The Breakdown

by B. A. Paris

  ‘Yes, I’d like to buy this,’ I say, handing her the sleep-suit.

  ‘It’s gorgeous, isn’t it? Would you like it gift-wrapped?’

  ‘No, it’s fine, thank you, it’s for me.’

  ‘How lovely! When’s your baby due?’

  Her question throws me and I feel embarrassed that I’m buying a sleep-suit for a baby that doesn’t exist.

  ‘Oh, I’m only just pregnant,’ I hear myself say.

  She laughs delightedly and pats her stomach. ‘Me too!’

  ‘Congratulations!’ I turn and see the young couple coming towards us. ‘Do you know yet if it’s a boy or a girl?’ the young woman asks, looking at me.

  I shake my head quickly. ‘Early days.’

  ‘Mine’s a boy,’ she says proudly. ‘Due next month.’

  ‘Lovely.’

  ‘We can’t make up our minds which buggy to buy,’ she goes on.

  ‘Maybe we can help,’ says the shop assistant and, before I know it, we’re inspecting the row of prams and buggies, discussing the pros and cons of each one.

  ‘I’d choose that one,’ I say, pointing to a beautiful navy-and-white pram.

  ‘Why don’t you try it?’ the shop assistant suggests, so the young couple and I take turns wheeling it up and down the shop, agreeing that it really is the perfect option as, not only does it look classy, it’s easy to handle.

  We move to the counter and the shop assistant insists on putting the sleep-suit in a pretty box, even though I’ve told her that it’s for me, and as we chat about possible names for our babies, I feel more positive than ever about becoming a mother. Rachel’s assertion that all I’m suffering from is burnout has given me back my confidence and I can’t wait to tell Matthew this evening that we can start IVF. Maybe I’ll present him with the tiny sleep-suit first, as a hint.

  ‘We have a loyalty scheme you might find interesting.’ The smiling assistant holds out a form to me. ‘You just need to fill in your name and address. Once you’ve built up a certain number of points, you get a discount on your future purchases.’

  I take the form and start filling it in. ‘That sounds great.’

  ‘You can use it to buy maternity wear too,’ she goes on. ‘We have some lovely jeans with a waistband that expands along with your pregnancy. I’ve got my eye on a pair already.’

  Suddenly brought back to reality, because I’m not pregnant, I hand the form back to her and say a hurried goodbye. I’m almost at the door when she calls me back.

  ‘You haven’t paid!’ she reminds me, laughing.

  Flustered, I go back to the counter and hand her my card. By the time I actually make it out of the door, I feel so fraught by the lies I’ve told that my new-found confidence has all but deserted me. I don’t feel like going home but I don’t want to stay in town in case I bump into the young couple from the shop, and they start talking about my pregnancy, so I head back to the car park anyway.

  I haven’t got very far when I hear someone calling my name. Turning around, I see John, my colleague from school, hurrying towards me.

  ‘I saw you come out of the shop back there and I’ve been trying to catch up with you ever since,’ he explains, giving me one of his huge smiles. He gives me a spontaneous hug and his dark hair flops onto his forehead. ‘How are you, Cass?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I lie. I see his eyes drift towards the bag I’m carrying and I’m immediately embarrassed.

  ‘I don’t mean to pry, but I need to buy a present for a friend’s new baby and I have no idea what to get. I was about to go into the shop when I saw you coming out, so I’m hoping you can help.’

  ‘I bought a sleep-suit for a friend’s baby. Maybe you could buy something like that.’

  ‘Great, I’ll get one of those then. So, are you enjoying the holidays?’

  ‘Yes and no,’ I admit, grateful to be changing the subject. ‘It’s lovely to have some time off but since the murder, I’m finding it hard to relax.’

  His face clouds over. ‘I used to play tennis with her. We belonged to the same club. I couldn’t believe it when I heard the news. I felt terrible. I still do.’

  ‘I forgot that you knew her too,’ I say.

  He looks surprised. ‘Why, did you?’

  ‘Only a little. I met her at a party Rachel took me to. We got chatting and when I told her that I worked at the high school, she said that she knew you. Then, a couple of weeks ago, we had lunch together.’ I cast around for something else to talk about. ‘You’re off to Greece soon, aren’t you?’

  ‘No, not any more.’ I look at him questioningly. ‘Let’s just say, my girlfriend is no longer on the scene.’

  ‘Ah…’

  John shrugs. ‘These things happen.’ He looks at his watch. ‘I don’t suppose you have time for a drink, do you?’

  ‘A coffee would be lovely,’ I say, glad to fill in a bit more time.

  Over coffee, we talk about school and about the Inset day scheduled for the end of the month, ahead of the new school year in September. Half an hour later, we leave the café and, after we’ve said goodbye, I watch, my stress levels rising, as he crosses over the road and walks back towards the Baby Boutique. What if he tells the assistant that he wants to buy a sleep-suit like the one a friend of his bought half an hour ago? She’ll know he’s talking about me and she might say something about me being pregnant and, when we see each other at school, he might congratulate me in front of everyone. And what would I do then? Pretend it was a false alarm? He might even phone me later on today and I’ll have no choice but admit I lied to the assistant or tell him that she must have misunderstood. My head begins pounding and I wish I’d never bumped into him.

  I get home and, as I let myself into the house, the flashing red light on the keypad reminds me that I need to turn the alarm off so I close the front door and type in the code. But instead of the green light coming on, the red light begins flashing furiously. Thinking I’ve made a mistake, I type the code in again, pressing firmly on each number – 9-2-9-1 – but the light flashes even faster. Horribly aware of the time counting down, because I only have thirty seconds before the alarm goes off, I try to work out what I’ve done wrong. I’m so sure I’ve got the code right that I try the same numbers again – and fumble it.

  Within seconds all hell is let loose. A siren pierces the air, then another joins in, shrieking intermittently. As I stand dithering in front of the keypad, trying to work out if there’s some other way of turning the alarm off, I hear the phone ringing behind me and my heart, already racing with the stress of having messed up the code, speeds up even more because all I can think is that whoever’s been plaguing me with silent calls knows that I’ve just arrived home. Abandoning the alarm, I run to the gate and look up and down the road for someone to help me. But despite the noise from the alarm, no one comes to investigate, and the irony of it makes me feel a bit hysterical.

  At that moment, Matthew’s car comes into sight, sobering me up. Realising I’m holding the carrier bag from the Baby Boutique, I quickly open my car and fling it under the seat before he’s near enough to see. The puzzlement on his face as he drives through the gate tells me the noise from the alarm has already reached him.

  He brings the car to an abrupt stop and jumps out.

  ‘Cass, what’s happened? Are you all right?’

  ‘I can’t turn off the alarm!’ I shout over the noise. ‘The code doesn’t work!’

  The relief on his face, that we haven’t been burgled, is quickly replaced by one of surprise.

  ‘What do you mean, it doesn’t work? It did yesterday.’

  ‘I know, but it doesn’t any more!’

  ‘Let me have a look.’

  I follow him into the house and he punches the code into the keypad. The noise stops immediately.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ I say, bewildered. ‘Why didn’t it work for me?’

  ‘Are you sure you put the code in correctly?’

  ‘Yes, I put in 9291, exactl
y as I did yesterday, exactly as you just did. I even put it in twice but it still wouldn’t work.’

  ‘Wait a minute – what number did you say?’

  ‘9291, our birthdays backwards.’

  He shakes his head in despair. ‘It’s 9192, Cass, not 9291. Your birthday, then mine. You got them round the wrong way, that’s all. You put mine in first instead of yours.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ I groan. ‘How could I be so stupid?’

  ‘Well, it’s easily done, I suppose. But didn’t it occur to you to try the numbers the other way round when they wouldn’t work the first time?’

  ‘No,’ I say, feeling even more stupid. Over his shoulder, I see a police car draw up in front of the house. ‘What are the police doing here?’

  Matthew turns to look. ‘I don’t know. Maybe the alarm company called them out – you know, because of the murder happening so close to here.’

  A policewoman gets out of the car. ‘Is everything all right?’ she calls over the fence.

  ‘Yes, everything’s fine,’ Matthew assures her.

  She comes down the drive anyway. ‘You haven’t had a break-in then? We were notified that your alarm had gone off and that you weren’t responding to the follow-up call so we thought we’d come out to check.’

  ‘I’m sorry – you’ve had a wasted journey, I’m afraid,’ Matthew says. ‘It’s a new alarm and we had a bit of a mix-up with the code.’

  ‘Would you like me to check the house, just to make sure? The alarm wasn’t going off when you arrived home, was it?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t,’ I say apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, it’s my fault, I put the wrong code in.’

  The policewoman smiles reassuringly at me. ‘No harm done.’

  I find her presence strangely comforting and I know it’s because I’m dreading being on my own with Matthew. He might have decided to overlook, or find excuses, for all the other stupid stuff I’ve done recently but he’s not going to be able to ignore what’s just happened with the alarm.

  The policewoman gets back in her car and I follow Matthew into the kitchen.

  As he makes us both tea, the silence is so uncomfortable that I long for him to say something, even if it’s not what I want to hear.

  ‘Cass, can we talk?’ he asks, handing me a mug.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘It’s just that you’ve been a bit distracted lately – you know, forgetting things…’

  ‘Ordering alarms, setting them off,’ I say, nodding.

  ‘I just wondered if you’re stressed about something.’

  ‘I’ve been getting silent phone calls,’ I say, because admitting my fear around these is preferable to telling him that I’m losing my mind. I know Rachel didn’t think the calls were anything to worry about but I’d like to have Matthew’s take on them.

  ‘What? When?’

  ‘Always in the morning.’

  ‘On your mobile or the house phone?’

  ‘The house phone.’

  ‘Did you check the number?’

  ‘Yes, it was withheld.’

  ‘Then they’re probably coming from a call centre somewhere over the other side of the world. Seriously, is that’s what’s bothering you? A few calls from a withheld number?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why? It can’t be the first time you’ve received those sort of calls, everybody gets them.’

  ‘I know, but these seem personal.’

  ‘Personal?’ He frowns. ‘In what way?’

  I hesitate, unsure about going on. But I’ve started now. ‘It’s as if they know who I am,’ I say.

  ‘Why, do they say your name?’

  ‘No. They don’t say anything, that’s the problem.’

  ‘So it’s a heavy breather?’

  ‘Except that they don’t breathe.’

  ‘So what do they do?’

  ‘Nothing. But I know there’s someone there.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I can sense him.’

  Now he looks confused. ‘They don’t know who you are, Cass. You’re just a number on a very long list of numbers. All he wants is to ask questions for a survey or sell you a kitchen. Anyway, how do you know it’s a man?’

  Startled, I look at him. ‘What?’

  ‘You said you could sense “him”. So how do you know it’s a man? It could be a woman.’

  ‘No, it’s definitely a man.’

  ‘But if they don’t say anything, how do you know?’

  ‘I just do. Would we be able to trace where a call is coming from, even if the number is withheld?’

  ‘Possibly. But you don’t really think it’s personal, do you? I mean, why would it be?’

  It’s hard to voice my fear. ‘There’s a murderer somewhere out there.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He furrows his brow, trying to work it out. ‘Do you mean that you think the murderer is behind the calls?’ he asks, trying not to sound incredulous.

  ‘No, not really,’ I say half-heartedly.

  ‘Sweetheart, I can understand why you’re frightened, anybody would be, especially when the murder happened so close to here and the murderer is still at large. But if the calls are coming in on the house phone, then they’re not targeting you specifically, are they?’ He thinks for a bit. ‘How about if I work from home Thursday and Friday? Would it help if I was here for a few days?’

  Relief floods through me. ‘Yes, it really would.’

  ‘It’ll be nice to have a few days off for my birthday,’ he goes on, and I nod, wondering how I could have forgotten it was coming up.

  ‘Anyway,’ Matthew says, ‘from what I heard on the radio earlier, the police are beginning to think that Jane knew her killer.’

  ‘Maybe she did but I don’t believe he was her lover,’ I say. ‘She just wasn’t the type.’

  ‘Yes, but how well did you really know her? You only met her twice.’

  ‘I could see that she loved her husband,’ I say stubbornly. ‘She wouldn’t have cheated on him.’

  ‘Well, if she did know the person who killed her – and the police think that she did – he’s hardly likely to come after anyone else. Even less phone them up.’

  Put like that, I can only agree: ‘You’re right.’

  ‘Promise you won’t worry any more?’

  ‘I promise,’ I say. And I wish it could be that simple.

  WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 5TH

  It’s while I’m sitting on the bench under the damson tree the next day, looking down towards the end of the garden, that I come up with the perfect present for Matthew: a shed. I’ve lost count of the number of times he’s said he’d love one. If I order it today, I can probably get it delivered by the end of the week and he’ll be able to put it up over the weekend.

  The call comes as I’m on my way back into the house to look for a shed on the computer. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been half expecting it, it stops me in my tracks and glues me to the spot, poised halfway between house and garden, halfway between flight and fight. Anger wins and, running into the hall, I snatch up the phone.

  ‘Leave me alone!’ I cry. ‘If you ever phone me again, I’ll go to the police!’

  I regret the words as soon as they’re out. Shocked, I draw in my breath, hardly able to believe I’ve just threatened him with the very thing he must fear the most, because now he’ll think that I really did see him that night. I want to tell him that it isn’t what I meant, that there’s nothing I could possibly tell the police, that all I want is for him to stop phoning me. But fear has robbed me of my voice.

  ‘Cass?’ The confirmation that he knows who I am paralyses me. ‘Cass, is everything all right?’ The voice comes down the line again. ‘It’s John.’

  My legs go weak. ‘John.’ I give a shaky laugh. ‘Sorry, I thought you were someone else.’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I am now.’ I fight for control. ‘It’s just that I’ve had o
ne of those call companies pestering me and I thought they were calling me again.’

  He laughs softly. ‘They’re a real nuisance, aren’t they? But don’t worry, if you shout at them like you just did, there’s no way they’ll call you back! Although, if you don’t mind me saying so,’ he goes on, amused, ‘threatening them with the police does seem a little harsh.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say again, ‘I just lost it, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I don’t blame you. But look, I won’t keep you. I’m just phoning to see if you want to come for a drink on Friday evening with a few of us from school. I’m phoning round to see who’s free.’

  ‘Friday?’ My mind races ahead. ‘The thing is, Matthew’s taking the next two days off and we might decide to go away somewhere. I don’t suppose I could let you know, could I?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I’ll give you a call.’

  ‘Great. Well, bye, Cass, hope to see you there. And if that company does phone back, make sure you give them another piece of your mind.’

  ‘I will,’ I promise. ‘Bye, John, thanks for calling.’

  He rings off and I stand there feeling drained, and stupid, wondering what he must think of me. At that moment, the phone, which is still in my hand, starts ringing again and, this time, a terrible shaking takes hold of me. I desperately want to believe that it’s John phoning back to tell me something he forgot to tell me the first time round, so I take the call. The silence screams down the line and I hate that, once again, I’m doing exactly as he wants.

  Or perhaps not. Maybe my silence frustrates him, maybe he wants me to yell down the phone like I just did to John, maybe he wants me to threaten to go to the police so that he’ll have an excuse to kill me, like he killed Jane. I hang on to the thought, glad that I was able to vent my frustration on John and as I hang up, I feel the tiniest of victories. And relief that now that the call has come, I’ll be able to get on with my life.