The Couple: An unputdownable psychological thriller with a breathtaking twist

by Sarah Mitchell

  Afterwards we clear the dishes. Once the kitchen is tidy I decide to empty the bin and carry the rubbish out through the back door. I take my time with this manoeuver, wondering if Rob will pick up on the old clues, our secret sign language. Although I’m aware he is watching me, I’m not convinced he will actually respond until I hear his footsteps on the path behind me as I am dumping the black bag into the dustbin.

  ‘Hey!’ His voice is soft in the orange-infused dark.

  When I turn around I see that he is clutching a packet of Bensons. He holds the box out towards me.

  I shake my head. ‘Still smoking? I thought you gave that up years ago.’

  He considers the cigarettes, a mixture of guilt and affection written across his face. ‘Hardly ever these days. And I’ll have to stop completely soon because of the baby…’

  The dustbins live on a cement base at the bottom of the garden, screened by a low brick wall that is topped with a trellis. This is the place Rob and I would sneak out to smoke when we were kids, hidden from sight of the house, sheltered from the wind. The stench from the rubbish wasn’t great, particularly in the summer, but a lot of the stuff we were smoking back then had a strong enough smell to counteract that particular problem.

  We crouch with our backs against the brick. I balance on my heels to avoid the chill of the concrete while Rob sits with his legs outstretched and crosses his ankles. He strikes a match, cupping his fingers around the flame as he lifts it towards his mouth. I tuck my hands as far into the sleeve of the opposite arm of my jumper as they can reach. It seems I’ve become a London softy – I’m cold already – but this is my only opportunity in a long time to have my brother to myself.

  ‘Won’t Elsa wonder where you are?’

  Rob slots the matches back into the pocket of his old parka jacket – at least one of us had the foresight to put on a coat. ‘She was calling a friend. She won’t even notice I’ve gone.’

  ‘What about Mum and Andy?’

  ‘They know where I am.’

  ‘Did you tell them?’

  ‘I didn’t need to tell them. They realised exactly what I was doing when they saw me follow you out the door. It probably made them get all nostalgic for our teenage years.’ Seeing my expression, he snorts. ‘Come on, Claire. They’ve always known we used to hang out here.’

  ‘Really?’

  By way of reply Rob merely blows a perfect smoke ring, his party trick, though it seems rather less impressive now than when he was sixteen. We watch the silvery strands wobble and dissolve, before he says, ‘So, fill me in on your perfect job, your perfect man, your perfect life…’

  He sounds neither sarcastic nor jealous, merely interested. This is typical of my brother. While I was always striving to reach that must-be-emerald grass on the other side of the garden fence, Rob was quite content with the exact shade of green right under his feet.

  I peek sideways; he is staring straight ahead, following the long trail of smoke as it drifts over the panelling that divides our modest estate from the garden of the house beyond. ‘Come on, Claire, spill the beans. Tell me how the other half live. Is it all government deadlines and cocktail bars?’

  I think of Maggie and the countless stacks of immigration files falling apart from age and the effort of holding together so many sad stories; the slow grinding of the judicial machine, the fraught individuals waiting for their turn in the mincer. I think of Kelly’s, of Nigel, his forearm over his eyes, his crotch drenched with vodka, and the long taxi-ride home with a semi-comatose Agatha. I imagine Rob, shaking his head, even laughing, when I confess the unholy mess of last Friday night and let him see the first, tiniest glimmer that his image of my life is so wide of the mark he might as well be mistaking me for a different person entirely.

  As I open my mouth Rob turns to catch my gaze. To my horror he’s smiling expectantly, his face coated with that same mixture of awe and anticipation my parents have adopted like a family dress code. It looks for all the world as if he’s about to join the chorus and announce how proud of me he is.

  I stare at the ground. ‘I suppose so,’ I say. ‘There are a lot of deadlines and the work feels important. I’m in the tribunal about three days a week presenting cases and because there’s not nearly enough time to prepare them properly we’re working under constant pressure. And I guess we go to some OK bars. Last week was somebody’s birthday so we tried a new place that has just opened. Amazing decor with a kind of nightclub vibe.’

  ‘Step up from The Bull then?’

  ‘Yeah, a little bit different…’ The Bull was where we both had our first legal drink, preceded by a good many illegal ones. I try to imagine Angus or Mark in The Bull, perched on a sticky seat with a pint and a packet of pork scratchings, and fail dismally.

  Right on cue, Rob says, ‘Tell me about Angus. I feel as if I hardly know the guy.’

  ‘Well,’ I say, and stop. Absurdly, my mind has gone blank. I blink into the dark, waiting for inspiration but the dustbins are not the most stimulating backdrop. I am saved, temporarily, by the distant sound of a train, the soft swell of noise occupying the space my reply should fit, but when the roar recedes and I still don’t reply Rob raises his eyebrows with theatrical exaggeration and laughs.

  ‘Come on, Claire. It’s not a fucking exam question.’ He lifts up his left wrist, consulting his watch. ‘Fifteen seconds to describe your beloved.’

  My beloved? I stare at him. From nowhere, as if a window has just been opened, my mind fills with a memory of Daniel and me crossing King’s Parade in the lemon sunshine of mid-spring. Daniel, slightly ahead of me, holds out his hand, trailing it behind his back, knowing without question, without needing to look around, that I would take it. I close my eyes. I open them again and consider the black-and-grey planes of concrete and bin. With an effort I focus on Angus. I can picture him, of course, but Rob isn’t after a physical description. He wants to understand what it will be like to hang out with his brother-in-law, go to the footy or the pub together, and I can’t really help him with that. The idea of Angus in the stands at Portman Road is as absurd to me as the notion of him drinking in The Bull.

  After a few moments, Rob lowers his arm. ‘I can’t see the second hand in this light anyway.’

  He takes the cigarette out of his mouth and taps the ash onto the ground with a concise, deliberate movement. For a while neither of us speaks. Then he says slowly, ‘So, what’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I snap, not because I am cross with him but because I suddenly can’t bear the fact he understands so little about me when he used to know everything. And what he didn’t know, he could guess instinctively, like he had a sixth sense, like we owned a shared wavelength, our own private channel of communication. Now he doesn’t have the first clue. We have ten or fifteen minutes before we freeze our balls off, and I have no idea where to even begin.

  Rob offers me the cigarette and I take a long pull on it. I feel the passage of the nicotine crawling into my blood, firing my neurons like low-level voltage. ‘Angus runs a hotel business, boutique hotels,’ I say finally. ‘He works hard and he has to travel a lot. He’s quite a serious person, precise and well spoken, and he wants his surroundings, his home, to be smart and tidy. He likes Indian food, fishing, Scandi box sets and French film stars – the female ones of course, all black bobs and pert boobs.’

  I hold the smoke tight inside my throat before exhaling it in a ghost-grey bubble that collapses immediately – my smoke rings were never as good as Rob’s. I could add one further, more interesting, fact about my beloved: that, by our standards, Angus is rich, and the house we have just acquired in West London would probably buy our family home three times over – aka security for life.

  Naturally, I don’t say this. Rob and Elsa are living with my parents while they save for a deposit to put on a flat. They moved back nearly a year ago and not only has there been no mention of when the situation might change but they all appear to be getting on just famously. I don’t thi
nk Rob would appreciate how I could find the prize of my own foothold in the property market so compelling, so powerful. Or perhaps, the opposite is the case, knowing me like he does, like he used to do, maybe I am concerned he would understand the attraction only too well.

  Rob is nodding seriously, as if the complexities of his prospective bother-in-law have been fully illuminated by my desultory sketch. ‘Have you been to stay in one of Angus’s hotels?’

  I glance at him. Surprised by both the question and the fact the idea had never occurred to me before. ‘Not yet,’ I say. ‘I expect we will soon.’ I make a mental note to suggest to Angus we have a weekend away, perhaps to do some early Christmas shopping. It suddenly strikes me as crazy that Angus should have easy access to a whole series of city breaks and we never take advantage of them.

  I shift on my heels in an attempt to pacify my calves, which are violently protesting at the squatting position I have adopted. I really need to stretch but standing up might guillotine our conversation once and for all. ‘Is work going OK?’ I ask, instead.

  Rob shrugs. ‘It’s fine. Same as usual.’ Rob fits kitchens for a specialist company in Ipswich: one van, two blokes and numerous slabs of carefully crafted oak and pine. My industrious brother was employed within about a month of leaving school and as far as I know his role has barely changed in the last six years.

  ‘How’s Barry?’ I say, referring to the other occupant of Rob’s van.

  ‘Barry had to leave, he developed back problems. There’s a new man now called Steve.’

  ‘How is he doing?’

  ‘He’s all right, quite bit younger than Barry with a complicated love life.’ All at once Rob grins. ‘Spices up the day a bit, hearing what he’s been up to. Monday mornings fly by!’

  It’s my turn to nod, as if it is possible I would find driving around all day while listening to lurid accounts of Steve’s sex exploits even remotely bearable. ‘So, you’re not too bored then?’

  Rob squints up at my face before looking down and grinding out the stub of his cigarette, crushing the tip into the concrete. ‘Of course I’m bored, but being bored is one hell of a lot better than being out of work. Or being hungry or being ill. I’m lucky; it’s a decent job, a decent employer and I’ve got Elsa to think of and a baby on the way.’ He pauses, and then adds more quietly, ‘We can’t all be like you, Claire.’

  I want to tell him that not being like me is a good thing, possibly a very good thing indeed, but Rob is already getting up, slapping the dust from the back of his coat. After a moment he offers his hand and as I grasp it he yanks me to my feet. There is a split second when I am on the point of saying something real. We are so close it feels as if it might be possible to find the words, to create a lever to prise open a crack of proper communication.

  ‘It’s bloody freezing out here.’ As Rob takes a step away from me a barrier drops between us, like the toughened window in a prison visiting room. Thin and invisible but nonetheless making actual contact impossible. Walking back towards the glow of the kitchen window I can’t help but wonder whether it is Rob or myself who is trapped on the wrong side of the glass.

  * * *

  Later, I am sitting under my blue-and-white duvet, the cotton starched and packet-stiff, speaking to Angus before I go to sleep. My single bed is flush against the wall that divides my room with Rob’s – or Rob and Elsa’s, I should say. After a brief synopsis of the day, the journey, being home, I say carefully, ‘I’m thinking about staying here another night.’

  There is a surprised pause. Then Angus says, ‘You told me you would come back tomorrow.’

  ‘I know, but I’ll miss Rob’s birthday celebration. Everyone is going out for a meal.’

  ‘Won’t you see Rob in the morning?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘We don’t spend enough time together as it is, Claire. You’re always so busy—’

  ‘… I’m so busy!’

  Angus ignores the interruption. ‘Don’t forget we have a wedding to plan. If I don’t see you until Sunday that’s another whole weekend wasted.’ Although polite, his voice sounds taut with self-control.

  I capitulate with grace and change the subject. In many ways one day at home is actually quite enough.

  Once the call finishes I become aware of Rob and Elsa talking next door. I had forgotten the modest size of the house, the slimness of the walls that used to enable Rob and me to have a conversation without either of us needing to get up. Now I can hear the rumble of their words, the higher, upward inflection of Elsa’s questions and the deeper, shorter response of Rob’s answers. Although they are talking too quietly to make out what they are saying, every so often I think I catch my name, spoken by Elsa, her voice sharpened by either concern or curiosity.

  Eventually they fall quiet. I imagine them drifting to sleep, Rob’s hand resting lightly on Elsa’s belly, on the baby that is growing, that is becoming, inside it. My little brother: a father.

  After a moment I open the drawer of my bedside table. The contents haven’t changed since I was last home, or probably at any time during the previous fifteen years: a selection of hairbands, a stack of cards from my 18th birthday, an ancient eye-shadow palette in lurid blues – and the address book I used when I was a teenager. Tucked into the pointless, empty ‘z’ section is a photograph, a little faded now, but still with the same old power to make my head and heart pound that it has always possessed.

  I hold up the image and my youthful father grins back at me through liquid-brown eyes. His right arm is raised, as if to shield his lean, tanned face from the sun or run a hand through his crop of dark wavy hair. I have always hated how he looks in this picture, so carefree, so happy, the embodiment of the contented family man, although the shot was taken only days before his great escape. I suppose he must have been thinking about his one-way ticket at the time. At least his expression won’t be quite so blithe now – my father fell off a mountain in Canada some years ago, a careless, fatal slip, apparently, from an over-ambitious walking trail.

  My phone dings from the bedside table.

  OK to book film 20.15 tomorrow?

  It seems Angus is taking no chances. I look around at the walls of the space I grew up in. The light is switched off, but I prefer it this way; I can see the teenage posters, the long-defunct revision schedules, the schoolgirl montage of now-dispersed friends, better in the dark. As soon as the room illuminates I have to inhabit the present again. What do they say about travelling hopefully?

  Fine, I type, Home mid-afternoon.

  I still haven’t heard from Mark. After a second’s deference to the lateness of the hour, I call him. The line hesitates, before connecting and then rings, once, twice, before suddenly cutting off. I am still holding the phone in my hand when a message lands on my screen.

  Don’t call me

  Is the instruction intended to be temporary or permanent? The tone is hardly that of somebody who last time he saw me appeared desperate to get his hands in my knickers and has requested a not-inconsiderable favour. Besides, who, in the history of the world, has ever not immediately called someone who told them not to call?

  Straight away I text, I have what you want. Which is pleasingly enigmatic, even though the meaning should be clear enough to Mark. I wait impatiently, certain his next response will soon be winging its way to land on my imaginary doormat. There is nothing. After five minutes I phone his number and I’m taken straight to voicemail.

  Just below my exchange with Angus glowers the WhatsApp message I received in the train:

  Playing about again? You’ve gone too far this time. Stop right now if you want past mistakes to stay in the past.

  If Mark has a girlfriend who has found out about the affair, this would not only explain the threatening WhatsApp message, but also his behaviour tonight, his entreaty not to call.

  It seems I have an attraction for this sort of man, the kind who expect their girlfriends to share, to be grateful for what they can get, even i
f this particular girlfriend appears to be unwilling to play ball. I wonder how much digging around about me she has done, whether she is merely bluffing, faking it, when she says she is aware of my mistakes.

  Whatever she might think she knows she is bound to be wrong. The past is the greatest optical illusion; one time you look you see the beautiful young woman, and the next, the same facts, the identical snip of the continuum, reveals the wicked witch. It just depends on the mindset in which you approach matters.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I arrive home shortly before three o’clock. As I step through the front door there is the crackle of paper under my feet – mail on the mat, a sure sign that Angus is not here. A scribbled note taped on the glass of the Spanish mirror confirms his absence: Had to go into office. Back about 7 xx

  Angus rarely uses kisses and I suspect their presence is his tacit recognition that I have every right to feel pissed off at his absence, given the fuss he made about me being away and his determination to get me back as soon as possible. My wave of annoyance dissipates pretty quickly, however; having spent the first half of the weekend fending off an excess of parental attention and readjusting to the tedium of having to wait for the bathroom, a period of time to myself feels almost luxurious. I kick off my shoes, change into a pair of slouchy tracksuit bottoms and put on the kettle.

  I am about to retire to the sofa, mug in hand, to resume my acquaintance with Mary, Queen of Scots when I notice the post still scattered by the door. There is a flyer from a new local sushi company, a bank statement addressed to Angus, a couple of charity circulars, and a crisp white envelope with the HSBC logo and, more eye-catchingly, the word URGENT stamped in conspicuously large red letters. Although my stomach automatically jumps in anticipation of the reprimand, some failed deadline, or missed payment, I soon spot that this last letter is in fact addressed to Mark. Since it’s the first piece of his correspondence we have received, presumably the redirection service he set up when he moved out has now expired.