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  “I need to talk to Angie,” he said, not taking his foot off the step.

  “I don’t want to talk to you,” I snapped, suddenly realising that I was glad to have Louise next to me. Safety in numbers.

  “Angie,” he pleaded. “Let me explain.”

  “Let me guess. You can’t resist a sick joke?”

  “It wasn’t a joke. I’d just had a session with Mrs Martel.” He continued quickly and urgently. “We’d been working on events that cause PTSD-related stress.”

  Louise and I looked at each other. Her expression matched mine.

  “What the hell does your PTS-whatever have to do with me?” I asked incredulously. “Why are you here? Who do…” I could have probably questioned him forever but he didn’t let me.

  “I’m not a monster,” he interrupted. “I was never going to hurt you, do you understand?” he pleaded urgently. “I didn’t even look at the pram.”

  I stared blankly at him.

  “Who are you?” whispered Louise.

  “Alfie Harris,” he said, hands over his head in despair.

  “Phone the p-police,” I stuttered, instructing Louise, beginning to step back towards the safety of the house.

  “Louise,” I screamed.

  She turned to look at me. I was confused. She didn’t look like someone who wanted to protect me. She looked like someone who wanted to protect herself.

  Lennox took the steps three at time, he was almost at the door. I lunged to slam it shut but Louise was blocking me.

  “Move, Louise,” I shouted.

  “Wait,” said Lennox, next to me. I could see the bone at the bridge of his nose, misshaped and sharp. I could smell toothpaste mint on his breath.

  “Get inside, Angie,” ordered Louise, sounding less spaced out. “Lennox, you too.”

  Lennox crossed over the threshold light as ever on his feet. I was less quick off the mark but fell into step, confused and irritated. I followed them both down the hallway, determined to find out what the hell was going on.

  Lennox paced the living room, pinching the bridge of his nose, touching the butterfly stitches on his head. “No sudden movements” came into my mind; I wouldn’t want to startle him.

  Louise sat down heavily on an armchair. I didn’t feel like getting comfortable. Lennox was still pacing, dancing from foot to foot.

  “Sit down,” she said agitatedly. “I can’t think when you’re spinning.” She pressed her hands on each side of her head as though to contain her thoughts.

  Lennox reacted immediately. He dropped to the floor and sat on the carpet, his arms around his knees, waiting.

  I took the sofa option – height and distance could give me an advantage. We both looked at Louise but it was Lennox who spoke first.

  “Alfie Harris killed your parents,” he said turning to face me.

  I said nothing, confident the expression on my face said it all: tell me something I don’t know.

  He continued. “I know you probably hate me right now but I need to explain.”

  Louise cut in. “Alfie Harris is dead.”

  “I know,” he said. “I searched online. I found the archive information online; all the news articles relating to the case including police statements and reports. I’ve been up all night reading. I’ve even made some enquiries.”

  “What the hell did you do that for?” shouted Louise. We all jumped. I was unnerved by the tone in her voice.

  “I needed… I needed to know…” explained Lennox falteringly. He looked over at me. “You didn’t want to talk about it.”

  “She doesn’t want to talk about it,” cried Louise, standing up abruptly, “because we’ve moved on.” There was a shake to the words. “Angie’s mother was my sister. We both lost out. Nothing can bring her back. You hear me?”

  There was a pause. We were no further forward and there was no going back. We were stuck in reverse.

  “Lennox what is going on?” I asked. I dropped the furious voice. I was exhausted: my mind was fighting, screaming, running from this.

  “I was there,” he whispered. “I know I was.”

  I had to hand it to him, he sounded convincing. It was an impressive prank. Even Louise looked sold on his version of events.

  “You were there?” I asked, a half-laugh escaped with the words.

  “I have flashbacks.” He paused and continued. “Persistent, recurring flashbacks.”

  “You seem to be confused,” I said, less sure this was a prank. It sounded more like a hospital situation. I eyed the cut on his head.

  He shook his head. “I’m not confused. The flashbacks are consistent with the police reports.”

  “If I were you, I’d read bedtime stories not crime-scene notes,” I suggested sharply. “Or choose another nightmare that isn’t about my life.”

  “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he said.

  “You’re a monster,” I replied without missing a beat.

  18

  Angie: threatened

  “You couldn’t have been there,” persisted Louise. “It’s just not possible. There were no witnesses.” She had calmed down a little now but wasn’t quite back at ground level. I still sensed a toxic mixture of agitation and fear.

  I wasn’t scared of Lennox. He was just a showman on a board who’d happened to send me head over heels. Pulling elaborate stunts is what he did.

  “What does Mrs Martel think?” I asked.

  Lennox didn’t answer. He started rocking back and forth on the carpet, hands over his head.

  “What’s wrong with him?” asked Louise looking alarmed.

  I dropped down on the carpet in front of him. “Lennox? I’m going to call your parents.”

  “No!” he shouted, grabbing my wrists, pulling me into him.

  “You’re hurting me,” I whispered, pressing my forehead against his. He relaxed his grip.

  “Let her go,” ordered Louise, threatening.

  Lennox brought the inside of my wrists up to his mouth and held them there. I held a breath.

  “Do. It. Now. Let her go.” Louise punched out the words, solid instruction.

  I’d almost forgotten she was in the room.

  Lennox let go. I held on to the hope that this had all been an incredible mistake.

  “I was there,” said Lennox turning to speak to Louise. “I could see her. I could see him.” He shut his eyes and added, “I’m looking at them right now.”

  I looked up at the ceiling. Don’t let anyone catch you crying. What I would give to be able to see my parents. I closed my eyes but stared into darkness.

  “It’s not possible,” repeated Louise, collapsing back into her chair.

  “What else do you see?” I asked, hearing the neediness in my voice. I’d decided I would take my mother and father any way I could get them. I craved details, whatever Lennox was doing, was seeing, I was hooked.

  Lennox shook his head. “I was supposed to meet them. I wasn’t going to hurt them.”

  “You mean Alfie Harris?” I asked.

  Lennox nodded. “I…’

  Louise interrupted him. “You need to leave.” Part request, part instruction, I could hear the strength ebbing from her voice.

  “Wait.” I held up a hand and nodded at Lennox to continue. I needed to hear more.

  Lennox tightened the grip over his head. “We’d met before.”

  “Alfie Harris knew them?”

  Lennox nodded again.

  I knew what happened next but I needed to hear it again. I nodded to Lennox, encouraging him to go on.

  “We were talking,” said Lennox.

  “About what?” I asked, imagining the questions Mrs Martel would ask.

  “Business.”

  I frowned. Louise looked ill. Lennox paused, then continued, using that word again. “We were talking business.”

  It made no sense to me.

  I imagined the kind of deals, the kind of business Alfie Harris was likely to be engaged in. It wo
uld be more like a one-way transaction: “Hand over your valuables. Empty your pockets. Now.”

  “Alfie Harris was 15 years old. He wasn’t trading stocks and bonds; floor-trader business,” confirmed Lennox. He paused, changing the focus of his thoughts to her. “She started screaming.”

  I bit down so hard on my bottom lip, I squeaked. “My mother?”

  “She was screaming, he was screaming. I was screaming,” muttered Lennox, starting to rock back and forth again.

  “Why was Alfie screaming?” asked Louise, quavering voice, darting eyes. She was leaning forward in her chair to catch Lennox’s words.

  Lennox stared at me as though I’d asked the question, not Louise. “I’d never been so afraid.”

  “You’d never killed anyone before?” I asked.

  “Never,” whispered Lennox.

  “Who was shot first?” I needed to know.

  Lennox didn’t hesitate. “Her. She went down first. Then he did. Single bullet each time. Straight through the head.”

  The pain doesn’t hit you straight away. It starts more like a sensation; water seeping through cotton and silk until it makes contact with the skin. It spread across my skin. I shivered. I laid my head on the carpet and discovered I could breathe easier down there, less carbon monoxide from the poisonous words. I closed my eyes in a feeble attempt to shut out the pain. I shut out the world.

  “I’m going to phone this Mrs Martel woman,” I heard Louise saying. Her voice sounded stronger now, more in control. “I actually feel sorry for him. These new-age therapists push vulnerable people to their limits. Put words inside their heads.”

  I lifted my head from the floor, just a little. I looked around the room.

  “Where’s Lennox?” I croaked.

  “He left,” replied Louise tipping her head back in the chair. “Thank God for that,” she added emphatically. “I told you there was something about him right from the start, didn’t I? Didn’t quite have him down as a delusional crackpot though. I underestimated him.”

  I sat up. “I didn’t hear him leave.”

  “You zoned out. No wonder. I told him to go home. He needs to get back on his meds, he needs to increase his meds.”

  “Was he okay?”

  “Was he ever okay?” snorted Louise.

  “He seemed to know so much,” I said.

  “He can make up what he likes,” said Louise furiously. “It won’t bring my sister back.”

  I hauled myself onto the sofa and pulled all the cushions on top of me. I was quite happy to let people dig me up centuries later. I was in for the long sleep.

  “I mean it,” added Louise, removing a cushion so she could see my face. “I’m phoning the school. That Mrs Martel needs a wake-up call. No more exposure therapies. PTSD-related stress, seriously? If you go looking for problems, you’ll find them. Lennox Jones can find a different traumatic event to explore. Your misfortune, our loss, is not going to be part of his rehabilitation programme.”

  I stared at her. A lifetime of mourning the loss of my parents had been shoehorned into one single word: “misfortune”.

  “He believes he was there,” I said, pulling myself together. “That he shot…” I couldn’t finish the sentence. “He believes it happened, it was real.”

  “It’s not real.”

  It wasn’t what Louise said it was how she said it. I glanced over at her and she looked away, deliberately avoiding eye contact. She wasn’t the only one who was good at spotting a lie.

  “We’ve missed something,” I said, throwing off the rest of the cushions. I grabbed my phone and keyed “Alfie Harris” into the search engine.

  Louise reacted immediately. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m doing a search on Alfie Harris.”

  “Leave it,” she insisted. “It’s all over and done with.”

  “It doesn’t feel like that to me.”

  “You told Lennox too much. He’s re-imagined it into his therapy sessions. Can’t you see what this Mrs Martel has done?”

  “Mrs Martel isn’t the devil,” I insisted. “I’ve seen therapists too. MacKenzie?”

  “MacKenzie was different. He was a professional. Perhaps it would be a good idea to see him again?”

  It wouldn’t have surprised me if Louise had him on speed-dial.

  I looked back at my phone. “Alfie Harris” had returned more than one million results.

  “Angie,” warned Louise, part order, part plea, “give up on the internet searches.”

  “I’ve never talked to Lennox about what happened.” I used the same warning tone she had used.

  “He picked up something,” she snapped back.

  “From nothing?” I challenged her.

  “Then maybe Vivienne has been talking to him.”

  “I doubt that.” I said this with complete confidence even though I knew we weren’t talking right now. Some people are always to be trusted.

  More than one million results. I put down the phone. Louise looked relieved. I had a plan. It suddenly occurred to me that I didn’t need a search engine. I just needed Lennox Jones. He seemed to know more about Alfie Harris than anyone else did.

  I went back to school the following day. I had hoped that Viv would be coming around by now but she still didn’t seem to want to talk to me. No messages. No te amo. I decided to try Mrs Martel. I thought maybe she would talk to me instead.

  “Promise me you’ll stay away from him,” were Louise’s last words as I darted out the door. I wish she had been this attentive when I’d been growing up. I’m confident a modicum of maternal concern might have made a difference; shaved off a few sessions with MacKenzie.

  “I’m fine,” I replied, jumping clean over the steps onto the pavement. I pounded down the street without looking back, none the wiser that Louise was watching me from the door.

  I made a beeline for Mrs Martel’s office. She told me to come in. She didn’t seem too surprised to see me.

  I stood awkwardly at the back of the room.

  “How are you, Angie?” she asked, beckoning me to come forward. She pointed at the chair.

  I remained standing.

  “I’ve been better,” I answered truthfully.

  “Are you still angry with Lennox?”

  “He talks too much.”

  “Then don’t listen to him.”

  I edged nearer to her desk. “Don’t listen to him? He thinks he’s Alfie Harris. He’s convinced his flashbacks are real. He tells me that he shot my parents and you tell me not to listen to him?”

  Mrs Martel didn’t speak. I could tell she was struggling with teacher-pupil confidentiality.

  I threw up my hands in exasperation. “I thought you were supposed to help?”

  She opened her diary, pencil poised. “Perhaps we should talk? Not now, not like this. Let’s make an appointment, do it right?”

  “Do it with paperwork, you mean?” I rolled my eyes. “Keep the conversation on file.”

  “I can’t discuss Lennox Jones with you,” she said carefully. “That’s never going to happen.”

  “What about me?” I questioned defiantly. “What if Lennox Jones becomes obsessed with this… this whole elaborate… whatever this is. He tells me he’s a killer. Do I just ‘not listen’ to that too?”

  Mrs Martel put down her pencil. “Do you feel threatened?”

  “I never said threatened.”

  “Answer the question.”

  “No, I don’t feel threatened. I’m not scared of Lennox Jones.”

  “Do you think he would harm you?”

  I shook my head. “He wouldn’t hurt me.”

  Mrs Martel nodded.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, sensing secrets.

  “It means, without full disclosure, that I don’t think you’re at risk.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  She paused a beat, approaching the next sentence with caution. “Because I believe,” she said, “that Lennox Jones is more a
t risk from you.”

  “Me?” I couldn’t hide the surprise.

  “He tells you he’s a killer. He tells you he shot your parents.” She looked at me questioningly but said nothing.

  I didn’t need to speak either. We both knew the answer. The rage had lived inside me for as long as I could remember. In fact, it was now such a familiar feeling that I’d probably be lost without it. I’d become one with a furious, simmering resentment that stemmed from losing out on a life that could have had a happier ending only to be replaced with this one.

  I wasn’t going to kill Lennox Jones but I was going to question him. I missed him. I hated him. I waited for him. He walked towards the gates surround by the usual swarm of people who didn’t know him like I did. He couldn’t fool all of the people all of the time.

  “Angie,” he said walking over to me. He reached out to touch me but I shrugged him off.

  “Tell me what you know about Alfie Harris,” I said, straight to the point.

  His American charm took a hit and his smile faded. “Are we going to do this here?” he said looking around.

  “Do you have a better suggestion?”

  “We could take a walk?”

  “I’ll board,” I said, setting my skateboard down on the pavement. “You keep up.”

  We headed down Regent’s Park Road. I thought it was just a random route but it soon became clear that Lennox had an end destination in mind. We headed into Camden Town, cut over the canal bridge, and headed into a residential area. I kept the pace up but Lennox matched me, light on his feet. I didn’t ask how his head was. Inside or out.

  Then he stopped outside a pair of blackened iron gates. They were set into a fence that stretched away from us in both directions. I stared through them at a large house set back from the quiet street. It lacked smart paintwork and decorative pot plants but it was a decent-sized building surrounded by an uninspiring garden.

  “It’s a residential children’s home,” said Lennox staring at the windows, “established 18 years ago.”

  “You planning to foster a sibling?” I asked pressing my face against the railing. It seemed far too quiet for a place that was supposed to be filled with children.