Daisy Darker(62)

We follow the sound of ringing to the kitchen. The back door is open, letting in the rain. The door bangs loudly, and the gust of wind that is battering it blows a swirl of dead leaves inside. One by one we all look up at the chalk poem on the wall and see that, once again, some lines have been struck out.

Daisy Darker’s family were as dark as dark can be.

When one of them died, all of them lied, and pretended not to see.

Daisy Darker’s nana was the oldest but least wise.

The woman’s will made them all feel ill, which was why she had to die.

Daisy Darker’s father lived life dancing to his own tune.

His self-centred ways, and the pianos he played, danced him to his doom.

Daisy Darker’s mother was an actress with the coldest heart.

She didn’t love all her children, and deserved to lose her part.

Daisy Darker’s sister Rose was the eldest of the three.

She was clever and quiet and beautiful, but destined to die lonely.

Daisy Darker’s sister Lily was the vainest of the lot.

She was a selfish, spoilt, entitled witch, one who deserved to get shot.

Daisy Darker’s niece was a precocious little child.

Like all abandoned ducklings, she would not fare well in the wild.

Daisy Darker’s secret story was one someone sadly had to tell.

But her broken heart was just the start of what will be her last farewell.

Daisy Darker’s family wasted far too many years lying.

They spent their final hours together learning lessons before dying.

The wind outside howls like a choir of ghosts.

‘Why is my name crossed out?’ Trixie asks in a small voice.

‘Nancy has been crossed out too,’ Lily whispers.

Rose tries to reassure them both. ‘It might not mean anything . . .’

‘Of course it means something!’ Lily snaps. ‘And I think we all know what that might be. We should have looked for Nancy. We should have done something. Oh my god,’ Lily says, staring at Rose and taking a step away from our sister. ‘It was you. You’re the only one who left that room, and now more of the poem has been crossed out. You were always making up weird rhymes when we were children. It was you, all of it. You injected Trixie and then pretended to fix her! How could you? Why would you?’

‘Injected me with what?’ whispers Trixie.

‘It wasn’t me!’ says Rose.

‘Where is Nancy?’ Lily shouts.

‘I don’t know!’

‘I don’t believe you! You were the one who said we shouldn’t look for her and now I know why!’ Lily steps in front of her daughter, who looks terrified. Rose takes a step towards them and we all stare at the gun in her hand. ‘Stay. Away. From. My. Child,’ says Lily.

‘I didn’t do anything!’ Rose replies, hiding the gun behind her back.

‘Wait!’ says Conor.

‘You stay out of this. You’re probably helping her. I don’t trust any of you,’ Lily says.

‘This isn’t the time to start turning on one another,’ Conor replies gently.

‘Why not?’ Lily snaps.

He holds his hands up in surrender. ‘Because look at the footprints.’

We all stare down at the floor then and see what he is talking about. There are muddy footprints leading to and from the back door. It reminds me of all the times Conor’s dad forgot to take off his gardening boots when he came to visit. The dirt Bradley Kennedy dragged inside drove my mother mad. I look at Rose’s feet and the small, pristine white trainers she is wearing. Only a pair of large muddy boots could have made this mess. The sound of an alarm keeps ringing in the distance, and the open kitchen door that leads to the garden bangs on its hinges again, battered by the wind. We all watch in silence as Conor starts walking towards it.

‘Please don’t go out there,’ I say.

He hesitates, but then steps outside into the rain, turning on the torch. He picked it up when we were all still in the lounge, even though the power is back on now. Almost as though he knew he might have to go out in the dark.

My sisters and I watch from the doorway as Conor walks out onto the patio, slowly shining the torch around the garden. The beam is too faint to light up the sea crashing on the rocks beyond the wall, only illuminating a metre or so ahead. The rain is light but persistent now, as though the sky is spitting in Conor’s face, but he moves through the gloom until the torchlight stops on the bench in the distance. It’s where my mother always liked to sit and admire her flowers, beneath the magnolia tree she planted here with Conor’s dad. The tree that Nana thought was a symbol of hope always looks a little bit dead in winter.

The old magnolia is the only tree on our tiny tidal island, and has grown quite big over the last twenty years. Fat raindrops cling to its bare branches, giving an illusion of miniature lights, and it’s so cold I wonder if they might freeze before they fall. I can’t quite process what I am seeing when I spot my mother sitting on her garden bench. Wearing her black silk eye mask on her face, the one she always wears to help her sleep. Outside. In the dark. In the rain.

‘Nancy?’ Conor calls, his voice a little strangled by the sound of the sea. He walks towards her and the rest of us start to follow.

‘What’s wrong with her? Why is she sitting in the rain wearing an eye mask?’ Trixie asks.