The only time he did react in any way was when I threw the squeaky toy as hard as I could and it hit him on the head. At that, he turned and walked away in a disdainful manner to the bottom of the garden, where he crouched and did his business. To start with, I did not pick any of it up, assuming that it would somehow decompose into the ground. After several weeks, I realised the error of my ways and spent an afternoon out there with my rubber gloves, a spatula and a Tesco carrier bag, which I filled up. We went for walks after that.
389476092376891. Fluffy’s number. I reach for a pen in a pot on the top of the bureau. Scribble the number on a Post-it note. Check it’s correct.
Then tidy everything away. Go downstairs with my sticky note. Sit in front of the computer. Turn it on, waiting for it to warm up and come to life.
Take my notebook with my various passwords in it on the side. Tap Q1W2E3R4 into the computer to gain access.
It won’t let me in. I delete the password. Enter it again. One letter and number at a time. Q. 1. W. 2. E.
The E on the keyboard feels different. Sticky and stuck. I hit it two, three, four times with a finger, to loosen it. It seems to have a smear of jam on it. I wonder whether it is typing out as an e in lower case rather than an E in upper case.
I try again. Q. 1. W. 2. E. 3. R. 4. One at a time. Still, it does not allow me to enter. I had this once before when I could not get in. When I did the letters in upper case but kept my finger down on Shift when I did the numbers 1, 2, 3, 4 which came out as !, “, £, $. I now know to keep Caps Lock on, and I can just do the whole password in one go.
I try again and again. Without success. And growing increasingly frustrated. I need a new keyboard. And I do not know how I am going to get it. I cannot order it online. And there is nowhere to buy one in Felixstowe. And the roads out of town to Ipswich are too dangerous to drive on at the moment. I sit back and decide instead to telephone the Blue Cross in the morning.
I switch everything off. It’s time to go to the bathroom and then to bed.
I feel down and despairing, and I have a stomach upset, which just makes me feel ten times worse.
The sooner I am in bed, wrapped up under my duvet, the better. I doubt that I will sleep, what with everything.
18
Sunday, 1 December, 2.23 Am
I wake up and look at the bedside clock. 2.23 a.m.
I think for a second that I have heard a door open or close somewhere. But I’ve woken because I have stomach cramps.
Strong and intense. Doubling me over in pain.
I fear I have a stomach ulcer. These things are hereditary. My father suffered with his stomach all through my childhood and teenage years. I remember he had to be very careful about what he ate. So as not to exacerbate it.
My mother would sometimes feed him bananas and yoghurts and milky rice puddings instead of proper meals. I once called them “baby food” as we sat around the dinner table. It was a joke.
He shouted at me to be quiet and sat back and gurned with pain. As if even the effort of speaking was too much for him. It was hard not to laugh. But now I have the same excruciating, twisting pain.
I get myself up and sit on the edge of the bed.
I am sweating profusely despite the cold night air.
I need to make my way downstairs to take some sort of medication.
It occurs to me that her cooking may be the cause of my sudden pain. Bolognese and curry. These spicy bowls of meat and peppers. My body is not used to such exotic fare.
Truth is, she is keen and enthusiastic, but has little or no idea what she is doing. The meat is probably undercooked. And she cannot read properly. A teaspoon is likely to be read as a tablespoon. Or a bloody shovel.
But it is worse than that. The pain. This is more than an upset stomach. I have some sort of fever, too. I am scared of what that might mean.
I am at the staircase. Holding the handrail tightly.
Edging my way down.
Step by agonising step.
It could be cancer. In my blood. Coursing its way round my body. Into my vital organs. Into my brain. Rotting me away from inside.
I have always had a fear of a long, drawn-out cancer. Father’s lung cancer. Eighteen months from decline to death. I am frightened of wasting away in a ward and a hospice where no one visits me. Breathing in the sickly sweet smell of my own death towards the end.
Or pancreatic cancer. My mother died of pancreatic cancer. From having a bad back to dying was little more than six weeks. I think the pain was intense. She cried a lot. She died alone. In the hospital. In the early hours. A doctor left a message on my telephone answering machine. I could barely understand what he was saying.
I am at the bottom of the stairs.
I do not know how I made it.
I am close to collapse now.
I have no idea what to do. I do not want to call to her. To wake her. To tell her that I am sick. More than that. Ill. Dying.
I have never known pain like this before. Crippling. Deep down inside. As if something is ripped, torn, blood vessels leaking into my stomach. I wonder if I will pass blood. Coughing it up into a spray.
I cannot call an ambulance. I do not think it could get down the lane. And I do not want to draw attention to myself anyway. Nor leave her here alone. I do not know what to do.
I sink to the stone cold floor. Make my way slowly towards the kitchen. On my hands and knees. I have an old bottle of kaolin and morphine somewhere under the sink. From God knows when.
I shake the bottle. Unscrew the cap. Drink mouthful after mouthful. I finish it. Two-thirds of the bottle.
Then lie down on my side on the kitchen floor. Curled up. Waiting for the agony to pass. Or the end to come.
I think this might be the end of me. What an ignominious way to go.
In the forest.
By the moonlight.
Shining through the trees.
I see the graves.
Not one.
Nor two.
But three.
All fresh dug.
And filled with corpses.
They all move.
And the soil.
It shakes and shudders.
And I wait for them to come for me.
I am awake. I do not know how I could have been asleep. I would have thought the pain would make it impossible. Maybe I am just slipping in and out of consciousness.
I do not seem to be able to move, curled up as I am on the kitchen floor. If I stay in this foetal position, I can live with the pain in my stomach and back.
When I move, the pain shoots from my stomach, so intense that I can barely breathe. If I stay like this, quiet and still and on my side, I can at least breathe in and out.
In and out. In and out. In and out. I focus on my breathing. That this will keep me conscious. Keep me alive. It is so cold. And I am in agony. I just have to stay awake, alive, until the morning.
Until she comes out of the nookery. Into the living room. Through the hallway. Into the kitchen, where she will see me lying on the floor. Unmoving. Alive or dead. I wonder what her reaction will be.
There are three graves.
In the forest.
Always three.
I know who is buried in them.
I see their faces.
But I do not know their names.
I was told them.
But I cannot remember.
If I could just recall the names.
They would let me go.
And I would be free.
And I awake.
Freya. Nicole. Emily.
I am still in pain. But not agony. It is painful. But not agonising. I remain curled up in my foetal position, moving as little as I can. But it is more of a deep, dull ache now, less a sharp and stabbing pain. When I move. I try not to.
I am awake more than I am asleep. Unconscious. I try to ignore the dreams that crowd into my mind when I am not awake. The nightmares. They come at me repeatedly tonight. I am bath
ed in sweat. The nightmares seem so real. It takes me a moment or two to realise I am conscious.
She. Her. Whatever. I have been thinking about her.
I cannot think of her by her chosen name any more.
I have worked it all out. What has been going on. I believe she has been trying to drive me mad. That she let Fluffy out and drove him away. That she has been poisoning me. With something she bought from the garden centre. I wonder what her reaction will be when she sees me here in the kitchen. I think she expects to find me dead. But she will find me still alive.
Shock.
Disappointment.
Fury.
I am going to stay awake now. Not let myself fall back into another nightmare. I am going to stay strong and alive. She will not find me dead on the floor. She will see me sitting up at the kitchen table. My feet on a chair. Drinking a cup of tea. And smiling. I will watch her face closely as she enters the kitchen. That split second when her thoughts and feelings are revealed before the bland and neutral mask she wears falls into place.
But I need to lie here a little longer. I am in pain when I move. An arm or a leg. My head on the cold linoleum floor. I think that if I were to try to stand up, even to sit, the pain would overwhelm me. And I would pass out. I just need to lie here and work things through in my head. And I must build up my strength.
Freya.
Nicole.
Emily.
They came here, and then they left.
To die.
In the forest.
In these graves.
That move. And shake. And shudder.
They are coming for me.
And I wait for them.
Freya.
Nicole.
Emily.
I am stronger now. The pain and the agony have subsided. There is still an ache in my stomach. But I can live with it. I stay in the foetal position but move my hands regularly. Followed by my feet. Arms and legs. And I lift my head up from the cold linoleum floor. I could get up now, but I do not. I lie here. As the sun rises and shines through the kitchen window. Thinking things through.
I have known, in my heart, that she could not leave. Not after what happened with Andrew Lumb. Had she gone, she would always have been out there somewhere. With that knowledge. And I would have lived the rest of my life in fear. Waiting for that knock on the door by the police. Two at the front. Two at the back.
I think she decided to stay anyway. To live here. She may have wanted Andrew Lumb. But she did not want me. And after his death, things soured between us. My refusal to let her use my daughter’s ID. She has tried to kill me once. With whatever she put in the food she gave me. I do not doubt she will try again. Given the chance. She will not get it.
She sees me as a benign old fool. A weak man. A loser. Someone who is stupid. Despite what happened with Andrew Lumb, and the words she said – “you’ve murdered him” – she does not see me as a killer. But she is wrong. I have no choice. She has tried once. She will try again. It is her or me. As simple as that. I am going to have to kill her this morning.
Gone nine a.m., and I am sitting on a chair in the kitchen by the table. Have been for a while now. Just waiting. Restlessly. I rather suspect she thinks I am dead and is having a lie-in. She’d normally have been up an hour and a half ago.
There is a hammer from under the sink on the chair beside me. I have tucked the chair out of sight below the table. I can reach and pick up the hammer in a moment. The kitchen door is pushed to. So I can see her face the instant she nudges the door open, expecting to see me dead on the floor. I want to see that face. To confirm my suspicions. To be certain. Before I kill her.
I am still in pain, and my clothes have dried in sweat and stick to my shoulders and back. I have not changed. All I have done is unlock the cellar door. Ready for her. After that, I will have a bath, a good and proper long soak, and be about my day. Searching for Fluffy over at the farm. Later, when the snow has cleared, I will pack up the boot of my car under cover of darkness, take my spade, and drive over to Rendlesham Forest.
I hear her. At long last. She is up. I listen to her humming as she comes through the living room. Her feet on the stone floor in the hallway.
She stops for a moment. There is silence. She is listening, I think. I wonder whether I will hear the creaking of the stairs as she creeps up to see if I am lying dead on my bed. I wonder, idly, what she intends to do with the body she expects to see.
I have a wheelbarrow in the garden shed.
That is where she would take me.
Before continuing her life here .
She is coming towards the kitchen. The door swings open. Like she owns the place. She looks at me, startled for a split second, then carries on as if nothing is out of the ordinary at all. “Morning,” she says simply as she goes to the fridge. As if it is just another morning.
But I saw her face.
I know the truth.
She tried to kill me.
“I overslept,” she adds as she brings out a carton of orange juice, goes to the cupboard for a glass, and pours herself some of the orange juice. “I’d have made breakfast.”
“What would you have made? For breakfast? For me?” I reply, trying to keep the sourness out of my voice.
She shrugs and kind of laughs. “I don’t know. What would you have liked?” As if we are playing some sort of cat and mouse game. She thinks she is the cat. She isn’t.
“I imagine it would be something spicy, wouldn’t it?”
“For breakfast?” She laughs again and pours herself some more juice. Then moves toward the bread bin and toaster. Her back to me.
Enough of this charade. I could pick up the hammer now. Walk across. Hit her as hard as I can on the back of her head as she turns towards me.
Once and once only. To do it. To be done with it.
But there is something I want to do first. Something I need to say.
“You are not the first girl who has come to stay here when they have been down on their luck,” I say as steadily as I can, in an even voice.
She turns and glances at me. A half-smile. She reaches for a bowl and a packet of Weetabix as she waits for the toast.
“The first was a Dutch girl called Fenna. She was a backpacker who missed the last train to London. I gave her a bed for a night. In the nookery. Where you are now. Same bed.”
She turns and glances at me again. Another vague smile. A sense of uncertainty. She goes to the fridge for milk for her Weetabix.
“She could have stayed here. If she wanted. Lived with me. I thought she was a nice girl. But when I woke up the next morning, she had gone. I don’t know when she left. But she took my wallet and my cards and cash. I’d left it on the side over there.” I point to the tea, coffee and sugar jars close to her.
She looks at them as if she expects to see my wallet there. I think she is playing games with me. Again. It angers me, this insouciance. I have always hated stupid people who think they are clever. Cleverer than me. Few people are.
“Then there was Elsa,” I explain. “The second girl. I met her by the railway station in Ipswich one night. Brought her back here. Hid my wallet and most of my valuables. Put them up in my bedroom. I came down in the morning, and there was no sign of her. Other than a wet patch in the corner of the nookery. Nice, that was.”
She turns away to sprinkle sugar on her Weetabix. I cannot tell what her reaction to my comments is. A look of horror. A smirk. I do not know. She angers me so much.
“There have been other girls stay since then,” I say. “I have always tried to help them … although … three of them are dead now.”
The toaster makes a pinging noise as the toast pops up halfway through my final sentence. I do not think she heard me properly. Nor my voice cracking.
She has her back to me, putting toast on a plate from a cupboard. She is about to turn again to get a buttery spread from the fridge. Then stops and opens the cupboard where I keep the jam and the marmalade and my fa
vourite lemon curd.
I reach for the hammer. It’s on the chair under the table next to me.
I get up out of my chair and move towards her.
I will make this as quick and as painless as I can. God help me.
Part V
The Farm
19
Sunday, 1 December, 9.36 Am
As I get to my feet, there is a sudden hammering at the front door. A woman’s voice calling out incongruously: “Oo-ee.” Children’s chatter and laughter. Someone bangs excitedly on the living room window.
Widow Woman. The two grandchildren. The boy and the girl. To look for Fluffy. As if it is all a game. I had not expected them until at least eleven o’clock or later. I don’t know why. But they should not be here now nor for ages. It’s far too early for a Sunday morning.
I drop the hammer on the chair. Step back. Gulp in breath. She turns and looks at me. Up and down. It is a peculiar look. Something almost sympathetic. I cannot make it out. I think I must look hot and ill. I certainly feel it. I may also stink of soaked-in sweat.
“Who’s that?” she asks.
Of course, she does not know they are here to search for Fluffy. She was in the nookery last night. Waiting for me to die. I still feel ill. But she will die before me. Be sure of it.
“The woman from the top of the lane. Widow Woman. Angela Willis,” I answer. “With her grandson and granddaughter. Conor and … ah, Bella, I think. They saw Fluffy’s paw prints last night. They know where he is. They’re going to show me.”
She swallows. I know why. Because she let Fluffy out. Maybe took him over the fields whilst I slept the previous night. Dumped him in a ditch. Left him to die.
There is more banging at the door. This huge sense of excitement. And adventure. And, before I can say anything to her or her to me – that I will go and she will stay – there is a commotion at the back gate. The boy and the girl come through and up to the kitchen door. They stand there, grinning. The girl presses her face against the pane. Nostrils splayed. Teeth bared.
The Girl Downstairs Page 24