The Birthday Girl

by Sue Fortin

  ‘You’re not actually making me feel better by saying no one can get in.’ Zoe pouts and takes a swig of her vodka.

  ‘I was trying to make you feel better,’ I say with a smile. ‘Sorry it didn’t work.’

  ‘Do you think there is someone out there who wants to harm us?’ asks Zoe.

  ‘If there is, I can’t think why. Besides, they’ve had plenty of opportunities to bump us all off, and they haven’t.’

  ‘Don’t be so flippant,’ snaps Zoe.

  Andrea leans forward, swirling the clear liquid around in her glass. ‘I don’t buy it. I don’t believe there’s someone out there.’ She looks up from under her eyelashes.

  ‘You think it’s one of us?’ Zoe flings herself back in the sofa.

  ‘Stop it,’ I say. ‘We’re going round in circles. I’m sure what Andrea means is that Joanne’s death was an accident and we’re all getting worked up for no reason.’ I purposefully look at Andrea, willing her to agree, if only to calm Zoe down.

  ‘Of course that’s what I mean,’ says Andrea. ‘Look, I’m as gutted and upset about Joanne as anyone, but I’m sure it happened exactly the way Carys says.’

  ‘How do you explain the cut wire then?’ says Zoe.

  ‘Simple,’ replies Andrea. ‘It was probably broken or cut before we even got here. The owners knew about it and that’s why the radio was in the shed: so no one would think it worked and try to use it.’

  It’s a logical explanation and I’m inclined to agree with Andrea. Zoe doesn’t seem quite so reassured. ‘What about our phones?’

  ‘That’s Joanne’s joke. She must have hidden them. Shame we can’t find them,’ says Andrea.

  ‘OK, so first thing in the morning, we’re out of here,’ says Zoe. ‘Agreed?’

  Both Andrea and I agree.

  We sit in silence for a moment, lost in our own thoughts, and as I allow my gaze to rest on the log basket, I realise it’s empty.

  ‘I suppose I’d better fetch some more logs,’ I say, getting up. Much as I would like to leave it, I remember Joanne saying the hot water was heated by the fire.

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Andrea offers, but I can tell from her tone of voice she isn’t enthusiastic.

  ‘No, it’s OK. The logs are only out by the back door.’ I sound rather more casual than I feel but putting on a brave face, I rise and take the empty log basket with me. I head out to the kitchen, stopping in the hallway to slip my feet into a pair of wellington boots by the door.

  Armed with the torch, I venture outside. It’s pitch-black now, apart from the lonely beam of light coming from the torch. The logs are neatly stacked against the wall of the croft under a little pitched roof about three feet high.

  I can just about make out the shape of the shed through the darkness and have a fleeting moment of nausea as I think of Joanne’s body lying in the cold damp building.

  Suddenly I have a distinct sensation that I’m not alone. Under the thickness of my jumper and fleece, I can feel goosebumps prick my arms and spread across the back of my neck. I spin around. Something is close to me. I can’t see anything.

  I can hear my own breathing quicken and recognise the signs: I’m on the verge of a panic attack. One where everything around me starts to close in. Where I feel compressed by empty spaces. Where the air around me is sucked away, leaving a void of nothingness.

  Shit. I don’t think I can ward it off. I can hear myself humming out loud. I can’t identify the tune but think it’s an old school hymn. I snatch a couple of logs from under the wooden shelter, constantly glancing over my shoulder.

  I’m singing out loud now. It’s ‘Jerusalem’. We used to sing it every morning in school assembly. Funny how these things stay with you. I don’t consider myself particularly religious, despite a Church of England education, but when I feel most afraid I find myself digging into some deeply instilled idea there is a God out there and if I sing loud enough, he will protect me.

  I throw the third log without looking. It misses the basket and bounces off the rim, on to my foot. I can’t focus on the pain. All I can do is concentrate on keeping the urge to flee at bay long enough to allow me to get inside and lock the bloody door.

  I hurtle into the kitchen, dropping the basket on to the tiled floor. I slam the door shut and lock it, then snatch the key out. Panting for breath, I lean against the worktop.

  ‘You OK?’

  Zoe’s voice makes me jump. I feel embarrassed at my overreaction. ‘Yeah, sure. Just didn’t want to hang around out there. It’s cold.’ I rub my arms as if to prove my point. Leaving the key by the kettle, I carry the logs into the living room, Zoe following behind with the dossier Joanne complied under her arm.

  ‘I made you a hot chocolate,’ says Zoe, sitting down on the sofa. ‘I’ve got one too, but Andrea declined.’ She gives a disapproving school-teacher look to Andrea.

  ‘I aim to sleep like the proverbial log tonight,’ says Andrea.

  ‘I don’t know how you can say that. I won’t be able to sleep at all, not after everything that’s happened,’ says Zoe. She takes a sip of her hot chocolate and then, placing it on the chest, flicks the edge of the incriminating notebook she has brought in with her.

  I sit down and pick up my drink. ‘Thanks for this. I’ll probably go to bed quite soon.’ I suddenly feel exhausted. It’s been a long and difficult day, not only physically but mentally as well. My head is so full of thoughts and feelings, I’m not sure I have room for much else tonight.

  ‘Do you think Joanne hated us?’ asks Andrea. She’s resting in the deep folds of the corduroy sofa. ‘I mean, to have arranged all this, gone to all this trouble, she couldn’t have liked us, could she?’

  ‘I was thinking that myself,’ admits Zoe. ‘I’d thought this weekend was all about us bonding. I thought Joanne had missed us all being so close and this was her way of saying sorry for being paranoid.’

  ‘But was she paranoid?’ says Andrea. She has the look of the devil in her eyes. She swirls the liquid around in her glass before downing the last drop. ‘She must genuinely think I swindled her out of the gym. Whether it’s true or not doesn’t matter. What counts is what Joanne believed.’

  ‘And the point of all this?’ I ask, rather impatiently. I don’t want to go down this route again.

  ‘I’m still working out who has the most to lose from Joanne revealing our secrets,’ says Andrea.

  I can feel my impatience turning into annoyance. ‘I thought we agreed we’d stop this speculation. You’ve had too much to drink, it’s late, we’re all spun out by what’s happened and we should all go to bed,’ I say. ‘Sitting here picking over the details of what Joanne may or may not have against each of us, isn’t actually going to help in getting us out of here in the morning. Sleep, however, will.’

  I plonk my cup down on the coffee table and a slop of hot chocolate hits the floor. I mutter several unnecessary swear words as I get up and fetch some kitchen roll to clean it up.

  ‘I think we should be honest, that’s all,’ Andrea calls after me. I ignore her and take my time finding the kitchen roll before coming into the room. As I wipe the hot chocolate from the floor, Andrea leans forwards. ‘Just between us, what exactly did happen between Darren and Ruby?’

  ‘Give it a rest, Andrea,’ I say.

  ‘And what about you, Zoe? You never confirmed nor denied you’re having an affair with Tris.’

  ‘Like Carys said, give it a rest.’

  ‘Ooh, getting touchy, are we? Well, seeing as we’re all stuck here for the night, I’m going to tell you the truth about me and Joanne and what went on about buying the gym. Then it will be your turn to confess all.’

  ‘I’m not playing this game,’ I say, screwing up the kitchen roll and tossing it into the hearth.

  ‘It’s not a fucking game,’ says Andrea, her eyes boring into mine. ‘Not when one of us has ended up dead. So, I suggest we all stop being so secretive and tell the truth.’

  ‘Go on
then,’ I say, even though I have no intention whatsoever of telling the truth.

  Andrea waits for me to resume my position next to Zoe and then begins. ‘When the gym came up for sale, Joanne and I talked about buying it together as a joint venture. Unfortunately, she couldn’t raise the funds. She asked Tris about getting a loan against the house, but he was reluctant to do so and he didn’t want to take any money from his business. Anyway, while they were trying to work out what to do, aka arguing about it, the owner was putting pressure on us to close the deal. He was threatening to take up someone else’s offer. I told Joanne I couldn’t wait any longer and I didn’t want to miss out. She asked if I would buy it outright and then sell half back to her, which she would pay using a bank loan.’

  ‘But I’m guessing that never happened,’ I say.

  ‘No. To be honest, I didn’t feel comfortable with it. If Joanne defaulted on the payments, then I would be out of pocket. She and Tris had some awful rows about it. And …’ she pauses. ‘Well, put it this way, I wasn’t one hundred per cent sure their marriage was very stable.’ She looks at Zoe, who shifts in her seat. ‘If their marriage went tits up, then I could get stung for the repayments. Joanne might not have any money, Tris might not continue with the payments. No, it was too big a risk. So I went ahead and did the deal on my own.’

  ‘But surely, if you could afford it on your own, you would have been able to cover any payments Joanne might miss,’ says Zoe.

  ‘Yeah, but what if Joanne didn’t tell me she’d missed payments, what if the debt collectors came in? As a joint venture, we’d both be equally responsible and, much as I loved Joanne, I wasn’t taking on her debts and getting stung for interest. Or she might sell her share of the business without me knowing. No, it was too risky.’

  ‘Wow. You really are the hard-nosed businesswoman,’ I say. ‘When you and Joanne discussed this, was it amicable?’

  ‘Fuck was it!’ scoffs Andrea. ‘She came round the house to talk to me about it and it descended into a slanging match.’

  ‘I still don’t understand what Joanne thought she had on you,’ says Zoe. ‘You’re telling us all this, but it’s no big deal.’ Zoe picks up the notebook and flicks to the page about Andrea. ‘Joanne thinks you committed fraud.’

  ‘It’s bullshit. Joanne wanted to humiliate me. To get some sort of personal satisfaction from making me feel uncomfortable. Perhaps she was going to tell us what she thought of us and then fuck off and leave us here. So maybe what happened to her was karma.’

  I shoot Andrea a look. She’s knocking back the vodka way too fast now and her sharp tongue is going freelance.

  ‘That’s out of order,’ says Zoe.

  ‘I don’t care,’ says Andrea. ‘Anyway, when we speak to the police about this, they’ll see I have nothing to hide and that I had nothing to gain from seeing her dead.’ Andrea gives me a smile of satisfaction. ‘Can either of you say that?’

  ‘I’ve no reason to harm her,’ I say. ‘As in your case, Joanne was making something out of nothing.’

  ‘You’re not being straight,’ says Andrea. ‘Why would Joanne randomly suggest there was something going on with Darren and Ruby? It has to have come from somewhere. Is it linked with Darren’s death?’

  The simmering anger inside of me erupts. ‘Give it a rest!’ I shout, louder than I intend. ‘Who the hell knows what was going on in Joanne’s mind?’ I pause, close my eyes for a moment while I rein in my temper. When I speak, my voice is under control. ‘Like you said, she was making something out of nothing.’

  ‘Keep calm, I was only thinking out loud,’ says Andrea.

  ‘Well don’t.’

  Andrea turns her attention to Zoe. ‘It would be unfair of me not to ask you,’ she says. ‘But there’s no smoke without fire. Why did Joanne think you were having an affair with Tris? Is it still going on? Or was it only a one-night stand? Perhaps it’s you who has most to lose by this coming out.’

  Zoe jumps to her feet, her half-drunk hot chocolate suffering a worse fate than mine and spilling all over the floor. ‘You, Andrea, need to know when to shut the fuck up,’ she hisses. She snatches at the kitchen roll and tears several sheets off to soak up the spillage.

  ‘Another touchy one,’ says Andrea.

  Zoe finishes mopping and stands up. ‘I’m going to bed. When you’re sober in the morning, you can apologise for being a drunken, shit-stirring bitch.’ With that, she stomps out of the room and up the stairs. Her feet are heavy on the floorboards above. The little croft almost shakes as she slams her bedroom door shut.

  I look at Andrea and shake my head.

  ‘What?’ she says with mock innocence. ‘Just getting to the truth.’

  I rise. ‘She’s right, you are a shit-stirrer at times. I’m going to bed. Sober up and I’ll see you in the morning.’ I leave the room to the sound of Andrea giggling to herself.

  So, Joanne is dead. It’s not looking like a great weekend, is it? And you know what? It’s not going to get any better. Oh no. I’m going to make sure of that.

  I bet you’re lying in bed wondering what happened to your friend. Was it an accident? Did she slip? Or did she have a delayed reaction to you pushing her?

  I use the word ‘friend’ with a degree of artistic licence. You were never a good friend to her. You let her down when she needed you most, but that does seem to be a particular habit of yours. Always thinking of yourself and not of others. I’m not the only one to see through your pretence. I can see your true colours.

  I can’t wait for this all to come out in the open. Once the police start investigating Joanne’s death, it won’t be long before they come looking for you. I’ll see to it that they’ll have help, point them in the right direction. I won’t have to say much, just enough to give them the heads-up. I’ll drop in things like the tablets you secretly take, the ones I’ve seen in your bag. Those beta-blockers which you clearly haven’t got on prescription.

  I’ll also mention your increasing paranoia and how bad it’s been getting. The police will only have to look at how you’ve behaved this weekend to work that one out for themselves. The food tampering allegation was only the start. Now that Joanne’s dead, I expect your behaviour is going to become a lot more erratic.

  I bet you wish you hadn’t accepted the invitation. I can’t say I feel sorry for you. You don’t deserve to be happy after what you’ve done. I, on the other hand, am going to be extremely happy.

  SUNDAY

  Chapter 19

  On the landing, I tap on Zoe’s door. ‘You all right?’ I call gently.

  Zoe opens the door and although she’s not crying, I notice her eyes are red-rimmed and she’s holding a scrunched-up tissue in her hand. I give a sympathetic smile. ‘Ignore Andrea. You know what she’s like. Gobby. Especially after alcohol.’

  ‘It’s OK. I should be used to her by now, but sometimes she pisses me off.’

  ‘Try to get some sleep. It’s late. As soon as it’s light in the morning, we’ll get out of here. I think what happened to Joanne is getting to us all.’ I give Zoe a hug and we say our goodnights.

  The floorboards creak as I make my way across the landing into my own room. It’s hard to take in everything that has happened. I can’t wait to get away from this place. I have a sudden overwhelming yearning for Seb. He told me he loved me last week. I’d felt embarrassed for some reason. I had wanted to tell him that I loved him too but hadn’t been able to bring myself to say it. For some reason, I’d had a pang of guilt. Not guilt for Darren; no, I’d stopped loving him as a wife a long time ago. The guilt was towards Alfie. I’m in love with a man who isn’t his father. A man who my son hasn’t exactly welcomed into our lives with open arms. If I tell Seb I love him, then it will mean our relationship has officially taken on a new meaning at a deeper level. I’m scared of the implications. How the dynamics will change and, ultimately, the impact it will have on my already difficult relationship with Alfie.

  Tonight, however, I have no such fee
lings of guilt. At a time when I feel scared and lonely, it’s Seb who I want to hold me and to tell me everything will be OK. At this moment, I don’t care what Alfie thinks; he’ll be an adult soon and, as Andrea says, off to university. I don’t want to waste any more time not loving and not being loved. I make up my mind to tell Seb how much I love him the very next time I see or speak to him, whichever is first. Who knows where that might lead? If anything has come out of Joanne’s death, it is the realisation that time and life are precious and not to be wasted.

  I gaze out of the window into the night, onyx shadows against a dappled background making for some strange and indistinguishable shapes. Nothing looks the same as it does in daylight. The wind has picked up and the shapes morph from one distorted arrangement to another.

  Again, I have that feeling of not being alone, of being watched. Something out there is dangerous and hostile. I can sense it. I don’t know what it is, but my blood runs cold. I snap the curtains shut and climb into bed. I’m over-tired and my senses are on high alert. I need to relax and go to sleep.

  I eye the pocket of my rucksack where the little white pills rest. One won’t hurt. I need something to take the edge off my nerves, something to help me relax. Ironically, my heart beats a little faster at the prospect and without giving it any further consideration, I slice the foil with my fingernail and pop the tablet into my mouth, swallowing it down without the aid of water.

  I pull the duvet up to my chin. I close my eyes and begin the relaxation methods I have learned. Breathe in. Breathe out. I think about each part of my body, the function it performs, letting each muscle relax, right from my neck to my toes, one by one. I concentrate on the here and now, not letting my mind wander to all the fears and worries around me. I bring my thoughts back when I feel them drifting into dangerous territory.

  It’s beginning to work. I can feel myself easing into the early stages of sleep. And then Andrea bowls in through the door like a SWAT team. The door hits the stopper and bounces against Andrea’s foot.