The Black Sheep

  Francesca nodded.

  ‘You pushed her into an abortion?’ Mummy gasped.

  ‘What?’ Francesca frowned. ‘No, I just—’

  ‘That’s not fair.’ I scrambled off the bed. ‘You can’t blame Francesca.’

  ‘She was a child.’ Mummy glared at Francesca. ‘You know our beliefs . . . Lucy’s beliefs . . . and you flew in the face of them, encouraging her to do what you wanted.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Francesca protested. ‘I was trying to help her.’

  ‘Support me whatever, that’s what she did,’ I sobbed, beside myself.

  ‘Lucy was a child, only fifteen. You had a responsibility to tell us, to follow our ethical principles, not selfishly push her into your own immoral—’

  ‘I was doing what Lucy wanted,’ Francesca spat, eyes blazing. ‘It was her body. Her choice. Not mine. Not yours.’

  ‘Please,’ I said. But no one was listening to me.

  ‘I need to speak to your father,’ Mummy said, her voice harder than I’d ever heard it. ‘He will be bitterly disappointed in you.’

  I sucked in my breath, horrified.

  A terrible silence fell across the room. ‘Please, please don’t be angry with Francesca.’ Tears poured down my face. ‘It was my sin, my shame.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, don’t let her talk like that,’ Francesca said. ‘There’s no sin or shame. Some arsehole took advantage of her. It was just a mistake to be taken care of.’

  Mummy curled her lip. ‘Stop that disgusting talk.’ She stormed out. Francesca turned and fled in the opposite direction.

  I collapsed in floods of tears. Great sobs racked my body. It felt like my very soul was splitting in two.

  The next day was awful. The story was published in Catholic London, a weekly publication that didn’t have a huge circulation, but whose subscription base included Daddy and Mummy’s entire social circle. That evening the family got together for a powwow . . . which simply led to everyone shouting at everyone else. I was made to have a long talk with Father Gabriel, who made me see it was God’s forgiveness I needed before anything else.

  ‘But I need to make things better for Mummy and Daddy,’ I told him earnestly. ‘They’re arguing because Mummy blames Francesca and Daddy blames Mummy for not keeping a better eye on me when . . . when it happened,’ I sobbed.

  ‘I know, my child,’ Father Gabriel said sonorously. ‘And your concern for your family does you great credit but it is your soul we must focus on. And the soul of the baby that died.’

  ‘Oh.’ I didn’t know what to say. ‘I am truly sorry. I pray every day for the baby’s soul. Each year in September, on the day when it would have been born, I say a long, long prayer.’ I bit my lip, unwilling to share the other mortifications of the flesh that I had inflicted on myself.

  ‘I am concerned, especially about excommunication,’ Father Gabriel went on.

  My eyes widened. This was a body blow I hadn’t expected. I might not have a strong faith any more, but being chucked out of the church was about the most shameful thing I could imagine.

  ‘I don’t want that. And it will make things even worse for Mummy and Daddy, they’d be terribly upset,’ I stammered.

  A look of intense pain crossed Father Gabriel’s face. I knew that Mummy had filled him in with the story I had given her – a rehash of the one I’d told Francesca four years before.

  ‘I hope it will not happen,’ Father Gabriel said slowly. ‘And right now I think we should focus on your penance. It is important that whatever penance you undertake should quiet the disorders of your soul, not inflame them.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  He sighed. ‘Let’s look at the twin temptations that led you to the sins you committed: firstly you were tempted by the attention that the stranger offered. He plied you with drink and flattery. Your sin there was one of vanity, of pride.’

  I nodded. Of course you were no stranger, but I was flattered when you seemed to want me that way – as if it made me special.

  ‘For this I would recommend a daily prayer,’ Father Gabriel continued. ‘I will give you guidance on the form and on a very practical level I feel strongly that you should renounce alcohol and excessive use of cosmetic products and undue interest in clothes.’ He waved his hand vaguely. ‘Anything that might lead to behaviour likely to encourage the wrong sort of attention.’

  I nodded again. This didn’t sound too difficult – I had almost stopped drinking except on my occasional nights out at uni. And I already liked my clothes to be modest and my make-up minimal, so that I could avoid male attention.

  ‘That’s how Daddy likes us anyway,’ I said.

  Father Gabriel nodded. ‘Of course, and the solid grounding in Christian values you have received is a core part of your armoury.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Now the second temptation arose because you failed to confide in your parents and instead allowed yourself to be swayed and persuaded into a mortal sin by your older sister. This was a sin of weakness.’

  I lowered my eyes. It wasn’t fair to blame Francesca. I was certain – still am – that if I’d told her I wanted to keep my baby she would have supported me in that choice. But I didn’t protest to Father Gabriel. Indeed I’m ashamed to remember the way I allowed him to think of me as a cowardly, easily led child.

  He talked on and subtly, slowly, I weaselled my way out of most of the responsibility for my actions. The truth was that, beyond everything else, I was greedy for mercy. Indeed all these years later, it is the selfishness of my avarice that appals me most.

  ‘Your soul is in a fragile state,’ Father Gabriel went on. ‘I know this will be a big sacrifice for you but I think it vital that you leave university, for the time being at least.’

  ‘Oh.’ This came as a shock. At first I felt profoundly disappointed. It wasn’t as if I had moved away from home or undergone any big upheaval, but being at university gave my life purpose. ‘What should I do instead?’

  ‘I suggest some voluntary work with one or two of our church groups,’ Father Gabriel suggested. ‘That way we can keep an eye on you and help you find your way back to God.’

  ‘I see.’ I looked up at him. A thick white hair was growing out of his left nostril. ‘Do you think that will help Mummy and Daddy feel better?’

  He smiled sorrowfully at me. ‘I will speak to them too, explain the sacrament of your penance to them. You are a good, loving child, Lucy. I don’t want you to hate yourself for any of this.’

  ‘No?’ I wondered if he would say the same if he knew how ugly my soul felt to me.

  ‘Remember the words of St John Vianney: our sins are nothing but a grain of sand alongside the great mountain of the mercy of God,’ Father Gabriel intoned.

  Father Gabriel was as good as his word. Not that his steady support stopped Francesca being furious. Ironically, just as the church believed I was an innocent with a one-time stain on my character, easily swayed by the sins of others, so Francesca totally bought into the liberal and – to my mind – patronising line that insisted I was being brainwashed by my religion.

  As far as I’m concerned, I made my own decision. In the end leaving uni wasn’t as hard as I’d anticipated. I actually found I enjoyed my church work more than I had my studies. Father Gabriel and others at St Cecilia carried on counselling me to make good works my path to righteousness and God’s mercy. And, increasingly, the idea of going back to pick up my history degree seemed pointless and irrelevant. My main concern was that my actions had splintered my family and divorced me from their love. Francesca rarely visited now and Mummy, though still angry with her, was also cold and stiff with me. This particularly brought me great pain. And of course you stayed away a lot and when you did see me, you barely looked me in the eye. To make matters worse, I was faking my faith. I had dutifully stopped drinking, though I still allowed myself bouts of fasting and even self-harmed when things got tough. But spiritually I felt empty. I kept busy with my church work, but though I went throug
h the motions of daily prayer my heart wasn’t really in it. It was as if I was living in a kind of limbo, waiting for something to come along to shake me up and show me my path.

  Which, thanks to you, it did.

  In this way several years passed. And then came the earthquake that shattered my entire universe. The second of your killings, following on from the murder of my innocence: the assassination of my hope.

  It was a little while after Mummy’s birthday party – the one where she told Ayesha she was scared of you – and there was a terrorist scare in central London. I was in Brompton meeting a friend from church for coffee and we both freaked out when the police started closing off roads.

  I hurried home, hours earlier than I’d intended, feeling shaken. I knew Mummy would be in, she’d been away for the weekend and had told me she was planning to sleep late then potter about at home. Thinking she might be resting was the only reason why I didn’t call out when I let myself in. Instead I went through to the kitchen and opened the drinks cupboard. I stared at the bottle of tequila. I hadn’t felt tempted to drink for ages but right then I badly wanted a shot. Shutting the door on the cupboard and feeling decidedly disgruntled, I wandered upstairs to my room. As I reached the door I heard a low moan coming from the spare room at the far end of the corridor. It was an animal sound. Guttural. Sexual. I stopped in my tracks, my heart beating fast. Who on earth was in the house? Surely not Mummy? She was in her room asleep. Even if she wasn’t, I could imagine no reason why she would be in our spare room making such noises.

  I crept along the corridor. The spare room door was pulled to, but not properly shut. Another moan, then whispered voices. There were two people in there. One of them definitely male. I held my breath as I peered through the crack. It took several long seconds before my brain accepted what my eyes were seeing: Mummy’s face all intense like I’d never seen, eyes shut, her expression lost in lust and adoration. A man standing behind, bending over her, his face hidden as he buried his lips on her neck, one hand inside her open dress, the lace detail of her bra.

  The man moved.

  I saw his face.

  The face of my abuser.

  From the heart of my family.

  You.

  FRAN

  How did I not see it before? I lean closer, watching the video again. The fabric in view for a few seconds at the start is the edge of the curtains in a first-floor flat I stood outside only yesterday.

  Uncle Graham’s flat.

  The cars behind honk at me and I hurry into gear. As I glance in the mirror to check the vehicles behind my own strained eyes stare back at me.

  How is this possible? What does it mean? That Uncle Graham has kidnapped Ruby? That he is involved with PAAUL? That he is Uncle Perry’s hired killer?

  I drive, confusion and indecision whirling in my mind. If Graham is caught up in Uncle Perry’s murderous campaign, why would he have been so open with me when we spoke about it?

  There’s a big roundabout up ahead. Do I keep going or turn back? I’m closer to Sheila’s house than I am to Graham’s flat. And Graham himself is in Sheila’s house. Part of me wants to go back there and demand he releases her.

  Except there’s every chance he’ll refuse. Worse, he may attack me, leaving me unable to do anything for Ruby. And Auntie Sheila will get caught in the crossfire. That’s if she isn’t up to her neck in the whole thing already.

  The traffic slows as I get close to the roundabout. What should I do? Clearly Ruby is in Graham’s flat. At least she was earlier. And if she is still there, Graham must have left her, sedated, while he went to visit Sheila. He didn’t look like he was about to leave Sheila’s house any time soon. Does that mean Ruby is in his flat alone? Or is some other PAAUL operative standing guard over her?

  I reach for my phone. Never mind turning up at the station, it’s time to dial 999.

  Except . . . my fingers hesitate over the screen. Calling the police is exactly what PAAUL has ordered me not to do. If I call, they will kill Ruby before I can get to her.

  My phone rings in my hand. It’s Lucy.

  I can’t talk to my sister right now. I cancel her call and set down the mobile. I will go to Graham’s flat myself. The worst that can happen is that I don’t find Ruby and that PAAUL realises I’ve been looking for her. But even if that happens, they’ll quickly realise I’m alone and that I haven’t called the police. They can’t kill Ruby for that.

  I circle the roundabout, taking the turning for Ladbroke Grove. I should be there in twenty minutes or so. There’s no way Graham could get there before me, even if he left Auntie Sheila’s now. My stomach clenches with fear as I press down on the accelerator.

  Thoughts tumble through my head: how on earth has Uncle Graham got involved with PAAUL? It doesn’t make sense. He’s not remotely religious and he hates Uncle Perry almost as much as he hates Dad.

  Money. That has to be it. Graham has been broke since his attempt at setting up an antiques business spun him into bankruptcy for the second time. Maybe Uncle Perry is paying him to kill – and now kidnap. I zoom through a just-turned red light, desperate to get to the flat.

  The car in front of me slows and I’m forced to brake yet again. I try to focus on how on earth I will get Ruby out of Uncle Graham’s flat. The first step will be to get into it myself. I am quite prepared to break the door down if I have to, but I remember from yesterday’s visit that the building’s front door is made of solid wood. I don’t have any tools with me and there’s no way I’m strong enough to shoulder it down. Even if I can get past that I have to negotiate the front door of the apartment itself, up on the first floor.

  I tap my hands on the steering wheel. Of course. I know exactly who to ask for help: someone I trust, who understands my family . . . and who knows what Graham is capable of.

  Without thinking about it any further I call Dex.

  He answers immediately. I can hear the clink of crockery in the background.

  ‘Are you busy?’ I say.

  ‘As a whore in a garrison,’ Dex says in his usual cheery way. ‘I’ve got the kids. It’s a madhouse here.’

  ‘Oh, Dex.’ My voice cracks.

  ‘What’s up, Dumpy?’

  It’s hard to say all that I know and fear out loud.

  ‘Franny?’ The cheeriness fades from Dex’s voice. ‘Is something the matter?’

  ‘I think your dad might have done something really, really awful,’ I stammer.

  ‘Oh, right,’ Dex chuckles, back to cheery. ‘Worse than his usual really awful?’

  ‘It’s not funny. I’m going to his place now. But if I can’t get in I’m going to have to call the police.’

  ‘Whoa.’ Dex is suddenly serious. ‘Jesus, what the hell? What are you talking about?’

  My heart sinks. I can’t tell him. I should have realised. Even if Dex is prepared to turn on his own father, he’ll want to protect his mum. Anyway even he, who knows that his dad can be violent and cruel, will find it hard to accept straight out that he is capable of kidnapping a little girl, his own niece . . .

  ‘Don’t worry, I—’

  ‘Don’t tell me not to worry.’ Dex sounds concerned. He must have gone into another room, the background noise has disappeared. ‘You can’t start talking about calling the police and not expect me to . . . Look, what is it you want to do?’

  ‘I . . . I want to have a look round your dad’s flat, but I need your help to get inside.’

  ‘How do you know he isn’t there to let you in?’

  ‘He’s at your mum’s. I was just round there.’ I leave out the fact that Graham had been in the shower when I arrived, suspecting this will be the last detail Dex wants to hear.

  There’s silence on the other end of the phone.

  ‘Shit,’ Dex says with feeling. ‘I should come over and be with you.’ He hesitates. ‘It’s just Marla’s dumped the boys on me last minute and . . . can it wait until later?’

  ‘No,’ I said, indicating as I see a sig
npost for Ladbroke Grove. I’m not far away now. ‘I need to get inside. Now. Otherwise I’ll have to dial 999 and—’

  ‘Whoa. Wait. Before you start calling the cops . . . there’s a spare key to his flat under the doormat outside the apartment front door.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yeah, I know, really secure. Not. But that’s what happens when you’re a pisshead who lives alone and loses his keys every five minutes when he’s drunk.’ Dex blows his breath out. ‘Jesus, this is . . . Look, you should be able to get one of the other flats to let you in at street level, then the key under the mat will get you inside Dad’s flat.’

  ‘Thanks, Dex.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right? What’s all this about?’

  I hesitate. There’s no traffic suddenly and I reckon I’m only two or three streets away from Graham’s apartment. I need to get off the phone. Apart from anything else, the last thing I need is to get pulled over for failing to use a hands-free device.

  ‘I’ll call you later,’ I say.

  ‘Okay, are you sure—?’

  But before he can finish I ring off and put my foot down. Two minutes later I’m outside Graham’s building. Lights are on in the ground-floor flat so I ring that bell. I’m psyched up to give a reason for needing to come in, but the young male voice on the intercom just presses the buzzer and I’m through in a flash.

  I hurry up the stairs to Graham’s front door.

  Ruby is just the other side of this door. I’m sure of it. My palms sweat as I fumble under the mat. The key is exactly where Dex said it would be. I’m shaking as I turn the lock and open the door.

  Inside the flat is silent and dark. All the curtains are closed, the lights off. There’s a smell of stale air and damp, sour clothes. The heating has been on recently. The radiator in the hall, a shirt laid across it, is still warm. It creaks as it contracts and the sound echoes against the bare walls. I creep towards the open door of what looks like the living room. I can see the curtains and the edge of a sofa, a white sheet lying tossed and crumpled over the seat.

  Definitely the curtains and sofa from the video.