The Tortoise

1

‘It was a bright cold night in January and the clocks were striking twelve,’ Clara smiled to herself. The book she had been reading, Nineteen-eighty-four, had slipped from her lap to be replaced by George, her Bengal cat, whose motorbike purr idled on her chest. What a delightful way to see in the New Year, no obligations, no effort, no stress; start as you mean to go on old girl. As a rule, she did not drink and the bottle of Tullamore Dew on the side table, a present for her sixtieth in June, had remained relatively intact. At nine o’clock she had raised a glass to Phineas to mark the arrival of 2019 in Madagascar, later a swig to toast Padraig, then another to forget him. She was feeling the effects. Well, why not; she refilled her glass and listened to the last chime give way to silence. How many people were appreciating the stillness of the brand new year? Something about the depth of this tranquillity reminded her of the minutes following a death. A sense of being fully present, something she felt it her duty to be when she shared those moments. God, now she remembered why she didn’t drink; it made her maudlin.

She established a gentle rhythm of the rocking chair, an ironic retirement gift from her colleagues, and rested her eyes. As the dust started to settle on her long days of nothingness something malevolent had stirred. Here it was again, creeping in unbidden, fleeting but disconcerting. She allowed herself to face the accompanying thought that wormed up from deep within her medial prefrontal cortex. It spoke directly to her, schizophrenia style.

You have wasted your life.

A hammering on the door.

‘Jesus, what the hell?’ She tilted forward with a start sending George skittering across the polished oak floorboards.

She struggled to her feet, flicked on the hall light and opened the door.

‘Happy New Year Doc!’ The man blew a party horn in her face. ‘Care to join us?’

Tim, her next-door neighbour - dressed in a ridiculous elf outfit complete with pointed ears – gestured to the straggle of neighbours now gathering in the close. She could just make out the fur-clad figure of his wife, never could remember her name, knocking on the door opposite. Fortunately for them they appeared to be out or had had the presence of mind to pretend. Unable to concoct a reasonable excuse Clara managed a weak smile. ‘Certainly, I’ll just get my coat.’

Well I won’t be long, she reassured herself as she wrapped a scarf around her neck and buttoned her old woollen coat. George appeared from behind the settee and protested loudly.

‘I know, I’m sorry old thing,’ she bent to stroke him, ‘bloody tiresome humans.’

From his basket in front of the wood-burner Blue opened one eye and closed it, being a whippet of a certain age, he generally chose comfort over exercise.

A dozen or so people milled around the recently tarmacked frontage of number five upon which a trestle table had been erected. Over the years Clara had observed the shielding privets of Penns Lane give way to low box hedging to be succeeded, following a virulent infestation of blight, by the American-style picket fencing that now demarcated the boundaries. She mourned the gradual loss of the cheerful flower beds as they were replaced first by squares of lawn and then by sterile paving to accommodate the proliferation of cars. Her medley of flowering shrubs and hardy perennials was the only surviving front garden.

The annoying couple from number one, adorned in garlands of flashing Christmas lights, ladled hot mulled wine from the Le Creuset on the rickety table; it was a health and safety nightmare. She really did not want to be attending to burn injuries at this time of night. Children, who appeared to Clara to be far too young to be awake, ran up and down the pavement wielding sparklers, giddy with the excitement of transgression.

She listened to the wailing of an ambulance speeding to its first call of the year. Clara weighed the odds in favour of a suicide. Sadly, she had been in general practice long enough to have noticed the pattern for herself. Those who thought themselves burdensome, socially isolated, disconnected, found that they felt the same on the first day of the year as they had on the three-hundred-and-sixty-fifth. As the clock ticked round, they still hated their job, their partner had not returned, they remained broken. She supposed that the realisation that the arbitrary marking of time made no difference was sufficient to load the dice.

Tim’s wife, Sally was it? handed her a glass of mulled wine. A drink that she thoroughly disliked although the rising aroma of orange, ginger and cloves was strangely comforting.

‘How was your Christmas?’ with years of practice Clara managed to make her inquiry ring with genuine interest.

‘Chaotic as usual, Tim’s folks came over, and his sister and her family, and my brother; six adults, five children for Christmas day.’

Clara inhaled the scent of the hot wine and attempted a smile. The raucous intrusion through the shared wall of their Victorian townhouses had been the deciding factor in her three-hour drive to the nursing home, although she knew she would not be recognised or acknowledged.

‘Did you go away? We didn’t see you at all?’ chirped Sally.

‘Just for a couple of days, to see my mother.’ She noticed a flicker of surprise cross Sally’s face before endeavouring to conceal it, she evidently thought Clara far too old to have a living ancestor. She couldn’t think what else to say so added, ‘she likes jigsaw puzzles.’

A strained silence ensued. They listened to the muffled banging of fireworks. At least none of those gathered had thought to launch a display of their own, small mercies.

‘Are you enjoying your retirement doctor?’

God, how many times would people revert to this topic?

‘Oh yes, people told me I’d be bored but I rather like being idle.’

She didn’t add that it was a joy to no longer have to care for the sick, the slightly sick and the not sick at all.

‘Do you have any plans?’ asked Sally, apparently warming to the topic.

‘I made a list of all the things I could do when I retired. Actually, I haven’t even looked at the list.’ In a rare moment of self-disclosure - likely brought on by the whiskey - she added, ‘I’m cultivating solitude, thinking about breaks in isolated cottages, going on silent retreats, that sort of thing. I need an antidote.’

Clara lurched violently forward, her mulled wine tracing a slow-motion trajectory onto Sally’s fur-coat. A small child, now lying prostrate at her feet, looked up in astonishment before releasing a high-pitched wail. Clara registered a deep gash on his forehead and instinctively bent to stem the flow, as she applied pressure the wound came away; it was a cinnamon stick. She checked the small limbs for breaks and sprains.

‘Just a grazed hand,’ she told a woman wearing reindeer antlers who was now hoisting the child roughly to his feet.

‘I told you not to run, what did I tell you?’

Clara clenched her jaw, she was not a fan of rhetorical questions, especially when aimed at young children.

Sally pressed a paper napkin to her mink and bemoaned the cost of specialist dry cleaning, a diatribe that appeared to be lost on the antlered mother. The commotion was now attracting the attention of the others.

‘No harm done,’ announced Clara, a verdict that drew a scowl from both women.

‘Just wine and whine,’ she muttered to herself as she turned towards her house.

Tim grabbed her arm. ‘Don’t disappear just yet Doc, we’re about to sing Auld Lang Syne.’

Despite her protestations he manoeuvred her into the throng that was now attempting to form a circle; the effects of alcohol, combined with sudden fresh air, was rendering the task a challenge. The reluctant relinquishing of wine glasses was followed by general confusion regarding the crossing of arms and which hand to hold. Clara found herself sandwiched between Tim and an older man who apparently lived at number twelve and had a three-legged terrier called Jack.

At last the circle was complete and they began to sing, some starting at the first verse, others at the chorus. A blaring police siren supplied an incongruous soundtrack. Several people were intent on moving their arms up and down, while a minority tried to guide the circle in and out Hokey-Cokey style. Adolescent boys kicked their legs, regardless of their neighbours’ shins. Thankfully no-one could get beyond the second verse and Clara was not going to prolong the fiasco.

Amidst the hugging, cheering and happy new yearing, she made her escape. Blue came to greet her, wagging his skinny tail. She breathed a long sigh of relief as she closed her front door.

The blue-light urgency turned out to be needless, the woman was beyond medical assistance; she had been dead since Christmas Day.

2

Jo was enjoying the party despite Andrea’s no-show. She crossed her legs to display her new high-heels to best effect and numbed the pain in her feet with another glass of champagne. They usually worked as a team but she was garnering plenty of male attention flying solo. Mission accomplished she moved away from the man with halitosis who had refilled her glass whilst looking down her dress. By the time Big Ben rang out from the radio and the music was turned back up, Jo had forgiven Andrea for not replying to any of her texts, calls, WhatsApp or Facebook messages and for not bloody turning up. She recalled last New Year and the optimism with which they had both vowed to make 2018 their best year ever. As it turned out it was pretty much one of their worst. It was good to see the back of this cursed year.

Jo tottered outside with her drink and lit a cigarette; New Year resolutions could start tomorrow. She rooted through her fake-snake handbag for her iPhone and called Andrea again. She let it ring out. Jesus, she could be dead in a bloody ditch. She shut it off and listened out for distant sounds; a technique championed by Dr Aaron Bayliss-Cooper MD in Get out of your mind. She registered a volley of fireworks and the wail of an ambulance.

Not helpful.

She sat on the wall, swallowed her champagne and stubbed out her cigarette. She told herself that she was being silly; Andrea must have had a better offer. Wait ’til I see her. Her thoughts turned to James, an estate agent with a Range Rover and a roguish smile, who would be ready to hit the dance floor. She checked her hair in her diamante compact; switching shades to ultra-platinum blonde had been an excellent call. She pinged the gold rim of her champagne flute, it gave a pleasing ring, she wrapped it in her silk scarf, put it in the bottom of her handbag and went back to join the festivities.

Jo awoke to the sound of sawing wood; who the hell was doing DIY on New Year’s Day? Her head was an anvil, she turned over, pressed her finger to her ear and slept again. The noise of an argument in the street finally spurred her to disentangle herself from the duvet and crawl numbly from her bed. She was annoyed at herself for wasting the first day of 2019. The morning had passed in a blur of headaches, nausea, and semi-consciousness. She was not going to drink champagne ever again. She could not recall what had happened to James but at least he wasn’t here. She peeped through the curtain with aching eyes; a neighbour was scraping ice from his car as a woman in a mint-green tracksuit screamed at him. She checked her phone, Christ, still nothing from Andrea. Her head was pounding. She made it to the kitchen and scanned the fridge: half a pot of natural yoghurt, a slimy bag of spinach, an egg. No milk. She felt too weak to get dressed, or to make toast, or to decide what to do next. She stood by the fridge for a while. The doorbell pierced the silence. She stood by the door and hesitated, vaguely aware of her dishevelled appearance. A loud rapping made her fling the door wide to reveal a delivery man, his arm raised mid-knock.

‘Special delivery, sign here,’ he handed her a box and an electronic machine.

She took both and stood helpless.

‘Perhaps you could put the box down?’

She put it down. She looked at the machine. She signed her name. She stood at the open door and breathed cold air. He drove away. She watched the exhaust cloud hanging in the air. Her scrawny birch was crisp with frost; the only survivor of the gaggle of saplings planted in the development. The skinny Indian woman opposite waved cheerfully. Jo closed the door and carried the box into the living room. Her name and address were written in Andrea’s unmistakable cursive.

How odd.

She grabbed a nail file and slit the tape to reveal a jumble of parcels, each wrapped in tissue paper. She picked out the red cashmere scarf and inhaled Andrea’s scent. She rummaged further; no envelope, no card, no note. She checked the outside, nothing. She unwrapped the other packages: Andrea’s Tiffany bracelet, her salmon-pink handbag, her fake Rolex, her leather-bound British Trust for Ornithology Guide to the Birds of Britain and Ireland. She flicked through the book, some of the birds had been highlighted with orange marker.

What on earth could this mean? She lit a cigarette and poured herself a stiff hair of the dog. It bristled, she downed another. She recalled a conversation they had had about the things that they would save if their house was on fire. She of course had chosen her Prada handbag and sable jacket; both gifts from generous but hapless boyfriends. Andrea had chosen her bird books and Darwin, her beloved tortoise, she was so silly.

Jesus Christ. She dressed hurriedly and grabbed her car keys.

Frozen swirls encrusted the windscreen of her 2008 Fiat Punto, she scratched out a porthole with her credit card. The car had formed part of her divorce settlement, she remained wedded to it despite its capricious nature. She ratcheted up the heater, the prematurely applied wipers screeching across the glass. From the radio high-octane presenters seemed inexplicably hyped about the New Year’s honours list. Jarrod Geese-Hogg, that Pro-Brexit guy that Andrea hated, had received one. The chat segued into I predict a riot. She turned it off and sped down the deserted streets, beneath a darkening sky. She screeched into the nineteen-seventies estate and parked next to Andrea’s battered Clio. At least she was in. But that feeling again. Dread. Even from the road Andrea’s flat gave off an air of neglect, she had stopped inviting Jo over, preferring to meet in town or to invite herself for lunch. She scanned the second-floor windows, third from the left, it was wide open, the curtains billowing in the icy wind. What the hell? She took the concrete steps two at a time arriving breathless outside 22A and held her finger on the doorbell.

A stocky officer with pigeon eyes opened the door.

‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’

‘And you are Madam?’

‘Jo Burns-Whyte, Andrea’s best friend,’ she pushed past him into the hallway where an older, dark-suited man appeared from the kitchen.

‘I’ll see to it Constable Beech.’ He had a kind tone that made her feel that she was going to cry. ‘Please come through to the living room.’

She followed him in a daze and sat on her usual armchair by the window. The table lamp cast a mournful glow. It was freezing.

He took the seat closest to her and cleared his throat. ‘I’m Detective Inspector John Appleton, I’m afraid I have some distressing news. Your friend was found last night. I’m afraid she had been dead for some time.’

‘I knew something was wrong, I’ve been phoning, I knew something bad had happened,’ she trailed off. ‘Was she attacked?’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because you’re here.’

‘I’m the investigating officer, we don’t yet know if a crime has been committed.’

The twinkling Christmas tree lights were an affront. ‘Jesus, can’t you turn those things off?’

DI Appleton rose calmly and disconnected the plug.

‘What are you actually doing here? Where’s Andrea? What the hell happened?’ She wished she wasn’t hung over, it was all so surreal, she thought she might faint. The medicinal shots of bourbon were backfiring.

‘I’m the investigating officer,’ he repeated. ‘Andrea is in the hospital mortuary, I’m afraid we will have to wait for a post-mortem to determine the cause of death.’

‘Oh my God. Oh my God. I can’t believe it. How did she die?’

‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to give any details at the moment. We’re conducting preliminary inquiries, nothing has been ruled in or out just yet,’ he smoothed his trouser leg. ‘May I ask you a few questions?’

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ her voice a hundred miles away. She wondered where Andrea died. She imagined her sprawled on the carpet in a crime scene pose, white chalk marking her outline.

‘Would you like a drink or anything?’

‘A brandy please.’

‘Sorry, I meant a cup of tea or coffee, although I’m sure we could all do with a brandy.’

She looked at his shoes, soft Italian leather, expensive. ‘Oh, of course, no I’m fine.’

‘Jo, when was the last time you had any contact with Ms Gibbons?’

Andrea, a glass in hand, laughing in her living room, wearing the jumper with the little dancing robins and that red velvet skirt.

‘Christmas Eve, she came over, brought cup-cakes, we exchanged presents.’

‘Did she appear to be worried about anything or say anything unusual?’

Jo was aware of her hands shaking. She looked at the side of his face, he radiated a sense of quiet confidence. It calmed her. She watched him write in his notebook, he was serious and attentive. Instinctively she looked for a wedding ring. Sometimes she appalled herself.

‘Ms Burns-Whyte? Anything out of the usual?’

‘No. She was going to spend Christmas day with her brother in Wales. Ed.’ She had been disappointed that she had not been asked, despite all her hints. ‘Oh my God, does Ed know?’

‘Ms Gibbons’ brother has been informed, yes. He had been worried when she didn’t turn up or answer his calls. Unfortunately, he didn’t think to call the police.’

Bloody hell, what an idiot. Mind you she hadn’t either, all those unanswered calls.

‘Did they get on well?’

‘Well, he struggles with company; she was just staying overnight.’

‘Had you any plans?’

‘No, I spent Christmas alone.’

‘Sorry, I meant to see Andrea.’

‘We were going to meet up at a New Year’s Eve party, but she didn’t turn up. Obviously,’ she paused. The room felt empty, needles dropped from the Christmas tree, joining the ones she imagined Andrea had watched fall.

‘Did she have any other close relatives that you know of?’

‘I don’t think so; her parents are dead. Natural causes,’ she added and then felt foolish. She could smell his sandalwood aftershave. Perhaps he could detect the alcohol on her breath. She was still clutching her car keys, she slid them into her coat pocket and pulled up her collar against the draught.

He rose and closed the window, then opened it one notch. ‘Did she have any plans for a holiday?’

‘No, we were thinking about Greece but not until the summer. Why are you asking me about holidays?’ He was getting a bit irritating.

‘Just trying to get a full picture.’

She registered the empty space where the tortoise-house had stood. Where the hell was Darwin?

‘She’s been burgled. She had a tortoise, in a big cage thing,’ she waved her finger at the gap. She watched him look at the rectangular impression on the carpet.

‘Do you know if it was here on Christmas Eve?’

‘Yes, definitely, she’d brought him a little present. She is hilarious.’ She was aware of using the present tense and did not correct herself.

‘I see.’

There was a long pause, they listened to a baby crying upstairs.

‘Are you alright to continue?’

‘Yes.’ The nausea was returning but somehow she didn’t mind.

‘I’m sorry to have to ask this but can you think of any reason Andrea might have had to take her own life?’

‘Absolutely not. No way. She just wasn’t that sort of person.’

‘All sorts of people do I’m afraid.’

‘No, not Andrea, she was very positive.’

The toilet flushed. The thought of that rookie officer peeing into her bowl suddenly made her furious.

‘Did Ms Gibbons have a partner? Boyfriend? Girlfriend?’

‘What?’ she snapped.

‘We can leave this for another time if you prefer, I know this has been a huge shock.’

His look of genuine concern brought a tear.

‘No. She has had in the past, boyfriends I mean, but not recently.’

‘Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm her?’

‘No, not a single person. She was divorced. Leon Maynard. You can rule him out as a suspect on account of him being dead.’

DI Appleton scribbled something that seemed to end with an exclamation mark and closed his notebook. The room was freezing but she did not want to leave. The owl shaped clock ticked from the mantelpiece, she had bought it for Andrea’s birthday, Andrea’s last birthday.

‘I understand she was a school teacher?’

‘She used to be; she lost her job. It was all ridiculous, a Facebook post about a worm or something,’ she trailed off.

‘Thank you, Ms Burns-Whyte, you’ve been very helpful. Could I take your details in case we need to contact you?’

She recited her phone number and watched him tap it into his phone, he passed her his card. She felt Andrea’s absence, a little part of her had died. The best bit.

‘If there’s anything else that comes to mind please do call me. Would you like Constable Beech to take you home?’

‘No, I have my car, I’ll be alright,’ reluctantly she stood to leave, she felt unsteady.

She glanced into the kitchen; the rookie was standing by the boiling kettle eating a chocolate digestive. One of Andrea’s.

She closed the front-door behind her and burst into tears.