by Ruth Dugdall
On my left bicep, I notice a bruise, the dusky grey shade of an unripe grape. I touch it and find it’s the length of my middle finger. Why didn’t Daniel say anything when he saw me naked?
Then I remember Saturday morning, and Jet jumping up at me, knocking me back against the door frame. I hadn’t realised how hard I’d knocked myself, but the mind blocks out pain when it needs to. It’s like those stories you hear of people on mountains, who walk to safety with broken ankles. The body shuts down when the mind has other things to concentrate on.
I close my eyes and hope for oblivion. I don’t know when the tears start but they seem like they’re not going to stop. I’m weeping for you, Mum. I can hear Daniel putting the chain across the front door. It was already there when we bought the house, but we’ve never used it before. Does Daniel think the same then, that this wasn’t a suicide attempt? That bad things happen, even in sleepy Suffolk?
I’m woken by a single ‘tring’ coming from the handset beside me, meaning the second phone in Daniel’s study has been picked up. I stare at it as if to hear through the cream plastic. Through the wall, I can hear his voice, low and indistinct.
I slide from the bed and tiptoe along the hallway to listen.
I hear him say, in a low voice, ‘It’s difficult right now, things being like they are. She’s very sick.’
Then he’s silent, listening. Finally, he says, ‘I know. I promised, didn’t I? It will happen. Nothing has changed, Monica.’
Monica. I return to the bedroom and hide under the duvet.
I close my eyes and wait for sleep.
DAY 2
SUNDAY 2 NOVEMBER
8
Cassandra
When I wake, I hear an unfamiliar voice and then an animalistic keening. I dress quickly and, holding the banister for support, go downstairs, bare feet registering cool kitchen tiles. The whining isn’t human, it’s dog. Jet throws himself at me, bangs his tail on my legs, his black-and-white muzzle pushing between my legs until I shove him away.
‘Jet, stop it!’ I look up, and Daniel is quickly by my side. ‘Has something happened? Is Mum . . . ?’
‘Everything’s fine, love. It’s only the dog being returned.’
‘By me,’ says a loud, rather arrogant voice. ‘I had him overnight to help you out.’ There, in a cold waft of air that tells me he’s just arrived, is the headmaster at the primary school. Mr Godwin.
‘Thank you, sir.’
Even though he hasn’t taught me in twenty years, old habits die hard. He’s often in the library asking me to put up his posters, his pinched face emblazoned on them, alongside shouty slogans. Since the campaign began, he’s been hanging around the farm.
I agree with him – the Port Authority shouldn’t buy the land – but I doubt he’d approve of the plans for Samphire Health Spa either.
Daniel guides me to a chair. ‘I’ll get you a Samphire Sparkle, love.’
Uninvited, Godwin runs a hand over the pine settle as if to clean it, then sits. ‘I haven’t had a chance to say how concerned I was to see the ambulance at the farm yesterday. The police officer at the gate wouldn’t tell me anything.’ He shakes his head, as though this is the tragedy, rather than the ambulance. ‘How is Hector?’
Daniel turns from the juicer and says quickly, ‘It’s Maya who’s been injured.’
I see a reaction from Godwin, a lift in his lips that looks horribly like relief, until he rearranges his face to show sorrow. ‘Poor Maya. Injured, you say? Oh dear, they do say the home is the most dangerous place.’
Daniel turns the juicer on, and the silver blade masticates apple, samphire and ginger.
I feel myself sinking, elbows heavy on the table. I rub my face, feeling dry skin on hard knuckles, even while I flinch at Jet’s barking. He pushes his muzzle into my waist and I shove him away but he persists, jumping up and clawing my backside.
‘Go away, Jet!’
‘I can keep him another night,’ Godwin suggests, with some distaste, ‘if it would help?’
‘Yes, please,’ I say. I can’t cope with the dog, not now.
‘Poor Maya,’ Godwin repeats. His beady eyes repulse me. He’s hungry for more detail. ‘Was it an accident in the kitchen? I believe that’s the most lethal place.’
Just then, the back door opens and Dad walks in, bringing with him another harsh gust of cold air and the woody stench of Golden Rush tobacco. Jet is overjoyed to see his master, and bounds towards him. Dad staggers back, looks so pathetic and sad that I want to hug him until I remind myself that we’ve never been a family for physical affection. He seems older, thinner – is it possible to lose body mass overnight? He strokes his dog, then blinks in unhappy surprise at our guest.
‘I heard you took Jet for the night. Thanks.’
‘I’ll take him for another night, so you can focus on what you need to do.’ Godwin stands and grasps Dad’s hand, pumping it heartily, though I can see no returning strength from Dad. ‘It’s no trouble, Hector, really. I’m so sorry to hear Maya’s in hospital.’
He’s a repulsive man and I want him gone. I try to keep still, lest I say or do something I shouldn’t.
Dad drops his bad hand to his side and staggers around the kitchen like a sleepwalker, landing heavily on the wooden bench under the window. Jet’s still delighted to see him after a night’s absence and he pets the dog without seeming to see him.
Whatever I feel, whatever I look like, Dad is worse. It’s like staring into the mirror in a fairy tale that only reveals the ugly and painful. His hair, grey and sparse, is sticking out at crazy angles and I remember how he usually Brylcreems it flat each morning. His ashen face is unshaven. But it’s his eyes that disturb me the most. I used to think his eyes were grey, like mine, but now I see they’re the colour of dust, the colour of nothing. Any life there is extinct.
Daniel places a glass of the green juice in front of me. ‘Well, Mr Godwin,’ he says with crisp politeness, ‘many thanks for agreeing to look after Jet, that’s a real help. But we’re actually quite busy.’
It’s true: Dad and I have to get to the hospital.
‘Oh, of course.’ To my relief, Godwin gets up and pulls on his coat. It’s one of those green waxy ones that gentlemen farmers wear, though he is neither. ‘I’ll take the dog for a walk, and he’ll be at mine until you want to collect him. Please give my best wishes to Maya when you see her.’
Dad stares at Jet, who is munching on a newspaper at his feet. ‘It wouldn’t mean anything. She’s not conscious.’
Godwin has that eager look in his eyes again, hungry for information, and I remember how he was in the classroom, forcing pupils to stand on their chairs if they got facts wrong. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that, Hector. What actually happened?’
He just can’t stop himself, it seems, from interrogating Dad. The ground is wobbling beneath my feet. Must be the drugs, stronger than I thought.
‘She tried to kill herself,’ says Daniel, as if finally facing the fact that this man will persist until he knows. ‘Of course, she was raised on the farm, so she knew all about guns and how to handle them. She shot herself with Hector’s rifle.’
‘Oh my goodness, but that’s terrible!’ Godwin barely catches breath before adding, ‘What does that mean with regards to her decision yesterday to sell to the Port Authority? Did she even sign a contract? If she wasn’t of sound mind, it’s surely null and void anyway?’
Of course – he was there at the shoot. I can see how much more important saving the land is than your survival and for a creeping second, I imagine him holding a gun to your head. I need him to disappear or I’ll not be responsible for my actions. Daniel seems to know this, or perhaps he feels the same, because he practically chucks the man out of the back door.
‘Thanks again for having the dog – we’ll be in touch. But we need to be left alone now.’
When he’s gone, I turn on Daniel, unable to keep my rage inside. ‘Why did you tell him that? What you said wasn’t even
true! Mum never used a gun!’
‘Plus, the whole fucking village will know by noon,’ says Dad, wiping his left hand over his brow, where beads of sweat have appeared. ‘And he’s bound to call Alfie Avon. It’ll be front-page news this evening.’
‘Maybe that’s a good thing, Hector,’ says Daniel, gently. ‘Much as I hate to give Alfie Avon any fodder, at least if he reports that Maya shot herself it will stop people speculating.’
‘But everyone will think Mum is mentally ill,’ I say from my spot at the table, the green juice clamped in my hand like it’s the solution. I know how devastating that label is: it’s like having something stolen from you, something you can never get back. Daniel moves so he’s close to me, touches my shoulder which has risen up with tension, trying to calm me.
‘It’s better if it comes from us. You know how people in Kenley gossip.’
‘And they know she was depressed after you was born,’ says Dad, grudgingly. ‘It’s why Janet moved in, to help her cope with you.’
I can’t believe he’s dragging up the past like this. ‘Dad, her parents had both died, she’d just taken on the responsibility of the farm, and she had a baby all within a year. So, yes, she had postnatal depression. But that was over three decades ago! She wasn’t depressed on Friday. In fact, she seemed very sure of everything she said. Why are you refusing to see what’s obvious: Mum didn’t shoot herself. Whoever did is wandering around, getting away with it.’
‘Now, stop – I’m warning you!’ Dad’s face bunches up like a red fist. ‘No one needs you to play psychologist, girl. Maya was depressed about the farm. It got too much for her. End of story.’
Dad and Daniel both watch me as if I need to be kept in check. I try to find some compassion in Dad’s eyes but can’t.
No, I don’t believe you shot yourself. And I need to find out who did.
9
Holly
Holly woke earlier than she wanted, unused as she was to sharing a bed. The world outside was dark and quiet, except for the occasional sound of letterboxes being rapped as the newspaper boy worked his way along the flats, pushing thick Sunday papers through doors. But not hers – she avoided lurid stories and, thanks to her synaesthesia, red-tops could make her feel sick on a headline.
Beside her, Leif slept on, his handsome face completely relaxed, blond fringe fallen to one side, his body relaxed and warm. Imprinted on him were the marks of the night before: his lips were slightly swollen from their kissing and there was a pink mark on his shoulder from where her hand had pressed against him as they slept. Seeing this triggered the recent memory of sensual touch, and Holly experienced again the urgent need to be close to him. It wasn’t just sex. Leif stimulated in her a deep sense of calm, the colour yellow and the taste of honey. Not that she’d tell him this: he’d think she was crazy.
As she turned away from Leif, Holly’s brain clicked into another channel and replayed the morbid memory of Maya Hawke’s bruised face, her narrow body under that white sheet. She couldn’t conceive that the woman had done it to herself – her instinct was that Cass was right, and the violence had been inflicted by another hand. She couldn’t stop seeing Maya’s dark hair matted with blood. Her own scalp ached in sympathy.
Innocence Farm, a place she had refused to think about in two decades, was now back in her head. If only I hadn’t run away that night, if I’d stopped to help . . . Holly stopped her irrational thought: she had been a child, just eight years old and powerless. Now she was grown, she believed her synaesthesia was her brain’s way of ensuring she wouldn’t run away again. And now it was pictures of Maya prodding her to get up, to take action, to do something.
Holly kissed the sleeping man goodbye, and with a tug of regret returned to her own flat for a quick cool shower. She washed Leif ’s scent, the salty tang of sex, from her skin and dressed quickly. Putting on her green paramedic’s uniform always soothed her. Glancing at the window and seeing grey marbled clouds, she reached for a raincoat.
Closing her front door, Holly checked for activity from Leif ’s flat, but there were still no lights on. He had a lazy Sunday ahead, but she had work to do. The November air stole the breath from her lungs. She pulled her coat more tightly around her and thought about her parents in America. In November, they always drove to Lake Tahoe for the start of the ski season, a trip her brother James joined them on. This year he’d be taking his Bostonian girlfriend Kaitlin Burgess, whom Holly had met on her last visit. Kaitlin was as beautiful as she was accomplished; a Masters graduate, she developed exercise programmes for varsity athletes. Full of pep and enthusiasm as only Americans can be, Jamie adored her. They’d recently bought a golden retriever puppy, and Holly predicted babies would soon follow.
Thinking of her brother brought back other memories, unwelcome ones. They had been close once, when they were younger and could play the same games. But then he became distant, he resented her hanging around and would spend his weekends shooting his air rifle or tramping through the woods with Carl. There was no space for her in his life and after that Halloween, they never hung around together again. She had never asked him what he thought had really happened that night. When she was eight, she believed he had killed a ghost, but now she remembered the screams as being all too human.
How could she ask Jamie now, when they were half a world apart and it was twenty years in the past?
Thanksgiving was just three weeks away, and in California her family would celebrate it without Holly. It was a festival their father insisted was important, even when they were living on the airbase in Kenley, where a patch of Suffolk soil had been turned into a quasi-America with a bowling alley and a two-aisle Walmart. Her mother, Ipswich born and bred, had been quick to adopt his traditions since she had so few of her own. She had embraced America with the gusto of the newly converted, as had Jamie. They had exchanged Suffolk for the sun of California and never once looked back. Her family’s life in America glowed with success, yet Holly was forever stuck back here, in Suffolk. She was just eighteen when the airbase closed and her father was re-posted to Iraq, his final stint before taking early retirement. She, along with her mother and Jamie, had moved to California. Jamie had excelled at college, made friends quickly. Her mother had made a home for them, never once looking back. Only Holly had felt that she didn’t belong and inevitably Suffolk had pulled her back with so much unfinished business.
Now Innocence Farm once again loomed into her life.
She arrived at the hospital an hour earlier than her shift began, and lied to herself that it was so she could get ahead of the assignment she needed to write before Christmas – a case study she had yet to think about that required her to focus on a disorder or disease of her choosing. But instead of going to the library, she walked into the Garrett Anderson Centre, flashed her paramedic ID and told the ward sister she was doing a follow-up from the call-out on Maya Hawke. But in truth, it was Cassandra whom Holly was thinking about; the vision of her sitting on the step with her blood-tinged hair was imprinted in Holly’s brain. She paused outside Maya’s room, taking a slow breath as she erased the distracting image.
Inside lay Maya in her coma, and either side of the bed were Hector and Cassandra. Both looked up expectantly.
‘I hope you don’t mind? I just wanted to drop by, to see how Maya is.’
It wasn’t entirely the truth. Cassandra had filled Holly’s thoughts far more than the mother, with her desperate belief that her mother hadn’t shot herself, her need for Holly to believe her. She lifted her face and gave Holly a warmer smile than seemed fitting. ‘I knew you’d come back,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
Hector Hawke sat stiffly on the opposite side of the bed. He was dishevelled and unshaven, his hair haywire. But he seemed determined to keep his composure, his solid jaw jutted and set, as if his teeth were gritted. He nursed his right hand with his left, as though protecting it from injury.
Holly’s senses reacted, sending a numb ache down her own right arm and a t
ingle into her fingers, his shock so profound she could tune in to nothing emotional except leaden confusion. She tried to find the appropriate words. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘Not unless you can wake up my missus!’ Hector still had the scent of outdoors on his weathered corduroy trousers and thick green jumper, worn at the elbows. Clothing meant for loading a tractor or carrying hay bales, not for hospitals.
Holly stood, awkward. ‘Well, I’ll be going then.’
She turned, feeling hot and wishing she hadn’t come, when Cassandra’s voice called out, ‘No, Holly, wait. Do you remember Mr Godwin from school?’
‘Of course, he was our head teacher.’ Holly wondered if Cass too had been thinking of the past. ‘I never liked him.’
‘I don’t think any of us did,’ Cassandra replied. ‘But I remember he picked on you kids from the base mercilessly, always banging on about your lazy accents.’
Hector looked up, his expression angry, and said irritably, ‘You’re rambling, Cass. The nurse isn’t here to talk about your schooldays.’
‘She’s not a nurse, she’s a paramedic. And her name’s Holly, we were friends at school.’
Holly was taken aback by Cassandra’s statement, which was wrong on both counts, given that she was not yet qualified and they had never been friends, but when the blonde woman smiled at her warmly it felt like the truth. Had they even spoken before yesterday? Holly doubted it: Cassandra was older, and more than that she was beautiful and rich. She had suddenly left the local school and Holly’s childish imagination had placed her in Europe, maybe at an exclusive boarding school in Switzerland or studying in Paris. Now she wondered what the truth had been – why a teenage girl would suddenly disappear. She remembered this as happening just after that Halloween, but it could be that her brain had worked these two acts together, and they had no link other than the location.
