Chapter Twenty-Six
I can’t bear to look at the bedroom wall, so I wait in our sitting room opposite with the door closed while Dominic fetches my parents from downstairs. They come upstairs quickly but protesting, saying food is on the table, waiting for us.
I slip out and stand on the landing, arms folded, leaning unsteadily against the wall while Dominic takes them into our bedroom. I’m trembling and I hate it. But how else am I supposed to feel, under the circumstances?
I’m under attack.
But who’s doing this? And why?
The obvious answer isn’t one I want to contemplate. It makes me feel physically sick. And, to be honest, a little frightened, too.
Mum gasps at the sight of my name on the wall, which makes me feel better. At least I’m not being oversensitive. But Dad merely comes out of the bedroom and looks at me.
I know immediately what he’s thinking.
‘It wasn’t me,’ I say angrily.
‘I didn’t say it was.’
‘You didn’t need to say anything. I can see it in your face.’
‘What nonsense.’
I feel the sting but it barely registers. That’s how accustomed I am to my father putting me down.
‘But did you do it?’ he adds.
‘Of course not.’
Dad grunts, looking at me steadily. I get the strong impression he doesn’t believe me. Then he turns and enters our bedroom again.
After a momentary hesitation, I follow him, arms folded defensively across my chest.
Inside, Mum looks at me, then away, as though she does not know what to say. To my relief though, Dominic smiles reassuringly at me and puts an arm about my waist. I can’t quite bring myself to smile back at him. I’m not alone, I tell myself. Not this time.
My father studies the writing on the wall with great deliberation. ‘Right.’ He clears his throat. ‘Well, let’s not overdramatise this. What are we going to do about it?’
Let’s not overdramatise this.
‘For God’s sake,’ I begin, but Mum interrupts me, her voice brisk and businesslike.
‘I’ll fetch something to clean it off. That’s the first thing to do. Now, let’s see, lipstick . . . what will shift lipstick off wallpaper?’
‘It’s oil-based,’ Dominic says.
‘Yes.’ Mum touches his shoulder briefly, flashing a smile at him. ‘Hot water and some Jeyes, perhaps. Kasia will have just the thing under the sink, I’m sure.’
My father says, ‘Kasia’s gone home, remember?’
‘I’m perfectly capable of opening a kitchen cupboard, Robert,’ Mum says, and I’m not imagining the coldness in her voice. Maybe she’s on my side after all, even if she doesn’t show it. Though I don’t like the way this conversation is going. It’s all about damage control, not investigation. ‘I can put on a pair of Marigolds when an emergency occurs.’
‘Hold on a minute.’
My voice cuts through their deliberations. My father looks at me warily. Mum bites her lip, a touch of impatience in her face.
I don’t look at Dominic.
‘Before you start scrubbing lipstick off our bedroom wall, wouldn’t it be a good idea to take a photo of it first?’
Mum stares. ‘A photo? Whatever for?’
‘To preserve the scene.’ I look round at them, shocked at their apparent slowness. ‘For the police.’
‘Catherine,’ Dominic begins, holding me close.
‘For God’s sake, it’s evidence,’ I burst out. ‘What’s wrong with you all? Someone’s broken in here and written that . . . that horrible thing on our bedroom wall. And none of you seem to think it’s worth calling the police.’
Dad looks at me wearily. ‘Catherine, it’s not like that.’
‘Then what is it like?’
‘Perhaps Dominic should take you downstairs while we clean up this mess.’ He turns to my husband with a significant nod. ‘We won’t be long. You could have a glass of wine.’
I swear, and my mother winces.
‘Why will no one say out loud what’s staring us in the face?’ I point at the obscene scrawl of the hangman’s noose with my name beneath it. ‘Rachel did this.’
Nobody says anything.
‘Are you going to deny she’s behind it?’ I turn and glare at Dad, who is shaking his head. ‘Seriously?’
‘Darling,’ he says heavily, ‘your sister’s dead, and you know it.’
‘Do I?’
It’s not entirely a rhetorical question, yet none of them answers me. It’s as if I’ve made myself ridiculous just by asking it. Except it’s not ridiculous. Someone wrote my name on the wall to intimidate and scare me. And it’s working.
In the ensuing silence, I feel my face grow hot. ‘Okay, then. How did she die?’
‘Please . . .’
‘How did Rachel die, Dad?’
He looks at Dominic, and there’s a kind of pleading in his face now. ‘I really think you should take your wife downstairs. Let us deal with this.’
Your wife.
How very Victorian of him. It makes me sound like a parcel that’s been handed from one responsible male to another. And a problematic parcel, at that.
‘Why can’t you just answer the question, Dad?’ I turn to my mother, who has been standing pale and silent all this time. ‘Mum?’
‘It was a . . . a skiing accident, you know that,’ she begins, hesitantly, then stops at a glance from Dad. ‘Sweetheart, why don’t you do as your father says? You’re overwrought. You’re not yourself. Look, we don’t have to do this now. We can talk about . . . about Rachel later. When the wall’s been cleaned.’
‘Fuck the wall,’ I say, and my parents look shocked.
Dominic’s arm tightens about my waist. ‘Catherine,’ he says, his tone gentle but warning. ‘I’m sure your parents only want what’s best for you.’
‘And what the hell would you know about it?’ I ask him wildly. I’m sick of their lies and subterfuge. Sick of the sense of impending horror that’s been hanging over me for weeks now. Ever since the mysterious arrival of the snow globe with its vile contents, and the destruction of my wedding dress. Someone did those things to me. And my money is on Rachel. ‘I’ve had enough of this.’
I pull away from Dominic’s grasp, and stumble out of the bedroom.
‘Catherine?’
Ignoring my mother, I run downstairs, past the empty space on the landing where Rachel’s chest had been, and down the next flight of stairs, all the way to the kitchen.
I grab my handbag from the kitchen table and let myself out the side door. I’m not really sure where I’m going, but I need to get out of the house, to get as far away from them as possible.
I realise mistily that I’m including Dominic in that ‘them’ now. It feels as though he’s subtly crossed over to their side. Without me realising it, he has become one of my doubters and attackers. Which is insane and appalling. We only recently got married. Nonetheless, how else am I supposed to interpret the looks he and my father were exchanging up there, and the tacit way he agreed with their diagnosis?
You’re overwrought.
The humiliation of that dismissal is almost too much to bear. Outside the side door, I stop and take several deep breaths, trying to calm down. They used to say that when I was a child. Go to your room, Catherine. You’re overwrought. Like I’m a piece of iron that’s been twisted out of shape.
I feel a sob in my chest and suppress it, too furious even to cry.
It’s quiet and dark in the back garden, though the city sky glows as always, an eerie orange-black. I feel my way along the wall, glancing back once. The magnolia is a vast shape in the centre of the small garden, far too large for its space, spiralling out with stark, winter limbs to the red-brick walls on either side. On summer nights I’ve often lain beneath the magnolia and peered up at the luminous sky through its branches.
Not tonight though. There’s a crisp, chill feel to the air this close to Christmas, and my breath is steaming. The ground is hard as ice.
Passing the lit window of my father’s downstairs study, I glance in and for a second think I see someone looking back at me. A wild-eyed creature, hair in a mess; gaunt-cheeked, eyebrows arched in a perpetual question.
I’m shocked and jump, but then realise the truth.
That wild thing is me.
It’s hardly surprising I look so mad. I’ve been driven half-crazy by the way they’re all treating me. Their absurd refusal to even discuss Rachel’s death. If she died at all, which I’m beginning to doubt.
Now that sounds crazy, I think. Even to me.
Someone touches my arm, and I cry out, backing against the wall instinctively, hands out, ready to defend myself.
‘Hey, calm down. It’s me.’
‘Oh God, Dominic.’ I clasp my chest and glare at him. He looms large in the darkness, almost menacing. ‘You startled me.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Why did you come after me?’
He’s out of breath, his cheeks slightly flushed. His gaze meets mine. ‘Because I love you. Or had you forgotten that?’
‘If you love me so much, why let my dad talk about me like that? As if I wasn’t there?’ I mimic my dad’s voice. ‘Take your wife downstairs.’
‘I know, he’s a dinosaur.’
‘Then why not say so? Why not stick up for me?’
‘I’m sorry if you felt unsupported. It wasn’t deliberate.’ He grimaces. ‘The way you were biting everyone’s head off . . . I was just trying to keep the peace.’ When my chin wobbles, he groans. ‘Hey, come here. Let me give you a hug.’
I didn’t realise until this moment how much Dominic’s apparent side-taking had distressed me. To have him come after me, apologising, offering me a hug, fills my heart with love for him.
It also pushes me over the edge into tears.
‘Darling,’ I say brokenly, and he holds out his arms.
‘Come on.’ He hugs me, his face nuzzling against my throat. ‘It’s bloody freezing out here. Let’s go and grab something to eat.’
‘I’m not going back inside.’
‘Of course not. I wouldn’t dream of asking you to. You’ve had a shock and the last thing you need is to be patronised by those two.’ Both our coats are draped over his arm. He must have grabbed them on his way out. He helps me into mine, then pulls on his own jacket and pats his pockets. ‘Good, I’ve got my wallet. How about some pizza? Sit-in, not takeaway. That Italian place down the road.’
‘With the striped awning?’
He nods, and then glances at my face. ‘Shit.’ He takes my hand and kisses it, an old-fashioned gesture that nearly makes me cry again. ‘Hey, please, no more tears. I can’t bear to see you cry. Did you think I’d let you go off on your own and not come after you?’
‘It crossed my mind.’
‘Poor love.’ He rubs the back of my hand against his cheek, which is scratchy with stubble. ‘You scarpered like a hare. I didn’t know you could move that quickly.’
I laugh shakily. ‘Good to know I can still surprise you.’
‘I would have come after you sooner,’ he says, and tucks my arm under his as he leads me down the path to the front of the house, ‘only I stopped to give Robert a piece of my mind.’
I stare at him sideways. ‘You had words with Dad?’
‘Bloody right. Speaking to my wife like that.’ He grins, and glances at me wryly. ‘Did you really think I wouldn’t stand up to him? I told him not to be such a fool. Someone is obviously trying to scare you. He can’t just dismiss it as . . . I don’t know, some kind of acting-out on your part.’
‘So he definitely thinks I wrote it?’
‘Of course.’
‘Bastard.’ I hesitate, almost not daring to ask the obvious question. ‘What about you? Do you think I did it? To get everybody’s attention?’
‘Now you’re being silly.’
I close my eyes. ‘I had to check. If Dad’s so convinced I drew that hangman on the wall myself, I thought maybe you would be, too.’
‘Well, he’s either suffering from a lack of imagination . . .’
‘Or?’
‘Or there’s something else at work here.’
‘Meaning?’
We reach the street corner, which is fairly quiet now, and cross the road. The Italian restaurant at the end of the next block is lit up, a waiter standing outside having a sneaky cigarette in the cold.
Dominic stops and frowns. ‘Look,’ he says, ‘it’s not really any of my business. I’ve come in late to this situation. But I can see how upset you are and, all joking aside, you’re my wife and I love you.’
Somehow I manage a smile. ‘I love you too.’
‘If you ask me though,’ he continues slowly, almost thinking aloud, ‘your parents are hiding something. I saw how they were when you asked them about Rachel’s death, and you’re right, it’s clear they don’t want to talk about her. Or not to you anyway.’
‘But why?’
‘Perhaps they’re afraid of saying the wrong thing. Of not being able to control the message.’
‘I don’t care about any of that.’
‘No.’ His gaze holds mine. ‘It was a long time ago and you were only a child. But Rachel was your sister, and you have a right to know how she died.’
My heart is beating erratically. ‘Agreed.’
‘So my advice is, write them a letter.’
‘A letter?’
‘Yes, why not? Take an hour to sit down and ask them in a letter what happened to Rachel. But be sure to ask them to write you a letter back, rather than talk to you about it.’
‘Good God, what makes you think they’d agree to that?’
‘Because a letter is less confrontational. Therapists use the technique all the time in conflict resolution, especially between close family members where emotions can run high.’ He kisses me lightly on the lips. ‘The idea is, your parents are more likely to agree because, in a letter, they get to control the message. Whatever the message is.’
I shiver, but nod, saying nothing.
Whatever the message is.