33 Women: A gripping new thriller about the power of women, and the lengths they will go to when pushed...

by Isabel Ashdown

  There’s another sound from below, and, just as she’s about to close the journal, she instinctively licks a fingertip and rubs the relevant page between forefinger and thumb – and to her astonishment the page separates into two, having become stuck together with the passing of time. All at once Celine stops searching, as she stares at the entry containing her sister’s name:

  Original NameChosen Name Arrival DateDeparture Date.

  Vanessa Murphy—2 April 200414 March 2005

  With a swell of nauseating clarity, Celine realises that Vanessa’s official departure was just one day before she was found on Brighton pier. She was here, she was really here at Two Cross Farm, right until just before she died. The truth of it is written here in black and white, for anyone to see, had anyone bothered looking.

  Although another part of her consciousness hears footsteps in the downstairs hall, on the tread at the bottom of the stairs just beyond this open door, Celine can’t tear her eyes from Vanessa’s entry.

  ‘Hello?’ Bramble’s voice carries softly up the stairs, a raised whisper.

  Jumping back from the desk, Celine quickly gathers her wits and softly closes the journal to hurry out on to the landing. There, she runs directly into Bramble, whose expression quickly shifts from concern to mistrust.

  ‘Celine?’ she says, keeping her voice low to prevent waking the others. ‘What on earth can you be doing in Seed’s private office at this time of night?’

  ‘Oh, did I wake you?’ she replies, rubbing an eye with the heel of her hand, feigning a yawn. ‘Thistle showed me where the loo was before bedtime, but—’

  ‘Well, it’s not in here, is it?’ Bramble replies, resolutely stern.

  ‘I—’ Celine stutters, pushing down her rising hackles at being ticked off by this elderly woman. ‘I’m really sorry, Bramble – I didn’t—’ She’s not good at lying, but she pulls it out from somewhere. ‘I should have mentioned it before. I sometimes sleepwalk when I’m in a strange place – I’m so embarrassed. Sorry.’ She looks down, praying her lie is enough.

  Quietly, more kindly now, Bramble points her towards the toilet, and stands guard outside until she has finished and returned to her room. As Bramble’s footsteps retreat down the stairs, Celine slides back into her little bed and stares into the darkness, thoughts and emotions rushing at her in waves.

  She’s found her sister. She’s really found Vanessa.

  23. BRAMBLE

  Present day, Two Cross Farm

  I barely slept a wink after I’d disturbed that young woman, Celine, poking about in Seed’s office last night, and while I gave her the benefit of the doubt, sending her back to her room without further questioning, I’m going to keep a close eye on her.

  When I did finally drift off, I was assaulted by images and memories from the past, merging in and out of order to confuse me and knot up my insides with foreboding. Beneath spring sunshine, I felt the tug of a bedsheet between my fingers, me at one corner, Regine at the other, pinning it high on the washing line, the sharp white snap of it tethering us in labour. I watched Fern, years younger, taking long strides across the lush grass, arms thrust high in welcome, and a newcomer: a girl with a broken collarbone and dark hope in her eyes. ‘She’s three days early!’ Regine called over to Seed, who had found her on the woodland path, scooped her up on her way back from market. For a moment the girl’s face became Susan’s, and from nowhere my father appeared, reciting a nursery rhyme, dandling me on his knee. The smell of fresh laundry was heavy in the air, dense and muggy like the basement, not like a spring day at all. ‘My mother said she’d be home,’ the girl – Vanessa – called over, heaving a large rucksack from her shoulder, ‘but she flew to Italy instead.’ I thought of the barn owl then, gliding pale as the tails of that airborne sheet, and I wondered what it could mean. As a white-robed Fern spirited the new girl towards the open door of the house, the bedsheet flapped like the sail of a galleon; the girl’s hair swirled; and Seed watched on, her loneliness pooling around her like invisible ink.

  That April day was over fifteen years ago, I remind myself now, as my waking mind conjures up the memory of Vanessa’s sweet young face. How we Founding Sisters have altered in that time, both in body and spirit. And number.

  There’s a shout. All at once my drowsy thoughts are disturbed by some loud disturbance beyond my bedroom door, and within seconds I am up out of my bed, cursing my slow old carcass as I reach for my tunic to wrestle it over my nightshirt, my heart drumming a frantic beat.

  Is this it? Is this the moment of our reckoning?

  24. CELINE

  Present day

  Celine is woken from a deep sleep by the sound of Thistle’s heavy feet hitting the floorboards beside her.

  ‘You hear that?’ Thistle says, reaching out a hand to prod Celine’s leg. ‘Shouting – outside.’

  There is some kind of commotion going on, and Celine sits up, instinctively reaching for her jeans as Thistle pulls back the curtains of their small room and pushes open the window. The sound of distant voices and car engines drifts in.

  ‘Can you see anything?’

  ‘Nah. Think it’s coming from the front. The morning bell’s about to ring anyway – let’s go down.’

  As they open the bedroom door, they’re met by other confused faces, apparently also roused by the disturbance. Celine is relieved to find a fully dressed Una, who grabs her sleeve and leads her along the hallway, where they hang back on the landing as the other women head down the stairs, talking above each other and speculating over the cause of the noise. The morning bell sounds out, and on hearing Bramble and Seed’s voices from the office Celine and Una put their heads around the door to see the two women standing at the window, looking out.

  ‘Is everything OK?’ Una asks. ‘What’s all the noise?’

  When neither woman answers, they join them at the window to see a dozen or more men and women camped out beyond the gates, setting up cameras and film equipment. Several vans are parked up on the verge, and, even as they watch, more arrive in the lane, the sound of closing car doors and shouted instructions lifting on the morning air. The wind has dropped now, but the driveway is littered with fallen branches and leaf debris, and Celine feels as though they’re teetering on the edge of something dangerous, something they shouldn’t be a part of.

  ‘I should never have trusted you,’ Seed whispers, turning away from the window. ‘Is this down to you – down to the police?’

  ‘No!’ Una says firmly. She’s so much smaller than Seed, and yet, with her peppered hair and lightly creased eyes, she still manages to appear wise and in control. ‘I swear, Seed, this has nothing to do with us! If anything, the police have been holding back information from the media – they’re desperate to avoid bad press. Why do you think they sent me in? They could have stormed this place at the drop of a hat with the evidence they’ve collected on Robyn – on Two Cross Farm. But they haven’t, have they?’ She gestures to the window, where Bramble is still fixed on the view. ‘This is the last thing the police want.’

  ‘What evidence?’ Bramble asks, turning to scrutinise Una with concern.

  ‘Seed told the police that Robyn left two days before she was found dead, but the CCTV shows her that night, saying goodbye to Archie Chowdhury at Arundel station, before, he claims, she returned to Two Cross Farm with a plan to join him a few days later. He reached London safely, alone, and was then out of the country for several days. They know Chowdhury didn’t kill Robyn. And they know Robyn was planning to head back here – but they don’t know what happened next. Except that someone murdered that poor girl and dumped her at the side of the river.’

  ‘Are we under suspicion?’ Seed asks, her eyes welling up again at the detail of Robyn’s death.

  ‘Everyone’s under suspicion,’ Una replies. ‘Everyone who knew her or came into contact with her that night.’

  ‘We should go down there and face them,’ Bramble says, striding across the room. ‘We need to prep
are a statement.’

  ‘Saying what?’ Seed demands, her voice growing deeper in anger. ‘We don’t even know what’s driven them here! Something must have happened last night for them to rush down here like this.’

  ‘Seed,’ Celine says, feeling that familiar flip of nerves as Seed turns her steady attention on her. ‘If you’re prepared to give us our phones, we could look it up. We could check the news to see what this is all about.’

  ‘I can phone DI Aston too,’ Una adds. ‘He’ll know what’s going on.’

  Moments later, Celine is logging on to her mobile, scrolling through the latest headlines while Una speaks with Dave Aston out on the landing. She can hardly believe what she’s seeing, as headline after headline leads with sensational suggestions of grisly goings-on at Two Cross Farm. Bramble has gone downstairs to instruct the group to take breakfast without them, and for all outdoor workers to remain on indoor duties until further notice. Seed hasn’t moved from the window, where she watches the number of journalists and camera crew grow as the minutes tick by.

  ‘This isn’t good,’ Celine says as Bramble and Una return to the room. Una puffs out her cheeks in response, clearly trying to hold in her anger.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Seed asks, taking a seat behind her desk, spreading her long fingers flat in that habitual way. ‘What have you found out?’

  Unexpectedly, Bramble snatches the phone from Celine and reads the tabloid headline next to a photograph of Seed from last week’s press conference.

  ‘Commune of Killers?’ she reads aloud, meeting Seed’s shocked expression. ‘Women’s Cult Under Investigation. Dear God. Is UK’s Latest Serial Killer Here?’ Bramble thrusts the phone at Celine and goes back to the window, as though viewing the waiting press crowd will give her some of the answers she seeks. ‘What the hell is this?’ she asks. ‘What do these people want with us?’

  Una sinks on to the sofa beside Celine. ‘Apparently there’s been a police leak, and the media have got hold of the fact that they’re linking some historical cases to Robyn’s murder.’

  Bramble turns back from the window, taking a step closer to Seed’s shoulder, and Celine is struck by the repeat image from their last visit here, when the two women had first invited them into this room. Neither says a word.

  ‘Bramble,’ Una says. ‘You told us you were one of the original women here. Do you remember Susan Green?’

  Bramble’s hand goes to her throat, as though searching for an invisible string of beads, while Seed’s head drops a fraction. The movements are tiny; guarded. ‘Yes,’ Bramble replies.

  ‘Do you know what happened to her, after she left Two Cross Farm?’

  She shakes her head. ‘We never heard from her again.’

  ‘You didn’t know she was dead?’ Celine asks, but neither Seed nor Bramble acknowledge she’s even asked the question.

  ‘I don’t know if you’re aware, Seed,’ Una continues, ‘of an unsolved case from 1976, when a group of women went missing together, apparently of their own accord. While the case was never a big police priority, at the time there was a lot of speculation over where those women went.’

  Seed blinks slowly, and Una continues.

  ‘Susan, the youngest of the group, turned up dead in 1995, but as for the rest of them—’ She looks pointedly at Bramble.

  When Bramble doesn’t reply, Celine can’t hold back, and she leans out to slap her hand on the side of the desk. ‘They came here, didn’t they, Bramble?’ she demands. ‘The missing women were the same women who set up Two Cross Farm. The Founding Sisters? And you and Susan Green were two of them.’

  Bramble fixes her jaw defiantly and nods her head. She squeezes Seed’s shoulder, anchoring herself.

  ‘The history of this place is no secret to me, or to anyone else who cares to ask directly,’ Seed says. ‘But what do you think it has to do with Robyn?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ Una replies. ‘But DI Aston wants me to ask you what happened to those other women, the ones who left with Susan in 1976. The press is going crazy out there, speculating that Robyn’s and Susan’s deaths are connected to this place – and now, with this new piece of information about those missing women, they’re all wondering if the whole lot of them are going to turn up dead somewhere.’

  Bramble gasps. ‘Oh, this is all just getting out of hand!’ She brings a palm to her chest with a heavy slap. ‘What do you want me to say? Yes, I was one of that group back in 1976, and I can vouch that nothing bad ever happened to those other women! If they want a statement from me to that effect, if that’s what it will take to get rid of them, I’m quite prepared to give it.’

  ‘If Bramble is your chosen name, they’ll want to know who you really are, or were,’ Celine says.

  ‘Fine. I am – I was – Brenda Harley. But I’ve been Bramble for over forty years now.’

  Out in the hallway there’s a scream. ‘Bramble!’ a woman calls up the stairs. ‘Bramble! They’re taking photos through the hedge at the back! You can see their long lenses from the back windows!’

  At this, Seed’s expression grows steely. ‘Bramble, go downstairs and calm the sisters. Una, Celine, I’d like you to pack your bags. It’s time you left.’ Poised, she rises and leads the way, stepping on to the landing with Una at her rear.

  With a rush of adrenaline, Celine takes her chance, grabbing the residents’ journal from the desk, opening it up to the very first page. The five women are listed right there on page one, in 1976: Fern Bellamy, Brenda Harley, Kathy Hawks, Regine Porter and Susan Green. Celine glances back towards the door, where Una still stands, blocking the view as a woman at the foot of the stairs gives Seed an update on the intruders.

  ‘I’m phoning the police,’ Una says, and there’s no resistance from Seed at all.

  Celine turns back to the ledger and snaps an image of the page, before flipping forward to take a further image of Vanessa’s entry in 2004. She slams the book shut, before swiftly she and Una gather their belongings and follow Seed down the stairs, where she makes them wait in the kitchen as she and Bramble talk in whispers just outside the door. The kitchen is empty, all the women having been asked to gather in the living room, so, when the adjoining door swings open and an elderly woman appears, Celine and Una are startled.

  ‘Hello,’ Celine says. She doesn’t recognise this woman from their meal gatherings.

  ‘A new one?’ the woman asks, casting her eyes about the empty kitchen. She looks confused. ‘We need three more. Thirty-three; that’s the number.’

  ‘What’s your name?’ Celine asks.

  But another cry at the back of the house sends the scared woman back through the swing doors and out of sight.

  ‘They’re coming!’ a woman shouts through the hallway. ‘We’re not safe! Bramble!’

  There is chaos in the air, as Celine and Una rush into the hall to follow Bramble to the living room at the back, where she’s pulling the drapes across, shutting out the paparazzi photographers’ view just too late.

  ‘Out!’ Seed commands, marching Celine and Una towards the front door, flinging it open and directing them towards the gate.

  The assembled press go crazy, yelling questions and snapping pictures, a deafening clamour in the cool morning air.

  ‘Seed, are you sure you want to—’ Una tries to reason with her.

  They stop a few hundred yards from the security gate, as Seed unclips the ring of keys from her belt, readying herself to eject them from the property. Celine has the overwhelming desire to beg to stay. She doesn’t want to leave this place, and yet she feels an urgency to escape.

  ‘You have to go,’ Seed says, calmly, but without her former warmth. ‘You’ve brought this to our door – you’re under police instruction, so you’re as responsible as they are.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ Una says. ‘We had nothing to do with this.’

  It seems suddenly important to Celine that Seed shouldn’t think badly of them, that they need to put this straight before they
part. ‘Seed, we would never do anything to compromise your—’ she tries to say, but Seed grabs her by the arm and tries to manoeuvre her away.

  ‘Get off me!’ Celine yells, lashing out and wrestling from her fierce grip, her heart sinking as a whoop of interest goes up from the paparazzi and she realises the whole exchange is being filmed.

  Seed unlocks the gate, zoning out the yelled questions and the cameras pushed up close to capture her image, and she hurries Una and Celine through a small gap before slamming the gate shut again. Una swiftly retreats through the crowd, but something holds Celine back. She turns to Seed, again feeling that powerful magnetism – for she cannot find another word for it – and she’s shocked when Seed reaches through the bars for her hand, gently pulling her close.

  ‘Tell me the truth,’ she says, not releasing her hold. ‘You can see yourself living here, can’t you, Celine? You can imagine turning your back on the outside world; giving yourself up.’

  Celine stares back at her, adrift.

  ‘You know what it feels like to lose something – someone – I can see it in your eyes. You know what sorrow is.’

  Celine can merely stare back, lost in Seed’s gaze.

  All around them, journalists bray for a scoop, calling out questions they’ll never get a response to.

  ‘If you understand what it is we want to protect, you can help us,’ Seed says, her voice low. ‘You must divert the world’s interest away from this place.’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ Celine replies, hearing the tremor in her own voice. ‘You’re keeping secrets that the world needs answers to.’

  ‘Sometimes it is kinder to keep secrets of another’s making.’ With this, Seed drops Celine’s hand, her expression softening as she reaches out to brush away the tears now streaking Celine’s face. ‘Please don’t ever come back here.’