The Adults

by Caroline Hulse

  Claire nodded. “He looked happier than I’ve seen him in ages.”

  “He’ll be fine when he wakes up,” Matt said.

  Alex blinked at Matt. “Matt, you can’t spin this. You can’t hide. This is real life. Who shot him?”

  Claire and Matt looked at each other.

  Matt turned to Alex. “The thing is, we’re both culpable, Al. We were both here.”

  “That means it was Claire.” Alex turned to Claire. “You’re going to prison, Claire, I’m sorry. It can’t be helped.”

  “Shit,” Matt muttered. “Sorry, mate.”

  “We’ll have to tell the police the truth,” Alex said. “Patrick will tell the truth anyway, when he wakes up.”

  “Claire didn’t want to shoot him,” Matt said. “She was protecting me. And Patrick might not grass her up. He’ll know when he wakes up this was his fault. He admitted it. Practically.”

  “I shot him.” Claire sank onto her knees on the grass. “Shot him. Oh, God. Who am I?”

  Matt put his hand on Claire’s shoulder. “Don’t think about it now. We have to be practical.”

  “He could die. He has kids.” Claire put her head in her hands. “OK, they hate him, but still.”

  “We don’t have time for that now.” Matt’s voice had taken on a parental sternness Alex didn’t recognize. “It happened, and he won’t die. Pull yourself together.”

  “I shot him.”

  “That’s not the story,” Matt said firmly. “We need a new story.”

  Alex raised her voice. “The story is that Claire shot him!”

  “That isn’t what we’re going to tell them. Claire might go to prison. Can you think what that would do to her? To Scarlett.” Matt turned to Claire. “Sorry. I care about you too, obviously.”

  Claire gave a wave of the hand.

  “She won’t go to prison if Patrick says it was an accident,” Alex said.

  All three of them looked toward Patrick, to the contented half smile on his face. He could have looked asleep, if it wasn’t for the arrow sticking out of his shoulder, the redness blooming across his blanket-coat.

  “I reckon Pat’ll go along with it,” Matt said. “Once he’s calmed down.”

  “If he tells the police it was deliberate, they won’t believe me that it was an accident.” Claire kicked a clod of earth with her boot. “They could get evidence to say he was pissing me off. I’d told my friends I was thinking of ending it even before this holiday. If you cover for me, you may get in trouble too. What if we all go to prison? Who’ll look after Scarlett?”

  Matt looked around. “Where is she anyway?”

  “She’s learning to pole dance.”

  Matt snapped round to face Alex. “What?”

  “She’ll be fine for an hour, it won’t kill her.” Alex turned to Claire. “Why did you shoot Patrick?”

  “He was going to shoot Matt. He said so. Patrick knew I was going to leave him.” Claire shoved her hands in her pockets. “He was furious. And he thought I was going to leave him for Matt, which is so ridiculous. I don’t want Matt. No offense.”

  Claire gave an apology head-tilt to Alex. As an afterthought, she gave another one to Matt.

  “No offense taken,” Alex said.

  “A little bit taken,” Matt said. “If I’m allowed to have a view on this.”

  “Sorry,” Claire said.

  “We’ll say I did it,” Matt said. “An accident. It’s less fishy if it’s me. Claire knows how to shoot but I don’t. And we just hope Patrick goes along with it when he wakes up. Which he will, I reckon. As long as he knows I’m not back with Claire.”

  “But if we said it was you, they still might think you did it on purpose,” Claire said. “That you were jealous. And the barman might remember your argument at the pub. When you called Patrick a bell end.”

  Alex looked at Matt. “When was that?”

  Matt shook his head. “Can’t be helped.”

  “No,” Alex said. “Claire’s right. They’ll say she’s protecting you. As Scarlett’s father.”

  “Then what?” Matt said. “What can we say?”

  Alex knelt down by Patrick. “That I was here.” Alex looked into Patrick’s face. He did look remarkably peaceful. “And I did it. Patrick was showing me how to shoot—he’d had a lesson, hadn’t he? I’ve never held a bow before and I didn’t attend the training. I can’t be held responsible.”

  Alex took a deep breath. She grabbed Claire’s bow and touched it in several different places. She leaned over Patrick and touched the arrow pointing out of his shoulder. She circled the arrow with a hard fist.

  Alex let go. She stood back and studied Patrick. She turned round to face Claire. “What angle did you shoot him at? You and Matt show me how you were standing.”

  Claire and Matt looked at each other. They took up their positions, Claire with an imaginary bow and arrow. Though there was no weight to lift, her arms shook.

  “Is that right?” Alex asked.

  “Right,” Claire said, her voice clipped.

  “Right,” Matt said quietly.

  “OK.”

  Alex looked away, round the field. At the grass. At the hedges. At the normality. She shivered.

  “What if Patrick doesn’t back us up?” Matt said.

  “Then it’s our word against his,” Claire said.

  They all stood in silence.

  “Al.” Matt looked toward the lane. “You took Scarlett to dance class before you came here. Everything happened the same. Except we were getting on well all weekend.” He looked at Claire. “There was no tension. But everything else was exactly the same.”

  “Right,” Claire said.

  “Right,” Alex said, into the wind, which carried the sound of sirens.

  Post-shooting interview. Scarlett Cutler, 7.

  Telephone.

  Dad said you might ring. Are you a detective?

  Of course I know about it. They’re trying to protect me because I’m a kid. But I know everything. I know how Patrick got hurt. Alex shot him with a bow and arrow.

  Sophia next door told me. Don’t tell Mum, I don’t want to get Sophia in trouble. Is Alex in trouble? She only ever hurts things by accident.

  Because I know everyone she’s killed.

  One pheasant, two frogs, loads of snails and wasps. But she takes spiders out of the house in her hands. I used to think she wasn’t a nice person, but that’s because my friend didn’t like her.

  I don’t want to talk about him now.

  Yes, he was with us at the Happy Forest.

  I said, I don’t want to talk about him now.

  The adults didn’t argue much. Though Dad did call Patrick a bell end—which means a contemptible man and the glans of the penis. But they were fine after that and we all played pool. And there was that argument after the karaoke, but that was Posey’s fault. He started it.

  Posey. My friend.

  I don’t know where he is. We’ve had an argument.

  It’s Rabbit. He doesn’t have a middle name. My middle name is Chloe. Without any dots on the e, because Dad said he couldn’t be bothered finding the dots on a keyboard.

  No, an actual rabbit. He’s purple and a hundred and forty centimeters tall, if you don’t count his ears. He has a red tag on his bum that says Made in China.

  OK. Goodbye.

  If you do find Posey, tell him Scarlett said hi.

  MONDAY 25 DECEMBER

  Christmas Day

  Day 5

  Extract from the Happy Forest brochure:

  After a few days in our peaceful woodland, you’ll be truly relaxed.

  We know that, once you’ve visited, you’ll be keen to return, so please see our friendly reception team to discuss special discounts. We’d love to see you
again!

  The Happy Forest. Once experienced, never forgotten.

  57

  The nurse stood back from the bed, appraising her expert repositioning of Patrick on his newly fluffed pillows.

  Patrick rested back into the bed. He pulled on the shirt of his pajamas, trying to dislodge the sharp packing creases. Claire had bought these pajamas from the twenty-four-hour supermarket and they were creased and garish and too short at the ankle. But they’d do.

  He pulled the neck of his pajamas back and looked at the tube going into his chest.

  “Can I get you anything else?”

  “No, thanks.” Patrick looked from the tube to the nurse and smiled. He found her briskness reassuring.

  Patrick looked around the room. At the vases of orchids and peonies and the cards on the sideboard. At the box of single malt sent by his chambers.

  How they had managed to get flowers and bottles sent on Christmas Day was beyond him. But they’d managed it anyway—at great expense, he was pleased to imagine.

  The nurse followed his gaze. “You must be a popular man.”

  Patrick gave a generous smile. “Thanks for everything you’ve done.” He pointed to a card on the sideboard, the card showing a picture of a bear with an injured paw. “Could you pass me that before you leave?”

  The nurse passed him the card and left the room.

  Patrick sat with the card in his lap. He smoothed his thumb over the picture on the front.

  He should be devastated about his shoulder. He knew that.

  When Dr. Uba came into the room after the operation, Patrick had indicated the tube in his chest. “What’s this for?”

  “It’s a chest drain,” Dr. Uba said. “You have a small pneumothorax—punctured lung—which we will continue to monitor.”

  “A small punctured lung,” Patrick said.

  “We’ll arrange another X-ray for a couple of weeks’ time. I need to tell you to expect restricted movement in the shoulder joint.”

  “But I’m an athlete,” Patrick said dully.

  Dr. Uba said nothing.

  “What about swimming?”

  “Swimming will help recovery, at the right time.”

  “I mean, I’m a competitive swimmer. I’m doing an Ironman in a few months.”

  The doctor shook his head. “I don’t think you will be. I’m sorry. And I should tell you—the police have been trying to speak to you. I expect they’ll be in shortly.”

  Patrick found himself looking round at the flowers. The phone rang on the trolley next to him. He picked up the receiver.

  “Dad?”

  “Hi, Amber.” Patrick relaxed further into his now-wilting pillows.

  “How’s the shoulder?”

  Patrick automatically turned to look at it; he felt a twinge of pain. He moved his head carefully till he was facing forward. “It’s not too bad.”

  “I’ve convinced Mum to drive us up to see you after lunch. I’ve booked a hotel on her credit card. We’ve had a screaming row about it, but I deliberately got the room nonrefundable. I told her, you’re my dad and it’s not fair, her keeping us from you when you’re on your deathbed.”

  Patrick grinned.

  “Not that you’re on your deathbed.”

  “I know what you meant. How’s your day going?”

  “Day?”

  “Your Christmas Day? Any nice presents?”

  “Dad, how can I be thinking about that when you’ve been shot? I haven’t opened any presents. I can’t think of that stuff now.”

  “Maybe you can bring them up here, then. Open them with me.”

  “But I haven’t got you anything, Dad.” Amber’s voice was small. “I didn’t know what to get.”

  “You’re coming to see me, despite what your mother wants. And that’s all the present I need.”

  “I’m so sorry, Dad.”

  “What for?”

  He heard a little snuffle down the phone.

  “Darling. It’s fine. And I can’t wait to see you later.”

  After Patrick put the phone down, he looked down at the card in his hand. He opened the card and reread it.

  I’m sorry, Patrick. I had no choice.

  Please don’t speak to anyone about the accident till you’ve spoken to me. We’ve told everyone something very specific. It’s complicated. But anything I did, I did for Scarlett.

  I’m sorry about your shoulder. And I’m definitely not getting back with Matt. I promise.

  I want the best for you in the future. I’m still very fond of you.

  Get well soon, and I’ll be outside when you wake up.

  C x

  Patrick closed the card. He ran his thumb over the card’s picture, the bear with the injured paw.

  He closed his eyes and leaned farther back into the pillows.

  Post-shooting discussion. Sai Indra, 32.

  Detective Constable, North Yorkshire Police.

  Face-to-face. Police station.

  Morning, boss. I’m not sure sleeping on it helped.

  The whole setup, for one. A holiday with ex-partners? And someone ends up shot?

  I was pretty cynical, even before I started this job. But, I admit, it doesn’t help.

  You playing devil’s advocate? I’m game.

  Firstly, Alex Mount lied about the arguments. They all lied. They want us to think they got on like a house on fire. And why would they do that if there was nothing to hide? Same with the drinking. Why cover that up unless they wanted us not to know something?

  They’re all in on it, clearly.

  You’re right—not all of them. I don’t think Scarlett knows anything, though she’s not exactly a reliable witness, what with the five-foot purple rabbits. And I don’t think the Trevor family are in on it either.

  But if there’s nothing to hide, why would Alex pretend to be Scarlett’s mum to the receptionist? And why would they do archery without the child, when she was the whole reason they were there?

  Don’t even get me started on the burlesque class. I agree with the friend—Ruby. There’s no way Alex Mount would have taken a child to a burlesque class.

  I don’t know what I mean, that’s the problem.

  Next point. Why would a sensible man stand in front of an archery target? And why would a sensible woman point a bow and arrow at him?

  I think we have to assume they’re sensible. A barrister and a research scientist, no criminal records, qualifications coming out of their ears. And what about the phone going silent after Alex Mount knew the ambulance was on its way?

  I know it can happen, that your ear puts your phone on mute. But when you add it all up, there are far too many accidents here. I’d put money on Alex doing it deliberately because she didn’t want to answer any more questions from the operator.

  I know it doesn’t sound like much.

  OK, the cuts on his face? No one has explained that.

  I know, I know. Another accident. It’s going to be hard justifying we have any case at all, unless Patrick Asher says something to contradict them.

  I’m ready to go to the hospital when you are.

  58

  Scarlett sat cross-legged on the rug in front of the telly in Grandma’s lounge. She stared at the iPad that she’d propped against a chair leg.

  She looked at the clock on the wall. Nearly seven minutes past eleven.

  She stared back at the iPad’s blank screen.

  In her armchair, Grandma blew on her mug of tea. “It’ll be your father’s fault they’re running late.”

  Scarlett took a peek at the pile of presents next to her. Looking at them gave her that itchy, squirmy feeling she got when she needed the loo badly.

  She looked back at the screen. She’d memorized the presents by now
anyway.

  Grandma took a sip of tea. “A watched pot never boils.”

  Scarlett ignored her.

  She knew that, next to her, there was one big box wrapped in paper covered in silver stars. There was one smaller box in reindeer paper. Next to these was one smaller present, squishy and flat, in grown-up paper that looked like it was made out of paper bags.

  Finally, the iPad lit up. Scarlett pressed the button to answer even before the ringing started.

  Mum and Dad’s faces appeared on the screen. The white walls and posters behind them—Do You Need a Flu Jab?—showed they were still in the hospital canteen.

  Scarlett waved.

  “Merry Christmas!” Dad said.

  “You don’t have to say that every time we speak today.”

  “I do, because it’s a celebration.” Dad rubbed his hands. “You ready to get fired in?”

  Scarlett nodded. She slid the present with the silver star paper in front of the screen. She looked up in a question.

  Mum nodded at her. “Go for it. This one’s from me and your dad.”

  Scarlett pulled the paper off the present.

  She sat completely still. She couldn’t speak, just stared at the box.

  Here it was, in real life. Like magic. Bryan the Lion’s jungle palace.

  “It’s got the rope-vine working lifts and the mane hair salon and everything,” Dad said.

  “But you said it was too expensive for Santa!”

  Mum winked. “What can I say? I got it wrong.”

  “I think Santa came into money. He hit it big on the horses,” Dad said. “Now, open the next one before we get kicked out for using a phone in hospital.”

  Mum shot Dad a look. “There is no way I’m missing this. Just let them try to make us switch this off. Bring it on.”

  Scarlett didn’t want Mum to forget what they were here for, so she deliberately made lots of crinkling sounds as she pulled the squishy brown present toward the screen.

  Dad tugged at an arm next to him—an arm Scarlett hadn’t noticed before. “That present’s from Alex.”