The Bride: A twisty and completely gripping psychological thriller

by Wendy Clarke

  Joanna’s parents are looking at me now, waiting for me to reply. I feel out of my depth and wonder what it is I’ve missed. What is he asking me?

  ‘Yesterday?’

  ‘Yes, before she left.’ He angles towards me, his intense blue eyes levelled at my face, and I find I can’t look away. ‘She was a bit out of sorts.’

  ‘Yes.’ I hadn’t meant to say it, but there’s something hypnotic in the way he’s looking at me. ‘She was.’

  Gary links his fingers together. ‘Odd. Very odd. She’s usually so upbeat about everything.’

  Mark’s eyes slide from my face to the window, where a perfect cloud is caught between the metal-framed panes of glass. ‘I’ve found, in my humble opinion, that people can be multi-faceted. Joanna included.’

  ‘Don’t be such a pompous arse.’ Gary downs his scotch and places it back on the coaster, folding his arms across his stomach.

  A shadow passes over Mark’s face, and I’m aware of a tension between the two men that, until now, they’ve managed to hide. But, just as quickly, his mouth forms into a smile. Why has Mark asked me to lie for him?

  ‘You’re right, Gary. It’s that bloody public school I went to. Can’t erase the damage.’

  Gary laughs and the atmosphere in the room lightens again.

  Thankful the conversation has moved away from me, I think about the drive home to my sad little house. My half-written application forms. My empty life. The thought of going back there is horrid, but something doesn’t feel right here in Joanna’s home.

  Denise isn’t going to let me get away that easily. She’s looking at me as though trying to work me out.

  ‘What made you come to visit the weekend Joanna was going away?’

  It’s too late to change my story now. Tell Joanna’s mother I didn’t know she was going away. That I haven’t even seen her.

  ‘Alice is helping to organise Joanna’s hen night.’ Mark breaks off from the conversation he’s been having with Gary. ‘She thought it would be easier to do so from here as she could get a feel for the area. Look into places they could go… what they could do.’

  I pick at my nail. ‘Yes, I didn’t want to do it while Joanna was here as it would spoil the surprise, so she suggested coming this weekend… when she was away.’ I tail off, aware of how unlikely this sounds. Surely, that would be the chief bridesmaid’s job. I feel a stab of hurt at not having been given that role.

  ‘I see.’ Denise finishes her drink. ‘Come on, Gary. It makes more sense for us to come back another time when Joanna is here.’

  Picking up her bag, she gives a tight smile and stands, gesturing to her husband to do the same. I watch them as they walk the length of the living area to the front door, relieved that soon the charade will be over.

  Mark lets them out, then comes back to me.

  Instead of sitting down, he stands with his hands on the back of the settee, his forearms tensed. ‘Thank you,’ he says to me.

  I turn to look at him, confused by what’s just happened. ‘Why couldn’t we have just told them the truth?’ I ask him. But what is the truth? That Joanna forgot she’d invited me to stay? That she doesn’t give a damn about me? I realise that I might have cared enough about the friendship Joanna and I had to come down here, but that text might not have meant as much to her.

  But Mark doesn’t reply. It’s as if he isn’t listening. He’s leaning forward, staring at the window, his jaw set.

  ‘Tell me what’s going on,’ I say, trying to get him to pay attention. ‘Something’s not right. Something you’re not telling me. Where is Joanna, Mark? Where is your fiancée?’

  I don’t know what I was expecting, but it isn’t this. As I watch, his thin face changes. Everything I’ve seen up until now disappears. Gone is the self-assured man so passionate about his dream, the public schoolboy with impeccable manners. In his place is one whose eyes are filled with anguish.

  He doesn’t change position, just grasps the back of the settee harder, turning the purple velvet white.

  ‘I don’t know where she is, Alice. I don’t know where the hell she’s gone. Joanna is missing.’

  Fourteen

  I stare at him, hardly able to believe what I’m hearing. Joanna missing? I search Mark’s face for clues, but he’s not meeting my eyes. It’s something he’s not done before and it’s worrying.

  ‘But you said she was on a course.’

  ‘I know what I said.’ Mark slumps onto the velvet settee and drags his fingers through his hair.

  ‘Are you sure she didn’t say? Might you have just forgotten?’

  He shakes his head. ‘No. Everything gets written down in the home diary, otherwise we wouldn’t have a clue what each other were doing.’ Getting up, he goes over to the kitchen island and picks up a book with a shiny grey cover. Coming back with it, he flicks through the pages until he comes to the week we’ve just had.

  He runs his finger down the page. ‘See. Nothing. Just a note of my meetings.’

  I see there’s no mention of my visit in there either. Had she just forgotten to write it down? ‘It’s only been a couple of days. I’m sure she’ll be back tonight, and we’ll be laughing about how forgetful you both are.’

  ‘No.’ Mark’s brows pull together. ‘It hasn’t been two days. I haven’t seen Joanna since Thursday evening.’

  There’s a hollow feeling in my stomach. ‘Thursday?’

  ‘Yes. She was here when I went to work that morning. I kissed her goodbye as usual, but she wasn’t here when I came home.’ He drops his head into his hands. ‘Christ. Where do you think she could be? If anything’s happened to her…’

  I place a hand on his arm. ‘Nothing will have happened to her, Mark. There’ll be some logical explanation. How did she seem when you saw her that morning?’

  His head jerks up sharply. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I just thought if I could picture her mood the last time you saw her, it might help me have a better understanding of what’s going on.’

  ‘She was fine. A little subdued, maybe, but fine. We were planning a wedding, for Christ’s sake. We were happy. We were in love.’

  I look around me at the warehouse apartment with its tasteful, carefully chosen furniture – a room out of a magazine with no heart or soul. Everything reduced to its common denominator of bare brickwork and wooden flooring. A storage area. Nothing staying in it for very long before moving on again.

  ‘You’ve got to think, Mark. Where might she have gone? Might she be staying with friends?’ I think about the wedding she was planning. ‘What about her bridesmaids? Maybe she’s with one of them.’

  ‘She doesn’t have many friends – not proper ones. The bridesmaids were going to be a couple of cousins on her mum’s side. She hardly knew them. Oh, Christ. I don’t know where she is.’

  With a shock, I see he’s weeping. No sound, just silent tears that make my heart clench in sympathy. I’ve never seen a man cry. Not my father. Not Drew. My heart goes out to him, but I have no idea how to react. It’s not as if I know him.

  I stand awkwardly and put a tentative hand on his shoulder, feeling his muscles tense under his shirt. ‘I’ll make us a drink and then we can think what to do.’ I get up, then sit back down again. Something’s bothering me. ‘Don’t you think you should have told her parents? They have a right to know.’

  ‘And say what?’ He twists round, his eyes red. ‘It’s lovely to see you and, oh by the way, your daughter’s gone missing. Can you believe it! No, Alice. I can’t tell them. Not yet.’

  Taking out a white handkerchief from his pocket, he blows his nose. ‘Christ, I’m sorry. It’s not like me to be so weak, but you can’t imagine how dreadful it’s been keeping this to myself. I didn’t realise how worried I was until I told you.’

  Going over to the window, I press my hands against the cold glass and look down. Below me is the Thames. Brown. Sluggish. Dotted with tugs and a larger cargo vessel. To the left, hidden by the bend in the river
are the slippery steps that will now mostly be hidden as the tide is high. I remember the story Mark told me about them, and my heart beats a little faster. I know what Mark said, but what if Joanna was depressed? She was always one to act first and think later. What if she’d called me because there were things she wanted to tell me?

  Once I would have been there to listen. Guilt twists in my stomach.

  ‘I think I should stay,’ I say, turning to him. ‘Just until she gets back or at least until we know where she is.’

  Mark draws his hand down his face. ‘I can’t expect you to do that. What about your job? It’s Monday tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m a teacher. I’ve broken up for the Easter holidays. But anyway, I have no job. The school closed… went into receivership.’

  He looks shocked. ‘That’s terrible. I’m very sorry.’

  ‘I suppose, looking back, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Pupil numbers had been dropping for a while.’

  I remember how we’d been summoned into school, even though it was the beginning of the holidays. How we’d sat on the red plastic chairs the children used, watching as Trevor, our head, walked onto the stage with a man in a dark suit. The gathered staff all knew something was wrong – I could see it in their faces and hear it in the snippets of their conversations: Why do you think…? Have you heard…? What the hell…? Next to me, Sally had struggled to control the toddler on her lap. As he kicked out at the chair in front with his sandaled feet, she’d tapped him sharply on the leg, making him grizzle.

  We were all on edge, waiting to hear the news, and when at last Trevor had made his announcement, I was numb with shock. I wasn’t to know that this was only the beginning of my troubles.

  ‘But what about family,’ Mark continues. ‘A husband. Partner.’ I see his eyes lower to my hand, registering, probably, the lack of a ring. ‘Won’t you be missed?’

  ‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘There’s nobody.’

  ‘Then, if you’re sure you don’t mind, I’d be very glad of the company. As you say… just until Joanna gets back.’

  I’m surprised but also pleased by what he’s said. He seems uneasy, and I wonder if it’s because he doesn’t want to be alone. I’m glad my being here will help.

  ‘She’ll be back soon. I know she will.’ It’s nothing but a gut instinct, but there are things Joanna wants to talk to me about. I’m sure of it.

  ‘I expect you’re right.’ Getting up, Mark collects up the glasses and walks the length of the room to the kitchen area.

  ‘But, Mark.’

  He hesitates, then carries on walking. ‘Yes?’

  ‘If Joanna isn’t back by the end of tomorrow, I think you should notify the police.’ It’s not that I think she won’t be back by then, but if it happens, we need to do the right thing.

  He pauses, as though thinking about what I’ve said. ‘Yes, of course,’ he says. ‘Of course, that’s what I shall do.’

  But there’s something in that hesitation that makes me wonder if he would if it wasn’t for me being here. Whether, despite his tears, he cares as much about Joanna as I do.

  Fifteen

  The next day, Mark goes into the office and I’m left alone in the apartment, wondering how on earth I’m going to fill my time waiting for him to get back or for Joanna to finally return. I start by unloading the dishwasher and putting the crockery away in the plate racks inside one of the sleek wooden cupboards. Looking around for something else to do, I wipe down surfaces that are already clean, then search the cupboards for a vacuum cleaner to hoover the vast expanse of wooden flooring. The place is like a show home. Echoey. Clinical. Not exactly a love nest.

  When I’ve finished, I get my book from beside my bed and open the wooden double doors between the industrial-looking windows. If I’d expected to find a Juliet balcony, I’m disappointed. Instead, when I’ve drawn the bolts and pulled back the doors, there’s nothing between me and the overgrown quayside below but three wrought iron bars, running from one side of the doorframe to the other.

  Taking one of the dining room chairs, I place it in the opening and put my feet up on the middle bar, the spring sunshine casting stripes of shadow onto my legs. But I can’t concentrate. I’m thinking of Joanna. Wondering where she is. Wondering when she’ll return.

  What if I read Joanna’s message wrongly or misinterpreted it? Half expecting to find that I’ve made a mistake, I check my messages, looking for the conversation I had with her. There it is: her invitation for me to visit. She’d almost begged me. Said she couldn’t get married without her best friend’s approval. Nothing ambiguous about that. The warmth I felt when I first read her message returns. It’s wonderful to be needed again. Wanted. Different halves of the same whole – that’s what we were. Complementing each other. Balancing each other.

  Then, just as quickly, the warmth ebbs away as I remember that she’s not here. That neither Mark nor I know where she is. I ring her number, and when I hear the request to leave a message, I almost shout into the phone.

  ‘Joanna. It’s not a joke. Ring me.’

  My battery’s low. I forgot to put it on charge last night. It must have been because I was in a strange room. A strange bed, with a pillow that smelt faintly of Joanna. Going to the bedroom I search in my bag for my charger before realising I’ve left it in the car. I could go down to the underground car park to get it, but something stops me. Whether it’s the thought of having to climb all those flights of stairs back up to the apartment or whether it’s the memory of the metal shutter that stands between the cars and the daylight, I don’t know, but, whatever it is, I decide to wait until Mark is back.

  Joanna used to sleep in this room. Not sure what exactly it is I’m looking for, I start to investigate. Opening drawers and kneeling to look under the bed. Hoping to find something that will give me a clue to Joanna’s life: a hint of why she chose Mark over everyone else.

  I pull open the double doors of the fitted wardrobe, half expecting to find some of Joanna’s clothes still hanging there. There’s nothing though, just a half dozen hangers on a rail. A single wardrobe door next to it elicits a set of drawers. The top one is empty. The next one is too. The third though, refuses to move when I pull it and it’s only when I crouch and see the small keyhole that I realise it’s because it’s locked. I pull it again but, of course, it doesn’t budge. Frustrated, I close the door again. What would Joanna need to keep locked away?

  And then it dawns on me what I’m doing and I’m ashamed. The drawer may contain passports, birth certificates, medical records. Whatever’s in there is private. Pushing myself up, I leave the bedroom, annoyed with myself for being so nosy. Even if the drawer had been unlocked, the contents are a part of Joanna’s life. Not mine.

  I find a couple of eggs in a wire-framed basket and hard-boil them, eating them with some tomatoes and salad I’ve found in the fridge. Then, when I can’t stand the silence any more, I take the spare key Mark’s left me and let myself out of the apartment. I need to get out; I’ll get my phone charger after all.

  As the apartment door shuts behind me, I stand and listen, hearing nothing except my own heartbeat in my ears. Out here, the sweet musty smell is stronger, and I wonder if it could be the tobacco I’m smelling. Decades of storage allowing the distinctive odour of its leaves to permeate the wooden floors. The huge beams. The bare brick walls.

  Taking the stairs, I walk down two flights, but instead of continuing to the basement, I stop at the fourth floor and look through the rectangular glass panel of the door into the corridor. Somewhere on this floor is an apartment belonging to one of the few other residents of Tobacco Wharf.

  Feeling a strong urge to meet this woman, I push open the door and step into the corridor, looking to the left and right. Who knows, with so few people living in the warehouse, she and Joanna might have been friends. We might be friends.

  Trying not to let my shoes make too much noise on the wooden floorboards, I choose a direction at random and walk down the corri
dor, surprised when I’m rewarded straight away. Music is coming from the first door I come to, something folky, and without thinking of what I’ll say if the door is opened, I press the buzzer and wait.

  When no one comes, I ring again, and this time the door opens. There’s a chain attached, and through the small gap, I can make out a nose, an eye, a flash of dark hair. At first, I think it’s Joanna, but when the chain slides back and the door opens wider, I see the woman is nothing like her. Only her hair bears a resemblance, shiny and black – though of course I have no idea what Joanna’s hair looks like now. For all I know, she could have cut it. Dyed it. Shaved it off.

  ‘Hi.’ I feel awkward now. Wondering what she’ll make of this stranger who’s pitched up on her doorstep.

  ‘Yes?’ Behind her, a small dog yaps, and she turns and shushes it. ‘Did you want something?’

  The woman is around the same age as me and, now the door is fully open, I’m shocked by her appearance. Her eyes are huge in her pinched face, the dark circles under them barely disguised by the heavy make-up she’s applied. She’s wearing a gossamer fine, baby pink top that has slipped from one shoulder revealing a sharp-edged collarbone. Seeing me look, she pulls it back up with long thin fingers, the silver bangles on her arm jangling.

  Under her hollow gaze, my confidence ebbs away. ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m a friend of Joanna’s. The woman who lives upstairs.’

  Her thread thin eyebrows raise slightly. ‘I see.’

  She says nothing more, just appraises me with her dark eyes. Behind her, I see that the living area of her apartment is almost identical to Joanna’s. The only difference being that her wooden floor is covered in a variety of patterned rugs, and the two large, red settees can barely be seen beneath the colourful scatter of cushions and Indian throws that adorn them.

  When my eyes return to her, the woman is frowning. ‘Did you have a message from her? Joanna?’

  I shake my head. ‘No. I just thought it would be nice to meet someone else who lives in the warehouse.’