The Things You Didn't See(5)

‘I didn’t know you were a police officer,’ she said, sounding more annoyed than she had a right to.

‘I’m not,’ he said groggily. ‘Just a special.’

‘Don’t you need to be British?’

‘I just had to wait until I’d been resident for long enough.’

A volunteer with the police – strange he hadn’t mentioned it. Not that it mattered; she had no plans to see him again. She had her clothes, including the velvet tail, in her grasp when her mobile phone began to vibrate. Holly stepped into the lounge to take the call, so as not to disturb Leif.

‘Holly, it’s Jon.’

Holly immediately stood straighter, as if her supervisor were in the room with her. ‘Yes, Jon?’

‘Control have just taken a 999; it’s an attempted suicide. You haven’t dealt with one yet, I don’t think?’

She shook her head, then realised he couldn’t see her. ‘No.’

‘Okay, well, this should be good experience. Our patient used a gun, so it’ll be messy. If you’ve got a pen, I’ll give you the address.’

Holly looked around, picked up a bitten biro from the desk and held it over the back of her hand. ‘Okay.’

‘It’s Innocence Farm, in Kenley. The police are there, securing the scene, so we should already be inside when you arrive.’

Holly’s hand didn’t move. She didn’t need to write down details of the address. Her body was already protesting, her hands had become slick with sweat and her head felt woozy. Once the call was ended she bent at the waist, hands on her knees, waiting until the nausea subsided. It wasn’t a hangover, not from last night at least. It was the past, catching up with her like she knew it would.

Then she straightened, breathed deep, and set about her work.





DAY 1

SATURDAY 1 NOVEMBER





2

Cassandra

I’m confused when I wake.

There’s a sound, whimpering, like a trapped animal is crying for help. I must still be dreaming: I’m groggy, unsure of where I am. Then I remember, with a sinking feeling, that I’m back at Innocence Farm. The noise must be Jet, who sleeps in the barn but comes inside during the day. Janet will have let him out when she arrived. It must be time to get up.

It’s a struggle, but I pull back the duvet, then freeze: I’m naked, though I fell asleep wearing bra and knickers, I’m certain. The back of my hair is slick with sweat – in fact, my whole body feels sticky, and I wonder if I was sick again, though I can’t remember. Maybe I was hot and tugged my underwear off in my sleep, though when I look there’s no sign of it on the floor. Yesterday’s blouse and skirt are folded neatly on the chair. I hurry to pull them on.

My limbs feel damp. Despite being sick after I’d taken it, some of the trazodone must have made it to my bloodstream and hit me hard, taking me to that deep unconsciousness where the body struggles to move, and instead wraps itself tightly around bedding, getting overheated.

Downstairs, Jet’s barking has become frenzied and I think I hear crying. Human crying.

Dressed, though feeling vulnerable without my underwear, I make to leave the bedroom but stumble. One hand on the wall, I catch my breath and realise a headache is gnawing on the edges of my brain.

A sharp bark makes me jump out of my skin. Jet jumps up, scratches my stomach through my thin blouse, pushing me with his long spaniel snout so I fall back against the wall, my arm catching on the sharp corner of the door frame.

‘Stop, Jet!’

But he won’t. He runs away from me, to the backstairs that lead to the kitchen, not normally used by us, though Janet is forever up and down them with piles of ironing and cleaning products. Jet’s paws slide as he scrambles partway down the wooden steps, then he rushes back up to me, barking.

‘Okay, I get it – hang on.’ I follow him to the top of the stairs. ‘Why are you so manic?’

Looking down, I understand.

There you are.

There you are, lying in a delicate heap at the bottom. Dad is crouched over you, shuddering with sobs. The scene tells its own story: you fell, he found you.

‘Mum!’ I take the stairs two at a time, stumbling to reach you.

Your red silk nightdress has ridden high on your slender pale thighs. Your head is facing the wall but your knees are in the other direction, as if you’re a toy twisted by a cruel child. Your dark hair streams across the wooden floor like a broken wing.

‘Mum?’

I shake your shoulder and your head rolls, faces me. Blood drips from your scalp, down your lovely face, pooling in your hollow cheek, matted in that glorious black hair of yours.

Then I see something that chills me to the core: a short distance away, long and silent and deadly, is the rifle from the gun cupboard. I can smell cordite and iron – gunshot and blood. A smell from the barn. It doesn’t belong in our home.

‘Oh my God, Dad, what’s happened?’

His bloodshot eyes find me, he struggles to speak, then says, ‘She did this to herself. Do you understand?’

‘No, she wouldn’t,’ I say desperately.

There’s a wound on your slender neck, a black hole from which blood is leaking, onto me, making me recoil. Blood seeps into the floorboards, spreads its stain on your red nightdress. Your eyes are wide open and bloodshot, the pupils large and even darker than usual. I stare in horror as they fill with my reflection, my own face.