The Stepmother(116)

 

‘Scarlett!’ I croak, and my throat’s all dry – there’s no saliva at all in my mouth, and I feel like I’m on CSI or some shit. ‘Don’t ruin your whole bloody life, love, for God’s sake – it’s not worth it. Prison’s shit, I know from experience…’

 

‘Listen to her, hon,’ Matthew says urgently. Luke’s slumped in his seat, not looking at anyone, and Kaye’s sobbing hysterically now.

 

Kaye’s a horrible woman, of that I have no doubt; can’t see past her own nose, it’s all about her, not her kids – but still, I’d rather not see her pulped to bits.

 

But…

 

Scarlett ignores us. Her sharp sapphire eyes sweep the patio as she turns. We hear a second click.

 

I shut my eyes. I think I’m praying.

 

There’s a scream, and…

 

She fires the bloody thing.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

About thirty seconds later I open my eyes, and very gingerly I look around me.

 

Scarlett is half sitting, knocked back by the force, the gun between her feet on the floor, her face paper white, two high spots of colour in her cheeks.

 

Kaye is slumped on the floor.

 

The shot hit the mirror I realise. That hideous curly-edged gilt mirror. It’s shattered into a million tiny pieces.

 

And Kaye is still breathing. Still crying. Not hurt, it seems. No blood I can see.

 

Sweat has started properly beneath my arms.

 

‘Scarlett.’ Matthew’s voice is very calm and sure, and he stands over her. ‘Give me the gun right now.’

 

And finally she does what she’s told. She passes it to her father, and he pulls her up to stand and hugs her, and it looks like the normal embrace of a father and daughter to me; though, like I said before, what do I know? Scarlett sobs into his shoulder.

 

What the hell do I know about fathers myself?

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Afterwards I think Scarlett only fired because she wanted to feel the power she was wielding – she’d been impotent in the situation for so long.

 

She was wielding a whole lot of power, as it turned out.

 

 

 

 

 

Sixty-Three

 

 

 

 

 

Marlena

 

 

 

 

 

Like Jeanie said: so often things aren’t what they seem.

 

I mean take that photo of Jeanie and Otto, uploaded by the kid who wanted to hurt Otto. The photo that started everything. It was all about the angle. From the angle it was taken, it looked like Jeanie was about to start kissing her pupil.

 

I guess you could say it was the photo that ended it too. And I mean really ended it. With a bang so catastrophic it shook us to our very roots.

 

And in-between, what was there? If that even matters any more.

 

It matters a bit, I guess, looking back.

 

There was love: a spark of hope – a belief that things could be put away into the past, tidied and boxed up. That life could move on; that that was what was right and just.

 

But in the end it was still there, wasn’t it? Always there: malevolent presence and irrefutable evidence, that photo – in black and white if you like. And if you looked at it just so – well yes. Perhaps you could be forgiven for thinking that it was evidence of something.

 

And it was Jeanie’s word, wasn’t it? Only her word – and was that enough?

 

Apparently not.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

As I make my way to the M1, I’m trying to tie up the ends in my weary head – but they won’t quite go.

 

Because of this: you realise Jeanie only wrote what she wanted to be seen, don’t you?

 

She didn’t want everything to be there in black and white – but it took me a while to work that out.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Stopping for coffee somewhere near Leicester, I receive a text from Sal, the stringer. It says:

 

Dunno if this is helpful now but the person who made the abuse allegations against Matthew King was a Kaye King.

 

 

 

 

 

It’s no great surprise.

 

 

 

* * *