Check Mate

by Caron Allan

  I snatched the gun with my right hand and scrambled a yard or two back, finding my feet, training the gun on her, steadying it with my left hand as Sid had showed me, triumph and relief in equal measures rushing through me.

  She looked up at me, a single glance taking it in, and she slumped onto the ground, sobbing.

  “Get up,” I ordered. For a few seconds she did nothing, just continued to lay there, a quivering wreck. For an instant I wondered if she’d fainted but then gradually she stirred and seemed to come back to life. She unfurled her arms and legs and got to her feet. I kept a distance between us, just in case she took it into her head to rush me or throw dirt in my face or something.

  She stood there, her hands half-raised, her face white in the combined gloom and headlight reflections. I didn’t know quite what to do. It seemed ridiculous to go back to the car, make her get in and drive me back to her house, but what choice did we have? It had been her idea to come out here into the middle of God-alone-knows-where—and presumably not for the good of my health.

  “Back to the car,” I said, and sighed. She said nothing, but turned and began to trudge back along the path. “This was absolutely bloody stupid, Monica, I have to say. A real fucking gem of an idea. Even for you.” I told her. The gun gave me courage. We walked on in silence.

  When we could see the car up ahead, I felt such a wave of relief, but this whole thing was still in the balance. I had no idea how to handle it. Should I take her to the police, take her home? Or simply abandon her here and make sure I got myself away? If I took her home, what was I going to do? Threaten to tell her mum and make her promise to behave better in future? What about Sid?

  As we drew near to the car, I could sense her slowing, waiting for me to tell her what to do. I halted, leaning on the nearest wing of the car, the gun still trained on her chest.

  Exhaustion swamped me. Maybe it was delayed reaction. It was all I could do to hold the gun steady and keep myself upright. She was watching me, arms folded across her chest. She looked as if she wondered, speculated. She was waiting for me to decide what I was going to do. I was shaking my head, I’d had as much as I could take.

  “I’m just going to leave you here, Mon. It’s probably the safest thing to do. I don’t want to get back in that car with you. All I care about is getting back to Sid, to try and do something, anything, there must be something…”

  “He’ll be dead by now,” she said, sounding as if she was also too tired to care, yet still full of certainty.

  “He might…” I began but she cut me off.

  “I threw the car keys away. I—I’m sorry. You’ll never find them on your own. You need me.”

  The world stood still for a while as I digested this. No keys. No car. No real clue as to where we were.

  It was raining again. I couldn’t help briefly closing my eyes in despair. What on earth was I to do? Then she said, “But I know where the keys are. Let me go back and get them, you wait here and…”

  “No!” I said, and I straightened my back and shoulders, I held the gun firmly gripped in both hands, aimed at her. “We’ll both go.”

  She turned and began to go back along the trail. Muttering to myself that she’d better not be lying, I followed on, a good six paces between us. The rain began to pelt down harder. I really didn’t believe she would find them, but she went straight to them. Logically I suppose it made sense for her to remember where she’d dropped them—once she’d done whatever it was she’d planned with me, she would still need to get back, after all.

  She bent to pick up the keys and held them out to me, her index finger through the loop of metal. I inched forward, gun still held steady, and just as I reached out, a cold hard mess hit me in the face and I flinched; she had lobbed a lump of mud at me, and as I stood there for that split two or three seconds, she snatched the gun from my grasp.

  I expected her to fire immediately, but she didn’t. I wiped my face with my wet sleeve, cleaning soil from my smarting eyes. Furious with myself, I was completely at her mercy once more. And yet…

  She still didn’t fire.

  She didn’t fire.

  Her hand was shaking, and she was biting her lip. Tentatively I pressed home my brief advantage.

  “Honestly, Monica, this murdering slash revenge lark’s an awful faff. I’m absolutely shattered. I do wish we could just go and have a chat over a nice G & T like we used to. My new pal Madison could really do with some style tips from you, too, she’s got herself stuck in the 1990s, poor love.”

  “You really think this whole fucking mess is something that can just be fixed with a couples of drinks and a cosy chat?” The gun dipped as she spoke, and she sounded as if she was on the verge of tears

  “I don’t see why not,” I said, “you are my best friend. Still. Even after everything that’s happened.”

  “Oh God, what a mess,” she groaned.

  She sank down onto the ground, leaning back against the concrete parapet of the overbridge. She placed the gun on the ground next to her—still too close for my peace of mind. But it was a start.

  I sat next to her, half my mind on the state my Paul Smith’s would be in when I got up—the ground was sodden.

  There was a long silence. I suppose we both realised we had—purely by chance—reached an impasse. I closed my eyes, clueless as to what to do about the situation, worried sick about Sid. My stomach gave a lurch and I tasted bile in the back of my throat. I had to think of something, but I just felt so stuck in this moment, my brain refused to do a thing to help me.

  “You’re right,” she said softly. “All this time I’ve tried to hate you. But the thing is I’ve missed you so much.”

  I felt her move and my eyes snapped open, I half-sat up but she wasn’t reaching for the gun. She was hauling a hankie out of her bra strap. “God, I’m desperate for a stiff drink. Or a cigarette. These patches aren’t as good as they tell you.” she said. She mopped her eyes with the hankie and in the gloom I could see her direct a lop-sided half-smile at me.

  “Oh Cressida,” she said. And I saw a couple of shiny tears roll down her face.

  “Do you remember how much fun we had at Chapley’s that weekend?” I asked. “I’ve been back since then—but it wasn’t the same without you.”

  “You killed my husband.” she said, but again, her voice was still hardly above a whisper, all the accusation, the hatred was spent. I said yes, I did. She added, “and I… poor, poor Thomas. Cress, I can’t begin to tell you…I must have been mad.”

  She reached for my hand and held it in a tight grip. Her fingers were cold and hard. I didn’t know this thin anguished person any more. What had we done to each other? Driven each other to insanity and beyond, outdoing each other in horrendous deeds. I shook my head. Tears leaked out and ran hot down my face.

  “We both were,” I said, “I can’t think of any other reason for it. We turned into mass-murderers.”

  “Thomas,” she said, “Huw, Manddi.”

  “Oh yes, that was her name,” I murmured. She was counting them off on her fingers.

  “Jeremy. Nadina,” she added. I tsked and nodded again, couldn’t think of anything to reveal my feelings.

  Then I told her about Matt’s ex’s new bloke, about my friend Mavis’s ex-husband, about Desmond, about Leanne’s husband. Monica stared at me. And sounded pretty impressed when she said, “Wow, you’ve really taken to this!”

  “No more,” I said. “I just want it all over. I don’t want to do any of this anymore. It’s got to stop.”

  “Oh, Cress, me too, I just want it all to end,” she said, and it sounded so heartfelt, she looked so exhausted, I was touched. I believed her and relaxed against back the concrete wall. The rain had stopped, all around us we could hear the dripping of droplets from foliage.

  After a moment or two she said, “Congratulations, by the way, on the arrival of the baby. A little boy, wasn’t it?”

  “How did you…? Yes, it was, we called him Tom after my
Thomas. He’s a lovely little chap. Nine months old. He’s crawling now. And he’s got four teeth. We’ve got Matt’s son as well now, as you already know. Obviously after I got rid of his step-dad, Paddy had to come and live with us, and the man had a little girl with his ex-partner, so we’ve got her too. But of course you know all about that, you’ve seen them, met—them—that night.”

  “So you’re a real family,” she said. I nodded. She leaned her head down on my shoulder for the briefest of moments.

  “I’m so glad, Cress,” she whispered, adding, “Last Hallowe’en. When I took the children. That was just a stunt I pulled to annoy you, frighten you. I would never really have hurt them, you do know that, don’t you? I made sure you’d find them almost immediately. I stayed nearby, just to make sure you found them.”

  “I know,” I said, which was a lie—I’d been sick with fear she would hurt them, but I couldn’t say that now. “It was a horrible shock, that’s all.”

  She took my hand. She whispered, “I know. I’m sorry. I—I wish I hadn’t done it.” I just nodded and said nothing.

  We were silent for a long time. I was still edgy, still wondered just where all this left us. Still aware of the gun lying there a mere couple of feet away.

  She was getting to her feet. That worried me and I hastened to jump up too, but she made no attempt to retrieve the gun. Suddenly she wrapped her arms around me in a quick tight hug. Then she turned and ran the few yards onto the overbridge, and with a single leap launched herself over the side.

  The sound of her scream was thinned by the fall. There was no way to reach her. I flung myself at the parapet, but my nails scratched at cold metal, the wind echoing her cry in my ears as below, lorries crashed and hooted, crushing, battering and scattering her body across all three lanes, and I collapsed sobbing on the gravel, puking all down myself.

  After what seemed like an age, I grovelled for her phone lying on the ground. I tapped in three nines to call the emergency services, and at the same time, thought, what’s the point? But the operator said they had already been informed.

  I leaned back against the parapet of the bridge, closed my eyes and let everything fall away. There was nothing I could do now, it was all far too late. I had won. But it didn’t feel like a victory.

  It was all just a mess of noise and flashing lights. People came and went, spoke to me, but I couldn’t focus my thoughts, couldn’t construct any sentences. All I could do was say, “she was my friend.”

  There was all this hubbub and activity. Below the bridge, the carriageway had been closed, there were lights, voices, sirens. The traffic was at a standstill whilst the police and paramedics went about their business. Eventually, I imagined, some spotty youth just out of training school would be in charge of directing the traffic past in single file, and gradually everything that was left of my friend Monica would be cleaned away to a path lab or morgue or some such place, and road users would no longer be inconvenienced.

  Someone wrapped a foil blanket round me and pushed a cup of hot tea into my hand. I looked up to see through blurring eyes Matt’s face. And only then did I remember Sid. I dropped the cup.

  Matt held me, got my attention, staring into my eyes and slowly repeated his words, “Dad’s all right. He’s in hospital. He’s going to be all right, Cressida.”

  “All right?” I asked again. It couldn’t be true. He nodded. He held me, bravely ignoring the ickiness of my jumper, raining kisses on my wet hair as he held me and I could hear his heartbeat.

  I closed my eyes and drifted. My memory had replayed her scream a hundred times, a thousand times. I saw and saw again the look on her face as she stepped back from hugging me—could I really have seen that look, that expression of determination on her face? As she leapt the parapet, had she really glanced back at me, a look of horror on her face at what she had just decided to do?

  Or had she really only just decided? Perhaps she had intended that outcome all along, planned it?

  I heard voices. I kept my eyes closed. I had had enough, I wanted no further part of this. My ear was against Matt’s chest and I felt his voice rumble through his body but took no heed of his words.

  After a moment he shook me gently. “I can take you home now. Come on, Love.”

  He guided me along the path until we reached his car. Swarms of personnel still clustered around Monica’s Clio and at intervals along the path.

  Matt drove me home. Madison ran to hug me as we came in the door. She was baby-sitting.

  “Leanne’s taken Mum to the hospital,” Matt said.

  He gave me a large glass of brandy, watched me while I drank it, then pulled the covers up to my chin and turned out the light.

  I wish I could say I was plagued by nightmares, but I knew nothing until eleven o’clock the next morning. Since then I’ve made a statement to the police. And we’ve been to visit Sid, complete with the latest copy of My Shed Monthly. He’s got concussion, a suspected fracture of the skull, but we’ve been told it’s not anything to worry about, though they want to keep him in for a few days’ observation. Apparently he’s got an abnormally robust skull. No surprise there. He took my hand and almost wept when he saw me.

  I’ve been watching television with the children all afternoon.

  I feel—I don’t know how I feel. A bit like I’m recovering from the ‘flu or something, I suppose. I feel achy, tired, weepy, weak.

  But I’m alive.

  Saturday October 24th—4pm

  The garden is looking wonderful. The autumn has been unusually mild. Wherever I turn the grass is still lush and green, and the flowers are still dazzling. Birds flutter between the trees and the bird-table, butterflies meander from bloom to bloom, bees buzz.

  Life is not just going on but blooming. A weight has been lifted from all of our shoulders. I can finally sleep peacefully in my bed at night, completely untroubled by thoughts of danger and Monica lurking round every corner in wait for me or one of my loved ones. Matt whistles as he goes about the place. The children play happily together. Sid, still with a bandage around his head, looks cheerful and heroic, and Lill is positively youthful, bubbling with happiness, managing to get around quite well even though she still has her cast on, and will have it on for the next month or so.

  The fear has gone, tension has left us all as if it had never been. It’s hard to remember that just a few weeks ago, we were almost too afraid to leave the house.

  We are already making plans to go to Scotland for Christmas, all of us, Sid and Lill too. Then next March is Sid and Lill’s fortieth anniversary, and he wants to take her to Jersey for a fortnight.

  Tonight, Neville-the-bashful vicar is taking Madison out to dinner on their first official date. I have advised her on her outfit, hair and make-up. She is quietly happy—not over-the-top excited as she was that first time with Tyrone, but steadier, softer, more aware of herself. I think she knows that here, finally, is the One, and she knows he’s worth waiting for. I’m so happy for her. Who knows, perhaps this time next year, she and Neville will be here with their baby, sitting in the garden with us.

  Tom is laughing now at the faces Paddy and Billy are pulling at him. He’s standing up on his feet, clinging with chubby fingers to a chair. Soon he will be walking, and all three children will cavort about in this idyllic setting.

  But in spite of all this happiness, part of me is still looking backwards to the past, and feeling sorrowful. I know it’s crazy to think this way, but at the moment all I can think is, I will never push my baby in a swing next to Monica pushing hers. I know I should be happy. In fact, I am happy, deep down. But I’m full of sorrow too. I can’t seem to shake off what’s happened. I’ve lost her forever, my best pal. We almost made it up.

  It was her funeral yesterday morning—a very dejected affair, and seeming all the more stagey and unreal because we went to her fake funeral last year. It felt so weird. At any moment I expected her to leap out from behind a curtain and shout “ta-da!” We didn’t stay lon
g, Matt and I, just long enough to smile at and say we were sorry for their loss to her parents, who really didn’t seem to know what day it was. Hardly anyone we knew was there—none of our old friends. It was such a sad occasion.

  I know I grew to hate her, and more—to fear her. I know I said I wanted her dead. But it wasn’t true, clearly, or I would have made it happen—I managed that often enough in the case of other people.

  And I look around at all the lovely things and people in my life, and I think, I wish Monica could have had all this too. I stand by what I said to her. We were caught up in some kind of madness. But how can I wish it had never happened when all this is mine?

  So when no one’s looking, I will raise a glass to toast her memory. Wherever she is, I hope she’s thinking more kindly of me now. Because I really do miss her. My best friend.

  The End

  About the Author

  Caron Allan writes cosy murder mysteries, both contemporary and also set in the 1920s and 1930s. Caron lives in Derby, England with her husband and two grown-up children and an endlessly varying quantity of cats and sparrows.

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