The Breakdown

  ‘Can you tell me about the calls?’ Dr Deakin looks at me encouragingly, so I have no choice but to tell him even though I know he’ll diagnose me with paranoia, especially as I can’t tell him why I thought they were coming from the murderer.

  By the time we leave the surgery an hour later, I feel so wretched that I refuse to take Matthew’s hand as we walk to the car park. In the car, I turn my head away from him and stare out of the window, trying not to give in to tears of hurt and humiliation. Maybe he senses that I’m at breaking point because he doesn’t say anything and, when he stops outside the chemist to get the medication Dr Deakin prescribed for me, I stay in the car, leaving him to deal with it. We travel the rest of the way home in silence, too, and when we arrive I get out of the car before he’s even had a chance to turn the engine off.

  ‘Sweetheart, don’t be like this,’ he pleads, following me into the kitchen.

  ‘What do you expect?’ I turn angrily to him. ‘I can’t believe you talked to Dr Deakin about me behind my back. Where’s your sense of loyalty?’

  He flinches. ‘It’s where it’s always been, where it always will be, right by your side.’

  ‘Then why did you have to mention every little thing I’ve ever forgotten?’

  ‘Dr Deakin asked for examples of what’s been happening and I wasn’t going to lie to him. I’ve been worried about you, Cass.’

  ‘So why didn’t you tell me instead of making excuses for me and pretending everything was all right? And why did you have to mention that I told the woman in the baby shop that I was pregnant? What has that got to do with the problems I’ve been having with my memory? Nothing, nothing at all. Now you’ve made me seem like a fantasist on top of everything else! I explained it to you, I explained that the assistant misunderstood when I told her the sleep-suit was for me and that by the time I realised she thought I was pregnant it was easier to go along with it. Why you chose to tell Dr Deakin about it is beyond me.’

  He sits down at the kitchen table and puts his head in his hands. ‘You ordered a pram, Cass.’

  ‘I didn’t order a pram!’

  ‘You didn’t order an alarm either.’

  I grab the kettle angrily, banging it against the tap as I fill it. ‘Weren’t you the one who said I must have been tricked into ordering it?’

  ‘Look, all I want is for you to get the help you need.’ There’s a pause. ‘I didn’t realise your mum was diagnosed with dementia when she was forty-four.’

  ‘Dementia isn’t usually hereditary,’ I say sharply. ‘Dr Deakin said so.’

  ‘I know, but it would be stupid to carry on pretending that you don’t have a problem of some sort.’

  ‘What, that I’m not amnesic, deluded and paranoid?’

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Well, I’m not going to take whatever it is that he prescribed for me.’

  He raises his head and looks at me. ‘It’s only something for stress. But don’t take it if you think you can cope without it.’ He gives a hollow laugh. ‘Maybe I’ll take it instead.’

  Something in his voice brings me up short and when I see how strained he looks, I feel terrible for never having put myself in his place, for never having thought what it must be like for him to see me going to pieces. I go over and crouch next to his chair, putting my arms around him.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He kisses the top of my head. ‘It’s not your fault.’

  ‘I can’t believe I’ve been so selfish; I can’t believe that I’ve never thought what it must be like for you to have to put up with me.’

  ‘Whatever it is, we’ll get through it together. Maybe you just need to take things easy for a while.’ Taking my arms from around him, he looks at his watch. ‘Let’s start now. While I’m here, I’m not going to let you do a thing, so why don’t you sit down while I rustle up some lunch.’

  ‘All right,’ I say gratefully.

  I sit down at the table and watch him take the makings of a salad from the fridge. I feel so tired, I could sleep here, right now. Although it had been humiliating to have my catalogue of errors spread out before me, I’m retrospectively glad that I’ve seen Dr Deakin, especially as all he thinks I’m suffering from is stress.

  *

  I look over at the boxes of pills Dr Deakin prescribed, lying near the kettle. It’s a road I don’t really want to go down but it’s comforting to know that they’re there if I ever feel I can’t cope, especially now that Matthew is going back to work and Rachel is flying out to Siena today. But with all the lesson preparation I have to do in the next couple of weeks, I’ll be too busy to worry.

  As I sit there, I remember the day I found Mum standing in the kitchen, staring at the kettle and, when I asked her what she was doing, she said that she couldn’t remember how to switch it on. Suddenly, I miss her more than I ever have. The pain is acute, almost physical, and leaves me breathless. I want more than anything to be able to take her hand in mine and tell her that I love her, for her to put her arms around me and tell me that everything will be all right. Because sometimes I’m not sure that it will be.

  SUNDAY, AUGUST 9TH

  I never thought I was a DIY kind of girl but I enjoy helping Matthew with his garden shed. It’s nice to be able to focus on something different and to feel at the end of the day that I’ve achieved something.

  ‘Gin-and-tonic time,’ he says, as we stand admiring our handiwork. ‘In the shed. I’ll get the drinks, you get the chairs.’

  So I drag two chairs into the shed and we christen it with another of Matthew’s special G&Ts, which he makes with fresh lime juice and a splash of ginger ale. We take our time over dinner outside and, when dusk begins to fall, we go back inside to watch a travel documentary, leaving our dishes to deal with later. It’s not long before Matthew starts yawning, so I tell him to go on up to bed while I clear up.

  I go into the kitchen and head for the dishes stacked by the dishwasher. I’m almost there when, out of the corner of my eye, I see it lying on the side at the far end of the kitchen, near the door that leads to the garden, and I freeze in mid-step, one arm half-outstretched in front of me, not daring to move. Danger permeates the air, settling on my skin, telling me to run, to get out of the kitchen, out of the house, but my limbs are too heavy, my mind too chaotic for flight. I want to call Matthew but my voice, like my body, is paralysed by fear. Seconds pass, and the thought that he could burst through the back door at any moment brings my legs to life and I stumble into the hall.

  ‘Matthew!’ I cry, collapsing onto the stairs. ‘Matthew!’ Galvanised by the fear in my voice, he comes tearing back out of the bedroom.

  ‘Cass!’ he shouts, running down the stairs, reaching me in seconds. ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’ he says, holding me close.

  ‘In the kitchen!’ My teeth are chattering so badly I can hardly get the words out. ‘It’s in the kitchen, lying on the side!’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The knife!’ I gabble. ‘It’s there, in the kitchen, on the side, near the door!’ I clutch his arm. ‘He’s out there, Matthew! You have to call the police!’

  Taking his arms from around me, he puts his hands on my shoulder.

  ‘Calm down, Cass.’ His voice is steady, soothing and I take a gulp of air. ‘Now, start again – what’s the matter?’

  ‘The knife, it’s on the side in the kitchen!’

  ‘What knife?’

  ‘The one he used to kill Jane with! We have to call the police, he might still be in the garden!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The murderer!’

  ‘You’re not making any sense, sweetheart.’

  ‘Just call the police,’ I plead, wringing my hands. ‘It’s there, the knife, in the kitchen!’

  ‘All right. But, first, I’ll need to take a look.’

  ‘No! Just phone the police, they’ll know what to do!’

  ‘Let me go and check first.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘I will call
them, I promise.’ He pauses, giving me time. ‘But before I do, I need to see the knife because they’ll ask me to describe it and they’ll want to know exactly where it is.’ He frees himself gently and eases past me.

  ‘What if he’s in there?’ I ask fearfully.

  ‘I’ll just look from the door.’

  ‘All right. But don’t go in!’

  ‘I won’t.’ He moves towards the kitchen door. ‘Where did you say it was?’ he asks, craning his neck around the doorway.

  My heart thumps painfully. ‘On the side, near the back door. He must have come in from the garden.’

  ‘I can see the knife I used earlier to cut the limes,’ he says calmly, ‘but that’s all.’

  ‘It’s there, I saw it!’

  ‘Can you come and show me?’

  I lift myself from the stairs and, holding on to him, look fearfully into the kitchen. Over by the door, lying on the side, I see one of our small-handled kitchen knives.

  ‘Is that what you saw, Cass?’ Matthew asks, watching my face. ‘Is that the knife you saw?’

  I shake my head. ‘No, it wasn’t that one, it was much bigger, with a black handle, like the one in the photo.’

  ‘Well, it seems to have gone,’ he says reasonably. ‘Unless it’s somewhere else. Shall we go and look?’

  I follow him into the kitchen, still hanging on to him. He makes a show of looking around, humouring me, and I know he doesn’t believe there ever was another knife. And I start weeping pathetically, from despair that I’m going mad.

  ‘It’s all right, sweetheart.’ Matthew’s voice is kind but he doesn’t put his arms around me, he stays as he is as if he can’t bring himself to comfort me.

  ‘I saw the knife,’ I sob. ‘I know I did. This isn’t the same one.’

  ‘So what are you saying? That someone came into the kitchen, replaced the knife I used earlier with a larger knife and swapped them back again?’

  ‘He must have.’

  ‘If that’s what you really think, you’d better call the police because there’s definitely a maniac on the loose.’

  I look up at him through my tears. ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you! He’s trying to frighten me; he wants me to be scared!’

  He walks over to the table and sits down, as if he’s considering what I’ve just said. I wait for him to say something but he sits staring into space and I realise he’s beyond speaking, because there are no words to describe how my insistence that there’s a murderer after me makes him feel.

  ‘If there was a reason, however small, why the murderer is targeting you, maybe I could understand,’ he says quietly. ‘But there’s no damn reason at all. I’m sorry, Cass, but I don’t know how much more of this I can take.’

  The desperation in his voice brings me to my senses. It’s a struggle to get a grip on myself but the fear of Matthew leaving me is greater than the fear of the murderer getting me.

  ‘I must have made a mistake,’ I say shakily.

  ‘So you don’t want to call the police?’

  I fight the urge to tell him that, yes, I want the police to come and search the garden. ‘No, it’s fine.’

  He gets up. ‘Can I give you a piece of advice, Cass? Take the pills the doctor prescribed for you. Then we might both get some peace of mind.’

  He leaves, not quite slamming the door behind him but almost. In the silence that follows I look at the little knife lying innocently on the side. Even from the corner of an eye it would be impossible to mistake it for something much more menacing. Unless you were mad, delusional, neurotic. It decides me. I walk over to the kettle and reach for the packet of pills. Dr Deakin had said to start with one, three times a day, but that I could up the dose to two if I felt really anxious. Really anxious doesn’t come anywhere near to describing how I feel but two is better than nothing so I pop them out and swallow them down with a glass of water.

  MONDAY, AUGUST 10TH

  A figure looms over me, dragging me from sleep. I open my mouth to scream but nothing comes out.

  ‘You didn’t have to sleep down here, you know.’ Matthew’s voice comes from a long way off. It takes me a while to work out that I’m lying on the sofa in the sitting room. At first, I’m not sure why. Then I remember.

  ‘I took two of the pills,’ I mumble, struggling to sit up. ‘And then I came to sit in here. They must have knocked me out.’

  ‘Maybe you should only take one next time, as you’re not used to them. I just came to tell you that I’m off to work.’

  ‘All right.’ I sink back onto the cushions. I sense he’s still angry but sleep is dragging me back. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  When I next open my eyes I think at first that he’s come back, or that he didn’t leave at all, because I can hear him speaking. But he’s leaving me a message on the answering machine.

  I get to my feet, feeling strangely disorientated. I must have been in a really deep sleep not to have heard the phone ringing. I look at the clock; it’s nine-fifteen. Going into the hall, I activate the answerphone.

  ‘Cass, it’s me. You’re obviously still asleep or in the shower. I’ll phone back later.’

  As messages go, it’s pretty unsatisfactory. I take a couple of seconds to clear my head then call him back.

  ‘Sorry, I was in the shower.’

  ‘I was just phoning to see how you are.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Did you go back to sleep?’

  ‘For a while.’

  He pauses, and I hear a small sigh. ‘I’m sorry about last night.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘I’ll come home as early as I can.’

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘I’ll call you before I leave.’

  ‘All right.’

  I put the phone down, aware that it’s one of the most stilted conversations we’ve ever had. The reality suddenly hits me of how all this has affected our relationship, and I wish I hadn’t sounded ungracious when he offered to come home early. Desperate to put things right between us, I reach for the phone to call him back and when it starts ringing before I’ve even dialled his number, I know he feels as wretched as I do.

  ‘I was about to call you,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry if I sounded ungrateful. I was still feeling drowsy from the pills.’

  He doesn’t say anything and, thinking he’s not impressed with my apology, I decide to try a bit harder. Until I realise it isn’t Matthew at the end of the line.

  My mouth goes dry. ‘Who’s there?’ I ask sharply. ‘Hello?’ The menacing silence confirms my greatest fear, not that he’s back, but that he never went away. The only reason he didn’t phone on Thursday or Friday was because Matthew was home. If he’s phoned today, it’s because he knows I’m home alone again. Which means he’s watching the house. Which means he’s close by.

  Fear crawls over my body, prickling my skin. If I needed proof that the knife I saw in the kitchen last night was real and not my mind playing tricks on me, I have it. Dropping the phone, I run to the front door and shoot the bolt with trembling fingers. I turn to the alarm, trying to remember how to isolate certain rooms, my mind racing, trying to get air into my lungs to calm my breathing, trying to work out where I’ll be safest. Not the kitchen, because he managed to get in through the back door last night, not in one of the bedrooms, because if he gets in I’ll be trapped upstairs. So the sitting room. The alarm set, I run into the sitting room and slam the door shut. I still don’t feel safe, because there’s no key to lock it, so I look for something to push against the door. The nearest thing is an armchair and as I manoeuvre it into place, the phone starts ringing again.

  Fear squeezes the rest of the air from my lungs. All I can think about is the knife I saw last night. Was there blood on it? I can’t remember. I scan the room, looking for a weapon to protect myself with and my eyes fall on a pair of iron tongs lying in the fireplace. I run over and snatch them up then cross to the windows and pull the curtains shut, first the wi
ndow that looks onto the back garden, then the one that looks onto the front, terrified that he’s watching, that he’s outside looking in. The sudden darkness increases my terror so I flick the light switches quickly. I can barely think straight. I want to call Matthew but the police will get here faster. I look around for the phone and when I realise that I don’t have one, because I left it in the hall, and my mobile, even if I had it on me, wouldn’t work down here, all the fight goes out of me. There’s nothing I can do. I can’t fetch the phone from the hall in case he’s already out there. All I can do is wait until he comes and finds me.

  Stumbling over to the sofa, I crouch down behind it, clutching the tongs, my whole body shaking. And the phone, which had stopped ringing, starts up again, mocking me. Tears of fright fall from my eyes – until I realise it’s stopped. I hold my breath – and it starts ringing again. The tears come back, and then the ringing stops and I hold my breath again in case this time he really has gone away. But then it starts up again, dashing my hopes. Caught up in his vicious circle of fear, hope, fear, hope, I lose all sense of time. And then, tired of playing with my emotions, he eventually stops calling.

  At first the silence is welcome. But then it becomes as threatening as the incessant ringing. It could mean anything. Maybe he hasn’t tired of tormenting me, maybe he’s stopped phoning because he’s here, in the house.

  There’s a noise in the hall – the click of the front door opening, then closing. Soft footsteps approaching. I stare at the sitting room door in terror and, as the handle begins to turn, dread descends on me, shrouding me like a blanket, wrapping me in its menace, suffocating me so that I can’t breathe. Sobbing openly now, I leap to my feet and run to the window, desperately pushing aside the curtains, and the pots of orchids that are on the sill. As I fling the window open, I become aware of the door pushing against the armchair, and am just about to climb into the garden when a siren pierces the air. And above its frantic shrieking, I hear Matthew calling my name from the other side of the door.

  It’s hard to describe how I feel once I’ve pushed the armchair out of the way and am clinging on to him, gabbling hysterically about the murderer being outside.