‘I think so, just frightened,’ replied his wife.
A light suddenly appeared in the Morgan-Smith’s bedroom window, presumably as curtains had been pulled open.
Gerry realized he had left his headlights full on, and they were still directed at the house. He had been in such a hurry and so shocked by the appearance of the child in front of him in the road, that he’d not even switched the engine off.
‘Look, Gerry, I’m sure everything’s fine,’ said Anne. still keeping her voice light. ‘Why don’t you move the car before we wake the entire road. Go home. I’ll call you if I need you. I’m sure I won’t—’
Gerry felt doubtful. Very doubtful. He did not share Anne’s confidence.
‘No, you go home, I’ll take Joanna back,’ he interrupted.
‘Don’t be silly, Gerry, you have to move that blessed car.’
Not for the first time during their long marriage, Gerry wished his wife could drive. His feeling that all might not be well at the Fergusons was growing stronger by the minute. He was about to protest further when he saw another light go on in the Morgan-Smiths’ house. The one on the landing, he thought. Damn. They were probably on their way downstairs to investigate. Gerry wasn’t overly fond of the Morgan-Smiths, and in any case didn’t really feel like answering a lot of tom fool questions in what was, for him, the middle of the night. Anne was right, he really must move the car. He would so much have preferred to be the one returning little Jo.
‘All right,’ he agreed reluctantly. ‘I’ll park up at home and unlock whilst you take Jo back. But call if you’re uneasy about anything. Promise?’
‘Promise,’ replied Anne.
Gerry turned and started to walk quickly to the abandoned vehicle.
As he approached he saw the figure of a man, or a woman, standing by the Morgan-Smiths’ gate, weakly silhouetted against the lights from the house. Or he thought he did. There was something or someone there, surely.
He cursed under his breath. Had one of the Morgan-Smiths’ come outside already? He feared he was about to have to face the cross-examination he so wanted to avoid.
Which Morgan-Smith was it? He marginally preferred the prospect of having to deal with Frank over Daphne. Though there wasn’t much in it. He narrowed his eyes, peering ahead.
The figure had not moved, surely. But it did not seem to be there anymore. And if it had been Frank or Daphne they would sure as heck have made their presence felt. Gerry was relieved. Or half relieved. He had been so convinced someone was standing there. And if it hadn’t been one of the Morgan-Smiths, who on earth was it?
He felt most uneasy. He told himself firmly that he must just be the victim of a trick of the light. He was seeing things that simply weren’t there. He made a mental note to get his eyes checked, and see if he could be prescribed some glasses which might help with night vision. After all, he had found driving at night difficult for some time now. Yes, he was getting old and he was seeing things. It was as simple as that.
However, he wasn’t able to entirely convince himself.
Still holding Joanna Ferguson tightly in her arms, Anne Barham turned away from her husband and headed for the Ferguson home, number eleven. Joanna started to cry more loudly again. The little girl seemed to be in total shock. But then, she was only six, Anne told herself. Just being alone in the dark would be shock enough at that age to spark a near hysterical crying fit.
Joanna was a fair weight too. Anne, hurrying as fast as she could through the rain, would have quite liked to put her down and make her walk, but she wasn’t sure if the tot was capable of that right then. Certainly, the easiest thing to do was to grit her teeth and carry the six-year-old. But she had to do it more or less with one hand as she needed the other to aim the phone torch before her.
She made it to the Fergusons’ house and into their drive. The big iron gates stood open. That momentarily surprised her because they were electronically operated security gates, and they were usually closed and locked. Then she realized they would have had to be open, for whatever reason, for Joanna to have been able to wander out in to the street. The garden lights didn’t come on automatically like they normally did. The front door was slightly ajar. It was all more than a little disconcerting. As Anne approached, little Jo’s weight became too much for her. She lowered the child carefully to the ground and took her hand.
A pale light shone into the porch. From the landing, she thought.
‘Right, let’s go and wake Mummy up, shall we,’ she murmured to Joanna, pushing the door with one foot.
It swung easily fully open. A shadow, not immediately recognisable, from an object that seemed to be moving slightly in the subsequent draught, passed over Anne’s head, once and then again.
Anne looked upwards.
Jane Ferguson was suspended from the bannisters, her body swinging gently where it hung in the stairwell, suspended by a rope fastened tightly around her neck.
Her tongue protruded through her open mouth. Her eyes were also wide open and protruding unnaturally in their sockets.
She was clearly dead. She had been hanged.
For several seconds Anne couldn’t quite take in the terrible scene before her. She stood quite still staring ahead, as if she were rooted to the spot.
‘There’s Mummy,’ said Joanna. ‘Are you going to wake her up now, Anne?’
The child’s voice jerked Anne into action. She bent down and picked up the little girl again.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’m going to take you over to our house. Then I’ll come back to... to... look after Mummy.’
Jo didn’t argue.
Anne, valiantly fighting the trembling fit which was threatening to engulf her entire body, turned away from the grotesque scene before them and was about to carry Joanna out of the house when a thought suddenly occurred to her. Joanna had a twin brother.
‘Jo, wh-where’s Stevie?’ she asked.
‘I... I don’t know,’ stumbled the little girl.
‘Did he leave the house with you?’ Anne persisted. ‘Is he outside somewhere?’
‘I... I don’t think so. He was asleep... ’
Anne glanced back, almost involuntarily, over her shoulder.
So, Stevie might still be asleep in his bedroom, with his mother hanging dead from the bannister directly outside. She needed to check the bedroom. But she couldn’t do so with little Joanna in her arms. Neither could she inflict any closer proximity with her clearly dead mother on the little girl. Nor on herself, come to that, she thought.
She’d just decided that she would continue with her intention of taking Jo home and get Gerry to seek out Stevie, when she heard a sound from the landing. She looked up. Stevie, wearing a dark blue sleepsuit decorated with silver star-bursts, was standing on the top stair. His spiky blonde hair was tousled, he had the thumb of one hand in his mouth, and in the other hand carried his toy teddy bear. He looked like something out of Christopher Robin.
But this was no Christopher Robin story, thought Anne, wondering exactly how she was going to cope with both children in these shocking circumstances.
Stevie was staring at his mother, hanging there in front of him. But it was almost as if he did not see her. He kept looking, yet didn’t react. Anne knew she had to get him away from the house too. And as quickly as possible. She coaxed the little boy down the stairs and handed him her phone.
‘Right Stevie, you and Joanna are going to come next door to ours with Gerry and me for a little while, and I want you to shine the torch right in front of us as we go. Can you do that?’
‘Of course, I can,’ said Stevie.
‘Let’s go, then,’ said Anne.
She took his hand as they walked awkwardly down the short drive and onto the street, Stevie’s steps uncertain and Joanna a near dead weight in Anne’s arms. The little girl had buried her face in Anne’s shoulder and was continuing to sob. The little boy still seemed more bewildered than anything else, and was clearly trying to be brave.