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Through chair legs I stared at my mother’s beautiful face for what seemed like an age. She was wearing that necklace. I couldn’t see the pendant properly, but the chain was gold and she usually wore silver. Her lips were smeared with blood, but she didn’t look how she had in the hospital. And then – my heart froze – her eyelids flickered, and she pulled herself up, just as someone stepped past the camera.
‘Dot?’ Between two high-heeled shoes I saw my mother lie back again.
‘You’re awake,’ said Dot.
Mum blinked. ‘Tristan tried… He…’ she whispered. ‘Your boy raped me, Dot.’ Her voice broke.
Dot rushed over and knelt down. ‘He didn’t, Arianne. He’s a good boy.’
I couldn’t see past Dot to my mum’s reaction.
‘No, I won’t believe it. No one will believe it,’ said Dot.
‘Dot, I?—’
Dot reached for her and slammed my mum’s head back down against the floor. ‘Oh God. I’m sorry, Arianne,’ Dot said. She grabbed a hardback book from the desk and brought it down on my mum’s face once, twice, three times.
‘Maybe if you promise – if you promise not to tell anyone,’ said Dot, shaking her head.
My mum gasped and tried to wriggle up, but her arms seemed too weak and Dot grabbed my mum’s neck. She was wearing lilac driving gloves. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She let go and sat back but then seized her again, and my mum barely fought back, her arms limp.
‘I’m so sorry. David would never forgive me if Tristan went to prison. He would kill me. He’s the only thing David loves in the world. I can’t let you put him in prison. I’m so sorry.’ She stood up and flicked her hands as if getting rid of water, then she turned and her heels clicked past the camera.
Now my mother looked like she had in the hospital, still and broken.
And then she coughed.
And then another pair of shoes walked into the frame.
93
NOW
There’s shouting and barking as Tristan cries out in pain as he hits the ground. Uniformed policemen come running round the side of the house just as I hear a pounding far off below, at the front door.
Who called them? It’s too fast for it to have been a call from Mina’s phone.
Two officers kneel either side of Tristan and drag him to a seated position. I can’t hear what they’re saying. He yells and tries to stand but his leg buckles and then he’s sitting again and somehow now his hands are cuffed behind him.
A loud crash comes from downstairs and then footsteps thunder on the stairs and then the pounding starts again, louder now because it’s on the annexe door.
One of the police beside Tristan stands up and goes to collect the broken tape, brown ribbon blowing over the concrete.
Lydia grabs my wrist. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, her eyebrows knitting together. ‘None of it was Georgia. I didn’t know Theo would take them. I thought they were safe.’
I stare at her as two policemen and Bevan come crashing through the door.
‘What did you do?’ I ask.
94
BEFORE
If I’m being honest, and at this stage there’s not much point in trying to hide anything, I’d say it felt as though I were being guided by the hand of God. A shimmering cloud of warmth and joy came down, and I gave myself to it.
Why not?
It was God who tossed the weed burner and petrol can and matches, tucked my hair behind my ear, lifted me out of the drive, down the lane, into Mrs Dingle’s car and placed my hands on the wheel. He started the engine and steered while I saw the end of the tape over and over.
