The Son-in-Law by Charity Norman Read Free Book Online Page B

playing in my head; the music that means death is coming. It has surround sound and built-in fear, and it always makes me want to scream. The man with a very deep voice was singing, though I can never quite make out the words or even the tune. Instead of words or a tune, his singing brings me terror.
    Everything had gone terribly wrong. The air was about to explode. Mum was laughing too much, and Theo ran to hide behind the sofa. Dad was shouting: Jesus Christ, Zoe, I can’t go on.
    I didn’t know why he hit her. I didn’t know why. I didn’t know why. I screamed and he hit her again and she just went down, really fast and really hard. There was a horrible clunking sound. That was the sound of my mum dying. And the man kept on singing.
    Later, once the ambulance had come, a policewoman took us children around to a neighbour’s house. The neighbour told us they’d taken Dad away and he’d never trouble us again. Those were her exact words, as she squinted out from behind her lace curtains at the police cars in the road: Don’t you worry. He’ll never trouble you again.
    ‘But he’ll be coming to collect us soon, won’t he?’ I asked her.
    She dropped the lace and went to make the policewoman a cup of tea.
    I remembered what that woman said as I lay shivering under my duvet. He’ll never trouble you again . Well, she was wrong because he was troubling me now. Suddenly, I understood something else: the man who talked to Theo and Ben in the park. He knew all our names. He had dark hair and round glasses like Harry Potter.
    Dad was stalking us.
    In films and books, the murderer is the last person you expect it to be. Normally it’s the motherly cook or the shy young vicar. It’s never the creepy guy with the weird laugh who’s always sharpening knives. It was like that with Mum being killed. Until then, I used to think my dad was the best. He was a fun person who wore cuddly jerseys, took us to feed the ducks and read bedtime stories. He looked after us. He kept us safe. I thought I was very lucky, because in my eyes my dad was much more handsome and kind than other people’s.
    The kitchen door creaked. Gramps’ voice. ‘Scarlet! Please come down. Sca-ar-letta!’
    I crept along to the bathroom, locked the door and faced myself in the mirror. I didn’t look too good. I had little piggy eyes from crying, so I filled a basin with warm water and splashed it over my face. That helped. I ran a comb through my fringe, exhaled loudly—I learned that in drama, it’s good for managing nerves—and forced myself down the stairs and into the kitchen.
    Gramps had his arm around Hannah, and she was leaning her face against his shoulder. They weren’t speaking, and there was a terrible sadness hanging about them. It made me feel dark. He kissed the top of her head.
    ‘We have to play this absolutely straight,’ he murmured into her hair.
    ‘Play what absolutely straight?’ I asked.
    •
    Hannah
    Freddie was playing his harpsichord as I stepped into the hall that Monday morning. Complex cadences permeated the air with calm, like a lavender candle.
    ‘Hello, Freddie?’ I called, stopping by the mirror to pat my hair. More grey than fair now, but the hairdresser did wonders and it was cut in quite a youthful bob. I liked the way it swung.
    Mondays were oases in the pandemonium of our lives. Ben went to nursery school, and I had only one lecture. Freddie and I had developed a small, contented ritual: I always visited the delicatessen on Micklegate and came home with French bread, brie and a salad. We’d have lunch at the kitchen table. This was how I used to imagine our autumn years would be: just the two of us, talking and reading and loving our way into a mellow old age, visited by our grandchildren at the weekends and spoiling them rotten. We’d begun saving for a cruise to Alaska and an adventure on the Trans-Siberian railway. I never in my wildest nightmares imagined we might become our grandchildren’s only