The Perfect Friend: A gripping psychological thriller

by Barbara Copperthwaite

  Owen had been so excited by discovering we were having a boy and a girl. He’d rushed out straight afterwards to collect a necklace he’d ordered for me from a jeweller. It was engraved with the words ‘Forever Mine’. For the twins, he’d ordered a pair of matching Liverpool FC sleepsuits, with our last name emblazoned across the backs. He’d been too excited and distracted by the news, though. At the train station there was an unmanned level crossing, where he had to cross the tracks in order to get to the correct platform. The warning that a train was coming had sounded, lights flashing, and Owen had waited impatiently. The moment the train passed, he went through the unlocked wicket gate, thinking it was safe, even though the warnings were still going, because he thought they were for the train that had just passed. When he stepped onto the tracks, he was hit by a train coming from the opposite direction and was killed instantly.

  I’d been so lost in grief I’d felt like I was losing my mind. My mum and dad had died the year before, so I was all alone, apart from Owen’s parents. They cared for me so much I felt I was suffocating. I hadn’t meant what happened next, but it was all my fault.

  But I can’t think of those terrible days, and the horror that had been yet to come for me. Instead, I kick off what little of the duvet still covers me and creep downstairs, trying to break the haunting bonds that still imprison me. I’ll concentrate on trying to solve Carrie’s puzzle – anything rather than remember how, still reeling from Owen’s death, I killed my children.

  Twenty-Four

  Then

  I had become Mum’s accomplice in covering for Dad’s violence. Together we tiptoed through life, being careful not to say the wrong thing, walk the wrong way, wear the wrong clothes or give the wrong look. Still Dad found excuses to detonate, safe in the knowledge that his victims would protect him. Sometimes part of me even felt proud, because my lies must mean I was a grown-up too, now. At other times I felt ashamed for my part in the big cover-up. Most of the time, though, I didn’t even give it a thought. This was my life now, and falsehood was second nature.

  When I was twelve, everything changed.

  The night started the same as usual. Dad was dead drunk and in a mood. I was watching Hollyoaks, and he started ranting about what a crap soap it was. Mum rushed over and turned the television off, and I moaned or made a sarcastic comment or did something I can’t even remember.

  Dad went nuclear.

  Picking up the telly, he held it over his head as Mum begged him to put it down, then threw it across the room. An almighty crack as it hit the wall. The soft thud and muffled scream of flesh being pummelled as he started on Mum. Before I could stop myself, I ran forward, lunging at him. Threw myself onto his back, legs flailing.

  ‘Get off her! Leave her alone!’

  He was a bucking bronco, and this was my first rodeo. Within seconds, I flew off, landing in a heap on the floor. Stars seemed to burst before my eyes. I tried to stand. Stumbled. Knees sagging, I sank to the floor.

  Dad had never really hit me before, not more than the odd slap or that time he’d banged my head against the wall. Nothing too major. It had always been Mum who bore the brunt of his anger. She pulled at his arm, trying to stop him from reaching me. Begging, pleading. A shove sent her reeling back, then she was on the floor, too.

  Instinctively I curled into a ball as blows and kicks rained down on me. My nose exploded as Dad stamped on my head. I had to get up, had to find the drive, otherwise he might kill me.

  Gathering all my strength, I leapt to my feet. But he was too quick, his fingers knotting in my hair, holding me in place.

  ‘No! Let me go!’ I screamed. I surged forward, feeling a massive clump of hair yank free as I ran from the house, into the road.

  Footsteps pelted behind me. Where was Mum? Had she escaped, too? I didn’t know – all I knew was that I was running for my life.

  ‘Help me! Someone help me!’ I screamed. It was too much to expect a stranger to step in. I was going to get caught and beaten to a pulp.

  The footsteps were getting closer. I could hear gasping breath…

  ‘Get in, quick!’ yelled a woman, holding her front door open.

  Thank God, oh thank God! I didn’t break stride as I dashed inside her house, hearing the door slam behind me.

  Dad started hammering on the door.

  As the woman called the police, her hand trembling, I noticed scarlet blood dripping onto her carpet.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ I gasped, pulling a tissue from my pocket and trying to mop it up.

  There was so much, though, the puddle getting bigger and bigger, the room fading away…

  Everything seemed disconnected. There were blue lights outside… I was in an ambulance… Now I was in hospital, a police officer by my side.

  ‘You’ve got a broken nose and cracked ribs,’ she said. ‘There’s a nasty gash on your leg too.’

  ‘How’s Mum?’

  ‘She’s just down the corridor being treated. She’s concussed and has a badly bruised neck. When officers arrived on the scene they had to pull your dad off her because he was strangling her.’

  I nodded, every inch of my body pounding with pain but emotionally numb. The officer held up a mirror, and I recoiled in shock. I didn’t even look like me, my face was so swollen and bruised.

  ‘I want to press charges,’ I said without hesitation.

  Dad pleaded guilty to assault and was jailed for nine months. During that time I had surgery on my nose to straighten it, as I couldn’t breathe properly. It seemed a small price to pay for finally being free of Dad.

  Mum and I had fun together for the first time, laughing at TV programmes, wearing what we liked, eating any food we fancied, whenever we wanted. It was bliss.

  But within weeks of his release, Mum announced he was moving back in.

  ‘He’s really sorry for what he’s done. Going to prison was the short, sharp shock he needed. Now it’s time to give him a second chance.’

  ‘He could have killed us! I don’t want him anywhere near me.’

  ‘Just listen to what he’s got to say and I’m sure you’ll forgive him. He really loves us.’

  ‘Yeah – to death. My jaw still clicks from being punched by that bastard—’

  ‘I don’t want to hear that language.’

  There was no talking sense to her. She’d made up her mind. Fine; so had I.

  * * *

  I contacted Social Services and was put into care, where I was passed around from foster home to foster home.

  Desperate to fit in and be liked, I’d change myself to become whatever I thought people wanted me to be, even stealing people’s identities to make me feel better. It was as though I’d got rid of my imaginary friends, only to become one myself.

  When not using other people’s lives for inspiration, I came up with tall tales of my own. My favourite fabrication was that until recently I’d had the perfect life, with loving, kind, normal parents.

  ‘So why are you in foster care, then?’ I’d be asked by prospective friends at yet another new school.

  ‘Because my mum’s too poorly to look after me, and Dad’s too busy looking after her. But once he’s sorted himself out he’ll be coming for me and we’ll all be together again.’

  Sometimes I tried for the sympathy vote, building a more elaborate tale of woe. ‘My mum never wanted me – she was intellectually disabled and fell pregnant when someone took advantage of her,’ I’d claim. ‘She decided to put me up for adoption, but then my gran offered to help raise me – she’d always dreamed of having a grandchild. But when I was seven, Gran was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. She couldn’t look after me any more, and Mum wasn’t capable, and that’s how I ended up in care.’

  Another favourite was to talk about the baby brother I missed so much.

  ‘Sometimes I play tennis against a wall and imagine I’m playing with him. Nicholas loved to play tennis with me,’ I’d cry.

  Sometimes I was believed. Until I tripped mys
elf up, contradicting myself. Then I’d be shunned. Again.

  Practice made perfect, though.

  Twenty-Five

  Now

  While Carrie sleeps peacefully upstairs, I creep downstairs, chased by memories of Owen and my babies, and determined to block them out by concentrating on the puzzle of my present.

  The most pressing are the messages. I pull them from their hiding place. If Carrie gets up, I’ll hear her movements and be able to hide everything before she comes downstairs. I line them up. If there is a pattern to the cloth of my life, then it is one of manipulation and lies. Perhaps I can use that to my advantage to solve this conundrum.

  A picture of Carrie and me; a picture of Simon; then one of an unknown woman. I stare at her face, rack my brains, but don’t recognise her. No familiarity in the curve of a heart-shaped face or the lines of her shy smile. She has thick, white-blonde hair that’s pulled back into a low ponytail and a blunt fringe. After an hour, despite knowing her image well enough to be able to draw it from memory, I’m no closer to discovering who she is. She’s a complete stranger.

  The writing taunts me.

  I’m watching you

  * * *

  There are no secrets from me

  * * *

  Losing patience. Give me what I want, or me telling everyone what you’ve done will be the least of your worries

  The last message is definitely threatening, making me hug myself. There’s no sense that this could be an inside joke any more, or a Halloween prank. Instead it is a sick game of hide-and-seek, and one that is stacked against me. The only way I can think to even things up is by removing the key piece: Carrie. Then she’ll be safe… but will I?

  Fear and fury knot in my stomach, making me feel sick. Ugly, taunting, hurtful messages. How dare somebody send them? I scrunch the photos and envelopes up but it isn’t enough. With a satisfying rip, they tear. That’s better. Even the box with the first message across the top gets torn apart. Soon there is nothing left of anything but tiny pieces of paper and cardboard, which I throw into the sink and set fire to.

  Only when there is nothing left do I feel satisfied, as if by wiping out the photographs and taunts, I’ve wiped out the malice behind them.

  Confidence buoys me, a lightness I haven’t felt in days. Yes, I’m scared but I’m not going to abandon Carrie. Nothing and nobody can make me do that. In which case, it’s on to the next problem. I grab my tablet, open the Internet and type in the names of Carrie’s parents and her home town of Plymouth. Spend a good hour trawling through results trying different spellings and permutations. I get nothing.

  Huh? I must have got it wrong. We were talking about them the other day and I could have sworn she said Plymouth, because before that I’d wrongly thought it was somewhere in Derbyshire. Another search, another couple of hours scrolling through newspaper cuttings, electoral registers, social media pages, you name it. My eyes are starting to hurt; it’s the small hours and I’m getting really tired. That’s probably what’s stopping me from finding them. Too done in to think straight, I’m making silly mistakes.

  The exhaustion and the fact that it’s a Friday night make me think of Owen, too. How we always seemed to argue at weekends, staying up all night. He had a weekday, nine-to-five job that meant he could stay in bed during the day on Saturday and Sunday, catching up on sleep, but they were my busiest days, so I’d be left bone-weary.

  Generally, I only let myself think of our good times. Shame at thinking ill of the dead is the final straw that makes me abandon my current task. I’m not concentrating properly any more, my mind wandering.

  I trudge up to bed knowing that I’m so tired dreams won’t come. Exhaustion has its bonuses.

  But as my eyes close, just as I’m tipping over the edge into sleep, I can’t help wondering if the mystery sender knows something I don’t. Perhaps Carrie is hiding something after all.

  When I wake, still groggy, the sun is high, and the first thought in my head is this new mystery. Why is there no sign of Carrie’s parents, either on the Internet or on her phone, when she talks to them so often? The thought this mini-mystery could be related to the messages from the watcher won’t recede.

  It makes me overly suspicious. Thinking about it, her parents have never called when I’ve been around, and we’ve spent nearly all our time together since we became friends six months ago. But why would someone lie about something like that? It makes no sense.

  My vivid imagination is running away with me. I think again of Rosie’s warning that I’m replacing an obsession with food with one for Carrie. Perhaps my counsellor has a point.

  There’s movement from the next room. Time for me to get up and make my guest breakfast.

  * * *

  Carrie looks bright-eyed, clearly well-rested, and looks delighted when I start making a full English for her. While turning the bacon under the grill, I toy with asking her what’s going on but can’t work out how without opening a can of worms. The whole truth would have to come out, including the fact that I’ve kept those notes hidden from her – and that would lead to questions about why, which would lead to the Simon revelation, and…

  Too complicated to contemplate, I try to think of a way round it instead. My stomach churns as I speak.

  ‘Are you looking forward to moving?’

  She nods and takes a couple more mouthfuls of fried egg. Finishes it off before replying.

  ‘It’ll be so lovely to be back with my parents. They’re really excited about having me home – they keep asking how I want my bedroom decorated, which is so cool of them.’

  Sometimes, like now, she seems incredibly young. But she is – she’s only twenty-four. I think of myself at that age and it feels like a lifetime ago. Hard to believe hers is coming to a close. It’s not fair; she’s still so vital. Another person I’ve loved, only to lose. I force my words to sound bright.

  ‘That’s lovely! What do you think you’ll go for?’

  ‘You know The Greatest Showman? It would be amazing to have a room inspired by that. It’s so vibrant, all those bright circus colours, flames, you name it!’

  Her eyes shine. I think of the nursery Owen and I painted for the twins, a fairyland above the clouds.

  ‘They’ve got their work cut out recreating that, but it will look incredible. Hey, is there anything I can do to help with the move? Maybe I could get in touch with your parents, so I can organise things this end for them, which frees you up to relax.’

  ‘Oh, that’s not necessary.’

  I push a little harder, but she won’t have it. So I try another angle.

  ‘When you move back in with your parents, I’ll have to come and visit you. Where is it they live again?’

  ‘Cromer.’

  My eyes narrow infinitesimally. That’s new.

  She laughs. ‘Where did that come from? I mean Plymouth. It’s so early my brain hasn’t started functioning yet.’

  Normally I’d laugh it off, too. I’m not a morning person either, so I understand that thick-headed feeling that can take a while to shake off first thing. Today I’m faking, though, as my suspicion grows.

  Everyone lies. I do it more than most. Maybe Carrie does, too.

  What is wrong with me? How could I even think such a terrible thing about Carrie? I’m worried about myself. Of course my friend isn’t a liar. She’s dying, and the last thing she needs is a Spanish Inquisition from me. I’m being as bad as that weird stalker person I’m supposed to be shielding her from, acting crazy.

  Still, I do need to find her parents.

  There has to be some other way of getting their contact details. She isn’t on any social media, and it seems her parents aren’t either. There’s no mention of them on any Plymouth electoral register, or on those of the surrounding districts, which is odd.

  There is one person I could ask. I haven’t seen Simon since the night we split up, and I told him I never wanted to clap eyes on him again. To his credit, he’s avoided me. Now it�
��s time for me to track him down, and see what he knows about Carrie’s family.

  Twenty-Six

  The afternoon is sharp and bright, the kind of day that takes your breath away when you first step outdoors, but that is glorious once you get used to it as you walk. There’s a wind strong enough to blow away anyone’s cobwebs. I pull my woollen hat down snug over my ears, adjusting it so my sunglasses don’t dig into them, and pop up my coat’s hood.

  There’s a bubble of nerves in my stomach as I head towards Longsands, where I’m guessing Simon will be at the Surf School as it’s a Saturday. I’m furious with him for what he did, and not tempted to let him into my life again, but also can’t help remembering the incredible sex we had. Thinking of him, his hands on my body, his lips on my skin, makes me smile and warms my blood.

  As I head down the ramp to the beach, a man catches my eye and gives me the same kind of smile, as if he can tell what I’m thinking. Even from this distance I can see how brilliantly blue his eyes are. Blushing, I half turn away as I pass, toying with a piece of hair that’s escaped from under my hat and is blowing in the light breeze. I glance back. He’s still looking. He’s younger than me, I’d guess around thirty-five, but that doesn’t bother me. I’m tempted to continue the flirtation, as thinking of Simon has brought my libido back to life again. But I’ve more important things to think about.

  There, on the beach in front of the long, low Surf School building, is a group of children who look to be mainly around eleven. They’re in their wetsuits and raring to go, judging by the excited yells and laughter, the boisterous pushing and jeering of a handful of boys showing off in front of the girls. One or two look familiar, like the boys on their bikes who hang around Carrie’s place. Simon isn’t there, though.