Sophie Hannah - A Game for All the Family

She looks all right. Scared but unhurt. “What’s happened? Where are Dad and Figgy?”

“Following me,” she pants, out of breath. “George’s mum was there.”

“What?”

“She was at the bus stop, leaning against her car. Waiting for me. I knew it was her—she looks exactly like George. And then she smiled and beckoned me—like this!” Ellen does the gesture with her index finger. “I totally freaked out and ran.”

“Ellen!” Alex is running toward the house. “Go inside, both of you.”

At first I think Figgy’s not there because he’s not running alongside Alex. Then I see him in Alex’s arms, a little gray bundle with surprised eyes. Figgy can run faster than any of us. If he’s being carried, it means Alex thinks he needs protecting.

“What’s going on?” I shout.

“She’s coming—followed me up from the bus stop and didn’t try to be subtle about it.” As Alex crosses the threshold, he looks over his shoulder. “You should see her face. I think there’s going to be trouble. Let’s lock the door.”

“Mum, seriously, she’s in full beast mode,” says Ellen. “I think she knows.”

“About . . .” I nearly said “the engagement.”

“About George’s visit! She’s going to go mad.”

“This is . . . what does ‘full beast mode’ mean?” I ask. “Is she showing signs of violence?”

“Violence? I don’t know,” says Alex. “From her face, I wouldn’t rule it out. No one’s ever looked at me like that before.”

“She’s here,” I say. Alex and Ellen turn to look. Fifty meters away, beyond the open grave in our garden, Anne Donbavand is standing where the lawn starts to slope down to the river.

“Dad, keep hold of Figgy,” says Ellen. “Keep him well away from her.”

“Can’t we all keep well away?” Alex asks me. “We don’t have to speak to her, and if necessary we can call the police and ask them to remove her from our land.”

“Did either of you see her on a mobile phone?” I ask.

Alex nods. “She was speaking on one while she was following me. Looking angry. That wasn’t . . . ?”

“Yup. My not-so-anonymous-anymore caller.”

“Mum, why the fuck—sorry—is she just standing there?”

Very slowly, Anne Donbavand starts to walk toward our house.

I am very calm. I say to Alex, “Go to the kitchen. Take Ellen and Figgy. I’ll deal with her.” I sound like someone with a plan. That must be why Alex doesn’t argue, when I am half-hoping he will.

I consider, then rule out, calling the police. A woman is walking toward my house, that’s all. I have no evidence that I or my family are in danger. The police would be unhelpful, and I’ll stand a better chance against whatever danger there is if I don’t surround myself with unhelpful people.

What will I say when Anne gets close enough for us to speak? Will she start the conversation, or is that down to me? I’m the host, and she has arrived at my house. I can’t imagine myself saying, “Hello, Anne.” The only things I can picture myself doing are nonverbal. Violent. Perhaps I am the dangerous one.

Anne walks a curve around the open grave. Apart from the distinctive tunnel-effect eyes, she looks ordinary. Dark brown, shoulder-length straight hair in no particular shape or style. Royal blue wool coat buttoned to her knees, hands in her pockets. Black trousers, black boots with square heels, blue and brown checked shoulder bag.

Her face is not still. Her lips, eyebrows, nose, the skin around her cheekbones—all these parts are moving constantly, almost imperceptibly, as if someone’s tugging them this way and that behind the scenes. Either she has a neurological condition that causes twitching or else she’s rehearsing the exchange we’re about to have. Isn’t that most likely? Inside her head, a dramatic scene is playing out. She’s arguing, winning, enjoying it. Trying not to mouth the words. By and large, she’s succeeding, but I can see the effort.

As she comes closer, the facial tremors become less frequent. By the time she’s standing in front of me, they’ve stopped; she’s abandoned her imaginary conversation in preparation for our real one.

“I took the Tide Glider sticker off my sign,” I tell her. “I’ve still got it if you want it back. Did it ever end up in the papers, do you know, the feature about the day the houses and the boats swapped names?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m too busy to read newspapers.”

Newsspaperss.

It’s her. That voice: the not-quite lisp. My last doubt smoothes itself away, flattens into absolute certainty.

“It must have taken you ages to have those stickers made,” I say. “Did you delegate it to your husband? Like the digging?”

“I didn’t come here to talk about stickers or house signs.”

“Or digging?”

“Are you Justine Merrison?” What she says matters more to her than what I say, clearly. Her hard stare warns me that this will remain the case, however long we spend talking.

“Pardon? Oh right—you’re pretending not to know who I am. Yes, I’m Justine. Though you prefer to call me Sandie, remember?”

“I’ve never called you anything before. This is the first time we’ve met.”

“Met, yes. Spoken, no. I’m surprised you don’t recognize my voice. I recognize yours from all your threatening phone calls, including the one about ten minutes ago.”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re Ellen’s mother?”

“Yes. Justine Merrison, Ellen’s mother, and therefore not your sister Allisande Ingrey.”

“Who?”

“Well . . . yes! Good point. Because we both know Allisande doesn’t exist.”

Anne stares at me coldly. “I have no idea what you mean. May I come in? I need to discuss something with you.” She looks over my shoulder into the hall.

“We can talk here. I’m not letting you in.”

“What? No, not here. I’d like to come inside.”

“But you can’t.”

“Why not, for heaven’s sake?”

“Because you’re disturbed and dangerous. You think you’re someone called Lisette Ingrey, but you’re not. Or maybe you don’t really think it. Maybe you’re pretending because it suits you to do so.”

Not a flicker of guilt or discomfort in her eyes. “No, you’re the one pretending. Wait—let’s call it what it is: lying. You’re making up lies about me—which is no surprise, I have to say. The thing is . . .” She glances at her watch. “I need to get to work, and I have a problem I need to discuss with you, so I’d appreciate it if you would stop talking rubbish and let me in.”

“No.” Could she push past me? Will she try? “You don’t have a right to come in if I want to keep you out, and I do. This is my house, not yours. It’s never been your house.”

She flinches at that. Which, if she doesn’t believe she’s Lisette Ingrey who grew up in Speedwell House, makes no sense.

“I don’t know what’s real in your mind and what’s an act,” I tell her, “but you’ve told your children that you’re Lisette Ingrey. That your sister Perrine murdered Malachy Dodd and was then murdered. Somehow this led to Allisande, your other sister, wanting to kill you, and so you and your family all had to change your names, and George and Fleur aren’t ever allowed to do anything or go anywhere in case that gives the dreaded Allisande an opportunity to get to them. That’s what George and Fleur believe, isn’t it? They believe it because it’s what you’ve told them.”

Anne stares at me as if I’m a big, ugly obstacle in her way. “I don’t know any Ingreys or Dodds,” she says.

“You made your husband come here at night and dig a grave in my lawn—that one there, see?—after making a threat on the phone about three graves. You sometimes hide in the trees on my property—you saw I had a new dog, and you had a silver nametag made for him, which was also a threat. Really, the reason you want me and my family to go back to London is to separate Ellen and George—the same reason you took him out of Beaconwood, after you persuaded Lesley Griffiths to pretend to expel him. Will you admit that you did that?”