The Perfect Friend: A gripping psychological thriller

by Barbara Copperthwaite

  This box is a silly Halloween prank. It’s supposed to sound menacing!

  I’m almost home, though, and can’t be bothered to turn around and return it. I’ll do it tomorrow.

  Once inside, I drop it on the coffee table and stare, indecision gripping me once more.

  I’m watching you

  Well, now it’s here, might as well go ahead and open it.

  It’s taped up with standard brown tape. I have a roll somewhere, and dig it out, along with the sharpest knife in my kitchen, a filleting knife that has never been used. Checking my tape against the one used on the box, I’m relieved it’s the same width. Great, I can cover exactly over the tape and return it, without it obviously having been tampered with.

  Precise as a surgeon, I slice the tape. The release of its tension is audible. Using the tip of the knife, I ease up a flap. Peer inside. There’s a lemon-yellow cotton jumper, balled up. It looks like one Carrie sometimes wears. Perhaps someone borrowed it and is now returning it. The message on the outside doesn’t make sense, though; although it could be some kind of odd inside joke between Carrie and a friend.

  Relieved, I start to fold up the jumper, but notice there’s something else at the bottom of the box.

  A photograph. Of Carrie and me. We’re outside the community hall, leaving the support group, presumably. I peer closer. Yes, Carrie has her striped beanie on, so it was taken at our meeting last night. The person who took the snap was to our left, and the photo is fuzzy, as though taken with a poor camera, or possibly because the image has been blown up because the photographer was some distance away. We’re clearly identifiable, though, and both smiling and relaxed as we talk.

  I sit back and stare at the image. Why would someone take a picture of the two of us? What do they mean, they’re watching her? Are they spying on me, too? A ghost walks over my grave.

  Paranoid, I go to draw the curtains, despite it being daytime. The neighbours’ Halloween decorations catch my eye again. This whole thing with the box and the photograph is a bit melodramatic. It’s just a wind-up, something to put fear into Carrie, in the same way people wear Scream masks at this time of year, or dress up like Freddy Krueger.

  I’m sure of it.

  It’s a pretty twisted practical joke, though. Definitely not the sort of thing a woman struggling to come to terms with dying will appreciate. I won’t pass it on. After all, if it’s just a practical joke, there’s no harm in keeping it to myself.

  Nine

  That night, anxiety gnaws at my stomach. Unable to eat the steak casserole I’ve made, I pop it into a container – Carrie might like it. She is all I can think of. In bed, I leave my mobile on rather than switching off like usual. Just in case Carrie needs me for anything. Restless, I text her.

  We’re going to attack this cancer. We’ll fight it & win!

  She soon replies.

  Bless you, there’s no winning, but I appreciate the thought. Don’t worry about me, lovely. Look after yourself. Sleep tight x

  All through the night my sleep is disturbed by worries about Carrie, cancer and that bloody box. Each time I wake, I check my phone, fearing my friend has fallen ill and I’ve missed her cry for help. Scared that someone is watching her, waiting to pounce.

  By the next day, I’ve changed my mind so many times about what to do with the box and photograph that I feel dizzy with indecision. Finally, I’ve no choice but to keep it to myself, because I’ve undone and repacked it so many times that the flaps are floppy, the tape in thick layers. It’s obvious it’s been tampered with repeatedly.

  As I eat my breakfast of scrambled egg, I glare at it.

  I’m watching you

  This worry isn’t doing me any good, and I only eat half my breakfast before pushing it to one side, feeling sick. I try to lose myself in my work as a seamstress, taking people’s ideas and making their visions come true to create bespoke gowns. I’m working on a prom dress at the moment. Usually there’s comfort in the rustle of the fabric, the snip of the scissors, the hum of the sewing machine, but today I jump at every innocuous sound, and almost slice the delicate, pistachio-green material at the sharp snap of my letterbox closing.

  * * *

  Before I know it, it’s lunchtime, which means I’ve missed my eleven o’clock snack as well as barely eating breakfast. But I’m not hungry. Not even a little bit.

  Recognising the danger in that feeling, I contact my daughter, asking if she and her twin brother want to join me for lunch at The View. The restaurant has floor-to-ceiling windows than run its length and breadth, making the most of the stunning panorama of Longsands beach, the sea and sky.

  I wait and wait for Elise and Edward, taking my time to read and reread a menu I know off by heart. I even pull out a mini book of sudoku puzzles, to pass the time, as numbers and puzzles often soothe me.

  After half an hour of putting the waitress off, I finally order scampi and chips, feeling pleased at the achievement. Just a year ago, I’d have had the corner of a cracker for lunch, then walked for an hour to burn it off. A boiled sweet could last a month: I’d suck it for blissful seconds, let the sugar surge into my bloodstream then spit it out and pop it on a shelf for another day.

  But I am winning the battle against anorexia – touch wood. I knock on the table.

  The portion of food I’ve been given is gigantic, but I eat every piece of scampi bar one and almost all of the chips. With every mouthful, I wonder if the twins will appear. There’s no sign of them through the huge windows.

  I miss the kids so much. The four of us playing chess, boys against girls. Or messing about on the beach, jumping waves. Elise is bohemian and independent. I can imagine her running a market stall one day, selling clothes and handmade jewellery, belts with bright, sparkly buckles and the like, before setting up a shop. Edward’s creative outlet is playing the piano, but he’ll follow his dad’s footsteps into accountancy.

  How I long to see them. But it’s my fault they aren’t speaking to me, and I’ve got to somehow prove I’m worthy of their trust. That I won’t let them down ever again.

  Then last night flies into my mind, and how I’ve failed even Carrie. I’ve got to do better. For everyone’s sake.

  A swirl of auburn catches my attention. It’s Elise, her waist-length hair fanning around her as she looks this way and that before spotting me. Her expression is difficult to read, and it breaks my heart. Her brother is nowhere to be seen.

  ‘You look like you’re feeling sorry for yourself,’ she says, sliding into the seat across the table from me.

  ‘Do you want anything to eat?’ I ask, trying to avoid a row.

  ‘Do you?’ she snaps.

  ‘Already have.’ To prove my point, I nudge the almost empty plate towards her.

  ‘Anorexia has the highest mortality rate of all psychiatric conditions, Alex. You need to start being honest with yourself.’

  It’s hard to know what hurts more, her refusal to call me ‘Mum’, or her criticism. I open my mouth to protest, but the words slope away, confused, because the food has barely been touched.

  There’s a mountain of chips and almost half the scampi left. I thought I’d eaten almost all of it.

  But I am a liar. There isn’t a single aspect of my life that isn’t ruled by deceit. It seeps into everything, a poison that weakens, taints, kills all it comes into contact with. The biggest distortions are those I tell myself.

  ‘So what’s the excuse this time, Alex?’

  ‘I don’t – I didn’t – I—’

  ‘You trying to kill yourself? Is that it? Give me your hand.’

  I should argue, should remind her that I’m the parent, not her. Instead, I find myself holding my hands out in front of me. As she takes them, I can’t help noticing she’s got a pink diamanté ring, identical to Carrie’s. Those two are alike in a lot of ways.

  ‘Hmm, not too cold, that’s something, so your heart’s not packing up yet. And your nails haven’t started to pit and go purple.’ It
’s one of the signs of heart failure I was warned to look out for at the clinic. Heart failure can be common in anorexics. ‘But you need to watch yourself, Alex. I won’t watch you starve yourself to death.’

  ‘I’m not! I’m eating. See!’ I push a handful of chips into my mouth. A passing waitress gives me a wide berth.

  ‘And another thing. I’ve noticed how much time you’re spending with Carrie. Is it really healthy? It’s like some sort of weird infatuation.’

  ‘What? No!’ I hiss, trying to avoid getting another dirty look from the waitress. ‘I just owe her, that’s all.’

  Despite Elise’s demands to know why, I refuse to go into detail. She won’t give up now she’s in full flow, though, her words a torrent of disappointment sweeping past me. No matter what I say, I won’t get through to her when she’s in this mood.

  I stare resolutely at the beach and imagine her eight-year-old incarnation running along on one of our many holidays here, before the permanent move. Her legs were long, skinny, almost luminous white strings, but her face was determined, her arms pumping hard to reach her little brother.

  ‘Don’t eat your ice cream too quickly or you’ll be sick,’ she warned.

  ‘I’m not going to!’ He rolled his eyes but gobbled the treat anyway. Then they raced into the waves together, leaping over the gentle rollers… until Edward was sick, as predicted.

  Edward hated being eleven minutes younger than his sister. Elise loved it. The bossy big sister, constantly wagging her finger at her reserved twin. As she’s grown older, she has taken to nagging me.

  I emerge from the memory and look around. My daughter is nowhere to be seen. She left without me even realising, her empty chair an accusation.

  Bad mother.

  Perhaps Elise has a point, and my desire to make things up to Carrie has become a new obsession. But the photograph was of the two of us – Carrie and me – so I’m involved whether I like it or not.

  Why send a picture of us?

  Maybe I should show the box to Carrie after all. She’ll probably laugh, instantly knowing who’s sent it. Then I can stop worrying about that and get on with booking the Orient Express for my dying friend.

  Yes, deal with reality, not imagined bogeymen. With renewed determination, I decide to take the box round right now.

  Ten

  When I pull up Carrie appears at the front door. She’s hanging onto the door frame as though it’s the only thing keeping her upright, and seems to be looking around with a lost expression. Concerned, all thoughts of the reason for my errand flit from my mind as I get out of the car – after walking from The View to home to fetch the box, I couldn’t be bothered to virtually retrace my steps to Carrie’s, so had driven instead. Now I’m glad of the faster journey, because by the look of it, she needs me.

  ‘Are you okay? Has something happened?’ I call.

  As I run up the garden path towards her, she shakes a box of cat treats. The sound takes me back to my childhood and school productions, where the only thing I’d been trusted with was shaking the maracas.

  More shaking, accompanied by kissing noises.

  ‘Smudge!’ Carrie stretches her neck, looking this way and that. ‘He’s been gone all night. It’s not like him.’

  The grey tabby, with piercing yellow irises and fur markings that make him look as though he is wearing smudged charcoal eyeliner, has barely left Carrie’s side since she adopted him a handful of months ago. I look around, up and down the road. There’s no sign of him.

  ‘I’m sure he’ll turn up. Come on, let’s go inside. See, this is why I could never have a cat, I’d worry too much about them not coming home, imagining all sorts when actually they’re out having a whale of a time. I’m sure he’s just found something that’s captured his interest, or is being fed by someone else and having a cheeky snooze on their bed, before coming home to you to get fed again.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Definitely! And you’ve not seen anyone lurking around, looking suspicious, have you?’

  ‘I don’t understand—’

  ‘Just thinking that if someone had, um, run Smudge over, they might have come to your house to let you know, or something. But no strange people have been around here that you’ve noticed?’

  Her eyes narrow. I’m babbling, trying to get to the bottom of the box rather than the mystery of the missing pet. The last thing I want is to scare her or make her suspicious, so I try to steer the conversation back on track.

  ‘I once took in a cat just before Christmas one year. Found him near the bins, searching around for food and looking up at me with big, sad eyes. After that, he came round every night for a week, so I decided he couldn’t possibly belong to anyone and took him in. For a month he stayed on my bed all night, then every morning when I went to work I’d let him out. Each evening when I came home, there he was, waiting for me. He was a lovely little thing, black and white, so I called him Felix.’

  ‘After the advert.’

  ‘That’s right. Anyway, I was going away for a couple of days, so I checked Felix into a cattery. Had to pay for his injections to be done beforehand, mind, so it cost me a few quid. When I got back after three days, there were posters up: “Have you seen this cat?”

  ‘Turned out Felix belonged to a woman a couple of streets over. Every night, she’d let him out, and he’d come to mine and spend the night. Then while I was at work, he went back to his owner. What a life of Riley – and being fed by us both, too! After that, “Felix” sported a collar so people would know he was called Raffles and wasn’t a stray.

  ‘My point is, Smudge could easily be doing something like that. That’s cats, isn’t it – they’re independent, get up to all sorts while they’re out of sight. So don’t worry about him.’

  Carrie’s shoulders relax. She gives a sigh that’s almost a laugh. ‘You’re right.’

  ‘’Course I’m right. Now, shall I put the kettle on? Oh, and I’ve brought you some steak casserole I made last night but then couldn’t face eating, thought you could have it tonight.’

  ‘Trying to keep my strength up? Thank you! You sit down, I’ll make a cuppa for us.’

  After getting the casserole from the car, and studiously ignoring the box on the back seat, I find Carrie in her kitchen. She’s still glancing out of the window. I do, too, and once again spot the neighbour’s decorations. They’ve even got a glowing cauldron on the roof. It gives me an idea about the box.

  ‘The kids used to love Halloween. They’d apple-bob, just like I did when I was little. Loved to get dressed up, too. Do you have any Halloween traditions?’ I’m fishing – and hoping it’s not obvious.

  ‘Funnily enough, Mum and I were talking about that last night.’ She and her parents are incredibly close and speak most days. ‘We’d always get really dressed up and go around the neighbourhood, trick-or-treating. Every house pulled out all the stops – in fact, people used to drive over to see the displays. Yeah, our street was quite famous in the town. Afterwards, Mum and Dad would get everyone round to ours for a Halloween party. It was brilliant fun. They’d always buy me a silly gift, too.’ She shakes her head, lost in memories, then carries on fishing a teabag out of a mug.

  The relief! The box isn’t a sinister message at all, just part of some weird family tradition. ‘Did you used to play practical jokes on each other?’ I check, eager.

  ‘Ooh, no. I don’t like practical jokes, they always seem a bit cruel to me.’

  ‘Not silly photographs, or funny little messages, or… um, I don’t know… ’

  ‘Is that something you do with Elise and Edward? Hey, are you seeing them over Halloween?’

  I fiddle with the steaming mug Carrie has handed me seconds before, uncomfortable with the turn the conversation is taking.

  ‘Oh, Alex, are things still bad between you all? I don’t understand how your husband got custody of the children.’

  ‘He – I – it’s complicated. When he left me four and a half years ago,
they decided they wanted to be with him. They had their reasons. I’m – well, I’m just not good enough. For any of them. I’m a bad wife, bad mother.’

  ‘Rubbish! You’re the loveliest person I’ve ever met. Look at everything you’ve done for me. We’ve only known each other six months or so, and you’re like a second mum to me. You’re amazing.’

  ‘Now you’re the one talking rubbish.’ I sip my tea. The water’s still scalding. It doesn’t burn away the bitter taste of betrayal, secrets and lies. ‘The kids like being with Owen, so what choice do I have?’

  ‘It’s selfish of him to keep them away from you.’

  ‘He’s a good man. He’d never intentionally hurt me.’

  ‘Sounds to me like you’re still in love with him.’

  Another swallow of too-hot tea. It gives me an excuse to have tears in my eyes. There isn’t a single day that I don’t think of Owen. That I don’t wake up and miss his head on the pillow beside me. That I don’t fall asleep pretending his arms are around me. I miss the person he was before we fell apart.

  ‘Don’t be silly. We’re well and truly over.’

  Carrie folds her arms, looking at me with one eyebrow raised. ‘If you insist. But when was the last time you went on a date? You need to move on.’

  I close my eyes, knowing that the one time I’d tried to do that I’ve regretted ever since. Then force my eyes open and a smile on my face.

  ‘Oh yeah? Seen any tall, dark, handsome strangers hanging around lately? Or short, blond, ugly blokes? Anyone who might be interested in a middle-aged woman with a freight train’s worth of baggage?’

  ‘Sadly not.’

  ‘No one unusual hanging around? Random strangers?’

  She gives me a funny look. ‘Er, no. Why?’