What Goes Around: A chilling psychological thriller (27 page)

I come quietly into the house, closing the door soundlessly behind me. I stand completely still and tune in to all the sounds, upstairs and down. There’s the normal gurgling in the pipes and hum of electricity. There’s the faint sound of barking from the next-door neighbour’s Jack Russell and a voice calling back to him.

And there’s another sound. Francis is moving around in my bedroom. I can hear the creaking of floorboards and the opening and closing of drawers. I’m not sure I really want to catch him in the act of going through my things; looking for his sister’s jewellery perhaps? It’s enough for me to know that he’s snooping.

I open the front door again and bang it this time, then shout, ‘Hello? Anyone home?’

Almost at once Francis appears at the top of the stairs, rubbing his hair with a towel. ‘Ellen! You’re back.’ He comes down in a rush, throws the towel to one side and pulls me towards him. ‘I’ve missed you today.’ He kisses my neck and my cheeks but I move my head to one side before he reaches my mouth.

‘You okay?’ He gives me a worried frown. ‘You feel tense.’

‘I’m just a bit anxious. It’s been one of those days. I got delayed … It was all a bit hectic. And I haven’t done my checks.’

‘Poor you.’ He turns me round and starts to knead my shoulders. ‘Why don’t I cook something for us both while you have a relaxing bath?’

‘That sounds like a good idea,’ I say, my tone completely even while my inner voice screams
Why? Why are you doing this?
I want to be able to say these words out loud but I can’t. The reality of confronting him feels beyond me. ‘There are some eggs and mushrooms in the fridge.’

‘An omelette it is then.’ He kisses my neck, from behind this time, and I shiver. How quickly I’ve moved from wanting him to touch me to being repulsed by him. He nudges me towards the stairs. ‘Shall we say half an hour for the omelette?’

‘Great.’ I pick up the towel and climb the stairs. If not for the fact that I know he’s been in my bedroom, I might not have noticed anything, but because I’m looking for signs of disturbance, I see them immediately: the duvet is doubled over at one of the edges as if someone lifted it up to look under the bed, my winter-jumper drawer is partly open and I know I haven’t been in it for a couple of months and the black lacquer box is at an angle; I had left it straight.

I go into the bathroom and lock the door. I ask myself whether I think I’m in any danger from Francis. I have what I consider to be a very good reason for misleading Leila. What can Francis’s reason be for deceiving me? And would he ever physically hurt me? I remember my dad’s words when he was fixing the lino – do as you would be done by. Liars should expect to be lied to. Deceivers should expect to be deceived.

Maybe this is exactly what I deserve.

I decide that lying in the bath might make me too vulnerable – it wouldn’t take much more than a shoulder push to break the bathroom lock – so I have a shower instead, quickly and efficiently, then dress in underwear and a pair of pyjamas. I listen in the hallway for sounds of Francis approaching, and hear none, so I have a quick look under the bed and can see that the boots are exactly where I left them, the jewellery undisturbed.

Francis has set the table for two. He’s turned off the lights and lit two candles, which suits me perfectly; this way it will be more difficult for him to see the expressions on my face. He hands me a glass of red wine and urges me to sit down. Then he brings me a plate with a perfectly cooked omelette and a side salad. I wait until he’s sitting opposite me before I begin to eat.

‘So tell me,’ he says. ‘What happened today?’

‘Solicitors and what not,’ I lie. ‘I spent far longer up there than I expected to.’ I take a sip of wine. ‘It wouldn’t normally be a problem but I was—’

‘Hoping to put the jewellery back,’ he interrupts. He’s eating very quickly, almost shovelling the food in, as if he’s been denied food all day.

‘That’s right.’ I find myself reacting to his speed by eating more slowly than I normally would. ‘And then when I got down to Maybanks I was hijacked by Mrs Patterson. She insisted I come for afternoon tea so that we could discuss the mystery of the missing cat.’

‘So you weren’t able to take the jewellery back?’ Francis has polished off his omelette and is eating the last of his salad.

My mouth is full and I finish chewing before I speak. ‘By the time I left Mrs Patterson’s, Leila’s car was back and I didn’t want to put the envelope through the door in case she caught me.’

Francis nods, and keeps nodding, staring first at his empty plate and then at me. ‘I’m happy to help.’

‘Thank you. I might take you up on that,’ I lie. ‘Anyway, enough about me.’ My mouth moves in what, by candlelight, should look close enough to a smile. ‘How’s your mum today?’
If she even exists.

He tells me about how they spent their time together, making a good job of describing a fun afternoon. A nurse called Brenda encourages those who are able to get up onto their feet for a ‘knees-up’. ‘The music was all from the sixties and seventies, catchy Cliff Richard numbers that everyone could sing along to.’ He says his mum joined in from her chair while he danced with Brenda. ‘She was wearing a purple paper hat. She’s a good sport is Brenda.’

I don’t believe a word. And the longer I sit there, the more freaked out I become. This man has been in my bed, in my body, in my heart and he is a liar. A considered, controlled, convincing liar.

I jump up, go into the kitchen and pull the plugs from the sockets. Francis is right behind me and he clasps my hand. ‘Shall we talk through some exposure therapy?’

‘Leila said this would happen, that I would slide back into obsessive behaviour and that it’s nothing to worry about.’ My voice shakes. ‘Perfectly normal.’ I take my hand away from his and lift it to my mouth. How can someone be so kind and caring on the surface and so utterly deceitful underneath? I don’t like him touching me and I need him to leave, but I’m not sure how to engineer it without him questioning me. I could, of course, simply confront him and tell him what I know, but I don’t feel brave enough. I’m a coward. Plain and simple. ‘I think I need to go to bed,’ I say. ‘I’ve got myself overtired. I barely slept last night, what with the worrying about the jewellery.’

‘I could drop it round now,’ he says.

‘Thank you, but let me deal with it.’ I manage to lean into his chest and force myself to press a fleeting kiss to his lips. ‘If I don’t manage it tomorrow then I’ll take you up on your kind offer.’

‘You’d rather I went home tonight?’

‘Well …’
Yes, yes, yes.
‘I’m sorry because you’ve come to see me after a busy day.’ I snuggle into his neck. ‘But I’m going to be no use to you tonight.’

‘You don’t have to be any use to me,’ he says, his tone light. ‘Is Ben coming back this evening?’ He’s kneading my shoulders again. ‘I think it’s better if you’re not on your own.’

‘He’ll be back soon,’ I say, crossing my fingers behind Francis’s back.

‘I’ll tidy up the kitchen and stay until he arrives home, then.’

‘You don’t have to—’

‘Ssh!’ He puts a finger to my lips. ‘You have to learn to accept help, Ellen.’ He wishes me goodnight and stands at the bottom of the stairs while I go up. ‘Call me if you need anything!’

‘Will do.’ There isn’t a lock on my bedroom door so I take a chair and jam the back under the door handle, then I climb into bed and text Ben:

Have you decided whether you’re coming home or not? It would be good if you could. I need you to come home tonight.

Sure, Mum. I’ll be back just after eleven.

I breathe a sigh of relief and try to settle back on the pillow to wait for Ben, but within seconds I’m upright again. It’s torture staying in bed because there’s so much I want to do, not least checking the plugs throughout the house. But worse than my anxiety, I feel afraid. Just because he’s a liar, that doesn’t make him violent, the sensible voice inside my head reminds me. But my gut is telling me different. My gut says, there’s a man in this house who can’t be trusted. You shouldn’t be on your own with him.

It’s an hour later when I hear the front door open. I’ve been sitting bolt upright, staring at the door, and now I get quietly out of bed, move the chair aside and open the bedroom door a crack. I hear Ben hanging up his jacket and then Francis saying, ‘Your mum’s really tired so she’s gone to bed already. I’ll give her a call in the morning.’

‘Cool,’ Ben says. ‘See you.’

The front door opens and closes again and I wait for a full twenty seconds before running downstairs. Ben is in the kitchen dropping two slices of bread into the toaster. I squeeze him tight and he laughs. ‘Good to see you too, Mum,’ he says. ‘You okay?’

‘I am now,’ I say. ‘It’s always a relief to have you home.’

Ben is home, Francis is gone, and I feel like I’ve been given a sudden, very welcome reprieve. In this moment, all is right with the world.

Please let this be the end of it, I say to myself. I’ve learnt my lesson.

Really. I have.

Mary McNeil.

Mary McNeil, my client with OCD, is actually Ellen Linford, Tom’s wife.

I walk around the kitchen shaking my head, more surprised than shocked. I never had one iota of suspicion that she was anyone other than who she said she was. But, at the same time, it makes complete sense. All that business about the other woman was directed at me. When I think of the courage it must have taken a woman of her character to do what she’s done it makes me have a grudging respect for her. I think back to our sessions and the way she spoke about her husband – she’s got him spot on. Tom is self-centred. He isn’t a team player; he’s a man who likes his own way. I can only imagine how unsupportive he was throughout their marriage.

‘More fool you,’ David says to me, and for once he is out of sync with my thoughts. ‘Beware the ex-wife. Hell hath no fury and all that.’

‘That explains the clothes and the shoes,’ I say. ‘It’s more typical of a woman’s idea of revenge than a man’s.’

‘She wanted you to see her as a living, breathing human being, rather than someone you haven’t given a second thought to.’ He has the fridge door open and is ferreting around. ‘She wanted to shock you into seeing yourself the way she does. A husband-stealing bitch, a home-wrecker.’

I can’t argue with that. ‘We have a separate fridge for alcohol,’ I tell him, pointing towards the pantry.

He fetches a beer, pops it open on the edge of the work surface and comes to stand in front of me. ‘How could you not have known what she looks like? It’s pretty shoddy, don’t you think?’

‘I’ve never been interested in the women who came before me, not with any of the men I’ve been with.’

‘She doesn’t want Tom back but she does want the house.’

I look around me, at the family kitchen leading into a garden that cries out for children – or did until we took the tree down. I think about Mary McNeil as I know her – a gentle, thoughtful woman who has given everything to her family. ‘It’s a lovely house and I can see why she wants it back. I know she put a lot of time and effort into the garden but maybe she put a lot of effort into the house too?’

‘They bought it when it was run-down. Ellen and her father did most of the work on it.’

I incline my head. ‘Perhaps I should have been more curious.’

‘You’re taking this well.’

He’s disappointed. He likes nothing more than seeing me crushed and needy. I expect he wanted me to have a tantrum, shout and scream and bemoan the ex-wife who still has something to say for herself. The cheek of her! And when my tears stopped flowing, I’d be forced to lean on him, have him save me.

‘You’re not just going to give in to her?’ His confidence is wavering.

‘It’s not up to me. Tom is fighting to keep the house. But if the numbers don’t add up he might suddenly decide to let her have it.’

‘But surely he’ll take your wishes into consideration?’

‘Of course he will,’ I lie. ‘We’re very close and truthfully? I’m attached to Tom, not this home. We’re strong enough as a couple to weather a storm as minor as this.’ I go to the fridge and bring out a bottle of white wine that still has a large glassful left in it. When I have it poured, I take a couple of sips before saying, ‘Does Ellen really suffer from obsessive compulsion or was she faking it?’

‘She does have it but she’s getting better. She has respect for you as a therapist. She hates your guts for taking her husband and her house, though. That’s pretty clear.’ He enjoys saying this. He’s in the know. He’s one step ahead of me, and that makes him happy. It’s a sibling rivalry that he should have grown out of years ago.

‘How did you meet her?’ I ask him.

‘Chance. I volunteer with a victim support group and during one of the sessions she spoke about her husband and how she’d lost her house and I put two and two together.’

‘Chance?’ I’m sceptical. ‘You didn’t target her then, in the same way as you did Len, the caretaker in Leeds?’

‘I had a choice of places I could volunteer and I chose the group she was going to.’ He shrugs like it’s all perfectly normal. ‘I’m your brother. It’s only natural that I should keep an eye on you.’

‘By scheming? By lying?’

‘It helps me when I’m able to see you through other people’s eyes.’

‘Helps you with what?’

‘Helps me to understand you.’ He pauses. ‘You could say I’m protecting you by staying close to your enemies.’

‘I don’t believe Ellen is my enemy!’ I shake my head. ‘And even if she was it’s no justification for your behaviour.’

‘Well if I hadn’t got close to Ellen you wouldn’t know where the jewellery was, would you?’

‘No, I wouldn’t but that’s hardly the point. What about Ellen’s feelings in all of this?’

‘Like you care?’

‘Does she think you’re genuine? Is she falling for you?’

‘Why?’ He laughs. ‘Are you jealous?’

‘You should leave her alone now,’ I say.

‘Why? She’s nice to me. She’s a good cook.’ He drinks back some beer. ‘She’s boring but she’s fine for the short term.’

‘You’ve been sleeping with her?’

‘Obviously.’