Page 70

Chapter 69

Anna

It smells of Christmas in here. Two candles are burning behind me, one bay and rosemary and the other cinnamon and orange. Their scents are so strong, they’re cloying in my throat. But I don’t blow them out.

I’m perched by the kitchen window, staring at Margot’s house. Drew is with me. The media interest following her attempted murder has yet to die down. I’ve been a casualty of it too, finding myself at the centre of much unwanted attention. My name was leaked to the press as the person who discovered Margot was trapped in the bonfire. I’ve been doorstepped by journalists and photographers who took photos of me before I could give them a ‘no comment’ then close the front door. They’ve been persistent and have made many attempts since, calling me or pushing notes through the letterbox. Perhaps Margot being discharged will shift this news cycle in the direction of somewhere else tomorrow. Because I can’t move on until it does.

I’ve yet to speak to her and I don’t know what she’s told the police. I made an official statement at the station, and the fact they haven’t come to the house to question me further in the last four weeks or to arrest Drew suggests they don’t know what she knows. That my brother tried to murder her in one of the most horrific ways imaginable.

I both want to see her and don’t. She must have so many questions, but then, so do I. I’m still unaware of how or when Drew got Margot into that bonfire, but according to a story in the Mail Online , her blood tests revealed the presence of a powerful sedative in her system. In fact, the measure was so high that it was a miracle she hadn’t died from an overdose, let alone the fire.

I stop looking at her house and scroll through the news on my iPad. Margot’s life continues to be picked apart, feasted upon, the past rehashed and the future speculated about. The haters are still as vocal as ever, posting bonfire memes with an effigy of Margot superimposed on top like Guy Fawkes. But they’re diminishing. After so many years as an outcast, the court of public sympathy finally appears to be welcoming Margot back with open arms.

Outside, a car catches the corner of my eye.

‘It’s Nicu,’ Drew says before there’s a rush of movement and photographers run down the street, trying to be the first to grab sellable images of Margot. My heart moves up a gear as Nicu opens the rear door like he is her chauffeur. I can just about make her out through the crowd as she exits. She is wearing sunglasses and a headscarf like an old Hollywood idol. I switch my iPad to camera mode, zooming in for a closer look. She pauses and grasps the door as if weak and in need of an object to steady herself.

‘Once again, we’re in the audience of The Margot Show ,’ says Drew dryly.

Nicu leads her slowly into the house, but before entering, she turns to wave. Then she slips her sunglasses down ever so slightly until her green eyes can be seen, and even though I’m sure I’m imagining it, I feel the weight of her stare. It’s as if she knows I am hiding in here, watching and waiting for her return. I shrink into myself. She turns one last time and the door closes behind her.

‘In a twisted way, she should be thanking me,’ adds Drew. ‘I’ve given her everything she wanted. A second stab at fame and public forgiveness.’

I don’t respond. Even if, for once, I agree with him.