by Jane Isaac
She busied herself with preparing her breakfast with the haste of someone late for work, drinking fresh orange juice from the carton to quench her thirst. There was no mould on this bread. By the time she started on the first slice of toast, water bubbled and steam rose into the air from the kettle. Piling more buttered toast onto her plate and making a huge mug of tea she crossed the carpeted flooring and planted herself on the majestic, oversized sofa in the lounge.
Anna saw that her father’s car was missing from the drive. The silence in the house felt heavenly. When her stomach was full she stretched out on the sofa. Leaning back, she glanced absently around her parents’ lounge.
It looked as though it had been prepared for a magazine shoot. Copies of ‘Homes and Gardens’, ‘Country Living’ and ‘Woman’, were fanned out in the middle of a polished coffee table; anniversary cards stood neatly, side by side, along the window sill; two china cats sat demurely on the mantel over the ornate fireplace; beige cushions were strategically placed in diamond shapes on the backs of both of the large, dark brown sofas. She looked at the bookcase where books were arranged in height order, containing the kind of bound book sets that were advertised in Sunday supplements, and frowned. It looked perfect. Too perfect.
Anna thought of her own little flat, her bookcase where the books were scattered, some stood vertical, others lay on their sides, depending on what she was reading at that particular time. She also kept a pile of her favorite books beside her bed, so that she could dip in and out of them, to cheer herself up at the end of a bad day. There were gothic throws over her sofa and a couple of squidgy cushions for extra comfort. It was lived in, homely. She felt a pang of longing in her chest, closely followed by a sudden rush of resentment at the situation imposed upon her. Staying here was going to be a nightmare . . .
The sound of the phone ringing broke her thoughts, making her jump. She lent over and grabbed it quickly, “Hello?”
“Hi Anna. Is that you?”
“Ross!” Anna felt her insides fill with warmth. Anna and Ross had met when she had joined Carrington Grange Community College, two years previous.
“I’ve been worried. I keep ringing your mobile, but it’s permanently switched off.”
She smiled to herself, the sound of his voice felt like a baby’s comfort blanket. “The police have kept it. You heard what happened?”
“Yeah. Your dad phoned me on Friday night when the party was cancelled. Then I got a visit from some detectives on Saturday morning. Is it true what they’re saying?”
“Depends what they’re saying,” she replied cagily.
“That you found a body in your flat, a man who had been stabbed to death?”
“Yes, that bit’s right.” Her body recoiled.
“Christ Anna. You must have gone through hell?”
“Kind of.”
“Why didn’t you ring me?”
“I was indisposed.”
“Not you, in a cell? I mean . . .” He paused for a moment. The line crackled as he continued, his voice full of astonishment. “How did you cope?” Ross had often teased Anna about her habit of leaving doors open, humorously accepting it as a personal quirk. But that was Ross. He found the fun in everything.
“Not very well. Anyway, they released me yesterday once they’d established that I’m not some cold blooded killer. But they kept all my stuff. I’m staying with my folks for a few days until I can go back to the flat.”
“Do you want to go back?” There was a note of concern in his voice.
“At the moment, I have no idea. All I know is that I don’t want to stay here for long.” She looked around the room at the pristine decor and cringed.
“Why don’t you move in with me? You already have a key.” Anna smiled. Ross’ place was organized chaos. He usually had two or three bicycles in the lounge, one of which was in pieces whilst he was learning how to mend the brakes or change a tire. There was always a mound of old washing up in the sink and his bedroom closet was empty, his clothes piled in the laundry basket; he either ironed them when he needed them (which was normally the case for work) or wore them until the creases fell out.
“Thanks, I’ll be OK. I’m sure it’s only for a few days.”
“How are the parents?” he asked cautiously.
“Bearable, at the moment. Well actually . . .” She broke off and strained her ears. Was that a car engine she could hear?
“What?”
“It’s all a bit strange really,” she continued, her voice almost a whisper, “I don’t think they quite know how to cope.”
“Kathleen all over. She’s probably still smarting over having to cancel the party. All those wasted vol-au-vents . . .”
“No, I’m serious Ross. This is different. I’ve never seen them like this. It’s as if they are not telling me something.”
“Like what?” The silence felt heavy. “You’re just being paranoid. You are right though. Things will be different. They’re bound to be. You’ve all been through a terrible ordeal. I think they call it shock. What you need is a massage . . .”
She interrupted him urgently, “But they knew him.” She could hear a key being inserted into the lock.
“What?”
“The dead man,” she lowered her voice, “they knew his name, said he was an old acquaintance.” There was a creak as the front door opened and she could hear footsteps brushing against the soft, carpeted hallway.
“What!” he said incredulous, “What do you mean knew him?”
“Morning!” she shouted, as her father entered the room. He looked over, momentarily startled at the loudness in her voice then, seeing she was on the phone, nodded and walked straight through into the kitchen.
“I guess you can’t talk now?” Ross asked finally.
“Not really.”
“OK . . .” A silence followed. He was dumbfounded. “Look, can I get you anything?” The concern had crept back into his voice.
“No. Err . . . Yes, actually there is a favor you could do for me?”
“What?”
“Get me a cheap mobile phone would you? At least we can keep in touch until I get my own one back?”
“Sure. I’ll see what I can do. Are you still coming today?” His voice was awkward. Anna felt a twinge in her heart. She had completely forgotten that it was Ross’ mother’s birthday. They had been invited to his parent’s house for a family tea.
“Oh, Ross, I really don’t think that is a good idea,” she replied gingerly. “I mean everyone’s bound to ask questions and I don’t want to take the limelight off your mum’s birthday.” And I don’t want to have to face all those questions, she thought to herself. “It is your mum’s day after all.”
“OK. I understand.” If he was disappointed, it didn’t show in his voice.
“Give her my love won’t you? I’ll send her some flowers next week.”
“Sure.” This was one of the things Anna loved about Ross. He was so undemanding.
“Anything else?”
“Oh, yeah. A lift to work would be great tomorrow. The police kept my bike.”
“You are going to work tomorrow then?” He seemed surprised.
“Yeah. I think I just need to get everything back to normal as soon as possible. You know, put this weekend behind me.” She sounded as though she was trying to convince herself.
“No worries. I’ll pick you up around eight thirty. Are you sure you’re OK?”
“I’m fine, really.”
“Alright. And I’ll try and drop you a phone over later today, after I’ve seen my mum.”
“That’d be great. It’ll be really good to see you.”
“You too.”
By the time she replaced the receiver and walked into the kitchen her father had disappeared into the garden to tend his beloved green friends, no doubt.
She thought about Ross’ offer: ‘Move in with me’. It wasn’t the first time he’d mentioned it. In many ways it was tempting. She’d never have cold fee
t at night, he’d be able to massage the knots out of her shoulders whenever she needed him to, she could slouch on the sofa without worrying about creasing the cushions.
But, as a couple, were they ready for more commitment? There was no doubt in her mind that she loved him. Not the kind of love you feel for a short term boyfriend, a deeper, more special feeling. They had been together two years and did already practically live in each other’s houses. Maybe they were? No . . . It wouldn’t be right. Even if they were ready to take the next step, she didn’t want to be forced into it. And she loved her flat. Why shouldn’t he move in with her, when the time was right?
Anna lifted her arms above her head, indulging in the feeling of her muscles stretching. She ran her hands over her hair. It felt greasy and limp. Realizing that she hadn’t showered since Friday morning she grimaced and made her way back upstairs to run a hot bath, thanking her lucky stars for her parent’s combi boiler. Back at the flat she had to wait an hour for the immersion to heat a tank of water before she could even contemplate a soak.
After washing her hair and cleansing her body she closed her eyes and lay back, allowing the deliciously hot water to sooth her weary limbs. She lay there for a long time. For the first time in days she was slowly starting to relax and feel like her old self, her mind momentarily discarding the events of the weekend like a bad dream. She was all alone, with only the steamy bath water and her thoughts for company.
She thought about her parents. Anna knew that Kathleen’s own parents had died when she was five years old, leaving her to be raised by Aunt Kate. She often wondered how it must feel to lose your parents at such a young age. Her mother had always been very attentive, bordering on controlling. But, in spite of Kathleen’s bouts of domineering, sometimes irascible, behavior, Anna always firmly believed that she genuinely wanted the best for her. Like her choice of career: Anna had wanted to be an artist and do a degree in ceramics, but she yielded to her parents’ wish for her to read economics and pursue a career as a secondary school teacher. Hadn’t a stable career given them a good lifestyle?
But going away to university had been a kind of turning point, the new found freedom making her more independent. Although she returned to a teaching job in Hampton (which her mother had seen advertised in The Telegraph) she had refused to move back in with them, instead renting the flat in
Flax Street. She visited her parents regularly, but could never imagine what it would be like to live with them again. Until now . . . Something was nagging away at her. The looks on both her mother and father’s faces yesterday when she mentioned Jim McCafferty were as clear as the light of day. They knew something about him, something that had chilled her mother to the bone, something that they had been unwilling to discuss. What were they keeping from her? She wasn’t a little girl anymore, to be protected from the harsh realities of the world. ‘We’ll talk about it later.’ That was a laugh. The Cottrells never talked about anything. And where were they this morning? Was she being paranoid or were they avoiding her? What she really needed now were some answers.
The water had cooled and she reached over and ran the hot tap until the heat burnt her toes. As she lay back, she reflected on the episode on Friday evening. She hadn’t really allowed herself to wonder much about what had happened in her flat on Friday afternoon. In fact, she’d almost concluded that it was a burglary gone wrong. It made sense really. A few other houses in
Flax Street had been broken into only a month or two before. But now she wasn’t so sure. Who was Jim McCafferty? Why her flat? These questions were starting to feel like an irritating itch that she couldn’t scratch. With these thoughts still in her mind she reached forward, pulled out the plug, even though the water was still burning her bare skin, and jumped out of the bath. As she padded through to her bedroom, the thick, wool carpet cushioning her damp feet, she could hear a strange, whimpering noise. She stood still for a moment and listened. All she could hear was the sound of her own breathing. Then it came again.
Suddenly, it felt as though somebody had flicked a light switch in her brain - Cookie. He had an annoying habit of pushing the door closed whilst inside her parents’ room, so that he could sleep on the warm patch where the central heating pipes ran beneath the doorway. Her father replaced the carpet, a few months previous, when the cat had found himself trapped there and tried to claw his way out. Since then the door had been propped open by an old, heavy paperweight. But there was no sign of the paperweight today and the door was firmly closed. She reached for the handle and opened it softly. Cookie emerged, wrapped himself around her ankles purring loudly and slunk away down the stairs. She had just turned to go into her room next door when she heard the whimper again.
Confounded, she stepped back and pushed the door open wider so that she could see into the room. The curtains were still closed although it was around midday, a peculiarity most uncharacteristic for Kathleen Cottrell. Anna squinted to see in the limited light that seeped through the doorway, following the gentle moans. Eventually she found the source. Curled up in a ball on the bed, just like a cat, her head tucked into her hands, was her mother.
Kathleen Cottrell looked up at her with mascara blotched over her wrinkled face, her expression one of complete desperation. Anna’s mouth fell open like a fool as she stared at her, completely bewildered. Then instinct took over and she crossed over to her mother, sat down on the bed and wrapped her arms around her.
“Oh Anna. My little girl. What have I done?” Kathleen choked on her words as her body slumped onto her daughter’s chest, her whines developing into sobs. Anna was not sure how long they sat there, her cradling her mother’s limp body, stroking her hair. Even as her mother’s breathing steadied and the tears dried up, they didn’t speak. It was as if neither of them knew what to say.
Finally, Anna became aware of a distant car in the road outside. The routine noise seemed to prompt Kathleen to sit up on the edge of the bed and reach over to grab a square, black purse from her bedside table. Anna stared at her mother as she fumbled with the metal clasp, finally clicking it open to withdraw a Marlborough and a silver box which bore the illegible, worn markings of an old engraving. Expertly, she placed the cigarette to her lips, lit it and took a long, deep drag.
This was her mother’s one vice and Anna, not a smoker herself, loved it. As a child, she had thought it a glamorous habit, relishing the calming effect it seemed to have on her mother’s mood. And, in spite of how much it had irritated her husband, Kathleen had never been able to kick the habit, yielding to reduce her usage to ten a day, to ‘calm her nerves’. These days she restricted her indoors smoking to the conservatory. The very presence of her small black purse in the bedroom was completely out of character.
Anna watched her in silence for a moment. Her mother had aged considerably over the past 48 hours. Dark shadows appeared under her eyes, her usually manicured hair sat limply on her head. A flicker of stray ash landed on Kathleen’s trousers and she brushed it off instantly.
“Mum, are you alright?” Anna asked gently.
“Fine dear, thank you,” she replied, taking another deep drag from her cigarette.
“What upset you so much?”
“Oh, nothing dear. It’s just me being silly.” She had heard this cold dismissive tone in her mother’s voice before. This was the moment when she would clam up, wouldn’t offer explanation. Anna wasn’t going to let her get away with it. Not this time.
“What did you mean – ‘What have I done’?” she said, looking her straight in the eye.
Her mother deliberately averted her gaze. “What?” she asked, shaking her head, as if to remove any bad thoughts.
“You said, what have I done?” Anna repeated, stressing every syllable, her eyes glued to Kathleen’s face.
“No I didn’t. You must be mistaken.” She rose quickly and stared at the red, digital numbers on the clock on her bedside table. “Goodness, is that the time?”
“Mum – I need to know.” Anna heard th
e desperation in her own voice.
Ignoring her daughter’s pleading she added, “I must get your father’s lunch. Coming down?” And, without waiting for a reply, she headed out of the room and down the stairs.
“I need to know!” Anna shouted after her in pure exasperation, as she sat there staring despairingly at the carpet.
Anna gripped her head. Her mother had always been self obsessed, a total hypochondriac. Every little stomach pain had the propensity to be bowel cancer. Every headache could be the basis of a tumor. In Kathleen Cottrell’s world the glass was always half empty. Was she over reacting at the extraordinary events that had befallen her family over the last few days? Or, was there something more to this? Anna felt there was. Something strange was going on and she felt completely and utterly cut out of the loop.
* * *
A strong, musty odor filled the air as Helen walked into Jim McCafferty’s home. It smelt like a mixture of stale cigarette smoke and an old, mildewed cellar in desperate need of ventilation. She resisted the temptation to throw open all the windows, instead glancing around at the one reception room which the front door led into. It was a relatively modern house, less than ten years old she estimated. The stairs led out of the lounge and there was a doorway on the far wall leading into the kitchen.
Helen scratched the back of her neck. The pattern on the brown carpet was no longer distinct, masked by bits of clothing, flakes of mud fallen from boots, pieces of food and dust, that had littered it for so many years they had now become part of it. The itch moved down her back and into her legs. Apart from the two green, cigarette stained chairs, an old pine TV stand in the corner and a pair of old, sun bleached curtains at the window, there was little else in the room. Helen wasn’t surprised to see the empty spirit bottles and beer cans that lined the chairs. The autopsy report she’d received that morning highlighted a fatty, oversized liver, consistent with heavy drinking. She shuddered, trying to shake off the now constant itches.