“Go on,” Derek said. “Do like I say.”
When she’d left the room, Derek said to Preston. “Let them go. Let the kids go, why don’t you? What harm have they ever done to you?”
“Derek …” Lorraine began.
“What? You going to take his side about that as well?”
“Don’t be so ridiculous, I’m not taking his side.”
“Like hell you’re not.”
“You’ve not got the first idea what you’re talking about,” Lorraine said.
“No?” Derek looked at them, one to the other. “Don’t I?”
Preston got to his feet. “Bring them down.” He told Lorraine to fetch the mobile phone from the front door, waiting fast by her as she eased it open, ready if the police should try anything. But all that happened, as soon as they had it inside, the phone rang.
“Talk to them,” Preston said. “Whoever it is. Tell them the kids are coming out. Tell them if they try anything, someone will get shot.”
The children were at the foot of the stairs, on either side of Derek, listening.
“Come here,” Preston said.
Hesitantly, Derek walking close behind them, they did as they were told. They had coats on, Sandra had her school bag on her shoulder.
“Come here,” Preston said again and Sandra knew he was talking to her.
She went forward half a dozen paces, then stopped. He could reach out to touch her and he did. Touched his fingers to the side of her face, her cheek, and she flinched.
“You know who I am?” he said.
Sandra nodded, eyes downcast. “Yes.”
For a moment, his hand rested on her shoulder. “Tell them,” he said to Lorraine, “they’re coming out now.”
“Go with them,” he said to Derek, who was bending down, adjusting Sean’s laces.
“I can’t.” He was trying to see Lorraine’s face, read her expression.
“Go,” Preston said.
“I’ll be all right, Derek,” Lorraine said. “Go on.”
Siddons leaned forward and jabbed a finger at the screen. “It’s Preston, he’s coming out.”
Resnick shook his head. “It’s the husband.”
Siddons was already on her feet. “Myra, come with me. Let’s talk to him, find out what’s going on.”
“Curiouser and curiouser,” said Claydon ponderously. “And then there were two.”
But Resnick was still staring at the front door, wondering what was going on in Michael Preston’s mind, what was going on inside.
“Are you sure you don’t want any?” Lorraine said, and when Preston shook his head, she poured gin into a tumbler, sipped at it, poured in a little more. Ten minutes since he’d spoken anything more than the occasional word. She carried her drink around the table to where he was sitting and stood close behind him, one hand resting high on his shoulder, fingers splayed. He leaned his head sideways against her arm. His breathing was ragged as cloth caught in the wind.
“It would never have worked, Michael. You know that, don’t you?”
It was a while before she realized he was crying.
“You remember that time,” Lorraine said, “we were on holiday with Mum, a caravan. Filey, I think it was. You were just sixteen.”
“Bridlington. It was Bridlington.”
“We made that kite, well, you did. Flew it along the beach, from the dunes.” She paused. “That was the first time.”
“Don’t.” He half turned, red-eyed.
“Why not? Isn’t it what this is all about?”
“No.”
“Isn’t it?”
He turned away, reached up for her hand. “You said you loved me, Lo.”
“I did.”
“We’ll always be together, that’s what you said.”
“We were kids.”
“No. Your two, they’re kids. We were older, knew what we were doing.”
“Did we?”
Standing, he touched her arms, the nape of her neck, kissed her hair.
“Don’t.” She pushed away but he caught hold of her wrist and pulled her back; held her tight, tighter.
“You know I want you.”
“No.”
“All I’ve thought about …”
“Michael, no.” She wrenched herself away and moved again till the corner of the table was between them, the shotgun still lying there, blunt and inviting. “It’s not the same; I’m not the same. I know it’s been different for you and I’m sorry, but you’ve got to see …”
“See what?”
“This … this person you’ve been, you’ve been dreaming about, fantasizing about, whatever-it isn’t me. I’ve got all this, a home. Kids. Michael, I’m married now, don’t you understand?”
He laughed, harsh and ugly. “That’s not a fucking marriage, it’s a sham.”
Lorraine pushed a hand up through her hair, swallowed down some gin. “It’s not a sham, Michael. It’s what marriages are.”
His fingers brushed the shiny stock of the gun. She was beautiful, beautiful to his eyes. “That night …”
“No.”
“That night it happened …”
“Michael, please …”
“Listen, you got to listen.”
“Michael …”
He lifted the shotgun and slammed it down, gouging the table. “Listen to me.”
“All right,” she breathed, “all right.” So many years she had gone without exactly knowing; anxious to keep it that way. The evidence Michael had refused to give in the dock, the plea in mitigation; the expression in his eyes when they took him down, the last thing she saw.
“He caught me,” Preston said. “Sneaking out of your room. Laughed. Slapped my face. Snatched hold of my hand. Pressed my fingers up against his nose, sniffing. “Lovely, isn’t she? Choice. Ripe. I was wonderin’ when you’d start getting yours.” And he laughed again and winked. “Keeping it in the family.”
Tears were running down Lorraine’s face, unstopped.
“I hit him,” Preston said. “Kept hitting him. Dragged him downstairs and into the shop. Kept hitting him till he was dead. Our fucking father!”
She held him then and kissed him and, not looking him in the eye, she said: “He’d come into my room, after I’d gone to bed; the way most dads, I suppose, do. Tuck me in, tell me a story. This little piggy went to market, this little piggy … It was just tickling at first and then he started, you know, down there, his fingers, down between my legs. Still tickling. Later on, when I was older, it would be when he came back from the pub, then it was more, he … When I got my first period, he stopped. Never came near me, not again. Not after that.”
Michael’s voice was far off, strange. “You didn’t tell anyone?”
“Not till today, now.”
He looked at her. “How could you? I mean, let him. Without saying?”
“Oh, Michael, I was a child.”
“But later …”
“Later it was you came, oh so softly, to my room. I could hardly confess one without the other now, could I?”
He flinched. “That was different.”
“A matter of degree.”
“You loved me.”
“I loved him.”
“Even after …”
“He was my father.”
“He fucking abused you.”
“I know, I know. But it’s not that simple, nothing is.” She stepped away and said, “We have to finish this. We must.”
After a long moment, he nodded and told her to dial the number taped to the phone. “I’m coming out,” he said, when they had the connection. “We’re both coming out.”
“Throw the shotgun out first.” Siddons’s voice.
“Right.” Preston looked at Lorraine and handed her back the phone.
“What d’ you think?” Siddons asked, turning away from the screen toward Resnick.
“I think he’s going to do as he says.”
“We’ll soon see,” said Claydon, pointing.
Derek was sitting at the rear of the van, the children had been driven off by one of the officers to be with Maureen. He leaned forward as the front door slowly opened, there was a quick glimpse of a face, an arm and then the shotgun spiraled through a curve and landed with a dent near the middle of the lawn.
“Good boy,” Claydon breathed.
They stepped, Lorraine and Michael, through the front door together and the spotlight from the helicopter lit them up like stars. He took her hand and they began to walk along the path, Lorraine lifting an arm to shield her eyes from the light.