The shotgun had been Margot’s, used mostly for clay-pigeon shooting, kept in a special cabinet in a shed under lock and key, although Adam sometimes borrowed it to go shooting. They were both members of a shooting club about two miles away, although Heather was never interested in joining. The licence was up for renewal. Maybe she should have got rid of it. Guns, it seemed, brought nothing but bad luck to their family.

Four days. It’s now been four days that her darling Heather has been in this state. The doctors warned her that the longer she spends in the coma the less likelihood there is of a full recovery. She brings Heather’s hand to her cheek – her daughter’s skin is still so soft. Oh, please wake up, please … please, she silently begs.

Margot glances towards the All About Me board on the wall. The hospital issues them to all ICU patients so that their families have a place to display photographs or other information that might be useful. Adam’s written down Heather’s favourite radio station – Absolute 90s – and he’s pinned up some photos. Margot’s heart breaks every time she looks at them. There’s one of Heather, her face wide and smiling, holding a newborn Ethan just after she’d given birth. In this very hospital, in fact, only eighteen months ago. There’s another of Adam and Heather’s wedding day ten years before. Heather looks so beautiful, young and innocent in a simple yet elegant gown, her hair piled on top of her head, tendrils framing her face. Adam, tall, dark and brooding, is next to her in a suit that looks a fraction too small. They married young. Too young, Margot had thought at the time, but they’d been so much in love – they’d shone with it. Then Ethan came along, a much-loved and wanted baby, after years of trying. Heather suffered – suffers, she’s still alive, she’s still here – from polycystic ovaries, which made falling pregnant difficult. Things hadn’t been plain sailing since Ethan was born. Heather had had post-natal depression in the immediate weeks following a traumatic birth, and found it hard to cope. But things had been getting better. At least, she’d thought they were.

What were you thinking, sweetheart? she wonders, for the umpteenth time, her daughter’s hand still in hers. Why did you kill those two people?

Chapter 4

4

I can hear voices. Are they real or imagined? I can’t make them out. Every time I think I’ve understood a word or phrase, they disappear so that I can’t catch them, like bubbles bursting in front of me. I can remember the weight of the gun, the sound of it going off. The drugs are too strong. They’re dragging me back under, stopping me remembering, preventing me from hurting. And I don’t want to remember. Because I think I’ve killed someone.