A Game for All the Family Read online

  ‘What, Mum?’

  ‘Yes, tell us, goddammit.’

  ‘Dad! Objection! Sustained.’

  ‘Overruled, actually. You can’t sustain your own objection. Anyway, shush, will you?’

  Shush. Shut up, shut up, shut up. It’s not funny. Nothing about this is funny.

  ‘Justine, what’s the matter with you?’ Alex is more patient than I am. I’d be raising my voice by now.

  ‘That house. You pointed, and I looked, and I had this … this overwhelmingly strong feeling of yes. Yes, that’s my house. I wanted to fling open the car door and run to it.’

  ‘Except you don’t live there, so that’s mad. You don’t live anywhere at the moment. Until this morning you lived in London, and hopefully by this evening you’ll live just outside Kingswear in Devon, but you currently live nowhere.’

  How appropriate. Do Nothing, live nowhere.

  ‘You certainly don’t live in an interwar semi beside the A406, so you can relax.’ Alex’s tone is teasing but not unkind. I’m relieved that he doesn’t sound worried. He sounds less concerned now than he did before; the direction of travel reassures me.

  ‘I know I don’t live there. I can’t explain it. I had a powerful feeling that I belonged in that house. Or belonged to it, somehow. By “powerful”, I mean like a physical assault.’

  ‘Lordy McSwordy,’ Ellen mumbles from the back seat.

  ‘Almost a premonition that I’ll live there one day.’ How can I phrase it to make it sound more rational? ‘I’m not saying it’s true. Now that the feeling’s passed, I can hear how daft it sounds, but when I first looked, when you pointed at it, there was no doubt in my mind.’

  ‘Justine, nothing in the world could ever induce you to live cheek by jowl with six lanes of traffic,’ says Alex. You haven’t changed that much. Is this a joke?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I know what it is: poverty paranoia. You’re worried about you not earning, us taking on a bigger mortgage … Have you had nightmares about losing your teeth?’

  ‘My teeth?’

  ‘I read somewhere that teeth-loss dreams mean anxiety about money.’

  ‘It isn’t that.’

  ‘Even poor, you wouldn’t live in that house – not unless you were kidnapped and held prisoner there.’

  ‘Dad,’ says Ellen. ‘Is it time for your daily You’re-Not-Helping reminder?’

  Alex ignores her. ‘Have you got something to drink?’ he asks me. ‘You’re probably dehydrated. Heatstroke.’

  ‘Yes.’ There’s water in my bag, by my feet.

  ‘Drink it, then.’

  I don’t want to. Not yet. As soon as I pull out the bottle and open it, this conversation will be over; Alex will change the subject to something less inexplicable. I can’t talk about anything else until I understand what’s just happened to me.

  ‘Oh, no. Look: roadworks.’ When Alex starts to sing again, I don’t know what’s happening at first, even though it’s the same tune from Carmen and only the words have changed. Ellen joins in. Soon they’re singing in unison, ‘Hard hats and yellow jackets, hard hats and yellow jackets, hard hats and yellow jackets, boo. Hard hats and yellow jackets, hard hats and yellow jackets, boo, sod it, boo, sod it, boo …’

  Or I could try to forget about it. With every second that passes, that seems more feasible. I feel almost as I did before Alex pointed at the house. I could maybe convince myself that I imagined the whole thing.

  Go on, then. Tell yourself that.

  The voice in my head is not quite ready. It’s still repeating words from the script I’ve instructed it to discard:

  One day, 8 Panama Row – a house you would not choose in a million years – will be your home, and you won’t mind the traffic at all. You’ll be so happy and grateful to live there, you won’t be able to believe your luck.

  Four months later

  Murder Mystery Story

  by Ellen Colley, Class 9G

  Chapter 1

  The Killing of Malachy Dodd

  Perrine Ingrey dropped Malachy Dodd out of a window. She wanted to kill him and she succeeded. Later, no one believed her when she screamed, ‘I didn’t do it!’ Both of their families, the Ingreys and the Dodds, knew that Perrine and Malachy had been upstairs in a room together with no one else around.

  This was Perrine’s bedroom. It had a tiny wooden door (painted mint green, Perrine’s favourite colour) next to her bed. This little door was the only way of getting from one part of the upstairs of Speedwell House to the other unless you wanted to go back downstairs, through the lounge and the library, and then climb up a different lot of stairs, and no one ever wanted to do that. They preferred to bend themselves into a quarter of the size of the shortest dwarf in the world (because that was how tiny the mint-green door was) and squeeze themselves through the minuscule space.

  After she dropped Malachy out of the window and watched him fall to his gory death on the terrace below, Perrine squashed herself through the tiny green door and pulled it closed behind her. When her parents found her huddled on the landing on the other side, she exclaimed, ‘But I wasn’t even in the room when it happened!’

  Nobody was convinced. Perrine hadn’t been clever enough to move a decent distance away from the door, so it was obvious she had just come through it. Her second mistake was to yell, ‘He fell out by accident!’ For one thing Malachy was not tall enough to fall out of the window accidentally (all the adults agreed later that his centre of gravity was too low) and for another, if Perrine wasn’t in the room when it happened, how did she know that he fell by accident?

  A third big clue was that every single other person who might have murdered Malachy was downstairs in the dining room at the time of his hideous death. All of the Dodds were there, and all the Ingreys apart from Perrine. Her two older sisters, Lisette and Allisande, were sitting in chairs facing the three sets of French doors that were open onto the terrace where Malachy fell, splattering his red and grey blood and brains on the ground beside the fountain. It felt as if his falling shook the whole house, especially the French ‘purple crystals’ chandelier above Lisette and Allisande’s heads, but that must have been an illusion.

  Lisette and Allisande definitely saw Malachy fall and smash, however, and, what’s more, they heard a loud, triumphant ‘Ha!’ floating down from above. Both of them recognised the voice of their younger sister Perrine.

  So, if all the other possible suspects were in the dining room, who else apart from Perrine Ingrey could have been responsible for Malachy landing in a heap on the paving slabs? I’ll tell you who: nobody.

  There was no doubt that Perrine killed him, however much she wailed that she was innocent. (The death of Malachy Dodd is not the murder mystery in this story. The mystery is who murdered Perrine Ingrey, because she went on to get murdered too, but that comes later.)

  No, there was nothing mysterious about the cruel killing of Malachy. Both of the families, the Ingreys and the Dodds, knew the truth, and soon everybody in Kingswear and the surrounding towns and villages knew it too. You cannot keep anything quiet in a place like Devon, where the main hobby is spreading cream and jam onto scones and gossiping about everything you’ve heard that day.

  It came as a surprise to absolutely nobody that one of the Ingreys had committed a murder, because they were such a weird family – the weirdest that Kingswear and its environs had ever known. But there was one big shock for everyone when they heard the news. People should have realised that the most bizarre family for miles around would do the opposite of what you’d expect, or else they would have no right to retain their title of weirdest family. And what most of the nearby town and village folk would have expected was that if 1) there was a murder and if 2) the killer was one of the three Ingrey sisters, it was bound to be either Lisette, the eldest, or Allisande, the middle sister. Certainly not Perrine, the youngest, who was the only one who had had what you might call a properly balanced upbringing.

  You see, unlike most
parents, especially so long ago, Bascom and Sorrel Ingrey couldn’t

  1

  ‘Ellen?’ I knock on her bedroom door, even though it’s ajar and I can see her sitting on her bed. When she doesn’t respond, I walk in. ‘What’s this?’ I hold up the papers.

  She doesn’t look at me, but continues to stare out of the window. I can’t help looking too. I still haven’t got used to the beauty of where we live. Ellen’s room and the kitchen directly beneath it have the best views in the house: the fountain and gazebo to the left, and, straight ahead, the gentle downward curve of the grass bank that stretches all the way from our front door to the River Dart, studded with rhododendrons, magnolia trees, camellias. When we first came to see Speedwell House in April, there were bluebells, primroses, cylamen and periwinkles in bloom, poking out of ground ivy and grass: little bursts of brightness interrupting the lush green. I can’t wait for those spots of colour to reappear next spring.

  In the distance, the water sparkles in the bright light like a flowing liquid diamond. On the other side of the river, there’s wooded hillside with a few wooden boathouses down at the bottom, and, above them, a scattering of pink, yellow and white cottages protruding from the greenery. From this distance, it looks as if someone has dropped pick-and-mix sweets from the window of an aeroplane and they’ve landed among the trees.

  Since we moved here, Alex has said at least three times, ‘It’s a funny thing about the English coastline: the land just stops. It’s like the interior of the country, and then it suddenly plunges into the sea without any interim bit. I mean, look.’ At this point he always nods across the river. ‘That could be in the middle of the Peak District.’

  I don’t know what he means. Maybe I’m shallow, but I don’t much care about understanding the scenery. If it looks gorgeous, that’s good enough for me.

  Boats drift past: sailing dinghies, small yachts, pleasure boats and the occasional schooner. There’s one passing now that looks like a child’s sketch of a boat: wooden, with a mast and a red sail. Most have less elegant outlines and would be fiddlier to draw.

  These are the things I can see out of Ellen’s window. Can she see any of them? She’s looking out, but there’s a shut-off air about her, as if she’s not really present in the room with me.

  ‘El. What’s this?’ I say again, waving the pieces of paper at her. I don’t like what I’ve read. I don’t like it at all, however imaginative and accomplished a piece of writing it might be for a fourteen-year-old. It scares me.

  ‘What’s what?’ Ellen says tonelessly.

  ‘This family tree and beginning of a story about a family called the Ingreys.’

  ‘It’s for school.’

  Worst possible answer. Too short, too lacking in attitude. The Ellen I know – the Ellen I desperately miss – would have said, ‘Um, it’s a family tree? And a story about a family called the Ingreys? The answer’s kind of contained in the question.’ How long has it been since she last yelled, ‘Objection!’ swiftly followed by ‘Sustained!’? At least a month.

  Whatever Alex says, there’s something wrong with our daughter. He doesn’t see it because he doesn’t want it to be true. When he’s home, she makes a special effort to be normal in front of him. She knows that if she can fool him, he’ll do his best to persuade me that I’m wrong, that this is standard teenage behaviour.

  I know it’s not true. I know my daughter, and this isn’t her. This isn’t how even the most alarming teenage version of her would behave.

  Bascom and Sorrel Ingrey. It’s Ellen’s handwriting, but I don’t believe she would have made up those names. Allisande, Malachy Dodd, Garnet and Urban … Could she have copied it out from somewhere?

  I’m trying to work out how I can tactfully ask what prompted her to invent the alarming Perrine Ingrey, whom I resent for splattering my lovely terrace with blood and brains and celebrating with a ‘Ha!’, when the phone starts to ring downstairs. I would leave it, but it might be Alex. As I run to get it, I remind myself that I must ring up about having some more telephone points put in.

  Must. I hate that word. In my old life, it meant ‘Move fast! Panic! Prepare for catastrophe! Turn it into success by the end of the day! Keep two people happy who want incompatible outcomes! Be brilliant or lose everything!’ Fifty times a day, ‘must’ could have signified any of those things, or all of them simultaneously.

  I stop at the bottom of the stairs, out of breath. I refuse to hurry. There is no urgency about anything. Calm down. Remember your mission and purpose. If you’re fretting, you’re not doing Nothing.

  I’m not going to worry about missing Alex’s call. And if it isn’t him on the phone, I’m not going to wonder why he hasn’t rung today. I know he’s fine – being fawned over by acolytes in Berlin. Discussing the Ellen situation with him can wait.

  Worries are pack animals as well as cowards: too flimsy and insubstantial to do much damage alone, they signal for back-up. Pretty soon there’s a whole gang of them circling you and you can’t push your way out. ‘Stuff the lot of them,’ I think as I cross the wide black and white tiled hall on my way to the kitchen. I’m lucky to be happy and to have this amazing new life. I don’t have much to be anxious about, certainly not compared to most people. There are only two points of concern in my current existence: Ellen’s odd behaviour, and – though I’m ashamed to be obsessing about it still – the house by the side of the North Circular. 8 Panama Row.

  I’ve dreamed about it often since the day we moved, dreamed of trying to get there – on foot, by car, by train – but never quite making it. The closest I got was in a taxi. The driver pulled up, and I climbed out and stood on the pavement. The front door of the house opened, and then I woke up.

  I pick up the phone and say, ‘Hello?’, remembering Alex’s pretending-to-be-serious insistence that we must all from now on greet anyone who rings with the words ‘Speedwell House, good morning/afternoon/evening’. ‘That’s how people who live in big country piles answer their phones,’ he said. ‘I saw it on … something, I’m sure.’

  Our new house’s solitary phone is not portable. It’s next to the kitchen window, attached to the wall by a curly wire that makes a plasticky squeaking sound when pulled. Finally at the age of forty-three I have a big, comfy sofa in a kitchen that isn’t too small, and I’m unable to reach it to sit down when I make or answer a phone call. I have to stand and look at it instead, while imagining my legs are aching more than they are. My mobile can’t help me; there’s no reception inside the house. O2 coverage seems only to start at the end of our drive.

  ‘Hello,’ I say again.

  ‘It’s me.’

  Not Alex. A woman whose voice I don’t recognise. Someone arrogant enough to think that she and I are on ‘It’s me’ terms when we aren’t. It should be easy enough to work out who, once she’s said a few more words. I know lots of arrogant women, or at least I did in London. Arrogant men, too. I hoped never to hear from any of them again.

  ‘Sorry, it’s a terrible line,’ I lie. ‘I can hardly hear you.’ How embarrassing. Come on, brain, tell me who this is before I’m forced to reveal how little this person matters to me. Alex’s mum? No. My stepmother? Definitely not.

  ‘It’s me. I can hear you perfectly.’

  A woman, for sure. With a voice as hard as granite and a slight … not quite lisp, but something similar. As if her tongue is impeded by her teeth, or she’s speaking while trying to stop a piece of chewing gum from falling out of her mouth. Is she disguising her voice? Why would she do that if she wants me to recognise her?

  ‘I’m sorry, this line is appalling. I honestly have no idea who I’m speaking to,’ I say.

  Silence. Then a sigh, and a weary ‘I think we’re beyond lying by now, aren’t we? I know you came here to scare me, but it won’t work.’

  I hold the phone away from my ear and stare at it. This is absurd. I’ve never heard this woman’s voice before. She is nobody I know.

  ‘This is a misunderstan
ding. I don’t know who you think you’re speaking to—’

  ‘Oh, I know exactly who I’m speaking to.’

  ‘Well … lucky you. I wish I did. I don’t recognise your voice. If I know you, you’re going to have to remind me. And I’ve no idea what you mean, but I promise you, I didn’t come here to scare you or anyone else.’

  ‘I’ve been frightened of you for too long. I’m not running away again.’

  I lean my forehead against the kitchen wall. ‘Look, shall we sort this out? It shouldn’t take long. Who are you, and who do you think I am? Because whoever you think I am, I’m not. You’re going to have to give your speech again to someone else.’ I should have hung up on her by now, but I’m holding out for a logical resolution. I want to hear her say, ‘Oh, my God, I’m so sorry. I thought you were my abusive ex-boyfriend/delinquent child/tyrannical religious cult leader.’

  ‘I know who you are,’ says my anonymous caller. ‘And you know who I am.’

  ‘No, you evidently don’t, and no I don’t. My name is Justine Merrison. You’re delivering your message to the wrong person.’

  ‘I’m not going to be intimidated by you,’ she says.

  Should have hung up. Still should. ‘Good. Excellent,’ I say briskly. ‘Any chance that I could not be intimidated by you either? Like, no more crank calls? Is your No Intimidation policy one-way, or could it be reciprocal?’

  I’m making jokes. How bizarre. If someone had asked me before today how I’d feel if an unpleasant-sounding stranger rang up and threatened me, I would probably have said I’d be frightened, but I’m not. This is too stupid. I’m too preoccupied by other, more important things, and even some unbelievably trivial ones, like the list pinned to the cork board on the wall opposite: tasks Alex has assigned to me. Musts. Ring a landscape gardener, find a window cleaner, get the car valeted. Alex is trying to insist I use a local firm he found called The Car Men, because of the Bizet connection. He’s written ‘CAR MEN!!’ in capitals at the top of the list. The exclamation marks are intended to remind me that our Range Rover is a biohazard on wheels.