Pompomberry House (11 page)

I tried to run, but my legs protested, punishing me for what
I’d put them through. The sharp stones punctured my feet. I ended up stumbling
and I fell forward. I practically had to crawl to the steps.

“I’ll get help!” I called, trying to shout, but only
managing a croak. “I’m going to get help.”

* * *

Even though I couldn’t drive my car thanks to its deflated tyres,
I could at least put my case in the boot so that I didn’t have to carry it to
Strawberry Meadow. It was a little damp around the edges, but that was nothing
compared with my poor, drowned laptop. I took a moment to mourn its loss. We’d
had some good times together, Delly and I.

Someone had died; there was no time for sentimentality. I put
the case down on the grit car park and flung it open. I’d better grab valuables
such as my wallet and memory card.

I reached inside the inner pocket, and pulled out my wallet.
I continued rooting around. Where was my memory card? Regrettably, I felt I
already knew the answer. My memory card must be happily sitting down to a cup
of coffee with my stolen phone battery.

I was angry. Three days’ worth of work was on that card, including
the entire first draft of my short story. What could anybody possibly want with
that? Perhaps they thought there might be other things on the card — I blushed
when I remembered that there were!

As a kneejerk reaction to ending my marriage, I’d attempted
to take a portrait photograph of myself for online dating. Ninety-three photos
later, I concluded that I was six pounds too heavy to start online dating. Why
hadn’t I wiped the card there and then? I remembered lying on the floor,
looking up at the camera ‘seductively’. I cringed. Still, the thief was quite
possibly also the killer. Looking a twerp in front of the camera was pretty
minor compared with murder.

There was no money missing from my wallet, and my credit
cards were still there, despite having been next to the memory card all along.
Wow!
The thief wants my work!

I took a few moments to enjoy the momentary inflated self-esteem.
Somebody wanted my word documents more than a credit card, twenty-three pounds
of cash, and a Caffè Nero card with
nine
stamps. You know you’ve made it
when somebody steals your work.

Soon I’d be able to call the police, and they’d answer the
really important questions such as, “Who admires Dee Whittaker enough to steal
her work?” and “Who murdered Biff?”

The wind blew, reminding me that my clothes were sodden. I
grabbed a change of clothes from my case. The fresh jeans were a little damp in
patches, but a vast improvement on the ones that had been submerged in water. I
grabbed my favourite red beret, to match my t-shirt, then pulled on a purple
sweater. I put on my damp boots.

I slung my case into the boot, grabbed my wallet, and began
the laborious task of finding my way to Strawberry Meadow.

* * *

Where the heck was Strawberry Meadow? I’d been walking for
at least an hour and there was no sign of civilisation. In damp clothes without
a coat, and still recovering from my dice with the sea, I was frozen.

I probably wouldn’t be able to find my way back to the
island now, even if I wanted to — which I didn’t. Even so, I couldn’t wander
the country lanes forever. My feet were sore, my head hurt, and unpleasant
thoughts whirled through my mind like typhoons of terror.

Where is Strawberry Meadow
? I found that the road
suddenly veered upward, as if taking me to a castle in the sky. Had the road on
the way to Pompomberry plunged like a demon drop? I didn’t remember such sharp
gradients, but this road was fit for a rollercoaster. This didn’t feel like the
correct road.

Were the hedges familiar? Granite walls covered in lichen
and moss wore hats of heather with the occasional daffodil embellishment. I
hadn’t noticed daffodils on the way down, but then, I had been concentrating on
the road. I shuddered when I remembered the gull. At least then I’d been
protected by my car.

Finally, I saw a building in the distance. It wasn’t a
cluster of buildings like Strawberry Meadow, but one isolated farmhouse. It
looked over two miles away, but a house in the hand is worth two in the bush. I
had to take this chance.

And so I trudged on, wondering if my feet were still feet,
or had become one with my boots. One big amalgamation of cow leather and Dee Whittaker
flesh.

As I walked, I was suddenly tormented by a bitter longing
for Gareth. He was good at seeing the sunny side of things. Even faced with a
murder, several thefts, deflated tyres and half-a-dozen lunatics, he’d find the
silver lining. I wanted to call him, but even if I had my phone, I knew I
couldn’t. I’d kicked him out for a good reason, and I needed to remember that.

I did this!
It was bad enough that my marriage had
fallen apart, but the hardest part was knowing that this was what I had chosen.
I
had told
him
to leave.
I
sent him away. If I was missing
him now, I only had myself to blame.

Had I done the right thing? Were his laziness and immaturity
really reasons to kick my husband out? However, then I remembered that we were
not talking about minor degrees of fault. Gareth was the emperor of indolence,
and the captain of immaturity. If there was a world convention for sloth,
Gareth would be sitting on the sofa that I paid for, with his feet on the coffee
table I was still paying for, ignoring his calling to lead it.

The Scooby-Doo costume was the final straw. Yes, I’d
supported Gareth’s decision to leave his teaching job but had I known how
intimate he’d become with our couch, I might have given different advice. Watching
him use my meagre earnings to buy beer and weed was annoying, but the
Scooby-Doo costume really took the biscuit.

I worked hard, nine until five. Being self-employed, I didn’t
have to, but I liked the discipline. I liked being in sync with the office
world, to facilitate communication with editors and people such as those that I
interviewed for my ‘scintillating’ magazine articles on lifestyle. If only
selling Kindle books paid the mortgage.

While I worked hard, Gareth would sit in the living room,
with the curtains shut, failing to apply for a new teaching job, neglecting to
consider other career options, and stacking up piles of sticky beer glasses.
Then, once he’d worked through all of the glassware, he’d begin on the mugs,
then the eggcups, never once thinking to wash a dish.

Not so long ago, on a Friday evening, I had finished submitting
a particularly riveting article about a swishing party, and then turned off my
computer, ready to enjoy the weekend. Gareth usually went out with friends on
Friday nights, but that particular weekend we had decided to go out for an
Italian meal.

I was surprised to find that he’d been out that afternoon —
it was rare for him to leave the house while his mates were at work. I wondered
if he’d been buying a new tie to wear to dinner.

“A Scooby-Doo costume?” I cried.

“Fancy dress, innit?”

“Where? At
Zizzi
?”

“Oh, smeg, sorry Dee, forgot about dinner. We’ll go next
weekend.”

“How much did that cost you?”

“What?”

“How much of my money did you spend on a Scooby-Doo costume?”

It was then that I realised I had had enough. I could no
longer live with somebody who still behaved like a student, not now that we
were in our thirties. It was fine when we were younger and being in debt was a rite
of passage, but now our university friends were buying houses, planning families
and taking up gardening. Gareth was still going to the pub every Friday and filling
the house with stoned trainee teachers every Saturday.

I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment that stealing a traffic
cone lost its appeal, but it had been a long time ago. Yet our spare room
gained a road sign on a fortnightly basis.

Letting go was excruciating, like waxing a tender bikini
line really, really slowly. It was difficult to say goodbye to somebody loyal,
kind and funny. But perhaps in time, I would be able to find myself somebody
loyal, kind and funny who also had a bit of
oomph
.

Right now, having just ended the marriage, I was looking
forward to some time alone. Just me, a new laptop and a bunch of fictional
characters who knew how to use a washing machine.

Nevertheless, as I neared the farmhouse, I found myself idly
fantasising about stumbling upon the group of friends with whom Gareth was
staying — fate, telling us that we should stay together, telling him to grow
up, get a job, and start greeting Saturdays without a hangover.

I frowned. I remembered that it was Saturday, therefore any
chance encounters with Gareth would involve him groaning, demanding aspirin and
then going back to sleep. He was hardly anybody’s knight in shining armour.

Finally, I reached the gate of the farmhouse. It was made
from varnished wood, but the glaze was flaking off like a skin disease. I got
bad vibes, but put them down to being in a particularly jumpy mood. Even the
nicest of fences look sinister when you’ve just seen a dead body.

Still, it was with trepidation that I ventured up the
driveway. Who knew what I might find inside this house?

Anxiously, I rang the doorbell. I didn’t hear it ring, so
when nobody answered, I knocked. Then, I panicked that I was being rude, so
left it quite some time before knocking again.

There was no answer. In my frustration, I kicked a boulder. “Aghh!”
I screamed. Now I was frustrated
and
had a bruised toe.

The owners couldn’t be out! Did they not know how far I’d
walked? Did they not know about the cold that was biting away at my bones? Did
they not realise how urgently I needed to use their phone?

I couldn’t leave. I couldn’t begin another long, freezing
cold journey towards another uncertain destination. This household had to be at
home.

Cautiously, I walked around to the back of the house.
Something clucked at me. “You shouldn’t be here!” said the cautionary glare of
a chicken. Its left eye was wrinkled, like the eye of a bird with great
experience and wisdom.

I considered going back to the road.
No! I will not be
stopped by a chicken.
I continued following the path until I got to a
wooden door at the back of the house. I knocked, optimistically.

It was then that I noticed that a window was open. I peered
in. It looked to be a window into some sort of utility room.

Was I going to do it? Was I going to climb into somebody
else’s home? As I looked around the back garden, at the discerning chickens and
a judgemental duck, I realised that I was already trespassing.

I needed to get to a phone. Lives might depend on it. For
all I knew, the killer could strike again. I scrambled in through the window,
shouting “Hello?” repeatedly, to demonstrate my intention to seek permission,
just in case there was somebody at home.

When, after some moments, nobody replied, I made my way over
to the doorway leading to the rest of the house, and followed it into a wide
hall. To my delight, there on a small table was a telephone. In fact, the
telephone had its own easy chair. It was as if I was
meant
to use it.

I sat down, adrenaline pumping, planning what I would say to
the police. However, just as I was about to call 999, a horrible realisation
hit me. If I called the police from here, then they would know I’d been in this
house, and if they knew I’d been in this house, they might find out that I
climbed in through a window, and if they found out I climbed in through a
window, they might find out that I was in here without permission.

In my exhausted and overwrought state, I failed to
comprehend that discovering a body, wading through treacherous waters and
walking for hours might be considered mitigating circumstances.

In my mind, there was only one possible course of action — I
would have to call Gareth. His was the only phone number that I knew off by
heart. Before I even realised I’d made a decision, I found myself punching my
estranged husband’s number into the phone.

“Hello?” he asked, sounding both suspicious and excited. I actually
loved his deep, expressive voice and now found its familiarity reassuring. Only
Gareth could make answering a call from an unknown number sound like the
pivotal moment in a slasher movie.

“Gareth, it’s me.”

“What do you want?”

Ah, he’s obviously still annoyed with me about kicking
him out. Probably to be expected.
“I need you to come and collect me from a
farmhouse.”

“Not enjoying the writers’ retreat then?”

“You could say that.”

“What happened to ‘I want to be independent, Gareth’?” he
asked, mimicking my voice, badly.

“Just come and get me.”

“‘I want to take my own car, Gareth!’” he continued.

“Please, just come ...”

“What happened to ‘We have to get used to being apart’?”

“I witnessed a murder, Gareth!”

“Yeah, funny Dee.”

“Gareth ...” A rare sob escaped from my lungs.

“Fark!” remarked Gareth. “You’re not pulling my leg!”

“I wish I was.”

“I’m on my way. What’s the postcode?”

“I ... I don’t know!”

“Well, have you got the instructions they sent you?”

“I’m not at Pompomberry House, I’m at a farmhouse in the
middle of nowhere.”

“Why? And what’s wrong with your own car?”

“Somebody sabotaged the tyres.”

“Sabotaged?”

“I’ll tell you later, please just come!”

“Okay, turn your phone on, and go to maps.”

“I can’t! My battery got stolen.”

“What?”

“That place is sick, Gareth. Even the seagulls are diseased.”

“Can’t you ask somebody where you are?”

“I’m alone. I climbed in through the window.”