by Caron Allan
I pushed open the door carefully with just the tip of my fingernail, stepped inside, and was just reaching for the light switch on the opposite side of the hall when I felt a terrific whack on the back of my head, and I just crumpled onto the floor.
It felt like years later when I came to, and it seemed like hours that I lay there trying to pluck up the courage to move, because I knew purely instinctively that my head would fall off and roll away if I did anything too quickly. I had this deafening roaring sound in my ears, my head was pounding more than I've ever known, and I felt so, so sick and disoriented. The back of my head felt like it was the size of a bus—and the pain!
Eventually I did manage to open my eyes, and the brightness of the light made me cry out with pain, and the sound of my voice also jarred not just my nerves but my whole head. The hall light was on, and the last thing I could remember before the attack was reaching out towards the switch, so obviously someone other than myself had actually turned it on. But although I wasn’t really afraid, I was aware of a vague sense of anxiety, and I felt as though a lengthy amount of time had passed by since I lost consciousness.
There were no other sounds about me. The house was eerily still, the front door closed. I fumbled in my bag for my phone. The screen told me it was now four minutes past eleven. I’d been out for about two minutes, three at the most, but this just didn’t make sense to me—I felt as though I’d been out for hours.
I felt so sick from the pain in my head all I wanted to do was to curl up in a little ball and die, but I forced myself focus on the glaring screen of my phone and to ring the emergency services and requested police and an ambulance. I told them I had been attacked coming into my mother-in-law’s house.
Then they asked me if Clarice was all right, and I realised that I’d completely forgotten about her, and at the same time I recalled the slight cry I had heard when I was outside the front door.
The thought of having to search the whole house filled me with dread—I don’t think I could have managed it, in fact I really only wanted to get to the nearest loo to chuck my guts up—but I mumbled into the phone something about checking in the drawing room first as it was the closest. I dragged myself to my feet, and bit by bit, holding my head with one hand and trying to use the wall for support and hold on to my phone with the other, I made my way to the drawing room. The room was in darkness, so with a slight sense of déjà vu, I reached out and put on the light, and there she was, lying face down on the floor next to her favourite chair, head turned towards me, eyes staring into nothingness and a pool of dark, sticky-looking blood around her head like a halo tipped awry. My mother-in-law. Dead.
The shock I felt, probably coupled with my own injuries, caused me to quite involuntarily to give the performance of a lifetime to the woman on the other end of the line. I went completely to pieces, and looking back, I'm quite proud of my hysteria. Of course, at the time, it wasn't so much fun, but I don't think anyone will ever now suspect my true reason for being in Clarice's house. And since then I’ve been questioned twice more and I’ve fallen apart each time, perfectly spontaneously and serendipitously hysterical. The police have been so kind, so sweet to me. Who’d have thought these rugged detective types could be so gentle and considerate? As I said, I’m quite proud, because really I had no idea I was such a fab little actress!
I had two missed calls from Monica in my phone, where was I, did I want to meet up etc. Thomas called her for me after he'd collected me from the hospital, and he told her what had happened, asked her to pack up my stuff. She doesn’t appear to have said anything to contradict the idea that my visit was planned in advance and perfectly ordinary in every way. Nor has anyone made any suggestion that I did not adore my dear old mother-in-law. Luckily for me.
And my head aches too much even to watch Andy in the Wimbledon finals—Thomas is recording it for me on the tv-top-box-thingy, so I can watch it later if I feel like it.
Poor Thomas. He's not distraught over the loss of his mother—they were never close—but he's very upset. It’s not a nice way to lose even the most hated of parents. And he seems particularly touched that I'd made time to go and visit Clarice whilst in the area. The police summed it up beautifully. As they told the press conference this lunchtime, 'An elderly lady was brutally and fatally attacked in her own home on the outskirts of Ely sometime between the hours of nine and eleven o’clock last night. The attacker or attackers were interrupted by the arrival of the lady's daughter-in-law who herself was attacked and knocked unconscious, sustaining head injuries. The daughter-in-law, who is now recovering in hospital, was able to alert emergency services once she regained consciousness, although sadly it was too late to help the elderly lady. A motive for this ferocious and inhuman attack has not yet been established, although we are not ruling out the possibility of a burglary gone wrong. We believe the perpetrators of this terrible and callous crime may attempt to sell the proceeds of the break-in to obtain drugs.'
Flowers have arrived from absolutely everyone. And a reporter. Thomas keeps making me cups of tea and arranging my pillows, he's horribly upset. He fusses constantly.
The only fly in my ointment of self-satisfaction is the imminent arrival of his beastly sister, no doubt in full mourning and dragging her profane, betting-shop-owning husband with her, with his eternal sniffing and belching and hearty laugh.
And my head aches abominably.
And I still feel a bit sick and dizzy.
But in spite of all that, it’s all quite exciting.
Mon 9 July—10.15am
Feeling much better today, apart from hideously aching head, obviously.
A number of well-wishers called to offer their condolences. Feel a bit guilty telling all and sundry how awful it is and keep catching myself telling everyone what a wonderful, feisty old lady she was, an individual, a character etc etc, and how an Englishwoman’s home is no longer her castle and how, to the great detriment of society, we won’t see her like again. Well, you have to say these things, don’t you? You can’t exactly tell people what you really thought of the miserable old bag.
Thomas and his sister went off to see the funeral director to fix a date, and to the police to sign some papers and get the body released later this week (don’t see why they can’t keep her, really) and to sort out a whole host of other things. We’re going down to the house in a few days, assuming I’m feeling a bit better.
I was relieved that when Monica popped round, it was when Thomas and Cecily (Cess! I ask you!) were out.
Mrs Hopkins let Monica in, moaning about how she was obviously a bleedin’ butler now what wiv me convaleskin’ and all, but don’t get her wrong, she don’t give a monkey’s, but them barfrooms won’t clean ‘emselves.
‘Cressida! You look terrible! So pale! What shocking news! How are you holding up?’ Monica came rushing across to me and enveloping me in a hug, surrounded me with air-kisses. Mrs H just sniffed and disappeared.
‘Not too bad,’ I said, on a bit of a croak, feeling suddenly emotional. We sat down, then I remembered my manners and offered Monica some coffee, which to my relief she declined.
‘How’s the head? And have the police got any leads yet?’
‘My head’s better than it was, thanks. Still feel a bit sick and dizzy, which is absolutely horrid. No, the police don’t seem to have any news. They think it might have been a robbery gone wrong, but I suppose it’s still early days.’
‘That’s good,’ she said cryptically, adding less cryptically, ‘let’s hope it stays that way. Fingers crossed, you should get away with it completely.’ She said it with a bright smile.
I gaped at her. She smiled even more brightly as if she couldn’t believe I didn’t get the joke.
‘What?’ she asked.
I said nothing, just couldn’t think of anything to say, couldn’t take my eyes off her. She rolled her eyes.
‘Oh come on Cress,’ she said gently, ‘surely you don’t think I haven’t figured it out? I mean it
wasn’t exactly the most elaborate scheme.’
‘But…but…Monica!’ I blustered. Completely stunned. For the second time in two days.
‘Sorry Darling, but we are friends, and you know, cards on the table and all that. I’ll never forget what you said the other night after that whole bloody bird fiasco. And then to slip away during the Twilight walk thingy, well…It was just obvious. By the way, Sweetie, you’ve still got my evening bag.’
I blustered a bit more, completely thrown off track. I couldn’t think for a minute. I couldn’t decide what was for the best, to deny it all or give in to the urge to confide in her, and tell her everything, and ease my burden of guilt.
So I was silent. She leaned back on the sofa and gave me an appraising look. We looked at each other, both of us now a little wary. Then the door was thrown open and in came Mrs H with an enormous tray.
‘Tea,’ she snapped. She made it sound as though it were my idea, adding to her already over-burdened working day.
But I was really thrown. Due to my feeble, post-attack fragility, I came over all emotional. Choking back tears, I thanked her, astonishment on top of my infirmity making me warmer than I normally would be with Mrs H. She glared at me on her way out as if to warn me it was a one-off, and not to go getting ideas. But she removed herself slowly from our presence, giving me a few precious seconds to recompose myself. And now, with something to do, a prop to aid my role, I began to feel once more in control.
I scooched forward and took up the teapot, hefted it in the air, and waved it vaguely in Monica’s direction.
‘Shall I be mother?’
‘Oh do, Darling, I’d love a cup. And a bickie, if there is one. Ooh scones! How lovely!’ She sounded light and airy, and more Monica-like than ever, but her eyes still watched me closely.
A thought came to me. Relieved to have something normal to say, I said,
‘Monica, I’m so sorry about your bag, I completely forgot about it. I hope you didn’t need it for anything? It’s still in the car, I’d better just pop and get it…’
‘No, no need, Cress,’ she stopped me getting to my feet with a wave, and she hesitated for two seconds, then fixing me with her dark eyes she leaned forward and said in a very quiet voice, ‘Cress, as I was just saying, I know what you did.’
Of course, I should have known she wouldn’t let it go. I stopped what I was doing, setting down the teapot, flustered again. How on earth was I going to convince her that I was innocent?
‘Monica, no! I—I don’t know what you…’
‘Yes, you do. Like I said, it was the other evening, with the bird thing. And you’d planned to do it Saturday night all along. That’s why you were so upset about me arriving at Chapley’s. Don’t bother denying it—I could see it in your face as soon as you caught sight of me in the foyer. You were horrified to see me sitting there. Then, you obviously pulled yourself together a bit and decided to make the best of it, but at first—no, Cressida, you were not pleased to see me. You thought I’d get in the way or stop you or something. You killed your mother-in-law, I know you did.’
‘No!’ I said loudly, and suddenly I was on my feet, head swimming madly. Then, remembering Mrs H just down the hall, I took a deep, calming breath and sat myself back down again. I leaned forward and spoke quietly, carefully. ‘No, that’s not…I wasn’t…I certainly didn’t…’
‘But of course you did, Cress!’ And Monica sat back in the chair with her new fake, tinkly laugh. She looked around as she leant back as if asking an imaginary audience how I expected to get away with saying something like that. And suddenly I was onstage on Car-Crash Telly’s live episode of Toffs Who Kill. I could almost hear the audience calling out ‘Shame!’ and see them shaking their heads.
‘Now look,’ I growled through gritted teeth. (Even if she was my best friend, I wasn’t standing for any of this.) ‘I did not k—I did not do whatever it is you think I did. Nor was I upset about you coming to Chapley’s. We had a whale of a time! And whatever stupid emotional thing I blurted out a few nights ago was—well I was simply affected by the emotion at the time—the stress of the situation. I’ve never had to take a life before, however small and insignificant.’
‘Oh please!’ Monica began, but I got there first. The invisible audience leaned forward in their seats, waiting to see where all this was going before nailing their collective colours to any masts.
‘No! Listen to me! I went there on Saturday night to visit my mother-in-law purely because I happened to have a free evening and I was in the area. I—if nothing else, it would have been rude to go all that way and not visit, frankly.’
‘You did not have a free evening, you ditched me!’
Gasps of shock from the audience. And me.
‘You ditched me! You left me literally holding the bag and you buggered off ‘to change’ and that was the last I saw of you—the tour got fed up with waiting for you and left you behind, and I admit I bailed out shortly afterwards, but that was because I just didn’t fancy doing the Walk without you. I bet you were you with that waiter with the bum!’
I sat back, my work here was done. I had had the last word and won both the argument and the sympathy of the fictitious audience. Game, set and match. Go me. Unlike poor old Andy Murray.
‘And so you just ‘happened’’, and she did air-quotes at this point just to annoy me even more, ‘to decide on the spur of the moment to visit your mother-in-law at eleven o’clock at night, without letting her know in advance,’ Monica continued, her voice heavy with sarcasm. ‘Because of course, we all know how terribly fond of her you were.’ Put like that, it sounded pretty bad, but I wasn’t throwing in the towel. But her argument no longer carried any true conviction. I had my answer ready.
‘It’s not a question of being fond of anyone—It’s family duty and—and human compassion, just wanting to be sure the old girl was all right!’
‘Well, that worked out beautifully!’ Monica bellowed. I lost it.
‘She was dead when I got there! I didn’t kill her!’ I yelled back, on my feet now, reason ditched in favour of emphasis, and Mrs H, from the doorway, made a little throat-clearing noise and said,
‘Well, I’ll be off now, Mrs Powell.’ But she looked as though she wished she’d kept her mouth shut. Fancy having to leave just as it was getting interesting! Her eyes were practically on stalks as she turned very, very slowly and began the long, long walk to the front door, slowly, slowly putting on her coat, first one arm and then the other, moving down the hall and looking over her shoulder all the while and fumbling for the buttons.
I swore to myself. It would be all over town by tomorrow morning. In fact, I’d probably be arrested in the middle of the night and smuggled in and out of courtrooms with some old policeman’s anorak over my head whilst women in Primark jeggings and Porn Star t-shirts shouted ‘Shame!’ and threw empty designer-cider bottles at me. I felt sure the invisible audience would no longer be impressed.
Finally the door closed on Mrs H, and I dragged my attention back to the drawing room and Monica, my nerves in tatters. I was wondering where to go from here. I looked at Monica. She was staring back at me, warily, eyes fixed on me, tense. She licked her lips.
What was that look all about? Why on earth should she be so wary? Did she think now Mrs H had gone I was going to batter her over the head with the tea tray? I sat down on the ottoman opposite her.
‘Now look,’ I said in a calmer voice, ‘I promise you, on Thomas’s life, Clarice was dead when I got there. I was at the front door, about to knock when not only did I notice the door was open just a crack, but I heard a sound from inside. And so I went in, really quietly, or so I thought, and then I got a massive whack on the head. I was knocked out cold. When I came to, the attacker or attackers had gone and Clarice was well and truly dead. And that’s the gospel truth.’
Sort of.
She looked at me. I had won. I could see it in her eyes, her slumping shoulders.
‘Sorry,’ she
said softly, and looked at her hands, almost guiltily, ‘I do believe you. I didn’t mean what I said, call it an off-colour joke. I really do believe you. And it must have been terrifying, not to mention super painful.’
I was a bit thrown off-guard by her sudden turnaround.
‘Definitely,’ I said, ‘look I’ve even got a little dent and a bit of hair has come out. I don’t know if it’ll grow back. I might have to keep my hair brushed over this side. And my head is killing me, I don’t know how long it takes to recover from concussion, even if it’s just the mild sort.’
She took a closer look, made concerned tsks.
‘It looks jolly painful. I’m really so, so sorry.’
I felt bad then, felt sad about arguing with my friend.
‘Oh never mind.’ I said, ‘it was a weird situation. How about some more tea?’
‘No, sorry Cress, I’ve got to get back. D‘you know when the funeral is going to be?’
‘Not yet,’ I told her, ‘Thomas is hoping to get all that sorted out today. With his beastly sister, Cess.’ I added with emphasis. She smirked.
‘Cess? Oh dear! Right. Anyway. Well let me know,’ she said, grabbing her bag and jacket, ‘and obviously if you need anything, don’t hesitate. I’ll give you a ring Wednesday or so. Give my love to Thomas, say how sorry we both are…’
And I saw her out, stopping to retrieve her ‘other’ bag from my car, where it had spilled out stuff all over the footwell at the back and I had to grovel around stuffing her make-up and woolly mittens and tissues back in and assuring her if I found anything else I’d let her have it back next time.
It was a relief to get back inside and have a bit of a rest, I can tell you, my head was throbbing. I was glad of the peace and quiet but still, it struck me as a bit odd she left so quickly. And that odd look after Mrs H had left. Maybe she didn’t believe me after all and really was too afraid to be alone with me?
