‘So, you’re a journalist now?’ she asks instead, folding her arms across her chest in a way she hopes displays her disapproval. It’s not surprising, she thinks, as she surveys the woman standing in front of her. Jessica had been fourteen the last time she saw her, hanging around the clock tower with a new group of friends, drinking and generally behaving like a little tart, draped over some boy. Margot had felt so angry that she’d called Jessica at home and reprimanded her about how she’d treated Heather. She wasn’t proud of her behaviour, looking back. Jessica was only a teenager.
Jessica hesitates. ‘Yes, I am … but that’s not the only reason I’m here.’
Margot rolls her eyes. Of course it is! Why else would she come?
Jessica obviously notices because she adds, ‘I also wanted to say how sorry I am. For the way …’ She swallows and, for a brief moment, Margot thinks she notices tears film Jessica’s eyes. But, no, she must be mistaken, for Jessica Fox has no heart. ‘… for the way I treated Heather, back then.’
‘For abandoning her,’ Margot states.After all, let’s call a spade a spade, she thinks. ‘After she lost her father. Her sister.’
Jessica nods, her shaggy fringe falling in her face. The gesture gives her vulnerability and unexpectedly reminds Margot of Heather. ‘Yes,’ Jessica says, in a small voice. ‘I treated her badly, I know that. I was a kid, and I was stupid and selfish. I didn’t think about Heather’s feelings. I just …’
Jessica doesn’t have to finish her sentence. Margot knows exactly what she must have been thinking all those years ago. She’d wanted to get away from Heather and all her bad luck. Maybe she’d thought it was contagious.
‘Why now?’ demands Margot. ‘Because Heather’s in hospital, accused of killing two people? It’s a juicy story, I’ll give you that.’
Jessica shuffles, clearly uncomfortable. ‘I moved away. I’ve only been living back in the West Country for a year.’
‘And you didn’t think to look us up before? You didn’t feel like apologizing then?’
Jessica opens her mouth but no words come out. What can she say? thinks Margot. Where’s her defence? Then, eventually, she says, ‘It’s been years, Margot.’
Margot’s suddenly had enough of this conversation.She doesn’t want to look into Jessica’s big brown eyes, doesn’t want to feel anything for the girl standing before her.
She pulls herself up to her full height and can almost feel her heart hardening. ‘I have nothing more to say to you.’ Before Jessica can utter another word Margot closes the door firmly in her face. Then she leans against it, her heart pounding. She places a hand on her chest and takes a deep breath.
‘Margot.’ She hears Jessica’s voice through the door. ‘The press, they’re going to keep hounding you until you give your side of the story. And wouldn’t you rather speak to me? Someone you know? If you give me an exclusive, they’ll go away. Margot? Margot, please, just think about it.’ She hears the letterbox clatter behind her as Jessica pushes something through it. Margot counts to ten before turning and picking it up. It’s a business card. Margot rips it in half and throws it into the wastepaper basket.
Margot watches from the safety of her living-room window until Jessica has driven away, then goes upstairs and changes out of her riding gear. Downstairs again, she locks the house and almost runs to her Land Rover, as though she’s expecting the press to be hiding in the surrounding bushes ready to pounce on her with their microphones and cameras. But nobody else is around. There’s only one static caravan in use at the moment, by their long-term tenant Colin. He turned up five months ago, on the weekend the clocks went back, and hasn’t left. Not that she’s complaining. He doesn’t say much, but hepays on time and it’s an income, even if it’s only small. She thinks he’s probably lonely. For once, she’s thankful they’re out of season. Adam usually manages the camping site but, understandably, he’s not been able to cope with that at the moment. The poor man is out of his mind with worry. And so is she. Because all she can think about is what awaits Heather when she finally wakes up. She refuses to thinkifshe wakes up. She knows Heather’s made of strong stuff.
At this time of day it takes Margot just over half an hour to drive to the hospital in Bristol. She tries to avoid the rush-hour if she can and the ICU is open from 10 a.m. until 8 p.m. She parks, then walks the ten-minute journey from the multi-storey to the hospital reception. It’s been only four days since Heather was admitted but already Margot feels she’s too used to the atrium that reminds her of an airport terminal, with its many shops and cafés, and the weird smell – a mixture of chemicals, coffee and vegetable soup.
When she first arrived on Friday, not long after Adam had rung to tell her about that life-changing phone call he’d received from the police, Margot had wondered if she’d ever get used to finding her way along the maze of corridors. Then, she’d been almost blinded by shock and fear. Her mind had screamed that it couldn’t be true, that her daughter wasn’t capable of such a horrendous crime. Why? Why would she do it? It made no sense, not when she had everything to live for. A lovely home, a supportive husband and a beautiful baby boy. No, there had to be some mistake. She’d arranged to meet Adam in the atrium and the two of them had stumbled towardsHeather’s room, as if they were disaster survivors. And then she had seen that there was no mistake. The woman lying alone in the bed, attached to so much machinery she wondered how anybody could get near her, reallywasher daughter.
Sheila, her friend and stable hand, had been the one to find Heather in the barn. She’d come in at 8.15 a.m. to feed and groom the horses. By then Heather had been lying unconscious for at least an hour. It’s a wonder she hadn’t died there and then. Margot had been away at a yoga retreat with her friend Pam – something she’d never done before – and had been due home later that day.
Adam had cried when they’d met at the hospital that day and she’d been mesmerized by how his tears trickled into his thick brown beard. She’d seen Adam cry before – when he’d married Heather, when Ethan was born – but happy tears. Never this. He told her he’d not been at home when Heather shot herself, because he’d been taking Ethan to nursery, then gone to see a friend. Margot had thought this was strange. Adam and Heather never took Ethan to nursery earlier than 8 a.m. She could tell he was hiding something, but didn’t want to probe. It wasn’t the right time. She was aware that things hadn’t been great between them for a while but didn’t want to interfere by asking too many questions. After all, she knows what marriage is like. She’d had enough of her own problems with Keith, God rest his soul.
Margot slows down as she approaches the door to Heather’s room. As always, her stomach turns over when she sees the police officer standing guard outside. It’s a different one today. A woman this time. And,inappropriately, she thinks how masculine the female constable looks in the unflattering navy slacks and black workmen’s shoes. The officer looks up at Margot and smiles. It’s brief and professional. She’s young, younger than Heather, with auburn hair tied in a low ponytail and clear, pale skin. She stands aside to let Margot pass. Margot has to concentrate on suppressing her desire to give the officer a telling-off.Why are you here?she wants to scream.How can Heather pose a risk when she’s bloody unconscious?But she doesn’t, of course, because this woman is an official and Margot was brought up by her strict councillor father to respect officials. Instead, she pulls the strap of her handbag further up her shoulder and pushes through the door into the room.
The quietness strikes her, as it always does at first. The only sound to be heard is the bleeping of the monitors. Heather’s long dark hair has been brushed and, apart from her pale face, which has lost its usual healthy glow, there is nothing to indicate that she’s fighting for her life. She looks peaceful, as though she’s sleeping. There are no obvious signs of trauma, no bruising or surgical dressings on show. However, Margot knows that underneath the regulation hospital gown, Heather’s chest and shoulder are tightly bandaged and, obscured by that fine head of hair, there’s a shaved patch on the back of her head, with a five-inch gash now stitched and covered with gauze.
Margot dumps her bag on the floor and sits beside her daughter, taking her hand. The left one. The one she used to kill two innocent people. The one she used to point the gun towards her chest. The bullet had gone throughher right breast, thankfully just missing her heart and arteries, but she’d banged her head when she fell. Ironically it was the injury to her head, not the gunshot, that had put her daughter into the coma. This information, imparted by a serious-faced consultant when Heather was first brought in, gives Margot hope. It means Heather’s suicide attempt wasn’t serious. She could have shot herself in the head if she’d really wanted to die, or under her chin. The girl’s been around guns since she was a kid. They used to own a farm in Kent before they moved here. Heather knows how to use them properly, and she knows what to do to kill, she tells herself.
The shotgun had been Margot’s, used mostly for clay-pigeon shooting, kept in a special cabinet in a shed under lock and key, although Adam sometimes borrowed it to go shooting. They were both members of a shooting club about two miles away, although Heather was never interested in joining. The licence was up for renewal. Maybe she should have got rid of it. Guns, it seemed, brought nothing but bad luck to their family.
Four days. It’s now been four days that her darling Heather has been in this state. The doctors warned her that the longer she spends in the coma the less likelihood there is of a full recovery. She brings Heather’s hand to her cheek – her daughter’s skin is still so soft.Oh, please wake up, please … please, she silently begs.
Margot glances towards the All About Me board on the wall. The hospital issues them to all ICU patients so that their families have a place to display photographs or other information that might be useful. Adam’s written down Heather’s favourite radio station – Absolute90s – and he’s pinned up some photos. Margot’s heart breaks every time she looks at them. There’s one of Heather, her face wide and smiling, holding a newborn Ethan just after she’d given birth. In this very hospital, in fact, only eighteen months ago. There’s another of Adam and Heather’s wedding day ten years before. Heather looks so beautiful, young and innocent in a simple yet elegant gown, her hair piled on top of her head, tendrils framing her face. Adam, tall, dark and brooding, is next to her in a suit that looks a fraction too small. They married young. Too young, Margot had thought at the time, but they’d been so much in love – they’d shone with it. Then Ethan came along, a much-loved and wanted baby, after years of trying. Heather suffered –suffers, she’s still alive, she’s still here– from polycystic ovaries, which made falling pregnant difficult. Things hadn’t been plain sailing since Ethan was born. Heather had had post-natal depression in the immediate weeks following a traumatic birth, and found it hard to cope. But things had been getting better. At least, she’d thought they were.
What were you thinking, sweetheart?she wonders, for the umpteenth time, her daughter’s hand still in hers.Why did you kill those two people?
4
I can hear voices. Are they real or imagined? I can’t make them out. Every time I think I’ve understood a word or phrase, they disappear so that I can’t catch them, like bubbles bursting in front of me. I can remember the weight of the gun, the sound of it going off. The drugs are too strong. They’re dragging me back under, stopping me remembering, preventing me from hurting. And I don’t want to remember. Because I think I’ve killed someone.
5
Jess
