2019
Yanked from a dark, dream-filled sleep, Claire snapped her eyes open and then sat bolt upright, flicking on her lamp as she heard scuffling followed by a dull thud outside her bedroom door. Her panic subsided a little when she remembered the baby gates she’d installed at the top and bottom of the long oak staircase, but still she wasn’t confident her father wouldn’t get past the gate at the top and tumble down it. Without carpet, in keeping with the rustic decor of the house, those stairs could be lethal. A haunting image of her mother lying like a broken ragdoll at the bottom of them flashed chillingly through her mind, and she shook off the shiver that ran through her, threw back her duvet and scrambled out of bed.
What on earth was he doing? It was obvious it was her father wandering about, but she’d moved everything he could possibly bump into on his incessant trips to the loo. Flying to the door, she dashed out – and then froze, her heart leaping into her mouth as she came face to face with not one, but two men on the landing, one of whom was close to being forced over the stair rail.
‘Dad!’ she cried, launching herself towards them. ‘Dad, let him go!’ She tugged on his arm, to no avail, then attempted to prise his hands from her husband’s throat before he throttled him. ‘Dad, please…’
‘Call the police, Ruth,’ Bernard growled, and Claire’s heart started the downward trajectory it always did when he addressed her by her mother’s name. ‘Thieving piece of scum, breaking into decent people’s homes. Ought to be—’
‘Dad, for God’s sake, stop!’ Claire shouted, her desperation rising as she heard her husband gagging. ‘It’s Luke.’
Bernard faltered, his gaze perplexed as it flicked towards her. ‘Who?’
‘My husband,’ Claire clarified, a hard lump clogging her throat. ‘Please stop.’
His forehead furrowing into a puzzled frown, Bernard looked back to Luke, blinked in bemusement and then, mercifully, relaxed his grip.
Oh God. ‘Luke…’ Claire moved to help him as, clearly shocked and disorientated, he struggled upright. ‘Are you okay?’
‘For fuck’s sake…’ Luke rasped. ‘Are you insane?’ Stepping away from the rail, causing Bernard to blunder backwards into the landing wall behind him, he eyeballed the older man with a combination of disbelief and palpable fury. ‘What the hell were you doing?’
Bernard’s expression was now nonplussed. ‘Going to the bathroom,’ he supplied innocently.
Claire felt her heart ache for him. A proud man, he’d always carried himself tall, but his posture was now stooped in defeat, his once sharply intelligent brown eyes rheumy and awash with uncertainty.
‘Bloody maniac,’ Luke muttered, fixing him with a disdainful gaze.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Bernard’s mood switched in an instant, as it tended to. Pulling himself up to his full height, he stepped towards Luke again, his eyes narrowing.
Nerves knotted Claire’s stomach. Fearing a stand-off, she readied herself to intervene, and then almost wilted with relief as, after scanning Luke’s eyes briefly, her dad’s mood appeared to shift again, confusion crossing his face before he turned away to walk back to his bedroom.
Luke laughed scathingly and shook his head. ‘Yeah, no problem, Bernard,’ he called angrily after him. ‘Apology accepted.’
‘Luke, don’t make things worse,’ Claire whispered, her heart sinking.
‘Me?’ Luke stared at her, in disbelief. ‘He bloody well attacked me! He could have killed me.’
‘But he didn’t realise it was you,’ Claire pointed out. It was well past midnight, and Luke would have crept in. He and his mates had no doubt been the last to leave the local pub again. Luke had apparently been appointed chief organiser of his best friend’s upcoming stag night, and judging by the smell of beer, he’d had a fair few while he was at it. Claire tried not to mind him going out. She couldn’t help thinking that he might have volunteered for the job, though, preferring to be at the pub rather than here. She hadn’t said anything, possibly because she’d felt too tired to pursue it, but she’d been devastated when she’d joined him there one night and noticed a group of girls, also on a boozy night out, one of whom was blatantly giving Luke the eye. She was sure she could trust him, but a nagging seed of doubt had taken root inside her when she’d caught him glancing in the girl’s direction.
‘Who the bloody hell else would he think it was?’ Luke grumbled, as Claire tried again to ignore the awful knot of uncertainty in her tummy. What would she do if he did more than look? If her best intentions to care for her father drove her husband away?
‘He thought there was a stranger in the house,’ she said, and then immediately wished she could reel the words back in.
Luke’s expression said it all. I rest my case. He sighed. ‘He doesn’t know me, Claire. He has no idea who I am.’
‘He’s confused,’ she reminded him. ‘You obviously startled him.’
‘He’s not the only one,’ Luke muttered.
Guessing where this was leading, Claire felt her heart sink another inch.
‘What are we doing here, Claire?’ Luke asked, on cue.
He didn’t want to be living in her father’s house; that was glaringly obvious. He’d been dead set against them moving in when she’d suggested it, and had only relented when she’d pointed out that if they sold the place, the entire proceeds might end up paying for care home fees. Plus, there was the fact that she’d actually wanted to look after her father. Luke wasn’t likely to be any happier about the situation now he’d been half strangled to death. Claire felt awful for him. She could see the livid bruises forming on his neck already. There was no point going into it all again now, though. They would only end up arguing, and that would wake Ella, leaving her tired and fractious in the morning.
‘I know why you’re doing this, and I understand,’ he went on, working to control his agitation, ‘but it’s becoming impossible. He’s not just confused any more. He’s aggressive. Dangerous. Surely you can see it’s time to organise some proper care for him? Professional care. Ella’s only four years old. Quite apart from the psychological effect it might have on her, she’s haemophilic, for God’s sake. What if he turned on her in the middle of the night? Or left the front door open again? He’s not safe for a child to be around.’
Claire reeled under that attack. Did he think she wasn’t aware of Ella’s illness? That she hadn’t struggled, as he had, to accept the cruel twist of fate that had given their precious daughter the mutated gene that made her a carrier? With her own mother dead and buried and no other family history of haemophilia they’d been able to trace, did he imagine she didn’t somehow blame herself, every minute of every day? Ella’s symptoms were mild, thank goodness, but did he really think Claire didn’t worry about her and watch over her constantly, terrified she might cut herself? Bruise herself and bleed internally? She lived in terror that she might not get her daughter to a hospital in time for the blood-clotting-factor injections to be administered.
‘That’s not fair, Luke,’ she retaliated, hurt and defensive. ‘I never leave her on her own with him. I’m always here when—’
‘Because you’ve given up your job,’ Luke reminded her, exasperated. ‘You’ve given up your life. You can’t do this, Claire. It’s not fair on you. Not fair on anyone, least of all Bernard. He needs twenty-four-hour care. With the best will in the world, it’s just not possible for you to give him that any more.’
‘I know.’ Claire’s voice rose in frustration. She was becoming increasingly aware of that. She wanted to scream with exhaustion sometimes, but what good would that do? The two of them were constantly at loggerheads. She couldn’t blame Luke for being annoyed and frustrated. She had so little time for him lately. And with her perpetually tired and her dad just the other side of the bedroom wall, the intimacy between them had dwindled to non-existent. He was worried, clearly, wondering where this would end, but right now, she needed his support.
‘I’ve been…’ looking at various options, she was about to say, when Ella’s door squeaked open and she emerged nervously onto the landing.
Guessing she’d been woken by the noise, Claire stepped towards her, but Luke was quicker. ‘Hey, gorgeous girl,’ he said, bending to sweep her into his arms. ‘What’s up?’
Ella looked worriedly at him from under her long eyelashes. ‘I heard shouting,’ she said, her voice tremulous. ‘I was frightened.’
‘There’s nothing to be frightened of, pumpkin.’ Luke gave her a reassuring smile. ‘It was just Grandad and me. We bumped into each other in the dark.’
Ella eased back to study his face. ‘Were you frightened?’ she asked him, her expression uncertain.
‘A bit,’ Luke admitted. ‘He caught me by surprise. We’re all good now, though. Come on, let’s tuck you back up with Flopsy and Gruffy. They’ll protect you.’
‘Gruffalo and Flopsy are frightened too. They think there’s a monster,’ Ella confided, her little brow furrowed in consternation. ‘Will you tuck up with us, Daddy? You could fight the monster off then.’
‘I’ll always fight your monsters, sweetheart,’ Luke promised softly. Hoisting her higher in his arms, he carried her back to her bedroom. ‘Say night night to Mummy.’
Ella waved from the door. ‘Night, Mummy.’
‘Night, baby.’ Claire managed a smile. She didn’t miss the pointed glance Luke shot her as he closed the door behind him, leaving her barefoot on the landing, feeling guilty and lonely.
Taking a second to compose herself, she stared at the ceiling, then padded after her father. When she tapped on the open door and went in, she found him sitting on the side of the bed with a deep furrow in his brow, studying the carpet intently. ‘Come on, Dad. Let’s try and get some beauty sleep, shall we?’ she said encouragingly. None of this was his fault.
Bernard looked up as she approached. Seeing his anxious expression, Claire smiled and reached past him for the duvet. ‘It’s not morning yet, Dad,’ she said, working to inject some cheeriness into her tone. ‘Why don’t you pop back into bed and—’
‘Don’t see him again,’ Bernard said suddenly, his hand shooting out to catch hold of her wrist.
‘Dad…?’ Claire’s gaze snapped to his. ‘Dad, you’re hurting me.’ Bewildered, she tried to pull away, but he clung on, his fingers digging into her flesh.
‘Don’t do this to me,’ her father begged. ‘He’ll never be able to provide for you; never love you the way I do. I will tell her. I promise I will.’
Fear clutched Claire’s stomach. Tell who what? It wasn’t her he was seeing in front of him. Uneasiness crept through her as she noted the desperation in his eyes, and she wrenched her hand away from his grasp and stumbled back.
‘Dad?’ she said, feeling tearful. ‘Who are you talking to?’
But Bernard was staring at the carpet again. When he glanced back at her, after a second, he looked as confused as she felt. ‘Sorry, dear?’
‘Nothing.’ Claire swallowed back the pain lodged like a stone in her throat. ‘Let’s get you comfortable, shall we? It’s really late. I think we could all use some sleep.’
Finally managing to get him settled, Claire went wearily back to her own room. She would have to organise more specialised care, she knew. He was undoubtedly becoming more aggressive. That had happened almost overnight, after a series of transient ischaemic attacks associated with vascular dementia, according to his consultant. He was also more unpredictable, his memory becoming less and less reliable. Was what he’d just said a true recollection? A conversation he might actually have had? One he’d wanted to have? She might never know, because he might never accurately remember.
Desperate for sleep, which she knew wouldn’t come easily, she reached for her phone to reset her alarm, and noticed she’d received a new message. She flicked to it, thinking she could use a friendly ear about now, and her heart froze.
Are you Bernard Harvey’s daughter? If you are, I’m your half-sister. The message was from someone called Sophie.
Hands trembling, feeling as if the breath had been sucked from her lungs, she went to the sender’s profile. The photograph showed a pretty woman with short cropped hair, similar in age to herself. Seeing she was a friend of a friend, Claire had friended her when she’d realised she lived in Rhyl, a place her father had taken her to as a child while on one of his many road trips. Sophie had commented on a message Claire had posted on Facebook about her dad and what a cruel disease dementia was. I feel for you, Claire, she’d said.
She had commented on several other posts after that. Claire had thought she’d been reaching out to her, sympathising, that was all. A tight lump expanded unbearably in her throat as she recalled her father’s ramblings, the conviction in his tone, his frightening grip on her wrist, and she typed a short reply: I don’t have a sister.
Are you sure? the woman pinged back.