Margot ends the call, then throws her mobile onto the passenger seat, blowing her nose loudly and peering at herself in the mirror, wiping the stray mascara away from her bottom eyelids. She doesn’t want Heather to see she’s been crying.
Heather.Something is niggling at Margot. The way her daughter had reacted when she’d told her they thought Flora had been found. She’d been so sure the body hadn’t been that of her sister. Why?
Unless – and the thought is so awful that Margot can barely bring herself to think it – unless Heather knows exactly what happened to Flora. An image of Keith’s crumpled body comes to mind, the gun slipping from Heather’s trembling hand to the ground.
Heather had killed her father. Could she have killed her sister too?
40
August 1994
Heather watched as Flora scuttled across the fields and out of sight. She wondered if Dylan was waiting in the lane. She imagined so. The two young lovers running off to London for the day. She turned away from the window in disgust.
Doesn’t Flora understand how much she’s done for her?
That day, four years ago, had been like any other on their farm in Maidstone: another day of their father’s aggressive moods, put-downs and bullying. Their mother overcompensated for their father’s lack of love and, as a result, the three of them were close. Their father was the outsider. He bullied Flora most, maybe because she was the eldest, or because she backchatted him more than Heather did. Whatever the reason, it was normal for him to shout abuse at them, particularly when their mother wasn’t in earshot. Flora would sneak into Heather’s room at night when they heard their parents arguing downstairs, and they would huddle together under the blankets until they heard the reassuring slam of the front door, which indicated their father had gone out. He never hit Margot. They were sure of that. But he wasa hard man, devoid of humour, as though he’d just woken up one day and all the joy had seeped out of him. Their mum admitted it was like he’d had a personality transplant. He wasn’t her Keith any more.
But none of them knew what to do about it.
Thankfully, he’d never hit his daughters either, or shown any kind of physical violence.
Until that spring day in 1990.
It was their favourite season on the farm, because of the lambs. They liked to cuddle them, and occasionally feed them with a bottle. Years before, their father had joined in, showing them how to cradle a lamb’s warm little body in the crook of their arm, like a baby. That was until his fun-loving humour was replaced by a prickly, grumpy, anxious state and he snapped at them all the time.
Stress, their mother called it. Obnoxious-bastard syndrome was what Flora called it.
On that particular day their father had got out his shotgun because a cow had become entangled in barbed wire and had to be put down. ‘I need to put it out of its misery,’ he’d said, carrying the gun as though he was John Wayne.
Flora had glanced at Heather and grimaced. But half an hour later, as they were leaving the barn where the lambs were kept, they saw that their father had left his gun out, leaning against the barn gate.
Their parents were so strict about gun safety. They’d taught them how to use one, of course, but in very controlled conditions, with experts. And they were not allowed to touch a gun without adult supervision.
That didn’t stop Flora, who almost jumped on it with glee. ‘Look, it’s Dad’s gun.’
‘He’ll go mental. Put it back,’ said Heather, her heart racing at the thought of their father’s wrath. But Flora flung it to her shoulder and made pow-pow noises while pointing it towards the empty field.
‘Don’t!’ Heather cried. ‘It’s dangerous. I don’t think the safety catch is on.’
‘Oh, chill out,’ said Flora. ‘It won’t have any cartridges in it. Dad will have used those to kill the cow. You know he only ever loads it with one or two.’
But, still, Heather felt uneasy about it. Gun safety had been drilled into her so many times.
Flora laughed. ‘We can be cops!’
‘You know we’re not allowed to play with them. And, anyway, I don’t think cops use shotguns. Put it down, please, you’re making me nervous.’
‘Oh, it’s fine …’ The words died on her lips. Their father was striding towards them. Heather began to tremble. Now they were in trouble.
When he saw that Flora was holding his gun his face turned purple. ‘What the fuck are you doing? Put the goddamn gun down now!’
Flora lowered it to the ground, as though she was holding an unexploded bomb. She laid it at her and Heather’s feet and held up her hands in surrender. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ she began, her face crumpling.
It happened within a blink of an eye. Keith was suddenly looming over them, grabbing Flora by her puny little upper arms and shaking her so violently Heather thought she could hear her sister’s teeth rattling. ‘Younever play with guns, you stupid,stupidgirl,’ he yelled. And then he slapped her hard around the face.
It was as though time stood still. Even the trees seemed to freeze, mid-sway. Silence descended all around them, as if everything had taken a collective breath, and Flora touched her stinging cheek, tears of shock in her eyes.
Before Heather could process what she was about to do, she leaned over and grabbed the gun. She stepped away from her father but with the barrel aimed at his chest. She was consumed by a sudden, blinding rage.
