by Caron Allan
So we spent the next hour practising. Obviously at first I missed every time, and I was worried about using up all the ammunition, but Sid soon set my mind at rest. “Plenty more where that came from,” he said. Which was in itself an uncomfortable thought, because the whole time I was shooting and he was setting the cans back in place, I was thinking, yes, but where did it come from?
After a couple of dozen shots I began to be pretty good. I could hit the targets every time, and Sid was all for heading home. But I said no, I wanted to carry on a little longer. And after another fifteen minutes, my aim was really good. Still not as good as Sid’s, but really very good, and certainly as good as I would ever (I hoped!) need to be. Anyway, Tom was grumbling in his seat, so it was time to take him home and besides, Sid needed his elevenses.
On the way home, I said, “What if I forget how to do it between now and…?”
“You won’t,” Sid assured me, “it’s just like falling off a bike.”
So there I am—I have a gun and I know how to use it. I am keeping it in a little cosmetic purse in my handbag. Not sure that’s the best idea but I need to know it’s close to hand, and it’s no good shoving it away in the back of a drawer. I can just see myself holding up a hand to an attacker and saying “excuse me a moment whilst I just nip back home and get my gun.” Pistol, I mean. Must try to remember.
So no, I won’t hide it away. I will keep it with me at all times. You never know what might happen, especially as things have gone so quiet on the Monica front. That obviously means she’s plotting something, so I feel a need to remain on the alert. And now I have my new little ‘friend’ practically at my fingertips, I shall feel a lot more confident.
Wednesday September 9th—10.15am
Perhaps instead of killing people who piss me off, I should devote my time and energy to matchmaking? I think I have a gift. Woke this morning to find a text from Steve, sent very late last night, saying simply “thx 4 intro 2 tyrone IOU xx”
Amazing, and to think only a year ago (give or take) he was just a dull little vicar, married to an actual woman, albeit Vanessa who was shagging Madison’s husband Sacha, but all the same…
I immediately texted back to say “any juicy goss txt me at once!”
Now all I want is to set up poor sad, lonely, desperate Madison with…
Ooh a text! No, not from Steve with requisite juicy goss, but from Rev Nev – I must say his timing is impeccable, even if his texting isn’t.
This is my first text from him, I’m a bit surprised at his ability to even use a mobile phone, but his message took rather more the form of a long and tedious letter. The Epistle of Saint Neville to the Cressidians. Here it is word for unremitting word:
“Dear Mrs Hopkins, Please excuse me for Troubling you in this rather Furtive and Direct Manner, but I am Desirous of Ascertaining whether you could Possibly approach your Friend, Mrs Maxwell-Billings, and Enquire as to the Possibility of her entertaining a Telephone Call from myself with a view to arranging an Appointment to accompany her to Dinner at a Date and Time of her Choosing, if of course the Concept does not fill her with Repugnance and/or Disinclination, in which case the matter shall of course Never Again be Referred to in any way and she need not fear any Coolness or Disdain from myself, as I would certainly, though reluctantly, Accord her Wishes the Utmost Respect and Understanding. Yours, very sincerely, The Reverend Neville Barrowby, BA Hons, BA Div, MPhil, PhD, CertMin. Post Scriptum: I quite Understand if either your Good Self or Mrs Maxwell-Billings should feel Offended by the Informality of my broach of this Subject, and I Hasten to Apologise with the Deepest and Most Profound Sincerity.”
It must have taken him hours, and a month’s messaging minutes quota to type all that. That’s commitment if ever I saw it. Obviously it’s no “c u l8r” as I get from my own beloved object, but—aww! And it’s just as I thought, he and Madison are perfect for one another. If anything, it turns out she’s the modern one of the couple.
Yay! A new project—and it’s so nice to do something that doesn’t involve breaking and entering or bloodshed of any description. Or prison. I shall throw myself into the task of bringing together these lovely (if slightly odd) people, and when invited to the christening of their first-born, I shall dab away a sentimental tear and feel justifiably proud that I was the catalyst for this wonderful, loving union.
How lovely to have a purpose in life once again. I shall Fill the World with Love. Once I’ve killed Monica, of course.
Anyway, I sent back a quick text saying “Neville, how sweet, I will ask her. I’m sure it won’t be a problem.” Almost put a couple of kisses on the end, but managed to stop myself, because you never know, do you? A chap of Neville’s susceptibility might be liable to take that the wrong way and I could end up having to beat him off with a stick. Still (she preened) at least then I’d know I’d still ‘got it’!
Saturday September 12th—3.10pm
Not quite sure what is going on, except that whatever it is, I know Monica must be behind it.
Today, just after we came home from grocery shopping, and Lill was unpacking all the boxes and bags in the kitchen, there was a knock at the front door. I answered. It was the police.
I hadn’t met these particular officers before, and they came straight to the point.
“We’re investigating a break-in at a home in (wherever I said Monica lived) and your name has been mentioned as having been seen in the area.”
I could feel myself starting to blush and get flustered but the moment was saved as Matt came through from the kitchen and asked what was happening.
I turned to face him, telling him what they’d just said, and in those precious few seconds, possibly even half a minute, I had enough time to salvage my poise.
“Won’t you come in, gentlemen?” I invited in my most regal tone.
I was careful to exaggerate my limp slightly, and as I preceded them into the drawing room, moving very, very slowly, I could sense them wanting to hurry me, because in life we are used to going everywhere at a certain speed, and anything less than that seems excessively sluggish. Matt was brilliant. He made a show of helping me into the chair and propping me up with cushions, and helping me to arrange my foot and knee on the footstool.
As I smiled bravely up at him to say thank you, out of the corner of my eye I noticed the two cops exchange a look and knew we’d hit just the right note.
“Now, gentlemen, a break-in, you say?”
The more senior officer began to explain again, but I interrupted him with a hasty,
“Oh where are my manners! I’m sure you two chaps are just gasping for a nice cup of tea.” And I toddled off to the kitchen, slowly of course, and dragging my leg a bit (though actually I do that anyway, especially if I’m tired, but again, I made a bit more of it than usual,) and with gritted teeth and set jaw so they could see how brave and determined I was. And I knew this would give them the opportunity to ask Matt all about my leg and he could tell them about the ‘accident’.
When I came back a few minutes later, Sid accompanied me carrying the tray. He set it down on the table and immediately retreated, and I began to pour and proffer. The atmosphere was distinctly lighter, they were solicitous in the extreme, the junior one was taking everything from me and handing things round, and both officers were all chatty and smiling. Their demeanour was so changed, I knew I had been dismissed as a possible upper-floor house-breaker. Matt had clearly said all the right things.
At that moment, Tom gave an uncharacteristically loud wail, and I again rose from my chair but Matt waved me down, saying,
“No, Darling, you stay there, I’ll bring him down.” And he bounded off. A moment later we could the faint murmurings of a happy Dad making shushing noises and talking soppy babytalk to his child.
I turned with a teary smile to the policemen and said, “I don’t know if my husband told you, but I had quite a nasty accident when I was pregnant with our little one, Tom, and there’s not a day goes by when I
don’t say a little prayer of thanks for my miracle baby. The doctors couldn’t believe that he survived! I was in a coma for weeks, you know. I didn’t even know Tom had been born.”
I’m sure one of the policemen had a tear in his eye when he pulled out a large hanky and loudly blew his nose. Sucker, I thought.
Tom snuggled down happily on my lap, crowing and beaming and pointing with a damp finger, and basically giving an excellent performance as a Beautiful Baby.
Senior Cop called the meeting to order once more with a clearing of the throat.
“Can I just confirm whether you know a Zinnia Pearson?”
I shook my head, mouth pursed and the perfect look of puzzlement on my face, as I assumed the far-away look of someone deep in thought.
“Yes, you do, Sweetheart,” Matt said.
I stared at him, thinking what the…?
“You’ve got a great aunt Zinnia, haven’t you? That’s probably who they mean.”
“Aunt…?” I was genuinely puzzled. He winked at me, unseen by the cops who were watching my every move. Final hurdle in sight, I told myself. “Oh, great aunt Lavinia, not Zinnia, Silly. She lives in Tewkesbury. She’s 94,” I added, turning to the policemen to see if that helped.
The senior chap shook his head.
“No madam, it would be a younger woman. In her mid-40s, I should say. And she is definitely called Zinnia Pearson and lives in Alton, in Hampshire.”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you, I’m afraid.”
They got to their feet. They were leaving, hooray!
“I suppose you don’t happen to have a Seat 600, registration DE54 XYN?”
My puzzled look was genuine this time. I shook my head again.
“Would you mind if we just take a look in your garage, then we can cross you off our list and we won’t need to trouble you again.”
“By all means, Sergeant, I’ll take you out.” I got up and handed Tom to Matt, with a quick, “Could you take him, Darling, he’s getting a bit heavy.”
“You should stay here,” Matt said, and at the same time, the junior cop said,
“You really mustn’t trouble yourself, madam.”
I did my triumph-through-adversity smile again and said, “Well I do need to get a little exercise every day, and I’ve got the stick to help me when I go outside. This way please, gentlemen.”
I limped out into the hall, shoved my feet in some old trainers and grabbed my stick then I hobbled off down the steps and along the path to the garage, aware the whole time that they were having to rein in their urge to rush on ahead.
They surveyed our cars, made a note of all the makes and numbers and with lots of thanks and polite wishes for my continued recovery, they took their leave.
So Monica was definitely behind that visit. And I feel a warm little glow inside as I remember hearing my former best friend aged 34 described to me as ‘mid 40s’! Ha ha ha! Take that Monica!
Once they’d left, Matt told me everything they’d said. Obviously they’d asked about my limp, then they had told him that the perpetrator had climbed onto a garage roof aided by patio furniture and from there had gained access to an upstairs bathroom window and thus got into the house.
Matt had told them all about the hit and run, the extent of my injuries. For the first time ever I’m thankful they were so extensive that nothing needed too much exaggeration or making up there! Plus he told them I had been in a coma for almost four months, during which time our lovely baby was born by emergency caesarean section a month before his due-date. He told them of my depression, of my long road to recovery etc. He said he had emphasised that I would always have a limp due to so many injuries to the same leg, and that I had only been home from the hospital for a few months.
He also told them that no one had ever been charged for the crime, although our local crime unit was still pursuing inquiries. He watched the two of them make copious notes about everything he told them, including the car that had run me down, and the details of our own cars.
I’m a little worried that these two might get together with our local chaps and try to find a common link or anything that’s been overlooked in my hit and run ‘accident’. I mean, what if they’re really efficient? In one way, I’ve been hoping that our local police gave up their investigation into the accident ages ago and have just heaved everything into a big cardboard box and shoved it onto a shelf in a little dimly-lit backroom where nobody ever goes, along with hundreds of other, similar boxes, and that they’ve come out and locked the door and got on with something else.
But who knows? What if they all start talking to one another and comparing notes? What if they really start digging and prying and investigating and discovering? What if I can never really be free from what I have done? What if it all comes out, all the terrible things I did last year and the year before? I have been kidding myself that if I leave no traces, no clues behind me, I will be safe. It would only take a bit of copper’s instinct, and some really dogged determination for someone to find out the truth about me. And then where would I be? I’d be totally screwed!
Later: 5.05pm
Bugger! I knew it was all too good to be true. Over tea and cake in the kitchen, Sid told us that when the police officers took their leave, he’d just happened to follow them out as he wanted to nip down the drive to collect our newspaper from its spot on the road where the kid who ‘delivers’ it had chucked it down just inside the gate like a little pile of rubbish.
Sid always likes to read the local paper—he goes in terror of missing the opportunity to buy up some old heap of junk that can be added to the ‘collection’ in his man-cave.
So as I say, Sid told us he went out to fetch the paper, and the cops were just in front of him. He said he didn’t want to get too close in case they noticed him, so he hung back a bit. Reading between the lines, he clearly thought they would recognise him. I didn’t bother to point out they’d already seen him when he brought the tray in…
As he bent to pick up the paper, he just happened to glance back towards the road. He saw the cops drive off, then a second or two behind them, a small black car pulled away at speed, and he said the driver, a blonde woman, gave him a wave. She was gone before he could get a proper look and see who it was.
But for me it’s a no-brainer. It couldn’t be anyone other than Monica.
Later still: 9pm
When I was sitting with Matt on the sofa in the garden room, he came out with some words of wisdom. (Not a common occurrence—which is why I’m commemorating the occasion here) ‘You know,’ he said, putting his arm round me and kissing me on the nose, ‘this thing with you and Monica, it’s a bit like a game of chess. First you make a move, then she makes a move. Then you attack and think you’ve got her cornered, then she gets out of the fix and turns the tables on you. It’s just like chess. Very strategic.’
I changed the subject at that point but I thought about it later. He’s right. We have been steadily and by turns advancing and retreating from one another, advancing and retreating.
And of course, the object of chess is to destroy your opponent or die trying. I am a terrible chess player. But for my own sake, and the sake of my family, I need to improve my skills. I need to think several moves ahead of her. I’ve got to get her so that she has nowhere to go then destroy her before she does the same thing to me. Check mate, Monica. I win.
Tuesday September 15th—no idea what the time is, I left my watch at home and my battery has died on my phone, but it’s the middle of the night and I’ve been here for hours.
I’m here in the hospital. Oh God. It’s just terrible—beyond terrible. I can’t find the words…
It’s so bloody hot in this place, and the air—it’s so heavy and stale and everything smells of disinfectant and death and boiled fish and yesterday’s cabbage. My stomach is churning with nerves, it feels as if I’m back where I was a few months ago.
It’s Lill. Of all the people to hurt…my surrogate mothe
r. And it’s all my fault.
She and Sid were on their way to collect Paddy from school yesterday. I was busy in the kitchen with Billy and Tom, making drinks and snacks and Matt was on the phone to some posh lawyer in London who wants Sid and Matt to take on a landscaping project for his weekend cottage, which is wonderful for them, of course.
As usual Lill and Sid set off with Jacqueline, who was going home. She had just said goodbye to them and run inside the pub, and they had continued on down the lane in the direction of the school, then, apparently just as happened to me last November, from out of nowhere a car appeared. Sid says it was definitely Monica, it was the same car he had seen a few hours earlier. Thank God for his quick reactions, he just had time to grab at Lill’s arm, so she was already moving out of the way as the car hit her and dealt her a glancing blow. Otherwise it seems unlikely she would have survived. As it is, we still aren’t completely sure she will make it.
People say, don’t they, that when someone is apparently oblivious they can in fact still hear what is going on around them, can recognise the sound of loved ones’ voices. I didn’t. I had no memory of anything between falling through the air that last night of October and waking up to find it was almost April and discovering I had been a mother for almost four months.
We’ve been taking it in turns to sit with her, holding her hand and talking to her, softly, gently, trying to draw her back from wherever she is.
But I can’t keep away, I need to be by her side, just in case she wakes and is alone, so here we are, rotating shifts at her bedside, but I have been here most of the time even when one of the others is here.
She looks so grey-faced, so small and old. I want to cry, but I daren’t indulge myself when she needs me, but in any case, it’s all too awful. I feel empty. This is all my fault. I did this to her.