Chapter 41
On Saturday, Cheryl arrived home to what appeared to be an empty house. Closing the front door, she eased the shopping bags down and rubbed her hands to release the soreness caused by heavy plastic carrier bags. She’d given up asking if she could buy a wheeled trolley.
‘Mum?’ she called. No answer.
Her mother’s coat and hat were hanging in the cupboard under the stairs.
Not that she ever went out alone; she wasn’t steady enough on her feet.
As Cheryl carried the bags through to the kitchen, she couldn’t help wondering what the chances were of Sheila having had a heart attack, maybe a stroke, while she’d been out.
It was a cruel thought, and she didn’t mean it, not really, but Sheila, never an easy person to live with, had become close to impossible in the days since she’d heard about Logan Quick’s legacy.
Sheila wasn’t in the sitting room, the dining room they hadn’t used in years or the kitchen. No sign of her in the back garden either, but that was another place she largely avoided. Which meant she was on another of her treasure hunts.
‘It has to be somewhere,’ she kept repeating. ‘Metal coins don’t vanish. Are you sure you haven’t got it?’
Movement sounded from upstairs. Leaving the shopping on the kitchen counter, Cheryl moved silently up.
She couldn’t avoid the odd creak, but Sheila’s hearing wasn’t what it used to be.
Another sound. Then a grunt from Sheila.
Cheryl reached the top of the steps and turned towards her own bedroom door.
All her clothes had been thrown onto the bed. Her three pairs of shoes lay scattered on the floor. Her mother was balanced on the bedroom chair, reaching up to the top shelf.
‘What are you doing, Mum?’ Cheryl asked, knowing exactly what Sheila was doing. She was looking for the token. But to find it, she’d have to lie full length on the carpet, reach under the bed to where the carpet was joined and slide her fingers beneath it.
Sheila twisted round and the chair wobbled. Cheryl strode – not as quickly as she could have done – and caught her mother round the waist.
‘Get down, Mum. What do you think you’re doing?’
To her surprise, her mother slapped her hand away. ‘Don’t touch me. I know you have it. You’re trying to steal it from me. After all I’ve done for you.’
Not even trying to hide the sigh, Cheryl held up both hands to take her mother’s. Sheila grabbed them, squeezing hard, and dropped to the floor with a thump.
‘Where is it?’ She leaned close to Cheryl, her small, grey eyes glinting with spite.
‘You burned it, Mum. You threw it on the fire. Surely you remember?’
‘Don’t think you can leave me here by myself, lady.’
‘Mum, you’re hurting me.’
‘It’s not too late, you know. I can still go to the police.’
Cheryl tugged her hands free and stepped away. ‘I’m going to unpack the shopping,’ she said. ‘It seems you can get yourself up and down stairs after all, so I’ll leave you to it.’
‘Murderer!’
Cheryl looked back at her mother and saw something of the rage, frustration and helplessness simmering away inside her. Her mother was suffering.
Well, who would have thought it? It felt good.