The Perfect Family Page 11

  “What incident? What is it? Tell me!” I wasn’t interested in pub talk, but I did want to know if something bad had happened at the pool where I’d booked the twins’ party. A chill ran through my body. There were far too many secrets. Dom had clearly stopped telling me anything of any importance, and Annabel had stopped confiding in me, shutting me out of her world. The former shocked me, but the latter was devastating. “Dom, I read Annabel’s diary last night,” I said, when he remained silent. The words sounded thick, my voice deeper than usual; I was struggling to get my breath now.

  “And?” He raised his eyebrows, mocking my concern.

  “And I think something bad has been happening. Something truly awful.” My throat was so tight I could barely speak.

  I hadn’t been going to tell him. Annabel had refused to talk to me when I’d sat on the end of her bed and gently asked about her diary. Rage and despair had been ripping a hole in my heart all night, but Dom and I had long since stopped sharing our pain. I’d lain in bed thinking of nothing else, trying to work out what to do, and now my agony was bursting out of me. I had to tell him. He needed to know; something had to be done.

  “Don’t be so overdramatic. Give the girl a break. You’re always so hard on her.”

  “I am not!” I said, my heart aching.

  “Go on, then, what is it? No, don’t tell me: she’s been smoking. Or she tried a sneaky cider at the drama club disco. Come on, hit me with it. What shocking secret have you discovered about your sweet, innocent nine-year-old daughter?”

  “I’m serious, Dom. I think someone has been trying to . . . to touch her. Or make her touch them. I don’t know. Just . . . something. Something isn’t right. I tried to ask her about it last night, but she refused to say anything.”

  “What did she say exactly?” His big body stilled; his eyes bore into mine.

  “I told you, nothing. That’s the point. She just said nothing. That she’s fine.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “The problem is I don’t believe her.”

  “See, this is your trouble, Maddie. You always think you know better than everyone else. The perfect mother who is right about everything, and everyone else—”

  “Dom . . .”

  “You just sit there on your high fucking horse, and you can’t bear anyone or anything that tarnishes your halo. You worship Aidan because he’s a soft mummy’s boy who does everything you ask. But you come down hard on Annabel because she challenges you. Because she wants a bit of independence and doesn’t want you poking into all her business. And that makes you feel like you’re not quite the perfect parent. She makes you angry, doesn’t she? Go on, admit it. She infuriates you and you hate that about yourself—about her.”

  He whipped back the duvet and twisted round to sit on the edge of the bed. I turned away, not wanting to see his naked body, too upset to allow that intimacy between us.

  “That’s not true, and stop changing the subject all the time. This isn’t about me, it’s about Annabel!”

  “No. It isn’t. It’s about you needing to appreciate what you have in your own life, concentrate on our marriage for once and stop living vicariously through your daughter. Let her go, Maddie. Let her go.”

  He stood up and reached for his jeans and shirt on the chair, yanking them on but leaving his shirt hanging open; it was so hot in the bedroom. I watched him fasten his belt. I wanted to get up, too—get up, out and on with the day. Clearly, neither of us was going back to sleep now, even though it couldn’t have been much after five. Only I wanted to wait until he’d left the room.

  I was trying really hard not to cry—Dom found that just as infuriating as my daring to disagree with him. When had he stopped seeing me as the most beautiful woman in the world? When had I stopped seeing him as my hero? Perhaps we’d hit the top of the slippery slope years ago; certainly the events of our ninth anniversary had been a low point. But it seemed to me that things had really begun to slide when Dom decided the twins needed to go to private school.

  Yet Dom had been the one to insist on it. The best of everything; never settle for second best. That’s what he always said, and we’d all paid the price for his pride. His arrogance. He was buckling under the pressure of expenses he couldn’t meet and aspirations he couldn’t afford. The last nine months had been a fast track to hell, I acknowledged bitterly. Dom had become increasingly absent, and whenever he was around he was fraught with stress. And now I realized why. With his business struggling, the self-imposed burden of the school fees must have been the last straw.

  If only I’d known . . . But he’d never told me; he’d just taken his frustration out on me, with sarcasm and aggression. I’d grown more and more quiet and withdrawn, terrified of provoking his moods. Aidan, too, seemed to be shrinking into himself. Only Annabel had managed to keep a smile on her face, but it wasn’t genuine. I knew then that it had been an act, and I’d missed all the signs. Missed them because I was too busy scrabbling around in the scattered wreckage of my marriage.

  I had to put it right; I had to do something about it. All of it. Before it was too late.

  “Let her go. What, so you can turn her against me and have her all to yourself?” I said, knowing I was playing with fire. I didn’t want bruises on the twins’ birthday. I just wanted them to have a special day; a birthday they’d never forget.

  “Fuck you,” he hissed.

  “Just leave me alone, Dom. Please, just leave me alone,” I said, my throat aching with the tears I refused to shed in front of him and the effort of keeping my voice low. The twins were still asleep; I didn’t want them to hear us rowing—again.

  “Is that really what you want? For me to just . . . step aside?” Just for a second he looked sad, and I wondered if it was still possible to reach him—the old Dom. “Because it’s not what I want,” he said, before I could answer, and his voice sounded strangled. “I’ve given everything I’ve got to this family, and I’m not letting you all go. Not without a fight.”

  “I really thought you’d be happy about the party, Dom,” I said quietly. “And it honestly didn’t cost much. Max got me a discount on the booking, and he’s going to help me set it all up. He’s coming at ten, and—”

  “No surprise there.”

  “Lucy helped with the party food,” I said, ignoring his usual sarcasm about his brother. “The twins are so excited about their big day. I thought you’d be happy.”

  “You thought? You thought? But you didn’t ask, did you? You didn’t ask me what I wanted. You just went ahead and—”

  “That’s not fair. You always leave the kids’ stuff to me. You don’t have the time and I’m better at it—that’s what you always say.”

  I could hear desperation in my voice—a mute plea for him to remember that we used to be a team, each fulfilling our own role so that we complemented the other’s: work, home, school . . . We each played to our strengths, and we were happy. At least we had been, once. After what I’d read in Annabel’s diary, I wasn’t sure I’d ever be happy again.

  Dom crossed the bedroom in one long stride and knelt on the bed, looming over me, his face so close to mine I could see the beads of sweat on his morning stubble and smell the expensive aftershave he doused himself in so liberally. I’d left the bedroom window open last night, but the air was still stifling with summer humidity. I could feel heat coming in angry waves off Dom’s broad chest, and with scared eyes I tracked the dark arrow of hair arrogantly pointing down towards the waistband of his jeans, the bulge at his crotch. With his arms braced either side of my head, his biceps also bulged, taunting me with the leashed power in his body. I pressed myself back into the pillows, heart slamming against my ribcage, praying that he wouldn’t launch himself on me.

  Not today. Please, not today, of all days.

  I held myself rigid as he leaned in closer still, his knee sliding forcefully between my legs and pressing painfully against me, his breath hot on my face. “I was just trying to make you f
eel better about having turned into such a useless fucking passenger.”

  “You bastard,” I said on a shocked intake of breath, and was as surprised as Dom when my hand seemed to jerk of its own free will towards his face, the slap ringing loudly in the quiet of the dawn.

  “Bitch,” he spat, his punch bouncing like a piston off my cheekbone, jolting my head back with almost neck-snapping force.

  I turned away and buried my face in the pillow, waiting for more blows, praying no bones would be broken this time; hiding a cracked rib while trying to be jolly decorating the Christmas tree with the twins had been excruciating. But Dom’s body weight shifted and a gust of air rushed through the room, followed by the sound of the front door slamming moments later. The whole house seemed to shake.

  “Mummy?” Annabel’s voice from the next room was sleepy, uncertain.

  “It’s all right, angel. I’ll be there in a second. Try to go back to sleep.” Weak with relief, I tried to swallow around the lump in my throat and keep my voice steady. My cheekbone was throbbing, the pain so sharp I thought I might black out.

  “Was that Daddy going out? Has he forgotten to get our present? Has he gone to the shops? When is he coming back?”

  She appeared suddenly at my side of the bed, unable to wait for answers. Her hair was gloriously wild and her purple nightie was endearingly crumpled and didn’t quite reach her knees.

  “It’s OK, darling,” I soothed, reaching for her. “He’s just popped out. He’ll be back in time for your party, I’m sure. Daddy wouldn’t let his little princess down, now, would he?”

  TWENTY

  Fear shoots like electricity through my brain until I’m convinced it’s about to explode. I hear buzzing and bright lights seem to flash in front of my eyes—first the left one, then the right. There is a sharp pain in my left arm; I feel like I’m having a heart attack. I twist and turn, fighting it—battling horror and heartache, fear and suspicion. I force my sleep-deadened legs to move, running out of my bedroom and down the stairs, desperately looking for something—someone—to help me.

  I hear footsteps again, somewhere in the house, and I freeze, looking frantically around me. I see faces swimming in front of my burning eyes: the twins’ teachers, past and present; coaches at their clubs; other parents; our neighbors . . . Max. Dom. But each time I hone in on one, my fingers twitch and clutch at thin air and I remember clawing my way through clammy soil, my arms scratched by thorns, blood soaking through my clothes and vomit filling my mouth as my arms reached out for Annabel.

  There is only one thing I’m clear about: Aidan lived, Annabel died, and I made the call. I know this because I’ve seen my guilt branded on Aidan’s face for all these months. I’ve heard every silent roar of blame that Dom is managing, for once, not to bellow in my face. Traumatic shock may have stolen my voice, but their icy silence tells me everything I need to know, as does my heart that is dying inside me, crushed beneath the weight of the only dreadful fact I know for certain . . .

  My daughter is dead, and the killer—whoever he is—may have pulled the trigger, but it hardly matters who he was, or why he did it, because I let Annabel go, and I hate myself for it—and my husband and son hate me too. I’ve lost everyone I’ve ever loved, and it’s all my fault.

  I open my mouth, and I scream.

  PART TWO

  TWENTY-ONE

  Someone is stroking my hand. I remember that touch; it feels familiar, comforting. But my whole arm feels bruised and battered. I hear the bell-like tinkle of wind chimes and it reminds me of hazy autumn afternoons in my garden, the ashy incense of bonfire smoke catching my throat as I sweep up golden drifts of leaves, the twins laughing as they throw handfuls at each other. A ripple of cool breeze brushes against my cheeks; my eyes are tightly shut but a bright light burns through my eyelids.

  I’m close. I can feel it. The sunlight is strong on my face, the bright light urging me onwards, upwards. I’m almost there; I’ve almost surfaced.

  Is this death? A bright light at the end of the tunnel?

  Don’t be soft, Mum. There’s no such place as heaven.

  Then how will I ever see you again, Annabel? If there is no heaven, I have no hope left at all.

  * * *

  Calmness seeps through my veins like a liquid drug; the clouds part and the sun is shining brightly. Only it’s not the sun: it’s an angular metal lamp, its harsh white bulb directed straight into my eyes. Suddenly the powerful beam shifts to one side, but my eyes are still blinded, my retinas dazzled by the burning brightness.

  “Mrs. Castle? Can you hear me?”

  I try to place the voice, but no connection registers. Is it my next-door neighbor? What is Mr. Cooper doing in my house? Was it his footsteps I heard on the stairs, following me round the house?

  I try to turn in the direction of the voice but my head feels like it’s caught in a vice. My eyes ache but they at least move, and through dim, shadowy vision I can just about make out dark hair, a white coat, a solid masculine form. My mind tries to stencil the outline of this tall, lean shape on to the hunched and elderly figure of my neighbor. I close my eyes as I realize it’s not a fit. This isn’t Mr. Cooper. Mr. Cooper is eighty and squat; he doesn’t have this commanding upright stature of a soldier or a—

  I force myself to open my eyes again, squinting against the bright light above me, and I see an unfamiliar room. I’m not at home, then. And there is something shiny hanging from the stranger’s neck. Is that a . . . my brain fumbles around for the word . . . stethoscope?

  “Mrs. Castle, my name is Professor Hernandez and I am a doctor. Can you hear me?” he repeats.

  Such a calm, soothing voice. But what is that accent? It’s not London—it’s not even English. I frown, trying to identify it, and the man clearly takes it as a sign that I can hear him; he nods approvingly at me, reminding me more of the twins’ new headmaster than our GP. And in any case, our regular doctor is a woman. So who is—

  “That’s good. Well done. Take your time. You’re going to feel very strange at first, so please try not to be scared.”

  He places a syringe on a small metal tray and then moves closer, leaning towards me, blocking out the light and filling my entire field of vision. I see brown skin, a neatly buttoned white shirt and tightly knotted navy tie beneath the white coat. Closer still—I can hear him breathing, his chest rising and falling steadily. He’s older than he sounds, I think. His hair is graying and there are lines around the black eyes that observe me steadily from beneath low, dense brows: clear, alert, unblinking.

  Scared? Why should I be scared when these gentle eyes are here to watch over me? I was scared at home, I remember. But not here.

  Where is here?

  I look around, blinking until the blurriness sharpens into clarity. Apart from the lamp over my bed, the room is dimly lit. I make out two doors, one at the end of the room and one to the side; there is a curtained window to my right and a collection of machines, monitors and digital displays to my left. A fan purrs gently on a side table, making the vase of flowers next to it shimmy and sway as if dancing to the tinkling tune of the wind chimes hanging nearby. I notice a clipboard hooked over the end of my bed; the frame is white metal, the sheets are white, the walls and ceiling are white.

  The stark room triggers a decade-old memory of lying in the West Mid postnatal ward, surrounded by new mums, desperately trying to block out the sounds of chattering visitors and crying babies, staring at the ceiling and whispering over and over to myself the names of my newborn twins: Annabel and Aidan; Aidan and Annabel. One hand hovered over them constantly as I anxiously watched their every breath, never quite letting go of the plastic crib at the side of my hospital bed; the other grasped the metal bedstead and squeezed hard as I battled waves of cramping pain after the complicated delivery and subsequent operation that lasted hours but still left me with no hope of having any more babies. Annabel and Aidan. They would be my only children; they were already my whole world.


  I absorb the memory and peer curiously once more around the room. So am I in hospital? Is that what this place is? Did I faint, black out again? I remember running wildly round the house—did I fall? Who found me—Aidan? Questions crowd my mind and I feel the first stirrings of panic, worried that Aidan came home from school and found me collapsed on the floor and was scared. I can’t remember what happened, but it must have been pretty bad for me to end up in hospital for only the second time in my life.

  “Try to stay calm.” That husky, mellow voice at my side again; a gentle hand on my arm. “I know you must be feeling confused, so I’ll try to explain the situation as simply as I can. Please do your best to lie still, just for the moment. We’re taking good care of you. You are completely safe. There is nothing for you to worry about now except getting better.”

  Getting better? Nothing to worry about? Has no one told this man that I’ve lost my daughter, that I was on the verge of leaving my husband, and that my world has shattered into a million pieces?

  “Mrs. Castle,” he continues, before I can correct his assertion that my life is a bowl of cherries, “you are a patient in the neurological rehabilitation center here at the Royal Buckinghamshire Hospital. I’m a consultant here, and I’m in charge of your care. I’m happy to tell you that you’re showing excellent signs of making a good recovery.”

  Neurological. I did bang my head, then. I wonder if that was before or after I screamed . . .

  I remember the scream being torn from my throat—an actual, audible sound in the real world not just echoing inside my mind—and ponder whether something as simple as a blow to the head has finally knocked my selective mutism for six. Maybe something—what?—has literally knocked the sense back into me—real, physical trauma to the skull jolting my stubborn amygdala out of auto-freeze mode.