STRANGE ABOUT THE POWER CUT, though.’ Abbie frowns. ‘You can practically guarantee that it will go off in a storm or high winds. Nothing unusual. But there’s no reason it should have gone off today. Ours certainly didn’t.’
‘Well, everything seems to be working OK now, thank goodness.’ Sitting comfortably in the rocker, Sally is enjoying her hard-won mug of tea.
Abbie prefers to sip hers perched on the edge of the table. She’s older than Sally, at least forty judging by the grey streaks in her sun-bleached hair and the way her pale blue eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiles. Her face and hands are tanned with large freckles running into blotches. And yet her skin looks healthy, as if she spends time in the open air. Not like Sally’s indoor, fluorescent-tube complexion.
‘So you own a horse, do you?’ Sally asks.
‘Several, actually. I run a small riding school. The paddocks behind this place are ours—you can see the horses from your bedroom window. I hire them out and give lessons to the local kids. Do you ride?’
‘God no, I’ve never been near a horse.’
‘Pity. There are some lovely bridle paths around here. Great way to see the countryside. I do take beginners out, though. Not a proper lesson, just a gentle saunter across the fields. Perfectly safe.’
‘I think we’d better stick to walking, thanks all the same. But I would like to do some exploring over the weekend. That’s assuming Jonathan ever gets here.’
‘Are you sure you’re going to be all right here tonight?’ Abbie seems genuinely concerned.
‘Yes, I’m sure I’ll be fine. I feel perfectly at home already. And there’s always the cat for company.’
‘You’ve brought your cat with you?’
‘Oh, no. Sitting tenant. Perhaps you’d know about it? Scraggy-looking grey thing. I think it must have belonged to the previous owner—Martha, wasn’t it?’
‘No,’ Abbie laughed, ‘not possible. Old Martha died twenty years ago.’
‘Oh, but I thought…The woman in the shop said that Martha was the previous owner and the cottage has been empty since she died.’
‘Yes, that’s right. Apart from short stays, it’s been unoccupied most of that time. Not surprising really. It wasn’t in good repair and the family just let it fall apart. In the end Trevor—Martha was his great-aunt or something—well, he decided to renovate. He was going to live in it.’
‘Must have cost a fortune.’
‘He owns a building company, so that helps. Even so, it didn’t come cheap.’
‘But he changed his mind?’
‘Yes, he was dead keen at first. Then, when it was nearly finished, he suddenly put it on the market. He didn’t really explain why. I know he was very fond of the old girl.’
‘The woman in the shop told me that the old lady died here and that Trevor found her.’
‘Oh, you’ve met our Ruth, have you?’ laughed Abbie. ‘She’s a dear, but she does go on a bit. She’s certainly right about Trevor finding her. He was only a boy at the time and he used to visit her, about the only person who did.’
‘You remember her, then?’
‘Of course. She was known locally as Mad Martha. Us kids were sure she was a witch. We lived at the other end of the village then—my parents still do—but we’d come this way after school. A big group of us, mind; never on our own. We’d dare each other to get close to the house. When we were feeling especially brave, we’d throw rotten apples at her door until she came out and chased us off. I was terrified she’d set her cat on us.’
‘Her cat?’
‘Yes,’ Abbie laughed. ‘Vicious-looking thing. Now I come to think of it, it does sound like the one you’ve met. Probably one of its descendants. Actually the place was running with them, but this one was special. People said it had the evil eye or something.’
‘Is that why the cottage didn’t sell?’
‘Doubt it. No, I think Trevor’s timing was bad, hit a recession in house prices. I expect he’ll try again when the market picks up. Meantime he’s letting it out as holiday accommodation.’
‘So it’s still for sale then?’
‘Yes, I suppose so. Not thinking of buying, are you?’
‘No way. We’re both city birds. Need a break, that’s all. We’re going to love this weekend, if Jonathan ever turns up.’
‘At least you’ve got the cat, wherever it is. I’m sure it didn’t go out when I came in.’
‘It seems to appear from nowhere, then vanish again.’
‘No doubt it will turn up. Anyway, I must get going.’ Abbie drained the last of her tea and carried her mug over to the draining board. ‘George will want his dinner. Wouldn’t like to join us for a meal, would you?’
‘That’s really kind of you, but no thanks. I’ve gone and bought all this food and, besides, I could do with an early night’
‘Well, if you’re sure. We’re only at the corner of the lane. Ring if you change your mind, or if there are any other problems. Number’s on the leaflet—there should be a pile of them next to your phone. I tell you what, why don’t you both come over Sunday morning for pre-lunch drinks? George and Jonathan can talk man stuff and I’ll introduce you to the horses.’
‘As long as they don’t bite.’
‘No, they don’t. And neither does George.’
‘Can’t vouch for Jonathan.’
By now it’s dark outside. A thin mist drifts off the fields, but the house is warm and cosy. It feels good to have time on her own; she’s not missing Jonathan nearly as much as she thought she would. The isolation doesn’t bother her. She feels safe here, enfolded, the treacherous streets of the city a million miles away.
The cat is nowhere to be seen. She had searched the cottage with the intention of evicting it, at least for the night. At first she felt relieved. Then, unpacking her suitcase, she felt strangely sad that it had gone. Perhaps it would find its own way back in again. Still glowing from a hot bath, Sally now realizes she’s hungry. Wrapping herself in a dressing gown, she heads for the kitchen to make a tuna sandwich. Scrabbling through drawers for a tin opener, she hears a familiar throbbing drone.
‘Look, we can’t go on meeting like this. My husband’s bound to notice.’ As soon as she says the words, she wishes she could bite them back. The wound is too raw for her to be making jokes about marital infidelity. But she’s reminded that Jonathan will be here in the morning, and he certainly won’t tolerate a cat in the house. Dad was right: she should never have encouraged it in the first place. The creature stops purring and lays its ears back in a scowl.
‘All right, then, you can stay the night, but this is your last taste of high living. Tomorrow, you go.’ She spoons half the fish onto a plate. The cat rubs its side along Sally’s leg in appreciation, executing a deft about-turn to repeat the action in the other direction. Then it sets about eating, fastidiously picking out small pieces and licking its mouth between bites, as if accustomed to such luxuries. Sally watches it between glances at the window and the darkened garden beyond, only half attending to the construction of her own sandwich. As she picks up the empty fish tin, the cat leaps up, landing heavily on the worktop beside her. Sally jumps back with a scream and the tin clatters to the floor.
‘Oh hell! Now look what you made me do.’ Blood oozes thickly from a deep cut inflicted by the jagged lid. She squeezes her finger, forcing the blood to run freely. A shower of bright red spots spatters the worktop.
The cat moves nearer, uttering a concerned chirrup. Its whiskers twitch and it reaches forward, nose searching out the wound. Sally looks up to meet the cat’s gaze. Those eyes again, those incredible yellow eyes. Heavy droning fills her ears, smothering all other sensations—the colour red, the smell of blood—soothing her thoughts away to nothingness. Light-headed, she feels the room tilt and sway. Sees the pink tongue gently licking, licking, licking…
A surge of revulsion drags her to her senses and she snatches her hand back. ‘Get away! You disgusting animal, get away from me.’ As the cat leaps for the floor, Sally’s good hand scrabbles behind her, closing around a heavy mug. She hurls it across the room, narrowly missing the small head, and it shatters on the tiled floor. The cat spins in mid-leap, lands crouching low, ears flat against its head. It spits and snarls, eyes narrowed to slits. Sally is afraid that it might attack. Instead the animal turns and darts out through the hall doorway.
Sickened by the episode and fearful of infection—God only knows what filthy holes that cat has been scavenging in—Sally rummages for a bottle of disinfectant. The pungent liquid stings as it hits the gash, laying pain on pain, but she is too shaken to care. A twist of kitchen paper to stop the bleeding, and then she remembers seeing a first-aid box in the bathroom cabinet.
Now upstairs, she is fumbling a plaster from its wrapper ready to place over the injury. ‘Well, that’ll teach me not to talk to strange animals.’ Gingerly she unwinds the blood-soaked tissue, fearful that her finger may need stitching. Then she looks at her hand, not understanding what she sees. There had been so much blood. It had hurt like hell. Now, barely a mark. Hardly a scratch.
‘I know my skin heals quickly, but not that quickly. This is bloody ridiculous, excuse the pun. I must have imagined the whole thing. Obviously I’m cracking up.’ But no, there’s the blood-stained tissue, and there are red smears on her dressing gown. Perhaps she had been unfair to the cat. They say animals lick their wounds to help them heal faster. ‘But not that fast. Oh, come on now, I might have misjudged her intentions, but she’s not a miracle worker.’ Her face looks at her from the bathroom mirror, pale and hollow. She realizes she’s trembling. She pushes her fingers through her hair, tossing it away from her eyes.
‘I think I need a drink.’
The first sips of the Mongolian red fulfil all her expectations, but the sandwich helps to mask the taste and the wine is becoming bearable. The worktop is cleaned and her dressing gown left to soak. The incident of the cut finger slips into the background of her mind.
The living room is snug and warm. She imagines winter evenings curled up with a good book. They could always rent the cottage again, or buy it. Why not? That little back room would make a perfect office. No reason why she couldn’t work from here most days, take the train down to London when needed—a few times a month maybe. No, that’s silly; she’d be bored stiff by the end of the first week. Besides, Jonathan would never consider it. A weekend cottage? No, the novelty would wear off after a few visits, and then they would be the ones saddled with a white elephant instead of Trevor. Let’s settle for this weekend; if it works out, we can always come again.
She tolerates a second glass of wine while an old film on television gives her an excuse to cry. Eventually she goes up to bed after making a final search for the cat, intending to shut it in the kitchen for the night, but it’s nowhere to be seen. She feels guilty about it now.
In the big brass bed, Sally thinks about lunch with Jonathan tomorrow and then a walk across the field and through the woods, down to the river. The sun will stretch their shadows across the stubble. They will stand on the bridge and talk. At long last, yes, they will talk. As she begins to drift, she wonders how she knew about the path through the woods and the bridge. Perhaps Jonathan had told her, or Abbie. Or perhaps she made it up. She really can’t remember. Then sleep takes it all away.
Sally wakes to sunlight dappling her pillow and a motorbike revving up a few inches from her ear. Turning over, she finds herself being stared at by two luminous, yellow headlamps. A glance across the bedroom confirms the door is slightly ajar. She could have sworn she had closed it.
‘How did you get in here?’ But it’s too early to figure that out. She struggles out of bed. A quick shower and ten minutes later she’s bounding down the stairs to the kitchen, dressed in jeans, hair brushed into a ponytail, and feeling like a young girl. The cat scampers ahead of her, leading the way to its saucer where it rubs against Sally’s legs. Sally obliges with more milk, promising to go in search of some proper cat food. While the kettle boils for coffee, she looks out at the stretch of roadway Jonathan will be driving along very soon, then sets about tidying last night’s supper things. That chicken is still in the fridge, so maybe yesterday’s dinner can be today’s lunch. After coffee, she’ll get the bird into the oven and start preparing the vegetables. Welcome Jonathan with a roast.
‘How do you fancy roast chicken, eh Cat?’ Cat jumps up onto the table where the wine bottle stands two-thirds full, stretches out and sniffs at the cork that Sally had hastily pushed into the neck last night. ‘Not up to Jonathan’s usual standard, I’m afraid.’ The cat meows in agreement and then—Sally swears it’s deliberate—jabs its nose against the bottle and pushes it over. The bottle spins, the cork is dislodged and wine spills all across the table and onto the floor. ‘So, you’re a wine connoisseur among your many other talents, eh? Well, I didn’t think much of it either.’
She’s in too good a mood to feel annoyed, and it’s easier to make jokes than to start asking questions. Instead she heads for the hall and the cleaning cupboard. Cat bounds along in front of her and leaps up onto the telephone table, scattering the careful arrangement of tourist pamphlets. No doubt one of them is for Abbie’s riding stable. Sally remembers the invitation for drinks on Sunday morning. There is something nice about Abbie—they could be friends, given time. And it would be good to take a bottle of wine over with them, a thank-you for being there yesterday when the promised weekend showed signs of turning sour. But not Ruth’s three-pound-a bottle red. No way. And they could do with something palatable to go with the lunch today. Yes, of course. It’s still early. If she catches him before he leaves, Jonathan can call in at the supermarket for some decent wine. Perhaps some pâté and olives too. As if she needs an excuse to ring her own husband.
The journey from the telephone in the hall back to the kitchen goes on forever. She clings to the doorframe, her legs lead-heavy, the room swaying around her. The tide of her own blood pounding in her ears fails to drown out the words. Jonathan had answered at the third ring. He sounded flustered at first, joking and laughing too loudly. ‘I’ll be leaving soon, be with you well before lunchtime.’ And yes, he would bring some wine. ‘The meeting? Oh, it was OK, but it did drag on a bit, as I anticipated. It was that chap from the oil company. I told you about him, didn’t I? We took him for a long lunch so official business started late anyway. Then, when I saw the way things were going, that’s when I realized I wasn’t going to make it. His company wants a personality profile on all prospective employees. Growing trend, you know the sort of thing—psychological screening process to eliminate potential industrial saboteurs and terrorists. Could be quite a lucrative opportunity for the practice, but you know old Harry Benson.’
Oh, yes, she knew old Harry. And Margaret Benson. He’d forgotten she’d had lunch with Margaret two days ago. Or he might have got away with it.
‘You know old Harry, resists anything new. Insisted on talking it round and round in circles. What happens if we let a psychopath through the net and he blows up the oil refinery? Could we be held responsible? Well, of course we can’t, but you know what Harry’s like.’
She had smiled and laughed with him, to smother the words, wipe them away, make them unsaid, unheard. But as she put the telephone down and turned away, they rushed back at her like a tidal wave. You know what Harry’s like.
‘You bastard, Jonathan. You lying bastard.’ Sally knew all about the symposium. The one Margaret had told her about. The one Harry was really attending. ‘Harry’s in Stockholm, Jonathan. Harry Benson’s in bloody Stockholm!’ She’s shouting at the empty room.
Empty, except for the cat.
‘You knew, didn’t you?’ Yellow eyes watch as Sally falls into the rocking chair. ‘You knew. That’s why…’ She stares at the floor where the spilled wine still drips into a red pool.
Sally feels herself sinking deeper into the chair as wave after wave of truth crashes in on her. He had planned everything. Persuaded her to agree to this weekend, knowing he would spend the night with…with that woman. Or is this a new one? The telephone call yesterday afternoon was a lie. Everything was a lie to get her out of town, out of the way. How many other times? How many more? And Jonathan is on his way now. He’ll be here in a couple of hours, maybe less.
‘What am I supposed to do, Cat?’
For a long time she doesn’t move. When the tears finally come, they scald her face. Gasping sobs shake her body. She does not feel the sudden weight on her lap, but her hands clutch at grey fur, fingers digging into the small, sinewy frame. Cat doesn’t flinch. Sally doubles over, burying her face in Cat’s side, until it’s slicked with hot, salty splashes. She has cried before. But not like this. This isn’t the pouting resentment that dissolves at the first gesture of remorse. This isn’t the anger of a little girl lost, alone, grateful for the gift of reconciliation. This anger is a surging, blood-red fury unleashed from a lifetime of denial.
Cat begins to purr.
The soft, rhythmic sound washes Sally in gentler waves. Her sobs gradually subside, leaving her exhausted. She feels as if a deep hole somewhere beneath her ribs has been hollowed out, scraped raw, then refilled with a quiet, seething hatred. She hears the clock ticking, measuring the moments that bring Jonathan nearer and nearer. She can see him negotiating the route out of town, pushing his foot on the accelerator as the roads open up. Oh, how he loves to live in the fast lane. He always drives too hard, always takes corners too sharply. That car is his conquest. Another of his fast women.
The clock ticks steadily; the chair rocks; the cat purrs.
Looking into yellow eyes, Sally sees Jonathan’s smug face. He thinks he’s pulled it off. It’s strange to look at him now. She has always found his lopsided, boyish smile endearing. Now it’s a sly smirk of self-satisfaction. The pale blue eyes are cold and calculating. How could she have loved that face?
Drained, exhausted, her eyelids swollen and stinging, she leans back in the chair. Cat’s pulsating mantra soothes her, the warm comforting fur vibrating beneath her hands. All she can see are pools of moonlight narrowing into bright shafts. Her own eyes obediently follow. The room dims as her eyelids close. Her hands, stroking Cat’s back, find the rhythm of her song.
Pussycat, Pussycat, where have you been?
I’ve been up to London to look at the King.
Her voice floats back to her from a far, distant place. She sees Jonathan’s hands grip the steering wheel as his foot spins the car faster, faster.
Pussycat, Pussycat, what did you there?
I frightened a little mouse under his chair.
She’s thrown awake by the sudden jolt of her body. The room is silent, save for the ticking of the clock. Cat is motionless on her lap, eyes wide, ears pricked. The wine has ceased dripping and lies in a red pool, like soured blood. The sight of it brings memory rushing in. What time is it? He should be here by now. Panic catches in her throat, then quickly subsides, replaced by a tranquil certainty.
Cat jumps down to the floor, crosses the room and leaps up onto the window ledge. Sally follows at a more leisurely pace: there’s no longer any need for haste. They stand side by side, Sally and the cat, and look through the window and out across the fields towards the road. Sally isn’t surprised when the morning silence is torn by the wailing of sirens.
‘That’s right, Cat, we’ll stay here. I’ll make you a nice dinner. Then, in a little while perhaps, we’ll take a walk down to the river together. We know the way, don’t we?’ She reaches out and her fingers trail through Cat’s fur. ‘And we’ll have all afternoon. It will be a long time before anyone comes looking for me here.’
They watch together as a cavalcade of red and blue flashing lights speeds along the grey line of roadway towards the turn-off where the Hallowfield signpost used to stand. Now, of course, it lies crushed and broken in the centre of the road. Already a twirl of smoke rises from behind the trees, grey at first, then quickly billowing into an ugly, black cloud.
And so, by the time the paramedics reach the car, there will be nothing left of Jonathan worth saving.