‘I’m so sorry,’ I say again. ‘About everything.’
Adjusting to the dim light, I can see that Dad’s skin is grey and lined, as if he’s aged ten years overnight.
‘I can’t believe it . . .’ he says. ‘What Dex did . . . your mother . . . Caspian . . . and setting the house on fire with all of you inside.’
‘That wasn’t Dex,’ I say.
‘Thank goodness you and Ruby made it out . . .’ Dad trails off, not listening. He shakes his head, lost in his own misery. ‘What was Perry doing there? I can’t understand why he lied about your mother’s death. And . . . and my poor, precious, fragile Lucy . . . why would Dex want to hurt her?’
I frown. Doesn’t Dad know? Doesn’t he realise that Lucy was behind everything? That it’s been Lucy all along?
Harry’s words in the ambulance come back to me:
I didn’t say anything about Lucy and all the doctors who died or your mum’s murder . . . I promised I’d let you decide.
I feel sick. Does that mean I have to tell Dad that his own daughter was behind a horrific series of murders? How can I add to his grief? My guts churn and I watch him, his face buried in his hands.
‘Oh, Dad.’
He looks up. ‘I’ve spoken to Graham and Sheila. They’re very upset at what Dex has done, terribly concerned for you and Ruby. Well . . . Sheila is. She’s in pieces over the whole thing. Jacqueline’s with her right now and one of the priests.’ He pauses. ‘Graham is furious with me, of course. Told me that if Dex has gone off the rails it’s entirely my fault.’
‘It isn’t, Dad,’ I say, a lump in my throat. He looks so broken, so miserable.
‘You’d think that losing one brother might make him value his relationship with the other a bit more,’ Dad muses. ‘But Graham’s too full of bitterness . . . I can’t take it all in . . .’ He trails off.
Lucy dead. Dex arrested. Murderers. My childhood torn apart.
My father devastated.
‘We have to speak to the police,’ I say timidly, unable to bring myself to tell him the truth.
‘About the fire?’ He nods, still looking dazed. ‘Do you know exactly how it started? Did you see what Dex did?’
I gulp. Now he’s asking, I can’t lie. ‘It wasn’t Dex,’ I say. ‘That is, he drugged me and Harry and Ruby and kept us tied up, but he didn’t try to kill us.’
He stares at me. ‘What are you saying?’
There’s a long, terrible pause.
‘It was Lucy.’ My voice cracks. ‘She set the fire. She wanted to die in it herself,’ I say, realising as I speak that this must, indeed, have been Lucy’s plan from the start.
‘No.’ Dad covers his eyes with his hand.
‘It goes back to before Mum,’ I say gently, leaning against my pillows. I’m starting to feel sick from the effort of talking, but I have to get this out. I have to tell him. ‘It goes back to when Lucy got pregnant.’
‘What?’ Dad frowns as I tell him everything I have found out, a brief, fact-based version. It takes just a couple of minutes. His eyes widen as I speak. ‘No . . . no . . .’ he keeps saying. ‘No, it can’t be true.’
‘So Lucy blackmailed Uncle Perry to cover up that Dex killed Mum, then later blackmailed Dex himself to carry out these . . . revenge killings on abortion doctors. She believed it was all justified because of her rape and . . . and abortion.’
Dad slumps back in his chair, his head in his hands. Am I a terrible daughter for having added to his pain? Should I have kept quiet?
‘I had no idea,’ he whispers. ‘I can’t believe Perry would have kept the truth about your mother’s death from me . . . I suspected he might be gay years ago, but he always denied it so strongly and . . . and as for Lucy.’ He shakes his head.
The door opens and I look up, hoping for a wheelchair that will ferry me up to Ruby. Instead, Harry walks in. My heart skips a beat to see him. He looks exhausted, his jumper grimy with smoke and his hand enveloped in a thick bandage. Otherwise it’s the same magnetic presence, the same kind eyes, full of life. He glances at Dad, who hasn’t looked up, then comes over and kisses my forehead.
‘You’re awake.’ He smiles.
‘Are you okay?’ I clutch his hand, wanting to be sure.
‘I’m fine and I just saw Ruby. She’s fine too. Asleep.’ He hesitates, glancing at Dad again. ‘The police want to question us. The doctors put them off earlier but they’re asking again and we . . . we need to talk to them now. They have a fire. Two bodies . . .’ He looks down.
On the other side of my bed, Dad sighs heavily.
‘As soon as I’ve seen Ruby,’ I say. ‘Then we’ll talk to them.’ I swing my legs off the bed. They still feel like lead, but I already feel better than I did a few minutes ago. I test my weight, half standing, half leaning on Harry. Maybe I don’t need to wait for the wheelchair after all. ‘Let’s go to Ruby, I just want to see she’s okay, still sleeping. Then we can tell the police everything.’
Harry puts his arm around my waist, helping me shuffle. I have more strength than I thought. I take a proper step to the door.
‘Wait.’ Dad stands up, his tall bulky presence filling the room. He scowls at Harry, then turns to me, his gaze intense. ‘What good would . . . I mean, think of their memories . . . Perry and Lucy . . . they weren’t well, they needed help but . . . it was Dex who did the killings. I can’t see how telling the world what—’
‘Oh, Dad.’ I can’t bear this. ‘Dex was weak and stupid. Lucy used him. Not the other way around.’ I hesitate. ‘She used us all.’
‘No,’ he says. ‘I don’t . . . I won’t believe she knew what she was doing.’
I don’t know what to say to him. Perhaps if I hadn’t heard Lucy’s confession I wouldn’t believe it myself. Harry still has his arm around my shoulder. He squeezes my arm, letting me know he is there. Outside a thin grey light creeps across the sky.
‘Please, sweetheart.’ Dad and I stare at each other. ‘It’s not too late. Not for Lucy’s memory. She wasn’t involved in your mother’s death. That was all Dex. The film proves it. And no one needs to know she was caught up in the abortion doctor murders. The police think they’re random att—’
‘Lucy wasn’t “caught up” in anything. It was her idea,’ I protest. ‘She got Dex to kill my husband, we can’t just sweep that under the carpet.’
‘We can tell the police Dex forced her to keep quiet about what she knew and that he made her set the fire, even that he bullied her into killing herself . . . there’s no actual evidence against her so—’
‘No,’ I say. ‘No keeping quiet. Not any more.’
‘For fuck’s sake.’ Dad’s fist slams against the wall beside him.
I jump.
Harry draws me closer. ‘That’s enough.’
‘Stay out of this,’ Dad orders. He turns to me again, clearly struggling to keep his temper in check. ‘I’m begging you, Fran. For the sake of the family,’ he pleads. ‘To save an investigation that will put you through all sorts of fresh hell.’
I hesitate. Harry’s eyes meet mine.
‘As I promised,’ he says. ‘We’ll do whatever you want.’
I look from my father to Harry. It’s a straight choice: Harry and the future and a whole series of hurtful, hard truths. Or family and lies and never moving on from the past.
‘The people who died and the people who loved them deserve the truth,’ I say.
‘And Lucy deserves your compassion,’ Dad snaps.
‘I won’t lie for her, Dad. I can’t.’ How ironic that, after all the arguments about morality I have had with my father, this should be where we end up.
A long moment passes. Then, without a word, Dad gets up and walks away. Harry and I stand in silence. I have never felt more alone in my life. For a second I contemplate running after my father, agreeing to what he wants, because if I don’t it will change our relationship forever. It may even destroy it.
And then Harry links his fingers through mine a
nd the warmth of his hand is like a lifeline, bringing me energy and strength and hope. Dad will come round. He has to. I’m all he has left – me and Rufus and Ruby.
I take a deep breath. ‘I want to see Ruby, then the police.’
‘Are you sure?’ Harry asks.
‘Yes,’ I say. And we walk to the door, to face the truth together.
Read on for an extract from
Sophie McKenzie’s
chilling bestseller,
CLOSE MY EYES
CHAPTER ONE
I’m late.
I hate being late.
I’m supposed to meet Art at 5 p.m. and it’s already quarter to. I race down the corridor to the staff room. I can’t remember the new code for the door, so have to wait outside until another teacher lets me through. I shove my spare photocopies in my pigeonhole then deposit my register in the box. As I reach the exit, Sami, the head of Humanities, reminds me that tomorrow morning’s class is cancelled due to building repairs. I make a mental note then fly out of the Institute doors and half run, half jog along Great Queen Street to Kingsway. It’s grey and gloomy, the clouds swollen with rain. There are no cabs. I should get the tube to Oxford Circus, but since 7/7 I avoid using the underground when possible. Anyway, I’ve always preferred the bus. Art hates buses. Too slow.
I charge round the corner to the bus stop, negotiating several uneven pavements and a swarm of Italian teenagers as I run. Good, I can see a number 8 trundling towards me along High Holborn. That’ll take me to John Lewis. I can race up to Harley Street from there.
Inside the bus I press my Oyster card against the pad and lean with relief against a post. The woman next to me – young, straggly haired – is wrestling with a baby in a buggy.
‘Sit down, for fuck’s sake,’ she hisses under her breath. There’s so much anger in her voice I have to turn away and move up the bus.
I arrive at the clinic at quarter past five. Art is waiting by the door. I see him seconds before he sees me – smart and suave in his suit. It’s dark grey, Paul Smith – his favourite. Stylish and simple, he wears it, as usual, with a plain open-necked shirt and no tie. Art looks good in those kind of clothes. He always has. He turns and sees me. He’s tired. And irritated. I can see it in the way he raises an eyebrow as I walk up.
‘Sorry I’m late.’ I raise my face and he kisses me. A light, swift brush of the lips.
‘It’s fine,’ Art says.
Of course the truth is that I’m not really sorry and he isn’t really fine. The truth is that I don’t want to be here and Art knows it.
I follow Art inside. He shrugs off his jacket as we cross the entrance hall. The shirt he’s wearing has a tiny nick on the inside of the collar. You can’t see it but I know it’s there, just as I know Art is pissed off with me from the way his arms hang stiffly at his sides. I should feel guilty. After all, I’m late and Art’s time is precious. And I’m aware that this is hard for him as well as for me.
Art stops as we reach the waiting-room door. He turns to me with a smile, clearly making a huge effort to overcome his mood.
‘Mr Tamansini was here a minute ago. He’s very pleased we’re back.’
‘You’ve spoken to him?’ I’m surprised; the consultants rarely leave their rooms during appointments.
‘He just happened to be in reception when I arrived.’ Art takes my hand and leads me into the waiting room. It’s classic Harley Street: a row of stiff chintz armchairs and a matching couch. A fireplace with dried flowers on the mantelpiece and a terrible piece of modern art above. Certificates, licences and awards are positioned in glass frames all around the walls. I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror in the corner. My jumper is creased andnmy hair looks like it hasn’t been brushed for a week. It really needs cutting: the fringe is in my eyes and the ends are split and dry and curling shapelessly onto my shoulders. Before Beth, I had highlights and a trim every couple of months. I straighten my jumper and smooth out my hair. My eyes shine bright blue against the pink of my cheeks, flushed from running up the road. I used to go to classes at the gym as well. Now I never seem to have the energy.
‘He’s on time, but they sent the next couple in ahead of us as you weren’t here.’ Art’s tone is only faintly accusatory.
I nod again. Art runs his hand up my arm.
‘Are you okay? How was your class?’
I look at him properly. His face is still so boyish, despite the fact he turned forty last week. I don’t know whether it’s the soft curve of his jaw or the dimple in his chin or the fact that his eyes are so big and eager. I stroke his cheek. The skin is rough under my fingertips. Art has to shave twice a day but I have always liked the shadow on his face. It gives him a rougher, sexier edge.
‘The class was fine.’ My throat tightens. I so don’t want to be here. ‘I’m really sorry I was late. It’s just . . . being here again.’
‘I know.’ Art puts his arm around me and pulls me against his chest. I bury my face against his neck, squeezing my eyes tight against the tears I don’t want to let out.
‘It’s going to work this time, I know it is. It’s our turn, Gen.’
Art checks his watch. He’s had it years and the face is scratched and worn. It’s the watch I gave him – my first present to him on his birthday, three months after we met. That evening Art let me buy him dinner for the first time; I’d insisted, seeing as it was his birthday. It was a mild, spring evening – the first warm night after what felt like months of winter and, after dinner, we’d walked along the Embankment and across Waterloo Bridge to the South Bank. Art told me about his plans for Loxley Benson . . . how all his life he’d been searching for something to believe in, something worthwhile to put his energies into, something to drive towards.
‘And your business means all that?’ I’d asked.
Art had taken my hand and told me ‘no’, that I was what he’d been looking for, that our relationship was what he wanted more than anything.
That evening was the first time he told me he loved me.
I pull away now and wipe under my eyes as discreetly as possible. Quite apart from Art, there are three other couples in the waiting room and I don’t want them to see. I sit down and close my eyes, my hands folded in my lap. I focus on my breathing, trying to take my mind away from the turmoil raging through my head.
Art still loves me. I know he does. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have stayed with me through the long, terrible year after Beth. Not to mention the six failed IVF attempts since.
But sometimes I wonder if he really listens to me. I’ve tried to explain how tired I get of these visits to the clinic. The highs and lows of IVF. It’s been nearly a year since our last attempt. Back then I insisted on a break and Mr Tam – as he’s known on the online infertility forums – supported me. Art agreed – we both hoped I’d get pregnant naturally. There’s really no reason why I shouldn’t – at least not one that anyone’s found. Just as there’s no reason to explain why every single attempt at IVF has failed to produce a pregnancy.
Art’s been angling for me to undergo more treatment for the past few months. He even made this appointment for us. But I can’t bear the thought of another round, and the physical side effects and psychological battering it will bring. I’ve been there too many times: starting a cycle, wasting an opportunity to start one because you’re away, going to the clinic every day to be tested, taking the drugs at specific times on specific days – all only to find your follicles aren’t big enough or plentiful enough, or else that the embryos don’t survive. Then resting a cycle or two, obsessed with when you ovulate, when you menstruate, before you start again. And on and on. And none of it, none of any of it, can ever bring her back.
Beth. My baby who was born dead.
I want to tell Art all this, but that means talking about Beth and she’s shut up in my head in a safe place along with the pain and the grief and I don’t want to go in there and start raking it all up again.
‘Mr and Mrs Loxley?’
Art leaps to his feet. The nurse smiles at him. It’s hard not to smile at Art. Even before he appeared on The Trials on TV people smiled at him. All that boyish charm and energy. I’m sure that’s half the secret of his success with Loxley Benson, that way he looks at you, his eyes blazing, making you feel special, as if nothing matters more than what you’re about to say or do.
The other half’s a different story, of course. Art’s smart. Shrewd. And completely driven. Mum saw it when she met him. Before he’d made his fortune, when he’d just set up his business – an online ethical-investment company – with no money and no security. ‘That one,’ she said. ‘That one’s going to set the world on fire.’ Then she’d given me that wry smile of hers. ‘Just make sure you don’t get burned while you’re trying to keep up.’
Mr Tamansini’s desk is as big as a ship – all embossed brown leather with brass studs around the edges. He looks lost behind it – a small, olive-skinned man with a pointy face and delicate hands. He’s pressing his fingertips together, which he always does when he speaks. He gazes at me and Art sitting next to each other on the other side of the desk.
‘I’m going to suggest you try ICSI this time,’ he says slowly. ‘That’s where we inject sperm directly into the egg.’
‘See?’ Art nudges my arm like we’re in the back row of a classroom. ‘I told you there’d be something new.’
I stare at Mr Tamansini’s fingers. Weird to think they’ve been inside me. But then the whole idea of being a gynaecologist is weird. On the other hand, I like Mr Tam. I like his stillness. The way he stays calm even when Art is at his most forceful. He was my consultant for four of the six failed IVF attempts. I guess you could say we’ve been through a lot together.
‘ICSI’s not new,’ I say, looking up at Mr Tam. ‘Why that? Why now?’
Mr Tam clears his throat. ‘ICSI is often used in cases where the sperm is of poor quality. Of course, that isn’t the case here, but ICSI is equally useful when couples present with low rates of fertilization and a low yield of eggs at egg retrieval, both of which do apply to you.’