The Stranger in My Bed: An utterly gripping psychological thriller

by Karen King

  He put the note in the dictionary with the other two and leant back in his chair, his head throbbing. Every day he was overwhelmed by questions and fragments of memories he didn’t understand.

  He thought back to last night when Freya had told him about Daisy being pregnant, which had shocked him so much he’d dropped the wine glass. He’d felt a spark of memory: that they’d had an argument and wine had been spilt before, but he didn’t want to ask Freya about it, didn’t know if he could believe her reply. He wished he could remember for himself.

  He walked back into the dining area of the kitchen and sat down at the table, staring at the slight stain on the wooden floor. There was no doubt that wine had been spilt here before and he felt sure that it hadn’t been an accident. He put his head in his hands, trying to peel back the fog, to get a hint of the memory.

  His head started to buzz and a fleeting image came into his mind. He couldn’t see it clearly – it was like he was wearing too-strong glasses that made everything blurry – but he could make out that he and Freya were both standing up and shouting at each other, either side of the kitchen table. Then there was a smash and a wine glass was on the floor, red wine flowing over the floorboards like a stream of blood.

  It was a memory, he was sure it was. It felt so real. Who had thrown the glass, him or Freya? And what had they argued over?

  Then there was the crazy dream that had woken him up. About him and Daisy. He was sure this was a memory, it had felt so real. But he guessed it could just be a dream, brought on by his fears over what Daisy had said. He massaged the back of his neck, trying to ease the tension away.

  He glanced at his watch: 4.35. He was tired but he didn’t think he could sleep now – there was too much going on in his mind. He wanted to go for a walk and clear his head but as he’d come down clad in only his jeans, that would mean going back up to their room for a T-shirt and probably waking Freya. No, he’d stay here and try to make sense of things. Maybe it would help if he wrote things down. So much was happening it was hard to keep track of everything. He went back into his office and sat down in his chair, reaching for the spiral notebook and black biro lying on the desk, then flicked through to find a clean page. He wrote across the top of it:

  Things I remember – everything up to the past two years:

  My childhood.

  Marrying Marianne.

  He wished he could forget his first marriage – it had been the biggest mistake of his life. As for his childhood, spent constantly in Graham’s shadow, never living up to his parents’ expectations… that was definitely best forgotten. He moved on to better, more recent memories.

  Meeting Freya.

  Going out together.

  Getting married.

  Our honeymoon.

  He chewed the end of his pen. There were other things he remembered, surely? What about his job? He added:

  Teaching at the university.

  Writing articles.

  Although he couldn’t remember finally having that article published by the Climate Changer.

  It was a start anyway. He could add to it if he remembered anything else. He turned the paper over and wrote:

  Things I don’t know:

  What our marriage was like.

  Why we don’t have children.

  Who caused the big argument the night I left.

  Who tampered with the brakes of my car.

  Who is sneaking into the house during the night.

  Who flooded the kitchen.

  Who is leaving me threatening notes.

  He tapped on the desk with the pen as he tried to think of more things. Then he remembered the holiday Freya said he had booked.

  If I did book a holiday to Dubai, and if so, what I did with the booking details.

  He paused, scared to put the next things in writing, but he had to – it was so big he had to try and sort them.

  If I was having an affair with Daisy.

  If Daisy’s baby is mine.

  If Freya is abusive to me.

  Whether I can trust Freya.

  Whether Freya tampered with the brakes, is pretending someone is breaking in and is writing the notes.

  Whether Freya is trying to mess with my head.

  If I am in danger.

  He read through all the items again; it made him realise how much he had forgotten, how vulnerable he was. Two years didn’t seem much of his life to lose, but those two years held so many secrets and he had no idea how he was going to unravel them all when he didn’t know who he could trust.

  Weary now, he ripped the page out of the notebook and slipped it between the front page and cover of the dictionary, with the notes. It should be safe there.

  He yawned, his eyes heavy. He didn’t want to go upstairs and wake Freya, face the inevitable questions, so he went into the lounge, wrapped himself in the throw that was draped over the sofa and drifted into an exhausted sleep.

  *

  That was close! I’d only just got out of the door when I saw him walk into the kitchen. I had to leg it into the garden quick and squat down by the bins when he came out to have a look around. He looked pretty shook up – good. Let him know how it feels to be frightened.

  I left him another note on his desk. I want him to know that I’ve been here, that I can get in anytime I want. I’m so glad I made a copy of the spare key – it’s easier than climbing in through the kitchen window. I’ve returned their key… I bet they didn’t even realise it was missing.

  I wonder if he tells her about the notes I leave. I don’t think he does. I don’t think he will go to the police either but it doesn’t matter if he does. No one will guess it’s me. I bet no one even knows about me. I’m his Big Secret.

  I need to up the game a bit, though. Something a bit scarier than notes.

  40

  Freya

  Phil was fast asleep on the sofa, wrapped in the throw, when Freya got up. She guessed that he hadn’t wanted to come back to bed in case he disturbed her. She stood watching him for a while, trying to imagine how he must be feeling. It must be so frustrating – and confusing – to lose two years of your life. She thought of the things she would have forgotten if she’d lost the last two years: the holidays she’d had with Phil, the different projects she’d worked on, the new furniture they’d bought for the house, doing the garden.

  The arguments with Phil. The fights. The bruises. The scars inside that would never heal.

  She wished she could forget those. Phil was lucky that he didn’t remember. She would love to wipe the slate clean, to come to their marriage with no memory of what had happened before like Phil could do; it would make things so much easier. The memories were there, though, somewhere in Phil’s mind. That was why he had reacted the way he had to the news that Daisy was pregnant. It had taken him back to the argument they had had over having a child, only he couldn’t remember the argument right now, he could only remember the feeling. She wondered if he would ever remember it. The doctor said it was likely Phil’s memory would come back but no one knew when – it could be days, weeks, months, years.

  She went into the kitchen – thankfully Phil had closed the door after him this time – poured herself a glass of orange juice and took it outside to sit in the garden. It was a lovely sunny day, the sort of day to go out for a drive, or a stroll along the river. Perhaps she should suggest they go to the Mill Pond again; they’d enjoyed it last weekend.

  The garden looked so pretty now, with the pots full of bright flowers – pansies, lobelias, petunias, nasturtiums, sweet peas. She sat down at the table, sipping her orange juice as she listened to the birds singing in the trees, gazing up at the almost cloudless cobalt-blue sky, enjoying the peace and tranquillity of it all.

  ‘How long have you been up?’

  She turned at the sound of Phil’s voice. He was barefoot, jeans slung low on his waist, belt half-buckled; he’d obviously pulled them on quickly in the early hours of the morning, not wanting to disturb her. She let he
r gaze linger over his body for a few seconds: at forty-one he was still fit and worked out regularly. Still handsome too, with those ink-blue piercing eyes you could drown in, his hair all tousled. In spite of herself, she loved him. But she was scared of him too.

  ‘About half an hour. I didn’t want to disturb you,’ she replied. ‘You looked so peaceful on the sofa.’

  He pulled out a chair and sat down beside her. ‘I had a bit of a restless night so I came down for a drink.’

  He looked so tired that she reached out and touched his hand. ‘How are you feeling now? I was thinking that maybe we could go for a walk, or a drive somewhere. Are you up for it?’

  ‘I’d like that,’ he said, nodding. ‘Can we pop into a DIY shop, do you think? Get a bolt for the back door? I don’t want to risk coming down in the night and forgetting to lock it again. We could get burgled.’

  ‘Yes, that’s a good idea.’ It worried her that Phil was still sleepwalking and leaving the back door open even though they now put the key on a hook. Would a bolt across the top deter him from going outside or would he open that too? Still, it had to be worth a try. She smiled at him. ‘How about we grab a bit of breakfast then set off? We could have lunch out at the Mill Pond again.’

  ‘That sounds good. I’ll go and have a shower, I won’t be long.’

  It was a pleasant day. They ambled around the large DIY store, buying a sturdy bolt for the back door, and some more flowering plants, which they placed in the boot of Freya’s Fiesta, making sure they parked in a cool spot while they stopped for a ploughman’s lunch at the Mill Pond before a slow stroll by the river.

  When they returned home, the first thing Phil did was put the bolt in place at the top of the door.

  ‘There, that should do it,’ he said, standing back triumphantly when he’d put in the last screw. ‘That’ll stop my nocturnal wanderings.’ He seemed so certain. ‘Now, let’s figure out where we’re going to put the new tubs.’

  They spent a couple of hours planting the new flowers in the garden then had a quiet evening watching the TV. Before he went to bed, Phil locked the back door and slid the bolt firmly across the top. As she watched him, Freya had the feeling that he was trying to keep someone out rather than himself in.

  41

  Phil

  Monday

  The house was quiet without Freya. A long, lonely day loomed ahead and Phil didn’t quite know what to do with himself. He’d found a couple of news apps on his phone and had occupied himself finding out what had been going on in the world for a while, getting up to speed with world politics, but staring at the small screen soon made his head ache. The amnesia was making him feel fragile and anxious, wondering what else would come out of the woodwork, what else he had done. It was as if he was an imposter, living someone else’s life. He knew that he should be grateful it was only the last two years he had forgotten – he could have forgotten everything, not have recognised Freya or remembered Tom or his work at the university. But how could he be grateful when actually he was so bloody angry that someone had tried to kill him, someone had caused this to happen to him, and he had no idea who it was? All he could think about was unlocking his memory so he could recall the last two years, remember his life with Freya, whether he’d had an affair with Daisy, and work out why someone might want him dead.

  He hated this not being in control. There were so many questions in his mind and he had no idea who to ask for the answers. He felt at the mercy of everyone around him, that the previous two years were an empty book in which anyone could rewrite his history. He so desperately wanted to remember; the truth couldn’t be worse than not knowing.

  The doctor at the hospital had told him that retrograde amnesia after brain trauma like his was quite common and often the sufferer recovered their memory fully. Phil wondered if the memories just came back to them in one block, or if something jolted their return bit by bit. Was there something he could do to trigger them back, perhaps? There must be a lot of information about it on the internet. He’d go and do a search on his computer – he’d had enough of reading the small screen on his phone – and see what he could find out. He made himself a black coffee, locked the back door, pulling the bolt across to secure it, and took the coffee into the study with him.

  He was amazed at the information he came across and read through a few case studies of people who had suffered retrograde amnesia after a traumatic event, like him. Some of them had regained some memory of their missing years by meeting someone from their past, visiting a place they used to be familiar with, or after hearing a verbal clue such as the name of someone they had known. He’d thought coming home might help him, and yes, a couple of memories had come back. Was the answer to visit familiar places – the university perhaps – and meet up with people he knew? Like Tom. He had known Tom for years and worked closely with him at the university. Perhaps seeing Tom might jog his memory. He pulled out his phone, scrolled for Tom’s name and sent him a text asking if he was free to catch up and bring Phil up to speed on what was happening at the university.

  Then he returned to his internet search, which was far more informative than he’d expected. There were several therapies he could try, and even a guide on what to eat to help memory recall – apparently alcohol and sugar were both big no-nos.

  He read on, fascinated by the different cases studies, many of the subjects forgetting the last couple of years prior to an accident or traumatic event, as he had. And many eventually regaining those memories. It made him feel more hopeful about the future. Some people never recovered their memories, though, but he didn’t think he would be one of them. He had already had flashbacks to some memories. He was sure it would all come back in time, and the sooner the better.

  A text pinged in. It was Tom.

  Good to hear from you, mate. Yes, a catch-up would be good. How does tomorrow about 11.30 suit? I’ve got a couple of tutorials in the morning and one in the afternoon so can see you in between.

  That was perfect. Phil hadn’t fancied another day home alone, and goodness knew how long Freya’s meeting would last. He messaged back:

  Yeah, that works. See you at the Miller’s Arms?

  Tom replied with a thumbs up.

  Feeling a lot more upbeat now, Phil went into the kitchen to make himself a sandwich. He was spreading the bread when he heard the landline ringing. It was the first time he’d heard it ring since he’d been home. He ignored it and carried on making his cheese and pickle sandwich – Freya had said most of the landline calls were spam anyway. The phone stopped ringing then started again. Maybe it was important – it could be the hospital, rearranging his check-up appointment. He placed the sandwich on a plate and went into the lounge to answer the phone.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Phil! Thank goodness! I was worried you’d collapsed or something.’

  The woman on the other end of the phone talked loud and fast. Phil moved the phone away from his ear as he tried to recall who it was. The voice sounded familiar but he couldn’t remember who.

  ‘It’s Yvonne, Freya’s mum. Freya said you’re suffering from amnesia,’ the woman told him. ‘I’m sure you remember me, though. We are very close.’

  Are we? ‘Er, I’m afraid I don’t, really. Sorry. Freya is at work. Could you call back later this evening?’

  ‘I don’t want to speak to Freya, I want to talk to you.’

  Anxiety stroked his stomach. Had she phoned to tell him off about his treatment of Freya?

  ‘I wanted to see how you were. Freya wouldn’t let me visit you in hospital; she said you weren’t strong enough.’

  Phil remembered Daisy saying their mum was desperate to come and see him. Were they really that close? Freya didn’t speak about her mum much. ‘Er… yes. I’m fine, thank you. My ribs are still a bit sore, and as you know I’m struggling with my memories of the last two years, but otherwise I’m okay.’

  ‘I can’t believe that Freya has gone to work and left you to cope alone. I told her
that she shouldn’t. She should be looking after you. You’ve had a terrible accident.’

  That was exactly what he thought too – it was nice for someone else to show him some sympathy. Maybe he and Freya’s mum did get on pretty well after all.

  ‘I’ve told Freya she’d better take care of you. She’s lucky you weren’t killed. Freya is too obsessed with her work, I’ve told her that. Too obstinate and headstrong. She always has been.’

  Her words resonated in Phil’s mind. What was Yvonne saying? Did she suspect that Freya didn’t treat him right? That Freya might have been responsible for the crash?

  ‘Well, I’d better go now. I just wanted to check on you. Take care, Phil.’

  ‘I will. Thank you.’

  Phil sat down, his sandwich forgotten as he thought over the conversation with Freya’s mother. First Freya’s sister had come to check on him and now her mother had phoned. They had both seemed very concerned about him, even though Daisy had backtracked later and said she believed Freya that Phil was the abuser. Yvonne said she and Phil were close but Freya had stopped her from coming over to see him. Why? Was she afraid of what her mum might say?

  The niggling thought that Freya was lying, making out that Phil had abused her when really it was Freya abusing him, was growing bigger in his mind.

  42

  Freya