Don’t Trust Me

by Joss Stirling

  ‘OK,’ I whisper, ‘if Colette still is here then she’ll come when we shake some kibble.’

  ‘And where do we get that?’

  ‘From inside.’ I point to the container on the window ledge.

  ‘You know we could’ve bought some from a shop and then not have to actually break in?’

  ‘Now you suggest that. It’s a bit late to actually plan this, Drew.’ We exchange a smile. God, this is fun. He really is my partner in crime now. ‘Give me a sec, I’ll just get the spare key.’

  ‘Won’t we set off the alarm?’

  ‘Not if the person who left remembered to push the button so the cat’s designated zone isn’t active.’

  ‘And if they didn’t?’

  ‘Then we’re going to have to do a great deal of explaining.’

  Chapter 47

  Michael

  ‘Why are you here again?’ I try to lift my head. I can’t believe the pain – like ice-bladed knives sticking in my side. I prefer that, though, to the parts I can’t feel. This has been going on for so long I’ve lost track of time. I smell worse now because some hours ago I lost control of my bowels – no fucking choice lying here like a puppet with strings cut. I can’t move my legs. I am so cold. Frankly, I’m surprised I’m still alive. Self-medicating on the wine I can reach from the rack only goes so far to dull the agony. I might be able to bear it, die quietly with some dignity, if only she would just shut up and go away. The mad bitch is clearly not getting me help. It was her who pushed me down here so she’s hardly going to say ‘oops, my bad, let me call an ambulance.’

  ‘Fuck this!’ I heave an empty bottle at her but it smashes several steps from where she’s sitting. I’m angry that my aim hasn’t improved.

  ‘Temper, temper, Michael.’

  ‘You’re a sadistic cow, aren’t you?’ I’m slurring. Probably thanks to the bottle of Chianti I downed just now. ‘I can’t imagine why I didn’t see it.’

  ‘Because you didn’t take even a few moments away from your self-absorption to look. To be honest, I’m surprised you didn’t get suspicious when I moved on you in February. I wondered if that would put you off – a girlfriend in distress and her best pal taking advantage, but no, you lapped it right up, a new little woman to hover over you and boost your ego between the sheets.’ She sits at the top of the stairs like a spectator in the Colosseum come to watch the dying gladiators. She should sell bloody tickets. ‘Not such a great psychologist now, are you, Dr Harrison?’

  ‘Just shut the fuck up.’

  ‘No, you listen. You knew Emma and I used our relationships with men to get the information we wanted. Why didn’t you wake up to the fact that I was using you to get my own back? Do you think you’re so irresistible to women that I would just fall for you like that?’ She snaps her fingers. ‘News flash, Michael: you’re just another job. Why else do you think I’ve been putting up with you these last years?’

  Something’s really wrong with me. I can’t see her now, vision tunnelling, just hear her hateful mocking voice. ‘You’re still working for the police?’

  ‘Call it a private mission.’ She gets up. ‘But I think it’s about to come to an end, don’t you? How many more days of this do you think you can survive?’

  ‘Until I’m found.’

  ‘No chance of that. They think you’ve fled. I left your car at Heathrow. I hate to think what the parking charges are by now.’

  ‘But why are you doing this?’ That’s what I’m wondering in my lucid moments, which are mercifully few. I prefer the drunken stupor. It hurts so much less. Chianti kicking in, I’m heading that way now; just need to keep as sharp as I can while she’s here. I wouldn’t put it past her to slit my throat if I were lying here unconscious. ‘This can’t still be about Emma’s diary, the cover-up of what you both did. What have I done that you’ve decided I deserve to die by inches like this?’

  ‘Katy.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You sent Katy away.’

  ‘Of course I did – I had to. You remember how I was after Emma’s death? I was in no fit state to look after a little girl. I couldn’t take up the guardianship.’

  ‘You were never fit to look after her. You barely took any notice of her. She was supposed to come to me. Emma said.’

  I’m getting angry now, which helps as it gives me some energy to fight this sapping cold and alcohol-induced dullness. I feel like Socrates dying from the feet up. I hug Emma’s ski jacket to my face. ‘Well, she must’ve changed her mind because there was no mention of that in her will. You know what? She probably realised what a psycho bitch you were. I’m pleased I didn’t let Kaitlin go to you.’

  ‘You did that because you couldn’t bear the reminder of Emma living a few doors down. You were just being selfish, putting your needs first.’

  ‘I did that because I thought it was best for Kaitlin – and I was right, if your actions now are anything to go by. My God, woman, you pushed me down the stairs and now you’re gloating – that’s not sane. Well, you’re going to have to come and finish the job yourself, as I’ve got enough food and water within reach to last quite a few more days.’ I must be drunk if I’m baiting her.

  ‘Don’t think I won’t.’ She takes a step. I see now that she has my old cricket bat in hand. Somehow the fact that she’s intending to use a treasured possession from my college days to kill me seems the last insult.

  ‘Well, fuck you. Go get your own murder weapon, bitch. You’re not using that.’ I heave another bottle at her, this time managing to smash it at her feet so she has to jump back. I can’t afford to throw any of the full ones so I only have one left to drive her off. I’d better make it count.

  ‘Hello?’

  There’s someone out there.

  ‘Help! Down here! Help!’ I shout.

  The door opens all the way. It’s Jessica and that Goth man she has been staying with. I don’t care who it is: right now to me they are the Archangel Gabriel and all his army.

  ‘Oh my God,’ exclaims Jessica. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘He must’ve fallen,’ says Lizzy quickly, leaning the bat against the wall but not before the man spots it.

  ‘The bitch pushed me,’ I tell him. ‘Keep away from her.’

  ‘He’s raving – must’ve been lying here for days,’ protests Lizzy, sounding oh-so-innocent. ‘I was only checking on the house and thought I heard something.’

  ‘Well, call an ambulance then! Can’t you see he’s hurt?’ Jessica says irritably, hurrying past her and coming down to me.

  ‘Stay away from her – don’t come down here,’ I try to warn her but Jessica’s impulse is to comfort, not to take care of her own safety.

  ‘Jess, I don’t think we should try to move him,’ says the guy, still standing at the top. I’m pleased to see he’s looking hard at Lizzy and keeping his distance. ‘Come back up here.’

  ‘What’s that smell? Oh Jesus.’ Jessica grabs a picnic blanket from a high peg – it’s been hanging there taunting me for days. She covers me. ‘You’re OK now, Michael. We’re here. Drew, call an ambulance. Lizzy, snap out of it. We need to make him comfortable.’

  There’s a mew and a rattle of the cat flap. Phone in hand, Drew turns as Colette winds around his ankles. ‘You called that one right, Jess. The cat is still here. I’ll just go into the garden to ring for the ambulance. I can’t get any reception in this corridor.’

  ‘Watch out!’ I shout.

  Jessica shrieks as Lizzy swings the bat at the back of Drew’s head. Reflexively, he ducks, taking the blow on his shoulder. Jessica is up and dashing up the stairs even as Lizzy lines up another shot.

  ‘Are you mental?’ Drew exclaims. ‘What the hell are you doing!’

  Lizzy kicks out at Jessica, at the cat, intent on taking out the man she sees as the biggest threat. She’ll then turn on Jessica, leaving me till last. She swings the bat. Spooked, Colette streaks away from the violence. She must’ve headed for the front door because the next
thing I hear is the house alarm wailing. Thank you, thank you: someone has forgotten to shut Colette in her zone and that blessed animal has tripped it. Realising her private little massacre is about to be interrupted, Lizzy makes a dash for the back but Jessica – Jessica! – jumps on her.

  ‘You take a swipe at my guy, would you?’ she bellows, pulling at Lizzy’s hair to bring her to the ground. They fall over backwards and out of my sight.

  ‘Answer the fucking door, would you?’ I shout, as I can hear pounding at the entrance.

  I don’t know who eventually does open up, but the next thing I know is, the police are inside and an ambulance has been called. I’m not aware of what is happening upstairs because my view is blocked by the people clustering in the cellar. I find myself being assessed by a serious-looking paramedic who is calling for a backboard and head stabilisers.

  He touches my ankle but there’s nothing.

  ‘I can’t feel my legs. I’m fucking terrified.’

  ‘I understand, sir. There’s possibly damage to the spine. It’s good that you’ve got arm movement.’

  ‘My bladder – bowels …’ I think I would prefer to die here than spend the rest of my life pissing in a bag.

  ‘It’s Michael, isn’t it? Can I call you Michael?’

  ‘You can call me what the hell you want as long as you get me out of lying in my own shit.’

  ‘Michael, you’ve been down here a long while. Don’t jump to conclusions as to how severe your injuries are. We need to take you in to see what’s going on.’ A colleague appears at the top of the stairs. ‘Quickly now: where’s that stretcher? How are the pain levels, Michael?’

  ‘I’m so fucking beautifully drunk, I don’t know.’

  He glances around at where he found me: crumpled at the bottom of the wine rack next to the box of Emma’s things. I’m surrounded by empty cartons.

  ‘I’m sodding sick of ice cream.’

  ‘Don’t blame you, but Ben and Jerry’s cookie-dough ice cream might just have saved your life.’

  His colleague brings down the stretcher and they line it up, ready to lift me on.

  ‘This might hurt.’

  ‘I don’t care. Just get me out of here.’

  ‘Do you want me to bring anything with you to the hospital?’

  I hand him three of Emma’s diaries, ones that fell on top of me when I upended the box to get at the clothes. I can’t leave them here in this mess. ‘And can you make sure someone feeds the cat? She’s a bloody hero. I’m leaving everything to her in my will, you got that?’

  ‘Yes, Michael, she’s a hero. Now, brace yourself.’

  Chapter 48

  Emma, 10th May 2011

  Today I called in the solicitor to see me in the hospice. The staff have warned me that I should put my affairs in order – God, that’s such a strange phrase, like I’m having illicit flings with at least six lovers. How disappointing to find that at the end of life it just means sorting out the important things, like your daughter’s future and your estate.

  I told the lawyer that I wanted to change my will. I’m now trying not to feel guilty about it. I know Biff has been a good friend to me – my best friend since we were in Mrs Mandy’s class in our Dorchester primary school all those years ago – but I’ve decided to make Michael Katy’s guardian. There, I’ve said it – gone and done it. Biff is not going to like that, not one little bit, but I genuinely believe it will be the right thing for my daughter and that’s what matters now. Us adults will have to muddle through as best we can with the crap hand life has dealt.

  I have quite a few reasons for this decision. I haven’t made it lightly as I know it will be upsetting to both Katy and Biff, at least to start with, that’s until they get used to the new arrangement. Katy will recover quickly – she’s at that age. She won’t even remember me in a few years so she’ll certainly get over being eased away from Biff. It might take Biff a few years to see I meant what was best for her too, but hopefully she’ll be mature enough to get that eventually. She was an only child, like me. We both need more people around than fate has given us. It’s time she made a start on that.

  My first reason is perhaps not the most noble. There have been occasions over the last few months when Biff has acted as though I’m already gone. I think it’s partly push-back for me having married and made our trio a quartet, but I can hear her talking to Katy sometimes. ‘When Mummy is gone, we’ll…’ ‘Those are Mummy’s favourite flowers. We will have to remember her when we see them.’ It might be that, so close to the end of my own life, I’m jealous of the living, but something feels just off about Biff’s behaviour lately – this past year, in fact. Unhealthy. That’s ironic coming from me, with the non-functioning liver and toxic blood. I’ve been telling Biff to get out, create her own life with a relationship, as we both should’ve done years before. It was fine to join the police together but we should’ve taken separate paths just so we had the chance to form our personalities apart for a while. The wisdom of hindsight. We made it too much like a three-legged race. Even when I left special ops, thinking she’d stay on, she followed me. I should’ve put my foot down then but she made it easier, sharing the childcare so I could still have a career, and go on to meet Michael.

  Don’t get me wrong: I’m grateful. She made real sacrifices, going part-time and changing to teaching so she could have the holidays off to look after Katy. I was hesitant to question my good fortune but I might’ve been reading the signs wrongly – I thought she was helping me but I think in a way she was trying to be me. I think she’d reached the point where she couldn’t, wouldn’t disengage, and that’s a bit frightening. I don’t doubt that she loves me and loves Katy but no one wants to be the focus, to that extreme, of someone else’s existence. We all in the end have to be free to stand alone. I can’t leave Katy handling that attention.

  But enough. The prospect of death might be making me more clear-sighted, more prone to cutting through the crap, as I just don’t have time for it any longer. Biff is still young and has so much ahead of her. She could have her own children, her own life. None of my hints in the past have worked: she’s carried on living, or trying to live, mine. It has felt oppressive.

  But the main reason for my decision is that Michael will never learn to be a proper dad to Katy if Biff is hovering over him, breathing down his neck like she does mine. She’ll undermine his confidence and have Katy with her too much. With Biff kept more at a distance from day-to-day matters (I can’t see him letting Biff wander in at all times of night and day, as she has with me), and with him given the power of the guardian, the father that I know is inside him will have time to emerge. And he can protect Katy much better if Jacob comes sniffing around – a respected academic versus a crazy guy who lives on the fringes like Jacob? No contest. Biff and I, well, we made mistakes, so we are vulnerable if Jacob wants to challenge what we did. That’s the price of our taking those risks. Michael is the safer pair of hands. If it goes to court, they’ll rule in the best interests of the child, and by then that will be Michael.

  Biff will think the forced break from Katy is cruel, but I’m being cruel to be kind. You’ve got to move on, Biff. Live a bit.

  I don’t think I’ve spelt it out too clearly, not so as to endanger Katy, but I don’t want to leave any hostages to fortune. Except maybe that weak moment at Christmas 2007 – I had to vent somewhere or I would’ve just burst – but I should’ve ripped that out. God, I need to rip that one out. Can I get Michael to bring it in? Or just ask him to chuck that whole notebook? I don’t want to draw his attention to it. And I don’t want Katy to read them ever—

  It is an hour later. The nurse came in because my heart rate peaked. She said I was overdoing it with my meetings and my scribblings, as she puts it. She is Irish, would you know. I feel like there’s a touch of my mother in her which makes me forgive her badgering me to rest. I’m soon going to get plenty of that. I had to promise I’d calm down. The pause gave me a chance to think it th
rough. There’s no need to panic. I’ll ask him tonight. I’ll get Michael to destroy those diaries of mine – all of them, including the embarrassing teenage outpourings as well as the more incendiary stuff of my twenties. That’s not the version of me I want to survive. Given the choice, I’d prefer Michael not to know exactly what happened, not for sure, so I’ll ask him not to read these words. I don’t mind him knowing, though, that he has been my huge consolation prize these last two years. Life has kicked me around but at least it gave me him towards the end. My love for him has changed my view on what love can be. If there’s a way of being there for someone when they die, then it’ll be him I’m waiting for – that’s until Katy joins us, many, many years later. I don’t mind him reading that. But burn the rest, my darling.

  Chapter 49

  Michael, 2nd September

  She’s managed to come back to me, like she promised. We’re wandering, lovers in no hurry, passing over the Accademia bridge in Venice. She’s laughing, head thrown back, hair rippling to her shoulder blades. My soul walks beside me.

  That’s not right. She was ill already when we were in Venice.

  ‘Where’s Katy, Michael? Why isn’t she here with us?’ asks Emma.

  ‘We left her at home, remember? It’s just us for a few days.’ I try to lace her fingers in mine but suddenly she is at the other end of the bridge and she’s holding Kaitlin’s hand. Coppery glints shine in Kaitlin’s bobbed hair and she’s talking earnestly to her mother, a stream of her babbling chatter. She offers her mother a purple iris, Emma’s favourite flower. They’re walking away from me, not taking any notice of my shouts for their attention. I can’t reach them because my legs won’t work.

  ‘Emma? Emma?’

  I feel a hand on my shoulder. ‘Sssh, Michael, it’s just a dream. They’re gone now.’

  I open my eyes and it’s Lizzy standing over me. She has the bread knife raised above my chest – the same one as was stabbed in the mattress.