by B. A. Paris
My mobile continues to ring on and off for the rest of the journey and, as I turn into the drive, Matthew comes hurrying out of the house. His face is twisted with worry, and guilt tangles with my exhaustion.
‘Are you all right?’ he asks, opening my door before I’ve even got my seat belt off.
‘I’m fine,’ I say, reaching into the well of the passenger seat for my bag so that I don’t have to meet his eyes.
‘You could have let me know,’ he reproaches. ‘I’ve been worried.’
‘Sorry.’
‘What happened?’
‘False alarm. I was looking on the wrong floor.’
‘But you said you’d checked all the floors.’
‘Does it really matter? The car hasn’t been stolen. Isn’t that enough?’
There’s a pause while he struggles not to ask me how I could have missed it. ‘You’re right,’ he says, rallying. I get out of the car and go into the house. ‘You look all done in. I’ll get dinner, if you like.’
‘Thanks. I’ll go and have a shower.’
I stay a long time in the bathroom and an even longer time getting into my old jogging pants in the bedroom, putting off the moment when I’ll have to face Matthew again. I feel so depressed that all I want is to fall into bed and sleep the rest of my horrible, horrible day away. I keep expecting Matthew to call up to see where I am but the only noise that comes from the kitchen is the sound of the dinner being prepared.
When I finally go down, I make myself chat away about anything and everything – school, the weather, bumping into Connie – determined not to let him get a word in edgeways, determined to make him think that mislaying the car hasn’t fazed me at all. I even write the date of the Inset day on the calendar, telling him that I’m looking forward to seeing everybody again at the meeting and going back to work. But worry gnaws away inside me and I have to force myself to eat the risotto he’s made. I want to tell him about the car I suspect was parked outside the house earlier, but how can I after what’s happened? All it will sound like is more hysteria, more paranoia on my part.
FRIDAY, AUGUST 14TH
It’s four weeks to the day since Jane’s murder and I can’t believe how much my life has changed since in so short a space of time. Fear and guilt have become such constant companions that I can’t remember what it was like to live without them. And misplacing my car yesterday has really shaken me. If I needed more proof that I’m on the road to dementia, that was it.
It’s hard not to feel depressed. I sit lethargically in the sitting room, the television on for company, tuned to the same mind-numbing shopping channel as before. A call comes in at around ten o’clock and when I immediately go into panic-mode, my breath trapped in my lungs, my heart accelerating to the point where I feel dizzy, I realise I’ve become conditioned to experiencing fear every time the phone rings. Even when the answering machine kicks in – so I know it isn’t my silent caller – there’s no relief, because he will be calling.
The letter box clatters, making me jump. How did it come to this, that any noise, not just the phone ringing, makes my heart race, my skin prickle with unease? When had I become so frightened? I’m ashamed – ashamed that I’m no longer the strong person I once was, ashamed that I let the slightest thing get to me. I hate the way I’m holding my breath, listening for the sound of the postman’s feet scrunching back down the gravel path so that I’ll know it really was him pushing something through the door and not the murderer. I hate the way my stomach jumps into my mouth when I retrieve the post and find a letter addressed to me, I hate the way, as I stare at the handwritten envelope, that my hands start shaking, because maybe it’s from him. I don’t want to open it but, propelled by something stronger than me – because knowing is better than not knowing – I rip it open and find a single sheet of paper. I unfold it slowly, hardly daring to read the words written there.
Dear Cass,
Thank you for your letter. I can’t tell you how much it means to me to know that you have such good memories of your lunch with Jane. I remember her coming home and telling me how well the two of you got on, so I’m glad that you felt the same way. I really appreciate you taking the time to write, letters such as yours are incredibly important to me at what is a horrendous time.
Thank you also for asking about the girls. They miss their mother dreadfully but are thankfully too young to understand what has happened. All they know is that their mummy has gone to be an angel.
I know from your address that you live fairly locally so if you ever see me in the street (unfortunately, my face has become recognisable) please come and say hello. I understand that people don’t know what to say but it is hard when I see people avoiding me.
Kind regards,
Alex
My breath, which I didn’t realise I’d been holding, comes out in a shudder and my eyes blur with tears, from relief that it’s only an innocent letter and from desperate sadness for Jane’s husband. His kind words of gratitude are like a balm to my soul – except he would never have written them if he knew I’d left Jane to her fate that night. As I reread his letter, each word is like an arrow, piercing my conscience, and suddenly all I want is to tell him the truth. Maybe he would condemn me. But maybe, just maybe, he would tell me that there was nothing I could have done, that Jane was doomed to die long before I drove past. And if it came from him, maybe I’d believe it.
The phone rings, bringing me back to the present where there is no comfort, no forgiveness, just relentless fear and hounding. I snatch it up, wanting to scream at him to leave me alone. But I don’t want him to know how terrified I am, so we wait, each with our own agenda. The seconds tick by. And then I realise that if I can sense the menace coming down the line from his end, he can sense the fear coming from mine. I’m just about to hang up when I realise that there’s something different about this call.
I strain my ears, trying to work out what it is. Somewhere in the background, I hear the faintest of sounds; a tiny whisper of wind maybe, or the slight rustling of a leaf. Whichever it is, it tells me that he’s out in the open and, instantly, Fear, who had gone back to nestling in the pit of my stomach, rises up inside me, threatening to consume me. Adrenalin kicks in, driving me into the study, clearing the blind panic from my eyes so that I’m able to look out into the road and see that it’s empty. Relief steps in but Fear, hating to be beaten, reminds me that it doesn’t mean the murderer isn’t there. Dread takes hold and peppers my skin with tiny beads of sweat. I want to phone the police but something – Reason, maybe – tells me that even if they were to come and search the garden, they wouldn’t find him. He – my tormentor – is far too clever for that.
I can’t stay in the house to await whatever he’s decided for me, like a sitting duck. I run into the hall, throw on the first pair of shoes I find, take the car keys from the table and open the front door. I look around: the drive is clear but I don’t want to take any chances so I unlock the car from where I’m standing and cover the few yards between it and the house in a couple of seconds. Inside the car I lock all the doors and drive quickly through the gate, breathing heavily. As I pass the house that was for sale, I see a man standing in the garden, and recognise him as the one I’d seen hanging around the house. I can’t see if he has a mobile in his hand but it doesn’t matter. He could be my silent caller, he could be Jane’s killer, he could be her secret lover. He’s also perfectly placed to see Matthew leave for work each morning, to know when I’m alone.
It’s time to go to the police. But first, I need to speak to Matthew, I need to tell him what I suspect and I need him to tell me that I could be right because I don’t want to get it wrong again. Making a fool of myself in front of him is preferable to making a fool out of myself in front of the police. How can I ask them to check out the man up the road without some sort of proof, or backup from Matthew? They already have me down as an idiot for setting the alarm off.
In my agitation I almost run a red light and, worri
ed that I’ll have an accident, I make myself calm down. I wish I could spend the day with someone but Rachel is still in Siena and everyone else is on holiday too, or leaving in the next day or so.
In the end I decide to drive to Browbury, my eyes constantly checking my rear-view mirror, making sure no one is following me. I park in the High Street, planning to find somewhere to sit, waste time and pretend to have lunch. Relieved that I have a plan, I grope around for my bag and realise, appalled, that it’s not there, that in my haste to leave the house I’ve left it behind. I need to be able to buy myself at least a drink so I rummage around in the glove compartment for coins. A sharp knock on the window frightens the life out of me and, straightening up, I see John smiling in at me.
Unable to smile back because of the shock he gave me, I turn back to the glove compartment and close it, giving myself time. Back in control, I turn the key back in the ignition and slide the window down.
‘You gave me a fright,’ I say, trying to smile.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, contrite. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you. Are you arriving or leaving?’
‘Both.’ He looks at me quizzically. ‘I’ve just arrived but I seem to have left my bag at home, so now I’m going to have to drive back and fetch it,’ I explain.
‘Can I help out at all?’
I hesitate, weighing up my options. I don’t want to encourage him but he knows I’m with Matthew. And I definitely don’t want to go back to the house but I can’t wander aimlessly around Browbury for the rest of the day without the means to buy myself a coffee and newspaper.
‘I don’t suppose you’d like to buy me a coffee, would you?’
‘I was hoping you’d say that.’ He puts his hand in his pocket and draws out two one-pound coins. ‘I’ll even pay for your parking, unless you want to get a ticket?’
‘I forgot about that,’ I say, pulling a face. ‘A pound will be enough though; I’ll only need an hour.’
‘Not if you let me take you for lunch as well as coffee.’
‘Why not?’ I say, my spirits lifting at the thought of two hours of my day now filled. ‘As long as you’ll let me return the favour.’
‘Done.’
He goes over to the parking meter, puts the coins in and hands the ticket through the window.
‘Thanks.’
I get out of the car and he nods at my feet. ‘Nice shoes.’
I look down at my feet, clad in the old brown moccasins I use for gardening, which used to belong to Mum.
‘I was doing some weeding and I forgot to change out of them,’ I say, laughing. ‘Are you sure you still want to be seen out with me?’
‘Absolutely. Where would you like to go?’
‘You choose.’
‘How about Costello’s?’
‘Do you have time?’
‘Definitely. How about you? You’re not in a rush, are you?’
‘No, not at all.’
I have such a lovely time over the next couple of hours that I don’t want it to end. The thought of going home and only having my head for company makes me feel depressed again and I quickly take a sip of water.
‘Thank you,’ I say gratefully, as John signals for the bill. ‘I really needed that.’
‘Me too.’
‘Why’s that?’ I ask.
‘Just that I’ve been at a bit of a loose end since my girlfriend disappeared off the scene. What about you? Why did you need to get away for a couple of hours? You’re not still being plagued by phone calls, are you?’
I look at him sharply. ‘What do you mean?’
‘From the call centre. It took my ears quite a long time to recover from the bashing they received.’
‘I still feel embarrassed about that,’ I groan.
‘I hope that’s not why you didn’t come for a drink last Friday. We missed you.’
‘I completely forgot!’ All my anxieties come tumbling back. ‘I’m sorry, John, I feel dreadful!’
‘Don’t worry about it. You did say that Matthew had a couple of days off and that you might go away somewhere,’ he reminds me.
I know I should say something, ask if they had a good evening, but I’m too devastated to speak.
‘Are you OK?’ he asks. ‘You seem a bit upset.’
I nod and look away, out over the High Street at all the people living their lives. ‘It’s just that it’s been rather a strange summer.’
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
I shake my head slowly. ‘You’ll think I’m mad.’
‘Never.’
I look at him and try to smile. ‘Actually, there’s a real possibility I am going mad. My mother had dementia for several years before she died and I’m worried that I might have the same condition.’
He stretches his arm out and for a moment I think he’s going to take my hand. But he reaches for his water glass. ‘Dementia and madness aren’t the same thing,’ he says, taking a sip of water.
‘No, they aren’t,’ I agree.
‘Have you been diagnosed with dementia?’
‘No, not yet. I’m meant to be seeing a specialist but I’ll probably forget to go.’ We both start laughing and I find I can’t stop. ‘God, it’s so good to laugh again,’ I say, still giggling.
‘Well, for what it’s worth, you don’t seem the least bit mad to me.’
‘That’s because you’re not living with me on a day-to-day basis. It’s not much fun for Matthew when I keep doing stupid things – you know, forgetting to change my shoes when I go out, leaving my bag at home.’
‘That’s the sign of someone who left her house in a hurry, not someone who’s mad.’ He looks questioningly at me, his intense dark eyes refusing to leave mine. ‘Did you leave in a hurry?’
‘I just don’t like being in the house on my own any more,’ I say, shrugging.
‘Since Jane’s murder?’
‘It’s just that everything spooks me. Our house is a little too isolated for my liking.’
‘But there are other houses nearby, aren’t there?’
‘Yes.’ I hesitate, wondering if I should confide in him the true nature of the phone calls I’ve been getting and tell him about the man up the road. But the waitress arrives with the bill and the moment is lost.
‘It’s just as well that school starts again soon,’ John says, taking out his wallet. ‘We’ll have so much to do, we won’t have time to dwell on things.’ He pulls a face. ‘Inset day on the twenty-eighth. Please don’t tell me you’ve already done all your lesson plans for the coming term.’
‘I haven’t even looked at the syllabus,’ I confess.
He stretches, his T-shirt rising to show his tanned skin. ‘Me neither,’ he confides, grinning.
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
I heave a sigh of relief. ‘You can’t believe how much better that makes me feel. I bumped into Connie yesterday in Castle Wells and she said she’d almost finished.’
‘Ouch!’ He grimaces.
I look at him curiously. ‘She said that you didn’t go back to hers that night, you know, after our end-of-term dinner.’
‘No, I didn’t really feel like it.’
‘Right.’ I nod.
‘Anyway, what would be the point of going without you there?’ he goes on lightly.
‘No point at all,’ I agree. ‘I’m such the life and soul of the party.’
He laughs. ‘Exactly.’ But we both know that’s not what he meant.
We leave the restaurant and he walks me back to my car.
‘Did you buy a sleep-suit, by the way?’ I ask.
‘I did. A blue one with an elephant on the front. My friend seemed a bit surprised – I chose it because I liked it but I forgot the baby was a girl.’
‘I’m glad I’m not the only one with a bad memory,’ I joke.
‘There you are, proof that it happens to everyone. Are you doing anything nice this weekend?’
‘Just chilling in the garden, I hope.’<
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‘Well, have a good rest.’ He nods at my car. ‘This is you, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ I give him a hug. ‘Thank you, John, for everything.’
‘My pleasure,’ he says gravely. ‘See you back at school, Cass. Drive safely.’
He waits on the pavement until I’ve pulled out of the parking space and I set off down the High Street, wondering what I can do to fill in the rest of the time until Matthew gets home. As I arrive at the junction where I would normally turn right, I see a signpost for Heston and, the next thing I know, I’m driving towards the village where Jane lived, the village she was driving back to the night she was murdered. I feel a moment of panic, wondering what I’m doing, what I hope to achieve by going there. But for some reason I feel compelled to go.
It only takes five minutes to get there. I park on a road between the park and the pub and get out of the car. The park is small but beautifully kept. I go through the gate and walk slowly down the pathways, admiring the wonderful variety of flowers. The few benches in the shade are taken, mostly by elderly couples having a rest from their afternoon stroll, so I find one in the sun and sit for a while, glad I’ve found somewhere to spend the next couple of hours. I think about Jane, wondering how many times she sat on this bench, how many times she walked this path. There’s a play area at the other end of the park where young children are rocking back and forth on wooden animals and I imagine her helping her children on and off them, or hovering anxiously as they go up and down the slide, as some of the adults are doing now. And, as always, the guilt I feel whenever I think about Jane presses down on me.
As I watch, wondering wistfully if Matthew and I will ever be blessed with children, a little girl tries to get off her rocking animal and I can see that for all her determination, she’s not going to make it because one of her feet is stuck. Instinctively, I open my mouth to shout out, to warn one of the adults that she’s about to fall, but before I can she tumbles to the ground. Her cries of pain bring a man running over but another little girl stretches out her arms to him, wanting to get off her rocking animal, so he scoops her up quickly before stooping to tend to the other child. And as I watch him brush her down and kiss her blonde head, I realise I’m looking at Jane’s husband.
