Shadow of a Doubt

by Michelle Davies

  ‘Do you remember what Cara was like as a child?’ Anita had asked her then.

  Karen’s voice hardened as she remembered how objectionable her niece was. ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘No, not how she was when Matty died, I mean before that, when she was very little. Do you remember how tenacious she was? She would never relent until she’d got her way. It used to drive me mad when she wouldn’t let things lie, like the time she wanted Paul to tie a swing to the tree in the back garden. On and on she went for days, until she wore him down and he gave in.’ Anita fixed her gaze on Karen. ‘That’s why I’m doing this. Because I know that if I leave her the house she won’t stop until she works out why.’

  Karen shook her head in disbelief. ‘I don’t get it. Her actions destroyed your life – why on earth would you want to give her a single penny?’

  ‘I’ve told you, it’s rightfully hers.’

  The steely stare on Anita’s face told Karen she wasn’t going to get a fuller explanation than that, so she decided not to push it. Instead, she returned to Anita’s comment about Cara working out why she was doing it.

  ‘Why don’t you just explain it to her in the will,’ she suggested. ‘Or write a letter to be opened afterwards and leave it with your solicitor.’

  ‘I don’t want to write it in the will because it’s private, between her and me, and I don’t trust she’ll receive any letter I write.’

  ‘You don’t trust your solicitor to pass something that important on?’ Karen asked sceptically. ‘They would have a duty to.’

  ‘It’s not that simple. The letter could get lost, or someone might intercept it.’

  ‘I think you’re being a bit paranoid, Neet. Your solicitor can handle it.’

  ‘I don’t want them to. Cara needs to work it out for herself.’

  That baffled Karen and she said so. ‘Why make it so hard for her?’

  ‘I have to,’ said Anita weakly. ‘If I try to tell her in a direct way, it might backfire. I know it doesn’t make much sense, but I know what I’m doing. Believe me, I’ve given this a lot of thought.’

  ‘If you don’t want to tell her straight out, can you at least tell me?’

  ‘No, I mustn’t.’

  ‘But we’ve always told each other everything,’ Karen pouted.

  Anita reached over and clasped her hand and Karen was struck by how old and worn her sister’s skin was to the touch. The pads of Anita’s fingertips felt as though all the moisture had been squeezed out of them.

  ‘I can’t tell you, I’m sorry. You just have to trust that my reasons for not telling you are good.’

  ‘If you don’t want to say now, can’t you write it down somewhere for me to read after you’re gone?’

  Anita had chuckled at that, until somewhere within her body, most likely in her liver where the disease was wreaking the most damage, she felt a stab of pain and cried out.

  ‘Do you want me to get the nurse?’ asked Karen worriedly.

  ‘No, I’m fine. Just give me a moment.’

  She’d closed her eyes then and Karen sat quietly holding her hand while she caught her breath. Eventually, her eyelids fluttered open again.

  ‘I know me rewriting my will makes no sense to you, but Cara deserves to inherit my and Paul’s money. We owe her.’

  ‘Are you kidding me? You owe her nothing. She killed Matty!’

  Anita reacted as though she hadn’t heard Karen, gazing off into the distance. ‘I used to go to see her in Morecambe. Once or twice a year at least.’

  Karen’s mouth gaped open in surprise. Anita had never breathed a word of those trips.

  ‘Cara never knew though, nor did her foster parents. I would wait across the street from their house and would follow her to school. Then I’d go for a walk or sit in a café until it was home time and then follow her back. She grew up to be such a beautiful, lovely girl, but when she was eighteen, she left Morecambe and I didn’t know where she moved to.’ Anita turned to Karen, her face stricken. ‘It was a terrible mistake to send her away. I should have let her come home after her hospital discharge.’

  Karen had supported Anita’s decision to let Cara be fostered after her time in the Peachick and even encouraged it, so to hear her say she wished she’d done things differently came as a shock.

  ‘But you couldn’t have had her home,’ she’d offered up lamely. ‘Even after she left the hospital, she still had to be monitored constantly. You weren’t in the right frame of mind to do that; you were still grieving.’

  ‘I should have brought her home and kept her safe,’ said Anita firmly. ‘Paul begged me to change my mind and I almost did, when she was thirteen, but the social workers said she was settled and happy with her foster parents and I didn’t want to disrupt her life. I was too scared to.’ Anita fixed her gaze on her sister. ‘But now it’s time for her to come home. The house is hers.’

  It was a conversation they never repeated after that afternoon in the hospital: every time Karen tried to bring it up again, Anita simply refused to engage beyond saying her mind was made up and that Karen mustn’t tell Gary or Ryan and Natalie because it was her business, not theirs. Anita got so worked up that Karen had no choice but to agree.

  The rain is coming down even harder now – sheets of water that make it impractical for Karen to continue her journey without getting completely saturated. She takes shelter beneath the spreading branches of an oak tree at the end of Parsons Close to wait for the downpour to pass, and as she stands there, she contemplates how Cara is feeling about being back in the house. Is she, as Anita hoped, already trying to work out why she’s been left it? Karen hopes she doesn’t care and simply sells it as soon as she can.

  Part of her wishes she could mull over with Gary what Cara might do next, but she daren’t risk letting it slip that she’d known about the will and hadn’t told him. Karen can’t discuss it with Ryan either, because he is bound to tell his dad, and the same goes for Natalie, whose tearful reaction the other day showed clearly where her priorities lie.

  But there is someone who might listen. Karen reaches into her pocket for her phone and finds the contact she needs. Her heart thuds a little deeper as the number rings. Will her call be answered or will she be abruptly cut off and rerouted to voicemail, as often happens?

  Today, to her relief, Lisa chooses to answer.

  ‘Hey, Mum, is everything okay?’

  It saddens Karen that her daughter automatically assumes something must be the matter for her to call and not that she’s ringing just because. It puts her on the back foot and she has to force herself to sound upbeat.

  ‘Everything’s fine. I was just ringing to see how you are.’

  ‘Good. Busy.’

  The inference stings: I don’t have time for this.

  ‘Well, actually, there is something I need to tell you,’ Karen begins nervously. ‘Cara’s come back.’

  There’s a sharp intake of breath down the line and when Lisa speaks again, her voice is strained.

  ‘She’s in Heldean?’

  ‘Yes. She’s staying at number 16. Auntie Neet’s left her the house.’

  Lisa swears loudly, then says ‘Sorry’ in an aside to someone. She’s a senior researcher with the Justice and Social Affairs Research Unit within the Scottish Parliament, a job that inspires immense pride in Karen, but also regret that it has taken her daughter so far away to live.

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t disturb you when you’re working,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t think.’

  ‘I’m glad you did, Mum. Frankly, I’m staggered Cara’s been left the house, but I’m glad she has. It’s the least Auntie Neet could do.’

  Karen is taken aback by Lisa’s vehemence. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because Cara deserves it after what Auntie Neet did.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  https://theheldeanhaunting/blog

  CARA BELLING RETURNS!

  22 November 2019

  Comments [3]

/>   Well, this is certainly a post I never imagined (but had fervently hoped) I would be writing in my lifetime! It has been brought to my attention (by a well-placed source whose name I am afraid I cannot divulge) that after a quarter of a century Cara Belling has returned to the scene of her 1994 paranormal experience. Yes, she’s back!

  Ms Belling’s return to Heldean follows the death of her mother, Anita, last month. What’s more, I have learned that she is actually staying at the house where she encountered Heldean’s most infamous paranormal resident, Limey Stan. In a further twist of the plot, my source also tells me that Anita Belling has left the house to her estranged daughter in her will!

  This is quite the remarkable turnaround, as it has been well-documented, by others and myself, that Mrs Belling and her daughter have remained estranged since the events of 1994. We can only speculate, therefore, on what persuaded the mother to leave the property to her daughter, as my source confirmed that, sadly, no reunion took place before she died.

  As avid followers of my blog will be aware, there were no further reported sightings of Limey Stan after the tragic death of six-year-old Matty Belling. However, it is not uncommon for spirits to respond only to the presence of certain people, so we must wait with bated breath to see if Ms Belling’s return will prompt Limey Stan to show himself again.

  I shall, as the leading expert on the legend of Limey Stan, be offering my assistance to Ms Belling, should she require it, and I will, of course, update you with developments when they happen, as I am sure they will. In the meantime, my investigative account of the Heldean Haunting is available to download as a 99p ebook if you click here.

  Timothy Pitt, paranormal investigator

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Cara

  It is almost midnight when I finally get round to unpacking my suitcase, my sweater long since dried after getting soaked in the downpour. The locksmith came within two hours of my calling and I then spent the rest of the afternoon and evening tidying up downstairs. I tried to put things back where I thought they might belong, all the while trying to suppress how dismal I felt that I didn’t know for certain if they were in their rightful places.

  Equally as upsetting was what little evidence I found of my existence amongst the belongings – aside from the plastic tub of Christmas decorations, I unearthed only one framed photograph that I appear in, of the four of us dressed up for a distant relation’s wedding, the buttonhole in my dad’s lapel a giveaway of the occasion. I have a vague memory, prompted by the pink polka dot dress I’m wearing in the picture, of Matty and me pretending to be ice-skaters as we slid across a parquet dance floor at whatever venue it was. Because I was the taller, I’d always be Dean and would make him be Torvill, but he never minded because he was sweet like that. As a grown-up, a job in conciliation would’ve suited Matty down to the ground, but he wanted to be a builder like his hero, Bob.

  The photograph wasn’t on display but buried at the bottom of a drawer, face down. Beyond that, there was nothing to suggest I was ever a part of the Belling family, or even once a resident of the house, which again makes me question what possessed Mum to leave it to me. If she wanted to taunt me with proof that I have been all but eradicated from their lives, then not including me in the will at all would have been a far less contentious way to do it. My omission would’ve spoken volumes. But by leaving me the house, she must’ve known I’d be compelled to return, willingly or otherwise, and I think Anne was right when she said an explanation could be hidden here. In the absence of anything relating to me beyond the photo and the Christmas decorations, I’ve yet to work out where or what it could be, but I shall find it, otherwise I’ll drive myself mad wondering.

  What I also didn’t find during my tidy-up was a single thing relating to the circumstances of Matty’s death. By that I mean my parents hadn’t kept any news cuttings or books that mentioned what happened here on 16 July 1994. I didn’t even come across his death certificate. I find this strange, because I’ve accumulated boxes of stuff about the Heldean Haunting. Or I had until about ten years ago, when Anne and John decided I was becoming obsessed, spending every evening poring over them, and spirited the lot back to Morecambe to store in their loft, out of temptation’s way.

  In what was once my old bedroom, there is a white chest of drawers and a matching wardrobe, both new additions, like the double bed. Cautiously, I pull open the doors to the wardrobe but find only some empty coat hangers, upon which I quickly place the only clothes I’ve brought that require hanging: two shirts and a pair of smart trousers; the rest can be folded away in a drawer. I have brought enough clothes for a two-week stay as I would take on holiday. Two weeks is also what Jeannie’s given me in paid compassionate leave – if I choose to stay on beyond that, my pay stops and I’ll have to put a wash on.

  The last thing I remove from my case is a large Ziploc plastic bag containing half a dozen pill bottles and packets. The most potent among them is trifluoperazine, an antipsychotic I was first prescribed at the Peachick. It takes a really bad episode to force me to take it, and it has been two years since the last time – the tablets are probably out of date, I haven’t even checked. I just keep them with the rest, just in case. The others are a mix of tranquilisers, sleeping tablets and antidepressants that my GP insists on prescribing me, and the last bottle, the biggest of the lot, is a super-strength, high-dose multivitamin, which I’m certain does me far more good than the rest put together. I can be an erratic eater when I am tired or stressed, often skipping meals because I cannot be bothered to cook, so I take it to counter the lack of nutrition in my diet and, placebo effect or not, it makes me feel healthier than any antidepressant ever will. I take the plastic bag and dump it alongside my underwear in the top drawer.

  The bedding appears fresh and clean, but I decide to strip it anyway. I’ve brought my own duvet and pillows with me, for comfort as much as anything else, and Mustard watches curiously from his position on the floor as I pull the duvet off the bed and lay my own in its place. I don’t usually let him sleep in my bedroom, but for my first night back in this house, I am making an exception.

  He trots after me as I head for the bathroom to brush my teeth. I’ve left all the lights on, so the landing, stairs and hallway are brightly illuminated. I don’t care what it will do to the electricity bill – if the place is in darkness, I won’t be able to sleep.

  As I ease the bathroom door open, Mustard suddenly runs to the top of the stairs and barks. ‘What’s up, mate?’ I call out to him.

  His bark drops to a low growl and that’s when I hear it.

  Tapping.

  I cross the landing and crouch down next to him, putting a trembling hand on his collar. ‘It’s okay, boy,’ I whisper.

  The tapping is coming from downstairs and it’s loud enough that I can hear it clearly over both Mustard’s growling and the white noise of blood rushing in my ears.

  This is how it started in 1994. Tapping sounds downstairs, loud enough to rouse me from my sleep and persistent enough to fill me with dread. I would tiptoe to where Mustard and I are crouched now at the top of the stairs in the hope I’d catch Limey Stan doing it and could beg him to leave me alone. But the tapping would stop then and the silence would rush up at me, squeezing the breath from my lungs. Frightened out of my wits, I’d scurry back to bed and pull the covers over my head, wishing I was brave enough to call out for my mum but not wanting to wake her or Matty because I didn’t want them to be as scared as I was.

  Tishk, I suddenly think. I could call him and ask him to come round: he said to, if ever there was an emergency. My breathing steadies a bit as I release my grip on Mustard’s collar and reach round to my back pocket, but all my hand finds is a flat patch of denim and my heart sinks. My phone is still in the kitchen, where I left it charging earlier.

  The tapping is getting louder. Now it’s more like a bang and each time it reverberates, I flinch more violently. I venture down a couple of stairs, but I can’t see where it’
s coming from. The lights are all on, I remind myself shakily. There are no shadows downstairs for anyone to lurk in.

  ‘Come on,’ I say to Mustard and he follows me down the carpeted stairs before his claws clatter onto the stripped floorboards lining the hallway. We head into the kitchen and I listen intently, but I cannot hear anything. The tapping has stopped.

  Seconds later, I jolt as the noise starts up again and this time I realise it is coming from the front room. Fear crawls up my spine. I don’t want to go in there, not at this hour, even with the light on and the curtains wide open. But Mustard has other ideas and shoots into the room, barking madly. I force myself to go after him, but my legs give way as he makes a beeline for the bay window and he leaps up, claws clanking against glass.

  That’s when I see it.

  Outside, the wind has picked up and a branch from the mature rose bush in the front garden is being battered against the window. That’s what’s making the tapping sound.

  Nerves frayed, I exhale shakily, until suddenly I see a pair of eyes staring at me, reflected in the glass.

  Mustard barks, but my scream is louder.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Cara

  ‘I probably should’ve warned you Rascal likes to roam round your garden,’ says Tishk, handing me the stubby glass tumbler he’s poured some brandy into. He, of course, doesn’t drink and instead sticks to water. ‘He’s nearly twelve, so it’s been his territory for a long time.’

  Great. Even the next-door neighbour’s cat is more at home here than I am, I think to myself. Grimacing, I sip my drink.

  Tishk came running as soon as he heard my screaming. Once I started, I couldn’t stop, not even when I realised the yellow eyes staring back at me belonged to a big black scraggy cat and nothing more sinister.

  He wasn’t the only person to rush to my aid though. Standing awkwardly next to the sofa, fluffy purple dressing gown wrapped tightly around her, is Heather, who lives with her husband and children in the house directly across the street from mine. The noise of my hysteria woke her up and on peering through her bedroom curtains, she saw me through the bay window, backlit by the bright lounge light, and came straight over. Unless I’m much mistaken, I think she’s worked out who I am, because she keeps casting wary glances my way.