No Simple Death (2019 Edition)

by Valerie Keogh

  Shutting the door, she gave in to a moment’s despair, leaned her forehead against the door and wondered again what she was supposed to do. She had her mobile with her but, for the second time in as many days, she realised there was nobody to phone. How foolish she had been to lose touch with friends. When this was all over, she resolved to build bridges, mend fences, break down walls, whatever construction term was suitable, to change things in the future. But that wasn’t going to help her now.

  She sat back in the extremely uncomfortable chair and, as she did so, one of the candles that held back the impenetrable darkness sputtered and died. Two more followed in quick succession causing her to jump up with a yelp. Four candles remained but all, she realised quickly, were in the latter stages of life.

  ‘Idiot, idiot, idiot,’ she berated herself. Hastily, she blew all but one of the candles out while she frantically searched the meagrely furnished room for more. She quelled the rising panic when she found none, but discovered a door to the rear of the room, which on opening led into a tiny, cluttered kitchen. She put the candle down on the cooker top, the only free surface available, and looked around in distaste. It was not only cluttered and untidy but incredibly dirty; what wasn’t covered in dust was layered in grime. She was beginning to find it increasingly difficult to merge the memories of her glamorous, sophisticated husband with the man who would live in such squalor, a man who would abandon her in such a place.

  Had she a more active imagination, she could almost have believed he was an imposter, an evil twin or something equally ridiculous. But she knew beyond doubt, he was her husband, Simon. It was his smile she saw, when she went into the bedroom at The Inn, his arms that held her, his smell, his kiss. She banged a cupboard door, shutting away the clutter and pushing away memories.

  She had to find candles.

  Her mind was instantly focused when the candle she had brought into the kitchen began to sputter. She ran back and grabbed one of the other candle ends and quickly lit it from the faltering flame. For a frantic second, she thought she’d left it too late, the candles seemed reluctant to cooperate. With a soft hiss the first candle died just as the second, petulantly, took up the flame. With a sigh of relief, galvanised by the near calamity, she opened and searched cupboards and drawers, giving a longer sigh moments later when she opened a drawer full of candles. Matches too, she noted with relief, putting a box into her pocket.

  Back in the main room, she pulled her chair closer again to the fireplace and lit a couple of new candles in an attempt to brighten, if not warm the room. She shivered as she watched the fire splutter and die. There were two choices available to her. To go out and get some firewood or go up to bed and climb under the duvet. She contemplated for a moment or two a third choice of bringing the duvet down and staying in her chair but then she thought of mice, and of mice scurrying up and under the duvet from the floor, and she shivered.

  The storm clouds she had seen earlier were making themselves felt now and the wind hurled rain against the windows. The cold was beginning to seep into her bones and she knew she had to decide. She was hungry too. Heading back to the kitchen, she sniffed an open milk bottle, drawing back hurriedly at the rancid smell. Undeterred, she opened the cupboards again, searching this time for something to eat. ‘Eureka,’ she said, puffing mist into the cold air as she discovered tins of soup. She turned with determination to the cooker. Surely, if he had soup, he had a way to heat it. She was right and the gas cooker worked at the turn of a knob. With a crow of pleasure, she turned on all four rings and searched for a can opener and saucepan. The gas flames soon made inroads in the chilly air of the kitchen and Edel tucked into two tins of hot and tasty soup. She ate it straight from the saucepan, with a huge serving spoon she had found in a drawer, choosing to ignore the food-encrusted bowls and cutlery lying in the sink.

  Feeling warm and with her hunger satisfied, it was easier to make a decision. She’d go up to bed, at least she would be warm, she might get some sleep and, she decided a bit fatalistically, she might need a clear head in the morning. Switching off the cooker, she put several candles into a bag and went back into the main room. She kept one candle lit, extinguished the others and walked in the small circle of light up the stairs to the room she had been in earlier.

  As she reached the top of the stairs, she noticed there were two other doors. She dropped the bag of candles onto the bed and, because she knew she couldn’t settle until she had, explored the other rooms. One door led to a small, old-fashioned, exceedingly dirty bathroom and the other to a second bedroom strewn with boxes and bags. She laughed as she realised she had been holding her breath. ‘Did you really expect to find a dead body?’ she asked herself with a shake of her head, her voice echoing in the room. Or should she say another dead body? She gave a ghoulish giggle.

  She used the bathroom facilities, washing her hands and face in the icy water that gurgled with a marked lack of haste from the taps and drying them on the end of her shirt rather than the stiff, exceedingly grubby towel that hung from a nail on the back of the door. Returning to the bedroom, she was grateful to see a key in the lock and turned it decisively, hearing the click with relief.

  The room was small and untidy, there were no curtains on the one small, dirty window and the floorboards were bare. But the bed, Edel saw with relief, was relatively new. Or at least not ancient, she amended on closer examination when she had lit a few candles and positioned them around the room. The sheets were grubby and stained but the duvet was a heavy feather one that promised warmth. She hesitated a moment. Even fully clothed, she couldn’t bring herself to climb between those sheets. She stripped the bed, flung the sheets and pillowcases into a corner of the room and, removing only her shoes, climbed onto the bed wrapping the duvet around her. Soon, she was snug and cosy, listening to the escalating storm swirl rain and wind against the windows and roof. She had left two candles burning and their flames flickered in numerous draughts causing shadows to dance across the ceiling and walls. With hunger and cold dispelled, and feeling secure behind the locked door, she suddenly realised, to her surprise, that she felt more relaxed than she had in a long time.

  Unravelling herself from the duvet’s warmth, she clambered from the bed and extinguished the candles. As crazy as her life was, she had no intention of setting fire to herself. Back in bed, buried once more in warmth, she gave a sudden chuckle, her life had become so fantastic, so completely bizarre, it seemed unreal. ‘Ridiculous,’ she whispered into the night. ‘My life has become ridiculous.’

  The rain on the corrugated roof was incredibly noisy. She’d never sleep through it. Anyway, she was waiting for Simon to come home. She couldn’t sleep until he did. On that final thought, her eyes closed and sleep, reluctant at first, claimed her for the night.

  11

  The storm, as storms do, exhausted itself overnight and departed, leaving behind a crystal clear blue sky. The morning was cold but the sun hinted at warmth to follow and the birds sang their pleasure and ate the insects unwise enough to venture forth. All around the cottage lay the evidence of the storm; leaves and small branches littering the laneway, bluebells flattened. The air had that wonderful clean, rich, after-the-storm smell.

  Edel took a deep breath when she opened the cottage door, the early morning sun making her squint. She looked around with unexpected pleasure. What a lovely morning. To her surprise, she had slept incredibly well, and had awoken refreshed and ready to face whatever Simon had to tell her. Whenever he returned. Why hadn’t he come back last night? The pleasure in the morning dimmed in the face of rising anxiety.

  One thing was certain, she was definitely not spending another night here. Turning back to the kitchen, she decided, for want of anything better, to have soup again for breakfast. She would kill for a cup of coffee. She sighed as she put the soup in the same saucepan she had used the previous evening.

  After her makeshift breakfast, her restlessness took her for a walk up the laneway to the road. Walking
briskly along, she appreciated how isolated the cottage was. It was the only dwelling on it, the lane ending in the woods just behind. She saw no other houses or even buildings in the distance. The road at the end was, she guessed, only a very minor one and she wondered exactly where she was. She had followed Simon up and down so many roads they could be several miles away from The Inn or only a couple.

  Turning back, she noticed an old road sign on the laneway, held together with bramble and ivy. Reaching carefully through the bramble, but still managing to get scratched by vicious thorns, she pushed enough ivy out of the way to read the name. ‘Hedgesparrow Lane,’ she read aloud. She stepped back, examining and quickly dismissing the bramble scratches, and said in amusement, ‘Hedgesparrow Lane. Goodness, it sounds like something from a Winnie-the-Pooh novel.’

  She headed back to the cottage but the walk hadn’t relieved her restlessness. How much longer would she have to wait? And what would she do if Simon didn’t turn up? ‘He will,’ she said, trying to reassure herself but failing miserably. Her good mood was proving to have a short life. What did he do here for three months, she wondered, and then decided to see if she could find answers in the cottage. She had only a moment’s indecision, torn between the need to know and the fear of what she would find. The ethical considerations she dismissed; a man who vanished for three months didn’t deserve any. She started opening letters, and sifting through papers and anything else she could find.

  Most of the papers she found in the living room were the mundane detritus of modern living; bank statements, credit card bills, store card statements. All of the paperwork was in the name of Simon Johnson. Looking through statements, she was amazed at how many store cards he had, one for almost every store she could think of. Some of them were final demands, the red writing standing out. She was shocked at how much he owed as she swiftly, and very roughly, calculated that he owed about twenty-five thousand on store cards alone. Looking at his credit card statements, for three different cards, she added another thirty thousand to the total. ‘Fifty-five thousand euro,’ she gasped. Was this why he vanished? Why didn’t he tell her? They could have paid these off with the money from the sale of her house.

  A million things ran through her mind, as she sat with the statements in her hand. Was she such a terrible wife that she hadn’t realised her husband was in trouble? She didn’t care what it was; they could have sorted it out together. What kind of a person was she, that he hadn’t come to her and asked for help? Was running away and living in this squalor preferable? She tried to remember if there were signs that she just didn’t see, or worse, saw but ignored. But she couldn’t remember anything untoward.

  She glanced through the statements again, confused. He earned good money. How could he have built up such a debt? She picked up the nearest statement, a store card for that wonderful Armani shop in London. She remembered going into it with Simon before Christmas and persuading him to buy a trench coat. ‘The one you have is getting a little worn,’ she had said, and he had needed no more persuasion. Was it really twenty-five hundred? She cringed as she read on. Had he really spent another two thousand on shirts, jeans and socks?

  She picked up a credit card bill, and saw with horror how much a recent weekend away had cost. Did they really need to drink two bottles of champagne at two hundred and fifty euro a bottle? In fact, she wondered, as she skimmed through his credit card bills, did they drink anything else apart from incredibly expensive champagne?

  Another glance at the statements showed her that he rarely paid more than the interest each month. ‘I don’t understand,’ she muttered. ‘He had a good income, didn’t he?’ A bolt hit her, and she sat back on her ankles in sudden shock. She had absolutely no idea how much he earned. She had always just assumed, from his expensive clothes and lifestyle, that he earned good money. That irritating expression about assume came to mind, it makes an ass out of u and me – had she been an ass?

  Leaving the bills on the chair, she headed up to the second bedroom, where she had seen boxes and bags the night before. Despondent now, she opened boxes carelessly. The first box held sheets and pillowcases still in their shop wrapping. The second held a quantity of clothes neatly folded. The first bag she opened appeared to hold dirty laundry and she hastily closed it with a grimace of disgust. She had had enough. Simon was in debt, that was all it was about; she could cope with that.

  Closing the door behind her, she went back to the first bedroom where she lay glumly on the bed for a long time, trying not to think. She tried so hard she felt a headache taking over, slowly pounding to a crescendo. Struggling to her feet, she searched for her bag and, finding it, fumbled inside for a moment before fishing out some paracetamol. She headed to the bathroom to get a drink to swallow them but, passing the wardrobe, some inexplicable urge, an unexplained sense of dread made her stop and then, of course, she just couldn’t go on until she had looked inside.

  She put her hand on the handle and pulled the door open. Inside, hanging innocently, were Simon’s clothes.

  Idiot! Her head pounding, she started to close the door when she saw a briefcase on the bottom and pulling it out, she took it downstairs. She dropped it beside the chair while she went to the kitchen for a drink, tossing the pills back with one mouthful of icy water.

  Back in the living room, she stood looking at the briefcase but she couldn’t face opening it with her head pounding as it was. She dragged herself back up the stairs and lay down again, shielding her eyes from the light with her hand, and waited till the hammering in her head eased to a bearable thump. As the pain eased, her sense of dread grew disproportionately large. The briefcase, there was something in the briefcase. She didn’t know what, she didn’t know how she knew, but she knew she was going to find something terrible inside.

  She sat up slowly, holding her head stiffly, waiting for the pounding to resume. When it didn’t, she relaxed, stood up and stretched. The bedroom window looked over the front of the house – she glanced out, part of her hoping to see Simon arriving and part of her hoping he wouldn’t arrive, not yet. Determinedly, despite her fear of whatever lay inside, she headed down, opened the briefcase and emptied it. It had been jammed full and the contents formed a pile that slid to the floor in a puddle around her feet. Kneeling down among them, she picked up the first sheet of paper. Another credit card statement, she saw in despair – how many did he have?

  There was only a few thousand on this one, she saw with an element of relief, which quickly turned to puzzlement when she realised the statement was not in Simon’s name at all but in the name of Cyril Pratt.

  ‘The name he used at The Inn,’ she muttered, putting the paper to one side and picking up the next. Another statement in the same name, but dated the month before he vanished. It took several more statements for her to realise that Simon had been using the name, Cyril Pratt, for a long time. Before he met her, she realised in amazement, noting the date on the last one she picked up. Most of the rest of the papers were correspondence with people she had never heard of; some seemed work-related. She started to pile the rest back into the briefcase, having become quickly disillusioned with amateur detective work, when a photo appeared amongst the letters. She picked it up with curiosity, half expecting it to be one of her.

  It was a studio shot, well-lit and artistically arranged, of a heavily made-up, attractive woman, a handsome man and two adorable children. She recognised the handsome man as her husband, but the woman wasn’t her, and the two adorable children… she could feel her heart struggling not to break… well, the two adorable children obviously belonged to the handsome man and the unknown woman. She turned the photo over and read the date. Two years ago. She could taste the bitterness, thick on her tongue. So, she had been right, there was something terrible in the briefcase; the truth. Whoever it was who had said truth was beauty, well, they didn’t know anything; truth was ugly, ugly, ugly.

  She collapsed in the chair and wept. She hadn’t wept when Simon vanished. And she ha
dn’t wept when he had left her alone last night in this god-forsaken cottage. So she wept for all the lies and the deceit, for dreams destroyed, a future jeopardised. Hot tears of rage and frustration, quick tears of pity and sorrow because she really didn’t know what to do, or who to trust.

  When the tears stopped, exhaustion took hold and she sat on that uncomfortable chair so long she was stiff when she eventually stood. ‘What to do, what to do?’ she muttered, wringing her hands and pacing the room like one of Macbeth’s witches. Then, as if released from a spell, she moved.

  Running up the stairs, she threw her few belongings into her holdall and, slamming the door after her, she headed for her car, almost without thinking, before remembering that Simon had taken it. Swearing in frustration, she went to his. It wasn’t locked and, typical of Simon, he had left the keys in the ignition. She turned the key and then realised why Simon had taken her car, his engine was dead.

  So, she was stuck here. She banged her clenched hands down on the steering wheel in anger before getting out of the car and looking around. She could walk, but where to and how far was it to anywhere? All she remembered from the journey were miles of narrow winding roads and innumerable turns. She didn’t remember seeing houses on the way, and there were certainly none to be seen around the cottage.

  Checking her watch, she was horrified at the time. She should have left that morning when Simon hadn’t returned. It was too late to go anywhere now; she was going to be stuck here again for another night.

  Her headache, which had retreated to a dull throb, turned up the volume and tempo and she rummaged hurriedly in her bag for more paracetamol. In her panic, she couldn’t find any and, in exasperation, she emptied the contents of her bag onto the chair, breathing a sigh of relief when she saw the familiar blue box. She picked up the packet, popped two pills into her hand and headed to the kitchen for a drink.