by B. A. Paris
‘Hold on – let me turn the alarm off !’
He tries to take my arms from around him but, before he can, the phone starts ringing again.
‘It’s him!’ I cry. ‘It’s him! He’s been phoning me all morning!’
‘Let me turn the alarm off!’ Matthew says again. Shaking himself free, he goes over to the keypad, and silences the alarm in mid-shriek. Only the shrill of the telephone remains.
Matthew picks it up. ‘Hello? Yes, it’s Mr Anderson.’ I stare at him wild-eyed, wondering why he’s telling the murderer his name. ‘I’m sorry, Officer, I’m afraid it’s another false alarm. I came home to check on my wife because she wasn’t answering the phone and I didn’t realise she’d set the alarm so I triggered it when I came in. I’m sorry you’ve been troubled. No, really, everything’s fine.’
The pennies drop with agonising slowness, one after the other. Waves of shame flood my body, turning my skin hot. I sink onto the stairs, painfully aware that somehow, once again, I’ve got it wrong. I try to pull myself together, for Matthew’s sake as well as mine, but I can’t stop shaking. My hands seem to have taken on a life of their own and, in an effort to hide them from him, I cross my arms over my body and tuck them out of sight.
Matthew finishes reassuring the police that they don’t need to come out and makes another call, again reassuring the person at the other end that everything is fine and that there’s nothing to worry about.
‘Who was that?’ I ask dully.
‘The office.’ He stays with his back turned as if he can’t bring himself to look at me. I don’t blame him. If I were in his shoes, I’d walk straight out the front door and never come back. ‘Valerie asked me to let them know that you were all right.’ Now he turns and I wish he hadn’t because of the bewildered look on his face. ‘What’s going on, Cass? Why wouldn’t you answer any of my calls? I’ve been worried sick about you. I’ve been phoning you on and off for the best part of an hour. I even tried your mobile in case you were upstairs. I thought something had happened to you.’
I give a harsh laugh. ‘What, that I’d been murdered?’
Shock registers on his face. ‘Is that what you wanted me to think?’
I regret my words instantly. ‘No, of course not.’
‘Then why didn’t you answer my calls?’
‘I didn’t know they were from you.’
‘You must have known; my number comes up!’ He runs his hand through his hair, trying to understand. ‘Were you trying to teach me some kind of lesson, is that what this is about? Because if you were, I’m not sure I’ll be able to forgive you. Have you any idea what I’ve just been through?’
‘What about me?’ I cry. ‘What about what I’ve gone through? Why did you have to keep phoning? You know about the calls I’ve been receiving.’
‘I kept phoning because when you hung up without saying goodbye, I knew you were upset and I wanted to make sure you were all right! And why did you presume it was one of those calls without even checking the number? Nothing you say adds up, nothing at all!’
‘I didn’t check who was calling because I got another silent call immediately after yours! After that, I was too scared to answer in case it was him again.’
‘So scared that you barricaded yourself inside the sitting room?’
‘Well, at least you know how much those calls frighten me.’
He shakes his head wearily. ‘This has got to stop, Cass.’
‘Don’t you think I want it to?’ He walks towards the door. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Back to work.’
I look at him in dismay. ‘Can’t you stay?’
‘No. When I couldn’t get through to you, I had them reschedule a meeting.’
‘Then can you come back as soon as it’s finished?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. There are too many people away.’
‘But you told me earlier that you’d try and come home early!’
He sighs. ‘I’ve just taken an hour out of my working day to come and check up on you, so I’ll be home at the usual time,’ he says patiently. He takes the car key from his pocket. ‘I need to go.’
He leaves, closing the front door firmly behind him, and I wonder how much more he’s going to be able to take before he snaps completely. I hate myself, I hate what I’ve become.
Desperate for a cup of tea, I go into the kitchen and switch on the kettle. If it hadn’t been for the knife I’d seen lying on the side last night, I would have coped better this morning. The call would still have upset me but I wouldn’t have been so traumatised that I couldn’t check who the next call was coming from. If I had, I would have seen it was from Matthew, I would have answered it and everything would have been all right. Now, it seems ridiculous I was so terrified that I barricaded myself into the sitting room. You’re going mad, says a sing-song voice in my head. You are going mad.
I carry my tea through to the sitting room. The window I tried to climb out of is still open and, as I go to close it, I realise that it could have been me that set off the alarm, not Matthew. The thought that it might have been joint effort – me with the window, Matthew with the front door – makes me start laughing and it feels so good I don’t try to control it. As I walk towards the other window, the one that looks onto the front of the house, I’m still laughing, a laugh that I recognise borders on hysteria. I pull the curtains back – and the laughter dies in my throat. Because standing in the road outside is the man, the man I saw before, walking past the house, the man that could be our new neighbour, the man that could be my silent caller, the man that could have murdered Jane. We stare at each other for a moment and then he walks away, not towards the houses at the top of the road but in the other direction, towards the woods.
The little strength I had left drains from my body and I walk into the kitchen, not to fetch my computer but to swallow down some of my pills. They make the rest of the day just about bearable. I spend it huddled on the sofa, only stirring an hour before Matthew gets home. And when he does, we have the most silent dinner ever.
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 12TH
The sound of relentless rain drags me from my sleep. My limbs feel heavy, as if I’m wading through water. I force my eyes open, wondering why everything is so difficult, and remember the pills I took in the middle of the night, like a child sneaking a midnight feast. It’s amazing how quickly they’ve become my crutch. I’d already taken two yesterday, swallowed down hastily with my cup of tea as soon as Matthew had left for work, because I knew I couldn’t afford a repeat of the previous day, when I’d barricaded myself in the sitting room. They did the trick because when my silent call had come in, I hadn’t gone into a blind panic, I had answered, listened and hung up. In short, I had done what he required of me. It hadn’t stopped him from phoning back, but by then I’d been too drowsy to make it to the phone and after, I’d been in such a deep sleep that I wouldn’t have heard it ring again anyway. When I eventually woke, just before Matthew got home, I was shocked at how easy it had been, once again, to sleep away the day, and I vowed not to take any more pills.
But then, last night, on the news, there’d been an update on Jane’s murder. The police now think she picked up her killer before arriving at the lay-by – which means that he would have been in the car when I drove past.
‘So she did have a lover,’ Matthew said.
‘Why do you say that?’ I demanded, trying to hide the agitation I felt. ‘Maybe she was just giving somebody a lift.’
‘Not unless she was out of her mind. I can’t imagine any young woman being foolish enough to stop and pick up a total stranger. I mean, would you?’
‘No, I wouldn’t. But it was a terrible night and maybe he flagged her down.’
‘Maybe he did. But I think that once the police have delved a bit further into her background, they’ll find that they were right the first time and that she had a lover. So whoever killed her wouldn’t be after anyone else. As I said before, it was personal.’
‘I know I’m right. You can stop worrying, Cass. Whoever’s responsible will be behind bars before you know it.’
But then Jane’s husband had come on, hounded by a reporter who asked him if he could confirm that his wife had had a lover. In his refusal to answer he was quietly dignified, just as he was at his wife’s funeral, and the terrible guilt I feel whenever I think of Jane was magnified a hundred-fold. It pressed down on me, crushing me with its intensity. We’d gone up to bed but the thought that, as I was driving past Jane’s car, the killer was watching me through the window, made sleep impossible. I was so wound up that I’d had to go downstairs at three in the morning and pop a couple of pills just to be able to get through the rest of the night. Which is why I’m feeling so sluggish.
I look at Matthew lying beside me, his face relaxed in sleep. My eyes fall on the clock: it’s eight-fifteen, which means it’s Saturday, otherwise he’d already be up. Reaching out, I run a finger down his cheek, thinking how much I love him. I hate that he’s seen a side of me that even I didn’t know existed, I hate that he must be wondering what on earth he got himself into by marrying me. Would he still have married me if I’d been honest with him and told him that Mum had been diagnosed with dementia at the age of 44? It’s a question that’s plaguing me. It’s also a question I’m not sure I want to know the answer to.
The need to show him how much I appreciate him focuses my mind. Planning to bring him breakfast in bed, I throw the covers off, swing my legs from the bed and sit for a moment, because it seems too much of an effort to actually stand. My eyes fall on Matthew’s work clothes neatly laid out on the chair – a clean shirt, a different tie to the one he wore yesterday – and I realise it’s not Saturday but Wednesday; and that for just about the first time since I’ve known him, Matthew has slept through his alarm.
Knowing he’ll be appalled, I reach over to shake him awake – then stop, my hand poised in mid-air. If I let him carry on sleeping, he might still be around when my caller checks in. And then he could hear the call for himself.
My heart pounding, because here I am, about to deceive him again, I lie back down and pull the covers over me quietly. I face the clock, hardly daring to breathe in case I wake him, watching the hands as they move painfully slowly towards eight-thirty, then eight-forty-five. I feel bad making him late for work but I tell myself that if he had taken the calls seriously, I wouldn’t have had to resort to this. Yet how can I blame him for not taking them seriously when I’ve never told him that I saw Jane in her car that night? If I had, he would have understood why I think they’re coming from the murderer.
He wakes of his own accord just before nine, leaping out of bed with a cry of alarm.
‘Cass! Cass, have you seen the time? It’s almost nine!’
I do a good impression of someone roused from a deep sleep.
‘What? No, it can’t be.’
‘It is! Look!’
Rubbing my eyes, I sit up. ‘What happened to your alarm? Did you forget to put it on?’
‘No, I must have slept right through it. Didn’t you hear it?’
‘No, otherwise I would have woken you up.’ The lie slips easily out of my mouth and sounds so false that I’m sure he’s going to realise I knew all along. But he’s distracted, looking between the clock and his clothes, his hand in his hair, trying to understand how it could have happened.
‘Even with the best will in the world, I’m not going to make it to the office much before ten,’ he groans.
‘Does it really matter? You’re never late and you often work longer hours than you should,’ I point out.
‘No, I suppose not,’ he concedes.
‘Then why don’t you shower while I make breakfast?’
‘All right.’ He reaches for his phone. ‘I’d better let Valerie know.’
He calls Valerie to tell her he won’t be in until ten and, leaving him to shave and shower, I go down to the kitchen, feeling as tense as I always do, despite Matthew’s presence. I never thought I would actually want my silent caller to phone but the thought that he might not makes me sick with apprehension. Because if he doesn’t, it means he knows Matthew is here.
‘Not hungry?’ Matthew asks over breakfast, looking at my empty plate.
‘Not at the moment. If the phone rings,’ I go on hesitantly, ‘will you answer it? If it is one of those calls, I’d like you to hear it for yourself.’
‘As long as they phone within the next ten minutes.’
‘And if they don’t?’
He frowns, then tries to look sympathetic but the cracks are starting to show. ‘I can’t hang around all day, sweetheart.’
Less than ten minutes later, my prayers are answered. The phone starts ringing and we go through to the hall together. He lifts the receiver and checks the number. It’s withheld.
‘Don’t say anything,’ I mouth. ‘Just listen.’
‘OK’.
He takes the call and, after listening for a few seconds, reaches out and puts on the loudspeaker so that I can hear the silence for myself. I can see that he’s dying to say something, to ask who is there, so I put my finger on my lips and motion to him to hang up.
‘Is that it?’ he asks, unimpressed.
‘Yes. It wasn’t the same, though.’ The words spill out of my mouth before I can stop them.
‘What do you mean, “it wasn’t the same”?’
‘I don’t know, there was just something different about it.’
‘In what way?’
I shrug, my face flushing. ‘Usually, I can sense someone there. Today, I couldn’t. The silence – it was different.’
‘Silence is silence, Cass.’ He checks his watch. ‘I’m going to have to get going.’ I stand there mutely and he gives my shoulder a squeeze. ‘Maybe it sounded different because it was on loudspeaker.’
‘Maybe.’
‘You’re not convinced.’
‘It’s just that the calls are usually more menacing.’
‘Menacing?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, maybe that’s because you’re usually on your own when they come through. There’s nothing sinister in the calls, sweetheart, so stop thinking there is. It’s just some call centre trying to get through, that’s all.’
‘You’re probably right,’ I say.
‘I am,’ he says firmly, and he sounds so certain that, suddenly, I decide to believe him, I decide to believe that all along the calls have been coming from a call centre on the other side of the world. A huge weight lifts from my shoulders. ‘Why don’t you relax in the garden today?’ he suggests.
‘I need to do some shopping, first, there’s hardly a thing to eat in the house.’
‘I don’t suppose you want to make one of your curries for tonight, do you?’
‘Good idea,’ I say, happy at the thought of spending the afternoon pottering in the kitchen.
He leaves me with a kiss and I run upstairs to fetch my bag, wanting to get to the farmer’s market in Browbury before it gets too busy. As I pull the front door closed behind me, the phone starts ringing. I hover on the doorstep, undecided what to do. What if he knew it wasn’t me who answered the phone and is phoning back? Immediately, I’m annoyed with myself. Hadn’t I just decided that it was a call centre phoning? Go on, a voice taunts, go back and answer it, then you’ll know. But I don’t want to put my new-found confidence to the test.
I drive to Browbury and mooch around the market for a while, buying vegetables and coriander for the curry and figs for dessert. At the flower stall, I buy a huge bunch of lilies and head to the wine shop to choose a bottle for the evening. Then I spend a happy afternoon cooking. At one point, above the sound of the radio, I think I hear the phone ringing but instead of panicking I turn the radio up a little louder, determined to stick to what I’ve decided to believe.
*
‘Yes.’
He smiles. ‘Can I ask what?’
‘Me feeling a whole lot better,’ I say, thrilled that I’ve managed to get through the day without taking any pills.
Relieving me of the champagne, he takes me in his arms. ‘That’s the best news I’ve had in a long while.’ He nuzzles my neck. ‘How much better did you say you felt?’
‘Enough to start thinking about us having a baby.’
He looks at me delightedly. ‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ I say, kissing him.
‘How about we take the champagne up to bed?’ he murmurs.
‘I’ve made your favourite curry.’
‘I know, I can smell it. We can have it later.’
‘I love you,’ I sigh.
‘I love you more,’ he says, scooping me into his arms. And I feel happier than I’ve felt for a long time.
THURSDAY, AUGUST 13TH
I sleep late the next day, so Matthew has already left by the time I wake. Remembering the night we spent together, I give a shiver of pleasure. I get out of bed, pad to the bathroom and shower, taking my time. The sun has come back with a vengeance so I pull on shorts and a T-shirt, push my feet into a pair of espadrilles and go downstairs, taking my laptop with me. Today, I’m going to do some work.
I have breakfast, fetch the papers that I need from my school bag and turn on my computer. But it’s hard to focus because, annoyingly, I’ve got one ear out for the phone. The tick of the clock is also distracting me. It seems to be getting louder with each second that passes, drawing my eyes towards the hands as they inch slowly forward towards nine o’clock, then nine-thirty. They come and go without incident and I’m just beginning to believe that it really is all over when the phone starts ringing.
I stare into the hallway from the kitchen, my heart thudding. This is a new day, I remind myself firmly, a new me, one who is no longer afraid of a ringing phone. I push my chair back and go resolutely into the hall, but before I can answer it, the answering machine cuts in and Rachel’s voice floods the room.