The Couple: An unputdownable psychological thriller with a breathtaking twist

by Sarah Mitchell

  Chapter Eighteen

  Five years earlier

  The tail lights of the police car disappear around the corner and leave the street shadowy and quiet. Wiping the back of my arm over my face, I transfer a mixture of snivel and snot onto my shirtsleeve and trudge up the staircase to Daniel’s room. For a while I sit on the bed – his bed – not bothering to switch on a light and watching the dark denim of the night outside the window. My knees are tucked up to my chin and my wet hair is hanging loosely either side of my knees. I notice I’m cold, but it’s the kind of chill that accompanies a fever, nothing to do with the outside temperature, rather my body reacting to an inner sense of damage and attack; the swim in the pool, the silky caress of the water, the long, lingering kiss with Daniel, they feel like they happened years ago or even to someone else, somebody whose boyfriend has not been arrested on suspicion of rape.

  When a clock begins to chime, I realise my watch is still in the pocket of my shorts and I have no idea how late it is. I count twelve strikes. Midnight: the tipping point, the witching hour, the end and the beginning rolled into one collective instant. I don’t bother to undress. I lie down. I tell myself Daniel will be back first thing in the morning; as soon as the police start to interview him they are bound to see what a colossal mistake they’ve made. Surely they won’t progress a rape complaint without some evidence – physical evidence? If Daniel kicks up enough fuss perhaps we can even turn the tables? Her texts, the little bonfire on our landing and making such a serious, unfounded allegation must be enough to charge the crazy bitch with something. The image of her outside Daniel’s door comes to mind, vomiting into the wool of her cardigan and cradling a bottle of gin. Although Daniel said I should have been more sympathetic, shown some understanding, I hated her from the start, she was pathetic and, worse than pathetic I knew she was trouble, possibly dangerous. And I was one hundred per cent right.

  * * *

  I must sleep because the next time I’m aware of anything at all, the square of sky in the window has lightened to the fragile blue of a bird’s egg. For a split second I forget what’s happened. I register, Daniel’s room, reach my hand towards the comforting bulk of his shoulder and only remember where he is when my fingers graze the cotton of the empty pillow. I try to nap again, but my mind is whirring, as if it has been busy all night scanning recent memories, creating theories and drawing conclusions, even while I slumbered. Unwelcome thoughts are swirling around my brain, jabbing at me through the achy fog of last night’s alcohol like peas beneath the pile of mattresses that belonged to the fairytale princess.

  Number one: it’s blindingly obvious that for the last few weeks, Daniel has been deliberately and conscientiously concealing his phone from me, these days he never so much as glances at the screen in my presence. I assumed he was being discreet, that he didn’t want me to worry about the steady accumulation of bonkers texts and missed calls, or have me hassle him about going to the police, but maybe discretion wasn’t Daniel’s primary motivation after all?

  Number two: every time Daniel has been to an interview during the last few weeks he has ended up leaving London a long while after he planned or the train home has not, apparently, run to schedule. Either way, I have spent a lot of time waiting for him in the Railway Tavern and on each occasion he has not got back until much later than he said he would.

  Number three: if I make myself relive the moment of the arrest, picture Daniel’s face, freeze the frame and scrutinise those liquid-brown eyes, I see an expression of shock, certainly, but not – if I’m really and brutally honest, if I manage not to flinch and turn away – surprise.

  All of which means, could mean, there might be something going on between them – Daniel and his ex. Not that he would rape her, that idea is preposterous, of course, but if he has been seeing her again, if they have had sex, then how would the police be able to tell who is telling the truth?

  I find I am shivering. I swing my legs off the bed and gaze around the room. I feel as if I ought to be hunting for clues, however the only item with anything useful to tell me is likely to be Daniel’s phone, which he will have with him – which the police are probably checking this very moment. I open the drawers of his desk and rummage through some papers. I did this before, of course, when I was searching for his mobile and came across the travel brochures, so I already know the bureau contains nothing of interest. Yet that doesn’t stop me from emptying the compartments, stacking various publications from the Red Cross and United Nations onto the floor, before returning them again in tidy, sharp-edged piles, as if by putting a load of pamphlets in order I can somehow thwart the sense of unravelling that is happening inside my head.

  Afterwards I examine Daniel’s clothes, all his jeans and jackets, turning the lining of the pockets inside out and brushing all the flaky, crummy bits of debris onto the floor. Here I discover nothing more illuminating than a couple of pound coins, scraps of silver gum foil and a scribbled revision timetable for the week beginning 14 April, written on a folded piece of A4.

  Feeling suddenly small and very grubby, I retreat to the bed and sit with my back against the headboard. Do I really believe that Daniel might have gone back to her, that he might have slept with her? How could he even consider such a thing after her dreadful behaviour, having seen her so wretched, so pitiful? How could he possibly want her, in that state, more than me? I try to confront the absurd idea head-on, stare down the fear and make it disappear, but although the notion cowers and backs away it stays in the corner snarling at me, refusing to actually lay down and die. And then the hurt swells and swells in my throat like an over-pumped balloon until at last I burst into a storm of splashy, self-indulgent tears.

  * * *

  Sometime later, maybe half an hour, maybe an hour, I am drying myself in the shower, when I think I hear the click of the door into the bedroom.

  I stand very still holding my breath, however the only audible sound is the mono-tonal drip of the showerhead into the tray.

  ‘Daniel?’

  There is no reply. I manage to wait just another moment before my patience snaps. Tucking the towel around my chest I hurry out of the bathroom.

  Daniel is taking off his jacket. As I watch he spends a moment settling the tailored cloth very carefully over the back of the chair by his desk. There is tightness in his movements, a tension to the angle of his neck. Finally, as if he has run out of other options, he turns around.

  ‘Hey!’ I fling myself at his torso. ‘Oh my God! I’ve been so worried. What a fucking bitch! I can’t believe she did that, to accuse you of…’ I can’t bring myself to use the word rape, as if saying it would make the allegation credible, respectable, so I nuzzle into the shirt he must have put back on in the police station – I wonder if anyone asked him why he wasn’t wearing one, if he had to mention our illicit swim. ‘Thank God they saw through her so quickly.’

  Daniel doesn’t say anything, however his arms eventually, lightly, encircle my back.

  I inhale the smell of him, his aroma is as good as alcohol, the way it seeps into my bloodstream, untangles the knots in my muscles, banishes the ridiculous, irrational thoughts in my brain. I raise my face, tip back my mouth and wait. I am rewarded with the brush of his lips and a brief taste of dense, hung-over breath, before he breaks the contact.

  I gesture with my head towards the bed.

  Daniel’s feet remain rooted to the carpet. ‘I need to clean up. I’ve spent the whole night in a police station. I probably stink.’

  ‘I don’t care.’ I tug his shirt impatiently. ‘I’ve just had a shower. I’m all squeaky clean and’ – moving his hand from the small of my back to the flimsy join of the towel at the front, I drop my voice to a stagey whisper – ‘completely naked.’

  Still he doesn’t shift. ‘I’m also tired, babe, and hungry. The only food I’ve eaten since yesterday lunchtime is those chips. And if I don’t get a coffee soon, I’ll be asleep on my feet.’

  ‘OK.’ A thousand
tiny pins prick my eyes. I hold the lids open, willing the tears not to spill. ‘I understand.’

  I receive another fleeting kiss, before Daniel gently shakes his wrist free of my grip and steps backwards. As he moves away, I glimpse a mark on his shirt. ‘What’s that?’ I say, pointing, glad of the opportunity to change the subject.

  ‘What do you mean?’ His fingers dart to his neck.

  ‘There’s a stain on your collar. A red streak.’

  ‘Really?’ He swings to one side, so the crimson smudge is no longer visible, and begins to undo the buttons. ‘Don’t worry it’s probably nothing. I need to change my top anyway, put on something fresh which doesn’t reek as badly as I do.’ Pulling off the shirt, he screws the material into a ball that he lobs into the corner behind the door. He strides to his wardrobe and takes a faded orange T-shirt from a hanger. Just as he is about to drag the fabric over his head, he stops and looks at me with sudden impatience. ‘Hurry up, babe. Go and get dressed. I’m bloody famished.’

  * * *

  Not many restaurants are open at 6.30 a.m. Even the pre-office latte brigade with their suits and wheelie briefcases are not yet on the scene. We end up going all the way into the centre of town, heading by unspoken agreement to the McDonalds close to the market place, which never seems to close. Dropping down to Trumpington Street, we brush past the walled precincts of Pembroke and Corpus Christi, before coming on to King’s Parade and the gothic colossus of King’s Chapel itself. With the students gone and most of the tourists asleep, the city is the emptiest I have ever seen it. Slanting sunlight illuminates the aged beauty of the buildings: the spires, the turrets and the gold-tipped railings with snatched glimpses of the manicured lawns beyond.

  Daniel and I don’t talk. I take his hand and I’m relieved to feel his fingers curl around my own. Our footsteps slap steadily on the pavement, there is something peaceful about this walk, a healing quality drawn from the earliness of the hour and the antiquity of our surroundings. By the time we arrive on Rose Crescent I have convinced myself our problems with Daniel’s screwed-up ex are over. She has tried her best to destroy us with her evil lies, but here he is with me, in one of the loveliest cities in the world, and we have our whole future together.

  I touch Daniel’s arm. ‘You must be shattered. Go and find us a seat, I’ll fetch coffee and something to eat.’

  Five minutes later I’m clutching a plastic tray laden with two breakfast wraps, a serving of pancakes and syrup and a couple of flat whites. Although nearly all of the tables are vacant, Daniel is sitting at the counter that runs the length of the window, staring through the glass. He jumps when I plonk the bounty in front of his nose.

  ‘Food,’ I say. ‘Time for you to recharge.’ Perching next to him I reach for one of the wraps. Although the smell of the sausage and brown sauce is vaguely nauseating, my stomach automatically growls in eager anticipation of what will probably do it no good at all.

  After a second Daniel lifts up a coffee and cradles the paper cup between his palms. I begin to eat, feeling vaguely self-conscious of the noise I am making, which all at once seems intrusively loud in the near-empty restaurant.

  ‘What happened?’ I say between mouthfuls. ‘Did it take them long to realise the complaint was malicious?’

  Daniel shrugs and sips the layer of milky froth. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What do you mean, you don’t know? The police must have decided there was nothing in it or else they wouldn’t have dealt with it so quickly.’

  ‘I guess.’ He doesn’t look at me, his focus anchored to the rim of his McCafé beaker.

  ‘When did she claim you raped her?’ I try to sound matter-of-fact, as if this is a perfectly normal topic of conversation to be having during breakfast.

  At first Daniel doesn’t reply but as I open my mouth to prompt him, he finally says, ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘What!’ I choke on a combination of hash brown and bacon. ‘That’s so stupid,’ I say, when I finally manage to swallow. ‘You were either in London or with me, you didn’t even see her. The police must be furious she wasted their time like that. No wonder they released you.’ I feel light with a heady, helium euphoria. I think that when we’re done here we’ll go back to Daniel’s flat and spend the rest of the day in bed. I wave my half-finished wrap towards the tray. ‘Come on. You haven’t eaten anything yet.’

  Daniel pokes a plastic fork into the pancakes that are starting to congeal into fatty, yellowish mounds. He breaks off a portion but instead of picking it up wipes the piece round and round the plate.

  A frozen sliver of night punctures my chest. ‘The police, they have let you go?’

  Daniel inhales and exhales, the surface of his coffee rippling with his breath like an inland sea dragged by the gravity of the moon. ‘I’ve been released pending further investigations.’

  ‘What! That’s fucking ridiculous!’ The only other diner, a woman in a long green dress, turns around and frowns at me. I lower my voice. ‘Why is there anything to investigate? They don’t have any evidence you’ve even slept with her since Easter. They can’t keep you under suspicion just because some sicko ex-girlfriend screams rape!’

  Daniel doesn’t say anything.

  After a second or two I realise I have stopped eating. My wrap is dangling in mid-air, I see, as if from a distance, that sauce is oozing from the folds of bread and dribbling onto my jeans.

  ‘Daniel?’ I touch his arm. ‘Daniel, please tell me that they don’t have any evidence.’

  He puts down his cup and lifts his gaze. His eyes are empty, expressionless holes. ‘Babe…’

  The word, the inflection, is enough.

  ‘No!’ My life is a tea tray that tips at that moment, all of the crockery sliding off the edge and smashing into a spoiled, un-mendable heap. ‘No!’ I stand up, making the legs of the stool scrape loudly along the floor.

  ‘Wait!’ Daniel throws out an arm to restrain me. ‘Babe, it was just the once, I promise. It didn’t mean anything. It was just to keep her quiet—’

  ‘Keep her quiet?’ I am practically spitting.

  ‘I was desperate to stop the calls, the texts. Only she thought it meant I wanted to get back with her, and when I told her that it didn’t, that I didn’t, that I still love you’ – he gives me a little shake – ‘that’s when she must have gone to the police and claimed I raped her.’

  ‘You fucking idiot!’ I stare at him. My blood is coursing with emotion like a pack of dogs or a forest fire, wild and out of control. The pain is acute and physical, as if he has just ripped off one of my limbs. Him, her, me – in this moment I could happily annihilate us all. ‘How could you possibly imagine that sleeping with her would make things better?!’

  I wrench myself free of him and push through the chairs towards the door. Through a screen of tears I am vaguely aware of the woman in the green dress watching, her expression both horrified and rapt. Near the door, I stop. I realise I am still holding the remains of the crappy breakfast wrap. ‘Your shirt,’ I say loudly, ‘that mark on your collar, was lipstick, wasn’t it? Her lipstick.’

  ‘Babe, I love you…’ Daniel stretches out a pathetic, hopeless arm.

  Yellow and blue makes green. What does love and hate make? What is the correct label for that particular concoction of emotions? I may not be able to name the word, but I know exactly how it feels. I hurl the sandwich at his face, those strong, even features I expected to adore forever, however I am too far away, my aim isn’t strong enough, and my would-be missile splatters harmlessly by the feet of our green-skirted audience.

  It strikes me that if I actually want to hurt Daniel, I’ll need to do a whole lot better than that.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Now

  On Monday morning I go straight to the tribunal. I am expecting to be there for most of the day, but the barrister for the asylum seeker in my Syria case asks for the hearing to be adjourned because his client overdosed on paracetamol while he was on the Circle line at the
weekend. Apparently the only reason he didn’t manage to kill himself was because a doctor got on at Baker Street and noticed there was no reaction when she stood on the man’s foot. The young male judge deals with the rest of the list so perfunctorily I suspect his thoughts remain stuck, circumnavigating the London underground system.

  Although I stop en route to pick up a coffee and sandwich at Starbucks I am back at the department a little after two o’clock. Coming out of the lift I run into Jane and a guy I vaguely recognise from the asylum-support team, both of them saddled with armfuls of papers. On seeing me, Jane’s face blackens into a scowl and she murmurs something to her companion that makes him glance in my direction with interest. Before I can decide whether or not to cut them dead, the doors close and they are whisked to the safety of another floor.

  At my desk there is no sign of Agatha. Her computer is lifeless, there is no bag slung over the back of the chair or even a clutter of dirty coffee mugs, the normal footprint of an industrious morning.

  ‘Anyone seen Agatha today?’ My enquiry, addressed to the half-dozen or so workstations nearest to ours, is met only with shrugs and barely detectable shakes of the head. It is obvious that nobody wants to engage with Agatha’s absence, or with me. I imagine Jane has had a productive morning filling in the details of Friday evening for those who weren’t there to experience the entertainment on offer at Kelly’s for themselves.

  Once I’ve unloaded my files I send an email to Agatha’s work address, which is the only contact for her I have. Just back from the tribunal and it looks like you’ve not made it in today. Are you OK? As an afterthought, I add my mobile number underneath. Although I’m not really expecting her to respond, my phone rings even before I’ve even checked the tribunal case list for the following day.