Only Dad had been genuinely happy and relaxed, wisps of his thinning hair caught by the breeze as he focused his old Kodak camera and tried to goad them all into saying, “Smelly cheesy feet.” The only solid, stable thing in their lives. The glue that kept them all together.
At least he was. And then, one day, he was taken away. Suddenly, brutally, violently.
And Katie was the one who found him.
* * *
—
NINE YEARS AGO. One of those bright spring mornings that fools you into thinking you don’t need a jacket and then whips up goosebumps on your arms with a bitter breeze.
Katie had arrived at her parents’ for Sunday lunch. It wasn’t something they did regularly—Mum was hardly the best cook, even when she was sober—but Katie appreciated that at least her parents tried to get them all together as a family every few months.
Out of her sisters, Katie was the one who had remained closest, the one who called when she said she would and visited regularly. She supposed they had all fallen into stereotypical sibling roles. Youngest—a little spoiled, always caught up in some drama or other. Oldest—the rebel, the one who endured the most difficult relationship with their mother and moved away as soon as she could. And middle. The dependable, dull one. Only Katie could be relied upon to turn up early to help with the cooking, clutching a bottle of wine and a plant for Dad’s garden.
This morning Katie had forgotten both, and even the smile was hard work. Sam had chicken pox and he’d kept her up most of the night, applying calamine and kisses. Craig, who never nursed Sam when he was ill, had opted to stay at home with him today rather than endure dinner with her family. She was actually relieved. Things weren’t great between them and she didn’t need the extra stress of his sniping.
She had felt on edge as she climbed out of her car and walked up to the front door. Her parents lived in a modern, detached house on an estate that had been bright and new when it was built thirty years ago. The houses were square and bland with identikit beige brick, UPVC windows and built-in garages. The suburban dream, or nightmare, depending on your point of view. It suited her parents, though. And every Sunday morning—as per the hidden clause in suburbia—Dad could be found out on the driveway, washing and polishing his car till it gleamed.
But not this Sunday. The garage door was half open. She could see the hood of his car just inside but no Dad waving his chamois. She glanced at her watch. Ten forty-five. She supposed Dad might have cleaned it already, but the driveway was dry. No remnants of foamy suds seeping down to the curb.
Something felt wrong. She walked up to the front door and rang the bell. She heard it chime faintly inside. She waited. Normally, her mum would be at the door straight away. She rang the bell again. Still no sign of movement, no shadow emerging behind the frosted glass. Concern started to nibble gently at the edges of her stomach.
She fumbled in her bag for her keys, unlocked the door and pushed it open.
“Mu–um. Da–ad? It’s Katie!”
The house felt heavy with silence. And there was something else. She sniffed. There was a smell. Not the usual scent of cloying air freshener her mum sprayed everywhere before visitors arrived. It smelled of sweat, she thought, and smoke, stale cigarette smoke. Her parents had never smoked.
She walked quickly into the living room. Her heart constricted. It was wrecked. Drawers had been pulled out of the sideboard. Books tossed from the shelves. Ornaments smashed. The patio doors gaped open.
Her mother lay beside the sofa, still in her dressing gown. Her always perfectly styled blonde hair was matted with dark blood. More blood caked her face, which was bruised and swollen.
“Mum.”
Katie ran forward and fell to her knees. She could hear her mother breathing, but it was faint and raspy.
And what about Dad?
“It’s okay. I’m going to call an ambulance, okay?”
She pulled out her mobile and ran back out into the hall. A cool draft brushed her bare arms. She turned. The door between the kitchen and the garage was ajar. Dad? She walked toward it, mobile clutched in her hand, heart thudding, and stepped into the cool, dark space.
The car was backed in as normal, but the driver’s door hung open, the keys still in the ignition.
The thief, or thieves, had been trying to steal the car. But something had stopped them. Something had made them panic and run instead…
“Dad!”
He was slumped over the trunk, almost like he was caressing it. Blood ran down the sides of the car, leaving streaks on the silver paintwork. He’d be so cross about that, a small voice inside her chided. Making his car all dirty.
She couldn’t see the rest of his body. Because it was crushed between the car and the garage wall. With such force the trunk had buckled and the rear windscreen splintered.
His face was turned toward her, bright blue eyes, crinkled around the edges with lines drawn by the sun, now as empty as marbles. A look of surprise caught there. That it could have come to this. That his life would end here, in this cold, dark garage, in his pajamas, as he attempted to stop some low-life driving away with his car. That he would not rise to greet another Sunday morning. That all Sundays, chamois and waxes were over, forever. She stared back into her dad’s empty eyes and she started to scream…
* * *
—
HER PHONE VIBRATED by her elbow, making her jump and splash hot tea all over the worktop. Shit. She picked it up. Marco, her manager at the coffee shop.
“Fancy an extra shift this afternoon?”
One of the Ethans or Nathans obviously hadn’t turned up again. She didn’t really fancy an extra afternoon’s work on top of a night shift. She was supposed to have a couple of days off. And she would have to ask Lou to pick up the children from school. On the other hand, Sam’s uniform was getting a little tight and she was never going to get back to sleep now anyway. In fact, it was probably better if she had something else to occupy her mind.
She typed back: “Okay.”
“Fine. See you later.”
Katie sighed. She looked back at the postcard. It had arrived on the anniversary of his death. She flipped it over. On the back, written in her elder sister’s familiar spidery writing:
Remember. I did it for Dad.
xx
But did you really? Katie thought. Or did you do it for you, Fran?
Gabe first met the Samaritan on a motorway bridge at two in the morning. He remembered the time because he had just checked his watch. He wasn’t sure why. He was about to kill himself and you could hardly be late for your own suicide.