I slip out of the house through the front door—careful not to wake Moll, praying that Moppet won’t bark—and into the garden through the side gate, telling myself I’m searching for damning marks of blood, the drag of his body on the grass. But the truth is I want to see Harry one last time. I want to check last night was real. I want to say sorry. I want to say good-bye.
A sprinkle of blood droplets in the grass by the pool gate, balancing on the blades’ tips, like the remains of a fox’s nocturnal kill. Using the edge of my bare foot, I smear them away—what would have disgusted me yesterday easy now. The pool area feels knowing and dark, a few hours behind the rest of the garden, something of last night forever printed upon it. There’s a large puddle of water on the stone paving, reflecting the lightening sky, and the pool itself is thickly carpeted with petals and storm-torn leaves, water winking in the gaps like fragments of a half-told story. Crouching beside the stone goddess on the corner where we pushed him in, I part the petals with my fingers, gently at first, then more vigorously, panicking, prodding at the pool with a stick, desperate for a glimpse of him. I search and search.
Harry is not there.
More blood, a path of it, like bread crumbs through a wood, leading from the pool to the meadow gate—open a body’s width. I almost don’t go through it, scared of what I might find.
James Dean. Fallen from the sky.
He is slumped in the crater of the meadow, his forehead resting on his arms, arms crossed over drawn-up knees, like a bloodied soldier on a battlefield.
I rub my eyes, sure I’m hallucinating with tiredness, readier to believe it is the ghost of the dead pilot than him. But Harry remains, a crumpled, solitary figure in a ripped shirt, head lolling. Not dead in the pool. The blood in his hair looks dry and black. And his shirt steams in the early morning sunshine: he has been out of the water for a while.
Harry has somehow survived: Dotty is no murderer. Yet I feel no relief, only rapidly escalating unease. Not daring to breathe, my instinct is to back away slowly and return to the safety of the house so I can tell my sisters about this Lazarus, back from the dead.
But, sensing my presence, Harry stirs. He raises one arm, sheltering his eyes from the light. “Margot? Is that you?” he calls out hoarsely.
“Yes,” I manage, trying to hide my shock. For his head injury seems to have circuited his skull and found another way out: his right eye is bloodshot with a milky glaze over a frozen iris, not moving in tandem with the other, damaged in a way I can’t bear to think about.
Harry swipes at the air, reaching for my hand. I fight my recoil, knowing that I must appear as normal as possible now and wade through the long grass toward him. His grip is weak. I heave him up, recognizing that dense dead weight. Once he is shakily vertical, I pull my hand away quickly, the feel of him too strange. “Shall I go and find Tom? A doctor?”
“No . . . no fuss.” He is disorientated, swaying a little. “I . . . I’ll walk back to Cornton.” He winces at something that hurts, adds gamely, “I’m fine.”
I don’t dare tell Harry he’s not.
I watch, breath held, as he cautiously touches that awful eye, as if checking it’s still there. “It’s just . . . I can’t see too well. And my head . . .” His fingertips investigate the crusted blood in his hair. And I can almost see his mind grasping into the fog, trying to pull down the events of last night. “What happened, Margot?”
My mouth opens and closes: I have no idea. Only that Pam must have missed his heartbeat when she checked him in the garden, easy enough given the late hour and the wine. And that twitch of his hand in the pool? No, I didn’t imagine it. But how did Harry pull himself out of the water? Regain consciousness just in time? Someone must have helped him. But who?
“Margot?” he persists, breaking my thoughts. “Please . . .”
I nod at the scorch on the grass, the ashy remains of last night’s fire. Wine bottles on their sides. An empty whiskey bottle. Harry’s silent guitar. “You were very, very drunk.”
A moment passes. When I meet his gaze again, something in his left eye is sharper, hardened; the other remains like a fish’s on ice. He clamps his hand over his mouth, disbelieving, something dawning. “I told you, didn’t I?”
Fear flutters in my ears, an insect’s beating wings, and I feel his fingers at my throat again.
“We . . . we were under the tree. The rain,” he mumbles, slowly moving all the bits together like the shreds of a torn-up letter. “Dot. Christ. I looked up and saw her, fist raised—”
“No, no. Dot was in bed,” I say too quickly, betraying too much.
He stares at me, silent for a moment. Then he says coldly, “You’re lying.”
I feel the hairs all over my body prick, a surge of heat.
“I woke by the side of the pool. Wet. Why? Why was I by the pool? Answer me,” he growls when I don’t answer.
“I . . . I don’t know,” I say weakly, truthfully. I cannot tell Harry that the last time I saw him he was sinking beneath the water’s surface, a dead man.
He bends down and rests his hands on his knees, breathing heavily, as if about to be sick. But he doesn’t take his eyes off me, looking up through his matted hair. And I see his expression changing as the night starts to solidify. “Did you and Dot try to drown me? My God. You did,” he says, as if something in my expression confirms it. “You damn well tried to drown me.”
“No.” I start slowly walking backward, realizing I’ve made myself vulnerable again. “Of course not.”
“You wanted revenge for Audrey. You wanted . . .” He straightens, covers his face with his hands. And for a moment I think he’s going to burst into tears. But when he looks up, his face is blazing, dangerous. He starts walking toward me, staggering over tussocks of grass. “I remember, Margot,” he calls, his voice stronger now. “I remember everything.”
I pick up my pace, not daring to turn my back to him.
“I know you.” He pants the words out. “We’re the same, you and I. We understand each other completely.” His laugh comes out as a cough. “You think I can’t play your games? You think you’ll pull the wool over my eyes? That I’ll let little baby Dot get away with attempted murder? I hope she’s got a bloody good alibi, Margot. Because Pa’s got some very, very good lawyers.”
“Don’t threaten Dot,” I flame.
“That’s rich. But don’t worry, it won’t just be her. I’ll take you all down, you and your murderous sisters. I bet Pam was there, too. And Flora.” He spits out Flora’s name acidly. “I’ll tear you all apart.”
“You’ve got it wrong,” I insist, retreating faster now.
Just when I think he might run and chase me, he slumps, hands on his knees again, his pallor faintly green. “Margot, wait . . . a pact,” he manages. “My silence for yours? And your sisters’, since you act as one,” he adds, correctly guessing that I’ve already told them.