EQMM, January 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "She always looks like she's going to a party."

  "That's ‘cause she's tarted up."

  "Lucy!" Stephanie banged the table.

  "What? Sally says..."

  "I don't care what Sally says!” God, she was beginning to feel frayed. “Are you going to eat that, Emma?"

  Emma forked the mushroom into her mouth and pulled a face. “Why's she called Mouse, Mum?"

  "I've no idea."

  "Why don't you ask her?"

  "It's none of my business.” Actually she already had, and had got a that's-for-me-to-know-and-you-to-find-out smirk for her trouble. “Look, if you're not going to eat that, Emma, take your plate to the sink. And then go up for your bath."

  "It's too early..."

  "No arguments! I've got lots to do tonight."

  Emma started to protest, then thought better of it. “Stupid name!” she muttered as she slid from the chair.

  * * * *

  Stephanie sat at the table wrapping yet more presents. She had a headache starting—hardly surprising given all the fuss. If it wasn't for the girls, she'd dispense with Christmas altogether and take off for pastures new. Like Mouse. Not Scotland, though, not in winter. Ian had family in Scotland but she always insisted on visiting in the warmer months. She didn't like snow.

  It was snowing now. She could see it through the uncurtained window. Small feathery flakes drifting aimlessly to earth like they had all the time in the world. She wished she had, but unlike the snow, her life seemed to be speeding up, whizzing past faster and faster as the years progressed. It seemed like only yesterday it was last Christmas, a few yesterdays before that the children were born. And not so many yesterdays since she'd been a slim young girl leaving college and beginning her career in IT. A promising career: She'd had a natural aptitude. But then she'd met Ian, fallen in love, got married, had children, and the rest was history.

  She'd almost said something earlier when one of the Glories—Laura, was it?—claimed none of them could wipe Mouse's computer. She could. Wipe it, reprogram it, whatever took her fancy. The others forgot that, to them she was just a wife and mother. So easy to make assumptions. So easy to forget.

  A cat jumped onto the window sill and miaowed, a big bruiser of a cat with tiger stripes and wide cheeks. Mouse's cat.

  "Go home, Tom,” she called. “I'm sure your mistress will be back soon."

  The cat miaowed again and pawed at the window, leaving muddy streaks on the glass.

  "Oh, for heaven's sake...” Why on earth didn't Mouse fit a cat flap?

  She jumped up and grabbed her coat. She might as well let him in, she'd be doing it all the time while Mouse was away. Besides, the poor animal was probably frozen.

  She grabbed the torch and took the spare key from the cupboard. “Hang on, Tom,” she called, and let herself out.

  The ground was covered in a thin layer of white dust. The snow was pitching. Tom came running up miaowing, then ran ahead, as if to show her the way through the hedge. She pushed through, walked along the side of the house, and unlocked the back door. Tom was in like a flash, and after a moment's hesitation Stephanie followed. The cat was a thief, she told herself. It was only fair to check no food had been left out.

  She needn't have worried. The worktops were pristine. The only food was in a bowl on the floor. Tom made a beeline for it and began to tuck in, making low growly noises to show his approval. Stephanie watched him for a moment, smiling, then allowed herself to look enviously around.

  The kitchen was a dream, simple yet stylish, in perfect keeping with the house. And so tidy—not cluttered up with toys, paints, scissors, and tubes of glitter like her own. In the far corner was a pretty pine desk on which sat Mouse's laptop. Stephanie stared at it. These days, a person's entire life was on a computer, every detail of their day-to-day existence. Contained within that little black box would be reminders, spreadsheets, details of finances, addresses of clients, names of friends...

  Friends?

  Stephanie froze. Her heart began to race. She glanced towards the window.

  A second later, hardly able to believe what she was doing, she wandered across, took a deep breath, and raised the lid.

  Wipe it? Reprogram it?

  Oh no.

  Ears pricked for the sound of a car, she settled into the chair, took another deep breath, and switched on.

  It didn't take her long to find her way around. Or to get into Mouse's e-mails. Mouse had protected them with a password but Stephanie guessed it at the fourth try. Jerry—what else?

  All her correspondence was there, both business and private, but it was the private ones that interested Steph. Especially the ones that began “Hi, Big Man."

  A singles holiday it might be, but for some of the time Mouse would apparently have company. “Big Man” was to join her. And what delights she was promising him. There would be plenty of rumpy-pumpy all right—aprés-ski, pre-, and during, from the sound of it. Whoever Big Man was, he must have been positively panting when the e-mails arrived.

  The address wasn't one she knew, but that meant nothing. Anyone can have more than one address. She read through the remainder, read a few again, then switched off and carefully closed the lid.

  Tom was on the worktop when she stood up, lazily licking his paws.

  "Not a word!” she whispered, and let herself out.

  * * * *

  Ian returned shortly after eleven, looking exhausted.

  "Have you eaten?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Grabbed a takeaway. Wouldn't mind a coffee, though."

  "It'll keep you awake."

  "Not tonight."

  She made coffee for Ian, a Horlicks for herself, and curled up beside him on the sofa. “Did you get everything finished?"

  "Most. Not all. We're having trouble with the McBain contract. Looks like I'll have to go up there."

  "To Scotland? When?"

  "Before New Year. I can't let it run on.” He yawned. “Nuisance, I know, but it'll only be for a couple of days. And look on the bright side. I can visit the family."

  "Will you have time?"

  "I'll make time, even if it means staying an extra night.” He tossed back the last of the coffee. “Better get to bed. You coming?"

  "In a minute,” Stephanie said. “Still a few things to do."

  "Well, don't be late."

  * * * *

  She carried the mugs to the kitchen and put them in the dishwasher, like an automaton wiped work surfaces and tidied things away. The fears that had been plaguing her for the past month had been confirmed, and it felt worse than she'd imagined—far, far worse. She leaned over the sink and retched.

  The affair, she thought, must have begun in the summer—at least, that's when Ian's trips away had begun. But it wasn't until November that she'd realised they coincided with her feeding the cat. A quick check through her diary had confirmed it. The night she'd fed Tom in September, Ian had been in Kent. The weekend in October, he'd spent a night in Oxford. In November it was midweek, a Wednesday and Thursday. On the Wednesday, Ian had stayed over in Bath.

  At first she'd told herself it was coincidence (there had been a couple of dates that didn't coincide), but when the number of evenings he spent at work increased, so did her misgivings. Now, when he phoned, she found herself listening for Mouse's car—and too often was rewarded.

  Yet even then she found it hard to believe. They seemed such an unlikely couple. If Mouse had sent Tom to a cattery would she ever have caught on?

  Her first thought had been to confront him. Then she decided to sit it out. The last thing she wanted to do was force his hand. Too many marriages ended in divorce and she was damned if she would become another statistic. Her children weren't going to come from a broken home. No, however much she hated it, she would pretend ignorance. Mouse would soon get bored, she told herself. Give it time and the affair would fizzle out.

  And she'd continued to believe it until she read the e-mails. “Counting the days
till we're together all the time,” Mouse had written in one, and “...when you tell her after Christmas...” in another. Well, Stephanie wasn't going to simply sit around and wait to be told. The time had come for action.

  She sat down at the table and reached for her notebook. It contained her lists—shopping lists, Christmas-card lists, lists of things to buy. Turning to a fresh page, she closed her eyes. The seed of an idea was germinating. It would take courage, a whole mountain of it—but what price risk when her family was at stake? Think of the children...

  An age later, hands shaking, she picked up a pen and wrote, Order taxi.

  v v v

  Next morning it was still snowing. Good. Everyone knew she hated driving in snow. She ordered the taxi for nine-thirty the following morning.

  She had just put down the phone when the doorbell rang. Jilly was on the step, looking like death, her eyes wild.

  "Are the girls in?” she demanded before Steph could speak.

  "No, they've gone..."

  "Good.” She brushed past her and into the kitchen.

  "You look like you need a coffee,” Steph said.

  "Like hell! Got any gin?"

  "At ten in the morning? Whatever's wrong?"

  "Dick's what's wrong! Oh Steph..."

  Stephanie forced her friend into a chair, fetched the bottle, and sloshed some into a glass. “Tell me what's happened,” she said, sitting beside her. “Slowly."

  Jilly nodded. “Yesterday...” She paused to gulp back the gin. “Yesterday Dick came home from work early. He was there when I got back from Laura's. On the phone. He obviously didn't hear me come in. I was about to say hello when...” She screwed up her eyes. “It was Mouse, Steph. He was talking to Mouse. She and Dick are having an affair."

  "What?"

  "I know. I can't believe it either."

  "But that's impossible..."

  "Is it? You didn't hear him! They were talking about this trip to Scotland and—"

  "But he can't be!” Stephanie cut in. “You must have misheard. Had he said anything to you about going away?"

  "Nothing. Which made me wonder if I'd got it wrong. So to make sure, I told him I'd booked tickets for the theatre on the twenty-ninth. And that's when he owned up."

  "He admitted they're having an affair?"

  "Don't be daft! That he has to go away. Claims he has to be in Birmingham on the twenty-eighth, probably for a couple of days. But what he really means is he's off for a cosy couple of nights in Glenshee with that ... God, and there's me thinking she was seeing Roger."

  "Roger!"

  "Didn't you know? They've been seen together a couple of times in the pub. Why d'you think Laura dragged him away from the party?"

  "I thought she had a headache—"

  "God, you're so naive, Steph! Anyway, why didn't Dick tell me he was going away if it's all so innocent?"

  "Did you ask him?"

  Jilly shrugged. “He claims he was leaving it till the last minute. So as not to ruin Christmas."

  Stephanie smiled. “Sounds like Dick."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Just that he's always so thoughtful..."

  Jilly shot to her feet. “I might have known you wouldn't understand, you with the perfect husband. Well, she's not having mine! Over my dead body—or hers, if it comes to that."

  "Jilly..."

  But Jilly had gone, sweeping out of the house and slamming the door. Stephanie slumped back in the chair and sighed. Damn Mouse Conniston, she thought angrily. How could one woman cause so much anguish?

  * * * *

  Ian was working late again, which was just as well. Stephanie thought this time it was genuine. Somehow she managed to cook dinner and persuade the girls to bed. Outwardly she appeared calm (she hoped), but her insides were in turmoil, her heart threatening to leave her body. Would she be able to go through with it?

  The plan, she congratulated herself, was ingenious and would begin tonight, as soon as she was sure the girls were asleep. She would slip out unnoticed and call on Mouse, supposedly to check last-minute details, and inevitably Mouse would offer her a drink (she always did), whereupon Stephanie would ask for red wine. As Mouse only ever drank white, it would mean a trip to the cellar, as on previous occasions, and while she was down there—this was the most difficult part—Stephanie would close and lock the door. Later, when it was ... all over, she would unlock it again, carefully unscrew the doorknob, and let it fall on the floor. The other section she would push through. It would look as if Mouse had gone into the cellar, the door had swung shut, and when she'd tried to get out again the knob had come loose in her hand. She would, to all intents and purposes, have locked herself in.

  Next, Stephanie would doctor the computer and remove the e-mails to Big Man. The death must look like an accident: She didn't want the police to find a possible motive for foul play when they finally arrived. And all that left was the taxi.

  The taxi had been a tricky one. Mouse had ordered it for nine-fifteen, and who knew what might happen if she didn't appear. The driver might start knocking on doors to check the address, which could lead to some awkward enquiries. So Stephanie had ordered one for herself for nine-thirty. She wouldn't take it, of course, she'd take the first one, and if her own driver started calling on neighbours she would later laugh it off and say they must have sent two. Things were always hectic around Christmastime and no one would be surprised if the firm made a mistake.

  There was a faint chance the hotel might make enquiries when Mouse didn't show, but Stephanie doubted it. They'd be far too busy. And Ian certainly wouldn't. So it would be up to her to call the police when Mouse didn't come home as planned. After she'd phoned the hotel, of course, to see if Mouse was still there—and been suitably shocked to discover she'd never arrived.

  Yes, the plan was ingenious all right. Oh, Mouse would scream and knock when she was first shut in, but who would hear her? The walls were too thick for her to be heard outside, and Stephanie was the only one with a key. “I never heard a thing,” she would swear when questioned. “She couldn't have been knocking while I was inside."

  Stephanie shuddered. Until now she'd tried not to think what would actually happen to Mouse, but suddenly she could picture it all too well. Trapped in the darkness, frozen to the bone. Would she scratch at the door until her fingers bled?

  And what would finally kill her—the cold? Starvation? Thirst? Whatever it was, her death would be hideous—painful and drawn-out. A premature burial, in a coffin the size of a room.

  Nausea rose in Stephanie's throat and her heart began to pound. She sank onto a chair and buried her face in her hands. Who was she kidding? Of course she couldn't go through with it. She wasn't a murderer, for heaven's sake....

  But Mousewould go through with it. At nine-fifteen tomorrow, the taxi would arrive and whisk her off to the station. And then, a few days later...

  Stephanie leapt to her feet. She might not be able to kill Mouse, but she could at least confront her. She'd beg her to leave Ian alone, plead with her—hell, she'd even go down on her knees. Anything to keep a father for her children.

  And what's more, she'd do it now, before she lost her nerve. She grabbed the torch and, without stopping to pull on a coat, let herself out.

  * * * *

  It had snowed quite heavily during the day and a frost was making the ground treacherous. Stephanie picked her way carefully along the path. Climbing through the hedge, she dropped the torch, and when it hit the ground the light went out. Cursing, she crouched down and groped around, pausing when she heard a noise. It sounded like Mouse's back door closing. Sure enough, a figure was coming towards her along the side of the house, swathed from head to foot in something dark.

  "Mouse?” she called.

  The figure halted, spun around, and hurried back the way it had come.

  Strange, Stephanie thought.

  Finally she located the torch, shook it to make it work, and made her way to the door. Had
whoever it was gone back inside? She knocked loudly, and when she got no response tried again. Finally, in desperation, she turned the knob and to her surprise the door swung inwards. What had happened to the safety chain?

  "Hello?” she called, stepping inside. “Mouse?"

  The only reply was a miaow.

  "Hello, Tom,” she said. “Is your—owner at home?” She couldn't bring herself to say the word mistress.

  Tom ran towards the kitchen.

  Stephanie followed. The lights were on, but the room was empty. She frowned. A wineglass was lying on its side on the worktop and another had shattered on the floor. Quickly she scooped Tom up and put him outside, afraid he might cut his paws on the glass.

  "Mouse!” she called more loudly when she came back in. "Where are you?"

  She crossed the kitchen and opened the door to the hall. Her stomach gave a lurch. The door to the cellar was open.

  Cautiously she moved towards it. The cellar was in darkness. “Mouse?” she called hesitantly, flicking on the torch and shining it down. Her hand shot to her mouth.

  She didn't need to go down to know Mouse was dead. Her body was sprawled on the ground, the eyes wide open and staring. Blood had run from a wound on her head. Judging by her position and the angle of her neck, she must have fallen sideways from the second or third step, cracking her head on the wine rack on the way down.

  Fallen?

  Stephanie staggered back against the wall and closed her eyes.

  Her mind was reeling. She ought to phone the police. But what would they find when they got there?

  And who was the woman she'd seen leaving the house? She hadn't recognised her, true, yet she felt sure it was a woman. Suppose it was Jilly? Or one of the other Glories? Accidentally or otherwise putting into practice what she'd been unable to do...

  She remembered the glass on the kitchen floor, the e-mails. The crime team would have a field day. Heaven only knew what might come out. Families would suffer. Children. Even in death, Mouse would continue to destroy.

  Slowly Stephanie pushed herself from the wall. Her mind was made up. Whoever the woman was, she had done her a favour. Besides, why let a good plan go to waste?