‘LEONORA!’ THERE IS a hand shaking me, pulling me awake. ‘Leonora, I’m going to need you to wake up, duckie. Leonora.’
I feel fingers pulling at my eyelids and a light, blindingly bright, shining in.
‘Ow!’ I blink and pull back, and a hand lets go of my chin.
‘Sorry, ducks, are you awake now?’
The face is disconcertingly close, her eyes staring into mine. I blink again, and then nod.
‘Yes. Yes, I’m awake.’
I don’t know when I dozed off. It felt like I was awake half the night, watching the silhouettes of the police through the glass, running through things in my head, trying to remember. The clay-pigeon shoot. That was the recoil bruise. I must remember to tell the police … if only I can keep things straight in my head.
But the closer things get to – to whatever happened, the hazier they get. What did happen? Why am I here?
I must have spoken the last words aloud for the nurse gives a sympathetic smile.
‘You had a bit of a car accident my love.’
‘Am I OK?’
‘Yes, nothing broken.’ She has a pleasant Northumberland burr. ‘But you’ve knocked your poor face something awful. You’ve got a couple of beautiful black eyes – but no fractures. But that’s why I had to wake you. We have to do observations every few hours, just to make sure you’ve not had a funny turn in the night.’
‘I was asleep,’ I say stupidly, and then rub my face. It hurts as if I’ve headbutted a window.
‘Careful now,’ the nurse says. ‘You’ve got a few cuts and bruises.’
I rub my feet, feeling the grime and grit and blood. I feel disgusting. I need a pee.
‘Can I have a shower?’ I ask. My head feels bleary.
There is an ensuite in the corner of the room, I can see. The nurse looks down at the chart at the foot of the bed. ‘Let me ask the doctor. I’m not telling you no, but I’d like to just make sure.’
She turns to go, and I catch sight of the silhouette outside the door, and it comes back to me: the conversation I heard last night. It has a nightmarish quality. Was it really true? Did I really hear what I thought I heard, or did I dream it?
‘Wait,’ I say. ‘Wait, last night I heard the people outside—’
But she’s gone already, the door flapping back behind her with a gust of food smells and sounds from the corridor. As she walks out the policewoman outside catches at her arm and I hear a burst of conversation, and see the nurse shaking her head emphatically. ‘Not yet,’ I hear, ‘… permission from the doctor … have to wait.’
‘I don’t think you appreciate,’ the policewoman’s voice is low but her tones are clipped and clear as a newsreader’s, and her words filter through the glass much more distinctly than the nurse’s northern burr. ‘That this is now a homicide investigation.’
‘Och, no!’ The nurse is shocked. ‘The poor love didn’t make it, then?’
‘No.’
So it’s true. I didn’t imagine it. It wasn’t some product of too much morphine and my battered head.
It’s true.
I struggle up against the pillows, my heart pounding in my throat, and on the monitor to my left I see the little green line leaping with panicked jerks against the flatline.
Someone is definitely dead.
Someone is dead.
But who?
16
‘WELCOME TO TUCKETT’S wood,’ the man said in a slightly bored Australian accent. He was tanned and chiselled and reminded me slightly of Tom Cruise – and from the way Flo was gazing at him, her green eyes wide and her mouth slightly open, I could tell that I wasn’t the only one seeing the resemblance. ‘My name’s Grig, and I’ll be your instructor here today.’
He stopped, seeming to count heads and then said, ‘Hang about, I’ve got six here on my booking. Someone gone AWOL?’
‘Yes,’ Flo said tightly. ‘Someone certainly has. No prizes for guessing who I’ll be imagining when I open fire.’
‘So we’re five then today?’ the instructor said easily, not seeming to notice Flo’s tense annoyance. ‘Fair dos. Right, first off I have to tell you about our safety precautions …’
He began a long speech about ear defenders, alcohol, the responsibilities of gun ownership and so on.
Once we’d established that, yes, we were all complete beginners, no, none of us held a shotgun licence, and yes, we were all aged over eighteen and sober, we signed a long waiver form and trooped through into the back half of the outward-bound centre, where the instructor sized us up.
‘All I can say is, thank God you’re none of you wearing pink feather boas and all that malarky. You wouldn’t believe the trouble we have with hen parties. You,’ he pointed at Flo, ‘Flo, was it? Your jacket’s a bit thin. You probably want something a bit thicker against the recoil.’ He dug around in a chest behind him and fished out a padded Barbour. Flo made a face but put it on.