Even Pretty Things Rot: A dark, heart-pounding psychic thriller

by Farah Ali

  ‘There’s a medical term for what she was suffering from. Postpartum psychosis. I’d not even heard of it before. She needed urgent medical care and I didn’t help her. I didn’t help her. And I lost my wife and son.’

  A shuddering sigh escaped him. It was the first time he had discussed it in such detail with anyone. After the funeral he’d locked away all the memories, all the regret, all the pain, wallowing in self-loathing, drinking himself into a stupor night after night, until finally he felt nothing at all. He missed work, made mistakes, put his colleagues at risk. His friendships fell apart. His life was a train-wreck.

  Then one morning he awoke on the bathroom tiles in a pool of his own vomit and decided to leave the city for the sake of his sanity. Start afresh. It was the only way to salvage what was left of his life.

  Lila studied her toes, troubled. Jack roused and shot her a half-smile, rising to his feet, feeling the discomfiting awkwardness that follows a personal revelation.

  ‘I haven’t spoken to anybody about this before. I’m sorry to have dumped it all on you. But thank you for helping me...talk to Angela. I feel better.’ He massaged his chest. ‘I don’t know how you did it, I don’t understand your abilities, but I believe you. Anyway it’s late, I better go. Here, take this.’

  Lila took the card he proffered and studied it.

  ‘If you remember anything else about Bianca feel free to contact me.’

  ‘Montague,’ she murmured. ‘Like from Romeo and Juliet.’

  Jack smiled, a little surprised. Then he felt guilty for being surprised. Just because she was poor didn’t mean she was ignorant.

  ‘Yeah. Not my favourite play though.’

  Lila’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Why not? It’s so...haunting. Beautiful.’

  ‘Too much teenage angst for my liking and—’ He suddenly remembered what Maggie had told him. Lila didn’t charge but her clients gave her tips of money or goods. His ears grew warm. He didn’t have any cash nor did he have anything else with him, apart from chewing gum.

  ‘Look Lila, I’m sorry I don’t have anything to give you. For the reading, I mean. I can come back tomorrow with some—’

  Stifling a yawn, Lila brushed away his words. ‘That’s okay. I don’t want anything. Really, I mean it.’

  ‘All right. Sure. But if you think of something let me know. I’ll be happy to help.’

  Nodding, she led him downstairs and through the little shop. Jack stood outside for a few moments breathing in the crisp air, enjoying the drizzle on his face. The fog had not lifted—if anything it had thickened and he imagined it cottoning up his lungs. He squinted at his digital watch. It was almost midnight. He headed in the general direction of his car, his heart lighter than it had been before he entered Lila’s home.

  Lila Cassandra. Not like anyone Jack had ever known. Young and old at the same time. Mysterious. A woman who—against all the laws of science—had clairvoyant abilities and communicated with the dead.

  There was a rustling behind him and Lila leaped out of the fog as if summoned by his thoughts.

  ‘Lila?’

  She was slightly out of breath and he realised she’d run after him without putting her shoes on.

  ‘Did you mean it, Mr Montague?’

  ‘Mean what? And call me Jack, please.’

  ‘About helping me?’

  ‘Of course.’ He was glad she wasn’t too proud to ask. Food perhaps or maybe she wanted him to fix that broken guttering. She probably couldn’t afford to get it sorted out.

  Lila wrapped the cardigan around her body, shivering. ‘You’ve heard about what happened to my family?

  He hesitated. Her sad smile told him she knew her family were gossip fodder in Deerleap.

  ‘I want you to help me find out the truth. Papa didn’t do it. I’m sure of it.’

  Jack spread his hands. ‘Look, I understand why you want to believe that but—‘

  She interrupted, her chin thrust upwards. ‘No. He didn’t do it. I want you to clear his name. I keep having the same dream. My family are there and they’re trying to tell me something.’ She turned her back on him. ‘Do you know how frustrating it is? How angry it makes me? To be able to see things I don’t want to see, to know things, but when it comes to the most important event of all, there’s just a void.’

  Look, Lila. Look. Are you ready to see? She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed the sides of her head.

  Pity left a bitter taste in Jack’s mouth. He wanted her to smile, to be carefree, to somehow erase those fine lines belonging to a woman in her forties not one in her early twenties.

  ‘Okay. I’m busy with the Bianca Hayle murder right now, that has to take priority, but I will look into your family’s case.’ He held up a restraining hand. ‘But I can’t promise anything. From what I’ve heard so far it seems pretty clear to me. Are you strong enough to deal with it? If I end up confirming your father’s guilt?’

  Lila’s eyes glowed. ‘Oh, thank you. Thank you so much Mr Monta—Jack. I know he’s not guilty. I just know it.’ She flung her arms around him, just for a moment, before running back into the mist.

  Jack walked on regretting his impulsiveness. What have you agreed to? Reopening an eighteen-year-old murder-suicide? Like you haven’t got enough to deal with. And do you really think this will bring her any peace?

  But how could he refuse? She’d helped him and he wanted to help her.

  On the drive home Jack thoughts veered from Noah Cassandra to Lila to Angela to Bianca Hayle and back again. When he strayed back to the fleeting sensation of Lila’s body pressed against his he fled that dangerous territory with a resolute shake of his head.

  That night Jack slept for six hours straight, the first time since the deaths of his wife and son.

  Chapter Twelve

  Alma glared at the front page of the Daily Hollow newspaper unaware of the little grunts escaping her throat as she read. The article continued for three more pages and she read every word to the end, skipping over the photographs of Bianca at various ages. Then she read through it all again annoyed at the lack of detail. All it reported was that Bianca’s body was found in the forest. But how? It puzzled and angered her. The clearing was hidden and not near a main path. Bert had chosen it because it was isolated and unvisited, but thanks to some gormless fool who’d gotten lost all her effort had been wasted.

  She flung the newspaper and it hit a vase of tall red roses cascading petals onto the scuffed wooden floor. The front door opened and closed, but studiously ignoring it Alma picked up the antique hand mirror Bert had found in a junk shop. The bronze was tarnished green and brown and the glass was cloudy and cracked at the edge.

  ‘It’s not fair. All that work wasted. It wasn’t supposed to be found. It was mine. My project.’ She spoke to her reflection, a rasping voice caused by damage to the larynx.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I have nice things? Pretty things?’

  Bert wiped his feet on the coir doormat before plodding towards her with a tub of vanilla and dark chocolate chip ice cream tucked under his arm.

  ‘Of course you should. Here, I brought you this from work. Mrs Rogers said it was okay. Want some? It’s melted but still tasty.’

  Alma made no acknowledgment she’d heard so he placed his thick fingers on her shoulders kneading the flesh. Instead of turning around Alma raised the mirror and studied her husband’s reflection. A spasm of anger and dissatisfaction stiffened her back.

  He had suggested the spot. It was his fault. Alma shrugged him off.

  Bert kissed the back of her head. ‘It’ll be all right, Alma. It was just bad luck. I’ll get another one for you, I promise. And this one won’t be found. You’ll be able to visit it whenever you want.’

  Good old Bert. Stolid and reliable. Alma smiled and Bert relaxed. There wouldn’t be a tantrum tonight. All he wanted was for Alma to be happy. Alma raised the mirror again and studied him, his face warped a little by the old glass.

  Short and broad with sloping sh
oulders and watery eyes in a pale, flabby face. Somewhat ridiculous in his ice cream parlour uniform of pink and white stripes. Dedicated and hardworking. Frustrating at times, sure, but Bert belonged to her and she needed him. With a little sigh she rummaged through her makeup bag. Twisting a tube of lipstick in one hand she coated her lumpy lips in fuchsia, humming softly.

  A mixture of love and adoration speared through Bert. He liked watching Alma apply her makeup and she liked him watching. The fire had eaten away most of her face—she only had one nostril and the sight of one eye. Her features were a nightmarish fusion of pink and brown grafted skin. She was completely bald except for a few strands of frizzy hair at the nape of her neck.

  Alma swabbed at her eyelids with the tiny applicator until both were coated with an even amount of shimmery blue. She dusted blusher onto her cheeks with a kabuki brush then stretched her arm in an imperious gesture.

  ‘My hair please. The mid-length blonde today, I think.’

  Bert hurried towards the bedroom passing many bouquets of flowers, some fake, most real, pausing at the long row of mannequin heads displaying Alma’s wigs. He was not allowed to refer to them as wigs, Alma would get upset. Hair, tresses, mane or locks were acceptable terms.

  ‘Mid-length blonde, mid-length blonde,’ he mumbled as he scanned the array of styles and colours. He picked one, lifting carefully to avoid mussing it and hurried out.

  Alma glanced sideways at the bob-length hair. ‘No, no, no, Bert.’

  Bert shifted on his feet, sheepish. Alma didn’t have eyebrows, but he knew if she did they would be knitted together.

  ‘Does that look like mid-length to you? The one you’re holding comes to my chin. Mid-length hair rests just below my shoulders. Go back and get it right this time.’

  He handed over the correct wig with reverence. Alma put the mirror down and brushed the silky strands a few times before placing it on her head, stretching and adjusting the inner band to ensure it would stay put even when she bent down. She picked up a white frosted bottle in the vintage style and pressed the pump, spraying herself liberally with perfume.

  Finally she turned to Bert, her face framed with gold. ‘How do I look? Much prettier than Norma ever did, don’t you think?’

  ‘Uh-huh. You look wonderful, Alma. Pretty like a picture.’ He cupped a hand over the bulge in his trousers.

  Simpering, Alma lifted the mirror again and dabbed a smudge at the corner of her mouth. ‘Why don’t you come over here, Bert? I’m sure there’s something I can do about that.’

  ***

  Lila bit into her baguette and chewed as Daisy laughed and joked with George. Daisy had visited the shop earlier on looking for a housewarming gift and suggested Lila come by to the farmhouse to clear the air. Lila had shaken her head as she helped Daisy fit a refurbished stool inside her car.

  Her cousin had rolled her eyes, pulling her hair out from beneath the collar of her jacket. ‘Oh, come on. Don’t be silly. Dad cares about you and I’m sure he’s sorry for yelling at you last week. Have lunch with us.’

  So Lila closed the shop, hopped into Daisy’s red car and came to the farm. She helped her cousin prepare the steak sandwiches and when she settled at the table her uncle gave her a terse nod, not quite meeting her eyes.

  ‘Afternoon, Lila. Nice to see you.’

  She smiled and looked down, understanding they were on good terms again. But still, she couldn’t help but feel excluded. The easy familiarity between her uncle and cousin tugged at her heart and sipping lemonade she wondered what her life would have been like if her family were still alive. She concentrated, her eyes narrowing a little.

  Mama hands Papa the salad bowl. He grabs her waist and pulls her close. He plants soft kisses on her arm from inner elbow to wrist. Mama blushes and pulls away smiling as she pretends to fuss with her apron strings. Papa can hardly tear his eyes away from her. Then Maura wants Papa to feed her. She hops onto his lap. Lila gets jealous and leaves her seat and demands Papa feed her too. Mama shakes her head and laughs.

  ‘Look at these girls fighting over you. Just like when we were at school.’

  Papa grins and lifts Lila up onto his other thigh. She nestles closer, a delicious feeling of warmth and safety spreading from her ear lobes to her toes.

  Lila swallowed, unsure if she was remembering or imagining.

  ‘...so sad about Bianca Hayle. She was stuck-up and thought a lot of herself, but no one deserves to die like that...Lila? Hellooo, Lila.’

  Lila blinked as Daisy waggled red manicured fingernails inches from her face.

  ‘Sorry, what did you say?’

  Another eye-roll. ‘I was talking about the murder. Isn’t it awful? The newspaper said she died from hanging. And I’ve been hearing rumours. Is it true something weird was done to the body? Some pervert I bet.’ Daisy shuddered.

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t heard anything,’ mumbled Lila, realising the police had kept the details about the flowers to themselves.

  George glanced at his niece, troubled. Just this morning his friend Murray had stopped him in the DIY store to ask whether the rumours about Lila finding the body were true.

  He wiped his mouth on a napkin. He sincerely hoped his niece hadn’t found the body. Not for the first time he wished he’d never sent her that letter. What had possessed him?

  Guilt. You felt guilty for sending her away.

  He shook his head trying to dislodge painful memories and attacked his food with renewed vigour, chewing glumly. How he hated the reputation that Lila had created for herself. Not to mention her irrational behaviour and lack of general decorum. It embarrassed him and he had to put up with the jibes of his friends at the bar or at livestock auctions—everyone thought his niece was an oddball. George sighed. She has epilepsy. That crazy horse probably damaged her brain. She can’t help it. Try and be nice to her, for Amelia’s sake.

  Lila watched him, her eyes wide and glittering. George shifted in his seat. It made him uncomfortable. He frowned.

  ‘What are you staring at?’

  Lila ducked her head. ‘Sorry. Nothing.’ She took a big bite of sandwich. The general thread of George’s thoughts stung and with a sinking feeling she realised he wasn’t happy. She focused on the cheap and cheerful Van Gogh sunflower print on the wall liking the muted yellow and orange shades.

  She put her food down and gagged at the odour of rotten flowers. Her head felt woozy.

  ‘Oh no, not now,’ she whispered.

  Daisy and George were deep in conversation. She pushed the chair back shakily, resisting the urge to bolt. Daisy raised her eyebrows.

  ‘What’s wrong? Where are you going?’

  ‘Bathroom. Not feeling well.’

  Her uncle and cousin exchanged looks, but Lila was beyond caring. The moment she was out of sight she ran upstairs and locked the door. She put the toilet seat down and sat on top cradling her head as a myriad of images collided and merged.

  A house on fire. Pink and white stripes. A row of heads. She tensed, then relaxed when she realised they were identical and featureless. Mannequin heads? Long stem roses in a vase, red petals cascading to the carpet. A girl sobbing in the dark. A noose. A tilted watering can, water drizzling down. She clenched her teeth in effort. What was being watered? Her eyes flew open. The girl with dark curls, stuffed with soil and flowers.

  ‘Oh, you poor girl. I’m so sorry. So very sorry.’

  The images faded into blackness. Trembling Lila stood and stared at the mirror unseeing. Anger and avarice contorted her features. Her lips formed words without her control, her voice rasping, cruel and cold.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I have nice things? Pretty things?’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Abigail McNally, Abby to her friends, scowled and rubbed her shoulder. Her satchel was heavier than usual because she’d just visited the library and checked out the textbook needed to complete the history essay due next week.

  ‘Like the Second World War is going to help my ca
reer,’ she grumbled, tossing her black curls and ignoring the admiring looks and whispers from Billy and his friends as she strode past. If Billy wanted to ask her to the Deerleap School Ball he better put a move on because she’d just received an invitation from Jamal in her English class.

  Abby waited for a gap in the traffic and ran across the road. She turned left, walked on for a mile, then turned right down a quiet lane slowing her pace. She usually walked this way home, it gave her time to think and she often saw deer passing through the trees. She avoided it at night though, depending on how brave she felt.

  A few years ago now, in the winter when the sun set early, Abby had once seen an unnaturally pale girl about her age in old-fashioned clothes sitting high up in a tree dangling her legs, her copper hair in untidy pigtails beneath a muddy white cap tied under her chin. The girl’s lips had spread in a malicious grin revealing pointy blood-smeared teeth as she mouthed something Abby couldn’t make out. Deerleap children were warned from a young age about the cursed spirits in the forest and dire rumours circulated in the playground. Thus it was understandable that Abby had almost wet herself, running all the way home on jelly legs, blunt terror lodged in her throat. Those horrid teeth had given her nightmares for weeks.

  Of course now the town was worried about evil of a different kind. Abby’s mother had made her promise not to walk down the isolated lanes, even in the daytime, ever since Bianca Hayle’s murder.

  ‘They still haven’t found the madman who took her, Abigail. Until then promise me you’ll stick to the busy open areas, or better yet pair up with a friend.’

  But the sun was shining, this was Deerleap Hollow, the other route was at least fifteen minutes longer and Abby wasn’t frightened at all. Switching the satchel to another shoulder she thought of her exasperating mother. Ever since Abby’s father had left town with his personal assistant her mother had been a fretful, overprotective wreck and Bianca’s murder had made it worse. Abby knew the Hayle family by sight, but at sixteen to Bianca’s eighteen they weren’t friends. Of course it was sad that Bianca had died, Abby mused, especially as she was young and sexy, but death was something that happened to other people.