The Women: A gripping psychological thriller

by S. E. Lynes

  She tears off some loo roll and drops again to her knees. A few satellites have flicked out across the floor. And it is when she is cleaning up the streak on the base of the loo that she sees that the floorboard behind doesn’t lie flat. She screws up the tissue and throws it into the toilet. Then, on all fours, she worries the corner of the board with the tip of her finger. It lifts easily. She slides her finger underneath and pulls it up and away. Hidden in the space is a brown leather toilet bag. She pulls it onto her lap. It is the size of her father’s old analogue radio. Her heart is beating. From the other side of the landing, Emily cries out.

  ‘Shh,’ she whispers.

  She unzips the case. Inside is …

  ‘“Chestnut Reflections”,’ she reads aloud. ‘“A natural way to cover the grey.”’

  Emily gives a shout, ‘Oi!’ It is almost funny, as if she is saying, Oi, wotcha doin’?

  The box is open. Samantha looks inside, thinking, still thinking, that there must be something else to this, that this cannot solely be a box of hair dye. But inside is a kit – two transparent hand shapes, which look like a pattern cut-out for making gloves. They are gloves, of course, to keep the dye from getting onto the hands. They have not been used; however, she is filled with the utter certainty that Peter dyes his hair. Not one fleck of grey. And lately she’s noticed a slightly wig-like quality, which she now realises is due to a uniformity in the colour.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ she whispers, puts the gloves back, places the box on the floor.

  Emily is building up now, though not quite crying.

  There is something else in the case – a box of … latex gloves.

  What?

  On impulse, she removes a pair and puts them on. They are the type that doctors wear for intimately examining patients, a memory all too recent. But that is not their purpose here, obviously. They are probably stronger and better quality than the ones in the kit. That would be so like Peter, to find what is provided wanting. Although surely an exclusive salon would be more his style. Unless his vanity extends beyond not wanting to go grey, all the way to not even wanting to admit that he dyes his hair. In that case, he would definitely not visit a hairdresser and risk being seen. Could it be that he is so paranoid that he has hidden it even from her? Is it even possible to be so vain? It’s like that song her mum used to sing, used to love because she’d loved it as a girl; she once gleefully explained the lyrics to Samantha, telling her that they were so clever because they trapped their subject in a maddening paradox, not that her mother would have used that word. But Samantha remembers the song vividly, how the female singer accused her former lover of being so vain, he probably thought the song was about him. Which, of course, it was.

  ‘Ridiculous,’ she whispers to herself now, staring at the evidence of her partner’s boundless vanity. ‘Pathetic.’

  It isn’t as if she doesn’t know he’s older than her. She’s known that from the start. What the hell is he trying to prove?

  She is about to put everything back when she sees something else in the case: a clear plastic vial, a little smaller than a mustard jar – wide neck, screw top. Inside, whitish-grey powder. Her throat closes. A wave of nausea follows. She unscrews the vial, licks her finger and puts the tip to the powder. She has put the powder to her tongue before she reflects on what she’s doing. But she’s done it now and winces at the acrid taste. Like eating hairspray. But it’s not hairspray. It tastes exactly the same as the pill he gave her the first time she came to this house, the pills he gave up offering. Ecstasy, then, is what this is. In powder form. That’s her best guess.

  She sputters, spits, wipes her tongue on the back of her hand. Emily is crying more loudly now, building up to a full-on wail.

  ‘I’m coming,’ she calls. ‘Mummy’s coming, lovey.’

  Quickly, precisely, she puts everything back. She replaces the floorboard and presses it down with her foot, stands back and scrutinises it. It looks the same. She hopes.

  ‘Coming, baby girl,’ she calls out, running across the landing. She picks up her daughter, realises she still has on the latex gloves, which makes her giggle. She’ll roll them up in Emily’s used nappy. No way Peter will find them there. Nappies are something he avoids if he can.

  ‘Shh,’ she whispers, jiggling Emily in her arms, laying her on her changing table. Despite her pumping heart, the breath erratic in her chest, when she looks down on her little girl, she smiles. Emily, her precious Emily, is here. She is safe, she is unharmed. She has her father’s beautiful bow on her top lip, but Samantha is her mother and she feels the animal fury of it in her blood, in her bones, in every last cell of her. Whatever happens, nothing, nothing will separate her from this child ever again.

  Downstairs, while Emily feeds, Samantha calls the English department and asks to be put through to Professor Bailey.

  She waits.

  ‘You’re through to Sally Bailey,’ comes the pre-recorded message. ‘I’m afraid I’m not available to take your call at the moment, but if you leave your name and number, I’ll call you back as soon as I can. Many thanks.’

  She fills her lungs with air, keeps her tone light. ‘Um, hi, this is Samantha Frayn, Peter Bridges’ partner. I’m just calling to let you know you left your scarf in Peter’s car, and if I know Peter, he’ll forget to tell you. So just in case you don’t see him or he forgets, don’t worry, I’ve got it. I’ll make sure he brings it in with him tomorrow. Such a lovely scarf, be a shame to lose it! Take care. Bye.’ She hangs up, exhales. She has only met Professor Bailey a handful of times, with Peter, and has always become a little tongue-tied in her impressive academic aura. But it is not this that is making her heart beat faster. What she’s just done is hardly the fraud of the century, but at the same time it is, for want of a better word, unnatural. Slyness doesn’t suit her, especially after what she and her mother went through. But like an oversize jacket borrowed in an emergency, she will have to wear it as best she can.

  She calls Marcia then, her chest buzzing with nerves. She has not seen Marcia in so long, wonders what thin thread is left of their friendship. But when Marcia hears it’s her, her voice warms instantly.

  ‘Oh, Sam,’ she says. ‘I’ve been thinking about you so much.’

  Samantha feels her eyes fill. ‘Me too. I even dreamt about you last night. We were in that flamenco bar.’

  ‘Costa Dorada? Was it two in the morning?’

  ‘Of course. We were dancing with the professionals.’

  ‘Lucky them. Did we pull?’

  ‘You did. After you’d fallen off the table.’

  They laugh. It reminds her of Aisha and Jenny. That bond that underlies everything, even when things are tough. She thought it had gone, but it has not.

  ‘How’re you doing anyway?’ Marcia asks. ‘I’m sorry I’ve not been to see you. This PG Cert’s a bloody nightmare; I’m practically sleeping standing up.’

  ‘God, that sounds terrible. Why don’t we meet for coffee this weekend? I’m around both days.’ She realises that she will not tell Marcia about the last twenty-four hours, nor about Peter; that this is not why she has called her and it is too soon to tell Marcia she was right.

  ‘Cool,’ Marcia is saying. ‘Text me.’

  They won’t meet at the weekend either, Samantha knows. This is a holding conversation, a wave over a wall until time and circumstances allow them to rekindle their friendship.

  ‘Listen,’ Samantha says. ‘Party animal. You’ve taken E, haven’t you?’

  ‘Er, yeah, you know I have, loads of times, why?’

  ‘Well, you remember Peter offered it to me the first time I came here?’ She pauses. Mentioning that night, Peter, is difficult. It was when life came between her and Marcia in a way so quick, so violent that neither of them noticed until it was too late. Marcia has never said she doesn’t like Peter. She’s never had to.

  ‘It was only half a pill,’ Samantha adds irrelevantly.

  ‘But you didn’t take it, did you?�
��

  ‘No. Well, sort of. I was planning to take it out and hide it but it dissolved too quickly. It tasted horrible.’

  Marcia laughs. ‘God, I’d forgotten how square you are. A whole half pill and you’re anybody’s.’

  ‘Thanks, I love you too.’ Samantha waits while Marcia gets it out of her system, reminds her of the time they had to call an ambulance after she drank two cans of extra-strong lager, the time she vomited after her first half joint. ‘I just wanted to ask,’ she goes on once Marcia’s sniggers have died down a bit. ‘Do other drugs taste like that, or just E? And can you get E in powder form, you know, like cocaine?’

  ‘Christ, Sam, what the hell is going on in that house?’

  Samantha gives a fake laugh. ‘Nothing, no, not here. It’s just something one of the mums said at playgroup.’

  In her ignorance, Marcia is still chuckling. ‘Bloody hell,’ she says. ‘What kind of crazy-ass playgroups are you going to, girl?’

  Samantha thinks quickly. She should have got her story straight. She’s an idiot.

  ‘Oh, it’s all going on in Richmond Hill, you know.’ She attempts a chuckle. ‘We’re mainlining heroin in our flat whites up here. No, actually, one of the mums has a much older child, so they were talking drugs awareness, what to do if you suspect your kid is taking something, or addicted to something, whatever.’ Or if your fully grown, hair-dyeing, abusive, narcissistic, academic twat of a partner is, she thinks.

  ‘So, what, had this woman found something in her son’s room?’

  ‘She found some pills in, like, a plastic bag, and some whitish powder. And she said it tasted like hairspray and wondered what it was.’

  ‘Sounds like MD,’ Marcia says. ‘I mean, it could be ket, sorry, ketamine. That’s pretty rank too, to be honest, but it’s usually a drip. Sounds like he’s got a baggy and some stuff to dab. MDMA, I reckon.’

  ‘Right. Cheers. That’s helpful.’

  ‘Tell her not to worry about it,’ Marcia goes on. ‘It’s just what kids are into. It’s unlikely he’s an addict. He probably just canes it on a night out, maybe has a few dabs to keep him going. Main thing is to talk to him, make sure he buddies up and doesn’t take more than he should. Honestly, some of Jacob’s mates take, like, five or six in a night.’

  ‘Five or six?’ What an education this is, talking to Marcia.

  ‘Yeah. Listen, hon, I’ve got to go. Text me about coffee, yeah?’

  ‘OK, babe. Take care. Love you.’

  ‘Love you.’

  She is still feeding Emily when her phone rings. She grabs at it, thinking it will be Christine, but it’s Aisha, calling to see if she’s OK.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Samantha tells her, feeling herself bristle. ‘It’s kind of you to call.’

  ‘Have you found out what happened?’

  Why do you care? she doesn’t say.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Do you know who this Suzanne is, or why she did it?’

  Yes, but I’m not telling you, she doesn’t say either.

  ‘Christine said she’d update me,’ she says. ‘So I’m actually just waiting for a call from her now.’ Subtext: get off the line and out of my face.

  ‘All right.’

  There is a moment of silence. Samantha has the impression Aisha wants to say something. She wanted to say something yesterday. So. They are both holding back.

  ‘Aisha?’

  ‘Sorry, yeah. Er, I’ll see you soon hopefully. Let me know if I can do anything. I’m so sorry about yesterday. Really.’

  Samantha feels herself soften. ‘That’s OK. I’m sorry for being so rude.’

  ‘Don’t even think about it. You were stressed out. I shouldn’t have pushed.’

  Another silence. Despite everything, Samantha cannot stop herself from liking this woman. Instinct tells her that without Jenny there, she would have been in less of a rush to list Peter’s shortcomings. Her instincts have been way off lately, but still, there’s something else in Aisha, some hint of damage or vulnerability that she can’t quite put her finger on.

  ‘Aisha,’ she says. ‘I’m not coming back to college.’ And like that, her decision is made.

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘It was too soon. I let Peter talk me into it, but I wasn’t ready. I thought I could manage it, but after everything that’s happened, I think I need to take some time to be with Emily and try again in six months or so, a year maybe.’

  ‘I understand. That’s a shame though – you were a good teacher.’ That pause again.

  ‘Aisha, can I ask you a weird question?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Don’t be offended and I’m not saying you have, but … have you ever taken E? You know, as in Ecstasy? What I mean is, did Peter ever ask you to take it?’

  Another pause, though this one is different. Heavier. Samantha tries not to fill the space with a thousand dark thoughts.

  ‘Shit,’ is all that Aisha mutters eventually.

  ‘Aisha?’

  ‘I, um, I think we need to meet.’

  Twenty-Eight

  As Samantha is leaving the house, a call comes in from an unknown number.

  ‘Samantha?’ It is Christine Townson’s voice.

  ‘Christine?’

  ‘Hi. How’re you feeling today?’

  ‘Ah, not bad,’ she lies. ‘Not much sleep, but Emily’s fine. It’s just a question of time now, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is, it is.’ Christine sighs. ‘So, I’ve just spoken to Ormskirk branch and they released Charlotte – or Lottie, as she likes to be called – this morning. You’re not pressing charges, apparently?’

  ‘I, er, no. No, we’re not.’ Peter must have rung them first thing; how efficient. ‘I guess there’s nothing to be gained, is there?’

  ‘No. I shouldn’t say this, but I think that’s the right decision. She’s troubled, poor thing, has a history of depression, a couple of delusional episodes, but she’s never done anything like this before and she was very upset apparently.’

  ‘Will she get help?’

  ‘She might. But mental-health services are stretched to breaking point, to be honest.’

  ‘That’s so sad.’

  ‘Well, it’s very kind of you to see it like that. Not many in your position would.’

  Not many would have the inside track. ‘Did she say why she did it?’

  ‘She reckons the dodgy poems was all she was ever going to do. For her homework, is that right?’

  ‘So she did write them?’

  ‘She did, darling.’

  Samantha’s shoulders drop. At last. Confirmation. ‘That’s right. We were quite frightened.’

  ‘Well, it seems it was your husband she had it in for, not you. Partner, sorry.’ Another piece falls exactly where Samantha knew it would.

  ‘Why would she want to hurt Peter?’ Her face glows with her own disingenuousness.

  ‘She claimed she and Peter had a relationship and she never got over it. She said it was years ago but wouldn’t say more, wouldn’t say how she met him or when, nothing. They tried to get her to talk about it, but she wouldn’t, I’m afraid. She clammed right up apparently.’

  ‘Peter told me,’ Samantha blurts, unable to stand the lie. ‘Sorry, I should have said – I’m a bit all over the place – but he recognised her name, said she was an ex. He feels sorry for her too, but I suppose he can’t be blamed for whatever grievance she carried forward.’ Her breath catches. She has just betrayed a vulnerable woman, albeit one who stole her baby.

  ‘Ms Lewis reckoned she was trying to teach him a lesson, but she said once she’d started, it all went a bit out of control. She told you she had a child, is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, she doesn’t. My guess is that the lies got on top of her and as soon as she put the baby into the car, she panicked. She said as much, said she realised the one who’d be most upset was you. She asked the officers to tell you she’s sorry. She asked them to tell you it w
as never you she wanted to hurt. She just wanted to have a baby.’

  ‘Have a baby?’

  ‘You know, for a bit. Reading between the lines, she’s not been lucky in love, so to speak. She couldn’t say what her plans were regarding little Emily. I don’t think she had any, to be honest. Your guess is as good as mine. As good as hers, if you like.’

  Samantha is about to tell Christine about Peter’s actions all those years ago. She should, really. But she doesn’t. Clearly Lottie hasn’t clarified the specifics. So here they are, herself and her child’s abductor, keeping Peter’s shoddy secrets for him. How utterly messed up.

  Christine sighs. ‘Well, as I say, there’s nothing to be gained going after her, and it’s probably for the best for yourselves too. As I say, she clammed right up, even though something was clearly still upsetting her.’

  Samantha’s stomach heats.

  ‘From what my colleague says,’ Christine goes on, ‘pressing charges in this instance could well backfire, you know, if she feels cornered.’ The subtext is so loud, the sense is distorted; Samantha cannot quite reach it. Pressing charges could well backfire …

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I have to go anyway, so I’ll leave you to it. Good to hear you’re coping well. You’ve got my number if there’s anything you need to talk about, all right? Anything at all.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Samantha manages. ‘And thanks for yesterday. I couldn’t have got through it without you.’

  ‘Well, that’s a lovely thing to say. Take care of yourself, Samantha; you’re a nice girl.’ A hesitation. ‘And call me if there’s anything – I mean it.’

  The phone line goes silent. Emily starts to fret in her pram, desperate to be on the move. Pressing charges in this instance could well backfire … call me if there’s anything – I mean it. There it is, definitely, the indefinable subtext. Clearly Christine suspects something but is not prepared to say what.