The Couple: An unputdownable psychological thriller with a breathtaking twist

by Sarah Mitchell

  ‘Look what I found!’ I say as Daniel approaches with two fresh drinks; it’s hard to keep the note of triumph out of my voice.

  His movements slow and he puts the glasses down on top of the happy couple, which prevents me from picking it up and pointing out the pages of Venetian hotels as I intended.

  ‘So I see,’ he says. Then he adds carefully, ‘What were you doing in my desk drawer?’

  ‘Just tidying,’ I lie.

  Daniel sits down without saying anything.

  ‘When were you going to tell me?’ I prompt, after a moment.

  He takes a sip of beer. ‘About what?’

  ‘About this!’ I jab at the Eiffel Tower picture impatiently. ‘Our trip.’

  ‘Our trip?’ He holds his pint motionless in mid-air. ‘What trip?’

  A nub of doubt rolls into my stomach. ‘A city break, or’– I hesitate – ‘maybe somewhere further afield?’

  He stares, as if I’ve suddenly started speaking in Mandarin or grown horns, which makes me blurt out far too quickly, ‘Isn’t that why you’ve got so many travel brochures, because you’re planning a holiday for us?’ As I say the words out loud and watch the expression on his face change incrementally through confused to incredulous, I see how wrong, how ridiculously way off beam I am, and immediately I can’t understand why I ever believed such a thing in the first place.

  Although I have ground to a halt, my insides icing up, Daniel still says nothing. After a second or two he puts down his glass. ‘I haven’t been planning anything. Not for us, anyway.’

  ‘What do you mean, not for us?’

  ‘It’s my parents’ silver wedding anniversary next month. My brother and I want to surprise them with a weekend trip somewhere.’ His words sound carefully picked and his gaze drops from mine, which suggests this is not actually the full story.

  ‘OK,’ I say slowly. ‘That explains the City Breaks brochure, but what about the ones to India and Asia? Vietnam isn’t exactly a weekend destination.’

  He throws a glance at the wall. ‘I just picked them up with the others when I went to the travel agent.’

  ‘But why, Daniel? Why would you do that?’ I am pretty sure I already know the answer and my mouthful of wine is already beginning to taste as cheap as it costs.

  He takes a breath. ‘Because I might go abroad for a few weeks, before I start working.’

  ‘You mean on your own. Not with me?’

  ‘Yes, but not for very long. I just want to have some time out before I get stuck with an employment contract and hardly any holidays. This could be the last opportunity I’ll ever get to do something like that.’ He drinks again, a swift businesslike slurp. ‘After all the work and pressure of exams I thought it would be good to get away for a little while, without—’

  ‘… without me.’ I finish bitterly. ‘I can see why you didn’t want to tell me. Here I was under the blissful illusion you were planning to take me away, whereas in actual fact you were plotting to get as far away from me as possible!’

  ‘Plotting? I was considering taking a short break! And yes, this is why I didn’t want to tell you, because I knew you would overreact, make it about us, when all I want to do is have a few weeks with a backpack and only myself to think about before coming back home and signing up to the rest of my life!’

  As we glare at each other, I gradually realise that we have become the central feature of the room. Nobody is looking at us directly, but each punter’s head is now angled slightly in our direction.

  At last I say more quietly, ‘It’s because of her, isn’t it, your nutty ex-girlfriend? She’s driving you to do this. She’s driving you away from me.’

  Although his pint is half-full and I haven’t yet touched my most recent glass of wine, Daniel begins to stand up, as if he’s about to go back to the bar, or anywhere else that might offer an alternative topic of conversation. After a second he slumps down again. ‘It’s got nothing to do with her. I can handle her. I am handling her.’ He pauses; for a moment I think he’s about to add something, but he doesn’t elaborate. Instead he glimpses over his shoulder at our audience and lowers his voice to match mine. ‘Look – I just want a couple of weeks in the sun, roughing it a bit and going where the mood takes me. You probably wouldn’t enjoy that kind of travelling anyway…’ He reaches for my hand, which is lying limply on top of the Eiffel Tower.

  ‘Yeah, I’d probably hate it. I’m way too fragile to be able to cope with foreign towns and exotic beaches.’ Although my tone is sarcastic I let him mould my fingers to fit within his own.

  ‘We can go away together another time. But we can’t live in each other’s pockets, however much we love each other.’

  When I don’t respond he shakes my arm to get me to look at him.

  ‘Do you love me?’ I whisper at last, beyond pathetic, unable to stop myself from extracting meaningless promises with which to build a fantasy future.

  ‘More than you know, babe.’ He leans across the top of the table and kisses me. I inhale his warm breath and run my tongue over his lower lip, chapped from his daily cycle trips and wet with beer, then make myself break the contact. I lift our glasses off the brochure and scoop it back inside my bag, my irises welling with humiliation and self-pity that Daniel pretends not to see. In actual fact, I want to rip the cover from the spine and tear the smug, happy, Paris-loving couple into shreds, however my dignity is hanging by a spider’s thread as it is. I am an idiot, my head is yelling, and I will lose him. I will lose him soon, unless I remind him why I am both hot and cool and the best option he will ever have.

  I take my time stowing the brochure out of sight to give my tears a chance to dry, before reaching for one of my hardly touched glasses of wine. Thinking fast, I make myself smile as I raise the rim to my lips.

  Daniel watches as if asking a question, as if he knows the evening is being recalibrated but is unsure what direction it is taking. At last he says guardedly, ‘Come on, tell me about your day?’

  ‘Never mind my day’ – I gesture at his pint – ‘drink up. You might not have a surprise for me but I’ve got one for you instead.’

  His hands stay motionless on the table. ‘What kind of surprise?’

  ‘A crazy one.’ I widen my eyes and make them shine with possibilities.

  ‘Crazy?’ He blinks. ‘What kind of crazy?’

  ‘Fun-crazy,’ I promise.

  * * *

  Sometime later we are hovering beside a hedge that runs behind the bus stop on Hills Road, close to my student house. Daniel believes, I think, that we are about to take a ride, but it is actually the hedge I am interested in and what is behind it. Not that long ago I noticed a handful of withering bushes amongst the healthy ones: a pocket of susceptibility within the dense armour of green. I soon discovered that standing at a particular angle revealed a sweep of lawn, a children’s climbing frame and further beyond a large rectangular swimming pool. As temperatures soared and exams loomed, I used to gaze at that water, cursing the buses – or lack of them – and knowing my day held only hours of study bent over a desk in a stifling library.

  I wait until the public transport system finally does its stuff, scooping up and out of the way a granny and a spotty teenager, and then begin to push through the weakened patch of foliage. Immediately Daniel grabs the back of my flimsy shirt. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  ‘You’ll see,’ I hiss. ‘Come on.’

  As we step onto the grass, Daniel peers towards the distant trees that are fast disappearing into the night. ‘Isn’t this somebody’s house?’

  I don’t reply.

  He groans. ‘Tell me we haven’t just broken into someone’s home!’

  I pull his arm. ‘It doesn’t matter. Nobody will see. The windows don’t overlook this part of the grounds.’ It’s true, even in daylight it’s hard enough to spot the bricks of the Victorian building that appears to be located somewhere behind a further orchard or vegetable patch and now the summer dusk is rubbing ou
t the shapes and details of the garden, turning us invisible.

  I head towards the pool, a darkened oblong barely distinguishable from the lawn. The covers are heaped at one end, as they have been since the heatwave first began, and on the side furthest from us is a wrought-iron table with an umbrella stuck mast-like through the middle of it. Although Daniel is hanging back I am confident he will follow me. We are both a little drunk, blunt around the edges, and ready to believe a reckless idea is actually a fantastically good one. Sure enough, after a second or two I hear his footsteps behind me. When they stop abruptly, I guess he has just spied the water.

  ‘You’re not…’ he says, sounding amazed and also, I think – I hope –a tiny bit impressed. In answer, I turn around and slowly take off my watch and put it in my pocket. Next, I kick off my flip-flops, yank my shirt over my head and unzip my shorts, all the while keeping my eyes on his face.

  ‘We won’t do any harm,’ I say. ‘And nobody will ever find out.’ I like this version of me, the fearless, feckless, good-time girl, and I know how much Daniel likes it too. I slip out of my pants and bra so that I am standing naked in front of him.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ he says, but a smile is expanding over his face and a second later he drops his jacket on the ground and starts to unbutton his shirt.

  Without waiting for him to finish undressing I hurry towards the dim glow of water where I drop onto the side, my calves and feet dangling over the edge and the stonework cold under my bum. A second later I slip silently into the pool. The water is warm and so incredibly soft it’s like sliding between bed sheets of the purest cotton.

  I swim a careful breaststroke to the far end, the deep end, the ripples rhythmic and feather-light about my arms, and I hold on to the edge while I watch Daniel emerge from the gloom. For a moment he looks as though he’s about to launch himself at the water and I brace myself for the harkening splash that will broadcast our presence to the world, but at the last instant he thinks better of it and crouches down before easing himself into the shallow end. A few more moments and he is beside me. One of his hands reaches for the side of the pool and the other pulls me close, twisting into the tendrils of my hair, and searching out my face and my bare, wet skin. As we kiss, his legs coil around mine so tightly they feel like seaweed, or octopus tentacles, dragging me down under the surface. If I were to let go of the edge I think I might drown.

  Since we don’t have a towel we use Daniel’s shirt to dry ourselves off as best we can, shivering in the mauve night air. Sober now, both of us are keen to leave before our luck runs out. Daniel puts his jacket back on over his bare chest and we jog towards the hedge and the distant beacon of the bus shelter roof, emerging through the foliage damp and disheveled like Narnia returnees stepping back through the wardrobe.

  On the way home to Daniel’s room we stop for shots at a bar, clinking glasses, euphoric with success and laughing at the strange looks being thrown at Daniel in his shirtless suit. Later we buy chips from a kebab shop, eating them straight from the packet and licking the salt off our fingers as we wander the last streets home. We are high on life and love and oblivious to anything but each other until we round the last bend and discover the pavement is pulsing red and blue as if we have just stepped under an old-fashioned disco ball.

  The police car is parked outside the entrance to Daniel’s building, the beacon on the roof swirling lazy circles, the rear lights flashing crimson.

  ‘Jesus!’ I drop the last of my chips, clapping a hand to my mouth and glancing at Daniel who looks like somebody winded, as if he needs to lean against a wall. I know we are thinking the same obvious thing: his fucking crazy ex, what has she done now?

  ‘It may be nothing to do with her,’ I say desperately, although most of the other students have already packed up their rooms and gone home. We are both aware that there is only one potential source of trouble: the only question is how bad it is. And then, as the answer comes to me, I am flooded with relief. Daniel has contacted the police; he has finally told them about the harassment, about the fire; he has finally taken a stand, and now they have come to ask him about the incidents formally, to take statements, probably from both of us.

  I walk swiftly across the road, pulling Daniel with me, as a policeman comes out of the main door. Watching us approach, his impassive gaze flickers briefly over me before settling on the face of my boyfriend. If he notices our unconventional attire and wet hair he doesn’t say anything. ‘Daniel Herron?’ is all he asks.

  Daniel nods briefly.

  ‘I’ll wait for you upstairs,’ I tell Daniel. ‘I’ve brought my key with me.’ I squeeze his fingers and deliver a radiant smile. The timing may not be great but I am so glad he is finally sorting this out. With luck, it will bring the whole of this horrible sorry episode to an end. I add, quietly but not so quietly that the policeman couldn’t hear if he wanted to, ‘This is your chance, Daniel. You mustn’t hold back, you must tell them everything.’

  The policeman steps towards us and there is just time enough to note the stern opaqueness of his gaze, to register the odd, rather stricken expression on Daniel’s face, and time for the slightest tremor of doubt to shudder through the depths of my gut, before he addresses us again.

  ‘Daniel Herron,’ the policeman says, placing his right hand on Daniel’s left forearm as he speaks. ‘You are under arrest on suspicion of rape. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence…’

  I don’t hear the rest of the caution because at that moment the tremor explodes into a full-blown earthquake, demolishing the pavement under my feet. ‘No!’ I shout, as the policeman leads Daniel to the passenger door of the police car. ‘What are you doing? There’s been a mistake!’

  Both Daniel and the policeman pause, glancing in my direction. For an instant, the policeman’s guard slips to reveal a glimmer of sympathy.

  ‘Stop!’ I yell. ‘Wait!’ Then, ‘Daniel?’

  I watch with disbelief as instead of speaking to me, instead of speaking up, Daniel turns his head towards the interior of the car.

  ‘You’re making a mistake,’ I yell. ‘A terrible mistake! She’s lying! She’s making it up because she can’t bear that he loves me and not her.’ I must be crying because my voice is choking while my cheeks are wet with tears and snot. There is the sound of slamming doors, the efficient cough of the engine leaping into action, the dying drone as they drive away, and then the street is empty, the lightshow over, and I am left behind, hating his wicked bitch of an ex more than I have ever hated anyone before in my life.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Now

  The next day, Friday, my Gurkha case is depressingly straightforward. The Gurkha, or ex-Gurkha – as he is now quite elderly – beams at the judge with such gentle sincerity I think he can have no idea how weak his case is. Despite his age, he is seated at the table as if a broom handle has been stuck up the back of his shirt, the palms of his hands resting lightly on each knee. Just looking at him makes me sit a little straighter myself.

  ‘You want your son to come and live with you?’ I ask, although I already know the answer to that question, since it is the only reason we are all here.

  ‘Yes,’ he says through an interpreter, nodding vigorously. ‘My wife and I are old now and we want our family to be together while there is still time.’

  ‘Your son is an adult,’ I say, ‘and he has a job in Nepal. He isn’t dependent on you for money, is he?’

  ‘Not at all,’ his smile intensifies. ‘My son has done very well.’

  ‘And’ – I continue – ‘your son has lived on his own for several years now, without any problems?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  I try to catch the judge’s eye to see how quickly he wants to wrap this up, but he avoids my gaze and pushes his glasses further up his nose. Although he is a youngish man, he appears older; his hair is already thinning and he wears wire-framed spectacles that remind me of the kind worn by owls in children’s stories. He fidd
les with them frequently – and unnecessarily – which is probably a sign that he knows the appeal is hopeless and wishes he could do something about it.

  ‘Is there anything else you would like to tell me about your son?’ he prompts, after a moment.

  A veil of panic passes across the Gurkha’s face before he finds the words he wants to say. ‘We are still his family. Without a wife and children of his own my son’s place is with his parents. You see, although my wife misses her child very much she is too scared and old to take the aeroplane to Nepal.’ He glances briefly behind him at a heavy woman with a stick, who is craning forwards as though being 50 cm closer to her husband might make all the difference to their case.

  ‘Can your son travel?’ the judge asks.

  ‘Yes.’ The Gurkha is nodding again. ‘For some years he worked abroad.’

  ‘Was he living with you at the time?’

  ‘No, he was living on his own in Dubai.’ The Gurkha’s chest expands with pride, although his wife is blinking rapidly, and I suspect she sees the writing manifesting itself on the UK border wall.

  At the end of the hearing the Gurkha’s representative hands in a written submission which, from its jumble of different fonts and irregular line spacing, is plainly just a cut-and-paste job from other similar cases. Going through the motions, he makes the usual noises about his client giving the best years of his life to fight for our country and the historic injustices that have separated Gurkha parents from their children. It is easy, uncomplicated money – since the Gurkha’s son is now an adult, and clearly not dependent on his parents for money or anything else, he simply doesn’t fall within the scope of the immigration rules, and his representative knows it.

  Once the appeal is over we all troop out of court rather dismally, except for the Gurkha who is still wearing the same expression of sunny hopefulness and stops in the doorway to thank the judge in broken English for doing his job – my words, of course, not his.