Valentina: A Hauntingly Intelligent Psychological Thriller

by S. E. Lynes

  “Look,” he had said, sweeping his hand over the horizon. “How gorgeous is this? Imagine the kids toddling off to the village school, twelve in a class, all that land to play in, trees to climb.” He kissed me on the head. “I’ll build a treehouse. A fort. God, they’ll be so free!”

  They. Not one child but two, maybe three. That’s what he wanted. Me and kids – plural – were what he wanted. I trusted him. We were still happy, still pals, still lovers. Our imagined future was one we loved to imagine – our dream. We were normal. He would be heartbroken if he could see me now, imagining – imagining what? I couldn’t even think it. Look how devastated he’d been when I’d taken off to Glasgow. And all I’d done that time was accuse him of not telling me the full truth. He had pleaded with me to come home, wrote me that note, made love to me with tears in his eyes. He was a family man, a loving, kind man who deserved better than this toxic doubt. He deserved trust.

  There would be some reason for that photo, I knew it. The more I thought about it, the more some nutter with a crush on him made sense. A stalker. The person I no longer trusted was Valentina.

  I opened the browser. Connection, for once.

  “Yes!”

  Isla shouted,“Oi!”

  “Sorry, baby,” I said, fed her some more egg while googling Valentina again, myself, to see. Nothing. Only the other Valentinas – the Italians and the Americans. No Australians. Even I had Facebook, my old profile at The Tribune, the Twitter account I once used daily. Who under forty wasn’t online?

  I deleted the letters and typed: G. Smyth-Banks. Pressed search.

  The screen went white: Error. You’re not connected to a network.

  I tried again. Nothing.

  I yelled, swore, slammed the laptop lid down.

  Isla whined, a low, plaintive howl.

  I fed her the rest of the egg. “There’s no one I can talk to,” I said miserably. “I can’t talk to Daddy because he’s away. I can’t talk to Valentina because ...” I stopped, choked.

  The landline rang. I jumped up and answered before the second ring.

  “Shona?”

  “Jeanie, thank God. I was away to call you. You know I told you Valentina had that letter? Well I went there – to that address in Fittie. I’ve just this second got back. I went there, Jeanie, and I looked through the window ...”

  “Shona ...”

  “And anyway would you believe it there’s a photo of Mikey on the mantelpiece? I don’t know what’s going on, but something weird is happening.”

  “Shona.”

  “Sorry. I’m in a bit of a state.”

  “Shona. Are you sitting down?”

  I sat down. Of course I did. “What?”

  “I’ve been trying your mobile for the last hour. Have you even checked your email?”

  “I can’t get any connection in this fucking place and when I do it craps out before I have time to read anything.”

  “Get your iPhone and take it into the garden. Go as far as it takes to get a signal. Call me back.” She hung up.

  I looked at Isla. She was sucking on a buttered toast finger, singing soft nonsense to herself. I had five minutes.

  I ran over to the coat hooks, found my phone in my jacket pocket. I’d put it on silent earlier when Isla was sleeping. There were five missed calls: four from Jeanie, one from Valentina. I walked back through to the kitchen and stared out through the back window. At the far end of our land, the tall trees loomed, black and huge against the deep blue of the sky. I kissed Isla’s head, put on my coat and headed out of the back door. Holding my phone in the air, I crossed the patio, strode past the pond to the end of the flagstones. Still no signal. I looked back to the house. I couldn’t see Isla from here. But she’d be OK. This wouldn’t take more than a minute. The grass ahead was wet, muddy. I had on only my slippers. Shivering violently, I stepped onto the grass, felt it squelch, felt the cold wet soak through the fabric to my feet for the second time that day. I walked on as fast as I could.

  By the time I got signal, I had almost reached the leylandii. It was spooky up there, the dark thicker somehow in the farthest reaches of the lawn. At the other end of the garden, flanked by trees, one square of light at the kitchen window. I should get back to Isla, I thought. I downloaded my emails, jumping from foot to foot: spam, mostly – ah, the one from Jeanie, sent half an hour earlier, with an attachment:

  You should see this. Then call me right away. J.

  I opened the attachment. It was a page from St. Matthew’s Parish newsletter. I shook my head.

  “What?”

  At the top of the newsletter was a blurry, badly photocopied photo of about twenty people, all in theatrical costume. The headline read:

  PETER PAN FLIES INTO ST. MATTHEW’S

  Mikey’s panto – over two years ago now. Jeanie must have dug it out from archives. The photographer had evidently decided to prove his originality by snapping the cast mucking about instead of in a serious thespian pose: there were headlocks, karate kicks, one guy was lying across the front of the stage with his head propped up on his hand. Why was Jeanie sending me this?

  I scanned the faces, recognised Mikey, aka Captain Hook, grinning away in his eye patch and beard – the quality was terrible – he was holding up his hook, one knee slightly bent. Robbie too, next to Mikey, his arms thrown out, partly obscuring a tall blonde girl. That would be Wendy, I thought. Mikey’s ex-girlfriend. The geologist, the hill-walker, the classical musician with perfect skin. She had known him, once, like I knew him now. I hated the thought, stood there as I was in the lonely dark, my feet dead and damp and cold. I stared into the image, cursing the poor quality of the reproduction. Wendy had both hands on Robbie’s arm, as if trying to push it away so she could smile for the camera. He was laughing, his head turned towards her, apparently having a great time blocking her chances of parish-wide fame while he, Mr. Smee, hogged the lens.

  Underneath, the print was so small I could barely read it.

  Members of ‘Said the Actors to the Bishopriggs’ Community Players go mad after their smash hit performance of Peter Pan.

  Below was the article.

  Congregations have been full to bursting these last few nights at St. Matthew’s ...

  What did this have to do with anything? I looked again at the photo. Jeanie obviously wanted me to see something there. I couldn’t see it, whatever it was. I called her.

  “Jeanie?”

  “Have you read it?”

  “I’ve seen the pic. It’s the panto.”

  “The article.”

  “Jeanie, hon, I’ve got Isla half a mile away in the house probably choking on a toast finger. I need to get back to her. Can’t you tell me quickly?”

  “Mikey’s ex – she was Wendy do you remember?” Her tone was flat, almost tired-sounding.

  I pushed back into the trees. The needles scratched the back of my neck. “Of course I do. So?”

  “I hate to be telling you this,” she said. “When you said about the letter, something about that name rang a bell. I remembered Mikey’s ex-girlfriend was called Georgia so I called our Robbie. Shona, you’re not going to like this. Her last name is Smyth-Banks.”

  “Smyth-Banks ...” I began. “The letter.”

  “I recognised the name, you know,” Jeanie was saying. “When you said it before, I thought I’d seen it somewhere and I remembered looking at the programme at the panto when we were trying to find out who Captain Hook was, remember? So that’s why I looked it up. I was trying to get a picture of her but no joy so far. She lives in Aberdeen. Shona. I’m sorry.”

  Mikey’s ex-girlfriend lived in the Fittie house. She was G. Smyth-Banks.

  “I’m sure there’s an explanation,” Jeanie said. “But you need to talk to Mikey.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes I do.”

  “You OK, doll?”

  My mind raced. An ex-girlfriend. His ex. Of course.

  I laughed with relief. “Actually yes I am. It’s the on
ly thing that makes sense, Jeanie! It makes perfect sense! I mean, what else explains why there’s a photo on the mantelpiece? The woman’s obviously still in love with him, poor lass.”

  “You don’t think he’s ...”

  “What, Mikey? No way!” I laughed. “When would he have the time? Unless he’s shagging her in his lunch break. No, Jeanie, I’d be surprised if he even knows she’s in Aberdeen.”

  Back at the house, Isla was whining. I knew I should deal with her but I let her whine, shushing her half-heartedly as I ran around looking for my address book. I kicked off my wet slippers and socks, found the book in the kitchen drawer where I kept the odds and sods. I flipped through to M as fast as I could. There was only his office number. His emergency number wasn’t there.

  “Of course,” I said. He’d programmed it straight into the phone. He’d put so much stuff on there, so many apps hovering in their neat squares on the screen. I scrolled through my contacts. Found his emergency number under Mikey Platform. Phone in the crook of my neck, I pulled a Petit Filou out of the fridge and took it over to Isla. Stomach tight with nerves, I pressed call. This was all I would ever use this phone for, I thought, as it bleeped through the numbers: its original purpose, to call. When the hell would I have time to post, play games, Tweet? What the hell would I Tweet anyway?

  A pause. I spooned a mouthful of fromage frais into Isla’s waiting mouth. Down the line came the familiar sound of three rising, slightly off-key notes and the message:

  Your call has not been recognised. Please try again.

  I tried again. Same three tones, same message. I tried again. Same.

  There must be a digit missing. Or a wrong digit – Mikey must’ve punched it in incorrectly or maybe – maybe what? I did not know. All I knew for certain was that I would never get through to any rig anywhere with this number, there was no way of guessing how to correct it. Unless I called head office ... Shona, stop. I made myself breathe, told myself to calm down. Mikey would call later – at the latest tomorrow. And actually, maybe it would be better to calm down, think through everything logically, get my head straight before I spoke to him. If I called, it would signal distrust, panic, madness. If I waited for him to call me, I could simply drop Georgia into the conversation and take it from there. Yes, it was better to wait. I was, despite the relief, still raw. I didn’t want my voice to carry even a trace of suspicion, since suspicion kills trust. On both sides.

  I gave Isla another spoonful, tried to talk to her in a soft, level voice. A maternal voice. But I could not keep the pantomime out of my head – all that happiness, all that larking about. How he’d come into the pub afterwards, all teeth and wit, and I’d pulled his beard and nearly died of embarrassment. Then, I thought, then was the moment I had fallen for him. Captain Hook, line and sinker. It was in those slow rolling seconds as if everything else had faded away, leaving nothing of any real importance for me but him. And then he had thrown her in like a grenade – Wendy, Georgia, whatever she was called – and hope had been blown to shrapnel around my feet.

  I pressed the browser icon on my phone and waited. One bar of signal – enough maybe to call up the search engine. I typed: Georgia Smyth-Banks. The buffer took an age, swirling around like a roulette wheel in a casino. I waited for the ball to land. Finally, under listings, came her Facebook page.

  Hallelujah. Let’s see what you look like, you mad stalker bitch.

  I clicked. It was slow to load, so slow. My knee jiggled. I spooned more pastel fruit gunk into Isla. Still the roulette wheel buffered. Place your bets. I wiped Isla down and lifted her from the high chair. She toddled off into the living room, to her toys. If I had a moment, it was now – she was always contented after food.

  I looked in to where she was playing. I thought about grabbing the travel cot from the stable but she was talking to herself, quite happy with her bricks. This time I put my leather boots on. I ran out, all the way up the garden to the leylandii, and stared into my phone. My breath came fast and shallow. The page loaded.

  “Fucking come the fuck on!” I shouted at the phone.

  The profile photo was a cartoon of Marilyn Monroe. Marilyn Monroe, for fuck’s sake. Someone had a high opinion of herself. There must be a photo on her page somewhere. I clicked albums. It wouldn’t let me look.

  “Bastard privacy settings.” I threw the phone onto the grass, howled and swore over and over. What the hell did it matter? There was no one to hear. I could swear all I wanted, as loud as I wanted. I was alone, completely alone, and never had I felt it more than now.

  I crouched down and buried my face in my hands, wailing to no one. After what must have been a minute or so, I picked the phone from the wet grass and ran back to the cottage, tears of frustration making everything swim. I should call Valentina, I thought. I could not think of anything else to do. I should call her and ask her what the real story was with the letter. How do you know Mikey’s ex? That would be a good starting point – since she obviously did. I could at least find that out. Or I could drive back to this Georgia woman’s house and do my own little stakeout. Sit on that bench in the square and wait, wait until she came out, march right up to her and tell her to stay the hell away from my Mikey.

  The back door was open. I thought I had slammed it shut. I had. I had slammed it. But too hard. It must’ve bounced off its latch.

  “Isla?” I stepped into the kitchen and headed straight for the living room. No sign of her – only the bright plastic bricks she’d been playing with a moment ago. I ran upstairs calling her name. She could crawl up here if she wanted to, although she never had before. I had never left her long enough, would never normally leave her at all. I checked her room. Nothing.

  “Isla,” I called. “Isla?”

  She wasn’t in the bathroom, the spare room, or mine and Mikey’s room. She wasn’t in the airing cupboard, she wasn’t in the wardrobe, she wasn’t in the bath. My heart hammered. Warm sweat ran down the sides of my body.

  “Isla?”

  I almost threw myself downstairs. At the bottom, in the hallway, I stopped and made myself listen. One coo, one small noise and I would know where she was. I called her name and waited. Nothing. I checked the living room again, behind the sofa, the armchair. Nothing. In the kitchen, I looked inside the oven, knowing this to be insane even in the moment, banging the door shut. My throat blocked.

  The back door banged against the outer wall.

  “Isla!” I headed out into the dark. Outside, I hesitated, the pale blue light from my phone a fuzzy halo on the paving stones. Left into the garden or right into the lane?

  The pond.

  I ran left, gasping for air. “Isla! Isla! Where are you?”

  On the surface of the pond, the lily pads lay undisturbed. But still. I jumped in, slipped on the bottom, fell backwards. My elbows cracked on the stone border. My phone clattered into the flowerbed. The cold water sucked at my thighs. I kicked around, felt small bodies. Fish. Not her, Shona. Fish, not her.

  I heaved myself out, half-weeping, half-shouting. My wet legs froze in the cold air. I grabbed the phone, ran down the side path, jumped over the picket fence. My soles crunched on the hard gravel. My socks squelched in my boots.

  “Isla!”

  All was darkness. Again the choice: left, up to the house half a mile up the track, right to the uninhabited new builds. Or straight on, down the lane. Surely she couldn’t get far? She’d only just learnt to walk.

  “Isla?” The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. My lungs went cold, my nose and eyes streamed. I took one step then another towards the lane.

  “Isla! Isla!” Between words, I heard myself moan. A horrible lowing, like a cow.

  A noise. I made myself stop. Stop moving and listen.

  The noise came again – a soft moan, like my own, but higher pitched. A baby calf calling for her mother. Isla. I turned slowly, arms out, eyes wide. Where are you, baby girl? Where are you?

  “Maaaaaaaa ...”

  Ahead.
Not far. In the lane.

  “I’m here, darlin’,” I shouted. “Mummy’s here. Wait there, my love. Mummy’s coming.”

  I ran to the mouth of the lane. She was there, no more than three metres from the cottage.

  She was there at the end of the lane, her tiny silhouette backlit by starlight, her golden hair in static wisps. I ran to her, tripped, almost fell on her, saved myself with my hands against the pitted gravel track. I knelt up, grabbed her and pulled her tight to me. She was moaning softly over and over. Wet faces pressed against each other’s necks, we shook into each other’s embrace.

  “Mummy’s here,” I managed to say, my voice strange in the still night. “Mummy’s here darlin’.”

  “Mummy.”

  The bones of her were so very small, her wee shoulders no wider than the bone handle of a knife, her baby arms, her tiny neck. Her head pressed its warm weight against my open hand. She smelled of strawberry yoghurt, of cold air and of the stinking cloth with which in my carelessness I had wiped her tiny mouth and hands. I kissed her cheek, her nose, her sticky hair. I held her tight, told myself to stand, to pick her up, that I should stand, that I should pick her up right now and get her back into the warm.

  “Mummy’s got you,” I managed to say. “Let’s get you home.”

  NINETEEN

  I drew a bath, bubbles like crazy meringue. Isla had warmed up, had stopped crying and seemed happy to coo at the foam as I lowered her in. I scooped up a handful and blew it at her. Closing her eyes against the flurry, she squealed with delight. I shivered, my teeth chattered as if I were not in fact safe and warm and in my home but still outside, in the cold. I stripped off my wet clothes, pulled on Mikey’s robe. His smell comforted me, the XL size wrapping around my body, the nearest thing I had to his embrace. I was shaking, couldn’t seem to stop shaking. I hugged myself, tried to imagine him there with me, watching our baby in her bath.