“Yes.”
“Good. I want you to know that I do care about the fact that you were one of the few people on this earth to show me genuine kindness.”
I don’t know what to say in return. The hate is still there, simmering beneath the surface, and yet at the same time, there is love, and I can’t explain the love. I hate myself for it. I hate it. I thought the love was for a girl who didn’t exist, but now I see that parts of that girl are in Isabel, and I can’t escape the fact that I still have love for her.
“Shall we watch the tide come in together?” she asks.
There’s nothing more for me to say. At least I made sure that Tom got out before the water began making its way into the cave. At least he can get to safety. Part of me wonders whether this was inevitable and whether perhaps I deserve to die, but just as Isabel said, I still maintain that glimmer of hope that Tom found the police, or that I actually did manage to call DCI Murphy using the phone in my pocket.
The rock is hard against my back, and Isabel is heavy against my shoulder, both things a pleasant distraction from the low throbbing in my side. Then I realise that numbness is spreading all through me, alongside the freezing cold. I begin to shiver uncontrollably, but Isabel doesn’t seem to notice.
Water seeps into the cave, first about an inch, and then, a few moments later, at least two inches, then some more. It’s coming in quickly. I wonder how long it will take for the water to fill the entire cave. An hour? More? Less? Part of me wants it to sweep me away, out to sea.
As Isabel relaxes, she lets go of the knife. She lets out a contented sigh, relaxing into what I assume is the fate she has resigned herself to.
Her guard is down, and I recognise that I have one moment in which to act. I don’t pause to wonder whether I have the strength to do it before I lean over her and snatch the knife from the water. The pain is excruciating, but I push myself through it. Moving quickly, before she has time to react, I plunge the knife into her throat.
Isabel’s eyes open wide in shock. Then, oddly, she smiles. I yank the knife from her throat, trying not to see the jet of blood being expelled from the wound. I push her head down with my other hand, into the water.
“I’m sorry. I have to.”
I hold her head down as she writhes against me. Her fingernails dig into the flesh of my thighs. My head is light, woozy; I’m barely keeping hold of consciousness. Isabel begins to stop struggling as the water floods in, almost covering my legs now, and then a bright light comes with it.
I close my eyes, let go of her head, and the world slips away.
*
I’m ready to float away to sea, but instead I begin to cough, and once I’ve started, I can’t stop. The world comes to me in flashes. In one flash, a man’s face looms over me. In another flash, fluorescent lights are flickering above me. Then there’s another flash in which several people are tugging at parts of my body. I try to swat them away with my hands, but they won’t stop. Finally, the flashes stop, and I slip into a dream where I’m walking along the beach with Isabel. Pepsi the magpie lands on her shoulder and begins pecking at her flesh. Isabel just laughs and laughs and laughs…
“Leah?”
The world comes back again, and this time I can tell that it’s back for good. The man sitting next to me is DCI Murphy, and I’m immediately disappointed.
“Where’s Tom?” I ask.
“He went home to fetch you some things. How are you feeling?”
I gesture to my sore throat, and he passes me a glass of water. “You need to stop visiting me in hospitals,” I say after taking a sip. “People will talk. Oh, I’m okay, I guess. I’ve been better.” I glance down at the place where Isabel stabbed me.
“All stitched up. You lost a lot of blood and had to have a transfusion. The doctor will need to have a long talk with you, no doubt. Best asking her rather than me.” He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees.
“Did the phone thing work? Is that how you found us?”
The detective shakes his head. “The phone thing?”
“I thought I’d pressed the right buttons in my pocket.” I let out a little laugh. “I guess not, then. Was it Tom?”
He nods. “It was Tom. He called from a phone box and told us where you were.”
I lick my lips as I build up to the next question. We both know what it is, and we know how it worked out last time. My pulse quickens in preparation for the answer. But I have to know.
“Isabel?”
“She’s in intensive care. Unconscious.”
“This hospital?”
He shakes his head very slowly. “No.”
“Good.”
“She’s monitored 24/7. Leah, I won’t let her out. We have her now. It’s over.”
But I’m not sure I believe him. “I can’t believe she’s alive. I thought… I honestly thought I’d killed her.”
“You fought back,” he replies. “You hurt her badly.” Then he says pointedly, “In self-defence.” As his eyes penetrate mine, it’s almost as though he’s pleading silently.
I just smile and nod. “Of course it was.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
How far away are any of us from becoming murderers? One psychotic break could eliminate your ideas of morality and control.
We choose not to kill people every day. We converse with other people, kiss them, touch them, shake their hands, brush their hair, and we choose not to hurt them. But we’re all strong enough. Even little children can inflict pain on each other. We choose not to kill because to do so would remove us from the tribe. Only occasionally do we possess a motivation strong enough for us to kill another human being and not care about the tribe.
Sometimes a sickness causes that lack of remorse. Sometimes, in gangs and wars, killing is fundamental to being part of the tribe. Other times, a desire to live or a passionate rage overrides any remorse we might feel. Isabel, I now realise, knew that what she desired more than anything would isolate her for the rest of her life and condemn her to a miserable existence, either prison or poverty. She can’t be part of society and do the things she wants to do.
I understand that now.
What I can’t understand is what happened to Alison Finlay. I keep thinking back to the morning I turned on the television and the reporter announced the discovery of the body. Where was I that night? All I remember is the blood on my hands, washing them in the bathroom, and wondering what had happened.
A doctor comes to see me to inform me of the damage to my intestines and the difficulties I’ll be experiencing for the foreseeable future. The words “colostomy bag” are particularly jarring.
I’ve been awake for two or three hours at this point and still haven’t seen Tom, who is apparently at home gathering my things. I can’t stop thinking about the cave, especially Tom’s anger when he found out the truth. His anger in general has become a terrifying thing. Maybe he’s never coming back. Can I blame him? Maybe he’s better off out there on his own, without me around.
When the room door swings open, I hold my breath in anticipation, but it’s DCI Murphy back again to see how I’m doing.
“I wanted to let you know,” he says, “that Isabel regained consciousness this afternoon. Her throat is pretty torn up, but she was able to speak a little. She requested the presence of a police officer, and she confessed to the murders of Maisie Earnshaw, James Gorden, Alison Finlay, and Chloe Anderson. She also confessed to the kidnapping and assault of you and Tom. That was all she could say, but she hinted that she will be giving us more details and telling us how Owen and David Fielding came into play with the murders.”
Stunned, all I can do is nod. “She confessed to them all?”
He nods. “She confessed to them all. It’s all over, Leah. And this time, I’m going to do everything in my power to ensure that Isabel goes into a maximum-security prison, not a psychiatric hospital. She won’t be getting out ever again. You have my word on that.”
“Don’t make a
promise,” I say. “Just… don’t.”
“All right, then, I won’t. But you have to promise—okay, try, at least, to live a normal life without even thinking about Isabel Fielding, because you can do that now.”
I force a smile. “All right, then.”
“There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about. That missing girl from the forties, Abigail Hawker. I did some research, and I found the family who disappeared, the Pierces. They’re both dead, obviously, but I found a relative, and here are their details. Now, I have to warn you, if it was them, Abigail did not move away with them alive. They lived without children until they died. The relative is a descendant of the wife’s niece. Great-grand-niece, or something like that.” He hands me a piece of paper.
“Thank you.” I take the paper and pop it into my bedside table for later. “I mean it. You’ve been… Well, you know.”
As he nods, tears begin to well up, even though I don’t want them to. I never used to cry like this. Perhaps it doesn’t matter how often you cry when you’ve been to hell and back.
“I’ll have an officer come in to take a statement about what happened with Isabel in the cave. A nice officer. Remember, though, it was all self-defence. Isabel had stabbed you, after all.”
“She had.”
As he walks out of the room, I wonder what he saw entering the cave. A helpless Isabel drowning and me pushing her head down into the water? Or did they arrive in time to see me stab her, too? I’m not sure how far away they were when it happened, and it’s all such a blur.
*
When I wake, there’s a pile of freshly laundered clothes on the chair next to my bed, including pyjamas and slippers. My bag is on top, and I search through it to find my keys and wallet. Up till now, I haven’t thought to check my phone, which I discover is in the little table. It’s dry now, though it obviously would have been wet during the event with Isabel. I have plenty of missed calls, nearly all of them from DCI Murphy. But there are also two missed calls from Mark, and one from work. I grit my teeth and begin working my way through the voicemails, dreading the messages that will no doubt transport me back to that night.
Murphy’s voicemail begins by assuring me that the police are on their way. Not long after that, he left another message about the caravan number. After that, the messages are all asking where I am. Later, he stops leaving messages and just hangs up.
The message from Mark is an apology, along with a promise to explain his reaction the next time he sees me.
The one from work is disturbing. They tell me that George suffered a minor stroke and that he might not have much time left. I knew he’d been failing recently, but according to the message, his sudden deterioration was a surprise. Of course, the elderly suffer strokes like this very commonly, but I can’t help but feel suspicious, because now I remember what Isabel said to me.
She said she’d seen me at work. And later, she said I would be in for a surprise. Did Isabel hurt George?
I long to get out of this bed, but I can barely move. Instead, I decide to call Mark and ask him how George is doing.
After a brief conversation with a tired-sounding Mark, he promises to visit today before the end of visiting hours, and I’m left waiting alone, wondering. Where is Tom?
A nurse comes in to check my dressings. Her rough fingers poke and prod me, but I know it’s nothing personal. Sometimes a little pain is an unpleasant side-effect of being cared for.
“Have you seen my little brother? Well, he isn’t little anymore. Tom?”
“With the dark hair? Quite tall? Late teens?”
“That’s him.”
“He dropped off some clothes for you about an hour ago,” she says, turning me slightly so that she can clean me up. “And there was a note, I think.”
I didn’t notice the note. As soon as the nurse has left, I pull the chair closer so I can rifle through the belongings Tom left for me. Sure enough, tucked between clean underwear and a pair of jeans is an envelope. With a sense of dread, I tear it open and devour the contents.
Leah,
It’s nothing you said or did. I just need to go.
I brought you some things. The police have my statement. I need time, okay? Don’t try to find me.
Tom
Isabel might as well have driven that knife into my intestines again. No love. No well wishes. Nothing. The note is cold and emotionless, just like he has become. I put the note back in the envelope and press my fingers against my eyes to block out the light. Don’t try to find me. How long is he planning on being away from me? After everything that’s happened, he’s left me. Gone. And now I have no family left.
“Is this a bad time?”
Mark is standing halfway into the room, holding the door open. His face is etched with worry, and his smiling eyes have turned tired, but I’m surprised by how pleased I am to see him.
“Come in,” I say. “Sorry. I just found out that Tom… I mean Scott; that’s the name you know… He’s decided to leave.”
“While you’re in hospital?” Mark steps closer and hovers near the bed. “Jesus.”
“I know.” I shake my head. “Maybe he needs time alone.”
“He should be taking care of you.” He reaches down and gently pats my hand. “I’m sorry about everything. About that day in your house. If I hadn’t left you alone, Isabel might not have—”
“Or there would be another person in the hospital,” I point out. “I’m glad you didn’t end up involved with this. Especially now. I’m sorry to hear about George. How is he doing?”
Mark shakes his head. “He’s stable, but he’s confused. He keeps claiming that a blonde woman tried to kill him.”
Blood drains from my face, but I remain silent.
“I think he’s just confused. He was unconscious for a little while, and I think he had some bad dreams. He says someone held a pillow over his face and he couldn’t breathe, but we think that might be his brain reacting to the stroke.”
As Mark regards me with eyes that remind me of his grandfather, I find that I simply cannot tell him what Isabel hinted at outside the cave. I’m sure she did try to kill George. Perhaps she thought she had, if he lost consciousness. Of course she would go after George. She said she saw me at the care home. She must have been jealous, seeing me tend to another person.
“Are you feeling okay? You’ve gone a bit pale,” Mark asks.
“I’m fine. The wound makes me tired, that’s all.”
Mark finally decides to sit. “You’ve been through a lot. Do you want me to go, if you’re tired?”
“No, stay, please. I’m going out of my mind with boredom.”
“Actually, there was something I wanted to get off my chest.” He smiles. “That day when I flipped out about your real identity. You see, it’s very strange, but I have a connection to the woman Isabel killed. Alison Finlay. She was my ex-girlfriend’s therapist. We used to live in a pretty little cottage in Dinlabyre a few years back, then moved back to Clifton six months ago. When my ex-girlfriend heard the news, she was very upset. There were cracks in our relationship going back a long time, but my ex had a hard time dealing with change, and Alison’s death was the kind of change she finds difficult to handle. She cheated on me not long after, and the relationship died. I kept following that ridiculous hashtag on Twitter, and I think I convinced myself that you and Isabel were to blame for the death of our relationship. I’m sorry about that. It was all completely random. Small world, I guess.”
“Ripples,” I say.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just a thought. About how events ripple out, affecting everyone in their path.”
“I suppose I’m one of those ripples. Or just an arsehole.”
“Hmm. Yes, maybe.” I can’t help but laugh. “It’s all understandable. I just hadn’t realised that Alison was a therapist. We never learn about the victims, do we?”
“No, I suppose not.”
I take Mark’s hand and give it a squee
ze. “I found out more information about Abigail. Do you want to hear it?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
It’s one week later, and I’m bundled into a wheelchair. Mark drives the thing as we make our way into Ivy Lodge to rapturous applause. I nod warily, waving at the nurses as they crowd around me.
“It’s nice to meet you, Leah,” my boss says, tongue in cheek.
They’ve bought cake. Sandra from physiotherapy made scones. They pat me on the back and ask me how I’m doing, throwing out a few medical terms here and there, and nodding gravely as I tell them about the damage to my intestines. But the big news is that Isabel has been caught. She’s going to be put away for a long time, and the people of Britain can sleep soundly again. I’m the reason why they caught her. I’m the one who stabbed her, played the hero.
But I couldn’t feel anything further from a hero. All I feel like is a killer.
Mark wheels me in to see George, who can’t sit up any longer, but who reaches for my hand and squeezes it tight.
“No need for tears,” he says softly, his voice slightly slurred. “I won’t be crying any time soon. It’s my time now, you see. But that’s all right.”
And of course I cry harder. I’m not just crying for George, but for Tom, too, and everything that has happened. Even Mark is taken aback by the force of my tears, but after a while they finally subside, and we bring a slice of cake to George, who enjoys it immensely.
A few hours and it’s over, and I’m left feeling tired again, as I often am these days. Mark takes me back to the bungalow, and I waddle my way into the bedroom to sleep.
I dream of Alison Finlay and blood. Lots of blood.
*
Another week later, I’m back on my feet somewhat unsteadily. It’s better than getting wheeled around by Mark, anyway. We’re going on a special trip together today. We’re going to Dover to meet Francesca Adams, an apparent descendant of the Pierce family. It’s my first time travelling since the stabbing, and I’m nervous. But the colostomy bag is no more, and I feel physically stronger than I have for a while. More importantly, George is still deteriorating. Mark could have gone on the trip without me, but he waited until I was well enough, insisting that this is as much my story as it is his family’s at this point.
Two For Joy (Isabel Fielding Book 2) Page 19