Dying To See You: a dark and deadly psychological thriller

by Kerena Swan

  I smile back and take hold of his free hand to pull him into the hall. I glance into the lounge doorway and see that Mia is focused on giving her toys a biscuit each. Closing the door, I turn back to Max and tilt my face up for a long, lingering kiss. My insides feel like they’re melting and wish I could take him upstairs. Instead, I lead the way into the kitchen and grab a vase from a cupboard. As I clip the stems I ask Max about his morning.

  ‘Was there any damage to the house?’

  ‘No. It was just an old caravan at the bottom of the garden. The fire service said a barbeque had been pushed underneath it and they found beer cans and dog ends, so some local teenagers must have had a party there. There isn’t much left of it to be honest. Just some twisted metal and broken glass. Those old vans were quite insubstantial.’

  ‘Do you want a cup of tea before we go?’ I’m about to reach for the kettle when Mia shouts from the lounge.

  ‘Mummy, Tilly’s getting out of a car with a man.’

  I go through to the lounge window and am shocked to see a stranger helping Tilly out of the back of a blue estate car. She looks injured. Oh God, has she been run over or something? I rush out of the front door and down the path then stop suddenly as the man turns towards me.

  ‘Harry?’ I’m baffled. What’s going on?

  Tilly turns a tear streaked face to me. ‘Sorry, Mum. I didn’t mean this to happen.’ She starts crying again and hops up the path towards me, leaning heavily on Harry.

  ‘Well?’ I ask.

  Harry opens his mouth then closes it again. He looks out of his depth. Tilly lurches towards me and I catch hold of her.

  ‘You can go now,’ she says, turning back to her dad.

  He hovers and looks from her face to mine clearly unsure whether he should leave without an explanation.

  ‘No need to be rude, Tilly,’ I say. ‘Would you like to come in and tell me what’s been going on, Harry? I’m just about to put the kettle on.’

  Harry glances longingly back at his car then nods.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You don’t need to.’ Tilly butts in. ‘I can explain.’

  She sends me an imploring look, but I ignore it. I want to hear both sides of this story. I take Tilly through to the kitchen and help her to a chair. Max jumps to his feet, asking if he can do anything to help.

  ‘Hi, Max,’ Tilly smiles at him and he looks as surprised as I feel.

  What’s brought about this change of attitude?

  ‘What have you been up to?’ Max asks.

  ‘I fell off the kerb and twisted my ankle,’ she tells him.

  I look at her swollen foot then reach into the freezer. I pull out the ice cube tray and a bag of frozen peas then put some of each into a plastic bag. I wrap it in a tea towel then gently remove Tilly’s shoe and sock and apply the cold compress. She winces but doesn’t complain. As I look up, Harry approaches the doorway and I see him exchange glances with Max. God, this is embarrassing. ‘Max, this is Harry, Tilly’s father. Harry, this is Max, a friend.’ And lover, I think, but I don’t say that. I don’t need to either because Harry has raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Max, would you mind making the tea? I need to speak to Harry.’ I leave Tilly sitting at the table. Mia is eyeing her curiously and wants to see her injury. I push Harry into the hall and shut the kitchen door.

  ‘What are you doing out with Tilly? Why wasn’t I told?’

  ‘She asked to meet with me. She rang me at work and it put me in a difficult position. I could hardly say no.’

  ‘I suppose not but you could have told me. How often have you met?’

  ‘This is the first time. Tilly got upset and ran out of the café then tripped.’

  ‘Upset? Why?’ I feel like a tiger poised for the attack to protect her cub.

  ‘I’m not sure. I offered her some money. I thought that was the reason she wanted to see me.’

  I stare at him in disbelief. He’s still an insensitive bastard.

  ‘It didn’t occur to you that she might want to see you for other reasons?’ I can’t believe he was and maybe still is a youth worker. It’s like an oil baron working for Greenpeace.

  ‘Look, here’s five hundred. Use it towards your bills or something, or buy Tilly some clothes. Tilly told me you’re struggling. I’m sorry I haven’t helped before. It’s tricky. The wife doesn’t know about Tilly, see? I’m not sure if I can tell her.’

  The wife? That says it all. He won’t even take ownership of the woman married to him. I had a lucky escape when he walked out. I look at the envelope. I could really use the money but don’t want to give him the satisfaction of a clear conscience.

  ‘I don’t want your money, Harry. It’s all too late. God knows how this is going to affect Tilly. Are you saying you won’t publicly acknowledge her?’

  ‘I need time to think about it, Sophie. This could mess up my marriage and my kid.’

  ‘Which kid? You have another one?’

  ‘Yes. Megan. Look, I need to go. I’ll call when I’ve sorted things out.’ He heads for the door, dropping the envelope on the radiator cover as he passes. He rushes down the path and out of the gate to his car before I can thrust it back into his hand.

  ‘Wanker!’ Did I say that out loud? I’m shocked at my own language but feel this is justified today.

  I pick up the envelope and consider running after him but don’t want to create a scene in the street. Instead, I shove it into the pocket of my jacket hanging nearby and bang the door shut. I need to think about what I’ll do with the money.

  Behind me, the kitchen door opens and I turn, feeling unnecessarily guilty. Max comes towards me.

  ‘Is everything OK? I heard the front door slam so guessed he must have gone.’

  ‘Yes. No. Oh I don’t know. I need to speak to Tilly. She’s never met her dad before and he’s clearly upset her.’

  ‘I’ll gate crash the teddy tea party next door to give you some time with her.’

  ‘You are wonderful,’ I say, kissing his cheek.

  He gives me a brief hug then opens the lounge door. ‘Hey, Mia. Can I join you for tea? I’m really thirsty.’

  Mia looks up and her face widens with a huge grin. ‘Can I have a jug of water, Mummy, to make tea?’ she asks.

  I hesitate momentarily, not wanting the carpet to get wet, but decide it will keep her occupied for longer. Max carries the jug of water ceremoniously into the lounge.

  ‘Ta da! Right, I like mine strong with two sugars please.’

  I leave him sitting on the floor surrounded by cuddly toys and return to Tilly. She’s staring mournfully at the table writing with her fingertip in the circles of water from the ice cubes. She traces the word, ‘Dick’ then looks up at me. ‘I’m sorry, Mum.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry, love. It’s my fault. I should have done something about it before. I should have contacted him and said you wanted to meet him but I was worried he’d upset you.’

  ‘He’s ashamed of me, Mum! He doesn’t want me. I’m not good enough for him.’ Fresh tears well in her eyes and spill down her cheeks.

  ‘Tilly.’ I take her hand in mine. ‘Look at me. You are the most beautiful, gifted and warm-hearted girl any parent could have, and I am so proud of you. You’ve got it all wrong. He isn’t good enough for you.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum.’ Tilly smiles and cries at the same time. I reach for a tissue and gently dry her face then hold out my arms for a hug. She falls into me and squeezes me tight. ‘I love you, Mum.’

  ‘I love you too, Tilly.’ We smile at each other and laugh as Mia drags Max in; two of his fingers clutched in her small fist. He stumbles after her and looks at me apologetically.

  ‘Max wants some more biscuits, don’t you, Max?’ she announces.

  ‘Erm, I think it’s you that wants the biscuits, Mia,’ he says.

  Tilly smiles widely at Max and my heart lifts now she’s beginning to accept him. I’m about to tell Max about the reminiscence group when I remember the sweets Ti
lly needs for Tuesday.

  ‘Did you get the sweets before you met Harry?’

  Tilly’s hand flies to her mouth.

  ‘Oh no! I was going to get them afterwards.’ She tries to stand but winces and sits down again.

  ‘What sweets?’ Max asks.

  I explain about the project and he immediately offers to drive us into town.

  ‘We can get stuff for Mia’s party while we’re there,’ he says.

  ‘Will you be OK on your own for a bit, Tilly?’ I ask her. ‘I can put a film on for you and leave drinks and snacks beside you.’

  Tilly is fine with this and agrees to ring me if she needs us to come home sooner. As we drive into Bedford, I tell Max that I met Mr Brentwood at the Day Centre.

  ‘It would be lovely if Ivy were to return there. I’d really like to see her again.’

  Max doesn’t respond. I wonder if I’ve done something to upset Ivy after all, and he’s too polite to tell me. Maybe that’s the real reason he cancelled my agency’s care. Clearly Max doesn’t want to talk about it but if I’ve offended Ivy, I need to put things right. Maybe I should speak to her.

  51

  Despite the bright sunshine the morning air is chilly as Ivy steps outside. Shame, it had looked so summery out of her window. Perhaps she should go back in for a scarf. She’s about to unlock the door again when she hears Mr Brentwood’s front door closing and voices trailing down his path. She stays behind a large shrub for a moment to eavesdrop.

  ‘It’s still quite nippy out here, isn’t it, Mr Brentwood? Maybe we should wait indoors for the bus.’

  ‘I like to wait by the gate. They might go without me.’

  Ivy steps out of her hiding place and walks slowly down the path with her stick. Good. There is a bus coming today. She’s really looking forward to spending time at the day centre. Anything has got to be better than sitting in front of crappy television.

  ‘Hello, Ivy. How are you feeling now? I hear you had a nasty fall.’ Mr Brentwood’s carer is overly bright and cheerful. Patronising cow. What does she care?

  Ivy takes in the nylon overall poking from beneath a quilted jacket. Sensible hair, sensible shoes. What a boring job to have. If Ivy had her time again she’d make sure she had a job where she could get all dolled up in the morning and flirt with the boss. She’d only ever worked in a local supermarket and that had been boring too. Something else she’s missed out on in life because of bringing up Max.

  ‘I’m much better, thank you,’ Ivy replies sweetly with a slight wobble in her voice. Can’t let them think she’s tickety boo. ‘Hello, Mr Brentwood, nice to see you. I’m coming to the day centre with you, today.’

  Mr Brentwood’s face is a treat. His eyes widen, then he frowns. He shrugs and turns away as though he can’t bring himself to speak to her and Ivy’s irritation rises. How dare he ignore her, the rude man? She’s actually being nice to him. The carer looks at Mr Brentwood then back at Ivy and opens her mouth to speak when Mr Brentwood sees the minibus approaching.

  It’s a large orange sixteen-seater with a tail lift for wheelchair access. Ivy scans the windows to check out her favourite seat but today it’s occupied by a wizened old lady with what looks like a dandelion clock hairdo. One puff and she’d disintegrate. She stares down at Ivy and gives a little wave. Ivy ignores her then goes to complain to the driver, pushing in front of Mr Brentwood who’s about to climb the steps.

  ‘Hang on a minute, love. We’ve only got one seat left and there are clearly two of you,’ he says.

  Ignoring him, Ivy puts her foot on the first step and makes a show of struggling up it. He looks over her head at the carer.

  ‘Mr Brentwood is booked on the bus. He’s a regular attendee,’ the carer says.

  Ivy rounds on her.

  ‘So am I! I’ve been going there for four years.’

  ‘Let me check my list. There must be some mistake.’ The driver pulls a clipboard onto his lap and runs his finger down the list of names and addresses.

  ‘I’m sorry love, you’re not on here,’ he tells Ivy. ‘Did your social worker arrange transport for you?’

  ‘Ivy hasn’t been for several weeks because she had a fall.’ The carer clearly feels self-important with her level of knowledge.

  Ivy scowls. Smug bitch. Ivy looks up into the bus and sees all the faces eyeing her with pity. She doesn’t need this. She steps down again then turns around.

  ‘Don’t bother. I’ll get a bloody taxi!’

  She stomps back up the path, forgetting to look unsteady then lets herself into the house and slams the door. She stands behind the lounge curtain breathing heavily and watches the bus pull away, anger growing inside her like a cancer. How dare they reject her then give her pitying looks? She can’t stand people feeling sorry for her. They’re trying to make her feel inferior and there’s no way she’s ever going to feel less worthy than them again. I don’t care, you’re nothing to me! This was her mantra throughout her childhood. Whenever her father pushed her away as she tried to climb on his lap for a cuddle, every time her cow of a stepmother gave her the fatty meat, and every time the spiteful kids at school called her ‘Ivy Flea Bag’ she whispered the mantra. It was all that kept her from sinking into a pit of despair. She can’t stand this feeling of helplessness, of being invisible to others. She needs to take control.

  Ivy goes to a cupboard to fetch the Yellow Pages. Since when did it become so small? A few years ago, you could prop a door open with it but now it’s barely thicker than a parish magazine. She flicks through the pages then sighs. She can’t sodding well see this tiny writing. Why do they insist on making print so small? And where’s Max? He should be organising her transport.

  All weekend she’s been on her own, bored to tears. She even made Max a chocolate cake but it’s still sitting on the kitchen worktop, its smooth surface unblemished. She couldn’t bring herself to eat any and each time she looked at it she felt sick; a parasite of anxiety eating away at her insides. What if he didn’t come back? What if he really had reached the end of the line and called the police? No. Surely, they’d be knocking on her door if he had. He’s probably sniffing round that bloody Sophie woman like a dog on heat.

  Ivy sits down heavily in her chair and stares at nothing for several minutes then gives herself a shake. She doesn’t need Max. She doesn’t need anyone for that matter. She can sort stuff out herself. She fumbles in her handbag for her reading glasses then turns to the taxi hire page.

  ‘Wrong number? What do you mean wrong number?’ Ivy shouts and hurls the Yellow Pages across the room, knocking the photo of Max to the carpet.

  She picks it up and stares at it then throws it at the wall. It crashes to the floor in a shower of glass. Her rage is like a house fire. It’s taken hold now and can’t easily be doused. How dare he abandon her? How dare that skinny, insipid whore take him away from her?

  Ivy pulls the cushions off the sofa and throws them across the room then tips the coffee table over. The stupid seaside crest china ornaments hit the wall with dull thuds taking small chunks of plaster with them to the floor. She throws a miniature letter box from Brighton and feels a small thrill when it smashes one of the china dogs on the mantelpiece. An almost full cup of tea adds a wide brown splash to the wall display; trails of brown liquid pooling at the bottom of the skirting board.

  Suddenly, her temper burns itself out and Ivy slumps into her chair to catch her breath. She’s got to get out of this place. She picks up the phone book again looking for the number she’s circled in red pen and this time dials carefully.

  Six pounds! Just to get a taxi across town? That’s daylight robbery. Ivy watches the display on the iPhone the driver has clipped to the dashboard as another twenty pence is added to her bill. She wants to scream at the cars to get out of the way. Who are all these people and where are they going? She can remember when there were only a few vehicles on the road. Only rich people could afford cars. Everything looked more spacious then as well. No rows of parked
vehicles lining the streets making it difficult to squeeze through. A car approaches them down a narrow Victorian road and a stand-off ensues. Ivy watches with interest then leans forward.

  ‘Don’t back down. I’m in a hurry.’

  The taxi driver clearly has no intentions of reversing and sits glowering at the other driver who eventually gets the message and backs his car into a space. Ivy sits back and folds her arms then, as the taxi passes the car, she leans towards the window and lifts her middle finger like she’s seen people do on the telly. The shock on the other driver’s face makes her chuckle.

  Finally! The taxi pulls up outside the day centre. Ivy counts out numerous coins to the exact price of the journey. The driver looks unimpressed but at least her bag’s lighter. She pauses momentarily, expecting the driver to jump out and open her door but he just sits there, resetting his phone. He’s probably sulking because she didn’t tip him. She pushes the door open and climbs out with genuine difficulty; she seizes up when she sits still for too long.

  Passing through the entrance, the sights and smells of the day centre lift her spirits and for the first time her smile covers the width of her face. It’s good to be back. She looks around the room and sees Peter coming towards her.

  ‘Hello, Ivy. We weren’t expecting you back yet.’

  Don’t send me away, please, don’t send me away. Ivy’s silent appeal must show on her face because Peter gently takes her elbow.

  ‘It’s lovely to see you, though. Would you like me to run through the activities on offer?’

  He leads her to some nearby chairs and pulls a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘This is the programme,’ he explains.

  Ivy scans down the list of activities. She’s particularly keen on the iPad lessons. And what’s this? A Reminiscence Group? That’ll be fun. Ivy could tell a few stories to make their hair curl.

  ‘We have a young student coming in to run that,’ Peter tells her. ‘Tilly Matthews. It’s a project for her GCSE.’