Chris Curran - Her Deadly Secret

If only she wasn’t on her own, but, of course, Alice had refused to come, hinting she had her period. Rosie guessed she was lying, as usual. Probably knew they wouldn’t get a lift back.

Now she’s chewing a torn nail and thinking that if this is how it’s going to be for the rest of the summer then she can’t stand it. Nothing is going right. Alice is a moody cow and Mum and Dad keep arguing. That’s probably why Mum’s gone to spend the weekend with Aunt Meg. It crosses Rosie’s mind, not for the first time recently, that her parents might get divorced.

As the bus passes the village green she checks it out, thinking Alice might be there. Alice pretends to hate the local kids, but Rosie knows she hangs out with some of them. It’s not fair because, even though Rosie goes to school with them, they still call her stuck-up and don’t seem to think that about Alice.

Their house is outside the village, so, when she gets off the bus, Rosie has to walk up the hill. By the time she reaches home she’s boiling. She’s got her key in her pocket and she could let herself in, or she could walk around to the back gate and through the French windows, but instead, she gives the bell three fierce buzzes, to make Alice stir herself. Of course, she doesn’t answer and Rosie has to use her key. Music is blaring out from the living room, but the door is closed. If Alice is going to be like that, she’ll just ignore her …

And that was where the memories became hazy and it all got mixed up with what she’d said to the police in her various interviews, as well as what they’d told her, what Mum had said, and what she’d read or heard later.

She knew she’d run upstairs to take off her sweaty shorts, T-shirt, and socks and pull her dressing gown over her bra and pants. Then she’d apparently gone down to put her tennis kit in the washing machine. She couldn’t actually recall doing that, but the clothes were certainly there when the police asked what she had been wearing. She must have put her stuff on to wash because Mum was away and Rosie thought she might play tennis again the next day.

How long was it until she heard Dad moving about downstairs? She wasn’t sure. The bathwater was running and Alice’s music was so loud it was difficult to hear anything else. And it had caused problems with the police when she couldn’t give them a proper estimate of the time Dad got home.

After that things were clearer …

She’s in the bathroom when she hears the front door closing and Alice’s music go silent. Dad must have told her to turn it off.

But the silence doesn’t feel right and she goes to the top of the stairs to peer over.

Dad is standing at the open living room door. Just standing there in a bright beam of sunlight. Rosie can’t see his face, but he must have heard her because he turns and looks up.

Then she does see his face. And she knows something awful has happened.

She runs down but, as she tries to go past Dad into the living room, he grabs her, holding so tight it hurts. His expression makes her stomach lurch. ‘No, Rosemary, don’t …’ But she can see already.

Alice is lying on the floor next to the sofa, all sort of twisted. She wants to go to her, see if she can help, but Dad is still holding her arm and he just keeps saying, ‘Wait for the ambulance. There’s nothing we can do.’ Which is mad, they have to do something, can’t leave Alice lying there.

Then – and she’s not sure how this happens – she’s sitting on the stairs, feeling sick and weak, staring at Dad as he shouts into the phone. ‘She’s hurt. She’s bleeding … Yes, I said, it’s bad.’

And the ambulance is here and the medics are in the living room. Someone is saying there’s nothing they can do. They say Alice is gone, even though that can’t be right. She can’t be gone. She can’t be dead. Not dead. Not Alice …

They’re sitting side by side at the big oak kitchen table. Dad’s arm is round her and she’s glad because, although it’s still warm outside and the Aga is on, she can’t stop shivering. There’s a policeman sitting opposite them at the table, asking questions about when she last saw Alice. If anyone has been hanging around the house. Was Alice worried about anything? She tries to answer, but she’s crying, doesn’t want to, but can’t stop and her nose is running and there’s nothing to wipe it on. Dad’s saying: ‘Can’t this wait? She’s in shock.’

And it must be hours later because Mum is back, pacing up and down and doing something with her hands like the woman Rosie saw in Macbeth last year. Mum hasn’t touched Dad or Rosie and hasn’t cried. She looks angry: white and angry. As if it was their fault – Rosie’s and Dad’s. Maybe it was. For letting Alice stay home on her own.

She’s all sweaty now in her thick dressing gown with her bra and pants underneath still damp from tennis. Wants to have a shower, to feel clean, but wanting that seems wrong, somehow.

‘Marion, darling, you must sit down.’ Her dad leads Mum to a chair at the table, but she shakes her head and goes to sit all hunched up on the big squashy sofa in the far corner. He stands looking at her for a minute then says, ‘What about something to eat? Rosemary must be hungry.’

She is a bit, although she feels bad about that too. She shouldn’t want to eat now Alice is dead. Alice is dead. Alice is dead.

Dad’s talking again. ‘Come on, Rosemary. Let’s make some sandwiches.’ He won’t stop talking and Mum won’t stop twisting her fingers together.

At the kitchen counter he cuts bread and asks Rosie to butter it. Then he slices tomatoes and puts the kettle on, gets milk out. He keeps saying it’ll be all right.

It won’t be. So why say that?

He stands behind her and rubs her shoulders. ‘But I’m afraid it’s going to be nasty for a while, my darling. And we have to be brave and stick together.’ She doesn’t know what to say, just carries on buttering. Remembers she should have washed her hands first. He puts ham on the bread. She wanted cheese, but it doesn’t matter. Alice is dead .

‘Rosie?’ He’s cutting the edges off the ham to fit perfectly on the bread. Mum never bothers about that. ‘The police will want to talk to you again, but don’t worry, I’ll be with you. Just tell them what happened. You didn’t do anything wrong and you didn’t see anything so …’ He seems to need an answer.

‘OK.’

‘Just tell them it was the same as always. Keep it simple. I’m afraid the police aren’t all that bright as a rule. So don’t confuse them. I don’t know when you got back, but I’ve told them we arrived home at almost the same time, so you’d better say that too.’

Joe

Joe could see Hannah sitting in the kitchen as he closed the back gate, but when she saw him she stood and headed into the hall, probably going back upstairs. He made two mugs of tea, praying she hadn’t locked herself in the bathroom as she often did these days.

She was lying on the bed staring at the ceiling, as usual. Her hair looked damp, so at least she’d washed properly this morning. He’d heard Loretta trying to persuade her to have a shower yesterday. ‘Make you feel a bit more yourself,’ that’s what she’d said. As if they could ever be themselves again. Their real selves: Lily’s mum and dad. Not: the parents of the dead teenager .

Of course, the tea had been a mistake because, as soon as she realized he was coming in, Hannah swung her legs off the bed and made to leave. He thrust the mugs onto the chest near the door, great dollops slopping over the side, and grabbed her arm. ‘Hannah, please. Please, I’ve made us some tea.’ She didn’t turn, but at least she stayed where she was, rubbing the red marks left by his fingers. ‘Sorry, love, didn’t mean to hurt you, but sit down, please. Have your tea.’