Criss Cross

by Caron Allan

  The way I’m feeling, any place is better than where I live now, with all those things he said, he did, all those looks, embraces, I can’t bear the empty intimacy of the house anymore. I believe sometimes people say that the memories keep them going, that they are healing and consoling—but that’s not been my own experience. I’m haunted, not by a spirit or a ghost, just by the happiness we once had. I have to get away from there and try to fix myself.

  Of course, I could live in a hotel all my life. There’s something to be said for that—blank impersonal rooms, no emotional investment required, very little space so no chance to accumulate all the ‘stuff’ we humans acquire these days—no personal belongings, nothing that ties you to a place, no baggage, no demands. It’s wonderful just for a few days to be simply me, in the here and now, no past, no future, no pain or memories, just to relax and be at peace for this short while.

  But it can’t last, of course. The real world drags you back and insists you keep company with all those memories and experiences and ghosts that hurt and haunt you and leave you feeling broken. But at least that way you know you’re alive. If that’s a good thing. And I’m not too sure any more that it is.

  Wed 23 January—10.30pm

  I met Matt today. I don’t know quite what I was expecting. I came back from shopping (bought some ab-so-bally-lute-ley amazing shoes!!!) to find Mr and Mrs Hopkins in the kitchen, Mrs H making yet another of her endless pots of tea, and there he was sitting at my kitchen table, perfectly relaxed, as if he’d lived here all his life, chatting away to his parents and just giving me a wave and a wink as I came in, and saying something along the lines of ‘Alright Darlin’?’

  Congratulations, I thought to myself, it’s a boy!

  Their son and heir. As I say, I’m not too sure what I was expecting, and I know I said he could stay with us for a short while, but even so I was still a little surprised. I mean, he’s exactly like his father must have been thirty years ago—big but not fat, good-looking if you like that sort of thing, and a bit of a bad ‘un, I’m absolutely certain.

  Well, I was definitely expecting prison pallor, not the tanned, healthy look of him, and he’s obviously been allowed to keep himself fit whilst detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure. His hair, although not cut according to any truly gentlemanly style, was at least in keeping with the type one sees on the high street (usually outside pubs and betting shops), and moreover, I have to grudgingly admit, it was recognisably a style, not just an all-too-obvious snip around a pudding basin with a pair of nail scissors.

  His clothes were modern, not really terribly tasteful, but clearly from the higher end of the high street chain-store range, and worn with an undeniably cocky flair. But at least he doesn’t wear his jeans halfway down his thighs, causing him to waddle like a duck as in so many men today and revealing far too much boxer-short.

  Mrs H made me some tea, introductions were made and as I made my hasty exit, massaging my crunched fingers from his handshake, I distinctly heard him say something about me being ‘not bad, not bad at all’. Charmed, I’m sure.

  Well I only hope he makes himself useful whilst he’s here, perhaps he could do some of the things that a man of Mr H’s advancing years oughtn’t to do. That might at least help to rebuild some of the self-respect he’s probably missing behind that ill-constructed mask of arrogance. I know he’s their son, and they’ve been terribly good to me, but I don’t think I’m going to like him—in fact I already don’t like him—so I’m desperately hoping he won’t stay long. Unfortunately, I don’t think I actually gave a specific time frame for his rehabilitation and moving out into the wider world. Blast!

  I’m actually a little bit nervous about having him here in my house. Matt, I mean, obviously. I mean, I suppose it’s normal to have concerns as I don’t know him yet, and what little I’ve seen and heard of him hasn’t exactly inspired my confidence—he has just come out of prison, for God’s sake!

  I wish I knew what he’d been in for.

  Saw Monica yesterday afternoon. It was a bit of a surprise, I hadn’t heard from her in absolutely ages which I had been glad about, but Mrs H had already told her I was ‘in’ so I wasn’t really able to get out of it.

  She apologised for coming round without phoning first, but said she wouldn’t stay long, she’d only wanted to stop by to say how sorry she was, she’s been getting some therapy or something, and she had come to realise the shocking reality of her actions, that she had been told by her therapist that she’d had a breakdown and couldn’t be held accountable for her what she’d done but had to accept it and make amends if possible. As I was about to protest, because I just couldn’t hold back when she said that, she said yes, she knew that it was wrong to make excuses.

  ‘I know now that nothing could ever excuse the misery and the torment I put you through,’ she said, adding, ‘I know you can never forgive me or view me as your friend again, but it’s important to my own healing to face you as my victim with an admission of guilt and regret. And so, Cressida, I just want to say I’m sorry.’

  What can you say to something like that? And it did make me feel just a teeny bit bad about killing Huw and his girlfriend—what’s her name? Molli? Sanddi? But I decided it was pointless to make a fuss—I mean, I can’t bring them back. And even if I could, he would still be with his new girlfriend and not with Monica, so that wouldn’t be any better, would it? Monica would just be miserable again and at least she’s apparently now got the money from the sale of the house, so she’s not exactly strapped. In fact she should be quite comfy for the rest of her life, as long as she doesn’t spend it all on daft therapies, of course.

  I didn’t exactly appreciate her coming round or the nice things she said about Thomas, but I suppose it was good to see her looking better. She said it would be lovely to have me round to her new place for coffee like in the old days, and I murmured something along the lines of, yes, I’ve missed it too, then she gave me a quick hard hug and left. Really lovely flowers though. But I must say, it’s all left me a bit on edge and upset. I didn’t think I’d ever see her again. If anything it sounds like she’s living even closer to me than before. And now it seems she wants to be friends again. It’s completely insane.

  As if I haven’t got enough to deal with at the moment with Junior.

  Would anyone notice if I locked my bedroom door at night, do you think?

  What if he was in for breaking and entering?

  Or rape?

  Thurs 24 January—11.00am

  Just heard from Mr Lavish the agent that the Beeches (as in Mr and Mrs Beech; très bizarre, I’d thought the house was named after the trees. Surely it should be Beechs?) have accepted my offer. In fact he indicated in his rather polite and hinting manner that they pretty much took his hand off for it. I‘ve been onto my solicitor and told him to sort things out asap, I don’t want to hang about, I can’t stand the thought of being here any longer than I have to. I’ve just got to get away.

  So I went into the kitchen to hand over the good news to the many Hopkins in the place, and Mrs H was ecstatic and came and hugged me before jumping back almost immediately and apologising, and ‘Her Sid’ came over and shook my hand a little shyly for him and said he was ‘right pleased’ for me, and ‘Our Matt’ just nodded and smiled and said nothing, just looked at me in that way he does that makes me feel prickly, like I need to take an anti-histamine. I left Mrs H to sort out the details about removal firms and so on, and came up here to lock myself in my ensuite bathroom. I notice she can’t take her eyes off her precious son. Neither of them can. I wish he’d leave.

  Same day—10.15pm

  I feel sick. I want to cry and never stop. Don’t know what’s the matter with me. I just want to hide away and not see anyone or speak to them.

  Mrs Hopkins just came up and knocked on my door. She asked if I was all right. I managed to pull myself together enough to tell her with a little laugh that of course I was all right, never better, just a little tired, and t
hat I fancied a soak in the bath to relax.

  I turned the taps on and heard a tiny movement which meant she had gone away. The steam filled the room till I could hardly see, and under the cover of the sound of the water, I sat on the carpet and sobbed into a towel, then I felt exhausted and cold and dragged myself into the bath to try to get warm.

  What’s wrong with me? Have I got whatever syndrome or disorder Monica has got? I feel so angry, but I don’t want to shout or punch anyone, I just want to cry, curled up in a little ball in a dark quiet corner.

  I just need this move to take place as soon as possible so I can get away from all these ghosts that whisper about me constantly. But at the same time, the thought of leaving here scares me. Going somewhere new. People asking me if I’m married or ‘with’ someone. Having to keep explaining, seeing that look in their eyes, pity and at the same time a sense of delight that they’ve found something salacious to tell their friends and family when they get back home, ‘You’ll never guess what!’

  I want to hide. I don’t want to be on show, there for everyone to comment on, speculate on, saying, ‘Isn’t it awful?’ with that look of greedy pleasure on their faces as they try to consume my grief, my loneliness. But I’ve got to pull myself together, I can’t stay in here like this, or the Hopkins’s will be banging the door down and that son of theirs will be looking at me with his cheeky-lad look and saying ‘Alright Darlin’?’

  On impulse I rang to invite myself round to Monica for a coffee some time. As soon as I began to dial her number, I regretted the impulse, but luckily for me she wasn’t home.

  Had dinner in my room this evening, listening to sad old blues songs on my ipod and staring out at the rain running down the black windows.

  Fri 25 January—9.45am

  Oh God. I knew it was a mistake to call Monica last night. Now I’ve got to go for coffee one evening next week. She saw my number on her ‘while you were out’ bit on her phone, and of course she simply had to call me back, the bitch. Why can’t she just erase her messages unanswered like normal people? I was just about to get into the car, Sid was taking me to the station to get the 11.30 train up to Jess and Murdo’s for the weekend, and I was already feeling horribly overwhelmed and stressed about that.

  Same day: 1.15pm

  Why do people always chew so loudly on the train? There’s a quiet carriage in the middle of the train for people who don’t want to listen to other people’s phone conversations or music. But are there are any rules about chewing? No! I can hear that woman with her bloody bag of toffees six seats down the carriage.

  Had quite a nice cup of railway coffee to go with Mrs Sid’s sandwiches. I’ve listened to all my music and now I’m starting a new book. Feeling a bit more relaxed now that the chewing person has got off. But I’m trying to pretend to myself that nothing awful is going to happen at Jess’s, that it will be a nice, relaxing and happy time, though secretly I’m dreading it. At least it’s only for a few days.

  Wed 30 January—3.15pm

  Monica’s tonight—and I’m desperately nervous.

  Just got back from Jess and Murdo’s last night after a gruelling and not quite great long weekend. It was better than I’d expected so I suppose that’s a good thing, but I felt awkward, it just wasn’t quite the same as being there with Thomas.

  They made me so welcome, and Jess fussed over me like a mother hen, but I just couldn’t seem to assert myself, plus the journey itself really knocked me for six—next time I must take Sid up on his offer to drive me all the way. Anyway, I did it, so that might lay ghosts to rest a bit—maybe my next trip up there will be more relaxed and less like gazing into the past.

  But I was so exhausted I just fell into bed last night. Then I slept late this morning, and I’d half-forgotten about Junior until I bumped into him when I was having a little potter in the garden. He smirked at me and said ‘Wotcha,’ I believe it was, which I believe means ‘Good morning,’ or something very similar. I’m probably being a bit mean, I suppose he can’t help being common and a jailbird. He then said, ‘I expect you’re glad to be ‘ome?’ I said yes, but then I know I was a bit rude, I just turned away and went back indoors and shut the door on him.

  Then I’ve spent an hour going through papers from the solicitor about the house purchase, and other post. And only then did I remember, when Mrs Sid brought me some lunch and asked what time I’d like dinner, that I was due to go to Monica’s this evening for coffee, and since then I’ve been alternately planning on cancelling and telling myself it’ll be nice. But I’m so nervous.

  Oh it’ll be all right. Won’t it? I mean I’ve got to face her sometime, and this will return her call to me in a relatively painless way and then no one can say it’s my fault we’re not still friends.

  It’s just coffee, for God’s sake, it’s not like I’m going to Chapley’s with her.

  Later same day: 8.20pm

  Fortunately I haven’t seen as much of Junior as I’d feared. I think he went out just after I saw him in the garden. Perhaps he’s found a nice flat or bedsit or something. Or a job. Then he could move out, have his freedom, be independent, his own boss, and I could stop worrying about what to tell the Hs when they find out I’ve started locking my bedroom door.

  Had a nice dinner in the little sitting room upstairs on a tray in front of a re-run of Inspector Morse. V pleasant. Now I’m just going to fling on a nice top and some decent jeans and pop round to Monica’s. My stomach churns at the thought of it, but I suppose it’ll be okay. At least the Hopkins’ know where I am so if I don’t come home this evening, they’ll know where to tell the police to find my corpse.

  Same day: 1.10am

  I’m so glad I went.

  I’ve been round there four hours—a long coffee! But it didn’t feel long at all, the time just flew by, and when I left, I saw she had tears in her eyes as she thanked me for coming, and I said that it was my pleasure and was a bit surprised to find that I really meant it. I said, we must do things together more often, go out perhaps, being single isn’t easy for anyone these days.

  She’d bought some gorgeous mini Florentines and little buttery melt-in-the-mouth biscuits, got fresh flowers on the little side tables, chilled some wine ‘just in case’, and the whole place was full of the delicious scent of filtering coffee when I got there.

  It was a little bit awkward at first, which was only to be expected, but then things warmed up and we talked and laughed and she told me about her therapy, and had a little weep, and of course there was the coffee and the accompaniments, and it was all very civilised. I was able to thoroughly relax and enjoy myself, and I think—I hope—she enjoyed the evening too.

  And I really learned something about myself this evening. Something which surprised me a little, and pleased me too.

  I learned that after everything I’ve been through, everything she’s been through, after all that’s passed between us, I discovered that I could sit there and smile and chat and laugh and eat her Florentines and drink her lovely crisp wine and her deep and rich coffee, that I could sit and enjoy her hospitality and sparkle. And all the time be thinking how much I hate her and of the best way to kill her!

  It was wonderful, actually, because as I say, I was there for four hours, more or less, and I really had a great time planning how to do it. That laughing bitch, chatting oh-so-candidly about her therapy, about her regrets: she killed my Thomas. I will never, never, ever forgive her for taking him from me. I hope she burns in hell. Sooner rather than later, if I have anything to do with it.

  Hmm, burning. That’s an idea. Must start some serious planning. It will have to be soon, because of course, once I move, it will be so much further to come, and so much less convenient.

  But no, not burning. I hate the smell of anything charring, and burning flesh would be simply too much. I’ve already done a spot of research—this is my chosen medium—Ethylene Glycol.

  Ethylene glycol is a good one, because it’s basically the active ingredient
in anti-freeze, screen wash and numerous other household chemicals, cheap, easy to use and readily obtainable. Perfect!

  According to the Crime Channel on the TV, it’s sweet to the taste, and although it’s usually coloured light blue or a greeny blue when in its ‘official’ form, it can be insinuated into soups, beverages, jellies, or other desserts and is very difficult to detect as the initial symptoms resemble the onset of a flu or a nasty tummy bug (very nasty!). It’s also the kind of thing that can be found in almost anyone’s shed or garage without arousing suspicion; it’s a perfectly normal thing to have sitting around forgotten on a shelf. Usually administered by a loving spouse in some specially prepared dish, I can’t think of a single reason why I shouldn’t use it on Monica. I’ve been thinking about this for quite a while.

  But I need to think a bit longer about this, work out the details. Obviously I want it to look like either an accident or suicide. I don’t want to fall under the least amount of suspicion. Obviously!

  Hmm.

  I wonder what he was in prison for? Do you think I could ask? Would it be a bit rude? Or just in really bad taste?

  But what if he knows some interesting ways of disposing of bodies or obtaining weapons? What if he knows someone who knows someone who would ‘get rid’ of a person, any person, no one in particular, for a pre-agreed sum of money, no questions asked?

  Tempting. It would be so easy for me, so convenient. But then I wouldn’t have the satisfaction of watching the light die in her eyes as she drew her last breath, and it is very important to me to have some kind of closure, so reluctantly, I think I’m going to have to do the job myself rather than outsourcing.