The Bride: A twisty and completely gripping psychological thriller

by Wendy Clarke

  Reaching out a hand, I feel for the controller that works the shutters. When my fingers make contact with it, I push it to the furthest side of the table, so there’ll be no danger of it dropping onto my bed again. Of me operating it by mistake. Then I close my eyes and listen to my heartbeat until its steady rhythm lulls me back into sleep.

  The scream, when it comes, is bloodcurdling, sending me shooting bolt upright, bedclothes clutched to my chin. The sound hasn’t come from inside the warehouse but from outside, somewhere further along the dock. I wait and listen, but there’s nothing. Just the silence, broken only by the occasional shake of the window.

  Pulling the cover up over my head, I tell myself it’s nothing, try to sleep, but I can’t. I’ve never been afraid to be on my own before, but now I wish desperately that Mark was here. Will someone else have heard that awful sound?

  I wonder if Eloise is looking out of her window or Mark’s stepson Nathan. If I was back home, I’d dismiss the sound as just some drunken kids on their way back from a party… but here? Who even lives here amongst the scrap metal and abandoned cranes except us?

  When the scream comes again, I think my heart will leap out of my chest. It’s worse than before. High-pitched. Desperate. Throwing back the covers, I run to the window, the floorboards cold beneath my feet, and look out. I’m terrified of what I might see, but it’s worse not to know. Have I imagined it?

  The moon shivers a band of silver across the black river, picking out the tiny white crests that the wind has whipped up, but the quayside is empty. A sheet of clear plastic flaps against a broken window. A door from a roofless building swings on its hinges. I strain my eyes to see if there’s someone out there but find nothing.

  Suddenly, the scene in front of me lights up, as though the quayside’s a stage, and a performance is about to begin. Something has activated the security light. And that’s when I see a movement – something light-coloured against the dark bulk of the warehouse next to this one. I hold my breath, too scared to move.

  The scream comes again, louder this time. Impossible to ignore. Someone is in trouble. What if it’s Joanna? Pressing my cheek against the cold glass, I make myself look, my shoulders sagging in relief when I see what it is. A vixen disappearing around the side of the building, her mangy fur the same shade of red as my hair.

  Back in bed, it takes a long time for my heart rate to return to normal. The incident has made me realise how isolated I am.

  Tomorrow I will go to Eloise’s apartment and see if she has a phone charger I can use and, failing that, I’ll take the car and find somewhere to buy one. I can’t carry on staying here with no means of communication. Besides, Joanna may be trying to contact me.

  I lie awake, staring at the windows, not moving. Even though I know what made that terrible sound, sleep still won’t come. Finally, knowing it’s not going to happen, I force myself to get up and go out into the living area. When I was a child and couldn’t sleep, Mum would make me a milky drink and its warmth would help me drift off. Hoping it will this time, I pad across the cold floorboards to the kitchen and bend to look in the fridge.

  I’m just taking out the milk when I hear something. Tap tap. It’s not loud but loud enough that I know I’m not imagining it. I freeze, the carton clutched to my chest. It’s three in the morning, and someone is knocking on the front door. Who would be outside the apartment at this time?

  Not knowing what to do, I do nothing, just stare in the direction from which the tapping is coming. I brace myself for the sound of the buzzer, but it doesn’t come. Just the quiet knock again. Once… twice more. I can’t move. I’m rigid with fear. Who’s out there? What do they want? If it was Mark, he’d use his key. If it was the police, they’d press the buzzer. Is it Mark they’re after or maybe Joanna?

  Or do they know neither are here, and it’s me they want to open the door?

  Then a thought comes to me. What if it’s Joanna who’s outside? What if she’s come back and hasn’t got her key? Wishing I’d put on my dressing gown, I put down the carton of milk on the island and force myself to walk to the door. When I get there, I push aside the brass cover of the spyhole and look through.

  There’s nothing to be seen, just the empty corridor, but as I stand there, my forehead pressed to the cold wood, I hear a faint clunk and a hum.

  I know that sound.

  Whoever it was has given up. They’re taking the lift back down to wherever it is they’ve come from.

  Twenty-Six

  When morning comes, and I open my bedroom door onto the vast living space, everything seems so normal it would be easy to think the happenings of the night before were a dream. Sunlight shines through the large arched windows filling the room with light, and through their panes, I can see vessels on the Thames: a rusty barge laden with yellow containers being pulled by a tugboat. A sleek Thames Clipper leaving a white wake behind it.

  The fridge is filled with good things. Greek yoghurt and cheeses. Bacon. Local sausages. I don’t have any of this, but instead, take a croissant from the packet I left on the side, warming it through and eating it with the Cornish butter and mixed berry conserve that also came with the delivery.

  When I’ve finished, I let myself out of the apartment and make a start on the cleaning, starting at the first floor as I did the day before. When I reach the apartment where Mark’s stepson is squatting, I stop and listen. I know what he said, but I can’t just leave him. Without Joanna, how will he eat? How will he survive?

  I’ve brought a bag of food with me: a leftover croissant, a large bag of vegetable crisps and some fruit. I’d planned on leaving them by the door for Nathan to find when he next ventured out, but I have to know if it was him who knocked on my door last night.

  Bracing myself, I press the buzzer.

  When the door remains shut, I lift my finger to the buzzer and press it again, but this time I don’t release the pressure. I can hear it echoing in the empty room – a sound to send anyone mad.

  Suddenly, the door flies open. Nathan storms out and whacks my hand away from the buzzer.

  ‘What the fuck are you playing at?’ He looks worse than he did when I last saw him, the skin of his cheekbones and around his nose red and flaky. His eyes watery.

  I take a step back. ‘Are you unwell?’

  He glares at me but doesn’t answer. Just scratches at his arms. ‘What do you want?’

  I hold up the bag of food. ‘I brought you this. I thought you might be hungry.’

  Snatching the bag from me, Nathan looks inside, then throws it back at me. ‘I don’t want your leftovers.’

  I feel myself redden. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that you said Joanna…’

  ‘You’re not Joanna.’

  ‘I know I’m not, but Joanna’s not here and I didn’t know if you had any money for food. Look, why don’t you let me come in rather than talking in the corridor?’

  Nathan takes a step back, one hand either side of the doorframe, blocking my way. ‘Get lost.’

  ‘I just thought…’

  ‘What? That you’d be a do-gooder. What is it? Does it make you feel better about getting your feet under Joanna’s table? Fucking her husband.’

  As if it has a mind of its own, my hand shoots out, striking Nathan’s cheek. The slap, echoes in the empty corridor.

  Nathan raises his hand to his cheek in shock, then levels his gaze at me.

  ‘Fuck. You.’ The words are drawn out, his index finger jabbing at my shoulder as he says them.

  I want to apologise, but before I can, he disappears back inside, the slam of the door echoing down the corridor. I stare at it, thinking of all the things I should have asked him. What Mark and Tanya’s relationship had really been like? How the Mark I’ve got to know in my few days here, differs from the one he used to live with? But even if he’d let me ask the questions, I doubt he would have answered them.

  By the time I’ve finished the cleaning and got back to my own floor, it’s nearly midday. I
t’s as I push open the stairwell door that I see I’m not alone. Two people are standing outside my apartment, one with their finger to the buzzer. I stop, too scared to go any further, recognising their uniforms. It’s the police constables who were here two days ago.

  My heart jumps. Maybe they’ve found Joanna.

  PC Rose sees me, but when I reach her, she’s not smiling.

  ‘Hello, Alice. You’re still here then.’ It’s a statement rather than a question.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Mark? Is he in? We tried his office number, and he wasn’t there. He’s not answering his mobile.’

  ‘No. He’s away… looking at some properties,’ I add, as an afterthought.

  The policewoman’s eyes are probing. Searching my face. ‘You don’t sound too sure.’

  ‘I am sure.’ There’s something about her manner that makes me flustered. Makes me feel as though I’ve done something wrong. ‘It’s definitely what he said.’

  ‘Could we come in?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, of course.’

  Opening the door, I let them in. ‘Would you like something? Tea? Coffee?’

  ‘No.’ PC Rose looks around her. ‘Thank you. We were wondering, have you heard anything from Joanna?’

  ‘Joanna?’

  She gives me an odd look. ‘Your friend? You reported her missing on Tuesday.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t sleep well last night. The foxes…’ I tail off. ‘No. We haven’t heard anything.’

  ‘I see.’ She looks at her colleague. ‘It’s just that something has happened that I thought you, well, Joanna’s husband, should know about. Just in case it’s connected.’

  We’re all standing in the middle of the floor like extras in a play. I want to sit down, but the officers show no interest in moving to the settee. I have a sick feeling my legs might not hold me when I hear what they have to say.

  Are they wondering why I’m still here? After they’ve left, will they discuss how odd it is that I’m still hanging around the apartment even though Joanna isn’t back? I consider telling them the truth, that Mark has gone away, and I’m staying just in case Joanna comes home, but before I can, PC Rose speaks.

  ‘I need you to know that what we’ve come to tell you is just a theory… a hunch. It might mean nothing at all.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘A body has been washed up onto a small beach a few miles downriver. It hasn’t been identified yet, but from the description you gave, we have reason to believe that it could be Mark’s wife.’

  My hands rise to my mouth in shock. ‘Dear God.’

  I think of the depth markers on the dock wall, the tide lapping at the steps of the Devil’s Staircase. Did Joanna descend those steps? Can she really have wanted to die?

  But the policewoman’s words crush that theory. ‘There’s an injury to her head. It might have been caused by an accident, but we can’t rule out the possibility of foul play.’

  I pull out a stool from the island and climb on to it, not trusting my legs. ‘Foul play?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry, but it’s something we have to look into. Of course, we might be wrong, and it might not even be Joanna, but we’re going to need someone to make an identification.’

  I stare at her wide-eyed. ‘I can’t do it.’

  The thought of seeing Joanna’s bloated body fills me with horror. Her lovely hair braided with weed. Silt engraving the creases of her skin.

  ‘I haven’t seen her for ten years,’ I stammer. ‘What if I’m wrong?’

  ‘We wouldn’t expect you to be the one to make the identification. It needs to be someone who’s seen her recently. Mark, or maybe her parents. There are some distinguishing marks on the body that we’ve photographed and should be easily recognisable to someone who knows her well.’

  She hasn’t volunteered what the marks are. I try to think – is there something on my friend’s flawless skin that would single her out? If there is, I can’t remember it.

  ‘We’ll be doing DNA analysis, but the results can take up to seventy-two hours,’ PC Rose continues. ‘You’ll understand that we want to make an identification as soon as possible.’

  ‘What about her parents?’ I stop, remembering they are in Dubai. With a lurch of my stomach, I also remember that they know nothing about Joanna’s disappearance.

  ‘We haven’t been able to get hold of them either,’ is all she says, and I decide not to say any more. If anything’s happened to their daughter, it’s better they hear it from Mark.

  ‘Mark will be back later today,’ I say. ‘I’ll get him to call you as soon as he gets home.’

  PC Jameson scratches his cheek. ‘You don’t have a contact number for him, other than his mobile number?’

  I shake my head. ‘No, he didn’t give me one.’

  The two officers look at each other. ‘I see. Well, when he comes home, please ask him to come into the station or give us a ring.’

  ‘I will… of course.’

  ‘And if anything happens, or you hear from Joanna, please let us know immediately. As I said, there’s always a possibility the body we found might not be hers.’

  I see them to the door, waiting until they’ve got into the lift before going back into the apartment. It’s only when I stand at the window and watch them walk to their panda car that the enormity of what they’ve just told me sinks in. A wave of nausea floods through me, and I clutch my stomach, the other hand pressed against the glass, to stop me from falling.

  ‘Oh God. Joanna.’

  Suddenly, I have an overwhelming need to share what the police just told me with someone. Anyone.

  In the past, it would have been Drew I confided in, but why would he care when he didn’t even know Joanna? He’d be polite, would ask me questions, but I know that, after everything that’s happened, he’d be desperate to get off the phone. Maybe he’d even tell his new girlfriend that I’d rung.

  No, the only person who will understand the pain I’m feeling after hearing what the police told me, is Mark.

  Twenty-Seven

  I’m wrong, though. There is someone else I can talk to.

  Knowing I have to share the burden of what I’ve just been told or go mad, I let myself out of the apartment and take the stairs down to the fourth floor. Reaching Eloise’s apartment, I press the buzzer once. Twice. When there’s no answer, I raise my hand and bang with my fist on the door, the noise echoing in the corridor.

  ‘Eloise, are you there?’

  There’s no reply. But why would there be? It’s a Thursday and, chances are, she’ll be at work. As I wait, I try to remember if she mentioned a job but can’t. When was it I saw her? I count back in my head… it was a Monday, I’m sure of it. Three days ago. Can it really be? Despite having done little since arriving at New Tobacco Wharf, the time is flowing by as quickly as the Thames outside my window. Or, should I say, Joanna’s window.

  Pressing my ear to the door, I listen for sounds of Eloise’s little dog, Pixie – a scrabbling at the door or her high-pitched yaps. There’s nothing. That will be it; she’ll be walking her. Maybe, at this very moment, she’ll be following the path that runs alongside the river. Passing the abandoned cranes, the units to let… the weed-covered steps. It makes me think of Joanna, and I shiver.

  Stepping away from the door, I glance at the arched window at the end of the corridor where, beyond the buildings, I can see patches of blue sky combed through with white cloud. The Wharf and Black Water Dock is so cut off from everything that the thought of the outside world is becoming strange. Remote.

  With a sense of unease, I realise I haven’t been outside the building in five days and the thought of being back in the real world is making me anxious. I have to get a grip – being cooped up in this warehouse isn’t good for me. What I need is to get out.

  Get some air.

  Get back to normality.

  In the empty corridor, I make a decision. I’ll take my car and fin
d somewhere that sells phone chargers. Anything to get me out. Checking I’ve got my car keys, I head back to the stairs. When Mark gets back later, I’ll tell him I’m leaving. That it’s time I was getting back home.

  Home.

  The word conjures up some faraway place, making me feel like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. Only in Black Water Dock there’s no yellow brick road – just one made of tarmac covered in chippings, its weed-tangled verges studded with rubble and broken bottles.

  Without warning, the terrible reality comes crashing in, making me grip the stair rail. How can I leave Mark when in a few hours he will discover Joanna is dead? Another griping pain hits, and I stop until it subsides. I can’t think of it or I will fall apart. One step at a time. I’ll get myself back in contact with the world, and then I will think how I can support Mark when he finds out the truth.

  I’ve reached the ground floor, curiosity making me stop and look through the glass panels in the door. Through them is the lonely atrium. The expanse of marble floor. The fountain that never plays. On the reception desk, there’s a large vase of tall, red and purple spikes of gladioli, and I wonder who they’re meant to impress. Who will ever see their showy display?

  Derek’s door is closed, and I’m glad. Hopefully, he’s out doing his maintenance, or whatever it is he’s supposed to do. And, if he is, it means that when I get into my car, he won’t be watching me. Wondering where I’m going. What I’m doing.

  Leaving the ground floor, I take the last flight of stairs to the underground car park, but I don’t push open the door. Instead, I stare through the glass, my skin prickling. The space inside is in total darkness.

  My heart rate increases steadily until I remember the lights are on motion sensors. They won’t activate until I open the doors, but once inside, the fluorescent strips will flood the empty parking bays with light, and everything will be fine.