Dying To See You: a dark and deadly psychological thriller

by Kerena Swan

  No, no, no, this is crazy. Max loved his nan. But what if he wanted to protect me? It would explain why he’d tried to keep me away from her recently and why he’d cancelled the care agreement. He should have talked to me, but how could he? How could he even start to tell me something so utterly horrifying? He must be in agony.

  But he’d disposed of Lydia’s body instead of calling the police. And I can think of no reason at all for Lydia’s death. Sweet Jesus, had Ivy killed people before and had Max disposed of their bodies too?

  Is he a man or a monster? I just don’t know. But I need to find out. I ring the doorbell but there’s no answer, just the faint sound of classical music coming from upstairs. I ring again and knock loudly. The music continues. I go around the path and through the back gate. My heart hammers in my chest and my breath shortens.

  I arrive at the back door and knock again. There’s no sign of movement. The house is as still as a church. I peer through the kitchen window and see a champagne cork with the wire and foil still around it on the worktop. Hurt rushes through me. Has he got someone else up there? I’ve seen enough. I’m going home and getting on with my own life. I don’t need this complicated man in it.

  As I walk through my own front door, I’m desperate for a sense of order and normality. I’m glad Mum and Dad are still here with the girls. Tilly had looked alarmed when I rushed out. Mum and Tilly are sitting at the table looking at a letter. I suppose it’s the letter from Harry.

  Tilly looks up at me as I walk in. Her expression is of pure relief and I feel horribly guilty for having worried her. But then she jolts as though she’s remembered something

  ‘A man on a motorbike brought this for you.’

  She waves a different letter, still in its envelope, and I take it.

  ‘It might be from Ryan,’ I say. ‘Something for Mia’s birthday.’

  I open the envelope, unfold the letter and glance at the signature. My stomach flips inside out. It isn’t from Ryan. It’s from Max. I turn abruptly and leave the room. Why has he used a courier? Because he can’t bear to break off with me face to face?

  I stand in the hall and read and within seconds I’m in a full-blown panic attack. Breathe, Sophie, breathe. I can’t! My God I can’t. I get out a single word: ‘Mum!’

  And then she’s beside me, holding me and stroking the back of my hair. Dad stands in the doorway, not sure what to do.

  ‘Jacket.’ I point. ‘Paper bag.’

  Mum looks puzzled but fishes it out of my pocket. I bunch the bag in my fist then breathe into it. Breathe out, one, two, three – breathe in, one, two, three. I try to follow Max’s instructions but the thought of him quickens my breath once more. Will I ever hear his voice again? The pain in my chest is excruciating. But I can’t afford to collapse. Not now.

  The paper bag gradually works its magic. I ease it from my mouth, wait to be sure I’m OK then look round for the letter. There. On the floor. I can’t let anyone else read it, especially Tilly. ‘Don’t look so worried, Tills,’ I manage to say.

  Then I stand up straighter. ‘When did this arrive?’

  ‘About twenty minutes ago,’ Tilly replies. ‘Is it from Ryan? Is everything OK?’

  ‘Yes, everything’s fine. But I have to go out again. Sorry.’

  I hear Tilly protest. Mum too. But I’m already rushing out of the door.

  I reach Max’s estate in record time but as I turn the corner into his close I stop abruptly. Two police cars and an ambulance are already there. I leap out of the car and run towards them, squeezing between neighbours, just as a stretcher is being carried over the doorstep to the waiting ambulance. Air sucks between my teeth. Beneath the blanket is a long Max-sized shape. I can’t see the face because the blanket covers it but an arm slips over the edge of the stretcher and I see the signet ring. No, no.

  I can’t accept that he’s dead. I won’t accept it. I turn to one of the spectators, a neighbour judging from her slippers. ‘Who is it?’ I ask.

  Don’t say it’s Max. Please don’t say it’s Max.

  ‘The man who lived there. Mr Saunders. Kept himself to himself so I didn’t know him well. Suicide, apparently. Sent a letter by courier to the police. My sister’s youngest works there and she called to warn me to expect the sirens and lights.’

  The woman taps the side of her nose. ‘Concerned about my heart, she was. Got here quick for a suicide. Must be a quiet day for them.’

  I stumble back to my car and drive away, barely able to see through my tears. Finding a quiet lay-by, I pull in then give in to the sobs that wrack my body and painfully suck the air from my lungs. I can’t believe he’s gone. Oh Max. I’m not sure how long I sit hunched over my steering wheel. When the convulsions have subsided, I dry my face and take the letter out of my pocket. I need to read this more slowly. I need to understand what’s happened.

  My beloved Sophie,

  I write this with the heaviest of hearts, knowing there is no way out. I am trapped, cornered, as I have always been but now I am sought out like a rabbit by a pack of wild dogs. You will soon hear terrible stories about me and they will be true. I should have stopped Ivy years ago, but I was terrified of prison. I don’t mean normal fear. I mean pure terror. I am a weak man. I should have stopped caring about Ivy years ago too. She was a monster, but she brought me up and I loved her, perhaps because she was all I had. You have every right to be sickened by me. I am a damaged man. I am evil and heartless. And yet …

  And yet I am made pure by my feelings for you. You’ve shown me there is another side of the world where the sun shines. I missed the turning; I took the wrong path and have now travelled too far to turn back. I look over my shoulder at your radiance and stumble. I call your name on bloodied knees, but you don’t hear me.

  And I don’t want you to hear me. Walk away, Sophie, back to the light. Don’t take guilt with you for you did nothing wrong. Don’t be tainted by me and the terrible things I have done. Deny me and my love for you. Tell them all I was merely passing through. I would sully your beauty. I am the maggot in the shiny apple, the cancer in the young body, the crack in the boat’s hull. I am not worthy of you and your beautiful children.

  But I so wanted to be!

  Oh God, how I’ve yearned to be a simple man with no lurking shadows. To be able to love and protect you, nurture you and your wonderful girls and love you for all eternity. I watched you for so long, a child with his nose pressed to the sweetshop window, and then you opened the door. You let me in. One minute with you gave me more joy and rapture than a month, no, a year of my existence. You have given me a whole lifetime of happiness in a few short weeks and I thank you.

  I’m crawling away now, heavy guilt pushing me to the ground. The devil is waiting to take me into his arms. He has my body, but he doesn’t have my soul. That belongs to you, my love. Live your life to the full, make the most of every hug from Mia and smile from Tilly. Grow and learn. Be brave and strong. Just remember that I love you, Sophie, more than life itself.

  Max

  74

  Confetti catches in the breeze and settles on the flowers in Mia’s hair. Laughing, she takes another handful and throws it up in the air where it misses the bride and groom completely.

  ‘Shall I help you?’ Tilly asks, but Mia hugs the box of confetti to her chest and turns away then grabs another handful.

  This time the wind is in her favour and a colourful shower of paper hearts and horseshoes drifts across the smiling couple. Her laughter is as musical as the birdsong. I watch them all – from a few steps away. I often find myself on the periphery these days. I struggle to look for positives sometimes but today it is easy. This is a joyous occasion and I’m privileged to be here.

  I look at the bride, her face alight with happiness as she gazes adoringly at her proud husband. They stand in front of the huge arched doors of the church, hand in hand, for the local newspaper photographer to capture them for all eternity. The groom lifts the bride’s chin and places a gentle k
iss on her lips. I fight the urge to turn away.

  This wedding has caused quite a stir. It seems octogenarians are expected to deteriorate quietly in a corner, not to embark on an exciting new life. Everyone was shocked when Mr Brentwood announced that he and Lily were ‘betrothed’. Fortunately, he’s been found lucid enough to know what he’s doing and when his mind wanders a little, Lily simply tells him they are renewing their vows. When they get to their age, she says, they have to grasp at life with both hands. I really admire her for this. Maybe I will be able to grasp life again one day.

  The photographer calls the bridesmaid forward and Mia runs to the front for her moment of glory. I was delighted when Lily asked me if Mia could be their bridesmaid; Mia was ecstatic. They’d struck up an unlikely friendship when I’d taken Mia to the day centre to collect Tilly from her reminiscence group. Mia would sit close to Lily on the sofa for ages and Lily would tell her stories about when she was a little girl.

  The day centre has been a lifeline for all of us. Tilly has blossomed in confidence and her group is so popular that she runs it in the holidays as a volunteer. When Peter approached me to say there was a deputy manager’s job going I jumped at the chance. Part of the selection criteria was a willingness to undertake a management qualification which suits me perfectly and luckily, he wasn’t worried about the verbal warning on my record. I’ve decided against nursing or working with children. I think I’ve found my niche in life. I’ve now been employed there for three months and every day has been a pleasure. It doesn’t feel like work – more like socialising with old friends.

  As my eyes skim over the colourful array of guests, most of whom are day centre attendees, I see Peter standing nearby, smiling at me. He’s amazing to work with; so full of enthusiasm, so positive. The difference between him and Karen is startling and the impact it’s had on me is incredible. I now feel confident and assured in my work. Peter listens to my ideas, shares my worries, and appreciates my commitment. I’m learning so much under his guidance.

  I know he’d like to get to know me better. He asked me for coffee once, but I’ve made it clear there is no way I will cross professional boundaries. I won’t make that mistake again. Even now my breath catches and my stomach lurches when I think of Max. Every thought stirs a muddy puddle of emotions. At times the surface is clear, but the silt is still there at the bottom, ready to discolour my seemingly bright world.

  Experts on grief and loss say it takes two years to begin getting your life back on track after a loss. It’s only been six months since Max died and I still have flashes of anger when I think of him taking the coward’s way out. But then I remember his letter: how he sacrificed himself to help me build a better life, and how his last thoughts were to spare me and my family from being involved in his scandal. He’d forgotten the photo but I’m grateful to the police for not revealing it publicly.

  The press were all over the story for a while, but we managed to stay out of their sights. Tilly was wise enough not to tell her friends about Max and my parents were too shell-shocked. Mum says I had a lucky escape, but it was Ivy who was the threat, not Max.

  Anger is a natural part of grief but at times mine has been all-consuming. I’m angry that Max had such a disastrous upbringing, angry that he was too weak to stand up to his nan, and angry that I secretly miss his gentle touch and warm smile. There are times when I physically ache for him.

  The photographer asks for all the guests to cluster round the newly-weds and I squeeze in next to Tilly. She looks beautiful. At last she has ditched the heavy make-up for a subtle layering of colours and highlights. She’s met her new sister, Megan, who looks a little like her. Tilly travels alone by train to see them. She seems so grown up these days and I dread the day she finally leaves home for university though, of course, I have to keep that to myself. She turns to me with a wide smile, catching her cream rose buttonhole on my jacket as she does so.

  ‘Sorry, Mum.’

  She untangles the pin then fixes it more securely to her dress. Lily insisted all the guests have cream rose buttonholes. I suggested other colours as cream roses remind me of the flowers Max bought for one of our lunches, but Lily knew her own mind. She has a cascade of cream and coral flowers to match her outfit. I look at her now in a bright suit and matching fascinator. The coral-coloured feathers give the illusion of a baby flamingo nesting in her grey hair.

  We made all the floral arrangements at the day centre. The wedding has been a major project at Riverside for the past three months and has taken my mind off the horror of what happened.

  ‘Isn’t this a wonderful day,’ Tilly says, her face wreathed in smiles. She has a hand on Mia’s shoulder.

  ‘Yes, it is. Beautiful.’

  The sky is a deep blue and daffodils are thrown into bright relief against the grey stones of the church walls. I like churchyards. As a child my parents used to take me round to read the inscriptions on the graves. I always wondered about the people they commemorated. Like the poor mother who lost five children in quick succession and the couples buried in the same grave.

  They found Lydia in the end. Max sent a letter to the police at the same time as he sent one to me telling them where he’d hidden the bodies. I still shudder at the thought of him hiding Lydia and the others. The police exhumed them all and they’ve now had proper burials.

  I don’t believe anyone is born evil. In his letter, Max told the police about Ivy’s troubled start in life and I wonder how different all our lives would have been if her mother hadn’t died in childbirth all those years ago. Would she have been a decent citizen or was being a murderer in her blood?

  The guests spread out again, hobbling on sticks or propped up with Zimmer frames. I imagine how it would be if the clock was wound back and their healthy, virile bodies were restored. Fifty years ago, they would have had fresh complexions, upright postures, flashing white teeth and rich, shiny hair. Their voices would have been vibrant and there would have been strength in their back-slapping and hugs. It’s hard to picture them in their youth now that all I see are hunched shoulders, grey hair and eyes hidden beneath wrinkled skin. I dread growing old. I wonder if I’ll still be alone.

  I’m all right with being a single parent, though. I can please myself and be independent, bring up the girls how I think best and not get frustrated by a partner’s lack of support. My dad is a positive male role model in their lives so at least they won’t grow up resenting men.

  Tilly and I spoke about Max and what he’d done. Neither of us could equate the warm, loving man with the monster the papers portrayed. I emphasised that Max never physically harmed anyone himself and was trying to protect his nan but we couldn’t excuse the pain and suffering he caused the families of the missing girls.

  ‘It’s impossible to tell if you pick the wrong one, isn’t it, Mum?’ she’d said, and I’d hugged her. I could tell this was her way of saying she didn’t blame me for bringing danger into our lives.

  ‘Maybe I’ll ask for references and do a police check if I ever meet anyone else,’ I’d said.

  Not that this would have made any difference with Max. People knew him as polite, trustworthy, and caring, and he had no police record. I don’t see any other option than trust and hope. But I don’t need a man in my life at the moment and it may be a long time before I do.

  Tilly managed to track Ryan down – she’s such a bright girl – and I now receive regular maintenance payments for Mia. I’m earning a fair wage too now that I’m in a management role so, for the first time in years, I’m coping financially. This is a huge weight off my shoulders and I don’t get anywhere near as many panic attacks as I used to and when I do, I control them using Max’s paper bag technique. We’ve even managed to save a bit and book a holiday. I can’t wait to see Mia and Tilly’s faces when we get to the beach in Majorca. My friend, Anna, is coming with us and Tilly has offered to babysit for an evening while we’re there so I can enjoy a girls’ night out.

  ‘Sophie, would you b
e kind enough to bring Florrie to the reception?’ Peter touches me softly on the elbow and I resist the urge to step back in alarm. ‘She wants to spend a quiet ten minutes in the church and the others want to leave.’

  ‘No problem,’ I smile.

  I wander away, keeping half an eye on Mia chasing Tilly around the garden and graves. Stepping carefully along the borders, reading the headstones, I spot the section of newer graves and make my way between the mounds. Lydia’s is here, and the newly engraved granite catches the sun. I’d heard her parents couldn’t wait any longer for the soil to settle before putting up the stone. They said if it moved, they’d fix it. Fresh flowers lie on top of the grave and someone has placed a Winnie the Pooh plaque there which reads;

  Life is not forever, love is.

  My throat tightens and tears well in my eyes. I still can’t keep my emotions under control and I cry so easily. As I leave this corner of the gardens I stop by Max’s grave with its simple wooden cross. I heard from a friend that Ivy had left a will with instructions for an ornate headstone for her grave. She knew no one else would bother to mark it.

  I don’t suppose Max will ever have a headstone. There’s no one to request one.

  I came here once before but couldn’t cope with my conflicting emotions. Will I ever be able to forgive him for what he did to others and how he let me and my daughters down? Yes, he did terrible things, but he did good things too. Even in his darkest hours he bought and arranged delivery of a proper doll’s house for Mia. It was a godsend as Welly climbed into her cardboard one and crushed it. Max gave that phone to Tilly too, made our picnic special and, of course, loved me.

  My eye is caught by something unexpected. Lying on Max’s grave are two cream roses. Buttonholes from the wedding. Wondering who put them there, I look back towards the departing guests. The photographer is packing away his things and Tilly has sidled up to him, holding tightly onto Mia’s hand. She’s probably trying to persuade him to take a decent photo of her. She turns and beckons me over.