Her expression closes up. ‘I have nothing to say about that woman.’ She has a faint London accent.
‘You didn’t like her?’
She purses her lips together which I take as a no.
‘My brother took off because of her. Moved to the other side of the world. Lost contact with everyone.’
I think of what Rachel said about a Robert Falkner in Australia. It can’t be her brother if he’s dead. But has someone – Annette perhaps – made her think the Robert Falkner in Australia is her brother to stop her being suspicious?
‘Had you seen Dorothea in recent years?’
‘Absolutely not. Why would I want to see her?’ She takes a step back into the hallway. Worried she’s about to close the door on me, I blurt out, ‘Did you know any of Dorothea’s friends? Annette Baker-Hume or …’
‘I met Annette once or twice. She was the one who encouraged Dorothy. She stirred in their marriage, if you ask me. Things were fine until she became friends with Annette.’
‘In what way?’
‘That woman gave Dorothy ideas.’ Her expression softens a touch. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I understood Dorothy’s predicament, I really did. But Bobby was my brother. My family. And if it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t have missed out on all those years with him. All those wasted years.’
‘But …’
Her expression hardens again. ‘I don’t want to talk about it any more. Now if you’ll excuse me …’ And she shuts the door in my face.
53
The next day I meet Alison outside the prison as promised. It’s an hour’s train ride away and by the time I arrive I feel sick and stressed and I’m regretting agreeing to this. I hardly slept last night worrying that the person who had smashed in the keypad was prowling around the garden, planning to break in. The security firm have said they will try and come out this afternoon to replace the lock.
Alison squeezes my hand before we enter. Everything about this place makes me want to run away. We’re ushered through security and then we find ourselves in the waiting room that smells of too many bodies and stale food. It’s too hot and the murmur of voices adds to my anxiety. I try and block out the other inmates in my peripheral vision, clutching my tote to my chest like armour.
‘I never thought I’d come here again,’ says Alison. ‘But we need answers.’
‘Yes,’ I whisper. ‘I just don’t think he’s going to be able to give them to us.’
Our father is already sitting at the table. He looks unrecognizable and I’m so shocked that I can only stand,rooted to the spot, until Alison pulls my arm and guides me to one of the chairs facing him.
He doesn’t look like the same man. He’s shrunken and his skin has a yellow tinge to it. He’s lost so much weight in his face that his nose looks hook-like and his cheeks sunken. He’s wearing a navy sweatshirt with jeans, his eyes hooded and bloodshot, his once-dark hair now white and thin, revealing the shape of his skull. It’s a shock to realize he’s no longer that big, hulking man from my memory. The man who hit Mum, who screamed at us. Despite everything, nestled within my hatred and loathing is a very tiny knot of sympathy. He wasn’t always a drunk, I remind myself.
He looks like a benign old man. How many other men out there, now aged and frail, were once like him? How many of the old men I might have noticed and felt sorry for as they wobbled their way across the road with a cane were once abusers? It’s an unpleasant thought.
‘Ali. Immy.’ His eyes swim. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you today. Or ever again.’ His voice is thirty-cigarettes-a-day croaky.
‘I hear you’re dying,’ I say dispassionately.
He nods. I notice his wrists are stick-thin, the skin papery and marred by blotches of dark red and black. I look away, appalled.
‘I’m glad you’ve come to see me. There is so much I want to say. Especially to you, Imogen. I’ve already apologized to Alison.’ To my surprise his eyes film with tears. ‘I have so many regrets, so many. I have had therapyin here and I understand now why I was so angry, why I had all this rage and resentment that I took out on all of you, why I drank, and I wish – God, how I wish – I could go back and change it all. But I can’t. I can never make it up to you, I can never make amends for what I did. But all I can do now is be honest with you.’
‘In that case, you need to tell us the truth about Mum. Did you kill her? I want to hear you say it. I want you to admit it, for once.’ My voice is getting shriller and Alison reaches over and lays a hand over my forearm.
‘I have no reason to lie to you now,’ he says. He flicks a glance at Alison. He must have said the same thing to her when she last visited him, and despite everything, I still feel that same kick to the guts that she did that without telling me.
‘I was a bad husband. I’m not going to deny that. I hit her. I won’t deny that either. But I didn’t kill her that night. I have no reason to lie to you about it. I. Did. Not. Kill. Her.’
I wish I could believe him. But how can I?
‘I wouldn’t have put you girls through a trial if I’d killed her. I like to think I’d have protected you from that at least. I was a drunk and I was violent and I hate myself for it. But I’m telling the truth about that night. This is why I wanted you to come and visit, what I needed to tell you.’
‘Will you tell us your version of what happened that night?’ Alison says gently. Why is she being so kind to him? I jolt my arm away from her hand and clench myfists. I want to punch him, and all the men like him. A white-hot surge of rage floods through me. But then I remember my doubts. The mask. The brooch. I can’t allow my hatred of this man to overshadow the truth.
