The Perfect Friend: A gripping psychological thriller

by Barbara Copperthwaite

  Something sliced my foot, making me gasp. The shattered remains of a glass tankard engraved with the words ‘World’s Best Mum’. I’d bought it a couple of years before, while at a school outing to York to see the Jorvik Centre and learn about olden days when there were Vikings. Mum had had to save up the money sneakily to afford the trip – if Dad had found the money, he’d have drunk it away. I’d been so grateful to her. Not now. It seemed right the words were shattered, because she didn’t deserve the title. I chucked them in the bin and covered them over with newspaper.

  Finally, the room appeared as though nothing had happened. Mum was a different matter. She still looked like a puppet with the strings cut.

  ‘Run and get a roll of bandage, the wide kind, from the first aid box, there’s a good girl.’ She winced.

  Minutes later, Mum’s head was resting heavily on my shoulder as I took her weight and wrapped the bandage round and round her tender ribs.

  ‘What happened this time, Mum?’ I asked.

  ‘He wanted a foot rub to cheer him up. Then he complained my hands were like sandpaper.’ Her eyes were fixed on some distant point past my ear as she spoke. ‘Sometimes when he hits me I think, “Come on, carry on, kill me, because I can’t take any more”.’

  ‘Don’t say that, Mum!’

  Her gaze snapped back into focus. Wiping at her face, she gave a shivering laugh.

  ‘Ignore me. Sometimes adults do and say things they don’t mean.’

  Sometimes they lied, cheated, hurt – and apparently that was okay.

  Eighteen

  Now

  She keeps insisting she’s fine, but Carrie’s still shaking as she sits on my sofa, sipping a hot cup of tea. The happy-go-lucky young woman I know seems to have disappeared since seeing her vandalised vehicle. She’s hunched over, pulling at her hat – she must be thinking of when she had hair long enough to hide behind.

  For a moment, hearing her asking ‘when will it end’, I’d wondered if she knew who was behind the stalking – there’s really no other word for it now. Momentarily, I’d considered telling her everything that’s been going on, but changed my mind fast as a whip crack. Of course, Carrie must have meant the constant attrition of problem after problem for her: breast cancer, breaking up with her boyfriend, a terminal diagnosis and now her car smashed up. When will it end, indeed. She has enough to deal with already; it’s better for her health if she believes this is a random act of violence.

  Safe in the knowledge I’ve done the right thing, and will continue to shield her, I’ve still got the problem of how to turn detective and discover who’s behind this disgusting campaign.

  Hold on a minute…

  A thought occurs that sends ice dousing through my body. The mystery messenger may not have realised this was Carrie’s car. There’s every chance they thought they were attacking my vehicle; after all, it was parked on my driveway and my own car was hidden in the garage.

  This could be revenge for the hurt I’ve inflicted on my friend.

  The photograph of Carrie and me, the picture of Simon and now this vandalism outside my house – Carrie and I are both at the epicentre of this. I can’t walk away even if I want to.

  When I get hold of the person who’s done this, I’ll throw myself on their mercy to make them stop. Even if my secret has to come out to end this misery, so be it; my only priority is Carrie.

  I wish they were in this room right now, to see what they’ve reduced her to. I’ve never heard her sound defeated before, but her words earlier scared me: I can’t take any more. She’d sounded as if she were giving up, wishing for death to take her.

  My hands feel cool against her warm skin as I lay a palm on her forehead.

  ‘How are you feeling? Should I call the doctor?’

  ‘I’m fine now.’ Her head shakes firmly, but her hands are trembling enough to show her lie.

  ‘Okay, well, in that case, I’ll call the police.’

  Fingers close on my forearm. ‘No, it’s horrible, but it’s not worth bothering them with.’

  ‘But they’ll give you an incident number so you can claim on your insurance for new tyres and a windscreen. Otherwise the cost is really going to add up.’

  ‘Um, okay, don’t have a go, but… ’ She takes a sip, stalling. The hot liquid seems to make the words flow easier. ‘I don’t have insurance. Don’t pull that face! I can’t afford it, and it’s not like I’m going to be around much longer anyway, so I thought I’d spend the money on food and heating instead of handing it over to a big company.’

  ‘You can’t drive around uninsured!’

  ‘I can’t drive around full stop. Not now.’

  ‘Here’s an idea – use some of the bucket list money to get the car fixed and cover anything else you need to get mobile again.’

  ‘Alex, I’ve told you, that money should be donated to a cancer charity. I don’t want it.’

  ‘You’re so stubborn!’

  Another sip to steady herself, the tea’s surface rippling at her tremble. ‘That’s what’s got me this far in life, against all the odds. Oh, heck! Look at the time, I’ve got to get going or I’ll be late.’ Liquid slops everywhere as she jumps up.

  ‘I’ll give you a lift, it’s faster than you catching the Metro.’

  She sags with relief, but double-checks that I’m definitely okay with it.

  ‘No arguments,’ I say. ‘The Freeman Hospital’s a fifteen-minute walk from the Metro station; I don’t want you doing that when you’re feeling weak.’

  ‘I’ll be fine – I don’t want to put you out.’

  ‘You’re not,’ I say, in a voice that brooks no more argument.

  Between the two of us, we somehow manage to push her car onto the street, where parking is freed up now that people have left for work. Then we both get into my car and twenty-five minutes later I drop her off at the Freeman Hospital.

  ‘Sure you don’t want me to come in with you?’

  ‘Don’t be daft, you’re due at the clinic any minute.’

  ‘Yes, but they’ll understand if I miss a day. It’s only a weigh-in and a bit of talking, not life and death.’ Actually, they’ll give me merry hell, but she doesn’t need to know that.

  ‘Tell you what, let’s meet for a coffee afterwards. I—’ She hangs her head as she speaks. ‘I don’t fancy being alone today. Though if you’re busy, don’t worry about it – I’m being silly.’

  ‘Coffee sounds great. I’ll pick you up here when you’re done.’

  * * *

  Have my weigh-in and therapy session; zoom to Carrie’s house and check it out; drive back to the hospital – it’s going to be an exhausting morning. I’m twenty minutes late when I reach the clinic, which kick-starts a lecture on how I must take my treatment seriously. I take it meekly, knowing it’s deserved, but also knowing that sometimes life isn’t about putting yourself first, it’s about prioritising other things.

  Rosie seems keen to pick up where we’ve left off, and much as I’d love to refuse, I’m really not in combative mood. My energy must be saved for the battle ahead with the mystery messenger.

  ‘Have you taken a step back from Carrie, as we discussed in the last session?’ she asks.

  At the shake of my head a small sigh of impatience escapes her lips, apparently keen to flee the room’s tension. I wish I could join it. Instead, I gaze resolutely at a stain on Rosie’s desk, trying to work out what it is. It’s dark brown and seems to be flaking at the edges.

  ‘You need to concentrate on your own well-being, or I’m concerned you’ll start to slide back.’

  ‘I’m eating fine, though. I eat better when I’m with someone, so spending time with Carrie is positive for me.’

  ‘Really? Today’s weigh-in shows you’ve dropped a pound since Wednesday – and on Wednesday you’d only maintained your weight, rather than gaining. You’ve got to stick with the programme, Alex, and not let up. How are you going to tackle this?’

  ‘I’m – I don�
�t – I mean, a pound’s nothing. It’s no big deal, you don’t have to keep going on about it.’

  Rosie’s slopped coffee onto her desk at some point before I came in. I stare at the brown meniscus clinging to the bottom of the mug and the fake wooden desktop. Put two and two together and realise the other stain I’d been staring at is very old milky coffee.

  ‘You mentioned before that you were concerned for Carrie. Is that still the case?’

  My nod is minuscule. Hiding won’t do me any good, though, so I update Rosie on what’s been happening, as well as my thoughts and fears on the subject. I know I have to be honest about this; after all, she’s my counsellor. Today, though, it doesn’t seem to be enough for her.

  ‘Alex, we need to address the underlying causes of your illness. I really think it’s time to push through.’

  ‘I have issues with food. End of story.’

  ‘Yes, but why? You’ve said before that you don’t eat because you don’t feel you deserve food.’

  ‘You know why. We don’t need to “explore” this.’ I make sarcastic rabbit ear motions as I say the words.

  ‘We can’t ignore this any more.’

  I don’t reply. This is something I refuse to speak about, and Rosie knows it. She’s always respected that and kept her distance from the subject, but recently she’s started challenging me, and I don’t like it one bit.

  The low murmur of voices outside leaks into the dead atmosphere of our room. I clear my throat. Rub my hands on my thighs, just to make a swishing sound to cut through the air. The silence is getting to me.

  ‘Give me something,’ Rosie urges.

  Silence.

  ‘Tell me why you don’t believe you deserve the food. Tell me why you’re punishing yourself. Tell me about your children.’

  I stand, fists balled. ‘Don’t talk about my children.’

  ‘Please sit down, Alex. I understand this is a difficult subject, and revisiting your loss must be terrible, but you need to do it at some point. Let me help you.’

  Can’t breathe. Head dizzy. Ends of fingers tingling. ‘Don’t. Don’t do this.’

  ‘Just tell me one thing.’

  She won’t give up. She won’t leave me alone – so I throw her the easiest thing I can think of that’s related to what she wants.

  ‘If I eat, I’ve lost control. The starving can physically hurt but it helps because it stops me thinking properly. It means I don’t feel the emotional pain. I’m numb thanks to being so hungry, my brain in a fog that can’t dwell on everything I’ve lost because it’s too preoccupied with food. Food I don’t deserve.’

  It’s not enough. I can see it on her face. ‘It’s time to accept, Alex.’

  Don’t say it. Please don’t.

  Though low, her voice slices through the leaden lull of the consulting room. It severs the careful construction of my alternative reality. Cleaves truth from lie. All I can do is watch, helpless, as the inevitable is spoken out loud.

  Please.

  ‘It’s time to accept the fact your husband and children are dead.’

  Nineteen

  A vacuum has formed in the room, sucking air from my lungs, thoughts from my head, lies from my lips. This is the truth I spend my life running from.

  ‘I do accept. I also choose not to speak about it—’

  ‘You’re in denial, in my opinion. Let’s talk about your insistence on going to group therapy as well as coming here.’

  A guilty groan slinks from my lips. ‘Okay, I know you’re right, and I shouldn’t, but—’

  ‘It’s not attending it that’s the problem, Alex, it’s the fact that you’re lying to everyone there by pretending your family is alive and well.’

  Bile is rising up my throat, burning my oesophagus. Finally, words follow.

  ‘I just… There, I can talk about the twins and actually feel the pride a mother feels in her children. It’s like I get a taste of the life I’ve missed out on. Everyone at the group accepts that I’m a mother, even if, as far as they’re concerned, the twins no longer talk to me – and hey, that’s not really a lie, is it, because they don’t talk to me… because they can’t.’

  Of course it’s a lie, her look replies.

  ‘I get to share how much I miss Elise and Edward,’ I continue, voice edged with desperation. ‘How it’s my fault they aren’t in my life any more, and that I feel I need to make restitution. But I also get to be a mum.’

  ‘It isn’t a true version of events, though. If you really want the group to support you, you should be honest.’

  She’s right, but it’s an addiction I’m unable to give up right now. ‘Well, I don’t want the looks the truth will lead to. All the comments and questions and… ’

  And judgements, I add silently. I’m responsible for their deaths, and Owen’s, too. I wiped out my whole family.

  I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry. Please forgive me.

  Guilt is the reason why I developed anorexia. I tell people it’s empty nest syndrome because it’s the closest to the truth I can bear to get – after all, the children and my husband are gone, so it’s technically correct. In a way.

  I’d been facing my first Christmas since their loss and, with magazines full of diets to get ready for party season, I’d decided to drop some weight. Now I know it was just a stupid excuse I gave myself, a little white lie to get my punishment started, because I’d no intention of going out anywhere – I’d been in no fit state emotionally for that.

  I’d got a thrill out of skipping those first meals, though. I was good at it. This wasn’t about trying to get people to compliment my new slimline figure, it went deeper than that. Skipping meals meant I was punishing myself for all the bad choices I’d ever made. I didn’t deserve that treat, I didn’t deserve that meal, and being able to make that decision gave me a feeling of control over my out-of-control life.

  By Christmas I was addicted, the restriction something I couldn’t let go of now I’d learned the trick. I stopped seeing friends, annoyed by them constantly pressuring me to eat. Besides, having no social life made it easier to control my food intake.

  In the new year I moved away from old friends and memories, to make a fresh start in Tynemouth. While telling the removal men which room I wanted some boxes to go in, I had a funny turn, my heart fluttering, and one of the men called a doctor. The GP said it was palpitations, most likely due to my extremely low weight, and referred me to the eating disorder clinic.

  That first time, I felt so confident going there because I didn’t really think there was a problem. I thought it would just get people off my back. It was a shock when the team at the clinic said I needed to continue attending, but I figured they were being overly cautious. It was their job to be. When I looked around, I saw people who were so much thinner than me. I was far too big to be there. I felt, wrongly, that people were looking at me and thinking: Fraud. She’s too fat to be here.

  Too old, too. Aside from one other woman going through the mother of all divorces, I was the only person over twenty-five.

  It was decided I needed to be monitored and weighed twice a week. It was so over the top, I thought. Still, my weight continued to drop until, after a long chat with my case worker, I agreed to admit myself voluntarily.

  Talk about a shock to the system. It was like joining the army: every meal planned out and timed, plus three snacks a day. Three! My heart sank, then shot back up with anger. I wasn’t a child that needed everything done for me. This was patronising, unnecessary, utterly ridiculous. I forced myself to put on weight – even during the first anniversary of my losses, when all I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and die. As Christmas approached once more, I was finally signed off.

  Left to my own devices, I was free to punish myself again. I wanted to die, no doubt about it, but simply slashing my wrists would be too easy – something slow and painful was required; a punishment to fit the crime. Twisted logic answered my anorexia’s siren call.

  By February, my w
eight had crashed once more. I had to crawl up the stairs. I couldn’t walk further than a few steps. At the end of that month I lost my sight, then my hearing, due to malnutrition, and started to hallucinate. Doctors warned me that I was at the point of death and my heart would give out any moment. They insisted I return to the clinic. When I refused, I was sectioned.

  Imprisoned, I had no control over my life, was told when to get up, what to do, when to eat. The toilets were locked until half an hour after I’d eaten, to make sure I didn’t vomit up my meals, and someone often accompanied me to the loo.

  Slowly, so painfully slowly, my weight increased, monitored with twice-weekly weigh-ins. I thought I was better. So did the clinic, and they let me become an outpatient. But anorexia, much like grief and guilt, hates to let go once it has its claws embedded in someone’s body.

  On my relapse, I was terrified, remembering the feeling of being unable to move. So I started to walk a lot to prove I could. Then I realised it was burning calories, so I walked more. People began to comment on it, and after being sectioned for a second time, I was banned from long walks.

  What I needed was something I could do without people realising – star jumps in my room were my solution. Every single day I did two thousand, to my secret pride and shame.

  That third stay in the clinic was my lowest ebb. People tell me I almost died. For a long time I’d roll my eyes and think they were being melodramatic. Even when in hospital, I begged to be allowed to leave. I thought I looked fine. Frustrated at the walking ban, and too closely monitored even to get away with star jumps, I started to stand all the time instead. It burns more calories than sitting. But the clinic noticed that, too.

  Being confronted didn’t help. Instead, I was furious at the tone, as though I’d done something wrong, when in my head there was nothing unhealthy in my activities. Even when I knew it was a problem, there was still an unnameable fear that stalked me. Something stopped me from wanting to put on weight, to get better again.