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I’d first noticed the signs a year ago, just before her fiftieth birthday. The confusion and forgetfulness I’d witnessed back then would later be attributed to Alzheimer’s. It hadn’t seemed possible, and her rapid decline had made it even crueller.
Zoe reached over and turned up the radio, as she sang along to ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’. It was as though she’d forgotten I was there. Zoned in to her singing, she continued to swing her red Clio along the spiralling country roads towards the spa, seeming oblivious to the frosty February evening – the chance of ice on the road. A sprinkling of snow had coated the pavement earlier, and the forecast promised snowstorms heading from Siberia. Slow down! Please.
I stared her way, and as though sensing my eyes on her, she turned, and stopped mid-Galileo.
‘You OK, Rachel?’ she said, tucking her chestnut-brown hair behind her ears with both hands.
‘Hands on the wheel, Zoe, for Christ’s sake,’ I yelled.
‘Jeez, you don’t have to shout,’ she said, doing as I asked. ‘Are you OK?’ she repeated.
‘Of course.’ I smiled. Tonight I was determined to purge thoughts of Mum’s illness from my head and de-stress. Enjoy myself. Lawrence had Grace for the weekend, and the care home had my mobile number. I could relax. It was Friday night. Surely I was allowed to chill every so often, uncoil my tension.
‘Almost there,’ Zoe said, slowing down. ‘I’ve booked us both in for a facial and a head massage, and maybe we could swim too.’ She didn’t wait for a response. She knew what she’d said. ‘Oh God.’ She covered her mouth. ‘I’m such an idiot.’
‘It’s OK. It’s no big deal.’ I smiled, and patted her arm, wishing I hadn’t told her about my fear of water – I didn’t like to make a fuss about it. ‘Actually, I fancy a long read on a hotbed. I’ve brought my Kindle.’
Her eyes were glued on me as I spoke, and her car veered to the right. ‘Keep your eyes on the road or you’ll kill something,’ I cried, although I felt sure it would be us if we didn’t reach our destination soon.
I was relieved when she indicated and pulled onto a sweeping drive, lit by white lights. She manoeuvred into a space in front of Mulberry Hall. I hadn’t been here since it became a spa.
As she pulled on the handbrake, I picked up my bag from the car well, unzipped it, and rummaged for my phone. I found myself constantly checking for missed calls from the care home. My mum had nobody but me. She’d never been one for making friends – a bit of a recluse in many ways – and my grandparents had died before I was born in a car accident. She’d never been close with them anyway, she told me once.
There were no missed calls, only a notification on Facebook. I clicked on the app. ‘Ooh, I’ve got a friend request.’
Zoe glanced over. ‘Well it can wait, can’t it?’ she said, getting out. ‘We totally need pampering.’
I slipped my phone back in my bag, and jumped from the car, eyes scanning the prestigious Victorian building. Both the spa and the luxury apartments had once been an insane asylum, and later a psychiatric hospital.
‘I fancied buying one of those apartments when I moved this way,’ Zoe said, nodding towards Mulberry Hall. ‘But allegedly it’s haunted by old patients.’ She wiggled her fingers and made a howling, ghost-like sound.
‘Oh for God’s sake, Zoe.’ She looked amazing in a red three-quarter-length coat with a fur trim, over tight-fitting leggings and expensive trainers. She was tall, slim, elegant; whereas I was small, and a whisker away from chubby when I’d been on a chocolate binge. A flash of memory came and went – Lawrence telling me that ‘with a bit of effort’ I could look as good as Zoe.
I zipped up my hoodie and hunched my shoulders against the cold, my teeth chattering.
‘They used to do awful things here in the late 1800s,’ she said, her eyes skittering over the building. ‘What a terrible time to have lived if you showed any signs of not fitting the mould.’
‘Mmm.’ I glanced at the towering building. ‘Put in asylums for no good reason half the time.’
‘I know. You could have been admitted for anything from novel-reading to nymphomania – so that’s me admitted.’
‘I didn’t know you read novels.’
‘I don’t.’ She burst out laughing, and I laughed too. ‘Seriously though,’ she said, sighing. ‘They would even admit poor souls for grieving.’
‘It’s hard to believe now how terrible the mental health system was back then.’
‘The treatments were awful. They would immerse patients in ponds until they were unconscious, or tie them naked to a chair and pour cold water over them.’ She looked about her and shivered. ‘I wouldn’t want to be out here alone,’ she said. ‘There’s something spooky about this place, don’t you think?’
I shrugged. It was quiet, yes – but it seemed peaceful, and the apartments were stunning. Anyway, I didn’t believe in ghosts. Truth was, I was more scared of the living.
‘I saw a ghost once,’ she said. ‘When I was a child, I slept with my arm dangling out of the bed. I woke one night feeling certain something cold had touched my hand.’ She shuddered. ‘A girl in blue stood by my bed.’
‘A dream?’ Tingles crawled up my neck, despite my determination not to believe in the paranormal.
‘It must have been. Although I never slept with my arm out of the bed after that.’ She laughed. ‘Let’s go inside before we freeze to death.’
I looked over my shoulder, trying to imagine lost souls looking down from the many apartment windows. And despite only seeing the stunning apartments, lit by what I imagined were happy dwellers, I couldn’t help wondering what secrets the walls held.
As we walked, Zoe nodded towards the lower building we were heading for, built from the same mustard-coloured brick as the apartments. ‘Apparently the swimming pool is where the morgue used to be,’ she said, reaching the door.
‘Good God,’ I said with a laugh. ‘I’m actually glad I don’t swim.’
‘Hello, ladies,’ said the man behind the counter as we approached, his Irish accent charming. He was in his early forties, with a sprinkling of grey in his dark hair.
‘I’m the manager, Connor Mahoney.’ His eyes drifted to Zoe, a look of appreciation on his face. Men seemed to like her.
‘Zoe Marsh,’ she said.
While he glanced at his computer screen and tapped on his keyboard, I studied Zoe’s perfectly made-up face, her blemish-free skin, her full lips, and her perfect eyebrows. I tended to hide my brows under my fringe. I’d never got the hang of plucking, and now power-brows were the in thing, and I hadn’t got the first clue how to shape and fill them. I’d been a bit of a tomboy when I was a kid, so never acquired the skills to be feminine – but it had never bothered me.
Zoe owned a salon in Islington, so knew ways to highlight her beauty, and make men notice. ‘Come along to my salon sometime,’ she’d often said. ‘I could do your colours.’ I never had. I suppose I was happy as I was, with my boxed hair dye, and my cheap-as-chips make-up.
We’d met at a yoga group about six months ago and hit it off. I’d seen her a few times before we finally got chatting, and admired how she’d managed to make all the moves look so graceful. Whereas I’d made the mountain pose look more like a molehill. I was quite sporty – fastest in my class at the hundred-metre sprint when I was twelve – but elegant yoga poses, I struggled with.
‘So you’re both booked in for a facial in an hour,’ Connor said, looking up from the screen.
‘I don’t suppose you could book me in for a full-body massage,’ Zoe said. Her words were tangibly flirtatious.
‘Sorry, we’re fully booked,’ he said, his eyes locking with hers. There was an instant chemistry, and I suddenly felt like a ham sandwich at a vegan wedding.
He handed us robes and towels, and gestured for us to go through the frosted-glass doors. ‘We’ll just take some details and then you can enjoy your evening.’
As we headed towards the hotbeds, Zoe smiled. ‘He’s rather nice, don’t you think?’
‘I guess so,’ I said, and then whispered, ‘But what about Hank?’
She stopped suddenly and covered her mouth with her hand, her chin crinkling.
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ I said, stopping, and two women walked into us. ‘Sorry,’ I said, as they skirted round us, rolling their eyes and muttering. ‘We should have brake lights,’ I called after them, but they didn’t look back. ‘What’s wrong?’ I repeated, my attention back on Zoe, whose eyes had filled with tears.
‘We broke up.’ She removed her hand from her mouth, and slapped the tears from her cheeks. Straightening her back, she carried on walking.
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘I was going to tell you earlier, but didn’t want to ruin the evening. I still love him, Rach. Always will. But I can’t handle it any more.’
‘The drugs?’
She nodded. ‘I’ve tried so hard. You know that, right?’
‘I know you have, lovely,’ I said, linking arms with her and pulling her close, so we walked as one.
‘He’s never going to listen. The other day I found him so out of it, I thought he was dead.’
‘Oh God, Zoe. You can’t live like that.’
‘I know.’ She sniffed, her eyes still watery. ‘It was the final straw. I can’t bear to think that one day I will find him dead.’ She dashed another tear from her cheek with the back of her hand.
‘Of course you can’t.’
I’d only seen Hank a few times. He would pace the pavement some distance away, while waiting for Zoe to finish yoga. And even from across a busy road, I noticed his skin was far too pale, his clothes dishevelled, and his whole demeanour agitated.
‘He still refuses to get help, so for my own sanity I walked out on Tuesday.’
‘You’ve done the right thing, lovely,’ I said, fishing a tissue from my bag and handing it to her. ‘You’ve done everything you can.’
‘Thanks. You’ve no idea how much I appreciate your support,’ she said, dabbing her cheeks. ‘And I know I sound a bit cold flirting with Connor – but I need the distraction, and I suppose the comfort. It’s been hell with Hank for a long time.’
‘You have to do what’s right for you,’ was all I could muster.
‘Life’s short and all that,’ she said.
It wasn’t until later, as I relaxed on a lounger, that I looked at the friend request I’d received earlier. My heart sank as I opened it. I was expecting a long-lost friend, or even a boyfriend wanting to meet up because he’d heard about my breakup with Lawrence – but it wasn’t a name I recognised.
David Green: CONFIRM/DELETE REQUEST
It was no big deal, I told myself. Lots of people got requests from strangers. But then I’d never had anything like it before. My anxiety rose, though I couldn’t put my finger on why.
The temptation was too much. I clicked on his profile. David Green’s profile picture was an image of a lake. His cover photo was of a row of grey houses with red front doors, the words ‘Mandan Road, County Sligo’ at the foot of the picture. He had no friends that I could see, and his timeline only revealed one status update:
Here comes a candle to light you to bed
Here comes a chopper to chop off your head
Below the words was a cartoon gif of a blazing fire.
I shuddered, trying to convince myself it must be a mistake, or some kind of joke. But my heart hammered in my chest. I was born in County Sligo. My mother grew up there. Was it a coincidence? And if so, why did I suddenly feel so vulnerable?
Chapter 3
July 1995
The flames dance like magical beings – telling me I’m right – telling me they deserve to die.
They’d left the back door open, so it was all so easy.
And now I can see David from my window. He can’t get out of the bedroom. I wedged a chair under the door handle.
‘Help!’ he cries as he presses on the glass; well, I think that’s what he’s yelling. I can’t be sure. I’m too far away to hear.
‘Nobody will help you,’ I whisper.
He looks down and I wonder if he’s going to leap from the bedroom window, but the fire grips his pyjamas, and his face changes shape as he cries out in agony. He slips out of sight.
I draw the curtains, rest my head on the pillow, and close my eyes.
Chapter 4
February 1987
Laura let herself into the house she grew up in. It was hers now. The house her father built, with its oversized windows and oddly angled sloping roof, far too modern for the stunning surroundings. The towering trees and wildlife looked on and laughed at it – that’s what she’d thought as a child.
A flick of the light switch illuminated the lounge, the paintings on the walls, the vases cradling dead flowers. The wealth was tangible. Her parents had had far too much: spoilt children wanting more, more, more. Except they’d never wanted her, had they?
Laura flung her denim jacket onto the sprawling leather sofa, and attempted to push the creases of the journey from her orange kaftan. She’d been staying at a hotel in Sligo Town for two weeks. Now she was here, and the shock of her parents’ death was slowly wearing off, bubbles of anger rose in her chest.
She dived towards the drinks cabinet, poured vodka into a cut-glass tumbler, and placed it to her lips. With a jolt, she remembered.
You’re pregnant. You fool.
She abandoned the drink and padded towards the window, barely able to see into the darkness – just a reflection of the room and her still-willowy shape. She would be isolated here, in this ridiculous house she’d inherited, along with far too much money. She would sell soon – once she felt she could move on with her life.
Thoughts of Jude swam into her head. ‘There’s been an accident,’ she’d told him three weeks ago. And when he took her into his arms, she’d buried her head in his shoulder, breathing in the smell of his Brut aftershave, and Consulate cigarettes. She’d hoped at that moment he’d changed his mind. That he would put her and their unborn child before his law degree, before his monstrous parents. That he would care enough to stay.
‘They’re in intensive care,’ she’d gone on. ‘Will you come to Sligo with me? I need you, Jude.’
He’d pulled away, his grey eyes cold – the shock of finding out a few days before that he would be a father still reflecting on his handsome face. He looked too young to be a parent, but then she was young too.
‘You know I can’t, Laura. I’m sorry. Please think about a termination.’ He’d said it so softly, that the word termination didn’t sound so bad. But the truth was, she was already attached to the baby growing inside her – even if it was only the size of a peanut. This would be her and Jude’s child.
She’d cried as he pulled on his jacket, and dragged his woollen hat over his dark curls. And with a final, ‘I’m so sorry,’ he opened the door, and disappeared into the night.
Controlling her desire to race after him, she’d dashed up the stairs to her rented room, flopped onto her bed, and cried into the early hours.
The following morning, her holdall slung over her shoulder, she headed for Connolly Station, and boarded a train for the three-hour journey to Sligo.
She’d told no one she was pregnant. Not that there was anyone to tell. The people she’d rented with had never been close, and although she had friends at university in her first year, falling for Jude meant she’d let them slip away. Even before uni, growing up in her parents’ isolated house meant she’d had few friends – and part of her liked it that way.
As the train rattled along the tracks, she placed her hands on her stomach, imagining her child with Jude’s curls and cute nose, rather than her straw-like hair and sharp features. But it would have her blue eyes – an amazing child that Jude wouldn’t be able to resist, once he’d had time to reflect. He would love their baby. They would be happy. The three of them.
‘Your mother’s gone,’ the nurse had told her when she reached the hospital. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’
A crushing numbness took over. She’ll never love me now. Her eyes ached, but no tears came. She’d dreamt that one day she would be close to her mother – that they might even become friends. It had been a ludicrous dream.
The nurse touched her arm gently. ‘Would you like to see your father?’ she said, after a few moments. ‘Although I must warn you, he’s in a poor way.’
The week that followed had been long and painful. Her father was attached to drips, and the beeps of the monitor penetrated Laura’s head, making it ache. He had been an arrogant man – so vain. Yet now he was swollen and bruised, and she cursed the wicked thought that invaded her head, as she sat by his side. You deserve this.
But still she visited each day, waiting for it all to be over.
‘Why?’ she asked him on day five, a question that spanned so much. But he never woke.
Why did you always drive so fast? Had it been for Mum? Her mother had loved the wind in her hair, as he treated back roads like racetracks.
Laura had been told the woman coming the other way had died instantly. That the child strapped in the back had survived. A child lost her mother because of you.
It was on the seventh day she asked, ‘Why didn’t you want me?’ A tear finally rolled down her cheek, and she imagined for a moment that he squeezed her hand – that he was saying he was sorry. But there was no way he could have. He’d died ten minutes earlier.
And now, Laura stood in her parents’ house, her hair damp from a shower and loose about her shoulders, her feet bare on the cold wooden floor. She knew she wouldn’t go back to university – to the room her parents had paid for. It was time for her to get off the merry-go-round of life, pause time until she had the strength to climb back on – and what better place to come to terms with her parents’ death, her pregnancy, and Jude letting her down, than here in this isolated house in the middle of nowhere?
The phone blasted, bringing her out of her reverie, and she raced to pick it up.
‘Jude,’ she said, twirling the phone cord around her fingers. He was the only one she’d given her parents’ number to.
‘It’s Abi.’
Laura froze. She’d been friendly with Abi in her first year, but she didn’t need her right now.
‘I just wondered if you’re OK,’ Abi went on. ‘Jude told me about your parents. He gave me this number – I hope you don’t mind me calling.’
‘I’m fine, Abi. Honestly. I just need some time out, that’s all.’
‘Well, give me a call, won’t you, if you need anything. I can come up and see you at the weekend, if you’d like me to.’
‘No.’ It came out too sharp. Abi was a good person. ‘Sorry. It’s just I’m fine. I don’t need anyone right now.’
‘Well, OK then. But you know where I am …’
‘I do. Thanks.’
Laura ended the call. The only person she needed right now was Jude.
She cupped her hand over her eyes, and peered through the window, and into the woods, her nose touching the glass. The lake where she’d swum as a child was visible through the glade. There had been some happy moments, hadn’t there?
She narrowed her eyes. Someone was out there, by a distant tree. She blinked. She was tired, imagining things. The area had been deserted when she first arrived, and the nearest life a farm half a mile away. It was the shadows – the shapes of the hedgerow playing tricks.
She lowered the blind and spun round, her eyes skittering around the room. An oil painting of her parents filled the wall above the fireplace. That would have to go. In fact she would bag up most of their stuff and give it to charity. Her father would die again if he knew.
She grabbed her holdall and climbed the twisting staircase, and then stood in the doorway of her old room for the first time in two years. When she’d gone off to the University of Dublin to study art, she’d never looked back, never called – not once. Deep sadness consumed her.
She padded into the room, lifting books from the shelves. They were all educational – no Noddy or Famous Five. Her parents had expected so much of her. It was probably for the best they’d never known about the baby – that she’d made the decision to drop out of university.
Laura had begged her parents for a toy rabbit when she was a child, like Jenny’s at school. ‘Babyish,’ her father had said. She’d been seven at the time.
My child will have toys – all the toys they desire.
She flopped onto the bed, eyes wide and looking at the ceiling, imagining her parents’ awful accident on Devil’s Corner – and how the poor woman had died. Had it been instant? Had the little girl in the back seat witnessed it, or had she been sleeping? How would such a young child cope without her mother?
She felt suddenly cold, and pulled the duvet over her. She curled into a tight ball, cradling her knees.
‘We’ll be OK, little one,’ she told her unborn child, her eyes growing heavy. ‘When Daddy comes, everything will be all right.’
Chapter 5
February 2018
‘It’s a bit weird, that’s all.’ I stared at the kettle, urging it to boil, feeling cross with myself for making too much of the friend request, and for showing it to Angela. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. Just someone having a joke.’
‘Jokes are meant to be funny, Rachel. Aren’t they?’ Angela heaved herself onto the kitchen stool, and rested her elbows on the breakfast bar, gazing my way.
She’d moved in next door about a year ago, and we’d hit it off immediately. I liked to think it was because we both liked Imagine Dragons and drinking rhubarb gin, but sometimes wondered if it was more than that. She was around my mum’s age. Was I looking for a replacement mother figure, or perhaps a gran for Grace? I certainly couldn’t rely on Lawrence’s parents to fill that role; they’d started a new life in Australia before I met him, and he rarely spoke to them.
I swallowed a lump in my throat, guilt rising that I would ever consider replacing my mother, and I attempted to bat down memories of the last time I’d visited her. ‘What a delightful little girl,’ Mum had said, as Grace sat in the communal lounge with her colouring book and crayons, pausing every now and then to suck orange juice through a straw. ‘Is she yours?’
It was those kinds of moments that held the most regret. Regret that I hadn’t made more of the second chance I’d been given when Mum had a heart attack ten years ago. I’d promised myself at the time that I would make the most of every moment – and I did, for a while, visiting her often. But then I met Lawrence, and worked long hours in Kensington, and later we had Grace. Weeks sometimes turned into months. I should have called her more, visited more, especially as she would never have travelled to London.
‘Well, I still think you should take the request seriously, Rachel,’ Angela continued, cutting into my thoughts.
I bit back tears. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing.’
‘It’s pretty odd, if you ask me. Do you think it’s connected to the call-in at the TV studio?’
Well, I do now. ‘Why the hell would it be?’
She shrugged. ‘Hey, keep your hair on, I just wondered, that’s all. Have you tried searching for this David Green on the Internet?’
‘Yes.’ I spooned coffee into mugs, refusing to catch her eye. ‘Last night, but the name is far too common. There are millions of results on Google.’ I’d even searched random LinkedIn profiles, Twitter, and Instagram to see if I could find him, with no luck.
‘Did you add Mandan Road and Sligo to your search?’