Abi was getting jittery as they reached Sylvan Place. She wore a black Japanese Breakfast hoodie with the band logo hand-drawn, denim shorts and black-and-red stripy knee socks. She liked emphasising her legs, which seemed to get longer every day. Her hood was up and she was chewing at the ends of the drawstrings. Dorothy wanted to hug her, hug away that crippling teenage insecurity, on top of everything else Abi had to deal with. But you can’t hug some things away, you just have to be there.
They walked past the sick kids hospital on one side, recycling bins on the other, ripe in the sun. Dorothy could see people sitting out on the Meadows at the bottom of the road. Abi spat out her hoodie drawstrings and pulled her hood tighter.
‘Abi,’ Dorothy said, touching her arm.
‘What?’ she said aggressively.
‘You don’t have to be here if you don’t want.’
Abi nodded, which turned into a shake of the head. ‘It’s fine.’
‘I can deal with it.’
‘It’s my family.’ Sarcastic air quotes around ‘family’.
They reached number seven and Abi hesitated, let Dorothy go first. Abi had keys but she wasn’t about to let herself in.
Dorothy rang the doorbell. Abi lurked behind, kicking at weeds with her trainers. Dorothy looked at her and tried to remember Jenny at that age.
‘Abi.’ Sandra stood in the doorway clutching the door for support. She seemed fragile, made of twigs. She looked like she might launch herself at Abi for a hug. Abi sensed it and shrank away, shuffled behind Dorothy for cover.
Sandra swallowed and nodded. ‘Come in.’
Dorothy glanced at Abi.
‘Please,’ Sandra said. ‘This is your home.’
Dorothy couldn’t imagine doing what Abi had done at fifteen. A year ago, when she found out that the man she thought was her dad turned out to be an actor hired by Sandra, she left home with a backpack of stuff and never returned. But Sandra’s lie hid the much darker truth about her biological dad.
Dorothy followed Abi to the kitchen and watched as she stood awkwardly against the counter by the fridge. Abi darted glances around the room, notes on a noticeboard, the dirty cooker top, the corner of the washing machine where the numbers had worn away.
Sandra looked lost, hovering by the kettle.
‘Cup of tea?’
Abi laughed and shrugged. Dorothy felt sorry for both of them, there were no winners here.
‘What’s happened?’ Sandra said. ‘Is it to do with Dad?’
Abi cringed. Sandra stepped closer to her, put out a hand. ‘Did he do something? Did he hurt you?’
Abi shrivelled from her mum’s reach, pushed herself against the countertop.
‘He’s dead.’
Sandra stood for a moment then slumped onto a stool at the breakfast bar. Her hands covered her mouth, touched her cheeks, she didn’t know what to do with them. She looked from Abi to Dorothy.
‘What happened, what did you do?’
‘What did I do?’ Abi said loudly. ‘You think I killed him?’
Dorothy stepped forward. ‘Abi, take it easy.’
‘No, of course not,’ Sandra said. ‘I’m just trying to get my head around this.’
‘It’s more fucked up than you think,’ Abi said flatly. She still had her hood up but she’d pushed it back from her face, and Dorothy suddenly saw her similarity to her mum, the sharp line of her nose, the long neck.
‘I don’t understand.’ Sandra threw Dorothy a confused look.
Abi stuck her chin out. ‘He hung himself from a tree in Mrs S’s garden. So I would see it.’
Sandra shook her head, ran a hand through her hair. ‘He committed suicide?’
Dorothy nodded.
‘Are you sure he did it himself?’
Dorothy looked for a false note, a sign Sandra had already known, maybe even had something to do with it. But her face was genuinely shocked.
‘They haven’t done a full postmortem yet, but it looks like suicide.’
‘Did he leave a note?’
That was always the first question about suicide in Dorothy’s experience dealing with the bereaved. The need for an explanation was hardwired, and the lack of a note was like getting to the end of a novel and finding the final pages were missing. But life was often an unfinished novel, an unresolved story. It was hard to take.
‘No note,’ Abi said. ‘I think swinging from a rope was statement enough.’
Sandra shook her head.
Abi leaned forward. ‘It’s what you wanted, right?’
‘What?’
‘You wanted him dead for what he did to you.’
‘Abi…’
‘For what he did to us. For making me in the first place.’
Sandra stood up. ‘Abi, what he did to me is completely unconnected to how I feel about you.’
Abi backed off, closer to Dorothy. ‘It’s not though, is it? It’s always going to be linked. I’m tied to that monster and what he did. I’m the result.’
‘I love you so much,’ Sandra said. ‘I miss you, please come home.’
Abi tugged at the hem of her hoodie. ‘We need to contact next of kin, is your mum still alive?’
Sandra looked bewildered, a new world of pain was unfolding in front of her. ‘I don’t know.’
‘The Skelfs are doing the funeral,’ Abi said, pointing at Dorothy.
Dorothy stared at her. ‘What?’
‘Why not?’ Abi said.
‘Let’s just calm down,’ Dorothy said. ‘We need to contact his wife, that’s all for now.’
Abi shook her head and crossed her arms, making a stand.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m his daughter and I want the Skelfs to put him in the ground.’