‘So, you said she was found? But we were found together.’
‘I know, sorry. My parents’ interest was in Denise. It’s not that they didn’t care about you, but they didn’t see you as Denise’s child. And for me … it was …’ Mark put his hand over his eyes again. ‘I’d spent my whole life living in the shadow of this ghost, and I had just found my life. My sister’s rescue was all over the media. I was in the limelight again. My new friends wanted to know everything about her and all that had happened. Part of me wished we’d never found her, because after that, it was worse.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I wasn’t allowed to visit her and nobody would tell me why. I thought Denise would be able to give statements to the police and then she’d be able to come home, but then … there was you.’
‘I was her daughter.’
‘But you were his daughter too.’
I closed my eyes.
‘I don’t mean to … look, try and put yourself in my parents’ position.’
I tried, but this time it wouldn’t work. I was a child. A victim. And their own grandchild.
‘I wanted my parents to take you home and raise you. I offered to move home and help them, but they said there were so many issues with your development. I’m so sorry.’
‘What does your father think now? Have you told him that you found me?’
Mark shook his head. ‘He saw the story about what you did to Tom Diamond. That was enough for him. He didn’t want to know any more. I tried to tell him that I’d connected with you, that you were good and kind …’
‘Am I?’
‘But then I saw you attack Caroline, outside your house.’
‘I’m angry, Mark. Most of the time, I can keep it hidden, but sometimes, when I feel threatened or vulnerable, the rage bubbles up. I’m working on it, I promise you, with Tina.’
‘Sally, you were out of control.’
‘I know. I frightened myself. I’m sorry. But you know why I’d hired a security guard that day, right? I was terrified that he might turn up. Conor Geary. There were children in my garden. He knows where I live.’ I thought for a moment. ‘Mark, did you ever think that maybe I get my lack of empathy from your side of the family? How could your parents abandon me?’
He looked anguished. ‘I don’t know.’
He was upset, too, when I told him there was no record of him at all in Dad’s files or on Denise’s tapes.
‘Are you sure? My name never came up? Never?’
‘She didn’t mention you. I’m sorry.’
‘I have to listen to those tapes.’
‘Come back to Carricksheedy,’ I said. ‘I’m sure they won’t have replaced you at the factory yet.’
‘I took sick leave, but I didn’t think I could ever come back.’
‘Mark, you have a life here, you have friends. You have … a niece. I want to hear about my birth mother too. Do you think your dad would understand now? He could like me. He’s my grandfather.’
‘I’m not sure. He’s so old now. Almost ninety. I don’t think he’d be able for such upheaval.’
I was annoyed that my existence was such an inconvenience to my own grandfather.
‘I think we should see my therapist together. You’re the same generation as me. You could think of me as your sister?’
‘Like Denise?’
This time I was emphatic. ‘No, not like Denise, not like Mary Norton, like Sally Diamond. That’s who I am now. Do you want a sandwich?’
Mark laughed. I don’t know why, but it broke the tension between us.
‘I’ll go back to the village. I’ll tell the office I’ll be back on Monday.’
‘I’ll explain to our friends. Most of them know now that you’re my uncle. They were surprised but sympathetic. You’ll be welcomed back.’
I asked him about Anubha. He admitted that he’d only said he was interested in her in order to put me at ease. I voiced my disapproval. He said he was still in love with his ex-wife.
‘I think Elaine cares about you too.’
‘She feels sorry for me, Sally.’
‘She’s been supportive of you, though. You married young, didn’t you?’
‘Too young. I was so desperate for a family connection that had nothing to do with Denise.’
‘You changed your name.’
‘That was Elaine’s idea. One of her best.’
‘Hasn’t she remarried now? She has a son?’ He nodded.
Eventually, we stood up and hugged for about two seconds longer than was comfortable for me. Mark sensed it. ‘I’m sorry, Sally, I’m sorry about everything.’
‘I’m sorry that you lost your sister in such a terrible way.’
‘But I found a niece, and a friend.’
‘Absolutely.’ I smiled.
He left then and I lingered, eyeing the grand piano. Nobody had played it while we had been sitting there. I drifted towards it and pulled out the velvet-covered piano stool. I flipped open the lid and placed my hands on the keys. I played a number of soft pieces, orchestrations to calm my mood. I closed my eyes and lost myself in the music.
I felt a tap on my shoulder as I finished the Moonlight Sonata. A man wearing a suit with a name badge that told me he was Lucas the manager stood behind me. I should have asked his permission to play.
‘Excuse me, madam, we have enjoyed your playing, you are obviously a professional,’ he said, and indeed, there was a ripple of applause. When I looked out over the lobby, many people were clapping and nodding towards me. ‘I don’t know what your situation is, and I hope you don’t find this insulting, but I wondered if you would be available or interested in a little part-time work?’
46
Peter, 1996
There were many renewed escape attempts in the five years after Dad died. Lindy had given up, but now her campaign to break out started again.
I had given her writing materials, something she had often begged from my father. She’d said she wanted a pencil, crayon, pen, anything with which to write.
‘What are you going to write?’ he had asked sarcastically.
‘I want to write stories,’ she said.
She told me she desperately wanted to write memories of her family, her friends and her home because she was afraid she would forget them. When I’d asked Dad on her behalf, he said it was better that she forget the past because, that way, she’d find it easier to accept the present. As soon as he was dead and gone and I was back to full health, I bought her a whole packet of coloured felt-tip pens, and a sketch pad, biros and notebooks. I told her that I’d never look at them and I respected her privacy. She could draw or write or do whatever she wanted with them.
The same week, I was returning her library books. She liked books by women. I wasn’t much of a reader. I had grown out of the adventure stories of my boyhood. All the books I had now were non-fiction, how-to books on crop rotation, DIY, marketing, entrepreneurship and occasional biographies of important men. On the way to the library, I leafed through the books, out of suspicion, and there I found her notes written in the margins of the pages and in the blank pages at the back, giving her name and my name and my father’s name, detailing what he had done to her, the date on which she had been kidnapped and a haphazard description of the route from the lake to our house.
I had to buy replacement books for the library and explain that I had damaged them by accident. I never told Lindy what I had discovered, but her mood certainly improved in the days after that. She smiled more and laughed when we watched TV together. As time moved on and nobody came to release her, I could see her confusion and anger grow. She was short-tempered with me. I didn’t react. I waited for things to get back to normal, and eventually they did. I bought her random books from the op-shop sometimes after that, told her it would be good for her to build up her own library. She glared at me then. She knew.