The Wake: an absolutely gripping psychological suspense

by Vikki Patis

  ‘Sorry,’ he repeats, inching around the chair towards the door, but she steps into his path.

  ‘You disgust me,’ she spits, reaching out to a nearby table and grabbing a half-full pint glass. Before he can move, Sandra throws the liquid into his face. He gasps as the bubbles sting his eyes, staggers back as he wipes his face. The glass follows, hitting him on the shoulder and bouncing off, smashing against the bar. ‘You disgust me!’ she shouts, her voice a roar as she moves closer to him.

  ‘Sandra!’ Peter rushes across the room, coming up behind his wife and placing a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugs him off.

  ‘Oh, I might have known you’d stick up for him!’ she hisses, glaring at James as he wipes the beer from his eyes.

  Peter looks mortified, his face stretched into a mask, his skin almost translucent. ‘Sandra, stop it,’ he says quietly, trying to take her arm, but she yanks away from him again.

  ‘Get off me! Don’t touch me.’ Her hand is shaking as she points it in his face. ‘How could you? How could you?’ The look she flashes James is full of hatred, and he feels anger flare inside him.

  ‘I think you need to be asking yourself that question,’ James murmurs. What is he doing? James is not catty, on principle if nothing else. He is quiet and reserved; he does not get into shouting matches with wronged wives. Especially when it was he who did the wronging.

  ‘Pardon?’ Sandra demands, her hands on her hips, and James regrets opening his mouth. ‘Peter, are you going to let him talk to me like that? Peter?’

  Peter, who had been staring at James and the spreading stain on his shirt, jumps as his wife shrieks his name. ‘What? No. No. Come on, I think you should leave.’ He holds out an arm, unnecessarily indicating the door, and James feels another burst of anger. Another closet gay hiding behind his beard, he thinks but doesn’t say as he heads towards the door, feeling all eyes in the room on his retreating back. He pushes the door open, hears it slam against the wall as he hurries down the steps.

  ‘James!’ He hears Fiona running after him, glances back to see the breeze picking up her fascinator and threatening to toss it out to sea. ‘James!’ she calls again, one hand to her head as she hurries down the steps. James keeps walking, hands in his pockets, head bent against the wind. He can smell rain on the air; the sea is whipping up beside him, the tide coming in. ‘James!’

  ‘What?’ He turns, nostrils flaring, and watches her half-jog towards him across the sand, her unsuitable shoes slowing her down. ‘What do you want, Fiona?’

  She stops, surprise on her face at his tone, but he has had enough. Of all of them, but mostly of Richard, and everything he left behind. A horrible son, a damaged daughter, a brother shattered by his secret. If this is Richard’s legacy, then he can fucking keep it.

  ‘I’m so sorry, James,’ she says, her voice so quiet he struggles to hear her over the rushing of the waves. ‘I didn’t know he’d…’

  ‘I did,’ he snaps, ‘I knew. I told you I didn’t want to come. Not after what he did.’

  ‘But James, Peter is a married man. You knew he was married. He–’

  ‘Oh, not you as well!’ James throws up his hands. ‘I’ve known Peter since we were eighteen. Eighteen! It’s how you met Richard. Or don’t you remember?’

  ‘Yes, of course I do, but Peter is–’

  ‘Yes, yes, married. I know!’ He feels his shoulders sag, the anger suddenly draining out of him. ‘I know,’ he murmurs, and Fiona steps closer, wrapping her arms around him. He closes his eyes, momentarily enjoying, needing, the feel of someone’s arms around him. ‘It was wrong,’ he says into her shoulder. ‘I should never have got involved with Peter. We’ve got such a long history, I thought it would be different that time. I thought he was different.’

  Fiona says nothing, just holds him in her arms, one hand gently stroking his hair.

  ‘He’s still a prick though,’ James says after a moment, pulling back and wiping the tears from his eyes, trying to wipe away the memories and the pain.

  ‘Who, Richard?’ Fiona says. ‘Of course he is. Was.’ She takes a step back, holding him by the shoulders and peering into his face. ‘He always was a massive fucking prick. But now he’s dead, and we don’t have to worry about him anymore, do we?’

  30

  The Deceased

  THEN

  His brother was, to Richard’s unending frustration, a disappointment. The firstborn son, Peter had surprised everyone when he’d dropped out of university to live precisely the kind of life he’d always insisted he didn’t want. The same life their parents had lived; low income, rented property, little to no savings. The odd ‘holiday’ which consisted of a long weekend just a few miles away in St Ives, squashed up in a caravan with screaming kids and barking dogs, spending soggy afternoons in the arcade, feeding coin after coin into the 1p machine.

  Peter’s first wife, Sue, had been a constant source of embarrassment to the rest of the family. She came from an unsavoury estate in Bodmin and had a fondness for bright tracksuit bottoms and crimped hair, and chewing gum with her mouth wide open. Although their parents were poor, they had always tried to keep a nice house, and had had high aspirations for their two sons, but by the time Richard went to university, his brother was living in a one-bedroom flat in Liskeard. Sue had just given birth to their son, Lee, and Peter was working as a bricklayer. And so the responsibility to make their parents proud fell to Richard, a responsibility he wore around his shoulders like a cloak made of lead for the rest of his life.

  He only visited his brother once, not long after Lee had been born. The tiny flat stank of baby puke and cigarette smoke, and the kitchen table was littered with empty beer cans and greasy magazines, a filthy pan discarded in the sink. Sue, with her hair scraped up into a high ponytail and her pallid skin dotted with acne scars, sat at the small table, a cigarette dangling from her lips as she scratched a patch of dry skin on her cheek with a dirty fingernail. Richard hovered by the door, not wanting to touch anything.

  Sue smirked at him. ‘Sit down, will ya? I won’t bite.’ She grinned, showing yellowing, uneven teeth, and twenty-year-old Richard grimaced. The baby began to shriek from the next room, the noise piercing his eardrums, but Sue remained where she was, flicking through the magazine at her elbow.

  ‘Where’s Peter?’ he asked, raising his voice over the din. ‘I haven’t seen him since the football last week.’

  ‘Oh yeah. He came home in a right mood that night. What happened, did ya have a falling out?’

  Richard averted his eyes. ‘No, no. Nothing like that.’ The baby stopped crying and he breathed out. ‘When will he be back?’

  ‘Soon,’ she said without looking at him. Reaching out for her can of beer, she drained it, her throat moving as she swallowed. She burped and grinned at him again.

  ‘Well,’ Richard said, preparing to make his excuses and escape, when the front door banged open.

  ‘About fucking time!’ Sue shouted. The baby began to cry louder.

  ‘Wind yer neck in!’ Peter said, staggering into the room. He glanced up and saw Richard standing there, and his face drained of colour. ‘Oh, all right, Rich?’ he said, trying to smile. ‘How long have you been here?’

  Too long, Richard thought. ‘Only a few minutes. I just popped round to see how you are.’

  Peter scratched his neck, his fingernails rasping against the stubble. ‘Oh, right. All right. How’s Mum? Do you want a drink? Sue, haven’t you even offered him a fucking drink?’

  Sue didn’t glance up. ‘He knows where the tap is, don’t he?’

  Shaking his head, Peter reached into a cupboard for a mug. ‘Want tea?’

  ‘Tea!’ Sue snorted. ‘This ain’t the bleddy Ritz. We ain’t got any milk anyway.’

  Richard saw his brother’s cheeks colour, and wondered if it was from embarrassment or anger. Probably both. ‘Beer, then? Or have you drunk it all?’

  ‘Last one,’ Sue said, holding up her empty can. ‘You’ve already
had a skinful anyway, I can smell ya from here.’

  Peter’s flush deepened. He did look unsteady on his feet, Richard thought. He reminded him of their father, the way he would stumble in through the front door on a Saturday night, his eyes twinkling, his breath stinking of beer. They always knew what would follow. Raised voices in the bedroom next door to where the brothers slept, a muffled cry, the creak of the worn-out bed frame. The tentative way their mother would move the next morning, her eyes red and puffy, the bruises hidden beneath her clothes. The secrets held carefully within their walls, never spoken of, never acknowledged.

  ‘I only went out for one,’ Peter said, glancing at Richard as if for support. ‘I’m entitled. I’ve had a hard week.’

  Sue’s laughter was cold. ‘Yeah, really hard, sitting on your arse all day.’ Now she looked at Richard, a sardonic expression on her face. ‘He’s been out of work for two weeks, did ya know? Dunno how he expects me to keep this house running when he’s bringing nothing in.’

  ‘Keep this house running?’ Peter snorted. ‘It’s a fucking shithole! The fridge is empty!’

  ‘Food costs money, Peter,’ Sue snapped, her voice rising. The baby raised its voice as if to compete with his mother. ‘Which you ain’t bringing in!’ She stood, the legs of the chair scraping against the linoleum. ‘You’re meant to provide for us. Instead, you spend all your time down the flaming pub. You spend more time with those blokes than you do your own wife!’

  ‘I will not be spoken to like this in my own house!’ Peter roared, his fists clenched. ‘I am the man of this house and I will be respected!’ Richard took a step back, alarmed, but Sue stood her ground.

  ‘Some man you are.’ She sniffed, looking her husband up and down before turning on her heel and marching out of the room, her ponytail bobbing behind her. Peter made to go after her, but Richard put a hand on his arm.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked quietly. A door slammed elsewhere in the flat; the baby screamed louder. ‘Peter, this isn’t…’

  ‘What?’ Peter rounded on him, his face flushed, his nostrils flaring. ‘What isn’t it, Richie?’ His mouth twisted as he spoke. ‘Not good enough for you, Richie?’ He laughed then, a laugh full of bitterness and dismay. ‘Maybe if you’d let me be who I am, none of this would have happened.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Richard asked, blinking in the face of his brother’s anger.

  ‘You know what I mean. The football tickets, the pub. Those wankers you got riled up.’

  ‘I didn’t know what was going to happen!’ Richard protested. ‘I’m not the one in the wrong here, Peter.’

  Peter smirked. ‘Of course you didn’t. Of course you’re not. You never are, are you, Richard?’

  It was at that point that Richard knew his brother was lost.

  31

  The Daughter

  I watch my uncle gather his children up, snapping at his son to put down that bloody phone for five seconds as he snatches up their coats. His face is flushed, his eyes fixed on the door as he bustles his family out of the pub.

  ‘What was that about?’ Fleur murmurs to me, and I shake my head. By the time Saffy disappeared, Peter had been a regular at our house, coming over for Friday night dinner with Sandra, joining us for meals out on Mother’s Day or birthdays, but I didn’t ever feel like I knew him well. He was always so reserved, apparently content to sit quietly amongst the crowd, only speaking when spoken to, and even then he kept his words to a minimum. He always deferred to my father, his head dipped and eyes lowered when Dad was holding court. I always wondered what he held over him.

  When Mum moved us back to Scotland, I rarely heard from him or Sandra. The odd birthday card with a bit of money in it, the occasional letter to announce the births of their children. Dad never mentioned him, at least not to me, though I knew Peter still worked for him at the company. I wonder now how that felt, the older brother working for the younger. I try to imagine Felix and Toby doing the same, Felix being brought down a necessary peg or two, and suppress a smile.

  My phone vibrating rips me out of my reverie. Another text from Mum, responding to my update. When she asked how it was going, I had no idea what to say, and settled on Not too bad. Lots of people here x

  No drama? x the text reads, and I stare at it, thinking of Peter.

  No drama x I respond before tucking my phone away. There’s no point telling her about Felix’s attitude or Sandra’s outburst. They are small things, almost expected, but I have no doubt that there’s more to come.

  I think of my mother, sitting at home with the dogs at her feet, a fire crackling, a cup of coffee at her elbow. Is she thinking of him today? Is she remembering the good times, or the bad? I wonder what attracted her to my father, the young, carefree Fearne who, according to my grandmother, spent her days barefoot in the grass, reading beneath a tree, or swimming in a nearby river. I picture the old photographs of her, with her long, red curls and freckled nose, her limbs long and pale, bracelets dangling from her wrists. She looked so like Saffy, their features were almost identical. I have more of my father in me; his larger nose, and skin that tans slightly after burning in the sun. And the darkness. I have no other word for what I feel inside me. It is the shadow I saw cross my father’s face, the way his eyes would flash when he was frustrated. That self-destructive trait that has led me from mistake to mistake to mistake.

  I was not the favourite child. Even when I was the only child left, before the truth about Fiona came out, I did not feel as if I was the centre of my parents’ attention. A year separated me and my sister, and yet there are barely any photographs of me alone. There are plenty of us together; newborn Saffy with her tuft of hair, lying next to me on the sofa; both of us in the garden, hand in hand, the grass almost up to our knees. The pictures stop the Christmas before she disappeared, her on the floor by the tree, an unopened present on her lap, a wide grin on her face. Me standing beside her, reaching up to grab a chocolate from the branches.

  Fleur didn’t ask me why I wanted to come today. She assumed, as is her way, that the answer was simple: a daughter will attend her father’s funeral. Family is family, warts and all, and while she has always supported my decision to have minimal contact with my father’s side, I suppose she also assumed that I would find my way back. And she was right, in a way. I found my way back to my father. But not in the way she expected. There’s a lot Fleur still doesn’t know about me.

  The sound of metal on glass makes us look up. Fiona stands by the bar, a glass of bubbly in one hand, a small spoon in the other. She smiles in what I imagine she believes to be a warm, welcoming way.

  ‘Thank you all for coming,’ she says, looking around the room. Her eyes skip over our table and I feel my stomach muscles tighten. ‘I’m so grateful to you all for being here today, and I know Richard would have felt the same way.’ She looks at the photo of him propped up against the bar, a small, careful smile on her lips, before turning back to the room. All eyes are on her, the grieving widow, and I can tell she’s enjoying every second of it. ‘Please help yourselves to the buffet, but first, join me in raising a glass to my husband.’ She lifts her glass, her smile widening. ‘To Richard Asquith, and everything he was to us.’

  ‘To Richard,’ the room choruses. Fiona takes a sip, and her eyes meet mine over the top of her glass. I see you, her eyes say. I know why you’re here.

  But she doesn’t.

  32

  The Daughter-in-Law

  I drain my glass, the cool liquid fizzing as it slides down my throat. Leo sleeps beside me, a curl covering one eye, his head resting on top of my bag. He looks so innocent, so peaceful. He doesn’t deserve parents like us, parents who despise one another. A mother full of secrets. A father who inherited the toxic masculinity which will infect his son one day, seeping in through the cracks Felix makes in him.

  I slip my coat on, asking Fleur and Skye to keep an eye on Leo, and make my way outside. The air coming off the sea is icy, the temperature dipping
as the sun moves further west. The waves burst against the rocks as the tide starts to comes in. Lighting a cigarette, I notice my hands are trembling. I try not to smoke these days, what with Leo and Felix’s disapproval, but I’ve been craving one all day. I blow the smoke out slowly, trying to regulate my breathing, and my gaze falls upon a figure on the beach. He is standing with his back to me, his eyes staring out to sea, the wind buffeting against him. The sky is streaked with a light pink, the clouds moving away as the waves come closer, but he does not move. A noise from below; I turn to find Fiona climbing the steps, her hand gripping the rail. Our eyes meet and her face hardens, her mouth in a thin line.

  ‘I thought you gave up.’ She nods at the cigarette in my hand. I look down at it too, as if only now realising it is there, and say nothing. ‘Got a spare?’ Wordlessly, I hand her the packet, watching as the lighter flares and she inhales deeply. She passes them back with a nod. ‘I gave up when I was pregnant with Felix,’ she says, blowing smoke into the sky. ‘My miracle child.’

  We stand in silence for a moment before she continues. ‘I lost two babies before him, did you know that? No, of course you wouldn’t.’ She sighs, exhaling smoke. ‘Two babies. I wondered if I would ever become a mother. If I was barren.’ She spits out the word.

  I stare at her, surprised. Fiona has never spoken to me like this, has never defrosted enough towards me to open up to me in this way. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say lamely. ‘I had no idea.’