The Stranger in My Bed: An utterly gripping psychological thriller

by Karen King

  ‘Rubbish weather, isn’t it?’ It was a safe comment to make – the British always talked about the weather.

  She nodded and smiled back. ‘Do I detect an Irish accent?’

  He grinned. ‘I thought I might have got rid of it by now. It’s been years since I lived in Ireland. I’m from Omagh.’

  ‘There’s still a lilt to your voice.’ She tilted her head to one side, the smile still playing on her lips. ‘It’s nice. My grandmother was Northern Irish. She lived in Ballyclare – I loved to visit her when I was a child.’ She glanced at the closed notebook. ‘Are you a writer?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve a regular feature in the Telegraph. I was just jotting down notes for my next article.’

  ‘Impressive.’ She sounded as if she meant it.

  ‘Not really, it’s the local Telegraph not the London one,’ he confessed although he secretly hoped she was impressed. ‘I’m a part-time lecturer at Birmingham University too.’ He sipped the last of his coffee and leant back slightly in his chair. ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I’m a marketing consultant,’ she told him. ‘I work for a graphic design agency called IPA.’

  He had actually heard of IPA. They had a brilliant reputation, dealing with lots of high-street retailers and popular companies. ‘Now it’s my turn to be impressed.’

  She grinned. ‘I have to admit that I’m dead chuffed. I only landed the job a few months ago – I was freelancing until then. The freedom of working for yourself is nice but I decided that it was even nicer to have a regular pay packet.’

  ‘I know that feeling,’ he admitted. It was one of the reasons he had applied for the position of part-time lecturer on the journalism course at Birmingham University all those years ago. Freelance work paid well but it was difficult to earn a regular income from it. ‘I’m Phil, by the way.’ He waved his hand in greeting; shaking hands seemed too formal. ‘Phil Keegan.’

  ‘Hi, Phil, I’m Freya. Freya Swinton.’ She gave him a little finger wave. She was so at ease, confident, vivacious. He couldn’t let her just walk out of his life. Had she got a husband, he wondered, or a boyfriend? He hoped she hadn’t.

  They chatted away easily, Freya telling him about how she’d gone to the University of Worcester with dreams of being a graphic artist and ended up working as a consultant instead. ‘I enjoy it, though, more than I thought I would.’ He told her how he’d gone to the University of Leeds, with dreams of being a hotshot journalist on one of the London newspapers. ‘The local Telegraph is as far as I’ve got,’ he admitted. ‘I have a regular column with them – and contribute to a few magazines. I’m still working on breaking into one of the broadsheets, though.’

  ‘Hey, having your own column is an achievement to be proud of.’ She took a slow sip of her coffee. ‘But do keep on trying with the broadsheets – you should never give up on your dream.’

  ‘I won’t. I’m stubborn like that,’ he told her.

  ‘Determined, not stubborn,’ she corrected lightly. ‘Determined is a good trait; stubborn isn’t always.’

  ‘And are you… determined too?’

  ‘Oh no, I’m stubborn. That’s how I know it isn’t a good trait.’ Her eyes twinkled and he wondered if she was jesting or not.

  She glanced at her watch. ‘I’m afraid I have to go – my train is due in ten minutes and I don’t want to miss it. The trains don’t run that frequently to Worcester.’ She grabbed her bag and stood up. ‘It’s been nice talking to you, Phil. Thanks for letting me share your table.’

  He stood up too. ‘Maybe we could do it again sometime… if you’re free and want to, that is.’

  She nodded. ‘I am free and yes, I’d love to.’

  So they exchanged numbers, agreed to meet up in Birmingham city centre at the weekend and Freya hurried off.

  They met the following Saturday evening, had a drink then went for dinner, chatting away easily as if they had known each other for years. It was as if they belonged together. When Phil presented Freya with a single white thornless rose, she seemed genuinely touched. He gave her one for every date, and it was only after the fourth date she asked him what the significance of the white rose was.

  ‘It’s always a single white rose with no thorns,’ she told him, sniffing it appreciatively. ‘Most people give red roses. Are white roses your favourite?’

  ‘Red roses are a cop-out; they require no thought. Don’t you know the language of roses? What the colours mean?’ he asked her softly.

  Her beautiful green eyes met his, transfixed as he told her that a single white rose symbolised love at first sight. ‘I fell in love with you as soon as I looked up and saw you standing by my table in the café,’ he confessed. He saw shock and then pleasure register on her face. He lifted his hand and gently traced the outline of her lips with his thumb. ‘I didn’t want to tell you before, in case you thought I was coming on too strong. I didn’t want to frighten you off. But now…’ He hesitated, his voice breaking slightly, then composed himself. ‘I have to tell you because I need to know if you feel the same way. If you don’t, then I’m afraid that I have to walk away before I get too hurt because every time I see you I fall in love with you even more.’

  ‘You love me?’ Her voice was little more than a whisper, her eyes still holding his.

  He nodded. ‘I do.’ He wrapped an arm around her waist, his eyes never leaving her face. ‘What I need to know is do you love me?’

  She hesitated and he held his breath. Had he been too hasty telling her how he felt? To his relief and delight, she nodded emphatically. ‘Yes, I do. I do.’

  They made love that night, and from then on they were inseparable. Within six months they were married.

  They had a wonderful wedding on the beach in Barbados, where they were staying in a five-star hotel. They’d taken long moonlit walks along the seashore, made love every day, been so happy. He had known then that he’d been right to marry Freya. She was the one for him.

  This time it would be okay.

  15

  Freya stirred and opened her eyes. ‘Morning. Have you been awake long?’

  ‘Ten minutes or so,’ he told her. ‘I was thinking about the day we first met. I’m glad I can remember that.’

  ‘Me too.’ She edged up on her arm and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Sleep well?’

  ‘Mostly. I had this weird dream. Well, I’m not sure it was a dream. It felt real, more like a memory.’

  ‘Oh?’ She looked curious. ‘What about?’

  He frowned. ‘I can only remember a bit of it. Shards of glass shooting everywhere, one of them hitting my forehead.’ He touched the cut. ‘I thought I was remembering the accident at first but then I realised that the glass had been thrown against a wall.’ He turned anxious eyes to her. ‘Did we have a row? Did one of us throw a glass against a wall?’

  She hesitated then nodded slowly. ‘Yes. We had a row the night you had the accident. You threw the vase – the crystal one – against the wall. It broke. Some glass hit you and some hit me.’ She held out her forearm so he could see the almost-healed cut.

  Phil was stunned. ‘I threw the vase? Why?’

  Freya swallowed. ‘You’d booked us a surprise holiday to Dubai – we were supposed to be there this week – but I had to work. I’d been working on the presentation for the Kada account. I said I couldn’t go away at such short notice and you… lost your temper.’

  Phil was shocked at her words. Had he really done this? He couldn’t believe it. ‘Oh my God, Freya! That’s really awful. I just can’t believe I would act like that. I’m so sorry.’ He cupped his hands over his face, stunned and ashamed.

  She reached out and touched his shoulders. ‘It doesn’t matter now. It’s not important.’

  He lowered his hands, hardly able to meet her eyes. ‘It’s appalling behaviour. I’m so sorry. No wonder you were a bit… awkward at the hospital. You were upset with me.’

  ‘You stormed out. I thought we were over…’ Her eyes clouded over.


  Oh God, this was awful! She must have been so hurt, and angry too, yet she’d still come and visited him, sat by his side. No wonder she hadn’t wanted to kiss him at first. He took her hand in his, his eyes holding hers. ‘I’m sorry, truly I am. I don’t know how I could do such an awful thing. You should have told me when I asked about the vase.’

  ‘I didn’t want to upset you by mentioning it. It was just a stupid row.’

  ‘I hurt you!’ Horrified, Phil’s eyes rested on her cut. Then back to her face. ‘I haven’t done anything like that before, have I?’

  He knew by the expression on her face that he had. ‘Freya? Please tell me the truth. Don’t try and protect me.’

  ‘A few times,’ she admitted softly.

  Her answer left him reeling. What kind of person was he? ‘I can’t remember this at all. Was it after we got married?’ He was confused, hardly believing her words. ‘How could I have when I love you so much?’

  ‘It’s okay. It doesn’t matter. It’s in the past. Things can be different now. You can be different.’ She wrapped her arms around him and they hugged each other tight.

  ‘I’m so sorry. And so ashamed,’ he whispered, bewildered. How could he have done this to Freya? He loved her; he had thought they were happy. Now it turned out he had hurt her? He didn’t know how to deal with this.

  Freya looked at him sympathetically. ‘It was awful but it’s in the past. We’re making a fresh start,’ she replied. ‘I’ll go and make us a cup of coffee. You rest here awhile.’ She slipped out of bed.

  ‘Let’s drink it in the garden,’ Phil told her. ‘I’ll come down too in a minute.’

  He wanted a few minutes to gather his thoughts and deal with this shocking revelation. How could he have acted in such an appalling way – and have no memory of it? And how could Freya forgive him for it? Was there more to it than she had said, something she was keeping from him? Should he ask her to tell him exactly what had happened?

  Thinking about it gave him a headache. He pulled his jeans on over his boxers and went down to join Freya. To his surprise, she was standing by the open back door and there was no sign of the coffee machine bubbling.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

  She turned to him, troubled. ‘When I came down the back door was open.’

  ‘What? Has someone broken in? Is anything missing?’

  ‘I’ve checked and nothing seems to be. You didn’t get up in the night for a smoke and forget to shut the door, did you?’

  Did he? ‘No. I’m sure I didn’t. I can’t remember,’ he said, confused. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay, don’t stress. It doesn’t matter. There’s no harm done,’ Freya said reassuringly. ‘You do sleepwalk sometimes when you’re stressed.’

  So he had started sleepwalking again since he and Freya had got married? Why? It was something he’d only done when he was stressed, and he couldn’t remember doing it for years, well before he met Freya. But what had he been stressed about?

  16

  Sunday

  It was a bright June day; white clouds scattered across a light blue sky. As they both sat out in the garden, the sun warm on their arms, Phil gazed around at the colourful flowers in pots dotted here and there, the small pond and rockery, the neat lawn. It had just been a lawn when they’d bought the house. They’d certainly worked hard on it over the past two years. His gaze rested on the big pot of red geraniums and he paused, a memory niggling away at the back of his mind. He stared at them, concentrating, but nothing came. Perhaps he was remembering the trip to the garden centre to get them.

  ‘We’ve really transformed this garden. I only remember the lawn and a couple of flower beds,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, we spent lots of weekends out here brightening it up. It’s gorgeous, isn’t it? We usually eat out here in the summer – we work outside a lot too.’

  It sounded as if they were happy together. Yet apparently he had got so angry over a last-minute holiday that he’d hurt Freya and just because she couldn’t take time off work to go. He was ashamed that he had been so selfish and cruel. Okay, yes, it would have cost a lot of money and he wouldn’t have wanted to waste that, but what the hell had he been thinking of, booking a holiday without checking with Freya? And it was no excuse for such disgusting behaviour.

  Thinking about the holiday, he realised he ought to find out the details and alert their insurers. It must have cost a fortune and they couldn’t afford to lose that much money. He had no idea who he had booked it through and didn’t want to mention it to Freya because it would mean bringing up that terrible argument again. There was bound to be some information about it on his desk or computer – he’d go and have a mooch in a bit, see what he could find.

  ‘Why don’t we go for a drive this afternoon?’ Freya’s voice cut through his thoughts. ‘We could go to the Mill Pond, sit outside with a soft drink and watch the boats go by on the canal. Do you fancy it?’

  He remembered the Mill Pond, a picturesque pub by the river. It had been one of their favourite weekend haunts when they were dating, and he was pleased that they still frequented it.

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ he said. ‘I could do with getting out for a bit, after being in hospital all week. We could have lunch there?’

  ‘Yes, let’s. About twelve thirty?’

  ‘Perfect.’ Phil finished off the last of his croissant, chewing it thoughtfully for a moment. ‘I think I’ll pop into my study for a bit and familiarise myself with what I’ve been doing over the past two years.’

  Freya said she wanted to potter about in the garden for a while, so when they’d finished their breakfast, Phil made his way to his study in the converted garage – they obviously left both their cars parked in the drive. He looked around and saw that he’d partitioned off the front half of the garage, with a door leading into it, where he kept garden tools and other bits and bobs; he could also have easy access to it from outside by lifting the garage door. He’d made a neat job of it too, he thought approvingly. He closed the door again and went over to his desk, sitting down and starting up the laptop. The screen sprang to life. Then a blank box appeared, prompting him to put his password in. Damn, he’d forgotten it was password-protected. He hoped he hadn’t changed his password over the last couple of years. He typed it in only for a message to flash up telling him that the password he had entered was incorrect. Bugger. What would he have changed it to? Would he have kept a record of it somewhere? He pulled open the top drawer of his desk and rummaged through for a notebook. Then the next drawer, and the next. By the time he got to the bottom drawer, he had found several notebooks but none with passwords in them. Had he committed the password solely to memory? How stupid of him! Though he wasn’t to know he would lose his memory, was he?

  The computer screen was blank now, gone into hibernation. He booted it up again, staring at the blank space for his password. Then he noticed the words underneath: Forgotten your password? Ah, he’d do that, as long as he could answer the security questions. And this time he’d write it down.

  Finally, he was in. Various folders were scattered over his screen – he always put things in folders; he liked things to be tidy. A quick glance showed they all seemed to be articles he was working on or university-related stuff. He clicked on the folder marked ‘Uni Course’ to see what he was teaching now; surely it was pretty much the same stuff. He glanced through the lesson plans – he was still teaching journalism, and yes, it was things he was familiar with. Thank goodness.

  There was no folder marked ‘Holiday’, so he scrolled through the documents. Ah, here it was, a folder called ‘Hols’. He clicked on it. There were folders labelled ‘Rome’, ‘Venice’ and ‘Egypt’. He opened them up one by one and read the details, trying to imagine the hotels they’d stayed in, him and Freya sunbathing on the beach, sightseeing, walking along the beach at midnight like they had done on their honeymoon. How could he forget two years of his life?

  His head started to throb. God, he wished
he could turn back the clock to the evening of the crash, that he had never gone storming out as Freya told him he had done. He still couldn’t believe that he’d acted like that, that he’d booked a holiday without checking that she wasn’t working first, then gone mental at her and smashed that lovely vase.

  You’ve only got Freya’s word for that. As the words floated into his mind, he paused to fleetingly consider them then pushed them back out again. Freya wouldn’t make up something like that.

  After an hour of fruitless searching, he still hadn’t found any mention of a holiday in Dubai. He’d run a search on ‘Dubai’ just to make sure, but nothing came up, and he had thoroughly checked his emails – thank goodness the password was saved to his computer – in case he hadn’t yet saved the details to the ‘Hols’ folder. Nothing there. Maybe he hadn’t booked it online. Maybe he had seen a late deal in a travel agent’s instead? That would explain why he had booked it without checking with Freya first, because it had been a bargain, and he’d obviously believed she could take the time off work. He wouldn’t have booked it if he hadn’t believed she could get away, would he? He searched through all the desk drawers once more, then the trays on his desk, getting more and more frustrated.