What Doesn't Kill You Read online

  I’m in a foul mood again. I was okay when I was on Portland. Even the journey there was bearable. I went to help clear up the storm mess on Chesil Beach. Frank, from the craft shop, was in charge. He’s got an American grandson, Rick. Lives in Hope Cove Castle. He was helping for a while. He’s cool. He uses that word a lot. I might borrow it for a week. He was trying to chat up this girl, Stephanie, but she was more interested in me and my piercings, especially my nose stud. I got it done to annoy Griff, or Gruff as I like to call him. Not to his face – that would upset Mum. She’s pretty broadminded when it comes to fashion – she let me have the eyebrow ring and all the piercings down my ear, but she’d have said no to a nose stud. That’s why I didn’t ask. Meant to be sixteen or have parental consent. Like I was going to wait until October. I think the fact I have the other piercings is the reason I wasn’t asked for age ID. I already look sixteen, if not older. Besides, the place where I had it done is only interested in making money.

  It’s a pain taking them all out for school.

  Stephanie has two earrings in each lobe. I wonder if French schools are more liberal? Stephanie’s French. Comes from Dijon. Reckons she’s moving to Chiswell in the spring. Chiswell! From the Eiffel Tower, to Chesil Beach. I didn’t ask why. I assume it’s to do with her parents’ work. Her dad’s a marine scientist. I think her mum’s in the catering business. Stephanie says we should become friends. I’d like to be friends. There’s something about her. She fascinates me. She’s dark. And moody. Different. It’s weird, but there’s definitely something between us. Don’t know what. Not felt it before.

  Lost souls finding our way, maybe.

  I’m different. Ginger hair does that to a person. Mum calls it ‘red’, or ‘flame’. I call it what it is. Ginger, with two hard ‘g’s. G i n G e r. Rhymes with sinGer. Something else I never want to be. Mum’s tried to get me to join the school choir. I’d hate that, but I think if she wants to sing, she should. I told her so. Gruff has too. It was a while ago, but I remember exactly what he said because it made me cringe with embarrassment. He said he could get out his old guitar and he and Mum could make sweet music together.

  I’m squirming now just thinking about it.

  Nothing came of it, though. Mum says she’s too busy to take time out.

  I throw my rucksack across my back, admire the bruised purpleness of my Doc Martens, and head for home. I need Mum to be in, and Dylan to be asleep. As half-brothers go, he’s okay. Cute. I don’t mind looking after him from time to time, but I never want a baby of my own. I would like to have Mum to myself though. Not for long. I know she’s got a lot on. I want to tell her about the beach, and Stephanie, and ask her if what I’m feeling is normal. I guess if I can take an instant dislike to someone, there’s no reason why I can’t have an instant connection.

  I won’t mention the idiots on the bus. Or the middle-aged fart who touched me up. A shudder travels from my neck to my stomach. When the bus is crowded, girls are fair game.

  Dirty bastards.

  My wilful DMs take me past the garages with the asbestos roofs and I celebrate the fact Gruff hates them – both my boots and the buildings.

  He rattles on about asbestos being a silent killer.

  I think stepfathers are silent killers.

  I fight hard to keep my individuality alive. If Gruff had his way, we’d all be in uniform, standing to attention every time he entered a room. Thinks everything should be done his way, as and when he says.

  Belligerence boils in my gut. One day …

  It’s just as well he’s buggered off out of it.

  I look ahead to our cottage.

  His car’s on the drive, next to Mum’s Mini.

  I can only pray they’re not making up. Not naked and sprawled across the living room floor.

  I don’t know why we had to move here. It’s so far from civilisation. I jangle the keys while I decide whether or not to go in. If he’s slobbering all over Mum, I’ll throw up. I put my ear to the white door, but the only noise I hear is the tapping of my earrings hitting the wood. Gruff says we’re not allowed plastic windows or doors because his cottage is a listed building. Apparently it’s full of character. If character means woodworm, a weather map of black, cloudy dots on the bathroom floor, and a howling gale causing my curtains to do some crazy, freaking dance, then yeah, his cottage is the Mickey Mouse of the village.

  The wind’s slicing through me. Mum says it blows down from the fields behind.

  Might as well go in.

  I slip the key in the hole, but the door’s unlocked, and I decide at that moment not to announce my presence. If I’m quiet, and if I head straight to my room, no one will know I’m home.

  As I close the door I hold down the handle, releasing it only as the metalwork is lined up. I untie my laces, pull off my boots and creep upstairs. Thankfully, I’ve mastered an almost Ninja-like technique to silently open and close Dylan’s safety gates. There are three: two covering the stairs and one across Dylan’s door. His cell is first on the landing. I poke my head in to check on him. He’s awake, but his left thumb is firmly plugged in his mouth. He’s settled, and he hasn’t seen me, so I back out and head further along the corridor, past Mum’s little piece of sanctuary, past the bathroom – thank God there’s a sound barrier between our bedrooms – and into mine. I shut my door, and step over the loose edge of the carpet – there’s a creaky floorboard below and it cracks like thunder if I step on it.

  I lick my first two fingers on my right hand and use them to wipe off the splash of salty seawater from the toe of my left boot. I bought these myself. Took me weeks to save up.

  The fact my cupboard door squeaks irritates me, so I use speed to open it, working on the theory the sound will be shortened and not draw attention to me. I put my boots away and hang my rucksack on an inside hook. It’s not worth closing the door.

  Pulling my curtains shut, I fold back my duvet, and lie down. The curtains taunt me. I swear they’re sticking two fingers up. I turn and face the wall, yank the cover to my chin, and think about Dylan lying in his toddler bed stress-free and loved, and I send him positive thoughts. I want him to be loved. I want him to grow up with good memories. As much as Gruff frustrates me, he seems to be a pretty decent dad to Dylan. He’s coming by when he’s not working to tuck him in.

  I don’t know why Mum asked him to leave. I hope he hasn’t hurt her. It must have taken all her courage to face the world after her years trapped in hell with Dad. To this day, I’m in awe of her capacity to trust, but I worry that she sees too much good in people, and they take advantage of her. Her kind nature leads her into complicated situations and she can’t see a way out. I’m convinced she’ll crack one day and go berserk. You can’t keep all of that crap inside. It has to come out somehow. I know.

  I stare at the shadows on the wall, something I’ve done since I was tiny, in every house we’ve lived in. It’s habit now, rather than distraction.

  It’s so quiet.

  I don’t like it. Silence makes me nervous. Silence means something’s happened.

  My mind’s racing now. I see blood-spattered images of a massacre in the kitchen – Ozzy dead in his corner, Gruff clutching at his chest, the handle of a silver knife poking through his pale fingers, and Mum, wiping her stained hands on her jumper. Staring. Silent.

  That would be a way out.

  I’ve thought about it as a way out. I had a plan when I was ten, because when you’re ten there’s very little you can do to make things better. You’re not big or strong, and no one cares about what you have to say, and when your mum spends her nights crying and her days as far away from the house as she can get, you need a plan.

  But I can’t think about this stuff now. I have to go and investigate the silence.

  Dylan’s still watching the ceiling. I don’t know what he sees, but it occupies him for hours. As my foot hits the first step, Ozzy barks, and I let out a huge breath. That’s two survivors plus me. By the time I’m in the hal
lway, I hear Gruff’s voice – he’s saying something about Mum being wrong. As I push open the living room door, she tells Gruff to hush. He’s scowling, but the minute our eyes meet, his expression lifts.

  ‘Hi,’ he says, running his hands up and down the arms of his chair. ‘Good day?’

  ‘Tess!’ Mum rises to greet me and enfolds me in her arms. I don’t take in her scent in case she smells of him. Masculine smells make me gag. ‘You must be frozen. Hot chocolate?’

  She guides me towards the kitchen and plonks me on a chair. I check for bloodstains, but it’s perfectly clean.

  ‘Griff could have brought you back from Portland if you’d said you were going.’ She turns away and messes about with the kettle. I don’t actually want a drink, but say nothing. Mum has to help. It makes her feel useful. Loved.

  ‘Everything all right?’ I watch her shoulders. They’re a dead giveaway. They stiffen, and I notice they run parallel with the bottom line of the wall cupboards. I shoot up from my chair and wrap myself around her. ‘What’s he done? What’s that bastard man done?’ I check to see if Gruff’s left the living room, but the hallway is empty.

  Mum reels, spinning within my hold. ‘Nothing,’ she says. ‘He’s done nothing.’ As she reaches the end of her statement her words lose power, and her body sags. She’s caught between the worktop and me. If I let go, she’ll fall.

  I will never let her fall.

  She regains her strength, and her spine hardens against my fingers. Her voice remains soft. ‘He’s a good man, Tess, and whatever happens, you must remember that. Promise?’ She frees an arm, and tips my chin up. I raise my eyes to meet hers. ‘Promise?’ She’s more insistent this time.

  I nod. It’s the best I can do under the circumstances. I want to give her my word – I’m desperate to give her my word – but my experience of men has taught me to never think well of them. Any of them. Except Logan. And Frank from Portland. But they’re much older than the men I mean. And they’ve never invaded my personal space.

  As I consider this, Mum hugs me, kisses my forehead, and releases me.

  ‘Sit down, and let me make you that chocolate,’ she says. ‘I need to ask you something.’

  I’m instantly on guard, second-guessing her question. I tug my sleeves down and hold the cuffs in my palms. I hide as much of my skin as possible. She mustn’t see.

  ‘Go on,’ I say, keeping a cool exterior, while my conscience burns a hole in my gut. ‘Ask.’

  She makes fast work of the drink, and puts it on the table, pulling up a chair next to me. She retrieves her mobile from her back pocket and lays it next to my mug, then sits, and fiddles with the ribbed hem of her jumper, pushing it flat each time it rolls up.

  ‘Can we get this over with?’ I weave my arms around the back of the chair, and link my hands together. She can’t see them there. She mustn’t see them. I keep a close watch on her line of sight. So far, she’s looking inwards. This isn’t about me. Thank God. Really. Mum has enough to deal with, she doesn’t need grief from me. And what I do, I don’t do for attention. It’s not a cry for help—

  ‘Logan’s coming for lunch tomorrow. At least, that’s the plan.’

  My inner vision shuts down. It’s like someone’s slammed the lid on a telescope. For a second I saw everything clearly, then bang! It’s dark again. ‘Logan’s coming to dinner? Cool. It’ll be good to see him.’ I mean it. I am genuinely fond of him. Sure he’s old and frail, which as far as I’m concerned makes him safe, but there’s nothing wrong with his brain. He’s as sharp as my new razor blade. ‘Does he know about you and Griff?’

  Mum shakes her head, and the colour rises in her cheeks. A blush starts in the stomach. If she wasn’t wearing her polo neck, I’d have seen the flush rise from her throat to her face. I must have learned that in biology. Or perhaps it was from one of those TV documentaries.

  She fidgets in her seat. ‘That’s what I wanted to ask you. Are you okay with not saying anything?’

  ‘Do you think it will upset Logan if he knows?’

  ‘Very much so. And he’ll worry that I’ll stop caring for him, or that he won’t be able to see you or Dylan. It won’t be for long.’

  With my arms still tucked out of sight, I smile, to show Mum I’m okay with keeping quiet. I understand why we’re not telling Logan. I know when to keep a secret.

  I’m good at keeping secrets.

  Very good.

  We both jump as Mum’s phone blares out the red alert tone. It’s Logan’s text call. Mum sighs.

  ‘You should get that,’ I say, knowing how much Logan relies on her.

  ‘He’ll ring if it’s urgent.’

  She resists picking up her mobile, but her eyes flick back and forth. She needs to know what Logan wants. She’s trying to ignore it for my benefit, but I’d prefer she just looked at the bloody thing.

  ‘So,’ she starts, flipping the phone onto its front, ‘good day?’

  My arms are tingling. Pins and needles. I unhook my fingers and fold my hands into my lap. She’s not watching, so it’s okay. ‘I helped Frank for a while. It was pretty disgusting, actually, but we cleared tonnes of rubbish. And Olivia made us all bacon toasties.’

  ‘Was that American lad there?’

  I think there’s a beginning of a smile on Mum’s face, but I could be wrong. It could be a grimace. It’s hard to tell. Her mouth’s got out of the habit lately. ‘Rick? Yeah. He told me about his dad. Said he was a film star. I guess it could be true. They live in that big castle overlooking the cliffs.’ I check Mum’s expression. There was no smile. ‘There was this French girl, Stephanie. Her family’s moving to Portland soon.’

  She looks up and nods, but it’s not at me. She’s looking beyond me. I turn and see Gruff lurking in the hallway. He calls Ozzy to him.

  ‘I’ll be gone an hour,’ Gruff says.

  Like I care.

  Mum’s phone rattles across the table as the siren blares out its reminder there’s a text from Logan. Sick of it sending my heart into overdrive, I snag the stupid thing and open the message. It doesn’t make sense. ‘Here.’ I pass it to Mum, who reads it, drains to an impossible shade of white, and heads for the front door.

  ‘Will you look after Dylan, please?’ she calls to me.

  ‘What is it?’ Gruff catches Mum’s arm as she dives past. ‘Is it Dad?’

  He knows it’s Logan. We all know it’s Logan.

  ‘Should I come?’ Gruff asks.

  Mum yanks herself free and glares at Gruff. ‘No.’ Then more gently, as if she’s thought of something, ‘No. He’s asked for me.’

  Dylan joins in from upstairs and Gruff doesn’t know where to look. If the situation wasn’t so strained, I’d find it funny. Dylan’s not crying, he’s just making us aware he wants in on the action. He probably heard Gruff’s voice. ‘I’ll go,’ I say, glad of an excuse to hide away.

  ‘No. It’s all right. I’ll go.’ Gruff waves for me to sit back down. ‘I’d like to see him.’

  Mum shakes her head, snatches her keys from the bowl by the front door, and leaves without a further word.

  ‘You saw the text. What did it say?’ Gruff holds onto the handrail, ready to launch himself up the stairs two by two. That’s how he does it – he never walks. When I’m in my room, I can always tell it’s him coming. I wonder if it’s to do with his job where every second is vital, then decide it’s because he’s a plank.

  ‘Tess. What did my father want?’

  I review the message in my head, and it still doesn’t make sense, so I see no harm in telling him. ‘It said, “It’s now.”’

  Chapter Four

  Evie

  ‘Come on.’ The never ready, always unreliable Mini was going nowhere. Evie turned the key for the third time, provoking nothing more than a bray. ‘No, no, no!’ She whacked the dash with both hands, slammed the gearstick into neutral, and yanked the keys from the ignition. Why now? Now. A small word with such devastating consequences. ‘Not now,’ she said. ‘
Not now.’

  She’d have to take Griff’s car and count on him not using it in the next few hours. The visit to Logan’s house was going to take some time. There was going to be a lot of talking. She’d had a few weeks to consider his proposal, but it had been impossible to come to a decision.

  When she needed to get things straight in her head, her first port of call was always Griff. He had a way of seeing the world that put problems into perspective, but Logan was very clear; no one else was to know, especially not Griff. Evie was in agreement – the consequences of discussing Logan’s request would not only send Griff into a downward spiral, but would point an accusing finger at Evie the second Logan passed away. Any hint she was connected with his death, and she’d be thrown in prison.

  She’d googled the terms euthanasia, voluntary euthanasia, assisted dying, assisted suicide – the last one applied to Logan – none were legal in the UK.

  ‘It’s madness,’ she said, scrambling out of her Mini. ‘Why me?’ That was desperation asking the question. Evie knew the answer. She understood where Logan was coming from and he saw that. ‘It’s such a mess.’

  After a month of hiding her thoughts from Griff, the burden of the secret weighed her down to a point she thought she would never hold her head up again.

  She couldn’t look Griff in the eye.

  It was then Evie, upset and wracked with guilt, asked him to leave. Blinded by constant tears of distress, she’d failed to register it was the week before Christmas.

  But she didn’t have time now to reflect. She swooped indoors, swapped her keys for Griff’s, and took off in his old, blue Land Rover.

  It was a huge car to handle. Simple for a man of Griff’s stature and muscular frame, but for slender, slight Evie, it could have been a juggernaut for all the control she had. By the time she was out of Abbotsbury, she was fighting the wheel and fighting the tears.

  She blinked away the moisture building in her eyes and concentrated on the road ahead. It was a ten-minute drive, that was all. She just needed to keep calm for ten minutes. Arrive in one piece.