Kat gives a low, angry laugh. ‘You think he’s just going to let you waltz out of here with them both? You’ve seen the way he looks at that baby. It’s his new project – more than me, or Freya, or this damn cottage will ever be.’
‘But maybe that’s not his decision to make, maybe—’
Kat shakes her head. ‘If you love her so much, Mac, you figure it out. Step up. Be the hero.’ She stomps down the stairs. Bloody Mac, none of this would have happened in the first place if he hadn’t brought them to this stupid lake and let Simon play his silly games.
Without Carla and Ben around, the atmosphere in the house takes on a sombre, oppressive air, like the hours before a storm when the sky fills with dense black clouds and everything falls quiet and still. With Ben gone, food preparation has become sporadic and it’s strange to look out across the vegetable plot and no longer see Carla’s form bent over a row of lettuces, or fixing wire strings for the runner beans. Kat misses her cheery face and her light, easy laughter. The only sounds in the house these days are the slamming of doors, the hungry wails of the baby or Freya’s incessant weeping. Kat just wants it all to end. She wants it to be over.
She takes Freya a plate of scrambled eggs and a bowl of fresh strawberries plucked from the garden. Freya’s face is tear-stained and blotchy but she doesn’t even acknowledge the food tray; she is too busy scribbling on a piece of paper.
‘There’s going to be a royal wedding,’ Kat says – a peace offering – but Freya doesn’t look up. ‘Charles and Diana. Simon says the papers are full of it . . . that they’re calling it a real-life fairy tale.’ Freya remains silent. ‘What are you doing?’ Kat asks eventually, noting the silver honesty pendant winking at her sister’s throat, realising Mac must have given it to her after all. As she waits for an answer she moves across the room and stares at the sleeping baby in the basket.
‘I’m giving you what you want,’ says Freya finally, her voice flat and expressionless.
‘And what do I want?’ Kat asks, not looking up from the baby, watching her tiny chest rise and fall, up and down.
‘Simon.’
Kat turns to Freya then and shakes her head. ‘It’s not that simple.’
Freya holds her gaze for a moment then turns away. She folds the piece of paper carefully in half and then slides it beneath her pillow.
Kat sees the tangle of her sister’s hair, her red-rimmed eyes, her dishevelled nightdress and sighs. Maybe Mac is right; maybe she isn’t coping. ‘You should come downstairs,’ she tries, ‘get some fresh air. It might make you feel better.’ But Freya just sinks down below the covers and closes her eyes. ‘Suit yourself.’
It feels like too long since any of them have eaten a proper meal. Longer since they’ve slept. The bread is all gone and they are nearly out of milk powder and rice. Kat feels hunger yank at her belly like a dog tugging at the end of a huge, immovable object. She wanders through the garden and finds a cluster of green beans, a handful of berries. She doesn’t wait but pushes them into her mouth and chews quickly. They taste of soil and sunshine in her mouth and jostle and grumble in her guts afterwards.
‘There are rabbits all over the hillside,’ says Simon, coming through the back door, the rifle propped on his shoulder. I’ve been watching them through the sights.’
Mac nods. ‘We should check the traps.’
She must hear them go because Freya appears in the kitchen a few minutes later. Kat is surprised to see her out of bed. Her face is pale but there are high spots of colour on her cheeks and her eyes shine like glass. The baby is clasped close to her breast.
‘You’re up,’ says Kat. ‘I’ve just boiled some water. Would you like tea?’
Freya nods and takes a seat at the table. She pulls the baby close and bends her head, as if to breathe in the warm scent of her. She seems different. Agitated.
‘Are you OK?’ Kat asks, eyeing her.
Freya nods again but still she doesn’t speak.
Kat moves about the kitchen. She finds nettle leaves in the pantry and chops them on a board. Then she splashes hot water over them and pushes the mug towards Freya. Her sister still wears her nightie; it’s crumpled from wear and gives off the faint smell of stale milk. She has forgotten to do up the buttons after feeding the baby and Kat can just make out the pale curve of her breast. There is no shine to her any more, no light in her skin. Her hair hangs lank and greasy around her shoulders and an angry red pimple blooms on her chin. Freya doesn’t seem to notice her sister’s close scrutiny; she just reaches for the mug and drinks deeply.
‘You should get some fresh air,’ Kat suggests. ‘It would do you good. It’s a lovely day.’
Freya nods and stares into her mug.
‘I’ll look after the baby if you like.’
Freya looks down at her lap as if seeing the baby for the first time. She nods. ‘I need to wash . . .’ she says, her voice cracking. ‘A swim in the lake.’ She reaches up to touch a clump of her greasy hair and Kat smiles, relieved.
‘That’s a good idea. It will make you feel so much better.’
‘You’ll look after Lila?’
Kat smiles. ‘I’d love to.’
Freya finishes her mug of tea and stands. She holds the baby close, breathing in the scent of her once more, before handing her to Kat. ‘Look after her.’
‘Of course I will. I’m not completely inept. We’ll be right here, won’t we?’ She smiles down at the baby, then looks to her sister and is startled to see tears welling again in Freya’s eyes. ‘Don’t cry,’ she says, ‘it’s the baby who’s supposed to cry all the time – not you. Everything will be OK, somehow, you’ll see. It’s just going to take a little time to adjust.’
Freya nods and leaves the kitchen without a backwards glance. Kat watches her through the window as she heads out across the grassy bank and then sways down towards the water. She stumbles once, rights herself, and then wades into the shallows.
Kat turns back to the baby in her arms. ‘Silly Freya,’ she croons to the infant, ‘she’s still wearing her nightie.’
The baby is warm and light in her arms. Sunlight filters through the window and lands on her shoulders and neck. Kat closes her eyes, her ears tuning in to the drowsy buzz of a bee caught at the window. She hears the gentle splash of Freya bathing in the lake. There is something soporific about holding a sleeping baby, something calming about her sweet perfumed skin and the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. Lila’s snuffling noises mingle with the lazy, faraway splash of Freya moving through the water. The sleepless nights are catching up with her. Kat allows her breath to rise and fall in time with the baby’s chest. She’ll open her eyes. Any moment now and she’ll open them. One more minute with the warm sun on her back and this baby sleeping peacefully in her arms. One more minute.
It’s a cry that wakes her. Kat jumps and glances down at the baby in her arms, surprised to see her still nestled there safely, still sound asleep. She grips her close. How irresponsible; she could have dropped her.
The sun has shifted. She can tell straight away that it’s moved on its trajectory for it no longer shines through the window onto her back but slants upon the stone wall opposite. The room has lost its bright yellow glare. From far away she can hear the sound of rapid movement through water. There is more shouting. Simon and Mac must be back.
‘No!’ she hears. It is Mac’s voice. ‘No, no, no.’ There is a terrible desperation to it that turns her blood cold.
She stands quickly and moves to the window, still clutching the dozing baby close, and looks out towards the lake, where she can just make out Mac and Simon wrestling with something heavy in the water, out at the thin line where the pale green shallows end and the water takes on a deeper, darker hue.
The baby shifts in her arms, opens its mouth and lets out a tiny mewl of protest. ‘Shhhh . . .’ says Kat, her eyes flicking back to the boys in the water. What on earth are they doing?
Mac is still fully dressed, even down to his boots a
nd they are dragging something up onto the shoreline, something pale, flowing white. She peers more closely and gasps when she understands what it is. Then she is out the back door and running as fast as she can with the baby in her arms to the lake’s edge.
‘Freya,’ she cries. ‘Freya.’
Her sister lies at the edge of the lake, her face grey and mottled, her eyes open and staring. Her lips are a shocking blue and wet hair snakes down in dark tendrils over her neck and chest. Mac pulls her close, presses her cold body against his warm one, begs her to stir, but Freya doesn’t respond.
He lays her back again and his focus changes. Kat watches as he hooks his fingers inside her mouth, tilts her head then presses his hands together above her heart and begins to pump with his hands. He counts steadily, then leans over and breathes his own warm life into her mouth. Once, twice, then he moves to her chest and begins to press again.
‘Come on,’ he breathes and Kat watches, her heart in her mouth, as he moves over her sister, willing her to live.
Simon stands a little way behind him, his face white and clammy. She moves across and leans into him, buries her face into the warmth of his shoulder, unable to watch any more.
‘Breathe,’ urges Mac. ‘Just breathe.’ Over and over he works on her. He won’t give up. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. He is intent and sweating but he won’t give up, not until Simon steps forwards and places one hand on his shoulder and tells him that it’s over.
Mac’s hands go still on her chest. He sits back on his heels and stares up at the fading blue sky. It’s only then that Kat sees the tears streaming down his face. He rises unsteadily and takes a step towards the lake, lifts his hands then rests them on the back of his head and looks to the heavens. ‘No,’ he screams, one terrible word echoing out over the lake and bouncing off the surrounding hills.
‘Mate,’ says Simon, reaching for him, trying to console him but Mac shakes him off, stares at him as if he is a complete stranger.
Kat stands motionless on the bank. She gazes down at her sister, no longer Freya but a stiffer, paler imitation, a fallen marble statue lying on the grass. As the clouds shift overhead, a shard of evening sun falls onto her pale skin and catches the thin silver chain at her neck, its oval pendant shining, for just a moment, as bright as sunshine. Kat stares at Freya, her beautiful, broken sister, and she begins to cry.
At first they don’t know what do with her, so they just leave her body lying there at the shoreline beneath the darkening sky. None of them have any words. Kat fetches a blanket for the baby from her room, swaddles her tightly and they sit slumped around the kitchen table, silenced by shock, as twilight slowly draws its curtains across the valley. Eventually the baby stirs and begins to cry. ‘She’s hungry,’ says Kat. ‘What do we do?’
Mac stares, unseeing.
‘Do we have anything to give her?’ asks Simon, his voice cracking with emotion.
Kat feels a sudden desperation grip at her. What do you give a four-week-old baby that has only ever drunk her mother’s breast milk? She stands, rummages helplessly in the larder, and returns with the near-empty tin of milk powder. She holds it up to the boys as a question but they don’t have an answer so she mixes some with warm water from the pan she boiled earlier and tries to give it to the baby on a teaspoon. The baby gurgles and chokes then spits it out.
‘Come on, little one,’ she wills and tries again but the baby turns her head and begins to wail. Kat runs her hands through her hair in frustration.
‘This is so messed up.’ Simon shakes his head. ‘I can’t think straight.’
‘We should call an ambulance,’ says Mac, his voice flat. ‘The police might need to be involved. I could go to mum’s . . . make some calls.’
Kat throws him a frightened glance. ‘Will we get into trouble?’
‘They’ll need to do an inquest. An autopsy. There will be questions. She was a strong swimmer. It doesn’t make sense that she drowned.’
Kat presses her knuckles to her lips. ‘You mean they’ll cut her open? I can’t bear it.’
Simon shakes his head. The baby is still crying and he reaches for her, takes her from Kat, tries bouncing her a few times. ‘Not yet. We don’t tell anyone yet.’
She sees Mac shake his head in obvious frustration, but there is the more urgent matter of the hungry baby to attend to.
‘Try the milk again.’
Simon does, and this time the baby seems to manage a drip, then another.
‘It can’t be good for her. We need to buy a bottle . . . some proper baby formula.’ Kat begins to cry quietly as the absence of Freya hits home.
‘What we need to do is tell someone,’ says Mac through gritted teeth, ‘at least notify her family.’
Kat shakes her head. ‘But there’s no one to tell. We’re her family.’
‘So what do we do?’
The three of them look around at each other, bewildered.
In the end none of them can bear the thought of her lying out there in the dark beside the lake so they carry Freya’s body inside the cottage and lay her on the sofa. The sight of her, cold and lifeless, is horrifying. Kat arranges her nightdress so it covers her once more, fastens the buttons still undone at her chest.
‘Get her something to wear, will you?’ says Mac. ‘I don’t want to leave her in this wet nightie. It doesn’t seem right.’
Kat nods and climbs the creaking staircase. When she returns she is holding one of Freya’s favourite dresses, an aspirin bottle and a ripped sheet of paper in her hand. She can’t stop the tears coursing down her cheeks. ‘I – I found these – on her bed. The aspirin bottle’s . . .’ she chokes back a sob, ‘it’s empty.’ She holds the paper out to them both and lets them read the few, sparse words scrawled upon its white surface in Freya’s hand, a fat ink blot marking the last letter of her hastily scribbled name where the nib of the pen has caught on the paper.
Mac reads the words aloud then slumps down beside the sofa, his head in his hands, trying to hide the tears that pour down his face.
The baby wails and screams for almost three intolerable hours, each of them pacing and rocking and shushing her desperately in turn, but when she has finally exhausted herself and fallen asleep, they sit around the table, the piece of paper lying like an accusation between them.
‘It’s my fault. I should’ve . . . I could’ve . . .’ Kat bites down on her hand, tries to stop the sob that falls from her mouth.
‘None of us knew . . . none of us understood . . .’ Mac swallows. ‘What do we do?’
Simon shakes his head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything any more.’
He looks so undone, so broken, a world away from the poised, confident man she remembers from just a few days ago. Watching him, Kat realises that it falls upon her to take charge. ‘No police,’ she says quietly.
‘Why not? There should be an inquest.’ Mac is staring at her, challenging her.
She straightens her shoulders and meets his gaze. ‘I’m her sister, and I say no police. What good will it do now? Freya chose this. We’ll probably never understand why, but at least we know the truth. What good will calling the police do? What else can they tell us? She was depressed. We should have helped her. We all know we’ve failed her.’
Mac shakes his head. ‘Why would she do it?’ he asks, his voice barely a whisper. ‘I don’t understand. I thought we’d agreed . . .’
Simon’s eyes narrow. ‘Thought you’d agreed what?’
Mac clears his throat. ‘She was going to come away with me.’
Simon studies him for a moment. ‘Bullshit.’
Mac lifts his chin a fraction. ‘I was going to help her . . . we were going to find somewhere . . . for her and the baby. She said it was what she wanted. She said she wanted a . . . “a way out”.’ His voice chokes on the last three words and he closes his eyes to stop the tears. When he has composed himself he continues. ‘I didn’t think she meant this.’
Kat shudders. ‘We have to do ri
ght by Freya,’ she says, ‘but we have to do right by her baby now too. Freya is gone, but Lila is here and she needs us. We need to get her milk . . . proper baby milk. We need formula and bottles. That should be the priority.’
At the mention of Freya’s baby, Mac’s eyes clear. He nods and stands, moves across to the dresser. ‘You’re right,’ he says and he opens the tin. ‘We’ve got twenty quid left.’ He holds it out to them like a question and Kat nods. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’
It takes him two hours to find a late-night store selling baby formula and bottles. While he is gone, Kat and Simon sit in the kitchen. Simon barely moves, can hardly speak. Thankfully the baby sleeps on, oblivious to the drama unfolding around her.
‘It’s the end of everything,’ says Simon finally. ‘What are we doing to do?’ He turns to stare at Kat. ‘What am I going to do? I can’t manage a baby, not on my own.’ His voice cracks. Kat sees that his hands are trembling, that reality is sinking in.
She studies him for a moment. She has never seen him so lost, so adrift. She moves around the table and puts a comforting arm around his shoulders, then whispers into his ear. ‘You don’t have to do this on your own. You’ve got me. We’ll do it together. I’ll help you.’ Kat shushes him, holds him close while his tears fall. ‘Shhh . . . I’m here and I promise I won’t leave you.’
She rubs his back and holds him tight and watches as his tears fall onto the rose-coloured fabric of her shirt, turning it a deep and violent red.
In the end they do it because they think it’s what Freya would have wanted, a quiet funeral beside the lake, near the alder trees and the clumps of honesty that she loved so much. No authorities, no fuss. Kat dresses Freya in one of her prettiest dresses, brushes her hair, straightens the silver necklace lying in the hollow of her throat. When she is ready, she leans down and kisses her sister on her cool, pale lips. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispers. ‘I’m sorry for all of it.’
Mac stands watching by the door, his face ashen. ‘Ready?’
The Shadow Year Page 38
