Daughters of Pengollan (eBook)

5

Shannon’s head throbbed in sync with the raindrops battering the caravan roof. Eyes scrunched tight, she rolled slowly onto her side and slid her legs off the bed. Her mouth tasted like the bottom of a sewer. Christ, thirty-eight years old, and still a good night out for her was to get pissed on cheap cider and have a quickie with a man whose name she couldn’t remember.

Images from the previous evening flitted in and out of her mind, but large parts were a black void.

How the hell had she got home?

She stood on shaky legs and peered through the window. Her car stood parked at a weird angle, its back end stuck out into the lane. Tufts of grass and earth framed yet another dent in the vehicle’s wing.

Shit.

She slapped her forehead. If she’d killed someone, she would’ve been no better than her mother.

The milk she’d bought two days ago tasted sour. She spat it out and pushed the bottle to one side. Her stomach rolled. It wasn’t worth wasting the last of her cornflakes on breakfast.

As she was pulling off the stained and creased clothes she’d worn the previous evening, she suddenly saw the time. Damn. It wouldn’t do to be late for Mrs Martin. Grabbing a clean pair of jeans and a sweater, she shoved a piece of chewing gum into her mouth.

Fresh air and rain blasted her face, and in her hurry, she nearly missed it.

Another note, this time tucked under the windscreen wiper. Probably from Matt? Mark? Whatever.

The note was in a plastic bag; what a pillock.

Except it wasn’t a pithy thank you or his phone details. It was a newspaper cutting.

Shannon sat inside the car and laid the article flat on the steering wheel. Her hands shook so much that the old, yellowed paper punctured under her touch. It was a piece from the West Briton newspaper. The headline – Local Woman Responsible for Deaths – scorched the backs of her eyes. Her chest tightened as the words and images battered her senses and released memories that she’d kept locked in some deep, dark hole for over twenty-three years.

There were the wonderful memories of the celebration they’d enjoyed to mark her and Rosa’s fifteenth birthdays. And then there were the hideous memories of the nightmare ending to that day – when her mum had killed Rosa’s mother.

The pain in Shannon’s chest grew physical and she unconsciously clawed at the collar of her sweater. Momentarily, she thought she was going to die, but she knew it was a panic attack and it would pass. They had before.

Breathe in. One. Two. Three. Breathe out. One. Two. Three. She repeated the routine until her head cleared.

Who was doing this to her? For a nano-second, Shannon wondered about going to the police. A shiver ran over her. No point. What help had they ever been?

A hand slapped on the driver’s window. She jerked upright. In her haste to push the newspaper out of sight, she ripped it in two.

Zach grinned at her, his lips distorted by the rain running down the glass.

‘What do you want?’ She thrust the door open and got out.

‘I came to check if you’re okay. Your car looks a bit worse for wear and–’

‘Leave me alone.’ She turned away from him. Her gaze rested on the scrunched-up newspaper. She swung back to face Zach. ‘Did you leave this on my windscreen?’

She glanced at his face, then to the newspaper, and back.

‘Look, Shannon, I don’t know what your problem is. We live in the same place, got the same crappy landlord.’ He pulled the collar of his coat up around his ears. ‘I only want to help. I thought we could get to know each other a bit more. Like, be friends.’

‘I’ve got enough friends.’ She pressed a forefinger against her temple.

‘That’s not what I hear.’

‘Piss off.’

Zach raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘Okay, okay,’ he shouted over his shoulder as he strolled back down the track.

Shannon ran across the walled garden, chewing on her third piece of minty gum. Thankfully she was on time because Mrs Martin stood in the open doorway of the biggest greenhouse, leaning on a rather large golf umbrella.

‘Hi, Mrs Martin. Phew, what a journey. Rainwater is gushing off all the fields and the road’s flooded outside of Cribba Village.’

‘My late husband used to say that a day like this is only good for ducks.’ Mrs Martin let out a little giggle, then straightened her trilby hat. ‘I must say the pots and greenhouses are looking in top shape. Jack will be pleased when he returns next week.’

‘Next week?’

‘Yes, Shannon, that’s what I came out to tell you. The doctor has deemed Jack hale and hearty enough to return to work.’

‘Oh.’ Shannon’s shoulders slumped.

‘I’m sorry, my dear, but after this week, I won’t be needing you anymore. We’re all up to date with the finances, I believe, with the cheque I gave you last time you were here.’

‘Yes, yes, that’s fine. Thank you.’

‘Please take these as a little token of my appreciation for all your hard work.’

Mrs Martin picked up a plastic bag by her feet and handed it to Shannon. Inside was a tin of Marks and Spencer’s biscuits; as it happened, Shannon’s favourites on the rare occasions she could afford them. But a tenner in cash dropped in her palm would have been more welcome.

‘Thank you, Mrs Martin, I will certainly enjoy these.’

‘Excellent, well that’s that. Have a good day.’

‘Mrs Martin?’

‘Yes.’

‘If you need any additional help in the gardens or the house, please would you consider me.’

‘I’m rather hoping neither Jack nor Maisie, my darling household assistant, will fall ill any time in the future.’ Mrs Martin looked up at the rain thudding onto the glass roof. ‘But you’ll be the first I’ll call should the need arise.’

‘Thank you.’

With that, Mrs Martin pulled her sheepskin coat tight across her chest, flipped the multi-coloured umbrella open and headed at a rapid pace towards the main house.

Damn it. Another week or two of work at Mrs Martin’s would have meant the difference between paying her rent and not being able to pay it. The difference between scraping by and not.

Shannon parked outside the neat, terraced house in Falmouth. She reached for the door handle, then hesitated. It had been such a hideous day, maybe she should go home and not dump her troubles onto others. She sat for a few minutes, then got out of the car, walked up the path and pushed the backdoor open.

Laughter and happy voices filled the air, and the sweet smell of home cooking and warmth enveloped her in a welcome hug.

‘Hi, it’s only me,’ she yelled.

‘Come in, my lovely. I’m in the kitchen feeding the five thousand.’

Mia and Archie scrambled from their chairs and rushed to hug Shannon. She knelt to kiss them and to take in the fragrant scent of their clean skin and freshly shampooed hair. An older boy, Harley, remained slouched at the table. He mumbled a greeting that she couldn’t make out. God, how she loved these kids.

Nina stood beside the table spooning Spaghetti Bolognese onto three plates. ‘I’m eating with Jake later, but you go get yourself a plate and sit your bum down. There’s more than enough here for you as well.’

For a few seconds, Shannon stared at her friend’s smiling face, big brown eyes and the mass of curly hair that tumbled down her back, as if seeing her for the first time all those years ago. Nina was the only person in the world, apart from Rosa, who knew all there was to know about Shannon Reid. They’d met at the age of fifteen when they were both in the care of the local authority. Whereas Shannon had never shaken off those awful times, Nina had made good.

Shannon walked over and embraced her friend.

Immediately, Nina squeezed her into a big bear hug. ‘Hey, what’s up?’

‘Shit day.’

‘Hmm, that calls for a couple of lagers, I think.’ She leaned into the fridge. ‘Tell you what, I’ll put a few more on ice.’

For the first time in days, Shannon’s shoulders relaxed. The rich Bolognese sauce hit the spot as the children chatted over the events of their day at school. When the last mouthful was gone, Nina wasted no time piling up the plates.

‘Right, kiddos, off you go and watch the TV. Me and your Auntie Shannon have grown-up things to talk about.’

As soon as the kids were gone, Nina pushed the dirty dishes aside and poured another lager. ‘So, spill. What’s up?’

Shannon reached for her rucksack, pulled out the two halves of the West Briton article and the torn photograph and handed them to Nina. ‘I found the photo nailed to the caravan door last week and the newspaper piece was on my windscreen this morning.’

‘Whoa. Do you know who they’re from?’

Shannon shrugged.

‘It’s certainly a funny old way of trolling you. If you were on Facebook, you would’ve had a million comments by now.’

‘I think it might be Rosa,’ Shannon whispered.

‘Rosa? No way.’

‘She’s the only one who would know all this stuff and who might still want to cause me grief after all this time.’ Shannon took a gulp of lager. She shouldn’t drink anymore. The cider from last night was probably still lurking in her system. ‘But she wouldn’t have a clue where I live, so it’s probably not her if I think about it logically.’

‘You told me Rosa scarpered up-country years ago. Is she back then?’

‘I nipped into Falmouth Library after I got the photo. Did a bit … Well, a lot, of googling and stuff on...