Criss Cross

by Caron Allan

  Right then. Give me twenty-four hours to rack my brain and come up with a cunning plan.

  Oh goody, another little project!

  Wed 13 Feb—3.15pm

  Oh dear! Mrs H in floods of tears due to Tetley-versus-Twinkle shrubbery-based conflict. Thank God Sid was here with the garden hose to break things up. Not quite sure who was winning—there seem to be similar quantities of clumps of fur in each of the shades and it’s all over the lower part of the lawn. Sparrows are stealing bits of it to snuggle in around their first clutch of babies. Mrs H has given me fair warning that the peach soufflé will not be up to her usual standard and, in her own words, ‘We might as well get a Mackers in and ‘ave done wiv it.’

  The vet came personally to supervise the recovery of the patient (and how much is that going to cost me? I shudder to even guess.) He declared her to be out of danger but in need of rest and recuperation.

  Aren’t we all?

  Thursday 14 Feb—9.35am

  This morning, before I did anything else, I nipped into the kitchen and enquired about our little convalescent. Then I had to endure ten whole minutes of Mrs H’s descriptions of all the real and imagined symptoms of our battle-scarred feline. I made all the right concerned-sounding noises, and was ‘relieved’ by the vet’s report. Well, not so much the progress report as the fact that his fee turned out to be mercifully lower than I had feared. Finally, as I turned away to go, feeling quite proud of my ability to feign interest in our beastly little memento of Clarice, I caught Sid’s eye and he gave me a broad wink above his tabloid and nearly caused me to laugh out loud and spoil everything! I managed to turn it into a cough at the last moment and then had to fob off Mrs H’s concerned attempts to call me a vet, I mean doctor, too. He’s a cheeky one, that Sid Hopkins.

  Tues 2 April—5.10pm

  I’ve sold the house and we’re getting ready to move!

  I’m surrounded by boxes. If Mrs H is wildly excited, and Mr H is super stressed (don’t know why, it’s my Royal Doulton on the line here), then Son Matt is as relaxed as the April days are long.

  Yes he’s still here. It’s been two and a half months now. For some reason I fondly imagined he would have moved out by now. The idea, as I recall, was for him to come here for a short while until he made other, permanent, away-from-here arrangements and got on his feet a bit, found a job, that sort of thing.

  Not only that, but I suspect he’s coming with us to the new house! As I was going into the kitchen this morning, I’m sure I overheard him, (now known to me, secretly of course, as Hopkins’ Darling) saying something to his parents about how he hopes he’s got a bit more space in his new room at The Beeches as his room here is, and I quote, ‘ardly any bigger than me bleedin’ cell at Wansworf.’

  Bloody cheek!

  So, he was in Wandsworth, was he? Isn’t that a high-security prison?

  What the hell am I going to do? I mean, all this time I’ve been assuming that when I move house, it will be just myself and my two members of staff. I hadn’t expected to be opening a halfway house for ex-cons down on their luck. It really is too bad! How can I get rid of him? I still don’t even know what he was imprisoned for, it could have been absolutely anything! And whenever I see him, which is mercifully rarely, I find myself shaking and horribly intimidated. I’m scared silly and I hate myself for it. Surely this can’t go on much longer?

  I know I should talk to the Hopkins’s, but…I just can’t face it at the moment. I just keep hoping and praying that somehow they’ll just kind of know that it’s time for him to leave. Surely they at least remember this was just supposed to be a temporary arrangement? He must have some friends to turn to? Some old lag? Or some ex-girlfriend? Why doesn’t he go out more? I mean, surely it’s not healthy for a young man of his age—whatever that is—to stay in so much with his aged parents? Why doesn’t he—I don’t know—go to the pub or bingo or something? I feel like a prisoner in my own home. Even though I hardly see him, I feel as though he’s always there, watching me. I’m convinced they tell him about me, what I’m up to, things I’ve said, things about my past, about Thomas. I mean, perhaps they don’t, but somehow I’m convinced they do.

  Same day, a bit later

  Oh My God!!!!

  Now I can’t even walk around what used to be my own home without literally bumping into half-naked ex-prisoners in what used to be my own hallway!

  I just came out of my bedroom to run downstairs for something, and there he was, practically dripping on the carpet, a very inadequate towel wrapped around his waist, and that daft self-satisfied look on his face as I gave a little frightened gasp and a squeak of surprise and then got all flustered and ridiculous because of all that chest on display. I was so embarrassed and he just laughed! And he didn’t even apologise! And what on earth was he doing using one of the upstairs bathrooms anyway? There’s a perfectly—oh yes, the shower isn’t very good in the little bathroom in the attic, and yes, actually, now I think about it, it is very small, and a bit dark, if he wanted to have a shave. Wouldn’t want him to cut his throat, would we?

  But even so, he could have still either forewarned me or taken a bathrobe or a bigger towel or better yet a full set of clothes, or…or something! Why did he have to let me bump into him? Why did he have to emerge at that precise moment? And there are plenty of much larger towels in the house!

  Could he have possibly engineered it? Surely he wouldn’t, would he? What could he possibly have to gain from it? Apart from exposing himself to me, that is? Or undermining my confidence? Shall have to ask Monica about it.

  Another dinner out this evening with Monica. As I haven’t felt like writing any journal entries for a couple of months, I should just say she and I have seen each other at least twice a week since that first time, plus we often go to parties and events together. ‘The Two Merry Widows’, as Nadina called us a few weeks ago at her bash, though she didn’t know I’d heard her, but even so…I wanted to rip her face off!

  I haven’t actually done anything about getting rid of Monica other than to daydream happily about it. Still don’t even know if we’ve got any Ethylene Glycol, let alone managed to figure out how to deploy it.

  But Monica’s getting so clingy of late. She doesn’t want me to move, and all the time it’s ‘Let’s do such and such – before you move’. That phrase is constantly on her tongue—before you move. Before you bloody move. We’ve got to do everything before I move. I mean, it’s not like I’m going to Australia (I’m beginning to wish I were) It’s only bloody Stow-on-the-Wold. It’s as if she thinks she’ll never see me again. I wish! She’s getting on my nerves! But I’m desperately hoping I’m not letting her see that. I want everyone, including Monica herself, to feel that the two of us are on the very best of terms—for future necessity.

  Oh, must stop, Mrs H needs me.

  Same day: 00.45am

  Anyway, all through dinner, I was thinking how easy it would be to slip a little drop of the ‘good stuff’ into her drink, into her sauce, or even into her dessert coulis. Especially as she’d already had a skinful. I can’t believe how much that woman drinks. Like the proverbial carp. Or a salmon, drinking her way upstream only to flap about and gasp and die in the shallows. And we were in a quiet part of the restaurant (I really did wonder if the waiter thought Monica and I were a couple, he put us in such a lovely dim, romantic spot, the old softie). When she went to the loo (twice) I could have easily enhanced her food slash drink with a drop of something from a special little bottle in my bag.

  She wouldn’t have noticed, I’m absolutely certain. I mean, the waiter brought a second bottle of wine to the table at Monica’s own request as we were about to tuck into our entrées, and she was already slurring then, and trying to be funny, saying ‘An exchellent vintage, my good man, thish ish the best sherry I’ve ever tashted.’ And he pointed out it was exactly the same wine as the bottle of white she’d already drunk, to which she replied ‘Thash worr I mean,’ and she hooted like the Queen Ma
ry at that. She’d had at least four G & Ts (with almost no T) waiting for me, then three glasses of white wine to my one, all on an empty stomach. The woman’s a total lush.

  And of course, if ‘after the fact’, the police asked me about our meal, I could say that she’d had a lot to drink, that we were very close friends, that she’d wanted to be more than just friends (hence romantic table in a dark corner at her request), and that she was depressed and upset about my moving out of the area and my unfortunate but unequivocal rejection of her romantic advances. I could then say that, ‘To tell you the truth, officer, my main reason for moving away is to avoid the difficult situation, to whit, the strain her increased desire for intimacy is placing on our long-standing friendship, added to her possessiveness. She’s making me feel uncomfortable.

  ‘Not only that but I’ve noticed how much alcohol she has been consuming, which can’t be good for someone on so many antidepressants slash antipsychotics. And when I took her home after our dinner, as she had to leave her car behind at the restaurant due to being under the influence of a considerable amount of alcohol, she became…’ (and here I would delicately avoid becoming unladylike and graphic) ‘upset and—a teeny bit difficult when I refused to stay the night. She started to cry and beg and to say how much she loved me, and it was all very uncomfortable. I assured her we would always be friends and when I tried to leave, she started to cry and cling again. Of course, I felt uncomfortable leaving her, but, well, one didn’t for one moment think she was so desperate as to take her own life, one simply thought she’d wake up in the morning feeling embarrassed and with a frightful hangover. Poor, sad Monica, how tragic! Do you think she did it with her sleeping pills, or the medication she takes for her mental disorder?’

  Feel so much better now! I wonder how much antifreeze you need to kill someone? Must Google it. I could probably put it into an old perfume bottle and put it in my bag without any real difficulty (unless of course you do need a pint or so of the stuff in which case, I’d probably need a rucksack, which might look a tad out of place with high heels and an up-do). Then if anyone should see me with the bottle in my hand, I could just say I was having a little spritz of scent whilst Monica trotted off to the ladies’ because—how embarrassing! I’d just realised I’d forgotten to put some perfume on—and I didn’t want her to think I was depressed and un-self-caring following the recent death of my husband, as I knew she’d worry. And I could say I waited until she went to the loo so that she wouldn’t see it as a sign I was ready to move on…oh dear…and then at this point I could become upset again and incoherent with emotion.

  Well, if I were a police officer, I’d be convinced!

  Same day: 1.30am

  Wow, I’ve just been looking on the internet and it looks like quite a small amount of this stuff is a fatal dose. I’m quite impressed actually, the stuff has really gone up in my estimation, it’s absolutely lethal! So long as you don’t use the more modern, kinder-to-the-environment-and-you organic stuff. I need to find some grotty old back street place with low moral fibre as well as cheap deals on car stuff.

  I’m so excited! I haven’t felt this good in months! I can’t wait to start on my new project. And I will have to really crack on with it as we are moving in just 11 days! I’d better invite Monica along to a couple more ‘before I move’ events. I know, I’ll tell her there’s a late frost due and I want to protect my car engine, something like that. I might even be able to get her to handle the bottle or something, make it look more convincing than leaving a bottle wiped completely clean of prints in her garage. That always arouses suspicions.

  Right. First thing tomorrow (or today, really I suppose it will be) I’ll have a little nose around in our garage. I’ll pretend I’m chucking out old stuff we don’t need to take with us when we move, or I’m concerned about chemical spillage in the removal lorry, something like that. Then, if we’ve got any, especially if the bottle’s old and a bit grotty, it’s all local colour as far as the police will be concerned. And that will save me the bother of having to do any actual procuring of the poison.

  Though of course, there’s something to be said for the idea that, feeling depressed, Monica went out specifically to buy a product to help her make away with herself. But how likely is it she’d choose anti-freeze? I mean, surely she’d be more likely to choose sleeping pills rather than a product with really messy side-effects?

  And also, how would she know in advance that she was going to be depressed after I’d turned her down and gone home, leaving her to her misery? I have to say, this killing people lark leaves a lot of I’s to dot and T’s to cross. There is just so much to take into consideration.

  Hmm. Spur of the moment or planned suicide? A tough choice.

  Will sleep on it. Feel like I will have a really lovely refreshing sleep now that I’ve got something interesting and fun to muse on.

  Thurs 4 April—2.40pm

  Feel ridiculously fluttery and pathetic. And quite cross, though I’m not sure if I’m cross with him or with myself for being embarrassed etc. Bloody hell!

  I bumped into Junior coming out of the garage with no shirt on (it’s only the first week of April for God’s sake! Why can’t he wrap up warm like the rest of the world?) and of course I was rendered totally stupid by all that bare male flesh (again!) and he knew it too, the Bastard, he just grinned at me in that stupid God’s-gift kind of way he has and I felt myself blushing like a school-girl and couldn’t remember what I’d gone out there for—and then, when I did remember, I was completely flustered because obviously when I remembered, I couldn’t just say, oh yes, I came out to see if we’ve enough anti-freeze on hand, as I want to kill my friend with it, so then I just had to turn on my heel and go back into the house, and I’m absolutely certain I heard him laughing to himself. Hateful man. Why the hell is he still here? And why haven’t I got the balls to tell him to get out? Well. To be honest I mainly haven’t got the balls because his mother is such a divine cook and an excellent housekeeper. And his father will drive me anywhere I want to go at any time I choose to go there. But that’s all beside the point.

  Same day: 5.15pm

  Anyway, I’ve now managed to sort out my hormones sufficiently to get past Junior and into my own garage, and I can’t believe my luck, I’ve found exactly what I wanted: a bashed about grotty can that looks about fifty years old and is only half full or so; it’s even got a little skull and crossbones design on it with a warning about the dangers of misuse. How thoughtful!

  I’ve arranged to see Monica for the pictures and supper at her place this evening—gave her a lot of guff about not wanting to inconvenience Mrs H as she’s up to her ears in packing up my Royal Doulton and fussing over the cat, and Monica said all sweetly, well would I like to pop back to hers afterwards for a night-cap slash snackette and so of course I said, all surprised and pleased, well yes, that would be really lovely if she was sure she didn’t mind and she was absolutely not to go to any trouble…

  Tee Hee. I’m on a high, I can’t believe how nicely it’s all falling into place.

  Pity we couldn’t just skip straight to the anti-freeze soup but I suppose one must build up to these things. So another bloody film to endure with Her Hitchcockness. I suppose it’s the least I could do for my best pal! And it is her big send-off, after all.

  I’ve got a Gucci perfume bottle that is almost empty, and as I’m ready to sacrifice the last precious drops (and as I’ve already got about another three bottles of the same one) to the cause so I’m going to swill it out and half-fill it with you-know-what and add a drop of pink food colouring just to make it look a bit more like something other than what it is, if you see what I mean, after all a can of anti-freeze in my shoulder bag would look a tad odd even in our enlightened times.

  Bottoms up!

  Same day: 11.55pm

  What a bloody disaster! I can’t believe that selfish cow is still alive and kicking, it’s so fucking unfair!!!

  Well, I sat through the wor
st film I have ever seen (Lost in Translation x The English Patient = This Evening’s Tedious Offering!!!) It was about absolutely nothing, nothing happened and it took almost two and a half hours for it to not happen. Critically acclaimed my arse.

  So I wasn’t in the best of moods, and I’d be the first to admit I may have been a bit snippy with her—moaned about how she’d said she was taking me to see something good, etc, and then we went back to hers as planned, but both a bit snotty with each other by this time, and I was half-inclined to bin the whole idea and reschedule, but then I thought of all the fun I’d had planning it and all the trouble I’d gone to, so I thought I might as well go ahead with it, and tried to be extra-nice to Monica to make up for it.

  So we got ourselves comfy in the den and she left me to sort out drinks and she pootled off to the kitchen to drum up a bit of food. Only when she came back it was all dim-sum and that sort of dry finger food, nothing you could slosh a bit of anti-freeze into without anyone noticing.

  But I didn’t despair, because I thought I would simply stick it in the drink once she’d had a few of her usuals. Only she wandered off with her drink and chucked it down the sink and came back with a nice lemon tea, said she fancied a change and was trying to lose a few pounds, and would I like to try some?

  It was all a bit frustrating.

  Like she needs to lose any weight, if anything she could do with gaining about 10 pounds, the bony cow.

  So anyway, I went to the loo, came back and she’d got me a fresh voddie, but this time she’d put it in a bright blue glass, said she’d dropped the old one and smashed it, and wasn’t she an idiot. All a bit odd, I thought, but nothing to trigger any alarm bells.