Page 99

The first time I considered killing my dad, I was eight. We were the stars of the Easter service at our local church. Sun streamed through stained glass, and Dad and I sang perfect harmonies.

Afterwards, middle-aged women in wrap dresses came to coo at me, getting as close as they could to him. He’d grin and laugh and pat their arms, play a note on my guitar for emphasis, and he’d have them.

Mum watched from her front pew, smiling, as if none of it mattered because he was ours.

But even though he’d come home with us, he wasn’t ours really.

We drove home, Mum behind the wheel, me in the back behind Dad. It was only five minutes, but from the moment we sat in the car, Dad was silent. Dad’s silences could be so loud they could drown out my mum, who would talk and talk, trying to break through to him.

I remember she was wearing a white dress with red dots. She was so much more beautiful than any of them. And her beauty didn’t even matter because she was better than them: kinder, smarter, funnier.

She laughed about the vicar getting tearful over the resurrection and the woman with hay fever in the back and the dreary choir before us and how weird taking communion was and went on and on. She always thought she could change his moods but she only ever made it worse.

My dad began to flick the car door, rolling his forehead on the window.

When we got home, he stood in the hallway and sighed, like his soul was leaving him.

‘Oh, Patrick, what’s wrong?’ Mum asked.

‘Nothing?’ He looked at her, eyebrows creased, as if she were crazy or stupid.

‘Please – is there something I can do?’

‘There’s nothing wrong.’

‘Okay… okay.’

‘Why are you always… Can’t you just leave me alone?’

Mum put her keys on the dresser and just stood staring at them.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘Nothing. Would you like some tea?’

‘Why are you staring at your keys like that? You’re angry now? I’ve spoiled your day?’

‘I’m sorry, Pat, I’m sorry. No. I just was worried about you.’

‘You were worried about me?’

She nodded.

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know – you were quiet in the car and then you sighed?—’

‘I sighed?’ Dad smacked the side of his head with his palm so hard it made a dull thud. ‘Jesus Christ, Arianne.’

My heart lurched and I ran to stand between him and my mum, who had hunched in on herself with the sound of the impact.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked. ‘Why are you cowering like that?’

I willed her not to cry, but her lower lip wobbled and a shining drop streaked down her pale cheek.

‘Oh, you’re frightened of me?’ He laughed. ‘What is wrong with you?’ He stepped towards her and pushed his face close to hers above my head and made a sound like an angry engine. ‘What are you trying to do to me?’

She shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut. ‘Please, Patrick.’

‘“Please Patrick,”’ he mimicked, then smacked the wall behind her. The painting jumped. He turned and walked out and I ran after him.

‘Daddy, please,’ I called.

But he kept going, arms swinging, down the street and round the corner. He’d always come back before, but each time I thought it was the last time I’d ever see him.

I ran back in and sat next to Mum on the stairs, pulling the hem of my dress over my knees, listening to her crying.

I was very small and not very strong. I had heard about undetectable poisons. Maybe if he died in his sleep, my mum would survive it. Or I could cause an accident.

The problem was I knew I couldn’t do it, because I still loved him.

And it had gone on like that, worse, for all the years my mum lived. He never hurt her physically. Though he hurt himself many times. Watching him try and fail to love her; shifting from trying to be the perfect husband and father to disappearing into depression and lashing out at anyone who came near; always, always pretending nothing was wrong – that’s what killed us from the inside.

And then he had abandoned me after she died. And chose not to be there for me when I had tried to die myself.

All those times, I had thought about killing him in increasingly realistic detail.

And yet I had forgiven him. I had told myself he wasn’t evil, just useless.

But how could someone be so weak that they would destroy their family day after day rather than be honest?

People need to take responsibility for their mistakes.

I stood in Dad’s Oakridge kitchen drinking a glass of water, wondering how far Theo would get, considering I’d slashed his tyres. And thinking just how much easier it would have been for me to refuse to delete the video, to keep my phone hidden, and test just how far he would have gone with his threat to kill my dad.

But where would have been the fun in that?