The Divorce: A gripping psychological thriller with a fantastic twist

by Victoria Jenkins

  Her mother later claimed self-defence, but Lucy knew what she had heard.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Lucy,’ Karen says, as though she knows where her mind has been; as though she has an idea of what Lucy has imagined, though she can’t possibly know anything of what she has been through. ‘You should have told me who you were. We could have talked about all this.’

  But Lucy knows she’s only saying it because there’s a knife in her hand. If she had turned up here months ago and introduced herself as Lucy Blackhurst, daughter of Stuart and Christine, she can only imagine what Karen’s reaction might have been. She doubts very much that she would have been invited in for tea.

  ‘He hurt her, didn’t he?’

  Until now, Lucy has almost forgotten that James is in the room with them. He is still standing at the window, still holding his head lowered and staring at the carpet as though if he looks hard enough the floor might give way and he’ll find an escape route from this room. Of all the things he might have asked her, Lucy can’t believe that this is it. It shouldn’t surprise her: he came here with doubts, and over the weeks, Karen has managed to persuade him that she is a trustworthy person, someone who has only their best interests at heart. He has fallen for her charms, yet another of her victims.

  Karen nods. ‘I know it’s not what either of you want to hear, but your father inflicted years of abuse upon your mother. I’m sorry,’ she says, raising a defensive hand in Lucy’s direction, ‘but that’s the truth of it. I know it’s difficult for you to accept, but she kept so much hidden to protect you. She loved you two more than anything, you must believe that.’

  ‘I don’t believe a word you say,’ Lucy says slowly. ‘You lied to the police and now you’re lying to us. My father was a good man.’

  ‘He wasn’t, though, was he, Lucy?’

  She turns sharply at her brother’s words. ‘What do you even know about anything?’ she snaps. ‘You were just a kid; you didn’t have a clue what was going on.’

  James shakes his head, exasperated. ‘I was nine, Lucy. I saw and heard plenty. Remember that time Mum fell down the stairs—’

  ‘When she was pissed, you mean?’ Lucy says, cutting him short.

  ‘She didn’t fall because she was drunk,’ he objects. ‘She fell because he pushed her.’

  Lucy shakes her head and stares at him defiantly. ‘You’re wrong.’

  ‘I’m not. And I’m not wrong about his death either. She was defending herself, Lucy.’

  She doesn’t want to hear the words; they are poison poured in her ear by a man who despite his age is still little more than a boy: a boy who only saw half-truths and used them to construct an incomplete story in his underdeveloped, childish brain. He played a man seven years older than her to meet their parents’ age difference, but this element of his performance was always the least convincing. What she said about him all those weeks ago was true: there was always something wrong with him. He wasn’t like any other kid she knew; he was withdrawn and secretive and just downright strange. He shut himself off from normal things in the same way their mother had, shunning interaction with other people and existing in his own little world of make-believe. Everyone said he was odd: teachers, medics, friends. Everyone saw what was happening to him, except their mother. No one took him seriously as a child and no one will listen to what he has to say now. Except, perhaps, Karen Fisher.

  Lucy knows what happened – she was there. Her parents argued over the divorce papers her mother had applied for after Karen told her she needed to leave her husband. When questioned by police following the death of Stuart Blackhurst, Karen Fisher claimed that Christine had endured years of emotional and psychological abuse at the hands of her husband, admitting that she had advised her client to seek a divorce. Yet no one else had seen any signs of abuse. Christine Blackhurst was a bit of a recluse, they said; she seemed socially awkward, the type of woman who preferred to keep herself to herself. No one knew what a handsome, successful man like Stuart was doing with a woman like that. People had pitied him, being tied down to such a strange and lonely character. She had done a good job in convincing the counsellor she was a victim, but nobody else was going to fall for the lie.

  Karen Fisher killed Lucy’s parents. She took Lucy’s life away. It seems only fair that she should now pay with her own. Lucy’s fingers tighten around the handle of the knife. She wonders if this is how Christine felt, moments before she plunged the blade into her father’s chest. She had hoped to take everything that was his: his money, his house; his children.

  ‘I know Mum seemed strange at times, not like normal mums, but have you ever asked yourself why that was?’ says James.

  ‘Normal mums,’ Lucy repeats. ‘Exactly. All that drinking in the house, never doing anything or taking us anywhere – that wasn’t normal. What about that time at the neighbours’ house, when we went over there for a barbecue? And that time in the restaurant, when she flirted with the waiter – that wasn’t normal either, was it?’

  Lucy glances at Karen, sees the picture falling into place as the conversations of those past weeks form an entirely different meaning. She remembers that night at the restaurant so clearly, the details of it imprinted on her brain as though it was just yesterday. She felt so sorry for her father that night. Her mother had dressed in a way she and James had never seen before, in a skirt that was far too short for a woman of her age and a low-cut top that revealed an embarrassing amount of flesh; Lucy knows that if they had left the house together, her father would never have allowed her to go out dressed like that. It wasn’t right: Christine was a woman in her thirties, not some teenage girl trying to impress on a first date. Lucy remembers how embarrassed she was by her mother’s drinking, and how the emptier the wine bottle became, the louder her mother’s voice grew. She persisted in making snide comments to their father, belittling him at every opportunity. Next to her, James was disappearing inch by inch behind the cover of his comic book. He was only nine at the time. He can’t remember things as they really were.

  ‘I don’t think any of it was normal, Lucy. It might have seemed that way at the time because that’s all we were used to, but now, looking back … I think it was a cry for help. She wanted people to see what was going on, that there was something wrong.’

  Lucy scoffs and shakes her head. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. You were too young, but trust me, I remember.’

  ‘You’ve remembered the parts you want to remember,’ he says. ‘What about all the times Mum stayed up in her room and he’d make excuses for her, saying she was ill? What kind of mother hides from her children for days on end because of a cold?’

  ‘Exactly … what kind? The kind we were lumbered with. The kind who took our father from us and then killed herself when she realised she wasn’t going to get away with it.’

  She sees Karen flinch at the mention of Christine’s suicide. Though she may have tried for all these years, she can’t possibly have forgotten what she was responsible for. James is shaking his head, intent on disagreeing with everything Lucy has told him. He thinks he understands what went on, but she knows he can’t possibly comprehend the kind of relationship their parents had. Her father did everything for her mother, gave her everything, and she repaid him with the threat of divorce. She showed her gratitude by threatening to rip his life from under his feet.

  ‘She was hiding her bruises,’ James says, his voice rising. ‘How can you be so naïve? Why are you so blinded by that man that you refuse to see him for what he really was?’

  ‘How do you know that?’ she challenges. ‘How do you know there were bruises at all?’

  ‘They were there,’ Karen says. ‘I saw them.’

  ‘You saw these as well.’ Lucy pushes her sleeve up her arm and lets her fingers trace the pale skin on which the bruising has only just begun to fade. It was all so easy; too easy, if anything. Her husband was so excited by the prospect of being allowed anywhere near her naked body that she didn’t need to encou
rage an enthusiasm that had easily gone beyond the boundaries to which they had previously ventured. She needed to add to the damage later, when she was alone; it hurt, but she couldn’t possibly hurt any more than she already was. Physical suffering seemed nothing in comparison to the pain that had existed in her head for so many years, and she knew it would all be worth it in the end.

  The man she’d been having an affair with for the past six months wasn’t too impressed when he saw the evidence of sex with the husband she claimed not to have gone anywhere near in years, but he was hardly able to complain: he was sleeping with a married woman; she was never his exclusively. She would have preferred it to be him who inflicted the bruises, but having to find an excuse to explain that away to her husband was something she simply couldn’t be bothered with.

  She drops her sleeve, her point made. ‘We just see what we want to see, don’t we, Karen?’

  She knows she has flustered her, making her question everything she thought to be real. If Lucy managed to fool her, then why can’t the same be said of Christine?

  Karen shakes her head. ‘I know what I saw. Not just of your mother, but of your father. I know what he was, Lucy.’

  Lucy steps towards her, holding the knife in line with the other woman’s throat. How easy it would be, she thinks, to just end it all here, to watch her fall at her feet and know that justice has finally been delivered. But it would be over too quickly, the pain ended too soon. Lucy has suffered for decades. Karen deserves something more.

  Thirteen

  Karen

  I hadn’t expected to see either of them again, although I knew as soon as I stepped into the kitchen just how naïve that thought had been. Perhaps I believed that James had been able to convince his sister of the absurdity of their charade, or maybe I assumed that Lucy had grown bored of playing Lydia and would focus her energies elsewhere. Either way, I realise their commitment to this game they have been playing these past couple of months far exceeds my expectations. I wonder now just how far they will take it. How does this all end?

  Lucy is standing in front of me, her eyes ablaze with a hatred that manages to exude a stifling heat. I feel her anger scorch my skin as though she has taken a match to my flesh, and a headache pulses between my eyes, blurring my vision and making me dizzy.

  Knowing now who he really is, I have searched online for James Blackhurst, but he keeps a low profile, with no social media accounts boasting of his antics. I haven’t been able to find out anything about him: where he lives, where he works, whether he has a family of his own. Lucy doesn’t have a job; she has no need for one. It appears her wealthy husband funds the lavish life of luxury her social media posts would have everyone believe she lives. And yet I suspect that is all it is: appearance. Nobody truly happy and content with their own life could wish to wreak mayhem on another’s in the way that Lucy Spencer seems so intent on doing upon mine.

  I have also returned to the articles about Stuart and Christine’s deaths, reports I have known for years exist online. In the past I have done everything I can to avoid having to look at and linger over them. I have glanced at them briefly, curiosity always getting the better of me, but I never needed to read them in full: I have always known what happened. Their stories are as integrated with my life as my own.

  I hold Lucy’s gaze, wanting her to believe that I am not afraid of her. The truth is, this woman terrifies me. I know nothing about her: I have never known her.

  ‘Everything you’ve told me is a lie.’

  She smiles at me, perplexed. ‘On the contrary … everything we’ve told you is the truth. It’s just not our truth. That doesn’t make it any less real, does it?’

  I don’t know what more I can say to her. Lucy is fixed on her beliefs and it appears they are unchangeable. Though both she and James are here, I realise their motives over these past couple of months have been entirely different. For Lucy, this has been about revenge. For James, it is about finding the truth; a truth that in his heart I know he already believed before coming here for the first time. He just wanted to have it confirmed.

  I called the police. Realising what had been happening here over these past couple of months, and knowing that one of them – presumably Lucy – was responsible for the emails I’d been sent, I called and spoke to an officer who couldn’t have sounded less interested in what I had to tell her. She asked me whether either of them had harmed me or threatened me harm. Not yet, I told her, but I couldn’t be sure whether they intended to. I couldn’t be sure of anything. I heard her sigh at the other end of the phone, with no attempt made to disguise her lack of interest. After explaining who James and Lucy are and how they are connected to me, the officer’s attitude was unchanging. Neither of them has committed a crime, she told me. I disagreed. I argued that it was fraudulent behaviour, that it was intimidating and threatening, but I knew I was getting nowhere. She told me there was nothing they were able to do unless the situation escalated.

  And now they are here, with Lucy right in front of me, a kitchen knife clutched in her fist. Has the situation escalated enough now?

  ‘So tell me,’ she says, stepping away from me and sitting at the opposite end of the sofa, resting the hand that holds the knife on her knee. ‘What was my father like then? You seem to have known him so well – far better than his own children ever did.’

  I know that the rational, sensible thing to do here would be to give an account of Stuart Blackhurst as the man she believes herself to have known: the long-suffering husband and loving father; the man wrongly accused of a crime for which he was later found not guilty. Perhaps there is no one left to hurt in telling the lie, but despite this, I know I can’t do it. Stuart Blackhurst assaulted that girl, of that I have always been convinced. She would be in her late thirties now, not much older than Lucy is – not much older than Christine was when she came to me for help – and if I speak these words – if I tell this lie that has already been uttered far too many times – I make a mockery of his victim, yet another person to fail her in denying what that man was.

  ‘Your father had a narcissistic personality disorder.’

  Her eyes narrow at the words; on her knee, her hand tightens its grip on the knife’s handle.

  Another thing strikes me: it is obvious that Lucy regards herself as a woman who has nothing to lose. Her parents are dead, and she has admitted that she sees no future for her marriage. The relationship she might once have had with her brother has been pushed to breaking point by the events of the past couple of months, and as such she may consider herself in that most dangerous of positions: willing to do anything for what she believes to be right.

  Does Lucy Spencer – Lucy Blackhurst – frighten me?

  Of course she does. There is nothing more frightening than someone who has nothing left to lose; no one to be feared more greatly than a person who has nothing standing in their way.

  ‘Is this one of your textbook analyses?’ she asks, gesturing to the shelves of the bookcase.

  ‘I’ve met plenty of narcissists in my time,’ I tell her. ‘They become easy to spot.’

  ‘And my father demonstrated which of the relevant qualities, would you say?’

  ‘Take your pick. He was self-interested, arrogant, manipulative. He lacked empathy and showed no remorse for any of his actions. He was capable of being charming, but only when it served the purpose of achieving his own aims.’

  ‘Wow,’ Lucy says, standing from the sofa to face me. ‘You really are a walking textbook.’

  ‘You’re going to believe what you want anyway.’

  ‘Give an example.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘An example of one of the above. Let’s choose … arrogance, say.’

  It is obvious to anyone that Lucy is an extremely troubled young woman, but I wonder just how deep these troubles run and what exactly she is capable of. Does her brother know how far she will go?

  ‘You’re asking me to recall something that happened twenty years ag
o?’

  I wonder whether she’s been drinking. Her movements are clumsy, her words at times erratic, and it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen signs that she has a problem she isn’t keen to acknowledge. Her mother drank: in her case, it was a form of escape. Christine mentioned her habit just the once, but when I tried to press the subject, she froze on me, regretting having spoken the words as soon as they left her mouth; just another of the truths she had tried to ignore.

  ‘It shouldn’t be too difficult, though, should it?’ Lucy challenges. ‘You seem to remember the details of my father’s personality so well, you should be able to recall why you made the judgement that he was arrogant.’

  In truth, I do remember all too well. I saw the extent of Stuart Blackhurst’s dual personality one day at work, having just witnessed an exchange between him and one of my colleagues. He was nothing but politeness and charm in the small waiting room that sat between our offices, yet as soon as the door to mine was closed behind him, it was as though a switch had been flicked, and in place of the man who had moments earlier greeted my colleague with a wide smile and a door held open for her, there sat a man whose cold demeanour chilled the room by several degrees.

  ‘I know what you are,’ I said to him once, when Christine had left the two of us alone for a moment.

  ‘And what’s that exactly?’

  ‘You’re a bully. You might control Christine, but you won’t control me.’

  I remember him stepping nearer to me, so close that I could smell his aftershave. ‘Is that so?’ he said, leaning towards me, his face just inches from my own. ‘And just what are you going to do about it?’