What Goes Around: A chilling psychological thriller (26 page)

‘Isn’t this lovely?’ Brenda says and I have to stifle a laugh because it’s anything but lovely. ‘Whiling away a weekday afternoon with family. I’ll leave the three of you to catch up.’

When the door closes behind Brenda, David places the chair in front of Gareth; I perch myself on the bed to the left of them both.

Gareth is the first person to speak. ‘I knew that sooner or later you’d come.’ His speech is slow but clear. ‘David Francis and Leila Mae.’ His grin reveals a row of yellowed teeth with two prominent gaps that make him look like he’s been punched in the face.

David’s left leg is restless. It’s moving so intensely that I can feel the vibrations coming up through the floor into the soles of my feet. ‘You haven’t been cleaning your teeth, Gareth,’ I say.

His grey eyes look up into mine. I feel a visceral revulsion but I’m able to hide it, an old skill not forgotten. ‘What do you want?’ he says.

‘We want to see you, old man,’ David says. ‘Catch-up time.’ He gives a hearty, patently false laugh and I watch the anxiety roll off him in waves. And if I can see it then so too can Gareth. ‘We wanted to show you how successful we are. While you – look at you!’ he scoffs. ‘You’re in here, crippled and pathetic. Your life is over. Won’t be long before you’re circling the drain, eh Gareth?’

Gareth gives a throaty cough. ‘Coming back to Daddy.’

‘You were no daddy to me,’ David says and then he lets rip a torrent of painful memories: being denied food, being spied on in the shower, having to lie to everyone outside of our home, having to sleep in fear of being woken and dragged down to the cellar to witness the latest trapped animal’s distress. It’s a heartfelt outpouring. It’s a weeping sore. It’s fuel for Gareth.

All it does is strengthen him. I watch his back lengthen by two inches as he straightens himself up in the chair. Twice I nudge David’s foot with mine but he takes no notice. He gets it all out. He thinks he’s being assertive and strong but I know how Gareth is perceiving the outburst – as a sign of weakness and fear. And he’s not wrong. You don’t have to have an MA in psychology to understand human behaviour.

Finally David runs out of steam and he sits back, blinking rapidly, sweat breaking out on his forehead.

‘Better now?’ Gareth asks, smirking.

In a flash, David is on his feet and has his hands round Gareth’s throat. Gareth makes loud throttling noises, his eyes wide open, lit up with what is at first a parody of fear, a pantomime actor. He’s no match for David, the younger, stronger man, though, and I don’t doubt that David will keep going until Gareth is dead, so after thirty seconds I intervene. I pull David away and hold him against the wall. ‘Stop now,’ I say quietly. ‘Do you want to go to prison for this prick? Do you?’ I reinforce my question with a sharp shove into the wall. ‘Do you?’

‘Let him do it,’ Gareth shouts. His face has changed from grey to puce and his lips are a navy blue. ‘Let him kill me, Leila Mae. He’ll feel better for it.’

‘We’re going now,’ I say to David and he nods, seemingly defeated. I push him ahead of me to the door but I’m unprepared for his final burst of determination; he sidesteps me to spit in Gareth’s face.

Gareth laughs, delighted.

‘Get out, David! Now!’ I shout.

‘Leila Mae!’ Gareth’s right hand reaches out and grabs me, his sinewy arm shaking with the exertion. ‘I’ve kept your secret but I could tell the world if I wanted to. You remember that.’

‘No one would believe you, Gareth,’ I whisper into his ear. ‘I’m a well-respected professional. I’m somebody. While you? You’re just a pathetic old man who shits his pants.’

‘Wait!’ he shouts as I head for the door. ‘Don’t you dare walk away from me! Get back here you little bitch!’

I propel David ahead of me along the corridor. We don’t see Brenda but we can hear her voice in the distance, ‘Come on now, Jeanie! Let’s have a knees-up!’

‘If that nurse knew what he was really like,’ David says, ‘she’d let him lie in his own shit.’

Much as I agree with him I resist commenting. I want him in the car and I want to drive back to Edinburgh right now, to put as many miles between me and Gareth as I can. I bundle David into the passenger seat, start the engine and set off. We’re about a mile along the road when he shouts, ‘Stop! Stop the car!’ I pull into the side of the road, both my indicators flashing. David throws himself out onto the grass verge and lands on his knees. He vomits onto the grass four or five times until his stomach has emptied. When he climbs back into the car I hand him some tissues and a bottle of water.

Neither of us speaks for the remainder of the journey. I’m aware of David sitting completely still, his chin dropping down onto his chest, his limbs motionless, as if he’s had all of the energy sucked out of him. When we pass over the Forth Road Bridge, the clouds part and sunlight floods the car. David groans and covers his eyes with his forearms. I place a comforting hand on his knee but he jerks away from it, pulls up his legs and wraps his arms round his head as if protecting himself from an explosion.

‘Don’t put me out here,’ he says when we reach the end of my street. ‘Please.’

I don’t answer. I’m angry because my head is full of Gareth. I knew I should never have gone to see him but I did it for David and what difference has it made? No difference at all. In fact, I’m afraid that the visit has made David worse.

I keep the engine running and wait. He starts fidgeting: legs shaking, hands pulling at his hair, his voice mumbling phrases that are mostly incoherent apart from the frequent use of ‘fuck’ and ‘shit’.

After a while, when he sees I’m not giving in, he climbs out, slamming the door with a decisive bang. I drive off but watch him in my rearview mirror as he follows the car, jogging along the pavement, looking to the casual viewer like a normal man keen to get home.

When I pull into the driveway, he’s already at the car door. ‘I want to go back to see him again. I’ve thought of a better way.’

‘Then you’ll have to go alone,’ I say.

‘You never trust me, do you? You always think you know better. You should have let me kill him.’ His expression twists. ‘You always spoil everything. You’re such a—’

I push him hard on the chest. His foot slips on the paving and he falls back into the flower border. By the time he’s pulled himself upright, I’m inside the house with the door shut. He rings the bell, holding his finger on it, and when he stops pressing the bell he speaks into the space between the door and the wooden frame. ‘Please, Leila. Just talk to me. I can get the jewellery back for you. I can! You know I can!’

I weigh up the pros and cons of letting him in. I need the jewellery but I don’t want to give him any more attention. And then there’s Tom. It’s already late afternoon and he could potentially arrive home at any moment.

The bell keeps ringing and I’m pushed into a quick decision: Tom’s opinion no longer matters and I need the jewellery.

I open the door to David and he comes inside, looking sheepish. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to call you names. I just think—’

‘Don’t,’ I interrupt him. ‘Please, just tell me where the jewellery is. I need it.’

‘I didn’t take it,’ he says. ‘I know who did, though.’ He’s looking on the floor and then on the hall table. ‘She was going to put it back today. She had it in an envelope this morning and she was planning on pushing it through the letter box.’

‘Who? Who is she?’

He lets out his breath. ‘Tom’s wife, Ellen.’ He pauses, watching me while I try to process that.

‘What? Why?’ I say.

‘The black lacquer box is hers. She didn’t know you had jewellery in it.’

‘Did Ben take it for her?’ David laughs. ‘Did he give it to her?’ He walks into the kitchen and I follow him. ‘Wait a minute, how do you know her?’

‘And now the interrogation begins,’ he says, throwing up his arms.

‘Tell me.’

‘Well, there’s the thing, Leila. I don’t have to tell you, because you already know who she is.’

‘That doesn’t mean I’ve met her.’

‘But you have!’ He points at me, laughing. ‘You’ve spoken to her! At length.’

I’m not playing his game. I lean up against the counter and wait for him to grow tired of amusing himself.

‘It’s not often that you’re caught behind the power curve, Sis.’ He takes three apples from the fruit bowl and juggles with them. ‘Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practise to deceive.’ He puts the apples back and widens his eyes at me. ‘Don’t you think?’

‘I’m not deceiving anyone.’

‘Tom? Alex? Me?’ He waits for my reply. I don’t give him one. ‘Ellen still has a key to the back door.’ He comes to stand in front of me. ‘She is one of your clients. She’s using her middle and her maiden name.’ He pauses for effect before saying, ‘Ellen is Mary McNeil.’

When I come round, I’m lying on my side and the woman who helped me is kneeling on the pavement next to me. ‘I’m a first-aider,’ she says. ‘I think you were having a panic attack and then you fainted.’

‘Yes.’ I sit up slowly, rubbing my aching knees and elbows. ‘Thank you for helping me.’ She doesn’t want to let me go but I convince her I’m fine and I leave for home. I walk quickly because I want to get home before I have another attack. I need time to think, to try to work everything out, because I’m struggling to believe it. I try to persuade myself that Mrs Patterson must be wrong. It could be that Francis had just met Leila – perhaps he meant to help me somehow? – and that he only resembles Leila’s brother. Mrs Patterson is pushing ninety and her eyes might not be as good as she thinks they are. That has to be it. Nothing else makes any sense.

No need to panic. No need to feel betrayed. Just breathe, Ellen. Just breathe.

When I arrive home, I check all the sockets and I lock and relock the front door. I surrender to the compulsion because this is not the time for me to practise exposure therapy. I check the sockets again, I photograph them, I look at the photographs. I feel like I’m teetering on the brink of another panic attack and the way to prevent it is to check and keep checking until I’m pulled back from the edge.

It takes an hour for my anxiety to subside to a level that is closer to normal and then I remember I didn’t walk to Maybanks, I drove there. I’ve left my car in a street about one hundred yards from the house. It’s hardly a disaster – rationally, I know this – but I’ll never be able to settle until the car is outside my front door, locked and with the handbrake on.

I take Leila’s jewellery out of my backpack and consider putting it in the lacquer box, but I don’t because it doesn’t belong there. I hide it under my bed instead, inside a pair of winter boots, pushed right to the back where they’re difficult to grab hold of.

It doesn’t take me long to reach my car and I’ve just climbed into the driving seat when my mobile rings. It’s Sharon, the police liaison officer. ‘Hi, Ellen. I’m just checking in. How’s everything going?’

‘Good,’ I say, almost choking on the word. ‘Uh-huh.’ I’m not always a spontaneous person but this is the perfect opportunity to find out some information about Francis. ‘I’m glad you’ve called actually because—’ I give a genuinely nervous laugh. ‘This is a bit weird but you remember when you asked me whether you could give Francis my mobile number and I said no?’

‘It wasn’t Francis who asked for your number, it was Trish.’

‘Trish. That’s right and you said you’d post my scarf to me.’

‘I did.’

‘Well, Francis turned up at my front door with my scarf and—’

‘He wasn’t supposed to do that. I asked him to post it, not bring it round in person.’

‘It’s okay, it’s just … he seems to want to go out with me.’

‘I see.’ She hears my silence. ‘How do you feel about that?’

‘Well … you know how it is when you lose your confidence.’

‘Being mugged can do that to you, Ellen.’

‘And so I thought you might be able to tell me a little bit about him. Just so I can be sure.’

‘Of course. Yes, I can share some information with you. Let me see now.’ There’s a tap, tap of a keyboard. ‘His full name is David Francis Morrison, although he told me he’s always known as Francis.’

That’s enough, really. That’s all I need to know but I let her continue. She tells me he’s unemployed and that he’s been living in Edinburgh for only five months.

‘He wants to join the police service, doesn’t he?’

‘Not that I know of,’ she says.

‘So how come he helps you out?’

‘He volunteered himself, but it’s not official. He just likes to help me put the chairs out etcetera.’ Her tone changes. ‘You will tell me if he causes you any problems, Ellen, won’t you?’

‘Of course.’ I thank her and agree to keep in touch.

So many lies. I sit in my car, numb from head to foot, unable to move, unable to think clearly. This is a man I went to bed with. He’s met Ben; Chloe knows about him. I thought we were heading into a relationship. I thought he cared for me. I really believed he cared for me.

I feel angry … hurt … confused. Each emotion pushes and shoves at the other and I’m pulled from wanting to cry to wanting to hit back at him. It makes no sense that he would target me like this. Is it some misguided notion about protecting his sister? Because Leila has never been in any real danger from me.

I drive back home and park the car just as Ben comes out of the house. ‘Hi Mum, I let Francis in. Is that okay?’

My stomach does a double flip. ‘You off out?’

‘Yeah. And I’ll probably stay over at Angus’s tonight.’

‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ I say quickly.

‘Something wrong?’ He comes across to stand beside me, his face concerned. ‘You okay, Mum?’

I make a quick decision – whatever this is it doesn’t involve Ben. I need to talk to Francis alone. I need to sort this out myself. Be brave, be strong.

‘Just ignore me, darling,’ I say. ‘I would like you home for the night but text me when you’re sure of your plans and then I’ll know whether or not to expect you.’ I stand on the step and watch him walk along the road towards town before I go inside.
Just play it cool, Ellen.
If you can go back to your own home and sit in front of your husband’s mistress without blurting out the truth, then you can do this.