Land of the Living

by Nicci French

  Ben looked at me for a long, long time. I imagined him thinking:

  Is this worth it? Because I did have some insight into my condition: I might have been babbling but at least I knew I was babbling.

  "I tell you what," he said. "I've got to pick up some letters at the office. I'll give some instructions to the guys. I'll be back here mid-morning and we can do it together."

  "Really?"

  "I don't like the thought of you wandering around on your own."

  "You don't have to do this, you know. You're not responsible for me or anything."

  "We talked about this last night. Remember?"

  "Thank you," I said. "Very much."

  "So, what are you going to do while I'm gone?"

  "I'm going to call Cross again, though I can't imagine he'll be very pleased to hear from me."

  "You have to, though."

  "I know."

  "I'll call Jo's parents' house from work. There was no reply yesterday evening. We should go and see them before I contact the police."

  "Yes. Oh dear."

  "I know."

  Ben left before eight. I had a scalding shower and made myself another cup of coffee. Then I called Cross, but was told he wouldn't be back in his office till the afternoon. I almost cried with impatience. Half a day is a long time when you feel every minute might count. I had a couple of hours before Ben returned. I cleared up the kitchen and changed the sheets on the bed. His house was more grown-up than anything I was used to. It struck me that Terry and I had lived a bit like students. Everything in our lives had seemed temporary, where and how we lived just arrangements we'd stumbled into. We'd got by, but messily and, in the end, violently. Ben's life was stable and considered. He was doing the job he wanted to do; he lived in a lovely house, where each room was painted a different colour and was full of carefully chosen objects. I opened his wardrobe. He had just two suits, but they looked expensive. His shirts hung neatly on their hangers, above three pairs of leather shoes. Things don't just happen to him, I thought. He chooses them. And he chose me, and he'd missed me when I'd gone. I shivered with pleasure.

  He came back just after ten. I was waiting for him, dressed in warm clothes and with a notebook in my bag. I also had the photograph of Jo, which I thought might jog people's memories.

  "Jo's parents aren't back till tomorrow," he said. "I spoke to the dog-sitter again. They spent an extra night in Paris. We should drive over to their place in the afternoon. It's not far, just on the other side of the M25."

  "That'll be grim."

  "Yes," he said. For a moment, his face was wiped of all expression. Then he said, with forced cheeriness, "All right. Cat time."

  "You're sure you're up for this? I mean, it's probably a wild-goose chase. Wrong metaphor."

  "I'll have you for company." He wrapped an arm round me and we went out to his car. I briefly remembered my own car, stuck in a bloody pound somewhere, but pushed away the thought. I could deal with all of those things later. Friendships, family, work, money (chronic lack of), tax forms, parking tickets, overdue library books, everything had to wait.

  We parked in a small street a few hundred yards away from Jo's flat. We'd planned to make a circuit of the area, stopping off at every news agent that had cards in the window. It was a boring, frustrating business. The vet's was a dead end. Nobody in the shops recognized Jo's photo, and only a few had cards advertising pets.

  After nearly two hours, I had written down three telephone numbers. When we went back to the car, Ben phoned them on his mobile. Two of the cards turned out to have been put up in the last few days so were irrelevant. The other card had been up for longer and, when Ben rang the number, the woman said that there was still one kitten without a home but we probably wouldn't want it.

  She lived on the estate just round the corner so we called in on her. The kitten was a tabby and still tiny. The woman, who was very tall and solid, said it had been the runt of the litter and remained fragile. She had to admit that it also seemed to have something wrong with its eyesight. It bumped into things, she said, and stepped in its food. She picked it up and it sat in her large, calloused hand and mewed piteously.

  I took Jo's photo out of my bag and showed it to her. "Did our friend come round here asking about kittens?" I asked.

  "What?" She put the tabby on the floor and peered at it. "No, not that I know of. I'd remember, I'm sure. Why?"

  "Oh, it's too long a story," I said, and she didn't press me. "We'll be going, then. I hope you find your kitten a home."

  "I won't," she said. "Nobody wants a blind cat, do they? I'll just have to take it to the cat sanctuary. Betty'll take her in."

  "Cat sanctuary?"

  "Well, it's not really a sanctuary, that sounds too official. But she's cat-mad. Bonkers. She lives for cats; they're all she cares about. She takes in all the strays. She must have about fifty, and they're breeding all the time. Her house is only small as well. It's a sight, really. It must drive her neighbours mad. Maybe you should go there if you're looking for a kitten."

  "Where does she live?" I asked, taking out my notebook.

  "Down Lewin Crescent. I don't know the number but you can't miss it. Poky little place and the upstairs windows are all boarded up. It looks deserted."

  "Thanks."

  We went back to the car.

  "Lewin Crescent?" asked Ben.

  "We may as well, now we're here."

  We found the place on the A-Z and drove there. It was wonderfully cosy in the car, but outside it was cold and the wind was a knife. Our breath plumed into the air. Ben took my hand and smiled down at me; his fingers were warm and strong.

  The house was certainly dilapidated. There were weeds and frosted, rotten sunflowers by the front door, and the dustbin was overflowing. A wide crack ran up the wall and the paint on the window-ledges was coming away in large flakes. I pressed the bell but couldn't hear it ring, so I knocked hard as well.

  "Listen," said Ben. Through the door I could hear mews, hisses, a strange scratching. "Have I told you I'm allergic to cats? I get asthma and my eyes go red."

  The door opened on a chain and the sound grew louder. A face peered through.

  "Hello," I said. "Sorry to bother you."

  "Is it the council?"

  "No. We've just come because we were told you have lots of cats."

  The door opened a bit more. "Come in, then but be careful they don't get out. Quick!"

  I don't know what hit us first, the wall of heat or the smell of meaty cat food, ammonia and shit. There were cats everywhere, on the sofa and the chairs, curled up near the electric heater, lying in soft brown heaps on the floor. Some were washing themselves, some were purring, a couple were hissing at each other, backs arched and tails twitching. There were bowls of food by the kitchen door, and three or four cat-litter trays next to them. It was like an obscene version of a Walt Disney film. Ben hung back by the door, looking appalled.

  "It's Betty, isn't it?" I asked. I was trying not to wince. A cat was winding itself round my legs.

  "That's right. You should know."

  Betty was old. Her face had folded. Her neck sagged. Her fingers and her wrists were blue. She was dressed in a thick blue shift with several buttons missing, and she was covered in cat hair. She had shrewd brown eyes, peering out from her wrecked face.

  "We were told you take in stray cats and that sometimes you give them to people in search of a pet," I said.

  "I have to be sure it's to a good home," she said sharply. "I'm not easily satisfied. I don't just give them to anybody, I keep saying."

  "We think a friend of ours might have been here," I said, and produced the photo of Jo.

  "Of course she did."

  "When?" I took a step forward.

  "You do go round and round in circles, don't you? But she wasn't right. She seemed to think you can just let a cat wander in and out as they please. Do you know how many cats get killed by cars each year?"

  "No," I said.
"I don't. So you didn't want her to have one of your cats?"

  "She didn't seem too keen anyway," said Betty. "As soon as I said I had my doubts about her, she was out of the door."

  "And you can't remember when it was?"

  "You tell me."

  "Midweek? Weekend?"

  "It was the day the bin-men come. They were clattering around outside when she was here."

  "What day's that?"

  "That would be a Wednesday."

  "So, a Wednesday," said Ben, still standing up against the front door. "Do you know what time?"

  "I don't know why you have to be so pushy."

  "It's not that we're' I began.

  "Morning or afternoon?" asked Ben.

  "Afternoon," she said grudgingly. "They usually come when I'm giving the cats their tea. Don't they, pussies?" she added, addressing the room at large, which seemed to shift and ripple with the movement of cats.

  "Thank you," I said. "You've been very helpful."

  "That's what you said last time."

  I froze with my hand on the door handle. "Did I come here before?"

  "Of course you did. On your own, though."

  "Betty, can you tell me when I came?"

  "No need to speak so loudly, I'm not deaf. Or stupid. The day after, that's when you came. Lost your memory, have you?"

  "Home?" said Ben.

  "Home," I agreed, then blushed violently at the word. He noticed and laid a hand on my knee. I turned and we kissed each other very gently, our lips hardly grazing. We kept our eyes open and I could see myself reflected in his pupils.

  "Home," he said again. "Home to toast and tea."

  Toast and tea, and making love in an unlit room, while outside it grew colder and darker and we held each other for comfort. And for a while we didn't talk about sombre things, but did what all new lovers do, which was to ask about each other's past. At least, I asked him.

  "I've already told you," he said.

  "Have you? You mean, before?"

  "Yes."

  "Isn't that odd, to think that I'm carrying all these things inside me things that were done to me, things you've said to me, secrets, gifts and I don't know what they are? If I don't know, is it the same as it never having happened, do you think?"

  "I don't know," he said. I traced his mouth with one finger; he was smiling in the darkness.

  "You'll have to tell me again. Who was before me?"

  "Leah. An interior designer."

  "Was she beautiful?"

  "I don't know. In a way. She was half Moroccan, very strikin."

  "Did she live here?" I asked.

  "No. Well, not really."

  "How long were you together?"

  "Two years."

  "Two years that's a long time. What happened?"

  "Nearly a year ago now, she fell in love with someone else and left me."

  "Stupid woman," I said. "Who could ever leave you?" I stroked his soft hair. It was still only afternoon, and here we were, lying under the duvet as if we were in a small cave, while outside the world closed in. "Were you very hurt?"

  "Yes," he said. "I suppose I was."

  "But you're all right now? Are you?"

  "Now I am."

  "We need to talk about Jo," I said, after a bit.

  "I know. I feel I shouldn't be so happy." He leant across, switched on the bedside lamp and we both blinked in the sudden dazzle. "So she was looking for a cat on Wednesday afternoon, and you were looking for her on Thursday."

  "Yes."

  "You're following yourself

  "Like that mad cat woman said round and round in circles."

  Twenty-three

  Ben went out to buy food for supper, and on a sudden impulse I rang Sadie.

  "Hi there," I said. "Guess who?"

  "Abbie? God, Abbie, where've you disappeared to? Do you realize I don't even have a phone number for you? I was at Sam's yesterday evening; he was having a little birthday get-together, and we all said how odd it was you weren't with us. We even toasted you. Well, we toasted absent friends, and that was mainly you. But nobody knew how to get hold of you. It's as if you've fallen off the face of the earth."

  "I know, I know. And I'm sorry. I miss all of you, but, well I can't explain now. I should have remembered his birthday; I've never forgotten it before. But things are, well, rather dramatic'

  "Are you all right?"

  "Kind of. In a way yes and in a way no."

  "Very mysterious. When can I see you? Where are you staying?"

  "At a friend's," I said vaguely. "And we'll meet soon. I just need to sort things out first. You know." What I wanted to say was: I just need to save my life first. But that sounded insane. It even felt insane, here in Ben's house, with the lights on and the radiators humming and from the kitchen the sound of the dishwasher.

  "Yes, but listen, Abbie, I've talked to Terry."

  "Have you? Is he all right? Have the police let him go yet?"

  "Yup, finally. I think they kept him as long as they were legally-entitled to, though."

  "Thank God for that. Is he all over the place?"

  "You could say that. He's been trying to get hold of you."

  I'll call him. At once. But is he still under suspicion, or what?"

  "I don't know. He wasn't being exactly rational when I talked to him. I think he was a bit pissed."

  "Sadie, I'll go now. I'll call Terry at once. And I'll come and see you soon, very soon."

  "Do that."

  "Is Pippa well?"

  "She's gorgeous."

  "Well, I know that. You are too, Sadie."

  "What?"

  "Gorgeous. You're gorgeous. I'm lucky to have friends like you. Tell everyone I love them."

  "Abbie?"

  "Everyone. Tell Sheila and Guy and Sam and Robin and well, everyone. When you see them, tell them I .. ." I suddenly caught sight of myself in the mirror over the fireplace. I was waving my hand around hysterically, like an opera singer. "Well, you know. Send my love, at least."

  "You're sure you're all right?"

  "It's all so weird, Sadie."

  "Listen-'

  "I've got to go. I'll call you."

  I called Terry. The phone rang and rang, and just as I was about to give up, he answered.

  "Hello." His voice was slurred.

  Terry? It's me, Abbie."

  "Abbie," he said. "Oh, Abbie."

  "They've let you go."

  "Abbie," he repeated.

  "I'm so sorry, Terry. I told them it couldn't be you. Did your dad tell you I rang? And I'm so sorry about Sally. I can't tell you how sorry."

  "Sally," he said. "They thought I killed Sally."

  "I know."

  "Please," he said.

  "What? What can I do?"

  "I need to see you. Please, Abbie."

  "Well, it's difficult right now." I couldn't go to his house he might be waiting there for me.

  The front door opened and Ben came in, with two carrier-bags.

  "I'll call you back," I said. "In a few minutes. Don'tgo away." Putting the phone down, I turned to Ben and said, "I have to see Terry. He sounds terrible and it's because of me, all of this. I owe him."

  He sighed and put his bags on the floor. "There was I, planning a romantic dinner for two. Stupid."

  "I have to, don't I? You do see?"

  "Where?"

  "Where what?"

  "Where do you want to meet him?"

  "Not at his place, that's for sure."

  "No. Here?"

  "That would be too odd."

  "Odd? Well, we can't have odd, can we?"

  "Maybe a cafe or something is better. Not a pub he sounded as if he'd drunk quite enough already. Tell me somewhere near here."

  "There's one on Belmont Avenue, at the park end of the road. The something Diner."

  "Ben?"

  "What?"

  "Will you come with me?"

  "I'll drive you there and wait outside in the car."
r />   "Ben?"

  "Yes, Abbie."

  "I appreciate it."

  "Then that makes it all worthwhile," he said drily.

  Forty-five minutes later I was sitting in the Diner (it was just called the Diner), drinking cappuccino and watching the door. Terry arrived ten minutes later, muffled up in an old greatcoat and a woollen hat. He was slightly unsteady on his feet and his face had a wild look about it.

  He came over to my table and sat down too noisily. He pulled off his hat. His hair was a bit greasy and his cheeks, red with cold or drink, had a new gaunt look to them.

  "Hello, Terry," I said, and put my hands over his.

  "Your hair is growing back."

  "Is it?"

  "Oh, God." He closed his eyes and leant back in his chair. "Oh, God, I'm knackered. I could sleep for a hundred hours."

  "What can I get you?"

  "Coffee."

  I gestured to the waitress. "A double espresso, please, and another cappuccino."

  Terry took out his cigarette packet and shook one out. His hands were trembling. He lit it and sucked ferociously, making his face look even more hollow.

  "I told the police you didn't do it, Terry. And if you need me to, I'll talk to your solicitor. It's all a mistake."

  "They went on and on about me being a violent man." The waitress put the coffee down on the table, but he took no notice. "It was like my head filling up with blood. I never would have hurt you. They made it sound as if I was an evil fucker. They said I'd sent you over the edge

  "Did they now?"

  "And Sally .. . Sally .. . Oh, shit."

  "Terry. Don't."

  He started crying. Fat tears rolled down his cheeks and into his mouth. He tried to pick up his coffee but his hands were shaking so much that he spilt great splashes of it over the table.

  "I don't know what's happened," he said, mopping ineffectually at the puddle with a napkin. "Everything was going along normally, and then it all went to hell. I kept thinking I'd wake up and it would be a bad dream and you'd be there, or Sally would be there. Someone, anyway. Someone would be there. But instead you're here and Sally's dead and the police still think it was me. I know they do."

  "The main thing is that they've let you go," I said. "It wasn't you and they can't say it was. You'll be all right now."

  But he wasn't listening. "I feel so fucking lonely," he said. "Why me?"