by Ruth Dugdall
I shake my head – the task seems too huge to contemplate. There is a name that springs to mind, but I can’t say it aloud: Ash. I touch my collarbone, feeling the old scar, wondering if I really am sick or if I’m the only one thinking clearly. Holly doesn’t push me, but each time she looks my way I feel she understands. For now, that’s enough. We walk side by side in silence, but this respite can’t last. We’ll be back at my house and the reality of what has happened will once again take over everything.
We arrive back, wet and tired. I’m pulling off my walking boots by the back door, Holly is unclipping Jet’s lead, when we hear men’s voices, bickering loudly, coming from the front room. Jet, unclipped, scrambles to his water bowl, spraying it over the floor as he laps it up.
‘Who’s here?’ Holly asks, alert to the possibility that something has happened.
I stand still to listen. ‘Daniel and Dad . . . and someone else.’ At first I think it’s Clive, but then I listen closer. It’s him, here in my house. ‘And Ash.’
Jet lifts his head, ears pricked. He barks and runs through to find his master.
All three men fall silent when Holly and I walk into the room. They look at us as if we’ve discovered their dirty secret. Daniel stands in front of the unlit fire, leaning against the mantel as if for support. Dad sits close beside Ash on the sofa. Ash fusses over Jet like a boy with his favourite puppy, his lanky hair dangling over his eyes as he scruffs Jet’s head, but he doesn’t fool me. I know what he’s capable of, despite his feigned naivety. On the coffee table is an open bottle of bourbon and Daniel is nursing a tumbler as he rocks on the balls of his feet. I’ve never known him to drink in the daytime before.
‘Ladies, hi,’ says Daniel, regaining his poise. ‘Where have you been?’
The men are wary of Holly. None of them have started to relax around her like I have. ‘Walking Jet,’ she says. ‘We walked to the marshes – I haven’t been there in years. I’d forgotten how dramatic this part of Suffolk is.’
No one responds to this. We’re like actors who’ve forgotten our stage directions.
‘We were worried about you, Cass,’ Daniel says. ‘You didn’t take your phone.’
I slide my hand into the back pocket of my jeans and there it is. But when I check, it’s not switched on. ‘Why, is there news from the hospital?’
‘Dr Droste said they’re slowly reducing the barbiturates, and taking out the tube to see if Maya can breathe on her own. I said we’d be there this afternoon, so Hector can sign his permission as her next of kin.’
I hate that phrase and all that it means. What it could mean, if you don’t start breathing on your own and a machine has to keep you alive.
‘Love, you can’t just go out without telling anyone. Promise me you won’t do that again?’
‘I’m not a child, Daniel.’ I won’t promise him anything. He lied about visiting Victoria. He told her I was sick. He lied about where he was – and I don’t know why.
I drop into the armchair nearest the sofa and Ash lifts his head from Jet’s fur. His eyes are red and watery, making him look even more sorrowful than usual.
‘I wanted to visit Maya yesterday, Cass, but the nurse said only family are allowed in.’
Daniel finishes his drink, clinks the glass down on the mantelpiece. His usual poise is gone, his normally neat hair is ruffled and there’s stubble on his chin. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea, Holly? Cass?’
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ says Holly, who’s standing discreetly by the door, deciding whether she should stay or leave. I can see that her curiosity will win.
‘We’ll both have one of those.’ I nod at the bourbon.
Daniel hesitates, and I dare him to say I shouldn’t. ‘I’ll fetch some glasses.’
Dad pats Ash’s knee with his good hand. ‘I’ll speak to ’em at the hospital, explain that you’re as good as family. And don’t worry about the police – it’s just routine, that’s all.’
‘What’s routine?’ Holly asks, then blushes at her own pushiness.
Daniel returns with two shot glasses from the drinks cabinet then fills them with stingy portions from the bottle, handing one to Holly. ‘When there’s been an attempted suicide like this, the police have to go through the motions, just to be sure there’s nothing suspicious about it. Of course, as Maya’s in a coma they can’t ask her, so they’ve interviewed Ash and Janet, because Janet discovered Maya first, and they both live closest to the farmhouse.’
Holly glances at me, and I know we’re both thinking the same thing: If I’m right and someone else shot Mum, it could be either of them.
‘They recorded my interview on camera.’ Ash shifts in his seat, casts a wounded glance at me then looks away. ‘I felt like a criminal.’
He begins to cry but Dad pats his arm and he stops. I try to remember when Dad last touched me. ‘Don’t fret, son. I’m sure you didn’t say anythin’ wrong.’
Dad’s concern for him itches under my skin like a rash. Ash isn’t his ‘son’. Ash’s mother isn’t lying unconscious in a hospital bed with a bullet hole in her head. I finish my drink in one, reach for the bourbon and refill my glass to the brim.
‘The police wanted to know how well we all got on.’ His face flushes pink, and he glances at Holly. I sense he’s hiding something, afraid to say it because she’s here.
‘Don’t worry, you can talk in front of Holly. She’s my friend.’
‘You think so?’ He chews the inside of his mouth. ‘You haven’t seen her in twenty years, Cass. Me and you, we’ve grown up together. That’s real friendship.’ He looks at me hopefully, those wide eyes of his so like those of a desperate child, but he’s deluded. ‘I told ’em how we used to bunk off lessons sometimes, Cass – go to the barn and build houses with the bales of straw.’
I’d forgotten that. It can’t have happened more than a few times, and that was before I went to Oakfield. It was before.
Ash grows desperate. ‘Then they wanted to know about your Anschütz, Hector, askin’ if I ever used it. I said no, on account of havin’ me own guns that you bought me.’ He puts his head in his hands and moans. ‘They found my prints on it.’
‘On the rifle used to shoot Mum?’ My breath catches, my hand clutches the glass. Holly moves beside me, sits on the edge of the chair and I feel her support. It gives me the strength to ask, ‘How could that have happened, Ash?’
‘That’s what I said!’ he says, as if I too am doubting the police’s expertise. ‘I never touched the gun, Hector, I’m sure I didn’t . . .’
‘Ash!’ Dad says sternly. Ash shuts up and blinks at Dad in mute surprise. ‘It must have happened when you were puttin’ my shotgun away on Friday afternoon – you went to the gun cupboard, didn’t you?’
Ash’s eyes roll up into his head, as if trying to remember this, but his face remains doubtful and I think: It’s a lie. Dad always puts his gun away himself. Then another thought follows: Ash shot Mum, and Dad is trying to cover for him. Just like before.
‘Where were you on Saturday morning, Ash?’ I ask.
He gazes solemnly at me through blond lashes. ‘You know where I was, Cass. I was with you at the farmhouse. Holly saw me too – we were all there.’
‘I mean before that – when Mum was shot!’
‘When she shot herself,’ Dad corrects. ‘He was workin’.’ He’s angry. I see his good hand clenching his knee to keep it steady.
‘That early? They say it happened just after six.’
Ash scratches his scalp. ‘Six ain’t early for me. I were in the copse when Mum came runnin’ across the field, screamin’ about Maya. I ran straight to the farm – I wanted to help. You remember, I wanted to help you.’
I do remember him being at the farm, but that was much later, after Holly and the other paramedics had arrived. His timings seem wrong and he keeps looking from Dad to Daniel as if to check he’s saying the right thing. Finally, his gaze lands on me and whatever my face reveals, he flinches back from it. He stan
ds, wipes his hands on his trousers, his face still flushed with anxiety. ‘I need to get home to Mum.’
‘I’ll drive you if you like,’ says Holly, casting me a knowing look. She’s sending me a message: I’ll try to find out what I can. ‘I’m going that way anyway.’
‘I’ll see you both out,’ says Daniel.
An icy silence follows. It’s just me and Dad. He sits ramrod-straight, his breathing heavy, and shoots me a dark look, making me feel as if I’ve done something wrong.
As soon as Daniel returns, he too accuses me. ‘That was unfair, Cass. You can see Ash is devastated by what’s happened.’
‘What was unfair?’
‘Grilling him. Asking where he was, why his fingerprints were on the gun. And in front of Holly too. You may think you can trust her, but you haven’t seen her in twenty years.’
‘Those are good questions!’ I can’t believe this is being twisted back on me. The injustice stings.
Daniel shakes his head as if he doesn’t understand me. He runs a hand through his fringe and it falls back lopsided. ‘He’s on our side, Cass. So is Janet.’
I bristle at this, hands clenched by my side. ‘The police don’t seem to think so – they’ve interviewed him on camera. That must mean he’s a suspect!’
Dad erupts then, as if he’s finally lost his will to control his anger. He curves his spine back as if to pounce. His voice is directed at me and penetrates like a bullet. ‘That boy loves this family and this is very hard for him. Janet practically raised you when Maya was too sick to do it!’ His face is puce with indignation.
‘For God’s sake, Dad, that’s a bit of an exaggeration.’
‘You know nothin’.’ He’s standing now, pointing down at me from his full height. ‘We’d be lost without that pair. And Maya’s taken to Ash like he’s her own son. She’s seen him every day of her life for the past thirty years.’
I want to move away from the tip of his accusing finger, but the damned armchair is keeping me wedged in. ‘Of course she has, for fuck’s sake – he works for you.’
‘See what you know. He doesn’t just work for me, he’s workin’ for himself!’ His lips curl into a slight smile of pride. ‘He deserves to inherit. You don’t need the farm, Cass. You and Daniel already have the Studio, and this fancy idea of a spa is a fantasy. And it’s not fair: the Spa would mean Janet and Ash losin’ their home and their jobs. I’m fixin’ for Ash to take over. It’s what he deserves and what the farm needs.’
Daniel takes a step forward, his muscles flexed. I see how powerful he is, and how angry. Dad sees it too, and suddenly looks sheepish.
‘Hector. What have you done?’ Daniel demands.
Dad sits back down, creating more distance between himself and Daniel. Again, he nurses his right hand into his chest as though it pains him. ‘Godwin’s found a solicitor. I’m gonna fight Maya for my rights.’
‘If she wakes up.’ Daniel’s voice is steady, though I can hear the tension beneath, and I know he’s very close to breaking point. ‘And if you win, what then? The farm isn’t viable – you’ll go bust. You still need to look at alternatives.’
‘Like your fancy spa? Look, Daniel, me and Ash’ve sweated our guts over that land. Whatever the deeds says about who owns it, it belongs to us!’
Daniel is gripping the mantelpiece now and his face has turned deathly pale. ‘What about Cassandra’s rights? She’s your only child and this spa is our dream, the culmination of all we’ve been working for, all these years. People know me, Hector. I’ve cured people – this is a gift to the sick.’
Dad looks daunted. Daniel intimidates him, but still he stands his ground. ‘I told Maya and now I’m tellin’ you, that farm is Ash’s livelihood and it’s not right to steal it from him.’
I’m thinking about Friday. I’m finally realising something obvious. ‘This is why you slept on the sofa, isn’t it, Dad? You told Mum you were going to fight her in court. Did you tell Godwin to do it, that very afternoon?’
Now he’s the one under scrutiny, and he can’t see how to get away. And it’s so obvious, so fucking obvious, that this is why Godwin called the solicitor on Saturday. That Ash and Dad are in alliance, just like always, when they should be on my side. They should be thinking about you!
I push myself from the chair, propel myself from the room and out to the back door, only breathing when I’m on the pathway at the side of the house, leaning on the brick wall and feeling sick – sick to the core with the injustice.
My fingers tingle, I’ve been unconsciously grazing my knuckles against the brickwork at the side of the house, and now they’re cracked and bloody. I’m standing with no shoes, no coat, on a cold November day outside my house because I’m afraid of what I know. I breathe in cold air and try to clarify my feelings, but the Prozac is making it difficult. It’s like trying to decipher a code.
I can’t go back inside that house, not when I have these dark thoughts. I can’t stay here either. Shivering, I shove my hands in my jeans pockets, forgetting my key fob is there. The sharp edge of a key digs into my right hand. It’s the key to the farmhouse.
If I’m right, if someone else shot you, it’s because of the farm and your decision to sell it. But no one’s listening to me. I need proof. There’s only one place to look.
I walk quickly to the driveway, where my car is parked. My feet are now so cold I can’t feel them, and I know I must look crazy, trying to drive in only slippers. Daniel would stop me if he realised what I’m doing. He’s already told me I shouldn’t drive while I’m taking a cocktail of sedatives, always thinking he knows what I need.
I start the car, foot heavy on the accelerator, motoring on autopilot back to the place that was my home until I was sent to boarding school. It wasn’t until I dropped out of university that I finally returned. I returned to you, Mum, because I was wounded and wanted comfort. As recently as Friday, I was back in my childhood bed, asking for your help. But I can’t do that any more. I need to grow up. I need to be the one in control for a change.
A mist lies like a thick blanket over the tops of the trees. Innocence Lane is shrouded by a canopy of blowing branches. The farm is hidden, but I know it’s there. Waiting. No lights along the road – the only illumination is the dashboard, and the red flashing bulb on the petrol gauge alerts me that I’m running on empty. I must keep driving.
I’ve never seen Innocence Farm look more desolate. There should be light from the kitchen, where Janet should be bustling around, warmth from the oven, tea in the pot. And you, Mum, working in your study or reading a book in the sitting room. Instead, Janet’s at the police station and you’re in the hospital. And I’m here, searching for proof that you didn’t shoot yourself – something that would count as evidence and make the police take this seriously.
Around the back, by the barn, the bitter wind plays with strands of straw, flicks at the hedges, swoops through the outhouses. Dad should be working there, but it’s empty except for the chickens. They’re hungry, squabbling over sodden straw. I find my way to the back door, squelch mud beneath my feet, seeping through my socks, and sink into puddles I can’t see to avoid. I finger the key in my pocket then open the back door.
The kitchen reeks of sour milk instead of the delicious aroma of Janet’s homemade bread. I have to feel my way for the switch, ridiculously pleased when I flick on the light. I kick off my muddy slippers and climb the stairs to reach your study, pushing the door wide to survey the mess before I enter.
I look down at my bare feet, feel how my body is shaking. I can’t do this alone, I need a friend, and I fumble for my phone knowing there is only one person I can call.
I’m doing this for you, Mum. Dad may feel he has to protect Ash, but I don’t.
Solving this is the key to my sanity.
17
Holly
‘Cass?’
There was no answer, but Holly saw her car parked outside so she opened the kitchen door. Stepping inside the farmhouse, she f
elt the stark atmosphere keenly, as though the walls were too tall, the rooms too wide. The farmhouse would once have been grand, but it was unloved, like an ugly antique that can’t be thrown away because of its value. The coving and fancy details around the light fixings suggested money hadn’t been a problem once, but now the wallpaper was peeling and the wooden floor below her feet was scored with ancient gauges. Dusty curtains hung in tatters at dirty windows and the storage heaters looked inadequate to heat such lofty rooms. The long hallway would once have been impressive, but the paint was flaking away like an old lady’s face powder, while the carpet runner had come unhooked from its pinning and curled back to reveal tarred wood beneath. The front door, through which Maya Hawke had exited on her stretcher, was flanked by an ebony coat stand to one side, a scuffed mahogany table on the other, with a large silver platter forlorn in its centre, presumably a relic left over from the days when people left calling cards, now tarnished and dull. On the platter lay a set of keys and some junk mail – a takeaway delivery leaflet, though Holly didn’t believe any pizza driver would come out this far for free.
‘Cass?’
Still no answer, and Holly found herself shuddering. When she was a child, she’d believed this place was haunted, and she certainly felt that something unpleasant had happened here and the house was not at peace. Just leave. You don’t need to be here. You’re overstepping your role and you aren’t Cassandra’s friend. Just go. But she’d left before, run from this house to the sound of screaming, and it had haunted her. She was an adult now: she wouldn’t run away. She owed it to Cass to stay, she owed it to Maya.
Holly walked carefully but with purpose along the hallway until she reached the back of the house. Here, the ceilings were plain plasterboard, the floor uncarpeted, the rooms narrow and dark. These must be the old servants’ quarters where, in the past, maids and a butler would have moved up and around the house without disturbing the more distinguished residents using the grand main staircase and large rooms at the front. It was at the base of this rear staircase that she, Jon and Hilary had worked on Maya. There was a splatter of blood on the floorboards, possibly urine, given how close she had been to death.
