The Woman at 46 Heath Street: A twisty and absolutely gripping psychological thriller

by Lesley Sanderson

  ‘She looks lovely.’

  The young woman he’s gazing at has wavy ginger hair and a shy smile; she’s wearing a flowery dress that nips her tiny waist in. She’s leaning against a railing looking over a beach, an ice cream cone in her hand.

  ‘Used to be able to get my hands right round her waist, lift her up in the air and swing her round.’

  ‘You must miss her.’

  ‘She’s always with me, don’t you worry. Listen to me, wittering on.’ Mr Mortimer clears his throat. ‘Enough of me being sentimental. This is what I wanted to show you.’ He turns a couple of pages.

  ‘There. Your in-laws. Long time ago, mind.’ It’s the first photo I’ve seen of Chris’s father – there were never any around the house. I draw in a sharp breath at the unexpected facial resemblance to Chris. But there the resemblance ends, as I look at the tall man with a moustache, wearing a tweed suit, legs astride as if he’s a soldier on duty. A young man. And Nancy. She looks even younger.

  ‘Oh, look at Nancy, isn’t she lovely?’

  ‘Doris and Nancy were good friends when we first moved in, like I said. Something happened, I don’t know what, she wouldn’t talk about it. They stopped being so friendly. Very upset, Doris was.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ I reply. ‘Do you know what year this party was?’

  ‘Let me think. We’d been here a few years then, so I reckon it must have been around 1990. It was the summer street party they had every year.’

  I do the maths. Chris would have been about ten.

  ‘There are more.’ He turns the page. The photos show the same long table set out in the middle of the road. White tablecloth, bunting. A group of children smile up at the camera, spoons raised, some kind of trifle in their bowls.

  ‘Honey pudding,’ he says, pointing to the food. ‘Doris made it specially.’

  ‘There.’ I point out Chris, a serious-looking boy wearing shorts and a knitted tank top. Next to him a dark-haired girl, back to the camera.

  ‘Was that his sister, do you know?’

  ‘I’m not too sure, to be truthful, I don’t recognise any of them in particular. There were that many kiddies living in this street, used to play out all the time. Doris knew all their names, of course. She’d have written them on the back if they were known to her. There might be some further on in the book.’

  I turn the page, eager to see more.

  ‘Can you tell me more about the people who’ve lived in the house before?’

  ‘Another young couple lived there, had a baby – a girl, I think. But the wife wasn’t happy living down south – she came from Newcastle I seem to remember. They moved back up there. The Rutherfords moved in after them with their two children, Chris and… the little girl, I forget her name. I haven’t seen her in years. How is she?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never met her and Chris doesn’t talk about his family much. I don’t suppose you remember anything about it?’

  ‘Like I’ve said before, Doris would have been a lot more help than me. They were a very organised family, if that’s the right word. Edward was an army man, used to keep his family a bit regimented was the impression I got. He had impeccable manners, although Doris reckoned it was a bit of a front. But the world was different then, most families had values like that.’ His eyes take on a faraway look in them and he nods.

  ‘You’ve got me thinking now, it’s coming back to me. Doris came home once from shopping in town, she always used to go in on market day, have coffee with her friend, what was her name? Betty, that was it. Well, one day she came home, said she’d seen the young girl from next door all over a boy. Canoodling on a bench in the graveyard, they were. She wanted to tell Nancy, the girl’s mother, but she decided against it in the end, said the father was so strict with the poor kiddies she’d better keep it to herself.’

  ‘Chris won’t talk about his father.’

  ‘He went out to work every day, barely saw the kiddies. I was the same when our daughter was little. Doris stayed at home with her.’

  ‘I didn’t realise you had children.’

  ‘Just the one. Sylvia. I don’t see her much, she’s busy with her own children. Two boys.’ He shakes his head. ‘Besides, she lives in Scotland, so it’s not as if she can pop round, is it? And you won’t catch me going up there, it’s far too cold. Snows all winter. My old bones wouldn’t be able to cope with that. Fiona from the church pops round every now and then to check I’m OK. I’m sure Doris put her up to it, but she’s a lovely girl.’

  ‘Could I borrow these photo albums, have a proper look?’

  ‘Of course you can. They’re only gathering dust on the shelves. Your Chris might like to have a look.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I gather up the books. ‘And for the tea, too. I’ll have a look through these and return them when I’m done. I’ll make you a cup of tea in return, Mr Mortimer.’

  ‘Fred, please, you’ll make me feel like a teacher otherwise.’

  * * *

  Later at home I go through the album, my fingertips tingling, eager. I examine pictures of Chris with long legs and a gawky adolescent pose, and I briefly wonder again about what happened to the photo from the mantelpiece. Returning my attention to the photos, the dark girl from the earlier image is visible in others, always turned away from the camera, as if hiding. Is this the mysterious sister, avoiding the camera like a typical teenager? I’ve almost got to the end of the book when a photograph flutters to the floor. My back jars as I stoop to pick it up. A young girl with long, dark hair and deep-set eyes glowers at the camera. Full lips in a sulky mouth. There’s something familiar about the pose, the way she leans against the wall, arms crossed defiantly. Something from the photo speaks to me. I’m sure I’ve seen this girl before.

  My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Alice, telling me to get dressed up for dinner. Excitement shoots little fireworks inside me. The idea of a future at Heath Street with Alice is a sparkler coming to life. I’ll show her everything I’ve found tonight, and together we can try and figure it out.

  Thirty-Seven

  ELLA

  I’m fizzing with adrenaline and Alice won’t be home for ages yet. I decide to take a quick trip to the shops followed by a workout. I sling my gym kit into my bag and head out the door. It’s time I picked up my life again.

  The dress I choose is a low-backed, calf-length black silk number. I can’t afford it but I refuse to think about the expense; it’s ages since I bought anything for myself – and I want to look good for Alice. My pulse rises and I can’t help recalling how Chris maxed up his credit cards behind my back.

  When I arrive home, Alice is wearing silk culottes and a white vest which contrasts with her brown skin. I dump my bag in the hall and follow the smell of chicken through to the kitchen. Garlic lingers in the air and the table is laid with lots of small dishes. Alice is washing up.

  ‘Hi, Ella. Tapas tonight.’

  ‘Great. I’ll just nip upstairs and get changed.’ I’m excited as I slip into my new dress.

  ‘This weather makes me wonder why I ever came back from Spain,’ Alice says as I go back into the kitchen.

  ‘Yes, why did you come back?’ Alice has never actually said. She turns from the sink and we smile at each other. Her eyes flicker up and down, taking in my dress, and I’m glad I made an effort.

  ‘Let’s not do small talk.’

  I smile. ‘I want to get to know you, that’s all.’

  ‘We have been, or haven’t you noticed?’ Her eyes meet mine and I bite my lip, but I can’t look away.

  ‘You look lovely,’ she says. ‘New dress?’

  I nod, my cheeks hot under her scrutiny. ‘You’re making an effort with the food, it’s the least I could do. I need to apologise for my behaviour last night.’

  ‘Stop that right now. You’ve been stressed, and it’s already forgotten. Sit down and I’ll get you a drink. You’re my guest this evening.’

  ‘What’s the occasion?’

  ‘Y
ou deserve it after last night. I should never have let you go to that party. Chris is unbelievable.’

  ‘You’ve got him sussed, and you don’t even know him. Weren’t you curious to meet him?’

  Alice opens a bottle of red wine and brings it over. ‘A Spanish Rioja,’ she announces before saying, ‘I’m not interested in Chris.’

  ‘Fair enough. I’m not sure I should be drinking, though, after I made such a fool of myself last night. After this one I’m sticking to water.’

  She pours us both a glass, then holds hers towards me and we clink glasses. After the first sip the dark lipstick Alice is wearing leaves a smudge on her glass. The wine is smooth as it slides down my throat.

  ‘I’m sorry about last night.’ Best to get it over with. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’

  ‘I do,’ she says.

  I raise my eyes to meet hers. The wine has stained her lips even darker and I’m struck by the urge to wipe it off. The sharp lines of her hair frame her face.

  I focus on my drink, remembering my talk with Mr Mortimer earlier. ‘Let me show you something.’ I run upstairs and get the embroidery. ‘My builder found this, it was hidden. What do you make of it? I wondered about the date.’

  She looks down at it, turns it over. ‘I doubt it’s important, it looks like the kind of thing you do in school needlework lessons when you’re about twelve. The date is when it was embroidered, I’d guess.’

  I’m disappointed, but she’s right.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about Lady’s death and the scratch on your car,’ says Alice, changing the subject. ‘It has to be Chris’s new woman.’ The way she curls her lip on stressing the words makes me smile. I love that she hates her as much as I do.

  ‘My other theory is that she’s behind the attacks, wanting to drive me out, and he doesn’t know about it.’ I don’t share my biggest fear, that he’s told her about his sister, a confidence he could never share with me, and together Chris and his new woman are driving me out.

  It couldn’t be her, surely? After the way Alice dismissed the embroidery, I keep that thought to myself.

  ‘Whatever the truth is,’ Alice says, ‘you’ve accepted, haven’t you, that you and Chris aren’t right for each other? Accept that, and move on. You never know what’s round the corner.’ She takes a sip of wine and runs her tongue around her lips. Her smile reaches her deep-set eyes and I’m close enough to see the outline of her contact lenses. An impression is flickering in my mind but I can’t quite grasp it. A sharp pain cuts through my head and I gasp.

  Alice mistakes it for emotion and leans over to kiss me. My head begins to sway and I pull back, my heart beating so hard I’m unable to speak.

  ‘What is it? I thought…’

  I try to form words but the room begins to move, darkness rushing in from the corners, and I lose myself.

  Diary

  30 JULY 1997

  I’m so worried about Melissa. She’s barely moved all week and she’s only eaten when I’ve forced her to. More than ever she needs a doctor, but Edward won’t countenance anyone coming into the house. I suggested it might be better if I slept in the same room as her; I tried to make it sound like I was doing him a favour, but he just looked at me as if I were a worm that had crawled in from the garden. At least a worm has the freedom to wriggle outside.

  One good thing happened this morning. A postcard arrived from my boy, Paris emblazoned on the front. A sky so blue it hurt my eyes behind a photo of an imposing building. Notre-Dame it said, in small print on the back. A large church with evil-looking gargoyles keeping watch across the city. I hope he went into its cold interior and said a prayer for his sister. I hid the card from Edward, not wanting to make him angry. ‘Christopher is not my son any more,’ he said. Since he left, he’s never called him Kit. He got mad when Christopher was mentioned, didn’t like not being able to control him now. The one that got away. I showed the card to Melissa, hoping it might cheer her up, but she stared at me with blank eyes before she rolled onto her side, facing the opposite wall, writhing with the weight of her stomach. She must be due any day now. Just thinking about it made my skin shine with sweat. I kept my childcare manual close by, just in case.

  At least I have my own experience to draw on. My children were born at home, but the midwife was present, Edward pacing around downstairs until she ordered him to go out, get some air. Of course he went to the pub, and he’s been going there nightly ever since. Having the children changed everything.

  My daughter came first, my son three minutes later, my precious twins, and I held them on either side of my heart. Melissa always was a step ahead of Kit in everything she did. He idolised her, until he found out about her boyfriend Tommy and went straight to Edward. Tommy was a decent lad, although no boy would have been decent enough for Edward. Kit betrayed his sister – he should have known better. Even I found it hard to forgive him for that: he knew what his father was like. As a child, sometimes I would see a flicker of similarity between him and Edward, the odd sign, and I’d feel a trickle of fear that he might grow up to be like his father. They look so alike. I prayed it would never happen, but I can’t deny the evidence.

  ‘Arrived safely, spending a few days in the sun.’

  He never was one to give much away, but I held the card to my heart, grateful he was letting me know he was safe, glad he hadn’t been specific about his whereabouts.

  * * *

  EVENING

  Her first cry came this afternoon around three o’clock, a shriek to rival Doris’s fox in its intensity. It ripped through me and I dropped my knitting to the floor, a pale lemon bonnet for the child. Edward sneered when he saw me with my needles clicking, but didn’t say anything. Moving the needles methodically and winding the wool kept me from dwelling on the fact that we had no access to a midwife or medical help. I continued as any grandmother-to-be would, for deep down I can’t believe Edward would harm a child. He is a cruel man, but he wouldn’t, would he? The spare bedroom was big enough for a nursery, I’d told Melissa. I wanted to let her know my plans to help her, but she wouldn’t talk about the baby. I hoped she knew I was on her side.

  At the first cry, Edward sent me up to deal with her.

  She’s having a child, I wanted to say, your grandchild. Have you no heart? I rushed to her room. She was crouching on the floor in a puddle of water. Somehow I knew what to do – we women do. I was first the first person to touch the child as it slid out of her, a little girl.

  I held my breath for the longest time as I waited to hear hers, and when it came, a huge, wrenching wail, I cried too. I dealt with the cord and wrapped her in a white sheet before handing her to my own child, whose hands were outstretched. Seeing her like that lifted my heart.

  ‘Kit wanted me to have a boy, but I always knew she was a girl.’ Melissa registered my surprise. ‘He guessed I was pregnant. He’ll never see her now. I begged him to take me with him when he left, and he laughed. I’ll never forgive him.’

  My heart felt as if a fist was squeezing the life from it. Both my children planned to run? What a life I’d brought them into.

  Sweat and tears poured from Melissa’s face and I put my arms around my daughter and my granddaughter.

  * * *

  That was how Edward found us. The room felt smaller with his large presence blocking the doorway, the smell of tobacco and whisky mixing with the tang of blood and sweat. They say your heart can stop in fear, and I swear mine did in that moment when Melissa let out a piercing wail, crying out that the baby’s lips were blue. Frantic, I turned my back on Edward, regardless of the consequences I knew would follow. My fingers stroked soft skin, searching for a pulse and finding none; I massaged her tiny chest, puffing breath into her rosebud mouth while Melissa sobbed, knowing it was to no avail. Melissa fell back on the bed and Edward snatched the baby from my arms, his mouth curled upwards in a smile. I hadn’t the energy to stop him.

  Thirty-Eight

  ELLA

  The
sound of the front door slamming wakes me. Alice has gone out. I open my eyes and blackness swoops over me again. Next time I open them I feel sick, and I rush to the bathroom and heave. Crouching over the toilet, I shiver. What’s going on? I don’t remember going to bed. I was downstairs with Alice, drinking, then… nothing. She must have helped me to bed, not wanting to disturb me. Was I drunk? Something important lurks at the edges of my mind.

  I splash my face with cold water, stare into the mirror. Dull grey eyes look back at me, limp hair hangs around my face. Yesterday they had been sparkling with the possibility of… of what? Me and Alice? What was I thinking? My priority is to get myself sorted, clear up this mess with Chris. A walk will clear my head. I put on my old duffel coat.

  Light is fading over the heath. The sky broods, as if the clouds are going to spill over at any second. I walk fast, shivering despite the coat, cold wind on my neck.

  My hands are tucked into my pockets to keep them still and I stand and look across the pond at the dark house: all the lights are off. I think about all the times I’ve paused here, often choosing to cut through the heath, a part of this city that feels, magically, like the countryside. This is the one place where I am able to be mindful. Today I am anything but. I squeeze my hands tight in my pockets, worrying about the house. Will I be able to hang onto it? What is Alice up to? My head pounds in a way it never has before, but I’m certain I hadn’t drunk that much. The cold air shocks my nerves alive. The light is disappearing fast. I pull up the hood of my old coat – it smells of bonfires. We haven’t had one of those for a while. Chris used to set them up outside the back door, but I persuaded him to move them halfway down the garden, so Nancy could see from her window. He took some convincing, which I never understood – it was always me that had to make allowances for Nancy, little kindnesses to make her life easier. How well did I know Chris, after all? I drag my gaze away from the house and set off on my walk. I should get home before Alice arrives back. Where has she gone? Is she thinking about me?