Can You See Her?: An absolutely compelling psychological thriller

by S. E. Lynes

  By the time I get back I’ve stopped crying but I can hear myself moaning inside my own head. I sound close but distant, muffled. In the bathroom I stay quiet. I mustn’t wake Mark. If he wakes up, I’ll have to face him. I have no idea what to say to him, can’t think I ever will. I want to wave the cigarette ends in his face. I want to ask which one of those whores he is shagging – my neighbour or my childhood friend. Or both. I want to pour boiling water over his head. I want to walk away with nothing but a suitcase and the shredded remnants of my dignity.

  I know what’s happened to poor Anne-Marie and to Jo and to Henry Parker. The knowledge is inside me. But I can’t reach it.

  I’m watching myself. There is something in my gut, something rotten. In the darkest, lowest corner of me a little voice is whispering, but I can’t hear the words. The whisper is getting louder with every passing minute. Louder and louder it gets, and then I hear it, I hear the words: You’re a murderer, Rachel Edwards, it says. You’re a murderer now.

  I’m standing naked under the shower, turning the dial to hot. The water runs over my head. It feels warm, warm and thick as raw egg. I push my face into the heat of the water, try to drown out the voices, close my eyes to visions of a round white moon flashing on a silver blade. To Jo, her face set in shock, falling away from me. My hands are clenched and bloody. But is this memory inside a memory of me holding Mark’s knife in the kitchen, staring at it in shock and wonder, or is that from the dark, deserted car park at the leisure centre? The moon, was it out on Thursday night? And the knife, I didn’t take it with me. So where is it? And what now? What now? What now?

  ‘I don’t know,’ I sob into the water. ‘I don’t know I don’t know.’

  In the bedroom, Mark is pretending to be asleep. He doesn’t want to look at me, not naked, not clothed, not at all. I don’t want to look at him.

  The kitchen clock chimes eight o’clock. I watch myself put on my coat and I put on my coat. I watch myself open the front door and I open the front door. Weeks ago, Dave rostered me on the Saturday late shift but I told him I’d do the early one too. He asked if I was sure. Yes, I said. I am sure. I want to. Please let me.

  So.

  I go to work.

  I go to work.

  I go to work.

  Get on with it, woman. Sorry.

  I am halfway out the door when Mark calls to me from the stairs.

  ‘I’m meeting Roy later,’ he says to his own shoes. He is standing in the hall now. The kitchen door is open; it lets in the day now truly dawned, the undeniable, unstoppable day, the hours I must get through. ‘Golf club. Did my trousers come through the wash?’

  ‘They’re hung up in the wardrobe.’ My hand is on the catch. My eyes are nowhere near his. He’s there. He’s not there. He’s on the earth. He’s floating in space. ‘Your sandwich is in the fridge.’

  ‘I’ll probably have something with Roy, to be honest.’

  I step out, shut the door behind me.

  ‘I don’t care what you have,’ I mutter, pounding down the driveway. ‘I don’t care if you’re really meeting Roy at his fancy-pants golf club or if you’re going round to my best friend’s house to stick your nine iron in her eighteenth hole.’

  I do care. I care very much. I can see that now, watching myself. I can see that I am shaking, too furious to admit to my own rage. My latent trembling fury. I can see Mark’s fury too, in everywhere he doesn’t look, everything he doesn’t see. Me. He doesn’t see me. I can see, watching us from here, that we are trapped. We are trapped in silent rage. I can travel in my mind’s eye and I can open Katie’s door and step across the minefield of trampled clothes and I can see that even in sleep she is furious too. We are all furious. We are carrying the rage of the world, of this great glass globe that presses on my shoulders, too heavy to carry, too fragile to drop. I can see Anne-Marie. She is laughing at something I said when she was still alive, still a mother, still a wife, still a friend. She is a memory of herself, words on a page, photos in an album – that is all she is now.

  I am a memory of myself. My husband is a memory of my husband. My daughter is a memory. My son is a memory. I can’t reach them. They are lost. I am lost.

  ‘Rachel. Rachel?’ Amanda’s blue eyes have filled with tears. Are they mine or are they hers?

  ‘You need to stop,’ she says. ‘Let’s take a break.’

  Mark’s a good man. Lisa loved to say that. That’s the first thing I tell Amanda when we resume and that’s what was on my mind as I walked to work. She’d always said it, ever since Mark and I had first got together. I thought she meant that he was a good man for me. For me. He made me feel like everything I did was clever and good. He made me want to try to be the person he thought I was – kind, funny, decent. When I got pregnant with Kieron, it was as if I alone had performed some sort of miracle.

  How could I have forgotten that?

  How had I lost my way to him?

  Because I had. I saw it so clearly then I couldn’t fathom how I’d not seen it all these long months. He’d believed in me, always, and now I was shuffling around the streets in my pyjamas, snivelling and fretting to myself, not to mention accosting strangers in the night, while Lisa, Lisa who’d been holding a candle all these years, had taken her chance. When Patrick left, she’d not been able to help herself. The concern she’d had for me this last year fell into a different place. Kindness, concern and love reframed themselves, showed me another picture altogether.

  Are you OK, Rach?

  Are you sure?

  Hormones can play havoc – you know that better than anyone.

  Bringing up an episode that happened twenty years ago so that I would think I was cracking up all over again when all the time she was urging me to do just that… lose my mind. Mark is a very passive man. Maybe Lisa thought it was time to get Rachel shipped off to the funny farm, take care of Mark in his darkest hour, a romance born of tragedy. She was beyond help, poor thing. We tried to talk to her but she started this walking thing… We clung to each other with the worry of it all. We couldn’t help it. We’ve always loved each other. And Rachel, well, Rachel had lost her mind. She was talking to strangers, taking them to dark and lonely places, she was… she was, oh God, we had no idea…

  Yes, yes, thinking about it, all those years ago, when Kieron was only weeks old, it was Lisa who had spoken to Mark, Lisa who had called an ambulance. And yes, I was ill then, I was very ill, but… was that the whole story? Had they plotted against me? Were they plotting against me now?

  I look up, find Blue Eyes.

  ‘I know I’m not well,’ I say. ‘Now, I mean. I do know.’

  She nods. ‘You’re not, but—’

  ‘But just because you’re losing your mind,’ I interrupt, ‘doesn’t mean you’re losing all of it, does it?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t. Hold on to that, Rachel.’

  There is delusion and there is instinct. There are visions and there are invisible things we’re absolutely correct in picking up from the very air. All those years ago, my mind had told me that I was throwing knives at my baby and it was mistaken. These last months, my gut had told me things were not right and my gut had been correct. It was this, this unnamed wrongness that had made me feel unstable and alone, without knowing exactly why. Mark not looking at me was not because he didn’t see me; it was because he was too ashamed. Lisa asking if I was OK all the time made me feel uncomfortable because I knew on some level that it was not because she cared. If you ask someone enough times if they’re OK, if they’re sure they’re OK, of course they’re going to start wondering if they’re not. Katie’s unrelenting angry tone, now that was more difficult to fathom. Was it because she knew about her dad and Lisa? Knew and couldn’t find the words to tell me.

  And in all of this, what about me attacking innocent people? Killing innocent strangers? Here, to my absolute sorrow, my mind and my gut agreed: it was not delusion. It was not. It was a truth too terrible to think or swallow, but it was a truth a
ll the same.

  ‘Over sixty per cent of communication is non-verbal,’ I say to Blue Eyes. She doesn’t write anything down, just looks, and listens. ‘But words seal things, don’t they? They let you hold those things tight. They live on the lines, where we’re safe. But there’s always what’s in between. The white space. That’s where we’re not safe. In the terrifying white space of all that isn’t said, all that isn’t sealed up in words. That’s why I called the police. That’s why I want to tell you everything. I need to seal what I’ve done in words. I need to put it on the lines.’

  Amanda nods. There is no shush of traffic. No one rattling the handle to bring in cups of tea. There is not even a fly to break the silence.

  ‘So, Rachel. You went to work?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you tell me about that?’

  I can and I do.

  The homeless lad wasn’t on his bench; he was on the pub doorstep in a sleeping bag. I said the cheeriest good morning I could manage. The top of the sleeping bag unfolded. He was wearing a woolly hat.

  ‘Morning,’ he said and gave me the most generous, most beautiful smile I’d seen in a long time. His eyes were blue, like Kieron’s; I think I saw that for the first time.

  ‘Are you not cold?’ I asked him.

  He shrugged. ‘A bit.’

  ‘I’ll bring you your tea, won’t be a tick. Or coffee, if you prefer?’

  ‘Coffee, please. Thank you.’

  I returned his smile, unlocked the door and switched on the lights, which flickered and flashed. I stood in the lounge bar, my back pressed against the door. Empty chairs sat upturned on empty tables, the slot machine stood lifeless in the corner, spirits of amber and brown, yellow and clear, waited in their optics, upside down and doubled up in the mirror. Behind me, the latch clicked shut.

  ‘Please God,’ I said. ‘Please let me not be responsible for Anne-Marie. Please let it turn out to be someone else.’

  Blue Eyes narrows her eyes, recrosses her legs and leans forward. ‘So, as late as Saturday morning, you still believed you hadn’t attacked or killed anyone?’

  ‘Yes, at that moment. Or hoped. Belief, hope – not much between them, is there? Both a question of faith, I suppose.’

  ‘Why do you think that was?’

  ‘Because my memory offered me nothing, not one shred, to make me believe that I’d done anything so terrible. Not then.’

  ‘What about the flashbacks?’

  ‘That’s all they were. Flashbacks. Images. As I say, nothing concrete. I suppose I still had hope, so that’s what I clung to.’

  Hope. Hope that Mark’s knife would not match the wounds on poor Anne-Marie, hope that the blood on my tissues was my own. Hope that my proximity to every single attack could be explained away by coincidence even though one coincidence is believable, three not so much. Hope that the police would discover some incriminating piece of evidence that pointed to a local madman.

  My phone buzzed. A text. Lisa. Are you OK? Thinking of you. Call me any time. I’m here, you know that. Xx

  I switched my phone off, felt my mouth contort. Anger had turned, as anger will, to hate.

  I don’t know what’s worse, being betrayed by your husband or your best friend. A love triangle straight from one of the Trollope books I used to borrow from the library. There was something old-fashioned about it, a bit seventies – like sexism, or racism or homophobia: Take my missus, I wish somebody would; Hey up, Chalky; I’m free, what a gay day. Laughter from a can. Sunburn. Sideburns. Sheepskin coats.

  In the staff kitchen of the pub, I pressed my fists to my temples and roared. So much for my dear ones not seeing me. Turns out I hadn’t seen them at all, was blind to all but strangers.

  The kettle rumbled. I took the young chap his coffee.

  ‘What’s your name, love?’ I said. ‘I’m so sorry I haven’t asked you before.’

  ‘Ian,’ he said. ‘What’s yours?’

  ‘Rachel,’ I said.

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ That lovely smile again. All the warmth of the sun in it.

  ‘You too.’

  I told him I’d be back in a minute. I had to get away, away from the bar, from everything. I locked the pub door and walked away, to the canal, to where I’d seen that GP, and carried on, left, towards the arts centre. The day was up, thick white cloud above me, the black water of the canal below. A man had been strangled and dumped in the water here in the eighties, under the bridge, they said. I remembered it from when I was a kid. I stood on tiptoe, caught the reflection of the top of my head. Water is a mirror. Life is a mirror. Mark never looked at me. But if you want someone to look at you, really look at you and see, chances are you have to look at them. You have to see them too. And I hadn’t looked at him. Not for a year.

  I walked back into town, past the swimming baths, round the corner into Church Street, past the betting shop and back to work. I didn’t care about being late opening up but I didn’t know what to do other than this. I had nowhere else to go, no one left, no one at all. All I had were the seconds, the minutes, the hours of this horrific day, of every day after this one, hours upon hours, chiming on a great cosmic clock. I had the town, the Co-op, the Barley Mow pub.

  I had Dave, who, when he popped in to see if I was OK – checking up, more like – at around midday, in a newsworthy act, made me a cup of tea.

  ‘Are you all right, Rachel?’ he asked. ‘Sure you’re OK?’

  Stop asking me that, I didn’t say, of course.

  ‘I’m fine, love. Don’t be worrying about me – I like to be busy.’

  I had the punters to make small talk with, pints to pull, meal orders to pass through to the kitchen and take to the tables. I had Phil to say hello to, sad and hunched over the slot machine with the last of his coins, ghost of a man. I got through those seconds and minutes and hours like you’d get through pushing your forehead up a tarmac road. Phil’s suit was hanging off him, poor thing.

  ‘Here,’ I said, handing him my sandwiches.

  ‘What’s that for?’ He looked shocked, like kindness was a surprise to him.

  ‘Your suit’s falling off you,’ I said. ‘And I’m not hungry.’

  He smiled, then laughed.

  ‘I’m not losing weight,’ he said. ‘The ex cut up all my suits. This one’s from Oxfam. It’s too big, that’s all.’

  ‘You’re joking.’ I shook my head. ‘Bloody hell, Phil,’ I said. ‘I think that deserves a cup of tea an’ all.’

  I made him a cup of tea even though I’m not supposed to give anyone anything for free. But whenever conversation stopped or I was between punters, Anne-Marie fell into my mind’s eye; she wouldn’t stop falling, falling forward, slumping over the steering wheel over and over again. I’d met and spoken to tens of people in the last few months. Only two, three, tops, had become victims like the ones in my clip file.

  But only three had provided an opportunity, hidden away from watchful eyes. And three was enough. Three was three too many.

  Seconds ticked, minutes passed, hours struck. At half past two, I told Dave to go – there was no point in him being there, sad get.

  ‘Are you going to be OK?’ He was already shrugging on his jacket.

  ‘Of course. Off you go.’ Stop asking me if I’m OK, because if you knew the real answer, you’d be horrified.

  Bill the chef left as usual at ten. Late on, there was no one in so I closed up at quarter to eleven. I turned all the lights off and sat behind the bar in the dark. I was thinking about Katie and how I’d not seen her in days.

  I dug my phone out of my bag, switched it on and called her.

  ‘Mum?’ She sounded like she was in a disco or something, judging by the noise.

  ‘Katie, love, is that you?’

  ‘Course it’s me, Mum. It’s my phone.’ She laughed. ‘Mum? Are you all right?’

  ‘Course I am. Not seen you, that’s all.’

  ‘I’ve been at Liam’s.’ The background noise became suddenly
quieter, though I could hear what sounded like a road. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘I’m fine. It’s me asking if you’re all right, remember?’

  ‘I know, I just thought… Are you sure you’re OK?’

  Jeez, don’t you start. ‘I’m fine. About to set off home. Your dad’s out, so shall I call and get us a bottle of wine in? I’m going past the off-licence. I could order a pizza, too. I know it’s late, but we could watch a film, stay up past midnight, eh, be wild, what d’you reckon?’

  She hesitated. Quite right, I supposed. It’d been over a year since we’d shared a bottle and made ourselves cry laughing looking at memes and silly videos on her phone. Over a year since we’d shared anything at all.

  ‘I thought you were… I’m in Warrington.’ The background noise died. ‘There’s a few of us. I’ve just stepped out of the club.’

  I swallowed hard. Somehow this cut me to the bone in a way her rudeness never had. ‘That sounds like fun.’

  ‘I can come home. I… I thought you’d be doing something with Dad. Or Lisa.’

  Dad and Lisa are doing something with each other, I didn’t say. Perhaps she didn’t know, then.

  ‘Will you heck come home,’ is what I did say. ‘Go on. Have a Jägerbomb for me, will you? For… old times.’

  She gave a little laugh. And it’s pathetic, but I was so grateful for it, I started crying.

  ‘Let’s do pizza and wine next Friday, eh?’ There was a catch in her voice.

  ‘You’re on,’ I managed, but only just.

  I was about to ring off when I heard her voice, small and trembling, from the speaker. ‘Mum? Mum, are you still there?’

  I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m still here.

  ‘Did you need something?’

  ‘No, I… Mum? I just… love you.’

  I closed my eyes, covered the phone with my hand and took a great gulp of air. When I thought I could last the seconds, I took my hand away. ‘Love you too, love,’ I whispered. ‘Have a good night.’