The Birthday Girl

by Sue Fortin

  ‘And we need to find our phones or that radio, so we can get help,’ says Andrea.

  ‘Agreed.’ Zoe moves to the dining-room door. ‘I’ll get the duvet cover from Joanne’s bed. We can wrap her in that.’ She pauses in the doorway and looks at us. None of us say anything. I am sure we are all thinking the same. This is a godawful situation and we are making decisions and carrying them out in an almost businesslike way.

  ‘It will be OK,’ I say softly. ‘We’ve got to stay strong and get through this. Extreme situations force people to take extreme actions. But it will be OK. I promise.’

  Zoe presses her lips together and gives a small nod before leaving the room.

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ says Andrea.

  Outside, the air is damp from the mist and tiny droplets of moisture form on my clothes and hair. As we round the corner of the croft, the scent of pine needles, combined with an earthy smell of damp grass, drifts down.

  I brace myself to see Joanne’s body again. I look at the others and we exchange silent nods.

  Joanne is exactly how we left her. I don’t know what I was expecting. Maybe somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I had hoped it was some sort of group hallucination or another of her clever but cruel jokes, but there’s no escaping the fact this is real.

  ‘Lay the duvet as close as possible to Joanne,’ I instruct. ‘One of you take her legs and I’ll lift her arms.’

  ‘I don’t think I can,’ says Zoe. She takes a step back, the bedding still bundled in her arms.

  Andrea pulls the cover from her. ‘I’ll do it.’ She spreads the duvet out and I’m relieved that Andrea seems to be over the shock and back to her usual no-nonsense self. I don’t think I’d be able to do this if both of them were flaky. I’m not exactly relishing the prospect of moving the body myself, but I know it must be done.

  I manoeuvre myself behind Joanne’s head and the inside of the porch. All I have to do is to pretend she is sleeping and not to think of her as anything else. I bend down and force myself to put my hands under the arms. Andrea takes the legs. Joanne’s body is still supple, rigor mortis hasn’t yet set in, so it is easy enough for us to move her.

  We lift her swiftly on to the duvet. I place Joanne’s arms by her sides and we fold the duvet over her.

  ‘Sorry. Sorry, Joanne.’ I can feel the tears building up in my eyes and my nose begins to run. I fumble in my pocket for a tissue to wipe my face.

  ‘We need to get her into the shed,’ says Andrea.

  ‘I’ll get the door open,’ says Zoe. She has the torch and heads off to the end of the patio and nips across the grass. She rattles the door. ‘Bugger. It’s locked.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’ says Andrea.

  ‘It’s actually padlocked,’ Zoe calls.

  ‘I saw a key hanging up by the back door,’ I say. ‘Wait here, I’ll get it.’

  I sprint round to the front of the croft. The mist is thicker now and the trees and bushes have been reduced to shady outlines. I hurry indoors and grab the key from the hook. On closer inspection, it doesn’t look like a padlock key and I’m dubious as to whether it will unlock the shed.

  Deciding that I will break the shed door down if it comes to it, I look around for something that I can use as leverage against the lock. I take the wooden broom and, as an afterthought, grab the iron that is sitting in a cradle on the back of the door.

  ‘What the hell have you got an iron for?’ asks Andrea as I reappear next to them at the shed.

  ‘Makeshift hammer, in case I have to smash the lock. Don’t worry, I’ll buy the owners a replacement.’

  ‘That’s the least of our worries,’ says Andrea.

  I’m right in my assumption that the key I’ve brought won’t fit the padlock. It’s too big for a start and looks more old-fashioned than the relatively new padlock on the shed. I don’t have time to work out which lock it will open, so I shove it into my jacket pocket.

  ‘Shine the torch closer,’ I instruct Zoe.

  The padlock is holding a metal plate across the door. It hasn’t been fitted that well and there is a certain amount of slack between the door and the frame. I succeed in wedging the broom handle behind the metal plate and try to jemmy the door open. There’s a cracking sound and something gives. I pull harder on the broom handle. Suddenly there is a splintering noise and I can see the screws on the plate begin to loosen, but the handle of the broom snaps and I’m sent flying backwards.

  ‘The iron it is,’ I say, getting to my feet and picking it up. I smash the iron down hard on the edge of the metal plate where the screws have worked loose. It takes several attempts but finally the force and weight of the iron smashes the screws from the wood. ‘Bingo!’

  We all peer inside the shed from the doorway. Zoe shines the torch around. The shed is about six by four feet and, from what I can see, houses a few old garden tools, a hosepipe and a couple of bits of old furniture: a dining chair and a chest of drawers. On one side is a shelf which is mostly filled with plastic plant pots and old hand tools that look like they should be in a museum.

  ‘What’s that?’ says Zoe, resting the torch beam on the shelf, illuminating a rectangular black box with dials on the front.

  ‘It’s a bloody radio!’ says Andrea. ‘What the hell is that doing out here?’ She steps inside and lifts the set down. A coiled wire with a handset on the end yo-yos up and down.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ says Zoe. ‘We can contact someone now. Assuming it works, that is.’

  ‘And assuming we know how to work it,’ I say, tamping down my relief, not wanting to get carried away with any thoughts of an imminent rescue.

  ‘Oh wait, I saw some sort of instruction sheet in Joanne’s room,’ says Zoe. ‘It was in the drawer with that notebook. I didn’t think anything of it. I’ll get it when we go in.’

  My relief increases. This is our lifeline to the outside world. Imminent rescue suddenly seems a real possibility. ‘Let’s move Joanne in here,’ I say, feeling energised by our good fortune.

  It is harder to move Joanne now she is swaddled in the heavy duvet, but at the same time, it is easier mentally as I can no longer see her face. The definition of her body and limbs is also less obvious. Andrea takes the legs and as I hold the upper part of the body, we shuffle our way over to the shed. Zoe is standing behind us, shining the torch into the dark recesses of the outbuilding.

  Carefully, we rest Joanne’s body on the shed floor and I take a few moments to arrange the quilt so that she is properly covered and looks to be in a comfortable and respectful position. I acknowledge this is a ludicrous notion, but it’s important to me that we are deferential to our friend, even in death.

  Confident that we have done everything we can, we close the shed door. Gathering several of the small rocks that are scattered around the edge of the garden, we pile them against the door to keep it shut.

  Inside the croft, I notice Andrea double-checking the doors are locked and watch as she goes around closing all the curtains. The fire has died down and she pops another log on the dancing flames. ‘We need to see if we can get that radio working,’ she says.

  Zoe has put the radio on the chest in the middle of the living room and hurries upstairs to fetch the instructions.

  ‘I’m going to nip to the loo,’ I say. ‘Why don’t you put the kettle on.’

  ‘Kettle be buggered,’ says Andrea, standing up and walking out of the room. ‘I’m having something stronger than tea.’

  I head upstairs to the sound of glasses being picked out of the cupboard and guess Andrea is pouring us all a vodka. It doesn’t seem like a bad idea. I’m not sure how I’m going to sleep tonight. I can’t stop thinking about Joanne’s wide-open eyes staring up at me and the weight of her body in the duvet as we hauled her into the shed.

  As I open the bathroom door, I glance across the stairwell towards Joanne’s room. The door is half-open but I can’t see in. Hopefully, Zoe has found the radio instructions and within a few hours the
police will be here. Morning at the latest.

  When I come out of the bathroom, I take the opportunity to change out of my damp clothes and pull on a fresh T-shirt and jogging-bottoms, along with a zip-up hoody. My bed looks so inviting, I could sink into it right now. My arms and legs feel heavy but I know if I were to lie down now, I wouldn’t be able to get up again. All that abseiling, kayaking and lifting Joanne, has taken its toll; my limbs ache and my back protests every time I lean forward.

  My mind, however, has other ideas and even if I did rest my weary body, I know my brain will be jumping all over the place and I won’t get any sleep. I consider taking one of my pills, but find myself hankering after something stronger. Maybe the vodka will help me sleep later. I need something to keep the awful images of Joanne at bay. I can’t allow myself to visit these thoughts, as I know I’ll go to pieces.

  In the living room, I take the vodka that Andrea offers and sit down on the sofa beside her. The radio-set is in front of us. ‘It’s a CB radio,’ I say. There is a dial on the right-hand side of the face, bigger than the others with a square screen above it. There is an array of dials and switches, many of them labelled: dimmer, MIC gain, volume and talk back. On the left is another, smaller screen with a dial and a needle. On the side is a coiled cable, like the old-fashioned telephone wires, with a square handset attached to the other end.

  ‘I don’t suppose you know how one of these works?’ asks Andrea.

  ‘Nope. The only thing I know is you say “breaker-breaker”.’ It’s a feeble attempt at humour, one which neither of us finds amusing.

  ‘What’s taking Zoe so long?’ asks Andrea, giving the hallway a glance before returning her attention to the CB. She reaches around the back and picks up two long black cables. One has a connection at the end not dissimilar to a phone charger for a car and the other has a normal plug. ‘I guess this must plug in somewhere.’

  ‘Maybe in the kitchen?’ I suggest.

  We take the CB radio through to the kitchen and look around for a socket.

  ‘Over there,’ says Andrea, pointing to the skirting board near the door where a phone socket and a regular power point are. ‘Here, pass me the wire.’

  I place the set on the worktop and Andrea stretches the wires across the kitchen to the sockets. I switch the power dial on and a little red light glows as the sound of static fills the room. ‘Looks like we have power,’ I say, smiling for the first time this afternoon.

  ‘Don’t get too excited,’ says Zoe, standing in the doorway of the kitchen. She holds out her empty hands. ‘I can’t find those instructions anywhere. They’re gone.’

  ‘What do you mean, gone?’ asks Andrea, standing up.

  I note the look of tension on Zoe’s face. ‘Exactly what I say. They’re not there. Gone. Vanished.’

  ‘They can’t have vanished.’ Andrea turns the volume down and the static crackle fades out.

  Zoe places her hands on her hips and looks directly at Andrea. ‘Well, I’m telling you they have.’

  The tension in the room fizzes like a broken electrical cable flipping wildly from side to side. We all stand there looking at each other and, I suspect, wondering the same thing. Which one of us has moved the instructions, and why?

  Andrea speaks first. ‘Are you absolutely sure that what you saw earlier were the instructions for the CB?’

  ‘Pretty sure. I didn’t read them in detail, I only skimmed a few pages. But whatever it was I saw, it’s now gone.’

  ‘You definitely didn’t move them earlier?’ I ask.

  ‘No. I was fascinated with the notebook and its contents. I didn’t even take the instructions out of the drawer.’

  ‘Then one of us must have,’ I say, although in reality, I acknowledge that it can only be Andrea who has moved them. Zoe wouldn’t say they were there and then pretend she couldn’t find them if she didn’t want us to see them. I certainly haven’t moved them, so logically, Andrea has.

  ‘Oh, this is ridiculous,’ says Andrea. ‘You must have scooped them up by mistake. Not realised. Anyway, we haven’t got time to debate this. Our priority is to get this radio working.’ She turns her attention to the rig. ‘It can’t be that difficult.’ She switches it on again and, as before, the sound of a million twigs being snapped swamps the room.

  ‘Try turning this dial here,’ I suggest. ‘It looks like a tuner. There must be different wavelengths to choose from.’

  Andrea picks up the microphone and clicks the dial. The number sixteen appears in the red digital LED display. ‘Push that button down on the side.’ I point at the handset Andrea is grasping. ‘Say something.’

  ‘Hello? Anybody there?’ says Andrea. She gives a shrug. ‘I’ve no clue what you’re supposed to say.’ She releases the button but all that comes back across the airwaves is more static.

  ‘Try the next station,’ says Zoe.

  Andrea clicks the tuner round to the next wavelength and repeats the process. We get the same result as before.

  ‘We must be doing something wrong,’ I say, frustrated. ‘Perhaps we just have to keep trying different stations.’

  ‘How do we even know this bloody thing is working?’ asks Andrea. ‘Surely, if we were getting a signal we wouldn’t hear all that crackling. It can’t be any different to when you’re trying to tune in a car radio.’

  ‘Maybe it’s the aerial,’ I suggest. ‘Isn’t it out there, fixed to the back of the house?’

  ‘Don’t say we’ve got to go outside again,’ says Andrea, making a big huffing noise. ‘It’s dark now. You won’t be able to see a thing.’

  ‘I like the way you automatically assume it’s me that’s going out,’ I retort. ‘And don’t be so negative anyway. Doing nothing won’t get us any help.’ I’m aware my frustration has broken free but at the same time, I don’t care. What we need right now is positivity. I ignore the raised eyebrows of Andrea and continue: ‘If you both stand by the door with the curtains open to throw some light out there, I’ll take the torch and trace the wire up the wall. If it’s come out of the aerial, I might be able to poke it in.’

  Andrea and Zoe don’t look particularly convinced. ‘You’re going to just poke it in?’ says Andrea.

  ‘Have you got a better idea?’ I snap.

  As I step outside, not only is it dark, but the building is surrounded by the mist. Or does it qualify as fog now? I idly wonder what the difference between the two might be.

  Andrea and Zoe are standing side by side in the outer porch while I trace the wire from its exit point, up the outside wall, across the porch roof and down the other side, where it then runs along the bottom of the wall to the end of the extension. The aerial is attached by two brackets just below the roof. I follow the wire halfway up the wall to the last clip, where it then hangs limply over.

  ‘It’s broken here,’ I call through the mist. Or fog. Whatever the correct name for it is. I aim the torch beam at the end of the wire. It is a clean sharp end, there are no frayed or broken pieces of wire where it might have gradually worked its way loose. No, this end has been cut.

  I have a flashback to the abseiling rope. That too had a clean neat end. Both the rope and the wire have been cut intentionally.

  Chapter 18

  ‘It’s broken,’ I say, as we all squeeze through the doorway. I lock the door behind us, leaving the key in the lock. Then I change my mind and place the key on the worktop near the kettle.

  ‘Can you fix it?’ asks Andrea.

  In the few seconds it takes for me to come inside, I debate whether to tell them the truth about the wire. Something inside my head is urging caution but in the end I dismiss the notion, the crazy notion that it could be one of them sabotaging the radio because that would mean one of them didn’t want the police coming. And the only reason they wouldn’t want the police involved at this stage is because they were responsible for killing Joanne. However, I then find myself arguing that, sooner or later, the police are going to get involved, so what could they have t
o gain by delaying the inevitable? And it’s this thought that bothers me. Is something else about to happen?

  I realise I must have hesitated a fraction too long. Andrea is pressing me for an answer.

  ‘Broken? How would that happen?’ she asks.

  I let out a sigh, dismayed by my own wild imagination. These are my friends. Neither Andrea nor Zoe would do anything like this on purpose. No. I’m letting myself get carried away.

  ‘Come on, spit it out,’ says Zoe. ‘What’s happened to the cable?’

  ‘It’s been cut,’ I say. ‘On purpose.’

  They both look incredulously at me as they take in what I’ve said. ‘Cut? You’re sure about that?’ asks Andrea eventually.

  ‘Certain.’

  ‘What the fuck is going on around here?’ Andrea runs her fingers through her hair.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ says Zoe. There is a touch of hysteria in her voice, her eyes widen with every word. ‘I want to get out of here.’

  ‘And how exactly do you plan to do that?’ says Andrea, impatience rising to the surface.

  ‘Can’t we walk out of here together? Right now?’

  ‘That’s the worst idea,’ I say. ‘Look, let’s all sit down and think this through rationally.’ I usher Zoe into the living room, grabbing a bottle of lemonade as I go. Andrea follows but has different ideas about the choice of drink and immediately pours out three vodkas.

  We perch on the edge of our seats; I’m sitting next to Zoe, while Andrea positions herself opposite.

  ‘So, what’s your masterplan?’ she asks, pushing the vodka glasses to each of us.

  ‘I wouldn’t call it a masterplan. I think we should stay here the night. It’s safer indoors than out,’ I say, topping my glass up with lemonade. ‘Out there, we have no idea where we’re going, what sort of terrain it is. Visibility is poor. We could easily stumble and hurt ourselves, or worse, fall down an embankment or go hideously off course.’

  ‘I don’t like it here,’ says Zoe.

  ‘Neither do I, but we haven’t got a choice. The doors are all locked. No one can get in or out. We only need to get through the night and as soon as it’s light, we can set off.’