by B. A. Paris
He looked at me in surprise. ‘That’s not what I meant and you know it. It’s terrible when anyone gets murdered but especially so in her case as she has two young children, who are bound to find out one day that their mother was violently killed.’ He turned back to the television, where the report showed police stopping and searching cars in Blackwater Lane, which was once again open to the public. ‘They’re hardly going to find the murder weapon in someone’s boot,’ he went on. ‘They’d be better off looking for the murderer. Someone must know who he is. He must have been covered in blood that night.’
‘Can you just stop talking about it?’ I muttered.
‘You’re the one who started.’
‘I wasn’t the one who turned on the television.’
I felt him looking at me. ‘Is it because the murderer’s still at large, is that what’s bothering you? Because if it is, you’ll be perfectly safe now that we have an alarm. Anyway, whoever’s responsible is probably miles away by now.’
‘I know,’ I said.
‘So stop worrying.’
I realised that it was the opening I’d been waiting for, the perfect time to confide in him, to tell him that I was worried about what was happening to me, to my mind, to explain about Mum and her dementia. But I let the moment slip away.
I hoped a bath would calm me but I couldn’t stop thinking about Jane’s husband. I wished there was something I could do to make his pain easier to bear; I wished I could tell him how much I’d enjoyed meeting Jane, how lovely she was. The need to do something was overwhelming and I decided to ask Rachel if she knew his address so that I could write to him. I lay in the bath, composing the letter in my head, aware that I was writing it as much for my sake as for his. By the time I got out of the bath, the water was cold and later, as Matthew and I lay side by side in bed without touching, the distance between us had never seemed greater.
I glance over at him now, standing beside me at the reception desk, and wish he would bring my memory lapses into the open instead of pretending that everything is all right when it’s so obviously not.
‘Sure you don’t want to go somewhere for lunch?’ I ask.
He shakes his head, smiles. ‘I’m fine.’
We drive off, each in our own car, and when we arrive at the house I watch while he turns off the new alarm.
‘Will you show me how it works?’ I ask.
He insists on letting me choose the code and I choose our birthdays, backwards, so that I’ll remember it easily. He makes me practise a couple of times, showing me how to isolate certain rooms if I’m alone in the house, and I suddenly remember telling the salesman that I’d like to be able to do that, which means I must have had more of an in-depth conversation with him than I realised.
‘Right, I’ve got it,’ I say.
‘Good. Shall we see what’s on television?’
We go into the sitting room but it’s time for the news so I escape into the kitchen.
‘Stabbing someone is one thing but actually slitting their throat with a massive kitchen knife, that’s just sick.’ Matthew stands in the doorway, looking shocked. ‘That’s how she died, apparently – she had her throat cut.’
Something inside me snaps.
‘Shut up!’ I cry, thumping the kettle down on the side. ‘Just shut up!’
He looks at me in astonishment. ‘For God’s sake, Cass, calm down!’
‘How can I calm down when you’re always going on about the bloody murder? I’m sick of hearing about it!’
‘I just thought you’d be interested, that’s all.’
‘Well, I’m not, all right? I’m not the least bit interested!’ I start to leave the room, angry tears pricking my eyelids.
‘Cass, wait!’ He takes hold of my arm, pulling me back, into his. ‘Don’t go. I’m sorry – that was really insensitive of me. I keep forgetting that you met her.’
The fight goes out of me and I slump against him. ‘No, it’s my fault,’ I say tiredly. ‘I shouldn’t have shouted at you.’
He kisses the top of my head. ‘Come on, let’s watch a film.’
‘As long as it’s not about a murder.’
‘I’ll find a comedy,’ he promises.
So we watch a film, or rather Matthew does and I laugh when he laughs so he won’t know how desperate I feel. It’s hard to believe that my split-second decision to take a short cut through the woods that fateful Friday night has had such a devastating impact on my life. Jane may have been in the wrong place at the wrong time but so was I. So was I.
TUESDAY, AUGUST 4TH
The call comes while I’m stacking the dishwasher and I think that it must be Rachel phoning to ask about my few days at the hotel. But when I answer, there’s no one there – or rather, no one speaks because I’m sure that there is someone there. I suddenly remember a call I received yesterday, and the ones I’d received the previous week, before I left for the hotel. The silence. I hold my breath, listening for the slightest sound that will tell me there’s someone there but there’s nothing – no static, no breathing, no sound at all – as if he, like me, is holding his breath. He. Unease worms its way through my body and I hang up abruptly. I check the answering machine, wanting to know if any had come in while I was away but there was only a call from the alarm company on Thursday, confirming that they were coming to install the alarm the next day, and three on Friday, two from the alarm company, asking me to call them urgently, and one from Connie.
I’d planned to start working on lesson plans for September but I can’t focus. The phone rings again and my heart immediately starts pounding. It’s all right, I tell myself, it’ll be Matthew, or Rachel, or another friend phoning for a chat. But when I check the number, it’s withheld.
I don’t know why I take the call. Maybe it’s because I’ve already understood what is expected of me. I want to say something, to ask him who he is, but the chilling silence freezes the words in my mouth so that I can only listen. But again there is nothing and I slam the phone down, my hands shaking. Suddenly, my house seems like a prison. Hurrying upstairs, I fetch my mobile and my bag from the bedroom, jump in the car and drive to Castle Wells. On the way to a café, I stop to buy a card to send to Jane’s husband, but at the till it’s impossible to ignore the piles of newspapers stacked near the counter, or their headlines screaming that there have been new developments in the murder case. I don’t particularly want to read about it but, with the chance that the police are closer to catching the murderer, I buy one anyway. In the café next door, I find a table in the corner, open the paper and start to read:
Until now, the police had believed Jane’s murder to be a random attack but someone has now come forward to say that he passed what he believes was her car, parked in roughly the same place the Friday before she was killed, at around eleven-thirty. It changes the whole direction of the investigation as it suggests that Jane might have known her killer and that on the night she died she had gone to the lay-by to meet him and had done so the previous week as well. The press are all over her private life, suggesting that she had a secret lover, that her marriage was in trouble, and my heart goes out to her husband – although there’s also speculation that he’s responsible for his wife’s death. As the newspaper points out, his alibis – the two little daughters he said he was looking after at home – could easily have been left by themselves during the time it would have taken for him to commit the crime.
Next to the article there’s a photo of a knife similar to the one the police believe was used by the killer and, as I stare at the black-handled kitchen knife with its finely serrated blade, I feel sick to my stomach with fear.
Like a racing car leaving the starting line, my heart accelerates so quickly that I feel dizzy. I close my eyes but when I open them again the fear is still there, gathering momentum. Maybe the murderer was already lurking in the woods, about to commit his terrible crime, when I pulled into the lay-by. If he saw me, he might think that I saw him. Maybe he memorised my lice
nce plate in case I became a threat to him. And, now, in his eyes, I may have. He knows that someone went to the police, because they’ve made my call to them public, and maybe he’s guessed it was me. He doesn’t know that I didn’t tell them anything, that I had nothing to tell them. What matters is that he knows I exist. Has he found out who I am and is making silent calls as a threat?
I look around desperately for something to ground me; my eyes fall on the café menu and I start counting the letters in the first item on there: one, two, three, four, five, six. It works: the even pacing of the numbers slows my heartbeat and soon I’m breathing normally again. But I still feel shaky, and horribly alone.
I take out my mobile and phone Rachel, glad that her offices aren’t too far away from the town centre.
‘I’m in Castle Wells. I don’t suppose you can take a long lunch hour, can you?’ I ask.
‘Let me check my diary.’ Her voice is brisk, which tells me she’s heard the desperation in mine. ‘Let’s see – I have a meeting at three, so I’d have to be back for that, and if I juggle things around a bit I could be with you around one. Will that do?’
‘That would be great.’
‘Shall we meet in the Spotted Cow?’ she says.
‘Perfect.’
‘Is the town busy? Where did you park?’
‘I found a place in the little car park in Grainger Street but you might have to go to the multi-storey.’
‘All right. See you at one.’
*
‘What’s the matter, Cass?’ Rachel asks, concerned.
I take a sip of wine, not quite sure what to tell her. ‘I just don’t feel safe in the house any more.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s since the murder. It said in the paper that Jane was probably killed by someone she knew, which means he must live locally.’
She reaches out and gives my hand a squeeze. ‘Her death has really affected you, hasn’t it?’
I nod miserably. ‘I know I only had lunch with her once but I know we would have become good friends,’ I say. ‘And I hate that they’re saying she had a lover. I don’t believe it for a minute. She couldn’t stop talking about her husband, about how wonderful he was and how lucky she was to have him. I bought a card to send to him – would you be able to find his address for me?’
‘Yes, of course, I’ll ask around at work.’ She nods at the newspaper I bought earlier. ‘Did you see the picture of the knife? It’s horrible.’
‘Don’t,’ I say shakily. ‘I can’t bear to think about it.’
‘You’ll feel better once you have an alarm installed,’ she says, shrugging off her red cardigan and putting it on the back of her chair.
‘We have one. It was put in on Friday’
She reaches for her glass and her silver bangles, released from the constraints of sleeves, jangle together. ‘Can you put it on when you’re in the house?’
‘Yes, I can alarm the windows and any of the rooms I want.’
‘And you still don’t feel safe?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I keep getting weird calls.’ My words come out in a rush.
She frowns. ‘What sort of weird?’
‘Silent. From a withheld number.’
‘You mean there’s no one there?’
‘No, there is someone there, they just don’t say anything. It’s really creeping me out.’
She thinks for a moment. ‘These calls – how many have you had?’
‘I’m not sure… five or six? There were two this morning.’
She does a sort of double-take. ‘And that’s what’s upset you? A few calls from a withheld number? Cass, I get loads of those! Usually, it’s someone trying to sell me something or wanting feedback on something I’ve bought.’ She thinks for a moment. ‘I take it these calls are on your house phone?’
‘Yes.’ I fiddle with the stem of my glass. ‘I can’t help wondering if it’s personal.’
‘Personal?’ Rachel looks uncomprehendingly at me.
‘Yes.’
‘Come on, Cass, it’s just a few calls. I don’t get why they’ve upset you so much.’
I shrug, trying to make light of it. ‘I guess it’s Jane’s murder… you know? Happening so close to home.’
‘What does Matthew think?’
‘I haven’t told him.’
‘Why not?’ The concern in her eyes makes me decide to confide in her.
‘Because I’ve done a few stupid things lately and I don’t want him to think I really am crazy,’ I admit.
She takes a sip of wine but her eyes don’t leave mine. ‘What sort of things?’
‘Well… first, I forgot I’d invited Hannah and Andy round for a barbecue. I bumped into Hannah in Browbury the day I met you for a drink in the Sour Grapes…’
‘I know,’ she says. ‘I remember you saying that’s why you were late.’
‘I already told you?’
‘Yes. You told me that you’d invited them for a barbecue because you hadn’t seen them for a while.’
‘Did I say when I’d invited them for?’
‘Yes, you said you’d asked them for the Sunday, so that weekend.’
I close my eyes, take a breath. ‘Well, I forgot,’ I say, looking at her again.
‘Forgot?’
‘Yes. I forgot I’d invited them. Or didn’t realise I had… I’m not quite sure which. Andy phoned in the morning to ask what time we were expecting them, so we managed to avoid the embarrassment of them turning up and there being nothing to eat. But that’s not all… I also managed to order the alarm system without remembering anything about it. I filled in the form, signed it, everything – yet, I wasn’t aware that I had.’ I decide not to mention forgetting Matthew telling me about his stint on the rig and look at her across the table. ‘I’m scared, Rachel, really scared. I don’t know what’s happening to me. And because Mum—’
‘I don’t understand about the alarm,’ she interrupts. ‘What happened, exactly?’
‘Do you remember, when we met in the Sour Grapes, I told you that I’d had a man from an alarm company round to give a quote?’
‘Yes, you said he spooked you or something.’
‘That’s right. Well, when Matthew got back from the rig last Friday, he found the man waiting on the doorstep. So Matthew told him we’d never agreed to have an alarm fitted, but the man pulled out a form signed by me.’
‘That doesn’t mean anything,’ Rachel interrupts. ‘He could have forged your signature. There are a lot of cowboys out there.’
‘That’s what I thought at first. But it wasn’t just the signature, Rachel, it was all the rest. The whole form had been filled in, and it was definitely my handwriting. Matthew said I must have been tricked into signing it and I went along with it because it got me off the hook. But I think we both knew I wasn’t.’
She churns it over in her mind. ‘You know what I think? I think you were probably coerced into it in some way. You said you didn’t like the man, that he made you feel uncomfortable, so maybe you agreed to the alarm to get rid of him and, after, you blocked the whole episode from your subconscious because you were ashamed you’d let yourself be taken advantage of.’
‘I never thought of that.’
‘I’m sure that’s what happened,’ she says firmly. ‘So stop worrying.’
‘But that doesn’t explain the rest. What about the present I was supposed to buy for Susie? What about inviting Hannah and Andy for lunch?’ I don’t mention forgetting that she was meant to be spending the night with me the time I went and booked into a hotel.
‘How long ago did your mother die, Cass?’
‘Just over two years ago.’
‘And in that time you’ve gone back to work, got married and moved house. Basically, you’ve reinvented yourself. For someone who spent the previous three years caring day and night for someone with full-blown dementia, I’d say you’ve done too much too quickly and have reach
ed burnout.’
I nod slowly, thinking about it – and the more I think about it, the more I begin to believe that she’s right.
‘It has been a bit of a whirlwind,’ I admit.
‘There you are then.’
‘But what if it’s more than that?’
‘What do you mean?’
It’s hard to voice my worst fear. ‘What if I’m becoming like Mum? What if I start forgetting every little thing, like she did?’
‘Is that what you’re worried about?’
‘Be honest, Rachel: have you noticed anything?’
‘No, nothing. Sometimes you’re a little distracted—’
‘Am I?’
‘You know? When you start thinking about something else and don’t hear a word I’m saying.’
‘Do I?’
‘Don’t look so worried – we all do it!’
‘So you don’t think I’m heading in that direction?’
Rachel shakes her head vigorously. ‘No, I don’t.
‘What about the phone calls?’
‘They’re just random calls. There’s nothing sinister about them,’ she says earnestly. ‘What you need is a rest. You should get Matthew to take you somewhere you can relax.’
‘I’ve just had five days away. Anyway, it’s difficult for him to have time off in August. You’re off soon, aren’t you?’
‘On Saturday,’ she says happily. ‘I can’t wait! Oh, good, here’s lunch.’
By the time Rachel leaves, fifteen minutes later than she should have, I feel so much better. She’s right about my life since Mum died. Basically, I’ve gone from one with very little excitement and a lot of routine to one full of new experiences. It’s normal that everything I’ve been through has suddenly caught up with me and thrown me off-balance. It’s a minor blip, not a major disaster. All I need is to put Jane’s murder from my mind, stop thinking that there’s something sinister in the phone calls I’ve been getting and concentrate on what’s important to me, which is Matthew. It gives me an idea and, instead of continuing towards the car park, I turn back the way I came.
*
I stand for a while in front of the window of the Baby Boutique, looking at the gorgeous baby clothes on display. Then, pushing the door open, I go inside. There’s a young couple, the woman heavily pregnant, looking at prams for their soon-to-be-born baby, and the thought that one day it’ll be Matthew and me standing there choosing a pram for our child fills me with a longing that takes my breath away. I begin to look through the rails of clothes and find a tiny sleep-suit decorated with pastel-coloured balloons. The shop assistant, a petite young woman with the longest hair I’ve ever seen, comes over to see if she can help.
