The Stepdaughter. Debbie Howells

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СКАЧАТЬ No one gets off with me.

      “Hey, Cat.” Each day, the cat waits, a motionless sentry perched on the wall at the side of the road, his yellow eyes unblinking, his black head battle-scarred. His presence is an honor, rather than a given. A cat belongs to no one but himself.

      By the time I turn into our drive, he’s vanished. Gravel crunches under my feet as I walk toward the house. It’s gray, austere, softened only by the wisteria that, in spring, is covered with racemes of lilac.

      As I walk around the side to the back door, music from the radio drifts outside. In the kitchen, my mother’s wearing jeans and a wide-necked sweater that slides off one of her tanned shoulders.

      “I need some money for the science trip,” I tell her, putting down my school bag and getting juice from the fridge, before going to the pantry for a bag of potato chips. Opening it, I take a handful, watching her leaf through today’s mail; her hand pausing on a letter, her intake of breath; the perceptible paling of her skin.

      “It’ll have to wait, Niamh. I don’t have any cash.” She adds, “Don’t eat all of those.”

      Taking another handful, I ignore her. “Whatever. You can pay online. Probably easier.” I shrug as her phone buzzes, her face closing over as she picks it up and glances at the screen.

      “Remind me later, honey. I have to get this.” There’s a catch in her voice.

      I stare at her. “Who is it?”

      In the time it takes her to respond, the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. “No one you know. A friend.” As she glances in my direction, I notice the semitone rise in sharpness in her voice, the five seconds of fake brightness in her smile. Turning her back, only when she’s out of earshot does she start talking.

      That’s when I know it’s another of her lies. She’ll tell herself I haven’t noticed anything wrong, then forget all about it. My mother sees what she wants to see. But I know the password on her phone. I can find out who’s called if I want to.

      Taking the chips, I go outside, shaking off my uneasiness as I wander down to the end of the garden that borders the road, wondering if all families lie to each other. Pulling myself up onto the same flint wall where the cat was waiting for me just minutes ago, I envy the simplicity of his life, his past forgotten, his future uncontemplated; his only concern the eternal present.

      As cars pass, I watch the people inside them, just as I watch everyone, see unreadable faces, imagine sunlight bouncing off their armor. Like my father in his doctor’s office, my mother in her airline uniform, all of them are practiced, unemotional, closed.

      From under the shadow of the eucalyptus tree, I look across the lane into the Addisons’ garden. Through the branches, I can just about make out dimly lit windows, hear faint strains of violin concerto drift across the lawn.

      The breeze picks up and I shiver. Slipping down, I cross the road, wandering past their drive toward the next, registering the absence of cars parked there, the closed curtains in the windows. It’s the kind of house I’d like to live in one day, with sharp lines and a modern glass extension, sparsely planted with spiky plants and grasses.

      The Enfields, who live here, are away in their vacation home in Marbella. I make my way across their garden, hidden from next door by the fringe of silver birch trees that separate their drives. At the back of the house, no one sees me peer in through the window at the bland interior with white sofas and no photographs. It’s a house without an identity, not a home.

      * * *

      It’s dark when Hollie appears in my bedroom doorway. Her hair is windswept. I can tell from her eyes she’s been crying. Staring at her face, I know before she tells me what’s wrong.

      “Your dad?” I ask. He’s the only person Hollie cares about. She nods, words, tears, snot, pouring out of her as she starts to blubber. I watch, fascinated. I’ve never seen anyone cry like Hollie does.

      “He was talking to someone on his phone.” Her hair gets in the way as she breaks off to wipe her face on her sleeve. “Whoever it was, they’re a bastard.” There’s hatred in her voice. Not wanting my mother to hear, I glance toward the open door.

      I lean toward her, curious. “What were they talking about?”

      Her lip wobbles. “I can’t tell you.” Then her shoulders start to shake. “I can’t tell anyone! Do you know how that feels? To know something no one else will ever believe?”

      I stare at her, appalled. I’ve no idea what she’s talking about. “You can tell me, Hollie.”

      She shakes her head. “I can’t. You’re too young.” Coming over, she awkwardly strokes my hair, before perching on the end of my bed as she tries to get control over herself. When she turns to look at me, her face is tearstained. “Have you ever found out something really shocking?”

      I frown. “Like when someone dies, you mean?”

      “Worse.” She whispers it, her eyes huge. There’s a silence before she takes a deep breath. “There’s someone I thought I could trust. With anything. With my life. And now...” She breaks off again, her body shaking with silent sobs, while I wait for her to stop.

      “It’s happening again.” Her eyes are wild as she stares at me. “I don’t know what to do, Niamh. I can’t tell anyone.”

      2

      Elise

      The new message on the house phone unsettles me. I have an hour or so before Niamh’s bus gets back. The sky threatens rain but I pull on running clothes and shoes, needing to shift the sense of unease hanging over me.

      Slipping the back-door key into a zip pocket, I pull up my collar and walk briskly down the drive onto the lane, breaking into a run as I reach the main road, the cold clinging to my hands, my cheeks; running harder, feeling the slow spread of heat thaw them.

      Through the village, I see no one. Windows are closed and dark, drives are empty. Only as I pass Ida Jones’s house are there signs of life: the warm glow from her downstairs windows, the wood smoke spiraling from her chimney. The thought comes to me. Ida knows everyone around here. Maybe she knows who she is.

      I could ask her, but not today. Without stopping, I carry on past the last houses, where a footpath slopes down through woods and across a stream, then up the other side to the village church. Under the trees, the path is dark and muddy, fallen leaves making it slippery underfoot, and I pick my way carefully, winding my way down, then over the narrow bridge, before coming out of the trees into the churchyard. Here, amongst the dead, I stop.

      The graves have become familiar to me. My eyes pass over their inscriptions as I walk through them, always pausing in the same place to read words I know by heart about a life that ended too soon. Never forgotten. Most days, I find a sense of peace here, but today, I’m thinking of the magazine statistic again. Only ten percent of people are good. The rest are like Andrew—they do what they want, or whatever it takes to sate blind ambition, to slake lust.

      As I stand there, a desperate sense of hopelessness washes over me. Instead of fighting my tears, I let them stream down my cheeks. I used to have hopes and dreams, but nothing in my life has worked out as I’d imagined it would. Now, I’m driven by Niamh’s future. It’s the only thing in my pointless СКАЧАТЬ