A shudder wracked her body. The injury wasn’t the only reason she was stiff. The chill of the night air may have worn off, but the barn was a bitterly cold draughty hole.
Her teeth rattled in her head and she scooted to the edge of the bales of straw she’d laid on, not even bothering to pluck strands of it from her hair. Her knees creaked as she edged onto the barn floor and stepped over the abandoned wooden feeding trough, letting out little grunts for each step she took.
Poppy crept stiff-legged to the double barn doors and cracked them open an inch to peep out. The furthest outbuilding from Sunnyside Farm, Poppy was fairly confident no one would stumble on her. Old man Crawford had long since stopped coming out so far. Only when his sons visited did he venture further, his old springer spaniel, Bess, by his side. The twins loved to play in the old ramshackle barn when Mr Crawford’s great-grandchildren came to visit after they’d finished school each Thursday. In the same year as Talisha and Geraldine, they went to the local comprehensive. They all ran wild for a couple of hours, just happy to see each other, until Poppy was sent to collect the twins and bring them back home.
She leaned against a wooden post by the barn doors and screwed her eyes shut to rid herself of a memory that could serve to destroy her if she thought too hard about it.
Ready to move, she bumped the doors wider and stepped out into the early-morning sunshine, absorbing the heat on her face as she sidled around the edge of the barn to squint down at the farmhouse, which looked like an abandoned scrap yard.
The heap of a car that belonged to Mr Crawford was missing and Poppy sighed, relief making her weak. So weak, she could barely put one foot in front of another.
It was Sunday. Without switching on her phone, she had no idea what time, but they were most likely at church. Much Wenlock church every Sunday was their habit. Ethel told her, it was a social affair. Then they’d go to one of their sons’ houses for Sunday lunch. Poppy loved Ethel. She put a stop to that thought mid-flow too. But if they were at church, it meant it was later than she thought. She cast a quick look up at the bright, clear sky with the sun already high, as though that could give her a hint.
Feet dragging, she forced herself onwards, her gaze focused on the khaki green cracked and peeling front door she’d never really noticed before. Compared to the perfection of Kimble Hall’s double opening front door, the Crawfords’ door gave the impression of a house lived in and loved.
It would be unlocked. She’d never known them to lock it. Though why they would believe they were safe just because they lived in the country, she had no idea. No one was safe. No matter where you lived. No matter who you lived with. She’d learnt in the harshest way possible never to trust. Death was only a step away.
16
Sunday 19 April 1045 hours
Ethel’s cupboards overflowed with every kind of food imaginable. Like her husband, she was a hoarder. Used to her great-grandchildren visiting, she made sure there was a plethora of fun food to choose from.
Poppy didn’t want food. Her stomach lurched and her gag reflex leapt in to grab at her throat.
She opened each cupboard to check inside until she came across the one she needed. The one with medical supplies. Too many to contemplate. Poppy stared at the masses of accumulated boxes of plasters, paracetamol, ibuprofen, bandages, sterile wipes, antibacterial wash.
Light-headed, she rolled back on her heels and blinked to focus on the contents of the cupboard. There was so much there and so neat and tidy. Would Ethel notice if she took some?
Poppy’s stomach clenched. Stealing wasn’t something she was familiar with. She’d never taken anything that belonged to someone else before. Never had the compulsion to.
She reached out a hand, then hesitated, her insides turning to jelly as she tried to imagine what Ethel would say if she thought Poppy had stolen from her. Would her face be wreathed with disapproval? Would she understand?
Desperation overrode guilt until Poppy glanced around and snatched a carrier bag from a pile of them stuffed into a box. She raised herself up on her toes so she could reach to the back of the cupboard. If she didn’t dislodge the items at the front, Ethel would never know. A worm of worry wriggled, but she didn’t have any choice.
Into the bag, she threw a box of paracetamol, ibuprofen, a small bottle of neat Dettol – that was going to sting – bandages and cotton wool. As little as she could take so it was less likely to be noticed.
She swiped the back of her hand across her forehead and stared at the sweat coating her skin. The tremble in her fingers rattled the bag she held.
She darted a quick glance out of the window. She could never be too sure if they would come back or not. They’d taken Bess with them, but that didn’t mean to say they couldn’t return.
With one more reach into the cupboard, Poppy drew out a small packet of steristrips and dumped them in the bag before she closed the cupboard door and turned to face the kitchen again.
Her stomach contracted once more. She may not feel up to eating, but if she didn’t, she was just as likely to die of starvation as blood loss. And didn’t Mum always say she needed a cup of hot tea and a biscuit whenever she gave blood? It restored her energy, just as wine restored her good humour.
As Poppy scanned the kitchen, her pulse tripped a beat. Ethel may be old, but her great-grandkids kept her up with the times and the sight of an iPhone charging lead neatly coiled and plugged into the wall beside the kettle gave Poppy’s chest a little squeeze of excitement.
Barely any battery left, Poppy plugged in her own phone and propped it up against the splashback tiles next to the sink. As the screen burst into life, she snatched it up, breath coming in fast gasps. Her fingers shook as she pressed her thumb against the power button desperate for it to switch off before any of her profile downloaded.
Heat seared up her neck and suffused her face as she placed it back with trembling fingers and melted against the counter while her heart rate returned to normal.
She touched the side of the kettle with tentative fingers. Still hot, but not too hot. She looked from the plastic bag to the bench and back again. It would be far more hygienic to tend to her wound here. Her pulse throbbed as her breath quickened. Dare she?
What if they returned?
She squinted out of the kitchen window.
She could do it. If she was quick.
She dumped the bag on the bench and gingerly raised her arm to slide it from her hoodie sweatshirt. Each move sent lightning bolts of pain stabbing deep into her side. She bit down on her lip as she let out little mewling whimpers.
‘Forthefuckoffucksake!’
Air whistled through her teeth as she clenched them together and she whipped her head around. Where the hell had the T-shirt gone?
She took two steps back and peered into the passageway that led to the front door. The blood-stained rag lay in a small heap on the floor.
Heart pounding, Poppy darted forward and snatched it up. If she’d missed that and someone had seen it, they would have known.
Ethel was lovely, but she was an upstanding citizen. If she knew she was harbouring a criminal, she’d have the police around.
Poppy grabbed another plastic bag, shoved the bloodied T-shirt into it and then rolled it into a ball. She’d think about what to do with it once she’d cleaned herself up.