by Ruth Dugdall
‘Dad’s busy, love.’
She frowns. ‘Then why are you here?’
Mrs Hollingsworth watches with interest, but her lips remain sealed. Now is not the time to tell Victoria about your death. I decide to play it safe with my answer, though I hope to never see this place again.
‘I’ve come to take you home, love. Because I missed seeing you at half-term.’
‘But lessons start on Monday. Am I allowed?’
‘Of course.’ I open my arms to Victoria, holding my daughter in a grip that feels unnatural and forced despite my love, my fierce love, for this teenager who’s as tall as me now. She kisses my cheek and I’m grateful for the stickiness of her lip balm.
‘Can Dawn come?’
‘No, she has to attend her classes, I can’t remove her from school.’
Her look of disappointment stabs my heart.
Victoria and Dawn’s room is small but full of light, two beds on opposite walls with identical desks, tossed Hollister hoodies and teddy bears, a life-size poster of Ed Sheeran, his freckled face covered in lipstick kisses the girls have added, and lots of photos – two years’ worth of selfies: the girls in various places and poses. I’m not just taking Victoria home, I’m removing her from one too.
‘If I can miss classes, why can’t Dawn?’ She’s still sulking about this, still trying to push me into giving in. ‘I bet Dad wouldn’t mind.’
‘Well, I would. There’s something I need to talk to you about, something’s happened.’
She pulls a sports bag from under her bead and begins to pack. ‘Are you and Dad splitting up?’
I feel like I’ve been slapped, and I wonder if she’s intuited something that I’ve missed. ‘Of course we’re not! Why would you say something like that?’
She pushes a few more items into the bag. ‘It was what I thought of when my half-term trip home got cancelled. And now you’re here, taking me out of school – you never collect me.’
I busy myself with trying to help, folding up some pyjamas bottoms from her bed. ‘They’re Dawn’s,’ she says, snatching them from me just as the door flies open and Dawn comes rushing in, dark hair springing from her head and her eyes already moist with tears.
‘Tori!’
She flings herself at Victoria and they cling to each other like monkeys. They talk quickly, panicky about the few days they’ll be separated. The girls are getting older and changing – Dawn’s voice has more depth, she’s lost the girlish pitch. My eyes light on her bedside locker, and the framed picture, presumably her mother, whom I’ve never met. Still though, her face is familiar to me.
I pick up the frame to get a better look. She’s a beautiful woman, striking, with skin like mocha and dark silk-spun hair, Cleopatra-like. Then I know: she’s the woman I saw leaving my home on Friday afternoon in the business suit. The one I thought I heard fucking him, until I told myself I was being paranoid. I was the only one who could see the truth about the shooting, now I wonder if I was right about this too. You certainly thought so, didn’t you, Mum? ‘Could she have just dressed quickly?’ you asked. This woman is beautiful, slim, athletic-looking. I bet she works out; I bet she looks after herself. She reminds me of his ex, the Olympic cyclist. So much more his type than my slovenly, scarred self.
It’s only when I realise that Dawn is watching me that I hastily replace the frame. ‘Hi, Dawn. How are you?’
‘Fine, thank you, Cassandra,’ she says, politely, though her eyes are full of tears and she’s still clutching Victoria’s hand.
Like Victoria, Dawn has transformed since I saw her last: her face has narrowed and her lips are fuller. She’s an early vision of the woman she will become – the beautiful woman her mother already is. I stare at her face, and wonder what other secrets are being kept from me.
We’re on the A140, just past the boundary where Norfolk ends and Suffolk begins. The car’s speeding now. I’ve merged into the fast lane, fizzy with euphoria now my girl is by my side. But I know I need to tell Victoria what’s happened; it’s not fair to keep it from her.
‘When Dad said you couldn’t come home for half-term because I was ill, it wasn’t true, love. It’s Granny.’
‘What’s wrong with her?’ she asks, so lightly that she can have no idea of what’s coming.
Somehow the fact that I’m focusing on the road makes it bearable to say the words.
‘She’s gone, love. She died yesterday.’
‘What?’ I know she heard me and I can’t bring myself to repeat it. She turns to face me, twisting in the seat. ‘Granny’s dead ?’
‘I’m sorry.’ And I am. For both of us.
‘What happened?’
The inevitable question, still it throws me.
‘She had an accident.’ I’m trying to soften the blow, but Victoria’s face twists sharply in horror.
‘Mum! What accident?’
‘Grandad shot her. He says he was having a nightmare, love. He didn’t know what he was doing.’
She doesn’t take her eyes off me, I don’t take my eyes off the road.
‘How can Grandad have shot her?’ She’s asking me as if I have the answers, as if it doesn’t sound crazy to me too. I want to pull over, so I can at least hug her, but there’s no rest stop coming up and a lorry is tailing me, very close.
‘He was sleepwalking. You know how when people sleepwalk, they can move around and do things?’
‘Yeah, of course I know about that.’ She flings herself back in her seat. ‘Fuck, poor Granny.’ Her breathing has quickened, but she’s too stunned to cry. That will come later.
‘I know, love. It’s a hard thing to understand.’
Especially for me, now I know Daniel paid the architect that very morning. Is it possible Daniel shot you because you’d changed your mind about Samphire Health Spa? Or did Dad do it, in his sleep? Either scenario is crazy. Give me a sign, Mum, because I don’t understand any of this.
‘So Grandad didn’t know what he was doing?’
‘Not until he woke up, by then Janet and Ash had arrived. Janet called the ambulance and Granny was rushed to hospital.’
‘But they couldn’t save her?’
I frown at the road. ‘They did – she was in hospital. We thought she was going to be okay, but she never woke up. But then, without warning, she slipped away.’
Dark clouds break above us and rain spits on the windows. The fields become more familiar, the road now leads only to the sea, with a turning off that could easily be missed, to the isolated flatness of Innocence Lane.
‘Where’s Grandad now?’ she asks.
‘He’s in prison, love.’
‘But that’s not right! He was sleepwalking – it’s not his fault.’
How easily she’s accepted his explanation. It doesn’t even occur to her that it could be a lie. The heavens crack open and raindrops hammer on the windscreen, fat tears obscuring the way forward. As we drive on, another thought buzzes in my head: the woman in the photo. Why was she in my home?
‘Where does Dawn’s mum live?’
Victoria snivels, and takes a moment to answer. ‘Reydon, near Southwold. You know that!’
I ignore the tone of her voice, and allow her to be angry with me, though I don’t know why. None of this is my fault, but she’s confused and needs to direct her feelings somewhere.
‘She’s a single mother, isn’t she? What is it she does for a living?’
‘Dunno. Sells things around the country.’
‘What things?’
‘God, I don’t know, Mum. Water coolers, office equipment, boring things like that. Why?’
‘No reason. I just saw the photo of her on Dawn’s bedside cabinet and thought I recognised her. What about her dad? He’s white, I take it?’
Victoria looks at me, checking I’m not insulting her friend. ‘Dawn’s mixed-race, yeah. Just makes her more beautiful.’
‘Yes. I see that. What’s her mother’s name?’
‘Why the third degree?’ she demands.
I search for an answer. ‘I was just thinking how often we have Dawn to stay with us, and how nice it would be to get to know her mother better. And I can’t even recall her name!’
‘It’s Monica,’ she says.
Monica.
Daniel was speaking to her, on the phone, the night of the shooting. I told myself that my fears were delusional, that my jealousy was a sickness. Everyone has lied to me, everyone wants me to think I’m crazy, but I was right about the shooting.
Now I think I’m right about him having a lover.
28
Holly
Lying in Leif ’s arms, Holly found herself talking about Maya’s sudden death.
It would be in the evening papers anyway. Alfie Avon had covered the Innocence Lane shooting each day since it happened with tabloid prurience, and the ante was now upped. If anything, there would be even more interest in the case.
‘This is so sad, Sötnos.’
‘Tragic,’ she agreed. ‘Especially if Hector did it in his sleep, though it seems incredible.’
‘You doubt his story?’
‘My senses do.’
Clive had sent her an email. His prediction had been right: the court wanted a psychiatric report and because a bail hearing had been scheduled for Monday, Clive would be assessing Hector tomorrow at Norwich Prison, driving there after he’d finished running Team Talk at the library. Hector had been told of Maya’s death, and had been placed on suicide watch by the prison; her role would be as an observer. Clive had said in his message:
Come and observe. I checked with Jon and he’s taken you off Sunday’s rota.
It’ll be good experience for you. Meet me at the library at 10 and we can drive up together.
‘I just don’t believe Hector did it,’ she said, tracing Leif ’s clavicle with a light finger. ‘What about Ash – are the police really sure it isn’t him? What about that previous offence you told me about, the shooting? You said it showed a tendency.’
Leif was sleepy, his eyes half-shut. ‘Hmm? No, it was nothing, just something that happened when he was a little kid.’
A shivery sensation like premonition made her feel cold. ‘How old?’
‘Oh, eleven or so. He shot someone by accident with his air rifle. Just an accident . . .’
Holly felt herself start to shake. She knew what Leif was about to say, she felt as though she were in a dream where she needed to scream but couldn’t. Don’t say any more, please! But the words wouldn’t come.
‘Ja, it was a Halloween game that went wrong. Teenagers spooking each other out, playing in the woods, pretending to be ghosts. A girl got shot, but she didn’t want to press charges so he just got a caution.’
Holly moved closer, trying to steal warmth from Leif ’s body, seeking comfort from the world outside, but knowing it wouldn’t be enough.
The past had found her.
DAY 9
SUNDAY 9 NOVEMBER
29
Cassandra
Just eight days ago I woke to discover you’d been shot. So much has happened since then, but still I haven’t got the answers I want: I need to know if Dad really shot you in his sleep, and I need to know if Daniel is having an affair.
Your death, Dad’s confession, they can’t overwhelm me. I’ve been down that road before – it leads to weakness and madness, and being locked in a hospital against my will. I have to keep strong, if I’m going to find my answers. I know that Clive’s been asked to visit Dad at the prison today, but he has to run Team Talk first. That’s where I’ll start.
The library’s unlocked but deserted, just stacks of books and the hum of the central heating kicking in. The circle of chairs has already been set up and I look around for Alex, hear a scuttling sound from the staff room. When he appears, his face is bright tomato, hands flapping high near his neck.
‘Hi, Alex.’
‘Cassandra! I read Alfie Avon’s article in yesterday’s paper. I’m so s-s-sorry.’
I’d seen it too. The headline had lit up on my iPad when I switched it on this morning – Tragic Maya Dead: Cured of Cancer, Shot in Her Own Home. I hadn’t read on.
‘W-w-what are you doing here?’
‘I’m here for the meeting. I see you’ve already got the chairs out. Have you got the mugs ready for break time?’
He’s completely thrown by my response, relieved too. No one wants to talk about death. ‘Just did it. And I’ve p-p-put the kettle on.’
‘Well done. How’s this week been?’ Because other people have had a normal week, unbelievable though that seems.
‘Good. B-but . . . how are you?’
I can see he’s still thinking of that hideous article, all the lurid details of your death.
‘I’m okay. Or I will be. Don’t worry about me, Alex – let’s just think about getting everything ready for Team Talk.’
I’m in control here, a library manager, not a grieving daughter. I take the nearest chair, exhausted by my performance, mouth dry from the extra Prozac I popped this morning, but determined to show everyone that I’m a survivor.
The front door opens, then shuts, then opens again, banging awkwardly against the dented prow of a Silver Cross pram that’s seen better days. Squawks of protest erupt from within and then, as the pram’s pushed forward through the resistant door, Kerry appears, a dummy clasped in her mouth, a grubby rabbit in one hand as she tries to steer with the other. The wailing noise ceases abruptly when she removes the dummy from her own mouth and rams it into the baby’s.
‘My bloody sister was supposed to have him, but when I turned up at ’er flat, she’s still in bed with that shifty boyfriend of hers and the place was a tip. I wasn’t gonna leave him there!’
The infant spits out the dummy and howls. Kerry pushes the pram into the circle, between two chairs, wiggling it wildly, which I’m certain will only make her child cry more. ‘And I couldn’t not turn up, could I? It’s a condition of my probation.’
She looks at me imploringly, as does Alex, both glad I’ll make the decision.
‘We can’t have a baby disrupt the group,’ I say. ‘It’s not fair to the others.’
‘If I can just get him to sleep . . .’ Kerry jiggles the pram manically.
‘If he sleeps,’ I tell her, ‘he can stay.’
The door opens again. This time it’s Trish, who’s bleached her roots since the last meeting and is wearing carnival-pink lippie. She makes an instant beeline for the crying baby, picks him up and nestles him into her, cooing into his blotchy red face.
‘Ah! What an angel!’ She’s obviously deaf, but I’m glad no one’s focused on me. Maybe only Alex reads the papers.
Kerry collapses into a chair and the baby begins to settle, sucking on Trish’s finger and watching her animated clown-like smile in fascination. Alex takes orders for tea or coffee, carefully writing them on his pad before heading to the kitchen.
I can do this. I’ll help with the group then go home to spend time with Victoria. Then I’ll start planning your funeral.
Roger’s next to arrive in his threadbare suit, smelling of last night’s booze. He takes the chair furthest away from Trish and the baby, and looks at his watch.
‘Well, this makes a change from going to church. Where’s the chief ? Time we got started, isn’t it?’
When Clive walks through the door, the baby’s sleeping peacefully and the group’s ready. He looks surprised to see me, we exchange smiles, but I can’t ask him anything with everyone else already seated and waiting for him to begin.
‘Okay, everyone, first of all thank you for coming in on a Sunday. Last meeting I asked you all to make a mental note of a situation that troubled you, something that scared or angered you, made you sad.’ Clive pauses, and his gaze falls on me again, as if apologising for the irony. ‘Something that would normally unsettle you, but that you dealt with positively. Who’d like to go first?’
‘I will!’ says Trish. ‘My hubby came home on Friday practically swimming
in cheap booze and tropical perfume. Well, I wanted to scream at him – I wanted to go at him with a knife, to be honest! At least tear the crotch from his trousers.’ She takes a breath and Roger crosses his legs. ‘Then I remembered what Cass said about not opening up cans of worms. So, I got a bottle of Baileys and locked myself in the bathroom. I was in that bath for the rest of the night, getting drunk, and when I was wrinkled like a pickled walnut, I got out. He was asleep. I’d almost forgot how angry I was, I was so pissed and tired. I just got in the bed and went to sleep next to him and in the morning the stink of her perfume was gone!’
Trish looks triumphant and gives me a wink.
When we met last time I still believed it was best to keep things hidden, but now I’ve changed my mind. All the secrets that surround me are like sickening boils that need lancing.
Kerry says, ‘The prick got away with it then’, glancing at the pram. ‘Men always do.’
Trish juts out her chin. ‘But he’s still mine. That’s the main thing, ain’t it?’ She’s seeking my approval, is confused when I don’t give it.
Roger coughs. ‘I guess I’m next.’
Then, to everyone’s surprise, Clive says, ‘Actually, I’d like to share, if I may? I won’t give any specifics because of confidentiality, but it concerns a one-time patient of mine who’s had a very bad time recently. He had something of a breakdown recently and I wanted to help as best I could. I went into work mode and dealt with it objectively and coldly. I persuaded him to take antidepressant medication, when he said he didn’t want any. I was a doctor, but now I’m wondering if I should have just been a friend and listened, and offered emotional support. I’d like to ask the group: was I right?’
The room is silent. Even the baby seems to be thinking.
Roger speaks first. ‘You’re the psychiatrist, why’re you asking us?’
‘Because you’ve all been there, to that dark place, and you know what helps most: a friend, who listens with his heart, or a professional, who responds with his head. What’s better – a hug or a pill?’
He doesn’t look in my direction, but I can feel his attention straining across the circle, that mine is the only response he really wants.