They speak when spoken to, Greg’s voice rough and throaty, Kim’s a whisper, scarcely a noise at all: a baby breath, soft. Innocent. I want to go over there, sit myself between them, all of us huddled together for comfort. It’s alien watching them being questioned. I don’t like it. I am still trying to come to terms with the recent restructuring of our relationship. Is this something we need to reveal to the police? Lying solves nothing, that much I do know. What if they find out? It will surely arouse their suspicions, make them think there’s more to discover, that we are hiding the truth from them. Maybe we are.
I shudder. Everything is fragmented, an unfixable mess. I am suddenly fatigued, a wave of exhaustion hitting me side on. My eyes are heavy. I close them, rest my head on Gemma’s shoulder and wish it all away.
32 THE NIGHT HE LEFT
John Goodwill stirs in his sleep, a noise waking him. He sits up, his skin prickling with annoyance. He doesn’t like noises at night and he doesn’t like being woken abruptly. This is his house, his rules. Nobody breaks them. Nobody.
He flicks on the bedside lamp. Sylvie’s not there. Her side of the bed is smooth and cold. His annoyance quickly turns to anger: full-blown, white-hot fury. She has no right to be up wandering at this hour. Where the hell is she? That woman causes him no end of problems. All he asks is to be left to do his own thing and to sleep soundly at night. He’s the breadwinner of this family. He deserves a little respect. And if they don’t show him any, he will be forced to do stuff he doesn’t like to do. They know this, this weak-willed family of his, so why do they continue to rile him, ignoring his rules, bending and breaking them as if they are nothing of note?
The floor is cold beneath his feet. He searches for his slippers, decides to find his boots instead. Slippers appear softer, less edgy. And right now, he is very edgy indeed. He wants to come across as authoritative. Tough. Somebody to be reckoned with.
A distant noise stops him as he rummages at the back of the wardrobe for a thick sweater. He turns, listens, his scalp crinkling, the skin on his neck puckering. Voices. He can hear voices. Another step, then another. He is standing next to the window, listening. They’re coming from outside, the voices.
He moves the curtains to one side, squints. And sees them. Anger, panic, dread course through him. He thinks he knows what’s going on here. She threatened him with it last week. He laughed, told her to shut her mouth, that she was making things up, had an overactive imagination. A filthy mind. That’s what he told her she had, to be thinking such thoughts. To accuse him of such things. A filthy fucking mind.
‘You’ve cooked all this up to spite me!’ he had shouted.
She had cowered. Damn right she cowered. With a mouth like that. With ideas like that. Who the hell did she think she was talking to?
He heads downstairs then thinks better of it, stepping back up and peering into his eldest daughter’s room. She is lying there, a still mound under the bedsheets. No sound of her breathing. No noise at all. ‘Kim? You awake?’
No response. Just a drawn-out silence that speak volumes. She’s awake. He knows it. She knows that he knows it. They’ve been lying to each other their entire lives. You can’t kid a kidder. Maybe she’s in on this little scheme, this plan his wife has cooked up. This secretive, fucking little plan that will split his family apart. He can’t let it happen. He won’t. She’s probably been down there already, joining in with whatever is going on.
He backs out of the room, heads downstairs. His head thumps. He didn’t know Sylvie had it in her. The fucking gall of that woman. The fucking gall of her!
At the bottom of the stairs stand his shoes. He pushes his feet into them, ties his laces, a rough attempt with clumsy fingers that makes him cross and sweaty. He gives up, shoving the laces down the side of his boots. Too long. Everything is taking too damn long. It could be over by the time he gets out there. They could be gone. And he can’t allow that to happen. This is his family. He can do whatever he likes with them. Nobody takes them away from him, least of all that fucking woman and her interfering old hag of a mother. She’ll be involved somewhere along the line. He just knows it. Silly cow. He never did like her and the feeling, he knows, is mutual.
He never could understand why they’re still so close, his wife and her mother. They’re both adults, have their own lives and should have cut the cord a long time ago. What is it with that family and their need to constantly be in touch with each other? He broke away from own parents years back. They taught him discipline, how to be independent, not ruled by his emotions. It’s the only way. He’s tried to instil it in his own kids, teach them that being soft gets you nowhere.
She fought against him, Sylvie, bucking back every time he laid down the law. She soon saw his point of view once he showed her who the man of the house was. He didn’t enjoy using his fists but what else could he do? If she had done as she was told, taken his words of wisdom, it wouldn’t have happened. Things would have been smoother, easier. All of their problems are her doing.
The back door is ajar. He rolls his eyes, lets out a deep, irritated sigh. She doesn’t even have the common sense to shut it, to cover her tracks and stop him from following her. Stupid bitch. She could have locked it, trapped him inside. But then, she knew what would happen next. How it would end. Maybe she’s not a stupid as she makes out. His house, his rules.
It’s cold out; the rain has just stopped. The ground is spongy under his feet, the lawn slippery as he heads over the where the noise is coming from.
He sees the boy first, his crop of hair bobbing about. They’re at the bottom of the garden. He’s still in his pyjamas and slippers, for God’s sake. What the hell is she thinking? John marches over to them, grabs the boy’s hand, pulls him away. Sylvie turns, glowers at him then ducks, her hands covering her head. She’s expecting something, his fist connecting with her face. A slap, maybe. Or a solid punch that will knock some sense into her. Not now. Not here. He’ll wait until they get back inside before he deals with her. Then she’ll know. Then she’ll regret what she is trying to do, wish she hadn’t even attempted it.
‘Nobody takes my kid from me. Nobody. Understand?’ His voice is a whisper. This is a private moment. He needs to get them back inside. Prying eyes and all that. That miserable old bastard next door might see them. He can’t risk that, have Ted Waters blabbing his mouth all around town.
She nods, her chin wobbling, eyes wide. She thought she could get away with this. Is she mad? Has she not learned by now who it is she is dealing with? The lengths he will go to look after and control his family?
Then she grabs at Simon again, pulling at the lad’s arm, trying to get him close to her so she can take him, salt him away somewhere: probably at her mother’s house. That’ll be her plan – drive him up to Northumberland, thinking he’ll be safe there. He won’t. Simon is his boy, his property. He stays here, in this house with his family. It’s where he belongs, where he will always remain.
A tug of war ensues, Sylvie pulling the boy one way, his father pulling him another. The youngster starts to cry. Great big sobs, his chest heaving. John needs to shut him up, show him how to behave properly, like a man, not a big baby. He won’t have any child of his growing up a sissy. He should have been tougher with him over the years, shown him how to stand up for himself, not let him whimper and moan like a big, blubbering idiot.
He doesn’t hit Simon hard: no more than a light slap. Barely a touch at all. Sylvie staggers backwards, the lad’s hand still clutched in hers. They stumble about together, unable to stay upright, the momentum of the tug of war, the hit, sending them reeling. The boy lets go of his mother’s hand, his feet unsteady as he slips on the wet paving slabs and slams head first into the brick coalhouse. A sickening crack. He falls to the floor. Unmoving. Still. A crumpled heap.
It all happens so suddenly. John rounds on Sylvie, hisses at her, telling her it’s all her fault. She was going to drive him to her parents’ house, take his son from him. This is on her. She shouldn’t have grabbed him, shouldn’t have tried to fight him, to go against his wishes. If she hadn’t taken him from the house, snatching him out of his bed in the middle of the night, none of this would be taking place.
Sylvie is down on her knees, cradling her son, whispering his name over and over. His body is floppy, unresponsive, his eyes open, no sign of life there.
‘This is your fault, you stupid bitch. You did this. You killed him. You murdered your own son…’
33
Kim was asleep when he looked in on her. She had already been down there but came back to bed, terror coursing through her. It’s her default emotion. Her whole life, one big rollercoaster of panic and dread.
They’re out there right now, arguing. She saw them earlier but ducked out of view for fear of being seen. This is her fault. She did this, speaking to her mum, telling her what was going on. Not that her mum didn’t already know. She knew. She definitely knew.
Kim’s words caused something inside her mother to snap. She was able to see it in her face, the way her eyes turned dark, her face draining of all colour. It was the final straw. Something had to be done, it’s just that Kim didn’t know what that final thing was going to be, how it would look. As a family, they have so few options, nowhere to turn. Nobody to step in and help. She guesses that Mum was trying to take him to Grandma’s house, somewhere away from here. Somewhere he would be safe. But it looks as if that’s not going to happen. He woke, their enemy. Her father. He has intercepted her plan. Stopped her.
Kim kneels on the bed, pulls the curtains aside, sees them down there, their body movements jerky and aggressive. Her heart is battering like a drum. Something awful has happened, she can tell. Something worse than what takes place in this house day after day, night after night. As if anything could be worse than that.
Her father picks up Simon and carries him across the garden. Her little brother isn’t moving. Oh dear God, he isn’t moving.
The room spins and slopes, everything warping, sliding away from her. What’s wrong with Simon? Where is he taking him?
She lies back on the bed, chest tight, breathing shallow. She’s too frightened to look out, to watch what he’s going to do next. Everything is a whirling vortex, her tiny, damaged world spinning out of control. She thought things couldn’t get any worse. She was wrong.
Time is an empty concept, a painful, immeasurable thing. Nothing makes any sense. Or maybe it does. If she’s going to be honest with herself, it makes perfect sense. Something was always going to happen. Just not this. She never anticipated this.
They’re still out there. She is back up on the bed, peering out into the darkness, half hidden in the shadows. There’s movement down the side of the shed. Her father appears, his face veiled, his expression unreadable. Down on her knees beside him is her mother, her hands spread out on the ground. And then something else – a smaller shadow walking towards them. A child. She sucks in her breath. Her throat tightens. It’s Grace. She’s out there again, making her way towards them. Sleepwalking. Again. And no Simon. Oh God. No Simon. Where the fuck is Simon?
Terror pulses through her. This is all too much. Out of control. Their damaged, dysfunctional family is unspooling, falling apart, all their badness and wickedness fighting its way out into the open where everyone can see it.
Feet unsteady, her breath ragged, she races downstairs and sees him. He’s carrying her through the kitchen, Grace. Her sister. Her child. She is slumped in her father’s arms. Is she asleep? Unconscious? Kim swallows, pushes her fingers through her hair wearily. Is she dead? Their dad is capable of doing this. She knows it, he knows it. He is capable of anything. Anything at all.
She grapples with him, pulls Grace from his arms, feels the weight of her as she wraps herself around the child’s body, snuggling her in. He doesn’t resist. For once. For once, she has the upper hand, can move away from him without a fight.
