I sip at the juice from a teaspoon, seasoning with a little more salt and pepper, and then start to clear up. I bag together the unrecognisable remains of bones, striped pelt, and corded tail. Finally, the elongated weasel-like head, with its miniscule ears, is stuffed in on top.
The vegetables in the simmering pot are well past their sell-by date; softened carrots, limp celery stalks and browning onions. A healthy measure of rich red wine tops the mixture and, as the cauldron bubbles back to life, I pour myself a well-earned glass from the bottle.
It’s ten minutes before midnight when I venture out to my car and heave the bag of motley body parts into the boot. Her face will be a picture when she opens it up but I wonder how long it will take her to work out what’s inside. The little pebble eyes will provide the best clue.
Cheers!
1 The Predatory Stalker, A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing (Dec 2012) - by Joni E Johnston Psy.D
24
Cosette is nearly as dogged as I am. Scott’s childish attempts to freak me out have left me more irritated than afraid and have fed the determination to keep at him. My befriending of Cosette is definitely putting a strain on their relationship.
She’s fed up with his ‘little white lies’ which are starting to morph into whoppers. Old habits die hard. The niggling doubts, fed by my negative throwaway comments about her boyfriend, are festering.
‘He thinks I believe him,’ she says slurping through the straw and making glugging sounds as she reaches the bottom of the glass. She’s like a petulant child. It must be her contrary nature that appeals to Scott or else he really has a child fetish. Perhaps if he’d moved on to her, rather than to Danielle, I wouldn’t have got so jealous and angry because Cosette’s hard to dislike.
‘What’s he up to now? Jeez. I’m glad he’s not my problem anymore.’ I gulp my wine.
‘His ex-girlfriend is back in London. Danielle. He lied when she phoned and he made up some story about a disgruntled client. He must think I was born yesterday. What disgruntled client phones a banker at home after ten at night?’
The white wine has an acid bite, sharp and stinging. It’s like paint stripper attacking the delicate coating at the back of my throat, and it’s a battle to keep down.
‘Danielle? What does she want?’ My tone is mildly inquisitive but my insides are like pig swill.
‘That’s what I don’t know. Scott doesn’t talk about her much except that she’s an ex. They split up after she lost their baby in some freak accident.’
She doesn’t know. He hasn’t told her that he tried to blame me, put me in the frame for Danielle’s tumble, and I doubt Cosette knows I’m in therapy because of his accusations. I need to contain the vitriol, play her carefully, and make her choose to leave of her own accord.
‘I thought she’d gone, left him. I wonder why she’s back.’
‘He’s met up with her. I’m certain because he’s acting weird. He bought me a necklace and I’m sure it’s like a “guilt” present. Look.’
The tiny silver chain has a heart clinging precariously to the thinly welded rope. The fact it’s not gold speaks volumes.
‘Have you moved in yet?’
‘Sort of. Although I haven’t unpacked properly. I’m not certain how committed Scott is. He says he wants us to move forward but I’m not sure. Now that Danielle is around, I don’t know what to think.’
Danielle has a way of hanging about, getting her kicks with someone else’s boyfriend; all the fun and none of the shit. Scott was seeing her months before my abortion and now she’s back. Poor Cosette, so young and starry-eyed.
‘I’m sorry. But don’t let him treat you like a doormat. He tramples all over people to get what he wants. I should know.’
‘I thought he was the one.’ She wiggles her forefingers like inverted commas to stress the point. I smile at the familiar gesture.
‘Yes. So did I.’ I can’t help my air of condescension. It’s not that I want her to feel foolish or gullible or even second best, but I want her to see what a complete prick Scott is. I’ll have persuaded her to move out by the end of the month.
‘How’re things going with Terence?’ Her French accent puts the stress on the ‘ence’ and I wonder at first who she’s talking about. It rhymes with ponce.
The change of subject tells me she’s had enough and needs time to digest our conversation, bury the feelings of disloyalty. She’s got the stubborn belief that accompanies first love, that all will work out in the end and that their relationship is uniquely special.
‘Really well, actually. I’m getting the house ready for him to move in. At last I’ve found my Mr Right.’ I convince her with my smile but resist the finger wiggling. She doesn’t need to know about the wife, the kids or Gigi. Travis is already becoming worn down by the pressure and it’ll not be long till he’s over my threshold. Queenie doesn’t seem to care and is probably packing his bags as we speak but she’ll hate me for the inconvenience.
‘That’s great. Listen, I’ve got to go, but thanks for the drink. And the chat,’ she adds as an afterthought. She’s playing down my influence, doesn’t yet realise the effectiveness of subliminal suggestion. Snide comments here and there are hitting the spot.
As she walks away, I decide to miss my Spanish class and catch up at home. I open my phone and go to planner. Classroom teaching, Spanish classes and house renovation have turned into a full-time job. Only after Travis has moved in and Scott’s punishment has fitted the crime, will I be able to start completely afresh and perhaps find time for some real hobbies. But for now, I’m a woman on a mission.
I study my weekly planner and realise I need to free up some time slots for Danielle. I’m not sure what’s going on but she’s a definite threat. I insert a red high priority tag next to her name. The idea was certainly not for Cosette to walk away and leave the door open for her predecessor to come back in. Over my dead body, if not someone else’s.
25
Scott hovered, took a few deep breaths before hanging his jacket up on the peg in the hall and prepared for confrontation. Wobbly broken sobs were coming from the kitchen but quieter, less hysterical than earlier. He hoped Cosette had calmed down since her frenzied incoherent phone call.
‘Hi, babe.’ He pushed open the door and reeled backwards from the stench, his fingers clipping shut the end of his nose.
Cosette’s face was smeared with blood and her hair, coated in a red congealed gunge, stuck out as if from an electric shock.
‘What the fuck?’
The macabre contents of a bin bag were strewn across the kitchen floor; dark, viscous blood coating the tiles. An animal’s head, its mouth dismembered, had rolled into the corner, its upturned snout smiling back. Cosette was whimpering, crouching on the floor.
Scott’s feet squelched their way through the entrails.
‘I opened the box. It was addressed to you and there was a black bag inside.’
He put his hand out and helped her up, choking back the fumes whose cocktail was a mix between an egg farm and a sewage plant. He threw open the back door and heaved over the flowerbed.
‘That fucking bitch. Look, I’ll put on my boots and let’s clear this lot up. Would you do me a favour first? Take some pictures. We need this on record.’
‘Who’d do something like this?’
‘Isn’t it obvious? That bitch, Beverley.’
Cosette gingerly moved to the sink and scrubbed her hands raw. Struggling to hold the phone, which had avoided the fall out, she snapped the scene from several angles. Scott took out a pair of yellow rubber gloves from under the sink and pulled them on.
‘She doesn’t forgive me for what happened. She’ll never let it rest. Don’t you see?’
‘She’s moved on, Scott. She’s happy, got a new man. Why would she waste time on you?’ Cosette’s tone was clipped as she got down on hands and knees and scoured the floor, using sheets and sheets of kitchen roll to sop up the mess.
Scott wondered if Cosette’
s grim determined silence might be connected to what happened the other night, when Danielle had phoned out of the blue.
‘A drink. Old time’s sake?’ His ex-girlfriend’s husky voice had wafted through the handset, a ghost from the past.
It was late and he and Cosette were already in bed. When he heard Danielle’s voice, Scott had slipped out from under the duvet and padded towards the door, closing it gently behind.
‘Danielle? Is that really you?’ For a moment Scott thought he was dreaming, that she would hang up and be gone. ‘Okay. Text where and when and I’ll be there.’
‘Who was on the phone?’ Cosette, shivering, appeared behind him, encased in one of his extra-large T-shirts like an underfed street urchin. Scott swiped his phone off and took her hand.
‘No one important. A disgruntled client. Sorry, I tried not to wake you.’
Now as he watched Cosette scour the tiles, forwards and backwards, backwards and forwards he suspected the purposeful angry actions might be linked to something other than the slaughtered badger spread out in front of them.
Scott got to the wine bar early, butterflies in his stomach. Danielle had disappeared after she’d lost the baby, the final nail in the coffin of their relationship. He’d clung on long after their relationship had gone sour, hoping that a baby would make things right; make her stay. The day before Danielle fell down the stairs they’d argued. She told him she was going to bring the baby up on her own, that she didn’t need a man.
His explanations about Beverley had been brushed aside.
‘I haven’t been seeing her behind your back. She keeps phoning me, turning up at weird places, forcing me to talk to her. Whatever she’s told you, it isn’t true.’
But Danielle didn’t believe him. Beverley had made sure of that by feeding lie after lie, sending pictures of them together, putting recent dates to old photographs; photographs taken when they’d first gone out. There was one picture, though, which had been impossible to explain away. It was of Beverley and him walking along a seafront. He had an arm around her shoulder with his other hand on her stomach, the bump faint but distinct.
‘I should have told you she was pregnant. It wasn’t planned and she didn’t want to keep the baby, so it didn’t seem important.’ He had lied to Danielle, a big mistake. He should have told her the truth, about the botched abortion which he’d arranged and Beverley’s depression and subsequent desire for revenge. Instead, he’d carried on, falling more and more in love with Danielle, assuming Beverley would disappear and he and Danielle could live happily ever after. That was until Beverley confronted Danielle with the undiluted truth.
The wine bar was half empty but he still hardly recognised Danielle when she walked in. At first he’d looked away but slowly dared to turn back. The skin-tight dress of his night-time fantasies had been replaced by baggy slacks and a loose-fitting blouse. High heels had given way to flat pumps and the hour-glass figure was hidden under the layers.
‘Scott.’ The familiar eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘It’s good to see you.’
She smelt the same, although the heady fragrance was more subtle.
‘Danielle.’ He kissed her on the cheek, stifling a nervous cough. ‘You look great.’ What else could he say?
‘Thanks, although I don’t believe you.’ If it was meant as a light-hearted dig at his past lies, he wasn’t certain.
The moment had been a long time coming. He’d clung to memories of their wild throbbing passion, fearful that he’d never see her again and had finally succumbed to the pull of contentment. But there was always the ‘what ifs?’ and ‘maybes’ at the back of his mind.
‘Pass the black bags. You can help you know.’
‘Sorry. I was miles away. Here.’ Scott handed Cosette the roll of sacks and stuffed away the red sodden papers.
‘Thanks.’
‘Cosette. I’ve got to go to the police with this. This isn’t some late-night phone time prankster. A badger today, God knows what it’ll be tomorrow. If it didn’t come from Beverley, someone still sent it and we need to find out who. Don’t you think?’ He wasn’t considering anyone else but needed Cosette on side.
‘You’re probably right. I’ll come with you but I still don’t think this is Beverley’s work. Can you really see her killing a wild animal, slicing it open and packaging up the innards just to wind you up?’
‘Someone did. It’s got my name on the box, so who else could it have been?’
26
Ms Evans is definitely not so chipper this morning; maybe it’s the rain beating at the windows or perhaps she had a late night, hungover like the rest of us.
‘How did your meeting go with Mr Hoarden?’
‘Fine, I think. Another four weeks and I’ll be out of your hair,’ I joke.
‘It’s just he’s had another complaint from Mr Barry.’ Her tone is serious. I’m guessing this is about what was in the box, the box my neighbour was curious about this morning. Mrs O’Connor had poked her head through the hedge and commented on the sizeable package she’d spotted on my doorstep.
‘Hope it’s not more pizzas.’ She whistled through lips cut through her face like slits in a melon.
‘I’ve no idea what’s inside. How exciting,’ I replied, not touching the box until she’d disappeared.
‘What am I supposed to have done this time?’ I suddenly sneeze. I’m not one for prissy sizzling sneezes but instead blast out the irritants like a trumpet-heralding fanfare. It seems to distract Ms Evans and she waits while I drain my nose into a tissue. ‘Sorry, it’s hay fever. I get it every year.’
I gently poke a finger into my eye, deep into the corner and itch. It’s a daring move and gives momentary relief; but the problem with daring is that you pay later as nasty bulbous styes have marred my appearance more than once.
‘He received a parcel containing some very nasty contents. It was serious enough for him to go to the police.’ Ms Evans pauses as the mention of the police is meant to make me sit up, take note but she’s forgotten I’m an old hand.
‘What was in the parcel?’ I say I have no idea what was inside and that when I found it on the doorstep I didn’t bother opening it, but instead scribbled Scott’s name on the front and dumped it back from where I assumed it had come. He still has an axe to grind, there’s no doubt about it and deserves what he gets. This is what I tell her.
‘Let’s just say it was something pretty gruesome. A dismembered dead animal.’
Her concise delivery of the facts makes me wonder if she’s enjoying the moment, the imparting of a macabre story.
When Mr Walters, our neighbour from three doors down, was murdered in his bed one night, my mother relived the tale, over and over, exaggerating events with every telling. The story brought all eyes and ears her way. She kept trying to find someone new who might be interested. At first she reported the perpetrator to be a random stranger; then a family member and finally, in hushed conspiratorial tones she whispered that the wounds were so deep that it would have taken a man’s strength to have done the deed. The son, she thought.
‘Shit. You’re joking. He can’t really think it was me?’ Christ. ‘What sort of dead animal? I hope it wasn’t my neighbour’s cat!’
‘A badger, I think.’ Ms Evans hands me a grainy photograph and the image is so red I think at first it must be a developing error. I peer closely and see that the blood flow has been captured close up. Cosette likes to snap, so I reckon she’s taken the shots.
‘Fuck me. You’re not serious.’ I tell her I’m shocked at the contents and even more shocked that Scott would go to such lengths to wind me up. ‘I’m now glad I didn’t open the box.’
‘Before we start our session, I need to tell you that the police are involved and will be popping round to speak to you.’ The words popping round make it sound like a friendly visit; that they’ll be dropping in for tea and biscuits.
‘Can’t wait.’ Another sneeze dilutes the moment but the blast seems to wind Ms Evans
up, as if it’s a deliberate attempt to distract her.
‘This is serious, Beverley. With your previous history the police are likely to look into it. If you did send the box it might be better to own up.’
If I’m going to own up to anything it certainly won’t be to Ms Evans. She’s one nosey cow. Four weeks and I’M… OUT… OF… HERE. She waits for a reply but I manage to manufacture three false sneezes in a row to throw her off kilter. If it’s a police matter then it has nothing whatsoever to do with her.
‘I’ll take my chances, thanks.’ I blow loudly, shutting down the line of questioning.
‘Okay. Let’s move on. Today I’d like to talk a bit more about your father and your relationship with him.’ She’s running out of things to talk about but I lie down, glad to be back on the mended couch and sink in, letting it suck the tension from my body like a deflating valve on a tyre.
The rain has got heavier, thick pellets of lead ricochet off the glass, and with my eyes closed, the downpour sounds even louder. But it’s helping to drown out the tone of Ms Evans’ voice which has a definite raggedy edge today.
‘How did you feel about your father when you discovered he attacked your mother?’
‘Sad, confused, angry, and afraid.’ I wonder which adjective she’ll home in on.
‘Did you still love him, despite his actions?’
Of course I did. He was my father.
‘Yes. I think so.’ Although I’ve recently started to ponder this particular question. ‘You don’t just stop loving someone when they do bad things, do you.’ I wait but the silence prods me. ‘I loved it when it was only him and me. Until I wound him up that was.’
The Girl Who Turned a Blind Eye Page 10
