‘It was from my favourite jeans. I wore them all the time that summer we stayed here.’
She doesn’t say anything. Instead she touches all the small items attached to the magpies: the miniature Christmas card, a cat brooch, the tiny replica Zippo lighter, two small pearls, the crochet butterfly, and a toy spade.
And then I watch in horror as she unpins the brooch from one of the magpies.
‘What are you doing?! You can’t mess with the sculpture.’
She spins around to face me. ‘This was Mum’s.’
‘What? No … it can’t be. I’ve never seen it before.’
‘I’m telling you, it is. I remember playing with it when Iwas a kid. She never wore it but she kept it in her jewellery box. Apparently her dad gave it to her for her eighteenth.’ She hands it to me. It’s small and gold-plated with two green gems for eyes and two crystals on the collar.
I touch the gems. ‘I wonder how Dorothea got hold of it?’
‘I don’t know, but it’s weird, because Mum wore it on Halloween. I suggested she wear it. She was going to pin it to her costume,’ says Alison.
Had she been wearing a brooch? I really can’t remember.
‘If you say this was Mum’s brooch then I believe you. I just don’t remember it, that’s all. Maybe she gave it to Dorothea?’ I pin it carefully back onto the magpie.
‘She wouldn’t have done that. She knew I loved that brooch,’ insists Alison, looking troubled.We stand silently for a moment, each of us assessing the sculpture.
‘You need to write this all down,’ she says eventually. ‘You should do, like, a spider graph or something.’ She rolls her eyes when I laugh. ‘I know! It’s being married to a teacher. Gareth loves a spider graph!’
A noise from outside makes us both jump and we spin around to face the open hatch. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ says Alison hurriedly. ‘It’s creepy as fuck in here.’
I head up the steps first, expecting Alison to be behind me, but then I hear her calling my name from below. I turn to see her holding something in her hand, a piece of fabric, a strange look on her face.
‘What is it?’
She holds it up. ‘It’s a mask. It was in the sculpture’s hand.’
I’m just about to chastise her again for pulling things off the sculpture when she adds in a strangulated voice, ‘It looks exactly like the mask Dad wore the night Mum died.’
42
‘Why does Dorothea have a mask like the one Dad wore that night?’ she asks, shaking it at me.
We both know it can’t be the actual mask our father was wearing, because that will still be in a police evidence cupboard somewhere.
I take it from her. ‘They’re a common Halloween outfit,’ I say, trying to push my unease away.
‘Why would Dorothea include this in the artwork? First Mum’s brooch, then your jeans pocket and now this!’
My mind scrambles to join the dots. ‘It’s a theme, about abuse. Dad, Bobby …’
Alison doesn’t look convinced. ‘You said you think Dorothea left you this sculpture because she was trying to tell you something, so what is it?’ She sweeps the light from her phone over the sculpture, illuminating the waxy face, the blonde wig, the wool jacket. ‘Something about Dad?’ And then she reaches down and touches the hand with the red paint. ‘What does this mean? Is this supposed to symbolize blood?’
‘I think so. It’s only on one hand.’
She pulls herself up to her full height. ‘I think you have an idea what Dorothea is trying to say here, but you don’t want to admit it to yourself.’
I stare at her, aghast. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘This isn’t just about abuse. I think Dorothea knows more about what happened to Mum …’
I open my mouth to protest but Alison shoots me down.
