Truancy was a rite of passage for some, Catherine understood that. But Honor was still young – too young – and had lied with convincing ease.
Much as she hated to admit it, her daughter was pulling away from her and she needed to handle this situation with care. Not to alienate her, never that, but to encourage her to open up and confide her truths, as she’d done so willingly in the past. If she raised the mystery of the bus ticket now, over dinner, Edward would want to analyse and discuss it, as he had done when she had first told him about the fire and her family. Given the elastic-thin state of his patience at the moment, he would probably shout, but Catherine knew that approach wouldn’t work with their daughter. Honor would storm off and clam up.
Perhaps she should sleep on it. If the school was closed again tomorrow, they’d have a proper chance to talk it through while Edward was in London. Yes, that was the best course of action. Feeling better, she took a sip of water and tried out a tentative smile on her husband.
‘How was your day, love?’
He grunted and speared a mushroom. ‘Same old.’
Catherine waited for him to continue, but it was clear his contribution to the dinner-table conversation was over. Edward was an excellent mimic. He often made them laugh with stories of office politics and the petty bureaucracies of government regulators. But he’d barely said a word since getting home. She wondered if something had happened at work.
Outside, the snow was still falling. It gave the night a textured feel, like the air was rippling. They ate in silence until Honor poked at her casserole and said, ‘I’m full, Mum.’
‘But you’ve hardly touched your dinner.’
The girl shrugged. ‘I don’t want any more.’
‘Honor, you need to eat—’
‘Don’t fuss. If she says she’s had enough, leave her be.’
Edward’s voice was knife-sharp, cutting through their exchange. Catherine bit back a retort, unused to being snapped at, but not wanting to escalate the tension. Honor stared at her plate.
Her husband pushed back his chair and its legs scraped across the tiled floor. An ugly sound, abrasive, and a marked change from his default setting of laid-back good humour. ‘I’ve finished too. I’ll do the washing-up later.’
‘What’s up with Dad?’ Honor whispered as soon as he’d left the kitchen, leaning into her mother, a conspiratorial intimacy between them.
‘Work, I expect,’ said Catherine, gathering up knives and forks. ‘He’s probably had a bad day.’
But she didn’t believe that. In all the years she had known him, Edward rarely left his dinner. Even if he was unwell, he always managed to eat something, dry crackers or a piece of toast. In the early years of their relationship, he would sometimes order two main courses in a restaurant, a sheepish grin on his face, not an ounce of fat on him. But tonight he’d left half his meal on his plate.
In the sitting room, Edward was sprawled across the sofa, remote control in hand. Honor sat next to him and Catherine took the armchair by the wood burner.
When Honor was little, they’d always left the washing-up until she was in bed, wanting to spend every spare moment with their daughter, grinning daftly at each other, drunk on love. That habit had stuck. An hour or two of television had now replaced warm milk and bedtime stories, but Catherine had always loved this part of the day. The three of them together in one place. Family time.
Edward cycled through the channels, a habit that irritated Catherine, who was trying to read her book. Honor was fiddling with her mobile phone, hair shielding her face. Eventually, Edward settled on Sky News.
The newscaster’s voice moved smoothly between news items. Brexit. The weather. London’s seventh gang-related stabbing in a week. Catherine felt a burning in her chest. Acid. She needed a drink of water. A change of scene. She half rose from her chair.
And then, a face as recognizable as her own.
The woman had silver streaks in her hair, even though she was only thirty-three. The blue eyes of her childhood were now dish-rag grey. She looked tired, the facts of her brutal history evidenced in dulled skin that seemed too loose for her skull. A raw patch of eczema blazed on her jaw.
Shannon Carter.
Her sister.
Catherine gripped the arm of her chair to stop her softening knees from giving way completely. Tiny black dots blinked on and off in her vision. Distant screams and the scent of blood, rusted wire and the butcher’s counter played on a loop in her memory.
But she could not tear her gaze away.
The television camera was focused on Shannon Carter’s face. Her eyes seemed to stare down the lens and into Catherine’s. It was a pre-recorded interview filmed in a hotel suite somewhere in London, and, as she spoke, Catherine noticed her lipstick had bled into the feathery cracks above her mouth. Her voice had deepened over the years, the flat vowels knocked into shape. She still had a horseshoe-shaped mole on her cheek.
‘There is something that has bothered me for a long time,’ said Shannon, her hands folded in her lap.
‘Can you explain to the viewers what that is?’ The interviewer. Male. Sympathetic. Off camera.
‘My sister. I never got a proper chance to say goodbye to her. To say sorry. For everything that happened. For what I did.’ Her gaze dropped away. An incisor indented her bottom lip. ‘I’ve been able to build a new life for myself. I hope she has too. We both lost our parents that night, and I think everyone forgets that.’
‘If you knew your sister was watching this right now, what would you say to her?’
Shannon lifted her head and spoke directly into the camera. ‘I’m so sorry. I hope you can forgive me. I would love to see you again. I want to know how you are, and what your life is like now. To let you know I still love you and—’
Shannon’s face disappeared and was replaced by a scene in a kitchen. Raised voices. Muted colours. From the glare of studio lights to the depressing environs of Albert Square. Edward had flipped channels again and landed on a soap opera.
Catherine’s legs were trembling. She leaned back into the armchair to gather herself. Edward was no longer lolling on the sofa, but sitting up straighter, an expression of puzzlement on his face. Honor looked up from her mobile phone with mild interest.
‘Can you imagine,’ she said, ‘what it would be like to have a sister who stabbed your parents to death?’
‘Might be a bit awkward at Christmas.’ Edward chuckled to himself, his earlier bemusement vanishing into mirth. He switched channels again.
Catherine’s tongue was so dry it had stuck to the roof of her mouth. Her legs had stopped shaking, but she felt scooped out inside, as if someone had forced a hand into her chest and pulled out her heart.
On autopilot, she released an obligatory huff of laughter at Edward’s weak joke and stared at the television, but had no sense of what she was watching. Catherine’s gaze went beyond the screen and to the blood-spattered walls of her childhood.
Can you imagine what it would be like to have a sister who stabbed your parents to death?
Honor’s tone had been laced with incredulity, fascination even. And something thicker and darker. Repulsion.
As far as Honor and Edward were concerned, the fire that killed her family had been caused by a faulty tumble dryer. Catherine had escaped their tragic fate because she’d been staying the night with a friend. Simple lies. Easier to remember.