Dying To See You: a dark and deadly psychological thriller

by Kerena Swan

  Ivy turns to the little side table next to her winged chair and opens the top drawer. The ornaments on top wobble precariously and I reach out, grabbing a heavy paperweight to stop it rolling off. It’s a globe of glass with teasels frozen into its centre.

  ‘Shall I put this somewhere else?’ I ask. ‘It might get damaged being on there.’

  ‘No! I like it near me. It’s special. It’s the first gift I ever had.’ Her tone softens. ‘Dorothy bought it for me.’

  ‘Who’s Dorothy?’

  ‘She was the closest thing to a mother I ever had and sadly that was only for two years. I don’t even remember being with her.’

  ‘What happened to your mother?’ Ivy’s facial muscles seem to have given in to gravity and her smile has fallen away. Her sadness thickens the air between us.

  ‘She died giving birth to me.’

  ‘How awful!’ I put my hand to my mouth.

  ‘Dorothy found me, but it was too late to save my mother,’ Ivy continues. ‘After two years my dad insisted on having me back. My stepmother resented me from the start and didn’t love me.’

  ‘That’s so sad.’ I want to hug her and she looks up at me – a puppy at a rescue centre begging for a morsel of affection. The moment lasts too long, and I shift uncomfortably and gently pat her arm then worry she may think I’m being insincere.

  ‘Is there anything else I can do before I leave?’

  ‘No, I’ll be fine now.’ She pats my hand and smiles at me then turns back to the drawer. ‘Ah, here they are, have a chewy mint,’ she offers, her mood bright and cheery again.

  I decline politely and pick up my bag saying I need to eat lunch soon. I’m about to leave when I hear the back door open and feel a thrill of anticipation. Is this Max?

  ‘Hi, Nan,’ his strong voice calls from the kitchen. ‘Do you fancy a cup of tea?’

  He enters the room, the bright kitchen window behind him causing his face to be in shadow so I can’t read his expression. ‘Oh. Sophie! I didn’t expect to see you here. I thought you only organised the care.’ He smiles at me and I see his even, white teeth shine in the half light.

  Instinct tells me he’s fibbing and I feel a flurry of excitement. He’s planned this because he’s seen the rota. I smile back at him thinking about the small boy he once was. I feel a rush of warmth towards him and really want to get to know him better.

  ‘I’m covering sessions until I have sufficient staff. I’m about to leave,’ I say. ‘I have to be somewhere else in twenty minutes.’

  ‘That’s a shame. I was going to offer you a cup of tea.’

  I’m really tempted to stay but know I won’t have time to eat lunch and be punctual for my next appointment if I do. As I collect my stuff, Ivy is watching me closely. I think she’s trying to suss out what I think of her grandson.

  ‘Are you coming back later?’ she asks.

  ‘No. Sorry, Ivy. You’ll have Patience and Lydia from now on, but if there’s any problem you can call me.’

  Ivy sits back in her chair, folds her arms, and pouts like a child.

  ‘I’d rather you visit me,’ she says.

  ‘I wish I could, Ivy, but my role is planning your care and only covering in emergencies if someone goes off sick or their car breaks down. I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon, though.’

  Max follows me out of the room to the front door. ‘How have you been, Sophie?’ he asks in a low voice. ‘Any more breathing or heart problems?’

  ‘Not since yesterday,’ I reply. ‘I really don’t know why it happened, but thanks for helping me.’

  ‘Any time,’ he says. Then he pauses before asking, ‘Do you fancy going for a coffee sometime?’

  Wow! Maybe he is single then. I know he only said coffee but it’s a start. Inside I’m leaping with excitement.

  ‘That would be nice,’ I say.

  We arrange to meet the next day at a café some distance from my office. I shouldn’t socialise with relatives so I don’t want Karen seeing me. She’s bound to ask who Max is. As I turn away, he brushes against my arm and I feel a shiver of delight. I can’t wait to see him again. Maybe this will be my third time lucky. I’d promised myself not to hope too much but I can’t help crossing my fingers in my pocket. It’s about time I found the right one and Max is ticking all the boxes. I find myself fantasizing about a future where I don’t have to be lonely or dread the postman bringing bills. It would be so wonderful to have a soulmate by my side to share in life’s ups and downs. As I leave Ivy’s front garden and head back along the street to my car, I have to stop myself from giving a little skip.

  16

  I feel chilly in the damp early evening air but I’m prepared to put up with a little discomfort to spend some time alone with Dad and continue the long tradition of helping him with simple gardening tasks. Tonight, I’m holding the sides of the green sack apart so he can fill it with soggy leaves. Nutmeg is standing next to me, alternately watching her master and grinning at me – her feathery golden retriever tail a steady drum beat on the side of the bag. As I bend over further to move some leaves obstructing the handle, I feel her hot breath on my face and before I can retreat she slurps her wet tongue up the side of my cheek.

  ‘Eurgh! Meg, that’s disgusting,’ I complain.

  Dad looks up from the leaf pile and laughs. ‘She’s just pleased to see you,’ he says. ‘We both are.’

  I feel an instant pang of guilt. I really should visit more often but with working full-time I find it difficult to fit in my daily chores, let alone social visits.

  ‘How’s the job going?’ he asks, as if he can read my mind.

  ‘Good, thanks. I really enjoy it. Most of the people I meet are lovely.’ I instantly think of Max and feel colour rising in my cheeks, so I bend over quickly to ruffle Meg’s furry neck.

  ‘Most of them?’ he enquires.

  ‘We get the occasional stroppy client who we just can’t please, but not many, thankfully. Are you still enjoying retirement?’ I was a bit worried about Dad when he finally left his job as a car test driver. He used to spend his days driving cars at speed around a test track, through wind tunnels and over rumble strips measuring how the vehicles responded to gruelling conditions. He has never been one for sitting around idly watching TV or reading a book.

  ‘I love it,’ he says, surprising me. ‘I’ve finally got the time to do all the things I wanted to but life got in the way.’

  I look at his hands with nails framed in soil, at his muddy boots and padded body warmer. His grey hair sticks out in tufts like lambs’ wool caught on a fence and his chin sports three-day-old matching stubble. He’s been planting daffodil bulbs this afternoon and has indulged himself in his favourite pastime of mowing the lawn. He says he’ll miss doing that task over the winter.

  ‘I may join the bowls club,’ he says, looking at me with amusement and I grin. We’ve had a running joke over the years that if ever a person wants to feel more youthful they join the bowls club where the average age seems to be seventy-five. ‘No, actually, I’ve started playing golf and, even though I say it myself, I think I’m a natural. But anyway, enough about me. What’s happening in your life? Is everything OK?’

  Dad gives me a searching look and I feel tempted to let my gaze slide away. There’s no point though. Dad knows me better than anyone and I can’t hide stuff from him. I’ve always been close to my dad. I think it stems from long summers spent driving around with him when he was a sales rep and reading a book while waiting for him at various factories, then going for picnics on riverbanks or eating hot buttered toast in service stations.

  ‘Life is good,’ I reply. ‘I just struggle a bit with the bills sometimes. Maybe I should take in a lodger.’

  I say this as a joke, but it suddenly occurs to me this may not be a bad idea. I could move Tilly to the small room under the eaves in the attic and rent out her larger room. She wouldn’t be too impressed, but I could offer to give her a small portion of the income each month. I�
�d have to clear out all the junk though.

  ‘Sounds a bit dodgy to me,’ says Dad. ‘How do you know if you can trust someone? They could be a complete fruit cake or a mad axe murderer.’

  ‘That’s the sort of thing Tilly would say. I’d have to vet them carefully,’ I explain, warming to the theme now. ‘I could ask for references and phone them up.’ Shame I hadn’t checked for references when I met the kids’ dads. Wouldn’t life be better if we could check people out like we do employees to see if they would make trustworthy friends, lovers, and husbands? At least Max comes highly recommended by his nan.

  ‘I’m not keen on the idea of you having a complete stranger in your house,’ Dad says. ‘Why don’t you tell us when you have a bill you can’t pay?’

  ‘You’ve worked hard for your pension, Dad, and I want you to enjoy it. I’ll sort something out.’ I don’t want to take money they may need themselves.

  I want to be independent and not keep running back to the ‘Bank of Mum and Dad’ whenever things get tough. I also can’t face the perennial lecture from Mum about picking the wrong men. Mum means well but she actually piled the financial pressures on me by persuading my nana to leave some money to me on the condition I use it as a deposit on my own property. The mortgage is the proverbial millstone around my neck, though perhaps I’d be paying almost as much each month if I were renting.

  ‘And I want to show you I can manage,’ I add, and omit saying I’m two months behind on the mortgage payments. Fixing the boiler and getting the clutch done on my car had to take priority as I needed to keep the kids warm and get to work. I know my parents don’t have a stash of cash in the bank, so I haven’t told them. A lodger, though? Now there’s a thought.

  ‘I think dinner’s ready.’ Dad’s shaking my arm gently, pointing down the garden at Mum waving from the back door.

  ‘Oh, sorry! That’s good. I’m starving.’ The idea of taking in a lodger is running through my head. I could paint Tilly’s room a neutral colour – she’s tired of bright pink anyway – and let her choose a colour for the attic room. I wonder what the going rate is for renting a room.

  We trudge back down the damp garden with Nutmeg at our heels and step into the warm kitchen. The delicious smell of a beef casserole makes my stomach growl in anticipation.

  ‘Boots off!’ Mum instructs.

  Dad turns to me and rolls his eyes like a chastised teenager, and I suppress a giggle. Nutmeg slinks into her basket before she gets berated for her muddy paws. Mia is standing on a chair at the breakfast bar with her sleeves rolled up and flour on her nose. She’s wielding a rolling pin with surprising dexterity and flattening a piece of grey-looking pastry.

  She looks across at me and says proudly ‘We’ve made apple pie and I’m making biscuits.’

  ‘Ooh, lovely.’ I smile at her and think appreciatively what a homely domestic scene this is. Tilly is sitting at the table with her grandad’s laptop open. I walk around to see what she’s doing, and she slams the lid down.

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to close it down properly before you shut the lid?’ I ask, hurt she doesn’t want me to see what she was looking at. ‘What are you hiding?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she says lifting her jaw. ‘I’m just packing up because dinner’s ready.’

  She stands up, tucks the laptop under her arm and leaves the room. It feels strangely empty now. I collect cutlery from the drawer and lay the table, murmuring encouragements to Mia about the misshapen lumps of sticky dough she’s wrestling from the pastry cutter. I glance at the doorway, waiting for Tilly to reappear. I can hear her in the hall chatting to her grandad. I don’t like not knowing what she does on the computer. You hear such terrible stories about paedophiles pretending to be friends. I’ll ring Dad later to ask him to check his browser history for me.

  No one warns you when you have children that you will spend your whole life worrying about them. It starts when they are tiny, with hazards such as choking, contagious infections, bumped heads, and trapped fingers; then, once they venture into the world, it becomes fear of abuse, getting run over, being bullied, or abduction. There’s no end in sight either and I’m dreading Tilly learning how to drive and coming in late at night. Even walking 100 metres to the babysitting job makes me feel hollow with anxiety. I wouldn’t class myself as a person who worries unnecessarily, and I wonder how people of a more nervous disposition actually cope. But then I do have a creepy bus stop opposite my house.

  As we sit round the table enjoying Mum’s cooking, Dad turns the conversation to money and I cringe inwardly. I should have told him not to mention my idea of taking a lodger in front of Tilly. She’ll go mad.

  ‘Sophie’s thinking of taking in a lodger,’ Dad declares.

  My heart sinks and I look at Tilly. She’s lowered her fork and is looking at me with a horrified expression.

  ‘It was just an idea,’ I say quickly. ‘We’d need to talk about it properly before we decided anything.’ I look daggers at Dad. ‘Guess what!’ I say, blindly fumbling for something else to talk about. ‘I’ve been asked out for a coffee by a handsome man.’ As soon as the words leave my mouth I could kick myself.

  Tilly has put her cutlery down now and pushed her plate away. Mum and Dad have fixed me with expectant gazes.

  ‘It’s only a coffee. It’s not like it’s going to change my life or anything.’ I smile at Tilly and reach out to put my hand on hers.

  She pulls it away and I fear for a horrible moment she’s going to storm out of the room. She picks up her fork again and continues to eat.

  ‘Mummy! You forgot your promise.’ Mia suddenly shouts. ‘You said we would go on holiday tonight.’

  I’d completely forgotten about our game.

  ‘A holiday?’ Mum looks at me quizzically.

  ‘Just one of our make-believe games,’ I explain and launch into the story of how Mia had her costume on under her uniform.

  Tilly relaxes and her mouth twitches with the beginnings of a smile. I promise myself I’ll make time to sit and talk with her later.

  As we leave, Dad hugs me and says he’ll come over at the weekend to do a spot of gardening.

  ‘I’ll come too,’ Mum says brightly. ‘I’m sure you could do with a hand with cleaning or ironing.’

  I accept gratefully. I always struggle to get everything done. So much for being independent.

  17

  The torchlight dances on the wet grass but gives little visibility. Max catches a spiky twig on his trouser leg and curses under his breath. He really doesn’t want to be here, but he knows he has to check out the hiding place he spotted a couple of days ago. Peacock House looms darkly behind him, the windows like the blank eyes of a corpse.

  Max skirts around the edges of the flower borders, walking on tiptoe so as not to leave footprints in the dewy overgrown lawn. There’s no light in the area; neighbouring houses are too far away, and the streetlights don’t go as far as the lane. A cloud scuds past the moon and the garden is momentarily lit with muted greys. A large object throws a dark shadow across the grass and Max flicks his torch upwards quickly to get a better look. Green stained tarpaulin drapes down the sides and flaps gently in the breeze.

  Max steps forward and gently lifts a corner to peer underneath. He drops it again and circles round to the back, avoiding a disused garden roller and cold frame, then lifts the tarpaulin again. Here it is. He pulls it higher and ducks his head underneath then grabs the small swivel handle. The door opens with a stiff creak and the caravan exhales a fetid breath of damp and mould. It must have been here for years. Why do people keep old caravans? Leaving them to quietly rot away alongside battered old cars, lawn mowers, and bicycles? What’s the point?

  He steps inside the caravan, his heart beating faster at being in such a small space, and clutches the door frame as it tilts a little. Maybe he should check the feet are lowered properly before he comes back here. Anyway, he has a bit of time. He doesn’t need to bring anyone yet. This will be perfect though. It
could be a long time before anything is discovered.

  He shines the torch around the interior. Tattered brown curtains stretched across wires barely cover the windows. Rectangular seat cushions upholstered in an orange nylon fabric sit on wooden plinths around the three end walls. If he removes the cushions he will find the wooden boxes underneath with lids and room for storage. His mum took him to a caravan for a weekend by the sea when he was a kid. He lifts one a couple of inches and shines his torch through the gap. An old blue sleeping bag is rolled up inside. He pokes it then jumps back as he detects movement.

  ‘Shit!’ The sleeping bag is crawling with mice. He slams the lid down quickly, recoiling in horror. He hates mice. When he was a kid he put his hand into the Mother’s Pride bag in the old wooden bread bin and felt a warm, wriggly body inside and it had sunk its sharp teeth into his finger. He’d had to shake his hand to dislodge it. Even now, the memory makes a shudder run up his spine. He’ll have to try another storage box but not tonight. He’s had enough of this.

  But it’s a decent hiding place. He steps out of the caravan and rearranges the covering. Heading back to the car, he’s suddenly desperate to see Sophie. He wants to forget about death and decay. He wants warmth and vibrancy. Tonight though, he’s going to go home and try to eat properly. He needs to maintain some control in his life. He might even call in to see his nan for a quick cup of tea to check she’s OK, and with any luck he’ll meet Lydia, the new carer.

  18

  The car swerves suddenly and Tilly bangs her head on the window. Great, why not add concussion to the injustices Mum’s piled on her today?

  ‘Steady on, Mum! You’re driving like a nutter.’

  ‘Sorry. I was just avoiding a rabbit. Can you keep Mia awake, please? If she nods off now she’ll be up half the night.’