The Younger Wife(63)

He whistled when he saw her. ‘La-di-da . . . look at you.’

She wondered what he meant. Heather had dressed down, in jeans, a black turtleneck jumper and sneakers. It was astonishing to her that he could think she looked fancy. Maybe it was just his trademark way of insulting her without actually insulting her.

‘Look at you,’ she replied neutrally, sitting down.

She hadn’t contacted her father since the night he killed her mother. She’d been living in Melbourne for a few years by then, and hadn’t seen either of them for months. In fact, the last time she’d seen her mum, she’d been drinking on the floor of the bathroom. Not wine anymore; she’d moved on to gin. Her dad had been the same. Heather (and her mother, clearly) had given up hoping that things would ever be different. ‘It’s just your father,’ she would say, when Heather asked her about it. ‘He just gets funny sometimes.’ So when Heather received the 3 am phone call to tell her that her mother had died by strangulation, she didn’t feel shock. Why should she? Her father had been promising he’d do it for years.

For a while, she thought she might have to go to court to give evidence, but in the end she didn’t have to. So, she hadn’t gone to court, she hadn’t gone to the prison, hadn’t even picked up the phone. As far as she was concerned, it was convenient that her father was locked up – she wanted to leave that part of her life behind. If only that had been possible.

‘I was surprised to hear you were visiting,’ he said.

‘Not as surprised as me.’

He laughed at this heartily, even as Heather remained stony-faced.

‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’ he asked, extending his legs out in front of him and crossing them at the ankle. He sounded chipper, upbeat. As if, by visiting, she’d finally cracked, just as he’d always known she would.

‘I wanted to ask you something,’ she said, since they didn’t have time to waste. They had twelve minutes from start to finish; the guards had been very specific about that. No time for getting reacquainted.

That was fine by Heather. Fine by her dad too, it seemed. ‘Shoot.’

‘Why did you beat Mum?’

‘Ah.’ He smiled. ‘So it’s one of those visits.’

Heather felt the first tingles of impending rage.

‘I didn’t know you were such a cliché, Heather. I thought you were more interesting than that. Been to see a therapist, have you? They said you needed to confront me? I think that’s wise. I was telling your mother for years you needed therapy.’

Heather snorted. ‘Yes. Because of you!’

‘Yes, well, maybe you’re right,’ he agreed, spitting on the floor.

Heather stared at him. ‘Were you always this vile?’

He grinned, catching the eye of another inmate and offering him an eyeroll. Heather wondered what she was doing here. Then she remembered.

‘I am writing an article about abusive relationships,’ she said, as she’d planned. She knew her dad would like that; he enjoyed notoriety. ‘You won’t be surprised to hear that you feature quite heavily.’

His grin extended.

‘I’m looking for insights into what makes a man abusive. What brings on a violent episode? What do they tell themselves to justify it? Did you ever just deny that you did it at all?’

This flummoxed him a little. Perhaps she’d used too many big words. But he appeared to be considering her questions. She guessed no one had asked him anything so specific about himself in years.

‘Well, let’s see,’ he said, after several seconds. ‘Why was I violent? I was violent because I wasn’t appreciated. I worked hard to provide for you and your mother – a bit of gratitude would have gone a long way. Your mother was always making a fool of me. Running off with other blokes. Getting drunk and flirting. That made me wild.’

It took every ounce of self-control Heather had not to pull his argument apart, starting with the fact that he’d never worked a day in his life, unless picking up unemployment benefits was a job. As for her mother running off with other blokes, Heather wasn’t sure if this was true or not, but it was certainly something he’d always said. If it bothered him so much, you’d have thought he might have left her, but instead he stuck around, just flinging the accusation at her whenever they argued.

‘As for denying it, that would have been futile – your mother wasn’t likely to forget what I’d done.’

‘Did you ever try to make out that Mum had caused her own injuries?’

That stopped him for a moment. But only a moment. ‘Well . . . in a way, she did cause them. Like I said, your mother asked for it. She made a fool of me. Got off with half the neighbourhood, did you know that?’

Even as he said it, his blue eyes flashed. It sent a chill through Heather.

Suddenly, the idea that she could ever have got anything useful out of him felt utterly ridiculous. Stephen and her dad were in different leagues. Stephen was smart, sophisticated. Her father was a buffoon. Even if they did have violence in common – if – it was ridiculous to think that the reason for it would be similar. It had been a mistake coming here.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘That was . . . helpful. I think it’s time I was going.’

‘Fine by me,’ he said, though he seemed a little less cheery now. He probably hadn’t had a visitor for a while. ‘Though this visit was novel, I’ll admit. Something to break up the day.’