26
October 14 . . .
As I turn off the main thoroughfare, I notice Abbie Rose driving down the rough road to Jessamine Cottage toward me. As I pull over to let her pass, she slows down and lowers her car window. “I’m glad you’re here. I have to get back to the police station. Evie’s distracted. She wanted to go walking in the woods, but I managed to persuade her to stay at the house, but tomorrow I think it might be more difficult.”
I nod. “Okay. I’ll talk to her. I was going to stay overnight again.”
“Thank you, Charlotte. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
When I park alongside the hedge outside Jen’s house, I get a sense of what Jen must feel, of how she must always be wondering if she’s being watched by an unknown presence, never sure. There are no neighbors here, no one to call out to. I’m aware of fear, too—Jen’s fear, surrounding me, so tangible, I can almost touch it.
When I get inside, she’s rummaging through one of the large kitchen cupboards.
“What are you doing?”
“I can’t find it.” Her voice is agitated. She opens another cupboard, pulls out the contents.
“What are you looking for?”
“My gun.”
I’m taken aback. “What kind of gun?”
“An air rifle. It’s usually in the cupboard under the stairs. I remembered it only this morning. I went to get it, but it’s not there.”
Another memory unlocked or her imagination? I go along with what she’s saying. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? “Are you sure it was there? Perhaps you moved it.”
“I’ve checked all the cupboards. Do you think forensics has taken it?”
“Why don’t you ask? Why do you need it?” Why is she worried about her gun now, of all times? Maybe there’s another reason. Maybe she’s frightened, and having her gun at hand makes her feel safer.
“I don’t.” Then she stops looking and turns to face me. “It’s just that it should be there, but it’s not.”
“When did you last see it?”
A noise comes from her—exasperation, tinged with impatience. “I can’t remember. I probably used it to shoot a rabbit.”
“You shoot?” The picture I have of Jen doesn’t fit with the image of a woman who kills for sport.
“I learned. Have you seen the rabbits, Charlotte? Crawling around, disfigured and blind, with myxomatosis? They’re the walking dead. It’s kinder to shoot them.” She’s matter of fact, and I’m reminded of the way she killed the sick chicken. Her eyes are expressionless. “I wanted Angel to understand how a quick death from a gun is kinder than a long drawn-out one.” Her voice wobbles. “I wanted her to see . . . that death can be a release.”
It seems a lot for a small child to take in. As she speaks, it’s not hard to see that it isn’t rabbits she’s thinking about; it’s her daughter. I try to distract her. “Is there anywhere else we should look?”
“I’ve looked everywhere.” Her eyes are filled with panic. “It’s gone.”
“Come on. I’ll help you tidy up.”
She doesn’t protest. When everything’s put away, I put the kettle on, and she goes through to the sitting room. After another day in which nothing’s been achieved, she’s exhausted.
The rain starts. I can hear it on the windows, light at first, steadily growing heavier. Obviously, we won’t be going out in the woods now, and I say so. As it grows darker, Jen starts pacing from room to room like a caged animal. I realize then that she’s teetering on a cliff edge. Waiting for the worst to happen, for the ax to fall.
“You need to remember there’s a huge investigation going on,” I tell her. “You do realize, don’t you? Officers have been drafted in from neighboring stations, and members of the public are helping with the search. Photos are being circulated. Everything’s being done that can be done.”
She nods, her face devoid of color. “Outside . . . when the police first came here, there would have been footprints. Mine, Angel’s, the person who took her . . .” She seems distracted. “Would forensics have checked?”
I nod. “I’m sure they would have. Talk to Abbie about it. She’ll be able to tell you exactly what they’ve done.”
“She would have told me, wouldn’t she, if they’d found anything?” Her voice is dull.
I’m silent. I suppose she would have.
She goes on. “After she didn’t tell me about Tamsyn, I’m not sure what to think. What else do you think she’s hiding?”
I shake my head. “She hasn’t said anything to me. Look, about Tamsyn . . . I wanted to tell you, Evie. I really did. Abbie Rose asked me not to.”
Jen’s silent for a moment. When she looks up, her voice is ferocious. “If there’s anything else, will you tell me? Charlotte? Will you promise?”
Jesus. I promise, just to keep her quiet, even though it’s a promise I may not keep. “If I were in your shoes, I’d want to know, too.”
Too early, it’s half dark outside, the sky heavy with more rain that’s been swept in off the Atlantic. It’s battering against the side of the house.
Jen brings her tray out to the kitchen. She’s barely eaten anything. As I wash up, she just stands there, not saying anything. After the frenzied restlessness of earlier, there’s something disturbing about her blankness.
I turn round suddenly. “Are you taking the pills the doctor prescribed?”
She nods. Then a strange look comes over her face, as though she can hear something I can’t. She whispers, “He left me.”
I look up sharply. “You mean Nick? Are you sure?”
She’s nodding. “It’s what happens,” she whispers. “People leave me.” Then her eyes start to close.
I take her arm and lead her toward the table. After what Nick told me, what Jen herself has remembered, it makes no sense. “Tell me.”
Very slowly, she pulls out one of the chairs and sits, a look of confusion on her face. “After Nick had gone, I remember staring blankly at the windows as the daylight faded, as the trees turned into silhouettes, until all I could see was myself reflected in the glass. I had this thought—” She breaks off, then shakes her head. “It was like I was on the outside, staring in. Why do I remember that?” She falls silent. “There’s something else I remember, too. This picture of Nick, laughing, taking my hand, pulling me outside, where the rain has stopped and the sun’s so bright, it’s blinding me. I can hear giggling. It’s Angel, wearing a pink tutu over her jeans, dancing across the grass toward me, her small, plump hand reaching for my own.”
Outside, a crack of thunder makes us both jump. I get up and close the window.
“That’s some storm out there,” I say.
But she doesn’t reply, instead leans forward, holding her head in her hands. Then she looks up again. “I remember Nick and Angel, the three of us together.” I watch the blood drain from her face. “It doesn’t make sense,” she whispers.
She’s right. It’s completely impossible. Then another explanation occurs to me. Unless Nick was lying . . . But why would he do that?
“Me and Nick with Angel.” She’s whispering again. “That’s the memory . . . our happy little family. Except we weren’t, were we? He didn’t know about her.”
I watch her. She’s torn between the few facts she has and the drift of ghostly images from her past.
“What I remember didn’t happen. It couldn’t have. . . .” She whispers it, clearly terrified. Then she’s sobbing. “I feel like I’m going mad. . . . What’s happening to me?”