by B. A. Paris
I brace myself for his anger but he only shakes his head. ‘You can’t think like that,’ he says.
‘You know what the worst thing is?’ I continue. ‘Afterwards, I kept thinking that if I had got out of the car, I might have been murdered too. So I was glad that I hadn’t. What kind of person does that make me?’
‘Not a bad one,’ he says gently. ‘Just human.’
‘Why are you being so kind? Why aren’t you angry with me?’
He gets to his feet. ‘Is that what you want?’ he says, looking down at me. ‘Is that why you’ve come here? Do you want me to tell you that you’re responsible for Jane’s death and that you’re a terrible person? Because, if you do, you’ve come to the wrong place.’
I shake my head. ‘That’s not why I’ve come.’
‘So what is it you want?’
‘I don’t know how much longer I can live with the guilt I feel.’
‘You have to stop blaming yourself.’
‘I’ll never be able to do that.’
‘Look, Cass, if you want my forgiveness, I’ll give it to you gladly. I don’t blame you for not stopping; if the roles had been reversed I doubt Jane would have stopped to help you, she would have been too frightened to, just as you were.’
‘But at least she might have remembered to get someone to check up on me.’
He picks up a photograph of the twins, all smiles and blonde curls. ‘Too many lives have already been ruined by Jane’s death,’ he says softly. ‘Don’t let it ruin yours.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, tears filling my eyes again. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘I’m just sorry you’ve been going through so much anguish. Can I at least make you a cup of tea now?’
‘I don’t want to trouble you.’
‘I was going to make one when you knocked at the door, so it’s no trouble at all.’
By the time he comes back with the tea, I’ve managed to compose myself. He asks about me, so I tell him that I’m a teacher, without mentioning that I’m not working at the moment. We talk about his little daughters and he admits he’s finding it hard being a full-time dad, mainly because he misses his job, adding that when his colleagues had asked him to go in for lunch the previous week, it was the first time since Jane’s death that he’d felt up to seeing people again.
‘And how was it?’ I ask.
‘I didn’t go because I didn’t have anyone to look after the girls. Both sets of parents live too far away to pop over at short notice, although they’re brilliant at coming over at the weekend. But it’s still very difficult for Jane’s parents, you know, seeing the girls. They look so much like her.’
‘Don’t you have anyone locally who can help you out?’
‘No, not really.’
‘I’d be happy to babysit any time,’ I say. He looks taken aback. ‘I’m sorry, that’s a stupid thing to say – you don’t know me so of course you’re not going to trust me with the girls.’
‘Well, thank you for your offer anyway.’
I drain my cup, aware of an awkwardness between us. ‘I’d better go,’ I say, standing up. ‘Thank you for allowing me to talk to you.’
‘As long as you’re feeling better about everything.’
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I am.’
He walks me to the door and I have a sudden urge to confide in him about the calls I’ve been getting.
‘Was there something else?’ he asks.
‘No, it’s fine,’ I say, because I can’t intrude on him any longer.
‘Goodbye then.’
‘Goodbye.’
I walk slowly towards the gate, wondering if I’ve missed my chance, because there’s no way I can turn up on his doorstep uninvited again.
‘Maybe I’ll see you in the park someday!’ he calls.
‘Maybe,’ I say, realising that he’s been watching me. ‘Goodbye.’
It’s around four by the time I arrive back at the house, too late in the day to take a pill, so I decide not to go in but to sit in the garden until Matthew arrives. I’m not going to tell him that I’ve been out today because if I do I’ll have to lie about where I’ve been and, if I lie, it might come back to bite me if I can’t remember what I told him. The heat makes me thirsty so I go reluctantly into the house, remembering to turn off the alarm on the way in, and head for the kitchen. I open the door and find myself pausing on the threshold. My eyes scan the room; a prickle of unease goes down my spine. Everything seems as it should be but I know that it’s not, I know that since I left this morning, something has changed.
I move slowly back into the hall and stand as still as I can, listening for the slightest sound. There is nothing, only silence, but I know that doesn’t mean there isn’t someone there. I take the phone from its cradle on the hall table and slip quietly back through the front door, pulling it shut behind me. I move away from the house, making sure to stay just inside the gate so that the phone is still in range and, with shaking fingers, I dial Matthew’s number.
‘Can I call you back?’ he asks. ‘I’m in a meeting.’
‘I think someone’s been in the house,’ I say cautiously.
‘Hold on a minute.’
I hear him excusing himself and the scrape of his chair and a few seconds later he’s back on the line.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Someone’s been in the house,’ I say, trying to hide my agitation. ‘I went for a walk and when I came back I could tell someone had been in the kitchen.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say, frustrated at sounding crazy again.
‘Is something missing? Have we been burgled? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?’
‘I don’t know if we’ve been burgled; all I know is that someone has been in the house. Can you come home, Matthew? I don’t know what to do?’
‘Did you put the alarm on when you left?’
‘Yes.’
‘So how would they have got in without triggering it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Are there signs of a break-in?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t stay long enough to find out. Look, we’re wasting time. What if he’s still there? Don’t you think we should call the police?’ I hesitate a moment. ‘Jane’s murderer is still on the loose.’
He doesn’t say anything and I know it was stupid of me to have mentioned it.
‘Are you quite sure that someone has been in the house?’ he asks.
‘Of course I am. I wouldn’t make it up. And he might still be in there.’
‘Then we’d better call the police.’ I sense his reluctance. ‘They’ll get there quicker than me.’
‘But you will come?’
‘Yes, I’ll leave now.’
‘Thank you.’
He phones back a minute later to tell me that the police will be with me shortly. Although they come quickly, they also come quietly, so I know Matthew didn’t mention the word murderer to them. The police car pulls to a halt in front of the gate and I recognise the policewoman who came the time I set off the alarm.
‘Mrs Anderson?’ she says, walking down the drive towards me. ‘I’m PC Lawson. Your husband asked me to come by. I believe you think there might be someone in your house?’
‘Yes,’ I say quickly. ‘I went for a walk and when I came back I could tell that someone had been in the kitchen.’
‘Did you see any signs of a break-in – glass on the floor, that sort of thing?’
‘I only went as far as the kitchen so I don’t know.’
‘And you think they’re still there?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t stay around to find out. I came straight out here and phoned my husband.’
‘Can I get in through the front door? Do you have a key?’
‘Yes,’ I say, giving it to her.
‘Stay here, please, Mrs Anderson. I’ll let you know when it’s safe to come in.’
She lets herself into the house and I hear her cal
ling out, asking if anyone is there, and then, for the next five minutes or so, everything goes quiet. Eventually, she comes back out.
‘I’ve made a thorough search of the house and I can’t find anything to suggest there was an intruder,’ she says. ‘There’s no sign of a forced entry, all the windows are secure and everything seems to be in order.’
‘Are you sure?’ I ask anxiously.
‘Perhaps you’d like to come in and have a look around,’ she offers. ‘Check that nothing’s missing, that kind of thing.’
I follow her back into the house and go through every single room but although I can’t see anything out of place I know that someone was there.
‘I can just sense it,’ I say helplessly when she asks me to explain how I know.
We go back down to the kitchen.
‘Maybe we can have a cup of tea,’ PC Lawson suggests, sitting down at the table.
I go to put the kettle on and find myself stopping in my tracks.
‘My mug,’ I say, turning to her. ‘I left my mug on the side when I went out and now it’s gone. That’s how I know someone’s been in here. My mug isn’t where I left it.’
‘Maybe it’s in the dishwasher,’ she says.
I open the dishwasher and see my mug sitting on the rack.
‘I knew I wasn’t going mad!’ I say triumphantly. She looks at me doubtfully. ‘I didn’t put it in here,’ I explain. ‘I left it on the side.’
The door opens and Matthew comes in.
‘Everything all right?’ he asks, looking at me nervously.
I leave PC Lawson to speak to him, while my mind works furiously, wondering if it’s possible that I made a mistake about leaving my mug on the side. But I know that I didn’t.
I turn my attention back to PC Lawson, who has just finished telling Matthew that she couldn’t find any trace of a break-in or of anyone being in the house.
‘But there was someone,’ I insist. ‘My mug didn’t get into the dishwasher on its own.’
‘What do you mean?’ Matthew asks.
‘Before I went out, I left my mug on the side and, when I came back, it was in the dishwasher,’ I explain again.
He looks resignedly at me. ‘You probably don’t remember putting it in there, that’s all.’ He turns to PC Lawson. ‘My wife sometimes has problems with her memory, so she forgets things.’
‘Right,’ she says, looking sympathetically at me.
‘It has nothing to do with my memory!’ I say, annoyed. ‘I’m not stupid. I know what I did and didn’t do!’
‘But sometimes you don’t,’ Matthew says gently. I open my mouth to defend myself but close it again quickly. If he wanted, he could reel off any number of examples when I haven’t been able to remember what I’ve done. In the silence that follows I know that even if I insist until I’m blue in the face, they’ll never believe that I left my mug on the side.
‘I’m sorry you’ve come out unnecessarily,’ I say stiffly.
‘It’s no problem. Better to be safe than sorry,’ PC Lawson says kindly.
‘I think I’ll go and lie down for a while.’
‘Good idea.’ Matthew smiles encouragingly at me. ‘I’ll come up in a moment.’
After PC Lawson leaves, I wait for Matthew to come and find me. When he doesn’t I go downstairs to find him. He’s in the garden, sipping a glass of wine as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. A flash of anger hits me.
‘I’m glad it doesn’t bother you that there was someone in the house,’ I say, looking at him in disbelief.
‘Come on, Cass, if all they did was put a mug in the dishwasher, it’s not a threat, is it?’
I can’t work out if he’s being sarcastic as he’s never shown this side of himself before. A voice inside me warns: Be careful, don’t push him too far! But I can’t stop the anger I feel.
‘I suppose you’ll only believe me the day you come home and find me with my throat cut!’
He puts his wine glass down on the table. ‘Is that what you really think is going to happen? That someone is going to come into the house and murder you?’
Something snaps inside me. ‘It doesn’t matter what I think because nobody takes any notice of what I say anyway!’
‘Do you blame us? There’s absolutely no foundation for any of your fears, none at all.’
‘He spoke to me!’
‘Who?’
‘The murderer!’
‘Cass,’ he groans.
‘No, he did! And he’s been in the house! Don’t you understand, Matthew? Everything has changed!’
He shakes his head in despair. ‘You’re ill, Cass, you have early-onset dementia and you’re paranoid. Can’t you just accept it?’
The cruelty of his words stuns me. I can’t find anything to say so I turn my back on him and go into the house. In the kitchen I stop to swallow down two of my pills, giving him time to come after me. But he doesn’t, so I go upstairs, peel off my clothes and climb into bed.
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 22ND
When I next open my eyes it’s the morning and, all at once, the events of the previous evening come rushing back. I turn my head towards Matthew, wondering if he tried to wake me when he came to bed to apologise for his hurtful words. But his side of the bed is empty. I look at the clock: it’s eight-thirty. My breakfast tray is on the table, which means he’s already left for work.
I sit up, hoping to see a note propped against my glass of juice but there’s only a bowl of cereal, a small jug of milk and my two little pills. I feel sick with apprehension. No matter how much he tells me that he’ll never leave me, that he’ll stay with me, this new harder edge to his character has thrown me. I understand that it must be frightening for him to have a wife who keeps banging on about being stalked by a murderer but shouldn’t he try to get to the bottom of my fears before dismissing them so abruptly? When I think about it, he’s never once sat me down properly and asked why I think the murderer is after me. If he had, I might have admitted to seeing Jane’s car that night.
Tears of loneliness spill from my eyes and I reach for the pills and the juice to wash them down with, desperate to numb the pain. But I can’t stop crying, even when sleep begins to take me, because all I feel is terrible despair, and fear at what the future might hold for me. If I have dementia and Matthew leaves me, all I’ll have to look forward to are years in a care home where a few of my friends will visit out of obligation, an obligation that will end the minute I can’t remember who they are. My tears increase and become huge sobs of wretchedness, and when I’m woken some time later by a terrible groaning noise, with my head feeling as if it’s about to explode, it’s as if my emotional pain has manifested itself into physical pain. I try to open my eyes but find that I can’t. My body feels as if it’s on fire and, when I lift my hand to my head, I find it wet with sweat.
Aware that there’s something terribly wrong, I try to get out of bed but my legs won’t hold me up and I fall to the floor. I can feel sleep pulling me back but some sixth sense tells me that I mustn’t give in to it and I focus instead on trying to move. But it seems impossible and all I can think of, through the fog in my brain, is that I’ve had a stroke of some kind. My survival instinct kicks in and I know my only chance is to get help as quickly as possible so, heaving myself onto all fours, I make it to the top of the stairs and half fall down them to the hall below. The pain makes me almost lose consciousness but with superhuman effort I use my arms to pull my body along the floor towards the table where the phone sits. I want to call Matthew but I know I have to call the emergency services first, so I dial 999 and, when a woman answers, I tell her that I need help. I’m slurring so much I’m terrified she won’t be able to understand what I’m saying. She asks for my name and I tell her it’s Cass. She then asks where I’m calling from, and I just about manage to tell her our address when the phone slips from my grasp and clatters to the floor.
*
‘Cass, Cass, can you hear me?’ The voice is so faint t
hat it’s easy to ignore. But it comes back so insistently that I end up opening my eyes.
‘She’s here,’ I hear someone say. ‘She’s waking up.’
‘Cass, my name’s Pat, I want you to stay with me, all right?’ A face comes into focus somewhere above me. ‘We’re going to take you to hospital in a minute but can you just tell me, is this what you took?’ She holds the box of tablets that Dr Deakin prescribed for me and, recognising them, I give a little nod.
I feel hands on me, lifting me, and then cool air on my face for a few brief seconds as I’m carried out to an ambulance.
‘Matthew?’ I ask weakly.
‘You’ll see him at the hospital,’ a voice tells me. ‘Can you tell me how many you’ve taken, Cass?’
I’m about to ask her what she means when I start vomiting violently and, by the time we arrive at the hospital, I’m so weak I can’t even smile at Matthew as he stands looking down at me, his face white with worry.
‘You can see her later,’ a nurse tells him briskly.
‘She’ll be all right, won’t she?’ he asks, distraught, and I feel worse for him than I do for myself.
There’s a blur of tests so it’s only when the doctor starts asking me questions that I realise she thinks I’ve taken an overdose.
I stare at her, appalled. ‘An overdose?’
‘Yes.’
I shake my head. ‘No, I would never do that.’
She gives me the kind of look that tells me she doesn’t believe me and, bewildered, I ask to see Matthew.
‘Thank God you’re all right,’ he says, reaching for my hand. He looks at me in anguish. ‘Was it me, Cass? Was it what I said? If it is, I’m so sorry. If I thought for a minute that you’d do something like this I’d never have been so harsh.’
