Dorothy stood outside the door and listened to Abi pounding the drums. She could tell it was The Beths, New Zealand punk-poppers with a female singer. She recognised the straight-ahead style and arrangements, had heard Abi drumming to the Future Me Hates Me album over and over. She was getting better all the time, tight now at high speeds, just needed to work on the feel at more laidback tempos, but that would come.
She placed a hand on the door, felt the reverberations through the house. She imagined the house was alive, buzzing with energy, no bad thing for a house of death. She opened the door and noise burst from the room. Abi nodded in acknowledgement but didn’t drop the beat, hi-hats fizzing, fast rolls on the snare.
Dorothy looked around. This became Abi’s room when she moved in, the sofa bed in the corner pulled out, clothes strewn over mattress and floor, reading lamp on the floorboards, makeshift desk by the window for schoolwork. Abi hadn’t brought much with her from home when she left in the bust-up. Dorothy could see the backpack stuffed into the corner next to the clothes rail Dorothy had unearthed from somewhere.
Abi rolled round the toms then onto the ride cymbal for a chorus, The Beths always did that. It was funny how you recognised patterns if you just looked and listened. Dorothy thought about Derek turning up at Sneaky’s, the can of worms was open, it had to be dealt with.
Abi finished the song, pressed pause on her phone and took the headphones off. She gave Dorothy a look, she was expecting this but didn’t like it.
‘It’s time,’ Dorothy said.
This felt like a summit. Dorothy walked down the stairs, Abi trailing behind, the house quiet. After Derek’s appearance at Abi’s gig she’d been subdued, hanging out in Dorothy’s garden with Kazuko and Taylor. Dorothy heard the whispered shock in their voices, smelled the weed they passed round. When Abi eventually came inside she told Dorothy she wanted to speak to her mum. So here they were. They reached the bottom of the stairs. Indy at reception nodded at the privacy room, usually for grieving relatives. Dorothy stood at the oak door, looked at the grain, then turned to Abi.
‘Ready?’
Abi sucked her teeth and nodded, opened the door herself.
Her mum was sitting on the sofa, rubbing her wrist. Sandra was a nervous bird, small and thin, edgy movements, sharp features softened by long black hair. She was so young to have a teenage daughter, but that was the point. She and Dorothy had kept in touch since Abi moved in. Obviously Sandra wasn’t happy, but at least she knew Abi was nearby and safe, a lot better than when she ran away. Small mercies. Dorothy’s heart went out to her. She’d obviously fucked up, hiring an actor to play Abi’s dad, but she was a victim too, as Derek’s appearance reminded everyone.
Sandra saw Abi and leapt off the sofa. She was on the edge of tears. This was the first time she’d seen her daughter in person for a year, it was too much. It must’ve been so hard living ten minutes along the road but never making contact. Abi had made it clear if Sandra tried to get her back home she would disappear again. Dorothy didn’t know if that was true, but the threat was enough. At first Dorothy presumed it would only last for a cooling-off period, but weeks then months went past and Abi showed no sign of speaking to her mum and stepdad. Maybe it hadn’t been wise to let it drift so long, but she was scared Abi would bolt. She remembered her own chaotic teenage years, the feeling of being lost, uncomfortable in her own skin, lashing out at those around her, desperate to up and leave, start fresh somewhere else. For Abi, if you threw in Sandra’s lies about her dad, it was volatile.
A sense of raised drama radiated from Abi, making Sandra hesitate then sit back down. Abi took the chair opposite and Dorothy sat nearest the door. The room was designed to be comforting, floral patterns on the furniture, muted colour scheme, soft seascapes on the wall. A box of tissues on the table.
Abi stuck her chin out. ‘My dad came to a gig the other night.’
Sandra looked confused. ‘Mike?’
This was the stepdad, face like a sad dog but a nice guy, dependable as far as Dorothy knew.
‘No.’
Sandra was more confused, clearly thinking about the fake dad she’d paid for years.
Abi swallowed. ‘My real dad.’
Horror spread over Sandra’s face. She glanced at Dorothy for confirmation, and Dorothy raised her eyebrows.
‘No,’ Sandra said. ‘That cunt.’
Abi breathed heavily, her chest up and down. She was wearing a tight yellow T-shirt with the words ‘Feel Your Feelings Fool!’ in funky seventies lettering. Dorothy recognised it as being from the headline band the other night. Abi’s breathing made the letters throb with meaning.
‘Derek Winters,’ she said.
‘How did he find us?’
‘Us?’ Abi said.
Sandra rubbed at her wrist, head down. She seemed older all of a sudden. ‘If he’s found you, he’s found all of us.’
Abi shook her head and pointed a thumb at Dorothy. She felt the energy of the room shift towards her.
‘Is it true what Mrs S told me?’ Abi said.
Sandra turned on Dorothy and narrowed her eyes.
Dorothy smoothed her skirt. ‘She asked me a direct question, Sandra, I won’t lie for you.’
Abi’s ribs expanded and contracted as she gulped in breaths.
Sandra rubbed her wrist so hard it was red. ‘You don’t understand.’
‘Yet another thing you kept from me,’ Abi said.
‘Wait a minute.’
‘My whole life has been a fucking lie. First the lie about Neil, or Stephen, or whoever the fuck he was. Now this.’
Sandra was crying. Dorothy needed to intervene. ‘Abi, wait a second.’
Abi looked shocked that Dorothy had spoken.
Dorothy swallowed. ‘Think about this from your mum’s point of view for a moment.’
Abi bit her lip. ‘I just found out my dad is also my fucking granddad. What does point of view have to do with it?’ She pointed at her mum. ‘She slept with her own dad.’
Sandra sobbed. ‘He fucking raped me. Repeatedly for three years. It’s called child abuse.’
This took some wind from Abi’s sails but she couldn’t back down, had too much indignation. What a mess.
‘You should’ve told me,’ she said.
Sandra put her hands out, pleading. ‘How could I say something like that to my daughter?’
‘So I have fucked-up genes or something? The product of incest and rape, amazing, that’s really going to boost my fucking self-esteem.’
‘I love you,’ Sandra said, her face puffy with crying. ‘I love you so much.’
‘I bet you wished you’d never had me,’ Abi said. ‘I must remind you of him.’
Sandra shook her head. ‘Of course not.’
‘Abi,’ Dorothy said. ‘Enough.’
Abi snapped her head round and looked at Dorothy. She was burning with hatred for everyone, including herself.
‘Don’t,’ she said through her teeth.
Sandra stood up and reached for Abi, who recoiled.
‘Stay away from me,’ she said, but it was less convincing than before. She looked lost.
‘Both of you, just stay away.’
She bolted from her chair and ran out the door, which banged against the wall. She went out the front door with a slam, trailing an awful silence.
‘Give it time,’ Dorothy said.
Sandra scowled. ‘I gave it time. I trusted you to take care of her, and now look.’
Dorothy stood. ‘She had to know the truth eventually. You shouldn’t have kept it from her.’
Sandra shook her head and scratched at her raw wrist.
‘You don’t understand,’ she said. ‘That cunt is dangerous. We’re all in danger now.’