‘That’s where Granddad kept his Playboys. He had hundreds of them. I used to sneak up here and look at them.’
Cyrus laughs. ‘Did Grandma know?’
‘I don’t think she cared.’
‘Reckon they’re still there?’ asks Elias.
‘They’re not.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I know.’
There is a moment of silence and I hear their footsteps getting closer. I retreat downstairs. I don’t want anyone touching the attic. That’s my place. It’s where I hide when I have my nightmares. I squeeze between the crates and chests, and curl up on the floor, making myself small, trying not to make a sound.
*
The van has gone, but Cyrus is still standing at the gate. A gust of wind sends leaves tumbling across the lawn, pinning them against the fence. Three hours with Elias has felt like a year. At least I didn’t say the wrong thing. Normally I don’t care, but this is different.
I start tidying up the kitchen. Cyrus returns.
‘Why didn’t you tell Elias that I was living here?’ I ask.
‘I did.’
‘Yes, but only now. I’ve been here a year.’
‘He must have forgotten.’
Cyrus scoops cake crumbs from the table and tips them into the pedal bin.
‘Don’t you think it was weird, how he talked about your family, as though nothing had happened? Like that stuff with the treehouse and your mum.’
‘He was nervous, that’s all. He’s not used to socialising.’
‘Is he going to come and live here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you want me to move out?’
‘No.’
‘Look at me when you say that.’
We’re face to face. Eye to eye.
‘I want you to stay.’
31
Cyrus
Morning cold. I walk through Wollaton Park on my way to the university. The sun is a pale yellow ball behind the grey clouds that won’t shift all day, or month, or perhaps until the spring. Three gardeners are planting bulbs but seem to break regularly to brew up mugs of tea in their shed, sternly gazing at the sky, discussing the weather.
On the edge of the park, a group of students are holding up placards and chanting. They’re protesting about student loans and the rents charged during lockdowns but look half-hearted or half frozen.
Henri meets me in the corridor. He’s holding a soiled nappy, wrapped in a tight bundle, treating it like an unexploded bomb.
‘She’s very nice, but that toddler shits like an espresso machine.’
I have no idea who he’s talking about until I discover Melody Sterling in my office. Victoria is sitting on the floor, playing with crayons and a blank piece of paper.
‘You gave me your business card,’ says Melody, sounding embarrassed. ‘I know I should have called, but I didn’t know if I could do this. I’ve been sitting in the car for the past hour, summoning the courage.’
She’s wearing cargo pants, a cotton blouse and loose sweater.
‘They won’t let me see Dean. I don’t know if he’s been charged, or if he’s appearing in court. Can the police do that – tell me nothing?’
‘Yes.’
‘But he didn’t hurt Maya. He was in Leeds.’
‘He wasn’t staying at the pub,’ I say.
It takes a moment for the information to register and the implications to become clear. Her eyes cloud before growing bright and hard. ‘Who is she?’
‘Someone he met.’
‘Someone he paid for?’
I don’t answer.
‘I knew it. I do the accounts. I see where the money goes.’ She walks to the window, muttering to herself, ‘The bastard! The lousy, fucking bastard!’
Victoria looks up from the floor and babbles something incomprehensible. Melody understands and pulls a rusk from a plastic Ziploc bag. The toddler grips it in both hands and gnaws on the edge.
‘I feel stupid.’
‘It’s not your fault.’
‘I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. He’s a good father. He works hard. He’s never raised his hand to me.’
I don’t know if Melody is trying to convince me or herself.
‘Who is she?’ she asks.
‘A single mother. Tessa. He won’t tell police her full name.’
‘He wants to keep seeing her.’
It’s a statement, not a question. Melody seems to reach a decision. She unzips a side pocket of her bag and retrieves a cork that looks like it belongs in a wine bottle. Squeezing it in her fist, she twists it in half, revealing the silver plug of a USB stick.
‘I found a bottle of red wine in our wine rack. The plastic seal had been broken. Dean drinks beer. It made me wonder …’
She hands me the thumb drive.
‘Have you looked?’
She shakes her head. ‘I don’t want to see what he filmed. I won’t lie for him. I won’t wait for him.’
Melody gets to her feet and takes a few minutes to gather the toys and crayons and baby paraphernalia that has found its way into every corner of my office. She looks at the soggy biscuit crumbs on the floor.
‘Do you have a dustpan?’
‘I’ll clean up,’ I say.
I walk mother and daughter along the corridor to the stairs. Victoria reaches up and takes my hand, swinging her legs in the air between us.
‘Will he be charged?’ she asks.
‘Yes.’
‘Will he go to prison?’
‘Not if he tells the police everything and expresses remorse.’
Melody smiles sadly. ‘Dean has only regretted one thing in his life. Marrying me.’
Returning to my desk, I plug the USB into my laptop and wait for it to be recognised. I expect to need a password or a code, but the files appear automatically. Hundreds of them, each with a letter and seven-digit number.
I randomly right-click a file and ask for information. It gives me the size and the date it was created. When I double-click to open the video, my computer doesn’t recognise the formatting. I try several versions until finally a window pops up and I see Maya Kirk’s bedroom, her double bed and dressing table. This was taken by the Paddington Bear camera.
A woman walks into frame. Maya. She’s wearing exercise gear and looking at her phone. She sits on the bed and kicks off her shoes, smiling at something on screen. Flopping backwards, she holds the phone above her head and continues watching. After a few minutes, she sits up, peels off her top and begins to shimmy out of her leggings. I close the file, not wanting to see any more, but at the same time I feel strangely compelled.
The word ‘voyeur’ seems old-fashioned, as though it belongs to an era of peepshows and Victorian erotica, of women in stockings and giant panties. Either that, or it conjures up images of men with binoculars or telescopes, training their gaze on neighbouring windows, seeking gratification by spying on someone else’s life.
The media have softened the word by linking it to reality TV shows where people agree to be filmed, playing games of survival, or deception, but that isn’t true voyeurism. Permission cannot be granted. A voyeur watches in secret, peering through keyholes, up-skirting or watching through windows as someone undresses or bathes or has sex.