The Family Game(90)

Stuart is saying something, but the glass is soundproof. I shake my head and he squeezes his eyes tight shut with annoyance. After a moment he regroups, and with great effort turns his body to face me fully, pointing past me, his eyes flaring. Suddenly certain Edward is directly behind me, I spin, grabbing my shovel, but the main hallway beyond is empty.

I wheel back to Stuart and he shakes his head slowly, trying to make me understand, a characteristic smirk blossoming beneath his injuries. ‘No,’ he mouths carefully. He gestures past me again and I follow his gaze out into the hallway. When I look back at him, he jabs a finger left, indicating through the hall and left. ‘Edward,’ he mouths, then, with finality, he slumps back against the glass wall, exhausted. Edward went that way. He closes his eyes and unseeingly raises a hand to wave me off.

I grab my shovel and leave Stuart behind safe in the knowledge that he’s protected by two inches of security glass.

So far only Fiona is dead. Stuart is safe; Matilda is safe; Eleanor is safe. The kids are safe down in the lodge with Nunu – now it seems to make more sense why Robert chose this year to allow that. Some of my new family is safe. Which leaves only Edward, Robert and Oliver unaccounted for.

I creep into the main hallway, careful to watch where I place my trainers on the creaking paraquet, my shovel raised and ready, and it suddenly occurs to me that I have no idea what happened to Oliver. Or where he went. He’s the biggest and strongest Holbeck, the family’s very own All American line-backer. Why isn’t he doing something about all this?

And at that exact moment, my vision flashes white as pain crests at the back of my skull, and everything goes black.





48 Merry Christmas, Harriet




Sunday 25 December

And this is where we started.

I come to on the hall floor. I cannot tell how long I have been out and I cannot lift my head. Around me the house twinkles on, Christmas music still jingling softly through the hallways.

I just need a second, I tell myself. I know this because it took time to move after our car rolled to a stop twenty years ago. I hung in the creaking cold for what seemed like an eternity that morning. But my body came back to life.

The smell of gasoline is thick on the floor around me, making my eyes water as the breeze from the open door wafts it into my face. I swivel my gaze across to the hall fireplace, its logs burning brightly. It could catch so easily, but I imagine that is someone’s plan, when the time is right. Whether it is Robert’s plan or Edward’s or even Oliver’s, I no longer know.

If I could stand, I could run. I could just leave them all, save myself, bolt and call the cops – but then I see the story being constructed around me and I understand what it is designed to look like.

The gasoline, the flames, the bodies. What is happening here is being carefully staged, and if this building goes up in flames, I have no doubt who will be held accountable. Whoever is doing this has enough on me to ensure that.

If I run, I don’t get a say in how this ends.

I try to lift my face again. Straining every sinew, I manage to lift myself a few inches from the floor, just enough to turn my head in the other direction.

I gasp. Oliver’s lifeless face rests inches from mine, his mouth open, his eyes glassy. I stifle a yelp. His hand is still pressed tight to the wet wound across his throat, though blood no longer pumps from it.

By the look of things, it’s safe to say that Oliver is not the mastermind behind all of this. At least, if he ever was, he’s not anymore.

On the floor beside him I see a wrought-iron fireplace poker; that must be what he hit me with. He must have thought I was responsible for all of this. Then the sound of a scuffle must have brought the real perpetrator straight to us, to him. I am still alive though, which can only mean one thing: either Edward or Robert needs me to play my part in what happens next.

I become aware of the weight of Oliver’s legs on mine, pinning me to the floor, and I slowly edge myself out from under him. From there I struggle up to all-fours and then carefully onto unsteady feet. I wait for my dizziness to settle, then quietly stalk to the stairs, where I see my shovel kicked to the side.

As I creep, I hear the muffled noises of someone moving about in the sitting room. The sound of furniture being rearranged. I freeze, crouched beside the shovel. Something is happening in there. I could run, but I know what that will bring down on me. I will spend the rest of my life in jail, framed as the woman who burnt down the Holbecks’ mansion with the whole family inside. But they can’t say that if I try to stop it – if I save everyone.

I carefully rise, lifting the shovel and heft it in both hands.



* * *



The sitting room looks different when I enter: the log fire roars on, the Christmas tree lights twinkle in hazy halos, and beneath, brightly wrapped presents silently wait, but now all of the furniture has been moved to the edges of the room. All that remains in the centre is a rug, wet with gasoline, and two armchairs facing each other.

In the armchair facing me sits an unconscious Robert Davison Holbeck, his head peacefully resting against the high back of the chair. Beside him stands his son, Edward. If Edward did not have a shotgun pointed directly at Robert’s head, the scene might easily resemble one of the family’s historic oil paintings.

‘Harry,’ Edward says, with an oddly welcoming tone, as he takes in my blood-and mud-smeared appearance. ‘It’s been a long night, hasn’t it? But you made it.’ His voice has a sardonic lilt to it that I do not recognize, which gives me the distinct impression that I’m meeting this man for the first time.