by Brandy Scott
‘Leave it,’ he snapped, and rolled onto his back. Stared at the ceiling, or at least he would have if he could see.
‘Mr Kasprowicz —’
‘I said LEAVE IT.’
‘I’ll do it.’ Cameron’s voice, smooth and assured, with that newly acquired accent, impossible to place, like his motives. The nurses disappeared quickly — grateful, probably — and there was silence, apart from the quiet rustling of the remains of a life being packed into a nylon sports bag.
He’d have to get used to silence. There’d be no more mindless American rap to roll his eyes at, no PlayStation battles to block out as he prepped in his study with World War III raging on the other side of the wall. ‘You could get a bird,’ the hospital’s chaplain had suggested. ‘A lot of people enjoy the company.’ Pete had made short work of him as well.
And now it would be just him and Cameron. Well, in theory. ‘We wouldn’t let you go if you didn’t have someone to look after you,’ his doctor had said, after Pete requested — demanded — to be discharged. Because there was no bloody point in his staying here. There’d been a flurry of consultation between specialists: Pete could return home if Cameron stayed with him for at least three weeks — ha! — and he came back daily for dressing changes and occupational therapy. A nurse would visit, periodically and unannounced. He’d consider counselling. He’d refused the chair, was lurching about with a stick that made his ribs ache and his arm spasm, but maybe that was justice. Pete had never felt religion as keenly as his wife, but he was beginning to understand those guys who flogged themselves. Pain was an amazing distraction.
They all saw him off, what felt like every nurse in the place, each with a hug and a quiet word of encouragement. Tears, some of them. Pete tried to respond, went through the motions. Murmured appreciation. But there was nothing left of him to give. He was as dead as his boy.
CHAPTER 21
The first rule of damage limitation: remove yourself from the situation. Melinda tried to hustle a hyperventilating, vomit-flecked Aimee away from the whispering crowd, muttering bullshit as she went about nerves and grief.
‘Excuse me,’ she ordered, elbows out. ‘Coming through, excuse me.’ Christ on a bike, what was wrong with people? Melinda could feel Aimee’s embarrassment radiating from her bowed head. She pulled her friend close to her chest, sod the stains. ‘Out the way,’ she hissed at a small child clutching a recorder. ‘How’d you like it if you were sick and people were staring at you?’
Aimee began dry heaving, and the curious onlookers of Hensley finally parted like the Red Sea. ‘Thank you, excuse us. Yes, probably shock. Yes, of course, we all are. A mother herself, obviously. Thank you.’ Melinda held Aimee’s puke- filled handbag in front of her like a talisman to ward off the more persistent vampires. ‘Coming through, coming through. Get out the bloody way.’
Just a few more steps and they’d be in the relative safety of the hall kitchen, and no longer the reluctant stars of this unscheduled entertainment. Melinda felt for Aimee, she honestly did, but God, her timing was awful. Nick caught up with them just as Melinda put her shoulder to the swinging door.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked, reaching for his wife. But Aimee ducked away.
‘No,’ she gasped. ‘Don’t.’
‘Panic attack,’ whispered Melinda, stating the bloody obvious. ‘Maybe leave us for a bit. Fewer people the better.’ She could see Shelley and Byron behind their father, eyes wide. ‘Why don’t you get the kids out of here,’ she suggested, then let the door swing shut on the gossip already swelling behind them.
In. Out. In. Out. Aimee tried to picture the breath expanding in her lungs, flowing through her body, but all she could see was Lincoln lying in his hospital bed, his narrow teenage chest never to rise again. Another wave of nausea flooded through her, leaving her bent double over the steel bench.
‘Breathe,’ Lou instructed, like some kind of birth coach. Aimee gasped. ‘Come on now.’ Lou started rubbing Aimee’s back, small circles of relief she didn’t deserve. All these people worrying about her, all this caring, when she was basically a murderer. Aimee began to cry, the tears making her hiccup. She gulped for air, and started to choke.
‘Christ, Aimee,’ Melinda’s voice sounded very far away. ‘You’ve got to calm down.’
‘Go easy on her,’ said Lou, guiding Aimee towards the sink. ‘I think she’s in shock.’ Aimee leaned her forehead against the hot- water dispenser, not caring about the burning metal against her skin. ‘Hey love, don’t do that. Come here.’ Lou manoeuvred Aimee’s wrists under the tap. ‘Don’t worry, darling,’ she murmured. ‘Everything’s going to be okay.’
The water squealed and spluttered through ancient pipes, but the cooling dribble on her skin did the trick. Aimee felt her breathing finally begin to slow, although her head was still a whirlpool.
‘That’s better,’ said Lou. She handed Aimee her water bottle. ‘Here, drink this.’
Oh God. Aimee leaned forward and heaved again, splattering bright-yellow bile into the sink.
‘Aimee?’ Lou spoke softly, so as not to spook her further. She’d never seen Aimee this bad before, not even when her mother died. Aimee’s shoulders were spasming, her whole torso convulsing as she retched.
‘Come on, love.’ Lou took the water bottle back and opened it herself, held it up to Aimee’s mascara-stained face. ‘It’ll make you feel better.’
Aimee turned her head away, mouth clamped shut.
For God’s sake. ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Lou. But she couldn’t help feeling slightly smug. Because it wasn’t Lou heaving her guts out, or Tansy making a spectacle of herself. It wasn’t her family the good people of Hensley were whispering about in the town hall. Lou was on the right side of the sink for once. She took a deep breath and tried again. ‘Darl, you need fluids. Come on. Aimee!’
‘Give me that,’ said Melinda, grabbing at the water bottle. The second rule of damage limitation: be sure of the facts. She took a sniff, then a cautious sip. ‘Oh, you have got to be kidding me.’
‘What is it?’ asked Lou.
‘Guess,’ said Melinda, tipping the bottle down the sink. She turned back to Aimee, sympathy well and truly evaporating now. ‘What the fuck are you playing at?’ she demanded. ‘How long’ve you been walking around with half a litre of vodka in your handbag?’
Lou gasped.
‘Well I don’t know why you’re surprised,’ said Melinda. ‘You should be good at spotting that sort of thing.’
‘Hey,’ said Lou.
‘Sorry,’ said Melinda. ‘But really? Aimee?’ She leaned back against the pegboard wall, working her temples with her fingers. Bloody hell. This was a bigger disaster than she’d realised. Outside the kitchen, Melinda could hear the delighted rise and fall of unsubstantiated rumour. Inside the kitchen, Aimee began to shake.
‘It’s only since the picnic,’ Aimee said defensively, remembering the ease and comfort she’d enjoyed down by the river, the glorious numbness of the champagne. ‘It makes me feel better.’ She wrapped her arms around herself to try to stop the trembling.
‘For Christ’s sake, Aimee. You know it’ll only make things worse.’
‘Don’t yell at her,’ murmured Lou.
‘Things couldn’t be any worse,’ snapped Aimee. It was all going to collapse, she could see that now. Her wonderful, too-good-to-be-true life was going to crumble to the ground. These people were going to crucify her. We’ll have to move, she thought randomly. That’s assuming Nick would stay with her, once he found out. Or let her have the kids, if they split. She’d killed a child; no judge in his right mind would award her custody. Aimee’s breathing began to speed up again.
‘They could be worse,’ hissed Melinda. ‘And they will be, if you keep falling apart like this. Drawing attention to yourself. People will talk.’
‘They’ll talk anyway,’ insisted Aimee. ‘They’ll find out it was us. It’s only a matter of time.’
Lou stared at them both. �
�Are we talking about the accident again?’
‘Yes!’ shouted Aimee.
‘No!’ shouted Melinda.
The door to the kitchen swung open. Nick, his handsome face both angry and confused. ‘What’s going on?’ he said. ‘Why are you guys yelling? Byron and Shelley are freaking out, Aimee. I don’t know what to tell them.’
Neither did she. Aimee didn’t know what to say to any of them. She stared hopelessly at her upright, fire-volunteer husband, the love of her life, who hated dishonesty in any form. Stupid, she’d been so bloody stupid. ‘No,’ she said, shrinking away as he reached for her. ‘Just leave me alone.’ Aimee put her face in her hands, waiting until she heard him walk away. Even Melinda murmuring reassuringly to Nick as the door swung shut didn’t bother her. She just wanted him gone. One less person to feel guilty about.
The third rule of damage limitation — or crisis management, as this was swiftly becoming: control the information.
‘She’s so embarrassed, bless her,’ Melinda told Nick, and Sharna, who was loitering near the kitchen doorway with intent. Melinda dropped her voice, leaned in towards them both. ‘She was nervous about the reading, so we had a drink at mine beforehand.’ The fourth rule: include enough of the truth to keep things credible. ‘A stupid idea, in this heat, but I thought a bit of Dutch courage might help.’ Rule number five: accept responsibility. Melinda held her hands, up, palms spread wide. ‘My fault. But then with the news about the boy — well, it was all too much.’
Nick looked her in the eye. ‘She’s always had a nervous stomach.’
‘She puked before your wedding,’ Sharna said helpfully.
‘Exactly,’ said Melinda. ‘And she was too wound up this morning to eat anything. So prosecco, in the sun, with no breakfast? Then this kind of shock? It’s not surprising.’
‘She was asking about Lincoln just this morning,’ said Sharna, eyes bright with the sheer thrill of the drama. ‘Wanted to know all about how he was doing.’
‘Well that’s Aimee for you,’ said Melinda. ‘Always concerned about the community.’
‘I’ve had a text from a friend at the hospital,’ said Sharna. ‘They’ve let Pete go home. Maybe I should go and tell her. Might make her feel better, to know what’s going on.’ She eyed the wobbling door hopefully.
Melinda put her hands firmly on Sharna’s shoulders and turned her away from the kitchen. ‘The only thing that’s going to make Aimee feel better is a couple of Panadol and a litre of water,’ she said. ‘And knowing that people aren’t talking about her. Sharna — can I trust you not to tell anyone that we were all a little tipsy this morning? She’d be mortified. And I really don’t need people thinking I’m some kind of lush. It’s hardly going to convince them to give me money.’
‘Or a baby,’ said Sharna.
Bitch. ‘Exactly,’ said Melinda, walking Sharna back towards her audience. ‘As I said, stupid of me. But it seemed a nice idea at the time, to celebrate.’
‘Not much to celebrate now,’ said Sharna.
‘Oh I know,’ said Melinda. ‘You don’t need to tell me.’
Lou had just got Aimee calmed down when Melinda came swinging back into the kitchen.
‘Right,’ said Melinda, her face so stony even Lou felt a bit intimidated. ‘Here’s what’s going to happen. Nick’s going to take the kids out for lunch. Lou’s going to take Aimee home, put her to bed with a pint of Berocca. And I’m going to speak to the mayor, explain that we all had a few glasses before the concert, and that you’re a lightweight.’ She held out her hand. ‘Give me your phone.’
‘Me?’ Aimee clutched her iPhone to her chest. ‘No. Why should I?’
‘Because you can’t be trusted not to call someone and say something stupid.’
Lou could feel her own phone vibrating in her back pocket. She slid it out, but she’d missed the call. Damn.
‘It wouldn’t be stupid,’ said Aimee. ‘It would be the truth.’
‘You don’t even know what the truth is.’
‘For God’s sake,’ said Lou, squinting at the unfamiliar number. ‘Can’t you two drop it, for one afternoon?’
‘We need to drop it, full stop,’ said Melinda.
‘We can’t,’ said Aimee. ‘Not now.’ She yanked off the tea towels Lou had draped over her shirt. ‘I’m going to go fix this,’ she muttered, clambering awkwardly down off the bench.
Melinda put her arms out, blocking the doorway. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘I’m going to speak to Damien.’
‘Dami-who?’
‘He’s one of the investigators.’
‘And you know his name how?’
‘We’re friends,’ said Aimee, chin up but voice wobbling. There was a vomit-coated curl poking stiffly out the side of her head. Lou had to stop herself from reaching to smooth it down.
‘Oh my God,’ said Melinda, looking as though she was about to throw up herself. ‘What have you said to him?’
‘Nothing,’ said Aimee. ‘But I have to now. I have to come clean, explain that we might have had something to do with the crash. So he can investigate properly.’
‘Keep your voice down,’ hissed Melinda. ‘Ow!’ She pitched forward as the swinging door thumped into her back. ‘Bugger off,’ she called. ‘We’re busy. Get a glass of water somewhere else.’
‘Only me,’ called a strident, unwelcome voice. Sharna. Melinda squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block her out, along with the industrial pale-green walls, the rows of smoked-glass coffee cups, the washing-up roster, the whole claustrophobic, country-town nightmare.
‘Is everything okay in there?’ asked the postmistress. ‘Can I help?’
‘Everything’s fine,’ Melinda called back. ‘We just need a moment to clean up.’ The door moved against her back again. ‘Aimee’s naked,’ she warned. ‘We’re washing her down in the sink.’
‘Thanks a lot,’ muttered Aimee, as the footsteps receded.
Melinda took a deep breath and tried for a calm, reasonable tone. Even though she felt anything but calm or reasonable. She felt uncharacteristically panicked. Aimee wasn’t just unstable, she was a bloody time bomb. Melinda dug her nails into the palms of her hands.
‘What,’ she said quietly, ‘do you think you’re doing, befriending one of the investigators? For that matter, what the hell are you doing talking about the accident to Sharna? That’s just asking for trouble.’
‘I wasn’t,’ blustered Aimee. ‘I needed stamps.’
‘No one goes to the post office for stamps. They go for gossip.’
‘Then what were you doing there?’
‘Damage limitation,’ said Melinda, gritting her teeth. ‘Now you listen to me. You are not going to say another word about this, to anyone. Not your investigator friend, not Sharna, not even a bloody priest.’
‘Why shouldn’t I?’ said Aimee, sounding brave but not looking it.
‘Because you don’t know all the facts.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like that Peter Kasprowicz has a history of severe depression.’
‘I do know about that, actually,’ said Aimee. ‘And his depression has nothing to do with this. He was medicated.’
‘No. He should have been medicated. He hasn’t filled a prescription since August.’ Melinda narrowed her eyes. ‘Like someone else we know.’
Aimee turned to glare at Lou. ‘Thanks a lot.’
But Lou was looking at her phone. ‘Shit. I need to make a call,’ she said. ‘Can you two try not to kill each other for five minutes?’
‘Don’t go,’ said Aimee, grabbing at Lou’s top. But Lou shrugged her off. The kitchen flooded incongruously with sunlight as Lou stepped out into the car park.
Melinda spoke very slowly, as though to a small child. ‘There are a million things that could have happened to that plane that have nothing to do with us,’ she said. ‘Pete was depressed. He was off his meds. There was alcohol in his system — not much, but enough. And it’s an old plane
. 1970s. It could have been technical failure, the carburettor icing up, anything.’
‘Ice?’ Aimee stared at her. ‘What are you talking about? It’s thirty-something degrees.’
‘Not at night. And you only need a drop of fifteen degrees for ice to form, which could easily happen if they were high enough . . .’ Melinda broke off. Aimee was looking at her as though she’d grown another head. ‘What?’
‘Oh my God, you think we did it. You think we caused the accident.’
‘I do not.’
‘You do. Or you think we might have.’ Aimee gripped the bench behind her. ‘You wouldn’t know any of this otherwise. Carburettors!’
‘I’m just gathering facts,’ said Melinda.
‘And how do you have access to Pete’s medical records? Are you spying on him?’
‘No,’ said Melinda. She wasn’t doing a thing. Clint, on the other hand . . . ‘It’s just in case.’
‘Just in case they find out our lanterns were involved.’
‘Actually, it doesn’t matter if the lanterns were involved. Legally, they’d have to prove that they were the sole or main cause. And there’s no way —’
‘Have you spoken to a solicitor?’
‘No.’ Technically, Roger was a barrister. ‘The only reason I have to think about any of this is because of you, Aimee, not because of those bloody lanterns. If you go around town mouthing off about how we might have done something, how this might be our fault, then people are going to believe you.’ Perception was as bad as guilt, especially in the papers. ‘People are upset. They want someone to blame. Listen to them.’
For the first time, Aimee became properly aware of the hubbub on the other side of the door. The babble of shocked voices, the wailing of children who’d obviously been told that one of their old friends was dead. Her community, shocked and hurting. Aimee took a few steps towards Melinda, determined not to be intimidated.
‘But we don’t need to construct some kind of legal defence,’ she said, trying to stop her voice from shaking. ‘We’ll just admit what we were doing, and let Damien and his team figure out what happened.’
