The Moon Spun Round (4 page)

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.

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.

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.

T
HE VILLAGE SHOP
has been transformed into a witches’ cave. A frothing cauldron, cut from cardboard, dominates the window, which is draped in black and hung with skeleton masks and pointed hats. As Sally pulls into the kerb, tormented faces leer out at her. She locks the car door and hurries across to the shop, October wind snapping at her heels, and shuts the door firmly behind her against the cold. The air inside feels warmer and she finds friendlier faces. Abbie is there, talking with Ruth, who is leaning across the counter. A young mother and her child are the only other customers.

‘Hello again, Ruth. Abbie, I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to catch you before I opened up the cottage.’

Ruth looks up, smiles and says hello. Abbie turns and greets Sally with a hug. ‘Hi, you’re here already.’

‘Couldn’t wait. I left early. There’s a van following on.’

‘Today’s the day, then?’ asks Ruth.

Sally holds up a bunch of keys, jingling them. ‘It’s all mine.’

‘Well, congratulations and welcome to the village. You’re going to be happy here.’

‘Thank you, I’m sure I will be.’

Ruth’s attention is taken by her customer, so Sally and Abbie move away from the counter.

‘I was going to call in at your house on the way,’ says Sally. ‘How’s Cat? Is she all right?’

‘Yes, she’s fine. I’ve fed her this morning. And I think you’ll find she’s looking
healthier: I’ve been giving her a tonic, just a general conditioner. You’re looking good yourself. I like the new haircut.’ Sally’s hair has been shorn short and ruffled into a casual style. It suits her, makes her look even younger. She’s dressed in jeans and a thick, roll-necked sweater. ‘Did you have much stuff to move?’ asks Abbie.

‘No, only personal things, but too much to bring in the car, so I’ve hired a man and van to bring it. He should be here in about an hour. I sold most of the furniture to the people who bought the flat. It seems to have taken ages to sort it all out. It’s been weeks since…Well, lawyers seem to take forever. I suppose they have to justify their pound of flesh.’

‘Yes, it must seem long-winded. But conveyancing is a delicate process. You need to know that the cottage is legally yours, all sealed and watertight.’

‘Yes, of course. Sorry, I forgot that your George is a solicitor. I’m sure you understand these things a lot better than I do.’

‘Be thankful your husband made a will or it could have taken months instead of weeks.’

‘Yes, we both did. I told him he was being ridiculous, that we were both going to live to be a hundred.’

‘That’s the thing about being young,’ Ruth is back in the conversation, ‘you believe you’re invincible. When you get to my age you begin to realize nothing’s permanent, including yourself.’

‘Thanks for that cheerful thought,’ says Abbie.

‘Oh my God, listen to me. This is supposed to be a happy day. Here, take this cream cake to go with your first cup of tea. A little house-warming present.’

‘Thanks, Ruth. Are you sure? Mind you, if I eat all this I’ll be as big as a house.’

‘Nonsense, you’ve lost weight over the past weeks. Look at you, bet you can count your ribs. You need some colour in your face. Good food and some fresh country air will soon put that right. Perhaps you’ve got something you can give her, Abbie? A tonic or something. She’s good with people as well as animals, you know.’

Sally is confused. Some elements of this conversation are going over her head. Must be something about village life: everyone knows everything about everyone else, and they’ll expect her to as well.

‘Boo!’

Sally jumps as a face grins up at her from between the shelves. It has the luminous-green leer of a hag, wart-chinned and hook-nosed.