Chris nods, putting his piece of pizza back in the box. Then he prises Rhonda’s beer bottle from her hand and takes a long swig.
‘And on top of everything else, Caitlin’s really not been herself at all lately,’ Rhonda says, taking back her beer.
‘She seemed unusually quiet when Kieran was here earlier, but they looked to be getting on with their work,’ Chris says.
Rhonda nods. ‘Something’s been troubling her these last few weeks, but I can’t figure out what she’s think—’
Chris nudges her sharply with his elbow. ‘Hey, Caitlin,’ he says, looking behind his wife. ‘You joining us for the movie? We can start it again. It’s only been on ten minutes.’
Rhonda quickly shoves her phone under a cushion, patting the space beside her. ‘Come on, love. Sit down.’
Caitlin stares at them both, her eyes narrow and suspicious. Her usual heavy black eyeliner has smudged, and the tip of her nose is slightly red. ‘What were you talking about just now?’ she asks, standing her ground in the doorway.
‘Nothing much. Just looking at some old photos,’ Rhonda replies, hoping she didn’t overhear. She pats the sofa again. She hates lying to her daughter, but doesn’t want anything about Madeleine to get back to Kieran or Jen. As far as she’s concerned, the woman is best forgotten.
Caitlin stares at her mum for a few more seconds before eyeing the space on the sofa. Slowly, she lowers herself down, curling her legs up underneath her and leaning against her mum. She slides her hand underneath a cushion as she gets comfortable.
It’s only much later, when the film has long since finished and Caitlin has gone up to bed, that Rhonda realises her phone is missing from where she’d shoved it out of sight earlier.
Twenty-One
Jen
I head out to the garage with the last sack of Jeremy’s clothes, shutting the front door on the thumping beat of Kieran’s music as it blasts out from his room. I’m not about to tell him to turn it down – I know it brings him some kind of escape. He seemed pensive and withdrawn when I went to fetch him from studying with Caitlin earlier this afternoon, though he was happy enough to sit at the table with me and eat some of the reheated casserole that Rhonda had made. And he engaged with me about his schoolwork, agreeing that he doesn’t want to miss out on the exams this summer. He even said he’d consider seeing the school counsellor to work through his grief. But after I’d cleared away the plates, I couldn’t help thinking that there was something else on his mind.
I press the button on the remote and wait until the garage door curls itself up, revealing what feels like a graveyard inside. I dump the black sack alongside all the other bags that Rhonda and I already cleared out, stopping to stare at the plastic tub stashed at the back of the garage. I shudder at the thought of what’s hidden in there. Rhonda and I didn’t get very far with clearing Jeremy’s study earlier, but managed to sort through a few books for charity.
I glance behind me, down our long drive. The coach lamps either side of the gate on the lane glow like a pair of low stars, indicating our hard-to-find entrance to visitors. I’m about to close the garage door and go back inside but, on a whim, I go over to the plastic tub and prise off the stiff lid.
I rummage through the junk that’s been stashed in there for years – bric-a-brac type things that need clearing out – and pull out the padded envelope, removing the grubby pair of girl’s pants along with the note. I drop down, sitting on top of another plastic storage tub.
‘Who the hell would send me these?’ I whisper, feeling an overwhelming sense of sadness for the young girl who would have worn them. ‘And what the hell is it they claim to know?’ I add, staring at the note. The plain print gives me no clue to their sender.
The pants aren’t particularly remarkable – pale-pink cotton midi-briefs with little flowers on, the type a mum would buy for her daughter. And they’re well worn, as though their wearer had sat on the ground in them, not caring if they got dirty. The sight of them makes me feel sick, so I shove them back in the envelope, wiping my hands down my jeans as if they’re contaminated. I decided not to tell Rhonda about them earlier, knowing she’d only worry, perhaps suggesting I go to the police or, at the very least, ask Chris for advice. I just wanted to forget about them.
I’m about to go back inside, but I stop, freezing when I hear a noise. I turn to see car headlights coming down the drive, dazzling me so I can’t make out who it is.
Quickly, I put the envelope back inside the plastic tub and close the lid. I head to the garage entrance and flick off the light, bringing down the automatic door. Arms folded and feet apart, I stand on the drive as the car swings in and parks. My heart sinks when the driver gets out.
‘Scott,’ I say, my voice giving away my disappointment. When he left, things had seemed calm, as though I’d managed to placate him, get rid of him. I certainly wasn’t expecting to see him tonight.
He reaches across to the passenger side of the car and pulls out a bag – the same bag he brought into my house last night when he stayed over.
‘I thought you’d be settling into your new house,’ I say, fighting the wobble in my voice. Quickly, I glance up to Kieran’s bedroom window, which faces over the drive. The curtains are drawn and the light is on behind it.
‘So did I,’ he says, walking over to me, his expression thunderous. ‘There’s been a problem,’ he adds, wiping a hand down his tired face.
‘Oh?’ My heart misses a couple of beats, sensing what’s coming before my brain catches up.
‘When I went to pick up the keys, I was told that the landlord had already let the property privately and had failed to inform the letting agent. Which makes me officially homeless.’
‘That’s terrible,’ I say, not wanting to acknowledge why he’s here, ignoring the warning voice in my head. ‘Surely you can get some kind of compensation. Had you signed all the paperwork and paid a deposit?’
Scott blusters his way through an answer, mainly by using a string of swear words and dodging my actual question. ‘First thing Monday morning, they’ll be hearing from my solicitor.’
‘I’m sure you’ll be able to claim compensation for a hotel for a few nights. They must have insurance for this kind of thing.’
Scott shakes his head and looks down, scuffing the gravel. He seems worn down, defeated, and not at all like the man I met in Oxford or, indeed, the one who was here last night. But I still can’t feel sorry for him.
‘What about all your stuff?’ I ask. ‘Did you have a removals van booked?’ I shudder, clamping my arms around me as I glance behind him, half expecting a van to be following him down the drive.
‘I don’t have much. It’s in a small storage unit. Look, can I come in?’
The last thing I want is him here when Kieran is home. ‘It’s not a good time,’ I tell him, knowing I have to be firm this time. ‘I’m sorry.’
Scott stares at me for a second, then glances up at Kieran’s window, as if he’s read my mind. ‘I’m sorry too, Jennifer,’ he says coldly. His eyes appear empty, cold, determined. ‘That it’s come to this.’
‘It hasn’t come to anything,’ I say, folding my arms and stepping back towards my door. ‘I let you stay one night, as agreed. You can’t ask me again.’
His face breaks into a smile as he laughs. ‘Oh, but I can, Jennifer. And I am. You know as well as I do that you have to let me in.’
I stare at him, my jaw tightening as I fight against every instinct not to go up and thump him. Instead, I give a small nod and turn, knowing he’ll follow me inside.
In the hall, Kieran’s music reverberates through my body. I wait for Scott to come in before shutting the door behind him. I close my eyes briefly, too, praying that I can get him gone soon, figure something out. He can’t stay here again.
We go through to the kitchen and I reach for the kettle, but suddenly there’s a hand on mine, gripping my wrist.
‘Don’t you have anything stronger?’ he asks, standing clo
se behind me. ‘A whisky would knock the edge off a rough day.’
I turn and look up at him – his face is close. ‘Sure,’ I say, swallowing and prising myself from his grip.
In Jeremy’s study, I take a cut-glass tumbler from the drinks cabinet and pour a small measure from the decanter. I stop, staring at my husband’s empty chair, closing my eyes at the thought of what he would say. My fingers trail down the decanter after I place it back, taking the drink into the kitchen. But as I pass the living room, I see that Scott has retreated in there, sitting in Jeremy’s favourite leather chair as he warms himself by the fire.
He takes the drink and I perch on the edge of the sofa. ‘I’m looking forward to getting to know your son,’ he says, sending shock waves through me. ‘This is good stuff,’ he adds, holding up the glass.
I glance at the doorway, listening out, wondering if I just heard Kieran’s bedroom door open.
‘That’s not happening,’ I say. ‘You need to leave after you’ve had that.’
Scott stares at me, his eyes hardening. His jaw tightens and twitches. ‘It’s a big place for just the two of you,’ he says, looking around. ‘It must seem even bigger without your husband.’
‘It’s not really any of your business,’ I snap back, hearing Rhonda’s voice in my head, telling me to be careful. ‘I promised I’d watch a film with Kieran this evening. You being here is not convenient tonight.’
‘Not to worry,’ Scott says, his expression blank. ‘I’ll amuse myself. Perhaps go and read in your husband’s study. Or maybe your son would like me to watch the movie with you?’ He takes a long, slow sip of whisky, not taking his eyes off me. ‘I’ll need to stay here longer than just one night, so there’ll be plenty of time to get acquainted with him. All the time in the world, in fact.’ He grins.
My heart thumps as I hear Kieran’s music switch off and then his bedroom door opening and closing – followed by the sound of him thumping down the stairs.
‘Mum?’ he calls out from the hall.
Before I know what’s happening, Scott is suddenly sitting beside me on the sofa. He takes my wrist again, holding it firmly, his face up close to mine. I smell the alcohol on his breath.
‘I’m not giving you a choice, Jennifer,’ he says, a tiny globule of spit flying from his mouth and hitting my face. ‘You are carrying my baby, and I will be staying with you. We can do this the nice way or the nasty way. Up to you.’
‘Mum, is there any of that casserole left? I’m starving again,’ Kieran calls out from the kitchen.
My breaths are short and shallow and my chest tight as my cheeks flush.
‘You bastard,’ I whisper, my fear evident. ‘Get off me…’ I try to pull my hand away, but his grip is too strong.
‘You don’t want Sonny Jim in there to know that Mummy was a naughty girl behind Daddy’s back, do you?’ He flicks his eyes towards the kitchen.
I swallow, my eyes dancing around his face. My lips part but nothing comes out.
‘Thought not,’ Scott says with a smile. ‘I won’t tell if you don’t.’ He laughs, shoving my hand away.
‘Mum? You in here?’
I hear Kieran padding across the hall, and suddenly he’s standing in the doorway, eyeing up what’s going on. Scott is sitting perfectly normally beside me, cradling his drink with a warm smile spread across his face.
‘Kier…’ I say, forcing my voice to stay even. I need to make everything seem normal. ‘Kier, this is… Scott. A… a friend.’
Scott stands, extending his hand as Kieran comes further into the room. They exchange a handshake and I see my son sizing him up, giving me a quick glance.
‘Your mum’s an absolute star, young man. She’s very kindly offered to let me stay a while. Was that vinyl you were playing just before? I’m a huge fan of that band.’
‘They’re my favourite,’ Kieran says, his face relaxing. He shoves his hands in his front pockets, grinning. ‘I saw them live last summer at Wembley. They were incredible.’
‘No way,’ Scott says. ‘Wembley? I was there too. What a small world it is. Don’t you think, Jen?’ Scott looks down at me, giving me a slow wink. ‘Now, what was that you said about a casserole, Kieran? I wouldn’t say no to a plate of that. You can tell me what other music you’re into, and all about the film your mum said we’re going to watch.’
Twenty-Two
Jen
Scott Shaw is in my house…
The words haunt my mind during morning surgery, making it almost impossible to concentrate. I considered taking the morning off to deal with the situation, but I have a full clinic with patients who are relying on me. I can’t possibly let them down.
The remainder of last night was unbearable – with Scott doing everything possible to ingratiate himself with my son. Whether it was discussing football or music, or the pair of them glued to the movie that Kieran and I had planned to watch, he went out of his way to weasel himself firmly into my home.
And with what he knew, the destruction he could bring to my life, I had no choice but to let him stay. I even found myself handing over a spare key this morning when he asked, making sure he did it in front of Kieran so I couldn’t protest.
I don’t doubt for one minute that he’ll follow through with his threat if I don’t comply; that he’d take delight in announcing to Kieran his mother had fallen pregnant after a night of sex with a stranger while his father was still alive – twisting the truth of what actually happened to suit himself. And neither would he hesitate in broadcasting the lies to Tim at the surgery or any of the other staff at work, and I’m sure it wouldn’t take him long to find Rhonda and shame me… or inform any of my other friends or relatives. It might as well be front-page news. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if it got out, not until I’ve figured out the truth.
But why? Why would he do any of this? Did he spot me a mile off at the conference – a doctor on her own, looking troubled and with worries on her mind? There’s no doubt I had my miserable and don’t-mess-with-me expression on that night as I tried to overcome my paranoia about Jeremy and Madeleine, but to Scott it might as well have been a sign on my head reading ‘take advantage of me’.
Perhaps he was driven by money, figuring he could target a well-off married doctor if he hung around the conference delegates – getting her drunk, slipping something in her glass, making her vulnerable. I was wearing my wedding ring, after all. And now me getting pregnant has turned into a convenient little side hustle for him, giving him permission to wring me out even more when he makes his move on my finances.
I’ve considered asking him how much he wants, paying him off and getting done with it – not that there’s anything left to pay him off with. With Jeremy’s debts to settle, I’m virtually hand to mouth at the moment, even on my decent salary. I’d have to take out another loan. One thing is for certain: I won’t be naming Scott on my child’s birth certificate.
I take a deep breath between patients, forcing myself to think rationally, calmly, about what I can remember from that night. Quickly, I tap flunitrazepam into Google. Commonly known as Rohypnol, or the date rape drug, I don’t really need to read up about its effects, the pharmacology behind it, because I already know.
And I also know about GHB, gamma-hydroxybutyric acid, a widely available neurotransmitter and psychoactive drug, with uses ranging from medical to industrial. And it’s easily obtainable, shockingly so. If my drink was tampered with that night, then it could well have been by someone who was after non-consensual sex. And with my recollection of events so poor – as though someone has slashed my memory into a thousand frustrating fragments with a razor wire – the more I read up on it, my bet is on GHB. A quick squeeze of a tiny vial and my brightly coloured cocktail would have disguised the salty taste of the liquid.
I shudder to think how close to death it would have taken me, combined with the alcohol I’d already had. There’s a fine line between the so-called pleasures of chemsex and my body shutting down –
literally less than a millilitre dosage. I was mistaken to believe that a random person in the club must have spiked my drink while I went to the toilet and Scott disappeared off to the bar. It wasn’t random at all. It was him.
‘Hello there, Sally,’ I say as my young patient clatters her way into my office for the second time recently. I quickly switch screens on my computer. ‘How’s the mastitis?’ I ask when she’s settled herself down. Danny, her toddler, skids on his knees to the toy box in the corner.
‘Getting better,’ she says, leaning down into her buggy to unstrap her baby from the reclined seat. ‘But it’s Amber I’m worried about. There’s something wrong with her eye, and she’s been really grizzly and not feeding.’
The concern on Sally’s face is evident, as is the exhaustion. She can’t have had much of a break after giving birth to Danny before she was pregnant again. I swallow, suddenly remembering for the hundredth time this morning that I’m pregnant, that soon it’ll be me who’s feeling as though I’ve flown three times around the world and passed through countless time zones, not knowing what day it is, let alone having any time for myself to eat or shower or go to the gym or see friends or have a lie-in.
After washing my hands, I take the baby from her, her little legs pedalling the air. ‘Hello, you gorgeous little girl,’ I coo at her, giving her a beaming smile. Cradling her on my knee, I see her left eye is choked up with sticky mucus. The baby looks up at me, her one good eye trying to focus on mine. A glimmer of an accidental smile twists her rosebud mouth, her face constantly mobile as she sucks on her bottom lip. Then she jams in a fist, letting out a little howl of frustration when she misses her mouth on the first attempt. The baby smells faintly of cigarette smoke.
The Trapped Wife: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller with a mind-blowing twist Page 14