Dying To See You: a dark and deadly psychological thriller

by Kerena Swan

  ‘Mum! Mum! Let me out. The handle won’t work.’

  There was a deathly silence. He waited, trying to stay calm but panic washed over him, and he broke out in a sweat. He began to scream until his throat was raw. Hot tears ran down his cheeks and his screams turned to sobs. He curled in a ball and waited, barely noticing his stomach rumbling hungrily. The line of daylight under the door darkened so now he could barely see the outlines of the cupboard contents.

  A scratching in the corner broke into the silence and Max scampered to his feet then froze with fear as a mouse sniffed its way across the floor towards his foot. What if it attacked him like the mouse in the bread bag had done? It had given him nightmares and he couldn’t even look at a photo of a rat or mouse without fear clawing at his guts. The horror of seeing the rodent getting closer when he couldn’t move away overwhelmed him and he lost control; warm urine running down his legs. The mouse sniffed at the puddle and scurried back into the corner. Max slumped down and hugged his knees then waited for what seemed like hours, shivering in terror in case the mouse came back to bite him with its long front teeth.

  His mother never did say where she’d been. She just suddenly opened the door and peered at Max blinking in the bright light.

  ‘Good hiding place!’ was all she said and walked away as though nothing untoward had happened.

  Max had staggered upstairs and stripped off his wet clothes then lain in the bath until the shaking subsided. The pool of urine gradually evaporated, leaving a rank odour which wafted out every time the door was opened. He couldn’t go into phone boxes for years after that, the smell of stale urine making his stomach clench with anxiety. Thank God mobiles were invented.

  Driving to the old farmhouse grounds with a shovel in his boot is not what Max wants to be doing this evening and he’s still worried about Lydia in the caravan. Maybe he should dig a grave big enough for two.

  28

  Where’s the self-raising flour? Ivy knows there’s a packet at the back of the cupboard somewhere. If only she could see better. Bloody eyesight. She snatches her reading glasses from the worktop and peers behind bags of lentils, porridge and sugar. Finding the blue striped bag at last, she dumps it on the worktop, coughing as a fine cloud of dust drifts up her nose. It’s bound to be out of date but that doesn’t matter. She opens the fridge and gathers up margarine, eggs, and milk.

  Tipping all the ingredients into her old brown mixing bowl and pouring sugar from the canister carelessly on top she begins to mix it up. Ivy hasn’t made a cake for ages and never in such a haphazard way but there’s no time for weighing, measuring, and creaming butter and sugar first. Hopefully an extra egg will make the cakes rise. She spoons the mixture into paper cases then puts them in the pre-heated oven.

  Next, she goes into the bathroom and opens her medicine cabinet, pulling out an old foil sheet of tablets. She pops several into her fist then grinds them up between two tablespoons. Stirring some lumpy icing sugar into the margarine, she adds the crushed tablets and a splodge of food colouring. Mrs Brentwood often used to make pink butterfly cakes, taking some round for Ivy. She kept telling her she made her own cakes – which were far superior in her opinion – but the silly bitch insisted on sharing her tasteless stodgy ones.

  The warm homely smell of baking cakes fills the kitchen. Ivy sniffs the air then opens the back door letting a blast of cold air in. Twenty minutes later, the cakes have cooled on a tray and Ivy fills four of them with pink butter icing, carefully placing sugar-dusted wings on top. She looks out of the lounge window and sees Mr Brentwood on the front lawn looking down the road for his wife. Good! Slipping quietly and nimbly out of the back door, Ivy takes the cakes to Mr Brentwood’s. His kitchen door is unlocked as usual, so she places the cakes onto the worktop and returns to her bungalow. The silly old fool will love these.

  As she enters her own kitchen she notices how much it still smells of cakes. This won’t do. She stuffs one into her mouth, gathers up the others then goes outside and dumps them in the dustbin. Taking a crust of bread from the bread bin, she rams it into the toaster and turns it on full. Acrid smoke soon fills the kitchen and Ivy closes the back door so as not to let it out. She wafts smoke into the hall then remembers, too late, about the smoke alarm. Wincing as it shrieks at her, she opens both the back and front doors to let the smoke drift out and take the aroma of cakes with it. Within a minute the alarm stops screaming and settles down to a few beeps.

  Ivy feels exhausted now. Settling in her old armchair, she grabs her antimacassar and rubs her nose on a silky embroidered rose. She imagines her mum sitting in front of the fire, her head bent over her sewing. Somehow the image doesn’t soothe Ivy today and she feels a huge swell of anger at the injustice of losing her mother. Her mouth tightens, and her hands clench the arms of the chair. It’s just not fair. Ivy has never known a mother’s love. Why wasn’t Dorothy there to save Nora when she should have been? Weren’t they supposed to be best friends? And why did she allow Ivy’s father to take Ivy back when he and his new wife clearly didn’t want her around? Surely Dorothy could have fought to keep her? There had even been an adoption law passed in 1926 which would have made it legal. Ivy had looked it up in the library a few years ago.

  Where the hell is Max? She hopes he’s all right because she needs him to sort out this body for her. He owes her for taking him in. He broke his ankle years ago, which had annoyed her as it meant she had to fetch the shopping and clean the house. His crying at night was most irritating as it woke her up, but she fussed over him, letting him think she cared, the stupid kid. Why should she care? Her stepmother hadn’t cared when Ivy had burned her hand on the oven. She’d told her to rub butter on it, knowing it to be the worst thing to do. Ivy had never received any sympathy or compassion when she’d hurt herself. She just had to shut up and get on with it.

  How can she be expected to love other people when no one has shown love for her? Ivy’s family only ever despised her. She’s always felt like she’s on the outside looking through the window at the happy families within. Max thinks she loves him, though, that’s the important thing as Ivy needs him. She’s learned to fake love by watching how mothers behave, cuddling their children, dropping kisses on their heads and saying soothing words when they were distressed. It was easy to copy them and fool the teachers, neighbours, and Max himself. She’s quite proud of the way she’s learned to blend in, using her charm and carefully crafted personality to gain what she wants in life. What she wants now though is Max. He’ll make everything right. He always does.

  The sky is darkening, and heavy clouds are huddled in the distance, threatening rain. Within minutes, fat spots are hitting the window and sliding down, racing each other to the bottom. Good. No one wants to stand out in this.

  29

  Mr Brentwood turns up the collar of his frayed jacket and goes back indoors to put the kettle on for his wife. He stops in surprise at the sight of butterfly cakes. His wife must have made them when he was in the garden. He looks around for her and when he can’t see her he grins and picks one up, peeling the paper case off. They smell delicious and she won’t miss one. He’s about to bite into it when Jasper meows at the back door.

  ‘All right, all right. I can hear you.’ He puts the cake down and opens the door. ‘Are you getting wet?’

  Jasper walks in and shakes like a dog. Reaching for a piece of kitchen roll, Mr Brentwood leans over and dries the cat’s fur. Jasper circles and bends his body, clearly enjoying the pampering then sniffs his food bowl and looks up at his owner, meowing plaintively.

  ‘Hungry again?’ Mr Brentwood opens the cupboard for the cat food. There isn’t any. That’s why his wife has gone to the shops. He remembers now.

  ‘How about a bit of tuna? I’ll have the rest for lunch tomorrow.’

  Jasper eats greedily. Turning towards the lounge, Mr Brentwood sees the cakes again and stuffs one into his mouth. Ooh, lovely. Within two minutes he’s forgotten that he’s already eaten one and wi
thin five minutes there are none left. Feeling tired, he decides to lie down for a little nap until Lily gets back.

  30

  I dry the last saucepan and put it away then go upstairs to see what Tilly and Mia are up to. It’s strangely quiet up there. Mia’s done her usual trick of saying she doesn’t feel well and demanding to come home. She says she wants to sleep at Nanny’s then gets anxious and homesick. There’s nothing wrong with her now, though.

  Tilly is sitting at her dressing table applying more make-up. The last time I looked at her I thought she had too much on and when she turns to look at me, my heart sinks. Her eyes are heavy with kohl and she’s wearing dark eye shadow creating deep pools in her pale face. She looks haunted and fragile.

  ‘Are you OK, Tills?’

  ‘Sure,’ she replies with a nonchalant shrug.

  She doesn’t look OK. There isn’t even a glimmer of a smile on her face and I feel a shaft of guilt that I didn’t notice sooner. I’d been on such a high this afternoon after Max’s visit that the whole world had seemed gilded with gold. Everything was perfect, and nothing could be allowed to tarnish it.

  ‘I need you to mind Mia for an hour while I go and help Ivy get ready for bed,’ I tell her. ‘Perhaps I can get us some popcorn on the way back and we can have a girlie film night together?’ I’m half expecting a protest, there might be a reason why she’s is adding more gunk to her face, but I’m not prepared for this reaction. Tilly jumps off her stool and rounds on me.

  ‘No way! I can’t look after Mia, I’m going out. It’s not my fault she’s come home saying she had a tummy ache. You’re so selfish, Mum. I can’t be cooped up indoors all the time. I need to live my life a bit. Mia’s your problem, not mine.’

  Blood pounds in my ears at the injustice of what she’s saying. Me? Selfish? I can’t show her I’m annoyed though. I need to stay calm so we can work this out or it will get out of control and she’ll probably storm off.

  ‘Where have you arranged to go?’ I ask.

  ‘Izzie’s house.’

  I suddenly notice a new skirt and top lying across the bed with price tags attached to them. Probably the items she bought in town earlier. She must be planning to meet a boy and I hope it isn’t Tom. He’s not good enough for her. I narrow my eyes as I look back at Tilly who is watching me.

  ‘I can call Izzie and invite her round here instead,’ I say to gauge her reaction. ‘She can watch a film with us.’

  ‘No!’ Tilly looks alarmed, confirming my suspicion that she has no intention of seeing Izzie tonight. She wouldn’t go to all this trouble just to see her friend.

  ‘I tell you what, I’ll call Ivy and see if I can go earlier and I’ll be back by eight thirty. I don’t want you out later than ten thirty but that still gives you two hours to spend with Izzie.’

  Tilly looks at me sulkily and is about to argue when Mia’s face appears round the door. Her head is a halo of sumptuous curls, but her face is a horror mask of blue eyeshadow and red lipstick.

  ‘Where did you get that make-up from?’ I ask, immediately concerned for her bedroom carpet.

  ‘Tilly gave it to me. Do you like my hair?’

  ‘It looks wonderful, Sugar Plum. Perhaps we could sort out your make-up a bit though.’

  I don’t like children wearing any make-up but on this occasion, I can see that Mia is trying to emulate her sister. Mia steps round the door frame revealing her princess outfit then totters into the room in my favourite heels. I need to rescue those before she ruins them.

  Tilly slides off her seat, seemingly glad of the distraction, and plonks Mia onto it in front of the mirror then proceeds to clean her sister’s face.

  ‘You’re too pretty for all this make-up,’ Tilly says.

  I’m tempted to say, ‘And so are you, my love,’ but I bite my tongue. Tilly and I will never agree about her make-up and I’m looking forward to the day when she learns to use it in moderation.

  I’m watching Tilly expertly cleaning off Mia’s make-up when Welly slinks in the room and comes straight over to me, looking up at me with a sorrowful expression.

  Mia, what have you done to the poor cat?’ I ask.

  Welly is sporting one of Mia’s Disney Frozen T-shirts and looks most put out. He sits in front of me and bites at the fabric. A smudge of lipstick appears on the T-shirt and I bend down to look more closely at him.

  ‘Flipping heck, Mia! Have you put lipstick on the poor cat?’ No wonder he looks miserable but least Tilly has a wide grin on her face now.

  ‘He likes dressing-up with me,’ Mia says.

  I rescue Welly from the clothing and rub his face gently with a tissue. He’s such a placid cat but he doesn’t deserve this. ‘Don’t do it again,’ I tell Mia in a stern voice. ‘He doesn’t like it.’

  I go downstairs and call Ivy, who says she’s fine with me going there a little earlier if it helps me out. I slip my uniform on quickly and grab my bag.

  ‘I’ll be out for about an hour or so. Is that OK?’ I ask Tilly.

  ‘I don’t have any choice, do I?’ she mumbles. ‘Can you pay me? I need a new coat.’

  I agree to give her five pounds which I can ill afford but I feel so guilty that she doesn’t have a warmer coat to wear. I’ll have to give her more when I get paid on Friday then make sure she buys something appropriate. She’d chosen the last one and it clearly isn’t practical.

  I’ve transferred the money my parents loaned me to the mortgage company so hopefully they’ll stop breathing down my neck. Mia’s birthday is in two weeks’ time, so I need to budget something for that. I’ve already got a little stockpile of goodies and she’ll only have a few friends for tea and games. I’m just sorry I can’t afford to get her a doll’s house.

  I leave the girls sitting in Mia’s bed reading stories. Tilly enjoys this task and is better at funny voices than I am. Because she’s studying drama at school she uses this opportunity to practice regional accents. I’m not sure Kipper comes from Glasgow though.

  As I park the car outside Ivy’s, I’m relieved to see that Mr Brentwood isn’t standing out in the cold this evening. Ivy is slow coming to the door tonight. It would be so much easier for her if she had a Keysafe so that we can let ourselves in, but she won’t hear of it. We have to respect her privacy, but I worry about her having another fall. Ivy puzzles me. Sometimes she seems so frail then at other times she seems to have a hidden well of strength that takes me by surprise.

  It’s quite dark now and the glow of the orange streetlight isn’t enough to light up the hall properly. I wonder why Ivy doesn’t put the light on. She opens the door and gives me her characteristic smile.

  ‘Thanks for letting me come early, Ivy.’

  ‘No problem at all, dear.’

  She shuffles slowly in front of me towards her bedroom, leaning heavily on her stick.

  The house smells different tonight. Usually I can smell lavender talc and tea but now there is the unpleasant smell of burnt toast. I worry that Ivy has been trying to get herself a snack and isn’t coping too well but I can detect something else lingering underneath that’s familiar and sweet. I can’t quite put my finger on it. I haven’t smelled it here before.

  ‘Have you been cooking, Ivy?’ I ask her.

  ‘I’m not up to cooking, I keep feeling dizzy.’

  ‘Maybe we should get you to the doctor. We don’t want you falling again.’

  ‘I’m fine. Just tired, that’s all.’

  She does look tired now that I can see her face. Her eyes are almost as dark as Tilly’s.

  ‘It’s too early to get ready for bed, though,’ she mutters.

  I totally agree with her, but I can’t come out any later without upsetting my family. Hopefully, Lydia will be back soon.

  I help Ivy into her nightwear and sort out her dentures, apologising again for the time of the visit. Sadly, she’s not the only elderly person having to accept calls at ludicrous times of the day as we juggle work schedules. It would all be easier if we co
uld recruit more staff but there don’t seem to be enough to go around. I wish my agency would pay a bit more to attract people, but the directors say the councils won’t increase their rates so no one wins. I don’t know how my company will cope when the new wage increases are imposed on them. I saw on the news the other day that nine hundred care workers a day are leaving their jobs. It’s all going to get worse and I dread growing old.

  I’m putting Ivy’s toiletries back when I accidentally knock her lavender powder puff off the dressing table. A cloud of talc explodes from the carpet, making me sneeze.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Ivy! Where’s your vacuum cleaner? I’ll hoover it up for you before I go and buy you some more talc.’

  ‘Don’t you dare!’ she exclaims loudly.

  ‘No, I insist. I’m going into town tomorrow and I’ve wasted a whole pot full.’

  I step into the hall again and then I remember. Cakes! Ivy’s house smells of baking – like my parents’ place when Mia is cooking with Grandma. I turn to ask Ivy but something in her expression stops me. She seems different tonight. Her warm fuzzy edges have disappeared and left a cold hard shell.

  31

  ‘Damn!’ The front near-side wheel hits a bump on the track then dips into a large pot hole causing the car to lurch sideways. This’ll knacker his suspension. Max doesn’t remember the access road being this bad when he visited the farm to complete the valuation. The recent rain can’t have helped but at least the ground might be easier to dig. Sod it. He’ll have to wash his car tomorrow after four trips up and down this muddy lane or people might wonder where he’s been. As he drives slowly and carefully, trying to find the left turn, the car headlights illuminate high hedges either side of the track, and semi-naked trees loom like spectres out of the darkness.