Weyward(75)

‘I love you too, Mum.’

The buggy she picks is green, with a segmented hood that reminds her of a caterpillar. She smiles at the thought of her daughter nestled inside. Though part of her wishes she could stay for longer, warm and safe in her womb. Sharing everything, even the blood that beats in their veins. And yet, she can’t wait to hold her in her arms, breathe her scent, stroke her tiny fingers.

She cradles her stomach with one hand as she orders the buggy. Taps in her address, the number of her new debit card. Her email address, for the receipt.

She smiles when the purchase is complete. The kettle is singing, and she is slow as she moves towards it, her body curving under the weight of her stomach.

As she sips her tea, she looks out of the window, watching the crows in the sycamore tree. Their dark, liquid movements against the white snow.

Her mug slips from her hands, smashes onto the floor.

The email.

She’d used her old email address. The one linked to her iPhone.

Simon has her iPhone. He’s going to see it.

She scrabbles for the Motorola, blood roaring. Her fingers shake as she opens a new browser, brings up Gmail.

Please God, no.

The page won’t load. She refreshes it, again and again.

Finally, it loads. There’s the confirmation email – it’s got her address, her new phone number, everything. Even a graphic of a smiling baby.

She deletes it. Stands for a moment, a chill spreading through her veins.

If he’s seen this … then he knows about the baby.

And he knows where to find her.

Leaning over the kitchen sink, she splashes water onto her face. The icy shock of it calms her.

How long did the email sit in her inbox – three minutes? It’s – what – Tuesday, 2 p.m. The middle of the workday. He won’t have seen it. She’s caught it in time.

It’s OK. He’s doesn’t know where she is.

She looks down.

‘Don’t worry,’ she says to her stomach. ‘I won’t let him anywhere near you.’

Outside, there’s that same, unsettling stillness from the previous night. She doesn’t like the look of the clouds – the way they hang low and grey in the sky. There is something ominous about it.

She sweats under her layers as she heaves herself into the car. The seat is as far back as it can go, her hands barely reaching the steering wheel.

Her heart races as she turns onto the A66, passing the snow-blanketed fields. In the distance, the peaks of the mountains spark silver.

She takes a deep breath, tries to calm herself. She is safe. The baby is safe.

For now, she just needs to focus on driving.

She’s going to see Frederick at his nursing home in Beckside. Really, she’s not sure what she expects: he barely made any sense last time she saw him, all those months ago at Orton Hall. Guilt twinges in her stomach at the memory. She should have told someone – those dead insects everywhere, the room he’d been living in with its animal scent … and Frederick himself. She shudders at the memory of those eyes. At their emptiness. And yet. She can’t quite bring herself to pity him.

Violet’s words come back to her.

I am plagued by memories of it.

She has an image of him barricaded in that festering study while insects swarm outside, undulating through the corridors of the Hall like one great, glistening snake.

And the strange thing he said to her, just before she left.

She had released me at last.

There had been thousands and thousands of the things, according to the newspaper article. The insects normally frequent aquatic environments and rarely infest dwellings. This wasn’t some natural phenomenon.

A plague for a plague.

Kate thinks she knows what happened. But she needs to be sure.

The nursing home – Ivy Gate – doesn’t exactly live up to its name. The imposing iron gate is devoid of all greenery. Even from a distance, the buildings have an institutional look – something about the slate grey stone, the narrowness of the windows.

‘Ivy Gate,’ a curt voice answers the intercom at the entrance.

‘Hello,’ she says. ‘I’m … I’m here to see a relative – Frederick Ayres?’

‘Better be quick about it,’ says the voice, with an impatient sigh. ‘Visiting hours are coming to a close.’

She is directed to the common room – or, according to a sign on the door, the ‘Scafell Room’ – which is decorated in insipid peach; landscapes on the walls the only nod to its alpine name. Kate’s stomach turns at the smell – a combination of cooking oil, bleach and, faintly, urine. Frederick is in the corner, huddled in a wheelchair far away from the other residents. As she approaches, she realises that he is asleep: his head lolls to one side, eyeballs flickering beneath almost translucent lids.

For a moment, she wonders if she should just leave, come back some other time. But, she knows, there may not be another time – the baby will be here soon, passing into the world just as Frederick is fading out of it.

This could be her only chance to get some answers.

She lowers herself into the chair next to his, leans forward.

‘Hello?’ she says softly. ‘Frederick?’

Slowly, his eyes open. At first, they look clouded, unfocused, but then they widen in horror. She touches the lapel of her jacket, remembering his previous reaction to the bee brooch – but it’s not there, it’s in her pocket. Then she realises. He’s looking at her necklace. Aunt Violet’s necklace.