The Breakdown

by B. A. Paris

  Shock runs through me. I stare at him, wondering if I’m mistaken. But with his photo plastered over newspapers and television for the last few weeks, his is a familiar face. Besides, the little girls look like twins. My instinct is to flee, to leave the gardens as quickly as I can before he sees me. But then I calm down. He doesn’t know I’m the person who could have saved his wife.

  He begins to leave the play area, carrying the child who’s been hurt and holding the other by the hand. Both of them are crying as they walk along the path towards the bench where I’m sitting and I can hear him trying to soothe them with promises of plasters and ice cream. But the one in his arms won’t be comforted, upset by her grazed knees, one of which is bleeding quite heavily.

  ‘Would you like a tissue for that?’ I ask, before I can stop myself.

  He comes to a stop in front of me. ‘It might be a good idea,’ he says, looking relieved. ‘It’s still a bit of a way to the house.’

  I take one from my pocket and hand it to him. ‘It’s clean.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Sitting the injured child down next to me on the bench, he crouches in front of her and shows her the tissue.

  ‘See what this nice lady has given me? Shall we see if it makes your knee better?’

  He presses it gently on the graze, soaking up the blood, and her tears miraculously stop.

  ‘Better, Lottie?’ her sister asks, looking anxiously at her.

  ‘Better,’ she says, nodding.

  ‘Thank God for that.’ Jane’s husband looks solemnly up at me. ‘Imagine what it would have been like if she’d fallen onto concrete, like we used to when we were kids.’ He removes the tissue. ‘All gone,’ he says.

  His little daughter peers at her knee and, seemingly satisfied, scrambles down from the bench.

  ‘Play,’ she says, running over to the grass.

  ‘And now they don’t want to go home,’ he groans, straightening up.

  ‘They’re lovely,’ I say, smiling. ‘Beautiful.’

  ‘Most of the time,’ he agrees. ‘But they can be a bit of a handful when they want to be.’

  ‘They must miss their mother.’ I stop, appalled at what I’ve just said. ‘I’m… sorry,’ I stammer. ‘It’s just that…’

  ‘Please, don’t apologise,’ he says. ‘At least you don’t pretend not to know who I am. You can’t believe the number of people who come to Heston, hoping to bump into me, as if I’m somebody famous. They strike up a conversation with me, usually using the girls as a starting point and then they ask me about their mother, asking if she’s at home making the lunch, or if she has blonde hair like the girls. At first, before I got wise to it, I’d find myself having to tell them that she’d died, and then they’d probe further and I’d end up telling them that she’d been murdered. And they’d pretend surprise and say how sorry they were and how awful it must have been for me. It was only after one woman went a step too far and asked me how the police had broken the news to me that I caught on to them.’ He shakes his head in disbelief. ‘There must be a name for people like that but I don’t know what it is. At least the village shop and the pub get a roaring trade out of it,’ he adds, giving a rueful smile.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say again. I want to tell him who I am, that I received his letter this morning but after what he’s just said he might think that, like all the others, I came to the park hoping to bump into him, especially as I have no real reason for being in Heston. It’s not as if he invited me to come and see him. I get to my feet. ‘I should go.’

  ‘I hope it’s not because of what I said.’ In the bright sunlight I can see streaks of grey in his brown hair and I wonder if they were there before Jane died.

  ‘No, not at all,’ I reassure him. ‘I have to get back.’

  ‘Well, thank you for coming to the rescue.’ He looks over to where the girls are playing. ‘It’s all forgotten now, thank goodness.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ I try to smile but the irony of his words make it difficult. ‘Enjoy the rest of the afternoon.’

  ‘You too.’

  I walk away, my heart hammering in my chest, his words about me coming to his rescue ringing in my ears. They mock me all the way to the gate and out to the car and I wonder what on earth had possessed me to come here, unless it was my need for absolution. What would happen if I went back and told him who I am, and that I saw Jane in the lay-by that night? Would he smile that sad smile of his and tell me that it didn’t matter, that it was just as well I hadn’t stopped because I might have been murdered too? Or would he be appalled at my non-intervention and point his finger at me and tell everyone in the park that I had done nothing to help his wife. Because I have no way of knowing, I turn on the engine and drive home, but all I can think about is Jane’s husband and the two little daughters she left behind.

  Although I drive as slowly as I can, I’m home by five. As I go in through the gate my anxiety comes rushing back and I know I’m not going to be able to go into the house, not until Matthew comes back, so I stay in the car. Even in the shade it’s hot so I open the windows to try to get a bit of a draught going. My phone beeps, telling me I’ve got a message, and when I see it’s from Mary, I switch my mobile off. I’m so busy worrying about the work I still haven’t done that I don’t notice the time passing, so when I see Matthew’s car turning into the drive I think at first that he’s come home early. A quick check of my watch tells me it’s already six-thirty. He pulls up alongside me and I take the keys from the ignition and get out of the car, making it look as if I’ve just arrived.

  ‘Beat you,’ I say, smiling at him.

  ‘You look hot,’ he remarks, giving me a kiss. ‘Didn’t you have the air conditioning on?’

  ‘I was only in Browbury, so I didn’t bother putting it on for the short journey home.’

  ‘Did you go shopping?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Buy anything nice?’

  ‘No.’

  We go towards the front door and he unlocks it with his keys. ‘Where’s your bag?’ he says, nodding at my empty hands.

  ‘In the car.’ I walk quickly into the house. ‘I’ll get it in a minute, I need a drink first.’

  ‘Hold on, let me turn the alarm off first! Oh, it’s not on.’ Behind me, I sense him frowning. ‘Didn’t you turn it on when you left?’

  ‘No, I didn’t think it was necessary as I didn’t intend staying out for long.’

  ‘Well, I’d rather you turned it on in future. Now that we have an alarm, we may as well use it.’

  Leaving him to go and change, I make some tea and carry it out to the garden.

  ‘Don’t tell me you went out with those on,’ he says, when he joins me a few minutes later.

  I look down at my feet. Not wanting to give him more to worry about, I fake a laugh. ‘No, I just put them on.’

  He smiles and sits down next to me, stretching his long legs out. ‘So what did you do today, apart from shopping in Browbury?’

  ‘I prepared a few more lessons,’ I say, wondering why I’m not mentioning that I bumped into John.

  ‘That’s good.’ He looks at his watch. ‘Ten past seven. When you’ve finished your tea, change your shoes and I’ll take you out to dinner. We may as well get the weekend off to a flying start.’

  My heart sinks, because I’m still full after my lunch with John.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I ask, doubtfully. ‘Wouldn’t you rather stay in?’

  ‘Not unless there’s some of your curry left from the other day.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘So let’s go out for one, then.’

  ‘All right,’ I say, relieved he hasn’t suggested going to Costello’s for pasta.

  *

  I go upstairs to change and take a small bag from the wardrobe, hide it under my cardigan and, while he’s putting on the alarm, I go out to my car and make a show of taking it from behind the seat. We drive into Browbury and go to our favourite Indian restaurant.


  ‘You know our new neighbour?’ I say while we’re looking at the menu. ‘Have you spoken to him at all?’

  ‘Yes, yesterday, when I was scouring the road for you coming back from Castle Wells. He walked past the house and we got chatting. Apparently, his wife left him just before they were due to move in.’

  ‘Where was he going?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You said he walked past the house.’

  ‘Yes, he was going up to his. He must have been for a walk. I said we’d have him round for dinner one evening.’

  My heart thumps. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘That he’d love to. That’s all right, isn’t it?’

  I look down at my menu, pretending to study it. ‘As long as he’s not the murderer.’

  Matthew bursts out laughing. ‘You are joking, aren’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’ I force a smile. ‘So, what’s he like?’

  ‘He seemed nice enough.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘I don’t know – early sixties, I suppose.’

  ‘He didn’t seem that old when I saw him.’

  ‘He’s a retired pilot. They probably have to keep themselves in good shape.’

  ‘Did you ask him why he’s always standing outside our house?’

  ‘No, because I didn’t know he was. But he did tell me that he thought it was beautiful so maybe he’s been admiring it.’ He looks at me, a frown on his face. ‘Is he always standing outside our house?’

  ‘I’ve seen him there a couple of times.’

  ‘Not an arrestable offence,’ he says, as if he’s guessed where I’m going with my questions and is warning me off.

  ‘I didn’t say it was.’

  He gives me an encouraging smile. ‘Let’s choose what we’re going to eat, shall we?’

  I want to point out to him that a nice enough, retired pilot in his early sixties could still be a murderer but I know he won’t go there, let alone tell the police.

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 15TH

  The sharp slam of the post arriving vibrates through the house as we’re having breakfast. Matthew stands, a piece of buttered toast hanging halfway out of his mouth, and walks into the hallway, coming back moments later with a couple of letters and a small package.

  ‘Here,’ he says, handing it to me. ‘It’s for you.’

  I eye it apprehensively. Yesterday, the letter had been from Alex but there’s little chance the package is from him. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He studies the plain white packaging. ‘Something you ordered?’

  ‘I didn’t order anything.’ Nervously, I put it on the kitchen table, almost scared to touch it. Could it have been sent by my silent caller?

  ‘Are you sure?’ Matthew puts his hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘Do you want me to open it?’

  ‘No, it’s all right,’ I say hastily. Even though I could easily rip it open, I pick it up and carry it through to the study. Taking a pair of scissors from the drawer, I snip through the packaging. Inside, there’s a small box. I take it out and ease open the lid, my heart pounding. A pair of exquisite silver earrings sit on a black velvet cushion and, recognising them, relief washes over me.

  ‘Very nice,’ Matthew says, peering over my shoulder.

  I hadn’t heard him follow me through. ‘They’re for Rachel,’ I tell him, closing the box. ‘I didn’t expect them to come so quickly.’

  ‘For her birthday?’

  I think of the cottage on the Ile de Ré. ‘Yes,’ I say.

  Smiling approval, he leaves to mow the lawn. I slip the earrings into a drawer, and stand for a moment, looking out of the study window, looking across the road to the field opposite. I used to feel so safe here, as if nothing could ever touch us.

  The house phone rings. I freeze, then remember it’s the weekend. My silent caller has never called on a Saturday before. Even so, I let the answering machine pick up the call. It’s Mary, wondering if I got the various messages she left me about the Inset day. My heart drops. The holidays are going to end soon and I still haven’t done the work I was supposed to have done. She carries on talking and jokingly adds that she hopes I haven’t lost my mobile because she’s also sent quite a few text messages.

  After Mary ends her message, the telephone rings again almost immediately. I check the number, wondering if Mary is going to become as persistent as my silent caller.

  But it’s Rachel, so I pick up.

  ‘Hi,’ I say brightly.

  ‘So, how are you?’

  Going mad, I want to tell her. ‘Busy preparing lessons,’ I say instead.

  ‘Any more calls?’

  ‘No, not recently,’ I lie. ‘What about you? How’s Siena?’

  ‘Beautiful. I’m having great fun, despite Alfie.’ Her throaty laugh comes down the line. ‘I can’t wait to tell you all about him but we’re just about to go out.’

  ‘No wedding bells then?’ I ask, amused.

  ‘Definitely not. Anyway, you know me, I’m not the marrying kind. Why don’t we meet for lunch the Tuesday after I get back – the Monday’s a Bank Holiday. It’ll be my first day back at work so it’ll be nice to have something to look forward to. And you don’t go back to school until the Wednesday, do you?’

  ‘No, so lunch on the Tuesday will be lovely. At the Sour Grapes?’

  ‘I’ll see you there.’

  I hang up, realising that there are only two weeks of the summer holidays left. A blessing and a curse. I can’t wait to be away from the house, away from the calls. But all the work looming over me makes going back to school seem impossible.

  ‘Ready?’ I look up and see Matthew standing there. He’s dressed smartly in khaki trousers and a polo shirt and is carrying a small sports bag.

  ‘Ready?’ I frown.

  ‘For our afternoon at the spa.’

  I nod and force a smile but I’m not ready because I’d completely forgotten that at the restaurant yesterday, he’d surprised me with a couples booking for this afternoon at a spa near Chichester. We went there just after we got engaged, and his gesture last night had eased the tension that remained after the conversation about our new neighbour.

  ‘I just need to put my shoes on,’ I say, smoothing down the cotton skirt I’d put on this morning instead of the shorts I would have normally worn. So maybe, this morning, I had remembered about the spa.

  I run upstairs and stuff a bikini into a bag, thinking about what else I might need.

  ‘We need to go, Cass!’

  ‘Coming!’ I pull off the vest top I’m wearing and open the wardrobe door, looking for something a little smarter. I take out a white cotton shirt with tiny buttons and shrug it on. In the bathroom I run a brush through my hair. I’m just about to put some make-up on when Matthew calls again from downstairs.

  ‘Cass, did you hear me, the booking is for two o’clock!’

  I glance at the clock and realise that we only have forty-five minutes to get to Chichester. ‘Sorry,’ I say, running down the stairs. ‘I was looking for my bikini.’

  We get in the car and as we pull out of the drive, I lean my head back and close my eyes. I feel exhausted, but here in the car with Matthew, where no dangers can reach me, I also feel safe. We turn a sudden corner and, thrown against the door, I open my eyes and blink a couple of times, trying to work out where we are. And then I realise.

  ‘Matthew!’ I hear the fear in my voice. ‘We’re heading the wrong way!’

  He glances over at me and frowns. ‘We’re going to Chichester.’

  ‘I know, but why are we going down Blackwater Lane!’ The words feel thick on my tongue.

  ‘Because this way will take ten minutes off our journey time. We’ll be late otherwise.’

  My heart thumps. I don’t want to go this way – I can’t! Through the windscreen I see the lay-by coming up and my mind starts spiralling. Panic-stricken, I turn towards the door, my fingers reaching for the handle.<
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  ‘Cass!’ Matthew cries, alarm in his voice. ‘What are you doing? You can’t just get out of the car! We’re going at forty!’ He slams his foot on the brake and the car jolts, throwing me forward. He brings it hurriedly to a stop, just opposite the lay-by where Jane was killed. Someone has laid flowers and the plastic wrapping flutters in the breeze. Horrified to be back where my nightmare began, I burst into tears.

  ‘No!’ I sob. ‘Please, Matthew, we can’t stop here!’

  ‘Oh, God,’ he says wearily. He slips the car into gear, about to move on, then stops. ‘This is crazy.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I sob.

  ‘What do you want me to do? Shall I keep driving? Or do you want to go home?’ He sounds at the end of his tether.

  I’m crying so hard I can hardly breathe. He reaches over and tries to put his arms around me but I shrug him off. Sighing, he starts doing a three-point turn in the middle of the road, turning the car back the way we came.

  ‘No,’ I tell him, still sobbing. ‘I can’t go home, I just can’t.’

  He stops in mid-manoeuvre, leaving the car dangerously at an angle. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I don’t want to go home, that’s all.’

  ‘Why not?’ His voice is calm but I can sense a tension underneath it, hiding something more serious.

  ‘I just don’t feel safe there any more.’

  He takes a deep breath, steadying himself. ‘Is this about the murder again? Come on, Cass, the murderer isn’t anywhere near our house and he doesn’t know who you are. I know Jane’s murder has upset you but you need to get over it.’

  I round on him furiously. ‘How can I get over it when her killer still hasn’t been caught?’

  ‘So what do you want me to do? I’ve alarmed the whole house for you. Do you want me to drop you off at a hotel somewhere? Is that what you want? Because if it is, just tell me and I’ll do it!’

  By the time we get home, I’m in such a state that Matthew calls Dr Deakin, who offers to come out. Even for him I can’t stop crying. He asks about my medication and, when Matthew tells him that I haven’t been taking it regularly, Dr Deakin frowns and says that if he prescribed it, it’s because I need it. Under his watchful eye, I gratefully gulp down two of the pills and wait for them to take me to a place where nothing matters any more. And while I wait, he asks me gentle questions, wanting to know what triggered my meltdown. I listen as Matthew explains about me barricading myself into the sitting room while he was at work and, when Dr Deakin asks if there’s been any other worrying behaviour on my part, Matthew mentions that the week before I’d become hysterical because I thought I saw a huge knife lying on the side in the kitchen when in reality it was only a small kitchen knife. I sense them exchanging glances and they begin speaking about me as if I’m not there. I hear the word ‘breakdown’ but I don’t care because the pills have already begun to work their magic.