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BEFORE
I didn’t go to Trevethan immediately. I called Jenna and Rose. They said they were fine and were there any crisps and I hung up.
My mum wasn’t a predator. She was a good, kind, exceptional woman.
I paced about my kitchen. I made more tea. Hours passed as I stared at the video file on my phone with my thumb over the play button.
Why not take Lydia’s advice?
There was no coming back from watching it.
And if Lydia wanted to take my revenge for me, why not let her? I could walk away.
I could even have Neil. I could lie. I could pretend I’d come home and fallen asleep and deny knowledge of anything. Why let them take him away from me too?
Close to five, I received a message from Lydia’s new phone:
Police gone. Awaiting the twins at TH. Wish me luck. I’m sorry.
I dithered. I know, I don’t seem like the type, but I was tired and confused and worried about the madness of the last day. Was I really in control?
I imagined slipping in through Neil’s back door and worming into his arms. He’d smell of pepper and sandalwood, just like it said on the back of his shower gel.
Although, he probably wasn’t there. Probably, he was searching the woods behind the school or staring in the mirror, wondering if this was the end of his career.
Just walk away, Georgia.
But then I heard my mum’s voice again: ‘Is it on?’ So warm and bright. So completely innocent of what was about to happen to her.
And then I realised I was kidding myself.
I’d been fantasizing about revenge my whole life. And now there was no regretful shred of doubt: I knew I deserved it. Was I really going to let Lydia take the glory?
I was worried about the police putting a tracking device on my car. Was this likely? Had I been watching too much American TV? Perhaps, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me taking precautions.
I happened to know that the lock on the boot of old Mrs Dingle’s Fiat Cinquecento didn’t work, and that she kept a spare set of keys in the glove box. I climbed in and barely noticed myself driving when, on the winding road ahead, I saw the back of Frances’s green Mini, in convoy with Tristan’s Jag. Then they caught up with another car: Lydia’s ancient Rover. They stopped, got out, then set off again.
I dropped back, my heart thudding the whole way.
By the time I reached Trevethan, they were inside. I considered going up, listening from outside, but why risk it?
I had a plan.
Tristan raped my mum then tried to kill her. Frances hid the tape that could have convicted him. Lydia and Mina backed up the lies that made my mum kill herself.
Some people deserve to die.
And I’m not sure if you’ve ever cared for a sizeable garden before, but I knew the kinds of things my dad had likely stocked in the shed since his return. Petrol for the lawnmower, sure. Matches for a sneaky cigarette, definitely. But, knowing Dad, ever overzealous, and the never-ending nettle problem at Trevethan…
I pushed into the shed and there she was, a Primrose 9XD. The name was written on the side in friendly pink writing.
I picked up the cool, heavy canister with its flexible black neck, the long metal shaft leading to the nozzle, and headed back towards the house.
It sounds harmless, doesn’t it? Sweet, delicate even.
But in fact it’s a propane weed torch. Or, if you like, a flame thrower.
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