What She Saw

by Diane Saxon

  What if they returned?

  She squinted out of the kitchen window.

  She could do it. If she was quick.

  She dumped the bag on the bench and gingerly raised her arm to slide it from her hoodie sweatshirt. Each move sent lightning bolts of pain stabbing deep into her side. She bit down on her lip as she let out little mewling whimpers.

  ‘Forthefuckoffucksake!’

  Air whistled through her teeth as she clenched them together and she whipped her head around. Where the hell had the T-shirt gone?

  She took two steps back and peered into the passageway that led to the front door. The blood-stained rag lay in a small heap on the floor.

  Heart pounding, Poppy darted forward and snatched it up. If she’d missed that and someone had seen it, they would have known.

  Ethel was lovely, but she was an upstanding citizen. If she knew she was harbouring a criminal, she’d have the police around.

  Poppy grabbed another plastic bag, shoved the bloodied T-shirt into it and then rolled it into a ball. She’d think about what to do with it once she’d cleaned herself up.

  She picked up the paracetamol, popped two into her hand and then two of the ibuprofen. She should eat before she took them, but she didn’t have time. She grabbed the little water glass on the windowsill and filled it with water, throwing the tablets into her mouth and gulping everything down, surprised at how thirsty she was. Twice more she refilled the small glass before she rinsed it, dried it and placed it back where she’d found it.

  The sink looked clean enough, Mr Crawford was always wiping around it when the great-grandchildren and twins were there. Poppy contemplated it for a moment before she opened another cupboard. The one she already knew Ethel kept her mixing bowl in. She poured the hot water from the kettle in and leaned against the bench, each move sapping the strength from her.

  With her hoodie half off, Poppy slipped it one-handed over her head and let it drop to the floor, the bloodstains on the pink material turning brown. She sucked in a breath. The wad of cotton wool on the bench wasn’t about to go anywhere near cleaning up the amount of dried blood skimming over her flesh.

  In the utter silence, she dropped her head down so she could cup it in both hands, the burn worth the movement. Dry-eyed, she waited for the weakness to pass.

  Naked to the waist, the cool chill of air had her shuddering and looking up again. At least here, she could see through the window, all the way along the driveway.

  Poppy slid open a drawer, took out one of Ethel’s neatly ironed tea towels and dipped it into the water. She made quick work of rubbing the dried-on blood from the lower half of her side, but the rub and stretch of it had black shadows threatening to overwhelm her. She drew in long pulls of breath and rested, her hipbones pressing hard against the cupboards while she dipped and swiped again, this time down the length of her arm.

  She skimmed the tea towel over her left breast and smeared the blood, every move she made with her arm left her gasping for breath, but she flexed her fingers, then rinsed the thin cotton tea towel in the bowl, watching as her blood bloomed in pink clouds across the water. She squeezed it out, threw the water into the sink and refilled the bowl with the last two inches of boiled water from the kettle. She sloshed in some of the Dettol, ripped off a piece of cotton wool and dipped it in as she prepared herself to look for the first time at the gunshot wound.

  She sucked in a breath.

  Her skin pebbled up and tightened with goose bumps.

  Poppy glanced at the kettle and snatched it up, filled it again one-handed and switched it on. A cup of tea. That’s what her mum would say, after giving blood. And Poppy had given a whole stream of blood.

  She shot a quick glance out of the window and squinted as she looked at the furthest point she could see. Held her breath. Waited. No one coming. No one knew. Yet.

  They might think she was dead with the rest of them.

  Maybe she’d have to remain dead.

  When she had time, she’d think about it, but the most important thing was to clean herself and dress the wound.

  She dipped her hand into the cooling water and squeezed the cotton wool with fingers shaking so hard she could barely hold onto it.

  Technically, she knew what to do. Mum had always let her see to the twins when they skinned their hands and knees, not through a lack of care, because her mum adored them all, but because she knew Poppy had a passion to look after her baby sisters.

  She held her breath and poked her tongue out of the side of her mouth as she raised her left arm and twisted to expose the tender flesh at the underside of her budding breast. They’d grown bigger lately, probably because she’d gone on the pill when she knew Aiden and she were about to have sex. Or maybe because she was having sex. She didn’t know. Didn’t care. She’d never have sex again. She’d never have Aiden again.

  She drew in a breath and pushed Aiden from her mind. If she allowed herself to think of him, she’d be destroyed. She needed every resource she had just to carry on.

  Surprised not to see her flesh gaping open, she inspected the entry wound. The flesh around it charred and singed like a black halo, feathering outwards in a scattered speckle of dust. But it wasn’t dust. Dust would wash off. Burned skin wouldn’t.

  Another quiet sob squeezed from her tight throat as she placed the cotton wool against the wound and almost passed out.

  Forthefuckoffucksake!

  She screwed her face up, breath soughing through her teeth. But she kept the wad of cotton wool pressed against the bullet wound. Fresh blood oozed out as she took the pressure off and removed the cotton wool.

  Sure there was a lump there, Poppy stuck her index finger into the top of the Dettol and tipped it up, soaking her finger in the antibacterial liquid before she put the bottle back on the bench.

  With short, laboured breaths, she touched her naked finger against the wound. Not as big as she thought. And only an entry point. Which meant the bullet was in there.

  She closed her eyes and worked her finger inside the wound, following the direction of the hole towards her back. The small slide of a groan slipped from her lips as her finger encountered a hard lump. She held still, her head spinning in wild revolutions as she gave her finger another delicate wiggle.

  She sucked in a breath.

  It was the bullet.

  It was right there.

  It hadn’t gone into her lung, it hadn’t pierced her heart. It had skimmed through layers of skin and sinew and wedged solidly into her rib.

  She withdrew her bloodied finger and stared as crimson pumped a lazy stream to trickle down her side again. She plucked another piece of cotton wool and this time soaked it in pure Dettol before she pressed it against the wound.

  Pure fire ripped through her and in the silent house, no one could hear her scream. Knees like water, she propped herself by her elbows against the bench and clenched her teeth until she was sure they’d break. Still she kept the pressure on until her the screams faded to desperate whimpers.

  She pushed the weakness back as she searched the horizon with a gaze darkened at the edges.

  She wasn’t about to die. But she was going to need help. The bullet needed to come out. For now, it was enough for her to stop the bleeding, dress the wound and get the hell out of the Crawfords’ farmhouse.

  Every movement drained her as she puffed out and reached for the steristrips.

  Forthefuckoffucksake!

  With fingers that trembled so hard, the steristrip twined around them until she crumpled them up and threw them on the bench. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she hauled in a hard breath. She could do it. She had to do it.

  She took one more steristrip, held onto her breath and stuck it across her wound to pull it closed. She grabbed one of the adhesive dressings, peeled off the backing and pressed it firmly in place, realising that the constant buzzing in her ears was her own rasping breath.

  Finished, she leaned weak against the sink, her body cooling b
y the minute so tremors ran through her body. She recognised it as shock, but the knowledge didn’t help as her fingers shook so hard she could barely push the items back into the plastic bag.

  She needed to warm up. She needed clothes that weren’t covered in blood.

  Ethel was far too small for her to borrow her clothes.

  Mr Crawford wasn’t though.

  Poppy peered out the window for another quick check, then pushed herself away from the bench, forcing each step to the back of the kitchen, where a small oak doorway led to what the twins called the servants stairway.

  She gripped the thin wooden rail running along the wall to haul herself up step by step and sank to her knees when she reached the top.

  With no idea which room to go into, she took the nearest and crawled on hands and knees inside.

  She pushed back on her haunches and chose an enormous dresser. She dragged out three drawers, almost too heavy for her to pull, before she found what she was after.

  None of them looked like the clothes Mr Crawford would wear and Poppy wondered if they belonged to one of the sons. She didn’t care. She hauled on a short-sleeved T-shirt that hung loose from the shoulders almost to her thighs. She grabbed another one. Long-sleeved, it fell past the tips of her fingers once she’d got it on, but that was probably for the best.

  She yanked open another drawer and grabbed out two enormous sweatshirts. They definitely belonged to the sons. Ethel had evidently never disposed of them. Possibly kept them for when the boys came over to help out on the farm.

  Poppy jerked the sweatshirt over her head, thankful it wasn’t tight as each move tugged at her injury. Her teeth rattled as she jammed the second sweatshirt under her good arm and made for the stairs.

  Panic sliced through her as she headed down them, shouldering through the door at the bottom anxious to grab another quick check out the window.

  Still no sign of them coming back, Poppy whipped a carrier bag out of the cardboard box, flung open Ethel’s food cupboard door and reached in. She’d need to eat to give her the strength back that had sapped away in the last hour or so.

  Careful to take from the back, she selected ring-pull tins. Baked beans, pineapple chunks, ravioli and a packet of Uncle Ben’s rice. She bent to look at the lower shelves and drew out a packet of Jammie Dodgers and a bar of chocolate and rammed them all into the bag.

  Poppy stared at the kettle. No chance of a cup of tea now, but she opened another cupboard and took out three cans of Coke. A poor substitute for her mum’s cure-all, but it would have to do.

  Would Ethel notice if cutlery went missing? Poppy slid open a drawer and took out a fork and spoon. She tilted her head to one side, then slipped one of the small, pointed-end steak knives from the drawer and pushed it into the carrier bag with the rest of her loot.

  With another furtive peek out of the window, her heart almost exploded from her chest as Mr Crawford’s rusty old car turned into the track and stuttered towards the farmhouse.

  Wild panic shot adrenaline racing through her veins. Poppy scooped up her bloodied hoodie, stuffed it into the bag with the rolled-up T-shirt and clenched the bags to her chest as she whipped a frenetic gaze around the kitchen to make sure everything was in place.

  With one last glance out the window, she shot out of the front door. She crouched low, to dip down below the level of the stone wall surrounding the front of the farmhouse. With a quick glance behind her, she slipped through the gap into the field and away.

  17

  Sunday 19 April 1105 hours

  Forthefuckoffucksake!

  Poppy reared her head up. Heart pounding, she skidded to a halt.

  Her phone!

  She’d forgotten her fucking phone.

  She dumped the bags on the ground and shot back to peer over the stone garden wall which normally came to chest height on her. Pain seared through her side as though it was being ripped apart and she pressed a hand against the dressing, each gasping breath burning her chest. Open-mouthed she sucked in air and pushed aside the darkness that threatened. She had no time for that. She needed to be strong.

  The old car was still a way down the track, spluttering and coughing as it approached. She could only hope Ethel and Mr Crawford’s eyesight was as shit as it should be at their age. Knowing her luck, Ethel would have better sight than a shitehawk.

  Heart lodged in her throat, Poppy ducked down, pushing aside the pain and exhaustion as sheer panic shot through to lend her strength.

  Red-hot pokers stabbed her chest as she crouched, each breath soughing out. She grabbed the handle of the old front door and shoved it open a crack. She dashed through the narrow opening, slammed it behind her as quick as she could and raced into the kitchen, all the time hunkered down below the level of the countertops.

  She popped up and snatched her phone off the bench, wrenching out the charging lead. With fingers that shook hard, she barely managed to roll it back into the neat coil she’d found it in.

  In a heartbeat, she bobbed her head up and stared at the approaching car. She’d never make it before they saw her.

  Head exploding with the force of the pulse pounding through her system, Poppy turned and threw herself along the passageway leading to the back of the house. She’d never been through the house, only ever entering the kitchen.

  She darted into a huge old conservatory and skidded to a halt. She grabbed the handle of the glass door and shoved.

  As it flew open, she dashed through and slammed it behind her and then circled around to grab the bags she’d left on the ground just as the bump and grind of the car spluttered to a halt at the garden gate.

  Without a second thought, Poppy darted for the far side of the garden and lobbed herself over the wall.

  She landed full stretch out on the soft carpet of grass. Agony rocketing through her ribs as she belly-crawled for as long as she could before she pushed to her feet and ran.

  Ran for safety.

  Ran for the black barn.

  18

  Sunday 19 April 1715 hours

  It was a shithole.

  He hadn't visited for months and in those few months, they’d managed to destroy it.

  He’d left it to his underlings. His downline, the men who worked for him, believing them capable of looking after this side of the business while he sweat himself into a grave trying to dodge legal proceedings which threatened to bring him down.

  Disappointment etched itself into his being as he conducted a slow check of the place, one room at a time.

  He’d bought the premises seven years previously. An investment for his future. Security. A bolthole. Set up for him to run to under exactly these circumstances. Only it was no longer set up. The neat, precise operation he’d had running like a well-oiled machine had collapsed in on itself, as though the extra pressure he’d applied during its expansion had imploded.

  He circled around. Disgust coating the back of his tongue. People he’d believed reliable had let him down. They’d virtually abandoned what once had run sleek and systematic.

  It was his fault. He should have kept a closer eye on the finer operations of the organisation. Instead, he’d assumed because the money was rolling in, it was all in hand. He hadn’t expected it to be a palace, but this. This level of neglect churned his stomach with a deadly fury.

  His deep, even breathing through clenched teeth was the only sound in the empty room.

  Anger gathered pace to tighten his chest. Anger at his right-hand man, but more so at himself. It wasn't as though he'd had to travel far. He should have checked earlier, ensured the place was fit for his purpose. He’d been busy, distracted. Frantic in his effort to pull strings that still remained unpulled. He’d had to move fast. Faster than he’d imagined. He’d had no alternative, been given no choice. He’d relied on others to do work he should have kept a closer eye on.

  He studied the dilapidated room in the ex-RAF aerodrome with its high, domed ceiling, narrow windows twenty foot above floor height.
A deliberate choice at the time of purchase with the sole purpose of making sure no one could see in.

  With the clear blue sky he knew was beyond, barely a glimmer of light made its way through the filth and the bird shit smeared over the windows. That wasn’t the issue though.

  Yellowed paint peeled in great swathes from the walls, leaving behind dull grey, powdery concrete which shed onto the floors in layer upon layer of dust. Dust he’d made sure had been cleared every week so their product wasn’t contaminated. That’s how you kept a good reputation. How you built your empire. His had crumbled along with the dust.

  He’d left the two abandoned aeroplanes outside, keeping up the pretence of an airfield undergoing renovation. Provided no one came close enough to inspect the premises. And it had worked. After the first year he’d bought the place, he’d never had anyone inspect the premises again. He paid his council tax and business rates, water, electricity. No need for heating. The low-lives that worked for him could throw on another layer of clothing.

  With the business running smoothly, he'd recently allowed his junior to keep the operation going as the money flooded in. He'd never thought anything other than it was as efficient as when he last checked. His time had been taken trying to break into the bigger game, not the small fry he currently dealt with.

  His footsteps echoed across the huge empty room as annoyance swept through him, tightening his jaw. For God's sake, he should have checked. The operation could have been ten times the size. Ten times the income. That’s what he’d been aiming for all these months, believing what he’d handed over control of was running fine. If only he’d dropped by. Seven months he’d let roll by in the belief that it was all under control.

  Anger boiled in the pit of his stomach, churning up acid to bubble in his chest.

  He circled around 360 degrees. All this empty, unused space could have been utilised to perfection. That had been his ambition. Ambition that had made him blind while he pursued his dream.