Honest (16 page)

His hand shot
out and caught the side of my face; it burned red hot instantly. ‘Now I’ve had
enough of your filth,’ he said through gritted teeth. I caught the strong smell
of whiskey on his breath. He must have been helping himself while he laid the
flooring, dulling the fear. ‘I’m sick of pandering to you. Look where it’s got
us.’

I hunched up,
cupping my face. There I’d been, feeling as if I’d gained some control back in
my life against this pathetic monster I called a father, and here he was upping
the ante. I drew my hand from my face and made to grab a fistful of his hair,
just to show him who was boss — that’s right, weak little cripple girl— when he
snatched my wrist and squeezed, forcing me back down onto the cushion.

‘You
shut
up
. This is serious.’ He glanced up over the sofa, his eyes widening.
‘They’re going to break in the door.’

‘Well then fix
it, for Christ’s sake,’ I said, my head crooked awkwardly against the seat
cushion. I wriggled my hand free and stroked my wrist. As I lay there,
listening to my father’s inane mumbling, an odd sense of calm came over me. I
laid the facts straight in my mind: the police were here, we had a body
upstairs, and I hated my life.

Was there
really anything so terrible that could happen? They’d find David, yes, and they
might question my past when they convicted me, but I’d only be moving from one
prison to another — and at least behind bars, my body was my own. No
possessors, no invaders — just myself.

Except that
was the problem. I belonged here, with Peter, whichever form he took. And as I
sighed and helped myself up into a seated position again I realised, quite
simply, that the fate in store for me was neither here nor there. I had no
friends to impress, nobody to trust...But I’d been content, delighted, even, to
be back here; back to the only place I’d ever felt loved and desired, and
cherished like a real woman.

It was just a
shame I’d gone and spoiled it all. And now I’d spoiled it again.

‘You’re
sounding ever so calm, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘You won’t be so calm if they come
barging in and find out what you’ve done.’

I blinked.
Sudden clarity came over me in a wave, making me smile. My knee throbbed dully,
the ache worsening as my attention became more focused. I was a
disabled
girl
with a history of tragedy. How could I have killed a man nearly fix
feet tall, when I was confined to my wheelchair most of the time?

I wouldn’t
have believed I’d managed it, if it hadn’t been for the fact that I knew who
really was to blame; the boy who saved me and brought out the strength in me,
as he always had. My beloved Peter.

‘You mean when
they find out what
you’ve
done,’ I said, smiling. It was the first true
smile I’d had in ages, and I savoured it, letting the goodness swell in my gut.

Dad’s lips
parted, but only a guttural sound came out. Then he grabbed my wrist again, and
looked startled when what came from my lips was not a cry, but laughter.

‘I’ve just
realised it, but they’d never believe it was me. I bet I could confess the lot
and they’d never find any proof, not when you’ve cleared up all the evidence
for me. Go on, Dad, grip tighter — give them more reason to
pity me
,’ I
said, twisting my own wrist in his grip, revelling in the pain.

It was
occurring to me then that I’d lived my entire life in fear of one thing or
another. What purpose did my life have, if not to be afraid of something all
the time?

This was
nothing, nothing at all. I could be rid of dad, David, everything; and everything
I’d really wanted could be mine. I could dye my hair blonde and read
Cosmo
all day long. I could visit Peter in his soft coffin, and make an appearance on
This Morning where the whole world would watch me, captivated, remarking on
what an amazing girl I must be; what astounding strength I must have.

I mightn’t
have the cottage, or Peter’s hill. But I’d still have him where it counted, and
Peter would still have me. He would always have me, and I knew now that
wherever I would go, he would follow.

‘You don’t
know what you’re saying,’ dad said, but the fear was in his eyes. A loud crack
came from the front door, followed by the sounds of policemen shouting, moving,
preparing to enter the house.

Dad looked
from the door to me, panicking. ‘I won’t let you ruin us,’ he said, his voice
shaking, the alcohol on his breath reeking. Then he was tugging me, and soon
lifting me from the sofa with ease, while I wriggled and screamed like a little
girl.

I scraped my
face against the sharp stubble on his neck, and felt his nails digging into the
flesh of my thighs and back as he hoisted me over his shoulder. He hurried,
ducking into the kitchen to snatch a bottle from the table, before struggling
into the hall and upstairs with me.

He couldn’t
have carried David — and he wouldn’t have wanted to haul that lifeless lump
over his shoulder even if he could — but I was small, and bony, and fragile as
a paper doll. It was easy.

He had left
his decorating ladder beneath the attic, the place where David lay. He was
shoving me up the ladder from behind when the front door burst open downstairs.
 Dad gripped my legs and pushed me, giving me no choice but to grasp the
rudders and shove open the trap door.

Before I could
even shimmy around he was beneath me, forcing me through, crawling into the
space behind me before kicking the ladder away. I caught a glimpse of a
high–vis jacket and heard the commotion of the police as, panting, dad replaced
door and shut us off.

The attic was
stiflingly hot and dark, and I clawed my way around, eager just to get away
from dad. I froze when I blindly felt my way to the narrow, slanted corner of
the attic and found myself nudging a familiar form wrapped in plastic. It made
a rustling sound as I bumped it, even slumping against me.

I screamed and
shimmied back, finding myself atop the trap door we’d entered through. In the
darkness I heard my father muttering rapidly, rushing about, searching for
something. When he found it, I heard him give a groan of relief.

‘What are you
doing?’ I whispered, shaking, blocking out the sounds of the police down below.
They were calling out to us. I could hear the ladder rattling as they picked it
up, adjusting it under the opening, ready to climb up.

‘We’re in this
together, and we’re going out together, princess,’ said dad from somewhere in
the attic. ‘I want you to trust daddy, all right? He loves you. Be brave.’

There was a
loud smash, followed by a scraping and a sound like
whumf
, when suddenly
dad’s face was lit up before me. His eyes were mad under the shadows cast by
the match he’d struck. At his feet was a kind of flossy stuffing pulled from an
old mattress, and all around him was shattered glass in a pool of
ever–spreading liquid, reaching my toes.

‘No!’ I
shrieked, clawing around the door for the seam to free myself, even if it meant
falling into the hall below. ‘Dad, for god’s sake don’t do it, we’ll burn to
death, we’ll—’

I screamed as
he cast the match onto the fabric soaked in alcohol. Immediately it erupted
into hypnotic blue flames, cloaking us in its heat, before bursting into an
orange inferno.

Chapter
Twenty–Four

My father was
obscured by the raging flames as quickly as he’d been illuminated, and as I
screamed I found myself choking on the billowing clouds of black smoke.
Screaming, I thumped on the trap door, feeling it nudge as the police below
responded with a hard shove. I needed to get off, and fast, if I wanted to get
out of there alive.

I shuffled off
the door, knocking against David’s body once more. This time it was infinitely
worse as, while the flames consumed the mattress and hissed along the alcohol
trail, the plastic bags he was wrapped in melted against my skin. I tore my arm
away and black, stringy lengths of molten bin–bag came with it. I wretched,
choking up the smoke I inhaled.

I had almost
shaken off David’s melting form when my dad started screaming.

I turned my
head this way and that, unsure of which direction I was even facing now. I
could just see him over the licking head of the flames, flailing wildly,
smashing himself about the place. His shirt and hair were on fire.

‘Dad!’ I
screamed. I was stuck, trapped behind the inferno. For the first time since I
was a child, I looked upon my shrieking, burning father and could only think
exactly that — the fact he was
my father
.
Daddy
. He was dying.

There was no
time to cry, or scream, for moments later I heard the thud as he fell to the
floor, and I was forced to cover my head with my T–shirt to block out the
smoke. I couldn’t see him now, and I was blinded by the flames regardless.

The heat,
though — the heat was intense, smothering, suffocating. It was like nothing I’d
felt before, and nothing I could ever forget. I was sure if I didn’t burn to
death then the heat would strangle me, wrapping its impossible magma hands
around my head.

Sobbing under
my T–shirt, I crawled blindly toward the sound of the trap door as the police
smashed it open. I felt the wood bash my knee as it was thrown aside, so I
shuffled towards it, holding my breath, stretching out an arm to feel my way.

I could hear
shouts and the sounds of retreat as the smoke billowed out through the opening,
and momentarily I could see. Beside me, David’s body was a pool of black,
melting plastic, as if he were made entirely of the stuff, like a sticky piece
of liquorice. I launched myself toward the trap door, as near as I could, and
shrieked as my bad leg was dragged through a sizzling hot pool of fiery
alcohol. I slapped it profusely, yelling, my skin erupting in blisters, when
finally I tugged the T–shirt off my head, bundled it and slapped out the
flames.

I could hear
something; a hoarse voice calling for me. ‘Ellen!’ it was shouting, its voice
splitting into a gravelly, unrecognisable shriek, like the sounds from a dying
animal. I knew at once it had to be my father, and he needed me.

Yet, just
ahead, behind the black smoke and flames that had crawled so high they licked
the ceiling, was the opening down into the hall.

I dragged
myself blindly towards it, all the while the voice of my father bleating my
name, getting louder, more insistent, desperate, until it became a persistent,
gargling scream:
ELLEN ELLEN ELLEN
!

I felt my way
along the floor with my hands. The skin of my leg was screaming with agony, the
nerve endings scorched, my flesh bubbling at the hottest part, but still I
crawled forward, towards that square of light.

When suddenly
I felt nothing beneath my hands, it was too late to stop going. Desperate to
keep alive, my mind focused on my escape, ignoring dad’s wailing. I was numb
and burned, my taught skin sleek with sweat, the hair plastered to my forehead.
I limped into the opening and plummeted with a hard thump onto the landing
below, my head cracking against the knob of the banister as I fell.

Cool fluid
poured from a gash in my head, dripping blissfully over my nose as my stiff,
sore eyelids blinked up at the smoking attic above me. I could hear shouting
far away, and within moments a mask was thrust over my nose and mouth, though I
continued to stare up at that black hole.

A ringing
started in my ears and my entire body was numbed by the impossible, biting
pains all over me. Within seconds I was a blank, lifeless body, gazing up at
where it had fallen like a dead bird. I became delusional, the arms and bodies
and uniforms surrounding me smudging and smearing like charcoal, even as they
pulled me onto a stretcher.

There was a
horrendous scream as something large, black and smoking plummeted out of the
attic trap door, but I was already being carried down the stairs away from it
all before I could see what it was. I nodded in and out of consciousness as the
attic got further away from me.

Even then,
when the smoke parted for an instant and the orange flames were dancing, I saw
Peter up there, silhouetted, watching me go.

It took me
almost a week of consciousness to realise I wasn’t in Mevagissey anymore, like
Dorothy waking in Kansas. I was back in London at King’s Cross Hospital, stuck
in a side room with halogen lights and the incessant bleeping of machines, the
squeaking of shoes and trolley wheels from the hallway.

I’d been
adjusting to my surroundings, barely speaking, without ever registering where I
was at all. I’d allowed nurses to take me to and from the bathroom, dress and
re–dress my burns with thick white bandage and sticky pads and even help me
into the tub for a wash using a special hoist.

I went limply
from one room to another, all white and clean and all the same. But even though
my body had been cleaned and my wounds treated, my mind was still left in the
fog of that fire, muted and lost amongst the flames.

 At night I
woke frequently, gasping, crying, stifling myself with the pillow. Once, a
domestic was even frightened from my room as she crept by me with her mop and
bucket, when I awoke from a nightmare screaming.

Melanie came.
She said the police were going to need to hear my side of the story. She said
they’d found human remains after the blaze, but they needed help identifying
them to build a case.

I told her
immediately that they belonged to David Pierce. Afraid, her hands shaking, she
took my hand in hers and said, ‘Who did it?’

I blinked. For
the first time my head cleared, and it all seemed so simple again; as simple as
it had seemed before the fire. I decided I’d tell her exactly what I’d promised
my father I would say. ‘My dad did it,’ I lied. ‘I couldn’t stop him. He killed
David and then he tried to kill me; all of us. He wanted us burned alive.’

The terror on
her face was something that she, even in her profession, couldn’t disguise. She
squeezed my fingers, making the tube in my hand sting as the skin grew taught
and tweaked it. While she figured out what to say next, I reassured myself that
this was natural; an eye for an eye, all that. I was taking back my life now. I
was being strong. I was going to win this.

‘He’s in a
bad, bad way Ellen,’ said Melanie, swallowing hard. ‘It’s touch and go. The
police want to get all the facts straight on your end before they can even
think about setting a date for the trial. They have to build a case, and they
can’t without your father’s—’

She waffled
on. Sometime later sounds returned to her flapping mouth again, but I didn’t
listen to them. I simply asked: ‘Is he suffering?’

Her eyes
glistened wetly, her wild hair stuffed behind her ears. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘They
have him on morphine.’

‘But he’s alive,’
I said.

She nodded
slowly. ‘It doesn’t look good. He’s badly burned...The scarring is...Well, I
don’t want to frighten you. He’s made it this far, that’s what counts.’

I sat up in
bed, letting my gown flap open at the back. ‘Do you think I care about that?’ I
said. ‘About a man who molested me, treated me like his possession, and then
tried to burn me to death? Do you think I want to know about his welfare while
I’m
sitting here with nothing, lucky to be alive
?’

Her eyes
darkened. ‘Molested,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘What are you talking about?’

I gripped the
bed sheets. I paused when the catering assistant popped around the door with a
fresh jug of water, which Melanie took and poured for me, passing me the frosty
plastic cup. I took it and drank, letting the liquid refresh my throat.

‘You’re
telling me your father molested you?’ said Melanie, watching me swallow each
mouthful methodically. ‘You’ve never said anything. You never said anything at
all. Dennis—’

‘Dad made me
blame him,’ I blurted, the second lie of the evening falling from my mouth
before I could shut my lips. I couldn’t process what had come over me at all.
It was a sudden moment of clarity, like an urge to set things straight.

Loyalty,
perhaps, to Peter’s innocent father, who had suffered because I was too young
and stupid to understand what I was doing? It was no use lying now — for the
most part, anyway.

The thought of
my father getting away with it now, after what he’d done, was a pain worse than
death. I’d had enough of it. Of course, I was still a liar — and still a
murderer. But I was a
good
liar, and I was in control.

I could make
things better now.

I closed my
eyes and imagined a life without my father, or the looming ghost of my absent
mother who knew nothing of this. I imagined the life of a relieved victim like
the women on This Morning; the press, the autobiography, the columns in the
magazines...

But best of
all, I imagined a life where I was a human, and not a doll to be used and posed
and tucked up in bed. A life when at night I could dream of Peter sailing away
from me, over the cool horizon of the night’s sky, instead of us drowning
together in those silent, eternal depths.

Melanie’s
voice made my eyes snap open. ‘So you’re saying that Dennis was not your
abuser, but you lied and watched him get convicted and sent away for three
years. That’s what you’re telling me now?’

I shook my
head. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m telling you that Peter found out and, rather than
break up all the family I had left, I was forced to blame somebody else. All
my...
bastard
life I’ve been riddled with guilt about one thing or
another, and for god’s sake, I just wanted it to
stop
.’

Melanie
massaged her temple, breathing hard. ‘OK. All right. So supposing I believe
what you’re telling me — that this man was innocent all along and you were
protecting your own abuser, your own father. You’re also telling me that when
David Peirce came to your house — we have Lauren to vouch for that — your
father killed him, put him in the attic, and set the house on fire to hide the
evidence.’

‘Out of
jealousy,’ I said. ‘Because of what David tried to do to me.’

I could see in
her eyes that she couldn’t decide which parts were truth and which were
bullshit. But I worked out pretty quickly that Lauren had already given her statement,
and it was working in my favour. It made sense. I’d shown her the bruises,
hadn’t I?

And hadn’t I
asked for help?

That was
enough, I was sure of it. I could set things right like this. I was the cripple
girl, the victim.

Even if I was
completely honest with myself about it all:  the fact that I’d stabbed David
with that knife, and
enjoyed
defeating him;  the fact it was my choice
to blame Dennis and save my dad; the fact that I’d killed the only boy I’d ever
loved; I was still a victim.

I knew if I
kept believing that, it would take me far. I just knew it would. It had worked
before, in the last trial, and it could work again.

‘Lauren says
that David had treated her badly in the relationship, and that you—’ here she
pointed at me with her pen. ‘—had told her on the night of the fire that he’d
tried to rape you.  Is that true?’

‘Yes,’ I said.
‘And when my dad walked in on us, he attacked him.’

‘Just tell me
something,’ said Melanie, after a long pause. ‘Why, if you’d been living with
abuse from your own parent for years, would you protect him all this time? Why
didn’t you crack under the pressure during Dennis’ trial?’

My stomach
tied in a knot. It was a true enough point she was making. I’d always been good
at playing games, making up lies, masking the truth and twisting it to my
advantage — I’d learned to be that way growing up.

I shrugged.
‘Because everything just went so wrong. Everything in my life has been wrong
since the beginning because of my dad, ever since I was ten years old. If
you’re asking me to make you understand why, I can’t, because I don’t know. Dad
always did everything for me, and when he made me tell tales, I didn’t argue.’

‘Why?’ she
said, her voice hard and disbelieving.

‘Because he
was all I had,’ I said. ‘And I was only fifteen. What the hell did I know? What
could I ever know? He did everything for me. He taught me. You try on my shoes,
Melanie; just try them on for a second. My mum dumped us, and all we had was
each other; we were each other’s ugly secret. And when we came to Cornwall I
had my problems, but they were just...washed away, you know? I finally found
something that was all mine—’

‘You mean when
you were with Peter?’

‘Yes, Peter!
He was all mine to keep and I wasn’t allowed to have him. I lost him and then I
had nothing left, do you understand? It’s like I didn’t even lose him, I
just...I just threw him away! I wasted him, and Dennis too. I was being...
puppeted
,
for Christ’s sakes!

‘And I needed
my dad to
do
things for me, to help me get by...I hated it, I swear I hated
him, but I didn’t have any choice. We had our own rules, and I couldn’t share
them with anyone. When Peter found out, when I told him, it was a horrible
mistake. It was like two worlds mixing, you know? I’d done something horribly
wrong. I’d broken our trust and I just wanted to reverse it, to take it all
back. Only it got worse.’