Forget Her Name(44)

Mum gasps at the sight of my name on the wall, which makes me feel better. At least I’m not being oversensitive. But Dad merely comes out of the bedroom and looks at me.

I know immediately what he’s thinking.

‘It wasn’t me,’ I say angrily.

‘I didn’t say it was.’

‘You didn’t need to say anything. I can see it in your face.’

‘What nonsense.’

I feel the sting but it barely registers. That’s how accustomed I am to my father putting me down.

‘But did you do it?’ he adds.

‘Of course not.’

Dad grunts, looking at me steadily. I get the strong impression he doesn’t believe me. Then he turns and enters our bedroom again.

After a momentary hesitation, I follow him, arms folded defensively across my chest.

Inside, Mum looks at me, then away, as though she does not know what to say. To my relief though, Dominic smiles reassuringly at me and puts an arm about my waist. I can’t quite bring myself to smile back at him. I’m not alone, I tell myself. Not this time.

My father studies the writing on the wall with great deliberation. ‘Right.’ He clears his throat. ‘Well, let’s not overdramatise this. What are we going to do about it?’

Let’s not overdramatise this.

‘For God’s sake,’ I begin, but Mum interrupts me, her voice brisk and businesslike.

‘I’ll fetch something to clean it off. That’s the first thing to do. Now, let’s see, lipstick . . . what will shift lipstick off wallpaper?’

‘It’s oil-based,’ Dominic says.

‘Yes.’ Mum touches his shoulder briefly, flashing a smile at him. ‘Hot water and some Jeyes, perhaps. Kasia will have just the thing under the sink, I’m sure.’

My father says, ‘Kasia’s gone home, remember?’

‘I’m perfectly capable of opening a kitchen cupboard, Robert,’ Mum says, and I’m not imagining the coldness in her voice. Maybe she’s on my side after all, even if she doesn’t show it. Though I don’t like the way this conversation is going. It’s all about damage control, not investigation. ‘I can put on a pair of Marigolds when an emergency occurs.’

‘Hold on a minute.’

My voice cuts through their deliberations. My father looks at me warily. Mum bites her lip, a touch of impatience in her face.

I don’t look at Dominic.

‘Before you start scrubbing lipstick off our bedroom wall, wouldn’t it be a good idea to take a photo of it first?’

Mum stares. ‘A photo? Whatever for?’

‘To preserve the scene.’ I look round at them, shocked at their apparent slowness. ‘For the police.’

‘Catherine,’ Dominic begins, holding me close.

‘For God’s sake, it’s evidence,’ I burst out. ‘What’s wrong with you all? Someone’s broken in here and written that . . . that horrible thing on our bedroom wall. And none of you seem to think it’s worth calling the police.’

Dad looks at me wearily. ‘Catherine, it’s not like that.’

‘Then what is it like?’

‘Perhaps Dominic should take you downstairs while we clean up this mess.’ He turns to my husband with a significant nod. ‘We won’t be long. You could have a glass of wine.’

I swear, and my mother winces.

‘Why will no one say out loud what’s staring us in the face?’ I point at the obscene scrawl of the hangman’s noose with my name beneath it. ‘Rachel did this.’

Nobody says anything.

‘Are you going to deny she’s behind it?’ I turn and glare at Dad, who is shaking his head. ‘Seriously?’

‘Darling,’ he says heavily, ‘your sister’s dead, and you know it.’

‘Do I?’

It’s not entirely a rhetorical question, yet none of them answers me. It’s as if I’ve made myself ridiculous just by asking it. Except it’s not ridiculous. Someone wrote my name on the wall to intimidate and scare me. And it’s working.

In the ensuing silence, I feel my face grow hot. ‘Okay, then. How did she die?’

‘Please . . .’

‘How did Rachel die, Dad?’

He looks at Dominic, and there’s a kind of pleading in his face now. ‘I really think you should take your wife downstairs. Let us deal with this.’

Your wife.

How very Victorian of him. It makes me sound like a parcel that’s been handed from one responsible male to another. And a problematic parcel, at that.

‘Why can’t you just answer the question, Dad?’ I turn to my mother, who has been standing pale and silent all this time. ‘Mum?’

‘It was a . . . a skiing accident, you know that,’ she begins, hesitantly, then stops at a glance from Dad. ‘Sweetheart, why don’t you do as your father says? You’re overwrought. You’re not yourself. Look, we don’t have to do this now. We can talk about . . . about Rachel later. When the wall’s been cleaned.’

‘Fuck the wall,’ I say, and my parents look shocked.

Dominic’s arm tightens about my waist. ‘Catherine,’ he says, his tone gentle but warning. ‘I’m sure your parents only want what’s best for you.’