Chapter 57

I step into Mum's bright corridor, Zelda in my wake. The house is still, silent. All I can hear is the sound of my ragged breath and my raging pulse thundering in my ears. Georgia left the latch on but she's nowhere to be seen. Zelda goes to close the door behind us. ‘Leave it,' I whisper, ‘I told Mrs Anderson I'd leave the door open for her. She'll be here any minute.'

While Zelda was rummaging around in the boot for Mum's door keys, which she's lost yet again, I'd quickly rung Tina and told her Daisy was acting strangely, and although she seemed put out when I gave her Mum's address and begged her to come over, she agreed when I told her she was armed and potentially dangerous, said she'll be as quick as she can.

‘Bloody Tina Anderson,' Zelda mutters, ‘this is all her fault, recommending her unstable niece for your temp job.'

‘Be quiet, Zelda.' I take in the pile of mail on the sideboard, the blue light of the modem next to it, Mum's Reiss red puffer jacket, draped over the banister.

‘God, it stinks in here,' Zelda whispers, pulling her sweater over her nose. It does. The pungent odour makes me retch. ‘It smells like a decomposing body,' she coughs. ‘Not that I know what that smells like.'

My eyes race around the hallway, resting on a vase on the floor by the kitchen door containing a bunch of wilted yellow roses, rotting in murky water, a film of slime at the halfway mark of the glass urn. ‘There,' I whisper, pointing at the culprit. ‘Looks like someone was about to throw them out.'

‘Mum,' Zelda screams, and I silence her with a daggered scowl.

‘Keep your bloody voice down. We don't want to make anyone panic.' Inclining my head, I crane my neck and listen. Nothing, apart from Zelda taking a deep inhalation beneath her sweater.

‘Do you think she's…' Zelda pauses, eyes round with terror. ‘Hurt anyone?'

‘No,' I snap. ‘Daisy wouldn't harm a fly. There'll be a reasonable explanation for all this, I'm sure.' I'm not but wishful thinking never hurt anyone. I go to move when I hear the groan of floorboards. I raise my eyebrows towards the ceiling. ‘Come on.'

The stairs strain beneath our footfall. On the landing, Mum's bedroom door is slightly ajar. The others are all closed.

‘Someone's in there,' I say, ‘don't make any noise.'

We creep into Mum's room as quietly as we can. It's empty. My eyes dart around the room taking in the familiar furniture. The balcony doors are flung open and the drapes are billowing in the light wind. I can see the white metal bistro table and chairs, where Mum often sits painting, a row of neglected pot plants lining the side of the balcony's patio, and then I spot a figure in the gap – Daisy's, and then the sound of weeping - Mum's. Please, God, please don't let there be any casualties. Please let my family be safe.

‘Daisy, please come down,' Georgia whimpers. Her voice is distant, hollow. She's not on the balcony. ‘I'm sorry I called Mum. I wasn't telling on you. I was just…scared.'

‘Come on, love.' Mum's voice, hoarse, panicky. ‘I'll make us all a nice cup of tea.'

‘Right, that's it. I'm ringing the police,' Zelda hisses, pulling her phone out from the back pocket of her jeans.

‘Don't,' I hiss. ‘It might make her panic. She might hurt herself.'

‘If we don't act now then someone is going to get killed.' I shush her angrily. ‘Don't say I didn't warn you.'

‘Please be quiet, Zelda, and stop being so melodramatic. Daisy isn't capable of murder.' Zelda doesn't look convinced. ‘Just let me handle this, okay? She's my temp. I know her.'

I go to move, but Zelda's quick. Elbowing me out of the way, she charges towards the balcony and yanks the curtains back. I chase after her, grabbing a fistful of her sweater in my hand and then we both stop stock-still and watch in startled silence. Daisy is leaning against the Juliette balcony, back to us, blood dripping from her hand and spitting onto the concrete patio, speckled with Mum's colourful acrylics.

Zelda speaks first. ‘What the actual fuck, Daisy? Have you lost your mind?' Daisy doesn't move. It's as if she's wearing headphones, blocking out all noise.

‘That's really going to help, isn't it?' I complain. I move forward. Zelda grabs my arm with both hands. ‘Get off me,' I whisper angrily. ‘Let me do this my way. Please.' Zelda holds her hands up in surrender, head inclined. ‘Daisy?' I call out, stepping forward. ‘Daisy, love, it's Bella.' At this, Daisy suddenly awakens, spins round.

‘Bella,' she says, as if everything is normal, as if she hasn't got a twelve-inch knife in her hand, as if there is no blood pumping from it and spattering onto the floor like a murder scene. Daisy follows my eyes to her injury and tuts. ‘Had a bit of an accident.' She waves the bloodied knife around. ‘Your mum tried to wrestle it out of my hand while I was chopping carrots for tonight's tea. We were just about to call you, actually. Bloody sharp these things, aren't they?'

I edge nearer. ‘Why did she try to snatch it off you?' I say as calmly as I can.

Daisy shrugs. ‘Probably likes being in control. Most mums are like that. Think they know best. Oh, shit.' She wipes her bleeding hand on the edge of her blue top, then lets it flop by her side. I watch as it bleeds out again. ‘It's just a scratch,' she says, dismissively.

‘She's batshit crazy,' Zelda mutters. ‘Why are you being so calm? Call the police.' I don't answer, eyes focused on Daisy. ‘Mum, are you okay?' Zelda yells.

‘Zelda, is that you? Listen, we're fine. Is Daisy okay? Is she hurt? It was an accident. Daisy, I'm sorry, love. I didn't mean to snatch the knife off you.' So, it's true. But something in Daisy's eyes tells me all is not well. ‘I was just trying to help speed things up a bit. I've got a knack, you see.' Mum laughs lightly. ‘I've been chopping veg for centuries.'

Daisy rolls her eyes. ‘See what I mean?'

‘She's fine, Mum.' I yell. Daisy's hand twitches, and my eyes dart to the knife in her fist. ‘Georgia?' Taking a step nearer, I crane my neck and peer into the garden until Georgia and Mum come into view. Mum is squeezing Georgia in her arms – no blood, no injuries, just two frightened faces.

‘Mum, is Daisy okay? I was going to go after her but Nan wouldn't let me.' Daisy snorts when she hears this. Zelda groans behind me, something about not blaming her.

‘I couldn't chase after her,' Mum quivers, ‘not with my arthritic hip, and I didn't want Georgia to…,' she falters. ‘I wanted Georgia to stay down here with me in case I sat down and couldn't get up again.' Mum laughs nervously.

‘Daisy, why don't you put the knife down, love?' I suggest, moving slowly towards her. ‘We don't want any more accidents.'

Daisy looks at me in confusion, then at the knife in her right hand. ‘Ha, I forgot all about that.' She sets it down on the table, straightens her pale blue blood-stained blouse, and then follows my eyes to her wound. ‘It's okay,' she says. ‘It's the fleshy bit of my palm. Looks worse than it is.' She presses the wound with her left palm. ‘I came up to run it under the bathroom tap and find some antiseptic, but ended up in here' She gazes at the golf course that backs onto Mum's garden. ‘What a view, eh?'

Sighing wistfully, Daisy takes in her surroundings. It's clear she's having some sort of mini breakdown. But what set her off? I bite my bottom lip. She has been under a lot of pressure lately – chucked by her fiancé in Dublin – abandoned by her brothers – Tina's husband giving her grief – homeless – adjusting to a temp job and a new home – and now having to uproot again. It's enough to send anyone over the edge. Getting her involved in the Frank saga didn't help. She looked so frightened that night. God, what have I done to the poor girl?

‘I'd better get this cleaned up.' Daisy turns to me.

‘Mum,' I shout, ‘is the First Aid box still under the sink?'

‘I'll get it,' Mum replies.

‘Zelda, grab a towel out of the linen cupboard.' Zelda glares at me. ‘Now,' I yell and she shuffles off in a fury.

I walk over to where Daisy is standing to the backdrop of Zelda's footfall on the landing, followed by the clank of a cupboard door opening, a shuffle and then she's back, handing me a blue, frayed towel, which is falling apart. ‘What?' she says, ‘you're cleaning up a wound not giving her a luxury facial.'

‘Come on, love,' I say, taking Daisy's wrist and wrapping the towel around her hand. ‘Let's go down and get you cleaned up.'

I flick my head towards the knife and mouth, pick it up, as I shepherd Daisy out of the room, and for once, my sister doesn't object.