The Wake: an absolutely gripping psychological suspense

by Vikki Patis

  He sat up, untangling the duvet from around his legs and slowly shifting towards the end of the bed. The floorboards were cold beneath his feet; his head swam and he paused, his eyes closed, as he waited for the nausea to pass. When he opened the bedroom door, he realised the pounding wasn’t just coming from inside his head. Stumbling across the landing, he banged a fist against Tobias’s door, wincing at the additional noise. His son didn’t answer, probably couldn’t hear him over the din.

  ‘Tobias!’ Richard called, trying the handle. Locked. He swore under his breath and staggered back into the bedroom, fumbling for his phone on the bedside table. What a modern parent I am, he thought sardonically as he found Toby’s name and pressed it. Calling my son from the next room. He answered on the fifth ring.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Will you turn the music down please?’

  ‘What?’

  Richard sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes. ‘Turn the music down please.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Turn the bloody music down!’ His own shouting tore through his head and he winced. ‘Do you hear me? Turn it down!’

  The music reduced slightly, enough for Richard to hear Toby huff. ‘Happy now?’ he said in a way that told Richard his son didn’t give a stuff about his happiness.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ he replied through gritted teeth. ‘Are you–’ Tobias hung up.

  Richard threw the phone onto the bed and took another deep breath. His youngest child, now almost sixteen, had been the most challenging of them all. Skye was always quiet, content to play by herself or spend the afternoon drawing. She became quite the artist, as Richard recalled, but Fearne had told him that she’d stopped painting when she was at secondary school. Pity. Still, there was no money in art.

  Felix was everything a boy should be, in Richard’s opinion. Sporty, confident, academic but not a swot. He played football, had lots of friends and a few girlfriends too. Now he was at university, and by all accounts was living the dream. Exactly what Richard had always wanted for him.

  But Tobias. Tobias was a challenge. Where Skye was quiet, he was sulky. While Felix played rugby and football, Toby had always been drawn to dance and playing with hair, of all things. He refused to stay inside the lines society had drawn for him, and it infuriated Richard. His younger son was determined to do whatever the hell he wanted.

  Just like Saffy. He felt a pang as her face filled his mind. His younger daughter had been a free spirit, a regular tomboy who loved nothing more than running around and climbing trees and splashing in puddles. She refused to wear skirts and dresses, was happiest rolling around in a muddy field, Nala chasing her through the grass. She too refused to stay inside the lines, but it had been different with her.

  The hypocrisy didn’t even cross Richard’s mind. To him, there was nothing wrong with girls wanting to be more like boys. Boys had more fun, didn’t they? Boys were easier, less complicated. There was no bitchiness, no gossiping. A few punches on a night out and they were the best of friends again by the morning. No, Richard had never been concerned about Saffy’s inclination towards more boisterous activities, but he was concerned about Toby. What kind of man would he become? What woman would be drawn to someone so sensitive and, well, weak?

  Finding himself in the bathroom, Richard relieved himself and turned on the shower. The hot water pounded on his shoulders, releasing some of the tension built up from the uncomfortable bed, and he allowed his mind to drift from his son to the night before. A late one; he remembered stumbling home somewhere around 4am to find his bedroom door locked against him. He pictured Fiona’s hard face as she turned the key, sitting in bed with a book on her knees.

  It was becoming a habit, sleeping apart. The first time, before he’d had a chance to grab the spare bedding from the wardrobe in his bedroom, he spent the night on the sofa, his legs dangling off the end, his neck developing a crick as he tossed and turned. Why was it always Richard who was shut out of the bedroom? It was just as much his as it was hers; more so, even. He had paid for this house, designed and built it through his company, and filled it with everything Fiona could ever want. A walk-in wardrobe, an en suite bathroom, a bloody indoor swimming pool he rarely got to use. The kitchen was kitted out with the latest models, a huge American fridge-freezer and touchscreen hob, and he gave her the freedom to update the house as often as she liked. Only last week she’d had a new tumble dryer delivered and had redecorated the living room, complete with a brand-new carpet. His money was hers, and she used it freely. And this is how she repaid him.

  He closed his eyes as he worked the shampoo into a lather and tried to force Fiona from his mind. His brother popped in instead, and he felt unease curdle in his stomach. They had had a falling out, he remembered, a few sharp words exchanged in the toilets of the pub. But what had it been about? Another face flickered through his mind and he groaned. James. Bloody James. He was like a weight around his neck, this man who was a friend to both Peter and Fiona, but who had never taken to Richard. Always glaring at him from the corner of his eye, ignoring his witty comments or butting into his conversations. He was a busybody, Richard thought, nothing but trouble.

  You’re fucking married, Peter. His words drifted back to him as he rinsed his hair. To a woman, in case you hadn’t noticed.

  Peter’s eyes hardening, his cheeks flushing at the accusation. It’s not what you think.

  It never is, is it?

  But it was. Richard had seen the way Peter’s hand lingered on James’s when he passed him his pint. He’d noticed the secret glances, the hidden smiles, and he had guessed what his brother was trying to hide. Poor Sandra, he’d said as they’d washed their hands at the sink together. Your poor children. I wonder what they’d think if they knew.

  What Richard didn’t tell him, would not tell him, not as long as he lived, was that they already did. And it was he who had spilled the beans.

  23

  The Celebrant

  James slips into the pub, his eyes adjusting to the dimly-lit area. I shouldn’t be here, he thinks, annoyed at himself. I should have been stronger. Why can I never say no to people?

  It’s a weakness of his, he knows. Tom used to nag him about it all the time, his lips curved into a smile. Just say no, James. It’s easy, see? No. Nooo. No.

  He shakes off the voice, wondering if he will ever stop replaying his life with Tom inside his head. Their time together was short in comparison to the rest of his life, but it remains his most treasured. Even his mother still mourns Tom – at least, she did, before the dementia kicked in. Now she often asks how Tom is, and it is like a knife to the chest for James to say, ‘He’s fine, Mum, just busy at work.’

  ‘Well you give him my love,’ she always says. ‘He works too hard. You both do. There’s more to life than work.’

  Yes there is, Mum, he thinks as he approaches the bar. But it’s all I’ve got. Until now. Now you’re all I’ve got.

  He orders a gin and tonic for his nerves and scans the room, his eyes alighting on Skye at the other end of the bar, the back of her head visible as someone leans in close. Squinting, cursing the vanity which makes him ‘forget’ his glasses more often than not, James tries to make out the other person. Short fair hair, a dark, crisp suit. For a second, James thinks it is Richard standing there, his hand on his daughter’s arm, his face twisted in distaste, but he blinks and sees that it is Felix, and his mouth goes dry. Felix glances up then, meeting his gaze, and his lips twist into a smirk. He says something else to Skye, his fingers tightening on her arm for a moment before he slips past her, making his way around the bar.

  Oh shit, James thinks as the man approaches. He’s never liked Felix, even when he was a child. He wonders if it is unfair to dislike someone so young, whether he should have saved his dislike for the grown-ups responsible for him, but Felix has grown from an unlikeable child to an even more unpleasant adult.

  ‘Vicar,’ Felix says, leaning against the bar beside him
, a smirk still plastered to his lips. James sighs and ignores him, averting his gaze and sipping his drink instead. ‘I didn’t think you would have the nerve,’ he continues, and James looks at him then.

  ‘Excuse me?’ he asks, injecting as much incredulity into his voice as he can muster, but his hand has begun to tremble, the liquid sloshing against the side of the glass. He puts it down.

  ‘Tell me again why you were chosen to lead my father’s funeral? You were hardly bosom buddies.’

  ‘Your mum asked me to,’ James replies, trying to appear nonchalant. ‘It was a comfort to her. A favour.’

  ‘A favour?’ Felix sneers. ‘So you weren’t paid then?’ James feels his cheeks redden, and Felix nods once. ‘Just as I thought. You just wanted to make sure he was dead, didn’t you? And take a nice cut of my inheritance while you did so.’

  James is speechless in the face of the young man’s sudden fury. He catches a flash of copper out of the corner of his eye, and he sees Skye still standing a few feet away, her face a mask of concern. What had Felix been saying to her? Was he this cruel to everyone?

  He opens his mouth to speak, but a hand lands on his arm and he turns to find Fiona behind him, her eyes red, her lipstick faded.

  ‘James,’ she says, her voice quiet, ‘thank you for coming.’ Her eyes flit between the two men, and James wonders what she sees in her son’s face. ‘Felix, why don’t you go and check on Lexi? I saw her go outside just now.’

  For a second, Felix looks as if he’s about to argue, but then his face changes, his features flattening to an unreadable mask. ‘Yes, Mother,’ he says, giving James one last look before storming out of the pub.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Fiona says, leaning against the bar and closing her eyes. ‘He’s taking it rather hard.’

  Is that what you really believe? James thinks but doesn’t say. Aren’t all mothers blind when it comes to their children? His certainly is. His mum has always been James’s biggest cheerleader, even when he was in the wrong. ‘Yes,’ he says instead, sipping his drink. ‘How are you doing?’

  Fiona sighs, her eyes fluttering open. ‘As well as can be expected, I suppose.’ She signals the bartender and orders a glass of wine. ‘This was his favourite pub, you know.’

  James nods. ‘Didn’t he have a party here once?’

  Fiona smiles. ‘Yes, his fortieth.’

  ‘I remember it being pretty wild.’

  ‘It was,’ Fiona says, but her smile has slipped. ‘But I only remember the accident.’

  ‘Accident?’

  ‘With Toby. Don’t you remember?’ James searches his memory but comes up blank. ‘Perhaps you had already left by that point. Toby almost drowned. Just there.’ She lifts a finger and points beyond the door and the terrace, her gaze fixed on a spot on the beach below.

  James purses his lips. ‘I don’t remember that. What happened?’

  ‘I’m not sure. He was swimming, though why he thought it was a good idea at such a late hour was beyond me. With no supervision either.’

  ‘Where was Felix?’

  ‘Adult supervision,’ Fiona says, raising an eyebrow. ‘Felix was only a child himself.’

  James considers this. If it was Richard’s fortieth birthday, Felix would have been about eleven, he thinks. Too young, he concedes. Too young to be held accountable. Probably.

  ‘Skye was there too,’ Fiona continues. ‘She was sixteen or so. She pulled him out of the water.’

  ‘Skye did?’ James glances over at the table where Skye now sits beside her girlfriend. He sees Toby talking to Peter on the next table.

  Fiona nods. ‘She was a difficult child,’ she says, following his gaze. ‘And never my biggest fan. But I will always owe her for that.’

  Skye looks up as if she has heard and James looks hastily away, but Fiona continues to stare, her chin lifted, her face impassive, until he clears his throat.

  ‘Have you heard from Fearne?’ he asks.

  Fiona frowns. ‘Fearne? Why would I have?’

  James shakes his head. He has known Fiona for decades, and so he knows to choose his battles wisely. But Fiona’s face softens, and her next words surprise him.

  ‘She didn’t want to come. She said she would find it too difficult, being back here, where…’ She trails off, genuine sadness written across her face as she stares out the window.

  James mentally finishes her sentence. Where Saffy disappeared. And where Toby almost drowned. There’s a strange sort of poetry there, he thinks, Fiona’s youngest child almost dying where Fearne’s youngest disappeared. As if Richard was paying the price for something, the victim of some kind of curse.

  ‘Of course,’ he replies, finishing his drink in two gulps. The alcohol fizzes through him. Toby is making his way across the room now, and he sees Peter look up at them, his eyes narrowed. Fiona reaches out to her son as he passes, but he barely pauses before continuing on his way towards the toilets. James catches the hurt in her eyes before she slips the mask back on.

  ‘I suppose I’d better mingle,’ she says, straightening her jacket and pasting a smile on her face. ‘Just a few more hours, and we can get back to our lives.’

  24

  The Daughter-in-Law

  I stare at Felix, open-mouthed at the venom in his voice. He is his mother’s son. This is what comes from twenty-six years of her dripping poison into his veins. Skye blinks at him, the light-hearted woman I met barely an hour ago replaced by someone with steely eyes. Richard’s daughter.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket and, distracted, I turn away as Felix pushes past me. Unknown number. It could be someone from work, a client who couldn’t make it today, so I cross the room and slip out of the door. Outside, the sky is heavy with clouds, dark and ominous, and the sea lashes against the rocks beneath as I answer the phone.

  ‘Hello?’ A pause, silence. I frown. ‘Hello-o?’

  ‘Lex,’ a voice says, and the blood freezes in my veins. ‘Lex, can you hear me?’

  My pulse begins to pound in my ears, keeping time with the whoosh of the waves below. There are only two people who call me Lex, and one of them is in prison for murder. The other is my brother.

  ‘Pat? How did you get this number?’ I hear him sigh, that way he has of pushing all the breath out of his lungs.

  ‘How are you, Patrick?’ he says in a high voice that I suppose is meant to mimic mine. ‘Nice to hear from you, Patrick.’

  ‘Stop it.’ My voice is like a whip, surprising me. I remember the letter I received yesterday, still folded in the back pocket of the jeans I left lying on the back of the dressing chair in my bedroom, waiting for me to be ready to read the words. Will I ever be? ‘What do you want?’ I ask him.

  ‘Now, is that the way to speak to your one and only brother?’ His accent is lyrical, more Irish than mine ever was, though we moved from Ireland when I was two and he was six. ‘I need to speak to you, Lex. It’s about Da.’

  ‘No.’ The word bursts from me in a wave of fury, my body beginning to shake. ‘No, Patrick, no. I’ve told you before. No.’

  ‘He’s getting out soon,’ he says, and the hot fury turns to ice in my stomach. ‘He wants to see you.’

  ‘He’s…’ My throat constricts as I consider his words. ‘But he got life.’

  Patrick gives a low chuckle. ‘When does life ever really mean life? He’s served twelve years.’

  ‘Not nearly enough,’ I mutter, bitterness infusing my words.

  ‘He’s done his time, Lex. He wants to make amends.’

  Make amends? How do you atone for killing the mother of your children? I can feel the memory on the edge of my mind, threatening to pull me in. Crimson puddles on the laminate floor, splashes like raindrops across the kitchen cupboards. A body, crumpled, unrecognisable. My mother.

  ‘He beat her to death,’ I hiss, reaching out and placing a hand on the railing to steady myself. The wind whips up, bitterly cold against my skin. ‘He killed our mother, Pat. He murdered her because she didn’t do wha
t he wanted. Because she wanted to leave.’ I remember the whispers in the camp, the women who tutted and shook their heads. What had she expected, trying to take a man away from his family? Blood is blood.

  ‘Blood is blood,’ Patrick echoes and I flinch. ‘He’s still our father.’

  ‘He stopped being my father the moment he raised a hand to her,’ I say, remembering the heated arguments that got worse when we left the camp and moved into a council flat on the outskirts of Birmingham. There’s nowhere to hide in a caravan, and the tiny flat was like a palace at first, but it turned out that there was nowhere to hide there either. I remember the first time he hit her, the way her head snapped back, her hair flying into her face. The mark that spread across her cheek as the week wore on, carefully covered with make-up during the day when she left for work at the corner shop at the end of the street. The stench of alcohol coming from the living room, where he spent his days sleeping off his hangover, the curtains shut tight against the outside world.

  I had been born into a family of over thirty people, almost half of them below the age of eighteen, and though I only had one brother, I was surrounded by children I considered my siblings. We were close, sticking together during our lessons taught by one of the older women, always chattering while we went about our chores. Living in that council flat, I felt as if I’d been cut adrift. Patrick was seventeen and had started working in the local butcher’s, and I was left to pick up the household chores my mother left undone while she worked in the shop. Once surrounded by friends, I was now alone, creeping around a silent house, trying not to make a sound as I dusted around my father’s mess.