When She Finds You

by A J McDine

  We find an empty table and I take a seat while Matt and Rosie make a beeline for the cakes. The garden’s still busy. With the bunting, stalls and the gentle hum of conversation I’m reminded of the summer fetes my parents used to take me to when I was a kid. Lou would have enjoyed it if she hadn’t stormed off in a huff.

  She’s the third person to tell me to be careful in as many days. But why are the warnings directed at me and not Angela or Geoff? I rack my brains yet again to figure out what I might have done, knowingly or inadvertently, to rile someone to such an extent that they would trash a garden in retaliation.

  Be careful, Lou said. But she couldn’t even look me in the eye. Was it a piece of friendly advice… or a threat? Before I can dissect that particular thought any further, Rosie appears with Matt on her heels.

  ‘Matt said you’d want coffee and walnut, but I said you liked lemon drizzle best of all. I was right, wasn’t I?’ She hands me a paper plate and a polystyrene cup of a weak brown liquid that faintly resembles tea.

  ‘You were. Lemon drizzle every time.’

  ‘Told you!’ Rosie breaks off a piece of her Victoria sponge and looks around her. ‘Mr P! Mr P!’ she calls.

  My eyes meet Matt’s and I mouth ‘Should I tell her?’

  He nods.

  I take a deep breath. ‘Mr P’s not here, Rosie.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He’s -’ I hesitate.

  ‘Gone walkabout again?’ she asks. ‘I’m not surprised with all these people hanging around.’

  ‘No, not walkabout. He… look, there’s no easy way to say this. I’m afraid Mr Pickles died.’

  Rosie’s eyes widen and the piece of cake she’s holding falls from her hand. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘He must have been poorly and we didn’t realise. He died yesterday. I’m so sorry, Rosie. I know how much you loved him.’

  Tears cloud her eyes. ‘Was he very old?’

  ‘We don’t know, do we? He just turned up one day and decided to stay, do you remember?’

  ‘I do.’ She sniffs. ‘He was the most beautifulest cat in the world.’

  Tears well up in my own eyes as I picture the tabby cat curled up in a shoe box in our shed. I nod, unable to speak.

  ‘He had a good life,’ Matt says.

  ‘He did,’ agrees Rosie, absentmindedly taking a mouthful of cake. ‘Will we have a funeral? I could say a few words.’

  ‘I don’t think Sophie’s had a chance to tell anyone yet, so it might have to wait a few days, but I’m sure we can give Mr P the send-off he deserves,’ Matt says.

  ‘That woman will be pleased. She told me she hates cats. They’re a dirty vermin, she said. What’s a vermin?’

  ‘It’s an animal that spreads disease.’ A piece of cake is lodged in my throat and I take a swig of tea to wash it down. ‘What woman said she hates cats?’

  Rosie looks uncomfortable, as if she’s already said too much.

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Now

  No matter how much I press her, Rosie won’t tell me which woman she was talking about.

  ‘Do you think she means Angela?’ I whisper to Matt as she disappears in search of a second slice of cake.

  He shrugs. ‘She’d say if it was, wouldn’t she? Where is Angela, anyway? I thought you said she was supposed to be showing her face?’

  ‘She was. I’ll go and ask our venerable chairman. He’s bound to know.’

  Bob Wittershaw is holding court by the vegetable garden, telling a handful of bored-looking city and county councillors what a vital role the garden plays in local mental health service provision. I loiter on the fringes until he’s finished, then ask after Angela.

  ‘She’s still wobbly. She wanted to come but decided this morning she wasn’t up to it. The fire’s affected her badly.’ His face hardens. ‘Give me five minutes in a room with the bastard who started it and he’ll never light a match again, let alone a fire.’

  ‘You think it was a man?’

  ‘I know exactly who it was. That waste of a space ex-husband of hers.’

  I try to remember what Angela has told me about her ex, Pete. ‘Doesn’t he live in Manchester?’

  ‘Why would that stop him coming to Kent? Angie always said he never came to terms with the divorce.’

  I thought Angela said Pete had recently bought a house with his new partner. In which case, why would he want to set his ex-wife’s house on fire? Unless she still has life assurance. Burn the house down with Angela in it and Pete could cash in. If that’s not a credible motive I don’t know what is. Hope flares in the pit of my stomach.

  ‘I’ve told the police what I think,’ Bob continues. ‘Not that they seemed very interested.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll check it out. They said they had a number of lines of enquiry.’

  He harrumphs.

  ‘Do you think Pete might be responsible for the vandalism, too?’ I ask.

  He fixes his pale grey eyes on mine. ‘Not from what the police said, no. That seems to have been targeted at you, wouldn’t you say?’

  The tiny spark of hope is snuffed out in an instant.

  ‘Who have you pissed off?’

  I meet his gaze. ‘That’s the problem. I have no idea.’

  By half past three the last few visitors have drifted away and the garden is ours again. Paper plates and plastic cups litter the picnic tables and the grass paths are worn bare by shuffling feet. Cam has the air of a village hall after a particularly riotous children’s party. But the day has been a great success, and when I check in with Mary she says over two hundred and fifty people passed through our doors.

  I’m dropping abandoned cups, plates and napkins into a black sack when someone clears her throat behind me. I spin around to see DC Bennett at my shoulder.

  ‘I picked up your message. Can you talk?’

  ‘Of course. There’s a bench by the greenhouse. It’s quiet there.’

  I sit down and she follows suit, taking her notebook out of her jacket pocket.

  ‘Any news on the arson?’

  ‘We’re still following a number of lines of enquiry.’ She shakes her head. ‘That’s the official version. Between you and me we’ve hit a brick wall. We’ve identified the brand of petrol can used and have rung around local garages to see if anyone matching our offender’s description has used a can to buy fuel in the last couple of weeks, but so far that’s drawn a blank. We’ll issue a media appeal, but I don’t hold out much hope to be honest. The CCTV images are too fuzzy to be much use at all. But that’s not why I’m here. I want you to tell me about this cat.’

  She listens with her head cocked to one side as I describe finding the parcel on the front doorstep and opening it to reveal the tabby cat crammed into a Nike shoe box inside.

  ‘You still have the cat and the boxes?’

  I nod. ‘Although they’ll have my fingerprints all over them. And Matt’s.’

  ‘Your husband?’

  ‘That’s right. He put them in the shed.’

  ‘I’ll send someone round in the morning to pick them up. And you’re sure the cat didn’t die of natural causes?’

  ‘There was a red mark around his neck.’

  ‘Right.’ DC Bennett closes her notebook. ‘I don’t know if you’re aware, but there’s a well-established link between cruelty to animals and violence to people.’

  ‘What are you trying to say?’

  ‘That those who torture or kill animals are often perpetrators of violent crimes against people. It’s been proven time and again. I need you to be careful, Sophie. Whoever killed that cat could hurt you next.’

  She leaves after I’ve promised to call 999 if I have any concerns. As her unmarked car sweeps out of the car park I try to reassure myself she’s over-reacting, but I’m kidding myself. If an experienced copper is warning me to be worried, I probably should be.

  My phone rings. When I see the name on the screen I
let out a little sob of relief. ‘Roz!’

  ‘You alright?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘What’s the matter? Is the baby OK?’

  ‘The baby’s fine. It’s everything else that’s shot to shit.’

  ‘You’re talking about the garden?’

  ‘How did you know about that?’

  There’s a crackle of static in my ear and I grip the phone tightly.

  ‘I bumped into Bev in town. She told me the place had been trashed. Someone’s got it in for you.’

  ‘I know.’ I swallow. The need to off-load to her is overwhelming. I could use a bit of her don’t-mess-with-me attitude to life right now. ‘Where are you?’ I ask in a small voice.

  ‘Portsmouth.’

  ‘Portsmouth?’

  ‘Visiting an old friend. Why?’

  ‘I was hoping to see you, that’s all.’

  She laughs. I’m holding the phone so close to my head I can feel the sound waves travelling along my ear canal and vibrating my ear drum.

  ‘Don’t worry, Sophie.’ She laughs again. ‘You’ll see me soon enough.’

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Now

  I thought I’d hate being on maternity leave, but I was wrong. My last week at work was exhausting, both physically and emotionally, and I was ready to go. It was only once I’d left that I realised what a strain I’d been under, organising the recruitment evening and open day, coping with the vandalism and wondering, always wondering, who might be behind it.

  Cocooned within the four walls of my home, I’ve been able to relax. I’ve slept, pottered, and nested. I’ve painted the walls of the nursery cornflower-blue, and hung pencil sketches of Winnie the Pooh and Christopher Robin on the walls. Matt and I took a trip to Bluewater the day after I finished work and blew a month’s wages on all the things we’ve been too superstitious to buy: cot, changing table, moses basket, baby bath, bouncy chair, baby monitor, and car seat. I spend hours in the baby’s room rearranging the furniture, fingering the cotton-wool soft blankets and sorting the sleepsuits and bodysuits into colour co-ordinated piles.

  I know the baby could come at any moment and although I can’t wait to meet him, I’m enjoying this brief interlude between one life and another.

  Matt is harder to read. When I have his full attention he’s as excited as me, chattering about the playlist he’s putting together for the birth and looking up trikes on the internet. But every now and then his expression shuts down and he withdraws completely. I don’t know where his thoughts have taken him, but it’s far away from here. It’s as though the baby and I don’t exist.

  Tick tock tick tock. Time is racing by, like sand through my fingers.

  Not long now.

  For the first time in months I’m clearheaded and purposeful. I spend my days running through my plan, checking everything’s in place, ready to move into the execution phase the minute I need to.

  Sophie, poor, sweet, unsuspecting Sophie, is ready, too. I can tell by the cardboard boxes left out for the recycling, the smell of paint wafting into the street from the nursery and the newly-washed sleepsuits hanging from her washing line.

  The warm summer air is heavy with expectancy. Our excitement is palpable.

  Tick tock tick tock.

  Not long now.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Now

  I’m dozing on the sofa when the doorbell rings one Friday afternoon, two weeks before my due date. Expecting a parcel, I’m surprised to see Lou standing on the doorstep. I haven’t seen her since the open day and we didn’t part on the best of terms.

  ‘Hello, Sophie. How’s things?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘You look well.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  She clears her throat. ‘I hope you don’t mind but I’ve got something for you. It’s in the car. I’ll get it, shall I?’

  I shrug. I don’t care if I’m being as bolshy as a teenager. I’m not going to make this easy for her.

  She looks discomfited. ‘Right. Good. I won’t be a minute.’

  I watch from the doorway as she crosses the street to her car. My eyes widen as she lifts a pale grey pram out of the boot. I recognise it at once - it’s the top-of-the-range model I admired in Mother & Baby magazine. She wheels it across the road and through our gate.

  She stops in front of me and holds up a hand. ‘Before you say anything, it’s not a guilt gift. I told you Josh had one and I wanted you to have one, too. Accept it in the spirit with which I give it. Friendship. Please?’

  For a moment I’m torn. It’s such a beautiful pram and there’s no way Matt and I could justify spending so much on one. Lou always was as generous as she was gregarious. I believe her good intentions. She sticks out her bottom lip like she used to when we were kids and I can’t help but laugh. ‘Oh alright, you silly moo. Thank you. I suppose you want a coffee while you’re here?’

  ‘That would be nice.’ She abandons the pram and virtually skips through the door. Rolling my eyes, I manoeuvre it over the doorstep and follow her inside.

  I study her as I wait for the kettle to boil. Her face looks less puffy and her eyes are clear. She looks… glowing.

  As if reading my thoughts, she smiles self-consciously. ‘I’ve given up the booze.’

  ‘Completely?’

  ‘Yup. Even I realised it was getting out of hand when I started craving a glass of red at ten in the morning. I’ve found a local AA group. They meet on a Saturday night at the Baptist church opposite Waitrose. While most people are at the pub I’m sharing drinking stories with my alky mates. Actually, we have a laugh. And it’s a cliché I know, but taking one day at a time does seem to do the trick.’

  ‘Good for you.’ I’m genuinely impressed.

  ‘Yes, well,’ she says, glancing at her nails. ‘Something had to change.’

  As I carry Lou’s coffee to the table my stomach muscles contract sharply and I let out a small gasp.

  ‘Hey, are you alright?’

  ‘The midwife promises me they’re just Braxton Hicks.’ I rub my bump, which is as hard as a rock, and grimace. ‘It’ll be over in a minute.’

  ‘Brings back memories. I remember when Josh was born. I was in labour for thirty-six hours. You know that old wives’ tale about shitting a melon? Take it from me, they weren’t far wrong.’

  I arch my eyebrows. ‘And that’s supposed to make me feel better how exactly?’

  Lou bursts into peals of laughter. ‘What goes in must come out.’

  ‘At least I’m going to have a natural birth. I’m not too posh to push.’

  Lou laughs harder. ‘There’s nothing natural about it, believe me. It really, really, really hurts.’

  ‘OK, enough already. Can we please change the subject?’

  ‘But I wanted to fill you in on my episiotomy. The doctor who stitched me up was dreamy.’

  ‘Lou, you’re hopeless,’ I giggle. The muscles in my stomach finally relax and I pull up a chair opposite her.

  She catches my hand across the table and holds it tightly. ‘I’ve missed this. Us. Just having a laugh together like we used to.’

  Without thinking, I squeeze back, smiling. ‘Me, too.’

  ‘I know you blame me for the abortion.’

  ‘Let’s not do this now.’ I try to pull my hand away, but she tightens her hold.

  ‘I think we should. So many things were left unsaid. I tried talking to you at the time, but you didn’t want to know. I thought having an abortion was the right thing to do. I didn’t want you messing up your life. Not at seventeen! You had such big hopes and dreams. And you were so bright. You had the world at your feet, if only you knew it. That’s why I pushed for you to get rid of the baby. I wanted the best for you. You were my best friend, for God’s sake. I loved you better than I loved my own sister.’

  She hangs her head. ‘When I saw how it tore you apart I realised how wrong I’d been. You were broken. Which was totally understandable. But not just th
at. Your personality changed overnight. My Sophie, my kind, funny, affectionate best friend, was gone. New Sophie was as hard as nails. I couldn’t get through to you. It was as if they sucked your heart out when they sucked out the baby.’

  A sob catches in the back of my throat and I gulp for air. Lou massages the inside of my wrist with her thumb.

  ‘I should never have convinced you to go through with the abortion. You would have coped, with or without Ed, although he adored you so much he would have stuck by you, I know he would.’ Her voice thickens. ‘I’ve carried the guilt around with me for the last twenty years. But I’m not asking for forgiveness, I’m really not. I’m not sure I’d forgive you if the boot was on the other foot. I just want you to understand that I know I was wrong, and that I feel sorry every single day.’

  She lets my hand go and sits back in her chair. Tears are streaming down her cheeks. I, too, am crying. I fish around in my pocket for a tissue and blow my nose.

  ‘I developed pelvic inflammatory disease after the termination,’ I say. ‘It’s an infection of the uterus that can spread to the fallopian tubes and ovaries if you’re really unlucky. I was. Mine were as battle-scarred as a Tommy on the Somme.’

  It’s a poor excuse for a joke but Lou gives me a limp smile through her tears.

  ‘I had no idea, of course. After the abortion I had terrible abdominal pain and a raging temperature, but I thought it was a side-effect and no more than I deserved for killing my baby. I had a week off school, do you remember? I told Mum and Dad I had the flu.’

  Lou nods. ‘I brought you flowers but you refused to see me.’

  ‘Did you? It’s all a bit of a blur to be honest.’ I pick at the hem of my top. ‘When Matt and I started trying for a baby I couldn’t understand why I didn’t fall straight away. I knew it couldn’t be my fault. Ed and I only had unprotected sex once and I was up the duff. I thought I was the original Miss Fertile.’