"Oh, Abbie, Abbie, Abbie, you stupid, stupid thing," I moaned to myself consolingly.
Twenty
I knew Jo was dead. I didn't care what Cross said, I knew it. I thought of his whispery voice in the darkness: "Kelly. Kath. Fran. Gail. Lauren." Lauren was Jo. She had never given him the name that people she loved called her by. She'd given him the name of a stranger. It was her way of staying human, of not going mad. Now he could add another name to his litany: Sally. Although perhaps Sally didn't count for him. She was a mistake. She should have been me. I shivered. Nobody knew where I was except Carol at Jay and Joiner's and Peter downstairs. And Cross and Ben, of course. I was safe, I told myself. I didn't feel safe at all.
I closed the curtains in the main room and listened to the new messages on Jo's phone. There wasn't much; just one from a woman saying that Jo's curtains were ready for collection, and another from someone called Alexis saying hello, stranger, long time no see, and he was back at last, and maybe they should meet soon.
I opened the one letter that had arrived that morning an invitation to renew her subscription to the National Geographic. I did it for her. Then I phoned Sadie, anticipating she wouldn't be there, and left a message saying I wanted us to meet soon and I was missing her, and found as I said it that it was true. I said the same kind of thing on Sheila and Guy's answering-machine. I sent a cheery, vague email to Sam. I didn't want to see or talk to any of them just yet, but I wanted to build bridges.
I made myself an avocado, bacon and mozzarella sandwich. I wasn't really hungry, but it was comforting to put the sandwich together methodically, then sit on the sofa and chew the soft, salty bread, not really thinking of anything, trying to empty my mind. I found myself seeing the pictures I'd made for myself when I was kept prisoner in the dark: the butterfly, the river, the lake, the tree. I set them against all the ugliness and all the dread. I closed my eyes and let them fill up my mind, beautiful images of freedom. Then I heard myself saying: "But where's the cat?"
I didn't know where the question had come from. It hung in the quiet room while I considered it. Jo didn't have a cat. The only one I'd seen round here was Peter's downstairs, the tabby with amber eyes that had woken me in the night and spooked me so. But thinking about the question that I'd posed was giving me a peculiar feeling, like a tingling in my brain. It was as if a half-memory was scratching at my consciousness.
Why had I thought of a cat? Because she had things that went with a cat. Things I'd seen without noticing. Where? I went to the kitchen area, pulled open cupboards and drawers. Nothing there. Then I remembered and went to the tall cupboard near the bathroom where I'd come across the vacuum cleaner and Jo's skiing stuff. There, beside the bin-bag full of clothes, was a cat-litter tray, which looked new but might have been merely scrubbed clean, and an unopened pack of six small tins of cat food. I shut the door and went back to the sofa. I picked up the sandwich, put it down again.
So what? Jo had had a cat once. Or maybe she still had a cat and it had gone missing because she'd gone missing and wasn't there to feed and stroke it. Perhaps it's dead, I thought, like ... I didn't finish that sentence. Or maybe she had been about to get a cat. I went back to the cupboard and took another look at the six tins. They were for kittens. So it looked as if Jo had been about to get a kitten. Why should that matter, apart from being one more poignant detail? I didn't know.
I pulled on my jacket and woollen hat and ran downstairs and out on to the street. I rang Peter's bell and he opened the door as if he'd been watching for me out of his window. His cat was asleep on the sofa, its tail twitching slightly.
"This is a nice surprise," he said, and I felt a twinge of guilt. "Tea? Coffee? Perhaps some sherry. Sherry's warming in this weather."
"Tea would be lovely."
"There's some I've just made, in the pot. It's as if I knew you were coming. No sugar, is that right?"
"That's right."
"You'll have a biscuit this time, won't you? Though you're always in a rush. I see you running out of the house, running back in. You should slow down, you know."
I took a digestive from the tin he held out. It had gone soft. I dunked it into the tea and ate it in three mouthfuls.
"I was wondering if I could get you anything from the shops," I said. "You probably don't want to go out much in this weather."
"That's the beginning of the end," he said.
"Sorry?"
"When you stop going out and doing things. I go out three times a day. I go in the mornings to the news agent for my paper. Just before lunch I go for a walk, even if it's raining like today, or icy cold. In the afternoon I go to the shops for my supper."
"If you ever do need anything
"It's very kind of you to think of me."
"What's your cat called?" I stroked its stippled back gently and pleasure rippled along its spine. It opened one golden eye.
"Patience. She's nearly fourteen now. That's old for a cat, you know. You're an old lady," he said to the cat.
"I was wondering, did Jo have a cat too?"
"She wanted one. She said it would be companionship for her. Some people love dogs and some go for cats. She was a cat woman. What are you?"
"I'm not sure. So was she going to get one?"
"She came and asked me where she could find one; she knew I was a cat-lover too, you see. I've always kept them, ever since I was a child."
"When did she come and see you?"
"Oh, a couple of weeks ago. Just before you arrived, I think. You should know, though."
"Why should I know?"
"We talked about it together, when I met you on the day you moved all your stuff in."
"The Wednesday?"
"If you say so. Anyway, don't you remember? She said she was going to get one."
"When?"
"That afternoon, if she could find one. She seemed very keen on the idea. Said something about needing to set about making changes in her life, starting with the kitty."
"So what did you say to her, when she asked where she should look?"
"There's all sorts of ways of finding a little kitty. For a start, you can look at the cards in the news agent and the post office. That's what most people do, isn't it? There's always something. I noticed a card today, when I was getting my paper." The telephone started ringing on the table beside him and he said, "Sorry, dear, will you excuse me. I think it must be my daughter. She lives in Australia, you know."
He picked up the phone and I stood and put my cup in the sink. I waved at him as I left but he barely looked up.
I wanted to ring Ben and hear his voice. I had felt safe in his house, wrapped up in his warmth. But he was working and there was nothing I needed to say to him except hello, hello, I keep thinking about you.
It was already getting dark, although it was barely four o'clock. It had been the kind of dull, drizzly day when it never seemed to become properly light. I looked out of the window at the street, which had been covered with snow a few days ago. All colour seemed to have drained away. Everything was sepia and charcoal and grey. People walked past like figures in a black-and-white film, heads bowed.
I rewrote my Lost Days.
Friday n January: showdown at Jay and Joiner's. Storm out.
Saturday 12 January: row with Terry. Storm out. Go to Sadie's for night.
Sunday 13 January: leave Sadie a.m. Go to Sheila and Guy. Meet Robin for shopping spree and spend too much money. Meet Sam for drink p.m. Go back to Sheila and Guy's.
Monday 14 January: see Ken Lofting, Mr. Khan, Ben Brody and Gordon Lockhart. Phone Molte Schmidt. Fill car with petrol. Meet
Ben for drink, then meal. Sex with Ben. Phone Sheila and Guy to say not coming back for night. Stay night with Ben.