Mo Hayder - Poppet

‘Crush injuries?’

‘Yes – like someone sitting on her. And I don’t mean a ghost sitting on her, I mean a person. A person .’

‘They would have checked, wouldn’t they? That’s the first thing they look for: signs of injury from restraint.’

‘Maybe. But it could have been a stress-induced heart attack. Stress because someone was tormenting her. Did anyone check whether the writing on Zelda’s arms was actually hers ? The writing on Moses’ walls – Pauline’s legs? We all assumed they’d done it themselves, but who checked? I certainly didn’t. Be thou not one of them that committeth foul acts ? Anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery in his heart ? Avoid idleness and intemperance ? Moses might have committed adultery a hundred times, but would he know that word? And where did Zelda learn a word like intemperance? I ’m not even sure what it means.’

‘Greed. It means greed.’

AJ raises an eyebrow. ‘Impressive.’

‘I looked it up. I saw it written … somewhere. On one of the pictures, I don’t know …’ She peers up at her etching of the workhouse, as if groping for a memory. She shakes her head. ‘Anyway – whatever – I looked it up. It means greed.’

‘Sort of fits then, in Zelda’s case.’

Melanie puts the glasses on, frowns tolerantly over the rims. ‘AJ, remind me – what was Zelda’s DSM classification again? I can’t remember.’

‘She was … probably schizophrenia, axis 2? BPD, I guess and—’ ‘Basically, she’s suggestible. Has auditory and visual hallucinations?’

‘I’m asking you to keep an open mind, that’s all.’

‘I have got an open mind, AJ. In fact, I am about as open-minded as they come in this job. And I will promise you this: it didn’t happen. It’s impossible. I’d rather that freaky little dead dwarf came and sat on my chest than have to believe what you’re suggesting.’

‘I think we should look into it. Speak to the police even.’

‘The police have been here all week. They’re as fed up with it as we are, they won’t want us digging it all up again.’

‘I meant a different part of the police? One of the specialist teams. Remember those detectives we met at the Criminal Justice Forum the other day? Major Crime? You were speaking to one of them – you could give him a call, talk in confidence.’

‘AJ, I understand your concerns, but dragging the police back in? Especially when we don’t know what happened. At the moment it looks as if it’s all going to drift, and I for one am more than happy to let that happen, to let the unit slowly settle back to normal. Forgive me – I just don’t think I can handle the police coming back. Not with everything else that’s going on.’

AJ sighs. Sits back and massages his temples. Maybe she’s right – maybe he’s just exhausted and saddled with an overactive imagination. He’s spent far too long in this place over the last seven days – he has time in lieu backing up to next month. He’s got to get some time off.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘Sorry. You’re right.’ He pauses, looks at her hand. ‘And you? How’s your hand?’

She glances down at it. ‘It’s fine. But I suppose you think I’m an alcoholic now.’

‘No. No – like I said, I think you’ve got a lot on your plate. And Jonathan going? That must be hard.’

The words are out before he realizes what he’s said. But it’s too late. Her chin jerks up and a small hint of the emotion he saw in the car yesterday evening creeps into her face. Like cochineal dropped in a lake. ‘I’m sorry? I beg your pardon?’

‘Yes – I, uh – nothing. Nothing.’ He begins to get to his feet. ‘I’m going – forget I said it.’

‘No. Wait. Did I hear you right?’

Now it’s AJ’s turn to feel the colour rising in his face. He stays where he is, half standing half sitting, not knowing where to put himself. ‘Yes – I was only checking you were OK. That’s all.’

‘Does everyone know?’

‘Not exactly every one.’

‘Jesus.’ Melanie drops her injured hand on the desk and shakes her head. ‘Oh Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. What a bloody awful mess.’

FOR THE FIRST time in years Penny doesn’t wake at the crack of dawn and get to work. Instead she sleeps late, alone in the bedroom at the top of the mill. When she wakes it is light outside – grey ice clouds slide lazily across the sky. Suki used to be allowed on the bed – in the dead of night Penny would reach out and feel her comforting warmth. Would get a happy lick on her hand as reward for her effort. Today the pillow in the empty space is cold.

She lies there and looks at it. Suki is gone. She is at one with the great grand power. Now she will feed and nurture everything that grows. Her spirit will float and move like smoke – find its way into each tree, each blade of grass, each bird and each mushroom. Penny is thankful of nature, of the generous and non-judgemental way it orbits and replenishes itself, regardless of humanity and the stupid shit mankind tries. She sings to the trees after she’s borrowed their fruit. In the dead of winter she returns to the plant, bringing a little of whatever it is she’s made – be it jam or cordial or preserves or sloe gin. In these parts everyone used to do this with the apple trees – they’d come in January and anoint them with the young cider of last year’s crop. There are still some groups that do it, though Penny has never joined one. They call it wassailing, this blessing of the tree with its own produce; Penny just calls it plain old ‘thanking’.

‘Thanking trees’? ‘Borrowing’ fruit? Singing to them? No wonder you haven’t got a boyfriend, she thinks. You’re a crusty old hippy. There are wind chimes in your garden, and crystals in the windows, for God’s sake. Crystals . One day you’ll stop washing altogether and grow a luxuriant beard that small creatures will nest in.

She looks at the phone on the bedstand and wonders if there is anyone at all she can talk to about Suki dying. Her brother lives in the next village, but she hasn’t seen him in years, and she doubts he’d care anyway. Who would be interested? The lady in the corner shop, maybe? The neighbours? Probably not.

She pulls up the home-made quilt from the bottom of the bed and holds it to her face. It’s still got a faint dog smell. She breathes it in, rubs it against her face. She made this quilt herself, five years ago, sitting by the fire like an old granny, Suki at her feet. She’d saved up the fabrics from clothes she’d worn out, faded cushions, there’s even a tea towel in here somewhere. It’s loved and worn and threadbare – falling apart.

‘Oh, quilt,’ she murmurs, with a sad smile, ‘you need some TLC. A little repair. Time to rest. Just like me.’

SO, THE BIG Lurch was right – Melanie Arrow and Jonathan Keay were an item. AJ stands for a while in the staffroom looking at a photo of Keay that’s pinned on the board half lost under various notices and postcards and flyers. He’s with the other nursing staff at some long-forgotten Christmas party in some long-forgotten pub. He’s wearing a paper hat and a checked shirt with the sleeves rolled up. AJ studies his eyes, hunting for a hint, a trace of evidence of what was happening between him and Melanie. He can find none.

He’s not at all sure why he went into her office just now. Does it matter to him what happened to Pauline and Moses and Zelda? Was he trying to show her that he cares what goes on in the unit? Stand proud, little soldier. Or was it because he wanted to find out the truth about Melanie and Jonathan Keay?