‘Why are you all looking at me like that? What does it say?’ Trixie asks, a new frown forming on her tear-stained face. Nobody answers, because we can hear someone walking around upstairs again. Someone who shouldn’t be.
Forty-three
31 October 4:55 a.m.
just over one hour until low tide
I turn to stare at Conor and see that his face has drained of colour. He looks at Rose, then at me, then at Trixie again.
‘I didn’t know,’ he whispers. ‘I was drunk. I presumed she was on the pill. If I’d known . . . Why didn’t she tell me?’ I look at Rose and wonder if she has done the maths too. There’s something strange about the expression on her face. Lack of surprise, perhaps? ‘I always wanted to be a better father than my own,’ Conor says to nobody in particular, before turning away. I think he might be crying.
He never talks about what happened with his dad, none of us do.
Emotional blows leave invisible bruises that can hurt just as much as the physical variety. Growing up, Conor had more than his fair share of both. All I remember about what happened to Mr Kennedy is that the police found his car parked at the highest point of the cliff the day after the Halloween beach party, and he was never seen again. There was a note on the dashboard, but it didn’t make a lot of sense:
My dead wife stole my heart and the Darker family stole my son.
I’m sorry for the man life and death turned me into, and for the mistakes I made.
There is nothing left for me here.
Conor was eighteen when it happened, and he wasn’t the same afterwards. There was a funeral for his father – not that I went, I was left behind like always – but the coffin must have been empty, because I know the police never found the body.
Conor turns to look at Trixie again, then opens and closes his mouth a few times, like a goldfish. Whatever words he wants to say are too scared to come out. He shakes his head and stares up at the ceiling.
‘I don’t know what is going on here, but I’m going to put an end to it.’
Conor snatches the key from Rose’s hand, marches towards the door that leads to the hall, but then stops. He stares at the handle for a long time, as though it is something very complicated that he can’t remember how to use. Then he opens the door, as slowly and quietly as he can.
‘Lock yourselves inside,’ he whispers, giving the key to Rose before leaving the room and closing the door behind him.
Trixie starts to cry again and Rose rushes to her side.
‘Everything is going to be all right,’ Rose says, putting her arms around the girl in a slightly awkward fashion, as though needing to keep her at a distance.
Trixie stares at her before wiping her tears away with the sleeve of her pyjamas. Then she shakes her head of brown curls. ‘I don’t believe you.’
I don’t believe Rose either. I’m not sure who to trust anymore. All I feel is afraid: of what I know and of what I don’t. Anxiety builds a series of roadblocks inside my mind until it seems like there is no way out.
You can hear everything in this old house. If there is no chatter, or storm, or TV or music to muffle the sound, it is possible to hear the creaks and groans of the building whenever someone moves inside it. With the constant soundtrack of the sea, being here often feels like being on an old ship. One that might sink at any moment. Seaglass has thin walls that like to eavesdrop, and tired floorboards that like to talk. This house has never been good at keeping secrets. The rain outside has stopped, as has the howling wind, but I almost wish they hadn’t. It’s too quiet now. We can hear things I wish we couldn’t. And not just the eighty clocks ticking in the hall.
Rose, Trixie and I listen as Conor walks across the hallway to the bottom of the staircase. We hear him walk up the stairs and along the landing until his footsteps seem to stop right above our heads. I think about the geography of the place, and realize he must be in Lily’s room. We hear him go back out on the landing, probably to look inside another room, maybe mine. The sounds repeat themselves as he checks each bedroom: slow, methodical footsteps moving from one end of Seaglass to the other, before stopping on the landing directly above us upstairs.
‘There’s nobody up here,’ Conor says from the first floor, barely loud enough for us to hear his words. ‘Maybe it was our imagination, or just the noises an old house makes in a storm?’
Then we hear what sounds like someone falling down the stairs.
And a loud thud.
Right outside the library door.
Everything is silent for a few seconds. Rose, Trixie and I stare at one another, then at the closed door, all too afraid of what might be on the other side of it.