My soul left my body and the shell crumbled to the floor.
Part 2 - Now
Chapter 45
Oaktree House, Sunday, 3 January 2016
Perry suggests writing a diary as a priority. He thinks the discipline of it, the recording of events, will keep me grounded during the coming months. He remembers that I did this when incarcerated in Maytree Hospital. That I should record the demolition of my home, and life, though, feels like masochism. I scream and shout at the heavens for the disastrous alignment of stars that have occasioned this calamity. But Perry possesses sublime influential powers that ensure his will prevails. I act on his suggestions believing them to be my ideas before realising that they weren’t. Possessing such qualities would enable me to rule my world. The ways that others influence us are subtle and many. Love is one such force that seeps into one’s conscience. It renders one susceptible to the will of another against one’s own better judgement. Hindsight is a wicked torturer.
Perry demands that Frankie is dug up and moved to Cleave Farm. I won’t allow it. The demons trapped inside will be released if we open his grave. If Perry insists on moving him, I will confess, now. That’s non-negotiable. I reason that if we don’t move his body, it proves our innocence: if we had killed and buried him, we would do something to cover it up.
I won’t tell Perry the real reason I’ll not move Frankie: that I want Frankie found. Time has enabled my decision that this torture must end. Let them hold a funeral and bury him in consecrated ground. If I’m caught and imprisoned, so be it. After all, the crime has imprisoned me all these years anyway. Living in a different prison won’t be such a hardship. There; the confession is over and a sense of relief sets me free.
Breakfast is toast made from home-baked bread, spread with Perry’s home-made plum jam. Eating it does not help to dispel the unease of last night’s nightmare. The same nightmare has haunted me since I stood over Frankie aiming the twelve-bore. His blood flows like a river; the force of it drowns me. The nightmare haunts and taunts me. It will never leave me. His blood drenches my dreams, and I wake to check that the dampness on my skin is not the soaking red metal of death. Heavy rain pounds against the window. I look away and move closer to the fire and pick up my notepad.
Shaking off thoughts of Frankie, I scan the list of packing. The time has come to clear away precious memories. But Frankie steps in to join me; his hovering form lingers behind my shoulder, his breath cools my neck. He oversees the upheaval of my life. We join together to contemplate our dreadful situation. He has aged well, his handsome features barely changed. The essence of him, the verve and joy of him, remains the same.
Francine, my baby, my darling, how I miss you. Maternal instinct dictated that she was in the best place with Frankie’s adopted mother Catherine: safe until I could fight for her return. Catherine Dewberry’s malicious smile morphs before me like the devil incarnate. She got her way and took my daughter. Her husband facilitated whatever his wife desired, to allow him a peaceful life. And reasoning that at least she’d be cocooned in expensive blankets and chauffeured cars, I relented. But too much money enables dangerous playgrounds. Francine, along with Catherine and Frederick, Celia, and Celia’s mother, all died in a helicopter crash in the Alps. My daughter died with Frankie’s lover. Celia may have been holding her on her lap with my one-year-old daughter’s arms around her as they hit the earth and travelled to oblivion. Frankie stirs at my side sensing my hatred, but I ignore him. I’ll deny him any pleasure he might gain from my jealousy of his tart.
Francine’s death put me back in Maytree Hospital for months. A concoction of drugs obliterated my memory of her. For fleeting moments I remember a baby nuzzling at my breast, five toes wriggling in the palm of my hand, and a soft breath escaping her like an angel sighing. That she died with Celia enraged me to the point that I wasted my time cursing her instead of remembering my daughter.
My mother failed to help; her visits were functional and devoid of emotion. She succeeded with four children, whereas I failed with one. Our closeness dissolved as the distance grew between us. She embraced her new life of leisure. The woman she had been, the one who had struggled against death and poverty, became a rich, spoilt dragon. She rewrote her history, deleting her poor ancestry. I hated her for abandoning the home that was such a big part of my identity.
It took a long time to settle into Oaktree House. Mum brought my possessions and put them in the cellar. Pathetic boxes of junk and scruffy clothes so far removed from who I’d become that I couldn’t bear to touch them. Maybe I should have reminded her how much she’d doted on Frankie. How impressed she was by his class, his piano playing, and his flirting with her. Perhaps she’s guilty of complacency because she failed to acknowledge his flaws. Failed to protect her daughter from the type of man mothers should protect their daughters from. She was angry at my pregnancy, but recognising Frankie’s pedigree and place in society, she acquiesced. My elevation out of poverty by marriage struck her as a satisfactory outcome. At least she and Peter helped resolve the bigamy charges and my name-change back to Cage. And she was against Peter spending money on a private investigator to track Frankie down.
Hamilton has instructed architects on the rebuilding of the house. The best position for my new Oaktree is in Appledore Field, where Perry grows lavender. He is not happy about the termination of his lease but agrees, as the compensation is significant. Insisting on the exact place I will live helps restore some of the power I’d lost when the compulsory purchase order dropped through my letter-box. If I can’t demand where I will spend the rest of my life, then I will not move at all.
The many decisions that have been taken to facilitate this move overwhelm me. The exhausting process of writing every little thing in lists; lists for packing and storing, for the house-building, for my rooms at Perry’s, where I will stay while the new build completes. I wander around unable to relax, my mind whirling as each new tsunami of fear hits it. Even playing my beloved piano with Frankie no longer comforts me. And now a new nightmare assaults me, about the time my dad died. Or maybe it’s a reminder of when I first met Perry. Whatever it is leaves dreadful fear lingering, hours after waking. Perhaps it’s the young girl inside who’s been silent for years. Each day she lifts her head a degree and stamps impotent feet. She forgets that life has put her firmly in her place and that she must accept its boundaries. Each day she tests her strength, and I fear her anger for I suspect that I’ll find it hard to control.
Chapter 46
Monday, 4 January 2016
Lily’s email tells me how to use Google maps. Hamilton’s latest legal executive has opened up a new cyber-world to explore. Poetry and literature are a few taps away. She assists Hamilton with the trust. She’s so sweet that I have confided a little about my life. She says to me, ‘Don’t linger on the past. Let it go. The past doesn’t belong in the present. Forget the bad choices you made. Dwelling on them gives them life.’
She’s kind but will lose all her compassion when she finds out about Frankie.
Memories creep in and lie hiding in the recesses of my mind, fooling me that they are current, timeless. So many mistakes made when trying to start a new life after Francine’s death. Losing the job that Denny and Gerry gave me because of a misunderstanding with the banking. More jobs lost because I couldn’t work with silly rules and regulations. Keeping strict hours and performing duties did not fit well with fluctuating mental health. Then Denny married Rosemary Major, my nemesis Sally’s older sister. He went into business with Gerry, and they moved their car repair business to Manchester. Samuel qualified as a carpenter and moved with Valerie to Plymouth to renovate holiday homes. The separation from my old life was complete. If Frankie hadn’t been close by, I doubt I’d still be here.
As if the turmoil of leaving my home isn’t enough of a challenge, on Christmas day Perry has asked me to marry him. His proposal letter sits in my desk drawer. Inside the envelope is an engagement ring, a family heirloom passe
d down to his dead mother and then to his dead wife. The thought of sliding that ring onto my finger makes me shiver with repulsion. The reasons why he has proposed are uncertain. I’m not young and nubile, or gullible and susceptible, so why he wants to marry me is intriguing. I also consider why I haven’t turned him down.
Perry will be in my life much more than he has been through these intervening years. The months until I can settle in my new home are many. Perry says not to think about it too much but to focus on each moment. He will do all in his power to support and protect me. We are both afraid that the emotional upheaval will destabilise me and I’ll say something that gives away our part in Frankie's death.
Frankie. My darling, Frankie. Let me walk you back into the orchard so I can sit with you awhile before the bulldozers destroy our garden. Then there will be no more chats in the orchard. Such a pity now that you and I understand each other. We’re a couple, aged and comfortable with each other. We sit happily sharing our memories and forgetting our regrets, at peace in the world we’ve created. You will help me bear the coming anguish that forging relationships with strangers will bring. Play the piano, Frankie. Play something soothing as I watch the damp winter leaves pile high against the hedge and swirl in the breeze.
The dull winter sun sits behind a foggy mist and struggles to burn through. A man is approaching. It’s not Perry. Panic floods me. Pulling out my phone, I frantically press his number. He answers just as the man reaches me.
‘Perry. Erik Schmidt is here.’
‘On my way. Don’t close the call. Keep the phone in your hand and scream if he comes too close.’
Erik Schmidt stands in my orchard. There’s nowhere to hide.
Chapter 47
Monday, 4 January 2016
Schmidt’s wrinkled face oozes unpleasantness. The same sneer lurks at the corners of his mouth; the same dead reptile eyes stare out. Shock renders me speechless. The tension in my feet unbalances me. The back gate is too far; he will catch me. We assess one another. A swirl of dead leaves rustles along the ground, caught by the strengthening wind. The acidic smell of lemons stings my nostrils.
‘Hello, Carol.’ He smirks. ‘You look worn out. Life has not treated you well, considering.’ He turns about, indicating with his hands my home, gardens, the extent of my land.
‘I thought you were in prison.’ My words struggle through trembling lips.
‘Oh, the years! They have gone!’ He throws his arms wide and circles the air, then adds, ‘Whoosh!’
‘Yes. Um, I didn’t think they would …’ Don’t provoke him. Look for words of pacification.
‘Let me out? That’s not nice.’ He looks left towards the house and tips his head, assessing it.
‘I ... I have to go. I have a cake in the oven … Goodbye.’
He jumps forward and stands three feet from me. ‘Don’t you want to know why I’m here, Carol?’ His voice is a hoarse whisper; his penetrating eyes force me to look away.
‘No. Goodbye, Erik.’ I take a few steps.
‘But you will be very interested in what I have to say.’
‘No. I won’t. Please go.’ My hands barely grip my mobile.
‘Oh, Carol! You need to know why I came to see you. I came because I need somewhere to live, and I will be living here.’
Drawing in a startled breath, I choke on some spit. ‘You … what …?’
‘Yes. And I need money, and you have plenty.’
My mouth works. Panic hip-hops through my chest as I clear saliva from my throat. Get away from him, get away. Heart racing, breathing raspy gasps. He was in the lane the day Frankie died. Perry saw his car. He knows. He reaches for me and I screech and jump, clenching my fist.
‘Ah, Carol, you want to fight, eh?’ His cough morphs into a high-pitched manic sing-song laugh. ‘You’re a fighter, yes? Frankie wanted you to be a fighter. He would have liked that. But he got a nag. Do you nag him still? Is there no peace for him? Where did you put him?’ He walks around me in a circle. ‘Where shall we find him, eh? Should we tell the police what happened that Christmas, eh, Carol? Should they be digging here? Should they be digging there?’
He points to a place the other side of Dawnview Wood. I breathe a sigh of relief. He’s stabbing in the dark.
‘You find that amusing?’ He comes closer. I move my mobile into my left hand and clench my right fist, ready.
‘Please go, Erik. I’m going to walk away and if you follow me, if you touch me …’
He throws his head back and cackles. ‘I will leave you, Carol. Perhaps you’ve had enough of me today. You’ve had a shock. It’s a shock for me, too. It’s a long time since I see this place. It’s a long time since Frankie. Many years locked up on the say-so of silly girls. You never visited me, Carol. No visits to your teacher to thank him for his help. Yes, it’s a long time, but then it’s no time. You remember it all, don’t you? But we must forget yesterday. Goodbye, Carol. Goodbye for now. I’ll call again tomorrow. I’ll look forward to it. I hope you look forward to it, too. And I hope you remember Frankie. I hope you remember you’re guilty – because you are guilty, Carol. Guilty of seducing men without a thought about their feelings. You’re a bitch and a whore.’
He turns and walks back towards the driveway. A vehicle rumbles along the lane and squeals to a halt. A door slams and Perry shouts. Running after him because Perry will have a gun, I pray, ‘Please don’t kill Schmidt. We can’t bury another body.’ At the edge of the driveway, Perry is aiming at Schmidt, who has raised his hands.
‘Carol, tell him not to be stupid, eh. Tell him one murder is enough.’
‘Stop talking rubbish, Schmidt. You’re frightening her.’ Perry pulls the gun into his shoulder. ‘Now get off this land and don’t come back.’
‘Don’t threaten me.’ Schmidt laughs again in his sing-song, manic way. ‘You would kill me and bury me here? You are stupid, Perry. Like you always were.’
‘I’m warning you, Schmidt. Don’t come here again or I’ll feed you to the pigs.’
‘Ah! Is that what you did with Frankie, eh?’ He turns to look at me. ‘Did the pigs like your lover, Carol? Did they eat every bit of him? Even those special parts you liked so much?’
Schmidt’s manic booming follows me as I stumble and weave to the house. My boots slip on the moss-covered path, and then, at last, I’m through the back gate. I collapse on the sofa in the orangery. An overload of adrenaline and lack of oxygen flips my heart. Straining to hear the boom-crack of a shot, I close my eyes then dive under a rug.
Chapter 48
Monday, 4 January 2016
The sound of a key in the lock rouses me. Perry walks into the orangery and turns to look back out into the garden. His demeanour is confident, and after a cursory glance he sits in his usual place on the sofa opposite me. He has not been in the main part of the house since that day. The day of the fire. He has duplicate keys for every lock here but keeps them hidden away at Cleave Farm.
‘We won’t see him again.’ He leans back; his hand touches the left side of his face and rubs his hairline.
‘He will come back, Perry. What’s to stop him? He said he wants money and to … to live here.’
‘He won’t be back.’
‘What if he comes back tonight? What if he breaks in?’ Perry doesn’t answer. He rubs his chin, ignoring my distress. ‘What are we going to do? He knows something.’
Perry laughs. ‘He doesn’t know anything. He’s bluffing. He knows Frankie went missing. That’s all. Suspicion.’
‘But he was here. That day …’
‘Just told him about the inquest. He didn’t know about it. Took the wind out of his sails.’
‘Oh, you would have thought …’ The newspaper reports flash into my mind. ‘Posh boy disappears and kills himself in the River Loire.’ ‘Bigamist drowns in a French beauty spot.’
Perry had gone back a few months later to leave Frankie's clothes and wallet next to the river near Ben’s holiday château. We never
expected that the conclusions drawn would finalise Frankie’s disappearance. But his parents wanted him laid to rest. Lisa wanted widowhood, not desertion. Money talks its way to the solutions it requires.
Perry rests back and closes his eyes. He’s tired. The scars on the left side of his face have faded, but their outlines remain a permanent reminder of the tragedy. His hair is long on top; it covers the burns around his scalp and left ear, but not those around his left eye. He has scars on his body that I’ve not seen. My stomach lurches; it often does, so near to his deformities. My selfish determination to die meant that I didn’t notice he was searching for Francine. He almost sacrificed his life on a fool’s errand.
‘Besides, if he had seen something he would have used it already. Used it to get out of prison, get a shorter sentence … something.’ He rubs his hands and shakes them. He’s making sense, but I can’t relax. ‘Why don’t you make us some coffee? And what about a piece of cake?’
I nod. My kitchen is a welcome refuge.
***
We settle with coffee and cake. Every thought about Schmidt is batted away and replaced with a picture of a rose. Roses are today’s flowers. Perry gets impatient when I cannot control my emotions, so flowers are my new anti-meltdown weapon. ‘I’m getting on with the sorting and packing. If you could hire a skip for me …’
‘No need. I’ll send a couple of lads over with the flat-bed. When’s best?’
‘Any time tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow at ten.’ He puts his plate back on the coffee table and sits back.
‘Thank you.’ Perry has taken care of me over the years – those day-to-day necessities that Hamilton’s, and the trust, can’t supply. He’s driven me to medical appointments, garden centres and, with his wife, Laura, clothes shopping. He stays close to me without invading my space; he’s a satellite orbiting my world, always ready to catch me if I fall. It can’t be solely because of the terms of the trust.
Killing The Girl Page 17