by Ruth Dugdall
Holly thought of a gun’s power, the damage it can do to flesh, muscle and bone. Even a small gun, something as toy-like as an air rifle, could have a devastating effect. Her father, an American and an ex-military man, had no problem with guns and kept several in his house in California, but Holly detested them. They filled her with a sickening feeling of dread. Even the thought of firearms was enough to make her heart beat fast like that of a rabbit caught in the sights, causing a helter-skelter of panic as she re-experienced the fight or flight she had first felt that terrible Halloween when she was eight.
When she visited California, her dad was forever trying to cajole her into joining him on one of his hunting trips into the mountains. He’d complain that even Jamie had lost his boyish enthusiasm for the sport, and Holly wouldn’t even give it a try. He had no idea that they both had very good reason.
Hearing movement upstairs, she felt her way up the steep, unlit staircase to the first floor. The hallway landing was oddly shaped, so that the three bedrooms seemed to have mock corridors and secret corners before their doorway was reached. There was little light, just one tall window above the stairwell, with speckled rectangular panes of glass set in a leaded arch. Holly gazed out onto the distant fields of pig huts and white plastic wind tunnels that from this distance made it look as though snow had fallen. The sickly sweet stench of pig shit was pervasive – it had been in her nostrils since her arrival, but seeing the huts intensified her sense of the smell, one she’d been accustomed to when she was a girl. Now it made her want to retch.
Beyond the fields was a wooded area, circular and very dense, where Jamie had led her and Carl that night, seeking ghosts. And beyond that, the perimeter fence of the disused airbase, within which she had once lived, an innocent. It seemed so long ago now. This was the land that the Port Authority wanted to turn into a lorry park. The banners outside the farm and the school had shouted HANDS OFF OUR COUNTRYSIDE!, yet no one loved it enough to buy one of the old military houses. They would all be razed to the ground, and she couldn’t say she was wholly sorry. Better that than another group of children should wander too far from home and get mixed up in danger they didn’t understand.
‘Holly, is that you?’
She stepped back from the window. ‘Yes, Cass. I’m just coming.’
She pushed open the door to the study and there was Cass, barefoot and dishevelled, adrift in an alarming sea of scattered papers. On the desk beside her was an assortment of randomly sized family photos, the largest ones of Maya and Hector on their wedding day. There was no question that Maya had been lovely to look at, as lovely as her daughter, and also older than Hector by a few years. Her dress was elegant, her tiara looked like real pearls.
There was a smaller picture of Cassandra with Daniel, on a beach somewhere exotic-looking. A golden couple, he was as dark as she was fair, and their matching perfect smiles said that everything was good in their world. Then came a baby photo. Holly picked it up to look more closely at the image of Cassandra cradling the pink-swaddled bundle. ‘That’s Victoria,’ she said sadly.
In the photo, Cass looked exhausted, her eyes sunken into her skin, which had lost its glow, and Holly wondered why Maya would have chosen to have this picture framed. Finally, above all of these framed snaps and nailed to the wall, was an A3-sized publicity shot of Daniel. He looked perfect: his skin almost glittered with health and his hair was lusty. He stood flexing a bronzed muscular arm as he held a glass of green juice as if it were the elixir of life itself. A slogan ran across the bottom of the picture:
Join The Samphire Master on Radio Suffolk every Friday evening at 9.00!
Because Health Matters.
www.samphirehealth.com
‘Mum is so proud of Daniel,’ Cass whispered, as if they were in church, looking up at the graven image. Then she looked around, as if bewildered by the disarray she was seeing for the first time.
Everything in this room was open – the curtains pulled back violently, torn from their hooks at the side, and every drawer in the desk ransacked, papers scattered everywhere. Even a box of pens had been upended.
‘What is it we’re searching for?’ Holly asked, kneeling beside Cass and picking up random papers.
Cass looked around helplessly. ‘Anything.’
‘You’ll need to be more specific.’
‘I think Mum was shot because of the farm. If she actually signed a contract, it would give any number of people a reason to be angry with her.’
‘So we’re looking for something official relating to her decision?’ Holly clarified, suddenly uneasy. They shouldn’t be doing this, it should be the police, yet she knew she couldn’t stop now. ‘Something her assailant too may have been seeking?’
Holly peered at one of the papers and saw it was a bank statement. A cursory glance showed long lines of numbers in the debits column, and very few in the credits. The Hawkes were in serious debt. She recalled Janet saying The farm’s not exactly a gold mine.
It looked as if all official correspondence was addressed to Maya. One letter had a familiar banner across the top, Hands Off Our Countryside! It was signed by Philip Godwin and its tone was both angry and demanding:
If our farmland is sold to the Port, they’ll rip the heart from our community. 3,200 lorries EVERY DAY and 600 cars EVERY DAY. Local schoolchildren will be in GREAT DANGER from the INCREASED TRAFFIC and the value of local homes will plummet!
Holly noticed that Cassandra had hardly moved. She was still gazing up at the publicity photo of Daniel. Directly behind her was the open gun cupboard. Empty, of course; the police had seized all the weapons, the spaces like empty sockets of missing teeth.
‘Cass, where was the rifle kept?’
Cass turned, and pointed immediately to the thin central space. ‘This is the home of the Anschütz.’
‘It seems very long,’ Holly said, standing. Her senses pricked so she knew something was coming, a taste or a smell, but not what.
Cass trailed her hand, with its broken fingernails, along the groove. ‘The rifle is always stored with its silencer attached.’ Holly’s nose filled, as if with the scorched scent from the gun. She felt renewed energy, as if a hand were at her back, pushing her. ‘Find me something as long as it would have been.’
Wide-eyed, Cass did as she was told, leaving the room. Alone, Holly closed her eyes, let her senses tingle alive. Tell me something useful, she begged. When Cass returned, she was carrying a length of bamboo cane, the type used for supporting plants.
‘It’s only an estimate, but I’d say this is about the length.’
Holly took it. ‘And your mum is how tall?’
‘She’s very petite, just five foot.’
Three inches shorter than Holly, yet as she held the cane away from her, imagining it was a gun and she was trying to point it at her head, she found she physically couldn’t. Her arms simply didn’t have the reach, the gun would have been too long.
She breathed in sharply, feeling the synapses in her brain make connections as though piecing together a jigsaw.
‘Maya didn’t try and kill herself, Cass. I don’t think it’s even possible.’
18
Cassandra
The relief is immense. I hug her, so grateful that not only does she believe me, she’s found something to prove it.
‘How did you even think of that?’ I ask, staring at the cane.
‘I sometimes intuit things. It’s hard to explain.’ She rubs her head with her fingers. ‘I have a bit of a headache now. Could I get some water?’
‘Oh, of course. Come on.’
Holly takes a seat, and places her arms on the kitchen table, resting her head there. She gives a light groan.
‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m just feeling a bit . . .’ She looks up, and right then I see a child. Like when Victoria’s ill, I just want to take care of her. ‘Overwhelmed. Your mum, it’s like she’s here.’
Spiritualism, I understand that. Daniel talks abou
t karma and I know the world is a mysterious place.
‘Can you think of anything else?’ I say, tentative because Holly looks so ill. But she thought of something I’d never have considered, and Janet’s cakes . . . I realise what a gift it is, her coming back into my life like this.
‘When I was in the study, I could feel your mum’s pain, Cass. How serious was her cancer when Daniel cured her?’
‘Bad enough that the hospital wanted to operate, but Mum . . . Well, she’s vain. And losing her breast was something she wouldn’t agree to. She tried lots of things, so many strange therapies, but it was Daniel who saved her. She went into remission, she kept her breast and became his cause célèbre, the star of his radio show.’
Holly lifts her head, but only slightly. Her cheeks have lost their colour.
‘Mum survived cancer, against the odds, only to get shot in her own home. What are the chances of that?’
‘I’m so sorry, Cass.’ I can tell she means it. I trust her, feel I can say what I’ve been thinking, though only to her.
‘Holly, I think it was Ash who shot Mum. We know his fingerprints were found on the rifle . . .’
‘But the police let him go. Surely they wouldn’t do that if they had any suspicions.’ Holly rubs her temples, making circular motions. I push the glass of water closer to her and she sips it. ‘And your dad seems very close to him.’
‘Dad thinks the sun shines out of him. He’s thinking of him more than he is of me right now, that’s for sure.’
‘Why do you say that?’
I don’t want to talk about this. ‘Besides, Ash isn’t close to Mum. Neither is Janet, for that matter.’
She looks at me in surprise. ‘You can’t think Janet is involved? She made those scones for your mum . . .’
I prickle with defensiveness. ‘She’s our housekeeper – she’s just doing her job! She’s like a table or a chair or . . . What I mean is, she’s always here but that doesn’t make her family. Mum and her have lived on top of each other all these years, but they’re not friends. Mum is educated and cultured. She got saddled with this place, so she married Dad because he could work the land and she needed him.’ I can’t help but shiver.
There’s a pause. I can feel her eyes drilling into me. I know what she’s thinking: It’s usually the husband.
‘Do your parents have a good marriage?’
‘I used to think it worked, despite their differences. But Dad seems more concerned about Ash than Mum right now. Which isn’t right, is it?’
Holly sips her water. She seems to be reviving. ‘Maybe not.’
‘Mum wasn’t happy on Friday and I was too wrapped up with my own problems to ask her why. But now I think I know. Dad told me today that he wants Ash to take over the farm, but Mum didn’t want that. She was in his way.’
‘Ash seems heartbroken by the attack on your mum,’ Holly says in a measured tone, so neither of us loses sense of where this conversation is leading. ‘And very shocked.’
‘That’s what he’d like you to believe.’
‘You don’t think it’s true?’
My thoughts are muddled again. It’s hard to say what I think, but I have to try. She’s the only person I can tell. ‘People always think Ash is slow but he can be manipulative. Living with just his mum all these years, he sees the world in a very narrow way, as if nothing exists beyond the farm and the handful of people he cares about.’
‘In what way is he manipulative?’
‘He plays on his limitations, pretending to be less intelligent than he really is. Like he did when he assaulted that boy who just wanted to put up a tent for the night. Once the police arrived, he played the dumb card and walked away with a caution.’
‘You’ve seen Ash do this?’
‘Many times. When we were at primary school he was a pest, hanging around, and if I tried to distance myself, Janet would be here, telling tales to Dad about poor Ash. Maybe if she’d had a husband she wouldn’t have been so over-protective – it’s not normal. Dad always said I should be kind to Ash, but he didn’t understand that being friends with Ash meant being called “weird”. No one wants to be an outsider, do they?’
There’s a moment, a space in the room. I think Holly understands everything I’m trying to tell her – she knows what it is to be different.
‘I had . . . an accident.’ My hand strays towards my collarbone, but I pull it back into my lap. ‘It was thought best I should be sent away. I hated Oakfield but at least, I thought, I’m away from Ash and all his strange stalking. Then he started helping Dad around the farm and I couldn’t get away from him again. He was here every holiday, every half-term. As the years have gone on, he’s become more and more involved in the business and I’ve become the outsider. Now it’s like I’m a child again, forced to play with someone I have nothing in common with, just to please our parents. I used to think Janet wanted us to marry.’ I laugh at this thought – it comes out as a mad cackle. ‘I jokingly said that to her once when I was about twelve, and she looked so horrified I realised I was wrong. She just wants him to have the farm.’ I wait while Holly registers this.
‘Did you ever tell your dad how you felt?’
‘He wouldn’t have listened – he was just glad to have someone to help out. People round here want to work down the docks or at British Telecom in Ipswich. There’s no money in farming.’
‘What about your mum?’
‘I didn’t need to tell her any of this, she knows, but Dad will never see any wrong in Ash – he’s blind to his faults. But I’m not. And I want to make sure that the police aren’t either.’
Holly pushes her empty glass aside and leans forward. ‘What is it you’re really saying, Cassandra?’
‘I’m telling you what happened on Friday.’
Holly’s face is frowning with attention, and I realise she could be my only hope of discovering what really happened. ‘Tell me,’ she says, ‘what happened on Friday after you came home.’
19
Cassandra
Friday 31 October
‘Mum?’ I wander through the farmhouse, calling your name. My brain is slipping again, the delusions are back. I need help.
I find you in your study, seated at your desk before a pile of papers to one side and an account book. You don’t look up: you’re too engrossed in your sums to notice my tear-soaked face, but point with the nib of your pen at the numbers.
‘The copse isn’t bringing in much rent and the supermarkets are always trying to get the lowest price they can, despite the quality.’
‘Mum?’
You throw your pen on top of a glossy document that has the Port Authority logo on the cover.
‘They’re offering a lot of money, Cass. More than its market value.’
‘You can’t sign that,’ I say, slowly tuning in to what you’re saying. ‘What about the Spa?’
Finally, you properly see me. You frown, suddenly concerned. ‘What’s happened, Cass? You look terrible. What on earth is wrong?’
Downstairs, you make a pot of tea.
I sit obediently, trying to keep my spine straight, though it wants to crumble. Inside my head is foggy, a sensation I identify as the beginning of depression, when thoughts slip and slide in my mind like fish. When you finally sit down opposite me and take my hands, you feel them trembling.
‘Cass, has something happened? You don’t look well.’
‘I think . . . I think I’m starting to get sick.’
‘Is it the delusions?’
Oh, Mum, you always understood me so well. My shaking intensifies now we’re talking about it aloud. I’m afraid to ask for help, but more afraid of being alone with this. Last time I hid my symptoms, I waited too long, and then the illness took me over completely. I was sectioned to the Bartlet and Victoria was sent away to boarding school. ‘I don’t want to be ill, Mum.’
You move, coming to sit with me on my side of the table. ‘Is it the same as last time, Cass? Tell me the truth.’<
br />
‘I think so, I . . .’
I falteringly describe hearing a woman’s voice, then opening the bedroom door and finding it empty. How I then heard noises in the study, and once again I thought Daniel was having sex with another woman.
‘I left the house, and then I saw her,’ I say, ‘fully clothed, with a briefcase. Oh, Mum, it was just a business meeting. It’s all in my head.’
Just like before.
Then you say something that shocks me – the last question I expected: ‘Could she have dressed quickly?’
‘No, Mum!’ God, are you going crazy too? ‘It’s just jealousy, my old demon. I wanted to come here and get my head straight.’
I wait, for your assurance that you can help me. That we can fix this together and I can go home and everything can be okay.
‘Cass, I’m really sorry to hear this.’ You speak so carefully that it scares me. Something is happening, something I don’t understand.
‘It’s okay.’ I try to stand, but I stumble. I try to smile, but my face won’t co-operate. I can feel the fogginess is in my muscles now. And still you watch me, so carefully, and I can tell that something is coming that I can’t stop.
‘Look, love, there’s something I’ve been keeping from you. But, given this, you need to know.’
You reach into the pocket of your skirt and remove a piece of paper, folded into squares. My hand won’t move to take it from you, so you unfold it on the table. The paper is so worn from being refolded that it’s torn almost in half. It’s an appointment letter, from the oncology department at Ipswich Hospital. My jaw releases and I take in air quickly, panting like a puppy. No, this can’t be happening, not again.
‘I found another lump, bigger this time, and went for a mammogram. This is my second appointment with my consultant, to discuss treatment options. There aren’t many.’
‘You can’t get ill!’ I feel the panic like a cold wash: you could leave me. My voice is shrill, uncontrolled. ‘Daniel cured you.’
