Page 10 of Don't Say A Word
‘From now on,’ he begins slowly, deliberately, ‘I will follow Max’s instructions at all times. That’s it. That’s the line. Three hundred times. And I want them neat, not scribbled.’ He pushes himself off the sofa.
I bite the inside of my cheek. I really, really, don’t want to do this. It’s ridiculous and demeaning, but if I argue, then Holly will be the one bearing the brunt of it. ‘I don’t think we have enough paper in the house,’ I say.
‘We have enough paper. There’s a stack of it near the printer in the study.’
‘It’s going to take me hours.’
‘And you should have thought of that before you encouraged my daughter to disobey me.’ He kisses the top of my head. ‘I’m going to do some work in there until I go and get Holly. Why don’t you clean up down here? And do your lines in the spare bedroom. I don’t want to be disturbed when I get home.’
‘Maybe I should pick her up, Max.’ I mean, it’s not far; it’s highly unlikely he’ll get stopped by the police, but still. I hate it when he gets in the car after having too many drinks.
He narrows his eyes at me. ‘Why would you say that?’
I bite my lip. ‘Because then you could enjoy another glass of wine?’
He looks at me sideways. ‘Are you saying I’ve had too much to drink?’
‘No. Of course not.’
‘Good.’ At the kitchen door, he stops, grabs the doorjamb and slaps it once. ‘That was a really good night, Kate.’
Then he slaps it again and walks out.
4
It’s Sunday, and judging by the light – or lack of it – it must be around seven thirty. My eyes are gritty from not enough sleep. My head is heavy, swathed in a throbbing, dull pain from staying up until four thirty to write lines. Max has gone out – he was kind enough to wake me and let me know that he had reviewed my lines, was satisfied with the quality and was going for a run. Some days, I don’t think I can do this anymore. Some days, all I want to do is scream and throw things, and damn the consequences.
But then I remind myself. It’s almost over. I am days away from putting my plan in motion.
The plan goes like this: Now that Holly is sixteen, she could technically move out of home. She and I could move to a house far away from here. She’d go to a new school, I’d get a new job and we could lead normal lives.
Except Max wouldn’t let her. Why would Max want to stop his daughter from leaving, considering how much sick pleasure he gets from making her life a misery? Because with Max it’sall about control. She can only move out when he decides – not before.
I’ve looked into it, and I believe the only weapon Max could potentially have is to come after me. He could claim that she’s unsafe with me, that I have serious mental health issues and apply to the court to get her back, at least until she’s eighteen. Would he do that? Probably.
Just to hurt her – and me.
Alternatively, I could go to Social Services now and explain the situation. Holly can’t live here with her father because he’s a monster, he’s cruel, he tortures her emotionally and we live in constant fear. I could ask for help, apply for emergency accommodation.
Except that’s exactly what I told my sister she should do when she needed to get away from her abusive boyfriend, and nobody did a thing.
Also, Max is good at charming people. He’d worm his way out of it. Social Services would absolutely think I’m the one who needs my head examined, and Holly, too, probably.
So I need to get on the front foot. I need to get a lawyer so Holly and I can explain the situation. Somebody needs to know: Max hates his daughter so much that some days I fear for her life.
My sister died at the hands of a madman. I’m not letting that happen again.
‘But why would a father hate his daughter that much?’ they’d ask.
Apart from being a psychopath? Simple. He loved his first wife, Holly’s mother, Saskia. Worshipped her. And he hates his own daughter because he thinks it’s her fault Saskia died.
This is the story, as Max told it to me. There was a car accident. Max was driving, Holly was sitting in the back and Saskia was in the front. They were on their way back to Londonfrom their holiday house in Norfolk. It was late and dark, and they were still on country roads. Saskia was asleep. Holly reached between the front seats to grab a drink from the front cupholder, spilling some on Max, who lost control of the car and swerved into a tree. Saskia wasn’t wearing a seatbelt, and she went straight through the windscreen. Holly was seven.
Now, far be it from me to speak ill of the dead, but shouldn’t Saskia have been wearing her seatbelt? Shouldn’t Max have been more focused? But Max doesn’t see it that way. He will tell anyone and everyone, even when Holly is in the room – especially when Holly is in the room – that it’s her fault Saskia died. That’s it. She killed her mother. That’s how he puts it. He’s never let her forget it. And that is why we’re leaving, and we’re not telling Max.
I’ve itemised and costed every step. I need two thousand pounds for a rental deposit plus the first month, three thousand for the lawyer’s retainer, another three thousand for living costs for two months and two thousand for emergencies. That’s a total of ten thousand pounds – enough to carry us through until I get another job. More would be better, but I don’t have time for more.
We’re moving to Hull. There are half a dozen jobs available right now for primary school teachers, and I have found a number of suitable houses.
