The Breakdown(58)

The Breakdown





219


We get in the car and as we pull out of the drive I


lean my head back and close my eyes. I feel exhausted, but here in the car with Matthew, where no dangers can reach me, I also feel safe. We turn a sudden corner and, thrown against the door, I open my eyes and blink a couple of times, trying to work out where we are. And then I realise.

‘Matthew!’ I hear the fear in my voice. ‘We’re heading the wrong way!’

He glances over at me and frowns. ‘We’re going to

Chichester.’

‘I know, but why are we going down Blackwater

Lane!’ The words feel thick on my tongue.

‘Because this way will take ten minutes off our

journey time. We’ll be late otherwise.’

My heart thumps. I don’t want to go this way, I can’t!

Through the windscreen I see the lay-by coming up and my mind starts spiralling. Panic-stricken, I turn towards the door, my fingers reaching for the handle.

‘Cass!’ Matthew cries, alarm in his voice. ‘What are you doing? You can’t just get out of the car! We’re going at forty!’ He slams his foot on the brake and the car jolts, throwing me forward. He brings it hurriedly to a stop, just opposite the lay-by where Jane was killed. Someone has laid flowers and the plastic wrapping flutters in the breeze. Horrified to be back where my nightmare began, I burst into tears.

‘No!’ I sob. ‘Please, Matthew, we can’t stop here!’





220


b a paris


‘Oh God,’ he says wearily. He slips the car into gear, about to move on, then stops. ‘This is crazy.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I sob.

‘What do you want me to do? Shall I keep driving?

Or do you want to go home?’ He sounds at the end of his tether.

I’m crying so hard I can hardly breathe. He reaches over and tries to put his arms around me but I shrug him off. Sighing, he starts doing a three-point turn in the middle of the road, turning the car back the way we came.

‘No,’ I tell him, still sobbing. ‘I can’t go home, I just can’t.’

He stops in mid-manoeuvre, leaving the car dangerously at an angle. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I don’t want to go home, that’s all.’

‘Why not?’ His voice is calm but I can sense a tension underneath it, hiding something more serious.

‘I just don’t feel safe there anymore.’

He takes a deep breath, steadying himself. ‘Is this about the murder again? Come on, Cass, the murderer isn’t anywhere near our house and he doesn’t know who you are. I know Jane’s murder has upset you but you need to get over it.’

I round on him furiously. ‘How can I get over it when her killer still hasn’t been caught?’

‘So what do you want me to do? I’ve alarmed the

whole house for you. Do you want me to drop you off The Breakdown





221


at a hotel somewhere? Is that what you want? Because


if it is, just tell me and I’ll do it!’

By the time we get home I’m in such a state that

Matthew calls Dr Deakin, who offers to come out. Even for him I can’t stop crying. He asks about my medication and, when Matthew tells him that I haven’t been taking it regularly, Dr Deakin frowns and says that if he prescribed it, it’s because I need it. Under his watchful eye I gratefully gulp down two of the pills and wait for them to take me to a place where nothing matters anymore. And while I wait, he asks me gentle questions, wanting to know what triggered my meltdown. I listen as Matthew explains about me barricading myself into the sitting room while he was at work and, when Dr Deakin asks if there’s been any other worrying behaviour on my part, Matthew mentions that the week before I’d become hysterical because I thought I saw a huge knife lying on the side in the kitchen when in reality it was only a kitchen knife. I sense them exchanging glances and they begin speaking about me as if I’m not there. I hear the word ‘breakdown’ but I don’t care because the pills have already begun to work their magic.

Dr Deakin leaves, urging Matthew to make sure I rest and to call him if I deteriorate further. I spend the rest of the evening lying drowsily on the sofa while Matthew watches television next to me, my hand in his. When the programme comes to an end, he turns off the television and asks me if there’s anything else worrying me.





222


b a paris


‘Just all the work I’m meant to do before school starts up again,’ I say, tears welling up in my eyes despite the pills.

‘But you’ve already done quite a lot of it, haven’t you?’

My lies have caught up with me. ‘Some, but there’s

still a lot to do and I’m not sure I’m going to get it done in time.’

‘Well, maybe you could ask someone to help you.’

‘I can’t, they’ve got enough of their own work to do.’

‘Then can I help?’

‘No, not really.’ I look at him hopelessly. ‘What am I going to do, Matthew?’

‘If you can’t get anyone to help and you can’t do it on your own, I don’t really know.’