comes to her, but he is pushed away. Her head is swimming, she runs some water into a glass and gulps at it as if it might provide something different. Beyond the kitchen window, nothing but the night, no neighbours, the rest of the world is kept beyond the stone wall which marks the boundary of the estate. She is a grasping, selfish cow, her half-sister, always has been. When they moved house, Valerie must have been five, she was what, twelve? And there were three bedrooms in the new house: one double for her mum and stepdad; another double, with a window over the park, a built-in washbasin and a fitted pink carpet, like you’d think a teenager would have; then there was the little room, a single bed crammed in a corner, head next to the toilet wall so she could hear him farting and coughing up his phlegm, and that was her prison. Well, who has the best place now? Out of nowhere, she wonders what they did with her room when she left, whether they burned the poster of the ballerina she was going to be when she grew up.
After struggling with the corkscrew Diana realises it is a screwtop. Back in the dining room, Valerie has gone and she realises she should never have asked her to come to Wynhope. Life was always better without her.
In the downstairs loo, Valerie is clinging to the washbasin. They’re inching around the unsayable, Valerie feels its heat; she should just chuck on the petrol, watch the whole lot go up, at least that way they can start again with whatever is left in the ruins. Having splashed cool water over her face, she returns.
‘She got swallowed up, didn’t she?’
It’s not clear to Valerie what Diana is going on about.
‘Mum, I mean. He just swallowed her up, she was never the same after she married your father.’ Like water from a stiff tap, the words, when they come, splutter across the table. ‘Your fucking father and then you. Fucking father, that’s funny, that is.’ Diana looks a little mad, appreciating her own puns. ‘All Mum had to do was say something, but she never did, did she?’
‘Spell it out, what exactly was it she was meant to say?’
‘You know.’ Using the table for support, Diana inches towards her. ‘Do you think I wanted to sleep on friends’ sofas, give up sixth form, live out of a plastic bag?’ Her voice is raised to cover the enormous distance between them. ‘There was Mum, little Val, the bastard – your father – and no room at the inn for me. So I left. He locked the front door, so I climbed out of the window and jumped. Is that so surprising? Then I made something of myself, without you, without any of you. And you know full well what he was like, you, tucked up safe and sound in your pink nylon sheets.’
The meringue didn’t taste as good as Valerie expected; she scraped the cream onto her plate. ‘You’ve been watching too much daytime telly. Everyone’s at it, aren’t they? Abuse this, abuse that. My dad did a lot of bad things, but he never did that and you know it.’
‘You’re telling me he left you alone after I’d gone? The way you behaved afterwards, dodgy relationships and unwanted pregnancies, shoplifting, abusive partners . . . I bet you go around fantasising about setting fire to things, just to see the engines arrive. Textbook. I know, I’ve read all about the signs.’ Diana waves her hand in a circle as if to imply that the extent of Valerie’s depravity is at least the size of their house.
But Valerie is hardly listening, she’s thinking how it is true that her father never left her alone, he wrapped her up so tightly in attention that she could barely speak. But not that. He divided them all, that was true as well, he drove Diana out, demonised their mother, sanctified her and, yes, he was a controlling man, she recognises that now. But not that.
‘I knew,’ she begins, and as soon as she says the words she wonders what she knew for certain. ‘I knew, I think, that I was spoiled, sitting in the front seat, staying up later, better presents under the tree, everything always your fault. But whatever it looked like to you, I didn’t like it because I wanted you to be my best friend. What was I meant to do, Diana? I was so young.’
‘You’re avoiding the question. Once he’d finished with me, did he start on you?’
‘No.’
‘And after all this time, you’re still saying nothing. Keeping mum, that hits the nail on the head, doesn’t it, Valerie? You’re still claiming you never knew what was going on?’
‘I was a kid, Diana. When you left, I was Mikey’s age. But the reason I didn’t know what was going on, as you put it, is because nothing was going on, was it? Let’s say it like it is, shall we? Use the proper words. My dad was not a paedo. He did not sexually abuse you in your poxy little bedroom. Truth is, you were always looking for someone to blame for what you were like. Controlling, bitchy, always falling out with your friends, causing trouble, wanting things all your own way. You always had to be king of the castle. You could never share anything or anyone, not even Mum.’ Valerie empties her glass. ‘And you always were a liar. Pants on fire, that’s what they called you at school. They were lies then, and they’re lies now. Maybe you’ve taught yourself to believe them, but they are lies, Diana, or make-believe, whatever. You need help.’
‘What do you think it was like for me?’ screams Diana.
‘And did you ever stop to think what it was like for us?’ Valerie springs up and the plate of uneaten meringue slides onto the carpet, face down; everything always falls butter side down. ‘What it was like for Mum, left behind in that street, in school, after all that? It was all lies then and it’s all lies now.’
‘You still don’t believe me?’
Having wiped her mouth with the napkin, Valerie pronounces her verdict as clearly as she can. ‘I don’t believe a single word you say.’
Punctured, Diana deflates, sags to the floor crinkling in on herself, cross-legged, her dress exposing the tops of her thighs, the years collapsing until she is a little girl again, head down, hands and hair covering her face. Valerie can only just make out what she is repeating, over and over again, in time to her rocking body. You don’t believe me. You don’t believe me.
Finally, Diana uses the wall to push herself back up. ‘I’m going to bed. I should never have tried,’ she says, then with renewed venom she remembers her trump card, ‘and you, you’re all on your owny-o in the tower.’ She blows out the candles and leaves.
Like a new baby who throws their hands into the air and finds no one to hold them, Valerie panics. ‘Wait for me, Di.’ She crawls after Diana, up the stairs, slumps and clasps the banisters, refusing to follow her into the tower. She doesn’t want to sleep there, she’ll sleep with Mikey, but hands drag her to her feet, push her along the landing, through the narrow passage, up the spiral staircase. She’s slipping on the stone, staggering against the steepness of the steps. Her hands, his hands, whose hands, I can fall and she’ll never pick me up, she can push me, and no one will ever be any the wiser. Every year women are found dead at the bottom of staircases they know like the back of their hands. Even once she reaches the tower room, Valerie’s heart does not slow; there are drunken footsteps on the landing when the lights go out.
Default. On the bed. Curl small. Hug head. Avoid eye contact. ‘I’m sorry. I won’t be like that again, I promise. Leave the light on, Di.’ Valerie reaches out. ‘I’ve been scared for such a long time. Even when I was small I used to kneel by my bed and pray you’d come back for me.’
‘Well, surprise, surprise, no one was listening. I didn’t come back, did I, and that was the best decision I ever made.’ Diana is unpeeling Valerie’s limpet fingers from her dress. ‘He’s dead, Mum’s dead, and that just leaves little old you.’
Step by step across the room and away she goes, going, going, pausing, in the doorway, the light of the staircase behind her. One last chance, that’s all they have, before it’s too late and everything comes crashing down around them. This is her sister, not Paul; to apologise would be a strength, not a weakness. ‘I’m sorry, I want you to know I’m sorry, sorry for both of us, sorry that it all turned out like it did. And about this evening and everything else.’
‘Too late. You said the only words I’ll ever remember and never forgive.’