Angela's Dead

by Lou Peters

  Rachel must have fallen asleep for a short time. In her dreams Richard was beside her, the heaviness of his arm in sleep, resting against her side. She’d snuggled her back into the curve of his welcoming body. Awakening abruptly, the reassuring sensation slipped away from her. She turned towards his side of the bed. It was empty, and the disappointment crushed her. Rachel reached her hand out to where Richard should’ve been. The space felt cold against her fingertips. The indent in the old mattress the only proof he had once lain beside her, but not that night.

  She tried to track events in her mind to bring her back to this point in time. Rather like rewinding a ball of string to mark an unfamiliar route. However, there was nothing. No memory of the previous evening, no recalled conversation. The spool of string was empty. The contents lost somewhere along the way. Rachel struggled to remember the last time she’d seen Richard. She could picture his face clearly as if he was in front of her. However, when that may have been, completely alluded her. It could have been a few hours ago, it could have been days. Panic surged through her at the loss of any previous coherent thought. Set her head to throb even harder. Screwing her eyes up in concentration made little difference. Rachel could see only stabs of bright light, coinciding with her pulsing pain.

  ‘Richard… where the hell are you? She cried out. Her voice harsh with emotion was difficult to recognise as her own. The anguished words disturbed the stillness of the moonlit room with strident vibrations. White vapour left her mouth like a departing spirit. The ensuing silence, crackled noisily in her ears.

  ‘This is crazy, you can’t just lie here,’ she told herself. Flinging back the duvet in one swift motion she instantly regretted her rash decision. The icy air hit her like a wall of frozen water. Momentarily the action took her breath away, and she gasped at the unexpectedness of it. Her feet on the uncarpeted flooring ached with the cold and she fumbled for her slippers. Putting her right foot where the left foot should fit, managed to get the footwear facing back to front in her haste, before finally achieving her aim. By this time Rachel’s skin was raised in pinprick sized pimples and her teeth chattering as though they’d a will of their own. Reaching for the candlewick dressing gown, a relic passed on from her mother, it felt icy to the touch. Nevertheless, Rachel was grateful to throw it about her shoulders. Hurriedly, trying to stuff arms down the corresponding gaps in the material. As a parting gesture she almost fell over one of Richard’s casually discarded trainers. Managing to remain upright, Rachel banged her shin bone painfully against the skirting board as she exited the ice box of a bedroom. Bloody hell that hurt. The cold seemed to exacerbate the pain.

  The kitchen at least felt a little warmer. Rachel hobbled in rubbing her ankle in the semi darkness. Quickly transferring her hand to press hard against her head, hoping the external pressure would alleviate the internal one. Luckily the embers in the bottom of the ugly, pot bellied stove were still faintly glowing as she entered the kitchen. Or they were, until with the click of the light switch the promised glow was turned to white ash. Hurriedly Rachel took a couple of thin pieces of split wood from the basket at the side of the fire and placed them onto the dying embers. Now she could no longer see orange fragments in the fire, her teeth were on the verge of starting up their routine again. Fingers crossed, she quickly closed the door and slid the vent on the front fully open, allowing the draught to circulate. Even so, it looked as though she’d left it too late. Rachel wrapped the dressing gown closer around her body, rubbed her face against the reassuring softness of the material. Walking towards the sink she focused her attention on making a hot drink in the hope of warming herself up. Since their arrival at the cottage the kitchen tap had always been stiff to turn on. Rachel had already mentioned it to Richard. He’d promised he would look at it. However, that was as far as it’d got. With the other one thousand and one jobs on his “to do list,” it was hardly surprising. Rachel still found it hard to comprehend that they’d actually made the move, barely six weeks after that first October viewing and were now living in the dump. She made a grab for a nearby tea towel to help get some purchase on the piece of stubborn nickel, her fingers just as stiff, felt like icicles ready to snap off. Nothing happened at first, then after a few seconds delay water gushed haphazardly out of the tap. Some of it even managed to gurgle its way into the waiting kettle, beneath.

  While she’d been otherwise occupied the fire had spluttered into life. Rachel threw a couple more substantial wedges of wood onto the embryonic flames. The kitchen, like the bedroom, had no curtains at the windows and she felt as though someone outside was looking in, watching her from behind the dense hoary undergrowth. If Rachel had been brave enough she’d have gone outside and checked. And also if Richard had been there... He wasn’t and she wasn’t that brave. Instead she repositioned the old arm chair, turning the high back to block out one of the offending apertures. The wood had caught alight. Grasping the mug of steaming black liquid between her frigid fingers, Rachel sat, knees drawn up, legs scrunched beneath her, in front of the stove. Watching as the smoke swirled behind the glass, before it located its correct route, spiralled up the chimney away into the night, leaving the flickering flames to devour the wood hungrily. Slowly the feeling returned to her limbs. Rachel couldn’t say she felt any better, but at least she was warmer. Her head was numb, eyes tired and she still hadn’t a clue where Richard had disappeared to.

  She had a vague recollection of checking the garage. As far as she could recall both vehicles had been parked up, one behind the other. Putting aside the nonsensical notion Richard had been beamed up by aliens, the only other possibilities left open to her were, somebody had collected him in a vehicle, or he’d gone out on foot. As she and Richard had only been at River Cottage, for a matter of weeks and the couple hardly knew anyone, Rachel could probably discount the first theory. Which only left the foot theory, but why and where to? More importantly, why hadn’t he come back? And why couldn’t she remember anything? At twenty-two she was hardly a candidate for dementia. Rachel had a really bad feeling about the situation. It twisted the lining of her stomach into knots.

  She’d known the cottage was going to be bad luck from the first moment she’d stepped over the threshold, and before that, if she was truthful. Once Richard had placed the property details in her hands and she’d seen the foreboding building, emanating something, which she couldn’t then or now put into words, she’d known nothing good would come of the move. While she was asking herself questions, the one at the top of the agenda should’ve been why hadn’t she been honest and told Richard exactly what she’d thought about the place? Rachel knew the answer of course, but was reluctant to admit it she again put it to the back of her mind.

  The sensation that somebody was watching her intensified. Rachel was however, too scared to turn around and look out of any of the windows. Afraid of what she might see she sat head held down, hunched against the back of the chair, slowly sipping her hot drink, trying to clear the remaining strands of fog away from her seemingly scoured recall. If only she could remember something, anything, of the past absent hours.

  Rachel wasn’t used to the quietness of the countryside. The invasiveness of the surrounding silence pressed in on her like a physical entity. It seemed strange not to hear traffic rumbling past beneath the windows as she’d done in their old flat. Living in town, even at nearly four o’clock in the morning, there would’ve been some disturbance as people went about their lives. The street cleaners on their little electric carts and the noisier bin lorries trundling past collecting the refuse from the hotels scattered about the centre. But these had been familiar, somehow comforting sounds. Letting her know other people existed, that she wasn’t isolated, out on a limb. If she screamed for help, someone would hear her. Rachel fervently wished she and Richard had never come to River Cottage. Her coffee cup was empty and she felt like hell.

  Trying to leave the unpalatable thought at the back of her mind for as long as possible, Rachel could ignore
its insistence no longer. She had to face up to the one reasonable conclusion that could be reached. The reason Richard hadn’t returned to the cottage was because he couldn’t. He must have had an accident. There was no other feasible explanation. Possibly a vehicle had knocked him down. At this very moment, Richard could be lying in a gutter somewhere in the dark, waiting for his pathetic partner to raise the alarm and summon the help he so desperately needed. Or was he past caring, because she’d left it too late and he was already dead? Rachel wanted to cry, but she knew she must do something, even if it was only to ring around the local hospitals. The cottage was so pathetic it didn’t even possess a copy of yellow pages, and why would it? The place hadn’t been habited for the past God knows how many years, as the prominent smell of damp bore testimony. Reaching for the phone Rachel quickly dialled directory enquiries, with an intake of breath she waited for her call to be answered.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Thursday Morning 10 December 2009

  The loud insistent ringing of the phone, almost bouncing off the table demanding attention, brought her to her senses. Rachel moved it seemed in slow motion, not fully awake she fumbled with fingers unable to grasp. Eventually snatching up the receiver the dreadful cacophony was silenced. ‘Richard,’ she panted into the mouthpiece, a parody of having seconds earlier run a half marathon. Instantaneously she recognised the voice on the other end of the line. It wasn’t Richard’s. Rachel sagged back into the chair overcome with disappointment. Her ineffectual, frantic calls to half a dozen hospitals near and not so near had resulted in the same empty, useless feeling. However long Rachel had been asleep hadn’t lessened the aching in her head. If anything it’d become worse. Automatically she raised her hand and let it rest against her throbbing temple. She knew this wasn’t quite what was meant when referring to your body clock, but it certainly felt like Big Ben was booming inside of her head. She dreaded to think what would occur when the chimes struck at the top of the hour. Perhaps her head would implode. In comparison, the kitchen wall clock gently ticked away the seconds, the stubby brass pendulum gracefully swinging back and forth in perfect synchronisation. Rachel was surprised to see the black roman numerals, stark against the white ceramic face, advising it was already a quarter past nine. She’d slept for longer than she’d thought possible.

  ‘Rachel, are you okay?’ She heard the disquiet in the disembodied voice, transmitting down the line two hundred and more miles between them, entering the kitchen as if by magic. She could imagine the perfectly made up face screwed up tight in an expression of concern. The daggers between the eyes more deeply etched. Rachel wanted to allay her fears, to smooth away the wrinkles from her brow, her very best of friends.

  ‘Yeah Jackie, I’m fine.’ Even to her ears the words sounded flat and unenthusiastic and not how Rachel intended them to come out. But she longed to hear Richard’s voice. To hear him say he was sorry he’d made her worry. That he loved her and would be back very soon to explain where he’d been and why. Rachel didn’t care about the explanations. He could tell her anything she was just desperate for his return.

  ‘Obviously, Richard isn’t there with you at the moment?’ Her friend paused, as if expecting an answer. Realising one wasn’t forthcoming she continued. ‘You two finally haven’t had a row have you?’ Her voice sounded almost pleased.

  To Jackie’s mind rows were good. Rows were normal, a sign of a healthy relationship. Jackie had never been able to understand her and Richard’s harmonious coexistence – the failure to give in to the petty disputes seeming to infect so many modern relationships. The one-upmanship as each partner strived to be numero uno, to be the one in charge. Perhaps Rachel was just an old fashioned girl who liked her man to be strong and decisive, and anyway, she usually agreed with Richard’s decisions. They were on the same wave-length. So what was the problem with that? A little voice inside of her head sang out, barely audible against the clatter of her thoughts, but heard nevertheless, like a naughty sprite intent on causing mischief. Except for the purchase of River Cottage, it taunted. There was a self satisfaction to the words. As if they were saying to Rachel, everything coming her way now and in the future, was down to this one time when she should’ve shown her true feelings and hadn’t.

  She and Richard hadn’t exactly argued over the purchase of the property. The couple had barely discussed it, in fact. Everything had happened so quickly. He’d made his mind up this is where he wanted to live. Rachel had kept her doubts to herself, allowed herself to be dragged along on the wave of Richard’s enthusiasm. He hadn’t got a clue she hated the place and why? Because Rachel hadn’t opened up to him, hadn’t told him how she’d felt. She especially hadn’t enlightened Jackie to her fears. Her friend would’ve gone spare and Rachel wondered now, why she’d had to keep it such a big secret. Would it have been the end of the world if she and Richard hadn’t agreed on something? Was she frightened confrontation would’ve had Richard scurrying away? The thought she was previously reluctant to admit resurfaced, this time she let it. Was Rachel deep down unsure of Richard’s love and commitment? Did he think her just too young for him to take their relationship seriously? She’d been twenty when they’d met, he’d been thirty six. Rachel didn’t know the answer.

  ‘Where’s the passion, the fire?’ Jackie had wanted to know in one of the friend’s drink fuelled discussions. As if it was any of her business. She’d accused Rachel of using Richard as a replacement father figure and for security. Advising in the long run that wouldn’t be good for either of them. ‘Your relationship’s too bland,’ Jackie had insisted. ‘How can you ever hope to experience torrid make up sex, when you never argue? For God’s sake Rachel, you’re a young woman. Don’t you ever feel the need to have some healthy young stud bring a sparkle to your eyes?’ she’d goaded.

  ‘Richard’s all the man I need,’ Rachel’s response had been equally forceful. ‘And anyway, who are you to talk? How many meaningful relationships have you had in the past two years? I’d rather be with a man who loves and respects me than someone who just plies me with drinks all night, hoping I’ll drop my knickers and then never hear from him again.’ This remark had caused Jackie to flounce out of the room in anger and frustration, slamming the door behind her. Her friend could give it out, but wasn’t keen on getting it back. It had been two weeks before she’d contacted Rachel again. Apologies hadn’t been necessary and the two had carried on their friendship as before.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Rachel responded to the question. Her eyes spontaneously filled with tears. Closing her eyes she could feel the warm trickle as they seeped through her eyelashes to drip down her cold cheeks, dampening the collar of the dressing gown she still wore, making it uncomfortable against her skin.

  ‘What do you mean, you don’t think so? Surely you must know if you’ve had a row, or not?’ Sensing her friend’s distress Jackie spoke gently. At the same time she was keen to get to the bottom of things.

  For a moment Rachel was unable to answer. There was a huge lump in her throat, as if she’d swallowed the inside of a peach, whole. She knew if she opened her mouth the only thing that would come out would be a sob. Half heartedly she wiped away the moisture from her face with the back of her hand. Rummaging in her pocket for a tissue, she dabbed her eyes.

  ‘Rachel, are you crying? Whatever’s the matter? Has something happened to Richard? Tell me.’ The concern was back with a vengeance.

  ‘I’m sorry Jack,’ Rachel bleated, trying to find her voice. ‘I think I’m just over tired. I don’t know where Richard is. I can’t even tell you if we’ve had a row or not, my mind’s just a complete blank.’ There was a short period of silence on the other end of the line while this information was ingested.

  ‘Did you have too much to drink last night? Maybe that’s the reason why you can’t remember?’ Jackie helpfully suggested.

  It seemed like a reasonable enough supposition. Jackie knew her friend only too well. Knew Rachel had been known to over indulge in one
or two alcoholic beverages on the odd occasion, as she herself had, but not this time. Yesterday was as if it’d never happened. So how could Rachel be so certain she hadn’t drunk herself into a stupor? She couldn’t answer the question. That was the scary thing. Although she had to admit, she felt like shit now.

  ‘No, I’m sure I hadn’t. But the thing that concerns me as much as Richard’s disappearance Jackie, is I can’t remember a bloody thing that’s happened in the last twenty four hours. And I don’t know why.’ Rachel’s voice by this time was bubbling with near hysteria. The crying could erupt into laughter at any moment, it could go either way. She knew she was teetering on the edge. Rachel didn’t want to plummet over the precipice, because if she did, she might never be able to claw her way back again.

  ‘I’m going to come down.’ Jackie announced in decisive tones. Her mind once made up left no room for argument.

  ‘You can’t do that. It’s not as though Rasburgh’s just down the road. You’re three hours away, at least. And anyway aren’t you in work today?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m calling from there now. I’ve only been here three quarters of an hour and I’m fed up already. Nothing ever happens on a Thursday. That’s why I phoned you. I was bored rigid.’

  ‘Oh, thanks a lot mate.’ Rachel managed, her voice lacking any trace of enthusiasm. The normal repartee between the two, stunted like a sapling grown beneath a huge oak. Like the old, gnarled specimen standing sentry in the cottage’s garden, giving her the creeps every time she looked at it.

  ‘I’ll just tell Jarvis I don’t feel well.’

  ‘Yeah right, as if she’s going to go for that. I know her as well as you do, don’t forget. You’d have to be on your death bed before she’d send you home.’