‘What’s going on up there?’ Grandad’s voice rose from downstairs for a second time. The movement behind my door stilled and the door was pressed shut. It was followed by thethump, thump, thumpof a steady descent down the stairs.
‘He’s got a gun!’ Mummy screamed, and I pinched my arm hard. This had to be a nightmare. It couldn’t be real. But this wasn’t a nightmare I woke upfrom. It was a nightmare I woke upto.
The rational part of my mind remembered that Daddy had been cleaning his shotgun. Maybe Mummy was upset because it went off by accident. But where? In Robin’s room?Not my little girl,she had screamed. My teeth were chattering now, a sudden sob erupting in my throat as realisation dawned. Daddy didn’t have accidents when it came to his gun. Climbing out of bed, I forced one foot in front of the other as I returned to the door and pressed my ear against the wood. I recoiled as another crack of gunfire shook the walls of the house. Downstairs, Granny screamed something about calling the police. Her words were killed by another deafening crack. Thunder. It was relentless. My legs weakened as my world collapsed around me. Then silence.
No,I squeaked. My eyes were blurry with tears, every instinct telling me to hide. But I needed to get to Robin before Daddy did. My hands felt like jelly as I twisted the door-knob. The door opened a crack, and I shrieked as I was met with Mummy’s tear-stained face.
‘Shhh.’ Her breath trembled as she placed a hand on my mouth. Her skin was cold, her face ashen. I nodded in understanding and she released her grip. ‘Hurry,’ she whispered, guiding me by the elbow. I craned my neck as we padded past Robin’s room. His door was open an inch, but I couldn’t see all the way in. Part of me didn’t want to.
‘Here,’ Mummy whispered, leading me to the antique wardrobe in the corner of her bedroom. ‘Hide in here and don’t make a sound, do you hear me? No matter who calls.’ Her hands trembled as she pushed my hair off my face. ‘Wait for the police. They’re on their way.’
‘I can’t do it,’ I cried. ‘I can’t … Please. Mummy … don’t leave me.’
‘Listen to me, you can, and you will. You’re my special girl.’ Gently, Mummy steered me inside, her quick, panicked breath against my face as she kissed my cheek. The stairwell creaked.
‘Not a sound,’ Mummy reiterated, her face ravaged by fear. As I stood at the back of the wardrobe, she gently closed the door. I peered through a crack in the wood as the key turned in the lock. There was a soft click as the key was extracted, and in the dark, I made out my mother’s outline as she left the room. But what about Robin? I bit on my knuckles to stop the scream erupting from my throat. I already knew the answer. Robin was dead.
Leaden feet climbed the stairs. My mother’s screams were cut dead as another shot ripped through the night. As each door on the landing was flung open, I counted the shots so far. The first shot had been for Robin. Then Grandad. Then Granny. Then Mummy … and now he was coming for me. The thought was too horrific for my young mind to contemplate. The light left the room as the moon dipped behind a cloud, and I struggled to make out my father’s form as he entered. His footsteps were steady and methodical. Every instinct told me to call out to him. Daddy wouldn’t hurt me. He would keep me safe. But my mother’s warning lingered. The gun hanging from his arm, he grunted as he checked beneath the bed. The metal hangers jingled above me as I recoiled from his presence. It seemed like the loudest sound in the world as Daddy’s footsteps stilled.
His voice seemed different as he called my name; robotic, void of emotion. A sob escaped my throat, betraying my presence in the room. I flattened myself against the sides of the wardrobe as a strong hand rattled the door. I held my breath. Silence. Police sirens screamed in the distance. A tiny flicker of hope. But as I peered through the crack in the wardrobe, all hope died. My view was consumed by the barrel of his gun. I remember the floorboard creaking. There was a sudden, blinding flash. I was swallowed by the dark.
That was the day I died, and I haven’t left Blackhall Manor since.
1
Thursday, 31st October 2019
Sarah chased her peas around her plate with her fork, wondering if fish fingers and chips were more nutritious than the ready meals she had been eating all week. The air fryer was marginally better than the microwave – wasn’t it? She prodded the limp fish finger. To think, some poor creature gave up its life to end up like this.
‘Fancy it?’ she dangled the soggy offering before her ginger cat. His eyes narrowed in silent protest of her presence on the sofa. Most evenings, Sherlock preferred to watchPointlessre-runs on his own. ‘Alaska,’ Sarah blurted, as the quiz show host asked for US states ending with an ‘a’. She plopped her fish finger back onto her plate before rising to empty the remnants into the recycling caddy in the kitchen.
‘How about a nice juicy chicken leg?’ she shouted, her head in her fridge.
‘Don’t give him that, he’ll choke on it.’
Sarah’s lips thinned at the sound of David, her husband. He shouldn’t even be here. She told herself not to respond.
‘There you go, Sher, knock yourself out,’ she said, as the chicken landed with a bump on the living-room rug. She sensed her husband’s disapproval and she liked it. Sherlock’s tail gave a couple of thumps against the sofa cushion before he pounced on the chicken leg. The soft swish of the cat flap followed as he disappeared with it into the night. One day he’d find somewhere more deserving of his nobility and never come back.
Sarah glanced around her drab bungalow, wishing she had the energy to clean the place up. It wasn’t as if she’d been busy this last twelve months. Busy eating, maybe. The sofa made a scrunching noise when you sat on it, because of all the sweet wrappers shoved down the sides. Biscuit crumbs littered the creases of the cushions, and she dare not look behind it for fear of the cobwebs lurking there. There was a wine stain in the shape of Italy on her carpet, and the kitchen floor was only clean because she’d used Fairy liquid after she ran out of dishwashing tablets and suds had spilt onto the lino. At least she’d had the presence of mind to get her suit dry-cleaned for tomorrow. The sharp ring of her landline almost made her jump out of her skin. It was so seldom that anyone called that it took her a second to figure out what it was. Even the cold callers didn’t bother because she kept them on the line so long. She reckoned they had put her on a blacklist of some sort.
‘Hello?’ she said, into the heavy, old-fashioned handset.
‘It’s Gabby,’ a voice replied in a no-nonsense tone. Sarah straightened at the sound of her voice, her hand automatically going to her forehead and tugging on her fringe. It was a nervous tic that she was barely aware of anymore.
‘Oh … h … hello, Sarge,’ Sarah stuttered, wishing she’d been pre-warned about the call. Then she could have given herself a pep talk, worked out what she was going to say.
‘Just checking you’re still up for tomorrow, everything OK?’
‘Yes,’ Sarah said, still fiddling with her fringe. ‘Looking forward to it.’
‘Good. Don’t let me down.’
A dead ringtone followed before Sarah could reply.
‘Are you sure about this?’
Sarah glowered as her husband spoke. She should bill him for Botox because he had aged her horrendously – she felt a hell of a lot older than her forty years.
