‘Water,’ I plead. ‘My eyes.’
We’re in the kitchen. She holds my head over the sink and turns on the tap. I splash water onto my face, but still can’t see properly. Bottles and cans are scattered across the floor. She has emptied the shelves in the laundry and kitchen, examining the labels, keeping some bottles and discarding others. I spent hours tidying those shelves, putting paints on one side and cleaning products on the other, with the labels facing out.
She makes me sit down and unspools a roll of masking tape, wrapping it around my wrists and up my forearms.
‘You don’t have to do this.’
‘Shut up!’
‘I’m not Dr Haven’s daughter. We’re not related.’
‘You’re living here.’
‘I’m visiting.’
‘You must mean something to him.’
The statement jangles something inside me. Does Cyrus care about me? He must do. He didn’t send me back to Langford Hall. He let me have Poppy. Darling Poppy. Poor Poppy. She’s whining from the back steps, wondering why she’s being ignored.
In a different life, in a different house, I listened to dogs barking as Terry was tortured to death. He stopped begging after a while. Then he stopped talking, which infuriated them even more. He groaned and cried and I wished they would hurry. I wished they would finish. I wished his suffering would end.
I’ve heard people die before. Some hardly made a squeak, while others fought like drowning cats in a sack. My father. My mother. My sister. They left me alone with the nameless men and the faceless men. Only they do have names and they do have faces. And I remember every one of them. Next time I will pull the trigger. Next time I won’t hesitate.
66
Lenny is yelling orders over the two-way, wanting fire crews in place and the gas and electricity turned off to the house. The nearest hospital burns unit is on standby. Her eyes spark with a fresh energy, as though she’s operating on a different level to everybody else, seeing several moves ahead.
‘Where is Aiden Whitaker?’
‘Ten minutes away,’ replies Edgar.
‘No sirens,’ says Lenny. She glances at me. ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’
‘She’s desperate.’
‘That’s obvious. Come on!’
‘She’s delusional.’
‘Why?’
‘This is about Aiden. She’s protecting him.’
‘Why?’
‘Maybe she thinks he killed Jodie.’
‘Did he? The kid could be playing us.’
‘He’s not lying.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
I can’t tell her about Evie and what she can do. Last night she asked me if I knew the killer’s name. She didn’t believe me when I said no. I thought she’d made a mistake and that she wasn’t infallible after all.
An idea rises from the depths of my unconscious mind, becoming clearer as it nears the surface. When I chatted to Maggie Sheehan at the church, she said that Felicity had struggled to get pregnant. It took her years of IVF – one failure after another. She almost went mad, Maggie said. Then Aiden arrived, her miracle child, and she projected onto him all her dreams and unfulfilled ambitions. A mother’s job is to protect her children, to keep them safe? There must be more.
Suddenly I see it. Aiden. Jodie. Bryan. Dougal. Felicity. They are like cards in a poker hand, a full house. That’s what Evie saw last night – some shard of light from my subconscious mind. The ‘tell’.
‘Let me go in,’ I say. ‘I know why she’s doing this.’
Lenny hesitates and glances at the tactical response group. She hands me a radio device that clips to my belt.
‘Give us the word and we’re going in. If that happens, keep your head down.’
Moments later, I’m walking alone past parked cars, cutting across the grass verge to the front gate. I press the doorbell, smelling the turpentine that has been splashed on the threshold.
A voice from inside. ‘Aiden?’
‘No. It’s Cyrus.’
‘Where’s Aiden?’
‘He’s on his way.’
‘I’ll torch this place! I’ll burn her first!’
‘I promise you he’s coming.’
Felicity is talking to me from the hallway with only the door separating us.
‘I’m just going to sit here,’ I say, lowering myself onto the step and leaning against the brickwork. I pluck a flower from the overgrown garden and begin picking off the petals one by one. The silence is filled with quiet breathing.
‘I had a pen friend when I was at school,’ I say, remembering the postcards that were stuck on Felicity’s fridge. ‘Her name was Camille. She lived in Manila, in the Philippines. We wrote to each other every month for about ten years. Letters at first, then emails. We promised that one day we’d meet up.’
‘Did you ever do it?’
‘We came close. We were both turning twenty-five and we planned to celebrate our birthdays in Singapore.’
‘What happened?’
‘She had a baby – a little boy.’
I pluck another petal from the flower.
‘You could still make your world tour – see all your friends,’ I say.
Felicity makes a mocking sound. She’s closer now, only inches away from me. I imagine her leaning her back against mine, with only the door separating us.
‘I’ve heard some of Aiden’s music. He’s very good.’
‘Music is just a hobby. He’s going to Cambridge. He won a scholarship.’
‘Did he apply for that, or did you?’
Felicity ignores me. ‘He was a straight-A student. His teachers said he was the best and brightest. He’s going to be a lawyer. He’s going to make a difference.’
‘A difference for who?’ I ask.
Felicity goes quiet. The pause stretches out for so long I wonder if she’s still leaning against the door.
‘What does Aiden want?’ I ask. ‘Have you asked him?’
Nothing.
‘I know it feel goods good basking in Aiden’s successes, but if children are pushed into fulfilling parental expectations, they can fail to explore other opportunities. They can feel stifled. Trapped.’
‘I know my son.’
‘I’m sure you do, but Aiden is scared of disappointing you. He wants you to listen. I’ve treated kids who feel pressured to fulfil some sort of destiny. Some achieve great things, but others suffer anxiety and depression, which feeds addictions. Some even sabotage themselves rather than risk disappointing those who expect too much.’
‘That’s not me,’ she says savagely.
‘I talked to Aiden. He was sleeping with Jodie. He got her pregnant.’
‘No! It was Bryan!’
‘You’ve known all along, haven’t you?’
Silence. I can hear her breathing.
She seems to swallow her answer. Glancing along the front path, I see Lenny moving into place. Aiden is with her. They’re both wearing body armour. Firemen have unspooled hoses and hooked them to the nearest hydrants, positioning them just in case.
‘I know what you did, Felicity. I know why you did it. You couldn’t fall pregnant. It wasn’t your fault. You did everything the doctors suggested – the vitamins and diets. Rounds of IVF. How many times did you try?’