Behind Closed Doors

by Catherine Alliott

  He pocketed the phone and looked worried. I raised my eyebrows enquiringly. ‘That was Betty. She was just about to leave when Mum took a tumble. She says she’s perfectly OK, and she’s popped her on the sofa …’

  ‘Oh, but you must go.’

  He scratched his head and looked torn. ‘I’m sure she’s fine. It’s just …’

  ‘No, no, definitely. We’ll do this another day.’

  ‘Or we could both go,’ he said, as it occurred to him. ‘And I’ll run you back later. There’s loads of food in the freezer. I could shove an M&S pie in the oven? I’m not sure it’ll just be the two of us, but …’

  ‘Yes, why not? Good plan. Come on, let’s both go. I love your mum, and it couldn’t matter less if she joins us. Anyway, I know you’ll worry if we don’t go.’

  We left the pub, crossed the lane, and set off across the fields, following a footpath with our torches. And actually, it was lovely to be walking through the plough in the soft night air, our boots marching in unison.

  When we arrived at the house, Betty was already putting her coat on in the hall. ‘Sorry, Dan, I would have stayed, but our Lily needs me to babysit, and what with Pete and his bad leg …’

  ‘Yes, yes, absolutely. You must go.’

  ‘But she really is fine,’ she reassured him. ‘It’s just, I knew you’d want me to ring you and—’

  But Dan had gone. With a fleeting thank you to Betty, he’d disappeared into the sitting room. I followed him. Nancy was on the yellow sofa by the fire, propped up with tapestry cushions.

  ‘I told her not to ring you,’ she whisper-hissed, her eyes flashing with anger beneath her turban. ‘Told her I was completely fine. What was she thinking?’

  ‘Where does it hurt, Mum?’ Dan said, crouching down and ignoring her. We heard the front door shut as Betty left. ‘What did you fall on?’

  ‘My foot,’ she told us. ‘I just rolled off the side of it, down the step to the kitchen, and felt something go. And yes, I might well have done a ligament or something, but there is absolutely nothing to be done until the morning, apart from leg up with an ice pack, which Betty has already done!’ A pack of frozen peas was indeed nestled against her foot, which did look a bit swollen.

  ‘So sorry, darling,’ she said, reaching out for my hand with her thin, bony one and rolling her eyes at me above Dan’s head. ‘All this could have been conveyed on the phone, while you two had a lovely supper. But wretched Betty beat me to it!’ She was clearly livid.

  I grinned. ‘Couldn’t matter less, Nance. We’ll eat with you here.’

  ‘You will not,’ she retorted. ‘You’ll eat in the kitchen, while I have mine in here, which I was going to do anyway in front of Gardeners’ World. Which I like to watch alone,’ she said very firmly. ‘No, actually, have it in the dining room, at the small round table in the window. Not the big one. Light the fire, Dan, and draw the curtains. And the candles are in the sideboard drawer in there.’

  He laughed. ‘I don’t think we’ll do that. We’ll eat in here with you.’

  Oh, right. I wasn’t sure about candles in the dining room either, but I could see that Nance very definitely wanted us to eat on our own and was not to be thwarted in her plans, so surely we could leave her and Monty Don to it and eat in the kitchen?

  In the event, we all had trays on our laps in front of the TV. Dan nipped across to his mother occasionally to turn the bag of peas when he thought they were getting a bit warm, and to put a tea towel around her foot when it was overly cold. It was sweet, actually, if a little over attentive, but then I knew from friends that my own family was ridiculously laid back and under attentive. Imo teased me about it, recalling countless childhood occasions when I’d sent them to school with near pneumonia, or others such as a particularly hairy sea wall in Cornwall which I’d let them walk along. The raging sea was on one side, a forty-foot drop on to concrete on the other. Imo swears I’d called up, after Helena had vaguely voiced concern: ‘Darlings, if you’re going to fall, fall this way, on to the concrete.’

  So no, I wasn’t used to a family that rearranged cushions behind my head, as Dan was doing for Nance now, whilst, to her credit, she grumbled about his fussing, or, equally mindful of my needs, wondered if I’d like some more fish pie, since I seemed to have polished mine off in a nano second? As Dan widened his eyes in mock incredulity at my empty plate, Nance and I laughed.

  ‘I’ve always been greedy,’ I told him, none too seductively. ‘In fact, when I was young, Mum used to make me wait until everyone else had started and was well under way so I didn’t finish before them.’

  ‘Which surely only made you bolt your food more!’ observed Nance, triumphantly. ‘Your mother certainly had some strange ideas.’

  I grinned, well used to Mum and Nance sparring with each other, which was only part of their friendship, and surely oiled the wheels. Much as their shared love of the hard stuff did, I thought, watching Nance drain her small glass of wine and waggle it at Dan. He made a face and shook his head back.

  ‘Spoilsport!’ roared Nance, clearly absolutely fine. No fluttery, dizzy, after-effects there.

  So yes, we were still at the minor tumbling stage, I thought, with Nancy and my parents. But what next? Would they all take more of a tumble one day and drop down dead? Ghastly, obviously, but perhaps a blessing, and something they all hoped would happen. A quick exit. Or, would they tumble, but survive? End up in a ridiculously expensive care home, wired up to all manner of machines which kept them alive, if not kicking, for the next five years? Impossible to say. But guiltily, I knew that given the admirable level of vigilance Dan provided, the latter would most likely be true for his mother, one day. Which was commendable, obviously, but didn’t half have financial implications for the next generation. That probably wasn’t a problem here, because Nancy was loaded, but my own parents were not. And although we’d collaborated and borrowed to get the bungalow up to speed, there was no more in the pot. I had a feeling I’d have to go back to work if any more was to dribble through, which these days really was a dribble. Plenty of time in prison, to write, of course, I realized suddenly. And plenty of material, too. Who knew who’d be on my top bunk? A serial murderer, perhaps, with a grisly tale to tell. Or a child molest—

  ‘You all right?’ Dan’s face seemed to be right in mine. He was leaning over and peering at me anxiously as he attempted to take my tray from me. I loosened the white-knuckle grip I appeared to have on it and nodded mutely. My palms were sweaty as I let go. I didn’t trust my voice.

  ‘You do look awfully pale, darling,’ said Nance, with a frown.

  ‘No, no, I’m – I’m fine,’ I told them. I raised a smile. ‘Bit ambitious with the second helping of fish pie.’ Dan took my untouched plate on the tray for me. ‘Let me help you in the kitchen.’

  I followed him through, taking Nancy’s tray, glad he hadn’t said: ‘No, you stay here with Mum,’ as I thought he was about to. Although juggling three trays would be a feat, even for a capable man like Dan, I thought, as I watched him throw everything in the dishwasher, quickly wipe down surfaces and toss ready meal cartons in the bin. He turned to face me with a smile and I’d already straightened my back and rearranged my face to accommodate a much chirpier expression. It took a bit of summoning but was still achievable.

  I could see he was slightly disarmed as he regarded me appreciatively. He scratched the back of his head sheepishly. ‘Gosh, it’s extraordinary … I mean, honestly Lucy, you really haven’t changed that much since we were young.’

  I laughed as he moved towards me. ‘Oh, now that really is stretching it.’

  ‘And luckily, you can’t remember me when I was young,’ he said softly. ‘None taken, by the way.’ I laughed quietly. He was resting his hands lightly on my shoulders now and I tilted my face up. If ever a girl needed to be kissed, it was me. Kiss away all my worries and troubles. Make the bogeyman disappear. And when he did, it was lovely: gentle and tender, and he held me very close, too. I co
uld feel his heart thudding against mine before we drew back and I suspected my own was doing the same, unaccustomed as it was to such activity. But the lighting was harsh and overhead, and the door was still open, and his mother was in the next room. We made wry faces at each other and stifled a laugh apiece.

  ‘Another time, I think,’ he murmured.

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘And now I think I’ll take you home.’

  ‘I could walk?’

  He made an appalled face. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  He went to the kitchen dresser for his car keys and I noticed his face was quite flushed and happy, as I suspected mine was too. Yes, this was nice. Felt right. He shouted to Nance that he was running me back and I popped my head in and said goodbye. She looked curious and excited, her eyes wide as I pecked her cheek. But I gave nothing away.

  ‘Do come back, my dear,’ she murmured, grasping my hand. ‘Dan would so love it.’

  I grinned and agreed that I would, and then Dan took me home. We did kiss again, before I got out, with more passion than before, and then laughed as we realized that here we were, in a steamy car, snogging outside my parents’ house. It was too absurd. I got out and shut the door, agreeing to meet again soon, but with fewer interested parties. As I let myself into the darkened house, I discovered I was still smiling. I had an idea Dan might be too. I turned out the few lamps my parents had left on and poked the smouldering log into submission in the grate. The dishwasher was humming cheerfully in the kitchen. Hector was asleep in his basket. I made to go upstairs. Out of habit, I checked my phone. One message from Imo, hoping I was OK, another from Ned, and one from Josh which made me stop, halfway up the stairs, on the landing.

  ‘Sorry, thought I’d sent this and wondered why you hadn’t replied, then just found it unsent. Bit disorganized – I’ve been away:

  OK, that doesn’t sound good. Tell your friend I’m happy to advise her if she’d like to meet.’

  23

  I stared at the screen. Went a bit cold suddenly, shocked. I read the last text I’d sent him.

  ‘My friend has been round. The neighbour wasn’t in, but it turns out she’s a friend of the dead husband. My friend is now in terrible trouble.’

  My living hell, which had been slumbering quietly at low-level anxiety, came roaring back to life like Caliban from his cave. I felt sick: nothing placatory there. I messaged back:

  ‘That is so kind of you would love to meet. Is tomorrow any good?’

  I needed to do this now. Immediately. I stayed still on the landing, waiting. It seemed to me I wouldn’t move from this spot until I knew. The text had been sent an hour ago and I hoped he hadn’t gone to bed. It was only ten o’clock, though. Dots began to dance on my screen. He was back within seconds.

  ‘Tomorrow is fine. I’m teaching but could meet you close by. There’s a Pret in Melrose Street. One o’clock?’

  I frantically messaged back.

  ‘Perfect. Thank you.’

  I stared out of the landing window at the almost full moon, obscured by a thin veil of cloud in the night sky. It wasn’t perfect. Of course it wasn’t. My wording was as obfuscated as the moon at which I gazed. Nothing could be perfect any more. I’d effectively killed my husband. I was under no illusion about that. But a kind man was going to advise and help me, which was something. Just as another kind man had cooked me supper tonight. Strange how life can turn, like that, on a sixpence. One moment you’re perfectly fine, or you’ve allowed yourself to think you are because the alternative – walking around in a state of high alert and high anxiety at all times – is unsustainable; and the next, you’re not. You’re meeting a man in a sandwich bar in London who, given your predicament, will spell out the consequences of your actions to you. Your actions taken in an extremely short space of time but as a result of years of provocation.

  In a remarkably cool manner for one for whom the bell was so imminently to toll, I went on up the stairs to bed.

  I managed to maintain the cool, collected manner to my parents the following morning. They hardly batted an eyelid when I said I was going to London to look at some furniture for the cottage. OKA, in the Fulham Road, I told them, was my focus. In fact they looked rather pleased that I was so enthused. It was also convenient, they told me, because they were lunching with the Frobishers, and Camilla, their daughter, was picking them up.

  ‘And she’s dropping us back,’ Dad told me. ‘And worry not, Camilla is more scary than my old company commander. She’ll have us back here at three o’clock on the dot, and no more than barley water will have passed our lips.’

  ‘More’s the pity,’ grumbled Mum.

  I knew this was stretching the truth, but also knew they were in good hands. I rang Camilla to thank her.

  ‘Oh, it’s no problem. I have to do something with mine or they go a bit stir crazy. But I limit it to one couple at a time. And frankly, I’ve banned Nance.’

  I smiled. ‘She’s incapacitated anyway, I saw her last night. She’s done something to her foot. Laid up.’

  ‘Ah. Well, sadly that won’t detain her for long; she’s a spirited old bird. Unlike that wet fish Daniel who flaps around looking after her.’

  I so wished she hadn’t said that. I knew from Helena that Camilla had a sharp tongue: was a bit of a cow, in fact. But I still wished she hadn’t said it.

  I found the Pret a Manger in Melrose Street quite easily and pushed through the plate-glass door.

  The café was busy with lunchtime regulars, and by the time Josh arrived, I’d already made headway in quite a burgeoning queue. He appeared beside me with a smile. A social peck, we mutually decided was appropriate, since we’d met a few times already, and it was performed in a perfunctory manner. Nonetheless, a ridiculous frisson spiralled through me.

  ‘Coffee?’ I asked, wanting to break the ice quickly as we approached the counter.

  ‘Please. An espresso.’ He reached into a fridge for a chicken salad wrap.

  I ordered the same but with a cappuccino, and insisted on paying since he was doing me a huge favour by meeting me. I wanted to make this as businesslike as possible in order to pick his highly intelligent brain.

  The place was packed now, but we found two bar stools at the counter in the window, which luckily were reasonably private.

  ‘Thank you for meeting me,’ I told him as we settled ourselves down, trying but failing to keep the anxiety from my voice.

  ‘No problem. And I wanted to apologize. That text I sent you last night was unconsidered, and in retrospect, rather alarmist. I’ve given it some thought since, looked into it a bit more. I can’t say for sure, but I honestly think you’re overreacting here and that there really isn’t anything to worry about.’

  ‘Oh!’ I wanted to kiss him. On the lips. I very nearly did.

  ‘I know I said before that intent constitutes murder, but on reflection, this is more nuanced. The thing is, there’s no legal compunction to actually save a life. If you’re taking a walk in the park and someone is drowning in a lake, you don’t have to jump in.’

  ‘Really? You can just watch them drown?’

  ‘Obviously it’s not a natural reaction, but it’s not criminal. However, this is slightly different. It wasn’t a case of jumping into deep water. It was a case of picking up a phone.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Which I think makes it voluntary manslaughter – rather than straightforward manslaughter, which, as I said before, is a mistake. But not murder.’

  ‘So better?’ I breathed.

  ‘A bit. But still custodial.’

  I swallowed. ‘Right.’

  ‘But I don’t think you’re nearly there yet. I mean at the court door. So I really think – calm down.’

  I noticed we’d dropped the pretence of ‘my friend’. I was so incredibly encouraged by his words there was no way I was going to protest.

  ‘How long did you say you sat there for? When he was unconscious?’

  I went very still. Fo
rced myself to tell the truth. ‘I think I lied a bit, when you asked me that the other day. I think it might have been more than fifteen minutes.’

  He gazed at me. With dark, bottomless brown eyes. Didn’t say anything.

  ‘But you didn’t look at the clock.’

  ‘Well, I—’

  ‘You didn’t look at the clock,’ he interrupted fiercely, holding my gaze. ‘OK?’

  ‘OK,’ I breathed. ‘But the woman at the back …’ I told him about my fears. About Ingrid. About how I knew her. Had realized who she was on the doorstep. Then I told him about her links with my sister-in-law. About Amanda’s insinuations in the restaurant. Her mental state.

  ‘Your sister-in-law clearly has psychological problems and is taking her deranged thoughts to their absolute limit. Encouraging you to come along for the ride. She’s playing on the fact that guilt is an overriding emotion when anyone dies.’

  ‘She is,’ I said eagerly, ‘deranged. And the guilt thing, I’ve read about that. In fact I even mentioned it to her.’

  ‘It’s a natural reaction. You think – oh God, was I responsible in some way? Was it my fault?’

  Then I told him about a new fear. About a light being on, in a top-floor bedroom of Ingrid’s house, which had kept me awake. A sudden flashback to that top room being briefly lit up. I didn’t know if I’d imagined it, I told him. Didn’t know if my mind was playing tricks in the small hours. I told him about her being at the memorial service. And about Amanda’s threatening speech.

  Josh listened. He shrugged when I’d finished. ‘That eulogy was just some story your sister-in-law sold herself in her solitude and depression. Some victimhood balls she no doubt elaborated in her mind. Perhaps even came to believe. But I think her building up to something more, something accusatorial, is a figment of your own over-active imagination, if you don’t mind me saying so. Because trust me, if Ingrid and Amanda were cooking something up together, you’d have heard about it by now. The police would have carried out door-to-door enquiries with all the neighbours ages ago. If anything came up, if she did have a light on, then turned it off and was awake, watching you, she would have acted by now. Told the police, even. The mind is capable of playing cruel tricks on us, Lucy. If this is a new, recent worry, I think you’ve imagined it now that you know where Ingrid lives. I think you can relax.’