Even Pretty Things Rot: A dark, heart-pounding psychic thriller

by Farah Ali

  Jack smiled sadly. ‘Justice.’

  He shoved both hands into his pockets and loped away across George’s land until he disappeared from view.

  ***

  Daisy grabbed the last bread roll from the basket and spread butter over it, watching her father gather his mashed potatoes into a peak before smearing the heap against the plate. He’d been lost in thought since she arrived and hadn’t yet taken a bite of his dinner.

  ‘Dad?’

  No response. Daisy slammed the knife on top of the oilcloth placemat. As if waking from a dream George blinked rapidly and frowned.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Is something wrong? Is it the farm?’

  George pushed his untasted food away and studied his daughter. She looked like her aunt. Harder and bolder than Amelia, but the resemblance was there. His Adam’s apple bobbed and his eyes grew watery. In a flash he saw Amelia, her eyes full of trust and admiration as he taught her how to cartwheel. How they had supported each other when their mother, a single parent, had died of breast cancer in their late teens. A tear slid down his cheek and dropped off his chin.

  Daisy reached over and touched his hand. George clutched her fingers hard enough to hurt.

  ‘Tell me what’s wrong. Are you sick?’

  ‘No. The case has been reopened.’

  ‘The case?’

  George swiped a palm against his damp cheeks. ‘Your aunt and uncle.’

  Daisy stared. ‘The Cassandra case? But...but...I don’t understand. How can it be reopened? Uncle Noah did it, didn’t he? We all know that. Dad?’

  George pushed his chair back from the table. ‘That’s not what the Inspector thinks,’ he growled, staggering out of the kitchen, his face drawn.

  Daisy sipped her wine trying to process the bombshell. She grabbed the bottle and topped her glass up. The murder-suicide had become so established in Deerleap history it was impossible to think anyone other than Noah Cassandra was guilty. She couldn’t understand why the Inspector was even bothering with such an old crime. Daisy shook her head and gave a bitter laugh.

  ‘Lila. He’s doing it because Lila asked him to. Probably wants to get into her panties.’ Anger surged inside her. ‘Stupid girl, don’t you know what you’re putting Dad through?’

  Daisy drained the glass then rested her chin on her palm. Try as she might she couldn’t blame her cousin. Lila was right. After all this time, after putting up with everyone’s disinterest and incredulity, Lila was right. According to Inspector Montague her father was innocent. Could it be true?

  ‘Poor Dad. Poor Lila. Poor everyone.’

  Daisy scraped two full dinner plates into the bin then dumped them in the sink. Feeling sorry for herself she downed another glass of wine hoping to shift a sudden sense of foreboding. Nothing good could come out of raking up the past. Lila’s family was dead, nothing would bring them back. Why couldn’t Lila just let go?

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Alika handed Warren a cup of coffee and sat down at a round table with a scoop of pecan flavour ice cream. The temptation to order a double scoop was strong, but she knew she would regret it tomorrow.

  She tutted. ‘Trust you to choose the one wobbly table in the whole place.’

  Warren grinned. ‘We can move. It’s practically empty.’

  ‘It’s all right, I don’t really care.’ Alika ate a dollop of ice cream and groaned in ecstasy licking the underside of the plastic spoon. ‘So good. Sure you don’t want one?’

  ‘Nope. Coffee is good enough for me. I’m not an ice cream fan.’

  Baffled, Alika shook her head. ‘You’re weird. But I still like you.’

  She gazed around Happy Cones and sighed. A heavy-set employee swept the floor nearby mouthing the words to a silly pop tune on the stereo. It was Alika’s first break all day, but she felt guilty.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing. Well, not nothing. The case. It’s...’ she trailed off shaking her head.

  Warren stirred a packet of sugar into the steaming cup. ‘Yeah. I know. It’s shit.’ He pressed his lips together.

  ‘Just so depressing to be getting nowhere after all these weeks.’ Alika was silent for a minute. ‘But at least no one else has been taken. I don’t think I could bear it if it happened again. I saw Belinda Hayle at the bakery this morning. Man, it was hard to look her in the eye.’

  Warren’s face hardened. ‘Tell me about it. But the Inspector knows what he’s doing and if anyone has a chance to catch this nutcase it’ll be him. I wasn’t sure about him at first, you know, cos he was from the city and all, but he’s a good guy.’

  Warren had gotten along well with David Ash. Mrs Ash had often invited him round for dinner and it had hit him hard when the Inspector committed suicide. But he had to admit that Ash wasn’t a good investigator. He never liked getting his hands dirty and spent a lot of time hanging out with the mayor and the police chief. Jack was different. He was methodical and Warren admired his work ethic. It was obvious to everyone he didn’t get along with Patrick and Angus.

  Alika leaned forwards. ‘I’ve been wondering about something. About Lila Cassandra. I mean, the only reason we ever found Bianca and Abigail was thanks to her. Maybe she’s the key to catching this creep. You know, by using her psychic powers.’

  A clatter to the left made them swivel on their chairs. The Happy Cones worker had dropped his broom. He picked it up and carried on sweeping, edging a little closer to their table.

  Warren chuckled and lowered his voice. ‘You think Jack hasn’t tried that already?’

  ‘What? Really? He never mentioned it to me.’

  ‘I don’t know for sure.’ He shrugged. ‘But our Inspector is thorough and I think they’ve already tried that. Obviously it didn’t work, otherwise...’

  Disappointed, Alika wiped her mouth on a napkin. ‘I suppose. But who knows. I don’t know how psychic powers work, but maybe she’ll have a vision or something.’ She gave a bitter laugh. ‘Look at us. Unable to catch a murderer in our own town and discussing whether the local psychic can do it for us.’

  They exchanged glum looks until Alika glanced at her watch. ‘Come on, let’s get back to the station. There are three leads from the psychiatric hospital I want to follow up with the Inspector.’

  Tucking their chairs in, they waved goodbye to Mrs Rogers behind the counter and threw their rubbish in the bin near the door. Neither of them noticed the glittering eyes and the shrewd and calculating smile of the Happy Cones employee watching them through the window.

  ***

  ‘A psychic?’

  Bert nodded enthusiastically.

  ‘Are you telling me a psychic found my projects? That all my hard work was undone by a psychic? But that’s utterly ridiculous. If she was a real psychic the police would have caught us by now.’

  Bert poured more lotion and rubbed it between his hands before applying it to Alma’s feet and legs. The skin here was scaly and a lot bumpier than her upper body.

  ‘Well, that’s what I heard. And they’re police officers, so...’

  Scoffing, Alma leaned back on the rosebud chintz bedding and wriggled her toes. There was a gap at the end of her right foot where she’d lost two, but the others worked just fine.

  ‘What did you say her name was again?’

  ‘Lila. Lila Cassandra. She’s the niece of a farmer, George Gallahue. Her father killed her mother and sister and then—‘

  But Alma wasn’t interested in all that. ‘You know where she lives?’

  Bert’s fingers kneaded her calves. ‘By the old windmill. I asked Bobby at the post office. It’s quiet there, hardly any houses. She’s got a shop and I think she lives alone.’

  He paused and looked up. Alma’s good eye was narrowed into a slit.

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  Alma’s lips curved. This Cassandra woman had caused untold misery and inconvenience. Not to mention a bucket-load of marital discord. Of course she wasn’t psychic, but som
ehow or another she had discovered where Bert had hid her projects. If it wasn’t for Lila the police would have thought Bianca Hayle ran away. She had stuck her nose into Alma’s business and she had to pay.

  ‘I think I’d like to meet Miss Cassandra and find out for myself how she did it.’

  Bert stopped massaging. ‘Meet her?’ he asked dully, his hands still gripping Alma’s leg.

  ‘Yes. Of course.’

  Regret swarmed up Bert’s back. He’d been so excited to tell Alma about what he’d overheard after loitering behind those police officers that he hadn’t stopped to think. He’d hurried home early from Happy Cones telling a sceptical Mrs Rogers he had stomach trouble, bursting into the cabin with his news and interrupting Alma’s nap.

  He had a horrible feeling that his quest for approval was about to bite him. Bert had enjoyed a nice worry-free week ever since he had given Pari to Alma. She had been calm and loving and happily preoccupied, but now more trouble was brewing. I should have known better. Of course Alma would want to retaliate immediately. Don’t you know her at all, you fool? He wanted to kick himself. If only he’d had the foresight to deal with the issue himself.

  Careful to keep his tone neutral he asked, ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea, love? I mean, if she’s close to the police and all...it might cause problems.’

  Alma sat up and wrenched her leg away. ‘Problems? What problems? The only problems have been caused by that wretched girl.’

  Bert tugged his bottom lip. ‘But if she’s psychic...it’s not really her fault is it?’

  Alma, on the verge of shouting, suddenly burst into peals of gruff laughter. ‘Oh my, Bert. You’re so gullible.’ She slipped her feet into a pair of velvet house slippers and tenderly held his chin. ‘For argument’s sake let’s say she is psychic. Isn’t it just a matter of time before she has another dream, or vision, or visit from the devil, and sets the police onto our trail? Hmm?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Bert got up from the floor grimacing a little at the soreness in his knees. ‘If that’s what you want, Alma.’

  ‘Just give me a little time to think about what to do. You mustn’t worry sweetheart, Alma knows what she’s doing.’

  Bert opened his mouth then closed it again. Humming, Alma glided over to the row of mannequin heads and picked up her newest hairpiece running a boar-bristle hairbrush through it in long, smooth movements.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Lila stared uncomprehendingly at the pages in her lap. She’d started reading the library book in the morning, but the words meandered and swam in front of her dry, tired eyes. Giving up, she tossed the book aside and considered making some jewellery or painting a pair of antlers, but lethargy made it difficult to move.

  An hour later as the sky changed from grey to gold-streaked pink, Lila summoned the energy to stand. She got the duster from the stockroom and ran the fibres over the goods in her shop. It had been a slow week with hardly any sales. She was running out of supplies, but didn’t have enough money to go to the supermarket. Paying a visit to George’s house was an option, but Lila felt too fragile to deal with her uncle’s disapproval and Daisy’s acerbic words. No, she’d rather go hungry for now and make do with her vegetable crop.

  She wiped down the old but ornamental mirror she’d found in a skip and hung on the wall to make the room look bigger. A tornado of sadness blasted through Lila as she studied her reflection. Why was she even here? Why had she come to Deerleap? To scrape by on a pittance? To be mocked and distrusted and rebuked? She had nothing and no one.

  She pressed her forehead against the mirror fogging up the glass with her breath. Lila had been told early on that her parents were dead, but all she’d dreamed about during her dismal childhood in foster care was being rescued by long-lost relatives. When George had written that letter just before her eighteenth birthday she thought all her dreams had come true. She had come to Deerleap to be close to her newly discovered relatives, to mourn her parents and sister with sympathetic people, and to seek the truth about their deaths. But after five years in the Hollow what had she achieved? What had she to show for it?

  Using her sleeve Lila wiped the mirror. Wounded eyes stared back at her. I’ll leave. Yes, that’s it I’ll leave. I won’t tell anyone, I’ll just pack up and go. It’ll be better for George and Daisy.

  The shadows of three headstones passed over the glass.

  I can’t. I can’t leave my family. For better or for worse, Lila had to stay.

  The bell above the door jingled. Stepping away from the mirror Lila plastered a smile on her face. A woman with very long straight black hair in a heart-patterned knee length skirt rummaged through one of the wicker baskets. Her back was turned and Lila could smell her strong floral perfume.

  ‘Welcome. Let me know if you need anything.’

  The woman nodded. With a frown Lila resumed dusting the antlers unsure what had caused the queasy sensation in her belly and the dryness in her mouth.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  The voice was rough and unpleasant, but oddly familiar. Lila glanced sideways and a little gasp escaped before she could stop it. One white and cloudy eye, the other blue and glacial, peered up at her. A ravaged nose and blotchy, taut overlapping skin the result of many skin grafts made Lila’s wrists throb in pity. The stark contrast between the disfigured features and the lustrous hair shining with health and vitality was grotesque and Lila looked away, her breath caught in her throat.

  As if reading her mind, the uneven lips coated in red lipstick spread and Lila saw the gleam of white teeth.

  ‘It’s real human hair. Pretty isn’t it?’ Alma ran her fingers through the strands. ‘I’ve always loved long hair, but real hair is expensive and sadly most of my collection is synthetic.’

  The single blue eye roved over Lila, taking in her frame, her ripped jeans and her dark circles, lingering a little too long on Lila’s barely swelling chest and her naked feet. Lila crossed her arms and shifted away unable to shake the feeling she had been assessed and was found wanting.

  ‘Are you...are you looking for anything in particular?’

  Alma cast a disdainful look around the shop, grimacing when she saw the antlers. ‘Urgh. Ugly, nasty things. No, I’m not here to shop. Are you Lila Cassandra?’

  Displaced dust swirled in the sunlight around them. Reluctantly Lila nodded.

  ‘Good, very good. Do you know who I am?’

  Slowly, Lila shook her head. ‘No. No I don’t.’

  Alma’s good eye flashed. ‘I thought so. Never mind. I’m Alma and I hear you’re a psychic.’

  Lila, distracted by the grief of the last week and fatigued by lack of sleep, was unable to interpret the buzzing in her head or the warning in her heart. Ignoring the creeping dread and prickling at the back of her neck, she chided herself.

  What’s wrong with you? The poor woman can’t help the way she looks. Think about the bravery it must take to face the world every day. Grow up.

  ‘Would...would you like a reading? I’m free now.’

  ‘Oh yes. That would be wonderful.’

  Lila headed towards the stairs.

  Alma glanced towards the front door. ‘What about your customers?’

  ‘It’s all right. If somebody comes in I’ll hear the bell.’ Lila smiled uneasily. ‘I’m sure we won’t be disturbed, I don’t get a lot of customers.’

  Alma brushed down her skirt. ‘Oh good. We have a lot to talk about.’

  Sprightly footsteps followed Lila up the stairs. She went into the kitchen and drank straight from the bottle of orange juice in the fridge, her heart pattering in her chest.

  Back in the living room Alma peered at Tulip working a finger between the thin metal bars. Tulip hopped as far away from her as he could.

  ‘I thought canaries were supposed to sing.’

  Lila swallowed, tugging on her sleeves. ‘He does, sometimes.’

  Straightening, Alma cast a thoughtful look around Lila’s cluttered living room. ‘So t
his is where you live.’

  ‘We can do the reading in the kitchen, there’s a table and chairs in there.’

  Alma settled in the seat, placing her handbag on the table with a smirk. Lila sat opposite and picked up her block of turquoise, forcing a smile.

  ‘I hope it works, but I should warn you that sometimes it doesn’t and it can be disappointing. Is there someone you want to contact, or do you have a specific question? If not we can just do a general reading and see where it leads us.’

  Alma chuckled. ‘I have to say I’m a little sceptical, but...let’s see. Why don’t you show me what you’ve got?’

  Lila took a deep breath and closed her eyes trying not to wrinkle her nose in distaste. Alma’s overpowering perfume was making her dizzy. She focused on the weight of the turquoise in her hand and pictured the woman opposite her.

  Alma coughed but to Lila it sounded far away. A veil of darkness wrapped itself around her.

  Alma sneered and shook her head in disgust at the spectacle in front of her. The so-called psychic knew how to put on a good show, sitting there clutching a stupid rock, her eyes flitting from side to side beneath her lids, her mouth falling open like a moron. And to think this was the person responsible for all her heartache and trouble. She gave a derisory snort.

  But Lila was too deep in the void to hear it. Colours swirled around her, blurred at first before sharpening to form an image. A cabin surrounded by ancient, crooked trees. She could smell smoke, but there were no flames.

  Lila’s bare feet brushed through damp, cool grass as she came towards it. The door swung open with a creak and Lila screamed as thousands of flies swarmed out and enveloped her in a writhing mass of legs and eyes, deafening her with the droning of their wings.

  She swung her arms almost mad with terror, stuffing her fingers into her mouth to clear out the flies crawling down her throat.

  On the other side of the table Alma cocked her head, puzzled. The Cassandra girl was jerking and whimpering, the knuckles of the hand clutching the turquoise white as bone.