Charley is so calm that I wonder whether she’s in shock. I don’t know enough about it, but it’s the thing everyone says, as if that explains it all. She makes toast for me and then herself, plus two cups of coffee. Then we sit and eat together, as if this is all perfectly normal.
She rinses the plates and leaves them to dry as we head into the living room. Charley takes the sofa and I’m on the lounger. There’s silence for a long while, me not daring to ask. Where to begin? What to ask?
‘Do you want to know the rest?’ she asks and it’s like the silliest question ever.
My answer is there and gone and I don’t even know what it was. The sentiment was ‘hell, yeah’.
‘I thought I was going mad,’ she says. ‘I was in there by myself all day. I’d make up games like counting the grooves in each piece of wood. Sometimes I didn’t know if I was awake or asleep. There wasn’t a bed, I only had the floor. The only time anything changed was when he knocked. He’d tell me to put on the hood and then he’d wait. I think he could see me. One time I didn’t put it on and he wouldn’t come in until I had. That’s when he’d bring food and ask the questions.’
‘Did you recognise the voice?’
Charley shakes her head. ‘No… just a man’s. The police asked a lot of questions about accents, but I don’t know. I think I stopped listening properly.’
‘Did he… touch you?’
It might be a quirk of timing, of me asking at the wrong moment, but there’s a fraction of a second where it looks like Charley is trying to hide behind her mug.
‘No.’
There’s a small silence between us and I wonder if I have any right to ask. It’s not like she’s my property. Is this the sort of rampant misogyny some people are accused of when they ask what they believe to be an innocent question? Have I crossed some feminist line?
What would I have said if she’d replied that he had touched her? Would it change anything? It’s not me who was taken and yet I feel numb.
‘Did he let you go?’
‘I tried the door one time and it was open. I’d pressed against it loads of times but it hadn’t moved. It was like a reflex to try. I pushed it and then it opened.’
‘Just like that?’
‘I guess. He must have forgotten to lock it.’
‘Where were you?’
‘I don’t know. It was dark. The moon was out. I wasn’t going to poke around to get a proper look – I just ran. Next thing I know, I’m in the woods. There are all these snaps and creaks coming from the shadows. I’m trying to tell myself it’s from squirrels, nothing serious, and yet I keep thinking of the scream mask, so I keep running and running.’ She points to her eye. ‘It’s where I got this. I tripped over a log or something and landed face first. I don’t even know what did it, probably a rock or something, but I got up and kept going. I was running for ages. I was so tired. Then I was on a road. I didn’t know which way to go, so I picked right and carried on running.’ She presses her lips together, not quite a smile. ‘I guess all those gym classes paid off.’
‘How did you get here?’
‘The sun came up. I was still running, but then I thought maybe whoever it was would drive past and see me. I cut through a hedge onto this field and kept moving. The next thing I know, I realised where I was because there was a road sign for the town. I keep going, thinking someone might stop at any minute. And then, I don’t know… I guess I’m here. I knock and there’s no one in, so I go round the back and use the hidden key.’
She takes a really deep breath and squeezes her eyes closed.
‘You know the rest because—’ Charley stops herself mid-sentence and peers out towards the street. Her head dips. ‘They’re here,’ she says.
I think police, men in masks, but it’s none of that. The reporters are back.
Thirty-Six
I don’t have a chance to move before my phone starts to ring. Pamela the publicist. Charley is frozen in her seat as I take the call. There are no particular niceties this time.
‘Can I speak to Charley?’ she asks.
‘How do you know she’s here?’
‘Everybody knows.’
I mute the call and turn to my wife. ‘It’s the publicist your brother recommended. She wants to talk to you. I can tell her to get lost if you want…?’
Charley reaches out and takes my phone. I only hear one half of the conversation, but it doesn’t last long anyway. ‘Tomorrow,’ Charley says. There’s a pause and then: ‘No, I’m not doing it today. If people harass me, I’m not doing it at all. Tomorrow.’ One more break. ‘No – only then. I’ll do whatever you want tomorrow and that’s it. I’m not doing anything today and I’m not doing anything after tomorrow. One day. I don’t care about the rest. Do whatever you need.’
She listens as Pamela says something else and then hangs up before passing me back my phone.
‘I’ve got to get my own phone,’ she says.
‘What happened to yours?’
She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know. I guess he took it. I thought I had it on me.’
I thumb my way through to the correct screen and then hold it up for Charley to see.
‘Two hundred and four missed calls?’ She’s smiling. ‘Is that how much you love me?’ she asks. ‘How long was I away? I would have expected at least three hundred.’
She laughs at her own joke but I don’t know when I’ll laugh again. I’m finding it hard to breathe properly, as if I can never quite take in enough oxygen at once.
‘What were you saying about tomorrow?’ I ask.
Charley clambers up, crosses to the window and pulls the curtains. She switches the lights on before sitting again. ‘Pamela said she’s got offers streaming in.’
‘Is that what you want?’
It takes her a while to reply. Charley fidgets and fusses, sips her coffee. Looks anywhere except at me. ‘It’s the only way they’ll go away,’ she says. ‘I’ve been here before and said no to things. If I’d said yes, perhaps they’d have gone away for good.’
I’m not so sure about any of that. It’s true they left me alone after the interview – but I’m not Charley. I’m not the story. My parents weren’t national treasures.
‘Are they offering money?’ I ask.
‘That’s what Pamela says.’
‘And that’s what you want?’
There’s a moment where we look to each other and I’m not sure I know who she is. It’s never been about money. Not once.
‘They’re going to keep coming back until I say something anyway, so I may as well get something out of it. I can put it away for Dillon and Daisy.’
‘Do you think we should ask that Fiona what she thinks?’
‘Who?’
‘The family liaison officer. She—’
‘No.’ Charley shakes her head vigorously. ‘I’m done with the police. I’ll do the interviews tomorrow and then I’m done with the media, too. I want to forget everything.’
‘What about a trial?’
Charley’s eyes narrow. She’s so hard to read. ‘What trial?’
‘If they find out whoever took you. What then? You’ll have to deal with the police and media then.’
‘That’s different.’
I want to argue but, really, I don’t think I have it in me. I guess it’s not my decision anyway. I wasn’t the one who was taken. This isn’t about me.
The pair of us turn as there’s a sound of something scrabbling at the back of the house. It sounds like a cat scratching at a locked cat flap.
We don’t have a cat.
‘If that’s one of those damned reporters…’
I fly up off the sofa and for the first time since I woke up, I am furious. I race into the kitchen, unlocking the back door and wrenching it open, ready to do who knows what.
The person at the door leaps away as I pull it inwards.
She yelps. ‘Oh!’
It’s not a reporter at all, it’s Alice.
&nbs
p; She blinks at me, surprised. ‘Is it true?’ she asks.
Charley slots in at my side and then edges past me, stepping onto the back patio, where the two women embrace.
‘You’re back…?’ Alice whispers the words as if she’s not too sure.
‘I’m back.’
They release each other and Charley leads Alice into the house. I poke my head out to make sure there are no interlopers in the garden and then lock everything back up. I close the kitchen blind for good measure.
In the living room, the two women are on the sofa together. ‘I saw the crowd out front, so parked round the corner,’ Alice says. ‘I had to climb over a hedge to get into your garden. I’m so glad you’re safe. Is everything all right…?’
I know exactly what Alice is asking and it’s not specifically whether her friend is well. There’s the implicit undercurrent that I had of wanting to know everything that happened.
Charley shakes her head, bows slightly. ‘I can’t talk about it again. I’ve been over it twice already. I’m sorry…’
Alice reaches out and squeezes Charley’s hand. ‘Oh, honey, the fact you’re back is the main thing.’ She delves into her bag and pulls out a mobile phone. ‘I thought you might need this,’ she says. ‘It’s my old one. I got one of those pay-and-go SIM cards from the newsagent. You might have to register online; I don’t know.’
Charley takes the device and turns it over, examining the screen. It’s a bit scratched from pockets and bags but would probably get a few quid on eBay.
I check my own phone and there are texts from Emily, Raj and a couple of other people, asking if Charley really is back. I tap out a few quick responses and then turn it off. Today is not a day for interruptions.
‘What do you want to do today?’ I ask.
Charley doesn’t look as if the thought of doing something has entered her mind.
‘We can visit Mason if you want?’ I suggest.
She glances towards the window and the unwanted attention beyond. ‘I just want everything to go back to normal,’ she says.
There’s a moment in which Alice and I share a look of mutual understanding. For Charley, for her friends, for me, there is no normal after this.
Thirty-Seven
17 Years Ago
Charley Willis, 11 years old
‘What the hell have you done to your arms?’
Martha grins at Mama as she turns sideways to show off the tattoos. There are spikes and swirls twisting around her wrist and climbing up towards her elbow. ‘Don’t you like them?’ she asks. ‘It’s not finished yet. I think I’m going to have it all the way up to my shoulder.’
I know she’s doing this to make Mama angry. It works.
Mama turns around from the cooker. ‘You look like a slut,’ she says.
I don’t know what a slut is, but it makes Martha smile. ‘Thank you. That’s exactly the look I was going for.’
I’m sitting in the corner by the back door, peeping around the fridge. I wonder if they know I’m in the kitchen with them. Mama definitely did, but she probably forgot I was here.
Just as I think I might have been forgotten, Martha spins and looks at me. She’s cut her hair since I last saw her. It’s short and black. Far darker than when she lived here. Her tattoos are so bright and colourful that, even though I know I should hate them – Mama does – there’s a part of me that wants to touch her skin to find out if the shapes can be felt.
‘Hey, Charley,’ she says.
Mama peers around Martha towards me and gives me the look she does when she would rather I wasn’t around.
‘It’s Charlotte,’ Mama says.
‘Whatcha up to?’ Martha asks.
‘Watching Mama,’ I say.
Martha looks between us, but I’m not sure why. I want to ask about the tattoos, perhaps even see if Martha will let me touch her arm, but I don’t think Mama would like that.
Mama looks even more annoyed and I’m not sure if it’s with me. I think it might be Martha. She takes hold of my sister’s arm and spins her around. ‘Will you stop trying to drag your sister into your sordid little world.’
‘Take your hands off me.’
They stare at each other for a couple of seconds and I wonder if one might end up hitting the other. Mama says Martha is a bad influence.
Mama lets go of my sister’s wrist and then turns back to the cooker.
‘If you want your money, you’re going to lose that attitude, young lady.’
‘I’m twenty years old, you senile hag. Don’t call me “young lady”.’
Mama spins again. She’s holding a wooden spoon. She ignores Martha, looking at me instead. ‘Do you see what I keep telling you, Charlotte. This is what you’ll turn into if you don’t listen to your father and me.’
Martha shakes her head and turns to me as well. ‘That’s a lie. I’m what you’ll turn into if you listen to these two egomaniacs.’
‘Martha!’
They glare at one another again, then Mama grinds her teeth together and speaks while barely moving her lips. It’s scary when she does this.
‘You listen to me, young lady. Pamela went out of her way to set this up and you’re going to do as you’re told. You are going to smile. You’re going to be polite. If the reporter asks you something, you will give a thoughtful and considerate answer that I would approve of.’ She points to Martha’s arm. ‘And you’re going to cover that up, too. Some of your old clothes are upstairs. Go and find something with long sleeves.’
‘What if I don’t?’
‘Then don’t. Go away – but don’t ever expect any more help from your father and me. Don’t think we don’t know about what you get up to in that hovel of yours. The drinking, the boys. If you’re going to act like a drunken whore, the least you could do is not get pictured doing it.’
They stare at each other again. They’re pretty much the same height, so they’re eye to eye. It’s so horrible that it makes me shiver. I don’t want them to argue.
Martha eventually turns and leaves the kitchen. I hear her stomping up the stairs in a way that would get me in trouble.
Mama lets out a loud breath and looks to me. ‘Is that what you want to turn into?’ she says.
‘No,’ I reply, knowing that is what she’ll want to hear.
‘Sooner or later, that girl is going to bring shame on this family and she doesn’t even care.’
‘She’s naughty, Mama.’
Mama is wagging the spoon in my direction, but she finally smiles. It’s not a big one but it is for me. ‘She is.’
I like it when Mama smiles for me.
After that, Mama turns back to the cooker. She takes a tray of roast potatoes from the oven and lays it on the side. They’re bubbling away, the smell filling the kitchen. Roast potatoes are my favourite. Mama sounds like she’s in a good mood because she’s humming to herself.
It doesn’t last long because Martha storms back through the kitchen door. She’s wearing a cardigan over her vest-top.
‘Happy?’ she asks, sounding angry.
Mama points to Martha’s chest. ‘You can do something about that, too.’
‘They’re breasts, Mum. What do you want me to do about them?’
‘Cover them up. The magazine wants photographs of us acting as a family and I’d really like it if my eldest daughter didn’t look like she should be hanging around on a street corner.’
‘I’m thinking about getting my nipples pierced. Do you think I should tell your reporter that?’
‘Don’t you—’
I’m not sure what happens then because there’s a really strong pain in my stomach. It’s like someone is poking a knife into me really hard. I don’t mean to, but I let out a little cry.
‘What’s wrong?’ Martha asks.
‘My stomach hurts.’ I’m bending over so that I’m almost folded in half. It helps make the knives go away.
Martha comes and sits next to me on the floor. ‘Has this been happening a lot?�
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‘Every day.’
Mama bangs the spoon on the side of the oven and then wags it in my direction. ‘For God’s sake, Charlotte. You’re such a drama queen. Why do you always have to make everything about you? Time and time again, you do the same thing. There was that time when we had Ted and Veronica over and you wet the bed. Then your father was getting that award and you thought it would be a good idea to be sick in the car.’
She smashes the spoon onto the cooker once more.
I don’t even remember wetting the bed. Mama talks about it all the time, so it must have happened. I’ve said sorry, but she keeps bringing it up.
Martha’s fingers are cold as she touches my middle gently, asking where it hurts. She turns back to Mama.
‘This could be a kidney stone,’ she says.
‘It’s not a kidney stone,’ Mama replies.
‘How do you know?’
‘Because Charlotte does this all the time. Something is going on in the family and she’ll try to make it about her.’
Martha holds my hand and bites her tongue. There’s a small stud through it and I wonder if Mama knows.
‘Perhaps you should take her to a doctor,’ Martha says.
‘Oh, go away, Martha. Go and sit upstairs until the reporter gets here. You don’t live here, so you don’t know what your sister’s like. The only thing you know about the medical profession is where to get the morning-after pill.’
Martha squeezes my hand and stands. I can feel her trembling. ‘You are such a bitch,’ she says. And then she walks out of the room.
Mama continues stirring whatever she’s stirring. I can see her shaking with rage. I really want to hide, but the knives are still stabbing into my stomach. Mama waits until Martha has gone.
‘You know the blue dress in your wardrobe…?’ she says.
I’m not even sure Mama is talking to me because she’s doesn’t turn around.
‘Charlotte? I’m talking to you.’
The Wife’s Secret: A gripping psychological thriller with a heart-stopping twist Page 20