The Couple: An unputdownable psychological thriller with a breathtaking twist

by Sarah Mitchell

  Passing her glass to Nigel, Agatha takes delivery of the parcel. She’s wearing an expression of such rapturous anticipation I think she’s bound to be disappointed when she pulls back the paper, because how excited can anyone really get about a couple of wax tapers scented with a fragrance as banal as vanilla? I’m wrong, however. She lifts the candles from the tissue with such genuine delight that it’s actually rather sad. There’s a second when the momentum flags, the objects suddenly awkward in her grip as she wonders what to do next, before Nigel suddenly dips forward and kisses her cheek. ‘Happy birthday, birthday girl,’ he says.

  Agatha’s hand flies to her face and the moment is so perfect, so golden, that instead of feeling sorry for her I am pierced by an unexpected shaft of envy and have to look away.

  An instant later Nigel plunges into the crowd. Our joint gaze watches in bewilderment as he vanishes, but a few seconds later a hand appears triumphantly over the top of the sea of heads, beckoning us to an empty table. As we gather up our bags and coats I take my chance to shout, ‘I may head off in a moment. I really ought to go and meet Angus.’

  Agatha grabs my wrist as if I’m about to sprint for the door, almost dropping the candles in the process. ‘Don’t go, Claire. Not yet. We’re having such a lovely time.’ The pressure of her fingers on my forearm fluctuates lightly and I see she is weaving from side to side. I hesitate, and that moment of indecision is enough to find myself propelled towards the table, squeezed onto a padded bench between Agatha and another girl from the office called Katy. Immediately, Agatha twists to look over her shoulder, searching for Nigel, I imagine, who has disappeared again. I assume he’s gone to the loo, however a few minutes later he emerges from the masses bearing a tray of shot glasses and a bottle of Smirnoff.

  Shit, I think, although nobody else seems very surprised.

  ‘OK, everyone,’ Nigel settles himself opposite Agatha and starts to pour out the vodka, ‘we’re going to play Medusa. Now can everyone remember the rules?’

  He sounds like a stand-in for Ant or Dec, oozing exuberance like a puppy on Red Bull. There is a wave of giggling around the table and a few people roll their eyes. Although I’ve never heard of Medusa, I’ve played enough drinking games to know how exactly they work, and the type of people who always come off the worst. Beside me, Agatha has gone very still indeed. I risk a glance and see nervous bemusement. I would be willing to bet my newly acquired house that not only does she have no idea how to play Medusa, she has never experienced the joy of shots before either.

  ‘Listen up’ – Nigel takes off his tie, stuffing it inside the pocket of his jacket that is already hooked, businesslike, over the back of his chair – ‘I’m going to explain how the game works so that nobody can complain afterwards that they didn’t know the rules…’ He is looking directly at Agatha as he speaks and it dawns on me there is more to Nigel than his arse-numbingly tedious contributions to team meetings suggest. It is possible he fancies Agatha and this performance is an elaborate means to get her pissed, so they can ride off together into the sunset with all their awkward inhibitions in tatters. However, I’m fast coming around to the suspicion that Nigel is actually a little shit, that he has never grown out of the mindset that believes the pinnacle of a good night out, the greatest hilarity known to man, is the total humiliation of the most vulnerable member of the group.

  ‘It’s very simple,’ Nigel is continuing, ‘I say, “one, two, three, Medusa,” and we all have to stare at somebody like this…’ He goggles with a theatrical flourish at Jane. Then, pivoting back to Agatha, ‘Now, if you pick somebody who doesn’t pick you, that’s fine, but if two people choose each other they both have to drink a shot.’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘Got that?’

  Agatha nods, a rabbit snared in laser-sharp headlights.

  Of course, the inevitable happens. A tale that barely needs telling. Nigel yells, ‘Medusa!’ and immediately Agatha’s eyes meet his ready gaze over the tray of glasses. Nigel chucks the alcohol down his throat like a veteran while Agatha gags as she makes a game attempt to swallow in one. Exactly the same thing happens the second time, and the time after that. The hungry ripples of laughter now emanating from our party make me suspect that the others might have been tipped off about the entertainment in advance, that Nigel planned this piece of theatre like a game of cockfighting or dog-baiting, or other blood sports that were banned decades ago on grounds of cruelty, and I am so fucking angry I want to tip the remains of the Red Label over his smug fat head.

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ I hiss in Agatha’s ear, as Nigel refills their glasses for the fourth time, ‘look at me instead!’

  ‘Now now, Claire! No cheating!’ Nigel wags a finger at me as Agatha manages to wrench her eyes away from him to try and make sense of what I’ve said. She is too hammered to see straight, let alone think straight, and I’m thinking I simply have to get her out when all at once her face erupts with visible panic. Clapping a hand over her mouth, she staggers to her feet and pushes past the obstacle course of knees and bags. After a moment I get up to follow, because I have to, because nobody else is going to do so. As I step away, I see Nigel lean back in his chair, laugh and then throw his arm around Jane and they begin to kiss, in a casual, we’ve done this before sort of a way. At first I’m surprised and a second later I’m not surprised at all. And then that snap inside my brain happens and I think that actually there is nothing to stop me doing precisely as I want.

  I stop and turn back to the table. I pick up the bottle of Red Label and I empty the remains of it all over Nigel. I shake it over his thighs and his hair and while that hand is dousing every part I can reach, my other hand is reaching for the shot glasses, the ones that are still conveniently full because nobody other than Nigel and Agatha has touched a drop of vodka, and I throw their contents into Nigel’s lap and, when he pulls away from Jane in astonishment, straight towards his baby-blue irises.

  ‘Fuck, Claire! What the fuck?’ Nigel holds his arm across his face as Jane dabs manically but ineffectually at his sodden trousers with a tissue. The others appear too shocked to speak. ‘Thank Christ I won’t be seeing you again, you’re a fucking maniac!’

  Although I don’t understand this last comment, I don’t bother to reply. I’m breathing hard. I need to go and find Agatha but actually I’m enjoying the moment too much to leave.

  When Nigel’s eyes emerge from behind his sleeve, I’m pleased to see they are red and smarting. ‘It was just a bit of fun. Everyone gets pissed on their birthday.’ His tone is a combination of anger and self-justification. I am familiar with that particular voice, the pitch that says I can’t be blamed for not drawing the line where you would draw it, the tactic of self-delusion, the excuse that the problem is somebody else’s fault. I have heard it all before. There is only one glass of vodka remaining on the table. I pick it up and pour it slowly over Nigel’s crotch. And then I go in search of Agatha.

  I find her in the loos, at least I assume she is the person vomiting behind the closed door of the first cubicle. I consider asking whether she wants me to come in, however I have no desire to get that close to her – in either sense of the word. After a few minutes I knock on the next-door partition and ask if she’s OK, but the only reply is more retching. I think it’s lucky we tied her hair back and then I think I’d better let Angus know what’s going on.

  According to my phone it’s nearly eight o’clock already. Although the thought of leaving Agatha to fend for herself is tempting, the act of desertion would be tantamount to dumping a puppy by the side of the road. Reluctantly I send Angus a text to say I’ve been delayed by an ill friend – truer than it probably sounds – and I should make The Ivy by 8.30 p.m. at the latest. As I press send, the toilet bolt crunches into the casing and Agatha emerges looking truly awful. Her mouth is surrounded by a scarlet haze – smirched lipstick, I presume – her face is the greenish-grey of old taps and there are stains down the front of her once-white shirt.

  ‘Come here,’ I
say, because she is swaying like a rudderless boat. At the sink I splash water on her cheeks and use a paper towel to rub off the red stain. I worry how she will react when she sees Nigel with Jane, however by the time we venture back into the bar an entirely different lot have settled at our table and the happy troop of birthday revellers are nowhere to be seen. As I steer Agatha towards the exit, odd pockets of hush travel with us through the crowd, as well as looks that range from the wary to the downright scandalised. I’m guessing my little performance didn’t go entirely unnoticed.

  I am hoping to discharge my responsibilities at the door of the taxi, but my optimism is misplaced. As I lean into the cab to say goodbye, Agatha makes a grab for my hand. ‘I’m going to be sick again.’

  ‘You won’t,’ I say, hopefully. ‘You’ll be fine.’ However, this is highly optimistic, plainly she is not fine, and I can’t kid myself that she is – I’ve been in this sort of position enough times myself to know the difference between fine and in need of assistance. I check my phone. There is no reply from Angus. I try calling but he doesn’t pick up. When the taxi-driver begins to make impatient-sounding noises, I hesitate one further moment before climbing in and slamming the door behind me.

  Agatha lives in Hanwell. Although she doesn’t offer up further details, the taxi driver must deem the information good enough to be going on with because he sets off pretty smartly towards West London. Hanwell is some distance beyond Ealing, and Ealing is not exactly around the corner from either the Immigration Tribunal or Kelly’s. I realise with dismay that the journey is going to be long and bloody expensive and it’s probably going to be me who has to pay for it – in a myriad of different ways. A few moments later the temperature of the interior plummets as November air floods into the cab like a burst water main. Agatha has opened the window to its maximum and is lolling against the door, her face turned towards the rushing night. I expect the cabby to complain, but his only reaction is to pull a pair of green woollen gloves out of his pocket when he stops at the next lights. I imagine he considers the freezing conditions preferable to his taxi stinking of puke.

  As we make our way onto the Westway, the intended-to-be super-fast transit between Paddington and Kensington that is invariably snarled to a standstill, I ring Angus. He doesn’t pick up my first call and my next attempt goes straight to voicemail. It is very nearly nine o’clock, despite the pleasant distractions of The Ivy he must be wondering where the hell I am and what has happened to make me so late. He must surely be expecting me to phone. If our roles were reversed I would be checking for some type of communication every few minutes. I would be calling him. I would probably even be slightly worried. I compose a carefully worded text, explaining I have had to take the ill friend home, offer profuse and grovelling apologies, and promise to explain the full awfulness of the evening as soon as I see him. Yet when I press send I sense the message falling hard and flat onto the road beneath our spinning wheels.

  * * *

  It takes several lifetimes to reach Hanwell and by the time we get there Agatha is slumped in her seat, eyes half-closed and skin like alabaster. As we approach the town centre I touch her arm, her flesh is cold and unresponsive. She looks like someone who has been frozen in the name of science: an experiment in cryogenics. However, just as I am wondering about the practicalities of extracting an address, the sight of a man stacking crates by the entrance to an Asian supermarket seems to rouse her. She struggles up and tells the cabby to stop next to a bus stop. We are still on the Uxbridge road, I can see shops, an off-licence and a Polish café, but there is no sign of residential flats. Nevertheless, as soon as the taxi pulls over Agatha opens the door and stumbles onto the pavement. I follow, once I have paid the fare, which is ninety fucking quid for the privilege of sitting in an icebox for an hour and a quarter. I decide to ask Nigel to reimburse me on Monday, it will be worth doing just to see his look of incredulity at the notion anyone might expect him to help to clear up his own mess.

  Agatha heads to a door next to the Polish café. Beside it an entry-box system is set into the wall, the type with a keypad and intercom. To my relief she presses the buttons without hesitation, exposing a staircase covered in a blue nylon carpet that ascends directly before us like the side of Ben Nevis. I wonder if she will have to crawl up the steps, however with one hand on the bannister and the other around my shoulders we actually manage a slow, steady progression. The apartment at the top requires a single key and then we are inside the welcome warmth of Agatha’s abode.

  Her flat is not what I anticipated. Even if I would have been hard-pressed to describe my expectations, I certainly wouldn’t have predicted cute or sweet, an environment over which somebody has clearly taken a good deal of trouble. The main room is a kitchen, sitting room and diner combined, the centerpiece of which is a small, comfortably scuffed leather sofa that probably came from a flea market and is now adorned by handmade cushions embroidered with complex floral designs. For a moment I picture Agatha scouring stalls, holding earnest, anxious discussions about price, and later threading needles with silky cottons while heating a ready meal for one. This little imaginary tableau of solitude makes me shiver in a there but for the grace of God kind of way, although I am quite aware that God is unlikely to be the engineer of my good fortune. No doubt if the matter could be resolved by a simple bolt of lightning, or a command from the clouds, the relative prosperity of Agatha and I would be switched pretty pronto.

  Through a short process of elimination – via the discovery of a tiny bathroom – I locate the bedroom and leave Agatha slumped on the bed while I search out the largest glass I can find in the kitchen and fill it with water. By the time I come back she is lying down and appears to have fallen asleep. I leave the water on the bedside table for when she wakes, contemplating whether my guardian-like duties require me to actually undress her and tuck her under the covers. In the end I simply take off her shoes and glasses and roll her onto one side. Just in case she vomits again I prop her into position with a line of pillows.

  I am on my way out of the room when her voice makes me leap out of my skin.

  ‘Claire?’ Agatha’s eyes open. To my horror they resemble miniature paddling pools.

  ‘Don’t think about this evening,’ I instruct from the doorway. ‘It will seem better in the morning.’ It will almost certainly seem one hell of a lot worse in the morning, as she tries to piece together the parts of the evening she can remember with the parts she can’t, however I have more than done my bit and I badly want to go home.

  This seems to do the trick, until she suddenly struggles into a sitting position. ‘What about the candles?’ she says urgently. ‘Have you got them?’

  ‘The candles?’

  ‘My present,’ a tear hovers on the edge of her lid before rolling through the barrier of her eyelash and splashing onto her cheek, ‘I think I left them in the bar.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  I take a train back to Ealing. I’ve already spent far too much money I have no prospect of recouping from Nigel and in any case there are no black cabs cruising the less-than-metropolitan strip of downtown Hanwell. After waiting thirty minutes at a station, as far away as possible from an elderly person who is busy shouting obscenities at the invisible man, it is a little after eleven before I am eventually standing outside the empty darkness of my own house.

  As the door shuts behind me I flick a lamp switch and stand for a moment absorbing the simple but acute pleasure of being in my own sitting room. I check my mobile for any sign that Angus is still alive. There isn’t even a missed call. To make sure I would notice the ringtone, instead of putting the phone back in my bag I prop it on the radiator ledge that runs beneath the Spanish mirror. I am just on the point of removing my hand when a metallic glint on the carpet snares my eye. Bending down, I see that the key to the wooden chest is lying on the floor close to the skirting board, presumably having fallen from its hiding place on the underside of the walnut frame. Absurdly, I glance over my s
houlder before picking it up, as if Angus might silently have materialised in the doorway and be witnessing my every move.

  I soon find my problem is more practical than the imaginary presence of my fiancé. The tongues of tape that held the iron to the wood are furred and bald and now incapable of attaching the key securely. Although it is easy to fetch more Sellotape from the kitchen, the implications of the discovery are less straightforward. Has Mark returned to the house? Or has somebody else unpicked the tape, prized the strips from the wood and smoothed them back into place, having had a good hunt through the contents of the chest?

  As I tear fresh Sellotape with my teeth, my thoughts resemble a pack of braying hounds falling over themselves to detect the right scent. Nevertheless, the job is done, and I am halfway up the staircase before it occurs to me that I ought to have checked that the Glock itself is still inside the chest, wrapped snugly in the blanket. I could go back down, of course, look in the box and run through the tedious business of securing the key all over again. However, it is late, I am tired, and if Angus were to come home and discover me inspecting a firearm in the living room our missed date at The Ivy would be the least of my problems.

  Upstairs I go into the bathroom, and when I come out I turn off both the bathroom and the landing light, engulfing the house in the never-quite-dark of the London night. A moment later I reach for the switch on our bedroom wall. Then immediately, instinctively, I scream. The illuminated space reveals Angus, who is sitting bolt upright in bed and staring at the door.

  ‘Jesus, Claire,’ he says quietly, ‘don’t you recognise your own fiancé?’