by M. A. Hunter
Maybe it’s because of the time of year, or because it’s the middle of the day, but for once the road leading up to the nursing home is bare of cars. Usually, there isn’t a single spot to park in, but today there is plenty of choice, and so the taxi driver can park quite near to the large wrought-iron gates, which I’ve never seen closed. Paying him, I dive out of the car and hurry in through the gates. Ginger, the overweight tomcat, is asleep on the wide stone steps that lead up to the large painted door. He’s a regular feature and on any normal day I’d stop to pet him, but not today.
The front door is locked as it always is, and so I jab my finger against the buzzer on the sidewall. The door whirs as it unlocks, and I yank it open, not giving my nostrils the time they need to adjust to the insipid pong that clings to every molecule of air inside the place. I know it’s a potent cocktail of urine and body odour, and a signal that death lurks nearby. Signing in at the reception window, I tell the young woman in the purple tabard who I am – not that I need to; my fame precedes me here.
‘Hello, Emma,’ she says chirpily, as if she hasn’t a care in the world. ‘Pam asked if you would go to her office before you see your mum. It’s down the hall, second door on the left.’
I look towards the hallway to see where she means, before turning back. ‘Is Mum… is she okay?’
The woman nods, and smiles. ‘Nasty fall, and she’s going to have a ghastly shiner on her face come morning, but otherwise okay, I think. There’s a doctor in with her at the moment just checking nothing is broken.’
Thanking her, I head to Pam’s office as instructed, knocking sharply. Pam comes to the door and opens it, beckoning me in.
‘You weren’t joking when you said you’d be right over,’ she says. ‘I didn’t know if you were local today or with your agent in London.’
If you ask me, the nurses here are heroes who don’t receive the recognition they deserve for the work they do caring for our infirm. They’re also incredibly supportive of my career. Shortly after Monsters hit the number one spot on the Sunday Times Bestsellers List, they asked me if I would come and speak to the residents about my writing career, which I was only too happy to do. Ever since, they always ask how I’m getting on, maybe living their own dreams vicariously through me. The publishing industry isn’t all parties and quaffing champagne, which I’m sure is how some of them imagine it.
‘I hope my phone call didn’t worry you unnecessarily,’ she continues. ‘It doesn’t look like there’s anything more than a bit of bruising, and of course the shock of the fall.’
‘Can you tell me what happened? Where was she when she fell?’
Pam retakes her seat across the desk from me and I sit in the vacant chair.
‘It was shortly after breakfast. The residents had returned to their rooms, ahead of what would have been wash time for those who require help, including your mum. From speaking to the staff on duty on your mum’s floor, they were due to call on her next when they heard an almighty thump. Hurrying to her room, they found her sprawled on the bathroom floor, having seemingly slipped when getting out of the shower. They managed to get her up and over to the bed, and we called for a GP to come and examine her immediately, though we’re pretty sure she’s managed to avoid breaking any bones. Very lucky, all things considered.’
‘What was she doing trying to shower herself? She knows she needs help doing it now. We’ve both had that conversation with her.’
Pam nods. ‘And she’s reminded as breakfast finishes every day too. That’s what I wanted to speak to you about.’ She pauses, almost as if trying to choose her words carefully. ‘I know you don’t get here to see her as much as you’d like, so it may be that you haven’t noticed, but her short-term memory is getting a lot worse. I remember when you first brought her in here she’d forget some names and words, but it’s becoming more frequent now. She often wakes screaming and crying because she doesn’t realise where she is. She isn’t the only one this affects; we’ve had plenty of residents who wake so disorientated that they fall into blind panic. You can imagine how scary that would be, right? To wake in a bed and room you don’t recognise when as far as you’re concerned you should be at home, surrounded by all the things you know and love.’
I can’t say I haven’t noticed her memory worsening. When she first moved in – against her will, I might add – she would occasionally call me by the wrong name, but for every bad day she’d have five or six good days. More recently, the balance has shifted and the bad days outweigh the good. I’ve been waiting for someone like Pam to break the news so we can discuss the extra care she’s going to require from here on in. I had hoped I was just unfortunate to see her on the bad days, and that she was thriving when I wasn’t here. So much for wishful thinking.
‘As you know, the temperature on the taps in all of our rooms is carefully controlled to prevent anyone scalding themselves, so I’m not worried about that, but today has shown it may be time to move her to one of the bedrooms without shower facilities, and have her washed in the specialist rooms that our staff would take her to.’
I can’t agree more. The thought of Mum being disorientated and slipping in the shower again isn’t one I care to dwell on.
‘Whatever you think is for the best,’ I say. ‘You tell me what’s going to be best for her, and I’ll happily agree to it. After all, you’re more experienced with this kind of thing.’
‘There are additional costs involved with the level of care your mother may now require; that’s why I thought it best we talk about it in private. Not all of our clients can afford the additional payments required…’
‘Please, Pam, money isn’t the issue. I just want Mum well looked after.’
Pam smiles. ‘Good, as it should be. I do so hate discussing money – it’s the worst part of this job – but that went a lot more smoothly than I was expecting. How is the writing going? Have you got a new project on the go?’
I’m keen to go and see Mum now that I’ve established what happened. ‘My next book is with the publishers as we speak, and I should know more about release dates in the coming weeks.’
‘I do envy you,’ Pam says, as she stands and moves to the door. ‘I always enjoyed writing stories at school – fiction though, not the sort of thing you write. It’s a real skill you have, Emma. I wish you the best of luck with it.’
Pam opens the door and a young man is standing there with his hand raised, as if he was about to knock.
‘Ah, Dr Benjamin, what perfect timing. This here is Emma Hunter, Bronwyn’s daughter. Dr Benjamin was the doctor examining your mother.’
I stand and shake the hand he offers. He’s much younger than I was picturing when Pam said a GP had been called to check on Mum. He has fair hair and a close-cropped beard, but I’d swear he’s even younger than I am. He certainly looks it.
‘Your mum is in her room,’ he says, not returning my smile. ‘I left her shouting at the television.’ He fixes Pam with a stare. ‘Pam, would you mind if I had a word with you?’
I take my cue to leave, thanking Pam again for her help, before heading back along the corridor to the winding staircase. Mum’s current room is on the second floor, where the more physically able reside. That will probably change in the coming weeks, as the less-abled are all on the ground floor. Presumably there is a room available, as Pam didn’t suggest there would be any kind of delay in rehoming her, once the finances are in place.
I arrive outside her room and press my ear to the door to see if she’s moving about inside. The gentle hum of the television suggests she is exactly where Dr Benjamin left her. Knocking once, I open the door and head inside.
‘Hi, Mum, how are you doing?’
Her room is the size of a hotel room in a budget chain and she is tucked into bed, but I can’t help gasping as I close the door and see the purple and yellowish bruising covering her left cheek.
‘Emma, what are you doing here?’
My mouth drops at the question. I can’t remembe
r the last time she used my name to address me. I’d assumed that today was another of the bad days on account of her attempt to shower herself, but maybe that was naïve of me – or maybe the shock of the fall has her synapses firing again.
‘I heard you had a fall,’ I reply, moving across and kissing her good cheek, before perching on the side of her bed. ‘How are you feeling now?’
She frowns at me. ‘Like a fool! I felt full of energy this morning and thought I’d surprise the nurses by washing myself before they arrived. I had a lovely shower, and as I was getting out, my leg turned to jelly and next thing I knew I was lying flat out on the cold bathroom floor. Before I could call out, they came rushing in, talking down to me like I was a naughty schoolgirl. You look like you’ve lost weight, Emma. Are you eating enough?’
A single tear escapes my eyes. I have longed for this moment, to have a conversation with the old mum whom I haven’t seen for so long. Before she moved in here, she’d always tell me I’d lost weight and needed fattening up, like some prize calf.
‘I’m fine, Mum,’ I say, taking her hand in mine, and noticing the bruising isn’t confined to her face. Her whole right hand and wrist is turning a darker shade, which is presumably why Dr Benjamin was called to examine her.
‘Shall I make us a cup of tea?’
She presses her left hand to my cheek. ‘I’d like that, sweetheart.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Then
Bovington Garrison, Dorset
Staring out of the upstairs bathroom window on what was a grey and drizzly scene, Natalie watched as swarms of men and women in military fatigues and dark uniforms moved from one property to the next. They’d yet to knock on their door, but it would only be a matter of time. She hadn’t realised her late-night call would cause this level of activity. She’d assumed that Detective Rimmington would be back and would maybe focus her attention on searching the woods, but she hadn’t expected this kind of intrusion.
‘Come away from the window,’ her mum said, appearing in a dressing gown from her bedroom. ‘What are you looking at anyway?’
It wasn’t much after eight and the noise clearly hadn’t disturbed her mum’s sleep.
‘Looks like police,’ Natalie said, as casually as she could. ‘There’s loads of them.’
Cheryl came forward and peered out over her daughter’s shoulder. ‘Wonder what that’s all about,’ she muttered rhetorically. ‘Nothing to do with us, I’m sure. Shouldn’t you be getting your uniform on for school?’
Natalie was still in her pyjamas, having barely slept since she’d placed the phone call. What if the police were able to trace where the call had come from? She hadn’t thought about that last night when she’d covered the mouthpiece with her sleeve. What was the point in trying to disguise her voice, if they still knew the call originated from this address? She should have snuck out and used the phone box down near the hut. At least then it wouldn’t have been so obvious who’d placed the call.
‘I’m not feeling well,’ Natalie said, not needing to make her voice sound any croakier than it already was.
Cheryl placed a warm hand against her daughter’s forehead. ‘Doesn’t feel like you have a temperature. In what way do you feel sick? Are we talking a simple cold, or like you might vomit?’
Her mum… pragmatic as ever.
‘I don’t know,’ Natalie feigned. ‘My tummy hurts, and my head aches, and it hurts to swallow. I think I might be coming down with something.’
Cheryl gripped Natalie’s face in both hands, pulling her eyelids down a fraction. ‘You do look a little peaky, I suppose. If you stay off again, I won’t be here to look after you, though. I’m expected at Mrs Roberts’s to do some cleaning and ironing. Do you think you’re well enough to look after yourself?’
Natalie nodded slowly, hoping to confirm her weariness.
‘Very well then. I’m sure one more missed day won’t do you any harm. Do you feel like you can eat any breakfast?’
Natalie gripped her gut and shook her head.
‘Very well. Why don’t you head back to bed and I’ll call the school? I’ll bring you up a cup of tea when I’ve eaten.’
With that, Cheryl headed out of the room and down the stairs, leaving Natalie to hobble back to bed. She wasn’t faking the nausea; that part was real – probably brought on by the imminent arrival of that Detective Rimmington demanding to know why Natalie had phoned 999 to report Sally murdered.
When the telephone operator had asked for more detail, Natalie had only given as much as she dared: Sally Curtis had been murdered the night she disappeared and that she’d been seen leaving the woods and returning home. She’d stopped before naming Owen Curtis as the potential suspect, but figured Rimmington was probably smart enough to connect the dots. Natalie had seen Sally’s bruises first hand, and her father should have to face the consequences of that at the very least. His bad temper was clearly a known factor, so why hadn’t anyone thought to question Owen Curtis as a suspect in his daughter’s disappearance? It didn’t explain what he’d done with Sally’s body, but if the police could tie it to him, then they’d be sure to find Sally once and for all.
Natalie had just clambered back into bed when she heard the doorbell sound, swiftly followed by the sound of her mum’s voice saying, ‘She’s upstairs in bed. She’s not feeling very well.’
Oh God, they’d come for her! They had to know Natalie had placed the call, and now they would demand to know why she’d called last night and why she hadn’t mentioned anything when the detective had interviewed her at the hospital the day Sally was reported missing. She’d been too scared back then, and certain that the spell-casting had caused it – not that she could tell the detective any of that. The four of them were already in enough trouble without dragging up the real reason they’d gone to the woods when the moon was full. She’d just have to say she’d thought about it, and it was the only logical explanation for what had happened to Sally. Hadn’t Sherlock Holmes coined the expression when you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth? Sally’s dad must have been the one to kill her, accidentally or not.
A knock on Natalie’s bedroom door was followed by her mum entering. ‘The police are here, and they’ve asked to take your clothes away for forensic examination. You know, the ones you were wearing on Sunday night when you were in the woods with Sally.’
‘They want my clothes? What for?’
Cheryl looked too flustered to offer an accurate explanation. ‘I don’t know about that. What were you wearing and where is it now?’
Natalie had hidden the jeans she’d been wearing on account of the puncture hole in the leg, and the blood from her wound, as she hadn’t wanted her mum to see them and question what had happened. Since the truth had been exposed in the hospital, Sally hadn’t even thought about getting them cleaned and repaired.
‘My jeans are in the bottom of my wardrobe, along with the t-shirt and hoodie I was wearing.’
Her mum moved straight to the wardrobe and dug out the items. ‘What about your pants, shoes and socks?’
Natalie furrowed her brow. ‘What do they need all that for?’
‘I told you, Natalie, I don’t know,’ her mum replied sharply. ‘Just tell me where they are.’
‘I was wearing my black trainers, but pants and socks would be in the washing basket; I can’t remember which ones I was wearing.’
Cheryl disappeared out of the room and headed back downstairs, stopping at the shoe cupboard to collect the trainers. Natalie had moved to her door and was peering down the stairs, watching as a uniformed officer held open a bag for her mum to drop the clothes into. He sealed the bag with tape, and wrote something on it before turning to leave.
‘Good morning, Natalie,’ Detective Rimmington’s voice carried up the stairs.
Natalie hadn’t noticed her standing at the entrance to the living room and knew it was too late to duck out of sight.
‘Wo
uld you mind coming downstairs to answer a few questions for me?’ Rimmington asked, so casually it would be impossible to disagree,
Natalie felt bile building at the back of her throat as a cold sweat instantly soaked through the back of her pyjamas, but she stepped out of the room and slowly made her way down the stairs. Pulse racing, and heart thundering in her chest, Natalie followed Rimmington through the living room and out to the kitchen. She froze when she saw Lieutenant-Colonel William Havvard already seated at the table.
‘I hope you don’t mind,’ Rimmington explained as she took the seat adjacent to him, ‘but the lieutenant-colonel has asked to sit in on the interview.’
His eyes didn’t leave Natalie’s as she continued into the room. He was like a lion waiting to pounce and tear her limb from limb.
‘As the police are so insistent on causing a disturbance here on the base today, I want to make sure that they aren’t taking advantage. We are a family, after all. Isn’t that right, Natalie?’
Did he know she’d placed the call? Had he heard her eavesdropping on his conversation with her dad, and now he’d come to make sure she didn’t go blabbing about what she’d heard?
‘Please take a seat, Natalie. Because of your age, you’re required to have an appropriate adult present with you whilst I undertake the interview. Usually that would be a parent, so are you happy for your mum to stay in the room?’
Natalie’s eyes were still fixed on Havvard’s as she nodded.
‘Good, then why don’t you sit down next to your mum and we can begin?’
Natalie pulled out the chair beside her mum and sat.
