The Wake: an absolutely gripping psychological suspense

by Vikki Patis

  Even now I cannot bear silence for too long. I need the comforting sounds of a kettle boiling in the background, music from a radio drifting through the house, the shouts as children kick a football around outside. I cocoon myself in noise, wrapping myself up in it and letting it permeate my mind.

  Out here on the terrace, I listen to the sounds around me, let them centre me. The waves crashing against the rocks, the gulls crying overhead, the wind whistling through the cracks in the wood. I feel the sudden urge to run, to splash into the water and let it cleanse me. I have never feared the sea, not even when I believed it took my sister. I think of the sea we sailed across to get here, the waves choppy and white-tipped, the wind fierce as the ferry battled against it, as if it was trying to force us back. As if it knew what would be waiting for me here.

  The door opens behind me and I turn, my stomach clenching as Toby steps up beside me. My brother, though the word doesn’t yet fit. His fingers circle the railing, knuckles turning white as he grips it.

  ‘Do you remember when you saved my life?’ he asks, staring out across the beach. I follow his gaze. Clouds heavy with rain sit above the water, moving slowly towards us. ‘I was lucky you were there.’

  I nod but do not speak. My throat is tight, my skin prickling as the memory replays itself. Fiona’s scream, the current snatching at my legs as I swam towards him, his body limp in my arms. What had possessed me to jump in after him? Even at that age, I had felt indifferent towards him at best. My emotions towards my half-brothers have always been tangled, too complicated for me to unravel. A mixture of jealousy and longing; superior yet inferior.

  I look at him now and our eyes meet, something passing between us. The oldest and the youngest of Richard’s children, bound together by our shared experiences. How like the sand we are, moulded by the waves crashing against us, each one shaping us into ourselves, into who we are. And who am I? Who is Skye, and what does she want? Who is this boy standing beside me, still so young and innocent?

  A memory flashes before my eyes. A younger Toby’s face streaked with tears, sitting on the bottom step, Felix beside him, whispering into his ear. He stopped when I approached, but his hand stayed on his brother’s arm, his eyes full of defiance as he watched me, waited for me to say something. It was the summer, around the time of Toby’s birthday, and I had been packed off to Cornwall for a week as I was every year until I was old enough to refuse. Children laughed and screamed in the garden, chasing one another with water pistols, and I had gone inside to change my T-shirt.

  At the sound of footsteps behind me, the defiance on Felix’s face vanished, replaced by fear as he stood and moved away from his brother; a clear, defining act. Our father paused in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. ‘Felix,’ he said without glancing at his younger son. ‘Come on.’ And Felix went, walking carefully behind him as if he was trying to place his feet into his father’s footprints.

  He was not a violent man, our father. He didn’t even raise his voice very often, but he had been capable of other types of cruelty. Cruelty that has stayed with me for years, resurfacing in my dreams and in my actions. The echoes of him inside me, influencing my path. I have often wondered if the reason I don’t want children of my own is because of my father. Would I be the same kind of parent? Disinterested, difficult to please, easily frustrated. Would I be able to summon the enthusiasm needed for young children, and the patience for teenagers? I remember something my father said later that day, when Toby had been left on the bottom step in a timeout that lasted over an hour, forgotten in the merriment of his own birthday party.

  ‘Come back to me when they’re eighteen and can have a pint with me at the pub,’ he said, clapping a hand on a friend’s shoulder as they both laughed. ‘Until then, I don’t want to know.’ And it was in that moment that I saw him for what he truly was. Everything and anything but a father. That image influenced how I would view him as I grew up, marking our relationship from that point onwards, and I can see it in Toby’s eyes now, that knowledge. It’s something I have never seen in Felix. In him I have only ever seen Richard, and his desperate need to please him. Could things have been different if Felix hadn’t followed so closely in our father’s footsteps?

  ‘You should have let me drown,’ Toby says, his voice laced with bitterness, his eyes closed against the sharp cold of the wind, and I nod. Not in agreement, but in understanding.

  36

  The Deceased

  THEN

  ‘Felix!’ Richard clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘Eighteen already.’ He grinned at his wife, who stood at the sink rinsing a bowl of salad leaves. ‘Happy birthday, son.’

  Felix grinned back, his eyes twinkling, and Richard knew he was excited for what was to come, the father-son part of the celebrations. But first, the family meal. Fiona had spent all day baking, the freshly iced cupcakes spread out on the counter the result of her efforts. The kitchen smelled of herbs, of the lemon and garlic chicken roasting in the oven. New potatoes bubbled away on the hob as Fiona sliced up a cucumber.

  ‘Drink?’ Richard asked his wife, who nodded. He opened the fridge. ‘Champagne! This really is a celebration.’

  ‘Not until later,’ Fiona said, pointing at him with the knife she was using. ‘There’s a bottle of red in there, Felix’s favourite.’ She smiled indulgently at her son.

  Richard ignored the tightening in his gut, the feeling he always got when he was around Fiona these days, and opened the bottle of wine, pouring three generous glasses. ‘To Felix,’ he said, holding his glass aloft before draining it.

  Later, once the table had been cleared and Toby had gone off to bed, the one glass of champagne going to his head, Richard winked at his eldest son. ‘We’re just popping out,’ he called to Fiona, who was sitting in the living room, a book in her lap, a cup of tea at her elbow. She looked up.

  ‘Now? It’s almost ten o’clock.’

  Richard smiled widely. ‘Just one drink with my son on his birthday,’ he said. ‘Don’t wait up!’ Before she could respond, Richard and Felix stalked out into the night, the warmth of the August day still heavy in the air. Their shoes crunched over the gravel as they walked towards the car, Richard twirling the keys around his finger.

  ‘Now the real party can begin,’ he said, sliding into the driver’s seat and turning on the engine.

  They were greeted at the door by a woman in a long, metallic dress, her skin pale and glittering in the light, her hair swept up into an elaborate bun. She smiled warmly, greeting Richard by name and hanging up their coats before leading them across the tiled floor. She opened the dark wooden doors and they followed her inside, Felix staring around him in awe.

  Richard grinned. ‘I told you it was incredible,’ he said, throwing an arm around his neck. ‘You just wait, my boy.’

  The woman led them to a booth, flashing them a smile as they settled in. ‘The usual, Mr Asquith?’ she asked in her eastern European accent.

  ‘The usual. And the same for my son. It’s his birthday.’ The woman’s smile widened at Richard’s wink. She inclined her head and moved away, disappearing through a door at the back of the room and a moment later, a waiter arrived with a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ he said, bowing slightly as he poured their drinks. Richard raised his glass, indicating that Felix should do the same. The crystal clinked together and they drank, Richard settling back into the leather seat, one arm thrown over the back, while Felix looked around. Richard tried to imagine seeing the place through his son’s eyes. He saw the men, sitting alone or in groups, talking quietly over glasses of whisky. The waiters with their crisp white shirts and perfectly styled hair. And the women, of course. Who could forget the women? He watched as Felix’s eyes were drawn towards the low stage at the front, and smiled as he saw realisation dawn.

  He checked his watch. Just on time.

  A curtain at the back of the stage opened, and three women walked out clad in tigh
t dresses and high-heeled boots. Felix’s eyes widened and Richard felt something like pride spread through him. This was his idea of bonding with his son, taking him out on his eighteenth birthday and showing him the ropes. He had never been a hands-on dad, had never changed a nappy or warmed a bottle. He had never helped with homework or gone to parents’ evening. Sure, he had stood on the sidelines while his sons played football, sat in the audience and watched Skye stutter through her lines, but he knew his attention had never been firmly on his children. He didn’t understand them, often struggled to find anything in common with them, but he had always liked the idea of having adult children, men brought up in his own image, the next generation. And now that time had come.

  She stood out from the others, her long curls bright under the lights, her dark skin shimmering. She is stunning, he thought, his eyes following her as she moved, his fingers gripping the edge of his seat as he felt arousal take hold. She met his gaze and smiled, a slow, deliberate smile that sent a wave through him. He would not give her to Felix tonight. She was his, had been since he followed her from the restaurant that day and dropped his card into her pocket. She called three days later, as he’d known she would, and so it began.

  But that night was about Richard and Felix. It was about strengthening the bonds between father and son, and setting Felix firmly on the right path. Richard was confident that he knew what was best for his children, and he was ready to steer his eldest son towards the rest of his life.

  37

  The Daughter-in-Law

  Skye and Toby are standing on the terrace when I climb back up the steps, my eyes sore from crying. They look at me in unison, their eyes almost identical in shape if not colour, and I wish that I could read their minds, see myself through their eyes as I move towards them. What do they see?

  Felix stumbles through the door as I reach the top, his eyes bloodshot, and we turn as one towards him. He reaches out, his fingers gripping my arm, and I try not to cry out.

  ‘Where have you been?’ he demands, his face too close to mine as he pulls me inside the pub. I can smell the alcohol on him. ‘Where is my son?’

  He has always been a nasty drunk, prone to fits of temper and blackouts. He doesn’t remember the time his fingers tightened around my throat, or the way he pushed my face against the door, his nails catching my skin as he yanked my underwear down. He chooses not to remember this side of himself, this darkness that seeps through the cracks.

  I glare at him, feeling my own darkness rise up to meet his. He is not the only one with a dark side. ‘I went for a walk,’ I hiss, wrenching my arm from his grip. ‘Not that it is any of your fucking business.’ His eyes widen in surprise, and I realise that this is the first time I’ve stood up to him in a long time. It feels good.

  I make to move past him, but he grabs me again. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ he growls in my ear. I pull away again, so hard he stumbles forward.

  ‘Take your hands off me.’ My words are low, my voice almost unrecognisable. I try to remember the power I felt that night, when I finally took my life into my own hands. These men have been pushing me around for too long. My father, Richard, Felix. Even Patrick, with his incessant calls, the way his voice hardens when I refuse to do what he wants. I will not be controlled any longer.

  ‘Who do you think you are?’ Felix’s voice is louder now; heads glance in our direction, turning quickly away, not wanting to get involved. There is no help here. As always, I am alone. ‘How dare you speak to me like that, at my own father’s funeral.’ He sneers at me then. ‘Why am I surprised? I know what you are.’

  ‘And what is that?’ a voice interjects. Toby moves across the room, bringing in a cold breeze from outside, to stand beside his brother, his fists clenched at his sides. ‘I think you’ve had a bit too much to drink, bro.’ He looks at me, his eyes full of concern, before hardening again when Felix speaks.

  ‘Piss off, bro,’ Felix spits. ‘This doesn’t concern you.’

  ‘I think it does.’ Toby crosses his arms over his chest. ‘Come on, Lexi, let’s grab a drink.’

  ‘I am speaking to my fiancée!’ Felix growls, turning to face his brother. He emphasises the my, and suddenly I feel like an object, something inanimate and incapable of speaking for herself. Anger rises, threatening to boil over. Toby is not like the others, he is kind and gentle, and often bore the brunt of his father’s annoyance, but right now I am sick of men talking for me. I am sick of them talking over me and telling me what to do. Enough is enough.

  ‘I’m going home,’ I say, and both men turn to face me. ‘I’m taking Leo and I’m going home.’ And I walk away, striding across the pub towards my son, the only one in the room that matters.

  When I get to the table, Skye already has him in her arms, my bag dangling off one wrist. ‘Let’s go,’ she says, and we do, making our way through the room and out into the cold air. I’m surprised at how easy it is for me to leave, to walk away and not look back. Outside, the water is closer now, and I wonder if this pub ever gets cut off, the water rising over the metal steps, keeping everyone out. Or in.

  ‘Is he all right on your lap again?’ Skye asks when we reach the car, opening the passenger door for me. ‘Or is he better off in the back?’

  ‘I’ll take him,’ I say, sliding into the seat and holding out my arms for him. Skye gets into the driver’s seat and starts the engine. ‘Is Fleur not coming?’

  ‘She wanted to stay with Toby.’ She glances at me with a small smile. ‘She’s got a soft spot for that boy.’

  I can’t help smiling back. ‘We all do.’ We drive in silence, and after a few moments I realise the satnav isn’t on. ‘Do you know the way?’ I ask.

  Skye purses her lips. ‘This route is etched into my soul,’ she says quietly, and it’s only then that I realise. Her sister.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say quickly, ‘I didn’t realise it was–’

  ‘It’s okay.’ She waves a hand before indicating right. ‘It’s just, you know. Difficile. It’s all coming back. I’m glad of the breather.’

  ‘Thanks for driving me.’ I bend my head to kiss Leo’s cheek. ‘I’m sorry if I caused a scene in there.’

  ‘No need to apologise to me,’ Skye says, smiling again. ‘I caused my own scene earlier. Besides, isn’t that what he would have wanted? He loved the drama.’

  ‘Richard?’ I consider her words, suddenly realising the truth of them. Was that his motivation, drama? No, it was more than that. Deeper, darker. ‘Yes, I suppose he did.’

  Skye pulls up in the driveway, reversing into a space beside Richard’s BMW with ease. She glances at it before turning off the engine. ‘I suppose that’s mine now,’ she says, winking, and I feel some of the tension melt away.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a car,’ I say, taking my seat belt off.

  ‘Don’t you have one?’

  I shake my head. ‘Felix does. He takes me wherever I need to go, so…’ I trail off, realising how pathetic I sound. How weak. How dependent on Felix I am. ‘I do love to walk though. And cycle. I cycle into work during the summer.’

  ‘I love cycling too. Fleur and I often go on Sunday bike rides in the forest.’

  I smile, picturing them; hair tied up beneath their helmets, tanned calves showing beneath their cycling shorts as they race through the woodland, grinning and breathless. ‘That sounds lovely.’

  Skye turns to me, her eyes soft. ‘You should visit us sometime. Bring the little one. There’s a beautiful cottage across the road that’s often rented out to tourists. It would be perfect.’

  I try to imagine it, Leo’s hand in mine as we walk across the road to tap on his aunt’s door. Fleur picking him up and swinging him round in the garden, the long grass brushing her knees. Skye with flour on her cheek, slicing freshly baked bread.

  I am not stupid. I know it wouldn’t be like a Eurostar advert, all happiness in sepia colour, but could I be happy there? Could I be happy anywhere? I think I know the answer to that.

/>   38

  The Daughter

  I follow Lexi into the house, my skin prickling. I haven’t been here in years, in this house my father built for his second family. Not much has changed. The pictures hanging on the walls have been updated as my half-brothers have grown from freckled kids with gap-toothed grins to serious, sulky teenagers. I see one of Toby’s particularly impressive teenage haircuts and suppress a smile. I suppose we all had a phase like that.

  Lexi leads me into the kitchen where she fills and flicks on the kettle, before taking Leo upstairs. She’s back before the kettle boils, bustling into the room and getting mugs down from the cupboard.

  ‘I’ve put him in Toby’s room,’ she says, dropping tea bags into the mugs and adding sugar. ‘We live in the annexe, but I don’t like leaving him out there alone when I’m in here.’

  She makes the tea and brings it to where I stand awkwardly by the kitchen table, the pine scrubbed clean and decorated with a jug of fresh wild flowers. Lexi smiles and indicates for me to sit down.

  ‘Fiona hates flowers,’ she says, sitting opposite and blowing on her mug. ‘But I think they brighten the place up a bit.’

  I make a face. Typical Fiona, hating something for no good reason. Just like me. I sip my tea and look around.

  ‘Did you come here often? When you were younger?’ Lexi asks.