Fielding Fear by Lynn Scott-Cumming
Rain raced after Hilda as she dashed across the car park. Someone had been tailing her nearly all the way from her home to the Palmetum. She was sure she wasn’t being paranoid. She hadn’t even arrived at the tea rooms and her first day as Writer in Residence was already a disaster, her nerves twanging. Once she was safely inside, she could watch for him to enter. If he followed her in, she would at least know what he looked like. She pulled to a halt. The place was shut, the front entrance blocked off with temporary fencing. Builders were busy replacing the ramp and the front steps. At least there were strong men on hand, if she needed help. The tea room staff knew she was coming. It was supposed to be open. Why didn’t they let her know it would be closed? She glanced at a sandwich board beside the gates to the Palmetum and with relief noticed an arrow pointing to a temporary walkway that led around the side. The ramp bounced under her hurried steps. A large raindrop hit her face and slid from her eye, like a tear, as she stepped across the threshold into the busy eatery. ‘I’ll have a mugachino, please,’ she said, interrupting the young woman who was busy serving another customer. Startled, the waitress glanced up. Their eyes met. She shrugged her annoyance, but nodded. Order taken. Hilda chose a table in the corner, in front of three pictures of palms. Her arthritic knees creaked as she sank onto the sturdy wooden chair. From here, she’d be able to see if anyone showed an interest in her. Unfortunately, anyone following her would spot her immediately, wherever she sat. Her only escape would take her past him. She should have thought of that. Her old brain didn’t think as clearly these days, what with the diabetes, anxiety and depression. The endocrinologist, the diabetic nurses and the psychologist had all taken pains to explain the reasons to her. She chewed at her lower lip. Why had she ever wanted to become a Writer in Residence? It was too much of a challenge. It played on her nerves. Instead of coming here, she should have darted into the Good Shepherd Hospice and disappeared along one of the many corridors. Her pursuer might have
mistaken her for one of the patients. Maybe she would have been served afternoon tea by the staff. She felt decrepit enough to blend in. Her hip was on fire where her chalky bones were crumbling with the effort of supporting her weight. Her bag, heavy as usual with her tablet, paper, pens and a partially edited manuscript, had set her tennis elbow aching. Ridiculous name, especially when the actual problem stemmed from her shoulders. Growing old was a curse. Her pursuer hadn’t come in. Not that she really knew what he looked like. Maybe he was simply visiting the hospice instead of following her. What a timid fool she was. The woman at the table next to hers was eating strawberry shortcake. It looked delicious. That man, was he the one following her? No. He’d taken a seat facing the other direction, evincing no interest in her—thank the gods. Damn it all, she would order cake. It would help to calm her. She should have eaten lunch before she left home, but she hadn’t and now she felt weak-kneed and shaky. She caught the young waitress’s eye, pointed to the display cabinet, and beckoned. The girl held up two fingers and mouthed the words ‘Two minutes’. When she came to the table, Hilda asked, ‘Do you have carrot cake? Can I have a slice with my order, please?’ There, she’d shown some restraint. The carrot cake wouldn’t be anywhere near as bad for her as the strawberry shortcake. The waitress brought her order and Hilda sighed. Her attempt to order fewer calories had failed. The cake had a side serving of whipped cream drizzled with syrup. The coffee was sprinkled with chocolate and there was an after dinner mint on the saucer. She could, of course, not eat the cream or leave some of the cake, but it was unlikely she would do either. Her conscience, who lived next-door, would castigate her if she knew. Jilly hadn’t waved this morning. She usually did, as soon as Hilda stepped outside. She took one dainty forkful at a time, forcing herself to eat slowly and savour each morsel. She’d finished the coffee, scribbled a few plot lines on her tablet, and had one small forkful of cake left on the plate when she noticed a tall man in his forties enter the tea rooms and go straight to the counter. ‘Did a fat lady, grey hair in a bun, come in here?’ he asked loudly.
* This story has a choice of endings, some gentler than others. You can explore them all, or choose one. Click on a numbered hyperlink to select an ending.
Ending 1: Cameo Ending 2: Whodunnit Ending 3: Horror * Ending 1 Hilda shrank in her chair. ‘Fat lady, grey hair in a bun.’ Oh no, those were the very words she used on her Facebook page to describe herself! He didn’t look like the guy who’d been following her. Although there was no escaping him, whoever he was. She was stuck here, forced to answer whatever horrid questions he asked. The waitress pointed to where she was sitting. ‘Hilda Degasso, the Writer in Residence?’ ‘Good. I want to speak to her,’ he said, looking in her direction. Oh gods, what would he want to know? She wasn’t at all prepared. What if he asked her something really difficult, like how to format an eBook? He strode over, pulled out a chair beside her, and sat. ‘Hello,’ she said. She paused, waiting for him to supply his name. She had a small table sign she was supposed to erect when she was in residence. ‘How did you come to be chosen?’ ‘I applied for the position.’ ‘What! They pay you to sit here and write tripe!’ Hilda nodded. ‘And to promote the Townsville Writers & Publishers Centre.’ ‘What a flaming waste of money.’ ‘Do you know my work?’ Hilda asked. This was worse than she’d envisioned. He’d obviously come here to challenge her. ‘The public hospital is badly underfunded, with patients being turned away, and you sit here lapping it up on a government grant.’ ‘Do you write?’ she asked. ‘Don’t be a fool.’ ‘Have you ever read a book?’ ‘Of course. What do you take me for? I read fact. Not that rubbish you write.’
‘No fiction whatsoever?’ ‘What are you getting at, woman?’ ‘Many people learn about themselves and their motives by reading fiction. And they find solutions to problems in the most unlikely places.’ ‘Prove it.’ ‘I don’t need to. If you’re honest with yourself, you’ll have found answers.’ ‘Nonsense.’ ‘Maybe you did and it scared you.’ ‘Don’t be preposterous.’ Hilda raised an eyebrow at him. ‘Here’s one of my books. Take it and read it. Come back next week and tell me what life messages it contained.’ ‘Read that?’ he growled. He snatched it as if he intended to fling it in her face. She swallowed her fright. ‘I dare you.’ ‘Why should I waste my time?’ ‘You seem quite prepared to waste mine, mouthing off assumptions without the gumption to put them to the test.’ She sliced the cake with her spoon and popped the sweet rush into her mouth. ‘Greedy pig,’ he snarled. He marched out, book in hand. Hilda smiled. He, too, would indulge. He wouldn’t be able to resist her challenge. * Ending 2 ‘Did a fat lady, grey hair in a bun, come in here?’ he asked loudly. The waitress frowned and pointed to where she sat. He wheeled about, polished shoes squeaking on the floorboards. ‘Ah ha! The very one.’ She’d be safer here, with other people about. Someone had been writing weird comments on her blog page for several weeks, even though she hadn’t approved any of them. They weren’t threatening. They were nothing she could complain to the police about with any expectation they’d act. What was she fussing about? Maybe this man wasn’t her stalker. She was jumping to conclusions. ‘I have some questions for you, Hilda Degasso.’ ‘Oh?’ He leaned over her.
She shrank back in her chair. ‘Tell me how you know about the corpse.’ ‘What corpse?’ ‘Come now, a body found among the bat lilies in the Palmetum. A bit of a coincidence don’t you think?’ ‘I don’t know what you mean. Who are you? How’d you find out about that story?’ He flashed a badge at her. She wasn’t wearing her glasses so she couldn’t read what it actually said. ‘Detective Smythe,’ he said. ‘You entered it in the Libraries Change Lives competition.’ ‘Did I?’ Oh, Jesus, she had! ‘You forget?’ She nodded, miserably. ‘I thought you were the weirdo who’s been stalking me.’ He dragged up a chair and sat. ‘Stalking you?’ ‘Well, making peculiar comments on my blog site.’ ‘Following you?’ ‘No. Just posting comments.’ ‘I meant physically following you.’ ‘I don’t think so.’ ‘Describe him.’ ‘I don’t know what he looks like. He doesn’t say anything about himself.’ ‘Are you sure?’ ‘Positive. He only asks about me.’ ‘How long for?’ ‘A couple of months, maybe more.’ ‘What do you know about the body?’ ‘My story is fiction.’ He held up his phone. ‘Recognise her?’ The blood rushed from her face. ‘Some… someone made it come true?’ The picture was ghastly. ‘No! Oh God, it’s Jilly!’ She felt faint. He leaned forward. ‘Yes, it’s Macpherson, your neighbour.’ ‘She… she often came to the park to draw.’
‘Fancied herself as an artist did she?’ ‘She’s a very good painter.’ ‘Was. Jealous of her, were you?’ ‘No. Never. Why should I be?’ ‘You’re a right pair of old queers. Even look alike.’ ‘We’re not! When did it happen?’ ‘You tell me.’ ‘I haven’t seen her for a couple of days. She was away on holidays.’ ‘Where did she go?’ ‘One of the islands. I forget which one.’ ‘Convenient.’ ‘She was meeting someone.’ ‘Name?’ ‘Matt.’ ‘Last name?’ ‘I don’t know. She’s only been out with him a couple of times.’ ‘Come with me.’ She shoved her gear into her bag. She wanted to run, but that was silly. He was a cop, after all. Best to do what he said. * He led her through the tall wrought-iron gates and into the Palmetum. She stumbled along, not lifting her feet properly. She felt weak at the knees, flushed. Tall trees formed a dense canopy. A bat glided through the gloom. It flew in front of them, like a dog running ahead of its master. She shivered. She didn’t like bats. They carried a virus and bit people. Hundreds of the furry creatures hung in the high branches. Her chest constricted, as if a python had wrapped its muscular, pulsing body about her. She stopped. He turned. ‘I don’t—’ ‘What?’ She shook her head. She had to go on. He’d make her follow him. She took a step, and then another—forced herself forward. The pain in her hip intensified. ‘Is the body still there?’ She didn’t want to see her neighbour lying among the large white and purple blooms, her skull crushed in, blood down the front of her
favourite white blouse, gore mixed in with the lace. The photo had been awfully vivid. ‘What do you think?’ He wasn’t telling her anything. ‘This way,’ he said, stepping off the path and striding through some groundcovers. She could hear water trickling in a gully ahead, under a clump of tall ginger. Smythe ducked beneath a large silver-grey palm frond. She walked around so she wouldn’t have to duck. Her foot slipped in crumbling soil. She staggered forward. One foot snagged on a root. Her knees gave and she slipped down the bank. Her hands went out, fingers gouging the soil. The smell! Bile shot into her mouth. She wiped her lips and retched again. A log smacked into her shin, halting her slide. Cold metal wrapped about her fingers and squirmed. She snatched her hand up. A chain glinted in a shaft of sunlight. Maggots dripped from her fingers. She vomited cream, cake, nuts and sour bile. Tears ran down her cheeks. She stared at her hand, shook it like a dog shaking water from its fur, but the chain remained entangled. He grabbed her elbow and hauled her up, nearly dislocating her bad shoulder. ‘I didn’t mean for you to land in the murder site, you silly cow.’ She ripped Hilda’s locket from her hand and dropped it in his palm. Then she scrambled up the bank, mostly on all fours. When she gained level ground, she ran, slapping branches and twigs from her face. Once she was away from the smell, she stopped, dropped to the ground and panted. She’d never get rid of the stench, as long as she lived. She could hear the bastard copper charging after her. He came to a halt beside her. ‘You, you, you—’ His lip curled in a satisfied sneer. ‘Temper, temper.’ ‘That was cruel!’ ‘So is murder.’ ‘I’m not her killer! Why treat me like I am? I admired her, wished I could be like her.’ ‘You were lovers?’
‘No. I told you, she has a boyfriend.’ ‘Matt?’ Hilda nodded. Strands of her hair flipped about her face. ‘Description.’ ‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen him.’ ‘How come? I’d have thought you would have been peering out the curtains, unable to contain your curiosity. You, a writer and all.’ ‘Jilly used to meet him at the beach. Rowes Bay. Near the mangroves. She was working toward an exhibition and he was teaching her what species of molluscs and mangroves were in the area.’ ‘You said she painted in the Palmetum.’ ‘She had a thing about the bat lilies, the Tacca integrifolia. She wanted to paint them floating along the creeks and flowering in the mangroves.’ ‘Why’d she want to do that?’ ‘She liked the incongruity. She loved their spidery whiskers and large petals.’ ‘What was she doing in the gully? There’s no flowers there.’ ‘I don’t know. Maybe she saw something and went to investigate.’ ‘And you thought that was an ideal place to murder her?’ ‘Why do you insist on blaming me?’ ‘You’re a writer. You fantasise about murder. Revel in the gore. You’ve conveniently forgotten any details about the so-called boyfriend and which island they visited. Yet, you remember Latin plant names.’ ‘No, I—she was jealous of me. She didn’t like me to have friends of my own.’ ‘Is that why you killed her?’ ‘I didn’t! You’re confusing me. I’m diabetic. I can’t think properly. Leave me alone!’ ‘You said she was successful. Why would she be jealous of you?’ ‘She’s not. I told you. She isn’t like that.’ ‘Your life doesn’t add up, Degasso. You’re an odd one and a loner, yet you live in Macpherson’s pocket.’ ‘She needs me. She always has.’ ‘You know what I think? She had a male friend and she didn’t need you.’ ‘She wanted me to stay with her forever!’
‘More like, you couldn’t let go. You clung to her like a leech. I’ll bet she hated you.’ ‘No, no. She loved me. She lived through me.’ ‘Did she talk you into agreeing to be a writer in residence? Was she trying to push you away?’ ‘I’m not like that. You’re verballing me. Jilly—’ ‘My god, you really do identify with her. You don’t just live in her pocket, you live in her head as well.’ ‘She’s…’ ‘She’s what?’ ‘I don’t know. I’m all confused.’ ‘The pyschs might get you off. Call it identity crisis or some other fancy term. However, I’m arresting you on suspicion of...’ * Jilly sat in jail, laughing at the irony. Tears trickled down her face. She hadn’t bargained on being jailed for the murder of herself. Fate had chucked a curve ball and she hadn’t been able to field it. If only she hadn’t written that stupid story. She’d pretended to be Hilda for years because the stupid agoraphobic bitch wasn’t game to leave the house, treated her like a slave. * Ending 3 When the waitress pointed her out, Giles frowned, annoyed he hadn’t spotted her when he entered. She was pretending not to, but she was watching him. She was guilty, he’d bet diamonds to dirt. He walked over to her. ‘Mind if I sit here, Lady Writer?’ he asked, trying to be cordial. She smiled nervously, said, ‘Welcome.’ She looked a gormless twit. You’d have to be to write a supposedly-fictional short story and post it on Facebook. Mind you, most criminals were either stupid or believed themselves invincible. ‘About your story—’ ‘Did you like it?’ ‘Care to tell me about the body?’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Someone walking their dog found her.’
‘It’s fiction. There is no body! Who are you?’ Giles flashed his ID at her. Degasso peered at it owlishly. ‘Who was killed?’ He showed her a photo. ‘Do you know her?’ She took out her glasses and stared at the ghoulish photo. ‘That’s my neighbour!’ ‘So you do know her. What’s her name?’ ‘Jilly Macpherson. What a horrible way to die. Who’d do a thing like that?’ ‘Tell me about her. Was she married?’ ‘No. She lives alone. Her parents are dead. She doesn’t have any children and has only recently moved here. I was her only friend. She’s a visual artist.’ ‘Where from?’ ‘Adelaide.’ ‘Maybe you’d better come with me.’ ‘Where to?’ ‘The Palmetum.’ ‘Why? I’m not fit. I can’t walk very far.’ ‘You’ll manage.’ He watched as she gathered her things and stood. He led the way and she clumped down the ramp behind him. As they walked into the park, he paused to let her catch up. ‘When did you last see her?’ ‘Not for a few days. I’ve been on the island.’ ‘Which island?’ ‘Magnetic Island.’ ‘Staying where?’ ‘The backpackers.’ ‘Which one?’ ‘Bungalow Bay.’ He shook his head. She could slip home for half a day and probably no one would notice. ‘Down this way,’ he said, pointing along a narrow, twisting track. ‘Mind how you step.’ When they came to a junction, she paused. He could have sworn she’d been about to choose the right path but had suddenly realised how incriminating this would be.
Closer to the stream, she put her hand to her mouth and stopped mid-stride. ‘It stinks.’ ‘Corpses generally do, unless they’re fresh.’ ‘It’s still there?’ she exclaimed, horrified. ‘No, of course not.’ ‘Do I have to go down there?’ ‘Yes.’ He wanted to see her reaction, if she’d crack. So far the evidence was only circumstantial. He needed proof-positive for a conviction. They went closer. The smell intensified. At the site, maggots crawled across the ground. Someone hadn’t done their job properly. The cleanup team obviously hadn’t found all the pieces. The killer had practically shredded the victim. His suspect was shaking and her face was the colour of ash. ‘No,’ she groaned. ‘Make them stop! They’re eating me, tugging on me—’ She folded and dropped to the ground. He pulled his Amsun from his pocket. ‘Out cold,’ he said to his phone, which was set to record. ‘She’s collapsed in a crumpled heap.’ He stopped the voice recorder and tapped the video record. He stepped around his murderer, shot her from the front, her pale horror-struck face. He bent down, straightened her and placed his finger on her carotid artery. ‘Christ!’ he exclaimed. ‘Bloody dead. She can’t be. Surely not.’ He shifted his fingers and was relieved to find a faint pulse. He retrieved his phone, hit 000. ‘Suspect’s in shock, pulse faint, lips blue. Possible heart attack or stroke.’ * Once she was safely at the Emergency Department under guard, he returned to the station. The similarity between the victim and his suspect had the hairs crawling on the back of his neck. Macpherson had blue eyes and freckles; Degasso had brown eyes with just the slightest hint of Asian heritage in them. Both women’s noses were upturned and impish. Three hours and multiple internet searches later, he had the answer. ‘God almighty!’ They weren’t just sisters. They were twins. Surely, Degasso hadn’t murdered her twin?
The sister from the Intensive Care Unit rang. His suspect was stabilised and would undergo surgery for blocked coronary arteries the following morning. He grimaced at the thought. How ironic. Twins’ lives often had similarities. The nurse said he couldn’t interview her. ‘Not until she recovers from the surgery.’ A week later, forensics still had nothing that could link his suspect to the scene of the crime. She’d no doubt claim a twin’s psychic connection to explain away the ‘coincidence’, or that the murderer had read her story. Why hadn’t she said that Macpherson was her sister? He’d have to extract a confession—if the bitch lived. He swiped at the goose bumps that crawled across his skin. His cousin had choked on his beer, spraying it all over him when he told him about this case. They’d spent the rest of the night drinking neat whisky, neither of them able to comprehend the enormity of murdering a twin. His cousin was an identical twin. He’d always claimed he could feel what his ‘second self’ was feeling when his emotions were strong. He could feel his pain, his grief, his happiness. * Degasso was sitting up in bed when he finally got to interview her. The Duty Officer guarding her was seated in the corner, looking bored. A monitor screen beeped in time with her heartbeat and scrolled a readout of her vital signs across the bottom of the screen. A bag of fluid dripped through a catheter inserted into her arm. A vase of Eucharist lilies sat on the table beside her. He jerked a steel chair closer to her bed. ‘Nice flowers,’ he said. ‘Who sent them?’ A smarmy, lopsided grin crossed her face. ‘I ‘ent ‘em to mu... ma... self.’ Anger twisted his entrails. What was up with the world when killers sent flowers to themselves. He’d had a gutful of twisted narcissistic types. He’d burnt out. ‘You killed your twin sister!’ he rasped. ‘How could you?’ Damn, he should seek counselling. He hadn’t meant to blurt it out. She trembled, and grasped her left arm to try and steady it. ‘W... rith ‘bo... ‘ut ya k... ker... know sa urg illed... ‘er .’ ‘Book her,’ he growled to the Officer. He slammed back out of his chair and fled the room, nearly colliding with a nurse. The advice given to all writers: Write what you know. The psychopathic bitch had killed her twin so she could write about what she knew!