False Hope Page 18

  He remembered the shadow from the landing light. How her perfume came in with it. How it lingered in his nostrils long after she’d slipped away. How it gave him the ounce of courage he needed to tell her.

  So he told her.

  But she didn’t believe him.

  Don’t be silly, she’d said. You’re imagining things, she’d said. It’s just playing, she’d said. Don’t be silly.

  Because she had to, he realised. She couldn’t not, he realised. And once he was older, and cleverer – once he was eight, and it had ended – he thought he even sort of understood. It couldn’t be true. Not of her boys – not her lovely boys, her precious ‘booful twosome’. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t happen. So it mustn’t have happened.

  So in her story it didn’t happen.

  The End.

  It would never end. Not for him. It was part of his DNA now.

  He’d said nah, bro, you’re alright. Got to head home to Hope.

  Home to me.

  (Conor had met me just the once. And acknowledged me. And dismissed me. And described me as his ‘bit of skirt’, which had riled Aid no end. And called him ‘skirt chaser Aid’. Which had riled him as well.)

  ‘Fucksake!’ he’d said. ‘Does that bint fucking own you?’

  As if the strength of a man’s character could be measured not just in units, but in adherence to the credo of not being owned.

  So he walked all the way back to Craig’s with him. Pissed, wired, coked-up still. Along the front. Up the hill. On out towards Whitehawk. Down a lane, across a car park, round the side of Craig’s block, to the evil-smelling cold outside stairwell. Then up the stairs. Why, in God’s name, up the stairs? Why, the fuck?

  ‘Come in, bro! The night is young! Got some good gear. Come on.’

  He’d stood his ground then, the altitude giving him perspective. No. You’re alright, bro. It’s late. Hope’ll worry.

  Fuck Hope. Fuck your girlfriend.

  Mate, please, just leave it.

  Then the zinger, the shocker. The sideways look. The sneer. The visible thought process. The clearing of the throat. Before delivering the killer line that would make a killer of him. Ah, methinks the lady doth protest too much.

  Come again?

  Well, we both know what you really like, don’t we?

  Then the arm, snaking out. The hand grabbing his hair.

  The memories.

  The shame.

  The disbelief – was he joking?

  It was in the last moments of his half-brother’s short life that it hit him. Conor didn’t want closure. Didn’t even want him. He was chancing his arm on a hunch – a basic instinct. That he could keep him where he wanted him. Complicit.

  I said it again. Calmly now: You cannot go to the police, Aid. (I couldn’t let them take him. I couldn’t let him leave me.)

  Jesus, Hope, I fucking have to!

  No, you don’t. You were here. You got back just after midnight. You left your brother in town and you came home, to me. No one saw you. You said that. You saw no one. No one saw you. (I couldn’t let them arrest him. I couldn’t live without him.)

  You can’t know that. They might have.

  They wouldn’t have.

  They might have.

  No, Aid, they wouldn’t have. (I couldn’t let them have him. I couldn’t let him leave me.)

  So I thought. I was smart. It was a Tuesday – well, Wednesday. A stay in and early night kind of day. It was cold. It was raining. It was – I checked – moonless. The odds were better than evens.

  So it wasn’t just a risk. It was a calculated risk.

  And I was willing to take it.

  And I knew I could persuade him. He was so scared. So scared.

  Aid, I said, you should be scared.

  We took it.

  Chapter 19

  Okay. And breathe . . . So we got away with it, sis. Can you believe that? I’m not sure I can, even now. But you know what really blows me away the most? That every single bit of it passed you by. Did I even see you when it was all going on? I don’t think I did. Me down here. You up there. I’m not even sure we spoke about it, did we? Why would we have? How often did we speak at all back then? Almost never. You were busy living your life and I was busy – ha! – trying to keep some kind of a grip on mine. We were just worlds apart back then, weren’t we? And who was Conor to you anyway? Just the random half-brother of your little sister’s still relatively new, definitely unsuitable boyfriend – and how many times had you even met Aidan by then? What – three or four times? Maybe fewer.

  Which was perhaps for the best. God, you would have sniffed my criminal manoeuvrings out a mile away. But it doesn’t matter. The point is that we never, not in a million years, thought it would all be so easy. I mean, it was horrible, obviously. Bloody terrifying. They interviewed Aidan, being the last person known to have seen him, but it was obvious from the start – he was in such a state, as you can imagine – that they didn’t even suspect any foul play. Conor had tested positive for drugs, of course (and how), and it was literally only a matter of a couple of weeks before the whole thing died down because they really did think he’d just fallen down the stairwell. So then there was an inquest and, I don’t know, around four or so months later, they recorded a verdict of accidental death. Isn’t it incredible that you can just get away with something like that? Then, of course, all we had to do was somehow learn to live with it. And, of course, Norma.

  Here’s the irony. It was the thought of Norma finding out what really happened that finally persuaded him I was right. We’d kept on going back and forth, back and forth, weighing the options, weighing the risk. If some evidence had shown up then it would have been even more serious, of course. Hard to pass it off as an accident during an altercation if you’ve already said you weren’t even there.

  But just the thought of it. The thought of Norma knowing Aidan had done it. Even knowing it had been an accident, she’d still have had to know that they’d fought, that he pushed him. It was bad enough, but can you imagine? As a mother? Knowing one of your sons has killed the other one? Stuff of nightmares. She’d have completely lost her marbles. And if she ever found out why . . . No way could we go there.

  Okay. Focus. It’s late. Oh, but, Grace – I can’t tell you how sorry I am to have dumped all this on you. I don’t mean Dill – I can’t regret that, because I know you won’t either. He’s such a good boy. And he’ll love you to bits. I know he will. And he will feel me with him through you. He’ll be so happy you’re his new mummy. And you’ll love him too, I promise you. I genuinely believe that. I promise you.

  Jesus. Must. Stop. Crying. But I really do mean it. I’m sorry. Because if you’re listening to this, it means they must have made contact. And it really, really matters that you keep them away from him. And her. Especially her. No ifs. No buts. They must not be in his life. And that’s not because I think Aidan’s going to suddenly turn into his brother and do something despicable to him. I genuinely don’t think he would ever do that. But I can’t take the risk that he won’t damage him anyway. He’s too messed up. And don’t forget he has a massive substance addiction. And his mother – whatever you might think, and trust me on this, because you really don’t know her – is evil. And I mean that. You don’t know her.

  She had a cat when I met Aid. I don’t think I ever told you. And it wasn’t neutered. And a while after we moved into our flat, she had kittens. I was round there when she had them. Six of them, all different colours. I went on and on at him about us having one when they were old enough, and in the end he caved in. But when we went round a week later to see Norma, they’d gone – she said she’d have kept one if she’d known, and she was sorry and everything, but we were too late because she’d already given them all to the local pet shop. But she hadn’t. And it was only when I’d gone on about it to Aid – I mean, you don’t take week-old kittens from their mother and give them to a pet shop, do you? They’d never take them – that he told me th
e real truth. That she’d drowned them in the toilet.

  One by one. Held them under till they drowned. And I know people do do things like that. I’m not stupid. But it was the thought that she could do it. And then lie about it the way she did. I mean, you can imagine, can’t you? The whole thing went right through me. I didn’t even understand why she did it. Aidan said I was being all middle-class and wet, that I needed to get real. But I never forgot it. And I keep thinking about it now. How she killed those tiny kittens with her bare hands. Her own cat’s babies. How could anyone be so cruel? So inhuman?

  How can a mother see what she saw and pretend she hadn’t seen it? Because she couldn’t bear it, gotta be. Couldn’t bear what it would mean if it was true. Could have done the right thing for Aidan, but couldn’t bear the consequences. Knew he’d suffered what he’d suffered but still let him suffer.

  Turned a blind eye, so she wouldn’t have to suffer herself.

  I sometimes wonder what she did do. I mean you’d have to do something. Did she say something to Conor? Did she threaten him? I mean, what would you do? I mean – the consequences. It doesn’t bear thinking about, does it? They’d probably take one or other of them into care, wouldn’t they? So I did have some sympathy.

  But it didn’t stop. Didn’t stop till he was old enough to make it stop.

  You’ve got to wonder, haven’t you? What kind of person would be able to live with something like that? But then I keep coming back to those kittens.

  Did I ever tell you, by the way? She’s helped Aidan out a lot with money. Probably even more than I know, because I’ve always been so not okay with it. Her father had a car showroom and I think he was pretty minted when he died. I don’t think she’s ever worked much, except for something to do. And I think she did stuff like that for Aidan – sorted him out all the time, got him out of scrapes – not just because he was all she had left, but because it was guilt money.

  Anyway, look, you must believe me when I tell you this is not about revenge. I’m sick, but I’m not sick, whatever anyone might tell you. This is not about getting back at Aidan for cheating on me, either. You won’t believe it – I can see your face – but that was just another of his addictions. I genuinely think he had to keep proving to himself, over and over and over, that he wasn’t gay. No, that’s wrong – being gay was never the issue. Being told he’d enjoyed the things his brother had done to him was the issue. Because if you’re told something often enough, and you’re still just a child, and you’re confused because it’s your brother – who you love – who is doing those things to you, there’s always going to be a part of you that wonders if it was true, isn’t there? Even if it’s only at an unconscious level. Bloody hell, it breaks my heart just to say that.

  So it’s not about getting even with him – I want Aidan to be happy. It’s one hundred per cent about doing the right thing. And you know the saddest thing? When I found out I was pregnant, I really thought – we really thought – that it was meant to be. That after all the shit, it was something good happening for us, finally. That once he was a dad, he would finally be able to break the cycle. The self-loathing. The depression. The whole self-destruct thing. Put the whole thing behind him. Learn to love himself. Move on.

  Ha ha – you know me, sis – hyperbole and all the clichés! But I genuinely did think that might happen. And perhaps it would have, if I hadn’t got this bastard cancer. Perhaps he would have come into his own once Dill was old enough to kick a football. But perhaps he wouldn’t. And hoping’s not enough.

  But, look, I genuinely do not know if Aidan meant to kill Conor. I suspected – still do – that he did. And, believe me, if you knew what I knew, you wouldn’t blame him either. That bastard deserved it, no question.

  But I persuaded him he didn’t. That it was an accident. And if he had gone to the police, who knows? They might have believed him. They could so easily have believed him – what evidence did they have otherwise? But I was so terrified that they wouldn’t. That I’d lose him.

  That really, really haunts me. The knowledge that if things had panned out differently – if he’d not had the chance to come home to me and tell me – that it maybe would have been better. Not for Norma – Jesus Christ, no. It would have finished her. But maybe better for Aidan. Because all I achieved was to burden him with another massive secret. Another lump of guilt. Another reason to hate himself.

  God. I was so young. So headstrong. So stupid. Because I believed my own hype – I really did think I could fix him. But I couldn’t. He wasn’t fixable. And I think you probably already knew that. I imagine you listening to this, nodding sagely – thinking how you could have told me that, like, a million times already. You know what gets me most? Just how sad it’s been to watch you, to listen to you, since I decided what to do. To see that big-sister, told-you-so thing of yours in overdrive. To see how easy it’s been to make you swallow all my lies. Because you didn’t need convincing, did you? Because you already knew he was trouble.

  You just didn’t know why.

  Chapter 20

  You know me, sis. Hyperbole and all the clichés.

  It’s almost five now, and after listening to Hope’s voice for so long, that’s the thing that keeps going round and round in my head, like a line from a song you just heard. It’s like she’s here with me. You know me, sis. But I didn’t really, did I? I sit back, click away, pull out the stick and adapter, and lower the lid of my laptop back into place. Then I sit, staring out into the night, seeing nothing, turning the sparkling stick in my hand, over and over.

  Hyperbole and all the clichés. I suppose I’m still in shock – it’s quite a thing listening to a voice from so long beyond the grave. An even bigger thing, listening to a voice that’s both so familiar and yet, at the same time, so strangely unfamiliar. But the biggest thing of all is that she’d used the word hyperbole. Just tossed it out there, in jest, as if an everyday utterance. A word she was familiar with, a word in her vocabulary. And I find – no hyperbole – that I am disgusted with myself.

  What was it she said to me that time? After one of our tetchy not-quite arguments? Please don’t patronise me, Grace. Don’t think you’re always so bloody clever. Yeah, yeah, you’ve got all your As and distinctions and whatever. But they aren’t everything, you know. I’m not stupid.

  And I never thought she was. But did I ever really listen to her? Did I ever, far above, in my ‘ivory tower’, as she put it, really give her proper credit? Ever really attach value to her opinions?

  No. Because of Aidan. I could never get past Aidan. Could never get past that one inalienable truth. That sticking with Aidan (I could see it, Matt could see it, everyone could bloody see it) was surely the very definition of stupid.

  I have no word for what it was that made her act the way she did. None quite fit. Just like me, she was the sum total of her genes and her childhood. A tangle of insecurities, resentments, contradictions.

  But whatever else she was, my little sister wasn’t stupid, and it sickens me to realise how much I’ve failed her. To know I barely scratched the surface of her hopes and dreams and heartaches. To know not only that I wasn’t there, but that she knew it all too well. To know it’s me, and not Hope, who’s been the stupid one here.

  Too tired to think straight, I put Mr Weasley back in his cage. Then creep upstairs and climb silently into bed.

  I wake the next morning, feeling groggy and disorientated, to find Matt’s half of the bed empty, and a mug of tea on my bedside table, which has long since grown cold. The clock informs me that it’s almost eleven thirty. Sounds float up from the garden, so, remembering the snow, I throw the duvet off and go over to the window.

  The boys are placing a head on a misshapen snowman and just seeing them together makes my heart ache. It’s this, I think. This is what Hope visualised for Dillon, what drove her. A happy home life. A loving family. A brother. A part of me wishes I believed in an afterlife. One with a rear-view mirror, so she could see this and know
she made the right call. But the greater part, as what I listened to in the night comes flooding in again, says yes, all well and good. But at what cost?

  I hear Matt but don’t see him. Watch Daniel nod, then hold out his gloved hands and catch a carrot. Then I grab my dressing gown from its hook and feed my arms into the sleeves. I need to tell Matt what I’ve found.

  The kitchen’s wreathed in a familiar and comforting scent. Onions and garlic. Vegetables. Stock. I go to the stove, lift the lid of our biggest cast-iron pot. Matt’s been cooking – he loves to cook. Made a huge pan of soup. He comes in through the back door as I lower it, and stamps snow off his boots. He has his favourite beanie hat on, and his ancient Puffa jacket. He hardly looks different to how he did a decade earlier. I can’t wait for him to be here properly. For things to be normal. For him to be here, making soup. To be here to eat it, and not on call. For all of this to go far, far away.

  ‘That really is some shiner,’ he remarks with a frown when he sees me. ‘I forgot to ask. Did you get around to calling the police?’

  I shake my head. ‘Didn’t have a chance.’

  He takes the mug from me and empties it down the sink. ‘We should chase them today,’ he says. ‘Keep the pressure on. Check they’ve actually been to see her. And what time did you come back to bed last night?’

  ‘Around five?’

  ‘Five? What the hell were you doing down here till five?’

  I reach into my dressing-gown pocket. ‘Listening to this.’

  He takes it from me. Turns it over in his hand. ‘Was this in your mother’s stuff? I saw you’d had the bag out.’

  I nod. ‘I recognised it straight away. It’s the one Hope’s friend Daisy gave her for her last birthday.’