The Breakdown(51)

Just as I’m wondering if he’s going to make me get out of the car and go to the nearest machine, incurring the wrath of half a dozen drivers, the barrier swings up.

‘Thank you,’ I mouth gratefully towards the box and before he can change his mind and bring the barrier down on top of me, I drive off with a crunch of gears.

As I head out of town I feel so agitated I know I should pull over and wait until I’m calmer before driving on. My mobile rings, giving me the perfect excuse for stopping, but guessing it’s Matthew I carry on. The thought of not going home, of staying in the car and driving until it runs out of petrol is tempting but I love Matthew too much to want to worry him more than is reasonable.

My mobile continues to ring on and off for the rest of the journey and, as I turn into the drive, Matthew The Breakdown





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comes hurrying out of the house. His face is twisted


with worry, and guilt tangles with my exhaustion.

‘Are you all right?’ he asks, opening my door before I’ve even got my seat belt off.

‘I’m fine,’ I say, reaching into the well of the passenger seat for my bag so that I don’t have to meet his eyes.

‘You could have let me know,’ he reproaches. ‘I’ve been worried.’

‘Sorry.’

‘What happened?’

‘False alarm. I was looking on the wrong floor.’

‘But you said you’d checked all the floors.’

‘Does it really matter? The car hasn’t been stolen, isn’t that enough?’

There’s a pause while he struggles not to ask me how I could have missed it. ‘You’re right,’ he says rallying. I get out of the car and go into the house. ‘You look all in. I’ll get dinner, if you like.’

‘Thanks. I’ll go and have a shower.’

I stay a long time in the bathroom and an even longer time getting into my old jogging pants in the bedroom, putting off the moment when I’ll have to face Matthew again. I feel so depressed that all I want is to fall into bed and sleep the rest of my horrible, horrible day away.

I keep expecting Matthew to call up to see where I am but the only noise that comes from the kitchen is the sound of the dinner being prepared.

When I finally go down, I make myself chat away about anything and everything – school, the weather,





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bumping into Connie – determined not to let him get a word in edgeways, determined to make him think that mislaying the car hasn’t fazed me at all. I even write the date of the Inset day on the calendar, telling him that I’m looking forward to seeing everybody again at the meeting and going back to work. But worry gnaws away inside me and I have to force myself to eat the risotto he’s made. I want to tell him about the car I suspect was parked outside the house earlier but how can I after what’s happened? All it will sound like is more hysteria, more paranoia on my part.

FRIDAY AUGUST 14th

It’s four weeks to the day since Jane’s murder and I can’t believe how much my life has changed since in so short space of time. Fear and guilt have become such constant companions that I can’t remember what it was like to live without them. And misplacing my car yesterday has really shaken me. If I needed more proof that I’m on the road to dementia, that was it.

It’s hard not to feel depressed. I sit lethargically in the sitting room, the television on for company, tuned to the same mind-numbing shopping channel as before. A call comes in at around ten o’clock and when I immediately go into panic-mode, my breath trapped in my lungs, my heart accelerating to the point where I feel dizzy, I realise I’ve become conditioned to experiencing fear every time the phone rings. Even when the answering machine kicks in – so I know it isn’t my silent caller – there’s no relief, because he will be calling.

Title: The Breakdown ARC, Format: 126x198, v1, Output date:08/11/16





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The letter box clatters, making me jump. How did it come to this, that any noise, not just the phone ringing, makes my heart race, my skin prickle with unease? When had I become so frightened? I’m ashamed, ashamed that I’m no longer the strong person I once was, ashamed that I let the slightest thing get to me. I hate the way I’m holding my breath, listening for the sound of the postman’s feet scrunching back down the gravel path so that I’ll know it really was him pushing something through the door and not the murderer. I hate the way my stomach jumps into my mouth when I retrieve the post and find a letter addressed to me, I hate the way, as I stare at the handwritten envelope, that my hands start shaking, because maybe it’s from him. I don’t want to open it but, propelled by something stronger than me – because knowing is better than not knowing – I rip it open and find a single sheet of paper. I unfold it slowly, hardly daring to read the words written there.

Dear Cass,

Thank you for your letter, I can’t tell you how much it means to me to know that you have such good memories of your lunch with Jane. I remember her coming home and tel ing me how well the two of you got on, so I’m glad that you felt the same way. I really appreciate you taking the time to write, letters such as yours are incredibly important to me at what is a horrendous time.