Mouse

by D. M. Mitchell

  ‘You are an evil, evil young woman!’ her father had said. ‘You are not my daughter. My Laura could never have done such horrid things. My Laura must be dead to me.’

  And he had turned away from her. That was the last time she remembered seeing his face whilst he was alive. When she came back to Langbridge to see his body before its burial his expression was still the same; one of disappointment and shame.

  ‘He’s at peace,’ reassured the undertaker.

  He did not look at peace, Laura thought. And she hoped he’d be restless for all eternity. She hoped he never found peace.

  ‘Your father had already made the necessary arrangements for his funeral. I can show you the casket he chose,’ the undertaker began, taking her through to another room. He pointed it out. ‘The best, of course.’

  ‘That will not do,’ she said. ‘Put him in the cheapest you have,’ she said.

  He was momentarily lost for words; he knew how wealthy she was. ‘It has all been paid for, Miss Leach. It was your father’s wish…’

  ‘And that is my wish. Do as I say. You can keep the money, don’t worry; I’m not after a refund.’

  ‘Grief is a terrible thing,’ he pointed out. ‘Perhaps you need time to reconsider. After all, your father had a certain high standing in Langbridge society, being an important councillor, Chair of the Langbridge Civic Society, a leading light, one might say; it wouldn’t be fitting to have him sent off in our most basic model.’

  ‘I don’t need any time,’ she said. ‘The cheapest. No flowers, no frills. Just burn him and send me the bill.’

  ‘But he stipulated burial, in the family plot at Devereux Towers.’

  ‘Do as I say,’ she said.

  ‘And the ashes?’

  ‘I don’t want them. Throw them over the roses in the crematorium grounds.’ She thought about it. ‘Perhaps not; I don’t want to kill them. Do with them what you will, I don’t care.’

  Ophelia was mad, thought Laura, but drowning herself was the sanest thing she did. And the bravest. As much as Laura detested this world she could not do what Ophelia did. She did not have the courage to end the torment the way she did.

  She twirled the bloodied knife before her eyes. Make the hurt go away, she thought. Please make it go away. The sharp edge tinged with scarlet was but a couple of inches away from her eye. She gave a tiny shriek and tossed the knife into the water. It sank instantly into the murky depths, disappearing into a clump of waving weed fronds.

  She rose to her feet, left the stream and the brooding willows behind. Ahead, Devereux Towers stood like a dark block of stone, all by itself in its empty field, the onset of autumn making its stark form even more pronounced. Rolling clouds pregnant with rain appeared to brush by the single tower.

  Laura became nervous when she saw a strange car parked outside the main entrance. She approached it warily and as she drew close the door opened and a woman stepped out. A pretty woman. A beautiful woman. All smiles and neat hair with a body that had curves in all the right places. Laura felt her blood begin to boil a little.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ chimed the young woman. ‘I’m sorry to bother you. Are you Laura Leach?’

  Laura hesitated. Studied the woman. ‘Yes,’ she said moving swiftly to the door and pressing a key into the lock.

  ‘I wondered if you might be able to help me.’

  Laura dropped the key. Scrabbled in the gravel to retrieve it. When she reinserted it into the lock her hand was all jittery. ‘I doubt it,’ she said flatly, swinging open the door.

  ‘I’m looking for someone,’ she said insistently, coming up to her. ‘You might know him.’

  ‘I’m extremely busy,’ said Laura. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘His name is Casper Younge. He’s my brother,’ Katherine lied. ‘He’s gone missing, you see, and I don’t know where he’s got to.’

  Laura’s eyes steeled. She looked the young woman up and down. ‘So you’re Casper’s sister, you say?’

  Katherine smiled, but it felt as if the wild-eyed woman was snooping about inside her head. ‘That’s right. He wrote to me from Langbridge, but that was weeks ago. He hasn’t called like he said he would and now I‘m beginning to get worried.’

  ‘What makes you think I might know this Casper of yours?’

  ‘He mentioned Devereux Towers in a letter to me. Mentioned your name.’

  ‘I can’t understand why. I don’t know anyone called Casper,’ she said shortly. ‘I can’t help you.’

  ‘Are you certain?’ said Katherine. ‘Please think; it’s important.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of him.’ She stepped over the threshold, turned back. ‘If you’re worried, perhaps you ought to contact the police.’

  She said it in such a way that it made Katherine doubly unsettled. ‘Maybe it’s just me, fussing over nothing,’ she admitted. ‘I don’t want to drag the police into this unnecessarily.’

  Laura nodded slowly. ‘That’s right. No sense in going to the police in a hurry, is there?’ She closed the door so there was only the tiniest of cracks to peer through. ‘Good luck with the search for your brother. I’m sure he’ll turn up somewhere.’

  The door closed with a solid thump of finality and Katherine heard the sounds of bolts being slid into place, then the key being turned in the lock. It had been a risk, confronting Laura. But she was running out of options. Her denial of ever knowing Felix only increased her suspicions and her anxiety. Something was dreadfully wrong and this strange woman was at the heart of it.

  She went back to her car and sat inside for a while, in the cold shadow of Devereux Towers. She put her head in her hand, her worst fears – fears that she’d managed to keep a lid on - were rising to the surface. Something terrible had happened to him. It was the only explanation. She was confident in her heart he wouldn’t simply have taken the money and run; they were far too close a couple. That notion was only Martin’s vindictive way of getting back at her in the same way she had tried to get back at him for all the hurt he’d caused her in the past, both physically and mentally.

  She thought she caught sight of someone at a window but couldn’t be certain. As she gunned the engine, part of her wished she’d never ever brought Martin into this in order to help satisfy her petty revenge. That Laura had discovered their plans was now without a doubt, she thought, glancing up at Devereux Towers as she eased the car down the gravel drive. If that were the case and Felix had been confronted by Laura the plan was always the same; claim ignorance no matter what, scoot back to base and then they’d both get the hell out of there and find somewhere new to start all over again. Unless Martin was right and Felix really had taken the money and run…

  No, she refused to believe that. Why would he dump his car in Langbridge? It didn’t make any sense, none of it did. What she couldn’t quite grasp was how it went wrong so fast. One moment Laura was a fish on a hook and all but in the keep-net; the next everything was in tatters. She had to have been tipped-off by someone. That was the only explanation. Someone took it upon themselves to warn her. So was it Martin? No, she felt he had too much to lose, no matter his show of empty bravado. There was only one other she knew about and that was the young projectionist from the Empire, the one who Felix had to beat up; the one who threatened to tell Laura. He’d be the most likely. He’d be smarting after his beating. He’d nothing to lose.

  Katherine resolved to confront him, pump him for information, and if anything had happened to Felix because of that interfering nobody he’d pay dearly for it.

  As she left Devereux Towers behind, jolted her way down the uneven track, the distance shrinking the melancholy old building, her mind wandered to what Martin had told her about Laura. That she was crazy, unstable. She wasn’t your average woman in the street; Katherine knew that much for sure. There was something weird going on in that head of hers and you didn’t have to be any kind of shrink to read it in her demented eyes.

  Christ, what had they gotten themselves involved in, she th
ought?

  Laura leach sat in the dark, rocking slowly back and forth in the chair, a plaintive little mewl issuing from her dry lips twisted by despair. She ran a clawed hand through her messed-up hair, her eyes saucer-wide and unblinking.

  She looked down at her arm, carefully rolled up the sleeve. The blood-sodden bandage needed changing, she thought, touching the dark, oozing patch.

  And though the searing pain shot up her arm and into her skull she did not wince.

  * * * *

  21

  Incarnations of the Past

  When he saw the woman stood behind Monica’s desk he almost gave a shriek of alarm. He hadn’t expected anyone to be in his office.

  ‘Edith, what on earth are you doing here?’ he snapped, taking off his coat and hanging it on the back of the office door.

  The young woman looked awkwardly about her for a second or two. ‘I’m cleaning your office, like I usually do, Mr Caldwell,’ she explained.

  ‘Cleaning it?’ he repeated brusquely.

  ‘Yes, sir; cleaning it. It’s what I do.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, his index finger tracing one of the fine lines on his forehead. ‘Yes, sorry, I understand. You startled me.’

  ‘You startled me too, Mr Caldwell; you’re in much earlier today than normal.’

  ‘I am?’

  ‘Nearly a full hour or so.’

  ‘That right? Yes, well I have work to do. Have you finished here?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Edith scuttled around the desk, picking up her duster and can of Pledge furniture polish and made a hasty retreat.

  Caldwell shut the office door, hung his keys up on the board on the wall filled with a multitude of other such keys. The place reminded him of a jail, he thought. He slid open a desk drawer and took out a bottle of vodka. He didn’t bother with a glass, took a hefty, breath-sponging swig from the neck. He wiped a hand across his mouth, was tempted to take another drink but resisted and screwed the cap back on. He’d stuffed the bottle back in the drawer when a knock came at the door.

  ‘What is it now?’ he said harshly.

  Edith poked her head round the door. ‘Sorry, Mr Caldwell, but there’s a man from the Langbridge Gazette to see you.’

  ‘Send him to Vince. He takes care of all that crap.’

  ‘He specifically asked to speak to you. Says it’s very important.’

  ‘It always is. Send him in.’

  A young man entered, probably just sneaking into his twenties, thought Caldwell. He was dressed in a cheap suit that was too long in the arms and a tad too short in the legs. The knot of his tie did not cover the top button of his shirt; a sin Caldwell found unforgivable. To top-off the sorry-looking picture his hair was far too long and badly cut. Caldwell groaned inwardly as the young man dashed out a hand to shake.

  ‘Mr Caldwell? Good morning!’

  Caldwell gave it a half-hearted shake. ‘And you are?’ He didn’t invite the man to sit down.

  He didn’t reply. He was looking animatedly about the office, giving an enthusiastic nod as he did so. ‘I love cinemas,’ he said. ‘The glitz, the glamour of Hollywood and all that.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ said Caldwell, ‘lots of glamour here.’ He took out a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, flipped the top and popped one out. He offered one to his visitor who declined. ‘So who are you exactly and what’s so urgent?’

  ‘Oh, sorry, please forgive me! Leonard Kimble, pleased to meet you.’ He plonked himself down in a chair opposite Caldwell.

  ‘Kimble – as in related to Mrs Kimble, my admin assistant?’

  ‘Ex-admin assistant,’ he corrected. ‘You sacked her.’

  ‘We came to a mutual understanding,’ he said, lighting up the cigarette and blowing out smoke. ‘What’s all this about?’

  ‘She’s my grandmother, if you must know,’ he went on.

  ‘You came here to tell me that?’ said Caldwell. ‘I’m pleased for you but very busy…’

  Leonard Kimble fumbled in his ill-fitting jacket for his wallet, and fumbled inside this for a business card. He showed it to Caldwell. ‘I’m from the Langbridge Gazette.’

  ‘That much I know already,’ he said. ‘What is it they say about that local rag? That’s it – tomorrow’s chip paper today.’ He sucked on his cigarette. ‘So you’re a reporter, if the Gazette has such a thing.’

  ‘That’s right, Mr Caldwell – features reporter,’ he said proudly.

  ‘Features, eh?’ he said. ‘How thrilling. The last review your paper gave of my cinema it said it smelled of damp and suggested people ought to bring hot water bottles.’

  ‘That wasn’t me, Mr Caldwell. I like the Empire, though admittedly it can get a trifle cold in winter.’

  Caldwell sat back in his chair. ‘What is it you want, Kimble? I’m a busy man.’

  The young man took out a notebook and pen. Flicked paper. ‘Can I ask you a few questions?’

  ‘You’ve got exactly five minutes.’

  ‘It’s about Monica Andrews.’

  The cigarette was removed from his lips. ‘What about her?’

  ‘Well, she’s still missing.’

  ‘No shit, Sherlock. Look, that’s not something I’m going to talk to you about. I’ve already had the police in here asking about her. Go ask them.’

  He grinned disarmingly. ‘Already have, thank you.’

  ‘Then there’s nothing else to say, is there?’

  ‘Do you think Monica had any enemies?’

  ‘Haven’t you articles on missing cats and dogs to write about?’

  ‘My grandmother said that Monica was, let’s say, not the friendliest person she’s known.’

  ‘She would, wouldn’t she? Monica took her job.’

  The man nodded. ‘Yes, she did. I understand Monica’s background in admin was limited. So limited as to be virtually non-existent. I couldn’t help but wonder what special something she possessed – as she obviously lacked certain charms and people skills as well as a distinct lack of practical ability – that a woman of thirty-five years experience in the trade did not possess.’

  ‘What’s with all this Columbo stuff, Kimble?’

  ‘I’m writing an article, hoping we can help in our small way to trace her, jog people’s minds, that kind of thing. Her sister has asked us to and we thought we’d oblige.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Caldwell, stuffing the cigarette back into his mouth. ‘What’s that got to do with me?’

  ‘My grandmother said Monica used to do the odd-bit of cleaning for a number of folk around Langbridge, besides here at the Empire.’

  ‘Your grandmother knows a lot. Best ask her.’

  ‘Did she tell you of some of these other places?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Care to tell me?’

  ‘Not really. I’ve told the police all I’m going to say on the subject of Monica Andrews and I’m not about to repeat myself to a second-rate arse-wipe of a newspaper.’

  It didn’t faze Kimble. ‘Devereux Towers ring any kind of bell?’

  Caldwell stared hard at the young man. ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’

  ‘Ah, the Witch of Devereux Towers,’ said Kimble with a smirk.

  ‘I hear some people call her that,’ said Caldwell. ‘Some people can be quite horrible when they have a mind. Have you finished, Mr Kimble? I believe your five minutes are up.’ He indicated the door with the flat of his hand. ‘Talk to Monica’s friends – if you can call them that. She has a few here. Wait until their shift is finished; they’ll use any excuse to down tools as it is.’

  ‘Will do, thanks, Mr Caldwell.’ He got up, went to the door, stopped and turned. ‘One more thing…’

  ‘Now you really are sounding like Columbo.’

  ‘Are plans still going ahead to redevelop the Empire? Multi-screen and all that?’

  ‘Yes. Is that all?’

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to show me around, give our readers an indication of what it’s going to look like.’


  ‘You suppose right. Some other time perhaps, when your readers can actually read.’

  Leonard Kimble smiled, stowed away his notebook. He thanked Caldwell profusely for his help and left. Caldwell stubbed his cigarette out into an ashtray, crushing it into an unrecognisable stub of paper. He put his head in his hands. ‘Fuck!’ he said. He took out the bottle of vodka and downed a couple of good measures. This time he didn’t put it away.

  She was supposed to go to the fucking police, he thought. Why hadn’t she done that? When he’d written the letter to Laura Leach telling her all about Felix and Katherine’s plans to screw her over, even telling them details like where they lived in Glastonbury, he expected her to go straight to the law. That would have been enough to frighten them off and he’d have been shut of them, possibly for good. But no, the stupid bitch didn’t play game and now it was all turning into an even bigger mess. The last thing he wanted was some dumb hack reporter making even the slimmest connection between him and Laura fucking Leach. This thing with Monica – it was running away with itself. Christ, he wished he’d never gotten involved with the woman. It was his own stupid fault.

  He’d raised a hand to his wife, struck her. He’d been drunk, of course, but that wasn’t an excuse. He desperately wanted to believe he had changed but in a foolish instant all his illusions were swept away and his wife had temporarily kicked him out of the house. Not for long, but long enough for him to hit the bottle again and seek solace where he could find it. Monica just happened to be the wrong woman at the wrong time and it soon became apparent that she was as ruthlessly manipulative as he had been in the past. He also bet the pregnancy wasn’t an accident either. Bitch.

  He had to get out. He couldn’t stay in Langbridge. He thought that by coming to this out-of-the-way place he’d be able to lose the old Martin and reinvent another to stand in his place. Start afresh. But you can’t shake off the past that easily, he thought grimly. It was always with you, waiting to spring out at you when you least expected it.