The Drowning Pool

by Syd Moore

  Sharon tried to move, groaned, and murmured something I couldn’t understand.

  ‘Honey, it’s OK. I’m phoning the police.’

  I took her hand to pull her into the recovery position but her cries, faint as they were, stopped me: she was too broken to move. I reached for my phone. Shit! No battery. I’d have to run next door and get help. It would mean leaving Sharon alone but there was no choice.

  I scrambled to my feet and turned towards the house. A black shape loomed in front of me. I don’t know how he crept up on me like that but there was no time to think. Cook’s eyes were black holes in his skull, burning with demonic fury. Devoid of humanity, something dark possessed them now. His mouth contorted into a cold snarl. He raised his arms out towards me.

  As he lunged forward I ducked to my right. He had something in his hand, which in the half-light I couldn’t make out.

  ‘What are you doing?’ It was my voice but it came from nowhere. I wasn’t even sure my lips had moved.

  The mask had fully slipped away now, revealing the terrifying malice of the monster beneath. He spat out his words. ‘I suppose she put you up to it, did she? Those episodes, that fake tumour, all part of some fishing trip then? You must have known that drooping lid was down to overtiredness. I imagine Casey suggested you make more of it than you needed to …’

  I was edging backwards, away, conscious of Sharon’s whimpering, trying really hard to think on my feet. ‘You mean I’m clear?’ I stalled, trying to engage him so I could get a handle on what was happening. ‘I don’t have a tumour?’

  He staggered towards me, raising his right hand. I saw what was in it now – a syringe. On reflex I reached out and tried to knock it out of his grip.

  A spiteful laugh rose up from Cook. ‘Don’t even try it. You know you never had a growth. You made it up. I don’t know how you two put it together but it didn’t cut with me. At first I wasn’t sure, then last week I worked out exactly what you were after.’ With one hand he grabbed my wrist. I pulled back but he was surprisingly strong. There was a sudden sting in my shoulder. My yelp of pain pierced the night air. I staggered back.

  Cook withdrew the syringe and threw it carelessly on the ground. ‘I never thought anyone would believe her. Not against me, the fine upright pillar of the community. The word of a wild child, dabbling in drugs. It was ridiculous. But she got you going, didn’t she?’

  I was backed up against the trunk of the cedar tree now. Cook, or whatever had been Cook was staring at the glasshouse. My left foot slipped on something wet. Glancing down I saw the hole he had dug. At the bottom a human ribcage poked out from the soil.

  I inhaled audibly but tried to cover it by saying, ‘We were looking into Sarah Grey, that’s all.’ I needed to raise the alarm. Maybe someone next door had heard the commotion? ‘I told you. I thought something had happened here. Sharon was probably just coming to ask you about it.’

  Something large and hard prodded into my back. I slipped my fingers behind and felt a wooden arm of the bench. It was loose. He must have dismantled it to dig the hole.

  He laughed coldly. ‘Old Mother Grey? That was my great, great uncle’s business not mine.’

  Ignoring the scalding pain in my shoulder, and now also fighting an oppressive sensation of drowsiness, I sent a silent prayer to the heavens and I closed my fingers around the end of the wood.

  ‘You mean, Doctor Hunter is your ancestor? I had no idea. I wouldn’t have made the connection. Your name …’

  ‘Silly women, meddling in things that don’t concern your kind,’ Cook was saying. ‘There is an order to things which must be maintained. Veronica could not see that either. Reputation, standing. These are the tools that consolidate power. Sacrifices have to be made.’ He clucked his tongue in disdain. ‘It was so tidy before. It was …’ A caw from the magpies above us in the tree momentarily drew his attention.

  With all my might I seized the piece of wood and swung it at his head.

  It caught his neck with a loud crack. He toppled backwards, stunned, then dropped to his knees. His image fractured into a million spinning pieces. Everything was beginning to recede into the distance. With gargantuan effort I managed to kick him in the stomach. Instantly he fell sideways, missing the grave by inches.

  Picking up the piece of wood and mustering the remainder of my strength, I stepped over Cook’s body and headed for the house.

  The last thing I remember is losing the horizon, seeing grass then passing through it into darkness.

  ‘You’ve got to get up now.’ The voice was shrill, slightly choked, familiar. ‘Sarah! For fuck’s sake, now.’

  A tugging at my wrists brought me sharply into consciousness. And pain. A lot of it. Across my jaw and round my back. My mouth was full. The bitter tang of blood and gritty mud made me instantly gag. Wetness was coursing into my eyes making it hard to see, but I could make out movements underneath the cedar.

  Cook was by the grave, shovelling earth.

  I was on the grass a few feet from him. My hands were crushed, fastened together behind my back. Alien fingers slipped between the ties that bound them. ‘I’ve got your back.’

  Sharon!

  I craned my neck to glimpse her but I could hardly move. My shoulder was throbbing.

  ‘Thank God, you’re OK,’ I whispered to her. ‘What the fuck’s happening?’

  ‘No time to explain. You’ve got to get up, Sarah. Now.’ I heard her shuffle to my ankles and untie the ropes there.

  Ignoring the pain I wrenched my arms in front of me. ‘You get help,’ I whispered to her. ‘Go next door.’

  ‘Play dead.’ I heard her hobble away across the lawn.

  My head throbbed and my eyesight was coming and going but I could see that a few inches to my right, lay the wooden arm of the bench I had used to deck Cook.

  The monster by the grave rested for a moment to grumble to himself, and arched his back. I clamped my eyes shut and froze.

  ‘Good girl.’ He must have been looking at me. ‘You can sleep well now, after all.’

  How he didn’t hear my heart thumping, I’ll never know. But seconds passed and soon the soft thud of earth came once more from the grave.

  I opened one eye and nudged my shoulder closer to the block of wood. It was a real effort not to make any noise. I stifled a cry as a stabbing pain kicked in hard then became motionless once more as I heard him pause.

  Another inch and I could reach it.

  I heard the dull thud as Cook tossed the spade down and brushed his hands off.

  It was now or never. I threw my hand at the wood and grabbed it. In an instant it was under my body. Trembling, I shut my eyes tight and did my best to still my breathing.

  Cook staggered away from the grave.

  ‘Goodbye, girls,’ he said.

  Footsteps came towards me.

  I held my breath.

  Two heavy footfalls either side of my prone body.

  He stood right over me now.

  ‘Curiosity, curiosity … Do none of you pussy cats get it?’ I could hear his breathing come heavy as he bent low over me.

  A globule of saliva trailed down onto my cheek.

  Thick fingers closed round my t-shirt for leverage.

  I opened my eyes and shrieked, ‘Fuck you!’

  There was a dull splintering sound as the wood collided with his skull. His head snapped to the right. Put off balance he rocked back, then forwards, and collapsed on top of me.

  I groped around to find a hold, and prise myself from under him, but his weight was too much, pinning me down on the muddy lawn.

  With only my hands free I thrashed at his chest. He grunted in my ear and pressed himself up. Then he spat and slapped my face. His hands fastened round my neck.

  I clutched at his chest ineffectually, then changed tack and forced my fingers into a fist. It connected with his jaw but did nothing to halt him.

  His venomous smile swam above me, bopping up and down like a grotesque kite.
r />   The pressure on my windpipe was indescribable. This is it, I thought, and tried to scream but all the air had leaked from my lungs.

  I was weakening, losing focus.

  Slowly he spoke, ‘You stupid little girls.’

  My head pounded like a beating drum, heart convulsing like it would burst. The huge weight of Cook on my chest was crushing. I found the soft flesh of his neck and dug my fingernails in, drawing blood. He yelped and relaxed his fingers. For a millisecond I drew in a smidgen of air, then he was squeezing and squeezing.

  I knew my death had come.

  The blackness that had been so swift before faded in gently from the edges of my vision. A whirl of dark fog swirled around Cook. His form blurred, then doubled, tripled, dimmed. Within the darkness a light appeared. Small at first like a candle flame then growing, expanding until three figures morphed from the luminous air. And there was Sarah before me. Smiling, beautiful and young.

  ‘I’ve got your ring,’ I whispered to her, and slipped it from my finger. ‘It’s yours. He always kept it.’

  Her eyes were brimming with pleasure. I’d never seen that before. She slipped it on her finger. ‘It’ll be right.’ Her voice was relaxed, light, tinged with an accent that was more North Essex than South, almost rural. ‘You’ve got to get up.’

  But it was much calmer there. Peaceful. ‘He always loved you,’ I said.

  Her lips were disappearing into the nothingness, like the Cheshire Cat, leaving only her sea green eyes floating before me. ‘I know that.’ The words echoed in my head. ‘You’ll forget this.’

  ‘Yes, forget, forget …’ It was another female voice, low and soft but urgent.

  A woman with short cropped hair smiled into view. Veronica. Cook’s wife.

  I was beginning to make sense of it. ‘Did he kill you? Doctor Cook?’ She didn’t answer, as another woman had come into being to my right. The redhead from the picture reassembled herself and bit her lip. ‘Before she forgets it she has to wake up.’ Her voice had a bassy tone like Sharon’s. It was Cheryl, her mum. ‘Go back and tell them. Get outta here.’

  She seemed angry that I wasn’t listening to her and started shouting. It was far too noisy for me. I put my hands over my ears. I was free. Relaxed. It had been a hard day. The softness of my surroundings was tempting. ‘I’ll be all right,’ I said. But the women were getting brighter now, urging me to fight the peace. Shimmers of white light radiated from their triple form.

  For a brief second I perceived the face of Cook through their wafting outlines. He had eased off now and was wiping sweat from his face. But behind him an intense amber light was gathering, beaming up into the sky.

  The form which was Sarah seemed to hover for a moment before it sank itself into Cook’s body, Cheryl and Veronica following her.

  A shriek came from Cook’s lips. His face took on a stricken, terrified look. Suddenly his body spasmed. He tottered faintly above me, his hand clutching at his chest.

  He looked as though he was about to say something, but then withdrew his hand and tried to hit out at something indiscernible in the gloom.

  The light behind him built into an intensity that was almost blinding.

  Evil be as evil does.

  Cook swatted at something invisible by his head.

  There was a brilliant flash.

  And that’s when I saw him.

  Above Cook, bathed in a dazzling sunshine, Josh’s figure stood proud.

  He gave me that dopey smile of his then, raising his own hands above Cook’s head, I heard him whisper, ‘Everything’s going to be all right.’ Then he hurled himself at the doctor, pushing him hard.

  A whooshing sound swept past my ears. I smelt honey and saw, for a split second, nothing but the clear pure light. Then the doctor buckled, folding in on himself and then out onto my shoulder, obscuring the view of my dead husband’s face.

  ‘Josh,’ I managed, as air rushed inside my throat.

  Then there was nothing but grateful black.

  I came round into hazy artificial brightness. Green-suited paramedics stood about me. I was being jogged to and fro.

  Andrew’s face swam into view.

  ‘Sarah, you’re OK. I’m so sorry.’ He was crying.

  It was extraordinarily painful to speak but with some effort I managed, ‘Cook?’

  ‘He’s got the medics with him. But the police are there too.’

  The blackness was approaching. ‘And Sharon?’

  A female paramedic came into view. ‘She’s all right.’ Gently she brushed Andrew aside and reached down for my wrist. ‘You need to be calm, Ms Grey.’

  So I was.

  I’m not stupid. I’ve always been a good girl.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Puzzles have never been my strong point. Even when I was little, jigsaws left me hopelessly floored. This one came in odd, jagged pieces that belonged to two separate sets. The only common factor was me, Sarah Grey.

  The more pressing, of course, was the scene in the garden. Believe me, it took a while to get the whole picture of that. But it did come, and when it did it was devastating, but I had help and support and in the end I got through it.

  Andrew was brilliant. Both a support and a protector. He was as concerned and remorseful for his lack of action, as I was about dragging him into all of this. I feel bad that I ever doubted him but you know what I was going through.

  It was he who broke the news that Sharon was dead. It wasn’t easy and I had trouble believing him at first. But then there’s a lot I have trouble believing in now.

  She hadn’t made it out of the greenhouse alive. So he said.

  When I saw Cook scooping earth into the grave, he was burying her fresh corpse.

  Of course, I ranted and raved – no, Sharon had helped me, she’d untied my bonds and woken me up. But the coroner confirmed she was dead before the doctor buried her. The official version is that I was concussed by my fall.

  Andrew says the mind has a funny way of dealing with things, and that’s his explanation for what happened, the things I saw in the garden that night. I told him about Sarah and returning the ring but he was reluctant to accept it as gospel, as it were.

  No ring was found. His reasoning – it had fallen off en route to the hospital.

  But I know what I saw and there’s no point people trying to convince me otherwise. The dead women were there when I needed them: Sarah, Veronica, Sharon’s mother, Cheryl.

  And my friend Sharon, herself.

  There was justice to be had and of course, justice will be served. Cook’s looking at a double life sentence, and possibly a third. They’re exhuming Cheryl next week to see if he was responsible for silencing her doubts over his wife’s whereabouts. That was what their argument was about. Sharon had been right to suspect the doctor.

  And it’s cut and dried with Veronica. She’d been under the cedar tree for decades. The only one who hadn’t fallen for Cook’s story that she’d left to find herself was Cheryl. And her daughter.

  One can only imagine what horrors Veronica endured when she told Cook she was going to leave him for good. He says it was an accident, that she flew at him wildly with the strength of the insane. His blow to her skull kept her with him in the garden forever. He built the bench so he could watch over her. Making sure she’d never escape.

  When they excavated the garden, they found something else, just below poor Veronica’s grave: a female skull with a gaping hole in it. And on that I had a lot to say.

  Of course the police weren’t interested in what I told them. I’d already proved unreliable with my version of events. But the evidence that Andrew presented made quite a splash in the local papers and was picked up by several nationals too. It was time to fulfil Sarah’s last words – all will know.

  ‘Missing Head Horror – 144-year-old murder solved’ was the subtle headline in one broadsheet. The paper did a trace themselves and clarified the direct lineage between the doctors: Cook indeed was Hunter’s grea
t great nephew who’d inherited the surgery from his mother. It was another symmetry. There were lots and lots of them surging up.

  I got a name check in the report and a few of the tabloids came sniffing. I wasn’t out of hospital at that point but Lottie and Andrew did a good job of fielding reporters and enabling me to heal in peace.

  In fact all my friends and family came to see me. Martha was a love and Lottie a real tonic, sorting out the practicalities of childcare between her and Mum. She brought me the news that the Sarah Grey pub had commissioned an artist to paint a more positive picture of her on their sign: early sketches show a young, black-haired woman in a bonnet, with a strong chin and rosebud lips. She looks directly at the viewer as if challenging you, a glimmer of triumph in her sea green eyes.

  Mum’s visit was a bit of a revelation. She came with Aunty Brenda and a copy of their family tree. It was a large and sprawling map, covering over three hundred names. And there in the right-hand corner was Sarah Grey. Our route descended from her son, Alfred Grey, or Alfie as he was fondly known. It was a wild, watered down connection that had travelled across the country from Leigh to Maldon, then to Rochford, Hockley then to Thorpe Bay for the last generation. And it came down, after Alfie, through the female line. Without good reason to trace it we would never have known of the lineage at all. But there we were at the end of the line, Sarah and Alfie Grey. Again. It was an incredible coincidence and yet another symmetry which made sense of everything: the connection, the bloodline, the choice she made in me. I just wish I hadn’t feared her so. I don’t now.

  However, there was one person I was dreading seeing. Corinne. The responsibility of her best friend’s death was a heavy burden on me. I may have been given the all-clear but the guilt that had grown within me felt like a tumour: deadly and wretched but deserved.

  As it turned out, I didn’t have a monopoly on it. Corinne didn’t blame me – she’d put herself in the frame. Her refusal to countenance Sharon’s accusations over Cheryl’s fatal heart attack and Veronica’s disappearance ate her up from the inside. She kept going over events, wondering if she could have stopped the bloody crescendo I had witnessed in Cook’s back yard.