From the Inside

by Collette Heather

  FROM THE INSIDE

  A PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER

  BY

  COLLETTE HEATHER

  COPYRIGHT

  COLLETTE HEATHER 2020

  From The Inside

  A psychological Thriller

  by

  Collette Heather

  Copyright Collette Heather 2020

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This book may not be reproduced or used in any way without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews. The characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

  PART ONE

  DAISY

  CHAPTER ONE

  DAISY

  March 18th

  He comes to this coffee-house chain in Liverpool Street most mornings, on his way to work. I don’t know why. One would think, with him being at the higher end of the food chain in the financial sector, he would have access to a kettle.

  Today, he has company – a man, slightly younger, a little taller, but a clone of him. Both are dark, handsome and wearing suits from Saville Row. Luke’s grey suit came from Saville Row anyway – I know this because I followed him there once. They carry themselves with all the entitled arrogance that only the more successful in life were able to do.

  “You haven’t forgotten about The King’s Head after work, have you?” the younger man asks him as they queue up for their coffee.

  “No. I can’t stay for long, though. I promised the wife I’d be home at a reasonable hour.”

  “Go to keep the ball and chain happy, I suppose.”

  I don’t catch Luke’s reply as the queue has moved forward slightly, further away from my window seat where I sit perched on a stool at the long wooden bar that runs the length of the front window overlooking the busy street.

  He doesn’t see me. He never does. Not to my knowledge, anyway. I can blend when I need to. Today, I have my expensively highlighted hair scraped back in a ponytail and tucked into my green parka, a dark beanie pulled down to my eyebrows. A woolly cream scarf hides my chin. I am invisible.

  I don’t care that I’m going to miss the rest of the conversation – I’ve heard everything that I need to know. This is what one might call my lucky break. He never goes out after work hours. Not without her anyway, and not in the two months that I’ve been following him.

  Finally, things are going my way. Finally, I can put my plan into action.

  *

  I stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror of the wardrobe door in the cramped bedroom. I look good – a far cry from the way I look when I am secretly watching him. Most women have that power, I think – women, far more so than men. The average woman can look like two different people; there is the dolled-up version and the slobbed-out version. Men always still look like themselves, just a scruffier or smarter version thereof. I like that about my own sex. Our chameleon abilities.

  Coldly – clinically – I assess myself in the mirror. I derive no real pleasure from my relatively newfound perfect figure, it is merely a means to an end. A weapon of destruction, if you will. I don’t consider myself arrogant, just honest. I work hard to look this way. It is an ongoing, expensive and time-consuming project that has taken exactly one year, it being exactly one year ago that I had made the decision to change. To change into this, for him.

  Smoothing down the knee-length, long-sleeved, tight black dress over my firm curves, I stare dispassionately at my flat stomach. Any red-blooded man would notice me – he would have to be blind or gay not to.

  Mind you, I need to look this good, if I am to compete with her. She may have a ten-month-old child, but she has kept her figure. And I could never attain her tall, naturally willowy figure, no matter how many surgeons I consult, or gym hours I put in. I am bigger boned, wider hipped, and five foot four, which is almost five whole inches shorter than her.

  But I still look good. It all comes back to the whole chameleon thing. Any woman can become beautiful, I truly believe that. Deformities notwithstanding – and even those can usually be glossed over, provided they aren’t too extreme – all women are capable of appearing beautiful.

  Happy with my choice of clothing, knowing that this dress will look great with the shin-length, dark-brown boots and the leather jacket in the exact same shade, cropped short so that he won’t have the chance of missing the sight of my well-squatted derriere, should I be wearing said jacket at any point during our encounter – I make my way into the bathroom, which is just off the small bedroom.

  If I was feeling generous – and somewhat imaginative – I might describe this bathroom as en-suite, but the truth of the matter is, my flat is just tiny. I live in a ground-floor apartment, situated in a four-storied, Victorian terraced house in the heart of Brixton. It’s a million miles away from the three-bedroomed, semi-detached I used to inhabit with my ex-husband in Brighton.

  I lean over the small sink, peering at my face in the mirror. The surgeon who performed rhinoplasty on me deserves a medal. You would never know from looking at me that I’ve had work done. I haven’t had much done, just a few minor tweaks, but it’s those tiny little imperfections that make or break a woman’s face, that lift it from ordinary to extraordinary. Or so I think, anyway. I stare at the smooth bridge of my nose – I had the small bump taken out of it, and now it’s a vastly improved nose. I still think it’s a shade too large, but I guess it gives my face character and a certain strength. It stops me looking plastic and fake. I’ve also had Botox injected into my forehead and the tramlines that used to run parallel to my mouth. I may only be thirty-five, just a year older than her, but a year of solid crying took its heavy toll on my face. I’ve had my upper lip enhanced with fillers – only the absolute minimum, but it makes such a difference. I’ve also had my teeth fixed. It’s amazing what a Hollywood-style smile does for a face, how the veneers work to fill out the jaw area and lend my face far more structured angles. That, coupled with the weight I’ve lost, and the whole series of facials and chemical peels I endured, my face is now more Kiera Knightly (if Kiera Knightly had a larger nose and was a blue-eyed blonde) and less puffy housewife.

  I didn’t always look like this. Far from it, in fact. I used to be what you might call mousy. Plain at best, flat-out ugly at worst. I was one of those mumsy types. Overweight, harried, not especially interested in my appearance.

  Unless I was going somewhere nice of course, and then I would have a meltdown of sorts in the bedroom because my clothes were rubbish and I couldn’t fit into most of them properly, anyway. I was a size fourteen back then, instead of the neat(ish) size ten to twelve I used to be pre-Lucy, and a far cry-cry from the worked-out size six-to-eight that I am now. I never used to use nice beauty products, and my prematurely greying, mousy-brown hair was dry, frizzy and unkempt, falling to my shoulders in a one-length, cheap and unflattering cut. Back then, I didn’t know my Clarins from Poundland. I would’ve argued with you that all beauty products are the same. I have since found out that they’re not.

  Then I would forget all of my beauty woes over a glass of Chardonnay or three, because who cares about such shallow stuff anyway, which further exacerbated the weight problem and dull, lifeless skin.

  I gaze at my face in the mirror. I am ready, but I still have an hour to kill. I apply another slick of gloss to my already-perfect pout, wondering what to do with myself.

  But this is a rhetorical question because I know exactly what I am going to do with myself.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Stalking Tanya on social media is akin to picking at a scab – initially gratifying, then dissatisfying, and ultimately painful. I am fully aware of how unhealthy it is, constantly opening up this old, festering wound, but I can do no
more to stop myself than I can prevent the sun from rising tomorrow. She has, unbeknown to her, become the centre of my Universe – someone whom I orbit around.

  The point of my existence is to ruin hers.

  I perch there on the edge of the three-seater, plain grey sofa with the soft-to-the-touch cushions in this tiny living-room come kitchen. I suppose that the place looks nice enough – it’s not like I’m poverty stricken or anything, and I can afford nice things – and if there were more rooms like this one, then my pad would be positively luxurious. But there aren’t more rooms. There is only my small bedroom with the ‘en-suite’ bathroom that is joined to this room by the broom-cupboard of a hallway.

  With trembling hands, I open up her Facebook page. I wonder if she even knows that she’s open for all and sundry to spy on. Facebook is constantly changing its privacy settings, catching people like Tanya out. Or perhaps she knows and doesn’t care. She should care. There are a lot of weirdos out there, which is precisely why I don’t use social media. Okay, so I’m on it now, but this is a fake account on privacy lockdown with no friends or personal details. I have called myself Claire Brinkley, a completely random, made-up name. I only use it to look at her. Her husband is far more sensible, for he doesn’t use social media at all.

  I stare at her name – Tanya Crawford – next to her beautiful profile picture. ‘Crawford’ is her married name, she was ‘Everett’ back when she was a husband-thieving, life-wrecking slut. Not that she has ever stopped being those things, because a leopard doesn’t change its spots. And she must pay for the things she has done.

  I realise that I am holding my breath, and I shakily exhale. I force myself to look at her softly-smiling headshot – a selfie – and feel the hatred bubbling and boiling in my guts.

  Look at her, a little voice taunts in my mind. Just look at that expression. Like butter wouldn’t melt…

  She makes me feel sick. As well as her beauty, which is of the delicate variety, she positively radiates innocence, warmth and kindness. I hate her for that. Her face is a complete lie. She may look like an angel, but she is a whore. She is far more wholesome looking than me, and I will never be as beautiful, no matter what I do.

  I hate, hate, hate her. Seething, I flick through her collection of profile pictures – something that I have done a thousand times before. In some, she is with Luke, and the rest are just of her. She is never pictured with anyone other than Luke, nor does her baby ever feature in her profile pictures. There are thirty photos in total in this album, each one more sickening than the last.

  She looks so much like Nicole Kidman – a young, plastic-free version with loose, rather than spiral curls – it makes me want to reach into the computer screen and claw out her baby-blue eyes. And what makes it worse is that Luke bears more than a passing resemblance to Tom Cruise. I wonder if she married him for that reason. No, I doubt it. His vast wealth surely played a part.

  Now I have finished with that torture, I head on over to her timeline, which is also open. This is where I find all her happy-family pictures, mainly consisting of photos of her little girl, Bella. She doesn’t post much, perhaps once a month, but they are all of Bella and occasionally Bella and Luke. She never gets political, or posts stupid memes, or goes off on a rant about anything. Instead, she paints a picture of glorious, domestic bliss.

  I think I want to kill her.

  When I can stand it no more, I slam down the lid. Scratching my Tanya-scab is no longer pleasurable, but has slipped over into the realms of pain.

  There are still forty-five minutes before I have to leave. I place the laptop next to me on the sofa, and stare dead ahead at a blank spot on the white wall.

  And I wait.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I have arranged to meet Crystal in The King’s Head at four forty-five, figuring that would give me plenty of time to debrief her.

  But now, as I sit here opposite her, I am beginning to think that I may have overestimated the length of time that our debriefing was going to take. It will probably be at least half past five by the time Luke makes his appearance – it’s now five o’clock, and I’ve already gone over everything twice.

  I’m irritated that I have to make conversation with this silly girl – she of the disastrous life choices – and I really don’t want to be here, talking to her. She serves as a stark reminder that I’m not so far removed her, when it all boils down to it. That, if everything goes to plan, I’m not much better than a prostitute myself.

  “Is Crystal your real name?” I ask, doing my best to ignore her empty glass, as gin and tonic isn’t exactly the cheapest drink in this establishment. Besides, her hourly rate that the agency quoted me is already high enough – I hadn’t even factored in the cost of keeping her in drinks on top of that.

  “No, but it could be, right? Some of the girls at my agency have really stupid names, like Candy Kane, or Kitty Von Teese. I think it’s really dumb. You gotta keep things real.”

  I do my best to keep my expression neutral. “Yeah.”

  She is fiddling with her empty glass – a pointed gesture that I know can’t go ignored much longer.

  “It’s dangerous for us to use our real names,” she says in an ominously low voice. “Especially our surnames.”

  “Right,” I say, all the while musing to myself that her time as a prostitute must have addled her brain. That, and all the drugs she had undoubtedly ingested has made her paranoid.

  But then, I’m a fine one to talk, because for the purposes of tonight, I’m not going by my real name of Daisy Montgomery (I kept my married name, not reverting back to my maiden name of Barton) and instead have christened myself Alice Jones.

  She picks up her glass, goes to drink it, then places it back on the tabletop with a loud sigh.

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Would you like another drink?”

  “Oh, yes please.”

  “Right.”

  Scraping back my high, wooden stool over the dark oak boards, I make my way over to the equally dark bar.

  It had been relatively quiet when I had first entered The King’s Head, but now it is beginning to fill up again. Although, no pub in the London borough of Liverpool Street is ever truly quiet. I glance around myself. Most people in here appear to be fresh off the train – the majority of whom are harried-looking couples of varying ages, all trailing little suitcases on wheels behind them. The rest of the cliental consists of men in suits. I assume that they must work in the financial district, like Luke. I wonder if any of them know Luke. Maybe. He’s a high-powered kind of guy whose name carries weight. There are very few women in here, apart from the travellers washed up from the station.

  I order the drinks – two more gin and tonics – and look over at my girl, sitting there alone at our high, round table and staring out of the window. Not that she could actually see anything, for the lower portion of the window is frosted, with ‘The King’s Head’ painted on the glass, the lettering backwards from the inside.

  As the good-looking young barman, who is dressed in black from head to toe, whips up my drinks, I study the girl.

  I had asked her to dress conservatively, to not look too obvious in our email exchange this morning. I had told her to think ‘PR girl in the city’. I’m guessing that this is her idea of not too obvious and smart. She is bare-legged, wearing a mid-thigh, fitted, pin-striped grey skirt – a skirt that rides all the way up as she sits there cross-legged on her stool. Her shoes are black stilettos and she is wearing a black halter-neck top. She hasn’t brought a coat with her, despite the unpredictable, mid-March weather. I think, more than anything, it is the lack of coat that makes her look cheap. The biggest giveaway as to who – and what – she is. Also, her choice of clothes is just odd. Maybe odd is too strong a word, it’s just that the end result looks a little off. A little too much like a girl playing dress-up.

  Or maybe this is just because I know what she is.

  I carry the drinks back over to the girl, feeling dis
tinctly dreamlike and strange, like none of this is real. For a fleeting moment, I wonder if it’s not too late for me. I could just turn around right now, walk out the door and forget about them – about Luke and Tanya Crawford.

  But I can’t do that. I’m in too deep. A chain of events was set in motion two and a half years ago and I am powerless to stop it. I have been led irreversibly to this one moment. There is no turning back now.

  I’m addicted to you, don’t you know that you’re toxic, Britney Spears chides me, her knowing, sarcastic voice hanging suspended in the air around me, keeping me well and truly topped up with that strong sense of unreality.

  The girl – Crystal – half-heartedly smiles at me when I place our drinks on the table, but she doesn’t thank me and proceeds to knock back a third of the glass in one hit.

  I watch her closely, thinking how dull her blue eyes appear. The strangest thought pops into my head, that her eyes are dirty because she hasn’t rinsed them properly. Because there’s no better word to describe them than grubby, the blue seemingly smeared with a layer of brown sludge. Or maybe it’s just the hard emptiness of her soul shining out.

  I catch myself, realising that I’m being uncharitable, but there’s no escaping it – she is one hard young woman. And yes, she is still young – her profile on the agency’s website cites her age as twenty-four. I believe it, even though she looks much older. It’s not that she’s wrinkled – she isn’t – but her face is hard, devoid of character and empathy. Her features are sharp, her thin lips severe, her blonde hair a shade too pale and a touch too straight. The overall impression she gives off is one of cold emptiness.

  Does it matter? I tell myself crossly. I have a propensity towards overanalysing everything and everyone. I don’t think I used to be this way, it was only when I discovered that my husband was cheating on me did it start. Like I was somehow trying to make up for my lack of judgement from back then. I became obsessed with reading people, trying to figure out when they were lying, when their thoughts didn’t match the words coming out of their mouths. I concede, that it’s a bit like closing the stable door after the horse has bolted, but what can I say? I am a damaged woman.