Claudia and I held hands. We knew without saying what we were each thinking. Oh yes, please, to all three of the above. But with cancer, it was all so unpredictable and scary.
“Have you told your father yet?” my mother asked.
“No,” I said. “You’re the only person that knows.” Not even Mrs. McDowd, I thought, knew this little secret.
“Aren’t you going to tell him?” Mum asked.
“Eventually,” I said. “But I haven’t spoken much to him recently.”
“Stupid man,” she said.
I knew she blamed him for the breakup of their marriage, but, in truth, it had been as much her fault as his. But I didn’t want to get into all that again.
“I’ll call him tomorrow,” I said. “Let’s enjoy our own company here tonight.”
“I’ll drink to that,” said Claudia, raising her glass. So we did.
I thought about my father.
Seven years ago, when my parents had finally divorced and the big house had been sold, he’d taken his share of the money and used it to buy a boring bungalow in Weymouth, overlooking the sea. I’d only been there a couple of times since, although I’d seen him a few times in London for various functions.
We hadn’t been very close to start with and we were drifting further apart day by day. But I don’t think it was something that bothered either of us particularly. He hadn’t even called me when I’d been arrested and my face had been splashed all over the papers and on the TV. Perhaps my impending marriage and the possibility of grandchildren might help to revitalize our relationship, but I doubted it.
Claudia laid the dining table as my mother busied herself with saucepans of potatoes and carrots and the lamb roasted away gently in the oven. I, meanwhile, poured us all more champagne and let them get on with it, leaning up against the worktop and enjoying the last of the evening sunshine as it shone brightly through the west-facing kitchen window.
“Bugger,” my mother said.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“The cooker’s gone off,” she said.
“Is it a power cut?”
She tried a light switch, clicking it up and down. Nothing happened.
“Bloody electricity company,” she said. “I’ll call them straightaway.”
She rummaged in a drawer for a card and then picked up the phone.
“That’s funny,” she said, “the phone’s dead too.”
“Doesn’t it need power?” Claudia asked from over by the table. “Our cordless one does.”
“I’m not using the cordless,” my mother said. “This is the wired-in landline.”
Oh shit!
There was a heavy knock on the front door.
“I’ll get it,” said Claudia, turning away.
The power was off, the telephone was dead, there was a knock on the front door, and the hairs on the back of my neck were suddenly standing bolt upright.
“Don’t touch it,” I shouted at Claudia.
She turned to look at me, but she still moved towards the danger. “Why ever not?” she said.
“Claudia,” I shouted again, “get away from the door.”
I was already halfway towards her when the knock was repeated. And still Claudia moved towards it.
I grabbed her just as she was reaching for the handle.
“What on earth are you doing?” she said loudly. “Answer the bloody door.”
“No,” I said quietly.
“Why ever not?” she demanded.
“Keep your voice down,” I hissed at her.
“Why?” she said, but much quieter, with concern. She could probably read the fear in my face.
“Please. Just go over to the kitchen.” I looked over at my mother, who was staring at us, still holding the useless telephone receiver in her hand.
Something about the urgency of my voice finally got through to Claudia, and she went over to join my mother.
They both suddenly looked rather frightened.
I went into the small cloakroom next to the front door and peeked through a minute gap in the net curtains at the person standing outside.
He had on a gray-green anorak with the collar turned up, and this time he was wearing a dark blue baseball cap, but there was no doubt it was the same man that I had last seen in the grainy video from Mr. Patel’s newsagent’s, the same man who had gunned down Herb Kovak at Aintree and the same man who had shot at me in Lichfield Grove.
Bugger, I thought, echoing my mother.
I went back into the big room.
The front door had locked automatically when it was closed, with a latch a bit like a Yale’s. It was quite strong, but was it strong enough?
I went quickly across to the kitchen and locked the back door as well, turning the key slowly to keep the noise to a minimum and sliding across the bolt at the top.
Both my mother and Claudia watched my every step.
We heard the man rattle the front door and they both instinctively crouched down below the worktop.
“Who is it?” whispered my mother.
I’d have to tell them.
“Darlings,” I whispered. “He’s a very dangerous man and he’s trying to kill me.”
Claudia’s eyes opened so wide, I thought they would pop out of her head. My mother, however, thought I was joking and began to laugh.
“I’m being serious,” I said, cutting her off in mid-guffaw. “It’s the same man who killed Herb Kovak at Aintree races.”
This time they both looked more frightened than ever. And I was too.
“Call the police,” Claudia said, then remembered, “Oh my God, he’s cut the phone line.”
And the electricity.
The broadband connection would have failed with the power, and our mobiles didn’t have any signal here.
We were on our own.
“Upstairs,” I said quietly but firmly. “Both of you. Now. Lock yourselves in the bathroom, sit on the floor and don’t come out until I tell you to.”
Claudia hesitated a moment, but then she nodded and took my mother by the hand. They started to go but then turned back. “But what are you going to do?” Claudia asked with huge fear in her face.
“Try to keep him out,” I said. “Now, go on, go!”
They disappeared up the boxed-in staircase, and I heard the bathroom door being shut and locked above me.
And if he did get in and kill me, I thought, perhaps he’d leave them alone and go away, job done. As it was, with all three of us down here, I was sure he would have killed us all.
I looked around for some sort of weapon.
A loaded shotgun would have been nice, but my mother had about as much interest in country sports as I did in origami.
I heard the back door being tried, and I instinctively ducked away from it.
The sun went down, the last of its orange rays disappearing from the kitchen window. And it began to get dark, especially indoors with no electric lights to brighten the gathering gloom.
I looked around in desperation for something to use as a weapon. An umbrella stood in a large china pot near the front door, and a walking stick. I grabbed the walking stick, but it was a collapsible model, for ease of packing. So I opted for the umbrella, one of those big golf types with a heavy wooden handle. It wasn’t much, but it was all there was. How I wished the cottage still had a proper open fire with a big, heavy metal poker, but my mother had
