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Cat Jones is standing right in front of the car, illuminated by the headlights like a ghoul.
There is blood on her white dress, a knife in her hand, and a crazed look on her face.
It all happens so fast.
There is no time to think.
In my desperation to get away, I hit the pedal, forgetting that the gear stick is now in drive, not reverse. There is a loud thud as the car slams into Cat, knocking her backwards, before pinning her body between the bumper and the tree.
‘Oh my God,’ I whisper. ‘What have I done?’
The years fall away and all I see is Catherine Kelly in the woods that night, twenty years ago. She must have hated us all very much to have planned a revenge like this. I can’t help feeling responsible for everything that has happened, and I open the door.
‘Stay in the car,’ says Mum, but I ignore her.
Cat’s eyes are closed. There is a trickle of blood leaking from the corner of her mouth, but I might still be able to help her. I make myself walk towards her broken body, then reach out to feel for a pulse.
Her eyes open. She grabs my wrist with one hand, simultaneously raising the knife with her other. I try to get away, but her nails claw into my skin, pulling me closer. The knife seems to fly towards my face in slow motion, and I close my eyes. Then I hear another shot. When I turn around, I see Priya Patel standing behind the car, still pointing a gun in our direction. When I look back at Cat, a dark red stain is spreading across her white dress. Her eyes are still open, but I know she is dead.
Her
Friday 14:30
I open my eyes and see Jack standing at the end of my hospital bed.
‘Apparently, I missed visiting hours, but they said I could say hello,’ he whispers.
‘You’re OK,’ I say.
‘Of course, it takes more than a bullet through the shoulder to stop me.’
I hate hospitals. Apart from the twisted ankle and a lot of scratches, I’m fine. I worry someone else needs the bed more than I do, but the doctors insisted on keeping me here for twenty-four hours. Jack takes my hand in his and we share a silent conversation. Sometimes there is no need for words, when you know someone well enough to know exactly what they would say.
‘Is Mum—’
‘She’s fine, promise,’ he says. ‘They’ve stitched her up and moved her on to a different ward. She’s doing really well, considering.’ He pauses. ‘There’s something else. I’m not sure how to tell you this, and maybe you already know, but I didn’t. Something came up on your mum’s medical records when they brought her in.’
‘If this is about her dementia, then I know she’s a lot worse than before—’
‘It’s not that. I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you, but she has cancer. It was diagnosed a few months ago. I don’t know why she didn’t tell me, us, I mean. I think maybe she didn’t fully understand it herself. But I’ve spoken to two different doctors here now, who have both confirmed it’s an aggressive variety. I’m so sorry.’
I don’t know what to say. My relationship with my mother has been strained since I was a teenager, but I still struggle to come to terms with her keeping something like this from me.
‘She probably just didn’t want you to worry, or frankly forgot – you’ve seen how confused she gets now,’ Jack says, as though reading my mind.
I haven’t forgotten what she told me in the woods about my dad.
Now that I’ve had a little time to think about it, I do believe she might have killed him all those years ago. He was a violent man, and if she did do it, then I believe it was as much about protecting me as saving herself. My mother isn’t the only one who is good at keeping secrets. I am too, and there are some I’ll never share with anyone. Not even Jack.
‘What is happening to Priya?’
‘She did everything she should have.’
‘She shot you, Jack.’
‘I know she shot me. I’ve got a hole in my shoulder to prove it. But if the roles had been reversed I might have done the same. Priya also saved you and your mum.’
‘About that… Mum said that she came to the house, asking questions.’
‘If she did, then she was just doing her job. Cat Jones was very good at covering her tracks and trying to make other people look responsible, but evidence was found at her house linking her to each of the murders – including childhood diaries, in which she went into quite graphic detail about how much she hated you all. Especially you. She seemed to think you pretended to be her friend then betrayed her. Priya witnessed her attacking your mother, and it was lucky she was there again before Cat could hurt you. They still can’t find the knife – which is frankly bizarre, given all three of you saw Cat holding it – but every inch of the woods where it happened is being searched, so I’m sure it will turn up. Forensics think the same weapon was used in all four attacks, and I’m pretty confident she carried out the murders alone.’
I can’t stop thinking about it.
The idea of Catherine Kelly growing up to be Cat Jones is one thing, but her plotting such horrific revenge on girls who bullied her at school is another. It’s hard to believe, but everyone else seems to. I feel the weight of Jack’s stare and snap out of it.
‘I’m so sorry about Zoe,’ I say.
He looks away and his face crumples a little.
‘How did you know? It hasn’t been released to the press yet…’
‘I guess doctors and nurses gossip just as much as journalists. I overheard.’
He nods.
‘I don’t know how I’m supposed to tell my niece that her mum is dead.’
‘You were a wonderful father and I’m sure you’re a brilliant uncle. Olivia is lucky to have you in her life. It will be hard, but you’ll get through it.’
He can’t look me in the eye, and I know we are both thinking about our daughter.
‘I’ve thought about it a lot, and I’m going to move back to London,’ he says. ‘I don’t want to stay here. I’ll sell my parents’ house, go back to the Met, but maybe ask for a part-time role so I can be there to take care of Olivia. I don’t have it all figured out yet. But…’
‘Sounds like you do.’
‘Well, she’s the only family I have left.’
His thought triggers one of my own.
‘You were right about Mum – she needs more help, especially now we know how unwell she is. I’m sorry, I should have listened to you.’
‘Wow, can I get that on the record, please?’ he says, and I try my best to smile.
The apology was served a little cold, but he swallowed it anyway. Sometimes when you are hungry enough for forgiveness from someone you have loved, the tiniest morsel will do.
‘I’ll look at that care home you suggested and try to pay for it myself. That way she won’t have to sell the house, which was always what she was most upset about,’ I tell him.
‘Because she’ll miss her garden and her bees?’
I pause for the briefest of moments.
‘Exactly.’
He takes my hand in his and it feels so good to have him hold it. Such a small thing and yet it makes me cry. Not sad tears, hopeful ones.
