Angel's Fury Read Online Free PDF Page B

voice broke. ‘Ignoring it isn’t working. How long has it been since she last slept? It’s killing me that there’s nothing I can do for her. I can’t watch her fall apart like this any more.’
    I didn’t think he’d even noticed. I slid my slitted gaze towards his face; his expression was more determined than I’d ever seen it.
    ‘Let’s try telling her the truth.’ He gripped the door frame and met Mum’s eyes. ‘If it doesn’t help, we’ve always got that number.’
    When Mum spoke I was shocked to hear her crying. ‘We said we’d never use it again.’
    Dad said nothing more; he simply made for the stairs. I heard him leave a short message for his office then the trapdoor banged above the landing. Mum stood still for a minute then laid the tea towel over the pooled milk and crouched next to me.
    My head whirled.
    What are they talking about? What ‘truth’ have they been hiding?
    Mum shook my shoulder. ‘Come on, Cassie. We’re going to the front room. You can lie on the sofa. You aren’t going to school today.’
    I cradled a cup of coffee sweetened with four sugars. Mum hadn’t even objected when I asked for it. Dad was bent behind the television, swearing as he swapped SCART leads. The old VCR sat at his feet, the buttons outlined in dust. He put the silver DVD player on the carpet next to it. Then he hefted the video recorder into place on the shelf. It fitted. The cabinet had once been designed for it, after all.
    Dad looked at Mum and they both looked at me. Then he pulled a video box from his jacket. A business card was taped to the front, but I couldn’t make out the faded lettering.
    ‘Are you sure about this?’ Mum winced.
    Dad ran his hands through his greying hair. ‘A picture speaks a thousand words.’
    He slid the video into the slot. There was a mechanical whirring as the machine inhaled it and my fingers tightened on my cup.
    ‘Cassie,’ he said, ‘put your coffee down.’
    I placed the mug on the floor. For once I wasn’t about to argue with him.
    A picture shimmered into focus and Dad’s face appeared.
    The screen was a magic mirror, reversing the damage of the years. In this image Dad’s hair was brown, his skin unlined. But his mouth formed a line above his jutting chin and he was aged by the shadows in his eyes.
    This younger version swallowed and nodded at the person behind the camera. ‘It’s working?’
    ‘You can start any time.’
    That’s not Mum’s voice.
    I leaned forward.
    The Dad on screen ruffled his hair in a familiar gesture and looked away from the camera. ‘I’m not sure we should be doing this,’ he muttered.
    ‘It’s a good idea to make the recording, Mr Smith. Evidence is often essential in these cases.’
    I frowned.
    Our name’s Farrier. Why did she call Dad Mr Smith?
    I squinted across the room, but my parents weren’t looking at me. Their eyes were fixed on the window into our past.
    The conversation was continuing. Quickly I turned back and stared into the television.
    ‘Okay,’ Dad said. ‘I’m Dave Smith and this video is being taken at –’ he checked his watch – ‘four p.m. on the thirtieth of June 1984. Um . . .’
    ‘Go on.’ There was a strangely familiar ring to the woman’s voice, yet I was certain I’d never heard it before. I clenched my fists.
    ‘My daughter, Cassie, is twenty-three months old. She’s just started talking.’ Dad stepped away from the camera to reveal a strange living room overrun with the detritus of life with a smallchild: an overturned doll’s pram, a set of building blocks, a miniature chair and table covered with crayons and paper. ‘You can come in now, Marie.’
    The door opened and my mother came into view. She was walking backwards, but her step had a bounce in it that I didn’t recognise. Her hair was pulled into a springy ponytail and when she glanced at the camera her chin was defined, her eyes bright.
    She gestured to someone who remained outside the room. ‘Come on,