Sophie Hannah - A Game for All the Family

“ Pretend to expel him?” Anne laughs. “I don’t know what line you’ve been fed, but—”

“Lesley Griffiths said you asked her to pretend to expel George so that he would turn against the school for being unfair to him, and not want to go back there.”

“If that’s what Lesley’s told you, she’s lying. Now, are you going to let me in?”

Unbelievable. “Will you at least admit that you’ve been phoning and threatening me? I recognize your voice.”

“No. I’ve had no contact with you of any kind until you opened that door.”

Is there any point in saying “Yes, you have”?

If a person won’t admit they’ve been caught out and doesn’t care what you think of them, what can you do? They’re as free as they’ve always been to make up ridiculous stories—ones that don’t need to convince anybody. If someone doesn’t obey the basic rules of logic and doesn’t fight fair, how can anything be proven against them?

Yet Anne Donbavand is capable of rational thought. She’s had dozens of articles published, and three books; presumably she can construct arguments that make enough sense to satisfy her editors. Everything she’s said to me since she turned up on my doorstep has sounded ultrareasonable, and everything I’ve said to her has sounded unhinged. An objective observer, witnessing this dialogue without knowing the background, would probably take her side.

What can I do? I can’t make an arrest, can’t place her under oath for further questioning—not that she’d care about committing perjury, I’m sure. I have no power to punish or restrain her.

“What did you mean before, when you said me making up lies about you is no surprise?” I ask.

“I meant that, given your daughter’s character, yours is unlikely to be up to much. I’ve been asking myself what kind of mother might have a child like Ellen, and—”

“And that’s the end of this conversation,” says Alex, who has appeared behind me. “Now that you’ve insulted my wife and daughter, I’m not interested in anything else you might have to say. I’m going to close this door now—excuse me, Justine—and I expect to see you walking away. If you’re still on my property in five minutes’ time, I’ll call the police.”

He slams the door in Anne’s face.

“Alex, I don’t want to stay here.” I’m shaking. I can’t believe what she said about Ellen. It’s worse than the death threats. Given your daughter’s character . . . The idea that someone could say that about my lovely child . . .

“I think she’ll go,” Alex says. He doesn’t sound sure.

“I don’t care. Let’s get out of Devon. I don’t want to be anywhere near that woman, even if she’s not on our land—even with a river between us. She’s obsessed with this house.” It’s more than I can bear: the thought of Anne Donbavand, every night while we’re asleep, silently and resentfully roaming around our garden, imagining herself to be the wronged Lisette Ingrey whose home it once was.

“But if we go, she’s won,” I argue with myself.

“It’d be temporary,” says Alex. “We can have a higher wall built, a lockable gate.” He runs his hands through his hair. “Do you think we’re overreacting?”

“No.”

“I’ve never had such a bad feeling about anyone as I have about her.”

A loud scream snatches my breath.

Ellen.

Alex is running. I freeze for a second, then run after him.

Kitchen.

All the rooms in this house are so fucking far apart. Too much time to think between here and there. To fear the worst. No, no, no. This is not happening. Nothing bad will happen.

Anne Donbavand is in my house. In the kitchen, sitting on the sofa. The window’s open. Ellen’s crying, curled up against one leg of the kitchen table, hugging Figgy close. His leash—navy blue with a pattern of pale blue paw prints—is lying on the floor, pointing from Ellen to George’s mother.

“Dad, make her go,” Ellen sobs. “She climbed in. I opened the window to hear what she was saying to you at the door. I couldn’t stop her and grab Figgy at the same time. I thought she’d gone! I was nearly in the hall, coming to find you, and I heard this noise. She was pushing the window open more from the outside, so that she could get in. She picked up Figgy’s leash and yanked him toward her. I think she was going to take him.”

“That’s all lies,” Anne says.

“All?” I say. “So you didn’t climb in through my kitchen window?”

She smiles at me. Now that she’s inside, she’s happier.

“Wow.” The disgust I feel almost overpowers me. “You really don’t give a shit what you say, do you? You’d literally say or do anything.”

“Anne,” says Alex.

“Yes?”

“What are you doing in our kitchen when Justine expressly said you couldn’t come in? Do you remember her saying that?”

“Yes. But I need to talk to you both. It’ll be simpler if you allow the conversation to happen. It’s necessary, or I wouldn’t be here.”

“If you want to talk, Justine and I will meet you somewhere—as soon as you like—but we don’t want you in our house. So please leave.”

“No.” Anne smiles. There’s a laugh behind it that she’s holding in.

“All right, this is completely unacceptable,” I say. “I’m going to call the police and report an intruder.” I move toward the phone on the wall.

“Go ahead,” says Anne. “When they arrive, I’ll tell them you harbored my fourteen-year-old son in your home against my wishes. You knew George wasn’t allowed to be here, but you did nothing about it. You let him stay. You didn’t phone his worried parents to let them know he was safe. That’s unforgivable.”

I laugh. “I’ll be happy to confirm to the police that it’s true. If I’d known what George was going back to, I’d never have let him leave.”

“His family—that’s what he was going back to.” Anne sounds annoyed. “We’re a very close, happy family.”

“It’s not true,” says Ellen, who has composed herself. She’s still holding Figgy tight. “George was never here. He’s never been to this house. Mum’s just angry. Ignore her. George would never come here without permission. He knows he’s not allowed to.”

Shit. Have I landed George in it by admitting he was here? Anne evidently knew already; I assumed he’d told her.

She throws back her head and laughs. “You’re a shameless little liar, aren’t you?” she says to Ellen. “Have you told your parents you’ve talked George into agreeing to marry you?”

“It was his idea,” says Ellen. She looks at me, her eyes full of panic. No words, but I’m in no doubt about what she means: I’m not to think that because Anne knows about the marriage, she knows everything. She doesn’t know George is gay.

I nod: got it.

“That was what I came here to talk about: this marriage rubbish,” Anne says. “Then, lo and behold, I overhear Ellen talking about ‘something something George’s visit’—the visit she’s now denying ever took place!”

“Wait.” Anne has made a mistake, and I pounce on it. “Ellen, when you first came into the kitchen just now, did you touch the phone?”

“Yes.” Ellen looks surprised. “I hung it back up. It was off the hook, dangling against the wall.”

I turn to Anne. “Exactly. When Ellen mentioned George’s visit, you were nowhere near this house. You appeared a few seconds later, right at the bottom of the garden. You can’t possibly have overheard, unless . . .” I laugh. “Anne, you’ve just totally given yourself away! I was on the phone to my deeply unpleasant anonymous caller when Ellen banged on the door. I dropped the phone and ran, without hanging up—as Ellen’s just told us. She came in here and found it off the hook. So, there’s only one way you could have caught what Ellen blurted out about ‘George’s visit,’ and that’s if the anonymous caller was you. Ellen’s voice couldn’t possibly have reached where you were in the garden. The kitchen, on the other hand . . . I’d dropped the phone in the kitchen, but you were still listening. Weren’t you?” I raise my voice. “And Ellen’s scared, raised voice in the hall was just loud enough for you to hear. Admit it!”