‘Carla, I’m coming round,’ Ash says. ‘I’ll be there in half an hour.’
I wipe my eyes in the sleeve of my cardigan, sniff loudly and then take a deep breath. ‘There’s no need. Really.’ But I don’t sound convincing, not even to myself.
Forty-five minutes later, Ash is standing on the doorstep of Crooked Oak Cottage, looking both awkward and professional in his suit, as always. I picture myself through his eyes – dishevelled, without make-up, in tracksuit trousers and a hoodie, my working clothes very different to his. He takes one look at me and folds me into a hug. The fresh marine notes of the cologne he has always worn is achingly familiar and, reluctantly, I unfold myself from his embrace. I open the front door wide to let him in. He bends down to unlace his leather shoes in the hallway and then walks ahead of me, in his socked feet, into the kitchen, where, without asking, he flicks on the kettle and makes us both a mug of tea. I’ve already had two cuppas and two coffees this morning in an attempt to wake myself up and I’m jittery and wired. But I take the mug and dutifully sip my tea. Ash has made it exactly the way I like it.
We’re standing, side by side, gazing out of the patio window at the view. I study this same scene every day, marvelling at how different it appears, depending on the season and the weather, like a series of impressionist paintings. Today, the patchwork of green and yellow fields is dotted with white sheep. The sky is a dramatic mix of grey and dark blue, announcing imminent rain, but for the moment, stubborn bursts of sunlight pierce through the clouds, illuminating the silver surface of the river Bray as it meanders its way across the canvas, dividing it in two.
‘You were so sure that Iris killed Joshua Knoll,’ Ash says. ‘What makes you think it was Olly? Why have you changed your mind?’
I explain about the drugs. I tell him Iris admitted that Josh drugged Liv with Rohypnol. The date-rape drug.
I can tell from the shocked expression on Ash’s face that this is all news to him. But there’s something else I can’t quite read in his expression, as if he can now understand something that didn’t make complete sense to him before.
‘So, let me get this straight—’ Ash begins, but he doesn’t say it unkindly; I think he’s just trying to understand my train of thought and fitting together the pieces I told him over the phone and what I’ve told him just now ‘—you think our son had motive because Joshua shared Iris’s video and then drugged and raped Liv.’
‘That’s exactly what I think, yes.’ Ash is the only person in the world I could ever admit that to.
‘But Carla, even if Olly had something to do with Josh’s death – Christ, I can’t believe I’ve just spoken those words – it would only have been because he wanted to protect his sister and his girlfriend.’
I turn away from the window to face Ash. ‘He wasn’t protecting them, Ash. He wasavengingthem.’
Ash is silent for a second or two. Then he says, ‘So, what do you want to do now? You wanted to cover for Iris when you thought she might have had something to do with Josh’s death. Surely—’
‘I didn’t think she had …’ Who am I kidding? Ash knows me so well. I did suspect Iris. And Ash saw through me.
‘Surely you don’t want to turn our son in?’
‘I didn’t say that. I don’t know. No!’ I go and sit down at the kitchen table. Ash takes the seat opposite mine. Olly’s seat. ‘What? What are you thinking?’ I ask.
‘Ifthe culprit was Olly, not Iris, does it make any difference? I mean, when you thought Iris might have killed Josh, you destroyed evidence and I tried to persuade Roly to plant some.Ifit’s our son and not our daughter, we’d still protect Olly, just as we protected Iris, right?’
From Ash’s face and the way he stresses the word ‘if” each time, I can tell that Ash hasn’t swallowed a word of my theory. He doesn’t believe for an instant that Olly could be behind Josh’s death. This reassures me. Perhaps I have jumped to the wrong conclusion. But that’s a good question. If Olly killed Joshua, does it make any difference? Would we – Ash and I – act any differently? I try to think this through.
Iris was Joshua’s victim before he became hers. Iris wanted to take her own life because of Joshua. Instead, she took his, or so I’d thought until now. It’s wrong to kill someone – anyone. But I really couldn’t blame her.
But Olly was a victim, too. He suffered from what Josh did – both to Iris and to Liv. Ash and I – and Daniel – paid Olly less attention. We focused on Iris. Olly was the one who found Iris in the bathroom that evening. I shudder at the thought of it, seeing it through Olly’s eyes. His sister, naked on the floor, contemplating suicide. And then he lost his girlfriend because of the same kid.
Joshua was stabbed several times. It was a horrifically violent crime. There’s no getting away from that. And when I imagine my daughter plunging the knife into the body of the evil young man who ruined her life, I get it. When I picture the knife in the hands of my son, it seems less justifiable somehow. I also fantasized about killing Joshua because of what he’d done to Iris – I’d never felt so murderous towards someone in my life; I wanted to strangle him with my bare hands – but there’s no way I would ever have done it. And yet, Olly did. He didn’t just think about it. He went through with it. Was he provoked? Did Joshua say or do something that made Olly snap? If so, would that exonerate my son in my eyes?
I try to gauge Ash’s expression. Usually, I can read him like a book, but although his eyes lock on to mine, his face is blank. I took his tone to mean he didn’t believe me just now, but now I find myself reassessing my assumption. He’s not shocked, not ruffled in the slightest.
‘Olly’s not a violent person, Carla,’ Ash reasons.
A memory rears its ugly head, as if to contradict what Ash has just said. Olly threw a punch at Joshua and knocked him to the floor. He was suspended for this act of violence. I push the memory aside. Just because Olly threw a punch, it doesn’t make him a murderer. We’re not talking about the same level of violence at all.
I’m Olly’s mother. I’m programmed to protect him, no matter what. When it comes down to it, I would fight tooth and nail to defend him, even if what he did was undefendable. I would do the same for my son as I would for my daughter.
‘You’re right. It makes no difference,’ I say, mustering a tight smile. ‘Oh, Ash, I’m a terrible, terrible mother.’ My eyes fill with tears that I furiously blink away. I need to get a grip. I can’t cry in front of Ash again.
‘You’re not! What on earth makes you say that?’
‘First, I was convinced my daughter had committed murder, then I convince myself it was my son instead. What sort of a mother believes their kids are capable of doing something like that? I should believe my kids are innocent, even if they aren’t.’
‘Carla, you’re a great mum. To Olly, to Iris and to Margo. It’s not always easy to be a perfect parent when circumstances challenge you. And, God knows, we’ve had our fair share of challenges lately.’
‘Thank you.’ I give him a grateful, watery smile. ‘You always say the right things.’
‘My work here is done,’ Ash says, spreading his arms theatrically, no doubt in an attempt to ease the tension. ‘I need to get back to the office, Carla, I’m afraid. I’ve still got work to do there.’
