The Perfect Family Page 10

  No! No! No!

  Denial rips through me, but the truth lies in front of me in Annabel’s own childish words, written with too much feeling to be made up—not that Annabel ever told fibs. I trusted her absolutely—Aidan, too. I always told them that there was no truth so bad that I would ever stop loving them, and that it was far better to tell that truth so that I could do something about it. Help them. But I didn’t help her; I didn’t know.

  She didn’t tell me . . .

  Why didn’t she tell me?

  I rock back and forth with the agony of what her silence implies about our relationship, as much as the terrible truth it concealed. The thought that she felt, for whatever reason, that she needed to keep this awful thing a secret from me, her mum, cuts deep. I failed her. I failed her not once, but twice. And now it’s too late to put it right, any of it . . .

  But I need to go on; I need to know more. Who was the monster that did this to my daughter? Frantically, I scan the pages, skimming through them at speed, my eyes glancing here and there across my daughter’s curly, looping handwriting, desperately looking for a name, a clue . . .

  There is nothing.

  I try not to crumble beneath the sense of failure that presses down on me. All this time I thought I was unpicking my own story, but I’ve been looking in completely the wrong direction. Eyes down, thoughts inward—methodically, step by step, I’ve been trying to piece everything together, building a neat tower of all the fragments I’ve managed to pick out of the heavy haze in my traumatized mind, all the tiny clues that I’ve winkled out and stacked up, higher and higher, hoping that at some point I will be able to climb right to the very top and look down, see the complete picture of what happened, where I went wrong . . .

  Now the tower has come crashing down, fragments scattering in every direction, and I can’t even begin to think how to piece them together.

  Think!

  Start at the corners and work inwards; that’s what Aidan always does, and he builds the most beautiful, elaborate jigsaws. He’ll be an engineer for sure one day.

  Stay focused! Run through the facts . . .

  My bag was packed and I had bought train tickets.

  My marriage was unhappy.

  Max was leaving messages on our phone.

  Someone was trying to touch my daughter . . .

  * * *

  Maternal instinct, like a powerful magnet, finally sucks all the pieces together; scattered neurotransmitters begin to collide, synapses whispering messages, connections forming at lightning speed. I think of Annabel lying so coldly beneath the rose bushes, her eyes staring up at the night sky. Her beautiful eyes gaze in one direction and the stars seem so haphazard, sprinkled randomly in a sprawling shapeless constellation. She turns her head slightly and a pattern emerges: shape, definition, identity . . .

  I close my eyes and reach out to my daughter in her flowery grave, and I feel a shockwave of recognition: the man—the monster—who was trying to entice my daughter must also be her killer. I feel it like a lightning bolt shooting through me. There was no tragic coincidence at play. Call it instinct—I simply don’t buy it. This wasn’t some random stranger who turned up on the morning of the twins’ birthday to spoil their day, to steal our lives. He was dressed in military fatigues, but he wasn’t a terrorist; he didn’t kill my daughter in the name of any religion or politics: it was strictly, deadly personal.

  “It’s always someone close to the family, isn’t it?” I remember Lucy saying when we were talking about a high-profile murder on the news one day, after dropping off the kids.

  How bitterly ironic that conversation feels in hindsight; I would never have imagined in my worst nightmares that my own family would become another such talking point at the school gate.

  “I know what you mean,” I replied. “They all sit there at the press conference, looking tearful and devastated, making their heartfelt pleas; and we’re all thinking the same thing: The husband did it!”

  “Awful, aren’t we?” Lucy said. “I’m sure it’s not always the case. Murders are sometimes committed by completely random lunatics on the rampage.”

  “Of course. Otherwise we’d all be checking our garden sheds every night for sharp implements, wouldn’t we?” I’d tried to make light of the subject, feeling a shiver down my spine at the terrible contemplation of a death in the family.

  “Still, it’s remarkable how often it turns out to be someone right under their noses,” Lucy added, shaking her head.

  Right under my nose.

  Yes, that was exactly it.

  But who? What would drive anyone to commit the unspeakable crime of hurting a child—a tiny, beautiful girl with skinny chopstick arms, a smile more luminous than the moon as she danced on the threshold of her life? The horror of this is so beyond humanity that anything seems possible. It defies logic; the normal rules of life simply can’t apply in such a situation.

  I wish I could remember, but trauma has cauterized huge chunks of my life, anything that is too painful to recall. And I’ve felt so fragile that I haven’t been able to bring myself to ask Dom to remind me of that day and what came after. All I’ve been able to do is look back to the past, hoping that would lead me to some kind of understanding. But it’s not enough. I need to know who did this, and I need to know now. He didn’t just take my daughter’s life; he made it a living hell. And then he killed her to protect his own guilt; to stop her telling tales about what he was doing to her behind closed doors.

  Why didn’t she tell me?

  Maybe she did threaten to tell, and that’s why he finally took action. Yet such a cowardly act could have been committed in secret. He didn’t have to wait for an audience; there was no need to stage a public execution. For that is clearly what it was. And he made me choose. He punished me, too, by making me complicit in his sickening crime. Why? Who would want to hurt me in such a dreadful way? And how could he even know I would choose Annabel, conveniently covering up what he’d been trying to do to her? It doesn’t make any sense.

  Think, Madeleine, think . . .

  I flee out of the room, wildly throwing open doors—my bedroom, Aidan’s room, the bathroom, airing cupboard—unsure what I’m looking for but just desperately hunting for something, a clue of any kind, anything that might jolt some kind of understanding into place. Almost flying down the stairs, I burst into the living room, eyes darting around, my fraught gaze resting on the piano, the sideboard, the sofa, the coffee table—the wood burner full of cold ashes . . . I need to find a newspaper, or my computer. Or my phone. I need to read my own headlines—the ones I’ve avoided, too terrified to know the full truth—and finally read in black and white what happened on the twins’ birthday.

  You have to do this.

  You owe it to Annabel—to Aidan . . . Stop hiding and start living again!

  But Dom has done his job well: he’s cleared the house, eradicating any possibility of chance encounters with distressing news stories. He’s protected me, just as he’s shouldered all the responsibility for dealing with the police, Annabel’s funeral, caring for Aidan . . . and meanwhile I’ve just fallen apart. I’ve remembered my fear of Dom, but I’ve forgotten his strength. His love. For me, and for our children. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own torment that I’ve overlooked his. But I have seen his agony; I’ve watched him plodding through the days since we lost Annabel, putting on a brave face for Aidan, keeping an icy wall between the two of us—patient, subdued, a shadow of the man he used to be . . .

  The stars realign, the pattern shifts, and I see the picture from a different angle. Dom has been punished too. Perhaps he was the one the killer wanted to hurt, not me. After all, he has lost both his precious daughter and his wife: I’ve been swallowed up by grief, our marriage hollowing to an empty shell. I try to think of anyone who might have a grudge against him. A disgruntled client? A vindictive rival? A neighbor he’s offended—a teacher? I grasp at straws, desperately needing to make sense of this senseless crime, b
ecause to live with the idea that Annabel’s death was just a meaningless, random act of violence by a complete stranger is beyond anything I can bear.

  But I’m sure there’s something I’m missing. My head is so jumbled I’m overlooking something right in front of me. I go back to the corners, trace around the edges, try once more to fill in the missing pieces. I retrace my own steps, think about the suitcase, the photo, the phone message . . . My heart starts pounding as I remember that message. Something about it bothers me.

  I’m waiting for you . . .

  And Annabel’s words, written days before her tenth birthday: He’s going to keep coming after me until he gets what he wants.

  Someone full of longing and desire, who wanted something so badly he wouldn’t stop until he possessed her—or destroyed her. Someone like the kindly uncle who idolized the beauty of a child he didn’t have himself, and became angry when she rejected him . . .

  EIGHTEEN

  My bedroom is quiet. I am exhausted, weightless, floating; I let myself fall into the darkness until it absorbs me. Softly a hand strokes my forehead and it soothes me. I burrow deeper into the cool sheets, their whiteness draping around me like a silken shroud, tighter and tighter . . . I let the dress slide down my arms, brush across my waist, clinging briefly to the curve of my pregnant belly, already full and hard at five months along.

  Twins!

  My mother was a fraternal twin, so I should have been prepared for the possibility, but it still seems like a miracle. I peel the cool ivory silk away from my hips and roll it down over my thighs, nerves fluttering into excited butterflies as my beautiful wedding dress ripples into a moonlit pool at my feet. I step out of it and look up into Dom’s blue eyes, loving the way they widen as he glances down at my ripe body pressing against him.

  “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. You’re all mine now, Maddie, and I’ll never, ever let you go.”

  He takes hold of my left hand and holds it gently, then presses it firmly so that I feel the platinum band (“Only the best for my wife!”) dig into my flesh. He twists and turns it, pushing it on, taking it off, rotating it round and round my finger. Fingertips caress upwards to my neck in long, languid strokes. A hand circles my throat; I feel the unexpected coldness of the skin and I frown. The pressure tightens and I can smell something acidic; it makes me cough. My body stiffens, all sense of peace and pleasure evaporating. I’m choking, gasping for air; I can’t breathe and I can’t call out. Pain screams in my head, as I see a bright light and hear a loud bang like an explosion; a blinding white flash burns across my eyelids. Breathless with fear I open them, and I’m buried in darkness.

  And I am alone.

  * * *

  Realization unlocks my fear: I was only dreaming.

  I lie rigid, trembling as I tell myself that I must have fallen asleep, exhausted from the emotion of reading Annabel’s diary and trying to work out who pursued her, hounded her—and then took her life. It was just a nightmare, but tattered remnants linger, caught in my skin like thorns. I can still feel the hands around my throat, squeezing, and my heart is racing as my memory fast-forwards to the present day: missing Annabel, yearning to hold her.

  What time is it? Are Dom and Aidan home yet?

  I’ve given up completely on the idea of leaving. The suitcase lies open next to my bed, but I don’t have the energy even to move. Despair weighs me down and I feel empty inside, and more lost than ever. I just need to see Dom. I need to ask him—I need him to tell me . . .

  I battle to stay awake, but my eyes can’t seem to stay open. I hear the sound of Aidan’s recorder and I struggle to sit up, my heart leaping at the thought of seeing him. They must be back.

  I want Aidan. I miss Annabel. I need to hold my son.

  But memories claw at me once more, dragging me back again to the past.

  NINETEEN

  “You shouldn’t have booked the leisure center for the party.” Dom was sitting upright in our bed, his broad shoulders hunched like a cliff face next to me. “I can’t afford it. The kids’ school fees are due this week. What the hell were you thinking?”

  It was the morning of the twins’ birthday, just before dawn. I wasn’t sure Dom had slept at all; I certainly hadn’t, and my body felt lethargic but also wired, on high alert. I could sense his agitation even in the semi-darkness. I’d been aware of it most of the night, lying next to him as he’d tossed and turned, my eyes firmly shut, body rigid as I tried not to give away that I’d heard him come in.

  “I was thinking that I wanted to give the twins a lovely party for their tenth birthday. With their friends. And do you know what’s really sad?” I tried to keep the bitterness out of my tone but it rankled that he was making a fuss about the cost of the party. He hadn’t shown the same frugality last night, judging by the way he’d lurched around our bedroom, bouncing off the walls when he tried to sneak in during the early hours. I could still smell the alcohol evaporating from his pores.

  “No, but you’re going to tell me, aren’t you?”

  “What’s sad is that every friend they’ve invited is from their old school. No one but the kids they’ve grown up with—the ones you don’t want them to have as friends any more because they haven’t got the right background, or the right sort of parents, or enough money to go to a posh school.”

  “Annabel loves that school,” he insisted, rubbing his hands tiredly over his eyes.

  “Does she?” I said, letting skepticism coat my words. Does she? I thought anxiously, wondering if this was one more thing she hadn’t felt able to tell me.

  “Yes, she does. She told me so,” he said, and I could hear the smug undertone.

  “When?” My voice was faint now.

  “What?”

  I could make out the glint of his eyes in his shadowy profile.

  “When did she tell you? Where were you? What were you doing?” I said more confidently, certain he was making it up to hurt me. I tried to think when Dom might have had a tête-à-tête with our daughter. He was hardly ever around these days.

  “Oh, the other day. Whenever. Stop interrogating me, for God’s sake!” he barked.

  “Shh! You’ll wake them up. This is supposed to be a special day for them, remember?” I reached out a pacifying hand but withdrew it at the last moment, suspecting he might slap it away.

  “For them—or for you?” His voice sliced through the air.

  “Surely for us both—and you—all of us, Dom,” I said wearily, bracing myself for the row that seemed inevitable now but having little energy for it. “What happened to us being a family? You’re never here any more, you’re always angry, you just don’t seem happy at all. Dom, this can’t—we can’t go on like this.”

  “I’m sorry.” His voice softened unexpectedly, blowing the faintest whisper of hope across my despair. “It’s just . . . I so want to give you all the best of everything. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.” His frown was plaintive.

  “I know. I know you do. Look, let’s just try to have a happy day, shall we? Just get through one more day without a fight. Celebrate the twins’ birthday—they deserve a bit of fun after—”

  “After what?” A chink of light through the curtains caught the glint of his blue eyes as he angled his body to loom over me, his steady gaze challenging me to answer truthfully.

  “After how difficult things have been. These last few months,” I said, hearing my own breathlessness but willing myself not to look away. It had taken me a while, but eventually I’d learned my lesson: maintain eye contact; betray no fear. Sometimes that stopped his anger from boiling over. I had to be honest with him, but I also needed to keep things calm. Meet him halfway without riling him or humiliating myself further.

  “Difficult, you say? You been paying any bills lately, then? Because they’re sure as hell not paying themselves.” He rubbed his hands over his face again and for a second I thought he was going to drop the subject and back off.

  “I didn’t know money w
as so tight. Why didn’t you say?”

  “Why didn’t you ask?”

  “That’s not fair. You’ve always told me that you manage the finances and I manage the kids. That’s what we agreed, isn’t it? And besides, the party isn’t costing much.”

  His hand shot out and grabbed my wrist, taking me by surprise; immediately I felt the blood pulsing in my constricted veins. “What bit don’t you get?” he said, his voice hard again. “I—can’t—afford—a—party.” He spelled it out with a bone-snapping squeeze to my wrist after each word. “We’re practically broke. The business is sinking. We’re in danger of losing the house. That meeting in Manchester I told you about, after the party, is actually a job interview, and if I don’t get it, we’re screwed. The bank will repossess the house.”

  I was so shocked I could barely speak. “Why didn’t you tell me, Dom?”

  “And what exactly would you have been able to do about it? It’s not like you have any head for business. Not like Lucy. She knows—”

  “Lucy?”

  “Yes. Lucy. But don’t worry; she won’t be conveniently around the corner from my office if I do get offered this job. We’ll have to move to Manchester.” His voice was flat and hard.

  “But I don’t want to move. The twins are settled here.”

  Leave my home, go to a place where I wouldn’t know anyone—without any friends to support me, trapped with a husband who—

  “You don’t have a choice. Look what happens when you make the decisions! You’ve booked that scuzzy leisure center for the kids’ party. I don’t like them swimming there. It’s full of old pervs. I thought you’d have more sense.”

  “Your brother works there!” I said, trying to pull my wrist away. I was starting to get a dead arm.

  “Yes, well, quite. I’m surprised they haven’t sacked him, after that incident last year. I spent the best part of last night in The Bell Inn listening to all his usual trumped-up twaddle. Said he wanted to talk to me about something. Only I had to buy him at least seven whiskies first, of course, before he’d actually tell me what it was. Same old Max. Same old shit. He’s surpassed himself this time, though.” He finally let go of me and sagged forward to rest his arms on his raised knees, his shoulders slumping.