The Adulterer's Daughter: A Novel
Sam Anthony
Contents
Title Page
Prologue
Cast of characters
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
The Beginning
The Adulterer
Prologue
“You want to know my earliest memory?”
“Yes, please.”
“I guess I must have been about three or four. My daddy came into my bedroom to kiss me goodnight. I remember being surprised to see him because it was usually my mother who put me to bed; right after she’d told me what an ugly, selfish little bitch I was.”
The psychiatrist leaned forward. “Go on.”
“Daddy said he was cold, so he climbed into bed with me to warm up. We had … one of our special cuddles.”
“Special cuddles? Can you describe what happened?”
“He … put his … I’m sorry,” Frankie laughed. “I can’t keep a straight face any longer.”
“What do you mean?”
“My dad never abused me, and my mum wasn’t a cold, heartless bitch. Sometimes serial killers just have regular parents.”
Cast of characters
O’Connor household
Steve
Fiona
Ava
McDougal household
Eric
Serena
Stumpy
Fairfax household
Ollie
Mia
Jemima
Barney
Lord
Chapter 1
Saturday 21 June, 2003
Midsummer barbecue, McDougal garden, 7:00 p.m.
Even at 7:00 p.m. the heat was oppressive, although distant rumbles of thunder threatened to bring the brief British summer to an ignominious end.
Stumpy had spent the last twenty minutes showing his friend, Lord Bounce-A-Lot, all the new smells in the garden, but now they both lay panting in the shade of a sycamore tree. Low-slung and stocky, Stumpy was aptly named. But Lord Bounce-A-Lot was a misnomer. As a puppy, he had jumped up at everyone, desecrating their clean clothes with muddy footprints. Now, however, at the ripe old age of two, he never left the ground, and generally went by just plain ‘Lord’. He also responded positively to ‘Oi!’, ‘Dinner time’, ‘Walkies’, ‘Biscuit’ and ‘Who’s a good boy, then?’ if the appropriate tone of voice was employed.
Three married couples and their children had gathered together for their annual midsummer barbecue. That year the hosts were Eric McDougal and his wife Serena. Also in attendance, as always, were Steve and Fiona O’Connor with their daughter, Ava; and Ollie and Mia Fairfax with their children, Jemima and Barnaby.
They all lived in the same village, and they were close. Very close. Twice a year they went on holiday en masse; camping in Cornwall, skiing in Scotland, or sometimes they rented a country house or adjoining seaside apartments for a few days.
On the second Saturday of every month, the women spent the evening together at the local public house; chatting, drinking and affectionately ridiculing the minor flaws of their respective husbands. On the fourth Saturday of every month, the men did the same; chatting, drinking and sorrowfully bemoaning the latest performance of the sports teams they followed.
The scene has been set. The principal characters have been identified. Six adults, three children and two dogs. That’s all you need to know, for now.
Oh, and one other thing:
Before the end of the year, two of the adults would be dead.
◆◆◆
“Medium rare as usual, Ollie?” Eric prodded the sizzling flesh.
“Yes, please, mate.”
“How’s work?”
“Oh, you know how it is, one purchase invoice is pretty much like any other after a while.”
“Uh-huh.” Eric nudged a sausage.
“How are things at the hospital?”
“Oh, you know how it is, one thoracic aortic dissection repair is pretty much like any other after a while.”
“Yeah, I guess it must be,” said Ollie. “I’m surprised being a surgeon hasn’t put you off eating meat.”
“On the contrary. I can pick up cheap ‘steaks’ like these for next to nothing at work.”
“Why did you just do air quotes?”
“No reason.”
Ollie laughed.
Eric didn’t.
◆◆◆
“Ooh, I love your earrings, Fiona. Where did you get them?” Serena cooed.
“Steve bought them for me for Valentine’s Day, didn’t you, love?”
Across the garden, Steve put a hand to his ear and shook his head before resuming his conversation with Mia.
“Deaf as a post.” Fiona chuckled. “Especially when it’s time to do the washing up.”
“That’s so romantic. It’s really sweet that you two still celebrate Valentine’s Day after … what is it, fifteen years of marriage?”
“Sixteen years next month.”
“Wow! And he still buys you lovely heart-shaped earrings. You’re so lucky. I reckon Eric must have used up all his romantic quota with his first wife.”
“Didn’t he just buy you a sports car?”
“Yes, but that’s not the same.”
“No, it’s not the same. You could sell that car and buy ten thousand pairs of earrings like these.”
“Ten thousand? That doesn’t sound right.”
“It doesn’t, does it? We need a mathematician.”
They strolled over and joined Mia and Steve.
“Mrs Fairfax, we have a question for you.”
◆◆◆
Ten minutes later, Eric raised his voice above the hubbub. “Before we eat, has everyone got something in their glass?”
They had. All conversation ceased, and all eyes turned towards the chef.
“Serena, Stumpy and I feel so blessed to be living here in this beautiful house, surrounded by dear friends, enjoying this gorgeous summer day. Our life is simply perfect, and much of that is due to the people gathered here with us today. With that in mind, I’d like to take this opportunity to propose a toast.” He paused for dramatic effect. “To friendship.”
“To friendship,” they echoed, and took token sips from their respective drinks.
“Now, let’s eat.”
◆◆◆
As the sun finally set on the longest day of the year, Jemima and Ava were ensconced on the swing in companionable silence, taking occasional gulps of icy homemade lemonade. Their shoes scuffed the parched grass as they moved lazily back and forth.
“Do you think Hugh Carmichael likes me?” said Jemima.
“Who?”
“Hugh Carmichael in my year at school. Captain of the football team, plays cricket for the county, top sets for everything. You must know him.”
“The tall guy with the piercing blue eyes and the curly hair?”
“That’s the one. All the girls fancy him. Do you think I’ve got a chance?”
“Jem, you’re the prettiest girl in the whole school. Everyone says so. You’ve got more than a chance. You only need to snap your fingers and he’ll come running.”
“Aww. You’re sweet. I’m so lucky to have you as my best friend.”
Ava’s heart stopped beating. “Pardon?”
“I said I’m so lucky to have you as my best friend.”
“Do you really mean that?”
“Of course. Am I your best friend, too?”
Ava’s heart restarted and she crossed her fingers out of Jemima’s view. “Definitely.”
◆◆◆
In the crepuscular gloom, the six adults congregated on the back porch; slightly squiffy, but expecting the cleaning up and the short walks home to clear their heads.
“Is everything booked for our summer holiday?” said Steve.
Mia was in charge of organisation. “Yes, I’ve paid the deposit. We’re all sorted.”
“And they’re definitely okay with us bringing the dogs?”
“Uh-huh. Now, we just need to hope for some good weather.”
Ollie looked up at the gathering clouds. “Camping in Cornwall in August. We’re taking a big risk. It might rain all week.”
“Or it might be gloriously sunny,” said his wife. “Let’s think positively.”
“You can’t touch the sides of a tent if it rains, you know. The water leaks in.”
“There’s not going to be any water. You wait and see.”
◆◆◆
Stumpy and Lord had snuck around the side of the house to check out the bins, hoping to come across a discarded lump or two of burnt fillet steak. They were out of luck.
“Bugger,” said Lord.
“Don’t worry, mate. I wasn’t that hungry, anyway.”
Lord sat. He looked at his friend. “What’s your philosophy for life, old chap?”
“Me?”
“There’s no one else here.”
“It’s not so much a philosophy; more a purpose for my existence.”
“You mean a ‘raison d’être’.”
“I don’t speak French, cobber.”
“Sorry. Go on.”
“I want to sniff as many bottoms as possible.”
“Dog or human?”
“Any animal. I’m not fussy.”
“An admirable goal. How many are you up to?”
“Fifty-seven thousand four hundred and nine.”
“Impressive.”
“Thanks, mate.”
“Of course, it can’t be easy for you with the humans.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know.”
“I don’t.”
“Some of the adults of the species are rather tall, and you’re rather …”
“Rather what?”
“Well, you can’t reach the same altitude as other dogs.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re vertically challenged, my friend.”
“I’m what?”
“You’re short. Why do you think you’re called Stumpy? Stumpy by name and stumpy by nature.”
“Wait, you’ve known me all this time and you think I’m called Stumpy because of my little legs?”
“Of course.”
“Mate, I’m an Australian Stumpy Tail Cattle dog. That’s why they call me Stumpy.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. There’s a lot to unpack here. You’re an actual breed?”
“Now, hang on a minute...”
“You’ve got a pedigree?”
“I’m not a mongrel, mate, if that’s what you’re asking. Did you think I was just a bloody mutt?”
“No, no. Class always tells, old chap. Well, this is quite a revelation.”
“Fair dinkum, it is.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“That’s just something we say in Australia.”
“Oh, I see, of course. And that also explains your bizarre accent. Now it all makes sense.”
“What breed are you, then? Some sort of posh greyhound, I reckon.”
“I’m a Saluki.”
“A what now?”
“A Saluki. We’re one of the oldest breeds in the world, don’t you know. Some say we date back twelve thousand years.”
“You’re yanking my chain.”
“It’s true.”
“Are you any good at herding cattle?”
“Why on earth would I want to do that? I have other attributes. Salukis are as fast as the wind.”
“I’ve never seen you even break into a jog.”
“But if I wanted to, I could run as fast as the wind.”
“The wind today?”
“No, it’s pretty calm today. As fast as the wind on a very windy day.”
“I reckon I could run faster than you.”
“On those little legs?”
“Rude! Right, I challenge you to a race.”
“Be serious. You’re not as young or as slim as you used to be.”
“I’m deadly serious. The next time we go for a walk in the woods, I’ll race you from the gate to the stream and back.”
“Are you sure you want to humiliate yourself like this?”
“Fair dinkum.”
“I’m sorry; is that a ‘yes’?”
“Yes, it’s a bloody ‘yes’.”
“Very well. Challenge accepted. Are you coming back to the garden? See if there’s any food on the grass.”
“Not yet, mate. I think I’ll stay here and lick my balls for a bit.”
“Okay. See you later.”
◆◆◆
The adults were still enjoying themselves.
They nibbled homemade chocolates and fudge (made by Fiona); they sipped brandy and dessert wine (provided by Eric); they chatted, they laughed, all blissfully unaware of the trauma that lay ahead.
At 9:55 p.m. the first fat raindrop fell unnoticed. Within minutes the heavens had opened and the gathering came to a sudden sodden end.
Chapter 2
Saturday 21 June, 2003
Fairfax bedroom, 11:05 p.m.
Ollie and Mia Fairfax had been married for nearly sixteen years, too. Their wedding was rather rushed, taking place just five months before their daughter Jemima was born.
Despite not being particularly numerate, Ollie (47) was a chartered accountant employed at a small company in a nearby town. Mia (43) was a high school maths teacher, currently trying to enthu
se her own daughter about the joys of trigonometry.
Ollie and Mia were lying in bed, listening to the rain pummel the roof of their three-bedroomed house.
“You were quiet tonight,” said Ollie.
“Was I? Sorry. I can’t stop thinking about our Ofsted inspection. It’s due any day now.”
“You’ll be fine. You’re an excellent teacher. Even Jemima said your lessons are ‘all right’. There’s no higher compliment than that.”
“But she’s in the top set in year 10. What if Ofsted wants to observe me teaching year 9 set 5?”
“Are they bad?”
“Most of them are fine, but there’s this one little shit: Wayne Smith. He ruins every single lesson. The problem is, he’s thick, but he doesn’t want everyone to know he’s thick, so he always changes the subject from maths to something else. Anything else. I start talking about multiplying mixed fractions, and he shouts out, ‘Did anyone watch Eastenders last night?’ Or I ask him a question about equations, and he leaps out of his chair yelling, ‘Miss, there’s a wasp behind you’. He won’t shut up for ten seconds. Every time I get the class settled, he says something to cause more chaos.”
“Can’t you put him in detention?”
“He doesn’t care about detention. I think he likes it. He actually boasts about receiving the most detentions out of all the pupils in the whole school.”
“Nobody likes detention.”
“Well, he does. It’s probably just a way for him to delay going back to his miserable home life. I can’t help feeling a bit sorry for him. He’s got no dad. His mum hates the sight of him. She keeps begging the social services to take him into care, but they don’t want him either. He’s even on the At Risk register because his uncle’s a well-known kiddy-fiddler.”
“Poor lad.”
“I agree. He’s been dealt a poor hand, but that doesn’t solve my problem. There are thirty-one other children in that class who deserve an education, but they can’t get one because Wayne Fucking Smith undermines everything I do. And not just me, he’s the same in every lesson.”
“If he’s disrupting lessons on a regular basis, he should be permanently excluded from the school.”
“It’s not that easy. The governors won’t ratify an exclusion unless there’s a good reason, because the school gets fined for every pupil they eliminate.”