Free The Possession of Mr Cave by Matt Haig

Terence. That's my bloody type.'
    This tirade exhausted her, and had frightened Higgins out
of the room. A long silence was left in its wake.
    'I'm sorry,' she said, at the end of it. 'I didn't mean to shout.
It's probably just the brandy.'
    'No, Cynthia,' I said. 'No. You're absolutely right. It was a
stupid thing to say. I'm sorry.'
    And I meant it. I really think I did.
    'Well, the main thing is we don't let Bryony suffer,' she said.
    'Yes,' I said. 'Of course. You're right.'
    And I went to bed that night feeling I was truly able to
turn over a new page, a blank one, and write a better future
for us all. But of course, and as always, I was wrong. The next
day was written in the same descending style I was growing
accustomed to, with Terence the Tormented Tormentor about
to take a further plunge into his designated role.
    I dreamt it was you. I dreamt you were there, where he was
hanging from the lamp post. You lost your grip and I woke
up, knowing I had to keep you close, keep you safe.
    When Cynthia had gone to her art class I went into your
room.
    I tried soft words. I tried to offer an olive branch. 'We were
both partially to blame,' I said. 'I know I shouldn't have embarrassed
you in front of your friends. I'm sorry. And I am sure
you were aware that you shouldn't have lied to me.'
    You didn't want to listen. You didn't want me there, at the
foot of your bed. 'Please, Dad, just leave me alone.'
    'I just think you should say sorry that's all. I've said sorry
and I'll say it again. Say sorry and we can forget about it.'
    'No.'
    'Apologise. You lied. Bryony, if you don't tell me where you
are how can I know you're safe. Apologise.'
    'No.'
    'A. Pol. O. Gise.'
    At which you disappeared back under your covers and made
a sound like a near-boiled kettle.
    I became angry. Something switched inside me and
suddenly I found myself losing control. I sat there, listening
to my own tense words, and wondered what had got into
me. At that moment a new plan occurred to me. A plan
fuelled by desperation, by anger, and by this new dark force
closing in on my soul.
    'Well, Bryony,' I said. 'It is a tragedy for me to accept it,
but it seems that we have now reached a point where firmer
action is required. If you are unable to be honest with me,
or to admit your own mistakes, or to show any remorse for
these mistakes, then it seems I am left with absolutely no
choice but to lay down some rules for you to abide by. Rather
than risk the excuse of a memory lapse, I will write these
rules down and I will stick them in the kitchen for you to
read. Now, I want you to remember that these rules are to
be followed to the letter or there will be strict consequences.'
    'Huh!' Your response, dulled by the tight blankets that lay
over you.
    'Well, Bryony, there is no point setting rules unless there
are consequences for the rule-breaker and I assure you that
if these rules aren't followed or are wilfully misinterpreted
then you will be punished accordingly.' I hesitated, while
my mind turned to the possible punishments I could inflict.
'If you persist in breaking the rules then I will be forced to
sell Turpin. Or I will move you to another school. Or I will
forbid you from leaving the house. Do you understand me?'
    I left you and went to my desk. I looked ahead at the
curtains I never pulled open any more, and then I took the
fountain pen from the lacquered case as its Pre-Raphaelite
nymphs watched me with concern.
    My hand, trembling with this sudden and alien anger, pressed
the nib to the paper and began to write.
    Rules For Your Own Safety
    1. You must not visit Imogen. If Imogen must be seen at
all it is to be on these premises.
    2. You are never to be out of the house after 7 p.m., except
on cello evenings, or when you are being chaperoned
by myself or your grandmother.
    3. You must always eat your meals at the table, so we can
enjoy a little conversation.
    4. You must refrain from playing the noise you euphemistically
refer to as music, unless you