Criss Cross: Friendship can be murder Page 4

  'It's not going to recover from those injuries,' Monica said. I had to agree. It seemed clear that a slow, agonising death was ahead of the poor creature. I felt sick.

  But in a part of my mind, the part that wanted to be released from the millstone that was Clarice, that part of my mind began to see this little episode as a useful learning experience. I turned to Monica, and in what I hoped was a calm, sensible voice, I said, 'We’ll have to kill it. It would be a kindness, cutting short its suffering.'

  Monica nodded. 'You're right,' she said, 'we need to put it out of its misery and much as I love animals, in the grand scheme of things, it's just one unfortunate bird. But I couldn't bring myself to wring its neck or anything like that. I’m a complete idiot about blood and so on. So what shall we do?'

  'What about a quick whack over the head with something. All over quickly, no suffering, no mess.'

  'Good idea,' she said, 'though perhaps we ought to cover it with a towel or something. I couldn't bear to see it actually die or get squashed.'

  'Good point. Hang on a mo.' And I ran indoors to find what was needed, all the time muttering a prayer under my breath, 'Let it be dead when I get back, let it be dead when I get back.’

  It wasn’t. When I got back just a minute later Monica and the bird were in a slightly different spot and she was almost hysterical with anguish over the poor thing, alternately wringing her hands and covering her face.

  'Oh Cress! It’s awful, it just won't give up. It just won’t stay still and die!' she said, and a sob broke through her speech and her nose bubbled. The bird gathered enough strength to crash haphazardly into some empty plant pots, staggering yet crazily determined.

  'Oh my God! I had hoped I'd come back and find it had died all on its own,' I told her, dithering. I was less sure now what was the right thing to do. It all just seemed so shocking, so raw. Unable to rip my eyes from the terrible sight, I watched it for another second, still uncertain. I said, 'Perhaps we shouldn't.'

  Monica shook her head, surprisingly firm.

  'No, we have to kill it, it won’t be able to fend for itself now. It'll be prey to anything that comes along, won't even make it through the night, I should think. But a night can seem like an awful long time.'

  She was right, of course. But still reluctant, I continued to prevaricate. ‘But—well—what about a vet or an animal welfare organisation?’

  ‘There’s no vet near here, and anyway I doubt they’d come out in the middle of the night just for a crow. Same with the welfare people. And we’d still have to catch it. Cressida, we can't leave it in this state any longer. We need to do something now!'

  ‘Oh God,’ I said.

  But she was right. I took a deep breath. Straightened my shoulders.

  'There's nothing for it, then,' I said. And I handed her the towel as I reached for the hefty marble rolling-pin. As the bird, after a few seconds' rest, began to drag itself round in a drunken circle again, Monica quickly plopped the towel over it. For a second there was no movement at all, and I began to think it had just quietly died of shock, but then there were a series of fluttering movements and the towel began to jerk along on the bloodied ground. It was freakish, insane.

  I hesitated still, trembling, sickened. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Monica’s white face. I hadn't been brought up to do unpleasant things, and no matter how posh we were, I had certainly never hunted. This was altogether too gruesome and horrid for me, but in an odd way it made me feel a little better to see Monica was not finding it any easier.

  I gripped the rolling pin with both hands and uttering a banzai-type shriek to gird up my loins, I whacked the towel twice with all my might, guilt-racked and sobbing prayers of repentance.

  I was dimly aware of Monica's hand clutching at me, and she was gasping, 'Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.'

  But the towel was still moving. How could there still be life in that bloody bird? And now I wasn't sure which end was the head but having steeled myself to do the deed, I couldn’t give up. With a trembling hand I twitched the towel back to see that the tail was now where the head had been and vice-versa. As the crow tried to scramble clear of the towel, feebly flapping its one half-useful wing and dragging itself along the ground, I flicked the towel back in position and harnessing a sudden inexplicable rage, whacked the head-end of the towel another three or four times with all my strength, before collapsing onto the grass, weeping and guilty. I dimly registered the sharp crackling sound the rolling pin made as it rolled away across our stepping stones. This no longer felt like a mercy killing.

  With the towel still flailing and undulating, the bizarre rage I had momentarily felt left me, and I was cold and empty except for an incredible sense of failure. Defeated, I hardly knew what I was saying when I wailed, 'If I can't kill one pathetic bird, how can I kill my mother-in-law?'

  The movement under the towel began to subside and finally stilled, and Monica sank down next to me on the grass and hugged me. We sat for a short time watching the towel. After a few minutes I felt calmer, more rational, and more than a little embarrassed at my jolly peculiar outburst of emotion. Monica was pulling wodges of tissues out of her bag and flinging them at me. We scrubbed our cheeks and blew our noses, and straightened our hair and skirts. We got up and went back and sat down again on the terrace, and took long swigs of our wine, our hands shaking as we reached for our glasses. It was just like when soldiers in the movies come back from Vietnam or Iraq and say, ‘You weren’t there, Man, you don’t know what it was like.’ We were veterans together, survivors, bonded.

  And that was when, looking at me strangely, Monica said in a quiet voice,

  'What did you mean when you said, 'if I can't kill one pathetic bird, how can I kill my mother-in-law'?'

  I know I gaped at her like an idiot. Eventually, and a bit unsteadily, I did a little laugh and said I'd only been kidding, trying to lighten the tension a bit. A bit of gallows humour, sadly ill-timed. Obviously, I said, I didn't want to actually kill my mother-in-law. She’s a lovely woman, I said, I adore her. It didn't sound the least bit convincing, even to myself. I mean, Monica’s met Clarice, been personally insulted by the woman, so she knows no one under any circs could possibly refer to Clarice as a ‘lovely woman’. I don't know what she thought, I expected her to look puzzled, or maybe to laugh disbelievingly. But there was just this weird sort of closed-in expression on her face, and she didn’t really say anything and all I could think, childishly, was that she wouldn't like me anymore and she wouldn’t be my friend.

  And then the men came back.

  I could have hugged them both, it was as if the cavalry had finally ridden into sight over the brow of a hill. Of course they immediately took charge, fussed us back into the house where Monica’s hubby Huw poured us both fresh drinks whilst Thomas cleared up outside. Monica made a point of asking Huw about the software they had been playing with. I sensed she wanted to give us both a bit of a chance to pull ourselves together. I shot her a grateful glance and downed my drink in one, and although we chatted on, more or less normally, I noticed that every so often, she would glance back at me and her expression seemed somehow rather…speculative.

  They left about an hour later. Thomas reminded them both I am off to Chapley's the day after tomorrow. We said our goodnights and stood at the front door waving them off. I wasn’t sure if Monica would ever invite us to dinner again, but I was nevertheless relieved the bloody evening was over.

  Fri 6 July—3.30pm

  I'm so fed up, and I just don't know what to do.

  I had been so looking forward to this lovely weekend away, and all my plans and everything. It was a lovely drive down, the sun was shining (finally!), there were little fluffy white clouds dotted across the sky, which was a gorgeous deep blue. It was divine, and here and there were occasional snatches of birdsong above the traffic and the honking of the usual Friday afternoon road-ragers’ horns, and every time I was stuck in a traffic jam all I had to do was just think of my
heavenly weekend away with my seaweed wraps and my yoga etc etc.

  And then, what do you think, I parked my car in the car park, wandered into Reception with my handbag, thinking I'd send someone out to get my suitcase a bit later, and there she was in the foyer, sipping a Martini and nosing through the weekend newspapers. I ask you. Not that I wouldn't be absolutely thrilled to see her at any other time, but after the affair with the bird the night before last, and what I stupidly said, and the way she looked at me and everything, it just seems so—ODD—somehow. I actually just don't know what to think.

  So I just stood there like an organic unwaxed lemon and said something completely moronic like, 'Oh Monica, I didn't expect to see you here.'

  And she just did this tinkly little Nadina-laugh and said,

  'Cress Darling! Just on the spur of the moment I thought it would be bloody brilliant if I popped down and joined you!'

  She clattered over to me on ridiculous heels and gave me a peck on the cheek and when she stepped back she gave me this look as if she was challenging me to react, then she said, 'What a lovely spot. You know, this may become my new fave haunt.'

  So what could I say apart from, how exciting, shall we celebrate with some champagne. And so we did, and I've just been lying down because it's almost dinner-time and I'm still a bit squiffy from too much champagne on an empty stomach—I’m not much of a drinker, I'm afraid, and instead of a peaceful wander around the complex this evening to get the lie of the land, so to speak, and maybe a light stroll to give me the opportunity to check the night-time security arrangements, or a quick bludgeon to death of my mother in-law or something, she's making me meet her in the bar for a drink before dinner, and then she said, 'Let's plan something really radical for this evening!' Then off she went, all air-kisses and flouncing hips.

  I feel horribly dampened somehow.

  I don't understand it. Two days ago, I thought she was my best pal, and now I can't stand her, can't stand the thought of her company. But I hate myself for it. I must be such a horrid, horrid person to be anything other than thrilled to see her. How could I? And it’s all because of that colossal gaffe I made about killing my mother in law. It’s so true what they say about one’s tendency to blurt out the truth in stressful situations. I wish to God I’d kept my fat mouth shut.

  And yet, realistically speaking, to how many of one's friends could one say something like that, and still be able to call them friends? I’m a total cow. I should make more of an effort. Monica's one in a million—she's standing by me no matter what, warts and all, and still liking the deep-down person that is the essential Cressida. So, obviously, she really is my totally bestest gal-pal.

  In which case, why do I wish she was miles away?

  Same day: 7.00pm

  At least I might be able to somehow use her as an alibi—and I suppose it might look less suspicious from a purely legal point of view, if I came away to a health spa with a girlfriend, than it would if I just went somewhere on my own, at precisely the moment that my mother-in-law just happens to be brutally bludgeoned to death. At least, I hope it’s brutal.

  Thinking it through, it seems to me this could still work. There is a possibility that this turn of events could work out for the best. Must keep telling myself that. Mustn’t lose hope. All is not lost!

  Later still: 11.45 pm

  A simply lovely evening, I can't think what I was worrying about! Monica was witty, amusing and certainly not the slightest bit odd. It's obvious now that my mind was just playing tricks on me. Clearly I must have needed this break more than I realised! I feel so relaxed already and definitely looking forward to tomorrow: seaweed wrap, lymphatic drainage, mud bath, yoga, lunch in the Garden Room, colour therapy then an holistic massage slash reiki then a spot of aquarobics slash swimming, followed by a nice sauna late afternoon with time for a lie down before dinner, then after-dinner coffee on the terrace, followed by the Twilight Walk Experience, as already mentioned, and then off to bed for a well-earned sleep.

  This really is a wonderful spot, surrounded by trees and with massive shrubberies and flowers all over the place, and the air is so fresh, it makes one terribly drowsy. I shall sleep like a top tonight.

  Sat 7 July—6.30pm

  Marvellous day! Really I can't remember when I've had so much fun. I'm exhausted of course, and I've only got a few minutes before I go down to dinner, but in case there's no time later, just wanted to record that today was absolutely beyond words, magnificent, enchanting and I feel absolutely incredible—like a new woman in fact—Monica and I were both agreeing earlier that we feel ten years younger already.

  I should just mention I was a teeny bit disappointed that she wanted to join me on the Twilight Walk Experience, for obvious reasons. I’m not quite sure how I'm going to manage to slip away without her noticing, but she was so eager I felt it would be mean to put her off. Perhaps I'll be able to slip out again after we've said goodnight this evening. But I have to admit that I'm a bit worried about how I'm going to fit in my little jaunt over to Clarice's with Monica by my side at every turn. I’m desperately hoping something will just sort of ‘turn up’—otherwise I’ll have to try to sneak out in the middle of the night to do the dirty deed. But if I must, I suppose it will work out okay.

  In any case, I’ve suddenly realised that I can't wear the all-black jogging outfit I had planned—It's a bit too noticeably black and untrendy and I’m afraid the black face paint and balaclava will have to remain stashed in my luggage because I don't want to wear anything so out of place that it is likely to stick in the minds of other people. So I'm going to put on some dark jeans and a lovely little black silk camisole, with a nice embroidered, dark purple over-wrap thingy, and I'm hoping that with black pumps and a nice little shawl-type whatnot in case it’s chilly later, I'll look the part for dinner, Twilight Walk Experience and bludgeoning Clarice.

  Sun 8 July—4.30pm

  Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God!!

  I'm back at home. I don't know if last night was a total fiasco, a disaster, or if it's worked out perfectly or what the hell has happened. I can’t get my brain to work properly and my head is killing me.

  To start with, Monica didn't turn up for the Twilight Walk Experience doodah.

  We had a lovely dinner, followed by a very pleasant coffee on the Terrace during which she flirted like mad with a waiter with a gorgeous bum. Then, seeing that she was wearing a floaty little top and a skirt that was almost floor-length (but it really was the most divine sheer fabric, and whichever way she moved, it just swirled about her the whole time, I was so envious, and I’m not sure who the designer was, though I must find out, it might not be too late to get one myself, though obviously I’d never be able to wear it somewhere if I knew Monica was going to be there too) well anyway…Monica popped up to get changed. We'd stayed a bit longer on the terrace than we meant to, so I waited in the foyer with the other Twilighters, holding her bag like a loon. She said she'd be just a jiffy but in the end the woman running it (most officious, like a girl guide leader or something) said it had been 20 minutes and we couldn't wait any longer, and Monica would just have to catch us up, which left me feeling rather awful. I felt like I was abandoning her or something, so guilty! But then a light kind of went on in my brain and I realised she was probably getting to know that waiter a little better, and then I was a bit cross with her for dumping me without warning.

  Our girl guide leader warned to watch our step as it was a ‘bit jolly tricky’ in places—it was quite dark in some parts in the woods as it was well after half past ten by then and not just very overgrown but the sky was overcast. I was already watching for my moment, and the perfect opportunity arose about twenty minutes after we set off, when our path doubled back on itself a bit. This meant we were only a hundred metres or so from the edge of the back part of the car park, and it was the simplest thing in the world to just drop back a bit and slip away behind some gigantic rhubarb without anyone noticing, which if Monica had been with
me, I wouldn't have been able to do.

  Well, obviously I had my keys etc in my tiny little evening bag, so in just a couple of moments I was in the car and driving out of the gate slowly. No one was around. Really I'm a bit cross at the Absolute Lack of Security in the place. I mean, if I can drive away unnoticed, so could countless car-jackers, obviously. The car park is simply groaning with jags and mercs and all manner of high-end merchandise. So anyway, once I reached the main road I put on the headlights and tried to act normally.

  Got to Clarice's in only 18 minutes. No traffic whatsoever. Incredible!

  Then…

  …It really was awful, I don't know what to make of it. I feel like I’ve had the tables well and truly turned on me.

  I parked the car down the lane a little, a short walk from Clarice’s front gates. Fortunately her house is on a sharpish bend in the road, and it can be quite dangerous, so it shouldn't look too suspicious my doing that, though there’s not usually a lot of passing traffic, I really doubt anyone would have noticed me or the car.

  The lane was very quiet, no one was about and no vehicles anywhere nearby. And Clarice's drive was terribly dark as usual, so again, I had nothing to fear with regard to being seen by casual observers, and I reached the front door without incident. The house was in total darkness, which didn’t seem especially odd as she never keeps late hours, she’s far too mean to pay for unnecessary electricity. I stood there for a moment deliberating—would it be best after all to go round to the side door? And as I stood there, I heard a sort of tinkling sound from inside and a faint cry. Then I noticed the front door was standing very slightly open, and suddenly I realised that a robbery or something of the sort was taking place.