‘I don’t know,’ she says softly, and there’s real compassion in her voice this time. ‘I don’t know, pet. Let me get the doctor and perhaps he can tell you more. In the meantime, I want you to eat some breakfast, you’ve got to keep your strength up and the doctor will want to see an appetite.’
And then she backs out of the door with the trolley in front of her, and the door swings shut, and I am alone with my plastic bowl of Rice Crispies popping and clicking away as they soak into sugary mush.
I should get up. I should force my weak, woolly limbs to do their duty, and I should swing them out of bed and march into the corridor and demand answers from those police officers outside. But I don’t. I just sit there, and tears roll down my face, and drip off my chin into the Rice Crispies, and the smell of the clementine is heady and overripe, reminding me of something I cannot remember, and cannot forget.
Please, I think, please. Pull yourself together, you stupid bitch. Get up. Find out what happened. Find out who’s dead.
But I don’t move. And not just because my head hurts, and my legs hurt, and my muscles feel like wet tissue.
I don’t move because I am afraid. Because I don’t want to hear the name the police are going to say.
And because I am afraid they are here for me.
20
THE BRAIN DOESN’T remember well. It tells stories. It fills in the gaps, and implants those fantasies as memories.
I have to try to get the facts.
But I don’t know if I’m remembering what happened, or what I want to have happened. I am a writer. I’m a professional liar. It’s hard to know when to stop, you know? You see a gap in the narrative, you want to fill it with a reason, a motive, a plausible explanation.
And the harder I push, the more the facts dissolve beneath my fingers …
I know that I woke with a jump. I don’t know what time it was, but it was still dark. Beside me Nina was sitting up in bed, her dark eyes wide and glittering.
‘Did you hear that?’ she whispered.
I nodded. Footsteps on the landing. A door opening very softly.
My heart was beating in my throat as I pushed back the duvet and grabbed my dressing gown. I remembered the kitchen door swung wide, the footsteps in the snow.
We should have checked the rest of the house.
At the door I stood listening for a second, and then opened it with infinite caution. Clare and Flo were standing outside, their eyes wide, faces bleached pale with fear. Flo was holding the gun.
‘Did you hear something?’ I whispered, as low as I could. Clare gave a single, sharp nod, and pointed to the stairs, her finger stabbing downwards. I listened hard, trying to still my shaky breathing and thudding heart. There was a scratching sound, and then a clear, definite thunk, as of a door being softly closed. There was someone down there.
‘Tom?’ I mouthed. But even as I did, his door opened a crack and his face peered out.
‘Did you … that sound?’ he whispered. Clare gave a grim nod.
This time it was no open door. No wind. This time we could all hear it: clear footsteps as someone made their way through the tiled kitchen, across the parquet floor of the hallway, and then the soft, definite creak of a foot on the first of the stairs.
Somehow we had drawn together into a little knot I felt someone’s hand scrabbling for mine. Flo was at the centre, the gun raised, though its muzzle was shaking badly. I put my free hand out to steady it.
There was another creak on the stairs and an indrawn breath from all of us, then a figure rounded the newel post half-way up, silhouetted against the plate-glass window that overlooked the forest.
It was a man – a tall man. He was dressed in some kind of dark hoodie, and I couldn’t see his face. He was looking down at his phone, the screen glowing ghost-white in the darkness.
‘Fuck off and leave us alone!’ Flo screamed, and the gun went off.
There was a deafening, catastrophic bang, and the sound of shattering glass, and the gun kicked like a horse. I remember that – and I remember that people fell over.
I remember that I looked up to see – it didn’t make sense – the huge plate-glass window shattered – the glass spattered outwards onto the snow, clattering onto the wooden stairs.
I remember the man on the stairs gave one choking exclamation – more of shock than of pain – and then he fell all of a heap, thudding slowly down the stairs like a stuntman in a film.
I don’t know who turned on the lights. But they flooded the tall hallway with a brightness that made me wince and cover my eyes – and I saw.
I saw the pale frosted stairs splashed with blood, and the shattered window, and the long, slow smear of gore where the man’s body had slithered down to the ground floor.
‘Oh my God,’ Flo whimpered. ‘The gun— the gun was loaded!’
When the nurse comes back, I am crying.
‘What happened?’ I manage. ‘Someone is dead – please tell me, please tell me who’s dead!’