Chapter Sixty-Two
STUART, SIX YEARS EARLIER
On the third day of searching the house I found an empty packet of photos.
I was about to return it to the drawer in the laundry room where I’d found it but then I noticed three strips of negatives tucked into its front pocket.
I held them to the light but could barely make out what I was looking at, so I took them to Snappy Snaps in the village, the one that George Michael once drove his car into when he was off his face on skunk, and I paid for the one-hour service.
I leafed through the photos frantically after I returned to collect them, but most of the shots were blurred or damaged; they looked like they’d been taken with a cheap disposable camera maybe.
I was about to throw the whole lot away when I stopped.
I didn’t recognize the girl, but I recognized the setting.
It was the room in which Jessamine had kept me locked up for four days after trying to cut off my ear.
The au pair’s room.
The girl had short dark hair parted to the side and was wearing a black T-shirt and jeans.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed and next to her was a young Jasper, wearing jeans too, and a white T-shirt with a Stephen King book jacket printed on it.
His hair was floppy, and he looked gawky and nervous, with one skinny arm around the girl’s shoulders.
The girl herself looked shell-shocked, slightly blank.
There were some objects strewn around the room that were hard to identify but looked like clothing, a hairbrush, some books.
But there was something else on the floor, just between the girl’s legs.
At first I thought it might be a fancy pair of sandals, with wide ankle straps, but when I took a photo of it on my smartphone and enlarged it with my fingers, I saw it.
It wasn’t a pair of strappy shoes.
It was a pair of metal leg restraints.
Fury and rage surged through me.
I ran upstairs to Jessamine’s bedroom and shook her awake. Her hair was stuck to her mouth with drool, and she pulled it away with the back of her hand. “Go away,” she said. “It’s early.”
“It’s not early,” I say. “It’s ten thirty. Open your eyes, Jess. Open them.” I shook her roughly.
“Fuck off, Stuart.”
“No, I’m not going to fuck off. I want you to look at something, look at it now.”
“Jesus.” She pulled herself up to sitting and tugged her T-shirt down over her bare belly. “What?”
I showed her the photo. “Who is this?” I hissed. “Who the fuck is it?”
She screwed up her face and snatched the photo from me. “It’s Jasper.”
“No.” I snatched it back and stabbed my finger against the girl. “Her. The girl. Who is she?”
She groaned and fell back against her pillows. “Oh my God, I have no idea. One of the au pairs, I suppose. How am I supposed to remember?”
“Jess,” I said, prodding her back to consciousness, “look. Just fucking look.”
She groaned loudly again and flounced forward.
“Look at her ankles, Jess. She’s wearing fucking shackles.
Metal ones. Look!” My heart raced and pounded under my ribs; adrenaline flowed through every part of me.
“What the fuck, Jessamine! What the actual fuck! Jessamine, listen to me. I know you know. I know you know and I know you probably don’t want to think about it, but you have to tell me what happened.
Back then. When you were young. What did your father do, Jessamine? What the fuck did he do?”
I saw her demeanor change then, a crack in her armor. She pulled her ratty hair away from her face and sighed tremulously.
“OK,” she said. “OK. But please don’t tell my mother I told you this. OK?”
I nodded.
“My father… when we were growing up… he brought sex workers here, to the house. To have sex with them. He called them ‘au pairs’ but me and Jasper knew they weren’t really au pairs. We could hear things.”
“The shackles,” I said. “What were the shackles for?”
“To stop them from running away, I suppose.”
“So, they were prisoners here, these sex workers? Trapped?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know, OK? I just know that they were called the au pair girls, that they lived up there and that my father had sex with them. That’s all I know, OK?”
“And what about the girl the police were here asking about? Claire Connolly? Was she an au pair too?”
She shook her head forcefully. “She was never here. They’re making that up.”
“It really doesn’t sound like it, Jess. It really sounds like—”
Jessamine flung herself backward again and growled. “Can we stop now, please? My head hurts. You’re making me feel ill.”
“I don’t think it’s me making you feel ill, Jessamine. I think you’ll find that’s the two bottles of wine and quart of rum you drank last night.”
“Fuck off, Stuart. Let me sleep.”
I should have gone—I should have left her. I’d pushed her too far already. But I was feeling pumped and brave, and I put it to her, the question that had been haunting me for years.
“Who’s Daisy’s dad, Jessamine?”
She was wide awake again. “For fuck’s sake, Stuart. Leave me alone!”
“No. I’m serious. Daisy’s father. Who is he?
And don’t tell me that your married ex faked the DNA results.
I know he didn’t, and you know he didn’t, and you know that someone out there has to be the actual father of your child, so tell me, who is it?
Because frankly, the way I’m feeling right now, the stuff you’ve been telling me, your father raping those women under this roof?
I’m starting to think some really weird and twisted things, Jessamine.
I mean, your father, did he ever… with you… ?”
“I’m sorry, are you suggesting…?”
“I don’t know what I’m suggesting, OK? It’s just… tell me stuff, Jessamine. What happened to your dad? Where is your brother? Who is Daisy’s dad? What happened to those fucking girls, Jessamine? Talk to me. I can’t stay here and help you unless you talk to me. OK? I can’t be here.”
“Oh, there it is,” she snarled. “There it is. That’s what this is really all about, isn’t it? Finding an excuse to leave. Finding an excuse to fuck off back to your sad, pathetic life and your sad, ugly women. Go on then, fuck off. See if I care.”
“But you do care. You need me. You can’t live without me.”
“Try me.”
I breathed in hard through my nostrils and clenched my jaw. The same circles, the same endless, endless loops. I couldn’t do this anymore, I really couldn’t.
“Seriously, Jessamine,” I said. “I could go straight to that policewoman, show her this photo, show her what you did to my ear. I could tell her about the neglect, the abuse. I could tell her everything. Social services would take Daisy and the police would be back digging up the back lawn. All of this could happen, Jessamine. But it doesn’t have to.
Just tell me, tell me what happened here. Please.”
“I don’t know! I don’t know, OK? Things happened, but I don’t know what they were!
I was just a kid. I was just a kid.” And then she was crying, crying so hard it made me hurt to watch.
I passed her tissues; I held her in my arms. I waited for the storm to pass through. And when it did, I left her to sleep.