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.
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Thank you also for asking about the girls. They miss their mother dreadful y but are thankful y too young to understand what has happened. All they know is that their mummy has gone to be an angel.
I know from your address that you live fairly local y so if you ever see me in the street – unfortunately, my face has become recognisable – please come and say hello. I understand that people don’t know what to say but it is hard when I see people avoiding me.
Kind regards,
Alex
My breath, which I didn’t realise I’d been holding, comes out in a shudder and my eyes blur with tears, from relief that it’s only an innocent letter and from desperate sadness for Jane’s husband. His kind words of gratitude are like a balm to my soul – except he would never have written them if he knew I’d left Jane to her fate that night. As I reread his letter, each word is like an arrow, piercing my conscience, and suddenly all I want is to tell him the truth. Maybe he would condemn me.
But maybe, just maybe, he would tell me that there was nothing I could have done, that Jane was doomed to die long before I drove past. And if it came from him, maybe I’d believe it.
The phone rings, bringing me back to the present where there is no comfort, no forgiveness, just relentless
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fear and hounding. I snatch it up, wanting to scream at him to leave me alone. But I don’t want him to know how terrified I am, so we wait, each with our own agenda. The seconds tick by. And then I realise that if I can sense the menace coming down the line from his end, he can sense the fear coming from mine. I’m just about to hang up when I realise that there’s something different about this call.
I strain my ears, trying to work out what it is.
Somewhere in the background, I hear the faintest of sounds, a tiny whisper of wind maybe, or the slight rustling of a leaf. Whichever it is, it tells me that he’s out in the open and instantly Fear, who had gone back to nestling in the pit of my stomach, rises up inside me, threatening to consume me. Adrenalin kicks in, driving me into the study, clearing the blind panic from my eyes so that I’m able to look out into the road and see that it’s empty. Relief steps in but Fear, hating to be beaten, reminds me that it doesn’t mean the murderer isn’t there.
Dread takes hold and peppers my skin with tiny beads of sweat. I want to phone the police but something – Reason, maybe – tells me that even if they were to come and search the garden, they wouldn’t find him. He – my tormentor – is far too clever for that.
I can’t stay in the house to await whatever he’s decided for me, like a sitting duck. I run into the hall, throw on the first pair of shoes I find, take the car keys from the table and open the front door. I look around; the drive is clear but I don’t want to take any chances so I unlock The Breakdown
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the car from where I’m standing and cover the few yards