Читать книгу Not My Daughter - Suzy K. Quinn - Страница 17

Liberty’s is a musician’s bedroom. No doubt about that. Most teenagers spend their allowance on clothes. Liberty buys electric guitars, tribal drums, electric drum kits and keyboards.

Liberty sort of knows music. Picks up instruments and understands how they work. I’ve never taught her – she taught herself. She has GarageBand on her laptop, surround-sound speakers and a very cool 1960s orange Dansette record player with a cube of vinyl beside it. Van Halen, Suzi Quatro, Joan Jett and Kiss are arranged alphabetically.

‘Liberty?’ I knock on the bedroom door even though it’s already open.

Liberty sits on a rice-filled bean bag, holding one of her acoustic guitars: the red one she bought at a school jumble sale without telling me. She’s changed out of her school uniform into tight black jeans and a Runaways T-shirt. Skywalker lays beside her, head on her thigh.

It’s still light outside, and the room twinkles with sunshine.

Liberty looks up. ‘What?’

‘Hey. Sorry. Okay?’

‘You always say that,’ says Liberty. ‘But nothing changes.’ She puts the guitar to one side. ‘It’s ridiculous. I’m sixteen years old and you won’t let me go out in the evenings. All my friends go out. And you won’t tell me anything about my real father.’

‘You don’t get it. It’s a big, bad world out there. You have no idea how bad.’

‘Look, I know you had a hard time with my father—’

‘A hard time?’ I put a hand to my forehead. ‘Oh my goodness, Liberty. You have no idea.’

‘Is he something to do with you getting cancer when you were young? Like … bad associations or something?’

‘No. I had cancer before your father came along. I was only fifteen when …’ I shake my head. ‘Never mind. Anyway. I don’t want to talk about cancer. Focus on what you want more of, right? Not the bad stuff.’

‘Were you scared?’

‘What?’

‘When you got cancer. You must have been really scared.’

‘I don’t want to talk about that. It’s nothing to do with your father, anyway. I was in remission when we met. I thought he was my happy ending.’ I give a hollow laugh. ‘Now I know you have to make your own happy endings in life. No one can give them to you.’

‘I want to meet him, Mum. I know you had a bad relationship. But I don’t believe my real father would hurt me. I just don’t.’

I squeeze her hand. ‘Honey, you don’t know him. And if you did, you wouldn’t say that. All teenagers think they’re invincible. Until they learn otherwise.’

‘I might not be invincible. But I’m not some fragile little doll either.’

‘That’s exactly what you are, Liberty. And the most dangerous part is you don’t even know it.’

‘According to you, riding my bike to school is dangerous.’

‘I didn’t want you taking your bike to school because—’

‘Because you heard about a girl getting snatched when she was cycling home from school. Guess what? People get killed in cars every day. Why not stop me riding the bus?’

‘We have space around the house to ride.’

‘Oh, come on. It’s ridiculous. Having a bike and not being able to ride it outside, aged sixteen. Darcy rides her bike to nursery and she’s four years old with learning difficulties.’

‘It’s different with you.’

Liberty rolls her eyes. ‘Because my father is such a monster?’

‘Exactly right.’

Liberty clears her throat. ‘Mum. I have something to tell you.’

‘What?’

There’s a long pause, during which Liberty looks anywhere but at me. Then she says, ‘I know who he is.’

My body goes rigid. ‘What?’

Liberty takes her phone from the bedside table. ‘This is you. Isn’t it?’ She passes me the phone.

My mouth turns dry.

I see a skinny, kohl-eyed teenager with chin-length, punky hair and bony body under a Michael Reyji Ray T-shirt. My teenage self is dragging suitcases behind a straggly, dark-haired man in a leather jacket.

The worst thing about the picture is my eyes. They’re glazed and lovesick. I’ve seen the same eyes since in fanatical cult members.

This girl was me, once. A long time ago. But I feel no connection to her. She’s like a stranger.

There are more pictures under teenage me: a young Michael Reyji Ray, tanned and handsome. In those days he was in good shape, running around stage all night, slashed-up T-shirts showing off his chest. There’s a picture of Michael on stage, and also driving his purple Jaguar F-Type, looking every bit the rock and roll rebel.

Michael is different these days too. I’ve seen pictures. His face is swollen and craggy under his bleached white hair, chin dusted with black and white stubble. We’re both bigger, but I’ve got fitter, he’s got fatter: a toad of a man in black jeans, bright T-shirts and suit jackets.

Liberty watches me closely. ‘Michael Reyji Ray is my father,’ she says. ‘Isn’t he? All the dates add up. And … we have the same face.’

I swallow. ‘How did you find this?’

‘Someone at school showed me.’

‘The girl who gave you the jacket?’

‘No. Someone else.’

My mouth is dry. ‘Did you read the article?’

Liberty nods.

‘What else have you seen?’

‘Not much, just … some old magazine articles. Saying you were sort of obsessed with him. My father.’

‘I’m taking this phone.’

‘What?’

‘Your phone,’ I say. ‘I don’t want you looking at this stuff. It won’t lead anywhere good.’

Liberty shakes her head like a disappointed parent. ‘That’s your solution to everything. Censorship. Control. And then you bring in Nick to back you up. Fine. Take my phone. Take it. And while you’re at it, lock my door and throw away the key.’

‘Listen, you have no idea how good our life is without your father in it. Haven’t I warned you enough about him? Haven’t I spent your whole life warning you?’

‘You know what I think? I think he treated you badly and you need a reason to hate him.’

‘That’s not true. I mean, yes. He did treat me badly. But I have plenty of genuine reasons for keeping him away.’

‘Parent alienation,’ says Liberty. ‘It’s a thing. You should let me make up my own mind.’

I’ve kept my daughter secure behind high gates. We’ve stayed hidden for sixteen years. But Michael’s still got into our home.

‘You can’t ever see him,’ I say. ‘Ever.’

‘You can go now.’ Liberty picks up her guitar. ‘You’ve made your point. Mother knows best.’