by Ruth Dugdall
‘Tell us about real stories,’ Trish said, pointing the e-cigarette at the empty stool nearest her, though her jaw still looked a bit set. ‘Leif says you’re a paramedic?’
‘Not yet. I’m still in training.’ Now she knew for certain she should have stayed at home rather than face this interrogation from Trish. ‘And right now, I’m just a cat – a thirsty one. So, can I get anyone a drink?’
It took an age before Holly reached the bar, which was pressed into her ribs by the swell of customers behind her, all vying to be next in line. The bar was sticky with spilt beer, and she felt it ooze through her T-shirt to her skin.
The half-sloshed barman finally noticed her, his eyes already sliding lazily to the impatient crowd behind. ‘What can I get you, Beyoncé?’
In order to be heard, she stood on tiptoe, and saw that across the bar area, in the games room, which had a full-sized snooker table and a dartboard, trouble was brewing. The source was a tall, lean man, wearing a black hoodie to obscure his face. She could see only his mouth. He was speaking loudly and fiercely to someone she couldn’t see, and brandishing a snooker cue above his head.
The barman tapped his fingers on the bar. ‘Come on, Puss, I haven’t got all day.’
She saw Hoodie’s face blanch with rage as he raised the cue higher. Her senses switched to alert and she knew that things were about to kick off. Her drinks order forgotten, she snaked through the three-deep throng behind her and made her way around the bar.
She stopped at the threshold, assessing the situation. Hoodie was poised threateningly over a smaller bloke cowering close to the ground, his hands raised in defence. Judging by his top hat and ginger wig he was obviously supposed to be Willy Wonka, but there was nothing funny about the scene. Hoodie brandished the cue like a sword with a fixed grip that Holly felt in the palms of her own hands. Then he brought it down, slamming it on Wonka’s top hat so the cue splintered in two as the victim toppled sideways, his knees at an odd angle, his head hidden by the hat, both arms protectively covering it.
Holly’s synaesthesia registered the blow as if she herself were the victim, gritting her teeth as she moved towards Hoodie. Her own hands ached from the force of wielding the imaginary cue – she was able to feel this sensation too. These heightened responses, both a curse and a gift, meant she had no choice but to intervene: it was why she was training to fix people. She hoped being a paramedic might cure her synaesthesia, might mean she could lead a normal life. It hadn’t happened yet.
‘That’s enough, you leave him alone!’ She threaded herself in-between Hoodie and his victim, trying to ignore her splitting headache.
Willy Wonka crouched behind her, his hand tugging the edge of her jacket, and said in a wheedling voice, ‘I’ll get it for you, mate, I promise. No need for this, is there?’
Hoodie was repositioning half of the cue to strike again. Holly’s palms felt again the strength of his grip as he raised it, her brain assessing both assailant’s and victim’s reactions. After this blow, Wonka wouldn’t be able to speak.
‘Move, Catwoman. I’m not done with this idiot yet.’
‘I’m not letting you hurt him.’ Holly planted herself more firmly in Hoodie’s way, unable to stop herself from intervening, now she knew the consequences of running away.
The pub had fallen silent. Everyone was watching the stand-off, and Holly could see Hoodie was weighing up just how much damage he wanted to do, and how publicly. Finally, he lowered the shattered cue, pointing its tip at Wonka. ‘I’ll give you one day. You pay me what you owe, mate. Or else.’
Wonka nodded, frantic, backing away on all fours. Then he scarpered. Holly’s headache eased as Hoodie’s grip on the snooker cue loosened, and she relaxed. It was over, the pain had cleared, and she could return to the bar to order her drinks.
This time around, the barman leapt to serve her, and she returned with a tray of drinks to Leif and his coven in their candlelit corner. They stared at her wide-eyed, as if they had just watched her perform the best trick of all that Halloween.
‘Very impressive,’ said Trish, aka Sookie Stackhouse, grudgingly. ‘I can see that black cats really are lucky. Our Swedish boy will never have a dull moment with you around.’ And then she winked again at Leif, who gave a satisfied grin.
Hours later, woken by the sun’s watery fingers of light, Holly assumed she was in her own flat until she realised that, although the layout of the bedroom was identical, the bed was smaller than her own. The sheets felt suspiciously budget, not the Egyptian cotton she had treated herself to last year, to celebrate the start of her new career. The flat was the same but different, and then she realised why: Oh fuck, I’ve fucked Krueger. That’d teach her for drinking three pints of snakebite on an empty stomach. Still though, her body felt peaceful; there was a sweet stillness in her core that she experienced after good sex. A rare pleasure, given her poor track record with relationships.
Beside her, Leif stirred but remained sound asleep, and she rolled on her side to study him. His Scandinavian-blond hair was matted but his face still looked fresh, even after a night on the booze, although she could see red smears on the white pillow where the other side of his face had rested. Typical man – he hadn’t removed his make-up properly.
Looking down, she realised she had matching red marks all over her breasts. Yuk. She touched her hair, and found her ‘ears’ were still in place; one advantage of inheriting her father’s coarse black hair was it tended to hold its shape, so it was passable. The same couldn’t be said for her skin, which was now covered in dried sweat and stage make-up.
She checked her watch: 6.50. Still plenty of time to go home, shower, and make herself presentable before she checked in for duty. Since finishing basic training, she was now shadowing and supporting the response team, gathering experience for when she’d be one of them. As she plucked her scattered clothes from the floor, she saw, hung up, a navy uniform. She hadn’t noticed it the night before. Leif half-opened his eyes and yawned sleepily.
‘I didn’t know you were a police officer,’ she said, sounding more annoyed than she had a right to.
‘I’m not,’ he said groggily. ‘Just a special.’
‘Don’t you need to be British?’
‘I just had to wait until I’d been resident for long enough.’
A volunteer with the police – strange he hadn’t mentioned it. Not that it mattered; she had no plans to see him again. She had her clothes, including the velvet tail, in her grasp when her mobile phone began to vibrate. Holly stepped into the lounge to take the call, so as not to disturb Leif.
‘Holly, it’s Jon.’
Holly immediately stood straighter, as if her supervisor were in the room with her. ‘Yes, Jon?’
‘Control have just taken a 999; it’s an attempted suicide. You haven’t dealt with one yet, I don’t think?’
She shook her head, then realised he couldn’t see her. ‘No.’
‘Okay, well, this should be good experience. Our patient used a gun, so it’ll be messy. If you’ve got a pen, I’ll give you the address.’
Holly looked around, picked up a bitten biro from the desk and held it over the back of her hand. ‘Okay.’
‘It’s Innocence Farm, in Kenley. The police are there, securing the scene, so we should already be inside when you arrive.’
Holly’s hand didn’t move. She didn’t need to write down details of the address. Her body was already protesting, her hands had become slick with sweat and her head felt woozy. Once the call was ended she bent at the waist, hands on her knees, waiting until the nausea subsided. It wasn’t a hangover, not from last night at least. It was the past, catching up with her like she knew it would.
Then she straightened, breathed deep, and set about her work.
DAY 1
SATURDAY 1 NOVEMBER
2
Cassandra
I’m confused when I wake.
There’s a sound, whimpering, like a trapped animal is crying for he
lp. I must still be dreaming: I’m groggy, unsure of where I am. Then I remember, with a sinking feeling, that I’m back at Innocence Farm. The noise must be Jet, who sleeps in the barn but comes inside during the day. Janet will have let him out when she arrived. It must be time to get up.
It’s a struggle, but I pull back the duvet, then freeze: I’m naked, though I fell asleep wearing bra and knickers, I’m certain. The back of my hair is slick with sweat – in fact, my whole body feels sticky, and I wonder if I was sick again, though I can’t remember. Maybe I was hot and tugged my underwear off in my sleep, though when I look there’s no sign of it on the floor. Yesterday’s blouse and skirt are folded neatly on the chair. I hurry to pull them on.
My limbs feel damp. Despite being sick after I’d taken it, some of the trazodone must have made it to my bloodstream and hit me hard, taking me to that deep unconsciousness where the body struggles to move, and instead wraps itself tightly around bedding, getting overheated.
Downstairs, Jet’s barking has become frenzied and I think I hear crying. Human crying.
Dressed, though feeling vulnerable without my underwear, I make to leave the bedroom but stumble. One hand on the wall, I catch my breath and realise a headache is gnawing on the edges of my brain.
A sharp bark makes me jump out of my skin. Jet jumps up, scratches my stomach through my thin blouse, pushing me with his long spaniel snout so I fall back against the wall, my arm catching on the sharp corner of the door frame.
‘Stop, Jet!’
But he won’t. He runs away from me, to the backstairs that lead to the kitchen, not normally used by us, though Janet is forever up and down them with piles of ironing and cleaning products. Jet’s paws slide as he scrambles partway down the wooden steps, then he rushes back up to me, barking.
‘Okay, I get it – hang on.’ I follow him to the top of the stairs. ‘Why are you so manic?’
Looking down, I understand.
There you are.
There you are, lying in a delicate heap at the bottom. Dad is crouched over you, shuddering with sobs. The scene tells its own story: you fell, he found you.
‘Mum!’ I take the stairs two at a time, stumbling to reach you.
Your red silk nightdress has ridden high on your slender pale thighs. Your head is facing the wall but your knees are in the other direction, as if you’re a toy twisted by a cruel child. Your dark hair streams across the wooden floor like a broken wing.
‘Mum?’
I shake your shoulder and your head rolls, faces me. Blood drips from your scalp, down your lovely face, pooling in your hollow cheek, matted in that glorious black hair of yours.
Then I see something that chills me to the core: a short distance away, long and silent and deadly, is the rifle from the gun cupboard. I can smell cordite and iron – gunshot and blood. A smell from the barn. It doesn’t belong in our home.
‘Oh my God, Dad, what’s happened?’
His bloodshot eyes find me, he struggles to speak, then says, ‘She did this to herself. Do you understand?’
‘No, she wouldn’t,’ I say desperately.
There’s a wound on your slender neck, a black hole from which blood is leaking, onto me, making me recoil. Blood seeps into the floorboards, spreads its stain on your red nightdress. Your eyes are wide open and bloodshot, the pupils large and even darker than usual. I stare in horror as they fill with my reflection, my own face.
‘Mum!’ I shake you again, and from your nose a spray of crimson lands on me. ‘Oh God, Mum, who did this to you?’
Jet cowers at my raised voice, snarling and baring his teeth, something I’ve never known him do before. Both of us are panicked and afraid.
Help, I must get help.
The phone lives in your study, so I run upstairs.
The study door is half-open. Unusual.
Inside, it looks as though a bomb has exploded: filing cabinet drawers are extended on runners like loose teeth, papers and clip-files lie scattered on the floor. With a shiver, I see that the gun cupboard hangs open, which should never happen, though Dad organised a shoot yesterday so maybe he wasn’t careful locking up. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s been forgetful and none of us were thinking straight last night. A space reveals itself, where the rifle should be.
I’ve started to shake. Why is the study such a mess? Papers are scattered, letters about the Port Authority’s plan to buy our land and make Innocence Lane its lorry depot.
They’ve been hounding you for months, but you resolved it yesterday. You made your decision.
I spy the phone, grab it, dial.
‘999 emergency. Which service, please?’
The relief at having the call answered is like nothing I’ve experienced before.
‘Ambulance.’ I’m gasping like I’ve run a marathon. The longest two seconds of my life, then a different voice comes on the line.
‘This is the Ambulance Service. How may we help you?’
‘My mother’s been shot. I don’t know what to—’
‘Can you tell me where you are?’
‘Innocence Farm. On Innocence Lane, Kenley.’ It’s so early, the sky hasn’t woken up yet; it’s still a watery indigo. The birds are impatient, heckling the sun to rise.
‘Okay, yes, someone has already called this in. We have police and paramedics on the way. What’s the condition of your mum now?’
‘She’s breathing, I think, but not conscious. There’s a gun, a rifle, beside her.’
‘The earlier caller said she shot herself. Can you see the wound?’
‘There’s blood on her neck – it’s hard to see. But I don’t think she . . .’
‘Okay, love, I’m going to talk you through what to do, until the ambulance arrives. You need to put some pressure on that wound.’
‘I’m not with her, I’m upstairs.’
‘Can you return to your mother?’
I put the phone on speaker and stumble back down to the bottom of the stairs. The sight of you – white flesh, red silk, black blood – is a shock all over again. I feel dizzy, fear I might fall.
‘Okay, are you with her?’ asks the operator. ‘Can you put your ear to her mouth and tell me if she’s breathing?’
Dad seems to rally. He follows the instructions as best he can while I hold the phone. He practically smothers you as he checks for signs of life, pushing hard on your ribs, his mouth searching for yours as he repeats your name, shoving Jet so roughly, he cowers from his master.
I watch and pray for the ambulance to hurry. Instructions keep coming from the operator. She’s good at her job: she has all our names and keeps up a steady flow of instructions.
‘The ambulance is just ninety seconds away now, and you’re doing great. I need you to breathe into Maya’s mouth on my count. Are you ready, Hector?’
Dad is trying his best, but he’s crying too hard, doesn’t have the breath to save you. He looks up at me but I’m afraid, too afraid, to touch you. It’s the blood, black in the half-light of the hallway. And you’re so exposed, pale skin in red silk, dark hair matted with blood.
‘Hector? I need you to continue counting so I can hear what you’re doing. Shall we count together?’
He’s sobbing now, and you, sweet mother, are deathly still.
‘It’s too late,’ he says. ‘Maya’s left me.’
‘No, Dad, she’s still here!’
Something kicks in, a feeling I thought I’d lost returns and I push Dad away, pull your mouth to mine. It’s soft and cold and I push my life into you. I ram both my palms hard on your chest, feel your fragile bones give way under the cool skin, all the time trying not to look in your terrifying eyes.
The operator counts: ‘One, two, three . . .’
Oh please, oh please. Between gulped breaths, I silently beg you. Or God. I won’t stop, can’t stop, until you breathe again. Dad slips to the floor, weeps noisily, calling your name. Jet won’t leave him be, wet snout and yelps. And still the voice comes from the phon
e, delivering calm instructions.
‘Okay, Cass, the ambulance is very close. Keep going until the paramedics take over. Now push: one, two, three . . .’
3
Holly
Outside and all around, the season had changed, seemingly overnight. Just a few days before, Holly had tasted the air as cinnamon sticks, autumn smoke and spice. A rich clothing of red and orange leaves seemed to make every tree along the street glow copper. But the advent of November had brought with it cool silver skies and the taste of tin. The trees looked withered, as if their autumn dress had been stolen, leaving them naked and vulnerable to winter, and the sky was heavy with rain.
Holly’s paramedic uniform was a short-sleeved tunic and cotton trousers. She shivered as she got into the car, a Fiat 500, her mint-coloured bubble against the world and the unwelcome sensations it gave her. Her work bag, in the same forest-green shade as her tunic and trousers, was on the passenger seat along with her Superdry jacket. She’d likely need that later.
Despite the passage of time, she didn’t need to look at a map. Her internal navigation knew this journey as though she’d travelled it every day of the twenty years she’d kept away. After leaving the A14, the minor road to the outlying villages was a tunnel of trees, oak and sycamore, their leaves burnt and brittle, hanging from black skeletal branches. On and on she drove, down the familiar twisting lanes, then a sudden turn and a change in light, like coming up for air. A cheery farm shop on the left – it hadn’t been here back then – advertising bread and local milk. Then a sign announced Kenley.