Okay, one step at a time. Were they the same earrings? Libby ran upstairs and tiptoed into Zoë’s room, checking in the jewellery box. Empty. Completely empty. Okay, Zoë had pretty much moved into Jonathan’s, but she’d only taken her bare essentials, and Rich’s birthday present earrings hadn’t been one of them. But now, they’d gone. Arse.
Libby went to the bathroom and flushed the loo, keeping up her lie before heading downstairs for the confrontation from hell.
‘How come you’re back?’ Libby said, back in the kitchen.
‘Just grabbing some more stuff.’ Zoë held up a jug, pouring a second glass of the orange-coloured drink. ‘We should celebrate your return to the ballet world. We’ve got no fizz left, so it’s orange and wine. When are you moving to London? Will you live with Paolo or get your own place?’
‘I don’t know.’ Libby took the glass, taking in Zoë’s red eyes and letting concern override her suspicions. ‘What’s wrong, Zo?’
Zoë’s lip wobbled, but she took a massive gulp of her drink. ‘Ed spilled the beans and Jonathan kicked me out. I’m getting away for a bit.’
Oh god, no. Libby pushed the photo into her back pocket. This wasn’t the time to ask about Maggie. ‘Where are you going?’
‘My mum and dad’s.’ Zoë wiped her eyes. ‘I could do with being looked after for a while.’
‘And your mum’s chicken soup?’ Libby sipped her drink, grateful for the booze to calm her nerves. She had to ask about the earrings, but poor Zoë looked ready to crack.
‘I’ll be back in a week or so.’ Zoë sat in front of a mirror, facing the window as she applied her foundation. ‘How was London?’
‘Not as good as here.’
‘And Patrick?’
‘He texted me last night, being nice. Hot. Back to cold today.’
‘Tell me all about it. Misery loves company.’
Libby knocked back her drink, explaining about being back at the ballet, being out with Paolo, all the while watching Zoë apply her usual, immaculate make-up – subtle brown eye shadow, a thin line of liquid liner on her top lashes, a hint of peach blusher. The mascara was going on. The job would be finished and Zoë would leave. Libby’s heart raced.
‘Zo, I need to talk to you about something.’
‘Is it important, or can you ring me later? I have a taxi coming in about ten minutes and I still need to do my hair.’
‘Yes, it’s important,’ Libby said, helping herself to a second glass of the buck’s flat. Her mouth was like sandpaper from nerves. ‘The earrings...’
Libby stared at her hand, fascinated by the colour of her lilac nails. So much prettier than usual.
Zoë paused, her mascara wand hovering. ‘What earrings?’
‘The diamond ones you wouldn’t let me wear on Christmas Eve. Where did you get them?’
‘Oh, those.’ Zoë went back to her mascara. ‘Rich. You know that.’
‘It’s just, I’ve seen a photo...’ Libby’s hand left tracing patterns in the air. This wasn’t right. This was wrong. Her breath came in quick, short bursts.
Zoë put her make-up away. ‘Are you feeling okay? You look woozy. Have you eaten today?’
‘No...’ Libby fanned herself. ‘...was meant to have brunch with your dad, but... had to leave when...’
‘My dad?’
Libby slumped against the wall, sliding down it. Why could she see red snakes hiding under the towel wrapped around Zoë’s head? Libby blinked, trying to focus, but Zoë’s head split into a kaleidoscope of shapes and colours. ‘Don’t feel very good.’
Zoë crouched beside her. ‘You were having brunch with my dad, why?’
‘He wanted to know how you were.’ Libby closed her eyes, shutting out the bright lights.
‘Libby…’
‘Lib? Libby?’
A dull ached throbbed against her brain, but Libby opened her eyes, flinching at the bright light in the room.
‘Libby, drink this. It’s water.’ A strange girl with scarlet hair pushed a glass nearer to Libby’s lips. A thick fringe and glasses obscured the girl’s eyes, but what Libby could see seemed familiar.
‘Zoë?’
‘You’re okay. Scared me a bit, but you’re okay.’
‘What did you give me?’
‘Sheila’s special edition elderflower wine.’
‘You poisoned me?’
‘Sedated you. There’s a difference.’ The new Zoë helped her sip more water. ‘Now, I haven’t got long. I reckon Ed will have told his dad by now, and Jonathan might be tempted to ring the police.’
‘Ed knows you stole the earrings?’
‘Of course not, but how do you know about the earrings, Libby?’
‘The photo.’ Libby summoned enough energy to take the photo from her pocket. ‘Maggie’s wearing them. You stole them from her, didn’t you? I mean if she’d given them to you, you wouldn’t have said Rich gave them to you. Why didn’t you tell me about her?’
‘About who?’
‘Maggie. Why didn’t you tell me she’s your mother?’
Zoë took the photo. ‘Who’s she with?’
‘Did you steal the earrings?’
‘Who is he?’
‘I asked first.’
Zoë sighed, scowling with frustration. ‘Yes. My parents finally gave me my birth certificate and there it was, in black and white. Mother, Margaret Keeley. Father, unknown. The fucking whore didn’t even know his name. I came up here, to see her, to know why she gave me away. The stupid cow actually cried, saying she’d wanted to tell me for years. She showed me the earrings, telling me that my father gave them to her the day I was born and that they’d be mine one day.
‘How dare she keep the fucking earrings when she wouldn’t keep me? She wouldn’t tell me who he is. She just kept going on and on about how much she loved me. What a joke? She didn’t love me. If she had, she wouldn’t have starved me for days on end.’ Zoë wiped at her tears, now leaving black streaks down her cheeks. ‘Who’s this man?’
‘Your father. When did you steal the earrings?’
‘The night she died.’
‘Did you kill her?’
‘It wasn’t intentional. I went to get the earrings while she was out at that pagan festival. She came back early, and the opportunity was too good to miss. She tripped over that stupid cat. She would’ve fallen down the stairs without me laying a finger on her, but I couldn’t resist helping out. How are you feeling?’
‘Like my best friend’s poisoned me.’
A little clarity came over Libby, the belladonna cloud clearing, and she studied the girl crouching in front of her. The new Zoë wore black crap around her eyes, Libby’s ACDC t-shirt and favourite purple striped tights. In fact, only the ancient Converse boots were Zoë’s own. ‘You’re in disguise.’
‘Pretty good, hey?’
‘Why’s Ed going to ring the police?’
‘Because I killed his mother.’
Libby tried to stand, but her legs wouldn’t work. ‘You murdered Fee?’
‘Well, I say killed, more provided the ketamine. No one forced the old bag to take it.’ Zoë shrugged. ‘I only wanted to make sure I could fuck Jonathan in peace. She had a habit of accidentally walking in and watching when she was high. Weirdo.’
‘You broke into Patrick’s’ surgery?’
‘It’s funny, but you were practically my accomplice. You taught me about alarm override codes and kept Patrick entertained. Like Maggie, the opportunity was too good to miss.’
Tears streamed down Libby’s face as the belladonna took hold again and the girl with red hair no longer resembled Zoë. Where had Zoë gone? Libby shrank away from the stranger. Why was this girl with red hair and glasses trying to kill her? Zoë. Where was Zoë? No, it was Zoë. She’d dyed her hair. It didn’t look like Zoë. Fighting to stop her mind fragmenting again, Libby pinched the skin on the back of her wrist.
‘I have to go.’ Zoë crouched down, peering into Libby’s eyes. ‘Who
’s my father?’
‘Please don’t leave me.’
‘They’ll arrest me. I have to go. Who’s my father?’
‘Seamus Doyle. He’s a poet.’
‘Thank you.’ Zoë took a shaky breath and kissed her cheek. ‘I’ve been abandoned by my birth mother, abandoned by my birth father and my adoptive parents were more than happy to send me off every summer to be tortured by the old witch I now know is my mother. You’re the only person who’s ever been there for me. I’m sorry, but I have to do this. I just need an hour or so to get away. Just a little to knock you out for a while longer.’
Zoë opened a small bottle, sucking up a little liquid with the pipette. Libby squinted, her eyes swimming in and out of focus. Belladonna. She tried to scream and fend Zoë off, but found her arms pinned to her sides. No, this wasn’t Zoë. It couldn’t be. Her Zoë would never do this. Libby sobbed as two drops fell onto her lips. The non-Zoë held the glass of water to Libby’s lips, making her sip.
‘I won’t let you die. I’ll ring Patrick in a bit.’
And the red-haired stranger Libby previously knew as her best-friend walked out of the back door, suitcase in hand. Libby closed her eyes, the light hurting them.
Please, Patrick. Don’t let me die.
* * *
‘Why are we doing this?’ Patrick slumped into a chair, grateful for the coffee break.
‘Because it’s a good deed and if you can’t do a good deed at Christmas, when can you?’ Grace handed him a mug of coffee, checking her phone.
‘After Christmas?’ Patrick yawned.
Freebie cat neutering. A genius idea. Well it was in principle, but when he’d agreed to do it, he hadn’t thought Grace meant to do it the day before New Year’s Eve. He was supposed to be on holiday and the whole experience was made ten times worse by his father offering to help.
‘Ohmigod, a message for you. Check it out.’ Grace handed Patrick her phone. ‘It’s from Paolo.’
‘Why does Paolo have your number?’
Grace twittered away about how she gave him her number at the Halloween party, but Patrick struggled to focus on anything but the photo. It showed a painting of Libby, again hugging her knees, but this time she was smiling, her eyes sparkling with blatant happiness. Christ, look at how happy dancing made her. She really did need to be back in London. Groaning, he pressed the phone to his forehead. London, I need to move to London. Thoroughly depressed, he tossed the phone back to Grace, but she laughed.
‘You didn’t read the message, did you?’ she asked.
He shook his head.
‘It says, The Fixed Ballerina is on her way back.’
What? Patrick jumped up, digging his own phone out of his jacket and switching it on. Shit. Ten missed calls from Libby and two from Zoë. He dialled Libby, but it rang out until the answer machine kicked in.
‘When did he send that?’
‘Two and a half hours ago.’
Should he just go to Oxenholme and meet her off the train? She could be already on her way. She could be home. No lights were on.
Where are you, Libs?
Breaking his own rule about keeping phones switched off while they were in surgery, Patrick habitually glanced to his phone, willing it to ring. In the midst of prepping a ginger tom called Lord Marmalade, finally, it did.
‘Zoë, where is she?’
‘I can’t talk, but Libby needs an ambulance. She’s at the cottage.’ Zoë ended the call.
Patrick stared at the phone. What the hell? ‘Grace, I’ll be back in a minute.’
He ran from the surgery, jumping down the steps and sprinting to Libby’s house. He knocked, but didn’t wait for an answer before opening the door.
‘Libs,’ he called, checking the living and dining rooms. ‘Libby?’
He found her in the kitchen, curled up on the wooden floor with Hyssop standing guard over her. Patrick knelt beside her and gently shook her, but her only reaction was to curl up tighter. Behind her closed lids, her eyes flitted around as though she were dreaming.
‘Libby? It’s Patrick. Can you hear me?’
He glanced around, looking for a cause, some explanation. On the worktop sat a bottle of elderflower wine and a letter addressed to Libby. Swearing, he pocketed the letter and scooped Libby up, begging her to hang on, as he ran back to the surgery.
‘Dad, Grace!’ he yelled, ignoring the alarmed expressions on the cat owners’ faces in the waiting room. Gently, he laid her on the empty examination table. ‘Come on, Libs. Wake up.’
His father was the first to arrive. ‘Libby? Patrick... what did you do–’
‘For Christ’s sake, Dad, you’ve fussed over me all fucking day. When did I get chance to do this?’ He paused as Grace came in. ‘Gracey, call an ambulance. I think it’s belladonna poisoning. Get rid of everyone then go to the cottage. There’s a bottle of elderflower wine in the kitchen. Bring it here. You’d better wear gloves.’
Grace stood staring at Libby’s limp body.
‘Now, Grace.’ He picked up his phone again and dialled Zoë. ‘Dad, do something.’
‘I’m not a doctor.’
‘No, you’re a vet, so pretend she’s a cat. Just check her pulse or something.’ The ringing on the phone stopped. ‘Zoë?’
‘Is she okay?’
‘Zoë, what happened?’
‘Is she awake?’
‘No. Is that the bottle of wine with the belladonna in? How much has she had?’
‘About two glasses. One did her no harm in August.’
‘Where are you?’ He stroked Libby’s hair back, but Zoë didn’t answer, a garbled tannoy filled the silence. ‘When did you leave her?’
‘About an hour ago. I thought she’d be awake by now.’ Zoë sobbed. ‘You will look after her, won’t you? And make sure she gets the letter. I have to go, but tell her I love her and I’m sorry. Promise you’ll look after her?’
‘I promise.’
Zoë ended the call and he tossed the phone aside.
‘Libby? It’s Patrick. Can you hear me, Libs?’ He held her hand, stroking her hair, and her fingers closed around his. Her eyes flickered but didn’t open. Gently, he kissed her forehead. ‘Hang in there, princess.’
Grace came back. ‘They’re on the way, but realistically, they’ll be at least fifteen minutes. Did she overdose because of you?’
‘No. I think Zoë poisoned her, but I have no idea why.’ Patrick laced his fingers with Libby’s. ‘Deadly Nightshade. Dad, what do you think?’
‘If she were a horse...’ Malcolm shook his head.
‘She’s not a horse.’ Patrick stared at Libby’s pale, beautiful face. ‘Grace, the Wicca side, what don’t I know?’
‘People use nightshade as a flying potion. It makes you hallucinate. She’ll be tripping her tits off. Maggie taught me to use it medicinally, for headaches and stuff.’ Grace took a deep breath. ‘She did say, if it went wrong and if it was a real emergency that I should give her physostigmine. Slow IV drip. No more than one mil every five minutes. Max two mil.’
Patrick swore. ‘What if it’s too much and kills her?’
‘What if it kills her not to have it?’ Grace asked, chewing her thumbnail.
‘Why?’
‘Last time, she had a small glass of that wine and was lucid and talking after thirty minutes. This is way worse.’ Grace began prepping an IV line. ‘I think she’s had more, a lot more. If we give her the physostigmine, we might stop any long-term damage and buy her some time ’til she gets to casualty and has her stomach pumped.’
‘Dad?’ Tell me not to. Tell me it’s a stupid idea.
‘We’ll take it slow and steady.’
Shit. Patrick went to get the physostigmine from the drugs locker, praying he wouldn’t have to do this, but when he came back into the room, Grace, the only RVN he knew who could put a cannula in a guinea pig, clearly hadn’t hesitated or buggered up putting one in Libby’s left hand. Fuck, the line and fluids were set up. He couldn
’t do this. He pulled a chair up, sitting beside Libby, holding her right hand and stroking her hair.
‘Libby?’ He rested his forehead against hers. ‘You need to wake up, right now. Please, princess. Let me know I don’t need to do this. Libs?’
Nothing. Her fingers no longer reacted to his and her eyes had stopped flickering.
‘Her heart rate’s slowed,’ his dad said, holding Libby’s left wrist. ‘Coma?’
Next stage, death. ‘Libby, come on.’
‘Let me do it,’ Grace said, quietly. ‘You could get struck off.’
‘Or thrown in jail.’ Patrick shook his head. ‘You’re not doing it.’
‘Neither are you.’ Malcolm took the vial. ‘They won’t throw me in jail and I’m already retired.’
‘No, Dad. Please, let me do it.’ Patrick held out his hand. ‘You wanted me to take responsibility, right? Well, she’s my responsibility.’
‘She might be. But my point was that you need to think about the consequences of your actions before you do them. If you do this and she dies... I’ll be damned if I let you live with this on your conscience.’
As his father added the drug to the drip, Patrick held Libby’s hand, praying his Broken Ballerina would wake up.
Stay with me, Libs. Please.
Chapter Forty-One
Libby’s eyes began flickering as the first of the blue lights flashed in the Green, but Patrick kept his vigil, holding her hand, smiling a little as her fingers curled around his.
‘Come on, Libs,’ he whispered, kissing her forehead for the hundredth time. ‘Fight through it. The ambulance is here, princess.’
‘Actually, it’s not.’ Grace peered through the window. ‘It’s one of them ER docs on a motorbike. Fingers crossed for a George Clooney lookalike.’
As Grace went out to meet the doctor, Patrick took a deep breath, but didn’t look away from Libby’s face.
‘Dad?’ He cleared his throat. ‘If she... when Libby’s okay, we’re going to go out. Scott’s sorting things out to stop Wray printing any ludicrous stories, but people will talk. I can’t stop that and if it breaks the Rules…’
‘Patrick, now’s not–’
‘I know it might take some time to gain your respect, but if you do sack me, I was thinking, maybe I could buy the practice. I don’t want to set up shop in competition with you, but I’m not giving up everything I have here.’ Patrick dared to face his dad.
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