‘So, you’re a journalist now?’ she asks instead, folding her arms across her chest in a way she hopes displays her disapproval. It’s not surprising, she thinks, as she surveys the woman standing in front of her. Jessica had been fourteen the last time she saw her, hanging around the clock tower with a new group of friends, drinking and generally behaving like a little tart, draped over some boy. Margot had felt so angry that she’d called Jessica at home and reprimanded her about how she’d treated Heather. She wasn’t proud of her behaviour, looking back. Jessica was only a teenager.
Jessica hesitates. ‘Yes, I am … but that’s not the only reason I’m here.’
Margot rolls her eyes. Of course it is! Why else would she come?
Jessica obviously notices because she adds, ‘I also wanted to say how sorry I am. For the way …’ She swallows and, for a brief moment, Margot thinks she notices tears film Jessica’s eyes. But, no, she must be mistaken, for Jessica Fox has no heart. ‘… for the way I treated Heather, back then.’
‘For abandoning her,’ Margot states. After all, let’s call a spade a spade, she thinks. ‘After she lost her father. Her sister.’
Jessica nods, her shaggy fringe falling in her face. The gesture gives her vulnerability and unexpectedly reminds Margot of Heather. ‘Yes,’ Jessica says, in a small voice. ‘I treated her badly, I know that. I was a kid, and I was stupid and selfish. I didn’t think about Heather’s feelings. I just …’
Jessica doesn’t have to finish her sentence. Margot knows exactly what she must have been thinking all those years ago. She’d wanted to get away from Heather and all her bad luck. Maybe she’d thought it was contagious.
‘Why now?’ demands Margot. ‘Because Heather’s in hospital, accused of killing two people? It’s a juicy story, I’ll give you that.’
Jessica shuffles, clearly uncomfortable. ‘I moved away. I’ve only been living back in the West Country for a year.’
‘And you didn’t think to look us up before? You didn’t feel like apologizing then?’
Jessica opens her mouth but no words come out. What can she say? thinks Margot. Where’s her defence? Then, eventually, she says, ‘It’s been years, Margot.’
Margot’s suddenly had enough of this conversation. She doesn’t want to look into Jessica’s big brown eyes, doesn’t want to feel anything for the girl standing before her.
She pulls herself up to her full height and can almost feel her heart hardening. ‘I have nothing more to say to you.’ Before Jessica can utter another word Margot closes the door firmly in her face. Then she leans against it, her heart pounding. She places a hand on her chest and takes a deep breath.
‘Margot.’ She hears Jessica’s voice through the door. ‘The press, they’re going to keep hounding you until you give your side of the story. And wouldn’t you rather speak to me? Someone you know? If you give me an exclusive, they’ll go away. Margot? Margot, please, just think about it.’ She hears the letterbox clatter behind her as Jessica pushes something through it. Margot counts to ten before turning and picking it up. It’s a business card. Margot rips it in half and throws it into the wastepaper basket.
Margot watches from the safety of her living-room window until Jessica has driven away, then goes upstairs and changes out of her riding gear. Downstairs again, she locks the house and almost runs to her Land Rover, as though she’s expecting the press to be hiding in the surrounding bushes ready to pounce on her with their microphones and cameras. But nobody else is around. There’s only one static caravan in use at the moment, by their long-term tenant Colin. He turned up five months ago, on the weekend the clocks went back, and hasn’t left. Not that she’s complaining. He doesn’t say much, but he pays on time and it’s an income, even if it’s only small. She thinks he’s probably lonely. For once, she’s thankful they’re out of season. Adam usually manages the camping site but, understandably, he’s not been able to cope with that at the moment. The poor man is out of his mind with worry. And so is she. Because all she can think about is what awaits Heather when she finally wakes up. She refuses to think if she wakes up. She knows Heather’s made of strong stuff.
At this time of day it takes Margot just over half an hour to drive to the hospital in Bristol. She tries to avoid the rush-hour if she can and the ICU is open from 10 a.m. until 8 p.m. She parks, then walks the ten-minute journey from the multi-storey to the hospital reception. It’s been only four days since Heather was admitted but already Margot feels she’s too used to the atrium that reminds her of an airport terminal, with its many shops and cafés, and the weird smell – a mixture of chemicals, coffee and vegetable soup.
When she first arrived on Friday, not long after Adam had rung to tell her about that life-changing phone call he’d received from the police, Margot had wondered if she’d ever get used to finding her way along the maze of corridors. Then, she’d been almost blinded by shock and fear. Her mind had screamed that it couldn’t be true, that her daughter wasn’t capable of such a horrendous crime. Why? Why would she do it? It made no sense, not when she had everything to live for. A lovely home, a supportive husband and a beautiful baby boy. No, there had to be some mistake. She’d arranged to meet Adam in the atrium and the two of them had stumbled towards Heather’s room, as if they were disaster survivors. And then she had seen that there was no mistake. The woman lying alone in the bed, attached to so much machinery she wondered how anybody could get near her, really was her daughter.
Sheila, her friend and stable hand, had been the one to find Heather in the barn. She’d come in at 8.15 a.m. to feed and groom the horses. By then Heather had been lying unconscious for at least an hour. It’s a wonder she hadn’t died there and then. Margot had been away at a yoga retreat with her friend Pam – something she’d never done before – and had been due home later that day.
Adam had cried when they’d met at the hospital that day and she’d been mesmerized by how his tears trickled into his thick brown beard. She’d seen Adam cry before – when he’d married Heather, when Ethan was born – but happy tears. Never this. He told her he’d not been at home when Heather shot herself, because he’d been taking Ethan to nursery, then gone to see a friend. Margot had thought this was strange. Adam and Heather never took Ethan to nursery earlier than 8 a.m. She could tell he was hiding something, but didn’t want to probe. It wasn’t the right time. She was aware that things hadn’t been great between them for a while but didn’t want to interfere by asking too many questions. After all, she knows what marriage is like. She’d had enough of her own problems with Keith, God rest his soul.
Margot slows down as she approaches the door to Heather’s room. As always, her stomach turns over when she sees the police officer standing guard outside. It’s a different one today. A woman this time. And, inappropriately, she thinks how masculine the female constable looks in the unflattering navy slacks and black workmen’s shoes. The officer looks up at Margot and smiles. It’s brief and professional. She’s young, younger than Heather, with auburn hair tied in a low ponytail and clear, pale skin. She stands aside to let Margot pass. Margot has to concentrate on suppressing her desire to give the officer a telling-off. Why are you here? she wants to scream. How can Heather pose a risk when she’s bloody unconscious? But she doesn’t, of course, because this woman is an official and Margot was brought up by her strict councillor father to respect officials. Instead, she pulls the strap of her handbag further up her shoulder and pushes through the door into the room.
The quietness strikes her, as it always does at first. The only sound to be heard is the bleeping of the monitors. Heather’s long dark hair has been brushed and, apart from her pale face, which has lost its usual healthy glow, there is nothing to indicate that she’s fighting for her life. She looks peaceful, as though she’s sleeping. There are no obvious signs of trauma, no bruising or surgical dressings on show. However, Margot knows that underneath the regulation hospital gown, Heather’s chest and shoulder are tightly bandaged and, obscure
d by that fine head of hair, there’s a shaved patch on the back of her head, with a five-inch gash now stitched and covered with gauze.
Margot dumps her bag on the floor and sits beside her daughter, taking her hand. The left one. The one she used to kill two innocent people. The one she used to point the gun towards her chest. The bullet had gone through her right breast, thankfully just missing her heart and arteries, but she’d banged her head when she fell. Ironically it was the injury to her head, not the gunshot, that had put her daughter into the coma. This information, imparted by a serious-faced consultant when Heather was first brought in, gives Margot hope. It means Heather’s suicide attempt wasn’t serious. She could have shot herself in the head if she’d really wanted to die, or under her chin. The girl’s been around guns since she was a kid. They used to own a farm in Kent before they moved here. Heather knows how to use them properly, and she knows what to do to kill, she tells herself.
The shotgun had been Margot’s, used mostly for clay-pigeon shooting, kept in a special cabinet in a shed under lock and key, although Adam sometimes borrowed it to go shooting. They were both members of a shooting club about two miles away, although Heather was never interested in joining. The licence was up for renewal. Maybe she should have got rid of it. Guns, it seemed, brought nothing but bad luck to their family.
Four days. It’s now been four days that her darling Heather has been in this state. The doctors warned her that the longer she spends in the coma the less likelihood there is of a full recovery. She brings Heather’s hand to her cheek – her daughter’s skin is still so soft. Oh, please wake up, please … please, she silently begs.
Margot glances towards the All About Me board on the wall. The hospital issues them to all ICU patients so that their families have a place to display photographs or other information that might be useful. Adam’s written down Heather’s favourite radio station – Absolute 90s – and he’s pinned up some photos. Margot’s heart breaks every time she looks at them. There’s one of Heather, her face wide and smiling, holding a newborn Ethan just after she’d given birth. In this very hospital, in fact, only eighteen months ago. There’s another of Adam and Heather’s wedding day ten years before. Heather looks so beautiful, young and innocent in a simple yet elegant gown, her hair piled on top of her head, tendrils framing her face. Adam, tall, dark and brooding, is next to her in a suit that looks a fraction too small. They married young. Too young, Margot had thought at the time, but they’d been so much in love – they’d shone with it. Then Ethan came along, a much-loved and wanted baby, after years of trying. Heather suffered – suffers, she’s still alive, she’s still here – from polycystic ovaries, which made falling pregnant difficult. Things hadn’t been plain sailing since Ethan was born. Heather had had post-natal depression in the immediate weeks following a traumatic birth, and found it hard to cope. But things had been getting better. At least, she’d thought they were.
What were you thinking, sweetheart? she wonders, for the umpteenth time, her daughter’s hand still in hers. Why did you kill those two people?
4
I can hear voices. Are they real or imagined? I can’t make them out. Every time I think I’ve understood a word or phrase, they disappear so that I can’t catch them, like bubbles bursting in front of me. I can remember the weight of the gun, the sound of it going off. The drugs are too strong. They’re dragging me back under, stopping me remembering, preventing me from hurting. And I don’t want to remember. Because I think I’ve killed someone.
5
Jess
It’s late and already dark by the time I leave work.
After returning from Margot’s earlier, I’d parked my Nissan in the underground car park beneath my flat and walked back to the newsroom, Jack chewing my ear all the way about how we should be staking out the Powells’ farm and that Ted was bound to be disappointed in us. Loitering is something I would have done in the past. It just doesn’t feel right under these circumstances. Now that I know it is my Heather who is the killer, I wonder if I’m too close to do this story justice. I instantly bat that idea away. It could also work to my advantage. I can’t let the opportunity pass. After everything that happened at the Tribune, I need this story.
It’s still raining as I cut across the city centre and head towards the river, the wind tugging at my umbrella. Streetlights reflect in puddles. A few regulars are heading into the Llandoger Trow pub as I pass, but as I take a right along the river it becomes quieter and darker, people falling away, not wanting to risk the journey to pubs or restaurants in the area on a Monday night in this weather. Before long I’m alone.
It’s bleaker along here at this time of year. The trees are still bare, beaten by the wind and rain, and the one boat that serves as a café in the late spring and summer is now depressingly empty. But walking alone in the dark never bothers me. And it’s built up along the Welsh Back, the riverside soon hidden behind the buildings on either side of me, although there is a lack of streetlight here and the cobbles are slick with rain.
And then I hear it.
Someone calling my name.
Jess-i-ca.
I turn around but nobody’s there. I must be imagining it. It’s the wind buffeting between the buildings, that’s all.
I quicken my pace, my grip tightening around the handle of my umbrella. I’m not far from my apartment. The other buildings along here – mostly offices, with the odd residential block thrown in – seem deserted. There aren’t even any cars driving down here. It’s only 7 p.m. Not even late.
Jess-i-ca.
I stop when I hear it again, spinning around, fury mixed with fear, but there’s no sign of anyone. I refuse to run, to show I’m unnerved. I’m tired: it’s been a long day. That’s all this is. I take the umbrella down anyway, not caring that the rain soaks my hair. I can use it as a weapon if need be. I continue walking as fast as I can without actually running.
And then there are footsteps behind me. Loud and thudding. I almost trip on the cobbled road as I break into a run, no longer caring about showing any fear. I don’t stop until I reach my apartment block. My hand is shaking as I delve into my bag for the keys and I let the umbrella fall from my hand in my eagerness to get inside. Is it him? I imagine his bulldog-type face, his sneer, his anger, the last words he said to me ringing in my ears: I’ll kill you, you fucking bitch.
I grab the umbrella from the ground and hold it out in front of me, like a truncheon, as I push my shoulder into the door. And then I fall into the lobby, my heart hammering. As I close the door I take the opportunity to glance out into the street, but it’s empty.
I take the stairs two at a time to the first floor. The smell of cooking hits me as I walk through the door of our flat: beef and onions. I feel foolish now. I completely overreacted. I can’t let that thug scare me. I’ve been living here for nearly a year now and there’s been no sign of him. It was just an empty threat he made, I remind myself. I can’t live in fear.
I kick off my boots and hang up my coat before wandering into the open-plan kitchen-living room. The football is on the too-large widescreen TV. It’s not even Rory’s team but that doesn’t bother him: he’ll watch any match going. He has his back to me as he stands at the hob, stirring mince in a frying pan, watching the football out of the corner of his eye. He’s wearing an apron over his jeans and T-shirt, with a naked man’s torso on the front in frilly pink underwear that one of his brothers bought him for Christmas.
Without speaking, I go to the doors that lead to the balcony and throw them open, even though it’s raining. The extractor fan is so ineffectual that we need another way of letting out the steam and cooking smells. I step onto the balcony and take a few deep breaths, the fresh air hitting my lungs and causing them to hurt a little. I really should give up smoking. Rory will be able to smell it on me. But after my fright earlier I’m desperate for a fag. I lean over the railings a little, enjoying the wind against my face. If I close my eyes I can pretend I’m on a boat. T
he flat can feel a bit claustrophobic at times. It’s on the first floor so has no garden. If it wasn’t for the views of the waterside I wouldn’t want to live here. I glance down along the river, which looks dark and unwelcoming in this light. I’m half expecting to see a figure lurking, but there’s nobody. I can see Victoria Bridge from here, all lit up, the lights refracting in the water.
We hadn’t planned on moving to Bristol, so close to where I grew up. But when Rory’s sister, Aoife, was offered a promotion at a pharmaceutical company in Amsterdam, she said we could live here and pay enough rent to cover her mortgage, which is next to nothing as she bought the flat twelve years ago. Her idea was a Godsend and benefited both of us. A place to run away to. Away from London, the Tribune and all that went wrong there. We’ve lived here for nearly a year now but the flat still doesn’t feel like home. Everywhere you look there are signs of Aoife and her life: photos of her and her friends on the white walls, the French-style bed that she bought from an expensive boutique, the charcoal linen L-shaped sofa that I’m terrified of messing up. Home is Rory’s flat in Streatham where I spent most nights towards the end, desperate to get away from my annoying housemates. Despite my reservations I’m grateful to Aoife. I had to take a pay cut going from national to local news so the cheap rent has helped us financially, especially as Rory is supply-teaching while looking for a full-time job. Rory gave up a lot for me, and when we decided to leave London for good he’d shyly asked if I’d like to move in with him, properly.
As soon as he spots me, he leaves the kitchen area to grab the remote control and turn off the TV. He knows I hate football.
Then She Vanishes Page 3