Can You See Her?: An absolutely compelling psychological thriller

by S. E. Lynes

  ‘For instance, if the bus is late, you don’t arrive for coffee with a friend and say, The bus service in this borough is unreliable, do you?’ A smile itches at the edges of her mouth but it doesn’t take. ‘What you do is set the scene: you were at the bus stop, perhaps you add the weather conditions – it was raining or terribly cold; perhaps you’d run there so as not to miss the bus. The bus doesn’t come, the minutes tick by, the time of your appointment approaches. You run through your mounting frustrations moment by moment, building to a kind of climax – at last the bus arrives! You complain to the driver or whatever. You tell that story and you shake your head and say something along the lines of I’m here now, thank goodness, and the tension falls away on a kind of slope at the end, do you see?’ She steeples her hands. ‘All of this to say that the stories we tell each other and ourselves are how we process life. Mishaps, disasters. And in your case, tragedy.’

  I nod. There’s a feeling in my gut that I can’t name. Anticipation, possibly, something like that. Dread, maybe.

  ‘I have your statement here.’ She looks down at her notes. ‘But what I’ve been listening for in these sessions, Rachel, is what you included and what you left out of your story. The event that started it, the feeling of not being seen by one’s family or by the world, is common for many women, particularly women your age. If, given your childhood, your recent history and also your medical history, you experienced this as trauma, then that’s valid. The trauma belongs to you and is meaningful to you. You matter, Rachel. What you feel matters.’

  She holds my gaze. Embarrassed, it’s me that breaks it.

  Amanda lifts a sheet of paper and glances down at it. ‘I’d like to start with your first experiences of your ability to “read” other people. The man in the park and the GP near the canal. I agree with your friend Lisa that an ability to intuit others quickly comes with age. We have more experience, quite simply. We can make educated judgements based on that experience. What’s more interesting is what you surmised.’ She glances again at her notes, back to me. ‘You said the man in the park was lonely. That he was yearning for something lost. Grieving, perhaps, you said. You felt it. The GP, you said, was divorced, afraid of losing his girlfriend and his children. What do those emotional details make you feel now, Rachel?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I suppose I’m asking you if they resonate at all. Loneliness, grief, loss of children, marital breakdown, romantic insecurity…’

  The tissue box has been replaced with a new one. She pulls out a handful of tissues and passes them to me. I press them to my eyes and nose. My nose is sore, my face is sore. She is leaning down to a soft leather bag on the floor by her chair. She rummages in it, pulls out a small blue and white tin.

  ‘Here,’ she says, giving it to me. ‘I never go anywhere without this.’

  It’s Vaseline. I open the tin and rub some over my lips, under my nose. It smells vaguely of petrol.

  ‘I must look a sight,’ I say.

  ‘A little shiny, but it will soothe the skin.’ Her smile reaches further than I’ve seen it in all the time we’ve been here. ‘You can keep that; I have another. I’ll bring you some Sudocrem tomorrow. I’ve got a miniature pot at home.’

  ‘Isn’t that for nappy rash?’

  ‘Yes. But when my girls were small, someone told me it’s great for zits and chapped skin, and it is.’

  I laugh – I can’t help it. I would never have expected her to say zits, for a start, and for the first time I wonder what she’s like when she relaxes. I suspect she likes a laugh as much as Lisa and I do. But she’s at work now, of course. And I’m in custody for murder.

  ‘I had you down for more expensive potions,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, I have those too,’ she says. ‘But sometimes the most basic products are better.’

  ‘It’s to do with me, isn’t it?’

  ‘The potions?’

  ‘No. What I was picking up from that chap and the GP. It’s my loneliness. My grief. My marriage.’

  She nods. ‘It’s called projection. Your feelings are being projected onto others like film onto a cinema screen. Does that make sense?’

  ‘It does. It does, yes.’

  ‘It doesn’t mean you were wrong about those people. It’s down to what you notice and how you interpret it. You mentioned a customer who is addicted to gambling and comes to celebrate or drown his sorrows at your pub.’

  ‘Phil.’

  ‘Yes. Of all the customers you might have mentioned, you chose to tell me about him. A broken man from a troubled domestic background seeking solace where he shouldn’t, or rather where he won’t, ultimately, find it.’ She pauses. ‘Have you any thoughts on that?’

  I nod. I have the same sensation I do sometimes when I put my reading glasses on, except it’s my mind that’s sharpening, coming into focus. ‘That’s what I was doing, wasn’t it? Escaping? Not from trouble exactly, but yes, I suppose you could say my home life was troubled and I suppose you could say that talking to strangers wasn’t ultimately going to help me solve the problems at home. I was putting my… I suppose I was putting my love elsewhere.’

  She mirrors my nod, adds the trace of a smile. ‘Good. That’s great. Keeping that in mind, let’s talk, if you think you can, about the evening you met Joanna Weatherall.’

  ‘OK.’ The Vaseline on my face has calmed the sting but my face feels strange and greasy.

  ‘There were a couple of things you mentioned in your account that, in the light of knowing about how we project our emotions sometimes, you might now be able to look at a little differently. You expressed a connection with this young girl that was maternal, would you agree with that?’

  ‘Yes. Definitely. I didn’t mean her any harm. If anything, I felt protective of her.’

  ‘And despite revisiting that moment in our sessions, you still can’t remember doing her any harm. You’ve left that out of your story. You believe that your mind has blocked out those details because the idea of them is so horrific to you. What you do include is how she, Joanna, made you feel. Can you remember how she made you feel?’

  ‘Protective,’ I say. ‘I said that.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Maternal.’

  ‘Yes…’

  I think back, put myself there.

  ‘Appreciated,’ I say. ‘Seen. Funny. I made her laugh.’

  Amanda glances at her notes and back to me. ‘You said she reminded you of how you used to make your daughter laugh. Katie. You said you last laughed together with Katie over a year ago. Do you have any thoughts on that?’

  ‘It was when me and Katie were close. Now she’s shut herself in her room, started painting her face all day long, living online instead of in the world. She’s always cross with me. Seems to be anyway.’

  ‘And Joanna?’

  ‘She was my daughter?’

  Amanda raises her eyebrows.

  ‘Jo was Katie,’ I continue, encouraged. ‘That’s what you mean, isn’t it? She was the relationship I’d lost. With Katie. That’s what you want me to say, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t want you to say anything you don’t feel. We’re working together to try and understand what happened – does that make sense?’

  ‘No, but it’s obvious, isn’t it? I was desperate for my daughter but I couldn’t reach her. Everything I said was wrong. We just couldn’t get on. She was always so furious with me. And I suppose Katie was doing the same as me and Phil, in a way. I never thought about that. She’s been looking for solace, as you put it, online. Looking for love – likes, followers. And going out too much, getting drunk, well, that’s not unusual at her age, but maybe she was doing it too much, I don’t know. And Mark, I suppose, out with Roy… well, with Lisa. And then, I guess, when I was thinking about pushing Jo under the water, well, that was me wanting to push myself under the water, wasn’t it?’ A sob comes from deep in my chest, an unlocking at the very heart of me, a slow opening. ‘I’ve been suicidal. I have
. But I’ve been too ashamed to admit it.’

  ‘Take your time,’ Amanda says softly, and yet again I’m struck by her compassion, given all that I’ve done. ‘Have some water. We don’t have to talk about Jo anymore if you don’t feel able.’

  ‘Oh, don’t mind me. I’ve been crying for a year. I don’t mind it if you don’t. I’ll just crack on, I think. There’ve been times this last year when I’ve felt like killing someone but I never thought I had it in me to actually do it. I imagined stabbing her. Afterwards, I mean. How it would feel. But at the same time, the me I know – me, Rachel, the person I think I am, or thought I was, anyway – would never do that to another mother, let alone a kid. Never. I’d never take another woman’s child. But I’ve been so cross. Cross with everyone. With Mark, with Katie.’

  ‘OK. Tell me about that.’

  ‘I was cross at Katie for leaving me alone, for us not being close anymore. And I’m cross at myself. I’ve been rubbish. A rubbish mother.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  There’s a moment of silence. I can’t speak. She doesn’t speak. Until she does.

  ‘Let’s look at the man in the cemetery. It’s not in your statement because it was never recorded as a crime. But I think it can take us somewhere because it’s in your story.’

  ‘Henry.’

  ‘Henry Parker. It was important to you to give him a name. You were adamant that he should have an identity. Why do you think that was?’

  ‘I… I think everyone should have an identity. We’re all human beings, aren’t we? I suppose… was it because I felt like I’d lost my identity? Yes, I suppose that’s it.’

  ‘Good.’ She gives me a brief smile of encouragement. ‘Henry Parker was never stabbed. I checked the incident report, and as far as anyone’s aware, he was never strangled either. Does—’

  ‘But it said in the news report that he was.’

  ‘It didn’t. Again, it’s down to what we notice, what we read into things. The report said he’d partially asphyxiated. His alcohol levels were toxic. He’d passed out and vomited and almost choked. There was no strangling. And there was no information as to when exactly he had collapsed, so it could have been much later. You say you woke up with pain in your head, still behind the gravestone, the jump leads loose around your knuckles. What do you think really happened?’

  ‘I must have… I must have fallen. Maybe I fainted and hit my head on the gravestone? Maybe I’d wound the leads tight because I was so cross. I was angry about having to go for chips, about having wet clothes on, about the car… about a lot of things. I mean, they say the menopause causes rage, but to be honest, sometimes I think what women have to put up with at this age is enough to make anyone furious.’

  She chews her cheek, stops herself, lips pressing together tight. ‘It was a little earlier in your story that you mentioned that your husband didn’t want you physically anymore. Can you see any connection between that and your experience of the man in the churchyard? I know this is delicate, but it will help if you can talk about it.’

  ‘Mark? Do you think Henry was Mark? The pervert? In my mind?’

  ‘Not exactly. In our sessions, you mentioned that Mark no longer wanted you sexually. He turned his back on you, figuratively and literally, leaving you feeling very alone.’ She looks up, meets my eye. Her eyebrows rise a fraction.

  ‘You’re saying I was angry at Mark for not wanting… not wanting me in that way?’ I can feel myself blushing. I can’t say it like she can, just come out with it like that. ‘You’re saying it was that type of connection I was looking for?’

  ‘The mind and how it processes trauma is a complicated thing, Rachel. I’m not saying it was exactly like that, and it may well be oversimplifying, but thinking in these rather simplistic terms might help you to solve the puzzle of yourself and these attacks. You’ve mentioned carrying a surplus of love. Everyone who has given a statement is at pains to say that you’re incredibly loving. When Kieron was born, you suffered postpartum psychosis. You chose to share that with me and you included the very phrase that your psychotherapist gave you at the time. You remembered this phrase. It meant a great deal to you.’

  ‘Love on steroids.’

  She almost smiles. ‘Eighty-five per cent in the “Are You an Empath?” quiz. That has come up more than once.’

  ‘When you explain it like that,’ I say, ‘it’s like you’re telling me what I already know. It clicks, if you know what I mean. It’s like my brain conjured up this grubby scenario for me to make me feel even worse than I already did.’

  She is nodding. ‘If it makes sense to you, then that’s helpful. I have no doubt that you really did stumble across this man doing what you said he was doing, just as I’m sure you went to the pond with Joanna Weatherall. It’s what you did with your perception, or your memory of how it played out, that might help us unravel your version of events. We might never find out exactly which parts were true and which parts were… as you say, conjured up, but we might find other things.’

  ‘I’ve told you the truth.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it. But we have to try and figure out what this truth means.’

  47

  Mark

  Transcript of recorded interview with Mark Edwards (excerpt)

  Also present: DI Heather Scott, PC Marilyn Button

  HS: Mr Edwards, your wife seemed to be under the impression that there might have been something more than a neighbourly relationship between you and Ingrid Taylor. Have you any comment to make on that?

  ME: Yes, I have. (Becomes immediately agitated) There was nothing at all between Ingrid and myself. Nothing, have you got that? She was a bit full-on, I’d say, but I didn’t take too much notice. I gave her a lift to work and she did call round on pretexts when Rachel was out – could I countersign the photos for her passport, could I help her read her gas meter, that type of thing – but that was it. She’d sometimes stop for a chat. She was lonely, I think. She was cut up about her divorce. But there was nothing else. I made it clear I wasn’t interested and she took the hint in the end.

  HS: Mr Edwards, on the night of Saturday the twenty-eighth of September, you said you were at the golf club with your friend Roy. I’m looking at a map, and I can’t help but notice that the golf club appears to be very close, by car, to the town hall. No more than a few minutes. Would you agree?

  ME: Where are you going with this? I went nowhere near the town hall on Saturday night. I had nothing to do with that lad. I had a beer with Roy and then I went home to bed. Rachel got in very late. I just thought maybe she’d stayed on at the Barley Mow or gone somewhere else for a late drink, maybe Lisa had persuaded her.

  HS: You didn’t ask her where she’d been?

  ME: No. I… I pretended to be asleep. As I say, things were difficult. Especially that day.

  HS: For the tape, can you tell me what these are?

  ME: They’re… they’re cigarette ends.

  HS: Anything else? Can you describe them?

  ME: Well, they’re brown, a bit of white… is that what you mean? A couple of them have lipstick on.

  HS: Mr Edwards, these cigarette ends were found in the garage of your house. Do you have any light to shed on that?

  ME: (Shakes head) I don’t know anything about that.

  HS: Are you saying you’ve never smoked a cigarette in your house?

  ME: No, I… I have. I mean… I don’t smoke as a rule, but sometimes if I’m offered… Ingrid always offered me a cigarette when she came round and… well, it was silly really, but I did have the odd one of hers.

  HS: Only with Ingrid?

  ME: Well, no. I had one with Lisa. On the Friday. She’s like me, more of an occasional smoker. I didn’t see the harm. We were both upset. Worried, I mean. About Rachel. I don’t see what this has got to do with anything.

  HS: Mr Edwards, your wife is currently convinced you are having an intimate relationship with Lisa Baxter. She’s said she thought for a while that you
were with Ingrid but believes she discovered on Friday afternoon that you were in fact with Lisa when she saw Lisa driving away from your home. Despite having spoken to your wife on the phone on Friday afternoon, Lisa did not say she had been with you at your home. When Rachel returned from a visit to her father, you made no mention of her best friend having been at the house, despite the evidence of the cigarettes. Indeed, you did a similar thing on another occasion with Ingrid. This is why Rachel collected first yours and Ingrid’s cigarette stubs, then yours and Lisa’s. She was planning to confront you about them but had not worked up the courage.

  ME: What? What’s all this? What are you talking about? I would never… Lisa’s our closest friend. She’s practically family. I didn’t say anything to Rachel because Lisa had come to talk about Rachel’s obvious… her obviously troubled state of mind. It’s not nice to know that your friends have been talking about you, so we didn’t tell her. I said I’d talk to her and convince her to seek help. I didn’t want it to come as a shock. I was building up to it. I needed to ask her if she’d see the GP. But it’s not an easy thing to say, is it? How do you say that to someone you love? And we’ve not been talking much, so that made it even harder. But there’s nothing between Lisa and me, never has been, never will be. I mean, I love her as a friend, but that’s it. Honestly. I would never do that to Rachel, never. Neither would Lisa. She’s our oldest friend, do you know what I mean? And Rachel’s my wife. She’s the mother of my kids, for Christ’s sake.