The Couple: An unputdownable psychological thriller with a breathtaking twist

by Sarah Mitchell

  ‘Like the one for ‘Finger Buffet: Option A’?’ I don’t try to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

  Angus stares at me. ‘I can’t understand why you’re being so difficult.’

  ‘We might’ – I hesitate – ‘want to consider other venues.’ At this moment I have no idea if it’s my fixation with Mark that is making me drag my heels so hard I can feel them burning on the plush blue carpet of the hotel, or whether it is Angus who is in the wrong, forcing a pace that is unreasonably fast. It’s in his nature, of course, to steam ahead without considering alternatives, to identify an objective, a goal, and then pursue it relentlessly. It is probably why we came to be engaged so quickly.

  As if he has read my mind, Angus says very suddenly, very quietly, ‘Is it the venue that’s really the problem, Claire?’

  The question is so unexpected that my thoughts disintegrate. ‘What do you mean?’ I make an effort to keep my hands still and my breathing even.

  ‘Sometimes you seem so distant, so distracted. Lately I’ve found it difficult to talk to you. And now you seem reluctant to book a venue for our wedding reception. I’m beginning to wonder if there’s something wrong, something you’re not telling me.’ A granite-like edge is just detectable within the mellow register of his voice and the gaze of his eyes is sharp, sharper than it was only a moment before.

  ‘Have I? I didn’t realise. I didn’t think… I’ve just been busy at work, that’s all.’ I imagine my culpability blazing through the hopelessly flimsy cover of my words, like the disgrace of a scarlet bra flaring beneath the thin white cotton of a shirt.

  ‘Don’t you want to plan our wedding?’

  ‘Yes, of course I do. I’m just not certain I want it to be in London.’ I pause and flail and somehow manage to locate a firmer foothold. ‘Isn’t it traditional for the bride to get married in her home town?’

  ‘You can’t want the wedding to be in Ipswich?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘And we’ve already talked about this.’

  ‘Have we?’

  ‘You said your mother would understand about the wedding taking place in London, since we would be the ones paying for it. Have you forgotten?’

  ‘I…’ I do vaguely recall a conversation late one night about the cost of the reception, about my stepfather wanting to contribute something to the day – flowers or my dress, I think – although I don’t remember it being linked to the choice of venue. However, I am still too shaken by how close to the truth Angus has sailed to be able to articulate this protest. A last-gasp thought occurs to me. ‘What about one of your hotels? Why don’t we hold the reception in one of those?’

  Angus’s expression alters to one of patient incredulity. ‘They’re small hotels, Claire, remember. None of them have reception rooms big enough to host the kind of wedding we have in mind. Look’ – he touches my arm – ‘I’ll go and speak to Kerry now and make a provisional booking. There’s no need for you to wait, I know you’re anxious to get to the tribunal.’ His tone has softened completely and as he stands up his eyes begin to sweep the room for Kerry. A second later I feel the brush of lips on my hair and when I turn his face is only inches from my own. ‘I’m sorry for what I said earlier, about you acting like there’s something wrong. I can see how hard the department is pushing you these days, how tired you get. I ought to be more understanding.’

  I realise he has misinterpreted my response to his barely veiled accusation; he has put my shocked reaction down to being upset. I gather my belongings with relief. I know his comments should be treated like a warning bell, a well-timed reminder to stay back from the brink, yet I am so longing to check my mobile it’s all I can do to restrain myself from checking it. Nevertheless, I manage to stride out of the lobby without stopping to unzip the inner pouch, even when I am completely out of sight of Angus. I have found that often it is better not to consult the phone at all than suffer the lead-weight disappointment of seeing there are no missed calls.

  I haven’t spoken to Mark since the evening of the Seven Eleven visit – seven whole days ago. I have combed through that encounter with the thoroughness of a psychologist, searching for crumbs of optimism, any words or phrases indicating a desire to meet me again, but there are none. He didn’t even phone when he said he would, ten minutes after I left his car, to make sure I was all right. The brutality of that truth remains the same no matter how many times I check my log of missed calls. While I walk I recite the refrain I have been telling myself a hundred or, perhaps a thousand, times an hour, from the instant I saw Angus’s bag on the sitting room carpet, that I can never be with Mark again.

  I know it’s bad enough that I’ve already cheated on Angus, but errors can be forgiven, can’t they? One or two slips don’t make me a bad person. People falter, people fail; people are human after all. The important thing is not to repeat past mistakes and to appreciate what I have. And yet the endless repetition of that tiresome mantra doesn’t stop me jumping every time my mobile rings or, when it doesn’t, staring at the screen and willing it to stir from its sullen, uncooperative slumber on my desk. Just the thought of speaking to Mark and my skin pricks with anticipation. I tell myself that if he were to call, I must refuse to see him. I am committed to Angus, who deserves better than to be betrayed. As the tribunal comes into view I twist the glitter-ball diamond around my finger to remind myself where my loyalties lie, but the ring is not a perfect fit and the flesh of my knuckle catches and bunches underneath the gold.

  Outside the building a few of the security guards are having a smoke. Although it isn’t cold they are grouped in a collegiate huddle with their shoulders hunched and they nod to me as I use my security pass to go through the gate. Their faces are as familiar to me as, I suppose, mine must be to them; we are just as much part of the system as the edifice of courts and waiting rooms, and the intricate network of laws and procedure. It is only the identity of the customers that change, revolving in and out of the public entrance day after day. If every person bringing an appeal were to stand in a row, how far across London would the line snake? I imagine them queuing behind one another, weaving through the sophisticated bustle of Exmouth Market, fighting for standing room between the shoppers on Oxford Street, and curling around the perimeter of secure, leafy Hyde Park; all waiting patiently and invisibly amidst the self-absorption of the city.

  * * *

  My working day passes uneventfully until the final case on my list. A boy from Afghanistan has claimed asylum. Apparently he is fourteen but this is hard to believe because although his body has the slight build of a young child, the burned-out expression on his face belongs to somebody much older. He says his father was a commander in the mujahideen and only came back to the family home for a few days each month in order to avoid being captured by government forces. One day, soldiers or police with guns came looking for his father. They shot his brother but he escaped over a low wall at the back of his house and some family friends took him and his mother to Tehran. From there agents helped him travel to the UK in the back of a truck.

  He gives his evidence through an interpreter without any sign of emotion, even when I question him about his family. ‘What happened to your mother?’ I probe.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Did she stay in Tehran?’

  The boy shrugs. His eyes are a closed door.

  ‘Why didn’t she come with you?’

  The boy speaks so quietly the interpreter has to ask him to repeat himself before he can tell us the answer to my question.

  ‘There was only enough money to pay the agent for one person,’ the interpreter says at last. ‘His mother wanted him to go. He had a mobile phone which contained a telephone number for his mother but it was stolen during the journey across Europe.’

  ‘So how does he get in touch with his mother now?’

  The boy’s answer is delivered in the same flat tone.

  ‘He doesn’t know how to get in touch with his mother,’ the interpreter tran
slates. ‘He hasn’t spoken to her since he left Tehran.’

  I gaze at the boy and he stares back at me. I don’t know whether to believe his story or not, none of the witnesses who could support his account of events are living in the UK or are even contactable; he is completely on his own. I tell the judge I have finished my cross-examination. He is an elderly man who has recorded the evidence faithfully and been scrupulously polite to everyone in court, but it is hard to imagine him rolling up his sleeves to intervene, descending into the fray so to speak, and sure enough he says he doesn’t have any questions. Whenever this happens I like to think it is because I have done my job so well there is nothing left to ask, but it is more likely to be a question of style. Judges vary in their approach, which is natural, I suppose, but still unnerving when you think about it. I wonder if this judge would have believed the Indian woman with the fake employment documents.

  Just as we are gathering up the case papers, the boy mumbles a few sentences and the interpreter interjects. ‘He wants to add something.’

  The judge hesitates before opening his file and picking up his pen. ‘Very well, what does he want to say?’

  ‘He says that if he goes back to Afghanistan he will be killed. The soldiers who shot his brother will come back and look for him also. It is the punishment for his father being in the mujahideen.’

  The statement is delivered in the same matter-of-fact tone, but a sliver of fear shows in the boy’s face, like cold blue light seeping under a door. I think the judge spots the change too, because when he speaks to the interpreter his voice is noticeably gentler. ‘Tell him I’ll take that evidence into account when I come to make my decision.’

  * * *

  By the time I leave Ellerton House the pavements are beginning to swell with impatient commuters and the traffic has thickened to a heavy crawl. As I bend down to check I have packed all my papers into my wheelie bag somebody brushes past. Glancing up, I realise in a stomach-churning split second that I recognise the symmetrical line of the profile, the willowy posture, and the narrow curving shoulders that are now moving rapidly away. Without it being a conscious decision I snap shut the case and plunge into the crowd. It is only as I am approaching her back that I see she is not who I thought she was, the hair is different – too short and the shade of blond too dark – and I am engulfed with a flood of disappointed relief.

  At the next junction the traffic lights are green and the traffic oozes past, pinning the pedestrians to the curb. I crack and take out my mobile to search for messages from Mark, but there is only one from my mother asking if I have given any thought to bridesmaids because my cousin Gina’s daughter is nearly four and would absolutely love to be a flower girl. I am putting my phone away, trying to visualise myself processing down the aisle with a train of picture-book bridesmaids, when a voice – her voice – says at my elbow,

  ‘Claire?’

  My illusory scene disintegrates.

  ‘Julia,’ I say.

  We look at each other for a long, considered moment. I imagine that she is studying my face as much I am studying hers; the new hairstyle, the thinner cheeks, the very beginning of lines – the faintest fork marks – around her eyes, but still the same effortless, artless beauty I always envied. And I guess, like me, she is probably remembering the last time we saw each other and then I know for certain that she is because I see her lips press together and a shadow fall like a curtain across her face.

  ‘How are you, Claire?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘I’m well.’ I hesitate and then extend my left hand. ‘I’m about to get married.’ Naturally I don’t add that I was just, at that moment, checking for messages from another man.

  She makes a brief pretence of examining the diamond. ‘How beautiful. Congratulations.’ She doesn’t bother to ask me who the lucky man is and after a moment I drop my arm.

  ‘What about you?’ I say. ‘Are you well?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I’m very well.’

  ‘Are you married?’ I ask, ‘Engaged?’ I honestly don’t intend to sound competitive, but I suppose the question might come across that way – given our history.

  ‘No,’ she says shortly. ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Seeing anyone?’ I shouldn’t persist like this, but then she did ruin the best, the most important, relationship of my life, even if she paid for it, as we both did, in the end. Besides, I am curious to know if – how – she has moved on. Both of us appear so normal and yet what we have in common, what we both want so much to forget is – I have to admit – less so.

  She shakes her head and I change tack. ‘So what are you doing now? Where do you work?’

  ‘Oh’ – she blinks – ‘in the city, near Bank.’

  I wait for details, but she doesn’t elaborate. I realise she doesn’t want me to know any more; she doesn’t want to give me an address; she doesn’t, in fact, want to risk running into me again. I can’t blame her for that; I would probably rather not see her again either. She is wearing a tailored suit, a silk shirt and heels – a successful working woman’s attire – yet the images I can’t shake off are the ones from five years earlier: her wretched face, the red stain soaking through the dirty jeans, the shocking, sticky gush of liquid. I remember her desperate, choked plea, ‘I can’t stop the bleeding, Claire! I don’t know what to do.’ And the way she shouted into the deserted stairwell, until finally, eventually, aid arrived. ‘Help! Somebody help us! Please!’

  Bizarrely, I have an almost overwhelming urge to ask her about Daniel. ‘Have you seen him?’ I want to say. ‘How is he doing?’ Even if he doesn’t contact me any more, it is hard to believe he no longer talks to her, that he wouldn’t make some effort to get in touch. I realise now how much he loved her, I was always the dispensable, disposable one: use, spoil and throw away. But my mind is playing tricks, dreadful, outrageous tricks. Here with Julia beside the relentless London traffic, I am being absurd. Daniel won’t speak to her, he won’t speak to anyone. However much we might want to ask him questions, or talk, in a rational, grown-up way, about the apportionment of blame, we can’t, because Daniel has been dead for nearly five years.

  Chapter Nine

  A watched pot… as they say, so it is typical that Mark calls the first occasion I answer my phone without giving any thought as to who might be on the other end. It’s about 8.30 a.m. on a cold November Wednesday and already I’m in the office, trying to figure out why so much time appears to have elapsed between the date a Nigerian woman made an application to stay in the UK after her student visa expired and the decision of the Home Office rejecting the claim. In the meantime she has got married, had a child and become the assistant manager of a care home – only, of course, none of this has been taken account of in the decision because it hadn’t happened when she filled in the necessary paperwork.

  ‘Yes?’ I say, without even looking at the screen, wondering if the date typed at the start of the decision can possibly be a typo.

  ‘You don’t sound very pleased to hear from me, Claire,’ Mark says, and there is a lost second while the page I am holding swims out of focus and my voice shuts down completely.

  When words eventually arrive on my tongue they are not what I expect them to be. ‘You were supposed to call, to check I hadn’t encountered any problems from the man with the white ponytail.’ I don’t like how I sound, the childish blurting out of hurt and disappointment over something he has probably long forgotten, but I can’t help it.

  There is a fractional pause, then, ‘I drove to the corner of your road. I could see the lights were already on before you got home and guessed that Angus had come back.’ He laughs lightly. ‘I didn’t think it would be a good idea to call you.’

  I swallow, wrong-footed and also ridiculously pleased, although I try to stay angry. ‘Well you took your time. I wondered if I was ever going to hear from you again.’

  ‘I’ve been away. Business abroad.’ His tone is gentle, mollifying, and he adds, ‘A call t
o you was top of my list for when I got back. In fact I haven’t yet left the airport, I’m still waiting for my luggage.’

  ‘What a shame you aren’t aware that mobile phones now have this remarkable ability to make international calls.’ Although my voice is laced with sarcasm I am relenting already, an ice cube pooling at speed under the glare of a lamp. Of course he can sense it.

  ‘How about lunch, somewhere nice, to make it up to you?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Why not today?’

  ‘I’m busy. I have a team meeting that begins at two o’clock.’ It is a poor effort to make good my conviction not to see him again. The timing of his call seems judged to perfection, a long enough wait for my guard to have dropped, my resolve to have weakened, but not such a gap that my want of him is any less acute.

  ‘In that case we’ll start early. I’ll book a table at twelve.’

  I don’t reply. The bones of me know that our date is not suddenly so pressing because he is eager to see me; I realise he must have an alternative motive, but it is the kind of knowledge to which you close your eyes and exist, quite happily, in willful ignorance. Often, we choose to see only what we want – until the final denouement leaves us no other alternative.

  ‘Claire?’

  A restaurant is public and therefore harmless, surely?

  ‘Where shall I meet you?’

  ‘It’s called La Mezza. The address is on Old Jamaica Road in Bermondsey.’

  ‘Bermondsey?’ That’s across the river in southeast London. Unless I splash out on a cab the journey could take me an hour. ‘Why are we going all the way over there?’

  ‘I know the restaurant. It’s very good and not as far as you think. I’ll see you there as soon after twelve as you can make it.’ He says goodbye and hangs up before I can protest any more.

  When I look up I realise Agatha has come in while I was mid-conversation. She has a file spread open on her desk but is staring at it with the forced concentration of somebody whose attention is elsewhere. At about eleven o’clock I pick up my handbag, hoping Agatha will assume I am slipping to the loo, but as I stand up she fixes me with her pale blue gaze. ‘Going out, Claire?’