Stranger, p.1
Stranger, page 1
Karen Perry
* * *
STRANGER
Contents
Prologue
Spring Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Summer Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Autumn Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Karen Perry is the Sunday Times bestselling author of Your Closest Friend, Can You Keep a Secret?, Girl Unknown, Only We Know, Come A Little Closer, and The Boy That Never Was, which was selected for the Simon Mayo Radio 2 Book Club. She lives in Dublin with her family.
Not long after the killings they put me in the back of a car and drive me away.
No sirens, just the rumble of tyres over the asphalt. The car smells of leather and coconut, an air freshener affixed to the plastic grid over the A/C. The officer in the front passenger seat – a woman – looks back at me from time to time, a brief checking glance, but I just sit there, very still, trying to keep myself numb. It’s almost midday.
These are the thoughts that occupy my mind: What will happen to the car? I’d left the Cherokee in one of the visitor spaces at the school car park. The whole place now cordoned off, swarming with detectives and uniformed officers, forensics in white zippered suits, the pathologists on their way. I’d dropped my mobile phone when I was running, and now how will I contact Mark? How will I let him know? I lean forward and say:
‘Excuse me. My husband—’
‘That’s all right,’ the officer in the passenger seat tells me. ‘He’ll meet you at the station.’
My stomach turns at the prospect of that encounter so instead I think of the conference call that I will miss now, and briefly wonder what my colleagues will make of my absence – so unlike me to not show up, to not give warning. And then I think of the flight leaving Dublin for Tours at lunchtime, and how Corinne won’t be on it now. Her mother will be waiting at the other end in that little airport, scanning the faces of the passengers disembarking, searching among them for her daughter. And I know that my mind is processing these particular thoughts to ward off the horror that waits at the periphery. Conference calls and mobile phones. Flight times and parking spaces. These are what I use to shore up the dam against the dark rumblings of reality that wait to burst in.
At the station, they bring me in through a side door, into the warren of rooms behind the anodyne front desk, the custodians of the law going about their business, the machinery that whirrs and grinds to keep us safe. Numb as I am, I can still detect the current in the air: the crackle of excitement. They won’t have seen a case like this in years. If ever. A sort of hush falls as I am brought through; the female officer leading the way nods to some of her colleagues at the desk, and I hear one of them remark to another: ‘The mother.’
I hold myself steady, walking carefully like I don’t fully trust the ground beneath me. They bring me to a room and ask if I would like tea. I say no but they bring it anyway. And when the officer puts the steaming mug in front of me, I wrap my hands around it and realize that I am freezing. I am shaking.
‘Drink it, Mrs Holland,’ she tells me. ‘It will help, with the shock.’
She asks if there is anything else I need, and I say no. No, I am fine. She looks at me strangely. Her eyes flicker to the blouse I am wearing.
‘You’ll need to change out of that,’ she says, and I look down and see the blood. Smears of it, rust brown, already hardening, embedded into the silk fibres.
‘Oh yes,’ I say, aware of the rumbling at the edge of my thoughts, getting louder now.
‘I’ll have them bring you something,’ she says. I thank her, and she flashes me another look – it is a cool look of enquiry. There is blood on my blouse, but she is wondering is there any blood running through my veins? I’m the mother, for God’s sake!
Thoughts buzz in my head like bees.
France, sunlight on the river, the girls in the water, arms about each other, slowly turning.
And then another memory:
We are in the kitchen at Willow Park, Eva and Beth, Mark and me. I am spooning rice and stir-fried chicken on to plates lined up along the island counter. At the table in the alcove, Mark is clearing away his papers while Eva watches him, her hands bristling with cutlery, waiting to set places for dinner. Outside the day is darkening. I’m tired, still carrying some residual stress in my body from the work meetings that afternoon. The mess Mark has made annoys me and I’m taking it out in the kitchen where I tap the serving spoon sharply against the edge of the wok. Part of me is a little apprehensive about the arrival of the French girl the next day, one of twenty taking part in the school exchange programme. It’s Friday evening and all I really want is to sink into a hot bath with a glass of wine and listen to the next episode of Serial. The overhead kitchen light is casting Beth’s auburn hair in a golden glow, her head bent over the letter from school as she reads it aloud.
‘The flight from Tours is due to land at Dublin Airport at 3.30 p.m. on Saturday, 8th April. All host families are requested to meet at the Arrivals Lounge in Terminal 1 at 3.15 p.m. where Ms Doyle will be waiting. Once the students have come through, Ms Doyle will assign each student to their host family.’
It was just an ordinary evening. There had been hundreds like it, thousands, yet this is the one that plays in my mind, like a scratched record I can’t move on from. The last time we were together before she came. The last evening we were ‘normal’.
And then I remember Eva, setting the table briskly, efficiently, the cutlery clattering over the polished wooden surface. Like me, she has been listening to Beth’s letter.
‘Host family?’ she says sceptically, and then she shudders. ‘It’s like we’re going to the airport to collect a parasite.’
SPRING
* * *
1
The phone call came shortly before midnight on the eve of Corinne’s arrival.
Abi lay slumped against her pillows skimming a novel for her book club, wondering when Mark would get home, when the phone in the hall downstairs began its shrill bleat.
Instantly, her thoughts tilted towards the catastrophic. A mugging on his way home. An accident. She swung her legs out of bed and hurried downstairs, anxiety lending an involuntary sharpness to her tone when she picked up the receiver and said: ‘Yes, hello?’
It was met with a corresponding silence.
‘Is there someone there?’ Abi asked sharply, leaning forward to switch on the table lamp, casting a small pool of light over the polished surface. This time she heard something, a swift intake of breath and then a voice she didn’t recognize, saying:
‘Mrs Holland, I am so sorry to disturb you at this late hour. My name is Valentina Catto.’
Words spoken softly with a foreign inflection; there was a depth to the woman’s voice and a slowness to her delivery that lent her some gravity. Abi’s thoughts whirred. Catto – she knew the name.
‘You’re Corinne’s mother,’ she said quickly.
‘That’s correct.’
It was almost one a.m. in France. Beth’s exchange partner, Corinne, was due to arrive from Tours at lunchtime the next day.
There had been a picture alongside her details – Abi brought it to mind now: a round, blank face, eyes that were a little wide apart, a suggestion of slightly prominent front teeth in the close-lipped smile. ‘She looks like a squirrel,’ Eva had commented, which had caused Beth’s face to darken. But Abi had been reassured by the photograph. The last thing they needed was some sultry Mediterranean beauty with manners and affectations older than her years.
‘I am very sorry,’ Valentina Catto said now, ‘but I don’t think Corinne can come to Ireland.’
‘Has something happened?’
‘I am unsure if it is wise for her to come.’
Again, that low, soft tone, a certain formality in the enunciation. Abi felt herself simultaneously irritated by the flimsiness of the message while at once being drawn in by the voice.
‘I’m sorry to hear that. But surely it’s just nerves? Let me reassure you – and Corinne – that she will be very well looked after while she’s here. Beth has been so excited about this visit; I know she’s been communicating regularly with Corinne. They’ve been making all sorts of plans.’
It was true that they’d been Snapchatting and WhatsApping for weeks.
‘Corinne told me tonight that you have had a bereavement.’
Abi caught herself then, sudden feeling rising in her chest. Melissa had died a few weeks ago and they were still reeling from the shock. Abi wondered how much Beth had told this girl.
‘Yes, that’s true. Beth’s aunt – my husband’s sister – recently passed away,’ she said carefully, pressing her thumbnail into the flesh of her index finge
‘It would be wrong – Corinne coming to you when you are grieving.’
‘Really, we are fine. I appreciate your concern, but Beth will be so disappointed if Corinne doesn’t come.’
‘It is not right,’ Valentina went on. ‘Someone close to you has died.’
‘What can I say to reassure you? Yes, Melissa’s death was a shock, but we’re coping. And we feel very strongly that it’s best for the girls if we carry on as normal.’
Still it was there – the pull of hesitation at the other end of the line. Abi couldn’t help but feel that this talk of Melissa’s death was just a ruse. That the real reason behind the woman’s reluctance lay elsewhere.
‘Is there something else, Valentina? Some other reason?’
‘I’m not sure how to explain it.’
Valentina’s voice had lowered to almost a whisper.
‘It’s just a feeling that I have. A thought, oh, how do I say it?’ She gave a little huff of impatience with herself before alighting on the word. ‘Intuition.’
From upstairs, Abi could hear a door opening, footsteps creaking on the landing. She looked up, and saw Beth leaning over the bannister, her face pale in the shadows.
‘Something Corinne told me tonight,’ Valentina went on, ‘it troubled me. She has a good heart, but she is not always reliable in what she says. It made me realize that she’s not ready for this.’
Again, there it was – that push of fear in Abi’s chest. What had Beth told the girl?
‘What’s going on?’ Beth hissed from the top of the stairs, and Abi shook her head and gestured for her to wait.
On the other end of the line, the voice had broken off. Abi could feel the woman’s hesitation, and under the pressure of Beth’s gaze, she found herself saying:
‘Look, Mrs Catto – Valentina – why don’t you sleep on it, both of you. I’m sure once you’ve had a chance to rest, things will feel different. Corinne will have a wonderful time here – all the exchange kids do. You may rest assured that we will take good care of her,’ she added.
‘I’m not sure if that’s—’
‘Please. I promise – everything will work out wonderfully. Why don’t you ring me in the morning and we’ll see where things stand? Hmm?’
It was a reasonable suggestion, and the other woman softly acquiesced. An instant later, the line went dead.
Abi put the phone down, her mind snagging on those words: something she told me tonight … But what?
‘She’s not coming?’ Beth asked, interrupting her thoughts.
There was her daughter at the top of the stairs, narrow ankles poking out from the ends of her pyjama legs, hair hanging lank and thin over her shoulders. Abi could hear the note of distress in the question.
‘Beth …’ she said, but the girl had already turned and fled back to her room. After a moment, Abi followed.
Beth’s bedroom overlooked the back garden. A second bed had been made up beneath the window for their guest, and as Abi looked around, she noticed other changes to the room. The Jellycat stuffed toys that usually lined the little mantelpiece were gone. So too were the dreamcatchers that had once slowly turned, suspended above the bed. Justin Bieber sulked and preened from the wall above; Billie Eilish on another wall, a tarantula crawling into her open mouth.
‘What if she doesn’t come?’ Beth said. ‘What if I’m the only one whose exchange doesn’t show up? Everyone already thinks I’m a freak—’
‘Shhh, come on now, enough of that. Who cares what people think?’ Abi said, adopting the same brisk tone of reassurance that lately she found herself using with all of them – Beth, Mark, Eva.
In the dimly lit room, her daughter’s face looked small and pale, a cross look marring her features. Beth was a worrier. A bed-wetter until the age of seven. An inveterate nail-biter. ‘She really feels her feelings,’ Mark used to say of her. Of their two daughters, Beth was the one that had always inspired the most anxiety within them.
Abi thought for a moment about reaching out to smooth Beth’s hair back from her face, or leaning in to kiss her cheek. But she did neither of these things. Instead, she hung back by the mantelpiece, her thumbnail leaving a crescent-moon indent in the flesh of her finger, as her eyes flickered over Beth’s face, trying to fathom the dark run of her thoughts.
‘It will all be fine,’ Abi reassured her, making her voice bright and as convincing as she could to hide the undercurrent of nerves. Backing out of the doorway, she said: ‘Now get some sleep.’
The next morning Valentina Catto sent a text message that read: All fine. Somehow, the curtness of the text was more unsettling than the phone call, but Abi said nothing of how she felt to the others, not even to Mark. When he commented: ‘A bit weird, isn’t it?’ his face sceptical and serious, she brushed it aside saying: ‘I wouldn’t worry about it. Last-minute jitters, that’s all!’ She was accustomed to answering his concerns with breezy dismissals.
When she suggested that he accompany them to the airport, Mark declined.
‘I need to sort out Melissa’s stuff,’ he explained.
‘Liar,’ she retorted. ‘You just don’t want to face the other parents.’ Words said half-jokingly, but she watched to see how they landed, observed the nerve being touched.
The uneasiness stayed inside her as she drove to the airport, the windshield wipers of the Grand Cherokee animated as the rain splattered down. Beth was in the passenger seat checking her phone for updates.
‘They’ve landed,’ she announced.
Abi glanced across at her daughter. The girl was pale with tiredness, marks of anxiety there in the tight bud of her pursed lips, but it was clear that she had taken some care with her appearance. The old Ramones T-shirt she wore was a favourite, and Abi noticed the touch of lip gloss and the citrussy scent of CK One.
‘Listen,’ Abi said as she pulled the car into a space. ‘Valentina mentioned that you’d told Corinne about Melissa.’
‘Yeah. So?’
‘I was just surprised.’
‘It’s not exactly a state secret, is it?’
‘Of course not.’
Beth was staring out the window, but Abi could feel attentiveness filtering into her silence.
‘I was just wondering what exactly you’d told her, that’s all,’ Abi went on carefully, as she turned off the engine and looked at her daughter. Beth’s jaw tightened, and then she let out a brief frustrated breath.
‘Don’t worry, Mum. I didn’t say anything to cast us in a bad light. God forbid I should shatter the illusion of our perfect family.’
She slammed the door and Abi was left alone for a moment.
Was that what it was? An illusion?
The night’s phone conversation revisited her, and she remembered once more the hesitation in the woman’s voice, the unspoken sense that this girl had her own problems, her own difficulties.
Abi had been so focused on not disappointing Beth, persuading this woman to send her daughter, that it hadn’t occurred to her there might be risks involved. Intuition, Valentina had said. Abi had the sudden thought that they’d made a terrible mistake.
But it was only a fleeting feeling. She had long held the view that nerves were merely a loss of confidence. That fear could be quashed with optimism. She stepped out of the car and pressed the lock. The unease lowered its head beneath the surface once more as she walked away from the car, the cabin light fading to black.
2
Contrary to what Abi believed, it was not cowardice that held Mark back from going to the airport, but a hangover.
He waited until the Cherokee had pulled out of the driveway before dropping two Solpadeine tablets in a glass of water and retreating to the quiet of his studio, shutting the door behind him. There, he threw himself on to the sofa and closed his eyes, the luxuriant silence of an empty house on a Saturday afternoon wrapping comfortingly around him as he mulled over the night’s events.
It had been a long time since he’d been that drunk. There had just been two of them in O’Donoghue’s that Friday night – Mark and his old roommate, Andrew, who was in Dublin to shoot a whiskey commercial. Andrew mainly worked on film productions now but, as he explained to Mark, the ad work was regular, not to mention lucrative. ‘The money’s too good to turn down, you know what I mean?’ he’d said.
