The Breakdown

by B. A. Paris

  Except that I can’t. The house feels so oppressive that I choose a shed for Matthew hurriedly, more concerned by the promise of delivery by Saturday than by its dimensions. Back downstairs, I take a book and a bottle of water and go into the garden. It takes me a while to choose where to sit because I don’t want anyone to be able to creep up on me, which I know is unlikely as they’d have to climb over a six-foot hedge. Unless they come in through the gate. I pick a spot at the side of the house with a view of the drive, annoyed that my home is no longer the haven it used to be. But until the police catch the killer, there’s not a lot I can do.

  Just as I’m about to make myself some lunch, I get a text from Rachel with the address that I asked for, so I take the card from my bag and sit down to write to Jane’s husband. It’s easier than I thought it would be, simply because I write from the heart and, when I’ve finished, I read it over just to make sure I’m happy with it.

  Dear Mr Walters,

  I hope I’m not intruding in sending you this letter. I just wanted to say how terribly sorry I was to hear the sad news about Jane. I only knew her briefly but in that short time she made such an impression on me. We first met a month ago, at a party for someone who was leaving Finchlakers, and then we had lunch together a couple of weeks ago, in Browbury. I hope you will understand when I say that I have lost a friend, because that is how it feels.

  My thoughts are with you and your family,

  Cass Anderson

  Glad to have an excuse to get out of the house for a few minutes, I find a stamp and walk the five-hundred yards to the postbox at the top of the road. There’s no one around but, as I slip my letter through the slot, I sense someone watching me, just as I had the day I’d used the payphone to call the police. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and I whip round, my heart thudding, but there’s no one there, only the branches of a tree some twenty feet away from me stirring in the wind. Except that, today, there isn’t any wind.

  It isn’t fear that I feel, but terror. It drains the blood from my face and robs me of my breath, knots my insides and turns my limbs to jelly. And then it makes me lose all sense of reason and hurtles me down the road, away from the houses at the top, towards my house at the end, close to the woods. My feet pound on the tarmac, loud in the silence of the afternoon and as I take a sharp turn into the drive, my chest heaving, my breath rasping, I skid on loose gravel. The ground rushes up to meet me and whacks the air from my lungs. And as I lie there, fighting for breath, my hands and knees already stinging, the voice in my head mocks me: There’s no one there!

  I get slowly to my feet and hobble to the front door, pulling the keys gingerly from my pocket with my finger and thumb, protecting the scraped skin on the palms of my hands. In the hall I head for the stairs, glad I hadn’t turned on the alarm when I left as I’m in such a state I’d have probably set it off again. I climb the stairs, my eyes smarting with unshed tears. I only let them fall when I’m cleaning myself up because I can pretend that I’m crying over the damage I’ve done to my hands and knees. But the truth is, I don’t know how much more of myself I can take. I’m ashamed of how pathetically feeble I’ve become since Jane’s murder. If I hadn’t already been having problems with my memory, I know I would have coped better. But with the possibility of dementia hanging over me, I’ve lost all confidence in myself.

  FRIDAY, AUGUST 7TH

  We’re lazing in bed when I hear a lorry pulling up in front of the house.

  ‘It’s not the day for the bin lorry, is it?’ I say innocently, knowing Matthew’s present should arrive today.

  Matthew gets out of bed and goes to the window. ‘It’s a delivery of some kind. Probably for that man who’s just moved in up the road,’ he says, pulling on jeans and a T-shirt. ‘He’s had quite a lot of furniture delivered recently.’

  ‘What man who’s just moved in up the road?’

  ‘Into that house that was for sale.’

  My heart thuds. ‘I thought it had been sold to a couple who were moving in at the end of September?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  The sound of someone crunching up the drive followed by the ring of the doorbell sends him hurrying downstairs. I lie back against the pillows, thinking about what Matthew just said. Maybe the man I saw outside the house is no more than our new neighbour. I should feel reassured, but I don’t, because somewhere in the dark recess of my mind I’m already wondering if he’s my silent caller. There might not have been anybody chasing me when I ran down the road yesterday but there was definitely someone watching me as I stood at the postbox. I wish I could tell Matthew but I can’t, not today, not without some sort of proof. He’s already bewildered enough by the way my mind has begun to work.

  Suddenly impatient, because he hasn’t come back, I throw off the covers to go and find him and hear his footsteps on the stairs.

  ‘Surprise!’ I say as he comes into the room.

  He looks at me in puzzlement. ‘So it’s not some kind of joke then?’

  ‘No, of course it isn’t,’ I say, taken aback by his lack of enthusiasm. ‘Why would it be?’

  He sits down on the edge of the bed. ‘I just don’t understand why you’ve bought one now.’

  ‘Because I thought it would be a nice gesture?’

  ‘I still don’t understand.’

  He looks so bewildered that my good humour evaporates fast.

  ‘It’s your birthday present!’

  He nods slowly. ‘Right. But why is it for me? Surely it should be for both of us?’

  ‘Why? I’m hardly going to use it, am I?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you’re the one that’s been banging on about having one! But it doesn’t matter. If you don’t want it, I’ll send it back.’

  ‘I’ve never said I wanted one, not specifically, and anyway, it’s not a question of not wanting it, I just don’t see the point, that’s all. We haven’t even started looking into having a baby yet so it might be years before we have a child.’

  I stare at him. ‘What’s having children got to do with it?’

  ‘I give up,’ he says, getting to his feet. ‘I don’t understand anything. I’m going downstairs.’

  ‘I thought you’d be happy!’ I shout after him. ‘I thought you’d be happy to have a garden shed! I’m sorry if I got that wrong too!’

  He comes back into the room. ‘A garden shed?’

  ‘Yes. I thought you wanted one,’ I say accusingly.

  ‘Well, of course I want one.’

  ‘So what’s the problem? Is it the size, because if it is, we can always change it.’

  A frown furrows his brow. ‘Let me get this straight – you’ve bought me a garden shed?’

  ‘Yes – why, isn’t that what was delivered?’

  ‘No,’ he says, starting to laugh. ‘No wonder I didn’t understand anything! They’ve made a mistake, sweetheart. They didn’t deliver a garden shed, they delivered a pram! God, I was seriously worried for a moment back there. I thought you’d completely lost it.’

  ‘A pram?’ I look at him incredulously. ‘How did they make that mistake?’

  ‘God knows. It’s a very nice one, I admit, navy and white, just the sort I can see us buying one day. Well, I’d better go and phone the delivery company and see if they can come back and collect it. They can’t have gone very far.’

  ‘Wait a minute.’ I push the covers back and get out of bed. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘In the hall. But even if you fall in love with it, I’m afraid you can’t keep it,’ he jokes. ‘It’s obviously destined for someone else.’

  I run downstairs, a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. Standing by the front door, the packaging lying on the floor around it, is the pram I saw in the shop in Castle Wells, the one I’d picked out as being the most practical.

  Matthew’s arms come round me. ‘Now can you see why I was so surprised?’ He nuzzles my neck. ‘I can’t believe you’ve ordered me a garde
n shed for my birthday.’

  ‘I know you’ve always wanted one,’ I say distractedly.

  ‘I love you,’ he murmurs in my ear. ‘Thank you, thank you so much. I can’t wait to see it, although you have to feel sorry for the poor guy who realises the shed he’s just received isn’t for him after all.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I mutter, looking at the pram.

  ‘Did you order the shed online?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then they’ve got two orders mixed up. We’ve got someone’s pram and they’ve got our shed. I’ll phone the delivery company and, with a bit of luck, I’ll have the shed by this afternoon.’

  ‘But I saw this pram in a shop in Castle Wells on Tuesday. There were some other people there, a young couple, and they asked me what I thought of all the different prams, so I looked at them for a bit and said that I thought this one was the best.’

  ‘So did they order it?’

  ‘They must have.’

  ‘Well, that explains it then. It’s got sent here by mistake.’

  ‘But how did the shop get my address?’

  ‘I don’t know. What sort of a shop was it? If it was a department store and you bought something there, maybe you gave them your address.’

  ‘It wasn’t a department store, it was a shop that sold baby clothes.’

  ‘Baby clothes?’

  ‘Yes. I bought a sleep-suit for our future baby. I meant to give it to you but with all the fuss over the alarm I forgot about it. It must still be in the car. I wanted to tell you that we could start looking into having a baby. It seemed like a good idea at the time but I suppose it seems stupid to you now.’

  He tightens his arms around me. ‘No, it doesn’t. It’s a lovely thought and you can still give it to me.’

  ‘It’s spoilt now,’ I say miserably. ‘Everything’s gone wrong.’

  ‘It hasn’t,’ he insists. ‘Look, when you bought the baby clothes, are you sure you didn’t give the shop our address?’

  ‘I filled in a form for a loyalty card,’ I say, remembering now. ‘I had to give my name and address.’

  ‘There we are then, problem solved! Which shop was it?’

  ‘The Baby Boutique. There must be an invoice or something.’ I peer into the pram. ‘Look, here.’

  He reaches for the phone. ‘Give me their number and I’ll call them. And while I’m doing that, you can make a start on breakfast.’

  I read the number out to him and go into the kitchen to make some coffee. As I switch on the machine, I hear him explaining that a pram has been delivered to us by mistake and when he goes on to joke that if it’s destined for the young couple who were in the shop at the same time as his wife on Tuesday, I should get a commission for encouraging them to buy it, I can’t help feeling pleased that they took my advice.

  ‘Let me guess – they said we can keep it anyway, for our future baby.’ I smile, when he comes into the kitchen.

  ‘So it’s true, then.’ He shakes his head in wonderment. ‘I didn’t believe it at first, I thought she must be mistaken.’ He comes over and puts his arms around me. ‘Are you really pregnant, Cass? I mean, it’s wonderful if you are but I don’t see how.’ He looks uncertainly at me. ‘Unless the doctors got it wrong. They told me I couldn’t father children but maybe they were wrong, maybe I can, maybe the problem isn’t with me after all.’

  The look on his face makes me hate myself more than I’ve ever hated myself.

  ‘I’m not pregnant,’ I say quietly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not pregnant.’

  ‘But the woman I spoke to congratulated me, she remembered you, she remembered you ordering the pram for our baby.’

  His disappointment is hard to take. ‘She must have got me mixed up with someone else. I told you, there was a young couple there…’

  ‘She said you told her you were pregnant.’ He moves away from me. ‘What’s going on, Cass?’

  I sit down at the table. ‘I told her the sleep-suit was for me, because it was, and she presumed I was pregnant,’ I say dully. ‘And I went along with it because, at the time, it seemed easier.’

  ‘And the pram?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He can’t hide his frustration. ‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’

  ‘I don’t remember!’

  ‘Well, did you let yourself be persuaded into buying it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say again.

  He sits down opposite me and takes my hands in his. ‘Look, sweetheart, would it help if you talked to someone?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You haven’t been yourself recently, and it’s, well, it’s just that this murder seems to have affected you more than it should have. And then there’s the phone calls.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘You seem to be reading more into them than you should. It’s difficult for me to judge when I haven’t heard any of them but…’

  ‘It’s not my fault they stop the minute you’re around!’ I snap, because I was strangely annoyed that a call hadn’t come in the last two mornings. He looks at me in surprise. ‘Sorry,’ I sigh. ‘I’m just frustrated that as soon as you’re with me, he doesn’t call.’ The word ‘he’ hangs in the air.

  ‘Well, it won’t do any harm for you to see Dr Deakin, just for a check-up.’

  ‘Why?’ I say, back on the defensive. ‘I’m tired, that’s all. Rachel thinks I’m suffering from burnout because so much has happened since Mum died.’

  He frowns. ‘Since when did she become an expert?’

  ‘Well, I think she’s right.’

  ‘Maybe she is. But it wouldn’t do you any harm to see a doctor.’

  ‘I’m fine, Matthew, honestly. I just need a rest.’ I see the doubt in his eyes.

  ‘Please will you let me make an appointment? If you can’t do it for yourself, maybe you could do it for me. I can’t go on like this, I really can’t.’

  I get a grip on myself. ‘What if they find there’s something wrong with me?’ I say, wanting to prepare him.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I can hardly get the word out. ‘Dementia or something.’

  ‘Dementia? You’re far too young to have dementia, it’s more likely to be stress, just like you say.’ He gives my hands a little shake. ‘I just want you to have the help you need. So, can I make an appointment?’

  ‘If it’ll make you happy.’

  ‘I’m hoping it will make you happy. Because I don’t think you’re very happy at the moment, are you?’

  The tears that never seem to be far away fill my eyes. ‘No,’ I say, ‘not really.’

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 8TH

  Matthew somehow managed to get a cancellation appointment with Dr Deakin for this morning and I’m nervous. Matthew and I registered with him soon after moving into the house and I haven’t seen him yet because I haven’t been ill. I thought it was the same for Matthew so when we’re called in, it’s a surprise to find our doctor seems to know him – and even more of a surprise to find that Dr Deakin already knows all about my memory lapses.

  ‘I didn’t realise my husband had already spoken to you,’ I say, flustered.

  ‘He was concerned about you,’ Dr Deakin explains. ‘Can you tell me when you first noticed that you were having trouble remembering things?’

  Matthew gives my hand a reassuring squeeze and I resist the urge to snatch it away. I try to ignore the sense of betrayal I feel but the fact that they’ve been discussing me without my knowledge makes me feel at a disadvantage.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I say, because I don’t want to admit to things that Matthew hadn’t noticed at the time because I’d managed to cover them up. ‘A few weeks ago, I suppose. Matthew had to come and rescue me in the supermarket because I’d left my purse at home.’

  ‘But before that you went all the way to Castle Wells without your bag – and what about that time you left half the shopping in the
supermarket,’ Matthew says quietly.

  ‘Oh, yes, I forgot about those,’ I say, realising too late that I’d just admitted to two more memory lapses.

  ‘Those sort of things can happen to anybody,’ Dr Deakin says reassuringly, and I’m glad he’s a grandfatherly kind of doctor who’s been around a bit and knows how life works and not someone straight out of medical school who does everything by the textbook. ‘I don’t think it’s anything to worry about. However, I would like to ask you about your family history,’ he goes on, dashing my hopes that our session is over. ‘I know you no longer have your parents but can I ask what they died of ?’

  ‘My father was killed in a car accident – he was run over while crossing the road outside our house. And my mother died of pneumonia.’

  ‘And did either of them show any signs of other illnesses before they died?’ he asks.

  ‘My mother had dementia.’ Beside me, Matthew gives a start of surprise, only a small one but I sense it nonetheless.

  ‘And can you tell me when it was diagnosed?’

  My skin has flushed so hot I’m certain Dr Deakin has noticed. I look down, flicking my hair over my face. ‘In 2002.’

  ‘And she would have been how old?’

  ‘Forty-four,’ I say, quietly. I can’t look at Matthew.

  From then on, things go from bad to worse. My face burns even more when I realise that Matthew hasn’t been fooled by any of my efforts at subterfuge and that he’s always been far more aware of what’s been going on than I gave him credit for. As the number of incidents Dr Deakin adds to his list increases, all I want is to leave before any more damage is done.

  But he and Matthew haven’t finished yet. There’s still the murder to talk about and, although both of them agree that it’s normal it has upset me, seeing as I’d met Jane, and that I’m right to be worried, given that it happened close to where we live, when Matthew explains that I think the murderer might have been phoning me, I fully expect Dr Deakin to call for the men in white coats.