What Goes Around: A chilling psychological thriller (20 page)

He nods several times as if he’s taking my feelings on board. ‘Firstly, thank you. I appreciate this, Leila. I know how hard it will be for you to see Gareth again. I know.’ His expression is sincere. ‘Secondly, is there anything I can do to help you?’

‘No.’ I gather my coat around me. ‘My client base is growing and I need to give time and energy to that. But it’s Tom, really. His divorce has hit a wall.’

‘Alex is okay?’

‘He is. He’s signed up for an economics class this summer to give him a head start next term. He’s an A student.’ I nod, as if by nodding I will make it true. ‘He’s in with a great crowd.’

‘That’s good to hear.’

‘Actually, I should go now.’ I attempt to stand up but he pulls me back down again. ‘Katarina is expecting me to help her with her English assignment.’

‘Don’t go. Your whisky hasn’t arrived yet and you can’t leave me to drink alone.’

I drop back into my seat. ‘Just another ten minutes.’

‘Tom home this evening?’

‘Yes. We’re having a late dinner together. I haven’t seen him all week.’ Tom is having dinner out with his golf partners, the grand finale to a day of male bonding. ‘We have to talk about the terms of his divorce. His wife has decided she wants the house now, having moved out and been willing to sign off on it before.’ I shrug. None of this bothers me that much, of course, but giving David information to feed on will keep his eye away from what is really bothering me. ‘There’s no telling where her head’s at so it could drag on a while.’

‘Have you met her?’

‘No. I don’t even really know what she looks like.’

‘You haven’t even looked her up on Facebook?’ He snorts. ‘You’re not curious about what she looks like or where she works?’

‘I know she’s a teacher because Ben mentioned it once. And I also know she’s a keen gardener but that’s about it.’

‘She’ll be curious about you, I bet.’ He starts to tell me about someone he knows whose divorce dragged on for four years and in that time the wife wreaked all sorts of revenge on the husband. I let him talk, listening attentively, laughing and sympathising in the right places. When his beer arrives, he downs it in five minutes and I urge him to drink the whisky as well.

He talks and talks. I listen, and I wait until there is a natural pause in his storytelling and then I take some money from my pocket and slide it under the ashtray. ‘What time were you thinking of leaving on Wednesday?’ He looks at me blankly. ‘To visit Gareth,’ I remind him.

‘It’s about an hour’s drive from here so how about we meet after lunch?’

‘We can go in my car.’

‘I’ll be at the end of your street for one o’clock.’ His look dares me to say that’s too close to home for me but I don’t challenge him. I kiss his cheek and this time he lets me stand up. ‘See you on Wednesday.’

I feel like I don’t have a choice. I know what Maurice would say – he would tell me that of course I have a choice; this is an opportunity to be truthful and as soon as the words are spoken they will lose some of their power. I know this but I can’t do it. I can’t do it because I feel like my survival depends on protecting my life as it is. Who chooses to be exposed for the person they are? Underneath their career, the cashmere sweaters and comfortable home? Nobody I’ve ever met.

I should have another drink and go straight to bed but I choose not to. I’m in the garden next to the hut, smoking, feeling restless and afraid, but mostly angry. Without his big sister to care for him, David would have been neither fed nor cuddled. He would have been lucky to make it into his fifth year. And it didn’t stop with childhood. I’ve given him money, thousands of pounds, more than I care to count. I’ve bailed him out of jail. I’ve dropped my life to rescue his.

And it’s never enough.

I’m stubbing out my third cigarette on the paving slab when I hear a couple of meows. Mrs Patterson’s cat is in one of his usual spots under the bush, licking his paws. He gives me a lazy sideways glance, then continues undaunted. He should be afraid of me, surely? I kicked him, I threw water over him but still he roams back into the garden. I shake my head up at the sky and bite my bottom lip. A blob of blood settles on my lip. I taste it, savour the rich, metallic taste and smile. Well puss … we’re all punished for our inability to see what’s coming next.

I deliberately let my shoulders drop to a more relaxed position, flex and extend my fingers until the muscles are warm and awake. I’m far enough back in the garden to be unseen from the upstairs windows of Maybanks or any of the neighbouring houses. The garden wall is high and the bushes are thick.

‘Puss, puss,’ I say softly. ‘Puss, puss.’ I approach him slowly. My feet make no sound as I cross the grass. The cat gives me another unconcerned backward glance and continues to groom himself. I’m gradually lowering my body towards the ground while keeping my voice gentle and kind. ‘Come on then, puss,’ I say. ‘Come to Mama. Come for a cuddle.’

I’m down on the grass beside him, gaining his trust, quietly whispering, and then with a quick, confident motion I grab him. I have one hand wrapped round his jaw to hold it shut; the other captures his body and pulls it sharply under my arm. He gives a frantic squeal and then he fights, vicious, sharp claws dragging deep scratches down my forearm.

The sound of his neck as it breaks is a subtle, low-toned crack. His body stills instantly and drops in my arms, a dead weight. I stroke the fur once, then get down on my knees and push him under one of the bushes at the back of the garden. I force the body in as far as I can, close to the wall, at least an arm’s length from the path, then I sit back on my heels and brush the earth off my palms. He will quietly decompose under there until his body is nothing more than a collection of tiny bones. There isn’t enough heat to force rapid decomposition and any smell should dissipate in the air.

I stand up, my shoulders back, my lungs filling and emptying. I feel confident. I feel powerful. I’ve just wilfully taken a life and it makes me feel good. Better than good. Great. Taking a life makes me feel great. It releases an effervescent clarity inside me, a clarity that enables me to see several moves ahead. I feel my mind begin to circle a plan: a backup plan. After we visit Gareth, if David decides he still wants more from me, then I know what I need to do.

I’m glad that Tom isn’t home yet because it means I can riffle through the papers in his study without having to explain myself. I hear the squeak of floorboards above me as Katarina walks about, but it’s already ten o’clock so she’s not likely to come back down again and even if she did, I can silence her with a look. I remember, when we moved Tom’s office from the annexe into the house, seeing a case file he was working on and a copy of some lab work that he was using in evidence. After ten minutes’ searching I find what I’m after and run it through the printer, scanning a copy to my email address. I put the original back where I found it and sit on my bed with my laptop.

I copy and paste what I need and make a new document with the names and dates changed, then I’m back to Tom’s study to print it out, using paper that’s been in Tom’s office for years but which he’s incapable of throwing out ‘in case it comes in useful’.

It has come in useful. This document needs to look as if it’s been around a while, ten years to be exact. Fortunately the printer ink is low and so the whole effect is perfect. It could easily be a letter I received ten years ago. I fold it into three, then unfold it again. A few more times and I’m satisfied it will fool David.

I slide the letter under the mattress at my side of the bed and then I take a shower, cleaning the long cat scratches with soap until the painful sting brings tears to my eyes. When I lie down to sleep, I hear Leila Mae’s voice inside me as clear as if it were still my own. ‘You do what has to be done,’ she tells me. ‘You do it and then you move on.’

When I arrive home, I lift the post off the doormat and leave the letters and my backpack in the living room before I begin my checks. Ben has some work at the local garden centre and has left a note on the fridge to say he’s been called in at short notice. I’m horrified to see that he left his computer on and his bedside lamp plugged in. And he must have had a cup of coffee before he set off; the kettle is also plugged in. I think about what might have happened in my absence – a smouldering electrical fire that catches alight just as I’m leaving Maybanks, so that by the time I get back, the house is ablaze and I believe Ben is home, inside, unable to escape, disabled by smoke inhalation, lying on his bedroom floor dying.

I break out in a sweat and then I start to hyperventilate. Please, please, please – I’ve passed out before when I’ve had a panic attack and I don’t want it to happen now, not when I need to check the rest of the house. I pace up and down, reasoning with myself, calming myself, my eyes closed and my mouth speaking words aloud: You’re fine, Ellen. Everyone is fine. Ben is at the garden centre. Chloe, Molly and Dad – they’re all well and happy. No one dies today, Ellen. Relax. No one dies today.

When I know I’m not going to faint I go to the front door and lock it. I unlock it and relock it. I move the safety chain into position and then out again, in and then out. I do this for a long time. The rhythmic slide of the bolt, the click as it lands inside the hollowed-out metal hole at the end, soothes me. The slide back again, as it connects with the opening, comforts me.

When the doorbell rings, it sounds like it’s coming from far away and so I don’t respond at once. The letter box is hip height and I feel something push against me. I catch hold of it – it’s a DVD. I open the door. Francis is on the doorstep. He is handsome, I realise afresh. And he has kind eyes.

‘You’re home!’ he says, smiling. And then, ‘You look like you’re in a trance. Are you okay? Has something happened?’ He takes my arm. ‘Ellen?’

‘Sorry.’ I try to smile but my face feels stiff. ‘I got myself in a bit of a state. Just …’

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ He looks down the street. ‘I’m off to visit my mum but I’m earlier than normal so I don’t need to be there for a while.’

‘No, you should go,’ I say. I stare down at the DVD.

‘It’s the French film I was telling you about,’ he says. ‘The one where the man’s in a wheelchair. It doesn’t sound uplifting but it really is and it’s based on a true story.’

‘Yes, I remember you telling me.’

‘We could watch it later?’ he says.

‘But you’ve already seen it.’

‘I don’t mind watching it again.’ He gives me his uncomplicated smile. ‘I could get us a carry-out on the way back from the hospice and we could watch it early evening if that suits you?’

‘It does.’ I smile properly now. ‘It really does suit me.’

‘Indian, Chinese or shall we go for the chippie?’

‘I haven’t had an Indian in a while. Butter chicken?’

‘Butter chicken it is!’ He walks backward along the path. ‘See you about seven?’

‘Perfect.’

It’s not a date, I say to myself as I close the door. He’s a friend. That’s all.

I open my backpack and pull out the lacquer jewellery box. I place it on top of the dressing table and sit on the edge of my bed to look at it. I’m happy having it back where it belongs. It stayed on this dressing table for thirty years in my grandmother’s house and then for another twenty years in mine, after she died and I inherited the dressing table and the box. I wonder whether Tom or Leila will even notice the box is gone. Well, I’m sure Tom won’t but I suppose Leila might, although it shouldn’t matter to her anyway.

But her clothes and shoes will matter. I still have the nail scissors in my pocket. It was a spiteful thing to do but I don’t regret it. I could have trashed the place. I could have tipped paint over everything. I could have taken all their clothes out of the wardrobe and set fire to them in the garden.

And it makes no difference whether Katarina saw me or not. After my next therapy session, when we will be discussing my feelings towards the other woman, I don’t intend to return to Maybanks. Not until I walk through the front door, with my own key, back home again for good.

I had expected days to pass before I heard from Tom’s solicitor but I was wrong; when I open the thick envelope, I see it’s from him. There’s a terse covering letter and then form after form to complete. I call Hamish to discuss it.

‘We’re in for a battle but just remember that the prize will be worth it, Ellen,’ Hamish says. ‘They’re throwing a whole lot of silly nonsense our way, questions we’ve already answered but they’re insisting we update them.’

‘Do we have to update them?’ I ask.

‘I think it’s in our best interest to do so because then we can insist on the same from them, and we both know that Tom has more assets than he declared on the first round of paperwork.’

‘Ok
ay
.’ I remember the conversation I had with him after the meeting where he insisted he was proving his generosity by not drowning me in documents. Maybe he changed his mind on that score. I say as much to Hamish but he’s unperturbed.

‘Let’s answer the questions quickly and bat the ball back into their court.’

I agree to do my best and tackle several of the legal documents before my head feels too full of words and figures and I know I need a break. It’ll be a couple of hours yet before Francis arrives so I go to visit my dad. There’s already a for sale sign stuck in the ground at the front of his garden and I meet him coming out of the garage with a drill in his hand and his tool belt round his waist. ‘I’m titivating the place up a bit,’ he says, giving me a hug. ‘It’s often the wee things that make the difference.’

‘The house looks great as it is, Dad, but in any case, I think the location alone will sell it. Don’t tire yourself out.’

‘I’m sure you’re right but I’ll make these repairs anyway.’ He shows me his list. ‘Don’t want the buyers thinking I’m a lazy bugger.’ I follow him into the kitchen.

‘You really don’t need to paint the downstairs loo,’ I say, reading the list.

‘I’ll do it anyway. Might as well.’ He stands on a chair and uses the drill to screw in the fixing for the blind that’s been coming away at the wall. ‘I can’t believe I’ve gone for a year without fixing this,’ he says. ‘But what I really can’t believe—’ he turns round to look at me ‘—is that they chopped that beautiful oak tree down.’