Nemesis

by Marley, Louise

  It was a kind thought. She dragged the rug around her shoulders. It felt scratchy but perhaps it would absorb the worst of the moisture from her clothes.

  He opened the door and got out, slamming it behind him. The car rocked slightly. She watched him walk down the path and knock on the door to the Lodge. A uniformed police officer opened it. The police officer did not appear pleased to see him. They exchanged a few words. He pointed back to Natalie waiting in the car. The police officer hesitated, then stood back to let him inside. The door closed.

  There was nothing else to do but wait.

  Her clothes felt unpleasantly cold and wet and were sticking to her, but she could hardly strip off in the car. With the engine no longer running the heating had cut out. The windows were steaming up again and she could hardly see out. Her ponytail was wet and dripping cold water down the back of her neck. She squeezed out the excess, then rubbed at it with the rug, but it was not a towel and so therefore not effective.

  The front door of the Lodge remained shut and she couldn’t see anyone at the windows. They must be talking in the kitchen. Had Sarah really run away with the fair? And why had her father gone against the habit of a lifetime and enlisted the help of the police?

  Through the steamy windows she saw the rain had finally stopped and the sun was breaking through the clouds. Possibly it was warmer outside the car than in. She opened the door and got out, trailing the tartan rug. She turned her face to the sun. It felt warm. She pulled off her sweatshirt and dropped it onto the bonnet of the car, along with the rug. The rug promptly slid into a puddle but she did not notice. The white blouse she wore beneath her sweatshirt was only damp in patches. She pulled it from her waistband and puffed it up, letting the air get between the fabric and her cold, clammy skin.

  What should she do now? She could go indoors, change her clothes and risk an inquisition about where she’d been and why she wasn’t at school? Or she could take a walk through the castle garden and find a sheltered, sunny spot? She could take off her skirt and hang it over a branch - it’d dry in no time. Then she wouldn’t have to go home until tea.

  Now there was a plan.

  The drive that led past the Lodge towards the castle was edged on both sides with rhododendrons. About a hundred yards along was the first of several woodland paths, used by local dog-walkers with the blessing of Sir Henry Vyne, the owner of the castle. This particular path followed the boundary between the woods that surrounded the estate and the more formal garden. About halfway was a flower garden surrounded by an ancient brick wall. It was a perfect suntrap, completely sheltered from the wind. No one ever went there. It was an ideal place for her to hide out. Her own secret garden.

  The woods were quiet. It was almost eerie the way there was no sound, not even birdsong. The road, on the other side of the estate wall, was also silent. Patches of sunlight percolated the canopy of leaves above, illuminating her way.

  After a long, wet summer the path had become overgrown and hard to follow. The trees grew thickly overhead, blocking out the light, their falling leaves creating a pungently rotting carpet beneath her feet. Occasionally she caught glimpses of an old brick path and followed it through a copse of yew trees, to where a tall gate had been set into an ancient wall.

  Natalie undid the latch. The gate squealed as it swung open but she didn’t care. There was no one to hear it. The garden was set to lawn, with specimen trees breaking up the view and borders of flowers bringing colour. These had been cut back ready for autumn, leaving only purple swathes of Michaelmas daisies amidst the last of the summer’s roses. She headed across the wet grass to where a terrace had been laid in the shelter of the wall and a summer house overlooked three large ornamental ponds.

  One of the gardeners had left his sweater beside the central pool and it had become soaked after the recent rain. Disdainfully she prodded it with her foot. The sunlight caught on a thread of silver Lurex. Was it a woman’s sweater?

  She glanced towards the centre pond. The dark water was smooth and unrippled. The pink and white petals of the lilies appeared so perfect they could have been carved from wax. But something protruded through the round glossy leaves. Something shaped like a foot.

  She moved closer, her eyes travelling the length of the pool. Through the murky green water she could discern a knee, a thigh -

  Floating a few inches below the surface was a naked girl, her weight partially supported by the mass of flowers. Her skin was paler than the petals that surrounded her, her eyes wide open but clouded, her hair such a pale blonde it could have been spun silver.

  A water nymph, Natalie thought, her ethereal beauty was utterly flawless.

  Flawless but for the savage wound at her throat.

  Sarah …

  PART TWO

  Present

  5

  Present

  Rose Court was a gothic Victorian mansion on the edge of the village of Calahurst. Built of red brick and Portland stone, it had gargoyles on the roof, far too many gables and several large bay windows. The house had once been the residence of a retired schoolmaster and his spinster sisters. It had been famous for its rose garden and beautiful outlook across the River Hurst. Now converted into an exclusive private care home, the view had been obscured by an ugly extension wing and the rose garden had been paved over to create a car park.

  Natalie Grove manoeuvred her BMW into the last available parking place just as a white minibus drew up behind her, effectively blocking her in. After a matter of minutes, a ramp with a wheelchair clamped firmly onto it began to descend.

  She got out of her car and stopped to watch. “Hi, Dad,” she said.

  The man in the wheelchair stared straight through her.

  Fifteen years had passed since Sarah’s murder but in that time her father appeared to have aged fifty. His thick, dark hair had turned white overnight, there were deep lines etched into his pale, sallow skin and the scar on his forehead - a curving silver line on his temple - was a constant reminder of the reason he was here.

  One of the careworkers unfastened John’s chair from the ramp and pushed him towards her. Natalie bent to her father’s level and tried again.

  “Where have you been? Anywhere nice?”

  Her father didn’t even glance up. There was an uncomfortable silence. Or was she the only one to feel it?

  The careworker took pity on her. “It’s not one of his good days, I’m afraid.” He wore a green uniform with a red rose logo embroidered on the pocket and, beneath that, his name - Jason. “He’s been very quiet.”

  “Where has he been?”

  If Jason thought it odd she had to ask, he was too polite to show it. “The local school put on a concert for us.”

  “Calahurst Comprehensive?”

  “That’s the one,” he nodded. “You know it then?”

  “I used to go there.”

  “Me too,” said Jason, adding with a wry smile, “It’s not improved.”

  She took a sideways step out of his way, expecting him to push her father on towards the entrance to Rose Court.

  Jason, however, hesitated. “Do you think you could you take Mr Grove inside for me?” he asked. “We’re short staffed and I’ve got to go back to help with Miss Barker.”

  An elderly lady was now descending the minibus from the front steps, ferociously waving her walking stick at anyone who tried to offer an arm, yet looking as though the slightest breeze would blow her over.

  Go, Miss Barker! thought Natalie.

  “No problem,” she said out loud, and took the handles of the wheelchair from Jason. “He’s a nice boy,” she told her father, as they moved away from the minibus and well out of Jason’s earshot, “but far too trusting. What’s to stop me shoving you out in front of a convenient lorry?”

  There was no reaction from her father. He was too smart for that. She wheeled him up the concrete ramp and into the gloomy reception hall, pausing only to sign her name in the visitor’s book. The blonde receptionist barely gl
anced up and showed absolutely no interest as Natalie took her father past the curving wooden staircase and along the corridor towards the back of the house.

  Natalie had no idea whether her father wanted to return to his room, and had no intention of asking him. The last thing she wanted was for them to be left alone together. Instead she wheeled him into the residents’ sitting room, where she parked him in prime position in front of an impressively-sized TV.

  The TV had not been switched on and the only other occupant was an elderly man asleep in a winged-back chair. His head lolled onto his shoulder as he emitted tiny, feathery snores; a large hardback book was starting to slide from his lap.

  “I’ve brought you some new shirts, Dad,” Natalie said, and held up a carrier bag marked with the name of one of Norchester’s more exclusive shops. She took a small packet from her handbag. “And some of your favourite liquorice.”

  Without taking his eyes from the blank TV screen in front of him, her father said, “I like Bassett’s.”

  “Tough, the supermarket only had their own brand.” She opened the packet and held it out to him. When he didn’t take it, she impatiently dropped the bag into his lap and waited. Sure enough, he greedily scooped up a handful of the sweets and crammed them into his mouth. She could actually see his gappy yellow teeth chewing on the disgusting mix of black goo and saliva. Fifteen years ago he’d had perfect white teeth, been such a handsome man and now -

  Now he looked like the monster he’d always been.

  Natalie turned away, feeling sick. Why did she persist in doing this to herself? Why come here at all? She didn’t have to visit, no one would be any the wiser. If keeping her father incarcerated in a care home was supposed to be revenge for her rotten childhood, why did she always feel he’d won?

  “Are you off now?” he asked, the normality of the question taking her by surprise. Funny how he could be perfectly lucid when he wanted.

  She pulled up a chair and sat beside him. “I was hoping to bring you another present today. My new book is due out this week. Would you like a copy? I could bring extra ones too, signed, for your friends.”

  Not that you have any friends, you miserable old bastard.

  Her father made no indication he was even listening to her. He’d never shown any interest in her work. Most fathers would have -

  Natalie sighed. John had never been like most fathers.

  “This book is going to be a bit different to my others,” she told him. “It’s about a girl whom everyone loves, like the princess in a fairy tale. Unfortunately, instead of ‘happy ever after’ she ends up with her throat cut. It’s complete fiction, of course.”

  She thought she caught a flicker of movement; a slight spasm in his cheek, as though he had clenched his teeth.

  She knew she shouldn’t force it but somehow she couldn’t help herself.

  “It’s nearly fifteen years to the day since Sarah died. Do you remember?”

  Fifteen years since his accident. He could hardly forget.

  Her father’s sticky fingers, which had been resting lightly on the arms of his wheelchair, appeared to tighten.

  “That morning, when we realised she’d gone, you searched her wardrobe.”

  No response.

  “What were you looking for? Did you find it?”

  He took another sweet from the bag. His normality was unsettling. Was he as sane as herself and hiding it from everyone, as she had always thought? Or had he settled on a new level of crazy?

  By ignoring her, he’d shifted the power back to himself. It was infuriating. She wanted to take his shoulders and shake him, anything to get a reaction. Not that she’d get one. They’d been playing this particular game for years.

  A soft thud distracted her. The man asleep in the wing-back chair had dropped his book. A large, glossy hardback, the book had fallen half-open, with the spine bent back. Instinctively she went over to pick it up, to straighten the pages and place it on the table beside him.

  She could hear voices in the distance, as the staff brought the remaining residents back into the house. They wouldn’t be alone for much longer.

  Her father had not moved from where she had left him, still staring at the blank TV screen, his gaze unfocused and his mouth slack.

  How did he do that?

  She returned to his side, standing beside him, the disparity in their heights giving her confidence.

  “Sarah kept a diary,” she said, careful to keep her voice level. “Did you know that?”

  Still her father said nothing.

  Out in the corridor, Jason and another careworker were discussing the merits of the new phone Jason had bought.

  “It was most illuminating.” Natalie lowered her voice. “Did you know she made a list every man she ever slept with? She even scored their performances.”

  She watched her father carefully, waiting for that reaction, the smallest indication that he understood what she was telling him.

  “It was quite a long list for a seventeen-year-old. There was a doctor, a teacher … ” she paused deliberately. “A gardener … ”

  John tipped the remainder of the liquorice into his mouth, crumpled up the packet and dropped it onto the floor.

  She cursed beneath her breath and bent to pick it up - then screamed when a blue-veined hand grabbed her wrist. A scream that died on her lips as soon as she looked up into her father’s face. His expression was chilling.

  John’s grip was surprisingly strong. Despite her effort to break free, he pulled her closer to him, relentlessly, an inch at a time.

  “Let me go!” Natalie tried twisting her arm. When that didn’t work she caught hold of his long, broad-tipped fingers and prised them off her skin, one at a time. In despair she watched as each finger clamped back down as soon as she’d released it. It was like the game he’d tormented her with as a child. When she heard him chuckle at her ineffective effort, all the nightmares came rushing back.

  His legs might be shrunken and weak, but the muscles in his arms were still powerful. She felt the side of the wheelchair digging into her thigh as he forced her against him, until her face was inches from his. She could feel his breath, warm on her cheek; smell the foulness of it, yet for reasons she later could not fathom, it did not occur to her to call for help.

  She felt a violent shock as his eyes met hers once more, and she saw the intelligence behind them. Pale-grey eyes, the exact same shape and colour as her own.

  It was her own personal curse. Whenever she looked into a mirror, she would see the person she hated most in the world staring right back at her.

  “I know what you did,” he said.

  His voice shocked her back to the present. It was calm and rational, with no hint of menace. As she stiffened, wondering if she’d heard him correctly, there was a blur of green, something caught her round the ribcage and dragged her back, wrenching her arm away from her father, at once breaking his hold.

  “Did he hurt you, Miss Grove?” It was Jason, peering into her face, one hand still resting on her shoulder. Are you all right?”

  She nodded, hardly able to speak, close to tears.

  “I am so sorry! Mr Grove has never behaved like that before. We would never have left you alone together if we’d known. He’s usually so good, so quiet … ”

  Natalie stared past him, back towards her father. He was sat in his wheelchair as though nothing had happened. Behind him stood another careworker, poised as though ready to make a move if John tried anything else.

  “Are you OK, Miss Grove?” Jason said again, slightly louder this time. Presumably he thought she was still in shock.

  To be honest, she was. Had the last few moments actually taken place? Had her father really accused her of - what, exactly? Murdering her sister?

  “I’m all right,” she said, before Jason could ask his question a third time. “It was a bit of a surprise, that’s all.”

  She should never have taunted him like that. Did she think he was going to sit there
and take it? Yes, she wanted him to lose control, but she hadn’t thought through the consequences.

  Jason returned her smile, somewhat uncertainly. “I don’t think he meant you any harm, Miss Grove.”

  “No, he didn’t.” That was the truth. Her father could have snapped her neck if he’d so desired. But he hadn’t wanted to hurt her - this time.

  She took a cautious step towards John and bent to collect her bags from the floor, watching him all the while. His eyes didn’t even flicker in her direction.

  “OK, Dad,” she said, trying to keep her voice level. “I’ve got to go now. Maybe I’ll see you next week?”

  And maybe I won’t, you evil bastard. Maybe I’ll leave you here to rot.

  But John never took his eyes from the blank TV screen, apparently tuned out, turned off and engrossed in a world of his own. The perfect patient.

  The perfect fraud.

  After all these years, her father was still very much in control.

  6

  Natalie still held the carrier bag containing her father’s new shirts.

  It was tempting to chuck them in the nearest bin, but instead she took the bag to his room, carelessly dropping it onto a small round table set directly in the centre of a large bay window. She knew he liked to sit there and watch the world go past. And no wonder; the room was a sterile place, with nothing personal, not even any photographs. There was only the small carriage clock Sir Henry Vyne had presented to John following his ‘retirement’ - when it became obvious he was never going to recover from his injuries and return to work at the castle.

  For the first time Natalie wondered what had happened to the rest of her father’s belongings; his precious gardening books and horticultural awards? Had her mother placed them in storage? Or taken them to the nearest dump?

  Why had she returned? Visiting her father only brought back bad memories. She’d hoped writing this latest book would finally bring her some kind of peace, but was that even possible? Sarah was dead, and even if she did discover the truth about what had happened that night, she would remain dead.