skills when it comes to presentable cursive script but don’t care enough about this man to try to change or improve it. Who cares what he thinks? He’s a nobody.
I take a quick break, flexing my fingers and draining my glass of juice before starting again. I write up a final draft, making sure it’s neat and legible and read it out loud, my voice echoing around the room, knowing before I even hear the words written there that they will mean nothing to him. Why would they? We both know the truth of the matter. Or at least I do. I need to write this letter, for people to know that I was and still am a good daughter. That I’m on my mum’s side. That I am not a devious miscreant.
Dear Mr Kennedy,
You may not wish to hear from me but I feel compelled to write to you. It’s been a year since my mum died and only now have my dad and I begun to move on with our lives. Twelve whole months of getting up every day knowing we will never see her again.
I guess you’re wondering why I’m writing to you. I found one of your texts, one of many that you sent to Mum. She had tried to break it off with you but you refused to accept it. I didn’t show it to the police. There was no need. The evidence against you was damning enough. You were seen on CCTV footage heading in the direction to where Mum’s body was found. They had other text messages showing how angry you were at her, how you threatened to tell my dad about your affair if she didn’t agree to carry on seeing you.
I expect you will ignore this letter, throw it away and carry on with your delusional behaviour, blaming anybody but yourself for your cowardly actions. For breaking up our family. You’re in jail now anyway so it’s not as if an admission could make things any worse. You have nothing to lose by telling the truth, but we have plenty to gain.
When I first started writing this letter, I promised myself I would remain calm and not resort to insults but it’s so difficult. I’ll bet you understand that feeling, don’t you? You know what it’s like to want somebody in your life and not be able to have them there with you. You’ll know how the anger can fester and take over in their absence. You have a lot of time on your hands now to recognise that sensation.
I don’t expect a reply from you and doubt I will write any more letters. I just needed to send this one, to let you know that we are moving on from that period of our lives, leaving it far behind us. I wish you everything you wish for yourself and bear you no malice. Life has to carry on.
Lauren Saunders
My stomach is in knots as I put my letter in an envelope, seal it up and place a stamp on it. I leave the house with it clutched between my fingers and walk the short distance to the post-box. I know Dad wouldn’t necessarily approve of what I’m doing but I’m seventeen years old and know my own mind. I have a right to do this. I want to do it. I have to do it. I’ve got my own reasons for writing it, a sort of insurance policy should things turn sour and everything comes undone. It’s a way of making sure nobody can ever harm me or think badly of me if at some point, my own secrets come spilling out. I’m a good daughter. The best.
I feel lighter as I drop it in the post-box and head back home. It makes me feel one step closer to normality. One step closer to getting back to who I really am.
Alice is on my mind as I head back home. I’m glad she is here in our lives. Dad appears to have stopped going to church to take part in the grief sessions. Alice has stepped in and filled that void. I should be happy, I know that.
Perhaps it’s my sixth sense, perhaps it’s Dad’s new and unexpected ability to fall in love again, or maybe it’s what I find when I get back home that alters my thinking, pushing me in a different direction.
26ALICE
Yasmin slips her phone away into her pocket. I catch her eye as she does it and watch her lower her gaze. ‘I’ll give it to you when we get there, I promise.’ Her voice is expressionless – no nuance in her tone to indicate how she is feeling. Nothing for me to go on.
I nod and we walk, the sun at our backs, the roar of the passing traffic thunderous beside us.
Fionn is his usual self: a small, excitable boy who lives for the moment and wears his heart on his sleeve. He points out where his friends live, pats a passing dog and tells me about being chosen for the school cricket team. Yasmin speaks rarely, smiling at Fionn as he pets the Dachshund, commenting on its tiny legs and elongated body.
The usual crowd are there milling about outside the gates as we arrive. Expensive, sleek cars line the road. An array of immaculately dressed children wearing bottle-green uniforms spill out onto the pavement from the vehicles, armed with bags and violin cases and sports bags.
I turn to face Yasmin, who is already rummaging for her mobile, her eyes once again dipped away from mine.
‘Bye, Alice. See you tonight.’ Fionn hugs my midriff and skips off down the long path and into the courtyard, not waiting for his sister to go with him. I am delighted at his confidence and how he has warmed to me. It actually feels surprisingly good to be needed by somebody so small.
‘Here you go.’ Yasmin slaps her phone down onto my outstretched, awaiting palm, a frown creasing her forehead.
I lean down to her, aware she is forgetting, aware that she needs a stern reminder as to who is boss in this relationship. I turn and smile at a passing parent, who gives me a curt nod, and then hiss into Yasmin’s ear. ‘Remember your manners, young lady. And never forget who’s in charge around here. Just think about those messages on Snapchat and TikTok and all those other social media sites you’re not even supposed to be on. You wouldn’t want your parents finding about them now, would you?’
She shakes her head but from her expression, the fear that I need to keep her under control appears to be waning. She flicks a sullen glance at me and walks away.
‘Yasmin?’
She spins around, her eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun.
‘I’ll pick you up tonight. Have a good day, sweetheart.’
She stands and fiddles with the sleeve of her blazer, faltering and unsure how to respond to my sweeter-than-sweet tone. This is what happens when young girls get ideas above their station and start backchatting, thinking they can be on a level with the adults in their life. They get torn down and have to think very carefully before they speak. She’ll learn how to deal with me soon enough. It may be the hard way but she will eventually get the message that I won’t tolerate any of her nonsense. She is a child and I am an adult, the one tasked with looking after her. My remit, my rules and that’s all there is to it.
‘Right, okay. See you later.’ There’s a tremor in her voice, a slight difference to her usual poised self. I will need to keep chipping away at her to make sure she stays scared and biddable.
On the way back, I decide that I will rummage through Yasmin’s belongings while she’s at school, get some real background on her. I can only use the messages yarn for so long. A girl as savvy as Yasmin will have something else to hide; I am sure of it. She may only be nine years old but thinks of herself as much older. She will have access to things that most nine-year-olds can only dream of. I am certain that there is something locked away in her room she would rather remain hidden. All this could have been avoided if she had been more amenable, less voluble and disrespectful.
From the outside, the Downeys’ property exudes privilege and tranquillity with its sweeping drive and Tudor-style beams flanking the huge, oak door. If only people had an idea of what goes on inside this house, how this family operates with their dysfunctional ways and illegal activities. The idea that it’s only poorer households that run amok and damage their children emotionally is a myth. Jack and Elizabeth Downey have the life they deserve and young Yasmin is a product of her upbringing with her private schooling and a distinct lack of parental guidance over how she spends her free time, allowing the girl to frequent chatrooms and social media sites, many of which will lead her down a dangerous path.
I turn the handle of the side door that I use as my entrance and find it locked. I try my key which rotates as it should and push at the door, trying to nudge it forwards. It remains closed. The bolt has been slid across.
My breath gains in momentum. I see what is going on here. Jack has limited my access, forcing me to knock to get inside. This is a point-scoring exercise, a way of letting me know that he is in charge here and is calling all the shots. He isn’t. This may well be his house but I’m the one with the secrets that could blow his little world apart.
I knock and wait, listening out for his footsteps across the hallway but hear nothing. Pins and needles start up in my fingertips, tiny pinpricks of fear and irritation stabbing at me. I flex my hands and a tic take hold in my jaw as I rap against the glass and wait.
‘Here’s the rest of your money.’ Jack’s voice behind me catches me by surprise. I spin around and see him standing there, a smirk on his face as he thrusts an envelope at me. ‘Your services are no longer required. I’ve given you double the amount we agreed. Now do me a favour and fuck off.’
