The Family Game by Catherine Steadman (89)

47


The Whole Family


SUNDAY, DECEMBER 25



Light spills from the crack beneath the boot room door as I listen for voices. I don’t know what has been happening in the house since I left, but it can’t be good. After a moment I try the door handle, hands numb with cold.

The stark white corridor beyond must be one for staff, as it’s unlike any other part of the building I’ve seen. I follow it along until I see a room ahead, shadows dancing within, and only once I’m sure it is silent do I peer inside.

A small television plays on mute, a Christmas movie. Beside it, a small table covered with well-leafed magazines, and at the end of the room a low gray sofa on which Sylvia and Anya slump, seemingly asleep.

“Hello,” I try softly, but the two women do not stir. “Shit.”

I approach carefully, kneeling before the unmoving pair. I touch Sylvia’s shoulder gently. She slips onto Anya. I raise my fingers to her nose; she’s still breathing, just unconscious.

I let out a huff of relief. Both have drained coffee cups abandoned in their laps. Drugged but alive.

I leave them where they sit, carefully closing the door to their break room behind me.

Farther along the corridor, I find myself in a cavernous working kitchen. Leftovers from tonight’s dinner are covered in wrap, ready to be stacked and refrigerated. Breakfast trays are laid out, ready to be filled for the morning. On the kitchen island, mince pies cool on wire. The smell of them mixes with the scent of rot coming off me, making me want to vomit.

There’s another smell in the kitchen, though. I look across to my warped reflection in the copper pots hanging over the gas cooker. Then my eye catches something on the ground jutting out from the other side of the kitchen island. An ankle, a shoe, a foot. Tom Ford heels and green nail polish. It’s Matilda.

I dash around the island unit where I find Eleanor and Matilda propped against the cupboards in front of the cooker, the doors of which are open. The soft hiss of gas fills the room. I grab a tea towel and thrust it over my face, leaning past their bodies to twist off the gas dials.

Then I drop to a crouch beside Matilda, checking her pulse. She stirs, sluggish, eyes fluttering open, drugged and dazed. I move to Eleanor; her pulse is slow and stable too, though she does not stir.

“Harry. Harriet,” Matilda groans, her eyes glazed. “Careful. He’s in a mood,” she slurs.

“Who’s in a mood, Matty?” I ask, though I know the answer.

“Little Eddy Teddy Bear.” She giggles. “I feel mushy.”

They’ve been drugged with whatever Sylvia and Anya got, I’m guessing.

“I know,” I tell her. “Do you think you can stand up, Matty?”

She looks at her towering shoes with a frown and shakes her head. I dutifully remove them.

“How about now?”

She shifts forward slowly, making her way up onto all fours. “I think someone put something in my drink,” she mumbles, more to herself than to me. “Not the first time,” she giggles. Then, after a moment, she pulls herself up to a very wobbly stand using the kitchen island as leverage. “I’m up. I’m up.”

“Okay, we need to keep it quiet, Matty, okay?”

Matilda lifts a finger to her lips and nods earnestly.

I take her hands in mine and hold her gaze, focusing her. “Matilda, it’s very important you do what I say now, okay?” She nods, squinting at me with concentration. “I need you to take your mother somewhere and hide. Okay? Can you do that?”

Matilda suddenly seems to notice her mother for the first time down on the floor beside her, and she covers her mouth to stifle a giggle. “Oops. Her too. Oh, okay. I can, we can, do that. Safe. Yep.” She nods for an extended period.

“Great. But you need to hide away from here. Do you understand? It’s not safe in the house. Something is going on.”

She nods and juts out her lower lip. “Yeah, Daddy and Eddy are fighting again. We can hide. I’m a good hider,” she whispers, tapping the side of her nose.

“Do you know where the hunting hides are, Matty? The hide at the edge of the forest?”

She grins.

“Good, go there. If I don’t come get you by the morning, you need to call the police, okay?”

She juts her lip out. “No phone.”

Fuck.

There’s no way around it. I fish my own phone from my pocket, remove my passcode settings, and hand it to her. “Do not lose this. And do not use it until the morning. I’m going to sort this out, but if I can’t, you need to call the cops when it gets light.”

Matilda looks baffled at the concept but gives an undaunted shrug. “Good for you, Harry,” she says cheerfully, then claps me on the back and raises the phone. “No cops till daytime.” She uses the phone to salute me then promptly turns to inspect her prone mother.

I watch her pocket the phone and when I’m certain she knows what she’s doing, I pick up my discarded shovel and head out of the kitchen.

As I shift through the house, heart thumping light and fast in my chest, a plan begins to form. I know what I need to do. I need to find Robert. He set this game in motion; he must have a solution, a plan. I’m aware my plan is basically to find out what Robert’s plan is, but I think it’s fair to admit that he’s had longer to think this through than I have. And it’s definitely time we had our chat.