by B. A. Paris
‘Thank God you’re all right,’ he says, reaching for my hand. He looks at me in anguish. ‘Was it me, Cass? Was it what I said? If it is, I’m so sorry. If I thought for a minute that you’d do something like this I’d never have been so harsh.’
‘I didn’t take an overdose,’ I say tearfully. ‘Why does everybody keep saying that I did?’
‘But you told the paramedic you did.’
‘No, I didn’t.’ I try to sit up. ‘Why would I say something that isn’t true?’
‘Try to stay calm, Mrs Anderson.’ The doctor looks severely at me. ‘You’re still very ill. Fortunately, we didn’t have to pump your stomach as you brought up most of the pills in the ambulance but you’re still going to need monitoring for the next twenty-four hours.’
I clutch Matthew’s arm. ‘She must have misunderstood. The paramedic showed me the pills Dr Deakin prescribed for me and asked me if they were the pills I took, so I said, yes, because they’re the pills I take. I didn’t mean I’d taken an overdose.’
‘I’m afraid our tests show that you did,’ the doctor says.
I look beseechingly at Matthew. ‘I took the two you brought me with my breakfast but I didn’t take any after that, I swear. I didn’t even go downstairs.’
‘These are the boxes the paramedics took from the house,’ the doctor says, handing a plastic bag to Matthew. ‘Would you know if there are any missing? We don’t think she took a lot, maybe a dozen or so.’
Matthew opens the first of the two boxes. ‘She only started this one a couple of days ago and there are eight pills missing, which is right because she takes four a day, two in the morning and two in the evening,’ he says, showing the doctor. ‘As for the other box,’ he goes on, checking the contents, ‘it’s full, just as it should be. So I don’t know where she would have got them from.’
‘Is there any way your wife could have stockpiled some of them?’
Upset at being dismissed from the conversation, I’m about to remind them that I’m present when I suddenly remember the little pile of pills in my drawer.
‘No, I would have noticed if there’d been any missing,’ Matthew says. ‘It’s usually me that gives them to her, you see, before I leave for work in the mornings. That way I know she’s not going to forget to take them.’ He pauses. ‘I don’t know if you know – I told one of the nurses – but there’s a possibility that my wife has early-onset dementia.’
While they talk about my possible dementia, I try to work out if I somehow took the pills from my drawer without knowing what I was doing. I don’t want to believe that I did but when I remember how wretched, how hopeless I’d felt and how I had craved oblivion, maybe, after taking the two pills that Matthew had brought me, I’d reached into the drawer and taken the others. Had I subconsciously wanted to end the life that had suddenly become unbearable?
Already weakened by what I’ve been through, the remaining energy I have drains out of me. Exhausted, I lie back on my pillow and close my eyes against the tears seeping from their corners.
‘Cass, are you all right?’
‘I’m tired,’ I murmur.
‘I think it’s best if you leave her to sleep,’ the doctor says.
I feel Matthew’s lips on my cheek. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow,’ he promises.
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 28TH
In the end, I had to admit to taking the pills, because the evidence was there in my bloodstream. I admitted that I’d had some pills hidden away in my drawer but insisted that I hadn’t stockpiled them with the intention of killing myself, explaining I had simply put them there because on the days when Matthew was at home with me I hadn’t felt the need to take them. When they asked why I couldn’t have told Matthew that, I found myself explaining that I hadn’t wanted him to know that the pills knocked me out to the point where I couldn’t do anything. Matthew, looking sceptical, pointed out that what I’d said wasn’t strictly true because, as far as he was concerned, I was still able to function at an acceptable level. So I amended it to barely knew what I was doing. The only good thing is that because I took so few, they put it down to a cry for help and not an intention to kill myself.
When Matthew brought me home the following evening, the first thing I did was go upstairs to the bedroom and look in the drawer. The pills had gone. I know that Matthew doesn’t believe I took them accidentally even though he hasn’t actually come out and said it. But it feels like another nail in the coffin of our relationship. It’s not Matthew’s fault; I can’t imagine what it must be like for him to go from a wife who, at the beginning of the summer, was a little absent-minded to a wife who, by the end of the summer, is demented, paranoid and suicidal.
He insisted on taking the rest of the week off, even though I told him he didn’t have to. In truth, I would have preferred him to go to work because I wanted to be able to think about where I was going. My accidental overdose made me realise how precious life was, and I was determined to get back in control of mine while I still could. I started off by refusing to take the new blue pills that had been prescribed for me, telling Matthew I preferred to try to cope without them because I needed to get back to living in the real world.
With everything that had happened, I forgot that I was meant to be going out with Rachel – or maybe I would have forgotten anyway – so I was nowhere near ready when she turned up on the doorstep on Friday evening.
‘If you just give me ten minutes…’ I said, happy to see her. ‘I’m sure Matthew will make you a cup of tea while you’re waiting.’
Matthew looked at me in surprise. ‘You’re not seriously going out, are you?’
‘Why not?’ I frowned. ‘I’m not an invalid.’
‘Yes, but after what happened.’ He turned to Rachel. ‘You do know that Cass has been in hospital, don’t you?’
‘No, I had no idea.’ Rachel looked shocked. ‘Why? What happened?’
‘I’ll tell you over dinner,’ I said hurriedly. I looked at Matthew, daring him to tell me I couldn’t go. ‘You don’t mind looking after yourself tonight, do you?’
‘Not at all, it’s just…’
‘I’m fine,’ I insisted.
‘Are you sure, Cass?’ Rachel said uncertainly. ‘If you’ve been ill…’
‘A night out is exactly what I need,’ I told her firmly.
Ten minutes later, we were on our way and I used the journey to Browbury to tell her about my accidental overdose. She was horrified that the pills could subconsciously make me do something so dangerous, but seemed happy when I reassured her that I didn’t intend taking any more medication. Luckily, she understood that I didn’t want to talk about what had happened and for the rest of the evening we talked about other things.
Then on Saturday – ten weeks since my life fell apart – Matthew brought me tea in the mug that had caused so much fuss on Monday afternoon and I found myself going over everything again. In my mind I could see the mug standing clearly on the side and, although my mind can’t always be trusted, I was pretty sure that I hadn’t put it in the dishwasher before leaving the kitchen. So who had? The only person with a key to the house, apart from me, is Matthew, but I knew it wasn’t him because methodical as he is, he always stacks from the back and the dishwasher was practically empty. Anyway, if he had popped home in the middle of the day, he would have admitted it. The truth is, I’m the one who stacks from the front. And if I can take an overdose without knowing what I’m doing, it’s not too hard to suppose I can put my mug in the dishwasher without remembering about it.
We somehow got through the weekend with Matthew tiptoeing around me as if I was an unexploded time bomb waiting to go off at any moment. He didn’t actually sigh with relief this morning when he could escape back to the office but I know he found babysitting me hard work, even though without the pills I’m much more coherent. But my accidental overdose has left him on edge and the thought that I might do something stupid while he’s at home means he can’t relax around me.
As soon
as he’s left for work I get up, because I want to be out of the house before my silent caller phones. I could just ignore the call but I know that if I do he’ll only phone back until I pick up, which will end up destabilising me. And today I need to be calm, because I’m going back to Heston to see Jane’s husband.
My plan is to arrive in the early afternoon when I think it’s most likely the twins will be asleep, so I stop off in Browbury on the way, where I have a leisurely breakfast and spend the rest of the morning shopping for new clothes, because nothing seems to fit me any more.
Alex doesn’t seem overly surprised to see me standing on his doorstep again.
‘I thought you might be back,’ he says, ushering me in. ‘I could tell there was something else on your mind.’
‘You can tell me to go away again, if you like,’ I say. ‘Only I hope you don’t because if you can’t help me, I don’t know who can.’
He offers me a cup of tea, but suddenly nervous about what I’m going to say, I refuse.
‘So what can I do for you?’ he asks, taking me into the sitting room.
‘You’re going to think I’m mad,’ I warn, sitting down on the sofa. He doesn’t say anything so I take a deep breath. ‘Right, here goes. The day I phoned the police to tell them that I’d seen Jane alive, they made a public announcement asking the person who had called them earlier to contact them again. The next day I received a silent phone call. I didn’t think too much about it but when I got another the following day and a couple more the day after, it began to freak me out. They weren’t heavy-breather-type calls – I could have coped with that – there was just this silence on the line, except I knew that there was someone there. When I told my husband, he said it was probably a call centre trying to get through, but I began to live in dread of the phone ringing because – well, I suspected they were coming from the person who killed Jane.’
He makes a noise, a grunt of surprise, but when he doesn’t say anything, I go on.
‘It wouldn’t have been hard for him to trace me from my licence plate. When I pulled in in front of Jane’s car, I stopped for quite a few minutes, so it’s possible that he was able to see my registration number despite the rain. The more he phoned me, the more traumatised I became. I presumed he’d thought I’d somehow seen him and was trying to warn me off from telling the police. But the only person I’d seen was Jane. I tried ignoring the calls but, when I did, he would carry on phoning until I picked up and I began to realise that he never phoned when my husband was around, which made me think he was watching the house.
‘I was so frightened that I insisted on having an alarm installed but he still managed to get in and leave a calling card in the kitchen, a huge kitchen knife, exactly like in the police photos. The next day, I thought he was in the garden and barricaded myself in our sitting room. I was put on medication, which turned me into a mental and physical wreck, but it was the only way I could cope with the calls. Then, last Monday, after I got back from visiting you, I knew he’d been in the house while I was out. It wasn’t that anything was missing or damaged but I could sense he’d been there. I was so sure I called the police, but they couldn’t find any trace of a break-in, and when I realised that the mug I’d left on the side before going out had somehow found its way into the dishwasher, I was triumphant. It was proof that someone had been in the house – except that when I said as much, everyone looked at me as if I was mad.’ I pause to catch my breath. ‘The thing is, I have early-onset dementia and I forget so many things that people don’t believe me any more. But I know he was in the house last Monday. And now I’m terrified that I’m going to be his next victim. So what I want to know is, what should I do? The police already think I’m imagining things so if I tell them the murderer is after me, they’re not going to believe me, especially when I can’t prove that I’ve been getting calls in the first place. I sound crazy, don’t I?’ I add hopelessly.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment and I imagine him trying to work out how he can get rid of me without causing offence.
‘I have been getting calls,’ I say. I glance up at him, standing by the bookshelf, leaning against it, contemplating what I’ve just told him. ‘I really need you to believe that I have.’
‘I do believe you,’ he says.
I look at him warily, wondering if he’s just humouring me. ‘Why? I mean, nobody else has.’
‘A gut feeling, I suppose. Anyway, why would you make up something like that? You don’t seem like an attention-seeker to me. If you were, you’d have gone to the police and to the media by now.’
‘They could be a figment of my imagination.’
‘The fact that you’re telling me they could be makes it unlikely.’
‘So you really do believe that I’ve been getting calls from the person who killed Jane?’ I ask, needing him to confirm it.
‘No. I believe you’re getting calls but they’re not coming from the person who killed Jane.’
‘Don’t tell me they’re coming from a call centre,’ I say, not bothering to hide my disappointment.
‘No, it’s obvious that there’s more to them than that. Someone is definitely harassing you.’
‘So why can’t they be coming from the murderer?’
‘Because it’s not logical. Look, what exactly did you see when you drove past Jane’s car? If you’d been able to see her clearly, you would have recognised her. Yet you told me you didn’t.’
‘I couldn’t make out her features,’ I confirm. ‘I had the impression she was blonde, but that was all.’
‘So if you had seen someone sitting next to her in the car, the most you’d have been able to say was that they were dark or fair.’
‘Yes, but the killer doesn’t know that. He might think that I saw him clearly.’
He leaves the bookshelf and comes to sit down next to me. ‘Even if he was sitting next to Jane, in the passenger seat? The police think she picked him up before she got to the lay-by. Well, if she did, he would hardly have been sitting in the back seat, would he?’
‘No,’ I say, wondering what it must have been like for him to hear all the rumours that his wife had a lover.
‘And there’s another flaw to your reasoning. If he really thinks that you might go to the police with vital information about him, why would he let you live? Why not just kill you? He’s already killed once, so why not again?’
‘But if the calls aren’t coming from him,’ I say, bewildered, ‘who are they coming from?’
‘That’s what you need to find out. But, I promise you, they aren’t coming from the person who killed Jane.’ He reaches out and takes hold of my hand. ‘You need to believe me.’
‘You don’t know how much I want to.’ My eyes fill with tears. ‘Do you know what I did on Tuesday morning? I took an overdose. I didn’t do it on purpose, I wasn’t even aware I had swallowed down a load of pills, but I suppose I did it because, subconsciously, my life had become intolerable.’
‘If I could have spared you any of it, I would have,’ he says quietly. ‘But I had no idea that Jane’s murder could impact on anyone other than our family.’
‘It’s strange,’ I say slowly. ‘I should feel relieved that it isn’t the murderer who’s been phoning me. But at least I thought I knew who it was. Now, it could be anybody.’
‘I know this is probably not what you want to hear, but it’s more likely to be someone you know.’
I stare at him in horror. ‘Someone I know?’
‘Daddy?’
One of his little daughters appears in the doorway dressed in a T-shirt and nappy and clutching a toy rabbit. Getting to his feet, Alex sweeps her into his arms while I dry my tears hurriedly.
‘Is Louise still asleep?’ he asks, giving her a kiss.
‘Loulou sleeping,’ she says, nodding.
‘Do you remember the tissue lady from the park?’
‘Is your knee better?’ I ask. She holds her leg straight out so that I can see for myself. ‘Wonde
rful,’ I say, smiling at her. ‘All gone.’ I look up at Jane’s husband. ‘I’ll let you get on. Thank you, again.’
‘I hope I’ve helped.’
‘Yes, you have.’ I turn to his little daughter. ‘Goodbye, Charlotte.’
‘You remembered,’ he says, pleased.
He walks me to the door. ‘Please think about what I told you.’
‘I will.’
‘Take care.’
There are so many emotions running through me that it’s impossible to drive so I find a bench in the park and sit for a while. Some of the fear that I’ve been carrying around with me for the past ten weeks, since that first phone call, has disappeared. Even though Matthew and Rachel both told me it wasn’t logical to suppose that it was the murderer phoning me, they didn’t know that I had seen Jane that night, so they couldn’t understand my fears. But Jane’s husband had all the facts and when I look at his reasoning – about why the calls can’t be coming from the murderer – it’s hard to fault it. But what about his other reasoning, that the calls are coming from someone close to me?
Fear comes back, doubling in size, settling inside me, squeezing the breath from me to make more room for itself. It dries my mouth, sends names ricocheting around my brain. It could be anybody. One of my friends’ husbands, the lovely man who comes every few months to clean the windows, the man from the alarm company, the new neighbour down the road, a father from school. I go through every man I know and end up suspecting them all. I don’t ask myself why any of them would want to do such a thing – I ask myself, why not? Any one of them could be a psychopath.
Not wanting Alex to come along with his little daughters and find me sitting here, like a stalker, I leave the park. I should go home, but what if I find that someone’s been in the house again? They’ve already got past the alarm once, but how? Somebody with the technical knowledge to do so. The man from Superior Security Systems? I remember the window I found open after he left that day. Maybe he fixed it in some way so that he could come and go as he pleased. Is he my silent caller?