The Breakdown

by B. A. Paris

  I’m so long at the hairdresser’s that Matthew’s car is already in the drive when I get back. As I pull up outside the front door, it flies open.

  ‘Thank God! Where have you been?’ he asks, looking frantic. ‘I’ve been worried about you.’

  ‘I went to Browbury to do some shopping and have my hair cut,’ I say mildly.

  ‘Well, next time, leave a note, or phone and tell me you’re going out. You can’t just wander off, Cass.’

  I smart at this. ‘I didn’t just wander off !’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Not really. I’m not going to start telling you my every move, Matthew. I didn’t before and I’m not going to start now.’

  ‘Before you didn’t have early-onset dementia. I love you, Cass, so of course I worry about you. At least get yourself another mobile so that I can contact you.’

  ‘All right,’ I say, putting myself in his shoes. ‘I’ll get one tomorrow, I promise.’

  TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 29TH

  When the phone rings the next morning, I think about what Alex said about the calls coming from someone I know and take the call.

  ‘Who are you?’ I ask, interested rather than scared. ‘You’re not who I thought you were, so who are you?’

  I put the phone down, feeling strangely victorious, but to my dismay he phones straight back. I stand there wondering if I should answer, knowing that if I don’t he’ll call until I do. But I don’t want to give him what he wants, I don’t want to stand there submissively silent, not any more. I’ve lost too many weeks of my life already. If I don’t want to lose any more, I need to start standing up to him.

  Worried that I’ll end up cracking, I go out to the garden to get away from the sound of the phone. I think about taking it off the hook so that he can’t get through but I don’t want to anger him any more than I already have. The other option is to go out for the day and only come home once Matthew is back. But I’m fed-up being driven from my home. What I need is something to keep me busy.

  My eyes fall on my secateurs, which are lying where I left them two months before, the day before Hannah and Andy came round for a barbecue, on the windowsill along with my gloves, so I decide to do a bit of pruning. It takes me about an hour to get the roses in shape and then I weed steadily until lunchtime, marvelling that whoever is calling me has so much time to spare on a futile exercise, because he must have guessed by now that I’m not going to pick up. I try to work out the sort of man he is but I know that to stereotype him as a loner who has trouble forming relationships would be a mistake. He could be a pillar of the community, a family man, a man with plenty of friends and interests. The only thing I’m sure about now is that he’s someone I know, and this makes me less frightened than perhaps I should be.

  It’s sobering to realise that if it hadn’t been for the murder, I would never have put up with his calls in the first place. I would have laughed at him down the phone, called him pathetic, told him that if he didn’t stop annoying me I would call the police. The only reason I didn’t was because I thought he was the murderer and I was so paralysed by fear that I couldn’t do anything. The thought that he has got away with so much for so long makes me determined to bring him out into the open.

  Around one o’clock the calls, which have been getting less frequent, suddenly stop altogether, as if he’s decided to take a break for lunch. Or maybe he has repetitive-strain injury from dialling my number so often. I take a leaf from his book and make myself some lunch, pleased that I’ve managed to stay so long in the house by myself. But when two-thirty comes and goes without him calling back I begin to feel uneasy. Although I’m determined to bring him out of hiding, I’m not ready for him yet.

  Wanting to be able to protect myself in case he decides to pay me a visit, I go to the garden shed and take out a hoe, a rake and, more importantly, some hedge cutters, and move to the front of the house where I feel safer. As I’m clearing dead flowers from a bed, the man from up the road – the ex-pilot – walks by and this time he calls hello. I look over at him, weighing him up. I feel so much better after my chat with Alex yesterday, and the man looks sad, not sinister, so I say hello back.

  I do about another hour’s gardening, keeping an ear out for the phone and when I’ve finished I bring one of the sunbeds round to the side of the house to rest until Matthew gets back. But I can’t relax. I want to get my life back but I know I’m not going to be able to until I find out who my tormentor is. And to do that, I’m going to need help.

  I go into the hall and phone Rachel.

  ‘I don’t suppose you could meet me after work, could you?’

  ‘Is everything all right?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes, everything’s fine, I just want your help with something.’

  ‘Sounds intriguing! I can meet you in Castle Wells, if you like, but I can’t get there until six-thirty. Will that do?’

  I hesitate, because I haven’t been back to Castle Wells since I lost my car in the car park. But I can’t expect Rachel to always come to Browbury when she only works ten minutes away from Castle Wells.

  ‘The Spotted Cow?’

  ‘See you there.’

  I leave Matthew a note, telling him I’ve gone to buy myself a new mobile and drive to Castle Wells. I don’t want to risk parking in the multi-storey again so I find a space in one of the smaller car parks and head for the main shopping precinct. As I walk past the Spotted Cow, I look through the window to see if it’s already crowded and see Rachel sitting at a table halfway down the room. Just as I’m wondering why she’s already there, an hour earlier than she told me she would be, somebody walks over to her table and sits down. And I find myself staring at John.

  Shocked, I duck down quickly and hurriedly retrace my steps, going back the way I came, away from the Spotted Cow, glad that neither of them had seen me. Rachel and John. My mind reels, but only because I’d never expected them to get together. And is that what they are? Together? I try to remember the body language I’d seen and it had definitely looked cosy. But a couple? Yet the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. They are both clever, gorgeous and fun. I imagine them having nights out, filled with laughter and drinking and a wave of sadness hits me. Why haven’t they said anything? Especially Rachel.

  I slow my pace, realising that the thought of the two of them together isn’t a nice thought. Although I love Rachel dearly, John seems too much of a gentle soul to be truly happy with her. And too young. I hate that I feel disapproving and I’m glad I’ve been forewarned in case Rachel decides to tell me later when we meet that she and John are together. They might not be, of course. Maybe they’re just meeting as ex-lovers, in which case Rachel will probably never tell me. When I think about it, she’s never told me much about the men she goes out with, probably because she never stays with them very long.

  I suddenly realise that I’m not likely to find a phone shop in the direction I’m heading so I cross over the road and go back towards the centre without passing in front of the Spotted Cow. A little further along I see the Baby Boutique and I go red with embarrassment when I remember how I had pretended to be pregnant that day. As I draw level, I find myself pushing the door open and I can’t believe that I’m actually going to confess that I’d lied about expecting a baby. But if I’m to get my life back, I need to get it in order so I walk over to the counter, relieved that the shop is empty, relieved that the same young woman is there.

  ‘I don’t know if you remember me,’ I begin. She looks at me enquiringly. ‘I came in a couple of months ago and bought a sleep-suit.’

  ‘Yes, of course I remember you,’ she says, smiling. ‘We’re expecting babies around the same time, aren’t we?’ She looks down at my stomach and when she sees my lack of a bump she looks up at me in dismay.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she falters.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I say hurriedly. ‘I wasn’t actually pregnant. I thought I was but I wasn’t.’

  She gives me a sympathet
ic look. ‘Was it one of those phantom pregnancies?’ she asks and because I feel I’ve earned the right to keep a little of my integrity intact, I tell that it was probably down to a lot of wishful thinking on my part.

  ‘I’m sure it will happen for you soon,’ she says.

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, I did think buying the pram was perhaps a little premature. I’m not sure what exactly we can do but if I ask our manager, I’m sure she’d agree to take it back at a slightly discounted price.’

  ‘I haven’t come here to try and give the pram back,’ I reassure her, realising that’s what she thinks. ‘I’m very happy to keep it. I just wanted to say hello.’

  ‘I’m very glad you did.’

  I say goodbye and walk towards the door, amazed at how good I feel.

  ‘By the way, it was the right pram, wasn’t it? The navy-blue one?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, smiling.

  ‘Thank goodness for that. Your friend would have shot me if I’d got it wrong.’

  I go into the street, her words echoing in my ears. Your friend. Had I misunderstood? Had she been referring to the couple who’d been in the shop at the same time as me? Maybe, once I’d left the shop that day, she hadn’t been sure which pram I’d ordered and had asked them if it was definitely the blue one I’d wanted. But she had said friend and not friends and, anyway, she knew that they were just people who happened to be in the shop at the same time as me. So who was she talking about?

  Even though the truth is staring me in the face, I don’t want to believe it. The only person who knew I was in the shop that day was John, and I don’t want to believe that he arranged to have the pram sent to me because then I’d have to ask, why? My head reeling again, I cross back over the road and head for Costas, where we’d gone after I bumped into him coming out of the Baby Boutique. I order a coffee and sit at the window, my eyes fixed on the shop over the road, trying to work out what could have happened.

  It could be fairly innocent. John has always had a soft spot for me so maybe when he went to the shop and mentioned that I’d suggested he buy a sleep-suit for his friend’s baby, the assistant had talked about my supposed pregnancy quite naturally and, delighted for me, he decided to buy me a present. But surely he wouldn’t have chosen something as expensive as a pram, and if it was a gift, why had he sent it anonymously? And why, when we met a while later in Browbury, didn’t he mention either my pregnancy or the pram? Had he been embarrassed about what he’d done? None of it made any sense.

  The alternative, that it wasn’t innocent at all, makes my heart pound. Had John been following me that day, had he been following me the day he’d knocked on my car window in Browbury? When I think about it now, it was unusual that I bumped into him twice in less than ten days. Had he arranged to have the pram sent to me anonymously to frighten me? He couldn’t know that I would think I’d sent it myself because he hadn’t known at that point about my dementia. I’d only told him about that over lunch in Browbury. And why would he do any of this? Because he loves you, a voice whispers in my mind and my hearts thuds painfully. He loves me enough to hate me?

  When I realise that everything points to John being my silent caller, I feel sick. He knew how nervous I’d been since Jane’s murder and when I’d mention the isolated position of our house he had pointed out that there were other houses nearby. But he’s never been to my house so how would he know? I’m suddenly so angry at him that I have to stop myself from going straight to the Spotted Cow and confronting him in front of Rachel. Because, before I do, I need to be absolutely sure of everything.

  I turn it around in my head, looking at it from every angle, but no matter how much I don’t want it to be true, all the facts are screaming that I’ve found my tormentor. I think back to July, when I’d shouted at my silent caller to leave me alone, and John had taken on his real persona and pretended surprise. All along it had been him. And I had apologised and told him that I’d been receiving nuisance calls from a call centre. How he must have laughed to himself as he pretended he’d phoned to invite me for a drink with Connie. I’d told him that I wasn’t sure I’d be able to make it because Matthew had taken the following two days off. And on those days, there hadn’t been any calls. Even the timing matches; with school closed, he has had the whole summer to devote to terrifying me. But it seems so insane. If someone had told me this morning that John was my silent caller I would have laughed in their face.

  Then something occurs to me and I feel as if I’ve been hit by a sledgehammer. On the night of Jane’s murder, John didn’t go back to Connie’s. He and Jane used to play tennis together, he had told me that himself. Is it possible they had been lovers? Had he gone to meet her that night? Is it possible that he murdered Jane? The answer has to be no. And then I remember him saying that his girlfriend, who none of us had ever met, was no longer on the scene.

  And what about Rachel? If she and John are together, she could be in terrible danger. But if she and John are together, maybe she knows what he’s done. I feel suddenly breathless. There are so many scenarios going round in my head that I’m tempted to go straight back home without going anywhere near the Spotted Cow. I look at my watch; I have five minutes to decide.

  In the end, I decide to meet Rachel. I use the walk there to prepare for every eventuality, that John will be with her, that he won’t be, that Rachel will tell me about her and John, that she won’t say anything about him at all. If she doesn’t, should I tell her my fears about John? But even to my ears they seem nonsensical, far-fetched.

  By the time I arrive, the pub is so busy that it’s just as well Rachel was there an hour earlier or we wouldn’t have got a seat.

  ‘Couldn’t you have found a quieter table?’ I attempt to joke, because we seem to be surrounded by a huge group of French students.

  ‘I’ve only just arrived,’ she says, giving me a hug, ‘so we’re lucky to have a table at all.’

  I hear the lie and something inside me stirs.

  ‘I’ll get some drinks,’ I offer. ‘What would you like?’

  ‘Just a small glass of wine, please, as I’m driving.’

  The wait at the bar gives me the chance to work out what I’m going to say when she asks me why I wanted to meet because I no longer need her help in tracking down my silent caller. Unless it isn’t John, unless I’ve taken what the shop assistant told me and have woven a whole intricate story around it.

  ‘So, what do you want to chat about?’ she asks once I’ve sat down.

  ‘Matthew,’ I say.

  ‘Why, what’s the problem?’

  ‘No problem, just Christmas coming up. I’d like to do something really special for him. He’s had a lot to put up with recently, one way or another, and I’d like to make it up to him. I just wondered if you had any ideas about what I could do. You’re so good at things like that.’

  ‘It’s not for another couple of months,’ she frowns.

  ‘I know, but I’m not exactly good at keeping on top of things at the moment. I thought if you could help me plan something, at least you’d be able to remind me what it is.’

  She laughs. ‘All right. What sort of thing were you thinking of ? A weekend away? A flight in a hot-air balloon? A sky-diving experience? A cookery course?’

  ‘Any of those sound great, except perhaps the cookery course,’ I say and, for the next half-hour, she comes up with idea after idea, all of which I say yes to because my mind is elsewhere.

  ‘You’re not going to be able to give him all of them,’ she says, exasperated, ‘although, as money is no option, I suppose you could.’

  ‘Well, you’ve certainly given me plenty to think about,’ I tell her gratefully. ‘What about you? Any news since Sunday?’

  ‘No, same old,’ she says, pulling a face.

  ‘You never got round to telling me about the chap from Siena, you know, the brother.’

  ‘Alfie.’ She stands up. ‘Sorry, I need the loo, I won’t be l
ong.’

  While she’s away, I decide that I’m going to have to somehow introduce John into the conversation and take it from there. But when she comes back, instead of sitting down she stays standing.

  ‘You don’t mind if I abandon you, do you?’ she says. ‘It’s just that I’ve got a busy day tomorrow and I need to get home.’

  ‘No, go ahead,’ I say, surprised that she’s going so soon. ‘I would leave with you but I need a coffee before driving home.’

  She stoops and hugs me goodbye. ‘I’ll catch up with you later in the week,’ she promises.

  I watch her curiously as she goes, pushing her way through the throng of French students, because I’ve never known her to leave in such a hurry before. Has she gone to meet John? Maybe he’s waiting for her somewhere, in a different pub. As she reaches the door, a shout goes up from a one of the French students and I realise that she’s trying to call Rachel back.

  ‘Madame, Madame!’ she cries. But Rachel has gone. The student begins to grapple with one of the boys next to her and, losing interest, I turn to a passing waitress and ask her to bring me a coffee.

  ‘Excuse me.’ I look up to see the French girl standing in front of me, a small black phone in her hand. ‘I am sorry but my friend took this from your friend’s bag.’

  ‘No, that’s not hers,’ I say, looking at the phone. ‘She has an iPhone.’

  ‘Si,’ she insists. ‘My friend there –’ she turns and points to the boy she’d been grappling with ‘– he took it from her bag.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ I frown.

  ‘It was a défi, a dare. It was a very bad thing to do. I try to give it back to her but he would not give it to me. But now I have it so I give it to you.’

  I look over to the boy she pointed out. He grins back at me and, pressing the palms of his hands together, gives me a little bow.