The Couple at No. 9(48)

‘Do I look like I’m joking?’

His face fell. ‘Daphne’s lying. I’d never do anything like that.’

‘Why would Daphne lie?’

‘I don’t know. I …’ He looked down at his booted feet, kicking at a bit of ice on the pavement. A redness crept up his neck. ‘But it’s not true.’ He lifted his eyes to mine. ‘I’m not lying, Rose, I promise you.’

I’d always thought of him like a protective big brother. But no. No. I couldn’t believe any of what he was saying. This was what had happened before. It had started with the charm, the promises, then the lies and control, culminating in fear, intimidation and abuse.

I had known Daphne for only two months, but I knew she wouldn’t lie about something like this.

‘I need to go,’ I managed. As I went to walk off he grabbed my wrist.

‘Hey,’ he said softly. ‘We can’t leave things like this. We’re friends, aren’t we?’

I stared pointedly at his fingers circling my wrist and he let go, dropping his arm to his side.

I stalked away, convinced I was right about him. About all men.

I was so sure Daphne wouldn’t lie to me.

Now, sitting here after everything that has happened, writing this to you, I wish with all my heart I could turn back the clock.





25


Theo





Theo can’t stop thinking about his conversation with Larry as he gets into his car. The windscreen is littered with cherry blossom, like confetti, and he turns on his windscreen wipers, although they miss where they’ve collected in the groove above his bonnet.

A young woman accuses his father of sexual assault and less than a year later she’s dead.

Theo turns on the ignition and fiddles with the satnav to tap in his home address. He’s just about to pull away from the kerb when he sees Larry hurrying towards him. He winds his window down.

‘I’ve remembered her name. The woman who accused your dad. It’s not Sandra. It’s Cynthia. Cynthia Parsons. She was twenty-three.’

Twenty-three. He didn’t think it was possible to feel even more shit about all of this.

Theo thanks him, and waves goodbye, watching Larry getting smaller and smaller in his rear-view mirror as he turns out of the street. He suddenly hates his dad with a passion. He grips the steering wheel tightly, imagining that the faux-leather beneath his hands is his dad’s sinewy throat. But then Theo releases his grip. He hasn’t got a violent bone in him. He’s so fucking angry with his dad, but he knows he could never hurt him: if he did, that would make him no better than his father.

The woman could have lied. The idea pops into his head and he wants to believe it – oh, how he wants to. But he can’t. He thinks of her, Cynthia, struggling to make her voice heard in the mid-1970s when a man like his father would have held all the power. If he refuses to believe her now he’s no different. For a mad second he’s actually relieved his mum is no longer around to hear about it. What would she have done if she knew? Would she have had the strength to leave him?

Arctic Monkeys’ ‘R U Mine?’ comes on the radio and he turns it up loud, trying to drown his thoughts. What should he do next? There is no point in confronting his dad about it. It’s not like he’ll suddenly turn around to Theo and admit it. He’ll just get angry again, then defensive and nasty.

And then another thought pops into his head.

If his dad is capable of sexually assaulting someone, what other terrible things has he done?

Jen is sitting up in bed watching Friends. He’d popped into the garage to buy her a giant bag of Maltesers on his way home, like he promised, and her eyes light up when he walks into the bedroom dangling them enticingly, making sure he’s plastered a cheerful mask over his anxious face before entering the room.

‘Perfect,’ she says, her knees sinking into the mattress as she reaches up and throws her arms around his neck. He climbs onto the bed and lies fully clothed next to her.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asks, as she settles down and opens the packet, shoving a handful into her mouth.

‘Better now,’ she mumbles, through the Maltesers, offering him one. He shakes his head.

She pauses the telly, even though it’s an episode they’ve both seen umpteen times and one of Theo’s favourites – the one when the girls lose their apartment to the boys in a bet. Jen could probably quote it verbatim. Comfort telly, she calls it, and she’s right. It’s not lost on him that it’s the episode when Phoebe finds out she’s pregnant.

‘Well?’ she asks, swallowing her mouthful. ‘How did it go?’ Concern flashes in her eyes. ‘You seem sad.’

He shrugs. ‘I’m not a good actor, am I?’

‘What did Larry say?’

‘More evidence that my dad is a total fucking tool. Not that I should need it.’

‘Oh, babe.’

He glances at her, his beautiful wife, and suddenly he doesn’t want to tell her. He doesn’t want her to look at him and remember that he’s related to a man who is capable of something so sick. He doesn’t want to tarnish what they have, their innocent, uncomplicated life in their Victorian two-up-two-down with their dreams of babies and dogs. He thinks again of the photographs on Larry Knight’s wall, of the future he so desperately wants with Jen and their unborn children, and the spectre of his father threatening to blacken it all.