Joely stared at the empty doorway, immobilized by the shock of Freda’s revelation. Common sense was telling her that it couldn’t be true, it was crazy even to think it, Freda didn’t even know her mother.
Maybe she, Joely, was being gaslighted as a character study for a new novel? Maybe Freda had turned herself into some sort of literary Frankenstein to find out how a subject would react to extreme and untenable suggestions.
Joely took a breath and pressed her hands to her cheeks.
There was no way her mother could be young Freda. It made no sense at all. And as for doing such a despicable thing to a man . . . No, it simply hadn’t happened. Her mother was not that person.
So what the hell was Freda’s game?
What was she expecting her ghostwriter to do now?
Where had she gone?
What was taking her into town?
Joely tried clearing her head to make herself think more rationally. The accusation about her mother was nonsense, she was in no doubt of that, but there had to be a purpose behind it. Freda clearly had something in mind, so now it was Joely’s job to figure out what it was . . .
No, actually, all she had to do was get the heck out of here. This project, this game or whatever it was had gone too far and she really didn’t want to be a part of it anymore.
Closing down her laptop, she picked up her notebook and recorder and made her way down to the library. She saw right away that the door to the kitchen staircase was closed, and her heart gave an uneasy twist, for she remembered propping it open with English Medieval Literature—which was now cast aside farther along the floor.
She tried the door and felt another stab of fear when it wouldn’t open. This surely had to be a mistake. Freda wouldn’t have shut her in here on purpose, it would be an insane thing to do, and yet there was no getting away from the fact that the makeshift doorstop wasn’t where she’d left it and the latch on the stairway door was firmly shut.
“Freda!” she shouted, directing her voice down to the kitchen. “Freda! Let me out of here.”
There was no sound from anywhere else in the house.
She pummeled the door’s solid wood panels, battered the latch with a heavy book, but it wouldn’t budge.
She looked at her phone, but it was useless.
Her mind spun with disbelief and horror as she tried to think what to do.
Suddenly remembering the hidden door in the bookcase she began pressing random volumes and panels to activate the mechanism, but nothing happened. She tore books from shelves searching for hinges, a concealed handle, some sort of button, but she could find none.
“Freda!” she yelled, banging a fist on the wall. “Let me out of here! This is crazy.”
She waited for an answer but beyond her own breath everything remained silent. She stared at the door to the kitchen again, still hardly able to accept that it wouldn’t open, then a sound reached her from the next room and she spun around.
“Freda,” she called out. “Are you in there? Please let me out. Whatever you . . .”
Suddenly music began to play, an orchestra swelling out of the silence so loudly that it drowned her cries. She couldn’t even hear her hands thumping the wall.
“Freda! Stop this, please! I’m begging you.”
Realizing from the volume that there must be hidden speakers in this room she ran up to the writing room and closed the door.
She was breathing hard, too hard. She was also shaking as much in fear as in shock. The music was just as loud in here, but she couldn’t see any speakers.
She needed to stay calm.
This was obviously some sort of temporary madness on Freda’s part. It would be over soon, all she had to do was block her ears, hold on to her sanity, and wait it out.
“Thank you, Bill,” Freda said as her gardener-cum-chauffeur opened the car door for her to get out. “I’ll only be a moment.”
Leaving him waiting at the curb she went into the post office and handed over a small parcel for special delivery, paid what was required and returned to the car.
“Everything all right?” Bill asked as she got into the front passenger seat.
“Indeed it is,” she confirmed.
He drove away and five minutes later they came to a stop outside the railway station.
“You don’t need to help me any further,” she told him, as he came to open the door. “I can manage.”
Lifting her small suitcase from the boot he said, “It’s platform two that you want. The train’s due in about ten minutes, so enough time to get your ticket.”
She smiled gratefully, and took her suitcase. “Enjoy your holiday in Spain.” She smiled. “Brenda will enjoy the break, I’m sure.”
“It’s very generous of you . . .”
“Think nothing of it,” and patting his arm she started into the station.
Joely kept checking her phone, but as yet she’d been unable to achieve even a single bar of connection in spite of standing on chairs, leaning out of the window, even climbing out onto the balcony.
The music had stopped for a while, long enough for her to shout herself hoarse, but the only response had been the hurling sough of the wind outside and the cries of impervious birds. She’d searched the desk for something to help force the latch on the library door but had found no scissors, no paperknife, not even a ruler. She’d used the books again, banging them into the stubborn metal, but not even the bigger volumes had made a difference and nor had trying to ram the door with a chair.
When the music had suddenly started up again it had seemed louder, more oppressive than ever.
Offenbach, “Hey Jude,” “Jumpin’ Jack Flash,” “The Gaelic Blessing,” Mozart’s Night Music, “Je ne regrette rien,” Chopin, Schubert, “Then He Kissed Me,” “Young Girl,” Puccini, and the same Puccini again. She’d never considered any of it menacing before, and realized that it was the volume making it so now, but worse than that, far worse, was the fact that Freda was doing this. What did it mean? What was she hoping to gain?
After the fourth time of playing she realized it was on a loop so it was going to play, over and over, until someone turned it off—or until she hurled herself out of the window to escape it. She wouldn’t do that, obviously, the only place to land was the rocks at the base of the tower and she’d never survive that kind of fall. If the wisteria was strong enough she might be able to climb down, but she wasn’t going to try it now. It was already getting dark, and the wind was so strong it would tear her from the creeper and make her fall as disastrous as if she’d jumped.
Where was Brenda? Why hadn’t she come?
Joely had barely taken her eyes off the drive these past few hours desperate to see someone, anyone, but no one had come, or gone, although she was convinced by now that Freda was no longer in the house.
So what the heck was she going to do?
She looked at her computer, thought of her mother and Freda’s crazy accusation, but before she could try to attach any sense to it the music suddenly started up again.
She couldn’t stand any more of it. She needed to think, to work out if Freda knew where her mother lived, if she could be going there to try and settle some imagined vendetta. What the heck was in Freda’s mind? Without her phone she couldn’t warn her mother, but she needed to do something, contact someone, Callum, Edward, Andee . . . There just wasn’t a way . . .
Andee looked up as Graeme came into the bedroom and sat down on his side of the bed.
“Who are you calling?” he asked, kicking off his shoes and loosening his watch.
“I’m trying Joely on the off chance I might get her,” she replied, mobile pressed to one ear, iPad open in front of her. “Hi,” she said to the voicemail, “sorry it’s taken me a while to get back to you, we’ve got a few issues going on here, I’ll tell you when I see you. I’m around all day tomorrow so try me when you can.”
As she rang off Graeme came to take both phone and iPad from her hands and set them on the nightstand. “I know how worried you are about your mother,” he said.
“Alayna too,” she reminded him, referring to her daughter.
“Alayna too, but you’ll be able to help them all much better, Joely too, if you get some sleep.”
Andee smiled as she picked up on the tone of his voice. “And you have just the way to make that happen?” she asked, knowing that he did.
“I do,” he confirmed, and turning her over he placed his soothing hands on her back to start the process with a massage.
It was morning.
Joely could hear the birds singing and the distant sibilance of waves. There was nothing else, no music, no voices, only the sound of her breathing and the silence.
She opened her eyes, carefully, nervously.
It was barely light, but she wanted to weep with dismay when she realized she was still in the writing room, curled up on the daybed. It hadn’t been a nightmare, it was actually happening.
She picked up her phone, and saw straightaway that the battery was dead.
Doing her best not to panic, she swung her feet to the floor and went to open her laptop. It was six-forty-five, so yes, she’d been here all night. Funny how her brain was finding it so hard to accept it. She was wearing the same clothes she’d had on the day before, her mouth was stale, and her hair was tangled around her face.
She pushed it back, rubbed her eyes, and made her way to the WC, not only to satisfy the need to pee, but to put her mouth under the tap for some water.
She was hungry, so hungry that she had to force her mind away from food at least until Brenda arrived. That should be in about an hour.
Everything would be fine once Brenda got here.
After refreshing herself the best she could she ran down to the library to check the door again. It still wouldn’t open and as her frustration threatened to boil over into angry shouts and hot, bitter tears she looked around at the mess she’d created the night before, books all over the place, scattered and damaged like innocent victims of a storm.
What if Brenda didn’t come?
There was no obvious way out, she knew that, unless she wanted to risk her life on the wisteria, and right now she really didn’t.
The moth, or young Freda as we called her in the story, is your mother.
The words had gone around and around in her head through the night as the music had repeated over and over, making it almost impossible to think straight.
Right now it was quiet, though probably not for much longer, so running back to the writing room she took a sheet of paper from the printer and wrote Freda in the top left corner. In the opposite corner she wrote David Michaels.
She tried to remember what other names Freda had mentioned, but could think of none. It was always “my parents,” “my father,” “his uncle,” “his mother.” Were there more twists and lies that Freda hadn’t yet revealed? She flipped open her laptop to check and as she went through the memoir she discovered that apart from random school friends or teachers, she was right, there were no other names.
Just the girlfriend that hadn’t been mentioned until the end.
Linda.
Joely turned cold to her core.
Linda was her mother’s name. Linda Marianne.
In one enormous leap her mind reached a conclusion that sent her reeling. Was Sir her father?
She pushed herself away from the desk, needing to escape this insane scenario. Sir couldn’t be her father, any more than her mother could be young Freda, or Linda the girlfriend . . . Her parents had nothing to do with this . . .
Oh God, no! No! No! The music was starting up again pummeling the tower, crashing through the silence and tossing her thoughts into chaos.
“Sir can’t be my father,” she cried into the clamor, “he can’t,” but with the violins shrieking like demons and heavy drums thundering through her ears she was unable to seize on why it couldn’t be true.