47
Margot
‘I need to tell you the truth,’ Heather says, staring at Margot intently. ‘Flora’s still alive.’
Margot stares at her daughter, speechless. The damage to her brain must have been greater than any of them had understood. She’s spouting rubbish. She’s confused, bless her.
She takes her hand. ‘Sweetheart, we have to accept that Flora is dead.’
Heather snatches her hand away and adjusts her position on the bed so that she’s facing her mother. ‘No. Listen. Please listen. It’s important, Mum. I know I sound deluded. Mad, even. But … I don’t know if it was seeing Jess again or just my brain healing but I’ve remembered. Ask Adam if you don’t believe me. Ask him what we’d been fighting about that last night.’
Margot puts a hand to her head. ‘I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me.’
‘I found out about Flora when Deirdre came to stay at the caravan park. She had a dog with her. Big and fluffy. You know, one of those Chow Chows. And I remembered Flora telling me about them when she was going outwith Dylan. She said the mother of the guy his mum was seeing bred them. And the guy’s brother, Clive, had come to the fair and brought it with him. And then there was the ring …’
Margot gets up from the bed and begins pacing the room, her mind racing.Flora’s alive?‘Where is she?’ she snaps, suddenly not caring about the logistics, only that she wants to see her daughter again, her baby. She burns with it, the desire to hold her elder daughter in her arms again. ‘Where is she, Heather?’
Heather starts crying. ‘That’s just it. I don’t know. I found her, Mum. In Clive Wilson’s house in Southville. I found her and then I lost her again. Call the detective guy that you like. Get him to find her.’
Margot wants to believe all this is true. She’s dreamed of it so many times over the years. But Heather’s been in a coma – she nearly died. ‘Are you sure you didn’t … dream this?’
‘I’m telling the truth. It’s a long story, Mum.’ Heather’s face is a picture of desperation. ‘I’ll tell you another time but, for now, please,just find her.’
Ruthgow sounds just as sceptical as Margot feels.
‘And Heather is telling you this only now?’
Margot is patrolling the length of the atrium, her mobile clamped against her ear. There are a few people at tables, nursing vending-machine drinks. The cafés are now closed. ‘I don’t think she could remember before. The … accident. Her head … her thoughts were all over the place.’ Her voice sounds echoey in the vast space.
‘Please try not to get your hopes up,’ he says softly. Shewonders if he’s at home. Perhaps with a significant other. Are they clearing up after dinner or about to go out for the evening? She’s sure she can hear someone humming in the background. ‘I understand how badly you want it to be true. But this could be a figment of Heather’s imagination after spending a week in a coma.’
‘I – I know.’
He clears his throat. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll do all I can, Margot, I promise.’
After he’s hung up, Margot slumps into a chair, feeling as though all her energy has been sucked from her. She doesn’t even know where to start with her thought process. She needs to go back and talk to Heather.
She hurries along the winding corridors to the area where Heather’s room is. Visiting time is nearly over. The nurses and doctors – they all know who she is now – are usually happy to be a bit lenient, but Margot doesn’t want to break any rules.
The same policeman is still outside Margot’s door and he raises an eyebrow when he sees her. ‘Back again?’ He smiles. He’s young, this policeman, with twinkly hazel eyes and a round freckled face. He’s young enough to be Margot’s son. She likes him. Out of all the police officers who have stood guard in the two weeks since Heather was admitted, he’s the only one who bothers to talk to her or treat her as though she’s an actual human being, rather than the mother of a criminal.
‘Forgot to ask Heather something,’ she says, throwing him a benign smile. He steps aside to allow her to pass.
Heather is lying on top of the bed in her dressing-gown,her head resting against the puffed-up pillows; a nurse is taking her blood pressure and temperature.
Heather lifts her eyebrows in surprise but doesn’t say anything until the nurse has left.
‘Well?’ she whispers.
‘I’ve called Ruthgow. He’s going to look into it. You need to tell me everything, Heather.’
‘Some of it is still patchy. I can’t remember what happened before …’ She touches the bandage around her head. ‘And I don’t remember shooting the Wilsons but,’ she flushes, ‘I do remember getting obsessed with her in the weeks leading up to … it.’
Margot perches on the edge of Heather’s bed. ‘With who? Deirdre?’
‘I just couldn’t get it out of my head, the thing with the dogs and the ring.’ She holds her right hand up. ‘This ring, Mum. Flora’s.’
Margot takes her hand and examines the little gold ring. It’s identical to Heather’s, passed down through the family. Margot’s grandfather had been a bit of a snob and decided that their family’s crest needed to be immortalized in the shape of rings, even though he had no ancestral lineage or blood. Margot had worn his since she had handed hers to Heather, and Leo had given his own to Flora when she was a baby, saying he knew he’d never have kids and it was all a load of pretentious crap anyway that he didn’t want to be a part of. Margot had had to have it made smaller so that it would fit on Flora’s little finger when she had allowed her to wear it as a teenager. Heather hands it to her now and she studies it, looking for the very faint join. She reachesdown to the floor to retrieve her reading glasses from her bag, slips them on and peers at the rings. Heather takes hers off, and Margot holds them in her palm. They are identical.
