The house feels more hospitable today, possibly because I am sober, but more likely because the second we arrived, I turned on all the lights and pulled back the curtains as far as they will go to vanquish any shadows. A handwritten note from Tishk that I found waiting for me on the doormat has also eased my anxiety at returning: he’s left me his mobile number and wrote that if I need anything to phone him at any time. It’s reassuring to know there is someone I can call upon next door.
Outside, it’s raining heavily and my hair and jumper are soaked from bringing my suitcase, Mustard’s bed and belongings, and a couple of boxes of supplies into the house from my car. Mustard is going to miss his daily walks along the estuary, but there is a country park a five-minute drive from here that should suffice in the meantime and, when I get round to clearing it, he will be able to go into the back garden too – a treat after living for three years in a first-floor flat. Leaving him to sniff around downstairs, I haul my case upstairs so I can change out of my wet top.
My decision to stay in the house before I put it up for sale still surprises me. Never once did I think I would end up living here again. This house is not a place of comfort for me, nor is it somewhere I can relax: it represents death, loss and the dissolution of my childhood, and coming back after the will reading did nothing to change my opinion of it. Being here freaks me out. But I also know, as it dawned on me that same day, if I am to ever change people’s perception of me, or rather of Cara Belling, I need to unravel once and for all the mystery of what happened in 1994. The police investigation ruled out anyone else being in the room with us when they laid the blame squarely at my door. Mum was the only other person in the house and she was asleep upstairs and only woke up when I ran screaming into the bathroom. So if it wasn’t me, and it certainly wasn’t her, what else could it have been but something unexplainable like a paranormal entity? So it’s up to me now to find out exactly what Limey Stan was.
The day of the will reading, I ventured upstairs to use the toilet before leaving and afterwards peeped my head round the door to my old bedroom. It had been redecorated like the downstairs and it was actually a relief to see the walls painted white and the bed now a double. If I was to sleep in there again I did not want any reminders of what I’d missed out on growing up: hiding the fussy Laura Ashley wallpaper beneath posters of pop stars and actors; hosting sleepovers with Evie once we were at big school; sitting at my dressing table learning to apply make-up; daydreaming about boys as I danced to my favourite CDs. In Morecambe, I shared a bedroom with two other girls – me in a single bed, them in bunks. It meant companionship, but no privacy – I couldn’t freely celebrate the milestones of adolescence as I would have done at home in Heldean.
On entering the bedroom with my suitcase, my phone, which is in my back pocket, pings with a text from Anne, wishing me good luck for today. She was so distressed when I met her back at the hotel that I did not have the heart to argue it out. I let her convince me that she’d never once doubted my story and in return I smiled and hugged her and pretended I was fine. Since then, with her back in Morecambe and me here, things have settled between us, but my trust in her is shaken. I did tell her about my plan to stay at the house for a bit, to which she reacted with surprise, but I did not elaborate further, nor did she ask. I do feel rudderless without her counsel and comfort and hopefully time will heal us, but for now I am very alone in this situation.
Somewhere downstairs, Mustard releases a volley of barks, so I shove the suitcase onto the bed and go back out onto the landing. The door to Matty’s old bedroom at the other end catches my eye. It is pulled shut and still visible on the outside are the Panini football stickers he carefully positioned on it twenty-five years ago. The World Cup was staged in America in 1994 and Matty had reached the age where he’d begun to share our dad’s obsession with football. I peer closer and see that no attempt has been made to peel the stickers from the door and it makes me wonder what I would find if I opened it – a refurbished guest room, like my old bedroom, or the preserved enclave of a six-year-old boy who also loved Power Rangers, Mr Men books and sherbet Dip Dabs? I decide I am not ready to find out yet.
When I get downstairs, Mustard is barking furiously at the inside of the front door. He’s not a particularly vocal dog as a rule, which was one of the reasons I adopted him: living in a flat put paid to me keeping a yappier breed. Through the glass panels, I see someone standing on the other side, but I’m sure the doorbell didn’t ring, or maybe it doesn’t work. Grabbing Mustard by his collar to stop him jumping up at our first official visitor, I open the door and, to my surprise, it is Karen, sheltering under a spotted navy umbrella. Her arm is extended and clutched in her fingers is a key. It takes me a second to realise why.
‘Were you letting yourself in?’ I ask, appalled.
She tips the umbrella back and looks me squarely in the eye. This is the closest we have stood since we were forced back into one another’s lives and the proximity rattles me. Part of me wants to slam the door in her face but there is another minuscule part tugging at my insides that wants to throw myself into her arms – because a hug from my aunt is the closest I will ever get to being hugged by my mum again.
‘I was.’
‘This isn’t your house.’
‘I know. I thought I should check on it while it’s sitting here empty. I wasn’t expecting you to be here.’
Her harsh tone curdles the air between us. She looks down at Mustard, who cocks his head to one side as he gazes back at her.
‘What breed is it?’
‘He’s a mix.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Mustard.’
‘Is he friendly?’
‘Yes, he is.’
She bends down to stroke him and he butts his head up to meet her hand, his tail wagging approvingly. As I watch them delight in one another, I steel myself by remembering it was Karen’s words and actions that expedited my estrangement from my parents and that she is not a nice person, because the temptation to drop down on all fours to be petted myself is strong.
When she finally lets Mustard be, I hold out my hand, palm up.
‘I want my key back.’
Karen clutches it to her chest, like a child might their comforter. ‘Why? I won’t let myself in again.’
‘I know you won’t, because I’m taking the key back. This is my house now.’
I brace, expecting the Karen who erupted in the solicitor’s office to bare her teeth at me again, but this doorstep version instead dissolves into tears.
‘I know it’s yours, that’s what Anita decided. It’s just so hard letting go of it. It’s all I have of her now.’
The rain is coming harder now, driving down at an angle, and the canopy of Karen’s umbrella bows against the onslaught. Mustard retreats into the hallway – for all his love of jumping in the estuary, he detests the rain – and, against my better judgement, I invite my aunt inside before she gets any wetter. There is a lengthy pause before she accepts.
‘I’ll leave this here,’ she says, shaking the umbrella off, folding it half shut and propping it up against the wall just inside the door.
Nerves percolate in my stomach as she follows me along the hallway into the kitchen. I feel like a fraud, taking charge – she knows this house as well as I do, if not better, and she might well have racked up more time here, if you measure the hours she visited over the past quarter century against the nine years I lived here. But it’s not a competition, I chide myself; it doesn’t matter who has greater claim to the place – it’s mine now.
I haven’t had the chance to tidy the kitchen yet and Karen’s face folds into a frown as she takes in the mess, which immediately confirms it wasn’t caused by her sorting through the cupboards and drawers. Someone else had been in the house. But there is no time to dwell on that, because Karen suddenly asks me a question that robs me of all rational thought.
‘How much will it take for you to leave Heldean and never come
back?’
I stare at her, open-mouthed. Her expression remains impassive in return, but there is a flintiness in her eyes.
‘It’s money you want, isn’t it? Otherwise you’d have told Fairlop’s by now that you’re giving the proceeds of the will to that hospital and fostering charity.’
Thoughts ping-pong around my brain as I continue to stare at her. How does she know I haven’t spoken to the solicitors yet? Why are they discussing my financial matters with her? When did my aunt become so cold?
‘So, what will it cost me and my family to make you go away?’ She couldn’t have said ‘my family’ more emphatically if she tried.
I swallow hard, desperate to quell the anguish that is surging up my throat and threatening to spill forth. I won’t let her see how upset her comment has made me. But it has, horribly. I can see now that Karen will never allow me back into their lives and knowing that breaks something inside of me.
As she waits, one eyebrow hitched expectantly, a thought begins to grow in my mind like a balloon being pumped with air. It gets bigger and bigger until I know exactly how I will respond to her question.
‘There isn’t enough money in the world, Karen,’ I say quietly. ‘I’m staying put. This is my home town and I will not be driven from it again. You might have got rid of me twenty-five years ago by convincing Mum and Dad I was evil, but I won’t let you force me out again.’
Karen’s cheeks glow pink. She looks worried now. ‘I never said you were evil. You were ill, delusional. You needed treatment.’
‘I was not and I didn’t. There was nothing wrong with me.’
‘But you claimed a ghost killed your brother,’ she exclaims. ‘You can’t possibly still stand by that? It’s preposterous. There’s no such thing as ghosts.’
I don’t contradict her. ‘If that’s all you’ve come to say, there’s no point continuing this conversation. I’ll show you out.’
As I go to move, Karen reaches forward and grabs my arm with her right hand. I’m wearing a fairly thick wool sweater, but I can feel the brittleness of her fingers through it. She comes closer and suddenly I detect her perfume, a heady floral scent that instantly transports me back to my childhood. Mum might have been the more immaculately turned-out sister, but I always loved the way my aunt smelled.
Close to tears, I try to wrench my arm away, but her grip tightens.
‘There’s nothing for you here, Cara,’ she says sternly. I duck my head like a child who doesn’t want to be told off, still trying to pull away, but she gives my arm a shake. ‘Look at me when I’m talking to you.’
I comply. Our faces are so close, our noses are almost touching. I never thought she looked much like Mum, but now, with her hair bobbed and dyed blonde, the same fringe cut into it, she could be her twin.
‘You cannot stay in Heldean. I won’t allow it. You being here is upsetting everyone.’
‘You don’t get to dictate what I do.’
My aunt appears startled, as though she wasn’t expecting me to stand up to her. ‘Well, in that case, I’ll tip off the press,’ she blusters. ‘Once they find out you’re here, they won’t leave you alone.’
The threat throws me. I’ve spent enough time on social media to know what would happen if news of my homecoming got out. My notoriety would see me crucified in the court of public opinion and what would it do to Anne and John if the media muckrakes over my life? Their names might end up getting dragged into the public arena, and what if it affected their fostering? I don’t want their livelihood ruined because of me.
‘Is that what you want?’ Karen asks me again.
I shake my head.
Satisfied that I’ve caved and will obey her demand, she lets go of my arm and puts her coat back on.
‘We’ve already had the house valued by a few estate agents and Leonards’ price was the most realistic. You can have the rest of the week to clear the mess up so they can take pictures for the marketing, then I expect you gone. Once the sale goes through, I want you to think long and hard about who really deserves the proceeds, because it certainly isn’t you.’
Her audaciousness is breathtaking and it takes every ounce of self-restraint not to swear at her. Who the hell does she think she is? But I say nothing and nod docilely again to show her how compliant I am being.
I follow her to the door, meek in posture but raging with anger inside.
‘I’ll keep my key for now, just in case,’ she adds, reaching for her umbrella and opening the door to a brighter sky and easing rain.
She’s poised to leave, then turns back, and for a moment I’m filled with hope that she might change her mind.
‘Goodbye, Cara. I hope to never see you again.’
I shut the door behind her and manage to resist the urge to slam my fist against it, because I know Karen will hear the thump as she walks away and I will not give her the satisfaction of thinking she has beaten me. Instead, breathing deeply to calm my anger, I retrieve my phone from my back pocket and open up the internet browser. It takes a few seconds to find the number I need. I dial it and a male voice answers.
‘R. Smith & Sons Locksmiths, how can we help?’
‘I urgently need all the locks on my house changed – doors, windows and a back gate. How soon can you come round?’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Karen
Picking through the puddles of rainwater swilling across the pavement, Karen struggles to keep the umbrella upright, her hands are trembling so much. She has never been one to enjoy confrontation and usually finds it difficult to articulate her feelings in the heat of the moment, but she is proud of how she tackled Cara. Her niece is under no illusion about how unwelcome she is in Heldean and any doubt Karen has about not supporting Anita’s final wishes is being quashed by her utter conviction that Cara must not stay.
The caustic approach isn’t the one Gary wants her to take and she wonders how he will react when she tells him she threatened to contact the press. Not favourably, she imagines, because he suggested she be more conciliatory, in the hope that by being nice to Cara, she will do right by Ryan and Natalie with regards to the house. Really, if he had his way, they’d be inviting Cara round for tea and making her part of the family again, a prospect that makes Karen’s skin crawl. But she knows Gary has the emotional capacity to be more welcoming to Cara because his outrage over what happened to Matty has abated over the years. He remains terribly sad about his nephew’s death, but the anger is not something he carries around with him constantly, as Karen still does.
One of the worst moments of her life was, and always will be, accompanying Anita to the chapel of rest for a final farewell. Personally, she would have preferred not to go, but Paul found the idea of seeing Matty laid out in a coffin too awful to contemplate and there was no way she could let Anita go alone. She still remembers her knees giving way as she walked into the dimly lit room and the horror of seeing her nephew laid out as he was. In that moment, she was overcome with hatred for Cara for what she’d done and that feeling hasn’t diminished. In fact, seeing her standing in Anita’s kitchen like nothing was ever the matter is making it stronger than ever, and it makes her sister’s decision to leave Cara the house all the harder to bear.
It was during Anita’s last prolonged stay in hospital, after she developed bronchial pneumonia because her immune system was so weak, that she suddenly brought up the subject of her will. The deterioration in her health meant getting her affairs in order had become a matter of priority.
‘Please don’t get cross,’ Anita had ventured anxiously as Karen perched on an orange plastic chair beside the bed, ‘but I’ve been thinking a lot about the house and I’m afraid I can no longer leave it to you for Ryan and Natalie to live there. I’ve had Fairlop’s draw up a new will.’
Karen was dismayed, not because Anita had changed her will without telling her, but because she clearly found it a difficult conversation for the two of them to have.
‘It’s your house and your money
, you can do what you want with it,’ she’d retorted. ‘I’m upset that you think I’d mind though.’
‘I don’t think that at all,’ Anita assured her. ‘But you’re not going to like what I’ve decided. I’m going to leave some money to you, but the rest, including the house, is going to Cara.’
At first, Karen thought her sister was joking. When it became apparent she wasn’t, she reacted furiously.
‘Why on earth would you want Cara to have anything of yours?’ she’d spluttered.
‘Because it’s rightfully hers,’ Anita answered wearily. She sat up for a moment to readjust the headscarf covering her bare scalp, then slumped back against the mound of pillows. Karen found it almost too painful to watch; her vibrant sister looked diminished without the hair and eyebrows the chemo had taken from her and with her face hollowed out by illness. Every day she became a little thinner and every day she moved a little closer to death.
‘Rightfully hers? After what she did?’
‘I don’t expect you to understand or agree with what I’m doing. But it’s what I want to do and I’d like you to respect that.’
‘I can’t. I’m sorry. I haven’t forgotten what happened.’
Anita turned on her, livid. ‘And you think I have? How dare you! I live with it every single day,’ she spat.
‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ said Karen anxiously. With time hurtling by as Anita’s condition worsened, she did not want to waste precious moments stoking a row between them.
Shadow of a Doubt Page 9
