The Stranger in My Bed: An utterly gripping psychological thriller

by Karen King

  ‘It’s no problem. Honestly. Go to bed.’

  Phil’s head was pounding as he walked up the stairs. He’d been so worried that Daisy had asked to see Freya to spill the beans about their affair. He hadn’t expected her to announce that she was pregnant. Had she come to see him the other day to let him know the baby was his, and that’s why she was so angry he couldn’t remember? He wondered if he had been the one to finish the affair and Daisy was furious about it. Perhaps that’s why he’d booked the holiday at the last minute, bought Freya flowers and underwear. He’d been trying to make it up to her. Freya would leave him if she found out he’d had an affair and that Daisy was carrying his baby, he knew she would. He had to find out the truth, but he wasn’t even sure who he could trust. He felt like everyone was playing with his head. Freya, Daisy, whoever was leaving the threatening notes. He opened the bedroom door and stepped inside. The bed looked so inviting – he wanted to lie down and sleep for days, weeks, and when he woke up for all this to have gone away.

  Calm down, you don’t even know for certain that you’ve had an affair with Daisy, he told himself. She denied it afterwards, remember?

  A baby, though. He’d wanted a baby ever since he met Freya. A child, to replace the one he had lost all those years ago. The son he had loved like his own.

  He shut down the memory. He wasn’t going to think about that. He never thought about that; things happened and you had to move on with your life. And he’d moved on, with Freya. Daisy’s baby was nothing to do with him.

  He hoped Freya wouldn’t be long. He felt a strong need to connect with her, reassure himself and Freya of their love for each other. He shouldn’t have come up to bed yet; he should have helped Freya tidy away, then they could have gone to bed together. They hadn’t made love since he’d come out of hospital, worried about his broken ribs; they’d cuddled and kissed, though. Maybe, if he was very careful, he could make love to her tonight.

  He freshened up, cleaned his teeth and undressed, wondering whether to go back down and help Freya. To his relief he heard her footsteps on the stairs. He turned as she gently pushed open the door. ‘I was about to come back down to help you. I’m sorry to leave you with all the tidying up to do.’

  ‘It’s fine. I put the dishes in the dishwasher. I’ll deal with the rest in the morning.’

  He climbed into bed as she disappeared into the en suite, joining him a few minutes later smelling of minty toothpaste and faint traces of perfume. He reached out for her and pulled her into his arms. ‘It’s been a long time,’ he murmured in her ear.

  ‘I thought you were tired.’

  Was she trying to avoid sex, or was she genuinely concerned for his health?

  ‘Not that tired…’ He kissed her on the nose, the lips, then a trail down her neck.

  ‘What about your ribs?’

  ‘I’m sure you can be gentle with me…’

  She was gentle. And distant, almost as if she was only going through the motions. He remembered their lovemaking as being wild and passionate – they hadn’t been able to get enough of each other. Had two years of marriage taken the edge off it? Or was it something she – or he – had done that had extinguished the flame of desire he remembered so clearly?

  The fact that all he knew of their marriage was what Freya chose to tell him ate away at him.

  It was the early hours of the morning when he was woken by another vision. He blinked his eyes open, lay still for a while, trying to unscramble the jumbled images, making sure he had got it right. It was him and a woman with long, dark hair; they were rolling on the grass, laughing, a picnic laid out beside them. He lay on top of her and looked down at her. He couldn’t see her face clearly but he knew who it was. The long, dark hair was a dead giveaway: it was Daisy. And it wasn’t a dream, it was a memory. He was sure it was. It felt so real. They had been having an affair. His memories were returning. What would he remember next?

  He quietly slid out of bed, not wanting to disturb Freya, pulled on his jeans and walked downstairs to have a cigarette to try and calm his nerves. If Daisy had been telling the truth about that, maybe she had been telling the truth about him confiding in her that Freya was abusing him. He walked into the kitchen, took a cigarette out of the packet then stopped in his tracks. Because, once again, the back door was wide open…

  38

  Freya

  Saturday

  Freya heard Phil get out of bed to go downstairs but pretended that she was still sleeping. She’d had a restless night, her mind plagued by unwanted memories, and when she and Phil had made love she’d found it difficult to relax. She had sensed that Phil was troubled too; he’d made love to her in a desperate sort of way, as if trying to erase the past, trying to show her how good they had been together, but it had lacked tenderness and feeling. They used to lie entwined after sex, as if they didn’t want to let go of each other, sometimes talking, sometimes falling asleep in each other’s arms. Last night though, as soon as it was over, they had both turned away, slept back to back.

  It had taken Freya a long time to drift off to sleep – she kept thinking of Phil’s reaction when she’d told him Daisy was pregnant and wondered if he was wishing it was Freya that was pregnant, if he’d remembered how much he had wanted a child but she hadn’t. She wondered if that had been the reason behind his instigation of sex, not remembering that she was on the pill. The thing that had disturbed her most though was the way Phil had stared at the spilt wine, almost as if he had remembered the other time a glass of red wine had spilt on the floor. Only that time it had been thrown down in anger, by Phil. She had tried so hard to repress the memories of their arguments, of Phil’s abuse, to give him another chance, but things kept triggering them back into her mind.

  They’d been married six months. Phil was cooking a special dinner to celebrate. He did a lot of the cooking when he worked from home; weekdays it was usually basic stuff, often ready meals, and Sunday they often went out to lunch, but on Fridays or Saturdays Phil liked to cook something special. He really went to town that Saturday, cooking a Greek-themed menu of feta cheese with olives followed by a rich beef stifado, then homemade kataifi. It was a lovely evening. Phil was on top form, smiling, joking, affectionate.

  ‘What are we celebrating?’ Freya asked as Phil opened the Cabernet Sauvignon and poured out two glasses. They were both chatting in the kitchen as he put the finishing touches to the meal and she got the plates out of the cupboard, ready for him to dish out.

  ‘Six months of being happily married.’ Phil put the bottle down and held his arms out to her. She slid into them, raising her head to meet his lips. She loved it when he was like this, happy, teasing, loving. If only he was always this way. He is most of the time, she reminded herself. It was only the odd occasion.

  ‘You are happy, aren’t you?’ he asked, raising his head slightly, his deep blue eyes gazing at her.

  ‘Of course,’ she assured him, and he held her tight, told her how much he loved her. Then they sat down to eat their meal, talking, laughing as they did so. It was a perfect evening until after the dessert, she rose, saying, ‘Shall I do us a coffee?’

  ‘In a minute, let’s finish the wine first.’ Phil took a long sip, his eyes meeting hers over the rim of his glass, then put the wine down. ‘I’ve been thinking, Freya. We’re in a great position financially now. I’ve got regular features with the Telegraph and a couple of magazines, as well as my university work.’

  ‘And I’ve just been given a pay rise,’ she replied, smiling. She had been so pleased about that; she loved her job at IPA Studio.

  ‘So, I think it’s the ideal time for us to have a family.’ Phil reached over the table to hold her hand. ‘What do you think?’

  Freya felt a little nervous as she thought about her reply. They had both talked about having children sometime in the future but she hadn’t expected Phil to mention it yet. Especially given their marriage felt a bit… volatile… at times. She wasn’t sure it was a good idea
to bring a child into the equation right now but she couldn’t say that to Phil – he’d be hurt. And maybe angry. Perhaps she could fob it off by saying that she wasn’t ready yet.

  ‘We have discussed it. We both said that we wanted children.’ There was a slight edge to Phil’s voice now as he obviously sensed her reluctance.

  ‘Yes, I know, and I do want children, of course I do, at some point. We haven’t been married long, and it would be nice to spend more time together, to do the things we want, to have a few holidays abroad before we have a family, don’t you think?’

  ‘Having a family won’t stop us doing anything. Your mum would love to babysit, so we’d still have plenty of nights out.’ He squeezed her hand tighter. ‘Just imagine a little Freya or Phil. Our very own baby.’ His tone was soft, wheedling now, the usual tone when he wanted his own way. She knew what happened next, when he didn’t get it, and she desperately wanted to prevent that. It had been such a lovely day, a perfect evening; she didn’t want to spoil it.

  ‘It would be lovely, and yes, I want a family too, Phil. Not yet though, Maybe next year…’

  Phil gazed at her adoringly, his tone coaxing. ‘Why wait? We can afford it. I can earn enough to support us both, you wouldn’t even have to go back to work.’

  There it was. She knew that Phil wanted a family, but part of her felt that Phil also wanted a child to prevent her from working at IPA. Since their wedding she had realised that he hated her going to work, hated her going anywhere without him. Ever since they’d got married, it was as if he wanted them to be joined at the hip. He’d repeatedly asked her to stop working but she had refused, saying they needed the money and she loved her job. Sometimes she felt that Phil hated her having a life that he wasn’t involved in. He never had a night out with his friends – actually, he didn’t seem to have friends except Tom, who was more of a work colleague – and was always miffed if Freya went out with her friends. So much so that she often didn’t bother any more, because the sulks and arguments before and after the event simply weren’t worth the hassle. ‘It’s only because I love you and want to be with you,’ Phil would tell her. ‘Don’t you want to be with me too?’ He would look so hurt that she’d always fight back the retort, ‘Not all the bloody time!’

  ‘I like working,’ she pointed out. ‘I’m not ready to have a baby yet, Phil. Can we please talk about it in another year or so?’

  ‘But darling, why wait another year when we can start trying for one now? Neither of us is getting any younger, and they say it’s harder to have children the older you get, and it would be nice to have more than one child. I don’t want to risk us not having our kids, do you?’ He leant over to kiss her, that engaging twinkle in his eye, a teasing smile on his face, the full charm offensive. Well, she wasn’t going to be charmed into taking such a big decision when she wasn’t sure it was a good idea.

  ‘I’m only thirty-three, Phil, not exactly over the hill yet,’ she reminded him, a smile on her lips to take the edge off her words. ‘I do want kids but not right now. Having a child is a life-changing commitment. Please, let’s put it on the back-burner for another year or so.’

  His eyes darkened, a furrow creasing between his eyebrows. ‘What about what I want? Doesn’t that count? You know how much having a child means to me. How devasted I was to find out that Danny wasn’t mine. And now you want to deprive me of the chance of having a child with you.’ There was an edge to his voice now and the air was thick with tension.

  Yes, she did know how hurt he was about his ex-wife cheating and having a child with someone else, and she did want a child with Phil. Not yet, though – she was too wary of his temper. She felt that they needed more time to get used to each other, for their relationship to settle, and his attitude now only served to prove to her that she was right to be cautious. ‘I know, Phil, and we will have a child. But not yet. This has to be a joint decision, taken when we are both ready. I’ll be the one carrying the baby, the one who has to give up work, whose life will change dramatically, and I’m not ready for all that. Let’s wait a little longer, perhaps until we’ve been married a year.’

  It was as if a mask had been pulled off. His face contorted with anger, he rose to his feet, leant over and thumped his fist on the table. ‘It’s all about you, isn’t it?’ He slammed his fist again. ‘You never care what I want. I thought when we got married that we would be a couple, a partnership, sharing our lives completely. But no, you always want your bloody independence, and sod everything else.’

  The injustice of his remarks had stung and she instantly retaliated. ‘And you always want your own way! Well, there are two of us in this marriage and I have a right to my say too.’

  His face turned red, eyes bulging, and her throat tightened. Suddenly, he grabbed his glass and threw it on the floor.

  Freya jumped up as it smashed and trickled red wine all over the floorboards. ‘Now look what you’ve done!’ she shouted.

  Phil stormed around the table until he was standing right in front of her, pointing his finger at her, so close she could see his enlarged pupils and the vein throbbing in his forehead, smell the wine on his breath. She stepped back, her heart pounding, suddenly afraid what he would do. ‘You always do this, you selfish cow! You always push and push. I think you like to make me bloody angry. You get a fucking kick out of it.’ He jabbed his finger into her chest. ‘Well, you’d better watch it because one day you’ll push me too far.’ Then he grabbed his car keys and stormed out of the house, leaving her shaking and stunned.

  What the hell had happened there?

  Her legs gave way and she sank down into her chair, wrapping her arms around herself to try and still the trembles that were coursing through her body. She had been terrified. Phil had looked so furious and for a minute she had really thought he was going to hit her. She took a deep breath, then another, until she felt calmer. She had overreacted. Phil wouldn’t hit her. He got angry, yes, but he wasn’t a violent man. Although that scene had been pretty close. She looked down at the broken glass on the floor and the dark red stain over the floorboards. She really ought to clear that up.

  Why should she? He was the one who threw the wine glass; let him clean it up.

  Determined not to sit up waiting for him, or to clean up after his tantrum, she went up to bed. She was far too upset and angry to sleep, though, and spent the night tossing and turning restlessly, continually glancing at the clock as the hours ticked by. Where had he gone?

  Anger was replaced by anxiety and finally, at half past five, seriously worried that Phil might have been in an accident, she gave up trying to sleep and went downstairs. She walked into the kitchen, where the remains of last night’s romantic dinner, the smashed wine glass, the red stain on the floor all awaited her. Overwhelmed with it all, she sat down in a chair and, head in her hands, sobbed.

  That was how Phil found her half an hour later when he finally returned home. She looked up as the door opened, tears streaming down her face, and there he was, pale, tired and contrite. He rushed over to her, wrapped his arms around her, smothered her with kisses, told her that he was sorry, really sorry, asked her to forgive him. And she was so pleased to see him, so happy that the dreadful argument was over, that she readily forgave him, went back up to bed with him, made love to him then slept in his arms until he woke her up at noon with a cup of coffee and toast. When she’d showered and gone downstairs, she found the table bare, the dishwasher on, the broken glass swept up and only a slight stain on the floorboards. Neither of them mentioned it again.

  Now, seeing Phil’s reaction to the smashed wine glass, she wondered if he had remembered the row and would bring up the subject of them having a child again. She hoped not because, though she really did want a child – and within the next couple of years if possible – she wouldn’t risk bringing a baby into their marriage. Not until she felt completely confident Phil had changed.

  39

  Phil

  What the hell? Phil ran over to the
open door and peered out into the darkness. Was there someone out there? He stepped outside, still barefoot, and looked around the garden. It was too dark to see clearly. He grabbed a torch and went back out, shining its beam everywhere. Nothing. How long had the door been open? Had the intruder heard him coming down the stairs and quickly made their escape? Would they have got over the fence that fast? Or had the door been open for hours? The questions were bombarding his mind, making him feel dizzy. He held on to the table to support himself and took a few deep breaths, slowly so as not to hurt his broken ribs. He hated this, feeling so weak and vulnerable. If he’d run into the intruder, he wasn’t even sure he would have had the strength to fight them. Well, whoever they were, there was no sign of them now. Hell, he needed a smoke. Taking the lighter out of his jeans pocket, he lit up the cigarette he was still holding, inhaling then exhaling deeply. A couple of deep puffs and he felt calmer.

  He’d better go inside, check that nothing was taken. And to see if there was another note. He didn’t want Freya to come down and find it. He went back inside, firmly locked the door behind him and checked the kitchen and lounge. Nothing seemed to be missing, not that he was surprised – the intruder didn’t seem to have burglary in mind. Then he made his way to his study and over to his desk. There it was. The same typed bold black capital letters:

  YOU’LL PAY FOR WHAT YOU DID.

  Phil sat down on the desk chair, reading and rereading the note, wondering what he had done to make someone so desperate to punish him, and how they were getting into the house. His first thought was Daisy, angry maybe that he hadn’t remembered their affair. He dismissed the thought – he and Freya had visited Daisy and Mark a couple of times before they got married and he remembered that they lived about twenty minutes away, too far for her to slip out in the middle of the night without Mark noticing. Freya had said that Mark worked nights sometimes but then surely if he was on the night shift, Daisy wouldn’t leave the twins at home alone. It had to be someone else.