The Things You Didn't See(56)
‘I reckon if Rupert Jackson can’t get me out of here, no one can. ’Course, you pay extra for the plummy voice, but that’s what these judges respect. Daniel found him.’
The sister has started to cry, mascara running down her cheeks. Her brother is slumped into his seat, oblivious. ‘You need help!’ Her voice is shockingly loud after all the whispering.
The officer’s body engages faster than his eyes, and he pulls himself up. The woman shouts at him, ‘Do you hear that? Toby shouldn’t be in here! He should be in a hospital. A proper one. Anyone can see he’s sick.’
The guard, assessing the situation as safe, relaxes again. ‘Him and everyone else in here, love.’ He returns to reading the Daily Mail. He’s obviously heard it all before and it isn’t his problem.
‘So you gonna get me out of here then, girl?’ Dad’s voice is strung low, but his eyes fix me hard. The fingers of his left hand, thick and strong, cradle his weakened right arm. ‘I need to get my bail on Monday, but that rests with you. So you gonna be on my side?’
‘Is it true, Dad, you really shot her?’ I ask, but weakly now. My fire has gone. All that remains is sadness. ‘You tried to kill Mum?’
‘No, of course not! How can you even ask that? I love Maya! And you, Cass.’
I never heard him say that word before today and now he’s said it twice. He leans forward and says it again, as if it’s the only thing that makes sense.
‘I was asleep. Do you get that, girl? I love you.’
Once I’m out of the prison, I know I can’t go home. Not yet.
I’ve gone from confusion to anger to sadness and I feel dangerously vulnerable, emotions pulling me in different directions. When Dad said he loved me, it should have been a precious moment – it was something I never thought I’d hear – but instead it feels like a responsibility. Like he was trying to tell me something.
Because it’s where I always go when I’m hurt, like an animal retreating to its burrow, I drive to the farm. Even with the car windows up, I can smell the clay earth seeping in through the vents, the scenery is flat and the sky is huge and this is where I belong.
The farmhouse door is unlocked. Janet is here. I want to be alone, but she’s on her knees, scrubbing the wood at the bottom of the stairs, a bucket of soapy water next to her. My mind reels back to Friday, and I feel again the desolation of that day – how alone I felt, how you didn’t comfort me. I want all trace of that day removed.
‘What are you doing here, Janet?’
She yelps at my voice, twists to see who’s there, eyes wide with fear. ‘Oh, Cass! You gave me the fright of my life.’
‘Why did the police let you go?’ My voice is harsh and accusing, but I don’t care. And Janet has the decency to look ashamed.
‘’Cos of your dad’s confession and how I’m co-operatin’, they give me bail.’
I don’t respond, don’t know how to. Did Dad confess to protect Janet? The police have shifted their focus, of course, but I’m not sure that I have. Her blood was still on the gun – his confession came only when the police became interested in her.
‘I need to collect something for Dad.’
‘Oh, have you been up to the prison?’ She stops her work, and sits back on her heels. Her face is full of concern. ‘How is he?’
‘Coping. He wants a suit to wear at the bail hearing.’
‘Oh, well, Ash can take it to the courthouse first thing on Monday, that would be no bother. It’s important Hector is smart.’ Janet looks hopeful, as if this is just a mix-up that will be sorted out soon. ‘Then your dad’ll be back where he belongs, and so will your mum, and I’ll look after ’em both, just like I always have.’
Everyone is at pains to tell me how they’re trying to help, how their intentions come from a place of love.
So how did you end up being shot?
Upstairs, I run a hot shower and scrub the stench of the prison from my body, leaving my skin a satisfying red. Finally clean, I don’t want to put my clothes back on. They stink of incarceration.
In your bedroom, the bed has been made with fresh sheets, and the room smells of air freshener and Pledge. Your pale-blue quilted dressing gown is hanging behind the door and I put it on, buttoning it down the front as you used to. You’re slimmer than me and there’s a pull around my hips, small differences that went unnoticed, but now seem important.
I want to know everything, Mum – all our similarities, all our differences. I’m clinging to that, because everything is changing around me and I don’t know what the truth is. Was Dad really asleep when he shot you? If so, why not say that from that first moment when he awoke – why work so hard to conceal it?
I approach your dressing table. I remove, lift, examine. Learn about you as a woman, as a wife. I should have paid more attention. I discover you’re on HRT tablets and that you’re the same bra size as me. I find a box of hair colour and realise it isn’t true that you don’t have any grey. I discover jewellery I’ve never seen you wear, and all the time I try to make sense of how Dad could have shot you in his sleep.
Finding no answers, I pad across to your study. I see that Janet has been busy here too, there’s no longer any sign of disturbance. It looks ready for you to walk in and start work; I half expect you to. This is where you spend most of your waking hours, running the farm like a general. I sit in your chair, gingerly – this would be forbidden if you were here. I open the drawer, a further transgression, the long one directly in front of me. It’s empty, but this only spurs me on. I begin to search all of the drawers, and then I move to the filing cabinet and begin again. I know the police have searched, I don’t know what I’m hoping to find.