Let Me Lie(61)

I feel numb. I’m still trying to equate this version of my father with the man I thought he was.

‘You have no idea what he’s capable of, Anna,’ she says. ‘Or how frightened I was. Your father died to pay off his debts. I died to escape him.’

‘So why come back?’ My words are full of bitterness. ‘You got what you wanted. You got your freedom. Why come back at all?’

She leaves a silence that makes me shiver even before the answer lands.

‘Because he found me.’





THIRTY-TWO


I have a temper. Hasn’t everyone?

I’m no more or less out of control than you are; no more likely to lash out than you. It’s all about the triggers.

We all have one. Just because you haven’t found yours yet doesn’t mean it isn’t there. Better that you know about it, otherwise one day someone else will press your button, and the red mist will descend.

Know your trigger and you can control it. At least, that’s the theory.

Mine’s alcohol.

I’m not your stereotypical drunk. You won’t find me asleep in doorways with piss down my trousers and a can of Tennent’s Extra in one hand. I won’t roll down the street, shouting at strangers. Getting into fights.

I’m what they call a functioning alcoholic.

Smart suits. Never a hair out of place. Schmoozing customers, giving them the patter. Smiling at the staff. A drink at lunchtime? Why not – that was a great sale!

Money makes it easier. Look at the races, look at the pretty young things in their posh hats tottering along with a bottle of champagne in each hand. It’s fun, right? But swap the posh hats for filthy beanies, and the bubbly for cooking brandy, and you’d cross the street to stay out of their way.

Money means silver hip flasks at a school sports day, when paper-bag-concealed whiskey would cause an outcry. Money means you can drink Bloody Marys on a Sunday morning, G&Ts after work, Pimm’s whenever there’s a glimpse of sun, and nobody gives you a second glance.

I had my pick-me-ups, of course. You can’t drink Bloody Marys when you’re wrapping up a test drive, but you can sip from a water bottle of vodka. You can take a swig from something stashed among the plant pots, in your desk, under the stairs.

When I started drinking, I drank for fun.

Later I drank because I couldn’t stop.

Somewhere in the middle, I’d lost my way.

That baby trapped me. You wanted marriage, domesticity, family trips to the zoo. I wanted my old life. I missed London. I missed noisy nights in bars, picking up a one-night stand and not caring if the bed was cold when I woke up. I missed taking home a pay cheque without worrying whether the business could afford it. I missed my freedom.

It made me bitter. Resentful. Angry. All of which I could handle – sober.

My trigger is alcohol.

Alcohol makes me lose control. It makes me numb to the consequences of my actions. It makes my fists fly.

I know a lot about functioning alcoholics. I know a lot about anger, now.

I knew a lot then, too.

Except how to stop.





THIRTY-THREE


ANNA


Mum takes a piece of paper from her pocket and unfolds it. It’s a black and white photocopy of the inside of a card.

Suicide? Think again.

The card I was sent.

I think of how hard that day was; how I woke up with grief tugging at my heart, and how every minute had felt like an hour. I think of the kick in the stomach as I slid out the card to see the Happy Anniversary message, and the nausea as I read the message inside.

On Mum’s photocopy, beneath the printed message, and scrawled in red marker pen, is another line.

I could tell her everything …

‘Dad sent it?’

She nods slowly. Reluctantly.

‘But why?’

‘To show me I couldn’t get away that easily? That he could still control me, even from the grave?’ Tears roll down her cheeks. ‘I thought I’d been so clever. I went somewhere we’d never been together – somewhere I haven’t been for years. I rented a horrible flat because it was the only place the landlord didn’t ask for references. I cleaned loos for cash in hand, I didn’t go online, I didn’t make any contact with anyone, even though I wanted to – Anna, I wanted to so much! And he still found me.’

It’s too much to take in.

‘You’re going to have to start at the beginning. I don’t understand how Dad managed it – there was a witness … She saw him jump.’

She doesn’t speak, but her eyes say it all.

My head reels. ‘You made the 999 call. Diane Brent-Taylor. That was you.’ I might have been the first in the family to go to university, but that didn’t make me any cleverer than the generations before. I always knew Mum was smart – too smart to be working on reception at Johnson’s Cars – but the deviousness … It’s hard to take in.

‘He planned it for weeks. Talked about nothing else. He made me practise, over and over, and every time I messed up he hurt me. He gave me a mobile to make the call; made me hold it into the wind as I spoke, so my voice would be distorted. He’d thought of everything.’

‘You should have gone to the police.’

Her smile is sad. ‘Easy to say now. When someone has you under their control like that, it’s … it’s hard.’