‘Long journey?’
‘The longest,’ he replies, shaking his head in exasperation at the sheer amount of traffic on the roads. Sometimes, he is sure the whole of England will sink under the weight of the all the concrete roads and the vehicles that pass over them and everyone will disappear into the surrounding sea. There are days when it is all too much: work and its constant demands, the traffic, the crowds and the noise, and today is one of those days.
‘Right. I’ll let you get on with eating your food then. I’m going to have a shower. Maybe we can speak later?’
Uneasiness stirs within him. He is all at once racked with guilt but also infuriated at Lauren’s lack of understanding at his position. Can she not see how tired he is? How long a day it’s been for him? And yet she still wants to corner him about those fucking stupid books – a handful of old books that have probably fallen apart with age.
He lays down his cutlery and dabs at my mouth. ‘No. I’m almost done here. I’d rather do this now and then I can relax for the rest of the evening.’
Lauren nods and raises her eyebrows as if to tell him to calm down and that he is being sharp and unreasonable with his gruff manner and voice, and then sits down opposite, her elbows resting on the table.
‘So,’ he murmurs, impatience rising within him. He thinks of a hot bath and visualises a pint of beer while formulating the next sentence in his head. He also thinks of Alice and pictures her naked in his bed. ‘You wanted to chat about Sophia’s damaged books?’
‘They’re ruined.’ Lauren’s words are sharp, cutting through the air like a knife being thrown his way. ‘There is no way they can be salvaged or repaired. I didn’t do it and I’m pretty sure you didn’t do it. And it definitely wasn’t Grandma on her last visit here. So how did they get like that?’
He tries to suppress his sigh, closing his eyes briefly while searching for the right words. ‘Maybe they’ve been like that for ages? When was the last time you opened any of them?’ He wants to tell her that maybe Sophia did it after one of their monumental rows, that in a rage, she took it upon herself to ruin her own belongings, just because she could. Just because she was Sophia, the killer of marriages. The destroyer of hearts.
‘A month ago. I look at them on a regular basis. I’m reading one of them at the minute. It’s on my bedside cabinet.’
Lauren is lying, doing her best to catch him out, to make him delve deeper into this less-than-catastrophic event, something that matters so little to him, it barely registers as an event at all.
He doesn’t want an argument and doesn’t know how to answer her statement so instead, shakes his head and stands up, the chair scraping across the floor. He is all out of words, all out of suggestions and all out of energy and patience. Here they go again, Lauren blind to the truth of what sort of person her mother really was. Blind to how difficult she made their lives with her callous behaviour and thoughtless endeavours. Peter knows he is no saint, not by any stretch of the imagination but Sophia took being cruel to a whole new level.
‘I’m going to run a bath. I’m really tired, Lauren. I have no idea what happened to those books. No idea at all. As you say, neither of us did it. Maybe it will always be one of life’s great mysteries.’
‘You don’t seem at all bothered.’ She is glaring at him now, her eyes dark with undisguised annoyance.
‘Look, sweetheart. Your mum bought these books mainly from second-hand shops. They’re not valuable first editions. Some of them were well thumbed to begin with. Books get old, they fall apart. It happens. I really don’t know what you want me to do.’
She pushes back her chair with force and storms out of the room, returning before he has a chance to say or do anything, her arms loaded up with paperbacks. They drop onto the table and she lifts them up one by one and opens them, showing Peter the damage. A patter takes hold in his chest as page after page drops out, some of them scrawled on with a black pen. Others have been torn into tiny scraps and placed back inside. The pieces float out and flutter onto the table in tiny, featherlike strips. He has no words, no idea what to say. A pulse starts up in his neck, thick and fast.
‘So, you were saying?’
‘I don’t know, Lauren. I don’t have a bloody clue what has happened here. What are your thoughts?’
She sucks at her teeth, screws up her eyes and narrows them, suspicion pulsating from her in great waves. ‘I’d rather not say.’
A bolt of electricity soars through him. ‘What do you mean, you’d rather not say? Why are we even having this conversation if you’re not prepared to speak about it?’ He is shouting now, unable to help himself, tiredness controlling his emotions. Things were looking up, they really were and now his daughter is throwing a hand grenade of unfathomable little problems at him, then stepping back and watching as it explodes, the shrapnel embedding itself in his skin. ‘I mean, what the hell are you expecting me to do about it?’
She scoops up the books and paper, stuffing them back in with clumsy, trembling fingers. Her expression is dark, full of anger. He wants to close his eyes, make it all go away, the memory of the journey home still imprinted in his mind. This day cannot end soon enough.
‘Look,’ he murmurs, his weariness, his desperation to shut this thing down deepening with every passing second. It feels as if it is seeping out through his pores. ‘Sit back down. I’m sorry I shouted. It’s been a tough one today. I’m really tired. I’m not sure what it is you want me to do?’
Peter sighs, rubs at the stubble on his chin, the sharp, grating sound reverberating through his head. ‘I’m not really sure what the point is, Lauren. We don’t know how the books ended up like this, and to be perfectly honest, is it really that important an issue? We were doing really well, you and I. Let’s not step backwards and ruin what we’ve achieved, eh?’
‘First the rock getting thrown through the window and now this. Does it not strike you as strange?’ She drums her fingers on the edge of the chair and glances away. He can see the throb of anxiety in her neck, the pink flush of her skin. Something is rattling her, something more than defaced books and broken glass. Peter swallows, uncertain of what is coming next.
‘I didn’t want to say this because I do really like her, so please don’t fly off the handle, but what do you know about Alice? How well do you know her?’
Her question takes him by surprise. He struggles to make the connection between Alice and these books. Alice and the smashed window. A small hurricane whirls through Peter’s head.
‘I don’t know what you mean?’
The noise Lauren makes as she drums her fingernails rattles his nerves, tearing at his sensibilities.
‘I really like her, Dad, you know I do, but she is the only other person who has been in the house besides you and me. I’m not accusing her, not directly, but as you said, grief can do strange things to a person, and she lost her husband, didn’t she? Maybe she is still struggling and has moments of uncontrollable misery and anger?’ His daughter sits back, expectation on her face.
His thoughts travel at 100 mph while the world has slowed down around him, dulling his vision, blurring his logic. He simply cannot believe that Lauren is even considering this as a possibility. Rather than answer, Peter shakes his head and stands up, chest tight, flesh burning.
Without saying another word, he leaves the room, heads upstairs to the bedroom and slams the door hard behind him.
28LAUREN
Oh God. I’ve done it now. I’ve opened my mouth and ruined everything. It’s just that I don’t know what else to do or say. The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that something is wrong in this house. I can’t put my finger on it and I have nothing to link Alice to what has taken place here.
Maybe I shouldn’t have blamed her. Or maybe it’s about time we started speaking the truth around this place. I knew he wouldn’t take it too well but didn’t expect him to storm out of the room. Dad isn’t by nature, a stormer. He endured a lot with Mum, tolerating more than many. Perhaps I’m not thinking straight. Perhaps this is the part when everything starts to unravel. Shame really. We were doing so well together, Dad and me, and now I’ve broken that spell. I’m going to have to work hard at getting that feeling back. I think maybe I should start with an apology. I’m going to wait until he’s calmed down and then I’ll grovel and scrape and tell him how sorry I am and just hope that he softens, sees it through clearer eyes. He’s fallen for her big style, and to be honest, I did too.
But then things started happening. Weird things. Unexplainable things. And I don’t like it. Not one little bit. It makes me jittery, out of sorts. I worry that she knows. We have so much buried in this house, so many secrets. Too much to lose should they ever emerge.
It occurred to me earlier, when I was thinking about all of this, after my grim find, that we don’t even know Alice’s last name. We know so little about her. That makes me uneasy. It certainly wasn’t the glazier who damaged the books. He didn’t leave the hallway or go anywhere else in the house. And as for Grandma – that’s a laughable idea. Besides, she hasn’t been round for a few weeks.
Which leaves only Alice. I didn’t and don’t want it to be her. She seems really nice. Genuine. I think. But appearances can be deceptive, can’t they? I mean, look at Mum and Dad. Look at me.
Still, we’ve lightened a lot in this house since meeting Alice and now with my accusations and suppositions, I’ve dragged us back to where we were before she made an appearance. A horrible thought grows within me. What if it was Dad who did the damage? I’ve read about people who get really angry after the death of their spouse. Maybe he did this and sort of lost control and has since blocked it out of his mind? Or even worse, what if it was me? Who knows what we are all capable of? The past year has turned everything on its head, pushed us to our limits. Exposed our weaknesses. And our strengths. Sometimes, we need to tear things down to build them back up again, better and stronger than they were before.
My heart bashes around my chest as I stand up and shrug on my jacket. I tie my hair back and rub at my face. I’ll think that perhaps a peace offering is in order – some chocolate or a cake. I can’t stand it when there’s an atmosphere in the house. Takes me back to before: the accusations and arguments. The awful lies.
I only wish I was old enough to buy him a bottle of wine. At this moment in time, fake ID seems like a good idea. Some people at college have it and now I wish I had one too. It’s not the worst crime, is it? I visualise myself getting caught, being arrested, Dad having to come along to the local police station to take me home after I’ve been questioned and cautioned. A year ago, the very idea would be enough to make me laugh. But not now. Not after what has happened. Because it could be the turning point, the catalyst that shatters our lives. Other things could crop up. Dirty, nasty secrets I don’t want anybody to know about. And once they were unearthed, there would be no going back.
