Beverly yelped and dropped the conker. The grass by her feet was dark: saturated, she belatedly realized, with blood.
“It’ll be that bloody dog,” she said hotly, holding out the dirty hand as though she had burned it. “Bloody dog got hold of something again.”
But there was no eviscerated rabbit that she could see, or even a big bird—both of which she had seen on the fields in the past. Instead, as she drew closer to the trunk of the old conker tree, she saw that the blood was flowing from the roots, as though the tree itself were bleeding. The big hollow at its base, normally clogged with old leaves and mud, had been filled up with something else.
“Oh God. Oh God no, oh God …”
Beverly’s arms fell to her sides, her fingers numb. There was a face in the hollow, a woman’s face with her eyes closed and mouth open as if in prayer. Her cheeks were waxy and flecked with dark matter, and there were flowers poking out from between her teeth. Pink ones, noted Beverly, who would never allow pink flowers in her house again. Dog roses, by the looks of it.
Crushed beneath the woman’s head were a pair of feet, bare, save for a silver toe ring and pale pink nail polish, and there was an arm, too, the hand laying palm up on the grass as though she were reaching for help, or, beckoning for someone to join her. Incongruously, she could also see the sleeve of a red jacket, the wide buttons on the cuff dotted with beads of moisture. It was all crammed in so tight that Beverly couldn’t see the color of the woman’s hair or anything of her torso, if indeed that was in there with her, but she could see a soft wall of purplish rope-like things, falling softly to either side of the arm. In the bark above the hollow, a heart had been scratched; some pining lover’s romantic gesture, no doubt.
Suddenly aware she was very close to passing out, Beverly stumbled away from the tree and began to run back to the house, her face wet with tears.
CHAPTER4
“THIS PLACE WAS always a shit hole.”
Heather settled the two glasses on the table and dropped three packets of chips next to them. Nikki picked up a packet of salt and vinegar and peered at it critically.
“You chose it,” Nikki pointed out mildly. She looked, annoyingly, much as she always had. Her hair was in neat black braids and her glasses were slimmer, more fashionable versions of those she had worn in school. She was even wearing a chunky knitted navy jumper, reminding Heather inevitably of their old school uniform. “I know Balesford isn’t heaving with trendy spots, but I suspect we could have managed better than Wetherspoons.”
“Oh, for old time’s sake.” Heather took a sip of her drink and grimaced. Once at the bar she had fallen back into old habits and ended up with a dark rum and coke—the drink she most associated with school. Nikki had ordered a white-wine spritzer, although she seemed more interested in the chips. “I’m sorry I didn’t let you know earlier that I was back in the area, but … everything has been such a mess. How did you know I was back, anyway? Do you have spies watching the house? Are you with MI5 now, is that it?”
Nikki shook her head, smiling. “My auntie lives on your road, you know that. And she basically is the MI5 of Balesford. They were all waiting for you to turn up, once Mr. Ramsey had told everyone you didn’t so much as have a set of your mum’s keys.” Nikki’s smile faltered. “I’m sorry, Hev. Really sorry. How bloody awful. Are you all right?”
Heather shrugged and popped open a packet of chips, not quite meeting her friend’s eyes. Nikki had always been the nice one, the kind one, and having to look at real sympathy on another human’s face was too much to handle at that moment, especially after her wobble at the house. Organic material.
“I’m as well as can be expected, I guess. Looking around the house earlier, I half expected her to still be there, you know? Like it was all some sort of, I don’t know, clerical error. It’s …” Something moved in her chest, and the room felt unstable, as though the floor were about to drop away. “It’s been a while since I’ve been back to the old place. And, well, you know she wasn’t a huge fan of mine, anyway.”
“That’s not really the point.”
“Yeah, I know.” Heather took a sip of the rum and coke, blinking as the burn hit her throat. A headache that had been brewing fizzled away, and some of the tension left her shoulders. “Why would she kill herself, Nikki? I can’t get my head round it. There’s something … it doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t make sense.”
Nikki looked faintly uncomfortable, shifting in her chair. The pub was starting to fill up with lunch trade, people coming in for the five-pound curry deal. “Auntie Shanice wouldn’t believe it at first. Said that Mr. Ramsey must be talking out of his ass … Heather, suicide is difficult to understand. Your mum must have been very unhappy, troubled even, possibly for a very long time, and it’s possible that no one even knew she was suffering. Mental illness can be devastating like that.”
“Yeah. And I’d be the last person to know, wouldn’t I? It’s just …” Heather shrugged. “You remember my mum? I know you do. Never wanted a fuss, preferred everything to be as quiet as possible.
