A Game for All the Family Read online

  ‘Exactly.’ PC Hilton sounds relieved that at last we are in agreement. ‘We all have.’

  ‘Yes, and if I thought there was any chance this caller was one of the people I’ve annoyed over the years, I’d tell you. But she isn’t. She’s a complete stranger. Look, she might have got a few details about my life right, but there’s a lot she got wrong. She thought I should know who she was and what she was talking about, and I didn’t. She’s confused. She thinks I’m a different person, someone who’s involved in … some kind of ongoing situation with her that I know nothing about! You’re not going to find her by looking at my life. Trace the calls if you want to know who she is.’

  ‘If it continues, we’ll look into doing that,’ says Phoebe Hilton. ‘Justine, you have to understand that in my job, so often I’m hampered by people withholding the details that would enable me to help them most effectively. While it’s understandable that people are embarrassed or ashamed to share certain pieces of personal information—’

  ‘I’m neither embarrassed nor ashamed. I’m irrelevant.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Whatever’s going on, it has nothing to do with me. It’s about her, whoever she is. I can’t help you, beyond what I’ve already told you. You’re the one who can help me. You can get the calls traced. Taking action to protect civilians from threats is your job, not mine. I don’t have a job.’ I can’t help smiling as I say this. ‘I’ve done my bit. I’ve reported the threatening phone calls. Over to you.’

  ‘Leave it with me,’ she says.

  And you’ll do what? I want to ask. Don’t I have a right to know? When can I expect to hear from you?

  Instead, I do what a non-pushy person would do: I thank her, exactly as I would if I were grateful for something, and leave.

  This time I head straight for the school: no dawdling to admire the beauty of the grounds. I park the Range Rover and march up the path, fixing my eyes on Beaconwood’s pink decorated façade, as if by keeping it in sight I can prevent the building from vanishing into thin air.

  If it can happen to a schoolboy, why not to a school?

  I know what I believe and I am eager to be proved right or wrong. I believe that, until very recently, a boy called George Donbavand was a pupil here. He must have walked up this path every week-day morning, heading for the big wooden door as I am now.

  I believe it because Ellen says it’s true and she isn’t a liar. Not usually, anyway. Only about homework.

  One person who’s willing to tell me the truth – that’s all I need.

  The school’s door has an arched top and a large iron knocker that parents have been asked not to use because it’s too loud. I press the less disruptive buzzer, remembering Alex’s and my first visit to Beaconwood. We heard the scrape of the key in the lock, followed by the creak of ancient-sounding hinges, and Alex whispered, ‘A rotund, red-cheeked monk will emerge any second now.’

  I giggled.

  ‘Brown robe, shaved circle on top of his head, pint of foaming mead in his chubby hand,’ said Alex.

  Instead, the door was opened by the same woman who opens it now: Helen Minchin, the school secretary. Today she’s wearing grey wool trousers with a mustard-coloured cowl-neck sweater. Pearl earrings and necklace, black shoes with ornaments on the toes featuring more pearls. She looks out of place in a ramshackle country house school like Beaconwood, where there’s usually a pair of muddy wellies or two, or sometimes as many as ten, lined up along the front and side walls. The idea of Helen and muddy wellies inhabiting the same universe is jarring. She ought to work in a sleek glass and metal building with lifts that speak several languages.

  Her two teenage daughters are sixth formers at Beaconwood and regularly babysit for other school families. Disconcertingly, their names are Leonie and Leanne. Alex and I had an argument about this shortly after Ellen started at the school. I said, ‘There’s something sinister about effectively giving your two daughters the same name,’ and Alex said, ‘Why do you care? That’s more sinister.’

  Helen breathes in sharply when she sees me on the doorstep. ‘Oh. Justine.’ Her shaky smile arrives several seconds too late. It’s not convincing, and leaves me in no doubt that my status has changed from Esteemed and Valued Parent to Unwelcome Pariah. In the space of one school day. Unbelievable.

  I smile as innocently as I can manage. ‘I’ve just popped in with something for Ellen – hope that’s okay!’ I try to walk in as I have so many times before.

  Helen stands in front of me, blocking the way. She holds out her hand. ‘I’ll make sure she gets it, whatever it is.’

  I widen my smile by an inch or so. Time to have some fun. ‘Whatever it is?’ I repeat Helen’s words back to her. ‘You know what it is? It’s a watermelon.’

  ‘A watermelon?’

  ‘Yes. You know …’ I use my hands to convey the approximate size. ‘Green on the outside, pink on the inside. A big healthy fruit – at least thirty-seven of your five a day. That’s the official watermelon slogan, I believe. Anyway, it’s Ellen’s lucky fruit. I bet you didn’t know she had one, did you? Well, she does.’ I ditch the smile and say, ‘I’m not going to give it to you. I’m going to come in and give it to Ellen myself. Remember those other times I’ve walked right in and everyone thought it was fine? So … I’m going to do that – the same thing I’ve done before – again.’

  Helen stares at me, stunned, as I stroll past her into the building. Lesley Griffiths prepared her for questions about George Donbavand, no doubt; she didn’t tell her what to do in the event of a fictional watermelon attack.

  Blatant lies are horrible. They’re also fascinating: the way I can go nowhere near a watermelon for more than a decade, physically or mentally, and then suddenly plant one in Helen’s mind that’s impossible to dislodge. She knows I’m lying – I spoke in a way that deliberately drew attention to the ludicrousness of my lie. If everyone else around here can tell lies that aren’t at all convincing, why shouldn’t I?

  ‘Justine,’ Helen calls after me. ‘They’re not there.’

  I turn round.

  ‘They’re at swimming, the whole of Year 9. The coaches won’t be back for another half hour.’

  ‘Right.’ I forgot today was swimming day. ‘Don’t worry – I’ve brought the watermelon in a plastic bag. I’ll hang it on her peg.’

  Helen returns to her desk, temporarily defeated. She’s waiting for me to leave her alone so that she can pick up the phone on her desk and alert Lesley to the emergency. Which means I might not have long.

  I move fast through hallways full of children’s paintings and sculptures. The two Year 9 classrooms – 9G and 9F – are empty. Mr Goodrick and Mr Fisher won’t be around if the children aren’t. I move on to Year 8’s part of the building, where lessons are in full swing. I’m not sure I want to barge in and interrogate any teacher in front of a class, though I will if I have to. One of them taught George Donbavand last year, presumably.

  Kendra Squires would be a good person to corner, if I can track her down. She’s one of those drifter-teachers, not attached to a particular class. She’s also deferential and eager to please. I can’t believe I wouldn’t be able to drag the truth out of her, whatever strictures Lesley Griffiths has put in place. Even if all I get is lots of tears and an admission that there’s a truth she’s not allowed to tell me – that would be a start.

  ‘Mrs Morrison!’ booms a voice behind me.

  It’s Mr Goodrick, in paint-splashed jeans and a Jayhawks T-shirt.

  ‘Not really,’ I say. ‘My name’s still Justine Merrison, and I’m still Ms, not Mrs. Keep trying!’

  ‘I’m not trying, that’s the problem.’ Mr Goodrick chuckles. ‘You’re too easy to wind up.’

  I laugh as if I appreciate his banter. ‘True. I am exceptionally easy to wind up. You know who’s done it most recently? Lesley Griffiths. Why haven’t you gone swimming with the rest of them, by the way?’

  ‘It’s Art Week. They can’t run Ar
t Week without their very own Renaissance man …’ – Goodrick points at his face with both index fingers – ‘so AAG’s filled in for me at the pool.’

  He means Ayesha Al-Ghannam, Beaconwood’s Head of Seniors and sex education pioneer. She’s probably interrupting the scheduled front crawl at this very moment – pulling spotty fourteen-year-old boys out of the water to make sure they haven’t forgotten about polycystic ovaries.

  ‘I’d better dash,’ Goodrick says. ‘Good to see you, Justin.’

  ‘Wait. I need to ask you something.’

  ‘Be quick, then. Seriously, I’m out of time.’

  ‘George Donbavand.’

  ‘Who? Sorry, never heard of him. George … Dunnerband, did you say?’

  He might be God’s gift to art, but he’s no actor.

  ‘Donbavand,’ I repeat. ‘He was a pupil here. He’s recently been expelled.’

  ‘No. Uh-uh. I’ve never heard that name.’

  ‘You’ve never heard of George Donbavand?’

  ‘Nope. No one’s been expelled, far as I know.’ Goodrick lets out a little whistle – because, as we all know, those who whistle innocently must be innocent.

  I want to jump on top of him and beat him to a puree.

  ‘You have no idea how obvious it is to me that you’re lying,’ I say. ‘Just as, this morning, it was clear to me that Lesley was lying. It couldn’t be more obvious if you all wore T-shirts emblazoned with the words “We’re all lying!” Exclamation mark.’

  ‘I have to go, Justine Merrison. See?’ He grins. ‘I’m not that bad with names – I’d remember a George Donbavand. There isn’t one at Beaconwood. There never has been.’

  ‘What can I do to stop him walking away? Nothing. My imaginary watermelon, so effective against Helen, is useless now. I can’t throw it at Mr Goodrick’s head and knock him out.

  Marilyn Monroe.

  Why did that name come into my mind? That’s right: the pictures on the wall behind me. Did I see …

  I turn and look. Marilyn’s one of the better efforts. Beneath her face – half photograph, half oil painting – is the handwritten name of the artist: ‘Fleur D’.

  ‘What about Fleur?’ I call after Craig Goodrick.

  He stops, but doesn’t turn around.

  He doesn’t know what to say. Lesley told him to lie about George, but she didn’t mention Fleur. He has to decide for himself, without knowing what she’d want him to do.

  ‘Fleur Donbavand, sister of the nonexistent George,’ I say. ‘A pupil at this school. Look, this is her portrait of Marilyn Monroe. The one that says Fleur D at the bottom.’

  Goodrick stuffs his hands into his pockets. ‘Yeah, Fleur,’ he says with not a trace of guilt. ‘She’s a talented artist.’

  ‘So that I’m clear: you’re talking about Fleur Donbavand?’

  ‘Yeah. She’s in Year 12.’

  ‘Yet not two minutes ago you pretended not to recognise the surname Donbavand. Dunnerband, you said.’

  ‘I didn’t hear you properly.’ He stares at me defiantly.

  ‘Still. When I repeated the name, you didn’t jump in with, “No, I don’t know a George but I do know a Fleur Donbavand.”’

  ‘I was in a hurry. You asked about George. I don’t know any George Donbavand. I answered the question you asked. You didn’t ask about Fleur so I didn’t bring her up.’ Goodrick starts to walk away again.

  ‘What do you think Fleur will say if I ask her about her brother?’ I shout after him.

  He’s gone: vanished around a corner. It would be undignified to chase him. Pointless, too.

  Should I burst into the Year 8 class on my right and demand the truth? Surely someone in the room would raise their hand and say, ‘Me!’ if I blurted out, ‘Who knows George Donbavand?’

  Of course he’s real. There’s no doubt. If Fleur exists, then George must.

  Years ago, while working on a TV thriller, I spent some time with a psychotherapist who profiled for the police. She told me the most dangerous and frightening liars are those who attempt to deceive even when there’s no chance of convincing anyone, who savour the inability of the honest world to believe they would maintain their pretence in the face of proof to the contrary.

  It chills me to think that this category now includes the head of Ellen’s school and her form tutor.

  I hear glass smashing. Not loud, like a window breaking, but small and contained. The blare of an alarm fills the corridor. I flatten myself against the wall as children start to pour out of classrooms, guided by teachers pointing and mouthing inaudible words.

  Lesley Griffiths hurries past me, then turns back. She frowns and gestures at me: ‘Why are you standing still? You need to leave the building. Fire alarm,’ she mouths.

  ‘It was you,’ I say to her departing back. ‘You smashed the glass, to get me out.’

  She can’t hear me. I can’t hear myself.

  Chapter 4

  Pas Devant les Enfants

  After the unknown miscreant tried to kill Perrine by hanging her from a tree, everything changed for the Ingrey family. Later that same night, once Perrine had been checked by a doctor and the rope burns on her neck had been attended to, Bascom and Sorrel said something to their three daughters that they had never said before: ‘We need to talk in private, girls. It is likely to take a long time. You’ll have to forage in the fridge and pantry for your own supper.’

  Lisette, Allisande and Perrine were shocked. Their home, Speedwell House, was one that had never contained an apartheid system with the grown-ups on one side and the children on the other. It always struck them as peculiar, when they visited the homes of friends, that other families behaved in this way. Lisette’s friend Mimsie Careless, for example, had parents who ended conversations mid-sentence the instant she walked into a room, plastered bright smiles on their faces and said in falsely hearty voices, ‘Hel lo, darling! How lovely to see you!’ For years, Lisette had been convinced that Mr and Mrs Careless were spies for a foreign power, until Sorrel had explained to her that a lot of adults suffer from weird neuroses that they keep at bay by depriving their children of important information about life.

  Allisande had a friend called Henrietta Sennitt-Sasse whose mother wouldn’t answer any questions in front of her daughter, not even the most innocent ones. If Bascom or Sorrel drove Allisande to Henrietta’s house to drop her off and happened to ask Mrs Sennitt-Sasse a question like, ‘Oh, is that a new lavender plant I see in your front garden?’ or ‘What do you think of Marathon bars changing their name to Snickers?’, Mrs Sennitt-Sasse would tighten up her face and mutter through shrunken lips, ‘Pas devant les enfants,’ which means ‘not in front of the children’ in French. Only after Allisande and Henrietta had gone up to Henrietta’s room would Mrs Sennitt-Sasse answer, once she’d checked that the girls were nowhere in earshot.

  The Ingreys had great fun mercilessly mocking the Sennitt-Sasse approach. Sorrel would rock with laughter as she told her family the punchline each time: ‘And after all that, and with me waiting on tenterhooks to hear this alluring secret that couldn’t be spoken of in front of little pitchers with big ears, all the stupid woman said was, “Yes, it’s a new lavender. I bought it half-price from the garden centre at the weekend. There was a sale on.”’

  Until the day that someone tried to hang Perrine from a tree, Bascom and Sorrel Ingrey had been willing to discuss anything and everything in front of their three daughters. They did not hide strong opinions, or critical ones. In truth, they didn’t have very many opinions that were not strong and critical, and it would have been ridiculous never to allow the girls to hear them speak! In the Ingrey household, the children were not protected from contentious or controversial subjects, because almost anything you cared to name was contentious and controversial for the Ingreys, from when to set off for an important event (with at least an hour to spare in case something goes wrong, insisted Bascom; no, at the very last possible moment to avoid wasting time, countered Sorrel) to how b
est to handle the family finances (employ an expensive accountant to save yourself a big faff, said Sorrel; keep pernickety, encyclopaedic records and fill in every form yourself in order to save money, said Bascom).

  I hope you will understand, then, that for the three girls to be told to make themselves scarce while their parents had a private discussion – in their bedroom with the door shut and locked – was so unusual, it was frightening. For Lisette, Allisande and Perrine, being excluded in this way and being able to make out only whispering and hissing was nearly as traumatic as the whole hanging-from-a-tree-attempted-murder incident. Yes, even for Perrine.

  The girls didn’t go down to the kitchen and forage for their supper. Instead, they pressed their ears against their parents’ bedroom door to see if they could hear what was going on. At first they couldn’t, but then, as Bascom and Sorrel grew more irate, their voices became more audible.

  ‘But we agreed!’ Sorrel yelled. ‘You promised: next time it would be my turn first!’

  ‘Will you listen to what you’re saying?’ Bascom snapped. ‘How can it be your turn first? How would that work, exactly?’

  Lisette, Allisande and Perrine started to cry. They had never heard their parents verbally attack each other in this way before. You see, although Bascom and Sorrel Ingrey argued and disagreed about everything, they never fought. It was always perfectly friendly and no one ever got upset. Disagreement, traditionally, was something they enjoyed. It was their hobby.

  Until now.

  ‘It is scientifically impossible for you to go first!’ Bascom bellowed. ‘It’s exactly like the business with Malachy Dodd – you wanting him never to come round again and me saying he should come round one last time. I didn’t want him in the house again, or indeed at all – in an ideal world, I wouldn’t have let him cross my threshold! But we’d agreed he might be good for Perrine. And we had to do it my way first, because the alternative was conceptually and practically impossible. The same is true in this instance!’