Criss Cross

by Caron Allan

  Think I’ll do a spot of shopping, that will cheer me up. After all, only a week or so until we go to Jessica’s, and obviously I need to look my best in the wilds of Scotland.

  Well, it’s not really that wild, I mean, it’s a twelve bedroom shooting lodge with its own sauna and hot-tub and indoor heated pool etc, but one still needs to maintain appearances. Also, Thomas will need a nice new jacket, it might be a bit nippy up there, even if it is August. Scotland is so dreadfully unpredictable.

  Thought I’d better let Mrs H know I was going out, so I popped into the kitchen and got a bit of a shock when I saw Sid there too. I’d completely forgotten about that weird turn of events. He appeared to have a lawn mower in pieces on the kitchen table, all spread out over sheets of newspaper. Not sure if the mower was ours or not. Maybe he’s taking in repairs like some people take in washing, who knows? Anyway, he said goodbye cheerfully enough, and Mrs H seems a lot more relaxed. She wanted to talk about ‘that dreadful business last night’, by which I assumed she meant Monica and Huw and everything, but I told her it was dreadful, but that I’d have to dash, but that we’d be sure and have a chat later.

  Fri 3 August—11.35am

  I did spend rather a lot yesterday, but I must admit I feel heaps better. I got the most divine little evening gown, perhaps a wee bit too low in front, but I was feeling a bit daring, and I know Thomas will love it, though it’s not really the thing for the country unless we have some very refined company.

  And then obviously I had to have a teeny little evening bag to go with it, and the shoes. And a wrap.

  Must try to remember to do something about Thomas’s jacket. Might just get away with having the old one cleaned and possibly patched up a bit. After all, it doesn’t matter too much if it’s not perfect, it’s only for hanging about in whilst waiting to shoot some poor innocent creature. And he’s bound to stuff half a stoat or something in the pockets, or fish bait or something. As it is it practically stands up on its own, it’s that rank. I don’t know why he loves shooting so much, he is such a mild sort of chap most of the time. Men are such funny creatures.

  Monica is out of the hospital now—already! Some mutual friends called me and told me the good news, and said they’d visited, and said she’d been asking for me. I told them I don’t think she really wants to see me except to scream at me again and subject me to all her vile accusations. Which was a bit of a daft thing to say, as due to their stalk-eyes, I could tell they were dying to know why she would say such things.

  But in the end they just smiled sweetly and said no, she’s calmer now, more sensible, she knows she was wrong and just wants to see me, to apologise, to weep on my shoulder, that sort of thing. So I said I would go and see her, which will have to be tomorrow, as I’ve got my waxing appointment this afternoon, and it’s always such a bother if I have to cancel then try and rebook, they’re always so busy. Oh and tomorrow evening we’ve also got drinks at Nadina and Jeremy’s new apartment, which I take to mean they’ve moved into a flat in town to save money, but anyway, we’d already said we’d love to go, so of course we shall have to.

  Sat 4 August—5.25pm

  Well I popped in to see Monica just after lunch—a bit reluctantly, actually, but I suppose that’s hardly surprising—I wasn’t expecting her to greet me with open arms, more like with a 12-bore. But in the end I thought it was best to get it over with. So although it was a bit of a squash time-wise, at least it gave me an excuse not to stay too long if things were a bit…you know.

  And if I’m honest, I’m still not too sure how things went.

  I found her sitting in the garden by quite a pretty little lily pond that I had no idea they even had—it’s in a part of the garden I hadn’t seen before. I must ask her—at a more appropriate time obviously—who they had in to do it, as whoever it was, they made a lovely job. We could do with something like that, I would love to have somewhere like that to sit, right next to a pretty little pond with a nice cup of tea in the afternoons and just let the world drift by.

  Apart from the fact that she was wearing black silk trousers and a gorgeous little black top, she looked pretty much as normal. Paler, possibly even thinner, although after only three days or so—well, perhaps it was just an illusion—but she looked like someone recovering really slowly from an illness.

  She didn’t look up as I approached, didn’t speak. For a couple of seconds I hovered, a bit unsure what to do but when she didn’t make any sudden moves I thought to myself, what the hell, and I pulled up a chair and sat down next to her.

  ‘Hello,’ I said. Genius, I know. I don’t know how I do it.

  She looked at me now.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. There was a pause and I tried to think what kind of thing would be best as a conversation-opener, but then she spoke again, looking away from me and down at her restless hands.

  ‘I’m sorry about the huge scene the other evening. Sorry for calling you a bitch and all that sort of thing. I didn’t mean it. I was just so upset.’

  I felt awful then.

  ‘Darling! You don’t need to apologise! Please…’

  ‘I’m not saying I’ve changed my mind, or anything. I know you killed him. But I also know it was a mistake, you just did what you thought I wanted you to do, I do realise that. It’s just—the pain, Cress, I can’t seem to get past it. I feel as though half of my body has been wrenched away. I feel like I’ll never be warm again, and I feel bruised and broken. To think that I’ll never see his face again.’

  She began to cry, softly. Somehow that was even worse that the ranting and screaming. I wanted to say something, anything that would help, that would change what had happened, but there was nothing. Apologies would be pointless, so I sat on the edge of my seat in voyeuristic silence.

  Eventually she scrubbed her face dry with a handkerchief, and she looked at me properly now for the first time. Not accusingly, just sad. It hurt me to see it.

  ‘It wasn’t a game, Cress. Not the way you thought it was. We’re not in some strange kind of Hitchcock-land where I do your murder and you do mine. True, I tried to manipulate you and I failed. You see, I wanted you to kill Manddi for me. You got that bit right. That night in your garden, with the bird. I knew you’d have the guts to go through with it, whereas I never would. You see, we were the opposite way round. You said, how could you kill your mother-in-law if you couldn’t kill a bird. I was thinking, if this was that bitch Manddi it would be easy, but it’s not, it’s an innocent little bird. And suddenly it all seemed such a clever idea—no one would ever suspect.

  ‘So I let you think that I had killed your mother-in-law. I knew what you were planning—like I said before, you weren’t exactly a genius when it came to covering your tracks. And I could see you were up to something that evening, you were so excited, so on edge, and you kept stealing glances at your watch. So I left you waiting in the lobby, went straight out the back way and was soon on my way to Clarice’s. I knew I wouldn’t have to wait long, although in the end, it was a bit longer than I expected.

  ‘I stood in the shrubbery near the house. Sure enough you came sneaking along, all stealthy and ready for action. But you quickly discovered what I already knew—someone else was already there. I watched you go in, but you didn’t come out again. The other person came out—I saw them—but not you. In the end I decided to leave you to it and go back to the Health Spa. Afterwards, I was sorry I hadn’t gone into the house to make sure you were all right. I still feel really bad about that, though at the time of course, I didn’t realise anything was wrong, I thought you were just tidying up the loose ends your beloved Thomas had left behind.’

  Yes, that’s what she said.

  She looked at me with a kind of air of triumph, as though she’d been dying to tell me this for ages—which she probably had—and now she was going to have her big moment. I think she knew she would be able to hurt me more this way.

  But I couldn’t take in what she was saying.

  ‘What?�
�� I asked. I shook my head. As if that would make things clearer. She leaned forward, a huge grin on her hollowed face.

  ‘Thomas.’ She almost laughed as she said it, part glee, part disbelief that I could be so dense. ‘It was Thomas who killed Clarice, you moron. I know you always thought it was me, and for a while it was handy to make use of that, but in fact it was your precious Thomas who smashed his mother’s head in, and obviously, Thomas who tried to smash your head in too. Thomas tried to kill you.’ She smirked at me, watching me carefully with hungry eyes. ‘They say the truth hurts. Does it, Cress, does it really hurt? I certainly hope so. You may be my best friend but you killed my husband and I want you to at least suffer a teeny little bit.’

  But the icy venom in her voice, the carefully modulated rage in her face, the polite, tea-party smile as she said it, none of these things meant anything to me beside the enormity of what she had told me. I felt as though I had been poleaxed.

  I remember groping my way to my feet, stunned, not caring that she was laughing a little tinkly party-laugh, or watching me with triumph, I didn’t care about any of that. All I could do was to think of Thomas. I had to go, to find him, to ask him.

  I don’t remember anything of the drive home—I did it all on automatic pilot, I suppose, as I am here now in one piece, and the car is fine.

  Mrs Hopkins opened the door to me, I remember she seemed surprised to see me as I hadn’t used my key to get in, but had rung the bell and waited to be admitted to my own home. She asked if I was all right, if I needed anything. I remember saying no and just wandering away from her up the stairs. I turned when I got to the top and in a voice that seemed to barely stir the air, I said,

  ‘Is Thomas still out?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Powell,’ she said. She moved forward, put her hand on the stair rail as if to climb the stairs to me. I remember she was looking at me as if she couldn’t understand me. As if we weren’t speaking the same language. ‘Are you sure you’re all right, only…’

  ‘Yes, Mrs H,’ I said. ‘I’m fine. I just need to lie down. Could you please ring Nadina Cooper for me and apologise that we won’t be able to make it this evening. Perhaps you would tell her we will have to cancel due to ill health? Her new number is on the invitation, it’s on Thomas’s desk.’

  And I’ve been lying down ever since, shivering under the bedspread. I must ask him. I wish he would come home. But I dread seeing him. Did he try to kill me? How will he react when I tell him what I know. Suppose he says yes, he wanted me dead. Or perhaps he’ll simply try to laugh it off. I know Monica didn’t give me any proof, and I know she was deliberately trying to hurt me. But in spite of that, I know. In my heart I’m certain of the truth of it.

  I can’t seem to get warm.

  She was telling the truth. I know she was.

  Sun 5 August—2pm

  He came home much later than expected last night, and Mrs H must have been looking out for him, because as soon as I heard him come in the door, I heard the sound of voices and immediately he came bounding up the stairs to see me. He came into the room carefully. With the slightest pressure on the springs, he moved onto the bed slowly and gently, gently and slowly pulled the eiderdown back a bit to lay a kiss on my cheek.

  ‘Poppet? What’s the matter? Not feeling well?’

  I kept my eyes closed. I felt exhausted. A weak tear or two squeezed under my eyelids and ran down onto the pillow and damped my cheek. I was too exhausted to do this now. But, because I had to say something, I gathered what strength I could and spoke, though in a strange, flat voice.

  ‘Monica told me,’ I said. And I knew that whatever I was going to say next would change everything. ‘She saw you that night coming out of the house. You killed your mother.’

  I felt the jolt as he moved, shocked. I opened my eyes. If he hated me, if he wanted me dead, to hide all traces of his guilt, I had to know it now. I had to see it for myself, in his eyes, in his face.

  ‘Then you hit me,’ I said, and my voice broke.

  His face crumpled, he lay down on the bed next to me and gathered me into his arms, and weeping, he begged me to forgive him.

  ‘I panicked, my Darling, I didn’t mean to hurt you, I didn’t even know it was you until it was too late. And I—I simply—panicked. When the police contacted me later that night...Until then I thought there had just been some random burglar in the wrong place at the wrong time and my only thought had been to get out of the house before I got caught.

  ‘But later I was just so afraid of losing you, I couldn’t find the courage to tell you what I’d done. I mean, I specifically chose the weekend you were away so you wouldn’t have any idea what was going on. In case the police found out, or had any suspicions of me, I didn’t want you to be involved. And—I didn’t want you to know what I’d done. This whole time I’ve been so terrified you would find out what I had done and I would lose you!

  ‘I never meant to hurt you, Darling, I swear it. And the whole time you were in hospital I was terrified I was going to lose you. Eventually the doctors told me your injuries weren’t serious, but before that there was a delay before they could be sure, and—and I hated myself for what I did to you, for the terrible risk—that I had almost—yet I didn’t know how to tell you. I hated keeping secrets from you. And you’re always so strong, so organised, so good. Oh God, Cressida, I’m begging you, please forgive me, I don’t know what I’d do without you. I never meant to hurt you, Darling. I’m sorry, so, so sorry.’

  And he sobbed in my arms whilst I stroked his hair and promised him everything would be all right, the weight lifting off my shoulders and floating away and taking my tears with it. As far as I was concerned everything was all right now. My heart sang.

  An hour later, in the darkness, he spoke to me.

  ‘Why were you there? At my mother’s? That night?’

  It seemed he was curious for the first time. Hardly surprising. After all, he knew I hated her as much as he did. And now I felt a wave of relief. I was going to tell him the truth at last. No more secrets. I could tell him all that I’ve thought and done these last few weeks. I reached out to put on the bedside lamp.

  ‘I was going to kill her,’ I said, ‘I was so sick of her interfering in our lives, of her bullying and meanness. That’s why I booked those few days away. I just couldn’t stand it anymore. But I wanted to protect you, to keep you out of it. And then when I got there and Clarice was already dead, well, I was convinced Monica had done it. In fact, she deliberately encouraged me to do just that.’

  ‘Why would she do a thing like that?’

  I was a bit surprised he wasn’t more upset over my confession that I had killed his mother. It gave me the courage to continue.

  ‘She wanted me to do a kind of Strangers on a Train thing, where we did each other’s murders. You know, cross over our murders. So no one would suspect us.’

  ‘And she wanted you to kill…’ he was looking at me expectantly. I took a breath. This was it.

  ‘Manddi. But I cocked it up, as Mrs H would say. Because I thought she wanted Huw dead too—to pay him back for leaving her. She had been so angry and hurt by him. So—I killed him, and I killed Manddi too, and made it look like she killed Huw then herself. And now Monica hates me and wants revenge, blood even. That’s why she told me about you killing Clarice. She wanted to hurt me by telling me it was you who attacked me. She thought I would think you were trying to kill me that night. She thought it would destroy us.’

  He gaped at me, hardly able to take in what I was saying, the enormity of what I’d just confessed to. I was vaguely surprised at how calm I felt, how matter-of-fact about it all. But in reality, I was just too depleted to care very much about anything. I just let myself drift away on a tide of thoughts and images. I knew he’d be shocked to begin with, but after what he’d already confessed to me, I hoped eventually he would come to see things just as I did.

  I slept late this morning and awoke feeling drained and listless. Thomas too see
med subdued. We made hardly any reference to our conversation of last night, apart from a moment when Thomas, clearing his throat a little nervously, as if he was about to broach something that he had been putting off, said,

  ‘Do you think she intends to tell the police? Or will she blackmail us? Monica, I’m talking about.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘To be honest, Sweetheart, I don’t really know what she’s planning anymore. But I do believe her capable of anything.’

  After that we spoke very little, and even during breakfast we were almost silent, just clasping one another’s hands across the table and poking our food around the plate without really consuming any of it. It was all very strange. I felt like there was something enormous hanging over us. I felt like we were marking time.

  Tues 7 August—5.45pm

  We haven’t seen or heard anything from Monica for three days now. At first I was relieved and felt that I could relax for the first time in I don’t know how long. I felt that finally she was coming round to my point of view, that at last she must be seeing sense.

  But now I’ve realised that in fact she hasn’t given up, she is just waiting, out there somewhere, until the most opportune moment. I feel a growing tension and I’m on edge all the time, every little sound making me jump out of my skin. She’s toying with us. Waiting.

  By contrast, Thomas and both the Hopkins’s seem unusually calm and relaxed. With the Hopkins’s, I suppose it’s because their secret is finally out and they have no need to worry about the future and it’s quite clear they are completely happy and at ease now, judging by the number of times I’ve seen Sid wandering round in his vest and Mrs H humming and practically dancing around the kitchen as she prepares some delectable dish. And she is spoiling us. Every meal seems to be her own personal attempt to outdo herself in showing her care and gratitude. Nothing is too much trouble.