The Breakdown(36)

‘Cass?’ The confirmation that he knows who I am paralyses me. ‘Cass, is everything all right?’ The voice comes down the line again. ‘It’s John.’

My legs go weak. ‘John.’ I give a shaky laugh. ‘Sorry, I thought you were someone else.’

‘Are you OK?’

‘I am now.’ I fight for control. ‘It’s just that I’ve had one of those call companies pestering me and I thought they were calling me again.’

He laughs softly. ‘They’re a real nuisance, aren’t they?

But don’t worry, if you shout at them like you just did, there’s no way they’ll call you back! Although if you don’t mind me saying so,’ he goes on, amused, ‘threatening them with the police does seems a little harsh.’

‘Sorry,’ I say again. ‘I just lost it, I’m afraid.’

‘I don’t blame you. But look, I won’t keep you. I’m just phoning to see if you want to come for a drink on Friday evening with a few of us from school. I’m phoning round to see who’s free.’

‘Friday?’ My mind races ahead. ‘The thing is,

Matthew’s taking the next two days off and we might decide to go away somewhere. I don’t suppose I could let you know, could I?’

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‘Sure.’


‘I’ll give you a call.’

‘Great. Well, bye, Cass, hope to see you there. And if that company does phone back, make sure you give them a piece of your mind.’

‘I will,’ I promise. ‘Bye, John, thanks for calling.’

He rings off and I stand there feeling drained, and stupid, wondering what he must think of me. At that moment, the phone, which is still in my hand, starts ringing and a terrible shaking takes hold of me. I desperately want to believe that it’s John phoning back to tell me something he forgot to tell me the first time round, so I take the call. The silence screams down the line and I hate that once again, I’m doing exactly as he wants.

Or perhaps not. Maybe my silence frustrates him, maybe he wants me to yell down the phone like I just did to John, maybe he wants me to threaten to go to the police so that he’ll have an excuse to kill me, like he killed Jane. I hang on to the thought, glad that I was able to vent my frustration on John and, as I hang up, I feel the tiniest of victories. And relief that now that the call has come, I’ll be able to get on with my life.

Except that I can’t. The house feels so oppressive that I choose a shed for Matthew hurriedly, more concerned by the promise of delivery by Saturday than by its dimen-sions. Back downstairs, I take a book and a bottle of water and go into the garden. It takes me a while to choose where to sit because I don’t want anyone to be able to creep up on me, which I know is unlikely as





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b a paris


they’d have to climb over a six-foot hedge. Unless they come in through the gate. I pick a spot at the side of the house with a view of the drive, annoyed that my home is no longer the haven it used to be. But until the police catch the killer, there’s not a lot I can do.

Just as I’m about to make myself some lunch, I get a text from Rachel with the address that I asked for, so I take the card from my bag and sit down to write to Jane’s husband. It’s easier than I thought it would be simply because I write from the heart and, when I’ve finished, I read it over just to make sure I’m happy with it.

Dear Mr Walters,

I hope I’m not intruding in sending you this letter. I just wanted to say how terribly sorry I was to hear the sad news about Jane.

I only knew her briefly but in that short time she made such an impression on me. We first met a month ago, at a party for someone who was leaving Finchlakers and then we had lunch together a couple of weeks ago, in Browbury. I hope you will understand when I say that I have lost a friend, because that is how it feels.

My thoughts are with you and your family, Cass Anderson

Glad to have an excuse to get out of the house for a few minutes, I find a stamp and walk the five-hundred yards to the postbox at the top of the road. There’s no one The Breakdown





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around but as I slip my letter through the slot, I sense


someone watching me, just as I had the day I’d used the payphone to call the police. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and I whip round, my heart thudding, but there’s no one there, only the branches of a tree some twenty feet away from me stirring in the wind. Except that today, there isn’t any wind.

It isn’t fear that I feel but terror. It drains the blood from my face and robs me of my breath, knots my insides and turns my limbs to jelly. And then it makes me lose all sense of reason and hurtles me down the road, away from the houses at the top of the road, towards my house at the end of the road, close to the woods. My feet pound on the tarmac, loud in the silence of the afternoon and as I take a sharp turn into the drive, my chest heaving, my breath rasping, I skid on loose gravel.

The ground rushes up to meet me and whacks the air from my lungs. And as I lie there, fighting for breath, my hands and knees already stinging, the voice in my head mocks me: There’s no one there!

I get slowly to my feet and hobble to the front door, pulling the keys gingerly from my pocket with my finger and thumb, protecting the scraped skin on the palms of my hands. In the hall I head for the stairs, glad I hadn’t turned on the alarm when I left as I’m in such a state I’d have probably set it off again. I climb the stairs, my eyes smarting with unshed tears. I only let them fall when I’m cleaning myself up because I can pretend that I’m crying over the damage I’ve done to my hands and