Daisy Darker(89)

Nana nods in agreement. ‘In some ways, they were all killed by what they loved the most:

Frank was killed by his desire to be alone with his music.

Nancy was killed by her precious plants.

Rose was killed by something to do with her work, which she always put first.

Lily was killed by the stench of entitlement she wallowed in.

And Conor died eating his own words. Being a journalist is a privilege. The stories they tell should always be true.’

‘Have you got any idea how crazy you both sound?’ I say, but Trixie doesn’t reply and Nana can’t hear me. ‘There is still so much I don’t understand. At midnight, when this nightmare started, Trixie found you on the kitchen floor. Rose examined you and said you were dead. The head injury . . . I saw the blood . . . the gash on the side of your head still looks serious . . .’

Trixie repeats what I’ve said, and Nana nods.

‘The blood and brains were thanks to Amy and Ada . . .’ I have to think for a moment, before I realize that she means her chickens. The chickens that the rest of the family ate for dinner last night. ‘They died naturally this week, almost as though they wanted to help with the plan, but I confess that plucking them and preparing props from their remains was horribly messy. I bought a latex gash from a joke shop in town, it peels right off, see?’ she says, removing it with a smile. ‘And the grey skin was just make-up. I’ve always had a weak pulse, and it’s not the first time Rose thought someone in this family was dead when they weren’t. To be fair, I’ve practised breathing very slowly when meditating – I learned from the best at a monastery in Bhutan – I can breathe so slowly that your sister thought I wasn’t breathing at all. People tend to believe what they want to, so maybe that’s why the whole family were so willing to believe I was dead.’

‘But I still don’t understand why,’ I say. ‘Why do it at all, and why like this?’

‘Did she ask why again?’ Nana says, and Trixie nods.

Nana takes another sip of tea, as though thinking very carefully about the answer.

‘I did what I did, the way that I did it, because I wanted them all to feel the fear you must have felt before you died that night. And, if I’m going to be completely honest, because I wanted to be proud of what I was leaving behind after I’m gone. I’m proud of you and Trixie. I’m proud of all my books. But I wasn’t proud of any of them. Not dealing with them before I died . . . it would have been selfish and irresponsible, like leaving litter on the beach. If that silly old palm reader in Land’s End is correct, then I’ll die when I’m eighty. Today is my eightieth birthday . . . so I didn’t have very long to put things right.’ She adds some sugar to her tea, something I’ve never seen her do before, and takes another sip. ‘I don’t understand why you’re still here, Daisy. Why you haven’t . . . moved on. After you died, I couldn’t sleep. Sometimes it felt like I couldn’t breathe, and I’ve struggled to draw, or paint, or write. Grief can change a person into someone even they can’t recognize. I haven’t published a new book since. I thought my agent had completely given up on me, but he still came to visit yesterday to wish me a happy birthday. We talked about you. I think he knew that you were always my favourite grandchild.

‘I kept asking myself the same question when you were taken from my life. Where does the love go when someone dies? Their last breath disappears into the atmosphere, their body gets buried in the ground, but where does the love go? If love is real, it must go somewhere. And maybe that’s why you’re still here, because the love got trapped? I wanted to set you free . . . and I hoped that if I put things right, you would be. But you’re still here. I so badly wish I could see you, the way Trixie can. That’s why I asked Conor to take a picture of the whole family last night, hoping perhaps then I might be able to see your face again.’

I take a step closer to the fridge, where she stuck the Polaroid photo of us all. Everyone is there: Dad, Nancy, Rose, Lily and Nana. But where I was sitting, all I can see is an empty chair. Nana continues, and I try my best to keep up.

‘Yesterday, my agent said that the night you died, you told him that you wanted to tell your own story. Do you remember that? He said that you wanted to write a novel about the real Daisy Darker and asked if he would read it. That’s what I think you need to do.’ She stares around the room for a moment, as though waiting for an answer. ‘Did she say anything?’

Trixie shakes her head.

Nana drains her cup of tea, then looks straight at me as though she really can see me. ‘Daisy?’

‘Nana?’

‘Oh my goodness! My darling girl, look at you! Just the same as you were before, with your plaits and your denim dungaree dress. Oh, how I’ve missed you!’

‘You can see me?’ I whisper, wondering how and why now.

Nana starts to weep. ‘Yes! I can see you and I can hear you, and this proves I was right to do what I did because here you are and now we can say goodbye. Properly this time.’ She puts her cup down with trembling hands. ‘That last book I wanted to write, the one about a dysfunctional family not unlike ours, I’ve realized it is not my story to tell. It’s yours. You have to write your own story, that is the answer to everything.’

‘I can’t write a book—’