But knowing about the amended will doesn’t mean she has to go along with what it says. Cara doesn’t deserve to inherit Anita’s wealth – and Karen will do whatever it takes to make sure she doesn’t receive a penny of it.
Chapter Thirteen
Cara
If the man is surprised by my question, he doesn’t show it. I suppose working in a cemetery, surrounded by death and grief all day, every day, makes you immune to the unusual and the unexpected. He hasn’t introduced himself, but the badge on his breast pocket proclaims him to be Jim Thompson, Cemetery Operative. Working in a place populated by dead bodies is not a job I’d be comfortable doing and my shoulders ripple in a shudder to confirm it.
Jim takes his time to answer, repeating my question as he stares first at the grave we are standing beside, then back at me.
‘How many can you fit in? I suppose that depends on whether they’re being buried or have already been cremated. If it’s ashes in an urn, you can pack quite a few into one plot.’
‘Buried,’ I say quietly.
Mum hated the thought of being cremated. I must’ve been only eight at the time, but I remember her telling me, after the service at the crematorium when my great-granddad died, to make sure she was buried when it was her time. Dad would’ve gone along with what she wanted and agreed the same method for himself. He always did everything she said.
‘Well, your standard-size grave can take two interments, but allowances can be made for three, if it’s agreed when the plot is purchased. It’s so’s we know to dig down deeper,’ Jim replies. ‘If it’s more you’re wanting to bury, you’ll need to buy a bigger plot than standard.’
I want to ask if my parents got to choose the plot’s location, or whether it was the job of some faceless clerk at the council to assign it. The biting wind that carried us through the cemetery is less vicious here, tempered by the ancient oak spreading its branches above us. It’s the most secluded spot you could find in a place where isolation is king, and while it is only early afternoon still, the shade of the tree makes it seem more like dusk.
But I let the question die on my tongue, scared of saying too much.
Jim is now reading the inscription on the pale marble gravestone, his lips twitching as he says the words back to himself under his breath. I wonder if he reads books in the same way.
MATTY BELLING 1988–1994
PAUL BELLING 1958–2001
LOVING FATHER AND SON,REUNITED IN PEACE
It kills me to see Matty’s name etched there next to Dad’s when he had only just mastered how to write it himself when he died. His given name was Matthew, but apparently I couldn’t pronounce that when he was brought home from the hospital, so my parents shortened it to Matty for my benefit and the nickname stuck. At school, he was Matty B though, because there was another boy in his class called Matthew and Matty didn’t want to be confused with him. Dad used to say Matty B sounded like a DJ’s name, which was fitting because, like me, my brother loved music and loved to dance.
My mind wanders for a moment and I imagine us in our twenties, in some dark, sweaty club in Ibiza, lost in the rhythm of a thumping bassline, our arms aloft and grinning madly as we dance side by side, even closer now as adults than we were as kids. Or maybe Dad was right and Matty would have been behind the decks, spinning the tunes to bring the heaving crowd to its feet, me passing him cold beers as he worked.
Then I force the images from my mind because I am perilously close to breaking down and I don’t want to. I won’t cry, not here, not in front of this stranger.
‘There’s three in here now, though,’ Jim announces. ‘Them two mentioned, and the one we put in almost a fortnight ago. Those are her flowers.’
He gestures to the wreaths and bouquets propped up around the grave’s marble edging, which is currently moved to one side to allow for Mum’s burial. The flowers are wilting now, time and an absence of water robbing them of their richness. The smallest bunch is mine, but you wouldn’t know it from the card. I didn’t sign my name in case Karen threw them away. I had the florist write ‘RIP X’ and hoped Mum would know it was me, however dopey that might sound.
‘There’s definitely not room for any others?’ I ask. ‘Can you not bury the coffins side by side, rather than on top of each other?’
Jim is becoming exasperated at being forced to labour the point. ‘No, it wouldn’t be allowed in this plot. Three’s all you’re going to get in there.’
So they didn’t make room for me.
I swallow hard and my disappointment scrapes down my already dry throat. I don’t know why I thought my parents might have decided to accommodate me when they bought the plot after Matty’s death – until the will reading, nothing that’s happened in the past twenty-five years has given me any hope that they would – I just thought maybe.
Jim looks at me, then back at the headstone. I flinch, knowing what’s coming, but it’s too late to walk away.
‘Hang on, are you her – the Belling girl?’
My silence is all the answer he needs.
Jim recoils so violently it’s as though he’s trying to separate his facial muscles from the skin covering them.
‘What you did to that poor family of yours––’
‘What exactly did I do?’ I snap back. Two neat Scotches on an empty stomach have given me a headache and I’m feeling testy and in no mood to be judged by this stranger. ‘Go on, you tell me what you think it is I did.’
Unfortunately, it turns out Jim isn’t the kind to back away from a confrontation and his eyes blaze with indignation as he aims his index finger at me, stabbing the air between us to make his point.
‘All them lies you told, pretending it wasn’t you. Making up all that stuff about Limey Stan to get yourself off the hook.’
My breath catches in my throat at the mention of the name. It’s been a long time since anyone other than Anne or John has used it in my presence, but I should not be surprised it trips so easily off Jim’s tongue: Limey Stan is part of Heldean’s folklore and perhaps the only thing the town is notable for.
‘I didn’t make it up,’ I croak.
Jim looks disgusted. ‘How can you stand there after all this time and still say that?’
I realise what a terrible mistake I’ve made coming to the cemetery – now Jim will tell everyone he knows that Cara Belling is back in Heldean and that she stood by her poor family’s grave and spun yet more lies.
‘Why don’t you just admit what you did?’ he barks at me.
I am welded to the spot, trembling like a frightened puppy, when I feel Anne’s hand take my arm and I sink gratefully against her. She was waiting on the path for me and must’ve heard the heated exchange and has come to rescue me.
‘It’s time to leave,’ she says.
‘Go on, tell the truth!’ Jim roars at me, his face so close to mine, I can see the metal fillings plugging his molars.
The sensible thing would be to ignore him and walk away. But jacked up on 75 per cent-proof alcohol, I suddenly lose all sense of control and what’s right. Wrenching my arm from Anne’s grasp, I rush towards him and he almost topples backwards onto the grave in fright.
‘For the last time, it wasn’t me who killed my brother,’ I scream in his face, spraying it with spittle. ‘Limey Stan did it!’
Chapter Fourteen
MEMORANDUM – STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL
To: Dr Patrick Malloy, head of clinical services
From: Audrey Shay, senior administrator
Subject: Transcript of session #39 between Dr Stacey Ardern, consultant child and adolescent psychiatrist, and patient 426-001, Cara Belling
Date: Friday 31 March 1995
[Preceding discussion was about a book CB is reading, The Worst Witch All At Sea]
SA: Do you also know the story of Aladdin and the genie of the lamp, Cara?
CB: Yes, I saw the film too. I liked the genie.
SA: He was a funny character, yes. You know, I’ve always wond
ered what it would be like to be granted three wishes like Aladdin was. I think it would be quite difficult to choose what to spend the wishes on.
CB: I think it would be easy.
SA: What would you choose for your first wish?
CB: To go home. I don’t like it here. Why can’t I leave?
SA: We’ve talked about this already, haven’t we, Cara. We want you to go home too, but we have to make sure you are better first. You understand that, don’t you? Good. So, what would be your second wish?
CB: I’d like a kitten, a black one. I’d call it Smoky.
SA: That’s a great name for a cat. Mine’s called Trevor.
CB: Trevor? That’s a boy’s name!
SA: I know, but it suits him. He’s a tortoiseshell. Trevor the tortoiseshell.
CB: Mummy wouldn’t let me get a kitten.
SA: Did she explain why?
CB: Because they sometimes pee against furniture and she didn’t think I’d look after it properly. I would’ve though. Matty said he’d help me.
SA: Is getting a kitten something you and Matty talked about then?
[CB doesn’t answer, but SA’s reaction suggests the child nods/shrugs affirmatively]
SA: That’s good. You and Matty talked about a lot of things, didn’t you?
CB: Yes. I miss talking to him. [Sounds tearful]
SA: Cara, are you ready to talk to me about what happened to him?
[1.16-min pause while CB cries]
SA: I know this is very hard, but telling me what happened is important if I’m to help you.
[23-second pause, then CB mumbles]
SA: Sorry, I missed that. What did Matty say?
CB: Before he got hurt, he said if I woke him up that night he would help me catch Limey Stan.
SA: So he wanted to help you?
CB: Yes. I didn’t force him to get out of bed like the policemen said I did and I didn’t make him come downstairs and hide with me. It was his idea as well.
SA: The hiding place was a good one. I’ve seen a picture of your front room and the curtains were very thick and very long.
CB: That’s why I said go behind them.
SA: Did you have to hide for long?
CB: I don’t know. It felt like a long time. Matty started giggling and wouldn’t be quiet.
SA: I think I might’ve been scared hiding in the dark like that. Were you?
[13-sec pause, no response from CB]
SA: Did you and Matty have a plan for what you were going to do once you caught Limey Stan?
CB: No. I just wanted to tell him to stop waking me up and to go away.
SA: You never got to do that in the end.
CB: No, because he hurt Matty and I got in trouble for it. [Cries again. Tape continues for 2.06 min with only sound being CB upset, followed by pause for 31 sec]
SA: I have an idea. Why don’t we talk about what happened that night as though you are telling me a story? I know you like stories, because you just told me you like Aladdin and The Worst Witch books. How about I start the story off, then you take over? If you get stuck along the way, I can help. Does that sound good?
CB: Okay.
SA: I’ll start then. Once upon a time, there was a little girl called Cara, who lived with her mummy and daddy and her brother, Matty. One day, Cara said she was very tired because something was waking her up in the night.
CB: It was a ghost called Limey Stan, who would knock on the walls and make noise coming up the stairs, and Cara wished he would go away. [CB sounds excited retelling the story]. It went on for a long time. One night, Cara asked her brother Matty to help her catch Limey Stan and he said yes. They went downstairs in the middle of the night and hid behind Mummy’s new curtains in the front room. Matty said it was an adventure and she was the best big sister ever.
[15-sec pause]
SA: Cara and Matty thought they could jump out and surprise Limey Stan?
CB: Yes, they did. Matty thought it was funny hiding at first, but then they heard creaky noises on the stairs and in the hallway and he got scared and started to cry and he tried to get out from behind the curtain, but he was all tangled up. [Sounds upset, but not crying] Cara tried to pull him out, but her arms got tangled too and it was so dark, she couldn’t see what she was doing properly.
SA: Cara then tried to call for help?
CB: No, she was too scared to. It was like her voice got stuck in her mouth and wouldn’t come out. All she could think was that Limey Stan was getting closer and she had to rescue Matty. But she was too late. Limey Stan was standing in front of the curtains and Matty made a horrible noise, like he was trying to cough, and then he fell on the ground.
[19-sec pause]
SA: Then what happened?
CB: Cara thought Limey Stan would get her next, so with all her might, she pushed her way out from behind the curtains and ran upstairs and locked herself in the bathroom until Mummy and the police came to find her.
[26-sec pause. CB breathing heavily]
SA: Is that the end of the story, Cara?
CB: I don’t want to play telling stories any more. Can we stop now?
Chapter Fifteen
Cara
Anne takes my arm and pulls me away, but it’s not until we are outside the gates to the cemetery that I stop shouting and my body stops trembling from the sudden and violent release of rage, the emergence of which surprised me as much as it did Jim. I have been so adept at containing my upset all these years that I had not realised quite how livid I am about what happened to me until now. I was nine years old, a kid, and I was locked up in hospital like I was a dangerous psychopath when I did nothing wrong.
I pitch forward, panting heavily, and put my hands on my knees to steady myself. Anne stands beside me and gently rubs my back between the shoulder blades.
‘Don’t let it get to you,’ says Anne. ‘It’s a pointless waste of emotion.’
I straighten up, still thrumming with anger.
‘How can I ignore it? You heard what he said.’ My body shudders again. ‘I can’t believe he expected me to stand there and admit to something I didn’t do. The bastard thinks he knows what happened, but he couldn’t be more wrong.’
Anne doesn’t flinch from my wrath. She’s been on the receiving end of so many outbursts as a foster carer that she knows not to take it personally.
‘No, he doesn’t know what happened, which is why you should ignore him. He’s not important.’
‘But he is, in a way, because he’s the sum of every other person in this town who thinks I’m the girl who killed her brother and spun a stupid ghost story to cover it up. But it wasn’t a story,’ I snarl, my fists curling involuntarily at my sides. ‘I know what I heard and I know what I saw.’
For a split second, Anne’s expression shifts, like a light bulb suddenly dimming, then flickering back to full brightness.
I reel back, my anger rapidly abating as I’m filled with dismay. Not her too, not Anne.
‘You still believe me, don’t you?’ I whisper.
‘Don’t be silly, of course I do.’
‘No, you don’t – I saw your face just then. You think I made it up, like everyone else.’
She reaches for my hand, but I step backwards. I don’t want her touching me.
‘Please, Cara. I do believe you.’ Where a moment ago her expression showed doubt, now there is desperation. Anne knows how seismic the fracture will be in our relationship if she can’t convince me in the next few seconds that she means what she’s saying. ‘I’ve always believed you never hurt your brother,’ she says.
‘But you never believed me about Limey Stan,’ I state, aghast.
Anne flounders for a reply.
Tears fill my eyes and I hold up my hand to stop her bothering.
‘One of the few things that’s kept me going all these years is knowing that you believed my side of things, you and John,’ I manage to say, though my voice is strangled with grief. This feels worse than finding out
my mum was dead. For twenty-three years, Anne’s been my mainstay, my protector and my friend. If I can’t count on her, who can I count on? ‘You’re the only grown-ups who ever cared enough to listen to me. I thought you believed me. I need you to believe me still.’
Anne is close to tears herself now. ‘You’ve misunderstood me. I never doubted your story, not once, and nor has John.’
‘So you agree it was Limey Stan then?’
My body is taut with apprehension as I wait for Anne to answer. The air shifts around us as the wind picks up and the rustle of leaves in the trees towering over the entrance to the cemetery grows louder, but I bet you could still hear a pin drop, so dense is the silence between us.
Seconds tick by, until I start to lose patience and prompt her. ‘Well?’
Anne’s face fills with anguish. ‘When you first came to live with us and told us all about Limey Stan and what he’d been doing all those nights before your brother died, you spoke with such conviction that we knew you believed he was real and that was good enough for us.’ She wavers for a moment, then ploughs on. ‘But did we question whether a ghost could have been responsible? Yes, I’ll admit we did. I mean, the idea of it––’
The enormity of what she’s saying hits me squarely, like a sledgehammer to the guts.
‘I don’t want to hear any more,’ I say, knowing that if I let Anne continue talking, I might blurt out something I’ll regret forever. ‘I need some air.’
‘We’re already outdoors,’ she says despairingly. ‘Please, Cara, let me explain properly what I mean by that.’
I shake my head, my heart aching with sorrow. ‘It’s clear what you meant. And you know what, I’ve questioned it myself. Gone over and over that night in my head, trying to remember every last detail.’ I gulp down a shuddering breath. ‘And the thing I always come back to is that I was the only other person there. So if you think there couldn’t have been a ghost called Limey Stan in my house that night, what you’re actually saying is you think it was me who did it.’
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