bedroom to get the heat away from his skin. ‘Why is this my fault? Why is it always my fault?’
‘She’s not dead!’
‘She was my daughter too!’
Melanie was out of the bed then, a look of pure hatred on her face. ‘You can believe what you want. I’ll never believe she’s dead. Get out, get out before I throw you out.’
Murder didn’t bring the grieving together, Darren thought; it forced them away from each other. Grief had made his mum so tall that she towered over Dad and demoted him to a place where he couldn’t reach her. Darren retreated down the stairs, his parents’ argument rebounding with increasing intensity above his head. At that moment Carly had never seemed so far away, the hole she left behind so distorted and unfillable. He had brought this about. His poorly thought-through actions had placed this grenade at the heart of his family and he had pulled out the pin.
But there was something even worse. He wanted to see Olivia again. He was desperate to see her – to listen to her lies, to listen to every bit of rubbish that spewed from her mouth. And if he couldn’t see her, he could get close to her psychiatrist. He had to get back to Roehampton.
He was taking his bike from the garden through into the kitchen when he noticed the flat tyre.
He shouted up the stairs. ‘Mum, I need the car.’
When their argument didn’t stop he picked up the key and left.
23
T raffic was bad, seemingly snarled up all over south London. Darren ended up in a long queue on the road that ran to the prison, shunting forward one car at a time, first gear, second gear. An ambulance passed him at speed, a jangle of noise bearing down on the gates of Roehampton.
He saw the TV vans and the crowd of reporters when he was eight cars away from the gates; the hatchbacks of the journalists parked up high on the opposite verge. They were reporting on Olivia, filling in the wait for police confirmation on the South Downs bones with speculation and gruesome rehashing of the events of ten years ago. The queue inched forward. Ten years fell away as he remembered the reporters who were often outside his house in Brighton back then, swarming forward as Dad parked the car. Darren had moved past their large bellies and recording equipment then, sometimes with his face squashed next to his mother’s skirt, at other times his hand gripped like a vice by his nan. Later some of them came in the house as his mum gave interviews, the strange smell of their aftershave and cigarettes lingering in the hall.
The crowd here was large, thirty people at least. Panic enveloped him. Some of those men and women would be the same ones as ten years ago – back on a case that was never solved, the ones who wrote the books, who sold his family’s pain for money. And they would recognise him as he drove slowly through the gates. It was their job to question and to enquire and they would know who he was, and they would wonder what the hell was happening.
Darren slammed the car into reverse and backed up to the bumper behind him. He signalled to turn out of the queue, hoping he was still too far away from the gates for anyone to see him. A car two in front of him was doing the same, hurriedly reversing to do an awkward five-point turn in the street and head away. Darren watched until the old Ford Fiesta was clear so he could complete his manoeuvre. The Fiesta’s driver was the young befriender who had been waiting to visit Olivia. Darren watched as he drove away at speed. He didn’t want to be seen by the reporters, just as Darren didn’t.
A car far back in the queue honked. The traffic was speeding up, the obstruction further ahead cleared. Darren put up an ‘indulge me’ hand and did a three-point turn in the road, seeing the heads of the reporters turning his way. As he accelerated away he saw Helen, three cars back, staring at him as he went past.
24
H elen leaned forward in her seat, trying to get her armpit in the air
‘She’s not dead!’
‘She was my daughter too!’
Melanie was out of the bed then, a look of pure hatred on her face. ‘You can believe what you want. I’ll never believe she’s dead. Get out, get out before I throw you out.’
Murder didn’t bring the grieving together, Darren thought; it forced them away from each other. Grief had made his mum so tall that she towered over Dad and demoted him to a place where he couldn’t reach her. Darren retreated down the stairs, his parents’ argument rebounding with increasing intensity above his head. At that moment Carly had never seemed so far away, the hole she left behind so distorted and unfillable. He had brought this about. His poorly thought-through actions had placed this grenade at the heart of his family and he had pulled out the pin.
But there was something even worse. He wanted to see Olivia again. He was desperate to see her – to listen to her lies, to listen to every bit of rubbish that spewed from her mouth. And if he couldn’t see her, he could get close to her psychiatrist. He had to get back to Roehampton.
He was taking his bike from the garden through into the kitchen when he noticed the flat tyre.
He shouted up the stairs. ‘Mum, I need the car.’
When their argument didn’t stop he picked up the key and left.
23
T raffic was bad, seemingly snarled up all over south London. Darren ended up in a long queue on the road that ran to the prison, shunting forward one car at a time, first gear, second gear. An ambulance passed him at speed, a jangle of noise bearing down on the gates of Roehampton.
He saw the TV vans and the crowd of reporters when he was eight cars away from the gates; the hatchbacks of the journalists parked up high on the opposite verge. They were reporting on Olivia, filling in the wait for police confirmation on the South Downs bones with speculation and gruesome rehashing of the events of ten years ago. The queue inched forward. Ten years fell away as he remembered the reporters who were often outside his house in Brighton back then, swarming forward as Dad parked the car. Darren had moved past their large bellies and recording equipment then, sometimes with his face squashed next to his mother’s skirt, at other times his hand gripped like a vice by his nan. Later some of them came in the house as his mum gave interviews, the strange smell of their aftershave and cigarettes lingering in the hall.
The crowd here was large, thirty people at least. Panic enveloped him. Some of those men and women would be the same ones as ten years ago – back on a case that was never solved, the ones who wrote the books, who sold his family’s pain for money. And they would recognise him as he drove slowly through the gates. It was their job to question and to enquire and they would know who he was, and they would wonder what the hell was happening.
Darren slammed the car into reverse and backed up to the bumper behind him. He signalled to turn out of the queue, hoping he was still too far away from the gates for anyone to see him. A car two in front of him was doing the same, hurriedly reversing to do an awkward five-point turn in the street and head away. Darren watched until the old Ford Fiesta was clear so he could complete his manoeuvre. The Fiesta’s driver was the young befriender who had been waiting to visit Olivia. Darren watched as he drove away at speed. He didn’t want to be seen by the reporters, just as Darren didn’t.
A car far back in the queue honked. The traffic was speeding up, the obstruction further ahead cleared. Darren put up an ‘indulge me’ hand and did a three-point turn in the road, seeing the heads of the reporters turning his way. As he accelerated away he saw Helen, three cars back, staring at him as he went past.
24
H elen leaned forward in her seat, trying to get her armpit in the air
Similar Books
