friend’s baby, the assistant had talked about my supposed pregnancy quite naturally and, delighted for me, he decided to buy me a present. But surely he wouldn’t have chosen something as expensive as a pram, and if it was a gift, why had he sent it anonymously? And why, when we met a while later in Browbury, didn’t he mention either my pregnancy or the pram? Had he
been embarrassed about what he’d done? None of it
made any sense.
The alternative, that it wasn’t innocent at all, makes my heart pound. Had John been following me that day, had he been following me the day he’d knocked on my car window in Browbury? When I think about it now, it was unusual that I bumped into him twice in less than ten days. Had he arranged to have the pram sent to me anonymously to frighten me? He couldn’t know that I would think I’d sent it myself because he hadn’t known at that point about my dementia. I’d only told him about that over lunch in Browbury. And why would he do any of this? Because he loves you, a voice whispers in my mind and my hearts thuds painfully. He loves me enough to hate me?
When I realise that everything points to John being my silent caller, I feel sick. He knew how nervous I’d been since Jane’s murder and when I’d mention the isolated position of our house he had pointed out that there were other houses nearby. But he’s never been to my house so how would he know? I’m suddenly so angry at him that I have to stop myself from going straight The Breakdown
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to the Spotted Cow and confronting him in front of
Rachel. But, before I do, I need to be absolutely sure of everything.
I turn it around in my head, looking at it from every angle, but no matter how much I don’t want it to be true, all the facts are screaming that I’ve found my tormentor.
I think back to July, when I’d shouted at my silent caller to leave me alone, and John had taken on his real persona and pretended surprise. All along it had been him. And I had apologised and told him that I’d been receiving nuisance calls from a call centre. How he must have laughed to himself as he pretended he’d phoned to invite me for a drink with Connie. I’d told him that I wasn’t sure I’d be able to make it because Matthew had taken the following two days off. And on those days, there hadn’t been any calls. Even the timing matches; with school closed, he has had the whole summer to devote to terrifying me. But it seems so insane. If someone had told me this morning that John was my silent caller I would have laughed in their face.
Then something occurs to me and I feel as if I’ve been hit by a sledgehammer. On the night of Jane’s murder, John didn’t go back to Connie’s. He and Jane used to play tennis together, he had told me that himself. Is it possible they had been lovers? Had he gone to meet her that night? Is it possible that he murdered Jane? The answer has to be no. And then I remember him saying that his girlfriend, who none of us had ever met, was no longer on the scene.
304
b a paris
And what about Rachel? If she and John are together, she could be in terrible danger. But if she and John are together, maybe she knows what he’s done. I feel suddenly breathless. There are so many scenarios going round in my head that I’m tempted to go straight back home without going anywhere near The Spotted Cow.
I look at my watch; I have five minutes to decide.
In the end, I decide to meet Rachel. I use the walk there to prepare for every eventuality, that John will be with her, that he won’t be, that Rachel will tell me about her and John, that she won’t say anything about him at all. If she doesn’t, should I tell her my fears about John?
But even to my ears they seem nonsensical, far-fetched.
By the time I arrive, the pub is so busy that it’s just as well Rachel was there an hour earlier or we wouldn’t have got a seat.
‘Couldn’t you have found a quieter table?’ I attempt to joke, because we seem to be surrounded by a huge group of French students.
‘I’ve only just arrived,’ she says, giving me a hug, ‘so we’re lucky to have a table at all.’
I hear the lie and something inside me stirs.
‘I’ll get some drinks,’ I offer. ‘What would you like?’
‘Just a small glass of wine, please, as I’m driving.’
The wait at the bar gives me the chance to work out what I’m going to say when she asks me why I wanted to meet because I no longer need her help in tracking down my silent caller. Unless it isn’t John, unless I’ve The Breakdown
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taken what the shop assistant told me and have woven
a whole intricate story around it.
‘So, what do you want to chat about?’ she asks once I’ve sat down.
‘Matthew,’ I say.
‘Why, what’s the problem?’
‘No problem, just his birthday coming up. I’d like to do something really special for him. He’s had a lot to put up with recently, one way or another, and I’d like to make it up to him. I just wondered if you had any ideas about what I could do. You’re so good at things like that.’
‘It’s not for another couple of months, is it?’ she frowns.