A Game For All The Family (23 page)

“You thought it was me, didn’t you? I was showing an interest in George Donbavand—an interest for which there was a perfectly reasonable explanation—but you decided I was the person Anne Donbavand and her family went into hiding to avoid. That’s why you lied to me.”

Lesley’s shoulders slump. “Lachlan convinced me it couldn’t be true. Told me he’d always had a good feeling about you, which reminded me that I had too. I decided to trust my instincts.”

“I knew you’d never hurt George or his family.” Lachlan Fisher fixes his solemn eyes on me, pushing his glasses back up his nose. “Ellen would be distraught if any harm came to George. If she were distraught, you’d be distraught, therefore . . .” He finished with a shrug.

“Did Anne Donbavand ever say that I was the danger?” I ask Lesley.

“Never.”

“Then why assume the worst about me?”

“You have to remember, Justine: for years, I’d been hearing from Anne about nameless enemies hell-bent on wreaking their revenge on her via her children. I’d seen no evidence that what she was saying was true. No one seemed unduly interested in Fleur or George. Then suddenly Ellen comes along, and she and George are spending all their time together.”

“And you thought, ‘Aha, this fourteen-year-old girl must be the secret agent of destruction’?”

“Put yourself in my shoes. I was in an impossible situation. Long before Ellen turned up at Beaconwood, Anne had asked me to tell her if anyone got close to either of her children. For years, no one did. The teachers mostly liked George but the children didn’t know what to make of him, and, though they were friendly enough, they mostly kept their distance as far as politeness would allow. He’s an odd boy, George. Charming as anything, witty, incredibly erudite, but he could be blunt-verging-on-rude, too. And embarrassingly direct. Some people found his charm a shade too much and wondered if it was an act. He never really had a proper friend until Ellen turned up. She’s also very mature for her age, intellectually. The two of them were inseparable from the start.”

“You told Anne about Ellen, then?”

“No. I didn’t, and felt remiss about it. I couldn’t bear the prospect of her taking George out of Beaconwood and opting to homeschool him instead.”

“Did she threaten to do that if he ever made a friend?”

“No, but I know Anne,” says Lesley. “I could imagine the frenzied whisking away of children that would take place if I referred to George’s new best friend.”

“Friends weren’t allowed,” says Lachlan Fisher. “Neither were pets—Fleur would have loved a cat—she came to school crying one day because she’d been told in no uncertain terms that she could never have one. No phone calls, internet access, sweets, crisps or chocolates. No residential school trips, nothing that involved leaving the grounds of Beaconwood, even supervised by teachers—even when Anne was invited to come too, as a parent-helper, to check that everything was in order.”

“Well, she wasn’t interested in that, was she?” Lesley snorts. “Always too wrapped up in her work.”

“Tell me about the fake expulsion,” I say.

Lesley nods. “I didn’t tell Anne about George’s friendship with Ellen, but he must have given something away himself, or else Anne had other spies in school. She came in one day a couple of months ago, buzzing with rage and fear. Worst I’ve ever seen her. ‘Does George have some kind of special friend?’ she wanted to know. The way she said ‘special friend,’ as if it’s a terrible thing to have, a curse . . . Brrr. It gave me a chill.”

“What did you say?”

“At that point, asked a direct question, I couldn’t lie.”

“You told her about Ellen?”

“I had to.”

“What, exactly?”

“She wanted to know about the family. I told her Ellen’s father is a famous-ish opera singer, that you used to live in Muswell Hill in London. I’m sorry, Justine. I can see how upsetting this must be for you.”

“How did Anne react?”

“She went very quiet. It was peculiar. I was expecting a hysterical meltdown and got the opposite. Almost as if, now this was serious, she couldn’t afford the histrionics. She needed to keep a cool head, go away and plan . . . Or maybe that’s hindsight, in the light of what happened next.”

I wait.

“More than a month passed. Then Anne came in—again, very calm, uncharacteristically composed—and told me she was taking George out of the school. I’d dreaded and half-expected it, but I nearly dropped dead of shock when she ordered me to pretend to expel him. She told me about the coat Ellen had given him. She knew it was a gift, but explained to me how I could insist it was theft and use it as grounds for expulsion.”

“But . . . why?” I ask. If I had a large piece of paper and a pen to hand, I would write down that one word, so that I could keep holding it up.
Why?

“Poor George,” Lachlan Fisher mutters.

Never mind sympathizing with him. How about doing something to help him?

“So that he wouldn’t hate his mother,” Lesley explains. “The way Anne tells it, Fleur has always been good as gold, but George never stops kicking against all the restrictions. He understands they’re to keep him safe, but he resents it. Anne begged me.”

And you should have told her to fuck off.

“Said she finds George nigh on impossible to control as it is, and he’d only get worse if he blamed her for taking him away from Beaconwood and Ellen. She asked me to play the villain of the piece. I know what you’re thinking, Justine, but it wasn’t only a desire to shift blame onto someone else. George is extremely bright, and he’s . . . spirited. Stubborn, some might say. If he thought we’d be happy to have him here, he would never have stopped trying to return. He’d have badgered his parents relentlessly and they’re at breaking point as it is. Horrible though it was, I could see Anne’s point of view. If it wasn’t safe for George to stay with us—and for that I had to take her word, since I didn’t know the facts myself—then it was probably easier all around if he believed that option wasn’t open to him.”

“No,” I blurt out, unable to keep a lid on my frustration any longer. “You’re telling me it’s better for a boy who’s done nothing wrong to think he’s been unfairly expelled? Better than for him to be told that, despite his wishes, his parents don’t think it’s safe for him to go to that school? What a load of bull! You don’t really believe that, Lesley. You made your decision based on your fear of George’s mother, not out of concern for George and what would be good for him.”

“You’re wrong.” Lesley sighs. “Did I make the right call? Who knows. Maybe not. But I was thinking of no one but George when I made it. Try to understand: I didn’t, in all honesty, have a clue if I believed Anne Donbavand or not. I tied myself up in knots trying to work it out, but . . . I had nothing solid on which to base my opinion. And in the meantime, while I wondered and debated—with myself and others—I had to choose how to interact with Anne. That couldn’t wait until the truth arrived, unfortunately. I needed a way of . . .
being
, in her company. In the end, I decided to behave as if I believed her, since . . . well, proceeding as if I didn’t wasn’t an option, really. I suppose I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt . . .” Lesley sounds uncertain. “It was inconceivable to me that she might have invented it all, really. It still is.”

“Benefit of the doubt? And that extends to pretending to expel her son, knowing he’s done nothing wrong?” I’m not sure I’ve ever felt as disgusted by anything in my life.

“Justine, I know Anne Donbavand. You don’t. I know how hard it must be for poor George to live with her, and I judged that it would only get harder for him if another powerful grudge were to be added to the mix. George loved this school, and he was going to have it taken away from him. I didn’t want him to endure that pain. So . . . yes, it’s unorthodox, but Anne’s logic made sense to me: cancel out the pain by extinguishing his love for Beaconwood. Would you want to attend a school that booted you out on a bogus charge? Or would you hate that school, and consider yourself fortunate to be rid of it? I was led to believe lives were at stake, Justine. What would you have done?”

“Not what you did,” I say angrily. How dare she play tag with her moral dilemma and try to make me It? I’m not head of Beaconwood and this isn’t about me. Though, since she’s brought it up . . .

I know exactly what I’d have done. It’s something I can still do. My not being head of a school will present no obstacle at all.

Pleased with my decision, I feel slightly less hostile toward Lesley. In a milder tone, I say, “So, what, you called a special school meeting, told everyone not to mention George at all, pretend he’d never been here?”

“On Anne’s instructions, yes. She warned me that people would come and ask about George once he’d gone—seemingly with his best interests at heart. She as good as ordered me to deny he’d ever been here.”

“And then I came in asking the very questions you’d been warned about.”

“Well . . . yes.” Lesley sounds apologetic.

“I have no grudge against the Donbavand family, Lesley. I’ve never met any of them, and hadn’t heard of them before this week. Whoever this threat is, it’s not me.”

“Of course it isn’t,” says Lachlan Fisher vehemently.

“You broke the glass and set off the fire alarm, didn’t you?” I ask Lesley. “You, personally. To get me out of the building.”

“Yes. I couldn’t think of a better plan at that moment.” She looks embarrassed.

“The police?” I suggest, though I have less faith in them than I did this time last week. “If the Donbavands’ lives are at risk . . .”

“I mentioned the possibility of seeking police help more than once. All I got was screaming from Anne. She told me I didn’t understand, that involving the police would be the most dangerous thing of all.”

“And you believed her.” I can’t keep the scorn out of my voice. “And so an entire school acts out the private lunacy of one disturbed woman.”

“I didn’t and don’t think it’s as simple as that,” says Lesley. “Yes, Anne was irrational much of the time. Frankly, she was a woman delirious with fear. Did she magnify the threat out of all proportion? I don’t think that’s for us to say, do you?”

Am I being unreasonable? I’m not sure I care at the moment. I’m not the one who pretended to expel George Donbavand, then pretended he didn’t exist.

“But none of this adds up, Lesley. Anne’s behavior makes no sense. If sending your children to a school puts their lives at risk, you don’t send them. If the threat’s that serious, and it’s all so top secret, why are you okay with the headmistress and all the teachers knowing about it? Aren’t you worried there’ll be some nosy teacher who’ll try to find out more?”

“I can’t answer for Anne.” Lesley looks away.

“No, but you can think critically about what she’s told you. You said before that her enemies were hell-bent on wreaking their revenge on her via her children. That suggests that Anne herself is the focus of the anger or grudge, whatever it is—not Fleur and George. Right?”

Lesley chews the inside of her lower lip as she considers this. “That hadn’t occurred to me, but . . . yes, everything Anne’s let slip suggests she’s the target.”

“Then how come Fleur and George are on twenty-four-hour lockdown while Anne goes about freely all over the world giving papers at academic conferences? Yes, I’ve Googled her—why wouldn’t I? My daughter is obsessed with George Donbavand, therefore so am I. She told me he’s got weird parents, so I thought I’d have a look online. Anne Donbavand is a university professor. Universities typically have thousands of new people joining them all the time—staff, students. Each new academic year, Anne starts from scratch with a sea of unknown faces, presumably. How come she’s not terrified one of
them
will be this enemy from the past that she’s so terrified of, moving in for the kill?”

“It’s natural to worry more about your children than about yourself,” says Lesley.

“Also, Anne might know which face to look out for,” Lachlan Fisher contributes. “George and Fleur may not.”

“I don’t buy it,” I tell him. “Is it normal to take on new identities, go into hiding, then announce, ‘This is our secret new identity! We’re not really the people we’re pretending to be!’?”

“I think it’s fairly common for key school personnel to be taken into a family’s confidence, yes,” says Lesley.

No. Not like this.
Something smells very wrong here.

“What about Fleur?” I ask. “Was she fake-expelled too?”

“No. There was no need to lie to her. Unlike George, Fleur was never happy at Beaconwood. She was timid as a mouse, always anxious. She’ll be happier at home—even the Donbavands’ home.”

“Fleur was as worried for her parents as they were for her,” Lachlan tells me. “She hated being at school because it took her away from them. If she wasn’t with them, she didn’t know they were safe.”

“Her concentration was appalling,” Lesley says. “As anyone’s would be if their mind was on whether or not they’d find their parents still alive at the end of the school day, I suppose.”

There’s a hot ball of fury in my chest. “So Professor Anne manages to write conference papers and books—travel around the world to present her words of wisdom, advancing her stellar career—and meanwhile her daughter can’t concentrate on school work for fear of violent attacks on her family? Does that sound right to you? Why are the children the ones doing all the obvious suffering here?”

“Oh, Anne suffers,” says Lesley. “You only need to speak to her to see it. Besides, George wasn’t anxious. He was remarkably sanguine about it all. I once raised the subject with him, tactfully—mainly to see how he was bearing up. He tried to make light of it, as if having someone out there aiming to kill you and your family were no more than a minor annoyance.”

I need to get out of here. My head’s spinning. “I’ll have to tell Ellen what you’ve told me,” I say, standing up.

“I’m sure she already knows that George Donbavand is not George’s real name,” says Lesley.

My heart thumps faster. In my head it sounds like footsteps, running to catch up. “Why . . . why would Ellen know? She hasn’t said anything to me about that.”