Then She Vanishes(7)

‘So, you’re a journalist now?’ she asks instead, folding her arms across her chest in a way she hopes displays her disapproval. It’s not surprising, she thinks, as she surveys the woman standing in front of her. Jessica had been fourteen the last time she saw her, hanging around the clock tower with a new group of friends, drinking and generally behaving like a little tart, draped over some boy. Margot had felt so angry that she’d called Jessica at home and reprimanded her about how she’d treated Heather. She wasn’t proud of her behaviour, looking back. Jessica was only a teenager.

Jessica hesitates. ‘Yes, I am … but that’s not the only reason I’m here.’

Margot rolls her eyes. Of course it is! Why else would she come?

Jessica obviously notices because she adds, ‘I also wanted to say how sorry I am. For the way …’ She swallows and, for a brief moment, Margot thinks she notices tears film Jessica’s eyes. But, no, she must be mistaken, for Jessica Fox has no heart. ‘… for the way I treated Heather, back then.’

‘For abandoning her,’ Margot states. After all, let’s call a spade a spade, she thinks. ‘After she lost her father. Her sister.’

Jessica nods, her shaggy fringe falling in her face. The gesture gives her vulnerability and unexpectedly reminds Margot of Heather. ‘Yes,’ Jessica says, in a small voice. ‘I treated her badly, I know that. I was a kid, and I was stupid and selfish. I didn’t think about Heather’s feelings. I just …’

Jessica doesn’t have to finish her sentence. Margot knows exactly what she must have been thinking all those years ago. She’d wanted to get away from Heather and all her bad luck. Maybe she’d thought it was contagious.

‘Why now?’ demands Margot. ‘Because Heather’s in hospital, accused of killing two people? It’s a juicy story, I’ll give you that.’

Jessica shuffles, clearly uncomfortable. ‘I moved away. I’ve only been living back in the West Country for a year.’

‘And you didn’t think to look us up before? You didn’t feel like apologizing then?’

Jessica opens her mouth but no words come out. What can she say? thinks Margot. Where’s her defence? Then, eventually, she says, ‘It’s been years, Margot.’

Margot’s suddenly had enough of this conversation. She doesn’t want to look into Jessica’s big brown eyes, doesn’t want to feel anything for the girl standing before her.

She pulls herself up to her full height and can almost feel her heart hardening. ‘I have nothing more to say to you.’ Before Jessica can utter another word Margot closes the door firmly in her face. Then she leans against it, her heart pounding. She places a hand on her chest and takes a deep breath.

‘Margot.’ She hears Jessica’s voice through the door. ‘The press, they’re going to keep hounding you until you give your side of the story. And wouldn’t you rather speak to me? Someone you know? If you give me an exclusive, they’ll go away. Margot? Margot, please, just think about it.’ She hears the letterbox clatter behind her as Jessica pushes something through it. Margot counts to ten before turning and picking it up. It’s a business card. Margot rips it in half and throws it into the wastepaper basket.

Margot watches from the safety of her living-room window until Jessica has driven away, then goes upstairs and changes out of her riding gear. Downstairs again, she locks the house and almost runs to her Land Rover, as though she’s expecting the press to be hiding in the surrounding bushes ready to pounce on her with their microphones and cameras. But nobody else is around. There’s only one static caravan in use at the moment, by their long-term tenant Colin. He turned up five months ago, on the weekend the clocks went back, and hasn’t left. Not that she’s complaining. He doesn’t say much, but he pays on time and it’s an income, even if it’s only small. She thinks he’s probably lonely. For once, she’s thankful they’re out of season. Adam usually manages the camping site but, understandably, he’s not been able to cope with that at the moment. The poor man is out of his mind with worry. And so is she. Because all she can think about is what awaits Heather when she finally wakes up. She refuses to think if she wakes up. She knows Heather’s made of strong stuff.

At this time of day it takes Margot just over half an hour to drive to the hospital in Bristol. She tries to avoid the rush-hour if she can and the ICU is open from 10 a.m. until 8 p.m. She parks, then walks the ten-minute journey from the multi-storey to the hospital reception. It’s been only four days since Heather was admitted but already Margot feels she’s too used to the atrium that reminds her of an airport terminal, with its many shops and cafés, and the weird smell – a mixture of chemicals, coffee and vegetable soup.

When she first arrived on Friday, not long after Adam had rung to tell her about that life-changing phone call he’d received from the police, Margot had wondered if she’d ever get used to finding her way along the maze of corridors. Then, she’d been almost blinded by shock and fear. Her mind had screamed that it couldn’t be true, that her daughter wasn’t capable of such a horrendous crime. Why? Why would she do it? It made no sense, not when she had everything to live for. A lovely home, a supportive husband and a beautiful baby boy. No, there had to be some mistake. She’d arranged to meet Adam in the atrium and the two of them had stumbled towards Heather’s room, as if they were disaster survivors. And then she had seen that there was no mistake. The woman lying alone in the bed, attached to so much machinery she wondered how anybody could get near her, really was her daughter.