Criss Cross: Friendship can be murder

by Caron Allan

  ‘I should bloody well say not!’ she said, not so quietly this time, but immediately she lowered her voice to a hiss. ‘You killed my husband! Did you really think you were going to get away with that? I want you dead, you evil bitch, I’m not going to let you just go wandering happily into the sunset to your lovely new life in your lovely new house with your lovely new bit of rough after what you did to Huw!’

  ‘I’ve told you before, I thought it was what you wanted!’ I protested. And I have to admit, even to me it sounded a bit lame. She shushed me hastily and pressed the gun a bit closer to my chest. But I was indignant, I wanted this misunderstanding cleared up once and for all. So I continued in the loudest whisper I could muster, ‘We’ve talked about this, I thought we’d moved past it. I thought you’d let it go.’

  She was enraged.

  ‘No! No no no no Cressida! I have not let it go!’ she snarled, ‘we have not moved past this. Most definitely not! How could we? How could you even think that we could ever put something like you killing my husband behind us?’

  ‘I did,’ I lied. ‘You killed Thomas. He meant more to me than my own life. But I’ve tried to move on, be your friend again, forgive you. Put it all behind me, rebuild my life.’

  ‘Well I guess you’re just a better person than me, aren’t you?’ she snapped, sarcasm making her voice louder and more carrying than she was probably aware.

  All I could hope for was that one of the Hopkins would hear our voices and come to my rescue, but deep down I had a horrid floppy feeling in my stomach that Monica was just going to shoot me and walk away, stepping over my body like something nasty on a pavement and be gone again into the night before anyone even noticed anything was wrong. And I hadn’t even made out a new will.

  ‘But I thought that made us even and that we were friends again!’ I said and this time I managed a bit of a sob. I suppose I wasn’t really acting at this point, I really was terrified, trembling, and it was entirely possible I might wet myself at any moment.

  She shook her head, as if she couldn’t believe I was so stupid, and with more than a touch of exasperation said, ‘God, Cress! That was what I wanted you to think! I wanted to get close enough to catch you off your guard. God, you’re so stupid! And I know you put something in my cocktails—or if not you, it was your below-stairs screw. I had to switch to vodka and you know I can’t mix my drinks. I was as sick as a dog the next morning.’

  I was vaguely aware that I could see her more clearly now. For a second or two, I thought it was just that my eyes were adjusting to the low level of light in my room, but I then realised that while we were talking, we had moved slightly and now it was she who had her back to the door, and so she wasn’t aware that behind her, the door was very slowly opening.

  But even as I became aware of this, she seemed to sense something. And almost in slow-motion she began to turn her head and shoulder to glance behind her, and although there was no time for sound, there was a feeling, a rushing sensation, as if a sudden wind blew across the room, and Monica was making a grunting sound as all the air went out of her and she began to sag forward. At the same time, I snatched up my heavy Art-Deco bedside lamp and swinging it hard, I flailed at her with all my might, aiming for her head, but she twisted and avoided the blow and was forcing her way back through the door, the others completely off guard so that she was already halfway down the stairs before Sid and Matt had even begun to move.

  Matt shoved his father out of the way, and taking the stairs three and four at a time, he tore after her, but didn’t reach the front door until she had already wrenched it open and was throwing herself out into the night leaving him holding a piece of her blouse and I could still hear the sound of ripping fabric even though there was nothing but inky night filling the doorway and no sign of her. My best pal. She was gone.

  Then they all rushed around me, fussing and worrying, and I was astonished to realise that I was fine, not upset, just very slightly shaken but feeling—I don’t know, somehow empowered—a wonderful sense of release washing over me. I was, after all, alive. Lill wanted to make me yet another of her hot drinks but I just dropped a kiss on her cheek and said,

  ‘It’s all right, thank you, I think I’ll just read for a little while before I go to sleep. See you all in the morning.’

  And I traipsed upstairs for the umpteenth time, and did as I’d said: I climbed into bed, leaving all my lights blazing, read a bit of Northanger Abbey, then after about ten minutes or so, I was relaxed and ready to sleep. I put out all the lights, lay down and the next thing I knew it was a bright, sunny morning. I wasn’t being brave, I just knew she wouldn’t be back that same night, and now—I’m not certain, but I don’t think she’ll be back at all. It is—it’s finally over. Done and dusted.

  But just to be sure, this afternoon, I’m having all the locks changed, and a new security camera on front and back entrances. One can’t be too careful, there are so many dodgy people about.

  Same day—7.45pm

  Am absolutely dreading tomorrow, btw. But as I keep telling myself, it’s another milestone reached and survived. Once I’ve got past tomorrow that will be another step in the right direction. Every day things get a tiny bit easier.

  I’m getting more used to being alone—and although I do have days when all I want to do is cry or hide away, they’re not as frequent as they used to be. And much as I miss him, I don’t hate myself for being alive any more. One more step on the way. I’m like a recovering addict!

  Thurs 18 April—10pm

  It would have been Thomas’s birthday today—he would have been—should have been—37 years old today.

  I can remember his last birthday so clearly. We had a wonderful candlelit dinner at La Maison des Saisons, we stayed for hours, just chatting, the long gaps between the courses melting away in the dancing light of the flames. Our eyes met across the table. The white linen, the gleaming glassware reflected the flickering candles. Everything had seemed either to be a mirror or a shadow, and it was all so tranquil, so intimate, like a tiny oasis that was ours alone.

  So much has happened since then, so many unbelievable things. And—most unbelievable of all—Thomas is gone.

  And now it’s difficult to remember his face. If I want to see his face, I have to get out the photo albums. I keep them on a chair by my bed, there’s no point in putting them away, I need to refer to them so often. I can almost hear his voice on the edge of my consciousness, if I concentrate. But I no longer see his face, except in my dreams. Then I awake and it’s as if he has left me all over again.

  It’s been a quiet, melancholy sort of day. I feel so guilty to be relieved it’s almost over.

  Lill remembered what day it was. She made one of her hearty stews and I ate with them in the kitchen.

  I asked her, ‘Was it ridiculous to buy this great big house? Perhaps I should have bought a little flat, something just big enough for one?’

  She seemed surprised. Sid stopped eating, a drip of his stew meandering down through his grey goatee. Matt was looking at me with watchful eyes, his hands still.

  ‘Aren’t you happy here?’ Lill asked me.

  I shook my head. ‘Not today.’ I stood up, pushing back my chair. ‘Excuse me please. Dinner was lovely but...’

  And I had to leave the room. I’ve been sitting looking out at the garden, Tetley curled up on the cushion of the window seat next to me, and she purrs whenever I scratch her cheeks or plump sides. She really is a dear little thing. I feel so awful about the other two. How callous I was. How uncaring. In some ways, I’m glad I’ve changed.

  Sun 21 April—9.35am

  I can’t believe it. Why can I not just be left alone to get on with my life without People pissing me off with their interference?

  Every time I feel like I’m at last getting a bit of peace and quiet, some moron decides to come and make a nuisance of themselves. I’ve just had a text from my mother, announcing she is arriving tomorrow. No ‘Do you mind?’ or ‘Is it conven
ient? Just a text saying ‘Arriving Heathrow 1.30 Monday, send car, expect to stay three weeks or so Mother’.

  God, I’m so furious. And what is she going to say about the Hopkins? No doubt she’ll 1) disapprove of them, or rather my friendship with them, and 2) upset them almost immediately by being as obnoxious as usual, and 3) ruin my life, and 4) try to make me marry some fat old bald millionaire with a dodgy heart just to appease her conscience and bolster her bank balance. (I think she gets a finder’s fee.)

  And she’ll drink the place dry. And she hasn’t said who she’s bringing with her, but I mean, it’s my mother, she can’t possibly be travelling alone. She never does. She’ll have some anaemic, terrified secretary with her, and her latest husband (can’t even remember his name), and any variety of minions, step-children and Chihuahuas in handbags.

  Why can’t she stay in Guildford with my sister?

  This is ridiculous. I won’t go. If we don’t pick her up, then she can’t come here. It’s as simple as that.

  Except that she’d probably track me by satellite through my mobile. She’s probably slept with the bloke that is in charge of stuff like that. And she’s perfectly capable of contacting Scotland Yard if she thinks they will help her. Or Downing Street. Even the Royal family wouldn’t be safe if she got it into her head they could do anything useful for her.

  It’s crazy. After all the effort I went through to get rid of Clarice, then Huw and what’s-her-face, and Cess and thingy…and now I’m being terrorised by yet more relatives. After all the trauma I’ve been through! It’s a wonder I’m not in therapy. Surely there’s something I can do?

  Mon 22 April—8.30am

  I’ve been thinking about the Unwanteds and their impending descent. I think it’s time to fall back on an old—but untried—favourite. Ethylene Glycol. Pale blue heaven in a bottle. I can’t remember how much to use and there’s no time to look it up now, we’ve got to leave shortly. But once we’re on our way, I’m going to ask Mr Google on my phone and find out everything I need to know. I believe we may still have a little left in a tin can in the garage workshop?

  In fifteen minutes Sid is driving me to the airport to meet my mother’s plane. But before we leave I just wanted to let off a bit of steam. My life is an even huger disaster than I have so far confessed!

  Matt and I are not on speaking terms at the moment. Yesterday afternoon I mentioned that my mother and all her hangers-on were about to descend and it was clear I wasn’t pleased about it. Lill said they would rally round to help. ‘Yes,’ Sid added, ‘we’ve got your back.’ Bless them.

  A few minutes later, from absolutely out of nowhere, without any further comments from me, their little Bundle of Joy said,

  ‘Why do you always solve your problems by killing people?’

  I gaped at him. Had he really just said that? Could he read minds now? Sid pushed back his chair from the table, as if trying to avoid getting splashed with blood, and Lill gave a horrified little gasp and spilt her tea.

  How could he? What a thing to say. And anyway, so not true. I’ve faced up to and dealt with loads of problems. Like—like—well, I have! And anyway, I haven’t killed that many people—it’s only been—er—four. I didn’t kill Clarice, did I? So obviously that wasn’t my fault.

  Anyway.

  So I just got up and went to the door and walked out. I grabbed my car keys and my new favourite bag and drove into town for a sulk around the shops.

  It’s taken me until now to think of a witty comeback. I should have stood my ground and said,

  ‘Probably for the same reason you deal with your problems by conning tourists out of large sums of money!’

  Well, okay, it’s not exactly the witty comeback of my dreams, but that doesn’t make it any less to the point! He’s not one to point the finger. But it’s too late to be clever now. Hence the angry silences on both sides. Sid and Lill have tried to apologise, to reconcile the two of us, and I told them not to worry, it’s not their fault. Which of course it is, because a) he’s their son and they should have brought him up not to say things like that, and b) they brought him into my home when he was released from prison and here he has remained, seemingly until he dies of old age or terminal smugness.

  Am half-inclined to write to the Department of Prosecutions and grass him up for the Angel of the North thingy. That would teach the smug bastard a lesson.

  Wed 24 April—11.30pm

  Am practically a prisoner in my own home. Have fled to bedroom for privacy and solace but even here I’m not guaranteed to be left in peace!

  My mother has arrived sans entourage but avec a step-child—to whit one sulky sixteen year-old. Not sure which of the exes is the girl’s father—if anyone even knows. She is dressed exactly like my mother—a teenage Mini-Me—except that her red hair and prominent eyes don’t do the little madam any favours. She looks a bit like a Muppet. Her real name is Whisper! I asked my mother what had happened to the nine-year-old boy I saw last time. She just shrugged.

  Anyway, the house is all wrong—obviously! The area is wrong, my ‘staff’, me, everything. Everything is all wrong and Mother is draped about the drawing room, as she insists on calling it, sunk deep in a slough of despond.

  Surprise, surprise, she has already suggested I go back with her as she knows a lonely ‘older gentleman’ with a dodgy heart, a man who would appreciate a ‘not-unattractive’ girl past the first flush of youth. God!

  And!!!

  They’ve been here five minutes and already Sid has shut himself away in his workshop and Lill is banging pots and pans in the kitchen, her mouth a tight, straight line.

  There have been a number of demands for special diet items—sushi, wheatgrass and tofu smoothies, weird barley-based hot beverages. Apparently Mother no longer drinks like a fish and is on some kind of health kick. And there have been quite a few comments about the meals coming from my kitchen being ‘old-fashioned home cooking’, being ‘good, solid, plain fare’, perfectly suited to ‘farm workers and labourers’. I think if we had still been on the old employer/employee footing, Lill would have given notice.

  Plus, from the second they arrived, Mother and The Muppet have wanted to go out. The Muppet seems to require constant entertainment, she can’t do a thing for herself or by herself. We’ve dragged them out to a couple of local crags and monuments. The Muppet has barely looked up from her phone to say more than ‘Is that it?’ Mother just kept complaining that everything was either too remote, not remote enough, not enough like LA or not enough like ye olde Englande. And then she kept stifling a yawn as if a) she was being bored to death or b) she was terribly frail and weary and I was cruelly dragging her all over the place against her will.

  Want to strangle them both.

  Fortunately, they are both late risers so I had a peaceful and pleasant breakfast in the kitchen, and Lill has had a chance to let off steam to me.

  But!!!

  Again!!!

  That stupid man! When I began to complain about my mother’s behaviour, well not just hers, The Muppet’s too, once again Matt just snapped at me, ‘So tell them to go. Stop whining and tell them they’ve got to leave. It’s your house, you don’t have to put up with them if you don’t want to.’

  We had a bit of a tiff about that. Stupid man, does he really think it’s that easy to get rid of unwanted guests? If it was, he wouldn’t still be here!

  Smartarse!

  But have had a chance to think about it, and I suppose he could be a little bit right. I am the only one who can put an end to all this misery. And it’s not fair Lill has to put up with all the extra hassle and the rudeness.

  Stupid man. He’s always right. I hate him.

  Thurs 25 April—11.25am

  My mother is driving me crazy. From the moment they set foot in—well, no actually it began about a minute after we left the airport—why hadn’t we got them two luggage trollies, why had we parked so far away, why was it so bloody cold and miserable? Like that was our fault—it
’s Britain—it’s always cold and miserable, except when it’s hot and miserable, that is—and that’s the way we Brits like it. You can’t be always moaning about the weather if it’s nice.

  Then when we were on our way back to the house it was, ‘Why did I have to live so far away?’ All they wanted, Mother said, was to get home and rest after their ordeal.

  Then…why hadn’t Sid carried their luggage upstairs? He had been about to do just that, once he’d located young Matthew, no point in having a young dog and barking yourself, after all. Why was the house so small? Why didn’t all the bedrooms have an ensuite, when they stayed in Marrakech they had gorgeous bathrooms! I pointed out somewhat crisply that that had been in a five-star hotel, this was a private residence. It made not a jot of difference. I’m certain she expected to find a bell-pull in her room.

  Next it was, ‘Surely they weren’t expected to unpack their own luggage? (Three cases each) Surely—my mother opined in a hurt voice—surely it wasn’t too much to expect that SOMEONE could have spared a few moments to unpack for her? It wasn’t as if she ever expected anyone to go to any trouble on her behalf. Why oh why oh why did I not have a proper, professional staff? My very standing in the community demanded it!

  All this in the hearing of the kitchen—Mother never troubles herself to lower her voice or show any tact or delicacy. Have horrid sense of doom. Even more horrider than Sunday’s sense of doom!

  Same day: 4.15pm

  I made the mistake of mentioning my misery about my mother to the Hs again over an afternoon cuppa whilst Mother was ‘resting’. I have no idea what The Muppet was doing, locked away in the guest room reading erotica on her phone, I should think. Matt was there. It’s my own fault, I should have known better than to say anything. He immediately said the same as he said yesterday, only even more forcefully: