Emily knows she shouldn’t take any more tablets, having only had her dose a couple of hours earlier, but she can’t help herself, can’t think of anything else to take away the upset of what she’s just seen. Behind the closed door of her bedroom she knows they won’t disturb her and she swigs back another couple of pills, washing it down with a gulp of the musty water that sits in a pint glass on her bedside cabinet. God, how she longs for a drink now. When did this happen, she wonders – when did she start fantasising about chilled white wine before she’s even had her breakfast? She thinks about the way they looked at each other when they realised they were caught on the front of that newspaper; she thinks about the secrets that passed between them and the pathetic way they tried to deny it, tried to say her eyes were lying to her. Well, she’s not wrong, is she? What’s the expression? The camera never lies. Well, it’s right there on the front page, clear as day, James caressing her sister’s face, when they had both said they were elsewhere. For Christ’s sake, Jess had even plated up a meal for James earlier that evening ‘so you and James can eat together later’! Talk about covering your tracks; it had certainly had her fooled. She’s such an idiot to have trusted her! Until Jess arrived, life was good and calm and predictable, and Emily wants so much to place this all at her feet, to show how her she is to blame for everything bad that has happened. Chloe’s defection; James’s retreat; her own infidelity. Daisy’s disappearance.
She sobs now, allowing her grief for Daisy a rare appearance, and more than anything she wants to blame Jess for that, because, God knows, that’s the worst thing, isn’t it? That’s the very worst thing, and whoever made that happen is the worst person, because that is what’s at the heart of this entire breakdown: the abduction of her child. But, try as she might, she cannot blame anyone as much as she blames herself. I made it happen, I made it happen, I made it happen. A loop of images runs through her head, blurring and slurring together as sleep threatens to take her down: Marcus’s mouth on hers; Jess’s grateful smile as she emerges from the mainland ferry; the look on James’s face in that newspaper photograph; the swirling handwriting of the letter in his desk drawer, from ‘A’ with a kiss. It’s me, is her last coherent thought before sleep at last possesses her. It’s all down to me.
The one thing she does feel bad about when it comes to that party at Sammie’s was that Jess hadn’t even wanted to come. If Emily hadn’t pushed her into going, none of that business with Simon would ever have happened, and life would have turned out quite differently. Jess had been complaining of feeling ‘a bit under the weather’ (their mother’s favourite expression) for a few days, and earlier that morning she’d had a light-headed moment in Topshop when she’d had to rest on the bottom step of the stairwell, right in front of everyone. By the time they sat down for lunch at Minxies she told Emily that she really couldn’t face it, because they’d all be drinking and having a laugh and she didn’t want to put a downer on Sammie’s birthday if she took another turn for the worse.
‘You’ll be fine!’ Emily told her. ‘And anyway, Sammie will be really upset if you don’t come. It’s the end-of-year party, Jess. How can you even think of not going?’
The reality was that she didn’t want to turn up at the party alone, which seemed likely as she’d been trying – unsuccessfully – to contact Simon for the past twenty-four hours. At least with Jess there she’d have someone to walk in with and to get safely home with afterwards. Maybe she could convince her to sort her hair out; it would look so much nicer if she wore it up, or if she used a few products to tame the natural waves that gave it a slightly wild look. Emily was lucky that her own hair was so straight and shiny. She hardly had to do a thing to make it look good.
‘It’s going to be a brilliant night – you can’t miss it. Sammie’s mum is away, and everyone’s going to be there, Jess. You can’t not go! Just have a lie-down for a couple of hours and you’ll feel much better.’
They heard the music before they even reached Sammie’s large detached house in Links Lane. It was a humid summer’s evening, and the sprawling high-walled garden was already littered with beer cans and spilled bowls of peanuts and limp trails of trodden-in party streamers. Sammie, wrestling a large speaker out through the dining room window, spotted them and came rushing out of the front door to hug them, already gushing in the tipsy way she was inclined to after even the tiniest amount of alcohol.
‘Have you seen how many people there are?’ she hissed dramatically, but not looking at all unpleased. ‘I swear there must be three times the number I actually invited.’ She took Emily’s budget bottle of cider and Jess’s weak lagers and indicated for them to follow her inside, where there was at least the same number of bodies as there were outside. ‘Grab a drink,’ she instructed them as she returned to sorting the speakers out, and Emily fetched a pair of Bacardi Breezers from the vegetable drawer of the fridge where she knew Sammie would have hidden them. A cheer rose up from the garden, indicating successful relocation of the speakers, and Emily felt the thrill of anticipation rushing up through her legs, pulsing in time with the bass.
Jess was her usual reticent self, sticking close to Emily’s side as they made their way back out into the garden to seek out their friends, and be seen. Emily ran her eyes over her sister, absently noting how pretty she looked, and hoped she’d be able to shake her off when Simon turned up. She had finally managed to speak to him late this afternoon and he’d promised her he would definitely be there by nine, but it was now gone half-past and there was still no sign of him. He would be with Lizard and Adrian and the other losers he hung around with, downing pints in his local before stopping off along the seafront for a pipe or a spliff and whatever it was that Lizard had managed to get his hands on this week. She tried to turn a blind eye to Simon’s ‘having a bit of laugh’, but she hated the fact that he’d rather be with them than her. Couldn’t he see that his mates were just hangers-on and users? Lizard and Adrian were invariably skint, while Simon always had a wad of cash in his back pocket to stand the next round or to sub them, knowing they had no intention of paying him back. His careless abandon with money was legendary. But of course his friends, like everyone else, knew that the O’Carrolls were loaded, and for just a few hours at his dad’s haulage yard each week Simon would earn more money than most of them could dream of in a month in their part-time shop or bar jobs. He was generous with Emily too, frequently buying her jewellery and little trinkets, but, as much as that pleased her, it wasn’t enough. They’d been going out together for six months now, and in Emily’s mind that was plenty enough time to expect more of him, wasn’t it? Six months was serious, anyone would agree, and surely serious meant arriving at parties together, returning each other’s calls, evenings out without his friends – and making plans for the future. Emily and Simon hadn’t done much of any of those things. The reality was, their relationship pretty much consisted of meeting up when he drunk-texted her at last orders, for a late-night fumble in his mum’s Honda, parked on the drive at the back of his family home. She couldn’t remember the last time they actually met up in daylight hours.
To her further irritation, Jess was already fighting off the boys. Even as they’d walked through the house, Emily could feel the attention she was gathering, as eyes turned towards her, glances that went unreturned. What was it about her? What was it that made people – boys and girls – want to look at her, want to be her friend? She was shy, boring even, and if she knew that someone was paying attention to her she became even more introverted. Emily on the other hand was gregarious. Fun! Why didn’t they all look at her in the same way? She made eye contact, let it be known if she liked someone, let them know if she’d seen them looking. She was no less attractive than Jess – more so, she liked to think, and certainly more approachable. Even now, a pair of lads from their year group had cornered Jess, and Emily could overhear them trying out their adolescent chat and the awkwardness of her responses. Jess was too busy unpinning the smooth bun that Emily had styled for her just an hour earlier, having complained that it was pulling her hair and making her eyes sting.
‘So, you’re Emily’s sister? Blimey, I’d never have guessed.’ This one was Alex, one of the sporty popular boys Jess always steered clear of. Beyond the garden the sun was low in the sky, casting a golden glow across the lawn, making halos of their hair. ‘You’re not twins, are you? You’re not that much like each other.’
Jess shook her hair free, glancing up briefly so as not to appear rude. She took a sip of her drink as she stuffed the hairpins into the patch pocket on the front of her denim skirt. ‘No, Emily’s older. I only turned seventeen this week.’
‘I would’ve said you look older,’ Emily heard the other boy say. She didn’t know his name; he was a nobody. It wasn’t even true. Jess looked young for her age, especially now she’d let her hair down like a little girl, so he was clearly only saying it to get in her knickers.
Jess laughed self-consciously and looked over at Emily, silently imploring her to come and save her. She lifted the bottle to her lips again and drained its contents anxiously. At least if she gets a bit pissed she might lighten up, Emily thought – and then she saw Simon, dropping down from the wall at the end of the garden, tumbling across the grass with Adrian and gangly Lizard in a drunken tangle. Emily’s heart juddered, and she lifted her arm and waved as she ran across the lawn to meet him.
He was, predictably, off his face. ‘Emi-Emi-Emi!’ he called out to her, like a football chant. His short cropped hair was waxed into hard little spikes that stood up at his forehead, giving him a cute rascally look that somehow conflicted with the large diamond stud he’d recently acquired in his left earlobe. ‘It’s real,’ he’d told her when she’d first seen it last week, frowning her disapproval as he admired his reflection in the rear-view mirror of his mum’s car. ‘I’ll get you a pair if you like,’ he had added, smoothly reclining her seat as he sank his face into her neck, and then she hadn’t minded his earring so much after all. Now, he slipped his hand around her small waist and pulled her against him fiercely so that their hips clashed as he kissed her wetly on the mouth. ‘How’s the party going?’ he whispered conspiratorially as they returned to the crowd, his arm slung possessively around her, her face glowing with the pleasure of being possessed.
The nobody boy was returning from the house with another drink for Jess. Emily wanted to keep walking, to take Simon inside where they could sit together on one of the big luxurious sofas and kiss and murmur and disappear into their own searing bubble of longing. But Simon resisted, hanging back when they reached Jess, a wide smile splitting his features. He reached into Jess’s group of three and with his middle finger he flicked her glass bottle like a person flicking an insect.
‘Oy-oy, Little Sister,’ he said, and Jess looked up at him, startled. ‘What’s all this?’ He nodded towards her beer bottle. ‘Didn’t have you down as much of a drinker.’
And then the strangest thing. Jess held his gaze, and it was as if they were the only two people in the garden, as Emily and Alex and the other boy all faded into the background, morphing into hazy silhouettes against the glowing sunset sky. And in that split-second Emily knew: her little sister didn’t like Simon.
‘Thought you were the good one,’ he said, and he laughed, betraying his discomfort, and Jess looked away and took a swig from her bottle, and the moment passed. ‘Right, talking of drinking –’ Simon said with a clap of his hands, and he broke into a jog, catching up with Lizard as he disappeared inside the house.
Emily stared after him. One minute he had been there, all over her, happy to see her – the next, he was gone.
‘Do you want this?’ Jess asked her, casually easing herself away from the two boys and offering Emily her drink.
Emily ran her eyes over her sister, suspicion clawing at her insides, and really, she wanted to lash out at her, to blame her for Simon’s indifference. Why did she feel as though it was all Jess’s fault that this evening wasn’t working out the way she had imagined it would? Their eyes connected; Emily’s were steely, Jess’s confused.
‘Is everything OK?’ Jess asked.
Emily nodded, allowing herself to appear perplexed at such a pointless question. ‘Why wouldn’t I be? Look, there’s Jane – and Sammie – let’s see if they’re up for a dance.’ She grabbed Jess’s drink and finished it in one long swallow, calling out to her friends and throwing her head back when they came rushing over, laughing as if she was having the best of times. She glanced back at Sporty Alex, noted how his angular jaw and scruffy sun-bleached hair were now painted amber in the low summer light, and gave him one of her biggest, shiniest smiles.
If Simon could do his own thing, so could she.
Even through her sedated slumber, Emily has been aware of the endlessly ringing phone, of the hammering on the front door, of the car-door-slamming and raised voices of the waiting press just beyond the gravel of their front drive. At some point Jess looked in on her and told Emily that the police were here again, but she couldn’t lift her head, couldn’t bring herself to acknowledge that she’d heard what her sister was saying, though she knew from her tone that it was important.
‘DCI Jacobs is here,’ she’d said, knocking softly on the door after she’d opened it. ‘There’s been a development, Ems. Don’t you think you should get up?’
Emily had groaned a little and motioned ‘no’ with the slightest movement of her head on the pillow.
‘I think you should,’ Jess had pressed on. ‘I’ll leave you to get yourself sorted, and there’ll be a cup of tea waiting for you when you get downstairs.’
They are down there now, she knows, but she can’t face them. The endless talking, the same solemn questions put to her in a vaguely different format, the eternal expression of hope on James’s face. At the next bang on the front door, she eases herself out of her bed, still fully clothed, and shuffles to the window to peer through a crack in the curtains, out into the early evening darkness of the front drive. It’s gone five o’clock and yet there are dozens of the vultures out there, more than ever before, cawing and preening for a follow-up to their salacious story. Jesus, what a reflection on modern society, that the press have more interest in an abduction story once it turns out that there are mucky goings-on between members of the heartbroken family. She wants to spit at them all.
Directly below her window, James has opened the front door. She’s still trying to remain concealed, but if she presses close to the window jamb she can just make out the top of the journalist’s head, and clearly hears their brief conversation.
‘Mr King! Joe Leighton of the Mirror – no, please don’t close the door – it’s about Avril, your first wife.’
This is enough to get James’s attention; he would have been expecting them to ask about his relationship with Jess. Emily wonders if they have news. Have they found her?
‘What about her?’ James replies, curtly.
‘We understand that she’s spent several years in mental institutions? Is that true? Do the police still think that Avril has Daisy?’
James must be backing off, because the journalist leans in, as if to prevent the door from closing, shouting, ‘Mr King! Do you think that your ex-wife could be dangerous? Are you concerned?’
Now James steps out into full view, his broad posture challenging, and the journalist takes a defensive move backwards. The others all hang around at the edge of the drive, knowing better than to harangue us with the police here.
‘Am I concerned? Of course I’m bloody concerned! Why would you even ask a question as pointless as that? Avril’s unstable, for God’s sake – who wouldn’t be concerned?’ James returns to the house, slamming the door behind him and for a few seconds the journalist remains on the spot staring after him, before his face shifts into a smirk and he returns to the pack.
In a sudden fit of rage Emily throws back the curtain and opens the window, leaning out so violently that for a moment she thinks she might fall. ‘FUCK OFF!’ she yells, and in a second their cameras are all trained on her, sending brutal missiles of flashlight out into the dark night, lighting up her craziness for all the world to see. She retreats as suddenly as she had appeared, stumbling out into the hallway to find James, to tell him what had happened, to make him sort it out and get these bastards off their front drive. ‘James!’ she shouts urgently as she rushes down the stairs, but when she gets there she finds they have a houseful.
It’s DCI Jacobs who stands to greet her, not James, and she holds out her palm to offer Emily a seat at her own table. Emily’s confusion is crippling; she looks from Jess to James, ignoring the greetings of Piper and Cherry and the other officer who sits at the table and she’s certain that they have come to arrest her. Do they know what she’s done?
‘Mrs King,’ the inspector says, stopping Emily’s thoughts with the unexpected gentleness in her tone. ‘Emily. Avril has been in contact. James is going to meet her tomorrow – and there’s a good chance she’ll have Daisy with her.’