other people who led good, healthy lives and she had no right to any of it. But how she wanted it. How she wanted her life back. No, not even back. She wanted her adult life to begin in a way it hadn’t before. Free from guilt, from secrets.
Free from lies – but now in addition to the dirty untruths she already carried, she was adding to her burden. She eyed George warily. She didn’t mention blackmail – Leah was her sister and she didn’t want her to be hurt – but she didn’t have to say it aloud. George knew what she had willingly done in the putrid alley, on her knees, mouth in a perfect ‘o’. He knew what she had come here to do tonight. He’d seen the worst of her and so he assumed the worst and it was this that made her want to cry. Longing to tell him that, despite everything, she had morals and there were things she could not do.
‘How much do you need?’ he asked wearily.
She did a quick calculation in her head, adding on some for rehab. He winced as she presented her final figure.
‘Fuck, Marie. We’re not doing that great ourselves…’ he trailed off but he hadn’t said no.
‘There’s money coming in. The book royalties are going to be higher this quarter and we’ve been offered a TV interview – the fee for that is huge if we can come up with a new angle.’
They talked for several minutes more before he turned and left. Francesca was waiting for him in the shadows of the car park. Marie watched as George hugged her close before guiding her forwards, one hand on the small of her back.
More than anything, that was what Marie craved. A touch that came from kindness, from love. As she watched him tenderly settle Francesca in his car, Marie knew that Leah had already lost him and, although Marie felt sorry for her sister, she also felt a pang of envy that Leah had known that kind of love.
And relief. She felt relief that George had ultimately said yes. That he was going to help her.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Leah
Now
The air stills around me, the hum of the fridge fades while I try and process what Graham has told me. Is Marie with our dad and if so why?
That day – all those years ago when the police had turned up on the doorstep – hadn’t seemed unusual. We were used to them dropping in. We knew they’d caught Moustache for armed robbery and that he was in hospital.
‘Come in.’ Mum gestured them inside. In the kitchen she wiped her hands on her apron and asked, ‘Sorry, I was just serving up dinner. Do you want tea? Coffee?’
‘No, thank you, Mrs Sinclair.’
Dad, Marie, Carly and I were sat around the table. Five plates rested on the worktop, a mound of steaming mashed potato on each. Under the grill, sausages hissed and spat while peas in boiling water bubbled on the hob.
We waited.
Worriedly, I glanced at Carly. She was so pale, her lips devoid of colour.
‘Has he… Moustache. Has he escaped?’ she whispered.
‘No. Goodness. No.’ Graham looked at us sadly. He’d become close to our family. ‘But he has told us that when he took you girls he was acting on instructions. Simon Sinclair…’ Graham approached the table. ‘I’m arresting you for—’
Mum screamed over and over. Dad stood, his chair falling loudly onto its side. He slammed his palms on the table, eyes darting left and right. Towards the door. He ran. Graham grabbed his arms, clicked on handcuffs. Mum shouted, ‘They must have made a mistake—’ Carly wrapped her arms around Marie and I. Shuffling together – an awkward centipede – down the hallway as Dad was dragged, struggling to be free, all the way to the front door.
My sisters and I stood disbelieving on the doorstep as Dad was put in the police car, protesting his innocence. Mum’s legs crumpled as she covered her face. ‘I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it.’
Again, the reporters returned to our street.
Again, we were prisoners in our own home.
‘It’s a mistake,’ Mum told us. ‘There’s no proof.’
But there was. Dad had been seen with Moustache and Doc. His fingerprints were in their car. He’d withdrawn a large amount of cash the day before Moustache deposited it in his account. The police found a list among Moustache’s possessions of things we liked to eat and drink, it was written in Dad’s handwriting.
Mum